lover girl

Jack knew he shouldn't have left you. He'd had a feeling. The looming dread that had been creeping up on him the past couple of weeks. 

You'd been feeling out of it for a while now. A lethargic and nauseating achiness you couldn't quite shake, no matter how much tylenol or herbal teas you’d tried. 

You had played it off as nothing. Just a headache that came and went. An upset stomach due to the day old chinese food you’d eaten. 

“It's fine, Jack. I’m just tired.”

“Are you sure?” 

“I’m okay. I’m here. You don't have to worry.”

But Jack worried. 

He was always worrying. 

He knew that little things sometimes added up to a bigger, meaner somethings. That if you missed the signs, you might catch it too late. 

What exactly? Jack wasn't sure. He didn’t particularly want to find out.

But he sure as hell wasn't gonna let you blow it off now. 

His heart pounds as the ambulance finally pulls into the bay, the emergency lights blaring an ugly red and orange. Jack bary registers the EMT saying hello to him, his eyes focused on your splayed out form, laying on the gurney. 

“Hey baby,” he says, voice cracking slightly. 

“Jack,” you look up at him blearily, your eyes hazy, a bandage already taped to your forehead. Jack is quick to come by your side as the EMT lowers the gurney, his hand running over the back of your hair.

“One of the bystanders said she hit her head going down. It's not too bad. Just needs some cleaning. Same for her legs,” the EMT says to Jack as she watches him carefully lift the bandage. 

Jack lets out a shaky breath, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and leading your gurney back into the Pitt. 

“What the hell Jack. You just ran off-” Robby calls out, watching Jack come back in. He stops once he sees you, your scraped up knees and bandaged head, the confused expression on your face. “What happened?” 

“She fainted. We’ll need to start her on an iv, get her fluids and run a couple of blood tests. Do you still feel dizzy?”

“I don’t… Jack, what’s going on?” You look up at Jack, confused, panic written across your face. Jack looks back at the EMT who shakes her head.

“She was having trouble remembering the fall. Only remembers her headache and feeling sick.” 

Jack remembers how you had looked this morning. The purple bruises around your eyes and the wince you'd tried to hide when he said goodbye. 

“I don't have to go in today. Shen can cover if Robby really needs him to.”

“Go Jack. They need you more than me.”

He should have known better. 

Robby comes beside the railing of the gurney, helping to pull it into a trauma room. You look around, your chest beginning to rise and fall quicker as your eyes begin to clear of the confused fog.

“What’s going on?” 

“Jack, stay with your wife.”

“I am with her,” he throws back at Robby, turning to grab the bag of fluids Princess was moving to hand him.

“No. Stay with her as Jack. Not Dr. Abbot,” Robby tosses back, gesturing to your wide and fearful eyes. Jack swallows thickly, torn. 

Especially when you groan, turning towards Robby and vomiting off the side of the gurney railing. 

Jack’s heart hurts, pounding heavily against his sternum. You were here. The one place he hated seeing you.

Jack knows he can help take care of you right now. Bandage you up and order labs. He can solve the mystery behind why you were suddenly so ill. Why you haven’t been feeling well lately. 

He can handle that. Dr. Jack Abbot, night attending and army vet, can handle bad news.

But just Jack. Mr. Jack Abbot, loving husband and worried widower, cannot. 

He can’t take another bad diagnosis.

Jack looks up at Robby who’s helping Princess clean up the vomit, and then back at you. And he makes a decision.

“Hey,” Jack says, pushing down the railing on his side of your gurney and sitting on the edge. “Hey, honey-” He takes your head in his hands, taking the damp cloth Robby hands him and helping to clean your face. 

Jack sits with you, his scrub top abandoned, his hand clasped tightly over yours. He watches as the color slowly comes back into your face, helps you take a sip of juice when your hand trembles too much to hold the cup. He stays silent for it all, Robby cleaning and bandaging your scrapes, Perlah coming in to draw your blood, the hospital gown Princess helps you into. He watches it all with a wariness. An awful churning in his gut.

A fear gnawing away at him. 

“Jack,” you whisper, squeezing his hand. He hums, glancing up at you from where he was sitting beside your gurney. “It’s going to be alright.” 

“I know,” he whispers back. You hadn’t said much to each other. Mostly hushed whispers and clinging to each other's hand. Like raising your voices was too much for the already overstimulating hospital room.

Jack’s knee is bouncing up and down anxiously. He couldn’t help it, his mind turning over the many diagnoses, the myriad of things that could be wrong with you. You gently wrangle your hand out of his iron grip, reaching over to rest it on his jostling knee. Jack stills at the feeling of your warm palm over the fabric of his scrub pants, swallowing. You smile.

