meow

•───────•°•⚯•°•───────•

Jason hasn’t been able to see for two weeks.

That’s a little dramatic. He’s been using contacts for patrol but besides that, everything’s been blurry. He actually started getting used to the fuzzy edges and blobs dancing around his vision, managing his life surprisingly well.

It would be a miracle if his eyes weren’t stuck in a permanent squint after this.

It would be simple enough to mention it to Bruce. He’d have a pair by tomorrow morning, that was probably double the amount of his current frames. But he couldn’t confront it, admitting he lost his glasses would be a lie. He knew where they were.

The thin rimmed black glasses were sitting on your dresser. Hell, he could practically see them now. They were stuck in that little crevice between the dish where you display the perfumes you refuse to wear, because they were too expensive, and the jewelry box your grandmother gave you.

It’s his own fault.

It would be an easy fix, really it would be.

He was just too much of a coward to say anything, to call you back.

The last time you saw each other was still fresh in his mind. All he did was cook you dinner, and you looked at him in that way he’d always ignored before. In the way that made him think he could actually be worth something. You had a knack for that. For making him think he could be something other than who he was, to be someone he was never destined to be.

It was something that had no name. It was just full of life and the potential for more. The possibility of a love he never deserved.

It petrified him.

He didn’t stay long after dinner, coming up with some half-assed excuse that Bruce needed him.

There was no missing the way your face fell, even if it was for a fraction of a second, he saw the subtle drop of your eyebrows. Yet you recovered quickly enough, masking with an understanding smile.

That was thirteen days ago.

You’d reached out briefly, called occasionally, and hadn’t seen each other since.

The distance was obvious.

You were texting him like normal at first. Then gradually, the replies gained more hours in between, the messages shortened, hearts shrunk, and now you don’t know him anymore.

He couldn’t face the music, the selfish and guilt-ridden part of him didn’t want to. It’s too daunting to dare.

It’s better this way, easier to be unhappy and safe.

That’s what he tells himself anyway. The sentence plays on repeat while he’s on patrol. It’s what echoes behind his eyes as he passes your building. It’s whispered in his ear when he sits down on ledge across the street.

He cuts his comms for a minute. For once, he doesn’t mind how cold Gotham nights were while watching the fairly lights twinkle on your wall. You pulled the curtain but distantly, he can see the small fade and brighten of the bulbs.

The last time he was allowed in that room was a memory he’d die in if he was given the chance.

There was something so perfect about being in your bed and watching you laugh. He got lost just thinking about it. How you throw your head back onto the pillow, the way your eyes squeeze shut with a smile, the giggle you fail to hide when your hand flies over your mouth.

It’s the closest he’s ever been to an angel.

Your hair ended up in your face mid-laugh. Before you got the chance to notice it or be uncomfortable by it, two of Jason’s fingers caressed your cheek. While tracing your jawline his touch was featherlight, almost as if he was scared of hurting you. The tips of his fingers were rough, yet shockingly gentle. He moved the few strands behind your ear without being prompted to.

The rest of the night passed like that. Jason by your side, doing anything to get that sound out of you again. He was greedy, he’d take any of it and soak in it forever. The sight of your smile, the melody of your laugh, the smell of your perfume rubbing on his shirt. It was perfect.

He’d kill for the rest of his life to pass like this, to let the day die with you in his arms.

But Jason Todd was not normal. Jason Todd did not get to have a happy ending. He’d learned that much, and he’d accepted it long before you came along.

It was a momentary lapse.

Four month lapse to be specific.

That was another thing he tried to tell himself on the nights he missed you. The nights when he’d stare at the read receipt in shame. He would spend the whole day curating a message, just for the clock to strike nine and pocket his phone. Saving the humiliation for another day.

His brain hated him. It worked against him most days. When he was with you, living was as easy as breathing. You taught him how to go through life and to treat it as something more than surviving.

And with you? It was that easy.

You were his antidote. He wasn’t sure how, but somehow, you managed to dilute the poison that ran through his veins like blood.

And now here he is, two weeks later, squinting from the outside at the curtains you’d found at some thrift store off seventeenth and Park.

A deep breath fills his mouth before the exhale. Some regret escaped along with it.

You were good for him, too good. It’s why he did the only thing he knows how to do successfully.

Leave.

Maybe one day it won’t be like this. Maybe one day, you’ll dance with him in the glow of the light above the stove. Maybe one day, he’ll get to know the crevices of your life you hid behind your bookshelves.

But for now, this is reality.

And in this reality, Jason Todd was not a man who got peace in the blur of fairy lights.

•───────•°•⚯•°•───────•

Ten days later.

Your ringtone was by far the worst alarm ever.

For the first time in two weeks you’d finally managed to fall asleep at a socially acceptable time. Then, almost as if the universe was against you, your phone rings in the dead of night.

Answering without bothering to look at who you’ll be chewing out later, you bring the phone to your pillow. Your face is still buried in the cotton pillowcase when you decide on a muffled and dragged out “Hello” for your greeting.

A second passes, then two, then ten. Now, it’s been a full minute and the only sound on the other end is a shaky breath.

“Hello?” Trying again, you manage a sorry ounce of energy to turn your face to the side.

Deep down, you knew who it was. Only one person was going to call you at this ungodly hour. The knowledge however, didn’t stop the lurch your stomach gave when the number ending in 8378 shone on your phone.

You’d unsaved his number three days ago.

It was done in a moment of strength. You held this belief that his number would be easier to stomach than his name. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

“Why’re you calling me?” You shouldn’t have asked. A smarter person would’ve hung up the moment they recognized the number. The thing is, there was a small part of you that was so desperate to be loved, you indulged.

You shouldn’t have been surprised when he didn’t answer. Sighing, you flip on your back to stare longingly at the popcorned roof. There was no way you were going back to bed anytime soon. “If you don’t say something I’m hanging up.”

“Please don’t.”

That was all it took. Your eyes squeeze shut as his whisper detonates the room. He shouldn’t have this much power over you, your stomach shouldn’t churn, your eyes shouldn’t water, not over him.

It was embarrassing.

“What do you want?” There was no hiding how wrecked your voice was.

“Can we just,” his voice breaks and you hear him swallow. There’s another shaky breath you pretend to ignore, even if it was followed by your heart shattering. “Can we just stay on the phone for a bit?”

It was selfish. You both knew that. Yet neither of you stopped it.

You didn’t answer. But, you didn’t hang up either.

That was an answer in of itself

Ten minutes passed before another sound came from the speakers. Water from a faucet, he was washing his face. Then a few minutes later the ruffling of blankets gave him away as he got in his bed, the call still going.

In another life, this would have made you smile. Laying in your beds on the phone with each other. The giddy feeling couldn’t rise though. Because now, you were going to have to remember him for longer than you knew him.

“You left your glasses here.”

Your whisper was almost inaudible. For a moment, you thought he didn’t hear. Then,

“I know.” He sounded defeated.

Those were the last words spoken that night. You don’t know who drifted off to sleep first, but you do know the call was still going when consciousness found you again.

The timer was mocking you as each second passed, your phone hovering over your face. The red circle was burning into your retina. It was right there. It’d be so easy to close this chapter of your life. Your thumb hovers over it, mere millimeters from the screen.

When you hesitate for a second too long, you drop it to your chest. It lands with a thump. A groan is let out into your hands as they cover your face.

It was pathetic. You couldn’t hang up.

You couldn’t leave. Which only meant one thing.

He was going to be the one to leave you again. He was going to be the one to hang up the phone and not contact you for weeks. He was going to be the one to call you in the middle of the night when it got to be too much.

And you were going to answer. You were going to be here to help him hold it all. You would be waiting for him to come back, hoping he’ll stay. Hoping that he’ll change his mind.

Maybe one day he will. Maybe a day will come when he’ll plant his feet in a house that will be your home, and he’ll tell you he loves you.

But for now, you’ll learn how to lose.

Because losing to Jason Todd was better than winning against anyone else.

•───────•°•⚯•°•───────•

—

THE DAWN OF DOOMSDAY DOESN’T START with a galactic conqueror or an asteroid. It doesn't even start with Lex Luthor. 

It starts with Superman—dimpled, cheery, annoyingly kind Superman. 

And of all travesties, it also starts with the sore spinneret that’s been bothering you for weeks. 

Which is to say, when you’re swinging above the sidewalk of East Siegel Boulevard with the afternoon wind screaming into your ears, you probably shouldn’t ignore the pain in your wrist and aim at the next scaffold because you’ll probably eat shit on the pavement for the third time this month. 

So here you are: frustrated, face itching from your healing factor, wrists sore with the ailment that’s befallen you. You’re tucked into a serene alcove of brick-walled apartments and bodegas, licking your wounded pride with a hot dog in hand—because Queensland Park hot dogs make everything better. 

Oh, and there’s this group of guys across the street who won’t stop dogging on you for your series of accidents, which unfortunately always goes viral within the first thirty minutes of it happening. 

They’re a picture-perfect fraternity. Fighting the November wind in Met U hoodies and selvedge denim, gathered around the hot dog stand on the cracked pavement of the curb. Your mask pushed up to your nose, feet dangling off a billboard plastered with Zatanna Zatara’s drop-dead gorgeous face and a bunny popping out of her top hat. 

You swear that she winks at you sometimes. 

“You’re that Spider-girl on Youtube, right?” shouts one of the guys. He’s got a smear of mustard on the corner of his mouth. Talks like he’s from Bakerline, which is a long way from Queensland, but the hot dogs are objectively better here, so. “Do the splat!” 

“No!” Your flustered shout is pitched in mortification. Blood rushes to your cheeks, embarrassment nestling behind your ribs. You’re about ready to rip out your hair inch by painstaking square inch. “Come on, man, I’m trying to take a lunch break here.” 

“What the hell’s even up with you, bro?” another one of them asks. 

You work your jaw, temples tight. “It was an accident. God, am I not allowed to make mistakes when I’m stressed out?” 

Which. Yeah, stressed out is the understatement of the fucking millennium. 

Working at a daily paper does that to people. Turnarounds so tight you can hardly breathe before you’re meeting fresh dead ends in sources and opening a new document for an article that’ll only last a day in print. News cycles are fleeting, but the pressure isn’t. 

“Man, if I were you, I’d get laid. That shit solves everything.” 

Raucous laughs; the frat guy who said it gets a handful of slaps on the back. You shove the rest of your hot dog into your mouth—salt and sweet bread bursts on your tongue—and crumple the paper tray in your lycra-gloved hand. 

Today’s wind is good for a day of swinging. It’s unfortunate that your earlier incident has made you wary of shooting webs anytime soon. 

It smells like salt and—weirdly—Brylcreem when you come to your feet. The skyline stretches for what seems like miles, stalagmites of Art Deco and Mid-Century modernist buildings cut-and-pasted together. 

Sun’s resting in the sky at one o’clock. It’s about time you head back to work and deal with the rash of red-penned edits on your article, but... 

You’re a little hesitant to leave now. 

Maybe it’s the way the city looks back at you, tall windows winking with sunlight and pigeons cooing from under the eaves. Maybe you want to stay on your little perch for a while, let your heart swell with how much you love the mundanity of home in Queensland with all her bumper-to-bumper streets and quintessential sunniness. 

Or it could be the group of frat guys who’ve elected to stop ribbing you and enjoy their hot dogs. If I were you, I’d get laid and the whole works. They’re kind of right; between cramped articles, malfunctioning drip machines, and patrol, you haven’t found a way to make time for a little action that isn’t web-slinging some mugger to the wall. 

Or…the skyline. Clear and true blue and dotted with clouds you’d only see in an edited sitcom. Cut out by buildings that spell out hope in your heart, the earnest promise of truth, justice, and a better tomorrow. 

Truth, justice, and a better tomorrow. 

The idea crests out of the fatigued and stressed waters of your mind, leaps to your mouth before you’re able to stop it. 

“Superman.” 

It’s quiet. Not in a whispering way. Not even in a way that suggests a secret.  

Just—there. Slightly defeated by the nag of something building up in you, the itch of needing to do something but being powerless to act on it.  

You say it like the solution has fallen into your lap by pure coincidence. Like you should trace your lip with trembling hands after speaking his name. 

The air stills in a slightly odd way, making the hairs on the back of your neck prickle to attention. A shadow falls over you, blotting out the afternoon sun, and the sound of a cape snapping softly in the breeze prompts you to turn around, meeting the eyes of— 

“Holy shit, it’s Superman!” 

The frat guys start scrambling to cross the street, dripping mustard and ketchup onto the pavement, hollering about dude, you’re so fucking cool, can I get an autograph? 

You try your best to frown at Superman, but the glare of the sun peeking out from behind the crown of his slicked-back head makes it hard. You’re pretty sure you just look like you’re squinting to save your life. 

He just grins back at you, puppyish with that signature loose curl falling over his forehead. Stands cardboard-stiff on the billboard’s rusted grate, as if he’s got livewire twined around his bones. 

As if he isn’t actively encroaching on your patrol territory. As if he’s Queensland’s friendly neighborhood hero, which is your title. 

The thing about this is: Superman might have won the hearts of the rest of Metropolis and the world, but this little borough, this little slice of 75-cent hot dogs and bodegas with cloudy windows is yours. 

He thinks it’s his too. Flies over you sometimes, red boots scuffed at the toes, cape rippling in the breeze, smelling slightly like ash and Brylcreem. 

You yank the bottom half of your mask back over your mouth. "Superman.” 

This one is steadier. Colder, like you’ve finally remembered to tighten up and keep your reputation consistent. 

He pinkens a little. Just a faint blush blooming from cheek to cheek, stretching across the bridge of his nose. Darts his eyes down to his feet, then back up to meet yours. 

“You...” Superman makes a face, brow wrinkled and glittering blue eyes squeezing shut as he chooses his next words very, very carefully. More likely than not, he probably remembers the time you shot a web onto his mouth for saying something that was meant to dig under your skin, no matter if he really meant it. 

He decides, while still finding great interest in a painted section of Zatanna’s glossy billboard hair as he mumbles, “You called for me.” 

A heat burns under your mask, smolders in your ribcage. You’re blunt, but it’s a lot better than being sharp enough to prick, “Can we go somewhere more private?” 

You fix him with the best stony look you can muster with dinner-plate lenses. Superman is just watching you with slightly furrowed eyebrows and a tilted head, like he isn’t sure but still half expecting you to say sike or jump at him. 

“Oh,” he says. One short syllable straining under a metric ton of confusion, because you’ve never called for him before and hell, you’ve never been this nice either. “Like, I’ll meet you on the roof of…the Daily Planet, or something?” 

Bad idea. You’d probably keep him waiting for hours while you sort out the trains to keep your glitching spinnerets closed, and you can’t afford to wait that long. 

“No.” You shift on your feet, lycra flexing around your ankles. “Where’s your fortress?” 

“Why do you ask?” 

Frustration bubbles in the hollow of your throat. Hisses beneath your sternum, corroding your chest. “Just—god, I need your tech, okay?” 

The admission swings in the air for longer than you’d like. 

He’s stunned, for one. Eyebrows lifting and mouth corners wilting, blinking a few times to make sure that you’re stone-cold serious. 

Kneads his next words very carefully in the pocket of his dimpled cheek before deciding on, “Is this about your accident?” 

You can’t tell if the flare in your stomach is because you’re miffed or mortified. Superman isn’t supposed to do social media, unless he’s going on the Daily Planet’s account to debunk something with a selfie of himself as proof of identity. 

But he does. And he’s seen you in your most embarrassing, dream-about-shitting-your-pants-at-school, viral moment of stretching out your arm to shoot another web and breaking your nose on the curb. 

Oh god. 

“Well—maybe. Maybe not,” you stammer to the same rhythm of your leaping pulse. 

Superman breaks into a blinding, thousand-watt smile. Shines like you should squint or just stop looking entirely for the fear of being bestowed with something so purely good. 

“I can’t believe it, Spider-girl is asking me for help,” he says, dimples winking at you chumpishly. Does this thing with his hands, shrugging a little before letting them flop back to his sides, like someone’s cracked a joke so unbelievable that he has to react to it physically. 

You make a note to maybe—alright, definitely—be a little less curt with him.  

“Sure,” you mutter, turning to the billboard and slapping your palm onto the glossy surface. It sticks, to your (mild) surprise. Who knows, anything could be happening with your powers. “If you want it that way.” 

“Of course.” He says it with unbridled excitement. It’s definitely cliché, but he’s reminiscent of a kid set loose in a candy store. 

But that’s Superman, isn’t he? The all-American son who comes out every year to root for the Meteors and gets spotted by meta-battle chasers eating a fucking hamburger on the corner of Shuster and Reeve.  

(It’s kind of endearing now that you consider it. Maybe he isn’t so different from you—after all, you sneak out of work to grab hot dogs from Mr. Kreuk’s stand every Monday.) 

“Then I’ll see you in…” you let the wheels in your head grind the math for you, sticking a foot onto the billboard now “…four hours.” 

His face falls as you start scaling the glossy surface. “We aren’t going now?” 

You grunt as you hoist yourself higher, palms and soles peeling and resticking onto the vinyl print of Zatanna’s perfectly poreless face. The breeze whistles softly in your ears, the sound of gulls from the bay singing along with the ever present backdrop of traffic noise. 

“Unlike you, I’ve got a nine-to-five instead of a secret fortress. Rent’s not cheap in Queens.” 

“Ha,” he laughs, though it sounds like he’s just suppressed a snort. “Yeah, I get it.” 

“Do you now?” 

You drag yourself upright, precarious on the beams behind the display. Looking down, you find that he’s still watching you from the grate, cape swaying gently in the wind with the barest impression of his dimple reminding you that he finds all this amusing. 

“Yeah,” Superman stammers. Smiles, a little stilted, like he’s not quite sure of what to do with himself now that you’re leaving. “Midtown.” 

You think it’s a hallucination at first. Maybe it’s a side effect of your broken spinneret. Maybe it’s just the weather, or a bug flying past your ear, or even someone else saying it. 

You’re harsher than you intend to be. “What?” 

“I said Midtown.” He shrugs like he isn’t taking it too personally because he never does, looking almost like some sheepish bastard when he repeats himself. “I live in Midtown. Rent’s a lot more reasonable, but I’d like to live here someday. Just…the atmosphere and general opposition to gentrification, I guess.” 

Your breath stills, if only for a moment. It’s stupid, really. 

How that presses at something in your chest you didn’t expect to be exposed. How that just makes Sense—yes, with a capital ‘S’—and fits right into the neat puzzle of Superman. 

You’re the one who feels like you don’t know what to do with yourself now. 

“Cool,” is what you manage after a stagnant moment, embarrassment’s shadow painting your neck. You jab your thumb over your shoulder in the general direction of the bridge to New Troy. “I gotta—” 

“—oh, yeah, of course—” 

“—get back to work, you know—” 

“I know,” he laughs, hanging his head to hide whatever stupid grin he’s wearing on his face now. “I have a job too, so—” 

You hold your palm out to stop him. “Okay, a little too much information. Don’t go spoiling the movie just yet.” 

