pretty girl avenue

It’s not your fault. Really, it’s not- nothing was going right to begin with, and the outfit you’d initially planned on wearing ended up hanging off your body like loose rags. You had to change three separate times, and still, you aren’t too pleased with how you look today.

The day is miserable- all rain and clouds and grey skies.  There isn’t an ounce of sunshine to be seen, not even in you, because your typically upbeat personality has been taken and held hostage by the city around you.

“Perry’s gonna kill you.” Clark greets you, umbrella clutched in his free hand that he immediately holds over you as you join him. He slings your bag smoothly off your shoulder, hooking it over his own instead.

Together, you walk in unison; quick, and sharp, your shoulder bumping into his arm due to the height difference.

“Then we better hurry up, Kent.” you say back, earning a chuckle from him.

You walk through the rain, and you don’t notice the way he ducks his head outside of the umbrella completely. How you don’t veer off the jagged path ahead even though it usually pains you to walk in a straight line, because his hand is hovering on your lower back, careful, steady.

You don’t even question why, when you finally get through those double doors, Clark’s curls are almost soaked and you’re bone-dry.

The elevator ride to the top is comfortable, like it always is with Clark.

“How was your evening?”

“I ate ice cream for dinner,” you tell him absentmindedly, “And I rewatched The Devil Wears Prada.”

His eyebrow quirks up, “Must have missed my invite.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you not in a different city last night fighting an intergalactic threat?”

“How’d you know that?”

“I watch the news.”

Clark smirks slightly. Never arrogant or cocky, just knowing. “I still would have come.”

You don’t say anything, busy straightening your shirt and wrapping your coat even tighter around you. When the elevator finally reaches the top of the skyscraper, you’re the first to step out, Clark directly in tow.

Your heels clack against the linoleum floor with a precision that can only come from someone with something to prove; in this case, the fact that you’re late for a good (nobody has to know the truth) reason. Lois looks up for a split second, nodding at you in acknowledgement.

Beside her, Jimmy grins. “What time do you call this?” he jokes.

“Got held up,” Clark lies. You smile inwardly, knowing he was perfectly on time; it was you who couldn’t decide on what to wear this morning, on what rings to pair with what necklaces.

You’d told Clark to go on; I’ll be like, thirty more minutes. I’ll just see you there! You’d said, but of course he refused to listen.

Someone barks your surname. They also bark Clark’s. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.

“Sorry, Perry.” You and Clark say in unison, his cheeks flushed crimson, yours still cold from the wind. Thankfully, Perry White seems to be in a good mood today; he just shakes his head in exasperation, a small mutter akin to tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum leaving his lips as he places another cigarette between them and turns around.

Clark pulls your chair out for you, waiting for you to sit before he does the same.

“Close call.” he mumbles, and you stifle a laugh.

It’s a busy day; one that stretches for far too long. You type until your eyes blur and you drink coffee until you can’t even taste the bitter burn of it anymore, but you’re focused.

You’re a great journalist, and you’ve chalked that down to be the very reason why Perry gives you so much grace. Why being late is a bump in the road instead of a fireable offense like it is for most people.

It’s Clark you have to thank for that; being his best friend certainly has it’s perks. He knows better than anyone how to charm the Planet’s infamous grump. Over time, you’ve learnt how to mimic him; be bashful when confronted about tardiness, especially by someone like Perry White, and you’re good to go.

After a couple hours of head-down, zipped lipped quiet, he finally breaks the silence.

“How you holding up?” Clark asks you, head hidden behind his own screen. You can’t see him, but you can envision his lips parting as he speaks, eyes trained on whatever word document he currently has open.

“Surviving. You?” you mumble, fingers wrapped around a yellow highlighter that has yet to land on the page. He lets out a chuckle.

“Counting down the seconds until lunch.”

“Are we going out today?” you pop your head around your monitor then, and Clark doesn’t skip a beat before doing the same.

The sight of him- especially after a long 121 minutes without it- makes something flutter dangerously in your stomach. His curls are unruly, piercing blue eyes only the slightest bit red as he looks at you.

You blink the feeling away, willing it to disappear and not come back for at least a little while.