“Whatever it is… we’ll be okay.” 

"I know," Jack repeats again. But it's hard to really believe it.

He's been here once before. A hospital room just like this. The woman he loves loved sitting by his side. Slowly wasting away. And he didn’t even know it. 

He sees the symptoms, too familiar and painful. The exhaustion and fatigue that wore you down. The migraines and brain fog, lethargicness and nausea that plagued you. He sees it and he knows. Whatever labs Robby is currently looking at holds a future he’s not sure he’s ready for. 

You sigh, your hand moving upwards to run through his salt and pepper curls. They had already been mussed and messed up from his own hand raking through them. Jack sighs at the feeling, closing his eyes and leaning his head against your side. You hum, holding him close.

“I didn’t even get to do any shopping. I just… passed out in the parking lot.” 

“Don’t worry about that,” Jack mumbles into your gown. “I’ll order some groceries for delivery later.”

“I really wanted to get that new cream cheese to try. The one with the jalapenos.” You sigh. “Gosh, I wish they could just inject that into my iv. Maybe I’d perk up faster.”

Jack can’t help but crack a smile. You hum happily, still petting his hair. 

“There he is.” Jack looks up at you, his mouth open to say something. To apologize for worrying. For being so scared.

But he doesn’t get a chance.

The door to your room opens, Robby’s familiar silhouette shadowing behind the curtain.

“Jack?”

Jack clears his throat. “Yeah?” 

Robby peeks his head through the fabric. 

“I’ve got the test results back.” He comes in and sits down on the stool by the foot of your bed with a grunt. You give Jack a nervous look, your hand finding his again. He takes it, squeezing gently. Grounding. Robby clears his throat. 

“Well, your blood panels came back fine. No signs of infection or disease.”

“So…what is it? What’s wrong with her?” Jack asks, swallowing thickly. Robby looks down at the lab work in his hands, peering over the frames of his glasses at the two of you.

“Nothing.” 

The word hits harder than Jack could have expected. Of all the things he had anticipated-

You frown, looking confused.

“Nothing,” you repeat, the question no louder than a breath of air. Robby smiles and nods.

“Well, nothing that won’t go away in nine months. Congratulations kids. You're gonna have a baby." 

Both of you go very still. Your mouth falls open, Jack’s eyes practically bug out of his head. Robby sits there smugly, folding the lab results over.

“A…” Jack starts, trailing off as he leans forward. Surely he’d heard Robby wrong.

“I- a baby?” You ask, dumbstruck. 

“Hmm.” Robby nods. “From what I can tell you’re roughly six weeks along. Of course, you’d need an ultrasound and larger blood panel to be able to tell more accurately.” 

“Pregnant,” Jack breathes. His eyes dart around the room, finally meeting Robby’s. “But how?”

Robby raises an eyebrow.

“It’s a simple process. I don’t think I have to explain the exact mechanics on conceiving to you Jack-”

"No, I know- I mean how... I can't even...

"We aren't exactly prime candidates for conceiving," you finish for Jack.

He can feel your fingers wrap tighter around his hand, your shoulder brushing against his.

Robby gives you a look, his features softening. “I know. I know, I don’t know why. It happens. Sometimes fertility problems resolve themselves. No on can pinpoint why exactly. Could be hormonal changes, medication changes, reduced stress-”

You and Jack finally glance over at each other. He looks at you, eyes raking over your face, the glimmer of hope you were trying to hide. And it hits him.

The sabbatical, he thinks. The long overdue vacation he'd finally gotten around to taking. 

Three months without either of you worrying about work or patients. Three months of just the two of you; long walks in the park, lazy mornings spent in bed. Decadent yet nutritious dinners and way too many trips to the ice cream shop down the street. 

Leaving behind the worries of your every day. 

The sabbatical he’d finally come back from not even a few weeks ago. Just before you had begun to get sick-

You're the first to smile. A small curve upwards, more nervous than anything. 

"I'm pregnant." 

Jack breathes heavily in his chair. 

“You are,” Robby smiles. You take a shaky breath, unsure of what to say. “There’s quite a few things we’ll have to go over. I’m sure Jack knows this speech like the back of his hand, but it’s still customary…”

Jack is half listening as Robby goes on about the usual procedure. The prenatal vitamins you’ll need, the appointments you’ll have to set up. The safety precautions and symptoms and internal changes. The risks considering Jack was older and you weren’t very young yourself.

