*gently takes your face in my hands* hey. remember that fandom is for fun. if you're not having fun it is ok to step back. if you're intentionally making it unfun for others it is ok to step back. none of this is real. go sit in the sun and smell a flower. i love you.
summary: good things happen to those who are found crying in the supply closet by their hot, older, maybe flirty boss-slash-mentor.
wc: 14.5k (i have no idea how that happened)
tags/tropes: age gap (duh), slow burn with an insane amount of tension, lowkey very emotionally rife, hurt/comfort, not-so-unrealistic amounts of crying, langdonmel in the background if you squint (you don’t have to squint very hard i love them so much guys im sorry) vaguely referenced but not subtlety implied bad childhood, gratuitous and frankly ridiculous medical inaccuracies because i took a lot of creative liberty, reader is an ode to Matilda by Harry Styles and You’re Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan, Pitt Crew becomes reader’s family :)
a/n: this was supposed to be a sort-of drabble for @leeknowpegger. idk what happened. pegger i’m sorry i’ve been so dead recently (always) will you take this as an apology. If you’d like more cohesive tags, more context, extra details, and more in depth warnings, this fic has been cross-posted on ao3, and will be linked below :]
NOT-SO-FRIENDLY-PSA: Any comments asking me to write more, post another chapter, or anything of the sort will be deleted. Please do not send an ask into my inbox either. Screaming in my inbox (not about wanting more, general screaming) is totally fine though!
ao3
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۫ ꣑ৎ
You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.
Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”
Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.
Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.
Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.
You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.
But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.
The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.
And yet, here you are.
Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.
For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.
And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.
Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.
It was a test. Not your first.
And you ripped the fucking purse strings.
Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”
And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.
So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.
You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)
You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.
But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.
You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.
But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.
You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.
You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.
Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.
You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.
Of-fucking-course.
You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.
“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“
He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.
“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”
Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.
“…Those are three by threes.”
Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.
“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”
You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.
“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”
“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”
His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)
You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.
“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”
You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.
The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.
Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.
“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”
A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“
Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.
Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?
“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”
He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.
Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”
“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”
“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”
“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”
He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”
“…No?”
He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”
You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”
Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”
—
Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.
He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.
Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.
He started to get restless again.
He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.
And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.
And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.
That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.
Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.
Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.
Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.
Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.
He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’
And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’
Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.
He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.
The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.
When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.
“That one yours, then?”
Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”
Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”
“She’s Robby’s intern.”
“Mhm.”
“She’s way too young.”
Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”
“She is.”
The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”
“Maybe.”
Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”
“She’s not my intern.”
Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.
“It’s an HR nightmare.”
Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”
He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”
“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”
“Parker.”
“Jack.”
He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”
Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”
To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.
You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.
Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.
Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.
“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”
Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.
“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“
“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”
Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”
Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”
Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.
When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.
“Dr. Abbot!”
Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.
He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.
“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.
You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.
“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”
“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”
You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”
Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.
But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.
Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.
His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.
But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.
“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”
“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”
Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”
Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.
No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.
What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.
He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.
He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.
“Tilt your head up.”
He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.
He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.
Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.
He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.
“Did you walk to work today?”
You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”
He blinks.
“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”
You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.
“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”
There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.
“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”
“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”
Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.
God.
“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”
He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.
Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.
“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”
Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.
“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“
“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”
The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.
“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”
Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.
He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”
Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”
Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.
So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.
“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”
He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”
You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”
He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”
“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”
“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”
“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”
Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.
He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.
“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”
You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”
You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”
He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.
“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”
And with that, he’s out the door.
It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.
You’re not exactly rushing out the door.
You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?
The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.
“Still raining out there?”
“Yep. Looks worse now.”
“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”
“Mhm.”
“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”
“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”
Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.
“Come on, kid.”
The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.
He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.
You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.
“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“
“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“
By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.
On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.
Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.
“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”
That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?
Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
Ah. Right. The Incident.
“I told you I’m—“
“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”
Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?
He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”
“Have you been hit by a patient before?”
He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”
“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”
“Oh yeah?”
You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”
“What, did she slap you too?”
“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”
“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”
You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”
Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”
“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”
The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.
Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.
Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.
Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.
“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”
Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.
Oh right, your apartment.
“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.
Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.
You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”
“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”
Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.
“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”
He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”
Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.
“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”
“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”
Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.
Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.
It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.
“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”
“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“
“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”
He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”
Your mouth goes dry.
“I was planning on looking online—“
Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”
Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?
“Dr. Abbot, I—“
“Jack.”
His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.
“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”
“Kid—“
The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.
“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”
Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.
He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.
“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”
Jack holds up a second finger.
“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”
Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.
Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”
“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”
He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”
Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.
“You worry about me?”
Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.
“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”
Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.
You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.
“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”
“No problem, kid.”
And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.
—
From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.
Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.
You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.
Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.
Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.
Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.
But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.
You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.
Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.
“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”
If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.
“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”
In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.
“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.
You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.
So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.
What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.
The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.
She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.
“Bad shift?”
“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”
Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”
“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”
“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”
She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”
You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.
Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.
Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.
“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”
She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”
“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”
Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“
“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”
The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.
“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”
You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”
“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”
Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.
“Have you… acted on it?”
“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”
She leans in. “But…?”
“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”
Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”
“Right. Yeah.”
She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”
Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.
“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.
“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”
You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”
She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”
Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”
“You’re the best. I love you.”
The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.
—
Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”
Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.
After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.
“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.
“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”
“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”
Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”
There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.
“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”
You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”
She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”
“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”
She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”
“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”
“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“
“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”
Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”
“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”
She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”
Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”
Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”
She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”
“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”
Mohan actually looks taken back.
“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”
“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”
She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”
“Yes please.”
Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.
She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.
You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.
Maybe everything will be okay.
—
Everything is not okay.
You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.
Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.
You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”
“I try.”
You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.
It doesn’t help much.
There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.
Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.
The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.
You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.
A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.
You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.
Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.
“You’re flagging.”
Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”
He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”
“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”
He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”
Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”
“Yes sir.”
He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”
Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.
Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.
Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.
Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.
“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.
Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.
And that’s just the last straw, really.
You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.
The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.
“Hello?”
It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.
You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”
“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”
“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”
“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”
Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.
“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”
“Do you have a place to stay?”
Always a man of action, Jack is.
You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”
“I have a guest bedroom.”
The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.
“Jack?”
“Yes?”
“What’s your address?”
The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.
You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.
It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.
The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.
Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.
If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.
His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.
He makes a low noise in his throat.
“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”
Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".
Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.
Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.
“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”
You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.
“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.
“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”
At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.
“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”
“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”
He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.
It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.
Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.
There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.
But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.
Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.
“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”
“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”
“That explains a lot of things.”
His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.
“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”
Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”
“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”
Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”
That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.
“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”
Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.
“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”
Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.
Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.
Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.
You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.
They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.
Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.
(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)
The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.
Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.
He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.
“Feeling better after your shower?”
You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.
“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”
He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”
He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”
“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”
“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”
You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.
You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”
“Do you want to leave?”
You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.
You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.
“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”
Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”
“Do you?”
You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.
Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.
“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”
“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”
“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”
You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”
“Are they?”
“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“
You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.
I want you to like me.
Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.
It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.
(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)
He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.
It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.
Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.
It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.
And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.
He doesn’t. He starts talking.
“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”
Your breath hitches in your chest.
“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”
He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”
Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.
Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.
“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”
There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?
Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.
Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.
That would be something, wouldn’t it.
You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.
Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.
There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.
You start crying again, in earnest.
“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”
You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.
Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.
“I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”
He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.
“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
—
You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.
You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.
Holy shit. What the fuck.
Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.
In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.
Kid-
I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.
Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.
The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.
On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.
Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.
Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.
You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.
“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”
Mel is the first to speak.
“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”
Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.
You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”
Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”
Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.
Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”
Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”
Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.
"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."
Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.
–
At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.
It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:
Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.
Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.
–
When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.
He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.
And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.
You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.
"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'
You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."
You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."
Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.
Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.
Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.
The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.
Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.
"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"
He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.
"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."
He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.
"Why did you put it on?"
You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.
"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."
The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.
"How come?"
"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."
You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."
"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."
You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."
Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.
"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."
Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.
He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.
He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.
"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.
"Hmm?"
"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"
"I want to kiss you."
Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.
He continues when you don't speak.
"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."
"Oh."
"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."
You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.
"I thought I was just reading into things!"
"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"
Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.
"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"
He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment."
You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.
"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"
For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.
"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."
Warnings: MDNI, 18+, smut, brat taming, rough sex, multiple orgasms (m), f orgasm, dom/sub dynamics (Dom!Hotch and Sub!Reader), deliberate disobedience, edging/orgasm denial, overstimulation, light bondage, reader being gagged, creampie, cum everywhere, possessive!Hotch, aftercare. L/N used twice.
Summary: You deliberately try to undermine and piss Hotch off in the field so he'll be rough with you behind closed doors.
A/N: If this stinks I'm sorry. I wanted to try and write a fic that wasn't completely in past tense to challenge myself.
But also…. OH MY GOD MY PANTIES ARE SO WET AFTER WRITING THIS 🤤🤭🥴
You’re pushing it today, and you fucking know it.
Every time Hotch opens his mouth to give an order, you directly disobey him, already moving in the opposite direction of what he wanted. Every time he says “hold position,” you take three deliberate steps forward. And every time he shoots you that warning look, the one you know all too well, the one that makes your knees weak and your mouth dry, you smile back like you’re daring him to do something about it right here, right now, in front of God himself and the entire Kansas field office.
He doesn’t. Not yet.
He just keeps that muscle ticking in his jaw that clicks every time he's trying to keep himself professional and his voice clipped, low, and lethal. He knows what you're doing and is mentally tallying every single disobedient act you decide to display for later score.
Morgan keeps glancing between the two of you like he’s waiting for the detonation. Prentiss pretends to be fascinated by the geographic profile. And Reid, poor oblivious Reid, has (actually) backed all the way up against a filing cabinet, as if distance might save him from whatever’s coming when Hotch finally blows.
Rossi, of course, is enjoying the show.
You’re leaning over the evidence table, deliberately bending farther than necessary to reach a photo, when Rossi sidles up beside you.
“You trying to get fired, kid?” he mutters under his breath. Already knowing exactly what you're playing at. Rossi knows Hotch too well, knows you too well. And has definitely figured out just what your relationship entails behind closed doors.
You don’t even look at him. “Just keeping him on his toes, David.”
He hums, unconvinced. “He’s gonna put you on your knees later, and not in the fun way.”
You grin, sharp and sweet, when in reality you should've been mortified at the words coming out of Rossi's mouth. “We’ll see.”
Hotch’s voice cuts across the bullpen. “L/N. My six. Now.”
You straighten slowly, brushing imaginary lint off your shirt. “Yes, sir.”
You saunter over, boots echoing, and stop just inside his personal space, close enough that he has to tilt his head down to glare at you.
The rest of the room pretends they’re suddenly very very busy. And definitely not listening to whatever is about to happen between the two of you.
“You’re off the raid,” he says, voice low enough that only you can hear the tremor of fury underneath. Meaning that you've just struck bingo, and Hotch is giving you exactly what you were playing for later.
You blink, all mock innocence, before you raise your brows at him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re staying here with the locals.”
You laugh, actually laugh, straight in his face. “No, I’m not.”
“That wasn’t a request.” His eyes flash, his pupils dilating, darkening. You can tell that he is trying to claw his way out of Hotch, begging to be released upon you.
“And this isn’t a negotiation.” You step closer, dropping your voice to a purr. “You want me on a leash, Aaron, you’re gonna have to put it on me yourself. In front of everyone. Go ahead.” You cross your arms over your chest.
His nostrils flare. For one electric second, you think he might actually do it, might snap right here, take his belt off, and drag you out by the back of your neck like you both know you want him to.
Instead, he exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, trying to ground himself before he says something too unprofessional. When he finally speaks, he leans down to whisper in your ear through gritted teeth, “Fine! You’re with me. You leave my sight for less than .01 seconds, I'll cuff you to the SUV and leave you in the car overnight like some abandoned pet left on the side of the road. Try me.”
You lick your bottom lip. “Promise?”
He turns on his heel before he does something he can’t take back in front of twenty witnesses and the entirety of his team.
