Future: Disgustingly overqualified millionaire

You have been in a devolving state ever since you learned that you were good for emotional support and nothing else. The chubby kid since gradeschool, the best friend, never straying from tradition. Always laughing louder, always tagging along. You may have passed through clothing phases and different music tastes, but you still looked like the kid who sat out the dodgeball games… partially because you would be too winded to keep up, and partially because a little boy with some strength regulation problems couldn’t play either, and you didn’t have the heart to leave him alone. Maybe that started the spiral. You never could pinpoint the moment you forgot yourself. 

Then again, you never seemed to need help, did you? You had it together. You were so self-willed that you never wanted a boyfriend, and that's why you never had one, right? Chloe said you were ‘too good for boys’, like that made it true. You knew you wanted to go to college, so you helped others apply, because you had it covered. You were a resource. You read more books than Clark knew existed and recapped them all for him. There was no twisting this trajectory– you people-pleased until you were a shell, and you knew it was your own fault. But how do you not give all of yourself? How do you not bend over backwards until your spine snaps, when people like Clark Kent flash their teeth at you and tell you that you’re the best, the most thoughtful, the most important? How do you stop draining life from your eyes when all you've ever done is give it to the people you love, who deserved better, who life took more from? You had it together, so that made it right. Or at least that’s what you told yourself.

Clark never told you that he saw it happening. You were always so good, so worth protecting at any cost, that to make you aware of the way you killed yourself would only drive you away. It would make you feel unwanted, like a burden no one asked for, and he knew that because he felt it himself. Hiding his secret didn’t stop him from cradling that urge to save everyone, and God help him, if he didn’t spend every second wishing he could save you. He adored you. You were the girl who sat dodgeball out for him. You tutored people because you wanted them to succeed. You worked at the Torch to help his mom. You laughed like music. Give him an insecurity and he cherished it– that was his way. And there was a lot of you to cherish in that department. 

Clark knew you didn’t have it together. Always in softer moments. Moments in his loft where you couldn’t keep your eyes open during a cram session and it was only seven o’clock at night. Moments when he asked you if you’d done the homework for British Lit, and you stared at him like the word homework was foreign. Moments when you called him on the backroad, stuck and out of gas because you forgot to fill the tank before you left that morning, and you apologized so much it pissed him off. Clark adored you in your blind spots, and he couldn’t keep letting you do this to yourself. Not his best friend, not his girl. Not the only thing in his life that tried harder to make everyone happy than he did. 

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It was Saturday, and Martha Kent forced you to take the day off at Clark’s urgency. She would’ve let you have it anyway, but he was so insistent that it amused her. It went the way it always seemed to, when Clark couldn’t wait a single second longer if there was a goal in mind…

‘Ma, I know it’s busy, but please, the girl’s gotta catch a break!’

‘Clark, I already said-’

‘I have the whole thing planned already, and she hasn’t taken any time for herself in months!’ Clark pushed. 

Martha chuckled, ‘Honey, I never said that I-’

‘Ma, she needs this-’

‘Clark! Could I finish a sentence, please?!’

Clark flushed a bit, shutting his mouth, and he looked at her expectantly. 

‘When have I ever told you no?’

‘Plenty of times, Ma.’

‘Well… I’m not saying it now, am I?’

The way Clark nearly crushed her ribcage in a hug replayed in her mind as she turned you right around at the front doors of the Talon.

“But Mrs. Kent–”

“No buts, sweetheart! Now, my son was insistent upon you having the day. So take the day. You work too hard anyways.”

You frowned softly. “You’re sure?”

Martha could only sigh. She saw what Clark saw in you, and it reminded her of him far too much. “Yes, honey. Now go.”

You huffed, brushing a piece of hair from your eyes, but there was no moving the unbudging Martha Kent– so you listened. You got back in your car and drove yourself home, feeling a bit aimless. Saturdays were for working, and now that was a no-go, so what were you supposed to do with yourself? Martha surely could’ve used you, but she said Clark insisted on giving you time off– wait. Clark?

