Armageddon the rat

One night, you had paused mid conversation and said, almost confused, “I don’t feel nervous around you,” and he had looked at you gently, like it made perfect sense, “You’re not supposed to.” You had laughed a little at that, quiet and unsure, “I think I always thought I was,” and he just shook his head, “Not with me.” You did not notice it immediately, the way it began to anchor itself in you, but one day you realized you were breathing easier, and it startled you because you had not known you had been holding your breath before.

It was quiet, but not the kind that leaves you wondering if something is missing, not the hollow kind that makes you question if there should be more. It was the kind of quiet that felt full, the kind that settled into every corner of your chest until there was no space left for doubt to echo. With Clark, there was no guessing, no replaying conversations hours later trying to decode tone or pauses. Everything was simply there, clear, honest, real. Once, after you trailed off in the middle of a thought, you had hesitated, “I don’t know if that made sense,” and he had answered immediately, “It did,” like there was no room for doubt in it,“You mean you feel like you’re always expected to already have the answer before you’re ready to say it.”

You stared at him for a second, “Yeah… exactly that,” and he just nodded, “Then it made sense.” There were no lines to read between with him. You did not have to rehearse what you were going to say or reshape it into something easier to accept. You could just speak, and he would listen, not just hear you, not just wait for his turn, but listen in a way that made you feel like your words had weight.

One afternoon you had caught yourself rambling, stopping mid sentence with a quiet, “Sorry, I’m talking too much,” and he had frowned slightly, not upset, just confused, “No, you’re not. Keep going.” “You don’t mind?” you asked, softer. “I like hearing you think,” he said, simple as that, and something in your chest had tightened in a way that felt unfamiliar and warm all at once.

He understood you, not in the way people sometimes pretend to, not in a rushed or surface way, but in a way that felt lived in, like he had taken the time to learn you without ever making it feel like he was studying you. It came out in small, almost invisible moments. “You’re going to change your mind about that later,” he said once when you dismissed an idea too quickly. You blinked at him, “I am?”

“Yeah,” he said, almost smiling, “You always do when you think about it longer.”

“You make me sound predictable,” you teased. “Not predictable,” he corrected softly, “Just… consistent.” And somehow, that felt better. He never made a spectacle of how well he knew you, never pointed it out for anyone else to see. It was just there, quiet, consistent, unshakable.

It showed in the smallest things, the things no one else would think twice about, the things you might have once overlooked if you had not started to understand what they meant. Like the way he always bent down when you spoke softly. You had never asked him to.

The first time it happened, you had not even realized it until you were already mid sentence, leaning in slightly, voice dropping without thinking, and suddenly he was closer. Not abrupt, not intrusive, just intentional. Natural. He dipped his shoulders just enough, head tilting toward you so your words did not have to reach for him.

You stopped, caught off guard, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to mumble,” taking a small step back out of habit. “You weren’t mumbling,” he said quietly, already adjusting to stay within your space without crowding it, “I just wanted to hear you better.” You hesitated, searching his face for any sign that he was just being polite, “You don’t have to do that.” He looked at you for a moment, something gentle and certain in his expression, “I want to.”

That was it. No emphasis, no lingering attention on it. Just truth. You swallowed slightly and nodded, “Okay,” and continued, your voice still soft, but this time you did not feel like you had to make it louder.

After that, it happened every time. “Tell me again?” he would say if you spoke too quietly from across the room, already stepping closer before you could repeat yourself. Or he would lean in slightly when you turned toward him, like it was instinct. Once, you caught it and smiled a little, “You always do that.”

“Do what?” he asked. “Come closer when I talk,” you said. He seemed to think about it for a second, then shrugged lightly, “You’re talking to me.” Like that explained everything. And maybe it did. Because it was not just about hearing you. It was about meeting you where you were, about making sure you never had to reach further than you were comfortable reaching. It was in the way he adjusted without asking you to change first, in the way he made space without announcing it.

