Half human, half asleep

hi, i’m ali! 26 | she/her

[laufeysodinson]

Masterlist

hi! welcome to my masterlist. here are bits and pieces of scenes going on in my head when i’m listening to music, daydreaming and saving pins on pinterest. enjoy!

also important to take note that anything i write comes purely from my imagination, so i do not know henry or chris personally.

[updated: 19 oct 2022]

HENRY CAVILL

Henry Cavill x Reader drabbles alternate universe - reader and henry have a little discussion about alternate realities

you and henry new activewear - you just bought new skintight activewear and well.. someone’s distracted.

moments with henry, you & little amélie two sets of baby blues - giving birth to your first daughter with henry baba - mornings with henry, little amélie and reader the very hungry pater-pilla - baby girl learns how to walk! good job! - watching the snyder cut and your daughter hyping up henry! achoo - precious moments with family and thanking the universe for henry & amélie

instagram aus part one part two

Henry Cavill x Platonic!Reader chanel sandals - your sandals vs the cavills

CHRIS EVANS + CHARACTERS

Chris Evans x Reader

one shots simps and riddles - reader gets asked when she knew chris was the one hell loop - “where did we go wrong?” sunshine - reader distracts chris during an interview

texts with chris one

Steve Rogers x Reader do you miss the rogue who coaxed you into paradise and left you there? - seeing sam and bucky again after leaving for westview with wanda

hopefully, i get to add more stories soon :)

[mariasont]

── .✦ JACK ABBOT who loves to correct your posture

★ˎˊ˗ CONTENT 18+ mdni manhandling, lowkey authority kink?, implied age gap, doggy style sex, bratty banter

MASTERLIST | RULES | INBOX

Simply thinking about Jack Abbot correcting your posture. 

He’s a doctor, so sure it starts there, in the territory of alignment and strain and long-term damage, all the tiny indignities a body absorbs when nobody’s paying proper attention to it.

And he worries about you, of course. Worries about the set of your neck and the rounded drag of your shoulders, about how you curl in on yourself over your charting like the screen might swallow you whole, about how you hunch over your phone texting those ridiculous little emoticons and memes he glances at with visible suspicion. 

So he makes an effort to fix it.

A broad hand behind your chair, angling it closer to the desk until your spine has no excuse but the lengthen. Two fingers slipped beneath your chin when you’re bent out of shape around your phone on the couch, tilting your gaze upward until the vertebrae stack properly and the ache in your neck eases. Even in transit — plate to sink, fridge to stove — he stops to cup your shoulders, easing them from your ears with a downward glide of his thumbs. 

A silent reward hums through the touch: a silent good girl, there you go.

“Sit up, sweetheart.” “Uncross your legs.” “Laptop higher.” “Relax your jaw.” 

He knows he’s a perpetual nuisance, aware he sounds like someone’s dad, can practically hear the eye-roll you swallow every time. 

He also knows it embarrasses you, especially at work, where your face goes warm when he corrects you within earshot of other people. And it isn’t that he sets out to make you squirm, though he’d be lying if he said he got nothing out of that quick little fluster he can pull from you with a word, a hand, a look. 

It’s just that once he notices you folded in on yourself for too long, something in him firms. His voice drops into that clipped, authoritative register, flipping a switch to brisk certainty and command, and by then it’s already too late to pretend you’re not going to listen. 

So when he catches you slouched at the station again, practically kissing the monitor, he doesn’t hesitate.

Steps in behind you. His palm fits against the ridge of your upper back, heat seeping straight through the thin cotton.

“Up.”

You mutter, “I hate you,” eyes never leaving the vitals grid, and Jack takes it as the green light it is.

His thumb glides from back to shoulder to nape. The opposite hand curves under your jaw’s hinge, guiding your head until your spine clicks back to neutral while the entire nurses’ station pretends their screens are riveting. 

Public proof that your posture, and maybe the rest of you, answers to Dr. Abbot’s touch far faster than to your own irritation. 

“There’s a whole skeleton under all that,” he observes dryly. “Try using it.”

You bat at his hand, a half-hearted slap. “Stop manhandling me at work.”

He ignores that, drops the chair one notch (ignoring your surprised squeak too), angles the monitor to proper eye level, then squares your shoulders with both palms. A measured squeeze follows, equal parts reassurance and warning.

“Better,” he decides. “And if I catch you bent over that phone again, I’m taking it.”

He likes the line of you best when he’s the one arranging it. 

You figure that out later, breathless and flushed, forehead buried in his sheets while he kneels behind you, two sure hands repositioning your ass in the air like he’s smoothing kinks from an instrument only he can tune.

“Uh-uh,” he grunts, and you’re too far gone to know what he means until his palm presses between your shoulder blades and eases you down, down, down, your hips staying high as your face sinks into the pillow. “Arch for me — c’mon, deeper bend, don’t cheat your lower back.” 

Your breath catches when he palms the dip he’s just created, fingers splaying and then he’s sliding his cock in your folds slow. It earns a pleased mewl from you, angle perfect because he’s engineered it that way. 

Every push has a tiny corrective tap — shoulders down, knees wider, perfect girl — until your pussy clenches and drips all over his rigid stomach and he finally lets you break form, hips snapping while his palm settles, triumphant, at the very spot that first straightened you hours ago.

MARIA NOTE hello this is my trying out little blurbs/drabbles bc this random thought rlly evoked something in me... don't know how to feel it ab. it feels naked without my fun graphics but alas! and the tiny text??? what do we think?? yes or no i'm in the middle right now so feel free to share opinions... it looked a little strange as regular but idk i'm lowkey having an existential crisis over this ok bye

YOU CAN FIND MY JACK ABBOT MASTERLIST HERE⭑.ᐟ

[sc3ptre]

The Marvelous Mrs. Kent: "Mrs. X at the Talon"

☆ This would be 1x04!!

Pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938

a/n: MY LAPTOP SURVIVED

Summary: Secrets have a way of rising to the surface when the man who loves you can hear every word you never meant him to. While the Daily Planet scrambles to reclaim the story that's slipping through its fingers, one rain-soaked headline leads straight to you. Success comes with an audience...love, however, has always preferred the pursuit.

Classification: Romantic dramedy | ft.The Daily Planet characters. Heeeeavy yearning and pining, romantic angst and confesions, sexual innuendos, alcohol and smoking references, use of superhearing, accidental use of super-strength and mild identity and emotional struggles.

Word count: 25.4k

Divider by me ;)

You fumbled to open your purse, fingers clumsy with adrenaline and cold and pulled out your phone. The screen glowed in the darkness and you tapped the one pinned contact without letting yourself think too much about it.

You pressed the device to your ear and listened to it ring…once.

You took in a deep breath, the air cold and sharp in your lungs. You exhaled slowly, watching your breath cloud in front of your face as your lips stretched into a gentle smile.

"Hi." You breathed, your voice softer, warmer. "Is it too late for a walk? I don’t want the night to end yet."

Maybe new beginnings only happened after endings…or maybe they happened the second you finally stopped running long enough to make that call...

You looked out toward the pier from a distance, your arms folded tightly over your chest as the wind picked up around you and the sky darkened another shade, the very last traces of daylight slowly surrendering to night. You didn't know what time it was anymore. You hadn't checked in a while, you only knew you'd wait for the right moment to arrive, for something to settle inside you and for the hands of the clock to finally stop spinning long enough to point somewhere definite and solid, so you could know for certain that the present belonged to you and not the version of yourself you'd spent years chasing.

Still, the applause hadn't left you. It lingered beneath your skin like a second pulse, leaving goosebumps scattered across your arms long after the stage lights had disappeared. Every burst of laughter still echoed somewhere inside your chest, every clap replaying faintly in the back of your mind until you could almost mistake it for your own heartbeat. 

Whatever filled your lungs now wasn't the salty air drifting in from the water nearly as much as it was hope, pride and relief. It lied deep inside you, clean, sharp and terrifying all at once, making every breath feel fuller than the last. 

You stood with your hands tucked into the pockets of your coat, shoulders finally beginning to loosen after hours of carrying the weight of strangers' eyes, your gaze wandering over the dark ripples that caught fragments of the city's lights. The breeze coming off the river lifted the hem of your skirt enough to make you instinctively smooth it back down, the cold finally reaching skin that had stayed warm beneath adrenaline alone. 

A gust whistled behind you, rustling the trees lining the promenade before the world settled back into a comfortable silence broken only by distant traffic and water lapping softly against the pier.

"Is it too cold for ice cream?"

You blinked, pulled from your thoughts so abruptly it almost felt like waking from a dream. Slowly, you turned toward a voice you hadn't heard in person for far too long.

Clark stood several feet away, one hand holding two paper cups of ice cream while the other fought to keep napkins from escaping into the wind. Dressed casually enough to disappear into any crowd, he somehow remained impossible to mistake for anyone else. His jacket shifted against him with every breeze, the overshirt peeking out beneath it and his curls were still tousled from the air, refusing to lie flat. There wasn't a trace of exertion on him despite the wind that chased everyone else along the waterfront. It was obvious to you he hadn't made it there by foot.

Your lips betrayed you immediately, stretching into a smile before you could stop them. It softened your whole face against your will and suddenly your chest felt unbearably heavy in a way not even he could lift. So, naturally, you did what you always did whenever your feelings threatened to become visible.

You deflected. "I remember thinking you needed both arms to fly."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "I remember hugging you tightly while doing it just to prove you wrong."

The laugh that escaped you was quiet, almost disbelieving. Suddenly you weren't standing on a pier in Metropolis anymore. You were fifteen, clutching the front of his jacket with your eyes squeezed shut because the ground had disappeared beneath your feet. Then you were sixteen, laughing because neither of you had a driver's license and flying had become your preferred transportation anyway. Then you were eighteen, fearless for the first time in your life, your arms comfortably looped around his neck high above your parents' estate. The memories materialized between you so naturally they hardly felt like memories at all. 

"That was a long time ago," you said softly, taking a few careful steps closer, slow enough that retreat still felt like an option if either of you lost your nerve. 

Your hand lifted toward him and without hesitation, he placed one into yours, making sure your fingers had a secure grip before letting go. His knuckles brushed yours for the briefest second, lingering only because neither of you rushed the movement. His eyes wandered over you with impossible subtlety, taking in your face, the coat you'd thrown over your dress and the tiredness lingering beneath your eyes. Meanwhile yours fell to the ice cream. He'd bought both flavors you could never choose between and just as he always had, there was noticeably more of the one you inevitably picked after fifteen minutes of insisting the decision was impossible.

Your throat tightened around the realization that some habits had survived everything. 

"You look beautiful," he breathed, the words carried away almost as soon as they left him, disappearing into the night air between you. 

Your eyes lifted to meet his before drifting self-consciously down to your dress. It didn't look the same anymore, under the stage lights it had belonged to Mrs. Kent, to laughter, applause and strangers leaning forward in their seats. Here, beneath the glow of scattered streetlamps, it was only fabric and it was only you.

And standing in front of you was the person who had spent most of his life knowing every version of yourself there was to know, yet somehow this one remained a stranger to him. You could see it in the way he looked at you, as though he were patiently assembling pieces of a puzzle he'd only just discovered had been missing them. His eyes never lingered anywhere inappropriate, they wandered over the details, committing them to memory the way he always had.

"And?" you prompted, because there had to be more. This was Clark, looking had never been passive for him, it always meant he'd noticed something worth understanding. When he only blinked back at you, brows knitting faintly in confusion, you motioned to yourself with your free hand. "And...I smell like cheap beer, communal sweat and even cheaper cigarettes." 

He held your gaze for another long beat before, only after hearing you say it, those details finally settled into his awareness one by one. Beneath the stale smoke and spilled alcohol lingered the perfume you loved so much, softened by the night air but unmistakable all the same. It was the same scent that used to cling to his shirts after every hug.

Gosh...it had been so long. 

Your cheeks were fuller in the familiar way they always became after hours of laughing until they hurt, back when he'd burn through every terrible joke he knew just to hear that sound one more time. Then came the faint trace of nicotine in your bloodstream, subtle enough for him to know your body still hadn't quite grown used to it, followed by the unmistakable smell of cheap beer, the exact kind he'd buy for the two of you in college before flying you up to the rooftop of the main building. 

You'd sit there for hours with your legs swinging over the edge, passing the bottle back and forth while the campus slowly emptied beneath you, your animated rants dissolving into drunken laughter whenever you accidentally amused yourself more than him. Every so often, you'd lean your head against his shoulder, grin up at him through half-lidded eyes and sigh that you wished he could feel what you were feeling. 

He'd always smile without looking away from the skyline and answer the same thing. "All I feel is you." Because it had never been anything less than the truth.

Those nights had been the closest thing he knew to silence, the rare moments when every heightened sense constantly pulling him in a hundred different directions finally found somewhere to rest. 

The sight of you curled against his shoulder, sometimes with your knees tucked beneath you,  had a way of quieting the world without ever asking it to be still. So did the familiar perfume lingering on the collar of your jacket, the bottle resting between your thighs, your laughter bouncing off concrete rooftops before dissolving into the open sky and your heartbeat gradually settling into its slow, content rhythm whenever the conversation wandered into comfortable silence.

He hadn't felt that in what seemed like years, though in truth only a handful of weeks had passed. His fingers tightened imperceptibly around the paper cup before relaxing again, the cardboard giving beneath his grip as he let those memories drift away. They belonged to another night, to another version of the two of you and what mattered now was the person standing in front of him. He searched for something that belonged here instead, something that hopefully wouldn't burden you with guilt for needing the space you'd taken. 

"And I've missed you." 

Your brows twitched at the honesty, though you hadn't expected anything less from him. 

"I've been...busy," you admitted, lowering your eyes as you peeled the paper wrapper from the little wooden spoon before scooping up a small bite, letting it linger on your tongue just to buy yourself another second. "Between work and..." You gestured vaguely with the spoon, unable to summarize your entire new life with a single phrase. "...everything else, I kinda just disappeared." You swallowed, drawing a slow breath before forcing yourself to meet his eyes again, even if it felt infinitely safer to keep staring at the melting ice cream instead. "It was probably very hypocritical of me to call you out of the blue–" A small, self-conscious smile tugged at your mouth. "And very…’you’ to show up anyway."

A quiet smile answered yours, so soft that it barely reached his lips before warming his eyes. "I do that a lot."

The words lingered the moment he said them. He disappeared all the time, into the sky, into emergencies and into responsibilities only he could shoulder and somewhere along the way he’d started trusting the people he loved would simply be there whenever he came back, waiting at the exact place he’d left them. 

The realization sat heavily in his chest as he watched you lower your gaze again, your fingers absently tracing the rim of the paper cup while your eyes drifted toward the dark water beyond the pier. The harbor lights trembled across the surface in broken streaks of gold and you stared at them as though the words you needed might emerge from the distance if you waited long enough.

"Looks like we both have trouble letting go of things," you murmured. 

Clark let the silence breathe for a moment instead of rushing to fill it, his shoulders relaxing as he gave you the space you’d left open between you. “Is that what you asked me here to do?” he asked quietly.

Your eyes found his again and you drew in a sharp breath, the kind people took before saying something that might change everything or nothing at all. "I...um..." You blinked, buying yourself another second because, embarrassingly enough, you didn't actually know why he was here.

You couldn't remember what had possessed you to pick up the phone, to scroll until you found his name and press call, nor had you thought about what you would say when he answered because with Clark it had never been ‘if’, it was always ‘when’...That certainty had survived everything else. 

You swallowed. "I don't know why I called you," you admitted quietly. "I've got apologies you probably don't want to hear and excuses I could make..." Your gaze dropped to the melting ice cream in your cup before lifting back to him. "But I'm not sure either of those would be enough to make you stay." 

Clark barely hesitated. "You could ask me to stand here in complete silence and I'd still stay." 

A small, tired smile pulled at your mouth as you shook your head. "I don't want silence." 

You wanted exactly the opposite. You wanted him to keep talking until the last few weeks dissolved into background noise, until the two of you became the people who could spend hours laughing over nothing again. It was funny, really, you'd thought standing onstage would be the most vulnerable you'd ever feel, not knowing what came next, throwing words into a room full of strangers and hoping they'd catch them but this was worse. 

There were only two of you standing on that empty pier and that made it impossible to hide. 

"I want to talk." 

He nodded, dimples appearing despite his attempt to keep his expression steady. "On the phone, you said you didn't want your night to end," he said, gently taking the lead as he started walking away from the end of the pier. 

Something about stopping there felt too final, reaching the edge of solid ground and he wasn't ready to let the conversation or whatever remained between you end there. 

You fell into step beside him without thinking, watching him take his first spoonful of ice cream before doing the same and despite yourself another smile found its way onto your face as your mind wandered back to where you'd been only a few hours earlier. 

You gave a small nod. "It was a good night," you admitted, looking ahead at the quiet streets instead of at him. "A really good night."

"You sure are dressed for it," he smiled.

You smiled back, gaze dropping to your skirt as it swayed around your legs with every step. You smoothed a hand absentmindedly over it before taking another spoonful of ice cream. 

"That employee discount really is both a blessing and a curse…I'm gonna start apartment hunting soon and seriously ask myself whether having both a living room and a dining room is actually worth it." A quiet laugh escaped you as it earned one from him too. "We spent our entire college years eating on the floor. It wasn't that bad, right?"

Clark looked at you with a grin that reached his eyes. "Who are you trying to convince?"

"Myself." You answered without missing a beat, lifting the sides of your skirt to show off just how much space it occupied. "Look at this thing. It only fits in my closet because everything else I own is still sitting in moving boxes and my clothing racks are beginning to surrender. Last time I went to my storage unit I was halfway out when it sounded like an apartment building collapsed behind me." You shook your head solemnly. "I haven't been back since."

He laughed, the sound warm enough to make something inside your chest loosen all over again.

"But I'll have to eventually," you continued. "The battery in the surveillance camera needs replacing."

He blinked. "You're...surveilling your clothes?"

You looked at him as though he'd just asked the most ridiculous question imaginable. "Do I need to remind you how much money is hanging in there?" You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice into exaggerated secrecy. "I can't even disclose the location. It's too risky."

"Not even to Superman?" His brows lifted.

"He's a busy man." You shrugged, taking another bite of your ice cream. "Can't be everywhere at once."

The answer lingered with him longer than you realized. 

You'd seen him everywhere lately on television at ceremonies you tried not to watch, only to burn your breakfast because you kept glancing back at the screen anyway. You’d also seen him flying overhead while you walked to work, making you nearly introduce yourself face-first to a lamppost…In newspapers stacked outside cafés, across billboards and in conversations you weren't even part of.

You saw Superman all the time, he just wasn’t Clark.

"You know him better than that," he said quietly after a moment. "Why don't you keep them at my place? Your clothes, I mean. You wouldn't have to pay for the storage unit anymore and you'd save a lot faster."

You slowed ever so slightly. "Clark," you called softly, meeting his eyes before giving a small shake of your head. "I'm okay…I'm doing better than I sound in my texts."

"When you answer them." His words weren't bitter, if anything, they sounded tired.

You nodded once. "I told you...I've been–"

"Busy," he finished for you.

His attention dropped to the little paper cup in his hands as he absentmindedly stirred what remained of the melting ice cream with the tiny wooden spoon, the cup looking almost comically small against his fingers. 

He really wasn't trying to make you feel guilty, he'd already learned that pushing only made you retreat further. What frightened him wasn't the silence itself but how natural it had begun to feel, how days had slipped into weeks until unanswered messages and brief replies became the new normal. Somewhere beneath all of it lived the quiet fear that this was how it happened, that trust didn't disappear all at once but in small pieces, conversation by conversation, until one day he'd realize the only person who had ever truly known every part of him had become someone he no longer knew how to reach.

Your lips parted, closed again, then parted once more as you weighed half a dozen versions of the truth before settling on the simplest one. "I'm working several jobs," you admitted at last, your voice quieter than before as you scraped another spoonful of melting ice cream from the side of the cup. "They pay really well."

Clark's step nearly faltered against the pavement before he caught himself, while yours remained steady, your attention seemingly fixed on the ice cream as though the conversation hadn't changed beneath your feet.

Around you, the city gradually came back to life the farther you wandered from the waterfront. Cars rolled past in uneven streams, conversations drifted across sidewalks as a subway rumbled somewhere beneath the streets and storefronts still glowed despite the hour. 

Metropolis never really slept, it merely changed pace. 

He found himself replaying every text you'd sent over the past few weeks, remembering how the notifications always arrived long after midnight or just before dawn, at hours he'd never associated with you before. In another version of your lives, one that suddenly didn't feel nearly as far away as it should have, you'd already be asleep by now while he crossed the skies overhead finishing patrol before quietly checking that your apartment lights were off. Instead, you'd been awake, working, living entire pieces of your life without him ever realizing it. The thought settled heavily in his mind, bringing with it the uncomfortable realization of just how little he actually knew anymore.

"The vintage store and...?" he asked carefully. He hadn't meant to pry, but he also couldn't quite stop himself.

You shrugged one shoulder. "Little jobs here and there."

"Safe jobs?" he asked immediately, skipping over every polite step in between. "I can walk you there and back...or just keep an eye on you from above. You wouldn't even notice I was there."

A grin tugged at your mouth. "You might have to borrow a suit from your friend first."

His brows knitted together.

You lifted two fingers above your head to make little bat ears before dropping your hand again. "Yours is a little...flashy."

He laughed under his breath. "One of these days I'll let you redesign it with the Superman robots." He pointed his spoon at you. "But no vintage cuts and definitely no silk."

You looked mildly offended, then his smile faded for the sincerity underneath it to show. "But I'm serious." His voice lowered. "I want you to be safe."

"I am," you assured him with an easy nod as the two of you rounded another corner, the streetlights stretching long reflections across the damp pavement. A smile found you again, smaller this time. "I've got someone looking out for me."

His head tilted.

"Well..." You corrected yourself with a tiny laugh. "Technically looking up at me."

"Oh?"

His brows lifted, though the single syllable did little to hide the knot that immediately formed in his stomach. His mind, traitorous as ever, had already started filling in blanks you hadn't offered. 

It was late, you were dressed beautifully, happier than you'd sounded in weeks and he'd arrived carrying ice cream because you'd called him, maybe not because he was the only person you could have called. You could've come from a date and someone else could've been walking you home before you'd changed your mind. If that were true, the only thing he'd have any right to be upset about was that whoever it was, hadn't stayed to make sure you got back safely.

"Her name's Susie," you added almost immediately, as though you'd watched every one of those thoughts pass across his face.

He blinked.

"She's a little vertically challenged," you continued with complete seriousness, holding your hand somewhere around your ribs to demonstrate, "but she compensates with a truly dazzling personality." You nodded to yourself. "We're having fun."

Understanding settled over him almost instantly. "That explains the cigarettes."

You chuckled, remembering the first cigarette you'd ever smoked and the horrified look on his face afterward. The smell had clung to your clothes for hours, overwhelming his senses so thoroughly you'd joked he looked seconds away from collapsing. He'd spent the rest of the evening standing just a little farther away than usual while insisting he wasn't bothered, which had only made it funnier. 

"I'm quitting tonight," you declared, as though the decision had already been approved by some higher authority. "It's official." You nudged his shoulder lightly with yours. "It was mostly...a recreational thing." You paused, your smile turning sheepish. "Or an attempt to keep you away."

The humor slipped from his face so quickly it was almost startling. To anyone else, it would've sounded like another joke, another one of your exaggerated little confessions but Clark took it exactly as it landed. 

He could survive impossible things but he wasn't sure he could survive becoming someone you actively tried to escape and he refused to let himself imagine a world where that worked. "You might want to revisit that plan," he said, completely serious. "It isn't working." 

Before you could answer, he reached over and took the empty paper cup from your hands, stacked it inside his own and dropped them both into a nearby trash can without breaking stride before falling back into step beside you.

You savoured the taste in comfortable silence, watching him instead of the street ahead. His feet carried him automatically through the city while his attention remained fixed somewhere between the pavement and whatever thoughts he wasn't saying aloud. 

"Isn't it?" you asked quietly.

His eyes found yours immediately.

You were grateful then, more than you'd admitted even to yourself, for the way he'd handled the last few weeks. He hadn't hovered over your apartment and hadn't appeared outside your work. You'd never found yourself glancing toward rooftops expecting to catch a pair of familiar blue eyes watching over you from above. He hadn't tried to force his way back into your life simply because he could. Instead he'd given you the space you'd demanded, respected your timing almost too well, to the point that there had been nights you'd laid awake staring at the ceiling wondering whether your last conversation had really been the last one the two of you would ever have.

"I'm here, aren't I?" he answered simply.

Almost as if the sky had been waiting for that sentence, thunder rolled somewhere in the distance, low and unhurried, before the first cold drops of rain began falling between the streetlights. They collected on his glasses instantly, dotted his hair and darkened the shoulders of his jacket. Without a second thought, he slipped it off and stepped closer, draping it carefully over your shoulders before you even registered what he was doing. You stood there quietly while his hands adjusted the fabric around you, momentarily forgetting your own instincts. 

Usually you'd have been the one worrying about coats, fabrics and weather, mentally calculating whether rain would shrink the wool, warp the lining or ruin the color. Clark didn't know this was an original vintage coat in nearly perfect condition, nor how many months it would've taken you to replace it. He simply knew to protect.

"You'd rather use that employee discount to expand your wardrobe," he murmured, gently pulling the lapels together so they covered you properly, "than spend it trying to replace a coat like this one."

You hadn't stood this close to him in what felt like forever. It was close enough for you to notice the rain collecting on his lashes before sliding down to the bottom frame of his glasses, close enough to see the tiny crease that always appeared between his brows when he was trying not to overwhelm you with whatever he was feeling. Your stomach turned painfully as every emotion you'd spent weeks forcing into neat little boxes broke free all at once. You could feel your eyes beginning to sting and quickly cleared your throat, pretending it was the cold instead. 

"eBay..." you muttered, clinging to the first harmless thought that came to mind. "Does wonders against my financial integrity."

A quiet laugh escaped him, soft enough that it almost disappeared beneath the rain. As much as every part of him wanted to stay exactly where he was, he forced himself to take a careful step back, giving you room to breathe again before one of you forgot how. He slipped his hands into his pockets instead, more to keep himself from reaching for you than because of the weather. 

"Is that where you find all your treasures?" he asked, the question carrying a hopeful note that hadn't been there a moment ago.

You blinked yourself free from whatever spell had settled between you and nodded. "Usually at three in the morning from someone living across the ocean." You smiled faintly. "Don't let the shipping costs scare you."

"I can make the trip," he replied without hesitation.

You laughed under your breath as the rain grew steadier, soaking through your hair and sending little rivers along the edges of the sidewalk, yet neither of you made the slightest attempt to look for shelter. It seemed almost absurd to interrupt this just because the weather had decided to participate.

"Anything specific you're looking for?" you asked with an absent shrug. "Might already have it at the store."

He hummed thoughtfully, his eyes lingering on yours. "Lots of special things in there."

"And me," you added with a teasing smile, expecting nothing more than an eye roll.

Instead, his expression softened. "That's what I meant." The words landed with quiet certainty. 

Whatever air had managed to find its way back into your lungs disappeared just as quickly. Your gaze slipped away from him before your face could betray you completely, wandering toward the people hurrying beneath awnings, couples ducking into cafés and strangers laughing as they ran through puddles that had already begun swallowing the reflections of the streetlights.

"We should run," you said over the growing sound of the rain, folding your arms instinctively against the wind.

His jacket shifted around your shoulders as another gust swept through, carrying with it the clean, familiar scent that had always belonged to him. You breathed it in before you could stop yourself, greedily enough to make it feel dangerous, wanting to memorize it all over again, to tuck it somewhere permanent inside yourself before the night inevitably came to an end.

Clark looked at you for a moment longer. You didn't sound like someone trying to escape, you sounded like someone asking him to keep going, to carry this fragile, uncertain thing the two of you had managed to find tonight somewhere warmer, somewhere it could survive long enough to become something more than another ‘almost’.

You watched him tilt his head toward the sky, more rain collecting on his glasses until tiny droplets clung to the lenses while the dampness coaxed loose curls across his forehead. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, the sound light and knowing enough to pull his attention right back down. 

You didn't need him to say what had crossed his mind, you knew him too well. Every instinct inside him was calculating the quickest way to get you somewhere dry, wondering how long it would take if he simply picked you up and flew. Meanwhile, every instinct inside you wanted the earth to split open and swallow you whole if he tried, somewhere between those two extremes was where the two of you had always lived.

"Don't entertain that thought any further." Your laughter lingered between you and despite himself he smiled.

"I wasn't." He paused, shoulders lifting in a helpless shrug. There were a hundred things he could've admitted, that he hated seeing you cold, that every cell in his body wanted to close the distance again, that he'd missed holding you more than he'd let himself think about but none of them felt fair to place in your hands tonight. Instead, he nodded once. "We can run."

Your brows rose immediately. "Normally," you clarified, pointing a warning finger at him. "No sweeping me off my feet three steps in."

He looked almost offended. "I'm normal."

"Besides the obvious," you shot back with a grin as you turned away.

"I don't remember you ever complaining about any of it," he called after you.

Your pace quickened as the rain came down harder, heels striking faster against the slick pavement. "Never will," you threw back over your shoulder.

Then you were both running, instead of racing faster than the eye could follow.

Through the rain-soaked streets of Metropolis, following the same route you'd already been taking toward a place that hadn’t become home and never would, yet somehow remained the place your feet carried you when you needed shelter, as though one day the concept of it might finally decide to keep you instead of merely borrowing you for a while.

Your heels clicked against the pavement, splashing through shallow puddles as careless laughter escaped both of you, louder now and brighter, bouncing off the buildings until it sounded strangely familiar. It pulled memories to the surface so vividly they almost felt present. 

Nights spent outrunning thunderstorms for no reason other than because you could, the two of you soaked to the bone, younger, even poorer and convinced the world would eventually sort itself out as long as you stayed together to see it happen. You remembered laughing exactly like this while he chased after you, always close enough to catch you if one of your heels betrayed you, his eyes never quite leaving your footing because experience had taught him they probably would.

To Clark, everything else disappeared, the traffic, the rain and the conversations spilling from restaurants as people crowded inside to escape the weather.

All of it dissolved beneath the sound of your laughter, it steadied every restless part of his mind the way it always had. His senses could've reached halfway across the world if he'd let them but they refused to wander, they stayed exactly where you were and he let them.

By the time you finally slowed, slightly out of breath, you realized you'd been closer to Imogene's apartment than you'd thought. You ducked beneath the building's entryway, pressing yourself against the shelter of the doorway while rain continued to pour just beyond it. 

Clark stopped a step outside instead, letting it soak through his shirt and jacketless shoulders without complaint. He could've joined you, he knew you would've made room but he stayed where he was, careful not to mistake one good conversation for permission to close every distance at once, unwilling to crowd you into a space you might not yet be ready to share again.

The night had finally begun settling into your bones. He could see it in the way your shoulders curled slightly beneath his jacket, in the tiredness you'd stopped hiding whenever you thought he wasn't looking. Cold, exhaustion and the weight of the day were things he'd never experience the way you did but he recognized them all the same. He could've kept walking until sunrise without slowing his pace and could've talked until every streetlight shut off for morning…you, however, needed an ending.

You needed somewhere warm to disappear into.

Every selfish part of him wanted to ask for five more minutes, instead he prepared himself to let you go.

Your eyes drifted past him toward the rain-darkened street beyond the doorway, following nothing in particular because it was easier than looking at him. His never left your face, they stayed exactly where they had been since you'd stopped running, quietly waiting until the sound of his own voice pulled your attention back.

He drew in a slow breath and let it out just as carefully, weighing every word before allowing it to exist between you, trying to imagine how each one might land before he risked saying it aloud.

"I don't like where we are right now." His voice was gentle. "Not seeing you...not knowing what you're doing...not knowing if you've had a good day or a bad one." His eyes dropped briefly before finding yours again. "You used to call me because you stubbed your toe." The smallest smile flickered across his face at the memory. "And I'd spend ten minutes trying to convince you it probably wasn't broken…yet I’d still come check," 

A quiet shrug lifted his shoulders. "Back then I wanted to fix that." His smile faded almost as quickly as it had appeared. "It's no secret I want to fix this too..." The last sentence caught inside him before he forced it free. "If you'll let me."

Some part of you had always known the night would arrive here eventually, there had never really been another ending waiting for it. Still, you'd spent the entire evening pretending you hadn't seen it approaching, hoping each conversation, each laugh and every stolen moment might delay it a little longer.

The cruelest part was that there wasn't actually anything for him to fix. His heart had simply chosen a direction that no longer pointed toward you. No one had done anything unforgivable, not even time.

You understood every mistake that had brought you here, could trace each decision back like pins on a map, yet knowing the route didn't mean you could suddenly walk it backward.

When you finally spoke, your voice sounded smaller than you'd intended. "I don't want to say the wrong thing...and lose what's left."

Clark's expression tightened imperceptibly. He'd never wanted to measure what remained between you, not before and certainly not now. The thought alone frightened him more than he cared to admit. Still, he knew one thing with absolute certainty.

"Silence and distance might preserve it," he said quietly, "but they've never been enough for me." His gaze held yours. "There has always been more." A pause settled between you. Then, almost like a confession he'd stopped trying to outrun, "Y/n...I want more."

The words left him with enough force that it felt as though something inside his chest had given way. His heart had always been impossibly strong until it came to you, around you, it behaved like every other person's.

You looked at him for a long moment before lowering your eyes again.

You'd miscalculated. Somewhere along the way you'd convinced yourself your absence would leave behind a chair no one used anymore, not realizing you'd walked out of an entire home while someone was still living inside it. You'd never meant to abandon what the two of you had built. You'd only believed it was someone else's turn to move in, someone else's heart he'd eventually choose to call home instead.

"I don't think I'm going to wake up tomorrow and suddenly know what to say," you admitted, exhaustion finally creeping into your voice. "I don't think that's how this works."

It was the truth. The adrenaline from the evening had begun wearing off all at once, leaving behind only the weight of everything you'd been avoiding. 

Tomorrow still existed, you still had work in the morning and life would keep moving whether either of you figured this out tonight or not.

Time had never meant very much to Clark before, there was always enough of it, enough hours, tomorrows and chances but losing you had changed that. If waiting was the price of finding your way back to him, he already knew he'd pay it.

"I just..." His voice softened. "I want to be close when you do." A small smile touched his mouth. "You know I'm a patient man."

He held your gaze, almost inviting you to search it for hesitation, for pressure or even a lie but there wasn't one.

Your shoulders loosened ever so slightly beneath his jacket. "I want to do this right with you," you admitted.

It was simply the most honest thing you had left, Clark understood so immediately. You'd always treated the people you loved differently from everyone else. The more they mattered, the more carefully you held them, terrified of breaking something that couldn't be replaced.

His smile returned, gentler now. "I've never minded trial and error." He paused just long enough for the words to mean something. His eyes never left yours. "I'm not asking you to be sure of it all…I'm just asking you to promise me tomorrow."

The clock kept moving toward tomorrow. It wasn't some distant promise waiting somewhere beyond the horizon anymore, nor an abstract concept you could safely postpone until you became someone wiser or braver. It was only a handful of words away, creeping closer with every second you spent standing beneath that doorway and you knew with unsettling certainty that when tomorrow finally arrived, you'd probably still be standing right here. 

There was no point in lying simply to buy yourself another comfortable minute. Your mind worked through the possibilities the only way it knew how, arranging them across an imaginary chessboard where every move demanded something in return. If you gave him more than tomorrow, if you stayed, if you allowed yourself to step back toward him, which part of yourself would you have to abandon? The woman hopelessly in love with Clark Kent or the one who had climbed onto a stage and turned that love into comedy because making strangers laugh had seemed infinitely easier than saying the truth directly to him. Both versions belonged to you, they had grown side by side until you could no longer tell where one ended and the other began. Without either of them, there wasn't much left to call yourself. Love wasn't supposed to stay forever...was it?

Before you could answer, the moment fractured.

A burst of static crackled through the intercom beside the entrance before the buzzer came alive with a bright, familiar voice that immediately pulled your attention away from Clark.

"Did you forget your keys again?"

Your brows knitted together. "Imogene?" you called back, instinctively stepping toward the speaker. "Why are you awake?"

She was never awake when you got home from the clubs. Years of knowing Clark and growing up with parents who could hear the slightest creak in the hallway had turned sneaking into apartments into something of a survival skill. You'd become so good at slipping quietly through doors that your roommate still had no idea what your nights actually looked like.

A sleepy laugh crackled through the speaker. "I'm watching reruns of Glee. The windows are open because I wanted some free white noise and then I heard your laughter from, like, a whole block away."

You sighed to yourself with a small shake of your head. In a city built upward instead of outward, laughter had nowhere to go except between buildings until it found open windows.

"I didn't forget my keys," you replied. "And could you maybe not eavesdrop?"

A beat of silence. "...Are you talking to yourself again?"

You blinked and tried very hard not to take that personally. You weren't talking to yourself, sometimes you just quietly rehearsed your sets to hear how the jokes landed out loud, testing the rhythm before trusting them to strangers. That was completely different…mostly.

"Imogene," you warned, shooting Clark an awkward glance as heat crept into your face. The last thing you needed tonight was for him to walk away convinced you'd spent the last few weeks descending into complete madness.

"Okaaay, okay." The intercom clicked off.

Silence settled once more, though it no longer felt heavy. You let it linger for a second before clearing your throat, realizing somewhere along the conversation your heart had quietly made a decision and your brain would simply have to spend the next few days catching up.

"Lunch?" you asked softly.

Clark didn't answer instantly. Hope reached him first, it brightened his eyes before it ever reached his smile, straightened his posture until he somehow stood even taller than he already had and for the first time all night the uncertainty he'd been carrying seemed to loosen its grip.

He nodded once. "Lunch."

You let out a breath so shaky it barely made a sound and answered his nod with one of your own, as though the gesture itself could seal the promise between you before either of you had the chance to overthink it. 

Slowly, reluctantly, you slipped his jacket from your shoulders, forcing yourself not to linger, not to be greedy enough to breathe in the warmth and familiar scent still caught in the fabric. You held it out to him and he accepted it without a word, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment before you pulled your hand back. Almost immediately, you opened your purse and began searching through it with remarkable determination, peering into every tiny compartment as though a hidden pocket might suddenly materialize and reveal the keys you very obviously did not have.

Clark didn't need x-ray vision to know they weren't in there. He watched you check the same places twice before the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

"You forgot your keys," he said quietly.

"Misplaced them," you corrected without missing a beat, as if you'd been preparing that defense long before he'd spoken.

A chuckle escaped him.

You looked up from your purse to glare at him which only made it worse. He quickly disguised another laugh behind an exaggerated cough that might have fooled someone whose lungs had never held the vacuum of space.

"You should probably put that jacket back on before you catch something," you said dryly.

His smile was impossible to hide now. You could hear it in his voice before he even answered.

"You know exactly how many times I've been sick." He tilted his head. "You were there for all of them."

Another memory flowed in. Tonight seemed determined to drag every one of them back into the open.

You'd been there through every mysterious "fever" of his teenage years, though neither of you had called them that for very long. Every new ability had arrived looking suspiciously like an illness, leaving him exhausted, aching or unconscious while Martha assured you, over and over again, that it would pass. You'd believed her eventually but that hadn't stopped you from spending hours sitting beside his bed anyway, watching his chest rise and fall as though the sunrise itself depended on it.

"Should've smothered you with a pillow." You said it under your breath.

He heard every syllable, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter while you reached over and pressed the intercom again. It buzzed almost immediately.

"You interrupted my favorite part!" Imogene complained.

You closed your eyes for a second, already composing an apology for later. "The door won't open," you lied.

"So you did forget your keys," she corrected instantly. Judging by her tone, she was probably standing in the apartment looking right at them.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "If I have to listen to you sing the entire Glee soundtrack for the next week," you said, "the least you can do is buzz me in."

"The joys of having a roommate," she replied.

"It'll be ten times worse with a man," you called back before the line disconnected. "They have a tendency to burn bacon."

The intercom crackled off as the heavy front door released with a mechanical buzz. You pushed it open, warm air from the lobby spilling out to meet the rain, before glancing back over your shoulder at Clark.

"No offense."

"I've gotten better since," he said with an easy smile.

You didn't doubt that for a second.

You stepped inside but kept your hand on the door, pushing it open until it caught against its stopper instead of swinging shut, unwilling to let it close between the two of you just yet. Then you turned back to him.

He was still standing exactly where you'd left him, rain pouring relentlessly over him as though he hadn't noticed it in the slightest, his jacket folded loosely in one hand, his other hand hanging uselessly by his side. He hadn't moved, he simply watched you. There weren't enough words in any language to explain whatever force kept pulling the two of you back toward one another. 

You could've dressed it up as habit, nostalgia, friendship or timing but none of those fit quite right. It was something older than all of them.

Before you could think better of it, you crossed the space between you.

Clark bent just enough to meet you halfway, his arms slipping instinctively around your back until you were pressed against him. He held you with the same careful certainty he always had, he knew exactly how much strength to use and exactly how much to keep to himself. For one selfish moment, he allowed himself to breathe you in without restraint, every familiar and unfamiliar piece of you settling inside him. The perfume he'd known for years, the rain soaking through your hair, the lingering traces of cigarette smoke you'd already promised to leave behind and even the faint scent of the city itself clinging to your clothes. 

If tomorrow never came, he'd remember this.

Neither of you realized it already had.

"I missed you too," you whispered into his shoulder, your voice almost disappearing beneath the steady rhythm of the rain.

His embrace tightened ever so slightly. The words barely left before another thought escaped instead. "I wish I knew what you need me to apologize for."

He didn't tell you it had been keeping him awake, didn't tell you how many nights he'd replayed every conversation the two of you had shared, searching for the sentence he'd missed, the joke that landed wrong, the moment everything quietly changed without him noticing. If he ever found it, if someone could point to the exact second the future splintered away from the one he'd imagined, he'd turn the Earth backward without hesitation and for once...he'd let himself be selfish enough to justify it.

You slowly pulled away, your hands lingering on his arms for one last second before forcing yourself to step back. Your body protested immediately, it would've stayed there forever if you'd just let it but it needed to learn that once had to be enough.

"Nothing," you said softly. "You didn't do anything." Your fingers slipped from his sleeves. "It's just...something I have to let go of." A small, tired smile crossed your face. "You know me." You took another step backward toward the open doorway. "I've never really gotten the timing right."

You were already inside the entrance when his voice reached you again.

"What requires letting go?" The question stopped you before the door could. He hadn't meant to move, yet one careful step carried him forward all the same, unwilling to let the answer disappear behind a closing door.

You looked back at him. "The present." You nodded once, more to yourself than to him. "I'm actually living in it for once…not just rushing through it, hoping some better future eventually shows up."

"It still will." He said it so simply it almost sounded inevitable as though, if that future lost its way, he'd fly out himself and place it gently on your doorstep.

"I know." You smiled as your hand settled around the edge of the heavy door. "I just have to be here when it arrives."

Slowly, almost reluctantly once again, you began pulling it closed, leaving space for the universe to interrupt if it had one last thing to say. It didn't.

Neither of you said goodnight, the word felt far too permanent and final. For tomorrow had already arrived and this time...he knew you'd both be awake to meet it.

