Cat Got Your Tongue?
Clark Kent x Reader
Summary: Your cat is your life, lovable and sweet... to you. She seemingly is allergic to strangers—all but one in a red cape, it seems.
Word Count: 9.1k
Warnings: sickenly sweet fluff! coworker romance! cats (if you don't like them... sorry). reader doesn't know clark's secret uh oh! like, two suggestive comments.
A/N: based on a request! sorry this took me so long, it's been sitting in my drafts for like, half a year. whoopsies. also, I miss Clark Kent.
Millie was the light of your life.
Great company on cold nights, a steadfast presence in your space, she made living alone slightly less lonely. That damned cat loved you, you knew that, you raised her from birth practically—a wet and sodden box in the middle of a dumpster in a Metropolis winter was not the ideal place to leave kittens. It took weeks of bottle feeds, warm blankets and wet food to get her to perfect health. She was your baby, in the most serious sense of the word.
The problem?
She hated everyone else.
No matter who you introduced her to, she hissed, she hid, she ran away. Trainers claimed she’d grow out of the aggression, settle into her age as she grew. Others claimed some time with other people in ‘her’ space could help, too. You’ve exhausted all of your options and slowly came to the conclusion that Millie simply was a loner, much like yourself, resigned to the fact she’d love no other person.
But your love never wavered.
“No, see, I don’t think I showed you this one,” you shoved your phone in Jimmy’s face. “She was doing the absolute cutest thing this morning and I just—I thought about calling out, James, seriously."
“You know I love you,” Jimmy said, pushing the phone to the side. “And I care so, so deeply about your life and everything that pertains to it, but, as your friend,” he looked at you with pleading eyes, “please stop showing me photos of your cat.”
“Jimmy,” his name trailed off of your lips, nearly a song. You spun in your chair in protest. “I have nothing else to talk about. She’s the center of my universe.”
“Maybe you should make your job the center of your universe?” he said into his coffee, a brow meeting his hairline. “Just a thought?”
You stuck your tongue out at him. “You’re no fun.”
“And you,” he pointed, “have a draft to get to Perry by end of day, don’t you?”
“Actually, he wants it by noon,” Lois, ever the eavesdropper, chimed in. “Apparently the Gotham Gazette plans to run a story that’s eerily similar to yours, so…”
You groaned, paying close attention to the back of your eyelids.
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Lois’ hands were up in mock surrender, sympathetic smile already on her lips. “But I’d get to editing if I were you.”
“It’s almost done,” you explained, tapping your pen rapidly against your leg. “Clark was giving it a once-over before I finished it up.”
“And Clark is MIA, per the usual,” Jimmy noted.
“Probably stuck at the café again,” the defense left your mouth before you knew it. “He gets everyone coffee on Tuesdays, you know that.”
Jimmy and Lois shared a knowing look. “Unless the coffee line is around the block—”
“It was around the block, actually.”
Clark was nearly breathless, carrying two trays of coffee cups and his briefcase—a superhuman feat, if you were asked. He held one tray out to Jimmy, who took his cup begrudgingly before passing the other to Lois. “Still, an hour late for coffee? Perry’s gonna kill you, Kent,” she said, holding back a moan after her first sip.
“I like doing Crazy Coffee Tuesdays,” his voice was small, as if not trying to take up much space. “Perry probably didn’t even notice I was gone.”
Clark’s tray was held out to you, your coffee awaiting your grasp.“Thank you,” your appreciation was noted, the man in front of you standing just a bit straighter after that. “I noticed that you were gone, if that’s any consolation.”
His glasses slid down his nose, just a bit. “I-I mean, I’d hope so. You’re waiting on my edits, right?”
“Well, yeah,” you laughed. “But you also sit directly next to me, and I know you would’ve backed me up this morning with Jimmy.”
“What did Jimmy do?”
“Nothing in particular,” you turn on your chair, facing back towards your desk. Clark finally sat down at his own. “Just got annoyed at me for showing off my cat and everything that she did before work.”
“What did Millie do this morning?” He was genuinely curious, not asking out of politeness, in that trademarked Clark way of his.
“I’m glad you asked!” Your grin lit up the room. “She crawled under my laundry pile and wriggled into one of my dresses,” the phone on your desk was passed quickly to Clark, the photo already pulled up. “Made me want to stay home. She was so cute.”
“She’s a cute cat,” Clark nodded, his lips curling at the image. “I wouldn’t have blamed you for staying home. I would’ve missed you here today, though.” The phone was passed back to you, your fingers brushing for a moment.
“I would never miss Crazy Coffee Tuesdays,” you said seriously, trying to ignore the warmth blossoming in your chest. “What would I do without you swooping in to save me from the sludge Perry supplies the office with?”
“You’d probably cry about it. Just a little.”
You rolled your eyes. “I’m not that dramatic.”
“Says the lady who cried when the office got new paperclips,” he chuckled. It was a taxing day around the Planet, who could forget?
“They were so cheaply made! They didn’t hold as many papers together as the old ones, flimsy as hell.”
“Right, not a dramatic reaction at all,” he shook his head. “But the crying made Perry change them back, so…”
“See? I make things happen, Smallville,” you nod. “A perfectly reasonable reaction to such a travesty for the journalistic integrity of our work.”
“Well, forgive me for assuming you’d react to me not getting you coffee in a similar fashion,” he agreed.
You hummed. “You’re forgiven, on the notion you bring me another cup tomorrow.”
“But it’s not Tuesday tomorrow…?”
“And you like me enough to make an exception, don’t you?” It wasn’t exactly a question, you already knew the answer.
“Crazy Coffee Wednesday, it is,” he grinned.
But Crazy Coffee Wednesday never happened.
You hadn’t showed up to work, calling out for a ‘family emergency’, per Perry. Clark ended up drinking your coffee when he realized you truly weren’t coming in to work, but not before sending you a quick text—just checking in, nothing too fancy.
The response was almost immediate.
Millie was missing.
