Would I be able to request the reader working in a bookstore that Clark frequents? And their way of flirting is him asking for weirdly specific recommendations for books he doesn’t need? (Request from AO3)
The Oddly Specific Book Requests of Clark Kent
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Week One: Tuesday, 2:15 PM
You were restocking the fiction section when you heard the bell above the door chime.
"Hi, welcome to Turning Page, let me know if you need—oh."
The man who'd just walked in was... well. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing glasses and a button-down that somehow made him look both professional and approachable. He had the kind of smile that made you forget what you were saying.
"Hi," he said, and even his voice was unfairly nice. Warm. Genuine. "I hope you can help me. I'm looking for a book."
You gestured around at the store. "You've come to the right place."
He laughed—actually laughed at your terrible joke—and you felt something flutter in your chest.
"Right. Sorry. I'm looking for something specific. A book about..." He paused, thinking. "About the history of aviation, but specifically focused on the psychological impact of flight on early pilots."
You blinked. "That's... very specific."
"I know. I'm writing an article." He offered a sheepish smile. "I'm a journalist. Clark Kent."
"Well, Clark Kent the journalist, let me see what I can find."
You led him to the history section, very aware of him following behind you, and started scanning titles. "We have a general aviation history section, but something that specific might require some digging..."
"I don't mind waiting. Take your time."
You pulled out three possibilities, explaining the focus of each one. Clark listened with complete attention, asking intelligent questions, and by the time you'd helped him decide on two books, twenty minutes had passed.
"Thank you," he said, genuine warmth in his voice. "You really know your stuff."
"It's my job," you said, ringing him up. "Plus, I love books. Wouldn't work here if I didn't."
"I'll have to come back if I need more research material."
He smiled, and you tried very hard not to notice how that smile did things to your heart rate.
After he left, your coworker Sarah appeared at your elbow.
"A customer. Looking for aviation history."
"A customer who looked at you like you hung the moon while you were talking about the Dewey Decimal System."
"Oh honey, he absolutely did."
You tried not to think about it for the rest of your shift.
Week Two: Thursday, 3:47 PM
You were helping another customer when you saw him walk in, and your heart did a stupid little jump that you firmly told to calm down.
He browsed for a while—giving you time to finish up—then approached the counter with that same warm smile.
"Aviation research going well?"
"Actually, I finished that article. But now I'm working on a new one." He leaned against the counter. "I need a book about urban farming. But specifically about rooftop gardens in major cities. And ideally with a focus on community building aspects rather than just the agricultural side."
You blinked. "That's... very specific."
"I'm a very specific person."
Was he... was he flirting? No. Probably not. He was just a journalist who needed weirdly specific books.
"Give me a minute. I think we have something in the environmental section."
You did have something—two somethings, actually, both of which matched his oddly specific criteria. Clark listened intently as you explained the differences between them, asked thoughtful questions, and ended up buying both.
"You're really good at this," he said as you rang him up.
"At understanding what people need. Even when they don't explain it very well." His smile was soft. "It's a gift."
Your face heated. "Just doing my job."
"Well, you do it very well."
After he left, Sarah appeared again. "Okay, that was definitely flirting."
"He was just being nice—"
"He asked you about your favorite book."
"So, he spent fifteen minutes listening to you talk about magical realism and looked at you like you were reciting poetry." Sarah grinned. "He's into you."
"He's just a polite customer."
"Uh-huh. Sure. We'll see if he comes back."
Week Three: Tuesday AND Friday
Tuesday's visit: "I need a book about the history of coffee, but specifically the cultural impact on American work culture."
Friday's visit: "Do you have anything on the science of baking bread? But more focused on the chemistry than recipes?"
Both times, he spent at least twenty minutes talking to you. Both times, he asked about your day, your favorite books, what you were currently reading. Both times, Sarah gave you knowing looks from behind the register.
"He's definitely into you," she said after he left on Friday.
"He's just really enthusiastic about research."
"Nobody is that enthusiastic about the chemical composition of sourdough starter. He's using books as an excuse to talk to you."
