𝐵𝓁𝓊𝑒

His voice no longer held that charming, dependable baritone. The figure peers past her viewfinder, brows scrunched in annoyance.

"Do you mind?"

You gesture dismissively at him, smacking your gum louder to emphasise his hinderence. Then, proceed to readjust the angle, zooming back in on the scene.

This was the money shot — ambulances streaming in, attending to the call. Wheeling out victims one by one, unblocked by the police cars and reporters.

Just as you think to hit record, the brief fades to black.

You pull back confused in time to watch the slow demise of uour very expensive equipment, grabbed and crushed to smithereens by the intruders.

"As a matter of fact, I do mind."

Clark dusts off the metallic pieces nonchalantly, looking over his shoulder and back at a slowly rising you.

"There were lives lost." He begins.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" You rasp, lips twitching in barely restrained anger.

Clark frowns at the curse thrown his way, "It's inhumane, what you're doing. Filming people in obvious distress."

"Inhumane," you scoff, tilting your camera in disapproval, "this is coming from the non-human here? Kick rocks, dude." Relief takes you when the memory card's visibly undamaged.

He looks down in confusion at a snap of your fingers, drawing his gaze to your outstretched, gloved palms.

"Give me the money."

"Excuse me?"

"To replace my equipment, that you broke."

Clark laughs suddenly, covering his mouth to stifle the rest of the noise.

"Is this…funny to you?" You manage.

"No! No — just…I'm talking about taking some moral responsibility for the filth of a profession, and all you care about is compensation?"

"So you're calling reporting a filthy profession?"

"That's not at all what I said."

"That's what you're insinuating."

"So come on, Superman. Our jobs are so far beneath you isn't it?"

"I —"

"You violated my rights, which I emphasise, is completely legal to film, broke my intellectual property, and then proceeded to call my profession filth."

Clark's mouth parts, then shuts. His finger loosely held up with an argument that never quite makes it out.

"I'm beneath you." You then declare with a shrug, like you'd come to a reasonable conclusion as you rummage through your bag for your backup.

It comes without warning. A singular, blinding flash that he couldn't react to in time. Palms half-raised and face twisted in a wince.

"Thanks for the story."

Clark blinks away rapidly, his surroundings blurring it white spots. You're already halfway lept over the pillar before he could ask you what you meant.

SUPERMAN — REPORTER'S PUBLIC ENEMY NUMBER ONE?

"Have you seen this?"

Clark tenses when today's issue of The Daily Planet lands on his laptop. Tearing him from his daze.

"Huh?" He mumbles, adjusting his glasses to the big, folded serif staring right at him.

"I mean — you think you know a guy. I looked at him, through his soul. Well. Through the television…"

What on earth was this?

Oblivious to Olsen's ongoing rant, he readers the article. Heart pounding with every sentence — speaking of the phony facade he presented, followed by the quaint little QR code indicating 'evidence'. Clark wastes no time to whip his device out, staring an image of himself beneath an mp3 recording.

His brow tense further, recognising his little exchange. This…was — from the other day. With you.

"Excuse me for a second."

Olsen blinks at a retreating Clark, holding the paper with a tight knuckled grip all the way to Perry White's office.

"Sir, what is this? How could we print something like this?" He squeaks, holding the paper up.

The door swings up with a deafening creak, startling the people inside.

"Christ on a stick, Kent! I have a guest." Perry stands there, styrofoam cup of coffee having near spilled at the reverberation.

You don't seem all that alarmed, tilting to look over your shoulders to the two men.

"Sorry about that." Perry chimes in, roughly patting Clark's back into a bow, the article neatly tucked to his chest. "Clark here is our resident Superman writer."

A beat passes before a grin curls at the corner of your lips. "Ohhhhh that's right. Clark Kent."

The taller man stiffens at your voice, looking up carefully. Did you have him made?

"The Superman-ass-kisser from the blogs. Thought I recognised that name."

Perry guffaws at that, next to a less-than-amused-Clark, "oh she's a character!"

You hop on your feet, letting out a hearty stretch before shoving the folded cheque into your back pocket.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Pears."

Clark's frown deepens at the derivative look you shoot his way as you twirl a pink coloured strip of gum to your tongue.

He's following closely behind, tripping over words he thinks to say that wouldn't expose himself.

"You — you're responsible? For the…smear article?"

Thoughtfully, you chew, glancing toward the clunky male. "Saw me take the cheque, didn't you?"

By the time you both reach the elevators, he doesn't quite have a question prepped in his mind. So —

"Why?" He blurts.

"Aren't you a reporter?"

"I-I am."

You don't offer him any grace as you slink into the elevator, jabbing the buttons and the close button. Clark barely makes it in, a look of displeasure evident.

