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Summary: You jokingly ask Clark if you are allowed to eat in front of his parents.
Dad Clark Kent x Fem!Reader
more kent family adventures here!
even more kent family adventures here! (pt 2 of the masterlist)
By the time you were eight months pregnant with Leia, one thing had become very clear to everyone around you: Clark would do absolutely anything for you.
Which was precisely why the prank had been so tempting.
The prank simply appeared in your mind while sitting at the Kent farmhouse table on one warm afternoon, watching Clark pile food onto your plate for the third time before you’d even fully finished the second helping.
“Honey, you need more potatoes,” he said earnestly, already reaching for the bowl.
“Clark,” you laughed, “I’m still eating.”
“You’re eating for two.”
Ma Kent snorted softly from across the table. “At this point, that baby’s probably ninety percent mashed potatoes.”
Clark looked entirely unashamed. “They will be a very healthy, growing baby.”
You bit back a smile.
That was the thing about Clark during your pregnancy, he hovered.
Did you need water? A pillow? Another blanket? Less blanket? A snack? Different snack? Did your back hurt? Were your feet swollen? Had you rested enough? Too much? Was the baby kicking enough? Too much?
The man treated your pregnancy like the world’s most important mission.
And it made him very, very easy to fluster.
And suddenly, sitting there at the table with Ma and Pa Kent, watching your husband lovingly shovel corn onto your plate like he was personally responsible for feeding both you and the baby, the idea struck.
You looked down at your half-full plate thoughtfully.
Then, very gently, you asked, “Clark… am I allowed to have some more?”
Clark didn’t even look up.
“Of course,” he said immediately, mouth still full, already spooning another helping onto your plate. “You barely ate any! Here, have more chicken too.”
You pressed your lips together. You continued carefully, in the smallest voice you could manage. “Are you sure?”
Clark blinked at you. “Sure about what?”
“That it’s okay for me to eat more?”
Clark stared at you for a long moment. Then looked at your plate. Then at you again.
“…Yes?” He sounded deeply confused.
You nodded solemnly, “Okay,” and resumed eating.
Clark reached for the biscuits.
“You want another one?”
“Yes please.”
“Here you go, my love.” He handed it over immediately.
You sighed as your prank failed, silently waiting for another opportunity.
-
Said opportunity was when Ma Kent brought out dessert.
Her specialty peach cobbler was still warm, the smell filling the kitchen instantly.
“Oh my goodness,” you sighed dramatically. “That smells amazing.”
Ma Kent smiled warmly. “Go on, honey, have some.”
You coached your face to look anxious, worried, then slowly turned toward Clark.
“…Am I allowed?”
The room went silent.
Clark froze with the serving spoon halfway in his hand.
Ma Kent blinked. Pa Kent’s expression changed immediately into a frown.
“Allowed?” Ma Kent repeated.
You looked down shyly. “Well… I just wanted to check first.”
Clark looked like his soul had briefly left his body.
“Why would you…what do you mean allowed?”
You kept your face perfectly straight. “I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Upset me?” Clark nearly choked. “Why would it upset me?”
Ma Kent’s eyebrows shot up.
Pa Kent set down his fork, slowly and very carefully.
Clark turned toward you so quickly his chair squeaked against the floor.
“Honey, what are you talking about?”
You blinked innocently. “The cobbler.”
“The cobbler…”
“Yes.”
Ma Kent turned to Clark at the same time he looked at you incredulously.
“Clark,” she said carefully, “why would she need permission to eat dessert?”
“I—she doesn’t!” Clark’s brows were furrowed with concern, slowly feeling like he was unnecessarily put on the hot seat. “Why would you need my permission to eat cobbler?!”
You shrugged lightly. “Well, you may not want me to eat any more.”
Ma Kent slowly turned toward her son.
“Clark Joseph Kent.”
Clark’s eyes widened in immediate horror.
“No! No, no, no—Ma, I swear—”
Pa Kent crossed his arms.
Clark looked even more panicked.
“I have literally never stopped her from eating anything in her life! She eats whatever she wants, whenever she wants. I've actually been actively encouraging her to eat more because she sometimes forgets in the afternoon and the doctor said…" He caught himself, and looked back at you. "What is going on?”
You tilted your head. “But maybe you didn’t want me eating cobbler specifically?”
“Why would I not want you to?!”
Clark looked moments away from a full system shutdown.
“Honey,” he said frantically, stumbling over every word, “I have never, not once, told you what you can or can’t eat. Or do. Or wear. Or…anything!”
Ma Kent was now openly suspicious. “Clark…”
“No! Ma, listen to me—I swear, she does whatever she wants! Constantly! Happily! And I support her! Enthusiastically!”
You nodded thoughtfully. “That’s true.”
Clark pointed at you wildly. “See?!”
“But maybe secretly you don’t like how much I eat?”
Clark looked genuinely devastated.
“What?! No, Ma, Pa, listen to me. I’ve never told her not to do anything she wanted! Ever! If anything, she tells me what to do!”
He turned back to his parents, fully distressed now.
“I am not controlling! Right? I’m not controlling.”
Pa Kent finally spoke, voice low. “Son…”
Clark turned toward him in absolute panic. “Pa, I swear to God, I have never denied her anything in my entire life! I don't restrict her eating. I don't restrict ANYTHING! I don't tell her what to do. I would never." Clark's voice had taken on the slightly desperate quality of a man watching a small fire and patting his pockets for something to put it out with. "She has complete autonomy over everything. Every single thing. I've never once told her she couldn't eat or do or–"
"Clark," you said.
“--have anything she wanted, I mean she went through a period in the second trimester where she wanted a very specific brand of crackers at two in the morning and I flew forty minutes to three different stores to find them, I have the receipts, I can show you the receipts–”
“Clark.”
