The Emotional Support Jester to K-Pop Idol transformation is complete!!
aka I just really wanted to draw Pomni as an idol... ^^;
I saw Yoonchae from Katseye's Colombia performance outfit/styling and it immediately made me think of Pomni. The red blue and yellow with the twin braids on either side that look like a jester's hat cmon! So I drew her in a version of her outfit + sneaking some references from The Other Pomni + a One Of A Kind Bubble Headset. See if you can find all of them!
Here's Yoonchae's outfit that was inspo:
You can view it on insta as well to give it some love~
Synopsis: Rural Spain was the last place you expected to see Leon Kennedy. He isn’t the rookie you left in Raccoon City, he’s colder, sharper, and harder to walk away from a second time.
Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Baggage, Mission-Driven Angst
Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Injury Recovery
Words: 12k
The corn stalks whip at your arms and face, their sharp edges leaving stinging trails across your skin. Every breath burns, the damp air heavy with the stench of earth and rot. Spain has been unkind since the moment your boots touched its soil. The villages are hollowed-out shells, the people nothing more than puppets for something far darker.
You press forward anyway. Orders are orders: infiltrate, gather intel, eliminate Ramon Salazar if the opportunity presents itself. Simple words on paper, but the reality is blood, paranoia, and the gnawing weight of isolation.
The cornfield feels endless, each rustle too loud, every shifting shadow a threat waiting to pounce. When you finally break free, it’s almost worse, an open stretch of dirt path leading to ancient stone buildings, their walls cracked and leaning like tired old bones. The silence here is suffocating, pressing against your ears until even your own heartbeat sounds like a beacon.
You sink low, pressing yourself against the jagged stone. The air is thicker here, heavy with the faint metallic tang of blood, though you can’t tell if it’s yours or someone else’s.
Movement.
Two villagers shuffle across the path ahead, their steps uneven, their bodies jerking like marionettes strung up by invisible hands. Their eyes are hollow, not vacant, but filled with something worse: obedience to the parasite that puppeteers them.
Your grip tightens on the knife. Guns are loud, and sound travels too well in these narrow streets. So you stalk. One breath, one step, one strike. The blade slides beneath the first villager’s ribs, silencing him with nothing more than a guttural choke before you lower him soundlessly to the dirt. The second turns too late. A flash of steel, a hot spray against your cheek, and he crumples at your feet.
You wipe the blade against your thigh, though the gesture feels pointless, no amount of cleaning will ever wash this country off your skin.
For a moment, there’s stillness again. You force yourself to breathe, to listen. Every nerve screams at you to move, to stay ahead before the bodies are found. You dart deeper into the cluster of stone buildings, boots splashing through puddles of stagnant rainwater.
You pull out your map, a flimsy, blood-stained, rain-warped scrap that looks as exhausted as you feel. The edges are torn, entire corners missing, but it’s enough to remind you how close you are to the castle. Too close. The thought of what waits inside coils like ice in your stomach.
You fold it back with trembling fingers and shove it deep into your pocket. A pause, just long enough to reload: the metallic clack of a magazine sliding home, the satisfying click of a safety checked, the careful assembly of makeshift first aid sprays from herbs you’ve hoarded like treasure. It’s a ritual, something you can control in a place where nothing else bends to your will.
And then you hear it.
Not the shuffle of infected villagers. Not the frantic, mindless scurrying of rats. But slow, measured footsteps. Deliberate. Predatory.
The sound echoes down the narrow stone alley, steady as a heartbeat that isn’t yours.
Your breath lodges in your throat.
You raise your gun, two hands locked around the grip, every muscle strung tight. The footsteps approach, deliberate, calculated, a hunter’s rhythm. You flatten against the cobblestone wall, boots sinking into the soft hay to mask your movements, heart rattling in your ribs.
The glint of steel, a gun muzzle, slides into view around the corner. Training kicks in before thought does.
You lash out, boot connecting hard with the stranger’s wrist. A grunt echoes sharp in the alley as their weapon skitters across the stones, vanishing into shadow.
You don’t hesitate. The knife is in your hand, the weight familiar, steadying. But before you can press the advantage, there’s an answering rasp of steel leaving leather. Another blade.
Then they’re on you.
The first clash is violent, steel strikes steel, ringing in your ears. You push forward, slashing high toward their ribs, but they twist, catching your wrist and shoving you back against the wall. Your shoulder slams stone, teeth clenching against the impact. You duck low, kicking out at their knee, but they shift just in time, answering with a downward slash that you barely deflect with the flat of your blade. Sparks spit into the dark.
You twist your arm free and shove upward, forcing them back a step. You feint left, then pivot right, blade carving for their abdomen, but they spin with you, wrist locking yours in midair. For a moment your arms are tangled, blades trembling inches from skin, muscles straining as neither of you gives ground.
They shove you off, swift and brutal. You stumble, roll, and come up crouched, knife raised underhand. They match the stance. Exactly.
Another surge, they slash for your throat, you duck beneath and drive a knee toward their gut, but they catch it with their thigh, twisting you around, knife arcing for your back. You catch the wrist, drop low, and wrench free, spinning to face them again. The rhythm is relentless, slash, block, counter, strike, until it’s less a fight than a mirror, every move reflected, anticipated.
Your lungs burn, sweat stings your eyes. Boots scrape against wet stone, blades whisper and shriek as they collide. You drive forward with a furious shove, twisting your knife up toward their jaw. At the same instant, they hook your wrist, dragging you down, knife pressing into the hollow of your throat.
Stalemate.
You’ve got your blade jammed hard against their neck, close enough you can feel the faint tremor of their pulse. But the exact same pressure bites into your skin, their knife nestled under your jaw. Neither of you dares move.
Breath mingles in the scant inches between you.
Your knife wavers. Breath tangles in your throat as the stranger’s face sharpens in the moonlight.
And then you see them.
Eyes you know. Eyes you trusted when the world was ending. Blue, once bright as firelight against the dark, now dulled, hardened into steel.
It should feel like salvation. Instead, it feels like betrayal.
The rookie who smiled at you through the ash of Raccoon City is gone. What stares back at you now is a weapon shaped like him, colder, sharper, stripped of everything that once made him human.
Your lips stumble over his name, breaking on it like a wound:
“…Leon?”
For a flicker, his grip hesitates, and you almost believe. Almost.
Leon.
It’s him, but not.
Your memory betrays you with flashes of Raccoon City: the boyish rookie in a too-clean uniform, hair falling messily into eyes that were still warm despite the nightmare closing in. He’d smiled then, even in the dark, offering steady words that made the terror feel bearable. His hands had trembled, but his heart had never faltered. That Leon carried a softness, a stubborn hope that survival meant more than just killing your way through the night.
The man in front of you now is nothing like that.
His uniform is gone, replaced by worn tactical gear that hugs his frame like armor. The hair you remember, once loose, almost boyish, is longer now, deliberately pushed back, streaked with dirt and sweat. His jaw is sharper, set with a constant tension, like he hasn’t allowed himself rest in years.
But it’s his eyes that steal the air from your lungs.
They were blue before, but softer, touched by something human, alive. These eyes are steel. Cold. The kind you’ve only seen in men who’ve buried too many ghosts to count. He looks at you not like a friend, not even like an ally, but like a threat he’s calculating how to eliminate.
There’s no tremor in his grip, no hesitation in the blade pressed against your throat. Only precision. Only control.
And yet, in that tiny flicker of recognition, the smallest crack ripples across the mask.
For just a heartbeat, you see him. The boy in Raccoon City. The one who saved you, the one who smiled.
Then it’s gone.
Leon doesn’t flinch when you breathe his name. He doesn’t soften, doesn’t loosen the knife pressing against your throat. If anything, the blade digs a fraction deeper, just enough to remind you he’s in control.
His jaw tightens. The lines around his mouth and eyes are harsher now, carved deep by years of battles you weren’t there to see. He studies you like you’re a puzzle, like he’s weighing whether you’re real, or just another trick this cursed country has thrown at him.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and gravel-edged, nothing like the earnest rookie who once stumbled through fire with you.
“...You shouldn’t be here.”
The words are flat, stripped of warmth, but beneath them, barely there, almost lost, you catch the faintest tremor. Recognition.
He exhales hard through his nose, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to drag a wall back into place before you can see past it.
“What are you doing here?” His words cut like the edge at your throat, sharp, demanding, designed to keep you on the defensive.
You swallow, the press of his blade cold against your skin, but you don’t back down. His gaze pins you in place, blue eyes unrelenting, scouring every flicker of your expression as if the truth is something he can drag out of you by force.
The Leon you knew would have said your name with relief. This Leon spits the question like an accusation.
His grip tightens on the hilt, knuckles white, voice low and strained:
“Tell me. Now.”
But that tremor is still there, buried under the command, a crack in his armor. He’s not just asking. He’s pleading in his own way, desperate to understand why fate has dragged you back into his line of fire.
For a heartbeat, the silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid.
Your pulse hammers in your throat, just beneath the blade, but you force your chin up anyway. If he expects you to cower, he’s forgotten who you are.
“I could ask you the same thing,” you snap, though your voice wavers at the edges. “I didn’t exactly plan to run into you in the middle of this hell.”
His eyes narrow further, searching, testing. You push against the silence, refusing to let him see how much the coldness stings.
“I’m here on orders,” you bite out, each word steadier than you feel. “Ramon Salazar. That’s my mission. That’s what I’m doing here.”
For a second, something shifts in his expression, a shadow of concern. But it vanishes as quickly as it comes.
“And don’t look at me like I’m some liability.” Your grip tightens on your knife, pressing harder into his neck, matching his pressure exactly. “I’ve survived just as much as you have, Leon. Don’t you dare pretend otherwise.”
The words hang between you, trembling with anger and something deeper, something you can’t swallow down.
For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moves. The knives glint in the moonlight, pressed to skin, breaths ragged in the narrow silence.
Then Leon exhales, a sharp, frustrated sound. His wrist shifts, knife lowering an inch, then another, until the cold bite against your throat is gone.
But his shoulders don’t relax.
They’re rigid, drawn tight like bowstrings. His stance remains squared, ready. Every muscle in him screams restraint, like lowering the weapon cost him more than plunging it into you ever would have.
He takes half a step back, blue eyes locked on yours, and his own knife hovers low at his side. Not sheathed, not away, just not aimed at your life anymore.
The stiffness in his jaw doesn’t soften, his mouth a hard, thin line. You can see the fight in him, not against you, but against himself. Against whatever cracks are splitting open at the sight of you here, real, alive.
Finally, his voice scrapes out, quieter but no less rough:
“You don’t belong in this place.”
Your grip tightens on your knife, and your reply is out before you can stop yourself.
“You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do,” you snap, sharp as broken glass. The words cut the silence between you, brittle with defiance.
Leon doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rise to the bait. His expression stays unreadable, a mask chiseled into stone. Only his eyes shift, narrowing slightly as if weighing whether it’s worth arguing with you.
“Where are you headed?” he finally deadpans, voice flat as the steel in his hand.
You hesitate, then tug the battered map from your pocket, unfolding the ruined creases with stiff fingers. You jab a finger toward the crude drawing of the looming structure dominating the area.
“The castle.”
For a second, something flickers across his face, surprise, then calculation. He studies the map, then you, his jaw working.
“That’s where the president’s daughter is,” he says at last, tone clipped but carrying a weight you can’t ignore. His eyes harden, colder than the night air. “That’s my mission.”
The tension between you lingers, but it bends into something else, necessity. For a moment, the knives, the bitterness, the years don’t matter. Survival does.
You fold the map back into your pocket, meeting his stare. “Then we’re headed in the same direction.”
Leon doesn’t agree with words. He just exhales through his nose, shoulders still tense, and steps past you, scanning the shadows as if every corner hides another fight.
But he doesn’t tell you to leave again. He doesn’t stop you from following.
And in this place, in this nightmare, that’s as close to agreement as you’ll ever get.
The air between you is thick with everything unsaid as you fall into step behind him. Leon moves like a shadow, every stride purposeful, weapon angled low but ready. He scans every corner, every rooftop, every crack in the walls, like he expects the night itself to reach out and drag him under.
You match his pace, boots crunching against gravel and wet hay, the map’s weight heavy in your pocket. Neither of you speaks at first. The silence is suffocating, but you refuse to be the one to break it. Not when his words still burn, you don’t belong here.
The streets coil and twist, narrow alleys bleeding into wider paths lined with skeletal trees. The villagers are quieter here, their presence more of a shadow at the edges than a direct threat. The quiet is almost worse.
Your eyes keep pulling to him despite yourself.
The Leon you knew in Raccoon City was green but brave, his movements uncertain yet fueled by sheer determination. Now, every motion is precise, stripped of hesitation. He’s efficient in a way that makes your chest ache; it’s the efficiency of someone who’s learned survival by losing too much.
There’s a faint scar at his jaw you don’t remember, another slicing through the brow above his left eye. His hair, longer now, clings damply to his forehead when the wind shifts. The light from the moon catches on the line of his profile, and for a moment you almost see him as he was back then, until he turns, and his eyes slice right through you, cold and unrelenting.
You look away, heart hammering.
“Stay close,” he mutters finally, voice low, rough. The command is automatic, but there’s a flicker of something else buried deep in it.
You almost laugh, bitter. “Didn’t realize I needed your permission.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he adjusts the strap of his holster and presses on, shoulders stiff, as though keeping you at arm’s length is the only thing holding him together.
The silence falls again, heavier than before. And yet, for all his words, for all the coldness in his tone, Leon doesn’t leave you behind. He doesn’t tell you to turn back. He lets you walk at his side.
And in the dark, ruined streets of Spain, that fragile allowance feels like a confession all its own.
The silence breaks not with words, but with guttural cries tearing through the night. Villagers emerge from the shadows, eyes glowing with unnatural fury, the shuffle of boots on stone punctuated by the metallic rasp of sickles dragged along walls. They pour in from both ends of the alley, sealing you inside a kill box.
Leon’s head snaps up, gaze cutting sharp as he counts the enemies. He doesn’t waste time speaking, he just shifts, sliding instinctively until his back brushes yours. His weight grounds you, the familiar anchor in chaos.
It’s automatic. Seamless. Like Raccoon City all over again.
The first villager lunges. You don’t think, you just fire, the muzzle flash lights the alley as the man crumples into the dirt. Behind you, Leon pivots at the same instant, his handgun barking once, then twice, each bullet placed with surgical precision. The stench of blood and gunpowder thickens, filling your lungs.
A roar to your right, an axe cleaves downward. You duck, twisting beneath the swing, knife flashing up as you drive the blade into the attacker’s ribs. Hot blood sprays your arm. Before you can finish the kill, Leon’s elbow cracks back against another villager’s face, bone crunching wetly. His boot brushes yours as he plants it forward and kicks the man hard enough to send him crashing into the wall. Not a stumble. Not a misstep. Just rhythm.
Another surge, a pitchfork aimed for your chest. You twist aside, parrying with the edge of your knife, and slash down the attacker’s arm until the weapon clatters away. Before you can strike again, a bullet whistles past your shoulder, straight into their skull. The body drops at your feet.
“Reloading,” you bark, slamming a fresh magazine home.
“I’ve got it.” His answer is clipped, but solid, steady as bedrock at your back.
You trust it.
They come faster now. You move together, pivoting in unison, a seamless machine of survival. When you duck, Leon rises. When you thrust forward, he covers your flank. A villager swings wild at your side, Leon catches the wrist mid-air, twists, and shoves the blade back into the man’s chest. Another charges you head-on, you roll beneath their swing, slice the tendon at their knee, and Leon is already there above you, finishing with a brutal downward stab.
Back to back, you spin as one.
He kicks low at an enemy’s shin; you catch the stagger with a slash across the throat. You leap up the wall for leverage, boot pushing off stone to drive your knife down into a skull; Leon drops into a crouch beneath you, sweeping another enemy’s legs out before finishing them with a clean, merciless shot.
Your shoulders knock once, twice, in the chaos, not from clumsiness, but from sheer synchronicity, the kind that comes from surviving hell together once before. Every strike, every pivot, every kill feels like muscle memory burned into your bones.
For a moment, it feels like nothing’s changed. Like you’re back in that cursed city, rookies drowning in fire and blood, clinging to each other just to see the sunrise.
But then the last villager collapses, body folding into silence on the wet stone.
The night quiets.
You’re both breathing hard, blades dripping, sweat sticking your clothes to your skin. Back pressed to back, you hold the stance a moment longer, chests heaving in sync, hearts thundering against one another through armour and cloth.
Leon is the first to move. He steps forward, breaking the connection as if the closeness itself is more dangerous than the horde you just cut down. He reloads with mechanical precision, holstering his knife without a word. His shoulders stay rigid, his face unreadable, his silence a wall as high as the castle looming in the distance.
As if he can erase what just happened, the rhythm, the trust, the way your bodies still fit together perfectly.
But you can feel it thrumming in your veins, humming in your bones. The rhythm of him. The way the world seemed to make sense with him at your back.
And you hate how much you miss it.
Leon breaks the silence first, his voice low, clipped, almost like he’s annoyed with himself for speaking at all.
“I see your aim improved,” he mutters, sliding a fresh magazine into his handgun with a practiced snap.
Your lips twitch, not quite a smile, more a grimace. You refuse to let him have the last word.
“I see your footwork improved,” you shoot back, flicking blood from your blade before sliding it into its sheath. “You don’t stumble around like a rookie anymore.”
He glances at you sidelong, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth before it hardens again, vanishing as quickly as it came.
“Guess some of us had to grow up,” he says, voice flat, carrying more weight than the words themselves.
The air thickens again, that brief flicker of old rhythm buried under the heaviness of who he is now, and who you used to be to him.
The words hang between you, sharp and bitter. Guess some of us had to grow up.
You let out a dry laugh, though it’s softer, more fragile than you intend. “Yeah… you definitely grew up. Just not in the way I thought you would.”
Leon doesn’t answer immediately. He reloads with deliberate care, the metallic click of the magazine louder than his silence. His shoulders are still stiff, like the weight of his own words is pressing down on them.
“Raccoon City feels like a lifetime ago,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the bloodied stones under your boots. “Back then, you still had hope. You still looked at people like they were worth saving.”
His jaw works, but he keeps his gaze ahead, scanning the shadows. “Hope gets you killed.”
You take a step closer, unable to stop yourself. “No. Losing it does.”