“Right.” Superman flashes that oddly charming, upside-down grin, dark hair shining under the afternoon sun and broad palm pressed to his nape. “You know how to call for me in four hours.” 

“Yeah.” 

“In a while, crocodile.” 

And like that, the billboard rattles with the force of his takeoff, wind billowing over you like a wave on the days the shoreline gets crowded. His red cape arcs over the blocks, cheers rising as he zooms across the borough and towards New Troy. 

You let out a slow stream of air and ignore the ache rolling through your chest. 

He’s such a cornball. 

— 

“So, Miss Genius,” Cat picks through her words as you plop into a chair and roll toward her without a hitch, “I have huge gossiiiii—oh my god, did the office casual police jump you when you took lunch?” 

You make a pathetic little squeak, tilting your cracked phone screen into the light and catching a glimpse of yourself. 

“Girl, you look like you needed a matcha latte yesterday,” she adds. 

You know you’re feeling a little frazzled, nerves bitten through by your encounter with the weirdly endearing Superman who lives in Midtown and quips cliché phrases.  

But you look the part too: the collar of your sweater bunched up, cuffs folded at odd angles, mascara smudged. It’s a miracle that Cat—sharp eye extraordinaire—didn’t catch on to the glaring edge of your costume’s lycra sleeve peeking out.  

You tug yourself into shape as she waves it off and dives into her next spiel. 

“—and like, they’re so different but I’m kind of starting to see the vision.” 

You clear your throat a little, just to make sure you don’t slip up and say something stupid like ‘I think Superman might really like Spider-girl’ or whatever is on your mind. 

Cat’s got this story on some popstar and her new man. Says it’s groundbreaking because Little Miss Singer has been keeping it secret for months, but she’s got an exclusive interview with said couple, and she’s going to break a love story so sweet and sexy and whatever that the Planet’s entertainment column will go down in history, right next to GQ and People. 

“Right,” you say, tilting your chin up to offset the mild discomfort now settling below your throat. 

It’s not every day you rush back to work with only your wall-climbing powers and shove your clothes back on without changing out of your costume first. You really need to find the time to tailor the lycra again. 

“Oh, hun, are you alright?” Cat’s neatly shaped brows furrow and she smooths her cool fingers over your shoulder. “You look a little ill. Is it stress? I think it’s stress—the news’s been heavy lately, hasn’t it?” 

“Yeah, lots of stuff going on this week,” you eke out. A tingling sensation needles at the apex of your wrists—spinnerets again. 

You massage them over the soft cuff of your sweater. “Think I might be getting some carpal tunnel, too. All these edits.” 

“Oh…” She leans a little closer, whisper conspiratorial, “Is it Clark again?” 

Oh indeed. 

Sweet, helpful, hapless Clark Kent. Who arrives late to work with the same Jitters cup in hand and never fails to smile despite having the misfortune of always catching the train that’s going to be delayed by an hour. 

Smells like newsprint and ink toner and something country-like when he leans in close to point out problems in your proof prints. Writes his edits in the margins of your proofs in blue pen that smudges onto your thumb sometimes. 

“No,” you keep it hushed, pushing down the image of your colleague’s tragically dorky grin, “it’s just stress, like you said.” 

Cat’s look is pointed. “Really.” 

You itch under her gaze, an exasperated frown pulling at your mouth. She always knows. “Alright, it’s Clark again.” 

“Oh, hun…” 

“He just—god, he’s so” —you groan— “ridiculous. He just can’t accept that Spider-girl sucks, so he’s taking it out on me because I’m the only one brave enough to say it.” 

Which, of course, is probably the best cover you have ever thought of. No one would expect some lowly reporter to be Queensland Park’s honorary granddaughter, much less one that campaigns against Spider-girl as much as Lex Luthor does against Superman. 

And alright, being the number one fan of every superhero, Clark Kent is probably less than pleased to have heard your opinions. For god’s sake, his hero tier list has everyone sharing the number one spot—excluding Booster Gold. 

Last week, he said that he was ‘working on that.’ 

So. You’re about ninety-percent sure that he doesn’t like you. As in, vaguely displeased—not hate, because he just isn’t that type of man—with your guts. 

He isn’t necessarily rude. But he does regard you with an air of faint I-don't-wanna-be-here, steels his eyes onto your forehead when he speaks to you and wipes the forever lingering smile off his face. 

Cat’s jaw falls ajar, eyes zoning out to glance at something behind you. 

You force a strained exhale through your nose, the inside of your cheek raw from how hard you’re restraining the urge to gnaw on it. Wheeling around in your chair, you meet the wide, curious eyes of Clark Kent. 

“Hi, Clark.” 

He flashes a sardonic type of smile, all bite and no bark. The kind that means to leave an annoying little papercut on your fingertips. The kind that makes something in your chest squeeze tight, like you’ve unwittingly become a stress ball. 

“Hi.” 

Doesn’t even say your name. Barely stands to make eye contact with you, opting to take the easy path and distract himself with Cat, asking about photo-ops and quotes and pretending you don’t exist. 

So, yeah. You’re definitely sore, and beyond embarrassed at the fact that you are, considering you indirectly brought this upon yourself. 

“Sorry, hun, you were saying?” Cat asks once Clark has cleared his too-large body from her desk, leaving only the faintest whiff of his cologne lingering. 

Smells handsome, and that’s the only word you can muster to describe it. Makes you tilt your head slightly for more until you realize just how strange that is.  

You’ve never chased a scent before. Hell, you make a habit of shutting them out, letting your sight and spider-sense to help you navigate during your vigilante hours.  

But this is different. Addictive different. Dangerous different. Sets slow, dancing bells off in your head, a reckoning. Like you’re bating your breath and waiting for something to come to fruition. 

“It’s nothing,” you tell Cat. She just gives you a polite, HR sort of tight smile. 

When you settle back into your own chair and turn away from the slouched form of Clark’s back, you realize some familiarity to his cologne. 

Brylcreem. 

And when he says goodbye to Jimmy, and Lois, and even Steve, you work the inside of your cheek and stop holding your breath when he passes you without a word. 

For the first time in your life, you’re going to be overjoyed to see Superman. 

— 

An arduous piggyback ride and several skin scrapes later, you’re shivering on the examination table, hard and painfully cold under your ass. 

“It’s fucking freezing,” you chatter, lips now beyond chapped in the five minutes since you pushed up the bottom half of your mask to your nose. Lycra is far from an insulating material. 

The Fortress of Solitude is a huge chunk of crystal stretching toward the clear sky like a stalagmite, every shard refracting with the light of the unforgiving Arctic sun. 

It’s blue in here, the shade that reminds you of good days in Metropolis. When the clouds are sparse and everyone rushes to the verdant parks in droves, a sea of heads trying to find space on the grassy lawns. Or when you step out of the Planet with a freshly published article, which means you have approximately five hours to enjoy your freedom before you start another story. 

A pale blue kind of feeling. Mellow. Peaceful. 

The Superman Robots, as he so endearingly named them, are flitting around you while he fiddles with the workstation’s strange buttons and toggles. 

Superman flicks a switch and a light buzzes on above you, warming the tender skin of your inner wrist. 

Ouch—it’s pretty inflamed by the looks of it. Puffy, so much that you can hardly see the small slit where your web-silk is supposed to eject from.  

A robot prods at it and you hiss.  

“Sorry,” you hear Superman mutter from the console. He twists his mouth, brows furrowed in confusion. “No, that’s not right.” 

Fingers fiddle around the knobs and switches. The pink tip of his tongue peeks out from the seam of his mouth as he dials one last control, and something comes buzzing to life. 

“Oh, that’s it,” he breathes, a relieved smile rising to his face. 

“What’s what?” 

“I synthesized it,” Superman says. “The spider that bit you.” 

You frown, panic skipping behind your ribs. Carefully, like you’re some wounded animal and not a metahuman vigilante, “How’d you know about that?” 

He just tilts his head owlishly, says, “Well, it’s in your genome. Says here that your DNA was introduced to radiation via bite two years ago.” 

“That’s a fucking secret, Superman,” you bristle, sliding your palm over your exposed wrist. 

“It’s really not.” He frowns down at the displays lighting up the console, casually scanning the lines of alien language that leave your truth naked to him. “And you can call me Kal-El. Kal, for short.” 

Is he fucking serious? 

He blinks at you, twice. No change in expression. 

He’s being fucking serious, you realize. And that sinks something heavy in you, the knowing and the guilt. 

That you aren’t a born metahuman. That you, of all people and chances, were accidentally bitten by the radioactive spider that was supposed to save the world. The same spider that contracted some previous pathogen from your blood it hadn’t been exposed to in a sterile lab and according to insider reports, wiped out the entire test-tube-grown population.  

You’re harboring the secret to superhealing that could cure cancer while Luthorcorp sweeps up the last of their failed experiment. And Superman knows and somehow, he can remake the spider. 

You take a steadying breath, arms crossing. It’s a sign of nervousness, but people do it for a reason, and you really need that security when it feels like he can see right through your skin and bone, like he can see the unnatural spider venom fused with your platelets. 

“Aren’t you scared that I’ll find you out with a name like that?” you ask, tone level. Another robot wraps a benign hand around yours, peels it back to expose your spinnerets to the air again. 

You shiver at the cold pressing into the inflamed swells. 

He hums. “It’s my Kryptonian name. Like you said, I’m not spoiling the movie yet.” 

Kal—your brain stutters at the thought of calling him that—turns to face you fully, cape sweeping around his ankles in some way that mesmerizes you. Smiles, soft. Leans back against the console like this is just another Tuesday. 

“Great,” you mumble, knowing he can hear it. “Now I have to come up with a fake fake name.” 

An amused scoff leaves him. “Kryptonian,” he corrects. 

“Right.” 

Neither of you say anything for a while. Just let the silence breathe a little steadier than it’s been for years. Let the console trill between beats, something strange happening in a weird prism attached to the metal as Kal synthesizes the spider. 

You remember it. A web-funnel, mutated. Thin legs that hardly grazed your skin before it sank its fangs into the back of your neck. 

You still have the scar, raised and thick, a reminder of the great responsibility that comes with your power. 

Kal forces an exhale through his nose. Tightens his fists and presses them against the metal. 

“That’s weird,” he says, voice rumbling with frustration like a storm on the horizon. Clicks his tongue, dimples flashing as he bites the inside of his cheek. “I can’t print it.” 

Your thoughts screech to a halt. “Print? As in, printing an organism from, what—a scab?” 

“Well—it’s not really a carbon copy.” He tucks his chin in, almost bashful. “Krypton had rules against that kind of stuff. It’s more bits and pieces than a sentient body.” 

“Still,” you say, sitting up straighter, “that’s sick.” 

His eyebrow twitches. Mutters, “Why, thank you,” in a way that’s so stunningly earnest that it makes your chest kick. 

You don’t know why the question comes to mind. You don’t even know why you decide to act on your curiosity. 

“So, do you have any weird alien stuff going on with your body? Other than the flying, obviously.” 

Kal pauses. The loose curl lazing on his forehead sways slightly. 

Quiet, with his eyes fixed on his bright boots, “I…have glands. That secrete…” 

He winces like it’s something to be afraid of. “Pheromones.” 

Your face falls flat. 

“Dude, humans have those too.” 

“I know,” he says, quickly. A little too quickly. Pushes off the console to pad over, hands clutched behind his cape in a sheepish manner. Bastard. “It’s different, though. They’re sensitive to touch and swell up every few months, like yours.” 

Juts his chin out briefly, signaling the undersides of your swollen wrists still turned up to the bleak ceiling. You suddenly feel too exposed, and not exposed enough. 

Kal continues, thumbing the underside of his jaw, where the hinge meets the soft lobe of his ear. “It’s around here.” 

“So,” your start trails off for a moment. “How’d you fix it?” 

You don’t expect him to tell you. You surely didn’t think he would blush scarlet. Almost scandalized, as if you were spreading hearsay on the streets of Gotham, that damn cesspool of rumors.  

And it’s strange, how that sight of his ears and whole face blooming with a pretty color throws your stomach for a loop. 

It’s now that a Superman Robot decides to butt into a conversation it was supposed to be a background in: “Why, it’s relieved due to his cycle.” 

“Five,” he warns, low. 

You swear Five shrugs in exasperation, like a teenager sick of their mom nagging them to clean their room.  

“Cycle?” Your face morphs into one of curious surprise. How interesting, that metahumans have such strange anatomy. “Do tell. Do Kryptonians menstruate?” 

Five creaks. “No, they—” 

“I don’t,” Kal butts in, blush darkening. He averts his eyes, avoidance heavy in his already broad frame. “It’s...” Flicks his eyes to the ceiling like he’s waiting for an asteroid to strike him down. “...sort of like a rut.” 

You blink once. 

Twice. 

“Okay.” You don’t miss the way your own voice squeaks. Like you’re trying to keep it cool. Like you aren’t actively shooting down any thoughts about what Superman in rut looks like. “So, do you secrete fluids or anything?” 

He groans, burying his face into his palms. Almost whines when he laments, “Jesus, no, but I don’t ask if you shoot web fluid from anywhere else, do I?” 

You burn bright. Eyebrows shooting up to a high angle. Yank your hands out of the light and fist them in your lap. “Well, it’s not like I’ve tried.” 

He considers you for a moment. Works the inside of his cheek. Steals a look at the console, which blinks in error-code red. 

Kal sighs, motioning for you to scoot your legs over. You comply, and he perches on the edge of the table, broad hand held out like a white flag. 

“Gimme your hand.” It’s accompanied by the slightest wiggle of his fingers. “Superman Robots, you’re dismissed.” 

You frown, but you’re already reaching for him. Tentatively, of course. You still need to retain some semblance of nonchalance. “Why?” 

His skin is warm. Comforting in a way you didn’t expect it to be. He smooths his thumbs over the delicate skin of your wrist, careful to not press too hard. 

You shiver nonetheless. 

“The synthesizer doesn’t print radioactive material,” Kal explains, under-breath. Just on this side of loud enough for only the both of you as the robots march away. “But if I know one thing about swollen glands, it’s that they’re in need of release.” 

A thrill of frisson races down your spine when he gently, ever-so-slightly brushes over your spinneret. There’s a difference to being touched by another, you learn, instead of yourself or a robot.  

Feels like connection. Like your nerves want to shoot themselves out of the tiny little organs in your wrist and wrap around Kal’s careful fingers. 

“See, when mine get inflamed, I soften the outer edges and progress inwards,” he continues, voice a lull in this too-bright, too-clean room. “That way, everything has somewhere to go.” 

You hum, eyelids fluttering at the sight of his thick fingers soothing small circles on your skin. “You never told me whatever else happens during a Kryptonian rut.” 

He pauses for a split second. Sits a little stiff, but keeps going even though his flush is returning. “I…can take care of myself, Spider-girl. There’s no need to wonder.” 

The double entrende is so obvious that you fear Lex Luthor would outright call him dumb and not some pretentious, poetic word that would otherwise further emphasize naivete.  

A soft laugh escapes you, bitten off at the end because he’s rolling over the tiny opening of your spinneret and god, stars burst in your head. Heat flickers in your cheeks, an unexpected wash of breathlessness sparking against your diaphragm. 

“Funny,” you strain, trying to ignore the slow creep of something now curling in your belly. It’s quiet, and Kal tilts his body toward you just so to hear. And since when did Brylcreem and whole-milk smell like needing to shift your hips? 

You mean for it to be a joke. Just something that had floated to the surface at the last second, and already, it was too late to stop yourself: 

“Y’know, those fanboys were all about getting laid to destress.” 

Kal pauses in his kneading of your wrist. The swelling has decreased, but your skin is still hot—less from the inflammation though, and more from the neck prickling, stomach somersaulting, would-Kal-be-good-at-kissing wrecking havoc on your body. 

He studies you with a look that is just this side of hesitant. Parts his mouth a few times, not sure of what to say. 

It’s now, with a maybe hanging in his shoulders, this slow breath he takes as he weighs his options, that you remember something Jimmy had shown you last week. 

It was Kal, slamming into a metahuman at full-throttle. Jimmy quipped something about taking a punch and Superman unbarring the holds. Despite the gross underestimate you’re mentally trying to calculate, you think you could take it. You could keep up, if he’d let you. 

He might be thinking the same, because he shifts his hold on you and guides your limp, unexpecting hand toward the underside of his jaw. Your fingertips brush against the soft, warm spot he showed you earlier, and he shivers. 

It isn’t one that comes from the cold—it rips down his whole body in such a visceral way that you can’t help but hold your breath. It comes out in a shaky exhale and fluttering eyelids. The gland pulses under your touch, and you can feel how his blood is rushing faster beneath the skin, how the air ripens with a sweet, slightly earthy scent. 

Like cinnamon in oatmeal on a chilly morning. Like an old, threadbare shirt that’s just small enough to be criminal, freshly dragged out of the dryer and warm on your skin. He smells unbelievably good, in a way that sets off a bloom of warmth over the knob of your neck, just beneath your bite scar. 

Hypothesis: you think his pheromones are inadvertently doing something weird to your hormones. 

What’s worse, you think that the seat of your panties might officially be damp. 

“I read,” he starts quietly, voice laced with a rasp. You feel high-octane, an anticipating thrill running circles behind your ribs. “That spider mating season is happening right now.” 

“Oh, yeah?” It comes out shakier than you want it to be. Your foundation’s crumbling, embarrassingly fast. “So you think my problem’s gotta do with not being horny enough?” 

“Maybe,” he rumbles, voice almost a groan. “God, I might have that problem too.” 

Your stomach coils tight, the end of your rope fraying and sparking with electricity. You want to drown in his heavy, homely scent forever. Kal presses down on your spinneret to remind you to respond, and all you can manage is a restrained, “Gonna do something about that, Kal-El?” 

It’s less a snap under tension than a thunderclap of desperation. Kal is bearing down on you in seconds, forcing your back to press into the exam table’s hard surface, and his nose is buried so brutally against the crook of your neck that you’re sure something might bruise. 

You gasp, heart thundering in anticipation. He’s heavy on you, two hundred something of superpowered muscle and sinew. And that wave of pheromones crests over your head, crashes down like vengeance. 

“You smell so good,” he rasps. That sets you off, and you start to shift your hips up slightly, just enough to brush against the quickly growing tent in his trunks. To believe they were silly—now all you want is to peel them off with your teeth. 

He glances up at you, and his eyes are blown so fucking wide that your heartbeat ratchets up at the sight. Barely a touch and you’re both already wrecked, and you’re reaching up to knot your hand in the short strands of soft hair at the back of his head. Kal makes a weak little sound. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, pulling him closer to trace the top of your nose over the swollen gland just under the love of his ear. It’s like something’s taken hold of your body and helping your hormones stage a mutiny. Satiation coils low in your belly, and an uncontrollably coy smile rises to your mouth. “Can’t help myself.” 