You must have known that tomorrow wasn't a single promise to keep but a succession of ordinary days asking for the same courage over and over again. Lunch became coffee the day after that, coffee turned into a walk a couple of nights later and before either of you realized it, you were carefully carving out little pockets of time for one another again. 

You still insisted on taking everything one day at a time, one question at a time, allowing yourself the freedom to say no whenever your heart felt too loud for your head to reason with. 

Clark never questioned it. The heavier conversations remained untouched, circling the edges of your meetings without daring to land, leaving room instead for complaints about work, terrible coffee, people watching on busy sidewalks and whatever strange thing had happened that day. The conversations were short, sometimes barely an hour before one of you had somewhere to be, but they happened often enough that Clark slowly stopped carrying around a mental eulogy for the relationship that had always been one of the most important parts of his life. Every goodbye was followed by another plan instead of another uncertainty and for now, that was enough.

He kept whatever this was carefully separated from everything else. The Daily Planet remained the Daily Planet. His friends stayed his while mutual acquaintances continued living blissfully unaware that anything had changed between the two of you, let alone that you were quietly trying to piece it back together. He didn't want outside opinions, accidental interruptions or well-meaning encouragement rocking something that still felt delicate beneath his feet. First, he wanted to know the two of you could stay afloat on your own, only then would he trust the water enough to stop worrying about what had nearly sunk you in the first place.

He hadn't seen you in several days now but unlike before, the silence no longer hollowed him out. Your texts arrived at impossible hours, apologizing for disappearing before explaining that work had swallowed another evening whole or that you'd gotten home only to collapse into bed. There were explanations now, small and ordinary ones. They shouldn't have mattered as much as they did, yet each message quietly reassured him that you weren't disappearing from him anymore, only from the rest of the world whenever exhaustion finally caught up.

Your nights belonged somewhere else these days.

The clubs had become routine, every other evening spent under warm stage lights polishing old jokes, abandoning others halfway through, discovering new punchlines in the middle of a sentence and learning that different crowds somehow laughed at exactly the same places. It still surprised you every time applause followed.

Keeping that version of yourself separate from your daytime life was becoming increasingly impossible. People on the subway looked at you with hesitant recognition, their eyes lingering long enough to wonder whether they knew you from somewhere before deciding against asking. Customers occasionally paused a little too long while you rang up their purchases, as though trying to place where they'd heard your voice before. The venues kept getting larger, the dressing rooms slightly less depressing and the checks arriving every week crept dangerously close to matching what you earned after an entire month at the vintage store. Even the shop itself seemed quieter lately, with less inventory. Maybe it wasn't such a terrible thing after all, closing one door if it meant finally having both hands free to hold another one open.

A new week had arrived and Clark intended to start it well.

Messenger bag slung over one shoulder, phone in one hand and coffee already on his mind, he stepped into the café a block from the Daily Planet while rereading the message you'd sent only a few minutes earlier. You'd declined his offer to walk you home after your shift again.

Only now, the refusal came with an explanation.

"Closing at the store late and I'm expected somewhere after. Rain check?"

It was strange how often he checked the weather these days. Rain had stopped meaning inconvenient headlines, delayed commutes or miserable patrols somewhere along the line. Now it reminded him of a quiet street outside your apartment, borrowed jackets, promises that stretched into tomorrow and the first real hug you'd shared in weeks. He found himself hoping for it more often than not, willing to let it soak through every layer if it meant another beginning waited on the other side.

He'd told you he would wait. If anything, he meant it even more now.

Clark slipped his phone back into his pocket after sending a simple reply that he would, ordered his usual coffee and stepped aside while the barista called out names over the hiss of steaming milk. The café buzzed with the familiar rhythm of the morning rush. Students occupied the larger tables with laptops they weren't looking at, coworkers leaned over coffees that had long since gone cold and conversations collided into one another until bursts of laughter erupted from opposite corners of the room. It was the sort of place where everyone seemed to belong to someone else's conversation, the kind of atmosphere that could make even the busiest room feel strangely lonely.

He kept his attention on the sound of coffee beans grinding and milk frothing, intentionally narrowing his hearing to the little space directly in front of him. He'd always hated listening in on strangers. Living with heightened senses had taught him restraint long before it had taught him control and he refused to make unwilling spectators out of people simply because he could hear farther than they imagined.

Then something cut cleanly through every other sound. It reached him with impossible clarity, threading effortlessly through dozens of conversations until everything else faded into background noise.

His head turned before he'd consciously decided to move.

"...I'm hot, young, got a good style, some great tits and a personality I’m sure any man could bear–" Your voice carried a beat of theatrical confidence before the punchline landed. "...Except for my father. There's no fixing that."

The people around the table exploded into laughter and Clark felt his own heartbeat quicken despite himself. Without realizing it, he took a few slow steps in that direction, weaving between occupied tables while trying to catch another glimpse of where the voice was coming from.

"And apparently the guy I liked..." Your voice paused long enough for another laugh to settle. "...The guy I still like, because a half-drunk twenty-dollar bodega plastic bottle of wine couldn’t take that away."

The laughter rolled through the room again, in the recording and outside of it.

Clark's feet stopped as something tightened unexpectedly in his chest. Before he could piece together what he was hearing, another nearby table erupted into applause loud enough to swallow the rest of your sentence.

His head instinctively snapped toward the new sound and instantly...your voice found him again.

"He was too busy talking to his coworker." The recording rolled on and Clark felt as though the moon had drifted across the sun without warning, plunging everything inside him into shadow. 

A dramatic chorus of boos erupted from the speakers before your voice returned, lighter again, leaning into the joke. "While I sat across the room at the bar…already five drinks in and guess what?" You paused just long enough to build the anticipation. "His ears were pink!" 

The group around the phone burst into laughter, their amusement blending seamlessly with the laughter preserved inside the recording itself as Clark found his feet carrying him closer without permission. 

Piece by piece, that story assembled itself into something painfully recognizable and none of it formed a picture he wanted to look at. 

He'd spent weeks wondering where he'd gone wrong and now the answer was laughing through a phone speaker in the middle of a coffee shop. The recording continued as he came to a stop beside the table, towering over the group so completely absorbed in your set that none of them noticed him at first, several already bent forward with their shoulders shaking from suppressed laughter. 

"So I left..." your voice went on dramatically. "...But then I came back!" Another pause. "And I saw them kissing!" The room erupted again. 

Clark wished, with an intensity he hadn't felt in years, that the ground would simply open beneath him. He could survive meteors, collapsing buildings and worlds ending overhead, yet nothing had ever prepared him for hearing his own mistakes turned into the punchline of someone else's grief. 

He had so many apologies to give you that he no longer knew where one ended and another began. The laughter around him refused to stop yet it couldn't erase the weight settling across his face. 

Then your voice softened and the joke gave way to something painfully honest beneath it. "I thought I was gonna marry that guy." The humor was still there but he could hear everything underneath it too, the rasp that always settled into your voice after you'd cried and the careful balancing act between making strangers laugh and telling them the truth. "Even if our lives are so...so fucking different. I mean, I'm here in Metropolis hiding out from my parents because it's 2026 and they still want to marry me off to some aristocratic family and with all the confidence in the world I said, 'No, Daddy! I wanna marry the farm boy!'" The audience laughed before you finished, forcing you to grin through the next words. He could hear it. "...From Kansas, at that. Lovely...but it's still Kansas." 

The speakers filled with applause and laughter one last time before the recording ended abruptly, the people around the table immediately launching into excited comments about your set and more laughter. 

One of them looked up mid-sentence, only then noticing the tall man standing over them with an expression so stricken it silenced them instantly.

Clark blinked, finally pulling himself out of whatever daze had rooted him to the spot. "That...the..." He pointed awkwardly toward the phone in the man's hand as every face at the table turned to look at him, their amused smiles still lingering from the recording. "Where did you get that?" he asked.

Before anyone answered, the opening of the same segment started playing again from somewhere else in the café, followed almost immediately by another phone a few tables over and genuine laughter.

The man holding the phone laughed lightly. "Dude...it's all over the internet."

Someone beside him leaned forward eagerly. "It's from this comedian…she kinda came out of nowhere. Some guy who got kicked out of her first show uploaded a clip at like 1 a.m."

"Kicked out? Why?" Clark repeated, the words landing far heavier than anyone at the table expected. His mind raced ahead of him, moving through every worst-case scenario before he could stop it. Had someone threatened you? Had something happened after that recording? Had the same night he'd unknowingly broken your heart become dangerous too?

The first man shrugged. "Guess recording wasn't allowed."

"He uploaded them anonymously," another added. "Probably because she's blowing up."

"Seriously," someone else laughed. "She's everywhere now, man. Real comedians are so back."

"A coffee for Clark?" the barista called from behind the counter yet he was unable to move. "Clark?"

Almost mechanically, he forced his feet away from the table, though your voice refused to stay behind with it. Another burst of laughter echoed from somewhere near the windows as yet another phone restarted the clip. He accepted his coffee without really looking at the cup, absently pulled a twenty from his wallet and dropped it into the tip jar before instinct carried him back out onto the sidewalk toward the Daily Planet.

Outside, it only got louder.

Your voice spilled from earbuds worn by commuters waiting at crosswalks, from phones held between coworkers walking side by side, from tiny speakers balanced on café tables where strangers leaned together, replaying your jokes before the punchlines had even finished. People stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to show one another the same clips, laughter rippling through the morning rush as though the city itself had synchronized around you overnight. Every few steps, another sentence reached his ears before being swallowed by another crowd already quoting the next one.

Without warning, it felt like all of Metropolis had started the day listening to you and he was the last to know.

The bullpen moved as though NASA had just announced the end of the world. Clark could hear it before the elevator doors even opened, a constant swell of ringing phones, hurried voices and chairs scraping across the floor. 

By the time the doors slid apart, it looked like the newsroom had declared war on the clock itself. Reporters cut across the room in every direction, nearly colliding with him as they rushed between desks, not a single person lingering long enough to finish one conversation before being dragged into another. Clark made his way toward his desk at his usual pace, messenger bag still over one shoulder, while phones rang relentlessly around him and journalists pleaded into receivers for anyone willing to confirm, deny or simply answer. Had he not spent years learning to control his hearing, his ears would've been bleeding.

For once, he felt like nothing more than an observer and a part of him wanted to keep it that way.

His attention caught on Jimmy weaving through the chaos with a camera hanging from his neck and a stack of papers tucked beneath one arm.

"What's going on?" Clark asked, stopping beside his desk without making any real attempt to start his day.

Across the room, Lois, Cat and Steve were each hunched over separate phones, scribbling notes between complaints about being transferred, placed on hold or outright hung up on.

"The Daily Planet is losing its number one spot," Jimmy answered without slowing down. "And it's happening terrifyingly fast."

Before Clark could ask another question, Lois slammed her desk phone back into its receiver hard enough to make several people glance over. "And we're losing it to the Metropolis Inquisitor." She marched straight toward him with a folded newspaper in hand and dropped it onto his desk with enough force to flatten the pages before immediately storming off toward the coffee station.

Clark's eyes fell to the front page. It read ‘Mrs. X at the Talon’

He abandoned both his untouched coffee and messenger bag without another thought, immediately picking up the newspaper.

Cat appeared beside his desk before he'd finished reading the headline. "There's this new comedian downtown," she said, folding her arms. "Been doing shows for weeks now, maybe months."

"It's so exclusive," Steve added from behind her, "that nobody who's been actually wants to talk about it afterward."

"It's gatekeeping culture all over again," Cat sighed dramatically, leaning against Clark's desk while his eyes remained fixed on the front page.

Lois returned a moment later, coffee in one hand and irritation written across her face. "Earlier this morning some idiot who got kicked out of her first show uploaded a recording and gave an interview to the Metropolis Inquisitor, trying to stir up drama with the Talon." She took a sip before rolling her eyes. "The club she performs at the most. Problem is...it completely backfired."

Jimmy was already flipping through his notepad.

"I talked to a few regulars over there," he said, scanning his scribbled notes. "They're all saying the no-phone policy's been around forever, it just got a lot stricter after she started performing. Apparently she takes it with her everywhere now…doesn't matter if it's a bar, a club or some tiny basement venue, phones stay outside and people actually respect it because the exclusivity has kind of become part of the experience."

Clark's eyes drifted between them, saying nothing.

Steve leaned in. "Other than a couple clips from what people think was her very first performance and the different aliases she supposedly used when she started..." He shook his head with a baffled laugh. "You'd think she's in the mafia with how hard everyone's gatekeeping her identity. Mention a female comedian and somehow everyone knows exactly who you're talking about without ever saying her name. It's like she claimed the whole craft for herself."

Before anyone could answer, every head in the cluster turned toward the familiar sound of hurried footsteps. Perry was already marching across the bullpen.

"Lane," he barked, reaching them without slowing down. There wasn't a cigar between his teeth, which was almost more alarming than the expression on his face. "Tell me you've got something."

Without waiting for permission, he snatched the newspaper from Clark's hands, glanced at the headline for barely a second and tossed it into the nearest trash can with the annoyance of a man who'd been throwing away copies of the Metropolis Inquisitor all morning.

Lois crossed back to her desk, grabbed a yellow sticky note covered in hurried handwriting and returned while reading it over, coffee still balanced effortlessly in her other hand.

"I've got the name of her manager." She squinted at the note. "Uh...Myerson." She looked up. "Susie Myerson."

Clark felt his stomach drop, there was no way all of this was a coincidence or some kind of fever dream. The only Susie he ‘knew’ was your Susie, you’d only mentioned her once but it was more than enough.

His hand reached and closed around his coffee cup before he tipped it back and drank nearly half of it in one go, earning several confused looks from everyone standing around him. He ignored every one of them.

Lois looked from Clark back to Perry, already shaking her head. "I haven't been able to get a hold of her. I'm guessing her phone hasn't stopped ringing since this morning, but I'll keep trying." 

Perry gave a curt nod before sweeping his gaze across Cat, Jimmy and Steve. "I need more." 

Jimmy immediately glanced down at his notes. "She started performing at an artists' club downtown called the Talon about a month and a half ago. They've always had live music, magicians, comics...she wasn't the first person to get on that stage." 

"But she's the best," Perry cut in without hesitation. "What else?" 

Steve picked up where Jimmy left off. "There's always been a cover charge, around ten bucks but on nights she's performing it jumps anywhere between thirty and fifty dollars for first-timers. Supposedly it makes up for the cheap drinks." He paused, "She's on stage for fifteen to twenty-five minutes a few times a week," Steve continued, flipping through his own notes. "And from everything we've gathered, no two performances are ever the same. She has no script or set list. She just walks out there and...starts talking. Everyone keeps describing her style the same way…you can't look away." 

Cat folded her arms. "The no-phone rule means nobody even knows what she looks like unless they've actually been to one of her shows. And if you've been..." She smiled to herself. "...people don't talk about it casually. The general consensus is that getting into the first show is easy compared to getting into a second." 

"Why?" Perry asked.

Lois answered this time. "From what we can tell? Her manager's strategy. She's protecting the image before there's even an image to protect. There's no publicity campaign, no interviews, no social media presence and yet every venue she's booked at is packed…the streets outside are too. Doesn't matter if it's a Saturday night or the middle of the week." Her voice faltered slightly as she looked back at the sticky note in her hand. "And..." 

Perry narrowed his eyes. "Lane?" 

She cleared her throat. "Word is the press isn't allowed in." 

Perry looked from face to face, clearly waiting for someone to tell him that was impossible. "How exactly does that work?" 

"The audience," Cat answered. "They're protective of her…they think she belongs to them. First she belonged to the regulars at the Talon, then downtown and now the rest of the city's catching up. She's climbing fast–" She shrugged. "...and she's doing it without a single ounce of help from the press." 

Jimmy nodded. "She's not monetizing her image, she's monetizing her presence. Everyone says you have to be there to understand it...and we're not invited." 

Perry's voice rose enough to cut across the entire bullpen. "Then find a way." The room quieted almost instantly. "Find out where she's performing next and go get made fun of. Talk to her, talk to her manager, talk to her goddamn butler if you have to. I want this exclusive." He pointed toward the newsroom with a sharp jab of his finger. "And I want her real stage name in the next headline." 

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the bullpen scrambling all over again.

Cat, Lois, Steve and Jimmy were already scattering back to their desks before Perry had even fully disappeared into his office, everyone diving headfirst into phone calls, notes and half-finished leads while Clark remained exactly where he was. He barely noticed the newsroom moving around him. Was he dreaming? Or, somehow worse...had he imagined the entire thing?

"Did you guys actually listen to the recordings?" he asked, genuine confusion slipping into his voice.

Only Cat looked up from her monitor, letting out a small laugh. "She's hilarious."

"Lois?" Clark tried again, turning toward her just as she pressed her desk phone back against her ear.

She glanced up, covering the receiver with one hand. "On repeat," she admitted. "I keep thinking there has to be some clue buried in there somewhere..." Her attention immediately snapped back to the call. "Yes, hello? May I speak to–"

"There's nothing else in those recordings." Steve wandered over with a shrug. "The quality's awful. They've been downloaded, reposted and compressed so many times it's basically impossible to find the original file."

"But her voice..."

Steve frowned, trying to understand what Clark was getting at. "It's...passionate." He shrugged again. "A little theatrical, maybe. She was definitely drunk…that rasp gives it away and she's slurring a little in places." He smiled to himself. "Honestly, I think it makes the whole thing funnier." He reached into his pocket. "I can send you the clips if you want."

Clark gave a distracted nod.

Standing beside him, Steve unlocked his phone, opened his messages and tapped on Clark's contact…except it read “Loser”.

Clark's eyes dropped to the screen. "That's not my name."

Steve didn't even look up. "If my middle name was something like 'Clarence,' I wouldn't want people knowing either." He hit send, slid the phone back into his pocket and gave Clark an entirely too-sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

Then he walked off before Clark could correct him. Only then did it finally settle, they genuinely couldn't recognize your voice. To everyone else, it belonged to a comedian they'd never met, to Clark...It belonged to you.

He'd spent years memorizing every version of it. He knew the subtle rasp that appeared whenever you'd slept six hours instead of the seven and a half you once insisted your body required. He knew the roughness that lingered after concerts, how your voice recovered in tiny stages until somewhere around the fourth day you could finally say croissant without the second syllable cracking halfway through. He knew exactly how you sounded after laughing too much, after crying too hard, after catching a cold you always swore wasn't a cold. He'd heard you whisper, yell, mumble half-asleep, ramble after too much cheap beer and argue so passionately that words began tripping over one another.

None of them had. 

They'd never seen you at your drunkest, never watched anger sharpen every sentence, never sat beside you while your parents broke your heart over the phone but he had, and what terrified him most wasn't that he recognized your voice. It was that the ache beneath your jokes sounded painfully familiar, it carried the exact same pitch he'd heard every time someone had broken your heart before.

This time, he was afraid that someone had been him.

Clark crossed the short distance to his desk, lowered himself into his chair and pulled out his phone without thinking, his thumb automatically opening the last conversation the two of you had shared. 

The final message sat there exactly where he'd last seen it. 

"Closing at the store late and I'm expected somewhere after. Rain check?" 

His eyes lingered on the words longer than they should have. Clark wasn't a man who built conclusions on assumptions, he spent too much of his life separating facts from possibilities to start now but just as he'd known your voice the instant it reached his ears that morning, something about that text now clicked in his mind. 

Expected somewhere after. He understood what "somewhere" had been, you hadn't lied to him, simply hadn't told him. There was a difference and he respected it enough not to resent it.

Just like your voice, this discovery would stay with him, he wouldn't tell a soul. It wasn't his story to expose.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Clark didn't stay late at the Daily Planet. 

Normally he would've lingered to finish an article or help chase down another lead but today the bullpen had become little more than a planning room for what was quickly turning into the newsroom's impossible assignment. 

Jimmy was halfway through convincing the comedy-loving cousin of a friend of a friend to spend the evening camped outside one of downtown's entertainment districts in the hope of spotting a crowd gathering somewhere suspicious. 

Lois had somehow tracked down someone claiming to know someone who'd attended one of your shows, only to discover there were no tickets to buy in advance because there had never been tickets in the first place. 

Steve and Cat had abandoned conventional journalism altogether and were openly discussing fake IDs, burner phones and whether a forged press ban might somehow be easier to obtain than entry into one of your performances. 

"This was easier in college," Cat had sighed dramatically, sinking deeper into her chair while rubbing her temples. 

Nobody laughed and nobody wanted anything to do with the press when it came to you and apparently not when it came to anything else that might risk getting them banned from whatever underground network had sprung up around your performances or expose whatever harmlessly illegal pastime they were protecting. Every lead dissolved into another dead end.

The reality was painfully simple, they had almost nothing to work with. No published schedule, promotional material, social media, posters or interviews, just rumors passed from person to person and a city that suddenly seemed determined to keep your secret alive. 

There were too many clubs spread across Metropolis, too few reporters to cover them all and far too many people willing to stand in line for hours on the off chance that, behind one unmarked door somewhere downtown, you'd be waiting with a microphone in your hand.

That evening, Clark left the suit hanging in his closet.

The slacks, polished shoes and tie were replaced by worn jeans, an old plain T-shirt and a plaid button-up he'd owned long before anyone at the Daily Planet knew his name. He stared at himself in the mirror for a moment, debating whether the baseball cap was already too much before ultimately deciding it was a better choice than the fake mustache he'd impulsively bought from a costume shop on the walk home, only to abandon the idea the second he'd seen his reflection wearing it. Even for him, there were limits.

By the time he rounded the final corner downtown, the sun had disappeared behind Metropolis' skyline.

The Talon's weathered neon sign cast a bright light across a street that looked more like the entrance to a sold-out concert than a neighborhood comedy club. People filled the sidewalk from one end of the block to the other before spilling into the street itself where there was simply no room left to stand. Taxi after taxi pulled over at either end of the avenue, passengers climbing out with hopeful expressions despite the line already stretching farther than most would consider reasonable. Drivers barely had enough space to merge back into traffic before another cab was taking its place.

Clark slowed instinctively, the crowd itself fascinated him.

Groups had already settled comfortably into conversation, laughing as though standing in line together had become part of the evening itself. Office workers still wore tailored suits, messenger bags hanging from tired shoulders after apparently coming straight from work. Others looked as though they'd wandered over from neighboring buildings in hoodies and sneakers, while a handful carried overnight bags or cameras slung around their necks, unmistakably visitors who'd made the trip into Metropolis with one destination in mind. Students stood beside retirees, artists beside accountants and couples beside people who'd shown up alone only to end up talking to strangers. Somehow, every one of them looked equally willing to wait as long as it took.

Clark had the sinking certainty that he wasn't getting in through the front door, not with a line wrapped around the block and people willing to wait hours for the chance to see you. Instead of joining it, he continued walking until the crowd thinned behind him and a narrow alley opened between two brick buildings. The pavement was wet, reflecting the glow of distant neon in broken patches and the air carried the unpleasant mixture of stale garbage, damp concrete and old beer that lingered in places nobody bothered to clean unless they absolutely had to. Several heavy metal doors lined the far end, each leading somewhere different and Clark stood still for a moment, letting the city fall away as he tuned his hearing until it found the only sound he was looking for…

Your laugh reached him almost instantly.

It was light, relaxed, completely untouched by the nerves he would've expected before stepping onstage. He moved quietly toward the door it came from, the smell of cigarette smoke and spilled alcohol growing stronger with every step.

"I'm not saying you should," A voice was saying, her voice carrying the familiar mixture of sarcasm and genuine concern, "but as your manager, I'm legally obligated to worry about tonight. Your track record's pretty damn solid. I don't want one decision limiting what happens up there." A brief pause. "You're walking onstage dry...and vulnerable."

Your laughter rang out again.

"Susie," you replied between amused breaths, "I'm sober, not completely naked."

"Well..." she scoffed. "You've already done half naked. I wouldn't put it past you if you decided tonight needed a little extra excitement."

"Not in a room full of strangers," you answered without missing a beat.

"Hey." Susie's voice softened into another laugh. "At least you know me." There was movement, footsteps crossing the room. "You're up in two minutes. I'll tell them to lock the doors, it's getting insane out there."

Clark could practically hear your grin.

"You're the manager," you teased. "Find me a bigger venue."

Susie's laughter faded as she walked away, leaving only the muffled hum of the crowd beyond the wall.

Clark's attention settled entirely on that metal door and his hand reached for the handle.

The instant his fingers closed around it, the rusted mechanism gave way with a sharp metallic snap. He froze, staring down at the handle now sitting uselessly in his palm before looking back at the door, which had swung inward under almost no effort at all. He hadn't meant to use any strength, his mind simply wasn't where it usually was.

He stepped inside and the smell hit him immediately.

Cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, woven together with cheap beer, sweat, old wood and the lingering warmth of too many people packed into too little space. It should've felt suffocating, instead, it felt electric.

Excitement pulsed through the building, it settled into people's voices before a performance everyone believed was worth waiting for.

Following the sound of the crowd, Clark made his way into the main room.

It was smaller than he'd imagined. Bodies filled nearly every available inch of it, people standing shoulder to shoulder, drinks balanced carefully as conversations buzzed beneath the low music still drifting from the speakers. The place had long since reached capacity, yet nobody seemed interested in leaving.

Clark instinctively pulled his shoulders in, trying to occupy as little space as possible, not only because the room was crowded but because he wasn't sure the ground beneath him felt entirely steady.

He found a place behind one of the thick support beams at the very back of the room, leaning lightly against it where the shadows swallowed most of his height. From there, he could see almost everything without becoming part of it. The audience stretched before him in a sea of occupied tables and standing patrons pressed shoulder to shoulder, every chair taken and corner claimed. 

Most importantly, he had a clear view of the stage. 

A man stepped into the spotlight and immediately the room erupted, applause and whistles crashing into one another until every conversation dissolved beneath them. He looked older than either of you, dressed in a tweed jacket Clark was almost certain you'd mocked at least once before, probably to his face.

"Woah, woah, woah..." the man laughed, lifting both hands in surrender as though trying to physically push the applause back down. "Save some of that for the lady of the house." The cheering only grew louder. "As always, and I'm sure many of you would agree, it's an absolute pleasure having her back on her home stage. Unfortunately..." He sighed dramatically, adjusting the microphone. "It hasn't gotten any easier introducing her. I finally get paid enough to try...not enough to fail." More laughter rolled through the room. He stepped aside, extending one arm toward the wings. "So allow me to choose employment by letting her do it herself. Please give our very own homegrown star the welcome she deserves."

The room exploded. Clark's gaze drifted across the audience almost involuntarily, every single person was on their feet or halfway there, applauding without hesitation. Drinks were abandoned on tables, conversations forgotten, hands occupied a second earlier now clapping with genuine excitement. He looked for the familiar glow of phone screens out of habit and found none, he didn't need X-ray vision to know people had respected the rule. 

They had come here to watch, not to record and keep.

The spotlight shifted then and his eyes followed it instinctively. You stepped onto the stage and for one suspended moment, everything else disappeared.

The dress you wore was unmistakably vintage, a soft blush pink that caught the warm stage lights and glowed rather than shimmered. It was simpler than the gowns he'd grown used to seeing you wear, less dramatic in its silhouette, yet somehow it suited you even more. The skirt moved gently with each step, the fitted bodice framing you without stealing attention from the easy confidence written across your face. You weren't performing it anymore, you owned it.

Clark straightened unconsciously against the beam, shoulders pulling back as though responding to an unspoken command. It felt absurdly similar to standing at attention, the room demanded respect but more than that, you did. The easy smile you wore, the relaxed way you crossed the stage, the familiarity with which you reached the microphone before even glancing toward the crowd...this wasn't simply another venue.

This was your home.

His heartbeat climbed so quickly it threatened to leave his chest altogether and cross the room on its own.

You laughed softly into the microphone as the applause refused to die down, waiting with patience until the room settled itself. The second your lips parted, silence swept across the audience almost instantly.

"Funnily enough–" you began, smiling to yourself, "...this is actually the warm welcome I expected from my own parents." A beat. "Twenty-five years ago."

The room burst into laughter as you slipped the microphone free from its stand without missing a beat and began pacing slowly across the stage, completely at ease beneath hundreds of eyes that followed every step you took.

"As proven the first night I ever stood on this very stage..." you continued thoughtfully, "...you'd think being naked would've been the determining factor." You shrugged lightly. "I guess not."

The laughter came even louder this time. It cracked through the room before you'd even finished the sentence, rippling from table to table until it became one continuous sound, people leaning into one another, slapping shoulders, pointing at strangers as though they had somehow all become part of the same conversation. 

Clark might have looked to see how everyone else received you if he hadn't been completely incapable of taking his eyes off you. They remained fixed on the stage, following every step, every shift of your expression and little smile that tugged at your mouth before another joke left it. He'd seen you command a room before just never like this. There wasn't a trace of hesitation left in you.

"Not much has changed in that area of my life," you continued with a thoughtful nod. "Didn't think it would...Hoping narcissistic parents will suddenly change for you, no matter what stage of life you're in, is like believing your first boyfriend is gonna make you come the first time you have sex." The room erupted into groans and laughter before you lifted one shoulder innocently. "Just because you can dream it doesn't mean it'll come true." More laughter burst out, louder this time and Clark couldn't help it. His own shoulders shook with quiet laughter, the sound escaping him before he could think about it. 

"Speaking of coming..." you carried on. The audience laughed before you'd even reached the punchline. "I got over the need for people to save me pretty early on..." A chorus of theatrical groans rolled through the room. "Guys, I'm a comic!" you defended yourself with mock offense. "Not a sexologist...or a plumber. If you want me checking pipes, you're gonna have to start signing over the mortgages to your houses. That's gonna cost you a pretty penny." The applause returned between laughs as you paced lazily across the stage. "Anyway...having our very own superhero in Metropolis doesn't exactly help. I've actually been practicing how to decline his help–" Another wave of laughter met the sentence. "Which I don't recommend, by the way. Imagine how bad that would be for his public image."

Clark felt several pairs of eyes instinctively glance upward at the mention of Superman, as though he might materialize through the ceiling on cue. Instead, he stood hidden behind a beam with the brim of a baseball cap pulled low, smiling despite the heat creeping up the back of his neck.

"Ladies," you sighed dramatically into the microphone, "depending on men isn't something to do..." You let the pause linger before lowering your voice into an exaggeratedly dreamy tone. "Whether he's wearing a suit and tie..." Another pause, your smile widening. "...Or spandex." The room roared before you even continued. "I mean, thank the heavens he's got a cape, otherwise I'd be getting served a whole plate of cake before I even got to order dessert." A deafening mixture of whistles, applause and laughter bounced off the walls, even Clark ducking his head with a helpless grin as he rubbed the back of his neck. Somewhere nearby, someone actually stood to clap.

"I work retail," you continued once the room settled enough to hear you again. "Well...worked." You corrected yourself casually. "I'm unemployed again...long story," Then offered a dramatic shrug. "But you people already paid my rent once…you'll do it again. I'm not too worried about it." The audience laughed warmly, almost proudly and Clark found himself laughing with them, unable to stop the smile spreading across his face. "It's not your average retail job when you're dealing with vintage clothing. The fabrics are different, the sizing is different..." You sighed through gritted teeth. "...And so are the customers." That alone earned another round of laughter. "I can't even count how many times men have walked in trying on trousers with stuffed underwear." People were already laughing before you continued. "Which means I have to stand right there…close enough to earn an anatomy degree." The room wheezed. Several people were bent over their tables before you even reached the end of the thought. "Now, you all know I don't shy away from community service–" you said solemnly, "But if it involves kneeling down to unwrap empty presents..." You paused just long enough for people to realize where you were going. "...I'd rather spend Christmas with my parents." The laughter detonated through the club. Someone near the front actually spat beer back into their glass while another slapped the table so hard it rattled every drink on it. "The neighbor always handled the stuffing anyway."

The room completely lost itself.

You waited patiently, smiling into the microphone while people wiped tears from their eyes, some unable to breathe through their own laughter. "For the meal, you perverts!" you clarified, holding up a finger. "It's late and I'm fucking starving. My gigs don’t exactly include a catering budget.”

Whatever composure the audience had managed to recover vanished all over again and even Clark had to press the back of his hand against his mouth, laughter escaping despite every attempt to suppress it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen so many people happy at once. It wasn't just that they laughed at your jokes, they trusted you enough to follow wherever you led them.

You let the laughter settle into scattered chuckles before speaking again, your eyes briefly finding Susie near the side of the room. She gave you a subtle nod, one only you would've noticed, enough to tell you the crowd was still with you, even the people she'd warned you about, the ones who crossed their arms before every show and needed winning over. 

You smiled to yourself before looking back across the room. "You know..." you began thoughtfully, "the spandex doesn't get me nearly as much as plaid does–" The grin spreading across your face gave the joke away before the audience caught up and the second they did, whistles echoed from several tables while a chorus of knowing laughter rolled through the room. 

Clark felt heat creep into his ears before you'd even continued. You wandered lazily from one end of the stage to the other. "I must confess..." You placed a hand dramatically against your chest. "I've actually been seeing Mr. Kent this past week." The room immediately erupted into cheers and teasing whistles before your brows pinched together. "In real life," you clarified quickly. "Not hallucinations like a few weeks ago." You waved the thought away. "That's over…mostly." 

The room laughed again. 

"But I thought we were." You nodded as though reassuring yourself. "For those of you joining late..." you continued, "This is a game I'm very clearly losing..." Another round of laughter met the self-deprecation before your expression softened imperceptibly. Clark saw it the second it happened. "I'm in love with my childhood best friend," you admitted, the words landing with surprising calm. "And about a month ago...maybe a little longer...I saw him kissing his coworker." The room quieted, sympathetic murmurs replacing laughter. "Things have been..." You searched for the word with an absent shrug. "Odd."

Silence lingered only long enough to become intentional before you rested one hand against the microphone stand and tilted your head thoughtfully. "I really hope my former gambling-addict landlord Garrett isn't betting against me." The audience looked momentarily confused. "I'd hate for him to beat me to getting rich off my own misery." The tension shattered instantly and laughter crashed through the club again, several people applauding the recovery itself while Clark let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, smiling despite the ache those earlier words had left behind.

"I stopped seeing my best friend for a while..." you continued once the room settled. "So naturally, I started hallucinating plaid patterns and counting cows instead of sheep to fall asleep." The audience laughed, many already anticipating where you were headed. "And if I'd been anything like my mother..." You paused dramatically. "Well, first of all, I wouldn't have fallen in love with a farm boy from Kansas." The room exploded again and Clark couldn't help smiling wider, hearing the affectionate way you'd always said from Kansas. To everyone else it sounded like another punchline but to him, it sounded exactly the way it always had over the years, fond, nostalgic, almost disbelieving that somewhere so ordinary had become one of your favorite places in the world simply because it had been his first. 

"But if the gods had decided comedy was their true calling and let that happen anyway," you carried on, "the only Midwestern thing inside me would've been ignited gunpowder." Another wave of laughter rolled across the room. "Since that's unfortunately not the case..." you sighed dramatically, "I keep wondering what other long and steel-hard thing could give me that same kind of blast." Chuckles immediately rippled through the audience before growing louder. You tapped your chin thoughtfully. "How does that saying go?" you wondered aloud. "'Same bang...different length?'" Even Clark laughed out loud at that one, ducking his head as people around him doubled over. "I don't know guys, maybe I made that one up..." you shrugged innocently. "But you know what they say–" You let the room quiet just enough. "If the dick fits…" The audience completely lost itself, applause mixing with laughter so loudly it drowned out everything else for several long seconds.

You let them have it before speaking again, your smile settling into something softer. "These little encounters have forced me to pace myself." You resumed walking the length of the stage, slower this time. "Limit our meetings to about an hour...space them out carefully throughout the week," Clark's smile faded slightly. There wasn't anything theatrical in your voice now, it sounded almost observational. "Some days are easier than others. We grab coffee," You shrugged lightly. "Pretend I'm not enforcing public distancing every time we say goodbye." A few sympathetic laughs drifted through the room, softer now. "I'm usually prepared," you assured them. "I wear a fluffy enough skirt that if we accidentally hug, he physically can't get too close." 

That pulled another round of laughter from the audience. You pinched the fabric of today's skirt between your fingers before glancing down at it. "Too much pressure and he might feel something poking him." The room laughed knowingly. "It sadly won't be a dick," you reassured them. "Just my spare tape measure." Someone near the front nearly fell out of their chair laughing. 

Even Clark covered part of his smile with one hand, shaking his head. "My mother always said the best way to keep feelings at bay...you must keep the man away, at precisely…" You began taking measured steps backward across the stage, counting them aloud until your back gently touched the rear wall. Stretching both arms out theatrically, you measured the distance with exaggerated precision before nodding with complete seriousness. "Yep." You gave another nod. "...Roughly one good bale of hay." The audience burst into fresh laughter. "Not that she's ever seen one in real life," you added. "But the second her daughter started fantasizing about a farmhouse with a wraparound porch instead of a mansion..." You shrugged. "She had to adapt."

Laughter rolled warmly through the room again. You smiled into it, letting it wash over you before lifting a shoulder. "I've never been good at eyeballing anything..." you admitted. "But I've also never been unprepared. My mother didn't raise a fool–" You paused dramatically, your finger already pointing toward the wings before the punchline even arrived. "And if she did...It was my father." 

The room broke apart again, whistles and laughter bouncing off the low ceiling while you chuckled quietly to yourself, waiting until everyone settled. When you spoke again, your voice softened just enough for Clark to notice before anyone else did. "I don't like thinking about the harder days too often." The shift rippled through the audience, laughter fading into attentive silence. "They make me realize I'm not always as far away from the reality I'm trying to outrun as I'd like to believe." You absently traced a finger around the microphone. "You get caught in this cycle where love exists...just never for you." Nobody interrupted. "Back when I was in my early twenties, my best friend had this habit..." 

Clark felt his heartbeat begin to pound against his ribs. 

"He could always point to where the love was." Even hidden in the darkness, he already knew exactly where his own hand would've pointed if you asked him now. "He'd point to this picture of me and my nanny when I was little," You continued with a nostalgic smile. "Then the one of us standing in the cornfields right beside it..." Your voice dropped conspiratorially as you leaned toward the audience. "Thank fuck he never pointed at my bedside drawer full of battery-powered love in different shapes, sizes and silicones." The room detonated with laughter and drinks slammed against tables while people folded over themselves as applause mixed with wheezing. 

"Give me a break," you laughed with them. "Your twenties are for exploring. I'll give recommendations after the show if anybody needs them…Like I said, I’m a big fan of community service." Another roar answered and when it faded, you continued. "I used to ask him where the love was," You continued once people could hear again. "Now I'm scared that finger would point directly at the neighborhood bodega while I'm trying to quit bottled garbage." Laughter rolled across the room again. You sighed dramatically. "I'd still take anything with olives, though. Never had a problem sucking meat off the..." You frowned as though genuinely searching for the word. "...Pit?" The uncertainty somehow made it even funnier. The audience burst into another round of helpless laughter while Clark laughed right along with them, shaking his head as he watched you recover from your own joke with a grin that made it seem completely accidental.

Near the side of the room, Susie stood with her arms folded, wearing the smug expression of someone whose gamble had paid off beyond expectation. Her eyes swept over the audience, taking inventory, from flushed faces and abandoned drinks, to people wiping tears from the corners of their eyes. It all was part of the unmistakable rhythm of a crowd completely in your hands.

"Excuse me?" A voice beside her interrupted. "Susan Myerson?"

Susie turned slowly, looking the suited man up and down with open suspicion. "Who the hell is Susan Myerson?"

The man blinked. "Uh..." He looked down at the business card pinched between his fingers before holding it up uncertainly.

Susie leaned onto her tiptoes to inspect it, narrowing her eyes as though trying to remember which version of herself had handed it out. She'd gone through seven different self-made designs before finally paying someone to print one professionally.

"Where'd you get that?" she asked.

"The...bar?" he answered, somehow making it sound like a question.

"Did you tip before taking it?" she asked flatly, one eyebrow lifting while another wave of laughter erupted behind them as you delivered your next joke.

The poor man looked at her for several long seconds, waiting for a smile that never came. Eventually, with genuine uncertainty, he opened his coat, pulled out his wallet and began counting folded bills before extending them toward her.

Susie's face immediately broke into a grin.

"I'm kidding." She pushed his hand back. "I just wanted to see if you were in the tax bracket we're trying to reach." She nodded toward the nearby tip basket. "You can contribute over there instead." She pocketed the business card he had been holding in case she didn’t get around to printing more. "How can I help you?"

"I'm looking for the comedian's manager." He gestured toward you onstage before reaching inside his coat once more, producing another card, this one considerably heavier. Susie accepted it between two fingers and inspected it…Thick stock, embossed lettering and beautiful crisp expensive looking corners. "I work at Carnegie Hall," he explained. "And there's a very good chance we'd like to..."

Susie's attention never reached the end of his sentence. Her eyes had already lifted beyond him, scanning the room until they settled on the very back, past the packed tables and the sea of laughing faces, straight to the tall man standing half-hidden behind the support beam.

Her instincts had failed her more often than she'd ever admit but the one time they hadn't, she'd looked at a woman who insisted she wasn't funny and shoved her onto a stage anyway.

When it came to you, Susie had learned to trust the feeling in her gut over every contract, every business proposal and polished executive who promised the impossible. 

It had put you on that stage before anyone believed you belonged there and every night since had only proven her right. Heaven help her if she was wrong now, because as she stood there with an invitation from Carnegie Hall balanced between two careful fingers, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was holding a piece of your future while standing inside your present, surrounded by the laughter that kept cementing it into something real, all while looking directly at your past. 

The entire scene felt contradictory, the woman onstage was growing into someone too large for these walls, while the man hidden in the back looked like he belonged to a life she'd supposedly left behind. One of them represented everything ahead of you, the other everything you'd been talking about for the past five minutes. 

Susie couldn't tell if those things could exist together or if, sooner or later, one would swallow the other whole.

Clark’s attention refused to leave the stage. His chest rose and fell almost unconsciously, matching the rhythm of your laughter whenever it escaped between jokes, one hand resting against the rough beam as though the old support were physically keeping him rooted where he stood. Without it, Susie had the unsettling feeling he would've crossed the room already. 

There was admiration in the way he watched you, certainly, but admiration alone didn't hollow someone out from the inside. Every expression that crossed your face seemed to reach him before the audience reacted, every smile pulling one from him in return before the room caught up. It wasn't the look of someone discovering a performer, it was the look of someone recognizing home.

"Uh...yeah," Susie answered absentmindedly, only realizing the suited man was still standing in front of her when he awkwardly cleared his throat. She tore her eyes away from the back of the room with visible effort and forced them onto the businessman instead. "This feels like something we should discuss in a more serious environment." She looked him up and down. "Frankly, I expected a little more professionalism from Carnegie Hall…Look at you, letting me get distracted…fucking amateurs."

"Yes, of course. I understand," He nodded politely. "There wasn't...an office address on your card."

"Stay awake until the place empties," she replied, slipping her business card back into his hand. "Susan will happily receive you at the bar." She patted his shoulder before squeezing past him without another explanation.

"What time do you close?" he called after her.

She glanced back over one shoulder while still walking. "Whenever the audience decides. If you want her as much as you look like you do–" Susie added with complete certainty, "...you'll wait."

