“Thank you, Clark. You really didn’t have to do that.”
The way he looks at you is borderline insane. It’s filled with sympathy, love and gentleness. It’s too much for you to handle. He’s trying to kill you, you decide.
“I didn't. But, I wanted to, can’t have you drowning in tissues.”
Summary: You don't come to work for a while, Clark worries about you and brings you soup. [865 words]
Warnings: Fluff, beginnings of a relationship, reader works at Daily Planet, idiots in love, fem reader
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“Lois?”
“Yeah, Clark?”
She doesn’t look away from her computer, clearly immersed and preoccupied. Clark doesn’t want to have to bother her, but he’s out of options. He‘s worried about you.
You hadn’t been into work for two days which was rather out of character. You loved your job more than anything. You got paid to write, report and flirt with Clark (of course). The latter being something you’d only got the confidence to do within the past couple weeks. It was still fresh and new.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Just did.” Eyes glued to her computer.
Clark asks Lois if she knows what’s happened to you.
She smiles knowingly. “She’s sick. Something about–something she got from a restaurant she was reviewing.”
“What?”
“She’ll be fine. Back in no time to flirt your face off.”
He shakes his head in mock annoyance. He says thank you to Lois, now distracted. He wishes you had told him. He would’ve been there at your beckon and call. Cooking, cleaning, letting you rest.
He’s determined to rectify it.
———
Later in the afternoon you’re in the same position you had been in that morning. Wrapped up in a blanket, laying on your side on your couch. Tissues surround you in what looks like a ritualistic circle.
You’re watching your favourite show, though it doesn’t provide much comfort. Your throat is sore, you can’t breath through your nose and your face is puffy. You look like you’ve seen better days.
Knock, Knock, Knock.
The sound startles you. You hope it’s some delivery guy, you won’t ever see again. You pause your show, wrap your blanket around your shoulders and walk towards the door. Soft padded sounds echo throughout your apartment.
You open your door and see Clark. He looks picture perfect—of course.
“Hey,” he says.
You step back from the door. It horrifies him. You’re horrified that he’s seeing you like this.
“Sorry,” he clears his throat, “I heard you were sick. I brought soup?” He says it like it’s an offering to be let inside your apartment.
It works.
You lead him into your living room. You slightly die with each step you take towards it, knowing the state it’s in. It’s horrid that you two haven’t even been out on a date and he’s seeing this side of you.
“How’d you know I was sick?”
“Lois told me.”
“She’s told the whole Daily Planet?”
“No, just me. I asked. I was worried about you. Seems like I should’ve asked sooner.”
“You missed me?” You tease.
“Wouldn’t you miss me?” Touché.
You look at him sheepishly when you arrive in the living room. “You can sit, I’m just gonna—“ You start picking up tissues to throw them away.
Clark’s eyebrows furrow and he puts a hand on your shoulder. He walks you back into your couch. “It’s okay, sit. Eat the soup. I’ll clean up.”
“You’ll get sick. My germs are all over this place.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
Reluctantly, you let him clean your living room, folding yourself back into your blanket. He walks into your kitchen and grabs you a spoon before getting to work.
He works his way around your living room cleaning up. Your whole body aches, or else you would’ve been helping too. Once he’s finished he sits down beside you. You’ve finished eating too.
“Thank you, Clark. You really didn’t have to do that.”
The way he looks at you is borderline insane. It’s filled with sympathy, love and gentleness. It’s too much for you to handle. He’s trying to kill you, you decide.
“I didn't. But, I wanted to, can’t have you drowning in tissues.”
You laugh. “Jimmy would love to write that story.”
He laughs too. He leans back into the couch. His suit jacket’s discarded, his sleeves are rolled up and a couple of his shirt buttons are undone. He’s relaxed. The sight of him is making you feel better already.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? I could’ve been here earlier.” He speaks softly, looking at you.
He’s so close to you it’s hard to focus on his words. Your mind is in a daze of sickness and him. “I didn’t think you’d want to know.”
