I guess since this is my tumblr now, should properly introduce myself
Call me Eon, or Starlit if you want!
A bit about the blog: This blog was created primarily for a clean slate for Tumblr, but also with the potential to share my writing. I've posted only three things on Ao3, each wildly different from each other, but my love for each of them couldn't be compared untrue if you look at the word count
I've never posted anything to Tumblr, so I have little idea everything I can do, so please bare with me! I'm on mobile, and only used Ao3, so this may get some getting used to.
A bit about me: 21+, trans man, and overall anxious. Pretty sure I have some forms of Autism and OCD, but that would be all self diagnosis. I've drawn art most of life, but basically only recently discovered I actually enjoy writing. I'm just overall the most happy when I'm creating something, because I've also learned I love to cook! I think cookings fun because I can't really eat my art or writing after I'm done with it
If I'm not writing, drawing, cooking, or sleeping, I'm most likely playing games. Or should I say game, because I've only had time to play one game: Warframe. When I do have time, I do enjoy sitting down for some Pokemon (X, Sun, and Scarlet are the ones I currently own), Minecraft but usually with mods (Cobblemon, Create, and Farmer's Delight are my top favs), REPO (when I have people to play it with), and when I'm feeling nostalgic Skyrim (again, with mods, Legacy of the Dragonborn is my #1 Mod)
I'm a certified yapper, I watch anime, I'm a dork, and I'm trying to put myself out there more in terms of socializing and being perceived by strangers. So nice to meet you! Hope to entertain you even for a moment.
Before he was your boyfriend, Clark Kent was just another face on the subway.
A kind and handsome stranger who helps in a moment of need — and has you questioning just how fast you’re allowed to move from breakups. A stranger that you just keep running into by chance - until he isn’t really a stranger anymore.
If only he’d ask you out.
Or: Before the list, comes the theory.
prequel to the love list - not required to read this, but there are some references! 11k, intended nd!reader, strangers to lovers, no spoilers
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You first meet Clark Kent on a Tuesday.
It's a foggy one, a blanket of mist draped across Metropolis, and you're frazzled because you're late.
You're not exactly in your right mind when you're late.
It's a sort of fight or flight mode - though you're definitely preferential to flight. You really hate being late. But as you walk as fast as you can, a speedy sort of half-jog, it's not even your lateness you're fixated on.
It's the goddamn tag in your shirt.
You can feel it, itchy and pressed against the back of your neck. It scratches with every step. Your hands flex. Every cell in your body wants to stop, find somewhere to pause, and fix your shirt.
You're far too late to even entertain the idea.
This is normally not a problem for you — though, actually, that's not true. Normally, you're much better prepared than this, that is.
In a rush, you'll just snip tags off and deal with the spiky remains. It's not ideal, but you can manage.
When you have time though, you do it properly. You have a little seam-ripper at home, that lives among your sewing supplies, dedicated to removing pesky labels.
Today, your mistake is your excitement.
A new shirt, a nice woollen material that you know will keep you warm in the coming, cooling days —much like today.
Given how it feels your body doesn't even attempt temperature regulation at times, clothes that can are prized.
If you're too warm? Good luck getting any work done. Too cold and you'll be shivering the whole day. It bugs you a bit that you seem particularly sensitive to temperatures that others brush off.
You hurry down the steps to the subway, your boot sliding an inch on the wet tile. You clutch your bag tighter, willing yourself to stay upright, and feel the scratch of the tag on the back of your neck again.
You huff loudly, regaining your balance.
The mistake of excitement is that you haven't worn this shirt out yet—purchased only the day before. Usually there's a test run, to make sure this doesn't happen. Not today.
But by the time you'd realised your mistake, you'd been out the door, with no time to turn back.
And now it's worse because you've been running — which means you're warmer than usual, sweating a bit beneath your coat, your socks feel too tight, and the goddamn tag is scratching you.
Rounding the corner of the subway station, you skid again on the wet ground, barely keeping your balance again.
You spot your train up ahead. Its doors are just beginning to close.
No! With a start, you head for the train anyways, thinking by some miracle you'll make it.
You cannot be late — you can't- because if you are, it'll ruin the whole day and you'll have to wait til you're all the way back home again to get settled and—and—and—
Someone sees you coming and holds the door.
There's a burst of relief as you manage to slip through the train doors, which slide shut with a heavy bang! the moment they're released. You flinch at the noise, still trying to catch your breath.
This day is miserable, you decide.
The train begins to roll along. You remember abruptly you should thanking whoever saved you from being much later than you could've been.
You turn your head, then have to tilt it up to see his face.
The person who held the door is a very polite looking, very tall man, dressed in office attire. He's wearing a nice winter coat, same colour as his hair - and thick-rimmed spectacles. His lanyard flashes a Daily Planet Press badge.
You swallow. Okay, sure, your subway saviour is the most gorgeous guy you've ever seen. No big deal.
"Hi." You find your voice, still breathing heavily. "Thank you. Sorry."
The man smiles —holy fuck— then clears his throat, nodding his head somewhat awkwardly.
"You're welcome." He says and you suddenly can't tell if the wobbliness in your knees is from the train or his voice. "Definitely been me on the other side of those doors before."
He smiles at you so genuinely that it makes you feel even more off kilter. You find it surprisingly easy to smile back.
The train rattles along the tracks, curving around a corner, and you realise you should probably hold on to something. You grab the nearest pole, conveniently bringing you closer to the man.
Now that you have a moment, turbulent waters settling for the duration of your journey, sensations start prickling again.
The sweat on your collarbones, cooling while you still feel overheated beneath your thick coat. Your hair, lightly plastered to the back of your neck. The tag.
One hand still on the pole, you reach back and pinch at your shirt collar, shuffling it about to try find some relief. The tag scratches along your skin and you squirm uncomfortably.
Do you have scissors with you? You'll cut it off right here, right now, if you can.
The train car you're in rocks to a rumbling stop at the next station. The doors open and a few more people file in, inadvertently pushing you closer to the handsome stranger who helped you earlier.
Your eyes catch — he smiles again and your face burns.
The tag distracts you from his closeness. Waiting til the train steadies out again, departed from the latest station, you release the pole. You shift your bag forward, off your shoulder, and your hand dives in.
If you have scissors with you, they'll like be in mini sewing kit you keep with you. You hunt around blindly. The tag itches still.
Your other hand deviates from holding your bag open, moving to grab at the back of your shirt.
It's not effective, both hands occupied as the train sways, and something pinches tight in your throat. You're getting wound tighter and tighter.
"Are you alright?"
Your head jerks up. It's the handsome stranger. He's watching you, your arms contorted and a crease in your brow, with an expression of polite concern.
"I-" You begin. He likely doesn't actually want to know — people say things to be polite without meaning them all the time, you've found.
Despite it, the awfulness of your morning leaves you with no energy to pretend. Or lie.
You sigh, "I have a tag. On my shirt. I forgot to cut it off before I left the house."
It's a relief when your fingers close around the familiar shape of your sewing kit, square with rounded corners. You retrieve it quickly, releasing the collar of your shirt to pop it open.
The train judders suddenly and you get shoved forward as the car passes over uneven tracks. You just clasp the pole in time to keep yourself from tasting the grime of the subway floor.
The man grabs the pole too, an inch between your hands, and you find yourself meeting his gaze again.
He smiles crookedly, "Would you like some help?"
It takes a beat to realise what he means. His gaze darts down to the sewing kit still clutched in your hand - and when you can't move your tongue, he gestures somewhat awkwardly to the collar of your shirt.
"The tag, I mean," He stammers. "It would be difficult—not that I don't think you could- it's, uh, the angle, I suppose, that would… make it hard."
He nods firmly after, as if it reinforces his point.
You blink at him - and can see your perturbed expression in the reflection of his glasses.
"Um, yeah, yes," You finally find your words.
It's unlike you at all to be so completely struck by a random stranger— crushes tend to be few and far between for you.
Yet, this man, his kindness and his awkward boyishness, is definitely doing something to you. Making you extra foolish. As if your morning needs to get much worse.
You undo the latch on the kit in your hands and fish out the scissors, silver glinting beneath the subway lights. They're travel-sized. If you think they look little in your hands, it's nothing compared to his.
You hand them over and then, with an awkward pause, turn away slightly.
One hand still clutching the pole tight, your fingers leaf under the fabric of your collar, then the tag. It forces a shiver out of you as you turn it out.
"Okay, um, I'm gonna have to, just-" The warmth of his hand hovers over your neck, but he doesn't touch you. His fingers stay solely on the fabric.
The train pulls into another station, whirring to a stop. The doors glide open with a hiss.
People filter in in both directions. You're jostled a bit closer to the pole you're holding and your face burns when the man holds his arm up on the other side, almost around your shoulder, a guard against the moving crowd.
"Sorry," He says. "I'm gonna wait til we're moving again."
You nod, then realise you're holding your breath.
The doors shudder, then slip back together, and the train is moving on again. Your eyes seek out the rotating sign announcing the stops, mentally tallying how many left before yours.
Another four stops. You have time.
"Okay, hold still."
The arm braced around you retracts and the warmth returns to your neck. The fabric of your shirt tightens as he angles it just right, every graze felt across your skin like pinpricks.
You hold your breath. An overwhelming awareness shudders down your spine at the closeness you're sharing with this stranger.
Then—fwiiip. With one slow, precise snip, the tag is freed.
"All done." He says, and you peer over your shoulder to find him smiling. He's holding the villain of your morning between his fingers up like a prize.
You sag in relief and smooth down your collar. It's surprisingly a neat slice, the tag lying down flat — flatter than you would've managed on your own. Not without wrangling your shirt off which — well, even you can tell that's not appropriate.
There's less space between the stations now, as you get closer to the central business district. The train stops more frequently, with more people getting off than getting on.
"Thank you," You say, turning to face him properly. "Very much. It was making my morning bad."
The man frowns a bit at that, handing your scissors back. You tuck them into the kit and drop it into your bag, jostled again by the uneven tracks.
Your hands clutch the pole and your bag equally tight, looking back up at the man.
He's looking you, the tag still in his grasp. His lips part—but whatever he's going to say is lost as another subway speeds by in the opposite direction.
Wind howls loudly, a tunnelled vortex of air. You cringe at the volume.
Around you, the subway car rocks a bit wildly again, forcing you both to correct your stances to stay on balance. The tag disappears as he grips the pole with both hands. Your own hand sweats from holding the pole so tight.
Another shared look.
Oddly, the thought that crosses your mind next is a wish to have met this kind stranger under other circumstances.
Late, frazzled, losing your balance on public transport — it's not exactly your best foot forward.
Which is a strange thought to be having, considering you're three weeks since the breakup.
According to the internet, you should be drowning in tears at the moment. Maybe this is the rebound people talk about?
You glance up at the stranger, your eyes meet, and you both look away. You might not be imagining the smile you share.
The next station arrives. The man looks up as the train rolls to gradual stop, then his lips purse.
"Well, I hope it can be a good morning now. This is where I get off."
You look up at his voice and he's smiling at you again, genuine. It's a gorgeous smile. You nod, mouth a little dry. Unwittingly, you glance up and check which station you're pulling up to.
Your brows knit together. 17th St station? You remember his badge, glance down to double check. It still reads the same — The Daily Planet.
Which is crazy, because you could've sworn that the Daily Planet was at least a few blocks back, best reached through 12th St station. You haven't actually gone there, but you've studied the subway map before.
The doors open with a hiss. The man gives an awkward wave, paired with a bob of his head, and you take a beat before you realise it's directed at you.
Waving back, you begin to ponder the possibility that this complete stranger missed his stop just to help you.
You frown to yourself. No, that would be preposterous.
The train departs, dragging the platform out of your line of vision with a slowly increasing speed. Subtle as you can, you watch him through the grubby windows of the subway and subtly press two fingers to your wrist. Heartbeat steady—but a little jumpier than usual.
Huh.
The lights overhead flicker once and you have to grab the pole again to keep yourself steady.
Idly, you realise he still has the tag of your shirt.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
On a different day, on a different week, you find out his name is Clark.
It's a Friday evening and your shift at the library let out 10 minutes ago. You've hesitantly joined the swathes of people rushing across Metropolis, heading every which way. Car horns chorus across the cityscape. Every place in the crowd is incredibly loud.
This is why you like Friday's the least.
Your shift ends at 5 - not staggered earlier or later like other days - and that's when the city is the busiest.
Still, if you can make it home, the weekend awaits you. Sweet, blissful alone time. Maybe you'll even splurge and treat yourself to some nice sourdough for tomorrow's breakfast.
A puddle splashes below your foot, evidence of winter's thaw setting in. You pass through it and try hard not to wonder if your sock got wet, holding your bag tightly.
It's only about two blocks from your work to the subway station.
Approximately 7 minutes walk, if you're not held up. You know because you've timed it before.
It's a bit of a hazard to walk with headphones on, but, to you, it's one of the more bearable ways to get through busy crowds.
You're aware though, ducking and twisting, avoiding the crush of bodies. Your teeth clench tightly. You're definitely more aware than some people.
A shoulder bashes into yours, some self-important douchebag pushing through the crowd like he's the only one with somewhere to be.
The push knocks you off balance momentarily. You stumble back into someone, throat thickening in discomfort, and wish you were smaller than you are.
"Woah, easy there," The person you've hit into says, hands pressing you back upright. Your skin prickles, but even so, you turn to thank them — them blink in surprise.
It's Lois Lane.
"Oh," You can see the familiarity peak on your face at the same time. Her polite concern melts into something closer to delight - which is a surprise to you. "y/n! Hi!"
Glancing around to make sure you're not in the line of fire for any other assholes, you smile back.
After a moment, you remember that people think it's rude to keep your headphones on when they talk to you. You push one side off your ear, scrunching your hair up slightly, "Hi, Lois."
Lois Lane is one of those people who you knew would do great things from the moment you met her.
There's just a certain star quality she exudes. She's tough as nails. Takes no excuses or prisoners in her search for the truth. If you cut her, she'd probably bleed journalistic integrity.
She also used to live right across the hall from you in college.
At one point, you'd have called you two friends. Now, a couple years on, you're not sure if that still applies.
"Oh my God, how have you been?" She says, perfectly comfortable having a conversation out on the busy street. You, meanwhile, shift on your feet. "Man, it's been awhile, hasn't it?"
You're not sure if she's actually asking, but you know the answer anyway.
"Three years and 4 months since we graduated."
Lois' smile widens at that, like your response has tickled her in some way. Her blue eyes dance over you, then out across the rushing street, before focuses back on you.
"Hey, you know I'm actually on my way to some drinks with my co-workers. I'd love to catch up though."
Surprise twinges in you. She does? That makes you feel a little lighter - maybe you and Lois were better friends than you can recall.
You tell her honestly, "That sounds nice."
She lights up. "So you'll come?"
It takes another moment to comprehend that she's invited you along to her drinks. Just now. To catch up. But also with her co-workers? Your brows knit together, lips pursing.
"Right now?" You question. "With your co-workers?"
The pushed back headphone is slipping forward slightly. Lois nods, grinning, and making you feel like it's impossible to say no to. Mentally, you calculate if you go for a bit, you should still have time to pick up some sourdough before you go home.
"Okay." You push your headphones off altogether.
"Okay?" Lois repeats, perking up at your response. "Awesome. We're all meeting at this little bar on 15th, Crowley's. You heard of it?"
She talks the whole walk to Crowley's. You inform that, no, you've never heard of Crowley's because most of the time you've spent at bars has been at The Last Resort.
She comments that you must like it if you frequent it so much - to which you shrug, because maybe that's true.
You're not sure of that, just that— "It's Darren's favourite."
Lois' brows draw together, her lips quirked into a smile. "Darren, huh? Who's that?"
"My ex-boyfriend."
The smile on her face disappears so quickly you can feel the misstep you've taken. You hate when that happens.
Though, you're not quite sure why Lois suddenly looks like she's trodden on a kitten. She's not the one with the break-up.
"Oh," Lois says. "I'm sorry to hear that. Is it fresh?"
"Approximately five weeks." You respond with another shrug.
You hope she won't ask you how you're feeling about it, because you haven't really thought about it. Well, no, that's not true.
You've spent a lot of time thinking about how you should be feeling about it. Despair, anguish, heartbreak. That's what the internet says at least. Maybe because you don't feel any of that, it's a sign it was the right decision.
Or perhaps it's a sign it was the wrong one.
You've resolved to just not really think about it.
Lois slows to a halt and just up ahead, you can see the neon sign at the top of some basement stairs, announcing it as Crowley's to the world. It's a dive bar then.
You glance at Lois. She's looking at you, eyebrows pinched, looking like she might ask you something. You know her thinking face well.
But in the end, she doesn't. She nods and continues on. With one hand on the railing, she takes the stairs to Crowley's carefully and you follow suit.
Crowley's is much nicer than The Last Resort.
You look around as you pass through the doorway, the room widening out to a nice, comfy place. The lighting is low, dimmed and soft. It's not too loud.
Up the front, there's high tables with stools, occupied by the beer drinkers who are fixated on television. You glance to see if you recognise the game. It's the Meteors.
Further back, short, squat tables sit closer to the bar, accompanied by green armchairs. They house what looks to be a fair few couples.
And in the back, where Lois is heading, booths, with maroon velvet coverings, wrap around round tables.
"Alright, from left to right. Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark," Lois rattles off, gesturing to the middle booth which is, indeed, already housing five people in various amounts of office attire.
Your eyes follow as Lois talks and you feel a jolt as you reach her final co-worker, sitting squished in like he’s trying to make himself take up less space.
It's the handsome stranger.
What had she said his name was? Clark.
You roll it over in your mouth, whispering it quietly to yourself. After a moment, you decide it's aptly fitting for him. It strokes a different familiarity in you that you can't place.
Looking at him now, in much the same attire as when you met him, you don't even need to feel your pulse point to feel your heart jump.
Which… feels concerning. You think?
You just hadn't expected you would see him again.
Though, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t hoped you would.
Some days, you'd peered through the crowd of the subway car, wondering if he'd be there, head a little taller than others.
But you also hadn't been that late since that day you saw him — and so despite your attempts, you hadn't seen him either.
So, maybe, he's lingered in your thoughts. So, what?
There was no harm done if you had entertained the thought of what you might do if you saw him again.
You'd smile first. Maybe wave first. Really bold stuff - for you, at least.
It hadn't been properly thought out - mainly because it quickly became an easy daydream, far from reality. Though, as you and Lois approach the table, you realise rapidly that that reality is coming true.
"Hey guys," Lois begins. "I ran into an old friend. Hope you don't mind the extra company."
The group looks up at Lois' arrival, murmurs of welcome. You try not to feel like a butterfly pinned beneath all their gazes, grappling with making sure you look around with a smile, but not linger too long.
Even so, it feels impossible for you to not watch the expression change on Clark's face when he realises who you are.
His brows draw up in surprise, a smile tugging at his mouth. He sits up a bit straighter. That's good. At least, you think that's good. He remembers you at least.
"Alright, I'm fixing myself a drink," Lois sheds her coat as she speaks, tossing it on the free space beside Ron. "Everyone play nice."
She narrows her eyes sternly at her friends, but there's a smile that tells you she's kidding. She turns to you.
"You want anything? On me."
You flounder at being put on the spot. "Oh. Um. A ginger-ale, please?"
Lois smiles and nods, which untucks some of her hair behind her ear. "Just like college. I'll be back in a minute, okay?"
You nod, murmuring, "Okay," and watch her weave back to the bar like a woman on a mission. Then you're standing by the booth alone.
You turn back to the table, uneasiness fringing your nerves. Hands shifting, you take your pulse to keep yourself steady.
"Would you like to sit?"
It's Clark who's spoken. He's looking up at you, smiling, and he's scooched over on the seat to give you a bit more space. You realise you get another chance to see those dimples up close.
You sit, but don't take off your coat.
"Hi." You say.
"Hi," He says. The heat of his thigh warms your own, nearly touching beneath the table. "What are the chances, huh? I didn't think I'd see you again."
"Probably pretty low," you say, sandwiching your hands between your legs so they can't do anything stupid. "I mean, Metropolis' population is rather large. Though, it was much more likely I'd see you again on the subway."
"Wait, again?"
A blonde woman, Cat, you think, cuts in. She's wearing a nice, tight-fitting dress and glasses you'd never be able to pull off the way she does.
Her manicured finger flits between you and Clark. "You two have met before?"
Clark nods, that same awkward head bob he did when getting off the subway. "Uh, yeah, briefly. On the subway."
"He helped me cut the tag off my shirt." You tell them - and unwittingly, feel the burn in your face creep up.
Are you ill? You don't feel feverish. It worsens when Clark's knee bumps you as he adjusts on the seat. You both share a glance, gazes darting away quickly.
Cat grins at your words, while the table laughs good-naturedly. Jim — Jimmy? — nudges Clark with his elbow.
"That's the most Clark thing I've ever heard of." He says, while you observe a pinkness crawl up Clark's throat. He doesn't seem to do well under the attention, which you have in common. "The everyday superhero."
"That's hardly hero stuff," Clark mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. You'd argue against that—it very much saved your day.
Instead, you say to Cat, "I like your glasses."
"Oh, now you've done it," Steve jokes as Cat perks up, almost bouncing in her seat. She beams at you, radiant and evidently very pleased.
"That is so nice of you to say—" She says, then rolls into a speech about where exactly she got them, how much they were, how they had been apart of a new collection line, aiming to bring back more vintage style pieces. She only stops when she's interrupted by Lois' return.
"One ginger-ale." Lois says, sliding it across the table to you. It's in a high ball glass with a plastic straw, and the ice-cubes clink as it settles before you.
"Thank you." You take a sip.
"Not a drinker?"
It's Clark who's asked, his voice dropped a little lower, the rest of the table conversing between themselves. He's hunched over, elbows resting on the table edge, but his face is angled toward you.
You look at him and blink. You don't understand why he's asked. His lips twitch, almost a smile.
When you don't respond, he doesn't move his hand — just extends one finger — to point at your ginger-ale.
"Oh!" You catch on. "Yes. Or- no, I mean, only sometimes. I wasn't expecting to come out tonight. I'm already worried about saying the wrong thing."
For some reason, that makes Clark laugh, soft and quiet. This sound of it has something singing under your skin, making your face burn.
Does your ginger-ale have liquor in it after all? It would explain why you feel so light-headed all of a sudden.
"I wouldn't worry about that," Clark says, voice all smooth with assurance. "I think you're doing a wonderful job so far."
"You think so?"
"I really do."
His genuineness threatens to make a fool of you. Suddenly, you don't know what to do with your face, because you can feel your smile growing and it feels a bit maniacal.
It doesn't help that he's looking at you so intently, it's hard to maintain eye contact. Gosh, he's got blue eyes. The heat in your face doubles, then triples.
You take another sip of your ginger-ale for something to do - and also desperately hope it will cool you off.
"How long have you worked with Lois?" You hum the question, straw still resting between your lips.
"I've been at the Planet for, say, just over a year?" Clark says. "Give or take. What about yourself—how do you know Lois?"
Thinking back to the first few weeks of college brings back memories, equally fond as they not-missed.
You strongly remember the smell of your dorm carpet. Your roommate, who consumed copious amounts of ramen. The girl across the hall, who had a purple toaster, and didn't mind letting you use it.
"College. She lived across the hall in my dorm and would let me use her toaster."
Clark smiles, stealing a glimpse across the table at his co-worker. "That's nice of her. We're the same, I suppose. Except, she's across the bullpen, not the hall. And she doesn't share her sources, just steals all the coffee."
"So, not the same at all?" You query, brows pulled together.
You're not aiming to be funny but Clark laughs, showing you a flash of teeth, and you find you don't mind at all. "Okay, you got me there." He says warmly.
It strikes you then, the thought that Clark is both very nice and very easy to talk to.
And to look at, if you're being honest with yourself. He has a strong jawline, dark lashes. The dimples he gets when he smiles beg to be kissed.
It's a shame that you've already had your schtick with love—and come out thoroughly unimpressed. With the two interactions you had, you can't help but imagine that Clark Kent is the kind of person who could be very easy to love.
You swallow heavily at the thought.
You don't want to consider if you are that kind of person too - given, you think you know Darren's answer at least.
You remember you should keep asking questions. "Are you a reporter?"
Clark nods, lips pressed together. "Mhm, that I am. You keep up with the news?"
When you have meta-humans running around the globe, it's generally a good idea to. Plus, you enjoy the little Superman scoops from time to time.
“I do my best.” You shrug, your coat collar shifting against your neck. "Will I have read anything of yours?"
A bashfulness crosses Clark's face and he scratches his neck again. "Maybe. I occasionally get interviews with Superman, which you might have read."
The familiarity from earlier snaps into place. His name - printed on the byline of the Daily Planet's front page, that you've read at least a dozen times. He's the guy who gets all the Superman exclusives.
"Oh, I know those!" You exclaim. "Yes, I've read them. You're really good. In the most recent one, I really appreciated the use of the word clandestine. It's a great word. I once did a crossword where that was the main clue and I've liked it since then."
At Jimmy's motion in your peripheral, his head turning to your conversation, do you realise how loud you've accidentally become.
You shrink back a bit, a hot embarrassment spilling in your chest. You hadn't meant to.
Clark, thankfully, appears undeterred. Actually, if anything, he seems quite flattered by your comment on his word choice, his face splitting into a grin.
"Yeah? I, uh, I haven't had that compliment before. Thank you. I agree completely as well, it's a fantastic word."
You glow hotly at his response - then nod, taking another sip of ginger-ale to try swallow down some of your embarrassment.
The conversation flows back to the table when Lois taps your ankle beneath the table, hooking you into an overdue catch up. She does most of the talking and you listen dutifully, slowly emptying your glass.
Time wanes with ease; so much, that it's much later than you had intended to leave when you check your phone some time later.
You blink at it in surprise. Clearly, your idea of a quick catch-up had melted away into a slower conversation.
But, for once, you're pleasantly surprised by the change in routine. You like Lois' friends.
Okay, you hadn't exactly talked to the others all that much - just a few words back and forth across the table. It had been more you watching them toss jokes around about Daily Planet's work-life. They all seem nice enough.
What you mean is, you like Clark.
He's really good at keeping you in the conversation. When the conversation veers to a topic unknown to you, he drops little tidbits of information in your ear.
The name Perry comes out, and Clark whispers how it's their boss; 'The Stakeout' gets mentioned, and he murmurs about how a 2-hour stint accidentally became a 20-hour one; Jimmy jokingly warns Cat against another marg, and Clark tells you, grinning all the while, of the last Christmas staff party.
It's nice. He doesn't leave you wondering — doesn't even wait for you to ask. You haven't really had that before.
You steal a glimpse when you think he's not looking.
Between the tag on the subway and this, you're beginning to think he might be the nicest person you've ever met.
Still, the clock reads closer to 9pm than you'd like.
The bakery you thought you might be able to dip into after this, for tomorrow's breakfast, will be long shut. Frustration singes at the thought.
Tomorrow, however, is a Saturday. There was already an idea to go to the Farmer's market, penned in your notebook, but now you'll have to go.
Saying goodbye to a big group that you only sort of know is awkward. You slurp on your straw to announce it quietly, then shift about for a moment, before you stand.
"I have to go now."
The group turns at your words. Polite goodbyes come from Ron and Cat, waves exchanged in your direction from Jimmy and Steve.
"Oh," Clark says, blinking up at you from behind his glasses. He presses them up his nose. "That's— would you, uh, like some company? I'd be more than happy to walk you."
Something electric zings down your spine. Your face burns again at his offer.
It tempts you. Walking home with Clark does sound a dream, but if you're being honest, you're all talked out for the evening. You can feel the social fatigue setting in, feel the urge to hide beneath your headphones again.
Your walk home will be in silence, fast-paced. You don't think Clark will enjoy several blocks of complete quietness between you.
You shake your head, "No. Thank you."
Maybe you're imagining things, but you can almost convince yourself he looks a bit downtrodden at your response. You bite down the urge to over-explain yourself — it rarely helps.
Turning, you make a point to wave specifically to Lois, a smile on your lips.
You say, "Thank you for inviting me. I had a good time."
"Of course," Lois grins at you over her beer. "I'm glad we could catch up. It was really nice to see you. Though, I have a feeling I might be seeing more of you soon."
Her eyes flit across the table, but if you're supposed to catch on to something, it's lost on you.
You frown, looking around the table again — nothings different, except Clark's ears a little pinker than a second ago.
Maybe she means you'll run into each other more now you know where she frequents. You cast a glance around at Crowley's and try to imagine coming here alone. It's not implausible.
"Okay, then." You nod, the motion a bit awkward, and tuck your hands away in your pockets. "Bye."
Another chorus of farewells from the table - a wave from Clark specifically. You wave without removing your hands from your pocket.
Tracing your steps back up to the streets, you have to blink to adjust to how dark it's become, night trickling into the city. The streetlights have come on and they cast pale puddles of light across the roads. The city hums with life.
Fishing around, you retrieve your headphones and slip them on. The world dims, just a bit. Manageable now.
You huff a breath, readying yourself for the journey home. Tiredness has crept into your skin - but at the same time, you're rejuvenated in another sense. One you couldn't explain it if you tried.
As you cross the street, heading for the subway station, it reminds you Clark. The tag. The careful gentleness of his fingers, inches from your neck.
You wonder if, back at the bar, you should've looked back.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Metropolis sports several markets that spring up, like weeds between concrete, on an early Saturday morning.
It's quite a transformation. Mullen's Square, the one closest to you, is generally void of any sort of gatherings during the week. Some workers wander out to eat their lunch, but the square has less greenery than others nearby.
It's nice, still. You like to wander through it on your way home, if you want to walk a little longer, that is.
The Saturday market is technically called a farmer's market—though how many genuine farmers it houses, you're not sure. By 7am, stalls pop up through the square, cobalt tarpaulins strung up that catch the wind and keep off the sun.
The east side is dedicated to the smaller treats.
There's little coffee carts parked, a green Jitter's one among them. Stores offering trinkets and handmade gifts, decorated with bright signs. The smell of sizzling breakfast drifts through the square.
The west is where the produce is.