Then she disappeared into the crowd. The executive chuckled quietly to himself, pocketing the card before turning back toward the stage as another wave of laughter rolled across the room. It filled every corner of the little club, bouncing off stained walls and low ceilings in a way no concert hall ever could. Carnegie had better acoustics, richer patrons and velvet seats but it didn't have this, it didn’t have you…yet.

Susie was moving before she'd fully decided what came after. She slipped sideways between tightly packed tables, murmuring quick apologies as she squeezed through clusters of people who barely noticed her, all eyes fixed on you while another joke landed perfectly. The closer she got to the back, the more the room seemed to disappear around one particular figure.

When she finally stopped beside him, it felt strangely isolating.

She'd been invisible in crowds before, everyone had but standing next to him was different. It wasn't that he ignored the room, it was that, to him, there no longer seemed to be one and there was only you.

Susie lingered for another moment, allowing herself one final look before trusting her instincts completely. He was tall and wearing a plaid shirt. She had to tilt her head back to properly see his face and she knew staring from that close was rude but she couldn't help herself. The smile resting there wasn't the same one everyone else wore. The audience laughed because you were funny, they admired you because you entertained them.

He smiled because you existed.

"...W-what are you doing here?" she asked quietly, genuine alarm slipping into her voice as her eyes darted from him to the stage and back again. "You can't be here."

As expected, her voice didn't so much as register. His eyes stayed glued to the stage like someone had welded them there, forcing Susie to solve the problem the only way she knew how. 

She hauled off and punched him square in the arm, though the impact shot straight back into her own fist. "Motherfucking cow-milking hell–" she hissed, immediately doubling over as she cradled her throbbing knuckles. "Fuck me!" She shook her wrist violently, grimacing. "Now I fucking understand why she keeps making steel jokes." She glared at his sleeve like it had personally insulted her. "Jesus fucking Christ..." she muttered, flexing her fingers. "What the hell were they feeding you out on that farm? Rebar?" 

The hit finally snapped Clark out of whatever trance he'd been in. His eyes left the stage and landed on the tiny woman beside him, widening slightly as realization dawned. He hadn't given any thought to how long it'd take someone to notice him, he'd been far too focused on making sure you never did. 

Another eruption of laughter rolled through the club behind them while Susie straightened up, still rubbing her hand. 

"Susie?" he asked carefully. 

"Yes! Fuck..." She waved the injured hand again before pointing at his head. "That cap is doing absolutely nothing for you, Kansas…nothing." Her finger traveled down the length of him. "Look at you! Your shoulders are wider than a goddamn tractor. You can't hide in a room, you occupy it. One idiot switches on the light back here and people are gonna think somebody parked livestock against the wall." She leaned in, lowering her voice without lowering the speed of it. "Did you think the darkness was for ambience? Romantic mood lighting? No! Tonight, it's because people aren't supposed to notice the six-foot-whatever refrigerator standing in the back who shouldn’t be here." 

She threw both hands in the air. "This is showbiz, you tall glass of pasteurized milk!" 

Clark blinked at the barrage, looking genuinely overwhelmed. "Excuse me?"

"You're him!" she whispered harshly, jabbing a finger toward the stage where you had the audience bent over laughing. "The best friend, the farm boy victim of the plaid epidemic…You're her Mr. Kent." 

His expression softened instantly, eyes flickering back to you before he instinctively shifted another inch behind the beam, somehow believing that would make his frame disappear. "Do you think she saw me?" he asked quietly, genuine concern overtaking every other emotion. "I don't want to ruin her night." 

Susie stopped talking for perhaps the first time in her adult life. She took a slow breath, studying him properly now instead of reacting. She knew you well enough to recognize the look on your face whenever you thought about him and she knew the one you wore now. You were completely locked into your set, moving with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where every laugh was waiting. Then she looked back at Clark, his panic wasn't selfish, it wasn't about getting caught or embarrassing himself. He looked like a man terrified of becoming a distraction in the one place where you were finally being seen for exactly who you were. 

Against her better judgment, she believed him. Even if she still wanted to kick him back out into the alley.

"She hasn't..." Susie admitted, glancing toward the stage where you were effortlessly pulling another wave of laughter out of the room. "But she could." She dug into her jacket pocket, fished out a crumpled cigarette and tucked it between her lips, already reaching for a lighter before a strange sensation made her pause. She looked up into Clark's expectant stare, sighed dramatically and shoved the cigarette right back into her pocket. "Now I understand why she bathes in perfume."

Clark's brow furrowed. "How do you think this conversation is going so far?"

"I wasn't prepared, alright?" she hissed under her breath, throwing both hands up before quickly lowering them again as another joke landed across the room. "I'm trying to do what's best for her, that's literally my job. Except right now I can't decide if what's best for her is kicking you the fuck out of this building." She looked him up and down with exaggerated scrutiny. "And if it is, I'm not convinced it's a one-woman operation."

"You could also ask nicely."

She turned toward him with the straightest face she could manage. "I know we just met," she said slowly, "but do I strike you as somebody who does 'nicely'?"

Clark couldn't help the corner of his mouth lifting. "Not at the moment, no."

"Not ever, Kansas," she corrected immediately before he got any ideas.

Silence stretched between them for a few seconds, both pairs of eyes inevitably returning to the stage.

Clark watched you pace beneath the lights with complete confidence, owning every inch of the room as if you'd been born on that stage instead of simply finding it. His expression softened without him realizing.

"You did that?" he asked quietly, nodding toward you.

"She did that herself." Susie snorted then folded her arms. "She stumbled under the spotlight…I’m just making sure she doesn’t climb back down prematurely. She's always had it." Her eyes drifted toward him again. "Just didn't know where to put it." Susie watched his face carefully. "You don't look too surprised…’lots of stand-up comics wandering around cornfields these days?”

He smiled to himself, almost imperceptibly, eyes never leaving you. "Only one in vintage heels," he murmured. The answer was so immediate, so absentminded, that Susie almost missed it.

Clark wasn't seeing the stage anymore. His mind had already wandered somewhere else entirely, somewhere hot with midsummer sun and endless fields stretching beyond the horizon... 

You sitting on an old blanket while he worked nearby, insisting you'd keep him company even if all he was doing was repairing fences or hauling feed. You talked for hours because silence had never survived long between the two of you, you laughed at your own stories before you even reached the punchline and made him laugh harder than the joke itself ever deserved. He remembered admiring you while you stole peaches straight from Martha's basket, remembered you making dramatic speeches to cows that stared back without judgment and he remembered thinking, even then, that no one else in the world made ordinary afternoons disappear quite so completely.

You'd always been funny. The stage had simply given everyone else permission to notice.

Susie watched the memories move across his face without needing him to say a word. They softened every sharp edge he carried, every line of worry she'd noticed since walking over dissolved the second he looked at you. It wasn't infatuation or nostalgia either.

"You love her, don't you?" she asked suddenly, the words leaving before she could overthink them. 

The answer was written all over his face before he even opened his mouth, but the question itself nearly stopped Clark's heart. His eyes snapped away from you for the first time in several minutes and landed squarely on Susie. 

"What?" he asked, almost defensively, as though she'd reached into his chest and spoken aloud something he'd spent years carefully protecting. 

Susie answered with an exhausted huff, shaking her head the same way she did whenever someone missed something painfully obvious. She wasn't built for conversations like this, she negotiated contracts, argued with venue owners, threatened hecklers and counted cash at three in the morning. Feelings made her itch, they belonged to comics onstage, not to her yet standing beside him, pretending not to see it would've felt cruel. 

"You might look like a himbo but you’re far from it." She motioned vaguely toward the stage without taking her eyes off him. "You can barely look anywhere else. Hell, I don't even think you're seeing her anymore, you're seeing every version of her at once and it’s terrifying from where I stand." She sighed through her nose. "It's written all over your face. You look like somebody left you outside in the rain years ago and you never quite figured out how to come back in…like one of those abandoned dogs nobody wants to make eye contact with because the second they do, they're taking it home." Her expression softened despite herself. "All ribs and wanting." 

The words sat strangely in her mouth. "She walked into this club looking exactly the same." She glanced toward you as another burst of laughter shook the room. "First night she came here, she looked like she'd been carrying something so heavy she forgot what standing straight felt like. I remember looking at her and thinking..." She paused, almost embarrassed to admit it. "'Poor girl'...because I didn't think love like that actually existed, I thought people exaggerated it in books I don’t read because misery sells better than happiness and I don’t have time for either. Then she got onstage...and every joke somehow bled back to the same damn person." She looked at him again, slower this time. "Now I'm standing next to the other half of that mess…If I were the greedy little businesswoman everyone thinks I am, I'd bottle whatever the hell this is and sell it. People would line up around the block for one sip. They'd pay fortunes for it." 

Her eyes swept over the audience. "These people? They don't just come for the jokes, they come chasing whatever pours out of her every time she grabs that microphone. They want to breathe it in for twenty minutes, get drunk on it and stumble home thinking maybe they brushed against something real." Her voice lowered as he looked back at Clark. "The problem is...it has her name written all over it…and yours too." 

Another laugh echoed through the room while Clark remained completely still. "They're happy borrowing it for a night." She shook her head slowly. "You?" Her eyes narrowed as if she still couldn't quite believe what she was looking at. "You look willing to inject it straight into your veins and let it kill you if that's what it takes to keep feeling it." 

Clark closed his eyes for only a second. The breath he drew in was slow, the kind someone took before stepping into freezing water, trying to steady a body that had spent decades reorganizing itself around one person. Loving you had stopped feeling like a decision long ago. It had become instinct, a habit, gravity. Every version of tomorrow he'd ever imagined had somehow wandered back to you, whether he meant for it to or not. 

He opened his eyes again and simply nodded. The words reached his throat before stopping there, because they belonged somewhere else, to someone else. If he ever said them out loud, they would be yours before they were anyone else's. 

Susie recognized that, she nodded once herself, looking away before he could mistake her silence for disappointment. She wasn't the one meant to hear a confession like that, she'd also never ask a dying man to waste his last breath on a stranger when the person he loved was only thirty feet away. 

"She hates being wrong," she muttered after a long pause, trying to force some of her usual bite back into her voice even though it came out quieter than intended. 

Clark smiled without taking his eyes off you. "She does." 

The answer barely rose above the laughter surrounding them and the smile disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. Hearing your set had complicated everything in ways he hadn't anticipated. Before tonight he'd wondered whether telling you the truth would only reopen a wound you'd fought so hard to close. 

Now he'd listened to you joke your way toward acceptance, watched you carefully ration your time with him because loving him still hurt, he heard you build boundaries around your own heart one laugh at a time. 

The last thing he wanted was to become another thing you had to recover from. 

Susie folded her arms, following his gaze back to the stage. "For some reason..." she admitted quietly, "I don't think she'd mind being wrong this once." She let that sit between them before continuing. "You're a good guy, Kent. Whatever happened that night–" She shrugged. "...maybe this crushes it, maybe it doesn't but every time she tells that story I hear gaps…big fucking ones. She's telling the audience everything she remembers but not everything that happened." She looked up at him again. "Those missing pieces matter. She's building something enormous up there, bigger than this club and than this city if she keeps going." She glanced back toward you as applause interrupted another joke. "You don't build an empire on a cracked foundation." Then she looked him dead in the eye. "And I know, just by looking at you, that you'd rather let her hate you forever than watch her build the rest of her life on a lie."

Clark let the words settle somewhere deep enough that they hurt. She wasn't wrong and somehow that surprised him less than the fact that she'd managed to read so much from the darkest corner of a crowded room. 

His eyes drifted back to you instinctively before returning to her. "You don't know me," he said after a moment, his voice quiet enough that it disappeared beneath laughter from the audience. "And you said it yourself...your job is to protect her." 

Susie looked at him as though he'd just explained that rain was wet. "Yeah," she answered flatly. "And judging by what I'm looking at, you were employee of the decade long before I ever signed a contract." She waved a dismissive hand. "Look, I don't have a goddamn little gold star to stick on your fuckass plaid shirt, Kansas, but I know her." Her brows climbed as memories seemed to hit her one after another. "Christ, do I know her. That girl talks like she's trying to outrun silence. It's constant." She pinched the bridge of her nose dramatically. "Nonstop. Morning, noon, night…sober, drunk, half asleep, it doesn't matter. I don't think she's ever finished a thought without immediately starting another one." 

Clark smiled privately.

Susie caught it and pointed accusingly. "See? That's exactly what I'm talking about." She shook her head. "For somebody who's convinced love has never really been aimed at her, she's got a disgustingly detailed picture of what it looks like." Her eyes flickered toward the stage where you were still making strangers howl with laughter. "Every story bends back to you, every memory somehow lands on you, every joke starts somewhere else and ends with the same goddamn farm boy…It's actually a little irritating." She folded her arms tighter. "I've heard hundreds of hours of that woman talking. Do you know how many times she's described love without saying the word?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Too many…and every single damn time–" She nodded toward him. "...it was shaped like you." 

Clark swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. "I messed up, Susie..." The admission came easier than he'd expected, perhaps because there was no point lying to someone who'd already pieced together so much. "Big time." His eyes remained fixed on you. "I waited...and then I kept waiting. Maybe part of it was fear." He wasn't afraid of rejection, he could've survived hearing you say no. What terrified him was offering you a future that belonged to a version of yourself you'd already outgrown, asking you to heal old wounds with the very hands that had accidentally helped make them. 

"You did," Susie admitted without softening it. "And I'm not gonna clap for that like everybody else in this room." She glanced toward where applause erupted anyway. "But you also gave her something she would've never taken if you'd offered it. Space." The word sounded foreign coming from her. "She needed somewhere to figure out who the hell she was without making you responsible for it." 

She scratched absentmindedly at the back of her neck. "She gets up there every night and tears you apart in front of a room full of strangers–" A crooked smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. "...and in the most twisted, absolutely perverted way imaginable, half the reason she can do it is because she still loves you. I'm not giving divine intervention credit for this, so finish the fucking job." She jabbed a finger into the center of his chest. "Because you look like you've got the heart for it." 

Clark drew another slow breath and Susie watched every hesitation settle behind his eyes before he'd even spoken. She recognized doubt when she saw it, she'd negotiated with enough frightened performers to know exactly what it looked like five minutes before they stepped onstage. "I know you're not gonna ask her to give this up for your love...but don’t let her give that love up for this either…She wants this.” She looked at you one last time, smiling through another roar of applause. "And I'd bet every goddamn paycheck I'll ever make that she'll figure out how to have both. The only question is whether you'll still be standing there when she does."

Both of their eyes drifted back to the stage just as you stepped into the center spotlight, setting the microphone back into its stand with ease. You smiled at the audience, cheeks warm from laughter. “Feeling about as much like a real Mrs. as I probably ever will while sober…” you grinned, waiting for the knowing laughter to settle before continuing. “You guys have been a dashing audience. This is it for me, I'm Mrs. Kent...Thank you and goodnight!” The room erupted. Applause crashed through the club hard enough to make the floorboards tremble beneath their feet, whistles and cheers swallowing every other sound as people rose from their seats.

For the first time all night, Susie felt an irrational urge to soften whatever that had just done to the poor man beside her. She cleared her throat awkwardly, waving a hand toward the stage. “Uh, the…the Mrs. Kent thing's a running gag...marketing, branding, whatever the hell you wanna call it.” She forced a shrug that convinced absolutely no one. “Probably won't stick.”

"I'll make it stick," He breathed, reaching into his wallet and pulling out a fifty for the cover, then another twenty and holding both bills toward her.

Susie's eyes dropped to the money before she looked back up at him with open offense. She scoffed. “You dig that fortune out of your piggy bank?”

He almost smiled despite himself. “Leave the comedy to her, will you?”

She snatched the bills from his fingers. “My lips are sealed.”

Clark started to slip away, already watching you descend from the stage where people crowded around with congratulations, autograph books and outstretched hands but after only a couple of steps he stopped, remembering something. He glanced back over his shoulder. “Uh...your back door's broken.”

“That thing is solid metal, how the hell is tha–” Susie began but by the time she looked up from folding the bills into her pocket, he was gone. She stared at the empty space for a second before shaking her head to herself. “What a...strange guy,” she muttered under her breath just as you finally began making your way toward her.

“Susie?” you called, pulling her attention away from whatever thoughts had rooted her to the spot. Her eyes met your bright face, a smile so wide it looked stitched there. You already had your coat draped over one arm and your purse dangling from the other. Without thinking, you pushed the purse into her hands so you could slip your coat on properly. “You okay?” you chuckled, watching her stare a second too long. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“That’s because you’ve never seen me do my taxes,” she shot back without missing a beat. “Which reminds me, we need accountants.” She popped your purse open and quietly slipped the bills Clark had given her inside.

You laughed, watching as she did so. “I can wait until tomorrow for my cut. There’s no rush.”

“You need cab money.” She snapped the purse shut. “Think of it as...uh...a donation.” She blinked innocently as she handed it back.

You accepted it, studying her face with growing suspicion, though nothing about it ever stayed readable for long. “Okay...” you said slowly before shaking it off. “I can't stick around. I have plans with someone.”

“Do they involve farming?”

A grin spread across your face. “Not unless my roommate picked up a new hobby.” You shrugged into your coat. “Sorry I can't stay. The business and networking side of this really isn't my thing–”

“You did your part.” Susie waved you off. “Go relax...and maybe don't go online. Better yet, don't make any stops until you're standing inside your apartment. Newspapers are useless anyway.”

You let out a quiet, confused laugh. “Okay...I won't.”

“I'm serious.” Her tone sharpened just enough to make you pause. “And don't take the front door. I need to figure out the budget for security before you start making my blood pressure permanently high.”

You raised an eyebrow but nodded. “Back door it is, then. I'll grab a cab on the next block.” You smiled warmly. “Night, Susie.”

“Night.”

You squeezed through the crowd toward the very back of the building, eventually disappearing from view. Only after you were gone did Susie finally let out the breath she'd been holding. 

Your work for the night was over but hers had only just begun.

You made it home in what felt like record time. The streets beyond the Talon had emptied quickly and with every block the city put between you and the club, the tension slowly peeled itself off your shoulders. During the cab ride you never reached for your phone, partly because of Susie's oddly serious warnings but mostly because the drive had become part of the ritual, the quiet space between the woman on stage and the one who still had to unlock her apartment door. You had never cared much for social media anyway, Mrs. Alston's store’s account had already been deleted from your phone along with every app connected to it, another thread tying you to a chapter that was quietly coming to an end. 

You watched the city slide past the rain-speckled window instead, listening absentmindedly to whatever old song the driver had humming softly through the speakers until he pulled up outside your building. You paid, thanked him, wished him a good night and stepped out into the cool air.

Now you stood in your apartment, barely aware of Imogene on a FaceTime call with her boyfriend somewhere down the hall while you stared blankly into the open refrigerator, this time it wasn't the lack of food keeping you there. 

You still wore your dress, though your heels had been kicked off near the entrance, your coat tossed over the couch and your purse abandoned beside them without a second thought. 

The cold air spilled over your skin unnoticed.

It was becoming harder to shrug the nights at the clubs off your shoulders. In the beginning you had walked away from them almost effortlessly, slipping back into your ordinary life before sunrise as though nothing had happened, now they lingered. The applause echoed long after it ended, laughter replayed itself in fragments, faces blurred together beneath the stage lights and flashes of the room kept resurfacing when you least expected them. It left you suspended somewhere between those moments and the life waiting outside the venue, caught in a pleasant trance that refused to loosen its grip. 

For the first time in a long while, you weren't rushing toward the next thing. You were still standing in the middle of the last one.

In the living room, Imogene ended her FaceTime call just as the doorbell rang. 

“I got it!” she called, tossing her phone onto the couch where it disappeared into the blankets. She was already gliding across the hardwood floor in fluffy socks as though she were skating, catching herself against the back of a dining chair as she weaved around the boxes you still refused to unpack.

She wasn't stupid, she knew you had no intention of turning this apartment into a home, not even if you stayed for the whole six months and she couldn't really blame you. She couldn't blame your reluctance to talk about your personal life either or where you disappeared to most nights. She had spent enough years trying to figure out where she belonged to recognize someone else doing the same, she wasn't about to rush you into naming a life you were still building.

Her hand settled on the doorknob undoing the chain lock before pulling the door open. Standing in the hallway was a man who somehow managed to look completely lost while also looking exactly where he was supposed to be. She recognized him immediately from the only framed photograph you'd unpacked your first night there. He'd looked younger in the picture, more carefree but the plaid shirt was the same, so were the glasses that barely disguised the absurdly kind eyes staring back at her. One hand gripped a bouquet of wildflowers a little too tightly, the brown paper already creased where his fingers had held it the entire walk and despite his height, considerably more alarming in person than in the photograph, his shoulders no longer carried themselves with the certainty captured in that frame.

“Hello?” she asked cautiously, leaning forward a little as if checking whether he was actually conscious. Judging by his expression, she wasn't entirely convinced.

“I didn't kiss her,” he said simply, almost politely then blinked once after speaking, like he'd only just remembered she wasn't the person he'd expected to see.

“Um…” Imogene blinked, studying him for a long second. She searched her memory for a name, for anything you'd ever said about the man in the picture but your personal life had become a locked drawer months ago. Her mouth opened, then closed again until she finally lifted one finger. “Would you just...one second.” Without waiting for an answer, she gently shut the door in his face with complete confidence that he wasn't going anywhere. She stood there for half a second with her hand still resting on the doorknob before turning back toward the apartment.

Imogene padded into the kitchen to find you exactly where she'd last seen you, still staring into the refrigerator as if the answer to life might materialize between the milk and leftover takeout. She didn't even bother saying your name, she simply reached over and pushed the refrigerator door closed, the rubber seal catching with a soft thump. It worked instantly as your eyes snapped to hers.

“There's a very tall delivery man at the door,” she said, resting against the countertop. “He has glasses that do absolutely nothing to hide the puppy-dog eyes, he’s wearing plaid...might be concussed, though.” She jerked a thumb toward the hallway. “He looks kind of stunned.”

Your head tilted thoughtfully, “Clark?” 

“Well,” Imogene smiled, “glad to know he has a name.” She paused. “Doeeees he know it?”

You walked past Imogene toward the front door, and she hurried after you with unconcealed curiosity, her socks whispering over the hardwood as she matched your quick pace. 

The moment your hand wrapped around the doorknob and you pulled the door open, there he was…Clark. 

Your first thought should have been that he wasn't supposed to be here, that he'd broken one of the few rules you'd managed to establish around this new part of your life but none of that surfaced. All you wanted was to hear his voice, to latch onto something real and tangible after a night that already felt too surreal to measure. Your eyes drifted down to the bouquet in his hands, wildflowers bursting in uneven sprays of blues, yellows, whites and purples, they looked as though someone had simply gathered every flower that reminded them of spring.

Your heart squeezed painfully at how unmistakably he looked like himself…your Clark.

“I didn't kiss her,” he repeated.

“What?” you breathed, convinced for a second that the applause had permanently damaged your hearing.

“Yeah...he keeps saying that,” Imogene supplied from somewhere behind your shoulder, her eyes bouncing between the two of you like she was trying to follow a tennis match with no rules. Neither of you blinked or seemed entirely capable of moving. “Okay, I'll just...”She reached over carefully, easing the bouquet from Clark's stiff grip with surprising gentleness. His fingers let go a beat later. “I'll get these in water…If we wait much longer, they'll die.”Cradling the flowers against herself, she nudged your arm with her elbow. “Y/n, why don't you invite him in?” she suggested, trying to jolt you back into your body. “Where are your manners?”

You blinked hard, the spell finally breaking enough for you to inhale. “He learned his at a farm,” you muttered, stepping backward and pulling the door wider with one hand. “He won't mind the lack of them.”

Imogene let out an exaggerated gasp through a strained smile. “Y/n...I'm pretty sure he can hear just fine.”

A quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Clark ducked slightly beneath the doorframe out of long habit, though he had plenty of room, wiping the soles of his shoes automatically against the welcome mat before stepping inside.

You pushed the door shut behind him, the latch clicking softly into place.

“He's heard me say worse,” you admitted, eyes lifting from Imogene to find his. They hadn't left you once. “Uh...Clark, this is Imogene.” You gestured vaguely between them. "Imogene, this is my...um...” You faltered, unable to find a word that fit anymore. “...Clark.” You glanced toward your bedroom before looking back at him. “I'll...go put some shoes on. We can...go somewhere else.”

You still didn't know what this was, which meant you had no idea what to call it.

Clark nodded, his eyes lingering on you until you disappeared down the hallway. Only after your bedroom door clicked shut did he become aware of Imogene watching him. 

She stood beside the dining table, bouquet cradled carefully as she searched for somewhere to set them. Clark's gaze wandered around the apartment instead, cardboard boxes labeled in your handwriting were stacked neatly against one wall, some sealed with tape that had begun to curl at the edges, others half-open as though you'd abandoned unpacking midway through. 

A coat rack stood half empty, the television still played whatever show Imogene had been watching long before the doorbell rang, its volume low enough to blend with the hum of the refrigerator and two mugs sat forgotten on the coffee table beside a bowl of popcorn and a pile of blankets tangled across the couch. It looked lived in, comfortable...yet unmistakably temporary. Even without asking, he could tell he'd interrupted the evening.

“I'm sorry for showing up unannounced,” he said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck before letting his hand fall. “It's...I'm sorry. I can tell you two had plans.”

Imogene waved him off with the hand not holding the bouquet as she disappeared briefly into the kitchen, opening a cabinet until she found a glass vase. “That's alright,” she called over her shoulder. “We probably need a little time apart anyway.” She filled the vase at the sink, testing the water with her fingers before arranging the wildflowers inside one stem at a time but when she looked back, Clark still hadn't smiled. 

Her own grin softened. She noticed his eyes drifting toward the hallway again, unconsciously waiting for you to reappear. “I think she's overworking herself...” she said more gently, setting the vase in the middle of the table. That immediately pulled his attention back to her. “Just a little...She's out late most nights now. I don't think it's anything dangerous and she can definitely handle herself...” She folded her arms loosely, leaning one hip against the chair. “I'm just glad she has someone to talk to.” The silence stretched comfortably for a moment before she looked him up and down with complete sincerity. “You're really tall.”

Clark blinked. “...Thank you?” he answered, unsure whether it had been a compliment or an observation.

Before either of them could say anything else, your footsteps returned down the hallway and both of them looked up. You'd changed completely, the stage persona had disappeared somewhere behind your bedroom door, replaced by a soft knit sweater tucked into well-fitted trousers, a casual coat folded over your forearm and a pair of well-preserved black Repetto flats. Clark recognized them instantly, they were the vintage pair he'd spent weeks hunting down for your birthday years ago, restored from the 1950s because you'd once stopped in front of an antique shop window and whispered that they'd been “too pretty to ever wear.” The leather had softened with age but you had cared for them well. 

Seeing them on your feet made warmth spread in his chest…surely he could find the Pradas too, right?

Your eyes flicked from him to Imogene. “Don't wait up for me,” you said as you slipped your coat on by the door, smoothing it absentmindedly. “We'll do movie night tomorrow.”

Imogene nodded with an easy smile, following the two of you to the entrance. “You kids make out–” she began automatically before your head snapped around to stare at her. Her own eyes widened in horror. “Make up…I meant up.” She cleared her throat with exaggerated dignity, pretending nothing had happened. “Nice meeting you, Clark.”

Clark reached past you to pull the apartment door open, holding it there as you stepped into the hallway first. Only then did he look back over his shoulder with a small, genuine smile. 

“Likewise, Imogene.” He dipped his head politely before following you out, easing the door shut behind him.

The ride down in the elevator passed in complete silence, broken only by the low mechanical hum between floors and the occasional creak of the cables overhead. Neither of you reached for the handrail, neither dared glance at the mirrored walls reflecting your uneasy distance. 

When the doors slid open, the lobby greeted you with stale warmth before the cold night swallowed it the second Clark pushed the glass door open for you. The streets beyond were almost deserted, washed in amber pools of streetlight that barely pierced the low blanket of clouds gathering overhead. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled too quietly to matter for now. 

Your footsteps echoed in uneven rhythm along the pavement, your hands tucked into your coat pockets more to occupy them than for warmth. You felt cornered by something you couldn't yet name, while Clark carried the weight of words that had been clawing at his chest since he left the Talon. 

He had flown home only to pace the length of his apartment over and over, sitting for mere seconds before standing again. He had always planned to wait, for however long it took, for you to trust him with this part of your life. He would've waited months, years if necessary but now, after hearing what you believed to be true and what he knew wasn't...waiting no longer felt kind.

His steps slowed before stopping entirely. You took another pace before realizing he wasn't beside you anymore, turning to face him beneath the dim halo of a streetlamp. It felt nothing like the pier, his expression carried none of that tentative hope. Instead, he drew a slow breath and gave the smallest shake of his head, as though physically trying to dislodge every hesitation that still lingered there.

"I've dreamed of you every single night since I met you," he admitted quietly. His fingers flexed at his sides before settling again. "I wake up feeling all these things I never thought I'd get to say and I confess them...very quietly." A faint, self-conscious smile touched his mouth before disappearing. "It's not something I trust anyone with…and it’s not because it's fragile–" He looked at you then, steady and completely exposed. "It’s because I'm convinced I'm made out of it…and it's all over my face whenever someone even alludes to it...whenever someone mentions you." His eyes drifted somewhere past you, finding the memory with painful precision. "That night at the bar...I was talking to Lois about you. We'd had dinner before we got there and all I could feel..." He exhaled slowly. "...was you." His voice softened even further. "I was drunk off it, like I constantly am. It's just easier to hide when our nights end right afterward…You were everywhere in my system and I was terrified I'd say something you didn't want to hear."

Your eyes burned almost immediately. The wind swept between the buildings hard enough to sting them further, forcing repeated blinks even as you stubbornly refused to look away from him. It filled your lungs whether you wanted it to or not, grounding you against the pavement while your heartbeat climbed so fast it bordered on painful.

"And somehow," Clark continued, taking one careful step closer without closing the distance between you, "no matter who I talked to...they'd end up talking about you." A helpless smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "It gets to me...you get to me, Y/n." He could hear your pulse racing, hear every uneven breath your body fought to steady. "I'm nothing but a blank canvas where you're concerned. It's all over me and I never want to paint over it…I love hearing how other people see you. The way you affect them, how pretty they think you are...how kind you are and how good a friend you are." His smile deepened with quiet reverence. "People thank me for bringing you around and every single time I thank whatever star decided I deserved to know you."

Your thoughts refused to stay in one place long enough to make sense of anything. One confession bled into the next until you couldn't tell where one feeling ended and another began. 

Your gaze slipped away from him, searching for something solid to hold onto and landed across the street on the brightly lit newspaper stand outside a convenience store. The illuminated display threw white light across the sidewalk, the headline impossible to miss even from where you stood.

Mrs. X at the Talon

Your stomach dropped and suddenly, Susie’s warnings made sense yet you didn't want to know what was written beneath it.

You forced yourself to peel your eyes away from the glowing newspaper stand, afraid of what you might see if you looked back at Clark too soon. The vulnerability pressing against your ribs had nothing to do with the stage anymore or with the people who had laughed at your stories. 

Your gaze returned to him slowly, taking him in piece by piece. Jeans, plaid shirt dampening beneath the now falling rain, curls already flattened by the downpour. You tried to remember the last time you'd seen him dressed like this. It wasn't in Metropolis, it belonged to another lifetime entirely, beneath endless Kansas skies and dirt roads where neither of you had known what losing the other would feel like. Seeing him like this now almost felt unreal, like he'd stepped into the city wearing a memory instead of clothes.

"You were there tonight," you breathed, the realization settling heavier with every word.

Clark nodded slowly, watching your face as though trying to read which way your heart would break.

Thunder rolled overhead, deep enough to rattle the buildings and the rain came down harder, drumming against the pavement, soaking through your coat and plastering hair to your skin, yet neither of you so much as shifted.

"You talked to Susie."

He offered another nod. He had already slipped his glasses into his pocket, rain beading freely across his lashes now. There wasn't much left to hide behind now. "She did most of the talking."

A tiny nod escaped you in return, that sounded exactly like Susie.

Rainwater slid over your face, mixing so seamlessly with the tear that escaped your eye until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Your voice cracked under the weight of everything you'd been carrying. "I didn't want you to find out this way."

Clark took another careful step closer, close enough that he could see your hands trembling at your sides but not enough to corner you. "I never meant to hurt you," he said quietly, every word landing with complete certainty. "I would've done anything to keep that from happening. I hope you know that."

You swallowed hard, forcing the question past the tightness in your throat. "Even letting me go?"

"I’d be proud of failing." The answer came before you had even finished asking.

A breath escaped you, halfway between a laugh and a sob, relief loosening something inside your chest that had been clenched for weeks. Your eyes closed for the briefest second before you nodded to yourself.

"So..." You sniffled, wiping rain from beneath one eye with the back of your hand, a smile threatening despite everything. "What did you think about my act?"

“I thought it was sensational,” he said, pride softening every word as memories rushed back of the instant you'd stepped beneath the spotlight. His eyes drifted away for a moment, as though he were searching for language large enough to hold what he'd witnessed. 

You took the opportunity to really look at him, rain had soaked through his plaid shirt until it clung to his broad shoulders, dark curls hanging over his forehead in damp waves, droplets slipping from the ends to trace the line of his jaw. When his eyes finally found yours again, your chest tightened. For one impossible heartbeat, you felt eighteen all over again, stealing glances at the farm boy you'd sworn you'd never stop loving.

"It was like..." He breathed out a quiet laugh at his own inability to explain it. "The only thing I can compare it to is an orchestra of hearts deciding on the same melody for the very first time." His voice lowered, stripped of everything except honesty. "For twenty minutes...the whole world knew my greatest secret. There wasn't any 'maybe' anymore…no 'what if.' Everything I live for...everything I am...was standing on that stage for everyone to see." His smile trembled, eyes never leaving yours. "And I could see you, too." He shook his head once, almost in disbelief. "I've never witnessed anything so beautiful...so completely human." His next words came without hesitation, as though they'd lived inside him for years waiting to be spoken aloud. "You are more important to me than the sun."

Your tears fell freely now, indistinguishable from the rain streaming over your cheeks. Somewhere along the way, he'd known you long before you'd ever known yourself. Before comedy, Metropolis and before you had become someone who belonged to crowds instead of merely surviving inside them. 

You lifted your chin, your smile trembling through the emotion, unwilling to let the heaviness steal every ounce of your humor. "You paid attention."

His answering smile was immediate.

"To you?" he murmured. "Always." His eyes softened impossibly further. "And I will...for as long as the sun keeps shining."

The rain drummed steadily around you, soaking your clothes until neither of you could tell where warmth ended and cold began.

"So," His voice was quieter now, careful in a way that made your heart ache. "The next time you want to tell me you love me..." He paused, watching a shiver pass through you, resisting every instinct that begged him to pull you close before you asked. "If there is a next time..." He swallowed. "I'll say, 'I love you too,' and I'll spend every ‘tomorrow’ after that making sure it never sounds like an afterthought again."

You shook your head before he could say another word. "Let's not forget today."

You bridged the remaining distance and your hands gathered the front of his damp plaid shirt, bunching the fabric in your fists as you pulled him toward you. He met you halfway with a desperation that had waited far too many years for permission. 

His lips found yours with enough certainty to steal every remaining thought from your mind. Rainwater ran between your faces, over your mouths, down your necks but neither of you noticed. His arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you firmly against his chest as though the weeks apart had carved out a space only you could fill. Your fingers slid from his shirt to his shoulders, then into the damp curls at the nape of his neck and the kiss deepened naturally, familiar despite how long you'd gone without it, as if your bodies had quietly rehearsed this reunion every day you'd been apart.

Above you, thunder rolled somewhere beyond the clouds and around you, Metropolis continued exactly as it always had with changing traffic lights, trains rattling beneath the streets and windows glowing high above but none of it reached the small piece of sidewalk where time had finally decided to keep its promise.

Perhaps that was the point all along.

Rain, sunlight and moonlight have always shared the same sky, while past, present and future have always succeeded one another without a marked beginning or end. They were never meant to replace one another, only to arrive when their time came…and for the first time in a long while, yours had.

ONLY ONE MORE CHAPTER TO GO GUYS!!

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!

Tag list: @disneylover123-blog2 @astrolockley @lil-butterfly-19 @noisyflowerking @mylifeisanoxymoron21 @coffeerainnight @monkeybutt03 @angsty-bombshell @mrs-cactus69 @supkittykat @niceforcum22 @harrytitsss @reenielane @abbygrabska @hungoverhellhound @punksnotdeadbutiam @athenx @mosseetrees @angxlholic

[dailyflicks]

SUPERMAN (2025) — dir. James Gunn

[blank-tato]

Unlucky in Love

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Summary:

“They're beautiful.” “Well, they match their new owner.” Was Clark Kent… flirting with you? “They're—” you start, words tripping over themselves. “Camellias… my favourite. How did you…?” “I remember you recommending them when I was debating what to send my Ma on her birthday,” he says softly, smiling in that shy-but-warm way that makes your chest fizz. “Said that they ‘can light up any room without even trying.’” “Do you remember everything I say?” you ask, feeling your heartbeat jump straight into your throat. “I try,” he admits, voice low. “You say a lot of beautiful things.” The Cupid tingles were here, and they were going crazy. Or No matter what you do, love doesn't seem to agree with you, despite your matchmaking powers. The same goes for your best friend, Clark, who you may or may not be in love with. When you get a taste of your own medicine, your Cupid powers start getting out of hand.

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Photographer!Reader, Metahuman!Reader with Cupid/Matchmaking Powers, Mutual Pining, Workplace Crushes, Office Romance, Friends to Lovers, Secret Identity Shenanigans, Love Confessions, Reader has a grumpy cat named Cato (I had just watched Hunger Games, but better), Baking with Superman

WC: 11.0k

A/N: Posting stuff that's been in my drafts for a while. I've been dying to post this for ages since I haven't written a long Clark fic since Office Gossip. Hope you enjoy!

***

Irony is a cruel mistress.

Downright evil, in fact. Because how and in what world would you be so unlucky in love?

Every relationship you have bursts into flames. One time, literally, a fellow metahuman you dated caught fire and threw themselves out a window when you said “I love you” for the first time.

But that's not where the irony kicks in. It's the fact that you are the closest thing this earth has to Cupid.

Everywhere you go, you leave a trail of heart eyes in your wake.

Meet-cutes happen right in front of you with a snap of your fingers. 

Whether it was the exhausted accountant and the barista at your coffee shop or the dog-walker and the grumpy author downstairs, you'd shoot a little love-powered finger gun, and they'd ride off into the sunset together.

Trudging your way into the Daily Planet, the world’s most chaotic newsroom, you were not in the mood for any bullshit, especially not superpowered bullshit. The Big Belly Burger near your house just got blinked out of existence. You mean it, there’s literally a crater where it used to be, your rent’s due tomorrow, and a supervillain just stole your cat this morning for funsies.

Not to mention, you and your stupid powers just set up the really cute florist you’ve been plotting on for months with your neighbour.

He was the perfect guy for you. 

Sweet, funny, smelled like jasmine and sunlight, and your powers weren’t giving you any reason not to go full steam ahead.

But of course, the second your neighbour entered his flower shop, and they made eye contact, BAM, you made a match.

At this point, it would be merciful if someone finally struck you down with lightning. But knowing you, you’d survive, but all your hair would fall off instead.

You reach your desk, slumping down in it like the saddest little puddle of melted ice cream.

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” Lois comments, eyeing the scorch marks on your sleeve and the suspicious dusting of concrete in your hair. “You okay?”

“Toyman stole my cat.”

You replay the moment in your head. There was a large crash shattering through your window, glass everywhere, and before you knew it, your cat had leapt into his arms. Traitor.

“Sure, Cato’s really grumpy and tears my kitchen apart on a daily basis and has run away from home three times in the past month,” you sigh, rubbing your temples, “but he always comes home, and I miss him. He’s my grumpy little disaster.”

Lois blinks. “Toyman. The Toyman. Stole your cat.”

“Yup. Didn’t even monologue. Just grabbed Cato, said ‘shitty apartment’, and jetpacked out the window. Who even does that?”

You lean back in your chair, far enough that it creaks in warning. “Save me, Lois Lane,” you groan dramatically, flinging an arm over your face like a silent movie star in distress.

“Not my jurisdiction,” she says with a playful shake of the head and a comforting pat on the shoulder. 

You’re about to retort when the elevator dings across the bullpen.

A deep voice filters through the chatter. “Sorry, Perry!”

Then comes the soft shuffle of papers, a muffled thud of a bag, and the unmistakable steady rhythm of footsteps, ones you’ve heard a hundred times before. 

Your favourite mild-mannered reporter and serial bringer of pastries steps into the newsroom, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes as he makes his way to his desk just across from yours.

“Hey, Cla—”

You lean back a little too far, mid-greeting, and gravity decides to betray you. The chair tips, and you tumble backwards in a spectacular display of dignity loss, hitting the floor with a thud that echoes across the bullpen.

As you’re groaning in pain and contemplating whether your day could get any worse, a shadow falls over you. You blink up, squinting against the overhead lights, and find yourself staring at a very concerned Clark Kent.

His hair is an adorable mess, a sure sign he’s been running around trying not to be late and failing miserably. His tie’s crooked, glasses slightly askew, and of course, he still looks like a lead in a rom-com.

You may or may not have an itsy bitsy crush on him. It absolutely does not consume most of your waking moments.

But you can't help but think of him when things are rough. 

Just a smile could warm even the coldest of days, thaw ice with a single chuckle.

If you could put your powers to use for anyone, you'd do it for him, but who to set him up with? Your Cupid senses were not tingling.

Which was odd. They always tingled. Constantly. Especially when Jimmy’s around.

You’d stumbled through multiple love matches a day thanks to him. There was Jimmy and the new interns, Jimmy and the girl from layout, Jimmy and the pizza delivery driver who once gave him an extra pizza he didn't order “because he looked like he needed it.”

But with Clark? Zilch. Nada.

Maybe he was unlucky in love just like you.

“Are you upside down, or is that just me?” you mumble, wincing as you try to sit up.

Clark laughs softly, that warm, gentle sound that makes your stomach do weird somersaults. He reaches down and, with one effortless motion, lifts you upright as if you weigh nothing more than a stack of newspapers.

“You okay?” he asks, still holding your arm a second longer than necessary.

You stare at him, heart doing that annoying thing, and sigh. “Define okay.”

“What happened?”

“Toyman stole her cat,” Lois answers from her desk.

Clark blinks. “Toyman stole your cat?”

“And insulted my apartment,” you huff, crossing your arms and glaring at the floor like it personally offended you. “What does he know about interior design anyway? The man literally lives in a dollhouse.”

Lois snorts. “Technically, a lair.”

“Whatever. It's ugly as hell,” you reply.

Clark’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to laugh. “I’m sure Cato’s okay. Toyman wouldn’t hurt—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” you cut in, sighing. “But still. He kidnapped my cat and roasted my décor. That’s a new low, even for me.”

“I know you’ll get your cat back.”

“Thanks.”

Lois’s kind smile makes you feel better, but you’re not sure she knows just how unlucky you are in every aspect of your life. 

You may never see your precious cat again, hear his grumpy meows, or wake up to him sitting on your chest and pawing at your face at 3 am. 

Clark is still beside you, mind working at lightning speed to cheer you up.

“How about we go to Amoré for lunch in a few hours? Get some of those Belgian waffles you love so much. My treat.” 