When you rolled into the driveway, you were barely in park before you hit the speed dial. The purple rhinestones on your cellphone case dug into your palms as you flipped it open and glued it to your ear, waiting for the line to pick up. When it did, you beat the boy to it.

“Why did your mother just usher me out of my own workplace?”

Clark’s melting laughter traveled through the receiver and down your spine. “Because somebody needs a break.”

“Clark, the rushes on Saturdays are the worst of the week!”

“Come on. You haven't had a day off in forever. Go home, I’m coming over.”

“Clark–”

“Aht-aht-aht! Don’t argue. Just do what I tell you.”

You could hear his smirk through the phone, and you grumbled. “I am not a dog. I won’t just sit because you said–”

In something quicker than a second, a splinter of time you had no measure for, the phone was snatched from your hand, and Clark was standing at your driver’s side door with a toothy grin. You let out a soft yelp and knocked your head back into the headrest, emitting a disgruntled noise. 

“I hate when you do that!” You snarled, glaring up at him through the window.

He flipped the phone shut for you. “No, you don’t. Come on, get out.”

You took your sweet time gathering your bag from the driver’s seat, pursing your lips, and you swung your legs out of the car door, which he opened. He stood there, watching you, and as you tucked your hair behind your ear, he caught a little white something on your back,  just at the base of your neck. The tag to your sweater. A warm sadness settled over his lungs, and he nudged towards it with his chin. “Your sweater is inside out.”

You reached your hand back, and you felt the rough, stitched edge beneath your fingertips. Your eyes closed, and a resigned breath slipped from you like a secret. “Yeah. Uh, I was really tired when I got dressed…”

Clark smiled down, and he tried not to let his gaze linger on the way your concealer seemed too white to cover the spots under your eyes. He nudged your elbow, nipping your purse from your fingers. “Get inside, you. You’re doing nothing today.”

You began up the porch steps, trying to grab at your bag because the keys were inside. “Clark, really. This is all very sweet, but–”

“Nope. Let me do it.”

And ‘do it’ he did. 

The first act of service was when Clark opened your front door. When you kicked your shoes off near the pile that was accumulating inside the foyer, he picked them all up and put them on your bedroom floor instead, in front of your closet. A nice, neat line. Shortly thereafter, no amount of protesting you could muster was capable of deterring him from anticipating your every move. When you got up for another cup of coffee, he shoved you back onto the couch by your shoulders and got it himself. The slightest shift in the air conditioning had him throwing a blanket over your lap. In the post-noon limbo, your eyes twinkled at an ice cream commercial, and he shot off like a bullet, rustling the magazines on the coffee table, and reappeared with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. It made no sense to you, truly, because despite how giving Clark had always been, he’d never done this. No one had. Part of you felt guilty- he probably had chores to do on the farm or something, but you were just checked out enough not to fight him. In a gentle way, it felt good to let him do it. Even if you didn’t deserve it. 

Eventually the afternoon bled to something below the horizon, and you’d been in the living room for hours, curled up in a mountain of pillows and staring at the Hallmark channel for the fifth pumpkinified small-town romance in a row. Your legs were stretched across Clark’s lap, and his head was tipped over the edge of the couch, eyes shut, breathing slow. You glanced over, feeling his extraterrestrial tendency to run warm permeating the cotton of your pants, and you looked, just for a second. Allowed yourself the indulgence you couldn’t afford.

He was always a pretty person, ever since you met him. That hair that shifted from green-black to blue-black depending on the day, and a set of eyes that could’ve been chipped from ice if you didn’t know better. Wolven teeth. The ghosts of dimples that would haunt every smile. Sometimes you looked at him and caught a glimpse of that boy who couldn’t play, who sat on the sidelines, waiting for you. Even then his shoulders were a bit broad, his gait more of a float. Clark always felt larger than life, and maybe he was, because of all he could do. You admired his ability to take care of everyone even before he confided in you about his origins. You often wished you could do what he did, so that maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to keep up. He seemed to do okay, didn’t he?