“You want to? Or I could just grab us those bagels you like from the place ‘round the corner?”

“I can come with you,” you offer, but Clark shakes his head, the corners of his mouth upturned.

“No need. I’ve got you.”

You nod, a thankful smile spreading across your lips as you turn back to your desk. Of course, Clark does the same, and under the table you feel the tip of his shoes nudging against your foot.

Your smile only widens, though you try to hide it with a purse of your lips and a clench in your jaw.

It’s not that you have a crush on your best friend- absolutely not. Crushes, you’ve always believed, are for high schoolers; teenagers in faux love who believe that big, ugly bouquets mean romance, and cheesy, outlandish prom-posals equate to a lifetime of happiness.

No, you’re a little more pessimistic than that. And you’re a lot deeper in than that, because unfortunately for you, Clark Kent continues to be a shining example of the world’s most perfect boyfriend.

Minus the kissing. And the holding hands. Also the freakier stuff like sharing a bed, and hugging each other regularly- who ever said being in love was rational?

He’s kind. He’s patient. He waits hours for you to get ready and doesn’t even scold you for wasting his time, just smiles and stares at you like you’ve already done him the biggest favour by simply existing.

He knows your coffee order off by heart, grabs you a couple of sugars every time even though it’s sweet enough- just in case, he always says. He knows you like your bagels from Leon’s on Tuesdays but every other day, it’s Liberty’s or nothing.

Clark remembers. He cares. So deeply.

He is also in love with someone else.

“Just waiting for her to realise, I guess.” he’d told you once, when you asked him why he hadn’t dated anyone since Lois- all while holding a box of Christmas baubles you were picking from.

And he'd told you that he didn't need to date, not unless it was the person he wanted to be with forever. Clark Kent didn't do casual. To him, time was precious, and he simply had no interest in 'playing the field'.

Though even you had to admit; no matter how big the field, it would be very difficult for anyone on Clark’s future roster to compete with the brilliant Lois Lane.

“What if she never does?” you asked, gesturing for him to pass you another bauble to add to the tree.

It was mid-November, and a random chill in the air had you fixated on getting your decorations up ASAP. Naturally, Clark agreed, even playing pack-mule with you in the store as you collected everything caked in artificial frost and tinsel- even a brand-new tree that he held tucked under one arm as you ran up and down the aisles.

Clark simply smiled, eyes holding a shine as he watched you examine a fragile looking ornament, fingers twirling it in the light.

“She'll figure it out. She always does,” he’d said confidently, “One day.”

“What if she takes forever?”

Clark remained unfazed, “Then I’ll wait.” you just raised an eyebrow, dropping the topic immediately and trying to forget how deliciously romantic he sounded right then and there.

That, was six months ago.

And Clark has yet to introduce you to this mystery girl, has yet to even give you her name; you don’t even know what she looks like.

You supposed it was for the best. For now, you were happy living in blissful ignorance. Just until you got over this silly little love-crush of yours. Or, until you pushed yourself to finally start dating again and could finally forget about this whole thing.

You continue typing, the words blurring together incoherently. By the time 12:30pm comes around, your stomach is grumbling and it’s only the noise of everyone packing up for lunch that breaks your concentration.

Clark is already standing up from his desk, stretching those muscles of his that never go stiff, yet he does it anyway because it’s what everyone else does.

You lock eyes with him as he makes his way around the edges of the table.

“The usual?” he asks. You nod with a grateful smile.

“Please. Take my card-“ you’re already fumbling for your wallet, but Clark shakes his head firmly.

“No need. I’ll be back in ten.” He tells you, and before either of you can register what happens next, he leans down. Smoothly.

And gives you a peck on the lips.

It’s quick. It’s over within a split second. But it still happens; and when Clark pulls back without so much of a stunned look or an apology on his face, you swear you can still feel the plush skin of his lips on yours.

“Text me if you think of anything else you want.” he says coolly, as if he didn’t just short-circuit your entire being.

And he’s gone.

Just like that; he turns on his heel, nods goodbye to a gobsmacked Jimmy Olsen, and heads for the elevator. Leaving you; stunned, shocked, baffled, detonating in your seat.