“You don’t have to get louder,” he told you once when you tried to raise your voice instead, a small, reassuring smile on his face, “I’ll come to you.” And something about that, about the quiet certainty in it, stayed with you long after the moment passed, settling deeper and deeper until you realized this was what it meant to be cared for in a way that did not ask you to become someone else to receive it.

Or the way he remembered things you barely recalled telling him. It did not feel forced or deliberate, never like he was trying to prove something, it just slipped into conversation so naturally that you would only realize it after the fact, when it lingered a little too long in your chest. “You hate that place,” he would say casually when someone suggested lunch there, not even looking up from whatever he was doing, like it was common knowledge.

You had blinked at him the first time, caught off guard, “I do?” He glanced over then, something soft in his expression, like he already knew you would not remember, “You told me it smells like burnt coffee and regret.” You stared at him for a second longer than necessary, trying to place the moment, “I said that?” A small smile tugged at his mouth, barely there but warm, “You were very specific about it.” You let out a quiet laugh, still a little stunned, “I don’t even remember that,” and he just shrugged slightly, like it was not something worth pointing out, “I do.”

It should have been a small thing.

It was a small thing.

But it stayed with you.

Because you had forgotten saying it.

And he had not.

It lived somewhere in him, not highlighted or displayed, just… kept. Filed away with everything else about you that he held onto so carefully, like none of it was too insignificant to matter. “You always say that when something disappoints you,” he mentioned once when you made an offhand comment under your breath. You turned to him, eyebrows lifting, “Say what?”

“That it almost had potential,” he replied, tone thoughtful, not teasing. “You don’t like dismissing things completely.” You huffed a quiet laugh, a little embarrassed, “I didn’t realize I had patterns like that.” He looked at you, steady and gentle, “Everyone does.” Then, softer, “Yours are just easy to pay attention to.”

Sometimes you would test it without meaning to, like your mind could not quite believe it was real, like you needed to see the edges of it just to understand how far it went. “What’s my favorite season?” you asked once, out of nowhere, watching him carefully. He did not hesitate, not even for a second, “Late summer.” You narrowed your eyes slightly, “That’s not even a proper answer.”

“It is for you,” he said, almost amused, “You said you like when it still feels like summer but people stop expecting you to enjoy it.” You stared at him, your expression softening despite yourself, “I forgot I said that.” “You say a lot of things you don’t realize are important,” he replied quietly. You swallowed, looking away for a second, “And you just… remember them?” He nodded, simple, certain, “Yeah.”

Other times, it was even smaller.

“You’re going to want tea later,” he said one afternoon, passing by your desk like it was just another thought, something casual, something unimportant.

You frowned slightly, glancing up at him. “Why?”

“You always do after that kind of meeting,” he answered easily.

You tilted your head. “What kind of meeting?”

“The ones where you pretend you’re not annoyed,” he said gently.

You let out a soft, surprised laugh, shaking your head. “I wasn’t pretending.”

He raised an eyebrow just slightly, not pushing, not teasing, just… knowing.

You huffed, looking away for a second before giving in. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“I’ll bring you some,” he said, already moving on like the decision had been made long before you even responded.

“You don’t have to,” you called after him, a little louder this time.

“I know,” he replied without turning back.

And that was it.

The conversation ended like it had barely begun, but it stayed with you anyway, lingering somewhere in the back of your mind as the day went on, as the meeting faded into the rest of your work, as you forgot about it entirely.

Until later.

Until the quiet moment when he set the cup down next to you without a word.

You looked up, a little startled, your eyes flicking from him to the tea, then back again. “You actually did it.”

He shrugged slightly, like it was nothing. “You wanted it.”

You picked it up, the warmth seeping into your hands, grounding. You took a small sip, then paused, your brows pulling together just slightly. “This is… exactly what I would’ve picked.”

“I know,” he said simply.

Of course he did.

It always was.

You watched him for a second longer than you meant to, something quiet settling in your chest again. “You’re kind of scary,” you told him once later, half joking, your voice softer as you leaned against the edge of his desk.

