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details. fem!reader / fluffy-feel good fic / emotional pay-off / nfsw themes / mutual virginity / established relationship / communication / nervous virgin!aone / confident virgin!reader / inspired by 'damn u on the edge of the bed u bout to fall off' sound / 600 words
aone is kind and considerate to a fault.
he pulls you in. one big, swift, easy motion because he knows exactly how little effort he needs to give in order to move you the way he likes. his intention is so pure, just to rest his weary head on your soft chest and, maybe if you let him, fall asleep for a minute or two.
he was looking forward to head scratches, listening to the fluttery beat of your heart, taking in your smell at the end of a long day.
but the back of your t-shirt-- or his t-shirt -grossly oversized, not equipped to stay on- catches on the rustled sheets.
you squeak out in surprise, and his vision fills with the raw, delicate sight of your bare chest. your forearms fly up, squishing your tits together, but in a split-second, you decide not to cover up.
aone does it for you. he squeezes his panicked eyes shut, face filling with embarrassment, and forces his shirt back down.
"ohh- baby," you coo and try to reach for him, reassure him, but receive a head shake in return.
"it's okay!"
he retreats. not fast, but in a determined, i-will-not-be-moved type of way. he carefully moves your leg away as he sits up and curls forward, elbows on his knees, hands covering his entire face.
you lay with your legs apart, resting back on your elbows with a pout.
he's just sitting on the edge of the bed, and you don't need to see his face to know that he's got the most severe blush you've ever witnessed.
the back of his neck is deep red, the tips of his ears are radiating heat, once you go to lean all of your weight on his back.
you blow on one ear, soft, and earn a shudder.
"hmm-- baby bear," you purr, "i don't mind."
aone shudders again.
he won't let up. his heel is tap-tap-tapping on the floor, making one of his legs bounce, and it makes both of your bodies shake in subtle tandem.
the worst part is that you can't physically make him move. he's a brick wall, immovable, and steady no matter which way or what body part you tug at.
"i promise," was another sad, failed attempt.
exasperated, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and start to kiss at his neck. something, anything, to get him to talk or move. the muscles in his firm neck twitch and shake under your tongue and teeth, his breath huffier and shallow.
he muttered something unintelligible.
you stopped immediately and swung your weight forward to hear him better, under his palms, "hm?"
"i'm sorry."
with a feeling that it wasn't all he was trying to get out, you stayed very still and waited a few moments longer.
"you're so beautiful--,"
it was small, and quiet- you hugged your arms around him with a comforting squeeze, melting, with an appreciative hum.
his breath hitched and you paused. you could feel the beat of his heart, rapid, and his breathing became more sporadic, like he was silently gasping.
was he crying?
together for six months, and you hadn't seen him cry yet.
he was crying, you could tell by the way he could barely get his words out, "i'm just-- not r-eady for that."
"ohmygosh- that's-- totally fine, taka, i know- i know-i know," you stumbled over your words and the sheets on the rushed and un-ready mission to properly hug him.
by the time you made it to stand in front of him, he was ready to pull you into his crushing embrace. he pushed his wet face into your shoulder and sniffled. his palms, wrapped around your sides, were soaking wet with tears.
your arms around his shoulders let you rub some reassuring patterns into his hair.
maybe it had more to do with the tough day, or the fact that this caught you both off-guard, but you respected his need to take things very slowly regardless of reason.
his breathing is just shaky as he no longer needs to sob- he sniffles again, rubbing his face against your shoulder to calm himself down.
a big, big, sigh, "i love you so much."
it was like you were getting completely overstimulated, in the best way. you loved that he got to see your tits, that he was comfortable enough to cry around you, and he was the first to say it.
"i love you too," was an easy, instant reply.
it felt natural coming out of your mouth. you pressed a short kiss to his hairline and put your cool palms over his warm face. you deliver a few more pecks to his burning forehead.
his sniffly, small chuckle at your affection was so low, and scratchy, and full of relief.
links. longer, sluttier haikyuu. my other imagines. my masterlist. requests open.
notes. idk what this is but IIII liked it. i love him!!! i just feel like he's the biggest sweetie ughhh i wish more people shared in the love. big, stoic, scary but sweet? are you kidding me ahhh!
The 4 Times Sierra Six Almost Kisses You, and the 1 Time He Does
Sierra Six x Reader
Summary: Sierra Six almost kisses you on four separate occasions. However, one time is different, and you both know it.
Word Count: 14.2K
Warnings: mentions of parental death(mentioned as a plot point but not described/elaborated on; mother), almost panic attack because of grief, minimal angst, swearing, Six has some self-deprecating thoughts at the end but not bad, mentions of canon-typical violence/guns/wounds/blood/etc., just LOTS of pining and yearning for thousands of words, idiots to lovers but also friends to lovers, tooth-rotting fluff, and Six being so husband at the end~
A/N: Hello my darlings :) I'm back with another fic for Six and I have loved every minute of it. I've missed writing so much and the brain rot is never-ending. I've always wanted to write one of these types of fics, so please enjoy and lmk what y'all think!!! :) - Birch <3
The first time Sierra Six almost kisses you, you convince yourself it is just a part of your imagination.
You had just finished up a long mission abroad - weeks away from the States and the comforts of your home. Six, your mission partner, was ready for a break as well.
The two of you had successfully eliminated an international intelligence officer and were boarding a flight to head back to America. A private flight, thankfully, but it would be hours until you were in the comforts of your home.
The sky was dark, the sun having set hours ago. It had been a long day, and the dreary feeling of the rainy night had exhaustion creeping throughout your body.
Now, with yellow-toned lights shining off of the rain sprinkling on the runway, you could catch your breath. The flashing red lights coming from the plane in front of you released tension deep within your body, a silent promise that peace and quiet were mere moments away.
The stars were trying to twinkle and dance around the sky, fighting through the light rain as you and Six finalized your plans to get home. You were thankful for the coolness the rainy night brought, it helped to calm your heightened instincts after the thrill of the chase.
Your belongings had already been taken aboard the plane while you and Six regrouped, your assignment to go home ringing in the back of your mind. Clouded with fatigue, your footsteps seemed to drag up the steps leading into the belly of the airplane.
"I'm so ready to get home," you grumble to Six, the tall man just two steps behind you, patiently waiting for you to haul yourself into the aircraft despite being splattered with unrelenting rain. You can hear him hum lowly behind you, an agreeable sound that indicates you know that he's tired as well.
The sound of someone's voice calling your name through the pitter-patter of the storm halts you in your tracks just as you begin to duck inside the plane. A frown tugs on your features as you glance over your shoulder, eyes scanning for the owner of the voice, but dropping to look at Six.
The agent momentarily glanced over his shoulder to see who was calling to you, but after realizing they didn't want him, turned back to you. You can see the lingering question in his gaze, one that you had bouncing around your head.
Who could possibly need me?
You sigh and fully turn around to face the outside air, scrunching your face as a gust of damp wind whips across the expanse of the jet walk. You shuffle to stand off to the side of the stairs, making room for Six as he pauses beside you.
You open your eyes from where they had snapped shut from the wind, slowly trailing upwards from his dark boots to his tracksuit pants. Your vision swirled around the red and blue colors of his tracksuit jacket, the raindrops racing down the water-proof material.
When your (colored) gaze finally reaches his face, you have to squint up at him. Your eyes blink rapidly to deflect the droplets falling from the sky, attempting to focus on his angled features instead.
The question still lingers on Six's face when you lock onto him, and he quirks an eyebrow as he murmurs, "You gonna see what that's about?" A sigh slides through your nose as you shrug and grumble, "I suppose so."
As you begin to slip past Six's broad form, you call over your shoulder, "Save me a seat by the window!" You can hear him scoff, and his squeaky footsteps disappear into the plane.
You begrudgingly make your way down the slick steps of the plane back to the tarmac, water pooling on the not-so-level areas of pavement. There are a few CIA-adjacent men who helped coordinate your movements that are waiting for you a few yards away.
Your squinted gaze lands on the man who had called your name, and you make your way over to him stiffly. You are tired, wet, and your body is sore from the exertion of the day.
What could these guys possibly want?
The man is wearing a boring black and white suit, his hands crossed in front of him as he awaits your approach. You come to a stop a few feet in front of him and gesture with one of your hands, "What do you need?"
The man shuffles uncomfortably before clearing his throat with a shake of his head, "Agent, I regret to inform you that your mother has suffered a heart attack and has passed away. I am sorry for your loss."
The world stops.
The whirling call of the wind grows quiet, as well as the hushed whisper of the rain. Jet engines that had once seemed to roar fade into silence, the only perceivable sound now the blood rushing through your ears.
The man's words hit you like a grenade detonating. The air seems to be sucked out of your lungs as time stands still. He simply nods at you and states formally, "We are just following protocol, agent. You may board your flight. There will be officers at the destination's airport to arrange transportation for you to the hospital."
He walks away a moment later, leaving you to stand alone with tears and rain burning at the edges of your vision. You can't breathe. You can't... breathe.
Your chest begins to heave as you watch the agent disappear into the dark of the night, panic starting to flutter in your gut. You know you're going into shock, but you have no choice but to turn back toward the plane, where the crew and Six await your return.
A shaky hand finds its way to your mouth, where it clamps down to keep sobs from escaping your lips. Your body feels like it's vibrating, unknowing on how to solve this system-wide pain.
Unbalanced footsteps start leading you back toward the aircraft. Your feet, already heavy with exhaustion, feel like lead as you take each step.
Your right hand grabs onto the slick railing, the metal cool and wet to the touch as you climb up the stairs. Your mind is at war - trying to fight your emotional, human, nature while the training instilled in you is telling you to remain steadfast.
Once you make it to the top of the stairs, you release your hand from your mouth as you take a shaky attempt at a deep breath. You use the back of your hand to wipe at the wetness coating your face, and blowing air through puffed cheeks, you ready yourself to face Six.
The flight crew was already in position as you maneuvered toward the middle of the private jet, quickly closing the hatch behind you as they readied the aircraft for takeoff.
You keep your (colored) gaze focused on the floor as you make your way to the middle of the jet. You can hear Six's muffled movements, and you recognize that the agent is pouring himself a cup of water.
He casually glances over at your approaching figure once as he pours, then rapidly darts back as he reads the emotion etched in your body language.
Slouched shoulders, not from the rain or wind. Downcast gaze. A slight hitch to your breath. Something was wrong.
Six immediately sets his cup down and faces you. To an outsider, they would say he was the image of stoicism, a neutral expression on his features as he regards you.
To you, his mission partner of countless years, you could see the concern written all over his face in one glimpse. You rush to try to avoid his gaze, but Six knows you better than that.
"What happened?" he probes gently, leaning back against the bar, crossing his thick arms over his broad chest. He took his wet tracksuit jacket off. The movement distracts you from your thoughts for a moment before the pain of realization sets back in.
You force yourself to look from his chest up to his face, your eyes vulnerable and slightly timid as you note the softness in his. You open your mouth to respond, but your voice catches in your throat.
Six can feel his heart lurching in his chest at the silence that falls between the two of you, and then he starts to piece it together. He sighs and looks off to the side, his gaze clouded as he mumbles, "Who died?"
The question would have been harsh and crass if not for your line of work. You know that the words weren't meant in a careless way, just that it was the nature of life. Some were created to live until it was their time, while some were created to die before the choice was made for them.
You shut your eyes tightly as you managed to croak out, "My mom," and the floodgates opened. A sob rips out of your throat from deep in your chest, and your hands come up to cover your face as it twists in pain.
There is movement behind you, and you turn to see a flight attendant through the cracks in your fingers. You know that she's coming to tell you the plane is getting ready to take off, but Six's voice cuts in, "Give us 5 minutes," and she disappears without a trace.
Six pushing off of the bar draws your attention again, another wave of tears flooding down your cheeks. He stops in front of you, his eyes laced with deep sorrow and a crease in his brow.
Opening his arms to you slowly, he whispers, "C'mere." He doesn't have to repeat himself, and you all but lurch forward into Six's embrace as it hits you.
Despite being a CIA agent with little to nothing in your file, there was one agreement you had made with the government before you started working. You would become one of their "dirty" agents, but you would get updates on your mother, the only family you had left, if anything major happened.
Now, with them following through on their word, you couldn't help but regret that choice.
His muscular arms lock around your waist as your arms fold around his neck. Six tucks your head under his bearded chin, and he slowly works his fingers up and down your back in an attempt to soothe you.
Your tears are soaking into the soft material of Six's t-shirt, but he doesn't seem to mind. He is warm and firm under your frenzied touch, which you are grateful for.
You barely hear him when he quietly says, "I'm sorry to hear that," your fingers fisting at the nape of his shirt as you weep.
Then, Six shuffles and there is a brush of something over your forehead, making your crying cease for a moment. It was feather-light, a barely there touch that just seemed to tickle your skin.
You could have convinced yourself it was just a piece of hair on your forehead from your body shaking, stuck there with rainwater. It could have been your imagination - a fleeting touch from your mother, saying everything was going to be alright.
But maybe... maybe it was Six's lips grazing your skin so tentatively. So very tenderly. So very lovingly, to try to ease your pain.
You don't have long to dwell on it, as Six pulls back a few inches from you. He catches your teary gaze and with a small, sad smile, he whispers, "I saved you the window seat."
A huff leaves you, a crinkle of a smile on your lips as you give him a nod, "Thanks, Six."
The words weren't just for the window seat. He slowly pulls himself away from you, handing you the water that was meant for him, and gestures to the seats.
Wordlessly, you take your position at the window, sipping at the cup your hand was clenched around. As the plane starts to move and the stars seem to blur into the night, you trace the spot on your forehead, wondering if the whole thing was a dream.
The second time Sierra Six almost kisses you, the two of you are working undercover. You weren't the biggest fan of covert undercover missions, but when your higher-ups told you that Spain would be your destination, well... you didn't complain.
However, you were internally wrestling over the details of the mission. You and Six had cover stories for the mission - not an uncommon thing for your line of work. The inner turmoil came with the grounds of you and Six posing as a newlywed couple traveling abroad for your honeymoon.
Deep down, you knew the mission's goal was of the utmost importance. But, you can't lie. You had been surprised at the notion of being fake-married to Six.
After mulling it over for a while, you supposed it did make sense that the two of you were selected for this mission. You had worked together for so long that you knew you could trust each other in any scenario. So despite your initial reservations and Six's usual stoicism, you put on your big girl pants and doubled down for the mission.
The mission left you and Six in the middle of Spain at a dimly lit bar. The air was thick and hazy with cigarette smoke and the heat of the day, making it a little hard to breathe.
Set in the rampant and colorful streets of Madrid, Six was on alert. You could feel how tense he was next to you, despite wearing a loose cream-colored button-up and some matching slacks to go with it. You knew he was on edge, his gaze remaining sharp as he scoured the busy bar for the target.
"Take a breath," you murmur quietly as you sip at your water. You feel Six's gaze flash over to you as you focus on the opposite entrance through the bottom of your glass.
Six shifts to try to relax his body as he leans in close to your ear, "I don't like this." You finish your sip and set the drink down, your hand delicately coming up to your mouth to fix your lipstick.
You turn to face him, giving the agent a knowing look as he finally gives you more of his attention. Six lets his blue eyes flutter from your dolled-up face and hair down to your revealed collarbones.
His gaze seems to slow when it reaches the curves of your light blue sundress. There are flowy sleeves that stop in the middle of your bicep, patterned with small white line art of flowers.
The dress cinches around your bodice, not uncomfortably tight though. You can't lie, the girls look good. From there, the dress flows out around your hips, the material light and airy to beat the heat.
You watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows thickly, coughing as he looks down at his feet and then allowing his gaze to sweep over the crowd. He shuffles and rubs his hands together once, his gaze flashing back to you.
Confusion pulls your eyebrows together as you rest your hand on his shoulder and ask, "Everything alright?" The frown on your face eases as Six holds your gaze, clears his throat, and whispers nonchalantly, "Uh huh."
You leave him to his thoughts for a second, the warmth of the bar sending heat waves through your body. You shiver with some kind of anticipation, and you move to stand up off of your stool.
"I'm going to use the restroom real quick," you say lightly to Six with a kind smile, one that you know people won't see through. Truly, any smiles you share with Six come naturally. But, you are supposed to be pretending, right?
Six is almost flush against you the second you stand up straight. It makes your heart lurch in your chest at his sudden proximity, but you take a shallow breath to calm yourself down.
His right hand comes to rest on the side of your waist, his eyes sharp as he pinpoints the location of the restroom. "I'll walk you there," is all he says.
Six turns and starts to guide you around the edge of the bar, his hand shifting to rest on the small of your back. The warmth his touch brings combined with the smell of alcohol and smoke makes you dizzy.
Any other day you might say his hand drifted too low to be casual, but then you remember. He's pretending too. You take a deep breath as you reach the bathroom, turning toward Six with a practiced smile.
You let your hands flatten against his chest slowly, testing the waters. You can feel his pecs tighten on reflex but then quickly relax, and you move to straighten out the fabric of his shirt. With a soft blink you chirp, "I'll be out in a minute."
At that, you step back and push through the bathroom door. You gravitate toward the porcelain sinks, catching your reflection in the mirrors lining the walls. You grip the edge of the sink as you attempt to straighten out your line of thought.
He's just pretending. It's all for show. Focus on the mission. Don't let your desires get in the way.
Desires? Where did that come from?
You take a deep breath to center yourself and then you glance up at your reflection in the mirror. You see where your lipstick is still a bit smudged, so you reach for a paper towel to tidy up the line of your lower lip.
The air conditioning helps cool the sweat starting to form at the back of your neck, and you pat your face with the clean side of the paper towel to remove any excess oil. You throw the paper towel away and quickly wash your hands, remembering that Six is waiting outside for you.
You pull the door open, your (colored) eyes finding Six's broad frame almost instantly. You see his gaze snap over to you, his eyes once again slowly trailing up the length of your body.
He's not checking you out. He's making sure you are still put together. He's making sure no one laid their hands on you.
You pause beside him and motion with your head toward a free table. "Want to go back in?" Six just looks at you blankly for a second as thoughts race through his head.
No, I don't want to go back in. I want to take you back to that bathroom and -
He stops himself. This is you. He can't be thinking about you like that. This is work. Even if he has to pretend to be married to you, he can't think like that.
But God, he wants to.
"Six?" you question, stepping closer to him as a woman slides past the two of you into the restroom. Six seems to snap out of his thoughts at your proximity, and quips quickly, "What do you want, sweetheart?"
The pet name rolls off of his tongue before he can stop himself, and his stomach drops when he realizes the implication. He should have asked you before you went into the field if anything was off-limits.
But, when that smile of yours slides back across your lips, he knows everything is okay. You giggle for a second, selling the love-sick look of newlyweds as you rest your hand on his chest again.
"Can we get some food?" you ask with a dreamy sigh, and Six's lips tug into a smile as he nods, his hand finding its place on your back again.
As he guides you in the direction of the free table you had motioned to, he stops in his tracks and pulls you to the side quickly. He ducks down close to your ear as he rushes out, "Target is at the table in the corner on the other side of the bar."
His lips and goatee brush against the sensitive skin of your neck, and you just giggle and let your hand come up to the back of his head, pretending he told you a funny joke.
Your hand threads through the dirty blonde locks as you lean into him and whisper back, "I see him. I'll sit down, go order me a drink or something over there."
Six nods briefly into your neck, pulling back ever-so-slightly but positioning himself in front of you. The only time Six has ever been this close to you was when he hugged you on the plane.
You swear you can almost feel his breath on your face, and your heart stops when he leans in. Every movement he makes is calculated and slow, giving you plenty of time to move.
His lips land on your right cheek, gentle but firm. You could have seen sparks shooting out of the lights on the wall at the electricity humming through the air.
Six pulls back, a slight twinkle in his eye as he nods, "Anything for my girl." At that, he steps back, shoots you a wink, and walks through the smoky atmosphere to the other side of the bar.
He leaves with such a swagger to his walk it makes your knees weak. You can't help but let your powerless gaze follow him before you see movement coming from next to you.
It's the woman who slipped into the restroom after you. She catches sight of Six walking away, and with a friendly jibe she says, "You are one lucky girl!"
She doesn't wait for your answer, instead disappearing into the other side of the bar. Your hand comes up to brush your cheek where Six's lips had been moments before.
Your heart was finally slowing down from beating erratically at Six's intimacy. A puff of air pushes through your lips as you force yourself to walk over to the free table, your mind racing as you replay the fleeting touch on repeat.
Once you sit down, you close your eyes to regain your focus.
The mission. I need to focus on the mission.
And so, you push down any feelings bubbling in your stomach, your eyes flickering to the door you had originally been watching from the bar.
There will be time later to think about Six's actions.
The third time Sierra Six almost kisses you, you are on a mission following the fake-marriage ordeal. There hadn't been much time to think about Six's actions, because you were exhausted and on a flight with said man sitting next to you.
This time it was a standard, run-of-the-mill operation. Nothing too crazy or high stakes, just get in, eliminate the target, and get out. Thankfully, your higher-ups were kind enough to give you a night's rest in between the missions.
Truly, you believed it was so that you and Six could plan out your movements and be prepared, not so much as to catch up on rest. But, you weren't going to complain about catching up on some sleep.
The flight goes by silently, and after a short car ride, you and Six are left at your hotel for the evening. Apparently, there must have been an event in town that night, as the hotel lobby was crowded with people waiting to get their rooms.
Always one to pack light, Six had one medium-sized duffle bag slung over his shoulder and was standing in line just a step ahead of you. He was silent as he grabbed for his traveling card, his eyes scanning the crowd looking for threats.
You also had packed light, with just a small backpack hanging off of your shoulder and your traveling card already in hand. While Six is on alert, you can't help but let your tired eyes wander down the figure of your companion.
He's standing right in front of you, how can you not look at him?
He's tall, but you knew that. His shoulders are broad, and not even the loose tracksuit jacket he loved could hide that. Despite the flimsy material, you know there is hard, thick muscle covering his back from his meticulous workout routine.
Just as your eyes land at the bottom of the jacket towards his hips, the line moves forward. This seems to help pull you out of your thoughts and taking a step closer toward Six, you shuffle slightly off to his side.
The two of you hadn't talked about the mission you had just finished, and you were afraid to bring it up to the stoic man. You shift your weight as you glance over at Six, who now has secured his card in his hand.
His blue gaze is slightly downturned, tired, but still on alert as always. He looks over at you as you come into his peripheral vision, and he raises an eyebrow in a silent question of, What's up?
You shrug, "Waiting, same as you." The words come out a little hollow, but Six doesn't push. The interaction is slightly awkward, and you bite your tongue and pull your backpack higher up onto your shoulder.
Six sighs through his nose as his head tips back, rolling his neck to loosen some tension. Your mouth runs dry as you get a view of the tendons and ligaments flexing and releasing under his tanned skin.
It looks so inviting. So soft. So... kissable. You almost slap yourself as the thought rolls over you, you tear your eyes away from Six to look at the front desk.
Thankfully, Six doesn't seem to notice, and you rush out, "Looks like we're up," and take a step forward toward the front desk. You give the receptionist a tight smile as you start, "Hi, two rooms, please. One bed in each."
The receptionist takes both of your traveling cards to swipe you into the system, working as fast as she can. She turns to you and replies, "Here are the key cards to your rooms, top floor."
The walk to the elevator is quick but quiet with Six leading the way. It seems as though the crowd from the front desk dispersed, leaving the two of you alone.
Six presses the "up" button and steps back to resume his place next to you. You rock back and forth on your heels for a second, waiting for the elevator to make it to the ground floor.
"Antsy about tomorrow?" Six's voice comes, low and barely audible. Your head just about whips around to face him, but his gaze is still trained on the elevator.
You turn your head to look straightforward again, clearing your throat and replying softly, "Not really, just been a long week." This gets Six to look at you, a frown pulling his eyebrows taut.
"Hopefully not because you were stuck with me," he tries to joke lightly, but there is a very small hint of unease to his voice. You swear a million thoughts run through your head at his words.
No, I loved spending the week with you. I wish we could have spent longer in that fake, perfect world. Yes, it was a long week of pretending. But I wasn't really pretending, was I?
At that moment, the elevator dings, and the doors slide open. You use the opportunity to step forward, head ducked down. Six's arm darts out, grabbing onto your bicep to hold you still.
Your heart jumps to your throat at the contact, and then he's pulling you back against him. A second passes, and a little girl and her mother walk out of the elevator, sharing a kind smile with you and Six.
You internally groan at your own stupidity, and you hear Six murmur, "That desperate to get away from me?" You pull away from him, only to turn around and glance at him.
You frown at the uncharacteristic insecurity Six seems to be displaying, and you quickly grab his hand that had pulled you back. You sigh, exhaustion settling on you as you reply, "I'm sorry, I'm just not paying attention. I'm glad you're here with me, Six."
At the end of your words, you gently squeeze his hand. His palm is warm against your own, causing heat to bloom all across your body. This seems to ease his doubts, and now he's the one to move, pulling you into the now-empty elevator.
It takes him a second to release your hand, the doors to the elevator sliding closed behind the two of you. He silently reaches forward, pressing the button for floor 20.
There is a quiet jingle humming through the speaker, but it does nothing to ease the obvious tension between you and the CIA agent. You could kick yourself for your actions and lack of words, and you open your mouth to speak at the same time he does.
"I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable-" "I'm sorry if I made you feel-"
You both clamp your mouths shut and Six gestures for you to go first. You turn to face him, uncertainty lacing your features as you gush, "I'm really sucking at talking tonight, but I'm sorry if I made you feel like I don't want you here."
You take a quick breath and continue to blurt out, "I'm honestly really glad it was you on that mission and not some random agent. I don't think I would have been comfortable with anyone else and you were just so reassuring and kind to me."
You hold your breath as you try to gauge Six's reaction. You don't realize your body goes rigid as you wait, your attention focused on Six's face.
It goes from being blank to a softened, kind look that lets you exhale. Six nods once in thoughtful understanding before stating, "I was just going to say I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable on that mission with anything I did. I should have asked if you had any boundaries before we got thrown in."
You shoot him a grateful smile, butterflies welling in your stomach at the level of concern he had for making you uncomfortable. It's quiet for another moment and you mumble, "I appreciate that. But I don't think there's much you could do to make me uncomfortable with you."
Heat burns across your cheeks and ears as you finish your words, facing back to the front of the elevator as it dings for the 20th time. Quite literally saved by the bell, you step out, this time making sure there is no one in your way.
Your eyes start scanning the hallway for room numbers, looking for room #2007. You hear Six move behind you, positioning himself next to you as the elevator doors slide shut, descending to a lower floor.
Six clears his throat, seemingly trying to distance himself from the conversation in the elevator, and asks, "What room are you in?" You blink and look at your room key even though you know the answer and stutter, "Uh, 20- 2007. What about you?"
Six sighs and grunts, "2045, I guess I'm down the other hallway. I'll walk with you." He doesn't give you much of a choice, starting down the hallway with the lower numbers.
You feel your stomach flip again, the feeling of butterflies making you teeter nausea. You move to follow him though, shuffling the backpack on your shoulder and taking another breath you release as a sigh.
It only takes a few moments to find your room, and you quickly swipe the key card, deposit your stuff on the bed, and check the main room for anything hidden or suspicious.
Six had a similar thought, checking the bathroom for you before stepping back out into the hallway. You step out with him, leaving the door propped open with the door stopper.
"Thanks for seeing me to my room," you voice, a wave of exhaustion washing over you. You raise a hand to your face to stifle a yawn, and you see some emotion wash over Six's face.
You can't quite pinpoint what it is exactly, but you try not to think about it as you wipe at your eyes. Six steps closer to you, his duffle bag plopping to lay on the floor near his feet.
His hand slowly comes up to your face and you instinctively drop your hands to your sides to give him access. Your breath catches in your throat and the lull of exhaustion is seemingly gone as a rush of adrenaline shoots up your spine.
The air is suddenly thick and it's hard to breathe. His hand settles under your chin, the supple touch making you shiver. He tilts your chin up ever so slightly, his gaze dark as his eyes flit around your face.
You try not to notice how they linger on your mouth for a second, but then you realize your lips have parted at his touch. You can't stop yourself from whispering, "Six, I-"
And he steps back.
His hand falls to his side and he quickly reaches down to grab his duffle. Not making eye contact with you, Six nods and dryly states, "Goodnight, I'll see you in the morning."
At that, he turns and walks down the hallway, steps even and methodical. You stand there, dumbfounded for a second until you see his figure turn into a small dot at the other end of the hall.
You lean your head back against your door, a solid thud sounding out. It may have hurt a little, but what the fuck was that?
Only when he disappears from view do you slide into your room, shutting the door with a click. You make sure to turn the lock and fasten the deadbolt, but with your mind racing, you can hardly focus.
You glance at the clock on the nightstand and recognition sets in your brain that it's late. You go through the simple steps of your night-time routine, your head swirling with thoughts of his touch. His gaze.
Just, Six.
That night, you went to bed even more confused.
The fourth time Sierra Six almost kisses you, you need him more than you care to admit. The mission had gone south, fast. Too fast.
One second, Six is next to you, firing shots toward enemy men. The following, he is getting sucker punched out of nowhere, leaving your flank uncovered.
A lone gunshot rings out, and a second later pain erupts in your thigh. The bullet grazes the outside of your right thigh, causing you to cry out as agony starts to crawl through your system.
Your yelp must have caught the attention of Six, who is in a hand-to-hand tussle with another enemy soldier. He quickly smacks the butt of his gun across the face of the man, sufficiently knocking him out.
As you regain your bearings through your bleary pain, you hear another shot ring out. This time, you locate the source of the shot instantly.
It was Six.
He has his gun pointed at the falling figure of a man who had been hiding behind boxes on the balcony above you. The now-dead man had been the one who shot you in the leg.
With the last of the targets eliminated, you slowly hobble over to Six, hissing as you shuffle around fallen weapons and men.
"You good?" you wheeze out, trying to put the throbbing sensation of your leg out of your mind as you look him over. You can tell he is mainly unharmed. He's got a cut on his forehead leaking blood down to his eye and some light bruising to go with it, but otherwise no major injuries.
Six finishes one last sweep of the room with his eyes before they lock onto you. His blue gaze darts around your face first, checking you over for wounds.
When he doesn't see anything on your head, his eyes scan the rest of your body and they freeze on your thigh. He ignores your question as he asks gruffly, "Can you walk on this?"
The material of your tactical pants has been blasted away by the gunpowder from the shot, the area now wet with dark red blood. You stumble a bit as the pain wells up, and Six's free hand flies out to steady you.
"Y-yeah, I can," you groan, and then pant, "I may need a bit of help but I can walk out of here." Six moves to stand behind you, leaning you back to rest against his chest while his hands release you.
Fingers working faster than you can comprehend through your pain, he reloads his weapon and wraps his arm around your waist. He offers you silent support as the two of you maneuver out of the room and to a planted, but safe, vehicle.
Six helps you get into the car before hopping into the driver's seat, setting off for an unknown destination. It's all a blur, though, as you flicker in and out of consciousness due to blood loss, pain, and exhaustion.
Time smudges by as trees whip past you, everything becoming a haze of blue skies and indistinct greenery. You don't realize the car has stopped until Six opens the passenger door next to you.
"We're here," he grunts as he bends down toward you, motioning for you to start shifting your way out of the car. You nod and shuffle toward the edge of the seat, your arms reaching for Six.
The Sierra agent is there in a heartbeat, wrapping his arms around your torso to help haul you to your feet. Pain soars through you as the movement, your leg screaming with a sharp pulsing.
"Gah!" you yelp angrily, your weight shifting onto your left leg which is unharmed. Six slings your arm around his neck, his left hand wrapping around your waist. Another hiss of pain slides past your parted lips, and then you grumble out, "Where are we?"
Six starts guiding you toward the small building and muttering, "Safehouse, we should be good to get you cleaned up here." Your head nods in relief, your whole body feeling a wave of relaxation at the thought.
It does make you slump against Six, but he doesn't say anything as he shifts your weight to press against his hip. His fingers fumble under the railing leading up to the building, reappearing a moment later with a hidden key.
This gives you a moment to give the safehouse a once-over from the outside. It's small, no bigger than two or three rooms. The outside is simple, unassuming, and not entirely in style.
As Six unlocks the door and does a quick sweep of the place, he leaves you gently at the entrance of the house. You take a second to glance down at the throbbing in your leg, seeing dark red liquid slowly oozing.
Six reappears in front of you, grabbing your attention from your leg. He stops next to you and gives you a silent thumbs-up.
You grip the doorframe tighter as you shuffle and start, "Can you-" "Yeah, I got you," Six cuts in, moving next to you again before instructing, "The bathroom is just up here and to the right."
"Thanks," you wheeze out as Six's arm regains its place around your waist, pulling you toward what must be the smallest bathroom you've ever seen. There is hardly enough room for both of you to stand comfortably, with Six basically flattening himself against the wall to try to give you space.
"I'm sorry, there's not much room in here," Six mumbles, his voice getting quiet as he flicks on the light. You reach forward to grab the counter and you huff through clenched teeth, "It's gonna have to do unless you want to get blood on the carpet."
Six scoffs at your forced joke, slipping behind you to a cabinet above the toilet. He fishes out some medical supplies, and you stumble as you lean back against the counter for support.
"So, uh," you start, your voice catching in your throat. You clear it, trying again, "How are we going to do this? I can put the lid down on the toilet and sit on it, but that won't leave a lot of room for you."
Six glances over at you as he sets the supplies on the very edge of the counter. He lets a sigh out through his nose, his blue gaze sliding to the minimal remaining counter space and then back to yours.
You raise an eyebrow at him, your mind swirling as you picture how to get up there. "You think that'll be best?" you ask with uncertainty, and Six gives you a nod with a quip of, "It's gonna have to do unless you want blood on the carpet."
A smile tugs on your mouth as he throws your words back at you, and you playfully go to swat at his shoulder. He easily catches your punch, moving closer into your personal space.
"I'll help you up," he says gently, his free hand sliding under your thigh. Your heart flutters in your chest, and you pull your hands away from him to brace them on the counter behind you as you give the bearded blonde a nod of confirmation.
"1, 2, 3," Six counts before lifting you onto the counter, his hands firm but gentle as he sets you down. You have to awkwardly avoid the faucet, but you manage to shift until your back lays flush against the wall.
A groan quietly slides through your lips, your eyes fluttering shut as a new wave of pain washes over you. Six's brow furrows as his hands slide from underneath you to the side of your thighs, being careful to not touch your open wound.
"You alright?" he asks lowly, trying to keep the energy in the room calm as his right hand works small circles on your uninjured leg. You hiss as you shift, "Y-yeah, I'll be good. How about you? You didn't answer me earlier."
Six mentally curses at your observation skills. Even despite your pain and wounds, you were still thinking about his safety. He turns his attention to the medical supplies and tuts, "I'm doing better than you, there's nothing I can't clean up."
Without making a big deal of it, Six gently parts your thighs to give himself more room. He does it slowly and methodically to avoid your wound hitting the coolness of the countertop, centering himself as he starts to rip open the supplies.
"Let me help you," you urge, sitting forward and biting your tongue to keep a grunt of pain at bay. You move to grab a washcloth, but Six is one step ahead of you, swiping one from the rack next to you.
He quickly dabs at the blood running down his forehead near his eye, his sharp gaze focused on his reflection in the mirror. You take in the angle of his jaw, the slope to his nose.
You let your eyes wander over the face you know as Sierra Six. His cheek is a little busted from where he got sucker punched, and you know it'll be sore in the morning.
You reach up and skillfully swipe the cloth out of Six's hand, the agent's eyes widening in surprise at your movements. You turn the cloth over in your hands to find a part not smudged with blood, and you flick on the sink to wet the material.
Six moves to grab the washcloth out of your hand again, but you quickly tug it toward your chest and light-heartedly snap out, "Let me help you!" The Sierra agent knows there isn't any malice in your voice, and that you are stubborn as hell.
He sighs and glances up into your (colored) eyes, slight but playful annoyance resting there. Six leans forward, resting his hands on the countertop on either side of your thighs, waiting for you to move.
After waiting another second to make sure Six is going to let you work, you slowly bring your hand up to his face. Brushing his scruffy cheek with the back of your hand first, you feel his warmth just by the simple touch.
You then spin your wrist, allowing for the dampened cloth to make contact with the trail of drying blood on his temple. Six's gaze is almost piercing as he watches you, and suddenly you wonder if this is what Six's enemies feel like before they die.
You swallow as you pull your gaze from his, your fingers delicately swiping the cloth over the blood trail until it is gone. You then flick the washcloth to another clean side, softly bringing it up to the cut on his forehead.
When the material makes contact with the cut, he flinches in surprise, his hands moving from the counter to grab at the meat of your thighs.
In his haste, he brushes against the wound on your thigh, making you whimper in pain. Six steps back rapidly, his back thudding against the wall as he removes himself from your personal space in a flustered rush.
Surprise and guilt flood his features as he rushes out, "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" "It's alright," you cut in, setting the washcloth down next to your leg, "I know you didn't."
Six swallows and tries to redirect, "I can step out if you would feel better cleaning yourself up alone." You roll your eyes at him, trying to bring the lighter mood back as you jibe, "Yeah, okay, Mr. Gentleman, Sir."
Unfortunately, Six doesn't find your joke nearly as funny as you do, and you sigh and mutter, "Sorry, can't help it." You point to your leg and continue with a softer tone, "I could use some help, though."
Six glances from your injured thigh back to your face and he gestures to your pants, "Those are probably going to need cut off or taken off to get full access to that blast wound. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."
You groan and lean your head back against the wall with a thump, "For goodness sake, Six, help a girl out!" The desperation in your voice is what finally gets Six's resolve to crumble. He steps forward from the wall, still uncertain, his hands reaching for the scissors next to the supplies.
"You tell me if you get uncomfortable, okay?" Six pushes, not wanting to overstep. You reach forward and grab his free hand the best you can, and giving it a squeeze you whisper, "I will. There's not much you could do to make me uncomfortable with you, remember?"
Six shoots you a quick, but more assured smile before turning his attention to the blast on your leg. He gently works the scissors around the fabric, cutting the material loose to give him access to the bare expanse of your right thigh.
You shiver as the metal of the scissors brushes against your skin, your fingers moving to curl around the edge of the countertop. Six does his best to work efficiently, cutting your pant leg completely off to reveal the wound.
He takes a moment to look at it, scanning it for any debris or dirt chunks that need to be plucked out. After not finding any, he glances up at you and murmurs, "Just gotta clean this up and you'll be good."
You give him a nod, resting your head against the wall again as a shaky breath falls from your lips. You knew that no amount of mental preparation would brace you for the sting of alcohol against your open wound. But, you close your eyes and take a deep breath, forcing oxygen into your body in an attempt to calm your nervous system down.
Six glances at you again, his gaze kind as he looks over your figure. You were waiting on him to bring the alcohol wipe over your leg, and you both knew it was going to hurt like a bitch.
"Ready?" he asks as he finishes ripping open the packet containing the alcohol wipes. His fingers gently rub at your uninjured thigh, trying to distract you for a moment.
You take a quick, short breath and chirp out, "Yep, get it over with." Six doesn't waste a second, tenderly brushing the alcohol wipe over your wound. It immediately stings.
A gasp of pain forces its way out of your mouth, and your face scrunches in agony as your right foot swings out and then slams back into the cabinets below the counter. The reflex is one you couldn't have controlled, and you clamp your teeth down on your tongue as tears rush to the edges of your vision.
Six somehow avoids your involuntary kick, trying to work as fast as he can as he bloodies wipe after wipe. His blue gaze is focused as he works, and he murmurs after a moment, "You're doing good."
He grabs a new alcohol pad, applying it directly over the heart of the wound. You cry out hoarsely, your body crumpling forward toward Six's.
He holds pressure on the wound, not allowing the alcohol wipe to slip despite your wriggling to get away from the pain. Your forehead lands at the junction of his shoulder and neck, and you brace yourself against him as tears slide down your cheek.
"It's okay, it's okay," he soothes, his free hand continuously rubbing circles on your unharmed leg. When his soft touch doesn't seem to help or distract you, he kneads at the flesh instead, trying to draw your attention away from the intense burn.
This seems to help a little more, but you can't stop the sob that jumps out of your throat as waves of pain work through your body. Six is patient as he waits for you to settle down, his hand sliding up and down your left leg in another attempt at distracting you.
Only when your hand clutches at him, does Six stop. Your fingers try grabbing onto the material of his shirt, grasping for anything solid to ground you.
Six slowly turns his head to look at you leaning against his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of your face. His hand moves steadily as he runs it over the back of your head and over your hair.
You hear him clear his throat and mumble, "Are you alright? I know this sucks."
The burn of the alcohol is the only thing your mind seems to fixate on. You want to answer him, but it feels like your blood is on fire. You open your mouth to reply, but you can only let out a strangled hiss.
Six frowns as he glances down at you, now bringing his hand from the back of your head to gently cup your cheek. The rough texture of his hands initially distracts you, your vision blurring as he pulls you away from his chest.
Your cheeks are wet with tears and you can barely make out Six's figure as you hear his voice wash over you, "Hey, hey, eyes on me. Eyes on me, okay? Do you trust me?"
Six's fingers gently tilt your head back, his thumb pad brushing away your tears as he looks over your dampened cheeks. You blink a few times, trying to focus on the man in front of you as the burn of your wound begins to ebb away.
You nod and sniffle, "Y-yeah." Your voice is weak and quiet, deprived of energy. Six gives you a warm smile, his fingers moving from cupping your cheek to quietly brushing a piece of hair out of your face.
You suddenly realize your proximity to the Sierra agent has decreased rapidly. Your face is only a few inches away from his own, and he is the only thing you can focus on.
With your vision focusing, you can now see the concern lacing his stormy gaze. There is a furrow in his brow that you know is there because of you.
Six is holding you so tenderly, so patiently. It makes your heart flutter and a lump form in the back of your throat. A second passes and you swear you can feel Six's breath on your face as he silently waits.
Waits for what? You aren't really sure. He is staring at you, calculating.
Then, he leans in slowly. You swear your heart is going to beat out of your chest as a strand of his hair tickles your forehead. At the last second, he shifts and turns his head.
Six's lips land on your cheek softly. You can feel the tickle of his beard against your skin, and it makes your fingers tighten their grip on the material of his shirt.
You feel like you could vomit, your nerve endings are in pain, confused, and happy? You are instantly brought back to your senses as he lingers close to your skin, painstakingly slow to pull away from you.
He pauses as he pulls back, now only an inch or two away from your lips. Six's eyes had fluttered closed, but now, they flicker open, gauging your reaction.
Your eyes are half-lidded. From pain? Maybe. From pleasure? ...you aren't really sure. Six is so close to you, you can't think straight. You have never felt this way before, both excited and terrified.
You know all you have to do is tilt your head and you could close the gap. But you are hardly breathing. And when Six's hand slowly removes itself from pushing your hair out of your face and cups your cheek again, you think you're going to have a heart attack.
A moment passes and Six leans into you ever so slightly, the two inches now becoming one. He subconsciously tightens his grip on you, his fingers holding your face pulling you closer.
At the same time, his hand holding the alcohol wipe on your thigh also increases in pressure unconsciously. A new, fresh wave of pain roars through your body, tearing you out of the dream-like state you had been in.
You involuntarily gasp and drawback as pain floods your system, a pang of hurt flooding over you at the way Six immediately pulls away from you.
His face is instantly stone-cold with no emotion, and he pulls his hand holding the alcohol wipe off of your thigh.
The silence is painfully loud.
You can hear every movement around the safehouse. The wind is knocking into the roof and the heater attached to the wall is creaking. Otherwise, it's just the quiet rustle of medical supplies as Six silently finishes patching you up.
He puts an ointment on a gauze pad, avoiding eye contact with you, before placing it over your clean wound. You bite your tongue as hard as you can to avoid making any noise, and you try to not move or shift as he works.
Your heart rate is slowing down, but you are left with an uncomfortable feeling of hurt, guilt, and something else you can't place.
Six finishes patching your wound by wrapping your leg with a pliable gauze and taping it off. You know the wound will need to be redressed in the morning, but you don't want to think about it.
As Six throws away the used supplies and starts to gather up the clean stuff, you clear your throat. Your voice is shaky and quiet with uncertainty when you offer, "I can-, I can finish cleaning the cut on your head."
You gaze at him nervously, your hands having released him and now lay awkwardly in your lap. Six doesn't spare you a glance as he finishes putting the supplies away and mutters, "No, I'll be fine. You should go get changed, there are clothes in the bedroom."
His words are straight to the point and very matter-of-fact. You sigh and nod, forcing yourself to move despite your leg protesting. With wobbly movements, you hop down from the counter and begin inching toward the bedroom around the corner.
Six had slipped out a moment before you, heading toward the kitchen across the hall. You grunt with effort as you latch onto the door handle of the bedroom, and this makes Six pause, turning around to look at you.
Whatever silent treatment you both shared in the bathroom seems to have dissipated. He motions toward you and prompts, "Just yell if you need help."
You know he's offering as a courtesy, but you can't help but crack a grin and call over your shoulder, "I will, I don't want to get blood on the bed too, you know. Unless you're into that sort of thing."
You don't wait to see if he responds, instead slipping into the bedroom with as much grace as you can muster. You shut the door behind you, leaning up against it as your eyes flutter shut.
On the other side of the door, Six is left with pink flooding his cheeks. He walks to the kitchen, and leaning over, grabs the countertop with both hands.
He huffs out a deep breath, shaking his head in an attempt to clear his... muddled thoughts. After a moment, he can't help but let his head drop as a chuckle falls from his lips.
A pleasant smile sits on the curve of his mouth as he replays the scene over and over in his head. Gosh, he was ruined by you. However, his smile quickly fades as he starts to mull over the interaction in the bathroom.
What a pussy you are, he thinks to himself.
Similarly, you aren't much better. What kind of wuss am I? you ask yourself as you push off the bedroom door toward a small closet tucked around by the window.
You sigh as you unbutton your pants, trying to carefully shimmy your way out of them. Thankfully, your heart seemed to have calmed down. You weren't sure how Six was going to take to you resuming your normal banter, but you hoped it would ease the obvious tension.
The tension?
It was all you could think about. And now? You knew you needed to confront whatever feelings you were experiencing. Because after today?
Sierra Six was driving you insane.
You slept on and off that night, fits of restlessness followed by sheer exhaustion that pulled you under. It was a rough night, to say the least.
The combination of your injuries and the torment of your interactions with Six left you flat-out tired. So when your body finally gave up and forced you to sleep around 3 a.m., you weren't complaining.
Six, ever the gentleman, slept on the couch in the living room and gave you the bed for the night. It was an unspoken agreement - you had basically collapsed on the bed after getting changed and didn't move.
Six knew this, and figured that he would be up for a while as the events of the day replayed in his mind. Not wanting to disturb you, he knew the couch would be his solace for the night.
The following morning, Six woke up early out of natural instinct. His muscles were sore and stiff from being crammed on the small and uncomfortable couch, but it wasn't anything a good stretch and walk couldn't fix.
With a quick glance at the clock on the wall, which read 6:25 a.m., Six knew he had a while until you woke up. You hadn't come out of the bedroom since you had disappeared the night before, and he didn't want to bother you.
So, Six makes a quick pot of coffee and does a couple of stretches to loosen his body and wake up his mind. Pouring the coffee into a sealed thermos, Six makes his way to the front door.
He slides on his boots and shrugs on a jacket that he had left on the coat rack. It was pretty cold outside - a sharp wind that cut to his core and knocked the snow off of the branches of the large pine trees around the safehouse.
A sigh falls from Six's mouth as he takes a sip of his coffee and sets out to do a perimeter check. He can't be too careful, not when you are basically out of commission. So, he does a quick scan of the vehicle he parked outside before setting off toward the edge of the property.
With the cold air biting at his cheeks, Six can't help but let his mind wander to you. You. You were... irritating to him, to say the least.
You just had to be the best thing that had ever walked into his life. From the moment he met you, Six knew that you were going to change him. And you certainly did.
His feet crunch over the snow as he walks the tree line, his blue eyes darting in and out of the wintery trees. Six watches two white-haired rabbits jump around in the snow 30 feet in front of him, pawing through the frozen flakes toward the hidden grass below.
He can't help but smile at the small animals as his mind drifts back to you. He knows you would love their cute whiskers covered with snow. Hell, you would probably try to chase one and pick it up.
The bearded blonde pushes forward, skirting around the rabbits and taking another sip of his coffee. The sun is just barely over the horizon, the woods still dark with the chill of the night. There is enough sunlight illuminating the snow that Six can easily navigate through the deep dawn, his eyes scouring the nature around him.
Six's smile fades as last night's memories flood his brain as he walks. He had been a coward. Truly, he had been a coward for a lot longer than last night.
There had been seemingly countless times when he had wanted to tell you how he felt. Deep down, Six knew you would listen to him make a fool of himself.
You were his best friend.
He didn't think he would ever have one of those, but then you showed up and flipped his whole world upside down. You were kind, reliable, and always quick with a bad joke.
You loved to banter with him, playfully jibing and quipping at each other until you got Six to smile. You had seen him through tough missions where things almost went south. You had had his back when he miscalculated things, picking up the slack like it was second nature.
You had the biggest heart despite being a part of a cruel, cruel profession. He knew he wasn't special to you when you smiled or said something kind. That was you, being you.
Six knew this from the beginning. And yet he still somehow found himself falling for you, even after telling himself he wouldn't jeopardize your partnership and friendship like that.
So now, here he was, having almost kissed you four separate times. And it was driving him crazy. It irritated him. He knew he was being a coward.
You deserved a good, kind, brave man. And Six wasn't any of those things. He lived in a kill-or-be-killed world. He didn't get to settle down and live a white-picket-fence kind of life. You deserved that.
But damn it, you had his mind bewitched. He couldn't summon the courage to tell you how he felt because he didn't want to ruin your friendship.
He knew you would be sweet about it when you let him down easy. He can picture the way your face would twist into a sad, apologetic look as you told him you didn't see him that way.
And he can't stand that.
But then another part of his brain says that you feel the same. Six knew you found some comfort in him. That was proof of when you crashed into his arms after finding out your mom passed away.
He knew you trusted him when you followed his lead on the mission in Spain, letting him guide you as if you were truly in love. Then when he helped you at the hotel? His self-restraint had barely kept him composed.
Then with last night looming in his mind... Six knew he was fucked. He had to get his shit together and tell you. It was going to eat him alive until he did something about it.
Maybe, just maybe, things would go his way. If they didn't? ...well he would figure it out. You may ask to get reassigned or pretend that nothing happened.