You were barely finished tracing the curve of his jawbone with your eyes when he lolled his head to the side and muttered, “You’re missing real important stuff here, trouble. That guy from the rival bakery just promised to share the generational pie recipe so she could win the town bake-off. His parents are gonna kill him.”

A soft laugh whistled between your teeth. “Sorry,” you offered, and you shoved your attention back to the screen. But it didn’t last long. You felt restless now beside him. You had questions. So, you drew your legs back off his lap and sat up, taking a pillow with you, placing it between your rolling tummy and his perception of it. “Clark?”

He rested his cheek on his shoulder, noting how the left side of your face was pinker from blankets pressing against it. “Yeah?”

“Why are you doing this?” 

“Doing what?”

“Everyting you did today. You negotiated a day off for me, Clark, you’ve never tried that before. You’re… babying me.”

He lifted his head, and that familiar scrunch between his brows punctuated his eyes. “Babying you? Is that what you think this is?”

“I know I’ve been kinda tired, but this is–”

“You haven’t been just tired. You’re working yourself to the bone. I can’t remember the last time you weren’t just running through the door almost late. Or when you weren’t wearing something backwards, or inside out. You’re not taking care of yourself.”

The color drained from your face, and you felt it, like a rushing well flooding back into an inlet deep, deep down. It bled out in a chuckle. “That’s… that’s not true.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t lie.”

There was nothing you hated more than confrontation. Confrontation meant upset. Every time you felt like you wanted to say no, or something someone did made you feel taken for granted, you kept a lid on it, because you couldn’t be the reason someone felt bad. Upset equaled failure, didn’t it? The act of it made your stomach churn, and it pricked at the backs of your eyes; it did now, as Clark shifted himself on the couch to face you, staring you down with those honest eyes you wished you hated. As cold as they looked, they melted you.

Your throat croaked as you tried to keep a stable grip. “I– I’m fine, Clark. Just a little run down.”

His face twisted up slowly, his jaw clenching and unclenching, as he responded, “Fine? C’mon. You haven’t been fine in a long time.”

“Yes I have, I don't know what–”

“Stop,” His hand surged forward to grab your wrist. Feather-light, but it felt like a chain jailing you to the couch. “Stop. I’m not blind. I can see you’re pushing yourself too hard, okay? I see it.”

Your eyes burned from restraint, and now the pricking was at your throat, little birds making holes for air to leak out of. His hand circled your wrist until his palm was pressed against your pulse, and he could feel the thumping, no powers needed. 

“I know you think you do a good job of hiding it, but that’s because you assume no one is looking. I’ve watched you give yourself away for years. It’s… it’s like you’re wasting away, right in front of my eyes.”

You were lightning fast with the wiping of a few tears from your cheeks, finding it a Sisyphean task to hold back the dam. “Clark, I– I just have a lot of responsibilities.”

“You made them up, though. They weren’t yours until you took them on.”

Your throat ached. What was all this for? Why would he do this to you now? “I have a job, Clark, and my friends, they all need me. Your mom, Chloe, our friends, you– you guys all have so much on your plate, I’m just trying to help.”

“At the expense of yourself? I don't even remember the last time I saw you eat.”

“Yeah, right, like I need to.” 

It slipped out before you had a chance to stop it. It’s those fucking eyes of his. They’re a Freudian slip serum, you swore it. But it didn’t matter, because his hand softened around your wrist before you could take it back.

“Is that what this is about?”

The mortification set in so quick it had you stammering. “N-no! No, not- not really, no– I mean– I– it’s annoying, yes, but it’s not like– I don't know…it’s a lot of things, Clark, but I still don’t see why you’re saying all this to me!”

In his homegrown way, his boots nudged the carpet up in a rumpled mess at the toes as he pushed himself closer on the couch. He wanted to feel your knees against the side of his thigh, and he wanted to be close enough that when those tears hammering against your lashes finally split through, he could wipe them faster than you could. 