Jack is so far zoned out he doesn’t even realize you’re calling his name.

“Jack. Honey," you shake his shoulder, frowning. “Are you okay?” 

Jack opens his mouth, looking between you and Robby. He glances once at your stomach. Hidden behind the hospital gown. Looking exactly like it had yesterday. 

But it was different. There wasn’t some disease growing inside you. Some foreign thing making you sick and slowly sucking the life out of you.

There was a baby growing there. You were sick because you were making another life. 

Jack is hit by the realization that for the next nine months, you were going to be going through all kinds of changes. All kinds of hurdles and milestones. 

A baby.

Jack suddenly feels sick.

“I have to go,” he blurts, shaking your hand off of his shoulder and beelining out of the hospital room.

“Jack!” You call out, your voice raising with surprise. 

“I just need some air!”

Jack doesn’t turn back. He can’t. He can’t let you see the utter terror written on his face. 

He marches down the hall, ignoring the looks the nurses give him, the confusion Trinity and Mel share as he storms out down the crowded hallway and to the stairwell.

------------------------------------------------------

You find Jack outside. Not on the roof like you’d panicked he’d be. 

Robby had come back, shaking his head, trying to calm your racing heart.

No. After finally convincing Robby to let you help him look, You find Jack sitting on one of the benches in the park across the way from PTMC. He’s sitting there, elbows braced against his knees, staring off into the distance.

You approach him carefully, blades of grass crunching beneath the slip on clogs the hospital provided. Your clothes feel cold against you, comforting and familiar after the scratchy hospital gown. You glance back at Robby who stands at the edge of the park. He nods, encouraging you to keep going. 

As you get closer, you realize Jack’s not just staring off at nothing. You catch sight of his eyes, focused and glistening beneath the late afternoon light. You follow his sight line, watching a little family on the other side of the park. A broad shouldered man tossing a foam ball to a toddler girl, her mother laughing as her girl toddles about. 

You watch Jack for a moment, staying out of his sight line. You don't have to try very hard to guess what he's thinking about. The sheer amount of worry and confusion he's feeling. 

You felt it yourself. The whiplash of expecting the worst outcome only to learn you were carrying something wonderful. There was still the nervousness of what the future would look like. 

The schedules that would need rearranging, the house child proofed, your office room cleared out in space for another little person. Doctors appointments and ultrasound photos taped to the fridge, onesies and books and diapers tucked away in a closet. 

In spite of the excitement you felt, the confused yet exhilarating feeling of knowing you were going to be a mother, you were scared. 

There was a whole person you'd have to take care of. You'd have to grow and birth. You weren't exactly a spry chicken. Neither was Jack. And there were more risks and complications that came with that.

On top of all the things that came with pregnancy. 

You might not be dying from some malady. But pregnancy was no small thing either. 

You finally take a step forward, placing your hand gently on Jack’s shoulder. He snaps out of his stupor, back straightening, a panic written in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t be up-”

“I’m okay.” He frowns. You point to the space beside him on the bench. “Can I sit?” 

Jack nods, scooting over a bit. You sit. Jack wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand; being closer now, you can see they’re red rimmed and glassy. He doesn’t look at you. Not at first.

But he’s the first to open his mouth again.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have run out if there. That was a dick move."

You swallow against the thick lump in your throat, trying to keep the well of anger rising at bay. It wasn’t hard to. The fear and anxiety laid bare in Jack’s voice. The thoughts he tried so hard to hide from you unveiled. 

You nod. “Yeah. It kinda was." 

He takes a breath, reaching out to hold your hand. You take it, his thumb brushing along the ridge of your knuckles.

"I just... this whole time I was worried I was going to lose you. I kept thinking about all the ways I’d have to watch you die. All the treatments or surgeries…” he chuckles dryly. “I was so worried about you. And now all I’m thinking about is how we’re going to have a kid walking down the aisle in a cap and gown when I’m 70.” 

You sigh, the breeze a gentle comfort as it blows against your cheeks.

“That's all you’re thinking about? College already?” You give his hand a small, loving squeeze. Teasing. A clearing amidst the stormy turmoil you both had been worrying over.

“Well,” he shrugs slowly. “You know, between wondering if the pregnancy will hold. Or birth. Or what elementary school drop offs will look like and dinners and the house and my crazy schedule-”

“I know. I know, it’s a lot.”

Jack nods. “It is… and I’m scared.”

You look at him. Your heart aches with the pure sincerity written on his face. Jack was never one to hide his feelings. But he rarely gave them away easily. Not like this.

