Before he was your boyfriend, Clark Kent was just another face on the subway.
A kind and handsome stranger who helps in a moment of need — and has you questioning just how fast you’re allowed to move from breakups. A stranger that you just keep running into by chance - until he isn’t really a stranger anymore.
If only he’d ask you out.
Or: Before the list, comes the theory.
prequel to the love list - not required to read this, but there are some references! 11k, intended nd!reader, strangers to lovers, no spoilers
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You first meet Clark Kent on a Tuesday.
It's a foggy one, a blanket of mist draped across Metropolis, and you're frazzled because you're late.
You're not exactly in your right mind when you're late.
It's a sort of fight or flight mode - though you're definitely preferential to flight. You really hate being late. But as you walk as fast as you can, a speedy sort of half-jog, it's not even your lateness you're fixated on.
It's the goddamn tag in your shirt.
You can feel it, itchy and pressed against the back of your neck. It scratches with every step. Your hands flex. Every cell in your body wants to stop, find somewhere to pause, and fix your shirt.
You're far too late to even entertain the idea.
This is normally not a problem for you — though, actually, that's not true. Normally, you're much better prepared than this, that is.
In a rush, you'll just snip tags off and deal with the spiky remains. It's not ideal, but you can manage.
When you have time though, you do it properly. You have a little seam-ripper at home, that lives among your sewing supplies, dedicated to removing pesky labels.
Today, your mistake is your excitement.
A new shirt, a nice woollen material that you know will keep you warm in the coming, cooling days —much like today.
Given how it feels your body doesn't even attempt temperature regulation at times, clothes that can are prized.
If you're too warm? Good luck getting any work done. Too cold and you'll be shivering the whole day. It bugs you a bit that you seem particularly sensitive to temperatures that others brush off.
You hurry down the steps to the subway, your boot sliding an inch on the wet tile. You clutch your bag tighter, willing yourself to stay upright, and feel the scratch of the tag on the back of your neck again.
You huff loudly, regaining your balance.
The mistake of excitement is that you haven't worn this shirt out yet—purchased only the day before. Usually there's a test run, to make sure this doesn't happen. Not today.
But by the time you'd realised your mistake, you'd been out the door, with no time to turn back.
And now it's worse because you've been running — which means you're warmer than usual, sweating a bit beneath your coat, your socks feel too tight, and the goddamn tag is scratching you.
Rounding the corner of the subway station, you skid again on the wet ground, barely keeping your balance again.
You spot your train up ahead. Its doors are just beginning to close.
No! With a start, you head for the train anyways, thinking by some miracle you'll make it.
You cannot be late — you can't- because if you are, it'll ruin the whole day and you'll have to wait til you're all the way back home again to get settled and—and—and—
Someone sees you coming and holds the door.
There's a burst of relief as you manage to slip through the train doors, which slide shut with a heavy bang! the moment they're released. You flinch at the noise, still trying to catch your breath.
This day is miserable, you decide.
The train begins to roll along. You remember abruptly you should thanking whoever saved you from being much later than you could've been.
You turn your head, then have to tilt it up to see his face.
The person who held the door is a very polite looking, very tall man, dressed in office attire. He's wearing a nice winter coat, same colour as his hair - and thick-rimmed spectacles. His lanyard flashes a Daily Planet Press badge.
You swallow. Okay, sure, your subway saviour is the most gorgeous guy you've ever seen. No big deal.
"Hi." You find your voice, still breathing heavily. "Thank you. Sorry."
The man smiles —holy fuck— then clears his throat, nodding his head somewhat awkwardly.
"You're welcome." He says and you suddenly can't tell if the wobbliness in your knees is from the train or his voice. "Definitely been me on the other side of those doors before."
He smiles at you so genuinely that it makes you feel even more off kilter. You find it surprisingly easy to smile back.
The train rattles along the tracks, curving around a corner, and you realise you should probably hold on to something. You grab the nearest pole, conveniently bringing you closer to the man.
Now that you have a moment, turbulent waters settling for the duration of your journey, sensations start prickling again.
The sweat on your collarbones, cooling while you still feel overheated beneath your thick coat. Your hair, lightly plastered to the back of your neck. The tag.
One hand still on the pole, you reach back and pinch at your shirt collar, shuffling it about to try find some relief. The tag scratches along your skin and you squirm uncomfortably.
Do you have scissors with you? You'll cut it off right here, right now, if you can.
The train car you're in rocks to a rumbling stop at the next station. The doors open and a few more people file in, inadvertently pushing you closer to the handsome stranger who helped you earlier.
Your eyes catch — he smiles again and your face burns.
The tag distracts you from his closeness. Waiting til the train steadies out again, departed from the latest station, you release the pole. You shift your bag forward, off your shoulder, and your hand dives in.
If you have scissors with you, they'll like be in mini sewing kit you keep with you. You hunt around blindly. The tag itches still.
Your other hand deviates from holding your bag open, moving to grab at the back of your shirt.
It's not effective, both hands occupied as the train sways, and something pinches tight in your throat. You're getting wound tighter and tighter.
"Are you alright?"
Your head jerks up. It's the handsome stranger. He's watching you, your arms contorted and a crease in your brow, with an expression of polite concern.
"I-" You begin. He likely doesn't actually want to know — people say things to be polite without meaning them all the time, you've found.
Despite it, the awfulness of your morning leaves you with no energy to pretend. Or lie.
You sigh, "I have a tag. On my shirt. I forgot to cut it off before I left the house."
It's a relief when your fingers close around the familiar shape of your sewing kit, square with rounded corners. You retrieve it quickly, releasing the collar of your shirt to pop it open.
The train judders suddenly and you get shoved forward as the car passes over uneven tracks. You just clasp the pole in time to keep yourself from tasting the grime of the subway floor.
The man grabs the pole too, an inch between your hands, and you find yourself meeting his gaze again.
He smiles crookedly, "Would you like some help?"
It takes a beat to realise what he means. His gaze darts down to the sewing kit still clutched in your hand - and when you can't move your tongue, he gestures somewhat awkwardly to the collar of your shirt.
"The tag, I mean," He stammers. "It would be difficult—not that I don't think you could- it's, uh, the angle, I suppose, that would… make it hard."
He nods firmly after, as if it reinforces his point.
You blink at him - and can see your perturbed expression in the reflection of his glasses.
"Um, yeah, yes," You finally find your words.
It's unlike you at all to be so completely struck by a random stranger— crushes tend to be few and far between for you.
Yet, this man, his kindness and his awkward boyishness, is definitely doing something to you. Making you extra foolish. As if your morning needs to get much worse.
You undo the latch on the kit in your hands and fish out the scissors, silver glinting beneath the subway lights. They're travel-sized. If you think they look little in your hands, it's nothing compared to his.