“--and I don't know what this is right now but I need everyone at this table to understand that I am not and have never been–”
“CLARK.”
He stopped his rambling.
He looked at you.
You were smiling. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Then suddenly you were laughing so hard you had to hold your stomach.
The entire table stared at you.
“Oh no,” Ma Kent whispered, already realizing.
You wheezed helplessly, tears gathering in your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m sorry…I was joking.”
Silence.
Clark blinked.
“…What?”
You covered your face, laughing harder. “It was a prank, baby.”
Clark stared. Ma Kent burst into laughter instantly.
Pa Kent leaned back in his chair.
Clark remained frozen. “You…”
“I’m sorry,” you laughed again. “You were just so easy to fluster.”
Clark looked deeply betrayed.
“I thought Pa was about to kill me.”
You grinned at Pa, “He was in on it,” you confessed, remembering how Pa chuckled gruffly when you told him about your plan.
Clark dropped back into his chair dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest.
“I cannot believe you.”
You leaned over and kissed his cheek sweetly.
“I’m sorry I scared you, honey. You're a wonderful husband," you said. "Why do you still have the receipts?"
He put his arm around you, and you could feel him giving up on the wounded dignity, the whole structure of it just gently collapsing.
"Souvenirs," he said again, quieter, “I didn’t want to forget anything about your pregnancy. And so that I could show our baby that I would do anything for them.”
You smiled at him, cupping his cheek tenderly before giving him a kiss. Clark turned pink.
"Forty minutes,” he reminded you, “Three stores."
"I know."
"In the rain."
"It wasn't raining."
"It was drizzling." Clark sighed deeply.
You laughed, then immediately reached for the cobbler.
Clark instinctively grabbed the serving spoon and loaded a giant portion onto your plate.
The Night Court assumes Eris Vanserra’s mate is nothing more than decoration at his side.
They learn very quickly that some females do not need to raise their voice to remind a room exactly where power sits.
Requested by @alexof90s — I hope this is close to what you were picturing! (Once again I didn't proof read this at all so feel free to let me know if there are any spelling errors!)
The first mistake the Night Court made was assuming you were decoration.
Not intentionally or obviously.
They were too polite for that.
But you saw it in the way their eyes moved over you when they entered the meeting room.
Briefly, if not dismissively.
A female beside Eris Vanserra.
Something ornamental, perhaps.
Something placed at his side to soften the image of Autumn’s new High Lord.
You did not correct them.
Eris noticed.
Of course he did.
The corner of his mouth shifted just barely.
You didn’t look at him.
“Try not to look so pleased,” you murmured.
“I am not pleased.”
“You are nearly smiling.”
“That would be unbecoming.”
“Then by all means,” you said softly, folding your hands in your lap, “continue suffering.”
Across the table, Cassian’s brows rose.
Azriel’s shadows shifted once behind his shoulders.
Rhysand, to his credit, noticed the exchange for what it was.
A warning.
Mor noticed something else entirely.
Her gaze lingered on Eris with the same familiar disdain it always held.
Cold and sharp. Nothing if not practiced.
“You’ve redecorated,” she said, glancing around the council room. “How charming. I almost forgot where we were.”
Eris did not respond.
He only looked down at the treaty papers in front of him.
You watched the movement.
The restraint it took him not to bite at her.
Rhysand cleared his throat.
“We’re here to discuss the border villages.”
“Then let us discuss them,” Eris said.
His voice was smooth.
It always was in rooms like this.
The meeting began as most meetings did.
With maps and numbers. Along with men pretending history had not shaped every inch of land they were negotiating over.
Rhysand spoke well.
You would give him that.
Azriel said very little, but missed nothing.
Cassian shifted in his chair like diplomacy physically pained him.
And Mor…
Mor watched Eris like she was waiting for a monster to show its teeth.
You let it continue for twenty-three minutes.
Twenty-three minutes of clipped words. Quiet tension. Little glances that held nothing but daggers. Along with subtle jabs dressed up as moral certainty.
The last straw was when Mor finally said, “Forgive me if I find Autumn’s sudden interest in protecting vulnerable people difficult to believe.”
Eris’s fingers stilled on the paper.
Only for a moment.
You gently set down your tea.
The cup barely made a sound against the saucer.
But somehow, the room noticed.
Mor’s eyes flicked to you.
You smiled.
Not warmly. Not cruelly. Politely.
The sort of smile court ladies were taught to wear even if swallowing poison.
“Difficult to believe,” you repeated.
Mor lifted her chin.
“Yes.”
“How interesting.”
Cassian leaned back slightly.
Azriel’s shadows went still.
Eris did not move beside you.
He knew better.
Mor’s gaze narrowed. “Do you have something to say?”
You tilted your head.
“I was deciding whether it would be rude.”
“And?”
“Oh, it’s terribly rude I’m afraid.”
Rhysand’s attention sharpened.
You turned your cup once, slow and deliberate, before looking back at Mor.
“But since we are clearly past the point of pretending this room is governed by courtesy, I suppose I might as well.”
Eris exhaled once through his nose.
Almost amused.
You continued.
“You speak of Autumn’s cruelty as though anyone at this table intends to dispute it. We do not. Autumn has teeth. It has always had teeth.” Your gaze swept briefly toward Eris. “Some of us have spent years removing them one by one.”
Mor’s mouth tightened.
“But what fascinates me,” you went on, voice still calm, “is the Night Court’s remarkable talent for selective outrage.”
Cassian straightened.
Rhysand’s face went very still.
There it was.
The shift.
The moment they realized you were not decoration.
You smiled again.
Softer this time.
“You condemn Autumn for what it allowed to happen beneath Beron’s rule. Fair. You should. But I do find it curious how rarely that same scrutiny turns inward.”
Mor’s eyes flashed.