Your heart soars at the offer, the excitement on your face as plain as day.

“You always know how to make me happy.”

***

On your way into downtown Metropolis, you’re snapping every photo you can get your hands on. From street corners, skyscrapers, pigeons doing that weird little hop thing, anything that catches your eye. 

From the tram, you can see the city stretch endlessly below.

“Pretty, right?” You say, leaning towards Clark, showing him the faintly blurred picture of a couple having lunch under the sunlit arches in Centennial Park. 

One of your favourite sights in town, you had to say. Especially this time of the year, the cherry blossoms were in bloom, painting the city in a light blush. 

It was a sight to behold and completely and utterly romantic. 

You couldn’t be the second coming of Cupid if you weren’t a hopeless romantic. Even if it wasn’t happening for you, you were happy it was happening for someone else. 

The feeling of him right next to you, the faint but intoxicating smell of his cologne as he leans closer, has you swooning. 

Then he spoke, and it’s like he’s trying to put you in an early grave. 

“I love seeing Metropolis from your eyes…”

You were so gone.

You love the way he made you feel. Even the smallest things make you feel like you’re flying. 

“Well, it’s a special city,” you shrug. “Lots to shoot, lots to be inspired by.”

You play it off well enough. Just long enough for your heart rate to return to something less concerning. You didn’t need to be having a heart attack before you got your hands on free Belgian waffles courtesy of Clark. 

He seems to accept your response, not pushing any further, but the little twinkle in his eyes tells you he knows more than he’s letting on. 

“I know,” he says softly. 

You smile to yourself, a quiet kind of peace rolling over you before lifting the camera back up to keep shooting. Your world, framed in your lens once again. 

You don’t use cameras just for work; they're tools that help you focus, a way to keep your powers in check.

Finger guns can be… unpredictable. One time, there was a little misfire, and suddenly, you made a guy hopelessly in love with his own reflection. You can only hope it wore off before lunchtime.

But with the camera, you have control. Two consecutive photos of the same people with the same camera and, BAM, the match is made.

It’s the perfect tool for unsuspecting singles everywhere.

It'll push them both in the right direction, make them bolder, and give them the confidence to make that first move.

Sure, it’s a little bit of an occupational hazard, but you've gotten better at controlling it… mostly.

“It’s our stop,” Clark says, waking you from your daydream. You feel the tram car judder to a stop and step off. But not without stumbling a little,  though your big, strong guardian reaches and steadies you.

Letting out a deep breath of relief, you didn’t become a pancake. You beam up at him. 

“I swear, I would’ve become a splat on the pavement a long time ago if it weren’t for you.”

“I have to look out for a fellow klutz,” Clark responds, still holding you upright. 

It should be funny, really, that somehow you’re just as, if not more, clumsy than he is, but he makes it look endearing instead of disastrous.

Clearing your throat, you try to pull yourself together before you get lost in that beautiful oasis called his eyes.

“Well, fellow klutz, let’s get food.”

You reach out, half considering taking his hand before opting to tug gently at his sleeve instead.

Turning into a side street, you drink in the familiar sight in front of you. You couldn’t count how many times you’d found yourself walking through this part of New Troy, a hidden-away jewel, tucked quietly behind the hustle and bustle just a few feet away.

You snap a picture here and there, of the sun-worn brick walls lined with ivy, your favourite food cart with burritos you swore by, the smell of grilled peppers and warm tortillas bringing you back to the day you and Clark tried them for the first time.

An old jewellery store catches your eye, the one with the slightly crooked sign and the velvet-lined display. You smile at the memory of you and Clark stopping in to pick something out for his mother’s birthday, the store clerk wrongfully (but very enthusiastically) trying to sell you engagement rings. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Clark turn that red.

Before you finally arrive at the doors of Amoré, the cafe of your dreams. It’s like someone took a look inside your brain and planted it in reality.

The little jingle as you both enter is nostalgic as you’re yet again brought back to a memory with Clark. 

Unlike today, it had been absolutely horrid, winds threatening to sweep you off your feet, and it was as if heaven itself had opened up and decided to rain down without mercy.

Clark was soaked from head to toe, and it was partly your fault.

In your defence, it hadn’t been raining when you left the office, and it wasn't even forecasted, but your chronic unluckiness decided to make an appearance anyway.

Before you could get completely drenched, though, the rain stopped, or at least, it did for you.

Above you, Clark had shielded you from the downpour, holding his suit jacket over your head like a makeshift umbrella.

“But you’ll get cold,” you protested, trying to tug the jacket back toward him.

“I’ll be fine.”

“No, you won’t be. You’ll get cold and then get sick and then—”

He chuckled at your concern, adjusting the jacket so it covered you completely, water dripping from his hair as he met your eyes.

“I’ll be okay,” he said softly, “as long as you’re okay.”

You felt like Cupid had shot you with an arrow that day. 

Clark’s hair, wet and curly, clung to his forehead, droplets beading on the frames of his glasses. His white shirt was soaked through, clinging to the lines of his torso. That was also the magical day you realised Clark Kent has abs.

He was a vision. A romantic vision, the kind you’d scribbled about in the margins of notebooks and never expected to meet in person. 

The whole time he was smiling. All pretty and gentle as he shepherded you into Amoré, shaking the rain from his sleeves and insisting you go ahead while he wrung out his tie.

He treated you to the best hot chocolate you’d ever had: thick, sweet and plenty of marshmallows. 

“Give me your hands,” you demanded, and started rubbing them together rapidly, palms pressing against his as if your friction could send some warmth straight into his bones.

“What are you doing?” he asked, eyebrows quirked up.

“Getting you warm and making sure you don’t get a cold,” you said, dead serious. You knew very well your efforts were dumb and mostly theatrical, but you couldn’t be blamed for trying. “If you get sick because of me… I’ll end up feeling terrible, and I'll make you so much soup that it'll be falling out your ears.”

He laughed, the sound low and fond. “Is that the threat?” he teased. “Homemade soup?”

“Yes,” you said, because you meant it. He squeezed your hands once, warm and sure, then leaned in and brushed his forehead to yours, just for a second, before leaning back as if reconsidering his actions. You missed his touch as soon as it was gone.

“After you,” Clark says, opening the door to Amoré wide, and you step in immediately, hit with the smell of cinnamon and sugar. 

A stolen cat and a trip down memory lane could really make someone hungry. 

***

You had eaten your weight in food, the owner, Dana, giving you a free cinnamon roll on the house for your cat-related troubles. 

“It’s the least I can do since you spend half your paycheck here every month,” she joked.

Now, you’re walking down the street, the city humming quietly around you, on your way back to work.

You glance at Clark’s empty hand as he walks in step with you, his palm facing slightly upward, open as if he’s waiting. 

You wish you could reach out and take it. 

Be one of those effortlessly affectionate couples, the kind you see on park benches or on travel posters, sickeningly cute in a way that makes strangers roll their eyes but secretly smile. The kind you’d find on the cover of a magazine titled Love in the City.

You find yourself smiling at the idea. Clark would look good on the cover of something like that. 

You’re about to head to the tram stop when something catches your eye. It’s the way the afternoon light hits a shop window, scattering across the glass and bouncing off a row of flowers in buckets by the door. You rush to get one of your cameras out before adjusting the focus with muscle memory, taking shot after shot as the light shifts and flickers.

You can feel Clark’s eyes on you, probably curious and fond, but you’re too deep in the zone to meet his gaze. You’ll probably freak out about it later, when your brain catches up with you and remembers how close he’d been, how soft his look had turned.

A couple enters one of your shots, looking like they’ve stepped straight out of an old, vintage postcard. 

“Those are going to turn out beautifully,” he comments.

“Well, in another world, I’d be a wedding photographer,” you say, lowering the camera.

Clark chuckles, “Another world, huh? You’d make a great one.”

“I would. But fortunately for you, Mr Kansas, we’re in this world, and we get to work together.”

“Mr Kansas? That’s new,” he says, clearly amused.

“I gotta keep you on your toes,” you joke before continuing to take pictures.

Taking shots of things you love. A street musician playing to the clouds, the way sunlight hits a puddle after rain, a dog barking at a squirrel in a tree.  Life’s precious little moments that you’d normally overlook.

You walk over to the couple, camera still in hand, and offer them a print.

“I got you in one of my shots,” you say, smiling softly. “You can have this if you want it.”

Their eyes widen, and they take it with a “thank you”. It’s a candid moment of love, something so pure and effortless, yet somehow, just out of your reach. But seeing how it lights them up, how it makes them laugh and lean into each other, might just be enough for you.

You rush back over to Clark, cheeks flushed from the little burst of excitement still buzzing in your chest.

“Did they like the picture?” he asks, eyes lighting up, just at the sight of your happy face.

“They loved it,” you say, grinning, your heart all warm and gooey, like a freshly baked cookie right out of the oven. “Maybe love isn’t meant for me, but I love it regardless. I don’t know, being able to capture it for someone else makes my world a little brighter.”

You catch something flickering in Clark’s eyes, a look you can’t quite place. Knowing him, he’s probably fighting the urge to gently call you out on the self-deprecation, to tell you you’re wrong about love not being meant for you. But before he can say anything, something else catches your eye, inspiration burning inside of you like a fire.

“Can you hold this for a sec?” you ask, holding out one of your cameras to him.

“Of course,” he says, taking it carefully, as though it’s something precious.

You’re already moving, half jogging, half skipping, the sun spilling across your face as your eyes dart around, scanning the street for that perfect shot. 

Clark watches with that quiet, unshakable fondness of his, his heart pitter-pattering with every step you take, every moment you stop to frame a picture. And unknown to you, there’s a soft click, the snap of the shutter, as he lifts the camera and takes a candid photo of you.

He thinks you look beautiful.

Like something out of a postcard. 

***

After a long day at the Daily Planet, editing and colour-correcting your photos for print until your eyes felt like sandpaper, the only thing you wanted to do was sleep for the next decade.

So naturally, there’s a knock at your door.

You groan, rolling out of bed and immediately regretting every life choice that led you here when your knee slams into the floor.

“Fucking—” You bite down on the rest of the word, hissing through your teeth.

You grab the baseball bat you normally use to shoo away the pigeons that loved to shit on your balcony, hobbling toward the door and wondering who would dare interrupt your beauty sleep at this hour.

“Listen, whatever you’re selling—”

Meow.

You freeze. Your eyes widen when you see your cat being held in the arms of someone standing in your doorway. Cato looks perfectly content, purring like the little traitor he is, tail flicking lazily as if he hadn’t been abducted by a supervillain less than twenty-four hours ago.

You blink, lowering the bat slightly. “Cato?”

He meows again, utterly unbothered.

“My sweet baby. Never run away again!”

You pet him lightly, and he leans into your touch, purring contentedly… before suddenly hissing at you. 

“That’s my boy,” you coo.

As you straighten, your eyes travel up the body that’s holding your cat. That’s when it hits you: a very distinct colour scheme, blue, red, and yellow. And that unmistakable symbol on his chest that Cato had been pawing at… where did you know that from?

Lo and behold, Superman, in all his heroic super-ness, is standing in your doorway, holding your cat. The curl of Cato’s tail drapes over the Man of Steel’s arm, his little claws kneading gently at the emblem as Superman smiles down at you, that warm, world-saving smile that somehow makes even an over-caffeinated yet sleep-deprived photographer’s knees weak.

“Superman,” you start, trying to sound calm and not like you’re about to melt into a puddle of nerves. “Why are you holding my cat?” You can’t help the deer-in-headlights look on your face.

He shifts Cato gently in his arms, the cat looking way too pleased with himself for someone who just survived a supervillain kidnapping.

“I rescued him from Toyman’s old hideout,” Superman explains, “There was a small explosion, a lot of smoke, and I found this little guy sitting on a busted control panel like he owned the place.”

You blink, trying to picture your cat perched amid sparks and wreckage. That tracks.

Superman smiles, holding Cato out to you. “His collar had your address on it. Figured he’d want to come home.”

You take Cato, your fingers brushing briefly against Superman’s gloved hand, a spark running through your body. “Yeah, well,” you murmur, cradling your cat, “he’s grounded. Forever. No more villain playdates.”

Your mind is grasping to keep this conversation going when a certain someone comes to mind. 

“Oh! We uh, have a mutual friend,” you start, shifting Cato in your arms like it gives you some excuse for talking to Superman. “Clark Kent? Or, well, I guess I don’t actually know if you guys are friends. But you do give him an awful amount of interviews.”

Superman tilts his head, that signature half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Clark keeps me busy,” he admits, voice calm but amused.

“I’ll bet,” you say, raising an eyebrow. “So what’s a girl gotta do to get a moment with you? I take great pictures.”

He chuckles softly. “Persistence goes a long way.”

“Oh, I’m persistent,” you counter with a grin. “If you ever want a proper photo shoot, call me first. I’ll make you look just as handsome as you are in real life.”

Your eyes wander before you can stop them, over the sharp line of his jaw, up to the curl of hair that refuses to obey gravity. You swallow hard, heart thudding traitorously against your ribs.

“Which is,” you murmur before your filter can kick in, “really, really handsome.” A beat passes. “Wow, you’re perfect.”

Superman blinks, then smiles. That small, devastating smile that could probably power Metropolis for a week. “I’m… far from perfect,” he says gently, though the faint pink dusting his cheeks suggests he’s not entirely immune to the compliment.

“Liar.” You let out a shaky laugh.

“I should let you get back to saving Metropolis, or sleeping…” you pause, tilting your head, “Do you even sleep?”

“Yes,” he says, that soft smile still in place. “I sleep.”

“Good to know.” You laugh under your breath, rubbing the back of your neck. “Well, I uh…” You trail off, words slipping away as you look at him. The warmth in his eyes, his voice like a balm for your brain, smoothing out the edges of your chaotic day until everything feels… easy.

“Thank you so much,” you say quietly. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“It’s okay,” he replies, his tone gentle, reassuring. “I’m just glad I got him home to you. Seems like he missed you, too.”

You glance down to see Cato nuzzling against your arm, purring like a motorboat, his earlier hissiness forgotten now that he’s safely home. “Yeah,” you whisper, smiling softly. “He’s a menace, but he’s my menace.”

When you look up again, Superman is already stepping back into the hallway.

“Goodnight, Superman,” you say, voice a little softer than you meant it to be.

He smiles back, “Goodnight.”

And with a rush of wind and a flutter of red, he’s gone, leaving you standing in the doorway, clutching your cat and wondering if maybe your Cupid powers had finally started working on you.

***

You’re going mad.

But you can’t stop thinking about him.

No matter how many times you flip your pillow or change positions, sleep refuses to come. You toss and turn, your mind replaying every single moment on a loop, the way he laughed, the way his eyes softened when he said “I’m glad he’s home,” like he actually cared. The way his smile made the world tilt just slightly on its axis.

But on the other hand, he was Superman.

He probably dated someone equally as… super. Why wouldn’t he? It made sense. Someone who could fly beside him, and not have to worry about things like rent or camera batteries. He probably had a super hot alien girlfriend somewhere who could light up the sky with a wink.

Still… your Cupid senses were pinging around like a broken radio, so it was definitely alive. At least, on your part.

You’ve had crushes before. You’ve even fallen in love once or twice. But this was different. It wasn’t the soft, dreamy kind of love that crept up quietly. It was electric and loud.

Like your heart was dancing in your chest, and not a slow dance either, it was like the tango or samba. So full of life, like it might just grow wings and fly.

Kind of like that day in the rain with Clark…

Fuck, love was confusing.

You arrive at the Daily Planet the next morning with renewed energy. A spring in your step that even a double shot of espresso couldn’t usually inspire, you practically glide past the reception desk.

Jimmy, perched on the edge of a chair with a camera slung around his neck, grins and raises an eyebrow. “You look… chipper.”

“Chipper?” you repeat, smirking. “Jimmy, Superman saved my cat. Not just saved him, but brought him to my door.”

Jimmy whistles, leaning back like he’s suddenly seen the headline of the century. “Wait, what? Your cat? And Superman personally delivered him?”

“Yep,” you say, popping the ‘p’ obnoxiously as you wipe your nails on your shirt. You were loving his stunned expression, eating it up, in fact. “We like talked or whatever. It's not even a big deal.”

You gush him to Jimmy for a couple minutes…or 15, give or take, until he shoos you away from his desk. With a sigh, your eyes sweep the office, looking for someone else to brag to when you see Clark.

Walking over and sitting on the edge of his desk, you smile at him a little too long.

“Is… everything okay?” he asks.

“Everything is more than okay. Clark, your boy, Superman, dropped by my apartment yesterday. Did you tell him about Cato?”

He blinks at you, maybe at the fact that you called him and Superman “boys”.

“I—”

Before he can even confirm or deny it, you throw your arms around him. “Thank you.”

You sink into his embrace, and no matter how many times it happens, you’re always a little stunned by how right it feels, like slipping into a warm bath after a long day.

His arms wrap around you easily, steady and warm, and for a fleeting second, you think this must be what home feels like. Your own little safe haven.

And his strong, solid biceps? Yeah, you could definitely make a home right there if he’d let you. 

Reluctantly, you pull back before you end up attaching yourself to him like a koala on a eucalyptus tree, though you’re very tempted.

“Plus, I swear, Cato has been so well-behaved since he got back. I woke up, and my apartment was still intact because he kept meowing at my Superman poster.”

“You have a Superman poster?”

You laugh, that same shaky, breathy laugh from last night, and wave a hand dismissively. “That’s irrelevant.”

You lean closer as if to imply whatever you're about to say has to stay hush-hush.

“But, uh, don't run off and tell Superman. I'll never live it down.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” he says, holding out his pinkie, which you immediately wrap around his. 

While he has you close, he says, “Well, I was actually going to ask if you're free for lunch later?”

“I'm always free for you.”

***

At lunch, two of you head back to Amoré that afternoon, ready to melt into the seats over a cup of coffee and a croissant…or 5.

“Couple discount,” Dana intises, as she approaches the two of you in your usual chairs.

“You know very well that we're not dating,” you whine, probably sounding a little too sad that you aren’t. 

“But you should be. In all my years of working here, I've never seen friends with chemistry like this. Truly, tell me…why not?”

The two of you don’t have an answer for that. 

You just let the question wash over you as you noticeably avoid each other’s eyes. 

“Because…we’re friends,” you reiterate. She remains unconvinced by your weak attempt at deflection.

“Well, the couple discount will be here until next week, so I would hurry up if I were you.”

“Thanks, Dana,” Clark replies politely as she walks off, grumbling to herself, something about “idiots in love”. 

She was a character, but you can’t help wondering what if.

What if she was right?

To distract yourself, you reach for your camera as you always do. 

The light is just right, painting the room in a warm, honeyed glow. Not quite sunny, not quite dim.  The kind of scene you could set music to. 

And then there’s Clark.

You lift the camera and look at him through the lens, and somehow, impossibly, he’s perfect as always.

 He's always so dynamic, so interesting. Wherever he's laughing at a joke Jimmy told, or he's hard at work on an article, there's so much to see, so much to love.

By now, he’s used to being the subject of your photos every now and then. He barely reacts when the shutter clicks, just glances up, raises a brow, gives you that familiar half-smile before going about his business.

You can’t help it. He’s just so fun to take candid photos of. Capturing his beauty that's usually in motion in still moments. 

Snapshots of Clark that feel honest. Real. The way his eyes soften when he smiles, the way he simply exists in a space.

You take the picture and practically die at the result.

He’s looking at you.

Not posing or performing. Just looking, curious in that way he often is, like he’s quietly wondering what’s going on inside your head. Like he’s trying to read you without asking the question out loud.

It’s funny how a single picture of him can weigh so heavily on you.

It’s the dimples, first of all. 

The way they show when he smiles at you, all soft and patient, like he’s waiting for your reaction. For your attention. For something.

That's real.

You smile at the photo without even thinking about it.

“Good picture?” he asks.

“More than good.”

You tilt the camera toward him, letting him see.

“See?” you say softly. “Perfect.”

***

You wake up in the morning, and everything feels lighter. It’s like the clouds in the sky were made of candy floss, and the sun is quite literally smiling down at you. It’s that warm and gooey again. 

You try to shake it off to no avail, blinking against the morning light, and begin getting ready for work, brushing your teeth and throwing on your clothes with a little extra spring in your step.

When you get to the office, Clark is already at your desk, leaning casually against the corner with that half-smile that drives your brain into a mild panic.

“Hey, Clark,” you say, drawing out the greeting and fluttering your eyes a little more than usual.

You catch yourself before it goes too far, snapping out of it and sitting up straight. What the heck was that?

“Hey yourself. I got you, your morning coffee,” he says casually, “And this bouquet of flowers.”

Before turning around and pulling the flowers out of seemingly thin air. It's a beautiful bouquet, full of life and colour. Is he a magician? A mind reader?

“They're beautiful.”

“Well, they match their new owner.”

Was Clark Kent… flirting with you?

“They're—” you start, words tripping over themselves. “Camellias… my favourite. How did you…?”

“I remember you recommending them when I was debating what to send my Ma on her birthday,” he says softly, smiling in that shy-but-warm way that makes your chest fizz. “Said that they ‘can light up any room without even trying.’”

“Do you remember everything I say?” you ask, feeling your heartbeat jump straight into your throat.

“I try,” he admits, voice low. “You say a lot of beautiful things.”

The Cupid tingles were here, and they were going crazy.

“Well, you say a lot of beautiful things too, Mr Kansas.”

You step closer into his space, almost chest to chest, love is in the air, and you can’t seem to stop yourself.

Were you flirting with Clark?!

The realisation knocks you out of the clouds as that sudden burst of confidence wears off. 

“I need to… feed the printer some, uh, paper,” you blurt, already stumbling backwards, walking directly into a filing cabinet and half tripping over your own feet before escaping to the supply closet like it’s a lifeboat on a sinking ship.

You didn’t know what was going on with you… more importantly, you didn’t know what was going on with Clark.

Behind you, you think you hear him exhale, and then quietly say to himself, “…Nice going, Kent.”

The rest of the day, it’s like the whole world had come to life, everything that bit brighter, more vibrant. And you can’t keep Clark off your mind, and you mean more than usual. Whenever you thought of him, he'd appear, just a few seconds later. 

And sure, maybe you could chalk that up to the fact that you work together, but that doesn’t explain him randomly walking up onto the rooftop where you were and having no reason as to why. Or him finding you in the broom closet, when he had no reason to be in there. 

It has something to do with the warm, gooey feeling from this morning. 

Even as you walk back from lunch with Clark, you notice that flowers that are out of season are in full bloom. Though little did you know, the worst was yet to come. As you’re walking, he stops over to help an old lady across the street.

“I’ll just be a second,” he says, rushing off. You watch him greet her and help her across the street, the way her face lights up as they talk, it makes you soft. 

Ping.

So it’s no surprise that a random halo appears over your head.

You only realise it's there when you feel a pair of eyes looking above you, rather than at you. You wave it away, the halo disappearing in a puff of smoke, thankfully before Clark makes back over to you. 

“Ready to head back?”

“Yeah, totally.”

***

Working was impossible at this point. It felt like you just stepped into a movie with how perfect everything felt. And for the girl with exceptionally bad luck, that could only mean one thing. Everything was about to go to shit. 

It’s not even anything major. 

You were chilling by your desk, fiddling with your pencil, finalising some edit when he came over to your desk. He simply says your name and then, “I’ve been thinking about you…”’

You don’t even hear the rest of the sentence.  That was enough for you to want to go feral on this man. 

“Shit—”

You let go of the pencil, instead of falling, instead of bouncing onto the floor as physics intended, the pencil hangs suspended in midair, floating in front of you like you’ve stepped into a zero-gravity simulator.

A beat passes. Then the coffee cup next to you lifts off the table too, tilting slightly, liquid sloshing dangerously but somehow not spilling. Papers flutter upward like startled birds. Pens twirl. Lois’s stress ball drifts majestically past your ear.

And then a far more alarming realisation hits you like a bus.

Why are my feet off the ground?

That should not be a question anyone asks during a normal weekday. That’s a question reserved for roller-coaster fanatics or trapeze artists, not you. 

You swish your legs experimentally, and instead of falling back down, you glide slightly sideways, drifting up like a helium balloon. 

If this weren’t happening in front of the entire newsroom, you’d feel like Peter Pan, all whimsical without the whole kidnapping children thing.

“You’re floating,” Cat gasps from across the bullpen, mouth hanging open as she drops her phone, which, of course, stops mid-air and starts floating too.

What was happening?

Was this… you?

Were you causing this?

Had your powers just evolved?

Or had flirting with Clark Kent somehow launched you into spontaneous levitation like a lovesick rocket?

You spin slowly in mid-air, hair drifting around your face like you’re underwater, and all you can think is, Why can’t I ever just be normal for one second?

All he did was bring you a pretzel, and your powers decided to have a complete meltdown about it. 

Clark opens his mouth to say something, probably to reassure you, because of course he would, but you beat him to it.

“No, no, don’t worry, everything’s under control,” you blurt, voice cracking like a rusty hinge.

It is absolutely not under control.

You’re now fully horizontal, hovering like a board in a magic show, the only thing keeping you from drifting straight up toward the massive ceiling is the death grip you have on the edge of your desk. 

Your knuckles are white, your heart is tap-dancing in your chest, and you’re pretty sure your dignity has already packed its bags and left the building.

The Daily Planet has stupidly high ceilings. If you let go, there is a non-zero chance you may never come back down. And you absolutely do not want to become the human party balloon of the office.

But of course, because this is your life, your grip slips.

Your hand slides, scrambling against piles of paper and glossy magazines that flutter upward like startled birds, slipping through your fingers one by one.

“No, no, no—!”

And then you let go.

You start to drift upward, slowly at first, then faster, and before you can cry out, a hand closes around yours.

“I’ve got you.”

As if you couldn't feel more weightless.

Despite all the chaos, the floating furniture, the gasps echoing through the bullpen, it’s like the world narrows down to just his face.

Everything else blurs out: the newsroom noise, the fluorescent lights, the fact that you are currently defying gravity in front of your coworkers.

It's like nothing else in the entire universe exists.

You’re weightless in more ways than one, and suddenly you understand why. It's exactly how he makes you feel.

His hands wrap around yours, warm and sure, and your fingers curl instinctively around his, clinging like he’s gravity itself.

“Just keep your eyes on me,” he says. He's steady, not freaking out in the slightest, and he has every right to be.

It's not every day your coworker starts floating away.

You nod at him, and slowly, he tugs you close. You fight the zero gravity and drift into his inviting arms.

And before you knew it, you were back on the floor. Everything was floating, crashing down shortly after.

“What the hell is going on?” Perry yells.

***

You hoped the incident would be forgotten by tomorrow. You doubted it, but you sure can hope.

You have been in love before, but never in a way that had your powers this out of whack.

He had you floating, and you didn't know you could do that!

But words couldn't fully explain the way it felt. Like your heart was climbing with you as you left the ground. 

You were comfy now and firmly obeying the laws of physics. Wrapped up in your blanket, watching reruns as you try to fall asleep.

Though it was impossible, the events of the day were still spinning through your head like a washing machine.

You’d all but exposed the fact that you’re a metahuman to your colleagues.

It’s not like you were ashamed of it or hated who you were; it was just…private.

Not even Clark knew.

And you liked it that way, the control, the separation between your strange and your normal.

But now?

Maybe there was still a chance you could blame everything on a freak accident. Or that you’d been accidentally blasted by an evil cosmic ray on your way to work. That sounded like something that happened in Metropolis at least twice a week.

Fuck.

The thought of the end of your social life disappears from your mind when you see a certain someone on the news. The thought of Superman, the image of his smile on the screen, lulls you to sleep, easier than you thought was possible. 

You awaken to the soft knocking on the window to your balcony. You and massaging out the crick in your neck from falling asleep half off the couch.

Assuming it’s just a pigeon pecking at the glass, you grab your trusty baseball bat, ready to shoo it away. You open the balcony door cautiously to find not a pigeon but a whole ass man.

Your gaze travels from his shoes up to a handsome face staring back at you, calm and impossibly composed.

“Superman,” you wheeze, heart racing, “What are you doing on my balcony?”

“I wanted to check on your cat,” he says, calm as ever.

“Oh.”

“And you.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve made quite the impression on me.”

You made an impression on Superman?!

You may not be screaming out loud, but on the inside, you've got a megaphone that you're yelling at the top of your lungs into.

“I tend to have that effect on people.”

You aim to lean against your doorway but miss, stumbling a little. He catches you because, of course, he does. 

So much for being suave.

The way he holds your arm, gently but securely, has you thinking about Clark. It's you've been hit with a wave of deja vu.

You shake away the thought and look back up at him. Probably shouldn't be thinking about two guys at the same time, but you couldn't help it. 

“You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“It's not that, it's just… there's something so familiar about you.”

As you look at him, it's like your brain is straining to put together a puzzle with a missing piece.

Like you couldn’t find the right words. He had your brain all fried; he had put a spell on you, that’s for sure. 

Before you can find that missing puzzle piece, your cat bounds up to him. Meowing at Superman's boots and pawing at his legs.

“Sorry about that. You've made quite the impression on him.”

Bending down, he lifts Cato into his arms and pets him softly, “I've missed you too, buddy.”

Right then and there, you decide it should be illegal to look that fine while holding a cat.

He looks up at you with light concern.

“What are you doing awake? It's 2 am.”

“Can't sleep. My brain is being stubborn. What about you? Shouldn't you be sleeping instead of throwing bricks from your glass house?”

“You got me there.”

“Seriously, though. You should sleep. I just saw you on TV lifting a building. You don't need to check on me.”

The guilt you would feel if he were tired the next day and potentially getting hurt fighting some villain, because of you, would be immeasurable. 

Sure, you didn't know what he did during the day when he wasn't Superman-ing around, but you wanted him to be well rested.

“I'll survive.”

From his tone of voice, you knew he was resolute in this. 

“If you insist. So…” you tap your foot, trying to think what you would do with a superhero in your living room.

“Wanna bake with me? By the time we're done, I'm sure we'll be tired.” You suggest. Doing something with your hands always helps tucker you out. “...Unless you think it's dumb. I know you're a busy guy—”

“It would be an honour.”

***

Superman was nice.

Not just nice but nice to be around. Like the kind of guy you'd bring home to meet the parents.

Boyfriend material.

Just who is this guy? Superhero and rom-com lead? You're starting to wonder if he was made in a lab.

“My Ma makes the best pies,” he says, voice reminiscent, kneading the dough with his hands in practised movements.

Those words bring you back to the first week of knowing Clark. It was around Thanksgiving when you started, and he fawned over his mother's pumpkin pie.

“My Ma makes the best pies,” he had said, probably verbatim, followed by, “Wish you could try it sometime.”

He had said it quieter, almost like he didn't mean for it to slip out. The thought of him bringing you home to meet his parents for Thanksgiving makes you feel a little lightheaded. What you wouldn't give to be that important to him.

You laugh softly, chuckling at the memory. You just couldn't stop yourself from thinking about him, could you?

“What?” he asks, brow furrowing slightly.

“No, it’s just… You remind me of someone,” you say, smiling, shaking your head. “A good someone. Someone I really like.”

He glances down at himself, a hint of concern crossing his face. You mistake that concern for concern about the mess the two of you were making. 

At this point, there was a light dusting of flour in his hair, and some on your cheek.

“Are you sure you can get, like, flour and stuff on your suit?”

“It’s okay,” he says casually, shrugging.

“Of course,” you tease, grinning. “The Man of Steel can handle a little flour.”

He smirks, brushing a playful dusting of flour from his shoulder, and you can’t help but notice how domestic and endearing he looks in the kitchen.

“Oh, wait, I know!”

You scuttle around your kitchen, slippers sliding on the floor, and grab an apron to present it to him in a most dramatic fashion. 

“Kiss the cook?” he says, questioning as he reads the block writing printed on the front, along with a gratuitous number of love hearts.

“Gag gift from a Secret Santa a few years back,” you explain away. “Now bend down so I can put this on you…”

Without arguing, he bends down, allowing you to slip it over his head.

“How does it look?”

You love the sight of Metropolis’ protector in an apron, goofy smile and all.

“Perfect, Superman. Absolutely perfect.”

***

One thing’s for sure, Superman knows how to bake a pie.

It was still dark, the room illuminated by your vintage bedside lamp, its warm amber glow spilling softly across the table. You’d found it years ago at a little thrift shop downtown, a place that smelled faintly of old books and cinnamon buns, for some reason.

Outside, the sun would soon begin to rise, birds chirping to life as the night slowly loosened its grip on the world.

As the two of you dig in, wrapped in the quiet stillness of morning, the only sound is the clink of forks against porcelain. 

He chuckles as you let out contented hum after contented hum with each spoonful.

“What?” you pout, “I can’t be excited about pie?”

“It’s not that,” he says, smiling. “You just have a little…”

Before you can ask, he reaches out, wiping the crumbs from the side of your mouth. 

You can’t stop your heart from racing as his thumb brushes away the last trace, lingering just a second too long, right next to your lips.

Ping.

A halo appears above your head.

The universe seems to be confusing Cupid with an angel.

“You, uh, also have a little…” he trails off, eyes set just above your head.

You tap above your head, hands finding the solid halo above you.

“Don't pay it too much attention,” you grumble, dropping your hands in defeat.

“Is that because of me?” He asks, definitely still paying it attention. 

“...perhaps.”

What use was there in lying? Your heartbeat was already giving you away anyway.

He leans a little closer, and you have to remind yourself how to breathe as you look into his impossibly blue eyes.

“Well,” he says softly, “it’s an honour to give you halos.”

Shit.

You hadn’t felt this flustered in a long time. Not since—well. Not since this afternoon with Clark. Why were handsome men flirting with you all of a sudden? Had you somehow won the love lottery after years of bad relationships after bad relationships?

“Can I take a picture of you?” you blurt out. “While I have you captive in my apartment. And, don't worry, I won't go selling anything to tabloids or anything. This is just for me.”

“Go right ahead,” he says easily, continuing to eat like he knows you want him exactly as he is.

You reach across with a grunt, yanking your camera from the counter it was resting on. 

You turn it on and focus on him immediately; you wouldn't let this opportunity go to waste.

A curl has fallen loose, resting against his forehead, stubborn and soft. You take a picture, then another. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look up at first. You figure he must be used to cameras.

“Do you use gel?” you ask, lowering the phone slightly, “or is that all you?”

He smiles as he finally looks up at you. “All me.”

You take one more picture.

“Can I see?”

You move closer and show him the screen. “You’re perfect,” you say before you can stop yourself. “Those dimples are to die for.”

Your smile falters just a little because dimples suddenly make you think of Clark. Why were all roads leading back to him?

He notices, but doesn't say anything.

“I think,” he says gently, eyes flicking from the photo back to you, “I only look so ‘perfect’ because you’re the one taking the picture. Everything looks great from your point of view.”

***

By the time you wake up, it's 1 p.m.

Thank fuck it's a Saturday and you have nothing to do except sleep and stew everything that's happened in such a short space of time.

Hours pass as you think of Superman's cute little smile and how you're so not looking forward to going to work on Monday.

Before you know it, it's evening yet again. Time flies when you're having a mental breakdown.

You start going through the pictures on your personal camera, you hadn't used in a few days… because hotties love to scrapbook.

Seeing a flash of your face.

You didn't remember that picture.

You flip to the next one over, and it's the picture you took of Clark.

You flip back to you, then to the picture of Clark, then to you, then to Clark. The smile on your face suddenly drops.

If A + B = C… one picture of him plus one picture of you equals… accidental love match?

“Fuck…” you say, dropping your camera into your lap before letting out a noticeably louder, “Fuck!”

It practically shook the building. You spring up and start freaking out.

After getting your steps in by pacing and down so fast it was making Cato dizzy, you make the harrowing decision to call Clark.

He needed to know.

It explained a whole lot: the flowers, the flirting, the floating.

How did you not see this earlier? 

Your press on his contract, it rings once, then—

“Hello?”

“Clark?” you say, your voice is shakier than usual. You didn't quite know how to act.

 How could you explain that you kinda made him fall in love with you?

“Is everything okay?” He asks, as if he could read your mind from miles away.

“I know it’s late, and this is so stupid, but…can you come over?”

“I'll be there as fast as I can.”

A few minutes later, he arrives at your door. You don't even question how he got here so quickly when he lived halfway across the city from you, dragging him inside with urgency.

“What's wrong?” he says, frowning at your distressed expression.

“I fucked up. Like majorly, and when you find out…”

You pause, looking up at him and his kind eyes, marred with worry.

“Just try not to hate me.”You start sniffling, “I couldn't bear it if you hated me, but I'd understand if you did. I mean, this is just so fucked up and—”

He pulls you into his arms, making you feel secure. “Whatever it is, it won't change how I feel about you.”

You didn't have the time or energy to dissect his words, instead leaning your head against his chest. 

Who knows? It may be the last time you're able to.

You try to speak, but it's too hard. It's like you're being choked, the words too big to get out.

Seeing your distress, he gently guides you toward your couch, his hand warm on your back, and you don’t object. Your brain is too scrambled to even consider resisting.

“How about we relax?” he murmurs. “Just so you can collect your thoughts, and then you can tell me whatever you need to.”

You let out a long, shaky sigh before nodding.

“Come here,” he says softly, opening his arm for you, and you practically crash into his side, like gravity shifts just to pull you against him.

He wraps an arm around your shoulders, steady and protective, and your forehead finds the curve of his chest without thinking.

His heartbeat is calm.

Yours… less so.

At some point, somewhere between his fingers brushing your arm and the warmth of his side against you, your eyes grow heavy.

Little snores escaping you before you can help it.

Clark’s breath hitches in the smallest laugh, fond and quiet. He adjusts his hold so you don’t slump over, fearful of waking you. 

He knows how hard you work, running in empty and getting in your head about not doing enough. When you do more than enough, you are more than enough. 

And when he’s sure you’re completely asleep, he shifts carefully, lifting you into his arms with an ease that makes you wonder how you ever doubted if he'd be there for you or not.

He carries you to bed, smiling as you mumble in your sleep before laying you down gently.

Taking extra care to tuck the blanket around you.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, making his way out of the room. 

***

You wake up with a start. It's not a slow recollection of events; it's like you've been shot.

Jolting out of bed, you trip all over your room before finally making it out.

Though before you can make any rash decisions, you freeze the moment you walk into your living room.

Clark is on your couch.

Cato sprawled out on top of him like he pays rent, tiny paws kneading at Clark’s hair.

He sleeps peacefully, mouth soft, glasses still on. The light from your half-open blinds highlights every perfect inch of his face.

You stand there staring like an idiot, because this is not just your coworker, not just your friend, he’s the guy you're head over heels for.

And you might just lose him forever. All because you're the idiot who accidentally made him fall in love with you.

You swallow hard.

“Clark…?”

He stirs instantly, eyes fluttering open. His hand automatically goes to steady Cato so the cat doesn’t fall off. It’s stupidly endearing.

“Oh—hey,” he says softly. “Did I fall asleep? Sorry.”

“You—” You gesture helplessly at the entire scene. “You could’ve gone home. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He sits up carefully, Cato sliding into his lap like a sleepy loaf.

“You were pretty distraught when I got here.”

You nod, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

“Do you want to talk about it now? Whatever you had to tell me?”

“Yeah, I think that's best.”

Steeling your nerves, you sit down next to him and press your hands to your face. “Clark, listen. These past few days, you may have been experiencing something odd. Like heart palpitations, and all sorts of romantic notions when it comes to me.”

You clear your throat, “It's all my fault. I uh…I'm basically like Cupid.”

Perhaps you should've thought about your words, prepared a speech. There's nothing like free styling, telling your best friend you're a metahuman.

“Cupid?” He questions, not in a judgmental way. Mostly just confused.

“I can matchmake people, and sometimes when I take pictures, they're like my ‘arrows’.”

Another nod.

“So when you took a photo of me the other day…” You cringe. “And I took a photo of you…”

Understanding flickers in his expression. Don't panic. Just quiet, steady recognition.

“Right,” he says. “So, you were worried because you thought you made me fall in love with you against my will?”

Bullseye.

“Well, yes. Or… no. No, they can’t create something that’s not already there or impossible. They just… amplify. Highlight. Push things along. Even though it was an accident it was still shitty—” 

You’re babbling, faster than you can think, and he puts his hand on your shoulder.

“So,” he says softly, “you're saying there's something here.”

You go perfectly still. In all your panic, you hadn't really considered the fact that this meant that he liked you too.

That it wasn't just a misplaced finger gun or a passing infatuation.

He liked you.

He shuffles closer on the couch, stopping close enough that you can feel his warmth, see the way his glasses have slid slightly down his nose a little.

“Between you and me.”

He looks at you like he’s already known the answer, like he’s been waiting for you to catch up.

“Yeah, I…I guess there is.”

If he keeps looking at you like this, like you’re the only person in the world… you might honestly end up floating straight up to your ceiling again.

“Aren’t you mad?” you whisper. “I manipulated your feelings, I—”

Clark shakes his head before you can spiral.

“It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” he says gently. “It was an accident. And… honestly?”

His voice softens even more.

“It was the little push I needed. To finally tell you how I feel.”

“That you…?” you prompt, barely audible.

“That I’ve loved you since the moment we met. Showing me all the pictures you took, and talking to me like we've known each other for years. You really know how to make a guy feel at home.”

He gives a small, embarrassed smile.

“I can't get you out of my mind; it's always been like that, even before the whole matchmaking fiasco. Memories of you run through my head on the daily. From the night  you dragged me out to karaoke after I said I've never been, to the rainy day we stopped by Amoré for the first time and you tried to heat up my hands.”

Your heart lurches.

He remembers all of it.

Your fingers reach out, and he meets yours halfway.

“I love you and all that you are.”

Your hands intertwine, fitting together like they’ve been waiting to.

“You have no idea,” you breathe, “how long I’ve been wanting to hear that.”

Clark’s response is not verbal.

He leans in, and your lips connect like they were never meant to be apart.

The kiss is deep, warm, hungry without being rushed, like he’s been waiting for this but wants to savour it. 

When you finally pull away, your forehead rests against his, hearts beating in sync.

It was perfect.

The most perfect kiss.

The kind of kiss you’re pretty sure qualifies as the world’s greatest.

You think you might never recover from it.

Though a thought rings out in the back of your head. 

A certain Superhero, you may or may not have flirted with. 

You don't notice, but Clark is going through a dilemma too.

“I have something to—”

“I need to tell you—”

You both start talking at the same time.

A beat.

Then Clark gives a tiny nod. “You first.”

You swallow, “I… I baked with Superman.”

Clark blinks. “Hm?”

“I know, I know, don’t look at me like that—it just happened! I didn’t plan it, he was checking on me, and my cat, and we both couldn't sleep, and flour was everywhere and—” You put your hands in your hair. “Holy shit, am I going to have to reject Superman? No, no, that’s ridiculous, we only met twice, there's no way he likes me, it’s fine—”

“I’m Superman,” Clark says quietly.

You stare at him.

Then you let out a big, incredulous laugh.  You might have even slapped your knee.

“And I'm Batman. The fuck are you talking about?”

He hesitates. You can practically see him realising he maybe should’ve eased into that better.

“I… I’m Superm—”

“You can’t just repeat it!” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “Obviously, I don’t believe you. I sit across from you every day, Mr Kansas. You like fresh pancakes and Sunday morning walks, not to mention you’re the clumsiest person I know, bar me. There’s no way—”

He takes off his glasses.