The raid is a clusterfuck waiting to happen, and you are the match.
Hotch wants to go in quietly through the back. You’re already halfway across the parking lot toward the front door before he grabs your vest and yanks you back.
“Jesus Christ, do you have a death wish today?” He says, leaving little to no discussion in his tone, you know that tone all too well, even strive to get it out of him on occasion... well, more times than not.
You spin, grinning up at him. “Only if you’re the one pulling the trigger.”
He looks like he’s two seconds from gagging you with his own tie and bending you over right here, right now.
Morgan’s voice crackles over comms. “Hotch, we’re set on the east side. You two coming or getting a room?”
You reach up and key your own comm without looking away from Hotch. “We’re coming, 'baby girl'. Unit Chief’s just having a little performance anxiety.” You can already imagine Morgan's confused look at the nickname.
Hotch rips the earpiece out of your ear and crushes it under his boot.
You whistle, low and a little playful. “That’s destruction of FBI property, sir. Very naughty.”
He grabs the front of your vest this time, hauling you in until you’re nose to nose. There he is. “You do not speak again until this unsub is in cuffs. Not one fucking word. Nod if you understand.”
You nod, solemn and mocking. Already planning to break that exact promise.
He releases you like you’re radioactive.
The warehouse is a maze of rusted machinery and broken skylights. Moonlight stripes the concrete floor. You move ahead of Hotch, deliberately, clearing corners before he can tell you to wait.
He hisses your name, barely audible.
You ignore him.
You hear the unsub before you see him: panicked breathing, the clatter of a dropped magazine. He’s reloading behind a stack of crates twenty feet ahead.
You raise your weapon before you step into the open.
Hotch swears viciously behind you and moves to cover, but you’re already talking.
“FBI! Drop it!”
The unsub spins, wild-eyed, gun up.
You don’t flinch.
Hotch is shouting your name now, furious and afraid all at the same time, but you keep your voice steady, taunting. “Come on, sweetheart. You wanted us to chase you. Here I am.”
The unsub’s finger tightens on the trigger.
Hotch’s arm hooks around your waist from behind, and he yanks you sideways, throwing you both sideways behind a forklift just as the shot rings out. Concrete explodes exactly where you were just standing.
You land half on top of him, ears ringing, heart slamming against your ribs.
He’s shaking with rage, hands gripping your vest so hard the straps bite.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls into your face.
You grin, breathless, high on adrenaline and the feel of him under you. “You’re welcome.”
Another shot pings off metal above your heads.
Hotch flips you onto your back, shielding you with his body, weapon already up. His voice in your ear is lethal. “Stay. Down.”
This time, you finally listen.
He rises in one fluid motion, one precise shot to his leg, and the unsub drops like a puppet that just had its strings cut.
Silence falls in the warehouse, broken only by distant shouting as the rest of the team floods in.
Hotch holsters his weapon, turns back to you, where you’re pushing to your feet.
You meet his eyes across the moonlit warehouse, chest heaving, blood thundering in your ears.
The unsub is down.
The cuffs are clicking.
And Aaron Hotchner looks like he’s deciding exactly how long it’s going to take to make you cry tonight.
The jet is grounded until at least morning due to a mechanical failure in the engine, so the team books into the hotel closest to the hangar and landing strip.
Everyone’s exhausted, adrenaline crashing hard, all a little annoyed from the lack of sleeping in their own beds tonight. But the air between you and Hotch is still a live current, ready to explode any second now.
You’re leaning against the check-in desk, tapping your badge against your palm, when Hotch steps up beside you and quietly tells the clerk, “Two singles.”
You don’t miss a beat. “Separate rooms,” you echo, loud enough for Hotch and the clerk to hear. You flash him a saccharine smile. “How very professional of us, Agent Hotchner. Gotta keep up appearances for the Bureau. Wouldn’t want anyone to know their precious unit chief has been balls-deep in his subordinate every night for the last eight months.”
The night clerk’s eyes go wide. Rossi, waiting for his key behind you, chokes on a laugh which he pretends is a cough.
Hotch doesn’t flinch. He just signs the receipt with a pen that might actually snap in his grip, then hands you a keycard.
“Room 312,” he says, voice flat. “I’ll be there in five minutes. You open that door for anyone else, you won’t sit for a month.”
He walks away before you can answer.
You take the stairs two at a time, pulse already racing.
The second the door clicks shut behind him, the mask is gone.
He shrugs out of his jacket, tosses it toward the chair in the corner of the room, and stalks toward you like a predator who’s finally off leash and pouncing straight toward its next meal.
“Strip!”
You arch a brow at him. “Please?”
He’s on you in two strides, hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back, hard.
“Don’t push me any further tonight,” he warns. “You’ve used up every last ounce of patience I have.”
“Good.” You smile slowly up at him.
He kisses you all teeth, no mercy, until you’re gasping against his mouth. Then he spins you, shoves you chest-first over the foot of the bed, yanks your jeans and panties down in one rough motion.
His palm slides between your shoulder blades, pinning you flat. You feel the heat of him behind you, the hard line of his cock pressing against your ass through his slacks.
“You’ve been begging for this all day,” he says, his voice low and more controlled than you had anticipated when you started pushing him this morning. It's the way he gets right before he completely unravels you. “Every smart-ass comment, every eye roll, every time you said my title like it’s a fucking joke. You want my attention? You have it.”
He drags your hips back until you’re bent perfectly for him, feet barely touching the carpet. The first thrust of his clothed hips against your bare skin is deliberate, grinding, a promise and a threat all at once.
You push back, greedy for him to enter you.
He stills you with one hand splayed over the base of your spine, the other winding your hair around his fist until your neck arches.
“Stay still,” he growls. “You move when I tell you to move.” He leans over you, mouth at your ear. “Color?”
“Green,” you breathe, already trembling. “So fucking green.”
He pulls back just enough to unbuckle his belt, the metallic clink loud in the almost silent room. You hear his zipper, feel the blunt, bare heat of him drag up the seam of your body.
He doesn’t enter you. Not yet.
Instead, he notches himself at your entrance and holds there, agonizingly still, while you try to rock back and take him, sheathe yourself on his cock. His grip on your hair tightens, holding you exactly where he wants you.
“Beg!”
“Please, Sir—”
“Louder.”
“Please fuck me, Sir, I need—”
He slams into you in one brutal stroke, no warning, filling you so suddenly your breath catches on a scream.
Your legs wrap around nothing, toes curling into the carpet, hips snapping hard enough to jolt the bedframe into the wall with every thrust.
He flips you onto your back without pulling out, hooking your knees over his elbows, and spreading you wide. The new angle drags a broken sound from your throat as his thrusts take him deeper and deeper.
“Look at you,” he growls against your collarbone as he shoves your shirt up and runs his mouth over your skin, teeth scraping against you. “Acting like a spoiled little brat in front of the entire team. You think they didn’t notice? You think I didn’t see the way Morgan smirked every time you opened that mouth?”
“Maybe I wanted them to know,” you taunt, breathless, reaching for him. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending I don’t belong to—”
He cuts you off by pulling out entirely and flipping you again, this time onto your knees, face and chest pressed against the mattress.
He thrusts back in so hard your hands scrabble for purchase on the sheets.
“Say it,” he snarls, one hand sliding up to collar your throat from behind, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave a bruise in the morning. “Finish that sentence.”
“I belong to you,” you sob, clenching around him. “Only you—fuck—Aaron—”
“That’s right.” He presses you deeper into the bed, hips relentless. “You’re mine. And tomorrow, when you can’t walk straight and my cum still dripping down your thighs during our briefing on the jet, you’ll remember exactly who you answer to.”
He reaches beneath you, finds your clit with better precision than a trained sharpshooter, no searching, no hesitation, just the rough pad of his finger settling right where you’re swollen and aching for him. He doesn’t move at first. Just presses, holds, lets you feel the weight of that single point of contact while his cock throbs inside you, stretching you open, owning every trembling inch.
You try to rock back, to chase more, but his grip turns iron.
“Stay,” he growls against the shell of your ear, breath hot, voice shredded. “You take what I give you.”
Then he starts to move, slow, cruel circles that drag over your clit with exactly enough pressure to make your thighs shake. Every stroke is perfectly timed with the roll of his hips, the thick drag of him pulling out until only the head remains before he slams back in, forcing the air from your lungs.
Your hands claw at the sheets. Your spine arches so hard it hurts. The pleasure coils tighter and tighter, vicious and unstoppable, until you’re sobbing his name into the pillow, broken and desperate little pleas of his name.
He speeds up, just barely, thumb flicking faster, hips snapping harder, the wet sound of him fucking you filling the room along with your wrecked moans.
“Cum,” he orders, voice cracking with restraint. “Cum on my cock right now. Show me who you belong to.”
The command rips through you.
You shatter, back bowing, toes curling, a raw scream tearing from your throat as your entire body locks down around him. Wave after wave crashes over you, so intense your vision whites out, every pulse of your orgasm dragging him deeper, milking him with greedy, rhythmic clenches.
He swears once and loses the last thread of control. His rhythm stutters, hips slamming forward one final time as he cums with a rough groan, spilling inside you.
You feel every throb, every pulse, the way he jerks and grinds through it, forehead pressed hard between your shoulder blades like he’s trying to fuse himself to your skin.
He stays there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving against your back, both of you trembling in the aftermath, slick with sweat and utterly spent. You can’t help it, your hips give a tiny, greedy roll, chasing the last sparks of pleasure, trying to keep him deep.
A soft, satisfied moan slips out of you.
Hotch’s chuckle rumbles against your spine. His arms tighten, pinning you flat to the mattress so you can’t move an inch further than you've already wiggled.
“You think we’re done?” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. He nips the lobe hard enough to make you gasp. “Oh, sweetheart. You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my time to play.”
He pulls out slowly, letting you feel every inch drag against your oversensitive walls. You whine at the sudden emptiness, but before you can protest, he’s already moving, shirt buttons flying, slacks kicked the rest of the way off, socks gone.
In seconds, he’s gloriously bare, all hard lines, cock still half-hard and glistening with your cum.
He turns his attention to you next, signaling with his hand for you to flip over on your back. You do as ordered.
Your shirt is shoved up under your arms. He yanks it off, unhooks your bra, and tosses both across the room. Then he grabs his discarded tie and crawls over you.
“Hands up,” he orders.
You obey instantly, stretching your arms above your head. He loops the tie around your wrists, threads it through the headboard, and cinches it tight. Not painful, but absolutely inescapable from your end of the deal. You tug once; the silk holds firm.
A helpless little thrill shoots straight to your core.
He settles between your thighs again, slides back inside you with one smooth thrust that makes your back arch. You’re so wet, so swollen, the stretch burns in the best way, you're not sure you can take the sensation much longer before cumming again.
“Good girl,” he praises, voice rough. “Stay just like that.”
He starts slow. Long and deep strokes that hit every spot inside you. His mouth finds your neck, your breasts, sucking bruises into your skin while his hips roll in that maddening rhythm he knows drives you absolutely insane.
It doesn’t take long before you’re writhing, breath hitching, thighs trembling around his waist.
“Please! Sir, I’m close,” you whimper.
He pulls out completely.
You cry out, hips bucking at nothing. He watches you struggle against the tie, thighs squeezing together for friction that isn’t there.
“Shh.” He strokes your hip in a soothing yet cruel manner. “Calm down a little. We’re nowhere near done.”
He waits until your breathing evens, until the desperation fades, then slides back in and starts all over again.
He does it four times.
Four times, he builds you right to the brink, fingers on your clit, mouth on your nipples, cock dragging slow and steady against your walls, until you’re sobbing, begging, tears of frustration gathering at the corners of your eyes.
The fifth time you get loud, really loud, a broken, whining “Please, please, I can’t—” spilling out over and over.
Hotch clicks his tongue. “Too noisy, baby.” He reaches for your discarded panties and balls them up. “Open.”
You shake your head, playful defiance flaring even through the haze.