Bottom lip tempting, eyes glimmering with alien stars, he asks with a plea woven into his voice, “Can I kiss you?” 

It’s strange. 

One moment you’re half-ready to use your adhesion abilities to make him stick as closely as possible to your body, and the next, you’re being splashed with the reminder that he’s only ever seen your mouth and he’s asking for that.  

Which is arguably the most intimate thing two people could do. The thing meant for people in love. You don’t love Superman. Hell, before today you hardly tolerated him—but that was before you found out he lives like you, and he’s secretly softer than you ever imagined, and he trusts more than he should. 

And the request lances through the tenderest part of your chest. He’s asking. Not demanding. Not just crashing his lips over yours like the movies, where the dramatic irony is present that these two people really want each other and don’t need words. 

Kal is…hesitant. Gentleness chemically bonded to the calcium in his bones. Consideration glueing together every thought that crosses his mind. 

You hum, the thought of him treating you like a lover settling next to the desire piling in your stomach with uncharacteristic quietness. 

“Wouldn’t that be improper?” you deflect. You betray yourself, though, sneaking a glance at his parted, pinkened mouth. 

He cranes his neck to find a sweet spot you didn’t know you had—just beneath the swell of your throat—and you suppress the choked sound begging to escape from you. 

“Is it?” 

Wry, “You tell me. Kissing on the mouth is meant to be somewhat affectionate. Elicits chemical response, nerve endings, blah-blah-blah, et. al.” 

He smothers an amused huff into your skin, broad, warm hands kneading slow circles over your hips. Smiles against the slope of your neck. Breathes deep, voice hoarse, “‘S there something wrong with that?” 

“You hardly know me.” 

“I know.” Kal pauses to crack a smile. It’s real. Genuine. Makes your heart leap to heights it hasn’t before. “But I admire you. I want to know you.” 

And fuck, if that doesn’t land. He wants to know you. For the first time, the suggestion doesn’t sound half bad. 

Still, you decide to blame it on pheromonal-slash-hormonal mutiny when you tug him closer by the curls to kiss him. 

Kal’s sigh is full-bodied. Tension evaporates from his bones. The sound he makes is less a moan than quiet acceptance of pleasure. 

Sparks fly in your brain, ricochet down to your core. Feeling his plush lips sliding over yours in such a cradling, gentle way does something to you. Placates the storm boiling in your lungs, calms the thundering of your heart. 

Feels almost right, in a way. 

You let your instincts take over. Let one of your hands trail down to find his, guide it to wiggle between the waist seam of your costume. Need pulls at you, sharp and incessant. 

The soft, whispery sounds leaving his mouth between increasingly hungry kisses are getting a little louder, a little more desperate. Wanton. Needy. 

They finally reach a peak when he dips his hand beneath your waistband, nudges aside the thin panties you wear under the lycra. When his fingertips prod at the wet spot in the gusset. When you feel something go pop, or release, or just float away from your skin, and suddenly you can smell something sweeter and familiar mingling with Kal’s scent, and he just grinds his hardness into your thigh without warning or shame. 

“You have glands?” he manages, dipping down to lap at your exposed neck. You shiver when he moves to another spot, his spit drying to the frigid air of the fortress. “No wonder you smelled like heaven.” 

You’re just this side of lucid, but you can tell it won’t be long before you’re lost to delirium. Already your head is cottony, hardly tethered to gravity. 

Another experimental grind into your thigh sends you into near frenzy, nerves going haywire as Kal breathes sweet nothings in your ear, broad fingertips slowly stroking over your cotton-covered cunt. 

Waiting. Biding his time with pupils dilated so wide that they make you feel small. Frisson shoots up your spine when he presses a little hard, toeing the boundary. 

Then it happens. It shouldn’t have been so significant, but here he is, responding to your half-cracked moan with one of his own, punctuated by a rock of his clothed cock. 

You burn. But the desperation is getting to you. Like spinning-vision, chest-kicked-in desperation. The kind that makes you abandon all sense and plead, softly, “Please?” 

Kal hiccups into your shoulder, hips rutting faster onto your thigh as he scoops your panties to the side. He blazes his fingertips through the wetness gathered at your seam—you shiver. Works his index finger in with hardly restrained enthusiasm, and you tighten your legs at the raw stretch. 

He falls into line fairly quickly. Puts his superhuman adaptability to the test, taking only a few rocks and a crook of his finger to find a spot that makes you keen into his soft curls. Fireworks whistle in your core, and you’re helpless to the grind that takes over and makes you jerk your hips to meet the moment he sinks another into your cunt, down to the hilt. 

You feel like a fucking teenager with him at your neck and you buried in his hair. Him throwing his weight behind the dry, wanting thrusts he’s pushing against you and you squirming as he finger-fucks you like a means to an end. 

He rolls his thumb over your clit. 

To clarify: he rolls his thumb over your clit. Fuck. 

Kal responds to your gasp with a whimper of his own, breaths coming short and fast. Teases you again—and then another again, and over and over until the soft sounds leaving your mouth are the only thing you can hear over his low moans—the rough pad of his fingerprint catching on your nerves like a spark lit too bright, burning up too fast. 

You’re at the edge of your wits. 

Then he does the unthinkable. Well, as unthinkable as having his fingers in you, which was unthinkable an hour ago. 

But this is somehow worse, and simultaneously the best thing that’s ever happened to you. 

Kal takes your wrist. It’s terribly unfair, the way his hands are so skillful, gently smoothing his thumb over your still-swollen spinneret while the other does the same to your equally sensitive clit. 

And he brings it to his mouth, scrapes his tongue hot over the tiny slit in your skin. You think you feel a vibration of something—a choked-out moan. Maybe your name, whined quiet like a question. 

You can’t tell. You’re already cresting, mumbles pitched into his sweet-smelling skin, “Kal, Kal—fuck, that’s—” 

He fucks you through your orgasm, even when you’re letting out an embarrassed whine at how the euphoria takes you, how control slips from your grasp for just a second. How he moans loud and searing into the skin of your wrist as a little spurt of web fluid escapes your spinneret. 

And he fucking swallows it. This goddamn freak.  

Your breaths shiver as you float down from your high. Between this moment and the next, Kal has stopped rutting your thigh, and a tacky heat blooms just above your skin. 

Did he...? 

“Shucks,” he gasps, unlatching his mouth from your skin. The sight of your spinneret, clear of any inflammation, greets you like a guilty accomplice. A spidery string of web fluid trails from the corner of his mouth. Repeats himself, a little clearer, “Aw, shucks.” 

“What?” you croak, blinking a few times to readjust your vision. The pale ceiling swims above you. 

“Nothing,” he stammers, shifting his hips guiltily. Slowly works his fingers out of you, coated to the knuckle with your arousal. You long for the ache, even after the sharp pull in your gut has subsided. 

“Come in your trunks like a virgin?” 

“Spider-girl!” He rushes to sit up, facing himself away with his ears tinged in a mortified scarlet. “That’s improper.” 

Hypocrite. 

You wiggle the waist of your costume back over your hips and prop yourself up on your elbows. “So, putting your fingers in your mouth isn’t?” 

Kal freezes, caught. Angles his head slightly to glance at you from his peripheral, and there those skillful digits are, resting on the plush of his slick bottom lip. And if that doesn’t send a sharp sting of need through your chest, you’d be a traitor to human nature. 

“You win,” he mutters, eyes flicking up in a manner so petulant you’re almost endeared by it. “You do taste good. I should collect a sample next time.” 

You’ve half the urge to preen at that. Or smile. Or duck your head down and let the flush come to your cheeks, because Superman is pretty sweet for a guy who doesn’t know how to mind his own fucking business and leave you alone in Queensland Park. 

“Next week, then?” you ask, pulling down your mask. Just to tease. Prod. See if he blushes on command. 

He leaps into some semblance of properness, spine straining like he’s been drawn, quartered, and trying to keep himself together. His blush is blotchy, sitting somewhere between souring from panic and unfurled flustering. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he stammers. Some shy bastard he is. Real slick.  

You’re wry when you counter with, “Well, I did. Your glands are still swollen.” 

Kal considers you for a moment. Really looks at you, like he’s trying to figure out your inner workings. “So you’re suggesting we continue collaborating to offset our unfortunate biological responses.” 

Well, said like that, you’ll admit that you would be floundering for your words too. 

A sudden flare of meekness smokes between your lungs. “Sure.” 

He tucks his tongue into his cheek, a secretive grin blooming at the corners of his mouth. That shouldn’t make something uncurl in your chest. Shouldn’t make your stomach leap like it does. 

“Then next week, Spider-girl.” 

— 

You’re still thinking about Superman when you clock into work the day after. 

How he smiled like you were the only person in the world. How he clutched you so gently when he flew you back to that billboard in Queensland, did a flip in the air when you asked. 

Or how he stopped halfway into the trick, hovering upside-down in the air, cape fluttering right-side-up in the rippling wind. Grinned at you all coyly. Kissed the junction of your neck, right over the same spot he had moaned into an hour earlier. 

Said goodnight, Spidey with a silly little wave and dimples winking at you, as if he was oblivious to the heat starting to simmer in your core again. Maybe he was. You like to think that he wasn’t. 

“Woah,” Cat says, the click of her Louboutins grinding to a full halt. The ice in her matcha latte—oat milk, jasmine syrup, 60% sweetness, and it's already beading with condensation—shifts by a hair before falling still. “Well, Miss Genius, I’d say you have a glow about you.” 

You flash a nervous grin, trying not to reveal too much. God knows how bad the gossip bug infects Cat Grant when she notices someone is just a sliver off from yesterday. “Is that so?” 

“Yes,” she ponders. Nods slowly, hair bobbing along with her. Purses her lips in that hint-hint, nudge-nudge way she does, trying to be inconspicuous about her interrogating. “Did you and Clark manage to sort things out somehow?” 

A flash of cold sears down your spine. “What do you mean?” 

“Oh, hun, he’s positively bioluminescent.” Cat tilts her head like a—well, a cat, as she is so aptly named. You’ve half the mind to quip something about curiosity killing, but you follow the angle of her head and oh.  

Clark is positively bioluminescent. As in, the sun is filtering in from one of the high windows, and he’s bobbing his head to a song only he knows like a metronome, and are his feet fucking swinging under the desk? 

What the fuck’s got him so cheery? 

“So how was it?” 

Cat’s wearing her Cheshire grin like a vintage fur coat found in new condition, eyes wide and imploring behind her huge glasses. You stuff down the panic gripping your heart and turn back to your article, fraught with annotations from the layout editor—because of course your shit doesn’t fit in the page without needing to fuck with the VA. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you breathe, propping your elbow against your desk so you can tuck your mouth behind your hand. “I’m a little too busy to be sorting anything out, especially with Clark Kent.” 

“I’m talking about sex. And I’m gonna find out who the hell it was that’s got you badly hiding a lovesick grin—yes, I can see it—behind your hand.” 

“Jesus, Cat, can’t I come to work with a little pep in my step?” 

“No, you can’t.” She throws her head back with a mini cackle, heels resuming their usual chic click against the bullpen floors as she struts back to her desk. “I’m onto you, genius!” 

“Good to know!” you call after her, heart still racing. Fucking hell. 

Someone lets out a soft snort from across the room. You zoom in with your hearing, the hairs at the back of your neck prickling—it's Clark. A barebones grin rests on his lips as he shakes his head in slight amusement. 

Whatever. It’s not your business, especially with a guy who seems to dislike you so much for a simple opinion. 

It doesn’t matter that Cat thinks he’s wearing the same post-sex glow you’re wearing. Really. It doesn’t. 

And it doesn’t matter that you can smell the faintest thread of Brylcreem either. Or that his hair is strangely familiar now that you’ve seen Kal’s curls in wrecked disarray. Or that the bow of his lip weirdly, uncannily known to you.  

You grumble and wretch your screen to obscure your view of him. 

Right. You have work to do, articles to finish, layout editors to argue with. And you have another date with Superman in one week. 

So whatever Clark is up doesn’t matter. 

Seriously. 

"That's because you're in the shade," you point out, hands on his hips so that you can shuffle the both of you around and switch places with him. "Here, stand in the sun."

"I don't care about the sun," he sighs, but still, he's pliant in your hold, letting you move him however you please. "I care about being back in bed, asleep, with you."

"I'll come back to bed," you assure him. "In just a minute. Close your eyes."

It's difficult, you think, not to laugh at him when he closes his eyes, so willing to follow wherever you go, so ready to do whatever you ask. You take his face gently in one hand, squishing his cheeks together and angling him to stare up to the sun.

"There," you say softly. "How does it feel?"

"Unnatural," he mumbles, his face still held in your hand.

"Unnatural?" you laugh in shock.

"Mhm. It's weird for it to be sunny in Gotham."

"The sun has to shine everywhere eventually," you murmur, moving your hand from his face, finally, so that you can trace the streaks of sunlight across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. "Even if you're not used to it."

"I think you might be making that up," he says, his breath coming out in a big exhale, and you laugh.

"Maybe. Does it still feel wrong?"

Jason thinks that maybe he just shouldn't answer you, shouldn't tell you that it all feels wrong - the unnatural beat of his heart, the body that he dragged out of the grave, the stark white streak of hair that you thumb between your fingers now.

"Do you know what I think?" you continue as you sweep it out of his face, white bleeding into black until he's almost recognizable again.

"What?"

"I think that sometimes… um, you know - feeling weird is how you know you're still alive," you say slowly, your hand slipping down his front until it rests against his chest. With just a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips, the sun spreads over his shoulders and torso and warms him in a way that feels a bit too strange to be real. 

Your hand travels further, pressing against his pec and tapping, with one finger, the steady beat of his heart. 

"Baby, I think -" You catch yourself, pressing your lips together like you're not sure you should say it. That, in itself, is troubling to him - the idea that you might have to bite your tongue around him. 

He reaches his hand up to yours in reaction, squeezing your fingers gently in his own until you hold his hand back, still tapping that rhythm against his palm.

"I think maybe… if we wait to do it until it feels normal, or good, then we'll never really get there."

Jason squints against the sun, tilting his head down to look at you as you stare up at him. He keeps his hand in yours, letting you tap that endless rhythm against his palm, and his other hand brushes some of your hair out of your face.

"That doesn't seem sad to you?" he murmurs. "To keep trying, even when…"

"When?" 

"I don't know," he murmurs. "To live even when it's wrong."

"Jason," you say, your voice uncharacteristically sombre as your brows furrow. "There is nothing wrong with you being alive."

"It wasn't supposed to happen," he counters, blinking his eyes open wider as the sun slips behind a cloud, washing the two of you in a cooling shade.

"Wrong," you say firmly, but then you sigh, rocking back on your heels a bit as you give him some space - an act of kindness from you, but not one that he wants. Jason slings his arm around your waist and tugs you closer, his hand pressing your palm against his chest over his heart.

"I know we don't… talk about it very much," you begin again, quieter now - breathing out in a big sigh against him. "Maybe we should, I don't know -"

"I don't want to," Jason says abruptly. "I don't… You know, I'm - I'm alive now, aren't I?"

"You are."

"I don't want to spend every day pretending I'm dead," he blurts out, and your fingers stop tapping against his chest so that you can press your hand against his skin, instead.

The sun breaks out from behind the clouds again, beaming down towards the two of you until he closes his eyes against the onslaught. You inhale deeply, shifting the two of you around again so that his back is to the light, and as he opens his eyes again, the sun haloes him from behind like something holy. 

"Then don't," you say gently. "Don't. You don't have to, anymore."

"I'm not sure I know how," he admits, and you take his hand in yours to press it over your own heart, letting him feel and tap out the beat of your own life.

"I'll help," you murmur, and he's not sure he has any choice but to follow wherever you lead.

"Baby, it's over," Jason says tiredly, throwing a blood-soaked towel into the bathtub and watching as red splatters against the white porcelain.

"It's not over," you retort. "You're -"

"I'm fine," he says firmly, crouching down in front of you while you sit on the edge of the bathtub. "Hm? C'mon, baby, look at me - I got a little banged up, that's all."

"More than a little," you respond sternly, but your resolve is starting to waver under the kiss that he presses against your forehead. 

"Talk to me, hm?" he coaxes gently. "What are you thinking about?"

"You," you retort.

"Flatterer," he murmurs against your forehead, but then he pulls back slightly to really look at you. "I'm ok."

"You weren't," you say flatly, and he sighs as he takes your hands in his, rubbing circles onto your palms with the pads of his blood-stained thumbs. "It just scares me, you know."

"I know, baby," he murmurs, and then he tugs one of your hands closer to press against his chest. As you feel his heartbeat, steady and ever-present against your skin, he taps out the rhythm on the back of your hand. 

"I really don't want you to die, Jason," you say bluntly, and he huffs out a half laugh.

"Yea, I… really don't want to die, either," he responds.

"Well," you murmur, your eyes trained on your joined hands over his heart. "At least we can always agree on that."

"I'm not dead," he reminds you firmly. "I'm right here."

"But what if -"

"Hey," he says sternly. "I'm right here. And I've…"

"What?" you murmur, because, really, you think you need to hear him say it tonight - just this once.

"I've spent enough time being dead," Jason continues slowly, tripping a bit over his own words, like the confession is foreign to him - like the hope that's carving itself into his chest is new to him. "I'd like to be alive now. Don't… baby, I love you. I'll let you deal with this however you need to, you know that."

"I know, Jason," you say honestly.

"But please don't mourn me while I'm still here. Please don't act -  just don't… don't think like I'm still dead, yea?"

"Yea," you sniff a bit, and his hand finds your cheek while his other keeps your palm pressed firmly to his chest. You tap your fingers against the skin there, steadily on beat with the rhythm of his heart and the sound of his life.

"It's scary, being alive - isn't it?" you murmur. "Gives you something to lose."

"Gives you something to live for," he counters, and you huff out a laugh.

"You should live for more than just being loved by somebody," you say softly. "Not that it doesn't matter, but it can't be… all."

"Yea," he muses, and you quirk a brow - because you realize, just a bit, that maybe he's finally begun to think about this the way that he should. "You know -  the sun is nice, too. I wouldn't mind living another day, if it means I can stand out in the sun again tomorrow morning."

The phone hits the receiver, and his chair creaks. It’s followed by the tread of his heavy boots and then he’s leaning in the doorway with his sleeves shoved up his forearms and your eyes dart back to the computer screen because if you look you’ll surely get yourself into trouble.

“You can go home, love,” he says.

“Just finishing something,” you lie.

“S’that so?”

“Mhm,” you nod once.

He doesn’t move but you can feel his eyes, see the breadth of him in your peripheral.

“What’re you finishing, then?”