“Careful.”
You looked at her then.
Truly looked.
“I would advise caution, Morrigan,” you said softly. “Not because I fear what you might say, but because I know what you have chosen not to.”
The room went still.
You leaned back slightly in your chair.
“Careless would be asking why the Court of Dreams feels entitled to sneer at every cruel tradition in Prythian while still ruling over the Hewn City.”
Cassian’s jaw flexed.
Azriel said nothing.
Rhysand did not look away from you.
Good.
At least one of them understood where this was going.
Mor’s voice was low. “You know nothing about the Hewn City.”
“No,” you agreed. “I know what survived the retelling.”
You tilted your head slightly before continuing
“Interesting that you speak so confidently for someone whose version of events requires several omissions to survive.”
Mor stood slowly.
“You have no right to speak to me about what I survived.”
There it was.
The part you had been waiting for.
Your smile faded.
Not because you were afraid.
Because some things deserved seriousness.
“No,” you said. “I do not.”
The room stilled.
Even Eris glanced at you then.
You met Mor’s gaze without flinching.
“What was done to you was monstrous. No one in this room should deny that. I certainly will not.” Your voice lowered. “But your pain does not make every omission holy.”
Mor went utterly still.
“You have allowed them to believe one version of the story because it is easier than dragging the whole thing into the light,” you said. “And perhaps you had reason. Perhaps silence was all you had. I will not fault a girl for surviving the only way she could.”
A breath.
Then another.
“But I will fault a court for building policy around half a truth and calling it justice.”
Rhysand’s eyes flicked, briefly, toward Eris.
Eris remained expressionless.
But his hand had shifted closer to yours on the table.
Not to stop you.
Not to guide you.
Just there.
Mor’s voice was colder now.
“And what truth do you think you know?”
You folded your hands again.
“The kind men leave out when the facts are inconvenient.”
A sad smile played on your lips.
“The kind women bury because being believed costs too much.”
For the first time, Mor had no immediate response.
Good.
You had not wanted to hurt her.
Not really.
But you were very tired of watching Eris bleed quietly under everyone else’s certainty.
“You may hate my mate,” you said, and only then did your tone sharpen. “That is your right. Hate him forever, if it comforts you.”
Eris’s gaze moved to you.
You did not look at him.
“But do not sit in his court, at his table, beneath laws he bled to change, and pretend your hatred is the same thing as truth.”
Silence pressed against the walls.
Cassian looked between you and Mor, unusually quiet.
Azriel’s shadows curled close to his shoulders.
Rhysand leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.
You picked up your tea again.
It had gone cold.
Mor did not sit.
Not immediately.
Her face was pale with anger, but beneath it there was something else.
Something older. Something less certain.
Eris finally spoke. Calm and measured.
“My mate raises a wonderful point.”
Rhysand looked at him.
Eris’s eyes did not leave Mor.
“Do you intend to discuss the border villages,” he said, “or continue mistaking personal history for governance?”
Your mouth twitched.
Only slightly.
Mor saw it.
Cassian definitely saw it.
Rhysand looked as though he was reevaluating several decisions at once.
Good.
That meant they were listening.
You took one careful sip of cold tea and set it back down.
“Now,” you said pleasantly, as though you hadn’t just gutted the room and asked for the next topic. “Shall we return to the villages, or would anyone else like to confuse emotion with policy first?”
Oh my goodness!! This story was just truly amazing from beginning to end! It just kept getting better and better with every point that was made! Such a lovely read!! 💛✨
Brendon Park would never admit how happy it makes him that his dog loves you…. Masterlist
His precious Cane Corso named Lily weighs a whopping 85lbs. She is the best trained dog you have ever met in your life, courtesy of Brendon himself.
She sits, retrieves, lays, and gives paw all on command. Not to mention she has never needed a leash, ever.
When he adopted Lily, he had just made attending. He loved her more than he would ever admit. She was completely loyal to him and only him, until you came along.
She had always liked you, but the second you moved in it was like she was yours. Brendon rolls his eyes at the whole ordeal.
He would get home and you would both be under a blanket on the couch sound asleep. What you referred to as: Lily and Mama’s afternoon nap. When he dared get closer, Lily would nearly growl at him, threatening to interrupt your moment.
“My baby princess Lily” you cooed down at her.
“She’s not a baby.” He would say firmly.
You would scoff, “just ignore him baby girl you’re the most perfect baby.”
He would feign annoyance, but you don’t miss the way his lips twitch at the corner.
He would walk into the kitchen to her taste testing homemade treats from recipes you would find online. She sat patiently next to you as you peeled one off the tray.
“This one has fish oil in it to help with your dry skin and joints Lily girl,” you would explain to her in an extra soft voice like she understood you.
The little wag of her butt as you spoke made Brendon smile. It also made his heart skip a beat that you cared so much about her. He hadn’t even noticed the dry skin until you pointed it out.
Suddenly, she’s in pink collars, sweaters, bows, eating homemade treats, and laying next to you by the pool while you tan.
You even bought her a cooling mat and a small umbrella so she could lounge next to you comfortably in the sun.
“Babe. She’s a dog. She doesn’t need a wardrobe.” He would say as he watched you pick out her sweater before your guests arrive.
“Bren. She’s a pretty princess. She absolutely needs a wardrobe, and she’s absolutely wearing the matching Louis Vuitton sweaters that I bought for us.” You said seriously.
“Wait wait wait. Let me get this straight. You bought mother daughter sweaters for you and the dog? From Louis Vuitton?” He said shocked.
You nodded, not phased by his tone, “it’s not rocket science babe, and technically you bought them.”
You threw a wink his way that knocked the wind out of him. And he couldn’t deny how cute you both looked in your sweaters.
Even though he huffed as you made him take pictures of you and Lily together posing.