He arches a brow. “Open that pretty mouth, or I stop entirely and you get nothing.”
Your lips part instantly. He stuffs the panties in, the taste of yourself flooding your tongue, muffling every sound to desperate, garbled whimpers.
“There we go,” he croons, brushing the back of his hand over your cheek. “Much better.”
He fucks you like that for what feels like hours. He comes once deep inside you again, groaning your name against your throat. Pulls out, strokes himself, and paints thick stripes across your stomach and breasts.
Later, he pushes your knees to your chest, and spills across your face while you keen helplessly behind the gag.
Each time he finishes, he starts again, sliding through the mess he’s made across your frame, using it to make you slicker, filthier. You lose count of his orgasms. You’re a trembling, oversensitive wreck, and still he denies you that second release, pulling out the instant your walls start to flutter.
Finally, finally, he collapses over you, sweat-slick and breathless, cock spent and utterly dry. He reaches up and carefully unties your wrists, massaging the faint red marks with his thumbs. Then he gently pulls the soaked panties from your mouth. You work your jaw, swallowing hard, voice hoarse.
He kisses you softly. “Up,” he murmurs.
You’re boneless, but he helps you sit. He slides the same wet panties that he just pulled from your mouth back up your legs, tugging them into place with deliberate care. The fabric settles against your abused, swollen pussy, trapping every drop of his cum inside you. You whimper at the pressure.
He leaves for a second before coming back with a wet cloth in his hand.
When he settles back down beside you, he cups your chin, tilts your face to his, and with the warm cloth, he cleans your cheeks, your lips, your eyelashes with tender, reverent strokes that make you melt against his hand.
But when you reach for a tissue to wipe your chest and stomach, he catches your wrist.
“No.” His voice drops into that stern, deep tone that makes you freeze. “You don’t clean the rest off. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until we’re wheels-down at Quantico and you’re standing in my shower at home. You’re going to feel me on your skin every second on the jet, every time you shift in your chair. You’ll remember exactly who you bratted off to today, and exactly who owns every inch of this body. Understood?”
You nod, throat tight, arousal somehow flaring all over again despite everything.
“Yes, Sir.”
He smiles, a small, satisfied, and soft smile, before he pulls you into his chest. His hand spreads possessively over the sticky mess on your stomach, holding you close.
“Sleep, trouble,” he whispers into your hair. “You’re going to need it.
You’re already half-asleep when he speaks again, voice low in the dark.
“Next time you pull a stunt like that in the field, I won’t wait until we’re in a hotel room.”
You smile against his skin, sore and sated and utterly ruined.
“Next time,” you mumble, “I’ll be worse.”
He bites your shoulder in warning.
You wake up to the alarm on Hotch’s watch at 5:47 a.m. He’s already sitting on the edge of the bed, hair damp from the shower, knotting a fresh tie. You try to roll over and immediately regret it. Every muscle between your hips screams. Your thighs are sticky, your pussy swollen and aching, and when you clench experimentally, you feel the slow, obscene slide of everything he left inside you only a couple of hours ago.
He glances back, eyes satisfied.
“Up,” he says, voice still rough from sleep and sex. “Wheels up in forty.”
You groan. Actually groan. Getting vertical feels like an Olympic event that you never trained for.
He watches you struggle into yesterday’s jeans with the faintest smirk curling his mouth, when in reality, all you want is a pair of sweatpants.
The panties he pulled back up your legs after he finally untied you are soaked through, his cum, yours, the evidence of four separate loads, and every step makes the fabric drag against your oversensitive clit.
By the time you limp into the hotel lobby, the whole team is already waiting. Morgan does a double-take.
“Damn, sweetheart. You pull a muscle wrestling that unsub... or something?”
You flip him off with the hand that isn’t clutching your go-bag strap for support.
Hotch doesn’t say a word, just opens the back door of the SUV for you like a perfect gentleman, as you make it to the cars. You slide across the seat and bite the inside of your cheek to keep from whimpering when your ass meets cold and slightly hard leather.
On the jet, you take the seat farthest from the group, legs pressed tightly together, praying the movement of the plane doesn’t jostle anything loose. Hotch sits directly across the aisle from you, tablet in hand, leading the debrief like nothing happened last night. Like he didn’t wreck you so thoroughly that you’re still tasting him through your pussy.
He starts with the profile review. You’re supposed to contribute. Instead, you’re hyper-aware of the slow trickle working its way down your thigh every time the jet banks left. You shift, and the wet drag of cotton against your folds makes you swallow a gasp.
Hotch’s eyes flick to you. Calm and professional. Except for the slight curve at the corner of his mouth that says he knows exactly what you’re feeling.
“Agent L/N,” he says smoothly, “care to walk us through the victimology again and what we can learn from it for future cases?”
You open your mouth. Close it. Clear your throat. “Uh. Females, twenty-two to twenty-nine, brunettes, all abducted within—”
Your voice cracks on the last word because the plane hits a pocket of turbulence, and you feel a fresh pulse of warmth slip free. You clamp your thighs harder, face burning.
Reid starts rambling about geographic decay rates. You stop listening. All you can focus on is the slow, steady throb between your legs and the way Hotch’s gaze keeps drifting to your lap like he’s cataloging every squirm.
Forty unending minutes later, the wheels finally touch down in Quantico. You stand too fast, and your knees nearly buckle. Hotch’s hand shoots out to steady your elbow, the perfect picture of a concerned boss... or partner.
You make it down the stairs on wobbly legs, every step making the mess in your panties shift and cling. You’re praying no one notices the way you’re walking like you just rode a horse for twelve hours straight.
Rossi falls into step beside Hotch as you head for the car park. He doesn’t even bother lowering his voice.
“Atta boy,” he mutters, clapping Hotch once on the shoulder.
Hotch doesn’t answer, but you catch the faint, wicked tilt of his lips before he slides on his sunglasses.
You flip Rossi off behind Hotch’s back.
Rossi just laughs knowingly and calls over his shoulder, “Feel better, kid.”
summary: jack is away at a sleepover, aaron has the day off, and the two of you are fully taking advantage of the empty house and lack of responsibilities.
includes: no use of y/n, smut (MDNI), oral (f and m receiving), handjob, tie restraints/light bondage, teasing, light edging, praise kink, overstim, soft dom!hotch, begging, domestic fluff and filth, mutual adoration disguised as torment, aaron being so controlled it's unfair, reader being a menace in the best way, three (3) orgasms and a nap in the sunlight afterwards
main masterlist | hotch masterlist
Sunlight streams through the blinds, streaking gold across the sheets and painting Aaron’s features in warmth. The apartment is blissfully quiet. Jack is at a sleepover, and for once, there’s nothing demanding your attention—just the two of you, tangled together in a bed that suddenly feels endless.
Aaron is on his back, arm stretched above his head, the other resting near your side. His gaze lifts to meet yours, half-lidded, soft, unguarded. You lean in, brushing your nose against his, and he laughs softly, a low, rich sound that sends a shiver down your spine.
“You look so smug when you smile like that,” you whisper, fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
“Do I?” he murmurs, voice rough and husky. His smile widens slightly, and you answer with a soft kiss.
Teasing kisses quickly turn deeper, slower, more urgent. Your lips move against his, hands roaming over shoulders and chest, tangling in hair and gripping hips. Every brush of your tongue, every featherlight nibble at his lips draws a low groan, a hitch in his breath.
He whispers your name like a prayer when you roll over to straddle him, chest pressing against his, legs curling around his waist. His hands cup your hips, tilting you forward, fingers pressing into the small of your back as he tilts his head, lips grazing yours again and again.
“You're so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice low and thick, teeth grazing your lower lip. You grin, teasing him back with soft kisses along his jaw, moving slowly down his neck, over his collarbone, letting your lips trail in a languid, deliberate path. Every reaction—every shiver, every quiet groan—fuels your desire.
When your lips reach his chest, you trail them lower, brushing softly across his stomach.
Your lips linger over his stomach, soft kisses and gentle nibbles drawing quiet groans from him. His hands tighten on your hips, guiding you closer, tilting his hips slightly as if inviting you, testing your teasing. You smile against his skin, dragging your tongue along a deliberate path, tracing the line of his abdomen, feeling the taut strength beneath your touch.
Aaron exhales sharply, one hand slipping under your shirt to press against your back, fingers curling into your skin as his other hand tangles in your hair. His hips shift just enough to brush against your lips, and you respond instinctively, teasing him, letting your lips linger a little longer, tasting him, feeling his warmth.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmurs, voice rough and thick, and it makes your pulse quicken.
Your mouth lingers just above the waistband of his sweats, lips brushing the soft cotton, your breath hot against him. Aaron’s head tips back into the pillow with a groan, one hand in your hair, the other gripping the sheets.
You kiss him over the fabric once, twice, dragging your tongue deliberately along the hard outline beneath. He curses softly, his hips twitching upward despite himself.
“Cruel,” he rasps, eyes hooded as he peers down at you.
“You love it,” you counter with a smile, teasing him again with the press of your lips, your teeth grazing lightly through the fabric. His breath hitches, his chest rising and falling faster.
Finally, you hook your fingers into the waistband, dragging his sweats down inch by inch, never breaking eye contact. His body responds instantly, and the quiet groan that escapes him makes heat coil low in your belly. You take him into your hand first, slow and deliberate, savoring the weight and warmth of him. His grip tightens in your hair.
When your lips finally wrap around him, Aaron’s groan is low, your name falling from his lips. You take your time, alternating between deep, steady strokes and playful, teasing flicks of your tongue. His hand guides you, but never forces—every movement is patient, as if he’s savoring just as much as you are.
“God… you’re—” His words break into a groan, hips bucking gently as you take him deeper, your hand working in tandem with your mouth. His breath grows ragged, his voice low and thick. “I’m close…”
And that’s when you pull back. You kiss the inside of his thigh sweetly, smile up at him with innocent eyes that aren’t fooling him for a second.
Aaron stares at you, chest heaving, his expression equal parts frustration and awe. Then, with a growl that vibrates low in his chest, he sits up and flips you onto your back before you can even react.
Your laugh bubbles out, breathless, as his weight presses you into the mattress. He grabs the navy tie still hanging from the headboard from last night—an afterthought then, but not now. His eyes lock on yours as he loops it around your wrists, the silk smooth and cool against your skin. He ties it snugly, fastening your arms above your head to the headboard.
“You think you can tease me and get away with it?” His voice is low, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Maybe I didn't want to get away with it,” you reply.
His eyes darken at your reply, and his mouth curves into that rare, hungry smile you almost never get to see outside of moments like this. The silk tie tugs lightly at your wrists when you test it, a delicious reminder of how completely he has you.
Aaron shifts down the bed, pressing lingering kisses across your stomach, your hips, your thighs. Each one is slow, reverent, deliberate—meant to both soothe and torment. His hands spread over your skin, large and steady, holding your legs apart with quiet authority.
“You’re already trembling,” he murmurs against the inside of your thigh, his breath hot, his voice low enough to make you shiver. “And I haven’t even touched you yet.”
You try to lift your hips, but he presses you back down with one hand, chuckling softly when you whine his name. His mouth trails higher, closer, lips brushing so near you can feel the ghost of his breath where you ache most.
Then he gives in.
His tongue slides against you, slow and sure, parting you with ease. Your gasp breaks the silence, hips jerking upward, but his hand is firm, holding you steady as he devours you with unhurried precision. Every lick is languid, savoring, teasing—he’s not rushing this, not when he has you bound and spread for him in golden morning light.
“Aaron—” His name falls from your lips like a plea, but he only hums against you, sending vibrations through your core. He laps at you again, slower this time, deliberate in his torment. His tongue circles, flicks, plunges—switching rhythms just when you think you can predict him.
Your wrists strain against the tie, helpless under his mouth. He glances up at you, eyes locked on yours, and the sight alone nearly undoes you. That look—hungry, adoring, smug—paired with the relentless heat of his mouth is overwhelming.
