clark over did it. he set his sights on the perfect date and could draw a line from start to finish on how it played out inside his head. no sudden deviations, no issues ——— he planned from letter a to z. with the league covering for him, he only kept his ear to the ground for the highest of threats. something like an invasion or a time-traveling god running amok that needed a good wallop. stuff like that, well, that might just be a job for big blue. although [ ... ] the real danger might be in this kitchen. ingredients were hacked into all shapes and sizes, pots simmering with undiscernible concoctions, and it smelt amazing, strangely. no shortage of ma's teachings on cooking weren't put to use. ( the problem: a sheer lack of cohesion. )
he tried to do everything. from the simplest dish to the finest, getting the simplest wine to the fanciest. [ ... ] and the fruits of his labors were way too much food for a date. the kitchen could've fed an army with the sheer amount of dishes he made, each putting his skills to the test. if it wasn't for his skin being harder than steel, he's sure his fingers would be nicked in cuts and scrapes. it couldn't do anything about the stains on his apron or the smear of flour against bronze cheek. ( what to do now ... he wonders. ) it only takes him a second to ensure the burners are off and the space sits tidier than himself. only a few seconds to at least organize the impromptu feast [ ... ] least he'll have lunches for a while ——— plenty, actually. a soft sigh eases from his lips; it's one of the few times his smile wavers. an air of uncertainty, that stings worse than any bullet.
would she even like it? ... did he manage to show he cares? he's warm, sunny and happy. stern if flexible. that's who he is ———— but he wants to give her more. to give her the parts of him that others can't have. a deeper look beneath the bleeding heart, a peer beneath the crest and into his soul. his thoughts, he knows, are hers to skim at her leisure. an act he welcomes, at times, if it soothes her. but thoughts should become actions. actions should have meaning. he wants her to understand him even more &. wants the same of her. a peer beneath the diamond to the heart hidden underneath. the door clicks, he at least fixes his hair [ ... ] it's easier than zipping off to change. ( she'll know. ) still, when he sees her, that unease fades, and he smiles.
❛ welcome home. hope you're at least a little hungry … i might've overdid it. just a little. ❜ / drops this on emma
—— they say the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach / well-spread knowledge that aptly denies the existence of a woman’s voracious appetite. emma was raised in boston: she would never be one to deny herself a good meal. ( even for someone with expensive taste, she has to confess that expensive doesn’t always mean better. ) michelin has nothing on an auntie that lives three doors down and raised by a mama that fought for her right to cook for herself.
such is to say: emma smelled it before she even entered the driveway. she knew something was going on / bruce might deny it, but his mood is different when he lacks his greatest friend. she can’t blame him. clark’s absence makes a room feel smaller, colder. makes her lonely. but the smell of homecooked meals, though overwhelming in variety, smells like a welcome. she barely remembers to lock the corvette.
door creaks open to a scene so——homely. domestic. the smell of spices, of lard. of sweat, vaguely, beneath it all. slight burning, fresh vegetables, and may the gods have mercy on her for the way her heart beats in her chest. this is unfamiliar to her: the ease, the affection. the air could suffocate her with love and she thinks, just this once, she might be okay with dying. if her papa had ever told her that she would experience something like this—well, she might’ve thought him possessed.
— “ darling ... there’s flour in your hair. ”
a laugh, soft and sweet. fingers reach up to brush that curl that never leaves his brow, regardless of how he presents himself. goodness forbid the public realise the cute journalist has the exact same cowlick as their beloved saviour. but she loves it, even as she dusts flour from it, even as she brushes her hand through the rest. he is tall, but bent naturally: a subconscious subservience, a need to be on the same level.
— “ i’m absolutely famished, but are you sure cooked enough ? perhaps i should invite the whole league. ”
like she would let them have this. this vision of clark, disheleved, humble, homely. this was hers.
— “ be careful, clark. you’re going to get a girl’s hopes up, and i may just say yes. ”