All he needed to say was, “It’s making me sick to see you like this, trouble.” That was all. 

They came quick, hot and warm, carving little valleys that caved to the will of your loose powder, exposing the cherry-flushed skin beneath. The callouses of his thumbs met them at the riverbends, smoothing them over, taking your face in their grasp. You were humiliated to be seen like this. Less than strong, less than at-your-service. You never cried for anyone. But then again, nobody ever asked if you needed to. 

Clark didn’t let another second pass, calling on that same splinter of time that belonged to him, and he let his arms swallow your shoulders, guiding your face into the crook of his neck, where worn flannel met skin. And you shook, and you tried to keep the sobs to sniffles, so the noise wasn’t obnoxious. And then you hated yourself for shrinking so willingly, so a big one would escape before you quieted yourself down again. You did this for a while, circling the wheel, and all Clark had were words for you. Words he didn’t know how to say before.

“You don’t need to be there for everyone all the time. That’s not fair to you and you know it… I know it’s ‘cause you love us, but really, baby, it’s so bad for you… look at you, you’re a mess, why would you hurt yourself so bad?” And when you answered with another burst pipe, his hand smoothed down your back and pressed to the base, where your spine concluded, and he pressed slow, heavy circles into the bone. More words. More love. “I don’t know what you’re doing, thinking so little of yourself… and the weight thing is stupid, you know nobody thinks twice about it… you’re the prettiest girl I know, there's no reason to make yourself feel like you’ve got nothing going for you… Is that why you’re so upset, trouble? You think you're no good if people don’t need you, don’t think you’re worth looking at?”

It felt like he was pulling everything up, up your throat from your gut, spilling out all the secrets you've been keeping– the ones you kept to make it look like you wanted this, like you loved putting yourself through hell just to feel valuable. And part of you did love it; it was in your bones to help people, to be indisposable. But it was never for the right reasons. Boys never liked you, boys took bad photos of you and stole your gym clothes, so you spent your life adoring the only boy who didn’t. Girls ignored you, so you jumped down the throats of the ones kind enough to make room in their lives for you. Even you didn’t see what you’d done until it was too late. And so you kept going, because this was who you were. For Clark to know it was to dismantle what you believed. 

You mumbled into his shirt, the fibers tickling your lips, voice thick with strain. “I don’t understand.”

“Understand what, baby? That I see you? You’re not stupid, I know you better than anybody.”

“But…” But you don’t like me like that, you wanted to say. But I’m the best friend.

“You’re not the only one who loves people so much it makes them do stupid things,” he admitted, and his voice cracked a little, just like yours. His hand stilled on your back as you lifted your heavy skull, wiping the snot from your noise with the back of your palm. Mascara made a home of your undereyes now, and your cupid’s bow was slick with tears. 

“Clark…”

“I know you think I’m babying you, but I’m not. I’m taking care of you. There’s a difference.”

There was a perpetual frown curling your lips down, and you searched the tenderness gazing back at you, unsure of if it was the same face you’d seen all along, or if this was some new development, some cruel trick to crush you beyond repair. And, hopeful enough, you managed, “Why now?”

“Because it’s getting worse, that’s why. You’re giving all you’ve got and leaving nothing for yourself. And I love you too much to let you keep it up,” Clark lamented. “I miss when you were little, when all you cared about was digging in the dirt with me. I miss when you didn’t think I needed something from you to keep you around.” 

You sniffled softly, feeling the fluid in your face pressing on every nerve, and it was tiring you out. You dropped your forehead into your hands and sighed. “I… I didn’t know it was… I don’t know. Obvious.”

Clark dipped his head low, trying to catch your eyes down there. “It’s not. Not everyone’s looking for a reason, y’know? They just know you’re kind, that you do it because you want to, and that’s enough for them. But I see it. And you’re too sweet to stop yourself. It’s not a selfish thing to put yourself first, or to ask for what you need.”

You peered out at him, catching the glimmer in his glacial eyes, and your bottom lip trembled. “I don’t know how.” 