"So you should know I'm reporting."

His lips press taut, shuffling backward in the elevator.

"That's not reporting. It's just…filming people, in distress and in pain and it's —"

"Inhumane?" You finish, lifting your head up to actually look at him. Chewing your gum thoughtfully.

"Exactly what he said too."

Shoot. Perhaps he shouldn't have said that.

The silence between you both stretches for far too long. He needed to think of something, quickly.

"You're boning Superman?"

"I — what??"

Clark jolts when the doors open on the fifteenth floor, more people flittering in. He scoots backward awkwardly, hunching over you.

"We — I-I'm not!" You're wincing at how high pitched his voice had gotten. Scooching to the far left corner of the cramped space.

Clark looks around at the dwindling square footage, carefully caging you in.

"I-I'm not doing that with Superman." He adds in an urgent whisper.

You begin to chew a little more annoyed, neck craned back at his proximity.

Clark's heads tilted all the way up. Chest rising and dipping erratically when he gets a whiff of whatever perfume you had on.

You raise a brow, head lolled to face him. It's not until this moment that you noticed just how stuffed the elevator was. And how Clark had effectively formed a barrier around you, somehow not touching you in the process. Holding the awkward position.

"…Well you should with how far up his ass you are." It's a mutter, but he catches it anyway.

He groans, with a slow shake of his head.

"I really…dislike the way you talk."

"Devastating. How will I ever recover?"

"Oh I oughta…"

The floor stops again by the tenth floor, annoyed snide comments call for people to make space. Clark wedges his foot between yours, pressing further into you.

"Watch it," you warn, subconsciously holding your breath when the wall of chest inches closer.

"S…sorry. I'm being pushed."

You unfurl your arms in attempt to give him more space, eyes shut to focus on the hum of machinery overhead.

It goes by ridiculously slowly, and you can feel yourself unnerving.

"Are you…claustrophobic?"

You blink, rolling the pink sweetness between your canines. Chewed far too many times to only leave the remnants of sweet apples there.

"No. I'm just apprehensive about hostile, strange men having cornered me in an elevator."

Clark sighs with his whole chest, restlessly drumming his fingertips on the metal surface.

"You're right," he points out. "I'm sorry. I didn't consider how it might've come across."

Your gaze flit upwards, catching a glimpse of his earnest expression. But then you see it.

A peek of blue beneath the open collar of his white button down. You think you might've imagined it, if not for him turning around to check if they were on the ground floor.

Unmistakable blue stretched around his collarbone, pulling taut.

"Don't sweat it." You finally say, sucking your teeth before you look up at him. A slow smile denting your cheeks as you take in the name tag dangling from his lanyard.

"Truce?"

Clark smiles at your timely proposition. Smiling back at you earnestly.

"No way!" Tommy exclaimed with an expression of shock that could not be made up. He loved to play pretend with his nieces, but not this time. He was genuinely surprised. "The nutcracker was the prince all along?"

Isabelle and Maggie loudly shushed him, index finger against their lips and all like two serious librarians.

You watched the comical scene from your side of the couch before giving your attention back to the movie. Even though the girls had insisted on watching it with you just about every day during the week to prepare for their upcoming ballet show, it was Tommy’s first experience with this classic movie: Barbie and The Nutcracker.

"And she was this magical fairy-princess-person they’ve been searching for?" Tommy expressed in a whisper that earned him another shush of reprimand from the girls. "What? I would have never guessed!" Tommy defended himself with an apologetic shrug against the pair of angry stares he received for disrupting movie time.

As if the girls did not talk all the time when it was their uncle’s turn to pick a film… They were easily forgiven, though.

After rewatching (several times, for good measure) the final dance scene between the Sugar Plum Princess and the Prince, the television was shut off. "Alright, ladies, let’s get in the…" Izzie and Maggie pulled on their uncle’s arm to make him sit on the floor in a circle with their stuffed animals and dolls. "Bath." You mumbled in defeat.

Tommy, however, glanced up at you in distress. He did not expect a full lecture on this animated movie.

Isabelle took a deep breath before blabbering an entire spiel about how Tommy clearly missed the beautiful message of this equally beautiful movie. Duh, of course Clara was the Sugar Plum Princess! She was brave and kind and she helped everyone to save the kingdom from the rat army, after all. Only someone with a pure heart would have achieved that. Oh, and Maggie made sure to point out that Clara was beautiful.

You swallowed a chuckle and hid your smile behind the pillow you held against your chest while Tommy nodded along and pretended to understand. Like a true saviour, you came to his rescue by mouthing the word ‘bedtime’ hoping it would remind your boyfriend that there were more urgent matters on the schedule than a whole spiel about Barbie.