Although he rolled his eyes at you and teased, you knew deep down he loved it, because Brendon Park didn’t endure anything he didn’t like.
What you didn’t know and he hasn’t told you yet was how excited it made him to see you as a mother to his actual babies one day.
"Let's see it!" Jack Abbot claps his hands together.
You chuckle. Dramatically, you open your eyes wide, blinking rapidly to show off your mascara-covered eyelashes. You must admit that the mascara is much nicer than the one you were going to pick up at CVS. Hell, it might just be the nicest mascara you've ever had the luxury of putting on.
"Thank you again, Dr. Abbot," you say. "Really, you did not need to do this."
"Ah, don't mention it." He furrows his brows, "But, ah, what else did you get?"
"Oh!" You chuckle softly, "I got a perfume! Just a travel-sized one. Well, actually, it's technically a mini size. I'm, uh, actually wearing it right now if you want to… to smell it."
You ought to slap yourself as soon as the offer comes out of your mouth. What else are you supposed to do, though? The man paid for the goddamn perfume. It's only right that you at least offer… right?
Jack's eyebrows shoot up. He takes a look around, and you're struck by the realization that you're still at work, offering to have your boss smell you. You should turn and run, but then you consider the fact that just yesterday in the very same ED, Jack did give you a hundred bucks to spend on yourself. Sugar daddy shit, you think. This could get complicated, more so than it already is. But, honestly? A little mid-shift sniff might not be the worst thing in the world.
Jack seems to think so too, because he nods. His eyes scan the surrounding area. He must deem it safe, because wordlessly, he leans in. You bare your neck, the spot where you had rubbed your perfume-covered wrists. Wait, your wrists! Why aren't you offering up your wrists?
It's too late to ask that question, because Jack inhales, long and slow. You hold your breath, eyes fluttering as you attempt to ignore the pounding of your heart.
"Smells– Smells great," Jack pulls away, clearing his throat. You try not to look too disappointed when he smiles tightly at you, "What else?"
You blink, "Uh… nothing. That's it."
Jack scowls, "Seriously? I gave you a hundred bucks. Why didn't you spend it all?"
"I did."
"On two things?"
"Dr. Abbot, that's just how expensive this stuff is. Why do you think I was going to just buy the drugstore one?"
Shit, now you feel bad. You should have just lied, told Jack that you cleared out the store. It would make him so happy, but the idea of lying to Jack after you're already indebted to him makes you feel ill.
"I told you to let me know if you needed more. Why didn't you?"
"Because I don't!" Jack shakes his head in disappointment. You press, "Jack, you gave me a hundred bucks. One hundred bucks that you didn't need to!"
Jack nods, chewing the inside of his lip. He sighs, and when you think he's done with this matter, Jack says, "Why don't we go together?"
"Huh?"
"We'll go together, you just pick out what you want and I'll use my card."
The offer before you is tempting, incredibly so. A blank check. You've never had one of those before, and at Sephora? It's almost too good, but you can't let your fucking boss become your sugar daddy. No way.
"That is an incredibly kind gesture, Jack, but I… I can't say yes."
Jack shrugs, "Okay. Well, we're still going."
"Jack–"
He raises his hand, "Not up for debate, sweetheart."
Sweetheart. He has got to stop calling you that.
"No, it's not. Because I can't let you do that, Dr. Abbot."
"Look, you can't afford the things you like, and I'm offering to foot the bill," Jack puts a hand on your shoulder. He leans in. "So do you want nice make-up for free or no?"
*****
"It's not gonna break back here?" You say, shutting the trunk of Jack's car. You offered to put his wheelchair in the back. It's the least you can do, considering that for the last hour and a half, Jack followed you through Sephora, taking every product you merely tested on your hand and dropping it in the basket that sat on his lap.
When all was said and done, Jack paid five hundred and eighty-three dollars. You could have dropped dead right at the cash register.
"What is?" Jack asks, sticking his head out of the window.
"The chair?"
Jack scoffs, "No. She's fine."
"It doesn't need to be—?"
He hits the side of the car twice, "She's fine. Get in."
Jack doesn't have to tell you again. You round the car and hop into the passenger seat, where your (heart-stoppingly large) bag of makeup sits on the floor.
Jack waits until you buckle to start the car. He drives carefully, eyes glued to the road. You, however, keep yours on him.
You decide to break the silence, "So, are you like a pay pig or something?"
Jack blinks, "A what?"
So… not a pay pig. Good to know.
"Are you… are you trying to be my sugar daddy?"
Jack pulls a hand from the steering wheel, swiping it down his face, "No, Jesus, sweetheart. No. I… I like to help. I have a lot of money, and you don't."
"Lots of people don't have money."
Jack puts the hand back on the wheel, "Listen, do you want it or not? Because I can drive back and return it all."
Your eyes widen, "No, no! I'm not saying not to do this, just…" You bite your lip, debating whether or not you actually want to do this. Fuck it. "Usually when a man spends a shit ton of money on a woman, they expect…" Sex. Okay, maybe you don't want to bring that up with your boss, even if this situation is weird as anything. "They expect something in return."
"No, sweetheart, no. Shit, I'm sorry. I– I don't expect anything from you."
You ignore the way your heart sinks. Jack is your boss, you tell yourself. Your boss. Your boss. Your boss.
"Nothing? Jack, you just spent six hundred dollars on me. On top of the hundred dollars from yesterday."
Jack grows quiet. He pouts before nodding, "I did. And I'd do it again and still not expect anything from you. Got it?"
You bite your lip, "Got it."
From then on, it's nothing but silence in the car. He keeps the windows down. It doesn't do much. You wonder what it would be like to drive with him outside of the city, where Jack can really drive. Windows down, high speed, the wind in your hair.