“Look at you,” he murmurs against your skin before sucking hard, pulling a sharp cry from your throat. His voice roughens as he adds, “So perfect like this… falling apart for me.”
He slides two fingers inside you then, curling expertly, and your back arches off the mattress. His pace is measured, calculated to keep you right at the edge without letting you tumble over. He knows your body too well—every sound, every twitch, every shiver is read like a map, and he follows it mercilessly.
Your thighs quiver against his shoulders, breath coming in short gasps as his tongue and fingers work in tandem. Heat builds steadily, unbearably, until you’re crying his name, begging without shame, the words tumbling from your lips in broken fragments.
And still, he doesn’t let up.
Aaron flattens his tongue, dragging it slow and deliberate before curling it just right, his fingers quickening, relentless. The pressure crests, sharp and blinding, and when release finally rips through you, it’s with a cry muffled by your own bitten lip.
He doesn’t stop immediately. He works you through it, coaxing every last tremor, every shudder, until you collapse bonelessly against the sheets, chest heaving, wrists aching deliciously against the tie.
Only then does he ease back, lips and chin glistening, his expression a mix of pride and tender love as he presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh.
“You taste better than anything in this world,” he murmurs, his voice low and wrecked. He kisses higher, pausing just short of where you’re still throbbing, and lifts his gaze back to yours. “And I’m nowhere near finished with you.”
Your pulse is still racing, the aftershocks of your orgasm making your thighs tremble against his shoulders, but Aaron doesn’t move far. He presses one more open-mouthed kiss against your hip before sliding up the length of your body, every inch of him dragging deliciously against your oversensitized skin.
The weight of him settles on you—solid, grounding—while your wrists strain against the tie. You can’t touch him, can’t pull him closer, and the realization makes your core ache all over again. He sees the need in your eyes and smiles faintly, smug but tender.
“You look so good tied up like this,” he murmurs, voice gravelly from restraint. His fingers trail along your forearm, over the knot, checking it, tugging it, reminding you of how thoroughly you’re his.
“Aaron,” you breathe, writhing beneath him, “please.”
That earns you a kiss—deep, consuming, his tongue claiming yours as if to seal the word on your lips. By the time he pulls back, you’re panting, dazed, and his forehead rests against yours.
“You think you get to beg,” he whispers, hips rolling slowly against yours, the hard length of him sliding against your slick folds. The contact pulls a desperate sound from you, and he grins softly. “But I’ve been waiting all morning to ruin you like this.”
He guides himself to your entrance, pausing just long enough to make you whine, before pushing in slowly, steadily, until he’s buried to the hilt. Both of you groan, the sound filling the room, echoing in the quiet morning.
Your wrists tug uselessly at the tie, body arching beneath his as he stretches you. “God, you feel—” The words dissolve into a cry when he pulls back and thrusts in again, deeper this time, his pace still deliberate but maddening.
Aaron braces on one arm, the other hand sliding down your side to grip your hip, holding you exactly where he wants you. His thrusts are slow, controlled, but devastating, hitting deep with every roll of his hips. He watches your face as he moves inside you, drinking in every reaction, every gasp, every plea.
“You’re so tight around me,” he growls, voice rough. He presses deeper, hips grinding, and your back arches off the bed. “Helpless… tied up and trembling. You have no idea what you do to me.”
Your legs curl around his waist, trying to pull him closer, deeper, but he only smirks down at you, adjusting his angle so he brushes that perfect spot with every thrust. Your cries spill out unrestrained, the tie keeping you from clinging to him, forcing you to surrender to every wave of pleasure he wrings from you.
His thrusts stay steady, measured, dragging along every nerve, sinking deep until you’re gasping for air. You can feel him everywhere—his weight pinning you, his hand gripping your hip tight, his length filling you over and over. Each movement is deliberate, his control absolute, like he’s determined to etch himself into every part of you.
“You can’t hide from me,” he murmurs against your ear, his breath hot, his voice ragged with restraint. “Not when I’ve got you like this.”
You whimper, the tie biting into your wrists as you strain against it, desperate to touch him. He smiles softly at the sound—half smug, half tender—his forehead brushing yours as his hips roll deeper, slower, making you shudder.
“I love watching you fall apart,” Aaron whispers, his lips brushing your temple, your cheek, your mouth between each word. “Every sound… every breath… mine.”
Your body clenches around him, helpless against the rhythm he builds, and he groans low in his chest, thrusts growing just enough rougher to send your eyes rolling back. His thumb finds its way between you, circling slow, lazy patterns that drag another cry from your throat.
“That’s it,” he praises, his voice a dark velvet that sinks into your skin. “Let go for me.”
You do. The orgasm rips through you suddenly, flooding your body with heat and light, your cries echoing against his shoulder as you arch beneath him. He doesn’t stop—he slows, he steadies, carrying you through, coaxing every last spasm with the slow grind of his hips and the insistent press of his thumb.
By the time you collapse, trembling, he kisses your damp forehead. “Good girl,” he breathes, and the praise makes your chest ache with something deeper than lust.
But he isn’t done.
Not when he has you tied. Not when the morning stretches endless before him.
Aaron pulls out slowly, watching you squirm at the sudden emptiness. His hand traces down your stomach, between your thighs, slipping inside you again before you can catch your breath. His pace is languid, his touch precise, fingers curling just right as his mouth finds your breast, lips closing around your nipple in a slow suck that makes your toes curl.
You writhe beneath him, already overstimulated, whimpering his name. He lifts his head just enough to look at you, lips swollen from kissing, eyes heavy with hunger and love.
“Too much?” he asks softly, though his fingers never stop their relentless rhythm.
You shake your head quickly, desperately. “Never—don’t stop—”
His smile curves, rare and devastating. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
The third orgasm builds faster, his mouth and hand working you over until you’re crying out again, your wrists twisting helplessly against the tie. He holds you through it, steady and strong, kissing you deeply as you fall apart beneath him again.
And still, he doesn’t stop.
By the time he slides back inside you, your body is trembling, every nerve raw and alive. He takes his time, thrusts slow, deep, coaxing, savoring the slick heat of you clenching desperately around him. Each stroke pushes you higher, no rush, no silence to keep, just the steady rhythm of his body moving against yours.
“You have no idea,” he groans, pressing his forehead to yours, “how badly I needed this. Needed you.”
Your nails dig uselessly into the sheets, your body arching helplessly toward his, pleasure building again despite your spent muscles. His hand slides between you, circling you with tender, ruthless precision, and your third orgasm crashes over you with a broken cry.
He doesn’t relent until you’re sobbing his name into the morning light, every nerve fried, your body trembling under his weight. Only then does his own restraint falter, his thrusts growing harder, rougher, until he buries himself deep with a guttural groan, spilling into you with his whole body shaking.
Silence stretches, broken only by ragged breaths and the distant hum of the world outside your window. Aaron’s body collapses gently over yours, careful not to crush you, his face buried in your neck. His lips press soft kisses there, tender after the storm, his weight comforting and warm.
When he finally slips free and loosens the tie, your arms fall weakly around his shoulders, pulling him close at last. He tucks you under his chin, one arm wrapping tight around you, the other hand tracing slow, lazy circles over your hip, your stomach, soothing your trembling body.
“If I could freeze this moment,” he murmurs, voice rough but gentle, “I would.”
And in that golden morning light, with him wrapped around you and your body still humming from his touch, you believe him.
You learn how to be someone’s girlfriend. Or, 5 times Hotch raises your expectations (+1 time you raise his).
7k words, new established relationship to established relationship, lots of fluff and some small angst, hurt/comfort, fem!reader, civilian!reader, calls him aaron, basically hotch treating you well
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1. Soup.
"Are you hungry?" Aaron asks, hands at the neck of his shirt as he loosens his tie.
You've never seen him do that. It's a lot to take in.
"A little, are you?" He's lucky that you remember to answer.
His smile lights you up inside and out, a warm, casual quirk. "Famished."
"Should we make something?"
He turns from the doorway and moves into the kitchen. You have to twist on his couch to see his movements.
"No need. I should've asked if you like it, but I made vegetable soup. The kind with mini dumplings."
You look down at your legs and squeeze your thighs together until your knees tap. You're too shy to go and meet him where he's standing, but perhaps sitting and having him wait on you is arrogant. And awkward.
The couch is plush under your hands as you stand. You'd slipped off your shoes at the door, and your socked-feet slide over the tiled floor of the kitchen as you make your way to his side. Aaron lights the stove, atop which stands a tall cooking pot.
"When did you have time to make that?" you ask, soft with awe.
"I knew you'd be coming over. I started it this morning."
"And if I didn't like it?"
He turns his gaze to yours, pot lid held aloft. "Then I would've ordered in for us. You're sure this is okay?"
You've never had somebody cook for you before. Homemade, fresh ingredients, and the intricacy of the dumplings too, it all impresses and amazes you. You feel very special. Like you're worth all the effort.
"I'm sure. More sure if you let me try it."
His laugh startles you for its rarity. "Okay. It's not done," he warns.
"Just to taste it."
He stirs the warming soup with a big spoon for half a minute, the heat on high, before scooping up some broth and holding it above a cupped palm. "It's probably not very hot," he says.
Oh, you think, excited and sick with nerves at once. He's going to feed the soup to me.
Something out of a movie, something you didn't know people actually did for their significant others, Aaron waits for you to open your mouth and offers the spoon. You slurp and feel heat rise to your cheeks at the clumsy sound.
"Aaron," you say, soft and obsessed after you've swallowed, "it's really nice. You made that yourself?"
"I can cook," he says defensively.
You lick your lips, giggling. "I can tell. That was really good. Though it was definitely too cold."
"Mm. It has to cook through some more. Reduce. Do you want to shower?" He puts down his wooden spoon, head tilting to one side gently. He assesses your expression, and brings a curved hand to settle over your cheek. The tip of his index finger kisses the delicate skin under your eye. "No, maybe not. You look tired."
You probably shouldn't say something like that to your brand new girlfriend (you scream internally at the word, every single time since he asked you a week ago) but Aaron speaks factually. You don't think for a second that there's any malice there, any hidden critique. His words shine with concern.
"It's Friday. I'm always tired at the end of the week."
His hand falls to your shoulder. "I can imagine."
"You can go shower, if you like. I'll watch the soup."
"I need one, huh?"
He must know how well-kept he looks even now. You're not sure you've ever seen him dishevelled.
"Definitely need one," you try to tease. It comes out murmur-quiet, and Aaron takes pity and kisses your cheek.
He leaves to shower and you 'watch' the soup — you stand at the stovetop and soak in it's emanating warmth, stirring it every now and then to prevent the bottom from burning. The shower runs muffled from the bathroom, and your mind wanders as it tends to do. It's an undeniable fact that Aaron is naked right now, the thought opening an avenue of images you've been trying not to think about all day. It's your very first time spending the night after a couple of weeks of dating, and now you're together, if Aaron wants to have sex tonight you'll say yes. He's handsome, and his build suggests a certain… tenacity.
His hands would convince you alone. Big hands.
You look down into the simmering pot of soup and smile harder than you have any right to smile. He's done everything right, all the romance; he'd asked you out clearly with no doubt of his intentions, which had shocked you; he'd brought you a bouquet of flowers on your first date, which had delighted you; and he hadn't tried to take you home, which had surprised you.
Modern romance often doesn't feel very romantic. Things with Aaron are different.
Hell, he's so sweet he probably won't make a move unless you make one yourself.
You'd prefer to be squeaky clean tonight, you've decided, just in case. When he gets out of the shower, you'll tell him you've changed your mind.
The shower shuts off. He appears a little bit after that, in new clothes, towel around his neck and feet either side of your own as he sidles in for a damp and quick cheek kiss.
"Sorry I took so long. Are you ready to eat?" he asks, taking the spoon from your hand to give the soup a big, gran stir.
"Actually, could I shower?"
If he's surprised at your changed mind he says nothing, only turns down the heat of the stove. "Of course you can. Come on, I'll show you how it all works."