Six didn't want to think about that, though, and instead forces himself to continue on his walk around the perimeter of the safehouse.
Inside, you had woken up. You had heard the front door swing shut, despite Six trying to keep it from closing with a loud thud. It was slow-moving for you to get out of bed, but you carefully took your time to avoid causing yourself excessive pain.
You figured Six was probably securing the perimeter, so you didn't think it was a bad idea to get a shower and try to make breakfast.
Surprisingly, getting in and out of the shower was pretty easy, and redressing your wound seemed to breeze by. However, getting to the kitchen was a bit of a struggle, with your thigh now aching from being used and the fresh sting of ointment.
You have to hobble and hop to get the short distance from the bathroom to the kitchen, but you are immediately drawn toward the cabinets around the coffee pot.
You grab a glass from one of the cupboards above you, fiddling with the faucet to pour some water into the plain cup. You take a quick sip as you peer out the window above the sink, the sun slowly sliding up over the horizon.
The snow is tinged with pink and orange, casting an illuminating glow over the peaceful scenery. A sigh falls from your lips as you set your glass down, putting your attention on trying to find something to eat.
There probably isn't anything fresh in here, it's a safehouse for goodness sake, you think to yourself as you start rifling through the other cabinets. Inside one of them, you find a box of pancake mix that hadn't expired.
You smile at it and huff, "This'll do!" You set to work, finding a bowl to mix the batter in, as well as an old cast-iron skillet to cook with. As if it's second nature, you pour batter onto the skillet, carefully watching and flipping the pancakes as they turn golden brown.
Just as you start digging through the freezer, you hear the front door creak open. You swivel on your uninjured leg as you turn to face the source of cold air swirling into the house.
Six is standing at the threshold of the front door, surprise evident on his features as he gazes at you. You note the thermos in his hand and the heavy jacket he has covering his shoulders.
As he moves to step inside, you sheepishly smile and mumble, "G-good morning! I'm making some breakfast, if you want any." Six makes quick work of his boots by the door, shuffling out of his jacket a moment later.
"You should be resting," his voice comes out low and firm, and hearing it makes you realize how much of a comfort it brings you. You turn back toward the freezer as you try to ignore his words, but he doesn't seem like he's going to let it go.
Six moves into the kitchen with a couple of long strides, the smell of pancakes hitting him as he stops next to you and sets his thermos down. He gazes down at your shy figure digging through the shelving of the freezer, and he crosses his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow.
"You should be resting," he repeats pointedly, "Not digging through an ancient freezer." You ignore him for another second before smiling at something you pull out of the rusty ice box.
You finally turn to face him, shutting the freezer door by taking a step closer to the bearded blonde. You try to push down the wave of nerves you feel at the closer proximity, images of last night flashing through your mind.
You offer him the package and remark, "Then you, also, should be resting. Not taking adventures around the property in the snow." Six's gaze hovers on you for a second, a look on his face knowing he'd been beaten by his own logic.
Instead, he focuses on the frozen package you hand him. He recognizes it as a bag of frozen breakfast sausages and glances back up at you with a question in his gaze.
You shrug and motion to the stovetop, "Wanna help me? The pancakes are almost done." You start hobbling past him, a quiet grunt sliding across your lips as you stop in front of the pancake skillet, flipping the bready goodness over with relative ease.
Six can't help but watch you for a moment, his fingers growing cold with the bag of frozen meat in his hand. His heart warms as he realizes you don't hate him for his cowardice the night before.
You want his help, and damn it, he's going to help you. He moves to stand next to you again, waiting for you to finish with the pancakes.
As you pour the last of the batter into a final, very large pancake, you smile up at Six with a glance and a chirp of, "My dad used to always do this with the leftover batter. He would always eat it, no matter how ridiculously large it ended up being."
Six lets a small, close-lipped smile pull across his face as he listens to you recount the memory. Setting the bag of breakfast sausage on the counter next to the two of you, he says, "That sounds nice."
Your smile fades as you watch the pancake start to form bubbles, and you shrug, "It's just a faraway memory now." Six watches you silently for a moment before pointing at it and mumbling, "I'll take it."
Your (colored) gaze makes its way over to Six, and you see a kind look resting on his face. It makes you feel better, calming the swirling thoughts in your mind.
You give him a nod before focusing back on the large pancake, flipping it over with more difficulty. Without looking away from the pancake, you ask, "Could you open the bag of sausage and grab 2 plates for us?"
Six, without hesitation, replies, "Yes ma'am," and cuts open the bag of sausage with his pocket knife. He leaves it next to you before beginning to look through the cabinets to find the plates.
After a minute of digging around, he returns with two plates and sets them near the coffee pot. You pluck the large pancake off of the skillet and slap it down on one of the plates.
You and Six continue to quietly and comfortably work through making breakfast, with Six cleaning the used utensils while you finish frying the meats.
After the food is made, eaten, and cleaned up, Six nods his head toward the bedroom and states, "I'm going to grab some clothes and get a shower. Just yell-" "if I need help", you finish with a smile, "I got it."
Six lets a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth before he backs up and disappears from view, leaving you alone in the kitchen. You breathe a sigh of content as you are left alone with your thoughts.
That was... surprisingly pleasant, you ponder as you shuffle toward the living room on the other side of the kitchen. You let your curiosity get the best of you, skimming through the simple decorations and furniture.
You are drawn to the small side table next to the couch, and you see a blanket piled up next to one of the pillows. Guilt tugs at your heartstrings when you realize Six slept on the couch and let you have the bed.
You hadn't even thought to ask him about the sleeping arrangements. You try not to dwell on it, though, and focus on trying to find something to do.
Your eyes catch on a few books on a shelf near the wall, but you don't quite feel the energy to read something. Instead, you are drawn to a deck of cards poking out next to a small book.
Faulty footsteps eventually lead you to the shelf, where you easily pluck the box of cards up. You maneuver back to the center of the small living room, ungracefully plopping yourself onto the floor and positioning yourself with your back to the couch.
You lean back against the cushions and slightly grimace at how firm they are. You were going to have to apologize to Six for making him sleep on these all night.
Focusing on the cards in your hands, you fish them out and fumble with them for a minute. You had never been one who learned how to play cards, so you initially struggle to shuffle them. After toying with the crisp cards for a second, you start to get the hang of it.
Triumphantly, but still awkwardly shuffling the cards, a smile eases across your face. Just then, the bathroom door swings open and Six steps out, freshly dressed and showered.
Your smile widens when you see him and hold up the cards to show him your find. Six is running a towel over his head as he notices you, and he shakes his head to get the hair out of his eyes before asking, "Where'd you find them?"
You point toward the bookshelf and shrug, "Just sitting over there by the books. I don't really know any card games though." Six slings the towel over his shoulder, his face thoughtful for a minute before he offers, "I can show you a couple."
The cards almost fall out of your hand at his suggestion, but you cover it up with a wide grin and a giggle of, "That would be great!" You turn around to lean against the couch again, fiddling with the cards while Six hangs up his towel.
He joins you a minute later, flopping down on the ground next to you with a groan. You snicker at him playfully, and he shoots you a glare with no malice behind it.
Six reaches over and plucks the cards from your hands, and in doing so, makes you pause. His knuckles are busted, something you hadn't noticed before. There are a couple of scrapes across them, as well as bruising around several of the joints.
You frown and reach out, gently grabbing his hand. Six stops his movements, looking over at you as you turn his palms over to look at the angry red skin on the other side.
"You're hurt," you mumble, the frown on your face deepening as a crease forms between your brows. Six lets you run your digits over his own, enjoying the soft touch of your skin on his.
Six is quiet, not uncommon for him, and you look up at him with concern etched into your features. The bearded blonde is taken aback by the intensity in your (colored) eyes, and averts his gaze, shrugging, "I've had it worse. Nothing to get upset over."
Your grip tightens on his for a second, but then you release his hand and shift to face him. You lean your elbow on the hard cushion of the couch and prop your head in the palm of your hand.
"If you say so," you reply quietly. You give him an apologetic smile and murmur, "I also owe you an apology for letting you sleep on this couch last night. This thing is terrible."
You finish your words with a giggle, your hand slipping from propping your head up to whack at the stiff material. Six brings his blue eyes to watch you, a soft look on his face. It makes your heart flutter in your chest, and this time it's you who has to look away.
He clears his throat and turns to shuffle the cards as he says, "It wasn't that terrible. As long as you were comfortable last night." There's a double meaning to his words that is so subtle you almost miss it.
As his fingers flip through the cards to shuffle them, you reach out and rest your hand on his bicep closest to you. Your features have relaxed, and you whisper, "I was comfortable last night. I- I wasn't sure if you were."
Six pauses halfway through shuffling the deck. It's quiet in the safehouse, again. While you can hear your heartbeat in your ears, this time it's not the kind of silence that makes you want to scream.
It's the kind of silence where you want to see what happens next.
He sets the cards down on the ground next to him, still not meeting your eyes. You shuffle so that you are sitting facing Six, with his back leaned up against the couch.
The bearded blonde is quiet, pensive. You slide your hand from his bicep to the hand now resting on his lap, gently grasping for it. He lets you thread your fingers through his own, and you continue quietly, "Last night, I- I thought that maybe..." and your voice trails off shyly.
"Maybe, what?" he whispers, squeezing your hand and rubbing his thumb across the back of it. He glances up at you, catching your gaze. You see an unusual expression there - one of vulnerability that you hardly ever see.
It hits you with a wave of butterflies so hard that you look away and try to backtrack, "I-I don't-" "Just-" he cuts you off, his voice still gentle as he urges, "Maybe, what?"
You sigh as you feel heat burn up your cheeks and start curling down your neck. You want to shove your face in your hands, but instead, you tighten your grip on Six's hand as you mumble indistinctly, "I thought that maybe last night there was a change. A, a shift or something."
You chuckle dryly as you try to pull your hand away from Six, but he holds you there in place. His grip tightening on your hand finally makes you look at him, and your wave of nerves hits you all over again.
He swallows thickly, his blue gaze stormy as he replies, "There was a shift, I felt it too." You hold your breath as you wait for him to elaborate, but it doesn't come.
Six takes a moment, his mouth parted as he tries to come up with words. He sighs in frustration, his free hand coming up to rub at his face before he mutters, "Fuck it."
Before you can ask him what he means, Six is pulling you into his lap, letting your legs delicately straddle either side of his hips. He releases his grip on your hand to grip the back of your neck, his fingers sliding into your hair and pulling you down to him.
Your heart lurches in your chest as you realize what's happening. Your hands fly up to brace yourself on his chest as his free hand finds its place on your hip.
Despite all of this being completely new, you can't help but feel comfortable and almost as if you were made to sit on his lap. He doesn't give you long to think as he pulls you down to him.
Only when your mouth is hanging open in mild surprise, inches from his own, does he slow down. His gaze is half-lidded, but now when you search for the name of the emotion on his face, you can place it.
Six whispers hoarsely, "Tell me you don't want this and I'll stop. We can pretend this never happened." You slide your right hand from his chest to the back of his neck, letting your fingers slide through the drying locks there.
Your (colored) eyes flit between his blue ones, and you whisper back, "It's all I've ever wanted, Six." And that's all it takes for him.
With electricity crackling in the air, Six closes the distance between the two of you. Your breath catches in your throat the second his lips meet yours, and you can't help the soft gasp that you let out as sparks shoot up your spine and your eyes flutter closed.
Your hand unknowingly tightens its grip on his hair, and Six lets out a throaty groan as his mouth starts to move in sync with yours. Butterflies that had once bloomed with nerves now flutter with excitement as your lips chase his, moving in perfect synchronicity.
Six pulls you closer with his grip on your hip bone, angling your head with his hand tangled in your hair. He deepens the kiss, his soft lips slotting over yours in ways you never could have dreamed of.
Your nose bumps against his as you take in the sweet taste of his mouth, something that is minty but reminds you of home. His kiss is soft and gentle, accompanied by the tickle of his facial hair on your chin and cheeks.
You find yourself becoming desperate when your lungs start to burn, but you don't want to stop. Not now, not after so long. Six seems to be in agreement, his mouth hungrily chasing after yours despite knowing you are both running out of oxygen.
The bearded blonde gives into the burn, though, and pulls back just long enough for the two of you to gasp for air. You can't stop the fire burning in you, and you lunge forward, crashing your lips against his without respite.
He catches your kiss eagerly, his hand resting on your hip sliding up your back and pulling your chest flush against his own. The angle causes your legs to burn, but not because of your wound.
Your mouth falls open at the pain, and Six seizes the opportunity to let his tongue swipe across your lower lip, testing the waters. When you willingly open your mouth for him to explore, Six swears he is in heaven.
His tongue gently explores your awaiting mouth, trying to memorize the taste of you. A soft whine pulls from the back of your throat, and Six slowly brings the kiss back from hungry to tender with his hand moving from your hair to cup your cheek.
His hands are rough on your skin, but you don't mind. Not when he is kissing you senseless. You follow his lead, though, and slow your mouth and heart down as you pour every ounce of affection into the kiss.
Six is the one to pull back, but not far. His chest is heaving, as is yours, leaning his forehead against your own. His nose brushes yours tenderly, and his blue gaze flutters open to meet yours.
Your cheeks are burning with heat when you finally make eye contact with him, and you are hit with a sudden wave of shyness. You go to glance away, but Six's hand keeps you right where you are.
He leans in again, pressing his lips to yours in a sweet and gentle peck, sending another wave of butterflies through your body. The hand resting on your back gently rubs up and down your spine, and you look up to meet Six's gaze for the umpteenth time.
When you gaze at him, you suddenly have names for all of the emotions you've been feeling and seeing.
But Six beats you to it.
"I have wanted to do that for so, so long," he starts, his voice scratchy but tender. He sweetly brushes a piece of hair out of your eyes before continuing, "But I have loved you for even longer, Y/n."
Your heart swells in your chest at the simple confession, and you bring both of your hands up to cup his cheeks as you smile up at him. You giggle once as you hold him close to you, basking in his words before replying, "I've wanted that for a long time, too, you know."
Six smiles at that, but you keep talking before he can respond, "I love you, Six. I- I didn't want to read too much into things and ruin what we had."
The bearded blonde gives you a grin and chuckles out, "Well I think we might have ruined what we had, there's no going back for me now." You smile at the meaning of his words and nod in response, "I suppose you're right. You could've been kissing me like that for years."
Six's grip tightens on you as he all but growls out, "Guess I'll have to make up for lost time," and he crashes his lips against yours without another word.
All you can do is wrap your arms around his neck and hold on. It may have taken Six a while to get his timing right, but you weren't one to complain now.
After all, Six would make sure he made it up to you.
human/avatar!jake sully x fem!human/avatar!reader . . .ᐟ
jake sully loves nothing more than to rage bait you, and being in a 9 ft alien body just makes it better.
⁺˖ ⸝⸝ warnings/tags: human!jake (he needs a tag for himself), annoying jake sully, fluff, flirting, suggestiveness, pining, i use lot of dog metaphors idk why??, walk him like a dog reader ig, puppy love (see? i like dogs ok), little shit jake sully, he's obsessed w you. always 18+ only.
⁺˖ ⸝⸝ wc: 4.6k
divider credit: @uzmacchiato
⁺˖ ⸝⸝ masterlist.
jake sully was a menace. you were almost certain the purpose of his sole existence was to irritate and rage bait you.
most days it was before you even linked up into your avatars.
you always woke up first, heading to the lab to get some research done, writing down what pandoran flora you were out to look for today. usually norm and grace would slowly pile into the room, one or the other forced to wake up jake by the time it was almost nine. lately, however, jake took it upon himself to set his alarm for six thirty; a solid thirty minutes after you woke up, and thirty minutes before grace and norm trudged out. prime bothering you time. he’d prefer longer, but couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed and match your absurdity.
the low whine of his wheelchair along the floor of the biolab corridor never failed to alert his presence. he never announced himself like a normal person would, at least audibly. it was always you standing in front of your desk and the sudden thunk thunk of the front of his wheelchair kissing your ankles. once, twice, maybe three times if you didn’t fall on your ass or screech with a glare over your shoulder.
it was usually a fall on your ass type of situation. that was jake’s favorite.
“ouch! move, dickhead!” you hissed from the floor, arm swinging out to hit whatever you could find in the plummet, failing to enact revenge.
jake only looked down from above, a cheshire grin, a quick ‘ah!’ as he dodged your hit between joyous laughter that didn’t belong at six in the morning.
“mornin’ doc.” he smugly spoke, proud of himself. a quick turn around in his wheelchair and he was off to grab coffee and whatever else he could bug you with.
pulling yourself up from the ground, you grumbled and tried your hardest to stay annoyed while you watched him roll to the other side of the room. but truthfully, you’d been glancing at the clock and waiting eagerly for his arrival. it was impossible to admit that to yourself, though.
usually, with anyone else, jake would feel at least a twinge of guilt at kicking their feet out from under them. but anyone else looked at him like a poor cripple who needed his hand held. you didn’t.
it was refreshing the way you took one look at him the first day—at his eyes, not just fleetingly over his legs—and threw a crumbled up paper at the side of his head, making grace and himself swivel to look over at you. there you were, hands flat and leaning forward on a desk, beaming with the prettiest smile he’d ever seen; like a lighthouse beacon, and he was the one out at sea, following the rays to get to shore. “jake, right? your avatar’s better lookin’ than you!” you’d shouted.
the smile on his face was instant, a quick ‘oh yeah?’ and even quicker retort. “you one of the scientists that play in the dirt with worms?” he’d shout over, and you threw your head back laughing, earning an eye roll from norm.
so, he decided you could handle it. he roughed you up the same way you gave him shit. gently, of course; he knew you’d get up and brush it off, the same way you knew he didn’t need help climbing out of the pod, or an extra hand when his wheel caught and he tipped over (you did try once and he swore at you, which tickled you enough to dissolve all concern and laugh at him). in the back of his mind, it was like a reminder to you that he could still be rowdy, that you didn’t have to look at him as a scarred vet. you could just see him as jake, who held his own and sized up against you, even if he was a few heads below. he had to reaffirm his independence if he wanted to shoot his shot, too.
although, the first time he knocked your ankles was an accident and he thought about it all day, face in a pathetic frown every time you looked over. it took reassurance from you that you didn’t care, your ass was firm enough to cushion your landing, you’d said. he snorted and accepted it, and the sleazy part of him risked a glance to make sure you were accurate in that statement when you walked away—and then he felt bad again, but still struggled to tear his eyes away from your ass. fortunately you were right.
things fell into a rhythm almost instantly. jake teasing you around every corner, you swatting his head and giving it right back. leaning on each other in the unique way of poking and prodding was a comfort. you learned early that threatening to run his chair battery down to zero only spurred whatever daredevil he had inside him. it would earn you a mischievous grin, like being stranded at your mercy was a gift and not a punishment. a constant in the state of chaos that was this new alien world of pandora.
jake wasn’t all roughhousing though. some days he’d greet you nice, like he’d woken up to flower petals and candles leading straight to you, and you were on a bed in the middle of rose petals shaped into a heart. except the bed was your desk and you were nose deep in a book.
in suave jake fashion, he’d roll up to the high partition, resting his forearms casually on the top edge. “morning sunshine. what’s the plan for today?” his words always biting in the perfect way, underlined with some fraction of truth. it was also an ode to how he saw you, so elevated that he considered you the one to run the show—or at least the jake show—as if grace’s say so wasn’t what lead his decisions for the day, but rather you. would he follow you into the forest as you and the other two scanned plants? would he trail after you during strength training? or would he have to bare the cold, hard world of pandora alone without his leash attached to your grip?
you didn’t need to glance up to know he was grinning, but you did anyways to make your day worse. his smile was wide and boyish, eyes crinkling, lopsided; far too ecstatic like he was genuinely excited to be in your orbit. it clenched at your stomach, and it almost pained you that you didn’t have him—it was unknown to you that if you said just that, he’d be yours in a second. the frown on your face was accidental.
“c’mon, you still acting like you hate having me around?” jake pressed a bit, arms flexing as he rested his chin on them. one reached out, patronizingly taking the fat of your cheek between his thumb and forefinger, pinching it. “pitiful.” he teased, emphasizing it with a gentle shake.
you didn’t slap his hand away, and it allowed him far more time than usual to linger. it was only a couple seconds, but he took the chance to do damage. jake’s thumb traced up your cheekbone, heel of his palm sliding along your skin as he reached for a new destination. his fingers ducked under the drape of your hair, gently pinching and tugging at your earlobe, something annoying and intimate and surprising he could do.
“i’m tying you to a log and frying you on a fire, that’s the plan.” you grumbled. finally, you slapped his hand away, and jake beamed.
“oh yeah? tying people up, huh? knew you were mean, but that’s a new low. that something you partake in on your free time—?” jake’s endless quips faded as you got up to walk across the room.
“no, just your annoying ass.” you cut him off, looking back at him flatly.
“ah, so i’m special? or it’s because i’m in a wheelchair!” he shouted, brows raised in challenge, going on and on. as soon as you spoke a word to him it was like a dog who got a bone, gnawing and chewing it as fast and hard as he could.
then you’d link up, and he’d go rabid.
jake’s personality was big to make up for whatever he thought he lacked, which in your professional opinion wasn’t much—maybe a haircut and an attitude adjustment. but once he was in his avatar, the body matched the aforementioned attitude. he became nine feet of lean muscle and lithe limbs, broad shoulders that filled out the whatever shirt he was forced to squeeze into, a stride that ate up the ground like he was meant to. whatever confidence he had before was amped up tenfold, but jake was still humble enough that it seemed like maybe this was how he was meant to be all along.
when jake first linked up it was like everything finally made sense to him. the body he was in was foreign, sure, but it never felt more his. that was clear as day to you when you first saw him in his avatar.
you’d heard a new avatar escaped from the medical center, running ramped and unable to be reeled in. you also knew jake and norm were two of the new ones linking up today, and the last time you saw norm break the rules was when he stole a pen, guiltily replacing it with four more—so it must’ve been jake.
you spotted him in the clearing, still clad in his hospital gown and looking around like he was in disbelief. he was huge, and not just na’vi huge, but genetic anomaly in a tube huge. most likely a fair foot half foot above an oma’ticayan. you knew he’d get a kick out of that when he saw you—him nine foot five, you eight eleven.
the irony of jake being in a new body was that he looked… right. it wasn’t because he was different now—no, jake was perfect as he was brought to you in the space craft, and it didn’t matter if he was leaning close over a desk or standing tall in a blue body. you didn’t see a change in human jake and avatar jake, not really. he was still the man who kicked your ankles for attention. it’s just that… his muscles were more relaxed than you’d ever seen them, his chin was held high and his eyes were closed in reverence like he was feeling the breeze for the first time. you realized then how much more comfortable he must have been in regaining his legs, but there was something else entirely too.
it was like the man inside hell’s gate, sitting in the pod, had been a glitch, and this was the real jake sully.
then he saw you. approaching him from the trees where you’d been digging around for worms, or so he called it. for one heartbeat, the cocky marine vanished. his eyes widened, golden irises dilating, and his breath caught audibly in his chest. you were tall, almost as tall as him but not quite, the same shade of blue, shorts and a tank top showing off your striped stomach, and your tail—a tail—was whipping behind you in amusement.
jake stared like you were the first living thing he’d ever truly seen. the way your hair was half up and pinned back by a flower species he’d never seen, the subtle shift of muscle in your strong legs as you walked, the quiet confidence like you’d always been in this body. you still had your core features in some way, structure mostly the same, high cheekbones, a bit more feline, and oddly enough the same eyes, even if they were a different color. this was still you, just you in blue, and it was merely a second skin to call your own; and you looked just as destined to be planted here as he was.
something raw had flickered across his face, wonder, gratitude, a flicker of thank fuck i get to see this. it hit him all at once, standing almost eye to eye with you now as you finally approached, that this random scientist girl he happened to be stuck on an alien planet with was worth every shitty day back on earth.
then he blinked when he realized you’d said something and shook his head, snapping himself out of it.
“you escaped.” you said simply, easy smile adorning your face—that smile, you still had it in this new body.
jake took a beat to find his words, glancing around as a violet blush creeped up his cheeks. in order to converse with you jake had to physically dip his chin down just a tad, barely, but it was something he hadn’t done in a while since he had his legs on earth. he decided he liked being bigger than you, even if it meant both of you had to be eight to nine feet tall.
“well, i had to find you, even if it meant being an escaped patient.” he managed to muster up a coherent sentence. it was a joke, but the way he looked at you made it seem like there was no humor behind it.
a soft giggle left you and jake beamed, like you recharged his battery, his usual wolfish grin now having canines. “but i do have to say,” he began, the lilt of smugness in his voice making you see the human version of himself as he looked you up and down, “damn, doc. you clean up nice.”
it was almost comical, the ogling and exaggerated words, but if any other jarhead on the base spoke to you like that you’d punch them. you didn’t think too hard about what that meant. “oh, how charming.” monotonously you spoke and rolled your now golden eyes. long arms crossed and your hip subtly stuck out at the new distribution of weight, and jake’s eyes followed.
“no, seriously,” he began, walking around you in a slow circle, and it was your turn to blush. “this is unfair.” he gestured vaguely to all of you, grin widening. “how am i supposed to go on missions when you’re looking like that?”
now you wanted to slap him a bit, his cocky side rearing its head. it was hard to not like his eyes on you though, and you’d internally just checked him out nearly the same way; jake was just stupid enough to do it audibly.
you swatted at his arm that reached out to curiously swirl a lock of your hair around his finger. “focus on not tripping over your giant feet.”
jake laughed, bright and unrestrained, and caught your wrist mid swat, not rough, just firm enough to hold you there for a second while his thumb thoughtfully ran along your wrist. his new reflexes surprised you both, but he didn’t falter. your gaze flicked between him and his hold on you, lips parting in bashfulness.
“you’re the same as me. admit it,” he spoke, releasing your hand, “you like being big ‘n tall. gives you ideas, huh? bossing me around.” jake finished, bent to the side a bit in his swagger, unused to the new stature. his words came off as banter, ever the pro at masking what was underneath. his tongue poked his cheek as he assed the damage you could do—the damage he’d let you do. jake was still bigger, he reveled.
“i already boss you around,” you said matter of factly, stepping closer. it was your turn to touch, picking up his arm in the air and letting it fall like a fish, slapping his side. “and i could probably beat you up too if you don’t put on some muscle, so watch your mouth.”
comments like that lit a fire in jake, your mean teasing pushing him to poke the bear even more. cheeks flaring in that violet blush, he didn’t dare look away. it was like he wanted you to see, to notice how much fun he was having, how you could still bounce back and forth even in these bodies.
with the attention span of a toddler, jake moved on quick. his eyes spotted the flower in the back of your hair as you looked over your shoulder, hearing two other avatar’s playing basketball at the court nearby.
“what’s that flower?” he asked, reaching up to stroke a petal. his hand fell when you turned back with your brows lifted cutely. “in your hair,” he mimicked, finger pointing at his own head. “never seen it before.”
“oh!” you reached back and pulled it out of your hair. holding it between you, jake watched you swirl it back and forth by the stem between your blue fingers. it had five petals, a deep mix of blue and purple with a bright pink outline along the ridged edges of each one. “it’s a juvenile tsawksyul. i wouldn’t have taken it if it wasn’t already fallen on the ground and off the vine.” you explained as if you, the sweet, funny girl with the big heart, would ever hurt a living creature; as if jake could ever even think that. additionally, you spoke the na’vi words cleanly like it was your first language, and jake felt the urge to hold you.
as you reached up to do something—jake didn’t really care what, because you were suddenly leaning closer and his heart was racing—you spoke, “but we call it a sun lily.” your words were punctuated with the feeling of the stem being placed behind his ear.
you had just put a sun lily behind jake sully’s ear and now he had a new favorite flower, one he didn’t even know existed five minutes ago.
the beaming smile you gave him while you drank in the image of the dork in front of you was heartbreaking in the best way. he looked dumb, eyes wide and mouth open in silence, bright blueish purple flower hooked behind his ear.
“you look too cute, jake sully.” you decided teasingly. a soft hum from jake, his lips pressing together, and his eyes softening visibly. gaze flicking all across your face, he looked like he was thinking too hard, or maybe not at all. maybe just trying to remember the moment.
before he could respond, grace appeared behind you from some kind of bungalow, something in hand. “think fast, marine!” she shouted as she chucked it.
unceremoniously, it hit your arm and you bent over in pain, whatever nicety you exchanged with him disappearing like smoke. “owww!” you shouted. it didn’t take long for jake to realize you weren’t really hurt and start cackling like a hyena.
behind you, grace cringed and shouted apologies, laughter floating from her too. jake leaned down to pick up what turned out to be a fruit—a super hard fruit that had you clutching your shoulder. “dumbass.” he snickered, rubbing the blossoming violet skin for you as he straightened.
things fell into place more solidly after that. the constant push and pull was a fun game, and being in new bodies didn’t hinder that in the slightest.
with jake now being so tall when in his avatar, it was sweet how he didn’t let his step falter beside you. long blue legs matched your pace,. your own identical ones were just a couple inches shorter, but that combined with jake buzzing with enthusiasm to just walk again should’ve had him sprinting down the corridor, but he didn’t.
he never sprinted ahead or left you trailing him. even when his longer legs outdistanced you in three strides, he’d halt immediately when he didn’t feel your presence beside him, waiting with his ears pricked up until you were right next to him once more, and then he picked up where he left off like a pause in a sentence. being able to keep up with you, following on the same path with the same stride, was a gift he didn’t intend on wasting.
you caught him glancing sideways sometimes. there wasn’t the usual smirk or teasing quip, but sneaky little side glances like he was a boy trying not to get caught. watching the way your tail moved back and forth, your pointed ears flickering at every sound, and each time his eyes were soft or wide with wonder. like he couldn’t believe he got to be next to you in a body that actually worked.
however, jake sully didn’t go a over couple hours without pestering you.
finding any excuse to be in your space was easy. reaching for a scanner he didn’t need that happened to require him leaning right in your bubble, chest brushing your shoulder. sometimes he shoulder checked you by “accident, doc” when passing you in the wild while on different missions for the day; like he had to let you get it even inbetween working. let you know that he saw you, cutely bent over or squatting next to a too tall tree to scan a new plant as he learned how to carry a gun in these new hands, even if you were all the way across the field.
once he actually got to stick his head in the forest with you as your bodyguard, that’s when he decided pulling your hair was his favorite.
with all the beautiful alien flora and fauna surrounding you, jake’s eyes only zeroed in on the flowing hair cascading down your shoulders. it was long, longer than your human hair, and scattered with a few braids, one long one holding your queue in the back. jake still didn’t fully understand what the hell that thing did, either. another question to pester you with during na’vi lessons he’d begged you to give him.
jake waited until you squatted to scan another plant before he casually hooked two fingers in one of your braids and gave it a firm tug. it was like you were kids on a playground and he was six years old tugging your pigtails because he didn’t know how to say look at me.
you whipped around, ears flat as you looked up at him. the bright sun flared behind him like a halo, and you squinted, hand covering your eyes. “sully.” you hissed in warning.
if your tail wasn’t lashing, he wasn’t pleased, and it wasn’t, so he tugged again. he was looking straight down in your eyes as he did it, until you stood fast, face to face. as usual, jake was already grinning, his canines showing, but his cheeks were violet in a blush. he never ducked his head to hide it, nor look away to save his pride. eagerly he stared back, proud and hot faced, as if you making him blush just from your attention was a badge of honor, and being caught with it saturated on his cheeks made this whole thing more fun.
“problem?” he drawled. the lock of hair was still between his fingers, and he feigned inspecting it like it was fine silk upon his head, so it was his right to do so. you smacked his hand away, hard.
“ah!” surprised, he shook his head hand out and laughed boisterously. “fuck! you hit like you mean it.”
“because i do mean it,” you inched closer, pointing your scanner at him like it was a weapon. the strength in your avatar was ten times the one in your human form, and despite his new growing muscles from training, it was your chance to beat jake up since his skin was as solid as yours.
gold eyes flicked between the scanner, your glaring face, and your swishing tail. jake didn’t flinch nor step back, but leaned into the scanner with his chest puffed. “go on then, hit me with it, make me behave.” he grinned, words getting under your skin easy.
instead, your hands hit his solid chest and you pushed him, and he let you, rocking back willingly. if he really wanted to, jake could’ve stood there like nothing happened, but he liked making you think you had a chance.
another laugh, never ending it seemed, and he steadied with his eyes never leaving you. “careful, doc. you keep pushin’ and i might think you like havin’ your hands on me.” his words were too casual, speech almost accented with the lack of ‘g’s as they got slurred together. a push was enough to make him dizzy, and it had nothing to do with balance.
“sully, i swear—“
“what?” innocent as anything, he crowded your space again. another slip of his fingers into your hair, this time the unbraided pieces, and he watched the black cascade between blue digits swimming in it. “it’s distracting. all this hair swishin’ around while you’re trying to be all serious and scientific. how am i supposed to concentrate?”
“you’re not, you’re supposed to shut up and guard.” you huffed but didn’t slap his arm away for once, letting him do as he pleased. jake sensed it and took advantage of it, finding the thick braid that held your queue and sliding it through his palm, bringing it over your shoulder. in an attempt to hide your shiver, you backed up a step, and his brows raised. jake needed to ask about that. maybe this kuru thing was interesting after all.
the braid slowly slid out of his hand as you backed up, and he savored each second it was in his palm. “yeah, well, guarding you means keepin’ an eye on everything. including you.” he raised a brow now pointedly.
a soft laugh from you, realization as you kept backing up. “you know,” you mused, hand sliding over a giant leaf in thought, “i almost forgot you were a trained marine with a big gun strapped to your back.”
like a dog to a treat—always a dog, somehow—jake followed you slowly, smile devastatingly bright. eyes trained on you as he watched the green forest swallow you up, jake noticed that the sun bouncing off of the canopy’s above made your usual deep blue skin twinge cyan. for a second it felt like he was being lured by a siren and not a heartbreakingly beautiful scientist that was telling him to get lost.
remembering you just spoke to him, jake’s brows shot up, feet carrying him forward. “need me to remind you?” he teased, no actual threat in the slightest.
you laughed with a shake of your head, and suddenly your fingers dragged upon a plant beside you and it popped and shrank. a sharp squeak and you jumped, and jake had half a mind to reach for his gun if he wasn’t already watching every inch of you. assessing danger with his honed hearing while admiring you was an easy task to juggle in this new body. he was still alert—couldn’t let you get hurt, after all.
still smiling, jake caught up with you. “alright, enough fun. stay close.” despite him always starting it, jake would quickly cut the fun just as fast if it compromised you. he shoved his body between you and the weird plant.
“ooh! wait but-“ you gripped his firm bicep, tip toes to look over his broad shoulder. “that’s a helicordian!” you gasped and gently pushed past him.
jake shook his head fondly, watching you kneel and pull out your scanner. “it’s neuromuscular system makes it super hard to classify but by its coiling up and retracting, i suspect it’s exactly that!” you babbled on.
it seemed as if he wasn’t listening by the ‘mhm’s and ‘oh yeah?’s but it was quite the opposite. jake sully hung onto every word you ever spoke.
the worst part about all this, was behind the ankle kicks, the hair pulling, and the blatant attempt to flirt by bothering you, jake thought you hung the two moons in the sky. in fact, as far as he was concerned, you did. you arrived before him after all.
Your neighbour; Jason, he's built like a brick shithouse and has a resting scowl that could put Death on edge. That is until you get him talking. Then he smiles, and even with all that grit and grime he's a sight for sore eyes.
He's a mechanic, he fixes up your old clunker every few weeks for dirt cheap, if not for free. When you push him on it, feeling bad for letting him put in all those extra unpaid hours for you he says it's just cause Gothamites gotta stick together, especially people from your mutual neck of the woods. Besides, if you didn't bring him guilt muffins every time you brought your banger in, then he'd never eat breakfast.
But really it's cause he'd have to be a totally new breed of ass if he charged you for having your car sabotaged. Every time you leave him alone he throws an extra bolts in your engine or tweaks your wires. Never anything that could cause real damage, or put you in danger. He's not trying to kill you, he just thinks you're the single most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on and has no idea how to say that to you without the very real possibility of throwing up.
It’s the same reason you just so happen to always do laundry on the same night every week, and why he so often appears to bump into you during your weekly grocery shop. You should really change up your routine.
Thinking about his actions later; they definitely seems worse than they do in the moment. He just likes to spend time with you and hasn't figured out the right way to go about it yet. It’s not like he can just knock on your door out of the blue. That would be weird, right?
So, every few weeks you bring your car to the shop, and Jason tries not to ogle you the whole time he's pretending to check on your suspension, or whatever else. Often, you bring it by after work, and he tells you he won't have time to look at it before closing so that he can drive you back to your apartment complex in near silence but for you complimenting his CD collection and him asking how the rest of your day was. Then he walks you to your door and with pink cheeks and darting eyes he asks if you have any plans for the weekend. Whatever your answer he always replies the same; “Cool. So… Well, goodnight.”
And then he rushes to his own apartment where he’ll eventually fall asleep remembering the enthralling sound of your laughter at one of his jokes earlier, your jeans and the way they hugged your thighs just right, your eyes glinting under the florescent light of his shop sign. How your skin would feel under his hard, oil-stained fingers. Whether he’d have the nerve to finally ask you out when he drops your keys off for the 100th time tomorrow.
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Well, Xie Lian certainly feels fine. His spiritual energy reserves remain untouched. His physical form, as healthy as ever. His mind, unfettered and free of worldly disturbances.
There was only one slight… nuisance.
He couldn’t seem to stop speaking today.
Xie Lian gets afflicted with a particularly troublesome truth-telling curse from a malicious spirit. Hua Cheng deals with it.
(Rated E | 12k words | one-shot | Post-Canon | Honesty | First Time)
Amid the demands of being the olo’eyktan’s eldest daughter and a tsahìk-in-training, you find unexpected rest in the company of Toruk Makto’s eldest son.
pairing: neteyam x metkayina!reader
tags: atwow spoilers, friends to lovers, plot, slow burn, mutual pining, avoidant!reader, usual older sibling activity, touchy-feely!neteyam, miscommunication, hurt & comfort, light angst (10.5k wc)
chapters: like real people do, we should just kiss
You knew of the arrival of Toruk Makto’s family long before you saw them.
The news reached you while you were away from Awa’atlu, exactly as your parents intended—sent west to train under another clan’s tsahìk so you might learn more than one way of listening, more than one way of carrying people’s needs. It was a plan decided long before you were old enough to object. The eldest must be prepared. The future must be widened.
Messengers spoke of their arrival in passing, of the Omatikaya seeking refuge among the reef people, of a man who had ridden legend itself into war.
It was a week before your eyes finally found them.
When you returned, the village greeted you as if you had never truly left. Voices rose at the sight of you along the woven paths, hands brushing your arms and shoulders in brief, familiar greetings. That night, your father and mother prepared a larger meal than necessary. It was tradition—one you did not remember beginning, only that it had always been done for you.
Between mouthfuls and murmured approval, you shared what you could, voice steady despite the fatigue still clinging to you. And in return, they told you everything you had missed.
And as always, being home did not mean rest.
“I am certain you have heard of Toruk Makto’s family,” your father said as his gaze settled on you.
You nodded once. Of course you had heard.
“Your brother and sister have begun teaching the children,” he continued. “They do well—but the Omatikaya learn differently. Their roots are in forest and stone, not tide and current.”
You feel your mother’s gaze settle on you, your sibling’s attention following soon after. You busy yourself with another bite of fish, chewing slowly, as if it might delay what is coming. You wondered, briefly, what your mother truly thought of Toruk Makto’s family, and tucked the question away for later.
“They will adapt faster with your guidance.”
There it is.
“I am sure Ao’nung and Tsireya have done well,” you said at last, lifting your gaze toward them. “They know the ways of the water better than most.”
Ao’nung let out a quiet huff at that, rolling his eyes. The sight drew a small chuckle from you before you could stop it.
Tsireya, ever gentle, smiled and leaned forward. “They try,” she said. “They listen. Some learn fast and some forget to keep breath when water grows deep.” She glanced at you then, you could almost see the hope in her expression. “But they wish to learn, That is good beginning.”
You smiled at Tsireya, pride settling warm and familiar in your chest.
“As if,” Ao’nung scoffed before the moment could linger. “They are still like babies. I bet even you cannot teach them how to be better.”
“Yeah? Maybe you’re just a bad teacher,” you shot back, tilting your head to further tease him.
Tsireya joined in before anyone could stop her, a quiet, lilting laugh. “They listen, yes… but sometimes—ehhh.”
Ronal’s hand lifted, a soft but firm shush that cut through the teasing. “Enough, all of you.”
The three of you exchanged glances, chuckles softening into quiet smiles.
“Tomorrow, you will show them how to ride an ilu. You guide them carefully.”
You inclined your head once, shoulders settling under the weight of responsibility that always seemed to arrive with home. “I understand.”
Morning comes with salt on your skin and the sharp tang of the ocean in your lungs. You kneel beside the baskets, sorting the catch you caught earlier that morning with the hunting party.
The catch had been large that day, plentiful enough that the baskets groaned under its weight, scales glinting like liquid sunlight.
“We have missed you, tsmuke,” one of the older hunters called, balancing a particularly large fish. “Big fish come in plenty when you are here.”
“I have missed you too!” you replied lightly, laughing. “Maybe Eywa is kinder this morning, or you are just a really good hunter.”
The group agreed, the sound rolling like the tide over the reef. Your attention, however, was caught by a familiar voice calling from across the sand.
“Sister! Come quickly!”
Tsireya jogs toward you, water dripping from her hair, eyes bright. Behind her, farther back along the edge of the shallows, you could see the Sully children, their skin a darker, richer blue than yours.
“Ready for your lesson?” Tsireya called, slowing as she approached. “They’re waiting, and I think they are quite curious about you. They keep asking.”
You hesitated, hands still tangled in the nets, the baskets of the morning catch at your feet. The warmth of routine tugged at you—the familiar weight of the day’s work, the laughter of friends, the steady rhythm of the reef under your skin. It felt good to return to this, even if only for a moment, and part of you wanted to linger, just a little longer.
Tsireya, patient at first, let her frustration show in the softest way. She stepped closer and tugged gently at your wrists, removing your hands from the nets. “Please,” she urged, voice light but firm. “Come now. They will not wait forever.”
You looked back at your friends, offering a small, fleeting smile. “I… will be back soon,” you promised.
With nothing left to stall you, you set the nets aside and began walking with her, feeling the subtle pull of responsibility settle over your shoulders once again. The Sully children shifted slightly, curious eyes fixed on you, and you allowed yourself one last glance at the morning’s catch and the laughing hunters.
The Sully children greeted you in unison, their hands moved in the careful gesture of “Oel ngati kameie.” You returned the greeting, offering a smile.
From their vantage, it was easy to see why Tsireya had spoken of you with such excitement. Like her, you were beautiful but where Tsireya’s beauty was open and bright, yours carried a quieter maturity. Even before you spoke your presence held authority, it reminded them of your mother when they first came. And unlike her, whose sharpness was well known, you had shown them no hostility at all.
Some features mirrored your siblings, but one mark set you apart unmistakably. The tattoo, black and intricate, traced one half of your forehead and extended toward your cheekbone, earned first as the eldest upon completing your iknimaya. It marked your seniority, a quiet sign that you had already walked the path your younger siblings were just beginning.
Ao’nung’s voice cut through the quiet moment, impatient as ever. “We going or not?”
You exchanged a glance with Tsireya, and both of you let out quiet chuckles.
“Alright,” you couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at your lips as your eyes flicked to Ao’nung. “Looks like someone is the most excited.”
The Sully children fought to suppress their smiles, chuckles spilling out despite their best efforts. Ao’nung finally stomped forward, muttering something under his breath, and you laughed at him softly.
You lingered a moment, letting them move ahead, their footsteps stirring the sand beneath the shallow water. Only once they had gone a few paces did you follow, letting Ao’nung take the lead.
A small sigh escaped you, soft enough that only Eywa could hear. Grant me patience today. Today would be long, you knew, but necessary.
Your siblings moved with practiced ease, each stepping toward one of the Sully children. The group slowly divided, voices overlapping with quiet instruction and encouragement, until you found yourself standing apart.
The smallest of them lingered near the water’s edge, eyes darting between her brothers and sisters as they were led away. Excitement practically spilled from her—fidgeting hands, bouncing steps, a tail that betrayed her eagerness even as she tried to stay still.
Warmth bloomed in your chest at the sight.
You beckoned her closer with an open hand. “Come here, little one,”
She hesitated only a moment before padding toward you, bouncing slightly to move faster. As she reached you, her hand lifted instinctively, fingers stretching toward yours. You caught it, steadying her before she could stumble, her grip small but eager in your palm.
She looked up at you then, eyes bright, breath quick with excitement.
“Fyape syaw fko ngar?” you asked. What is your name?
“Tuktirey,” she said proudly, then quickly added, softer, “But you can call me Tuk.”
She proved to be an eager student from the start, curiosity spilling from her. You answered each question without hurry, never growing tired of her wonder. There was no fear in her, only excitement, and it made the lesson flow easily.
“See how it circles first?” you said softly, nodding toward the ilu gliding nearby. “Ilus are very curious beings. They are trying to know you.”
Tuk’s fingers curled in the water as she watched it, eyes wide. “Is it looking at me?”
“Yes,” you smiled.
She nodded solemnly, then whispered, “What does it like?”
“Kind hands,” you replied. “Slow breath. And respect. Ilu are not tools, they are partners. They help us hunt, travel, protect the reef. Without them, the ocean is harder to listen to.”
You clicked your tongue and whistled. The ilu’s head lifted slightly, turning toward the sound.
“They also like gliderfins,” you added.
Tuk glanced at the ilu again, awe softening her features. “Do they like playing?”
You laughed. “Some do. Especially the young ones. I think this one is just as young as you.”
She reached out again, more careful this time, brushing the ilu’s skin just as you showed her. The creature responded with a low, pleased trill, and Tuk’s face lit up.
“It likes you too now,” you said gently.
Her smile grew impossibly wide.
For a while, it was easier than you had expected. Once Tuk had grown comfortable with the ilu, you began teaching her how to ride, guiding her through each step.
You soon called Roxto over from where he had been teaching Kiri, thinking the youngest should stay within reach of her older siblings. He joined you without fuss, and Kiri followed easily. She was good company—quiet at first, then comfortable with a few exchanged words. You noticed how at ease she seemed around Roxto, and you couldn’t help thinking he was one of the few good friends Ao’nung kept.
“You’ve been very kind,” Kiri said as she glanced between her brothers then back at you, eyes bright with barely-contained amusement. “But I think… my brothers might need you more right now.”
She tipped her chin toward them, lips pressed together as she tried not to smile. One was struggling to find balance, slipping again and again, while the other had already gone rushing off too fast only to tumble into the water. Kiri ducked her head, a quiet laugh escaping despite her effort to stay composed.
You winced as one of her brothers was promptly rewarded with a splash of water straight to the face when the ilu darted away. Even you had to turn your head for a moment, shoulders shaking with restrained laughter.
“I see” you said, still smiling as the laughter faded from your breath. Your eyes flicked briefly to Roxto, a silent understanding passing between you, before you looked back at the girls.
“You’re in good hands,” you told Tuk and Kiri gently, giving them one last reassuring nod. Then you turned and waded toward the others, already bracing yourself as another splash and a string of complaints rang out from the group ahead.
That’s how you find yourself in charge of the oldest Sully, Neteyam—whose name you’d learned from Kiri. Tsireya had told you so much about Lo’ak the night before that you wouldn’t dare steal her chance to spend time with the other boy.
“You are not in the forest anymore,” you said softly, surfacing through the water where Neteyam had just fallen from the ilu. Your eyes swept over him quickly, taking in his posture, the set of his shoulders, checking for any real injury.
Frustration seeped through his expression despite himself. His nose scrunched, gaze shifting away from you as you called for the ilu to return. The tilt of his jaw and the tension in his arms told you he was used to control and was not used to being unseated so easily.
“I know,” he snapped, wiping the water from his face with a quick swipe of hand.
You went silent, tending to the ilu instead, letting him work through it without adding pressure. The water lapped quietly against your arms, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.
After a moment, he spoke again, quieter this time. “Sorry… I’m just not used to this.”
You looked back at him then, and heat crept into your chest. It was embarrassing to admit, but you found him… personable. Even now, after only knowing each other for a while, there was a weight to him—different from any Metkayina you had known. His sharp features and darker skin marked him as not one of your people, and yet, somehow, that made him easier to watch, easier to notice than you had intended. You caught yourself looking at him more often than you liked, a small, guilty awareness settling in your stomach.
“It’s alright,” you said, eyes steady on him. “But you are trying to fly. Ilus do not fly.”
He scrunched his face at your words, and you allowed yourself a small, amused smile.
“It is like your ikran, yes,” you continued. “But flying isn’t the way with an ilu. You do not fight against the water, as it would only pull you under. You go with it. Feel the current, its weight, its flow. The water is the ilu’s home; try to make it yours.”
“Again,” you mentioned for him to mount once more. He hesitated only a second before obeying, settling onto its back with more care than before—but still too stiff.
“No,” you nagged, moving into his space. “You are holding yourself like you expect to fall.”
Before he could respond, you reached out. One hand pressed lightly between his shoulder blades, encouraging him to lean forward just enough, while the other adjusted his grip—fingers loosening, then settling where they should be.
“And remember,” you added, “tsaheylu is trust. That is more important than holding tight.”
The moment tsaheylu is formed, the ilu stilled. He drew in a slow breath, shoulders relaxing, and then he looked at you as if he’s waiting.
For a heartbeat, his world seemed to hold. Salt air, sun on water, the way light caught the planes of your face just right.
You met his gaze and gave a single nod.
“Go,” you said simply.
You stepped back, giving him space as the ilu surged forward once more. This time, he moved with it, posture aligned, body following the current instead of fighting it. Water parted cleanly around them, and he stayed mounted.
You had spent the past month helping the Sully children adjust to life among the reef—teaching them your way of living, showing them how to move with the ilu, guiding their eager hands through the unfamiliar waters. It had been exhausting in the best way: laughter, splashes, and small victories marking each day, and yet, you still cherished moments where no pressure or responsibility rested on your shoulders.
Later, when the sun dipped lower and the lessons were done, you found yourself sitting cross-legged beside Tsireya in your family’s marui pod. Strands of dried kelp and polished shells spread between you. Your fingers worked from habit, weaving and knotting as easily as breathing, the familiar rhythm easing the last of the day’s tension from your shoulders.
Tsireya hummed softly as she helped you thread a line of shells together, passing them to you one by one. “You always choose the prettiest pieces,” she said, smiling.
