yosemitelover911

It’s one of those warm night that makes everything wet. Sweat sticking under your clothing and hair to your brow. The ground slick with dew and making you trip every five steps. The fog so dense that seeing more than a foot in front of you is nothing short of a miracle. The city buzzing around you, but in nothing more than a hazy, neon glow. 

It’s rarer, in Metropolis, for these kinds of nights to happen. It’s something you’d expect from Gotham, or the upstate country sides. 

But it’s here, and you’re going to punch a brick wall. 

Walking alone is already something that sucks. Everyone tends to let their guard down and fuck around like idiots, thinking that Superman is just going to fall out of the sky and save them.

And he probably will.

But being saved by Superman is always a whole thing. People post a video of the rescues online if they can get one, and then suddenly you’re getting an exhaustive, unwelcome fifteen minutes of fame. The news wants to talk to you. Brands are reaching out to be sponsored by “Superman”—or at least someone who’s touched him, which they think is enough—and people are recreating your rescue as videos for clicks and likes. 

It sounds like a fucking nightmare. At least if you get mugged you only have to talk to insurance. 

And you’re not a helpless baby. You’re prepared, and alert, and lived in Gotham. Once a Poison Ivy burst into apartment, told you that your landlord had been secretly using doing illegal things with energy—either stealing it or using it too much, you hadn’t really been paying attention—and for some reason you had to die about it. 

Compared to that, one person with a gun and shine of desperation in their eyes wasn’t much to be afraid of. 

You’d be fine. 

So you walk home from work every night—a hand tight on your bag and eyes scanning around the dark—and it hasn’t gone wrong yet. 

But you also haven’t had a night like this one. 

And when you hear the click of a gun, from a darker alleyway to your side, you’re more disappointed than anything else. 

“Give- Lady, hey-“ A skinnier kid—with his hair ragged around his face and his fingers shaking slightly—slides out of the dark. “Stop walkin’, and give me your money.” 

You turn with a sigh, tilting your head at him and squinting through the dark. “Just my money?”

The kid blinks at you. “Yes?”

That’s easy then. “Alright.”

“Alright? You’re just-“ The kid frowns. “You’re going to give it to me?”

“Well, what happens if I don’t?”

“I shoot you through the head and take it anyway?”

You give him a pointed look, and the kid scowls, cocking the gun. 

“Are you trying to get smart with me, lady? That what this is? Some fucking mind trick?”

“Me?” You point at yourself in mock innocence, and shrug. “I would never. Do you want the coins as well?”

“I- Yeah.” The kid spits on your feet, and it seems more like a defensive mechanism than anything else. “Yes. Give me everything you’ve fucking got.” Then, as a last afterthought, he adds, “Bitch.”

“Hey.” You frown at him, hand stuck in your purse. “That’s pretty fucking rude. I’m being cooperative.”

The kid stares at you for a second, then shakes himself, raising the gun higher. “You got like a fuckin’ death wish, lady?”

“Not right now, no.”

“Jesus fucking- Stop being a bitch, and just give me your fuckin’-“

You never get to know exactly what the kid wanted you to do, because a lot of things happen at once. 

Superman drops out of the sky, landing between you and the kid. 

You grab your pepper spray out of the bad, using it liberally on the air and stepping off to the side, behind Superman’s back.

The kid fires his gun with a shout of pain as the chemicals hit him, hand blindly following your path behind Superman.

The shot echoes through the alley, making you wince slightly, but the bullet just crumples against Superman’s chest. The kid has ended up shaking and crying on the ground, the pepper spray quickly dissipating into the thick fog, and you sigh, tucking the empty container back into your bag. 

“Alright, buddy.” You step out from behind Superman with a frown, kneeling down at the kid’s side. “Let’s see who you are.”

You roll him over as he whines in pain, and makes a weak attempt to shove you away that you dodge. 

“Hey.” Superman’s voice cuts through the air, and it’s somehow deeper and higher than you thought it would be, all at once. You’ve heard him give interviews, in those on the street videos when someone gets lucky enough to corner him and ask for his favorite soup or whatever. In person, it feels slightly different. 

Less god-like. 

When you look up at him with a frown, he looking between you and the kid like he’s not quite sure what to do. 

“That’s pretty rude, trying to hit someone who’s helping you.” He says, taking a step forward towards the kid. “And you,” he turns, his eyes seeming to shine in the low, misting light as they land on you. “Pepper sprayed me.”

You shrug. “And? You’re fine.”

“You didn’t know I would be fine-“

“I didn’t know you’d be here.” You look back to the kid, who seems to have resorted to just curling into a little ball. “And he shot you, if we’re keeping count.”

“We’re, uh- Not.” Superman clears his throat, and you can hear him walking closer behind you. “You can go, ma’am. I’ll take it from here.”

“I’m okay, thanks.” You keep rolling the kid until he’s on his side, and you can pull out his wallet.

Superman freezes. “Miss, if you’re stealing from him I have to-“

“I’m not stealing from him.” You roll your eyes, and Superman pauses, before muttering-

“It sort of looks like you’re stealing from him.”

You hum, pulling out the thick card of the kid’s driver’s license, and holding it up to the light. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Superman coughs, not taking off into the night to look for more crime, for some reason. You’re not really sure what he’s still doing here at all. 

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step back, please. This man is in medical distress, and I need to get him to a hospital.”

“Don’t take him to the hospital.” You mutter, and Superman frowns, kneeling down across from you. 

“Listen, I understand that he just did something that caused you distress, but he’s still a person. He deserves the same care as anyone else, even if he’s made mistakes-“

“Yeah, I know that, dummy.” You roll your eyes, dropping the ID back into his wallet. “But this is a fake. And he doesn’t have an insurance card.”

Superman stares at you. “And?”

“He won’t be able to afford the hospital. This Fake ID is shit, he probably can’t even afford the pudding in the hospital cafeteria.” You tuck the man’s wallet back into his pants, then wrap your arms around his torso. “There’s a shelter, three blocks down. He should go there.”

You grunt, trying to drag him up, but you barely get him an inch off the ground before Superman’s jumping in, grabbing the man and pulling him into his arms, bridal style. 

“Three blocks down?” He asks you, and you nod, wiping your hands on your legs. 

“Yeah. Don’t tell them the mugging, though.”

“Why-“

“They’ll legally have to hand him over to the cops after.”

“And you… don’t want them to?”

“No.” You look up at Superman with a tight glare. “Do you?”

He’s not glaring at you. Superman is looking at you with an open, almost curious expression, his head titled to the side and lips in a strange sort of pout. 

It hits you a little like lightning, how he does look like only a man—he’s got all the fearless humans have—but there’s something more. His skin is clear, posture perfect, and in the glow of the streetlamps, there’s a strange sort of angelic halo around his body. 

And he’s handsome. 

You’ve seen photos. You watch the news. You’ve been at work and listened to the interns fawn about how hot Superman is, and how they hope they need help because they’d love to be saved by him, but it’s just different in person. Striking, a little mind numbing, and making your skin buzz because he’s staring at you. 

You wish he’d stop. It’s making you dizzy. 

“No.” He says softly. “I don’t.”

“Alright then.” You cross your arms, raising your chin at him. He doesn’t just get to make you feel gooey with his eyes. “We’re in agreement.”

Superman chuckles, and that just makes your face heat more. “Yeah, I guess we are. Would you like an escort home, ma’am?”

“A- What?”

“May I walk you home.” He holds your gaze, and you might be about to burst into flames. “We can drop this man off together. I don’t think it’s that safe for you to be walking alone at night, even in a city as nice as ours.”

You swallow. “I have pepper spray.”

“You have empty pepper spray. That can will be useless, and I think you know that.”

“Well, I-“ You scowl, adjusting your jacket and standing up a little. He’s so fucking tall. It’s hard to intimidate someone so stupidly tall. “I don’t live very far. I’ll be fine. Goodnight, Superman.”

He blinks at you, opening and closing his mouth once, then bows his head. “Goodnight, ma’am.”

Part of you wants him to stop calling you ma’am. You’re not a fucking ma’am, even if the gentleness and respect in his voice is making you feel even more lightheaded. 

So you turn on your heels, and march out of the alley like nothing ever happened at all.

But you can still feel it. 

Superman’s gaze. 

When you glance over your shoulder—because you’re an idiot—he’s watching you walk away, the fog almost seeming to part just long enough for your eyes to connect, before he vanishes into the dark.

———

“You can’t say that.” One of your co-workers mutters, crossing out something on the paper before looking up at you with a sigh of your name. “You know you can’t say that. Last time Ms. Lane had to stop you from saying it. Do you know how bad it has to be for her to do that?”

You shrug, rocking the chair the chair your foot is resting on back and forth. “That’s not my fault, I didn’t make her.”

“You’re dodging the question.” Your coworker gives you a flat look, and you just smile in return.

“I’ve never dodged a question in my life.”

She sighs your name again, and shakes her head. “Just- don’t say it. We’ll get sued into the next century, you know that, and Luther doesn’t fuck around-“

“I don’t fuck around.” You mutter, spinning your pen in your hands. “And you know we’d win if we tried. It’s not defamation if it’s true, and his reputation is already so damaged he’d have no proof that my remarks caused his stocks to tank lower than hell-“

“Just don’t say it. Please.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. I won’t say the factually correct thing about how Luther is such a pathetic man-baby he’s been keeping a harem of ex-girlfriends, and everything he says about Superman is just what’s true about himself, he just can’t see it because whenever he looking in the mirror because he only sees the glare of his bald head.”

Your coworker sighs, right as the door pushes open. “Thank you for not saying it.” 

“Listen, I’m so sorry I’m late.” A large, dark haired man with glasses and sharp jawline drops across from you, chair spinning as he gives you an apologetic look. “I just lost track of the time, thought this floor was the next floor, and- Gosh, I’m so sorry, I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”

You frown at him, opening your mouth, but your words die as he stares at you. He’s acting like he’s looking at a ghost, with wide eyes and a startled flinch. He’s still holding his briefcase, grip white-knuckled, and your frown deepens. 

Your co-worker clears her throat, and the man’s attention shoots away from a second. 

It leaves you oddly cold. 

“We haven’t been waiting long at all, Mr. Kent.” She gives the man a sweet smile, and he returns it in a second. “You actually just gave us enough time to finish our briefing.”

“Oh, well, that’s good, isn’t it?” He looks to you with another nervous expression, pushing his glasses up his nose, and your frown deepens. “Are you ready then, miss?”

“She’s all yours.” Your co-worker beams, shooting to her feet, and right before she leaves the conference room, you get a firm glare and a mouthed don’t fucking say it. 

You ignore her. You’re not going to say it. And if you do, it will be naturally in the conversation, wherever it may come up.

The man is fumbling, across the table. Pulling out his notebook and laptop with clumsy hands, clearing his throat and straightening his tie, shooting you an nervous look every few moments, as if you’re going to jump across the table and bite him or something. 

You lean forward, tilting your head, and he sits up straight. 

“It’s nice to meet you, miss-“

“You’re not Lois.” You say, voice flat, and his ears turn red. 

“Lois is, uh- She’s busy.”

“Busy?”

“Sick.” He mutters, pushing up his glasses again. “She caught something, in that bad weather we’ve been having. She’s very sorry she can’t make it, though.” He gives you a small, charming smile. “Gave me a whole speech about how you’re her favorite, and if I mess this up, she’ll strangle me.”

You hum, scanning over him wordlessly. It’s a strategy that works with almost everyone, staying silent until they get uncomfortable and blurt something. Something that, usually, tells you enough about them to sketch out a picture that lets you color in the lines how you want. When you’d used it on Lois, she’d stared back at you before asking if you were trying to intimidate her. When you’d met the Boravian president, he’d asked if they’d sent a mute to interview him and make him look like some sort of fool. 

This man—Kent, your co-worker had called him—is just staring at you right back. Not uncomfortably, but silently. He’s fiddling with his pen and holding your gaze, waiting for you to break the silence. 