Truth written in the glassy mist of his eyes, the worry carried in the tightness of his hand around yours.

“I know,” you nod. “I know it’s not going to be easy. Robby explained the risks.” 

The long list of complications and genetic disorders and risky side effects run through your mind. You hadn’t known just how fragile pregnancy became the older you got. It was just never something that had crossed your mind. To think or worry about. But now…

You continue.

“I know this wasn’t what we had planned, Jack. Us. Having kids… and I know you may not want- may not think we can do this. But I don’t think this is such a bad thing.”

Jack’s eyes widen, his frown deepening.

“What, woah. No I don’t want you thinking that. I don’t- I don’t think that.” 

“Really?” You take a deep breath, hopeful. Jack finally smiles. A small and gentle quirk of his mouth.

“Really. And I’m sorry if I made you feel that way. I just… I didn’t think that I could have one.” 

“A baby?” You clarify. He nods.

“I told you about what happened in the army. With my leg and, well, everything else. And you told me having kids wasn’t exactly going to be easy for you.” It’s your turn to nod.

Between Jack’s injury and age, your genetics and seemingly lackluster fertility, a baby had just never been a part of your plan. And you were fine with it. Life was crazy enough as it was.

“I know. But here we are.”

Jack nods, looking out into the park again. He’s watching the small family again, eyes glued to the man as he hoists his giggling daughter into his arms.

“Here we are,” he mumbles. 

“We don’t have to figure everything out right now Jack. There’s still time.” 

“Seven months and two weeks,” he huffs. You chuckle.

“Right. Plenty of time.”

------------------------------------------------------

Robby makes Jack leave the hospital early with you. 

Although Jack would use the term ‘make’ loosely, considering he had already decided he wasn’t staying the moment he saw you in the ambulance’s hull. You’re cleared to leave not long after Robby drags the both of you back into the ED, making sure to stop by the pharmacy to pick up your new prescriptions. 

The prenatal vitamins and nausea medication sit among Jack’s own clutter of meds on the kitchen counter. Jack told you not to worry about groceries or the car still at the store. He’d take care of all of it in the morning.

For now, he just wanted to clean away the sterile smell of the hospital lingering on both of your clothes and get to bed.

He’s grateful, for once, that you're exhausted enough to fall asleep the minute your head hits the pillow. You’re breathing softly beneath the sheets before Jack can even pull his prosthetic off, your hand lain out on his side, like you still wanted him to hold it unconsciously. 

But sleep doesn’t come for him. Jack lays awake for a long while. 

The moonlight casts wispy shadows along the wall and he watches them, thinking. He plays with his wedding ring, twirling it between his fingers with mesmerizing ease. 

Not the ring you'd slipped onto his left hand years ago, the dark amber band that still glistens on his ring finger. Jack plays with the wedding ring he wore a long time ago, still a young man figuring things out. From his first marriage. His first wife.

It wasn't often he pulled the ring out. Sometimes it hurt too much to even look at it; to think about and remember her. Jack fiddles with the ring now, holding it against his lips as if he could whisper all his worries into it.

The worries which still rested in the side of his ribs, changed but there all the same. Jack can’t help but think of all the things he never got to do with her. The future they’d planned cut short by an illness he couldn’t cure. Maybe it’s why he felt so scared now. 

This unplanned thing laid out before him. Far out of his control.

Jack tosses and turns, his mind reeling with memories and thoughts about the future. He quietly gets up, setting the ring on his nightstand and fitting his prosthetic back on. He slips out of your bedroom, making sure you were still settled before wandering down the hall.

He’d always wanted to be a father. That wasn’t the problem. Hearing that you were pregnant had resurfaced those feelings like they’d never been buried. The idea of having a mini him, with matching curls and crooked smile. Or a mini you, with your bright eyes and pretty nose.

The problem was that desire had been locked away for a very long time. After he got injured in the army. After he became a widow. Even after he met you. Jack had begun to accept that being someone’s parent was just not in the cards he’d been dealt. But now…

Jack stands in the living room, staring around the dark room. He moves quietly, picking up a random glass and setting it in the kitchen, moving the tossed couch pillows back into their designated places. He can’t sit still when he tries. The air suffocating inside in spite of the cooling system blowing gently.

Jack ends up sitting outside on the back porch, his head in his hands. 

What would she have thought? After all this time. 

A baby. 

Jack’s not even sure he should begin to want this. To let himself hope. There was so much uncertainty with a later in life pregnancy, of an older parent conceiving a child. The constant what ifs and complications. So much to worry about.