That makes him glance at you, just a flick of his eyes, sharp and electric. For a moment, you swear you see it: the younger man beneath the hardened exterior, the rookie who smiled at you even when the city burned. But then he looks away again, wall slamming back into place.
“Don’t romanticize the past,” he mutters. “We survived. That’s all that matters.”
“Is it?” you press, voice low, dangerously close to cracking. “Because standing here with you… it feels like the man I knew didn’t survive at all.”
His lips part, like he wants to argue, but nothing comes out. His silence is heavier than any fight.
For a long moment, the only sounds are your ragged breaths and the distant croak of night insects in the fields. And though he doesn’t say it, you can feel it in the space between you.
“We have to rest,” Leon says at last, voice clipped, flat. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, his eyes are already scanning the broken stone courtyard around you, weighing shadows, corners, exits. “If we push any further tonight, we’ll be dead before we reach the castle.”
You shake your head immediately, sharp, defiant. “There’s no time. You know that as well as I do.”
His jaw flexes, that telltale tension twitching along the muscle. “I’m not asking.”
“Good. Because I’m not listening.” You shove past him, boots crunching on gravel. “Rest if you want, Leon. I’ll go on my own.”
The words taste bitter, and maybe you hope he’ll let you go, call your bluff. But he doesn’t.
Because the second you step forward, his hand closes around your wrist. Hard.
You freeze. His grip is iron, not the desperate hold of someone begging you to stay, but the unyielding restraint of a man who’s lived too long on the edge of survival to let anyone slip out of his control.
“Don’t,” he says. Just that one word, low, cold, cutting.
You twist, trying to yank free, but his fingers only dig tighter, tendons standing out stark beneath his skin. You can feel the heat of his palm, the tremor buried under the strength. He’s steady, always steady, but something in that grip betrays him.
“Let go,” you hiss, glaring up at him. “I don’t need you.”
His eyes finally meet yours, and the look in them nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. Blue, burning, but not warm, not anymore. There’s no rookie softness left, no spark of hope. Just a storm, sharp and unrelenting.
“You think I don’t know that?” His voice scrapes raw, a whisper dragged through glass. “You’ve survived plenty without me.” His grip tightens until your pulse hammers against his palm. “But you’re not walking into that castle alone.”
Your breath falters. The words should feel protective. They don’t. They feel like chains.
“Why?” you bite back. “Because it’s your mission? Because I’ll get in your way?”
His expression flickers, something cracks, quick and sharp, before he slams it back into place.
But not fast enough.
His mouth parts, voice low, rough, dragged up from somewhere he’s kept locked down for years.
“Please, ______. Just do this for me.”
The word doesn’t sound right in his mouth. It scrapes out jagged, raw, like he’s forgotten how to ask for anything instead of ordering it. And it’s not the word of a soldier, not even the warning of a man trying to command control, it’s a fracture. A plea.
The word rattles inside you long after it leaves his mouth. Please. You hate how it lingers, how it pulls at something you thought you’d buried.
You don’t answer. You can’t.
Instead, the two of you move through the courtyard in brittle silence until an old, half-collapsed stone house looms out of the dark. Its roof sags inward, moss and rot clinging to the broken beams, but the walls are still standing, enough to pass for shelter.
Leon stops at the threshold, weapon raised, scanning every corner with that precise, mechanical rhythm of his. He doesn’t even breathe wrong as he checks the shattered windows, the leaning doorframe, the piles of debris that could hide more than rats.
While he sweeps the perimeter, you slip inside, boots crunching over broken glass. The air is stale, heavy with mildew and old wood. In the corner, a chair leans drunkenly against the wall, one leg splintered. You drag it across the warped floorboards anyway, jamming it under the cracked door handle until the wood creaks against the strain.
It won’t hold much, but it feels like doing something. Like control.
When you turn back, Leon is there in the doorway, watching. His eyes flick from the chair to you, unreadable, and then he steps past, pulling the door shut until the chair groans under the weight.
No words of approval. No reassurance. Just silence.
He moves to the far side of the room, crouching to sweep dust and old straw into a small, clear space. Every motion is efficient, practiced, ritual more than rest. He sets his knife down within easy reach, back against the wall, gaze locked on the single cracked window as though daring the night itself to try him.
The silence presses down, thick enough to choke on.
You sink onto a beam near the blocked door, arms braced on your knees. The shadows stretch long between you, broken only by the pale sliver of moonlight cutting through the cracks in the boards.
For a long time, neither of you speaks.
Then, without looking away from the window, Leon mutters, voice low and flat but carrying something heavy beneath it:
“You can take the first watch. I’ll cover after.”
The words are practical, stripped down to survival, but you hear what he doesn’t say: I don’t trust myself to sleep while you’re awake. Not yet.
Your throat tightens. You should argue. Should tell him you don’t need his approval, his permission, his please. But all you can do is stare at the scarred line of his profile in the dim light, and wonder how the same man can feel both like home and like a stranger all at once.
You don’t answer him. Not with words.
Instead, you reach into your pack, fingers brushing past the bruised herbs and warped map until they close around your flask of water. The metal is cold against your palm, condensation slicking your fingers as you pull it free.
You cross the room in slow, deliberate steps. He doesn’t look at you at first, still watching the window, jaw set, posture coiled like a trap. But when you hold the canteen out, his eyes flick to yours, blue cutting through the shadows.
For a heartbeat, he just stares at it. At you. Like he can’t decide whether to accept, or whether taking even this would be a weakness he can’t afford.
“Go on,” you murmur, softer than you mean to. “You look like hell.”
His mouth tightens, but after a moment he takes it, fingers brushing against yours as he does. The contact is brief, fleeting, but it burns, heat sparking where his hand touches yours, lingering even after he pulls back.
He unscrews the cap with quiet efficiency, gulps once, twice. His throat works as he swallows, and for some reason you can’t tear your eyes away from the motion. He drinks just enough to take the edge off before screwing the cap back on, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove.
When he passes the flask back, you notice it immediately: he’s angled it so the mouthpiece never touched his lips directly. Even here, even now, he’s keeping distance, building walls with small, thoughtless habits.
But his voice, low, gruff, gravel-edged, betrays him.
“Thanks.”
The word is almost nothing. A ghost of gratitude. But hearing it from him feels heavier than any knife, because it’s too raw, too human, too much like the Leon you used to know bleeding through the cracks.
You clutch the canteen tighter than you need to, sinking back toward the chair wedged against the door. The silence thickens again, heavier now, thick with things you’ll never say.
Across the room, Leon adjusts his grip on the knife at his side, gaze still fixed on the window. But his shoulders are taut, his breathing just a fraction too shallow.
At some point, exhaustion drags you under despite yourself. Your head tips against the wall, breath evening out, the steady rhythm of Leon’s silence lulling you into uneasy half-sleep.
But it doesn’t last.
A sound cuts through the dark, sharp, low, and pained. A hiss, bitten back between clenched teeth.
Your eyes snap open.
The room is still swallowed in shadow, but a strip of moonlight cuts across the floorboards, spilling over Leon where he sits near the window. He’s hunched forward, one hand locked in a tight fist on his thigh, the other dragging a filthy scrap of cloth across his stomach.
And that’s when you see it.
His shirt is pushed up just enough to expose the wound, a jagged, raw slice cutting deep into the muscle of his abdomen, seeping dark red even as he presses the cloth harder, too hard. The grit in the fabric scrapes the injury, and his jaw is locked so tight you’re surprised his teeth don’t crack.
You’re on your feet before you can think. The weight of your pack crashes against your shoulder as you grab it and drop hard to your knees beside him.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Your voice comes out sharp, rough, cracking around the edges.
His head jerks toward you, blue eyes flashing under the dim light. He doesn’t answer immediately, just glares, as if your sudden nearness is more dangerous than the bleeding hole in his gut.
You don’t give him the chance to push you away. You rip the bag open, hands already sifting through the crushed herbs, bandages, the last precious supplies you’ve hoarded.
“You should’ve told me the second you were hit,” you snap, voice trembling as you yank out a roll of gauze. “You think bleeding out quietly in some rotting house is noble? That hiding it makes you strong?”
He exhales sharply through his nose, gaze dropping back to the wound as if he can will it shut by ignoring you. His knuckles are white where his fist still grips his thigh.
“I’ve had worse,” he mutters, voice low, frayed with pain but stripped of complaint.
The words light a fire in your chest.
“That doesn’t make it better, Leon!” You tear the filthy cloth from his hand, tossing it aside. The wound is worse up close, ragged, angry, like whatever cut him had been meant to gut, not just wound. The sight twists your stomach, but you steady your hands anyway.
He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t move. Just sits rigid, jaw clenched, as you press clean bandage against torn flesh.
But his silence — that stubborn, suffocating silence — feels louder than any scream.
Your fingers work with steady precision, even though your chest is tight with fury and fear. You thread the needle, sterilize it in the brief flame of a match, then lean in close.
“This is going to hurt,” you mutter.
Leon doesn’t reply. Just braces his fist harder against his thigh and sets his jaw like stone.
The first stitch pierces flesh, and his body jolts despite him trying to hold still. A low hiss escapes through his teeth.
You glance up at him, rolling your eyes. “Oh, please. You’ve been stabbed, shot, mauled by god-knows-what, and you’re going to complain about this?”
“I’m not complaining,” he grits out. “Just… reacting.”
“Uh-huh.” You pull the thread taut, tying it off before moving to the next. “For the record, you were a pretty good medic back in Raccoon City. Remember? Patching people up in that busted squad car like you actually knew what you were doing.”
For the first time tonight, the edge in his expression softens — barely, but enough that you notice. His eyes flick toward you, something almost like memory sparking behind the steel.
“You were the one who stopped me from stitching that officer’s arm shut without anesthetic,” he murmurs, voice low, roughened by more than pain. “Said I’d do more damage than good.”
You smirk faintly, concentrating on sliding the needle through another torn edge of skin. “Well, I was right.”
“Yeah.” His lips twitch, not quite a smile, more a ghost of one. “You usually were.”
The words settle between you, warmer than they should be.
You finish the last stitch, snip the thread, and reach for the small tin of antiseptic cream. Scooping some onto your fingers, you press it gently along the wound.
Leon hisses again, breath shuddering out as his hand fists tighter on his thigh.
“Oh, quit being dramatic,” you chide softly, though your tone is lighter now, almost fond.
When you glance up, he’s watching you, not the wound, not your hands, but you. His eyes aren’t steel in that moment. They’re tired, bruised with years of weight, but softened at the edges by something you can’t quite name.
You clear your throat, looking back down as you smooth the cream over the last raw edge. “Feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it? Raccoon City.”
Leon exhales through his nose, leaning back against the wall, gaze distant. “Sometimes it feels like yesterday. Other times… like it happened to someone else.”
You sit back on your heels, hands still trembling faintly from the work. “It happened to both of us. No one else would understand.”
His eyes flick to you again, and this time the silence between you doesn’t feel like a wall. It feels like a thread — fragile, thin, but tying you both to something that mattered.
For a moment, the ruined house, the wound, the mission — all of it fades. There’s only the memory of fire and ash, of two rookies stumbling through hell and keeping each other alive when no one else could.
And for the first time since you saw him in Spain, sitting here beside him doesn’t feel like standing next to a stranger.
You finish tying off the last bit of gauze and sit back, exhaling slowly. Your hands are still trembling, though you try to hide it by wiping the needle clean, tucking the supplies away.
Leon leans against the wall, breathing steadier now. His shirt is still loose around the stitched wound, but the bleeding has stopped. The moonlight slips across his face, softening the edges just enough to make him look younger, almost like the man you remember.
He’s quiet for a long time. Too long. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy, searching, and you almost wish he’d stay silent.
Then, softly, so softly you almost don’t catch it. He says:
“Do you remember that night? After we made it out of the station… before we went our separate ways?”
Your chest tightens. You know exactly what he means. The burned-out rooftop, the silence between the sirens, the strange fragile hope that maybe you’d both live to see morning.
The words leave your mouth harsher than you intend, cutting through the quiet like glass.
“No. I don’t.”
You don’t wait to see his face, don’t let yourself look at the way those blue eyes must flicker when the words hit. You push to your feet, crossing the creaking floorboards with quick, sharp steps.
Your pack drops beside the blocked door with a dull thud, and you lower yourself onto the makeshift bedding without another glance at him. Turning your back feels like armor, the only defense you have left.
The silence that follows is thick, suffocating.
For a moment, you almost expect him to argue. To push. To force the memory back into the open where you can’t escape it. But he doesn’t.
Behind you, there’s only the sound of his breathing, rough and uneven, and the faint rustle of fabric as he pulls his shirt down over the fresh stitches.
Then nothing.
You stare into the dark, fists tight in the thin blanket, heart pounding like you’ve just survived another fight.
You told yourself the words would protect you, that denying him would make it easier, but all they do is echo, hollow and jagged, until you almost believe them yourself.
Across the room, Leon shifts once against the wall. His voice doesn’t follow.
And maybe that’s worse.
Because in the silence, you know he remembers. You know he still carries it, even if you’ve tried to bury it.
And no matter how tightly you shut your eyes, you can still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your back, steady, unrelenting, like a wound you don’t have the strength to stitch shut.
You wake to the pale light of dawn bleeding through the cracked boards, gray and cold. The night has left your body stiff, your clothes damp with the chill that clings to this rotting country.
The chair still holds against the door, though the wood has splintered under the strain. You push yourself upright slowly, every muscle tight with the weight of memory.
Leon is already awake. Of course he is.
He sits where you left him, back against the wall, knife in hand, gaze fixed on the window as if he never closed his eyes. The fresh bandages at his stomach are stained through, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. His expression is unreadable, jaw set, eyes colder than the morning air.
You almost wish he’d look at you. Almost. But he doesn’t.
You start gathering your gear in silence, shoving herbs and rags back into your pack with sharp, unnecessary force. The sound fills the room, brittle and ugly, but it’s better than the suffocating quiet between you.
When you sling the strap over your shoulder, Leon finally speaks.
“Castle’s two miles east.” His tone is clipped, flat, businesslike. Not even a trace of last night’s softness remains. “If we move now, we’ll make it before sundown.”
You nod once, not trusting your voice, and shove the chair aside from the door. It scrapes across the floorboards with a shriek, breaking the fragile stillness.
Leon stands, holstering his weapon, movements precise, efficient, the mask firmly back in place. He doesn’t look at you when he passes, just pushes the door open and steps into the weak daylight.
For a moment, you stand in the ruin of the house alone, staring at the space he left behind, the air still heavy with what neither of you said.
The road east winds through damp fields and half-collapsed walls, the silence between you louder than the crunch of boots on gravel. Leon walks a half-step ahead, scanning every shadow with that clinical precision of his, and you let him, partly because it’s easier than trying to match his rhythm, partly because you’re still stinging from the way you cut him off.
When the ruined outline of a fork in the road comes into view, you stop. One path angles up into the hills, the other dips low through the remains of a village.
“We should take the high ground,” you say, breaking the silence at last. Your voice comes out sharper than you intended. “Less chance of an ambush if we can see what’s coming.”
Leon doesn’t slow, doesn’t even glance back. “It’ll expose us. The village has cover.”
“Cover that can hide twenty villagers waiting to tear us apart,” you snap, moving to block his step. “High ground means visibility.”
“High ground means open sky and nowhere to run if we’re spotted.” He stops then, blue eyes locking onto yours. Cold, controlled. “Trust me. We go through the village.”
The words sting more than they should. Trust me.
You fold your arms, glaring back. “Funny. You used to actually listen before deciding what’s best.”
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking. “Listening got people killed. I won’t make that mistake again.”
It lands like a blade to the gut. He’s not talking about the mission anymore, and you know it.
For a heartbeat, the silence thickens between you, both of you refusing to break eye contact.
Finally you huff, stepping aside with a sharp shake of your head. “Fine. But when we’re knee-deep in blood because you couldn’t handle being wrong, don’t expect me to say I told you so.”
Leon exhales through his nose, moving past you with that same soldier’s stride. His boots crunch over gravel, shoulders squared, mask nailed firmly back into place. But just before he overtakes you, his voice slips out — low, almost too quiet, but cutting all the same:
“Some things never change.”
You stop dead. Your head snaps toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t slow, doesn’t look back. “You always have to be right. Always have to argue.” His tone is flat, practiced, but there’s an edge underneath, sharp and bitter, meant to wound. “Even when it puts you in more danger than it saves you from.”
Your stomach twists, heat rushing to your face. “You think I argue for the fun of it?” Your voice rises, sharper now. “I argue because I know what I’m doing. Because I don’t just blindly follow orders.”
You stalk a step closer, closing the space between you, refusing to be dismissed. “Not everyone can live their life marching to someone else’s command, Leon.”
That makes him stop. His boots grind against the gravel as he halts mid-stride. Slowly, he turns, blue eyes narrowing, fire sparking beneath the ice.
“And how’s that worked out for you?” he asks, voice razor-sharp. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s examining a flaw under a microscope. “Running off on your own. Shutting people out. Pretending you don’t need anyone. Tell me—” he steps closer, his shadow almost brushing yours now, “—is that really what’s kept you alive all this time? Or has it just kept you alone?”
The words hit like a blow to the gut. For a moment, you can’t breathe. Rage and hurt knot together in your chest until it feels like your ribs might crack.
“Better alone,” you fire back, voice shaking but unrelenting, “than shackled to someone who thinks they know what’s best for me.”
Leon’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding, muscle ticking hard in his cheek. His shadow swallows yours as he steps closer again, the space between you taut and sparking.
“You think that’s what this is? Me trying to control you?” His voice drops low, rough, dangerous in a way that’s not about combat, about truth. “I’m trying to keep you alive. Because like it or not—” his hand twitches at his side, as if he wants to reach for you but doesn’t — “that still matters to me.”
The admission hangs there, raw despite the venom it’s wrapped in.
You scoff, shaking your head hard, as if the motion itself will keep his words from digging deeper. “No, what matters to you is control. Keeping everything neat, ordered, safe. You’d rather suffocate the people around you than admit you can’t save them.”
His eyes flash, a sharp crack in the steel mask. He leans in, voice biting. “And you’d rather push everyone away than admit you want someone to fight for you.”
That slices deep. Your breath stutters, your chest aching, but you snap back before he can see the crack in your armor.