You never break the silence. That’s losing. 

Kent doesn’t seem like he’s trying to win, though. He just seems like he’s trying to be polite. 

And after about five minutes of staring at each other in silence, he clears his throat, and frowns at you. 

“Do you want some water? Or to call Lois? She can vouch for me, I promise.” He chuckles. “Actually, she’ll probably say I’m an okay journalist, and that I’m asking the questions she wrote.” He pauses, then holds up his notepad. “I am asking the questions she wrote. If that makes this better.”

It doesn’t.

But now you know what Kent is like. 

Polite, gentle, kind. 

You can work with that.

“I’m good, thank you.” You give him a sweet, slightly mocking smile, and he returns it with the same charming grin from before. 

It’s throwing you off. You can’t be cool and collected and sharp, here. With Lois it’s like sparring. 

With Kent, it’s just making you feel like a bitch. 

“Great, then are we ready to- Oh shoot, Wait-“ He reaches back into his bag, then pulls out a tape recorder with a sheepish grin. “Almost forgot. Gosh, Lois would’ve killed me.” He places the recorder between you, and gives you another nervous grin. “Now, are you ready to get started?”

You nod, and he hits the record button. You’re silent as he rattles off the date and time, who you are—top human right lawyer, heavily involved in negotiations with the United Sates government about aide to Jarhanpur and immigration protections of Jarhanpurian refugees—and who he is. 

Clark Kent. Reporter for the Daily Planet, sitting down for a conversation about the recent developments with Lex Luther using surveillance technology to tip off Immigration authorities about illegal refugees. 

He gives you another handsome smile, before he asks the first question. You just stare at him. He doesn’t get to use his pretty face to throw you off your game. 

“So,” he glances down at his notepad, then back to you. “You’re suing the United States government for unconstitutional detainment of Jarhanpurian journalist, claiming they were both complicit in and knowingly funded the unlawful imprisonment that goes against their first amendment right to free press. Is this correct?”

You nod. “Yes, Mr. Kent, it is.”

“Great. Um-“ He flips his notepad, squinting at the words. “The United States had claimed that they had no knowledge of Luther’s methods, and says that they never once paid him to contain a private American citizen. They also stated that, if they did use Luther to hold someone, they were not aware that their funding for his research was helping him to contain people for other countries. So…” He gives you another nervous smile. “What do you say to that?”

“I say that the government is not known for being truthful about their dealings, Mr. Kent.” You raise your brows at him. “At the very least, we know they paid to have Luther contain Superman. That alone indicates that they were aware of the security of his pocket dimension. And I also happen to have several victims of the holding, all legal immigrants from Jarhanpur who were critics of Boravia, who were kept in Luther’s harem jail.”

Kent frowns at you. “Harem jail?”

Shit. “There have been allegations that he used it imprison ex-girlfriends.”

“So you…” Kent’s lips twitch. “Call it a harem jail?”

“Yep.” You give him a challenging look. “And?”

“Nothing.” He looks down at his paper again, ears red. “Just sort of graphic, I think.”

“Graphic-“

“But funny.” He gives you a small grin, pushing up his glass again. “I think it’s funny.”

There’s a fuzzy, warm feeling, over your skin. You don’t fucking appreciate it. “Oh. Thanks.”

He grins. “No problem. Uh- Right. There we were-“

Kent keeps asking you Lois’ questions, and while he doesn’t really have the edge that works you both up until she asks a hard hitter and you knock it out of the park, he’s not the worst to work with. He doesn’t fuck up the questions. He asks a few follow ups about crime rates and the responsibility of the United States to regulate business’. He even asks a pretty good question about the ethics Luther using federal funding when he’s a billionaire, and seems to have come up with it himself. 

He’s certainly better than almost any male journalist you’ve worked with. He doesn’t talk over you, or question your qualifications, or do anything but listen and nod like you’re saying something fascinating. You’re really not. You’re using words that are too big and talking too fast and discussing the constitution, one of the most boring topics of conversation. 

But he’s still looking at you as if you’re doing Circe de Solie tricks in this bland little conference room. 

He laughs at a few of your jokes, and it makes you buzz again. 

At one point, you go to the bathroom, and when you get back he’s gotten you both cups.

You lean over it, then look back up to Kent. “What’s this?”

“Uh- Water?” He glances down at the cup, then you. “I figured after going to the bathroom, you might need to stay hydrated.”

That’s such a strangely fucking good thing to do. It’s making your heart beat too fast. “And if I say I just took a shit?”

Kent blinks. “I can get you a snack?”

You snort, and that seems to make him relax again. His shoulder slump and his eyes fucking sparkle like a cartoon character, when you take a sip of his water. 

He’s like a fucking puppy turned into a human. You might be able to see his tail wagging. 

“Alright, Kent.” You set the water down. “Let’s keep-“

“Clark.” He says suddenly, wincing to himself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you but- Clark is alright. You can call me Clark.”

You stare at him, and he turns a little red. 

“It’s my first name.”

“Yeah, I figured out that one myself.” 

“Oh. Okay. Good.” He looks back down to his notepad, adjusting his tie like it’s burning him through the suit. “So- Next question is- Oh this is a good one. I mean, it’s rougher, but Lois told me you’re… Uh-“ He turns red again. “Never mind-“

“No.” You cut him off, leaning forward. “You don’t get to say Lois called me something then not tell me. What.”

He won’t look you in the eyes. “Just that you’re a little bit of a masochist. And that you were going to be… vulgar enough to make me blush.”

You laugh, soft and through your nose, and Clark looks at you nervously. “That’s it?”

“Uh- Yeah?”

“That’s nothing,” you wave him off, leaning back in your chair. “I thought you were going to say she called me a cunt or something.”

Clark gapes at you. “Gosh, no, she adores you. Told me she’d strangle me, if I messed it up-“

“I know.” 

He frowns. “How?”

“You told me earlier.”

“Oh. I did, didn’t I. Darn it.” He gives you another nervous smile. “Sorry about that. Did I tell you about how she also said she’d dump boiling soup on me? And that it was the soup I made her.”

You smile, and it feels a little too wide and toothy, but Clark doesn’t move away. “No, you didn’t.”

“Well, she did. And I don’t think she’d ever call you a- That. You don’t seem like one at all?”

You raise your brows. “I don’t?”

“No, you seem like a… Ah- A really lovely lady.”

It’s hard not to laugh at that, even if Clark looks genuinely confused by your reaction.

“Okay, Kent-“

“Clark.” He corrects with a mumble, eyes bright and almost curious on yours, and now you feel warm. 

“Clark.” You keep it together. He does not get to fuck you up. “What’s the good questions.”

“Right. Sorry, um-“ His eyes dart down to the notepad. “A lot of people are worried that by letting Jarhanpurian citizens and journalists into the country, we’re taking away jobs away from American’s and giving these immigrants shelter when they only bring danger. What would you like to say, to American’s who believe that?”

“That our country is built on the backs of immigrants.” You answer smoothly. “And the idea that they only bring danger is a frighteningly xenophobic myth that’s simply easy to believe. Lex Luther is an American citizen, and he nearly split Metropolis in half. Superman is, in all essence of the law, an illegal immigrant, and he’s saved countless lives. It’s the person, not their origin or government, who decides what they are. And the Jarhanpurian refugees have come here to be the good, strong and kind people they want to be. It is our job to protect them, and so far, we are the ones who have failed.”

Clark stares at you for a long, strange moment as your answer hangs in the air. For a second, you think he’s going to argue, or offer a counter question. 

Instead he just clears his throat, turns off the recorder, and smiles at you. 

“Thank you for talking to me,” he says your name with a warm smile, and the air feeling strangely light, when you take his hand. 

It’s big and warm. 

You have to bit your tongue as he smiles, because it’s making you want to smile back.

And when Clark walks away after a few more formal pleasantries, you’re just standing in the center of the room. He’s said your name in a deep, rich way that made your heart skip and breath hitch. He’d grinned and you’d felt warm, like a fucking idiot. Your goddamn knees feel sort of weak, because you’d been able to feel his heat from across the table. 

Or that’s just still in you. Burning up from where your hands had connected, and through your whole body. 

It’s a good thing you’ll probably never have to see him again. 

You never want to feel that soft and dizzy, for a long, long time.

———

There’s a thud on the pavement behind you, and you don’t think before you react.

Your hand shoots into your purse, wrapping around your pepper spray, and you turn on your heels. 

Right before you spray it, a big hand wraps around your wrist, and Superman takes the can from you with a small frown. 

“Sorry.” He lets go of your wrist. “You just got it replaced, and I didn’t want you to use it for no reason. I’ve heard those things are expensive.”

They are. 

You still scowl at him. 

“Are you stalking me?”

He blinks, eyes widening. “No, I’m not. Swear on it. Superman’s honor.”

He places a hand over his heart with a grin, and you frown at him. 

“It’s scouts honor.”

“I was never a scout, miss.” He gives you a small grin. “I don’t want to dishonor their badge.”

“Their scout badge?”

He nods, and you huff in amusement, shoving the pepper spray into your purse.

“Sure. Why not.”

“Well, those boys work very hard-“

“Most of them are rich kids whose parents can afford scouts.” You say dryly, and Superman frowns at the air. 

“Huh. I suppose you’re right about that.”

 “I know I’m right about it.” You wrap your arms around your stomach, frowning at him. “If you’re not stalking me, what are you doing here.”

“I’m… checking on you.” He gives you a bright, charming grin. “Just making sure you’re holding up well, after last week. Seeing if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

“To help me.” You narrow your eyes, and he keeps grinning. 

“I think so. Doesn’t seem to be anyone else.”

You hum, staring at him, and he just stares right back. 

It’s too long, that it takes him to break. And he breaks just like Clark Kent did, yesterday. Not with a nervous expression or uncomfortable shift. 

Just with worry. Which makes you feel fuzzy. 

Jesus fucking Christ, you can’t handle doing this twice. 

“Are you feeling safe, walking home? Would you want- Maybe have a driver?”

“Could you get me a driver?”

“No.” He gives you another smile, and now you feel gooey. “But I could walk you home. To make you feel safe.”

“Hm.” You raise your chin, and he quickly adds. “Do you do that for everyone whose muggings you crash?”

“I mean, normally people call it saving.” He frowns, and you scoff. 

“You didn’t save me. I was fine.”

“No- I mean, yes, you were, but I still helped.”

“How?”

Superman blinks at you. “I carried the guy. He’s okay, by the way, in case you were worried-“

“I wasn’t.” You shrug, holding his gaze. “I checked on him in the morning.”

“Oh. Good. Of course you did.”

Of course you did. 

He says it like it’s a fact. He doesn’t even fucking know you. 

“What does that mean-“

“Do you want me to walk- Sorry.” Superman sighs as you speak over each other, bowing his head. “You first.”

You stare at him, scanning over handsome features in the dark, and there’s something. It’s scratching at the back of your head, and it doesn’t have a voice yet, but it’s there. He’s being too kind, it’s odd. And he’s making your head feel a little light, and maybe you need to call the Metropolis facilities department, because there must be something in the water if you’re feeling this way twice in a week. 

“Are you actually going to walk me home?” You ask, trying to make your voice venomous, the kind of predator’s warning that makes people back away and leave you to keep walking, alone in the dark.

If you succeed, it doesn’t seem to work on Superman. 

“If you want me to, yes, I will.” He smiles at you, and it seems to light up the whole street. 

You can’t look at it too long. Your knees will start to feel weak. 

“Alright. Fine.” You turn on your heels, not looking back. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s- Okay. Let’s go.” Superman echoes your words, quickly catching up to walk at your side. 

You walk in silence for a few minutes, and it’s the kind of silence that leaks. That makes everything else feel bigger and quieter, until your breathing is shallower and your skin is prickling, and if there’s not something to fill up the creaks and horns of the night, you’re going to lose your fucking mind. 

Superman isn’t even doing anything to make it worse. He’s just walking at a respectful distance next to you, looking around the streets like it’s all the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, and you want to punch him in the face.