“The brief,” you answer surely.

“Brief’s been done. Went out this afternoon.”

Your eyes flick to him as your hands go clammy over your keyboard. He’s watching you with his arms folded, the corner of his mouth pulled up enough to notice, his tongue pushes briefly against the inside of his cheek.

“I’m makin’ sure it was done properly.”

“Right.” He pushes off the frame and nods his chin toward his desk. “Come into my office a minute.”

You push your chair back and stand up with a small wobble at your knees.

His office is warmer than the corridor outside it. Probably something to do with the heating in this wing, or maybe just with him — the size of him, the bulk of his shoulders, the heat that rolls off his hands.

He shuts the door behind you with a click and you hear it, the small mechanical sound of it, and your stomach drops an inch. You turn to look at him.

“Desk,” he gestures.

You walk over. The lamp on it puts a circle of yellow light on the leather blotter and the open file framing a stack of paperwork. You reach for the papers, finger trailing over the text, trying to catch a keyword to clue you in.

“What am I looking at?”

“This bit.” He comes up behind you and reaches around. His chest is ghosting your back, his arm reaching out along yours. He taps a paragraph halfway down the page with his index and you cannot read a single word of it. “Tell me what’s wrong with it.”

The warm scent of his day-long body and sweet cigar smoke rush your lungs and all the words on the page start to blur together. “I—,”

“Take your time,” he murmurs before his hand settles on your hip and his chest is no longer a ghost.

You stop breathing.

He just lets it rest there, heavy, the heat of his palm soaking through the cheap polyester of your skirt, his thumb just barely tracing the seam at your waistband. You stare at the page but the words won’t stop swimming.

“Well?” he presses gently.

“I— there’s a— the wording in paragraph four…”

“Mm.” His thumb slides up, up, under the hem of your blouse, finding the strip of skin above your skirt, pressing into the soft of you. “What about it?”

“It—,” you try and give up before you get any lie sorted. “Captain,” you sigh.

“Hm?”

Your whole body is going languid. His mouth is at the side of your throat, not kissing, just there, lips sliding softly, his breath at the hinge of your jaw. You make a sound that you didn’t mean to make and feel him huff a laugh into your skin.

“Look at you,” he says, low. “You’ve been wound up for hours.”

“I haven’t—”

“Coming in here with that mouth on you,” he continues over you. “This little skirt.” His hand at your hip slides around, splays flat against the front of your stomach, presses you back into him so you can feel exactly what he is, the hard line of his cock against your lower back, hot through his trousers. “Did you wear it for me, love?”

“No—”

He tisks. “Liar.”

He says it warm, almost fondly. And then his hand comes up under your jaw and turns your face over your shoulder and his mouth is on yours.

The angle is awkward, but it doesn’t stop him. Or you. His mouth is open and heated from the start, his tongue in your mouth, his hand on your throat, his thumb at the hinge of your jaw, keeping your face turned where he wants it. You moan into him and feel his other hand drag up the back of your thigh, your skirt riding with it, his palm rough against your skin.

“Tell me to stop,” he says against your mouth.

“Don’t—”, you whimper softly.

“Don’t stop?”

“Don’t stop.”

“Atta girl.”

The fight had been stupid. Something small that snowballed into silence by breakfast. You were still angry by the time Clark left for work, and you made sure he felt it. No goodbye kiss. No “be safe.” All you gave him was cold shoulders and clipped words. All day he tried.

Flowers appeared on the kitchen counter with a handwritten note. Your favorite takeout showed up at lunch with a little heart drawn on the bag. He even called the apartment from Metropolis just to say he was thinking about you and that he was sorry. When he finally came home that evening, cape gone and glasses on, he looked like a kicked puppy in a flannel shirt. He cooked dinner without being asked, cleaned the living room, and kept stealing these soft, hopeful glances at you across the table.

You held firm. You weren't trying to be cruel; you just wanted him to feel it. He hated when you withheld yourself. And right now, that was exactly what you were doing.

By 10 p.m. you were done. You slipped into the bathroom, stripped, and stepped under the hot spray of the shower, letting the water beat against your shoulders. Steam filled the room, and for the first time all day, your muscles started to unclench. Then the glass door slid open.

Clark stepped in behind you, completely naked, water instantly soaking his dark curls. He was already half-hard, but his expression was pure desperation—eyes wide, shoulders slightly hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller despite being built like a god.

“Baby…” His voice was low, almost pleading. “Please let me take care of you.” You didn’t answer, but you didn’t stop him either.

He picked up your body wash, squeezed some into his palms, and started with your back. Strong hands glided over your wet skin, thumbs pressing into the tight knots along your spine with just the right amount of pressure. He was gentle. Worshipful. Every slow circle of his fingers felt like an apology.

“I hate fighting with you,” he murmured against your shoulder, voice thick. “I’ve feel like I've been losing my mind all day….” he paused, "No i have lost my mind being without you."

His hands slid lower, soaping your hips, the curve of your ass, then back up again. He pressed his chest against your back, and you felt how hard he was now—thick and heavy against your lower back, but he made no move to grind against you. He was waiting for you. Needing permission. When you still didn’t speak, Clark exhaled shakily and slowly sank to his knees behind you.

The sight of Superman on his knees in the shower, water cascading over his broad shoulders and muscular back, made heat pool low in your belly. He looked up at you with those devastating blue eyes, wet lashes clumped together, completely submissive, only for you.

“Can I?” he asked, voice hoarse. “Please… I need to taste you. I’ve been thinking about it since this morning.” You turned slowly to face him. The second you parted your thighs just slightly, he leaned in like a starving man.

He started with slow, worshipful kisses along your mound, then lower. His large hands gently held your thighs apart as the hot water streamed down your body and over his face. Clark pressed his mouth to your pussy with a broken moan, dragging his impossibly long tongue through your folds in one slow, filthy stroke from entrance to clit. He licked you like he was savoring something sacred, tasting every inch of you mixed with the shower water.

“Fuck… you taste so fucking good,” he whimpered against your slick flesh. His tongue was relentless—broad and flat as he licked wide stripes up your pussy, then pointed and firm as he circled your swollen clit with tight, needy spirals. He sucked the sensitive bud into his mouth, humming desperately around it, the vibrations traveling straight through you.

He was completely lost in it. Eyes half-lidded, wet curls plastered to his forehead, he buried his face deeper between your thighs like he couldn’t get close enough. His long Kryptonian tongue dipped inside you, fucking you with slow, curling strokes that reached places no human ever could. He thrust it in and out while his nose rubbed against your clit, then pulled back to lap messily at your dripping entrance, groaning at the taste of your arousal.

Clark was breathing hard, almost panting between licks. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, baby,” he gasped, voice muffled against your pussy. “Just use me. Please. I’ll stay on my knees all night if you want.”

You tangled your fingers in his soaked hair and rocked against his face. He moaned loudly in relief, becoming even more eager. His tongue moved faster, flicking rapidly over your clit before sucking it hard again. One of his hands slid up your thigh, not to control you, but to hold you open wider so he could devour you more thoroughly. He alternated between long, hungry licks and focused suction, whimpering and whining every time your thighs trembled or your grip tightened in his curls.

You groan, turning back on your heel to return to the counter. It’s made of old wood-grain, laminated. Already chipping at the edges. It sits catty-corner to the door so you can see both the entrance and the back aisle. Which you have to, since the cameras—inside and out—are definitely fake.

There’s an old-school bell on a spring, attached to the door. It announces every customer, loud and impossible to muffle. Hearing bells at two in the morning isn’t ideal, but the store runs on pure spite, and your rent needs to be paid somehow.

Speaking of the devil, you hear the bell ring.

You straighten your spine, mentally readying yourself for another of Marjorie’s scoldings. You wonder what you forgot to do now, or who will be the recipient of her wrath. Raising your head, you open your mouth to muster some kind of excuse for whatever she’ll throw at you, but you stop dead in your tracks.

The person who walks through the door isn’t the short, hot-tempered old lady you’ve been working with for the past few months.

No.

You first notice the blood. The way it’s still wet, clinging onto the helmet, which is in the same shade. A man whom you have never seen in person stands just a few feet away from you. A hip holster hangs off of him, with something metal shining under the unbearable fluorescent lights. You don’t have to guess. It might be a gun, or he might have a knife stashed in another holster you haven’t spotted yet.

You’ve seen freaks in this shop—the guy who tried to pay with a bag of loose teeth, the woman who screamed at the beer cooler for ten minutes. Some are even sort of endearing when you learn how to handle them.

But you haven’t seen Red fucking Hood. And you sure as hell don’t know how to handle him.

What the actual hell? Marjorie didn’t train you for this. There isn’t a “how to deal with a vigilante showing up” section in any manual.

You freeze on the spot. Your hands grip the cold counter. For a moment, you think of taking the energy drinks from the small cooler and just throwing them at the man so maybe, just maybe, he’ll find the attempt pathetic enough and let you go. You can hear him step closer. You’re sure the metal cans won’t save you now.

You take a single step back. You hit the cigarette wall behind you. Marjorie would kill you if she found the cigarette wall in a mess, but it won’t really matter if the man approaching you gets to you first.

God, he is bigger in person. What the hell does he even eat to look like that?

What are you even thinking right now?

It only takes him a few steps to reach the counter from the entrance. A small trail of dirty footsteps follows him, and you grimace at the drops of blood sticking to his boots. There’s a small… handle sticking out of a holster lower on his leg.

Oh, that’s where the knife is. Lucky you.

You swallow down the breath stuck in your throat as he stands in front of the counter. He looks everywhere but at you, eyeing the energy drinks beside you and the cigarette wall. Instinctively, you raise your hands in front of you, as if to show him you won’t try anything stupid, like throwing energy drinks at him.

You can swear you hear something like an amused scoff coming from underneath his helmet as he looks back at you.

So, he finds this funny, huh.

“I’m not going to bite your head off.” He speaks first, because you sure as hell won’t talk to him first. You doubt Marjorie would scold you for customer service when the customer is Red Hood himself.

“So the knife there is just for show?” The words escape your lips without your permission, and you regret it instantly.

“I do love a good accessory,” he clicks his tongue, as if he’s being hilarious.

He raises a hand, and you watch the way the leather of his gloves flexes. They’re dark in color, tactical, fitted, covering to his wrist. The fabric leaves a piece of his forearm exposed. Your eyes trail over the showing skin. There are a few scars littered on the surface, running down his arm like rivers.

“You can drop your hands,” his voice breaks you out of your thoughts… about his arms?

“So, you aren’t suspicious or anything?” You drop your hands to your sides, “What if I—”

“You don’t scare me, sweetheart. It’s mostly the other way around.” He says the word “sweetheart” a little too easily. It almost sounds like honey rolling of his tongue. If he didn’t have a gun and knife strapped to him, maybe you’d even blush.

You hope you aren’t visibly blushing. The heat in your cheeks is your problem, not his.

“I could call the cops,” you challenge, a newfound confidence seeping into your words.

“And they’d definitely come here. After half an hour, give or take. But I’d already have taken what I came here for.”

Yep, he’s actually going to do something horrible. You thought Red Hood took care of criminals, not some cashier like you, who, yes, might have skimmed some dollars out of the cash register a few times. But that doesn’t warrant a visit from Red Hood himself. Your jaw tightens, while your hands clench. You’re sure your nails are digging crescents into your palm right now.

“And what would that be?”

If you’re going to be beaten up or robbed by Gotham’s most smart-mouthed vigilante, you’re not going down silent. Maybe you should scream. Just to make this harder for him.

He puts his other hand on his hip. For a moment, you think he’s reaching for his holster, but his voice from the helmet reaches you again.

“I want a cigarette.”

What.

“You want a what?”

Red Hood points a finger at the cigarette wall behind you. You follow the gesture to the Marlboros sitting in the middle row, just behind the locked glass screen. The “21+” sign is hanging on the screen with the paint already peeling off its surface.

He wants a fucking cigarette. And he’s saying all of this as if he didn’t just threaten you a moment ago.

“Seriously?”

“I am over twenty-one, if you’re wondering.”

“That’s not,” you groan. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

He shrugs. Throwing that energy drink can might have been an actual good idea.

“I can’t show you my ID, unfortunately,” he gives you a faux sigh through his helmet. Both of his hands are on his hips now, and you somehow calm down seeing that he’s not reaching for a weapon. “Secret identity and all. You understand, no?”

“You just had to mess with me, huh?”

“Couldn’t help myself.”

You turn your back slowly, still trying to keep an eye on him, all while letting out an annoyed huff. He mimics the sound of your sneer right back at you. You snap your head back at him. He, on the other hand, looks at one of the shelves, as if he didn’t do anything at all. You can feel something akin to a laugh building up in your body because he looks ridiculous, if you ignore the blood. His hands are on his hips, showing you he’s not going for his weapons. He’s looking away like a child caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

You open the cigarette wall with a turn of your keys. The glass screen moves, and you grab a single pack of Marlboros. You scan the pack in silence. It’s not like the heavy and tense silence from before, when he first walked through the door, bloody and intimidating. Now it feels like he’s actually a customer. A weird one, but it’s Gotham. You’re not surprised.

“Smoking is bad for you, y’know,” you say quietly, almost mumbling. Though he hears you anyway.

“You worried, sweetheart?”

“Oh, of course,” you answered with a raised brow, hoping the sarcasm was obvious in your voice. “Who else would walk in bloody in the shop just to buy cigarettes?”

He reaches for his pocket. Your eyes trail to his forearms again. You hadn’t noticed before, but the veins on his arms are barely visible. Though you can see the way they are indented in his skin, between the scars. He lays a few crumpled dollar bills on the counter. To his credit, the money at least isn’t bloodied.

“Next time at…” he looks at the clock on the wall behind you, the cracked glass shows that it’s eight pm now. “How does five sound?”

“If you don’t come with your accessories and blood, maybe. Just maybe.”

You hand over the cigarette pack to him. Your fingers brush his, and for a split second, his fingers freeze. It’s like he’s surprised and flustered by the contact.

“A deal breaker, then?” He lets out a cough before grabbing the Marlboros and taking a step back from the counter.

You tilt your head, trying to figure out in your mind what he looks like right now behind that helmet. His voice sounds hoarse. All because you touched him. Though he hasn’t expressed any discomfort yet.

“No,” you answer. “Not exactly…”

God, why is your stupid heart talking instead of your brain?

He perks up. You can see it in how his shoulders pick up. His grip on the cigarette pack changes; he’s now twirling it between his fingers.

Yep, you’re never leaving your apartment ever again.

He does have big hands, though.

“Five o’clock, then,” he says, like it’s already decided. Like you already said yes.

“I didn’t agree to anything.”

“You didn’t say no either, sweetheart.”

There it is again. That word. Dripping off his tongue like he’s known you for years. Like he has any right to call you that when you can’t even see his face.

He tucks the Marlboros into his jacket pocket. Takes a step back. Then another.

You should feel relieved. You are relieved. Probably.

“Same time tomorrow,” he says from the door. The bell hasn’t rung yet. He’s waiting. For what, you don’t know.

“Same blood?” you ask, because your mouth has officially divorced your brain.

He tilts his helmet. That same amused energy from before.

“Maybe less. If you’re lucky.”

The bell rings. He’s gone.

You stare at the door for a full ten seconds. Then, at the crumpled bills on the counter. Then at the trail of dirty footprints leading to the entrance.

Then back at the door.

What the hell just happened?

You grab the nearest energy drink can—not to throw, just to hold. The metal is cold against your palm. Your heart is still racing. Your cheeks are still warm.

And you hate yourself a little for already knowing you’ll be here at five o’clock tomorrow.

+++

“Wait, say that again,” Marjorie points at your face, as if you’re in the wrong. “A vigilante walked through my doors and threatened my employee?”

“He didn’t really threaten me,” you point out, but the exasperated look on the woman’s face makes you backtrack. “I mean, he looked scary. He didn’t lay a hand on me, though.”

Unfortunately.

You should have stayed home.

“You said he had a gun!”

“And a knife.”

“Oh, my god. And he smokes, too. Children these days.”

“I don’t think his smoking is the main issue here,” you move past the counter to the aisles.

You didn’t call Marjorie about what happened last night as soon as he had left. In her book, if something isn’t bleeding or broken, calling isn’t necessary. You cleaned the drop of blood from the counter and closed up last night. The streets felt just a tad brighter under the streetlights, knowing a certain vigilante might be looking out for you. Who knows, maybe he’ll appreciate the fact that you sold him the cigarettes without calling the cops on him.

Now you’re here, the next day. You’ve been buzzing around the shop all day. The sticky floors, even though you cleaned them yesterday, are still holding onto the grime. The fluorescent light bulb above the counter needed a few hits before it stopped flickering. You’ve been listening to the rattle of the beer cooler since you clocked in.

Marjorie’s incessant badgering about Red Hood unfortunately did reach your ears over the cooler’s rattle.

“Did he hurt you?” She asks again, and you, surprisingly, find the concern a bit endearing.

“Aw,” you coo, “you do care about me, Marj.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, idiot,” she scowls. “Who else would work for me if you died, or worse, quit?”

“No. He didn’t hurt me,” you deadpan. “He didn’t take anything. He paid for a Marlboro and took off.”

You haven’t mentioned the fact that he might visit again. You’re not planning on Marjorie finding out. She’ll leave in a few hours, and you will hang onto that stupid and foolish hope that a man whose face you’ve never seen will come to see you. You spent a few more minutes today in front of the mirror, too.

God, what are you doing?

“Marlboro?” Marjorie raises a brow. “He doesn’t even have taste. He should have gotten one of those… what are they called?”

“Yellow Spirits?”

“Yes, those.”

“You’re only saying that because they cost more.”

“If he’s bothering my employees, the least he can do is pay me.”

You bend down to the box near your feet. It’s full of some brand of cereal you can’t remember the name of. Something generic for an even more generic convenience store.

Marjorie approaches you near the aisle. Her brows are furrowed, and her wrinkles are even more pronounced today. The corners of her mouth are pulled into a thin line. As if she’s actually worried.

She starts digging into her pocket. You turn your head, curious about what she’s doing. She pulls out something that looks like a… taser?

“Marjorie, what is that?”

“Kid, we both know I don’t have the means to get you a gun,” she clicks her tongue, gesturing the taser your way, “but this should do the trick. It ain’t one of those harmless ones either. It packs a big punch.”

You grab the taser from her hand. It feels heavy in your grip. You imagine using it against anyone, though you don’t think you’ll be pointing it towards Red Hood anytime soon. First, stupidly enough, you hope he won’t give you a reason to use it. Secondly, you’re sure it won’t work against a man shaped like a mountain.

“Thanks, Marj,” you pocket the taser in your apron, the one Marjorie forces you to wear all your shift.

“It’s Marjorie,” she scoffs. “Now, I’ll get going. My heart cannot take another one of your ridiculous night stories. My poor knees need a break.”