Robots attacked Metropolis last night, Clark knowing firsthand on the whole ordeal. The damage was minimal to the city, no casualties—nothing crazy. A typical Tuesday, all things considered.
But, Millie bolted out your open window in the commotion, trying to get away from the noise. You couldn’t chase her until the robots cleared your block, and by then she was long gone. It wasn’t something you needed the entire office to know, but Clark seemed like a good person to tell.
What you didn’t know, was that a certain red and blue clad superhuman was willing to help.
He took it upon himself to look for your cat. Clark knew the basics, what she looked like, what her collar looked like and roughly the area in which you lived. He had walked you to your building one night after a long day at the office—he insisted. Surely a cat, one used to being indoors, couldn’t have made it very far, right?
Wrong.
Clark—Superman, had been searching for the better part of his evening, scanning the alleys and streets surrounding your building. He had been distracted a few times, kids wanting a photo, a shopkeep asking for assistance in hanging a banner—little things, things that usually didn’t bug him. But he was on a mission.
Find Millie.
“Good gosh, how far could this cat have gone?” He mumbled to himself, floating directly above the bakery only a few blocks from your apartment. The smell of freshly baked bread was weaker than he expected, but, he assumed they didn’t do much baking at 6pm on a weekday night. He scanned the area again, using his x-ray vision to see through buildings, hoping to catch a glimpse of the gray feline.
“Superman! Superman!”
Clark looked down, meeting the gaze of a group of children yelling for him. Reluctantly, he reached the sidewalk near them.
“Hiya,” he said with a wave, forcing a smile. “Uh, what can I do for y’all?”
“Cape!” The young girl with pigtails giggled, touching his red cape. “Woosh!”
“Yeah, the wind makes my cape go ‘woosh',” Clark chuckled.
“Sorry, my sister’s little,” the boy, who looked to be only a few years older than her chimed in. “We need your help.”
“S’okay,” Clark nodded, patting the girl on her head. She beamed, vibrating with happiness. “What can I do?”
“We found a kitty,” the boy said quickly. “But it hissed at us and ran up a tree—but he was wearing a collar and my mommy says only owned pets have collars so someone is missing him, right?”
“A kitty?”
“Gray kitty,” the girl nodded. “Pretty.”
“A pretty kitty in a tree,” Clark repeated, his heart rate picking up just a tick. Could it be? “Which tree, superstars?”
The boy pointed down the block. “We can’t leave the street, mommy said so. But the kitty didn’t leave that tree, I watched carefully.”
“Save kitty?” The girl asked, her brown eyes practically glistening in the dropping sun. “Please?”
“Yeah, Superman’s gonna save kitty,” Clark nodded. “Wait right here, don’t want your Ma to get upset, yeah?”
“Mommy will scream,” the boy nodded solemnly, pointing to the apartment window nearest them. “She’s watching from her office.”
Clark turned, waving at their mother through the window. She was already filming on her phone, eyes wide with surprise. “Alright, gonna go get kitty!” He took off like a bullet, zooming all the way to the tree the boy had pointed to. “Who lets their little kids play outside alone…?”
Sure enough, in the giant tree on the edge of the park, a gray tabby cat was perched into one of the branches. With one glance at the cat’s collar—black with constellations littered across it—he knew it was the cat he was looking for. “Hey there, Millie.”
The feline hissed at him.
“Woah, take it easy,” he said calmly, as if the cat could possibly read his body language. “I just wanna help. You know, your mom’s been freaking out all day, worried sick about you and I know you’re not super friendly to strangers, but I gotta try to get you back. Sound good?”
She blinked at him, unable to move. He took it as agreement.
When Clark reached for her, he realized her back paw was stuck to the bark—claw latched onto the stuff. “Poor baby,” he cooed. “Lemme help ya.” Carefully, with the precision of a surgeon, he unstuck Millie from the tree—and got a closer look at her tag, which confirmed the fact that this was, indeed, the cat he was looking for.
“You got kitty!” The little girl, now held by her mother, shouted from across the street.
“I got kitty,” Clark nodded, waving to the little family. “You, uh, stay safe! And don’t… play in the street!”
“We don’t play in the street,” the boy mumbled, watching Superman fly away.
—
You had been pacing around your apartment, biting at your nails in worry. You spent all day combing the streets for Millie, to no avail. The printer sitting in the corner of your desk was working overtime, producing copy after copy of a poster you made in a rush, hoping to get the word out sooner than later.
“I just got a new cartridge too,” you hiss, accidentally drawing blood, biting a bit too close to your skin. “Shit!”
Running to your kitchen to grab your first aid kit, you tended to the bitten finger, washing it quickly and drying it softly. To your own credit, it hurt a hell of a lot less than Millie’s claws dragging across your skin—something you’d kill for about now.
A soft knock on your window drew your attention away from your pulsing phalange.
“Oh my God.”
You ran to the window, surprised to find Superman crouching on your fire escape. In his—very toned and capable—arms was the gray cat you’d been crying about all day.
Guinness World Records should’ve been notified about how quickly you ripped your window open.
“Holy shit, Millie!” You sobbed, reaching out for the gray tabby. The cat was more than eager to get back into your arms. “I-I don’t know what to say…”
“No need to thank me, ma’am,” Superman said, coughing lightly. “I just happened to find her hanging out in a tree and noticed her ID tag—it’s a good thing she has one. She seemed a bit lost.”
“No kidding,” you kissed Millie’s head quickly. “Was she far from here?”
“Down the block,” he pointed. “Few blocks, really. She seemed a bit turned around so…”
“Please, come in,” you said, a bit quickly, nearly regretting your words. “I can make you some tea? Get you a glass of water?”
Superman chuckled at the sight. “I, uh, don’t think I’ll fit through the window, ma’am.”
Your temperature rose, heat rushing to your face. The man was built like a brick wall, of course he wasn’t going to fit through your average-sized window. At least, not easily. “Shit. Right. Uh… I can buzz you up?”