You don’t move. For a long while, Jimmy mimicks you, eyes wide as his gaze darts between the elevator where Clark was and your desk, where you currently still are. And probably will be for days to come.

Eventually, he wheels his seat over to you.

“What was-“

“I don’t know.”

“Why did he-“

“I don’t know,” you swallow, and with a disbelieving shake of your head, you turn back to your desk, palms flat out on the table as a way of anchoring yourself to it. For a long while, Jimmy doesn’t speak, silently begging you to.

But you can’t. You physically can’t. Because it may have been an accident- it’s not unusual for Clark to give you a kiss on the forehead, an occasional one on the cheek if he’s feeling extra gratuitous. But on the lips?

Maybe he missed. Maybe, you turned your head without even realising it- and maybe, right now, he’s on his way to Liberty’s trying to come up with ways to end your friendship because he definitely knows now, if he didn’t before.

He knows, and he’s disgusted, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he came back with your bagel in a bag and a stern talking to about how you shouldn’t move your head when people lean in for cheek-kisses.

You decide you will never eat another bagel ever again in your entire life. You will be bagel-less and Clark Kent-less and best friend-less for the rest of time and it’s all because you couldn’t control yourself.

But you know you’re being stupid, because Clark is many things. Superman being the most important one of them- he catches rolling pencils before they can fall to the floor, nudges you gently out of the way when rain falls off outer stall canopies so you won’t get wet. He has reflexes that the normal man doesn’t. If you were to turn your head, he’d know, and he’d stop.

So why didn’t he stop?

You’re still frozen by the time he gets back. He has your bagels in their usual printed takeaway bag and he’s flushed from the cold, tie slightly crooked, glasses foggy and slipping down his nose.

He forgets to steady them, the grin on his face pointed so directly towards you that it distracts him completely.

Your eyes widen, hand shooting up instinctively just as they’re on the cusp of clattering to the floor. You push them up for him, the tip of your middle finger barely brushing against the bridge of his nose.

He smiles, crooked. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Jimmy’s jaw on the floor.

“Thanks,” Clark says softly, and because your heart is going a million miles per minute, you just nod a reply back.

He sets the bagels on your desk, pulls his chair around to sit next to you.

“So,” he starts, getting the food out like he always does. You, first; he unwraps your bagel, sets your sauces out, and drapes a tissue across your lap. “What ice cream did you have last night?”

You tell him, carefully at first, reluctantly, like it wasn’t just vanilla and caramel. But Clark doesn’t catch on.

He just nods, attentive as always. He laughs when you make a joke, tells you in a hushed tone about his new friend in Gotham, Bruce Wayne. He’s an alright guy, bit serious though. And he wipes the corner of your mouth when you get a bit of ketchup on it. But he doesn’t bring up the kiss.

So, neither do you.

Clark keeps kissing you.

And you, well- all you can do is keep pretending you’re not actively malfunctioning every single time it happens.

At first you assume it’s a one-off. A strange, meteorological anomaly- like those fish that sometimes fall from the sky. Weird, very rare, and inexplicable.

But then he does it again the next day.

It’s the same routine: lunch break, Clark grabbing the food, you offering to pay, him refusing like always. Except now there’s a new beat to the choreography; one that involves him leaning in, cupping the side of your elbow like you’re made of spun glass, and giving you a very deliberate, very real peck on the lips before leaving. It’s gotten deeper since the first, you realise.

And every single time, you just sit there like someone unplugged you from the wall.

Jimmy has stopped pretending he isn’t watching. He mostly just gasps now. Out loud. Very dramatically.

Thursday, Clark arrives with two macchiatos and a cinnamon walnut pastry you mentioned liking once. You’re about to thank him when he dips forward and presses- there it is again- a warm, soft peck to your lips.

“Be right back,” he murmurs, like that is the casual part of this exchange.

This time, your confusion is so loud it actually echoes. Beside you, Jimmy drops his pen, and it rolls for three desks.

By Friday, you try to mentally prepare. You puff your cheeks out, slap them lightly, tell yourself that if he does it again, you will absolutely ask him what on earth is going on.