“They last longer,” you replied. “And they sit better against the skin.”
She nodded, watching your hands for a moment before glancing up at you, eyes bright with something playful. “So,” she began carefully, as if it were only a passing thought, “what do you think?”
Your hands slowed, just slightly.
You resumed your work after a moment, fingers tightening a knot before moving on to the next strand. “They are… fine,” you said evenly. “A handful, but that is nothing new to me.”
It was the truth. You had stood beside your mother and the elder clan members when voices rose and patience thinned, when children pushed limits and learned the weight of correction. Compared to that, the Sully children were spirited—yes—but hardly unmanageable.
Tsireya huffed a quiet laugh, tilting her head. “You know what I mean.”
“Do I?” you asked innocently. “You asked about the family. I answered.”
She narrowed her eyes at you, a smile tugging at her mouth.
You finally glanced up at her then, a soft chuckle slipping past your lips. “Just ask what you want to ask, Tsireya.”
She opened her mouth, then hesitated.
You smiled wider, unable to resist. “Or maybe you cannot,” you added lightly, “because you know I will ask something in return.”
Tsireya groaned, half-laughing as she shook her head. “You are impossible.”
You shrugged lightly, a small, knowing smirk tugging at your lips. You had learned long ago that your little sister would never be able to stop herself from asking.
“Neteyam,” she finally said, “I noticed… you always seem to go to him first.”
You let the moment hang for just a beat, then replied, tilting your head slightly, “Well, I am more fit to teach the most difficult of them.” Your lips curved into a teasing smirk. “But you seem to handle him… quite well already.”
Tsireya flushed slightly, averting her gaze. “Don’t make this about me!”
You tilted your head, smirk softening into something gentler. “Well, he is easy to teach. A fast learner,” you said, fingers brushing lightly over the shells as you continued working. “And, we seem to relate to each other more.”
She peeked at you from the corner of her eye, curiosity breaking through her flustered expression. “So… you’ve talked a lot to each other then?”
You paused, brow lifting in mild confusion, standing to grab more shells from your mother’s basket—always the bigger, more useful pieces. “What’s with the questions?” you asked, a hint of amusement in your voice.
“Just curious.”
“Right…”
You can see her hovering before she then leaned a little closer, lowering her voice. “He is handsome, no?”
You rolled your eyes, chuckling. “Just help me with this, ‘Reya,” you said lightly, returning your attention to the shells.
Of course you wouldn’t say it.
Not after all the times you had teased Tsireya about Lo’ak—about the way her eyes followed him even when she pretended otherwise, about how quickly she volunteered to help whenever his name was mentioned.
And it was not as if it were a bad thing to admit he is handsome.
You had heard it from Kiri, as she told stories from when they were in the forest, that many of the na’vi girls admired him, that Neteyam Sully had always drawn attention without ever seeming to seek it. You supposed that made sense.
Handsome, yes, but more than that, simply… good company.
That was all.
And even that truth stayed tucked behind your teeth, because saying it aloud would tell Tsireya more than she was asking. It would tell her about how lessons sometimes stretched past their ending, how paths crossed again when everyone else scattered to their own corners of the reef.
At first, it had been a coincidence.
You had been tasked with cleaning the dishes after the evening meal, your hands submerged in cool water near the shallow edge, your thoughts far away. You hadn’t noticed him at first, only the faint shift of movement in your periphery.
When you looked up, he was there. Sitting on one of the larger rocks half-submerged by the tide.
You did not know what possessed you to call out to him. Perhaps it might help him feel more at ease here, in a place that was not yet his.
You called his name then, standing and lifting your arm higher so he could see. “Neteyam!”
He looked up then, surprise flickering briefly across his face. After a moment, he rose from the rock and made his way toward you, careful steps sending small ripples through the shallows.
As he drew closer, you could see his bioluminescent markings better for the first time. It’s something you had seen on countless others, yet something about his made your chest tighten. It was a foolish thought, you told yourself. You had grown up surrounded by Na’vi; there was nothing new in this. And still, you found yourself admiring it just long enough before he could notice.
He stopped at your side and glanced down at the dishes, then back at you. “Do you… need help?” he asked, gesturing toward the stack.
“Ah, you do not have to,” you shook your head slightly, the question catching you off guard.
He smiled anyway, already lowering himself into a squat. “I don’t mind.”
You tilted your head, watching the ease of his movements as he reached for one of the bowls. “I am guessing you do this often?”
He let out a quiet huff of a laugh, rinsing the dish with a practiced swirl of his hands. “Too often,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “At this point, I just volunteer before anyone can tell me to.”
That earned a small smile from you. “I wonder how many times I would need to be told before I start volunteering myself.”
“It is better that way,” he replied, grin softening. “Less arguing. And it is nice to have time alone, if you are into that.”
It should have ended there. You both were there at the same time during that night and you weren’t expecting it to happen again.
Instead, it became routine.
There was never an agreement spoken between you, no glance that lingered long enough to promise anything, no words exchanged when the lessons ended and the others drifted away to their own activities. And yet, somehow, you would find him again. Near the shallows. By the rocks. In the ocean.
The reef was wide, but somehow your paths crossed easily. And you thought it was because he was new here, after all, still learning where to belong.
One evening, he had asked about your tattoo. You had been sharpening your speargun’s bows atop a rock set slightly apart from the clustered marui pods. The sun had dipped low, painting the reef in golds and soft purples. You didn’t bother asking how he had found you.
His eyes lingered on the dark ink tracing one half of your forehead as he sat beside you, your knees knocking into each other when one moved. He hovered his hand close, almost brushing the skin above the tattoo, the heat of his skin radiating toward your cheek made your face tingle. You were startled by the sensation, and yet you didn’t move away.
You told him of your iknimaya, how you earned the mark after taming your tsurak, your first great hunt, and the bonding with your tulkun spirit sister. Your words carry all the pride of that path you had walked. And he listened, attentively, eyes widening at each detail, absorbing it as though it were a story meant for him alone.
“The fish was nearly bigger than me,” you said, hands stretching apart in the air. “It could have dragged me through the water.”
Neteyam let out a low, impressed sound, eyes following the movement of your hands. “You caught it anyway,” he said, something warm in his voice. “That takes strength.”
You shrugged, though a small smile curved your lips. “And multiple tries.”
He smiled back at that. “Still,” he added, glancing once more at the tattoo before meeting your gaze, “you earned it.”
You asked for his story in return, and he had told you about it, his first hunts and the rituals in the forest, the taste of water after it had flowed from the leaves, the way the sunlight would peak from the branches, the wind tangling his hair as he flew between big rocks of Ayram alusìng.
You found yourself imagining it all, the brightness in him when he was truly in his element, bathed in sunlight and shadow, how he looked among the trees, and a quiet, selfish wish that you could see it for yourself.
Then you noticed the waiting. Oh, how much you disliked it. The way your eyes would drift toward the water’s edge before your hands were even dry. The brief pause in your steps when the sun dipped low, anticipation settling in your chest before you were fully aware of it. You found yourself expecting him—half-listening for the sound of careful footsteps, half-watching for the familiar silhouette against the tide. How he slipped into your evening as naturally as the tide returning to shore.
And, quietly, almost shamefully, you wished he suffered from it too.
You told yourself it was nothing more than familiarity. That it had been a long time since you’d had company like this. That Neteyam was a good friend. With him, your words did not need to be softened or guarded. You spoke, and he understood. You existed, and he did not ask you to be anything else.
“You work too hard.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, seated in your usual place—the far side of the reef where the marui pods thinned and the waves struck the rocks hard enough to leave salt in the air. A large stone jutted from the shallows there, smoothed by time and tide, where you and him have told stories long enough for it to finally become yours without ceremony.
You were rubbing a thick, pale salve into your palms, the scent of crushed leaves and rendered fat clinging to your skin. It was a simple mixture of soothing oils and ground kelp you helped your mother make, meant to ease the sting left behind by too many hours of handling rough nets, and hauling, knotting, weaving alongside your father and brother.
That was before you heard his steps before you saw him, the soft scrape of feet against stone and wet sand so familiar now that it made your shoulders ease even before you turned. When you did, he was already close.
You flinched when he reached for you, instinct tightening your shoulders before you could stop it. For a heartbeat, you considered pulling away.
But he didn’t rush you. He waited—close, quiet, clearly wanting to help. You were close enough that you knew he’d scold you if you refused, and you were tired enough that you didn’t want to argue. Your hands throbbed anyway.
So you let him take them.
“I had to,” you said quietly. “You know why.”
He looked up at you then. Just understanding. The kind that came from being the eldest, from carrying expectations that were never asked for but always assumed. From being told, again and again, to be steady, to watch, to protect. His hands never stopped moving, thumbs pressing the salve into your skin.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready,” you admitted, words tumbling out before you could stop them. “No matter how much I learn. The chants, the rituals, the histories—I memorize them, repeat them until they sit perfectly in my mouth, and still…” You exhaled, shaky. “I look at my mother and all I feel is how small I am next to her.”
You swallowed. “They say I will make a good tsahìk someday. That it is only a matter of time.” Your fingers curled faintly in his hold. “But I do not feel driven. I feel afraid. And I hate that—because I should want it. I should be ready.”
Neteyam stayed quiet for a moment, covering the last exposed part of your hand with balm. Then, carefully, he brought both of your hands into one of his own. You hadn’t realized how close you were sitting, but as he scooched slightly neared, any remaining distance vanished. You kept your gaze on your hands, feeling the heat of his palm spread into yours.
After a long breath, his other hand hovered for a heartbeat above your hair, which had fallen to the sides of your face as you looked down, hiding a little of yourself. Gently, hesitantly, he brushed the strands back, tucking them behind your ear.
“Being scared does not mean you are unworthy of what they see in you,” he murmured, voice low and steady, as though he were speaking to himself as much as to you. “It means you understand how much it matters.”
He gave a small squeeze of your hands. “Your mother stands where she does because she walked through that fear. Not because she never felt it. And you do not need to be her—not now, not ever.”
At that, he lifted your chin gently between his fingers, tilting your face so you could meet his eyes. There was a telltale flicker of nervousness in the way his jaw tensed and the corners of his mouth twitched, but it was subtle, and you barely registered it. You only noticed the warmth of his hands, the care in his touch.
Neteyam’s gaze held yours, as if to remind you that nothing was demanded beyond this moment. “When the time comes, you will not wake up ready. You will step forward afraid. And that will not mean you are failing. It will mean you are brave.”
“You only have to keep going,” he said, finally placing both of his hands over yours, encasing them between his. “ And you do not have to do that alone.”
Your eyes flickered from his gaze down to your hands, still held in his, before returning to him. He tilted his head slightly, a small, playful smirk tugging at his lips.
“Come on,” he said your name softly, teasing, “let me see your smile.”
It took a moment, but you allowed yourself a slow, reluctant smile. “Where’d you learn that?” you asked, amusement in your voice.
“My mother,” the pride in his tone was unmistakable.
You couldn’t help but admire him then, as you have been doing quite often, bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight, his bioluminescent patterns tracing faint dots across his skin, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes as he spoke.
“Is something wrong?” he asked softly after a moment, concern in his voice. His hand lifted, brushing gently over the space between your eyes, as if to soothe the lingering tension there.
You let out a light laugh, gently pushing his hand away. “No,” you said, meeting his gaze. “I’m fine.”
Your eyes held his for a moment longer, steady and sincere, before you signed the word carefully—hand moving from your chin outward in the motion for thank you. “Thank you, Neteyam.”
He followed the motion with his gaze, eyes flicking to your mouth for a brief second as your hand reached forward, and a small, appreciative smile tugged at his lips.
“Always.”
You knew someone would eventually notice why it sometimes took you longer to wash the dishes, or why fetching something your parents had asked for seemed to stretch on forever. You’d been careful these past nights, cautious when returning from your meetings with Neteyam, pausing at the edges of the marui pods to make sure no family member was lingering outside.
But that night, you hadn’t been as discreet as you thought. Carrying the balm back to your pod, a smile tugging at your lips and a lighter step in your pace, you froze when you heard your father’s voice calling your name.
“You’ve been gone a long time,” his voice carrying that quiet edge of concern that always made your stomach tighten.
“Just… busy,” you said, shrugging lightly, “thinking.”
Internally, you let out a small sigh of relief as you saw him nod slightly, seeming to accept the excuse. He stepped closer, placing both hands gently on your shoulders, his thumbs brushing against your skin with a familiar, grounding touch.
Then, unexpectedly, he knelt down on one knee, letting go with one hand as he waited, gaze intent on yours. Confusion flickered across your features.
“You can tell me anything, maite,” he said softly, voice low but full of warmth.
A small, soft smile tugged at your lips, and you chuckled quietly, not surprised by his theatrics.
“I know, sempu,” you replied, touching one of his hands resting on your shoulder. “You always tell me that.”
He straightened, smiling now, the weight of the day easing from his expression. “Good. I was just worried. Now, come inside. It’s late.”
You nodded, though a pang of guilt tugged at your chest. You hadn’t told him about Neteyam, about the small stolen moments that made the days feel lighter, the hands brushing balm into yours. But it wasn’t something your parents needed to worry about—at least, that’s what you told yourself.
Your relationship with him and with the rest of the Sully children had grown in these past weeks. There were long afternoons spent chatting with the girls about everything and nothing, weaving strands of kelp and shells into necklaces, bracelets, and little adornments inspired by the reef.
You had been especially proud when Tuk finished her first necklace entirely on her own. She pressed it into your hands proudly, and you couldn’t say no. It was a delicate little thing, shades of purple and blue catching the fading light, and you wore it with a smile that carried your pride.
Kiri’s progress was slower but steady, and you were happy to hear she was doing better—though not without complaints, especially when it came to your younger brother. You could only do so much as his older sister, after all.
And then there were the moments teasing Tsireya about Lo’ak, which never failed to make her blush.
“Lo’ak’s been making me teach him how to make a necklace,” Kiri said one afternoon, half-annoyed, half-amused. “It’s probably to impress you, Tsireya.”
You laughed, the sound easy and light. “How sweet,” you said, watching them fumble with threads and shells, the reef sun glinting off their hair, their smiles, and their earnest attempts.
As for Lo’ak, he was just as difficult as Kiri had made him out to be, but at his age, it was hardly surprising. You saw too much of your younger brother with him: the quiet desire to be seen and admired even when it came out as trouble. Still, there was something almost endearing about it.
You only hoped he wasn’t giving your younger sister too much headache.
And, you almost took the thought back one day as Tuk came barreling toward you, breathless and wide-eyed, tugging at your arm and babbling about her brothers fighting other metkayina.
Sure enough, when you followed her and looked at where she pointed at, you found ruckus sprawled out on the farther edge of the village—sand flying, voices raised, bodies tangled in a way that was far more chaotic than threatening.
“Ao’nung!” you shouted, stopping at the edge of the mess.
Your eyes caught Kiri on the sidelines. She only shrugged at you, utterly confused as well, before calling out, “Stupid!” and laughing like it was all entertainment.
You sighed, rolled your eyes, and shouted Ao’nung’s name again, louder this time. It finally pulled a few heads your way—just long enough for someone to get yanked backward by the tail and another to catch a careless punch for losing focus.
You might have laughed if you weren’t painfully aware of the scolding waiting for you later. After all, you were supposed to be the one watching out for them.
Luckily, or perhaps mercifully, their father arrived before things could spiral any further. His presence alone was enough to cut through the chaos, his voice sharp and commanding as he stepped in, hands separating bodies, pulling his sons back with Kiri on their tail.
You didn’t catch the look Neteyam sent your way then. Your attention was already on your own brother, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him upright when he nearly stumbled back into the fray. He tried to wrench himself free, teeth bared, clearly mistaking you for one of his friends.
You hissed sharply, grip tightening. “Skxawng,” you snapped under your breath, eyes narrowing. “What did you do?”
Before your brother could answer, one of Ao’nung’s friends spoke up from behind him, voice loud and indignant. “Lo’ak started it—”
“I didn’t ask you,” you cut in sharply, turning to look at his group of friends. Your tone was calm, but it carried enough bite to make him falter. “Go. Get yourself treated by tsahìk.”
They hesitated, exchanging glances, clearly unused to being dismissed so easily. When none of them moved, you rolled your eyes and stepped closer to Ao’nung instead.
Your fingers brushed lightly beneath his eye, where a bruise was already darkening. He hissed and jerked back on instinct, and you finally released your grip on his arm.
“Why do you assume it was me?” he demanded, scowling. At your silence—at the way you only frowned at him, confused more than accusatory—his expression twisted. “Don’t tell me you’re going to side with those freaks.”
“Ao’nung,” you snapped, his name a warning all on its own. “Enough. Come with me. That bruise will swell if you leave it.”
He scoffed, turning away and starting off in the opposite direction.
“Ao’nung,” you called again.
He didn’t stop—but neither did any of his friends move to follow him. You glanced back at them, lifting a brow in silent challenge, daring any of them to speak. None did. One by one, they started to follow your brother.
You watched him walk away and for a brief moment you wondered if there had been something you could have said to stop him from spitting those words.
The thought didn’t linger long as your mind was already racing ahead of the inevitable, your mother’s voice, sharp with disappointment, the weight of it settling heavier than any bruise. With a quiet exhale, you turned back toward your marui pod.
You felt as though you were walking on eggshells as you stepped inside your mother’s marui pod.
Her back was turned to you, shoulders relaxed but purposeful, hands busy sorting through bundles of dried leaves and woven pouches. The familiar scents of herbs and ocean-salt clung to the air, usually comforting—now making your chest tighten. You moved slowly, carefully, each step measured as if the floor itself might betray you.
Quietly, you crossed to her storage chest and lifted the lid just enough to peer inside, fingers hovering over the neatly arranged jars of healing balms. You held your breath.
“What are you doing?” she asked without turning.
“Just—checking,” you said, voice soft. “Seeing if we still have enough healing balm.”
She finally glanced over her shoulder, eyes sharp but calm. “For what, child?”
You paused, shoulders sagging slightly as you exhaled. “Ao’nung and his friends… they got into trouble. With Lo’ak and Neteyam.”
Her hands stilled.
“What happened?” she asked, tone leaving no room for deflection.
You felt the fight drain out of you at once. There was no point in circling it, so you had told her of what happened. You didn’t know what caused the fight, but you told her everything you know.
The words settled heavy between you, and you waited for whatever would come next.
Your mother let out a long, tired sigh, the kind that carried more weight than anger ever could.
“Get whatever you need,” she said, “then come sit with me.”
You did as you were told. You gathered the jars of balm and set them aside before lowering yourself to the woven mat across from her, legs folded neatly beneath you. You knew better than to look anywhere else when she spoke like this. So you lifted your chin, met her gaze, and waited.
“Why did you let him go without treating him?” she asked.
You didn’t answer. You also knew better than to argue, sitting in silence as the weight of her words settled over you.
“You know your brother tends to seek trouble,” she continued, her hands frantically moving. “You should have been there to stop him.”
Even though you knew it was impossible to be everywhere at once, the blame sank into your chest like a stone. You promised yourself silently that you would do better next time. You thought back to the look your brother had given you before walking away—the hurt, the accusation—and it stung more. You wish to know what you could have done differently.
After a long moment, you lowered your gaze and whispered, “I’m sorry, mother… I’ll do better. I promise.”
For a moment, she said nothing.
“When they first came to us,” she began at last, voice calm but edged with honesty, “I was hesitant. They are of the forest. What use are forest skills in the reef? What could they offer our people, other than more mouths to protect?”
“Your father feared something else,” she continued. “That Toruk Makto would bring his war with him. That his enemies would follow. And you know this—your father and I are charged with keeping our people safe. Even when kindness is costly.”
She looked at you then, truly looked, and something softer entered her expression.
“But that is not why we turned them away,” she said quietly. “Nor why we chose to welcome them in the end.” Her voice lowered, thoughtful, measured like a lesson meant to last. “We gave them a home because the ocean does not ask where the rain was born. It only knows that all water returns.”
Her hand came to rest over her heart.
“They came seeking refuge, willing to learn, willing to bow their heads to ways not their own. And people who can do that are not weak.”
You felt something loosen in your chest as she spoke, answers to questions you had carried far longer than you realized.
“As Tsahìk,” she said, “I do not look only at who someone was. I look at who they are trying to become. And Eywa listens to those who choose growth over pride. Your brother does not realize it yet. He is young. But you, you can let him know.”
Her gaze softened, but it did not waver. “Remember that, child.”
You let her words settle, each one sinking deep, weaving itself quietly into you. For a moment, the sting of blame eased, softened by her steady presence, though it still lingered faintly at the edges. You marveled at how she could turn even this into a lesson, how every moment with her became a stepping stone rather than a reprimand. With her, nothing was wasted. Every mistake, every fear, every conflict was shaped into something that could guide you forward.
You realized, with a warmth that spread through your chest, how grateful you were to have her as your mother. To be taught not just how to heal wounds, but how to see people.
You nodded, a small hesitant smile forming as you met her eyes. “Yes, Mother. Thank you.”
She returned the smile then said, “Now go on, call them. I will be out for a while.”
Helping her to stand, you offered your arm, mindful of her pregnancy as she rose slowly. She brushed a hand over your head once more, a gentle, lingering caress, before letting you go.
“Be careful,” she added.
“You too, Ma,” you said as you stepped back outside the pod.
It didn’t take long to find Neteyam. He was seated on the walkway in front of their marui pod, one leg swinging lazily over the edge as he gazed out at the water.
When he saw you call his name, his face brightened instantly. Without hesitation, he pushed himself up, legs folding neatly beneath him for a moment before standing fully. Careful, measured steps carried him toward you, the familiar rhythm of his movements making your chest ease despite the tension still lingering from your earlier conversation with your mother.
You reached up slowly, hands resting on his shoulders as you studied him, eyes travelling over the tense line of his jaw and the slight swell of his bruises. “You don’t look fine,” you said, a mix of concern and exasperation in your tone.
He tilted his head, smirking, a trace of humor lighting his features. “Well, I look better than your brother’s friends.”
You couldn’t help it, a soft laugh escaped you as you smacked the top of his head playfully. Then, grabbing his wrist, you tugged him gently back toward the tsahìk’s pod. “Doesn’t seem like you regret what happened earlier,” you said, glancing at him briefly before turning your attention to weaving through the Metkayina passing by.
Neteyam shrugged, his grin widening. “Only a bit,” he said, his eyes never leaving the back of your head as you led the way.
His wrist, which you still held, eased slowly until his hand finally rested on yours. You didn’t look back, but the warmth of his hand and the pressure of his fingers fitting against yours made your own smile widen. You didn’t let go, and neither did he.
Once inside the pod, Neteyam settled onto the woven mat, shoulders slumped just enough for you to see the tension in them. You knelt in front of him, jars of salves and cloths spread around you, the soft scent of herbs filling the small space.
You dipped a cloth in the water and began gently cleaning the dried blood along his cheekbones. He flinched away just a little at your touch. Frowning, you held his face lightly with your hands to keep him from moving.
“What happened?” you asked softly, eyes scanning his bruises.
“My brother… he was being a skxawng,” he replied shortly.
You paused, raising a brow. He said nothing further, his gaze flicking to the floor.
“You’re not going to tell me more?” you prompted gently.
Neteyam shook his head, offering a small, reassuring smile. “You don’t have to worry about it. I’ve got it handled.”
You rolled your eyes at him but didn’t respond, bending closer to continue cleaning the stubborn bruise along his cheek. Every so often, his gaze caught yours, steady and curious, and each time you quickly dropped your eyes back to the cloth, pretending to be entirely absorbed in the task.
You only notice the slight tremor of your hand, and the faster beats of your heart when you finally reach the dried blood at the corner of his lips. Carefully, you dabbed at the skin, very much aware of the small space between you.
Don’t you dare speak. You chant in your head as you do, because you know that if he speaks, it’s over—
“You’re very gentle,” he murmured in a low, breathy tone. His breath fanned across your knuckles, sending a shiver through you. Your eyes instinctively move toward his lips. And, you suddenly became conscious of him adjusting the loose pearl accessory of your necklace with quiet fingers. Just right above your heart.
It was all too much, every sense alert, but you didn’t pull away. This was your responsibility; as a future Tsahìk, you would not let it unnerve you! You swallow, forcing yourself to stay focused on the task at hand, determined to finish tending to him before your thoughts betrayed you further.
When you finally pulled back slightly, you felt his hand graze your collarbone as he let go of the pearl. Taking a quiet, internal pep talk, you grabbed the balm and faced him again. The small, teasing smirk on his face irked you—you could almost see him enjoying this torment.
Finally, you broke the silence as you pressed the balm gently into the abrasions along his skin. “Why did you join them?” you asked, your voice quieter than before, but edged with something sharper. “I thought you were supposed to be the responsible one.”
Neteyam’s jaw tightened. For a moment, you thought he might pull away. Instead, he stayed still, eyes flicking anywhere but your face. “I… had to,” he said, the words barely more than a breath.
You felt something twist in your chest. You pushed, unable to stop yourself. “No,” you said, firmer now. “You didn’t have to. If you had stopped your brother, it wouldn’t have escalated. None of this would’ve happened.”
The moment the words left you, you wanted them back.
He finally looked at you then. Not angry. Not defensive. Just tired. Hurt. “So you’re saying it’s my fault?”
Your hands stilled, the cloth hovering uselessly between you. The air felt too tight to breathe in. “That’s not—” You swallowed. “That’s not what I mean.”
But the damage was already done.
He nodded once, slowly, as if accepting something he hadn’t wanted to hear. His shoulders eased—not in relief, but resignation. “Right,” he murmured, and his gaze dropped again, shutting you out.
Silence settled heavy and suffocating between you. You forced your hands to move, to finish what you’d started, even as your chest ached with every careful touch. Neither of you spoke. The tension didn’t fade—it pressed in, filling every corner of the pod.
When you were done, you pulled away and returned the cloths, jars, and balm to their places. The soft clink of pottery sounded too loud in the quiet, each noise echoing like a reminder of what you’d broken. You straightened, drawing in a slow breath, foolishly hoping that he might say something. Anything.
Instead, you heard him rise behind you, the woven mat shifting beneath his feet.
“I have to go,” he said quickly, as if staying even a second longer would undo him.
You didn’t turn around. You only exhaled, the breath leaving you heavier than it should have. His footsteps faded, and with them went something fragile you hadn’t realized you were holding onto.
And somehow, despite knowing better, a sharp, unwanted pang of disappointment bloomed in your chest. You didn’t know why you’d expected him to stay after that.
The truth struck you all at once, merciless in its clarity: you had taken your own fears, your own sense of responsibility, and placed them squarely on his shoulders. You had expected him to be steady when you were unraveling, to bear the weight of expectations that were never his alone.
The guilt settled deep, sour and crushing, curling tight around your heart.
You let your shoulders slump, fingers curling uselessly at your sides. The pod felt smaller now, the silence louder, pressing in from all directions. And you couldn’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, you had made this harder than it needed to be for both of you.
If things couldn’t get any worse, your brother took Lo’ak beyond the reef.
The news reached you as the sun dipped low, the sky bruised with fading light. The earlier confusion over Ao’nung’s words resurfacing at the back of your mind, along with Neteyam and your mother’s words. It all tangled together until it curdled into something raw and frustrating.
By the time dinner was served, your patience was already threadbare.
“So,” you said at last, not looking at him, “did it ever occur to you that you put his life in danger when you brought him there?”
He shrugged. “He seemed fine. You’re overreacting.”
That did it. You finally looked at him then, eyes sharp. “You don’t get to decide that,” you said quietly. “Not when everyone else has to deal with the consequences.”
He pushed his food away, irritation flashing across his face. “Why are you suddenly on my back about this?”
Tonowari’s voice cut cleanly through the air before you could answer.
“That is enough.”
His gaze moved between you and your brother, heavy with expectation. “Your mother has already told me you were to tend to both Neteyam and Lo’ak,” he said. “So I will ask plainly—how did the boy end up with Ao’nung?”
The question turned, subtly but unmistakably, toward you.
You felt it then—the weight of it settling squarely on your shoulders.
“I didn’t see him earlier,” you said quietly.
Ao’nung scoffed. “Maybe you didn’t look.”
The words struck sharper than you expected. A hiss slipped past your teeth before you could stop it, your hands curling in your lap. “That’s not—”
Tsireya murmured softly beside you, your name spoken like an anchor. Her fingers wrapped gently around your arm, not restraining, just there.
“Enough.” Tonowari’s voice was harsher now, steel beneath the calm. He said your name once, firmly, a warning more than a reprimand.
It burned, being looked at like this, like the fault might belong to you simply because you were there, because you were supposed to be watching, healing, fixing. As if you could be in all places at once. As if responsibility meant omniscience.
You lowered your gaze, jaw tightening as something sharp lodged in your throat, barbed and unforgiving. You swallowed hard, but it did nothing to ease it.
It was not fair, and you knew it, but fairness had never spared anyone before. Still, the sting lingered, because somehow, again, the blame had found its way back to you.
And you wondered if this was how Neteyam had felt too.
Over the week, you made yourself scarce.
You stopped teaching the Sully children, stopped lingering by the shallows or sitting in on their lessons. When asked, you said your guidance was no longer needed. They had been here long enough, learned enough. Other times, you claimed you had more important duties to attend to. Things only you could help with.
Tsireya could attest to it. Whenever the Sullys asked after you, she found herself answering honestly: that you were almost always at your mother’s side now, as you had been before they arrived. That even before them, you rarely had time to simply be with your own siblings.
She remembered fondly that when the Sullys first came, you had changed just a little. You had stayed longer by the water with them. You had laughed more easily. You had been less rigid with yourself, allowing small reprieves you rarely took. And Tsireya had been happy then, happier to spend more time with you than she had in a long while.
She wasn’t sure what had happened in these past few days to send you retreating back into yourself.
Her eyes often drifted to Neteyam, who’s quieter now, more reserved, his presence dimmer than it had been. She wanted to believe it was coincidence. She wanted to believe it had nothing to do with you.
But you had never told her anything. And so she assumed, as she always did, that it might be many things at once or something else entirely.
But, Tsireya could see it—feel it, almost, whenever the two of you were in the same space.
Not side by side. Never that. Just… near enough for the air to grow tight, for conversations to stumble and quiet. Even with others around, the tension clung stubbornly. It frustrated everyone, though no one said it aloud.
You barely looked at Neteyam anymore.
When you had to interact, it was efficient and clipped. A tool passed into his hand without your fingers lingering. A short instruction. A single sentence, nothing more. And then you would turn away as if there were nothing else to say.
Neteyam, on the other hand, kept looking at you.
Not openly, never enough to draw attention, but with a quiet, aching focus, as though his eyes kept finding you without permission. Like there were words lodged somewhere in his chest, pressing hard against his ribs, waiting for the smallest opening. Like he was memorizing the way you moved, the way your shoulders stiffened whenever you sensed him near, the way you avoided meeting his gaze as if it might undo you both.
Tsireya noticed every time.
And each time she did, she rolled her eyes, more often than she had all week, exasperation bubbling beneath her calm. Because whatever this was—this silence, this careful distance—it was unbearable to watch. For everyone.
And Tsireya was this close to doing something about it.
So, inevitably, she turned to the only other person who had front-row seats to the mess.
Lo’ak.
And honestly? He didn’t even need convincing.
From his point of view, Neteyam had been absolutely insufferable.
Not loud-insufferable. Worse. Quiet. Hovering. Always somehow in Lo’ak’s space—too close, too present—like he was searching for company the way someone reached for noise when they didn’t want to think. Like if he stayed busy enough, surrounded enough, he wouldn’t have to notice the one person who was suddenly missing from his orbit.
It was stupid. Lo’ak knew it was stupid.
Still, he couldn’t help laughing about it.
Because at some point, he’d snapped.
Cornered Neteyam face-to-face, hands on his hips, incredulous. “Bro. Go find her or something. I can’t hang out with you all the time.”
Neteyam’s reaction had been priceless.
Blank. Tight-jawed. That painfully neutral look he got when he pretended not to know what the hell anyone was talking about—like he’d swallowed a rock and was trying to pass it off as dignity. Not defensive. Just uncomfortable in the most obvious way possible.
Lo’ak had almost lost it.
Because yeah, Neteyam could pretend. But Lo’ak wasn’t blind.
He’d seen the difference. Felt it, even.
Neteyam had been happier since you arrived. Lighter. Like something in him had finally loosened. The responsible son who suddenly laughed more, who snuck out at night thinking no one noticed. As if Lo’ak didn’t know exactly where he was going.
So, when Tsireya brought it up, he didn’t argue. If this kept up—this avoiding, this yearning, this walking-in-circles-around-each-other thing—someone was going to have to intervene soon.
It was a few days later that you found yourself tasked once again to travel. South, this time, to another clan where you were to study under a different Tsahìk and lend your help to their village.
Oddly, there were no complaints from you this time. You accepted the decision quietly, almost gratefully, even if you had protested to Tsireya before every time this happened. It was a convenient excuse to distract yourself from the lingering ache in your chest every time you thought of Neteyam, from the tension that tightened around your ribs whenever his gaze brushed yours, and the gnawing guilt of knowing he was likely still mad at you.
No matter where you went, your eyes betrayed you, constantly flicking around, searching for him even when you knew you shouldn’t. You realized you couldn’t continue like that—not while you carried the weight of unspoken words and bruised pride, not while every shared space felt charged with what you refused to say. The distance, you told yourself, was necessary.
That was why you didn’t understand why you stayed out so late the night before you were meant to leave. You found yourself perched on the smooth stone you and he had claimed as yours. You waited.
Waited for the scrape of his feet on stone. Waited for any sound, any movement that might tell you he still thought of you—that you had not been so easily set aside, that the space between you still meant something to him.
And yet, you knew the truth—you had no right to expect him to come.
The frustration burned away. Part of you wanted to be angry at him: for leaving so quickly without letting you explain yourself, for allowing silence to stand where words should have been. You clung to that resentment for a while because it was easier than facing the other truth. That you had built the distance yourself and then recoiled when it widened.
Sitting there alone, the night pressing in around you, it stung to realize that you had wanted him to cross a distance you had created. That you had wanted reassurance without risking vulnerability. That you had wanted him to stay, while making it impossible for him to know how.
The space beside you stayed empty.
“Do not forget to bring extra pots and knives. And do not stray from the path without telling someone.” Ronal’s voice guided you through the last minutes before departure.
You nodded along, murmuring your responses where appropriate. “Yes, it is already there. I know the path.”
“Do not forget your herbs and your healing salves,” she added, leaning closer to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “And remember to eat. Do not let yourself weaken.”
“Yes, Ma,” you said softly, forcing a smile.
The clan had gathered to see you off. Some of the Sully family were there, eyes bright with curiosity and concern, and a few older members of your own clan had come to accompany you on the journey. You put the last of your belongings into the canoe, your hands lingering over each item as if to memorize it.
It was your sister who approached first, pulling you into a firm hug. You smiled into her shoulder, but it didn’t reach your eyes. One by one, your family followed, each embrace warm and heavy with unspoken love. You stepped back, giving small nods to the clan members gathered along the shore.
Finally, you turned toward the Sully family, standing together on the opposite bank. Your eyes swept past them, still avoiding his. You offered a polite nod to the group, forcing your gaze elsewhere, though your mind—and your heart—betrayed you, tethered to the figure you could not seem to fully ignore.
Even as you climbed onto your tsurak and felt the bond take hold, your muscles tense with anticipation, you couldn’t stop the pull of curiosity. The way your heart ached with the need to know he was still there, watching, waiting. Your breath caught slightly as you dared, at last, to glance toward him.
And there he was—already watching you. The sharp awareness in his gaze mirrored your own, a silent acknowledgment of the same pull, the same unspoken hesitancy. A flicker of shock hit your chest and you masked it immediately, offering a small, careful smile instead.
You could feel the subtle shift in the way he held himself as if waiting for any sign from you. And though your mind told you to look away, to stay composed, there was a strange, almost terrifying comfort in knowing that he was as present in that moment as you were, that your absence did not erase you from his thoughts.
You didn’t know if he’d see it, and you didn’t let yourself linger on that thought. There was no way of knowing what the next days would hold, only that for now, you were leaving, and it would be a week before you saw him once again.
you walk into your bedroom, seeing katsuki sitting with his back facing you. he seemed to be doing something to his arm, or that’s what you assumed because he was looking down.
he had lost his sense of sound during the final battle with shigaraki and all for one. still, it wasn’t something that was hard to manage around. he was still katsuki bakugo. his world as well as himself just became quieter.
you reached for the light switch and flickered it on and off so you wouldn’t startle him.
katsuki’s shoulders twitched at the familiar signal of the flickering lights that usually indicated you were in the room. he turned slightly, just enough for you to see the side of his face that was home to a scar on his cheek.
you stepped inside and shut the door. “what are you—“ you stopped yourself. stupid, he can’t hear. you sigh to yourself and shake your head. it was easy to forget the loud and abrasive man you fell in love with couldn’t hear or answer you back like he usually would given how much you’d constantly bicker back and forth.
you moved closer until you were sitting beside him on the bed. he was sitting on the edge, his shirt sleeve rolled up, fussing with a wrap on his forearm. it looked like he burned it again during training—the scar tissue there was always sensitive. you reached out and tapped his shoulder, then you signed. ‘HURT?’
his brow furrowed and he huffed out what might have been a laugh. it was just air, no sound. ‘NO. FIXING IT.’ he signed back with one hand. he was getting good at it.
you watched his fingers still fumble to try and wrap the bandages tightly, but they continued to come out loosely. watching him struggle silently made your heart ache. you bit your lip and let water fill your eyes. “stupid…stubborn brat can’t even ask for help.” you murmur.
of course, he didn’t hear you. the movement of your lips made him turn his head to see what you were saying, then he saw your eyes. his gaze softened and he shook his head. ‘YOU BETTER NOT BE CRYING BECAUSE OF ME.’ he signed before he put his hands down.
you blinked rapidly and frantically held your hands up and shook them. ‘NO NO.’ you insist.
‘I JUST LOVE YOU.’ you sign.
katsuki stares at you. like really stares. you assume he can’t tell how hard he’s breathing because you can hear it. his heartbeat too. he raises his hands to sign, but drops them and leans forward to press his now pursed lips to yours.
you freeze for a moment, caught in the sudden tenderness of the gesture. his lips are naturally warn like every other part of his body. his hand finds the back of your neck and he pulls you closer into the kiss, making whiny/breathy noises he would usually suppress. he breaks the kiss and stares at you with nothing but love. this man LOVES you. and it’s clear he likes to show it rather than say it.
@httpjrnl , 2025 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
a/n: I have SO many ideas for deaf!Katsuki y’all aren’t ready.
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pairing: clark kent/superman x reader
summary: it’s been a couple months since you started working at the daily planet, and you’re beginning to suspect that your awkward, mild-mannered coworker might be hiding a much bigger secret than his crush on you
tags: slow burn (ish), trying to pretend they’re not acting thirsty at work, corenswet!clark yearns and pines and nobody can tell me otherwise
warning(s): making out/slightly suggestive content, comments like “i felt like i was going crazy,” nothing else that i can think of but correct me if i’m wrong!
word count: 13.2k (it’s worth it i promise <3)
note: reader is a tea drinker, gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, no spoilers for superman (2025). also, this is my first time writing for clark so i’m still learning how to portray his character. this fic was heavily inspired by i can see you by taylor swift!! david corenswet as clark kent is so speak now coded, i hope you all see my vision and enjoy x
masterlist
You hadn’t meant to look at him—again.
But there he was, adjusting his glasses as he hurried through the bullpen, entirely unaware that you were watching him. He’d just bumped into the edge of someone’s desk, muttered a flustered apology, and fumbled the stack of notes he was carrying.
Clark Kent had a talent for not being seen. Perhaps that was why nobody but you seemed to realise he was chronically late to work.
Even after two months at The Daily Planet, you still hadn’t figured out if it was a cultivated art or just who Clark Kent was: unassuming and clumsy in a way that didn’t quite add up. You still remembered how Lois had described him on your first day: “A walking apology,” she’d teased.
Clark had stuck out a hand with a crooked smile and the kind of politeness you only ever encountered in strangers’ grandparents or vintage films.
“It’s really nice to meet you,” he’d said, with far too much sincerity for someone working in journalism.
Within minutes of meeting you, Clark had offered to carry your boxes of belongings up four flights of stairs because the elevator was broken, and you’d let him, more curious than surprised. When he didn’t even break a sweat, you filed that moment away, like a bookmark.
Now, you sat at the desk directly in front of his, which came in handy given how often you seemed to be sharing bylines. You were both on a slow-boiling investigation into voter suppression in Metropolis’s south district. While you handled most of the fieldwork, Clark had a talent for getting people to talk that you didn’t quite understand.
“Hey,” you greeted, watching him slide into his chair and holding out a stack of annotated transcripts. “This is everything from the Liberty Street polling station interviews.”
Clark glanced up at you, startled—but not really. You could swear there was a half-second of anticipation in the way his shoulders had already started to turn, like he’d known it was you before you spoke.
“Oh—great,” he said, reaching for the stack. “Thank you.”
You hesitated, then added, “You know, we’d probably be halfway through a draft if you didn’t show up an hour late every morning.” It was more of an observation than a complaint, but it hung there in the space between you.
You’d been trying really hard since you transferred to the Daily Planet—trying to be taken seriously, trying not to look like you were trying. You were still on a mission to prove that you belonged, and you definitely weren’t part of the inner circle with big-timers like Lois and Clark yet.
You were still new.
Clark blinked at you for a moment, and then something in his expression shifted. The defensiveness you half-expected never came. Instead, his features softened—eyebrows pulling together just slightly, mouth curved in a way that wasn’t quite a smile but more of a sheepish frown.
“Yeah,” he murmured, voice gravely and heavy with guilt. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Clark looked at you then, and it was different from every glance he’d sent your way before. Like he’d just noticed something about you for the first time. Or maybe like he’d known it all along and hadn’t decided what to do with it until now.
Your hands brushed when he took the papers from you. Just barely, and you still felt a static spark shoot up your arm. You tried not to look at him, watching the way his fingers stilled over the corner of the packet instead.
“You’ve got notes in the margins?” Clark asked, softer now, as though something between you required quiet.
You were the first to pull your hand away, leaning back into your chair and opening your email. “Mhm,” you replied, scanning your inbox. “Any inconsistency is highlighted in blue, red is outright contradictions. I didn’t have time to colour-code the voter lists in detail, but I circled the ones with duplicate addresses in yellow.”
Clark nodded, mouth twitching upward, like you’d just said something funny. You finally looked up at him, and there it was again—that flicker. The charged moment that passed between you more often than it should’ve.
Not quite a glance or an invitation. Just an acknowledgement of I see you. And without meaning to, you returned it with a grin of your own that said, I know you do.
He cleared his throat, dimples disappearing as he tapped his pen on the edge of your notes like it could ground him.
You tilted your head. “Something wrong?”
“No. Just—uh, impressed. You’re fast.” Clark smiled again, smaller this time. “And thorough.”
“Someone has to be.” You said it casually, but the corner of his mouth tugged again, and this time, you didn’t look away so quickly.
When your phone buzzed, Clark looked back down at the documents, his jaw tightening like he was forcing himself to stop staring at you.
You wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if you asked him to stop holding back.
You weren’t sure when it started—when the sound of Clark Kent’s laugh began to unravel something in your chest, or when his small kindnesses started to stick with you. It had only been a couple of months, but somewhere along the way, you fell into a rhythm with him. Easy. Natural.
Strange, considering how different the two of you were.
Clark was always running late, shuffling in with his tie askew and hair a little mussed, mumbling apologies as though the world might end if he interrupted someone’s concentration. He held doors too long, thanked people too earnestly, and gave compliments like they cost nothing.
You—sharp, composed, observant—hadn’t expected someone like that to catch your interest. But Clark Kent did. Thoroughly, quietly, and seemingly out of nowhere.
There was something oddly magnetic about him. The way he listened, really listened. How he remembered the kind of granola bar you liked, or that you couldn’t stand the Planet’s terrible coffee and always preferred tea. How he never made you feel like an outsider, even when everyone else sort of did.
It crept up on you, the way attraction always does when it’s built on noticing. A lingering glance across the bullpen. Late nights editing together, your chairs angled just a little too close. The way Clark looked at you sometimes, like he was thinking something he couldn’t say.
You weren’t sure what it meant. Maybe nothing, but maybe something. And that second maybe was the one that stayed with you. The way it hummed beneath every shared glance, every brush of hands, every unfinished sentence hanging between you like a dare.
Maybe.
The office changed at night.
Gone were the ringing phones, the shouted questions across desks, the clatter of keyboards and deadlines. All that was left was stillness—a low hum from the fluorescent lights overhead, the soft click of your fingers against laptop keys, and the occasional creak of Clark’s chair shifting in the quiet.
You could hear the city beyond the windows, muffled horns and distant sirens, but inside the bullpen, it was just you and Clark.
He sat across from you, glasses low on the bridge of his nose, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie long since abandoned. Something about him always looked too ruffled in the daylight. But here, in the hush of after-hours, he looked real. Still a little out of place—too polite, too clumsy—but softer at the edges.
Almost like a different person entirely.
You glanced up from your screen and caught him already looking at you. Again. Clark didn’t look away fast enough this time. Just blinked, letting his gaze linger indulgently, then dropped his eyes back to his notes.
Your pulse kicked at the base of your throat, like it knew something you didn’t want to name. You tried not to smile, but your cheeks still rose anyway.
“Your handwriting’s atrocious, by the way,” you said, nodding toward the transcript between you. The messy margin scribbles he’d added to your voter fraud transcript were almost impossible to read.
Clark looked up, mock offended. “That’s expressive shorthand, thank you very much.”
You arched a brow. “It looks like you wrote this in the middle of an alien attack,” you countered.
He laughed, low and quiet, and it moved through you like a shiver. The sound of it settled low in your chest, reverberating deep like the first roll of thunder before a storm.
Clark shifted back in his chair, the quiet creak of the frame drawing your eyes—broad shoulders stretching beneath his button-down, long legs unfolding with a casual ease that only made it harder not to look.
“Well, this is Metropolis,” he pointed out. “That’s statistically probable.”
You rolled your eyes fondly, like it was a terrible comeback.
It was always like this with Clark. You shared the kind of rhythm that made the air feel softer, more forgiving. His presence never filled the room too loudly, but it always filled it entirely.
Every once in a while, you caught yourself watching Clark. From the way his hands moved to the way he pushed his glasses up when he was focused, to the way he leaned forward slightly when you spoke—a silent assurance that your words mattered.
Every time his eyes lingered on you, you felt it, like a static current under your skin; tingling, insistent, and impossible to ignore.
You stood to stretch, trying not to feel the heat of his gaze and reached beside you for the stack of background checks the printer just spat out. As you did, one of the pages slipped from your fingers and slid beneath the hulking machine.
“Of course,” you muttered under your breath, crouching to peer beneath it.
The printer was ancient and stubbornly heavy, its tray crooked again and wedged halfway out. You braced a hand against the side and tried to lift it just enough to slide the paper free, but it didn’t budge. Not even a millimetre.
“Need a hand?” Clark’s voice came from behind you, and before you could say anything, he was already lowering into a crouch beside you.
His hand brushed yours, warm and steady, and then he lifted the printer with one hand. Clark made it look like it was made of something thin and flimsy, cardboard.
You blinked, gaping in shock. “Seriously?”
Clark gave a small, sheepish smile. “Farm boy strength?” The way he said it sounded more like a question.
Your laugh came out slightly stunned. “Okay, Kansas,” you quipped. “You got strong enough to lift a printer with one hand from—what? Moving hay bails?”
“Not exactly,” Clark replied, quirking his lips in amusement.
“Well, thanks anyway,” you said, reaching for the freed paper.
You didn’t stand up just yet. Not with Clark still crouched beside you, close enough to feel the quiet warmth radiating from his arm and chest. Not with the printer still suspended effortlessly in his grip, or with your pulse still jumping from the casual way he’d done it.
You could feel the whisper of his breath near your cheek, and your heart thudded against your ribs in answer, way too loud in the quiet.
Clark was close. Closer than he needed to be to help you out. You could feel the heat of him on your skin, and the sharp, impossible awareness of him settled into your spine.
He set the printer back down with a soft clunk. “Any time,” he murmured.
His arm brushed yours, and you felt it like a spark. His gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, maybe to your mouth, maybe to an ink stain on your chin. Either way, it made your pulse thrum wildly at the base of your neck, and you were glad to have your desk to lean on.
You looked away first, standing and brushing the dust from your trousers. “You’re always around when I need help. I’m starting to think it’s not a coincidence,” you teased.
Clark grinned, all dimples and brightness. “I like to be useful.”
“I thought you liked being late.”
He made a sound in his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “I’m not always late.”
You gave him a look. “Clark, you didn’t show up until nearly eleven this morning.”
“I was… delayed,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. A bashful flush warmed his handsome face.
“Uh-huh. You’re lucky you’re charming.” You shook your head, flipping through the printed pages. “Although if you showed up on time, we might already be done with our article. Maybe Perry wouldn’t be breathing down my neck, and I wouldn’t be—” You cut yourself off.
Clark waited. He was always patient, offering you room to speak up and prompting you when you didn’t. “You wouldn’t be what?” he asked.
You hesitated. This conversation was broaching things you and Clark usually avoided, things that hovered under the surface of every quiet moment and almost glance.
His seniority at the Planet wasn’t official. Clark held the same title you did, but you felt it regardless. It was etched into the way people deferred to him, the stories they remembered, the name he’d already built long before you ever walked through the newsroom doors.
He wasn’t just any colleague. He was Clark Kent. The only reporter Superman trusted with an exclusive, a future Pulitzer Prize winner—the list of his accolades was endless.
And letting yourself open up to him felt like stepping off a ledge. You didn’t do that, not with anyone.
Clark frowned a little, understanding shining in his gaze. His voice dropped. “You worry too much about impressing people,” he said.
You sat back down slowly, fingers finding the edge of your desk just to keep from floating off somewhere. “That obvious?” Your voice came out defeated, even though you had intended a casual, witty tone.
Clark stood beside your chair and leaned back against your desk, muscled arms crossed. “Only to someone who knows what it’s like to feel like you don’t belong,” he assured you.
That cracked something open in your chest. You couldn’t imagine Clark not fitting in anywhere, but you also knew better than to question his sincerity. Staring down at your notes, you let the silence thicken.
“It’s just…” You shook your head. “The others all know each other. They’ve got their rhythms and inside jokes. I’m still an outsider here, no matter how welcoming people are.”
“You’re not,” Clark said, gently but firmly. “Maybe they don’t say it, but they like you. You’re good. Smart. And brave—especially in your writing.”