He understood the not so subtle memo and clapped his hands together. "The first one to make it to the bathroom gets to decide how much bubble bath we put in!" Tommy announced and the girls jumped on their feet at the speed of light.

*~*~*

Tommy could not be more focused on this important task even if he tried. Tongue poking out, eyes squinting in focus, breath held in until his lungs turned into a burning fireplace. He was pouring all of his care and his skills into… Putting Isabelle’s hair into a bun. A neat, perfect ballerina bun. "It’s easier when their hair is wet." He commented.

"That’s why mom uses spray bottles." Maggie informed him. She still seemed bitter about what happened during her last sleepover... Tommy insisted on holding her head above the sink to run her hair under the faucet so he could practice. No harm was done, obviously, but it made a mess all over the counter and, even worse, on her favourite shirt.

Since that day, Maggie insisted that you were responsible for her hair. You were happy to help, and Isabelle clearly preferred her uncle anyway. She liked to fake that he was pulling her hair too much so she can repeat the onomatopoeia ‘ouch’ every ten seconds.

Tommy started patting his hand on the floor until he found the missing piece to his work of art. He grabbed the bow, opened the clip and searched for the perfect spot to put it in Isabelle’s hair.

But the little girl vigorously protested. "Our teacher said we don’t need the bow anymore."

"Last minute changes to the costumes?" You inquired and the sisters explained the anecdote that caused this tragic loss: another kid in their class complained that her bow wasn’t sparkly enough, so everyone demanded super duper extra sparkly bows and it turned into a big argument that the teacher won by getting rid of the accessory altogether. "Ballet teachers are strict." You concluded, Tommy agreed but he pouted sadly.

"It was my favourite part." Tommy sighed before giving a final look to the… Actually impressive bun he created. It looked like a perfectly shaped cinnamon roll — maybe overly toasted because of Isabelle’s chocolate brown hair but, still.

"Wow!" Maggie and you let out at the same time. She started to consider that maybe Tommy had earned a second chance at doing her hair if he made it look as good as her older sister’s…

"Too bad Grace said she would have time to do their hair before the show." You shrugged, before passing the handheld mirror from Maggie to Isabelle so they could take a look at their hairstyles.

"Yeah, but I wanted to make sure we could do their hair too. You know, in case their mother needs backup." Tommy explained his reasoning behind his insistence on learning how to create the perfect ballerina hair despite it not being necessary at all to begin with. He clipped the bow onto the sleeve of your pyjama, now that it had no other place to go. "Grace always works so hard."

"That’s what you always say when it’s time to have a sleepover!" Maggie joined in the conversation. You knew her well enough to guess she had more than the right amount of wisdom to figure out just how much love and effort their mother put into taking care of them every day. Isabelle understood, too.

"We’re always happy to help." You chimed in. You pressed a kiss on each of their foreheads before reaching for Maggie’s hair to start undoing it so they could go to bed.

"Hey, not yet! We did such a good job." Tommy put his arm in the way of your hands so you would not get rid of the hairstyles just yet. "Five more minutes?" He asked and, inevitably, his nieces begged for more.

More time to play, more candies to eat, more blankets and pillows so they can be comfortable… They lied poorly, you knew they would use all of those items to create a big blanket fort in the living room. And to create a big mess too.

You gave in to just about every single of their demands. How could you not? They gave you their best puppy eyes and pretty please with a cherry on top! They had already eaten tons of candies (more than allowed) and they were already going to bed late (later than allowed, too). So at that point, you were fighting a losing battle… But when you heard the first yawns, you instructed Tommy to grab the air mattress he spent hours pumping with a bike pump before any of the girls could start rubbing their eyes in irresistible fatigue.

With their teeth brushed, their dolls put away for the night and each of their stuffed animals lovingly tucked under the blankets, Tommy’s nieces were finally ready for bed. He gave them a ton of kisses on top of their heads only to hear their sweet giggles fill the living room one last time before they fell asleep.

"Best uncle," Izzie began. "And best aunt," Maggie continued. "Ever." They said in unison before softly falling asleep practically at the same time.

Your boyfriend and you both swooned at their sweet words, but you were the first one to make your way to your bedroom ready for sleep to claim you, hopefully, just as fast as it did for the kids. You had time to pick out yours and Tommy’s clothes for the next day, then to rub lotion into your hands before you noticed that something — more like someone — was missing. With a grin on your lips, you walked back to the living room.

Tommy had stolen one of the blankets the girls previously gathered for their fort. He now laid on the couch, with his legs hanging off the armrest from the knees down. His left hand peeked out from under the blanket, and the same thing happened to Maggie so they could sleep with their pinkie fingers linked together. Best uncle ever indeed.