But of course, you don’t. You don’t ask your best friend anything.

Because the second he leans down and those soft lips brush yours in that infuriatingly tender, maddeningly gentle Clark-Kent way, your brain promptly ejects itself out the window.

He walks off, humming, as you slowly rotate in your chair like a malfunctioning Roomba.

Your head is foggy, filled with so many unanswered questions that somehow, feel so far from being said out loud.

Nothing’s changed, oddly enough. Clark still walks you home. Still hovers over your desk, helping you with rewrites and amendments. He still brings you lunch and spends Wednesday evenings watching re-runs with you in your apartment.

He just… kisses you, now. Pecks you, more like, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And before you know it, days pass. Days turn into weeks, and naturally- predictably- it gets worse.

Or better. Or whatever this is.

Because now- now, Clark starts doing it not just before lunch. He no longer limits himself, and you still say nothing.

He kisses you goodbye when he heads home for the night.

Kisses you hello when you meet at the elevator in the morning.

He kisses you when he hands you a report you asked for.

And, he even kisses you when you complain about the printer.

Tiny, sweet, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it pecks. Like he’s testing you. Like he’s waiting; for what, you don’t know, but what you do know is that you are very close to the brink of explosion.

By the time a whole month passes, your confusion has reached clinically concerning levels. Your Google search history is comical, an amalgamation of confusion and shock before you swiftly swapped to incognito;

do best friends kiss on lips??

signs of short term memory loss

am I hallucinating long-term?

long term hallucination symptoms

group long term hallucination

do kryptonian people greet each other with kiss

You search with a slight hunch, your entire body covering your phone screen in both fear and shame of someone seeing. You’re desperate; completely at your wits’ end, and Clark seems to be none the wiser.

But then, comes the moment everything changes.

It’s late. Everyone else has gone home, and the newsroom is buzzing only with low lights and the distant hum of the city outside.

It’s just you and Clark, finishing up an article he’s been helping you with.

You’re buried in revisions, your brains working in sync as you push through the exhaustion of the last few weeks. You and Clark had gotten better about leaving on time, but with deadlines closing in, staying late wasn’t really optional tonight.

You’re tired, very much so- to the point where pretending like you’re not bothered is a feat in itself. Clark is focused, glasses sliding down his nose as he leans over your shoulder to point at something on the screen.

And then- like it’s the easiest thing in the world- he tilts your chin gently with two fingers and gives you a slow, lingering kiss on the lips.

Not a peck this time. Not a blink.

A kiss.

A real, life-altering, friendship-make-or-breaking kiss that injects electricity in your veins and brings all your dead senses back to life. It’s wonderful. It’s passionate. And above all, it is scary.

You freeze. But instead of pulling back like he usually does, Clark stays there, lips pressed softly to yours, patient as ever. Waiting. Wanting in silence, for you to respond.

So, you do.

Your body moves before your brain can protest, before any part of you testifies against the very notion of giving in- your hand curls into the front of his shirt, you tilt upward, and suddenly you’re kissing him back.

Your lips are slow as they move together; at first, awkward. Then, the awkwardness melts into something familiar, something warm.

And finally, it turns absolutely, heart-stoppingly illegal.

Just waiting for her to realise, his words play over and over- incessant, like a broken record- in your mind.

One day.

You fit together perfectly, you and Clark. Your lips do all the work while your minds fight to catch up. He makes a tiny noise- a surprised, happy sound- and you swear you can feel his smile against your mouth.

You pull back first, breath uneven, eyes wide and stunned in a way you can’t even hide. Your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt like you forgot to let go.

Your grip doesn't loosen on the fabric, too afraid to disrupt the moment you’re both suspended in.

Clark doesn’t move. He just watches you, chest rising slowly, hope written all over him. You can't speak, so you don't.

But something in your face- the shock, the realisation trying to break through and finally shake some sense into you- makes him smile.

It softens as he looks at you, folding into something heartbreakingly tender.

“I told you…” Clark murmurs softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with the gentlest touch. His eyes graze your lips again, already hungry for more, “that you’d figure it out.”