You blink twice before letting out a scream. 

Is it one of horror? Excitement? Both? 

You may never know.

But the next thing out of your mouth, on repeat and in varying volumes, is “what the fuck?” 

You leap up from the couch, speed walking around in an attempt to burn off all this nervous energy. Your poor downstairs neighbours.

“Clark, what in the ever living—? How is this even possible?” you question, vaulting yourself back over your couch to face him.

“Hypno glasses.”

“Hypno— of course, of course,” you chuckle in mild panic as you throw your hands up. 

The similarities you were getting when you were around Superman were making a whole lot of sense. 

“The dimples… Oh! And the fucking pumpkin pies, I should've known!” you grumble.

The whole time you thought you were leading Superman and Clark on, he was the same guy? At least you're consistent.

“Are you angry with me?”

You shake your head immediately. “I’m not angry in the slightest.”

Your voice softens. “You’re Superman, Clark. A secret identity is… kinda necessary.”

Relief flickers over his face, but you keep going, because your brain is finally catching up.

“I mean, honestly, a lot of things are adding up now.”

You let out a breathy laugh, half disbelieving, half relieved.

“The disappearances, the fact that you’re always late… the way you’d show up with a new excuse every time I tried to confront you about it.”

You shrug helplessly.

“I just thought you had… I don’t know. A second job? A weird hobby? Some kind of… side hustle?”

You gesture vaguely.

“But not this. Definitely not ‘hey, by the way, I’m Superman.’”

Clark’s cheeks flush faintly (adorably).

He reaches for your hand without thinking, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I wanted to tell you,” he murmurs. “I’ve wanted to for a long time.”

You squeeze his hand back.

“Now you have,” you say softly.

“And I'm not going anywhere.”

***

“Catooo…” you whine for the fourth time.

He’s managed to perch himself on the very top of your shelf, tail flicking smugly, with absolutely no way of getting down.

Clark sighs, amused. “I swear he does this on purpose.”

Before you can argue, Clark lifts himself into the air, hovering up toward your stubborn little menace.

“Come here, buddy.”

Cato doesn’t need to be told twice. The moment Clark’s close enough, the cat launches himself straight into Clark’s arms with a loving meow like he’s been rescued from a burning building.

“That's my Cato,” Clark coos at him, getting nothing but adoring purrs in response.

He drifts back down, landing softly with Cato snuggled against his chest.

You fold your arms. “Traitor.”

But the moment Clark steps close enough to hand Cato over, it happens—

Ping.

A shimmering ‘love halo’, faint at first, then solidifying the instant he touches your hand.

You groan. “Is this ever going to wear off?”

Clark just smiles, wholly unbothered. “I quite like it.”

And he leans in, kissing the tip of your nose like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You’re about to complain again when something tugs at your back, a sudden weight and a strange tickle, enough to make you sit up straight.

You twist around, confused.

There’s a… movement under your shirt. A flutter.

You freeze.

Slowly, cautiously, you lift the hem, and lo and behold… two tiny Cupid wings are sprouting out of your back, fluffy and soft.

“…Oh my,” you breathe.

You turn back to Clark, eyes wide, wings still twitching behind you like confused baby birds.

“This,” you say, pointing at him in outrage,

“It's your fault.”

“It is?” he replies, finding it all entirely too amusing.

“You made me fall so hard, I grew wings!”

“Your wings are adorable,” he chuckles before he wraps his arms around you, kissing all over your face.

“Clark!” you whine, but he doesn’t let up, determined to show you how much he loves you. “Be careful, I might grow a tail next.”

Main Masterlist || DC Masterlist

[laufeysodinson]

so glad i came across this bec oh my goodness was it BRILLIANT AND SO CUTE!!!!!

[h4nifah]

sorry im not giving into the cutting out sweet treats propaganda. life is hard enough

[luveline]

𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄

You confess your affections to an unsuspecting Superman, but your best friend Clark can’t know about your crush, okay? You’d die of embarrassment. (Or, Clark falls in love while Superman does most of the wooing.) fem, 8k

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

You never thought you’d get to talk to Superman. You've never been in that kind of danger, and you never hoped to be. You hadn’t wanted to talk to Superman because you know this is weird. You can’t have a crush on someone you don’t know. It’s idol worship, a celebrity fixation, and Superman is the perfect target. You’re not alone in loving everything about him —it’s easy. You aren’t ever confronted with the bad in his good. 

And then he’s standing in front of you with his hands braced on your shoulders, and there’s blood running down your face from your temple and you’re crying, because it hurts, because you’re in the panic of your life and not sure what to do next. 

He frowns at you with an unwavering gentleness. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “take a deep breath, ma’am. Deep breath.” 

“It’s bl– bleeding.”

“I know.” 

You shudder through tears as Superman brings his cape up and rips. It startles you, sending fat tears plinking down your cheek. You hold your breath as he brings his scrap to your face, dabbing the wetness from your cheeks before turning the fabric and holding it to your temple firmly.

You gasp painfully under his touch, desperate for air.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a new shade, “it’s alright, you’re going to be fine, I promise. I’m gonna press this to your head, and we’ll see if we can get this bleeding stopped. As soon as it does, I’ll take you down and we can get you some real help.” 

You nod, skittish as a scared deer, eyes as wide as they’ll go to follow his movements. It doesn’t hurt any more than the injury itself as he presses down on your head wound. He sighs in sympathy anyway. A broad hand spreads behind your back, familiar in a way, or maybe it’s the way he’s talking to you now. Like he knows you as you know him. 

The photos of him online don’t do him justice. 

“It’s not bad. I know it hurts, but,” —his hand finds your shoulder, squeezes lightly— “it’s because it’s so high up, alright? They always bleed more. It doesn’t mean this is anything to worry about beyond fixing you up and getting you some pain relief.” 

“You– you’re real help.” 

He holds your gaze. “Yeah?” 

You wonder if he can feel the heat of your blush. It’s all over. He’s lucky your head wound doesn’t start spurting. “Yeah– yeah, I– Superman.” 

His smile is everything. “What?” he asks patiently. 

“I’m a big fan of– of yours.” 

“You are?” 

“You’re so brave,” you breathe out in a rush, though it hurts your head. “So brave. And– and…” 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, putting a little more pressure on your temple. “Thank you for being a fan. All I want is to keep everyone safe.” 

“You’re so gentle with everyone, even the aliens, and– you’re pretty…” 

“Pretty?” he asks, pure surprise in his voice, his hand falling off of your arm. 

You wince. “Yeah. Yes. Handsome. Sorry, you must get told that so much.” 

“It’s okay. I won’t hold you to anything you say. You’re injured, after all.” 

His teasing tone pretty much flies over your head. “No, I’m not lying. I mean it. You’re really lovely, and what you do, it makes you lovelier, it does–” You nearly choke on your enthusiasm. He has to know.

“Don’t get wound up, I’m sorry. I believe you. Let’s try to stay calm.” 

Your head is aching in a new way, now. Less the sting of a wide cut, more beating, like a whirl in your own brain twisting and shaking, dizziness alive behind your eyes and threatening to knock you over. You clutch at Superman’s arm and he knows what you need, slipping his free arm behind your back before you can collapse. 

“I don’t usually get crushes on people,” you inform him. “But it was hard not to get one with you. You’re even nicer than I thought you’d be.” 

“It’s easy to be nice to you. Easy as breathing.” 

Superman hugs you. You swear he does. But when the concussion begins to clear up and your confusion wanes in a hospital bed outside of the battle zone, you realise that he was holding you upright. Superman doesn’t know you, he never will, and you’re okay with it in the grand scheme of things. If you had to meet him, you’re glad it was while he was keeping you safe. He really is a good guy. 

—

A week later, Clark Kent is waiting for you at the doors to the Daily Planet. 

“Are you sure you don’t need more rest?” he asks, forcibly removing your handbag from your shoulder to carry himself.

“I’m sure.”

“It’s okay if you need more time to recover. You’re still wearing a dressing.” 

“It’s a bandaid, Clark, and it’s to hide the scar for now, it’s–”

“It’s still a wound.” 

“It’s fine! You saw it, you know it’s fine.” 

Your overbearing best friend had surprise-visited you the day after your injury despite a text to tell him to stay home. You’re fine. It was a cut and the mildest concussion you could’ve had. You didn’t throw up, or collapse, you’d simply gotten confused and bled all over Metropolis’ finest super hero until his hands were more red than white.

“It looked awful, it still does.” 

“It looks fine. Even the nurse said it was a small cut, in an unfortunate place.”

“Very unfortunate.” 

You follow him to the elevator bank with a frown. “Clark, you don’t have to sulk.” 

“I’m not sulking! I just don’t see what’s wrong with staying in bed for now.” 

“I have stuff to do, babe. I have to work. I have to move forward, it barely hurts anymore.” 

He likes being called babe, simpering accordingly. “Well, you’re sitting down all day. Doctor’s orders.” 

“Show me your oath and I’ll consider it.” 

“Please?” 

He looks like he could cry. Not that he will, but like he could if you keep saying no to him. And despite all your grievances with being treated like you’re fragile now, you decide to take it easy, if only to give Clark the peace of mind. “Okay, sure. You can wait on me all day.” 

“Yes. Thank you.” 

Clark’s your best friend because —no matter how much it might confuse you— he seems to really love you, maybe from the moment he met you. You started at the Daily Planet and he took to you like a duck takes to water. Everything you said made him laugh, every recipe you wrote was one he had to try. And you figured it was something boys tend to do, right? Pretend you‘re interesting until they get what they want from you, but Clark’s never asked for anything else, loving you wholly and expecting nothing in return. 

You let him swing an arm around your shoulders, a mirror of himself those few nights ago where he’d come shaky and sorry to see you. He apologised for not being there when you got hurt, as if he could’ve stopped it. 

“I’m sick of working already,” you say. 

“Then let’s go home.” 

“Clark. I’m being conversational.” 

“Don’t tease me,” he pleads, sounding all sudden and whiney. You squirm out of his arms to poke his side. Gets more solid by the day. Idiot boy. 

“Have you been working out?” 

“Can you stop?” 

“Can I stop? You’re a nightmare.”

Clark threatens to superglue you to your deskchair, but he titters around you hopelessly all day. 

— 

You’re laying on the gravel roof of your apartment on top of a sun lounger, trying to decide if getting some sun is worth all the noise. Beeping, birds, cars, doors, the wind, this high up and occasionally curving through buildings to kiss your skin —noise, noise, noise. Your phone is ringing while you ignore it, desperate to get through the last chapter of your book without interruption. You have thus far been foiled, and figured nobody’d be able to find you up here. 

The quick, awful zip of a high impact sounds somewhere close. You nearly topple from your lounger, a hand pressed to your chest, your heart racing near painfully at the surprise. You whip your head to the horizon looking for smoke, but there’s nothing. For a few minutes, you can’t hear anything at all. 

The shape of him descends before your mind can catch up. Then, he’s there in one piece. A touchable dream, Carol Ann Duffy at work and torturing you in passing. You’ve seen a ton of photos of him, hundreds, videos of girls recording to ask him sweet questions, and you’ve never seen him smile so shyly. You shiver violently down your arms, but Superman isn’t here to hurt you. 

“I’ve been looking for you.” 

“You were?” you ask.

“I wanted to make sure you were doing okay.” 

You sit up properly. The book in your lap makes a crunching noise that you happily ignore. “I’m fine. I’m fine, did you– You’re here to see if I’m okay?” 

His smile strengthens. “Is that okay?” 

You stammer, “Of course it’s okay!” A flush rises from your chest to your cheeks as he stays there. He’s not leaving until you answer. Holy fuck. “I’m great, Superman. All healed up.” 

“Are you sure? You still have–” He gestures to your bandaid. 

“It’s to keep it clean in the daytime. I take it off before bed.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No, of course not.” 

“Why of course not?” 

Your heart makes a funny pulse. Handsome isn’t the right word for him. There’s something special about it, otherworldly, literally, the cut of his jaw somehow sharp and soft at once, his pert nose, his eyes gone light in the sunshine and framed by dark lashes that beg to be touched. You imagine running a fingertip along them, gently brushing them up for no reason at all, and he narrows his gaze at you in your silence. The shorts you’re wearing have you worrying you’re underdressed in his eyes. They’re pajamas, pink with black polka dots and edgings. You’d had the forethought to wear a short-sleeve rather than a vest lest one of your neighbours find themselves up here with the same quiet idea. Superman’s fully clothed in comparison. 

His boots look formidable next to your puppy dog socks. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise, half-lying and uncaring. Superman saved you. He’s perfect, so your head doesn’t hurt. 

“You seem a little flustered, is all.” 

“Oh. Oh, well, it’s hot out, and I’m not like, super used to being in your company. Or any company, um, like yours.” 

“You’ve never met a metahuman?” 

“No, never.” 

“We’re just like everybody else.” 

You laugh. 

“No, really,” he says, idling toward you, red boots treading the gravel down flat. “I’m just like you, you don’t have to be nervous.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Now what do you have to be sorry for?” 

You laugh again, a giggle you’d never admit to. He’s strangely intimidating; a presence, but not an imposing one.

“What are you reading?” he asks, nodding to your lap. 

“Oh, uh. Uh, it’s called The Ocean?” You straighten up the book to show him the cover. “It’s good, uh, the main character is a young boy who wants to find his father, I think it’s supposed to be a take on The Odyssey,” 

“Why is he looking for his father?” 

“He’s missing after a terrible war. It’s one of those ones that hurts the entire time but the ending has wrapped it up so nicely, it was worth it.”

“Maybe I’ll read it, too. You look like someone who has great taste.” 

“You can borrow my copy.” 

Superman’s gaze narrows again. “You’re finished?” 

“Yeah, I finished it before you got here.” 

He waits in the quiet. You’re sure he’s going to call you out for your lie. It's not as though a Kryptonian truth-radar would be outside of the realm of possibility. 

Superman finally smiles. “I promise to bring it back,” he says simply. 

“Sure. Well, take your time.” 

—

How long can it possibly take a superhero to read one book?

You shouldn't be thinking about it again. Poor Clark is sitting in the corner of the couch with your feet stuck under his thighs, telling you about the grocery store widow who asks him for help to take her groceries out to her car whenever she sees him. She’d spotted him at the produce section today and dibsed him, and Clark doesn’t mind (though she leaves her car at the back of the parking lot no matter the weather). In fact, Clark doesn’t bring it up to complain. He’s sympathising with her, how lonely she must be. 

You try to shake Superman from your head while Clark is talking, but the thoughts of him won’t budge. 

You’d made a fool of yourself on the roof. Superman had taken your book to be polite. He probably won’t come back. 

“Hey.” 

You lift your head. 

Clark’s looking at you. Big blue eyes in a classic face, the line of his glasses dark and heavy against his brow. They trace your expression, searching for the misery you’ve failed to hide, until he finds it in the creases of your eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His voice is weak with worry. 

“Nothing.”

“It’s something.”

“It’s really not.” 

“It definitely is. You can tell me about anything, you know. Or you don’t have to tell me, but I’ll be here for you no matter what. Some food for thought.” 

“Food for thought. Eat this, Kent,” you say, jabbing him at the top of the thigh with your heel. 

Clark grabs your foot. “Come on. I know something’s wrong, and I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me, but…” He lets your foot smack down into the top of his thigh to grab his tea instead.

“Isn’t that cold?” you ask. 

“It’s tepid,” he allows after a sip.

You laugh, so he laughs. It’s a lovely sound.

“Again. Again, you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but I’d listen if you wanted me to.”

“Don’t try and make out like you’re not keeping secrets.” 

Clark goes slack-jawed. “Sorry?” 

“You don’t tell me everything. I know exactly where you disappear to all the time.” 

“You do?” 

You climb up on your knees and settle in front of him. You’re wearing those pink polka dot shorts like you were on the roof with Superman, in hopes they’ll summon him to you like a talisman. Clark presses his lips together, watching you closely as you take his face into your hands. 

“You’re dating Lois Lane,” you say. 

His fingers dust your elbow. “What?” 

“You’re sweet on her, aren’t you? Plus, you’re busy all the time. You’ve cancelled movie night three times this month, did you know?” 

“I’m sorry–”

“I’m not. I’m happy for you.” 

Clark shakes his head. “But Lois and I… I mean, not for months. We were almost something, I think, but no. Not for a while.” 

You let your hands fall off of his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry, Clark.” 

“Don’t be. I should’ve told you, but it was new and then it was over.” 

“You should’ve told me,” you agree, “but I sort of get why you didn’t. I’m your girl best friend. That’s a thing.”

“You’re my best friend,” he promises, no ‘girl’ prefix necessary. “That’s not why it ended, Lois isn’t like that. It was… we disagreed on so many things. Looking back, I think she was right about most of it.”

“Well, she’s a girl.”

“That she is. You’re all the same, aren’t you? All dazzling.” 

He says it with an earnestness that reminds you of the other half of your friendship-equation. Clark’s your best friend because he loves your work and your jokes and your company, and you’re his best friend because he’s good as gold, inside out, just awfully lovable.

“You’re ’dazzling’ too,” you say. “You are.”

Clark offers you his mug of tea. You take a sip for something to do. 

“Not that cold,” you murmur. 

“I never realised you were such a liar.” 

“I don’t really lie to you, Clark.” 

He leans up to kiss your head, chaste against your purpling scar. “I know.”

—

“So, this book–”

You jump hard enough to send your groceries five different ways, oranges and kiwis for Clark flying up in the air. They never hit the ground —Superman catches them in two hands. 

Your loaf of bread lays cradled in his arm like a baby. 

“Fuck,” you complain. 

“I’m sorry.” Superman laughs at you. Laughs. “Sorry. But this book, is there a sequel?” 

“What?” you ask. Superman tips your groceries into your waiting paper bag. 

“I think I need a sequel.” He pulls The Ocean from a pocket and squeezes it unkindly. “I think it ruined my life.” 

“There’s no sequel. But–” don’t spoil the ending for me, you almost say. “Did you enjoy it at all?” 

“It was good. Do you read a lot, or are you down to the real heart-achers?” 

“Uh, I guess. Well, no, I used to read more, but I didn’t have time for a while ‘n now I’m usually too stirred up to settle down.” 

“You cook.” 

You blink. “You googled me?” 

“No, how could I? But I did see you on the third page of the Daily Planet. You have a little author’s window. You made pumpkin pie.”

“For Thanksgiving weekend, yeah. They only ever put me near the front or on the main page of the website if it’s the holidays.” 

“Is that true?” 

You shake your head. Not to say no, to say, let’s not talk about it. Silly insecurities are unnecessary conversation. At least, they are with him. 

Someone gasps from behind you. With one comes a few. The people near the crosswalk are starting to notice Superman’s tall figure standing in the sun, and though you’d wish he’d managed to hide in the shadows, you admit to yourself that there’s nowhere else he could ever be. He looks right in the sun. 

“Do you want to come with me?” he asks. 

Do you want to go with him? What the fuck does he think? said in your head ecstatically, not a lick of derision against him. Your excitement nearly blinds you. 

“Yeah,” you say, practically mumbling, wanting to come off nonchalant and instead sounding painfully shy, even to your own ears. 

“Yeah?” He offers an arm. “Come here.”

Your charmed little laugh makes him grin. “Alright?” he asks, locking an arm around you vice-tight. 

“Where are we–”

The air leaves your lungs in one fell swoop. There and gone, breathless and weightless in tandem.

The sky is more than blue when you’re in it. 

There’s nothing you can say about it. You’re terrified Superman is going to drop you, you can hardly breathe from the sudden speed at which you’d been taken up with him, but beyond that, there’s nothing to say. Wordless, endless sky. Blue, blue—

“It’s not as scary as you think, right?” he asks, his head angled down to yours. 

“I expected you to have to shout. I don’t know why.” 

“It’s windier in the air, but we’re close. I don’t need to yell.” 

“You’re lucky I didn’t get many groceries.” 

“You aren’t heavy.” 

You’re delighted. “This is a paper bag, you realise! I’m surprised it didn’t explode the second you got me up here!” 

“I’ll be careful. You’re precious cargo, and you deserve a better experience now than the one you got when you first came up here with me.”

“I don’t remember much of it.” 

“That’s okay. I do.” 

You should feel ridiculous, but strong arms hold you steady. Blue eyes like someone familiar pour over your face, as though they need to see you clearly, with all this perfect light. Your few groceries are squeezed between your chests as you squeeze him by the neck, desperate for the extra security, that he won’t simply let you go, and have you fall. 

“This is amazing,” you breathe, your eyes sweeping down to take in beautiful Metropolis beating away beneath you. The cars look like ants. The buildings cast shadows you’d never noticed from the ground. 

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s something.” 

You glance up to find him still staring at you. 

The girls on SuperClub would never, ever believe you if you tried to tell them what passes between you, then. (Not that you frequent SuperClub. Often. You see it while scrolling, and you tend to scroll past it with a fond eye roll.) They wouldn’t believe that Superman brings his hand to your head to touch your temple, as though your small scar is a personal affront to him. They wouldn’t believe the way that he pauses when you shudder. Wouldn’t believe how he lets his fingertip tumble down your cheek, or the soft incline of his head. The slightest kiss of his eyelashes meeting in the very corners of his eyes as they almost close. 

“Don’t feel guilty, please,” you say. 

“What?” He sounds as though he’s woken up from a nap. 

“About what happened. It wasn’t your fault that I got hurt. I wanted you to know that. You saved me.” 

Superman lets the distance between your two faces grow. “I…”

“If this is what that is, if you feel like you owe me something, well. You don’t… I don’t know you, Superman, but sometimes I think I do. It’s like… someone I've met before? I can see your bleeding heart.” You offer a brash smile. “But I’m just fine. You promised me that I would be, and I am.” 

“You’re not making this any easier for me.” 

You shift in his grasp, his hair tickling you and the little hairs on your arms. 

“I’m not a very easy person,” you say. 

Superman presses his nose to your cheek. 

“I think you’re giving me tachycardia,” you whisper.

He hears it. Doesn’t answer for a while, and when he does, it’s to neither of the things you said before.

“Let me take you somewhere new,” he says.

—

A day later, Clark asks if he can bring you dinner. Like and unlike himself, to care enough to ask but to forgo his usual boisterous lack of respect when it comes to taking care of you. Clark recognises that you like to be cared for aggressively. That you want someone to care so much that they won’t stop at the first hurdle. You want someone to take it at a sprint, and Clark’s a show off loser-dork who likes taking care of you. 

He meets you at the door, where you show him your small picnic basket kitted with two plates, knives, forks, and a hidden dessert. “Too hot in my apartment,” you say. 

“What’s wrong with the AC?” 

“It’s leaking.” 

“I’ll take a look at it. What happened to that fan I got you?” he asks, his fingers at your wrist trying to steal the basket. 

“Oh, Clark, can’t you just leave me alone?” you plead. 

He laughs like a kid. “I love when you do that.”

“What?” 

“I don’t know, is it sarcasm? I don’t think that’s apt. Whatever it is, when you act like that? You’re really convincing. It’s funny.”

“I can be funny.”

“I know, that’s what I’m saying. You’re really funny. Can you do it some more?”

“Now it’s not natural, though.” 

“Please?”

“Leave it alone, Clark. You’re such a beg.” 

He laughs again. It peters off to a quiet you’d like to live in. His takeout bag rustles, your picnic basket rattles, his fingers brushing the back of your arm as he follows you down the street to the wooded path. 

There’s a small park not far from your apartment that’s been divided into two halves. The playground for the neighbourhood kids, and the picnic tables made of strangely shaped wood. They’re all rounded. One table is shaped like an ‘S’. Another like a filled in ‘8’. 

You sit at the one furthest from the playground, coincidentally shaped like a ‘C’. “For Clark,” you say, pleased. 

“Adorable.” 

You set up your plates, dividing up the food squarely. Clark had the wherewithal to bring two cans of soda and a big bottle of water. He asks which one you want, cracking it open accordingly. “Gonna pour it into my mouth, too?” you tease. 

“Do you not want me to be nice to you?” 

And the night slips away. You eat your takeout at the picnic table and linger until your legs are numb. The grass around the park is damp, but you sit, and you shoot the breeze until the sun starts to go down. It must be hours out there together. 

Clark takes his jacket off and spreads it over your shoulders. “This is your only bad trait,” he says happily. “You never tell me when you’re cold.”

“I’m not that cold.”

“Sure you’re not. Look, come here,” —he pulls you bodily into his side, his voice turning silky as angora— “you act like you’re such a plague, like– I don’t know, like I wouldn’t wanna know that you’re cold.”

“I don’t act like that.” 

“You do. You could rely on me for more, you know? I want you to lean on me.” 

You lean on him.

Clark presses his nose to your temple, his glasses digging into your skin.

And you think, I know you. 

But you don’t know why. 

—

Clark can't believe this is happening again. 

He woke up this morning with a scary yet firm plan: he’s going to get himself together, pluck up what he has in the way of courage, and be honest with you about Superman. If only so he can stop lying to you. He should’ve told you months ago that he was Superman. Hell, he might’ve told you from the moment he met you, that’s how sure he was that he’d love you. As a friend —his best friend, half of his life. There’s this ease, like he’s known you for far longer than he truly has, like he could know you for the rest of his life. 

And lately. 

Oh, lately. Clark can’t get a handle on things. He hadn’t realised he was falling in love with you, isn’t even sure that’s the way to describe it; far from a sharp plummet downward into love, this has felt like a slow and steady ascent, but now suddenly he’s at the mountain top and the air is thin, and he’s looking for you, aching for relief, and you’re sitting in the snow with your book and your shy smile, cross-legged, just waiting for him to get there and open his cowardly mouth. 

Or that’s what he’d like to think. 

Fact of the matter is, Clark would like to kiss you. Hold your hand, have your head rest on his shoulder. He’d like to pull you into his lap and squeeze. Clark could die happy if he got just one shot at it, no matter the outcome. 

He knows he won’t lose you, but he’s worried you don’t want what he wants. He’s gotten so close to having you, he’s not sure he can take being any further apart than this. 

Clark takes the tramline to the rich part of the city with the best florist. There are buckets and buckets of flowers; orange tiger lilies and white orchids turned green in the sun; roses as big as his fist, unfurling; sweet peas kissing pinkest camellias all tangled up with baby’s breath. He chooses the sweet peas. They really are sweet, their hemmed edge petals curling in and nearly blue. They’re beautiful. He can see them in a glass on your nightstand by tonight if he’s lucky.

It’s on the walk to your apartment (tramline too busy to risk, lest your flowers get hurt) that the trouble begins. 

The light goes out. 

It doesn’t make logical sense. He’s outdoors. It’s the early morning, the sun should be shining for hours to come. 

He looks up and finds a singular dark rectangle over Earth. 

It blots out everything, disapears the clouds, turns the blue sweetpeas in his hand a tired shade of grey. 

Clark wonders if he should’ve told you how he felt when he had the chance. Then, he leaves his glasses, his jacket, and his sweetpeas in the hedgerow at the park with alphabet picnic tables and throws himself upwards into the sky.

—

What emerges from the spaceship (and it is a spaceship, made of an element humans aren’t want to touch) are creatures shaped like spinning asterisks, wisps of their angel-white bodies bending the shadows they’ve cast down onto Metropolis. It’s like smoke. 

The dark makes it hard to breathe. 

You sit huddled in your bedroom looking out through the window, despite a desperate urge to hide somewhere further inward. Sirens echo throughout otherwise quiet streets, discordant wailing that wavers for long, sharp minutes. There had been screaming and crying and the splintering sounds of glass. It’s not —not unseeable, out there, but anyone with poor vision will find themselves stranded.

You open your phone. Your theory is that the aliens have been able to dampen sound as well as sun, leaving the battlefield dangerously quiet. Clark’s not answering your texts because he never has his phone, but you’re sure he’s out there somewhere. He told you he was coming. The last message he sent this morning blinks at you from the bottom of your screen: Coming by soon if you’re not busy, do you want me to bring breakfast? 

You’d said, just some eggs please if you want eggs 

You’d said, hey, are you safe? What’s with the dark? 

You’d said, clark please text me back right now, I’m freaking out, do you need me to come get you? 

He won’t answer the phone. Outside, up in the sky where it’s darker still and the white shadows have begun to ripple, the occasional red beam of heat slices into whiteness, turning it to shadows again. There are two sets of red if you watch carefully. Green light flickers at the ground. 

And Clark Kent is out there all alone. 

You crawl to your shoes under the bed and put them on, pajamas and all. Clark’s blue hoodie lays on the back of your deskchair. You shrug it on. 

He’s gonna lose his entire mind if you do find him out there. Can friends ground you? Because Clark’s going to ground you. But you’d rather be grounded than all alone. 

—

Superman groans into the floor, his tongue coated in dust. 

He has far better vision than a person feasibly needs. He wore a pair of glasses once that are supposed to approximate what it’s like to have legal blindness, and he’d felt suddenly, achingly sorry for the human race. But then he’d found the glasses stand beside it with all their different prescriptions and shrugged it off. Humans are brilliant. He’s in awe of their persistence, their resilience, and their strength. He knows he can find it in himself to go on because they can, too. 

He has better vision, and still he finds himself batted away from the entities like a bothersome fruit fly. 

“Krypto?” he asks into the smog. 

His borrowed dog flies at him with impressive speed, pressing his snout straight into a bruise. 

“Ow!” 

Krypto snuffles and hits at his arms with both paws. 

“Krypto, stop! Jeez, stop. You’re such a pai– Ow! Get off.” 

Krypto nibbles his shoulder. 

Clark forces himself to sit up. At least he hasn’t killed the dog. Kara would probably eviscerate the planet country by country if something happened to her dog, not mentioning the aliens that started this whole thing. And he is good at bringing the suit when Clark needs it. 

He rubs at his eyes and drags himself to his feet, back aching, eyes like sand. Nothing is healing because he can’t feel the sun, but he’s not too hurt. He can take a bad landing. He can take twenty of them. 

“Krypto, stay.” 

Krypto tilts his white blurry head. 

“You’re not helping.” 

Arf! Clark rolls his shoulders and shoots back into the air. 

Krypto stays down, for now. 

Clark takes a lap through the air, searching for signs of life with his ears. The eery quiet is beginning to fill with catastrophe.

“Clark?” 

He stops dead in the sky. 

“Clark?” you call, ten miles below him, shouting all clipped and scared. “Clark Kent! Are you out here? If you can hear me, call back to me!”

He says your name.

“Clark? I’m here!” 

Clark looks up into melted-sugar shadows as they begin to curdle and makes a choice. Damn the aliens, they can have the sky, so long as Clark gets to keep you safe. 

He has to keep you safe. 

—

You’re watching a shadow plummet toward you when the sky opens up into shards of Technicolor. Concentrated around a single point of red and blue and moving so fast it turns puce.

—

There’s a scene in The Ocean where the main character realises his father has been dead before the beginning of the book. Dead for years. He goes searching for him because he’s scared to be alone, brave enough to realise it, and young enough to misunderstand the danger of the world. He treks sandbanks, ferries favour, turns in promises and follows the footsteps of a man long dead across the world. Clark told you once, privately, quietly, in a moment that immediately panicked him, that his parents had adopted him, and that his birth parents had left him with a letter after they both died.

What did it say? you’d asked. 

To be good. 

You find your copy of The Ocean cradled in familiar hands. You recognise its secondhand cover, the bends in the front where a previous owner had tented it for a long period of time. The spine is loose and lax with age. The pages are yellow with time. 

Clark is sleeping quietly in the plastic-wrapped chair beside your bed. He doesn’t have a bruise or cut. He doesn’t look anything like Superman had as he’d flung himself at you, two seconds too late, his body a shield against an explosion that lit your body with fire and colour alike. The whole world had been red, and then yellow, and suitably blue. There was pain. 

Not a darkness as people often say. Just hurting and now this. 

You take a scary breath. Hitching and pained, you search for comfort and find none of it. There’s a needle in the back of your hand secured with a teddy bear wrapping. The sheets have been drawn to your chin and choke you as you try to sit. 

After a moment of struggling, you sink back and try for another breath. Deep, aching breaths. You do it until your lungs burn, these awful, stringing breaths, eyes to the ceiling and fighting the spots of nothingness that cloud your vision. 

“Hey,” a soft voice says, softer hand pressed to the curve of your neck. “Oh, hey, sweet girl, hey… it’s okay. The pain won’t last, they gave you a little more morphine a few minutes ago, it’ll kick in.” 

“Uh–”

Clark makes a sound. “Oh.” 

You let your eyes slide to him. He’s checking his wrist where it’s resting on you. 

“I was sleeping for a long time, I… Honey, I’ll get a nurse.” 

“No,” you breathe. 

“Yeah, honey, I’ll get a nurse,” he repeats, stroking your neck with his thumb. His eyes are their usual calm blue, bearing down into your own with an emotion that’s somehow palpable and implacable. “It’s no good, you being in pain like this. I’ll come right back.” 

“Clark, don’t go,” you whine. 

It’s like the world has been placed heavy on your head. 

Clark offers you relief. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to. Tell me what’s hurting, and I’ll fix it.” 

You shake your head at him. Fuck, nothing hurts. It’s not pain you’re being smothered in. 

“Okay,” he murmurs.

For a while, you don’t talk. Clark stays stooped over you, too tall and careful anyhow to stay out of your light. He holds your cheek, rubbing at skin with his thumb until it’s tickled into numbness, your body begging you to move away from his touch and your brain knowing you can’t. You’ll never duck away from his fingertips ever again. 

Where he’d been unhurt, he isn’t unharried. His hair is in a complete disarray, curls in places pulled straight and greasy behind his ears. His face is pale. His eyes flicker obsessively between you and your monitor, as though he can decipher the information it displays. He must see something there that he trusts, sitting down again in the chair dragged quick and easy to the side of your bed. His hand stays at your face. He’s long. It’s simple work. 

“You read The Ocean,” you whisper. 

“I read all your annotations, too,” he tells you, turning his hand to run it down your cheek, his fingernails especially silky against the line of your jaw. 

You turn your face toward his touch. Your eyes flutter closed as he indulges your deepest fantasy. 

“I didn’t–” Oh, you can’t say it. You hadn’t meant to want him like this. You hadn’t known he was Superman, and isn’t that awful? Something cruel. Your best friend kept a worst secret. 

He doesn’t rush you. 

You’re ready to try again a few minutes later. His fingertips have started to draw a flower into your neck. 

“I’m embarrassed that Clark knows what I said to Superman,” you say plainly. 

“Superman didn’t tell Clark anything,” Clark says. His voice is light in contrast to your hesitancy. 

“But you know it all.” 

“I know you,” he agrees. 

“I’m really… sorry. I’m sorry, I–” You search for his touch and he immediately cups your cheek again. “Clark, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come out looking for you. I didn’t realise you could look after yourself and I made things worse.” 

“Do you even remember?” he asks. 

Mildly. You’d woken once before and found a less fixed Clark covered in blood above you. A part of you had understood that it was Clark, even without his glasses, and a different part knew it was Superman. Then things had blurred, half-replaced by a memory of his hand behind your back in the middle of a meadow halfway across the world, that beautiful quiet valley where the water had been ice and the grass emerald velveteen under your legs. 

In the dream, Superman (and this had been real until it wasn’t), turned to you, and said, with Clark’s dorky intonation, “That’s seriously beautiful, huh?”  

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But–”

“You don’t. I won’t argue about it with you. You have no apologies to make, you did everything right and nothing wrong, and I lied to you, and I got you hurt, and…” He has the gall to pink in the cheeks, like you’ve taken the skin between your knuckles and pinched. “I wasn’t honest with you about my feelings. I almost kissed you as Superman, and that wasn’t fair.” 

“You really are… him?” you ask weakly. 

“Yeah, I am.” 

Clark sits up as a doctor opens your room’s door. 

“Everything okay?” she asks. When she sees you awake, she smiles broadly. “Hey, you’re up! Can we get you some dinner now?” 

“You skipped breakfast,” Clark tells you. 

“I was awake for breakfast?” 

“Barely. We had you on some pretty gnarly painkillers,” the doctor says. She adjusts her white coat. “I just wanted to check in with your nurses and your lovely partner here that you hadn’t thrown up again.” 

You flush. “I’m fine.” 

Clark simply rubs your chest like a wave of his hand against your heart. 

“I’m worried you haven’t gotten enough sustenance this past day, but we try not to hook you up with too many things,” the doctor explains, “much better for you to settle and then eat. And to drink some water!” 

“I don’t feel very hungry.” 

“The painkillers you’re on can make some people feel quite sick. But try your best, okay? I’ll come back after dinner to see what we can do about those broken fingers.” 

You follow your arm down to your hand. Your pinky and ring finger on the non-dominant hand have been splinted but not casted. 

“Oh.” 

The doctor takes her leave, abandoning Clark to your questions. 

“What’s wrong with me?” you ask. 

“You got concussed again. It made you sick, and your hand is very nearly broken, but they think it’s just your fingers from the look of your x-rays. And you have a long cut.” He puts his hand on your stomach gently. “Here. Almost as long as your arm, but it’s a surface cut. You landed on debris. I’m sorry, my– honey. Sorry.” 

You can’t fight the chills or your bewilderment. “What for?”

“I didn’t get to you fast enough.” 

“Clark.” Your mouth is dry. He’s pretty. Your head goes round and round and aching and then with a dash of clarity, the world snaps back into place. Your hospital room is empty and bright, with a vase filled to bursting with sweetpeas in pride of place on your nightstand. There are voices drifting in from the hallway, and Clark is handsome even as he tears himself apart. The silver lining his bottom lashes doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m okay, babe.” 

He laughs wetly. 

“I’m fine,” you promise, quieter now. “How couldn’t I be? You’re so gentle.” 

Clark finds your hand, pulling it to his forehead, his body bending forward like a marionette on loosening strings. He shakes his head vehemently, his grip on your wrist tight but far from cruel. 

“You’re gentle,” you promise under your breath, “I told you that before, didn’t I? You’re kind, and brave, and– it’s not your fault I went looking for you.” 

“I should be comforting you. I should be helping you,” he whispers. 

“You won’t catch me crying on your shoulder twice, Superman.” 

His head flinches up, like he’s realising for the first time that you know who he is. 

Whatever he sees in your face helps him to settle down. He curls long, thick fingers around your hand. You can’t help noting how adversely tender they feel while he holds your hand. 

“What did you think of the book?” you ask finally. 

“I didn’t know you liked to read,” he says. 

You shrug. Let your head fall back into a thin pillow, wondering how you might go about getting a better one, and beginning to feel the effects of the painkillers they’d been talking about. “It’s not like it’s the most alarming secret, between us.” 

He lets out a wounded whine. “Why do you hate me?” he asks. 

“You’re due some hazing.” 

“Can’t you take pity on me?” he asks. 

You curl your fingers around his where they’d otherwise been limp. “I’m not really half as cool as I’m trying to act, Clark.” 

He sulks beautifully. “I think you’re lying to make me feel better.” 

Only a little. 

—

Being cool around Clark Kent lasts about as long as the morphine does. The reality is this: Clark Kent —best friend extraordinaire, sweetheart farm boy who’s vetted all your worst ideas, held your hair back in the smallest toilet in Metropolis bar history after a too-happy happy hour, knows all your holey socks and questionable medical queries— is Superman. 

And Superman? 

He’d been courting you. 

The word is antiquated and accurate. Superman had been cautiously courting you with his sparse visits, shy and brave at once, brash but remarkably put together. It is after you know the truth that you realise Clark had been not so secretly courting you simultaneously. 

“Is that why you were bringing me dinner and stuff?” you ask, lured into the conversation by accident, now deeply curious. 

“No. I did that stuff before I wanted you. It was hard to sort the feelings into boxes, like– platonically, I’ve loved you since you came into the office with your miserable laptop and– and romantically, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realise until I tried to kiss you and you wouldn’t let me.” 

“Sorry?” 

“I tried to kiss you, and you thought it was a pity kiss.” 

You hold him by the shoulder. “That was real?” 

“Do you dream about it?” he asks knowingly. 

“It was really going to be a kiss?” 

He softens. Clark, big on your smaller couch, in his pajamas with his hair finally washed again and your hand in his lap, rests his shoulder into yours with a long-suffering sigh. “Best kiss of your life,” he promises. 

“Prove it.” 

“What?” 

It’s been four days since the hospital and Clark is horrifically chaste. “Do you not want to kiss me?” 

“You know I do.” 

“So kiss me.” 

He pinches your chin. “If you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just taken one,” he tells you, looking you straight in the eyes. 

“From Superman?” you ask with a little scoff. 

He moves his head from left to right. “From me,” he says. 

There has been so much to tell him. So little space to hide from him. Lines of books you’d underlined for him, lines for Superman, for both of them. The guilty way you’d watched Clark Kent take off his shirt at the public pool in summer heat and the loop of Superman under your thumb as you’d fallen asleep scrolling SuperClub. You’ve been more honest with him than you’ve dared to be previously. 

Clark has repaid you in kind. 

Did you know, he’d confessed, when you were still grody from the hospital and he’d demanded you let him stay, that night, that everything I’m good at is because of the sun? I can function without it. I can store up the energy in my cells and I don’t need much to stretch it far, but without the yellow sun, I’m just like you? 

How could I know that? you’d thought. Why are you telling me this? you’d asked instead.

I want you to know. 

Clark loves the sun, you realise now. He turns his face up to it often, soaking it in silently. He gets this look whenever he stops to take it in. Perfect contentment. Trust, that it will make him feel better. 

Clark tilts his chin against yours, nudging your face gently inward, giving you the shortest glimpse of that content stretched across a smile as it presses into yours.

You hyperventilate your way into an open-mouthed, gasping sort of thing, and find Clark a fiercer kisser than you could’ve imagined. All those daydreams about Superman saving you from another day copyediting your own messes, you’d never thought to picture the boy sitting at the desk across from you, how his hand might slide behind your neck like water. How he’d take the breath from your lips and offer his own in a shaky, wanting gasp. 

Superman, breathless under your touch. No one would ever believe you. 

“Did you want me to tell you how it ends?” 

You break away from him, panting, vaguely confused. “Sorry?” 

“The Ocean? You never finished it.”

“Oh. Maybe you can read it to me. You know, afterwards.” 

Clark grins. “After,” he promises, leaning down for another kiss. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank u Bec for proofreading ur brains are irreplaceable <3 and thank u everyone else for reading! 

[waveoftheocean]

absolute menace but still such a good boy :')))

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

May I request a little….more about chatterbox reader and Clark Kent? 🫣

chatterbox reader I have missed you!!! tbh I put myself in a box by the way I started this, but was too far in to redo. so I do apologise, this isn't my best work search 'chatterbox' on my blog to find other posts relating to this one xx

NO SCREENS clark kent x fem reader, 786 words, fluff

There are hours when your mind is far more active than others, times of the most inconvenience that your brain whirs with thought. It tends to happen at nighttime when you're all tucked up in bed, supposed to be sleeping. 

Maybe it's just because it's so quiet that you have no choice but to listen your mind, or that you simply struggle to sleep at a reasonable hour. Whatever the reasoning may be, it had become a regular occurrence that Clark had grown to anticipate. He knew that when your head hit the pillow, you would not yet be ready for sleep like he is. 