You hand them over and then, with an awkward pause, turn away slightly.
One hand still clutching the pole tight, your fingers leaf under the fabric of your collar, then the tag. It forces a shiver out of you as you turn it out.
"Okay, um, I'm gonna have to, just-" The warmth of his hand hovers over your neck, but he doesn't touch you. His fingers stay solely on the fabric.
The train pulls into another station, whirring to a stop. The doors glide open with a hiss.
People filter in in both directions. You're jostled a bit closer to the pole you're holding and your face burns when the man holds his arm up on the other side, almost around your shoulder, a guard against the moving crowd.
"Sorry," He says. "I'm gonna wait til we're moving again."
You nod, then realise you're holding your breath.
The doors shudder, then slip back together, and the train is moving on again. Your eyes seek out the rotating sign announcing the stops, mentally tallying how many left before yours.
Another four stops. You have time.
"Okay, hold still."
The arm braced around you retracts and the warmth returns to your neck. The fabric of your shirt tightens as he angles it just right, every graze felt across your skin like pinpricks.
You hold your breath. An overwhelming awareness shudders down your spine at the closeness you're sharing with this stranger.
Then—fwiiip. With one slow, precise snip, the tag is freed.
"All done." He says, and you peer over your shoulder to find him smiling. He's holding the villain of your morning between his fingers up like a prize.
You sag in relief and smooth down your collar. It's surprisingly a neat slice, the tag lying down flat — flatter than you would've managed on your own. Not without wrangling your shirt off which — well, even you can tell that's not appropriate.
There's less space between the stations now, as you get closer to the central business district. The train stops more frequently, with more people getting off than getting on.
"Thank you," You say, turning to face him properly. "Very much. It was making my morning bad."
The man frowns a bit at that, handing your scissors back. You tuck them into the kit and drop it into your bag, jostled again by the uneven tracks.
Your hands clutch the pole and your bag equally tight, looking back up at the man.
He's looking you, the tag still in his grasp. His lips part—but whatever he's going to say is lost as another subway speeds by in the opposite direction.
Wind howls loudly, a tunnelled vortex of air. You cringe at the volume.
Around you, the subway car rocks a bit wildly again, forcing you both to correct your stances to stay on balance. The tag disappears as he grips the pole with both hands. Your own hand sweats from holding the pole so tight.
Another shared look.
Oddly, the thought that crosses your mind next is a wish to have met this kind stranger under other circumstances.
Late, frazzled, losing your balance on public transport — it's not exactly your best foot forward.
Which is a strange thought to be having, considering you're three weeks since the breakup.
According to the internet, you should be drowning in tears at the moment. Maybe this is the rebound people talk about?
You glance up at the stranger, your eyes meet, and you both look away. You might not be imagining the smile you share.
The next station arrives. The man looks up as the train rolls to gradual stop, then his lips purse.
"Well, I hope it can be a good morning now. This is where I get off."
You look up at his voice and he's smiling at you again, genuine. It's a gorgeous smile. You nod, mouth a little dry. Unwittingly, you glance up and check which station you're pulling up to.
Your brows knit together. 17th St station? You remember his badge, glance down to double check. It still reads the same — The Daily Planet.
Which is crazy, because you could've sworn that the Daily Planet was at least a few blocks back, best reached through 12th St station. You haven't actually gone there, but you've studied the subway map before.
The doors open with a hiss. The man gives an awkward wave, paired with a bob of his head, and you take a beat before you realise it's directed at you.
Waving back, you begin to ponder the possibility that this complete stranger missed his stop just to help you.
You frown to yourself. No, that would be preposterous.
The train departs, dragging the platform out of your line of vision with a slowly increasing speed. Subtle as you can, you watch him through the grubby windows of the subway and subtly press two fingers to your wrist. Heartbeat steady—but a little jumpier than usual.
Huh.
The lights overhead flicker once and you have to grab the pole again to keep yourself steady.
Idly, you realise he still has the tag of your shirt.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
On a different day, on a different week, you find out his name is Clark.
It's a Friday evening and your shift at the library let out 10 minutes ago. You've hesitantly joined the swathes of people rushing across Metropolis, heading every which way. Car horns chorus across the cityscape. Every place in the crowd is incredibly loud.
This is why you like Friday's the least.
Your shift ends at 5 - not staggered earlier or later like other days - and that's when the city is the busiest.
Still, if you can make it home, the weekend awaits you. Sweet, blissful alone time. Maybe you'll even splurge and treat yourself to some nice sourdough for tomorrow's breakfast.
A puddle splashes below your foot, evidence of winter's thaw setting in. You pass through it and try hard not to wonder if your sock got wet, holding your bag tightly.
It's only about two blocks from your work to the subway station.
Approximately 7 minutes walk, if you're not held up. You know because you've timed it before.
It's a bit of a hazard to walk with headphones on, but, to you, it's one of the more bearable ways to get through busy crowds.
You're aware though, ducking and twisting, avoiding the crush of bodies. Your teeth clench tightly. You're definitely more aware than some people.
A shoulder bashes into yours, some self-important douchebag pushing through the crowd like he's the only one with somewhere to be.
The push knocks you off balance momentarily. You stumble back into someone, throat thickening in discomfort, and wish you were smaller than you are.
"Woah, easy there," The person you've hit into says, hands pressing you back upright. Your skin prickles, but even so, you turn to thank them — them blink in surprise.
It's Lois Lane.
"Oh," You can see the familiarity peak on your face at the same time. Her polite concern melts into something closer to delight - which is a surprise to you. "y/n! Hi!"
Glancing around to make sure you're not in the line of fire for any other assholes, you smile back.
After a moment, you remember that people think it's rude to keep your headphones on when they talk to you. You push one side off your ear, scrunching your hair up slightly, "Hi, Lois."
Lois Lane is one of those people who you knew would do great things from the moment you met her.
There's just a certain star quality she exudes. She's tough as nails. Takes no excuses or prisoners in her search for the truth. If you cut her, she'd probably bleed journalistic integrity.
She also used to live right across the hall from you in college.
At one point, you'd have called you two friends. Now, a couple years on, you're not sure if that still applies.
"Oh my God, how have you been?" She says, perfectly comfortable having a conversation out on the busy street. You, meanwhile, shift on your feet. "Man, it's been awhile, hasn't it?"
You're not sure if she's actually asking, but you know the answer anyway.
"Three years and 4 months since we graduated."
Lois' smile widens at that, like your response has tickled her in some way. Her blue eyes dance over you, then out across the rushing street, before focuses back on you.
"Hey, you know I'm actually on my way to some drinks with my co-workers. I'd love to catch up though."
Surprise twinges in you. She does? That makes you feel a little lighter - maybe you and Lois were better friends than you can recall.
You tell her honestly, "That sounds nice."