“I don’t want to overstep, ma’am—”
“You’re not overstepping,” you said, petting Millie’s head. She was purring contently in your arms, a welcome feeling. Instinctively you turned towards your front door, ready for his arrival. “It’s an invitation,” you turned back towards him, “and don’t call me ma’am, I can’t be much older than you, right?”
“Noted,” he chuckled, the sound reverberating straight to your head. “I’ll be right up, then.”
Millie jumped out of your arms and ran to her cat tower, her safe space. Seemingly gotten enough loving from you, even if she had been homeless for the last day. Dinner would be a good way to get her back to normal, you thought.
The knocks on your door are similar to the way he knocked on your window—quiet, but firm.
With wavering confidence, you opened the door. “Superman.”
“Ma’am,” he cringed instantly, realizing his mistake. “Ah, sorry, how’s miss?”
You pushed the door open wider, stepping to the side, trying to make room for the giant coming into your space. “Miss is fine, but I prefer my name—like most people, I think.”
“Then, I suppose I should get your name?”
“You figured out my address from my cat’s ID tag, but missed my name etched right above it?” You grinned, closing the door behind him.
“I-I must have missed it?”
You told him your name, saying it slowly, hoping it’d stick to his alien ears.
“S’pretty name,” he said, repeating the syllables equally as slow. You wanted to melt on the spot, but persevered. “Mind if I sit?”
“Oh, of course,” you shook your head, trying to find the will to stay upright. “Like I offered earlier, tea? Water?”
“Water sounds good,” he nodded, smiling softly. “Flying around works up quite the thirst, if you can believe it.”
Your water pitcher was filled, a byproduct of your anxiety, pacing around your kitchen with nothing else to do. It was a rare occurrence it was actually full when you needed it to be—there was a bad habit you had of not filling it up when it was empty. “It’s just tap, but I promise the filter takes out the disgusting Metropolis taste.”
“I sorta like the tap water taste,” he said softly, a secret.
You peeked over the door of your refrigerator, nose scrunched in utter disgust. That confession brought you back down to Earth. “Ew, what?”
Superman looked at you, face puzzled slightly, as if deciding exactly what to say next. “My ma—mother, she insisted the natural minerals of the tap were good for growing.”
“That can’t possibly be true,” you shook your head.
“Of course it’s true,” he puffed his chest. “I grew quite a bit! My mother is usually right.”
A smile pulled at your lips. “You sure it’s not your Kryptonian genes making you the size of a barn?”
“My mother would never lie to me,” he said, taking the glass from you gently. You knew he meant that.
A loud meow echoed from the cat tree, Millie sitting on her perch.
Dinner.
Right.
“Thank you again,” you walked towards your kitchen, rifling through your cabinet. “For saving Millie. I didn’t think rescuing lost cats was in your repertoire—more alien attacks and re-routing the subway lines?”
“I like doing the little things like this,” he said softly, watching you intently depot a can of cat food onto a plate. It was shaped like a fish. Funny. “Not everything Superman does has to be this big heroic thing, you know? Gotta show people Superman cares about them.”
“Superman likes talking in third person?” Millie appreciated the plate brought directly to her tower, treated like the royalty she is.
“He… doesn’t do it a lot,” a faint dusting of pink grazed the bridge of his nose. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” the laugh you let out was soft, worn. “It’s cute. In a humbling, down-to-earth sort of way! Not that you’re cute—I mean, you are but that’s not…” you sighed, raking a hand over your face. “I haven’t gotten much sleep over all of this, I apologize, my brain is room temperature right about now.”
He finished the glass of water. “Well, I hope Millie being home brings you some sleep tonight, you deserve a restful evening.”
“That little hunk of junk being home already is making me drowsy,” you admitted, flopping onto the couch beside him. “It’s like my brain can finally relax.”
“Hunk of junk…?”
“Like the Millennium Falcon? From Star Wars?” The way you said it seemed like it was obvious. “That’s her government name, anyway. Millie is easier to say, other than when I’m yelling at her.”
“I didn’t know you liked Star Wars,” he sat a bit straighter, blue eyes just a bit wider. Clark hadn’t known the totality of her name—you only called her by her nickname. You paused, staring at him a bit quizzically. “I-I mean, you don’t seem like the type, is what I meant by that.”
“Why? You think girls can’t like Star Wars?”
“No!” Superman waved his hands erratically. “No, gosh that’s not what I meant! Obviously you can like whatever you want, it’s a good franchise—great franchise—I’m sorry, this is sounding terrible.”
“Do you need a shovel to dig yourself deeper or…?”
“No thank you,” he mumbled.
“Well, I love it,” you smiled, watching the man across from you take labored breaths. “Grew up loving it, still love it, it’s up there for comfort movies for me. Figured a name like ‘Chewie’ or ‘Leia’ was a bit on the nose for her. Besides, she’s my little trash baby.”
Superman coughed. “Trash baby? That’s a unique moniker.”
“Found her in the dumpster,” you shrugged. “Cat distribution system and all that.”
“Ah,” he laughed, the sound rang in your ears like a warm blanket, homey, inviting. “That makes sense, I suppose. Unique name for a unique cat.”
“I’m sorry she’s not more inviting, she doesn’t like strangers,” you pointed to the cat tower, watching her finish up her dinner. “Honestly, I’m shocked you brought her back to me unscathed.”
“Man-of-Steel, remember?” He knocked on his head. “That’s what the Daily Planet calls me anyway, some cat claws won’t hurt me.”
“You read what the Planet writes about you?”
“I keep up with it, occasionally,” he scrunched his nose, looking up at the ceiling. “Talented writers over there, y’know?”
“I do know,” you pulled your purse from the coffee table, grasping at your ID badge. The photo was taken a few years back when you started your job, doe-eyed and fresh faced. The job now had made you wiser, you felt more distinguished than the girl in the plastic photo. “I actually know it quite well, funnily enough.”