Your eyes flicked up to his. He wasn’t teasing; he actually meant it. There was a prickle behind your eyes, a sudden tightness in your chest you hadn’t expected. You swallowed hard.
“Perry wouldn’t be breathing down your neck if he weren’t eager to read your work,” Clark went on. “And Lois can’t stop praising your article on the housing board corruption. She said it was sharp, called it unflinching. She doesn’t say that about anyone.”
You gave a surprised smile. “She said that?” Lois was someone you considered a work friend, and you looked up to her professionally more than anyone else at the Planet.
Clark nodded. “You’re good at this. Really good. And I’m not just saying that. Everyone respects you, and that’s hard to earn here.”
“And you?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “Do you respect me?”
He was quiet for a long moment. The silence, however brief, was too loaded to be casual. “More than respect.”
That caught you off guard.
Clark offered a lopsided smile, but his voice didn’t match it. “I see you.” His words were heavy with honesty. “I pay attention. Probably more than I should.”
The weight of his words landed on you like gravity, and your body obeyed before your mind could; angling slightly toward him, breath slowing to match the cadence of his. Your fingers curled around your desk. If you moved, something might happen that you couldn’t undo.
You sat in it for a beat too long. Just the two of you and the sound of your own heart, thudding like it wanted to be heard.
Then you cleared your throat. “We should finish,” you broke the tension. “Perry wanted the draft by ten.”
Clark exhaled like he’d been holding his breath, too. “Right. Let’s get back to it.”
He moved back to his desk, and while the space between you widened, the air stayed charged. Your skin buzzed as if every molecule remembered where he’d stood, and your breath never quite evened out.
You didn’t look at Clark again, but you felt the way he watched you. And you didn’t want him to stop.
You turned back to your laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard, willing yourself to focus. The draft was three-quarters finished, the structure still wobbly, and Perry didn’t tolerate a flimsy first submission. But as your eyes flicked to the side, they caught on the printer.
It sat beside your desk, dull grey and immovable. You remembered trying to shift it yourself, how it hadn’t so much as budged. Two weeks ago, that thing took three interns and a maintenance guy to fix.
And Clark had lifted it one-handed, effortlessly, as if it weighed no more than a box of doughnuts. That wasn’t farm boy strength.
Your fingers paused over the keys. You stared at the printer a second longer before blinking hard, forcing your eyes back to the glowing screen of your laptop.
You had work to do. Explanations could come later.
Later that night, wrapped in your softest pyjamas with a mug of tea cooling on the coffee table and a half-eaten biscuit in hand, you weren’t really watching the news so much as letting it play in the background. One of the many occupational hazards of being a journalist.
The anchor’s voice drifted over the hum of your radiator, clipped and calm.
“…Superman rescued a child trapped beneath a collapsed construction site in Metropolis’ warehouse district. Witnesses say he lifted a full steel scaffold with one arm…”
You sat up straighter. The footage was a short video taken on a bystander’s phone of Superman crouching, then hoisting the twisted frame into the air like it weighed nothing at all.
Exactly like Clark lifted the printer earlier that night.
You blinked once. Then twice.
“That’s ridiculous,” you murmured, wondering why your mind immediately went to Clark. “…Isn’t it?”
Your tea sat forgotten as you reached for your phone, thumb hovering over your notes app. You paused, feeling embarrassed for even thinking there was some kind of connection between Clark and Superman beyond the occasional interview.
And yet… Nobody ever had to know about your absurd theory. What was the harm? So you typed: Superman lifting scaffolding = Clark lifting printer??
You stared at it, then locked the screen and let it go.
For now.
You weren’t expecting him to be early the next morning. In fact, you weren’t expecting him to be close to on time. But when the elevator dinged at 8:50 and Clark Kent stepped into the bullpen with two drinks in hand, you actually stared.
He was freshly shaven, his hair slightly damp and glasses clean instead of smudged for once. He looked like someone who’d slept a full eight hours and still had time to pick up breakfast for someone else, even though you’d both still been at the office less than ten hours ago.
Clark made a beeline for your desk.
“I thought I’d spare you the breakroom sludge,” he said, setting a warm cup down next to your keyboard. It wasn’t the paper cup from the Planet’s vending machine. It was real, thick-rimmed cardboard, the kind that the upscale coffee shop around the corner with absurd wait times and fancy non-dairy milks used.
Your brows lifted, just as you spotted the Post-it note stuck beneath the cup. His handwriting was neat, compact, and nothing like his usual barely legible margin scribbles.
In case no one tells you today: you’re doing great. –C
You glanced up at Clark, something between a smile and a question blooming on your face. Before you could say anything, he brushed a thumb against your hand while reaching to straighten the stack of printouts beside your laptop.
The contact made your pulse jump. A small, traitorous part of you hoped Clark noticed, even though that was impossible.
But it felt like he did. His cerulean eyes lingered, warm and unreadable behind his glasses, just for a second. Then he moved back.
“Thank you,” you said quickly, warming your palms on the tea. “I owe you one.”
Clark’s lips curved, slow and tender. “You really don’t,” he denied.
Across the bullpen, a chair squeaked. Someone cleared their throat. The spell broke. You didn’t even have to look up to know that people were watching your interaction.
Perry had always said the Daily Planet was one big glass box. No secrets. The newsroom was open-plan by design. Anyone with eyes could track every step you made, every look you gave. And yet somehow, things between you and Clark had always managed to stay just on the edge of invisible.
Until now.
You glanced over your shoulder casually and caught Steve from Sports quickly averting his eyes. Someone else murmured something near the copy machine and laughed under their breath.
You put your tea down, cheeks warming at the attention.
This was still a job. Clark was still your colleague. Maybe your friend. Maybe something else. But everyone was watching now. Everyone could see something shifting, and so you both did what you always did: sat down, kept your eyes on your screens, and moved on like nothing had happened.
This wasn’t just a shared article anymore. This wasn’t just late nights and printer mishaps and takeaway dinners in the breakroom.
Every time Clark laughed at something you said, you felt the ripple of it in your skin. Every time his chair creaked just slightly too close to yours, your body knew before your brain caught up.
Something had changed, and you liked it.
Still, as you stared at the blinking cursor in your draft, your gaze drifted toward the printer. Clark had lifted the whole bulky thing yesterday, as if it were made of styrofoam.
Now, in the brightness of the newsroom, with the tea he’d brought still warm and his Post-it note stuck to your corkboard, it all felt ridiculous.
Clark Kent? Superman?
You must have been sleep-deprived. That was all.
You took a sip of the tea. It was perfect, exactly how you liked it.
Still, you didn’t delete the note on your phone.
A few weeks later, you pushed open the doors to the bullpen, still half-scrolling through last night’s draft and wondering if you’d remembered to respond to that source from the city clerk’s office. It was early enough that you were still craving the caffeine from your tea, and you expected to slip in quietly like always.
Instead, the floor erupted into scattered applause.
You blinked, freezing as several people stood up from their desks to clap for you. Someone whistled, others cheered your name.
Lois was the first to reach you, waving a copy of that day’s issue of The Daily Planet like a victory flag. “Look who made the front page,” she declared proudly.
You blinked at her. For a second, your brain didn’t process the words. You were still halfway between half-asleep and thinking about your to-do list, and now people were looking at you.
Lois shoved the paper into your hands before you could respond. Your eyes dropped to the print, and your heart skipped a beat. Front and centre: your byline.
Your name, at the top of the page, in bold black ink. Not under a co-writer. Not buried in the continuation section. A solo piece. You scanned it once. Then again. You knew the words, obviously—you’d lived in that article for months, chasing after zoning maps and shell companies and anonymous tips—but it looked different in print.
Cracks in the Foundation: LutherCorp and the Shadow Subdivisions.
The room hummed faintly around you, but it felt far away. Your jaw went slack as your gaze stayed fixed on the headline. You weren’t even breathing for a moment. You just stared.
By the time you looked up again, Perry was standing in front of you, arms crossed. His expression was neutral, which was basically glowing praise for him. He clapped you on the shoulder once, firmly.
“Hell of a job,” Perry said. “You’ve got good instincts, kid.”
The impact of it all hit in stages. At first, it felt like confusion, then disbelief. And then, suddenly, like something warm cracked open in your chest.
You nodded quickly, barely managing a quiet “Thank you,” though your throat felt tight. Your face was hot. You weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or all the praise or both. You swallowed hard, still clutching the paper like someone might take it away.
For so long, you’d felt like the outsider, still proving yourself, still catching up. Today was different.
Lois was already watching you, arms crossed, a smug little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth like she’d known this would happen. It was as if she could tell you belonged here from the start, even before you dreamed of believing it.
Clark approached last. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t insert himself into the moment. He waited until the crowd had thinned again and the bullpen turned back to its usual controlled chaos.
Then, without a word, he held out a paper cup. “For the star reporter,” he said, smiling softly. “Extra hot. No sweetener. Just how you like it. Congratulations, rookie.”
You looked at the cup, then back at him. “How do you always—?”
Clark shrugged, like it was nothing. “Like I said, I pay attention.”
You took the tea carefully, overwhelmed with all the affection you received first thing in the morning. “Thanks,” you said. “But you didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” he said simply.
You were still clutching the paper in your other hand when you reached your desk. You sat down slowly, like your limbs were still catching up with everything else, and set the tea beside your keyboard. Carefully, you smoothed the front page open again and traced your name with your eyes.
Your heart was still beating fast, but it was starting to settle. Not because the excitement was fading, but because it was starting to feel real. You were earning your place, and with Perry’s approval, Lois’s quiet satisfaction, and Clark’s constant support, you didn’t feel like an outsider anymore.
“Hey,” Clark said softly, his voice low enough not to carry past your desk. “You okay?”
You blinked. “Yeah—yeah. Just…” You let out a breathy chuckle. “It’s a lot. In a good way.”
“I read it twice this morning,” Clark admitted. “You nailed the structure. The pacing. The way you laid out the zoning trail so clearly—it’s not just good reporting, it’s honest and poignant.”
You stared at him for a second. “You read it twice?”
“Well,” he grinned sheepishly, “once last night when I proofread it, so I guess three times? I wanted to read it again in print. You really earned that cover story.”
Your eyes lifted to meet Clark’s, and you couldn’t look away. Your chest tightened, but not in a bad way. Just enough to make you aware of how close he was. How warm his voice sounded when he wasn’t trying to make a point.
Then your smile tugged wider, crooked. “Not even a direct quote from Superman got you the front page this time,” you teased, tapping the paper.
Clark gave a quiet laugh, nudging his glasses up with one knuckle. “Ah, well, it’s not my first barn fire.”
You blinked, amused. “What?”
“It’s a Smallville thing,” he said, shrugging, still smiling. “Means I’ve been there before. Done the work. Sometimes someone else gets the cover, and that’s exactly what should’ve happened today. Your story mattered.”
Your teasing faded into something quieter. “Thanks, Clark.”
“Don’t tell Superman,” he said, mock-serious. “I still want those exclusive interviews, after all.”
You both laughed, his low and warm, yours caught somewhere between surprised and touched. The morning may have been chaotic, but none of it could puncture this tiny pocket of quiet the two of you had built around your desk.
Then Clark leaned just a little closer, his voice dipping again. “You’ve got ink on your jaw.”
You reached up automatically, but he shook his head. “Right—here.”
His hand lifted before he finished the sentence, slow enough that you could’ve stopped him, but you didn’t. His thumb brushed gently along the curve of your jaw, deliberately soft.
“Got it,” Clark murmured, his voice lower now, not entirely steady. He pulled his hand back, but your skin burned where he’d touched you. You didn’t move an inch.
You swallowed thickly. “Thanks.”
His eyes met yours one last time, steady. “Any time,” Clark said.
And then he did look away, slipping back into the noise and movement of the room like nothing had happened at all.
You stayed still, staring down at the paper in your hand, your name in bold, your fingers trembling just slightly beneath it.
You hadn’t meant to stay at the office so long. Most of the bullpen had already emptied out, the lingering clatter of keyboards and low conversation gradually replaced by the distant ding of the elevator.
You were only a few minutes behind the others, still in your chair, slowly collecting your things like you had all the time in the world. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t want the day to end.
Your name had been on the front page, and you’d written something that mattered. People had stopped by your desk to say good job all day long, and you could feel yourself starting to connect with your coworkers beyond the journalists in the bullpen.
So you lingered, half-sorting your notes for tomorrow’s pitch, tucking them neatly into your bag just to take them back out again, riding the quiet high of finally feeling like you belonged here.
Your coat was already slung over one arm, your bag half-zipped on the desk, but you kept finding small things to do. Straightening your notes. Flagging a source to follow up with. Staring a little too long at your name in that morning’s front page byline, still propped up on your desk.
It had been a really good day at The Daily Planet.
You slid one last folder into your bag, just as the muted buzz of the bullpen TV caught your ear. You turned your head absently, just in time to hear a voice say—
“Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”
Slowly, you turned to look at the screen.
The TV, hung above the bullpen near the break room, was showing a clip from a press conference Superman had given earlier that evening. The volume was low, auto-captions flickering beneath his image. He stood at a cordoned-off site, Metropolis police lights flashing faintly behind him, giving a statement about a fire that had started underground and nearly spread to the rest of the block.
You reached for the remote on the edge of a nearby desk, fumbling slightly as you turned up the volume and pressed rewind.
“—but we were able to contain it. No civilian injuries.”
A reporter off-screen asked, “Superman, you had no hesitation before diving underground. How is it that you never seem to need a second to pause or think of a strategy?”
Superman smiled faintly, his eyes strikingly calm. “Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”
You rewound it again. And again.
Same smile. Same rhythm. Same exact inflexion.
Your heart skipped. A nervous laugh escaped your throat.
You told yourself it was nothing; it had to be a coincidence. Lots of people said stuff like that, right?
Except no, they didn’t.
You’d never heard it before in your life. And this morning, Clark had said it, all casual and warm and Kansas-charming, like it was something normal. Something familiar. Something only someone from Smallville would say.
You stared back at the screen.
Superman wasn’t from Kansas. He was from Metropolis. From space. From everywhere.
You sat down slowly at your desk, lowering your bag to the ground like you were moving underwater.
What were the chances? Clark had said it so offhandedly. Just a passing joke. A quiet, kind moment. But it was identical. Not just the phrase but the way he’d said it. And now that you were thinking about it—
That time with the printer. And the way he never got winded on your first day, running up and down the stairs to help you with your boxes.
Silently, you set your coat down again. You pulled your notes back out, opened a new tab, and searched “Superman Smallville,” then “Superman phrases,” and then “Superman voice analysis.”
And just like that, you weren’t going home anymore.
You searched for the news clip and played it for what had to be the tenth time, fingers clenched and bottom lip pulled between your teeth.
“Well, it’s not my first barn fire,” Superman said again onscreen, eyes glinting faintly beneath the press lights, mouth curling at the edges in something warm and easy.
You paused the frame. Superman had that same head tilt that Clark had given you this morning—eyebrows lifting just a little, like he was inviting you in on a private joke.
Then you opened a new tab and started digging. You weren’t doing anything serious, not really. It wasn’t a real investigation. It was just curiosity, you kept reminding yourself. That was all.
Another clip loaded. Superman at a relief site last winter, wrapped in ash and dust, smiling faintly at a reporter. You paused it. Zoomed in. Did he have the same mouth as Clark?
You dragged a photo of Clark into a side window, him mid-laugh at Jimmy’s office birthday party last month. He wasn’t looking at the camera, but his mouth was open in surprise, and his smile was lopsided. You lined them up next to each other.
Same jaw. Same smile. Same expression, even if their faces weren’t the same.
You sat back in your chair and stared.
“No,” you muttered. “No, that’s—no.”
Superman stood like he knew he belonged in the sky. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t blink. He gave press conferences with the weight of the world on his shoulders and didn’t so much as shift his stance.
Clark, on the other hand, flinched when people looked at him too long.
He got flustered. He stammered when you complimented his leads. He once dropped his entire coffee order because you accidentally touched his hand. Superman had caught a crashing shuttle with one.
There was no way they were the same person.
You clicked away from the photo comparison and pulled up Clark’s archive of Superman exclusives. There were so many, more than everyone else at the Daily Planet combined. You’d always chalked it up to luck or thought that Superman just liked him.
But the timing was too convenient to be a coincidence.
You checked a few timestamps. A devastating building collapse, three blocks from the Daily Planet. Clark had arrived twenty minutes late that day, drenched and a little out of breath.
That time Superman took a hit so brutal it actually left a crater in the pavement? Clark had been missing for almost an hour after his lunch break. And then there was the time an alien attack caused a local high school to flood. Clark had shown up thirty minutes later, hair wet, shirt rumpled, claiming he’d had to reroute his walk to avoid road closures.
You rubbed your eyes tiredly. You were going in circles.
You clicked into another Superman video and listened to his voice. Warm. Calm. A little higher than Clark’s, less gravely. More grounded, no soft-spoken asides. Just unwavering steadiness.
Clark had a cadence like he was trying not to edit himself mid-sentence. Superman did not.
Unless that was the point.
You scrolled back up. Watched the “barn fire” clip one more time. Played Clark’s laugh beside it. It was the same rhythm. The same warmth.
You looked down at your shaking hands. This was impossible.
You took a deep breath, then another, and opened a fresh document to start typing out notes. Dates. Locations. Timelines. Everything you could remember. If you were working on a theory with actual, substantial evidence, then you needed to be sure.
You weren’t saying Clark was Superman. You just needed to prove to yourself that he wasn’t.
And if you couldn’t? Well, you’d cross that bridge when you got there.
The roof of the Daily Planet building was quiet. Just you and the stillness of a city holding its breath beneath you. It was past midnight, and you should’ve gone home hours ago. Metropolis still roared below, car horns and rumbling trains threading through the night air, but up here, the noise was distant and muffled.
Wind stirred the edges of your coat as you leaned against the low wall that ringed the building, one hand still curled around your phone. All you’d meant to do was catch your breath. Instead, you were standing at the edge of the rooftop like you were trying to piece together the world from the sky down.
The screen of your laptop had started to blur half an hour ago. At some point, you realised you hadn’t taken a proper breath in hours. Your shoulders had crept to your ears. And so you’d come here.
Clark had told you about the roof after your second week at the Planet. You’d been overwhelmed by your first deadline, having strung together quotes on three hours of sleep with too many people talking too loudly and too close by. Clark had noticed, and he’d told you about the roof access from the north stairwell and how it always helped him get a moment to himself.
Now you stood exactly where he had gestured months ago, gazing out over the glittering sprawl of the city.
You rubbed your hands over your face, tired enough that your vision blurred when you blinked too hard. The cool night air stung in your lungs in a good way. Still, your mind wouldn’t slow down.
What exactly were you doing?
You weren’t just researching Superman or chasing down a good story anymore. It wasn’t even about Superman, not at the core of it. It was about Clark.
Clark, who had always been kind. Who had laughed with you in the break room and looked away politely when you got teary at morning meetings after rough interviews. Who you felt something real for.
You’d pulled up his old articles, notes, and timestamps on when he’d submitted pieces. You found yourself cross-referencing news reports of Superman sightings with every time Clark had disappeared during a crisis. The overlaps were too frequent to ignore.
But every time you got close to feeling like you’d figured something out, reality yanked you back. Superman stood like a soldier; Clark slouched like someone trying to disappear. Superman’s voice held a certainty that filled rooms; Clark’s was soft, like he was always making space for other people to speak.
And yet.
When Superman spoke, sometimes there was a lilt at the end of a sentence that made your stomach flip. The exact same way Clark sounded when he was making a joke just for you. You’d never thought much of it before, but watching Superman interviews was a small comfort. It felt familiar and safe.
Now, you couldn’t help but wonder if Clark was the reason for that.
You stared out across the city, and your heart was pounding again, like it couldn’t decide if it was from anxiety or adrenaline or something else entirely.
The breeze shifted. A buzz filled your ears, too low to be natural. Then—light. A flash of metal slicing through the dark.
Something hurtled straight toward the rooftop, shrieking like a comet. Not a meteor, too angular. Machinery. Drone tech, maybe, or debris from some off-course alien skirmish. It spun through the sky with fire trailing behind it, its path chaotic—and heading right for the Daily Planet.
Your stomach dropped. You stepped back, heart leaping, too slow. The wind surged. Your hair whipped. Then a rush of air slammed into you, knocking the breath from your lungs. A solid weight followed, warm and immovable.
You flinched, braced for impact.
But instead, arms wrapped around you. A body shielded yours. Heavy, bracing, steady.
There was a sound like thunder cracking the sky. The rooftop trembled below your shoes. Shrapnel exploded like fireworks. You ducked, your muscles locking, breath trapped high in your chest.
Nothing so much as grazed you.
When you opened your eyes, lungs heaving, Superman was in front of you.
Hovering just a foot in the air, with one hand raised from where he had caught whatever was about to crush you. The other arm was still slightly extended as if part of him was ready to steady you again. He gently dropped the smouldering hunk of metal over the edge of the roof, down into the empty alley, and turned to face you.
Superman’s cape fluttered gently behind him. There was still a faint hum of energy in the air, the kind that seemed to cling to him wherever he went.
And he was looking at you. Not past you, not through you, but at you. Like he could really see you.
You didn’t speak at first; you couldn’t after what had almost just happened. Superman touched down soundlessly, and your breath caught in your throat when you met his glittering blue eyes.
“Are you alright?” His voice was low and even, but you were trembling too much to answer right away. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Every nerve buzzed like a struck wire.
You nodded automatically before your voice returned. “Y-yeah. I think so.”
Superman looked you over carefully. His eyes flicked across your arm, your temple, your torso. Not lingering in a way that made you feel on display, but as though checking for damage no one else would think to look for. Something in your ribs ached with how fast your heart was still beating.
When his shoulders eased, it should have calmed you. But it didn’t. Instead, your heart raced, and your legs were jelly beneath you. You couldn’t stop staring.
Superman was right in front of you.
“Thank you,” you said. And for one breathless moment, you almost added Clark without thinking. But the word caught behind your teeth like a secret too dangerous to voice.
Your brain tried to catalogue Superman like a reporter: posture, voice, expression. But your body didn’t wait for the facts—it reacted like it always did around Clark. Like it already knew.
It didn’t make sense. Nothing about the way Superman moved said Clark Kent. But your pulse didn’t care about reason, it recognised something before you could name it.
You pressed your hands into fists, trying to slow the tremble in your fingers. The panic and heat inside you hadn’t cooled yet. You told yourself it was just the aftermath of the attack, the adrenaline still crashing through your system.
You’d been scared, you were sleep-deprived, and you’d spent hours researching a connection between two people—of course, you’d be primed to see that connection even if it wasn’t there.
Confirmation bias. Emotional bleed. You knew the symptoms. You’d reported on them.
But when Superman had touched you, reached out and wrapped his arm around you to save you, the jolt in your chest wasn’t just from impact. It was that strange, electric familiarity. Just like the way your stomach flipped when Clark brushed past you in the bullpen.
The same thrum in your pulse. That uncanny warmth that pulled your gaze to Clark even when you tried not to look.
It should’ve been alien, being held like that. Superman was a superhero, a miracle in flight. But something about the warmth of his grip—the way he braced you without hesitation—it didn’t feel foreign at all.
And all you could think about was how he stood like Clark when he was worried. That one foot slightly ahead. The same crease between his brows when he didn’t believe you were fine, even if you insisted.
Superman didn’t look like Clark, not even a little bit. His posture was different. His voice was pitched deeper. His jawline was somehow more distinct. His whole presence was otherworldly.
But your body had still responded the same way it did to Clark.
“You shouldn’t be up here,” Superman spoke, more gently this time. “It’s late.”
“I just needed some air,” you managed, voice a little rough as you recovered from the shock of it all.
Superman nodded in understanding, glancing out at your view of Metropolis. “I’ve always liked the way the city looks from this roof,” he confessed. “It’s a good place to clear your head.”
He smiled, just barely. It was faint—gentler than you’d expected. And you felt like you knew that smile.
Your chest squeezed like something had latched onto your ribs and wouldn’t let go. That smile wasn’t bold like a superhero’s. It was quiet. Familiar. A little crooked. Like Clark’s.
God.
You were losing it.
Your breath caught. Something about how Superman said this roof made the hair rise on the back of your neck.
It seemed a strange statement. This was a good place for Superman to clear his head? There were taller buildings in Metropolis; nicer ones. Public observation decks.
He could have meant it generally, but you didn’t think he did. There was something specific in the way his voice dipped, quiet but intimate.
Superman shouldn’t know what the city looked like from this spot, unless he frequented the Daily Planet’s building without any of the employees catching wind of it. Considering the Planet boasted the best journalists in the city, you doubted that was possible.
Your throat tightened. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
Superman seemed to realise something then. The smile vanished. His expression shifted into something quieter, almost sorry. He adjusted the edge of his cape—no, not just adjusted. Tugged it the same way Clark fixed his tie when he was trying to look busy instead of nervous.
“Please, get home safe,” Superman said gently.
Then he took off, vanishing into the sky with a rush of air and heat.
You stayed fixed in place, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, eyes locked on the empty space where Superman had stood. When you could finally move, you turned back toward the city.
The lights sparkled. Traffic crawled in glowing lines below. The distant hum of the city resumed, uncaring and uninterrupted.
But you knew. You knew.
Superman had been here before; not just once, not just tonight, but often. He’d seen this view, he’d felt something standing here, enough to say what he said. And this wasn’t conjecture anymore. It wasn’t a blurry photo, or a coincidental timeline match or a clever article hook.
This was real.
Like a switch flipping, your limbs jolted into motion. You grabbed your bag from the floor and bolted for the stairs—barely remembering to shut the rooftop door behind you. You weren’t even halfway down the stairwell before you were pulling your laptop back out.
The words were bubbling up in your chest again, thoughts crashing over each other faster than you could catch them.
Clark. Superman. The same roof. The same phrase. The same smile.
And that feeling, that warmth in your skin that never quite left after Clark touched you.
You skidded to a stop on the landing. Your fingers were already flying across the keys, opening side-by-side footage again. The photos. The voice clips. You were exhausted, but the adrenaline from the attack was still singing in your veins.
It could all be bias, projection, or madness.
But you didn’t care anymore, because after tonight, the gap between Clark Kent and Superman felt smaller than it ever had.
The newsroom buzzed with the usual end-of-day urgency: the hum of printers, the low murmur of phone calls, and computer keys clicking in a fast staccato. Somewhere across the bullpen, someone swore under their breath about a broken quote link. A coffee machine hissed like a warning. But at your desk, you couldn’t focus.
Half-written leads filled the margins of your notebook, crossed out, rewritten, and then crossed out again. A single sentence blinked back at you on the screen, mocking you with its incompleteness. Your pen hovered. Your hand tightened over it, then dropped it when you realised it was getting you nowhere.
While everyone else moved on with their day, you were sitting in the kind of silence that made most people hold their breath.
You glanced up.
Across the room, Clark stood at the file cabinet, jacket and shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, his tie a little loose like it always got by this hour. He wasn’t looking at you, but the moment your gaze landed on him, he stilled—just slightly. There was a flick of hesitation in the way he shut the drawer. Then, very casually, he looked up.
Your eyes met.
It was less than a second, but it pulsed through you like a tremor. Not the easy flutter of crushes past, but something rawer. Like the line between friend and something more had blurred into something neither of you dared step fully into.
It was the kind of look that said you both knew something you weren’t supposed to. Something dangerous.
Since the rooftop, every day had been like this—dense with something you both refused to speak aloud. You hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t said a word about what happened in the dark with the wind pushing at your coat and Superman’s familiar touch that kept pulling your mind back to Clark.
There was a new tension you could feel in the space between you, as if you were dancing around a secret too large to ignore but too fragile to expose.
Clark hadn’t explained. You hadn’t asked. But you both knew, and it was driving you slowly out of your mind.
You dropped your gaze first, a tight breath escaping your nose. The tension made it hard to sit still. You tried writing again, tried researching for your next article. But nothing seemed to work.
Your thoughts circled back to the rooftop—the closeness, the touch, the way your body had reacted with an uncanny familiarity. The way his eyes seemed to search yours for truths you weren’t ready to voice.
Footsteps approached. You didn’t look up when Clark leaned over, set something on the edge of your notebook, and walked on without waiting. You swallowed hard, your heart stuttered at his proximity.
It was a piece of folded paper. Clark hadn’t looked at you when he passed, hadn’t so much as changed expression. But your skin prickled with the weight of it.
You picked it up carefully, like it might burn your fingers. Unfolding it slowly revealed three handwritten lines. Nothing flowery or overly prosaic, just an invitation:
Tonight.
My place.
We should talk.
No name, no time, just an address printed in small, neat letters below his message.
You read it once. Then again. Your eyes lingered on my place, as if meaning could shift with repetition.
Your first reaction was indignation. Now, Clark wanted to talk? After months of vague excuses and evasions? Days after the rooftop, with the blur of heat and proximity and questions you couldn’t ask?
The way he skirted around your conversations felt less like avoidance and more like a wall you both desperately wanted to climb but feared to fall from.
Your second reaction was something closer to dread, or maybe desire. The two felt indistinguishable lately. Every time Clark brushed past you in the bullpen or caught your gaze across the room, your stomach clenched in ways that felt equal parts terrifying and thrilling.
You folded the note again, smaller this time, tucked it into the pocket of your cardigan, and slumped back in your chair. Crossing your arms, you stared blankly at your monitor, but your mind was elsewhere.
You didn’t know if you wanted to go, but you didn’t think you could afford not to.
Across from you, Clark looked up from his desk. This time, he didn’t look away. There was a flicker in his eyes, almost like relief, or maybe a challenge. A silent acknowledgment that the game had changed, and it would never be the same again.
You stood before the closed door of Clark’s apartment, the note still folded in your palm like a secret too heavy to hold. You had chosen something understated but clearly changed from your workday look—your favourite shirt tucked into dark jeans, comfortable shoes, and a ring you like to fidget with when you were nervous.
Clark opened the door before you could ring the bell, and your breath hitched. He was dressed in the same clothes from work—his usual dark slacks, suit jacket, and white button-up shirt, sans tie—but his hair was less tousled than usual.
There was music playing softly somewhere beyond the living room, a low hum that filled the space with a quiet intimacy.
You stepped inside hesitantly.
The apartment was surprising.
It was minimalist, all sleek surfaces and clean lines, the kind of place you’d expect from someone meticulous. The kitchen was stylish in a retro-modern way—glossy cobalt-blue cabinetry against a marble backsplash, giving the space the impression that it didn’t try too hard.
The living room stretched before you in understated elegance, minimalistic to the point of austerity, as if every piece of furniture had to prove its worth to remain. A low-profile sofa sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, which caught your attention due to its breathtaking view of Metropolis.
You noticed the quiet hum of the city could still reach you, faint and distant through the thick glass. The place felt removed from the chaos outside, even though it had the perfect view of any incoming trouble.
It didn’t quite fit with what you knew about Clark from work. Didn’t mesh with the clumsy way he’d knock over his mug, the scattered papers you’d noticed on his desk, the small personal messes that made him feel more real, more human.
This space felt curated, controlled. Like the apartment itself was a quiet puzzle piece, hinting at a side of Clark you’d never fully had the chance to know.
He watched you step in, eyes flicking nervously from your face to your hands, where his note was still tucked discreetly in your palm.
“Tea?” Clark offered, voice low and uncertain.
You nodded, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the soft lighting and the intimacy of being in his space.
You settled into the modest living room. Clark handed you a steaming mug, the rich aroma of your favourite tea oddly grounding in the quiet room. You wrapped your fingers around the cup, tracing the warmth as your mind scrambled for something to say.
“So,” Clark started, voice careful, “how’s the Peterson piece coming along? Deadline’s Friday, right?”
You forced a brief nod. “Yeah. I’m still digging through interviews. The story’s bigger than I expected.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The newsroom’s been on edge. Lots of big stories lately.”
You glanced at Clark. The way his glasses caught the light, the slight crease in his brow, the habitual way he brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead, even though it was neater than you’d ever seen it.
You thought of Superman—the cape, the jawline, the unyielding presence.
How could the same man feel so different?
Yet, in your moments with Clark, the tension, the warmth, even the quiet confidence sometimes felt more like Superman than the well-mannered reporter you’d gotten to know at the Daily Planet.
Your eyes lingered on his face, tracing the familiar lines beneath those glasses. You thought of the way Superman’s presence had left your skin tingling, the inexplicable pull in your chest; it was like your mind was still learning to catch up with your body.
Clark cleared his throat, breaking your reverie. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”
You gave a tight grimace. “Just tired.”
He nodded slowly, then looked down at his mug. Almost as if testing the waters, he cautiously said, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
You blinked. “Pretend?” You refrained from adding, That’s ironic.
Clarke shrugged, but his gaze didn’t waver. “That everything’s normal.”
You swallowed hard, the tension tightening in your throat. “It’s just been a long week.”
You shifted your gaze away from him, noticing again how the light caught on his glasses, the way the frames seemed to shield more than just his eyes.
Slowly, as if drawn by some unspoken need, your hand lifted. You hesitated just long enough to give Clark a chance to pull back, to say no—but he didn’t. Your fingers brushed the smooth black frame. Carefully, deliberately, you slid the glasses down his nose and off his face, setting them gently on the coffee table.
Your breath caught.
Without the familiar frames, Clark’s face looked different. Softer, more open. Vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen before.
Still unmistakably Clark Kent.
And Superman.
You opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled inside, caught between fear and yearning. Clark’s eyes locked with yours, searching, waiting for a crack in your carefully built walls.
Finally, your voice broke the silence, barely more than a whisper, but fierce all the same. “You’re Superman.”
Clark blinked, then nodded slowly, his gaze steady but soft. “I’m Superman,” he echoed.
It hit you harder than you expected. You looked at Clark like you were seeing him for the first time—not just the Superman from that night on the roof, but Clark too. Somehow, without the glasses, without the carefully constructed disguise, he felt more real than he ever did before.
It was like the two halves of him, which you thought were separate, bled into one.
Instead of the satisfaction you’d always imagined this moment might bring, there was something quieter stirring in your chest, something almost hollow. Not betrayal, more like resignation. Like you’d already known this deep in your bones, and now that it was real, all you could feel was the weight of what it had cost to finally hear Clark say it.
“How... how did I never see it before?” you asked, voice trembling as you set your mug down beside Clark’s glasses.
He gave a small, rueful smile. “The glasses—they change how people see me. Hypno-glasses.” He started to explain, but something snapped inside you.
“They’re supposed to—”
You cut him off before he could finish. “You interviewed yourself,” you said sharply, your breath catching in your throat. “You lied to everyone at the paper—to the world. To me.”
Clark’s face tightened. “I had to. You know that.”
The tension between you coalesced into something sharp and brittle. Every word now felt like a carefully aimed blade, not shouted, but no less cutting.
You watched Clark closely—watched the way his jaw clenched under pressure, the slight falter in his breathing as he took you in. There was panic rising in his eyes, not the kind that came with danger, but the kind that came with loss.
His shoulders squared like he was bracing for a blow, but there was no defence in his posture. Only openness. Clark was baring himself now, in every line of his body. And there was love in his face, undeniable and unhidden. It was as if every careful mask he’d worn until now had finally fallen away, and all that was left was him.
“You let me spiral,” you accused, your voice cracking under the weight of weeks of confusion and doubt. “You didn’t trust me. I’ve been tearing myself apart, wondering if I’m seeing something that doesn’t exist, or if I’m the only one who sees the truth.”
Clark’s hands clenched at his sides, and the sound of your pain clearly tore through him. He looked stricken, wounded by the truth of what you were saying.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he confessed, his voice desperate. “Every time I thought I could, I just—I couldn’t..”
Your heart pounded so loud you were sure he could hear it. In fact, he’d always heard it. You paced the small space between you, breath short, your voice trembling as the emotions you’d held back began to surge to the surface.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like,” you said, raw and breathless, “to look someone in the eye every day and feel like you’re going crazy? To fall for someone and know in your gut that they’re hiding something?”
Pain flickered across Clark’s features at your confession. He stepped closer, not touching, but no longer distant either. It was unbearable, this closeness; you were both aching to reach for each other and still holding yourselves back.
“I imagine it’s something like hiding a part of yourself away,” Clark said quietly, “and realising there was someone who sees all of you anyway.” There was a new intensity in his eyes, one that he had kept hidden all this time. Not behind hypno-glasses, but behind a wall of his own making. “Like falling for someone and being terrified that who you are—who you’ve always been—could ruin everything.”
You stared at him, breath shallow. His words echoed inside you louder than your own heartbeat. “And yet,” you said slowly, “you still let me believe I was wrong.”
Clark’s expression faltered.
“You watched me doubt myself,” you continued, your voice rising, shaking. “You watched me second-guess every instinct, every look between us. You let me wonder if I was projecting something that wasn’t even real.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Clark said quickly, stepping closer again, helpless now. “I wanted to tell you every single day. I’d sit across from you, typing some puff piece while you were one desk away, and all I wanted was to reach across the space and just—just say it. But I knew the moment I did, everything would change.”
“Well, congratulations,” you said bitterly. “Everything has.”
He flinched, like you’d physically struck him. But still, he didn’t retreat.
“I never wanted to lie to you,” Clark said, his voice softer now, more broken. “I just didn’t know how to stop without losing you.”
You laughed once—short and hollow. “You were never going to lose me, Clark. Not until you made me feel like I couldn’t trust my own instincts.”
His jaw tensed. You saw it in the way his mouth parted, the way his eyes turned glassy with regret. “You don’t know what it’s like to have the whole world look at you and only see what you can do,” Clark retorted. “I needed someone—you—to see me for who I am. Not the powers. Not the spectacle. Just... Clark.”
“Of course I see you as ‘just’ Clark!” you exclaimed. “Even the night you saved me as Superman, all I could think about was how he felt like you! But you disappeared, and you let me wonder if it was all just in my head.”
“I know,” Clark breathed. “I’ve never been more afraid than when I realised I might lose you—not because of an alien attack, but because of me. Because I didn’t tell you the truth.”
You swallowed hard, searching his features and finding that achingly familiar sincerity there. “Then be honest with me now,” you whispered. “You asked me here—so say what you needed to say. The truth. All of it.”
Clark took a breath, his broad chest rising with the weight of it. “I love you.”
And for a moment, you didn’t breathe.
You looked at him—really looked at him. Clark’s pupils were dilated, the blue of his eyes swallowed up in darkness. His lips were parted slightly, like he’d forgotten how to breathe, too. His whole body seemed to lean toward you without moving, like he was fighting against every instinct not to reach out.
Without his superhearing, you couldn’t know that his heart was thundering in time with yours.
Clark Kent loved you.
“I’ve loved you since the first day you rolled your eyes fondly at me in that newsroom,” he went on, voice shaking. “Since you argued with me about the Oxford comma on your third day and dared me to keep up. I’ve loved you through every article, every shared glance, every moment I kept this secret and hated myself for it.”
You blinked, your vision blurred with the tears you hadn’t let fall yet.
“I love you,” Clark repeated, quieter now, searching your eyes for any sign of reciprocation. “Clark—Superman—they’re all me. Just different sides the world sees. But when I’m with you, I’m only ever one thing. I’m yours. And I don’t want to hide anymore.”
His hand hovered near your cheek, fingers trembling in the air between you. “Can I?”
You nodded before your words could betray you.
Clark’s palm was warm as it cupped your face, thumb brushing away the tears now falling freely. He leaned in closer, his breath feathering against your skin.
“I’m sorry for making you doubt yourself,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry for waiting so long to tell you the truth.”
Clark exhaled shakily. “And I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he added, voice nearly lost between you, “for so long. But I want to do it as me. Not Clark with the hypno-glasses. Not Superman. Just... me.”
You tilted your face toward his, lips parting.
And then he kissed you.
Not like Superman. Not like a secret.
Like Clark.
He surged forward at the exact moment you reached for him. The kiss wasn’t soft or tentative. It was desperate, like you’d both been waiting too long and couldn’t bear to wait another second. Your hands found his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head. Clark’s arms wrapped around your waist, anchoring you as your lips crashed again and again like a tide neither of you could control.
In the space between one breath and the next, you murmured against his mouth, “I won’t tell anyone. You know I won’t.”
His forehead touched yours, eyes closed. “I know.”
You didn’t know if Clark meant he trusted you or if he simply knew you. Either way, it didn’t matter. You leaned into him again, mouth grazing the corner of his jaw.
The next kiss was slower, deeper. Less frantic, but no less charged. Clark’s jacket slipped from his shoulders and hit the floor behind you. He backed you toward the wall, one hand reaching for yours, the other curling firmly around your waist. When your spine met the solid surface of the wall, it knocked the breath from you, but you didn’t care.
There was no confusion now, just clarity—dizzying and sharp.
Your fingers threaded into his hair, and he groaned softly against your lips. Clark’s mouth moved with aching precision, like he was memorising the shape of you. His hand found the hem of your shirt, tugging it from below your jeans, and anchored his hands there. They were agonisingly warm, thumb grazing skin like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you.
You opened your eyes for a breathless moment and looked at him—really looked. He was the Clark you knew, and he wasn’t. And somehow, in the shifting shadows between those two truths, he had never looked more like himself.
It was all there: the impossible strength, the familiar softness, the man who had saved you midair and the one who made you tea exactly the way you liked it.
“I see you,” you murmured, voice low, lips brushing his. “All of you.”
Clark’s hand trembled slightly as he brushed it along your cheek, like the weight of being seen was heavier than lifting a plane. His eyes searched yours, wide open, unguarded. “No one ever has like you do,” he said, the words a quiet confession. “Especially when I was trying to hide.”
Clark kissed you again, like he couldn’t risk the silence, couldn’t bear to let the truth echo too long. You weren’t sure if the shaking in your limbs was relief or desire or something bigger than both.
The kiss that followed wasn’t gentle. You tugged Clark forward by the collar of his shirt, your back arching as his hands gripped your waist, steadying you, grounding you. One of his knees slotted between yours, and you let it, let him, until your bodies were aligned like a secret you hadn’t meant to say aloud.
You gasped into his mouth as his hands splayed along your ribs, his touch reverent and urgent all at once. Your own fingers slid down his shoulders and traced a slow path to his chest, feeling his heart hammering below your fingertips.
Clark kissed you like a vow—heady and slow and aching. And in that moment, you weren’t thinking about secrets or consequences. You were only thinking about the man who held you as if he were afraid to ever let go.
And you didn’t want him to.
Your fingers curled against the centre of his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart beneath your palm. You weren’t sure if it was his or yours that was racing faster.
Clark exhaled shakily against your mouth, and for a second, the world narrowed to the press of his hands, the heat between you, the impossible relief of finally.
Then, slowly, without really thinking, you slipped your fingers to the buttons of his shirt. You felt him still, but Clark didn’t stop you. You undid one. Then another.
The fabric parted just slightly—enough to glimpse the edge of something beneath. Not skin, but blue fabric.
You blinked, then tugged the open shirt apart just enough to see it fully. There, stretched across Clark’s chest—vivid and unmistakable—was his bold red-and-yellow insignia.
It was like a bucket of cold water was tipped over your head, reminding you that you weren’t just kissing Clark Kent but Superman.
Pulling back an inch, your lips parted as your eyes flicked from the symbol up to his face. A surprised and breathless giggle escaped you before you could help it. “You’re wearing the Superman suit under your work clothes?”
Clark’s face flushed, sheepish but fond. “Occupational hazard,” he declared.
You laughed again, softer this time, your forehead tipping against his. The tension broke, sweet and warm and breathless.
“I can’t believe I didn’t notice,” you murmured, tracing the edge of the fabric with a single finger. “You’ve been walking around with a cape tucked under your button-down.”
His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together. “You weren’t supposed to see me,” Clark pointed out.
You looked up at him, a smile still playing on your lips. “Well, I did. And I love you too.”
And Clark smiled back—small and real and all yours.
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting everything in the same pale yellow they always did. Phones rang. Printers sputtered. The smell of burnt coffee wafted from somewhere near the breakroom. Business as usual at The Daily Planet.
Except it wasn’t. Not anymore.
You spotted Clark before he noticed you—across the bullpen, adjusting the knot in his tie, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the tendons in his forearms. He looked like he always did: glasses slightly askew, posture just a little too stiff, like he didn’t quite know how to make his frame fit into chairs or corners.
Still Clark Kent, somehow. Even now.
He glanced up and found you. And in an instant, everything changed.
The way Clark smiled—it wasn’t the dazed, infatuated kind he used to give you before either of you had said anything out loud. It was sharper now. More deliberate. Like he knew exactly what it did to you.
Your pulse stuttered. You tried to look away before anyone could see the way your expression shifted. But it was too late—you already felt it, warm and quick behind your ribs.
In the pitch meeting, Clark sat two seats away from you. Neither of you looked at the other, but you could feel him there—more present than Perry’s voice droning on about headlines. His leg stretched out under the table, close enough that if you moved your foot just a little, your ankles would touch.
You didn’t. But you thought about it.
Later, he held the door open for you and three others. Your fingers brushed as you passed. Too brief to be obvious. Long enough to make your stomach tighten.
At noon, you both reached for the same file. Clark’s hand landed on yours, warm and solid. Neither of you moved.
“I had it first,” you murmured without looking at him.
Clark’s voice stayed low. “I bet you really believe that,” he teased.
It wasn’t flirtation so much as a game now. A quiet thrill passed back and forth, like an electric current hidden beneath a suit and a press badge. You weren’t sneaking around because you had to—there was no rule against it, no fear of scandal—but because the secrecy belonged to you. Not the world. Not even your friends. Just the two of you.
You glanced at him. Clark was already looking at you with that same maddening, wonderful smile.
And god, it was hard not to kiss him when he looked at you like that.
Later, in the elevator, you were flanked by Lois and Clark as the lift hummed quietly beneath your feet. The two of them were returning from a meeting in Perry’s office, and you had just come back from the layout floor.
Lois eyed you both like she could see right through your act.
“You two have been weird lately,” she said, sipping from her coffee cup and wincing at the taste. You’d been trying to convince her to abandon the disgusting Daily Planet roast in favour of tea for months now, but she wasn’t budging. “I don’t know what’s going on, but if it’s a story, I better not be the last to know,” Lois quipped.
Clark gave a half-laugh. You were pleasantly surprised at how natural it sounded, and how easy it was for him to tell a little white lie.
“Just long nights editing,” he said, straight-faced.
You nodded. “Stress does weird things to people,” you added in a pleasant tone.
Lois squinted, unconvinced, but said nothing. The doors opened on her floor.
“Uh-huh,” she muttered, stepping out. “Journalists and their secrets.”
Then she was gone.
The elevator doors glided shut.
You just looked at each other—this charged, suspended second—and then moved in sync. Clark’s hands were already at your waist before your back hit the panelling, and your mouth found his like it was muscle memory. Which, a month into your relationship, it was.
The kiss was different now. Not hesitant or explosive. It was sure, deep and familiar like everything else about your relationship.
Clark’s lips brushed yours like he had missed them all day, like he’d been waiting for this precise moment since 9:03 a.m. when you passed each other in the bullpen and didn’t stop. You tilted your chin, angled closer, and Clark adjusted instinctively—one hand sliding into your hair, the other anchoring low at your hip like he always did, pulling you in, like he needed you near just to stay grounded.
You sighed against his mouth—quiet, surrendering—and felt him smile into the kiss.
It wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. You both knew exactly what the other wanted.
Then he broke away just enough to drag his mouth along the curve of your cheek, the corner of your smile, your jaw. Clark kissed the spot just beneath your ear and made you shiver.
You let out a quiet laugh, breathless and dizzy, and curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt.
“Clark,” you murmured, like it was both a warning and a prayer.
He just kissed you again, longer this time. Slower. His hands curled around your waist and lifted you the tiniest bit higher on your toes as he leaned in, like he couldn’t get close enough. When your lips parted, he followed with another kiss—softer, but with the exact precision of someone who knew your rhythm by heart.
“You’ve been teasing me all day,” Clark whispered against your mouth.
“I barely looked at you,” you whispered back.
“Exactly.”
You smiled, wide and helpless, and let your forehead fall to his. Clark’s hands skimmed your sides like he was memorising every inch. You kissed again, deeper, and this time, the elevator gave a mechanical jolt beneath your feet.
Your fingers slid around his shoulders, pressing closer and grounding yourself in the warmth of Clark’s body and the soft, practised motion of him leading you in a scalding kiss.
“I missed this,” you murmured.
“I never stop missing it,” Clark whispered back.
It wasn’t until your toes no longer touched the ground that you pulled back just enough to glance downward, eyes wide.
You clutched his shoulders tighter, breath catching in realisation.
“Clark—”
“I’ve got you,” he promised, breath hitching, voice low and warm. “Always.”
Your hand pressed instinctively to his chest, steadying yourself, and you felt the drum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. Your thumb brushed the fabric over it once, twice, lingering.
Carefully, you slid your fingers down the buttons of his shirt. One. Two. Three. The fourth gave way easily, and there it was, the symbol the whole world associated with Superman.
Your breath caught in your throat. You stared for a beat, and then a small, incredulous laugh slipped out of you.
“I’m never going to get tired of seeing this,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “Think you can put me down before someone walks in, Superman?”
Clark laughed, flushed and already breathless. “Sorry,” he said, but there was a spark of mischief in the way he smiled. “Got a little carried away.” He had kissed you like that before, so swept up he forgot to let gravity do its job, and you had no doubt it would happen again.
You chuckled again, softer this time, and buttoned his shirt back up with careful fingers. Clark watched you cover his secret like it was the most intimate thing anyone had ever done for him.
As your feet returned to the floor with a gentle thud, you pressed your palm lightly over the fabric again, right where you knew his symbol was, hidden beneath the layer of his shirt. You gave your boyfriend a tender look.
“I like knowing it’s there,” you admitted.
Clark leaned forward, just enough to touch his forehead to yours. “So do I.”
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. And like nothing had happened, you stepped out side by side into the chaos of the bullpen.
Phones ringing. Papers rustling. Jimmy yelled about printer errors.
Clark went left, you went right; as if you hadn’t just kissed each other breathless against the wall of the elevator.
Everything was back to normal.
Except this time, when you glanced across your desk and found Clark already watching you, you didn’t look away.
note: please let me know what you thought!! i love any and all comments and feedback. the new superman movie is my current hyperfixation so if anyone would be interested in reading more clark kent fics from me, all you have to do is tell me 🤭
Newest on the team at the Daily Planet, your co-workers set a high bar in terms in friendship.
You like Lois. Jimmy is a decent desk-mate. Cat is nice enough. You don't even want to talk about Steve.
But Clark Kent... There's something about him that irks you.