She lights up. "So you'll come?"
It takes another moment to comprehend that she's invited you along to her drinks. Just now. To catch up. But also with her co-workers? Your brows knit together, lips pursing.
"Right now?" You question. "With your co-workers?"
The pushed back headphone is slipping forward slightly. Lois nods, grinning, and making you feel like it's impossible to say no to. Mentally, you calculate if you go for a bit, you should still have time to pick up some sourdough before you go home.
"Okay." You push your headphones off altogether.
"Okay?" Lois repeats, perking up at your response. "Awesome. We're all meeting at this little bar on 15th, Crowley's. You heard of it?"
She talks the whole walk to Crowley's. You inform that, no, you've never heard of Crowley's because most of the time you've spent at bars has been at The Last Resort.
She comments that you must like it if you frequent it so much - to which you shrug, because maybe that's true.
You're not sure of that, just that— "It's Darren's favourite."
Lois' brows draw together, her lips quirked into a smile. "Darren, huh? Who's that?"
"My ex-boyfriend."
The smile on her face disappears so quickly you can feel the misstep you've taken. You hate when that happens.
Though, you're not quite sure why Lois suddenly looks like she's trodden on a kitten. She's not the one with the break-up.
"Oh," Lois says. "I'm sorry to hear that. Is it fresh?"
"Approximately five weeks." You respond with another shrug.
You hope she won't ask you how you're feeling about it, because you haven't really thought about it. Well, no, that's not true.
You've spent a lot of time thinking about how you should be feeling about it. Despair, anguish, heartbreak. That's what the internet says at least. Maybe because you don't feel any of that, it's a sign it was the right decision.
Or perhaps it's a sign it was the wrong one.
You've resolved to just not really think about it.
Lois slows to a halt and just up ahead, you can see the neon sign at the top of some basement stairs, announcing it as Crowley's to the world. It's a dive bar then.
You glance at Lois. She's looking at you, eyebrows pinched, looking like she might ask you something. You know her thinking face well.
But in the end, she doesn't. She nods and continues on. With one hand on the railing, she takes the stairs to Crowley's carefully and you follow suit.
Crowley's is much nicer than The Last Resort.
You look around as you pass through the doorway, the room widening out to a nice, comfy place. The lighting is low, dimmed and soft. It's not too loud.
Up the front, there's high tables with stools, occupied by the beer drinkers who are fixated on television. You glance to see if you recognise the game. It's the Meteors.
Further back, short, squat tables sit closer to the bar, accompanied by green armchairs. They house what looks to be a fair few couples.
And in the back, where Lois is heading, booths, with maroon velvet coverings, wrap around round tables.
"Alright, from left to right. Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark," Lois rattles off, gesturing to the middle booth which is, indeed, already housing five people in various amounts of office attire.
Your eyes follow as Lois talks and you feel a jolt as you reach her final co-worker, sitting squished in like he’s trying to make himself take up less space.
It's the handsome stranger.
What had she said his name was? Clark.
You roll it over in your mouth, whispering it quietly to yourself. After a moment, you decide it's aptly fitting for him. It strokes a different familiarity in you that you can't place.
Looking at him now, in much the same attire as when you met him, you don't even need to feel your pulse point to feel your heart jump.
Which… feels concerning. You think?
You just hadn't expected you would see him again.
Though, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t hoped you would.
Some days, you'd peered through the crowd of the subway car, wondering if he'd be there, head a little taller than others.
But you also hadn't been that late since that day you saw him — and so despite your attempts, you hadn't seen him either.
So, maybe, he's lingered in your thoughts. So, what?
There was no harm done if you had entertained the thought of what you might do if you saw him again.
You'd smile first. Maybe wave first. Really bold stuff - for you, at least.
It hadn't been properly thought out - mainly because it quickly became an easy daydream, far from reality. Though, as you and Lois approach the table, you realise rapidly that that reality is coming true.
"Hey guys," Lois begins. "I ran into an old friend. Hope you don't mind the extra company."
The group looks up at Lois' arrival, murmurs of welcome. You try not to feel like a butterfly pinned beneath all their gazes, grappling with making sure you look around with a smile, but not linger too long.
Even so, it feels impossible for you to not watch the expression change on Clark's face when he realises who you are.
His brows draw up in surprise, a smile tugging at his mouth. He sits up a bit straighter. That's good. At least, you think that's good. He remembers you at least.
"Alright, I'm fixing myself a drink," Lois sheds her coat as she speaks, tossing it on the free space beside Ron. "Everyone play nice."
She narrows her eyes sternly at her friends, but there's a smile that tells you she's kidding. She turns to you.
"You want anything? On me."
You flounder at being put on the spot. "Oh. Um. A ginger-ale, please?"
Lois smiles and nods, which untucks some of her hair behind her ear. "Just like college. I'll be back in a minute, okay?"
You nod, murmuring, "Okay," and watch her weave back to the bar like a woman on a mission. Then you're standing by the booth alone.
You turn back to the table, uneasiness fringing your nerves. Hands shifting, you take your pulse to keep yourself steady.
"Would you like to sit?"
It's Clark who's spoken. He's looking up at you, smiling, and he's scooched over on the seat to give you a bit more space. You realise you get another chance to see those dimples up close.
You sit, but don't take off your coat.
"Hi." You say.
"Hi," He says. The heat of his thigh warms your own, nearly touching beneath the table. "What are the chances, huh? I didn't think I'd see you again."
"Probably pretty low," you say, sandwiching your hands between your legs so they can't do anything stupid. "I mean, Metropolis' population is rather large. Though, it was much more likely I'd see you again on the subway."
"Wait, again?"
A blonde woman, Cat, you think, cuts in. She's wearing a nice, tight-fitting dress and glasses you'd never be able to pull off the way she does.
Her manicured finger flits between you and Clark. "You two have met before?"
Clark nods, that same awkward head bob he did when getting off the subway. "Uh, yeah, briefly. On the subway."
"He helped me cut the tag off my shirt." You tell them - and unwittingly, feel the burn in your face creep up.
Are you ill? You don't feel feverish. It worsens when Clark's knee bumps you as he adjusts on the seat. You both share a glance, gazes darting away quickly.
Cat grins at your words, while the table laughs good-naturedly. Jim — Jimmy? — nudges Clark with his elbow.
"That's the most Clark thing I've ever heard of." He says, while you observe a pinkness crawl up Clark's throat. He doesn't seem to do well under the attention, which you have in common. "The everyday superhero."
"That's hardly hero stuff," Clark mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. You'd argue against that—it very much saved your day.
Instead, you say to Cat, "I like your glasses."
"Oh, now you've done it," Steve jokes as Cat perks up, almost bouncing in her seat. She beams at you, radiant and evidently very pleased.