*~*~*

Both of you were now waiting in line to be seated into the small auditorium. Tommy’s hand squeezed yours so tightly that you could feel the tip of your fingers starting to tingle from the lack of circulation. He had been blabbering about everything and nothing during the car ride from your apartment to the school where his nieces were dancing tonight. "Is there a ballet thing where we can braid their hair? I wanna learn how to do that too." The man had the brain and muscles to build a whole kitchen from scratch like he did for Grace, and yet he wanted to perfect his magical touch with an array of hairstyles. "I brought their bows just in case, but I left them in the truck. Should I go get them just to be sure?" He was so concerned for his nieces and he wanted everything to go well tonight.

Isabelle and Maggie had worked so hard to learn their dance routine for the show tonight. Hours upon hours of rewatching Barbie and The Nutcracker to prepare, of showing off their pirouettes to whichever member of the family wanted to see them for the nth time, of rehearsing with their friends at school after class until everyone had learned their roles as best as they could. The most important part of it all was that the girls had so much fun.

You had fun too, helping them with every little task they needed you for. You grew very fond of watching Tommy enjoy his role as an uncle more and more each day. This show was a long time coming, and everyone involved learned a little bit more about themselves.

Tommy now learned that he was fantastic at putting hair into a bun, he even joked around about letting his hair grow long enough so he could style it that way. Tommy also learned that he really liked having a home full of giggles. The sisters argued sometimes (at least five times a day, he counted), but they made everything so lively. So exciting. They stayed over a few times each month, but he wished it was more. He wished… He just wished for more of this. For a family. One that he would love and take care of to the best of his abilities. Tommy turned his head to look at you and, for a moment, all of the stress he had felt building up to his nieces’ performance had faded. He related to the Nutcracker in a way: the Prince wished to be worthy of his people, and Tommy wished to be worthy of you.

Backstage, the little girls were chatting and laughing with their friends as everyone received the help of a parent to get dressed. They took that opportunity to tell Grace just how much fun their recent sleepover at their uncle and auntie’s place had been. They made their mom promise to ask their dad if they could stay with Tommy and you even more often.

A loud voice announced in a squeaky microphone that the performance would start in ten minutes and urged the guests to get to their seats. The Cahills took up almost an entire row. With Sam, Hank and his wife, Tommy and you… The elementary school auditorium felt even smaller than it already was with all the parents and family members who came here to celebrate the hard work of their relatives. "Let me fix that for you." You told Tommy, leaning close so you could fix one of the buttons of his shirt.

He dressed real nice for this special occasion. One of the most special nights of his life, no doubt about it. Tommy was so proud of his nieces, and he was so thankful that he could participate in making their little ballerina dreams come true. He saved up lots of money to help pay for the ballet classes. The lady at the bank, a very nice one at that, found it very kind of him when he withdrew money from his savings account to help his nieces. A savings account… He had one of those now. He came such a long way. The best part of it all was being with you, no doubt about that either.

This rendition of The Nutcracker took some creative liberties to adapt the dance for all the kids who were so excited to put on tutus or cute mice costumes with pretty ballet shoes. One might wonder what was left of the original story after all these changes… But the show was magical nevertheless. Isabelle and Maggie shined brighter than ever with their smiles (excluding Maggie’s front tooth that had been generously rewarded by Tommy the Tooth Fairy the night before). They could hear the loud cheers and whistles from the Cahills when they came up on stage again for their final bow.

The loud voice in the speakers told everyone to stay seated for an encore of the kids’ classical music club who played their version of one of the symphonies. Tommy tried to keep his voice low all while whispering loud enough so you could hear him over the screeching sound of plastic recorders and various other instruments played with questionable skills. "Is it like a real thing?"

"What?" You asked, at least you heard him but you were not sure what he meant.

"The ballet," he specified. "Did it really happen?"

While you doubted that some guy was turned into wood and then into flesh again just to be saved by a girl who got shrunken by the magical powers of a very angry rat… You shrugged. "It’s a story. All stories come from something, don’t they?"

Tommy squeezed your hand as he brought it up to his lips so he could kiss your knuckles. That answer was good enough. "Do you think that Sugar Plum fairy princess girl thingy," he made you laugh and you struggled not to be too loud. "Do you think she was pretty?"

You arched a brow at his unexpected question. "All the girls are pretty in stories like these." You whispered.

"That makes you…" He was interrupted by a disapproving groan of impatience from a parent in the row behind your seats. "That makes you the prettiest Sugar Plum ever."

God, he was cheesy. But that dopey smile that spread from one ear to the other made your heart feel warm and happy.