As if she’s the one restocking.

She’s already half out of the door before you can even say goodbye. Not that she’d say it back. So much for her poor knees.

You turn back to the aisle. There are still a few more boxes unopened. The shop is relatively small one, so you’re not too worried about the amount of work waiting for you.

You look at the cracked clock near the register. There are a few minutes left before it strikes five. You bite your lip. There’s a strange feeling of impatience and exhilaration mixing in your stomach, all like a bad concoction.

This is how crazy people die in those superhero movies, all because they think that they’ve got a connection with a murder. You are very much that type of crazy person. It’s almost like Gotham has entirely changed you, making your eyes locked onto the door, awaiting a certain someone.

To your utter surprise, the bell rings. You feel your knees getting weak. You step away from the aisle that was blocking your way to the front door, half expecting Red Hood to show up and actually rob you or something; you’re not sure what people like him get up to.

Your heart is beating against your chest. There’s something deeply wrong with you. You consider running out the back door, but you’re already in the line of sight of the entrance.

He already saw you.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, sweetheart.”

The “he” turned out to be not a bloodied costume-wearing vigilante, but your loyalest regular—Jason Todd. You still don’t understand why he keeps visiting. A small part of your heart hopes it’s because he finds the cashier, you, cute.

He’s wearing a black T-shirt. It’s cut off around the forearms. You see familiar faint scars. You’ve never asked Jason about them. He did notice you staring once, and he explained that he had had a few accidents with his motorcycle. Your heart pangs uncomfortably at the reminder of him being in pain. The shirt clings to his chest in a way that will not leave your mind this entire week. It rides up slightly around his waist, exposing just a small part of his skin. You can see the tattoos peeking out from underneath the fabric, just above the leather belt around his hips.

This is too much. Way too much for a full day shift.

Wow. Both him and Red Hood. That’s low. Even for you.

You feel a sense of disappointment, as if you were played by Red Hood. But it’s not like he owed you anything.

Jason tilts his head. A few of the white strands of his hair fall down on his forehead. They frame his face in an effortlessly handsome way, so much so that you want to punch the subtle grin off his face. You’re sure Marjorie would fire you for that, considering Jason is probably the only customer of this shop she actually likes.

“Jason,” you finally get the words past your lips, “it’s just you.”

“Just me?” he places a hand on his chest in faux hurt.

He steps into the shop. His gate is steady. In a way that is the opposite of yours. You’re sure you’re shaking like a leaf right now, gripping the bag of cereal even harder. You scold yourself mentally for freezing up like this.

You can see the way Jason’s face shifts. Maybe he noticed how off you are today. He’s always so perceptive, a trait you haven’t yet decided is stupidly attractive or attractively dooming for you. It reminds you of that one time you tried hiding a burn you had gotten in the shop from him, but he still noticed. He walked to the pharmacy across the street just to buy a weird cream you had never heard of, but you appreciated the gesture either way.

No one had really done that for you before. Not without expecting something in return.

He reaches you in just a few steps. You wonder how he moves so quickly. In a way that doesn’t tick you off either. He raises his hands, almost to show he’s trying to calm you down.

“You okay?” He asks, voice laced with concern. His tone is softer, too. Like cigarettes wrapped in velvet fabric.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I feel like a million bucks.”

Who even says that?

You cough, trying to clear your throat. With a tilt of your head, you gesture to the register. Jason follows your gaze. He lets out a small sigh and follows you to the counter.

“So,” you try to force your voice to sound chirpy. It seems wrong. “What can I get you?”

By the look on Jason’s concerned face, you’re sure he noticed the strain in your voice, too. The soft glint in your eyes makes your heart tighten. You can’t take your anger out on him. It’s unfair.

“Is there anything I can do?” Jason offers, and the guilt in his voice makes you want to crawl under the counter.

For a moment, you wonder why he’s so hell-bent on comforting you. Especially when he has nothing to do with your stupid infatuation with a vigilante. Well, you have a small crush on Jason, too, but the future you will be the one who unpacks that.

“It’s nothing,” you lie, already reaching for the yellow Spirits behind the glass. Your fingers fumble with the keys. “Rough night. You know how it is.”

“I don’t,” he says, leaning against the counter. His forearm brushes against the chipped wood. You watch the muscles shift under his skin. “But I’ve got time if you wanna talk about it.”

“You’re buying cigarettes, not listening to me talk all day. This isn’t therapy.”

“Same thing, sweetheart.”

There it is. Sweetheart. The same word Red Hood used. Your brain short-circuits for half a second before you remember—Jason has been calling you that for months. Way before last night.

It doesn’t mean anything, you tell yourself. It’s just a word.

“You’re staring,” Jason says, amused.

“I’m obviously glaring,” you correct, shoving the yellow pack across the counter. “There’s a big difference.”

He doesn’t reach for the cigarettes. Instead, he tilts his head—and there. That’s the same tilt. The same one Red Hood used when he found you funny. Your stomach flips.

“You glare at all your customers like that, or just me?”

Two can play that game.

“Just the ones who show up at five o’clock looking like that.”

“Like what?”

You gesture vaguely at all of him. The arms. The chest. The stupid white streak in his hair.

“Like you just walked off a movie set.”

Jason’s grin spreads slowly. You feel heat pool up in your stomach. Suddenly, it feels like you’re back to last night. As if he is again, right in front of you, and you’re not sure how to handle this. How to handle Jason and Red Hood.

God, you’re going to hell. If there’s even one.

“So you have noticed.”

‘I notice when my regulars change their look,” you say, deflecting. “New shirt?”

“This old thing?” He plucks at the fabric, tugging on it a bit too harshly. You wonder if he’s nervous. “You like it?”

Jason—to your surprise and amusement—sounds actually nervous. The idea that you can fluster him lights your skin on fire.

“I liked the leather jacket better.”

“Noted.”

He’s still not taking the cigarettes. He’s just looking at you. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. The same way Red Hood looked at you—like you were interesting. Like you weren’t just another cashier.

“You’re doing it again,” you say.

“Doing what?”

"Looking at me like I’m hiding something. Which I am definitely not."

Jason laughs. It’s low, warm, and it does something stupid to your chest.

“Maybe you are hiding something,” he says. “You’re harder to figure out than most.”

“That’s the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received.”

“It’s not backhanded,” he says, and you can get drunk on the flustered tone of his voice. “I’m just bad at words.”

“You’re a regular. You come here three times a week. I’ve learned that you’re not bad at anything.”

His eyebrows go up. “Anything?”

Shit.

“I meant—talking. I meant talking.”

“Sure you did.”

He finally takes the cigarettes. His fingers brush yours—deliberate this time. You’re sure of it. His hand lingers for half a second, in a way that’s longer than necessary.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

“You’re already here today.”

“And?”

You stare at him. He stares back. The fluorescent light buzzes. The beer cooler rattles. Somewhere outside, a car alarm starts wailing.

“You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?” you say.

“And you’re avoiding the question.”

“Fine. Same time tomorrow.”

“Good.”

He tucks the yellow pack into his back pocket. No jacket today means you can see the outline of his wallet, the curve of his—

Stop it.

But he’s totally doing this on purpose.

Jason steps closer to the counter. You can see the faint freckles dotted across his pale skin. There’s a light scar running down his cheek. You wonder how a motorcycle accident could do all of this. You know he’s hiding something from you. For a second, you wonder what it would feel like to count his freckles and trace the scar.

You can see the muscles in Jason’s shoulders flex as he leans over the counter. His hand reaches for his other pocket. He takes out a lighter you haven’t seen before. A raised cross spreads across its surface, darkened in the grooves.

He places it on the counter between you, sliding it toward you.

You pick it up. It’s heavier than you expected. Warm from being in his pocket. Your thumb traces the engraving. Along the edge of the metal, barely noticeable unless you know to look, a Latin phrase is etched in fine, precise lettering—worn just enough to suggest it is carried often, turned over in someone’s hands.

“What’s this say?”

“Something stupid that I got when I was nineteen.” He doesn’t elaborate. “Light it up for me?”

You look up. “What?”

“The cigarette.” He pulls the yellow pack from his back pocket—when did he grab that?—and taps one out. Holds it between his fingers. Doesn’t move to light it himself, just looks at you. “You’ve got the lighter.”

“You have hands.”

“And you’re holding it.”

The fluorescent light makes his eyes look greener than usual. Or maybe that’s just the angle. Or maybe you’re hallucinating because of what is happening right now.

“You want me to light your cigarette,” you say slowly, “over the counter. In the middle of my shift.”

“I want a lot of things,” he says. “Right now I’m just asking for a light.”

Your heart is doing something stupid. Your hands are definitely not shaking as you flick the lighter. Once. Twice. On the third try, a flame catches.

Jason leans in, closer than he needs to. His fingers brush yours as he brings the cigarette to the flame. His eyes don’t leave yours. You can’t take your gaze off the sea-green color of his eyes.

The cigarette catches. He takes a slow drag. Exhales away from your face—polite, even now—and the smoke curls up toward the flickering lights.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

He picks the lighter off the counter. His fingers linger over yours again.

“Same time tomorrow? Actually, I might be a little late.”

“You’re already here today.”

“And?”

You can’t think of a single clever thing to say. Your brain is full of smoke and green eyes and the weight of a silver lighter that’s no longer in your hand.

“Fine,” you manage. “Same time tomorrow.”

“Good.”

He tucks the lighter back into his pocket. The cigarette hangs from his lips. He’s halfway to the door when you call out.

“You forgot your cigarettes.”

He glances at the yellow pack still sitting on the counter. Then back at you through the smoke.

“No, I didn’t.”

The bell rings.

He’s gone.

+++

The next night is different. The fluorescent lights are too rough on your eyes. The counter is too cold. The rattling of the beer cooler is too loud. Marjorie didn’t drop by today either. You find yourself missing her incessant badgering, even if it does get a bit too much sometimes.

You feel lonely.

Ridiculous.

Maybe it’s because Jason didn’t show up today, and you’ve been staring at the front door like a kicked puppy. You’ve been lied to by him and Red Hood two times already. Or maybe, you’re just a fool to think that either of them would actually show up for you.

You sigh, leaning your elbow over the counter. The cold surface bites at your skin, but you don’t really care. Your thoughts are buzzing in your head nonstop. It’s all like an ambience you want to shut out.

The bell rings.

Your head snaps up, eyes trailing to the door.

A man walks in. Average height. Average build. Grey hoodie. Jeans that don’t quite fit right. His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold—or against something else. You can’t tell. His face is the kind you’d forget five seconds after looking away.

Nobody, you think. Just another nobody.

You straighten up anyway, because Marjorie might not be here, but her voice lives in your head rent-free. “Don’t slouch,” she’d say. “Makes you look like you don’t care. Customers can smell apathy.”

“Evening,” you call out, forcing something pleasant into your voice.

He grunts. Doesn’t look at you. Wanders the aisles like he’s searching for something. You watch him pick up a bag of chips. Put it back. A candy bar. Put it back. A Gatorade—blue, the electrolyte one—he holds onto that one.

His hands are shaking.

Late at night, you tell yourself. Long shift. You shake too, sometimes, when you’re running on three hours of sleep and bad coffee. Don’t judge him too quickly. Just mind your own business.

He walks to the counter. Sets the Gatorade down. The bottle thuds against the laminate—harder than it needs to.

“That everything?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at the bottle.

“Sir?”

He looks up.

And there it is. That thing in his eyes that makes your stomach drop. He’s not looking at you like a customer—he’s looking at you like you’re not even there.

“Two eighty-nine,” you say, voice smaller than you want it to be.

He reaches for his pocket. Pulls out a crumpled five. Smooths it on the counter. Once. Twice. Three times. His fingers are pale and knuckles white.

You make a change and slide it across. He doesn’t take it.

“Sir? Your change.”

He blinks and pockets the money without counting. “Thanks.”

Then he walks to the door.

Good, you think. He’s leaving. You were wrong. He’s just some guy.

He stops at the door and doesn’t turn around. He keeps just standing there. His one hand is on the frame. The bell is hanging inches from his head.

A cold feeling, like a wretched thing crawls up your spine. Lock the register, you think. Your keys are in your pocket. Lock it. Call—

He turns around.

The Gatorade is still on the counter, just as he left it.

He walks back, and not slow this time—fast. His footsteps don’t echo—they thud. Every step is a warning call.

“I changed my mind,” he says.

“About the Gatorade?”

“About all of it.”

His hand goes to his waistband.

You know before you see it. Before he pulls it out. You know.

The gun is small and black. It’s the kind that fits in a waistband without printing. God, how did you not see it before? He holds it at his side, not pointing it at you yet—but the threat is there.

“Open the register,” he says. His voice isn’t flat anymore; it’s shaking.

A scared man with a gun is worse than an angry one.

Your hands go up automatically. “Okay,” you say. “All right. I’m opening it.”

Your fingers find the keys in your apron. You don’t look away from him. Never look away from the gun.

The register drawer slides open with that familiar ka-ching that’s never sounded so loud before. Now it rings out loudly in your ears over the deathly silence.

“Take it,” you say. “It’s all there. I’m not going to stop you.”

He steps closer, and the gun comes up. It’s pointed at your chest now.

“The safe,” he says. “Open the safe.”

“I don’t have the code. The manager—she doesn’t give it to the night shift. I swear.”

His jaw tightens. His finger moves to the trigger.

This is how I die, you think. In a convenience store that says “PEN” on the door, and just for a register with maybe two hundred dollars in it.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I’m not. Please—”

He reaches across the counter. Grabs your arm, and he grabbed it hard. His fingers dig into your skin hard enough to bruise.

“Then you’re gonna call her. Right now. And you’re gonna get the code.”

“She won’t—she’s asleep, she’s old, she won’t—”

He yanks and pulls you halfway across the counter. Your hip slams into the edge. Pain shoots up your side.

“I said call her.”

Your head hits something on the way down. The corner of the register, or the counter edge. You’re not sure. All you know is white-hot pain and then warm wetness dripping into your hair.

The bell rings.

You barely hear it over the ringing in your ears.

But he does.

The robber turns. Just for a second. Just long enough to see who walked in.

And then he’s not holding you anymore. Because someone else is holding him.

Red Hood moves like water, like something that was never human to begin with. Your eyes can’t even catch up with his movements.

One second, he’s at the door. Next, his hand is wrapped around the robber’s wrist, twisting until you hear something crack. The gun clatters to the floor. The robber screams—a high, wet sound that barely registers in your foggy brain.

You’re on the ground. When did you fall? The linoleum is cold against your cheek. Sticky, too. There’s blood in your eyes. Your blood. From your head.

Oh, you think. That’s not good.

Red Hood doesn’t say a word—he just moves. A punch to the gut. An elbow to the back. The robber crumples like paper, gasping for air he can’t catch. Hood pins him to the ground with a knee to the spine.

You try to push yourself up. Your arms won’t cooperate. They’re shaking. Everything is shaking.

“Stay down,” Hood says. His voice is modulated. But there’s something underneath it. “Don’t move your head.”

You blink. The world swims. The fluorescent lights blur into halos. You can see his boots—heavy, and splattered with something dark—stepping over the robber’s body, coming towards you.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey. Look at me.”

You try. Your eyes find the helmet. The white lenses. The shine of blood—not his, not his—on his chest plate.

“There you go,” he says. His voice is softer now. The modulator can’t hide that. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

“You came back,” you slur. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth.

“Of course I came back.” He crouches down. His gloved hands hover over you, like he wants to touch but doesn’t know where it’s safe. “I said five o’clock, didn’t I?”

“You’re late. So fucking late.”

A sound from under the helmet—a laugh, a broken one. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m late. I’m sorry.”

Something falls from his jacket. A glint of silver. It skids across the floor and stops near your outstretched hand.

The lighter.

The silver one. The engraved one. Jason’s.

Your brain snags on it like a needle on a record. That’s—that’s his. That’s the one he put in your hand. The one you flicked. The one that was warm from his pocket.

“That’s,” you start, but the words won’t come. Your vision is going dark at the edges. “That’s Jason’s.”

Hood goes very still.

“Jason,” you repeat, because it’s the only word that matters. “You’re—you’re him. You’re—… oh my god.”

“Don’t,” he says. His real voice. The modulator must have cut out. Or maybe your ears are just giving up. “Don’t talk. Just stay awake. Please.”

You try. You really do. But the dark is pulling at you, soft and heavy, and the last thing you see is the lighter—silver and warm and his—sitting on the dirty floor between you.

The last thing you hear is his panicked voice.

“Stay with me. Don’t—shit. Stay awake. Please.”

Then nothing.

+++

The beeping is the first thing you hear.

You can barely find the strength to open your eyes. Your eyelids feel too heavy. There’s a sterile smell around whatever room you are currently in.

The walls are stark white. They stretch unbroken except for the occasional monitor, its screen blinking in steady, indifferent rhythms. A faint antiseptic smell lingers in the air, sharp and clean, threaded with something metallic beneath it. The bed sits at the center, too narrow, sheets pulled tight.

And, you’re in it.

You look to the side of the bed. There’s a small table near you. On top of it, there is a small card. You try to raise your hand, and it’s a miracle you manage to. You grab the card and open it. Your eye recognizes Marjorie’s handwriting.

Get well soon, kid. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, not much an old lady like me can do. You take all the time you need while you’re at the hospital. The GCPD will investigate this even if I have to break down their door. Call me when you’re ready to talk.

— Marj.

You knew she cared about you. Too bad you had to survive a robbery to get proof of that.

Fuck.

You got robbed. Almost shot at. Just for a few hundred dollar bills and a safe you don’t even know the code to.

You thought you were going to die.

Until he showed up.

You push yourself off the bed. The room spins. Your head throbs. You press a hand to your forehead and feel the bandage there, rough against your fingertips. Stitches. Great.

You look around. You’re in a private room. How the hell did you get a private room? Marjorie can barely afford to keep the store’s lights on. Maybe the hospital made a mistake. Maybe you’re in the wrong bed. Maybe—

The window.

There’s something at the window.

A shape, dark against the night sky. You’re on the third floor—you remember that much from the ambulance ride, the stretcher, the paramedic with kind eyes telling you to stay awake, honey, stay with me—

The shape moves.

A tap, glass against knuckle.

You squint. Your vision is still blurry, but you’d know that silhouette anywhere—the shoulders and the faint movement of dark curls.

Jason is standing on the fire escape.

He doesn’t come in. Just stands there and watches you.

You should be scared. You were scared the first time. But now? Now all you feel is something warm and stupid blooming in your chest.

You reach over and fumble with the window latch. Your fingers are clumsy—the head injury, probably—but you get it open. Cold air rushes in. Gotham smells like rain and exhaust and something that might be smoke in the distance.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says. You can hear the exhaustion underneath.