"That is so nice of you to say—" She says, then rolls into a speech about where exactly she got them, how much they were, how they had been apart of a new collection line, aiming to bring back more vintage style pieces. She only stops when she's interrupted by Lois' return.
"One ginger-ale." Lois says, sliding it across the table to you. It's in a high ball glass with a plastic straw, and the ice-cubes clink as it settles before you.
"Thank you." You take a sip.
"Not a drinker?"
It's Clark who's asked, his voice dropped a little lower, the rest of the table conversing between themselves. He's hunched over, elbows resting on the table edge, but his face is angled toward you.
You look at him and blink. You don't understand why he's asked. His lips twitch, almost a smile.
When you don't respond, he doesn't move his hand — just extends one finger — to point at your ginger-ale.
"Oh!" You catch on. "Yes. Or- no, I mean, only sometimes. I wasn't expecting to come out tonight. I'm already worried about saying the wrong thing."
For some reason, that makes Clark laugh, soft and quiet. This sound of it has something singing under your skin, making your face burn.
Does your ginger-ale have liquor in it after all? It would explain why you feel so light-headed all of a sudden.
"I wouldn't worry about that," Clark says, voice all smooth with assurance. "I think you're doing a wonderful job so far."
"You think so?"
"I really do."
His genuineness threatens to make a fool of you. Suddenly, you don't know what to do with your face, because you can feel your smile growing and it feels a bit maniacal.
It doesn't help that he's looking at you so intently, it's hard to maintain eye contact. Gosh, he's got blue eyes. The heat in your face doubles, then triples.
You take another sip of your ginger-ale for something to do - and also desperately hope it will cool you off.
"How long have you worked with Lois?" You hum the question, straw still resting between your lips.
"I've been at the Planet for, say, just over a year?" Clark says. "Give or take. What about yourself—how do you know Lois?"
Thinking back to the first few weeks of college brings back memories, equally fond as they not-missed.
You strongly remember the smell of your dorm carpet. Your roommate, who consumed copious amounts of ramen. The girl across the hall, who had a purple toaster, and didn't mind letting you use it.
"College. She lived across the hall in my dorm and would let me use her toaster."
Clark smiles, stealing a glimpse across the table at his co-worker. "That's nice of her. We're the same, I suppose. Except, she's across the bullpen, not the hall. And she doesn't share her sources, just steals all the coffee."
"So, not the same at all?" You query, brows pulled together.
You're not aiming to be funny but Clark laughs, showing you a flash of teeth, and you find you don't mind at all. "Okay, you got me there." He says warmly.
It strikes you then, the thought that Clark is both very nice and very easy to talk to.
And to look at, if you're being honest with yourself. He has a strong jawline, dark lashes. The dimples he gets when he smiles beg to be kissed.
It's a shame that you've already had your schtick with love—and come out thoroughly unimpressed. With the two interactions you had, you can't help but imagine that Clark Kent is the kind of person who could be very easy to love.
You swallow heavily at the thought.
You don't want to consider if you are that kind of person too - given, you think you know Darren's answer at least.
You remember you should keep asking questions. "Are you a reporter?"
Clark nods, lips pressed together. "Mhm, that I am. You keep up with the news?"
When you have meta-humans running around the globe, it's generally a good idea to. Plus, you enjoy the little Superman scoops from time to time.
“I do my best.” You shrug, your coat collar shifting against your neck. "Will I have read anything of yours?"
A bashfulness crosses Clark's face and he scratches his neck again. "Maybe. I occasionally get interviews with Superman, which you might have read."
The familiarity from earlier snaps into place. His name - printed on the byline of the Daily Planet's front page, that you've read at least a dozen times. He's the guy who gets all the Superman exclusives.
"Oh, I know those!" You exclaim. "Yes, I've read them. You're really good. In the most recent one, I really appreciated the use of the word clandestine. It's a great word. I once did a crossword where that was the main clue and I've liked it since then."
At Jimmy's motion in your peripheral, his head turning to your conversation, do you realise how loud you've accidentally become.
You shrink back a bit, a hot embarrassment spilling in your chest. You hadn't meant to.
Clark, thankfully, appears undeterred. Actually, if anything, he seems quite flattered by your comment on his word choice, his face splitting into a grin.
"Yeah? I, uh, I haven't had that compliment before. Thank you. I agree completely as well, it's a fantastic word."
You glow hotly at his response - then nod, taking another sip of ginger-ale to try swallow down some of your embarrassment.
The conversation flows back to the table when Lois taps your ankle beneath the table, hooking you into an overdue catch up. She does most of the talking and you listen dutifully, slowly emptying your glass.
Time wanes with ease; so much, that it's much later than you had intended to leave when you check your phone some time later.
You blink at it in surprise. Clearly, your idea of a quick catch-up had melted away into a slower conversation.
But, for once, you're pleasantly surprised by the change in routine. You like Lois' friends.
Okay, you hadn't exactly talked to the others all that much - just a few words back and forth across the table. It had been more you watching them toss jokes around about Daily Planet's work-life. They all seem nice enough.
What you mean is, you like Clark.
He's really good at keeping you in the conversation. When the conversation veers to a topic unknown to you, he drops little tidbits of information in your ear.
The name Perry comes out, and Clark whispers how it's their boss; 'The Stakeout' gets mentioned, and he murmurs about how a 2-hour stint accidentally became a 20-hour one; Jimmy jokingly warns Cat against another marg, and Clark tells you, grinning all the while, of the last Christmas staff party.
It's nice. He doesn't leave you wondering — doesn't even wait for you to ask. You haven't really had that before.
You steal a glimpse when you think he's not looking.
Between the tag on the subway and this, you're beginning to think he might be the nicest person you've ever met.
Still, the clock reads closer to 9pm than you'd like.
The bakery you thought you might be able to dip into after this, for tomorrow's breakfast, will be long shut. Frustration singes at the thought.
Tomorrow, however, is a Saturday. There was already an idea to go to the Farmer's market, penned in your notebook, but now you'll have to go.
Saying goodbye to a big group that you only sort of know is awkward. You slurp on your straw to announce it quietly, then shift about for a moment, before you stand.
"I have to go now."
The group turns at your words. Polite goodbyes come from Ron and Cat, waves exchanged in your direction from Jimmy and Steve.
"Oh," Clark says, blinking up at you from behind his glasses. He presses them up his nose. "That's— would you, uh, like some company? I'd be more than happy to walk you."
Something electric zings down your spine. Your face burns again at his offer.
It tempts you. Walking home with Clark does sound a dream, but if you're being honest, you're all talked out for the evening. You can feel the social fatigue setting in, feel the urge to hide beneath your headphones again.
Your walk home will be in silence, fast-paced. You don't think Clark will enjoy several blocks of complete quietness between you.
You shake your head, "No. Thank you."