He glanced up from his notes, a little confused. “Scary?”

“You remember everything,” you said, your gaze dropping briefly before returning to him. “Even things I don’t.”

He considered that for a moment, then shook his head slightly. “Not everything.”

“Feels like it,” you murmured.

His gaze softened then, something quieter, deeper settling there. “Just the things that matter.”

Your breath caught a little at that, subtle but enough that you felt it.

“Who decides what matters?” you asked, almost without thinking, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

He held your gaze for a second, steady, unwavering. “I do.”

There was no arrogance in it. No weight meant to overwhelm you. Just honesty, simple and certain in a way that made it feel heavier than anything else he could have said.

You looked down, trying to steady the way your chest had suddenly tightened. “That’s… a lot.”

“I don’t think so,” he said gently. “It’s easy.”

“Easy?” you echoed, glancing back up at him, searching his expression like you might find something more there.

A small smile appeared, quiet and certain. “Yeah.”

He paused, just for a second, like he was choosing whether or not to say it out loud.

“It’s you.”

And there it was again.

That feeling.

“You know what I’m craving today?” you asked one afternoon, leaning against his desk, arms loosely folded, tone light like it was just something to fill the quiet, but there was a part of you that was watching him, waiting, curious in a way you could not quite explain.

He did not even look up from his notes.

“The strawberry pastries from that corner bakery,” he said easily, pen still moving, voice steady like the answer had been sitting there waiting for the question. “The one you said tastes like summer.”

Your breath caught.

Not sharply, not enough to draw attention, but enough that you felt it, the way something in your chest tightened and softened at the same time.

You stared at him for a second. “You didn’t even think about that.”

“I did,” he replied, still not looking up, a hint of something amused in his tone. “Just not out loud.”

You let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but softer. “I was trying to trick you.”

“That wasn’t a very hard one,” he said.

Now you tilted your head, narrowing your eyes slightly, “Oh really?”

That got him to pause. He glanced up at you then, finally, something warm flickering across his face. “You talk about those pastries like they’re a life experience.”

“They are,” you defended, a small smile slipping through despite yourself.

“I know,” he said simply.

And that was the thing.

He knew.

Not in a vague way, not in a general sense, but specifically, precisely, like every small detail you had ever shared with him had somewhere to go, somewhere to stay.

“Okay,” you tried again, pushing off the desk slightly, “what about this one. What am I thinking about right now?”

He leaned back in his chair just a little, studying you for a moment, not intensely, not like he was trying to solve something, just… observing.

“You’re wondering if I’m always going to get it right,” he said.

You blinked.

“That’s not fair,” you said quietly.

A small smile curved at the edge of his mouth. “You didn’t say it had to be about food.”

You huffed a soft laugh, shaking your head, but you could feel it again, that same warmth settling deeper. “And? Am I wondering that?”

“Yeah,” he said, gentler now. “And you’re also wondering what it means if I do.”

Your voice came out softer than you intended. “And what does it mean?”

He held your gaze, steady, grounded, like he was giving you time to sit with it instead of rushing to answer.

“It means I pay attention,” he said. “That’s all.”

That’s all.

Like it was nothing.

Like it did not feel like everything.

“Clark,” you murmured, something in your expression shifting, something a little more vulnerable slipping through.

He noticed immediately. Of course he did.

“You don’t have to make it into something bigger,” he added quietly. “It’s just… you tell me things. I remember them.”

You swallowed, nodding slightly, even though your chest still felt too full. “Yeah. I guess you do.”

He watched you for another second, then, softer, “Did I get it right?”

You let out a small breath, a real one this time, your shoulders easing without you thinking about it. “You always do.”

Something in his expression softened at that, not proud, not self satisfied, just… warm.

“Good,” he said.

You lingered there a moment longer than you meant to, leaning against his desk, the quiet stretching comfortably between you, before someone across the room called his name and the moment shifted.

It was not just the two of you, either.

That was the other thing.

It was how he carried you into rooms you were still learning to feel comfortable in, how he never let you fade into the background even when you felt the urge to.