His niceness.
No-one is that nice. And honestly? You'd rather keep him at arms length, then let him worm his way into your heart — because you’ll be damned if you let that stupid thing get broken again.
(Or: Clark Kent and the string of terrible, horrible, very bad attempts to woo his co-worker. Unsuccessfully.)
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
[15k, coworkers to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, one-sided enemies to lovers, fem!reader, you are, lovingly, a difficult women (with some trust issues) but that is exactly what clark likes about you <3 - title from the waitress soundtrack of the same name!!!]
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Click-click. You click your pen, off then on.
The screen of your monitor hums with a faint buzz, just like all the fluorescent lights in the Daily Planet do.
The office murmurs around you, slowly waking with chatter, and it's just one more thing to mentally convince yourself you can't hear. On a good day, you can ignore it.
On a bad day…
Click-click. Off and then on.
Displayed on your screen is what's been served up to your chopping block, a new piece for you to tear to shreds with edits.
You've become the unofficial office shark, a one-stop shop for ruthless edits. Nothing leaves your sight without being slashed to pieces with red pen.
Beside you, on your desk, is a copy of yesterday's print.
You're trying hard not to look at it —not the title, Superman Saves Downtown; No Casualties in Extraterrestrial Attack— and not the byline either, printing Clark Kent's name on the front page.
Stupid Clark Kent and his dumb, stupid exclusive Superman interviews.
It's actually laughable how your envy reduces you to the insults of a second-grader – which actually is probably making you dislike it all the more.
With a huff, you try to redirect to the piece you're supposed to be editing.
"You know, your screen's gonna set alight if you keep glaring that hard."
You move your glare from your screen to the speaker behind it. Daily Planet's finest photographer, your desk-mate, and occasional pain in your ass, Jimmy Olsen.
He grins, despite being at the receiving end of your pointed stare. Jimmy is one of the few lucky ones immune to it.
"Alright, Medusa. What's got your panties in a twist this early in the morning?"
"Nothing has any effect on my panties whatsoever," you mumble back, breaking your glare to look back at your screen. Dropping the pen on your desk, you shake the mouse back to life.
"Have you considered that maybe that's the problem?"
"I'm gonna file a formal complaint if you keep talking about my panties," you grouse back, to which Jimmy laughs.
It's all bark and no bite really.
Jimmy is one of the only ones who have actually figured that out about you—that you're prickly to begin with, but you never really mean it.
The shuttered swirl of the heavy revolving door announces the arrival of, none other than, the object of your morning envy — though the dropped files are a classic of the Clark Kent entrance.
Papers fly as they hit the floor, scattering in a flutter you can hear across the office. It's quickly followed by Clark's muttered shoot!
One particular piece of paper does an elegant arc, swooping high and settling close to yours and Jimmy's desk.
Out the corner of your eye, you squint at it, but it's too far to make out the words.
Clark scampers after his spilled papers, hasty apologies spilling from him like an overzealous printer stuck on reprint. "Hi–sorry. Morning, hi, sorry, lemme get that—"
He ends up beside your desk by the time he's gathered them all in his hands, straightening up to his full height.
It's just for a moment—then he's hunching back over, shoulders curling forward.
Like it does much good; he's still at least 6 feet tall.
"Morning, guys," Clark says warmly, nodding to Jimmy, then you. His retrieved papers are in an untidy pile, held against his chest precariously. "What are we talking about?"
He's probably asking to be polite. Or to distract from his fumble with the papers.
Unfortunately for him, you've decided making Clark squirm is an easy way to enact a quiet retribution.
"My panties." You say plainly.
Jimmy coughs out a laugh, even though you're technically telling the truth. Hey, he was the one who brought them up! You shoot him a wry grin – then watch Clark.
His mouth has opened, as if to give a response to that, but then he closes it, thinking the better of it.
You imagine it must be hot, blushing that fiercely. His cheeks and the tips of his ears both appear as if he’s had too much time in the sun. Farm boy red, you'd call it.
In the end, Clark only swallows. Then nods at you both, his eyes averted, and scuttles away with a mumble you can't hear.
A glimmer of enjoyment toys a smile on your mouth. You convince yourself it's from watching him squirm. For grudge-related reasons, obviously.
"Must you torture him?" Jimmy asks, the moment Clark's out of range.
"No," you answer with a shrug, turning back to your screen. "But he makes it easy."
You don't add that you're pretty sure his bashful disposition is almost surely put on. He's a grown man. No one… blushes and sputters like that actually. Certainly not at you.
Instead, you punch the keys of your keyboard a bit too rough, deleting a whole sentence from the piece on-screen.
"It's the Midwestern in him," Jimmy says, with a sympathetic sigh.
"Yeah, well, it makes you wonder how he became such a hard-hitting journalist." You snort, though you make an effort to keep your voice low.
"Seriously, how is it that he's the only one who gets the exclusives with Superman?"
Across the desk, Jimmy's eyebrows raise an inch. "Ah. So that's what the glare was for."
You don't dignify that with a response—mainly because he's hit the nail on the head. Damn you for choosing a profession where your coworkers are paid to be nosy and observant.
You shrug again and remove another sentence that has the gall to have three adjectives in a row.
Jimmy leans forward. "Y'know, maybe that's the real secret to good journalism – he's just nice. You could try it sometime?"
He's joking of course, but there is still something in you that stiffens. He's brushed an exposed nerve by accident.
You're nice. You are.
It's just… There's something about Clark Kent – something that seems to irk you specifically.
Beyond his ability to cop all the limited interviews with Metropolis' hero —which does indeed drive you up the wall— there is just something about him that gets under your skin.
He's so perfectly polite – so nice, it's almost to a fault.
You've seen him give his lunch away to someone who forgot theirs. He knows the names of the janitor's kids. He says hi to everyone in the office.
He says 'golly' for Christ's sake.
It's simply too good to be true. No one is just that good by nature — well, maybe Superman — and definitely not without something else, some other motive lurking below.
The journalist instinct in you itches. Something about him doesn't quite add up.
Besides, you've been around one of these guys before. Had the displeasure of being the idiot who fell for them and dated one. They're always a real sweetheart, convincing everyone that the sun shines out their ass.
They're the honey in a trap. They lure you in with sweetness for long enough, and you never realise it's slowly become vinegar in your mouth.
You like to think you know better now.
And on top of Clark's infuriatingly nice demeanour, and his penchant for snagging the front-page at the last second — he's knocked you to the second page of print twice now — is the fact he's, undeniably, attractive.
You have eyes. You can, begrudgingly, use them.
Even you can admit that Clark Kent is a 6 foot something, dark-haired and light-eyed, tall glass of water.
You suppose it's good thing that he doesn't strut around like he knows it. That might be the thing that tips him from a slight thorn in your side to downright unbearable.
Alright, now you're being dramatic. It's not like he's Lex Luthor or anything of that sort.
It's just that you're somehow the only one who seems to be wary of him, to notice the inconsistencies in his absences, to be distrustful of his kindness.
(You pointedly ignore the voice that tells you that says a lot more about you than it does about him).
It makes that little voice in your head, the one you spent so long working to keep quiet, wonder if you've got it all wrong. If you're losing your touch.
Because you know there is a chance that he is that nice and you're the only one too cynical, too scornful to believe it.
The cursor on the screen blinks back at you, almost mocking.
You steal a glimpse to your left, towards Clark. As if sensing the movement, he looks up from his computer. He smiles crookedly and gives a little wave.
You purse your lips and nod, acknowledging it, eyes quickly back on your own screen.
The cursor is still blinking tauntingly at you, in the same place as before.
You start typing just to get it to stop.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It's usually a good day when the culinary column has leftovers for the office, you've learned.
It doesn't happen often. Today, it's a much needed pick-me-up. The November weather is gloomy. Overcast. The rain had fallen in sheets this morning, puddles pooling along the path to work.
You're trying very hard not to feel the squelch in your socks.
Impossible when you can hear it, a gross wet noise with every hurried step you take toward the break room, which is where they said the macaroons would be waiting.
Sweet, sweet sugary goodness, not far away — if you're not too late, that is.
You'd been entirely too wrapped up in your latest article, headphones in and world blocked out, that Lois had to tap you on the shoulder to get your attention.
You'd jumped, then turned with a fury in your brow at being interrupted—then clocked the treat in her hand.
"Better hurry," she had said, brows wiggling.
Springing to your feet, your thanks is nearly swallowed up by the swiftness of your stride— broken when you hastily have to backtrack to avoid having your headphones violently ripped out.
Headphones safely removed, you depart your desk at double speed.
As you walk, you roll out your sore shoulders. God, it's been a moment since you moved about.
Your neck isn't grateful for the hunched position you've kept it in either, twinging its annoyance. Still, you round the corner to the break-room with an impressive haste.
And—there.
On the table, perched in adorable ruby-coloured cupcake wrappers, are macaroons. Sage green little discs, cream sandwiched between them.
There are only two left.
Beside them, standing at the table, are Jimmy and Clark. Thankfully, both already have a wrapper in their grasp, meaning they've at least had one.
"Yo," Jimmy says, as you beeline for the table. "Just in time—"
Clark, for once, doesn't greet you with a smile. Instead, he frowns a bit, seeing your locked focus as you lead with an outstretched hand towards the plate.
"Oh, gimme," you urge.
Then, right as your fingers close around one, it's suddenly batted out of your hand.
It flies from your hand and makes not a sound as it lands on the ground, crumbling into the world's saddest pile of green crumbs.
Bewildered, you gape down at it, bottom lip unconsciously jutting out.
Your sorrow turns quickly to indignation. You look up at the culprit, eyes narrowed—but don't even get to speak before Clark's explaining himself.
"You're allergic to pistachios!" Clark stresses, sounding appalled. "What- why would you— that's why I didn't bring you one!"
Right, okay. What? Well, fine, okay, yes, pistachio would explain the green colour of the macaroons.
And yes, you are, technically, in the eyes of the law, allergic. Barely.
What's some itching in the throat?
Actually, better question: How does Clark know that?
Your brain skips a couple times, struggling to compute through both the implication that he's somehow figured out your very mild nut allergy—or that he would've brought one to your desk.
Your eye twitches. "You— how do you even know that?"
"You… You mentioned it during one of the team-bonding exercises they made us do," he says, abruptly sheepish.
He shifts on his feet. One hand scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly.
Jimmy, who usually can't take the cue to be quiet, picks now to say nothing. You decide you hate him.
"That—" You start, still reeling through Clark's answer. That exercise was months ago, when you first started at the Planet.
Born of tiredness, the weather, and the fact Clark's appalled expression is nearly, nearly cute — which is infuriating — a pettiness rises within you.
Despite being entirely correct, suddenly, you can only think, who is he to tell you what you can or can't eat?
"It's a mild allergy, Kent." You stress the word mild. "I think I'll live."
You can tell on his face that he doesn't really like that answer.
Frankly, you've decided you don't really care.
Glancing between the plate on the table and Clark, you make a split-second decision.
Your hand shoots out, but Clark is faster—and he snaps up the final macaroon before you even reach the plate.
Incredulity colours your face as you whip around, a scoff forming on your lips. Clark holds the macaroon between his fingers, his face one of tentative panic.
Then he promptly stuffs it in his mouth, whole.
"Clark!" Jimmy says, finally breaking his silence.
Clark, his cheeks now a burning red, begins to chew awkwardly through the treat in silence.
You stare at him.
What the hell? You're not sure if you're more pissed off that he stole the final macaroon from right under your nose – or that he did it to self-proclaimedly help you.
You can't quite believe the sheer audacity of the move. Or that he also, somehow, manages to look cute while he does it.
Woah. Cute? You blink hard.
The lack of sleep and excess of caffeine has to be getting to you. You do not find Clark Kent cute. Much. Not when he's just cheated you out of two macaroons now.
You open your mouth, ready to unleash a string of how dare you and just who do you think you are and what the freak, dude — and then you catch Jimmy's eye.
And you remember his stupid comment about being nice—and think about how he probably thinks Clark did something good.
Noble Clark Kent, saving the office idiot from herself. You close your mouth, say nothing.
Biting your tongue, it feels like your socks squelch extra loud in your aggravated exit.
Left behind in the break-room, Clark watches you go.
He finally manages to swallow the macaroon, which goes down lumpily. Cringing, he thinks that might be a top competitor for the driest mouthful of his life.
Never mind that. It's definitely taking out the top spot for one of his trying-to-help-turned-bad-turned-worse moments with you.
Clark has more of those than he cares to admit.
Gosh, how did he manage it? To not only fumble in the worst ways whenever it came to you, but consistently?
You might be one of the only people on the planet with a genuine reason to potentially dislike him. And it's entirely by accident.
Ironic, really, considering he feels pretty much the opposite.
Maybe that was the cause of this, his newest fail of epic proportions. The daft betrayal of his heart to go sky-rocketing at the simple sight of you. Though, Clark thinks simple is too small a word to describe you aptly.
Scintillating. Gorgeous. Otherworldly — and he actually has some idea of that. None of the words really match up to the image of you.
You've got purpose. Fire. You're a woman who knows how to do her job well—and that's exactly the kind Clark can't help being drawn to.
Too bad it's completely fruitless.
Clark stares at the doorway you've just disappeared through and positively wilts.
"So." Jimmy says, a thousand words stuffed behind the single syllable. Clark turns with a soft sigh to find Jimmy grinning like he's definitely enjoying this.
"How's that wooing going for ya?"
Clark sighs again, more weary this time, his cheeks no less hot.
He's beginning to regret telling Jimmy of his feelings for you—despite the fact it's good to have someone to lament to about your constant rejection.
Though, it's not as though he really handed that information over willingly. Jimmy had wormed it out of him after catching one too many lovesick glances across the office. Clark had vehemently denied it, but to no avail. He's pretty sure Lois has also caught on.
"You know, I think this was easier when you didn't know."
"Sorry, man," Jimmy grimaces, though he's really not radiating apologies. "Hey, I'd take it back if I could."
Clark delivers him a look that tells him exactly how much he believes that—not at all.
Jimmy laughs. "Yeah, okay, I'm lying. It's fascinating, watching you crash and burn every time."
He makes an airplane noise, a little neeeow, swooping his hand through the air before miming an explosion. Really helpful stuff.
It just makes Clark slump over even more than usual. His shoulders droop so much he's almost in danger of dragging his knuckles on the ground.
His eyes roam over the remains of the first macaroon you'd attempted to eat on the ground. Staring at it, Clark can admit it wasn't his finest move— and his only defense was that he'd acted in surprise.
Batting it out of your hand, though? Jeez, you probably think he kicks puppies in his spare time too.
It's just a touch humiliating that the situation he is so desperate to succeed in, is in the most hopeless.
Sure, he can save the world, but a regular interaction with his co-worker whom he happens to be crushing on? No dice.
His cheeks flare hot again. In an attempt to preserve some of his dignity, he buries his face in his hands.
"I don't know how you think this is helpful," Clark says, words muffled behind his hands.
"Okay, I'm sorry," Jimmy relents genuinely, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'll be helpful. What about… Have you thought about doing, I don't know, a romantic gesture? Getting her flowers?"
Clark drags his hands off his face, knocking his glasses as he does. A fingerprint smudges on one of the panes. He fixes them, straightening up at the seriousness in Jimmy's tone.
"You think?" He asks earnestly. "Wha— but I'm not even sure I know which kind she likes the most."
Jimmy does that half-hearted eye roll he always does when Clark's being infuriatingly earnest. He shrugs, slowly backing toward the exit. "You're a journalist, Clark. Figure it out."
Just before he disappears through the door, Jimmy pauses.
Mouth twisting to hide another smile, he points down to the crush of green macaroon that's slowly sinking into the carpet.
"Better clean that up before Perry sees it — otherwise we'll never get culinary treats again."
Then he leaves Clark alone in the break-room - with nothing but the remaining evidence of his latest fumble and a plan.
Half a plan.
The beginnings of one.
It's something at least, Clark thinks wistfully.
The siren of an ambulance whirs by on the street down below. Someone three floors up coughs. One of the interns peeks around the doorway, her face hopeful.
Clearly, word of macaroons passed round quickly.
Her face droops at the sight of the empty plate on the table. Well, Clark hopes it's because of that – and not the sight of him. She moves on without a word.
With a final sigh, Clark pushes back his sleeves and crouches down beside the green mess. As he picks, he ponders.
Flowers. Sure. Yeah, he could do flowers.
How on earth could he possibly fumble that?
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
There's a bouquet of flowers on your desk.
It's Monday morning, 8.45am, and you already have a plan of exactly how this day will unfold.
It's going to go swimmingly. You'll tackle the brute of that interview you'd gotten from Todd Inc. Industries yesterday; you'll treat yourself to a sandwich from Benny's for lunch; and you'll have no interactions with Clark Kent, if you can help it.
You've forgiven him for the macaroon incident — solely on the fact that he had somehow been a little bit right.
Not that you went home, bought yourself your own damn pistachio macaroons, and had to wheezily jab your EpiPen in your own thigh.
Of course not. You would never do such a thing. (Nor admit that to Clark).
So, begrudgingly, you've decided he's forgiven. The incident is not quite forgotten though.
All of this is to say—nowhere in your plan is a bouquet of flowers.
Treading a little slower, you approach your desk like it holds a ticking time-bomb and not an array of freshly cut greenery.
Your skeptical gaze darts over them, narrowed, looking for… something.
But they're just flowers.
Displayed in a pale blue vase, wrapped in coloured cellophane, bright marigolds and deep blush-coloured posies peep over the side.
You step closer, tentative. Your nose twitches. God, you can smell them sweetening the air. Which means they're probably expensive.
Which means your first thought is that this must be some kind of mistake — you are not the person who just gets flowers.
Stepping closer yet, you eye the bouquet as if it's going to grow teeth and bite you, dropping your bag into your seat.
Your face pinches together in thought, then quickly glance around the office, hunting for someone who's missing flowers.
Clearly, they've been put in the wrong place.
No obvious flower-shaped indent glows back at you, indicating their true place. You huff a sigh and look back at the flowers.
They are… lovely, you'll admit. Automatically, you check the office, making sure no-one's observing you.
Then, gently, you reach out and brush your thumb pad over one of the posy petals. It's fleshy, soft. Unbidden, a soft noise of longing escapes your throat.
When was the last time you got flowers?
The thought stains as it hits, and you remember exactly what the last occasion was. You snap your hand back.
Then squint at the flowers as if they might give you the answer. Would he…?
No. No, you hadn't heard anything since the break-up and that had been- been like a year ago.
He wouldn't. He wouldn't. You had been very clear.
You give a forceful shake of your head to clear the thought.
If it's not him, you're still not going to be foolish enough to entertain the thought they're meant for you.
Wrangling your bag to the ground, you slump down into your chair. The elevator chimes, people still trickling in. The clock reads closer to 8.50am now. You glance past your monitor.
The absence of your desk-mate is actually somewhat of a relief. Even though you have nothing to do with this, Jimmy is precisely the guy who will rib you for days for this mix-up.
You can already hear him now: Any flowers this morning, milady? Any callers to court you today? Shall we be expecting a marriage proposition any day now?
"Good morning."
Speak of the devil — you've spoke a smidgen too soon.
You turn, eyes already narrowed at Jimmy returning from the printers. He spots the flowers, face contorting into surprise, and really hams it up — which means he's definitely already seen them. Fantastic.
"Ooh, lucky lady." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Flowers, huh?"
You're not sure why you feel so defensive. "They're not for me."
"Aren't they? They're on your desk."
You cut him a look. You have to bite your cheek to stop yourself from commending his incredible observational skills.
But then, Jimmy leans forward, plucking a delivery card you hadn't spotted from the bouquet.
He turns it in his hand—and your name is printed on the other side in swoopy, curled letters.
Huh. You blink at it. They are for you.
After a moment, your brows knit together. That… might not be a good thing.
Did you piss off another band of lawyers, are getting sued to hell, and this is to soften the blow?
Are you being pranked right now?
Maybe you're getting fired. A moment later and you laugh at yourself at that thought. Yeah, that and Perry has grown a sudden unexpected soft spot for you overnight, enough to send you off with a fresh bouquet. Unlikely.
Jimmy offers out the card, and you take it, bringing it closer, as though the letters might change form if you look closer.
They don't. It's your name, for sure. Your desk number and everything.
You turn the card over in your hand. There's something written on the back.
I hope you can forgive me.
Blinking hard, you read the words again.
What day is it today? Your eyes glance to your desk, at the small flip calendar you have, and familiarity flashes from the date.
You read the card again.
Then once more, just to be sure—eyes darting between it and the date.
"Everything okay?" Jimmy's voice filters in, muted in your ears.
You make some noise in response, but it's far away from you. A sinking feeling begins to bury itself in your stomach. You really didn't want to be right, but you are. You must be.
Marigolds and posies. On the 16th day of November. I hope you can forgive me.
The sinking feeling transforms into a sharp sort of anger.
This Monday is really not going the way you planned. No way you're getting goddamn stalked.
Brashly, you stuff the card back into the bouquet, uncaring of the way they crush under your harsh movements.
"Woah, okay, what—?"
You ignore Jimmy and his surprise – you'll explain it later, or maybe never – and scoop up the flowers from the vase.
Water trickles out, leaving a scatter of fat droplets across your desk. You'll be pissed about it later, undoubtedly, but right now, you need these flowers out of your sight. Shredded. Do flowers burn well?
Goddamn, you thought this was done.
You thought he was out of your life for good—and that he could be remembered as a shitty ex, your worst mistake, and nothing more.
But, no. Of course, he's the type to love-bomb.
To think he can swoop back in, a year later, and pretend that nothing even happened. Your boots click loudly as you head for the trash at the front of the bullpen.
Which is, of course, when Clark makes his arrival.
You spot him coming around the corner and can already sense his unfathomably polite greeting. He sees you and smiles, giving an awkward wave that he plays off as adjusting his glasses. "Oh, hey—"
He appears to just now notice the flowers in your hands.
"Oh! Um, flowers-! Wow, those sure are nice—"
"I don't have time for you this morning, Kent." You say, for once not meaning to snip at him in particular. He's just in the crossfire of your very, very bad morning.
“You don’t…?”
Clark’s sentence trails off as you don’t even pause, breezing right past him.
The flowers crumple beneath your fingers further as your grip tightens without even meaning to, mind blazing with a well-rooted anger. You come to a stop before the trash.
With a resounding flourish, you dump the flowers.
They hit with enough force to flutter your hair back and send a loose sticky-note afloat for a second.
You huff, a little more settled at the sight of your ex's unanticipated attempt at a re-entry into your life exactly where it should be: going out with the garbage.
"Wow." A voice snaps you from your focused stupor.
You glance up, relieved to find Lois—even if she is glimpsing at the ruined flowers amongst the junk of the office with an amused look.
She asks, "What'd they do to you?"
You huff again, your shoulders sinking down as you do. "Let's just call them an unwanted advance."
Lois' dark brows raise, her lips pressed together as if holding back her next comment. She eyes the greenery in the trash once again, then her eyes travel over your shoulder. She focuses back on you.
"Well," she says evenly, her smile polite. "I'm sorry it feels that way."
Her eyes dart over your shoulder again, just momentarily.
You almost want to peer over your shoulder to see what had drawn her gaze. But the string twined around the flowers snapped, the cellophane around the flowers unwrapping in a loud, dramatic crinkle.
You eye the marigolds with a barely contained contempt.
The thought of who gifted them to you—of him tracking you down, finding your work, figuring out your very desk number—is nearly enough to make your lip curl.
A droplet of water slips down your forearm. You look down, spying the dew on your arms.
Abruptly, you're aware of just how you'd stormed across your workplace with all the grace of a toddler in the midst of a tantrum. All to trash some flowers.
You blink, then press your hands to your jeans, half to wipe them, half to calm yourself.
Right. You were fine. This was fine.
Just because— you weren't— just because he used to call you crazy didn't mean it was even remotely true. Even if you crashed out over a bouquet of flowers sent on your old anniversary.
You screw your eyes up and take a breather. This is why you kept your distance from him. He toyed with you. He liked seeing you rattled.
Feeling less ruffled, you wipe your hands again and trek back to your desk.
You pass Clark's desk, footsteps slowing. He sat now, his head bowed.
Despite all your usual prickliness, his averted eyes and the memory of your snappish tone brings a lump to your throat. An apology lodges it in.
Even your worst envy and disgruntlement hadn't had you being quite this rude before.
You open your mouth — then close it.
How does that apology even go?
So sorry Clark, my ex-boyfriend— who I nearly considered getting a restraining order against —sent me a bouquet of flowers, the same kind he always used to, specifically on our old anniversary as a pathetic bid to see if any chance with me — or maybe just to fuck with me — which isn't your fault, so I really shouldn't have snapped at you and your handsome, likeable face.
Bit of a mouthful, really.
You decide, maybe a bit cowardly, you'd rather swallow the regret instead. Continuing forward, you collapse into your seat opposite Jimmy.
For only a moment can you pretend to not notice his gaze.
Clearing your throat awkwardly, shuffling your papers, your eyes flick up. Your desk-mate stares across at you for a long moment, his eyes a little wider than usual.
Slowly, one eyebrow floats up.
He doesn't even have to voice his question aloud for you to know what it is. You can feel it.
What the fuck, man?
"Sorry," You exhale tiredly, too tired to explain for the same reason you didn't apologise to Clark.
It's barely a sentence. Even as his eyebrow joins its others' raised position, Jimmy is kind enough not to comment.
He only narrows his eyes into a bewildered squint. It doesn't match the polite, absentminded smile on his face.
Which you suppose is fair, considering the sentence you just said makes you sound like a six-year-old being asked her opinion on boys.
Shuffling your papers again for something to do, you sink down further in your seat. Embarrassment slights you.
God. How the hell did your morning get so bent out of shape?
The baby blue vase is still intruding on your desk space, so you nudge it to the side. The water within sloshes.
You sigh. "I'll explain later, okay?" you say, and you leave it at that.
Jimmy takes the cue from you and dutifully begins actually doing his work, as opposed to simply pretending to.
It takes another half hour to stop glancing over at the place you know the crushed flowers lie. It crosses your mind an infuriating amount of time, the niggling worry that they— that you might be wrong.
But you steel yourself. Marigolds and posies and on today, of all days. It has to be him.
You're too good a journalist to ignore the coincidence. Occam's Razor agrees with you too.
Besides, who else would be getting you flowers?
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"Okay, I do think maybe the universe is working against you," Jimmy says, his chair gliding across the tiles of the Daily Planet.
He's got a cup of coffee in his hand, and the motion of his roller-chair nearly spills it, a wave of amber liquid sloshing up the side of the ceramic.
Clark watches it worriedly — it's a bit too late for coffee, but Jimmy never seems to let that stop him. It doesn't spill somehow. Jimmy comes to a halt next to his desk, thinking face on.
"That or she hates you." He offers, far too blasé about that potential for Clark's liking.
He's rolled over because you've taken a break from your desk to head to the restroom. It's the first time you've left your desk since The Incident. The blossom blunder. The flower fiasco.
Gosh darn writer's brain, Clark thinks, wishing he could turn it off for a moment.
He's grateful for Jimmy, but he's not sure he really wants to talk about it so soon after.
"Please don't say that," Clark says with a sigh, then drops his head forward into his hand. It's an all too familiar motion now. "I think I need to- or I don't think- I—"
He cuts himself off with another sigh, unburying his face from his hands.
He'd told Jimmy, yes, because the other man had all but squeezed the information out of him, but mainly because he needed help.
It had become evident that, despite all his best attempts, no wooing that Clark Kent can offer can seem to capture your attention. Now he can see it a bit more clearly.
You're inscrutable.
Or completely uninterested — in him.
"I think I need to leave it." Clark says with finality. He glances at the door that leads to the restrooms, checking you haven't returned. "I'm clearly bothering her."
"Mm, no." Jimmy says immediately. He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. "There's something else there. I can, like, sense it."
"Sense it?" Clark echoes, almost too eagerly. He feels himself flush.
"Yeah, sense it." Jimmy shrugs nonchalantly, taking a sip of his coffee. "Call it my journalistic instinct. It… It doesn't make sense. It's gotta be something else."
Clark opens his mouth to defend you, to say that actually, you not being interested in him is something that may make perfect sense — but Jimmy beats him to the punch.
"How'd you pick the flowers?"
Clark blinks. He checks the door again. "Um. Social media."
"Social media? Which one?"
"The- the pictures one?" If Clark's being honest, there are far too many sites, and he's on none of them. "I just typed her name in, and a bunch of photos came up."
"In where?" Jimmy presses, eyes a little narrowed.
"The search bar…?"
Jimmy's face twitches, as though Clark's given a severely wrong answer, but he doesn't say anything.
Instead, he pushes back to his desk — coffee floundering again — and returns with his laptop in one hand.
"Okay," he starts, finally placing his hazardous coffee down, both hands rested and ready to type. "What and where exactly did you—"
In a manner much unlike himself, Jimmy abruptly shuts his mouth.
He presses his feet against the tiled floor and sails back to his desk smooth - just in time for Clark to catch a glimpse of you heading back for your desk.
Clark straightens up instinctively — then hunches back over. For once, he's not trying to catch your eye, not trying to sweeten your day with a smile.
It feels wrong to ignore you. But, well, whatever Jimmy says, whatever sense he says he has, Clark thinks you've made yourself perfectly clear.
You are not interested in him in the slightest. Not even as friends.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
For the remaining Monday, a day that feels like it's dragging its heels just to spite you, you do what you do best.
You ignore the flowers, the office, and dive headfirst into your work.
You're half an editor for the office – hence the office shark title – but half trying to shed the title. The big goal has always been to commit fully to your writing. It's… a steady work in progress.
Perry likes what you show him, enough that he keeps giving you assignments, but you're far from being relieved of editing duty.
Today, you're happy to have it. Tearing through first drafts and all but rewriting entire sections is much easier than doing any writing yourself.
The day goes slow, feeling as though time barely trickles by.
But no day can exceed its 24 hours. Five o'clock drags around, eventually, and frees you from the shift.
You have a date with your bed, hidden beneath the covers, and a re-watch of Dirty Dancing. Maybe some wine – though it is Monday.
It's as you're packing up with haste, eager to be out through the revolving door and away from work, that your gaze sweeps across the office. The realisation comes gently. Despite being in his usual place, you haven't seen Clark all day.
Huh.
And it continues that way.
Not that you're noticing, no. Of course not.
You actually normally make an effort not to notice Clark. He makes it difficult, what with his height and Midwestern manners that make him the nicest guy in the office.
But, somehow, when you make an effort not to notice someone, it can somehow have the opposite effect.
Like the task suddenly becoming suspiciously easy.
You make it all the way through Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday before you slip up.
Because, really, you should know better than to invite Lois Lane into your business. Doing so is basically giving her a pass to snoop into your feelings. And snoop she will, when given the chance.
Still, the question has been bugging you since the beginning of the week.
So much so that you can allow some snooping if it gives you some answers.
"Is Clark avoiding me?"
You're stopped at Lois' desk.
She's here early, like you are, and there's no Jimmy, no Clark, no Steve, no Cat, or much of anyone else to eavesdrop on your conversation.
"Mmmm," Lois barely manages to drag her eyes away from her screen to focus on you. The question you've asked sinks in a second later. "Avoiding you? Doesn't sound like Clark. Why don't you ask him?"
"You know, the funny thing about avoidance is…" You say dryly.
Lois' gaze is already back on her article. She shrugs, voice distracted. "Maybe the flower thing."
That has your eyebrows raising.
A glum guilt forms a stone in your throat that you have to swallow back. What, because you had a bit of a meltdown, he suddenly can't stand the sight of you?
You feel ticked off. Then realise you're feeling ticked off that Clark Kent, who usually irks you, is ignoring you. What has the world come to?
"The flower thing?" You start, already a bit ready for a tiff. "That's not—"
"Look," Lois interrupts you, a quiet desperation in her tone. "Can we please pin this? I'm in the middle of something here, and I really need to get this done before 1pm."
Your annoyance washes away in a moment, face pulling a sympathetic scrunch. "Yikes, a Perry-special deadline?"
Lois nods, an exasperated sigh blowing out of her mouth. "The very one." She pulls a thankful smile at your understanding.
"Need more coffee?" You offer.
"Oh, so much." She groans, moving to grab her cup. You take it from her, well aware of the pressure of a Perry-special deadline, and more than happy to help.
You grab yourself a cup while you're there and decide to brew a fresh pot for the office too, because it gives you more time to think.
Because, really, if you think about it, you shouldn't have noticed.
Since starting at the Daily Planet a couple months ago, a transplant from Metropolis Star, from day one has Clark Kent's seemingly innate niceness been there.
And since day one, you've been suspicious of it.
You maintain: no-one is that nice.
And not to you, least of all.
You're, for lack of a better word, abrasive. You know you can be… harsh.
According to your ex-boyfriend, you're seven kinds of crazy and a bitch too. A rude woman who's never going to find someone else who will love you like he does. (In your books, that's a relief).
You try not to take that to heart, because he certainly is an ex for a good reason—but, you also know that there is some degree of truth to his words.
You're… unpalatable to some.
You'd knocked heads with Lois for a while before eventually, shakily finding your footing in that friendship.
Jimmy and you had taken at least a month to move out of the frosty zone and start talking beyond glib comments.
You still can't stand talking to Steve.
But Clark? He'd been nice to you from day one.
There has to be a catch. The other shoe must be dangling, invisible and overhead, waiting to drop.
Because if there is, the grudge is easy.
Clark Kent stays at a distance, with you holding a ten-foot pole made up of unresolved issues.
You don't have to worry about what it does to your heart that he's still kind to you, even when he's seeing the worst parts of you. Let's you excuse the moments you've been storing to the side, harbouring, fueling something.
The grudge means you don't have to worry about what it means if he sees you.
It keeps you safe from the part of you that wants him to see you.
When the coffee smells like it's nearly burning, you're shaken from your thoughts, with a suspiciously yearning-shaped lodge in your throat.
You take the coffee off just in time to rescue it. It's a tad overdone, but you don't think Lois will be complaining. You hope.
You pour a cup for her, then half the sugar jar in too.
As you pour one for yourself, you resolve that you're… just not going to think about it.
Grudges, Clark Kent, feeling safe? Sounds like a problem for Future-You.
Probably to be dealt with in a healthy way, never.
You tell yourself it's a good thing that he seems to be avoiding you, because you can get more work done.
Then you nod to yourself as if that can make it true, and set off to deliver Lois' coffee.
Time dwindles by.
Jimmy makes a remark about the burnt coffee when he makes it to his desk, to which you glower in response.
Perry chews out some intern in the back for a serious misprint in yesterday's paper.
Keyboards clatter, and the soulless blink of the cursor taunts you all day.
You're ready for home by 5 o'clock, but — "You coming tonight?"
You look over your desk and blink at Jimmy before frowning. "Tonight? What's tonight?"
"Drinks." Jimmy reminds you, eyebrows raised. "Remember? For Cat's birthday?"
Right. As he says it, the memory does tickle at your mind.
The plan that Cat had made cute, personalised invitations for: black card, cat-themed, very fitting.
You quite liked Cat, even if you didn't know her too well.
Truthfully, going to a bar sounds like the last thing you want to do right now.
You've had a date with a big bottle of red wine booked and waiting since Monday—since the very moment those flowers graced your desk—and the last thing you want to do is try to socialise.
"Yeah," you say eventually, though it comes out a bit weary. "Yeah, I'm coming."
Jimmy grins. "Great. We're all thinking of walking together."
Your eyes travel up past him to the little group that's congregating close to the door, waiting for the stragglers to finish packing up.
Clark, Lois, Steve, a couple girls from other departments you don't know the names of.
Great. Cool. That won't be an awkward walk at all.
Though, you guess Clark isn't avoiding you anymore.
The revolving door has dragged a bit of snow in, the tiled ground wet with its melt. Stepping out into the chilly November night, you shiver instinctively.
Snow has been falling all day, a little softer now, little flurries that pass by and stick to your hair. The streetlights glow amber. The city is quieter under the muffle of fresh snow.
You keep your hands buried deep in your pockets. You end up at the back of the group.
It's a short walk to Crowley's, the dive bar Cat's chosen, so you don't mind too much. You're still the newest addition to the work group so you know how this goes.
Though, there had been some half-baked plan to stick by Jimmy's side. That idea clearly had been shared. The two girls whose names you don't know walk on either side, giggling easily.
Right. Because, somehow, Jimmy is the ladykiller of the office.
That had been surprising to find out — because if you had to pick anyone at a glance, you'd have put money on Clark.
Not that you would admit that. Aloud.
As you round the last block, you slide a little on an icy patch, stomach swooping. You curse under your breath, righting yourself a moment later.
Silently, and watching your feet more closely, you huff a sigh of relief, because wiping out with co-workers you're still getting to know ranks up there in terms of embarrassing.
You look back up, making sure you're still with the group — and lock eyes with Clark momentarily. He's looked back to check on you.
But then he's tugged back into conversation with Cat.
His head turns, showing an aggravatingly attractive side profile. You watch as his dimples appear with an easy smile, then subsequently curse yourself for finding them so endearing.
The chill has nearly made its way through your coat, so it's a relief to get down the stairs into Crowley's.
Inside, it's warm, crawling with heat that brings a flush to most everyone's faces.
A crowd of bodies fill the space, packed loosely. It's pretty busy for a Friday night.
Thankfully, Cat has had the forethought to book out one of the booths. You follow the single file of your group, filtering through the crowd one by one til you reach the back of the bar.
The booth fills up quickly, and in a matter of moments you realise there's only one seat left— the one next to Clark.
He looks at you still standing and blinks before giving you a hesitant, crooked smile.
You feel your treacherous heart give a lurch and damn it to hell. Then damn Clark for being as attractive and nice as he is.
You look at the seat again, considering.
Think of the flowers from Monday and his avoidance all week; think of the mess of your heart that only threatened to worsen when you got closer to Clark.
Yeah, you're gonna need a drink before that happens.
The wooden bar is sticky from spilled drinks— a fact you find out after placing your hand on it.
You pull it back with a frown, shaking your hand out with a quiet bleh! You make sure not to lean on it as you survey the scene before you.
Behind the bar, the bartenders look flustered. There's three of them, each moving with a pace that is both not fast enough and entirely unsustainable - making you extra thankful your retail days are behind you.
The wait gives you time to think. Gives you time to decide on exactly what you want to do tonight.
You'd been, for lack of a better word, moping for the better part of this week.
It had been an unsettling Monday, followed by a bout of paranoia that had you checking all your accounts.
Maybe you missed one; maybe there was something you'd forgotten.
You hadn't. Your ex was blocked on every single one of them, just as you'd left them a year ago.
It should appease your anxiety. Instead, it just makes it that much worse that he'd managed to figure out your exact desk.
The only regret you'd had with dumping the flowers, the only glimmer in your angry armour, was not taking the message card, hunting down each and every shop the brand had, and confirming your suspicions.
You decide that, between the flowers and the weirdness of Clark actually avoiding you back, you deserve a drink.
And an irresponsible hook-up.
Cat would forgive you — in exchange for the gossip.
Which is all good and well, because as you're done deciding, someone sidles up beside you, pushing through the crowd.
It's a man — a decent-looking one too, from what you can see.
He's tall, not quite as tall as Clark (shut up, brain), and he's got a beard that could probably be better taken care of.
But he's got a strong jaw and a decent head of hair. You can't tell what colour his eyes are in the dimness of the bar.
Eyes which fix on you for a moment.
Then he leans two arms up on the bar. "What's your poison?" He says, in lieu of a greeting, nodding in your direction. His voice is low.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" You say with a smile you don't quite feel.
You're testing the waters. Sue you, you like to play with your food a bit - see if they can handle you being a little mean.
"I would," the man says, turning more to face you. His eyes flick up and down, clearly checking you out. "That's why I asked, isn't it?"
It's a good enough response for you. You eye him up and down and decide, yeah, fuck it, you deserve this.
You know exactly the kind of guy he is.
He won't call you. The sex will be good… enough. It'll scratch the itch, leave you feeling probably a little shit about yourself.
Right up your self-deprecating alley for tonight. After all, misery does love company.
"Scotch." You say, in answer to his first question.
That makes his eyebrows raise. "Really? You can handle that, huh?" His eyes glitter darkly. "Didn't peg you for that kind of girl."
"You have no idea what kind of girl I am."
It comes out a little harsher than you're going for, but you blame it on the bad week chafing.
You go for a more simpering look to make up for it — but the man's eyes aren't on you anymore.
They're over your shoulder. You become aware of a sudden warmth behind you.
"Everything okay over here?"
You don't recognise the voice at first, as it's deeper than it usually is, but you don't even have to turn the whole way to know.
Striped tie, white button-up, broad shoulders.
Your simper turns into a scowl on a dime.
"Kent," you greet, through slightly gritted teeth. "What are you doing?"
Clark looks down at you, surprise showing on his face at your expression.
His 'tough' demeanor — tough your ass, Clark Kent doesn't have a tough bone in his body — melts under your glowering gaze.
"I'm— I was checking in." He stammers. He seems to shrink down a little, realising there seems to be a misstep somewhere.
"I don't need you to—"
"This guy your boyfriend or something?" The man at the bar interjects.
You whip back around, already blinking in shock. Boyfriend? How in hell did he make that jump?
"No," you say — at the same time Clark says, "Boyfriend?"
You shoot another glare over your shoulder because he isn't helping. It's too late.
You can tell the man has decided you're not worth the fuss, his hands raising up in a defensive motion.
"Look," he says. "Whatever you've got going on, I'm not getting in the middle of it. My bad."
You watch as he slips away from the bar, disappearing through the throngs of people, with a sinking feeling in your chest.
The moment he's out of sight, you tear around to face Clark. He at least hasn't fled the scene — which is more than you can say you would've done.
Your eyes scrunch closed, your hands raised in little claws of confusion. "What… just happened?"
Clark has the decency to look sheepish when you open your eyes, his shoulders rolled in, head hung low. "I thought he was harassing you."
"Harassing me?" You repeat, in a bit of disbelief. You'd love to know what hoops he jumped through to reach that conclusion. "I was flirting with him."
"Flirting?" Clark echoes. "You sounded mad at him!" He defends himself.
"Yeah? Well, do I sound mad at you?" You drop your hands, flexing them at your side. "Because I am! I can't believe you– you- ugh, that just cost me my hookup."
"Hookup?" Clark says — and oh my god, is there an echo in this bar?
You glance up at him, still confused, and notice there's a colour to his cheeks that wasn't there a second ago. "You were gonna sleep with him?"
Your jaw drops open an inch. Okay, yeah, he's from a small town in the South, you can excuse it a little bit.
But you hadn't expected him to be so tightly strung about this—especially considering it's none of his business.
You fold your arms tight across your chest. Clark gets an expression that embodies the word apprehension.
"Okay, Smallville, I don't know if you know, but it's 2025—"
Clark cottons on to exactly what he's said wrong, and though it seems impossible, his face flushes darker.
You barrel on, "—which means I don't need to be married to—"
"No!" He interrupts desperately. "That is not what I-! I would never insinuate that— I firmly believe in a woman's right to choose. You can… do as you wish…"
It ends on a feeble, quiet note as though Clark's realised all his problems tonight stem from talking too much.
He raises a hand to rub the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks still flaming.
He does seem genuinely remorseful — because he's so goddamn genuine in everything he does — that it softens you a bit. You know he would have had the best of intentions stepping in.
However, good intentions only go so far to dull your sharpened tongue.
"Yeah, well, thank you so much for your permission, Kent."
Clark's eyes shutter closed, an obvious regret rolling off him in waves. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overstep, I— I'm just sorry."
God, how are you in this situation — where your co-worker, who you begrudgingly think is hot, but also don't like much (liar, says your brain), scares off your hookup and gets called your boyfriend in one exchange?
Deciding you'd rather apologise with a bottle of wine to Cat, you do what you should've done at the beginning. You decide to go home.
You sigh, "I think I'm just gonna head out."
"Because of me?" Clark says, sounding incredibly guilty.
It must be contagious, because you suddenly feel quite guilty too.
He rolls on, pleading in his voice, "No, please don't. I'm sorry- I'll help you find another one, another, uh," He coughs awkwardly. "Hookup."
He nods, not at all confidently.
Somehow, you doubt that would go over well.
Though, the thought does amuse you — Clark going around the bar, politely tapping different gentlemen on the shoulder, asking their availability and then talking you up.
God, you can't imagine he'd have all that much to sell them on.
His expression reminds you too much of a kicked puppy to fib to him. "No, not because of you," you say with a soft sigh. "It's just been… a week."
Somehow, it's as though your words make him look guiltier.
Blue eyes wide, he swallows thickly. "Look, I know I likely contri—"
"Kent," you cut him off. "I'm sorry, but I don't want to talk about it. I'm just," you heave another sigh. "I'm taking this all as a sign. It's not my night."
You shove your hands in your pockets, already dreading the cold that awaits you outside. "Think you can apologise on my behalf to Cat?"
Clark, looking more downtrodden than you've ever seen him, gives a slow nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do that for you."
"Thank you," you say, lips pursed tightly. You nod awkwardly, already ready to excuse yourself through the crowd. "Goodnight, Clark."
He watches you go.
The cold keeps you company the whole long, lonely walk home.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
November rolls into December and cold, snowy weather gets pulled along with it.
Despite Jimmy's protests, Clark knows he was right to stick to his instinct — that you were thoroughly uninterested in him.
He loses himself in assignments, head down, as the whole office struggles to meet deadlines in the abysmal weather driving down morale.
The only light glistening at the end of the tunnel? The Daily Planet Christmas party.
It's held at this swanky ballroom, same as every year. The fanciness of the place is balanced out with its cozy decor, dozens of couches and cushy armchairs dotted around the place.
Wreaths and garlands are strung around in all the colours of Christmas, sparkling under the fairy lights.
There's holly in every corner, tinsel around the doorframes – and Clark's sure he's seen some mistletoe under one of the doors out to the balcony.
It's Christmassy in a way that reminds him of home.
Reminds him of Smallville, plaid bedsheets, and the smell of Ma's fresh apple pie.
He's only half hoping you'll come.
A half hope because it appears that whenever he has any interaction with you, it somehow ends with him inserting his foot into his mouth.
It was becoming a concerning pattern at this point – one that he was rather desperate to break.
Yet still, some other part of him – a larger part if he was really honest with himself – still wanted to see you here tonight.
Amongst friends, even if he wasn't one of them.
And it's that part of him that sighs, a wistful romantic sigh he really should work on containing, when you wander in.
It's only been twenty minutes since the party started, so you're not exactly late.
And Clark would be lying if he said he hadn't been counting each minute of it, his eyes checking the door each time it had opened and someone new wandered in.
As subtly as he can, he takes you in with another longing sigh.
There's snow in your hair and on your coat. You look a little peaky from the cold, but Clark can already see the good the warmth of the party is doing to you. There's a bit of glitter on your eyelids, a berry-red colour on your lips.
You look captivating.
Gosh, he's in deep. Clark curses himself and his gooey heart. Despite all his fumbles, all his missteps, he can't shake the crush just yet.
He will. He will. You're perfectly within your rights to rebuff and reject him – you don't owe him a single darn thing.
But feelings are silly things. No matter how respectful he might be of your own, there's no quick fix to get his own to fade.
And with the way you look tonight, enigmatic and beautiful, all at once, Clark knows he's far from getting over it.
Tucked away in a corner, waiting for Jimmy to return with some drinks for the both of them, Clark fiddles with his tie awkwardly.
It's one Ma sent for his birthday – spotted and autumnal in colour.
He's not sure if it's in style or anything that suits him, but his Ma bought it for him, so of course, he's going to wear it.
"Yo," Jimmy announces his arrival, both hands occupied with two cups that are nearly overflowing with eggnog. "My bad I took so long. Got caught up talking to Cassidy at the punch bowl."
Jimmy hands one cup to Clark – who takes it – and then he glances over his shoulder, back at the punch bowl.
With one hand free, Jimmy sends a little wave back to the drinks table, to Cassidy. She promptly bursts into flustered giggles.
Clark takes a sip of the eggnog, though he knows it won't have an effect on him in the slightest. He gives an awkward smile at Cassidy, attention back on Jimmy when he spins back with a sudden, renewed interest.
His eyes are wide, sparkling with a devious enthusiasm, like when he's picked up a new lead in an assignment.
The moment he speaks, Clark realises why.
"I think I know why y/n trashed the flowers."
Clark holds back a little groan. It's nice that Jimmy is still rooting for him, really, it is. But there comes a time when it needs to be put to rest.
"Jimmy–"
"No, Clark," Jimmy interrupts – and he's grinning a little in a way that catches Clark's attention properly. "I was so right about my sense. It was something else altogether. I think, if you– just, wait–"
He takes a chug of his eggnog as he fishes his phone out of his back pocket, eyes fixed on it as he begins to hunt through.
A few clicks and then— he's holding it out towards Clark, showing a recognisable photo.
It's you – and another man, technically. But Clark hadn't been looking at that, just at the bouquet of flowers in your hands.
Marigolds and posies. You're smiling at the camera, but, looking a little closer, he can tell it doesn't quite reach your eyes.
"The photo you found, was it this one?" Jimmy asks, sounding like he already knows the answer.
Suddenly feeling a little timid, Clark shifts on his feet. Then nods. "Uh, yeah. Why does that matter?"
"Clark," Jimmy starts, phone still held out. "That's her ex. After what happened, I looked up her name, like you did. And look, I follow her, and these photos? Nowhere on her page."
He takes another fast sip of the eggnog, talking through his mouthful. "So I followed the thread, and all of those photos are on his. He just accepted my follow, just now. Look, he has all these photos up, but she's deleted them."
Jimmy's pulled the phone back, his thumb scrolling down the page on his screen.
Photos flash by, the dates stretching back, and you're in all of them – smiling stiffly, on his arm, looking like a completely different person.
"And," Jimmy adds on, drawing his hand back. He studies his phone intently, clearly looking for something in particular. "Look. Look. The day you sent them?"
He waits until Clark's squinting at the screen – taking in the date of the post in particular.
"It was on their goddamn anniversary."
Clark blinks, taking in the information. The realisation settles over him, feeling like a burst of sunlight amongst the snowy weather.
"She didn't know it was me who sent it." He murmurs more to himself, tasting the words, the understanding, as it melts on his tongue, sweeter than anything.
You hadn't known it was him.
You'd thought it was – your words suddenly ring back through his memory. Let's call it an unwanted advance.
An ex you've all but scrubbed from your life, clear you want to be rid of—an ex that still has all your photos posted, clearly holding on.
Gosh, no wonder you'd trashed the flowers in the manner you did.