His 'come on' is accompanied with a guiding hand at the small of your back. You let yourself be guided. The heat of his touch fills your stomach and doesn't abate, no matter how cold you run the spray.
2. Phone calls.
It's the week after that when you're supposed to be spending the night again. You're excited for two reasons, the first and smallest being that he had been what you thought and more in bed, that itself an expectation raised, and it had felt like connection at its brightest — he'd been sweet, and he'd been rough but never, not ever once cruel. A perfect night. The second, and biggest, is that he's honestly just the nicest person you've ever met. He's your boyfriend, a phrase you don't say in front of him because he's admittedly older than you, and you can't imagine he calls you his girlfriend. Partner might be more apt. He's your boyfriend and he's openly fond of you. Openly more than that. It's new to be doted on as ardently as he dotes on you.
He touches you like he can't believe he's touching you. He talks to you like you're gold dust, all smiles and laughs heavy with admiration, and he listens. You've never felt listened to in the way you do when you're with him.
So many conversations are just one party waiting for the other to stop talking until it's their turn. You think, maybe, Aaron would let you talk for hours. He would listen the whole time.
In summary, you're basically thrumming with excitement to see him again. You've missed him some, but mostly you've spent the week bouncing off of walls waiting for the next time you get to talk to him.
His text is disheartening, to say the least.
Hey, honey. I have to cancel our plans tonight. I'm sorry, and I'll explain as soon as I get the chance. Please take care of yourself for me until I can.
It doesn't make you mad. While it is extremely short notice, and your heart hurts to the point of frustrated tears, you know it isn't his fault. He's been clear about his job at the FBI and what that means for you both. How it will without a doubt pull him away from you during dates, the middle of the night, special occasions, the works — this had been after a small disclosure about his commitment to his son, Jack, and how he's a father first — and how it will definitely cause some strain.
"But," he'd said, "I want you, and I want this to work. So if you can be patient with me, I'll try to make it worth it."
He's been successful every time. After he'd cancelled your third date, he'd quickly rearranged it and apologised with a modest but beautiful bouquet of flowers.
Somewhere between the fifth and sixth date, you hadn't seen him for two whole weeks, and every worry you'd had about his intentions had been abated by a steady stream of encouraging text messages and the occasional photograph. Nothing crazy, but sweet things, like the cookies he and Jack had made that night, captioned, I'd save one for you if I thought Jack would let me, or a sunrise in a different state, captioned, This looks like the dress you wore to Lemaira.
Later that night, you're unhappy and frowning still, a small carton of ice cream freezing your fingers to the cardboard and a spoon in your mouth when your phone starts to ring.
You aren't expecting it to be Aaron. You aren't in the habit of calling one another, even though you'd secretly wished he would while he's away beforehand.
It's nearing eight o'clock.
"What time do you call this?" you joke, smiling despite yourself. Again, the excitement that comes with talking to him wells at the surface.
"I know, I'm sorry," he says, sounding very tired.
You slouch down into your couch cushions, ice cream on the armrest, remote for the TV on your chest. You click the volume button down, down, down until the TV's near silent.
"I'm kidding, mostly. Are you okay? I've been a little worried."
Understatement of the century. You know sudden cases of violence often draw him away from Virginia, but this had been sudden sudden. The lack of information had made you think the worst, worse than serial killer and bombers and hostage situations. You'd thought Aaron was in danger himself, and then you'd tried to suffocate that thought. He'd never worry you like that even if he were.
"I'm fine. Sorry to miss you tonight."
"I'm sorry to miss you too," you say, voice disjointed, too earnest. You scramble to hide the depth of your feelings. "Where are you?"
"I'm in St. Louis. Where are you?"
You laugh, curling onto your side with the phone pressed up against your ear. "Where am I? I'm at home."
"What are you doing?"
"I was watching TV."
"Yeah? Did you eat anything yet?"
You think to the takeout you'd bought and shoved in the microwave, not hungry at the time but knowing knowing would be. "Not yet. Why are you asking?"
"I want to know."
"I told you in my text I would take care, Aaron."
"Honey," he says, pet name like a warm palm over your heart, "my definition of taking care and your definition are very different. Promise me you'll eat something."
"Of course I will. Easy promise." You scratch the couch fabric absent-mindedly. "Have you eaten?"
"Yes," he says, the sound of a closing window in the background. "It's awful how much take out I eat. All these cases, there's never any time to cook real food."
"Why, what did you have? And surely there's some uber healthy options out there, like, a chickpea salad-"
"That costs thirty dollars? I'm not struggling, honey, but we both know that's obscene."
You're laughter takes on a giddy quality as you cross your leg over the other, picturing his smile as his laughter echoes breathily down the line. You really, really wish he were here right now and that you were having this conversation face to face. You know he'd smile and try to hide how smug he feels at making you laugh. His hand would reach over any gap to touch some silly part of you, forearm or collar or the skin under your ribcage.
"Are you okay?" You say his name to drive the point home. Your voice is quiet — you're hesitant to offer, worried you're crossing a boundary. "Aaron, I know you don't like bringing it home, but you aren't home, so… I'm here."
"I know. It's nothing I want you to worry about, there's an ongoing situation here, bomb threats coming in quicker than the local P.D can handle. They need us to vet them and figure out if any of them are real."
You think about it for a few seconds, the silence small but not uncomfortable. If you were under that kind of pressure, you'd be hurting. Chest pains, anxiety shakes, a migraine.
"You'll be safe?" you ask.
"Always. I'm not in any danger. And I need to get home, I owe you a Friday."
"You do," you mumble.
There's the creak of a box spring mattress, and the sound of a lamp being clicked. On or off, you don't know. When Aaron speaks, his tone is dulcet and hushed but distinct. You feel it in your chest.
"Tell me about your day," he murmurs.
You lay it all out for him in detail. He can barely reply when you hang up, sleep thickening his affectionate, "Goodnight, honey."
3. His bleeding heart.
"What kind of kid were you?" he asks.
You look up from your notebook, surprised. Aaron has been silent for what feels like an hour now, laid out on the picnic blanket with your sweater bundled up under his head while the sun warms your skin.
"I was…" You let your pen roll into the centre of your notebook and close it. He's laid his paperback flat across his chest. You think he might be very interested in the answer. "It was a long time ago, but I think I was lonely."
He nods like this is what he'd been expecting. "Me too."
It's a gorgeous day out. The sky is a light, bright blue with few clouds. They block the sun occasionally, providing a short and bittersweet shield from the heat. The grass surrounding is shockingly green, rippling in the breeze.
"You were?" you ask. "What were you like?"
"I was quiet."
"That's not surprising," you say mildly.
"No, I guess not."
You abandon your notebook and lay down beside him. Worrying what you look like from this angle, you cover your jaw with your hand and turn toward him ever so slightly to show you're listening.
"I liked affection. I remember my mom used to say I was a siphon for it. I'd be all over her, and she'd have nothing left to give anyone else."
"That's not true," you deny. Every ounce of affection that you given him, he has returned tenfold, and that's inspired a lot of kindness in you, for him and for the world. "You're like an amplifier, if anything."
He smiles to himself and turns his gaze skyward. "I wish we'd met before."
"Me too," you say, leaving little room for debate.
"You're so kind," — he adorns you with each word like a gift, a tiny star of praise — "I think you're the kindest person I've ever met."
He laughs. It's a catching sound, contagious as anything. You giggle with him and shift closer. Your arms touch, your hips.
"Baby," you murmur, almost lamenting, "d'you ever think your ability to see the good in people is- It's indicative of the good in you... You've given more of your life than most to keep other people safe. That's the kindest thing a person can do."
He tangles your hand with his where it had been resting on your stomach. You're pretty sure you can feel every line of every fingerprint as he works your fingers together, a snug fit like one of those wooden brain teaser puzzles: How do you pull these two pieces apart? From the outside, it looks impossible!
"I think I'd be different, if I'd met you before. I'd be kinder," he says.
You can't agree with him. It's obvious who he is. You know more about him now than you ever have before. His late wife, how she'd been the best mother they ever made. His son, and how he moulds Aaron everyday into a better man. His friends, who trust him, who adore him. All these people have a hand in who Aaron is now, and while you wish you'd been around from the start, now will have to do.
"You're plenty kind," you say. Understatement of the century.
"Sorry," he says with a laugh, "With you-" He cuts himself off, head-shaking from side to side as he pulls your joined hands up slowly.
Your arm bends and then turns as he pulls it toward his face. He unlinks your fingers to steer your forearm, aligning it flat over his lips. The first kiss is a surprise, light like the feathered edge of a flower petal, and the second isn't dissimilar.
The third melts you, veritably, the parting of his lips emphasised by the dull scratch of teeth against your pulse, the wet heat of his tongue. Three becomes four, and a final fifth, crescent moons pressed into your skin like he's trying to tell you something.
You've no clue what. You likely couldn't say which way the world turns, not when he's kissing you. Not like this.
Aaron has an acute ability to talk without talking. Hello's and thank you's and I care about you's woven into quick kisses, the swift squeeze of his hand over the slope of your shoulder.
These ones say something you don't want to speak aloud, lest you jinx it.
The sunlight fades. A big grey cloud covers the sun.
"I think it's gonna rain," you say.
A raindrop splashes in Aaron's eye.
"Fuck," he says, which is hilarious, because he never swears in front of you. You hadn't known he cussed at all.
The downpour is slow and then sudden, spitting rain dotting over you both like a fine mist as you stand, a thicker, faster outpouring chasing your heels as you hurry to the car. You realise you can't outrun it even if you sprint, and so you stop, Aaron's hand in yours tugged like a rubber band. He bounces back into your chest with the picnic blanket under his arm, your books tucked somewhere inside.
He doesn't ask what you're doing. He's made the same deduction as you, or maybe he trusts you, or maybe he's indulging you.
"Your hair," he laments.
"Doesn't matter," you say.
You lift your chin up for a kiss. Aaron ducks down to give you one. A raindrop runs down the bridge of his nose to the tip of yours.
4. In sickness.
You insist that it wasn't the rain that made you sick, but honestly there's no way to tell. You'd kissed for slightly too long, and the rain had been surprisingly cold. Now you aren't very well, and you have to cancel Aaron's sleepover.
You hold out as long as you can, but come Friday afternoon it's clear you aren't getting better. You wake to a text from Aaron, two texts, and it makes you smile through shivery coughs.
I can't wait to see you tonight. Do you need anything before I get there? Miss you. Sent 6.26AM.
Is everything okay? Sent 9.17AM.
Usually you'd have answer his morning text within the hour.
Hi, I miss you too, so much, but I don't think we'll be able to see each other tonight. I've got the flu :( I'm sorry. And sorry I couldn't answer your message until now, I was sleeping.
It's another hour before he answers. You rouse from your gross snotty stupor to squint at the phone. It's surprisingly long.
I'm sorry it's taking me so long to get back to you, things are tense here right now. You don't have to be sorry for either, I'm glad to hear you're resting. You could have told me you were sick. Is it okay if I come and see you tonight anyways? I would love to check on you. Don't rush to answer, and call me if you can.
You call him with reservations.
"Is this a good time?" you ask weakly, forgoing a hello.
It takes him a little while to speak. You assume he's leaving a room, closing a door. "Now's fine. How are you?"
"My throat hurts and it's a little hard to breathe, but I'm sure I'll live."
"You've been to see a doctor?"
"It's not that bad."
He sighs. "You sound tired. And sore. Why didn't you tell me you were sick?"
"You don't have to baby me, I'm really okay."
"Have you considered that I'd like to baby you?"
Not really. You can't imagine anyone would want to deal with you. You're a mess, you look awful, you don't smell great, and you're not good company. You can't think of a single reason Aaron would want to be anywhere near you right now.
"No," you say, "I hadn't."
"I'd love to look after you."
"You could be doing something fun with your Friday. You could see Jack."
"Jack's going to Kings Dominion. And Fridays are our day, you being sick doesn't make me want to see you less."
You hadn't said that, but he'd inferred it. Of course he had.