“Is this all you do?” You blurt, and he looks at you with a curious expression.

“No? I mean, sometimes I fly-“

“Not walk.” You sigh, looking back out into the night. “Like- Aren’t there robberies and murders for you to be stopping?”

He pauses, tilts his head, then clicks his tongue. “I can’t hear any, no.”

“Can’t hear any.” You mutter under your breath, and he shrugs. 

“Well, I have super senses, including hearing, and-“

“I know about the hearing, Supes. I just think it’s ridiculous.”

Superman blinks at you. “I- Ridiculous seems like a strong word-“

“It’s just- It’s not ridiculous. Well, it is, but-“ You sigh, glaring down at your nails like it’s their fault you’re fucking up your words around the pretty alien. “It’s crazy. To be able to hear a robbery across the city.”

“I can’t control it-“

“I know.” You shrug. “It’s just hard to imagine. I think it would overwhelm me, and I’d put a screwdriver through my head.”

“Oh.” Superman chuckles, and it’s a deep, low sound that feels like it fucking rolls through the night, and vibrates in your chest. “It can get overwhelming, I suppose. It’s just how I always am. Always have been.” He pauses, and you can feel his attention. “For me, not being to hear everything sounds terrifying.”

You hum. “Have you ever heard people have like- The loudest fucking sex?”

He coughs, and when you look over, his ears seem a little red. “Yes, but- I’ve sort of learned to tune out the grosser things.”

“Right.” You pause, then frown at him. “Do you poop?”

“Do I poop?”

“You’re Kryptonian, I don’t know how your bodily functions work.”

“They’re mostly similar to humans.” He says, amusement obvious in his voice. “Almost entirely similar, actually.”

You nod, looking back ahead. “So you do poop.”

“Yes. I poop.”

“Fascinating. I have a reporter friend.” You grin to yourself. “I’m going to sell that fact to her for a million dollars.”

Superman laughs again. He needs to stop doing that. “Something tells me she won’t be interested in that scoop.”

There’s a long beat, and you look back to see him grinning at you, wide and proud. 

You groan. 

“That’s fucking horrible.”

“You smiled-“

“I did not-“

“Yes, you did. I saw it. It was on your face, and it was a smile.”

“On my face is where all smiles happen- And it wasn’t a smile.” You glare at him, stopping in your tracks. “That was an awful joke. Zero out of ten.”

Superman mock flinches. “Ouch. That low?”

“Yeah. You should be sent to space jail.” You glance behind you. “And- This is me.”

“Oh.” He looks at the building, then back to you. “And you’re not just pretending it’s your building because of what just happened?”

That time, you do actually smile. “No, I’m not.”

He nods, then gives you another one of those knee-weakening smiles. “Well then, have a good night…”

There’s a long silence, and you never told him your fucking name. 

You do, with your arms crossed over your chest, and he echoes it back. 

Your stupid heart skips. 

And he waits for you to go inside, before he takes off. Waits all the way until you’re in your apartment, and you lean out the window to wave at him mockingly, because he can hear you. He knows you’re inside. 

He waves, grins at you, and shoots off into the night 

You stand stupidly at the window, for a moment. 

It’s just bad luck, twice in one week. Kent and Superman, making your breath hitch and body warm. It probably really is just something in the water. 

So you close the curtains, and just pray this isn’t the kind of thing that comes in threes.

———

Someone shouts your name, and you’re not fast enough to dive behind the potted plant and make them think you pulled a magic trick.

You don’t want to talk to anyone. It’s too early to speak, too public to have to play nice about everything, too loud to do anything but press yourself against the wall of the little cafe and drink your coffee. 

They haven’t even gotten your muffin yet. 

You just want your fucking muffin. 

Instead you have to just stare at the floor, hoping your lack of acknowledgment will make whoever knows you here think you have headphones in or something. 

It almost works. 

The person says your name again, then pauses. “I think she can’t hear me?”

“I, uh- I’m not sure.” Another voice—this one sending warm little shivers through your body, and Jesus Christ not again—mutters, a little lower than the first. “I think she just doesn’t want to be bothered, Jimmy.”

“Really? No, I think she can’t hear me.” Jimmy repeats your name, touching your shoulder lightly, and now you have to pretend you never heard him in the first place. 

You look up with what had to be a horribly fake expression of surprise, your fingers curling on your coffee cup. “Oh. Hi, Jimmy, when did you get here?”

Fuck, that’s such a bad fucking lie. Somehow, Jimmy, with his million-dollar toothy grin and sweet freckled face, is buying it. 

The guy standing over his shoulder, who gave you those stupid shivers, looks a little less convinced. Mostly nervous, like he’s caught the lie but doesn’t really want to fucking do anything about it. 

And the good news is, these things don’t come in threes. 

The bad news is, they come in two that just keep fucking popping up in your life. Like tall, hot weeds with puppy faces and deep voices and probably abs, given how he’s filling out that shirt. 

You stare at Clark Kent. 

He stares back at you, face a little red and mouth hanging slightly open. 

“Hi.” You say, voice a little blanker and awestruck than you wanted—it doesn’t crack, but it does have a breathlessness that you don’t really fucking appreciate—and his smile is small, but genuine. 

Which is really fucking annoying. 

“Hey. I, uh- I like your pants.” He pushes his glass up his nose, still smiling at you, and Jimmy groans. 

“Jesus, Clark, we gotta work on your compliments, Buddy.” He gives you an apologetic look. “Sorry, he was raised in a barn. He only knows how to flirt with like, cows. I’m working on it.”

Clark turns a shade of red that’s almost impressive, right as your face heats, and before either of you can protest, Jimmy’s pushing on.

“We have so much to catch up on, I was going to ask Lois to have you come out with us, but then she went and got herself sick. Which was really annoying because I had to deal with Clark’s twenty questions about interviewing, something he’s supposed to already know how to do.”

“I don’t usually do high profile people.” Clark mumbles, and Jimmy gives him a flat look. 

“You interview Superman, dude.”

“Well, uh- That’s different? He’s a chill guy, all he does is like, save squirrels, that’s different than law stuff.” He grins at you again, and it’s still charming and attractive and dumb. “Your stuff is smarter. Above the Superman league.”

You can’t stop from smiling back. It’s not fair, how he does that. Maybe he’s a secretly meta with the ability to make people smile. 

“That’s a little better, buddy.” Jimmy claps Clark back on the back, and it somehow manages to make the tower of a man stumble slightly. “See, my classes are working! Soon we’re going to have you on these streets, picking up ladies left and right.”

Clark sighs, shooting you a nervous look. “Jimmy, I’ve told you I don’t- That’s not what I’m trying to-“  

“You don’t have to try, Clark. I mean,” he says your name, and it can’t take this long to get you a muffin. “Look at this face. I know I’d kiss it-“

“How do you get your interviews with Superman?” You raise your voice over Jimmy—this really isn’t a conversation you want to have right now—and Clark stares at you.

“What, uh- What do you mean? I just- We’ve built a relationship, that’s it-“

“Like how do you find him.” You keep our voice steady and bored. “Does he just appear on the street next to you? Or have, like- A key to your apartment?”

Jimmy snorts. “I don’t think Clark is dating Superman, if that’s what you’re getting out. Our guy is way out of that Kryptonian’s league. 

Clark blushes again “Well, I- Uh- I don’t think that’s true-“

“Do you call for him? Does he have a phone number?” You keep pushing, and Clark shakes his head. 

“No- I mean- Yes-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “He doesn’t have a phone number, but I just sort of call for him, and he hears me and shows up.”

Jimmy’s eyes widen. “Oh, cool. Can I be there next time you call for him?”

“Well- He doesn’t like other people being there. For security. One at a time.”

You frown. “He’s bulletproof, why does he need security?”

Clark stares at you. “That’s- A really good question. I’ll be sure to ask him next time.”

There’s a long silence, as you and Clark stare at each other, ended only by the barista calling your name for your muffin. 

You promise Jimmy that you’ll go out for drinks with him, before you walk away. 

You can feel Clark’s warm, curious stare, all the way until you walk outside. 

And it might be branded on you, because you feel it a long while after as well. 

———

“Superman?”

You call up to the sky, and you’re met with only whistling wind and the distance sound of car horns.

“Superman!” You raise your voice, wrapping your arms around your stomach to stop the chill of the wind, and still nothing. 

You’re alone. You’re calling him, like Clark does. And unless he’s already forgotten you, he has to be at least curious what you’re doing on the roof, calling his name. 

But there’s nothing. Not even a whoosh or streak of red in the distance, showing you that he’s busy or circling around you like a bird or something.

“Superman, can you please-“ You sigh. This is so fucking stupid. “Can you come here, please?”

Silence. 

You walk slowly to the edge of the roof, frowning out over the city skyline, and nothing’s even attacking right now. It’s not like he has a fucking day job to be occupied with, he’s Superman. 

And it’s pretty fucking rude that he’ll show up for Clark and not you.

Your gaze slowly falls down, to the people rushing past on the pavement below you, smaller than ants. And you have an idea. It’s bad idea, and he’ll probably be really pissed at you, but it’s also an effective idea.

You drum your fingers on the railing, trying to weigh how important this is. In the grand scheme of the universe, not worth throwing yourself off a building for. In terms of all the people relying on you to win this case, absolutely worth throwing yourself off a building. And it’s not like you’ll die. Superman will save you. 

“Please don’t do that.”

You whip around, squeaking in surprise, and stumble a step back. There’s a split second where your balance is gone, and you’re falling backwards, and God, that was a horrible idea and now you’re going to die because you’re a dramatic idiot- 

But there’s a whoosh. 

And a strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you quickly upright before you can topple off the edge. 

Superman grins down at you, keeping you pressed against him, and your hands somehow ended up flat on his chest. He feels strong, under the suit. And you’re really not cold anymore, because he’s like a person fucking furnace. 

A furnace with a nice smile and kind eyes and a little curl falling over his forehead that makes him look like an old movie star. 

You’re staring at him. Your heart is going to fast, and there’s the buzzing feeling again, and you’re not sure you’re going to be able to keep your balance by yourself. His proximity is making you drunk, and it’s not fair-

“Who’s stalking who now?” He says, voice rumbling through your chest, and you flush. 

“Shut up.” You push him away, and he releases you in second. 

His hand lingers on your forearm. To help you get upright. 

Only to help you get upright. Nothing else. 

He does not get to turn you into a fucking idiot, any more than he already has. 

“I need to talk to you.” Arms cross over your chest. Chin raised. Voice firm. You’re going to win this conversation. 

Superman just nods, still smiling. “Yeah, I think I figured that out myself. You know, you really don’t have to jump off a roof, I was on my way.”

Shit. “I wasn’t-“

“I think you were, but if you say you weren’t, okay. I believe you.”

“Well- I wasn’t.”

“Okay.” He shrugs, still fucking smiling, and he needs to stop being so kind. It’s making you feel more things you don’t have time for. “What did you need me for, so badly you weren’t going to jump off a roof?”

You flush. “I want to ask you questions. About being an immigrant.”

He raises his brows. “Oh? Like what?”

“Your experience. What it feels like not having a home to return to, or being divorced from the governmental ideals of your home. What you’re grateful for, what you’re not grateful. What you wish would change, what you think America needs to improve on. Why you stay here, when you of all people could feasibly go anywhere in the world.” 

Superman blinks. “Well, for the last one, this is my home. And it’s not perfect, but I have no wish to be anywhere else.”

“I know that. But a lot of other people are in similar shoes, and having Superman echo their thoughts and sentiments would be good to hear. Plus you hold a lot of public sway.”

“I didn’t know you were a journalist,” he says your name with small laugh, and you shrug. 

“It’s testimony. Are you going to answer my questions, or do I need to jump off the roof.”

“I’ll answer them. They’re smart questions, and anything to help people in my position. But…” Superman pauses, watching you with a strange expression, then lets out a long breath. “You never need to jump off a roof for my attention.”