Rows and rows and rows of fresh fruit and vegetables, piled high enough to make you nervous you'll send them tumbling with a single knock. It's a sea of colour, bright reds and deep greens. It's also where you're heading first today.
The stone scuffs underfoot as you cross into Mullen's square.
You grip the bag of reusable bags stowed on your shoulder, which is filled with only more reusable bags— an eco-friendly Russian-doll of bags, you might say.
This particular Saturday is overcast, which keeps the morning chill close. It won't linger, you hope, as the clouds appear to be clearing out. It's not a bad bet to assume it'll be bright and sunny by the end of the hour.
You're too busy watching your feet that you nearly miss the bakery stand — your actual first stop, you now remember.
You have to halt, then do an awkward little turn around, to end up in front of it.
The worst part of markets is that every stall holder is the most extroverted, talkative person to grace the land. Small-talk is not your forte — and neither is heckling the prices.
Leo, the owner of aforementioned bakery, has thankfully come to know you as a regular - and your quietness is expected. He greets you with a nod, smelling of freshly baked goods, and begins to bag up a loaf of sourdough without a word spoken.
You like Leo. He rewards your loyalty with a slight discount, which is never unappreciated.
The warmth of the bread presses into your side, packed away safely, you head into the first row of vegetables.
You pass artichokes, celery, and swedes. You have a list of ingredients you need, penned in your notebook, but it's mostly staples. Your eyes hunt for the potatoes to begin with — and instead, catch on a taller figure in the crowd.
It's impossible to miss him, given how he's a head taller than most of the crowd. A nervous anticipation prickles across your spine.
Maybe it's not him. Statistically, it's unlikely you'll have run into him again and so soon. Did you mention your plans for the farmer's market last night aloud?
You squint at him, trying to figure out if it's just wishful thinking.
But, no. It's definitely Clark.
He's wearing a pair of blue-wash jeans and an unbuttoned red flannel, the sleeves rolled up. Beneath it, his t-shirt reads Smallville Athletics. It's a touch on the tight fitting side.
His hair is a little messier this morning and he has his glasses on, slightly down from the bridge of his nose. He's holding something in one hand.
You wander a little closer and your eyes catch on what it is, his fingers closed around a handle. When you see what it’s attached to, a surprised delight radiates in your chest.
He has a wagon, small and red, trailing behind him.
He must tow it behind him to carry his things, because you can spot a variety of food already stashed in it.
He's talking to a vendor with an easy smile, the two chatting politely, before Clark gestures to a pile of oranges, a couple crates over. He nods a goodbye to the vendor and walks the few steps, pulling the wagon with him.
Then, he starts examining the fruit, picking the oranges up one by one.
You take a step — then judder to a halt. Can you just go up and say hi? That sounds almost absurd.
Clark hasn't seen you yet - you could turn and disappear into the east side of the market and he'd be none the wiser. You want to say hi though. You want to talk to him again.
But you're not friends. You've just met him twice, both times by accident.
And that's all it's taken for you think he's the nicest guy in all of Metropolis — and that's left you wondering if you're allowed to think that so soon after Darren.
5 weeks and 6 days since the breakup. But you never thought Darren was the nicest guy in the city—he probably wasn't even the nicest guy on his apartment floor.
You decide after a long moment, staring hard at a pile of tomatoes, that saying hello is the perfectly friendly thing to do.
You walk over before you can change your mind.
"Hi."
Not recognising your voice, Clark turns with a quirk in his brows, already apologetic. "Oh, sorry, is my wagon-?"
His polite apology quickly melts away as he turns enough to see who you are. He blinks, his glasses slip further down his nose, and then the orange in his hand erupts as it's squished beneath his super-strength.
"Hi— oh, son of a biscuit," He goes from happy to politely distressed in a moment.
Orange juice streaks down his forearm and Clark quickly unclenches his hand. He stares at the mashed remains of the orange in his hand with a genuine sorrow, as if trying to will it back to its previous form.
When it doesn't work, he turns back to the vendor from before and gestures with the orange weakly. "I will pay for this."
You've never really had someone juice an orange at your arrival before, so it leaves you stuck for what to say.
You bite your cheek, "Guess it was a bad orange?"
Clark laughs at that, a bit breathy, his focus still on where to put the orange. "It's- no. Or maybe. I love Frank's oranges, I couldn't say a bad word against them."
That makes you smile.
He eventually pulls one of the plastic produce bag rolls off the edge of a crate and deposits the fruit pulp inside - then tosses it into his wagon. He looks up at you, his arm still held out and dripping fruit juice.
He smiles, lashes touching in the corners, "Hi. Again. It's," He takes a deep breath, swallows. "It's good to see you."
You think he genuinely means it too. Which is a trip - your pulse ticks up a few beats per minute.
To distract yourself from that, you dig around in your bag for some wipes to give him.
"Here," you say, after peeling back the protective sticker and extracting one. He takes it with that awkward head bob he does.
Clark says, "Thank you," and he smiles again - and you swear it's exactly when the sun comes out.
Suddenly, it feels too warm to be wearing your knit sweater and you're not entirely sure the weather's to blame. You swallow, trying not to focus too intently on his long fingers as he wipes them off.
"I like your wagon."
For some reason, that makes Clark turn a nice pink that matches the peaches.
He's still wiping at his hands and his shoulders hunch up, "Yeah, well, it's my old one and—" He pauses, glancing over your expression. "Oh. You mean it."
You frown, "Of course."
You look down at the wagon and see that in white, flaking paint the name KENT is painted on the side. There's no perfect lines, which means it's probably been hand-painted.
Up close, you can see his haul. A bunch of carrots, strung together with rubber bands, a carton of 24 eggs - which upon further inspection, you realise is 48, as it's doubled stacked - and a variety of leafy greens. Several limes roll around loosely.
Clark catches your gaze and peers at his own wagon, "Gotta have fresh eggs, you know?"
You don't know because eggs, to you, can be the worst food on the planet. Texture, yolk, almost always served some degree of undercooked on purpose.
Still, you nod, because that's the polite thing to do.
"I'm still so used to getting everything fresh back home," says Clark.
He tucks the used wipe into the same bag as the mushed orange. "One of those things that took awhile to adjust to in Metropolis - til I found the markets."
You look at his shirt and put two and two together. "You used to live on a farm?"
"Born and raised." Clark grins. Then, his brows bunch together. "Well, not actually born, but that's a story for a different time. Smallville's home though."
He gestures to his shirt proudly, then pushes his glasses back up. He looks you over, seeing your relatively empty bags.
"You just arrive? Or no big plans to shop around?"
You become aware of how your knees have locked and try to subtly adjust them. A performer starts setting up an amp close by, the scratchiness beamed out through the speaker.
"Both. I came to get—"
There's a squeal from the performer's guitar and you cringe at the volume, eyes closing momentarily. When the noise stops, you relax, "Sorry. I…"
What were you saying? You can't really focus when there's still the scratchy noises feeding out the amp. You look over your shoulder, spy the offender, and wish desperately for her to stop.
A moment later, the noise runs smooth and the volume turns way down. The soft noises of her acoustic guitar begin. You turn back to Clark.
You remember you were in the middle of a sentence, "Sorry. I'm sorry, what was the question?"
Clark smiles, soft, "Don't be sorry. I was asking if you come to the markets often. You look prepared."
He nods to the bags over your shoulder.
"I come sometimes," You say, relieved that he doesn't mind repeating himself. "I'm mainly here for bread because I was supposed to get some after work yesterday."
"Oh," says Clark, but you can't place what tone it is. "Guess we kept you longer than you intended, huh?"
"I would've gone home earlier if I wanted to." You inform. "If that's what you mean."
It might be, given how something relaxes in his body. He stands a little straighter. When he's not hunching over, like he been on the subway, you realise he's more than a fair bit taller than you.
If he wanted to kiss you, he'd definitely have to lean down, your brain supplies unhelpfully.
You pretend to adjust your sleeve just press your fingers to your wrist. As suspected, your heart doesn't seem to be fairing well in Clark's presence. You're nervous — but after some consideration, you decide it's a good kind of nervous.
You watch him survey the crowds of the slowly busying market. He turns to you.
"How would you like some company?" asks Clark. Then, as if remembering your answer last time he asked, he quickly adds, "No pressure to, if you'd rather just—"
Hell if you're not going to seize this opportunity. You cut him off and hope he won't think you too rude.
"I would love the company."
He blinks - then shows off his dimples with a smile, gaze softened and entirely on you. "Alright then."
Together, you walk and you talk.
Clark tells you about Smallville, the small town in Kansas that he hails from.
The farmboy image makes a lot of sense honestly. It explains his broad shoulders and big arms, not the usual physique of an investigative reporter. You try not to sweat at the mental image of him throwing around hay-bales - and quietly fail miserably.
And then the image sweetens nearly unbearably when you hear him talk about his Ma and his Pa, adoration clear in his voice.
You talk about home too, but more about college days with Lois, when you started living independently. He asks about your job. You somehow end up convincing him Leo's Bakery is the best sourdough in the city — though he's rather easily swayed.
When you pass a stall selling fake crystals, which you point out, Clark makes the mistake of asking how you can tell.
It starts you off on a tangent. You get halfway through an explanation, informing him of the formation of cleavage planes in minerals, when you realise you might be doing the thing.
The talk-so-much-you-miss-the-cue-that-tells-you-to-be-quiet thing.
"and when it's glass, it doesn't have those—" You suddenly want to jam your hand in your mouth, it'd be easier to stop talking. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm talking a lot, aren't I?"
You shove your hands in your pockets so you don't pick at your fingertips, a bad habit.
Clark smiles, pulling the wagon that he somehow coaxed you to put your stuff in too. He shows no strain of pulling it.
"You are," He agrees, but he says warmly. Like it might be a good thing. "It's wonderful. Please keep going."
You bite your cheek in surprise — but he means it, so you do.
He lets you talk for as long as you like, and when you eventually lapse into quiet, it's surprisingly comfortable.
You've done an okay job at multi-tasking, talking and shopping, with a few more pieces of produce joining the cooled sourdough loaf. But really, you and Clark seem to be walking just to keep each other company.
You're broken out of your thoughts when Clark clears his throat.
He glances down at you, "Do you think there's some reason we keep running into each other?"
"A reason?"
You search your brain for what he might possibly mean. It is rather unlikely that you've run into each other this much, purely by accident. Even you can admit, it is odd.
But plenty of things are odd to you, that seem perfectly natural to other people.
You suppose you've just been putting this in the same box.
"Like," There must be something in his throat, because Clark clears it again. "Fate. Or something like that."
You might say he sounds almost wistful. Maybe if you were someone else, you might be able to tell what that means.
You ask a different question instead. "Do you believe in fate?"
That makes Clark looks at you. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything, his blue eyes simply roam your face with a tenderness you're unprepared for. "You know, I think I'm beginning to."
You wish you could figure out why that makes you face burn.
Something pings on your phone, making it vibrate in your pocket. With a polite smile, you pull it out and instead of the notification, your attention goes to the time.
Your brows raise in surprise. It's a good thing you haven't any plans, as you found time has, yet again, run away from you.
You're beginning to suspect it must be a Clark thing.
"Sorry, I've just realised—" You hold up your phone halfheartedly. "The time. Um, I didn't mean to take up so much of yours, that is. I should probably get going."
Clark nods in understanding. A muscle twitches in his jaw, tensed, as he watches you extract your things from his wagon.
You straighten up, things gathered loosely in your hands, and expect it to be the same awkward exchange of waves goodbye.
It isn't. Clark's talking before you take the first step, the words coming out a little breathless,
"Before you go— and- this might be too forward- in which case, you know, that's fine. But, I didn't want to, uh, lose the chance. Seize the day, you know?"
Okay, he's lost you. It must read on your face, because Clark sighs. It doesn't feel directed at you.
He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks suddenly pinker than peaches this time. They better resemble the red of his wagon.
Clark looks to the sky, mumbling something under his breath you can't hear, then turns to you, set. "I would love to see you again. If- If you'd like. On purpose this time."
You blink.
Well, you weren't expecting that. He wants to see you? On purpose?
You can't help but note how wonderful it is to have someone be so forward with you.
What follows is a tinge of disappointment—he's not asking you out, not like Darren did. He didn't say date.
You're not so presumptuous to think he would think that way about you - the way you've been thinking of him.
Your disappointment is followed by a scornful scoff at yourself — now that you think about it, it's highly unlikely that someone as kind as Clark is without a girlfriend. You're just a fool for not considering it earlier.
"You want to hang out?" You ask, to be sure.
Something crosses Clark's face. After a beat, he swallows, shrugs and says, "Sure. If that's what you want."
It is what you want—to see him again.
Albeit, maybe not quite how you'd like, but beggars can't be choosers.
"I would like that."
Clark smiles — which turns to a grin when he takes your number, scrawled on a tiny scrap of paper torn from your notebook.
You half hope he knows what it means that you've ruined a fresh page for him - and half hope he doesn't.
When you bid each other goodbye, you watch the handsome not-such-a-stranger anymore disappear in the throngs of people, his red wagon towed behind him.
And into the evening after, tempting and wishful, the concept of fate follows you into sleep.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It takes, what Clark thinks is, an embarrassing amount of time to figure where he's gone wrong.
Here's the thing; Clark's a big boy.
He was raised right. He can take a rejection on the chin — can be polite, respectful. He can still keep people as friends, even when his feelings extend a little further.
Given your polite readjustment of Clark's date invitation into just friends territory, the implication very much is that you are not interested in Clark. Not in the way he's interested in you, at least.
And he can respect that, truly. He is a gentleman after all.
Except, the thing is, you don't exactly act that way.
As the two of you settle into a routine of new friends, learning your place in each others lives, on purpose this time, Clark just… notices.
It's the little things — and it takes time to know what you do with him, and what you do with everyone else.
He notices how you're mostly quiet, but also prone to a sudden inspired chatter that increases with volume and excitement in equal measure. Your hands flex, like there's too much energy in you with nowhere to go but out through your fingertips.
You do that around him, but not around everyone.
He notices your lingering gaze. Feels it on his back when he's turned; on his hands; feels it tracing up the side of his face when you think he isn't looking.
You don't do that with anyone else either.
He notices… a lot about you, to be honest.
Probably more than someone who's trying to veer away from romantic notions and stay firmly in the friend zone you've enacted for the pair of you should.
But — your heart is the biggest giveaway.
This thing, he doesn't mean to notice. It's come to feel like spying, if the person isn't aware he's doing it, tuning in his super senses to something a quiet as a heartbeat.
It's not like prying or eavesdropping really, but Ma and Pa raised him to treat it as such.
Your heart though—it reaches out with a siren's call he's helpless to ignore.
Around just the two of you, it wavers from steady to rising. Not fast enough to be panic, but too fast to be calm. Somewhere that sits in between.
Which means, you're nervous around him. The way you check your pulse, in subtle motions but Clark's the observant kind, means that you know it too.
He can only hope it's not the bad sort of nerves. Though, he figures you'd stop inviting him over if it was. You're on the side of too honest sometimes, which grates some—but only endears him evermore.
The combination of all these little things swirl together, forming a sign, that, well, usually Clark would take as mutual interest. You seem interested.
But you had turned him down.
Clark loses sleep, wondering if it's wrong that he still thinks of his friend in this way.
This—this pining way, that seems to be second nature to him now. Imbued in him. Intertwined with him.
Your eyes, your mouth are constant, vivid thoughts, surely meant to drive him mad. Like the place a tooth used to be, one he can't stop running his tongue over.
Sore, aching, yearning for something missing.
Is it wrong? How could it be, when it felt so right. Is it wrong? he asks himself, stealing every sidelong glance at you, greedy for it. Eager for more.
The thought of your kiss—how it would feel to have your lips on his—crosses his mind daily.
There is where the embarrassing part comes in.
Really, in hindsight, all Clark can think is that he should have figured it out sooner. Well, actually, he had figured it out, but connecting the two pieces hadn't even occurred to him.
To put it lightly, you deal with all manner of things very literally.
Double meanings, sarcastic comments, pointed looks; some of them you catch, most of them you don't. When they come up in conversations, you get this little pinch in your eyebrows.
If it's not Clark who's said them, you'll glance wordlessly up at him, like checking if he's understood it either.
He knows you have no idea how much it captivates him.
All this is to say, he should've been able to put two and two together much sooner.
He wishes he had—if only so it all could've been a little more romantic.
But as it goes, the afternoon it unfolds, he's in his kitchen, donned in a striped and too small apron, with a bit of flour in his hair. You look lovely, as always.
Together, you're baking together. Really, Clark's doing most of the work.
He doesn't actually mind, given it's Ma's carrot cake recipe that he's recreating. And also because he likes it when you let him do things for you. It's taken time to figure what you will and won't let him help with.
You're perched on one of the bar stools, elbows to the counter, watching him work. Doing important things, such as beguiling him with a single look. He's softened by your mere closeness.
It's also not helping that you have to look through your eyelashes whenever you make eye contact with him.
(Clark's already crushed one egg by accident already, as a result.)
At current, he's folding the batter, the mixing bowl cradled in his arms. Your attention is waning, given how when he glances up, he sees you fiddling with the cinnamon shaker. You're peeling the label slightly, just for something to fidget with.
He gestures to it with a nod and a smile. "Toss me the cinnamon, will you?"
And you do, literally.
Expectation tells him you'll slide it across the counter. Instead, he has to rapidly drop the spatula with a splat! into the bowl, to catch the incoming cinnamon. It jolts him, the surprise of it.
He stares at it, clutched in his fingers — which he definitely only caught with his enhanced reflexes — and then up at you, wide-eyed.
You blink at him, not understanding his sudden surprise. "You said to toss it!"
Two and two fuse together. Your very literalness and Clark's lack of specific wording.
Had he called it a date, that time at the markets, how ever many weeks ago now? He was so sure he had - or if he hadn't, it was so obviously implied you couldn't possibly misunderstand.
But then again, he didn't know you then. Not like he knows you now.
To you, Clark goes from his normal ease around you, to wide-eyed and straight backed. It looks a little like he's been zapped with something - a lightning rod of realisation.
Then he slowly squints at you for a long moment, mixing bowl still cradled to his bicep. Moving with immense care, he places it slowly down on the counter before him.
His hands follow, palms wrapping around the edge of the counter. He stares hard at the surface for another long, long moment.
His blue eyes flick up to you, through his glasses, searching for something.
"Do you want to go on a date?" He asks, voice low. "With me?"
Which—okay. Something misfires in your brain. It's come out of nowhere—how did cinnamon and carrot cake lead to this?
A date. With you. And him. Together. Romantically.
Hidden behind your ribs, you feel your treacherous heart begin to race. You feel that stupid burn in your face you always get around Clark flare up.
Why is he asking now? What changed?
You wonder if he's just figured you out. If he can suddenly see some manifestation of your quiet, pathetic longing.
Have you been that obvious? You wonder if it's pity.
Then you swallow the thought away.
Clark wouldn't.
You realise you haven't answered. Despite how you desperately want to, you're not brave enough to meet his gaze. If you do, you'll never get to the words out.
"Yes. I would like that."
Clark sucks in a sharp breath. Your eyes dart up, looking at him through your lashes with a quiet disbelief and he's smiling. Grinning, like what you've just said is the best news of his life.
You should pinch your arm. Perhaps you've fallen asleep at the counter, watching him fold the batter.
"Great," Clark says breathily.
He's looking at you in a way that's, not different per say, but simply less… reserved. There's an ardent fondness in his eyes that wasn't there before.
Or maybe it was. Maybe you're the one who hasn't been paying close enough attention.
"Great." You echo.
Have you two just agreed to something? Your throat clicks with how dry it is. You're still a little unsure how you've ended up here.
A beat passes.
The understanding of what he's asking—as in, had actually just asked you out—wallops into you.
"I didn't realise you—" You say loudly, then bite your tongue. "I- I mean, I thought- or didn't rather, think you, like, would think like that. Not about me."
Clark's lips press together, like he's holding back from an even wilder grin. Like he's finally solved a puzzle he's been tinkering at for months now—and the final product is much, much better than expected.
He picks up his hands, dusts off the flour, and begins to work open the knot on the back of the apron.
"What are the chances you'll believe me if I say I'll felt that way from the start?"
"Low." You reply honestly, watching him as he dumps the apron on the counter beside the mixing bowl. You wonder what he means by the start.
"At the bar?"
Clark does laugh this time, like you've said something delightfully funny.
He walks backward to the door, eyes still on you, til he reaches the coat stand. You watch, puzzled, as he pilfers through the pocket of his coat and produces his wallet.
"Let me prove it," He says, gesturing with his wallet.
He crosses the space, this time rounding the counter to stand beside you. Still sitting, you have to crane your neck to look up at him - but his head is bowed, focused on something in his wallet.
You haven't a clue what he's looking for until —
—there, between his fingers, is a piece of fabric you recognise.
It's… the tag from your shirt.
The one he'd helped snip off for you on the subway, all those months ago.
He'd kept it. In his wallet, carrying it around with him. Knew exactly where to find it, as if he'd retrieved it countless times before.
For an awfully small thing, it represents what feels like an enormous amount of time.
From the start, he said. From the start I've felt this way, it means.
You stare at the tag, bewildered - flummoxed and yet, indescribably like something's melting in your chest, molten hot.
Your hand raises, unbidden, knuckles pressing against your sternum, as though it might help you contain the feeling. It's helpless.
There's no stopping the unbridled, unrestrained happiness which is so real, it feels sharp. Your eyes blur with tears. A choked sounding breath claws its way out of your throat.
You look up at Clark. There aren't words you can find.
To make matters worse, Clark looks afflicted at your reaction — your leg jittering, your hand pressed tight to your chest, your mouth yet to say a word. He has to check, "Are these— these are good tears?"
Your chin trembles, but you're nodding severely. You drag in another ragged breath and consequently make Clark feel like a monster for doing this to you.
"You-" The word quivers a bit around your tears. "Sorry. I'm sorry, I don't mean to cry, it's— it's not bad. It's good. It's really good."
You tuck your face away, breaths still coming too fast. Clark gives you the moment you need, wishing you were at equal heights so it wasn't so easy for you to hide from him. But a few deep, slow breaths later, you unfurl from your hiding place.
Fingers wipe your face, clearing the tears, and then you look at his hands. Your face is dewy from tears, eyelashes clinging together. It's poetry to Clark.
"You kept it," You whisper, eyes fixed on the fabric in his fingers. Your gaze lifts, peering up at him with a tenderness that threatens to unravel Clark entirely.
"I did." He says, matching your quiet tone, immeasurably kind. He's always kind with you.
Your bottom lip takes a tremble and you bite it away, teeth sinking into the flesh.
"I looked for you on the subway. After that day."
You say it like you've been keeping a secret — this hidden want, tucked in your heart and carried around with you.
Clark reckons the two of you aren't that different in this way; it's what he's been doing with this tag, after all. Taking this want around with him, until it chased him into another chance encounter with you.
He rubs his thumb over the swatch. It feels like luck to him.
"That's what you meant about fate," You murmur, realisation staining your tone. You sniffle a little.
Your eyes are back on the tag, but this time, you reach out to feel it too. Clark lets you. In the middle, your fingertips catch.
Funny how an object you so detested comes back to you, loved in another form.
You ask, "Is that why you kept it? Fate?"
There's an eyelash on your cheekbone, freed by your tears. Clark thinks has all the wishes he needs, right here in front of him.
Fingertips to yours, he draws your hand closer to him, into his chest. Lets the line of your body lead the way, bringing your faces closer as he bends to reach you.
The air smells of cinnamon and the sweetness of finally, finally getting what you want.
"It was a working theory," He murmurs — and feels the tremble in your mouth when he kisses you.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
HUGE thank you to @strangerstilinski for helping me at every roadblock this thru one <3 and to @citrinesparkles for boatloads of validation to help me push thru :D
otherwise moots / people who asked to be tagged for the first part, i figured you may want to read this one too! as always, no pressure :)
You’ve been in love before, okay? And it’s… alright, you guess.
You’re sensitive. And you miss jokes, and you’re stuck wondering if it’s you who’s just not getting it. Love.
Enter Clark Kent — mutual friend recently turned boyfriend, sweetheart, and small-town farm boy. Also the man who’s making you question everything you know about love. Which isn’t a lot.
Better make a list.
[10k, fem!reader, no spoilers, one steamy scene & no other way to put this but you’re a weird girl <3 ]
edit: now with a prequel, but read in either order <3
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It’s not that you haven’t had boyfriends before.
‘Cos you have. Well, kind of.
Technically, if you’re counting (and you are), there was Danny. He was your boyfriend from second grade, which lasted all of 2 days.
It was tough from the beginning. He hadn’t been appreciative of the myriad of bugs you tried to present him with over the 48 hours of your relationship. He also didn’t want to hold your hand.
The final straw came when he claimed that a pile of worms was gross, not romantic.
You still didn’t get that. But you figured if getting mud between your fingers wasn’t some notion of romance, then perhaps romance wasn’t for you.
And after that, it had been a long while.
Teenage years had slogged by. You got to watch as your friends got boyfriends—then got to wonder what bizarre magic it was that turned them into hopeless fools.
Lost to reason. Endeared by things you could never quite understand.
You had asked about it, just once. Your best friend at the time, Kelsey, had fixed you with a look and said, “You’re thinking about it too much. It’s just, like, love. You get it or you don’t.”
Kelsey and you hadn’t been friends for much longer. But you still remembered what she said for years to come.
It hadn’t been all that confidence inspiring, if you were being completely honest. Since then, you’ve been wondering if you’re just one of those people who are never going to ‘get it’.
There seems to be a lot of things that people get that you don’t.
It’s not been for lack of trying though. During your early twenties, there had been that awful three weeks where you had downloaded a dating app.
It had been tricky. It didn’t seem all that romantic either. How are you supposed to sum yourself up in a couple of photos? How are you supposed to read tone through a text?
Besides, no matter what you seemed to do, all the conversations led back to the discussion of sex. Which didn’t seem very fitting, considering it was called a dating app. Were hookups considered dates? A mystery to you.
But - and you remember this clearly - it had been the day you’d deleted the app, that you had run into Darren in the hall of your apartment complex.
By anyone else’s standards, Darren is the only boyfriend you’ve had.
Except for now — because now, you have Clark.
And yeah, like you said, it’s not like you haven’t had a boyfriend before. It’s just that somehow, with Clark now, you’re noticing things.
New things. Different things.
You and Darren had dated for the better part of a year. The break-up had been amicable — at least you think so.
Getting a read on Darren’s emotions was one of those things that never really clicked - though, ironically, you could tell that it was one of the things that annoyed him so.
It was one of quite a few things, apparently.
According to your friends, you and Darren had a ‘fairy-tale’ meeting. Bumping into each other in the elevator, his coffee spilling down your sleeve, his apology and insistence at making it up to you.
You’d agreed before you’d even really realised it was a date.
It was easy to get wrapped up in it, in him. Darren was certainly nice to look at. He had this swoopy blonde hair and nice green eyes that reminded you of seaweed. He didn’t seem to like it when you’d told him that though.
The first date had been at a dive-bar you’d never seen before, a grimey place called The Last Resort.
It flaunted crimson lighting and sticky vinyl seats. You’d been too overwhelmed and tried to stem it with a margarita - overshooting it a bit with the booze. You hadn’t expected it when Darren tried to kiss you.
It had been awkward, his lips not quite meeting yours, combined with the squeak of surprise you’d let out. But Darren insisted it was cute.
He’d walked you home (but then again, he did live in your building) and asked you at your door, tall and nearly intimidating in the space of your doorway, if you’d like to do it again. You’d barely had a second to think it over, to analyse any emotion of the night, before an answer stumbled out.
It’s, like, love. You get it or you don’t get it. The only haunt from your old best friend - the only reason you really wondered if you were missing something.
Something that made you want to get it, even if you weren’t entirely sure what it was.
You’d told Darren yes.
After a couple of weeks together, you were confident. Kelsey had been right. You got it now.
Darren was sweet. He took you out — though, those nights frequently ended up at The Last Resort. Eventually, you learned to like it with time.
He’d invite you over and cook you dinner — but sometimes he’d forget that he hadn’t been grocery shopping and would just order in.
He’d kiss you like no else had - because no one else really had - and you’d let him convince you to be late to work. He’s peel off your clothes in a rush of frenzied passion, as though he couldn’t make himself wait. Darren made you feel special.
Love. You had been in love.
Correction: you think you had been in love.
It must’ve been, you’ve since concluded. You can’t really think of any other reason that it lasted that long if it wasn’t love.
In fact, you hadn’t really questioned it until now. Hadn’t had any reason to.
Until Clark.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Clark’s apartment is fancier than yours.
It’s all high-rise and sleek surfaces, with big windows that stretch from the roof to the ground. You like how fast the elevator goes and how it makes your stomach swoop.
Clutching the strap of your bag, you watch the numbers climb as it reaches his level. The path to his apartment is memorised, even though, technically, you and Clark have only officially been seeing each other for a couple of weeks.
You have your prior friendship to thank for that. A friend of a friend, that’s how you two had met.
Lois Lane is a fantastic reporter and a good friend. She could ask the right questions, make you uncomfortable for the sake of finding out the truth, but she was never mean. You liked that. It was rare in people.
You two had been friends — though you hadn’t been sure if she would use that word — back in your college days.
It was an accidental reunion on the streets of Metropolis that had her dragging you along to some Daily Planet happy-hour drinks after work. There you’d met Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark.
This is where people say the rest is history.
The elevator dings and rocks to a halt. You step out, counting the doors on the way to Clark’s apartment. His door, like all the others, is a lime-green you’re not fond of. Clark always smiles when he catches you wrinkling your nose at it.
It’s as you come to a pause before the familiar lime-green, do you realise you haven’t called ahead.
You hadn’t been thinking of that — just that you got off work early, had to run an errand on this side of town, and were right by Clark’s building entirely by accident. You’d only been thinking of seeing Clark.
Most people don’t like it when you show up unannounced, you’ve found.
You get it, you suppose. You get that way when someone comes into the kitchen when you’re cooking - or when you’re wearing your headphones and people won’t stop trying to talk to you. It makes you itch.
