Signed, —S.
chapter, 3/7 - Flicker
summary: After a terrifying encounter in a dark alley, the reader is saved by Superman—an overwhelming and intimate moment that leaves her shaken, grateful, and more confused than ever. Back at the Daily Planet, her coworkers treat the incident like a sensational story, teasing her about the mysterious letters and speculating about Superman’s interest, but only Clark seems to truly see her.
warnings: Brief mugging scene (non-graphic, but includes threat and fear), Mild violence, Emotional distress, use of Y/N
work count: 4.2k
pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt 5, pt. 6, pt. 7
You don’t remember the scream.
Not yours. Not his. Not anyone’s.
What you remember is the snap of your heel against wet concrete. The silence that came before it — wrong, thick, unnatural. Like the city had sucked all the sound out of the alley and held its breath.
You hadn’t meant to walk home this way. Just a shortcut. Just a quiet block. Just five minutes less in the rain.
Your bag was heavy on your shoulder, a little too full — with your notes, your wallet, the crumpled letter you still hadn’t responded to.
You’d only half-heard the footsteps at first. Dismissed them. A pedestrian. A late-night jogger. Maybe someone else taking the shortcut.
But then they sped up.
Fast. Direct. No hesitation.
And before your brain could name it — fear bloomed in your chest like something ancient.
You turned.
A man. Hood low. Knife already drawn.
The alley was empty but for him. And you. And the seconds you could already feel slipping away.
Your fingers tightened around your bag strap. Your breath caught. You opened your mouth — to yell? To plead? To scream?
"What’s a lady like you doin’ in this part of town, huh?”
The voice slithered out of the shadows behind you, too casual to be harmless. It echoed through the narrow alleyway, bouncing off brick and broken glass, curling through the cold like smoke.
You didn’t turn around. Didn’t answer.
Your pulse thundered in your ears, louder than the rain tapping against your coat.
Keep walking.
You clutched your bag tighter, eyes forward, steps faster. You could feel the tension coil in your gut — the kind that knew danger long before your brain caught up.
This isn’t happening. No. No, you won’t let it. You can’t.
You sped up, ignoring the voice calling after you, hoping if you just made it to the mouth of the alley — just another ten, twenty steps — you’d be safe. Someone would see you. Someone would hear you.
But then — Footsteps.
Heavy. Purposeful.
Thudding against the wet pavement behind you. Long, measured strides. A predator’s pace.
He’s following you.
You broke into a run. Panic surged like electricity through your veins, sharp and sickening. Your lungs burned, your hands trembled, your legs moved on instinct.
Rain soaked your clothes. Your bag bounced against your hip.
Almost there — Almost to the light of the street —
Then — Impact.
His body slammed into you from behind, knocking the breath from your lungs.
You hit the ground hard. The wet pavement scraped your chin, and your mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood where your teeth had bitten into your lip.
You gasped. Choked.
Then screamed.
But the sound was swallowed by the storm. Just wind and rain and the hollow slap of footsteps.
He was on top of you, dragging your bag from your shoulder with a grunt. His weight pinned you down, hands scrabbling. You twisted beneath him, trying to kick, to push, to scream again —
“Stop—stop—get off—!”
He caught your wrists in one hand and shoved your face harder into the pavement.
The smell of gasoline. Wet cardboard. Rotting food from a nearby dumpster.
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he growled near your ear. “No one’s comin’ to save you, sweetheart. You might as well give up.”
There was a smile in his voice. That cruel, satisfied kind — the kind of smile you felt.
Your stomach twisted.
And then — you fought.
You flung your head backward, hard, and felt the crunch of his nose beneath your skull.
He shouted — surprised, angry. The grip on your wrists loosened just enough.
But then —
Cold steel pressed against your throat.
You froze.
Your breath caught mid-sob. The blade didn’t cut, not yet, but it didn’t need to. It was a promise. A warning.
“Try that again,” he hissed, voice no longer smiling. “I dare you.”
Tears blurred your vision. You went still.
He rummaged through your bag now — shaking, cursing, still recovering from the blow. You heard your wallet unzip. Heard bills being pulled out and stuffed into his pocket.
Then — a soft thud.
Your wallet. The one your mom gave you two birthdays ago. Pale blue with little sunflowers on it.
Was that the last birthday you’d ever spend with her?
The sob that came next was guttural.
“What’s this?” he muttered. Paper rustled. “A letter?”
You stiffened.
No. No—
It was his letter. The one you printed before work.
You hadn’t even folded it yet.
“Aww, someone’s got a secret admirer,” he said with a dry laugh. “That’s cute.”