But you thought about it all weekend.
Week Four: Tuesday, 2:30 PM
Clark came in looking slightly sheepish.
"Let me guess," you said, unable to hide your smile. "Another very specific research project?"
"Actually, yes. I need something about the history of telephone booths in American cities."
You laughed. "Really? Telephone booths?"
"It's for a piece about how technology changes urban landscapes." He was smiling too, that warm, genuine smile that made your stomach do flips. "Why, does that seem oddly specific?"
"Everything you research is oddly specific, Clark."
"Uh-huh." You led him to the urban studies section. "You know, we do have a database where you could search for this stuff yourself. Save you the trip."
"But then I wouldn't get expert recommendations." He paused. "And the database doesn't smile when it finds exactly the right book."
Your heart stopped. "Are you... are you flirting with me using book recommendations?"
Clark's ears went red. "Is it working?"
"I literally just realized this week that no journalist needs this many oddly specific books."
"In my defense, I am writing articles about all of these topics."
"Yes! I can show you the bylines." He pulled out his phone, and sure enough, there were articles. Daily Planet. Clark Kent. "See? Legitimate research. The flirting is just a bonus."
You laughed, relief and delight flooding through you. "You're unbelievable."
"Is that a good unbelievable or a bad unbelievable?"
His smile was hopeful. "What would help you decide?"
"Well," you said, pulling a book on telephone booths from the shelf, "you could start by actually telling me what you're interested in instead of hiding behind increasingly obscure research requests."
"Okay." Clark took a breath. "I'm interested in whether you'd like to get coffee with me sometime. Actual coffee, not coffee-table books about coffee history."
"Although," you said, trying to ignore how fast your heart was beating, "I do have a great book about the cultural significance of coffee houses in 18th century Europe if you're interested."
"Good. Because I'm more interested in actually getting coffee than reading about it." You wrote your number on a bookmark and handed it to him. "Call me?"
"Definitely." He clutched the bookmark like it was precious. "Should I still buy the telephone booth book?"
"You came all the way here. Might as well commit to the bit."
His laugh was warm and genuine, and when he left the store, he looked back twice.
Sarah appeared instantly. "FINALLY."
"He's been coming in here for a month making up increasingly ridiculous research topics just to talk to you."
"They're not made up! He's actually writing articles—"
"Oh honey." Sarah pulled up something on her phone. "Clark Kent. Daily Planet. Look at his actual articles."
You looked. Metropolitan politics. International news. Investigative journalism.
Not a single piece about coffee cultivation or telephone booth history.
"Yeah. That man has been making up entire fake articles just for an excuse to talk to you." Sarah grinned. "That's either really cute or really concerning."
"Good choice. He seems nice. And he's built like a brick house."
"What? I'm just saying. Your book boyfriend is hot."
You laughed, but she wasn't wrong. And when your phone buzzed later that evening with a text from an unknown number—"This is Clark. The guy who knows way too much about telephone booths now. Are you free for coffee this weekend?"—you couldn't stop smiling.
You: Only if you promise to tell me which of those book requests were actually for real articles.
Clark: What if I told you all of them were real? I'm just a very thorough journalist.
You: Then I'd say you're a very bad liar.
Clark: Okay, you got me. The aviation one was real. The rest... creative liberty.
You: I KNEW the coffee book was suspicious. Nobody needs that much detail about bean fermentation.
Clark: In my defense, you're very cute when you're explaining things. I got carried away.
You: Smooth recovery, Kent.
Clark: So is that a yes to coffee?
You: Only if you promise no more fake research requests.
Clark: Deal. Although I'm now genuinely curious about telephone booth history.
You: I'll bring the book on our date.
Clark: It's a date then :)
You saved his number and tried not to grin like an idiot.
Saturday, 10 AM - The Coffee Date
You met at a small café near the bookstore, and somehow Clark looked even better in casual clothes—jeans and a henley that definitely didn't make you think about how broad his shoulders were.
"You came," he said, standing up as you approached. Was that relief in his voice?