Maybe you're imagining things, but you can almost convince yourself he looks a bit downtrodden at your response. You bite down the urge to over-explain yourself — it rarely helps.
Turning, you make a point to wave specifically to Lois, a smile on your lips.
You say, "Thank you for inviting me. I had a good time."
"Of course," Lois grins at you over her beer. "I'm glad we could catch up. It was really nice to see you. Though, I have a feeling I might be seeing more of you soon."
Her eyes flit across the table, but if you're supposed to catch on to something, it's lost on you.
You frown, looking around the table again — nothings different, except Clark's ears a little pinker than a second ago.
Maybe she means you'll run into each other more now you know where she frequents. You cast a glance around at Crowley's and try to imagine coming here alone. It's not implausible.
"Okay, then." You nod, the motion a bit awkward, and tuck your hands away in your pockets. "Bye."
Another chorus of farewells from the table - a wave from Clark specifically. You wave without removing your hands from your pocket.
Tracing your steps back up to the streets, you have to blink to adjust to how dark it's become, night trickling into the city. The streetlights have come on and they cast pale puddles of light across the roads. The city hums with life.
Fishing around, you retrieve your headphones and slip them on. The world dims, just a bit. Manageable now.
You huff a breath, readying yourself for the journey home. Tiredness has crept into your skin - but at the same time, you're rejuvenated in another sense. One you couldn't explain it if you tried.
As you cross the street, heading for the subway station, it reminds you Clark. The tag. The careful gentleness of his fingers, inches from your neck.
You wonder if, back at the bar, you should've looked back.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Metropolis sports several markets that spring up, like weeds between concrete, on an early Saturday morning.
It's quite a transformation. Mullen's Square, the one closest to you, is generally void of any sort of gatherings during the week. Some workers wander out to eat their lunch, but the square has less greenery than others nearby.
It's nice, still. You like to wander through it on your way home, if you want to walk a little longer, that is.
The Saturday market is technically called a farmer's market—though how many genuine farmers it houses, you're not sure. By 7am, stalls pop up through the square, cobalt tarpaulins strung up that catch the wind and keep off the sun.
The east side is dedicated to the smaller treats.
There's little coffee carts parked, a green Jitter's one among them. Stores offering trinkets and handmade gifts, decorated with bright signs. The smell of sizzling breakfast drifts through the square.
The west is where the produce is.
Rows and rows and rows of fresh fruit and vegetables, piled high enough to make you nervous you'll send them tumbling with a single knock. It's a sea of colour, bright reds and deep greens. It's also where you're heading first today.
The stone scuffs underfoot as you cross into Mullen's square.
You grip the bag of reusable bags stowed on your shoulder, which is filled with only more reusable bags— an eco-friendly Russian-doll of bags, you might say.
This particular Saturday is overcast, which keeps the morning chill close. It won't linger, you hope, as the clouds appear to be clearing out. It's not a bad bet to assume it'll be bright and sunny by the end of the hour.
You're too busy watching your feet that you nearly miss the bakery stand — your actual first stop, you now remember.
You have to halt, then do an awkward little turn around, to end up in front of it.
The worst part of markets is that every stall holder is the most extroverted, talkative person to grace the land. Small-talk is not your forte — and neither is heckling the prices.
Leo, the owner of aforementioned bakery, has thankfully come to know you as a regular - and your quietness is expected. He greets you with a nod, smelling of freshly baked goods, and begins to bag up a loaf of sourdough without a word spoken.
You like Leo. He rewards your loyalty with a slight discount, which is never unappreciated.
The warmth of the bread presses into your side, packed away safely, you head into the first row of vegetables.
You pass artichokes, celery, and swedes. You have a list of ingredients you need, penned in your notebook, but it's mostly staples. Your eyes hunt for the potatoes to begin with — and instead, catch on a taller figure in the crowd.
It's impossible to miss him, given how he's a head taller than most of the crowd. A nervous anticipation prickles across your spine.
Maybe it's not him. Statistically, it's unlikely you'll have run into him again and so soon. Did you mention your plans for the farmer's market last night aloud?
You squint at him, trying to figure out if it's just wishful thinking.
But, no. It's definitely Clark.
He's wearing a pair of blue-wash jeans and an unbuttoned red flannel, the sleeves rolled up. Beneath it, his t-shirt reads Smallville Athletics. It's a touch on the tight fitting side.
His hair is a little messier this morning and he has his glasses on, slightly down from the bridge of his nose. He's holding something in one hand.
You wander a little closer and your eyes catch on what it is, his fingers closed around a handle. When you see what it’s attached to, a surprised delight radiates in your chest.
He has a wagon, small and red, trailing behind him.
He must tow it behind him to carry his things, because you can spot a variety of food already stashed in it.
He's talking to a vendor with an easy smile, the two chatting politely, before Clark gestures to a pile of oranges, a couple crates over. He nods a goodbye to the vendor and walks the few steps, pulling the wagon with him.
Then, he starts examining the fruit, picking the oranges up one by one.
You take a step — then judder to a halt. Can you just go up and say hi? That sounds almost absurd.
Clark hasn't seen you yet - you could turn and disappear into the east side of the market and he'd be none the wiser. You want to say hi though. You want to talk to him again.
But you're not friends. You've just met him twice, both times by accident.
And that's all it's taken for you think he's the nicest guy in all of Metropolis — and that's left you wondering if you're allowed to think that so soon after Darren.
5 weeks and 6 days since the breakup. But you never thought Darren was the nicest guy in the city—he probably wasn't even the nicest guy on his apartment floor.
You decide after a long moment, staring hard at a pile of tomatoes, that saying hello is the perfectly friendly thing to do.
You walk over before you can change your mind.
"Hi."
Not recognising your voice, Clark turns with a quirk in his brows, already apologetic. "Oh, sorry, is my wagon-?"
His polite apology quickly melts away as he turns enough to see who you are. He blinks, his glasses slip further down his nose, and then the orange in his hand erupts as it's squished beneath his super-strength.
"Hi— oh, son of a biscuit," He goes from happy to politely distressed in a moment.
Orange juice streaks down his forearm and Clark quickly unclenches his hand. He stares at the mashed remains of the orange in his hand with a genuine sorrow, as if trying to will it back to its previous form.
When it doesn't work, he turns back to the vendor from before and gestures with the orange weakly. "I will pay for this."
You've never really had someone juice an orange at your arrival before, so it leaves you stuck for what to say.
You bite your cheek, "Guess it was a bad orange?"
Clark laughs at that, a bit breathy, his focus still on where to put the orange. "It's- no. Or maybe. I love Frank's oranges, I couldn't say a bad word against them."
That makes you smile.
He eventually pulls one of the plastic produce bag rolls off the edge of a crate and deposits the fruit pulp inside - then tosses it into his wagon. He looks up at you, his arm still held out and dripping fruit juice.