“Huh,” he glanced at the ID in your fingers, his eyes slightly fond. Soft. “Out of everyone in Metropolis, I had to save a reporter’s cat.”
“Don’t worry, everything is off the record, no steamy ‘My Date with Superman’ article in your future.”
“This is a date?”
His grin was blinding, much brighter than the setting sun.
It was then you realized how handsome Superman really was, especially up close. You had seen photos of him, of course, the occasional news clip of him saving the day and whatnot, but this? Having him in your space? It was a bit disorienting how good looking he was.
“Ah, no,” you rushed out, watching his grin grow a bit bigger, dimples deepening. “No, of course not. It was a joke—a bad one. But you have to admit, an article with that title would grab loads of readers.”
“It’s a hook,” he agreed. “I’d read it.”
“Maybe you should date a reporter?” You teased. “Get that ball rolling?”
“Maybe I should,” he laughed, pausing a bit longer than he should after he stopped. “Probably not the best idea in the long run, though. Wouldn’t want my dirty secrets leaking out to the world, could be fatal to my image.”
“As if any person dating you would do that,” you scoffed. “They’d be a terrible partner.” Millie jumped from her tower, waltzing over to you and Superman on the couch. She seemed apprehensive of the man in blue, sticking to your side like glue. “But it begs the question, does Superman have dirty secrets?”
“Sure,” he rubbed his nose, glancing down at the cat. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Care to elaborate?”
“No,” he shook his head, turning his attention back to you. “No, I don’t think I will.”
Your cat got bold, curious if anything else, and hopped from your lap over to his own. She seemed at home, curling instantly on the blue jumpsuit, head tilted up—ready for scratches. “I’m so sorry, I can grab her if you’d like—”
Superman raised his hand, stopping your grasp. “It’s alright. I don’t mind. She’s rather sweet.” He scratched under her head lightly, just the way she liked it.
“She usually hates strangers,” you hummed, giving your cat another look, clearly enjoying the loving from the metahuman in your company. “Are you sure you brought me back the right cat?”
His fingers grazed her collar, the gold metal glinting in the waning sunlight. “Well, the tag says ‘Millie’—stars all around it, how accurately themed. So, safe to say this is indeed your cat.”
“Maybe you should add cat whisperer to your endless list of abilities,” you note, watching the way Millie melted into his touch, like a pat of butter on a hot pancake. “She’s entranced.”
“So are you,” he chuckled, pointing to your saucer-wide eyes.
“I just… she’s never taken to someone other than myself,” you shook your head. “I-I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
And, as if on cue, Millie jumped off his lap, the spell seemingly broken. “I guess all good things must come to an end, hm?”
“I guess so,” Millie jumped back to your hip, curling on your thighs as she had countless times before. The scene was nearly domestic, cat on your lap, sun setting, handsome man sitting across from you—it felt poetic, if not for the glaring fact the man in question was in a costumed leotard and cape. A loud crash came from outside, startling the both of you. “Speaking of good things…”
“Yeah,” he said sheepishly, sounding genuinely forlorn. “I should probably go see what that was—duty and all of that…”
His thumb was pointed towards your window, the orange glow practically illuminating off of his skin. “Yep. Duty,” you nodded, already peeling towards the front door. “Thank you again for bringing Millie home, I really can’t thank you enough. She’s everything to me.”
“I know,” he nodded, practically floating through the open door. “I’m happy to have been able to reunite you both.”
You smiled at that.
He said your name before you shut the door. “And, if you do end up writing that article, I’m sure it’ll be a good one.”
A blur of red and blue streaked across your vision.
He was gone.
—
You didn’t write an article about the whole affair, that seemed disingenuous. It didn’t seem ethical, as it had been off the record. No one needed to read about how blue his eyes were in the sunset, how gentle he treated your belongings and cat, his presence like a balm to your soul. No one needed to know that, no one but you and your memory.
You did, however, spill the beans at work the next morning to your gaggle of gossipers, the true worshippers of the spoken word.
“Superman was in your apartment?” Cat gaped, coffee in her hand long forgotten. “I mean, you just invited him up like a Tinder-date-gone-right?”
“I offered him something to drink—”
“Not helping your case, hon,” Cat pointed.
“Water,” you pressed, fighting an impossible grin. “He brought Millie home, what was I supposed to do? Give him a high five and skip away?”
Cat gave you a shrug. “Did you give him anything else? Got on your knees with gratitude?”
“Cat!”
“Come on, I’m sure he has a massive—”
“—deadline?” Lois chimed in, her glare icy as her tone. “It’s a very touching story, babe, truly. I mean, Superman himself rescuing your cat and all but come on, you should be writing. Perry already has it out for you for missing work yesterday.”
“I know,” your head hit the cinderblock pillar near Cat’s desk. “I already feel bad enough about it.”
“So,” Lois smiled, tilting her head towards your desk, “you should probably get those fingers flying across your keyboard, no?” You groaned, eyes meeting the ceiling. When was the last time someone cleaned it? “Thank me later,” she sipped from her own mug of sludge, grimacing after the gulp. “Y’know, preferably before Perry kills you.”
She was right, Lois Lane usually was.
“She’s right,” Jimmy said, watching you sit down.
“She usually is,” you huffed, pulling yourself closer to your desk. “God I hate her.”
“No you don’t,” he chuckled.
“No, I don’t,” you agreed, tapping your fingers on the woodgrain. “But you have to admit, it’s a thrilling tale, I mean how could I not talk about it?”
Jimmy’s eyebrow shot up. “I don’t think offering Superman a glass of water is very ‘thrilling’.”
“You’d think so if he was sitting on your couch petting your cat…”
“The demon let someone else pet her?” The blue stress ball you kept at your desk was lobbed at Jimmy’s head. “Ow?”
“She’s not a demon,” your hand already was gripping another knickknack—a smooth carved rock you kept as a paperweight. Not terribly heavy, but it did the trick to hold a few papers down. “So I’d choose your next words very carefully.”