You don’t mind so much when people come by and visit you, mainly because it doesn’t happen all that often.
It might be your apartment; a quaint shoebox, especially compared to Clark’s.
But Clark insists that he likes your apartment more, calls it homier. Which is nice, because Darren only ever called it tiny.
And Darren really didn’t like it when you called by without telling him in advance.
The first time you had, after getting a surprise bonus at work, had been the first time he’d ever raised his voice at you.
You’d stood in the hallway the whole time, because Darren never even undid the chain to let you in, and felt slimy with guilt and confusion for days after.
Just as you’re envisioning all the ways this unexpected visit might result in a similar disaster, the door swings inward. There stands your boyfriend.
He’s smiling - a good sign for your predicament - and it’s a good-surprised kind of smile. Like finding something you’d thought you’d lost kind of surprise.
Clark opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it.
“Hi. I- I’m sorry, I— wait, how did you…? I didn’t knock.”
“Hi,” Clark says back, still so smiley. He has one hand still on the door, the other against the doorframe. He looks very pretty. “What are you sorry for? I thought I heard you come down the hall, so I thought I’d just check.”
You wonder if he’s done that when it hasn’t been you — the thought of his head poking out, searching the hall for you, makes your stomach feel like it does when the elevator goes too fast. In a good way.
You shrug your shoulders in explanation for your apology. “I didn’t call ahead.”
To that, Clark grins a little wider. He steps back and opens the door further, to invite you in. “I’m glad you didn’t. I love surprises.”
Something preens within you at the idea of being a nice surprise.
He’s clearly back from work early — or he’s working from home, but still decided to put on his work clothes. No glasses today either.
He’s wearing his usual slacks and smart dress shoes. His white button-up, though, has been replaced with a tight-fitting ringer t-shirt. It hugs his arms well, snug across his biceps, and it's tight across his chest.
If he asked you what you thought of it, you’d probably sputter something stupid. And sinful.
He doesn’t ask thankfully, he just ushers you inside politely. You step through the door you’ve been through countless times, toe off your shoes, and stop at the edge of the kitchen. Clark closes the door behind you and you wonder what protocol for this is.
This is a new part you’re still getting used to.
Normally, you’d take yourself to the couch, the usual corner seat you’ve unofficially reserved. But, now that you think about it, you haven’t actually been here since Clark dropped the g-word.
(He hadn’t actually asked to be his girlfriend in that manner of words. It had been much more poetic, flowers bought, a nervous and murmured ‘Please be mine?’ that you still thought about before bed.)
A hand touches your shoulder lightly and you turn towards it, to Clark, with a tentative smile.
This is where you’re unsure. Are you just allowed to kiss him? Whenever you want? Darren hadn’t been like that.
Kisses to say hello? It feels preposterous. You’ll never stop if given the chance.
“Hi,” Clark says again, and all thoughts of Darren evaporate. His hand shifts, tracing the line of your shoulder slowly up to your face.
Then, he answers your endless unvoiced questions for you, his hand cradling your jaw tenderly. You can feel the callouses on his fingers, feel the goosebumps you get in response.
Clark guides your chin up, you hold your breath, and he kisses you, soft.
You savour the moment by keeping your eyes closed a little longer, even when his lips have left yours.
Clark’s smiling again when your eyes flutter open, grinning enough to show teeth. You’re mirroring it without even realising, eyes creased and cheeks already aching.
You can’t believe it’s been a few weeks and it still feels like that when you kiss him.
It’s an effort not to get worried about when that will stop.
Clark removes his hand slowly, eyes still roaming your face, but eventually he relents. He takes a step further into the apartment.
You follow, wrapping one hand around your wrist to subtly feel for your pulse. It’s rocketing. No wonder you feel so lightheaded.
“How’d you end up on this side of town?” he asks, taking a seat on the couch.
You realise where his dress shirt is now, picked up between his fingers as he unwinds a spool of thread. There’s a button on the table, matching the others on the shirt.
You take a seat next to him. Close, but not so close to be clingy. Clingy isn’t good, you’ve learned.
You pull your legs up and rest your head on your knees, watching as he hunts for a needle on the table.
“Work let me leave early,” you say. Clark locates the needle with a quiet aha! “I had to return that book I got from the library. I don’t know if you remember, but they only had it at this particular branch.”
“I remember,” Clark says warmly, his eyes glancing up at you. “You finished that book already?”
He’s talking and trying to thread the needle at the same time. It’s not going well. The needle looks tiny in his hand. You take pity on him after the third try.
“Yeah, I — hey, let me have a go,” you cut yourself off, holding out your hand. Clark smiles guiltily, carefully passing over the needle and thread in your waiting hand.
In one quick motion, thread wet on your tongue, you push it through the needle. Instead of handing it back, you hold out your hand again - and Clark dutifully puts the button in your palm, handing over the shirt at the same time. You readjust, putting your knees to the side and folding your feet up beneath you.
“It was good, then?”
You hm, eyes fixed on the button as you prepare the thread, lining everything up. You glance up, meeting Clark’s eye, and realise he’s still asking about the book.
“Oh. It was okay, I guess,” you shrug a little.
You bite the needle between your teeth so you can align the button with both thumbs. “It had one of those three-day loans so, y’know, I had to read it in three days.”
It’s one of those little rules that make more sense to you than to anyone else. Darren hated them - and you hated that he called them senseless. It was the exact opposite!
“Well, of course,” is all Clark says. Another flash of your eyes up to his face tells you that, surprisingly, he’s not making fun of you. “I should get you to read some of my articles if you can read all that so quickly.”
For some reason, that makes your face burn. You focus on jabbing the needle through the fabric in precise motions to distract yourself.
“Why would you want me to do that?”
“Why not?” Clark responds. “I trust your opinion.”
The burn in your face gets worse. You pull the needle through for the final time and tug the thread taut til it snaps.
Just to check - and to give yourself a moment - you run your fingers over the button to check. Secure and neat.
“Here you go.” You pass it back. The needle and thread go back on the table.
Clark takes the shirt, but doesn’t move to do anything else. You lift your eyes to his face and realise he’s waiting for your answer.
“I don’t think I’d be very good at it.” You admit. He shrugs, as if to say maybe.
“We won’t know til you try,” he says. Then he kindly backs off, turning his attention to the shirt.
He does just as you had, running his fingers over the newly secured button, but with a much more enthusiastic reaction.
“Holy cow, this is—” He squints at it. “It’s so neat!”
Clark looks up at you, eyes somehow both wide and accusatory. “You didn’t tell me you could sew.”
Technically, you can’t. You can do little things like buttons and hems—but the way Clark’s smoothing his hands over the fabric, you’d think you’ve given him a brand new shirt, made from scratch.
You say sheepishly, “It’s just a button.”
Suddenly, the shirt is tossed to the side and Clark’s reaching for you - his large hands curl around your thighs, just above the knee, and he pulls you across the couch with a surprising strength. You slide forward, almost into his lap.
“Clark!” You laugh, hands on his collarbones to stop yourself from falling into his chest.
Your protest goes unnoticed - or ignored - as Clark’s hands move up, circling around your waist and pulling you even closer. You are in his lap now, with his big arms around you and his face so close. God, it’s a nice one, you can’t help but think.
He’s smiling at you and you have no idea what to do with your hands.
“Sorry,” Clark says, not sounding very apologetic at all. “It’s just, you’re so full of surprises. I love getting to learn new things about you.”
One hand on your back is tracing up and down lightly. You feel like you’ve accidentally swallowed a bag of pop rocks.
“A lot of people can sew.” You say. You shift a bit on his lap, hoping you aren’t making him uncomfortable and his hands loosen to let you do so - but the moment he realises you’re not moving off, he brings you in closer.
“I know,” he says, hand resuming its drift up and down your back. “A lot of people aren’t you though.”
His eyes roam your face, his mouth curled into a smile so sweet, it’s devastating.
Your hands at his collarbones finally unfurl as you let yourself relax a little more into him, pulse still racing. Your nerves never really leave around Clark.
“What are you thinking about?”
You’re not expecting the question - and answer more truthfully than usual. “How you still make me nervous.”
You expect Clark to laugh, but he doesn’t. His brows knit together, a sketch of concern on his face.
“In a good way?”
You weren’t before, but, abruptly, you’re concerned that Clark might think otherwise.
Darren certainly complained that all your annoyances came out of nowhere. History tells you you’re not the best communicator.
“Yes,” You nod severely. You’re clinging a little tighter to his neck now, worriedly. “It’s good. You’ve never made me bad-nervous.”
“Whew,” Clark says. “You’ve never made me bad-nervous either.”
You haven’t thought about that before. The idea of Clark being nervous is laughable.
Awkward? Yes. But he’s so sure in his ideas, in his motions. It’s why it surprised you that much more when he asked you on that first date.
Brow furrowed, you ask, “I don’t make you nervous, do I?”
In answer, Clark frees one of his hands and brings it between you. Gently, he places it atop one of your own, cradling it, and he drags it from his neck down to his chest.
He holds it over his heart.
“Feel that?”
You can, just lightly. There’s a thumping, but you can’t quite tell if it’s faster than usual - not unless you sit still for 15 seconds and count the beats.
“It would be much more efficient to feel the pulse on your neck.” You inform him.
Clark chuckles, smiling somewhat shyly. “That’s-well, uh, I mean, where’s the romance in that?”
Genuinely perplexed, your brow creases again. All of this is romantic to you - being in his lap, his hands on your back.
It certainly feels more intimate than any kind of cuddling you did with Darren—though, he self-proclaimed himself ‘not a cuddler’.
“Isn’t it?” You ask.
To test the theory, you slip your hand out from under Clark’s.
He lets you maneuver him, picking up his hand and moving his two front fingers together, up to your neck. You push them lightly against your jugular, knowing your rabbiting pulse must be thrumming against his fingers.
Clark looks at you, his eyes fixated on your hand still holding his, and swallows.
His ears have gotten redder. He lifts his gaze to your face, “I stand corrected.”
You release his hand with your own shy smile and before you can back out, you reach for his neck, two fingers out. He lets you, chin even shifting up to give you more space.
His skin is warm, with a little scratch from his shadow - he’ll be due for a shave soon. You haven’t gotten brave enough to tell him that you quite like stubble just yet.
Fingertips tracing, you find his pulse point.
Staring at the hollow of his throat, you don’t even need to count to 15 to feel his pulse is faster than normal. He’s not lying. You do make him nervous.
You’re not quite sure why it seemed so impossible until right this moment.
Flicking your gaze up to meet his, you find Clark already watching you. Like his ears, a lovely pink colour has dusted across the tops of his cheeks - it takes a second to realise it’s a blush. He’s blushing.
Clark clears his throat. His voice sounds raspier when he asks, “Believe me now?”
With his heartbeat against your fingers, you have no choice but to. Though the idea it’s just from two fingers is positivity delirious.
“I never said I didn’t.”
“No, you didn’t.” He agrees.
He straightens up on the couch, his hand on your lower back keeping you steady as his face dips closer to yours. You hold your breath instinctively - and swear you see the ghost of a smile cross his lips - then, he’s kissing you.
It’s short. He doesn’t linger, though the look in his eyes tells you he might want to.
Given you're on his lap, hand still pressed to his neck, you try to convince yourself it’s probably a good thing.
Just one kiss is enough to inspire more. There’s no other word than ravenous—which is highly concerning since you had never felt that way with Darren.
You shelve the thought of sinking your teeth into Clark’s shoulder far, far away.
And then mentally make a note to check and see if you’ve had any bites from rabid animals recently. That would at least explain the strange urges.
Clark breaks the silence, “Thank you for mending my shirt.”
He reaches for it, tugging it between your bodies. He thumbs over the newly fixed button, almost as if he’s marvelling at it.
His sincerity mystifies you. It’s like nothing you’re used to.
Having read a dozen articles on new relationships (your best attempt at research, inspired after your first date with Clark), you know definitively that bringing up an ex is the worst thing you can do.
It’s the first thing on the lists: THE TOP TEN THINGS WOMEN DO WRONG, as Cosmopolitan had titled it.
1: Bringing up their ex. Always bright red, meaning danger!
That’s how things work in nature at least, like poison dart-frogs. You know better than to lick a poison dart-frog and you apply the same knowledge here.
No bringing up exes. You don’t want to bring up your ex.
Worse, you don’t want Clark to bring up any exes.
But you can’t drop it - the thought caught in your mind like a fly that can’t find the open window, going round and round, louder and louder.
You got it. The love thing.
It had been an open and shut case with Darren, one that had left you mildly dissuaded from it in the future. Yeah, yeah, love, you’ve been in — but it had been like, sharing a sundae.
Except, you had a straw and Darren had a spoon - and the flavour was chocolate, which you didn’t like, and you only got some if it melted before Darren ate it all.
…Not your most astute metaphor, you’ll admit.
Point is, with Clark, you’re worried you were so focused on getting it, that you actually… didn’t.
Point is, if you were in love with Darren, then you have no idea what you’re doing with Clark.
Point is, that’s incredibly fucking scary.
You best start keeping notes.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
In your notebook, you write he thanked me for mending his shirt.
You’re not sure exactly what the list is yet.
Notes on the Clark Kent boyfriend experience? A step-by-step guide to the differences between boyfriends?
Neither of those seem right. You end up printing a ? at the top of the page and deem that sufficient. Then after a moment of consideration, you add the word love before it so it ends up reading: love ?
You read the first line you’ve written again. It’s the most concise way to sum up what had stuck out to you about that day — not the mending, but the sincerity in his thank you. The excitement over just a button.
If you didn’t know Clark to be so earnest, you’d think it might be one of those sarcastic jokes.
Sometimes, people play them on you — an exaggerated reaction that you’re supposed to know actually means the opposite.
But only sometimes. You’re not particularly good at cottoning on in the moment.
Luckily for you, Clark isn’t the sarcastic type. You like that he’s honest.
The first line in your notebook doesn’t stay lonely for long. The next time you add to your notebook, it’s your eighth official date together, just a few days after.
Clark had secured some swanky museum tickets, a perk offered from his job, as he told you over the phone. He’d called while still at work, the telephone lines ringing and an office murmur in the background.
It made you think he got the tickets and called you right away. Your stomach had done the elevator thing again, all swoopy and good-nervous.
The shelved thought of biting his shoulder made a fierce reappearance and you had to fight to focus on Clark’s words, not just his voice.
“They have a new butterfly exhibition, that’s what the tickets are for, and I thought of you. I thought we could, uh, go. My treat. I mean, obviously, I’ve already got the tickets…” He had trailed off awkwardly. It’s part of what makes you like him, his awkwardness. It’s so very Clark.
“What do you think?”
You answered candidly, “I love the museum.”
You hope the one he’s talking about has a mineral room.
“You do?” He’d sounded truly delighted to find that out. “That’s great, I—mean, me too. So we’ll go?”
You remember frowning at that, like he thought you might not want to - very much untrue. “Yes. I like going places with you.”
Following that had been a sharp inhale, then a stuttered cough, which made you pull the phone back with a cringe at the volume.
“Sorry, that was— something, my throat.” His voice had pitched up a bit. “So, tomorrow? Friday? It’ll be less busy, but we could do Saturday if you don’t want to go after work.”
“I like Friday.”
Then, far off, someone else’s voice had filtered through the phone. A coworker, jeering loudly enough for you to hear—“Clark, stop twirling the cord like you’re on the phone with your gir— oh my god, you are, aren’t you?”
“I have to go now.” Clark had said hastily, voice suddenly louder, like his mouth was closer to the receiver. “I’ll come by your place, Friday, 6pm. It’s an evening exhibit. Have a good day!”
Then the phone had hung up.
Then you were here, the next day, walking to the museum with Clark beside you.
This afternoon, you had been mulling over whether to call it a date or not.
Clark hadn’t actually said the words — it’s a date — not like how he had when he first asked you, over a month ago now. That had been clear.
This feels like murky ground. Do you still even call them dates after you start dating? Darren didn’t.
As you two walk, hand in hand, you decide to ask, “Is this a date?”
Clark jolts to a halt on the sidewalk and with your hands joined, you inadvertently come to a stop too. Perplexed, you look back at him, having to tilt your head up.
Fixed on you, his eyes are wide behind his glasses, something like concern pulling his brows together. It reminds you for all the world of a lost baby rabbit. His nose even twitches too.
You don’t like how upset he suddenly looks.
“What?” he says, sounding crushed. His fingers shift in yours. “I-I mean, I think so. I would- do you not think so?”
You also don’t like how his hand is loosening in yours, so you grip it tighter and shrug your shoulders. “I don’t know if you still call them dates once you start dating. You didn’t call it one. That’s why I asked.”
That makes Clark sigh loudly in relief. His shoulders, which have hiked up to his ears, sink down like a slowly deflating balloon.
He doesn’t look upset anymore, which is good. In fact, he’s looking at you much more intensely, a smile gracing his mouth.
He grips your hand back with the same fervor as before and starts you both walking again. “Yes, this is a date.”
You like that he answers your questions without poking fun at you for asking them.
You twist his hand over and start counting the freckles on the back absentmindedly.
“When is it a date and when is it just hanging out?”
You don’t look up, so you miss the affectionate glance Clark steals. He gives a hum in thought. He has 11 freckles on his left hand.
The museum peeks out, just up ahead. Something wilts in you. You wish you had another block to go, to keep walking with him. Then you could count the freckles on his other hand and see if they match.
“I think when you go out together, like this—” Clark finally answers, gesturing with your joined hands to the museum as you approach. “—it’s a date. Just you and I. I invited you out.”
“You invite me over,” you point out.
“True.” Clark smiles at you. “Maybe dates are the special occasions then.”
Your mouth twists. You don’t like that answer. Namely because it feels like a special occasion every time Clark calls, or invites you, or holds your hand, or kisses you.
“It’s always a special occasion,” you say pointedly, frowning a bit in your confusion. “You’re the special. Everything else is just an occasion.”
You’ve arrived at the doors to the museum. There’s a little line. Clark has the tickets in his pockets.
You pause slightly further back to let him retrieve them — you know you hate having to get things out in a rush — but he doesn’t reach for his pocket.
You glance up at him, concerned. He’s turned that brilliant shade of red again.
“Clark?”
“Hm?” He clears his throat, long lashes batting wildly as he blinks rapidly. You wonder if you should tell him you can’t blink away a blush - you know because you’ve tried.
“Tickets?” You ask a bit more weakly. Maybe he’s experienced a sudden change of heart about the museum - or you.
“Yes!” He exclaims, banishing that last thought swiftly. He shoves one hand in his pocket and pulls them out, brandishing them like a winning lottery ticket. “They’re here, I have them.”
The sign carved into stone, above the entrance way, reads METROPOLIS OBSERVATORY & SCIENCE CENTRE. It explains why it would be open for the evening - star-gazing is trickier during the daytime, you’d imagine.
Clark lets go of your hand to hand over the tickets, which get punched, handed back, and pocketed again. You make a note to ask for the keepsake later — you like things people often call junk.
He doesn’t reach for your hand again, instead resting his on the small of your back, ushering you through the doors.
The interior opens wide, with several paths splitting off from the entrance. There’s large, bright butterfly stickers on the ground leading to the right, accompanied by flourishing arrows. You can see into the beginning of the exhibit, people milling around already.
There’s also signs posted on a column, various arrows assigned to different paths. One reads Observatory, another Botanical Hall, and below it, Mineral Room, with a crystal decorated sign pointing to the left.
You perk up in interest and stop at the intersection of paths. “Can we see the mineral room, please?”
“The mineral…? You don’t want to see the butterflies?” Clark seems surprised.
That makes you pause, worried. You didn’t think about this — will he be upset if you say you want to look at rocks more than the butterflies?
You feel for your wrist, fingers pressing to your pulse. An old habit. You’re relieved to find your heartbeat steady.
Still, an old argument tickles at the back of your neck, Darren’s frustrated voice creeping in, and you force yourself not to physically bat the bad feeling away.
Biting your cheek, you realise you should’ve said something on the phone to begin with.
Now you’ve made Clark believe one thing, when you meant another. He invited you to see the butterflies. He didn’t mention going to the mineral room. You’re probably being demanding.
“If you want to,” you say as evenly as you can.
You’re not very believable. Clark sees straight through it, and even so, you’re not even aware that your body language gives you away, feet pointed to the left.
Never mind the fact you’re also a terrible liar - or the fact he can hear the skip in your heartbeat.
You wait for his sigh.
His hand on your back slips forward and he holds it out, palm up. You frown at it, then look up at him.
“I want to do what you want to do,” he says earnestly. “Let’s look at the minerals.”
He nudges his glasses up with his spare hand and his gaze holds such a softness that eye contact seems more unbearable than usual. The familiar burn in your face returns.
You look at your shoes—but not before you put your hand back in his.
You’re the only two in the mineral room, which is a treat all in itself. It’s quiet. You can keep Clark closer than usual.
He listens dutifully when you rattle off about pleochroism and birefringence — still keeping that intense warmth in his stare that you can’t handle for long. He doesn’t stop smiling the whole time. Neither do you, given the ache in your face.
By the carbonates, he kisses you, slow and sweet.
His glasses fog up and his blush makes an appearance. You feel like you’re having your own chemical reaction in your chest, fondness crystallising in the valves of your heart.
And when you ask if he minds that you didn’t get to see the butterflies at all, you believe him when he says not in the slightest.
You add, he asked me questions about rocks, to the list after he walks you home.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
After one particular morning, you add three lines in one go.
It had started the night before technically, when Clark had offered to come over to yours for the night. Tame enough overall, but… surprising.
Because, well, you were already at his apartment.
The thing is, you really like your own bed - though Clark’s is a close second.
And it’s just, you get finicky about these things —and last night, it had been the yoghurt you bought for tomorrow's breakfast, already in your fridge.
It makes you itch when you mess up the flow you have planned. But it didn’t mean you didn’t want to spend the night with Clark either.
Darren used to say you were punishing him when you went home like this. He’d never really believed you when you said there was nothing wrong — if there’s nothing wrong, then why are you going home?
Darren also didn’t like it when you were truthful. He said he did. Just be honest with me.
Yet, when you were — telling him his sheets were too scratchy, that his incense made your head too woozy, and his yoghurt brand was the one you hated — it always seemed to backfire. You told him anyway, because he asked.
One time, he’d called you a tease, spitting out the word. You didn’t get what you were teasing, but didn’t like how it felt either way.
To avoid this, you had made sure to set the precedent with Clark.
You stay over, but only with ample warning and a well-packed bag. You bring your own toothpaste, pillowcase, and a tiny Kermit that stays hidden in your bag - there for reassurance mainly. Clark never lights any smelly candles and his sheets are plenty soft enough for you.
Tonight, you find the precedent isn’t needed. Saturday night, a lazy afternoon spent together, and your boyfriend makes no protest beyond an adorable pout when you start to pack up to leave.
“I wish you could stay the night.” Clark murmurs.
It doesn’t sound like a guilt trip - it sounds like i miss you, before you’ve even gone.
He looks devastatingly comfy, relaxed beside you on the couch, lounging in his casual clothes. His hair is messier than usual.
You want to bury your hands in it, and let him kiss you over and over again, like he’s been prone to doing recently.
It’s becoming a serious hazard for your heart—so much, you’ve been thinking of informing your doctor. This much tachycardia can’t be healthy.
You remember it’s impolite to stare.
“I don’t have my things.” You remind him.
Clark twists his mouth, sighing a bit. “I know. I just like it when we sleep in the same bed.”
“I do too,” you say truthfully as you lace your shoes, moving slower than necessary. You glance back up.
Something in Clark’s open expression pulls the explanation off your tongue. “I just, it’s- I have my yoghurt. I got it for tomorrow.”
It sounds silly when you say it aloud. You try not to cringe so visibly.
“Wait, you’re going home just to go home?” Clark perks up, as if this is good news. “Not because you’re sick of me?”
Distress must show on your face because he hastily adds, “I’m kidding. I know you’re not.” Then, before you can worry about that too much, “Can I come with you? Spend the night?”
You haven’t even considered that he might want to.
“You’re already home, though.”
You realise that might sound like you don’t want him to and your hands clench up tightly.
Thankfully, Clark only shrugs and smiles, “Well, I was already going to walk you home.”
Relaxing, your hands unfurl. He’s being sincere. He wants to come over and spend the night - and he doesn’t mind if it’s at yours, instead of his.
Something in your chest aches tenderly and without thinking, you abandon your shoes and burst across the couch to Clark.
Surprised, he still catches you, arms cushioning your fall against him, but he isn’t prepared enough for your kiss. It catches him off guard and your teeth knock together from the force.
“Sorry,” you breathe, not that sorry at all. You’re gripping his shirt in your hands like you’re worried he might slip away — or worse, retract his offer to come over. “Yes, come over. I really want you to.”
Clark, still reeling from your kiss, looks a bit starry-eyed as he fixes his glasses that you’ve knocked askew.
But he’s smiling and he’s smiling at you. You can’t resist another kiss. You adore the little hum he makes in response.
It’s as though its set you off for the evening— Clark quickly packs a small bag, you kiss him; he grabs both your coats, you kiss him; he locks his door and you wrap yourself around his arm, pressing up on your tiptoes to kiss him.
He’s paying attention to locking the door and you can’t quite reach, so you kiss his jaw instead. Clark flushes hotly, but he’s still smiling. You still can’t believe he wants to come over.
It’s a highly uneffective way to travel, wrapped up in each other as you walk the blocks to your own apartment.
It’s a warmer night. The heat worsens when the doorman at your building clears his throat obnoxiously, making it clear your lovey dovey behaviour has an unwilling audience. It makes Clark fluster wildly, sputtering out a polite apology.
You drag him to the elevator in the midst of his, “My apologies, sir-!” so you can kiss him again, away from prying eyes.
Clark looks a little debauched against the elevator wall. You could probably roast marshmallows over his bright red face. His hands hover over your sides, flexing, but not touching.
“You—” He starts, a little out of breath. “What’s- I mean, I really don’t mind, but you’re, uh, well, eager tonight.”
“Bad?” Your voice dips into worry, fast.
“No!” Clark quickly amends. His hands finally find your waist, strong and sure, pulling you in before you even realise you’d been retracting. “It’s just a, uh, a bit of surprise.”
It’s true. To begin with, you were very shy with affection - your first kiss so sweet, Clark remembers your lips trembling.
Like how you hold your breath subconsciously every time he kisses you first. A tiny sharp inhale. Clark could write a full-length feature, worthy of the Daily Planet front page, on how much he adores it.
You remind him, “You like surprises.”
Clark softens at the memory you’re referring to, eyes shining in affection. “I do.”
“You like it when I surprise you?” You check.
“That I really like.” He’s grinning now, and he’s so handsome that you don’t know what to do with yourself. Kiss him? Bite him? Live in his dimples? He’s so nice to you in a way Darren never was.
The elevator dings, opening to your floor.
You tumble out together, with Clark still attempting to maintain a sense of manners. He straightens his rumpled coat with one hand, the other occupied by yours.
You lead him to your door, then through it.
Shoes toed off, you flip on the lights, then wince at their harshness. Clark slips off his shoes and gives your hand a squeeze before he drops it, moving past you. He knows the path to the myriad of lamps about your place.
As he turns them on, one by one, he has to duck to avoid the low-hanging living room light. It’s a relief to turn off the big overhead light.
“Let me put this in your room, alright?” he says, gesturing with his bag in hand, before disappearing into your bedroom.
Something compels you to follow and you watch as he turns on the lamp on your bedside too, coating the room in a soft amber. That now all-too familiar rabidness runs rampant beneath your skin.
“Clark?” Your soft voice catches his attention, and he turns, mid-way through shucking off his coat.
He told you once that you could ask him anything.
“Can you kiss me again?”
Something crosses his face, his eyes a little wider. He swallows, hard, and his motions falter momentarily. Finally, he wrangles his coat off and tosses it onto his bag and then he reaches for you.
“Y-Yeah, c’mere,” he says. In the same motion, you’re in his arms and he’s sat back on your sheets, pulling you both onto the bed. “Anything you want, honey.”
Still, he doesn’t move to kiss you just yet.
You’re adjusting yourself, getting comfortable in his lap, and you’re still wearing your coat. You move to shrug out of it and Clark helps, his hands guiding it off your shoulders.
It’s banished to sit with his coat. The whir of the air-conditioner unit permeates the air and you can feel the softness of your sheets where your knees meet the bed.
A hint of Clark’s cologne makes your nose twitch. It smells nice, musky and warm. It might be your new favourite scent.
You’re suddenly too nervous to look him in the eye, so you study the rest of his face. You’ve reddened his lips with your kisses, which you feel quite guilty about. Further up, you follow the line of his brow. You can’t resist tracing along one with your finger softly.
“You’ve got good eyebrows.” you say, closer to a whisper.
Clark’s grip on your waist tightens, so gentle that you’re not sure if he’s aware he’s done it. He swallows thickly and you remove your hand, moving it to rest over his throat.
“You think so?”
You can feel the timbre of his voice under your fingertips when he speaks and it makes you grin. You nod in response to his question too, finally brave enough to meet his gaze.
Blue eyes meet yours.
Then, sweeping your hair back from your face, he kisses you.
The first kiss is slow, easy. Like the kiss he gives you when saying hello. Your hands find their place around his neck, jittery and twitching in your excitement.
Clark’s hands on your waist shift, his arms wrapping around you like a hug. His next kiss, you sink into. You’re helpless to do anything but.
He dedicates himself to the curve of your mouth, memorising it with kiss after kiss after kiss.
It makes you feel dizzy. You clutch the collar of his shirt, a soft, sweet noise slipping out your throat.
It breaks the kiss. Clark exhales hard, his nose drawing a line down your cheek, along your jaw. He kisses as he goes, delicate little presses of affection.
He hovers at your neck, “May I?”
He sounds a bit wrecked, voice rougher and unlike himself. You nod, a minuscule motion, and clutch his collar tighter.
There's heat on your neck, a warning kiss bestowed. Then his lips begin to mouth softly at the warm skin of your neck, with what can only be described as a devoted reverence.
You melt in his lap.
Clark’s arms around you keep you close as your head tilts back, letting him in. His glasses nudge against your jaw as he teeth scrape your neck.