It’s like he punched you in the fucking gut. You blink, pressing your lips in a tight line as your heart stumbles and your breath becomes shallow, the heat moving down to your lower gut. He can’t just say things like that while looking at you and being so kind. You’re not going to jump off the roof, you’re going to do something stupider, like trying to kiss Superman on his pretty, full mouth that says such sweet things. 

You need to calm the fuck down. You’ve met him three times, and this is nothing more than a professional interview.

You can’t kiss Superman. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You drawl, pulling out your phone to record. 

He just nods, and takes a step forward. If you wanted to, you could reach out and poke his chest. There’s heat, radiating off his body again. 

Calm the fuck down. 

You’re not going to make a habit of calling for him. If this goes well, you’ll have everything you need from Superman, and you can go back to living a quiet, long, focused life. 

Alone. 

Without any stupid, kind puppy-men making you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’d like to let everything crumble down and just be warm. 

———

You turn the corner too fast. Slam right into a large, broad chest with a squeak.

A strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you quickly to your feet. There’s a strangely familiar feeling to it, that your slightly addled brain—a little from shame, a little from drinking—can’t quite place. 

Then you look up, and it would be nice to burst into flames, or melt into the ground. 

Clark Kent is blinking down at you, and he looks almost unfairly good in a suit. You don’t know why a journalist works out so much—and he doesn’t seem like the type to be a gym rat—but his muscles are almost pushing out of his dress shirt, and you can feel them under your fingers where you’ve grabbed his shirt, and why are his eyes so blue. 

“Hi.” He says your name, glancing down to where your bodies are pressed together, before back to you with a small blush. “You look nice.”

You do look nice. You spent three hours today, making sure you looked nice for the fancy gala. At least five people have told you that you look nice since you got here, because you’d put so much fucking effort into it, it’s a little impossible not to notice. 

For some reason, it wasn’t the appreciative look from Bruce Wayne and smirk—his hand brushing over your lower back and eyes hooded with desire—that got your to feel like you were glowing. 

It’s Clark, and his stupid, honey-like voice that’s getting under your skin. You look nice. He thinks you look nice. Enough to say it so truly, as if it’s just a fact of the universe. With a gentle element of kindness, like he’s acknowledging all that work it took you to get here. 

With his red ears, like you look so nice it’s doing something to him. 

Which isn’t fair.

“You look nice, as well.” You manage to get out, and he grins. 

“Thanks. I mean, it’s nothing really. Less expectations for me, I think.” He helps you to your feet, before taking a carefully step back. “I’m not giving the big speech tonight.”

“Oh, well- Yeah.” You try to smile back. It’s too easy. “Do you think you could, though? In my place?”

Clark laughs, and there it goes again. Making you feel like you’re fucking shining. “I would, but I don’t think I can trick people into thinking I’m you.”

“Not with that attitude you can’t.”

“I think it’s a little more than the attitude. I don’t have your gravity.” He gives you another small smile, and before you can ask what the fuck that means, he’s holding out your champagne flute. “I caught this, by the way. But- If you’re giving your speech, maybe go easy?” He blushes, shaking his head. “Not that I’m telling you what to do. You- If this is like, your process. Do your process.”

You blink at him, then the champagne. You’re not sure how the fuck he caught it and you, without spilling a single drop. 

And when you take it back, you’re fingers brush, and fucking electrically shoots through your whole body. 

You down the rest of the champagne in one swig, and Clark gapes at you.

“It is my process.” You mumble, carefully wiping your chin. “It’s called get buzzed so I forget people are looking at me.”

Clark chuckles, glancing at your glass. “Do you, uh- Do you want me not to look at you? While you’re talking? If that helps?”

“Yes. Close your eyes for the whole speech.” You sigh, spinning the flute between your fingers, and Clark nods. 

“Okay. But- I think you’re going to great no matter what. You’re good at talking and- Um- Captivating.”

Melting is back on the table. You feel a little dizzy. “Captivating?”

Clark nods, fidgeting with his tie. “I mean, you’re passionate. Makes me- And, uh, everyone else- Makes us like listening to you.”

“Oh.” You swallow. “Okay.”

This is too nice. You’re going to fly out of your skin if you don’t shift it. And Clark is opening his mouth, probably so say something else that’s sweet, so you blurt the first thing that comes to mind. 

“Do you have any pets?”

“Uh-“ Clark blinks at you, then nods slowly. “Not really, no. My cousin has a dog that I watch sometimes, but that’s about it.”

You nod, looking down to your shoes. Looking him in the eyes feels dangerous. “Is it a cute dog?”

“Yeah, but he’s also….” Clark pauses, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Rowdy. Do you have any pets?”

“No.” 

“Oh. Okay. Um- Do you like pets.” 

“Of course I like pets.” You frown at him. “My apartment just doesn’t allow them, so- I mean, I guess I sort of do have a cat, but she lives with my mom.”

Clark’s face lights up slightly. “You have a mom?”

“Yes? Most people do, I think, even if it’s just like a donor-“

“No, I meant like- Do you get to see her a lot?” He clears his throat, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. “Like, does she live in the city?”

“No, but- She’s not far.” You pause, and either the drinks or Clark’s presence are loosening your tongue, because you add, “I’m from Gotham. And I’ve told her to come here like- A lot. But she doesn’t want to leave home.”

“Oh.” Clark nods. “That makes sense. Not her refusing to leave but- I mean, that makes sense as well, it is her home, and I don’t think you could drag my parents from their farm. But they don’t live in Gotham, they’re in, uh- Kansas. I’m from Kansas. And you’re from Gotham. Which is what makes sense.”

You stare at him, and he coughs, giving you a smaller, slightly ashamed smile. It’s impossibly fucking endearing. 

“It makes sense that I’m from Gotham?” You finally say, and he nods. 

“You’re tough.”

That makes you flush. Which isn’t fair. “What’s your cousin’s dog’s name?”

“Kr- Oco.”

You frown. “Kroco?”

“Coco.” He says quickly, taking a small step forward. “What about your cat?”

“Godzilla.”

Clark laughs again. “That’s a good name.”

“Thank you.” You’re smiling again, and you can’t even bring yourself to look at your shoes. “I came up with it.”

“I bet you did.”

You don’t get to know what that means. You want to. So fucking bad. You want to understand why Clark is saying so many nice things and why he’s so handsome and why he’s still talking to you. At no point has he tried to end the conversation and escape. He just kept grinning and talking and saying nice things, right up until one of your co-workers comes up behind you and drags you away for the speech.

And when you’re giving it, it’s impossibly easy to find Clark in the crowd. 

Towards the back, somehow shining to through the glare of the spotlights. 

Eyes squeezed shut the whole time.

———

You have the willpower of a sheep on cocaine.

Already easy to herd. 

Very easily baited by more cocaine. 

Cocaine being a handsome superhero, who you haven’t been able to shake since you shouted for him on a roof.

It started the night after the Gala. You’d walked home you with skirt hiked up and jewelry left upstairs in your office—because you’re not a fucking idiot—and Superman had dropped out of the sky with his stupid smile. 

“Do I need to wait for you to get mugged again, to say you shouldn’t walk alone at night?”

You’d laughed softly, and kept walking right past him. “Are you going to let me get mugged?”

“No, that’s why I’m here now. Offering my escort services to ladies in need.”

That had gotten you to stop. You’d had to. 

You’d started laughing so hard that if you didn’t, you would have fucking fallen over. 

Superman had stared at you with a bemused smile, taking a half-step forward, like he was worried you’d been hit with something. 

He’d said your name slowly, and you’d shaken your head, still giggling.

“God, that- That’s-“ You’d snorted, and he’d reached for you carefully. 

“Are you-“

“I’m fine, dude, that’s just- I can’t believe people thought you have a harem.”

He’d frowned. “Well, I don’t-“

“Yeah, I know.” You’d laughed again, and he’d frowned.

“I’m sorry, I just- I’m not quite sure what the joke is.”

You’d drawn back up, giving him an amused look. “What do you think an escort service is?”

Superman had blinked. “I’m going to walk you home.”

“Wrong. You handsome, sweet alien, that is so wrong.”

He’d—impossibly—stood a little taller. “Handsome?”

Shit. “Yeah, pretty boy. You’ve got a nice face.” You’d doubled down like it was nothing, and it had seemed to be an effective strategy. “You know that. People make thirst edits of you on the internet.”

“They do?” 

“Oh.” You’d beamed at him. “I have so much to show you.”

And every night after that, he’d walked you home. It’s an effective system. You show him the online form that’s dedicated to trying to convince to actually form a Harem, and he gets to make sure you’re never mugged. You wave to him from the window—which is far too romantic, yet you can’t stop doing it—and then he grins at you, and blasts up, up, and away. There are a few nights that he misses, but there’s always a sticky note on your fire escape saying dragon trying to burn down the harbor, see you tomorrow, with a little smiley face. 

You’re keeping them in your nightstand. And it’s not like anyone is going to find them anyway, so that’s not pathetic. 

But it might make you a bad person. 

Because you’re putting them right next to the other thing in your nightstand. 

The second dose of cocaine. 

Clark won’t stop popping up either. And it doesn’t start in the same seeking you out way that it does with Superman, but it builds faster. Into something more. Something bigger than you might be able to handle. 

It starts shows up for drinks, with Lois and Jimmy. Which should be nothing. 

But the universe is out to get you. So it’s everything. 

“I’m so glad he didn’t scare you off.” Lois said with a dramatic sigh, setting down her beer. “You’re my favorite person to interview.”

Jimmy had frowned. “Why, because you don’t get to interview a lot of women?”

“No, Jimmy, I interview plenty of women. It’s just- The unfortunate thing about most of the women in power right now is-“

“They’re all fucking cunts.” You’d finished for her, and Clark and Jimmy had choked on their beers with impressive comedic timing. “Which is mostly an unfortunate byproduct of the system. It’s hard to be in a significant position of power and be a good person.”

“I don’t know.” Clark had frowned. “I mean, there must be a lot of pressure. And I’m sure they’re not happy with compromising their morals, it just- It must be hard.”

Lois had shrugged. “Or they’re all just cunts.”

“That’s- Seems like a harsh word-“

“Once I was at a congress hearing.” You’d said dryly, and Clark had looked at you with his full, unwavering attention. It had made you more drunk than the beer. “And one of the congresswomen asked why I was betraying American women by supporting bringing such violent rapists into our country. Her husband isn’t allowed within a hundred yards of schools.”

“Oh.” Clark had frowned. “Well, I hope she realizes she can divorce him. Or- Maybe something will get her to turn around? Like an- Intervention?”

Lois had snorted. “What, from God?”

“No, not God, but- I don’t know.” He’d looked at you, his tone so fucking sincere. “I’m sorry she said that to you.”

You’d had to look down to hide your flush. “It’s okay. Happens.”

Clark had frowned, like it shouldn’t. 

But you hadn’t scared him off. 

He’d come to another night of drinks. Then another. Then five more, until Jimmy got sick and Lois had an article due, and it was just you and him, sitting across from a booth so small your knees bumped, and hands brushed with every gesture. 

“So, why journalism?” You’d asked. “You don’t seem to have the same passion for it that Lois does.”

He’d chuckled, pushing up his glasses. “No, I guess I don’t. And I don’t know, I like talking to people. Hearing their stories. Nice, stable career, you know?”

You’d opened your mouth, but barely spoken before Clark has shaken his head. 

“Wait, you probably don’t know, do you. You’re passionate about everything you do.”

“I- Yeah. I am.” You’d swallowed, and he’d kept saying those things like they were obvious. Looking at you like you’re fascinating. Like he could see right through you, and whatever was in there, he liked. “I mean, I like what I do, but I do it because I want to do more.”

Clark had nodded, taking a slow drink of his beer. “Bigger ambitions, huh?”

“Yeah. Do you just-“ You’d frowned. “Not have those?”

“I hate to break it to you,” he’d said your name with a small grin. “Most people don’t. Almost all the folks I know aren’t necessarily happy with what they got, but they’re not lookin’ to make the Earth spin clockwise.”