You bite the inside of your cheek, heat rising to your face. Just because Jack decided that you're his charity case of the month doesn't mean that you should be fantasizing about road tripping with him.
You try your best to wipe that image from your mind until, finally, Jack is pulling over in front of the familiar exterior of your apartment building.
"This is me," you try to joke. "Uh, thank you, Dr. Abbot."
You get out of the car, your bag of splendors in your hands. You close the car door, but the car doesn't move.
Jack wrings his hands together in his lap, "Could we talk more?"
"Oh," your heart begins to pound. You step closer to the car. "Yeah, of course."
"Great, um, over dinner maybe? I think there's some things we should talk about."
"Dinner?" You echo.
Jack's neck flushes, "Or now, if—"
"No, no! Dinner's fine, Dr. Abbot." Trying to remain casual, you tack on, "Maybe I can finally pay."
Jack's lips curl, "Eh, maybe. I'll text you?"
You nod. "Sounds good." With one last smile, you turn, making your way to your place.
"Oh, wait," Jack's voice has your legs frozen on the sidewalk. You turn, glancing at him over your shoulder. He smiles, easy an warm. "Call me Jack, sweetheart."
jack thinks of it in two halves: you were not made for this line of work, you were made for everything. he’s constantly impressed, not by prowess or smarts, though every doctor has worked for both, but by the unending breadth of your heart. you remove a dead spider from a little boys ear and lament the tiny spider’s demise. you bandage a woman’s broken hand and tell her you’re sorry for her ruined gel nails. they’re things that seem unimportant—who cares what goes missing in the midst of them saving lives?
you care. pressed against jack’s side in the park, shaking, trying to hide it from your shiftmates. you murmur out an explanation, a poor single mom’s gonna lose her job because her boss is an asshole and her son’s too sick to leave his bedside. wish i could work her stupid shift, you say, apparently not noticing the arm he’s curling behind you, subtle so as not to be caught and flash a spotlight on your trembly mouth.
you can’t be everything, he says, pressing his half-full beer into your hand. why don’t you take a drink and relax for a second?
honey, he doesn’t add. not until you’ve lined your mouth over the shared bottle and melted into him, tired eyes fluttering in a losing battle against the Longest Ever shift. a quiet aw honey lost in your hair. jack remembers the way your eyes filled with tears when you realised he was a widow. he’s wondering if you still feel sorry for him when you pass back the beer and shift.
rub my back more? you murmur.
jack grins. does as he’s ordered like a good soldier and ignores the knowing glances he garners from robby on the opposite bench. javadi recounts the day’s drama in a panic, loud enough to cover the sound of him as he turns into your ear, and says, she can get another job, but she can’t make more time.
you’re making me more sad. you glare at him sideways. and you’re not rubbing my back enough.
his hand coasts your back again, fingertips along a dip and a ridge going warm from the contact, wondering if there’s enough room in your big silly heart for an idiot who adores you. he can smell your hair, even over all the antiseptic. can hear your breathing as you settle with his touch. you’d taste like IC light. sorry, he says under his breath, i’ll make it up.
Can you do one where you ask Clark for money (as a joke) but he’s so immediately down and also kinda worried? thank you!
Cat Grant loves a good scheme. “I see it all the time online, you have to test him.”
You pick at your sandwich. The Daily Planet’s cafeteria is more of a restaurant. It’s the biggest news outlet in all of Metropolis, with a skyscraper for an office. The cafeteria has to accommodate that. It’s always open, always busy, but you and Cat managed to carve away space at a table in the corner of the room far from the kitchen and all the food laid out across stainless steel bars. “I don’t know,” you say finally. “I don’t want him to think I’m a user.”
“You’re not using. Don’t tell him what it’s for and watch what conclusion he comes to. It’s a good indicator.” She tucks a streak of her blonde hair behind her ear, her hoop earrings giving a gentle clink. “Seriously, boys are evil. You need to know if you can depend on him in your time of need. And I need to know how much I respect him.”
You take a big bite of sandwich to avoid answering while you think, but the thought comes suddenly, “What if he actually gives me money?”
“That’s a win.”
You’ve never asked Clark for anything, as far as you can remember. You’ve been dating for five months and two weeks, which isn’t long, but sort of is? Like, you’re pretty sure you’re in love with him, and he’s so consistently lovely to you that you’re reluctant to ask, ‘cos maybe his answer will affect the way you look at him. Or what if he thinks you’re only dating him for the easy life he could provide?
“We’re basically on the same pay,” you say, “I don’t think he’ll believe me.”
“Sure he will.” Cat smushes the last half of her sandwich with her hand. The chips inside all crunch into crumbs.
You find you’re not that worried. Clark is sweet, and he likes a good joke.
You pull out your phone and take another bite. The sandwich is not good, but you’re hungry.
Clark can you send me some money, you type. You turn the phone to Cat for approval. When she nods, you hit send.
It takes a minute for him to answer. It’s an Apple payment via text for $50. You laugh like a shock.
“What did he say?” Cat asks.
You show her the phone, but Clark is already typing, his messages popping up on the screen in quick succession.
Is that enough?
$50
Is everything ok ? I can send more
“He sent another fifty,” you say.
“Oh my god.”
Your phone starts to ring in your hand, Clark’s profile photo in the middle of the screen: his sleeping face tucked over your heart. You giggle to yourself as you answer, doughy bread in your mouth. “Hi, sorry, I’m chewing.”
“That’s okay, honey,” he says, sounding cheerful and worried all at once, “what’s up? Is that gonna be enough?”
“Oh, er, my card declined. I’m getting lunch with Cat.”
“Downstairs? I can come down, sweetheart, I have my wallet.”
“No, I already paid for it.”
“Aw, great, I was worried for a second there.”