“That’s too bad.” His voice dropped, voice crawling with venom.
“Get off me, you fucker!” you shrieked, twisting under him again, tears streaming hot down your cheeks despite the cold.
But he was stronger. Bigger. And now, armed.
“Bitch,” he growled, knife pressing tighter to your skin. “If you don’t shut up, I’m gonna—”
The words stopped.
Suddenly.
Cut off by a grunt, like he’d been yanked backward by some unseen force.
Then a scream — his scream — ragged and shocked.
His weight disappeared.
Gone.
Just gone.
You gasped, breath rushing into your lungs like a flood.
You rolled onto your back, blinking through the rain, trying to make sense of what just happened —
And then you saw him.
The man holding your attacker aloft — effortlessly — by the collar of his jacket.
And in that moment, the world stopped.
Because it wasn’t just anyone.
It was him.
Superman.
In the flesh. Towering and terrifying and impossible — but the look in his eyes wasn’t distant or dangerous.
It was soft. Worried.
He looked at you.
Not the rain, not the man — you.
The man in his grip squirmed, kicking wildly, until Superman dropped him to the ground without ceremony.
“If I see your face again,” he said, voice like thunder, calm and cold, “a jail cell won’t be the only thing you have to worry about.”
Your attacker scrambled away, slipping and stumbling over himself in his hurry to escape. He disappeared into the rain without another word.
Then — silence.
Only the rain. Only the soft rush of breath from your lips. Only the ache of everything.
You sat there, soaked to the bone, your hands trembling in your lap, staring at the godlike figure now crouched beside you.
His cape fluttered in the wind. Water slid down his jaw, his brow furrowed with quiet concern.
He opened his mouth. Then paused.
“Are you alright, Y/— err, miss?”
You didn’t even register the slip.
You just stared at him, eyes wide.
Then nodded.
Once.
Barely.
He reached out and gently helped you to your feet, his grip warm despite the storm. He kept his hand on your elbow for a moment longer than necessary, eyes scanning your face for any sign of injury.
“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice hoarse and shaking.
He offered a small nod. And a smile — soft, fleeting.
Then he lifted into the sky, cape catching on the wind. A streak of red and gold vanishing into the clouds.
You stood there alone for a moment longer.
And then — the world rushed back in.
The cold. The sound. The weight of it all.
You stumbled home in a daze.
Unlocked your door. Shut it behind you.
Leaned against it with your head tilted back, breath ragged.
And finally whispered to yourself —
“Goddammit… I didn’t even ask him for an interview.”
--
The booth was too small, too warm, and the light overhead buzzed faintly, like it knew something you didn’t.
You sat squished between Clark and the window, the glass still beaded with leftover rain. His shoulder was broad and unmoving beside you — a silent presence, heavy with something you couldn’t name.
Across from you, Lois was tearing a packet of mustard like it had personally wronged her, and Jimmy was halfway through a bacon burger, his fingers already stained with grease.
“Okay,” Lois said, finally. “Walk me through it again.”
You poked at the soggy corner of your fries. “I already did.”
“Humor me.”
You sighed. “It was dark. It was raining. I took a shortcut. Bad idea. He followed me—” You swallowed hard. “I tried to run. He caught up.”
Clark’s hand was motionless on the table, fingers curled tight.
Jimmy leaned forward. “And then Superman just—bam—shows up?”
“Yeah.”
“Clark’s gotten more interviews with him than anyone at the Planet,” Jimmy cut in, licking salt from his thumb. “Maybe he’s passing along tips.”
Clark gave a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I wouldn’t say tips.”
“Oh, come on, Smallville,” Lois said, smirking now. “You’ve got the guy on speed dial or something. You get exclusives nobody else can touch. He trusts you.”
Clark said nothing. Just shifted in his seat beside you.
You could feel the tension in him like a wire pulled tight.
Jimmy pointed at you with a fry. “You didn’t ask for a quote last night?”
“I was kind of busy getting my face slammed into concrete,” you muttered.
Lois popped a fry into her mouth. “Still. You’ve got a column. You could’ve milked it.”
“I didn’t think of it, Lois. I was just—” You stopped. “Scared.”
That quieted the table for a beat.
Clark finally spoke, voice low and strained: “You didn’t need to think about work.”
You glanced over. His expression was unreadable, jaw tight, brow furrowed just slightly behind the glasses. He wasn’t looking at you. He was staring down at the tray like it had done something wrong.
Lois, never one to let things stay soft for long, nudged the mood again. “Still wild though. You and Superman. You should write a piece about it—‘Saved by an Alien: My Night with the Man of Steel.’”