He understands. You two aren’t anything concrete, your relationship is built on flirty banter at work. But, he wants to be more. He wants to be the person you tell everything to.
“I care about you; Of course I’d want to know.”
He’s incredibly gentle with you. It’s crazy. And the way he looks at you, gosh. It’s as if he wants to know you, all of you. His eyes are magnified by his glasses. It’s adorable.
“I know you do. It’s what’s going to get you sick.” You joke, half serious.
He shakes his head softly, smiling. “I’m trying to be serious.”
“I know, next time I’ll tell you. I promise.” Sincerity evident in your voice.
“Thank you.”
He puts his arm around your shoulders and pulls you into him. You settle against his body and the couch. His warmth spreads to you and you never want it to leave.
“Nothing.” It’s getting harder to properly breathe and think. You’re trying hard to decipher if it’s the alcohol you’re drunk on or him. “I’m having fun being here.”
“Yeah? Me too.” Fuck.
Summary: You're too shy to flirt with Clark and Jimmy's tired of hearing you talk about him. [989 words]
CW: Fluff, beginnings of a relationship, reader works at Daily Planet, mutual pinning, alcohol
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“Jimmy–”
“Please don’t start.”
Sitting beside Jimmy is torture. Sure, he talks nonstop about his girl problems and how he’s ‘drowning in chicks’, but that’s not it. The devastating part of it is how your desks are positioned.
Your crush, Daily Planet’s sweetheart, Clark Kent, sits behind you. You can’t take any sly glances at him without it looking odd. One time, when you were craning your neck to see him, you swear he sensed it, looked up and nearly made eye contact with you.
It wouldn’t have been the worst thing, now that you think of it.
It’s not like you don’t speak to him. You do, of course you do. You ask him to check over your articles and about his stories. It’s mostly about work. Okay, it’s always about work. You can’t bring yourself to overtly flirt with him, too afraid that he’ll reject your advances. He's your work friend, for now.
“How do you know what I’m gonna say?”
He sighs, turning to face you in his chair. “It’s about Clark. It always is.”
“No. It’s not.” You cringe when you hear your unconvincing voice.
“You always tell me how much you like him. I always tell you the same thing: Talk. To. Him.”
“I do! It’s just always about work.” Exasperated voice with a matching facial expression. “I don’t know what to do.”
“I’m gonna fix this for you right now.” Jimmy gets up from his seat before you can say anything.
You watch him, panicked that he's going to divulge all the stuff you’ve said about Clark to Clark himself. Instead, he walks over to Lois’ desk. The news room is far too loud for you to hear what’s being said. He continues over to Clark’s desk and your heart drops.
When he sits back down you slap his arm. “Jimmy, what did you do?!”
“Drinks!” He says, while attempting to rub the discomfort away. “I asked them if they wanted to go to the bar to get drinks after work! So you could talk to Clark outside of work.”
Oh. “What did Clark say?”
“You’re deranged, you know.” You smile at him, it works and he continues. “He said yes.”
You nearly scream. “Oh you’re the absolute best!”
--------
The bar is bustling with people. The lights are low and the crowd loud. You all came together but you’re now scattered throughout the bar. Jimmy had wandered off when he saw a girl batting her eyelashes at him. Cat and Steve—who had decided to come along—are now sitting next to the bar. Steve watching the baseball game; Cat talking up the bartender.
You’re sitting in a booth with Lois and Clark; Lois opposite you and Clark beside you. They've just started a conversation about Superman.
“We should know more about him, for how much we trust him.” Lois says.
“We know enough about him. He’s saving lives, what else do we need to know?” Clark replies.
“Where he came from, where he grew up, the full extent of his powers,”
“Okay sure, but some of that is private. He’s earned his privacy.”
You watch the interaction with interest. But, the drink you’ve been nursing has made your head foggy. You’re also way too focused on Clark. His hand has fallen between his outer thigh and your own. Knuckles touching your pants, sparking nerves in your stomach.
The song changes and Cat hustles over to the booth. “Come on! This is the song!” She ushers Lois out of her seat to dance with her. Lois goes reluctantly and Cat gives you a knowing smile. Gosh, you love her.