You’re so close to him—and yet not close enough. You want to crawl into his skin. You’re too worked up to know if that’s an appropriate thing to tell your boyfriend.
It’s no mind; with Clark’s lips on your neck, you’re not capable of any words.
You’re not capable of anything beyond these cute hiccuping gasps that will follow Clark for weeks. He feels insatiable, like a livewire. He’s attuned to everything you.
It’s why he pulls back, one hand stroking up your spine.
“You’re shaking,” he says, voice low.
You are—trembling slightly in his hold.
You hadn’t noticed, the same way you hadn’t clocked your own laboured breathing. It’s like you’re skipping a breath by accident, the way you do when you’re overwhelmed.
Unclenching your fingers from his crumpled collar, you put two fingers to your pulse point. It’s still warm from Clark’s mouth and beneath the skin, your pulse rabbits wildly.
“I-” Your mouth is unbearably dry. “I promise I’m enjoying it.”
Even your voice is shaky, though your assurance isn’t. You are, you are. You’re not shaking because you’re scared of this, of him. It's just a lot.
“I know.” Clark says calmly, though his eyes scour your face with a tinge of worry. His hand hasn’t ceased its soothing up and down your back. “I know, I—”
“It’s not you,” you say, desperate to steal the worry from him. “Well, it is you, but it’s not, like, you—that sounds stupid. It’s, uh, me, it’s a me thing. I— you haven’t done anything wrong, please.”
“Okay,” he says, which makes you feel better, because it means he believes you. “Neither have you. Believe me, I know what it’s like to feel like everything’s dialled to eleven.”
That is sort of what this feels like—like you’re a spring loaded too tightly.
The rich smell of his cologne, the taut feel of his firm shoulders, the heat of his beautiful mouth - all of it urges on that fervent feeling that skitters under your skin. You can’t process it all at once.
You close your eyes.
Despite how you really don’t want to, you draw back your hand from his neck, curling your nails so they bite into your palms. Clark’s hand against your spine pauses, pressed against your lower back. He holds it there, and waits, patient.
It doesn’t take long to ready yourself — only a few moments — and when you finger your pulse, it’s steadier. Eyes creasing open, you find Clark watching you closely.
The apology nearly falls off your tongue out of habit. Clark gets there first.
“Please don’t apologise,” He pleads.
His eyes scan across your face, looking for any other sign to worry, but it’s needless. He can hear your heartbeat, can follow the now steady rhythm of it.
He knows you - and more than that, he trusts you. He trusts you’ll tell him if something is wrong, even if sometimes you need a nudge. He doesn’t need any apologies for needing a moment.
Clark kisses the next apology out of your mouth and it dissolves on your tongue.
It’s chaste, this kiss. While he’s still close, breath fanning across your face, he murmurs, “Tell me if you need another one,” like this wasn’t even a hiccup to him.
You kiss him so fiercely, you bite his lip. Clark barely registers the twinge of pain, only the enthusiasm. He aches.
Without breaking the kiss, he leans back on your sheets, and tugs you down with him. His big hands slide to hold your hips, grip still gentle. The buzzing under your skin gets louder.
You pull back, hands still moving up, and you tentatively, carefully, slide his glasses from his face.
Clark lets you, hands unmoving from their place, his gaze still hopelessly fixed on you. His lashes are long, his eyes creased from his smile. He’s so handsome.
He looks in love, you think to yourself.
You bury the thought for later - and your hands in his hair, like you’ve been wanting to do all night.
You only need one other breather that night. One break from the sensations—when his long, careful fingers sink into you and have you whimpering into his neck, grasping his shoulders tightly. His breath shudders, but he talks you through it, patient and unwavering.
You fall asleep, sated, skin to skin, and dream of nothing.
In the morning, you’re roused by the smell of fresh coffee. The sheets beside you are empty and you follow suit.
Golden light paints the kitchen. Bathed in it, Clark looks sleep-rumpled and lovely.
You drink your coffee together, your ankles linked together beneath your table. It looks extra tiny with Clark’s large frame sitting at it.
He does the dishes, no asking or prompting from you, so perfectly midwestern of him. He only nearly drops one of your mugs when you kiss his shoulder blade in thank you.
You watch him, in between getting yourself dressed, and Clark blushes scarlet when you pass him with no pants on to retrieve something from your bag - which makes no sense, considering you were wearing much less the night before.
It’s almost like those days before he had asked you out—quick glances that make you both smile, eyes dancing away. You have to remind yourself you’re allowed to look now.
It’s easy. So easy, it’s scary.
The buried thought from last night rises to the surface. Whether you want it or not, Clark Kent is single-handedly rewriting every idea you ever had about love.
That old fear twinges in you— you get it or you don’t.
You decide you don’t mind if you were wrong with Darren, if it means you get it this time — get it and get to keep it.
When he’s gone, in your notebook, you write he came over to my place - which is almost too astute, but you know what it means.
It’s not about the yoghurt, or the bed, or anything else. It’s the complete simpleness of how it had panned out. You can’t stay the night and he wants to see you, so he makes the effort.
Below it, you write he likes doing the dishes.
Then, after a moment, you cross it out. Your brows knit together. No, it wasn’t that that was different to Darren. It takes another moment to put your finger on it.
You write he likes to help. With more thought, you tack on another word, so it reads he likes to help me.
The last one makes your face burn so much you nearly get too shy to put it down on paper. You write it all the same; he takes his time with me.
You really, really hope you get it this time.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The love list isn’t meant to be seen by anyone’s eyes but your own.
And to be clear, he didn’t mean to see it.
Clark is not a snoop. He believes strongly that privacy is a human right that everyone deserves to have respected. Even amongst relationships, not every thought needs to be shared. Not every secret.
He still has his big blue secret, after all.
You have… this list.
He hadn’t meant to see it, truly. But given how you’d left your notebook open on your kitchen table, and how you knew he was here, it hadn’t clocked as something you might want to hide.
You disappear after letting him into your apartment and Clark can trace you to your bedroom, his hearing tuned to your heartbeat. In the evening kitchen air, your perfume lingers. Your notebook is left on the table, open.
And Clark just… glances at it.
He doesn’t even know what it is.
He’s not so presumptuous to think it’s about him to begin with — there are no names on the paper. But, given its title, if it’s about love, he quietly hopes it’s about him.
Though, there is a question mark attached. That feels less good.
Especially as he reads the line about rocks and questions, which is as telling as it gets - Clark is pretty sure he’s the only one taking you to museums and kissing you in the mineral rooms. He really hopes he is.
It’s as he skims over the line he takes his time with me and realises what that means, he knows he should really stop reading.
Unable to help it, his cheeks bloom bright red. But beneath his slight embarrassment, something glows proudly.
These are good things. He’s making you happy.
But… then, why the list?
“—did I tell you about how when I was going by Fran’s the other day, there was this shirt in the window- you know the shop across from—”
You stop speaking and walking in the same second.
Clark’s head snaps up and he watches your eyes dart between him and the notebook in rapid succession, hears your pulse tick up in pace. The embarrassment from earlier flourishes up again.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- it was out.” He wasn’t sure before, but now he knows this wasn’t meant for his eyes. Gosh, he’s such a jerk. “I only glanced, I promise.”
He pulls at his collar, which suddenly feels too tight. You won’t meet his eye and Clark can see the tell-tale sign of your nervousness—your fingers pressing to your wrist, taking your pulse.
Awfulness coats over him. But despite that, you only give a shrug and murmur, “It’s okay. It’s not, like, bad. I was just- it was just to help me.”
Clark swallows. “Help you?”
You haven’t made a move to close the notebook or to approach him. He can still read the lines if he glances over - and he can’t ignore the itch to understand it. Help you with what?
You shrug again, now picking at your fingertips. You still won’t look at him.
“Just,” You exhale through your nose, a stressed sigh, and Clark wants to close the space between you. “When you… did something I didn’t get—or, just- like I know you’re not supposed to bring up exes, or- or compare, but it was only— Darren didn’t—”
You make a frustrated noise, hands clenching up tight, your sentence abandoned. Clark’s heart aches, more at your frustration than the mention of your last boyfriend, Darren.
He doesn’t know a lot. Has never met the guy. What he does know is that Lois wasn’t a huge fan, which meant he probably wasn’t the most stellar of partners. He trusts her judgement a lot.
Clark tries not to judge people he’s never met — but as your words sink in, when you did something I didn’t get, and he looks at the list again, something clicks.
he thanked me for mending his shirt, he came over to my place, he asked me questions about rocks.
They’re hardly impressive acts of love.
Clark likes to think he’s done a good job at wooing you, but none of what he’d consider the most romantic is on the list. None of the carefully crafted date ideas, none of the meticulously picked gifts.
It’s the little things. The quiet acts of love, of patience.
It’s evening, the sunset bleeding into the horizon, but Clark suddenly feels like he’s doused in yellow sun. Relief twines with his endearment, almost feverish with how it stirs up in his chest.
The next thought bleeds into fact with ease; he’s in love with you. Irrevocably. Entirely.
And with one final glimpse at your notebook, Clark knows exactly how to tell you.
For right now though, you’re still staring at the ground. Still picking at your fingertips in frustration, one ankle rolling to the side in a fidget.
You’re not worried about the list, he realises, you’re worried about him.
That just won’t do.
He crosses the room in two quick strides. It forces your head up in surprise and it’s the perfect opportunity to cup your face. Clark cradles your jaw, hears the inhale and smiles, before he kisses you.
He kisses you sweet, short. Then kisses, again and again. He can only hope he’s kissing away the frustration, the doubt, the unease.
There’s a brief moment where he worries he’s overwhelming you, your breath still stuttering between kisses — but your hands rise to hold his wrists, keeping him in place. He knows you well enough to know that means more, please.
He indulges you like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It is, to him.
You’re leaning into him and Clark takes the weight effortlessly. He’s messing up your lipstick undoubtedly, which he'll feel bad about later.
“We’ll be late if we stay much longer,” he says, reluctantly breaking the kiss.
You’re both breathing heavy. Clark studies the plush of your lip, while your eyes stay closed - which only makes you all that more endearing to him.
You’re a stickler for being on time though, so it’s so unlike you to respond with, “S’fine. It’s—”
You pivot mid-sentence, as if remembering what spurred his kisses on. “—the list. You didn’t think it was…?”
You don’t finish your sentence, trailing off stiltedly. Clark drops his next kiss to your hairline, his thumbs swatching along your cheeks with gentle ease.
“Think it’s what?” He hums, his next kiss on your nose. “I’m not thinking anything about it, because I wasn’t meant to see it and-” A kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Huh, what do you know? Its completely left my mind. What are we talking about?”
There’s a furrow in your brow for a moment before you catch on. Then your mouth curls into a shy smile and Clark knows he’s convinced you.
Your grip on his wrists tightens, an involuntary motion to get him closer. He complies, kissing you again. The pink of his cheeks might become permanent if he doesn’t calm down soon.
“C’mon,” He relents the closeness to step back, slipping his hands from your face. “We can still make it on time.”
Clark Kent, notoriously late for most things, except for your dates. He’s learning from you.
Fixing his glasses with a nudge, he gives you a moment to compose yourself, before he offers his hand. When you link it with his, he dotes you with a kiss upon it.
He figures that, to you, it’s the little things that really matter.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When you return home and the notebook is where you left it, open to the love list, embarrassment wells within you.
You hadn’t meant for him to see it. It had been a mistake in your excitement, flustered just by him coming to meet you at your door.
He’d been a sweetheart about it all the same, but it doesn’t mean you can shake the fumble so easily.
Yet, at the same time, there had been something… different about Clark on the date that followed.
He’d seemed surer, more settled. Like something had been decided finally, and he could see the way forward.
Your coat finds a home on the peg by the door, your shoes slipped off.
Soft footsteps take you to the table and it’s as you go to fold your notebook closed, does it catch your eye.
There. Below the love list, there are two new lines, both in handwriting that isn’t your own. With a soft jolt, you recognise it as Clark’s.
Perplexed, you squint down at the paper.
He’s written, in his neat scrawl, he loves that you made this list.
Your heart pounds, that familiar fervor you associate with your boyfriend begins to coarse through your bloodstream. You bite your lip so hard it nearly bleeds—but you can hardly feel it. You’re goddamn untouchable right now.
Whether you got it with Darren didn’t matter. You realise now it never mattered. It’s you and Clark—and that is all you need.
Because, below his first line, Clark has written—he loves you.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
the notebook :’) bcos i love a lil graphic
want to read more about the lovelist!reader & clark? -> why a sequel right this way :)
tagging sum lovelies i think might be interested / replied to my snippet tehe <3 but no pressure! @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes @strangerstilinski @djarinova @kissmxcheek @langaslefthairstrand
I reblogged this last month, tagged it, and said “might as well see if it works.” I used this video as a reference to find all the forms that i needed (which is A LOT, especially if you’re a dependent) and sent them through the mail, not really allowing myself to hope.
dude.
$2,714 of medical debt from my top surgery - gone. im shaking this was such a weight on me for 2 years and it fucking worked. what the fuck.
Hospitals like to hide these policies under a lot of successive links in obscure places, so if you don't see anything right away, keep looking! Get friends to help! Make it a scavenger hunt. A game where you're assassins sent to slit capitalism's throat
a/n: He doesn’t get TB in this. Why? Because this is fanfiction and I’m god and fuck canon (I just finished the game, I’m emotionally distraught and needed this)
Warnings: brief attempted SA
Summary: Your father is a gambling man and you’re always the collateral. He refuses to pay the wrong man and now you’re being dragged across country roads to a man you’ve never met. Arthur Morgan, an outlaw down to the bone, is in charge of making sure you get there in one piece. Except, he doesn’t feel right selling a woman off like she’s property.
You’re done being a doormat and letting the men in your life tell you what you’re worth. You’ve got three days to escape him, but you’re not prepared for the reality of the real world.
“Put your hands where I can see ‘em, cowboy.” Arthur’s shoulders tense and he curses under his breath. His hand darts to the revolver on his hip, but the second his fingers twitch towards it he hears a hammer being pulled back. The cool barrel of a gun digs into his neck and he raises his hand in surrender.
The man behind him lets out a familiar laugh and tugs him around. Arthur rolls his eyes and glares at Dutch. “The hell are you doing?”
Dutch clears his throat, still laughing slightly. “Relax, Arthur, but if I had been an O’Driscoll you’d be dead right now.” Arthur doesn’t point out that the only thing they have to worry about out here are the Lemonye raiders. He’s more focused on why Dutch is even out here. Rarely does he leave Shady Belle to traverse the streets of St. Denis.
None of them are particularly fond of the place. If he wanted to step in horse shit every other step he’d go to a stable. At least those smell better. Dutch slings an arm around Arthur’s shoulder, tugging him away from the saloon he was heading towards.
“You’re gonna have to save the cheating for later, Arthur, I need you for something.”
“You know I don’t cheat,” Arthur jokes and Dutch grins at him and it’s nice. This is familiar to him. This feels right. Dutch has been odd lately, the jobs he’s been taking, the risks he’s been imposing, none of them feels like the man he knows.
Now, Arthur would follow Dutch straight into hell without being asked. But he can’t abide by how he’s putting their people in harm's way. He’s felt like a stranger more often than not and he’s been doubting the people he shouldn’t. Right now, though, he can see the man he knows in the teasing curl of his lips.
“What’dya need?”
Dutch pauses in front of a tailor and pats Arthur’s chest. “I need you to look prim and proper for a party we’ve got tonight.”
Arthur’s brows furrow cynically and he scoffs. “Someone invited us to a party?”
Dutch hesitates, a stiff smile on his face. “Well, let’s just say someone is interested in our work.” Arthur wants to question him further, he’s hiding something from him. But Dutch is pushing him towards the door of the shop before he can argue. “And get a haircut, we need to look presentable not like a bunch of mountain men.”
Arthur watches as Dutch leaves, something heavy weighing down on him. Dutch doesn’t usually tell people about his plans beforehand. At least not every step of them. But this is odd, he’s definitely hiding something and Arthur isn’t sure he wants to know what.
With a resigned huff, he heads into the tailor. He has to mentally prepare himself for being stuffed into a starched collar and a stiff suit for the rest of the night. He hates these damn parties, hates having to pretend like he knows what the hell is being said.
Most of the people that attend are educated or pretend to be. And when he lets it slip that he’s more likely to shoot a gun than read a book they turn on him like jackals. You can’t let them see that you’re different than them or you’ll never get a word in edgewise.
The only part he enjoys is the booze and robbing them of their money. It’s not like they earned any of it. Most of it was made by breaking the backs of the people they mock for being too poor to afford a fancy suit.
Arthur takes a deep breath and looks for the cheapest suit he can find in the overpriced shop.
“Now,” Mr. Crane’s hand tightens around your bicep and he jerks you closer to him. You keep your face impassive, not letting him see just how much he’s hurting you. But you can feel your skin being stretched to its limits by his clammy fingers. “You’re going to behave tonight. I’ve got a few gentlemen I’d like you to meet.”
He looks at you expectantly but you keep your mouth firmly shut. His eyes narrow and he jerks you around roughly. “Understood,” you force the word out through gritted teeth. You’re trying to breathe as little as possible, not wanting to smell his cigar-laced breath any longer.
Finally, after a tortuously long moment, he releases you. You take ten steps back, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles from the silk skirt he’d forced you in. You glance out the window of his office, watching as the workers scramble to set up the tables for tonight. You can hear cooks in the kitchen, shouting out orders for the food for tonight.
Everything must be perfect. Mr. Crane never fails to deliver on his extravagantly indulgent parties. The man himself is the very embodiment of greed. You glance over with a disgusted sneer as he sinks himself into his leather chair and pulls out a wad of cash.
He catches your eye and sends you a sickly sweet smile. “This,” he waves the money at you and you track the movement boredly. “Is how much you’re worth, sweetheart.” Your brows raise in amusement and you scoff. More than you thought he would put up for you.
You wonder who he’s going to have transport you. He’ll need you out of the city soon, your father is starting to catch onto what’s happening. It took him long enough. You’ve been missing a month, you’d think he would have put two and two together faster. Then again, he’d never been very interested in you beyond what you were worth to others.
“When will I be able to meet these gentlemen?” You ask, taking a step towards him. Your eyes dart towards the letter opener on his desk and for a brief moment you picture yourself strabbing it into his fattened jugular.
But he flicks his wrist and like magic the door opens, his men coming inside and standing resolutely by your side. “Not anytime soon, my dear.” He looks to the men surrounding you and you take in a sharp breath, wishing you’d just taken the chance when you had it. “My associate is feeling quite tired, take her back to her room, please.”
They grab you by the elbows, even though it's entirely unnecessary. You wouldn’t run, and even if you did you wouldn’t get far with the chains he has hidden under your dress. A punishment for the first time you snuck from his home. You’ve been well behaved since then but he doesn’t trust you.
You’re whisked away without another word. The trek of the stairs is a slow one. They’re forced to help you navigate by lifting your skirts and not tripping on the chains. It no longer brings you any satisfaction to cause a hindrance in any of their days.
Before, you would think of being an annoyance as a small victory. But it’s not, it never was. It was just a way for them to keep you complacent by allowing you to think you’d done something for yourself. You believe your father used to do the same thing.
It’s just another way of keeping you quiet.
When you make it to your rooms, they shove you inside. Like clockwork, you hear the jingle of the keys and then the lock clicks. You sigh and take a step towards your vanity, working on touching up your hair.
You think the worst part of this must be how well you’re treated. You have meals made by a private chef. Your quarters are decorated more lavishly than they ever were at your father’s house. Yet, you hear the suffocating tick of the clock as it counts down your doom.
You’re not entirely sure what their plan is with you. You know your father had made a promise to Mr. Crane involving some land. Or perhaps it had been a wager. But as always, you were collateral when your father refused to pay up.
You know Mr. Crane wants you out of town so that he has more time to negotiate with your father, to call in the interest he owes him. You also know the only reason your father is interested in finding you is because you’re meant to marry the son of a business partner in two months. The money he’ll get from that will be enough to finally pay off his debts.
Except, now, Mr. Crane tells you that should your father refuse to pay you’ll be married to one of his associates. And the deal he’ll make from that will be enough to cover what your father has refused to pay.
No matter what, you’re going to be married off to some man you’ve never met and yet again be a quiet trophy on a shelf. It’s a very convoluted situation, one which makes you think leaping from a window might be a better fate.
None of the men your father or Mr. Crane is in business with are particularly kind. They’ve got more skeletons in the closet than there are in the graveyard. You doubt you’ll live a very happy life with whoever they pick for you.
You slump forward onto the vanity, trying to fight off the burning feeling in the back of your eyes. You’ve known this would happen for years. Even before Mr. Crane had you kidnapped, you knew that this would be your destiny. You would never get to be one of the free-spirited women who fought for the right to choose. You would always be forced into this role.
Yet, being so close to it coming to fruition makes you feel choked and suffocated. You can feel the noose around your neck tightening, the hangman’s fingers twitching as he waits to see you drop.
You dig your nails into your palm, taking in a deep breath and fighting back the wave of despair. Where there is doom, you also see a sliver of hope. Your next journey will be a long one. He’s hiring someone to have you transported to an area further up the map.
If you play your cards right you might be able to escape while you’re traveling. If you’re incredibly smart about this, thinking with your head and not your heart, you might have a shot at freedom.
You take in a deep breath, reapplying your makeup and resolving yourself to another night of mindless entertainment. But you hold onto that fleeting feeling of hope. You have a shot, you just have to take it.
Arthur’s heard of these parties before. Some Mr. Crane fella that likes to blow all his money on food and booze. He indulges his guests and when they’re weakest, gets their secrets from them. He’s a snake and everyone knows it. Yet, missing his party is social suicide. They have no choice but to go and indulge in him.
Arthur had never had any interest in meeting him or doing any business with him. But Dutch had informed him that’s exactly what’s happening tonight. They’ll mingle for a little while, maybe scout some other jobs, and then Mr. Crane will invite them up to his office for a private discussion.
Dutch still hasn’t told him what exactly their business with him is. He brought Hosea along tonight so he has to assume it’s not going to be anything violent. But he can’t think of anything else they could be good for.
“Alright, gentlemen,” Dutch places his hands on Hosea’s and Arthur’s shoulders, a scheming smile on his face. “Try not to embarrass me.” He slips behind them, heading up the stairs of the home. Hosea and Arthur share a brief look before they split up, blending into the background of the garden.
Arthur lurks near the bar, he knows he should be talking to these assholes, possibly learning something useful. But he can’t be bothered. He orders a whiskey, gaze surveying the partygoers. They’re all loud with painted faces and fake smiles. Not a goddamn person here seems to be genuinely interested in anything they’re doing.
“First time?” The soft voice beside him catches him off guard. He glances to the side and is surprised to see that you’ve slipped past him. He hadn’t even noticed you slide up next to him. You laugh at the look on his face and it’s the first thing here that seems real. “Sorry, it’s just that look on your face, I recognize the disappointment. You’ve never been to one of Crane’s parties before?”
“No,” he clears his throat, still recovering from the surprise. “Uh, I can’t say I have.”
You suck on your teeth, narrowing your eyes at the people passing by. “They’re not worth the effort. Everyone who leaves here leaves carrying his debt on their back.”
Arthur chuckles a little, lips twitching up into a small smile. He’s surprised by your frankness, most people like to hide behind passive-aggressive digs. He appreciates the straightforward attitude. “Then why are you here?”
You shrug and Arthur finds himself enchanted. He shouldn’t be, he’s never been one for romance. He finds women pretty and he’s been in love before, but he’s never bought into the idea of love at first sight. Or any of that mushy stuff that Mary Beth devours in those books of hers.
But you are absolutely gorgeous, dressed in a silk dress that’s so expensive he’s sure he could buy two new horses with it. Your fingers and neck are decorated in dainty jewels that you fidget with as you stare down at your drink. When you set your eyes on him again he thinks he might have been struck by Cupid’s arrow.
“I don’t have a choice,” you finally answer, sending him a stiff smile. “What about you? Why are you here?”
Arthur suddenly remembers himself, remembers why he’s here and what he’s supposed to be doing. The fog in his head dissipates and he’s disappointed in himself. Pretty women have never done anything except get him in trouble.
“Business,” he answers vaguely. Your eyes narrow and your brows twitch in discontent. Something like realization dawns on your face and you back away from him. The easy attitude you’d carried yourself with is gone, replaced by a vague look of distrust.
“Right, should’ve known.” You let out a rough sigh and Arthur can’t help but feel like he’s said the wrong thing. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you again soon.” You slip past him before he can ask you what you mean. He hears the faint sound of metal clinking as you walk back up the stairs.
Something silver flashes under your skirts but he can’t get a good glimpse of it. He feels unsettled as he turns back to the bar. The whole interaction was odd. From how stricken he was with you to how cold you turned.
He doesn’t know what you saw in him but it was probably for the best that you left when you did. Neither of you needed the trouble the other would bring. He shakes his head, downing his whiskey and muttering nonsense to himself about not thinking with the wrong head.
It’s not that much later that Dutch is appearing on the balcony and silently motions him forward. Arthur leaves the bar behind and slips up the same stairs you’d disappeared on. Dutch says nothing as he leads Hosea and Arthur through the house.
The mansion is a maze more than anything. Arthur loses track of all the turns they take and the winding staircases they descend. Finally, Dutch stops them all in front of two large oak doors. He raps once on the door and then lets himself in.
A large, balding man with a shiny head is perched on top of a leather chair. He looms behind his desk, fingers steepled as he greets them all with a false smile. “Ah, gentlemen, so nice to finally meet you.”
Dutch grins and motions to Arthur, “This is the man who will be doing the transporting, Arthur.” Arthur’s eyes narrow in confusion but he says nothing as Dutch moves to Hosea, “And this is my associate, Hosea. He’s a lot better with money than I am, Mr. Crane. You understand.”
Mr. Crane lets out a boisterous laugh that makes Arthur’s ears hurt and nods his head, his cheeks jiggling with the movement. “That I do! Well,” he waves them forward when they linger in the doorway too long, “come in, come in.”
Arthur closes the doors behind them as Mr. Crane lifts himself from his desk. There are two couches positioned in front of an unlit fire. He takes one of them and Dutch and Hosea take the other. Arthur perches himself on the armrest of their couch, eyes surveying the office like it might reveal the truth of their visit.
“I trust Mr. Van der Linde has kept this all quiet?”
“He has,” Arthur grouses.
At the same time, Dutch says, “Of course, Mr. Crane. I promised confidentiality and Dutch Van der Linde is nothing if not a man who keeps to his promises.” Crane nods, looking satisfied and Arthur holds back a laugh at how easily he seems to trust Dutch.
“Good, good.” He dips his hand inside his jacket and Arthur’s palm instinctively drops to where his gun should be. Of course, they’d had to give up their weapons before they came into the party, if he does has a gun Arthur can’t do a damn thing.
But he doesn’t, instead, he pulls out the thickest stack of cash that Arthur has ever laid his eyes on. A loud thud resounds through the room as he slams the bills on top of the table between them. Arthur’s eyes widen and Hosea’s jaw nearly drops at the sight of it all.
This would be enough to get them out of St. Denis tonight. Shock sours quickly into suspicion. What the hell has Dutch signed up for? “Now, this is the first half. This is simply for accepting the job and,” he gives them all severe looks, “for your silence.”
Arthur shifts uncomfortably on his perch and waits for Mr. Crane to finish. “The other half will be given once the package has been safely delivered.” There’s a certain lilt to his words when he says package that has Arthur’s hackles raising. Whatever is getting delivered is not going to be good.
Crane turns towards the bookshelves on the wall and calls out, “Darling, won’t you join us?” Arthur figures the man must have lost his mind, they should just take the money and leave. But there’s a loud creak and something like metal gears grinding together. One of the shelves pops open and the panel swings forward.
You pop your head out, glancing towards Crane and then taking a step forward. Arthur, without even thinking about it, finds himself sitting up, and brushing some of the dirt off his pants from the ride over.
At first, he’s so confused by seeing you again that he doesn’t realize why exactly he’s seeing you again. Then you glance towards him, a knowing look on your face and it clicks. You’re the package. You’re what he’s meant to be transporting.
He glares over at Dutch, when exactly did they get into the business of trading women?
Hosea voices his doubts in a much calmer manner. “If I may, sir, why does she need to be delivered so discreetly?”
Mr. Crane laughs and your face twitches unpleasantly. You grimace, glaring at the back of the man’s head with something like murder in your eyes. He doesn’t know what he’s done to cause such a visceral look of hate and he doesn’t want to think about it. This whole situation is bothering him. You’re not here willingly, which means you’re not going to be transported willingly either.
None of this makes sense. Dutch would never have taken a job like this before, even when they needed the money. And there’s no way in hell a rich man like this one would want to pay a couple of grungy outlaws so much money. There’s got to be some sort of trick in all of this.
Cran clears his throat, “She’s a daughter of a, well,” he frowns and struggles for the words. “Let’s just say we’re in a hostile competition for a lot of land. This land, boys, could be very beneficial in expanding my business. He’s not interested in selling and, well, desperate times, desperate measures.”
You scoff, laughing slightly at him and rounding the couch. Dutch ignores you, Hosea looks uncomfortable, and Crane continues prattling on without missing a beat. “Should her father not pay me, she will be married to the associate you’re bringing her to. He’s promised me enough land and money to cover what I lost to her father. And if he does pay, she’ll be returned in time for her wedding here.”
Arthur’s eyes dart towards you and you send him a bitter smile. It makes him shift where he sits, hating the way your eyes bore into him. “I just need someone who's not afraid of getting their hands a little dirty to make sure she behaves while she’s delivered to my friend,” Crane glances over at Arthur. He asses him, the bulge of his arms in the suit and the scars on his face, whatever he finds must be satisfactory because he smiles over at Dutch.
Arthur stands, ready for Dutch to tell Mr. Crane that they’re not in the business of selling women off. But Dutch doesn’t, he smiles at Mr. Crane and reaches for the money, passing it off to Hosea to count. “Well, I do believe my friend Arthur is just the man for the job.”