His heart sank low, low enough he wouldn't have questioned if it rolled onto the floor between his feet. In a soft shift, he dropped back onto his heels on the crumpled rug, and he tugged at the crux of your knees to turn you forward and drag you close, so your feet would fall over the edge. Once he had you, blanket askew but that godforsaken pillow still clutched to your stomach, he looked up at you– at your hair falling over your face like wings– and he took the pillow away, so there was a place for him to slot himself. His arms encircled your waist, so big they met your sides in the wraparound, which you never thought your size would allow; his big head pressed against your stomach, cheek-first, and he held you there. You looked upon him, how he curled into you, how heavy he was, how sure. Your hands shook a bit as you placed them over his head, passing over his dark locks like a dog’s fur. You murmured, “Clark, if you wanted to ask me if I was okay, you could’ve just asked. All this maneuvering just confused me.”

He lifted his face and rested his chin on your stomach, looking up. “You wouldn’t have let me. You don’t talk, angel. You never do.”

There was no air to help you out now. The words rang in your ears harshly. “You’ve said that a few times already,” Baby. Angel.

“I know.” 

Then he was up on his knees, abandoning the sweetness of the hug to tower over you. He was tall even when he didn’t need to be. His hands rested on your knees, and his face felt so much closer than it ever had before as he uttered, “You think I can’t see when you’re drained? You think your wellbeing is worth sacrificing? I… Christ, you don’t even know how much I care. I would've thought, of all people, you’d have seen it first.”

With a planet-sized lump in your throat, you asked a simple, “What?”

Clark brought one hand to your jaw, and he watched you like a car crash. “You know what I mean.”

“Clark… you’re my friend.”

“Because you figured I never wanted more, right?” By the look on your face, he knew he hit the nail on the head, so he continued. “You wanted to take care of me so much, but you never considered that maybe all I was missing out on was you. I bet you wondered constantly about what you could give me, what would make me happiest, right? But all I’ve ever wanted was you.” And he smiled, just a touch. “I love when you bake me brownies, don’t get me wrong. But that’s ‘cause you make them. If you wanted brownies, I’d make them for you… even if they burned a little. Give and take is a thing, baby, it’s not just give.”

Your cheek didn’t expect to feel like his touch was familiar, but something in the skin recognized him. It bloomed under him like a bud in sunlight, and so you chased the warmth, pushing into it. “I– I can’t, Clark, I hate even asking for a favor. You have so much to worry about with your powers and everything, I just…” 

He collected you again, forehead to yours, and he cooed, “I know, angel, I know. But you gotta let someone else take care of you now and again. What good is all that love in your heart if you don’t let someone else give a little of theirs back?”

“I don’t know how I let it happen, Clark. I just don’t know who I am if nobody needs me.”

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” he whispered, and when a tear did fall, he kissed it away, blooming a rose in the spot it watered. “I need you. I love you.”

Your voice faltered in disbelief. “How can you love me if I’m a mess?”

To that he only grinned, and his hands rubbed up and down your thighs softly, appreciatively, in a soft greed. “I loved you when we were kids, and I love you now. Where your head is at has nothing to do with it.”

A million questions plagued you. Questions of time, of secrets he must’ve kept, of the years you spent loving him when he ogled other girls. And he saw the gears turning, so he answered them.

“Yes, I really mean it. And no, it’s not a pity thing. I thought for a while maybe you didn’t love me, so I tried to move on, but I couldn't. It’s you, okay?” And again, in Clark fashion, he thieved your follow-up: “And don’t ask me about how you look. It’s only gonna piss me off.”

You can’t help yourself. “I look nothing like the girls you dated, Clark. Alicia was skinny and blonde and beautiful, and Kyla, and–”

His hands paused, and he gave you a harder gaze. “Is it so impossible to believe that I’d love you no matter what you looked like? Maybe I love you because of it. Have you ever thought of that?”

You glanced at his hands, wondering how they could be so big but feel so delicate. “It’s never happened before.”