“You’re not supposed to be on a fire escape,” you shoot back. Your voice comes out hoarse. “Looks like both of us are starting this conversation in horrible ways. But I could scream, and they’d drag you out of here.”

“You wouldn’t,” he tilts his head, like he’s daring you to try.

He could probably cover the distance between you in a second. He’d have his hand over your mouth before you could even let out a squeak.

Why are you imagining his hand on your mouth right now?

“Are you gonna come in?” you ask, trying to get your mind out of the gutter. “Or are you gonna stand out there all night like a creep?”

His hair is a mess—curls sticking up everywhere, the white streak catching the dim light from the monitors. There’s a cut on his cheekbone, fresh. Dark circles under his eyes so deep they look like bruises. He’s wearing the same black shirt from before, the one cut off around the forearms, and you can see the scars now with new eyes. You’re sure the scars are not from a motorcycle.

“You look like shit,” you say.

He laughs. “You’re one to talk.”

“Fair.”

He climbs through the window, but doesn’t sit on the bed—stands near it, like he’s not sure he’s allowed. His hands are shoved in his jacket pockets. The jacket is different tonight. You wonder if he’s wearing anything like armor underneath it. Or maybe, tonight, he’s just your Jason, not Red Hood. Or maybe both. They have always been the same. You were just too blind to see it.

“The lighter,” you say.

He goes still.

“It fell out of your pocket. During the fight. I saw it.”

Jason stares at you. Something passes over his face—fear, maybe, or relief. You still haven’t quite figured that one out, yet.

“I know,” he says.

“Is that how you wanted me to find out? Or did you just get sloppy?”

He flinches. “I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking. You were bleeding. You passed out. I—” He stops. His jaw tightens, as if he’s chewing on words he can’t bring himself to say.

“You what?”

“I panicked.” The words come out rough. Broken. “I don’t panic. I don’t. But you were on the ground, and there was blood in your hair, and I thought—I thought you were—” He can’t finish the sentence.

You reach out. Your hand finds his. His fingers are cold—from the fire escape, from the night, from whatever he was doing before he got here. You hold on anyway.

“I’m not dead,” you say.

“I can see that. And you’re not good at bedside manners.”

“So stop looking at me like I’m gonna disappear. Plus, I’m the one in the hospital bed. If anyone has to work on their bedside manners, it’s you.” You jab a finger in his chest. The skin behind the fabric of the jacket feels like a wall.

Definitely not the time to be thinking about his chest.

He looks down at your hands. Then back at your face. Something shifts in his expression. The tension cracks.

He doesn’t talk right away. Instead, he pulls his hand around you—gently, like he’s afraid of hurting you, and reaches into his jacket pocket. When his hand comes back out, he’s holding the lighter.

The silver-engraved one. He turns it over in his fingers.

“I came back for it. After the ambulance took you. It was still on the floor.”

“So you didn’t come to see me?”

He gives you a look. That look, the one that says you know exactly why I’m here.

“I came to see you,” he says. “I’ve been out there for three hours.”

“Three hours?”

“You were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”

You stare at him. This man. This impossible man. Buys cigarettes from you three times a week. Calls you sweetheart like it’s your actual name. Climbed through your hospital window at—what, two in the morning?—just to make sure you were okay.

“You’re an idiot,” you say.

“I’ve been told.”

“A stupid idiot.”

“Also been told. Also, stupid and idiot are synonyms.”

You grab his wrist. Pull him toward the bed. He stumbles—actually stumbles, like you’ve caught him off guard—and ends up sitting on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you can smell the smoke on his jacket and the gunpowder. It’s intoxicating. It reminds you of the time his nose was almost brushing yours as you lit his cigarette.

“You’re staying,” you say.

“I can’t—”

“You can. The nurses don’t come in until six. That’s—” you glance at the clock on the wall, the one with the cracked glass that reminds you of the store, “—four hours. You’re staying for four hours.”

“Four hours,” he repeats.

“And then you’re gonna come back tomorrow. And the day after that. And you’re gonna keep coming back until I’m out of here. And then you’re gonna come to the store. And you’re gonna buy your stupid yellow cigarettes or the Marlboro ones, I don’t care. And you’re gonna let me light them for you. With your lighter. And you will ask me out on a date. Preferably not one that starts in a convenience store.”

His mouth twitches. “That’s a lot of demands for someone who just woke up from a concussion.”

“I’m very good at multitasking.”

He laughs again, and it’s louder this time.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Okay. Four hours. And I will take you out on that date.”

He doesn’t leave after four hours. Instead, he stays until the sun comes up.

The nurses find him there in the morning— asleep in the visitor’s chair, his hand wrapped around yours, the silver lighter sitting on the bedside table.

They don’t ask questions. Thank god.

This is Gotham, after all.

⋆˙⟡ taglist: @coffeelovingreader @cherryseascns @yuunarii-arii @simpingmyassoff (if anyone wants to be added or removed please let me know).

This is normally not a problem for you — though, actually, that's not true. Normally, you're much better prepared than this, that is.

In a rush, you'll just snip tags off and deal with the spiky remains. It's not ideal, but you can manage.

When you have time though, you do it properly. You have a little seam-ripper at home, that lives among your sewing supplies, dedicated to removing pesky labels.

Today, your mistake is your excitement.

A new shirt, a nice woollen material that you know will keep you warm in the coming, cooling days —much like today.

Given how it feels your body doesn't even attempt temperature regulation at times, clothes that can are prized.

If you're too warm? Good luck getting any work done. Too cold and you'll be shivering the whole day. It bugs you a bit that you seem particularly sensitive to temperatures that others brush off.

You hurry down the steps to the subway, your boot sliding an inch on the wet tile. You clutch your bag tighter, willing yourself to stay upright, and feel the scratch of the tag on the back of your neck again.

You huff loudly, regaining your balance.

The mistake of excitement is that you haven't worn this shirt out yet—purchased only the day before. Usually there's a test run, to make sure this doesn't happen. Not today.

But by the time you'd realised your mistake, you'd been out the door, with no time to turn back.

And now it's worse because you've been running — which means you're warmer than usual, sweating a bit beneath your coat, your socks feel too tight, and the goddamn tag is scratching you.

Rounding the corner of the subway station, you skid again on the wet ground, barely keeping your balance again.

You spot your train up ahead. Its doors are just beginning to close.

No! With a start, you head for the train anyways, thinking by some miracle you'll make it.

You cannot be late — you can't- because if you are, it'll ruin the whole day and you'll have to wait til you're all the way back home again to get settled and—and—and—

Someone sees you coming and holds the door.

There's a burst of relief as you manage to slip through the train doors, which slide shut with a heavy bang! the moment they're released. You flinch at the noise, still trying to catch your breath.

This day is miserable, you decide.

The train begins to roll along. You remember abruptly you should thanking whoever saved you from being much later than you could've been.

You turn your head, then have to tilt it up to see his face.

The person who held the door is a very polite looking, very tall man, dressed in office attire. He's wearing a nice winter coat, same colour as his hair - and thick-rimmed spectacles. His lanyard flashes a Daily Planet Press badge.

You swallow. Okay, sure, your subway saviour is the most gorgeous guy you've ever seen. No big deal.

"Hi." You find your voice, still breathing heavily. "Thank you. Sorry."

The man smiles —holy fuck— then clears his throat, nodding his head somewhat awkwardly.

"You're welcome." He says and you suddenly can't tell if the wobbliness in your knees is from the train or his voice. "Definitely been me on the other side of those doors before."

He smiles at you so genuinely that it makes you feel even more off kilter. You find it surprisingly easy to smile back.

The train rattles along the tracks, curving around a corner, and you realise you should probably hold on to something. You grab the nearest pole, conveniently bringing you closer to the man.

Now that you have a moment, turbulent waters settling for the duration of your journey, sensations start prickling again.

The sweat on your collarbones, cooling while you still feel overheated beneath your thick coat. Your hair, lightly plastered to the back of your neck. The tag.

One hand still on the pole, you reach back and pinch at your shirt collar, shuffling it about to try find some relief. The tag scratches along your skin and you squirm uncomfortably.

Do you have scissors with you? You'll cut it off right here, right now, if you can.

The train car you're in rocks to a rumbling stop at the next station. The doors open and a few more people file in, inadvertently pushing you closer to the handsome stranger who helped you earlier.

Your eyes catch — he smiles again and your face burns.

The tag distracts you from his closeness. Waiting til the train steadies out again, departed from the latest station, you release the pole. You shift your bag forward, off your shoulder, and your hand dives in.

If you have scissors with you, they'll like be in mini sewing kit you keep with you. You hunt around blindly. The tag itches still.

Your other hand deviates from holding your bag open, moving to grab at the back of your shirt.

It's not effective, both hands occupied as the train sways, and something pinches tight in your throat. You're getting wound tighter and tighter.

"Are you alright?"

Your head jerks up. It's the handsome stranger. He's watching you, your arms contorted and a crease in your brow, with an expression of polite concern.

"I-" You begin. He likely doesn't actually want to know — people say things to be polite without meaning them all the time, you've found.

Despite it, the awfulness of your morning leaves you with no energy to pretend. Or lie.

You sigh, "I have a tag. On my shirt. I forgot to cut it off before I left the house."

It's a relief when your fingers close around the familiar shape of your sewing kit, square with rounded corners. You retrieve it quickly, releasing the collar of your shirt to pop it open.

The train judders suddenly and you get shoved forward as the car passes over uneven tracks. You just clasp the pole in time to keep yourself from tasting the grime of the subway floor.

The man grabs the pole too, an inch between your hands, and you find yourself meeting his gaze again.

He smiles crookedly, "Would you like some help?"

It takes a beat to realise what he means. His gaze darts down to the sewing kit still clutched in your hand - and when you can't move your tongue, he gestures somewhat awkwardly to the collar of your shirt.

"The tag, I mean," He stammers. "It would be difficult—not that I don't think you could- it's, uh, the angle, I suppose, that would… make it hard."

He nods firmly after, as if it reinforces his point.

You blink at him - and can see your perturbed expression in the reflection of his glasses.

"Um, yeah, yes," You finally find your words.

It's unlike you at all to be so completely struck by a random stranger— crushes tend to be few and far between for you.

Yet, this man, his kindness and his awkward boyishness, is definitely doing something to you. Making you extra foolish. As if your morning needs to get much worse.

You undo the latch on the kit in your hands and fish out the scissors, silver glinting beneath the subway lights. They're travel-sized. If you think they look little in your hands, it's nothing compared to his.

You hand them over and then, with an awkward pause, turn away slightly.

One hand still clutching the pole tight, your fingers leaf under the fabric of your collar, then the tag. It forces a shiver out of you as you turn it out.

"Okay, um, I'm gonna have to, just-" The warmth of his hand hovers over your neck, but he doesn't touch you. His fingers stay solely on the fabric.

The train pulls into another station, whirring to a stop. The doors glide open with a hiss.

People filter in in both directions. You're jostled a bit closer to the pole you're holding and your face burns when the man holds his arm up on the other side, almost around your shoulder, a guard against the moving crowd.

"Sorry," He says. "I'm gonna wait til we're moving again."

You nod, then realise you're holding your breath.

The doors shudder, then slip back together, and the train is moving on again. Your eyes seek out the rotating sign announcing the stops, mentally tallying how many left before yours.

Another four stops. You have time.

"Okay, hold still."

The arm braced around you retracts and the warmth returns to your neck. The fabric of your shirt tightens as he angles it just right, every graze felt across your skin like pinpricks.

You hold your breath. An overwhelming awareness shudders down your spine at the closeness you're sharing with this stranger.

Then—fwiiip. With one slow, precise snip, the tag is freed.

"All done." He says, and you peer over your shoulder to find him smiling. He's holding the villain of your morning between his fingers up like a prize.

You sag in relief and smooth down your collar. It's surprisingly a neat slice, the tag lying down flat — flatter than you would've managed on your own. Not without wrangling your shirt off which — well, even you can tell that's not appropriate.

There's less space between the stations now, as you get closer to the central business district. The train stops more frequently, with more people getting off than getting on.

"Thank you," You say, turning to face him properly. "Very much. It was making my morning bad."

The man frowns a bit at that, handing your scissors back. You tuck them into the kit and drop it into your bag, jostled again by the uneven tracks.

Your hands clutch the pole and your bag equally tight, looking back up at the man.

He's looking you, the tag still in his grasp. His lips part—but whatever he's going to say is lost as another subway speeds by in the opposite direction.

Wind howls loudly, a tunnelled vortex of air. You cringe at the volume.

Around you, the subway car rocks a bit wildly again, forcing you both to correct your stances to stay on balance. The tag disappears as he grips the pole with both hands. Your own hand sweats from holding the pole so tight.

Another shared look.

Oddly, the thought that crosses your mind next is a wish to have met this kind stranger under other circumstances.

Late, frazzled, losing your balance on public transport — it's not exactly your best foot forward.

Which is a strange thought to be having, considering you're three weeks since the breakup.

According to the internet, you should be drowning in tears at the moment. Maybe this is the rebound people talk about?

You glance up at the stranger, your eyes meet, and you both look away. You might not be imagining the smile you share.

The next station arrives. The man looks up as the train rolls to gradual stop, then his lips purse.

"Well, I hope it can be a good morning now. This is where I get off."

You look up at his voice and he's smiling at you again, genuine. It's a gorgeous smile. You nod, mouth a little dry. Unwittingly, you glance up and check which station you're pulling up to.

Your brows knit together. 17th St station? You remember his badge, glance down to double check. It still reads the same — The Daily Planet.

Which is crazy, because you could've sworn that the Daily Planet was at least a few blocks back, best reached through 12th St station. You haven't actually gone there, but you've studied the subway map before.

The doors open with a hiss. The man gives an awkward wave, paired with a bob of his head, and you take a beat before you realise it's directed at you.

Waving back, you begin to ponder the possibility that this complete stranger missed his stop just to help you.

You frown to yourself. No, that would be preposterous.

The train departs, dragging the platform out of your line of vision with a slowly increasing speed. Subtle as you can, you watch him through the grubby windows of the subway and subtly press two fingers to your wrist. Heartbeat steady—but a little jumpier than usual.

Huh.

The lights overhead flicker once and you have to grab the pole again to keep yourself steady.

Idly, you realise he still has the tag of your shirt.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

On a different day, on a different week, you find out his name is Clark.

It's a Friday evening and your shift at the library let out 10 minutes ago. You've hesitantly joined the swathes of people rushing across Metropolis, heading every which way. Car horns chorus across the cityscape. Every place in the crowd is incredibly loud.

This is why you like Friday's the least.

Your shift ends at 5 - not staggered earlier or later like other days - and that's when the city is the busiest.

Still, if you can make it home, the weekend awaits you. Sweet, blissful alone time. Maybe you'll even splurge and treat yourself to some nice sourdough for tomorrow's breakfast.

A puddle splashes below your foot, evidence of winter's thaw setting in. You pass through it and try hard not to wonder if your sock got wet, holding your bag tightly.

It's only about two blocks from your work to the subway station.

Approximately 7 minutes walk, if you're not held up. You know because you've timed it before.

It's a bit of a hazard to walk with headphones on, but, to you, it's one of the more bearable ways to get through busy crowds.

You're aware though, ducking and twisting, avoiding the crush of bodies. Your teeth clench tightly. You're definitely more aware than some people.

A shoulder bashes into yours, some self-important douchebag pushing through the crowd like he's the only one with somewhere to be.

The push knocks you off balance momentarily. You stumble back into someone, throat thickening in discomfort, and wish you were smaller than you are.

"Woah, easy there," The person you've hit into says, hands pressing you back upright. Your skin prickles, but even so, you turn to thank them — them blink in surprise.

It's Lois Lane.

"Oh," You can see the familiarity peak on your face at the same time. Her polite concern melts into something closer to delight - which is a surprise to you. "y/n! Hi!"

Glancing around to make sure you're not in the line of fire for any other assholes, you smile back.

After a moment, you remember that people think it's rude to keep your headphones on when they talk to you. You push one side off your ear, scrunching your hair up slightly, "Hi, Lois."

Lois Lane is one of those people who you knew would do great things from the moment you met her.

There's just a certain star quality she exudes. She's tough as nails. Takes no excuses or prisoners in her search for the truth. If you cut her, she'd probably bleed journalistic integrity.

She also used to live right across the hall from you in college.

At one point, you'd have called you two friends. Now, a couple years on, you're not sure if that still applies.

"Oh my God, how have you been?" She says, perfectly comfortable having a conversation out on the busy street. You, meanwhile, shift on your feet. "Man, it's been awhile, hasn't it?"

You're not sure if she's actually asking, but you know the answer anyway.

"Three years and 4 months since we graduated."

Lois' smile widens at that, like your response has tickled her in some way. Her blue eyes dance over you, then out across the rushing street, before focuses back on you.

"Hey, you know I'm actually on my way to some drinks with my co-workers. I'd love to catch up though."

Surprise twinges in you. She does? That makes you feel a little lighter - maybe you and Lois were better friends than you can recall.

You tell her honestly, "That sounds nice."

She lights up. "So you'll come?"

It takes another moment to comprehend that she's invited you along to her drinks. Just now. To catch up. But also with her co-workers? Your brows knit together, lips pursing.

"Right now?" You question. "With your co-workers?"

The pushed back headphone is slipping forward slightly. Lois nods, grinning, and making you feel like it's impossible to say no to. Mentally, you calculate if you go for a bit, you should still have time to pick up some sourdough before you go home.

"Okay." You push your headphones off altogether.

"Okay?" Lois repeats, perking up at your response. "Awesome. We're all meeting at this little bar on 15th, Crowley's. You heard of it?"

She talks the whole walk to Crowley's. You inform that, no, you've never heard of Crowley's because most of the time you've spent at bars has been at The Last Resort.

She comments that you must like it if you frequent it so much - to which you shrug, because maybe that's true.

You're not sure of that, just that— "It's Darren's favourite."

Lois' brows draw together, her lips quirked into a smile. "Darren, huh? Who's that?"

"My ex-boyfriend."

The smile on her face disappears so quickly you can feel the misstep you've taken. You hate when that happens.

Though, you're not quite sure why Lois suddenly looks like she's trodden on a kitten. She's not the one with the break-up.

"Oh," Lois says. "I'm sorry to hear that. Is it fresh?"

"Approximately five weeks." You respond with another shrug.

You hope she won't ask you how you're feeling about it, because you haven't really thought about it. Well, no, that's not true.

You've spent a lot of time thinking about how you should be feeling about it. Despair, anguish, heartbreak. That's what the internet says at least. Maybe because you don't feel any of that, it's a sign it was the right decision.

Or perhaps it's a sign it was the wrong one.

You've resolved to just not really think about it.

Lois slows to a halt and just up ahead, you can see the neon sign at the top of some basement stairs, announcing it as Crowley's to the world. It's a dive bar then.

You glance at Lois. She's looking at you, eyebrows pinched, looking like she might ask you something. You know her thinking face well.