“I think you’re right, Dutch.” He stands up now, pot belly nearly bursting the buttons of his shirt, and reaches for Dutch’s hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
Dutch smiles and takes his sweaty palm, “You as well, sir.” Dutch walks towards you and holds his arm out. “This way, my dear.” You glance between him and his elbow before rolling your eyes and reluctantly placing your hand on his arm. You follow him silently and obediently, no fight is left in you. Hosea follows after you both, a concerned look on his face.
Arthur remains in the office, standing dumbfounded and staring at the doorway you’d disappeared through. He’s struggling to process what just happened. Arthur has helped people get home safely before and provided protection. But he’s never been one to traffic a hostage.
Crane glances up, finally noticing him still standing there. He walks past him, patting his shoulder as he does and giving him an approving smile. “Don’t be afraid to take care of her should she get out of hand.” He’s nearly out the door but he looks back and adds, “Just don’t bruise her too much.”
Arthur’s fingers twitch for his revolver once more and he’s never wanted to shoot a man more. But he knows Dutch is waiting for him and he’d never make it out of here alive if he started a fight right now. Reluctantly, he makes his way out of the manor and towards where you’re all waiting for him.
He’s fuming by the time he stops in front of Dutch. He’s trying to help you onto his horse and Arthur finally realizes what the metal sound he heard earlier is. There are chains around your ankles and you can’t maneuver yourself on the saddle.
His eyes narrow and he glares at Dutch, “What the hell are you doing? We’re selling women now?”
Dutch glowers at the tone of Arthur’s voice. You watch them both passively, fiddling with the rings on your fingers and looking unbothered by the entire situation. “Watch yourself, Arthur,” there’s a clear warning in his tone but Arthur’s too upset to care.
They’ve done a lot of bad things. They weren’t good men. But this was just going too far. “We need this, Arthur. You want to get out of here, you want to keep our people safe?” Arthur let out a deep exhale, gritting his teeth together and nodding reluctantly. Dutch huffs, “That’s what I thought. We’re not selling anyone, Arthur. It’s a simple delivery.”
His jaw clenches as he watches Dutch struggle to help you again. “It’s not going to work,” you inform Dutch. You lift your skirts, flashing him the chains he hadn’t seemed to notice yet. Neither of you gets a chance to say anything as Arthur pulls out his gun and shoots the lock off.
He feels a little guilty at how startled you look. Your eyes widen until they look like they might bulge out. Your hands fly up to cover your ears as the sound rocks through you. It breaks violently through the silence of the night.
Dutch turns and gives him a stern look, “Have you forgotten the meaning of subtlety?” Arthur can tell he’s trying not to shout and drag any more attention towards you all.
Arthur glares at Dutch, something wicked brewing in his stomach. “The lady wouldn’t be able to ride a horse like that.” He mounts his horse and rides off without a look back. He can’t stand to be near you or Dutch any longer.
The reality of what they’ve turned into hits him like a bag of rocks and it makes him irate. They’ve never been these people. Never traded a person off like they were an object. He’s sure plenty of people in camp would have a problem with this. But he doubts Dutch will let them know the truth until the job is done.
And by then, everyone will be too happy with the money to complain. Dutch is nothing if not good at saving his ass. He’s hitching his horse as the rest of you ride into camp. He lingers by Diablo, resting a hand on the thick neck of the shire while Dutch helps you off the saddle.
His eyes narrow in on the way Dutch’s fingers glide along your waist as you jump down. You take a step back the second your legs are steady sending Dutch a dirty look that almost makes Arthur laugh.
He starts towards Dutch, ready to try and reason with him again. But he holds his hand up and walks away, not even giving him a chance to speak. Arthur lets out a rough sigh as Hosea comes up behind him.
He pats his shoulder comfortingly, “You should get some sleep, Arthur. You’ll ride with her to Strawberry tomorrow morning.” He almost walks off but he whispers a quiet, “I’m sorry,” before he goes.
Arthur glances towards you but you’re looking around the camp, eyes lingering on Javier as he sings by the fire. He swears he almost sees you smile but it's gone as quickly as it came. He takes his hat off, running his hand through his hair and letting out a tired sigh.
“Alright, come with me,” he starts towards the house. It takes a minute to realize you’re not directly behind him. When he looks over your shoulder he sees you with your skirts lifted, tiptoeing through the mud and trying not to get your pretty skirts dirty.
He rolls his eyes, storming back towards you. Your eyes widen at the look on his face and you stumble back a few steps. Undeterred, he bends over, throwing you over his shoulder and walking towards the house.
Your hands claw at his back, desperately grasping onto his shirt so you keep your balance. He storms up the stairs, ignoring the alarmed looks he gets from others in camp. He can already hear them whispering, wondering who you are and why he’s dragging you into his room.
They can make up whatever the hell they want. Arthur’s too pissed off to give a shit about rumors tonight. He drops you unceremoniously onto his bed and storms back out. He heads downstairs, rooting around in one of the chests for some extra clothes.
You won’t be able to ride to Strawberry in those ridiculous clothes. You’ll need some pants if you’re going to sit on the horse properly. He tucks the outfit under his arm and makes his way back to you.
When he opens the door your hand immediately darts away from his shaving kit and shoves itself under your butt. His brows furrow as he catches a flash of silver in your hand. He places the clothes down on the end of the bed, eyes drifting towards his shaving kit. Sure enough, his razor seems to be missing.
He lets out a sigh and you tense up, hand clenching around your prize. He briefly debates taking it from you. But he figures you should be allowed a modicum of comfort. Even if you did try and use it against him it’s dull, he hasn’t sharpened it in a while and you wouldn’t be able to do much damage anyway.
He lets you keep it, leaving you on your own without another word. He can hear the exhale of relief you let out when he walks away and it makes him feel just a little better about this. At least you’re not completely terrified.
You change into the clothes Arthur gave you. They’re a little big, but you appreciate the pants. It’s much better than the ridiculous dresses Crane had you in. You collect your dress and toss it out the window of Arthur’s room, watching it sink into the mud pit below. It brings you some satisfaction to see Crane’s pretty silk getting ruined.
You take off the jewelry you’d been given and stuff it into your boots. If you did manage to escape while you were traveling with Arthur then you were going to need some cash. You could sell off the jewels and hopefully, it would be enough to keep you comfortable.
It feels nice, to wear real clothes. Not being dressed up like a doll for once. You envy some of the women here, who can wear what they want. There is an appeal to the outlaw life. As long as you’re on the right side of it, which, currently, you’re not.
You slip out of the house before anyone has a chance to retrieve you. The whole night you were curled up around a dull razor with your eyes wide open. Spending a night surrounded by outlaws isn’t exactly restful.
You figure you might as well try and walk around before you’re on the back of a horse for the rest of the day. There are more people up than you’d expected. Luckily, you don’t see Dutch around anywhere. You don’t feel like having to deal with any more of his false charm or empty apologies.
The same man you’d seen strumming his guitar the night before is asleep next to the dying fire. A blonde woman catches your eye, she’s walking past some other women in dresses. They’re still asleep but she looks like she’s been up for hours.
There’s a bit of blood on her pants and you briefly wonder what she’d been doing. “Who are you?” She asks, surveying you from head to toe with suspicion in her eyes.
“A package,” you tell her bluntly, walking past her towards the only lit fire of camp. She follows you, a wry grin on her face as she watches you pour yourself some coffee.
“You’ve got a real attitude, I like it.”
You huff out a laugh, taking a sip of the burnt coffee and giving her a brief smile. “I’m sure my future husband won’t.”
She rolls her eyes and scoffs, waving you off. “Husbands, good for nothing. I loved mine but he was useless as a sack o’ flour. You’re better off without them.”
Your smile turns strained and you look down at your feet, at the boots that aren’t your own. You’ll never get to dress like this again. Or speak like this to a woman who isn’t afraid to voice what's on her mind.
“Yes, well,” you shrug and meet her eyes again, “I don’t seem to have much of a choice.”
Her eyes narrow and she frowns, “What’s that supposed to-”
“Mrs. Adler!” Dutch’s voice booms from across the camp and forces the others awake. Most of them grumble, but they’re quick to get started on morning chores. “I see you’ve met our guest,” he says your name with a flourish that almost makes you laugh.
He’s a good actor. He’s especially good at covering up his mistakes. “Yeah, what’s going on, Dutch? Who is she? Why don’t you guys ever let me in on this stuff?” She fires off questions rapidly, you almost don’t catch them all. There are clearly underlying issues here other than your unexpected presence.
“In due time,” he assures her, laying the charm on thick. But even you can tell he’s full of it. He’s not planning on letting her in on anything unless it benefits him. “And this is our guest, her fiancee has paid us handsomely to provide her safe passage back to him.”
He walks towards you, laying a hand over your arm and squeezing slightly. You give Sadie a stiff smile and let him lead you away. “I do believe it’s best that you just wait for Arthur, dear.” He gives you a look that lets you know it’s an order, not a suggestion.
Still, you play along, “I think you might be right, Mr. Van der Linde, thank you for the hospitality.” You run a tired hand over your face, sitting down on the stoop of the house and finishing off the rest of your coffee. Dutch watches you for a while, never straying too far from where you are and intercepting anyone who asks about you.
He spins quite the romantic tale of your lost love and how he desperately wants you back. You wish it were true, that you were living out some wonderful fairytale and were about to be reunited with the love of your life. Instead, it feels like one long walk to the gallows.
The wood creaks behind you and you don’t need to turn to see who it is. “Ready?” Arthur asks and you figure he means, ready to leave freedom and happiness and the will to live behind?
No, “Sure,” you toss the rest of the coffee into the grass and leave the mug on the stairs. You get to your feet and let him lead you towards the horses. He shares a brief look with Dutch as you pass by him but it doesn’t look entirely pleasant.
He makes his way toward a towering black shire and your eyes widen in horror. “What’s this?”
He works on saddling the horse up, not paying much attention to you. “This is Diablo.” You take a step closer and the horse starts huffing, swinging his neck towards you with his lips pulled back. You jump back a step back, eyeing him warily.
Arthur glances over and lets out a low chuckle, “He won’t bite. He’s just curious.”
“Mhm,” you give him a disbelieving look. “You’ll have to excuse me for being wary, I’ve not met a lot of horses.”
Arthur looks a bit shocked by your admission. “Really?” He questions, sounding doubtful.
You give him a brief smile and nod. “Hard to believe, I know, but I’ve lived a very sheltered life, Mr. Morgan. Haven’t had many opportunities for exploring on my own.”
He opens his mouth, looking like he wants to say something. At the last second, he stops himself, instead taking a step closer to you. You flinch away from him when he reaches for you and he lets out a sigh. “You can’t spend the next three days terrified of him, come on.”
He coaxes you forward and you reluctantly step closer to the beast. He chuckles at the scared look on your face. You don’t appreciate how much amusement he’s gaining from this. “Come on,” he mutters, taking your wrist and leading you closer to Diablo.
The damn thing is named Devil, how could you not be terrified of it?
“He won’t bite, I promise.” You don’t trust him but he doesn’t give you much of a choice. He presses your open palm to Diablo’s nose and you wince, bracing for him to lash out at you.
But he doesn’t, he lets out a soft knicker and it seems like he doesn’t even care that you’re there. You let out a relieved laugh, running your hand tentatively over his muzzle. It’s shockingly soft and oddly squishy.
He doesn’t seem to mind as you awe over him. You smile and glance over at Arthur but it drops when you see the odd look on his face. He seems perplexed by your reaction and you can’t fathom why. “You really never have ridden a horse before, have you?”
You shake your head, “No. I told you.”
He purses his lips and nods. You don’t know what it is about this that’s bothering him and you don’t care to ask. If he doesn’t believe just how strict your upbringing has been then fine. “Alright, come on, we need to get a move on.”
He leads you around to the saddle and helps you up on the back of the horse. It’s beyond odd, sitting on something in pants. Getting to spread your legs freely is something you are going to greatly enjoy during this journey.
Arthur takes off without much warning and you yelp, throwing your arms around his waist to steady yourself. He glances over his shoulder at you but says nothing. You turn your head, watching as the camp gets smaller and smaller.
The people mill about, greet each other, and break bread together. It hits you suddenly, this will be the last time you get to see people being free. If you don’t get out, if you can’t escape, your life will be filled with starched collars and powdered faces. You’ll never have a genuine conversation with someone again. You’ll be turned into pretty jewelry hanging off the arm of a man you never met.
The ride to Strawberry is three days at least. You have three days to get your plan together and to escape. You almost feel sorry for Arthur and the repercussions he’ll have to face losing you. But not sorry enough that you’re not gonna try.
Arthur’s speed evens out and you let your arms relax, easing away from him slightly. Your wrist jolts against the gun on his hip and you eye it curiously. If you had a gun there would be no doubt you could escape. You see Arthur’s fingers twitch on the reigns of the horse and you move your arms higher up his torso.
You doubt you’ll be a quicker draw than he is. He is an outlaw after all. You don’t think he’d have many qualms about delivering you to your fiancee with a few extra holes in your gut. Your mind drifts to the razor in your pocket and you consider it for a moment.
You’re sure you’d be quick enough to just whip it out and slit his throat. You sigh and dismiss the thought. You were a lot of things but you were not a murderer. There are lines you can’t bring yourself to cross. Besides, as wicked as what he’s doing to you is, you know he’s a good man.
It was an instinctual feeling. Mr. Crane and your father were both horrible, evil men. They knew nothing but greed and would never be satisfied by all the riches they reaped. They were the type of men you looked at and knew deep down that there was nothing left to save.
Arthur has undoubtedly bad things. You don’t become an outlaw without spilling some blood. He was weathered and rough from a hard life, but that didn’t mean there was nothing good left in him. You won’t have his blood on your hands, no matter how much you might want to get away from him.
As grateful as Arthur is for the silence, it is odd. He’s helped a few ladies find their way back home before and for some reason, they seem to think he’s the best listener in the world. It seems everyone who rides with him wants to tell him their life stories.
You’re completely silent, though. He has to keep looking back just to make sure you haven’t fallen off the back of the horse. You’re pretty complacent, following along with whatever Dutch said and coming along quietly. You seem beaten down, the fight dragged out of you.
He wonders what Mr. Crane had done to you. A few times, he’s seen just a glimpse of the spark that used to be there. But it was snuffed out before he got a chance to know it. He almost wishes you would talk. It would distract him from what he was doing right now.
It didn’t feel right, bringing you along to marry a man you’ve never even met. He has to keep reminding himself that it would have happened no matter what. Ladies like you are always sold off into a profitable marriage. The only thing he’s doing is switching up who the fiancee might be.
None of that makes him feel better, though. He should be helping you, not dragging you away to your worst nightmare. But, his people come first. The amount of money Dutch’ll get from this will be enough to get them all out of here. This could finally be the last score.
You gasp behind him and he whips his head around, immediately expecting someone to be following along beside you both. Maybe your father’s men or just some raiders. But he doesn’t see anything except a herd of deer running through the trees.
His brows furrow in confusion and he glances back at you. You’re watching them like they’re something spectacular. Arthur’s always been a fan of the quiet beauty of nature. He appreciates them in ways most folks don’t understand. But you’re looking at ‘em like you just found God.
“Never seen deer before?” He teases, chuckling a little at your reaction.
You startle, not realizing he had been watching. You clear your throat and look away from them sheepishly. He almost feels bad for ruining the moment for you. “No. No, I haven’t.”
He knows it's possible, but it’s astounding to him that someone truly lived their whole life in the city. It just doesn’t seem right. Cities are full of shit, smog, and bad people. Not even having a moment out of that your whole life seems like torture.
“I’ll just enjoy it while it lasts,” you mutter, eyes darting back to the tree line. But the deer are gone and you don’t look very interested anymore.
“Right,” he shifts forward, the air between you awkward. He’d only meant it in jest. He didn’t mean to remind you of what was about to happen to you. He doesn’t like the silence, not this time, it feels wrong. It makes him stew in his shame and that’s a nasty feeling.
Selfishly, he prods you for more. “A few days on the road, you’ll be eager for the city again.”
You laugh but there’s no humor to it. “I very much doubt that Mr. Morgan.”
“Arthur,” he corrects, “just call me Arthur.”
“Right,” your tone remains cold, “well if you don’t mind Arthur, I’d like to ride there in silence.”
He's got no other choice but to comply. If you don’t want to talk he won’t make you. He just wishes he could make this a little easier for you both.
Camping is something. You don’t have a word for it. It’s nice to be out in nature and embrace it for the first time in your life. But you really would not mind the comfort of your bed right now.
Rocks digging into your spine and head do not make for a good night’s sleep. You’ve been lying in front of the fire for hours, flipping around uselessly. It doesn’t matter how much you shift, the rock stays digging painfully into you.
You let out a loud huff, flopping onto your back and glaring up at the starry sky in defeat. At least the view is nice. In the city, you can’t see the stars. The smoke’s too thick and you never get a good look at them.
Out here, they almost feel fake. They’re so bright and beautiful, you thought the paintings in the museum had always been exaggerating just how breathtaking a night sky can be. But you were wrong. And you hate that there’s a potential future where you’ll never get to see this again.
“Would you quit squirming so damn much?”
You shoot up, resting on your elbows and glaring over at Arthur. He’s got his hat over his eyes, arms crossed, and looking like he’s been asleep for the past few hours. You hadn’t realized you’d been keeping him up.
“Some of us aren’t used to sleeping outside,” you hiss, throwing yourself back down to the ground. He doesn’t say anything for a while and you figure that’s the end of it. You clench your eyes shut, counting sheep in your mind and trying to force yourself asleep.
You hear boots crunching across leaves and your eyes fly open. Arthur’s standing over you, hands propped on his hips as he glares down at you. “Can I help you?” You snap when you get tired of the staring.
He scoffs and shakes his head, kneeling to be eye level with you. You’re startled by the proximity, an odd heat creeping up your neck. “Come on, I’m gonna tire you out. Maybe then you’ll get some sleep.”
You gasp, astonished at the audacity of his suggestion. “Excuse me?” You demand, tone incredulous.
His brows furrow before he shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Not like that,” he grouses. “Get up,” he doesn’t give you much of a choice. He places his hand under your back, shoving you onto your feet. You stand with a slight stumble, glaring at him as you brush dirt off your shirt and pants.
You can’t help the snotty tone of your voice as you ask, “What are we doing?”
“Huntin,’” He answers gruffly, going over to the horse and taking the bow out of his saddle.
Your brows furrow as you recall the few stories your father told you of hunting bison. “Aren’t you supposed to use a rifle?”
He shakes his head and nods towards the treeline. You glance back at the fire before reluctantly following him into the dark forest. The moon is full enough that it provides just enough light for you not to be terrified of what’s lurking in the underbrush.
“Got a friend,” he tells you, kneeling and glancing at some tracks on the ground. “Taught me how to hunt properly. Bows are quieter, less disruptive, and they provide quicker, cleaner kills.” He looks back at you and motions towards the arrows, “Less pain for the animal.”
Your face slacks with something like astonishment. All you’d heard from your father was the thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of the kill. He never mentioned keeping anything from the animal, using it for meat, or about how long it took for them to die. You’d never thought there was anybody who actually cared for the creature’s comfort as it died.
You suppose there’s going to be a lot about Arthur that’s different from the men you know.
“Arthur,” a twig snaps behind you, and your eyes widen. You drop your voice to a whisper, not wanting to draw too much attention towards you both. “I don’t want to kill anything,” you hiss.
“Ha!” He barks out a laugh and you purse your lips in irritation. He stands and looks at you, chuckling again before shaking his head. “I wouldn’t be so confident in your huntin’ skill, kid.”
You click your tongue and glare at him, “Don’t call me that,” you snap. It’s the same patronizing nickname your father loved to use on you and you detest it. He raises his hands in surrender and you roll your eyes at the smirk on his face. “Then what’s the point of this?”
He shrugs and heads further into the trees, you have no choice but to follow along behind him. “Figure you should be taught a few skills before I get rid of ya.”
You want to argue with him that there’s no point. If you are given to Crane’s associate, you’ll never set foot in the woods again. However, if you do manage to escape him, learning a few survival skills wouldn’t be a bad idea.
So, you keep your mouth shut and let him lead you through the forest. “How do you know where to go?” You ask, trying to figure out what it is he keeps looking at in the mud. He waves you forward, moving you so you’re standing directly in front of him.
“You see that?” You have to squint, relying solely on the light from the moon, to make out what he’s pointing at. There are some tracks in the mud that look vaguely like hooves. “It’s buck tracks, you can tell by the size.” He kneels and when you don’t follow he tugs you down by the sleeve. “You can’t rely on just the tracks, though. You have to look for other signs of ‘em.”
You glance around, noticing some crushed twigs and grass a few feet ahead. “Like that?” You point towards it and he huffs in amusement.
“Caught on quicker than I thought.”
You feel vaguely offended by that but don’t bother voicing it, just glare at his back as he gets up. You walk silently through the forest, letting Arthur show you which tracks to follow and which to avoid. You’re not comforted by how many cougar prints you find. You stare up into the branches always expecting something to already be looking down at you.
Miraculously, no wild cat chooses you for dinner as you track the buck down. You find him near a small stream, antlers dipping into the water as he takes a drink. He’s got to be one of the most gorgeous creatures you’ve ever seen.
You’ve lived your whole life in St. Denis. The most you’ve seen are overworked carriage horses and mangy dogs. No life slips through the cracks of that place. There’s just smoke and misery. This is nature, real beauty. It’s breathtaking, the way the leaves ripple in the wind and the starlight reflects in the water.
You can’t imagine seeing this and wanting to tear it down to put up an oily machine that contributes nothing to the earth but death. It just makes you hate your father more. It also makes you more resolved to not be forced back into that life. You can’t do it. You can’t have this one taste of freedom and then let it go without a fight.
Arthur pulls the bow out and nocks an arrow. You glance between him and the buck and rapidly shake your head. “No,” you hiss, “I don’t wanna kill it.”
He rolls his eyes and moves you in front of him. You don’t have much choice as he places your hands on the string and guides you into the right position. “Relax,” he murmurs in your ear as you fight against his grip. “You ain’t gonna kill it.”
It doesn’t bring you much comfort, but if you’re going to make it on your own, sometimes you’ll have to do something you don’t like. “Now,” his hand drifts down your bicep and you suck in a sharp breath. “Don’t hold it too long, you’ll get tired.”
It’s dawning on you just how close you both are. You’re kneeling on the ground with him behind you, essentially cradling your body to him. You’ve never been this familiar with a man before, it’s making your brain short-circuit. You can hardly pay attention to what he’s telling you.
He lifts your elbow slightly and points you towards the left. “You need to keep your arm steady even after you let go or your aim will be off. Take in a deep breath and release on the exhale.” You give him an apprehensive look, still not wanting to hurt the buck. He just nods and there’s something in his gaze that lets you relax slightly.
You release the string and the arrow flies over the buck’s head, burying itself into the tree behind it. Its head shoots up and it turns towards you both before dashing off. You let out an astonished laugh, glancing down the bow and then back at Arthur.
“My god, I’ve never shot anything before.”
“Congratulations, you’ve killed your first tree,” he remarks dryly, but you see the glint of humor in his eye.
He gets to his feet and offers you a hand up. You smile up at him, undeterred by his attitude. “Thank you for this,” you tell him earnestly. He gives you an odd look but nods anyway. He doesn’t understand just how important this is to you. Knowing how to do something like this is the difference between life and death when you’re on your own. Of course, he doesn’t realize you’ll be making an escape attempt soon.
He retrieves the arrow from the tree and you run your hand over the curve of the bow. You wonder just how much he’d miss this if you took it from him.
Arthur’s tearing down the camp and you’re standing by Diablo, feeding him some apples. You stroke absentmindedly over the horse's muzzle, watching Arthur intently. He’s too busy pulling the tent apart to be paying attention to you.
You got better sleep last night than you did at Crane’s. He was right, hunting had tired you out. You were eager enough to sleep that you didn’t even feel the rough ground underneath you. He seems to be a little more lax about his watch over you.
Something about last night must have eased him into a sense of comfort that you’re not going to run. That’s his own fault, though. You glance over the curve of the hill, noticing a carriage that will be passing by soon enough.
You look back at Arthur and ease slightly away from Diablo. Arthur is still collecting the blankets and rolling them up. He turns towards the dying fire and tosses the rest of the coffee out. You take another step back and he keeps his back to you.
Slowly, you release Diablo’s reigns, giving him one last apple before you turn on your heel and run down the hill. Your foot slips out from under you and you let out a loud yelp as you go flying headfirst down the grass.
You land on your back with enough impact to make the breath rush out of you. But your descent is still going and you’re flipping over headfirst into the road. You slide forward, the dirt scraping up your chin as you cough and try and catch your breath.
“Look out!” You roll out of the way just before the carriage rolls over you. Someone shouts your name from the top of the hill and you see Arthur glaring down at you. He starts towards you and you scramble to your feet.
“Stop!” You scream, waving your arms wildly and chasing after the carriage. The man gives you a bewildered look as you throw yourself at him. “Please, sir, I’ve been kidnapped, you must help me get back to my husband.”
The man looks behind you, sees a very angry Arthur bellowing out your name, and moves to the side. “Hurry up,” he urges, giving you a hand on the bench beside him. You let out a relieved breath, taking his hand and throwing yourself the rest of the way up.
He whips the horses, hurrying them along all the while Arthur is yelling after you. It’s not hard to believe that he would kidnap you. He looks half-crazed as he follows along behind you. You turn over your shoulder, giving him a brief wave and a smile. “Thanks for the help,” you tell the man beside you. You offer your hand and name.
He glances down at it but doesn’t take it, instead looking forward and ignoring you entirely. Something uneasy settles in your stomach but you push it aside. You blame the feeling on the adrenaline still pumping through you.
“Where are you headed?” You ask, glancing into the back of the carriage. You notice some moonshine and a crate full of guns but decide not to question it.
“Said yer husband’s waitin’ for ya?” He demands, completely ignoring your question. You stare at the side of his face but his expression isn’t giving anything away. He comes to an intersection. You see a sign pointing towards a town and figure he’s going to take it, but instead, he pulls onto a smaller trail leading to the woods.
“Um,” you clear your throat uncertainly, glancing back at the sign. “Yes,” your voice cracks and you know you sound like you’re full of shit.
He laughs and the sound sends chills down your spine. You rip your eyes off of him, looking down at the horses and suddenly realizing just what you’d gotten yourself into. “You sure about that, little lady?”
Something cold digs into your side and you gasp quietly, looking down to see a gun pressed against your ribs. “You scream, run, or do anythin’ to piss me off and I’ll put a fourth hole in ya.” When you don’t say anything he digs it harder into you. “Understand?” He growls and you can do nothing but nod your head.
You want to move, want to shove him off the side of the carriage and make a run for it. But you can’t, you’re frozen solid. You’re so petrified with fear you can’t even blink. You think you’re holding your breath, as if taking in air is going to set the gun off.
He grins, a blackened curl of lips over rotted teeth, at your obedience and comes to a stop in the trees. “What are you doing?” You whisper, staring at the secluded area with a newfound sense of horror.
“Shut up,” he snaps, his voice echoing through the quiet of the woods. You hear no birds or animals and you feel so alone it makes you want to cry. He gets off the carriage and turns towards you. “Down,” he demands. Your eyes dart towards the reigns of the horses and he pulls the hammer of the gun back. “Don’t even think about it.”
You lift your hands in the air, slowly slipping down the seat. He doesn’t appreciate you taking your time He grabs the front of your shirt, jerking you further into the trees and tossing you to the ground.
You let out a rough groan at the impact, blood staining your shirt as your elbow slips across a jagged rock. It’s like something is snapped loose in your mind. He comes stomping towards you, kneeling between your spread legs and it finally clicks.
You lunge forward with a shout and he rears back in surprise. You wonder how often someone’s actually fought against him or just let it happen. You don’t want to die, you don’t want to get shot by this scum, but there are a lot of things worse than dying.
You grab the arm holding the gun, jerking it around, and knocking it out of his hand. “You bitch!” He hisses, bringing his open palm down across your cheek. The smack rings through the trees and ricochets through the air. Your head whips to the side so hard you think you might have snapped your neck.
Blood dribbles out from your lips, your teeth having bitten into the fat of your cheeks. You spot the gun nearby, the silver of the barrel glinting from under the leaves. Just as you reach for it, he’s wrapping his hands around your ankles and dragging you back towards him.
You feel like screaming as your hands desperately grasp at the dirt underneath you. But there’s not enough air to scream. You dig your nails into the mud, feel them split against the rocks, and kick at his chest hard enough to make him lose his breath.
His grip on you loosens and you throw yourself at the pile of leaves. Hands groping for something solid. Just as he flips you over you wrap your hand around the handle of the gun. You pull the trigger and the bang is deafening.
Your ears ring and your hands are trembling from the recoil. His jaw goes slack and he tumbles on top of you. You let out a grunt, breath pushed out of you by his weight. You scramble against his chest, something warm making your hands slip as you struggle to roll him off of you.
You glance over, waiting for him to spring back up. But there’s something dark pooling around him and sinking into the dirt below. There’s a hole in his chest and his eyes are already flattening. You fall back against the earth, staring up at the trees above you.
The sounds rush back to you all at once. The birds singing, deers prancing somewhere in the distance. You hear a stream rushing nearby and let out a stunned laugh. There’s a smile on your face but there’s nothing to be happy about.
You think you might be in shock. Mind still trying to catch up to what just happened. You glance down at the gun in your hand and toss it to the side, not wanting it near you anymore. Only a second later do you reach for it again.
You struggle onto your hands and knees, checking over yourself for any injuries that you might be numb to right now. The only blood on you is from the dead man on the ground. You keel over, hands on your knees, and suck in a deep gasping breath.
You stumble back, limping towards the carriage. You dig around in the back of the wagon, tugging out a giant hunting knife and walking towards the horses. You cut them loose, keeping the rope on one of them and tugging yourself onto her back. You tuck the knife in your belt and nudge her side, leading her forward gently.
You don't even have time to process the fact that you’re riding a horse on your own. Your body is moving on autopilot. You can only think about getting ahead, getting away. What just happened will hit you later. You slump against the neck of the horse, adrenaline leaking out of you and exhaustion catching up.