Clark's not like you in that sense, he can sleep anytime, anywhere. With these five-some minute you've spent together under the covers, Clark was already struggling to stay awake — to keep those big beautiful blue eyes of his open.

You however could not shut your own, they refused to give in and allow you the sleep you so clearly needed.

"Clark?" you whisper, calling his name gently. "Are you awake?"

You're tucked into his side, ear to his chest as you listen to the steady thumping of his heart. It should ease you, the repeated sound one of comfort; though that was not the case.

"Mhm?" he hums.

Barely awake.

With one hand situated above his stomach, you raise it slightly and use it as leverage — carefully pushing off on him so you can twist in to face him. Your head peers in his direction and you meet his fluttering eyes. He was very clearly making an effort so as not to drift off. 

"I can't sleep."

He runs a hand down your spine, palm gliding down your tee like it was an attempt of soothing. His touch is heavy and deliberate as he strokes your back, fingers trying their best to offer comfort. 

"Why not?" he whispers, tone low. 

Clark's hand reaches the spot between your upper shoulder blades and his hold settles around the back of your neck for a moment. His skin to your own as he directs you, guiding you back into the placement where your head was nestled into a few moments ago. 

"I don't know."

"What're you thinking about?" he asks, voice tired.

"I don't know, nothing really."

His hand on your head slides up and it's then that he encompasses it, holding you dearly with both his hand and arm. Almost like he's protecting your head. You didn't have to see him to know that he was fighting to stay awake. You just appreciate him wanting to selflessly indulge you.

"I think we should move the room around— I don't like the flow of anything. It doesn't work."

Clark strokes over your hair, fingers skirting across your scalp. "Why's that?" he asks, wording careful.

"It has a name, but I can't remember it… 'fun' something," you um and ah, unsure if it was even the word you were thinking about in the first place. "I'm really blanking on the word. I can't think of the name."

"It's okay," Clark responds, his hold firming atop the side of your head. Almost like it was an instinct to shield it. "Feng shui?"

"That's it, that's the word. I just don't think the layout works, you know. Maybe we just have too much stuff."

"Maybe," Clark utters.

"But I did see this really cute duvet cover ages ago though," you mention, dropping the hint that you wanted to add another set to your already extensive collection of bedding.

"Yeah?" he murmurs. 

His breath evens beneath your ear, the repeated sound growing steady in his chest. It was a tell he was nearing sleep.

"I found it on my phone yesterday so I took a screenshot of the screenshot so I'd remember—"

But just as you begin to lift yourself from his chest, Clark's hold firms in it's rested position atop your head, the act an effort to keep you still. To stop you from doing what he knew you to be doing — reaching for your phone.

"Can I just show you? It'll be quick."

"No screens."

Something he often reiterates, 'no screens in bed'. A point he makes extensively about how it messes with your mind in your hours of sleep.

"I'll only—"

Clark cuts you off. "Honey," he hums, the pet name like a coo. "Bedtime."

"But—"

He smooths over your head, stroking it like it was an attempt to calm down the overactive contents inside. "It's late," he mutters, tired voice gentle. 

He can keep himself up a short while more for you, he thinks. Rather, hopes. He can force himself to stay up as he knows he can't rest soundly when you're wide awake. 

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[fairycosmos]

kills myself on my lunch break then clocks back in

[puppiegracie]

[robinavich]

michelangelo | jack abbot

jack abbot x f!attorney!reader | 5.5k words | ao3

synopsis: workplace incidents are, technically speaking, part of your job. however, you do not account for being part of one.

content: swearing as per, sexual tension, reader yearns mr. a!! she yearns!! (little 1776: the musical reference. iykyk), reader has to get a shot! and she! does! not! want! it!

a/n: taps mic. is this thing on. is anyone still here. does this even make sense. don't think about it too much just feel it. takes place before godlight & also u don't have to read any of godlight to understand this

“Okay, for the record, it is not my fault that scalpel was in, like, the prime slicing location.”

“It was on a metal tray,” the man in front of you corrects dryly, inching closer on his three-sizes-too-small rolling stool. “Where else was it supposed to be?”

Without taking his eyes from yours, his annoyingly gentle hands—if they could even be called that, you’re sure you’ve seen smaller baseball mitts—reach out and cradle yours, smoothing over the deep lines of curled fingers, flattening them against his palm.

“Trust you to find the only sharp thing in the entire room, huh, kid?” Jack says without looking up.

The teasing tilt of your lips melts, leaving behind extremely displeased narrowed eyes locked on him. You have half a mind to rip your hand from his and put, like, superglue between the clean edges of your wound without gloves and make him watch that nightmare. But his grip—his light-as-a-feather touches around your parted skin—is firm enough to remind you that, despite your grumbling, you’re under his charge.

And you think it’s the first time he’s ever touched you like this.

You’d be a fucking idiot to give that up.

“It’s not too hard to find something sharp,” you sniff, brushing some invisible lint from your knee with your unmarred hand, “when your intelligence sets the baseline for dull, Abbot.”

Jack doesn’t even give you the satisfaction of a raised, mocking eyebrow. Instead, he just hums, finger methodically prodding the skin of your palm.

“Funny,” he finally says completely deadpan, pausing his weird medical morse code on your palm and looking up. The harsh fluorescent lighting overhead flickers once before bathing him in white light. It catches on his silver hair, casting his face in a sharp relief.

You blink, eyes semi-focused on his form, before shaking your head in disgust.

He was kinda… beautiful.

In an art way.

It takes everything in you to not roll your eyes at your stupid-ass thoughts.

When you were younger, you had always wanted to be into art. You wanted to take art classes and go to museums and become the next Rembrandt, given, of course, that you not take a mistress and become completely broke. Instead, you were forced into Latin classes, and fucking macroeconomics, and some course named Societal Foundations in Modernity—whatever the hell that means.

And then you were in law school, you traded in those art books for the cool and functional digital moving pictures. Three years filled with slivers of time neatly penciled in and allocated for the sole purpose of procrastination.

For you, half of those penciled in hours had been spent playing Assassin’s Creed II.

So, when you had just gotten your first big girl paycheck, you decided what better way to celebrate than to procrastinate seeing your family with seeing the real thing? You sent a half-assed apology to your parents for missing Christmas, packed your bags, put in a vacation request, and boarded your flight to Florence without waiting to see if it was even approved.

And while you couldn’t legally traverse the roofs in a cool cloak, and you certainly couldn’t track down the men who killed your family in a bloody massacre, you could visit the Duomo.

Your feet wore paths into the sidewalk outside, circling the building again and again and again, gazing up at the ancient stone and the domed top, and you would wait until the end of the day when no one wanted to visit anymore because they had dinner reservations. The soft click of your shoes against the marble floor would echo throughout the chamber as you slowly stepped inside.

You would spend an hour just staring at Michelangelo’s David. You could never understand how he made stone look so soft, how he could make marble look like flesh.

Staring at Jack, you think maybe you understand a little better now.

Maybe Michelangelo had a war-damaged, semi-active suicide risk that cradled his hands when he got a little careless with his chisel.

Maybe that was his muse.

And maybe you should track down the artist that spent way too long carving Jack’s body into a soft statue and pay penance, pay tithes, pay allegiance in martyrdom.

His amused voice cuts through your pathetic reminiscing. “For someone with a degree in arguing, you’re surprisingly bad at defending yourself against a stationary object.”

Your head whips back in offense. “Okay, actually, one could call this a workplace hazard, Abbot. And just know I will be sending a bill to the, uh…” You wave your hand vaguely in the air before giving up, eyes glued to the line of his cheekbones. “Director people.”

“Director people,” he echoes, the corner of his mouth twitching as he reaches for a small pad of gauze. “I’ll be sure to testify to the director people that their star counsel is currently wasting medical supplies.”

Jack doesn’t even give you a warning.

The gauze, doused in the cold, biting reality of medical-grade liquid, hits the center of your palm.

Fuck Florence.

David disappears.

The Duomo burns down.

The sting of antiseptic pierces through your next smartass comment and patented barrier of deflective humor, your brain fucking glitching as he presses the small pad of wet gauze to your hand. You let out a pathetic sound somewhere between a whistle and a wheeze, muscles reflexively jumping in an attempt to escape his definition of care.

Immediately, Jack’s grip tightens on your wrist, anchoring you to his palm.

Jerkily, your eyes stutter away from the intense focus plastered plainly on his face—no condescending smirk within the vicinity of your zip code, which is worrying enough—finding the little right angle where the wall meets the ceiling directly behind Abbot.

You try to focus on anything but the way an earthquake is currently in control of your hand, small tremors wracking the damn thing—and outing you for being a little bitch about this entire ordeal—and the way the sterile light flickers, each pulse highlighting the bright red pooling under parted skin.

You try to focus on the feeling of Abbot’s hand drifting over your skin with barely-there pressure and the way it feels like he actively doused your hand in kerosene and lit an entire fucking box of matches right above it.

You really try.

But, honestly, the concoction of medical liquid tinged with iron is making you feel ill.

And Jack hasn’t said a word since he verbally assaulted you. Like he’s afraid to double text in conversation all of a sudden.

You wonder if every other patient in the hospital finds silence to be this loud.

“Okay, well, you know where your foot shouldn’t be?” you strike out desperately and way more chalant than you mean it to be. “Directly behind me.”

Way to throw it back on him, girl. And you’re not even in the club.

You’d high-five yourself had your left hand not been Abbot’s coolest, new insect he found under a rock. And, also, if the pain from the high-five wouldn’t make your hand fall off.

But, really, technically, it was Jack’s fault.

Sure, it was also a moment of uncoordinated thoughtlessness on your part, sue you—though you suspect the bastard would testify to every moment of your existence being such a thing. But it was ultimately his foot that tripped you and kicked your ass full speed into a very slicey object.

Really, if you wanted, you could pin all the blame on head counsel, who actually kicked your ass at rock-paper-scissors and sent you down here in her stead.

You should know by now that you can’t throw out paper in her presence. What are you? An amateur?

One moment, you were reluctantly stepping off the elevator with sleep-blind eyes, after having stopped at what seemed to be every level in the entire hospital, and staggering down the never-ending hallway as you attempt to locate your office door.

The next, you were reluctantly forcing your feet back down the never-ending hallway and back onto the elevator because you were abysmal at a fucking children’s game. And you don’t even know what you were braving the never-ending hallway and ratty-ass elevator for.

But honestly? It was seven in the morning.

It was seven in the morning, and seven in the morning meant that your best bad habit, Jack Abbot, was waiting down there with a shirt probably one size too small and hair that is demanding, screaming at you to pat it down.

Reluctant feet and brain notwithstanding, as far as you were concerned, you were ready to materialize in the ED like that guy from Star Trek.

Probably Star Trek. You’ve never seen it.

As soon as your foot crossed a millimeter past the threshold of the trauma room, your eyebrow quirked and some stupid variation of how it’s always hey, what law are we about to break, and never how are you disintegrated—fucking packed its bags and fled—leaving behind just your poor eyes locked on, what you would bet money on being, some dude’s fucking femur bone.

Distantly, you heard Jack arguing with one of his little residents—something about the specific density of cortical bone or who stole his favorite pair of trauma shears.

But all you saw was a visceral, three-dimensional reality of a human bone.

“Oh, no way. Fuck that, dude,” you said, feet already pivoting to get the fuck out of there.

You, however, were not counting on Jack Abbot to take a page out of your book and phase into existence directly behind you.

Feet already bickering about who got to move first, your right one shot out, catching the tip of Abbot’s stupid-ass boot. You stumbled forward, hand instinctively shooting out to the first solid object you could find—regretfully not onto Abbot’s chest, but the shiny tray that was directly in front of you.

The shiny tray with wheels.

The metal rocketed forward from under your hand, throwing your center of gravity into fucking oblivion. An expensive, metallic clang echoed through the room, broadcasting to everyone in the department your current rendition of a cartoon character. You already know Jack had his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth might shatter, trying to stifle the offensive laughter at your flailing.

Your left hand, clearly sensing a leadership vacuum of which limb was currently in charge for finding a modicum of balance, decided to stage its very own intervention, flying out to find the second closest surface to right yourself.

Instead, it found the razor thin welcome of an open lac kit.

As if it’s your fucking fault.

And now you’re going to be behind on work.

And it’s not even eight in the morning.

Ignoring your grumbling, Jack releases one of his fucking paws and reaches to his right, carding through his little pile of supplies to find a tiny amber bottle. But then he pauses, body completely still except from where his fingers wrap around your wrist, thumb mindlessly caressing your pulse.

Looking down at the skin that flutters with your embarrassingly fast pulse, you try to imbue your eyes with as much venom as you can in a demand to stop. You just know Abbot is probably counting each beat and filing it away to throw back at you.

Just humiliating.

From the corner of your eyes, you see his tongue dart out and wet his bottom lip.

His voice drifts out an octave lower than it usually is, apologetic. “I am so sorry—”

 “Thank you,” you sigh exasperatedly. “That’s all I want—”

“—that you have the coordination of a newborn foal,” Jack finishes, eyes cutting sideways to watch your expression.

Apologetic, your ass.

“Give me this thing,” you demand, muscles contracting to wrench your hand away from his grip. Struggling uselessly, you grunt between pathetic sounds of exertion, “I can do this on my own.”

Light glints off his silver curls as he tilts his head up to observe your wriggling.

“Uh-huh,” he deadpans.

Jesus Christ, is he made out of steel?

A single jerk of his arm around your wrist makes you crash to a halt. With an undignified yelp, your knee cracks hard into his as you try to steady yourself.

He raises an eyebrow, fingers momentarily still and suffocating and searingwhere they rest above your pulse. In a moment of delusion, you think you see his eyes drop down to your parted lips before snapping back to your eyes.

“Are you done being a brat?” he asks lowly and rather unamused.

Oh, come on.

You blink once, eyes wide and your brain already going down that rabbit hole.

“Yeah, sure,” you reply absently.

Does he like when you’re a brat? You could be a brat. You have no shortage of brattiness in your body. Would he act like that in—

The doctor unscrews the bottle in his hands, and the smell slaps you back into your body. A weird mix of vanilla and, like, the world’s oldest apothecary shop. You’re sure Abbot was there for the grand opening. The thought forces a single puff of laughter through your nose.

“Honestly, Jack, I think we should just cut it off,” you say, the words floating heedlessly through the air. You nod resolutely. “No big deal. I can handle it.”

A sudden thought zips through you, and you gasp in excitement. “Jack, we could start a club.”

“Yeah,” he nods, and you have the vague notion that he’s just humoring you. Bitch. “I’m sure the hospital would love another one of your worker’s comp claims for a self-amputated hand.”

“Self-ampu—? You’d do it, obviously.”

“Oh, obviously, kid.”

Jack removes the little brush from the bottle and starts to paint the oddly sticky liquid onto the skin around the cut. Your shoulders relax minutely. Between the methodic stroke of the plastic bristles against your skin, and the warmth bleeding into your wrist where Jack holds it… You kinda just feel safe. Safe and—

“Ow, you motherfucker,” you hiss, hand reflexively trying to escape his simian grip. The sharp, stinging heat slices through any comfort you felt in his hands.

In a last-ditch effort at taking any sort of revenge, you kick his shin, aiming for one completely skin and bone, and instead colliding with full titanium.

“Oh my G—” Your head falls forward and muffles your words in the black cotton wrapping around his shoulder, too heavy to be supported any longer under the sheer weight of your one-hour workday. Under your head, you feel the low rumble of his chest as he laughs at you quietly.

Your head lolls to the side, cheek dragging against his scrubs, until you’re squinting up at the stubble dusting his jaw and the way too much entertainment dancing in his eyes at your physical state.

“Shut the fuck up,” you order. “Keep cleaning, you glorified janito— ow, you bitch.”

“Sorry. Hand slipped,” he says dryly.

“Bad hands. One foot,” you scathingly take stock of his body. “You’re literally a quarter of a person.”

Jack’s eyes slide to yours, a smug smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I still have the quarter that matters, kid.”

Still tucked safely into the haven of his shoulder, you feel your eyes widen involuntarily as you scramble for anything to say in response. You open your mouth, and every word you’ve ever known evaporates. You shut it again.

Quarter?

You don’t even want to hear what he means by that.

You actually really do want to know.

Should you follow up about that?

You feel dizzy.

Be cool.

You’re cool.

Abbot’s gloved hands come down on your thighs with a crack and you jerk back in surprise to stare at him. Spinning away—and artfully avoiding your scandalous gaze—the actual coldness from the busted hospital AC creeps in, reclaiming the warmth his body had provided.

Fucking get it together. You’re probably going to die in this room.

His broad shoulders obscuring what he’s doing, you hear little clanks and taps as he rummages through medical supplies. Spinning back around, a long, thin little tube safely tucked between his fingers like a cigarette, his eyes slowly drag up your legs, detailing the way your chest expands with each confused breath, and finally settle on your eyes.

“There you go, good as new. It was an open lac kit though, so we’re gonna do Tdap just in case,” he says before squinting disappointedly, already knowing the answer to his next question. “Do you know when your last booster was?”

You blink, the newfound distance allowing your brain to start working again. “Literally, what’s the point of your little system if it doesn’t have that information?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve made a free house call every time you’ve been injured,” he pointedly reminds you. “You’ve never gone into the system.”

“So, then you’re not maintaining compliance with HITECH? That’s kind of embarrassing for you.”

His hand comes up, and pinches his nose between the back of his knuckles, careful not to touch his face. “Kid, it’s just a little shot, and then we’ll give you a band-aid. Maybe even a sticker, if you’re good. You’ll be fine.”

You narrow your eyes.

And then you pause.

Hold up.

A sticker?

No one said anything about a sticker before.

Aww, man, you so want that fucking sticker.

You can be good. It’s literally a physical stamp of him telling you that you did good. You’d be fucking stupid to pass that up.

You can do this.

Just one…

Minor…

Issue.

Circling your finger in the air, you rewind your conversation. “A what now?”

“A sticker?” the bastard repeats innocently.

“Other one.”

“Band-aid?”

“Jack Abbot, you better think long and hard about wanting to prove you have recall skills right now,” you snap.

“Ah,” he says, voice dropping to a hushed rasp. The corners of his mouth turn down in a mocking frown. “A shot?”

“Hilarious,” you breathe, your voice a ghostly, high-pitched thread. “A real comedian. You should take this act on the road, Jack. Far away. Like, another continent.”

Jack reaches for the alcohol prep pad, the sound of the foil tearing open sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room.

“I’ll send you a postcard from the Amalfi Coast,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking up to yours with a challenge that makes your stomach do a somersault. “Left arm. Relax it.”

“Jack,” you say, your voice cracking as you begin the slow, panicked shuffle backward on the bed. “Jack, let’s talk about the sticker again. Let’s talk about the size of the sticker. Is it holographic? Because for a standard matte finish, I really think we’re over-leveraged here—”

He moves the stool forward, the wheels rattling against the linoleum, closing the gap before you can make your break for the door.

“No, nuh-uh.”

You scramble backwards on the bed. In a moment of complete spatial failure, your good hand misses the mattress entirely. You tumble over the edge, tendrils of the thin, pathetic excuse of a hospital blanket sneaking out and wrapping around your ankles like some kind of fuckass cursed pair of wired headphones, tightening with every move.

With a final stumble, you kick free and launch yourself against the wall. Cold brick bleeds through your shirt.

You point an accusing finger at the glint of metal in his hand. “What the fuck is that?”

His eyes narrow in confusion, head tipping to the side. “…Tdap?”

Your voice rushes out, shrill and completely devoid of the humor you wield in every word. “Abbot, I swear to God, stay the fuck away from me with that thing.”

Jack, for all his composure, just blinks in shock, jaw parted as he rises from the stool and tries to register what just happened. As seconds tick by, he just stares at you.

Somewhere in the distance, you hear the clamor of an incoming trauma.

Finally, he smiles, teeth flashing under the harsh lighting. “Are you… scared of needles, sweetheart?”

Your head shakes in exasperation, lips mouthing insults that won’t even come out.

Yeah, Jack, you are scared of needles. And?

You really wish you had something cool to say like people who are scared of heights do. I’m not scared of the height, I’m scared of the fall.

The only fall you feel right now is the one Icarus did when he got too close to the sun, except it’s you and your inability to keep up-to-date on your shots.

“Relax, sweetheart,” the word washes over you like some sort of magical spell that you have to mentally slam yourself into your skull to snap out of. “Do you trust me?”

“Fuck no,” you snap. “Abbot, I’m warning you, one more step and I will not be held liable for any action I might take to subdue you.”

Jack blinks.

His lips twist into a slow smirk.

His voice comes out just higher than a whisper. “I’d really like you to try that.”

Yeah, you would too.

Weak and powerless and pathetic to whatever pheromone has you bewitched, your eyes fall to his now crossed arms and the thick, corded muscle wrapping around them, tapering up and building into what should probably be geologically classified as mountains—or hills at the very least—but are colloquially known as his biceps.

You clear your throat and snap your eyes back to his face, seeing the amused smirk turn into a smug grin.

He takes a small step forward—more of a shifting of his weight, if anything.

You narrow your eyes, safe and sound behind your bed barricade. “Try me.”

What happens next, you firmly decide—and will decide again, and again, and again in front of a judge and jury, if you are so forced—is not your fault. If you’re honest, the only explanation is that you were, for the next ten minutes, possessed by that demon that one guy wrote about in The Exorcist.

Because there is literally no other explanation for the way your body moves.

“I'm coming, kid,” he warns, and if you were of sound mind, you’d probably ask where. But, as it stands, you are not. As an afterthought, he enticingly dangles bait. “Think of the sticker.”

The sticker is no longer enough.

The sticker is a lie.

You don't calculate the trajectory or the legal ramifications of assaulting an ED attending.

Your body simply decides that the only way to neutralize the needle is to neutralize the man holding it.

Jack lunges.

You don’t even have time to think—all you know is that you cannot be in this spot when he reaches you. Your body—your traitorous, treacherously uncoordinated body, who is the entire reason that you’re in this mess to begin with—slams into motion.

Your legs throw you horizontally, sending you rolling over the linoleum floor. Jack’s massive frame cuts through the air and tackles the space you occupied not a millisecond earlier.

“What the—?” His boots pivot, the rubber soles squeaking under him as he catches you desperately scrambling under the bed. With a panicked grunt, you clamber to your knees, head peeking up and snapping over to him to lock eyes over the mattress.

Grabbing the first weapon within your reach, the fingers of your good hand wrap clumsily around the paper-thin, wildly uncomfortable pillow on the exam bed. Too late to realize that it has absolutely zero aerodynamic integrity, you send it like a frisbee sailing at his body.

Both of you watch with bated breath as it tumbles through the space between you. The flat side of it catches the air, putting up less than no resistance and Jack bats it away with a single swat of his left forearm.

Bewildered, you crouch down under the bed to track it as it gently floats to the ground with a small puff.

You shoot back up to look at him, lost.

The veteran slowly slides his eyes from the manufactured ball of cotton on the ground and levels you with an unimpressed glare. “Are you throwing bedding at me?”

A sheepish ha-ha is his only response before you’re on the move again.

In your head, you are a shadow. You are liquid. You are a blade of grass bending in the wind.

You scramble back on your knees, blindly tossing your hand back to find more ammunition. For a second, you feel nothing but air and perhaps an inkling of embarrassment. Before that can set in, your fingertips dance over the small curve of plastic.

With a victorious smile, you launch the kidney-shaped bin at his head. It arcs through the air beautifully, clipping the doctor squarely on the shoulder and bouncing off of his crossed arms. Jack barely even reacts, eyes sliding shut and a deep sigh rattling his chest as he leans his body to the right to escape being hit above the heart.

But you keep going, taking advantage of his momentary blindness to shuffle across the floor on your stomach, aiming for the safe haven of the door.

“How fucking old are you?” You hear him ask. Pausing your movements, you glance back at where he stands, eyebrows furrowed and mouth parted.

“I— uh—” you stutter. “Old.”

“Right.” With a deep, bone rattling tiredness, he sighs again. Lunging forward, he bends down to scoop you up by your waist.

“N— no,” you say forcefully. Frantically trying to put your feet beneath you, you dodge his arms, tottering on your knees into the corner of the room. “Jack, I swear to fucking God—”

Desperately, your arm sweeps the counter beside you, finding a jar of Q-tips conveniently positioned within reach. You don’t even think. Winding back, you throw it directly at him full force.

Yeah, that’s my arm, you think distantly. I’d know that freckle anywhere.

It catches him in the gut.

Jack takes a dramatic, heavy step backwards, hand flying to his chest and eyes widening as a pained grunt escapes his lips. He stumbles slightly, foot hitting the small stool, its wheels rattling violently when it hits the brick wall.

You freeze.

Looking down, you glare at your now upturned hands.

Your evil, evil hands that just threw something at Jack Abbot.

The feral fucking adrenaline fades, replacing it with a smooth, cold dread.

Jesus Christ.

His prosthetic. His war wounds from explosives and other miscellaneous heavy artillery. His likely fossilizing joints and paper-thin skin from his insanely advanced age.

“Jack?” Your voice cracks. “Jack, I’m so sorry—”

You look up from your palms just in time to see his stupidly muscular body fucking airborne as he launches himself at you.

Your voice is shrill. “Woah, what the fuck?”

But there’s no dodging him this time. Paralyzed by rapidly fading guilt from almost killing the man, your knees unlock a second too late. His massive hands lock around your waist, spinning you and slamming his weight on you to force you back onto the mattress of the exam table.

The breath is driven out of you with an oof.

He cages, pinning your shoulders into the bedding with the heavy, unyielding warmth of his upper body, the thick muscle of his thigh slotting between your own.

“Gotcha,” he murmurs, his breath brushing hot over your lips.

Jack shifts his weight onto his right forearm as he tilts his head down.

What the fuck?

Is he about to kiss you right now?

You open your mouth a fraction, maybe to insult him, maybe to capture his lips with your own, you’re not sure. But before you can, there’s a quick, sharp pinch in the meat of your upper arm.

Instinctively, your entire body jerks, trying to escape. “Oh, you motherfucking son of a—”

Jack’s elbow moves and presses into your shoulder, stopping your squirming.

“There,” he pants, voice dropping to a rumble just above your ear. A shiver racks your body that you can’t hide. A huff of laughter puffs against your neck. “You’re officially compliant.”

Compliant.

Right.

You tilt your head towards his and look up at him through your lashes.

He hasn’t moved a millimeter.

His curly hair and confusingly colored eyes still hover inches above you. From this angle, the sharp, rugged lines of his jaw and his tastefully unshaven stubble are overwhelming. You can see the faint flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his hair wants to part at the front, but where he obstinately combs it directly back. His chest falls rhythmically against yours. The space between your mouths is dangerously small.

It would take nothing.

You wouldn’t even have to raise up on your elbows, but tilt your chin up and brush his lips with yours.

In your chest, you feel your heart jackhammering away like it’s on a construction project. You’re almost positive he could feel it under the layers of scrubs and borderline unbusinesslike-business professional.

For one agonizing breath, Jack’s gaze drops to your mouth.

His jaw tenses.

With sudden, deliberate sharpness, the doctor looks away, eyes snapping to the small wires running through the window of the door. He clears his throat—a sharp, gravelly sound that slices through your lungs and diffuses through your veins—and pushes up on his arms, sliding off you abruptly and leaving you at the mercy of the freezing room.

He sits down heavily on the edge of the mattress next to your hip, elbows resting on his knees as his head drops down.

Following his lead, you slowly push up on one palm, forcing your body into an angle approaching upright.

Your soft panting fills the room and, distantly, in some caveman part of your brain that proved resistant to evolution, you really wish your first time sweaty and out of breath with Dr. Jack Abbot was not because he tried assaulting you with a needle and you responded, understandably, with abject warfare.

And then you give a soft chuckle—a single puff of air through your nose that could have been mistaken for a huff, or a sigh, or anything else. But it’s immediately betrayed by the following shaking of the entire bed as you laugh.

Next to you, gruff laughter rumbles deep in Abbot’s chest.

“Oh my god,” you force out. “I assaulted a medical professional. That’s a crime.”

His shoulders shake with one last burst of laughter before they stall. “Want me to handcuff you, then?”

The sorry excuse for lungs in your chest suddenly stop working.

Leaning back on one hand, you throw him a smug glance. “Yeah? You wanna see me all tied u— fuck—”

Your words are suddenly cut off as the heavy metal handle on the door gives a violent clack and is yanked open, the cacophony of the ED spilling into the silence of the room. In your panic, your arm folds like a house of cards. Your foot shoots out as you scramble to stay perched on your precarious position on the mattress.

Looking up, you catch Ellis’ astonished gaze.

“What the hell happened here?” The words are strained and low, barely believing the absolute fucking mess littering the floor around you two.

“Um… creative,” you take a deep breath, the next word a high-pitched squeak, “differences?”

“Between what?”

“Uh, the biological… um, placement of…” trailing off, you glance at Abbot for a lifeline.

“…limbs?” he finishes.

You nod, wide-eyed. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, softer.

“Yeah,” Ellis suddenly cuts in, eyes volleying suspiciously between the two of you. “Sure.”

She surveys the room again, eyes catching on the overturned jar slowly rolling across the imperceptibly unlevel ground, a crime scene of Q-tips around it.

You glance at Abbot again.

You throw him a small smile.

He smiles back.

As if sensing a moment of vulnerability, Ellis’ head snaps around with terrifying perception.

“Finish fixing your girl, Abbot,” she orders him, and honestly, if you didn’t work at PTMC, you’d think that he was the resident and she was the attending. “We have an incoming trauma.”

Then she saunters out of the room.

Jack turns to you, grin wide and happy.

“Yeah,” he says, mocking. “Come on, my girl.”

“Noooo,” you whine, rising into a functional sitting position. “Don’t call me— that makes you sound like Gatsby, Abbot.”

The silver-haired man gets up from the bed, boots squeaking as they hit the floor and pulls you up without even offering his hand.

You glare at his abject manhandling.

Eyes falling to your watch, you catch a glimpse of the time.

Three minutes past eight.

 Good Lord.

All that.

“What, um…” You twirl your finger in the air before halting and bringing it to rest on your temple. “Going back to that sticker, though. Is it—”

Jack’s hand reaches out and fucking flicks your forehead.

You blink. “Wh—”

“You really think you deserve a sticker after all that?” he asks, not even waiting for an answer. “Fuck no.”

[lauraneedstochill]

bite the bullet

pairing: Jack Abbot x surgeon!f reader summary: when Jack arrives in the ER in his SWAT uniform, he is surprised to see a new surgeon. and right away, he takes a liking to your brazen tone and notices your skills. he finds you intriguing. except, you hate everything about his hobby, and you aren’t afraid to let him know.

warnings: ACAB! her attitude gives enemies-to-lovers vibes, but Jack is mostly flabbergasted; mentions of a shootout, deaths and guilt; some hurt/comfort (while he’s shirtless...), PLOT TWIST. also, I added one slur (to indicate that the character is racist, not because I would ever use that word irl). P.S. please don’t get offended on Jack’s behalf. he’s fictional, he can take it. / words: 7K / author’s note: guys, I know no one asked for this... but it came to me in a dream. it was also fuled by the rage I feel daily bc I have to work with men. and yes, I love it when Jack is touch-starved and yearning ♡ READ ON AO3 / MASTERLIST

Sweat tastes like salt, and gunshots smell like fireworks, and the loud sounds still echo in his head. Jack takes deep, measured breaths. The car shakes as it takes a turn, but he is staying calm. Collected. He keeps his hand on the bag valve and presses rhythmically to force more air into Hiro’s lungs. His gaze is focused on the deep wound on his neck, the bandages soaked through.

Blood is just blood.

Wet, warm, staining the skin with crimson.

The splatters of it dried up on his hands and vest. It’s been a while since he had to treat an injury this bad. Out in the field, under active fire, with the adrenaline blazing through his bloodstream. Except, that feeling he once loved and chased has recently become less thrilling. More unnerving. And underneath the layers of the synthetic fibers and his years-old restraint, a heaviness has settled in his chest. Jack knows it’s not about the bleeding — at least, not the one he did manage to stop.

Because as they ride through the tunnel, the light flickers — from bright to dull fluorescent one — and Hiro’s face is momentarily replaced by someone else’s.

Someone way younger, in his twenties, his eyes widened in horror, his mouth opening to push the panicked words out. His teeth are colored red —

Then Jack blinks. The sunlight floods the car again.

“How are we doing back there, doc?” Levington asks him from the driver’s seat.

Abbot feels Hiro’s pulse — it’s slow, thready. “Not great. He’s getting harder to bag.”

“Those damn beaners got him good. But your guys will patch him up, right? 'Cause I’m supposed to be one of his groomsmen, and let me tell you, those tux rentals ain’t cheap —”

“Lev, can you just shut the fuck up and step on it?” a gruff voice interrupts.

“Got it, Sarge!”

The engine roars.

The weight in Abbot’s chest sinks deeper. But he is nothing if not pro at pushing his emotions down. So he does just that.

They ride straight to the ambulance bay, and two paramedics help them transfer Hiro on a gurney. The numbness in Jack’s wrist gives way to tingling as he moves his hand a little; he keeps his fingers clasped around the bag. He keeps his calm. Pretending that he doesn’t feel the pain stinging his shoulder blade, a deep graze where the bullet missed him.

And there’s some relief in coming into the ER, a safe space with the well-known faces — Robby’s the first to greet him, already on alert.

“Intubated neck wound, sats not great,” Jack explains, his hands moving on autopilot — one pressing on the bag, the other checking Hiro’s pulse. “You got a trauma room open?”

“Trauma 1,” Robby nods, helping to move the gurney in the right direction. “What’s the story?”

“Officer Hiro, high-velocity GSW. Warehouse robbery gone sideways,” Jack lists, avoiding further details.

Because if he says more, he’ll have to deal with questions he has yet to find the answers to. Because he’s used to making clean cuts, having a clear conscience, taking a clear course of action. But the truth is messy. And he doesn’t have time for that.

Instead, Abbot takes notice of Hiro’s barely moving chest, just as they roll the gurney in, Santos and Perlah already in the room.

Trinity’s gaze flits between two men in uniform, not with dismay but with her usual curiosity. With the excitement some might consider odd. Jack doesn’t. He also wonders when was the last time his job made him excited. He can’t remember. Definitely not today.

“Did you do this intubation?” Santos takes the bag from him.

“Under active fire, yeah. I go in with the team in case there’s an injury,” Jack tells her casually, a pair of scissors already in his hands, the metal blades hastily cutting through the bandages.

“That’s badass,” Trinity notes with a small grin, her eyes bright with amusement.

Jack only shrugs. His face expression stays unfazed. Behind it, there’s a roaring concern: with how much air he’s been pumping into Hiro’s lungs, they should inflate way more. They should make his chest rise and fall, a steady breath-like pattern. A vital pattern.

The monitor goes off.

“Sats down to 85,” Robby warns.

A respiratory failure means that they have to act fast. It also means that he missed something. And getting confirmation hurts Jack way more than being shot at.

“Shit, his trachea’s transected,” he grunts as he removes the dirty bandages, “I didn’t notice.”

“So if we intubate again, it will come straight out the wound,” Trinity guesses from behind his shoulder.

“Bingo. Need another plan,” he takes the plastic tube out of Hiro’s mouth, and she promptly puts the mask on him, with the same bag attached to it.

It’s the same working principle: her fingers squeeze the bag, the air goes in. And Jack helplessly watches as it leaks through the neck wound, blood bubbling at the edges.

The beeping doesn’t stop.

Robby shakes his head. “Sats down to 83.”

“He’s not moving any air,” Jack mumbles, “Can’t send him up like this.”

Robby catches his gaze, hums, thinks it over. “How about a neonatal mask?”

“A neonatal?” Santos sounds confused. “But how can it —”

“Put it to his neck,” Jack realizes. “Seals the wound, allows the air to go where it’s supposed to.”

Trinity nods. Then runs up to the supply cabinet, and just a tiny bit of her excitement does rub off on him. Jack lets out a breath, sweat beading on his brow; his heart is still restless with worry. Seconds drag out while he waits, and the neonatal mask actually works — sats climb up to 98, the oxygen finally filling up the lungs. But Abbot knows it’s not a permanent solution.

Robby knows, too. He steps back to give a call to the OR.

Jack figures out a way to keep his hands busy in the meantime: a syringe with a needle and two ampules he asks Perhal for — lidocaine for numbing and epi to reduce the bleeding. He carefully works around the wound, peppering it with injections, as Trinity checks up the lungs.

“Good lung sliding, no pneumo,” she reads the monitor.

This is good news. They are unfortunately followed by Robby hanging up the phone with a loud sigh.

“The OR is packed, they can take him in 20 minutes at best.”

“Wish I could say I am surprised,” Jack huffs, feigning a tone that will not give away how much he hates it — wait, and uncertainly, and feeling like he’s failing someone. “It’s always on this day when people collectively decide to lose a few of their limbs.”

“More like a few of their brain cells,” Perlah mutters, earning a laugh from Santos.

“Think he can hang in there for 20 more minutes?” Robby asks cautiously.

“I don’t want to sit and wait,” Jack counters and puts the syringe away. “Any suggestions?”

“Mine would be to sit and wait.”

“That’s just lazy, man.”

“Well, sorry I’m not a wellspring of ideas, some of us been working since 6 a.m.”

They aren’t seriously bickering — it’s just a way to keep Jack’s mind distracted, an impromptu grounding technique. Robby’s aware, so he plays along. Jack welcomes it.

“What do you think I’ve been doing? Does this camo make it look like I returned from a vacation?”

“I’m starting to think you just enjoy watching people shoot at each other.”

“Says the guy whose definition of fun is riding a bike without the damn helmet.”

“Which only happened once, meanwhile you continuously —”

The door swings open, putting their conversation to a halt.

And then a smile stretches Robby’s lips as his eyes land on someone else.

“Do you ever take breaks?”

“Do you?” you quip and hastily throw on a gown. “Cause you aren’t leading by example, that’s for sure.”

Jack instantly turns to the sound. He doesn’t recognize your voice — confident, brazen even — nor your hair color. He only glimpses your profile before you put a mask on, your movements quick, honed. Not hesitating once. He’s yet to learn your name, but your dark scrubs give him a hint: you’re a surgeon.

The one Robby already seems acquainted with. He keeps his gaze on you while you reach for the gloves.

“And why is it always you who comes down to us?”

“That is a weird way of saying thank you.”

“I just don’t want our promising new hire to burn out too fast. And I am seeing some troubling signs.”

“What you are seeing is eight hours of sleep paired with a healthy dose of caffeine. Not that you’d know what it looks like,” you scoff at Robby, mirth in your voice. “Also, promising? What a compliment.”

“We’ve only been working together for two weeks, I can’t go soft on you. Or people will start talking,” Robby steps back to let you take his place, like he is used to it. Like there is a rhythm you two have learned to fall into.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you tell him bluntly, but your attention is on Hiro — you quickly look over his bloodied chest and wounded neck, a slight furrow between your brows. “The neonatal mask was a good call.”

Then finally, you spare Jack a glance.

Your eyes catch on his uniform for a perceptible few seconds, then dart up to his face. And Jack involuntarily, immediately tenses. Because it feels like he is staring down the barrel of a gun, and your gaze is loaded. Like there are words you want to fire at him, a shot that will be deadly.

His heartbeat stutters.

But you don’t say a thing.

You silently look back at Hiro. And suddenly, a thought comes to Jack’s mind: something about you is incredibly familiar.

Robby stands right behind you, oblivious to any tension and still smiling. “You aren’t gonna let me win, will you? Emery warned me —”

“You bring her up so often, I’m starting to suspect you have a crush, Robinavich,” — you throw a look at Trinity, “Santos, help me cut down a 6-0 ET tube,” — then, back at Robby, “Sorry to break it to you, but you are not her type.”

“Is it the beard?”

“Among other things,” you chuckle.

Jack really wants to interfere with your banter — it feels like things are slipping out of his control: no one is asking for his opinion or his help, although it’s his friend who is about to bleed out on the table.

But you’re a natural at multitasking.

You talk while your sharp gaze does the inspection, while you draw up a plan. You tell Trinity where to cut the tube and ask for clamps, your fingers pulling up the mask from Hiro’s neck, your gloves already covered in his blood.

“The problem must be in my erratic working schedule,” Robby muses teasingly, watching you work.

Your eyebrows flicker up at his remark. Behind your mask, there’s an expression that Abbot guesses is a smirk. “No, I’d say it’s more about your pathological refusal to commit to a serious relationship and instead fucking around and calling it casual. Which does sound funny coming from a man in his fifties,” you deadpan.

Perlah gives Robby a pointed look, not hiding that she does agree with you. Santos is trying very hard (and failing) to hold back a laugh. And unexpectedly, despite his whirlpool of emotions that are far from funny, Jack feels his mouth smiling too.

You keep your focus on the wound and add nonchalantly: “Please tell me you haven’t been casual with anyone in this room.”

Robby is blushing — profusely, from his ears to his cheeks. “You overestimate my charm.”

“I’m yet to find any. But somehow that doesn’t stop so many other women,” you tsk. Then mercifully grant him some reprieve. “His sats will tank, he’s in need of an airway. Trinity, come help me with the tube.”

“Allow me,” the words come out before Jack can rationalize them, his body leaning slightly toward yours across the gurney.

Like he is following a pull.

You don’t object. But now that he is standing closer, Jack catches how your eyes dart to the side, your brows pinched together. Almost as if you fight the urge to look at him again, to say something.

But for the second time, you don’t.

And even though Abbot is not inclined to think about it too hard — of how he looks and how he carries himself, and what effect it might have on people — he cannot help but wonder if your discomfort comes from that. Maybe you also feel the pull, maybe you’re trying to be professional about it.

He doesn’t mind the quiet. It drapes over you two as you work in accidental tandem: Santos gives Jack the tube, and he waits patiently for you to find the distal trachea. He checks the monitors. Although he’s drawn to keep his eyes on you. As much as Abbot is still worried, he is also undeniably intrigued.

His tension slowly eases —

Until the door creaks open, and Levington clumsily pushes half of his body in. The holster on his hip bumps against the wall, the handle of the gun making a dull sound.

“How’s it going, guys? This one didn’t kick the bucket yet?”

Jack doesn’t want to get distracted — or worse, to distract you. Not when you’re concentrated on the task, the metal shanks bloody and gleaming as you rotate them, trying to grip the windpipe and leave everything intact. Abbot looks up at Robby.

Robby first looks at you.

He then loses his smile and the amiability he usually uses around patients. Which is weird. He turns to Levington.

“It’s better if you wait outside, and we’ll update you once he’s out of surgery,” Robby says dryly. His voice drops slightly when he adds, “Should be more careful with the gun.”

“The safety’s on,” Levington brushes off, then chuckles. “Wouldn’t want to shoot myself in the leg and end up on the table too.”

“Weapons of any kind aren’t allowed in the ER,” you say without looking at him, way louder than Robby.

And there’s a stark change in your tone — it’s lacking playfulness, it is completely void of any warmth, each word spoken so firmly that you sound almost... Angry. Jack catches on to that.

Levington doesn’t.

“Oh, I’m a big boy, I can handle —”

“Wasn’t exactly a suggestion,” you cut him off. “You aren’t allowed in here, period. Go flash your gun some place else. Am I being clear?”

For just a second, you do look at him, a brief turn of your masked face in his direction.