“Don’t put this on me,” you hiss, fists curling tight at your sides. “You’re the one who chose this life. You let them turn you into a weapon and now you expect me to just—what? Follow behind you? Fall in line like I’m one of your missions?”
Leon’s nostrils flare as he exhales sharply, the sound almost a laugh, bitter and hollow. “God, you think you know me so well.” His voice scrapes low, dangerous. “You think because you saw me in Raccoon City — the rookie, the idiot kid in a clean uniform — that you know the man I am now?”
Your heart twists. You take a step closer, eyes locked with his. “I don’t think. I know. And that’s what scares you.”
For a moment, the two of you just stand there, too close, the air between you trembling with everything unsaid. His breath brushes yours, shallow and sharp, his blue eyes burning, storming.
Neither of you steps back. Neither of you looks away.
The air between you feels scorched, every word still hanging, sharp and unfinished. Your chest heaves, blood hot in your veins, but you’ve run out of words. Or maybe you’ve just run out of the strength to keep flinging them at each other.
Leon doesn’t say anything else either. His jaw is tight, lips pressed into a hard line, blue eyes dark with things he won’t let spill. For a heartbeat you think he might push again, might twist the knife deeper. But instead he just exhales through his nose, sharp, controlled, and turns back toward the road.
Silence swallows what’s left.
You fall into step behind him, boots crunching over gravel, every sound too loud in the quiet. The fork in the road closes behind you, but the sting of the argument clings like smoke. Neither of you looks at the other. Neither of you dares to break the stillness again.
The path to the castle forks at a broken courtyard, where the grass is long dead and the stones are slick with damp moss. The fortress looms above you both, black towers jagged against the gray sky, windows like hollow eyes staring down. The air is heavy, thick with the stench of mildew and rot, every breath like swallowing earth.
You stop at the fork. One way spirals west, where the stones are older, crumbling into themselves, Salazar’s domain. The other arches east toward the looming main gates, where Ashley Graham is rumored to be held.
It feels like a line carved through more than stone.
“This is where we part ways,” you say at last. Your voice is flat, clipped, though you can feel the tremor pressing at the back of your throat. You keep your eyes forward, fixed on the path ahead. If you look at him, you’ll break.
Leon doesn’t answer right away. You hear the faint scrape of leather as his hand flexes at his side, like he’s fighting to still it. When he speaks, his tone is as cold and steady as the castle walls, “Yeah. Guess it is.”
The words cut sharper than any goodbye.
You force yourself to shift the strap of your pack higher on your shoulder, something to do with your hands. “I’ll find Salazar. End this parasite at the root.” You say it like it’s just orders. Like it’s easy.
He nods once, eyes narrowing on the opposite path. “Ashley’s my mission.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it, as if keeping his gaze away makes the split less real.
The silence between you thickens, pressing heavy against your ribs. For a moment you both just stand there, side by side but already divided.
You can’t help yourself, you glance at him. The blue eyes that once felt like safety now look like frozen steel. His face is set in that hard, unreadable mask he’s perfected, but you catch it, the flicker, the almost. The tension in his jaw, the way his throat works like words are crawling up it, desperate to be spoken.
He swallows them down.
“Don’t slow me down,” you say, harsher than you intend. You mean it to sound sharp, dismissive, but it comes out cracked at the edges, a weak shield against the truth clawing at your chest.
Leon finally looks at you then, just long enough for your heart to stumble. His eyes are tired, bruised with too many ghosts, but beneath the steel there’s something buried, something he won’t let rise.
“Stay alive.” His voice is low, rough, stripped bare of everything except the command. But underneath it, buried so deep you almost miss it, is the plea he refuses to let surface.
The words hang there, heavy, final.
You nod once. Nothing more.
Then you turn. Your boots scrape against the stones as you step onto your path, the castle swallowing you into shadow.
Behind you, Leon stands rooted for a moment longer, eyes locked on the place where you vanished. His hand flexes once at his side, then fists tight, the knuckles white.
The words burn in his chest, don’t go. Not again. I can’t lose you too. They crawl up his throat, scrape against his teeth, aching to break free.
But he forces them down.
When he finally turns toward his own path, his face is stone again, his steps as measured and precise as ever. A soldier. A survivor. Nothing more.
The courtyard empties, leaving only the echo of two sets of footsteps fading into opposite halls.
And though the castle swallows you whole, the silence you leave behind follows him like a ghost, louder than any scream.
The castle doors groan open behind you as you stagger out into the courtyard, the night air crashing over your skin like ice water.
You brace yourself against the stone archway for a moment, catching your breath. Every inhale rattles, your ribs tight, your chest burning from smoke and exertion. Your leg throbs with every step, not broken, but twisted, strained in the fight. The dull ache sharpens when you shift your weight, forcing you into a limp.
Salazar is dead.
The thought should feel like victory. It doesn’t.
The battle replays in shards behind your eyes, the grotesque contortion of his body, the way the parasite twisted him until he was nothing human anymore, the screaming collapse of the chamber as your last shot found its mark. You’d expected triumph. All you feel is the sour tang of bile in your throat and the echo of his shriek still rattling your bones.
The night air doesn’t wash the blood away. It clings, sticky on your arms, caked along your thigh where the wound had split open. Your pack is lighter now, herbs and ammo spent, the map little more than tattered scraps.
You drag yourself down the stairs into the moonlit courtyard. The grass here crunches brittle underfoot, the earth dead long before your fight ended it.
The silence is unbearable.
You lean against a crumbling pillar, pressing a trembling hand against your thigh where the pain stings sharpest. Each pulse is a reminder that you made it out, barely. The kind of survival that doesn’t feel like winning.
The cold seeps into your bones as you stare back at the looming silhouette of the castle. Its towers rise jagged into the night, black against the stars, its windows burning faint with torchlight.
You tell yourself it’s over. Mission complete. Orders fulfilled.
But the words feel empty.
Because all you can think of is the other path, the one that led east, where Leon disappeared into the dark.
You don’t know if he’s alive. You don’t know if you’ll ever see him again.
The ache in your leg is sharp, but the ache in your chest is worse.
The island path is narrow, carved from stone and dirt, the sea clawing at the cliffs far below. Every step sends a dull ache shooting up your leg, each movement heavier than the last. The taste of smoke still lingers at the back of your throat, and every bruise across your ribs throbs in rhythm with your heartbeat.
You keep walking. One foot. Then the other. The promise of extraction, of leaving this cursed land behind, dangles just far enough ahead to keep you moving.
Until it hits you.
The memory.
You’re both bruised and bloodied, bodies aching from hours of running and fighting, lungs burning from smoke that thickens the air. Behind you, the city groans with death, fires chewing through buildings, smoke rising in black, suffocating plumes that blot out the stars. Sirens wail somewhere distant, half-swallowed by the roar of collapse.
You stumble against a wall, sucking in a ragged breath, and he’s there, Leon, younger, rawer, his uniform torn and stained but still somehow clinging to the crisp edges of what it once was. His face is smeared with soot and blood, a fresh cut along his cheekbone, but his eyes…
God, his eyes are still alive. Bright. Unshaken.
Despite everything, he looks at you with a steadiness that anchors you to the ground. A rookie, barely trained, standing in hell with you, and somehow still carrying hope.
He closes the distance, one hand bracing against the wall near your shoulder, the other hovering uncertainly before pressing gently against your side where blood has seeped through your shirt. His touch is clumsy but careful, his brows knit tight with worry.
“Are you okay?” he asks, voice rough from smoke but threaded with so much concern it nearly undoes you.
You huff a laugh, sharp and brittle, because the truth is obvious, neither of you is okay. “No,” you rasp, shaking your head. “Pretty sure I’m falling apart.”
For a second he just stares, startled, then a crooked grin tugs at his mouth despite the ash and blood caked there. The expression looks absurd in this place, this nightmare, but it’s real.
“Well,” he says, breathless, trying to match your tone, “guess we’re in the same boat then.”
You bark out another laugh, short and pained, leaning heavier into the wall. “Some first day on the job, huh?”
Leon lets out a low, disbelieving chuckle, running a bloody hand through hair that keeps falling into his eyes. “Yeah. Not exactly what I signed up for.” His smile falters, then steadies again as his gaze locks with yours. “But… at least I didn’t end up facing it alone.”
And there it is. The steadiness in him, raw and foolish and unbroken, a warmth that cuts through the smoke and flames more than the fire ever could.
But then his expression shifts. The grin fades, the boyish spark in his eyes hardening into something sharper, almost frantic. His voice cuts in, rough with blunt desperation:
“Come with me.”
Your eyebrows shoot up, confusion breaking through the exhaustion. “What?”
He leans closer, smoke curling between you, his hand still braced against the wall near your shoulder. There’s no hesitation now, no careful rookie second-guessing himself. His voice drops, urgent, insistent.
“Come with me — join the government.” His words tumble out fast, like if he doesn’t say them now he never will. “We can work together, you and me. We could actually do something. Put an end to this before it happens again.”
The desperation in him is naked, almost jarring, but it’s real. He believes it. His jaw is set, his blue eyes blazing in a way that pins you in place, that makes it sound less like a suggestion and more like a plea.
“You’ve seen what I’ve seen,” he pushes, breath ragged, chest heaving with smoke and exhaustion. “We survived this together.
You swallow hard, throat tight, staring into his desperate, pleading eyes. Every fiber in you aches to say yes, the words press against your teeth, raw and almost painful in how badly they want to break free.
But you know you can’t.
“Leon…” your voice cracks, barely audible over the roar of fire behind you. You force the words out anyway, each one cutting like glass. “I can’t.”
His face falters, just a flicker, but enough to gut you. The firelight licks across his features, carving the sharp planes of his jaw, the cut on his cheek, the tremor in his mouth as if he’s biting down on all the things he wants to say.
“Why not?” His voice comes rough, breaking with frustration, with the rawness of someone too young to understand that sometimes survival isn’t enough to bind two people forever. “We could do this. Together. Don’t you see that?”
You shake your head, harder this time, though your chest feels like it’s splitting open.
“You’d become sick of me,” you whisper, forcing the words past the knot in your throat. “Day after day, mission after mission. You’d start to see all the cracks, all the things that don’t fit. And one day, you’d—”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Leon cuts in, firm, desperate, the words tripping out like a promise he doesn’t know how to stop making. His blue eyes blaze against the firelight, unwavering.
“You’d grow to hate me,” you push, voice shaking, trying to drive the knife in deep enough that he’ll finally let go.
“No.” His reply is sharp, immediate, the rookie’s stubbornness sharpened into something like defiance. He takes half a step closer, close enough that the smoke curls between you both. “I could never hate you.”
The way he says it almost undoes you. Not as a reassurance, not even as an argument, but as a truth, carved raw out of his chest, stripped of every layer of hesitation.
You bite down hard, teeth clenching, because if you let yourself believe it, if you let yourself want it, you’ll never be able to walk away.
The realization settles into his face all at once, dimming that stubborn fire in his eyes. His lips part, trembling faintly, before he forces the words out, quiet, uneven, like he already knows the answer.
“I’m never going to see you again… am I?”
The plea in his voice cuts deeper than any blade, but you can’t bring yourself to lie. Your throat locks, burning with everything you want to say but can’t. Because you know the truth — and so does he.
You can’t say no. You can’t say yes. You can’t say I’m sorry.
So you say nothing.
The silence is worse than any refusal.
His jaw tightens, his eyes flicking away, blinking against the smoke curling through the street. His hand lifts, just for a second, like he might reach for you, but it falls before it closes the distance.
“I thought…” His voice cracks, just once, before he steadies it. “…I thought maybe after everything, you’d—” He swallows hard, snapping the words off like he’s biting through glass. “Doesn’t matter.”
You want to tell him it does. That it always will. But you can’t.
So you just stand there, frozen, the roar of fire closing in around you while the one person who’s ever truly seen you stares at you like you’ve already become a ghost.
He looks back at you one last time. Blue eyes, raw and burning, searching for something he’ll never hear from you. Then he exhales sharply through his nose, shoulders stiffening, and the mask begins to fall, the first bricks of the wall that, years later, will become unbreakable.
When he finally turns away, it feels like the city itself collapses in his wake.
The memory collapses in on itself, flames and smoke giving way to the crash of waves against jagged rock. You stumble mid-step, boots skidding on the narrow path, your hand shooting out to catch the rough stone wall before you fall.
Your chest heaves. The night air bites sharp, but it does nothing to steady you.
You didn’t even notice the tear until it slid down your cheek, warm against the cold wind. You swipe it away with the back of your hand, quick, angry, like denying it will make it vanish, but the ache it leaves behind is worse than the sting in your leg.
It hits you all at once, the memory you’ve buried for years, the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes when you walked away. It slams into you like a truck, merciless, unstoppable, dragging up everything you’ve tried to forget.
You squeeze your eyes shut, breath ragged. You survived the castle. You killed Salazar. You’re walking off this cursed island alive.
And yet, somehow, this feels like the moment that breaks you.
Your hand shakes as you dig into your pack, fingers closing around the cracked satellite phone. The screen flickers weakly to life, the signal barely cutting through the static. You bring it to your ear, voice rough as you force out the words for pickup coordinates.
But before you can finish, another voice slices through the silence.
“Going so soon?”
You freeze.
The phone nearly slips from your grip as you whip around, heart slamming into your ribs.
He’s there.
Leon. Standing a few paces back on the jagged stone path, framed by the pale wash of moonlight. His tactical gear is torn, streaked with blood and dirt, but he’s upright. Alive. The steel blue eyes you’ve seen in nightmares and memories fix on you now, steady despite the exhaustion etched into his face.
For a heartbeat, you can’t move. The sight of him feels impossible, surreal, like conjuring a ghost.
“Leon…” The name breaks out of you on a breath, cracked and fragile, like saying it will make him vanish.
But he doesn’t vanish. He’s real. Solid. Safe.
Your throat tightens as the phone slips lower in your hand, forgotten. Every ache, every bruise, every buried memory crashes down on you all at once.
You’d convinced yourself you’d never see him again. That the last thing you’d carry was that look in his eyes as you walked away in Raccoon City.
The wind off the sea cuts cold against your skin, but you barely feel it. The only thing you register is the weight of his stare, unwavering, pulling you apart piece by piece.
Then his eyes shift lower to the tear you hadn’t even realized was still clinging to your cheek.
For an instant, neither of you moves. The silence between you is taut, as fragile as glass.
His shoulders drop. Just slightly, but enough. The rigid soldier’s frame, always squared, always braced for impact, eases as though someone has stolen the fight from him. It’s not relief, not exactly. It’s something deeper. Something heavier.
It’s the look of a man who’s been carrying armor so long that the sight of your tears cracks it without warning.
Your chest tightens. You want to speak, to force words through the knot in your throat, but nothing comes. Your voice has abandoned you.
Leon swallows hard, his jaw clenching once before he exhales. That breath carries years of silence, years of ghosts, years of everything he never said. His hand twitches at his side, not quite reaching for you, not quite steady, like he’s fighting himself even now.
For the first time since you saw him in Spain, his eyes don’t look like steel. They look human. Haunted.
The silence stretches until it’s unbearable, pressing against your ribs like a vice. The crash of waves below becomes the only sound, relentless, echoing the pounding of your heartbeat.
Then, finally, Leon speaks.
“I told myself…” His voice is low, gravel-scraped, almost unrecognizable. He stares past you for half a second, like pulling the words out costs him more than any wound. Then his gaze locks back onto yours, sharp and unwavering. “If I ever saw you again…” His throat works, the next words rasping out like a confession torn from his chest. “…I wouldn’t let you go.”
Your breath hitches. The words hit too deep, sinking past every wall you’ve tried to keep standing. Your chest aches, a sharp, hollow ache, like his vow has cracked something you didn’t realize was still breakable.
Leon doesn’t blink. His eyes are fixed on you, not the cold steel you saw in Spain, not the soldier’s mask he’s worn for years, but something stripped bare. Human. Raw.
“Do you know what it’s like,” he continues, voice rough, heavy with something he’s held back for too long, “carrying that thought? Through every mission, every night that doesn’t end? Thinking I’d already lost you, and knowing it was my fault for letting you walk away?”
The words tumble out, sharper now, as if he’s afraid if he doesn’t say them now, he never will.
Your throat burns, but you can’t answer. You can’t even breathe.
He draws in a ragged breath, shoulders heaving. His hand curls into a fist at his side, knuckles blanching, nails biting into skin like it’s the only way to ground himself.
“I tried to bury it,” he admits, voice breaking for just a second. “Tried to be what they needed me to be the soldier, the weapon, the man who could shut it all out. But it never worked.” His eyes flicker, haunted. “Because every time I closed my eyes, I remembered. Raccoon City. The fire. The blood. And you.”
Your heart stutters. His voice is low but relentless, every word a blade carving you open.
“I remembered the way you looked at me when the city was burning. The way you walked away when I asked you to stay.” He swallows, hard, jaw clenched as though the memory still tastes like ash in his mouth. “I carried that with me, every damn day. Every time I thought I couldn’t keep going, I saw you leaving. And it cut deeper than any bullet ever could.”
You shake your head faintly, desperate to stop him, desperate to keep yourself from breaking under the weight of what he’s saying. “Leon…”
But he doesn’t stop. He can’t.
“I wouldn’t let it happen again.” His voice sharpens, intensity cutting through exhaustion, a vow forced out through clenched teeth. “Not this time. If I saw you again, I wouldn’t—” His breath catches, chest heaving, as though the words themselves wound him. “I couldn’t let you slip away.”
The air between you feels electric, vibrating with everything unsaid, everything lost and clawing to the surface. His eyes burn into yours, unflinching, stripped of every layer of discipline and armor. What’s left is raw need, a vow made in the ashes of Raccoon City, carried like shrapnel in his chest for years.
And standing in the moonlight, you realize he isn’t just speaking about now. He’s confessing the promise that’s haunted him since the night you left him behind.
A vow he never stopped keeping, even when you weren’t there to hear it.
The vow hangs there between you, jagged and heavy, too sharp to ignore. The waves crash against the cliffs below, the spray rising in bursts of white mist, but you barely hear it. All you can hear is his voice, the rawness of it, the way the words cut open the silence like they’d been clawing at his throat for years.
Your lips part, but nothing comes at first. The knot in your chest tightens until it’s almost unbearable, your breath catching like you’ve been struck.