“Sorry about that,” Clark turns to you in his seat. His knee bumps yours and you sit up straighter.
“It’s no worries. I like a good argument.”
You tilt your head up to see him properly and oh my god. His hair curling over his ears and his dimples when he smiles at your comment, it gives you heart palpitations. It’s hot in the bar. He discarded his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves; forearms exposed.
“Are you much of a bar person?”
He laughs, eyelashes kissing his cheeks. “God, no. Are you?”
It’s your turn to laugh. “No, not at all. I came to be sociable.” It’s not really a lie.
“Sitting in the booth is sociable?”
“I’m talking to you, that’s sociable.”
His smile strengthens. “I’ll count that.”
“Thank you.”
Someone yells for the music to be turned up. It goes from loud to blaring. Clark leans in a bit closer, breathing in your air. You’re sure you’re blushing. You think he knows it’s not the heat of the bar, or the alcohol that’s causing it. He’s got you cornered in the booth and you have no issues with it. He could smother you if he wanted to.
“What would you rather be doing?”
“Nothing.” It’s getting harder to properly breathe and think. You’re trying hard to decipher if it’s the alcohol you’re drunk on or him. “I’m having fun being here.”
“Yeah? Me too.” Fuck. “I’m happy Jimmy asked me to come.”
“I’m happy you came too. I wouldn’t have come otherwise.”
He looks amused now. “Why’s that?”
Clark’s not casual about anything really. He likes you, a lot. He didn’t flirt with you due to the risk of making you uncomfortable. Now, he’s looking at you all glassy eyed, blushing as you speak to him. He feels like the luckiest person ever.
“I wanted to talk to you. I really like you.” You’re horrified at the words slipping out of your mouth. But, the sweetness in his voice and his proximity has become too much to handle.
He beams at you, creases by his eyes and smile lines visible. “I really like you too.”
“You what? I mean like more than coworkers–or friends.”
“Thank you, Clark. You really didn’t have to do that.”
The way he looks at you is borderline insane. It’s filled with sympathy, love and gentleness. It’s too much for you to handle. He’s trying to kill you, you decide.
“I didn't. But, I wanted to, can’t have you drowning in tissues.”
Summary: You don't come to work for a while, Clark worries about you and brings you soup. [865 words]
Warnings: Fluff, beginnings of a relationship, reader works at Daily Planet, idiots in love, fem reader
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“Lois?”
“Yeah, Clark?”
She doesn’t look away from her computer, clearly immersed and preoccupied. Clark doesn’t want to have to bother her, but he’s out of options. He‘s worried about you.
You hadn’t been into work for two days which was rather out of character. You loved your job more than anything. You got paid to write, report and flirt with Clark (of course). The latter being something you’d only got the confidence to do within the past couple weeks. It was still fresh and new.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Just did.” Eyes glued to her computer.
Clark asks Lois if she knows what’s happened to you.
She smiles knowingly. “She’s sick. Something about–something she got from a restaurant she was reviewing.”
“What?”
“She’ll be fine. Back in no time to flirt your face off.”
He shakes his head in mock annoyance. He says thank you to Lois, now distracted. He wishes you had told him. He would’ve been there at your beckon and call. Cooking, cleaning, letting you rest.
He’s determined to rectify it.
———
Later in the afternoon you’re in the same position you had been in that morning. Wrapped up in a blanket, laying on your side on your couch. Tissues surround you in what looks like a ritualistic circle.
You’re watching your favourite show, though it doesn’t provide much comfort. Your throat is sore, you can’t breath through your nose and your face is puffy. You look like you’ve seen better days.
Knock, Knock, Knock.
The sound startles you. You hope it’s some delivery guy, you won’t ever see again. You pause your show, wrap your blanket around your shoulders and walk towards the door. Soft padded sounds echo throughout your apartment.
You open your door and see Clark. He looks picture perfect—of course.
“Hey,” he says.