Meetings used to make you shrink a little. Too many voices overlapping, too many interruptions that made your thoughts feel like they had to fight to exist. You would sit there with ideas forming carefully in your mind, shaping themselves into something you thought might be worth saying, only to watch the moment pass before you could speak. And then it would be gone. You would press your lips together, nod along, let it dissolve like it always did.

Clark noticed.

He never pointed it out directly, never said anything that would make you feel exposed. He just… adjusted.

Clark never forced you to speak.

He made space for you.

“What do you think?” he would ask, turning toward you in the middle of a discussion, his voice steady and certain, cutting cleanly through the noise without raising it, like your opinion was not just welcome but necessary. The first time he did it, you had blinked at him, caught off guard, “Me?” you asked quietly, almost instinctively.

“Yeah,” he said, like there was no one else he could possibly mean. “I want to hear what you think.” You hesitated, glancing around the table, feeling every pair of eyes shift toward you, “I don’t know if it’s fully formed yet,” you admitted. He nodded once, patient, unhurried, “That’s okay. Say it anyway.” Something about the way he said it, like there was no risk in trying, made you inhale and begin, your voice softer at first, but steadier with each word.

And when you spoke, he listened.

Not politely. Not the kind of listening where someone waits for their turn to respond. He listened like it mattered. His attention did not waver, did not drift, did not split between you and anything else in the room. You noticed it in the way he angled slightly toward you, in the way his expression stayed focused, like he was following every thought as you shaped it out loud.

Once, when you paused, unsure if you were making sense, you glanced at him, “Am I explaining this badly?” He shook his head immediately, “No. Keep going.”

“You’re sure?” you asked, quieter. “I’m following,” he said, softer now, like he was grounding you back into it. And you did. You finished your thought, and when the conversation moved forward, he circled back to it later, referencing something you said like it had been an important part of the discussion, because to him, it was.

Sometimes, when the room was too serious, too stiff, when the conversation dragged on just a little too long, you would catch his eye. It happened without planning. A shared glance across the table, a flicker of recognition, like you had both noticed the same thing at the same time. The ghost of a joke would form between you, unspoken but fully understood. You would press your lips together, trying to stay composed, and across from you, you would see the same effort mirrored back.

“Don’t,” you mouthed once, barely moving your lips. His eyes flickered with quiet amusement, “I’m not doing anything,” he mouthed back. You raised an eyebrow slightly. He looked away for a second, like that would help. It never did. A small, quiet laugh would escape him first, barely audible, just enough for you to notice. Even when you were turned slightly, pretending to pay attention to someone else speaking, you could feel it. You would glance back and find him already looking at you, warmth in his eyes, something soft and fond that made everything else in the room blur for just a second.

“You’re terrible,” you whispered once under your breath when the moment passed. “You started it,” he whispered back, not even looking at you directly, like it was just part of the conversation.

It felt like being chosen, over and over again, in ways no one else could see.

There were notes, too.

Passed across the table during meetings when you were supposed to be paying attention. His handwriting neat, careful, deliberate in a way that felt so distinctly him. The first time it happened, you had looked down, confused, unfolding the paper slowly.

Don’t say it.

You bit back a smile immediately, glancing up at him. He was looking straight ahead, completely composed, like nothing had happened. You nudged the paper slightly, catching his attention just enough. He didn’t look at you, but you saw it, the smallest shift in his expression.

“I can see it on your face,” he added when you leaned just slightly closer.

You quickly scribbled something back, trying to keep your hand steady enough not to draw attention.

You started it.

You slid it toward him, your fingers brushing the edge of his for just a second longer than necessary before pulling away. He did not look at it right away. He waited, patient as always, until someone else began speaking, until the attention of the room shifted elsewhere. Then he unfolded it slowly, careful, like he had all the time in the world. The corner of his mouth lifted, just barely, that quiet smile you had started to recognize before it even fully formed.

He wrote something back.