You’d blinked at him. “What?”

“Sorry, that’s just- Something my Pa says.” He’d blushed, looking down to the table. “I’m trying to say it’s admirable. To want to change things and actually, uh- Do it.”

“Thanks.” You’d whispered, and he’d grinned. 

“No problem. Mind if I guess your ambition?”

Normally, you would’ve minded. But it was Clark. And you’d sort of been desperate to know what he thought of you. “Be my guest.”

“President. Or- Actually.” He’d examined you, slowly and with an element of light, playful amusement that had made you giggle. “United Nations, but maybe still Congress?”

You’d laughed, shaking your head, and Clark had raised his brows.

“Am I close?”

“Maybe.” You’d hummed, holding his gaze as you take a drink. “But I’d rather eat glass than go into politics.”

“Ah, right. Sorry.” He’d grinned. “Just got caught up in the idea of you showing that rude congress woman what a good person looks like.”

Your grip had tightened on your bottle. “You think I’m a good person?”

“Yeah.” He’d shrugged. “Of course.”

Of course. 

You let the conversation keep going. Clark had told you about some game he and Jimmy went to, and how he’s pretty sure Jimmy’s sick because a supermodel was slobbering over him all afternoon. You’d told him about how you’d won a big litigation about your case, and smiled at your fingers when he’d made a big, happy deal about it. And the night had flashed by until it was almost two in the morning, and you’d been kicked out the bar.

And Clark had asked if you wanted him to walk you home, and you’d said no. 

Not because you hadn’t. 

But you’d wanted to see Superman. 

Because you aren’t a good person.

That night, Superman had landed on the sidewalk next to you, and you’d smiled at your fingers. 

“You’re late.”

“Sorry,” he’d fallen into pace so fast beside you. “Got busy.”

“If people need saving-“

“No, I was just talking to someone important.”

You’d hummed. “Oh? Can you tell me, or is it classified super business?”

He’d laughed. It had been a few months, and it wasn’t making your heart skip any less. “Super business, I’m afraid. Actually, I have a question for you.

“I might have an answer.”

“Alright, well- If you could be a meta, like me-“

You’d mock gasped. “You’re a meta? Why did you tell me?”

“Very funny.” His voice had been flat, but you’d been able to hear the amusement, and it had made you shine. “I just want to know what kind of powers you’d want to have.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m curious, is that not allowed?”

“No.” You’d squinted at him in the dark, he’d stared right back, and your heart had skipped a beat. Shit. “It’s allowed. But it’s suspicious.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be less suspicious in the future.” 

“Thank you.” You’d paused, thinking about his question, and you’d been walking closers and closer lately. Almost as close as you’d been to Clark, in the bar. 

And you’re a horrible person. 

“I think I’d like to be able to speak any language.” You’d told Superman, speaking slowly. “But like, any language. Plants and computers and animals, too. Understand and talk to all of them. If it’s communication, I’d be able to do it.”

“Ah. That’s one of the best ones I’ve heard.” Superman had smiled at you in the dark, and you hadn’t even needed to ask. “I might know someone who’d like his power to be knowing the weather.”

“Knowing the weather, like-“

“Just a weatherman. With total accuracy.” Superman had smiled to himself. “I know it’s ridiculous, but it makes him happy.”

You’d kept walking, and talking, and laughing until you reached your apartment. Then you’d waved to him from your window, and he’d vanished back into the night. 

The next day, there had been a knock on your door. You’d opened it to find Clark, shifting on his feet with a book in his hands and a nervous smile.

You’d frowned at him. “How do you know where I live.”

“Oh, uh- I-“ He’d cleared his throat, something like alarm flashing over his face. “You’re not going to like it. I, um- I sort of stole your contact from Lois. And she had it, so- Now I have it.”

He’d been beet red, and you might have pushed it if he didn’t look like he was about to make himself pass out. 

So you’d just nodded, watching him carefully. “And… Why are you here?”

He’d let out a sharp breath, holding up the book. “Just want to give you this. I don’t know if you have time to take care of a plant- You’re so busy I’m guessing you don’t- Which isn’t bad, but-“

“Clark-“

“They’re pressed flowers.” He’d said quickly, opening the book for you to see. “My Ma taught me how to make them. To celebrate winning your case.”

You’d stared between him and the flowers, your eyes starting to sting because that was so fucking sweet, and you want to sink teeth and claws into his pretty face, or maybe just let him tear you apart, or- 

Just keep growing. Up and up, into whatever kinder, softer thing Clark is made of.

That had terrified you. 

“I- I won a litigation of my case.” You’d whispered, voice breaking, and Clark had shrugged.

“Still worth celebrating.” He’d said softly, and that had felt like a dose. You never wanted him to go too far, where you wouldn’t be able to find him. 

You’d put his flowers in your bedside drawer. And the sticky notes Superman’s been leaving keep building up.

Bar night after bar night, you lose track of time with Clark, because you don’t want him to go, but you still let Superman walk you home. 

You stare at the flowers and notes in your drawer, and you might be forgetting how to not smile at either of them. 

And worst of all, you don’t really want to remember at all.

———

The world is spinning. 

And you giggle to yourself, because the world is always spinning. Always going round and round and right back to where it started, but a million miles away, and now you can just feel it. 

Either because of the many, many drinks you’d slammed down in an attempt to soften some sort of self-sharpening edge, or because of Clark’s proximity. 

“Oh, gosh.” He catches you around the waist, as you walk up the stairs, and you giggle again. “Let’s slow down, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Aw.” You smile, wiggling around to face him. “You care about me.”

Clark frowns. “You know I care about you. I don’t think I’ve made that a secret- Woah-“

You fall forwards, right into him, and press your face into his neck. 

“You smell good.” You mumble. “Like… rain.”

Clark pauses, hand splayed on your back. “Is that good?”

“I like it.” You whisper, fingers curling on his sleeves. “This jacket is nice.”

“I mean, it’s alright.” He frowns at the jacket, then you. “Do you want it?”

You nod, mostly because your drunken, addled brain isn’t connecting one and one to mean two. 

Clark had asked if you wanted it. You’d been staring at where his button up was slightly undone, as if you’ve never seen bare skin before.

Yes, you want him. So bad it’s making your stomach flip, although that might just been the liquor. 

It’s a heavy, crushing disappointment like titanium, when he just props you carefully against the stairwell wall, and helps you into his jacket. You pout at the floor, trying to savor how it’s warm and smells like him, but now you’re chasing a painting of a ghost that’s haunting you from a foot away. 

You turn, pout deepening, and try to march up the stairs by yourself. 

You trip, because the world is spinning and you don’t have any balance. 

Clark catches you, because the world is spinning and he’s Clark, so it’s just one of those things that happens. 

You fall. He’s there, strong with an arm around your waist.

This time though, he picks you up with a small grunt. 

Something distant and vigilant in your head is wondering why he grunted picking you up but never while carrying you up four flights of stairs. 

It’s drowned out by how warm he is, and how much you want him. 

“Why do people call them guns?” You mumble to yourself, poking his biceps, and Clark frowns. 

“Well, if you asked my Pa, he’d make some joke about them being lady killers, then say that we shouldn’t be killin’ ladies. Should be treating them well.” He chuckles, and you stare up at him because in the florescent light of the hallway, he somehow looks like an angel. 

“I like it when you talk about your parents.” 

Someone needs to put a muzzle on you, before you say anything else truthful and dangerous. 

But stupid, perfect Clark always wants to hear what you’ve got to say. 

“Why?”

“I dunno,” you play with the folds of his collar, as he sets you down on your couch. “Makes you seem real.”

Clark’s brows furrow. “Do you no think I’m real.”

“I think.” You grab the lapels of his shirt, yanking him down to your eye level. “That you are too good.”

“…To be real?”

“Yes.” To be yours. “And no. Can you tell me your cow’s name again.”

“Bessie. What do you think I’m too good for, if it’s not being real-“

“Shhhhhhh.” You press a finger to his lips, frowning out your window. “Oh. No.”

Clark tenses. “What’s wrong.”

“I can’t tell him I’m busy.” You whisper, tears starting to sting at your eyes, and Clark reaches up to carefully brush them away.

“Tell who, sweetheart. I can, uh- I try to pass on a message. If this guy is important to you.”

You don’t understand the frown in his voice. “No. You can’t find him. It’s Superman.” You whisper the last part, and Clark blinks. 

The world is starting to get fuzzy. Everything feels heavy, and it would be nice to maybe go to sleep. 

But Clark says your name, so you slump forward into him as your body demands that you listen.

“You- Um- You know Superman?”

“Yeah.” You mumble against him, pulling his jacket a little tighter. “Walks me home. Why I don’t go with you.”

“Oh.” Clark pauses. “And you’d rather have him? Walk you home, I mean?”

“I dunno. But don’t worry.” You yawn, the world slowly falling down into black. “He’s not real either.” 

———

It had hit you, with the splitting headache of a hangover. You’d stared at yourself in the mirror, and been unable to get it together expect to form one conclusion. 

You love Clark. 

And you open the drawer, and see the flowers and the sticky notes, and know that he deserves far better. Not you. 

Never you. 

Someone good like him. Who does it so easily, and trusts like he does—with everything in him—and can hold his heart in both their hands. 

You can’t.

Because you might be a really bad person. 

Leaning over the roof of your apartment, breath fogging up the air, you wait. For an answer, that only one person can offer you, even if he doesn’t know. 

You’re not sure if either of them know. It would make it a lot easier if one didn’t, and was just friendly.

Or if one felt nothing, and you’d been reading too much into it all. 

That would split you in fucking half. But that feels like it’s going to happen no matter what. 

At least if neither of them want you, you’ll have both pieces to stitch yourself back together. 

But first, you need to know.

“Do I need to tell you not to jump?” Superman says from behind you. “Or are you just trying to talk to me again?”

You smile into the dark, voice a little too soft. “I’m just trying to talk to you.”

“Okay.” You can hear the frown in his voice “And were you going to jump?” 

“No.”

“You know, that time I actually believe you.”

You turn to look at him in the dark, and it never fails to stop your heart, when he smiles at you. You thought you’d get past it. Get used to how it seems to light up the dark.’

But there it is. 

The little skip that you get high on now, because it means he’s looking at you, and there’s never been anything better. 

Or maybe just one thing better. 

Or the same. 

Jesus. You look away, bowing your head to stare at your hands, and Superman clears his throat. 

“Are you feeling okay?” There’s a beat. “Anything I can help with?”

“No. Nothing you can-“ You sigh. “Can I just ask you something?”

“Always.” 

You run your fingers over the rough rock of the roof wall, keeping your eyes fixed on everything below. There are shadows moving down there, people walking the streets alone through the dark. That’s where you belong, not up here. Not where the sun would hit you, golden and bright, when it breaks the horizon. 

Superman mutters your name, and a warmth heats over your skin. 

You push it out, before you can think better. 

“Do you think I have bigger ambitions?”

He’s silent for a moment, then, “What do you mean?”

“Like- With my life. I- I know someone who’s happy with everything he has, he- He knows everything he wants to be, and-“ You swallow, your voice starting to hurt. “I don’t know if I am.”

“Is it your job? Or someone doing something-“

“No, it’s me.” You turn to look at him, pressing your lips tight together, because you won’t cry. “I’m doing too much and I- It’s still not enough, and I- I don’t- I don’t know where I’m going. I feel like I’ve been in the same orbit for so, so long and it was fine but now it isn’t and- I don’t- I’m tired.” Your voice cracks, and Superman takes a small step forward. “I’m barely doing anything, and I’m so tired, and I don’t want to be tired anymore but I don’t know how to- I’ve never-“

Your voice dies, because it’s cracking and if you don’t pull it the fuck together soon, you’re going to cry. 

Superman moves forward in a blink. Wraps his arms around you, and cradles your head to his chest as the tears start to silently roll. 