His hands rose around his head, framing his face. “I surrender—please don’t throw a rock at me.”
With the promise of Jimmy shutting his mouth, a promise you kept near and dear to your heart, you began typing away, a blank document filling with words and phrases, flowing from your fingertips to the screen. It was a mundane article, a piece on the new parking garage being built downtown. Boring, sure, but the public reaction was mixed—small businesses being bought out to build the structure. Not a thoughtful piece by any means, but necessary for the city.
At the end of the day, it was news. News was your job.
But this news was boring.
Your head met your keyboard, eyes closing for just a moment, trying to gain some courage to continue on—press forward with the task at hand.
“That’s a lot of periods…”
The voice came from above you, pulling you from your dreary state. A glance at your monitor brought you back to reality—an entire page or more full of little black dots—a byproduct of your moping.
“Can’t you tell? It’s a period piece,” you hum, turning your head towards the towering voice. The creak of your back was audible as you rose from the desk. “Thought I’d give Perry something fresh, you know?”
“I don’t know if that’s the way to go about it,” Clark laughed, handing you a paper cup, warm to the touch. “For Crazy Coffee Thursday, seeing as you missed the make-up yesterday.”
Your face pinched. “You brought me a cup yesterday?”
“And you didn’t show,” Clark sighed, flinging himself into his chair—nearly spinning around. “Imagine my disappointment.”
“I’m sorry, I’ll pay you back for the coffee,” the coffee tasted delicious, per usual. “But it was a good reason, unlike the bull you have every time you play hooky from work…”
“You don’t have to pay me back, I promise. And I never play hooky,” Clark scoffed. “I’m occasionally late.”
“Keep telling your lies,” you hum into your cup, thumb pressing the backspace, “one day someone will believe them, surely.”
The page was restored to its former glory—a boring piece on a boring parking garage, half baked and flimsy. No conviction. You re-read your words, trying to find a through line, make any sense of your rambling.
“You know, with all the writing you do, your texts last night were nearly impossible to decipher,” Clark said, tilting his head. “Something about Superman?”
“I was exhausted, it’s a miracle I remembered how to type at all,” you gave him a look, prying your gaze from your slop, “seriously, the second after I texted you I was out like a light. But, yeah, Superman brought Millie back to me if you can believe it. All heroic and that.”
“I can,” he sipped his own coffee, “the guy saves cats from trees all the time, doesn’t he?”
Your eyes met the ceiling. “Probably. But that’s besides the point! Millie’s back home all thanks to him, and I mean really, this is something the Superman fangirls on Reddit would go crazy about.”
He grinned. “Post there often?”
“Longtime lurker,” you chuckled, the idea entirely ridiculous. You weren’t about to tell Clark the truth, how it was one of your favorite pastimes late at night, reading posts about the man in blue. “No, not really. But it’s a little fantastical, don’t you think? Like stuff from a storybook or a fan fiction, no?”
“Perhaps you should write that,” he pointed at you, “the fanfic of Superman saving your cat?”
“Shove it,” you laughed, reaching over to physically shove him. Alas, he was just a hair too far away. “But seriously, it was pretty cosmic timing. I mean, even Millie was starstruck! She hopped in his lap—”
“—your famously hateful cat jumped in his lap?”
“Famously—you’ve never even met her!”
“And who’s fault is that?” Clark hummed, raising a brow. “You never invite me over, but Superman gets to hang?”
“He found my cat,” another sip of your coffee, “there’s not much to it, really.”
Clark’s mouth was agape, closing briefly. “And what do I need to do to get an invitation?”
Your heart thumped a bit erratically for a moment, imagining having Clark in your space. He had never been over before, and you never really had the courage to invite him.
“Write this God-forsaken article for me?” The monitor turned under your palm, facing Clark. “It’s boring me to tears. I mean, a parking garage?”
“An important parking garage,” Clark smirked. “It’s desperately needed downtown, the parking is horrendous for the Meteors fans during game days—”
“See! You should be writing this, you clearly care more about this than me.”
“You shouldn’t have to care a whole lot about the topic you’re writing about to write it,” he said softly.
“But it helps.”
“Yeah, it helps,” he bit his lip, mulling it over. “I can maybe swap you…”
“Clark!” You shot up from your chair, flinging your arms around his shoulders. “You’re the best!”
“I said maybe,” your arms wrung tightly around his frame, caging him in the warmth of you. He could get used to something like this. “I don’t know if Perry’ll like it all that much, you know how he is, but, uh, we’ll figure it out.”
“I could kiss you, Clark Kent,” you swoon, patting his curls down lovingly. “But, I’ll settle with taking your article on… what was it you were assigned?”
“The homeless shelter’s coat drive,” he said, pink dusting his cheeks. “You know, the one off of Roosevelt?”
“See? Much more my style,” you nodded. “The offer still stands, though.”
“Offer? Of a-a kiss?” Clark’s face morphed from a light pink to a deep red, practically matching the shade of Cat’s nails—a new set she showed off this morning. “Oh, that’s alright—”
“No, silly,” you barked a laugh, watching him fail at covering his face with his coffee cup. “On coming over. I can make a mean pasta, or really anything—as a thank you for swapping?”
“O-oh,” his shoulders slumped. “Yeah, that makes much more sense.”
“Why? Do you want me to kiss you?” Your voice was low, only Clark could hear you. The fact you even were so bold to tease him shocked you to your core.
The tips of his ears were practically on fire. “Dinner sounds good.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow night.”
—
It was a miracle you got your place cleaned up in time for Clark’s arrival. While you didn’t live a messy life, living alone got the better of you most days and Millie’s disappearance didn’t help matters. It was clutter, not filth, you reminded yourself. Papers strewn about, coats that fell off of your rack, little things that needed to be picked up. Superman didn’t seem to mind the mess.
But Clark wasn’t Superman.