You step back from the door. It horrifies him. You’re horrified that he’s seeing you like this.
“Sorry,” he clears his throat, “I heard you were sick. I brought soup?” He says it like it’s an offering to be let inside your apartment.
It works.
You lead him into your living room. You slightly die with each step you take towards it, knowing the state it’s in. It’s horrid that you two haven’t even been out on a date and he’s seeing this side of you.
“How’d you know I was sick?”
“Lois told me.”
“She’s told the whole Daily Planet?”
“No, just me. I asked. I was worried about you. Seems like I should’ve asked sooner.”
“You missed me?” You tease.
“Wouldn’t you miss me?” Touché.
You look at him sheepishly when you arrive in the living room. “You can sit, I’m just gonna—“ You start picking up tissues to throw them away.
Clark’s eyebrows furrow and he puts a hand on your shoulder. He walks you back into your couch. “It’s okay, sit. Eat the soup. I’ll clean up.”
“You’ll get sick. My germs are all over this place.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
Reluctantly, you let him clean your living room, folding yourself back into your blanket. He walks into your kitchen and grabs you a spoon before getting to work.
He works his way around your living room cleaning up. Your whole body aches, or else you would’ve been helping too. Once he’s finished he sits down beside you. You’ve finished eating too.
“Thank you, Clark. You really didn’t have to do that.”
The way he looks at you is borderline insane. It’s filled with sympathy, love and gentleness. It’s too much for you to handle. He’s trying to kill you, you decide.
“I didn't. But, I wanted to, can’t have you drowning in tissues.”
You laugh. “Jimmy would love to write that story.”
He laughs too. He leans back into the couch. His suit jacket’s discarded, his sleeves are rolled up and a couple of his shirt buttons are undone. He’s relaxed. The sight of him is making you feel better already.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? I could’ve been here earlier.” He speaks softly, looking at you.
He’s so close to you it’s hard to focus on his words. Your mind is in a daze of sickness and him. “I didn’t think you’d want to know.”
He understands. You two aren’t anything concrete, your relationship is built on flirty banter at work. But, he wants to be more. He wants to be the person you tell everything to.
“I care about you; Of course I’d want to know.”
He’s incredibly gentle with you. It’s crazy. And the way he looks at you, gosh. It’s as if he wants to know you, all of you. His eyes are magnified by his glasses. It’s adorable.
“I know you do. It’s what’s going to get you sick.” You joke, half serious.
He shakes his head softly, smiling. “I’m trying to be serious.”
“I know, next time I’ll tell you. I promise.” Sincerity evident in your voice.
“Thank you.”
He puts his arm around your shoulders and pulls you into him. You settle against his body and the couch. His warmth spreads to you and you never want it to leave.
I really love all of the Clark Kent fics you’ve written recently but this one is my favorite! It’s really well written the perfect balance of believably flirty friendship. Clark is such a sweetie, you capture him so well!
This is by far the most lovely thing to wake up to!! Clark really is a golden retriever at heart and I try my best to convey him as such!! Thank you so much for reading and being so so kind!!
“And your body is taking the brunt of it.” His voice, laced with concern. “When’s the last time you slept properly or ate a real meal?”
“You trying to ask me out, Clark? You sure it’s okay with HR?” You tease. Your brain short circuits when you see a light blush on his cheeks. Maybe you’re imagining it.
Summary: You work too hard and Clark helps you in anyway he can. [1k words]
Warnings: fluff, idiots in love, Clark is lovesick!!, mutual pining
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“What are you doing here?”
“I work here, Jimmy.”
“No, not at this time of day, you don’t.”
Clark is at work right on time. This should be normal, but it’s an anomaly. He’s chronically late and known for it. He walks into the Daily Planet with Jimmy by his side. He’s holding coffee in each hand with his briefcase under his arm.
“I do, at exactly this time. Aren’t you proud of me?”
“Who’s the other coffee for? Me?” Jimmy teases.
Clark smiles. “I’ll be sure to get your order for next time.”
“Yeah, sure you will.” Jimmy laughs as he leaves Clark’s side.