He’s going to find you and he’s going to kill you. Leaving while he had his back turned. Getting on some carriage with a man you’ve never met before. How dumb do you have to be? You can’t trust people out here. Not when there are gangs, raiders, hell, he’s encountered a few cannibals.
For all he knows, you’re already dead and he’ll be delivering a body to the train station. The thought makes him curse and urge Diablo forward. It’s not hard to follow the tracks of the carriage, what concerns him is when they lead into the forest instead of the town.
“Goddammit,” he mutters, “the hell have you done woman?” He leaps off Diablo, figuring it will be easier to track you on foot. He follows the paths of the wheels, finding the wagon abandoned and the horses cut loose.
His brows furrow in confusion as he wanders around the side and spots a lump in the leaves. All he can see is the bottom of a boot and blood splattered across the orange of the fallen leaves.
His stomach plummets and he races towards it. But it’s not you buried under the foliage, it’s the man who offered you a ride. “What the hell?” He kneels, brushing the leaves off his chest and frowning when he sees the blood splattered all along his chest.
He doesn’t need to look long to figure out what killed him. He’s sure the bullet buried in his heart did the job. Arthur curses and stalks away from the man. There are prints where the horses were but there are too many to tell which one you might have taken.
He’ll have to rely on instinct to find you. You’re becoming a real pain in the ass for what was supposed to be a simple job. Still, he can’t help but be a little relieved that it was a stranger and not you lying dead on the ground.
He turns back onto the road, taking the turn into town. Someone on horseback rides past him, they look disgusted by something up ahead and it makes alarms go off in his head. He urges Diablo forward, running the rest of the way into town.
An unsaddled mare lazily eats some grass as the sound of a rushing river meets his ears. Diablo’s hooves sound off against the wood of the bridge. He finally sees what disturbed the other rider so much.
You’re sitting on the railing of the bridge, legs dangling dangerously over the edge as you stare down into the crashing waters below you. Arthur gets off his horse, approaching you slowly. He doesn’t want to startle you and have you go tumbling over the edge.
He calls out your name and you glance briefly over at him. Blood is splattered across your neck and the front of your shirt is soaked with it. He knows it isn’t yours but it still puts him on edge. “What’re you doin’ kid?”
You don’t answer him, “Did you follow me?” He eases up beside you, straddling the railing so he can catch you if you slip. He nods and you let out a rough sigh. “Is he dead?”
He scoffs, “Sure as shit hope so, don’t know how someone would survive that.”
A manic laugh bursts through your lips and you double over your head falling into your hands. Arthur surges forward, steadying you before you dive headfirst into the river. “Alright, let’s go,” he quietly urges you around. You don’t put up a fight, letting him maneuver you how he likes.
He gets you on your feet and leads you back to Diablo. You latch onto the horse's reigns immediately, stroking your hand over his mane. Your silence is concerning. Arthur doesn’t know what your regular behavior is, the most he’s seen of you, you have been quiet. This is different, though. He’s seen this sort of quiet in women before and it never ends pretty.
“You’re alright, come on,” he tries to keep his voice low so he doesn’t set you off. He keeps his hands light as they land around your waist, giving you help onto Diablo’s saddle. Your gaze is distant and you move like someone else is controlling your body.
He collects the mare you’d brought along with you and leads both horses into town. He’ll have to get a saddle for her, she already seems attached to you. And maybe taking a horse with you into the city will let you escape a little.
The town, at least, is on the way to Strawberry so he doesn’t have to worry about being too far off schedule. Though, that’s the least of his concerns right now. His eyes keep darting up to you. Waiting for you to try and bolt again or finally break down. It doesn’t look like anything is going on in your head, you seem completely distanced from the situation.
It’s a good thing for him. He can’t handle a distraught woman. He’s not a kind enough man for it.
He hitches the horses in front of the hotel. You turn in the saddle, staring down at him and waiting for a hand down. You slide easily through his hands, landing in the mud with a dull thud and heading up the stairs of the hotel without prompt.
He huffs and follows after you. He doesn’t know how to explain the blood on your clothes away and hopes he won’t have to. The man running the place, thankfully, doesn’t have many questions. He looks disturbed but keeps his qualms to himself when Arthur slips him a little extra cash.
Arthur guides you up the stairs with a light hand on your back, opening the door of the bath for you. “Alright, here’s your room key. I’ll be out for a while so, just,” he sighs, taking in the blank look on your face and shaking his head. “Try not to cause any more trouble.” You nod and close the door behind him.
There’s no worries that you’re going to make a run for it again. He’s sure whatever happened in those woods was scarring enough to make you want to go back to the city and never see country folk again. He wouldn’t blame you, there are some nasty people out here. Himself included, but he could never imagine hurting a woman like that. It just ain’t right.
He heads to the shop across the street, buying some new clothes for you that actually fight properly. The horses are brought to the stables and he goes ahead and gets a paper for your mare under your name. Diablo will be faster tomorrow if he doesn’t have to carry the weight of two people. You might make it to your handler in time.
Arthur still doesn’t feel right about this whole thing. Leaving you with a man you’ve never met feels even worse knowing what happened to you today. He doesn’t think you being so calm about it all is a good thing. Shouldn’t women react?
Dutch likes to tell him women are a more sensitive breed. He’s seen some tough ones in his life, but this seems like the time to be in hysterics if there ever was one. He heads back to the hotel, planning on just leaving the change of clothes in your room.
He passes by the bath and hears an odd sound seeping through the cracks. Frowning, he presses his ear up against the door. A man passes by him, giving him a disgusted look as he goes into his room. Arthur sighs but he stays where he is.
It’s clearer now, you’re crying and it’s hard to listen to. It's the type that makes it hard to breathe. That sort of crying makes your ribs ache and bruise. It’s wrong to keep listening to such a vulnerable moment. So, he does what he planned, drops the clothes in your room, and then heads to bed himself.
Sleep comes easier than he thought it would. It’s not as restful as he’d been hoping but it draws over him faster than it normally does. He’s always been a light sleeper, though. It comes from years of having to be on guard in case some O’Driscoll is gonna try and slit his throat while he’s asleep.
When he hears the door creak his hand is already on the trigger of his revolver as he shoots up in bed. The glow of the lamps outside illuminates what’s clearly a woman’s form. But he can’t see your face until you take a step further into the room and the moonlight provides some light.
“Arthur?” You whisper his name, peering into his room. “Are you awake?”
“I am now,” he grumbles. With a sigh, he shoves the gun back under his pillow and runs a rough hand over his face. “What'd ya want?”
You let out a low breath and rock back on your heels. “I’m sorry,” you mutter. “I just, I can’t sleep. I keep thinking he’s gonna creep out of my closet or bust through the door, I-”
You cut yourself off but he can hear the emotion thickening your voice. He clenches his eyes shut in irritation, arguing with himself over what he’s about to say. “You wanna sleep in here?” He mumbles reluctantly.
You close the door immediately, practically running towards his bed. “You don’t mind?”
You’re not really giving him a choice, but he’s not going to say that to you. “No.” He grabs a pillow and blanket off the bed and rounds the end of the mattress. You frown as you watch him toss everything to the ground.
“Well, what’re you doing?”
“What’s it look like?” He snaps, angrily gesturing towards the floor. “I’m givin’ you the bed.”
You bite your lip and he feels horrible instantly because you look like you’re about to cry. He’s not trying to be rude but you woke him up in the dead of night. What’d you expect him to say?
“I was sort of hoping we could share the bed.”
His eyes widen and he glares at you in disbelief. “You mean-”
“No!” You cut him off with an aggrieved sigh. “You fool, that’s not what I mean at all. I just don’t want to be alone, alright?”
“Look,” he scoffs and shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m the man you want to bunk with for company, alright. I’m not that kind of guy.” You glare at him and snatch his pillow and blanket off the floor.
“Don’t be so damn stubborn.” You aggressively fluff the pillows, throwing the covers back and gesturing towards them, your brow set in anger.
“Right,” he huffs, “I’m stubborn.” He reluctantly crawls into bed and you follow behind him. It’s not that he minds sharing a bed with a pretty lady. He’s just not the sort of guy you should be coming to for comfort.
He doesn’t think he can provide whatever it is you need at this moment. But you seem to think otherwise as you inch towards him slowly. He lays on his back, arms under his head as he watches you out of the side of his eye. You think you’re being subtle, slowly moving into his side until you’re flush against him.
He doesn’t say anything to object and you don’t bring up the proximity. He doesn’t want to admit it but it is nice having someone else beside him. He’s so used to camping out on his own. He hasn’t had anyone beside him in a long while. He lost interest in women of leisure a long while ago. And ever since Mary, he’s given up on any sort of intimacy.
He hates to admit it, but he finds himself easing towards the warmth you provide. The second you feel him reciprocating you’re inching a tentative hand around his waist, cuddling closer to him. He recognizes it for what it is.
He’s always been looked at as someone who can protect, at least by the gang. He’s their muscle. To most others, he incites nothing but fear. It should be the same for you. But after what happened today, you just see someone who can keep the monsters in the dark away.
He doesn’t mind being used like this. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and waits until he feels you settle to ease into sleep again.
Arthur figures you should both get breakfast in town while you’re here. He reasons you should enjoy a hot meal before you’re on the road again. You don’t point out that you know he’s just trying to ease you into the day.
You appreciate it, honestly, but yesterday wasn’t your first run-in with men like that. It’s become incomprehensibly normal in day-to-day life, even for a city girl like yourself. You’d cried everything out in the bath once you’d scrubbed your skin raw.
You don’t think Arthur will ever understand just how much his presence helped you last night. If you’d been on your own, jumping every time you heard the wood creaking outside, you’d have driven yourself over the edge. He protected you, even if there was nothing to be protected from.
You don’t think he gives himself enough credit. Ignoring the situation you’re both in and what he’s taking you to do, he’s a good man. While the caliber of the men you’ve met is questionable at best, he’s one of the best ones you’ve ever known. At the end of the day, he disagrees with the whole situation, but he’s doing this for his family. That’s admirable in its own way.
But, god, does he have poor conversational skills. “So, yesterday.” You glance up from your toast, brows raised in question. He clears his throat, eyes darting between you and his food like he can’t choose what to focus on. “That man, did he…”
He trails off and you feel your hackles rise. “Don’t worry,” you hiss, a bite to your words, “I’m still pure for my husband. Your pay won’t be docked, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
His hand clenches around his fork and his eyes bore into yours, “That’s not what I meant,” he growls. “I wasn’t worried about that,” he snaps, “I was worried ‘bout you, woman.”
You take in a deep breath, actively biting your tongue from saying something spiteful. He wasn’t being rude, that’s just what you’re used to. “I’m sorry,” you concede lowly. “Nothing happened,” you repeat without the attitude.
“Well,” he huffs and goes back to his breakfast, “good,” he settles on dully.
“Good,” you agree quietly, pushing the rest of your food around. You find your appetite dulled and you push the plate away. You lean back in the booth and stare out the window. The horses seem to be getting on well enough. “Did you name her?”
Arthur gives you an odd look and you nod towards the mare hitched next to Diablo. He swallows the food he’d been chewing and takes a swig of his coffee. “No, figured you’d want to do it.”
Your brows furrow and your lips quirk in confusion. “Why?”
“She’s yours, ain’t she?” He grouses.
You shake your head, “Nope,” you tell him, popping the p. “I just took her so I’d have something to get me to town.”
“Yeah, well,” he sounds less sure of himself and he’s looking like he made a mistake. “I thought she’d be nice for you to have with you in the city. A way for you to get around without relyin’ on someone else.”
You can’t help but smile, something in your chest easing away at the kind gesture. “I appreciate it,” he lights up a little at your approval, but you crush it in an instant. “But I can’t keep her, I won’t be allowed to. I’ve tried to have my own horse before, hard to control something that can get away from you,” you tell him blankly. There’s no emotion in your voice because it’s something you’re used to.
He looks slightly horrified at how blunt you are. He can’t comprehend not having that freedom but he fails to recognize that he’s got a leash of his own. You doubt a man like Dutch would ever let his main asset just run off to wherever he wants to.
A few people walk into the saloon, the women giving you odd looks when they see the pants on your legs. You smile cheekily at them, reveling in what you know will be a short-lived experience. You’ve never been on the receiving end of a judgmental look like that.
You’ve always blended in. Been the perfect wallflower for the men in your life. You were never something to gawk at or cause trouble. It’s a relief to stick out for once, to break the mould for the first time in your life.
Arthur clocks the interaction and chuckles. “Missin’ the skirts yet?”
“Not one damn bit,” you tell him, smiling as you take a sip of your coffee. “I’m going to miss being able to run around without having to lug an extra four pounds of fabric behind me.”
“Ya know, you could just wear some pants, you’ve got a choice.”
You grin patronizingly at him, propping your head on your chin and watching him finish the rest of his breakfast. “You don’t know city men very well, do you?”
“Glad for it,” he grumbles, distaste clear in his tone.
A laugh breaks through your chest, the first real one in a while. “I’m going to be marrying one, Arthur. I won’t have a choice in much of anything anymore.” You can tell he wants to object, tell you there’s always a choice.
He’ll never truly understand what’s going to happen to you, though. You’re no longer human once you’re married. You’re cattle and property, meant to be bred and shown off. You accepted your fate a long while ago. And after you’re failed escape attempt, you’ve realized this is what you were always meant to be. There’s no point in fighting fate.
“Don’t apologize or argue,” you tell him, no spite or bitterness in your tone, just the honest truth. “I don’t mind anymore, really. What place is there for me in this world, anyway? I can’t exactly take care of myself.”
“You did a damn good job yesterday,” he snaps back quickly. He doesn’t seem too keen on the way you’re talking about yourself. But you’re not lying. Yesterday was a wake-up call. If you let yourself get screwed over by a hillbilly that quickly then how were you ever going to make it on your own? In your defense, you were raised to be dependent, you never had a chance.
“Sure, but that was a one-off incident. I’m not going to run again, Arthur. There’s no point. And there’s no point in fighting against the way things are, they’re never going to change for me.” You take in a deep breath, the easy mood ruined by your sincerity.
“I’m just gonna wait by the horses.”
You slide out of the booth, leaving Arthur to stare pensively at his plate. You’ve nearly slipped through the door when Arthur calls out, “You should name her.” You pause at the doorway, glancing back at him. He’s settling the bill at the front and you walk back out to the horses.
The mare picks her head up as you walk towards her, ears perked and tail flicking. “Hey, girl,” you run a hand over her muzzle, admiring the sleek silver of her coat. “I guess I should name you.”
You run a hand over her mane and swing yourself onto the saddle. “How ‘bout Bullet, it’s how I got you, anyway.” A dark joke, but it eases the macabre feeling hanging around you.
Arthur walks out of the saloon, tucking his money away into his bag. He lifts himself onto Diablo, glancing over at you with a knowing glint.
“Name her?”
You resent how smug he sounds. “Bullet,” you answer reluctantly.
“Bullet?” He questions, tone incredulous.
You grin at him, “It’s how I got her.” There’s a slightly stunned expression on his face before it slacks away into something more amused.
He shakes his head and nudges Diablo forward, Bullet follows alongside him eagerly. “Clever,” he mutters.
“Not really,” you snort, running a hand over her neck lovingly. “But I think it works for her.”
“Your husband’s gonna have his hands full with you,” you know he means it in jest. The lightness of the conversation turns into something heavier. Realization sinks over both of you and the smiles slowly drop away. “I-”
“How much further to Strawberry, anyway?” You effectively cut off whatever train of thought he was going to follow, distracting you both from the truth.
“Half a day,” he tells you, frowning when you refuse to meet his eye again. Half a day. That’s all you’ve got to enjoy the last bits of freedom you have. You’re gonna take your damn time getting there, that’s for sure.
You slow down from the steady trot Arthur had led the horses into, easing Bullet into a slow walk. You’re slowly getting the hang of riding a horse. It’s easy when she’s so intuitive. By god, though, your ass is sore.
Arthur shoots you a questioning glance at the slow pace and you shrug. “Might as well take the time I’ve got left.”
“You’re actin’ like you’re on death row,” he chuckles.
“Aren’t I?” He falls silent and you don’t know what’s bothering him but you don’t have the energy to inquire.
He’s slowing you down on purpose, he knows it and you know it. Neither of you says a damn thing about it but it’s bugging him. He shouldn’t be this bothered by a job. He knows how to separate himself from what he does. He just can’t this time.
There’s something about you that glows. You’re sitting beside him on the peak of a hill, overlooking the roads below you, and laughing as you make up stories for the people that pass by. It’s a far cry from the beaten-down woman he’d seen at Crane’s house.
Even after what happened yesterday, you somehow manage to seem happier. There’s nothing about it that makes him happy. This feels like the last goodbye of someone who knows they’re going soon. The last bout of happiness before they just give in.
You’re not gaining your spark back, you’re just giving in to what you think is inevitable. But it doesn’t have to be inevitable. You could fight back you just refuse to. He’s sure growing up the way you have, you don’t think it's possible to stand up for yourself.
But you don’t have to give in like this. You don’t have to roll over and let someone else dictate your life. Which is rich, coming from him. He’s practically Dutch’s lap dog now. Even when he disagrees he still follows along behind him.
He shouldn’t even be thinking like this. He can’t criticize you for not standing up for yourself when he’s the one thing standing between you and freedom. “Not hungry?” You nod towards the uneaten meat on his knife.
He shakes his head, plucking it off the blade and passing it to you. You give him an odd look before popping it in your mouth. “Ya know,” you mutter around a full mouth. You take a moment to swallow it down before smiling over at him. “I’ve grown up with private chefs my whole life, but there’s is something infinitely more satisfying about this.”
He takes his hat off, running a hand through his hair. He snorts at your comment, “I find that hard to believe.”
“No,” you shake your head, insistent, “I mean it. Being out here, hunting the game myself, I don’t know, it’s nice.” You shrug and lean back on your hands, gazing across the way at the trees and river.
“You can always get a bow and go hunting.” He speaks to you like it's a cut-and-dry truth that you’re just not accepting. Your face screws up and you give him an annoyed glare.
“No. I can’t,” you tell him again. Where your words were patient before, he can tell you’re growing irritated at how much he’s pushing this.
“Yes, you can,” he snaps. “You don’t have to keep yourself boxed up in some manor in the city. Get out, woman, do something with your life!” His voice echoes through the air and you flinch back from it, lips pulling down into a sneer.
“You know, that’s really easy for you to say, Arthur. You have a goddamn choice. Sure, I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth, little miss rich girl crying about being pampered.”
He lets out a rough sigh, “That’s not what I meant-”
You cut him off, getting to your feet and glaring down at him. “You got to grow up with a choice. What to do with your body, your life, your career. You get to have an education if you want it. Every goddamn door is open to you. You don’t get hated for not wanting to have a family. You get to choose. And as much as you insist I can too, you will never understand the position I am in.”
You kick dirt over the fire and head back towards Bullet. “It’s a double-edged sword, Arthur. Sure, my life might be comfortable, but it’s never really gonna be my life.” He stays there on the ground, too stunned to get up.
You glare down at him, impatiently waiting for him to get a move on. This isn’t how he wants things to end. He doesn’t want you to go off thinking he’s just some ignorant fool. But he is, much as he denies it, he’s always been a fool.
He should never have thought he could make a difference in your life. Not when he’s the one backing you into this corner. He could have helped you escape the very first night he saw you. But he was too selfish to let you go, now you’re both paying for it.
He mounts Diablo and you both head back to the roads silently. You’re moving faster now, leaving him behind if he lingers in one area for too long. You’re too pissed off to enjoy the rest of your day and he hates that he ruined it for you. You, at the very least, deserved a slower journey towards your future.
You’re in Strawberry before he’s ready, he’s sure you aren’t. “Hey, we could-”
“I think that’s him.” You cut him off before he says something stupid like spend another night in town before you go. He’ll miss you, he thinks. Odd, he’s known you such a short time but it’s been so different having someone beside him as he rides. It was nice, what he wished he and Mary could have had.
Arthur follows your gaze and lets out a tired sigh. Sure enough, some prim and proper ass is standing in front of the ticket station, foot tapping impatiently. He’s got a large bag beside him, gaze wandering around expectantly. He doesn’t doubt the man who looks like he’s got a five-foot stick up his ass is Mr. Crane’s associate. He’s got the same slimy glint.
You slide off Bullet and Arthur follows suit, taking the reigns of both horses and leading them towards the platform. The man’s eyes narrow in on you before lighting up. He calls out your name and it’s like a mask being dropped over your face.
The spark is gone once more, a subdued and demure smile resting on your face as you wave at him. “I apologize for my dress,” you tell him as you walk up the steps. “Pants were more conducive to such a long ride.”
He takes your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles that makes Arthur roll his eyes. “No apologies necessary, I brought you a change of clothes. I figured you would be less than put together after such a journey. I’m only sorry I couldn’t accompany you.”
You scoff and nod along, “Okay,” you mutter, not believing a word of his bullshit. You take the bag from him and move towards the saloon to find a room to change in. They both watch you leave, though the other man with a much more devious glint in his eye.
Arthur’s hands tighten on the reigns of the horses, anything to keep him from reaching for his revolver. He’s already getting a bad feeling about this. There’s nothing trustworthy about the man in front of him.
“Mr. Finch,” he holds out his hand and Arthur gives it a distrusting look before reluctantly shaking. Finch attempts to squeeze the life out of his hand but Arthur can barely feel it. He tightens his own grip and revels in the way Finch’s face blanches.
“Arthur Morgan.”
Mr. Finch looks him up and down in the same way Crane had. He sees a commodity, not a person. “I trust,” he drawls, “nothing unsavory happened.”
Arthur feels rage bubbling in his gut. The only damn thing he cares about is whether or not you’re “pure.” Not if you were okay or injured during the journey. If he told him that he’d punched you out for talking back Finch would just ask if you were bruised.
“She’s fine,” Arthur grits out.
“Oh, good, good. Glad everything went smoothly.” Finch has a way of talking he’s found most self-important men do. He draws everything he says out, and forces you to listen to him speak. Makes you pay attention so he can pretend he has power for a moment.
His gaze darts behind Arthur and he turns just in time to see you slipping out of the saloon. The dress Finch has provided you is ridiculously large. It poofs out at the waist in a way that makes Arthur wonder how you’re going to fit into your seat.
You look beyond uncomfortable. Grimacing as you join them again. You try and plaster a smile on but it’s a struggle. You look to Arthur, a finality on your face that makes him want to throw you over his shoulder and run. He’s doing this for the others, he reminds himself. They’ll be on a boat to Tahiti in a week.
“Thank you, Mr. Morgan, for everything.” The smile you leave him with is real, if just barely. Something lurks under your words that Mr. Finch will never understand and Arthur knows it will drive him crazy.
“Let’s go,” Finch grabs your hand, looping it through his arm and tugging you towards the doors of the station.
“Wait!” Arthur calls out, feeling foolish when you both look back at him with perplexed expressions. “You’ll be wanting Bullet, won’t you?”
Mr. Finch answers for you with a condescending tone, “She won’t be needing a horse, thank you.” You give him a knowing smile, turning away and slipping through the doors of the station and onto the train.
Arthur stays rooted where he is, something crawling up in his chest and rooting around restlessly. The whistle blows and the wheels start cranking slowly forward. Arthur just barely catches a glimpse of you through a window as the train chugs past.
“Shit!” He hisses. He tugs himself up onto Diablo’s saddle and urges him after the train. He was born a fool, he’s always going to be a damn fool. But he’d have to be a complete moron to just let you go.
Mr. Finch keeps a painfully tight grip on your elbow, jerking you through the passenger cars and practically throwing you into your seat. You land with a thud, your arm bouncing against the window painfully. You keep a stoic expression, trying not to let him break you so soon.
He takes a seat beside you, straightening out his jacket and tugging on his tie. Something white flashes in his jacket pocket and you lean forward, perplexed when you realize what it is. “What is that?” You question, not quite believing your eyes. Finch glances down at the thick wad of cash in his jacket and grins.
“Oh, this? Mr. Morgan must have forgotten to collect the rest of his payment.” He sends you a condescending smile and you flinch away in disgust. “He was too enamored with my fiancee to pay much attention, I’m afraid.”
“That’s his money,” you snap, the volume of your voice catching the attention of a few other passengers. Finch sends them apologetic smiles, making you seem like a mad woman. “He earned that!” You object, eyeing the money warily.
His hand snakes out, gripping you tightly around the arm and dragging you towards him until your noses are nearly touching. You nearly gag at the smell of his cigar-infused breath. It’s not like when Arthur would smoke one, you didn’t mind that. But this was making you sick to your stomach.
“Let's get a few things clear, I will not be dealing with an obstinate wife. You can either get yourself in order or I’ll do it for you.”
Your lips pull back in disgust and you jerk yourself out of his grip. He’s not as strong as he pretends to be and you’re not going to be scared into submission again. “I’m not your wife yet. My father still has time to pay.”
He laughs at you, spittle flying from your lips and sprinkling across your cheeks. “He has time to pay, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be getting you back, sweetheart.” Your eyes widen with the realization and you want to throw yourself off the side of the train.
You never had any chance to get out of this situation. Mr. Crane was always in control of it all. To even think of having a hope of getting back home was foolish. To believe for a second that you were going to escape this had been utter idiocy.
He sees the crestfallen expression and sinks into his seat with a satisfactory look on his face. He thinks you to be subdued. But now you’re nothing more than a cornered animal with no other choice of escape. You’ve got nothing left for you, nothing to hold onto.
As much as you’d thought you’d bonded with Arthur, you were still nothing more than a job to him. You were nothing more than a commodity to be traded between men. You would never have a say over your life.
You have nothing, you doubt you ever actually had anything left for you. You glance over at the man beside you and feel a cool dread blanket itself over you. Nothing left to lose.
There’s a solid weight tucked into the bodice of your dress. Its cool metal has been warmed by your skin. Its handle curves around your ribs and it only has one bullet left. You reach down the front of your dress, fingers curling around the revolver you’d stolen from a dead man.
Finch glowers at your inappropriate behavior “What are-” You pull the gun out, turning it on him. He jumps back in shock and throws his hands in the air on instinct. “Please-” you revel in his pathetic pleading only for a moment. Pulling the trigger a second time is surprisingly easy. The screams that ring out through the train car are less enjoyable. “Shit!” He cusses, hands coming up to try and staunch the flow of blood pouring from his stomach.
You slip your hand into his blazer, stealing the money before he can object. You run out of the passenger car, leaping to the flat car with all the cargo. It will take a few minutes for them to catch onto what happened and figure out where you went.
You don’t know what you’re going to do now. You’re stuck on a moving train, there’s nowhere for you to hide. You hadn’t thought when you’d shot him, you just wanted that smug look on his face to disappear.
“Where is she?” You hear the guards shouting out your name, flipping over crates to find you. They’re still at the front of the train, but you don’t have long until they start moving back here.
God, what have you done?
You just know, if you made it to that train station, you were never going to make it out. His men would be waiting there to transport you. You’d be watched every second of your life, you can’t do it again. You can’t be locked in a gilded cage, that’s not a life worth living.
There’s no escape for you. Nowhere left to run, nowhere to hide. You glance over the left side of the train. There’s a slight dip into a deep ravine. The crashing water looks almost peaceful from up here.
You don’t know if it would be a quick death but you know it would be merciful compared to what’s waiting for you at your last stop. You keep your eyes on the water, see yourself taking control of your life for the first time, and take a step up on the rail.
Someone shouts your name from the right side of the train and you gasp, arms circling wildly as you almost go toppling over the edge. They shout your name again, panic laced in the tone. This doesn’t sound like Finch or any of the other guards. You whip around and find Arthur riding his horse beside the train.
“What the hell are you doing, woman?”
Your brows furrow in confusion and your eyes dart between him and the ravine. “Jumping! What the hell are you doing?”
His gaze narrows and he shouts to be heard over the rumble of the train tracks. “Stopping you from being a goddamn fool. Get over here!” You hear the guards getting closer as they storm down the rest of the train.
You don’t have long to make a decision, you can already see his horse struggling to keep up with the speed of the train. There’s a bridge coming up in a moment, he won’t be able to go any further and they won’t be able to come after you.
It’s a split-second decision, one that has you pushing off the railing of the car and rushing towards him. You don’t have time to doubt yourself or plan this out further, you take a running leap off the train, towards his outstretched arms.
He barely catches you in time, jerking on the reigns of the horse and bringing him to a sudden stop before all three of you go tumbling into the water. Shots fire off on the train, but they’re gone before they can do any real damage.
Your chest heaves as you dangle from his arms, fingers digging into his shirt desperately. Your heart is pounding so hard against your chest that you almost can’t hear what he’s saying, but you get the gist of it.
“The hell were you thinking? Trying to jump off the damn train! You’re a fool, woman.” He tugs you onto the saddle the rest of the way. As much as he tries to sound angry you can feel his relief in the way he squeezes you close to him.
“Thank you,” you whisper, head sinking into his neck and breathing in the familiar scent.
He sighs, struggling between yelling at you more and just enjoying the fact that he got to you before you did something neither of you could recover from. “You’re welcome, just,” he pauses, holding you a little closer, “don’t be so damn stupid again.”
You laugh and it’s a little wet as tears start to pool in your eyes. “I’m not planning on it.” You sit up, easing away from him and glancing over your shoulder. You watch as the train grows smaller until you can only see a plume of smoke and nothing more. “What the hell are we going to do?”
He sighs and turns the horse around. You maneuver yourself around, facing forward and pushing back against him. “I don’t know. Dutch ain’t gonna be happy about you comin’ back with me.”
You bite your lip, a hundred different possibilities swirling through your head. You’ve never been able to make a choice before, faced with it, you’re overwhelmed with options. You can’t pick one so you blurt out the first coherent thought you have.
“What if we don’t go back?”
Arthur stills behind you, “What?” His tone is low and filled with something you know means he’s ready to say no.
“Just for a little while,” you rush the words out quickly, trying to fight for a chance to get him to listen. “We can send this to the camp,” you tug out the wad of cash you’d stolen from Finch and Arthur barks out a laugh. You feel his chest tremble behind you and it makes you grin.
“Did you steal his money?”