And Levington — six feet tall, almost two hundred pounds of chiseled muscles and blissful ignorance — flinches under your stare. He throws both hands up.

“S-sorry, already leaving,” he stutters and backs out of the room.

The sats drop down to 91.

“I got it,” you say in the same second.

Jack’s part is easier: he only needs to place the tube in. Gently, securely. His face inches closer to yours, his gaze grazing the high points of your cheeks, the lines of your throat. You surely can feel him staring, but you don’t move away. Eventually, he does.

“I’m in. Balloon up.”

The chestpiece of Robby’s stethoscope glides over Hiro’s chest. The number on the monitor is climbing up. Everyone shares a sigh of relief.

“Good breath sounds,” Robby confirms, a corner of his mouth curling. “Not bad, you guys.”

But when Jack tries meeting your gaze, you don’t give him the satisfaction, your face not softened one bit. Nor is your voice when you say coolly:

“Good thing that whoever shot him couldn’t aim for shit.”

That scratches off some of Jack’s pretense. Most of his nonchalance. Because you masterfully fish out not only the trachea, but also the damned memories he has been trying to suppress.

The rows of corridors, the piles of packaged and hastily abandoned goods. Shadows that move across the floor, hide behind structured rows of shelves. Hushed conversations. Hectic decisions. They are on the run.

Hiro’s voice booming.

“Kid, you don’t even know how to use that thing! Just put your weapon down!”

Shots fired — intentional, precise, hitting the targets as expected. But one is sudden, accidental, the bullets ricocheting off the metal with bright tiny sparks.

Hiro gets hit.

His hand clasped weakly over his neck, red pouring through his fingers until Jack can apply more pressure. Until they rush him out of the building.

There are two dead bodies left behind.

The third one is still fighting against the imminent demise. Convulsing limbs and bloodied teeth and scared eyes — looking straight at Jack.

Robby’s palm on his shoulder brings him back.

“— don’t have to stay for this,” he repeats, “We can take it from here.”

He sounds more cautious, like he can finally feel that something’s off. But he can’t figure out what exactly. Robby steps to where you’re standing.

“I’ll sew the trachea to the skin. Can’t let you do all the work around here.”

You don’t argue. But your gloved hand brushes Hiro’s half-naked body, your fingers moving to his side. You pull away the piece of his torn t-shirt. There is a spot beneath his ribs — big, blooming violet.

“Missed a bruise. Left upper quadrant.”

Santos picks the ultrasound transducer. “Wasn’t he wearing body armor?”

“High-velocity projectile doesn’t have to penetrate to damage,” Jack notes.

He stays to help Robby with suturing. You take the transducer from Trinity, maneuvering your body and your hand to move around Abbot so you can get an image while still keeping your distance.

And this doesn’t feel like you are fighting an attraction to him, no. It comes off as avoidance. Dislike even.

But why?

“No fluid in the suprasplenic space. Looks like a subcapsular hematoma of his spleen,” you say, ignoring Jack’s existence as if your arm isn’t bumping into his.

“So he needs an abdominal CT,” Santos suggests.

“CT angio of the neck first. Then CT chest, abdomen, pelvis.”

“Geez, I wonder what the other guy looks like,” Trinity mumbles.

Abbot pretends he didn’t hear the question. But now that he’s the one ignoring something obvious, you glance at him. He feels it — your gaze comes with the safety off. And he remembers that he also has a gun. The chances that you haven’t noticed aren’t very high. Which may be what’s been bothering you.

“How did that even happen?” Santos wonders, and this one time Jack wishes she could be less curious. Trinity adds, a tad bit awkward. “I mean, if it’s not a top secret.”

Since everyone is staring at him, he can’t help but talk.

“Some guys naively thought today was the day to rob a goods warehouse. Didn’t think about how long it would take to load the appliances,” Jack explains half-heartedly. “They panicked when the SWAT rolled in. All hell broke loose.”

“His recovery will also feel like hell,” Perlah nods toward Hiro with a small, sympathetic frown.

“Good thing someone else didn’t catch a bullet,” Robby remarks, both disapproving and concerned, his gaze fixed on the wound.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack notices you move away. As if you aren’t very interested in this discussion. But Perlah is — she squints at Jack, and there’s more confusion than disapproval in her words:

“Why’d you volunteer for something like that?”

You snap your gloves off, one then the other; then your mask.

“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” Abbot says.

It’s an excuse packed as a joke, but both work poorly — there is a glaring proof of how unsafe the job is, with Jack’s hands still on Hiro’s wounded neck. Proof that it isn’t just a fun, carefree pastime.

Because there’s no enjoyment in watching someone die.

And Jack has seen too many deaths already. He doesn’t know how long he can keep pushing it all down, deeper, until he will start cracking at the seams. So he has made it into a habit to talk his way out of situations he struggles to process.

“I mean, they just need someone to help them if things go south,” he continues, seemingly unruffled. “It’s a high-risk job. These guys put their life on the line.”

There is a sound — a huff mixed with a laugh, not airy and mirthful but instead cold and sharp. The sound comes from you.

“Do they really?”

His head snaps in your direction, and there’s no hiding how flabbergasted he is by your tone. You give him no chance to recover.

“You mean the men in military-style tactical gear who usually show up armed to the teeth? In teams, with vests, shields and helmets? Which, by the way, they get paid really well for. So how high is the risk exactly?” You glance at Hiro. “At least this one came in one piece. How many were brought in body bags today thanks to you?”

The room goes silent.

Jack’s face grows hot. And only now, belatedly, he realizes: for you, there is no pull. The only urge you’re fighting is to tear him to shreds.

Correction: you aren’t fighting it.

“Shit happens,” Abbot tries to argue. “You point a gun at a police officer, and they’re allowed to engage.”

“Are they allowed to negotiate first? Or do you usually prefer to skip that part? Sorry, my bad — not you, your team buddies.”

The truth is, he’s not really involved in the decision-making. He stays back and he follows orders, and there is no time to question them. He does sometimes, though. It has been happening more often.

You stare him down like you can read his thoughts.

“Are you allowed to help the other guys? Like, if some criminal is bleeding out on the pavement. Or does the Hippocratic Oath apply only to the upstanding citizens with a clean record and high morals?”

His heart pounds, no doubt fueled by adrenaline that’s triggering the body’s “fight or flight” response. Jack’s always been a fighter, he has learned to be — he went from jumping into fights at school to jumping out of helicopters straight into war zones. But none of that experience can help him.

His vest, his self-restraint, his wit are suddenly all useless against you.

“There are priorities of life. Civilians first, then the acting officers,” Jack forces out, because it feels unbearable not to fight back or at least try to. “The criminals come —”

“Aren’t they innocent until proven guilty? Pointing a gun at someone isn’t against the law.”

“Shooting at people is.”

“Undoubtedly, yes. Shouldn’t they be prosecuted for that?”

“Undoubtedly,” Jack echoes, not wryly but warily, like he’s afraid to walk into a trap. He does.

“Would be hard to do that when they are dead,” you note swiftly, your voice level, but your gaze is burning. Always on him. It makes Jack’s grit falter, so when you change topics, he is caught off guard.

“Where’s that warehouse you mentioned?”

Robby is finishing the stitches, his brown eyes glancing between you two with ever-growing apprehension. Perlah and Trinity are gazing at you like they just got front row tickets to some drama show. Jack doesn’t find any of this entertaining.

“I’m not sure I can disclose that information.”

You let out a hum. Dismissive. Like that’s exactly what you expect from him, like your expectations of him aren’t very high.

“Since he didn’t bleed out, and your hand didn’t fall off from pumping air into his lungs, it can’t be too far. The warehouse in Millvale sounds about right.”

Abbot’s jaw clenches. Your mouth twitches, as if you’re about to sneer.

“Isn’t that the one owned by Amazon? I’m sure one of the world’s richest men is ugly crying over a few boxes of packaged goods someone tried to steal from him.”

There’s so much tension in Jack’s face, he is about to start grinding his teeth.

“I don’t think we should let people steal whatever shit they want.”

“And I do not encourage stealing,” you retort, easily grinding on his nerves, “I’m saying you should take guilty people to court. Not kill them on the spot.”

“You ever heard about self-defence?”

“You ever tried not shooting people in the head?”

“I don’t shoot anyone. Or give orders to.”

“But you work for the men who do. Kinda sounds like you don’t have a problem with it.”

An irritated deep sigh burns his throat, but Abbot holds it back. So you push on.

“I’m not judging,” but it sounds like you are. “The job probably pays well. Wouldn’t hurt to get an extra check in this economy.” He doesn’t buy into you being conciliatory. You prove him right when you add. “I heard that ICE is hiring.”

There’s an immediate shift in the air. The silence deafening, all eyes on Jack again, as if he has to actually prove that he’d never consider that job offering.

“Since you’re so fond of law enforcement —”

“I’m not gonna join fucking ICE,” Jack hisses as he fully turns to you.

Your words send redness creeping across his cheeks, the color of both embarrassment and indignation. You turn a blind eye to his feelings.

“Oh, you have a moral compass? Would you look at that.”

The guilt is back, and now it takes the shape of a dumbbell, the weight so heavy, it’s threatening to crush his chest. At least, that’s what it feels like. His voice comes out a little strangled.

“You seem to like rushing to judgment.”

“I was merely asking. ICE loves recruiting cops.”

It’s in this moment when Robby tries to interfere. He walks closer, his eyes moving from Jack to you and back. “Guys, maybe you should —”

“They will recruit any uneducated douchbag, it has nothing to do with what the SWAT does,” Abbot insists.

“The unit of the public institution that is responsible for quarter of a million civilian injuries a year? I think my judgment is just fine,” you say, adamant in your aversion. “Those are the same guys who do forced-entry raids and treat human rights like a suggestion they are free to ignore.”

“They don’t —”

But Abbot finds himself unable to finish that sentence. We wants to say they aren’t like that, except he actually can’t be certain. He and Hiro did form a surprisingly tight friendship, but Jack has never cared to hang out with the rest. He has a schedule and a full-time job, he gets tired faster, he sometimes feels too old to get their jokes.

He’s getting irritated at how effortlessly you can sniff out his hesitation.

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“But you don’t know it either, do you?” you challenge.

For him, it takes a lot of effort — to push back his emotions, to stop himself from bluntly asking Did something happen to make you so uncompromising? There is a lot of sense in what you’re saying. But Jack sticks to his own version of truth.

“From my experience, many of them are not bad people.”

It backfires. As quickly as if he stepped on another mine. You tell him, ruthlessly straightforward:

“From my experience, half of them choose that job to flaunt their power, the other half just love cosplaying their old army days because they are adrenaline junkies who can’t be left alone with their thoughts.”

Your words land like a punch into his sternum. Because you read him like you’ve got a PhD in Jack Abbot’s supposedly complex internal turmoil. He exhales sharply. Takes a breath and bristles.

“Are you a therapist now too?”

“Am I wrong? Sorry, did it hit too close to home?”

“Guys!” Robby barks out, and that does shut you both up.

You and Jack look at him, and he glances intently at the table. At Hiro, who you two almost forgot about. You only now notice that he’s starting to wake up, his eyelids fluttering as his head moves slightly to the side.

Abbot is sombre and distrustful — he doesn’t want any of your prejudice to hit Hiro, who’s in no shape to argue or to even speak. He watches you with narrowed eyes. You briefly check — the fluids Hiro is hooked up to, his stitched-up neck. And you don’t look at Jack at all.

“Welcome back to consciousness,” you keep your voice down — and you’re believably polite. Perfectly amiable. “You may feel some discomfort in your throat, there is a tube placed there to help you breathe. It’s temporary, and we will take it out during surgery. It won’t take long, and you won’t feel a thing. You may want to stay out of karaoke for a while, though.”

Hiro’s lips curve up a little at the corners.

Jack’s guilt could take half of the room. The floor. (The building?)

He makes his face look less sour as he walks closer. It helps that he is genuinely happy to see Hiro doing better. (Most importantly, not dead.)

Jack pats him on the shoulder, although the touch barely lands. “You’re gonna be okay, Hiro. You’re in good hands.”

Your argument (or was it a fight?) has momentarily gone from sizzling to smoldering. Robby moves to stand between you, a self-proclaimed referee.

“What’s the plan?”

“The Radiology first. Head and Neck will have an OR ready with thoracic standing by,” you explain.

“How soon can they take him?”

“We’re still backed up with Westbridge patients, but I can speed things up. Let’s start with CT.”

“Can I ride up with you?” Trinity asks, never apologetic for her ambitions.

And you must like it, because you give her a half-smile as you nod. “The more the merrier.”

It stings Jack’s pride a little how easily you get along with people. With anyone but him.

He helps to transfer Hiro on a gurney, and you two stand shoulder to shoulder for a moment. You only level him with a glare. Your eyes unreadable, your body moving out of the room like you wish to never share it with Abbot.

The space’s left empty, save for him and Robby.

“What the hell was that?” Jack says under his breath, eyes still glued to the place where you were standing.

“That was our new surgeon,” Robby informs him casually, his tone suggesting you and him work pretty well together. “She likes to come down between the surgeries to check up on the critical cases, see if she can help. No idea when she manages to actually take breaks, but I’m not complaining.”

Jack watches as Robby pulls down his gown, feeling his emotions simmer, his cheeks still warm. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

Robby sends him a glance, then lets out a long exhale.

“Wish I could give you an answer,” although he doesn’t sound too bothered by the lack it. “Last week, a couple of cops brought in one of theirs, tried to stick by while he was on the table. And she almost dragged them out of the ER with her own hands,” Robby takes off his gloves and tosses them into the trash can. “To be fair, their buddy did shoot himself in the thigh, and they all reeked of beer. So she didn’t seem totally unreasonable, and I didn’t want to push her. Maybe she’s anti-gun, maybe something happened to her? Hell if I know. It’s none of my business unless it affects her job. And it doesn’t. You saw it too.”

Jack can’t argue with that.

He also can’t stop thinking about it — your voice laced with aversion, your words biting, your eyes never shying away from his. You. He doesn’t know how to stop thinking about you.

Robby must see in his face — or maybe he just knows him well enough to guess. He asks Jack quietly:

“She did get under your skin, huh?”

Jack’s mouth is set into a straight line. He cannot master a reply, and Robby knows better than to force one out. He briefly closes his eyes, bringing his hand up to rub his neck.

“Listen, I’m as clueless as you are. But if you want to get some inside scoop, maybe try asking—”

“Dr Robby?” Mel peeks into the room. “Sorry, we’ve got a trauma incoming. A 12-year-old kid, a firecracker exploded in his hand.”

“Not again,” Robby grumbles. “Anyone ever thought of banning those fucking firecrackers? I think we should.”

“Start a petition, I’ll sign it,” Dana chuckles as she walks by.

Robby relents and steps toward the door, his hand landing on Jack’s shoulder to give it a supportive squeeze. Unknowingly, he touches his wound, and Abbot barely manages to hold back a groan.

This time, the pain in his back lingers.

And when he’s left alone, in the room that smells like blood and antiseptics, what lingers on his mind is the thought of you.

Jack looks for an empty exam room so he can quickly change and clean the wound. He doesn’t want to ask for help, knowing how busy this day’s been, which also serves as an excuse for him to stay for a few hours.

He tells himself it has nothing to do with you. It sounds like a lie.

Jack tiredly removes his sweat-stained long-sleeve, wincing when the material drags over his bruised shoulder blade. He takes the holster off, makes sure the gun is safely placed inside, then slowly pulls up his t-shirt. He barely has time to take it off when he hears quick footsteps approaching.

“Mr Diaz?” Samira calls out, loud and excited. The door clicks open. “Mr Diaz, I have a surprise for you,” she yanks the curtain to the side. Her eyes widen a little at the sight of Abbot, her tone quickly dulled to apologetic. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jack says, a bit self-conscious, hands fumbling with the t-shirt.

Mohan pays him no mind, looking around the room. “Have you seen my patient? Orlando.”

He shakes his head. “This room was empty.”

She curses under her breath, and her face crumbles into an expression of unease that’s borderline on panic. Her eyes wander back to the hall, unsure, until they stop on someone Jack can’t see.

“Have you seen Mr Diaz?”

“The diabetic? He’s up in the med-surg. They’re gonna put him on an insulin protocol and monitor him for a couple of days.”

Jack’s fingers clutch the t-shirt tighter at the sound of your voice. He takes a step back and almost stumbles when he sees you. There’s a short pause while Samira’s scrambling for words.

“Wait, are you— Are you sure? He refused to get admitted, I barely could talk him into staying here, in the ER.”

“Yeah, it looked like he wasn’t gonna stay for long, because I caught him on the stairs in his hospital gown,” you say, a small chuckle tucked in after the last two words. “He seemed very agitated and definitely not in the best shape to leave. So I called for a psych consult.”

“Oh. I didn’t think about that,” Samira sighs, shaking her head, no doubt already taking all the blame. “I should’ve thought about that, I didn’t even— Thank you so much.”

Remarkably, as you approach her, your demeanour changes — your voice goes softer, and so does your gaze; your palm caresses her shoulder in a soothing manner.

“That’s not on you. Today’s been pretty rough, and you have to juggle dozens of cases. You can’t think of every single thing,” and you wait until Samira looks at you, until she breathes out with somewhat of a relief. “Besides, I wasn’t the one to persuade him, it’s all Kiara.”

“Guess I need to thank her too,” Samira mumbles, a bit bashful, way more hopeful.

You nudge her in the direction of the elevators, a hint of a smile on your lips — sincere and friendly, something Jack wishes he could get from you. Your gaze follows Samira as she walks away. You add:

“Maybe grab a snack on your way up. I’m pretty I haven’t seen you sit down once since the morning.”

Mohan is out of Jack’s sight, but she does something to make your almost-smile turn into a wide one, your eyes crinkling at the corners as you laugh. Jack has to sit down. He’s quick to memorize it — joy on your face, the sound of your laugh, your whole stance relaxed, if only for a couple of seconds.

He doesn’t wait for the inevitable change that will come once you see him.

Abbot averts his gaze and reaches for the medkit to take out everything he needs — alcohol wipes and cotton swabs, a tub of Vaseline, gauze pads and band-aids. It is an easy process. And yet, all he can think about is that he didn’t hear you leave. That the door is open.

And even now, after you argued, after you glared at him, after you made it evidently clear how much you hate his principles and choices, the pull is still there. So he glances up.

To find that you’re already looking at him.

Your face unsmiling and emotionless, no softness in your voice when you say:

“You are Hiro’s emergency contact.”

Jack nods and holds your gaze for a long moment. Then looks away, picking a cotton swab to scoop up a globe of Vaseline with it. He’s definitely skipping a few steps. His heart skips — not just one beat, but a couple — as you confidently move into the room.

“He doesn’t want his fiancée to freak out if something happens,” he explains, trying to focus on his wound. “So usually it’s one of us. I’m his pick for the summer since I’m not going on vacation any time soon,” Jack cannot reach his shoulder blade, and each attempt makes him feel more annoyed. Clumsy. He puts the cotton swab down, shifting in place under your stare. And yet, he’s stalling.

“He’s doing alright up there?”

“Neck angio is negative. A small splenic injury, but no free fluid in the abdomen. He’s getting prepped for the surgery,” you tell him flatly.

Nothing in your voice or face suggests you find his company enjoyable. So Jack’s expecting you to turn and go away.

You don’t.

Your gaze sweeps over his body, from his shoulders and chest down to his hands. You suddenly step to the wall to grab a pair of gloves. Before he even thinks to ask what you’re doing, you move closer and take the cotton swab from him.

Then your fingers graze the raw skin on his back.

Jack goes rigid all over.

You don’t ask questions, silently examining his wound. And Abbot doesn’t expect you to be particularly gentle with him. He almost wishes that you won’t be. If you are rough, then your presence will be something he just needs to tolerate. Sit here and wait for you to get it over with.

That’s not what happens.

Because despite your sharp voice and unfriendly attitude, your hands are warm. He feels it even through your gloves, he’s startled by that feeling: you touch him — and goosebumps rise up on his back. You must notice, it would be hard not to. But you don’t comment on it.

You work fast, as you always do: you use a wipe soaked in alcohol to clear the wound, pressing it firmly in a patting motion over the graze. You ditch the cotton swab, choosing to apply the Vaseline with your gloved finger, spreading it carefully in a thin layer. And every time you come in contact with his skin, his body’s drawn to lean into your touch. A treacherous, unfathomable yearning. Of course, Jack stops himself. He’s sitting with his hands crossed over his chest, mentally counting seconds, hoping his torture will be over soon.

Hoping you’ll stay for longer.

Hoping he’ll somehow manage to erase this moment from his memory. And already knowing that he won’t.

You cover his graze with a gauze pad and put four band-aids at the corners of the fabric to secure it in place. You smooth it out with your thumbs —

and then you’re done.

Then comes the part where Jack searches for the right thing to say. His arms still locked together, his heartbeat erratic, just as his thoughts are. He only manages two quiet words:

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

And there’s no stalling on your part because you promptly step away, the gloves off, the shield of your indifference already up.

“I mean that. Don’t bring this up ever, it was just a one-and-done,” you tell him, and now you do turn away, and he isn’t audacious enough to reach for you. But as you’re about to leave, you stop. “And it’s three, by the way.”

His shoulder doesn’t hurt, but something in his chest does. It claws its way out, spills into his arteries and veins, and fills him down to his bones: guilt. Jack knows what you’re about to tell him.

Still, he asks:

“Three what?”

“Three dead bodies,” and when it’s just the two of you, you are less feisty, and you mostly sound tired. Not of your job, he thinks; no, it must be something else — personal, painful, haunting. But you look at him with the same heavy gaze. “They were diverted here from Westbridge. Two were in their mid-thirties, GSWs in head and chest. Probably died fast. The third one was seventeen. Two bullets in his lungs, one in his spleen, one in his arm. Isn’t that too much? He wasn’t a rapist or a murderer, he was just a kid. There should be hope for someone like him. Rehabilitation, reintegration into society, a second chance,” you yourself don’t seem hopeful as you give him the explanation. “Instead, he had to lie there and wait for the blood to fill his lungs while choking on it. But hey, your friend? He will be fine. He was wearing a vest,” and this is so much worse — when you address him not with anger but with disappointment. “As were you.”

You don’t wait for him to come up with a reply, and Abbot watches you walk out into the hall.

His guilt stays.

He sits with it, puts clothes over it, gets on his feet and carries it around as he goes back to the nurse station. He picks a chart, but he’s having a hard time focusing on names and numbers. The noise of the ER is muted while he’s deep in thought.

It’s not a hobby, and there’s rarely any enjoyment in it, and everyone (his therapist included) has found ways to tell him that they do not approve. So why does he keep doing it?

Should he keep doing it?

Someone is walking up to him — Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Hi there,” Emery leans on the table, hands in her pockets. “Met the new surgeon?”

Jack barely registers the question, not really in the mood for talking. “Yeah.”

“This is the part where you’re supposed to tell me that I’m the more talented one,” she smirks and tilts her head a little, trying to catch his gaze. Despite it being evident that his attention is elsewhere, she continues. “Okay, talent runs in the family would be a nice second option.”

It takes Jack a second to understand what she just said. And that does make him turn his head to look at her. “What family?”

“She didn’t tell you? I saw you two talking, so I assumed you knew.”

Walsh stares back at him, one of her brows raised, like she is waiting for a punch line. But Jack’s face is a canvas of indeniable confusion. Slowly, a smile tugs at her lips, a little bit amused — and very satisfied that she’s the one to tell him:

“She’s my half-sister.”

He lets her words sink in. And then it hits him — the familiarity he noticed came from you and Emery having the same eyes. The same eye shape and, most importantly, the same gaze — direct, intense and unapologetic. That made him feel like he owed you an apology, but he is yet to figure out what for.

“Wow, Jack Abbot rendered speechless, that’s a new one. What, did she leave that good of a first impression?” Emery chuckles.

That is one way to put it.

Jack is not sure how to tell her that you made him reevaluate the choices he was dead set on. The ones he kept making for months. But he can’t have this conversation with her now, here, when he’s in disarray and operating on barely five hours of sleep.

He manages a smirk. “Maybe talent does run in your family. Hard for me to tell when I’ve barely worked with you.”

“Memory loss is one of the symptoms of senility, you know,” she pats his arm with a mocking sympathy but with no offence. “I’ll make sure to make our every interaction memorable for you from now on.”

There’s a glint in her eyes, not threatening but invigorating, and that’s what Jack has always liked about her: even if their methods clash, even when they argue (which happens often), Emery never holds a grudge.

“Can’t wait for it, Dr. Walsh,” Jack grins.

She flips him off on her way to the elevator.

His phone vibrates.

Jack pulls it out of his pocket and looks down at the pop-up on the screen.

Levington:

You still up for next Friday? We’re placing bets, mine’s on some gang shit. Haven’t gotten one of those in a while, seems sus.

The same question starts flashing through his mind, like a red light at a crossroad. Should he keep doing this?

Hiro will still be in recovery, and he’s the only one Jack usually hangs out with. Except, no one takes on that job to hang out, and all the common reasons don’t resonate with Jack: he isn’t on it for the money, he doesn’t go out on calls to render justice, his morals have become quite flexible over the years. They’ve got enough time to find another medic for the task. And he really should find himself a better hobby.

So Abbot bites the bullet and types a short reply.

Sorry, something came up, I have to pass on this one. I’ll text Sarge.

He turns on silent mode and puts the phone away.

It comes to him way easier than he’d imagined. The harder task will be to not give in when he’s alone in his apartment, when he’s got day-offs and not too many friends to spend them with, when he’ll have to dissect his logic for his therapist.

The hardest will be trying to talk to you.

If not for giving an apology, then just to offer you an explanation. It feels important to let you know he isn’t who you think he is, to get a chance to make things right. To get a chance to be in your proximity for any reason, really.

Because deep down, he grows infatuated with that jarring contrast — your words harsh, but your fingers gentle.

Your voice cold, but your touch warming his whole body up.

And somehow, he craves both.

✧ soooo is this anything? would anyone want a part 2?

the idea behind the fic was to explore how a person’s views can change with time and/or under some dire circumstances. but also what it’s like to fall for someone who’s done things in the past you don’t agree with. I think it would be interesting to find out why Abbot joined the army and how it affected him, but also why he decided to help the SWAT team. because I have a sneaking suspicion that the show will not answer any of these questions... aaanyways, I didn’t want to write a super long oneshot, I think it’d work best as a three-parter, so this is the first one. sorry there’s no smut, I know that’s what everyone cares about these days. I spent almost a week debating if I should even post this fic. but it’s been on my mind for a while, and I just want to move on lol but thank you to the few people who will read this <3 (also, to clarify — yes, reader does have her reasons to hate cops. but the statistics I mentioned are very much real).

✧ dividers by @/pixopix and @/cafekitsune; ⏩ PREV FIC / ⏩ MASTERLIST ✧ English isn’t my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated!

[inkskinned]

i love you vaccines i love you research i love you reading the book instead of having chatgpt summarize it i love you critically thinking rather than reacting to a headline i love you investigating the source material i love you science i love you math even though you are personally my enemy (math/yn slowburn) i love you writing even though you try to stab me a lot i love you Experts in Your Field i love you Using The Brain

[sc3ptre]

Imagine Clark Kent planning to propose to reader, but he gets so flustered and nervous that when he kneels, all he can muster is a desperate, breathy, “Please.” Saw this idea from a woman sharing her proposal story on twitter!! 🫦🫦🤤🤤

The star that leads to you

Pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938

a/n: The plan was for this to be 5k words long TOPS but i'm a bottom so...

Classification: (Suggestive) Fluff | Moderate workplace PDA, suggestive comments and explicit/implied sex scenes w/superpowered intimacy (destruction of the bed), normal relationship anxiety and overthinking, sci-fi talk and kryptonite exposure, use of superpowers in daily life.

Word count: 10,3k

Divider by me ;)

The days leading up to any leave or holiday were always the most chaotic. In journalism, there was no such thing as getting ahead. No matter how many drafts you filed, how many interviews you wrapped up or how many loose ends you tied off, the work simply piled up somewhere else, waiting for your attention.

You made your way through the bullpen with Jimmy trailing closely behind. For the past few days, a persistent unease had settled beneath your skin. Everyone seemed to need something from you before you left, another question, task or last-minute request, and on top of that, you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. 

Eyes appeared to follow you wherever you went.

Right now, though, the only thing demanding your attention was Jimmy's steadily rising panic.

"I…I can't do that." He shook his head again, likely for the hundredth time that morning.

"Jimmy, it's just my email." You stopped at the coffee station, reaching for your mug and filling it. "All I'm asking is that you log in once a day, check if anything's worth investigating and follow up if necessary." You stirred your coffee before lifting your eyes to him. "You won't have much to do…Lois will be helping too."

"What do I do if he contacts you?" Jimmy asked quietly, watching your hands move with nervous intensity.

"What if who contacts me?" you asked, only sparing him a brief glance.

"You know." He shrugged. "Superman."

A laugh escaped you as you picked up your mug and started back toward your desk, taking a sip as you walked. "You think Big Blue has an email address?"

"I…" Jimmy frowned as he tried to explain himself. "Well, I believe he's a modern man."

You snorted into your coffee.

"Who knows," he continued. "Maybe he'll want to meet up. To…talk."

You stopped beside your desk and turned to face him fully, narrowing your eyes. "About what?"

"I don't know." Jimmy lifted both hands. "Whatever it is you two usually talk about."

"Sure, Jimmy. Maybe he'll need help setting up an email account." You nodded thoughtfully. "Let's just hope nothing too big happens while I'm gone so I can enjoy some uninterrupted rest." 

As you spoke, your gaze drifted across the bullpen and landed on Clark.

Your eyes narrowed immediately at his staring but the moment your eyes met, he jerked into motion. His attention snapped downward as he began fumbling with the papers on his desk, shuffling folders that clearly didn't need sorting and reaching for things that weren't there.

You had only held his gaze for all of two seconds before he folded completely under it, which was suspicious. Your attention lingered on him even as Jimmy continued talking.

"Alright, but just in case, tell him I'm perfectly fine with meeting in dark alleys during pouring rain and all that." Jimmy nodded once, looking entirely too eager for the possibility.

"He's more of a rooftop kind of guy, but I'll pass the message along." The reply came automatically, your focus already elsewhere. “Thanks Jimmy.”

Your gaze dropped to your own desk as Jimmy finally wandered off. Taking your seat, you looked over the organized chaos spread across the surface and got to work clearing away the last of it, though most of the clutter simply disappeared into drawers and folders. You wanted to return to a clean workspace, not a disaster waiting for you after a week away.

Your final drafts had already been submitted and every article due before your leave had been filed and approved. There were still two hours until lunch and for the first time in days, there was nothing immediately demanding your attention.

You intended for the following week to be dedicated entirely to rest. Well, rest and unpacking the mountain of moving boxes currently occupying Clark's apartment, which was now yours too.

The thought alone made you look up.

Clark now sat perfectly still at his desk, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the bullpen. His head was tilted slightly, his attention caught by something none of the rest of you could hear. If there was one thing you'd learned about him, it was that there usually was something, a distant cry for help, an emergency unfolding miles away or a hundred voices filtering through the world at once.

You watched him for a moment until he rose from his chair, the movement quick and purposeful. He reached for his messenger bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder as he stepped around his desk, his eyes finding yours immediately.

The look was familiar, it was the same one he always gave you right before disappearing. You pushed yourself to your feet and followed after him, weaving through the bullpen until the two of you reached one of the quieter hallways.

"How bad is it?" you asked worriedly.

The question and tone had nothing to do with your upcoming week off. You were never worried about canceled plans, you were worried about Metropolis. If Superman was needed in the middle of a workday, something somewhere had gone terribly wrong.

Clark suddenly turned and you barely had time to react.

The momentum of your hurried pace carried you directly into his chest and as always, the impact barely moved him. Before you could stumble back, his arms were already wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer as he dipped his head and pressed his lips to yours.

It caught you completely off guard. You knew kissing with your eyes open wasn't particularly romantic but you couldn't help the way they widened in surprise. For a moment, all you could do was stare at him as you failed to kiss him back.

Only when he pulled away did you finally speak. "That bad?" you asked, eyes searching his face frantically.

Clark blinked as his brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"You have to go to your other thing, right?" You gestured vaguely. "I know you heard something."

The confusion on his face matched your own. Still, his arms remained around you.

"I did." He forced himself to pause and collect his thoughts because keeping things from you had never gotten easier. "It isn't bad, sweetheart. I just need to go check it out."

At the same moment, footsteps echoed from farther down the hallway, so he reluctantly released you. Neither of you was particularly interested in becoming a more serious conversation for Human Resources yet. 

You cleared your throat as Clark adjusted the strap of his bag and the silence stretched until the employee rounded the corner and disappeared again.

"Will you be long?" 

"I'm not sure." He shook his head softly.

You nodded. "Be safe…I'll cover for you." 

Your hand came up to pat his chest before you stepped back. Already turning toward the bullpen, you glanced down at your watch, mentally calculating how many hours "checking something out" usually translated into but a few steps later, another thought occurred to you. 

"Oh… anything special I should make for di–" You turned to face him just as a rush of wind swept through the hallway. Your words died instantly and the corridor stood empty, Clark now gone. You sighed. "Takeout it is." 

Muttering to yourself, you turned and headed back toward the bullpen.

Lately, Clark had been acting strange, not in the usual "I'm the last son of a dead planet" kind of way. This was different, he was distracted, restless and keeping himself busier than usual. At first, you'd assumed it had something to do with the upcoming week off. Maybe he felt guilty about stepping away from work for that long and the idea of slowing down made him uneasy, but you'd made it clear more than once that the vacation wasn't meant to be a break from who he really was.

You would never ask that of him. Clark Kent could take a week off but Superman never truly could, which only made his recent behavior feel all the more unusual.

You supposed your concern must have been written all over your face.

"Where is he?" Lois stopped in front of Clark's desk, a thick folder tucked beneath her arm.

The question snapped your attention away from his absence. Straightening your shoulders, you forced your expression into something more neutral before walking over.

"His parents needed him at the farm." You motioned vaguely toward the elevators.

Lois looked unconvinced. "He was supposed to send Perry a final draft for tomorrow's print edition."

"Is that it?" You pointed toward the folder she held. She barely lifted it before you plucked it from her grasp and pivoted back toward your desk. "I'll do it."

You dropped into your chair and opened the file immediately.

"It isn't exactly impartial." Lois crossed her arms.

"It never will be, Lois." You flipped through the first few pages of his notes. "We're about to move in together and I doubt he'd react particularly well to me firing him when I become Editor-in-Chief."

Your grin finally earned a small laugh from her.

"Besides," you continued, glancing back down at the paperwork, "I need something to do, otherwise today is going to feel even longer than it already does."

The humor faded from her face. "Is something wrong?" Her voice lowered enough that the question felt genuine rather than curious.

You opened your mouth, then stopped. For a moment, you simply stared down at the pages in front of you. "I don't know. I'm usually really good at reading him." Your fingers paused against the pages. "But I just can't do it."

"You can't?" The surprise in her voice was immediate as she settled herself on the corner of your desk. "You think it's about the two of you moving in together?" she asked. "If it is, don't. You've been together for so long…most people would've expected you to move in together the second you both got to Metropolis."

A soft laugh escaped you. "No. No, that's not it…I mean, I hope not." You leaned back in your chair. "It's all going well." The words came easily because they were true. "As much as I love him, moving in with my first ever boyfriend straight out of college would've been a terrible idea."

Your smile softened. "We learned how to live separately first…how to have our own lives. I think that was the right decision and I know he does too."

Lois nodded. "So what's the problem?"

You hesitated, then cleared your throat and rolled your chair a little closer, lowering your voice despite the noise of the bullpen around you. "Have you ever wanted something so badly that you're afraid to call it what it is?"

Her brows knitted together. "Is that supposed to be a riddle?"

You laughed despite yourself. "No." Your gaze drifted away, settling somewhere beyond the bullpen. "There's something I want this whole situation to be..." The words felt strangely fragile once spoken aloud, like giving them a voice somehow made them more real. "What if I start asking the questions I want to ask and find out it isn't?" Your fingers toyed absently with the edge of the folder. "Then I'd be mad at him for not wanting to move at the pace I want to move at."

Lois watched you carefully and for once, she didn't rush to answer. "This isn't a race."

A small smile tugged at your mouth before quickly fading. "If it were, he'd win…I just wish I knew what we're running toward now." Your voice dropped quieter. "And if he still wants to get there with me…precisely."

You let out a long breath, hoping it would carry away some of the anxiety that had been nesting in your chest for weeks. The truth was, you had never once believed Clark would leave you, that fear had never existed.

You knew how he looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention, you knew the certainty behind every promise he made, every plan he included you in and every future conversation that naturally assumed you'd be standing beside him.

The fear wasn't losing him, it was timing and getting it wrong.

Had moving in together been too soon? Was he having second thoughts now that it was actually happening? Maybe he simply wasn't ready to leave behind living alone, he needed more time before taking another step forward and the answer was that simple…Or maybe you were working yourself into knots over something that had never crossed his mind at all.

"You're one hell of a reporter, Y/n." A smile tugged at the corner of Lois's mouth. "I've never known you to hesitate when it comes to asking questions."

She pushed herself off the desk and headed back toward her own. 

The conversation ended there but her words lingered as your eyes wandered across the bullpen again and they landed, inevitably, on Clark's empty desk. 

His abandoned coffee cup still sat beside his keyboard and a stack of notes remained exactly where he'd left them. Everything still looked normal, so why didn't it feel that way?

You couldn't keep living with the uncertainty and maybe it was time to stop dancing around the questions that had been circling your mind for months, but as much as you wanted answers, you'd never been someone who forced them out of Clark, never someone who cornered him into confessions he wasn't ready to make.

Your gaze lingered on the empty desk for another moment before moving to the clock. Only five more hours and you'd finally be out of this place.

Clark flew to the Fortress of Solitude at a speed he'd never thought he could reach, responding to a signal from the Superman robots. He absolutely hated hiding things from you, no matter how good the reason but this was taking longer than planned. It didn't just involve the usual planning and sourcing, this was as close to science as he'd ever get.

The cold arctic air caressed his skin as he sped up, the crystalline structure growing in the distance as it revealed itself to him.

His feet eventually sank into the snow as the doors parted before him. The Fortress received him the way it always did, silently, the crystals catching his footsteps and scattering them into nothing. Four was already standing at the central console, two of the other robots positioned at the secondary array flanking what Clark recognized as the solar concentrator, reconfigured into something smaller and more precise than he'd last seen it.

"Sir, you're here." Gary, the fourth Superman robot, turned before Clark had fully cleared the entrance.

"I got your signal," Clark told him as he moved to the center of the main room.

"I calculated twenty minutes before your arrival." Four's optical sensors held on him a moment.

Clark didn't answer. He crossed closer to the console, eyes already moving over the readings. "Tell me."

Gary turned back to the array. "The theory is sound. Whether the application holds is a separate question." He indicated the containment chamber at the center of the concentrator, it was small, built for a single stone. "The isotope that produces the radiation is not inert by nature, it requires destabilization. Conventional neutralization attempts have failed historically because they addressed the emission rather than the source."

Clark’s brows furrowed. "You went after the isotope directly."

"We modeled different broad approaches over the last year. Sixteen produced either incomplete neutralization or structural destruction of the sample." Gary paused. "The seventeenth is this. Concentrated solar saturation at a specific frequency, not broad spectrum, which scatters. The isotope absorbs until it cannot sustain the radioactive chain. It burns out rather than being suppressed."

He looked at the chamber. "And the stone?"

"Structurally intact in our simulations. The color will change, the green is a function of the active radiation. Once the isotope is spent, the stone retains its crystalline structure but loses the glow. It will read as pale…residual hue only."

Clark was quiet for a moment. "You said it would only work on a very small piece."

"Correct. The solar saturation has to penetrate the sample completely and evenly. A larger stone creates differential exposure, the exterior burns out and the interior remains active. At the scale you require–" Gary moved to the secondary console and brought up the dimensional rendering, a stone large enough to yield a single, flawless diamond.  “–full penetration is achievable. We have run the model four hundred and twelve times over the last hour."

"And it holds?"

"In simulation. Yes." Another beat. "We will not know with certainty until we attempt it on an actual sample."

Clark exhaled slowly, he'd known that was coming.

"You cannot be present for the extraction phase," Gary continued, without inflection, as if this were simply logistical. "Or the initial handling. Your proximity to an active sample at that size would still produce symptomatic response. We will handle and chamber the stone. You will monitor from the secondary console at a distance of approximately fifteen feet. Once it is inside the concentrator and sealed, the chamber will contain the emission. You can approach then."

"And the concentrator–" Clark glanced at the machine. "Same as the healing protocol?"

"Modified from it. The frequency is different as healing requires broad cellular stimulation. This requires narrow isotopic targeting but the core mechanism is the same." Gary looked at him directly. "It should not harm you. The chamber is sealed, the emission goes inward, not out...but again, it’s a hypothetical."

Clark nodded once. He stood there a moment, looking at the small containment chamber and the re-rigged concentrator, it’d been a year of work sitting quiet and precise on a console in the Arctic.

"You've been thorough," he said finally.

"You were specific about what it needed to mean, sir." Gary nodded, as Clark turned to look at him. "When you told me what the ring was for," He continued. "I did not think imprecision was appropriate."

"And the piece I chose?" Clark asked, looking around for it.

One of the other Superman robots pushed a closed lead box onto the console. "Still untouched, sir." Twelve nodded. "As are the other uncut stones, as you requested."

"The band?" Clark asked as One approached, opening a chamber on his own structure and revealing it.

Clark reached for it and held it up to the light between his fingers. He still remembered waiting for you to fall asleep so he could measure your ring finger, holding his breath the entire time, terrified you might wake and catch him in the act. The memory made warmth settle in his chest.

"It's perfect," he said quietly.

"It must be, sir. You've been working on it for almost a year," Gary spoke.

"And it's finally done."

Gary lifted a cautionary finger. "Remember there are still hypotheticals, sir. We must test the machine."

Clark shook his head. "It's going to work and when it does, I want her here for it." He turned to look around the Fortress, taking in the crystalline walls, the hum of advanced technology and the sanctity of the space. "You know the plan." His gaze swept across the main chamber. "I want this place spotless and the sunglasses ready." He drew a breath, letting the weight of the moment settle over him. "The day has come…I can’t wait any longer." He turned back to the robots. "Thank you, all of you."

"No need to thank us, sir, as we will not appreciate it. We have no consciousness, we are merely automatons here to serve," Gary reminded him.

Clark simply pressed his mouth into a thin line, long accustomed to their peculiar bluntness while some of the Superman robots scurried away, already beginning to clean. Gary, however, lingered.

"Shall we prepare for the baby?"

Clark's head snapped toward him, eyes slightly widened. "What baby?"

"My knowledge indicates it is a natural succession of events, sir."

He smiled despite himself, shaking his head. "Let's prepare for a ceremony first…That's if she says yes."

"She will," Twelve said brightly in passing, already carrying a stack of crystalline components toward the secondary console.

"Shall we rehearse the speech?" Gary pressed. "We have yet to hear it."

"No can do, Gary." Clark's voice was gentle but final. "And you won't...It’ll be for her ears only."