You and Aaron decide that your sleepover will go ahead after all. Or, he persuades you very gently. You spend three hours doing tasks that should only take one. You shower, you clean your room, and you do the dishes. By the end of it you're sweating enough to need another shower but you aren't a quitter, so you open the freezer and stick your head in, hands braced against the refrigerator door.
You're excited to see him. You always are. Too bad you look so wiped out.
It's almost 6.30 when you hear his knock on the door. You'd been waiting for him and started dozing at the kitchen table, your neck a mess of twisted nerves, your hand numb from supporting your head. You shake it out and open the door, sheepish.
"Hi," you croak out.
He has a lot of stuff with him. His familiar overnight bag, a briefcase, two grocery bags, and a bouquet.
"Aaron, why," you moan, covering your face with one hand as you move back down the hall to let him in.
"Not the greeting I'd hoped for."
"I can't greet you, I'll make you sick."
You get all the way to the kitchen and think, triumphantly, that you've escaped his 'greeting'. He puts the flowers down carefully on the kitchen counter as you try to come up with a thank you that doesn't make your eyes burn. The grocery bags are placed without ceremony on the floor, and his overnight bag falls onto the kitchen chair. You watch him unbutton his rain spattered coat, and your triumph fades when he peels out of it and instantly reaches for you.
"Aaron," you mumble, stepping into his arms. He knows you can't say no to a hug, not after a week of not seeing him.
"I missed you," he says, arms around your back, lips at your temple. "You're running a temperature."
"It's not that bad. 101."
"Honey, 101 is bad."
"Not as bad as 102."
"Not as bad as 102," he concedes. You can hear his voice rumbling in his throat, and feel it in his chest and yours.
He takes as much of your weight as he can, leaning back so you're forced to arc forward. Your face slips into his neck, and you're thinking, this is what it's like? To be held, sick, with nothing to give? It feels good.
"Please tell me the next time you're sick," he murmurs.
You definitely will. If this is what it's like, roaming, cautious hands over your shoulder blades, a strong nose stroking lines against your warm forehead.
"Thank you for the flowers."
It's squished against his skin but he hears it. "You're welcome. Do you want me to put them in a vase?"
"I can do it."
"I think that might defeat the purpose. They're a gift, not an extra chore."
"Nobody ever got me flowers before you, so it doesn't feel like a chore at all."
He encourages your face back enough to look at you. You have to mouth breath on him because your nose is all stuffed up, and it is not something you're happy to do. You look down so he can't feel it.
"I'm gonna do something really cheesy, and you can tease me about it later, okay?"
You look at him from under your lashes. "'Kay."
"Close your eyes," he whispers.
You let your eyes shut. Aaron cradles your face in both hands and pulls your face toward his chin, in your rough approximation.
Heat fans against your eyes. He kisses your eyelids, the left and then the right, the most gentle press of his lips you've ever felt.
"It's killing me to see you like this," he says, and you're grateful for the pinch of humour behind it. "Couch or bed?"
"Couch. I wanna watch a movie with you."
"Good. I wanna watch a movie with you, too."
Aaron does everything. You're too tired to notice, but when you're better, you'll add it all up. He makes you dinner and breakfast and lunch and enough for the day after that, too. He trims down all your flowers and places them in a vase on your window sill. He recleans your room, cleans your bathroom, and plays nursemaid diligently. He makes you take your temperature in front of him, and then he fawns and makes you hug an ice pack, stays the night again when he's supposed to go home.
It sucks, but your temperature falls, and when your insides stop cooking themselves you start to feel better. On Sunday morning, when he has to leave, you feel the strange pang of being cared for unconditionally like the wind being knocked out of you. He'd done all of that because he cares about you. He'd wanted to see you fed and well and happy, and he hadn't gotten anything out of it in return.
5. The test-drive.
"Hi, Jack," you mumble, rubbing wetness out of your sleep-heavy eyes. "Good morning."
"Good morning," he says cheerfully, of his father's disposition.
"Did you," — you yawn wide and turn your face so neither of them can see — "sleep well?"
"Yeah, thank you. Why are you so tired?"
Aaron's standing at the stovetop making oatmeal. You stand at the counter beside it, hips touching but facing opposite ways. "I'm still getting used to your dad's bed."
It's true. There's something about someone else's mattress that makes you ache.
"What is it about my mattress you can't get along with?" Aaron asks in good humour, adding a generous pinch of salt to the saucepan.
"It's more comfortable than mine," you say with a self-satisfied laugh.
Aaron pecks your damp cheek and skirts around you to fill three identical bowls of oatmeal next to three identical glasses of orange juice. Jack cheers when his portions are placed in front of him, and he digs in even though it's ridiculously hot.
Aaron had explained once that he's basically trained Jack to eat it scorchingly hot by accident. Years of oatmeal straight off of the hob versus a growing boy with no patience. You watch in awe as Jack scarfs it down.
You and Aaron are doing this thing. You've called it the test-drive in your head. He wants to see how well you and Jack get along, likely, and how well you handle living together, too. (Though you absolutely don't think you'll be moving in together quite this soon.) That's your working theory. He'd asked you if you'd be interested in staying for the week a month ago, and you had, and it had been a dream. This is week two, and it seems to be going just as well as the first.
It's definitely revealing. To see each other's routines. And an adjustment. You have to see all the gross stuff, no avoiding it.
Though stuff you might consider gross he enjoys. Like watching you put on body lotion, he'd loved that more than words could express. And watching him shave, you'd loved that more than you'd thought you would. You'd sat on the lip of the tub and he'd listened to your morning murmurings, half asleep and excited as always to talk to him about everything.
Getting to know Jack more has been a joy, too. You've met him nowhere near as many times as you would've liked and done family things: bowling, pizza places, the movies, a baseball game.
Eating breakfast together is way more fun. Especially because Jack likes you.
As soon as you sit down he starts to tell you about school. You listen, sipping your orange juice while you wait for the oatmeal to cool from lava.
After breakfast, the three of you head back to your respective bedrooms to get dressed.
That's something else you adore, you and Aaron undressing and redressing together in the space in front of his closet, the intimacy of casual nudity, and the way his hand closes around your hip to move you out of the way of his shirts.
You're pretty much inseperable until you get to the car park. A firm believer in kids receiving as much love as they can from everybody, you offer Jack a hug before you part ways everytime. Sometimes he says yes, though most times he says, "Thank you, Miss Y/N, but my hug quota is full."
Today, he squeezes your waist really hard and says, "Have a good day bye," like it's one word.
"Have a good day, baby," you tell him, laughing as he jettisons into the passenger seat of Aaron's car.
Aaron usually gives you a swift kiss and goodbye like his son. Today, he brings his hand to your neck. You stare him straight in his dark eyes as he does, marvelling the shock of straight lashes outlining each one, and the permanent wrinkle between his brow from frowning.
Placing two hands on either shoulder, you use his frame to rise on tiptoes and kiss it.
"Don't frown too much today, okay, handsome? Have a good day."
He cups your face in both hands as your heels touch the ground. His hands are warm, kind as he pushes both palms over your cheeks and your ears. He covers them, and your heartbeat amplifies, a thumping sound fighting his skin. Then he slips his fingers behind your ears and the roaring fades.
"I love you," he says.
You beam at him. "Really?"
"Really. I love you, honey. Have a good day."
As if. If he thinks he can walk away after dropping that on you he's got another thing coming.
You throw your arms around his neck and all your weight into his front, almost barrelling him over. You have to stop yourself from wrapping your thighs around him, 'cause then he really might fall over.
You dig your face into his neck, searching for something, for the perfect place to rest your cheek. "I love you, Aaron."
There isn't a chance in hell he didn't already know it.
"I got you something," he says.
You laugh in surprise and tighten your hold on him. "Why? This is gift enough." He loves you. It bounces around in your chest.
"Because I'm not stupid enough to miss what I have right in front of me."
You lean back so you can kiss him, ignoring his hand as it reaches into his pocket.
"Baby," you say, a hair's width from his lips. You kiss him again for a second, thrilled, but curiosity pulls you back. "You have it now?"
He takes a step away from you and reveals the box in his pocket, long and thin. It clicks open on a silver hinge, and inside velveteen lies a simple chain.
"Is that a diamond?" you ask, breathless. The stone at the end of the chain shines like nothing you've ever seen before.
You don't know a thing about them other than that they're expensive. You can't see Aaron Hotchner of all people buying a fake.
"A small one," he says modestly.
Your eyes burn. You're happy to the point of tears but you refuse to cry.
"And it's for me?" you ask.
He laughs and you laugh too, the sound slightly sniffly.
"Of course. Do you want to wear it?"
"Now? Yes, more than anything," you say, smiling hard, cheeks appled and aching. "Are you serious?"
"More than anything."
Corny, you think desperately. Do not cry, that's so cheesy.
"Are you sure you don't want to wait until my birthday?"
He gestures for you to turn around, the chain hanging from his finger. You turn, feel his hands brushing against your neck as he lays it across your chest and pulls it together behind your nape.
"Your birthday gift is better than this."
Better? You could burst.
The clasp closes and he rubs his hands down the backs of your shoulders.
You turn back around, face dipped to your chest in efforts to see the necklace. It's short but long enough to spot the diamond hanging under your collar.
"I've never had a diamond, before," you mumble, hands pressed to your chest. Your heart bumps under your hand.
"Thank you," you say, looking up, "baby, you didn't have to. You don't have to get me stuff like this, it's a lot."
"I don't think it's too much. You give gifts when you're grateful. I'm grateful to love you."
He's expecting you this time, unwavering when your arms slide over his shoulders. You breathe in the smell of his skin and he does the same, his face pressed to the top of your head.
Jack is late for school that day. You apologise to Aaron more times than you can count, and every time he only smiles and says, "It's okay. I love you."
+1
Aaron misses your first anniversary.
It's a very important date to miss, and you have a right to be upset.
But.
You always knew from the very first date that this was something that could, unfortunately, happen. You'd been lucky to get him for your birthday, luckier still to see him on his own and treat him with the delights he deserved. You'd figured eventually something would happen to throw a spanner in the works.
What you aren't expecting is the lack of anger.
You aren't mad at him, not one bit. It would be okay if you were, even though it's not his fault, because this is so big. You're celebrating the best year of your life alone, and that's no fun. You and Aaron had planned to go away, two days in a fancy hotel, Jack with Jessica and no worries.
He can't ignore a bomb threat in the capital, and he wouldn't want to.
You know a missed anniversary is a lesser weight than innocent people dead. You know Aaron wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he didn't go. You know he regrets leaving you on such an important day.
Maybe one day, you'll be angry with him. Today, you only miss him.
I love you. I'm sorry. I'll be back very soon. Happy anniversary.
He sends that after a grovelling, short phone call, in which you assure him that it's fine. Your voice is tight with tears, you miss him like crazy, and he hears it though you try to hide it.
I will make it up to you.
You don't have any doubts.
You feel a little sorry for yourself, and then you send him a text of your own.
I love you, so don't be sorry. Get back safe and sound and consider yourself forgiven. Happy anniversary, my love.
Followed with what's likely too many hearts for good measure.
Still, still, he doesn't believe it's okay. You know he's human, and he loves you, and that makes it easy to predict how he's feeling — worried that you're angry, worried that you'll leave him, worried this won't work for you.
And you're only human yourself. You can't say how you'll feel in another year, or two, or five. You can't imagine how depressing it might be to miss the holidays and birthdays and anniversaries with him year after year, but you want to be patient. You want to forgive him for the things he has no hand in, and you do.
You get a visitors pass for his office once you're cleared and take the elevator up, checking your text messages for the fifth time, just to make sure.
I'll be home in a couple of hours, the plane touches down in two. Love you. Sent 4.53PM.
It's the day after your anniversary, a Monday, and it's nearly 7PM. You smile at people you've seen in passing the few times you've visited his office before and don't bother trying to sit in Aaron's office, knowing it's locked while he's away. You travel the spare steps and sit at the top of the landing, hands clutching the neck of the bunch of flowers you're holding nervously. The cellophane crinkles.