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
"I wasn't sure if you'd think the whole 'fake research questions' thing was charming or creepy."
"Jury's still out," you teased, sitting down. "But the coffee should help me decide."
He laughed, relaxed, and the conversation flowed easily. You learned he was from Kansas ("of course you are, you're basically a golden retriever in human form"), that he'd wanted to be a journalist since high school, that he had a cat named Mr. Whiskers ("my mom named him, I was eight, don't judge me").
"So," you said eventually, "how many of those book requests were actually real?"
"The aviation one was real. I did write that article."
"Well..." He had the grace to look sheepish. "The urban farming one I kind of pitched to my editor after the fact because I felt bad about lying to you. It actually turned into a great piece."
You laughed. "So I inspired investigative journalism through your elaborate flirting scheme?"
"When you put it that way, it sounds less romantic."
"No, it's cute. Weird, but cute." You took a sip of your coffee. "What about the coffee one? And the bread chemistry?"
"Those were purely pretextual."
"I'm a reporter. We use big words." But he was grinning. "I just... I liked talking to you. You light up when you talk about books, did you know that? You get this look on your face like you're sharing a secret, and I wanted to keep seeing that look."
Your cheeks heated. "That's really smooth, Clark."
"I have my moments." He paused. "Full disclosure: I may have already read most of the books I asked you about. I just wanted recommendations from you specifically."
"I know. But in my defense, you're very cute when you're being enthusiastic about books."
"You're forgiven. Barely."
"What can I do to move from 'barely' to 'completely'?"
"Tell me the truth from now on. No more fake research topics."
"Deal." He smiled. "Although now I actually do need book recommendations. I wasn't lying about liking to read."
"What do you actually like?"
"Honestly? Sci-fi. Fantasy. Anything with hope in it. Stories about people choosing to be good even when it's hard."
Something about the way he said it made you think there was a deeper story there, but you didn't push.
"I can work with that," you said instead. "I have so many recommendations."
"So many. You're going to need a bigger bookshelf."
His smile was brilliant. "Good thing I have Sunday free for shopping."
"Are you asking me on a second date already?"
"I figure I should lock it in before you realize you can do better."
"Clark Kent, are you fishing for compliments?"
"Maybe." He grinned. "Is it working?"
At some point, three months later, was when you realized ...
"Okay, but hear me out," Clark said, sprawled across your couch with a book on his chest. "Superman is definitely a science fiction character, not fantasy."
"He's an alien with superpowers. That's fantasy."
"It's explained through science! He gets powers from Earth's yellow sun—"
"That's not how solar radiation works, Clark. It's magic with scientific words."
"I can't believe we're fighting about this."
"I can't believe you're wrong about this."
He sat up, pointing his bookmark at you accusingly. "You work in a bookstore. You should respect genre distinctions."
"I respect facts. Superman is fantasy. Deal with it."
Clark pulled you down onto the couch next to him. "What if I don't want to deal with it?"
"Then I'll be forced to recommend you more books until you see reason."
"Oh no," he said, completely deadpan. "Whatever will I do. I guess I'll just have to keep coming to the bookstore to argue with you about fictional genre classifications."
"That's your master plan? Argue about books?"
"It's worked so far." He kissed your forehead. "Got me a girlfriend, didn't it?"
"The bar was low. You literally just had to ask me about books."
"Hey, those were carefully researched questions designed to showcase our compatibility."
"They were increasingly desperate attempts to talk to me."
"That too." He pulled you closer. "Worth it though."
You couldn't argue with that.
Later, when you were both reading on the couch—him with a sci-fi novel you'd recommended, you with a mystery—Clark's phone buzzed.
He glanced at it and frowned slightly. "I have to go. Work thing."
"Journalist hours are weird." He kissed you quickly. "I'll text you later?"
After he left, you noticed he'd forgotten his book. You picked it up to text him, but something fell out—a newspaper clipping about Superman saving people from a burning building.
Then at the book—a book about superheroes and secret identities in modern media.
Then at the door Clark had just left through.