But in the end, she doesn't. She nods and continues on. With one hand on the railing, she takes the stairs to Crowley's carefully and you follow suit.

Crowley's is much nicer than The Last Resort.

You look around as you pass through the doorway, the room widening out to a nice, comfy place. The lighting is low, dimmed and soft. It's not too loud.

Up the front, there's high tables with stools, occupied by the beer drinkers who are fixated on television. You glance to see if you recognise the game. It's the Meteors.

Further back, short, squat tables sit closer to the bar, accompanied by green armchairs. They house what looks to be a fair few couples.

And in the back, where Lois is heading, booths, with maroon velvet coverings, wrap around round tables.

"Alright, from left to right. Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark," Lois rattles off, gesturing to the middle booth which is, indeed, already housing five people in various amounts of office attire.

Your eyes follow as Lois talks and you feel a jolt as you reach her final co-worker, sitting squished in like he’s trying to make himself take up less space.

It's the handsome stranger.

What had she said his name was? Clark.

You roll it over in your mouth, whispering it quietly to yourself. After a moment, you decide it's aptly fitting for him. It strokes a different familiarity in you that you can't place.

Looking at him now, in much the same attire as when you met him, you don't even need to feel your pulse point to feel your heart jump.

Which… feels concerning. You think?

You just hadn't expected you would see him again.

Though, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t hoped you would.

Some days, you'd peered through the crowd of the subway car, wondering if he'd be there, head a little taller than others.

But you also hadn't been that late since that day you saw him — and so despite your attempts, you hadn't seen him either.

So, maybe, he's lingered in your thoughts. So, what?

There was no harm done if you had entertained the thought of what you might do if you saw him again.

You'd smile first. Maybe wave first. Really bold stuff - for you, at least.

It hadn't been properly thought out - mainly because it quickly became an easy daydream, far from reality. Though, as you and Lois approach the table, you realise rapidly that that reality is coming true.

"Hey guys," Lois begins. "I ran into an old friend. Hope you don't mind the extra company."

The group looks up at Lois' arrival, murmurs of welcome. You try not to feel like a butterfly pinned beneath all their gazes, grappling with making sure you look around with a smile, but not linger too long.

Even so, it feels impossible for you to not watch the expression change on Clark's face when he realises who you are.

His brows draw up in surprise, a smile tugging at his mouth. He sits up a bit straighter. That's good. At least, you think that's good. He remembers you at least.

"Alright, I'm fixing myself a drink," Lois sheds her coat as she speaks, tossing it on the free space beside Ron. "Everyone play nice."

She narrows her eyes sternly at her friends, but there's a smile that tells you she's kidding. She turns to you.

"You want anything? On me."

You flounder at being put on the spot. "Oh. Um. A ginger-ale, please?"

Lois smiles and nods, which untucks some of her hair behind her ear. "Just like college. I'll be back in a minute, okay?"

You nod, murmuring, "Okay," and watch her weave back to the bar like a woman on a mission. Then you're standing by the booth alone.

You turn back to the table, uneasiness fringing your nerves. Hands shifting, you take your pulse to keep yourself steady.

"Would you like to sit?"

It's Clark who's spoken. He's looking up at you, smiling, and he's scooched over on the seat to give you a bit more space. You realise you get another chance to see those dimples up close.

You sit, but don't take off your coat.

"Hi." You say.

"Hi," He says. The heat of his thigh warms your own, nearly touching beneath the table. "What are the chances, huh? I didn't think I'd see you again."

"Probably pretty low," you say, sandwiching your hands between your legs so they can't do anything stupid. "I mean, Metropolis' population is rather large. Though, it was much more likely I'd see you again on the subway."

"Wait, again?"

A blonde woman, Cat, you think, cuts in. She's wearing a nice, tight-fitting dress and glasses you'd never be able to pull off the way she does.

Her manicured finger flits between you and Clark. "You two have met before?"

Clark nods, that same awkward head bob he did when getting off the subway. "Uh, yeah, briefly. On the subway."

"He helped me cut the tag off my shirt." You tell them - and unwittingly, feel the burn in your face creep up.

Are you ill? You don't feel feverish. It worsens when Clark's knee bumps you as he adjusts on the seat. You both share a glance, gazes darting away quickly.

Cat grins at your words, while the table laughs good-naturedly. Jim — Jimmy? — nudges Clark with his elbow.

"That's the most Clark thing I've ever heard of." He says, while you observe a pinkness crawl up Clark's throat. He doesn't seem to do well under the attention, which you have in common. "The everyday superhero."

"That's hardly hero stuff," Clark mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. You'd argue against that—it very much saved your day.

Instead, you say to Cat, "I like your glasses."

"Oh, now you've done it," Steve jokes as Cat perks up, almost bouncing in her seat. She beams at you, radiant and evidently very pleased.

"That is so nice of you to say—" She says, then rolls into a speech about where exactly she got them, how much they were, how they had been apart of a new collection line, aiming to bring back more vintage style pieces. She only stops when she's interrupted by Lois' return.

"One ginger-ale." Lois says, sliding it across the table to you. It's in a high ball glass with a plastic straw, and the ice-cubes clink as it settles before you.

"Thank you." You take a sip.

"Not a drinker?"

It's Clark who's asked, his voice dropped a little lower, the rest of the table conversing between themselves. He's hunched over, elbows resting on the table edge, but his face is angled toward you.

You look at him and blink. You don't understand why he's asked. His lips twitch, almost a smile.

When you don't respond, he doesn't move his hand — just extends one finger — to point at your ginger-ale.

"Oh!" You catch on. "Yes. Or- no, I mean, only sometimes. I wasn't expecting to come out tonight. I'm already worried about saying the wrong thing."

For some reason, that makes Clark laugh, soft and quiet. This sound of it has something singing under your skin, making your face burn.

Does your ginger-ale have liquor in it after all? It would explain why you feel so light-headed all of a sudden.

"I wouldn't worry about that," Clark says, voice all smooth with assurance. "I think you're doing a wonderful job so far."

"You think so?"

"I really do."

His genuineness threatens to make a fool of you. Suddenly, you don't know what to do with your face, because you can feel your smile growing and it feels a bit maniacal.

It doesn't help that he's looking at you so intently, it's hard to maintain eye contact. Gosh, he's got blue eyes. The heat in your face doubles, then triples.

You take another sip of your ginger-ale for something to do - and also desperately hope it will cool you off.

"How long have you worked with Lois?" You hum the question, straw still resting between your lips.

"I've been at the Planet for, say, just over a year?" Clark says. "Give or take. What about yourself—how do you know Lois?"

Thinking back to the first few weeks of college brings back memories, equally fond as they not-missed.

You strongly remember the smell of your dorm carpet. Your roommate, who consumed copious amounts of ramen. The girl across the hall, who had a purple toaster, and didn't mind letting you use it.

"College. She lived across the hall in my dorm and would let me use her toaster."

Clark smiles, stealing a glimpse across the table at his co-worker. "That's nice of her. We're the same, I suppose. Except, she's across the bullpen, not the hall. And she doesn't share her sources, just steals all the coffee."

"So, not the same at all?" You query, brows pulled together.

You're not aiming to be funny but Clark laughs, showing you a flash of teeth, and you find you don't mind at all. "Okay, you got me there." He says warmly.

It strikes you then, the thought that Clark is both very nice and very easy to talk to.

And to look at, if you're being honest with yourself. He has a strong jawline, dark lashes. The dimples he gets when he smiles beg to be kissed.

It's a shame that you've already had your schtick with love—and come out thoroughly unimpressed. With the two interactions you had, you can't help but imagine that Clark Kent is the kind of person who could be very easy to love.

You swallow heavily at the thought.

You don't want to consider if you are that kind of person too - given, you think you know Darren's answer at least.

You remember you should keep asking questions. "Are you a reporter?"

Clark nods, lips pressed together. "Mhm, that I am. You keep up with the news?"

When you have meta-humans running around the globe, it's generally a good idea to. Plus, you enjoy the little Superman scoops from time to time.

“I do my best.” You shrug, your coat collar shifting against your neck. "Will I have read anything of yours?"

A bashfulness crosses Clark's face and he scratches his neck again. "Maybe. I occasionally get interviews with Superman, which you might have read."

The familiarity from earlier snaps into place. His name - printed on the byline of the Daily Planet's front page, that you've read at least a dozen times. He's the guy who gets all the Superman exclusives.

"Oh, I know those!" You exclaim. "Yes, I've read them. You're really good. In the most recent one, I really appreciated the use of the word clandestine. It's a great word. I once did a crossword where that was the main clue and I've liked it since then."

At Jimmy's motion in your peripheral, his head turning to your conversation, do you realise how loud you've accidentally become.

You shrink back a bit, a hot embarrassment spilling in your chest. You hadn't meant to.

Clark, thankfully, appears undeterred. Actually, if anything, he seems quite flattered by your comment on his word choice, his face splitting into a grin.

"Yeah? I, uh, I haven't had that compliment before. Thank you. I agree completely as well, it's a fantastic word."

You glow hotly at his response - then nod, taking another sip of ginger-ale to try swallow down some of your embarrassment.

The conversation flows back to the table when Lois taps your ankle beneath the table, hooking you into an overdue catch up. She does most of the talking and you listen dutifully, slowly emptying your glass.

Time wanes with ease; so much, that it's much later than you had intended to leave when you check your phone some time later.

You blink at it in surprise. Clearly, your idea of a quick catch-up had melted away into a slower conversation.

But, for once, you're pleasantly surprised by the change in routine. You like Lois' friends.

Okay, you hadn't exactly talked to the others all that much - just a few words back and forth across the table. It had been more you watching them toss jokes around about Daily Planet's work-life. They all seem nice enough.

What you mean is, you like Clark.

He's really good at keeping you in the conversation. When the conversation veers to a topic unknown to you, he drops little tidbits of information in your ear.

The name Perry comes out, and Clark whispers how it's their boss; 'The Stakeout' gets mentioned, and he murmurs about how a 2-hour stint accidentally became a 20-hour one; Jimmy jokingly warns Cat against another marg, and Clark tells you, grinning all the while, of the last Christmas staff party.

It's nice. He doesn't leave you wondering — doesn't even wait for you to ask. You haven't really had that before.

You steal a glimpse when you think he's not looking.

Between the tag on the subway and this, you're beginning to think he might be the nicest person you've ever met.

Still, the clock reads closer to 9pm than you'd like.

The bakery you thought you might be able to dip into after this, for tomorrow's breakfast, will be long shut. Frustration singes at the thought.

Tomorrow, however, is a Saturday. There was already an idea to go to the Farmer's market, penned in your notebook, but now you'll have to go.

Saying goodbye to a big group that you only sort of know is awkward. You slurp on your straw to announce it quietly, then shift about for a moment, before you stand.

"I have to go now."

The group turns at your words. Polite goodbyes come from Ron and Cat, waves exchanged in your direction from Jimmy and Steve.

"Oh," Clark says, blinking up at you from behind his glasses. He presses them up his nose. "That's— would you, uh, like some company? I'd be more than happy to walk you."

Something electric zings down your spine. Your face burns again at his offer.

It tempts you. Walking home with Clark does sound a dream, but if you're being honest, you're all talked out for the evening. You can feel the social fatigue setting in, feel the urge to hide beneath your headphones again.

Your walk home will be in silence, fast-paced. You don't think Clark will enjoy several blocks of complete quietness between you.

You shake your head, "No. Thank you."

Maybe you're imagining things, but you can almost convince yourself he looks a bit downtrodden at your response. You bite down the urge to over-explain yourself — it rarely helps.

Turning, you make a point to wave specifically to Lois, a smile on your lips.

You say, "Thank you for inviting me. I had a good time."

"Of course," Lois grins at you over her beer. "I'm glad we could catch up. It was really nice to see you. Though, I have a feeling I might be seeing more of you soon."

Her eyes flit across the table, but if you're supposed to catch on to something, it's lost on you.

You frown, looking around the table again — nothings different, except Clark's ears a little pinker than a second ago.

Maybe she means you'll run into each other more now you know where she frequents. You cast a glance around at Crowley's and try to imagine coming here alone. It's not implausible.

"Okay, then." You nod, the motion a bit awkward, and tuck your hands away in your pockets. "Bye."

Another chorus of farewells from the table - a wave from Clark specifically. You wave without removing your hands from your pocket.

Tracing your steps back up to the streets, you have to blink to adjust to how dark it's become, night trickling into the city. The streetlights have come on and they cast pale puddles of light across the roads. The city hums with life.

Fishing around, you retrieve your headphones and slip them on. The world dims, just a bit. Manageable now.

You huff a breath, readying yourself for the journey home. Tiredness has crept into your skin - but at the same time, you're rejuvenated in another sense. One you couldn't explain it if you tried.

As you cross the street, heading for the subway station, it reminds you Clark. The tag. The careful gentleness of his fingers, inches from your neck.

You wonder if, back at the bar, you should've looked back.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Metropolis sports several markets that spring up, like weeds between concrete, on an early Saturday morning.

It's quite a transformation. Mullen's Square, the one closest to you, is generally void of any sort of gatherings during the week. Some workers wander out to eat their lunch, but the square has less greenery than others nearby.

It's nice, still. You like to wander through it on your way home, if you want to walk a little longer, that is.

The Saturday market is technically called a farmer's market—though how many genuine farmers it houses, you're not sure. By 7am, stalls pop up through the square, cobalt tarpaulins strung up that catch the wind and keep off the sun.

The east side is dedicated to the smaller treats.

There's little coffee carts parked, a green Jitter's one among them. Stores offering trinkets and handmade gifts, decorated with bright signs. The smell of sizzling breakfast drifts through the square.

The west is where the produce is.

Rows and rows and rows of fresh fruit and vegetables, piled high enough to make you nervous you'll send them tumbling with a single knock. It's a sea of colour, bright reds and deep greens. It's also where you're heading first today.

The stone scuffs underfoot as you cross into Mullen's square.

You grip the bag of reusable bags stowed on your shoulder, which is filled with only more reusable bags— an eco-friendly Russian-doll of bags, you might say.

This particular Saturday is overcast, which keeps the morning chill close. It won't linger, you hope, as the clouds appear to be clearing out. It's not a bad bet to assume it'll be bright and sunny by the end of the hour.

You're too busy watching your feet that you nearly miss the bakery stand — your actual first stop, you now remember.

You have to halt, then do an awkward little turn around, to end up in front of it.

The worst part of markets is that every stall holder is the most extroverted, talkative person to grace the land. Small-talk is not your forte — and neither is heckling the prices.

Leo, the owner of aforementioned bakery, has thankfully come to know you as a regular - and your quietness is expected. He greets you with a nod, smelling of freshly baked goods, and begins to bag up a loaf of sourdough without a word spoken.

You like Leo. He rewards your loyalty with a slight discount, which is never unappreciated.

The warmth of the bread presses into your side, packed away safely, you head into the first row of vegetables.

You pass artichokes, celery, and swedes. You have a list of ingredients you need, penned in your notebook, but it's mostly staples. Your eyes hunt for the potatoes to begin with — and instead, catch on a taller figure in the crowd.

It's impossible to miss him, given how he's a head taller than most of the crowd. A nervous anticipation prickles across your spine.

Maybe it's not him. Statistically, it's unlikely you'll have run into him again and so soon. Did you mention your plans for the farmer's market last night aloud?

You squint at him, trying to figure out if it's just wishful thinking.

But, no. It's definitely Clark.

He's wearing a pair of blue-wash jeans and an unbuttoned red flannel, the sleeves rolled up. Beneath it, his t-shirt reads Smallville Athletics. It's a touch on the tight fitting side.

His hair is a little messier this morning and he has his glasses on, slightly down from the bridge of his nose. He's holding something in one hand.

You wander a little closer and your eyes catch on what it is, his fingers closed around a handle. When you see what it’s attached to, a surprised delight radiates in your chest.

He has a wagon, small and red, trailing behind him.

He must tow it behind him to carry his things, because you can spot a variety of food already stashed in it.

He's talking to a vendor with an easy smile, the two chatting politely, before Clark gestures to a pile of oranges, a couple crates over. He nods a goodbye to the vendor and walks the few steps, pulling the wagon with him.

Then, he starts examining the fruit, picking the oranges up one by one.

You take a step — then judder to a halt. Can you just go up and say hi? That sounds almost absurd.

Clark hasn't seen you yet - you could turn and disappear into the east side of the market and he'd be none the wiser. You want to say hi though. You want to talk to him again.

But you're not friends. You've just met him twice, both times by accident.

And that's all it's taken for you think he's the nicest guy in all of Metropolis — and that's left you wondering if you're allowed to think that so soon after Darren.

5 weeks and 6 days since the breakup. But you never thought Darren was the nicest guy in the city—he probably wasn't even the nicest guy on his apartment floor.

You decide after a long moment, staring hard at a pile of tomatoes, that saying hello is the perfectly friendly thing to do.

You walk over before you can change your mind.

"Hi."

Not recognising your voice, Clark turns with a quirk in his brows, already apologetic. "Oh, sorry, is my wagon-?"

His polite apology quickly melts away as he turns enough to see who you are. He blinks, his glasses slip further down his nose, and then the orange in his hand erupts as it's squished beneath his super-strength.

"Hi— oh, son of a biscuit," He goes from happy to politely distressed in a moment.

Orange juice streaks down his forearm and Clark quickly unclenches his hand. He stares at the mashed remains of the orange in his hand with a genuine sorrow, as if trying to will it back to its previous form.

When it doesn't work, he turns back to the vendor from before and gestures with the orange weakly. "I will pay for this."

You've never really had someone juice an orange at your arrival before, so it leaves you stuck for what to say.

You bite your cheek, "Guess it was a bad orange?"

Clark laughs at that, a bit breathy, his focus still on where to put the orange. "It's- no. Or maybe. I love Frank's oranges, I couldn't say a bad word against them."

That makes you smile.

He eventually pulls one of the plastic produce bag rolls off the edge of a crate and deposits the fruit pulp inside - then tosses it into his wagon. He looks up at you, his arm still held out and dripping fruit juice.

He smiles, lashes touching in the corners, "Hi. Again. It's," He takes a deep breath, swallows. "It's good to see you."

You think he genuinely means it too. Which is a trip - your pulse ticks up a few beats per minute.

To distract yourself from that, you dig around in your bag for some wipes to give him.

"Here," you say, after peeling back the protective sticker and extracting one. He takes it with that awkward head bob he does.

Clark says, "Thank you," and he smiles again - and you swear it's exactly when the sun comes out.

Suddenly, it feels too warm to be wearing your knit sweater and you're not entirely sure the weather's to blame. You swallow, trying not to focus too intently on his long fingers as he wipes them off.

"I like your wagon."

For some reason, that makes Clark turn a nice pink that matches the peaches.