“I can send it right back to you, now,” you say, feeling ever so slightly guilty. You don’t know what you were expecting, but his urgency makes you wanna kiss him stupid, not trick him further. “Thank you, for– for being so quick. You saved me the embarrassment.”
“That’s okay, I don’t need it back–”
“Well, no, I can’t keep a hundred dollars just ‘cos you sent it, baby, I– my card declined, but it was the card reader, that’s all.”
“Just keep whatever you paid for lunch, then, and use the rest for lunch tomorrow.”
“It’s a sandwich."
“Then you can have sandwiches all week.”
You meet Cat’s eyes, failing to hide your unyielding elation. He’s such a catch. “Okay. Clark, I’m sending it back, okay?”
“Don’t tease me, I got so excited.”
You laugh and hang up on him.
Clark texts you ten seconds later: If you send it back to me I’m gonna send it back to you. Have a good break, see you later? <3
“I bet he will,” Cat says, having read the screen upside down.
You text Clark back: Yes!! Can I come home with you?
Yeah honey meet me by the elevators? I’ll be waiting for you
“He is such a dork,” Cat says, eyebrows raised. “But I’m happy for you.”
You’re feeling pretty good about it all yourself. You and Cat finish lunch and head your mildly separate ways. You’re in the print room today supervising, and it stretches into the uneventful afternoon. By finishing time, you’re excited to give Clark a kiss and sneak his hundred dollars back into his pocket somehow, but he’s not waiting by the elevator.
It’s tempting to keep the money. He did sound excited for you to keep it, as strange as that might be. He rejected your offer to give it back, then tried to compromise that you could keep it. He'd pay for your lunch all week.
Would he give you money for nothing at all? He was just worried, right? But when there was no problem, he didn’t want it back.
It doesn’t hurt to poke around a little.
Clark exits the elevator with a blank expression. When he sees you waiting a few feet away with your shoulders on the wall, his face lights up. His eyebrows soften, his lips lift and go white from the force of his smile.
“Let’s go home,” he says, grinning as he wraps his arm around you from the small of your back.
You lean up and kiss his jaw. “Today was long.”
“Too long, bubby.”
Bubby. You give him a harmless shove, but Clark pulls you right back in. Keeps his arm on you all the way home, give the few seconds getting off of the tram, where he offers his hand to guide you onto the road.
“So,” you say, “about earlier…”
“What happened earlier?”
“With the money.”
Clark narrows his eyes at you. “What about it? Honey, I already told you to keep it. It was yours the second I sent it.”
“No, it’s not– Clark. I would much rather you take it back, I really don’t need a hundred dollars for a sandwich I already paid for. It was this–” You pause, giving him a bashful, sorry smile. “Cat wanted me to see if you’d complain or not, I guess. So I lied about my card declining, sorry. I am actually sorry, and I can’t keep the money in good conscience.”
“Ooh, in good conscience,” he murmurs, mirroring your smile, though his is more of a smirk. “Well, that’s okay. If you feel bad about it, send it back to me, no hard feelings.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Thank you, handsome,” you say.
“What else is on your mind?”
“You… this isn’t supposed to sound like you need to say yes, but I guess I was wondering if you would’ve sent me it no matter what? My text literally just said can you send me money. I didn’t even say please, and I didn’t say it’s an emergency or anything.”
Clark shrugs at you. “Yeah, I would’ve sent it to you. I don’t care what it was for.”
“Clark, it was a hundred dollars.”
“Do you think you’re not worth a hundred dollars?”
“Not for no reason.”
“In the moment, I assumed it was an emergency because you never ask me for anything, do you?”
“Not really.”
“Would it shock you to know that I wish you would?” A curl falls onto his forehead, just above his dark brow. “You are the most important woman in my life. A hundred is nothing compared to that. I don’t really care what you want it for.”
You’re pretty sure that’s an I love you. Maybe he’s saving the real thing for somewhere more intimate than the street, but that’s gotta be close.
“Keep the money,” he says, kissing your cheek quickly. “I was still gonna send it back, even if you were just satisfying your curiosity. You didn’t lie to get it, you lied after.”
“You’re such a reporter,” you grumble, secretly very pleased. “Poking holes in my argument.”
(Clark sends you $50 the next day at lunch, with the text: Buy yourself dinner or whatever you want, do not send it back!
Then: Please just take it. For my gratification if nothing else. Please!!
what do you think happened to john's family after john's death, like how did esme tell the kids or how did she and the kids get over it and just took off amd went to the road, and what do you think the shelby's thought about all that?
Esme might not have birthed all of John's children, but she was their mother. She was there the long nights that John was gone to do Blinder business. She was the one that made sure they were cared for, even when she was feeling caged by the Shelby's grand houses and ambitions.
The children were in the country house when their father was shot. They heard the bullets rip through their father and Esme screaming as her heart broke. They held each other until their mother came to get them. They grieved for their father, but there was no question as to what their future was.
They left in the night. Anything useful was removed from the walls and wrapped up in cloth to go in the wagon.
"Just like those days mom packs us in a tent in the ditch when she's feeling restless," Katie, the oldest, would say to the little children.
The children were tense, and moving around was quiet for a long time. They followed Esme like ghosts, peeling away the Shelby name to the gypsy children beneath.
They got a dog and found a band of gypsies to wander with. They never stayed in one area for too long. The longest was the next spring, when they stayed in a valley for a few weeks.
Then came the first letter.
Polly Gray had lost her children to the system before, and had made a vow to herself that no Shelby would ever be lost again.
At first she sent letters to the towns she knew the Lees would be by, hoping Esme returned to family. When she heard nothing back, she began to pad the pocket of any man that was sent traveling, told to look for a hardened dark haired Lee girl with a gaggle of children.
Months went by before she began to get whispers back of such a family, but they never settled long enough to pin them down.