Then you'd hunted for something to soothe the sting in the bar – just for him to ruin that too.
Oh, Clark thinks he might be the unluckiest fool in all of Metropolis.
Jimmy watches all the shades of Clark's realisation, pocketing his phone and trying not to look too smug. He fails horrendously.
"See, what'd I tell you?" He sips his eggnog again, brows raised a mile high. "Sensed it."
"She didn't know." Clark repeats, unknowingly clenching his cup of eggnog a bit too tight.
Did it get warmer in here? His tie suddenly feels too tight.
He blinks and looks down at Jimmy with a seriousness usually reserved for Superman affairs. "I have to let her know."
"Yeah, you do!" Jimmy says, giving an affectionate punch to Clark's shoulder.
It bounces off easily, and Jimmy hides his wince, giving his hand a delicate shake. "Universe working against you, I called it. There's still hope, man."
"Wha– Jimmy, no." Clark pivots, realising what his friend meant. "Look, what matters most is that she knows she isn't getting– getting stalked by an overbearing ex, okay? Not my feelings."
He thinks back to the bar, the fumbling interjection, the misread situation, the frustration in your face.
No, Clark had dug himself a big enough hole. It was time to put down the shovel.
Jimmy's expression grows serious, his brows pinched together.
"Look, Clark, you haven't tried just… telling her. How you feel. You've been so focused on these hints, these gestures, and look where it's got you."
Clark winces at the reminder, and an apologetic look settles over Jimmy's face.
"Sorry, sorry. Just – maybe being forward is the best thing here?" He offers, shoulders hunching up in a shrug. "Like, as far as we know, she could have no clue what your feelings are. Don't you think you should at least let her decide before you take away the chance?"
Clark sighs, glancing up from his eggnog to look across the room.
You're easy to spot, because Clark has so much practice, his eyes drawn to you easily.
Jimmy did, despite all his smugness, have a point.
"Fine," Clark says eventually, a sigh laced through it. He's crashed and burned through several interactions with you; what's one more? "Okay. I'll tell her."
An infectious grin spread across Jimmy's face like wildfire, his cheeks rosy from the eggnog that he's probably already had too much of.
Jimmy's a small guy. Him and liquor are an interesting equation.
"Attaboy!" He crows – going to sock Clark in the shoulder again, before he thinks the better of it. "Trust me, it'll go well. I can sense it."
Clark's pretty sure Jimmy's just talking it up to make him feel better – but if Clark pretends to believe it, he can use it.
He rolls his shoulders back, ditches his half-finished eggnog on a nearby table, and swallows nervously as he adjusts his tie.
Sure, yeah, Jimmy's sense was usually right. It's just a lot to hang on a usually.
Clark tries to haphazardly fix his hair, running a few fingers through the black curls. He hopes his cologne still lingers.
As he straightens out his sleeves, he looks back to Jimmy, nerves already rearing up. "Do I look alright?"
"Buddy," Jimmy says earnestly. "You look like a million bucks. Go get her."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Christmas parties aren't usually your thing.
Work events are a strange in-between social activity, where co-workers cross lines they never would at work, and you get the pleasure of seeing your boss in a tinsel bowtie.
Christmas jingles play all night, and the drinks are either not boozy enough or far too boozy.
Taking a sip of the punch you've served yourself, you cough a little, throat burning. Definitely on the too boozy side.
You silently pray no one witnessed that, taking a quick glance around, to quickly realise that at least one person did. Lois sidles up to your side, holding back her laughter with a smile.
"Don't say a word." you say a little hoarsely, before she can speak.
That makes her break, a laugh tittering out. She hides it behind her cup of punch.
"The punch has been taken over by Cat. If you'd been here earlier, I would've made sure to give you some warning."
She gives you a delicate nudge with her elbow. She looks beautiful tonight – a darker lipstick that she normally wouldn't wear to the office. Her blue eyes are darkened with make-up, her lashes long and spidery.
She comments idly, "I wasn't sure if you were gonna make it."
You decide you need another sip of punch so the honesty can slip out.
"I wasn't sure if I was gonna make it either, to be honest."
You glance around the party filled with your co-workers – and wonder if you'll ever truly shake the feeling of alienation. You know half of it is in your head. Yet, you've been at the Planet for months, and you still feel so new.
"Yeah, well, given you didn't stick around at Cat's drinks…" Lois trails off, and when you turn to her, she's fixed on you. Her eyebrows raise an inch.
She wants you to explain. You suppose that's fair.
Mulling over your thoughts, you think of how best to put it, when– "Was it because of Clark?"
You blink, a little surprised at her question.
"What?" Then, a beat too late. "No. No, it wasn't because of Clark."
Lois doesn't seem convinced by your answer, tilting her head with a little hum. "Mm, I saw him go up after you to the bar. Which, shortly after, you left."
You feel exposed that she witnessed your little spat with Clark. You'd hardly call it a spat though – it was more like, well-intentioned, incredibly nice Clark Kent stepped in and you snapped in his face.
You heave a sigh, thinking back to where you should start. The flowers?
Actually, now that you think about it, Lois never did tell you why Clark was avoiding you over that.
She beats you to the punch again, this time with a question that peels back all your layers. "You don't really like him, do you?"
She's not wrong, so why does the question bite?
Maybe the sting in your chest means she and you are both wrong.
You think over how much Clark has plagued your thoughts these last few months, how he'd managed to aggravate you, managed to draw your attention seamlessly.
He just… vexed you.
He's tall and handsome and so fucking nice — and he pushes your articles to the second page, gets all the Superman interviews, and, apparently, remembers you have a nut allergy.
He's– He's Clark!
You suck in a sharp breath. "What? No."
It sounds weak, even to your ears.
For some reason, that seems to irk Lois. She takes another sip of her drink, brows still raised at you over the rim of it.
"I don't get it," she says, after she swallows. "He's so nice. Like, chronically nice. Why is it such a chore for you to admit that he's a good guy?"
Something inside you stings and recoils at being called out for being unreasonable. Your excuses start tumbling out.
"Because I can't!" You hiss quietly. "Because– because he steals my front-page spots, and he gets all the exclusive Superman interviews. He rubs it in my face!"
Lois scrunches her face up a bit. "He doesn't steal them; Perry gives them to him." She states factually.
Which, yes, you know that Lois — but isn't she supposed to be on your side?
"And he can't control who Superman decides to talk to." She continues on, her tone nonchalant, easily picking all your gripes and dissolving them to nothing. "They have a relationship that allows Clark an in. It's a source the same as any other—you can't expect him to share that."
You huff, shoulders deflating, the wind thoroughly taken out of your sails by Lois' sound logic.
Of course she's right. Of course you're the stubborn idiot who can't let it go.
"Aren't you supposed to be on my side?" You whinge.
"There are no sides." She says with a smile and an affectionate roll of her eyes.
"Seriously, I think you're getting in your own way with this one. Why is it so hard to admit that you might have no real reason to dislike him?"
"Because-" The word gets stuck on your teeth. "Because he can't just be that nice! And if he is, and if I do admit it, then I have to admit how much I actually like him."
It comes out scathing — as if that can cover up the truth of what you've just revealed.
You don't even hear it until Lois's expression settles into something far too close to a smirk.
Oh shit. What did you just say?
"Wow," Lois says, blue eyes bright. "How much you like him? Do you… Do you have feelings for Clark?"
A preposterous idea. Positively ridiculous. Nonsensical.
No, you've never thought of Clark in that way—nor how great he would likely be at being a boyfriend.
You didn't think of how different he treated you compared to your last boyfriend, how much nicer he was to you, without the two of you even being friends.
Your denial is fast.
"No!"
Lois is faster.
"So you're just pretending you don't have feelings for Clark?"
"Yes!" You sputter, then realise exactly what you've just admitted. "No, I mean, no! Fuck, stop interviewing me right now, I'm- I'm not—"
Your words trail off into a lackluster sigh. You couldn't even kid yourself now, not with Lois' interrogation tactics shoving you into a spotlight.
You swallow, feeling the uncomfortable truth go down, burning like a gulp of the too-strong punch.
Clark Kent is nice. You like that he's nice. You like him – and there was zero chance in hell that he liked you back.
And you would rather tie yourself in knots than look that truth in the face.
"Okay, you know, this actually makes a lot of sense," Lois muses, more to herself than to you. She's staring at the floor, clearly turning things over in her head.
"Yeah–and yeah, but, then," she looks up, now graciously including you in the conversation again. "Why trash the flowers?"
You sigh again, the chafe of your ex coming up yet again wearing you down. "Look, my ex–"
Someone clears their throat behind you.
You watch Lois' expression as it changes from polite surprise to something far more knowing. A smile pulls on her lips.
"Hi, Clark," She says – and you feel a jolt of anxiety run through you.
God, is this the Christmas party from hell? You've barely been here 15 minutes, had your feelings for your fellow co-worker weaseled out of you by a different co-worker, and now he's here? Behind you?
God, you can't catch a break.
"Hi, Lois," he says as you slowly spin on your feet.
You go slowly, as though it might somehow, through divine intervention, change who's standing behind you.
No dice. Clark stands before you, in one of the most hideous ties you've ever laid eyes on, his attention fixed on you.
You swallow thickly. Think about saying hello, then decide nothing but a squeak will come out if you open your mouth, and save yourself the embarrassment.
It doesn't deter Clark.
In what looks like a nervous motion, he nudges his glasses up his nose and clears his throat.
"y/n. Might I talk to you for a moment?" He glances up to Lois, then back to you. "Privately."
Another jolt of anxiety, this one straight to your system. You feel your pulse pick up a bit, wondering what wicked deity above had it out for you.
Steeling yourself, you think: fine, let's rip this bandage off.
It sounds strong in your head, but your voice comes out as a croak when you say, "Alright."
Still, Clark nods.
He turns, and you, albeit reluctantly, follow him through the crowd, making sure to keep your distance. You don't look back at Lois, already picturing the expression on her face.
Ahead of you, Clark's eyes spy over his shoulder every couple seconds, as if checking you're still there. When he reaches the edge of the room, it's apparent he hadn't thought about what private place to take you to.
"Darn," he says, more to himself. "There isn't exactly…"
He trails off, eyes locking onto something, and you follow his gaze to the balcony door. You resist the urge to snort.
It'll be private for sure — no one else is foolish enough to brave the cold outside.
Clark glances back at you, an infuriatingly endearing expression that reeks of polite guilt. Yet still, he pushes forward, sliding the door open and stepping out into the snow.
You glance at the mistletoe hung over the balcony doorway and gather yourself with a slow inhale. Then bravely follow him out.
Outside is a whole different world.
Whiter than white, flurries of snow twirl about in the soft wind. You can see the street out here, a traffic light cycling through its rainbow of greens, ambers, and reds. There are cars on the roads too, yellow taxis and blue buses braving the slippery streets.
The sound of them is muffled against the snow, so much so that all you can really hear is the crunch of your own footsteps on the balcony.
It's decently tucked away from the party, wrapped around the part of the building that none of your co-workers are really inhabiting.
Private, indeed.
Your breath comes out in a cloud before you. Really, you would've grabbed your coat if you knew you'd be facing the frosty climate again so soon.
Wrapping your arms tightly around your middle, you focus on the man you'd followed out here.
Clark, irritatingly, doesn't appear cold at all. In fact, his arms remain at his side, his hands clenched into tense fists.
You eye him up and down and prepare for the worst.
Rip off the bandage, Kent, you will him mentally.
"I want to apologise."
You blink. Huh?
"W-What?" It's so unexpected that you stumble over your response.
"I'm sorry," Clark says genuinely, then keeps going like he's on a roll, and if he stops he won't be able to get the words out. "I– it was meant to be a nice gesture, but, well, the wires got a little crossed. And I can see now, that was my fault. Really, I should've signed the card but I…"
Signed the card…? You know you must be looking very confused right now.
"I," Clark clears his throat, then shoves his hands in his pockets. "I was the one who sent you the flowers."
A dim realisation goes off, like a lightbulb at the very, very back of your head.
The card he should've signed; the flowers. The flowers! The flowers!?
The very ones you had very publicly, in front of the whole office, in front of Clark, trashed.
You can feel the confusion pulling at your face, contorting it to a bewildered expression.
There are a thousand questions.
One stands out.
"Why would you get me," You jab a finger into your own chest harshly. "Flowers?"
"Well, uh, originally to apologise for the macaroon incident in the break-room. But also because…"
Clark sucks in a deep breath, then stares up at the sky, as if gathering his strength. A few snowflakes find a home on his eyelashes. God, he's so pretty (shut up, brain), it's not even funny.
"Because I like you." He says, evidently nervous. "In a romantic sense."
Maybe when you came outside, you slipped on the ice and hit your head.
That must be it – this has to be some dazed dream from a knock to your head.
Because you could've sworn Clark Kent just told you… he likes you.
Romantically. As in, with romance in mind. He's crushing on you, so to speak.
Wants to hold your hand and kiss you on the mouth.
Unwittingly, you warm a little at the thought. It's overshadowed by the much, much stronger emotion: astonishment.
"You…" You can't help how the disbelief colours your words. "Like me?"
"Well, uh," Clark clears his throat, glancing up at the sky again nervously for a moment. He nods, finds your eyes, and speaks more surely this time. "Yes. Yes, I do."
Yes, you've hit your head. You're probably in the back of an ambulance, high on pain-meds, at this current second.
That, or Cat spiked the punch with magic mushrooms and you're experiencing a very, very vivid hallucination.
It doesn't compute.
"But I'm…" You struggle to find the right words. He can't like you. It just doesn't make any sense.
The words come out a bit opposing on instinct: "But I'm rude."
"You are not," Clark defends quickly, his brow furrowed. He pulls his hands out of his pocket to wave them around. "You're spirited."
"I'm distrustful." You counter.
What are you doing!
"You're protective!" Clark claims.
"I stole an assignment from under you in my first week at the Planet!" You say with indignation.
Internally, you reel at yourself. It feels like there are a thousand little gnomes running around wildly in your brain, bashing it with hammers.
Why, why, why are you trying to convince him not to like you?
"You needed to establish yourself as a writer." Clark says easily, with a shrug of his shoulders. "And it was a beautiful article, much better than how I planned to write it."
"I threw your flowers in the bin!" You remind him, a little more desperately now, despite the fact you very much did not know they were from him until about 70 seconds ago. "In front of you. And everyone else at work."
"You thought they were from an ex," Clark says with another shrug, far too understandingly. "Who you suspected was stalking you."
"I'm…" You're running out of things to say now.
How is he not flinching in the face of all your flaws? At all your ugly parts?
How have you done all this to keep him at arm's length, and he's still decided… still says he…
"I'm mean." You say firmly.
So why does it feel like your bottom lip is about to start trembling?
That for some reason makes Clark chuckle, a smile breaking out on his gorgeous face.
He shakes his head. "Well, that one is just plain untrue."
You stare at him for a long moment. He has an answer for all of it. He means it. He likes you.
"You really believe all that about me, don't you?" You ask, and it comes out a little awed.
Like his faith in the world, in people, is something you're finally seeing the size of — and you can't see past the end of it. It goes on forever. He really does think you're wonderful.
It makes a stone form in your throat. It doesn't matter what he thinks; you know how this ends.
Good intentions only get you so far—and whilst you've somehow convinced Clark you're worth it, you can't keep that up. Something will fracture. He'll get tired of something – of you.
"It doesn't matter," you say, a little bitterly, your eyes dropping to the ground. "It's- we— I couldn't."
Clark shifts somewhat uncomfortably on his feet. "Well, yes, if you don't feel the same way, I–"
You don't mean to cut him off, but a laugh, a nearly delirious, scornful one, bursts out of you.
You hadn't been looking at it, but Clark's confession slides your feelings right under the microscope – magnified and impossible to ignore.
You're laughing at yourself. For letting a pretty face and some niceness win over your best attempts to deny yourself this. You have the backbone of a chocolate éclair, clearly.
This is such a bad idea. Why do you still want it anyway? You're wildly torn, head and heart tied in a vicious battle. How do you have this and keep your heart safe at the same time?
"I," you begin, stammering to a stop. "Clark, you're– you're you! Of course, even when I was trying not to, I had… I had feelings for you."
There's a long moment. You worry your words have been swallowed up in the snow. You really don't want him to make you repeat it.
But he only asks, quietly, "Had?"
You want to laugh again — because you could probably have slipped that past anyone else. Not Clark.
"Have," you say, feeling pathetically exposed.
You can't look at him. You're studying the pile of snow building up on your shoes with intense interest, wondering how the hell this doesn't end wrong.
Part of you is still reeling from his confession, still churning out new disbelief. He likes you. He likes you.
"You say you couldn't." Clark says gently, making a very important distinction. "Did you mean… you wouldn't? Why not?"
"Me." You state plainly, finally looking up at him.
You gesture to your chest - to the big, gaping hole in your heart - like it's obvious, like he should be able to see it from freaking space.
"I'm why not. I'm—"
You cut yourself off to a mutter.
"It wouldn't be good. We'd go on one date and– and it'd go bad, or I'd mess it up, and you'd realise what everyone else already knows. And then we'd have to be awkward co-workers for the rest of time. Which, if you think before was bad, let me tell you, it can get worse."
He doesn't say anything for a moment, eyes studying the ground, and you think, with half relief and half devastation, that you've convinced him.
Oh god, please don't have convinced him.
You feel like your heart's on a string, and you keep tangling it up, then giving Clark the knot—waiting for the one he can't undo.
Waiting for the problem too difficult, the one that's finally not worth the effort.
"Maybe," Clark says eventually, with an even shrug, and your heart sinks.
Plummets. You wanted this; you wanted this – you can't be this devastated.
And then he says, "I can't promise the date will be good, but…"
Your heart soars again, tugged up your throat. You look across the balcony at him, and you can barely feel the chill of the wind anymore.
"I know that I like you enough that I'd like to try."
Your gaze shifts to stare at the ground, hard, because you don't think you can take something that genuine head-on.
God, he really gives a shit about you. Like, he really likes you, the full ten yards, and everything. How did that happen?
You can do this. Can you do this?
He wants to take you on a date. You're spirited, protective, a bit too harsh sometimes, and Clark has looked at that whole package and said, That's the one I want.
You've been helpless at denying yourself this whole time. Really, what's one more time?
Despite the part of you that screams about how it could all go wrong, you grip the hopeful part of you that sings, What if it all goes right?
Shit, is that itchiness behind your eyes? Are you about to cry?
You sniffle and give yourself away in one sound.
"I haven't been on a date in a while." You admit very quietly, letting yourself open up just a crack. "I might not be very good, uh, company."
You hear the snow crunch as he steps closer, closing the distance between you. The balcony suddenly seems so much smaller.
You force yourself to be brave, to look up — and you're instantly rewarded with a smile you've never seen before.
Clark is beautiful when he's happy—grinning with the radiance of the summer sun.
You realise you've never really had that grin directed at you. For you. Because of you.
"That's okay," Clark says, closer to a whisper. It sounds like he really means it. "We can figure out a good date together. Whatever you wanna do."
God, he looks gorgeous out in the snow. It eddies around you, carried by the wind, and even with the cold, it feels like a part of you has finally thawed out.
You might not get to have this – but you get to try. And that's enough.
Clark huffs, a happy sound, opening his mouth to speak when–
"Yo!"
A loud rapping on the glass door startles you both, whipping towards the sound in an instant.
It's goddamn Jimmy Olsen.
He's holding a cup of the eggnog, and you can spot a bit that he's spilled down his front.
His cheeks boast the warmth of indoors – or maybe it's just the booze of his drink. You and Clark both blink at him, bewildered by his interruption.
"Mistletooooooe!" He points above the balcony doorway, at the one you'd remembered seeing as you passed under it.
It stretches the rules a bit — you and Clark aren't under it — though you have a feeling Jimmy doesn't care about that in the slightest.
His voice is a bit muffled through the glass, but you can clearly make out what he says as he yells, "Them's the rules!"
You fluster a little, turning back to Clark – who, adorably, looks much the same.
"He's drunk," he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "And he's been listening to me try to woo you for months, so," he coughs awkwardly. "Excuse him."
Only Clark Kent would use the word woo and mean it with complete sincerity.
The other words catch up. Months. Months, he said.
How did you deserve this?
It’s a small voice in your brain you’re becoming very unfond of. Shaking off your past, you decide, at least for tonight, you're done with that question.
You step a little closer, close enough to feel the fan of Clark's breath over your skin.
He smells like bergamot, something musky, and a spiced Christmas pie.
"It's the rules, right?" You say, a little breathier than you intend.
But Clark is watching you closely, pink colouring the apples of his cheeks. His beautiful mouth is pulled into a hopelessly endeared smile, his dimples showing.
He's looking at you like you're all he wants.
"Right," Clark breathes, the word barely audible.
You can hear it just fine, because it's a murmur that passes his lips as he leans down, nearing your lips.
He hesitates. You know it's because he wants you to be sure you want this so soon. You've think you’ve wasted enough time already.
Pressing up on your toes, you grip him by his unsightly tie, and – for the first time in months – you meet him midway.
And with his lips against yours, soft, warm, entirely dedicated to kissing you breathless?
You can't even feel the cold anymore.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
ok my loves i'm posting this thang so i can get OUTTA here and start watching me show :) i hope it is enjoyed!! @citrinesparkles @sparklingsin are the two peeps i know would like to be tagged and my usual frends @spideystevie @djarinova @brettsgoldstein @strangerstilinski, i relinquish this the tumblr void & hope it doesn't flop :P
follo swore up and down you had no idea what you did to him. the way you walked into a room made his whole chest tighten. he tried to act normal, he really did, but his fingers betrayed him, twitching against his knees or fumbling with whatever was in his hands. and when you smiled in his direction, even if it wasn’t meant for him, his brain just went blank.
gris caught him again. follo had been staring too long, eyes fixed on you like he was hypnotized. gris leaned over, voice low and steady.
“why don’t you talk to her.”
follo jolted, nearly dropping the small object he was pretending to be busy with. “i—no, i can’t.”
“you’re not going to get anywhere just sitting there,” gris offered.
follo’s throat went dry. he wanted to say he would talk to you, eventually. but his head filled with excuses before the words could even form. you were too… too good for him. he wasn’t sure what he could offer you except nervous stammering and a bright red face.
so he shook his head. “she… uh, she wouldn’t wanna talk to me.”
gris only raised an eyebrow, but didn’t push further. letting follo sit there with his thoughts.
and follo’s thoughts always ended up the same. they followed him through the day, through dinner, through every quiet moment until night came. and when he was alone, lying under the covers, he let himself think about you freely. the way your voice sounded, how your eyes might look if they met his and didn’t turn away. he pictured conversations that never happened, smiles you never gave him, but ones he wished for anyway.
and at night, when it was finally quiet, he’d lie on his back staring at the ceiling. you were always the last thing on his mind before sleep pulled him under. he thought of your laugh, the way your eyes shined when you smiled, the way just being near you made him feel like his heart was beating loud enough for anyone to hear.
he wanted to talk to you. he wanted it more than anything. but for now, all he could do was think about you, fidget with his sleeves, and let gris catch him staring again tomorrow.
or, when you're drowning, follo becomes your anchor.
wc: 1.4k cw: too much fluff and comfort, light angst. a bit but not really suggestive. maybe a follo character study or nah. reader and follo are implied to be in the early stages of a new relationship #Pray4them. reader is implied to have anxiety. set post first job arc but no mention of the current manga arc, haha. this is too self indulgent tbh bc i love follo somuch that i fear i really got too carried away while writing this!! title is from this song
“what are you thinking about?”
a small smile graces your lips in the late hours of night as you move and tilt your head against follo's chest into a certain angle that gives you a good view of the undersurface of his face bathing in moonlit dusk. and somehow this movement of yours is enough for you to feel something tremble inside him so softly that you barely catch it, before becoming at ease once again.
“lots of things.”
he huffs softly and you feel him shift as well to adjust before putting his hand into place on your back, “my bad, when do you ever not think with that pretty head of yours?”
you huff in turn while he not so subtly snakes his hand under your shirt as you mutter against his skin, “as the possibility of thoughts being less intrusive is possible, the human brain doesn't exactly have the capacity to not think, genius.”
"mhm, i know that." there's a dull hum in the air as the callous of his palm acquaints itself with your skin. "so what's the uh… most prominent one?"
"that's a big word."
"i only know from the best."
"but it's redundant."
"ah, phooey."
you try your best to not laugh at his faux dejection and instead, you decisively push and brace your arms on his chest until you can see him all pretty beneath you with every scar on his face; marking that incident which caused it to be two weeks from now.
… along with the fact that you both were officially in a relationship.
from your own belief, officiating things between two sides don’t really matter as much as other people make them to be. because you’ve practically known him plenty in this lifetime and have tamed one another long before “officiating things” … but you suppose having the chance to hold him like this without that fear of keeping things to a minimum and of the occasional alarm in your mind that screeched ‘not yet not yet not yet!' feels more so relieving and more tranquil for you to say the least. so you think.
and amidst this certain peace you find yourself being acquainted with by being with follo, there's that look from him too. the one that spoke to you as if he'd found the brightest star in the sky for himself to keep, but now his brows contort as if to ask you, well?
and your musing deepens and curls into something more inadequate to your own liking when he chuckles and says, "... right, so while i'm not totally against the idea that you've suddenly developed a staring problem with me," his hand reaches out and meets your cheek, softly caressing the side of your face like so and adds; "i don't really like it when you're not telling me what you're thinking about."
and it hits you more so like a ton of falling bricks. oh… he's really yours, isn't he?
"well… believe it or not, i'm not really thinking about anything."
"yeah?"
"... maybe there is one thing."
"then tell me."
you purse your lips now, another huff of breath leaving you, and you don't take notice of how he smiles at the fleeting touch of it on his face. "... you always do that," a breath again. “you always talk to me like this as if you'll manage to hang on and reply to every word i'll say.”
he’s more so taken aback and confused than you think and it's evident. “uh… isn't that what i'm supposed to do?"
"well yeah obviously, it's just," you honestly don’t know how to articulate it without feeling that gnawing fear in your gut like before because... maybe your head was lying to you when it construed thoughts within you that told you that officiating things don’t matter, because that's such a statement rooted in the bliss of ignoring things for how they truly are. it doesn't matter enough, is what it is. and the fear from before you were together officially doesn’t subside or die instantly. it consumes you with every waking breath and for some reason you don't know, you still feel heavy and out of place. “i feel… too loved by you.”
you don't know if you're saying your feelings correctly now, and it makes you feel odd more than anything and you know it shows. maybe the real scary price of officiating things… no scratch that. of being known and loved is that ache in becoming vulnerable and naked. too vulnerable that you feel too much like an outsider for your own liking.
it's really stupidly scary and you worry that maybe he doesn't understand. “… and it’s not a bad thing, clearly it isn't, it's just– this feels like it's too much for me to take, and it's probably more so normal than anything, but it’s still overwhelming… well i guess, on occasion. but yeah, it is.”
“and i don’t know, i just,” you continue to pour your feelings out like water, unnoticing of the way follo holds you even closer now and how he's clinging to your words as if he fears you'll break. “… i just feel like no matter how much i try to convince myself to calm down and go with the natural flow of this, i feel too much and think like ‘do i really deserve this? is this really what i want?’ then at the very end of it all this stupid feeling remains and it’s like i don't think i can handle this after all.”
it's silent as you finish, and for a moment you think it's going to be over like how your brain predicted it to be, but no. because follo shifts on the bed as he sits up and takes you with him, enveloping you and holding you against his chest. all while his hand is still under your shirt.
"you're scared."
"... terrified, actually."
"okay, terrified." follo corrects himself then, and he gazes at you more softly now, bare and witnessing the catastrophe he knows you define as you. but you are none of such, never to him, or anyone at that.
when you open your lips to say something, he directly asks you. "what are you terrified of exactly?"
"... that i'm bad at this," you admit so softly it hurts him too. "that you'll grow sick of me too early, and this will-"
"okay, okay, look at me." he immediately interjects when you ramble that nonsense, holding you impossibly closer as his other hand tilts your chin so you can look at him properly. "none of that, okay?"
follo sighs softly at the dejected look in your gaze, his own eyes softening even further at the sight. "you know, for the longest time, i never thought we'd actually be together like this," he pauses briefly, trying to find the proper words he thinks you're the poet and his heart after all. "sometimes i feel like i've known you for so long and sometimes i think that it doesn't feel enough to just know you, you get me?"
when you nod, he continues, "and i know you're still terrified of the entirety of us. of this," he interlaces both your fingers with his other hand; and once you sink again and think that he's going to reprimand you for it, he says: "and i am too."
he brings his hand that holds your own closer to where his heart resides, and you feel it like how you did earlier but more so vividly than before. "but i still love you a bit more than you realize."
those words alone astound the likes of you, and you feel like you could cry. almost. you really could but you somehow feel now that it's not the time because well, he's still speaking and tethering you to this. to the both of you.
"i'm relieved you feel the same way honestly," follo laughs then, a breathy sound as he draws your faces more closer than ever. "we're both on the same kind of frequency when it comes to feeling too much, huh?"
and he kisses you, so softly molding your lips together as if they belonged together. and surely they do. surely you both do. and in this vein, maybe officiating things don't really matter so much after all as now you've come to the epiphany that in any kind of way follo will feel the same way and be on the same length as you on this.
he loves you. he said so. and—
"me too." you tell him when you both pull away for air as you both practically slump against each other in doing so.
"i think i love you more than i realize too."
a/n: this oneshot was originally gonna be a longer one with EVERYTHING and was supposed to have tons of references from the little prince but i gave up on it halfway ¯_(ツ)_/¯ maybe i'll use that idea again for my next follo fic, but YAAYY I FINALLY WROTE FOR MY BOYFRIEND 😝 slash j... i'd honestly write more for him out of self indulgence heh... but im planning to post a gris oneshot in two-three business years days heh 😼😽
ANYWAY! like/reblog and/or give me a follow 😔😔😔😔😔imdyingwithoutgachiakutamoots or ask me stuff too :( im nice i swear I SWEAR PLEASE IM BEGINGHING IM GONNA DIE UNLOVED /j
𐔌 ৻( •̀ ᗜ •́ ৻) ࣪ ˖ REAL MAN ⸝⸝ ✿ ( follo x fem!reader ) ◟ さん ━ ꒰ fluff, unlabeled relationship ꒱ 注記 : reader wears boots and a hair clip
You’re a strong girl.
That’s what Follo thinks.
You’ve always handled everything on your own. He’s seen it.
You fight like it’s second nature — trash beasts fall before you like it’s a hobby. You finish every stack of paperwork Semiu or the boss throws at you without a single complaint. You may be shy, but you never let anyone talk down to you. Even when fear creeps in about what the future might hold, you still keep moving forward with that brave little smile.
You’re so adorable.
That’s what he thinks.
The cute little pout he adores so much appears whenever you finish one mission only to be assigned with another — he had to bite back a smile for it. You squeal in delight every time the food you’re craving makes its way to your tastebuds. It’s adorable how you get so shy when someone compliments you for your hard work; he could watch it all day.
You don’t need anyone.
He knows that.
And yet — despite every thought reminding him how capable you are, his actions speak the opposite.
He opens doors before you can touch the handle.
He pulls out your chair at breakfast without even asking.
He hands you your favorite drink before you can reach for it, already chilled, already opened.
Once, you tried to carry a crate of supplies across HQ, insisting you had it handled. He silently lifted it from your arms with one hand and walked away like it weighed nothing.
You chased after him, flustered. “Follo, I can do it—”
“I know but..” he said, not looking back. “let me do it for you.”
You never know what to do with yourself when he says things like that.
The moment that really broke you, however, happened when you were assigned to assist his team on a task in another town. Hours of walking, scouting, navigating uneven roads — your feet were killing you. You tried not to show it, but the unevenness in your steps gave you away. A faint limp. A wince when you thought no one was looking.
Follo noticed.
Of course he did.
You were halfway through assuring yourself you could endure when a hand wrapped firmly around your wrist.
“Hey—”
He didn’t say a word. Just tugged you gently but undeniably toward a nearby bench. You frowned, confused, as he sat down and patted his thigh.
You blinked. “…What?”
“Sit,” he said flatly.
A moment of silence.
WHAT.
Stunned, you looked left and right to make sure the others weren’t nearby witnessing this. Thank goodness they were not on sight.
Your cheeks burned. “On you?”
He gave you a look that clearly said do I need to say it again?
Too shocked to process what was happening in front of you, you tried to distract yourself from reality for a short minute. Oh, look at that cloud! It’s shaped like a bunny!
You sputtered. “Follo, I’m fine—”
“No, you’re not,” he said, voice calm as ever. His eyes softened. “I can see you struggling to walk properly.”
Your heartbeat went ballistic.
Checking again if the others were nearby, you cautiously took a step forward.
Slowly and awkwardly, you sat sideways across his lap, stiff and unsure of where to put your hands. He adjusted his hold automatically — one arm around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world — the other reaching down to tug off your boot.
“H-Hey—!”
“Relax.”
He inspected your socked foot with silent precision before pressing his thumb into your arch. You nearly squeaked.
He paused, glancing up at you. “Too much?”
“N-No,” you squeaked.
He hummed, pleased and continued massaging, firm strokes that melted tension you hadn’t even realized you’d been carrying.
Your face was on fire. Your hands curled into his broad shoulders.
“Follo…” you whispered, heart racing. “You don’t have to do all this.”
He didn’t stop.
“Yeah, I know, but…” A pause. His right hand kept massaging your foot, the other still holding your waist, his thumb drawing circles against the fabric of your uniform for comfort, making your heart run laps in your chest.
Then he looked straight into your eyes, voice unwavering. “I want to.”
It wasn’t long before the others took notice of his behavior toward you.
They took the opportunity to tease him about it at lunch.
“Real gentleman, huh?” Enjin mocked. “What are you, her bodyguard?”
“Bodyguard?” Gris snorted, nudging him. “More like househusband.”
Even Rudo chimed in from his chair across the table. “You gonna start wearing an apron too?”
Zanka threw his arms over his head dramatically. “Follo, blink twice if she’s got you in a spell.”
Follo just shrugged and drank from his cup, unfazed.
“Call it whatever you want.”
Because honestly? He likes it.
He likes being the one who carries your bags even when you insist you can handle them. He likes being the one who reaches the high shelves for you, even though he’s seen you jump five meters in the air before. He likes watching you pretend to be annoyed when he fixes your uniform or straightens your hair clip.
You let him take care of you.
Even though you don’t have to.
And that — that makes his chest warm in a way that fighting never has.
He’s not sure what this is between you two. Friends? Partners Something unnamed, something fragile but precious?
But he knows one thing for sure:
If being a “real man” means treating you like the princess you are..
— Then he’ll do it every damn day, without shame.
Without hesitation.
Without stopping until you finally look at him and realize.
He’s not doing it because you’re weak.
He’s doing it because he adores you.
著者 : Follo and the boys once he finally wins the fine shyt’s heart:
@ 2025 PETALPAYE ✿ ━ do not plagiarize, copy, modify, translate my works !
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Summary: It's been six months since you were kidnapped in Gotham and rescued and... kissed by the Red Hood. Nothing has been the same since you returned. How are you supposed to continue the monotony of princess life? Lucky for you, someone's attempting a coup in your country. Guess who's on the case.
Pairing: Jason Todd x princess!fem!reader
Word count: 16.6k
Warnings/tags: violence, attempted assassination (not graphic), swords, guns (it's Jason!) Romance, loverboy Jason, lovergirl reader. Pining. Daddy issues. Mentions of a deceased parent. Bed sharing. I loved writing this!!!
the divider
This is a sequel! Read part 1 here!
Six months later. Calpatia. Home.
"This is stupid," you say, impatiently holding your arms straight out to the side as the tailor measures the length of your ribcage. "I'm not getting married."
"You might be soon," Lettie says. She crosses her arms, watching the tailor work. "Provided you don't scare away the next prince. It's best if you don't let it sneak up on you."
You scowl. "Lettie, I'm not getting married now. That would be stupid."
"Ever since you returned from Gotham City, it's been stupid this and no that with you. What's gotten into you? Since when is everything stupid?”
"Getting kidnapped provides a startling clarity," you say hotly.
The tailor begins to measure the length of your body to the length of your future veil and that's when you lose patience. You push past her, off the tailor’s step riser, and stomp out. She’ll probably complain to the king how difficult you're being, and he'll lecture you tonight at supper. Lettie will try to soothe him, because Lettie's the only one who gives a damn about you in this palace, but it will be in vain. You've acted particularly egregious these past months.
You can't bring yourself to care. The monotony of life sits on your chest like a weight. It's like you'd been living in ice before Gotham, frozen in meeting expectations. Sneaking to the cinema then was nothing compared to the things you’d like to do now: run away to another country, make friends, go somewhere where no one knows or cares if you’re a princess. Now you're impatient, outspoken, unruly to the point of agitation. The guards and your father have all but lost their tempers with you. Your father has begun to hint at marriage, even going as far as to invite two princes on two separate occasions as possible suitors. You were as terrible as you could be to them, until Lettie interfered and dismissed them both. Both instances resulted in your father screaming at you and you stubbornly moping in your room. Life is stagnant since you returned from Gotham, and you have no idea what to do about it.
You go to the palace gardens and find a secluded bench. Your usual spot when you need some air and to pretend like you’re free.
Sometimes, out of weakness, you google the Red Hood. Recently, he was in the middle of taking down a local mobster called Black Mask, whose face frightened you. A citizen had recorded Hood fighting Black Mask on a roof. You rewatched the clip several times, transfixed by Hood's fluid movements, the way he wielded himself as a weapon. He'd taken down several of Black Mask's men easily. More than once, you scolded yourself for not taking Hood's number. Though who's to say he'd have given it to you? And really, it was only a kiss. Hood probably isn't thinking about it. He’s a busy man.
Better that you didn't get his number, actually. Better that you came home and returned to normal. Except you can't return to normal.
"I convinced the tailor that you were ill."
Lettie is on the garden path, walking to you. Her white work shoes click on the paved cobblestone.
"I can handle the king's lectures,” you say, crossing your arms and angling away from her on the bench.
She hums. You feel her sit down next to you. "Certainly. Though what if a lecture becomes finishing school?"
You make a face at the thought. "I'd just escape." Briefly, you picture Hood waiting at the bottom of a two-story dormitory as you climb down on tied bed sheets. You smile.
"Yes, I suppose you would."
Lettie’s joints creak as she shifts to get comfortable. She's too old to be babysitting you. You're too old to need babysitting.
Her hair is fully gray. It's been that way for a couple of years. She refuses to dye it. It's a privilege to grow old, she always says. You're still not sure if you believe her. So far, being young isn't so wonderful. Is being old really much better?
"I wasn't trying to be cross," she says, taking your hand into her lap. You feel her cool gold wedding ring press against your knuckle. "I simply don't want you to crash into reality. You're growing up. It's the hardest thing to do."
"I know," you say. You're silent for a while. Then, "I'm sorry that I stormed out."
"Which time?" she asks, squeezing your hand.
You laugh. "All of them."
"Hmm. Forgiven."
You sit there a little longer in the garden, listening to the bubbling fountain that has two marble cherubs, water pouring from their open palms. You rest your head on Lettie's shoulder, using less of your weight than you used to so her arm won't ache.
"Do you still have nightmares?" she asks.
"Sometimes." You’ve had them since you returned from Gotham.
"I'm sorry, my darling. You shouldn't."
You shrug. "It's to be expected, I guess."
You wonder if Hood has nightmares. You're certain he does. Your own nightmares make you feel closer to him in that way.
"So, when will you tell me about the boy?"
You flinch, sitting up. "What boy? There's no boy."
Lettie laughs. "Oh, I'm sure. A lady in love denies it instantly."
"There is no boy, Lettie," you say firmly. "Father barely lets me out on my own. How can I meet a boy to fall in love with?"
"Like with everything else, you manage to find a way." She smiles, teasing. "I'm only sorry you won't introduce him to me."
You sigh. "It's impossible to. That is, er, if there were a boy."
"Of course," she says, eyes twinkling. "Speaking in hypotheticals."
"Precisely. He isn't from here."
"A foreign love? Interesting. Doesn't surprise me, though. You've always had a traveling spirit."
"It doesn't matter." You shake your head. It's silly to think so often of him. You have your life and he has his. "It wouldn't work out anyway."
Lettie takes your hand in hers. They're wrinkled with age but still soft. These days, she never skips her lavender-aloe nighttime balm. Her hands crack otherwise. Many nights you’ve massaged her aching hands and put soft gloves on to soothe the skin.
You look at her, at her dark eyes, her gray curls pinned away from her head. You look at her heart shaped face, the face you've known since childhood. Your only friend. Your only ally. Some nights, you feel guilty for not thinking of Lettie that night in Gotham. You imagine she was worried sick when she got the news. She hugged you for a long time when you came home.
But you think if she met Hood, got to know your savior, she wouldn't have worried so much.
"Life has a way of working out," she says.
You want to believe it. Lettie's never lied to you before.
Three days later.
Someone is shouting in the throne room. You only have to listen for a few seconds before you realize it's your father who's shouting. And he's shouting for the guards. Fear washes over you. You dash for the throne room, mind careening toward the worst-case scenario.
As soon as you enter, you freeze.
In front of you is your father at his throne, snorting with anger like a rhinoceros. And in front of him is the Red Hood, his arms crossed as three guards point spears at him. Your exhale is punched out of you at the sight.
“Hey there, princess,” says Hood, not turning around.
You bite the inside of your cheek briefly. Smiling would be extremely inappropriate right now. “Hi, Hood.”
“Seize him!” your father orders. The guards advance, and you see Hood reach for his holster. You move before you can think about it.
“Father, no!”
You race across the foyer, nearly slipping on the marble. You place yourself between the guards and Hood. The guards stop, bewildered. Pointing their spears at you would be treasonous.
“Princess,” Hood whispers, barely audible. His gloved hand grazes your elbow, quick enough to be an accident. But you know that Hood's touches are never accidents.
“Daughter! Remove yourself this instant!” your father thunders, eyes blazing.
“No,” you say, and the closest guard is forced to lower his spear.
Your father sputters. “What–!”
“This man saved my life,” you say. “He's a hero. You cannot treat him like some thug!”
“Not that I'm not used to it,” Hood adds, unhelpfully.
“This man is the Red Hood of Gotham,” says your father.
“Nah, I'm the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
The guard begins to raise his spear again.
Hood scoffs. “Man, if I wanted you dead, you'd be on the floor already.”
Your father looks about ready to blow a gasket. His face is plump with anger.
“You scoundrel,” he says. “You barged in here and attacked my guards!”
“I think incapacitated is a more fitting wo—”
“Father, please,” you interrupt, because if there's one thing Red Hood lacks, it's diplomacy. “Red Hood rescued me, or are you so quick to forget favors given by common men?”
“Ouch,” says Hood.
You turn, putting your back to the guard and your father. “I'm sorry,” you say quickly, eyes wide. “I didn't mean that you're common, just that you have no title and therefore—”
“I know what y’meant.” Hood sounds like he's smiling. “‘S good to see ya, princess.”
You smile quickly, wary of the eyes on you. You turn back to face your father. He's stomping toward you. Hm. Not a good sign.
“Father—”
“Look, Majesty,” Hood drawls. “I didn't come here to stir up trouble or corrupt the pretty princess. I promise I have no interest in doing anything but good things for your lovely country.”
Your father doesn't stop in his tracks. You stay put in front of Hood. Your father wouldn't dare lay a hand on you and you really don't want him to be bested in a fight with Hood. You love your father (most days) and that's exactly why you're trying to prevent his humiliation.
“I don't care why you're—”
“Why did you come?” you ask, before your father decides to do something rash.
“Nice of you to ask, princess,” Hood says. He gently moves past you, so that he’s face-to-face with your father. You want to touch Hood in warning, but you think better of it. That would throw your father over the edge. “I came because a man named Michael Jamison is in your country, and if you don't let me take care of him, he's gonna do some serious damage. Treason-level damage.”
“If there was an enemy in my country, I'd know about it,” says your father.
“No, you actually wouldn't. He knows how to hide his tracks. He's got his fingers in every pie: weapons, drugs, cutting off people's fingers. All the specialties. My partner and I have been tracking him since he moved his operation from South America and holed up here two weeks ago. All I want is to take him back to Gotham.”
“All you want?” Your father raises a brow. “Are you not infamous for your firearms, Red Hood? I recall that they're not only for decoration.”
Hood shrugs. “Thought I'd spare you the nitty-gritty.”
“My answer is no.”
“‘Scuse me? He's operating right under your nose. If you let him run wild, you'll put yourself and your citizens in danger.”
“You have no proof a person like that exists. And even if he did, my police would take care of it.”
Hood snorts. “Yeah, sure. ‘Cus cops are so trustworthy.”
“I handle matters in my country. Not you. You have no jurisdiction here, Red Hood. You're incredibly lucky I haven't jailed you by now. It's only by the grace of my wayward daughter that you're not rotting in a cell.”
“That's cute that you think your prison could handle me,” Hood says.
“Is that a challenge?”
“It's a fact.”
Right. Now seems like as good a time as any to step in.
“Father,” you say. He glares at you. You barrel on. “Red Hood is very good at what he does. He's a vigilante who’s not affiliated with Batman, but still very capable. He deals with domestic matters with impeccable skill. I think that it would be wise to investigate—”
“No,” your father says. “And I am finished discussing the matter.”
“Fine,” Hood says. “I'll go.”
You swing your head to look at him. He doesn't even incline his head to you. Go?
“Excellent,” your father says. “Leave immediately.”
“Sure,” Hood says. “You don't wanna deal with a potential coup? Fine by me. I'll go right home. Jamison will destroy your country and escape to somewhere with a large desert or forest where I can bury his body.”
“Excellent,” your father says airily. “My men will personally escort you to the tarmac.”
“Fine.” Hood begins to walk away, then stops, turns. “Oh, one more thing. Jamison has plans to assassinate you so your adversaries can take over. Okay, take care!”
“What?” you ask, stepping toward him. You turn to your father. “Father, we should—”
“How do you know this?” your father asks.
Hood looks at him straight on. “I’ve been doing this for a long time.” He pauses. “I studied under Batman. A long time ago. His reputation precedes him. You can trust that I know how to gather intel and how to take down bad people. It’s my job. I dealt with Jamison a while ago and I thought I’d destroyed all his assets, but he’s back, and he’s not someone you wanna ignore.”
Your father snorts. “Am I meant to take you at your word?”
“Yeah, actually, you are. ‘Cus I took care of the princess and I didn’t want to see her caught in the crossfire of a political coup. She’s the only reason I bothered to put you in the loop, Majesty.”
You bow your head so no one will see how utterly pleased you are by that.
Your father sighs. For the first time in a long time, you see how aged he is. It’s hard to see him as anything but your father the king when he’s ordering you to marry before the end of the year, but now, you see him as he is: an old man who needs protecting. Protection that you know Hood can provide.
“Please listen to him,” you say softly. “Please. He wouldn’t lead you astray.”
Your father looks at you. He’s no longer glaring at you, but he still squints, like he’s trying to figure something out. He looks at Hood, who gives away nothing with his stance and helmeted face. You wish you could hide your emotions so easily.
“Red Hood, if you can provide substantial proof that this person is staging a coup in my country, then we may go from there. But I refuse to act on a guess.”
“I can do that,” says Hood.
Your father nods and finally gestures for the guards to stand down. You exhale fully.
“Return to your chambers,” your father says to you. “We will speak later.”
You blink. “What? Father, if this concerns your safety, I should—”
“You will not be in this conversation,” he says firmly. “I will handle this alone. Go see Lettie. I know you dismissed that tailor before she could fit you for your new gown.”
“This is outrageous!” you say, and your father’s eyebrows raise.
“Do not say another word,” he warns. “I have been more than patient with you today—”
“You’re my father!” you burst. “How can you exclude me from this? Don’t I matter? Your own daughter! How can—”
“That is enough.” Your father gestures for a guard to escort you. “Please take the princess to her chambers. We will discuss your defiance later.”
“Plans for a coup wouldn’t ignore the princess,” Hood says. “It’d be good if she was—”
“No.” Your father looks angrier with you than he had with Hood, eyes blazing. “Get her out of my sight.”
The guard leads you away and out of the throne room by your arm. As the doors slam shut, you wrench your arm out of his grip.
“I can walk myself!” you snap.
The guard backs down, bowing. You don’t go to your chambers—your last act of disobedience.
No, you go up the back stairs and behind a false wall, where there’s an entrance to a passageway that runs along one wall of the parliament chamber. A thin, silken banner covers the vent you peer through, so you can see most of the chamber but it’s tinted red. There, you wait. And listen. You try to slow your breathing, fuming from your father’s dismissal but not wanting to give yourself away. Your father walks in first, sans guards, followed by Red Hood.
“If you try anything, I’ll see you hanged,” your father says.
“Sure, Your Majesty. Whatever you say.”
Your father sits at one end of the long, polished wooden table. Many times, you’ve watched him and members of Parliament discuss matters. It was your only view into your country’s politics before they happened. Or else you were as clueless as Calpatia’s citizens. You didn’t want to be a princess who didn’t concern herself with her own country.
“Well? Show me your irrefutable proof, Red Hood.”
Hood takes out a small laptop. He opens it and types, then shows it to your father, who puts on his glasses, squinting at the screen.
“This is a network where jobs are posted for mercenaries. Call it a dark web Glassdoor.”
“I see. And this is how you find work?”
Hood snorts. “No, I’m a little more exclusive than this. I choose what I need to be involved in. But it’s a good way to track activity. Now this…” He types. “Was posted two weeks ago. And this is footage of Jamison entering the country.”
“Jamison is looking for men to do his dirty work,” your father says with a grimace. “All of this happens on the internet now?”
“Yup. Welcome to the twenty-first century.”
Your father shakes his head. “It’s all very confusing to me. My daughter is the one with the technology knowledge.”
“Well, she’s of a different generation, so it tracks.”
“Yes.” Your father looks at Hood. “I suppose you’re of the same generation as she is, then. I can tell that you’re young. Young men always give themselves away.”
“I’m actually forty-seven. I work out.”
Your father ignores him, looking at the screen. Finally, he sits back.
“Alright,” he says. “I believe you about Jamison. Should I presume that you have a plan?”
Hood shrugs. “Sure. Pretty simple, actually: get out.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Jamison isn’t gonna waste time, Your Majesty. He’s gonna take you and the princess out as fast as he can. He knows that every additional day he spends in the country increases the chances of him being discovered. We can’t risk going after him while you’re still here.”
Your father nods thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right. That’s a good plan.”