“Leon…” His name slips out again, this time softer, breaking at the edges. You shake your head, eyes burning. “You can’t say things like that to me.”
His jaw tightens, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s the truth.”
You bite down hard, trembling, fighting the war in your chest. “And what do you want me to do with that truth? Pretend the years didn’t happen? Pretend we didn’t—” Your voice falters, catches, then steadies with a shaky breath. “You don’t understand what it did to me. Walking away from you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
His eyes flicker, widening just slightly, like your words gut him more than any bullet. But still, he holds.
“I thought if I stayed, I’d ruin you,” you force out, words spilling now, sharp and aching. “That one day you’d see every crack in me and realize I was never enough. That you’d hate me for it. That’s why I left.”
For a moment, the only sound is the wind tearing at the cliffs, whipping your hair into your face.
Leon shakes his head slowly, blue eyes burning. “I told you then, and I’ll tell you now — I could never hate you.” His voice drops, rough with something that feels close to breaking. “I don’t care how many cracks there are. I don’t care how much hell we’ve seen. You were the only thing that ever felt real in all of this.”
The words tear through every wall you’ve tried to hold, every excuse, every fear. Your breath stumbles out of you in a sound you don’t recognize, half a sob, half a laugh. It feels fragile, jagged, like you’re breaking apart and being stitched together in the same moment.
“Leon…” You press a trembling hand over your mouth for a second before letting it fall, the words slipping free in a rush you can’t hold back. “You always say things like this… things that make it impossible for me not to fall in love with you. Over and over again.”
The confession leaves you trembling, but lighter too, like it was tearing itself out whether you wanted it to or not. Your chest aches with it, the truth burning as it hangs between you, raw and unguarded.
For a heartbeat, Leon just stares, every line of his face tight with shock, with the weight of what you’ve just given him. Then his shoulders sag, his lips parting in a breath that sounds almost broken, as though he’s been waiting years to hear it and never thought he would.
For a heartbeat, Leon doesn’t move. He just stares at you, blue eyes wide and unguarded, your confession echoing in the space between you like it’s the only thing keeping the world from falling apart.
Then something in him breaks.
He steps forward, boots crunching against the gravel, closing the space in two sharp strides. His hand comes up first, tentative, almost trembling, before it settles against your jaw, his thumb brushing away the tear track on your cheek. The warmth of his touch is enough to undo you all over again.
“God…” he breathes, voice rough, low, almost reverent. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that?”
You can’t answer. You don’t need to. Because in the next breath, he leans in, closing the final inches.
The kiss is not soft, it’s desperate, aching, years of ghosts and silence finally giving way. His lips crash against yours with a force that speaks of everything he’s swallowed down, every vow unspoken, every moment of regret. You grip at his vest with shaking hands, dragging him closer, afraid that if you let go even for a second he’ll disappear back into smoke and memory.
He tastes like salt and iron, like sweat and blood and the sea air, but beneath it all is something achingly familiar. Something you thought you’d lost in the fire of Raccoon City.
Leon groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your mouth, one hand sliding back into your hair while the other anchors hard against your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers again.
When you finally break for breath, your foreheads press together, both of you panting, trembling. His eyes search yours in the pale moonlight, still haunted, still scarred, but softer now, cracked open.
“You’re not walking away this time,” he whispers, the words a vow pressed against your lips.
And for the first time in years, you don’t want to.
summary: Clark Kent just can’t seem to get it right with his new boss — you’re blunt, demanding and seemingly impossible to please. But when the lines between work and personal lives begin to blur, after hours visits and secret meetings soon become common as you find yourselves falling for eachother.
tags: devil wears prada inspired (lots of callbacks to the movie lol) slow burn, enemies/strangers to lovers, dual POVs, boss! reader, yearner! clark, eventual smut (oral sex - f!recieving, p in v), sexual tension, rom-com vibes (except the roles are reversed), jimmy and lois know clark is superman — MINORS DNI
word count: 18k+
divider by @saradika-graphics !
‘Meeting with new boss starts in 5. Need cover?? ’
Clark stared at the message from Lois and cringed, fiddling with his tie as he struggled to get it into a perfect knot.
Today was the first day with a new senior editor, and he was late.
Ma always said that first impressions were important, and so taking advice from his first day of high school, he’d tried his best to prepare to meet someone new. He’d ironed his nicest suit, checked for closures at least five times and had his ‘best places in the city’ list ready in case they needed a lunch recommendation.
That was, of course, if he hadn’t needed to take care of a broken vessel plummeting towards the harbour.
It was early last week when Perry had announced that he'd hired an executive editor to cope with the growing roster that was the employees at the Daily Planet. Payroll, freelancers, interns – not to mention all the different departments – though Perry was beyond a competent leader, it was evident he needed a second in command.
The question of who it would be was the subject of everyone’s lips. Lois hoped for someone younger, more able to relate to her offhand references – or perhaps an academic with a Pulitzer.
Cat wanted a man; indistinctly between the ages of 27 and 55, with pockets as broad and staunch as his muscles. Clark was indifferent. He liked meeting new people. But, it was at the back of his mind as he hurried through the building. It was noticeably quiet with most people – if not everyone – already in the meeting.
With every step it was apparent to him that he felt as if he was walking deeper into the unknown. Would they prefer tea over coffee? Summer over winter? What if they were secretly a metahuman like he was, and just needed to take a regular job to blend in?
The possibilities were endless. He'd just hope he could get past the meeting relatively unscathed.
He took a breath as he neared the meeting room. Through the glass panels he could make out the side of a body, dressed strikingly in a tailored suit with a bold open collar and heels. Clark didn’t know much about fashion, but he knew enough to know that they looked like they’d come fresh off the pages.
There was something about the side of your face that was oddly familiar; like he’d seen you in passing. Hell, he could've sworn he'd seen you in the lobby of the Daily Planet itself.
As he opened the door, he was greeted by a disapproving look from Perry, who was sat in the corner at the front. Acknowledging the man with a nod, he tried his best to ignore the few glances he got from his colleagues, scrambling to take a seat between Lois and Jimmy. They'd been kind enough to sit at the back to avoid the awkward ‘shuffle-through-the crowd’ moment.
Mid speech, the woman at the front stopped as Clark tucked his bag under his chair. As he leant back in his seat, he swept a hand across his forehead, pushing back his unruly hair. With a second to glance at the screen behind you, the bold black letters formed your name as clear as day on the light grey background — and it dawned on him.
He did know you. Well, of you, at the least. And being in journalism, he was practically a pariah for not realising instantly.
It was then that you made eye contact; curious yet piercing.
“You must be Clark Kent,” you spoke, cocking your head. Your voice was soft, a strong contrast (and in any other case a welcome change) to Perry’s gruff growling — though your tone was laced with a thinly veiled disapproval. “How nice of you to finally join us.”
He cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry for being late, I —“
You raised a hand to shut him up.
“Please don’t bore us with excuses,” you began, shifting your weight to lean against the table. The air seemed to be sucked out of the room in an instant. “We’ve sat here long enough, and we all know the news waits for no one.”
Clark blinks.
“Right...” he mumbles. He feels it best to close his mouth, instead choosing to gnaw on the inside of his cheek as you delve back into your presentation. From his left, he can feel Jimmy’s intense side eye; just waiting to make a joke at the situation. On his right is Lois, and though she’s focused on the screen Clark knows that she’s desperate to ask just why he didn’t let her cover for him.
Together, they both know his secret. It's perhaps the only leverage they have over you right now, if not ever.
“As Perry and I mentioned at the start of the meeting, I will be the intermediary between yourselves and the editor-in-chief. Perry still makes all the big decisions, but in the day-to-day, I’m very much your boss,”
Clark could’ve sworn you looked at him.
No, you definitely did.
“Effective as of Monday, pitches, drafts and expenses are to run through me first before it’s brought to Perry for final approval. In the case we don’t see eye-to-eye on anything, Perry will be the deciding factor.” you finish, clasping your hands together.
You smile, but it’s not all that comforting. It barely makes a wrinkle on your face. Getting up from his seat, the older man nodded and placed a hand on your shoulder.
“That’s right,” he garbled, cigar dangling off his lips. “I don’t want to hear any objections. I’ve got a lot of faith in her.”
There was a collective nod amongst the journalists in the room, soon breaking into muffled chatter as they began to gather themselves to go back to their desks. Wringing his tie, Clark let out a deflated sigh as Steve leaned over to break the ice.
“Looks like Kent just got a verbal spanking,” he grinned. “Day one and you’re on the outs. Impressive.”
“Shut up, Steve,” he grumbled. “It was an accident. Roads were blocked.”
“Excuses. I’m bored,” the moustache man parroted, echoing your voice. “I would not want to be in your shoes right now.”
“You couldn’t wear his shoes, Steve,” Lois interjected with a smirk. “He’s ten times the size of you.”
“Kent’s ten times the size of everybody. It’s all that weird corn they fed you in Smallville.”
Steve was first to stand up and leave, leaving the trio in a brief, but knowing silence.
“Can you guys not do that?” he said, picking up his case. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“If you do, then you know I’m agreeing with Steve for once,” Lois continued. “You do know who she is, right? She’s like, an editorial prodigy. The Museum of Art hosted her on a panel once. She has all the connections to thrive in this industry.”
“Yeah, don’t you remember when I read that one edition of 30 Under 30, and we were laughing at them to cope with the fact that they were our age or younger and way more successful than us?” Jimmy said earnestly in a single breath.
“—I didn’t partake in that.”
“Well, anyway, she was in last years’ edition.” He finished with a shrug. “You might want to apologise before she hands you that pink slip.”
Clark furrowed his eyebrows at the possibility. He knew he hadn't made the best first impression, but surely you wouldn’t fire him just because. He wasn’t even certain you had the power to do that.
“…It’s Clark, Jimmy. He wasn’t going to leave this room without a sincere apology.”
The pair watched as Clark made his way over to the catering table and wrapped a bagel in a tissue, grasping it in his free hand. Around him, he could see that the room was beginning to thin out, the human barrier between yourselves slowly lifting.
Lois was right. Of course he was going to say something. In private.
“Oh, so you’re going to help yourself to a bagel like you weren’t thirty minutes late?” the woman continued, nodding her head towards the baked good in his hand. “Pastries are for people at the meeting.”
“I didn’t have time to eat this morning.” He finished with a shrug. “I’ll see you guys in five. I, uh, need to say something…”
The pair flashed him a knowing look before they left the room, their eyes anxiously drawn to the situation even through the glass windows that were slowly coming out of view. The room looked vast now that it was empty. Your abrupt tone from minutes before was etched into his skin – yes, he’d flushed pink at your words - and it occurred to him that it felt like he’d been dropped into a lion’s den.
“I’m sorry—“ he began, clearing his throat. “Do you have a moment?”
You’d stopped gathering your things into a structured pile, slowly straightening your back as you took a moment to glance at him.
Being awestruck would’ve been a clichéd thing to say, but it was almost unfathomable that you were working under Perry, rather than being the CEO of the Daily Planet entirely. Your demeanour was impeccable; like a puppet pulled straight on a string. You looked nothing short of a million dollars, down to the chosen colour of your earrings and your perfume — florals, with a hint of citrus? It seemed to walk a line between being floaty yet commanding.
Ultimately, everything can be explained in your face. Pouting, you lend Clark a not-so-subtle once over.
“I do.”
He sighs, shoulders visibly relaxing.
“I’m sorry I missed your introduction this morning. I really didn't mean anything by it," he begins. “I got caught up in the accident. My Ma would kill me if she knew we got off on the wrong foot.”
“That’s good to know,” you mused, seemingly not believing him. “I’d hate to think your absence was a sign of your disdain for having a new boss.”
You raise a brow. It’s knowing, and Clark feels oddly dumbfounded.
“No, of course not — “
“You know, Perry told me a lot about you,” you began slowly, gathering your items into your arms. Your movements are slow; deliberate. It’s like you want to drag this out on purpose. Eventually, you tuck the items to your chest.
“I especially adore the story of how you ended up working here. Clark Kent; the shining little ingénue...”
“I must admit I was being naïve,” he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. He'd shown up to the building without an appointment, to which Perry had (rightfully) turned him away – but would only be considered under the condition he found the chief a brilliant story. “I was lucky for Perry to give me a chance in the end.”
You cock your head.
“Yes. He. Did,” you hum, but the tone suggests anything but admiration. Your words are a whisper, and he notices that it’s the same as your movements; whether intentional or not. It’s soft enough just to make people lean into you and listen. Venomous; like a camouflaging snake waiting to strike.
The longer you stare at him, the more he finds himself hoping that he hadn’t made a huge mess of his tie. Or his glasses aren't crooked. Or maybe you’re looking at the bagel. Either way, he's certain you're judging him. After what feels like an eternity, you take a breath.
“I don’t know you, Clark. Perry does, but I don’t. He might’ve taught me about this business, but we’re very different people.”
A warning. Subtle, amorphous…but it’s there. You’re not as forgiving.
Blatantly done with your conversation, you walk off without lending him another chance to speak.
Momentarily, Clark’s left in an empty room. He rolls his shoulders and takes a bite of bread, savouring the taste on his empty stomach. It’s 10:41, leaving another seven and a half hours or so to painfully mull over the fact that his new boss basically hates him.
From the moment you’d walked into the building the following Monday, pumps clicking across the floor and flashing tight-lipped smiles to the people around you, it was clear that things were going to be very different.
Dragon lady, career woman - you’d heard it all before. From college to internships to your first full time role, you’d lived and breathed the publishing industry; so much so that your friends joked that you’d become an editor for the sole purpose of pointing out people’s mistakes.
Perhaps you were naturally this way, or the industry made you so – you supposed it were a bit of both. Well, that, and the fact that Perry White himself had been your mentor for the past 10 years.
Freshly thirty; you were living someone’s city dream - starting with waking up in your Metropolis apartment on the far-west side.
Your home was a fusion of grit and a soft, art house-glam, the raw brick exterior a sharp contrast to the inside; modern, with sleek sconces adorning the hallway and a couch ladled with overly expensive cushions from gallery shopfronts.
Once your alarm goes off, you’re headed to your second most pride and joy – your wardrobe. It’s been curated over time with sharp suits, cosy jumpers, miniskirts, scarves, shoes; clothes in at least each type of fabric you could imagine.
Breakfast is a struggle; sometimes you love it or you don’t, but either way you’re out the door long before the school buses come out.
By the end of your first week, the minutes between 8 and 9am have become a bit of a crunch hour for the people at the Planet. Morning grogginess must be quickly replaced with a perkiness, starting with the front desk ready to receive the smack of your security pass on the gates.
And that’s just the lobby. The lobby where people move out of your way and divert their eyes to the floor. Elevator rides are silent, all because no one wants to accidentally ruffle your feathers.
Once you reach your office there seems to be a billion notes from Perry already...alongside a text from your (ex?) boyfriend-slash-almost-fiancé Teddy.
Teddy: 7pm dinner tonight at Mario’s? I think we should talk. My treat.
You’ve never rolled your eyes so hard – except maybe when Steve from Sports had offered to show you around the building last week.
Teddy was the best and worst of Metropolis; an Advertising genius (seriously, any billboard or subway poster came from the agency he worked for) yet an insecure brat second only to Lex Luthor in terms of whining.
You’d been ignoring him ever since his scorned reaction to you revealing that you’d gotten the job at the Daily Planet. His objections had included complaints such as him ‘feeling excluded’ from your decision making, and that marriage was going to be ‘so difficult’ if you worked through such ‘unstable hours’ — completely disregarding the fact that he hadn’t even proposed yet.
And you’d just had your 30th birthday.
As in, guests had just left the party when he’d decided to start arguing with you.
To everyone else, you were broken up; and even in your head it rang true, but there was the slightest, most childish glimmer of hope in your stomach that Teddy would come around - solely because he was the only man you’d been with that had lasted.
A matter of the heart, yes, but also strategic – editors circles were also publishing circles, which were also advertising circles, meaning outside of Perry, Teddy was the man keeping your job in the Metropolis circle alive. It was cliquey, and it was a man’s world, but that was how you played the game.
With the rich, bitter taste of coffee on your tongue you reply.
You: Fine.
By the time it reaches the early afternoon, you’ve met with and given a tour to a new set of interns, approved a dozen or so articles for the spread (and website), and seemingly rejected even more. Afternoons are even busier at the Planet than in the morning; fingertips clacking thoroughly on keyboards, printers beeping almost endlessly, and people running in, bursting with new information to add before deadline.
You're ten minutes out on an Ad meeting with a client – Perry says it’s good for you to know this stuff – when Mel, a freelance fashion writer catches you, her brogues scuffing against the floor in an attempt to match your pace.
“I wanted to catch you before your meeting,” she began, rolling a pen in her hands anxiously. She looks like the stereotypical freelance writer, almost like a less glamorous Carrie Bradshaw. You note the multiple scrunchies on her arm and realise that’s why there’d been one left in the kitchen. “I had an idea for a rolling feature.”
“Writers usually pitch on Mondays so we can plan for the week. I don’t recall seeing you there…”
“Childcare stuff,” she says quickly, irises seemingly about to pop out as she eyes you for approval. You nod your head, and she continues.
“I thought it would be nice to spotlight different pieces a day, like curating a monthly closet? They’re showing a lot of browns, and leath -”
“Browns. For fall? Groundbreaking.”
It looks as if she’s going to be ill.
“What else did you have?”
“Well - um – I saw some nice sculptures outside the Museum of Art... I can look into structural pieces?”
“Perfect. Try to find items that are under $100, our readers aren’t looking for Vogue,” you say pointedly, and she scrambles to make a note on her phone. “Thank you for coming to work today.”
Mel nods, absorbing your sarcasm-laced words as she turns away. You're briefly able to make out the words 'Hi Clark' — but it's replaced with a warm, weighty sensation down the front of your clothes that pools in your shoes.
It’s then that Clark wishes he could’ve had the gift of hindsight. Navigating a busy bullpen with drinks in one hand and his phone in the other would only lead to a disaster.
“Now, we know it’s late, but we saw in the paper that you got a new boss,” Ma drawled. “We just wanted to make sure that she’s treatin’ you nice—!”
Clark chuckled and cleared his throat.
“We’re, uh — all still getting to know her. We’re not all easy to manage…”
“Well, I know you’ll be good. Don’t make life harder for her now, will you?”
His cheeks were now flushed.