Jack sighs, running a hand through his mussed curls as he realizes how tired he is. Of feeling on edge. Of never feeling like he could settle. The worry of something bad happening again. Of being all alone-

A noise sounds from the bushes running along the fence.

Leaves rustle softly, twigs crunching beneath something weighty. Jack looks up, brows furrowing. He squints, standing and flipping on the porch light to illuminate the dark backyard. The rustling sounds again, and Jack inches closer.

He pauses. And then he lets out a disbelieving laugh, instantly quieting himself.

The rabbit which had ducked back into the foliage at the sound of his voice peeks it’s head out again in the new silence. Her nose twitching, beady black eyes staring straight into Jack. He lets out a breath, in awe of the rare sight. He knew there were plenty of rabbits that lived around the neighborhood. He often saw where they burrowed through your garden or ate certain plants. But actually seeing one was rarer.

Of all the nights…

He goes still when the rabbit moves. Inching slowly out of the bush. She turns back, snuffling softly and moving forward again. A baby in tow.

Now, Jack was not a very superstitious man. At least, not by nature. He laughed when Ellis chastised him for saying the “q” word in the ED, rolled his eyes when Joy and Nazely talked about karma.

But if life had taught Jack anything, it was to never ignore the signs. 

He watches the pair of rabbits hop through the backyard, eyes following their path until they squeeze through the cracked boards of the fence, disappearing into the night. Jack lets out a slow and much needed exhale, the cool air of the night finally feeling fresh.

New.

Second chances that don't always happen every day.

Baby rabbit. 

Baby Abbot.

He liked the sound of that. And maybe, this time, there wouldn’t be so much to worry about. Not with you by his side. 

------------------------------------------------------

Bonus:

"Jaack!" You call out from the kicthen, where you're putting the first few bags of groceries away.

"Yeah?" Jack's voice echoes down the hall, the sound of more paper bags rustling.

"Did you get- never mind!" You grin as you find the tub of cream cheese you'd been dying to get your hands on, practically tearing the package open and digging in. You let out a satisfied hum as you eat a spoonful of the spicy spread, nodding in satisfaction.

Jack enters the kitchen, arms full of groceries, an amused look on his face.

"As good as you'd hoped it'd be?" You hum again.

"Better. I think your child already has great taste in cuisine."

Jack stills for a fraction of a second, then smiles. He sets down the bags and moves over by your side, pressing a kiss to your forehead, carefully around the tender cut still hidden by a bandage.

"Yeah they do."

You both put away the food and various household items you'd needed to stock up on. Trash bags and pasta, that lavender creamer you loved and Jack's protein bars he always carried in his scrub pockets.

You munch on a bagel- properly toasted and spread with your cream cheese because Jack insisted on at least being civilized about your cravings- going through the last bag. The bag crinkles as you feel around inside; you frown as your hand comes into contact with something soft. Fluffy. You peer inside.

A little stuffed bunny peers back at you. You stare at it for a moment, and then you laugh.

"Jack?"

"What?" He asks, folding the towel he'd just used to wash his hands. You smile, holding up the bunny. His ears go pink and he gives you a bashful grin.

"I just thought... well I thought it might be cute for the baby. You know, rabbits are thought to be good luck charms or something."

You laugh, bright and hopeful and so in love.

"You're so sweet, you know that Jack Abbot?"

------------------------------------------------------

I am actually so obsessed with peter rabbit, it's not even funny. and I love the silly "jack rabbot" joke.

“I’m nearly finished,” you snipped back playfully, office phone held to your ear—though your mind was half-distracted by the rhythmic tapping of Cat’s nail file. “I just need one more quote from the city planner. He’s dodging my calls like I’m the IRS or something.”

Cat looked up then, her gaze sharp and shimmering with mischief. “Maybe you should try a different approach, darling. Wear that dress I gave you for Kent’s birthday last year. People talk when they’re dazzled.”

“I’m a serious journalist, Cat, not a…distraction,” you laughed, though you knew Cat meant it as a compliment in her own twisted, her, way.

The three of you were a strange trio—Lois, the powerhouse; Cat, the socialite-savant; and you, the rising reporter who had somehow managed to bridge the gap between them. It was a good day. A productive day.

Until the elevator chimed.

The Daily Planet elevators were old and prone to groaning, but this particular chime sounded different. It sounded like a warning bell. You turned your head casually toward the lobby entrance, expecting a food delivery or perhaps a disgruntled local politician coming to complain about a piece written about them.

Instead, you saw a flash of hot, fluorescent pink.