That’s a terrible plan. Every good spy film has taught you that bait is the best way to lure out the enemy and make them more likely to make a mistake and fail. Leaving the country would basically let Jamison walk out without a hitch. There’d be nothing stopping him from trying again in a new country. What’s wrong with Hood? He should know better.
“I’d lend my services to get you out safely, of course,” says Hood. “Otherwise you’ll be sitting ducks.” He glances at the vent where you’re watching from. “‘Scuse the expression.”
You startle. How did he–?
“Red Hood, before I choose to accept your consultancy, I want to make it very clear that your relationship with my country and everyone in it is strictly professional,” your father says.
“Your guards really aren’t my type, Y’Majesty.”
Your father’s expression tightens. “Do not play a fool. You know exactly what I mean. I’m sure that you attempted to seduce my daughter while you were rescuing her in Gotham; it’s no wonder she’s been so wild since she returned from Gotham. I know it’s only through her training that she resisted you. She is a princess, a future queen, far above you, and I will not have her tainted by you. She might think you’re a dashing young man, but I know your kind very well. A mercenary, whether you use the label or not. A thug.”
“Please, I’m blushing,” Hood says.
You’re far from Hood’s easy humor. You’re accustomed to your father’s snide remarks about how you don’t know any better, but wrapping that up in an insult to Hood has you hot with anger. You glare at the gauzy shape of your father, layered in red. Tell him off, you think. Give him some Gotham.
“If I find that you even attempt to consort with my daughter, assassination or not, I will certainly make your life hell. You are tentatively welcome in my country, but you are not welcome to her.”
Hood laughs. “You’re wasting your breath, Majesty, really. Princesses are a dime a dozen in my line of work. She’s not the first princess I’ve met. Anyway, I don’t accept payment in the form of kisses. I expect something more material.”
You gasp, covering your mouth with your hand.
Your father raises a brow. “Is that so?”
“Well, like the princess said, I did rescue her. For free. Actually, all things considered, I think that my payment would be compounded. I saved her life, now I’ll save yours.”
Your father chuckles. “If there's one thing I can appreciate, it's your audacity, Red Hood.”
“Oh, c’mon,” Hood says, leaning back in the chair and folding his arms. “You know how far the dollar stretches. Or, uh, the euro. A guy's gotta eat. And considering that no one in your country alerted you to this impending coup, y’really don’t know who to trust. I’ve always found financial support to be good insurance that I do my job well.”
You blink rapidly, hurt and furious at once. You can't believe what you're hearing. This can't be the same man that took you for a slushie and carried you back to your hotel.
Your father sighs. “A mercenary after all. I suppose I am glad that your sights are set beyond my daughter. Fine, I am willing to discuss payment. I will not pay you in full until my safety is confirmed. But I suppose I can give you a deposit.”
“Now you’re speaking my language.”
And you watch in horror as your father writes Hood a check and how Hood happily accepts it. “A pleasure,” he says. “Such a lucrative pleasure to protect kings.”
You hurry out of the tunnel, eyes hot. How could you be so stupid?
You skip supper. Lettie tries to talk to you but you ignore her efforts and all the efforts of the other maids. Months wasted on someone you thought you loved. All you've done is lie in bed until evening, despondent. That's what you're doing when an origami lily sails through your open window and lands on the floor. You sit up and look at it, wiping your eyes. Another paper shape soon joins it: a swan. You get up and go to your window.
Hood is fifteen feet below, on the grass. He waves, casual and effortlessly cool in a way that would've made your heart swoop before. Instead, your mouth curls into a sour pucker.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down thy silken drapes,” he says, hushed. “I always thought it was gross for the prince to climb her hair. Who knows where his boots have been, y’know?”
You bare your teeth at him, anger overriding your hunger and headache.
“What are you doing here?” you hiss.
Hood pauses. “Wanted to tell you what King Pops and I discussed. And I forgot my grappling hook at home, so…”
“I know what you discussed!” you snap. You whirl around and grab a pearl and ivory comb that you got for a birthday present off of your vanity. You return to the window and hurl it at Hood with all your might. He catches it with one hand. The comb doesn’t even crack. Bastard.
“What the–?”
“There's your reward. Compounded,” you spit viciously. “Had I known you were so eager for material wealth, I wouldn't have offered anything else!”
Hood scoffs. “Princess, I know you're smarter than that. You know that was all an act.”
“Was it? I was very convinced. Especially when you took the money. I'd no idea you were such an actor, Red Hood.”
You slump down against the wall next to the window, not wanting to see him anymore. The memory is always better than reality. You know that now.
“Wait, c’mon, none of that was true! I didn't want a reward. I never wanted a reward for rescuing you, okay? Don't you think I'd have asked for one sooner if I did?”
“You were only waiting for an opportunity to ask,” you say, voice wobbly. Great. Here come your tears again. “You didn't even really want to see me except to butter my father up for a reward. You probably barely care about Jamison being here at all.”
“Shit, hey. Aw, please don't cry,” Hood says.
“I’m not crying!” you shout through tears. You hope the guards will hear and drag Hood away.
“Shit. Shit. This isn't how it was s’posed to go. Princess, don't cry ‘cus of me.”
You bring your knees to your chest and bury your face in them. How could you have been so naive? It's one thing for this feeling to have fizzled due to the distance. But having Hood here at home, revealing his true intentions in front of you is the worst thing that could've happened to you. You were deluded to think it would turn out any way but terribly.
Suddenly, there’s a hand lightly touching your shoulder. You flinch and look up. Hood’s crouched in front of you. Between two gloved fingers is your white, floral-embroidered handkerchief, which he must've found on your vanity. You guess that the comb you chucked at him is back on your dresser too.
“Don’t cry over me, princess,” he says softly. “Hate that we keep meeting like this.”
You stare at him, forgetting your tears for a moment. “How… how did you get up here?”
Hood nods at the window. “Climbed.”
“It's three meters up.”
“Yeah.”
“And the guards? There are always six in rotation on this side of the castle,” you say.
Hood tilts his head. “Y'think I can't evade a few royal guards?”
“Oh.” You're extremely impressed but you don't want to admit it. “I should have you arrested for trespassing.”
“Nah, you could have me arrested for way more than that. I mean, if they found you crying with me here, you could easily claim I was attempting to hurt the Crown and that'd be treason. Don't forget my earlier threats and break-in. King Pops would probably draw and quarter me at this point.”
Your eyes widen in alarm. “Hood, that's horrific! I would never let him draw and quarter you. We never practiced that in Calpatia. It's positively barbaric.”
Hood shrugs. “‘M sure you could make an exception for someone that really deserved it.”
You shake your head. “If this is your way of apologizing, it's awful.”
“Actually, I was trying to cheer you up.”
“Then it's doubly awful.”
“Yeah. Not so good at the sweet talk part. Which you know.”
You hum. “Yes, you're quite bad at it. Too bad Batman isn't here.”
“Alright, I deserved that.”
“You did.”
Hood waves your handkerchief. You take it and dab your cheeks. He crosses his legs and sits in front of you. He’s bigger than you even at this height. The memory of the kiss hits you then. Inappropriate.
“Look, ’m sorry I said those things,” he says, head down. “But I can’t have Papa Majesty thinking ’m tryin’ to seduce you. He’d launch me into the ocean before I found Jamison. But none of what I said back there was true. I don’t want a reward for rescuing you or for stopping Jamison. I took the check but I ain't gonna cash it.”
“And princesses being a dime a dozen? How many have you kissed before me?” you ask scornfully, brows furrowed.
“Zero,” Hood says, looking up. “Not just princesses—I haven’t kissed anyone before you. Or after you. That was all true, what I said in Gotham. No one’s ever wanted to kiss me. Then you—I mean, a princess wants to kiss me? Shit, that’s like, so astronomically out of the odds, it never even entered my realm of possibility.”
“That’s silly,” you say. “You aren’t that terrible of a kisser.”
“Oh, well, I’m glad to see you’re in such high spirits now,” Hood says, pulling a knee up and resting his elbow. You can see his belt and the taper of his waist.
You bite your lip, trying to hide your smile. “I suppose that I am feeling better now, yes. I… I sincerely apologize for my outburst.”
“Y’mean when you threw a comb at me?”
“I knew you’d catch it.”
“Uh-huh.”
You lean in, giddy now that your tears were for naught. Hood is here. In your room. It’s… well, it’s scandalous, for one. It’s a dream, for two.
“I’ve never had a boy in my bedroom,” you say. “It’s very improper.”
“Oh, yeah? Careful, princess. You almost sound excited about the impropriety.”
“That's absurd,” you say.
“Mm. As absurd as you spying on us in a secret vent?”
Your eyes widen. “So you did know I was there.”
Hood nods. “Sure did.”
“Then why did you say you came to keep me in the loop?” you ask.
Hood rubs the back of his neck. You lift your chin, feeling victorious.
“You came to see me,” you say, smirking. “Didn’t you?”
“Well—”
You lean forward on your knees so that you’re taller than him. You cast your gaze down at him, feeling confident despite the fact that you can’t see Hood’s face.
“Didn’t you?” you say again, grinning.
“Just wanted to make sure you were takin’ the news okay,” he mumbles.
“How very valiant of you, Hood. I think your plan is terrible, by the way.”
“‘Scuse me?”
You shrug. “I must be plain with you. You’ll almost certainly miss the chance to capture Jamison if we leave. And moving my father when we've no idea where Jamison is hiding is too risky and it makes us unstable. Calpatia is our home. Being on our home ground is better tactically.”
“Tactically? The idea is to prevent an assassination, not go to war. And it'll take time for Jamison to move into position.”
“But we want to catch him,” you say. “Haven't you seen those spy films? They always use bait. Besides, my father's departure will worry the citizens. There'll be civil unrest. Instability will only benefit Jamison.”
Hood's quiet for a moment. “I was tryin’ to play it safe.”
“I know,” you say, eyebrows pinching. “That isn't your style. Why?”
“I didn’t wanna scare you, or put you or your dad at risk. This is a lot. We should play it safe.”
“Hood, I have something that Jamison doesn't. Well, two things. I have you, and that’s why I’m not afraid to stay.” He coughs quietly at that. “And I have a lot of knowledge of Calpatia. Come with me.”
You stand and wait for him to do the same. You’re reminded again of his size, how he’s like a shield to you. He smells like the jasmine flowers from the palace gardens. You take him by his elbow and lead him to your desk.
“Alright.” You take out a map of the city from your drawer and bend your desk lamp to shine the light more thoroughly on it. “This is the city. Countless tunnels run underground, see? I have heard that some go for miles outside the city center, though I've never investigated it for myself. If Jamison has employed citizens here, he'd definitely be using these tunnels. He could hide his assassins in the tunnels.”
Hood sighs. “And there's too many to know where he'd be hiding, so we'd be putting you both in danger if we tried moving you out.”
“That is what I was thinking. I don't know how far along Jamison is in his plans. But if he's been here for two weeks, I imagine that he has enough strategies at his disposal. There are too many variables for us to risk moving my father, and we don't have enough men to search everywhere. It would take months and triple the manpower to find him.”
“Know somethin’? You're killer at military strategy.”
You smile, tip one shoulder up. “Do you think so?”
“Oh, you've got the brains for it, definitely. And people would never see ya comin’, princess.”
You turn so you're facing Hood. He's close enough that you're pressed against the desk, the edge of it against your hip. You look at his helmet, at those glowing eyes. For months you've ached to know what color his real eyes are. What any of him looks like underneath his mask.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” he asks.
“I was… I was just thinking about how we would lure out Jamison.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” You promptly turn and face the map again. “Do you have any ideas?”
“Well, if we're talkin’ about using your dad as bait, then it'd need to be a big enough situation where he'd feel comfortable with trying to assassinate the king.”
You gasp. “Oh! Oh, Hood, this is perfect! You're a genius. Well, I'm a genius, but you helped.”
You race to your nightstand and set your laptop up on the edge of the bed, kneeling. Hood follows you, looking over your shoulder.
“Is that a video of me fighting Black Mask?” Hood asks.
You click out of the tab as fast as humanly possible. “No. I don't even know who that is.”
“Been googling me, have ya?” Hood sounds undeniably smug.
“That's preposterous. I'm very busy. I don't have time to search you up, Hood.”
He gracefully doesn't say anymore. You quickly pull up the advertisement for the city festival that you created.
“Here it is. Here is where we can trap Jamison.”
“‘Festival of Embers,’” Hood reads. “Wow. Did you make the flyer?”
“Yes.”
“Looks really good, princess. Didn’t know you were an artist.”
You preen. “I dabble. Anyway, it's a countrywide celebration, and they celebrate it for many days outside of the city. But here in the city, we have a masquerade ball on the first night as an official commemoration. Many dignitaries and officials attend.”
“Masquerade, huh? Yeah, that would definitely appeal to Jamison. Closed space and he can disguise himself. Good thinking, princess.”
“Then you’ll propose this to my father?”
Hood sighs. “It’s a good plan, but I don’t wanna put you in danger.”
“My father has many guards. I would be fine. And you’d be in charge. I trust you.”
“You do?”
You look at him in confusion. “Of course I do, Hood.”
“It would give me a better chance of catching him…” Hood nods. “Okay. I’ll tell your dad.”
“Lovely! Oh, this is so exciting.”
“An impending coup is exciting?”
You wave him off. “You know what I mean. And now, I must go sup a late meal. You are dismissed.”
He snorts. “Generous of ya to let me leave.”
“You’re welcome.”
He gets up and goes to climb out your window. You step forward.
“Hood, wait.”
He stops, turning to face you. You press your lips together. How easily you forget how a princess ought to behave when you're around him. But you get the feeling that Hood doesn't mind so much.
“I… I wanted to say that I'm grateful for your presence. And your help.”
“‘S nothing,” Hood says.
“No, it is something. I am glad you're here.”
“Happy t’be here, princess,” he says quietly.
You smile. “Good night, then.”
“G’night.”
Hood disappears behind the wall. You don't watch him leave, too afraid of the ache his departure causes. You take the paper swan and lily and put them on your vanity, next to the comb.
The next day, you sneak into the parliament chambers again and listen to Hood propose your plan to your father. He agrees after some persuasion. You try not to let it get to you, the fact that your father would trust Hood, who is essentially a stranger, over you, his own daughter. But you can’t let that get in the way of your focus, which is to protect your father (and, by extension, yourself) from Jamison.
“You will be there at the party then, I presume?” your father asks Hood towards the end of their meeting.
“‘Course. I’ll be lurking and shit.”
Your father raises a brow. “I would appreciate it if you'd not be profane in my presence, Hood. Come, now. Surely you’ll partake in the festivities. Besides, my men are very territorial about their duty to the Crown. It’s better for everyone if you blend in with the crowd. Would it not go against the point of you being here if you’re out in the open in your helmet and guns? That isn’t subtle at all.”
“I didn’t exactly come dressed for a masquerade ball,” Hood says.
“No, certainly not,” your father says, looking Hood up and down. “But no matter. One of the tailors will design you a costume, on my charge. A sign of good faith, since you’re putting effort into keeping me alive.”
Hood hesitates, and you see him look in your direction, at the vent you’re peering through. “Yeah. I’m, uh, trying my best.”
Your father nods jovially, in infinitely better spirits than he was yesterday, despite discovering his impending assassination. Probably because you two haven’t crossed paths at all today. “Then it’s settled. One of the maids will direct you to the tailor today.”
“I really don’t need a tailor and all that sh–ugar. Can’t I just wear off the rack?”
Your father tilts his head. “I do not know what that means.”
Hood sighs. “Never mind. Look, Your Majesty, I don’t sit for tailors. Not good for protecting my identity. Get me? I appreciate the offer.”
“They could go to your hotel, if you’d prefer.”
“That’s a negative. Only a select few see the goods.”
Your father makes a face. You stifle a laugh.
“I… see.” Your father shrugs. “Well, if that’s how you feel. You can give your measurements to the tailor then. Or are those confidential as well?”
“S’pose that’s okay. Sure, I can do that.”
They get up.
“Wonderful. And Hood? I trust that you are keeping everything we discuss here confidential. That includes talking to anyone in the palace.”
“What am I, an idiot? ‘Course it’s all confidential,” Hood says.
“That is not to say that I don’t trust my subjects. But I do not want any of our plans to reach the princess. She doesn’t need to worry about this.”
Your jaw sets. Hood pauses in leaving, crossing his arms.
“She’s really smart, Majesty,” he says. “She’s not some airhead. And I think she’d have important ideas to contribute to the plan.”
“I know that my daughter thinks she is clever,” your father says. “Too much so for her own good, in fact. However, she’s not knowledgeable about the world, and because of that, she would get hurt. It’s better that she focuses on other matters.”
“God,” Hood says. “You dads really are all the same, huh?”
Your father lifts an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
“Tryna keep her in the dark isn’t gonna work. She’s worried and she’s smart and she’s gonna find out about stuff eventually, whether you want her to or not. It’s up to you whether you wanna be there for her. But you’re hurting your relationship in the meantime.”
“Red Hood, you are here for our safety and that is all,” your father says coldly. “I do not need nor desire your opinions on how to manage my daughter. I am magnanimously choosing to forgive your insolence. Good day.”
“Right,” Hood says, clearly holding back. He goes to leave. “See ya.”
Your heart sings. No one’s ever so freely laid praise upon you, especially about your brain. You’ve been called beautiful and gracious and poised countless times. And those are nice compliments, but no dignitary or ambassador cares enough to say things besides what a lovely gown, Your Highness. Not even your own father thinks you’re capable of anything beyond getting dressed in the morning.
You race out of your hiding spot, hoping to catch Hood before he leaves the palace. He hadn’t said when he’d see you again, in your room or otherwise, and you want to see him again in these precious few days that you have him. You don’t see him in the foyer or in any of the nearby hallways, so you go to the garden. There are a couple of secret hideouts in the shrubbery and stone walls that you’re sure Hood would find and wait for you there. You check the bushes first, then the false wall that leads to a secluded, overgrown part of the garden that’s a blind spot for most guards who don’t know to check here. Then you see a peek of red within the bushes and you walk faster, excitement restored.
“Hood!” you say. “Hood, those things you said—”
A man steps out of the bushes. It’s not Hood.
You stop, frightened. “Oh! Intruder! Intruder! Help!” You grab a fallen branch and wield it at him. “Just–just stay back! I will hit you!”
“Whoa, jeez.” He holds up his hands in defense. One arm is a prosthetic and looks to be metal. His copper hair is tied back in a small ponytail, a bow strapped to his back. He’s wearing similar gear that Hood wears, but it’s short-sleeved and maroon. His face is scruffy, and he has on red aviators and a backwards, gray baseball cap. He sort of looks like if a frat bro became a superhero. Hood teams up with the strangest people.
You shake the branch at him. “Back up!”
He backs up. “Your Highness, I swear I don’t mean you harm. I’m with Hood.”
You stop, squinting at him. “Prove it.”
“Sure, sure. What do you wanna know?”
“Um… what is his post-patrol food and drink of choice?”
“Oh! I know this.” He snaps his fingers. “Buffalo ranch roller and blue raspberry slushie from 7-Eleven. Bam.”
“And who did he first eat these items with?”
“Dick.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He inhales through his teeth. “Ah, I mean his brother. Obviously. That’s just what I call his brother because he’s a… jerk.” He makes a face like he’s in pain. “Did I pass the test?”
“I… suppose so.” You don’t lower the branch, frowning at him. “Who are you?”
“Name’s Arsenal. Hood told me to meet him here. We’re tracking down Jamison together. I’ve been laying low since he waltzed into the palace and pissed off the king.”
You perk up. “Hood’s coming here?”
Arsenal sighs. “Guess not. I’m gonna call him now… okay? Please don’t hit me with the branch.”
“If you try anything, I’ll kick you in the groin,” you say, lifting your chin. “I have been trained in self-defense.”
Your self-defense teacher from when you were sixteen was a beautiful, strict woman, who was rumored to be the heiress of an underground assassin network. She favored swords the most. She was the only person, besides Lettie, who actually intimidated your father. You miss her.
“I totally believe you, Your Highness, and I promise I will keep my distance. Look, I’ll put him on speaker. You can hear from him that I’m cool.”
You nod. “That is agreeable. Dial.”
“Okay, great. I love when things are agreeable.” He dials on his phone and it rings. Hood answers on the first ring.
“Yeah?” comes Hood’s voice. You try not to react too obviously to the sound of his voice.
“Dude, what the hell? You ditched me.”
“Sorry.” Hood sighs. “I dunno what’s goin’ on with me. I got in a fight with the king—he’s just so dismissive of her, y’know? What an asshole! She’s the one who came up with the idea! I got mad ‘cause she’s—God, if you met her, you’d get it. She threw a comb at me yesterday. What a woman. She smells like a meadow—”
Arsenal coughs loudly. “Ohhh, you’re on speakerphone! Her Highness is actually here with me.”
There’s a solid three seconds of silence. You fear the line has dropped. Then: “What.”
You swallow and lean forward. “Hi, Hood.”
“Hi, princess.” You can’t decipher his carefully neutral tone. “What’re you doin’ with Arsenal?”
“She found my super secret hiding spot,” Arsenal says.
You roll your eyes. “Do you think I don’t know the ins and outs of my own garden? This is hardly a hiding spot.”
“Yeah, I can see why you like her so much, Red,” Arsenal says. “She threatened me with a crotch kick.”
“Attagirl,” Hood says.
You beam proudly. “Thank you, Hood. I was looking for you.”
“How come, princess?”
“Well, I…” You glance at Arsenal. He sighs and hands you the phone, taking it off speakerphone at the same time.
“Thank you,” you say. “I apologize for threatening you with a branch.”
“No sweat. Happens all the time. I’ll be over there, not eavesdropping.”
You put the phone to your ear. “Hello, Hood. You’re off speakerphone now. Arsenal gave me the phone.”
“Got your way, huh?”
“I always do,” you say sweetly. “I was looking for you because… well, it was very kind what you said to my father about me today.”
“He’s fuckin’ ridiculous. How d’you deal with him?” He huffs. “I thought my dad was a pain in the ass. Thank God he’s not a king. Well, not legally.”
You hum. “It takes a lot of practice to deal with him. But please don’t jeopardize the plan by arguing. I know he can be frustrating, but truly, you don’t need to fight him for my sake.”
“He was sayin’ stupid shit,” Hood says petulantly.
You smile. “He often does. Thank you for defending me.”
“I’ll always defend ya, Princess. But, um, I better stay away for a bit to let him cool off, yeah?”
You’re mournful at the thought of Hood staying away. Your time together is already so limited.
“Did you talk to the tailor about your costume?” you ask instead.
“Yeah, I gave him my measurements. He said he’d deliver the costume to my room.”
“Wonderful. I’ll make sure he doesn’t put too many feathers on it.”
“Feathers?”
You giggle. “Kidding. So, I smell like a meadow?”
Hood clears his throat. “I, uh, think Arsenal needs his phone back.”
You fiddle with your dress, delighted by how flustered he is. “In a moment. I’m quite enjoying this.”
You bite your lip. “Very well. I am a benevolent princess.”
“I know y’are. And you can trust Arsenal, okay? I trust him with my life.”
“I trust you with mine, so I believe you,” you say solemnly. You hesitate, wanting to ask him to see you again before the festival, but you don’t think you have a right to request such a thing. “Goodbye, Hood.”
“Bye, princess. Don’t get into too much trouble.”
You hand Arsenal the phone. He nods gratefully and holds it up to his ear, listening for a bit and humming, then hanging up.
“What hotel are you staying at?” you ask.
Arsenal snorts. “Hotel is a very generous descriptor for where we are. Hood wanted to stay inconspicuous which means we’re roughing it. We’re at the Calpatia Inn.”
“Then you should go that way,” you say, pointing. “You can cut through the woods and find the main road while avoiding the guards.”
“Thanks, Your Highness.” He does an awkward half-bow. You watch amusedly. He winces. “Yeah, that wasn’t right, was it?”
“It wasn’t bad,” you say. “But you do not need to bow. A friend of Hood is a friend of mine. No formalities required.”
“You’re Hood’s friend,” he says, nodding slowly. “Huh. Right. See you later, Your Highness.”
“Goodbye,” you say, watching as Arsenal disappears behind the wall and in the opposite direction of the castle.
You allow yourself a tiny squeal when you’re completely alone. He thinks you smell like a meadow!
The city is abuzz with excitement about the festival, which is three days away. Meanwhile, your father is wreaking havoc on the castle inhabitants. Not only is he stressed with expense approvals and security arrangements, but he's also insistent on not letting you go anywhere, under the guise of the assassination threat. You know that he’s stressed and when he’s stressed he’s more strict. But instead of your usual defiance, you’ve decided to be as complacent as possible so he doesn’t discover your wild plan (falling in love with the Red Hood). To do this, you have agreed to the worst thing possible: a courting.
Viscount Archibald Gramsley has graciously told you to call him Archie. You do not extend the same courtesy, and you make sure he addresses you as Your Highness. True, you're playing nice with your father today, but too much cooperation would make him suspicious. Luckily, you know how to strike a balance.
You and Archie are in the garden for tea, in the nice, white wicker chairs, shaded under the large oak tree that nearly reaches the top of the palace. You used to attempt climbing to the top but never got further than the first branch. You wonder if Hood likes to climb trees.
“I have twice as large an estate at home,” Archie says, lazily lifting a well-groomed eyebrow. “It would please me to host you instead next time, Your Highness.”
You smile tightly. “Nothing would please me more.”
“Fantastic. I'll have it arranged.”
Archie was the first on your list of potential suitors, and instead of going through the pain of vetting them all, you agreed to go in order of request. Now you wish you had studied the list more closely. Archie has been talking about himself for a little under an hour, and you’re debating which fork would be best to stab him with.
You wish you could have tea with Hood instead. Does he like tea? He seems like he would. And he probably has freckles on his cheeks from the sun. Scars, too? You think so. A man like him can't go without getting keepsakes from fights. You stir your tea absently, thinking about what color eyes Hood has while Archie blathers on.
“You know, Father worried me when he said I'd be meeting the Princess of Calpatia, but you're more beautiful than I thought you'd be. It's refreshing, to say the least,” he says. He loudly sips his tea.
Archie is short and wiry. He could be handsome if he never spoke a word, but his lack of wit unfortunately ruins any good looks of his. He's very proud of his blond hair and smooth skin that's probably never seen an hour of sun. You thought meeting in the garden would be good for what is certainly a vitamin D deficiency.
“Are you sure we couldn't have tea inside?” he asks, wrinkling his nose when a dragonfly soars past. “It's quite sunny today. It's… unpleasant.”
Seriously, who hates the sun? You take a large gulp of tea. Your tutor from your childhood would rap your hand with a ruler for that but she's not here, and you don’t care if your manners disgust a so-called prince. You wouldn’t see Archibald again even if he was the last man on Earth.
Then again, as far as choosing men that would survive the end of the world, he wouldn't be on your list. Hood would be, though. He’d be wonderful in an apocalypse. You imagine him sweeping you away on his motorcycle, telling you to stay close and to hold on as you weave through the hills of Calpatia. You would almost certainly survive with Hood watching over you. He’d find an abandoned cottage for you to rest in, and when he was sure you were alone, he’d delicately unlace your bodice, careful not to rip your dress—
“I beg your pardon, are you listening?”
You blink, zone back in. “My apologies. What were you saying?”
Archie’s mouth puckers. “I was saying that your father said you were looking for a husband.”
“Oh! Well, I have been wanting to travel first,” you say. You can’t let Archie think you’d seriously consider a proposal. What’s more, if he does propose, your father will stop at nothing to push you to accept. And if you decline, he’ll make you accept the next royal pain that looks your way. And there’s always someone worse.
“Travel, yes. I also enjoy traveling. We could do that, before we settle down.”
“Surely you must have other prospective marriage offers,” you say quickly. “Better than me. My estate is small, as you said.”
Archie nods. “True. But princesses from larger countries are such chores to manage.”
He’s obviously never met you before.
You smile wanly. “Is that right?”
“Quite.” Archie sips delicately from his teacup. “They have such modern ideas about independent rule. I myself am in line for my own throne. You understand.”
Good God.
“I think that a king and a queen should rule equally,” you say.
Archie looks like you’ve just told him you like to chew barbed wire. “With all due respect, that is preposterous. Princesses are not trained in diplomacy or politics. A queen’s role is important but separate from the king’s duties.”
Yeesh. Where did your father find this man? The last century?
“I… Archie, I think perhaps—”
Thwap!
You both flinch as an acorn hits the side of Archie’s head. He whips his head around, searching for the offender. “What on earth was that?”
“I don’t know,” you say, looking around. “Perhaps the tree dropped an acorn.”
Archie rubs his head. “You ought to instruct your gardeners better. If they cannot do their jobs, then—”
Thwap! Thwap! Thwap!
Three acorns drop from above, all hitting Archie right in the center of his head. He leaps from his chair, outraged. His cheeks are pink with anger.
“What is going on?” he shouts. “Who is doing that?”
“Archie, it’s probably just a squirrel—”
“Filthy rodents!” he screeches. “They ought to be shot!”
You blink, watching him in disgust. Out of the corner of your eye, you see movement. A red vest. You laugh, then cover your mouth.
“What is so amusing about this?” Archie snaps. “Are you ill?”
Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! Thwap!
“No, not at all,” you say, muffling your laughter. This time, the acorns come from multiple directions. Archie screams, swatting them away, and your giggles become uncontrollable as he flails like a monkey.
“Bastard squirrels! Filthy creatures!” he screams, and you gasp. Archie looks at you with wild eyes, panting.
“I…” He swallows. He smooths his hair and his suit, trying to regain his composure. “I–I apologize for my outburst. I did not—”
Thwap! Thwap!
Archie bellows a yell, kicking the chair and knocking the teacup onto the ground. It chips at the rim. You stand up, lifting your chin.
“I request that you leave,” you say sternly. “Now.”
“Fine!” he yells, and stomps back inside the palace, shoving through the guards.
You exhale and pick up the teacup, then you point to the gardens. “I am going for a walk to clear my head. Please make sure that Viscount Gramsley finds his way out.”
The guards nod understandingly, and you go toward where you saw that glimpse of red. You spot a red origami bat near a jasmine bush and you quickly pick it up and tuck it into your dress.
“Didn’t work out?”
You smile at the voice hidden in the bushes. “Unfortunately not. Some mischievous squirrels.”
“Shame. Gotta watch out for them.”
“Indeed.” You resist the urge to stick your hand into the bushes and find Hood’s hand. “Is the plan going well?”
“Sure is. Everything’s going smoothly.”
You nod. “That’s good.”
The urge to ask to see Hood again before the festival bubbles up. You can’t get enough of him. It should frighten you.
“So, you’re interested in meeting a prince?”
You make a face. “Don’t be ridiculous. I am already in love.”
You cover your mouth, hoping Hood can’t see your embarrassment.
“Oh,” he says. “I—”
“Anyway!” You bite your lip, mind racing for a subject change. “Er, please tell Arsenal thank you for the acorns. His aim is impeccable.”
Hood snorts. “Dunno what y’mean. He told me he’s been practicing his curtsy. “See ya soon, princess.”
“See you.” You pick a jasmine from the bush, walking back to the palace. You bring it to your nose. It smells like Hood.
The Next Night
Boom!
Somewhere, something hits the walls of the palace. The sound makes you flinch, and you rush out of your chambers to see the commotion. The guards that are usually posted down the hall are gone, so you follow the shouting. There’s a second set of doors that separates your chambers and the hall from the rest of the castle, and you push those open.
On the carpet is a palace guard being restrained by three other guards. As you approach, he looks right at you, eyes wild and hateful. A guard steps in front of you, gently shielding you. You peek around his shoulder, watching the traitor struggle.
“I’ll kill you!” the guard shouts. “You’ll be sorry, you stupid brat. You and your father destroyed my home. You don’t deserve this palace! You don’t deserve it!”
He’s dragged away and the heavy doors close after him. His ranting is muffled now, but you can still hear it in your mind, feel his frightening blue eyes cutting through you like ice.
The guard in front of you asks, “Are you alright, Your Highness? We prevented him from entering your chambers.”
You feel sick. “Yes, thank you. I-I am fine.”
Another guard sighs. “If it’d been a minute later, y’might’ve been—”
The first guard nudges him. He shuts up.
“We’ll be nearby if you need anything,” says the first guard sympathetically. “Please try to rest, Your Highness.”
You’re suddenly exhausted as you shuffle back to your room. The hallway seems longer than usual, and you stare at the portraits and ornate windows on the walls. Paranoia strikes you then: what if there are others? What if they break in through the windows? You pick up your pace then and race to your room, closing the doors behind you. Mindlessly, you rub your arms and sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the floor. Tears come to your eyes, and you let them fall.
What if the plan doesn’t work? What if your father dies?
Your curtain moves and you flinch. It’s happened. They’re here for you.
But then you see the heavy black boots and the tactical vest and you exhale in relief. No, you’re safe. You are always safe with Hood.
“Hey,” he says quietly, climbing gracefully over your sill.
You quickly wipe your cheeks. Your face feels puffy and hot. “Hi.”
Hood stops at the edge of your room, right by the window. You watch him take off his boots and walk to you in socked feet. He sits on the floor next to you, not touching you, but close enough to. You see now that his clothes are spattered in blood. Your mouth opens in horror.
“Hood, why are you—”
“Arsenal and I intercepted some of Jamison’s men before they got to the palace. They tried a sneak attack. Got messy. I came as soon as I heard. Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
You clasp your hands in your lap. “No. But he was so close to me, Hood. The guard said that if it had been a minute later, I would’ve… I would’ve been—”
“‘S not true. People always say stuff after the fact.”
“Don’t lie to me, Hood,” you say, glaring. “Don’t try to protect me in my father’s misguided way.”
His shoulders go up, then down as he exhales. “Okay. Sorry.”
You shiver, adrenaline coursing through you. “I suppose I would be an easier target than my father, considering the placement of my chambers. We should probably put more guards after… after we have checked their backgrounds, of course, and reinforce the—”
“Princess.” Hood kneels in front of you. He takes off his gloves, careful not to get blood on you, then holds the sides of your calves over your nightgown. Your exhale is punched out of you. He looks up. You can’t see his eyes, but it makes you feel better that he’s meeting your gaze somewhere behind his helmet.
“He wouldn’t have gotten to you. I wouldn’t have let that happen. And y’don’t need to figure out security measures. We’re doing that right now.”
“I don’t need to be coddled, Hood,” you say sharply. “I understand the reality of the situation.”
The image of the guard’s face hits you again. The strands of spit pulling from his teeth as he screamed at you, his wild eyes. How can anyone be so full of hatred toward you? What have you done to make him want to hurt you?
“I just… I don’t understand what I’ve done. Why is this happening?”
“No, hey. This ain’t a reflection of you. Jamison is the devil, seriously. And he only works with people who are just as twisted as he is. It’s not you, y’know, it’s… really, really bad business.”
You feel tears begin to swell again. Hood rubs your legs. “I kept wondering why I was kidnapped in Gotham,” you say, voice warbly with tears. “If there was something different I could’ve said or done… maybe I’m a terrible princess. Even you hated me when we first met.”
“No way, I didn’t hate ya. I was… I was havin’ a bad night, to be honest. Didn’t have to do with you. And you’re not a bad princess, okay? Not a bad anything. Nothing that happened in Gotham or tonight was your fault. Got me?”
He squeezes your legs. You nod.
“Yes,” you say. He’s so close. You’re reminded of that night in Gotham, how his bulk unnerved you. Now, you feel overwhelmed in a good way, Hood at your feet like a guard dog. His hands are still on you. You feel drowsy and warm.
“Anyway, ‘m glad we met. Despite the circumstances,” he says, stroking your clothed calf with his thumb.
“Well, that is because I am spectacular company and quite irresistible.”
He throws his head back and laughs. You bite your lip at the sight, sick with pleasure. You can face anything with Hood at your side, you think.
“Oh, man. Think y’might’ve cast a spell on me,” he says when he catches his breath, tracing your ankle bone with a knuckle.
“I hope so,” you say, heart beating fast. He hums.
The adrenaline is fading and exhaustion hits you. In Hood’s presence, you feel as safe as you possibly can be. You believe that he wouldn’t have let that guard hurt you. But you also know that he can’t be everywhere at once.
“Hood?” you say quietly.
“Yeah, honey?”
“Will you stay the night with me? I’m afraid… what if Jamison tries again?”
“He won’t.”
You frown. “I won’t sleep a moment alone.”
“Princess, I really don’t think I should—”
You clutch his hands. They’re calloused and cool. He has thick fingers. “Please? Please, Hood, I feel the safest with you. Just for tonight. Then we’ll catch Jamison at the festival tomorrow and it’ll all be over.”
He sighs. “If I stay…”
You nod eagerly. “Yes?”
“No one can know. I’d be gone before dawn.”
“Yes, of course. So you’ll stay?”
“...I’ll stay. Despite my instincts.”
“Oh, wonderful! Hood, you’re wonderful.” You want to hug him, but you think better of it when you remember the blood. Even so, hugging is not proper for a princess. You stand and smooth the wrinkles of your nightgown. “Good. Yes. Shall I find you some pajamas?”
“Uh, no, you shall not.”
“You cannot wear your gear to bed, Hood. It’ll be very uncomfortable. Besides, I do not want you sitting on my furniture when you have blood on your jacket.” You wrinkle your nose.
“I’m gonna be on the floor anyway.”
You roll your eyes. “That is the most ridiculous thing you’ve said. You will not lie on the floor like a house pet. No, you will sleep on my chaise lounge.”
You aren’t completely gone; you realize that having Hood sleep in bed with you would be a little much, even for your recently developed lack of decency. Hood is probably too much of a gentleman to sleep in your bed, anyway. But you won’t let him hurt his back sleeping on the floor. Not when he has to be at his best tomorrow night.
“Your chaise?”
You point to your baby pink chaise with gold accents that’s next to your bed. “It’s comfortable; I have fallen asleep on it while reading.”
“Jesus. This kinda thing is bad for my reputation, y’know.”
“Yes, yes. Don’t sit in it without removing your blood-stained clothing, please.”
He sighs like you’ve just asked him to fetch you the moon. “You always get your way, don’t you?”
“Essentially, yes. You can shower in my en-suite. I’ll sneak into my father's chambers to get you some clothes.”
“Oh no, no no. That's where I draw the line. No way am I wearing King Pops’ stuff. He’s not even my size.”
“Then how will you change clothes?”
Hood looks at the window. “Well…”
Twenty minutes later.
“I resent this,” Arsenal hisses from below.
You peek your head over the windowsill and wave. “Hi, Arsenal.”
“Hiya, Princess.” He scowls at Hood. “I still resent this. I don’t care that you’re in love or how beautiful the princess is.” He nods at you. “And you are quite beautiful, Your Highness.”
You laugh. “Why, thank you, Arsenal.”
Hood snaps his fingers impatiently. “Less yappin’. Not gettin’ any younger here.”
“I should never have to look for your underwear. Hood, man, we’ve been through a lot, but touching your underwear is far from being on my bucket list.”
“It’s clean, asshole,” Hood hisses. “Will you just throw the bag up?”
Arsenal sighs and throws the duffel bag up to your window. His aim is impressive, like Hood’s. You’re glad that they’re both on your side.
“Hold on,” you say, and you get the picnic basket of palace dinner you packed for Arsenal, in exchange for his magnanimous delivery of Hood’s underwear. Hood helps you attach it to his grappling hook so you can send it down.
“Princess, you’re the sweetest,” Arsenal says. “See, this is what I’m talkin’ about, Hood. Manners. Grace. Politeness. You can learn a thing or two.”
“You’re one to talk,” Hood says, flipping him off.
“Jerk. Sweet dreams, Princess. Sorry about that crazy guard guy.”
Your smile is thin. “Thank you, Arsenal. Will I see you tomorrow at the festival?”
“For sure.” He grins at you, and it would probably make your face hot if you weren’t shoulder-to-shoulder with the Red Hood. “Save me a dance?”
“Don’t answer that,” Hood says. “She only dances with princes, jackass, not your ugly mug.”
You smile, patting his hand. “Don’t be jealous, Hood. A princess’ job is to be diplomatic and dance with all of her subjects.”
“Yeah, hear that? Diplomatic. Look it up, Red!” Arsenal crows.
“Fuck off.”
Arsenal shrugs and blows you a kiss. You snort and wave.
“Good night, Arsenal,” you say.
“Night, Princess. Jerk-off.”
“Fuckhead. You’re watching the north wall tomorrow,” Hood says.
“Gotcha. See ya both.”
He disappears around the wall, picnic basket in tow. Hood closes your window and locks it.
“He’s nice,” you say, biting your lip to hide a smile.
Hood whips his head around so fast, you almost laugh. “You like him?”
You smile indulgently. “I find him charming. Though not as charming as you.”
“Yeah?” He inches closer. “I’m charming, huh? I’ve been told as much.”
You laugh. “No modesty! Go shower.”
Hood comes out in a cloud of steam exactly seven minutes later. You’re already in bed, and you close your laptop on your lap. The front of his white tank top is a little damp, drops of water running down his neck and getting absorbed immediately. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of his arms, soft when at rest but bulging with muscle when he bends them to stretch out his tank top. You catch a glimpse of dark hair on his chest and oh, the Red Hood is a brunet.
He has on black basketball shorts for modesty, though you have no idea what’s modest about Hood’s impossibly large thighs. Briefly, you recall the internet trend of people crushing watermelons with their legs.
“Bathroom’s free,” he says. “I bagged up my clothes, don’t worry. No blood in your room, princess.”
“Oh, I—yes, that’s good. Thank you. Isn’t it uncomfortable to wear the helmet with wet hair?”
“Nah, I have a drying mechanism built in for when I have to go diving in the Hudson on a case. Learned that the hard way. And it’s cushioned inside, so I can sleep everywhere.”
“You think of everything,” you say, watching as he approaches. You have to crane your neck to see him from this angle, and your heart jumps at the thought of Hood climbing atop you, bracketing you with his arms and legs. You think about if his helmet were off, and if he dripped water onto you, and where that water would land, and would he wipe it away with his hand…
“—don’t have t’worry about it, okay?”
You blink. “I… I beg your pardon, Hood, I was lost in my thoughts.”
“Yeah, I see that. What were you thinkin’ about?”
He squats at your bedside, resting his elbows on the bed. That flexes his biceps. You feel light-headed.
“I was just thinking about tomorrow. I’m worried,” you say, not completely lying.
“Hey, it’ll be fine. Y’know I’d never let anything happen to you. I was sayin’ that Arsenal and I are gonna vet the guards on your protective detail, so you don’t have to worry about it.”
“Thank you, Hood.”
Is this what it’s like to fall in love?
“No sweat. It’ll be over in a minute,” he says. “Morning after, you’ll be amazed at how light y’feel. Happens every time I finish a case.”
You turn on your side, putting your laptop on the nightstand. You prop your head up on your hand. “So you’re a detective. Like Batman?”
“Well.” Hood stands and stretches, pulling his elbow over his head. His tank top rides up, showing you a sliver of his happy trail. Goodness. He settles in the chaise, reclining. “Kinda. I definitely practice methods that Batman doesn’t approve of. But he trained me, so yeah, I owe a lot of what I know to him.”
“What was it like, training under him?”
Hood sighs. “It was fantastic. ‘Til it wasn’t.”
You frown. “I’m sorry. Let’s talk about lighter things.”
“Sure. What’d ya think of Archie?”
You roll your eyes. Hood chuckles, shoulders shaking.
“Please,” you say. “I’ll spare you. Father’s choices for suitors are always horrendous.”
“‘S so medieval that you still have to do that. Marry some guy you don’t like for the throne.”
“My mother felt the same way,” you say. “She was only queen for a year before she abdicated and divorced my father. She couldn’t stand royal politics.”
“Wow. Didn’t know a queen could do that.”
“She wasn’t royal by blood. She met my father while abroad and they fell in love. And I guess she thought that she could do this: be a queen, love my father. But she could only do one of those things. She got sick a few years later. My father would hardly leave the hospital. I didn’t see him for weeks at a time. I know he misses her everyday, and I’m grateful that he loved my mother so much that he carries her through his grief. But it changed him for the worse.”
“You don’t miss your mom?” he asks quietly.
“I miss the idea of a mother,” you say. “But how can I miss a woman I never knew? I can only love the people who have tried to make my life better, who love me to the best of their abilities. My father would do anything for me, except let me marry who I want. He loves me the way he knows. What more can I ask him for? Anything else I desire, I must carve it out for myself.”
He hums. “That’s—you’re really understanding of people. You’d make a great queen.”
You smile. “Do you think so?”
“Yeah. I think you can have anything you want, princess.”
“I think you can too,” you say, hushed.
He laughs, but it’s sad. “Yeah, dunno ‘bout that.”
“No, you could,” you say. You could have me.
He looks at you for a long moment. You have never seen his eyes, and yet Hood’s gaze unravels you every time. You’re certain he always knows what you’re thinking. It scared you at first. Now it feels like a blessing to have someone who can read you so well. It feels like fate.
“You should get some sleep,” he eventually says, leaning over to turn off your bedside lamp. “We got a long day tomorrow.”
“Okay.” You pull the covers over you. You’re glad you told the maids to not come in and prepare you for bed. “Good night, Hood.”
He turns off the light. Your room is shrouded in darkness, but you can still see the dim glow of Hood’s helmeted eyes. They should scare you.
“G’night, princess.”
When you awaken, you’re soaked in sweat. Your neck sticks to your pillowcase, and your body feels baked, trapped under the covers. You struggle, your breath thin. You don’t remember your nightmare, but you know what it was about. Ever since Gotham, all your nightmares are the same.
“Hey.” Hood’s figure looms over you. You see his helmeted eyes. “You were screaming. I…”
You reach for him without another thought. “Please come.”
And immediately, he goes, climbing into your bed, sitting cross-legged. Gingerly, he opens his arms, and you cling to him tightly, fisting the back of his tank top. He holds you back, petting your spine. You’re sweaty and your breathing is too fast and your nightgown is rumpled. You are not a princess right now. You’re just you. Hood doesn’t seem to mind.
“I dreamt about the night in Gotham,” you whisper. “I… I haven’t stopped having nightmares about it since I came home.”
“‘M sorry,” Hood says, words thick with guilt. “I should’ve found ya sooner.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” you say. “Just bad business.”
He hugs you tighter. “Yeah. Gotham’s cursed like that.”
“I’m going to miss you when you leave, Hood.”
“Me too, princess. But I’ll come visit. I’ll sneak into your window. ‘M gettin’ real good at it.”
You laugh, your throat thick with unshed tears. “Too good.”
“I’m just so cool. What can I say?”
You pick your head up from where it rested on his shoulder. You hold his forearms. His hands are cool but the rest of him runs hot.
“Please stay in my bed,” you say.
“Princess. Honey, that’s not proper. C’mon, y’don’t want me in your bed.”
“I do. How can you not tell? I want you everywhere, Hood.”
He shudders. “Shouldn’t say those things. Y’know better, princess.”
“Please,” you say again, resting your hand on his neck, where his pulse throbs. “Or I won’t sleep.”
You feel him swallow. “A-alright, okay. Lie down.”
You smile triumphantly, and lie down. Hood lies next to you, taking care not to touch you. You slip your hand under the sheet and feel for his fingers. He lets you link them together.
“Always get your way, huh?” Hood says.
You smile into the darkness, eyelids heavy. “Always.”
You wake up slightly groggy from last night’s events, but you’re otherwise well-rested. And, to your absolute delight, Hood is still in your bed. You move your head slightly to look at him. He’s rolled onto his side, facing you, shoulder touching yours.
“Oh my.”
You jerk away from Hood, shooting to sit up. Lettie stands in the doorway, a stack of fresh linens in her arms. She sets them down and stares at you. Hood startles awake, and it takes him less than a second to roll out of your bed, sleep-rumpled. He freezes when he sees Lettie.
“Lettie, it isn’t what you think,” you say.
She raises her eyebrows. “My dear child, I’m really not sure what to think. Mr. Red Hood, is it?”
Hood pulls down his tank top and tucks it in, trying to look more presentable. “Uh, yes, ma’am. Hood is fine.”
She looks at you, laughter in her eyes. “I see. Well, ‘Lettie’ is quite fine as well. Do you often share beds with princesses in your undershirt, Mr. Hood?”
“Lettie!” you hiss, face aflame. “Gods above. He was protecting me.”
“Is that what the young people call it?”
“Oh my God,” Hood says, looking up at the ceiling. “Jesus Christ. I’m gonna go. It was, uh, nice to meet you, ma’am—Lettie. Princess?”
You nod, forgetting your embarrassment for a moment in favor of getting your last looks of Hood. “Yes. I’ll see you tonight?”
“Promise,” he says, reaching over to squeeze your hand. He briskly circles around your bed, bowing his head as he passes Lettie, getting his bag.
“Indeed, don’t forget your belongings!” she says cheerily.
“Yup. Yeah. Thank you.” Hood shuffles to the window and puts on his boots. He doesn’t lace them before he’s throwing his legs over your windowsill, disappearing in a moment. You stare at the cloudless sky long after he goes.
“So. Foreign boy?”
You whip your head back to glare at her. “That is not funny. He really was protecting me. I was frightened after last night. I had another nightmare, and I asked him to stay. He was a perfect gentleman.”
Lettie’s expression softens. “Oh, my dear. Yes, I heard about the incident this morning. I was in town last night, or I would’ve checked on you. Are you alright?”
“I am fine. Hood was… he comforted me.”
“I see.” Lettie’s eyes are fond. “You really like him.”
You sigh. “I really do, Lettie. He’s… oh, he’s just not at all what you expect. He’s kind and funny and so brave.”
You leave out the details about Hood’s biceps. For your and Lettie’s sake.
“And he visited you? That’s dedication. I’m sure he’s very busy in Gotham.”
“He came here for work,” you say. “It was a very good coincidence. Well, bad, because of the coup plan, but…”
“But silver-lined,” Lettie says.
You nod. “Yes. But he’s leaving after the festival tonight.”
“Oh, darling.” She comes to your side of the bed, sitting next to you. You scoot closer and lean on her shoulder. She rubs your back.
“I’m going to miss him so much, Lettie,” you say.
“I know, my dear. But you know that things have a way of working out.”
And with all your heart, as you look out the window, you hope that Lettie is right.
“Thank you for coming,” your father says for what feels like the hundredth time to a couple dressed in matching purple Volto masks. They curtsy and you return it, smile strained. It’s only been a little under an hour and you’re already exhausted. You hope you’ll get to enjoy next year’s ball more. Ideally without any assassination threats.
“Stand up straight,” comes your father’s sharp reminder. “I expect you to dance with at least three suitors tonight. We must keep up appearances and there are plenty of prospective husbands here.”