Superman was an anomaly to your life, a blip in the grand scheme of things. Clark was a constant, someone you were friends with, someone you could see yourself getting closer to. Sweet, lovable and unassuming Clark Kent.
“This is fine,” you mumbled to the empty apartment gazing over your hard work. “It’ll be fine, Mills.”
Millie meowed.
“I know, I’m sorry,” your hand ran over her head, petting it gently. “But if you don’t take to Clark, and I know you won’t, you have to hang in the bedroom lovey."
She meowed again, clearly displeased.
“I don’t make the rules,” you shrug, putting the pasta in the boiling water. Dinner would be decent enough, spaghetti and baked meatballs, something you excelled at cooking. Clark would like it. Hopefully. “You make the rules, babe. So unless you want to wise up and start liking people, the bedroom is your fate.”
The phone on your counter buzzed. Clark was on his way from the dry cleaners, a pit stop he had to make after work. Something that he mumbled out after you finished at the Planet for the day, giving you an unanticipated hour or so before his arrival. You made a note to thank his oversized suits for the extra time.
“Do you think Clark would appreciate wine with dinner?” You showed the bottles to Millie—as if she’d have an opinion. “Or do you think that wine with dinner is too… date-y?”
The silence was damning. Even if your cat—your best friend—couldn’t respond to you, it was almost like you could read her thoughts.
“No, you’re right,” the bottles were placed back on the rack, ready for the next opportunity to drink wine. “This isn’t a date, no need to break out the wine. Unless—oh my God—do you think Clark thinks this is a date?”
Your conversational partner had already left the room, clearly finding your worry as stimulating as her scratching post across the apartment, the well loved one you kept near your bedroom door. It was one of her favorite things. “Do I think this is a date?”
A knock on your door pulled you out of your panic. Steady. Firm.
Clark.
“One moment!”
Thank goodness for the mirror you kept near your entryway, checking your reflection for just a second longer before braving the fact your co-worker was entering your space for the first time—something that always made you nervous. Jimmy and Lois had come over twice each for late night drinks after long days at the office, but Millie made it hard for them to want to come over more often, it was just easier to meet them at their place or a communicated third option, but it still stung regardless.
Standing in the dingy yellow hallway outside your door was Clark, drowning in his work suit, holding his briefcase and a small bouquet filled with warm tones—oranges and pinks.
“Uh, hi,” he stammered, pulling his bag up onto his shoulder, steadying himself. “Sorry for being late.”
“You’re alright,” you hummed, letting him enter, carefully avoiding the pile of shoes near your door. “I’m sorry for the mess.”
“No, no,” Clark shook his head, toeing off his own shoes, exposing his purple socks. “This was kinda last minute, so I understand any clutter, gosh, I’m usually a mess myself.”
His bag hit the floor, right next to his shoes. “Are those for me?” The flowers in his hand were close to falling out of his grip, wrapped delicately in newspaper—a copy of today’s run of The Daily Planet. Clark gingerly held them out, his cheeks matching the pink of the petals.
“Y-yeah, I figured you’d like them. I picked them up on my way over to make up for my… lateness,” you took them from him, admiring the blooms.
“You also found enough time to wrap them in our paper?”
His cheeks deepened in color. “It looked nicer than the plastic…”
The whisper was endearing, warm.
“It does,” you agreed easily, taking the flowers from him. The paper wasn’t just the front page, as you would have expected, it was the third page from today’s issue—your article on the coat drive for the homeless shelter in full display. Thoughtful, kind. “They look wonderful, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Clark sighed, a breath of relief exiting his lips.
Frozen in place, you stared at one another. “Oh, I don’t think I have anything to put them in…”
“No vase?”
“I’ve never gotten flowers before,” you hummed, looking towards your kitchen. Maybe you had a cup or bottle that was big enough to house the blooms, but that could be remedied. Something in your home could make this work. “So, no, no vase.”
“Ah geez,” Clark slumped, rubbing the back of his neck. “Gifts aren’t supposed to be an imposition, I feel like a jerk. I guess I just assumed you’d have a vase, gotten flowers before—I mean, look at you—I can go and run to get one for you real quick—”
Your hand met his shoulder, steadying his deep breathing. “Clark, it’s fine. I’m sure I have something tall enough to do the trick.”
“Still…”
The cupboard that housed your cups and bottles flung open, shuffling through your belongings. You really needed to donate some of your cups—a handful of them surviving many years of use and wear. “Make yourself at home, pasta’s almost done.”
Clark was already in your living room, having moved through your furniture with ease—the ease of someone who had stepped through your space before, you thought. “Pasta?”
“Spaghetti,” you elaborated, pulling a sky blue water bottle out from the top shelf of your cupboard. “Baked meatballs with mozzarella, figured you’d be on board.”
“I knew I smelled something delicious,” Clark chuckled, watching you fill the water bottle up with your faucet.
The flowers looked beautiful on your counter, the warm tones contrasting the blue water bottle, like the beginnings of a sunset. “It’s all baked in a skillet with the sauce,” you fluffed the bouquet, “thank you again for the flowers, they’re lovely.”
Clark’s smile was like the sun, brightening the room with just a grin with ease. “I’ll be sure to bring you a vase next time.”
Next time.
“What? Don’t think my insulated bottle does the trick?” Maybe if you tried hard enough, Clark wouldn’t be able to hear the way your heart was hammering out of your chest at his innocent declaration.
Of course, you knew that was silly.
“No, I mean,” Clark’s face blanched, “you’re very creative! I just think that maybe glass would look more elegant?”
He was already on your couch, sitting carefully—as if not to disturb your throw pillows or blankets. “Considering leaving journalism for flowers?”
The laugh from his chest echoed throughout your apartment. “Gosh, no. I’d be terrible at that. I’ll stick to the news and writing until my eyes bleed, I think. It’ll be enough for me to just buy the flowers—and put them in a proper vase.”
You leaned against your counter, not wanting to leave your boiling pot unattended. “Maybe I’ll invest in one.”