He just holds you in the dark for so long, and there must be better things for him to be doing, but he’s not trying to move. It’s not until you’re breathing him in at a steady pace, that he loosens his grip enough for you to push back. 

And when you do, he holds your face between his hands, wiping the tears slowly from your eyes. 

“I think you do enough.” He murmurs, and you sniff. “Don’t argue with me about this one. You do. You tell me about work, and you do good things. Thing most people are afraid to, because you don’t seem to have that setting. Whatever rest you want, you deserve, because you,” he says your name, his gaze locked onto yours. “Do more than most anyone I know.”

You wipe your nose with your sleeve, mumbling into the cloth. “Everyone you know probably penguins or something, with where you live.”

“In the Arctic?” He laughs softly, attention on you still so affectionate and tender. “Yeah, I guess I know a few penguins. They’re good guys. One of them got me an icicle for my promotion.”

You frown at him. “Your promotion? You have a boss?”

“I’m my boss. I gave the promotion to myself.”

“That’s so stupid.” You smile at his shoes, and he slowly tips your gaze back up, right onto his. 

“Yeah, but it made you laugh. I’d say it was worth it.”

You take a long, deep breath, and it’s too easy to get lost in him. In this moment. You don’t want to get swept away in it. 

So you press your face to his neck, and just breathe.

He smells a little like rain. Feels a little like a home. 

And it’s not a question anymore. You have your answer. 

You know. 

———

You’re clinging to the walls of the room. Gripping your glass like a lifeline and scanning over the crowd, trying to calculate when it’s going to thin out. 

When you’re going to be able to escape. 

It’s not life or death. You just really don’t want to be here. At the big, important event Metropolis is throwing for the new Bavarian president. You’re not sure if they’re trying to make amends—or a new plan—but you know you’re only here so they can say you’re here. So in the morning they can talk about how they have nothing to hide, and how the tattered relationship of Boravia and Jarhanpur are healing, all because of America. 

You’d told your boss that going was a stupid idea. 

He said you had to, or he’d replace you on the Jarhanpurian refugee case. 

So now you’re standing on the edge of the party, watching it move around you, and trying not to think about anything at all. 

If you think about things, you think about ways out of here. Ways like sneaking up to the roof, and asking Superman to get you out. If you’re not thinking about that, you’re thinking about how the buffet table has the exact type of bread rolls Clark likes, because he’s told you about them multiple times. 

No matter what, you end up feeling like you want to cry. And you don’t, because you’re a fucking professional, but fuck if you don’t want to. 

It’s mostly just lonely. You had a plus one, but you can’t bring yourself to ask Clark if this is anything—not when you’re sort of always looking out the window—and you ended up going alone. 

That’s probably how this is going to end anyway. 

Might as well get in some fucking practice. 

Someone calls your name from across the room, and you brace for the impact of some Boravian diplomat about to berate you or an ambassador who’s going to make stunted conversation trying to convince you that you’re a bad person. You don’t need them to do that—you’re already so fucking good at doing it yourself—so they’re just going to be wasting everyone’s time. 

But it’s not a cruel, taunting diplomat.

It’s Jimmy, pulling a nervous looking Clark behind him. 

“Hey!” Jimmy stops right in front of you, and it takes a Herculean amount of effort to look at him and not Clark. “Why are you here, I thought they’d be trying to stop you from knowing this is even happening.” 

“I think it’s a weird chess move.” You turn your glass in your hands, and measure out the perfect amount of time to wait before you look up and give Clark a smile. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He responds so quickly, he looks a little surprised with himself. “I- Uh- Are you at least liking the food?”

“It’s fine.” You shrug. “They have the bread rolls you like.”

Clark blushes, fidgeting with his tie. “I know, we- Uh- We’ve been here a bit-“

“Clark ate a whole basket of them.” Jimmy tells you, and you can’t stop your soft laugh. “Then he got upset because he thought he might have taken them away from everyone else-“

“But I didn’t.” Clark jumps in quickly. “They put another basket out- I can go get you one. Do you want one?”

You don’t give a fuck about bread rolls. “Yes, please.”

Clark stands a little taller now that he’s got a mission, and smiles at you before he vanishes into the crowd. He’s left you tapping your nails on your champagne glass, giving Jimmy a tight smile. 

“What are you guys doing here?” You ask, and Jimmy shrugs. 

“Lois wants this and the protests about this covered. She decided to do the protests, gave me the event. I,” he holds up a press badge. “Am working.”

“You and Clark?”

“He’s interested in this kind of thing.”

“He is?” You frown at the crowd, and Jimmy nods. 

“Guess he doesn’t talk about it with you. Invasions and genocide aren’t romantic at all.”

Your heart moves into your throat. “They aren’t- What-“

“Hey, has he asked you his power question yet?” Jimmy cuts you off, mostly looking out at the crowd, and you frown. 

“His what?”

“Past few months he’s been asking like, everyone we know what power they’d want as a meta.” Jimmy shoves his hands in his pockets, giving you a curious expression. “Started when he was talking to Lois about if she thought Superman being able to hear everything is weird. Then he asked her what power she would want, then he asked me, then he called his parents or something- I don’t know what’s up it, but it’s a pretty good question.”

“It… is.” You frown, and there’s that thing in the back of your head. The one that had been drowned out by liquor, then pain, but now how nothing but noise around it. And it’s getting louder. “What’s Clark’s answer?”

“Um- I don’t think he’s actually said.” Jimmy shrugs, then gives you a winning grin. “But I’d know the weather. If you want to know.”

“You’d know the weather.”

“Yeah, like a weatherman, but I’m always right.”

“That’s pointless, Jimmy.”

“To you, maybe. I would figure out how to turn it into a fortune.”

You open and close your mouth, the something in your head getting louder, but it doesn’t turn into words before Clark reappears through the crowd, holding two of the not small bread rolls in one hand.  

“I got them.” He says you name, and your stupid stomach does a happy, traitorous little flip. “Here, I got you butter as well, in case you want to use that.”

He shoves the rolls into your hands, holding your gaze, and your fingers brush. He’s standing so close, he doesn’t need to be this close, but you never want him to move away-

“Clark,” Jimmy mock gasps. “Did you get two so she could give you one?”

“I- No, of course not-“

“I’m just teasing you, man.” Jimmy claps him on the back, scanning out over the crowd. “Alright, I gotta go do my job, or Lois is gonna crucify me.”

Clark wrinkles his nose. “I think that’s a little dramatic-“

“It’s not dramatic enough, and you know it.” Jimmy grins between you and Clark. “Be safe, kids. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You want to grab him, before he disappears into the crowd. Not because you don’t want to be alone with Clark, but because you do. More than almost anything. So you need a buffer, before you do something stupid. 

But Jimmy vanishes, and you have to stuff a bread roll into your mouth to occupy it. Clark just stands next to, still far too close, making your head fucking spin. 

He clears his throat, voice low enough that only you can hear, and you might be leaning into his gravity. 

“You must hate this.” He mutters, and you swallow. 

“I don’t like it.” You mumble, and—because now there’s no bread to block your sappy feelings from spilling out of your mouth—add, “It’s better now, though.”

Clark raises his brows. “Yeah?”

You nod, shoving the second bread roll into your mouth, and Clark won’t stop looking at you. Like you’re the sunrise, as your cheeks push out like a chipmunk and your lipstick smudges slightly. 

Even his voice has a kind of soft reverence, when he speaks. “Do you like them? The bread rolls.”

“They’re good,” you try to say through the mouthful, but it comes out more of a wordless grumble, and you stare at Clark for a moment before you both start laughing. 

It shatters whatever strange tension had just bene in the air. Everything flows smoother, as you talk about the food and drinks and how made up this whole thing is. Clark compliments your dress and you’ve never felt warmer. You think you could go out into the dead, winter night and still feel this warm. 

The air is getting lighter and lighter. You might be in danger of floating away.

“So,” you give him a curious look, and he mirrors it. 

“So?”

“Jimmy says you’re interested in all these events.”

“Oh. Well- I guess I am, yeah.” He’s watching you carefully, words slower than usual. “I just like to know what’s going on in the world. Part of my job, right?”

You hum. “Aren’t most of your articles about Superman?”

He coughs. “Yeah, well, he’s interested in this too. You know how everything went down, with Boravia. He likes to keep tabs on it. And I like to know what I’m probably going to talk to him about.”

The thing is starting to ring in your ears. “How often do you talk to him?”

“I don’t know, every few nights?” Clark smiles, but it’s more taut than usual. Almost nervous. “How often is too often?”

He’s saying it like it’s a joke. 

You’re not sure it is. 

“I mean, you talk to him. He’s a great guy to talk to. Right?” He gives you a strange look, and you sigh.

“He is, yeah. But I don’t interview him.”

“Yes you- I mean, you interviewed him for your case, right?”

“Maybe.” You shrug, narrowing your eyes, and Clark coughs. 

“Well, I don’t get why it’s a big thing, right. I’m interested in things. He’s interested in things. You’re interested in things. And- Yeah. We’re all interested in the same things, and we talk about them, and- I mean, he must have mentioned to you as some point how he talks to me all the time. Mutual friend.” He pauses. “I’ve told him about you.”

You tilt your head at him, lips pressed tight together. “You have.”

“Yeah? I mean, after we talk shop, sometimes he asks how life is, and- I’ve told him about you, and he- He also really likes you-“

“You really like me?”

Clark’s ears go red, and you feel a little guilty—you’re sort of treating him like a hostile witness—but the thing in your head is so fucking close to piecing itself together, you just need to push a little more.

“Yeah, I like you.” He gives you a small grin, pushing up his glass. “But- Superman does to. You’re the best, and- We talk about you all the time.”

You just keep staring at him, because that should make you feel sick. The two men you love, talking about you without you there, when you don’t even know which one you’d want forever. 

But it’s just making you suspicious. Because there’s something so slightly fucking off. 

“Superman has never once mentioned you, Clark.” You say carefully, and  he winces. 

“Ouch. I mean, all is fair in- You know-“

“Love and war?” You finish, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him more nervous. “Which part of this is which?”

He stares at you, mouth hanging slightly open, and right before you’re about to find the words, the world finds them for you. 

Clark’s head shoots up, drawing up to his full height, and pushes his glasses up his nose as he looks over the crowd. And there’s this smallest fucking shift in all your thoughts, as if a veil is being lifted. 

They have the same fucking face. 

You don’t know how you missed it, but they have the same fucking face. 

Your mouth barely opens to tell him that you know, before the first gunshots ring through the air. Clark grabs you around your waist, and the world turns into a rushing, cold blur. You’re not even sure what’s happening, besides your arms wrapping around his neck and the air being knocked from your lungs. 

Then you’re outside, in the freezing cold. Clark steadies you with wide eyes, pulling off his jacket and dumping it into your hands. 

“Put this on and go home.” He mutters, words so fast you almost don’t catch them. “Take a cab, don’t walk. I’ll pay for it, I just- I can’t go with you tonight- I’m sorry-“

You gape at him. “Go with- Clark, what the fuck-“

“I’m sorry.” He repeats, and shoots off into the night. 

Flies off into the night. 

Leaving you alone, on the cold street, with his jacket strangled in your hands and the world upside down. 

———

You’re pacing outside his door. You have been for almost an hour, waiting for him to get home. 

He’ll have to be back soon. It’s past five, you don’t think he has plans tonight, and even if he doesn’t he’d probably have to stop back home to get something.

It’s okay. 

You can wait. 

You have the week off, because your boss feels back for putting you in the middle of a terrorist attack. When he’d told you, he’d looked at you like he expected you to protest. 

Normally, you would have. Slowing down wasn’t the thing to do, not when you were so close to the finish line—even if it kept moving further and further away—and a single faltered step or second to breathe might lead to you falling so far behind. 

But this isn’t a normal week. 

And Superman said you deserve some rest, so you’re listening to him. 

It’s just that rest might not mean the same thing to you that it meant to him. Rest meant answers. Rest meant three days combing over older Superman reports, and drawing out a timeline of Clark’s life to see if things lined up, and writing down everything either of them have ever said to you, to see what lined up. 