“C’mon Ma, you know me!”
“You’re a good kid, but you were a troublemaker sometimes. You used to run around the cornfields in your underwear to avoid bathtime!” he could hear his Pa interject.
“I was four—!”
And that’s when the collision happens. He greets Mel, and once you turn a half empty cup of Jitters coffee grazes your arm, knocking the lid off. Squeezing your eyes shut, you press your lips into a tight, thin line. Around him, it’s like the like the immediate area around you has come to a standstill.
“I have to go…I’ll call you later, Ma. Love you, bye —“he rushes, voice breaking as he momentarily stares at you, dumbfounded. Lowering his phone, he watches your expression change by the second — surprise, to mild annoyance.
“I am so sorry,” Clark stammers. “I was trying to do too many things at once. It was an accident. Let me get you a tissue…”
“Accidents happen, Clark,” you say in that soft, yet forceful tone. “It’s unfortunate to be in such a position before a meeting with a client...”
The ‘t’ is sharp and pointed. It almost spits off your lips.
“...But these things happen. Let’s hope we don’t lose a deal.”
He takes the cue, nodding shyly before stepping out of your way. Surprisingly, you take the tissue from his hands, though it's done without an acknowledgement before you walk away. It’s then that it occurs to Clark that he can feel the eyes of a few people on his neck.
No one dared to stop and watch the scene – no, you probably would’ve killed them for wasting time – but they were very much stealing glances under the guise of writing emails.
Clark spends the afternoon feeling rather guilty, trying his best to focus on his screen rather than the now empty coffee cup that's sitting in the bin by his desk, taunting him. His instinct is always to apologise — but you’re evidently not someone who seems to accept them. It’s fickle, but with the game of eggshells you’re playing with the entire office he’s starting to think that he’s cursed.
Expectedly, at 4pm your notes on his draft come back blunt. With a flick of a finger to scroll down the page, there’s numerous red strikethroughs and highlights, to the point that it may as well be a Bridget Riley painting. Along the side, there’s an endless list of notes along the lines of:
‘Simplify your sentence structure’
‘Drop the adverb’
And his favourite, a couple of words under a hefty three paragraphs that ignored the fact he’d have to rewrite the entire article to make it make sense.
CUT THIS — 200 word limit.
Apparently, the layout required an article to be cut considerably, and you’d chosen his.
Leaning back in his chair, Clark can’t help but roll his eyes. He’s stuck between the line of this being your job, yet it’s also definitely a punishment for earlier. A message, a cruel one — mess with me, and I’ll mess with you. Though, he’s sure that in your case ‘mess’ is replaced by a stronger word with the same amount of letters. From behind, he can hear Jimmy let out a low wolf whistle, and once he spins around the red head is hunched over his shoulder, peering at the screen.
“Looks like it’s going to be a long day for you, huh?”
The words echo in his brain as the clock ticks along towards 6:45pm; the bustle of the Planet slowly shifting into a shuffle, with much fewer feet around the bullpen. Sometimes, an evening is busy; but evidently, it’s been a slower news day, leaving an almost empty, and certainly a little eerie building.
Clark pushes his hands under his glasses, rubbing his eyes before turning off his screen. It’s then that the world around him comes to life; and he has the realisation that he’s done the Lois Lane thing of gluing himself to his chair the entire time he’s been writing, without so much of a break.
He’s sent in a third version, but inexplicably you’ve gone silent, a solid half hour passing since he’s heard from you. Clark knows you're still here – there’s a white-ish light coming from room next to Perry’s that sits on the second floor of the office — so either you're very busy or you’ve taken the second grade route of lending him the silent treatment.
It'd be silly - a death sentence, really – to leave without checking in with you first, so goes to make his way across the floor and up the short flight of steps.
The door’s wide open. He doesn’t mean to stare, but it happens — and it’s not his fault that he has super hearing. Whatever the subject; it’s the first time he’s seen you look frazzled, pacing up and down the front of your desk whilst your spare fist alternates between clenched and unclenched.
“Teddy, I’m sorry for not telling you, but I had to finish up. What was I supposed to do? Walk away from a deadline during my second week? — It’s different. I never asked you to do that for me. — Quite frankly, now I don’t think I wanted to spend the night arguing with you about money. It’s not like we’re even —”
That’s when you make eye contact, Clark’s eyebrows slowly moving up his face in realisation that he’d been caught lingering. Lips parted, your eyes look sunken as you stare down the doorway back at him, body still, and for once rendered powerless. With every passing second, your chin seems to shrink into your torso. Clark twitches, the spark between his brain and hands disjointed as he waves.
“Sorry, I- uh-” he mumbles, clearing his throat. “I didn’t hear back about my draft...”
You blink, smothering the phone in your chest as the sound becomes muffled, and Clark notices that you don’t give the person on the other end the courtesy of hanging up – or even an acknowledgment.
“Right,” you say slowly. “Your draft… It’s fine. You can go.”
Clark nods to say ‘okay’, but the words can’t seem to leave his mouth, leaving them pouted in a perfect ‘o’. Stunted, he shakes his head in embarrassment before scampering off, his lips tight as he keeps his eyes to the ground, wishing he was invisible. He’s not even thinking about the fact you’d intentionally labelled his piece as ‘fine’.
If you didn’t hate him before, you certainly did now. There’s a heavy, constricting feeling in his chest that not-so subtly tells him that as of tomorrow, he’d be a goner.
“She caught you eavesdropping? Jeez, Clark why would you do that?” Lois remarked, corners of her lips pulled into a frown.
After a night of painful sleep, Clark had brought his dilemma to the break-room; the three of them huddled between the fridge and microwave.
“It kind of just happened,” he sighed, swirling a spoon around in his mug. “I just wanted to see if I could go, not get intel on her life story!”
Clark cast his mind to the scene. Inexplicably, it felt as if he’d been a creep; gazing through a keyhole like some kind of less perverse Peeping Tom. His guilt was more about you – he was the last person to judge someone for being vulnerable – but judging by the way you’d arrived and shaken up the office, it was obvious that to you the idea of being perceived as anything but a machine with a perfect life simply wasn’t an option.
And, to make it worse, it’d been witnessed by someone who’d just spilt chain-brand coffee on your clothes earlier that very day.
Leaning against the counter, Jimmy was munching on his sandwich, eyes roaming Clark in anticipation.
“I hope this is the part where you give us the details...” he mused. “Otherwise, don’t bring it up, dude.”
“I’m with Jimmy on this one. You kind of have to tell us.”
Clark licked his lips, glancing around the room worriedly. A few people were trickling in and out, but anyone would've been able to hear. You might’ve been on ambiguous terms, but you had a right to privacy in your personal life.
“C’mon, guys you know I can’t do that— “
Ma would’ve said your ears were burning, as at that very moment you walked in, heading right towards the countertop. There was an unreadable expression on your face that shifted as your eyebrows briefly furrowed in confusion at the gaggle of journalists in front of you. Your eyes met Clark’s, and it didn’t take a mind reader to divulge the source of the tension in the air.
“Busy morning, huh?” Jimmy chuckled, pursing his lips as he instantly regretted speaking.
“Hm,” you responded with a pout, which the trio took to mean ‘yes’. “...You’re all on lunch at the same time?”
Clark blinked.
“We’re strategizing...” Lois jumped in, nodding her head to the beat of her lie. “We’re working on something, and once we iron out the details, we’ll bring it to you.”
“Really?” you hum, side eyeing the trio as you took something out of the fridge. “What’s it about?”
“It’s a surprise,” Jimmy cosigns. “We’ve got a great source though. Nice guy. Name’s Robbie. Uh, Robbie...Robertson...”
An imaginary crowd seems to smack their palms to their head in unison. Cocking a brow, you glance at them, intrigued, before whipping your attention to Clark, looking at him for approval. Heat rises to his cheeks, and he knows that if he stays there any longer – or even decides to speak – that his face is going to turn as red as the tomatoes on Jimmy’s sandwich. Instead, he opts to nod, lips wobbly as he presses them into a smile.
“Well, I can’t wait to see what you bring me on Monday,” you begin with a smirk, fishing a fork from the drawers. “If it’s the same Robbie Robertson from the defunct Daily Bugle then you must get an interview with him. Not many people live to be 150.”
You finished with an incisive smile, sweeping your items off the counter and practically sashaying out of the room, leaving the three of them completely dumbfounded.
“…Robbie Robertson?”
“How were we supposed to know he was some 150-year-old dead dude?” Jimmy gasped at Lois pointedly. “It’s just a bad coincidence!"
“I think it’s worse that you promised her a surprise.”
“It was your lie!”
“Yeah, but I was vague!” Lois bickered. “We could’ve brushed it off after a week as a dead end. Now we’re all in deep shit!”
“Thanks a lot, guys,” Clark swallowed, shaking his head. “I know you were trying to help, but –“
“—We made it worse?”
“Kind of.”
Clark clicked his tongue, sighing as he began to head out of the break room, seemingly in your direction. “Why don’t I just tell her that there’s no story, and reassure her that I’ve kept her secret?”
“No, you cannot do that,” Jimmy insisted, eyes on the verge of bulging out of his head. “It’ll look more suspicious!”
“Jimmy, we lied. We’re gonna get caught in front of the whole office!”
“Okay, I’ve been here way too long for that to happen,” Lois said, rubbing her temples before she drew in a breath. “There are a million things happening out there. We’ll find a story and let Clark be the one to give it to her. That way it takes the heat off, and we don’t look like The Three Stooges. Got it?”
Jimmy and Clark looked at each other before they shrugged. It wasn’t as if they were in a position to say no.
/
Another Monday morning had come around like clockwork, and journalists were once again filing into a meeting room; sitting around a rounded table with the anticipation of yet another pitch being chewed up by you. It seemed luck had finally caught up to Clark, as they’d found a story – a good one – one of which Clark had been privy to witness, and save, first hand.
Sat together, there was a joint swelling within their chests, excitement manifesting in Clark’s right leg under the table that bounced uncontrollably. This would finally be it, his moment to prove that he wasn’t a clumsy dork who’d snagged a job at the prestigious Daily Planet by an act of chance.
He runs through the key points in his head, but his thoughts soon become a jumble once you walk through the door; head held high, and the hem of your skirt even higher.
The fabric moulds and sways around your legs perfectly, somehow inching further up your thigh as you sit angular in your chair, legs neatly crossed but kicked to the side. Burying his chin in his chest, Jimmy side eyes him as he fumbles through his notebook, conspicuously looking for nothing in particular.
The clanking sound of your mug hitting the table draws their focus to the front, along with a short greeting.
“Stories. Let’s hear them,” you say curtly, shooting daggers into the pairs of eyes around the table. Some people are still shuffling in or are woefully unequipped for a meeting (there’s hardly any notebooks on the table – how else are they going to take your feedback?) and today their hamster-like scuffling is even more of a hindrance than normal.
Raising your eyebrow, you tuck a manicured hand on the side of your face and nod. “Lane, Olsen, Kent... you can start.”
As rehearsed, Clark’s the one to speak. He clears his throat.
“There’s been information coming out about the broken vessel two weeks ago that suggests it wasn’t just an accident, but deliberate,” he begins, eyes drawn on you in intrigue. “When we looked into it, we found that a mafia in Blüdhaven had ties with the shipowner, but recently the relationship had gone cold. Apparently, there were several unauthorised personnel at the docks in New Jersey. Lois wanted to look into their city archives to investigate the history of the gang, but we haven’t got to that yet...”
Tsk.
“And why not?”
They blink.
“Well, they’re notoriously cagey...”
“Interesting,” you hum, nodding your head twice. It's become a telling sign that you were impressed by something. Cocking your head, you jot something down in your notebook before whipping your focus back to Clark.
“I want you to go to Blüdhaven and get around this... barrier.”
His mouth falls open, and before you can make the comparison of calling him a dead fish, he clears his throat to speak. It’s comical how flippantly you've labelled a restriction of protected historical archives (in another state entirely) as nothing more than a minor obstacle.
“Me?”
You roll your eyes.
“I give credit where it’s due, and you’ve brought me a promising story. But if we can’t get any lucrative information then there’s no point in running the article,” you shrug. “Am I reaching for the stars here? Not really. Unless you have some other brilliant thing to be getting on with, I’d like some movement on that by the end of the day.”
And if nothing gets done, don’t even bother coming back, Clark can practically hear you say as you note down something in your journal, swiftly moving on to the next person. The small, under the table fist pump from Jimmy is replaced by a subtle look of collective worry, and, in Clark’s case, frustration.
Once it’s over, he explodes – in his dorky, Clark-ish way.
“Darn it, she is really out for me!” He exclaims, voice breaking as he throws his hands in the air before they drop to his sides, fingertips frantically rubbing on the fabric of his trousers. “Blüdhaven is miles away, I’ll never make it in time! I should’ve never have listened in; it was a silly mistake... She should’ve just fired me on the spot — “
Jimmy squeezes his shoulder.
“Dude, calm down. She liked the idea, that’s huge! Besides, you’re in a better position to do this than the rest of us…” he trails off, one eyebrow raised as he glanced at the time before looking back at Clark. “You got this.”
Lois nods, echoing Jimmy’s statement before her desk phone rings, speedy as she moves away to answer it.
Folding his arms over his chest, he scrunches his nose and frowns, feeling rather at a loss. He's not an academic, or a historian, but just a field reporter, hence it unreasonable for you to ask him to do this – yet it makes sense. It's a punishment, but it's also much more of a test; and even a second (technically third) chance.
Like any journalist, hell, like any employee, you knew how much it meant to him that you would really see him as valuable – and you were making him work for it. Ironically, just like Perry.
Golly, you were mean. And kind of calculating. But it was kind of exciting.
Hastily, he scoops his items into his arms, giving the time a final glance before shovelling his phone into a pocket. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath.
He's got this.
LATER
When Clark arrives back at the Daily Planet, he moves briskly out of the elevator and up the stairs, heading straight for your office. The bullpen’s thinned out; desk lamps replacing the overhead as people type away, and receptionists begin to pack up their items. He knows Lois and Jimmy are still about – they wouldn’t miss this for the world – but there’s a tingling feeling in his stomach that he just can’t shake from his body, so much so that he swallows down his smile as he nears your door.
It’s open; and it’s occurred to him that he hasn’t seen it up close. To the left is a short, but long black bookcase of files, some of the folders scuffed and faded at the edges and framed on top is a large painting of the city, black and grey rectangles and white splashes depicting the skyline. To the right is another bookcase mirroring the left, but on-top is a rich brown espresso machine, fitted with stainless steel linings and a temperature reader.
The window behind you was large, and the blinds were only halfway drawn; the colours of the evening streaming through the slats and outlining you from behind. Though the white lighting of the screen was harsh, it seemed to illuminate your features in a subtle, yet provoking way. He was almost convinced that he was staring so hard he could see the smallest of frown lines between your brows.
The gentle rasp of his knuckles on the door got your attention.
“I got access to Blüdhaven’s archives. Can I come in?”
He spoke simply, hands behind his back in a formal manner as he walked a few steps towards your desk, placing a business card on the surface.
“What’s that?” you said flatly, poking at it with your pen as if it were a dead mouse.
“The details of the records manager and archival officer, in case you needed it.”
Cocking one eyebrow, you shifted in your seat, leaning back in your chair to glance around. Briefly sucking in your cheeks, you sigh, looking up at Clark expectedly.
“I don’t see these fabulous archives. No photocopies, or anything?”
He smiles, and it produces a dimple on one cheek.
“Oh no, I got an entire selection of the documents digitised. They should be in your inbox right now. It provides an entire history of businesses that have existed in the area, and information it’s links to whaling. Blüdhaven has a history of port and sea related controversies. I think it’ll be enough to start examining the incident.”
A beat passes, and with parted lips you gaze at him sceptically. Clark’s grin is knowing as his hands remain tightly around his back, rocking back on his heels as he watches you move your mouse, clicking through something on the screen.
He studies you with a soft intensity as your chest heaves, listening as you take an almost silent, but ragged breath through your nose as you scroll through the content. Your lip twitches as you squint, and he’s not oblivious to the passing smirk on your face as you close the screen.
He knows you’re stunned, but you’re not giving much, if anything away. You never do.
Clark breaks the ice.
“Is there anything else you’d like me to do?”
There’s a throbbing silence after that. It’s a moment before you look up at him, eyes making a few rapid blinks as you rhythmically sway about in your chair. He doesn’t leer, but his eyes flicker towards your skirt again, material wrinkling as you switch your legs over with a flourish. It’s a little erotic. Inhaling, he folds in his bottom lip, jaw tight as he bites down on the pink skin.
From your seated position, Clark looks a million times bigger than he does when you’re standing. It’s crude, but the way he’s stood – body on total display – makes his shirt stretch across his broad chest and hug his biceps in the immaculate way that Roman sculptors would carve the illusion of fabric into statues. There’s a pink hue on the tips of his cheeks — and God, it’s so self-assured that you’re almost proud of him.
“No,” you say, tongue swiping over your bottom lip. “You’re fine.”
Mario’s was a busy restaurant on a quaint street on the west side of Metropolis. It was one of those places that were booked to a hilt every weekend, with people queuing up in the hopes of a glimpse of the swanky interior. Dim lighting, a speakeasy style bar and a small, but certainly hazardous fire feature — Mario’s was the place where you’d had your third, and most important date, with Teddy.
Where once you’d enjoyed the intimate exclusivity, now it felt cold…and it wasn’t just because the man had reserved a table at the back, right by the side window. It wasn’t a functional one that opened, yet there was a noticeable draft; the glass cold against your skin when you’d lean back.
“You look…wow,” Teddy grinned, eyeing you. Today you’d worn an off the shoulder sweater, exposing the very neck he used to be able to kiss. He, on the other hand, looked forever the poster child of a Yuppie. “Fall always looks great on you.”
You nod, unamused, and take a sip of your wine. Flattery — classic Teddy. If he wasn’t here for a firm apology than the night was going to be over before you’d even made it past the complimentary breadbasket.
“It’s nothing special. I wore this to work,” you said dismissively with a wave of your hand. “You know, the place you had a problem with me going to?”
He sucks his cheeks in and huffs.
“Well, how was it?” He continues, ignoring your attitude. “Has that Mark guy brought in Superman yet?”
Teddy’s idiocy is baffling at times. Either way, you feel like you’ve gone overboard with the wine as your body suddenly runs hot at the mention, no matter how incorrect.