Esme finally received one. She opened it, letting out a laugh when she read "Tommy doesn't know I'm writing you, I beg..."
Weeks later, a man pressed a folded piece of paper into Polly's hand. She opened it, her lips pressed thin as she read the two sentences scrawled inside.
Yes, he does. Money for updates.
Polly might not have told Tommy, but he knew she would keep the children tethered to the Shelby name. He pretended to look the other way when he noticed small bills being taken from general funds and his informants leaving with pockets of scrap paper.
Tommy didn't want to lose John's legacy, but he had no qualms about keeping them at distance from the business that took away their father. Air between him and the next generation of Shelby might be the only thing that kept the name going.
Ada took interest in Polly's letters when she caught her reading one, her hand covering a sad smile.
Polly held the letter to her chest as she smiled at Ada.
"John's youngest began walking last month," she said quietly. "Loves to nap next to the family dog in the sun."
Arthur stayed out of it. Tom didn't speak about it, so he thought Tom paid Esme to go off and raise them away from the city. He watched his own child and wondered what it would have been like for him to be raised around his cousins.
Finn went deeper into Peaky business, determined to take John's place if he couldn't make a space in the family for himself. Deeper into the business and deeper into the chemicals he needed to keep his conscious quiet from the violence he partook in.
Esme and the kids held John in their hearts, his rings strung around her neck like an albatross. She blessed and cursed the man who gave her the children of her dreams and heartache of her nightmares. There would be no other man in her bed. After all, what use is a man?
You're a ER night shift resident who's being bothered by an ex-patient and he corners you on your way into work.
In a last ditch effort to get rid of the unwanted advances of the man, you tell him you'll give him your number. But, you actually give him Jack, your attending's, number.
You try to find Jack, to warn him, to beg for his forgiveness, but he's already on a case by the time you set eyes on him, and then you're on a case, and before you know it, you've forgotten to tell him about the annoying man.
He texts Jack before you have a chance to warn him which leads to a very confused Jack.
Once you explain the situation to Jack, embarrassed to all hell, he becomes very serious and promptly calls the man, telling him its your boyfriend talking and that if he calls again, they're going to have issues.
It happens just outside the ER entrance, where the automatic doors slide open and shut like nothing important ever takes place in that narrow strip of concrete between outside and inside.
You’re already late, already tired in the specific way only a night shift can make you—eyes gritty, coffee long gone cold in your hand, scrubs still slightly creased from where you’d fallen asleep on your couch for exactly forty-three minutes before dragging yourself in.
That’s when he steps into your path.
An ex-patient.
You recognise him immediately, even though your brain tries, briefly, to pretend it doesn’t. Some details stick whether you want them to or not—his voice, the way he used to linger too long at discharge, the casual way he ignored every boundary that was gently but firmly placed in front of him.
Tonight, there’s nothing casual about it.
He blocks your way like it’s accidental, though it isn’t. His smile is too easy, too practiced, like he’s already decided how this interaction is supposed to go and is just waiting for you to follow the script.
You try to side-step him.
He mirrors you.
“Hey,” he says, like you’re not standing outside a hospital where people are bleeding and dying and your entire life is currently scheduled in fifteen-minute increments. “You’ve been hard to catch.”
“I’m working,” you reply, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder, already scanning past him for an opening. “I need to go inside.”
“I won’t take long,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that makes your stomach tighten. “Just wanted to see you properly. Maybe get your number this time.”
There it is again.
The assumption.
The persistence dressed up as charm.
You step back slightly, pulse picking up, trying to keep your voice steady in the way you’ve been trained to do even when every instinct in your body is telling you to move.
“I don’t give out personal contact information.”
His smile doesn’t drop. If anything, it sharpens.
“You said that last time,” he replies lightly. “But people change their minds.”
That’s when you realise he’s not just standing in your way anymore.
He’s subtly angled you between himself and the wall.
Not enough for anyone to call it anything. Just enough that if you screamed, it would take someone looking directly at you to notice.
Your grip tightens on your bag.
“I really need to get inside,” you say again, slower this time, more deliberate.
He exhales like you’re being difficult.
Then he reaches out.
Not grabbing—just brushing your wrist, like he’s testing something.
That’s what breaks it.
Not fear exactly.
Something sharper. Cleaner. A decision.
“Fine,” you say quickly, forcing a breath that doesn’t quite land. “Fine, look—give me your phone.”
That gets his attention.
His expression brightens immediately, satisfaction flashing across his face as he pulls it out like he’s just won something.
“See? I knew you’d—”
You take it before he finishes.
Your fingers move too fast for your conscience to catch up.
You don’t type your number.
You type the one number you can think of that will make this end immediately, because in your exhausted, cornered brain there is exactly one person in this hospital who has ever made someone like him back off without raising his voice.
Jack Abbot.
Your attending.
Strict, sharp-edged, intimidating-in-a-way-that-made-people-reconsider-their-entire-life-choices Jack Abbot.
You hand the phone back before you can overthink it.
“There,” you say, steadying your voice. “Now don’t bother me at work.”
His grin returns, satisfied, like you’ve just confirmed something he already believed about himself.
“Tonight then,” he says, already turning away.
And you stand there for a second too long, staring after him, realising far too late what you’ve actually done.
Inside the hospital, everything moves too fast.
Trauma roll-ins. Paging. Blood. Noise.
You try to find Jack once—actually try. You head toward ED consults, then theatre, then back again—but he’s already on a case, already swallowed by the chaos that defines him at this hour.
By the time you’re pulled onto your own patient, your brain has already shoved the entire interaction into a corner labelled deal with later.
Later never comes.
Later never comes, because the night doesn’t slow down long enough for you to remember the mistake you made outside those sliding doors.
It just keeps moving.