Your heart didn’t just skip a beat; it performed a frantic tap dance against your ribs. Your eyes bulged, nearly popping out of your skull as you took in the sight. Standing at the main lobby security desk, gesturing wildly with a designer handbag that cost more than your car, was your mother.

She was a force of nature on what was such a nice and quiet day. 

Today, she was a Miami hurricane in a pink mini-dress. The fabric was so bright it seemed to have its own internal light source, hugging her curves in a way that screamed for attention. Her hair was a gravity-defying marvel of blonde highlights and towering hairspray, and her voice—the voice that could cut through a thunderstorm—was already echoing across the bullpen.

“Excuse me! Young man! I’m looking for my daughter! She’s very important around here, wears a lot of beige—too much, if you ask me—her name is, well she’s Clark Kent’s other half…”

“Oh, god,” you breathed, the color draining from your face until you felt as pale as the paper in the printer. “No. No, no, no.” You raked your hands down your face.

Lois paused her typing, her head tilting in like a scenting hound. “Is that… a flamingo?”

“It’s my mother,” you groaned, your voice cracking.

Cat leaned around her monitor, her thin eyebrows shooting toward her hairline. “She’s wearing vintage Versace? Or a very good knockoff. Either way, I need her stylist.”

Panic, cold and sharp, seized your limbs. Your mother was the personification of 'too much.' She didn't just visit; she invaded. She didn't just talk; she proclaimed. And she was currently making a beeline for the center of your newsroom, her heels clicking like a countdown clock.

You spun around, your eyes darting for a miracle. They landed on one, a desk three rows over.

Clark.

He was hunched over his computer, shoulders broad and steady, the very image of midwestern reliability. He was wearing his usual charcoal suit, his tie slightly askew from your earlier meetup in the hallway—his glasses sliding a fraction of an inch down the bridge of his nose from intense squinted focus. He was your rock, your fiancé, the man who could move mountains—but even he looked startled when he felt the sheer intensity of your gaze from across the room.

You didn't walk; you scrambled. You practically fell over a metal trash can as you ducked behind a pillar, rounding the corner to reach his desk. 

“Shi—! Ow! Clark!” you whispered harshly, sounding more like a wheeze.

He looked up, startled. “Honey, careful…Is everything okay? You look like you’ve seen a—”

“My mother,” you cut him off, pointing a shaking finger back toward the elevator. “She’s here. She’s in freaking flamingo pink and she’s looking for me.”

Clark adjusted his glasses, his eyes widening as he spotted the vibrant blur of your mother currently cornering a terrified intern to ask if the cafeteria served organic kale smoothies.

“Oh,” Clark said, his voice dropping an octave. “She… uh..she’s very bright today.”

“She’s a solar flare, Clark! If she sees me, she’s going to announce our wedding date to the entire floor, ask Lois when she’s going to settle down, and probably try to redecorate Jimmy’s desk!” You were hyperventilating now, your hands flying in frantic gestures.

“Sweetheart, breathe,” Clark whispered, leaning forward. “Maybe it won’t be that bad? We can just greet her, take her to lunch—”

“No! She has a list of names for our future children, Clark! She has swatches for my bridesmaids! Probably a cake tasting reservation and I have a deadline!” You saw your mother turn her head, her ‘Mom-radar’ scanning the room. She was getting closer. Too close. She was heading straight for your desk, which was unfortunately right across from Cat’s.

“She’s coming this way,” you hissed, your voice rising in pitch as you searched all around you. “Hide me!”

“Hide you!? Hon? Where? Under my coat?” He looked down at his lap, then back at you, a half-smile playing on his lips despite the tension. “You’re being a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“I am exactly the right amount of dramatic for this family!” you whisper-yelled, squatting. “She’s twenty feet away! Move!”

“I can’t just—”

“Down! I’m going down!”

With the grace of a falling sack of flour, you dropped to your knees. You didn't head for Clark’s desk—it was too open, too exposed. Instead, you scrambled and crawled toward Cat's desk, which was oh so conveniently draped with a long, silk scarf and had a deep footwell.

As you dove under the mahogany surface, you heard the faint thud of Clark’s mug hitting his desk as he fumbled to look natural and content.

“Good gosh…” you heard him mutter. Through the gap in the desk panels, you saw him desperately smoothing down his tie, his hands trembling slightly as he pushed back his curls.

And then, it happened. The sound of a thousand golden bangles and bracelets clinking together.

“CLARKIEEE!”

Your mother’s voice didn’t just enter the room; it conquered it. You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your back against the cold wood of the desk’s underside. 