He smiles, lashes touching in the corners, "Hi. Again. It's," He takes a deep breath, swallows. "It's good to see you."
You think he genuinely means it too. Which is a trip - your pulse ticks up a few beats per minute.
To distract yourself from that, you dig around in your bag for some wipes to give him.
"Here," you say, after peeling back the protective sticker and extracting one. He takes it with that awkward head bob he does.
Clark says, "Thank you," and he smiles again - and you swear it's exactly when the sun comes out.
Suddenly, it feels too warm to be wearing your knit sweater and you're not entirely sure the weather's to blame. You swallow, trying not to focus too intently on his long fingers as he wipes them off.
"I like your wagon."
For some reason, that makes Clark turn a nice pink that matches the peaches.
He's still wiping at his hands and his shoulders hunch up, "Yeah, well, it's my old one and—" He pauses, glancing over your expression. "Oh. You mean it."
You frown, "Of course."
You look down at the wagon and see that in white, flaking paint the name KENT is painted on the side. There's no perfect lines, which means it's probably been hand-painted.
Up close, you can see his haul. A bunch of carrots, strung together with rubber bands, a carton of 24 eggs - which upon further inspection, you realise is 48, as it's doubled stacked - and a variety of leafy greens. Several limes roll around loosely.
Clark catches your gaze and peers at his own wagon, "Gotta have fresh eggs, you know?"
You don't know because eggs, to you, can be the worst food on the planet. Texture, yolk, almost always served some degree of undercooked on purpose.
Still, you nod, because that's the polite thing to do.
"I'm still so used to getting everything fresh back home," says Clark.
He tucks the used wipe into the same bag as the mushed orange. "One of those things that took awhile to adjust to in Metropolis - til I found the markets."
You look at his shirt and put two and two together. "You used to live on a farm?"
"Born and raised." Clark grins. Then, his brows bunch together. "Well, not actually born, but that's a story for a different time. Smallville's home though."
He gestures to his shirt proudly, then pushes his glasses back up. He looks you over, seeing your relatively empty bags.
"You just arrive? Or no big plans to shop around?"
You become aware of how your knees have locked and try to subtly adjust them. A performer starts setting up an amp close by, the scratchiness beamed out through the speaker.
"Both. I came to get—"
There's a squeal from the performer's guitar and you cringe at the volume, eyes closing momentarily. When the noise stops, you relax, "Sorry. I…"
What were you saying? You can't really focus when there's still the scratchy noises feeding out the amp. You look over your shoulder, spy the offender, and wish desperately for her to stop.
A moment later, the noise runs smooth and the volume turns way down. The soft noises of her acoustic guitar begin. You turn back to Clark.
You remember you were in the middle of a sentence, "Sorry. I'm sorry, what was the question?"
Clark smiles, soft, "Don't be sorry. I was asking if you come to the markets often. You look prepared."
He nods to the bags over your shoulder.
"I come sometimes," You say, relieved that he doesn't mind repeating himself. "I'm mainly here for bread because I was supposed to get some after work yesterday."
"Oh," says Clark, but you can't place what tone it is. "Guess we kept you longer than you intended, huh?"
"I would've gone home earlier if I wanted to." You inform. "If that's what you mean."
It might be, given how something relaxes in his body. He stands a little straighter. When he's not hunching over, like he been on the subway, you realise he's more than a fair bit taller than you.
If he wanted to kiss you, he'd definitely have to lean down, your brain supplies unhelpfully.
You pretend to adjust your sleeve just press your fingers to your wrist. As suspected, your heart doesn't seem to be fairing well in Clark's presence. You're nervous — but after some consideration, you decide it's a good kind of nervous.
You watch him survey the crowds of the slowly busying market. He turns to you.
"How would you like some company?" asks Clark. Then, as if remembering your answer last time he asked, he quickly adds, "No pressure to, if you'd rather just—"
Hell if you're not going to seize this opportunity. You cut him off and hope he won't think you too rude.
"I would love the company."
He blinks - then shows off his dimples with a smile, gaze softened and entirely on you. "Alright then."
Together, you walk and you talk.
Clark tells you about Smallville, the small town in Kansas that he hails from.
The farmboy image makes a lot of sense honestly. It explains his broad shoulders and big arms, not the usual physique of an investigative reporter. You try not to sweat at the mental image of him throwing around hay-bales - and quietly fail miserably.
And then the image sweetens nearly unbearably when you hear him talk about his Ma and his Pa, adoration clear in his voice.
You talk about home too, but more about college days with Lois, when you started living independently. He asks about your job. You somehow end up convincing him Leo's Bakery is the best sourdough in the city — though he's rather easily swayed.
When you pass a stall selling fake crystals, which you point out, Clark makes the mistake of asking how you can tell.
It starts you off on a tangent. You get halfway through an explanation, informing him of the formation of cleavage planes in minerals, when you realise you might be doing the thing.
The talk-so-much-you-miss-the-cue-that-tells-you-to-be-quiet thing.
"and when it's glass, it doesn't have those—" You suddenly want to jam your hand in your mouth, it'd be easier to stop talking. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm talking a lot, aren't I?"
You shove your hands in your pockets so you don't pick at your fingertips, a bad habit.
Clark smiles, pulling the wagon that he somehow coaxed you to put your stuff in too. He shows no strain of pulling it.
"You are," He agrees, but he says warmly. Like it might be a good thing. "It's wonderful. Please keep going."
You bite your cheek in surprise — but he means it, so you do.
He lets you talk for as long as you like, and when you eventually lapse into quiet, it's surprisingly comfortable.
You've done an okay job at multi-tasking, talking and shopping, with a few more pieces of produce joining the cooled sourdough loaf. But really, you and Clark seem to be walking just to keep each other company.
You're broken out of your thoughts when Clark clears his throat.
He glances down at you, "Do you think there's some reason we keep running into each other?"
"A reason?"
You search your brain for what he might possibly mean. It is rather unlikely that you've run into each other this much, purely by accident. Even you can admit, it is odd.
But plenty of things are odd to you, that seem perfectly natural to other people.
You suppose you've just been putting this in the same box.
"Like," There must be something in his throat, because Clark clears it again. "Fate. Or something like that."
You might say he sounds almost wistful. Maybe if you were someone else, you might be able to tell what that means.
You ask a different question instead. "Do you believe in fate?"
That makes Clark looks at you. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything, his blue eyes simply roam your face with a tenderness you're unprepared for. "You know, I think I'm beginning to."
You wish you could figure out why that makes you face burn.
Something pings on your phone, making it vibrate in your pocket. With a polite smile, you pull it out and instead of the notification, your attention goes to the time.
Your brows raise in surprise. It's a good thing you haven't any plans, as you found time has, yet again, run away from you.