“I’m keen to think you should.”
A flash of gray sped across your living room from your bedroom—you had left the door cracked. “Oh! Millie,” you were already trying to meet her before the inevitable. “Sorry, she has a mind of her own.”
“The infamous Millie,” Clark said, staring down the gray feline across the room—she had stood like a statue, eyes locked with his own. “We finally meet.”
“I reckon this is the safest distance for you two,” you said cautiously, tiptoeing closer to your cat. “Unless you want to be hissed at or worse, scratched up.”
“Oh I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Clark waved, puckering his lips. He made a few kissing noises to get her attention, patting his lap. An invitation.
The pot on your stove began to bubble over, the flames underneath flickering unexpectedly. “Shit!” You were quick to fix the problem, turning the heat down and watching the bubbles slow their roll—the spaghetti nearly done cooking. Two more minutes, maybe.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” you brushed hair from your face, checking the oven for the meatballs—which were also almost done. “Just boiled over a bit, but we’re good now!” Once you decided the pasta was done cooking—your eyes never left the pot this time—you moved it off the heat and strained it quickly. Turning the oven off, you left the skillet in to keep the meatballs and sauce warm until you served it all.
“Holy cow,” Clark groaned from your couch. “It smells amazing.”
Pride filled your chest, not unlike it does when he compliments your writing. “Thank you, I hope it tastes as good as it smells.”
“I’m sure it’ll live up to all expectations, if not exceed them.”
“You flatter me,” you peeled off your oven mitt, one shaped like a cartoon chicken head—a gift from your grandmother after moving in. “Hopefully the meatballs aren’t overcooked, I have a habit of doing…”
On your couch, you saw it.
Millie willingly on Clark’s lap, as if she was possessed to the spot. If you knew any better, you’d be convinced Clark somehow snuck in a doppelgänger cat and replaced your sweet baby. But, despite everything, that cat in his lap was the tabby gray cat you saved from the dumpster.
“…that.”
Clark scratched Millie’s chin, her eyes closing in a delighted purr. “She just jumped on my lap,” he said, looking down at the cat, pleased with himself. “Such a cutie.”
You blinked, clearly in disbelief. “I don’t understand. She hates people.”
“I guess I have a way with cats,” Clark shrugged, the cat in his lap practically melting into a puddle. “It’s a wonder you haven’t tried getting her around other people, she’s so sweet.”
“No one else has been able to get her to be such an angel,” you said, hand on your hip. “Lois tried, Jimmy bought like fifty different bags of treats—I really don’t understand.”
Millie seemed to be in heaven, enjoying all of the attention from Clark. His attentiveness to her was intoxicating, how careful he was touching her, softly caressing her head and body with featherlight precision. “You are such an angel, not a hunk of junk, no way,” Clark’s voice was nearly liquid honey, sweet and syrupy as if he was talking to a baby.
“It’s funny that you say that,” you smiled. “Because her name is actually—”
It was then you saw it.
On your couch, holding your cat.
You swallowed thickly. “I mean, what are the odds the two men I let into my apartment this week can charm her?”
“What was that?”
Shaking your head, you tried to rid yourself of the ridiculous thought. “You… and Superman.”
He stilled for a moment, but only for the moment. “Must be a lucky week?”
“Must be,” you said slowly.
As if she suddenly were made of lava, Clark removed Millie from his lap. “Is,” he cleared his throat, “is dinner ready?”
You were already peeling back to your kitchen. “I dunno, just about."
"That's good."
"Are there any Kryptonian allergies I should be aware of?”
“No, I don’t think—”
Your arms were crossed, hip jutting out almost accusatory, like he knew he was caught. It wasn’t a look of disappointment or anger on your face, but more forlorn, a bit sad, maybe?
He said your name softly, falling deaf on your ears. “No, it’s fine, really,” you said, completely not fine at all.
“I can explain,” he rose from the couch, trying to meet your gaze.
“I’m sure you can,” you poured the pasta into the sink, draining the water quickly. “And I’m sure there’s a great explanation as to why the only two people my cat has taken to are Superman and you.”
Clark didn’t have it in him to speak up.
“And I’m sure there’s an even better explanation on how Superman and you are nearly the same height? Crouched the same way to get in through my door?”
He said your name again. “I wanted to tell you, someday, but you have to understand that knowing this is… it’s dangerous.”
The pot slammed against your counter, a bit harder than you’d planned. “I just feel so… stupid.”
“Don’t, please,” Clark rushed to your side. “I do a good job at hiding this—”
“Please,” you scoffed. “The difference between you and Superman is a pair of glasses. How the hell did I not put two and two together?”
He took the opportunity to take the glasses off his face, the thick black frames resting gently near the empty pot. “They’re Hypno glasses, they alter my face—it doesn’t matter,” Clark shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry about?” A laugh escaped you, one that surprised the both of you. “I’m your coworker, Clark. You don’t have to be sorry for keeping this from me. Truly I’m like, at the bottom of the list of people you’d tell about this”
“You know why I’m sorry,” he said softly, warmly, like a blanket fresh out of the dryer. “I-I’ve only told a handful of people—”
“Lois?” Her name sounded a bit cold on your tongue, which was odd. You knew their failed relationship was nothing more than a fling, Lois not really wanting anything serious—they were better friends at the end of the day.
“A handful,” he repeated. “But she mostly figured it out on her own…”
“Go figure.”
“This kind of secret can hurt people,” Clark tapped his foot, the rhythm erratic. “If someone found out you knew who I was—gosh, I don’t even want to think about the danger you could be in—”
“I can handle myself, Clark.”
“Not in this way,” he pointed. “Not… not from everything I come across. It was safer if the important people in my life didn’t know.”
You bit your lip, a moment of clarity to keep your mouth shut while you tried to hear him out.
“You mean a lot to me,” Clark’s voice dropped. “It’s more than just the jokes in the office, late night edits over coffee. You’re the first person I look for when I walk into the office. My day is better if you’re there, even if we’re both swamped with stories and can barely breathe, you… you make space.”