“Tina!” Clark’s voice was strained, reaching that pitch of ‘customer service polite’ that he only used for the truly terrifying. “What a… what a wonderful surprise.”

“Oh, look at you! You are still so handsome, you, sturdy, large man!”

You heard the distinct sound of her heavy handbag being plopped onto his desk, followed by the wet smack of a lipstick smearing kiss on his cheek. You could practically feel the air displacement as your mother threw her arms around Clark.

“Where is that daughter of mine?” your mother demanded. “I’ve been calling her for twenty minutes! I have news! Big news, Clark! My florist says peonies are out, can you believe? In June? I told him, ‘Listen, Buster, my daughter deserves the fluffiest, pinkiest flowers in all of Metropolis! So he suggest hydrangeas!’”

You covered your mouth with both hands, a hysterical bubble of laughter threatening to burst out of your throat. From your vantage point between the desk legs, you could see Clark’s polished oxfords tapping and twisting. He was shifting his weight, clearly uncomfortable.

“She’s… uh… she’s around here somewhere,” Clark stammered. “She’s very busy. You know, big deadlines and all that. Y-You know how the news business is. Every second counts!” He was internally cringing at himself.

“Oh, pish-posh! She works too hard. Look at these dark circles under your eyes, Clarkie. Is she keeping you up? Is it all the wedding planning? I told her, the invitations should have been cream and safe, not eggshell and evergreen. Eggshell is for people who don't have a vision.”

You heard a faint scoff from above you. That would be Cat. She was still sitting at the desk you were currently hiding under. You held your breath, praying she wouldn't kick you or, worse, announce your presence.

“And who are you?” your mother asked, her tone shifting to one of intrigued appraisal. “You have very good bone structure. Are you the one who writes the fashion column? I read it in the waiting room at my dermatologist’s last week. Very spicy.”

“Cat Grant,” Cat replied, her voice smooth as silk and twice as deadly. “And you must be Y/N’s mother. The resemblance is…you are very pretty Mrs. L/N.”

“Well aren’t you a doll!” Your mother simply absorbed the compliment and moved on. “Okay. Clark, honey, come here. Let me look at you.”

“Oh, hey…Tina! please,” Clark groaned softly.

“You’re too thin! Are you eating? I brought some of those lemon bars you like. I left them at the front desk. Or maybe I gave them to a man at valet. Anyway, tell Y/N she needs to call the caterer. We need to discuss the shrimp cocktail. I want jumbo. Not those tiny little curls that look like my ex husbands...”

You were vibrating with suppressed laughter. The image of your Clark —the Man of Steel, the savior of worlds—having his cheeks pinched by a woman in designer neon pink while she fretted over shrimp was almost too much to bear.

“Woah o-okay…I’ll tell her,” Clark promised, throwing his hands up for her not to continue. “I’ll tell her everything. T-the shrimp, peonies, invitations. I’ve got it all down, ri-right here.” You clicked a pen and frantically scribbled her list on a not pad.

“Good man! This is why she’s marrying you. Reliability! And those shoulders. Honestly, Clark, if I were thirty years younger…”

“Tina!” Clark squeaked, tripped back on his rolling chair.

“Oh, don't be a prude! Anyway, I have a hair appointment. This humidity is doing things to my volume that I simply cannot allow. Tell my girl I love her, and tell her if she doesn't call me by three, I’m calling her boss!”

“I’ll make sure she gets the message,” Clark said, his voice sounding breathless with relief.

“Bye-bye, Clarkie! Bye, Lady Cat! Keep the gossip coming!”

The click-clack of heels began to recede. You waited. You counted to ten. Then twenty. The newsroom seemed to settle, the vacuum of energy your mother left behind slowly being filled by the return of mindless keyboard clicking.

“Is she gone?” you whispered from the darkness of the footwell.

A pair of large hands appeared on the floor with a smack right in front of you. Clark’s face came into view as he dropped to his knees, peering under the desk. His hair was now falling in his eyes, his cheeks were indeed a rosy pink from the pinching and her maroon lip shade, and his expression was a mix of exasperation and playful menace.

“She’s gone,” he said, his voice low and vibrating. He looked at you, tucked away like a stowaway, and shook his head smiling. “You are in so much trouble when we get home.”

You laughed, the sound finally breaking free. “I couldn't help it! Did she really say…”

“She did. And she told Cat she liked her bone structure.” Clark reached out a hand, helping you crawl out from your hiding spot.