“His name is Clark Kent,” you correct quickly, and Teddy thinks nothing of your elongated pause. “And no. He doesn’t just write Superman stories. There’s more to him than that.”
Teddy shrugs, shifting his attention back to the menu. He’s just stalling. He’s getting veal. He always gets the veal.
He waits until the waiter has taken your orders before lowering his voice, cocking his head so that he looked you in the eye.
“Listen, I’ve been thinking…I’m sorry about what I said,” he begins, reaching a hand across the table, but doesn’t initiate holding yours. “I think it’s great that you took the job. You’ve been doing some good stuff —“
“Well, it was never about whether I’d be good at it or not. To me, at least.”
Teddy’s brows furrowed.
“That’s not what I meant,” he corrected, biting the inside of his cheek. “I want things to be good with us again.”
That was so vague. Was it an apology? Not fully, but it wasn’t as if he was shying from the fact that he knew there was a tension between you.
“Explain what you mean by that?” Your managerial voice tended to slip out
“We make such a good team. You working at the Planet, me in Advertising…it’s just right,” he waffles, and it’s evident to you that he’s speaking a whole lot of nothing. “The things about hours…we can make them work! We practically do the same, anyway.”
“My day starts at 8. Sometimes 7,” you say decidedly, shifting in your seat. “It ends only when everything’s approved and Perry’s happy. Is it going to be a problem if I come home late?”
Teddy frowns.
“Why? You’re a Managing Editor—“
“—Executive.” You correct. If he’d had cared a damn about you, he would’ve known or even chosen to acknowledge that.
“Well, I’m Accounts Executive and it doesn’t really mean anything. It’s just a title. Either way, you’re not the Chief.”
The belittling of your position doesn’t hurt you as much as his biting green jealousy. That’s all it’s been – jealousy, a competition. He was more than happy to love you and keep you on his arm through your Masters and the entry level jobs, but now you’d peaked he resented you. And in truth, probably had with every passing milestone leading to this point.
“And what if I am some day?”
Teddy throws his head back — and laughs. As if you’d just told him you believed in Santa.
“Come on, it takes years to become an editor in chief! The average age is what, 45? 50?”
“There are younger editors. Of smaller papers, yes, but they exist,” you snapped, but not once did you raise your voice. “At least I’m on a path somewhere. You still haven’t gotten any closer to becoming Head of Accounts or even Creative Director because your boss wouldn’t care if you dropped dead.”
His gall was astounding. You’d spent countless nights listening to him complain about not getting credit on a concept for a commercial. It seemed no amounts of butt-kissing (and Teddy did loads) would ever get him a promotion. Why he hadn’t left the company, you weren’t sure. But now, you certainly didn’t care.
“It’s different, there’s a hierarchy,” he said matter of factly. “If you ask me, I think Perry cares a little too much about keeping you close.”
The implication was the ugliest thing you’d heard from his mouth, perhaps ever. Perry White was like a second father to you. Folding your lips, you slump back in your seat as if to claim defeat. Teddy’s nostrils are flared, and he runs his hand across his forehead, absentmindedly shaking it. In true Teddy fashion, you know he’s going to come out with a half-hearted apology, but you decide to down your wine before giving him a chance to speak.
“How can I be with you when all I’ll be thinking about is how you’re competing with me?” You say softly, but it’s not out of fear. In fact, it’s rather haunting, and Teddy’s eyes are wide as the breadth of his mistakes seem to crash down upon him. Slowly, you gather your items; sliding on your coat and clutching your bag to your chest.
You’re in the right mind to hit him with it.
“You’re unbelievable,” you laugh, smiling as you feel a growing sense of relief. You’re probably going to break down, eventually, but if anything, you’ll do it in private.
“Lose my number. I’m done with you.”
As weeks passed, there was an unspoken air between yourself and Clark; a shift that had found you more accommodating to him than before. You're still impossibly strict (that’s a non-negotiable), but it’s common for you to at least give a compliment within that.
It starts with you passing by his desk one afternoon, a pen in hand as you lean against a pillar, stopping him mid-email to praise him on his interview with Superman. You read tens of articles a day; some for print, some for the website, so it’s natural that sometimes writing will merge into one and become black words on a white background cooked up by some nebulous ghostwriter. But that day, Clark’s interview had grabbed you – his questions provocative in a way that showed initiative – and it’s kind of brilliant.
He's brilliant.
Perhaps that was an overstatement, but the curly haired farm boy who’d spilt coffee down your clothes in your second week was growing on you - and it’s not horrible. With every little encounter you grow fonder; like his little grin of amusement followed by quick assistance when your scarf got caught on the revolving doors at the entrance (in your defence, you were on an important phone call – and you fucking hated those doors), or your quips about wasting time when he’s in the breakroom enjoying a slice of someone’s birthday cake.
Clark’s a little naive, but he’s not silly; and he knows that inside, it feels like more than the smarmy pride that would come from being the boss’ favourite, (Did you even have one to begin with?) and something that was more like a crush. Almost the exact same ways it felt in high school when a cheerleader looked at you, even if their intentions might not have been genuine. Where the cheerleaders in school might’ve been cruel to the core, he suspects that’s not the case with you. Hard shell, soft inside.
It was that, and the fact that every day you seemed to look better than before – all because of those gosh-darn outfits. They all suited you perfectly.
Alas, having a crush on your boss was fine, maybe even normal. Dating your boss was a HR no-no, and a distant fantasy even for the man who donned the red cape. So, Clark pooled his focus into a Friday night out with his friends instead.
When it wasn’t under attack by inter-dimensional threats, city life in Metropolis was pretty great. Especially on a Friday night in the hotspot that was The Red Star. Though it had the feel of an old saloon, the vibe was very much the opposite – buzzing, lively.
It just so happened to be the go-to spot for the Planet’s employees, namely Lois, Jimmy, Cat and Steve - who’d dived first into margaritas and beers whilst huddled in the corner booth.
“...Tell us again how exactly you managed to get those documents digitised in one afternoon?” Jimmy grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he spoke. It was probably the beer talking, but he’d been far more invested in the story than Clark himself.
“It helps when their head archivist is a Superman fan. Without breaking confidentiality, I told him some stories,” he shrugged. “And I’m now the photo of his grandma’s lockscreen, so...”
“Fucking brilliant!” Steve bellowed. “I don’t know how you do it, Kent!”
Folding his lips, Clark’s smile was bashful.
“What are we celebrating, anyway?”
“That we’re three months into the Ice Queen’s reign and none of us are fired.” Jimmy grinned.
“Steve almost did.” Lois remarked.
“—Almost.” The moustached man corrected as he rolled the glass in his hand. “She took me off international football coverage as a compromise. Which is great, because it sucks.”
“Hey, we got paid. That’s all that matters!” Jimmy said, raising his bottle in the air.
“I’ve got to say, she’s growing on me,” Cat spoke up, finger curling around her hair. “But I never really had a problem with her to begin with…she’s like, my style icon of the year.”
Steve nodded, perhaps a little too eagerly.
“She gets my vote for babe of the year. I’m gonna take her out for prime rib someday.”
“You couldn’t afford her, Steve.” Lois said. “And even if you could, you’re the last person to know anything about being discreet.”
Clark smirked to himself, stealing a fry from Jimmys tray. You were the same age as some of the staff, of course they’d be interested in you.
“At least she doesn’t yell like Perry does.” Jimmy nodded. “I actually think she’s mellowed him out.”
“He is less stressed,” Lois spoke, shifting in her seat so that she was leaning into the table, hands clasped. Angling her head, she made eye contact with Clark.
“Speaking of stress, can you believe she’s bringing the deadline forward on our articles though? We shouldn’t even be here; we should be out slaving away at our desk like she wants.”
Twisting his lips, Clark tutted.
“Come on, Lois, that’s not fair. Perry made the call.”
“The least she could do is vouch for us,” the woman sighed, unexpectedly feeling betrayed. “Besides, I complain about Perry too. I still like the guy.”
Jimmy slapped the table.
“Lois is right. It’s natural to complain about our boss - it helps to get it out of our system,” he began. “One time she said that my photos should be ‘that of an auteur’. You’d think we were working at Vogue.”
Cat snorted.
“I was there, Jimmy,” Clark corrected. “You missed the part where she said she likes your approach.”
“You’re defensive, Clark…” Cat said knowingly, dragging her finger around the rim, gathering salt.
Pulling a face, he shrugged. He could feel his cheeks warm, and he hoped none of them would notice under the dim, neon lighting of the bar.
“I’m being objective.”
“I think you’re blushing!” The blonde squealed.
“It’s the beer!”
“You’re drinking a light, Kent,” Steve said, playfully jabbing him in the shoulder. “Looks like you’ve got the hots for her too, huh? Don’t take it personal when I become your de-facto boss.”
With a playful ‘shut up’, the night swirled on around him until he'd decided he’d had enough, politely declining the option to go to Jimmy’s.
The streets were still lively; though most of the sound came from the muffled thump of bars, and rumble of chatter from people crowded in restaurants behind foggy windows. Apparently, it had rained; the pavements shiny with precipitation, puddles reflecting the white streetlamps that hung from above against a black sky.
Clark had grown to enjoy the post rain shower sensation in Metropolis – even if it couldn’t compete with the smell of morning dew on damp grass back home. He liked it, just like many other things in the city.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he found himself staring longingly into all the storefronts with open windows, happy couples nestled into corner tables in high-end eateries, or even just huddled outside a club with a cigarette. That was the great thing about Metropolis; there were so many places that were perfect for a loved one, regardless of what they were into – which meant that love looked and felt a little different here than in Smallville.
Home was home – insular, but the perfect place to raise a family. Here, it was a challenge, exciting, something new – which scared him but also filled him with hope. He'd been on a few dates from college until now, but he’d never really gotten it right. But Metropolis was a city with a million people - and Clark, being the loverboy he was - still clung on to the idea he’d find the one.
Clark reaches a junction, puffing his lips mindlessly as he waits for the traffic lights to change. He's staring right into Scrappies, a pizza joint (which, despite its name is good), when he makes out a familiar figure. Sure enough, it’s you, looking rather forlorn, hand tucked under your chin with your knees pressed together under the table. As the lights change and he draws closer, you stand up to retrieve your box from the counter, pushing on the front door just as Clark reaches the pavement.
Your eyes are a pinkish red in the corners, and your lips are bare. You've almost certainly been crying. Despite this, you don't make the effort to move away.
“Hey,” he begins, clearing his throat. “I thought you’d still be at the office...”
“I’m bringing the office home with me,” you sigh. “I’m obviously not going to cook, and no one’s there to do it for me, so...”
“I live alone too. But you made the right choice. It’s good pizza.”
You roll your eyes, but it's noticeably less energetic. Instead, you opt to stare wistfully at the ground, fingers poking and fiddling with the warm cardboard box. A beat passes, and Clark shifts his weight.
“...Are you ok?”
You sigh, diverting your gaze once more before looking back at him.
“I passed my probation today...”
“Oh,” he blinks, though he’s not convinced that you’ve been crying happy tears. “That’s great, congratulations —”
“Yup...” you said distantly, popping the ‘p’. “It’s funny. I’m fully settled into the very job I broke up with my ex over...”
“Teddy?”
“Teddy. His numbers’ gone from my phone, alongside two people I thought were my friends basically calling me selfish for choosing a job over a fiancé.”
Clark cocks his head at that. He’s not sure if it’s out of jealousy, guilt, or intrigue, but it’s somewhere in between.
“You were engaged?”
You scoffed.
“He hadn’t even proposed yet, but he wanted me to stick with my junior editor position because it was ‘safer’. I used to believe that he would, but now I don’t even think marriage was ever on the cards unless I failed. He just couldn’t handle that I was doing better than him. They never can,” you trail off, and he presses his lips into a line, lending you the space to speak in a stream of consciousness. Under the streetlights at a quiet intersection, he’s listening to you, seeing you, even.
‘They’...you’d been through this before.
He may be virtually indestructible, but the depth of your feelings — the rawness — is enough to penetrate his skin. You're beautifully human. For some reason or another, you, his boss, is lending him a bit of your soul; and, after today, whether you choose to remember it or not, you’re that bit much closer to each-other.
“...And today I shadowed a publishing meeting with Perry. All men, so you know how that went. It’s like I’m not even there.”
“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. He’s heard the horror stories from Lois. “I know it’s difficult. You’re probably not the only one in the building who’s put up with that – but that’s why it’s great you’ve got this job.”
He sighs.
“And as for Teddy...well, he doesn’t sound all that huggable,” Clark jokes, and you let out a soft chuckle that leaves him grinning for slightly too long. “You deserve this position. And for what it’s worth, you’re doing a great job at it. We’re lucky to have you.”
It’s weak, but you give him a smile, cardboard box wobbling in one hand as you rub your forehead, exasperated, with the other. The silence between you is comfortable, though Clark’s unaware of the depth of his words on you, even with your head fuddled with thoughts. He happens to be just the medicine you need right now.
Slowly, you open your mouth to speak, tip of your tongue moving ever so slightly to form a word, and Clark angles his head, lower, ready to listen in. He doesn’t want to delude himself, but he’s almost certain that there’s a softness, an offering, in your eyes that’s wanting to invite him – dimmed at the sound of brakes pulling up to the pavement.
It's like you’re awakened from your trance.
“Can I —“ you finally speak, nodding your head past Clark and gesturing to the car behind him. He's blocking your way.
He blinks, stammering.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise you were…”
“Yeah.”
“Right…” he nods, stepping aside as he watches you get into the backseat of the car, careful not to wander too close behind. He's not your boyfriend. He's not even your friend. Just a colleague, and he doesn’t want to be clingy. “Enjoy the pizza.”
The window’s rolled down a nudge, just enough to make out the centre of your face. It's away from the neon lights of the storefront and into the soft gold of the passenger light, and you look positively angelic. The feeling is akin to the rich words that leave your mouth just before the car takes off, fingers curled around the edge of the window as if reaching out to him. You smile, larger this time, and your eyes seem to sparkle.
“Thank you, Clark.”
A THURSDAY
Clark slung his bag over his shoulder, adjusting the strap as he skimmed the bulletin board next to his desk. He’d been careful to ensure everything was complete – with a lengthy drive back to Smallville ahead of him tonight, he didn’t wish to spend the trip agonising about unanswered emails. Perry had passed by everyone’s desks earlier today, muffling a ‘Go home when you can, kid’, to which nobody had taken lightly – hence the quiet bullpen at 5:30pm.
Tucking his chair under his desk, he went off in search of you, running through the scenario in his mind. It was paper thin, really – he just wanted to tell you he was leaving and notify you about his absence on Monday – but it was much more of an excuse to have a reason to see you. Staring at you from across the room whilst you spoke to another journalist wasn’t enough - even if you made his mouth feel like putty in your presence.
The lights by your office were still on, but it was rare that your door was closed. Knocking, he waited for you to call back to him before opening the door, leaving just enough space for his body to slip through the gap. Sure enough you were at work, sat poised behind the wooden desk, though your torso was noticeably draped in a dull coloured shawl. It was certainly more relaxed than anything he’d seen you in, but it looked cosy all the same.
“Hey — have you got a minute?”
“I suppose.” You replied, eyes glued to your screen even as he shut the door behind him and slowly began to approach you, shoes making a tapping sound with every step. Though Clark doesn't feel he's owed your affection, it's very clear that you’ve got your ‘executive’ brain on – as if the events of last Friday had never happened.
On the surface to the left was an empty box of Chinese takeout, sides sticky from the sauce, and on the floor below you were a small heater. That's what explained the shawl – he couldn’t feel temperature like you did.
“Late night?” Clark hums, nodding to the box.
“No. Tonight’s the editors gala and I’m going with Perry,” you say. “‘Dinner’ to them are six small plates of cold canapés and lots of alcohol. We both figured we’d eat ahead.”
He snickers at your sincerity.
“I thought you’d have left by now. What do you need?” You finish, finally glancing up at him. The light from your screen and desk lamp dances over your face, and he can see that you’ve put on a layer of eyeshadow. It suits you.
“I thought you should know that I won’t be here for the next meeting,” he says slowly, and there’s a childish glimmer of hope in his chest that you’ll miss him. “I’m driving back from my parents on Monday.”
Of course, you say the obvious. The very thing Clark knew about the whole time he’d been sat at his desk, running over the scenario on his head.
“I could’ve known that by looking on the system.”
Swiping his tongue over his lips, Clark shifts his weight.
“Well, I thought you needed to know what I’ll be working on…”
On the one hand, he’s aware he looks painfully desperate; pathetic, even, but on the other he hopes that his ‘forward-thinking’ is impressing you. Right now, he’s the very definition of a teachers’ pet. You raise a brow and shake your head.
“There’s no harm in checking in on Tuesday.”
Clark pouts and nods, feeling a little dejected.
“Oh, okay…” he murmurs, backing towards the door.“I’ll just leave - “
You don’t answer. Your gaze is back at your screen, and Clark gives you a final, wistful glance before he leaves, shoulders slumping as he begins to twist the doorknob, foot crossing the threshold to the outside when he stops at the gravelly sound of the wheels of your chair pushing back against the floor. It’s then that you speak.
“Wait, Clark?”
He turns around, and it’s as if time stops completely. In the process of standing up, the shawl has been discarded on the chair behind you, leaving for a Cinderella-like reveal. You're wearing a slinky evening dress; one shoulder exposed as black ruched fabric clings to your waist, loosening as it flows down your legs. Built into the top is a scarf, that drapes around your neck and collarbones in the way that the designers had only envisaged, sitting neatly behind you. His legs are like steel, bolted into the ground as his eyes briefly wander the length of your body before looking back at your face, his cheeks beginning to run hot.
“Could you hand me my mail?” you nod to the surface by the door where a mixture of sized envelopes sits.
You don’t even seem to know what you’re doing to him.
Clearing his throat, he nods, closing the door behind him as he shuffles the small distance to pick them up, steadily walking over to you. You tut.
“By all means, move at a glacial pace. You know how that thrills me.”
Picking up his pace, his cheeks flush deeper, briefly glancing down at a shiny rectangular piece with cursive writing.
“That’s funny, I didn’t know they gave these out. I thought it was all electronics and secret guest lists…”
“Oh, it is. I figured I’d keep this one,” you hummed, taking the object from his hand. Clark smiles at your implicit sentimentality. You run your eyes over the object before shrugging, looking back up at him. “Get good and you can go someday.”