Clark places his briefcase down on his orange clothed chair. He puts his coffee down and holds the other in his hands. He takes a deep breath and looks up at your desk. He sees you and feels the need to take another breath.
You always come in early and leave late. Clark’s the opposite. It’s concerning how much time you spend in the office. You’re on the phone with your feet kicked up on your desk. You’re hurriedly jotting down notes on the legal pad in your lap. Sunlight from the window behind you creates a glowing effect around you. It makes you look holy.
It’s fitting, Clark thinks.
He waits for you to hang up the phone before approaching. You see him before he reaches your desk and you smile at him.
“Perry’s gonna be happy to see you on time.”
He shakes his head smiling. “Thought you might need this.” He holds out the coffee for you.
A grateful smile graces your lips. “You know me so well, thank you.” Your fingers slide against his as you take the coffee. His heart leaps. He bites his cheek to conceal his much too big grin.
What he doesn’t mention is how he set his alarm early to ensure he could go to the coffee shop, and make it here on time. All to give you some quality caffeine to start your day, not the stuff here at the Daily Planet. He knows you well enough to know you favour your job over sleep. He knows he can’t change that. Instead, he chooses to make it more bearable.
There’s a deep throbbing in your head. You try to look up at him but the sunlight only makes it worse. You shield your eyes with your hand. “I feel like a vampire.”
“Partying too hard?” He suggests. He leans on your desk with his body facing you.
“Very funny,” you deadpan, “I’m finally piecing together this story.” You take a sip of the coffee. It’s just how you like it.
“And your body is taking the brunt of it.” His voice, laced with concern. “When’s the last time you slept properly or ate a real meal?”
“You trying to ask me out, Clark? You sure it’s okay with HR?” You tease. Your brain short circuits when you see a light blush on his cheeks. Maybe you’re imagining it.
“Heathen.” He smiles before walking back to his desk. You want to call after him, apologize for teasing but you let him go.
Clark’s sweet—almost too sweet— to everyone he meets. When he started spending more time around your desk, talking to you and offering to read over your articles, you took it as him being him; kind. Now, you pretend it’s more than that. Maybe it is.
Around lunch time you’re still working on your article, when you hear a chair being rolled near you. You look up and it’s Clark. He holds half a sandwich to you with the other half in his hand. He gives you the bigger half.
“Have lunch with me?”
You want to say something witty, but hunger and the headache make your mind cloudy. You take the sandwich gratefully, “Thank you. Read this for me?”
You eat your lunch quietly while Clark reads over your article. It’s about construction on historical buildings in Metropolis. All very boring stuff, it’s hard to convey it as otherwise.
The way he looks when he’s concentrating is something to be admired. Lips lightly parted and eyebrows furrowed. And you do admire him, all while hoping he can’t feel the intensity of your gaze.
By the time he’s finished you both have eaten your sandwiches whole. You look at him expectantly.
“What’d you think?”
“It’s good.”
Tilting your head sideways, you squint your eyes at him. “But?…”
“There is no but. It’s good—great even. Now you can get some rest.” His tone is uneven.
“Clark, come on.” You whine, knowing he’s leaving something out.
He sighs. “There’s a few small grammar mistakes and some sentences need rewording. They’re confusing.”
You groan, leaning your head back.
“But—I can fix it for you. You should go home and get some rest. It's probably the reason you’re making these mistakes.”
“No, it’s okay—”
He says your name in an almost exasperated way. “Let me do it, I want to help you. It’s not a bother.”
Looking into his eyes you try to search for any sign that he’s lying. It’s futile, knowing Clark, he’s telling the truth. And you know you need rest, your head will favour it.
“You’ve done too much for me already.”
He’ll fight you on that later. “Is that a yes? You’ll let me edit it?”
“Do you have other work to do?”
“No. Nothing. I’m free.”
You smile softly at him. “Okay, fine.”
He beams. ”Finally. Go home, rest, eat. Tomorrow, I’ll show you the edits I’ve made.” His voice lathered with love and care. You try to decipher whether you’re imagining the former or not. But, your head hurts too much.