“Your money, technically,” you correct, grinning over your shoulder at him. “Besides, he doesn’t need it anymore.” He gives you a concerned look but you just wave him off. “We can send the camp some money and go off on our own for a while.”
“I don’t know, kid.”
“Don’t call me that,” you interrupt, glaring at him. “It’ll only be for a little while, Arthur. Come on, I’m free for the first time in my life, enjoy it with me.”
He looks uncertain and you know it’s an odd notion to him, putting himself first instead of the camp or Dutch. You’re sure he’s never done it before. Breaking away from them instead of going about like the loyal soldier he is.
“Just a little while?”
You nod, turning just enough to tuck the money in his pocket. “Just a little while,” you swear.
“John Marston!” You frown, turning away from the oven and glancing out the window. Arthur’s grinning by the gates of the horse pen, leaping over the wood, and walking out to greet someone. You abandon the stew, heading towards the door of your home.
Outside are two horses, one with a woman and her son, and an abandoned one. The owner is currently bringing Arthur into a brief embrace, John, you presume. Arthur’s told you about him a bit. They weren’t always close but it was getting better before Arthur went away.
Sometimes you feel bad, having dragged him away from everything he was familiar with. You meant it when you said you only wanted to be gone for a little while. You knew if you went back immediately there would be hell to pay with Dutch and you’d both be put to work.
You’d be going from one owner to another. All you’d wanted was a few weeks on the road on your own. But a few weeks turned into six months and then a year, and it was Arthur telling you he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t stand what the gang was turning into. What Dutch was turning into. All you’d given him was an excuse to finally get out before it all blew up.
You walk down the steps of the home Arthur built, wiping your hands off on your apron. You give a brief wave to the woman you assume is Abigail. She waves back, slipping off the horse and helping Jack down.
Arthur pulls away from John, turning towards you and motioning you forward. John gives you an apprehensive look. “Do I know you?”
Arthur gives him your name, throwing an arm over your shoulder and pulling you in closer. “That job Dutch got from Crane.” John’s face lights up with recognition and he smirks.
“I see,” he shakes his head and gives Arthur a knowing look. “It’s always a woman with you, isn’t it?” You snort at how aggrieved Arthur looks. “Well,” John turns towards you and smiles, “nice to finally meet the woman that got him under control.”
“Nice to meet you too,” you smile lightly at him, pulling away from Arthur. “Are you going to be joining us for dinner?”
“No, he’s not,” Arthur answers at the same time John says, “I would love to.”
Arthur and John share a look you can’t understand. You glance past John and wave Abigail forward, “Come in, please. I’d enjoy the company.”
“Forgive my obstinate husband, he tends to linger where he ain’t wanted.” She brushes past him and you lead her inside your home. Leaving Arthur and John to bicker outside. Jack stays outside, smiling up at Arthur. You know he’s missed the boy, you’re sure he’s okay entertaining them for one night.
Abigail helps you set the table while Arthur and John catch up over a bottle of whiskey. Arthur tried to pull out a cigar but you’d shut that down quick. He’d had a cough a little while ago and the doctor advised cutting down on tobacco if he wanted it to go away. You know it’s hard but you’re cracking down on how much he smokes.
“We got the money you sent,” John’s telling Arthur as they come over to join you all at the table. Jack eagerly hops into the seat beside Arthur before you can snag it and you grin. “Dutch blew it all and wouldn’t tell us on what. He kept saying we still needed another score.”
John shakes his head and the distant look in his eyes makes your stomach churn. “You’re a lucky bastard you got out when you did, Arthur, truly.”
“Hosea?” Arthur questions and you grimace at the look on John’s face. You can see Arthur deflate as John shakes his head.
“There was a bank robbery, Molly told the Pinkertons we were going to be there, he didn’t make it.”
Arthur’s hand clenches around the fork and you wish you could say something that would make him realize it’s not his fault. “I should have been there,” he mutters.
“Wouldn’t have done anything, man. Hosea had given up in the end. We all had. It was so damn divided, the family was gone.”
“Still.” Arthur insists, glaring down at his plate like it had offended him.
“No,” to your surprise it’s Abigail that snaps. “Dutch was gone and that bastard Micah just kept pushing him over the edge. The only thing you would have done is get yourself killed. You’re damn lucky Arthur Morgan.”
You’re sure he’ll still blame himself later. Reason a hundred times over that had he been there something would have been different. Even if it was him on the other end of the gun he’d be happier knowing someone else hadn’t died when it could have been him. You couldn’t stand that these self-sacrificing ideals Dutch had drilled into him were still present.
But you know Abigail and John help ease the guilt slightly. It’s on Arthur to let it go entirely, though you doubt that will happen anytime soon. John picks up on the change in mood, he’s reluctant to let the night sour so soon.
He turns towards you with a look that makes you feel like you need to prepare for trouble. “So you did all that to escape getting married. And then you marry this moron?” He motions towards Arthur and you can’t help but laugh.
“John!” Abigail snaps but he only smiles at her. You can see the way she fights the twitch of her lips and it makes you smile in turn.
You correct him, “We’re not technically married-”
“Might as well be,” Arthur argues, glaring at John. You reach across the table, taking his hand in yours and gently squeezing. You can’t help but laugh at him.
“Yeah, we might as well be,” you agree. “But it was never about not wanting to be a wife. I just wanted to have a damn choice. That’s what I got out here. I can hunt or cook. Sew or go out and make some money. And it’s a lot nicer being a wife out in the country than it is in the city, I’ll tell you that much.”
“Here’s hoping,” Abigail mutters. She glances towards Arthur, “That’s why we’re out here. We got word from a few people that you might be lurking around here. John’s thinking of getting a house, really settling down.”
Arthur sighs, leaning back in his chair and glaring at John. “That’s why you’re here? You want a handout,” he accuses.
“No!” John snaps. “Dammit, Arthur, why you always gotta assume the worst of me?”
“Because it’s usually true,” Arthur mutters. “If that’s not what you want then what is it?”
John purses his lips and lets out a spluttering breath. “A loan,” he lands on, struggling to find the right word.
Arthur barks out a laugh, slapping his hand on the table and poking a knowing finger into John’s chest. “I knew it!”
John swats his hand away and glares. “Look, Morgan, I only need a little. Just to buy some animals, get started on the house.”
“What’d ya want Marston, my whole damn house?”
Abigail lands a gentle hand on your arm and nods to the porch. “They’ll be at it for a while.” You nod and leave the table, following her to the swing out back. She settles down on it with a sigh, gazing out at the trees that line your home.
“You’ve got a nice life out here.”
You smile fondly, “I like to think so. We’re thinking about getting a few cows, maybe starting a proper ranch.”
Her face lights up at the idea and she laughs. “That’s what John wants. It’s unbelievable how similar they are, they’re too thick-headed to see it.”
You can still vaguely hear them bickering inside the house. You peer inside and see Jack sitting at the table, watching them both with an entranced expression. You can’t help but grin at the look on Arthur’s face. He’s laying into John but he looks happier than you’ve seen him in a while.
You know he’s missing everybody, has been for a long time. Maybe if Abigail and John are close by he’ll have that sense of familiarity again. “The others,” you start, turning back to Abigail. “Charles and Sadie, what happened to everyone else?”
“A few of them are living good lives, some of them aren’t. Most of them are drifting, not ready to give up the outlaw life just yet.”
“It’s hard to watch the world change while you’re still stuck in the same spot.” You brush some hair out of your eyes and smile at Abigail. “Me and Arthur are gonna help you and John. But I’d like it if you were both close by. It would be nice to have someone familiar near us, we’re pretty lonely up here.”
She gives you a brief smile back, “I think that would be nice.”
John’s voice picks up from inside and you jump, “Oh that’s a load of bull-”
Abigail’s smile drops and she leans over your shoulder to shout, “Watch it!” at John. You laugh when you see the perturbed look on his face. She motions towards his son and Arthur gives John a smug look.
“You gonna help him?” You ask Arthur as you settle into bed later. He opens his arms, pulling you into his embrace once you’re settled under the covers.
“John?” You nod, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, ‘course I’m gonna help him. But there’s nothing wrong with jerking him around a little bit first.”
You roll your eyes and shake your head, tucking yourself under his chin. You almost think he’s asleep but then he’s speaking up again. “We should really do it.”
You pull back, brows furrowed in confusion. “Do what?”
There’s a certain look in his eyes that causes something to swirl in your stomach. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, just an excited one, “Get married.”
You give him a bewildered look, shaking your head in disbelief. Nearly five years you’ve both been living out here and he’s never once mentioned getting married. You never thought you two actually needed it. You always knew what you were to each other, how much you meant to one another.
You were each other’s salvation. There’s no telling what graves you would be laying in were it not for Dutch bringing you both together. You hadn’t thought he wanted to be married, he always told you he’d given those dreams up. “You really mean that?”
He shrugs like it’s the easiest decision in the world. “Might as well, right?”
You shake your head, but there’s no fighting the way your lips curl up. “You’re a fool, Arthur Morgan.”
He nods, dipping his head down to press a gentle kiss on your temple. He treats you so gently, it makes you want to cry. But then he goes and says something ridiculous like, “Yeah, a fool for you,” and he makes you laugh.
You tug him down, lips nearly touching his. “Yes,” you whisper, “I’ll marry you.” You were always scared of living a life like this. Being tied to one man for the rest of your time on earth. But he’s not some city man looking to make you into a pet. He lets you live, breathe, and be free. He’s a partner not a warden and that’s all you’ve ever wanted.
summary: “Vic-tor,” you say. The words don’t seem to want to cooperate; a breath crawls its way out of your lungs and rips its way from your lips in a cough. Your voice vibrates against your throat, rattles behind your teeth.
“Yes,” he says, lips twisting. “That’s me.”
“Victor,” you say again. You have no other words. He has not given you any.
“I know,” Victor remarks, his expression torn. “I’m sorry.”
In which you are Frankenstein’s creature.
word count: 8k | ao3 version | frankenstein playlist
author’s note: This is Victor/Reader focused. The reader’s pronouns are he/him. He’s written to be tall (I’m thinking 7ft) and have scarred skin like the creature; otherwise race is ambiguous and no physical descriptors are used.
Warnings: dehumanization, captivity/confinement, self-loathing; discussions of mortality and death; references to mutilation and reanimation of corpses.
Silence.
And then… merciless life.
Sounds.
Darkness.
Light.
Shock. Pain. Running through your veins, lacing your limbs together. Meaningless. All of it, none of it.
Moisture. Beading across your temples, slipping down your face. Bright light. Shifting weight. Pressure on your chest.
Frustration. Impatience. Absence. Solitude.
Dry eyelids shuttering open, walls and curves clarifying in your vision. A bone-deep ache pervading your form, sending shivers down your bare spine. Bare, bare, bare. Fabric across your waist and nothing more.
Patterns zig-zag across your skin. Its skin? The skin. It doesn’t feel like yours, feels ill-fitting and tight and stiff all at once. Pattering sounds as something assaults the walls.
A breath leaves dry and cracked lips. Collects in the air, dissipates into obscurity. Sloping walls and arches, structures gathered together.
A cold surface beneath you. Tingling in your fingers. You tap them once, twice. They shake in momentary opposition. Another tap against the metal, resounding through the eerily silent space. You mimic the movement with your other hand. Tap, tap.
Ribs bend and sway with the wind of your breaths, chest expanding and contracting. Rasping and crackling with each movement.
Repetition. A breath, tap, a breath, tap. Notches of your spine dig into the surface beneath you, pushing you up until you’re lurching forward. The world momentarily blurs, grain and fuzz swallowing your vision before eventually receding.
You turn your arms, following threads and lines down skin and muscle. Incongruous. Hands bleed into purple and blue fingernails, skeletal edges of bone sharp beneath the fingertips. You drag a finger along the table, your shoulders tensing with the movement.
A slow breath. Muscles woken from slumber, surging up and sending you catapulting forward. A nearby surface intercepts you, sending a brief burst of hurt through your abdomen. You groan, breaths labored and difficult.
Crimson paints the floor of this place. The smell of rotten flesh pervades the air, scrunching up your nose and leaving you feeling something close to queasy. You start to drag yourself along, knees momentarily buckling under you before you start to find a rhythm. One foot, then the other. You grasp at whatever’s in reach, propelling yourself forward and out of the space. You push at the end of the space, slipping through the momentary gap it creates until you find yourself in a new area.
This one looks different, nicer. There’s some sort of red plush material on the floor, with reddish brown ground crawling to the left and right. The walls are an elegant patterned teal, with strange visions. People, you think. But after several seconds, they don’t seem to move, even after you attempt to get their attention.
Your arms wrap around the crooks of your elbows, teeth chattering in your mouth. After some helpless wandering, you find another end to the space—similar to the last one. You push at it and it swings open, revealing yet another room. This one is structured differently than the last two, more homely and a lot smaller. Objects rest along the walls, big and small alike.
Though what really draws your attention is the being resting in the bed. A man. He has warm brown skin and curly dark hair; he’s turned on his side and his eyes are closed. He looks familiar, for some reason. You frown, taking a few steps into the room. The material beneath you creaks and groans.
You tilt your head, studying the stranger. Since you woke, everything has been a haze. This is the first human you’ve seen. He’s beautiful, you think. You take a step closer, then another, until you’re standing over him.
You reach out with a hand, only for his face to scrunch and his breathing to quicken. His eyes blink and he’s suddenly awake, immediately jolting and scrambling backwards. You stare at him, hand still half-outstretched to where you would’ve touched him.
He looks at you. You look at him.
His eyes are blown wide, as he breathes indistinguishable words before turning his back and getting up from the surface he’d been resting on. He rounds the structure, holding his hands up in the air. You mimic the gesture, until he’s breaking the distance and pressing his hands to yours. Your palms are bigger than his, your fingers longer.
The man is warm. You hadn’t realized just how cold you felt, but now that you know warmth, you recognize that you are freezing. You have nothing to cloak you from the brisk temperature of the air, no fabric to drape yourself in like he has. You try to get closer to him, if only to seek out more warmth, but he matches it with a step backward.
After a second, his hand slips from yours and he turns to one wall of the room, before ripping fabric aside and letting a blinding light seep through the room. You hiss and curl away from it, your eyes burning and tears rolling down your cheeks at the brightness. It will hurt you.
But the man only takes your hand again, slowly guiding you into the light. He stands in it, entirely unharmed. He flips your hand so your palm is facing up, before tugging it gently into the light. You watch in wonder and dread as the light meets your skin, dancing across marks and scars.
Contrary to what you expect, it does not hurt. In fact, it feels nice. You bask in the light for a moment, before the man’s hands are finding your shoulders and he’s looking up at you with bright eyes. “Victor,” he says.
You blink. That means nothing to you. You don’t understand it.
“Victor,” he repeats. A pause. Still nothing. “That’s me. I’m Victor.”
You have no idea what he’s trying to say. The man exhales, before clasping your hand and placing it on his chest. You can feel his heart beating beneath his ribs, so very alive. He locks eyes with you. “Victor,” he says, squeezing your hand where it rests on him.
“...Vic… tor,” you repeat, trying to mimic the movement of his lips. The man brightens, his lips curving at the edges as he exposes his teeth and grabs your hands. You flinch at the movement, but he only grasps your hands and transfers his warmth.
“Yes, yes!” he says excitedly. His hand finds your finger, guiding it to tap his chest gently. “Victor.”
“Victor,” you repeat with a bit more confidence. He is Victor.
The man soon tugs you after him.
You follow, because of course you do. This world is new to you, and he is the only one living in it. The only one who you may be able to learn from. So when he leads, you follow. When he tugs you down winding paths and into a cold, dank space, you follow without thought. Because, just as you haven’t yet learned friendship, communication, trust—you also haven’t learned betrayal, mistrust, or violence.
Heavy objects settle around your wrists. They dig into your skin. You look over at the man, Victor.
He looks a little sad, though he soon shakes his head and says something to himself. You’re too disoriented to really care, instead tugging at your new accompaniments. They hurt. You get to your feet and try to follow after the man as he leaves, but you’re stopped by the barriers on your wrists. They only give you a little bit of room to roam.
You frown. This doesn’t feel right. But you won’t know that yet, because you don’t know anything else. A creature that only knows discomfort… does not know of an alternative. Discomfort is mundane to it.
You aren’t sure how long you stay there, trapped in solitude. Waiting for the man to come back.
Something scuttles at your feet. You tap at it with a finger; it squeaks and runs off. Some sort of liquid flows in, streaming in rivulets across the floor and falling through a hole in the wall. You watch it swirl and spiral, watch as debris occasionally floats by.
Sometimes, you follow it along its path. You try to crawl alongside it, until the chains pull you right back. You run your fingers along the cracks in the ground, wincing when you dig them in too hard. This body is fragile, you’re noticing. It aches and creaks as you rot in this dark and damp space. You try to test the limits of the strange cuffs around your wrists, but they don’t budge. Even worse, as time passes, they start to constrict and rip your skin apart, digging into raw flesh. You don’t know much of existence yet, don’t quite know who or what you even are—but there’s a bone-deep conviction within you that tells you life shouldn’t be this painful.
Still, you know little else.
Perhaps the man, Victor, will return.
Until then, you wait.
Time. A foreign concept to you.
You see lights peek through the space, flicker along the wall and start to fade. Then they fall to obscurity, and the cellar grows dark. Insects buzz and hum outside; rushing water constantly greets your ears. But you have no reason to prescribe meaning to any of these occurrences. You don’t know that there is day and night, that there is meaning to dark and light beyond mere patterns scattered across the walls and floors.
Your wrists are starting to really hurt now. You think you can catch glimpses of white beneath it all, a hard and unforgiving substance that doesn’t bend when you push it. This explorative gesture hurts enough to bring some sort of liquid into your eyes, so you decide to stop.
Then, an unfamiliar sound. If you press your ear to the ground, it vibrates. This distracts you enough to blind your other senses, until you’re awkwardly staring up at the man from before. Victor.
“What’re you doing down there?” he asks, something like amusement coloring his voice.
You just watch him. His words make just as little sense to you as they did before. You tilt your head slightly, contorted on the ground. Victor reaches out to you.
You immediately scramble backwards, enough that the chains are rattling in defiance. The man looks shocked, almost offended, before something close to remorse takes over his features.
“I shouldn’t have left you down here,” he admits. Again, no comprehension from you—but you do recognize that his voice has dipped into a quieter and deeper register than before. Victor holds out a hand, palm up. Just like that night.
But you aren’t so eager to trust him now. Nights upon nights alone in this space, knees curled to your chest, spine jutting from your back, have given you nothing but mistrust. You just stare at his hand.
Victor takes a step closer.
You watch him.
Another step.
You stare, your knees pulled up to your chest as if you can disappear if you only tighten your grasp.
The man slowly breaks the distance between you, until he’s standing over where you’re perched. You look at him warily.
“Vic-tor,” you say. The words don’t seem to want to cooperate; a breath crawls its way out of your lungs and rips its way from your lips in a cough. Your voice vibrates against your throat, rattles behind your teeth.
“Yes,” he says, lips twisting. “That’s me.”
“Victor,” you say again. You have no other words. He has not given you any.
“I know,” Victor remarks, his expression torn. “I’m sorry.”
He reaches for your wrists; you shrink back and curl away from him, hunching in on yourself. Pain flickers across Victor’s face.
“I need to see,” he says slowly. You don’t really understand what he’s saying, but his words are uttered with compassion and delicacy. When his fingertips land on your forearm, you nearly rip your way out of the cuffs through sheer reflex alone. But Victor’s fingers remain, motionless, and eventually you reluctantly present your wrists to him.
Victor sucks in a breath through his teeth, guilt flashing in his eyes. He shakes his head, his hand disappearing into the strange fabric he’s wearing before emerging with a small object. He reaches for your wrists again, and this time, you’re too… heavy… to argue. Yes. Heavy. Your eyelids keep trying to slip shut, your head dipping of its own accord.
Victor notices this as he fiddles with your cuffs. “You’re tired,” he notes. After a few brief movements that jostle your restraints, they finally fall away. And he’s immediately looking at the skin of your wrists, skin flaking away and rubbed raw. What little unblemished skin remains is colorful with bruises. Victor shakes his head in disbelief, looking even more pained. “Come on,” he says, inclining his head and getting to his feet.
You stare.
He sighs and extends a hand, palm facing the ceiling. You watch it for a long moment, before hesitantly mimicking the gesture. Victor then places his hand in yours, cradling it with surprising delicacy and beginning to guide you to follow after him. Wanting to escape this dreary space, you repeat his steps—walking across the water, up the incline, up strange jutting steps, down the green hallway…
Finally, you stop in a side room. There’s a soft looking area that he guides you to sit on, and you do so after a moment’s hesitation. Immediately, you feel yourself sinking into it, eyes fluttering shut with fatigue you never realized you were fighting.
A warm hand on your face jolts you from slumber. “Hey, stay awake for me,” Victor implores you. “I need to treat those,” he says, nodding down at your wrists. You follow his gaze, a bit confused by what he’s saying.
“Stay,” Victor says. He places his hands out and holds them frozen in midair for several seconds. Still, static. You keep yourself in this unfamiliar room, on this weird contraption with curved edges that is deceptively comfortable.
You can hear footsteps as Victor exits the room, ambling about the building. Is this his home? It must be. You look around, taking in the elegant brown wood and deep jewel tones around you. Fabric is draped on the sides of the windows; wood runs along the space where the floor and wall meet; the floor beneath your feet is cold and unfeeling. You remain perched on your new resting spot, awaiting Victor’s return.
He comes back some time later with something in hand. It’s clear, slightly circular. There’s something brown inside. You watch his movements warily, hesitant to trust him after he abandoned you. He takes slow steps until he’s kneeling before you, his fingertips gliding up your arms and twisting your wrists over so he can study the wounds. Then, he makes a swift motion and dips his hand into the substance he’s brought.
When he moves to touch you, you instinctively flinch.
“This will help,” Victor says. A cool feeling rushes through you as he begins to rub the ointment in, your pain starting to subside. It feels a bit strange, almost prickling.
A sudden intake of breath is the only sign that something’s wrong. You look over to find Victor staring at your skin; following his gaze, you discover that the stitches and scars starting near your wrists are knitting themselves back together. You stare in complete wonder, brushing cold fingertips against the unblemished skin. Victor does the same, his hands warm enough to send a jolt down your spine. He looks just as surprised as you feel.
“They’re healing,” he says with wonder. You don’t know the exact meaning of his words, but judging from his wide eyes and upturned lips, it must be a good thing. The pain in your wrists has ebbed into a dull ache. Victor rubs the ointment in a little more before wrapping some sort of fabric around your arm. He continues this process until the majority of your wounds have been treated.
At this point, your eyelids are curtaining your vision. You try your best to blink them open, to keep yourself wary amidst Victor’s sudden change of heart, but fatigue wins out and you drift off.
In the coming days, you explore the castle. You run your fingers along the walls and railings, floors and corners. You watch light trickle in and fade out.
But, most of all, you watch Victor.
He has a routine, you’re starting to learn.
When he wakes, he goes to the room with heat and prepares food for himself. He eats. Cleans up after himself, goes to his study and scribbles things down, flips pages. He must be aware of your presence—it’s kind of hard to conceal your hulking figure between the creaking floors and short doorways. Yet he never prevents you from continuing your observation.
Victor talks to himself a lot. Or maybe he’s talking to you. It’s hard to tell, and you can’t make much sense of the words at first. During these moments, your attention often wanders to other places: the ticking machine on the wall, the fabric of the lounge, the wave of the trees in the wind outside.
Your observation of Victor is often an all-day affair, as he is often holed up in this particular room for hours on end—only taking breaks to eat or eventually retire to his chambers. You have to wonder what he’s doing, what could be so important that it leaves him alone and talking to those who can’t answer.
The only other notable component of Victor’s routine is his evening bath. Because after that, when he is clean and donned in fresh clothing, he summons you to the bathroom and gets to work on applying ointment to your scars. You’ve long since grown out of flinching at his touch, and the ointment seems to be doing its job—the scars are starting to fade more every day. You often end up leaning back against one of the surfaces to make it easier for him to reach. The small space of the bathroom makes you rather cognizant of your differences in height, as you tower over Victor and you have to duck your head upon entrance.
One evening, when you head into the bathroom, you make the mistake of glancing curiously at the reflective material on the wall. Usually, you stand with your back to it. But your curiosity has been building over the past few days, leaving you wondering what the surface’s function is.
When you look into it, you find something staring back. You immediately flinch and startle. The visage in its surface disappears as you jerk away. Your creator lets out a quiet laugh, strangely pleasant and soothing to your ears.
“That’s just you,” he reassures you, though you can’t quite understand what he’s saying. “See?”
Victor guides you to look at the wall again. You stiffen a bit, reluctantly looking into the surface once more.
Something… No. Someone stares back at you. Faded scars, fragments of skin pieced together. Lips tinged with blue. A light eye and a dark one. You stare at this man. He stares back.
“That’s you,” Victor repeats. He taps your chest, then the glass. “See? You.”
“...You,” you repeat.
“No,” Victor says with a shake of his head. He takes your hand in his, warmth curling around your skeletal joints and pressing them into a semblance of a fist. His fingers find yours, before he’s pressing your joined hands to the surface. Then, Victor draws your hands back and takes one of your fingers, pointing at your chest. “You.”
You stare at the mirror and blink.
The monster, man, blinks back.
You blink again.
Blink.
You reach out with a finger, and he does the same.
Is this what you look like? The thought upsets you. If Victor is what you are supposed to look like… then your form is very far off. Your skin is wrong, your eyes don’t match, the shape of your face is far different.
Liquid slips from your eyes.
“Hey, hey,” Victor says worriedly. “No, don’t cry.”
You don’t have the words for it, but you know: You’re not right. You aren’t meant to be here. Something is wrong.
Victor’s hands bracket your cheeks, as he pulls your attention toward him. “Don’t cry,” he says, his thumbs rising to brush your tears away. You’ve long since stopped flinching at his touch. After that first night, when he chained you… he’s never hurt you.
Your eyes meet his.
He stares back unflinchingly.
Your hand moves of its own accord, your finger tracing the side of Victor’s face. Your fingertip glides across his cheekbones, briefly settles at the corner of his lips before falling away.
You frown. More liquid collects at the edge of your eyelids, and you wipe it away with a trembling hand.
“None of that,” he admonishes you. And though you can’t quite understand what he’s saying, you’ve learned the different tones and emotions he imbues in his voice. And Victor sounds disappointed, chastising.
You’re quiet for the rest of the night, silent as he applies the ointment to your forearms and face. He’s even gentler than usual, his movements taking on a pronounced languidity as if he’s taking his time memorizing the curves of your jaw and cheekbones.
You wonder what he sees in you. How he can look at the monster he’s created so reverently. Tears slip from your eyes again as your chest feels heavy. Victor’s left hand tangles in yours, his right hand hovering at your jaw before he’s leaning forward and pressing his lips to your forehead.
You stare at him in disbelief. You don’t know the real meaning behind this gesture, as you can’t communicate with him well just yet. But the look in his eyes and the tenderness of his touch say more than enough.
It’s only a matter of time before Victor decides to teach you.
It had been easy before, to dismiss you as a creature. But the truth of the matter is that you are intelligent—clever enough to interpret his emotions based on the tone of his voice, to stay back and observe Victor doing things before doing them yourself.
He never quite fancied himself a teacher, and going back to the utter basics is a bit difficult at first. But, to your credit, you’re a quick learner. Victor starts with the alphabet and works his way up from there; within a few weeks, you’re reading out of his books. Your command of the language is nothing short of impressive. You grasp difficult concepts with ease, you get through numerous books in a single day. It’s as if you have a voracious appetite for learning, for understanding the world around you.
This makes Victor feel both proud and almost… envious, for lack of a better word. There’s a kind of childlike wonder that leads your actions, drawing you into beams of sunlight and through dusty stacks of tomes. There is no heartache, no cruelty, no violence. Only you.
And Victor is growing increasingly devoted to you. At first, he dismisses it as attention to detail, monitoring his creation to ensure it doesn’t hurt or harm. But that attitude doesn’t last for long. You soon govern the wide majority of his thoughts. Victor thinks of you as he attempts to add to his notes and legitimize his research, and he’s starting to realize…
He doesn’t want to share his findings. He doesn’t want to share you. Not with the rest of the world—cruel, unforgiving as it can be.
But whenever Victor attempts to recreate the same experiment that gave you life, he comes up short. The body never reanimates, the soul never inhabits it, and he’s left wondering if it was more than scientific reasoning and deduction that gave you life. What if it was fate? Victor had never believed in such things before… but, then again, the majority of the populace didn’t believe in the concept of reanimation, and look what happened! Did fate part those storm clouds and strike energy into the body that would become yours? Did fate send that rain, those violent winds, that eerie calm after the storm?
How much of this can Victor take credit for? And can he even begin to claim responsibility, refuting the impossible, if it will only expose you to prying eyes?
But, on the other hand, what will become of him if he continues on like this? Is this solitary existence really what he deserves? Is your creation an accomplishment he is forced to keep to himself? Growing old, weary and complacent and alone without recognition?
He really doesn’t know.
“What am I?” you ask Victor one day. It’s a question you’ve pondered since you first woke, but you’re only now able to verbalize it. Victor looks up from what he’s reading, his glasses sliding down his face slightly as he meets your eyes.
“You are my creation,” he responds easily. You knew as much.
“And what are you?” you question.
“A man,” he answers. “Victor Frankenstein.”
“Victor… Frankenstein,” you repeat, the words tumbling around in your mouth for a moment. Your creator’s eyes gleam with some unreadable emotion. You stare at him. The words leave your lips without contemplation. “You are lonely.”
Silence.
Your fingers jitter against your leg. “...Am I alone?” you then ask. You feel as if you already know the answer. Of course you are alone. Of course no one wants to be near you. You’re a monster.
“No,” he says quickly, fiercely. A foreign feeling bubbles in your chest, tight and uncomfortable. Your fingers twitch with restlessness. “Never. Not with me.”
You accept this as fact.
“Lift your arm,” Victor instructs you, conducting your daily physical test. You obediently lift your left arm. “Good. Other arm? Good.” Your right arm falls to your side. You feel strangely bare in front of him, still wearing nothing but the sparse briefs you were wearing when you first woke.