“Never happened before, huh?” Clark tutted. To shut you up once and for all, he slid his hands up your legs, past your hips, until he could press them flat to the pudge you tried to cloak. He watched the way you tried to squirm back, and he followed you. 

“You want to please everybody, but nobody can care about you like that, is that it? That’s insane. And impossible. I love every inch of you, angel. I love your belly here,” he purred, and then his hands slid up over your arms. “And the softness here,” one traveled under your chin, the other to your thigh again, “And here, and here. I love how much of you there is that cares about me. You deserve someone who knows you, okay? That includes your body, over all that other stupid, important stuff, like the sweet girl I know you are. The one who’s a little lost.” 

There was no fight left in you, not after that. You melted into the couch, and he admired you like the world spread beneath you and you marked the center. He crawled back onto the cushions beside you and hooked his hands under your arms, and like a bubble you lifted and fell into his lap. He settled you comfortably over his hips and drew you in. “C’mere.”

You collapsed into his arms, feeling the damp patch you left on his shoulder, and sighed heavily. His body was big enough to trap you, but this didn’t feel forced at all. It was the only thing you’d wanted every time you caught yourself overdoing it, and now you had it, by some miracle. Maybe you’d wake up in the morning and find this was all a dream. But you hoped that hurt would never come. Into the drying tears, you muttered, “Sorry about your shoulder.”

He hummed warmly, rattling the butterfly cage in your ribs, and pressed a soft kiss to your hair. “You’re doing it again.”

And for that chiding, you dealt one more confession. “I didn’t know it would happen like this. I always hoped it would be somewhere nicer, and I’d be dressed better…”

“You’re lucky I kept it in so long. It’s hard to love you quietly.” The curve of his lips against your scalp was unmistakable. A smile. A big one, with all his violent little teeth. You lifted your head and wondered if he saw the fear in your face, but all he looked like was a blessing. 

“You could always tell me anything.”

“I made my mom give you the day off so I could make you feel better. But look at you, making it about me. I told you to stop pleasing people.”

That drew a little grin from you. “I’m not doing it to make you happy. I… I just wanted you to know.” 

He snuck his hands around your cheeks again, rubbing the pads of his thumbs over the hot skin. “Promise me you’ll let me shoulder some of your burdens from now on.”

It wouldn’t have come naturally before, but it did now. “Promise.”

Clark caressed your jaw softly, until he couldn’t wait anymore. He hooked his fingers in your hair and tugged you down. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

And even though you wanted to run, to stop this before he could take it from you, before you let yourself have something you wanted for once, you said, “Okay.” 

Loving Clark (and resenting men) afforded you no experiences with passion. The best you had was the back of your hand and your imagination. So when your nose bumped his, and you knocked your teeth against his, and you clashed foreheads more than once, you littered the first kiss of your life with ‘sorry’s. But Clark only laughed and moved as slow as you needed, tilting your head for you, tugging your bottom lip down with his thumb. Doing the work. You wondered, maybe this is what it means to really take care of people. Maybe I’ve been doing it all wrong. There was something there, in his mouth, that talked without a voice, saying sweet things over and over, mantras that ensured you could have the world if you only asked him for it. The medicated taste of his chapstick clung to you, burrowing in the corners of your mouth, mingling with the mint of yours. They felt just like you hoped they would, even between your tears and his attempts to teach you not to bite his lip, and where to put your hands. 

“I never want to let you go another second without feeling as loved as you make me feel,” he swore, breaking each kiss to string the sentence together. And just as you got the hang of the whole kissing thing, you smiled. 

“I don’t know how I’ll ever make it up to you.”

“It’s not about that. I don’t want anything–” 

“It was a joke, Clark,” you lilted. 

His eyes shimmered, and in a soft drop from Clark to something new to you, he teased, “Oh. In that case…I know a few ways.” 

Then his farm hands hooked under your thighs and flopped you back on the couch, that carnivorous smile swallowing you whole as you gave in, hair spread wild and heart pounding against your chest.