You hadn't answered him. It was cruel to leave him hanging, but you didn't expect him to come home so soon. He's too damn good at his job.
The elevator doors open in the quiet. Barely anybody lingers now in the late hour, and the voices of the BAU echo.
Spencer sees you first. Morgan second. They stop at the beginning of the office.
Aaron sees you third.
You spring to stand up on your feet, and then you feel very tall and very seen and descend the steps rather than draw more attention.
"You said seven," you say, not sure what else to say, not with people watching you. "This is definitely closer to eight."
Aaron thankfully isn't too proud to speed walk to you. Your heart skips as you meet him, flowers crushed half to death as he gets his arm behind your neck, hooking your head in the crook of his elbow.
He kisses you roughly. Heat floods every inch of skin, your breath rushes out of your nose with a sigh.
He pulls back.
"Happy anniversary," you say quietly, smiling at the sheer relief in his eyes.
"It was yesterday," he says, quiet too.
"Happy one year and one day, then." You push him away from you gently. "Don't suffocate your roses."
"You got me flowers."
"You get people gifts when you're grateful," you parrot.
He takes a step back and accepts the flowers. On the message card, you've written, bashful and clumsy and adoring, I'm grateful to love you. One year and more.
He moves the bouquet into one hand and wraps you up in another huh, firm-armed, chin over the top of your head, though he intersperses his embrace with dainty kisses pecked from one temple to another.
"You aren't mad?" he asks, worried about the answer.
"No," you say honestly. "Not mad. Missed you like crazy yesterday, but I get you today. I can make it work."
When you break apart a second time, you both buckle under the weight of his colleagues watching.
"Thank you," Rossi speaks up, grand and wry, "we thought we'd have to endure his moping for at least a week. Your understanding spares us all."
"Nice, Dave," Aaron says.
"I've got your paperwork, Hotch," Morgan offers.
Aaron has the good sense to accept it before Morgan can change his mind. His friends say goodbye, and Aaron pulls you by the hand back to the elevator bank. You couldn't wipe the smile off of his face if you tried.
The elevator doors have barely closed when he's leaning down to kiss you again.
"Thank you," he says.
"You really don't have to say thank you," you murmur, bumping your shoulder with his. "You got home safe. That's all that matters."
His next kiss is bruising. The sound of cellophane crushed between you makes you laugh. He kisses you through it, his smile pressed feverishly to yours, over and over and over.
༺༻
thank you for reading! if you enjoyed please consider reblogging, i promise it makes a difference to me <3
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.”
Marvel What If...? But it's Zohran Mamdani is mcu canon Matt Murdock and him are New York community loving religious twins Mamdani beats Fisk in the polls and Matt beats him up just for fun. Matt gets to white girl dance in a club.
𑣲 clark kent who’s the biggest softie you’ve ever met. The first time you met him; it was your first day on the job at the daily planet. You bumped into the guy and spilled lukewarm coffee all over yourselves and you were actually so embarrassed.
You thought he’d be the kind of rough, macho man that you usually met at his size, but you were dead wrong. He was the sweetest, most attentive boy, and he even apologized for not having paid attention like it was his fault, buying you a new coffee just the way you liked it once he got your exact order down.
𑣲 clark kent who’s never cussed once in his entire lifetime. Sure, he reads all those asshole comments about #supershit and whatnot, but other than that, he’s an absolute saint. And yeah, you can’t lie. Once you got to meet him, you thought that whole thing was an act, but really, thats just how he is. He was raised that way!
Stubbed his toe? “Darn it!” he’d mutter in pain under his breath. What can he say? Even the man of steel was vulnerable to wooden tables.
Couldn’t make it to the date he asked you on because of his superman duties?
“Gosh.. m’so sorry, pretty..” he’d apologize with that soft, sweet little voice of his when he feels guilty about something, and you’re so weak for it. even with the silk dress you put on that felt sticky to your skin after an hour of waiting at your apartment.
He’d make it up to you later by cooking you one of his ma’s famous home cooked meals and gazes at you while you tell him about your day like you weren’t real.
𑣲 clark kent who loves to call you by the cutest nicknames ever because he just adores you so much, its hard not to refer to you as “pretty girl” “lovebug” “honey” “sweetheart” “baby” “angel” or even ma’am if he felt like a tease. You’d never admit to him that it actually turns you on.. because it really, really does.
𑣲 clark kent who always notices when you feel fidgety and stressed. He feels it like a sixth sense. He’d cup your face, but you cant really call it that because he was really just squishing it gently to get a little giggle out of you. “There she is.” he’d smile so softly at you.
He couldn’t stand looking at you all blue and gloomy after a hard day of dealing with Perry’s constant tasks. So every time you came home from work, he’d already cooked your favorite dinner. And after that, he’d take a warm bath with you, his chest pressed against your back as he washes the stress of your day away from your skin with his big, calloused, gentle hands.
𑣲 clark kent who after the most mind boggling sex that left your legs shaking and your body exhausted, kisses away your tears and wipes away the hairs that fell onto your face so he can see his pretty girlfriend all fucked out.
He’s so sickly sweet after bruising your guts like he didn’t just break you two minutes before and slips out of you gently, laying back down next to you, coaxing you onto his chest.
It’s so peaceful and you’re afraid you’re getting cavities just by how sweet he is. You fall sleep listening to his heart beat while he combs his fingers through your hair, whispering sweet praises into your ear until his senses tell him that you’re completely calm and dormant.
Note: The following story explores intense emotions — expect a lot of angst. And yes, there will be a second part.
The Silence After You - Part II
Clark Kent x female reader
Synopsis: When Clark admits his thoughts have strayed—right as rain hammers the windows—you choose dignity over denial. Between a siren-lit goodbye and a folded note on the table, Metropolis keeps needing its hero while you learn how to stop needing yours.
Warnings: Emotional infidelity themes, heartbreak, crying, panic, moving out, sirens/explosion (off-screen), mention of Lois Lane, identity stress; no graphic content.
WC: 4,700 words aprox.
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The rain clawed at the window as if it wanted to come inside and escape the cold that already lived within you. You were curled up on the couch, making your body as small as possible, as if you could disappear into the fold of a cushion. Outside, the world blurred behind a veil of water and glass; a steady wind, strong in persistence but weak against the pane, moaned through the frames. Your eyes were two open wounds—red and swollen, a devastated landscape. Your cheeks shone, crossed by a salty river that no longer found relief in sobs. The tears had run dry, leaving behind only a heavy silence and a dull ache in your chest.
Ashamed? Maybe. The word echoed in the emptiness of your mind. Ashamed that your pain took on such a silent, paralyzing form? That you didn’t have the strength for anger, for the screams you thought you deserved?
You could hardly believe it, yet somewhere in a dim corner of your mind, a voice whispered that you couldn’t judge how one faces a wound like this. Was there ever a manual for when the ground beneath your feet turns to quicksand?
In front of you, motionless like a condemned statue, stood Clark. Your boyfriend. Or at least, that’s what he had been until half an hour ago—until words had carved an abyss between the two of you. Clark Kent. Your whole life. Those almost three seasons together that felt like forever. A stable, comfortable relationship that had taken “the next step”… moving in together, sharing an alarm clock, toothpaste, dreams. Was that the mistake? Had you let your guard down? Had you become so predictable that boredom slipped in through the cracks without you noticing?
Did I drown him? Smother him with too much normalcy? Did my laughter—the one he used to call his favorite sound—become so ordinary that it started to bother him? The poisonous doubt slithered inside you. Or did he simply start falling for someone else? That simple. That brutally simple—and heartbreakingly painful.
Your treacherous mind dragged you back just thirty minutes earlier. The phone call. His voice—warm, you’d thought then—saying, “I’ll be there in ten minutes. We need to talk.” “Talk.” An innocent word that you now knew was the prelude to collapse. You, naive, had rushed to prepare something special. His favorite dinner: the famous “breakfast for dinner.” Scrambled eggs, toast, crispy bacon. A small domestic gesture of love that now felt pathetically out of place.
He arrived, and instead of going to the table, he stood in front of you, his gaze solemn. He took your hand with a kind of funeral solemnity and led you to the living room. He sat down, and you did too, as he bowed his head. In that moment, before he even opened his mouth, your stomach turned into a knot of ice. You knew. Something was wrong—terribly wrong.
“I’m… I think… I’ve been thinking about someone else when I should only be thinking about you.”
The words fell on your chest like slabs of stone. He sat hunched over, eyes fixed on his hands, a glimmer of tears he didn’t dare release. And your heart—that organ that had lived for him and because of him—simply stopped. For one eternal second, the world had no air.
“How long?” The question came out dry, rough. There was no trace of the sweet tenderness that usually colored your voice when you spoke to him. It was the tone of a stranger negotiating her own sentence.
He shook his head, a vague, painful gesture. “It’s not something that—”
“Feelings don’t form overnight, Clark,” you cut in, your voice a steady whisper as your eyes dropped to the carpet, unable to meet his. You needed the concrete detail, the number that marked the beginning of the end. The date of the shipwreck.
Silence stretched between you, heavy with the weight of an unspoken confession. Finally, in a faint voice, he said it. “A month and a half.”
Boom.
Your heart, frozen until then, kicked violently back to life, hammering against your ribs like a terrified bird. And then the tears came. Not in convulsions, but in a silent, unstoppable flood, as if an inner dam had broken. From that precise moment, silence took hold of you. No more questions were needed. The instant he said “a month and a half,” your mind, cruelly lucid, made the instant connection.
Lois Lane.
Her name detonated in your brain with the force of an absolute truth. His coworker. You’d met her a couple of times during casual outings from the paper. She was lovely, yes—confidently beautiful, effortlessly kind, with a spark of sharp intelligence in her eyes. She had a different glow, a magnetism that drew attention without trying. And in your mental chaos, you pieced it all together: that month and a half coincided with the time he’d been assigned to that new investigative team. The project that kept him late at the office, that made him come home distracted, still thinking about work—the one he shared with her.
She showed him more of herself. More of what he liked. More, perhaps, than what you, in your safe and steady love, could offer anymore. And there, in the silence broken only by the patter of rain, you sat and watched the man you loved say goodbye, while the image of another woman rose, clear and undeniable, amid the shattered pieces of your heart.
You swallowed your tears with an effort that burned your throat. The salty taste mixed with the bitterness nesting in your chest. With a heaviness that seemed to anchor you to the floor, you stood from the couch. The movement was slow, deliberate, as if every muscle rebelled against the order to flee.
“Don’t go.”
Clark’s voice broke behind you, followed by the hurried sound of his steps rising into the charged silence. You turned, forcing your eyes to meet his. You looked at him—and it was like seeing a lost child in a storm. It was clear… he didn’t know how to do this. He didn’t have a script for breaking a heart, for destroying a shared world. Maybe for a man like him—used to protecting, to saving—this was more devastating than any disaster he’d ever faced.
“Why didn’t you tell me when it started? When you first felt it?” The question slipped out, rough and low. It wasn’t a scream of anger, but the lament of betrayed trust. “Why did you let it grow?”
“I didn’t know,” he said, shaking his head, searching the air for an explanation that didn’t exist. “I swear, I… I didn’t even realize it until I caught myself ignoring your calls just to—”
“To be with her,” you finished, and the words sliced through you like a knife, sharpening the pain with raw truth. “I don’t want explanations, Clark,” you said, nodding slowly, because deep down, a part of you already knew. You’d seen his distance for a month—his quick exits for work, his faraway stares. And you, foolish and in love, had covered it up with the blanket of responsibility. You thought it was just work. You crossed your arms over your chest as if you could hold yourself together, and sighed, exhausted. “Being here isn’t right anymore.”
“I’ll go,” he insisted, his voice trembling with anguish. “But please, forgive me. I didn’t want this to happen. I tried to ignore it, I fought it…” His voice broke, strangled by emotion.
“But I must have done something wrong, because in the end, you forgot about me,” you murmured. He shook his head violently, but it no longer mattered.