You felt it before you saw it, the light tap of the paper against your hand. You unfolded it quickly, glancing down.

I always do :)

You pressed your lips together, trying not to react, trying to stay composed, but you could feel it again, that warmth, that quiet pull that made everything else feel distant for a moment.

Later, when the meeting ended and people started filing out, you leaned slightly toward him, voice low, “You’re distracting, Smallville.”

He glanced at you, something amused in his expression, “You’re the one who writes back.”

“You started it,” you repeated, softer this time.

“Yeah,” he said, just as quietly. “I did.”

It was all so small.

So easy to miss if you were not paying attention.

But you were.

You were starting to see it everywhere, in every glance, every quiet moment, every word that passed between you without needing to be explained.

And somehow, all of it together felt like something bigger than anything loud or obvious ever could have been.

It was everything.

Even when you were not directly with him, he found ways to reach you. It never interrupted anything, never pulled attention in a way others would notice. You would be mid conversation with someone else, explaining something or laughing politely, and Clark would pass by, pausing just long enough to say, “You should try that book I told you about. You’d like it.”

You would blink, turning slightly, “Which one?” and he would glance back, already moving, “The one with the short chapters. You said you like stopping points.” Then he would keep walking. Like it was nothing. Like it did not leave your heart racing for reasons you could not explain to anyone else. You would turn back, trying to pick up where you left off, “Sorry, what were you saying?” and the conversation would continue, unchanged for everyone else.

No one noticed. That was the strange part. To them, it was just Clark being thoughtful. To you, it felt like something else entirely, something quieter and deeper, something that stayed long after he walked away.

To everyone else, Clark Kent was kind, attentive, maybe a little earnest in a way people overlooked. To you, he was the way your thoughts felt lighter when you were around him, the certainty that you did not have to earn his attention, the quiet gravity that pulled you closer without ever demanding it. You mentioned it once, half joking, leaning against his desk, “You do that thing where you just show up and say exactly the right thing.”

He looked up, a little confused, “I just say what I’m thinking.” You shook your head, softer now, “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

“Does it bother you?” he asked gently. You hesitated, then shook your head again, “No. It just… matters more than it should.” His expression softened, something steady settling there, “It matters because it’s you.” You looked away for a second, feeling that familiar tightness in your chest, “That’s what scares me.”

“Why?” he asked quietly. You let out a small breath, “Because it feels too right.” He did not rush to answer that. He just watched you for a moment, then said, “It’s supposed to feel right.” Like it was simple. Like it always had been.

One evening, when the office had finally emptied out and the noise of the day had faded into a distant hum, you found yourselves alone. Papers were scattered across desks, unfinished work left for tomorrow, the city glowing faintly through the windows. You were talking about something trivial, something neither of you would remember later, and then it shifted.

You looked at him and felt it, the weight of it, not heavy in a suffocating way but heavy like something real, something that could not be ignored. “I think this is the first time,” you said, your voice quieter than usual. He noticed immediately, of course he did. He stilled slightly, giving you his full attention. “The first time what?” he asked gently.

You hesitated, searching for words that felt big enough without breaking the moment, “The first time I’ve felt like this. Like I’m… actually seen. And it doesn’t feel like I have to prove anything to keep it.” His expression softened in a way that made your chest ache. “You don’t,” he said, no hesitation, no doubt.

“You don’t have to prove anything. Not to me.” The room felt still around you. You took a small step closer without realizing it, and he mirrored you just enough to close the distance, careful, always careful, like he understood the space between you mattered.

“I don’t think I knew it could be like this,” you admitted. He smiled, quiet and warm, “I was hoping you would.” Your breath caught, not because it was dramatic, but because it was simple, because it was true. You leaned in just a little, not quite touching him, but close enough to feel the warmth of him, the steadiness that had slowly become your anchor. “Clark,” you murmured, unsure what you were asking for.

“I’m here,” he said softly. And for once, you did not feel like you were standing on your toes trying to reach something just out of grasp. With Clark, you never had to reach. He was already there.