You sigh. “Yes, Father.” You feel his eyes on you and you turn to look at him. “What is it?”
“You aren’t fighting me,” he says. “It’s odd. What are you planning?”
“Nothing. If you want me to dance tonight, I’ll dance. Though I maintain that I can help with the plan. Er, whatever the plan may be.”
He shakes his head. “I want you as far from me as possible. Jamison is after me, not you. I don’t want you caught in the crossfire. But… I suppose you ought to focus on other things tonight, besides finding suitors.”
You perk up. “Really?”
“I don’t want you to be distracted if something does happen. But… promise me you’ll try to participate in the festivities. We don’t want to alert our guests that anything may be amiss. You are the face of tonight.”
“That isn’t true. They look to you for guidance, Father.”
He smiles and reaches over to stroke your face in a rare display of affection. “In some ways, yes. But you’ll be their queen one day, and you are in the public eye whether you like it or not. Think of the impression you want to make.” He looks at you for a moment longer. “You look like your mother. She would’ve been very proud of you, you know.”
You blink away the wave of emotion that fills you. “Thank you, Father.”
You look out at the sea of people in the ballroom. Dozens of couples dance, laugh, flirt. You try to focus on greeting new guests instead of your longing to join them. The musicians have begun to play a smoky waltz, rich and extravagant.
“Good evening, Your Majesty.”
You turn at the new voice. It’s an odd mix of a proper affectation and not. This guest is alone. His eyes flick to you briefly, before returning to your father. He bows deeply. He has a red Colombina mask etched with black and gold. His suit and cape are extravagant and match his mask. Tucked into his belt is a sword, completing his costume of a rugged, mysterious Casanova. But covering his mouth is a black sash of fabric, like he’s an outlaw, or a—
“Welcome. I hope you’ll enjoy the festival,” your father says. “Her Highness, Princess of Calpatia, my daughter.” He gestures to you.
The mystery guest bows deeply to you. He gets close enough for you to see his seafoam eyes, piercing through the shadows of his mask. His lashes are thick and dark. Your heart stutters.
“Princess,” he says, and you’d know that voice anywhere. Your lips part, about to call his name. He puts a finger over the sash, where his mouth would be. You remain silent.
“It is the utmost pleasure to meet you.” He addresses you, not your father, and you smile. “If it pleases you, may I have this dance?”
“What did you say your name was?” your father asks.
“I did not say, Your Majesty. I apologize. The name is Gregory. Prince Gregory. Greg, if you prefer.”
You grin.
“I see. Well, alright. I suppose that is fine. Go ahead.”
You take your prince’s hand. He helps you down the dais carefully, mindful of the poof of your skirt.
“Don’t worry, Princess.” He eases you into a waltz position, one hand on your ribs, the other holding your hand. “Promise I won’t tear up this dress.”
You can't stop grinning. It's incredibly inappropriate. “I should hope not, Hood. This cost more than the last one.”
He hums. “‘S beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
You tuck your chin coyly, pursing your lips. “I wore red for you.”
He sucks in a heavy breath. His gaze flips your stomach. “For me? Not very proper of ya, Princess.”
“No,” you say, voice husky. You wish you could feel his pulse on your mouth. “It is not.”
“How’d y’get away with that? Didn’t King Pops vet your dress?”
You smirk. “Do you think that I cannot handle my overprotective father, Hood?”
“Nah.” He turns and pulls you closer for a moment, chest against your back, before resuming the polite amount of distance expected between a princess and her guest. “I know you can handle yourself.”
The crowd has made a space for you and Hood to dance. Some watch, some don’t. You aren’t concerned. Hood’s eyes drift aside periodically, checking your surroundings. But for the most part, his attention is all on you. It overwhelms you in the best way.
“How did you manage to do this without my father knowing, Prince Gregory?”
His eyes tell you that he’s smiling. “Needed to go incognito. Can’t have the Red Hood stompin’ around, raising flags. ‘Sides, y’think I can’t handle your overprotective father?”
You let your hand creep up from its place on his broad shoulder, until you’re cupping the back of his neck. He inhales sharply. His Adam’s apple bobs.
“It would be foolish of me to doubt you can’t handle anything that comes your way, Hood. If there’s a word to describe you, it’s competent. Among other things.”
He squeezes your waist. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Y’know what. Your dad’s watchin’ me like he wants to string me up the flagpole.”
“Since when do you care about being good?” you whisper.
“Since you stopped, apparently.”
“You have pretty eyes, Hood.” And he does. They’re so much better than anything you’ve conjured in your imagination. You can last another year without Hood after discovering the color of his eyes. You’d wait a decade to know the color of his lips.
“Not as pretty as yours, sweetheart,” he murmurs, holding you against his chest for a moment as the song ends. Then he steps back and bows. You laugh.
“So formal,” you say, curtsying.
“One of us has to be,” he says, eyes mischievous as he takes your hand and kisses your knuckles through the sash. You feel his warm breath on your skin.
“I only want to dance with you,” you blurt before he can go. “Don't leave, please.”
Hood squeezes your hand. “You’re my dream, pretty girl. But I gotta check security first. Jamison’s probably arrived by now. Go dance with the real princes.”
“I don’t want to,” you say, probably sounding as whiny as you did when you first met Hood.
He clicks his tongue. “C’mon, be good for me, yeah? I’d never leave ya hangin’.”
Reluctantly, you let him slip his hand from your grip.
“Be careful,” you say fiercely. “Really, Hood. I mean it.”
“Hey,” he says quietly in your ear. “Nothing’s gonna happen. I’m real good at this. Never had the Royal Guard on my side, so it’s gonna be easy as pie. If you see anything, tell one of the guards. Arsenal’s outside. Jamison’s going down tonight, princess.”
Your heart is in your throat. You swallow it back down, straightening your back. Hood needs you to be a princess tonight. And that is what you do best.
“Okay,” you say. “Don’t leave without saying goodbye.”
“Oh, I’d be the world’s biggest asshole if I did that. No way would I leave without seeing you again, sweetheart. I’ll be back soon. Save me another dance.”
And then he’s gone, easily slipping into the crowd. A man approaches you, one of the visiting diplomats. He bows, and you curtsy, falling back into the rhythm of the festival. You spend the next hour on high alert, dancing with anyone who asks. You keep a sharp eye out for Hood, but he hasn’t returned to the ballroom yet. Probably, he’s doing a diligent check of security, and you’re grateful that he takes his job so seriously. But it’s your last night together. You want one last dance. And… maybe even a second kiss.
“You dance beautifully,” your current partner says. A general, judging by the medals on his costume and his straight posture. He’s dressed up as a knight, his mask serving as a helmet. He has a scabbard around his waist with a bejeweled sword.
“I like your costume,” you say, trying to be polite.
He grins proudly. “The sword was custom-made. Would you like to hold it, Your Highness?”
“Please,” you say, grateful for the distraction.
He takes out the sword and sets it carefully into your hands. He reminds you that it’s sharp, and you remember not to roll your eyes.
“It’s a beautiful piece of work,” you say, taking the sword in hand. “The swordsmith did an excellent job. Perfect weight, balance, quality.”
The general blinks. “I had no idea you knew so much about swords, Your Highness.”
Go figure. “I used to fence.”
He keeps talking, but you’re no longer paying attention. There are guards running toward the palace kitchen. You glance at the dais. Your father is gone.
You don’t think. You just run.
“Where is my father?” you yell as you enter the kitchen. Pots are strewn across the floor. Soup is dripping from a stovetop. You whirl around to face the guards. The captain steps forward.
“What happened?”
“Jamison was disguised as a waiter. There was a confrontation between him and the chefs. We think he took the king and went through the garden.”
“That wouldn’t work. There are too many people, and the gardens lead to the palace wall. It’s a dead end.”
The captain sighs. “Your Highness, I calculated this to be the most likely escape route. Jamison will want to get to his boat as soon as possible. We’re wasting time discussing it.”
You turn to the frightened chef, who looks like he might faint. “Is there anything that stood out to you about Jamison? Anything he said, did, wore?”
The chef lights up. “Yes! Yes, Your Highness, he was wearing these awful muddy boots instead of the standard loafers. That’s what made me confront him in the first place.”
Tunnels.
“He’s going through the sewer grate that leads to the tunnels under the city. I was right. Get Red Hood and tell him to meet me at the—”
“Your Highness, with all due respect, you are not in charge of this plan. There is a protocol to follow,” says the captain. He turns to the guards. “Men, follow me. Fan out and search the garden.”
“My father will die if you don’t listen to me!” you shout.
But the captain ignores you. Angry tears sting your eyes. Why won’t anyone listen to you?
The chef steps forward. “Where do you think he will go, Princess?”
You wipe your cheek. “The sewer grate on the south side of the palace. That’s the closest escape. I’m going after him.”
You run out of the kitchens and out into the warm summer night. People are still laughing, drinking, dancing, unaware of the tragedy that looms. You will never forgive yourself if you lose your father tonight.
You go to the south side. Three figures stand near the sewer grate. One of them is struggling. You tear off your mask and brandish the sword, furious and terrified. You point at the closest man’s neck.
“Let go of my father,” you say, body tight with adrenaline.
“And you must be the beautiful Princess of Calpatia. What a pleasure.”
“Jamison, is it?” You push the sword further so the tip is against his neck. He inhales sharply.
“Now don’t be hasty, Princess. Especially when it’s you, and…” Jamison looks behind you and laughs. “Oh my God. Just you? That’s pathetic.”
Jamison’s thug holds your father, his thick arm wrapped around your father’s neck. You glance at him.
“Father, are you alright?”
“Please, please run,” your father begs, and the thug crushes him in his grip. Your father wheezes at the pressure. You can see his cheek is dark with blood.
“Father—” Tears well in your eyes, and you blink them back. You take a deep breath. You must be brave. You aren’t back in that Gotham warehouse. You are home. “Let him go. I’ll hurt you!”
Jamison laughs. “You think I believe that?”
You’re shaking, and Jamison sees that. You push the sword harder. Blood wells up at the point, and Jamison winces, but his mean smile doesn’t drop.
“Kill me, then. Kill me and John here will beat you unrecognizable and leave you to die, and you’ll be lost in Calpatian history.”
“Run, please run,” your father begs, moaning in distress. “Do not hurt her. She doesn’t know any better, please—”
Crack!
The sound of a gunshot tears through the air. Jamison turns, and in the second he’s distracted, you hit him hard on the back of the head with the hilt. He growls, taking out a gun and trying to aim, but you slash his wrist with the sword. He yells, shouting profanities and clutching his wrist with his other hand to stop the bleeding.
“I’ll kill you!” he screams.
“No, you won’t.”
Hood appears from behind, and now you know the source of the gunshot. Relief washes over you. His mask is gone, replaced with his helmet, and he’s wearing his brown leather jacket.
“Hood,” you say, overwhelmed with love. You almost say as much, but you catch yourself. You are a princess right now.
Jamison sighs in disgust. “Red Hood.”
Hood looks at you, gun pressed against Jamison’s back. “Hey. Y’okay?”
You nod, breathless. “Fine.”
“Good.” He knees Jamison, forcing him to the ground. He takes his gun and throws it aside. Several guards appear, surrounding your father and John, who realizes he’s outmatched. He releases your father.
“Hey, Jamie,” Hood says, and you can hear the daggers in his voice. “Long time no try to kill. You’re lucky the princess is fine, or you’d already be dead, fucker.”
“Another second and you would’ve found her body in the sewer,” Jamison sneers.
You take a step forward and kick Jamison in the stomach. He groans in pain, hunching over. You look at Hood, who nods.
“Nice one.”
“Thank you. Get him out of my sight.”
“Yes, Captain,” he says, and you smile.
Hood hauls Jamison up. Several guards take him from Hood. The Captain of the Guard tries to slink away in the chaos, but you stop him.
“Captain,” you say.
“Princess,” he replies uneasily.
“Had Hood not come in time, my father would’ve died. Perhaps I would’ve too. This negligence on your part was unacceptable.”
“Your Highness, the most likely escape route was through the—”
“Perhaps some time abroad will cure your misplaced judgment,” you say. “That is all. Dismissed.”
He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but when you glare at him, he salutes and leaves, hurrying to catch up with the others.
“That was very foolish, what you did.”
You turn and face your father, who is frowning. He’s still bleeding, but that doesn’t soften his expression. You lift your chin, prepared for your final battle of the night.
“I will not apologize. You were in harm’s w—”
He cuts you off with a strong hug. You’re speechless as your father pulls you to him, hugging you so tightly, you fight to breathe. But you don’t tell him to loosen his grip. You just drop the sword and put your arms around his shoulders.
“Do not apologize,” he says, and you can tell he’s crying. “My brave girl.”
You inhale shakily, unable to do anything but hug back.
He steps back, wiping his eyes. “I know that I am hard on you. I’m afraid of so much. But you… you can take care of yourself.”
You nod frantically. “Yes, I can. I promise.”
Your father presses his lips together. “I see. I will remember that.”
He smoothes down his clothes and looks around. It doesn’t hurt this time, watching him put his feelings aside and regain composure.
“Hood,” he says.
Hood steps from out of the shadows, startling you. “Majesty?”
“I trust that you will see the princess safely inside.”
“Of course, sir. Guard her with my life.”
Your father looks at you. You smile. He nods, then walks back inside.
Now it’s just you and Hood. The stars are out, and there’s a warm breeze. The sounds of the party are muffled, and you’re relieved that the guests weren’t frightened and forced to evacuate.
“Arsenal found a bunch of Jamison’s men. The guards are gonna search for the rest of the night to find the rest. But he’s finished, don’t worry.”
“Oh.” You exhale. “That’s very good. Thank you for… everything. For saving me. Again.”
“You kidding? You saved yourself, Princess. But…” He closes the distance between you, taking your hands. Your eyelids flutter.
“I’ll always have your back,” he says.
You lick your lips, itching for a kiss. Can he tell? Part of you hopes not. The other part, however…
“Those were some killer sword skills.”
You grin. “Thank you. I was trained by an expert.”
“Hm, I can tell. The moves seemed familiar.”
“Did they?”
“Mmhm.”
You rub the insides of Hood’s bare wrists. You look at where his lips would be, under his helmet.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” he whispers.
“How much I’d like to kiss you,” you say.
Hood takes a sharp breath. “Still?”
“I’ve wanted to kiss you again since you first kissed me, Hood.”
You clutch Hood’s hands, squeezing. He squeezes back before letting go.
“Jason,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
“My name. ‘S Jason.”
“Jason.” He shivers when you say his name. You brush your fingers along the sliver of skin between the collar of his costume and his helmet. “Jason, will you kiss me?”
“Yeah, yes. Anything y’want.”
He goes to take off his helmet. You close your eyes, listening to the hiss of air and the click, and the helmet hitting the grass. He touches your cheek with one cool, ungloved hand. His thumb traces circles on the apple of your cheek.
“I…” The hand drops. Your eyebrows knit, but you don’t open your eyes. “I want you to see me. ‘S only fair, so you can decide if y’really wanna kiss me again.”
You open your eyes, about to protest. Jason’s face startles you. His eyes are a vibrant teal when they aren’t shadowed by a mask. His hair is dark and curly, like you suspected, but there’s a shock of white in the front. His nose is big, with a bump in it. Tens of scars decorate his face, most of them silvery with age. He has a particularly deep scar on his upper lip and another on his eyebrow. His face is strong and masculine, one you’d find on-screen as a rugged cowboy.
Jason looks down like he’s ashamed. His lashes are thick.
“No Prince Greg here,” he says quietly.
How can he say such a thing? Doesn’t he see how gone you are for him?
“Jason,” you say. “I am in love with you.”
His mouth parts in surprise. You step forward and kiss him before he can speak, arms looping around his neck. You bury your hands in his curls, combing through them. Jason catches you, making a surprised noise against your mouth. He holds you by your waist and dips you slightly as he kisses you back. You sigh, nipping his lip, and Jason makes a tiny noise in his throat.
“Don’t you know?” you say, pulling away. “Princes are terribly overrated.”
He smiles gently, holding you tighter. “Is that your royal decree, Princess?”
“Obviously.” You take him in some more, and it’s like bathing in moonlight. “You owe me a third kiss. You can’t leave until you give it.”
He leans in and kisses you, holding your chin between two fingers. “Good?” he asks.
You shake your head. “No. Now you owe me a fourth.”
Jason laughs and kisses you again. “I guess I’ll have to extend my stay.”
Summary: You're a princess who's visiting Gotham City. You weren't loving it to begin with—then you of course had to get kidnapped. Needless to say, your expectations of the night are in hell. You're hoping, at least, that you'll be rescued by the famous Batman. Instead, it's the infamous Red Hood that finds you.
Pairing: Jason Todd x princess!fem!reader
Word count: 6.6k
Warnings/tags: kidnapping, rescue, reader and jason don't get along at first, violence, drugging, meet-ugly, 7-eleven food as a courting strategy, kissing, softie jason (he always makes an appearance somehow!), strangers to...not-so-strangers.
the divider
You suppose that, for a princess, you ought to have expected a kidnapping to pan out at least once in your life.
You just didn't think it would happen tonight. In Gotham City. A place you weren't loving to begin with.
“Unhand me!” you scream as soon as your taker's filthy, sweaty hand leaves your face. “You'll be executed for this!”
You're not actually sure of Gotham's death penalty policy, but you feel like it's something you should throw in. In any case, the three men who've dragged you away, tied you up, and bruised you in the process, should be a little more afraid of getting caught.
“Batman will find you,” you add. “He'll save me.” You've heard great tales of Gotham's hero. If anyone can help you, it's him.
That makes one of them pause. But the ringleader sneers at you. “If he finds us. He's got a lot on his plate every night, ya Majesty.”
“I am a priority guest in this city, of course he would—”
“Shut her up,” the leader snaps, and suddenly, you're being gagged. Disgusting. Completely unsanitary. You don’t want to imagine if the gag has ever been washed.
You keep screaming and fighting through the gag until a needle pricks your neck. Your terror spikes as you realize there's suddenly an ultimatum to the fear: either Batman finds you in time, or he doesn't.
That's your last thought as the drug renders you unconscious.
When you awaken, it's still nighttime. Nearly pitch black, except for a dim lightbulb in the center of the room. It looks like you're in some kind of warehouse. You can't see much of anything and it makes you claustrophobic. Your head aches and your vision is blurry, and your cheek is pressed against a grimy floor. You just want to go home.
You try to sit up first, but that nearly makes you throw up, and you do not want to throw up through this ratty gag. So you swallow the feeling and close your eyes, waiting until the nausea passes. You open your eyes and they begin to adjust to the darkness. You’re alone, which confuses you.
Then you spot the explosives hooked up at the bottom of your dress.
The good news is that your kidnappers aren’t here. The bad news is that the reason they aren’t here is because they can remotely explode this place and you inside of it. If they don’t get the ransom they’re no doubt demanding, tonight will be your first and last night in Gotham.
Another thought chills you to your bone: what if the explosives are set to go off whether they get the ransom or not?
You squeeze your eyes shut as the tears come. You’re going to die.
But wait. Maybe not. Surely, Batman is looking for you. And his young, brightly-colored companion. You never understood that color palette choice.
They’ll save you. Your father has no doubt alerted authorities. You’re the most important person in the city tonight! Of course people are looking for you.
Yes, you’ll be saved, the criminals will be punished to the highest extent of the law, and you’ll be escorted back to your hotel where you can take a long, luxurious bath. That’ll be very nice.
You’ll also never visit Gotham again, that is for sure.
The door to the warehouse rolls open with a boom. You flinch and squint, trying to make out the figure. If it’s your kidnapper, you want to act like you’re still asleep. You think you saw that trick in a film at the cinema you snuck out to watch when you were young. You didn’t catch the whole film, though—you were found out by your guards before you could. Maybe you wouldn’t be in this situation if you’d watched the whole film!
As the figure gets closer, you realize firstly that he’s a lot bigger than your kidnappers. You sigh in relief. Batman.
“‘Lo?” asks a gruff voice. “Anybody here?”
You shout through your gag. You can’t make out a face, but it’s alright. Relief floods you. You’re saved.
Your savior jogs to you. You tilt your head as you make out a… red helmet? With glowing eyes?
Wait a minute.
“Holy shit,” Not-Batman says. He pulls out your gag first. “Y’okay?”
Realization strikes you; you recall a story one of the party guests shared earlier in the night about a crime lord and his terror on Gotham.
"You're that terrible gangster that left a duffle bag of heads!" you blurt.
"In the flesh," he says, tapping the barrel of his gun to his helmet in a salute. Red Hood. “You don’t look very happy to see me, all things considered.”
“I don’t want your help!” you say, wriggling away from him. “I’m in an alliance with The Batman!”
He tilts his head. “‘S that so? What alliance would that be? Beauty Pageant Runaways For Bats?”
“I am not a beauty pageant contestant,” you say hotly. “I am a princess, and I have a small militia looking for me.”
He kneels in front of you, holstering his gun. His one of many, many guns. Your skin itches with sweat and adrenaline as he approaches. Those glowing eyes in his helmet flip your stomach. This is all wrong. You're supposed to be saved by a hero, not an outlaw. A criminal.
“Princess, huh?” Hood nods. “Ah, yeah. I heard somethin’ about that. They took you from the Plaza. Just my luck that I’d run into ya.”
“You mean, you weren’t actively looking for me?” you ask in a small voice.
“Nope. You’ve got every vigilante and cop in the city looking for you, Your Highness. I came in here ‘cause I smelled motor oil.”
Now that he’s found you, what does he plan to do?
“Are… are you going to release me?” you ask.
“Depends. Is this place rigged to blow?”
“My dress,” you say, unsure whether you should let him know about the explosives. A man who leaves severed heads in a duffel bag doesn’t seem wrapped up too tightly.
“Hm?” Hood lifts your skirt slightly. He whistles. “Damn. This is some excellent work. Whoever did this is a pro demolitions expert.”
His praise doesn’t comfort you, oddly enough.
“Is it live?” you ask.
“Doesn’t look like it. And I’ve got a lot of experience with explosives. Just stay still for now.”
Hood squats and pulls out a knife. You shift. He's bigger than you even like this, crouched at your level. His shoulders nearly block your entire view.
“Who were they?” he asks.
“Who was who?”
“The people that took you.”
“I don't know. They were wearing masks. Three men,” you say, frozen as he takes the knife to your feet.
“Mm.”
Hood begins to cut the ropes around your ankles. You delicately point your feet, unsure if he'll slip and get you.
Your lip curls. "Where's Batman? Or that boy who works with him? Aren't they in charge of this city? I want to speak to one of them."
“I don’t work for the Bats,” he says, an edge to his words.
“Well, I don’t feel comfortable with you rescuing me,” you say. “You’re a criminal.”
Hood stops cutting and looks at you. "Y'want Batman? Fine. I don't mind letting you wait around for the Bat.”
He pockets the knife and rises, walking out of the warehouse and disappearing. Just like that. Your heart jumps.
"Wait!" you shout, squirming in your binds. "Wait, come back!"
But it's silent. Panic digs its claws into your chest.
"Red Hood! Red Hood, come back! Please!"
You begin to cry out of desperation, tears dripping onto your already soiled dress. You try to pull your feet apart, but the rope isn't cut enough and all you do is worsen the burns around your ankles.
You bow your head and cry onto the floor. You just want to go home. You want your goose feather pillows and Egyptian cotton ten-thousand thread count sheets. More than that, you never want to return to this stupid city.
"Are you cryin'?"
Your head shoots up. Hood stands over you, arms folded.
"You-you came back," you say, voice wobbly.
He shrugs. "I had an inkling that you had a change of heart, princess.”
You look away. "You left me.”
"I did,” he says. “But as much as you might deserve abandonment, I'm duty-bound to rescue everyone. No matter how obnoxious of a Batman fan they are."
"I'm not a fan. I just didn't want the morally corrupt, violent drug runner to save me."
He leans down and snaps away the ropes from your ankles—a feat of strength that doesn't go unnoticed. Then he saws the ones around your wrists. "Yeah, well, I don't do that anymore, and for such a pretty face, you suck at sweet talking."
He tosses the rope aside and pockets the knife. You rub your wrists and attempt to sit up. This time, you don’t want to throw up. Success!
“Anything hurt?” he asks.
“My legs,” you say miserably.
“Okay, let me rephrase: anything that'll make you bleed out in the next ten seconds?”
“Um… no.”
“Fantastic. I can probably getcha back to your hotel in an hour.”
You hold out your arms expectantly. He tuts.
“I don’t give hugs until the third kidnapping. Fourth one is free.”
You huff. “You expect me to walk like this? They took my shoes! Gotham is so uncouth.”
“And what am I s’posed to do about that?” Hood asks. “I look like a Payless to you?”
“I don’t know what that is,” you say. “Don’t you vigilantes have a protocol to follow? I cannot possibly walk through this filthy warehouse on my bare feet. I’ll catch a virus! You’ll have to carry me.”
Hood lets out a full-bellied laugh. It’s somewhat eerie through his modulator. You lift your chin, maintaining your composure.
“Oh my God! Highness, you’re a diamond-encrusted piece of work. I don’t carry anybody unless they’re unconscious and I like ‘em a lot. It’s a short list.”
Your brows furrow. “I’m a guest in your city, and I’ve been kidnapped! The least you can do—”
“The least I can do is leave you to rot here,” Hood says, tone cutting. “Or let your kidnappers come back and finish the job. You aren’t in whatever palace they carted you out of; you’re in fuckin’ Gotham, and if y’want my help, you’re gonna suck it up and walk.”
You look away, tears brimming once more. You sniffle.
“You don't have to be so mean,” you say, voice watery. “I’ve had a difficult night.”
It's quiet for a few moments. You've never cried as much as you have tonight, especially not in front of a stranger. A dangerous stranger.
“...Look, I think I got some spare boots,” Hood finally says. “Stay here.”
“Where would I go?” you mumble. Whether he hears you or not, he doesn’t reply, stalking out of the warehouse. He returns thirty seconds later with a pair of ugly, black, man boots.
“Used?!” you ask, voice high.
“Lightly, Your Majesty. They’re my spares. Here.”
Hood tosses the boots at you. You stare at them like he’s flung a pair of rats at you. He taps his wrist.
“Time’s a-ticking, princess. I’m on a schedule. I can always let you wait for Batman. He’ll find ya. Eventually.”
So you put on the boots.
You attempt to stand next, but the drugs and binds have made your limbs weak. You try and fail to get up twice before Hood hooks his arms under yours and hauls you up without a sweat. You squeal, fingers digging into his brown leather jacket.
He towers over you, doubly intimidating now that you're standing.
“Got it?” he asks, arms slipping away.
You definitely don’t have it, and you wobble backward. Hood grabs you again, hand on your back.
“Whoa. Easy.” Hood cups your face, a little rough. You squirm, mind flooded with all the germs that are probably on his gloves. “Look a'me. Look—stop fighting, Jesus Christ.”
“This is no way to treat a princess!”
“Yeah, I missed that day of training,” he says dryly. “Stay still, I'm tryna see if your pupils are dilated.”
“Your grip hurts!”
Hood loosens his grip and manages to keep you still long enough to examine your eyes. He hums and lets go.
“Seems like you’re still feeling the effects. Should wear off soon. Now…”
Hood steps back, but not so far that you can’t grab onto him should you fall again. He gives your dress a onceover.
“So that’s not gonna work.” He takes out his knife again. Your eyes widen.
“What on earth are you doing with that?” you ask, taking a small step backwards.
“Cutting your dress,” he says, like it’s a perfectly normal thing to do.
You gasp, backing away. “No you will not!”
“Princess—”
“This dress is one-of-a-kind, handmade for tonight’s gala. You’re not going near it! It cost seventeen thousand euros!”
“Is it worth more than your life?” Hood snaps. “I don’t have any spare clothes and I’m not dragging a ballgown with three pounds of C-4 attached to it around. You have to be able to move and you have to get on my bike. Now quit whining.”
You sulk as he cuts and tears the bottom layer of your gown. He isn’t as savage about it as you expect: the cut is neat and could even be salvaged in the hands of a good seamstress. The night air makes your legs prickle with goosebumps. Then his words register.
“Bike?” you ask as Hood sets your dress remains aside. You’ll grieve for your dress privately.
“Mmhm.”
“I thought you had a Batmobile.”
“That’s Batman’s car. Hence the name. I have a bike ‘cause I’m a morally corrupt, violent, drug runner.”
Your nose wrinkles. “Can’t we take a taxi? Or call a car service?”
Hood snorts. “No one’s driving to this part of Gotham at this hour. It’s my bike or nothing. Or, of course, you can wait for Batsy.”
He starts walking and you hurry to follow. Hood’s strides are long and you’re unsteady in his too-big boots.
“Can you please slow down? These boots are enormous!”
He doesn’t say anything, but he does slow down, waiting until you catch up before leading you to his bike. It’s a nice motorcycle, you suppose, if you were into that thing. You’ve always thought motorcycles were a stupid risk to take. Being on the road is dangerous enough—why remove the comfort and protection of a car?
Hood’s bike is shiny and cherry red, just like his helmet. He produces a proper motorcycle helmet from nowhere and hands it to you.
“Are you sure this is safe?” you ask, inspecting the helmet. It looks fairly clean and unused.
“Hasn’t killed me yet, and I’ve been dead once.”
Is that his idea of a joke?
“You’ll be fine,” Hood says at your silence. “I’ll go slow.”
“Alright,” you say, putting on the helmet. It smells oddly pleasant, like spicy cologne. “Very slow.”
“Yeah, yeah, very slow. C’mon.”
Hood kicks a leg over the bike and straddles it, all muscle memory. His muscles flex as he bends his legs. He pats the space behind him.
Cautiously, you attempt to do the same, but you soon realize that doing that exact move in a dress is probably not the smartest. You hold onto the seat with both hands instead and clumsily try to fold a leg over. It doesn’t work.
“Yo, Bambi. This century would be good.”
“I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle!” you say, glaring at the back of his helmet. “You could help me.”
“For fuck's—”
Hood turns around, grabs the back of your calf, and pulls. Your legs part and you shriek, certain you’re about to flash him. He holds your waist as you flail so that you don’t bang into him as you sit.
“What is wrong with you?” you hiss, smoothing down your dress.
“Re-lax, I didn’t see anything.”
“This is highly undignified—”
“Yeah, we don't really do dignified in Gotham, princess. Comfy?”
“No.”
“Mm. Hold my waist.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Beg all ya want.” Hood takes your arms and wraps them tightly around his waist. He’s warm and, oddly enough, soft despite his bulk. “You’re drugged and unsteady. If y’don’t hold on, you’re gonna fly off. Press up against me and hold tight.”
“Go slow,” you say again, obediently holding his waist.
“Yeah, I’ll go slow,” he says.
“Do you promise?”
“Promise.”
Hood turns the ignition. The bike roars to life, louder than you expected. You suck in a breath as he revs the engine and starts off.
True to his word (and what a flimsy word it is), Hood goes slow. He takes gentle, easy turns and breaks at all the stop signs, even though this part of the city is essentially abandoned at this hour. You’re able to study the streets, twinkling streetlights a little too bright to your recovering eyes. But you look anyway, shocked at the dilapidated buildings and uneven pavement. You’re definitely not in the Gotham you were earlier tonight. It hardly looks like the same city.
You turn your attention to your savior. It feels like an odd word to use for the Red Hood, whom you’ve heard enough about tonight. Your father had warned you excessively about what a dangerous area this was, and who exactly made it so dangerous.
But a savior is exactly what Hood has been to you. You decide that, despite his roughness, he still deserves a good reward. Perhaps a Hoodmobile. Or new boots.
Your rescue is going smoothly until you cross the bridge. That’s when another biker turns onto the road behind you.
“Shit,” Hood says, and you’re startled that you can hear him so clearly despite the noise. It’s like he’s in your head. “We’re being tailed.”
Well, that’s not good. You turn around briefly but you can’t make out your follower; you’re too scared to move on the bike.
But then you hear the bike behind you speed up.
“Motherfucker,” Hood says, and speeds up. Your arms tighten into a death grip.
“Hold on,” he says, like you'd do anything otherwise.
Hood speeds up and takes a sharp left turn. You tense and yelp, squeezing your eyes shut. He takes several winding turns and you keep your eyes shut through all of them. The nausea has returned and you’d prefer not to ruin the inside of his helmet with your stomach contents.
“We lose him?” he asks when the road levels off and it doesn’t feel so much like you’re on a rollercoaster.
“Um…” you begin, and chance turning around.
It’s clear for a few seconds until…
Well, to echo Hood’s sentiment: motherfucker.
“He’s there!” you yell, and Hood growls.
“The helmets are mic’d, you don’t have to shout,” he says, leaning into a left turn.
“I see him!” you say, and grab one of Hood’s holstered guns. He scrambles to grab it but misses, surprise slowing him down.
“What the fuck are you doin’?!”
You ignore him and take off the safety. Moving your free arm up to Hood’s neck, you fire. He curses up a storm, throwing in a few words you’ve never even heard.
The shots go wide; one dents a parked car, and one hits a stop sign.
“You’re fuckin’ nuts!” Hood yells and snatches the gun out of your hand.
But your tail falls back, evidently spooked enough by you and your poor aim. He turns on a side street and disappears.
“He’s gone! We’ve lost him!” you say happily.
“Are you insane?”
You wince at his volume. “The helmets are mic’d, you know.”
“You’re so—”
Hood cuts himself off and pulls sharply onto the sidewalk. He dismounts and pushes the kickstand down hard. Then he turns to you, chest heaving.
“Don’t ever fucking do that again. Are you crazy? You could’ve gotten us killed!”
“It worked, didn’t it?” you ask, putting out your arms. “We lost him!”
“No, we didn’t. All we did was throw him off our trail a little. We gotta walk the rest of the way now because he probably fell back to get more guys to follow us. But that’s not the point: what you did was insanely risky and stupid. You don’t know how to use a gun and you could’ve hurt yourself.”
You stay silent, chewing on his words. Hood isn’t wrong, he’s just… loud about it.
“Do you understand me?” he snaps.
You don't reply.
“I need a yes.”
“...I wanted to help.”
Hood sighs. “Yeah, well… just don’t. I’m good at what I do and I’ll get you back in one piece. But you gotta trust me.”
“Okay,” you say quietly. You feel small, but you don't want to cry in front of him again and confirm that you really are just a spoiled, whiny princess. “I'm sorry, Red Hood.”
You sit down on the curb, feeling exhausted. Tonight is awful.
It's quiet for a long moment. Then Hood says, “Don't cry.”
Your jaw works as you swallow hard. “I'm not.” You turn your head so he won't see.
“Christ on toast,” he mumbles above you. “This is exactly why I don't do rescue missions—”
You sniffle. “I'm not crying.”
“—’Cause I'm the world's biggest asshole,” he finishes, voice miles softer.
Hood sinks onto the curb next to you. He scoots in just enough so that your shoulders brush against each other.
“Look, ‘m a jerk. The Bats are better at handling civilians and being nice. You got the potty mouth with a bad attitude.”
You rub your eyes. “I don't like yelling.”
“Yeah,” Hood says quietly. “Okay. I'll try not to yell unless you're in immediate danger. But you can’t pull stunts like that. Deal?”
You nod. “I won't fire any more of your guns.”
He snorts. “Yeah, no kidding. Where’d you learn how to shoot, anyway? I mean, y’didn’t do it well, but you did it. Not half-bad for your first time in Gotham.”
“My father wanted me to learn gun sports,” you say. “I learned how to take the safety off and point and shoot, but I refused to do any more lessons after my instructor shot a duck for target practice. I think guns are uncivilized and destructive, and I don’t condone killing animals for sport.”
“Uncivilized unless you're getting tailed by kidnappers?” You think you detect a smile in his question.
“Everything has its exceptions,” you say primly.
“Ain't that the truth. C'mon, we should get moving. We're, ‘scuse the saying, sitting ducks out here.”
Hood stands first and offers you a hand. You take it, letting him pull you up. He does that so easily. It makes your spine tingle.
“How far are we from my hotel?” you ask.
“‘Bout two miles. If I had my gear I'd call for an assist,” he says apologetically. “Wasn’t planning to save lost princesses tonight.”
“I don't suppose there's any chance that you'll carry me, is there?”
“Pretty and funny,” Hood says. “You're the whole package, beauty queen.”
Your snarky reply is cut off by your stomach growling. Your eyes widen.
“Pardon me,” you say, mortified.
“What, ‘cause you're hungry?” Hood asks. “‘S a normal human condition.”
“You don't know anything about royal manners,” you say, but you're relieved. Your father would give you a tight, deadly look if you were hungry in public.
“No, I really don't. Born and bred Gotham, baby.”
“Showing any signs of hunger or thirst around company is highly undignified,” you say.
“Being a princess sounds exhausting.”
No arguments there.
Hood starts walking. You scramble to follow, and he seems to remember your shorter stride and slows down.
“There's a pretty decent 7-Eleven nearby,” he says. “I'd take ya to my favorite diner, but we're on a tight schedule. Those guys won’t be far behind.”
“A seven and eleven? Oh, I've heard of those!” you say.
“I’m… glad you're so excited about convenience stores?”
“I saw it in a film once. My father didn’t catch me watching this one. It looked so rugged, eating in a convenience store and fighting crime afterward. I've never been to one.”
“I know I shouldn't be surprised considering how much your dress cost but it does kinda blow my mind that you've never tasted anything but the finest cuisine,” Hood says. “Wait, did you say your dad didn’t catch you?”
You hum. “He doesn’t like me watching films that aren’t pre-approved.”
“Wow. Y’know, I could pirate you some movies if y’want. I know a great website for it.”
You laugh. “That’s alright. I manage to sneak out to the cinema more than I used to, now that he’s older.”
“Pretty sneaky, beauty queen.” He sounds impressed.
You shrug, trying to hide your pride. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
You turn on the corner and he leads you through a residential area. A few people outside of their apartments stare at you, but when they see Hood, they relax.
“Red!” a little boy shouts from a fire escape. He waves excitedly. Hood waves back.
“Hope you’re listening to your ma,” Hood calls to him, mock-stern. To anyone else—to you—it would be unnerving.
But the boy grins. “I am!”
“Then why aren't ya in bed, huh?”
The boy shrugs. “Not tired. Who's the lady?”
“The lady is a princess, so be nice,” Hood says.
“Whoa!” The boy gapes at you. You wave at him and he jumps up from the window.
“Mom!” he yells. “Red Hood found a princess!”
You giggle as Hood leads you away.
He shakes his head. “Kids.” He sounds terribly fond.
You stare at his back for a moment.
“They like you,” you say. “You keep them safe. But you're also a friend.”
“Helps to earn their trust,” he says gruffly.
You walk a little more in silence.
“I was wrong about you, Hood,” you say. He doesn't look at you.
“Lotta people are. Nothin’ new.”
No, it probably isn't.
“‘Kay, here we are. C’mon. We gotta be fast, alright?”
“Alright,” you say, following him into the 7-Eleven.
“Hey, Benny,” Hood says to the tired cashier behind the counter.
Benny nods. “Long night?”
“You got no idea.” He gestures to you. “She’s a princess.”
“Sweet,” Benny says. “What’s up?”
“How do you do?” you say politely.
Hood leads you to the rolling hot dogs and other cylindrical foods under the heat lamps. You frown.
“I have had a hot dog before,” you say. “I’m not that sheltered.”
“Yeah, but have ya had a buffalo ranch roller? My brother and I used to get these after patrol. That with a blue raspberry slushie? Heavenly after getting thrown into a dumpster.”
“Well, you’ve gotten me this far, so I suppose I’ll trust you,” you say.
“I’m flattered. Benny, my usual.”
Benny gives a thumbs-up and puts the ‘roller’ in a paper bag. Meanwhile, Hood takes you to the back where the slushie machine is. You watch as he fills a plastic cup with electric blue sludge. Your brows raise.
“Why is it that color?” you ask.
“Tasty chemicals,” Hood says cheerily. “It won’t kill ya, I promise.”
“That would be counterintuitive at this point,” you say.
“I appreciate your faith in me, princess.”
You return to Benny, who rings up the food. “Five twenty-seven.”
Hood looks at you expectantly. You look at him.
“What?” you ask.
“This is the part where you pay,” he says.
“A princess never carries money on her person,” you say, like it’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard.
“You–” Hood looks at Benny and sighs. “Why am I not surprised?”
He pays and you take your treats, trotting out the door.
“Thank you, kind sir!” you say as Hood waves.
“See ya, Ben.”
You hold out your slushie for Hood to take while you work on your fried goodie.
“I’m not a cupholder,” he says, but he takes the cup anyway.
“It’s warm!” you say, delighted. “Let me take a bite.”
Hood patiently waits as you bite and chew. You hum.
“Good?” he asks.
“I like it,” you say. “It’s unusual. Is this chicken?”
“So they say,” Hood says. “Try the slushie.”
You take the cup and first take a small sip. It’s cold and sweet and slightly sour and probably full of enough sugar to rot your teeth out of your head. You love it.
“This is wonderful,” you say.
He laughs. “Yup. Told ya, nothin’ like this combo. It’s a classic. C’mon, let’s get moving.”
You walk and eat, and it definitely improves your night, having something in your belly.
“This is just like Roman Holiday,” you say.
Hood snorts. “I don’t think we watched the same movie.”
“It has a likeness. You’re Gregory Peck.”
“Yeah, sure. If Gregory Peck was a street fighter, then yeah. I’m Greg fuckin’ Peck.”
“No, you’re right. You’re much younger than he was in that movie. How old are you?” you ask.
“Twenty-four.”
“Really? Why are you doing this?”
“Took a career test.”
You bump his shoulder. “Seriously, Hood. You’re young. You’ve so much potential. I can tell that you’re smart.”
“Hence why I do this,” he says.
You tut, shaking your head. “That’s ridiculous. You could do more. Be more.”
“You’re just fulla charm, aren’t ya?” Hood says.
Your next step is hesitant. Hood keeps walking.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way,” you say. “I guess I assumed…”
“Yeah, I know. You assume a lot, princess. And you’re wrong.”
“You made assumptions about me! You thought that I was stupid and naive and I’m not.”
Hood stops, turns. “Maybe I like doing what I do, huh? Ever think of that? I meant it when I said I’m not a criminal anymore. I help people.”
“I know that,” you say quietly. “I see how the citizens treat you. They like you. You care for them greatly. I just… I just meant that you could try new things too. If you wanted to.”
He’s quiet for a bit. You keep walking.
“I didn’t think you were stupid,” he eventually says.
You scoff. “Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t. Yeah, I thought you were a little… sheltered. But you’re smart. You’re certainly tougher than your dad gives you credit for.”
You roll your eyes. “He still thinks I’m six years old. It takes me getting kidnapped to see a city.”
“Pretty shitty tour.”
You smile behind his back. “Oh, I don’t know. The tour guide is alright.”
Hood stops. When he doesn’t speak, you approach.
“Hood?”
He suddenly puts a hand over your mouth and drags you backwards into an alleyway. Your yelp is muffled. Hood puts a finger to where his mouth would be under his helmet.
That’s when you hear voices.
“—single fuckin’ clue. She could be in the fuckin’ Atlantic by now. Halfway to China!”
“China’s on the other side, dumbass.”
You look up at Hood, eyes wide.
Those are your kidnappers' voices.
He seems to understand and nods. He squeezes your arm and removes his hand from your mouth. He points to himself and points outside, then points to you and points down.
You assume that means stay put and don’t try to shoot anyone with his gun. You can take a hint.
Hood slinks out of the alley. You peek your head out to look, curiosity overtaking fear. Besides, you trust Hood. You figure with a reputation like his, he can more than handle his own.
“Nice night, ain’t it?” he says.
The two men turn, looking close to pissing themselves. Good.
“Hood, we weren’t doing nothin’!” one says.
“Yeah, Ricky and I are clean!”
“Oh, really? So you had nothing to do with the kidnapping of a certain visiting princess.”
“We was nowhere near the Plaza!” Ricky cries.
The other elbows his friend. Before you can blink, Hood has them both down on the ground, pistols pointed at their necks.
“You were gonna hurt her,” Hood says, and now there’s no trace of humor in his voice. “That poor, sweet princess. Strapping C-4 to her like a fuckin’ bank vault. Drugging her, tying her up. You fuckin’ animals.”
“It wasn’t our idea, it was Bobby’s!” Ricky cries.
“Shut up, Ricky!”
A shot rings out and you flinch. Ricky starts sobbing. Red seeps from his leg.
“The only reason I’m not killing you two right now is because I want a word with your boss. But make no mistake.” Hood leans in. “You’ll pay for hurting the princess. I’ll make sure of it.”
With two final hits, Hood knocks them out cold. The sudden silence is loud.
He looks at you then, those eerie eyes glowing. He beckons you out. You go.
You look down at the unconscious bodies. “You don’t have to kill them.”
“What?”
“I mean, I’d rather you didn’t. You shouldn’t have that on your conscience.”
“They kidnapped you. They would’ve hurt you had their boss ordered it.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “I don’t want you to bear that burden, Hood.”
“‘S not a burden,” he says, gently taking your wrist. Your eyes fly open. “If it’ll make you feel better, safer, anything. It’s no burden.”
“Okay,” you say quietly, frightened at how pleased a part of you is at his words.
“I’ll tie ‘em up and send for ‘em when we get back. One second.”
You watch as Hood drags their bodies into the alley like they’re sacks of feathers. He handcuffs them to a drainpipe and ties their feet and gags them.
“So they can see what it feels like,” Hood says, dusting his hands. You can’t help your small smile.
“Ready?” he asks.
You look up at the starless sky, suddenly exhausted. Your limbs feel like lead. “I guess so.”
Hood looks into the distance, then back at you. He sighs.
“Climb on my back.”
You blink. “Pardon me?”
“You’re pardoned.” Hood shrugs. “I can tell you’re tired. We don’t have far to go.”
“Won’t I be too heavy?” you ask. “All that way…”
“Princess, I’m honestly offended. I once carried Batman and my brother to Bludhaven. I’m more than capable.”
“But what about your rule?” you ask. “About carrying people.”
“Turns out you’re not so bad,” he says. “Get on ‘fore I change my mind.”
So you climb onto Hood’s back. He secures you easily, and you wrap your arms around his neck.
“Don’t choke me out,” he says. “Otherwise we’re both goin’ down.”
You smile and relax on his back. “Thank you.”
“Mm.”
At first, it feels like an eternity, waiting for the familiar Plaza sign. You can’t complain, though: Hood is warm and being carried by him is even better than riding on his bike.
You blink, startled at the thought. What are you even talking about? This is the Red Hood. You were terrified of him a few hours ago.
And yet, the rhythmic bumping and Hood’s solid figure lulls you to sleep. You don’t even realize until you’re being nudged and a voice pulls you back to consciousness.
“Hey.”
You’re gently jostled awake. You blink blearily, yawning into Hood’s shoulder.
Oh. Right. You’re on his back.
“Hm?”
“Ride ends here,” he says. “We’re at the Plaza.”
“Oh.” Sleepily, you try to climb off. Hood sets you on your feet. Embarrassment fills you as you become more awake.
“I’m so sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you. You could’ve woken me! I—”
Hood holds up a hand. “Hey, chill out. ‘S fine. You had a long night, I get it.”
“Right. I, um…” You look up at the hotel. The top floor windows disappear in the layer of fog that’s settled over the city. You wonder what Hood’s windows look like.
“I’m gonna track down your main kidnapper and make sure they don’t hurt anyone else. I’ll kick his ass, at the very least.”
You look at Hood, blinking. “Oh. That’s very nice of you, thank you.”
He shrugs. “‘S my job.”
You nod clumsily. “Right, of course. I could give you something in return, though. Money or, um, firearms. A car, perhaps?”
He snorts. You smile shyly.
“Cute,” he says, but he’s not being mean. “No, that’s okay. I’m pretty set, actually. Doing what I do is surprisingly lucrative.”
“Surely there’s something—”
“Seriously, princess, no charge.”
You bite your lip. Is this too bold? Yes, definitely.
“What about a kiss?”
At first, you think Hood hasn’t heard you. Then he turns to face you in a way that tells you no, he definitely heard you.
“Ex-cuse me?”
“Um.” You scratch your neck. “Well, princesses kiss their knights goodbye, don’t they?” you ask, but it’s weak. It’s stupid. You’re so young.
You think he’s going to just walk away. That would be the kindest thing to do in response to your blunder.
“I’m sorry, forgive me. That was a terrible joke,” you blurt.
“No, it wasn’t.”
He steps forward, close enough to kiss you if he didn’t have the helmet. You look up at him, heart pounding.
“Wasn’t terrible or wasn’t a joke?” you ask, blood roaring in your ears.
Hood’s quiet.
“Haven’t done much kissing, to be honest with ya,” he finally says, not answering your question.
You shake your head. “Nor I.”
“Mm. And y’wanna kiss me? Don’t offer ‘cause you think you owe me.”
“I want to kiss you, Hood.”
He tilts his head. “Y’wouldn’t be kissing a knight. More like kissing a toad.”
You frown. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, I’m no Greg Peck. And I’m no hero either.”
“Do you give this speech to everyone who wants to kiss you?”
“You’re the first one who’s wanted to,” he says.
You inhale sharply. “Oh.”
“Uh-huh.”
You wait. He waits. You both wait for the other to back out. You don’t. Neither does he.
“Can’t believe a princess wants to kiss me,” he mumbles.
And then he covers your eyes with his hand.
You blink, lashes sweeping over his glove. You hear a click, then a hiss of air. His helmet hits the ground with a dull thud.
Hood gingerly holds your chin with his free hand. You keep your eyes closed even though he’s covering them, out of respect.
His mouth is warm and so, so gentle. You barely feel his lips at first, so you press a little harder. Hood doesn’t know what to do with his mouth, resting it on yours, so you take the lead, following what you’ve seen others do and what you’ve watched on television.
You reach up and hold his face. He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. You stroke his stubbled jaw, feel strong cheekbones and the ends of curls above his ears.
“Your Highness? Your Highness!”
The hand leaves your face so quickly, your eyes stay closed for a second longer, slow to react. Then you open your eyes and see the empty street.
Your lips tingle with heat. It’s all noise around you, policemen and your guards flitting around you, asking questions, alarmed by your torn dress.
You exhale, disappointment overtaking you.
Your father is in front of you, taking your wrists. “Can you hear me? Doctor, I need a—”
“I’m fine,” you say, finally meeting his eyes. “I’m alright, Father.”
He exhales and pulls you into a hug. It startles you. He pulls away before you can hug him back.
“I am so glad you’re alright,” he says. “The police say they saw a figure with you. Who was that? Was he your kidnapper?”
“No, not at all,” you say, staring out into the street beyond. Your lips are buzzing. “He was my hero.”
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