Jimmy grinned. “Bet it’d go viral. Especially if you include the letters.”
Your stomach dropped. “What letters?”
“Oh, come on,” Jimmy said, laughing. “Everyone knows you’ve got a thing with that anonymous ‘S.’ guy.”
“It’s not a thing,” you said too fast.
Clark’s thigh tensed beside yours.
Lois raised an eyebrow. “It’s been what, two months? Letters every week? Sounds like a thing.” She leaned forward, chin in hand. “You ever wonder if it’s him?”
You stared. “Who?”
“Superman.”
You almost choked on your soda.
Jimmy laughed. “That would be nuts. But I mean… he did know all of a sudden when you were in trouble”
Lois nodded thoughtfully. “And Clark does get all the best interviews with him.”
“I don’t think Superman has time to write letters,” you said, cheeks burning.
“Please,” Lois scoffed. “That man floats over Metropolis like a lost poet half the night. You think he’s not a little lonely?”
Clark shifted again. His knee brushed yours and didn’t move away.
You couldn’t look at him.
Jimmy sipped his shake. “Bet he reads your column.”
You tried to laugh, but it came out brittle. “Sure. Superman reads the classifieds and clips the advice section.”
“Why not?” Lois said. “Maybe he’s in love.”
Silence.
Clark stood abruptly, tray in hand. “I’m gonna take this to the trash.”
You watched him go, heart in your throat, and you didn’t know if it was the adrenaline, the diner heat, or something deeper that made your chest ache when he walked away without looking back.
“Listen, it was all coincidence. Why would Superman be worrying about a girl right now?” you said, trying not to sound too defensive. “He has all of Metropolis to protect—and some cheesy letters doesn't seem like his style.”
You laughed once, too sharp, trying to brush it off before it stuck in your chest.
“Superman, writing me? A small-time columnist who can barely get a coffee order right? That man’s got aliens to fight and space stations falling out of the sky. He doesn’t have time for… poetry.”
You shook your head, trying to let it go, but your words hovered heavy between bites of cold fries and cooling tension.
Clark came back then, sliding into the booth beside you with that quiet presence of his. The air shifted. You knew he’d heard you—he always did.
He set his coffee down, watching the steam for a moment before speaking.
“Maybe he does,” Clark said softly.
You blinked.
He kept his gaze steady on the tabletop, voice quiet but certain. “Maybe someone like that needs something simple now and then. Something human. Something that reminds him what it’s all for.”
His words hung in the air longer than they should’ve, like they’d been meant for someone else.
You looked at him then, really looked—how his brows drew together, how his fingers worried at the rim of the coffee cup like he wasn’t sure if he’d said too much.
Lois raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.
Jimmy’s phone buzzed and he reached for it, distracted.
But you… you were still staring at Clark.
And he still wasn’t looking at you.
“Clark?”
Your voice cut through the soft hum of lunchtime chatter. There was a flicker—just a second—where something in his gaze faltered. A flash of fear, maybe. Vulnerability. It vanished as quickly as it appeared, smoothed over by his usual calm, but you’d caught it.
“Yeah?” he said, lowering his gaze to his hands folded neatly on the table.
You hesitated, the words sticky in your throat.
“Do you…” you began, voice quieter now, as though the table had grown too big between you. “Do you think you could arrange an interview with Superman for me?”
You leaned in slightly, hoping to meet his eyes again.
Clark glanced up, just barely—his chin stayed tucked, but his gaze lifted, uncertain and trembling at the edges. Like he was bracing for something. Like he already wanted to say no, and hated himself for it.
His fingers curled tighter around his coffee cup.
Jimmy looked up from his phone, oblivious to the tension bleeding between the two of you.
“Ohhh, that’ll be interesting,” he said, grinning. “Are you gonna thank him in person or hit him with the mystery letter reveal? ‘Dear S’ meets Pulitzer-worthy scoop—I’m here for it.”
Clark’s shoulders tensed, the muscle in his jaw ticking once.
“I don’t know if he’ll say yes…” he said quietly, almost apologetically.
Your stomach dropped. Just a little. Enough to make you look down at your hands in your lap, hiding the disappointment blooming too fast.
But then—Clark paused.
He glanced at you again. Really looked this time.
Saw the flicker of hope dimming in your expression.
And something in him cracked.
“But…” he added softly, “I’m sure it doesn’t hurt to ask.”
You lit up like the sun had broken through the clouds.
“Oh—Clark, thank you! You have no idea how much this means to me.” Your excitement was radiant, warm and unfiltered. Without even thinking, you reached out, wrapping your arms around his broad frame in a quick, grateful hug.