“Thank you, Clark.”
——
When you’re walking out you’re met with Lois.
“Finished your article already?”
“No, my head hurts.” You sigh, “Clark’s helping me out with it.”
”Really? He told me he had that Superman interview to submit today. Perry’s been on his ass about it.”
“I should’ve told you. I wanted to tell you, but I–” He speaks softly but he’s clearly frustrated with himself. You start cleaning his cuts, he inhales sharply and his abdomen flexes.
“You were busy. People were in danger and you had to help. It’s fine.” You wish it felt fine.
Summary: Peter wakes you up in the middle of the night. You’re upset but he’s hurt and apologetic. [764 words]
Warnings: mentions of blood and injuries, hurt and comfort, established relationship, gender unspecified reader
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Moonlight flows into your bedroom through a closed window. It’s clean and quiet. Almost everything’s put away: your clothes, shoes and books. The only things left out are a dress, your purse and a pair of ballet flats. The remnants of a date.
You’re in bed, halfway asleep when you hear a thud outside your window. You turn away from the window. There’s a knock on it and a muffled voice follows.
“Babe? I'm so, so sorry. Please open the window.”
Peter was supposed to meet you for a date earlier in the day. It was planned days ahead while you two languidly laid in bed together. He actually suggested it, which is ironic now knowing that he didn’t show up.
No call. No texts. Just radio silence.
You waited at the restaurant for a while. It was humiliating being all dolled up and excited to see your boyfriend who never arrived. Everytime the waitress came by you would smile sheepishly at her and say ‘He’ll be here any minute’.
You squeeze your eyes shut before opening them. You groan as you get out of bed and walk toward the window. It takes a little force to push open the window and when you do, a rush of cold air floods into your room. Goosebumps spread over your body.
That’s when you see Peter.
He’s hunched over with an arm clutching his stomach. It’s too dark to see what’s happened to him. There’s a pained look on his face when he looks up at you. You can’t register it, the smears of blood on his face distract you.
“Peter. What the fuck happened to you?”
You step back from the window and he stumbles inside. He falls onto the floor at the foot of your bed. He winces as he adjusts himself to sit up properly. You can’t help but feel bad for being upset at him.
You rush into your bathroom and grab your first-aid kit. When you come back you turn on your lamp and wish you hadn’t. The soft glow allows you to see the gash on Peter’s chest and the scrapes on his face. His knuckles are raw and bruised. It’s evident he got his ass kicked.
“I’m really, really sorry,” He inhales sharply, “that I missed dinner.”
“Pete, stop–Take your suit off.”
You sit down with your legs folded under you. What does he want you to say? He clearly had more important things to do, crime fighting and whatnot. You shouldn’t be upset, that's selfish. He was saving lives. You don’t look him in the eyes.
He shoves down his suit and it settles at his waist. Cuts and bruises now fully exposed, they make you feel queasy no matter how often you see them. You pour rubbing alcohol onto some gauze.
“I should’ve told you. I wanted to tell you, but I–” He speaks softly but he’s clearly frustrated with himself. You start cleaning his cuts, he winces quietly and his abdomen flexes.
“You were busy. People were in danger and you had to help. It’s fine.” You wish it felt fine.
He sighs and wraps his fingers around your upper arm. His grip is firm and comforting. “Hey, look at me.”
Reluctantly, you do. There’s a small frown on your face and it makes his heart hurt knowing he caused it. He feels disgusted with himself when he imagines you dressed up, sitting at the restaurant and waiting for him.
“I should have told you that I wouldn’t be able to make it. I fucking wish I did but, I didn’t. I’ll learn to balance everything better, I swear.” He insists.
You exhale. “It’s okay, really. Just felt a bit humiliated s’all.” It feels stupid talking about your feelings when he’s the one with the open and bleeding wounds. But, that’s Peter, always putting others before himself.
“I know babe, I’m sorry.” He moves his hand up and down your arm in a soothing motion.