You're beginning to suspect it must be a Clark thing.
"Sorry, I've just realised—" You hold up your phone halfheartedly. "The time. Um, I didn't mean to take up so much of yours, that is. I should probably get going."
Clark nods in understanding. A muscle twitches in his jaw, tensed, as he watches you extract your things from his wagon.
You straighten up, things gathered loosely in your hands, and expect it to be the same awkward exchange of waves goodbye.
It isn't. Clark's talking before you take the first step, the words coming out a little breathless,
"Before you go— and- this might be too forward- in which case, you know, that's fine. But, I didn't want to, uh, lose the chance. Seize the day, you know?"
Okay, he's lost you. It must read on your face, because Clark sighs. It doesn't feel directed at you.
He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks suddenly pinker than peaches this time. They better resemble the red of his wagon.
Clark looks to the sky, mumbling something under his breath you can't hear, then turns to you, set. "I would love to see you again. If- If you'd like. On purpose this time."
You blink.
Well, you weren't expecting that. He wants to see you? On purpose?
You can't help but note how wonderful it is to have someone be so forward with you.
What follows is a tinge of disappointment—he's not asking you out, not like Darren did. He didn't say date.
You're not so presumptuous to think he would think that way about you - the way you've been thinking of him.
Your disappointment is followed by a scornful scoff at yourself — now that you think about it, it's highly unlikely that someone as kind as Clark is without a girlfriend. You're just a fool for not considering it earlier.
"You want to hang out?" You ask, to be sure.
Something crosses Clark's face. After a beat, he swallows, shrugs and says, "Sure. If that's what you want."
It is what you want—to see him again.
Albeit, maybe not quite how you'd like, but beggars can't be choosers.
"I would like that."
Clark smiles — which turns to a grin when he takes your number, scrawled on a tiny scrap of paper torn from your notebook.
You half hope he knows what it means that you've ruined a fresh page for him - and half hope he doesn't.
When you bid each other goodbye, you watch the handsome not-such-a-stranger anymore disappear in the throngs of people, his red wagon towed behind him.
And into the evening after, tempting and wishful, the concept of fate follows you into sleep.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It takes, what Clark thinks is, an embarrassing amount of time to figure where he's gone wrong.
Here's the thing; Clark's a big boy.
He was raised right. He can take a rejection on the chin — can be polite, respectful. He can still keep people as friends, even when his feelings extend a little further.
Given your polite readjustment of Clark's date invitation into just friends territory, the implication very much is that you are not interested in Clark. Not in the way he's interested in you, at least.
And he can respect that, truly. He is a gentleman after all.
Except, the thing is, you don't exactly act that way.
As the two of you settle into a routine of new friends, learning your place in each others lives, on purpose this time, Clark just… notices.
It's the little things — and it takes time to know what you do with him, and what you do with everyone else.
He notices how you're mostly quiet, but also prone to a sudden inspired chatter that increases with volume and excitement in equal measure. Your hands flex, like there's too much energy in you with nowhere to go but out through your fingertips.
You do that around him, but not around everyone.
He notices your lingering gaze. Feels it on his back when he's turned; on his hands; feels it tracing up the side of his face when you think he isn't looking.
You don't do that with anyone else either.
He notices… a lot about you, to be honest.
Probably more than someone who's trying to veer away from romantic notions and stay firmly in the friend zone you've enacted for the pair of you should.
But — your heart is the biggest giveaway.
This thing, he doesn't mean to notice. It's come to feel like spying, if the person isn't aware he's doing it, tuning in his super senses to something a quiet as a heartbeat.
It's not like prying or eavesdropping really, but Ma and Pa raised him to treat it as such.
Your heart though—it reaches out with a siren's call he's helpless to ignore.
Around just the two of you, it wavers from steady to rising. Not fast enough to be panic, but too fast to be calm. Somewhere that sits in between.
Which means, you're nervous around him. The way you check your pulse, in subtle motions but Clark's the observant kind, means that you know it too.
He can only hope it's not the bad sort of nerves. Though, he figures you'd stop inviting him over if it was. You're on the side of too honest sometimes, which grates some—but only endears him evermore.
The combination of all these little things swirl together, forming a sign, that, well, usually Clark would take as mutual interest. You seem interested.
But you had turned him down.
Clark loses sleep, wondering if it's wrong that he still thinks of his friend in this way.
This—this pining way, that seems to be second nature to him now. Imbued in him. Intertwined with him.
Your eyes, your mouth are constant, vivid thoughts, surely meant to drive him mad. Like the place a tooth used to be, one he can't stop running his tongue over.
Sore, aching, yearning for something missing.
Is it wrong? How could it be, when it felt so right. Is it wrong? he asks himself, stealing every sidelong glance at you, greedy for it. Eager for more.
The thought of your kiss—how it would feel to have your lips on his—crosses his mind daily.
There is where the embarrassing part comes in.
Really, in hindsight, all Clark can think is that he should have figured it out sooner. Well, actually, he had figured it out, but connecting the two pieces hadn't even occurred to him.
To put it lightly, you deal with all manner of things very literally.
Double meanings, sarcastic comments, pointed looks; some of them you catch, most of them you don't. When they come up in conversations, you get this little pinch in your eyebrows.
If it's not Clark who's said them, you'll glance wordlessly up at him, like checking if he's understood it either.
He knows you have no idea how much it captivates him.
All this is to say, he should've been able to put two and two together much sooner.
He wishes he had—if only so it all could've been a little more romantic.
But as it goes, the afternoon it unfolds, he's in his kitchen, donned in a striped and too small apron, with a bit of flour in his hair. You look lovely, as always.
Together, you're baking together. Really, Clark's doing most of the work.
He doesn't actually mind, given it's Ma's carrot cake recipe that he's recreating. And also because he likes it when you let him do things for you. It's taken time to figure what you will and won't let him help with.
You're perched on one of the bar stools, elbows to the counter, watching him work. Doing important things, such as beguiling him with a single look. He's softened by your mere closeness.
It's also not helping that you have to look through your eyelashes whenever you make eye contact with him.
(Clark's already crushed one egg by accident already, as a result.)
At current, he's folding the batter, the mixing bowl cradled in his arms. Your attention is waning, given how when he glances up, he sees you fiddling with the cinnamon shaker. You're peeling the label slightly, just for something to fidget with.
He gestures to it with a nod and a smile. "Toss me the cinnamon, will you?"
And you do, literally.
Expectation tells him you'll slide it across the counter. Instead, he has to rapidly drop the spatula with a splat! into the bowl, to catch the incoming cinnamon. It jolts him, the surprise of it.
He stares at it, clutched in his fingers — which he definitely only caught with his enhanced reflexes — and then up at you, wide-eyed.
You blink at him, not understanding his sudden surprise. "You said to toss it!"