He went stiff—just for a second—and then slowly relaxed into it, caught in the scent of your shampoo, the warmth of you pressed briefly against him.
And just like that, it was over.
You turned back to the table, already chattering. “Okay, wait—guys, what do I even ask him? Like, where do I start?”
Lois leaned in, Jimmy threw out a handful of half-serious suggestions, and the conversation took off again.
But Clark barely heard them.
His cheeks were warm—burning, if he was honest—and his heart hadn’t quite settled.
You’d hugged him.
You had hugged him.
And if he’d known all it would take was promising you an interview with himself?
He would've flown you to the Fortress of Solitude yesterday.
--
The newsroom had settled into its usual hum — the lull between headlines, the sound of stories being stitched together in real time.
You tried to focus.
Emails blinked unanswered on your screen, and your cursor hovered uselessly over a blank document. The chatter of the office faded into static as your thoughts wandered back to lunch — to Clark’s voice, soft and hesitant as he agreed to try. To the fluttering rush of hope that had ignited somewhere just under your ribs.
You were going to interview Superman.
And somehow, that fact alone made everything feel… heavier. Sharper. Like the world had tilted just a degree to the left, and no one else had noticed.
"Hey."
You looked up.
Lois stood beside your desk, coffee in hand, hip cocked against the corner of your filing cabinet like she’d been standing there for longer than a few seconds. Her expression was unreadable — not teasing, not disapproving, just... watching.
You straightened. “Hey. What’s up?”
She took a slow sip of her coffee, eyes still locked on you.
“I heard about the interview,” she said finally, voice low and even.
You nodded once, trying not to look too eager. “Clark said he’d ask. I mean, it’s probably a long shot, but…”
Lois didn’t answer right away. She just stared at you for a moment — not judging, not exactly — just... weighing.
“You’re good at your job,” she said finally. “Smart. Sharp. You ask the right questions, and you don’t back down.”
The compliment landed strangely — more anchor than praise.
You blinked. “Thanks…?”
Lois’s voice dropped a little lower.
“So just do me one favor.”
You nodded slowly.
“Be careful what kind of story you’re writing here.”
Your chest tightened, confused. “You mean the piece about Superman?”
She held your gaze. “I mean the one that hasn’t hit the page yet.”
You didn’t know what to say.
Lois pushed off the edge of your cabinet and started to walk away, but not before tossing one last glance over her shoulder — all steel and softness, in the way only Lois Lane could pull off.
“Don’t go digging so deep that you forget how to come back up.”
And then she was gone — swallowed by the hum of the bullpen, leaving you with the steady ringing in your ears and the dull ache of something unnamed blooming in your chest.
Clark hadn’t meant to linger.
He’d only come to refill his coffee — that’s what he told himself, anyway — but when he heard Lois’s voice, low and edged with something sharper than concern, he’d paused just outside the bullpen’s column of windows, out of sight.
He watched her walk away.
And then he looked at you.
You were still sitting there, frozen in your chair, eyes fixed on the screen in front of you like it might explain what the hell that was. You looked... rattled. Not afraid. Just like someone who’d been warned before realizing there was danger to begin with.
Clark’s hand tightened around the coffee cup.
He hadn’t told Lois. Not exactly. But she’d always been perceptive — painfully so. And she knew what it looked like when he started to orbit someone too closely.
Clark looked at you now — the soft tension in your shoulders, the slight furrow in your brow, the hopeful weight you carried like a secret under your skin.
His chest ached.
He hadn’t meant for it to go this far. He never did.
But he couldn’t pull away, either.
Not when you looked at him like that. Not when the idea of you being close — even just to him as Superman — made the world feel a little less unbearable.
He took one step back, into the shadows of the hallway.
Then another.
Out of sight. Out of reach.
Where he belonged.
--
The office has thinned out.
Lights dimmed to conserve energy. Monitors black. Coffee cold.
Outside, the city pulses under a curtain of soft rain. The glass windows are streaked with water, and somewhere distant, the wail of a siren fades into the dark.
You rub the heel of your palm into your eye. You’ve read the same sentence three times now, and it still doesn’t make sense.
The adrenaline wore off hours ago.
Now it’s just the ache. The come-down. The way your chest gets tight when you think about that man’s hand grabbing your arm, the press of the alley ground at your front, the breath you couldn’t catch— The helplessness.
You exhale. Shut your laptop. It clicks closed too loud in the quiet room.
You reach for your bag, slinging it over one shoulder— —but your wrist bends funny. A stab of pain shoots through the joint, and you hiss, flinching on instinct.
“You okay?”
You jump.