Shaking his head, he chuckles. His laughter seems to amuse you, side eyeing him as you’ve leaned your head to the side, fixing an earring.
“The nicest suit I own is from a boutique in Smallville…I don’t think I’d look as good as you do…”
The words leave his mouth before he can think, abruptness causing the accessory to drop from your hands, rolling somewhere along the floor.
“Shit — “you hiss, flustered, and blood drains from Clark’s face as the weight of his words sit in the air.
“I just meant that you fit in — “he corrected, tongue tied. Being able to locate the earring better than you, he looks to the floor, picking it up almost instantly.
“I’m sorry, let me help…”
Your bodies go for the object at the same time, meeting at the front of your desk. It’s now that you’ve both realised that you’ve gotten impossibly close – proximity wise – the tips of Clark’s shoe inches away from the hem of your dress. Silently, he stretches out a hand, offering the lone earring to you, to which you take, your fingertips momentarily lingering on his palm. To his surprise, you don’t instantly walk away, but instead your eyes slowly up make their way up towards his physiognomy – tracing from his palm lines to his chest, and eventually to his face.
Clark can feel his breath catching in his throat – feeling similarly like the time he found out he could fly – his heart is thumping; but it’s not nearly as loud as yours. He can hear it. You want this just as much as him, and it’s quietly confirmed by the coy way you’re peering at him through your lashes, eyes lustrous as they focus in on his lips. It’s not about the earring, or the invitation anymore, and perhaps it never was.
He shifts towards you, lips parted as he angles his head down towards your mouth. The aroma of your perfume – a tender Jasmine scent this time – intensifies as you lean in, eyes shut.
You’re centimetres away, breath mingling with each-others as Clark’s hand cautiously makes its way to your waist. Drawing in a breath, you speak the magic words through a half-lidded eyes.
“My town car’s outside…” you breathe, apparently coming to your senses. “Perry’s waiting for me.”
It’s only then that you take a small step back, now disillusioned. Stunned, Clark blinks and follows suit, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.
“Gosh, I’m sorry…” he murmurs, watching you recompose, shifting the scarf around your neck as if to shield yourself. He steps forward, outstretching a hand. “I didn’t mean — “
“I know,” you reply quickly, but it provides only the slightest comfort. “You should go…start your weekend.”
You can barely look at him, hurriedly grabbing your phone and spare items before brushing past him, heading towards the door. Hovering by the doorway, you absentmindedly fiddle with the handle, mouth opening and closing a few times before you speak.
“Turn the lights off before you leave.”
It’d been nothing short of a painful weekend. He dearly treasured time with his parents; but as he lay in the very same bed he had during his teenage years across those three nights, he found himself staring up at the ceiling, reliving the scene in his head.
He couldn’t have been delusional — your touch had dawdled; you'd made the effort to close the gap between yourselves...your breath had hitched in your throat. But you’d stopped, and he understood why. Still, like a boy, he wondered what would’ve been if you hadn’t - if those magic words had been ‘Kiss me, Clark’, and he’d planted one on you, what you’d taste like, how you’d feel...but it was just a fantasy.
A common fantasy, Cat had mentioned once, something about the dynamics between power and risk that was so enticing. It wasn’t all lust to him (even if he’d had to fight a raging erection on his way out of state), but something more; a need, an appreciation for your staunch spunkiness and to oddly be a part of it.
There was so much about you that he wanted to learn; if you’d been a city dweller your whole life, if you had any siblings, what your favourite kind of music was — anything and everything.
The drive back had been agonising. It was hard to tell if he’d even be walking into a job at all. He’d made it through the revolving doors without so much as an objection from Niño, eventually falling behind the swarm of workers that piled through the lobby.
There was an odd sense of comfort from it all — there was a tendency to become incredibly self-centred when falling in love that he'd seemingly forgotten that he was just one face in a pile of many. He wasn’t supposed to be that important to you, and so, as he filed on to the elevator, he took relief in the fact that he could shroud himself amongst everyone. It seemed he’d made it to the avoidance stage of your withdrawal.
Little had he known that you were pressed against the opposite wall of the shaft, your presence becoming apparent once the company lawyers had exited onto their floor. You both inched closer to the centre but left a comfortable gap between you. Surprisingly, you were the first to break the ice.
“Nice weekend?” you said, eyes focused on the ascending numbers on top of the doors.
Clark smiled, a dimple pebbling on his cheek.
“Yeah, it’s always great to go home…” he replied, letting the silence fall over you. It wavered, pleasant for a few moments until the air began to feel thick again. Clearing his throat, he made the choice to elaborate.
“…Funny, one of our — uh — cows had a calf,” he began, angling his head to acknowledge you. “Which is weird because she’s kind of old, but also great because she was acting strange and we thought we’d have to put her down…”
You turn to him, cheeks rounded as you flash him a genuine smile and hum.
“That’s nice.”
His heart flutters. Perhaps he’d overthought the situation in his head.
“Did you get up to anything?” he questions, acutely aware of how the lift is inching forward to the floor. Once you’re out of here, you're almost certainly going your separate ways. “How was the gala?”
“It was fine.”
Your reply is quick, preliminary to releasing a long, drawn out sigh. There’s no hesitation in your voice as you speak – lilting, yet almost like it’s rehearsed.
“Look, Clark — Let’s move forward, okay?” you nod, and his lip wobbled in surprise at the sudden change. Your eyes are wide and earnest, as if you were trying to infiltrate his brain.
“You know what I’m talking about...what almost happened never did. Nothing’s changed.”
“You want me to forget?”
“Try,” you plead, feeling the elevator come to a halt. The doors open, and you assume your position, head held high and back impossibly straight. “It’ll be so much easier if you do.”
/
Forgetting someone you had romantic feelings for was hard. Forgetting someone you have romantic feelings for but can’t act on them and have to see each-other every day was even worse.
Clark had begun to recognise the sound of your footsteps across the marble floors, even in as busy bullpen. It was brisk, but not too hasty – fitting for a woman who was always on the go. In an unintentional case of Pavlovian Conditioning, his head perked up when they’d grow louder (it was frequent that you wore a heel), passing by his very desk or even stopping completely behind him when you’d speak to Lois. And yet, if you were around him he’d find himself inexplicably keeping very still, trying to camouflage completely and yet desperately wanting you to acknowledge him.
He even knew what time you took your (rare) breaks, because more often than not he’d catch a glimpse of you walking along the corridor of the second floor (your office overlooked the bullpen), a bag in your hand from some immaterial store as it was evident you had little time in your life to run errands.
His cataloguing of the little details could’ve easily been viewed as pathetic, given the fact that it had been, as you’d rightly put it, an almost kiss. But Clark considered himself a little more in touch with his feelings (he was raised that way) — and it was all about the implication.
Gosh, he sounded a disastrous rom-com protagonist. Though, for all his mulling and mental torment, it brought Clark comfort knowing that he wasn’t alone.
He’d actually caught you staring. At his desk, he’d glanced up to see you in conversation, though intermittently you’d stare off into the distance – just so landing on Clark’s desk – lending him a distant, pining look before you’d draw your focus back to the individual, checking your phone to hide your embarrassment.
Or, and even better yet, when you’d actually come to his desk and specifically handed him a piece of mail. A job that honestly, on his first week of knowing you, wouldn’t have ever imagined you’d be caught doing.
“For you, Kent,” you’d said cooly. “It got mixed up in mine.”
You’d propped it up along the side of his computer, but there was an attentive way about the manner you’d done it – careful to make sure it wouldn’t slide flat. It had been fleeting, but at the end of the interaction you’d made eye contact through his eyelashes. There was a tension, a wobble in your throat that was oh-so clear to the both of you that you were holding back.
Yet, it simply looked an offhand, out of character action to an eagle-eyed bystander. Clark didn’t think anyone had caught on, not even his best friends. Still, there was only so long you’d be able to keep up the joint façade, as the dreaded second-quarter performance reviews were right around the corner.
“Okay, I’m dying to know what she said in yours,” Jimmy egged, breaking Clark from his thoughts. With wide eyes he spun around in his chair. “I’ve heard some of them were kind of scathing — Perry was playing good cop.”
“I think that’s an exaggeration,” Lois interjected. “She said that she sees herself in me. I don’t know if I should be honoured or terrified.”
Jimmy clicked his tongue.
“I can see that for you…”
“I haven’t had mine yet.” Clark hummed earnestly, the pair flashing him a confused look. Pouting, he shrugged, the following words acting also to quell his thoughts. “There’s loads of us. I'm sure it'll come."
“They’re being done by department,” Jimmy said, lowering his chin. “All the Arts and Culture writers are getting theirs's done now...”
Scrunching his lips, he shrugged again, uncharacteristically silent as he turned back to his desk. Again, he found his legs bouncing uncontrollably, thoughts racing as he tried to focus on his screen. It had to have been deliberate, right? Perhaps Perry was going to do his review? Maybe he didn’t need a review at all, and he’d be handed one of those filing boxes and a pat on the back before being kicked to the curb for good.
Then, as if you’d read his mind, your name popped up on the side of the screen.
‘Review in Meeting Room 5 @ 3:10pm. Please bring a notebook.’
He’d never been so happy to be under scrutiny.
Meeting Room 5 just happened to be one of the only rooms without glass panels – tucked off to the side and was a room that was probably no bigger than the average bedroom. Confidential in the sense that it was less intimidating, but also equally stuffy (fitting, giving the circumstances), to the point that Clark felt bigger and bulkier than he did usually – cheeks pink the moment you'd instructed him to take a seat.
He’s tried to listen to the criticism of the overall quality of his writing, but your words droned out, solely because you were wearing a striking, fluffy cerulean cardigan that reminded him of his very suit and made his heart pang at the thought of wrapping you in in his arms. You’d never worn the colour before; slightly daring given your general eye for fashion and it being towards the end of November...but it suited you.
It was towards the end of the meeting where Perry had left. Admittedly, Clark had been confused, especially as you flippantly instructed him to remain in his seat. The corners of your eyes crinkled as you smiled the older man away, gaze heavy as you waited for the click of the door closing. Then, a sigh of relief.
Silence. A working week; five days in and out, simultaneously went with a blinding quickness and an agonising slowness. To keep Clark (let’s face it, you held the power here) in the dark was for so long was not only cruel to him, but to yourself also. There’d been sleepless nights, wondering if it were possible to move on from such an obvious flirtation — and the answer changed with every passing day.
Clark — dark curls and blue eyes, always polite — Kent was a hunk, just what you needed after weedy city-bred Teddy. As someone who was often always composed, he had a profound way of making you want to devour him.
“I know you’re wondering where this is going, considering I told you to forget...” you lull. He waits for you to explain yourself, but it doesn’t come. Clark swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat and nostrils flaring. He’s somewhere between hurt, annoyed and anxious – and you’re just prolonging the ripping of the band aid.
“Why are you being like this?” he finally asks, the dissatisfaction in his voice taking you aback. “I understand if you want to put this behind us, but with all the looks you give me and this -” he gestures flaringly to the isolated meeting room, “it doesn’t make sense.”
You frowned.
“You can't speak to me like that; I’m still in charge of you.”
Clark blinked, his mouth agape.
“You almost kissed me!”
“Well, I’m sorry for doing that.” You replied flatly, but there was a hint of humour in your words. No matter how out of character, there's something funny about you bickering like an old married couple.
Clark shakes his head, and runs his tongue over his bottom lip, lowering his voice.
“I understand why you’re avoiding this, but it’s obvious that we can’t.”
“That’s the problem,” you say softly but flatly. You draw in a long sigh as you organise your papers into a pile before pinching the bridge of your nose. “We can’t avoid each-other. My job is to be around you, I read your drafts, I see you in meetings…”
He frowns.
“If you weren’t avoiding me, then why is my review only happening now?”
You click your tongue.
“Because of that,” you say pointedly, gesturing over your shoulder to the door. “I knew Perry would have to leave early today. I scheduled a dentist appointment the afternoon I did Jimmy’s so I’d be out of office and wouldn’t have to do yours.”
Clark sat back in his chair. He slumped his shoulders, but he wasn’t upset. He did, however, feel a bit guilty for pressing you.
“Oh…”
You sighed and walked around the table to perch yourself on edge in front of him. He bit his bottom lip, eyes stealing a glimpse at your thighs and looked back up at you, who was staring at him wistfully. It occurred to him that he felt like a naughty schoolboy who’d been sent to the principal. Extending your hand, you place it on the lapel of his suit, smoothening out the details as you allow your fingers to linger on his chest. He doesn’t stop you.
“Don’t feel guilty about what happened that evening. You weren't there alone," you began, eyes scanning his face intently for a reaction.
His breathing seems to stop entirely at your words. He looked gorgeous; dark lashes long and pretty against his creamy skin, staring at you with puppy blue eyes. It took every inch of you, every modicum not to abandon your morals for your wanton desires, slide into his lap and take him right there.
“But that’s the problem. We’re around each-other every day and the tension is just…sitting there.”
Clark was half surprised you said it out loud. Then again, you weren't really someone to mince your words. Blushing, he shyly glanced to the floor and ran his tongue over his lips.
“I-I can’t disagree with you on that,” he said quietly, staring back at you with keen eyes. “Are you saying that we…”
He wanted it. Krypton knew he did. And here you were, offering yourself to him.
“I’m saying that we resolve this. We kiss, fool around, and we’re done. I go back to managing you and nothing more,” you sigh, breathing a ragged breath. The edges of your lips trembled.
“What happened that day can’t happen again. If someone had walked in, I could’ve lost my position for good…” you say, lips tight as you folded your arms over your chest.
“Legally, ethically — it’s complicated, Clark. You know that.”
Clark nodded slowly, taking in your words as he could practically see everything unravelling in your head. You’re not treating him as inept, nor like he was some infatuated servant with an obsession.
He admires your ability to still be practical in the face of such an unprofessional situation — but there’s the ties again, finding a balance between your personal life and your career.
The last thing he wants to do is come between you and a great job — but he also knows that he’s still a man, and not immune to the agony of unresolved sexual tension. You’re right; you’re going to see each-other every day for the foreseeable future. How could he act as if everything were normal when he’d been the only one to see you at your softest? Metaphorically wipe the aftermath of your tears?Almost kiss you?
How could things ever be the same when he knew that his heart swelled whenever you praised him? Or stopped completely when you’d find a way to make eye contact in a sea of dozens?
Shifting in his chair, he briefly shuts his eyes, contemplating.
“Believe me, I understand,” he says cautiously, the pace of your heartbeats hinging on his carefully chosen words. “I’d never want to get you in trouble, but — but it doesn’t mean that hooking up will make things any easier.”
Blinking, you seem appalled, but he knows you well enough to view this as a mechanism. Facing feelings for your subordinate was probably terrifying.
“You don’t know that.”
“I don’t, but I know that I don’t want just that with you,” he continues, and it’s his turn to stand up in a subtle role reversal. Clark may be looking down at you, but you’ve both got the power, albeit in different ways.
“I couldn’t. You deserve someone who isn’t going to make you feel bad for wanting more…”
The situation gets blurry —otherworldly, rather— because both of your bodies are propelled together in a biological demonstration of Coulomb’s Law. When your lips meet Clark’s, you’re overwhelmed by his softness, how his country charm seems to translate even to sudden intimacy. They dance against your own as it takes a short second to find a rhythm, but once they do it’s nothing short of perfection. It’s tasteful, with the littlest bit of tongue that only leaves you with a larger appetite.
Your hand snakes its way around his neck, fingers inching to tug at the dark curls on his nape before he pulls away – literally leaving you hanging. You’re not someone who can be moved so quickly and visibly, yet your legs seem to buckle during the short moment you're staring into each other's eyes, astonished.
Mere minutes after insisting your being together was wrong, you'd gone back on your words – inexplicably leaving you with far less clarity than you’d had going in. Clark has moved every inch of you, professionally, emotionally, far more than you’d anticipated the day he’d stood in front of you after you’d sent him to Blüdhaven and done the impossible. Unlike any man you’d dated, he’d done it without trying to ‘soften’ or change you, but by simply existing. Things just don’t seem to make sense with him - yet they do.
It's fucking excruciating standing in your joint purgatory, because you both know what that kiss meant. There was no ‘normal’ after this. If you weren’t lovers, then you weren’t anything. Just a boss with her employee.
Clark glances down at the table, picking up his notebook and tucking it under his arm. He shifts his weight and quickly glances at the door before lending you a plaintive once-over.
You don’t even know that you’re wearing his colours.
“…I’m more than happy living with the fact that you wanted it that day too.”
Now, it’s his turn to leave you in an empty room.
December 1st marked seven days since you’d come to an (unfavourable) agreement with Clark. December 1st also marked the official beginning of your first Christmas at the Daily Planet – and though the workplace was the last environment one would describe as ‘magical’, there was a general excitement to everyone, including Perry, who’d gone out of his way to make it feel special.
Radios seemed to jingle Wham and Brenda Lee from every corner of the office, whilst silver and red coloured tinsel draped off the fixed TV’s that hung on the wall, and a jolly but worn looking elf sat on the front desk, assuming the role as greeter. There was even an opulent looking tree – one that you could only assume had come from Rockefeller Centre itself – in the lobby opposite the security desk.
Despite this, it hadn’t gotten easier to live with yourself. Not only were you sexually frustrated (seriously, you wondered if it were possible to be neutered), but, more greatly, in a time that was about indulgence, you were starving your heart.
It’s one of those odd but cherished days that you get to finish at a reasonable time. You tug on the cord to close the blinds and get a peep into the city around you; quiet and illuminated with the white of the street lights dotted on the pavement. Slightly misty, all it takes is a glance at the glimmer from the bulb to see white specks swirling amongst the light, slowly beginning to settle on the ground.
It’s snowing.
It’s so dammed clichéd that you can’t help but smile. Cosying on the sofa with a novel or a dose of reality TV sounded perfect.
You slide on your jacket and wrap your scarf around your neck, bracing for the sudden chill once you hit the ground floor lobby. You’re not sure how the doormen do it. As expected, it's empty, the heels of your leather boots clacking along the marble floors as you head towards the revolving doors. There’s still a good amount of cars on the main road, and even as the snow begins to pick up you’re able to make out the yellows of various taxis — their roofs tinted pink under the red stop lights.