And it did. 

Of course it did. It all falls together an avalanche, leaving you standing in to rubble and looking to the sky and wondering how you ever fucking missed it. 

He says your name, and you turn to see Clark staring at you from down the hall, grip white-knuckled on his bag. 

“Clark.” Your voice sounds faraway and cool. You don’t want to be a bitch to him. 

You don’t know how else to be. 

“Are you alright?” He takes a half-step forward, and you wrap your arms around your stomach. Of course he’s just worried about you. Asshole. “I wanted to come check on you, I promise. There’s just been a lot to deal with, and- I wasn’t sure if…” He clears his throat, watching you nervously as you just stare at him. “You’d want to see me?”

“Really?” You raise your chin. “Why wouldn’t I want to see you, Clark?”

“Um...” He glances around the hallway. “Why don’t you tell me, and we can see if we have the same reasons?”

“No, I think you should tell me first.”

“It’s just- I don’t think I should, because what if our reasons aren’t the same and mine sounds crazy-“

“Is your reason that I know?” You snap, narrowing your eyes. “Because I know.”

Clark stares at you for a long, wired moment, then lets out a long, defeated breath. “Can we do this inside, please?”

You nod, and step off to the side so he can open the door. Clark gives you another one of his small, nervous smiles as he brushes past you, and it doesn’t feel any different from before. When he’d sat too close to you at the bar. 

Or stood to close, on the street. 

That’s the worst part of it. Is not you’re not angry, or bitter, or heartbroken. You just feel stranded. Like you’re hanging over a pit and trying to work out if it’s worth falling, or trying to claw your way back out. 

Because if you’re right—and you are—you could have something. Everything. What you’ve spent so much time on, convince yourself that it really wasn’t going to matter. 

But once you have it, it’s real. Something you can lose. Something you can fuck up or neglect or break. 

It’s a good thing. 

Clark—taking your jacket because he’s a stupid gentleman and brushing warm hands on your upper arm—is a good thing. He’s the good thing, the one that everyone looks to for hope, that everyone wants. The god among men, who leaves you little sticky notes and fumbles all his words and makes you trust his every compliment because he always says them like they’re just obvious truths. 

And you can’t figure out how to hold that in your hands, even if you get to use both. 

You don’t know how to wrap your head around the idea that you could just have something good.

“So.” Clark takes a step back, as if he’s trying to offer you space. “You, uh- You know.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“And I’m guessing you figured it out after…” He trails off, and you sigh. 

“After you flew me outside, then took off like a rocket? Yeah, Clark, that kind of gave it away.”

He frowns. “You didn’t know before?”

“I had a theory.” You mumble, and his brows furrow. 

“But you didn’t know.”

You shake your head, and he groans.

“Darn it, I- I was really sure you knew. Wouldn’t have done that if- Shoot-“

“Clark.” You raise your voice, hugging yourself tighter, and he freezes. “Am I right?”

“Uh-“

“Are you Superman?”

“I-“ He lets out a slow breath, and nods. “Yeah.” 

Clark seems to lock your gaze to his as he reaches up, and slowly pulls off his glasses. 

It’s such a small shift. He stands a little taller, even as his features remain nervous and weary, and his face seems to almost shift. It’s the same face—you know, logically, that’s it’s the same face—but it’s like your head couldn’t fully connect the two into one, couldn’t hold them at the same time. 

But you can now.

And your mouth falls open as Superman stares at you with an almost fearful expression. 

“I- How?”

“The glasses?” He glances down to them with a frown. “Well, they’re hypnoglasses, so-“

“No, I mean- How did I not know?” You take a step back, shaking your head. “I- I talked to you every day and every night and it took me months to put it together, and that was only after I realized- Fuck-“

“Don’t- Wait-“ Clark takes a large step forward, arms twitching like he wants to reach for you. “The glasses make sure you don’t know, that’s the point of them, and it’s not like I told you-“

“Why?” Your voice is rising, and you take another step back. “Why are you telling me now, why- Why did you keep coming to me as Superman when I was talking to you as Clark, why- Which one of you is the real one-“

“Both. Both are real, there wasn’t- I’ve always been both- And I just wanted, I guess any reason to talk to you, so I sort off just indulged both, and-“ He takes another step forward, and you take another one back. “Can you please stop walking away? I know that you’re mad at me, and I- I understand, but- Please, just listen-“

“Why didn’t you hate me?” You blurt before you can stop yourself, everything rising so fast up your throat like an eruption, and Clark freezes. 

“I couldn’t hate you.”

You shake your head, your back hitting the wall. “No, I- I was talking to both you and- You at the same time, and- I was-“ You cut yourself off, pressing further back, and Clark takes a smaller step forward.

“Are you worried that I was jealous of myself?”

You nod weakly, and Clark sighs.

“No,” he says your name, voice firm, and takes another step. “I mean- No. I mean, I thought about it. Which one would make you happier. But I kept finding that you were always happy, and I- I thought maybe if I told you, you’d be happy. And we could laugh about it, and you’d say something- Uh-“ He stops, barely a foot away. “I mean, it’s kind of stupid now.”

“What?” You whisper, and Clark frowns.

“Do you really want me to say it?”

You nod, and he runs a hand over his face.

“Just maybe- Like- I love you either way. Both ways. I want you both ways, and wow, what a great way this worked out, that I get to love both of you, because you’re the same person. How convenient.” His ears are a little red, and he mumbles. “Most of it was just going to be you saying you love me.”

You swallow. “How do you know I love you?”

“I- uh- I don’t? I mean, I do have a reason, but it might be not- Sound. And if I’m wrong, that’s fine and we can forget the whole thing, but-” He takes a half-step forward. “Your heart. It goes really fast, when I’m near you, and, uh-“ He coughs, eyes darting down your body. “I can- Sometimes- Not that I’m trying to, but it just- It happens, and I can’t control it-“

“Clark-“

“I can smell you.” He mumbles, and your eyes widen. “So- I know there’s something. Might be wrong about love, though.” He looks at you under hooded eyes, and your face might be burning. “Am I wrong?”

You want to tell him that he’s not wrong. To tell him that he’s not wrong, that you’ve loved him for longer than you care to say aloud, and fell for both version because it was him. It wasn’t just a craving not to be alone anymore, it was him. Your heart moved in the same rhythm because it was playing the same song. Love for Clark. 

But you don’t want to mess it up. Say it wrong. Open your mouth and just start crying, because it’s so sweet and embarrassing all at once. 

So you just push out, in barely a breath. “Do you want to be wrong?”

“No.” He answers so fast, and your nails dig into your sides. 

“And- What would you have said?” You blink at him slowly, choosing every word so carefully. “In your… dream scenario?”

“That I love you, too.” He takes another step forward, and you don’t flinch away. There’s nowhere to run anyway. No reason to. “That I’ve wanted to tell you the whole time, because I don’t like lying to you but- I just wanted to make sure.”

“Make sure?” You frown. “What, that I wouldn’t- Turn you in?”

Clark’s eyes widen. “What? Gosh no, I- I just wanted to check that you felt the same and that- I don’t know, it would be worth it. Not that you’re not worth it. That me telling you would just- End in nothing. That I wouldn’t be putting you in that danger just to have gotten caught up in my feelings.”

You swallow, scanning over his open, handsome features. He means every word he says. He always does. 

And you have to ask. 

“Is it worth it?” 

Clark nods, giving you a small grin. “Yeah. I’d say it is.”

You nod, staring at each other in the dark, and the moment maybe drags on for a million years. Or only a second. It doesn’t matter, because you’re here. With Clark standing over you, one of his arms braced next to your head and the other slowly, lightly tracing up your arm. And he loves you. 

So you could waste away, and it would feel like you were drowning in daylight the whole time. 

“Can I kiss you.” Clark whispers, and you nod. 

“Yes, please.”

His hand trails up, sending shivers through your body and making your knees weak, and ends up resting on your face. He stares at you with such open affection and reverence, it’s going to put you in danger of crying again. 

When he dips down, he just brush a soft, warm kiss over your cheek, and you grab a fistful of his shirt. 

“Sorry.” He tries to lean back, eyes wide. “I- Uh- I should’ve asked you what you wanted, sweetheart, I’m sorry-“

“Clark.” You hold his panicked gaze, feeling his muscles flex as his breathing grows heavy. “I want you. Just- Touch me.”

His eyes dart down to your lips, voice hoarse. “Touch you?”

You nod, and his throat bobs. 

“How much?”

“All of it.” You try to sound commanding, but it’s just sort of coming off needy. 

He doesn’t seem to mind.

“All of it.” He echoes, and slowly leans down to ghost his lips over you. It makes your whole body light up, just from such a light touch, and you try to yank him down but he’s stronger. Doesn’t even budge an inch.

“Clark-“

“Are you sure you can take all of it?” He murmurs, lips still brushing over yours, and it’s not a challenge. It’s just a question of pure, true concern. “I mean, we can try, but if you want to stop, during any of it, you can just tell me and I’m never going to take it personally. Okay?”

You stare at him, and Jesus, you might be about to fall over just from that. He’s so close. He can’t be this close and just do nothing.

“Can you, uh- Just say that you want it, please?” Clark looks a little worried, his thumb tracing over your lower lip, and you smile. 

“I want it.” You give him a small smirk. “Please.”

He stares at you for a moment, eyes flashing with something dark, and his voice drops to an octave you’ve never even heard it before. 

“Alright.” He murmurs, and you suddenly realize exactly how pinned you are between him and the wall. “Whatever you want, baby.”

You barely get a second to process what that means, before Clark’s pulling you up into a long, deep, hot kiss. It’s consuming. Sets of every nerve in your body with how carefully he moves, how deliberately he holds you. How you feel both weightless and burning, in his arms and under his attention. His mouth works quickly against yours, like he’s been starved for it, all as his hands find a respectful place to rest on your body—under your thigh and around your back—and seems to be carefully holding back his weight over you. 

It unravels you so fast. Lights a fire in your gut and makes your legs spread. Your hips grind for more friction, broken sounds of need falling from your lips. Clark dips down to kiss your neck and shoulders, and you yank on his hair when his hand on the back of your thigh slowly starts to rub higher and higher. 

“Clark- Oh-“ You gasp as his knee pushes up between your thighs, and start to fuck yourself desperately against him. “God, please-“

“I know.” He mumbles, pressing a soft kiss over your lips. “I’ve got you, I’ll make it feel good, just-“ He grabs your hips, starting to drag them as a slightly different, rougher angle, and your head falls back with a moan. “There you go.”

His voice is gentle and deep in your ear, and he keeps kissing you almost anywhere he can reach, as you keep chasing release against him. 

A loud, broken whine falls from your lips when he pulls away, right before your release. 

“Sorry.” Clark kisses you again, groaning when you try to bite on his lower lip. “Just give me a moment, baby don’t want to do it here, and- Come on-“

He scoops you fully into his arms, bridal style, and you squeak as the air rushes past you. There’s barely a moment to register what’s happening before you’re flat on your back in a soft bed, and Clark is kissing you into the mattress.

His bed. 

You’re in his bed. 

But somehow, everything that’s happening feels like yours. 

Clark is so sweet. With everything he does, he’s just good and sweet, and it’s going to drive you out of your mind. He asks again, before taking off your clothing, and when you nod feverishly, he kisses you again with a smile on his lips. 

“You’re so pretty.” His hand rests carefully in your hair, and he pushes the kiss a little deeper. “You’re going to look even prettier when you cum, sweetheart, probably like a painting.”

You flush, a small moan escaping your lips, because somehow Clark just saying something like cum is dirtier talk than anything you’ve heard in your life. 

He catches it. Of course he is. 

He’s paying such good attention to you, rubbing a hand on your hips and letting you grind up against his bulge. Every few moments, his hand will trail up your side right as the need in pussy starts to unbearably ache, and it will offer a brief respite that just falls into more need. 

It’s like he’s trying to learn everything, with almost nothing. 