“…make space?”
“In a world where all people do is take, you always find room to include others, love without condition,” he shrugged. “Like when you bring treats in once a week, even when Steve is being a jerk about your writing, or when you go out of your way to invite the layout team to trivia night. Maybe ‘making space’ was the wrong way to say that?”
You shook your head. “I don’t make space, I just… am that.”
“Exactly!” He said, a bit too loudly, his cheeks flushing pink. A bit quieter he added, “exactly… you just are so kind. So thoughtful. The Daily Planet would be a different place without you, gosh, Metropolis would be a different place without you.”
Millie purred at Clark’s feet, joining in the conversation.
“I care about you,” he finally said. “More than I should, honestly.”
Without a second thought, you scooped the tabby cat into your arms, a barrier between you and the man you thought you knew.
The man who could fly across the city in a second flat.
The man who could lift a building with his bare hands.
The man who lied to your face.
The scruffy cat in your arms pawed at Clark’s arm, trying to make some sort of contact.
Clark.
The man who always listened to your complaints.
The man who held the umbrella for you, even if he himself got soaked.
The man who had a good reason to lie to you.
He was both.
And maybe both was okay.
“The pasta is gonna get cold,” you finally said, handing Millie off to Clark, she took to him instantly and practically curled into his chest.
“So we’re done talking about this?” He asked hesitantly.
“No,” you laughed. The pasta was dry enough to serve, so you plated it quickly on two blue plates. “Not even close. But, I’m hungry. You?”
He nodded mutely, holding Millie closer to him. The gray tabby only put up with him for a minute longer—even Clark Kent couldn’t keep her tamed—she found solace in her cat tree across the room, jumping out of his arms. “You seem… okay with this.”
“Farthest thing from it,” you pulled the skillet out of the oven and let it rest on the hot pad you received from your mother when you moved into this apartment—a bright sunflower—it went with none of your decor, but it always brought a smile to your face. “But, I’m willing to table the discussion.”
“Table it?”
“For a later date,” you nodded. “Or later this evening, or… whenever you feel like talking about it. But, I worked hard on this dinner, so, I’d like to enjoy it while it’s hot.”
“A later date?”
You rolled your eyes in exasperation. “Are you a broken record now? Repeating everything I say?”
“No, no,” he shook his head. “Well, yes I guess I am repeating what you’re saying but I meant—you still want to, like, know me and be friendly with me after all this?”
You blinked.
“Clark Kent, I expect to be more than friendly with you after all of this,” you pointed at him with your wooden spoon. “You were too busy overthinking that I couldn’t really get a word in.”
“I thought you’d kick me to the curb to be honest,” he laughed lightly, the tips of his ears turning pink.
“Because you lied to me about being Superman?”
“Technically I didn’t lie—just… omitted a truth.”
“Which is lying.”
“You never directly asked if I was Superman, so, I never lied. Not about that. Maybe about where I was, or what I was actually doing… but you never asked.” It was that comment that made you peel into a roaring laughter. “What’s so funny?”
“This is just ridiculous,” you continued to laugh. “Entirely not how I intended to end my week.”
“It’s a little crazy,” he tried to find the humor in it now that the dust was settling.
“And to think it was Millie who figured it out!”
“She’s a smart cat, she has a smart mama,” he shrugged.
“I’m still gonna feed you, Clark, no need to butter me up.”
“Jus’ being honest,” his cheeks were still pink.
“Let’s eat, Superman.”
—
Dinner had been lovely, just as delicious as you predicted it would be. Clark had eaten quite a bit, whether it was the Kryptonian genes or the anxiety melting off with every bite, you certainly had no leftovers. Of course, the spandex-wearing-elephant in the room was being left for a later date to discuss. For now? Sitting on your couch with Millie between the two of you was enough.
“This is a pretty nice second date,” you hummed, fingers raking through Millie’s coat as she sat on Clark’s lap.
“Second date?”
“Well, I already had that first one with Superman,” you looked up at him, grinning wildly. “So, this is a good second date.”
“It’s your first date with Clark,” he laughed, resting his hand on top of your own.
“So you agree?” You grinned wickedly. “This is a date?”
“I—uh—well,” he stammered, face growing a deep red rather quickly. You realized you liked making him blush, seeing how you truly effected him. “If you wanted it to be, I guess I’m not gonna complain…”
“You afraid you’re not gonna have the courage to ask me otherwise?”
“Gosh no,” he agreed, huffing a laugh.
“It’s a good thing I like you, Smallville,” you nodded, feeling Millie purr in contentment at the current situation. It still boggled your mind how quickly she took to Clark, despite everything. “And an even better thing Millie likes you.”
He smiled, glancing down at your intertwined hands on the gray tabby. “I’m glad both of you enjoy my company.”
“I plan to enjoy more of your company,” you looked up at him into his blue eyes, finally without the glasses. Somewhere between dinner and now he removed the spectacles, feeling no need to hide anymore. “If you’re agreeable to it?”
“Oh?”
You could feel your cheeks grow warm at his response, how he grinned in response. “Not like—I meant more dates! If you’d like, that is.”
“I would,” Clark rested his forehead against your own, never losing eye contact. “I would like that very much.”
It wasn’t entirely certain on who leaned in first, but the feeling of his lips on yours was enough to clear your mind of any worry or qualm. It was the quiet in the storm, a gentle promise of a hopeful future. It was also the best kiss of your life, as luck would have it. Hesitant, a bit restrained, but full of so much care and kindness.
“‘My Date With Superman’,” you giggled, pulling away semi-reluctantly. Even Clark looked a bit displeased at your choice.
“Still gonna write that article?”
“No,” you shook your head. “I think ‘My Date with Clark’ is a much better story.”
This time, it was Clark who leaned in first, sealing your statement with another sweet kiss.
As it turned out, Millie liked exactly three people in this world; You, Clark and Superman.