Two and two fuse together. Your very literalness and Clark's lack of specific wording.
Had he called it a date, that time at the markets, how ever many weeks ago now? He was so sure he had - or if he hadn't, it was so obviously implied you couldn't possibly misunderstand.
But then again, he didn't know you then. Not like he knows you now.
To you, Clark goes from his normal ease around you, to wide-eyed and straight backed. It looks a little like he's been zapped with something - a lightning rod of realisation.
Then he slowly squints at you for a long moment, mixing bowl still cradled to his bicep. Moving with immense care, he places it slowly down on the counter before him.
His hands follow, palms wrapping around the edge of the counter. He stares hard at the surface for another long, long moment.
His blue eyes flick up to you, through his glasses, searching for something.
"Do you want to go on a date?" He asks, voice low. "With me?"
Which—okay. Something misfires in your brain. It's come out of nowhere—how did cinnamon and carrot cake lead to this?
A date. With you. And him. Together. Romantically.
Hidden behind your ribs, you feel your treacherous heart begin to race. You feel that stupid burn in your face you always get around Clark flare up.
Why is he asking now? What changed?
You wonder if he's just figured you out. If he can suddenly see some manifestation of your quiet, pathetic longing.
Have you been that obvious? You wonder if it's pity.
Then you swallow the thought away.
Clark wouldn't.
You realise you haven't answered. Despite how you desperately want to, you're not brave enough to meet his gaze. If you do, you'll never get to the words out.
"Yes. I would like that."
Clark sucks in a sharp breath. Your eyes dart up, looking at him through your lashes with a quiet disbelief and he's smiling. Grinning, like what you've just said is the best news of his life.
You should pinch your arm. Perhaps you've fallen asleep at the counter, watching him fold the batter.
"Great," Clark says breathily.
He's looking at you in a way that's, not different per say, but simply less… reserved. There's an ardent fondness in his eyes that wasn't there before.
Or maybe it was. Maybe you're the one who hasn't been paying close enough attention.
"Great." You echo.
Have you two just agreed to something? Your throat clicks with how dry it is. You're still a little unsure how you've ended up here.
A beat passes.
The understanding of what he's asking—as in, had actually just asked you out—wallops into you.
"I didn't realise you—" You say loudly, then bite your tongue. "I- I mean, I thought- or didn't rather, think you, like, would think like that. Not about me."
Clark's lips press together, like he's holding back from an even wilder grin. Like he's finally solved a puzzle he's been tinkering at for months now—and the final product is much, much better than expected.
He picks up his hands, dusts off the flour, and begins to work open the knot on the back of the apron.
"What are the chances you'll believe me if I say I'll felt that way from the start?"
"Low." You reply honestly, watching him as he dumps the apron on the counter beside the mixing bowl. You wonder what he means by the start.
"At the bar?"
Clark does laugh this time, like you've said something delightfully funny.
He walks backward to the door, eyes still on you, til he reaches the coat stand. You watch, puzzled, as he pilfers through the pocket of his coat and produces his wallet.
"Let me prove it," He says, gesturing with his wallet.
He crosses the space, this time rounding the counter to stand beside you. Still sitting, you have to crane your neck to look up at him - but his head is bowed, focused on something in his wallet.
You haven't a clue what he's looking for until —
—there, between his fingers, is a piece of fabric you recognise.
It's… the tag from your shirt.
The one he'd helped snip off for you on the subway, all those months ago.
He'd kept it. In his wallet, carrying it around with him. Knew exactly where to find it, as if he'd retrieved it countless times before.
For an awfully small thing, it represents what feels like an enormous amount of time.
From the start, he said. From the start I've felt this way, it means.
You stare at the tag, bewildered - flummoxed and yet, indescribably like something's melting in your chest, molten hot.
Your hand raises, unbidden, knuckles pressing against your sternum, as though it might help you contain the feeling. It's helpless.
There's no stopping the unbridled, unrestrained happiness which is so real, it feels sharp. Your eyes blur with tears. A choked sounding breath claws its way out of your throat.
You look up at Clark. There aren't words you can find.
To make matters worse, Clark looks afflicted at your reaction — your leg jittering, your hand pressed tight to your chest, your mouth yet to say a word. He has to check, "Are these— these are good tears?"
Your chin trembles, but you're nodding severely. You drag in another ragged breath and consequently make Clark feel like a monster for doing this to you.
"You-" The word quivers a bit around your tears. "Sorry. I'm sorry, I don't mean to cry, it's— it's not bad. It's good. It's really good."
You tuck your face away, breaths still coming too fast. Clark gives you the moment you need, wishing you were at equal heights so it wasn't so easy for you to hide from him. But a few deep, slow breaths later, you unfurl from your hiding place.
Fingers wipe your face, clearing the tears, and then you look at his hands. Your face is dewy from tears, eyelashes clinging together. It's poetry to Clark.
"You kept it," You whisper, eyes fixed on the fabric in his fingers. Your gaze lifts, peering up at him with a tenderness that threatens to unravel Clark entirely.
"I did." He says, matching your quiet tone, immeasurably kind. He's always kind with you.
Your bottom lip takes a tremble and you bite it away, teeth sinking into the flesh.
"I looked for you on the subway. After that day."
You say it like you've been keeping a secret — this hidden want, tucked in your heart and carried around with you.
Clark reckons the two of you aren't that different in this way; it's what he's been doing with this tag, after all. Taking this want around with him, until it chased him into another chance encounter with you.
He rubs his thumb over the swatch. It feels like luck to him.
"That's what you meant about fate," You murmur, realisation staining your tone. You sniffle a little.
Your eyes are back on the tag, but this time, you reach out to feel it too. Clark lets you. In the middle, your fingertips catch.
Funny how an object you so detested comes back to you, loved in another form.
You ask, "Is that why you kept it? Fate?"
There's an eyelash on your cheekbone, freed by your tears. Clark thinks has all the wishes he needs, right here in front of him.
Fingertips to yours, he draws your hand closer to him, into his chest. Lets the line of your body lead the way, bringing your faces closer as he bends to reach you.
The air smells of cinnamon and the sweetness of finally, finally getting what you want.
"It was a working theory," He murmurs — and feels the tremble in your mouth when he kisses you.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
HUGE thank you to @strangerstilinski for helping me at every roadblock this thru one <3 and to @citrinesparkles for boatloads of validation to help me push thru :D
otherwise moots / people who asked to be tagged for the first part, i figured you may want to read this one too! as always, no pressure :)
lmao some swifties went and offered tlaloc (Aztec rain god) a friendship bracelet asking him to stop the rainstorms during the Taylor concerts in Mexico 😹
btw yes it worked
and yes, the people who did it are Mexicans, born, raised, who have lived their entire lives in Mexico