Patient after patient, voices overlapping, monitors beeping, the sharp rhythm of the ER swallowing everything that isn’t immediately life-threatening. You get pulled into a trauma, then another, then charting, then a consult, and somewhere in the middle of all that noise, the memory of the man outside—the number you gave him, the name attached to it—gets buried under urgency.
Until it doesn’t.
You don’t even realise anything’s wrong at first.
Not until you see Jack.
He’s across the department, standing near the nurses’ station, one hand braced against the counter, the other holding his phone. His posture is still, too still for someone like him, like something has caught his attention in a way that doesn’t happen often.
You wouldn’t have thought twice about it—except his expression is… off.
Not angry.
Not yet.
Just—
Confused.
You hesitate, watching as his eyes move across the screen again, slower this time, like he’s rereading something that doesn’t quite make sense.
Then his brows draw together slightly.
His jaw tightens.
And then—
His gaze lifts.
Finds you.
Your stomach drops so fast it almost feels like vertigo.
Because suddenly, with horrifying clarity, you remember.
The number.
You gave him Jack’s number.
“Oh my God,” you breathe, already moving.
You don’t even try to pretend this isn’t happening. You weave through the department, heart hammering, every step louder than it should be in your ears, until you’re standing in front of him.
“Jack—”
He doesn’t speak right away.
He just looks at you.
Then, very calmly, he tilts his phone slightly, just enough for you to see the screen.
A message thread.
Unknown number.
hey, it’s me. you didn’t save my name?
you at work? i can come by later if you want
you looked good tonight, by the way
Your soul leaves your body.
“I can explain,” you say immediately, the words tumbling out before he even has to ask.
“I’d hope so,” Jack replies, tone even, but there’s something under it now—something sharper, more focused.
You drag a hand down your face, already mortified beyond recovery. “He cornered me outside. The ex-patient I mentioned—the one who wouldn’t take a hint—he wouldn’t let me past him and he kept asking for my number and I just needed him to stop so I told him I’d give it to him and I—”
You falter.
Jack’s eyes narrow slightly.
“You what.”
“I gave him yours,” you finish in a rush.
Silence.
A beat where nothing moves, nothing breathes.
“…You gave him my number,” Jack repeats, slower this time.
“I panicked,” you say, voice smaller now, heat crawling up your neck. “You were the only person I could think of who would make him back off and I didn’t think he’d actually use it immediately and then I tried to find you but you were in a case and then I got pulled into one and I forgot to warn you and I’m so sorry—”
“Stop.”
You do.
Instantly.
Jack exhales through his nose, gaze dropping briefly back to his phone as another message comes through, the screen lighting up again between you.
hello? you ignoring me already?
Something shifts.
You see it happen in real time.
The confusion is gone.
Completely.
Replaced by something colder. Sharper. Controlled in a way that makes your stomach twist for an entirely different reason now.
“Does he know where you work?” Jack asks.
You blink. “He’s been here before—he was a patient—but I don’t think he knows my schedule or anything, I—”
Jack nods once, like that’s enough.
Then he taps the screen.
Calls the number.
Your breath catches.
“Jack—”
He lifts a hand slightly, not looking at you, and it’s enough to stop you mid-sentence.
The call connects.
He doesn’t wait.
“Listen carefully,” Jack says, his voice lower now, stripped of anything casual.
There’s a pause, the faint sound of the man on the other end, confused.
“…Uh—who is this?”
“This is her boyfriend.”
You freeze.
Your brain stutters.
Because what—
The man laughs, uncertain. “I think you’ve got the wrong—she gave me this number—”
“No,” Jack cuts in smoothly, “she gave you a way to make you leave her alone.”
Silence.
You can almost feel the shift through the phone.
“What?”
“She wasn’t interested,” Jack continues, calm, precise. “She was being polite. That ends now.”
A beat.
Then, more defensive—“Look, I was just trying to—”
“No,” Jack interrupts again, voice dropping just enough to carry weight. “You were ignoring boundaries. You were told no, more than once, and you decided that didn’t apply to you.”
The corridor around you feels quieter somehow, even with everything still happening, like the space has narrowed down to just this moment.
“If you contact this number again,” Jack says, measured, deliberate, “or if you show up here again looking for her, we’re going to have a problem.”
There’s no raised voice.
No threat that sounds like a threat.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
He pauses, just long enough.
Then adds, softer—
“And I promise you, you don’t want that.”
Silence.
Then—
“…Right.”
The call ends.
Just like that.
Jack lowers his phone, his expression settling back into something more neutral, but not entirely.
Not quite.
You’re still staring at him.
“My boyfriend?” you manage, your voice quiet, a little disbelieving.
He glances at you then, finally, something flickering briefly behind his eyes—something unreadable.
“It was effective.”
You huff out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and pure disbelief, still flushed with embarrassment. “I cannot believe I did that to you.”
“No,” he agrees dryly. “Neither can I.”
You wince. “I said I was sorry.”
“You did.”
A pause.
Then, more serious now—
“Next time someone corners you like that, you don’t deal with it alone.”
Your gaze drops for a second. “I didn’t want to make it a big deal.”
“You gave a stranger my personal number,” Jack says flatly.
“…When you say it like that—”
“It is like that.”
You sigh, pressing your lips together, nodding slightly. “Okay. Point taken.”
Another pause.
Then, quieter—
“You come find me.”
It’s not a suggestion.
It lands heavier than everything else he’s said.
You look back up at him.
“Okay,” you say again, softer this time.
Jack studies you for a second, like he’s making sure you mean it.
Then he nods once, satisfied.
“Good.”
He pockets his phone, the moment seemingly over, already shifting back into work mode like this was just another problem handled between patients.
But as he turns to leave, he hesitates—just briefly.
Glances back at you.
“And for the record,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “next time you need a fake boyfriend—”