Clark stands a few feet away, jacket folded over one arm, shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. He looks rumpled. Tired. Like he stayed longer than he meant to.
Maybe he did.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says quickly, hands lifting slightly in that gentle way of his, voice low and warm.
You breathe out. “It’s okay. I didn’t think anyone was still here.”
“I was finishing something.” He gestures vaguely at his desk, then glances at your wrist. “That looked like it hurt.”
You hesitate. Your fingers automatically pull your sleeve down. Cover it.
“It’s fine,” you say, quietly. A beat. “Just… tender.”
Clark doesn’t press. But he doesn’t look away, either.
His eyes find yours—hesitant, soft—and for a second, it’s unbearable how kind they are. How much they see.
“I heard them earlier,” he says, even softer now. “Lois, Jimmy… Perry. How they talked about it.”
Your gaze drops. Shame flushes behind your ribs. You know how they saw it. A story. A scoop. A headline.
Not you.
“They didn’t mean any harm,” you murmur, defending them. “They were just trying to make light of it.”
“I know,” Clark says. He shifts his weight, his voice carrying something quieter now. “But I saw the way you looked when they laughed. Like you were somewhere else.”
You feel it again—the cold. The hand on your arm. The wall against your spine. The way your breath caught in your throat and refused to move.
“I keep telling myself I’m overreacting,” you admit. “That it wasn’t that bad. That it could’ve been worse, and I was lucky.”
Clark’s brows pull together. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t scare you.”
Your throat tightens.
He sees you. Not just the version that shows up to work or writes pretty words in columns or fakes a smile in the bullpen.
He sees you.
“I keep thinking…” you trail off. “If Superman hadn’t been there…”
Clark’s expression shifts. Something flickers across it—grief? Regret? It’s gone before you can place it.
“You shouldn’t have had to think about that,” he says. “You shouldn’t have been there alone.”
You nod. Slowly. A bitter little smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
“I was just walking home.”
Another silence.
You glance at him. “Why are you still here, Clark?”
He looks almost caught off guard by the question. Then, with a small shrug:
“I didn’t want to leave before you did.”
The words hit you square in the chest. Simple. Honest.
You blink. Your voice drops. “Why?”
He looks down. Then back at you. And for a breathless second— you see it in his face. Not pity. Not guilt.
Care.
Like he’s been carrying something all day and only just let it show.
“Because everyone else saw the story,” he says. “And I saw you.”
You don’t know what to say to that. So you don’t say anything.
The silence stretches. It’s not heavy. It’s soft. Safe.
Your bag strap is digging into your shoulder, but you don’t move. You’re afraid if you do, something in the moment will break.
Clark steps a little closer.
“If you ever want to talk,” he says, voice even lower now. “Not for the paper. Not for your column. Just for you—I’m here.”
You stare at him. Then:
“Thank you.”
He nods, but doesn’t smile. Just watches you, like there’s something he still wants to say but can’t. Like there’s something aching in his chest that hasn’t found a way out yet.
You hesitate, then reach for your umbrella— —and your fingers brush his.
The touch is accidental. Brief. But it lingers.
Clark’s breath hitches. Your heart stutters. Neither of you moves.
Your breath catches. So does his.
“I should get going,” you whisper, finally.
He nods once, but then— just as you turn— his voice stops you.
“Wait—uh—can I walk you?”
You blink, surprised. “What?”
Clark shifts his weight, glancing down and then back up, clearly second-guessing himself.
“Home,” he clarifies, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not because I think you can’t handle yourself. I just—after what happened—I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to walk alone.”
You stare at him.
He winces a little. “That sounded... worse out loud.”
A laugh slips out of you—quiet, but real. He looks so painfully earnest. His cheeks are pink, eyes soft behind those glasses, hands fidgeting at his sides like he’s not sure what to do with them.
You tilt your head. “You want to walk me home?”
“I mean—if you want me to.” He stumbles over the words. “If it’d make you feel safer. Or not safer. Just—not alone.”
You soften. The laugh fades into something warmer.
“…Yeah,” you say. “I’d like that.”
Relief floods his face. “Okay. Yeah. Great.”
You smile and tuck your umbrella under your arm. “Let me just grab my coat.”
He steps aside to wait, and when you pass him, your hand brushes lightly along his sleeve—just a graze.
His breath hitches again. He turns his head, watching you with something almost reverent in his eyes.
And though neither of you says it out loud, for the first time all day, you don’t feel like you’re carrying it alone.
tag list: @ticklish-leafy-plant @iyskgd @alexiared, @theelementofsurprisee
A/N: i love them guyssss. hope y'all enjoyed!