He stuck around long after, helping clean and organize with no real need other than the comfort of keeping his hands busy. He had thought about the day plenty, in the small hours of the morning when sleep wouldn't come, during long flights over empty ocean and in the moments just after saving the world when everything went quiet again. He had imagined it a hundred different ways, in a hundred different places and it had to be perfect.

You got home late, stopped at the door as you still couldn't quite figure out how the new lock worked. After a moment of fumbling that felt much longer than it should have, you finally managed to push inside, carrying takeout bags and immediately running into scattered moving boxes in the dark.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath as you reached for a light switch and turned it on. "Clark?" You called into the silence of the apartment, leaving the bags on the kitchen counter. 

You then walked toward the bedroom, weaving around moving boxes you'd take care of soon, phone already in your hand as you dialed his number.

You pressed call, setting the phone on the bed as you began to undress.

Back at the Fortress…

"Superman, we have intercepted a call from your human lover."

Clark chuckled, shaking his head as he moved gear out of the main room. "There's no other kind, Gary. It's just 'lover.' Please, patch it through."

There was a soft crackle and then, "Clark?” Your voice slipped through the sound systems, warm and familiar and Clark felt the anxiety in his chest ease at the sound of it.

"Hi, sweetheart. Everything okay?" 

"Uh, yeah. Where are you? I'm at your–" A pause, then a quiet correction. "Our place...Any idea when you'll be back? It's starting to get late."

Clark realized then that he'd lost track of time completely. He began heading toward the exit, your voice trailing after him as you launched into what was clearly the beginning of a longer rant. The sound of you faded from the Fortress's speakers and transferred directly into his ears as he lifted off, flying fast in the direction of your voice.

He heard you kicking off your shoes and the soft thump of your pants hitting the floor.

"I'm not saying I'm worried and I don't expect you to always be back at a certain time…That's just not reasonable. I mean, I knew what I was getting into before we ever started dating–" Then came the sound of the closet door sliding open as you were surely, definitely, picking a shirt of his to sleep in. "Not that it's complicated or anything. I feel like that word has never really applied to us. I mean, I hope not. You've never been complicated to me, even after you told me who you really were."

He heard the rustle of fabric as you peeled off your shirt and the soft sound of your bra hitting the floor. Clark flew even faster.

"I remember telling you Kal was a pretty good name," you said and he could hear the smile in your voice. You cleared your throat, "I also remember that one time I moaned it while we were–"

A faint breeze drifted through the room, making you turn to the window to check if it was open. You suddenly screamed, shirt clutched to cover your naked chest as your heart hammered so loud he could count every individual beat.

Clark unexpectedly stood there unmoving and smiling unapologetically, hair slightly messy from the flight. "Having sex?" He continued for you, grin widening. "I also remember." 

You exhaled a sharp breath, rapidly pulling his shirt over your head, feeling his eyes on you, "I get carried away."

He shrugged, still grinning. "It's happened more than once."

Your eyes narrowed at him, already desperate to change the subject. "Mind making a little more noise next time? I intend to live long."

He stepped toward you, wrapping both arms around you and pulling you to his chest. "You make enough noise for the both of us, don't you think?"

"Ha. Funny." You said dryly because it was true. Once close to him, you felt his chest while observing his face as you always did, checking for injuries. He looked untouched, which was always ideal, but… "You're really cold."

He smiled and something changed in his expression. "Do you know where you packed the winter clothes?"

You blinked, eyes going to the moving boxes and suitcases scattered across the bedroom, your mind already cataloging the rest of the clutter throughout the apartment. "I'm not sure. Why?"

Clark let go of you, eyes scanning through the boxes as he activated his x-ray vision.

"It's about to be summer, Smallville…And I don't think you've ever needed them."

He walked out of the bedroom, looking into boxes as you trailed behind him, accidentally stepping on the long cape pooled at his feet.

"Oops, sorry," you muttered as you coughed yourself with a gentle hold on his shoulders.

"You're going to need them."

"Need what? Apologies?" you asked, lifting a brow.

"Winter clothes," he specified with a breathy chuckle, stopping by a box that read ‘Kitchen’ in your handwriting.

"In June?" You watched as he opened the box anyway. "That says ‘Kitchen’, Clark."

He fumbled for a second as he lifted it from a pile and put it on the ground, then he carefully opened it and pulled out your winter coat by the hood.

"That's why it was so light," you said under your breath.

"We're taking a trip tomorrow."

Your eyes widened slightly as you searched his face and found no humor there. "Did you use that little trick to find my passport and book the trip?"

"Never needed a passport to fly Clark Kent Airlines." He grinned.

"Never needed a coat to sit on a plane." You shrugged with a gentle smile. "Where are we going?"

Clark's smile faltered. His eyes searched the room, looking for anything to change the subject and landed on the takeout bags still sitting on the kitchen counter. "We should eat dinner before it gets too cold," he said, already reaching into the box and pulling out a scarf, hat and gloves. "You'll need your snow boots too." He set everything on the couch, almost distractedly and walked right past you into the bedroom, already peeling off his suit.

Your eyes followed him, narrowing at the deflection. "Good thing we have a microwave." You noted as you followed after him. "You've been acting weird lately."

"Weird?" He echoed with a light, forced chuckle. "There's nothing weird about me…Besides the obvious." He paused, pulling his shirt over his head. "Which you like telling me you love." There was another pause, longer this time. "You still do, right?"

"You mean the part of you that likes to take me along while soaring through the sky?" You questioned hypothetically, already nodding to yourself. "Yeah."

"That's good…That’s really good." He reassured himself more than you as he changed into a plain shirt and plaid pajama pants. "That you still do."

"I don't like how you keep saying 'still,'" you pointed out quietly, looking at him as if you could read his mind…and you probably could, if you weren’t suddenly scared of what you might find.

He chuckled breathily, stepping toward you and placing both hands on your arms, caressing them gently. "You're making me really nervous right now."

You narrowed your eyes at him again. "I weirdly think you're doing that to yourself." You paused, letting the words settle. "I love you, Clark…No amount of weirdness is going to change that."

His hands went to your face, cupping your cheeks slowly, thumbs brushing over your skin with so much love in his eyes that it made your chest ache. Tomorrow had to be perfect..because you were.

"I'll fly slowly," he murmured, in an attempt to reassure you.

"No, you won't…and that’s fine," You laughed softly, poking his stomach playfully. "Just make sure you hold me tight."

He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead that lingered long enough to make your eyes flutter shut. "I love you so much," he confessed against your skin. "I don't know how to hold you any other way."

Moments like that had a way of dissolving whatever fear or doubt had quietly accumulated and that night was no different. By the time you had dinner and you'd both found your way to sleep, there was nothing left to worry about.

The next morning was perfect. Genuinely and unqualifiedly perfect, the kind that felt almost unfair in how completely it arrived. No alarm pulled you out of it, no distant sound of something collapsing somewhere that would take him away before you'd finished waking up, just sunlight coming in at an angle through the curtains and Clark, who woke up like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of pretending otherwise. 

He pressed kisses into your skin slowly and without urgency and the morning dissolved the way good mornings do, in warmth, weight and the breathlessness of someone who loves you, knows how to show it…and how to make you feel it. You lost track of time entirely and you didn't try to find it.

At some point he slipped away. You hadn't noticed the exact moment, sometime in the narrow window between you getting up and the shower warming, enough time for him to go somewhere and come back, which for Clark could mean almost anywhere. When you stepped out of the bathroom, towel around your chest, a bouquet was sitting on the kitchen counter and beside it, breakfast, already plated and still warm.

You ate together at the counter, knees touching, talking through where the art should go and whether the bookshelf fit better against the east wall or broken up between two rooms. 

It wasn't much later that he started mentioning getting out for the day.

You didn't question it. You started getting everything he'd laid on the couch the night before, working through the layers methodically while he stood somewhere behind you watching you with an expression you couldn't fully read.

"I think you should add another scarf," he suggested. "Just in case."

You looked at yourself in the mirror, at the coat, hat, gloves, boots and the scarf that already looped twice around your neck… and it was June. "Clark." You turned to look at him with a gentle, reassuring smile. "This is enough…You'd think we were going to the Arctic."

You meant it as a joke. You were already smiling when you said it, turning back to the mirror to adjust the hat which meant you didn't see his face go completely still behind you.

Flying with Clark was its own category of experience, one that didn't get easier to explain the more times you did it, only more familiar. The first five minutes were always the same, your stomach hadn't made peace with the altitude yet, your eyes stayed forward or shut and some part of your brain spent the whole time insisting that this was not how bodies were supposed to work but underneath all of it, was certainty. He had never once made you feel like you might fall, not for a second. His arms around you were absolute, his chest solid and warm against your cheek and the cold that hit everything else somehow didn't touch the space he made around you.

"We're almost there!" he called over the wind.

You didn't answer, only nodded against him and held on.

Then, gradually, the quality of the air changed as the speed bled out of it. You felt him adjusting his descent in small corrections and a minute later your feet met the ground with a soft crunch that traveled up through your boots and into your knees. It was snow, fluffy and undisturbed in every direction.

You kept your eyes shut even as he released you and you stood on your own.

"Sweetheart." He called softly, you could hear the smile in it. "You didn't need to close your eyes."

"Oh. I thought I'd–" you started explaining as they fluttered open.

The light hit first, that particular brightness that had no equivalent, white reflecting white under a sky that was almost cloudless. You blinked against it, adjusting and inevitably, as you looked around, your gaze landed on the structure in the distance and everything else stopped.

Your lips parted.

It rose from the landscape like it had grown there, which in every way that mattered it had. It was an eruption of crystal spires reaching at different angles, pale blue-white and enormous even from that distance, catching the flat Arctic light and fracturing it into something that barely looked real. 

You took a few steps toward it without deciding to.

"Is that your–" you started, pointing at it in awe as the words died somewhere between your throat and your lips. You stood frozen in the snow, staring at it.

Clark stepped beside you, footsteps quiet in the snow as the wind tugged gently at his cape. Your shoulders almost brushed when he spoke, "I'll show you around."

You faced him then. He was smiling down at you with his hand extended between you, patiently waiting for you to take it, which of course, you did. 

The two of you walked the remaining distance without rushing. There was no path, no track worn into the snow from use, no indication that anyone came and went from this place by foot. Just the flat white expanse and the crystal rising out of it and now, appearing behind you in a clean double line, your footprints beside his. You looked back once at the trail you were leaving and felt something open up in your chest that you weren't entirely prepared for.

He had never brought anyone here, you understood that without needing it said. This was the place that belonged to the man beneath everything else, the person who was both Clark Kent and Superman and neither of them entirely. He was bringing you into that, he was walking you to the door of the most private place he had and holding your hand while he did it, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

You looked up at the Fortress as it grew larger with every step, feeling the weight of being trusted with something irreplaceable.

His thumb moved slowly, across the back of your hand as the entrance came into view and the doors began to open before him.

The inside of the Fortress opened up in a way that made you stop walking for a second without meaning to. Everything climbed, walls, ceilings and structures you didn't have names for, all of it crystalline and catching the same pale light from a dozen different angles at once. It was somehow colder and warmer at the same time, the air sharp but the light itself almost golden where it pooled. You could feel Clark watching you take it in, his hand still wrapped around your gloved one, waiting for you to need him to say something.

"Welcome back, sir."

You turned at the voice as footsteps approached from your right. For a moment, you simply stared.

Clark had talked about the Superman robots before, he'd mentioned their names, their functions and the way they helped maintain the Fortress but none of those descriptions had prepared you for seeing them in person.

"Ms. Y/l/n. I have long possessed information regarding you. It is noteworthy to finally confirm your existence through direct observation.”

You looked up at Clark first, a small laugh escaping before you could stop it, then back at the robot in front of you, eyes dropping briefly to the number four stamped into his chest plate.

You smiled softly. "Nice to finally meet you too, Gary."

Gary turned smoothly toward two more robots crossing the floor behind him. "I have observed that Superman references us during conversations with his human lover…Identifying the species is unnecessary, as there is no other kind of lover for him." A brief pause, as if confirming the data was correctly filed. "This is Twelve. She is new."

You looked at Twelve and smiled.

Twelve looked back, head tilting slightly in your direction. "Oh, she looked at me!"

Seven approached next, arms already extended, holding a folded red blanket and a metallic blue thermos. Gary continued without missing a beat. "We have prepared warm blankets and tea. The tea has been heated for three minutes to the ideal temperature of eighty degrees Celsius, with two sugars, per Superman's specification."

"I'll take the tea." You took the thermos from Seven, wrapping both hands around it gratefully. "Don’t think the blanket will be necessary. Clark already had me wrapped up like a burrito before he swept me off my feet…Literally." You took a sip, the warmth spreading through your body.

"'Swept off my feet,'" Gary repeated, processing it audibly. "This is a common idiom among your kind. I hope you also intend it in the romantic sense, in the event further confirmation is required."

You narrowed your eyes slightly, glancing up at Clark. "Confirmation for what?"

Clark cleared his throat, a little too quickly. "Let me, uh, give you a tour." His hand found the small of your back, gently steering you down the hall before you could press further.

"We shall prepare for the activities, then," Gary said, already turning toward the main room. "The clock is, figuratively, ticking."

"Thanks for the tea!" you called back over your shoulder, lifting the thermos in salute.

"They're not very good at saying 'you're welcome,'" Clark told you quietly as you walked.

"Noted."

He smiled as he watched you sip more tea. "So…what do you want to see first? The glass bedroom or the bathroom? The toilet seat is heated."

You stopped walking, eyes widening slightly at the possibility of a glass bed. "Are you serious?"

His grin only widened, he shook his head. "There's no glass bedroom."

You let out a breath, shaking your head as you started walking again. "They’re doomed…The Superman robots are certainly learning from your sense of humor, Clark. Your jokes are setting their development back by decades...They need an upgrade."

"We should probably get you better winter gear, then. If you're going to be spending more time here." He glanced over at you, already thinking out loud. "I'll look into some kind of heating system." He kept walking, leading you down the corridor. "There aren't many rooms, but there's one I really want you to see."

You looked over at him, slowing your steps. "Clark…wait."

The teasing had dropped out of your voice entirely and he heard it instantly. He stopped and turned to face you and for a moment neither of you said anything.

You chose your words carefully, offering a reassuring smile. "You've already trusted me with so much…and I'm honored to be here, truly, I am, but..." You shook your head slowly. "You don't have to do this, any of this."

He listened in out of worry, the way he sometimes did without really meaning to, to your heartbeat. It was steady and still unafraid, just nervous in the ordinary way. "What do you mean?"

"This is your legacy, Clark. It's a piece of where you come from. It could just be yours…I'd understand that.” You paused, “Once I've seen it, I can't unsee it. I’ll become a part of it too, whether you meant for it to or not."

He stepped closer, taking your unoccupied hand in his. "I've always wanted you to know all of me...every piece, if you're willing to hold it." His voice dropped, steady and certain. "This isn't a sacrifice, sweetheart. Showing you this doesn't cost me anything…You've always belonged at the center of who I am. This–" he glanced around, at the crystal stretching up into the light, "–this is just proof of it."

You nodded slowly. Your breath caught and you sniffled, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes. "Do you happen to know the temperature at which tears freeze?" you asked, voice thick.

He laughed softly, pulling you gently forward by the hand as he led you toward the next room. "Yeah, I think a heating system really would be a good idea."

"Wouldn't a heating system melt the whole place, though?"

"It's Kryptonian crystal," he explained. "Not ice. It can withstand a lot more than that. It's just naturally cold in here."

"Well, insulation would ruin the aesthetic anyway, so think it through." you decided and felt him softly squeeze your hand.

He spent the better part of an hour walking you through the Fortress. Through the rooms that mattered and rooms that didn't but that he showed you anyway because you asked, small alcoves of crystal that hummed faintly when you got close enough. You stayed in a state of quiet awe through most of it but the room that stopped you completely was the one lined with his suits. Row after row, the same emblem rendered over and over in different materials and ages, the symbol of an entire dead world that he had carried across galaxies and made his own among people who barely understood what it meant.

You felt his eyes on you the entire time, watching you take it in and no matter how simple or obvious your questions were, he answered every one of them and you could hear the smile in his voice with each one.

Eventually, the two of you made your way back to the main room, where all of the Superman robots stood arranged in a loose half circle and at the center, set on a low pedestal, sat a small sealed box. You knew exactly what was inside before you directly saw it, that particular sickly green you'd only ever glimpsed in passing, in places you tried not to look too long.

Your hand tightened around Clark's, your first instinct pulling him back half a step.

"It's okay, sweetheart." His voice was steady, hand staying exactly where it was, not pulling away from yours. "Gary?"

Gary approached, holding out a pair of sunglasses toward you. "Please keep these on until we give the all clear," he said. "Your eyes are not equipped to withstand what you are about to see."

You took them carefully, turning them over once. They looked like ordinary sunglasses, maybe a little heavier and the lenses a shade darker than you expected. 

You slid them on. "Is this some kind of science class?"

"I certainly won't be the one teaching it," Clark said, the corner of his mouth lifting. He looked past you toward the console. "Gary, are we ready?"

"Whenever you are, sir." Gary moved toward the main console, where two of the other robots were already standing by, lights along their forearms beginning to pulse in slow sequence.

"Clark, what's going on?" you whispered, eyes flicking between the box and his face. 

"I wouldn't let anything happen to you, you know that, right?" He squeezed your hand as his gaze met yours. 

"You, on the other hand–"

"I like experimenting." He shrugged, like it cost him nothing.

Your eyes widened slightly, "With Kryptonite? Since when?"

"Uh…a year, give or take." He smiled down at you and then his eyes lifted to Gary, he nodded once. "Gary. We're ready."

Gary moved to the console without hesitation and the rest of the robots fell into position around the central platform like they'd rehearsed it a hundred times, because they had.

Twelve lifted the small box from the pedestal, carrying it with both hands toward the center of the room, where a shallow chamber sat recessed into the crystal floor, lined with something dark and metallic that looked nothing like the rest of the Fortress.

"That’s a containment chamber," Clark said quietly to you as his thumb moved slowly over your knuckles. "Built specifically for this."

"Sir," Gary said, eyes still on the console, "might I suggest you and Ms.Y/l/n retreat to the secondary platform. Fifteen feet, as discussed."

Clark's hand tightened slightly around yours. "Come on."

He guided you back, until you were standing on a raised section of crystal floor that put you above and away from the chamber. From there you could see the whole room laid out steps beneath you, the concentrator rising above the platform like an enormous lens angled toward the sky, panels of crystal catching light that wasn't there yet.

Seven lifted the lid of the box and even through the dark lenses the green light intensified, throwing long shadows across the floor, catching every facet of the Fortress and scattering it back in shades of sick emerald. Nestled inside, on a bed of dark fabric, sat the stone. Smaller than you'd expected and uncut, glowing from somewhere deep inside itself like it had a pulse of its own.

Twelve lifted it with a pair of long, articulated tools and lowered it carefully into the chamber. A transparent shield slid closed over the top, sealing it in. The glow didn't stop but it dimmed, pressing against the inside of the shield like something trying to get out.

"Sample secured," Gary announced. "Beginning calibration."

The concentrator began to hum. It started low, almost beneath hearing, a vibration that traveled up through the crystal floor and into the soles of your boots. Far above, panels began to rotate, realigning toward the chamber below and what little Arctic sunlight there was began to gather and bend, funneling down through the lens.

"Finally," Clark breathed, watching it. "We've been working on this for so long…there’ve been thousands of simulations." His jaw worked once. "I didn't want to tell you until I knew it would work."

"Tell me what?” You asked quietly, eyes never leaving the scene as worry crept in. “And do you actually know?"

"I trust the math." He nodded firmly.

The column of light reached the chamber and the room changed color. For a moment the green and the gold fought each other, the stone lit from above in concentrated solar light while it pulsed back against it, radiating that same sickly glow like it was resisting. The light intensified in stages, the hum climbing in pitch and beside you Clark's hand went rigid in yours.

You immediately looked away from the machine, eyes moving across his face, searching instinctively for every symptom you'd learned to recognize over the years. "Clark? What’s happening?"

"It's fine." His voice was rough. The green glow spilling from the chamber reflected across his face as he kept his eyes fixed on the stone. His fingers tightened once more around yours. "This is the part where it resists…Gary said it would resist."

"Isotopic activity decreasing," Gary reported. "Forty percent…Thirty-five."

You watched his shoulders ease slightly, the tension starting to bleed out of him the way it had a moment ago and then it spiked.

The green flared violently, brighter than it had been at any point and the hum from the concentrator stuttered, a half second of dissonance that set your teeth on edge. Clark's hand crushed around yours, hard enough that you gasped and beside him his knees buckled enough that you felt him catch himself right on time.

"Sir." Gary's voice changed, the flatness cracking for the first time. "Output is exceeding modeled parameters. Fifteen feet is no longer sufficient at this intensity…I recommend immediate retreat."

"No." Clark's voice came out through his teeth, low and rough.

Twelve approached. "Sir, your vitals–"

"I said no." He straightened, forcing it, his free hand braced against the crystal wall beside you, now that sweat had broken out along his hairline despite the cold. "This is the spike before it breaks…It has to be. We modeled this."

"We modeled a spike.” Twelve corrected and for the first time there was something almost uncertain underneath the calculation. “Not this one."

"Clark, baby." Your voice cracked. Both your hands were on his arm now, gripping tightly enough to feel the tension underneath his skin, the controlled violence of him holding still on purpose. "Clark, please, if it's hurting you–"

"It's not going to last." He said it through gritted teeth, eyes locked on the chamber, on the violent pulse of green fighting against the gold. "It's a means to an end. It has to burn through, that's the whole point, it can't resist forever–" He cut himself off, breath hissing out through his nose and you felt his legs lock, refusing to let his body do what it wanted to do, which was fold.

"Gary," he called, "how much longer?"

"Unknown. The output is not behaving according to any modeled curve."

"Then we wait." His hand gripped yours again like an anchor. "We wait."

The green surged again and this time you heard him make a low and involuntary sound. His head dipped slightly as if something heavy had pressed down on him. His eyes shut for a second and every muscle in his jaw worked under the strain, the effort visible in the smallest movements of his face.

"Clark, look at me." You said as you stepped in front of him, both hands coming up to his face, so he’d look at you. His eyes opened and once they found yours, they held on. "Whatever this is about…it’s not worth the pain."

"It is…" His voice was barely above a whisper now. "You’ll see."

The green light convulsed one more time, violent and bright, the air around the chamber shimmering hard enough to blur the shape of it until it broke, the same way ice breaks, all at once, the resistance simply gone. The green collapsed inward on itself and the gold flooded in to fill the space it left behind and the hum of the concentrator dropped, smoothed out and settled.

"Isotopic activity," Gary announced and there was no mistaking the relief in it now, flat as he tried to keep it, "Twenty percent…Twelve percent...Six percent."

Clark's head lifted as he watched over your shoulder, eyes moving away from yours while yours simply couldn’t. He exhaled, long and shaking and you felt the tremor in his body ease as you too turned to watch.

"Two percent," Gary continued. "Zero point eight…Zero point three…Zero point zero…one." He paused. "Within acceptable margin…The sample is inert."

The column of light thinned, it drew back up into the ceiling and the panels above began to rotate closed and the machines powered down in sequence as the Fortress went quiet.

The shield over the chamber slid back and where the green stone had been, something else sat now, pale and almost colorless, holding the ambient light of the room differently than it had before, no longer pulsing or alive with that sickly glow. 

Your lips parted at the sight as Clark straightened slowly, drawing himself back together piece by piece before stepping down from the platform and offering you his hand. You took it, following him as your eyes met his.

“It’s okay,” he said before you could ask. “I’m okay. It’s over.”

You crossed the floor behind him while every robot in the room stood motionless, watching him the same way you were. He stopped at the edge of the chamber and looked down at the stone for a long moment before reaching in and picking it up with his bare hand.

Nothing happened.

He stood there holding it, turning it slightly, watching the light shift across its surface and you realized you’d stopped breathing somewhere in the last minute and hadn’t started again. He looked up, found your gaze and set a gentle hand against your cheek.

“It’s safe now. You can remove your glasses,” he said, still looking at you.

Your hands were already moving. The Fortress returned in full, unfiltered color as you stepped closer to him, staring at Clark holding something small and pale in his open palm, like the last few minutes hadn’t happened at all, like he’d been waiting this entire time just to show you this.

You swallowed. “I think…we need a breather,” you said, mostly to yourself.

You were already turning toward the nearest corridor when Clark suggested he take you somewhere outside. It took him only a moment to follow your movement and you didn't see what all the shifting and movement among the robots behind you had been about but only felt the change in atmosphere as Clark caught up.

His arm slid around your waist and a second later, the ground dropped away.

Air rushed past as he lifted you into the sky, carrying you through the open structure of the Fortress until the cold Arctic light returned in full. He set down on a platform high among the tallest crystalline spires, where the wind moved freely and the horizon stretched wide and white. 

Snow shimmered below and the sky was pale, endless.

“I don’t…” You let out a breathless laugh, the wind catching at your words. Your eyes swept the view once before you turned back to him. “I’m not sure what I just saw in there.”

Your voice tightened slightly. "And trust me, I tried to keep my eyes open through all of it, but you scared me." You gave his chest a firm hit with your fist. "What were you thinking, Clark Kent?"

The impact barely moved him, it only made him chuckle lightly.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze stayed on you, unreadable in that scary way that always came just before something important.

Slowly, he reached into his belt and your attention locked instantly. 

He pulled out a carved band, holding it between two fingers like it mattered too much to be careless with. You could hear, or maybe just feel, your heartbeat speed up, loud enough that it felt like it filled the space between you.

He reached in again and produced a small, rough stone, one that bent the light in a way you'd never seen any diamond do, every facet catching a slightly different shade as it turned.

You watched as he closed his hand around it and when he opened his palm again, fragile shards fell away, revealing a small, clear stone underneath, which he carefully set into the first empty socket on the band. 

You blinked, eyes following his hand as he reached in again and drew out another rough stone, this one glowing faintly the same way the untouched walls of the Fortress had. He crushed it the same way, the stone giving under his grip, not shattering so much as yielding, and a larger stone emerged from inside it, settling into its place on the band.

Then he reached into his belt one last time and pulled out the disabled kryptonite. Of the three, it was by far the clearest, though somehow it still caught the light in a way none of the others quite managed.

He crushed it in his hand and set the final ‘diamond’.

You stared at the ring as his eyes began to glow red, the heat focusing into two narrow beams that swept carefully along the edges of each setting, sealing the stones into place. Once he was satisfied they were secure, he lifted the ring to his lips and let out a slow breath of super breath, cooling the metal until it no longer shimmered with heat.

Your heart was pounding now, lips parting slightly as you watched him lower himself onto one knee, his eyes never leaving yours. When his knee touched the platform, he paused, drew in a breath that seemed to cost him more than it should have and swallowed. He held the ring up toward you and whatever he'd rehearsed every day for the past year caught somewhere in his throat.

"...Please."

Your brows lifted slightly, lips curving into a smile you couldn't have stopped if you tried, your heart stumbling so hard in your chest you thought you might actually faint.

It was all a blur of mumbled words, tears, tight embraces, breathless laughter and the strange sensation of height shifting under your feet as the hours folded into one another. You slid your glove off so he could finally slip the ring onto your finger and in the space of a heartbeat the both of you were already cutting through the sky, Clark holding you close as the arctic shrank into light beneath you.

What followed was a mess of emotion and surging energy you had never seen from him in that state. You made it home in record time and the first stop had been the bedroom, the both of you, but especially Clark, letting go of everything he had been holding back. Everything that had stayed trapped behind restraint finally spilled out, fast and unguarded, until the bedframe gave way under the force of it and you both broke into breathless laughter in the aftermath.

After that, everything blurred again.

You sat on the couch as a streak of motion moved through the apartment, Clark unpacking every box in milliseconds, placing everything exactly where you had mentally mapped it out. The remaining cardboard vanished just as quickly, carried away like it had never been there. He returned almost immediately after, kneeling at the edge of the couch in front of you with the same restless energy still burning through him, only now softened by relief and joy. You met it halfway on the carpet, where time stopped mattering in any real sense.

It was late when the rush finally eased into something his body could keep up with at a normal human pace. Only then did you think about food.

You ended up on the kitchen counter, one hand lifted as the ring caught the warm light and threw it back in shifting color. Clark stood at the stove shirtless, moving between pots and fridge with distracted focus, adding things, adjusting heat and insisting you needed to eat before you fell asleep. You had been fighting sleep for a while already, after so many rounds, caught between exhaustion and the aftershock of everything.

The cold air from the opened fridge brushed your bare legs and it brought back the memory of earlier that day without warning.

“Tell me again,” you breathed, eyes fixed on the ring.

Clark stopped, whatever he was doing was abandoned in an instant. He stepped closer, placing both hands on either side of you against the counter, caging you in gently without pressure. His gaze didn’t go to the ring at first. It stayed on you, studying your face and reaction, like that mattered more than anything else he had built.

“Jewel Kryptonite,” he started, voice calmer now.

His hand lifted slightly as he spoke, indicating the first stone.

“I found it in the Fortress but it comes from the Jewel Mountains of Krypton. Its primary function was amplifying psychic abilities…telepathy and mental projection for Kryptonians. In my case…” He hesitated, just briefly, choosing the right way to place it. “It represents my mind…my subconscious, dreams, grief and memories. The parts of me nobody reaches…the parts I want you to have access to.”

He shifted his attention to the largest stone, the one in the middle.

“The Fortress crystal…origin and inheritance. It’s everything I was given, my legacy, my people’s knowledge…Krypton on Earth and Kal-El’s home.” His eyes softened slightly as they stayed on you. “Which you've gone out of your way to love and accept too in ways I never expected or thought possible.”

A quiet breath left him before he continued.

“And the last one but not least…never that.” His thumb brushed lightly against your hand where the ring sat. “Disabled green kryptonite. That was the hardest part and the reason this took so long…It’s what I trust you most with, my vulnerability…but not the only one.”

His gaze lifted fully to yours at that.

You moved closer instinctively, arms sliding around his shoulders and pulling him in as if distance had become unnecessary. You raised your hand again, watching the ring catch the light between you both.

“Who you come from… who you are… and what you trust me with,” you murmured, more to yourself than anything else. Then something else caught your attention.

“What about the band?” you asked softly. You had noticed it earlier, the faint engravings when the light hit just right, the House of El symbol hidden in the design, it was subtle but definitely intentional.

It was clear nothing about it had been accidental.

He exhaled through a small smile. “Everything I am,” he said, quieter now, “set into the thing that led me to you.”

Your brows softened.

“I made it out of my ship.”

The confession pulled the breath straight out of you. “It took you a year,” you said, voice catching slightly, “and so much effort and thought and I–”

"I love you." His voice caught, eyes filling again as they held yours. "I loved you the day I met you…I love you today,” He paused, “Y/n, I'll love you long after we leave this Earth."

You sniffled as a tear slipped down your cheek before you even realized it had formed but still, you smiled, voice cracking with emotion. "And I'll love you as long as it exists."

Clark lifted a hand, thumb brushing the tear away with a tenderness that contrasted everything else about him and gently tilted your face toward his as he pressed his lips to yours, leaving no distance between what he had built and what he had finally given away.

He might have been unable to say anything when he was down on one knee, but that didn’t mean he had no words for you. He simply doubted they existed in any language and if they did, they had a terrible tendency to fall galaxies short.

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!

[laufeysodinson]

oh my god this is the most clark kent proposal i’ve ever read and it’s BRILLIANT AND BEAUTIFUL IM CRYING

[snoopysupe]

waittt i wanna see clark and reader on their first date!! and i know her dress is so freakin beautiful

this made me a little ravenous for first date clark!!

MOONLIGHT — Clark Kent

pairing: clark kent / f!reader. word count: 2.5k content: first date fluff. clark is disgustingly perfect. r wears a dress. kissing.

clark kent masterlist

You worried the hem of your dress enough that you had pulled a thread and snagged the fabric.

“Shoot.” You mumbled to yourself with the skirt pulled between your forefinger and middle to inspect it. (That’s the last time you placed a fast track order from an Instagram Ad again.)

It was a nice dress. Pretty, sat on your figure well. Completely out of your comfort zone but that was the whole point of a first date. And now? Now it had a ladder that—if you weren’t swarmed in nerves—you’d remember to cover with the satchel you brought to cling onto for moral support.

You and your flimsy excuse for a dress stood outside of a tall building, Destiny, Metropolis’ renowned Asian restaurant with five floors to it. Each floor with its own option of cuisine, you know, if you were a picky eater. Now, you hadn’t expressed that to Clark Kent when he had asked you out on a date with a bunch of tissues stuffed under his armpits from the perspiration you had caused him. But, he thought if he gave you five different options; one of them would stick.

There was the risk of it potentially backfiring in his face, because you might sway into the grounds of intimidation and pressure to select a singular floor, and you’d both be left a little frazzled and hungry.

Either way, you showed up.

You pulled your phone from your bag. 6:58PM.

Your eyes then scanned the surroundings around you in order to catch a glimpse of someone with a nervous disposition all neatly wrapped into a six foot four, broad shouldered man. There was no pressure of arriving on time—even when you had arrived fifteen minutes ahead of schedule—as you knew Clark had to wrap up his work schedule, bolt for the Metropolis Subway and make it to your side without it seeming as if he hadn’t broke into a muscle burning sprint to get there.

Stepping back on your heel to allow some post-work grumblers past, you managed to spot the very person you had been thinking about in the flurry of foot traffic. Your neck extended in a meek attempt to get his attention, you raised your hand in the air with a warm smile to match as his blue eyes caught sight of you in the Metropolis hustle and bustle.

Clark perked up in an instant. Shoulders squared, he weaved through the crowd with a few apologies falling from his mouth. He looked down at you and let out a hefty sigh of relief, “You made it.”

“You did say 7PM.” You teased.

“You look—You look beautiful.” Clark used all his restraint to not drag his eyes up and down your body as you thanked him, in a dress that looked as if it had been poured onto you to accentuate your curves. You wouldn’t mind if he did, sort of the point. Aside from feeling good about yourself. Clark blinked a murky thought away and spoke, “Oh—These, uh, these are for you.”

He sheepishly held out a bouquet of flowers that had seen better days. Pretty, in a droopy way.

Clark jumped at the chance to explain his sad excuse for flowers. “They got caught in the doors of the subway, and I didn’t have time to buy another bouquet without making myself late.”

He was endearing.

You beamed and took them from his grasp, “It gives them character. I love them. Thank you.”

Onlookers may have felt nauseous at the scene unfolding, if they cared to take a minute out of their day to observe their surroundings. They’d see two strangers, absolutely besotted by each other, eyes filled with warmth, fingers itching at their sides to have the smallest human connection in the form of pinkies linked, or a big smooch on the lips. (Something Clark had been often caught thinking about at his desk.)

The catch was: this was only the first date.

“Have you ever been to Dynasty?” Clark asked after clearing his throat.

“No. But, I’ve heard good things about General Tso’s chicken.” You shrugged and tried to put as little pressure on Clark for handpicking the place for your first date. Both of you fell into step as you continued, “Have you?”

Clark nodded. “Yeah. I—Well, I actually came here myself the other day to test it out.”

This made you frown in minor confusion.

“Test it out?” You repeated back to him as you reached the door to the building.

“Well, you know. I wanted to make sure it was perfect. For you.” Clark opened the door and gestured for you to walk in first. He offered you an amused smile when you stared at him wide-eyed, “My stomach hurt after the third floor.”

Oh. He tested all five floors for you.

Clark Kent was exceeding all your expectations and it hadn’t even been five minutes of his time spent with you.

After that, Clark responded to everything in the most gentlemanly way possible. Every door had been opened for you, and once you had picked a floor out of the five, Clark’s hand ghosted your back as the server guided you through the rows upon rows of seats to the very back booth, tucked away from the rest of the entourage. He even allowed you to scooch along the plush seat of the booth before he slotted himself next to you, a sudden yelp eliciting from the back of his throat when he almost flipped the table when his knees knocked the underside of it.

You exchanged stories—Clark visibly hanging onto every word you said—you laughed together, shared your food and somewhere in between the main course and dessert, the proximity between the pair of you was closer than ever before. Now, you were entering dangerous territories of never returning to a time before Clark Kent. Something you were OK with never looking back on.

Stomach bursting at the seams, you leant back in the booth comfortably with your eyes willingly closing for a moment. Clark had waved the server as you did so, his head turning to you to admire you in such a tranquil state; a smile splitting on his face, dimples and all, when you peeked an eye open to look at him too.

“I’m in a very vulnerable state right now, Clark Kent.” You joked, hands on your stomach, “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I was just enjoying the view.” Clark retorted so casually you almost got whiplash. He threw you a smug grin and fished his wallet out of the pocket inside his suit jacket as the server approached.

You sat up and began to dig into your own satchel. “I can pay half.”

“No you won’t.” Clark mumbled in a monotonous tone, as if it was common knowledge that your purse was not to leave the confines of your satchel. The transaction went through with a ping and the server bid you both a goodnight, leaving Clark and you to your own devices.

“Thank you. For paying.”

Clark shrugged. “It’s the least I could do when you said yes to going on a date with me.” He stood, his hand outstretched for you to take. “We’ll call that even now.”

You stood and tugged at your dress, taking mind of the ladder at your side and let out a laugh, “Are you comparing me to a three course meal?”

Clark went pink. His tie suddenly victim of a sudden attack of fidgeting fingers as he gawped through the fumble of his words.

You intentionally squeezed past him and the table, bodies flush against each other momentarily before you put space between the both of you with a mischievous glint in your eyes; something that sent Clark internally reeling.

“Relax. I’m kidding.” You reassured, “Do you want ice cream?”

(Clark was positively astonished at your appetite, but then he reminded himself he just had a three course meal, plus your leftovers, and was still starving at the sight of you in that dress.)

He nodded with enthusiasm and it led to the both of you strolling through Metropolis with the sunset replaced with pretty moonlight and an ice cream shared between you.

Clark paid for it after nudging you out of the way of the cashier’s register.

The conversation dipped into a comfortable silence. Neither of you had run out of things to talk about, even if it meant turning to work, but the moment felt right to just bathe in each other’s presence. Clark fed the ice cream on the littlest plastic spoon, into your mouth and you hummed with gratitude; not realising any sort of satisfied noise that came from your mouth had Clark white-knuckled and a little dizzy.

He had counted about ten of those moments throughout the night. Why had he picked food as the first date? It felt like a cruel punishment.

Shaking him from his rather lewd thoughts, you let out a gasp of excitement, finger pointed in front of you. “A photo-booth!”

Clark followed your finger to see a tattered old stall with a velvet curtain.

“You want to go in?”

You scrunched your nose, “Would that be weird? It’s a little weird, right?”

“Not weird.” Clark reaffirmed, “I’ll take some photos with you. You said you like the sentimental value of things like this.”

Alright. Clark Kent was about to be kissed silly.

You wrapped your fingers around his forearm and dragged him to the photo-booth, halting when you yanked the curtain back to reveal a tiny stool with barely any room for just one person. Let alone two. One being enormous in all the right ways.

There was a little deflation in your shoulders that Clark furrow his brow until he saw what you were staring at. With little deliberation—because Clark Kent was seizing the moment—he brushed past your body and sat on the stool that may, or may not have creaked under the weight of his body.

Clark looked up at you, his bottom lip jutted out a little with innocence plastered across his face before he patted his thigh.

Pat, pat.

You blinked at him.

“Are you coming in, or what?”

Unbelievable.

When you took one step forward, Clark’s hand snaked around your hip and guided you into his lap. For stability, you wrapped one arm around his neck, hand twitching on his shoulder as he reached to pull the curtain shut.

His hand remained on the curve of your hip, his own fingertips fiddling with the fabric of your dress as his other hand came to tap on the screen to get the whole thing started.

“Alright.” He mumbled, his hips raised—and you with them—as he pulled out some money to slot into the machine. It gave a mechanical whir and Clark shuffled the both of you in the seat. “What faces should we make?”

Part of your brain was short-circuiting. This wasn’t like you. You were direct, you were the mouse in the game of Cat and Mouse. Mischievous, always one step ahead and here Clark Kent was, the man who tripped over air and flushed a shade of pink whenever you smiled at him; rendering you speechless.

“Um.” You chewed the inside of your cheek, the timer counting down to the first picture being taken, “Just a smiley one. Right?”

“Sure.”

The camera flashed the most obnoxious light in your faces as you both smiled, heads tilted together. The timer reset for the second time and you mulled over your choices, Clark being the one to suggest funny faces.

Flash! Reset.

“OK.” You warmed up, “Let me wear your glasses.”

Clark hesitated, “Oh, uh—” Flash! He groaned, “Oh, sorry, sweetheart.”

You waved it off. Part of you desperate to cling back to the advantage you usually had on Clark’s senses. The timer ticked and you had a lightbulb moment.

You grinned wickedly, fingers curled into the knot of Clark’s pink tie in order to loosen it. Clark took a harsh swallow as you fluttered your lashes at him, his fingers curled into your hip now.

All roads were going to lead to this moment. At some point. You just had to coax it out of its obvious hiding place.

Your nose nudged against Clark’s, your plush lips ghosting his as he licked his own in anticipation. The photo-booth suddenly felt a little smaller, in the best way possible.

“This could be for research purposes.” You whispered and Clark hummed for you to elaborate. “You know. To make sure for any future photos taken, that we look good kissing.”

“Research purposes.” His eyes were set on your lips.

You nodded slowly, “Don’t you journalists enjoy the whole boots on the ground journalism?”

Suddenly, the timer had been forgotten about as Clark pressed his lips against yours in the much anticipated kiss. You both moulded against each other, breaths shallow until the kiss deepened and your heads were swarmed with blind infatuation. When you tugged at the curls at the nape of Clark’s neck, he let out a whimper and you smiled against his lips; feeling rewarded.

He was good. At being a journalist, a good person with good morals, a good date. And, to put the cherry atop of the very tall cake of why Clark Kent was a good person…he was even insanely good at kissing.

You both then realised how easy it was to get lost in each other, and Clark was happy to destroy any map that led him away from you.

Click! Flash!

You pulled away from Clark at the sound of purring from the photo-booth, smiling sweetly as he peppered kisses along your jawline in lieu of your lips.

A strip of black and white photos spat out of the dispenser and you bent at the waist to snatch them for inspection. With your back pressed against Clark’s chest, you held the photos up so he could look at them too. The third photo made you both chuckle, caught in the middle of a plan to wear Clark’s glasses, his eyes widened with a frown at the proposition you had made about removing the glasses from his face.

That was a conversation for another day. A rainy one. Not in a photo-booth. Or in a public setting, preferably.

“These are great.” You stated, admiring the moments captured on your first date. You pointed to the last photo, “Oh! Look, we do look good kissing.”

“That’s a good omen. For future photos.” Clark nodded, his glasses partially fogged from the intense make-out session you had just engaged in.

When you turned to smile at him knowingly, because both of you knew what sort of statement he was making in that brief sentence, Clark returned the smile with a gentle squeeze against your hip, just above the laddered fabric from your anxieties pre-date.

He sniffed, leaning forward to slot more money into the machine as he spoke, “Want to try opposite sides? See if we look good kissing from a different angle.”

It took five more tries for Clark to eventually green light that you looked stupidly good when you kissed.

[laufeysodinson]

[mikedugans]

[frailbug]

you think that you're so alone in the world then you read literature from hundreds of years ago and you realize that other people have always felt this way