And worst of all, it’s working. 

Clark leans up, watching you with a curious expression. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

Your mouth falls open, his words rushing straight into your dripping cunt, and Clark’s nostrils flare. 

“Yeah?” He leans down, the hand on your waist slowly moving to draw big circles on your hips. “Do you like it when I say dirty things?” He says your name, voice still so gentle, and you like to sink into the sheets forever. 

“Maybe.” You whisper, trying not to squirm as his hand moves slowly between your legs, rubbing against your inner thighs without ever touching where so you desperately need him. “But- I you don’t want to-“

Clark leans down, silencing you with a deep, hot kiss, and devouring your moan as his palm finally presses against your cunt. 

He groans over you, starting to rub it back and forth at such a tortuous pace, and your mouth falls open in a long plea. 

“Oh my god- Please- I- I can’t- I need more-“

“Relax, baby. I’ll give you more.” He mutters, and when you try to wiggle below him, all it takes a deeper press of his palm, and you’re trapped. “I’ll give you anything, don’t worry about me.”

You hum, and his words are like a drug. You don’t have to worry. You can just relax, because Clark says to, and he doesn’t say anything that isn’t true. 

“Do you like your clothing?” He kisses a spot below your ear, words rolling through your body, and you barely shake your head before you hear the rip. 

There’s not even a second to feel cold, before all of Clark’s heat is over you. He seems to have taken his clothing with yours—cock pressing against your pussy, back strong beneath your hands as you try to map out his body—and you’re so quickly lost in the feeling of just being close to him. Kisses over your face as he ruts against you and holds you with such care.

You’re going to implode, though, if he doesn’t touch you properly. And you’re about to start begging when suddenly Clark is pulling you both upright, so you’re falling over his chest and sat in his lap. 

Clark grunts, as you writhe above him, and your eyes flick down. 

You might be drooling. He’s palming himself with strict, controlled movements, his face pressed into your neck as he sucks dark marks on your throat. 

“Is it…” You trail off, words broken up by a moan as Clark finds a sensitive spot. “Do- Is that part of Kryptonian- Fuck-“

Your back arches, as Clark’s hand moves to your dripping pussy, slowly sliding two fingers inside and crooking them right against that deep, hyper-sensitive spot. 

“Don’t know.” He mumbles. “Never checked. Shit, you’re so soft, and-“ He grunts as you clench around his finger. “I’m going to wreck you, sweetheart, going to play this sweet pussy until it’s soaking my cock-“

“Clark-“ You whine. “Fucking- Don’t just say that-“

“Why not?” He smiles against your skin, starting to kiss his way back over your face. “You like it, don’t you. Want it all.” He pulls his finger out, and before you can grab his wrist, he spanks your pussy. Just once, lightly, not enough to cause more than a sting. But enough to make you yelp a prayer of his name. 

“Oh- I-“ You go limp as he does it again, and you meet his hooded, arduous gaze with a soft whine. “Yes, Clark, God-“

He just keeps watching you. Grinding and rolling above him as he traces his thumb around your clit, then drags his fingers through your dripping folds.

He brings you arousal, gathered on his fingers, up to his mouth. 

Licks it clean, with a low, guttural sound from his chest. 

“So damn good.” He mutters, before pressing his thumb lightly to your mouth. “I swear I don’t think you’re real sometimes, sweetheart, you’re so- God-“ 

He groans as you suck on his thumb, moaning at the taste of your own need for him, and Clark drags you into a long, rough kiss. Falls flat on his back and starts to jerk his hips up into you, cock brushing torterously on your clit. 

“Clark.” Your fingers scratch at his chest. “Please-“

“Right. Uh- C’mon.” He grabs your ass, shifting you so that he can see your puffy, soaked cunt, and nods to himself. “That’s good, yeah- Hold on, baby. Relax.”

You nod, but no amount of sweet words could’ve prepared you for this. How fucking good it feels as he lifts you up like it’s nothing, and slowly drags you down onto his cock. He’s splitting you open and moaning as he does it, looking up at you like you’re an angel while filling you up so good you can’t remember your own name. 

He gives you a long moment to adjust, both your breathes ragged, an almost growling noise escaping his lips when you flutter around him. 

You pout down at him, trying to drag yourself back and forth for a little friction, and that’s all it takes to get Clark moving. 

He’s not going to let you do this yourself. He holds you by your hips and guides you back and forth on his cock, hitting every single spot inside of you, rutting up every few moments to kiss your cervix, and- Fuck-

“God, yes-“ You moan, throwing your head back as your dragged right up to the edge. “Clark- Yes, fuck- Feel so fucking big-“

He groans your name. “Don’t- If you keep talking I’m gonna- Fuck-“

“What?” You giggle breathily, and Clarks hands are going to leave bruises on you in the morning. It’s still not feeling him enough. “Fill me up? Fuck me stupid?”

Clark groans, twitching inside of you. “God, you got fuckin’ how much I- I wanna-“

“You said you’d give me everything.” You whisper, looking at him with your best glossy, needy eye. “I want all of you, Clark, please- Make me feel it, show me how much you- Oh-“

He flips you like you’re nothing, drawing out fully before slamming back in, and swallows the scream of his name with a harsh kiss. 

“I’ll make you feel it, pretty girl.” He mutters, setting a rough, unforgiving pace. “Love you so much, I wanted to go slow, but- You want to get cockdrunk, don’t you. Want to stop using that big brain and just feel good.” 

You moan, already so close to the edge. “Clark, please-“

“I told you, baby.” The kiss he gives you is almost taunting, with how he’s wrecking your cunt. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

And he does. 

Clark fucks into you like he’s trying to leave a mark. Every kiss on your lips and face and neck seem made to brand you, and his hand worship your body with such care, but every touch is firm and certain. He maps your body with his hands and thrusts into you with such borderline fervor, you don’t think you’re ever going to feel anything but Clark again. It’s the only word you know. The prayer that falls from your lips, over and over until you’re shaking and burning like a live-wire, desperate for just some release. 

Before you can even beg for it, Clark’s thumb finds your clit, and starts to rub it at an inhuman speed. 

“Cum for me, darling.” He almost growls in your ear. “Show me how good it feels, fucking say my name-“

You scream, just as he wanted to, and almost white-out as your orgasm wrecks through your body. Your pussy squeezes around Clark, overwhelmed and dripping with his perfect abuse of your pleasure, and he moans in your ear as he cums. You might have passed out for a second, from the feeling of him holding you so tight, fucking you through both your orgasms and muttering your name, over and over as you float down. 

He helps you clean up. Of course he does. Uses a warm cloth on the mess between your thighs, before carrying you to the bathroom. Starts the shower as you pee, then coaxes you into the warm shower, because you’re going to be sore in the morning. 

You have to convince him to get in with you. You’re pretty sure trying not to make assumptions, or take advantage of you. 

So ask him if you can stay, and try not to feel too big when he nods eagerly. 

But you have him. 

All of him. 

And you’ve maybe never felt more peaceful than when you’re folded back in his arms, just resting in his bed. 

“Was that good?” He mutters in your ear, and it’s not fair. How perfect he is. 

You nod weakly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yeah, did you-“

“It was amazing.” He turns his head to kiss your cheek, warm breath fanning over your cheek as he laughs. “Probably should’ve told you sooner, if this is what it got me.”

“Maybe.” You whisper. “But we’re still here, right?”

“Yeah.” Clark hums. “And I- I think I’m just happy I get to love you at all.”

You push on his chest to look at him, and when he smiles, you smile right back. 

“I’m happy, too. And I- I do love you.” You lean down, letting your nose bump against his. “So much.”

Clark grins, pulling you down into a full, slow and lazy kiss, and you bask in it. The warmth on his body, and the light, happy feeling in your chest. Sinking deeper and deeper in, making you know that you don’t really need to see through the dark of Clark’s room. 

You have him. 

And that makes everything clear.

The announcement is on. The president recites his speech as if his life depends on it. But how couldn’t he after the greatest battle America's heroes just won?

Roars come from the crowd as the greatest supes get on stage to receive their honors. Men whistle and compliment Liberty and Private Angel, the two female companions of Payback. And when Torpedo, Bombsight and Soldier Boy appear, ladies swoon and scream so loud one could swear their panties dropped.

Soldier Boy, as the great leader of Payback he is, gives a short speech on stage, putting on a handsome smile, giving details of their last mission. Once again, we are safe from comunism and trusting up on our moral institutions, we must respect American values and the new big corporations are not definitely making any profit from it, hooray! People clap, and you follow.

Standing on the other side of the stage, you beam, with proud. Proud of your soldier - the real soldier - finally getting recognition. Robbie catches a glimpse of your loving eyes from the side. He smiles back and winks at you before standing straight, looking at the crowd. You feel a heat scattering your cheeks. Ah, yes it still feels like the day you met when you were just two kids foling around. Now, look where you are.

When the pictures, speeches and patronizing are done, the team leaves through the other side of the stage. The staff claps and celebrates backstage as the supes make their parade through the aisle. Robbie finally finds its way to you and you jump right there, hugging him and never, ever letting go, sparking that laugh of his you love so much.

"I'm so proud of you!" a grin so wide on your lips, arms around his neck, his hands rest on your sides so slightly. "You are a hero, honey!"

"Well, ain't a sweet surprise having you here, my love?" he adds with a playful voice, and then gives a gentle kiss to your cheek.

You chuckle. "I have something for you, c'me here."

You walk a few steps to the corner of the backstage, where people already dissipated, except for just a few. There's a beautiful bucket of flowers resting on a chair that you take and place in front of your fiancé with a teeth showing beam and shinny eyes. Robbie takes them happily.

"For you," you say, his eyes go soft.

"Doll, you didn’t have to..."

"But I wanted to. It's been a long time since I saw you."

Robbie leans to you and finally kisses your lips. You savour the moment, as much as you can with a pair of eyes you have felt even before you encountered Robbie. A hard pair of green eyes, looking at both of you from afar.

When you break the kiss for air, you fix the collar of Robbie's jacket. You touch his cheek and nose affectionaly, with a gentleness Soldier Boy could sense. And he observes throughly the way you speak so naturally with Bombsight. How he takes your hand and intertwines his fingers of his free hand with yours, playing with the ring he proposed you with, pulling your frame even closer.

Soldier Boy has watched you before. The receptionist at Vought. The first smile he sees every damn day he gets to that hideous building in the middle of the city. He's had all the ladies he's ever wanted, but you. You kindly always said no, and when he found out Bombsight was the reason, Soldier Boy fumed with rage.

How could he get a woman like you?

Bombsight wasn’t number one at Vought's experiments.

He wasn’t leading the audience.

He wasn’t the strongest.

He wasn’t the handsomest.

He wasn’t an imposing leader.

He wasn’t Soldier Boy.

That was what attracted you to Robbie. His idealism, his romantic side, his soft-spoken voice... None of those things is Soldier Boy.

Robbie never saw you as a game, or a new girl to get his hands on and then toss away. You were very aware of Soldier Boy's reputation with the ladies. And you, you weren’t interested in becoming one more of them. That's why you kindly declined his charm.

And he thought someday you'd just give in. He snorts to himself as you walk together his way.

Robbie, on the other side always wanted to be chosen. Corresponded. Taken care of. Loved.

And that's what Ben can't handle.

The stupidest of all feelings. The most basic of all the needs of a human being. But he's not human anymore. He is not just another man. He is the greatest supe in America, the most perfect model of masculinity, heroism and patriotism of the century.

He doesn’t have time for pettiness. And love - he confess to himself - is a trivial thing. He doesn’t need that.

You smile, kind and cute as always, when you pass his side, clinging to your man. Bombsight salutes to his leader, smile vanishing away. Soldier Boy nods his head as both pass by, and notices the idiot saves the soft side and true beams for you.

What a bunch of fucking malarkey.

Soldier Boy is anything, but a wimpy little boy who craves for a woman's soft touch.

He spends the rest of the day - and probably the rest of his life - convincing himself he is not one made for feelings.