“Pete,” You shake your head softly, “You’ve got open wounds but you’re concerned about me?”
“Yeah. I messed up. Need to rectify it and not lose the catch of the century.” He’s smiling softly.
“You’re an idiot. Can't believe I deal with you." His smile is contagious, spreading to you easily.
"I'm thankful you do."
He dips his head down and kisses you. His hand runs up from your arm to your neck, thumb running along your jaw. It's sweet and soft. All unsavoury memories from the night melt away.
You glance at him as he downs his cherry slushie. It probably tastes like medicine. “You’re an alien.”
“'Cause I’m so attractive and smart and cool?” His lips have a red tint and when he opens his mouth you can see his tongue is red too.
“Yes. Humble too.”
Summary: You and Peter go on a midnight run for slushies and you try not to expose your secret. [632 words]
Warnings: Fluff, bestfriends in love, gender unspecified reader
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It’s a cool summer night; the city is alive. Car horns, distant music and light from various store fronts coat the night. It’s a night to appreciate and you’re feeling especially grateful today.
“I hate you.”
“So close! The answer is I love you.” Peter grins.
He matches your pace as you walk even though he could easily surpass you. It’s late, 1:30AM to be exact. You should probably be asleep and you have work tomorrow. But, it’s summer and when Peter asked you to get slushies, it was a no-brainer. However, the walk feels like it’s getting longer and longer with every step.
Normally, with anyone else, you would turn back and walk home because it’s not worth it just for slushies. But it’s Peter. His fingers brush yours as you walk and your arms bump against each other. It makes your chest feel tighter.
He doesn't even have to look to know you roll your eyes. “Are we there yet?”
“Almost.”
“You said that a block ago.”
“It’s subjective.” He shrugs.
You smile softly at that. “It’s been thirty minutes. Couldn’t you just—spiderman us to the nearest seven eleven?”
He’s smiling now too.
“Spiderman us?” He says incredulously.
“Swing us? Is that proper terminology?”
Peter shakes his head softly. “Well, last time you threw up,”
“Okay—But that was my first time getting flung about in the air.”
“You want a repeat?”
“A do-over would be nice.”
The yellow glow from the street lamps softens his features. It makes everything seem nostalgic. His hair is tousled, it curls around his ears, he wears a boyish smile—dimples evident. It hurts your heart that you’re just friends. The soft smiles and playful banter blur the lines just enough to pretend otherwise.
He groans. “You’re spending quality time with your best friend.”
You grimace. ”Pete. This is kind of awkward. You’re not my—“
“Ha Ha”, He shoves you playfully and you stumble slightly. “You’re so funny.”
Hours (ten minutes) later, you reach the seven-eleven. Peter gets a cherry flavoured slushie and you get blue raspberry which is arguably superior. You start to take out your money, but he’s faster. Damn him and his superhuman abilities.
You both sit on the curb outside of the store. His thigh is flush against yours. You’ve crossed your legs fully and he’s crossed one with the other stretched out in front of him.
You glance at him as he downs his cherry slushie. It probably tastes like medicine. “You’re an alien.”
“'Cause I’m so attractive and smart and cool?” His lips have a red tint and when he opens his mouth you can see his tongue is red too.
“Yes. Humble too.” You say before taking a sip of your slushie while looking at Peter.
“Uh-Huh, can’t forget that.” He smiles, looking off in front of him. It seems like something is on his mind. You pretend he’s thinking about you.
You shake your head softly, unable to take your eyes off him. You’re so close to him. You could reach out and touch his hair. It looks soft and plush. You love him and he loves you back, just not in the same way. It’s enough for you though.
He turns back to look at you. There’s a look in his eyes you can’t quite place. He looks at you for a beat too long. It’s like he knows what you’re thinking.
It’s hard to maintain eye contact with him. It makes your stomach twist. Instead, you laugh and push him, knocking your shoulder against his. He laughs and it’s genuine. The sound of it is too much to deal with.
”Yeah, you love me.” He says matter-of-factly, looking back at you with a knowing smile on his face.