“This is your apartment, Clark, remember?” you said with a terrifying calm. “I’m the one who moved in. The one who brought her plants, her books, her dreams into these walls. I’m the one who should leave.” As you spoke, you wiped away another rebellious tear with the back of your hand—a gesture of infinite fragility.
“I don’t know what to do, I swear,” he confessed, and for the first time, his gaze locked with yours—desperate, lost. “If I kept lying, if I carried this alone, it would’ve killed me inside. I didn’t want to hurt you… I tried to fight it, I swear I didn’t want to destroy this.”
“But you did, Clark,” you said, meeting his eyes with a steady gaze. There was no rage left in you—only mourning for what was gone. “What we built, everything… it ended in a second.”
And then, you stepped closer. How could you not? How could you resist approaching the love of your life one last time? The man whose arms had been your refuge on every cold night—and whom you knew would never hold you again with that same meaning. The man who shattered himself in a thousand pieces to fulfill his duty, to save lives, and yet, somehow, always found a space for you. The man who had shown you his tears and deepest secrets, just as you had shown him yours. It had been a love so vast, so full… and yet, it hadn’t been enough. And there you were, saying goodbye to the man who had taught you how to love.
With a hand that barely trembled, you brushed his cheek. He closed his eyes, unable to hold your gaze, and a sob escaped his chest. Then he pulled you into his arms with desperate strength, and maybe that embrace was what broke you the most. His warmth—that warmth you loved, that meant home—now reminded you that it would no longer belong to you. You held him back, both of you crying: he, for the guilt of having failed you; you, for a pain that, though not your fault, you felt as if it were. Where had you gone wrong? What roof had you failed to give him? What light in you had gone out that he had gone looking for it in someone else?
You pulled away gently, with a determination that surprised even you. You wiped your cheeks with your palms and, in an act of pure and torn love, you smiled. A sad smile, resigned—the most painful kind.
“It’s okay, Clark,” you nodded, your voice a broken whisper, a thread of unraveling silk. “Everything will be fine.” The kindest and cruelest lie. “Everything happens for a reason,” you added, but he didn’t let go of your waist, clinging to the shreds of what you had been.
“Maybe I was just a rehearsal,” you continued, your voice cracking on the last word, though the smile never left your lips. It was a smile of acceptance, of sacrifice for the other’s sake. “So that she could have a better version of you, one more prepared. No…” You swallowed hard, searching for strength where none remained. “Don’t waste it. Fate works like that—sometimes so simple and so complicated. Maybe you’re the love of my life… but I’m not yours.”
And in that precise instant, as if the universe had a macabre sense of timing, the distant yet violent roar of an explosion rattled the windows. Within seconds, the heavy silence of the room was replaced by the sirens of ambulances and police cars slicing through the night. A column of dark smoke began to rise in the distance, painting the sky with a new emergency.
A bitter irony overtook you. Even in the most cataclysmic moment of your personal life, the world still demanded its hero.
“Go, Clark,” you said, gently wiping the tears that still streaked his cheeks with your thumbs. It was a maternal gesture, a farewell. “The citizens aren’t to blame for the problems in Superman’s other life.”
He nodded, a grimace of pain and duty warring on his face. He turned—and in a second, literally in the blink of an eye—the man of wool and cotton was gone, replaced by the blue and red armor beneath his civilian clothes, ready to emerge. But as he stepped toward the doorway, transformed, he froze.
He didn’t move. His eyes, now heavy with the weight of two identities, fixed on you. Perhaps it wasn’t just Clark saying goodbye, but Superman too—saying farewell to the only person who truly saw him, without the suit. And that hurt infinitely more than any other goodbye. Because in that moment, you weren’t looking at a god disguised as a reporter; you were looking at your Clark—or what was left of him.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, and the word sounded hollow, too small to fill the abyss opening between you. He moved closer and wrapped you in his arms, and you stayed there, curled against his chest, memorizing the rhythm of a heart that would soon beat for someone else. When he pulled back, his eyes dropped to your lips. An old impulse—a reflex born of hundreds of farewells and reunions—drew him toward you. He was about to kiss you.
But you stopped him.
Softly, you placed your hand on his cheek, guiding his face away. No. Those kisses, those intimate gestures, no longer belonged to you. They were hers now—to a future that no longer included your smile. Instead, he bowed his head and pressed a trembling kiss to your forehead. His nose brushed your skin in a final, desperate attempt to inhale your essence one last time.
“Don’t leave tonight, please,” he pleaded, his voice a rasp of anguish against your hair. “It’s too late.”
“Yes,” you lied, knowing that every extra second in that place that was no longer your home would be torture. “I won’t leave.”
He nodded, swallowing his pain. With one last look that pierced through your soul, he walked toward the window. He threw it open, and the night breeze—now laced with smoke and tragedy—flooded the room. One second, and all that remained was a red streak vanishing into the emergency-stained night.
You stood still, watching until that flash of color disappeared completely into the distance, until you were certain his attention, his heart, and his duty were already miles away—focused on saving a world that, for you, had already ended.
And then, your legs gave out.
As if the string holding you upright had been suddenly cut, you collapsed to the floor. The façade of strength shattered, and a convulsive, guttural cry tore out from the deepest part of your being. You pressed a hand against your chest—over the heart that you could almost feel breaking into a thousand pieces—while the other clutched at the carpet.
“This isn’t real, this can’t be happening,” you repeated between gasps, refusing to accept the truth you had already embraced in words minutes before. “Please, let it not be true.” But you already knew. You knew it in every object in the house, in every memory stuck to the walls. It was true.
Minutes—or maybe an eternity—passed as you cried on the floor, until a faint instinct for survival forced you to breathe deeply and wipe your face with fury. You made yourself stand.
With mechanical movements, like an automaton, you began packing everything. Your clothes, your toothbrush, that book you’d been reading on the nightstand. And then your eyes fell on the photos. Too many. In frames of silver and wood, capturing frozen moments—by Clark, by you, by both. There you were, laughing at the fair, with the sea behind you, embracing on a snowy day. Each one was a knife. You sighed—a sound pulled from deep within—and from all of them, you took only the smallest, the one that fit in the palm of your hand. You couldn’t take more than the essentials: your clothes and one tiny fragment of a happiness already gone.
With your bags packed and by the door, the taxi on its way, you grabbed a piece of paper. Not a blank sheet, but the back of an old receipt—the first thing you found. With a trembling hand but a piercing clarity, you wrote:
“I couldn’t wait for you, Clark. Seeing you again would make me refuse to leave, and I’m not the kind of woman who begs. I’m the kind who respects feelings—even when they break her heart. I’m grateful for your honesty, even if it hurts more than any lie. Everything feels so strange and complicated because… I really do love you, Clark. And it hurts so much to know that this won’t last much longer.
I don’t want to stay here, going mad, wondering how you stopped loving me. Where did I fail? If I stay, that question will devour me alive, and I’d rather run away with what little dignity I have left. I’m so sorry to leave like this, but there’s nothing else to say except… be happy. I hope you find a partner and a confidante like you were to me. And I know Lois will do a wonderful job. But I can’t stay knowing that someone else already lives in your thoughts. I just can’t.
But I love you, Clark. More than you could ever imagine. And I hope you’ll be happy. Thank you for taking care of me, even when your mind and your heartbeat no longer belonged to me. Goodbye forever, my love.”
You folded the letter with infinite care, as if burying something fragile. You left it in the center of the living room table, resting on the very spot where you’d so often placed his coffee mug in the mornings.
You looked around the apartment one last time. The place where you had waited through so many nights, counting the minutes until Clark—or Superman—walked through that door. Where you had laughed until your stomach hurt, where you had celebrated his birthday with a homemade cake full of sugar and affection. And despite everything—despite the hollow space spreading in your chest—you smiled. A sad, bittersweet smile, but a genuine one, for the bright memories that, at least for you, had been real.
And you left.
Maybe he never thought about it.
Maybe he just wanted to be honest, because his mother, Martha, had taught him never to lie to someone who truly loved him. Someone like you. The one who smiled at him without restraint, who waited for him at home, and ran into his arms with total devotion. So many happy moments that he himself, with his own hands, had shattered. He never meant to. He simply didn’t know how to handle the hurricane of confusion in his chest.
When the fire ended and everyone was safe, he returned to his apartment. The door closed behind him with a dull click. And then—silence.
The silence was the first thing that hit him. Not the absence of sound, but the silence of your absence. A physical silence, one that hung heavy in the air. Clark closed the apartment door behind him, and the familiar creak of the wood sounded hollow, like in an abandoned house.
His eyes, still adjusting to the dimness after the glare of the flames, scanned the living room instinctively, searching for you. For the silhouette that was always on the couch, or peeking out from the kitchen with a relieved smile. Nothing.
“Sweetheart?” The word slipped from his lips before his mind could stop it—a whisper loaded with hope that was already a mirage.
Only the hum of the refrigerator answered him.
His super-hearing, automatic and desperate, sharpened. He filtered through the building’s sounds—the TV of the neighbor downstairs, the pipes groaning... but not the rhythm of your heart. Not your steady breathing. Not the soft brush of your skin against the fabric of the couch.
A sudden chill, completely foreign to his physiology, ran through him. She’s gone.
He moved toward the center of the room, and then he saw it: a folded piece of paper on the table, a small white rectangle screaming in the darkness. He approached it with a slowness that wasn’t like him. His fingers—capable of bending steel—trembled slightly as he picked up the note.
He read it. Not once, but twice, three times. Every word was a nail in a coffin he had built with his own hands without realizing it. “Thank you for taking care of me, even when your mind and your heartbeat no longer belonged to me. Goodbye forever, my love.”
Goodbye forever.
The final phrase echoed in his head like a muffled explosion. Forever. It wasn’t a “see you later,” nor an “I need space.” It was a clean, final cut. And then, reality unfolded in his mind with terrifying clarity.
You wouldn’t be there when he came back from his missions. He wouldn’t find coffee waiting in the morning. He wouldn’t hear your footsteps in the hallway. Your laughter would no longer fill these rooms. Your perfume was already fading, and soon, only the memory of it would remain.
His mind, faster than light, began projecting the future—days, weeks, years. And in none of those scenarios were you there. Not in this apartment. Not in his life.
And then he understood the most devastating truth: it wasn’t just that you wouldn’t return to this place. It was that you—with that fierce resolve that sometimes hid behind your tenderness—were capable of disappearing. He knew your story, your ability to rebuild yourself far away from anything that hurt you. You weren’t the kind to stay in the same city, frequenting the same cafés, hoping for a chance encounter. You erased your tracks.
He wouldn’t run into you by accident on the street. You wouldn’t bump into each other at the grocery store. He wouldn’t hear about you from mutual friends. Nothing. You would become a ghost who had decided to stop haunting him.
The thought of that total absence—that absolute void where a vital person once lived—hit him with a force stronger than any villain he had ever faced. A dense, cold panic took hold of him. His heart, which beat with the power of a sun, seemed to contract in pain within his chest. He gasped, short of breath in his own home.
He looked around, and for the first time, the apartment didn’t feel like a refuge. It felt like a tomb. Every object, every photo on the wall that he himself had hung, every pillow you had chosen, was no longer a reminder of what he had, but of what he had lost—irrevocably.
He had been so focused on the anguish of his confession, on the storm of his confused feelings for Lois, that he had never... never considered the desolate landscape that would remain afterward. He hadn’t thought about the silence. He hadn’t thought about the half-empty bed. He hadn’t thought about the real possibility that you—his rock, his home—might simply vanish.
Now, that future loomed over him—cold, silent, eternal. And the question, the doubt that had led him to this, turned into a slab of ice in his stomach.
Was it worth it? Was this black hole he had opened in his life worth it—for a doubt, for a shadow of a feeling that now, in the vastness of your absence, felt insignificant?
The hero who could bear the weight of the world on his shoulders suddenly felt crushed by the weight of a few words written on a piece of paper. And for the first time, he knew what it meant to feel completely, irreversibly alone.
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