You emerged, dusty and slightly disheveled, but grinning ear to ear. Cat didn't even look down at you; she just continued typing, though a small, smirk-like curve was visible on her lips.

As you stood up, you leaned in and kissed him quickly—a brief, sweet press of lips that tasted still like the waffles you made him that morning.

His hand slipped to the small of your back. As you began to turn toward your own desk to finally finish that elusive paper, you felt a gentle tug as clark reached down and, with a practiced, subconscious flick of his wrist, pulled the back of your skirt down, ensuring you were perfectly presentable for the rest of the professional world. 

He gave your waist a final, lingering squeeze before stepping back into his ‘mild-mannered reporter’ persona.

“Get to work,” he said, his eyes twinkling behind his lenses with a faux stern voice. “And call your mother. Before she calls Perry.”

You groaned, but you were still smiling as you walked away. The Planet was a place of relentless deadlines and many copier related disasters, but as long as you had your farm boy who could handle a flamingo pink-clad hurricane you call mom, and a desk to hide under, you figure you’ll be just fine.

-fin.

You leaned back on your chair and crossed your arms. "Some idiot who's now got a red dot sight right at the centre of his forehead."

"New job?" He hummed as he sat down across from you.

You nodded. "I just don't get how people are that dumb. Do they really think that they can get away with trying to sell classified data?"

"It's idiots like him", you said, pointing at the profile image printed on the paper, "who are the ones that keep me from getting jobs that are actually fun."

"I could always join you."

Looking back, you should have told him no. You should have told him it was not worth it. That you could handle one target on your own and that you would do something together some other time. Maybe when the prospective kill count was higher.

Because one former Black Widow out on the streets is one thing; adding Dex to the equation was another. You worked well together—no, that was an insult. You worked great together. Truly a force to be reckoned with.

But in some cases, even two can be company, and before you knew it, the target had escaped and called for backup. Fifteen minutes and a pile of dead bodies later, you were crawling back into his apartment through the fire escape.

Dex clutched his stomach, and you pressed your hand over the bullet wound on your thigh.

"That file was disgustingly unupdated." You winced when you sat down, placing your free hand on the couch to help you drop to the floor.

"Who thought the bastard would have backup, huh?"

You laughed, coughing up blood in the process. "Hey, did you have fun at least?"

Dex nodded his head, a small drop of blood dripping from his temple to his cheek with the movement. "They did get a few good hits on us, though."

You lifted your hand from your thigh, opening it up and observing the red that stained all across the lines of your palm. "Nothing we haven't seen before. Besides, they're dead. We're not. We won."

That was when Dex's smile got wider, allowing that same drop of blood to slip into his mouth. That was the sweet flavour of victory. Of knowing that despite how big your own wounds were, your enemy's were greater.

His eyes had that wicked shine in them that they only ever got in moments like this. He looked entirely pleased with himself. He was now a good person, he told himself. An even better boyfriend. Because helping your girlfriend take down seven different agents is the epitome of love.

Bleeding out for you was the best gift he could give you.

Dex's hand came to your waist, adding yet another red stain to your clothes when he pulled you closer. His head dropped lower with a small wisp of hair now dyed crimson falling over his forehead.

Your own hand brushed his chin and then his cheek. Your fingerprints left marks on his skin, right where he wanted them. The carpet beneath you—which Dex usually kept squeaky clean—was now a bloodied mess.

Holding each other close like this, your breath had evened out. The adrenaline had mostly worn off, and the only thing left was the sweet aftermath. Without a second warning, Dex pulled you into a messy kiss.

It hurt him to breathe and it hurt him to move, but right then and there he didn't have it in himself to care. At all. He tasted the blood on your lips—no longer sure if it was his or yours. He couldn't have wanted you more than what he did in that very second.

There were little things more intimate than this. Your blood in his mouth meant knowing you completely, consuming you obsessively in a way only Benjamin Poindexter could. It meant having a piece of you in his system, because to him, you already were his whole horizon.

His North Star that guided him in all the wrong directions.

Eventually you had to pull away, no matter how much you wanted to merge your body with his. Your head dropped to his shoulder with a tired huff. Your tongue licked your own lips, wiping the remnant blood. Once again, Dex's eyes fell over your face. You had red stains on your cheeks and on the left corner of your lips, over your right eyebrow and under your chin.

You had never looked more beautiful, a painting he had helped to paint. The red brought more shine to the colour of your eyes, he thought. He pressed one hand to the wound on his stomach, hoping it would keep the wound from interrupting his moment.

Stitches could wait for later.

divider by @uzmacchiato