"No," you said out loud to your empty apartment. "No way."
But you were already thinking about the convenient excuses, the times he'd disappeared mid-date, the way he'd once caught a falling stack of books with inhuman reflexes and then played it off awkwardly.
The fact that you'd literally never seen him and Superman in the same room.
"No," you repeated. "That's insane."
Clark: Forgot my book. Sorry, work emergency came up. Dinner tomorrow to make up for it?
You: Is the emergency Superman-related?
There was a long pause. Then:
You: Nothing. Dinner sounds great.
You'd figure out how to ask him later. Right now, you were just going to sit with the realization that you'd been flirting with Superman via book recommendations for three months.
Sarah was never going to let you live this down.
The next day Clark showed up at the bookstore at lunch, looking nervous.
"So," he said. "About last night."
"You left your book here. It's behind the counter."
"That's not—" He took a breath. "You know, don't you?"
"That you're Superman? I have a suspicion."
"And you're... okay with that?"
You looked at him—really looked at him. At the way he was nervous, fidgeting with his glasses, looking at you like your opinion was the most important thing in the world.
"Clark, you spent weeks making up increasingly ridiculous research topics just to talk to me about books. You could secretly be an alien overlord and I'd still think that was adorable."
His shoulders sagged with relief. "I'm not an overlord. Just an alien."
"I'm going to need you to explain the physics of flight though. Because if Superman is science fiction and not fantasy, I need proof."
Clark laughed, loud and genuine. "You're really never going to let that go, are you?"
"Never. Also, you're buying dinner tonight and telling me everything. And I mean everything."
"Deal." He leaned across the counter to kiss you. "For the record, the telephone booth thing? That one was actually a little bit personal."
"Oh my god, you change in telephone booths?"
"Used to. There aren't many left anymore. It's actually a problem—"
"You're literally Superman complaining about a lack of changing rooms."
"It's a legitimate infrastructure issue!"
You laughed, and Clark smiled at you like you'd hung the moon, and you thought that maybe getting weird, overly specific book requests from superheroes wasn't such a bad way to meet someone after all.
Epilogue: Six Months Later
"Okay, but seriously," you said, reorganizing the sci-fi section while Clark 'helped' (read: followed you around like a puppy), "how did you not know phone booths were disappearing? You're a journalist."
"I knew they were declining! I just didn't realize how few were left until I needed one."
"Where do you change now?"
"Alleys, mostly. Sometimes rooftops."
"It's not about dignity, it's about time efficiency—"
"Sir, are you going to buy that book or just keep flirting with the employee?" Sarah called from the register.
Clark held up the sci-fi novel he'd been holding. "I'm buying it! See? Legitimate customer!"
"You work here three days a week now," Sarah pointed out. "You're not fooling anyone."
It was true. After you'd started dating, Clark had started volunteering at the bookstore on his days off from the Planet. He claimed it was to "understand your world better." You suspected he just liked being around books.
"I'm on break," you told Sarah. "Taking this one to the back to discuss his incorrect opinions about genre classifications."
"That's what we're calling it now?" Clark asked innocently.
"I will throw a book at you."
You did end up throwing a paperback at him. He caught it without looking.
"Show off," you muttered.
And the terrible thing was, you really did.
Later, after the store closed, you sat together in the break room sharing Chinese takeout and arguing about whether Ursula K. Le Guin was better than Isaac Asimov (she was, and you would die on that hill).
"I still can't believe you used book recommendations to flirt with me," you said.
"Barely. You asked about telephone booth history, Clark. Telephone booths."
"I was nervous! You're intimidating when you're talking about books you love."
"I'm going to tell everyone that Superman thinks I'm intimidating."
"Too late. Already texting Lois."
"You're the worst," he said, but he was smiling.
"You're dating me anyway."
"Yeah," Clark said softly, pulling you closer. "I really am."
And honestly? You couldn't think of a better story to tell people. You met because he kept asking for weirdly specific book recommendations, and you fell for him somewhere between aviation psychology and urban farming.
But then again, neither was dating Superman.