Walking to the edge, you wave one over. It stops at the curb with a screech, and the driver pokes his head out.
The usual niceties ensue, and it’s not long before you pop open the door, sliding into the back seat. It smells a little like cigarettes, but it doesn’t bother you all that much, and you actually find the red leather interior to be rather comfortable. As you turn to give the Planet one last glance for the day, your heart seems to stop as you make out a familiar figure on the pavement, apparently fighting with the strap of his bag.
The scene is simple, but it’s enough to make you realise that the longest you were able to stay away from Clark was seven days. Seven days too long after four months of limbo.
For once you feel uninhibited, stopping the driver just before he takes off and calling out of the window.
“Hey, Clark…” you drawl, and he almost jumps when he hears your voice. You gesture your head to the car. “Did you want to split a ride?”
Awkwardly, he pushes his glasses up his nose, and his mouth hangs open.
“I’m good. I take the bus for a few stops then walk, so…”
You cock a brow.
“You’re going to wait for the bus in the snow? With that jacket?”
Clark chuckles, hanging his head as he glances down at his attire. The jacket is barely there, the material thin and flimsy looking. It’s fitted for spits of rain at best. He pauses, and you make out that he clicks his tongue before deciding to walk towards the taxi, to which you slide over.
“Thanks,” he nods. “I guess I should’ve checked the weather this morning." Pausing, he glances around the car and gestures to his seat. "What do I owe the ride?
“My treat. Christmas spirit, I guess,” you hum before nodding to the driver. It’s half surprising that he’d even accepted the offer at all. It hadn’t taken much effort, but you weren’t going to complain.
“I don’t think we live that far from eachother. We can make a stop at that intersection, right?”
Clark grins.
“Right.”
The low tone of the radio travels to the back of the seat, albeit the songs are muffled. Next to you, Clark’s huge — taking up a lot of the seat, yet in a way that’s not invasive, so much so that you can almost feel the warmth radiating from his body, as if he’s a human heater. There’s a subtle smile on his face — a content — as he stares out of the window, an array of colours flashing on his skin with every block you pass. Still, you can see the natural tint on his cheeks.
Clark Kent was a beautiful, beautiful man.
And you both deserved to be happy.
He’s alerted to the smacking of your lips as you part them, blue orbs sparkling as he stares at you expectedly.
“I’ve been thinking about our deal,” you begin slowly, eyes tracking his reaction. It was unlikely that some taxi driver would give a shit about two random employees, but you never could be too certain. The last thing you needed was for someone to put two and two together.
“I like you, and I want to take a risk. I couldn’t bear it if I didn’t jump on the opportunity…”
Clark swipes a tongue over his lips, nodding slowly as he follows. He can’t seem to hold back his smile.
“I’d like that,” he replies, and now it’s your turn to grin. “If you’re aware of the limitations.”
“I only expect that you’ll respect them, Kent.”
“I’m very well behaved.” He smirks assuredly, and with the statement you feel a tingling in your core.
“We’ll see about that,” you muse, biting your lip. “Some people are completely different when it comes to a… partnership.”
The silence says everything. The car begins to slow, stopping just before the intersection and allowing Clark to climb out, the vehicle shifting under the release of his weight. He leans down to poke his head through the window, unmoved by the snowflakes trickling onto the tips of his dark hair, and smiles, bearing his pearly whites and emanating the warmth and comfort of the holiday season itself.
He's simply perfect.
“Looking forward to working with you, ma’am.”
/
It’s 8:30pm when you drag yourself through the doors of your apartment, peering down the long, tidy corridor to look towards the living area. The sofa’s empty, and there’s no sound of life from your TV either, yet the lights are on. Peeling off your outerwear, you fold your jacket over your arm and go through the motions of coming home; filing your clothes back into your walk-in and beginning to remove your jewellery.
You’re mid earring when Clark sneaks behind you, large arms sliding around your waist as he pulls your back to his chest, rocking you for a moment.
Gently, you squeeze his forearm back in acknowledgment.
“Sorry, you know how it is,” you sigh, placing the earrings on the edge of the sink before you’re swiftly spun around. “There was a printing error, and —“
You’re cut off by a kiss, Clark’s hands settling on your waist as you’re pressed against the ceramic. Your lips slide perfectly against each other's as you feel him smile into your mouth, teeth nipping gently on your bottom lip as he begs for entry. You let him mull for a bit, coiling a finger around a strand of his hair and giving it a tug before you let him explore you, tongue now snaking into your mouth.
“Doesn’t matter…” he murmurs, mouth sticky. “But sometimes it kills me that I have to wait…”
Judging by the prominent tent in his pants he’s not lying. The tips of his fingers go white as he presses them into your skin through the fabric of your clothes, as if he wanted to fuse his very body to yours. His grey blazer is heavy against your body, and as you pull away you tug pointedly at it.
“Why the suit?” you frown. It’s not like Clark’s a stranger to your home. You blink yourself back to reality, and realise that there’s no aroma of tomato sauce or even the smell of pancakes — he hasn’t cooked for you tonight.
He glances down at his clothes and shrugs, sticking out his bottom lip in faux innocence.
“No reason. I thought we could order in tonight...”
“Well why don’t we get comfy first?” You say knowingly, but he doesn’t budge. It occurs to you that he has no intention of leaving the room tonight. At least not clothed, that is.
Your suspicions are confirmed when he begins to nip at your neck, kisses tingly as he buries his head into the crook, voice a lull as he speaks into your skin.
“I know you popped open an extra button on your shirt today n’…leaned over to point at my screen…” he sighs in between kisses.
You gasp, not just at the sensation of his tender lips against your sensitive area, but at the image of the scenario — ‘pointing out’ an edit you’d made that he’d ignored, whilst subtly pressing his face to your chest and giving you a peek of your bra. It was supposed to be a little tease, just something to keep work interesting, but it’d worked out better than you’d anticipated. Clark was in a frenzy.
“Tell me I’m wrong…” he breathes, and unbeknownst to him you roll your eyes, and smirk, cradling the back of his head in your hands. Clearing your throat, you square your shoulders as you put on your most ‘authoritative’ voice, cupping the man’s cheeks and staring at him.
“I’m offended you’d imply something like that, Kent,” you say sternly, and Clark grins, baring his teeth. “I’m just a very hands-on manager, that’s all.”
You know what he wants. It’s been apparent ever since you’d started dating. It turned out that Clark, the epitome of all things good and pure, rather enjoyed your illicit relationship and the juicy power dynamic that were wrapped up in it.
He opens his mouth to argue, but it’s quickly replaced by your fingers on his lips. Like a good boy, he goes silent. You snake your hands down his muscular chest, fingertips gliding along the fabric of his tie. There’s a knowing look in your eye as you slowly loop the material around your hands, giving it a pointed tug before you lead him out of the bathroom, walking him like a dog.
He’s all too willing to follow, and he’s almost weightless when you sit him on the bed and stand between his thighs, hands still firm around his tie.
“So this was what the suit was about…” you muse, aware of Clark’s hands roaming up your thigh and under your skirt. He smirks in response.
“I thought it made it more realistic, considering we can’t do it on your desk…”
You’re only able to mutter a ‘tsk’ before you place impassioned kisses back on Clark’s lips, the man all too happy to return the favour. Still stood, you begin to remove eachothers’ clothing, hands fumbling with undoing the knot and discarding it on the floor somewhere before attacking his buttons, making your way down his chest.
He’s eager; but his large hands are light as he tugs at the waist of your skirt, the sudden contact of his thumb on your warm skin causing you to shiver. Slowly but surely the fabric twists past your hips, down your thighs and eventually onto the floor, pooling around your ankles. Momentarily, you’re left in your work shirt and a pair of maroon-coloured panties with lace embroidery — all the while Clark’s staring at you, eyes positively gleaming as he finishes stripping off his shirt.
“Golly,” he grins. “I’m the luckiest reporter in the world.”
Playfully, you roll your eyes, your body then seemingly gliding in the air as Clark grasps your waist with the entirety of his arm and pulls you onto the bed. You’re on top of him now; moistening slit of your cunt inches away from his clothed cock as you grind against him, hoping to send a message through your wanton writhing.
But, it’d be too easy for Clark just to put it in — there was no fun to it, and it certainly wouldn’t be fair for you. No, Clark was a guy who, more often than not, was fixated on giving you an experience; one that was hot and passionate and animalistic yet also tentative and the very physical manifestation of the depth of the words ‘I love you’ and the concept of devotion.
As you come up for air — you’ve been making out the whole time — you absentmindedly brush a stray lock of his hair from his forehead, drinking him in.
“You need a haircut…” you say leisurely, eyeing the uneven strands.
He glances up, dainty lashes resting perfectly against his eyelid.
“I know,” he pouts. “I’ll forget all about it if you cover it for me…”
You brief confusion is replaced by a sudden twinge of excitement in your loins as he elfishly puckers his lips and nods his head, eyes focused on the ceiling above. There’s an all-knowing, cheeky grin as Clark watches you straddle him, knees sinking into the mattress you waddle over his body, your needy cunt inches away from his face.
Clark takes charge; his handiwork impressive as he loops too fingers on either side of your panties, slowly sliding them down your legs. His eyes seem to waver, water even, as he stares up at your exposed pussy, with all the enlightenment and wonder of a believer seeing the clouds part with their deity.
He cautiously helps you out of them, which is followed by a gentle caressing of your calves — goosebumps, instantly — up to the back of your thighs, where he softly presses you down onto him.
“You work so hard,” he moans, planting wet kisses to the inner area, uncoordinated as he switches between left and right. “Let me take care of you...”
The tip of his nose is the first to engulf the raw scent of your juices, followed by the slippery folds on his mouth. At first his movements are teasing, deliberate as he kisses and licks along your outer folds, all before he eventually cracks you open like a book with his palms.
His tongue explores your inner folds fervently, lapping at their unique ridges as his saliva mingles with your arousal. It’s the devil’s juice – yet Clark drinks from you like a man dying of drought, the muffled reverberations of his moans sending chills up your body, quite literally making your legs shake.
When you let out a whimper, Clark withdraws from you, taking a breath of air.
“Want me to keep going?”
“Please,” you begged. “You’re too good.”
He winks at you, and in seconds he’s pulling you back down on his face — this time rocking his head up and down your privates as his nose acts as a makeshift sex toy. It’s hard not to fuck his face, and his hair – now certainly freshly tousled - is the last thing on your mind as you drag your hips against his skin.
Clark’s all too aware of it all, reaching around to give your ass a pointed squeeze in response. You moan even louder this time, and Clark uses this as fodder to adjust your positioning, placing you on his lips and flicking at the hood of your clit.
You know what he’s doing, and though you never thought you’d have a problem with a man working you to orgasm, you’d rather save it.
“Mm—Clark—“ you whine. “I want to — I wanna come with you…”
“You sure?” He says, voice muffled. “You always sound so pretty when you finish on my tongue, honey.”
“Please..” you say, and he helps you off of him, delicately placing you on the pillow as he allows you to recover.
He steps back, and though you’ve slept together before you’re reminded of just what a superhuman he is — sculpted arms, sculpted chest with only slight emerging specks of hair dotted between his pectorals. Propping yourself on your elbows, you ogle him, and he’s looking back at you expectedly. You let him stew for a moment before you give him a nod, putting on your managerial voice.
“Alright, Kent. Let’s see what you’re working with.”
He’s all too happy to drop his pants — and fuck, is he huge. It had an inhuman way of snatching the breath from your throat, even when looking. His balls sit under, plump, throbbing, and might you add aesthetically pleasing if not a little interesting.
You beckon him over with a curl of your finger, and it’s his turn to slide between your legs; bodies intertwined as he pecks at your lips (though you’re still able to taste yourself on his skin) and lowers you onto the bed, stripping you of the rest of your clothes. Evidently, it’s a missionary position kind of night.
As Clark nestles himself above you, you reached down to his pulsing cock, cupping the underside in your hands. It’s weighty. With a smirk, you keep your eyes on his as you bring your palm to your mouth, giving it a pointed lick before stroking his shaft.
He lets out a long sigh, and you swear you can feel the pressure pump out of his chest.
“Gosh…” he groans, eyes fluttering shut as you give it a few leisurely strokes. Your actions make his precum glide along his shaft, making treacly sounds as you spread the lubricant thin – preparing for him to enter you.
Clark lets you put it in. Your walls twitch to accommodate his thick head, showing signs of resistance, but once Clark adjusts his hips there’s a feverish sense of relaxation — a still, completeness as you take the moment to enjoy each-other. He’s not even moving, and yet your cunt seems to be swallowing him up. Grasping his bicep, your chest heaves as he slowly begins to rock his hips, buttocks clenching as he slides into you before withdrawing; over and over again.
Clark’s pace is gradual; but there’s so much more to your copulation than just the way he fucks you. It’s the way his face disappears in your neck, leaving you with a barrage of dark curls as he kisses down towards your breasts and eagerly latches onto your nipple. It’s the way he presses into you, burning with desire, in a manner that means you can feel all the relevant muscles in his body contract and release with every thrust.
It’s the way that he moans, whispering words of encouragement and affirmation into your ear — somehow, in true Clark fashion, never swearing in the process.
“Wow. Gee…” he sighs. “You take me so well, honey. You’re perfect…I want more of you, sweetheart. Can you take more?”
One hand is firm around his broad waist as you purr a ‘yes’ amongst your ecstasy. His pace quickens, yet he never seems to lose his depth. Sharp clapping sounds come from your pelvis as his fat cock pounds your cunt, wet, pillowy walls drawing him in with every motion. He’s desperate, raiding to find your sweet spot - you’re not worried, he finds it every time – and your nails dig into his forearm as the curvature of his shaft finds a way to hit an area you’d never engaged before.
“God, Clark,” you drawl, burying the back of your head further into the pillow. “You’re good…So good. Come with me, please?”
There’s an earnestness in your silken voice, and Clark nods as he delves back into your lips, kisses sloppy as he’s focused on bringing you to orgasm. He raises your hips with one hand, giving him even further leverage to plough your cunt, the new angle leaving nerves tingling from the discovery.
With a parched mouth you find it in you to squeak out that you’re coming, legs quivering as your stomach churns and folds rapidly, pressure building to your chest. Your back arches as you come, your mind running blank as Clark’s thrusts grow uncoordinated as you feel his cock convulse in you. The words ‘I love you’ are loud and clear as he speaks them into your mouth, as if breathing life to you the moment he’d given you la petite mort.
Clark’s head drops to the side as he lingers in you, pussy swollen with your joint cum. It’s like a plug when he withdraws, his seed coating your insides, and a translucent sheen leaving a snail-like trail on your outer folds and the crease of your thigh.
There’s an afterglow to Clark, (you know that he probably hasn’t used much stamina at all) flushed cheeks, bedraggled hair, glazed eyes…but Clark Jonathan Kent is a man who glows all around, regardless of day or time of year.
Tucking a sturdy arm around your bare waist, you’re content with enjoying each-others company in silence for a few precious moments until Clark draws in a breath.
“...So, I know you said it when we started dating, but doesn’t sleeping with an editor improve my chances of getting the front page at all?”
You tut.
“Don’t be daft, Clark,” you tease, scrunching your nose at him. “You know Perry makes the decision.”
Clark glances back at you, grinning.
“But you can influence him, right?”
“I suppose,” you hum, and the growing smirk on his face tells you all too well that he’s rearing to go again. The man was insatiable. Pressing your bare chest against his, your nipples drag against his torso as your fingers trace patterns on his collarbone. “But you’ve got to write a really… mind-blowing, impassioned, penetrating piece."
“Alright,” Clark says smugly, eyes flitting along your face and twinkling mischievously. “I can take another shot at that.”
imagine clark and a nepo baby!reader. she’s his source for lex luthor things and in return he has to pay her back. it ranges from nice dinners with her caressing his ankle with her bare feet to riding him in her pretty pink bed ☺️.
the only proper trade.
a/n: apologies that this was so freakishly late *sigh*
Clark made a deal with you.
You: give him information on Lex Luthor that Clark can use against him
Him: be at your mercy.
And of course you took it. I mean, who wouldn't?—Clark was one of those hot and freakishly tall nerds that you assumed lots of girls threw themselves at to get a chance with.
The "mercy" you'd force him into—was literally just keeping you company. Lex was literally never around for you to bother and your security guards never talked back to you :( You can't blame a girl for being bored!
You'd have him take you on shopping sprees (he'd insist on paying despite the fact that your net worth was more than his yearly salary), go to fancy restaurants (he'd insist on paying again), etc. He was just so fun to be around!
And yeah he was attractive! Whateverrr!
And yeah you'd... maybe run your hand over his biceps for a little too long and... yeah maybe... you'd... run your foot up his leg under the table during dinner— Whatever!
And yes! You'd fuck him!
I mean who the fuck wouldn't!?
At least he wasn't against the idea! If anything, he encouraged it!
"G-Gosh— W-what d-did you s-say—?" He groaned as he lifted his head up, his hands wrapped around your waist as you looked back at him over your shoulder—your hips still bouncing on his lap with your cunt wrapped around his cock.
"I said, Lex had some weird blueprints— oh fuck right there — ahem, that showed like this w-weird machine— oh my god I think m'gonna—" You whined softly as you turned your head to face in front of you before throwing your head back.
"B-Baby— Atten-tion... W-what about the blue— golly — the bluep-prints?" Clark was stumbling over his words as he sat up just a bit to wrap his arm around your torso and pull you back towards him.
"S-said something a-about a p-pocket— oh shit — u-universe— m'coming—!" You whimpered softly as you wrapped your hand over his large arm that was cupped around your torso, your squelching cunt clenching around his dick as your climax washed over you— your body shaking above him as your bouncing ceased just a bit.
Clark couldn't have that.
He huffed before pulling back to wrap his other arm around your waist to keep you grounded—before thrusting up into you, his lips pressing kisses along your shoulder blades.
"P-pocket," kiss "Universe?" kiss.
"Y-yeah— oh my god—" You moaned as the overstimulation flows through you.
You felt his length twitch inside you as he rested his forehead against the skin of your back—his release painting your insides white.
"...T-thank you, baby..." He breathed against your skin—a smirk plastered across your face.
Another amazing commission done by @predninja ! Merlyn got a sketch page so I figured Aria should have one too! Thank you so much, you nailed her whimsy <3
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