A book you read earlier today had detailed different types and styles of human clothing, with the introduction stating that humans wear clothing to preserve their modesty. You had frowned upon reading that, taking a moment to look down at yourself before resolving to think about it later.
Now, as you sit vulnerable before Victor, you decide to speak up.
“Modesty,” you recite, staring at his turned back. You pull a leg up, bending your knee and resting your chin on it as you sit. “Something humans value. Yet you do not award it to me.”
Victor turns, raising an eyebrow from where he’d been studying his notes. “There is hardly a point,” he remarks. “I have seen every part of you.” An answer humans may find intimate. But you are not another human. You are his creation.
His answer still does not satisfy you, but you keep silent.
The next morning, there’s a pile of folded clothing waiting for you outside the door. Though you then spend far too long attempting to put them on, only succeeding in tangling yourself further. Victor eventually finds you and huffs in amusement, before helping you into the tunic and pants he provided.
The pants are a bit tight—at least, tighter than you’re used to. They feel a bit constricting, though Victor reassures you that feeling will go away when you get used to it. Putting them on was fairly straightforward, but you noticed Victor had this strange flush to his cheeks as he assisted you with pulling them up to your waist.
The tunic is far more comfortable, gentle and almost breezy. You marvel at the puffy sleeves, hitting them a few times and watching the fabric bend and sway. The neckline plunges down your chest, just like Victor’s own tunic does. Though you doubt it has the same effect. While he looks full of life and warm, you look frigid and sharp. Edges sharpened to a fine point, with none of the careful curves of his form.
Still, Victor looks pleased. “Very nice,” he assures you with a nod.
You decide to believe him.
“Why did you make me?” you ask Victor one quiet evening, your fingers resting against the edges of the hardcover book he lent you. Your creator looks up from his own book, considering the question.
“I wanted to conquer death,” Victor answers, “and I did.”
“Why should death be conquered?” you frown.
“Because,” Victor responds, “it takes everything. Everyone. All humans die, and some die far too soon.”
“Why?” you ask.
“Diseases, accidents…” he continues.
“No,” you interject. “If death is inevitable, why attempt to conquer it?”
Silence.
“Death grants life meaning, no?” you reason. “Without it, there is no life. Only perpetuity.”
“Yes,” he agrees reluctantly. Though it’s clear Victor doesn’t really see it in the same manner. You suppose it makes sense. He’s human. He’s not a monster. Of course he would view life as a gift.
Besides, that is the human condition, is it not? To view something not fully understood as a conquest to be undertaken? Fear and uncertainty are constants in life, yet humans dedicate the years they have to attempting to subvert them. And for what? For a being like yourself to come to fruition? Surely this wasn’t Victor’s end goal. Surely you weren’t his destination.
“I am a failure,” you realize aloud.
Victor’s head snaps as he whips around to look back at you incredulously. “No,” he responds immediately. “You are not. Why would you say such a thing?”
“I am not evidence that death can be conquered,” you remark. “Only that it can, perhaps, be momentarily beaten into submission. I am not what you wanted.” That explains his treatment of you shortly after you were created, his fear and dread convincing him to chain you. Ironic, you think. You were supposed to be an escape from those feelings. Yet Victor fell prey to them anyway.
“You are not what I expected,” Victor admits. He looks over to you, his skin almost glowing in the afternoon sunlight. “That does not mean you are unwanted.”
And, for perhaps the first time, you can’t bring yourself to believe him. So you frown and let the air fall to silence once more, looking out the window and missing the tormented expression on your creator’s face.
You grip Victor’s hand tightly as the being approaches. The two of you are standing outside the castle, the hazy morning sunlight caressing the dewy grass. Your fingers are tangled in your creator’s as you hide behind him. A futile gesture, really, because you’re taller. Still, you hunch your shoulders and tighten your grasp on his hand as the animal blinks at both of you.
“It’s okay,” Victor reassures you, a soft smile on his face. His hand is warm. Victor is always warm. You’re not sure if it’s typical for humans, or if he just feels better in comparison to your cold and unfeeling skin. But you inch closer to him anyway. Victor’s thumb brushes your knuckles. “It won’t hurt you.”
“What is it?” you ask, peeking at the animal.
“It’s a deer,” he answers. The animal has brown fur and four legs with hooves, antlers spouting from the top of its head. It has big brown eyes and a narrow snout; it stares at you curiously. “You can touch it, look.”
Victor gently unclenches your hand, bringing your joined hands close to the deer. You stiffen and try to pull away; he laughs. “It won’t hurt you,” he repeats. “I promise.”
Fear beats in your chest like a drum. You squeeze your eyes shut.
A few seconds pass. When you feel something brush against your hand, you immediately yank it back as your eyes fly open. The deer regards you with a tilt of its head; Victor’s hand remains lingering in the air near it.
After some contemplation, you hesitantly reach out to it again.
It’s soft. Surprisingly so. You shakily brush the top of its head, knuckles gliding against its fur.
You feel eyes on your back. Frowning, you turn to the woods at your side. There, camouflaged between the trees, is another deer. This one looks bigger, probably a fully-grown adult. You feel your hand still from where you’d been petting the smaller one.
“What is it?” Victor asks.
Another thing you’ve learned: human sight is very limited. Yours doesn’t seem to suffer from the same shortfalls—you can see pretty clearly at all hours of the day, and the adult deer is easily visible to you now against the tawny brown tree trunks.
“There’s another,” you answer, your hand slipping from the younger animal. Its mother cocks its head at you from the shade of the trees, and an unsettling quiet descends across the cool air. Then, breaking through the tension, the child returns to its mother, butting your hand with its head.
Time has passed, and your skin has fully healed. What had once been raw, aching wounds and clumsy stitches are now little more than faded lines. Your hair has grown just past your shoulders now, and Victor is kind enough to tame it for you. The tangles are somewhat painful, but that’s the closest you’ve ever gotten to pain since you were trapped in the sewers.
You continue to make regular forays into the forest, sometimes with Victor and other times on your own. You lose track of time between the thicketed trees and long grasses, often not returning to the castle until the moon is bright in the night sky. When you reenter the castle, you find a bath drawn for you and clothes neatly folded near a warm towel. Sinking into the warm water of the bath fights off that ever-present chill, and you go to sleep warm and comfortable.
You’re surprised, though not terribly shocked, when Victor approaches you one day and asks if you’d like to see the town. He maintains that you wouldn’t be in any danger—you’ve healed to the point where you carry a close resemblance to humans. In truth, you haven’t even seen or spoken to another human before. Victor has been your entire world since your creation, and you’re hesitant to leave the safety and sanctitude of the castle.
But your creator is convinced that it will be good for you, or at the very least something to learn from.
That’s how you find yourself in a tunic, pants, boots, and a large black coat, trailing behind Victor as always. You can hear the townsfolk as you walk closer to their habitations, and you find your grip shifting from the fabric of Victor’s sleeve to his hand. You must make for an amusing picture: a towering man hiding behind his companion of average height. But you can’t bring yourself to separate from him.
The grass bleeds into pavement, and before long you’re walking along cobbled streets that lead to a somewhat dreary but crowded town. People walk by in long clothing, hair pulled back or gelled and accessories sparkling in the mid-morning light. You keep quiet as Victor makes his way through the streets with practiced ease, while you slouch more and more as passersby stare.
The market is far noisier than you would expect. It’s not like the controlled chaos of nature in the forest. It’s different, louder but no less vibrant. Men and women wander from stall to stall, conversing with one another and exchanging wares. There’s the smell of freshly-baked bread, mixing with the bitter air and the unmistakable odor of recently caught fish.
A small group of women walks by you both, and they exchange glances and quiet laughs. You feel their eyes burning into your shoulders as you walk alongside Victor, closing the distance between you until you’re practically pressed against your side. He senses your change in disposition and glances up at you, before turning to look over his shoulder. His gaze soon finds the women and he looks back at you with a smile.
“...What?” you ask, your grip on his wrist briefly tightening as you try to make sense of the look on his face. It’s a mix of fond exasperation and amusement.
“Are you uncomfortable?” he asks, those emotions giving way to genuine concern.
“They’re staring,” you respond quietly, adamantly refusing to look over at the group again.
Victor’s smile returns, his free hand reaching over to gently squeeze your hand. “They think you’re pretty,” he says. There is no room for doubt in his voice. The words he has just uttered are ones he believes to be fact.
“Pretty?” you repeat. Your eyebrows furrow. Pretty isn’t reserved for things like you, you don’t think. Pretty is for the flowers outside, the elegant sway of a well-sewn dress. Pretty isn’t for the man with faded scars walking through the street like a circus performer on stilts. It isn’t for you.
“Pretty,” he reassures you. “Handsome. Same thing.”
Your hand slips from his forearm and your fingers tighten around his sleeve. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to any of this. Victor lets out a fond breath and continues through the market with practiced ease.
You follow. As always.
And wonder, idly, if he will ever grow tired of his shadow.
“I think I am ill,” you announce one quiet morning, apropos of nothing. You enter the drawing room and look at your creator. He sits at his desk, turning and getting to his feet once he hearts your remark.
“You’re sick?” Victor frowns. “How— What do you feel?” His eyes flit about your form as if looking for evidence of this sickness.
“I feel…” you trail off, struggling to put the sensation into words. “Prickly.”
“Prickly,” Victor repeats, with something like fond exasperation.
“Yes,” you nod, not catching his sarcasm. “Or perhaps it’s more… fluttery.”
“Fluttery?” he asks, a strange note of something in his voice. Victor presses his sternum, before looking at you. “Here? In your chest?”
“Yes,” you confirm, struggling to explain it. These aren’t your words, and they aren’t your feelings. You are an outsider to the human experience, but you’re confined to that same language nonetheless. You mimic Victor’s movement and feel the flat planes of your chest, fingers gliding across cold skin and sharp bone. Your hand settles on your chest, the dull thud of someone else’s heart doing little to calm you. “Nervous, I suppose.”
“Illness is usually grounded in physical ailments,” Victor says, tilting his head slightly and paying you a considering look. “Does your head hurt? Is your mouth dry? Do you feel anything different?”
“...No, I suppose not,” you eventually reply, coming to the conclusion that your question doesn’t quite have an answer. Something like embarrassment crawls through you. “Never mind.”
“No, no, I’m trying to understand,” Victor says, taking a few steps closer. He places a hand on your upper arm and the feeling reignites. “If you’re hurting, we should fix it.”
Your jaw clenches briefly. Your next breath feels more labored than usual, that uncomfortable heat returning. “It’s not hurt,” you clarify, averting your eyes slightly. “Just strange.” Victor’s hand on your arm, his eyes on yours… It’s too much. And that’s when you realize.
“It goes away when I’m alone,” you deduce aloud. You look down at your creator. “It comes back, when you do.”
“Me?” he voices, his hand slipping from your skin and falling back to your side. The cold comes crawling back with the gesture. “Wait. You’re nervous around me?”
“I am not sure,” you answer. Nervous doesn’t feel like the best descriptor, but you’re still a novice at interpreting and understanding your feelings. You try to describe it better, hand moving to where his hand had rested on your arm. While Victor’s touch was warm, yours is frigid and empty.
“My skin feels… hot. When you look at me.”
And suddenly Victor seems very intent on avoiding your eyes. You watch him as he turns to the side, his eyes widening as he almost appears flustered. Naturally concerned, you tilt your head and wonder if you’ve done something wrong. Perhaps your illness is catching.
“Victor?” you ask hesitantly. “Are you all right?”
He clears his throat pointedly. “Of course I am.”
“Do you know what ails me?”
“You said that’s how you feel when I’m near,” Victor manages to say. He looks to be contemplating the words. You watch the line of his throat as he swallows. “...And when I touch you?” His voice briefly dips into a quieter register, as if he’s afraid of the words carrying too much weight in the air.
“It’s… sharp,” you recall. “Like a jolt. But not necessarily unwelcome.”
Somehow, this only seems to worsen Victor’s awkward state. You can’t so much as begin to wonder what’s going on, when he’s immediately getting to his feet and stammering out an excuse to get some fresh air. You watch him depart with confusion, a frown settling on your lips as you wonder if you may have said something wrong.
You’ve taken up the habit of sitting near the windows. It’s nice on sunny days, because the warm sunlight streams in and gives you a deep warmth. During these moments, that bone-deep chill finally feels further away.
Today, you take up residence on your perch near the towering second-floor window, folding your legs so that your knees come up to your chest. You rest your head sideways and look at the scenery outside. The waves are crashing against the cliffside, and birds circle overhead.
You don’t notice Victor, at first. You don’t notice him for several moments, until he’s gently saying your name, your chosen one, and beckoning your attention.
You turn your head, the motion feeling a bit stiff and wooden. Among the many, many things you’ve learned about your body is the fact that your bones and muscles are fragile. They are prone to wear and tear, as with humans. But they’re also quick to fall into disrepair and stiffness. You are supposed to stretch them frequently, though this tends to slip your mind. And you can tell Victor has noticed this just now, because his eyes glimmer knowingly before he’s taking a step forward.
Still, he doesn’t acknowledge it. “How are you feeling?” he asks gently.
You consider the question. “About the same,” you answer. You look towards the glistening waters outside, closing your eyes for a selfish moment as the sunlight washes over you. It takes you a few seconds to come back to the present. “Have you found it? The malady I am afflicted with?”
“...Yes,” Victor eventually responds. He doesn’t seem eager to get the words out. This is slightly unusual for him. In the time you’ve known him, he’s never been hesitant to speak his mind. You sense this is what makes him an outcast amongst other humans. They don’t appreciate his candor. Humans tend to be liars—or, at the very least, chained to pretense. They are rarely free to express themselves without fear of repercussion.
“It only makes sense, I suppose, that I would suffer in this existence,” you muse, letting your head rest on your knees. “Given that it was stolen, not freely given.”
“It was given,” Victor frowns, his hands resting at the edges of his pockets. His gaze is intent, piercing in its persistence. “I awarded it to you.”
“That may be,” you acquiesce, “but I am still nothing more than the sum of these parts.” An amalgamation of several different pieces, molded into an awkward and misshapen puzzle. You know your creator would never paint you in such a light, but that’s how you see it.
Victor looks conflicted, eyes darting about the room before settling on you again. Eventually he almost seems to blurt out. “You’re in love.”
“I am?” you question. You hadn’t even thought yourself capable of love. It doesn’t seem possible. But if that’s the explanation for your symptoms as of recent, you suppose you can’t question it. “And what is the cure?”
“Ha…” Victor exhales. He runs a hand through his hair. “Love is an emotion, a feeling. Not an affliction.” He’s pacing the room as if restless.
“...I see,” you eventually say, though you really don’t see at all. You don’t understand what has caused his expression to be so downcast, what seems to torment him so. “Does this make you uncomfortable?”
He freezes and straightens up, as if someone just pierced him in the back with a sword. “No,” Victor says immediately, vehemently. He shakes his head. “No. That’s not it.”
“Are you certain?” you ask.
“Yes,” he breathes. His eyes glimmer, meeting yours before he nods. “Quite certain.”
“Very well,” you nod, accepting his conviction. “Then… why do you appear so distressed?”
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Victor murmurs. “Between us, I mean.”
You squint in skeptical confusion. You don’t know what he means. That’s one of the human things that you still find difficult: ambiguity. Victor has told you that humans sometimes need to “read between the lines,” that expressions aren’t always literal. Sometimes, humans hide what they mean; sometimes, they say one thing but mean something else. It’s rather confusing.
Victor hasn’t wielded ambiguity before. He is always clear and concise with his words—and you have to wonder if that’s because he knows you struggle with it. Regardless of the nature of that restraint, though… It appears to have broken today.
“What is the matter?” you ask persistently, slowly unfolding yourself from your perched position and getting to your feet. Victor’s eyes follow you, flitting up as his throat bobs and he swallows. “What bothers you?”
Victor takes a deep breath. “These feelings,” he finally answers. “You spoke of the fluttering sensation, heat rising along your skin. I feel those things too.”
“Why is that a problem?” you frown.
“It’s not proper,” Victor answers, with a withdrawn breath that suggests he’s had this very same conversation several times before.
“Proper,” you repeat slowly. This time, you’re the one to take a step forward. Victor doesn’t move. “Propriety died when I rose, Victor.”
His eyes sparkle, shine.
“You are my creator,” you continue, reaching down and brushing your knuckles against his cheek. You see him suppress a flinch at the cold temperature at your hands. “Our fates are intertwined. I am not myself without you. Surely you feel the same.”
“...Yes,” Victor breathes, his hand reaching out to mold with yours. “Yes, of course I do.”
You remain there for a while, before Victor is exhaling slowly. His gaze traces your face, the same one he made. His careful hand wielded the needle that threaded you together. And he looks at you as if there is nothing he is more proud of.
“You said I was lonely,” your creator recalls. Another breath. “You were right.”
“No,” you correct him, thinking back to the words he said all that time ago, “you are never lonely. Not with me.”
“No,” Victor agrees. He reaches up, pressing his opposite hand to your face. Cradling your cheek, spreading warmth throughout your body. His lips quirk into a smile, a rare sight. Victor has always seemed so stern and focused. He rarely allows himself to express emotion or even feel it in the first place. But there’s no denying the look on his face or the gleam in his eyes as he stares at you with such open longing. “I suppose I’m not.” He squeezes your hand. Another wistful smile. “Not anymore.”
He leans into your chest for a moment, his arms winding around your waist. And you realize he’s embracing you. You stiffen on instinct, but Victor doesn’t retreat. Instead, he only waits. Waits for you to catch up to him, as he always does.
Slowly but surely, you relax. You rest your chin on his head and hunch your back a bit, so that you can embrace him back. His warmth seeps into you, heating your skin and bones until it feels as if your very core is on fire.
Your creator. Your Victor.
You are his, and he is yours.
You’re beginning to accept… that you wouldn’t have it any other way.
endnotes: Sobs. Just imagining you being the little spoon : ( you guys sitting near the fireplace so you can warm up, Victor sitting behind you, you with your knees tucked to your chest :(((( SOBBING
thanks for reading! <3
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after 4 years of drawing webcomics, this is my wisdom:
start now. now. now now now. or else you'll never draw this damn thing
it's fine if you don't have the entire story figured out yet, it'll happen naturally
draw what you want to draw!! webcomics often run for years, so you better work with something you like
don't overcomplicate things. a simple, efficient work flow is your top priority in order to stay consistent
bullshit some things. trace background refs. reuse poses. draw your character's face from different angles and just copy paste it in to save time. be smart about your work baby
take breaks if needed. webcomic burnout is real
sometimes, a panel or a page looks bad. shit happens. move on
lettering is actually really important and super hard to pull off
it's your comic. do what you want forever!!!
I'm begging you again to work smart, not hard. reuse backgrounds. use brush sets for webcomic artists. trace 3D objects. use 3D models to pose your characters
you may need hours or days to draw one panel, but people will look at it for 5-8 seconds. keep that in mind
a simple background is better than no background at all (avoiding the white void increases the quality of your work by a ton!)
sometimes the anatomy needs to be a little off to make an interesting shot/panel. that's fine, don't worry about it too much
at least 2000px canvas and 300 dpi for good quality results
it's okay to stop by the way. it's okay to move on from a project if you no longer find joy in it
this!! I swear I lost like all my friendships bc of this, like I had a group of friends in hs that one day I realized “huh I haven’t talked to this people in a while” and popped in to say hi and they were all awkward?? because they hadn’t seen me in a while?? and that’s when I realized that friendship works different for them?? I was like yeah I haven’t talked to you in like four months but it’s not like I’ve forgotten about y'all why would anything change, and they were all like we haven’t talked to you in four months why are you here again acting like nothing happened? and it was really confusing for me
Also I have a thing where I just put the people on pause. If I don’t see them or contact them, my brain kinda put them in stasis. I don’t think about them nor misses them, and I stay on what I last knew about them (how they look, what they study/work). So when we meet again I’m like “wait, you’ve aged?” and I have the same familiarity with them thanI had before.
oh my gods this makes so much sense??? there are people who i haven’t talked to at all for literally over a year and we’ll pick up like nothing happened, but for their people it’s just like…… falling apart but onesided???? i think we’re still on the same level but actually we’re strangers??
Ok but listen, on the other side of this, as a person who moved hundreds of miles away from everyone i knew and then became a hermit for several years, it was SUCH A FUCKING RELIEF to get in contact with an old friend and have him be like, “my friendship levels do not degrade, so in my mind we are still awesome close buddies” and i almost fkn cried. I thought he would be mad or would have moved on because i had slacked on my reaching out to him and staying in touch and doing all the friendship things. But NOPE. 800 miles of distance, depression, and life changing circumstances didnt steal our friendship and i am SO GRATEFUL.
#came back to tumblr after four years #lottie and I immediately went like that spiderman meme yknow tags via @rudjedet
I have literally no friendship degradation whatsoever. I will not have spoken to someone for 5 years or more, and they’re still as much a friend to me as if I had only seen them yesterday. I’m just very bad at communicating if someone is not in my direct orbit. So when Sonja reappeared on this site I basically screeched into her notes like a banshee because I was delighted and we picked straight back up where we’d left off.
whenever folks talk about harry potter and separating artist from art they always have this indignant 'OH SO IM A BAD FOR BUYING THESE BOOKS?' but thats not the question. the reality is that many will BELIEVE you are bad, and that is VALID. its not your choice what others think of you
'AM I BAD?' is a grand and cosmic question that is well beyond our scope. fine. here on the ground, the DAY TO DAY effects are that your actions contribute to hurt and suffering in small or large ways, and those who hurt and suffer because of you are allowed to not like you because of it. SORRY BUD.
what is alternative? forcing folks to enjoy the art of those who hurt them? THEY DONT LIKE IT. someone saying 'your choices harm me so i dont like your creations and i dont like you' is not offensive, it is the most basic use of human autonomy and it is SO bizarre when folks argue otherwise
if you are a bigot or support bigotry or act in a movie built on the profits of hate, people are allowed to not like you 1. because bigotry is bad and 2. because people generally DONT LIKE THINGS THAT HURT THEM. like this is so obvious. it is not 'canceling' it is an exercise in basic human autonomy
i swear if we had social media in the past people would call the hippie and punk movements 'cancel culture' too. LARGE GROUPS OF PEOPLE MOBILIZING AGAINST THE THINGS THAT HURT THEM IS NOT NEW. SORRY BUD IT IS NOT SOME GEN Z FAD IF YOU SUPPORT HATEFUL THINGS AND FOLKS DONT WANT TO BUY YOUR STUFF ANYMORE
Hawaiʻi is currently in the midst of a natural disaster if you didnt know
Apparently there isn’t much news coverage of this outside of the islands
Towns are flooded, homes destroyed and collapsed, roads collapsed, lives at risk, gas leaks from the flood damage
Haleiwa and Waialua are currently evacuated because the 120 year old dam is at risk of bursting
Mind you that damn is owned by Dole. Theyve known about it needing to be fixed for years and years and years. Despite having more than enough money they refuse
The state has been trying to buy it out from them for years so they can fix it, but the sale hasn’t gone through
Keep in mind that the Dole family were the ones who illegally imprisoned Queen Liliuʻokalani and illegally overthrew the monarchy.
If I see another goddamn person say how sad this is for the tourists whose “trips were ruined” and compare a messed up vacation to people losing their homes, belongings, and livelihoods, I’m going to lose my mind
I am so lucky that my family or friend’s are safe and the few whose houses flooded didnt have it too bad, but so so so many were not as fortunate
If you haven’t heard anything about this until now, I suggest looking into it
The sirens didn’t go off until the flood had been going on for hours. Our state government is spending so much money on a fucking monorail we don’t need rather than fixing the infrastructure.
It’s been the locals and Kanaka doing the most to help get people to safety from the start
Here's one more wild jump off a ramp in a monster truck into a canyon for you:
HE'S A CLIMATE CHANGE DENIER
Excerpt: "Crichton became well known for attacking the science behind global warming. He testified on the subject before Congress in 2005. His views would be contested by a number of scientists and commentators."
In 2005!!!!
Absolutely wild that the Very Tall Science Book Guy could miss the mark so bad. Fascinating.
Not wild at all, look at his other stuff, and then back at Jurassic Park.
Jurassic Park is only incidentally about the evils of capitalism, because Crichton blames the mechanics of capitalism on scientists.
His moral mouthpiece character says this :
I'll tell you the problem with engineers and scientists. Scientists have an elaborate line of bullshit about how they are seeking to know the truth about nature. Which is true, but that's not what drives them. Nobody is driven by abstractions like 'seeking truth.'
Scientists are actually preoccupied with accomplishment. So they are focused on whether they can do something. They never stop to ask if they should do something. They conveniently define such considerations as pointless. If they don't do it, someone else will. Discovery, they believe, is inevitable. So they just try to do it first.
That's the game in science. Even pure scientific discovery is an aggressive, penetrative act. It takes big equipment, and it literally changes the world afterward.
Particle accelerators scar the land, and leave radioactive byproducts.
Astronauts leave trash on the moon.
There is always some proof that scientists were there, making their discoveries. Discovery is always a rape of the natural world. Always.
Michael Crichton considers science and innovation the same things. He doesn't seem to be aware that archeology, biology and medicine are also all sciences.
Of course he thinks climate change is a hoax. To him that's the rapists making up excuses like how she asked for it.
The scientists want it that way. They have to stick their instruments in. They have to leave their mark. They can't just watch. They can't just appreciate. They can't just fit into the natural order. They have to make something unnatural happen. That is the scientist's job, and now we have whole societies that try to be scientific."
No, we have whole capitalist societies, and they like to edge into fascism, and neither of those value science very much.
“But scientific power is like inherited wealth: attained without discipline. You read what others have done, and you take the next step. You can do it very young. You can make progress very fast. There is no discipline lasting many decades. There is no mastery: old scientists are ignored. There is no humility before nature.
There is only a get-rich-quick, make-a-name-for-yourself-fast philosophy. Cheat, lie, falsify—it doesn’t matter. Not to you, or to your colleagues. No one will criticize you. No one has any standards. They are all trying to do the same thing: to do something big, and do it fast.
“And because you can stand on the shoulders of giants, you can accomplish something quickly. You don’t even know exactly what you have done, but already you have reported it, patented it, and sold it. And the buyer will have even less discipline than you. The buyer simply purchases the power, like any commodity. The buyer doesn’t even conceive that any discipline might be necessary.”
“I’ll make it simple,” Malcolm said. “A karate master does not kill people with his bare hands. He does not lose his temper and kill his wife. The person who kills is the person who has no discipline, no restraint, and who has purchased his power in the form of a Saturday night special. And that is the kind of power that science fosters, and permits.
Note how he skips over the role of propaganda entirely.
Yeah sure this guy dislikes theme parks, and that maybe even be tied to his height on a subconscious level, but let's not ignore the more likely reasons : he dislikes environmental science specifically.
Jurassic Park is a big sermon against a bunch of sciences that are currently working on preventing further environmental damage, like gene reconstruction and environmental management.
One of his last novels is straight up about evil environmental activists murdering people as a method to advertise their (what Crichton sees as) climate change conspiracy. By causing natural disasters because they can control the weather, so they are faking the damage of global warning to warn people of it.
Crichton believes environmentalism is a religion, because apparently he has interacted exclusively with Christian commercial environmentalism and then called it a day. Couldn't imagine there's any human variation or anything.
"There's an initial Eden, a paradise, a state of grace and unity with nature, there's a fall from grace into a state of pollution as a result of eating from the tree of knowledge, and as a result of our actions there is a judgment day coming for us all.
We are all energy sinners, doomed to die, unless we seek salvation, which is now called sustainability. Sustainability is salvation in the church of the environment. Just as organic food is its communion, that pesticide-free wafer that the right people with the right beliefs, imbibe.
. . . Religions think they know it all, but the unhappy truth of the environment is that we are dealing with incredibly complex, evolving systems, and we usually are not certain how best to proceed.
Those who are certain are demonstrating their personality type, or their belief system, not the state of their knowledge.
Our record in the past, for example managing national parks, is humiliating. Our fifty-year effort at forest-fire suppression is a well-intentioned disaster from which our forests will never recover.
We need to be humble, deeply humble, in the face of what we are trying to accomplish. We need to be trying various methods of accomplishing things. We need to be open-minded about assessing results of our efforts, and we need to be flexible about balancing needs. Religions are good at none of these things."
Don't you just love it when high horse artists use "religion" when they mean that insulated groups of any kind are at risk of forming rigid beliefs.
Or when they act as if Christianity and religion are synonymous.
Environmental care predates Christianity.
The firsts scientists were indigenous people, and plenty of them nowadays carry on this science, and have thousands of years of effect to back it up. Those bad fire management problems for example, there were people around who knew the solution, just the park managers weren't listening because racism, not because of religion.
A lot of their well tested science was interwoven with spirituality, which didn't make their land management less effective.
Crichton knows very well that indigenous people exist, he just thinks their environmental science doesn't count, so he decided that the best and only way to represent them in State of Fear was as cannibals who end up eating the environmentalist who infiltrator to the heroic team.
Here's a recent article on the harm his State of Fear novel has done to understanding of climate change.
Here's another.
One time Crichton acknowledges that indigenous people have any nature science was in his novel Congo, where a team of heroic miners looking to plunder diamonds in Africa come across an an ancient indigenous city, still guarded by specially bred super aggressive gorillas that the indigenous scientists left behind. It is suggested they bred themselves with the gorillas, which worked somehow, because the gorillas are intelligent enough to have language and tool use.
In other words, the indigenous people scienced themselves into always chaotic evil monsters.
The heroic invaders trigger a volcanic eruption while heroically plundering the mine, which conveniently wipes out the evil hybrids.
There's some regular indigenous humans showing up at the end, who are again cannibals, to provide an additional escape scene.
I cannot emphasize enough how incredibly bad Michael Crichton was at listening to anyone whose existence contradicts his view of the evils of environmental science.
Parts of Jurassic Park may feel like they criticize the impact of capitalism and bigotry, but he wants people to hate scientists for those problems, not capitalists or colonizers.
He does not deserve the reputation as a science book guy.