He's still wiping at his hands and his shoulders hunch up, "Yeah, well, it's my old one and—" He pauses, glancing over your expression. "Oh. You mean it."

You frown, "Of course."

You look down at the wagon and see that in white, flaking paint the name KENT is painted on the side. There's no perfect lines, which means it's probably been hand-painted.

Up close, you can see his haul. A bunch of carrots, strung together with rubber bands, a carton of 24 eggs - which upon further inspection, you realise is 48, as it's doubled stacked - and a variety of leafy greens. Several limes roll around loosely.

Clark catches your gaze and peers at his own wagon, "Gotta have fresh eggs, you know?"

You don't know because eggs, to you, can be the worst food on the planet. Texture, yolk, almost always served some degree of undercooked on purpose.

Still, you nod, because that's the polite thing to do.

"I'm still so used to getting everything fresh back home," says Clark.

He tucks the used wipe into the same bag as the mushed orange. "One of those things that took awhile to adjust to in Metropolis - til I found the markets."

You look at his shirt and put two and two together. "You used to live on a farm?"

"Born and raised." Clark grins. Then, his brows bunch together. "Well, not actually born, but that's a story for a different time. Smallville's home though."

He gestures to his shirt proudly, then pushes his glasses back up. He looks you over, seeing your relatively empty bags.

"You just arrive? Or no big plans to shop around?"

You become aware of how your knees have locked and try to subtly adjust them. A performer starts setting up an amp close by, the scratchiness beamed out through the speaker.

"Both. I came to get—"

There's a squeal from the performer's guitar and you cringe at the volume, eyes closing momentarily. When the noise stops, you relax, "Sorry. I…"

What were you saying? You can't really focus when there's still the scratchy noises feeding out the amp. You look over your shoulder, spy the offender, and wish desperately for her to stop.

A moment later, the noise runs smooth and the volume turns way down. The soft noises of her acoustic guitar begin. You turn back to Clark.

You remember you were in the middle of a sentence, "Sorry. I'm sorry, what was the question?"

Clark smiles, soft, "Don't be sorry. I was asking if you come to the markets often. You look prepared."

He nods to the bags over your shoulder.

"I come sometimes," You say, relieved that he doesn't mind repeating himself. "I'm mainly here for bread because I was supposed to get some after work yesterday."

"Oh," says Clark, but you can't place what tone it is. "Guess we kept you longer than you intended, huh?"

"I would've gone home earlier if I wanted to." You inform. "If that's what you mean."

It might be, given how something relaxes in his body. He stands a little straighter. When he's not hunching over, like he been on the subway, you realise he's more than a fair bit taller than you.

If he wanted to kiss you, he'd definitely have to lean down, your brain supplies unhelpfully.

You pretend to adjust your sleeve just press your fingers to your wrist. As suspected, your heart doesn't seem to be fairing well in Clark's presence. You're nervous — but after some consideration, you decide it's a good kind of nervous.

You watch him survey the crowds of the slowly busying market. He turns to you.

"How would you like some company?" asks Clark. Then, as if remembering your answer last time he asked, he quickly adds, "No pressure to, if you'd rather just—"

Hell if you're not going to seize this opportunity. You cut him off and hope he won't think you too rude.

"I would love the company."

He blinks - then shows off his dimples with a smile, gaze softened and entirely on you. "Alright then."

Together, you walk and you talk.

Clark tells you about Smallville, the small town in Kansas that he hails from.

The farmboy image makes a lot of sense honestly. It explains his broad shoulders and big arms, not the usual physique of an investigative reporter. You try not to sweat at the mental image of him throwing around hay-bales - and quietly fail miserably.

And then the image sweetens nearly unbearably when you hear him talk about his Ma and his Pa, adoration clear in his voice.

You talk about home too, but more about college days with Lois, when you started living independently. He asks about your job. You somehow end up convincing him Leo's Bakery is the best sourdough in the city — though he's rather easily swayed.

When you pass a stall selling fake crystals, which you point out, Clark makes the mistake of asking how you can tell.

It starts you off on a tangent. You get halfway through an explanation, informing him of the formation of cleavage planes in minerals, when you realise you might be doing the thing.

The talk-so-much-you-miss-the-cue-that-tells-you-to-be-quiet thing.

"and when it's glass, it doesn't have those—" You suddenly want to jam your hand in your mouth, it'd be easier to stop talking. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm talking a lot, aren't I?"

You shove your hands in your pockets so you don't pick at your fingertips, a bad habit.

Clark smiles, pulling the wagon that he somehow coaxed you to put your stuff in too. He shows no strain of pulling it.

"You are," He agrees, but he says warmly. Like it might be a good thing. "It's wonderful. Please keep going."

You bite your cheek in surprise — but he means it, so you do.

He lets you talk for as long as you like, and when you eventually lapse into quiet, it's surprisingly comfortable.

You've done an okay job at multi-tasking, talking and shopping, with a few more pieces of produce joining the cooled sourdough loaf. But really, you and Clark seem to be walking just to keep each other company.

You're broken out of your thoughts when Clark clears his throat.

He glances down at you, "Do you think there's some reason we keep running into each other?"

"A reason?"

You search your brain for what he might possibly mean. It is rather unlikely that you've run into each other this much, purely by accident. Even you can admit, it is odd.

But plenty of things are odd to you, that seem perfectly natural to other people.

You suppose you've just been putting this in the same box.

"Like," There must be something in his throat, because Clark clears it again. "Fate. Or something like that."

You might say he sounds almost wistful. Maybe if you were someone else, you might be able to tell what that means.

You ask a different question instead. "Do you believe in fate?"

That makes Clark looks at you. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything, his blue eyes simply roam your face with a tenderness you're unprepared for. "You know, I think I'm beginning to."

You wish you could figure out why that makes you face burn.

Something pings on your phone, making it vibrate in your pocket. With a polite smile, you pull it out and instead of the notification, your attention goes to the time.

Your brows raise in surprise. It's a good thing you haven't any plans, as you found time has, yet again, run away from you.

You're beginning to suspect it must be a Clark thing.

"Sorry, I've just realised—" You hold up your phone halfheartedly. "The time. Um, I didn't mean to take up so much of yours, that is. I should probably get going."

Clark nods in understanding. A muscle twitches in his jaw, tensed, as he watches you extract your things from his wagon.

You straighten up, things gathered loosely in your hands, and expect it to be the same awkward exchange of waves goodbye.

It isn't. Clark's talking before you take the first step, the words coming out a little breathless,

"Before you go— and- this might be too forward- in which case, you know, that's fine. But, I didn't want to, uh, lose the chance. Seize the day, you know?"

Okay, he's lost you. It must read on your face, because Clark sighs. It doesn't feel directed at you.

He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks suddenly pinker than peaches this time. They better resemble the red of his wagon.

Clark looks to the sky, mumbling something under his breath you can't hear, then turns to you, set. "I would love to see you again. If- If you'd like. On purpose this time."

You blink.

Well, you weren't expecting that. He wants to see you? On purpose?

You can't help but note how wonderful it is to have someone be so forward with you.

What follows is a tinge of disappointment—he's not asking you out, not like Darren did. He didn't say date.

You're not so presumptuous to think he would think that way about you - the way you've been thinking of him.

Your disappointment is followed by a scornful scoff at yourself — now that you think about it, it's highly unlikely that someone as kind as Clark is without a girlfriend. You're just a fool for not considering it earlier.

"You want to hang out?" You ask, to be sure.

Something crosses Clark's face. After a beat, he swallows, shrugs and says, "Sure. If that's what you want."

It is what you want—to see him again.

Albeit, maybe not quite how you'd like, but beggars can't be choosers.

"I would like that."

Clark smiles — which turns to a grin when he takes your number, scrawled on a tiny scrap of paper torn from your notebook.

You half hope he knows what it means that you've ruined a fresh page for him - and half hope he doesn't.

When you bid each other goodbye, you watch the handsome not-such-a-stranger anymore disappear in the throngs of people, his red wagon towed behind him.

And into the evening after, tempting and wishful, the concept of fate follows you into sleep.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It takes, what Clark thinks is, an embarrassing amount of time to figure where he's gone wrong.

Here's the thing; Clark's a big boy.

He was raised right. He can take a rejection on the chin — can be polite, respectful. He can still keep people as friends, even when his feelings extend a little further.

Given your polite readjustment of Clark's date invitation into just friends territory, the implication very much is that you are not interested in Clark. Not in the way he's interested in you, at least.

And he can respect that, truly. He is a gentleman after all.

Except, the thing is, you don't exactly act that way.

As the two of you settle into a routine of new friends, learning your place in each others lives, on purpose this time, Clark just… notices.

It's the little things — and it takes time to know what you do with him, and what you do with everyone else.

He notices how you're mostly quiet, but also prone to a sudden inspired chatter that increases with volume and excitement in equal measure. Your hands flex, like there's too much energy in you with nowhere to go but out through your fingertips.

You do that around him, but not around everyone.

He notices your lingering gaze. Feels it on his back when he's turned; on his hands; feels it tracing up the side of his face when you think he isn't looking.

You don't do that with anyone else either.

He notices… a lot about you, to be honest.

Probably more than someone who's trying to veer away from romantic notions and stay firmly in the friend zone you've enacted for the pair of you should.

But — your heart is the biggest giveaway.

This thing, he doesn't mean to notice. It's come to feel like spying, if the person isn't aware he's doing it, tuning in his super senses to something a quiet as a heartbeat.

It's not like prying or eavesdropping really, but Ma and Pa raised him to treat it as such.

Your heart though—it reaches out with a siren's call he's helpless to ignore.

Around just the two of you, it wavers from steady to rising. Not fast enough to be panic, but too fast to be calm. Somewhere that sits in between.

Which means, you're nervous around him. The way you check your pulse, in subtle motions but Clark's the observant kind, means that you know it too.

He can only hope it's not the bad sort of nerves. Though, he figures you'd stop inviting him over if it was. You're on the side of too honest sometimes, which grates some—but only endears him evermore.

The combination of all these little things swirl together, forming a sign, that, well, usually Clark would take as mutual interest. You seem interested.

But you had turned him down.

Clark loses sleep, wondering if it's wrong that he still thinks of his friend in this way.

This—this pining way, that seems to be second nature to him now. Imbued in him. Intertwined with him.

Your eyes, your mouth are constant, vivid thoughts, surely meant to drive him mad. Like the place a tooth used to be, one he can't stop running his tongue over.

Sore, aching, yearning for something missing.

Is it wrong? How could it be, when it felt so right. Is it wrong? he asks himself, stealing every sidelong glance at you, greedy for it. Eager for more.

The thought of your kiss—how it would feel to have your lips on his—crosses his mind daily.

There is where the embarrassing part comes in.

Really, in hindsight, all Clark can think is that he should have figured it out sooner. Well, actually, he had figured it out, but connecting the two pieces hadn't even occurred to him.

To put it lightly, you deal with all manner of things very literally.

Double meanings, sarcastic comments, pointed looks; some of them you catch, most of them you don't. When they come up in conversations, you get this little pinch in your eyebrows.

If it's not Clark who's said them, you'll glance wordlessly up at him, like checking if he's understood it either.

He knows you have no idea how much it captivates him.

All this is to say, he should've been able to put two and two together much sooner.

He wishes he had—if only so it all could've been a little more romantic.

But as it goes, the afternoon it unfolds, he's in his kitchen, donned in a striped and too small apron, with a bit of flour in his hair. You look lovely, as always.

Together, you're baking together. Really, Clark's doing most of the work.

He doesn't actually mind, given it's Ma's carrot cake recipe that he's recreating. And also because he likes it when you let him do things for you. It's taken time to figure what you will and won't let him help with.

You're perched on one of the bar stools, elbows to the counter, watching him work. Doing important things, such as beguiling him with a single look. He's softened by your mere closeness.

It's also not helping that you have to look through your eyelashes whenever you make eye contact with him.

(Clark's already crushed one egg by accident already, as a result.)

At current, he's folding the batter, the mixing bowl cradled in his arms. Your attention is waning, given how when he glances up, he sees you fiddling with the cinnamon shaker. You're peeling the label slightly, just for something to fidget with.

He gestures to it with a nod and a smile. "Toss me the cinnamon, will you?"

And you do, literally.

Expectation tells him you'll slide it across the counter. Instead, he has to rapidly drop the spatula with a splat! into the bowl, to catch the incoming cinnamon. It jolts him, the surprise of it.

He stares at it, clutched in his fingers — which he definitely only caught with his enhanced reflexes — and then up at you, wide-eyed.

You blink at him, not understanding his sudden surprise. "You said to toss it!"

Two and two fuse together. Your very literalness and Clark's lack of specific wording.

Had he called it a date, that time at the markets, how ever many weeks ago now? He was so sure he had - or if he hadn't, it was so obviously implied you couldn't possibly misunderstand.

But then again, he didn't know you then. Not like he knows you now.

To you, Clark goes from his normal ease around you, to wide-eyed and straight backed. It looks a little like he's been zapped with something - a lightning rod of realisation.

Then he slowly squints at you for a long moment, mixing bowl still cradled to his bicep. Moving with immense care, he places it slowly down on the counter before him.

His hands follow, palms wrapping around the edge of the counter. He stares hard at the surface for another long, long moment.

His blue eyes flick up to you, through his glasses, searching for something.

"Do you want to go on a date?" He asks, voice low. "With me?"

Which—okay. Something misfires in your brain. It's come out of nowhere—how did cinnamon and carrot cake lead to this?

A date. With you. And him. Together. Romantically.

Hidden behind your ribs, you feel your treacherous heart begin to race. You feel that stupid burn in your face you always get around Clark flare up.

Why is he asking now? What changed?

You wonder if he's just figured you out. If he can suddenly see some manifestation of your quiet, pathetic longing.

Have you been that obvious? You wonder if it's pity.

Then you swallow the thought away.

Clark wouldn't.

You realise you haven't answered. Despite how you desperately want to, you're not brave enough to meet his gaze. If you do, you'll never get to the words out.

"Yes. I would like that."

Clark sucks in a sharp breath. Your eyes dart up, looking at him through your lashes with a quiet disbelief and he's smiling. Grinning, like what you've just said is the best news of his life.

You should pinch your arm. Perhaps you've fallen asleep at the counter, watching him fold the batter.

"Great," Clark says breathily.

He's looking at you in a way that's, not different per say, but simply less… reserved. There's an ardent fondness in his eyes that wasn't there before.

Or maybe it was. Maybe you're the one who hasn't been paying close enough attention.

"Great." You echo.

Have you two just agreed to something? Your throat clicks with how dry it is. You're still a little unsure how you've ended up here.

A beat passes.

The understanding of what he's asking—as in, had actually just asked you out—wallops into you.

"I didn't realise you—" You say loudly, then bite your tongue. "I- I mean, I thought- or didn't rather, think you, like, would think like that. Not about me."

Clark's lips press together, like he's holding back from an even wilder grin. Like he's finally solved a puzzle he's been tinkering at for months now—and the final product is much, much better than expected.

He picks up his hands, dusts off the flour, and begins to work open the knot on the back of the apron.

"What are the chances you'll believe me if I say I'll felt that way from the start?"

"Low." You reply honestly, watching him as he dumps the apron on the counter beside the mixing bowl. You wonder what he means by the start.

"At the bar?"

Clark does laugh this time, like you've said something delightfully funny.

He walks backward to the door, eyes still on you, til he reaches the coat stand. You watch, puzzled, as he pilfers through the pocket of his coat and produces his wallet.

"Let me prove it," He says, gesturing with his wallet.

He crosses the space, this time rounding the counter to stand beside you. Still sitting, you have to crane your neck to look up at him - but his head is bowed, focused on something in his wallet.

You haven't a clue what he's looking for until —

—there, between his fingers, is a piece of fabric you recognise.

It's… the tag from your shirt.

The one he'd helped snip off for you on the subway, all those months ago.

He'd kept it. In his wallet, carrying it around with him. Knew exactly where to find it, as if he'd retrieved it countless times before.

For an awfully small thing, it represents what feels like an enormous amount of time.

From the start, he said. From the start I've felt this way, it means.

You stare at the tag, bewildered - flummoxed and yet, indescribably like something's melting in your chest, molten hot.

Your hand raises, unbidden, knuckles pressing against your sternum, as though it might help you contain the feeling. It's helpless.

There's no stopping the unbridled, unrestrained happiness which is so real, it feels sharp. Your eyes blur with tears. A choked sounding breath claws its way out of your throat.

You look up at Clark. There aren't words you can find.

To make matters worse, Clark looks afflicted at your reaction — your leg jittering, your hand pressed tight to your chest, your mouth yet to say a word. He has to check, "Are these— these are good tears?"

Your chin trembles, but you're nodding severely. You drag in another ragged breath and consequently make Clark feel like a monster for doing this to you.

"You-" The word quivers a bit around your tears. "Sorry. I'm sorry, I don't mean to cry, it's— it's not bad. It's good. It's really good."

You tuck your face away, breaths still coming too fast. Clark gives you the moment you need, wishing you were at equal heights so it wasn't so easy for you to hide from him. But a few deep, slow breaths later, you unfurl from your hiding place.

Fingers wipe your face, clearing the tears, and then you look at his hands. Your face is dewy from tears, eyelashes clinging together. It's poetry to Clark.

"You kept it," You whisper, eyes fixed on the fabric in his fingers. Your gaze lifts, peering up at him with a tenderness that threatens to unravel Clark entirely.

"I did." He says, matching your quiet tone, immeasurably kind. He's always kind with you.

Your bottom lip takes a tremble and you bite it away, teeth sinking into the flesh.

"I looked for you on the subway. After that day."

You say it like you've been keeping a secret — this hidden want, tucked in your heart and carried around with you.

Clark reckons the two of you aren't that different in this way; it's what he's been doing with this tag, after all. Taking this want around with him, until it chased him into another chance encounter with you.

He rubs his thumb over the swatch. It feels like luck to him.

"That's what you meant about fate," You murmur, realisation staining your tone. You sniffle a little.

Your eyes are back on the tag, but this time, you reach out to feel it too. Clark lets you. In the middle, your fingertips catch.

Funny how an object you so detested comes back to you, loved in another form.

You ask, "Is that why you kept it? Fate?"

There's an eyelash on your cheekbone, freed by your tears. Clark thinks has all the wishes he needs, right here in front of him.

Fingertips to yours, he draws your hand closer to him, into his chest. Lets the line of your body lead the way, bringing your faces closer as he bends to reach you.

The air smells of cinnamon and the sweetness of finally, finally getting what you want.

"It was a working theory," He murmurs — and feels the tremble in your mouth when he kisses you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

HUGE thank you to @strangerstilinski for helping me at every roadblock this thru one <3 and to @citrinesparkles for boatloads of validation to help me push thru :D

otherwise moots / people who asked to be tagged for the first part, i figured you may want to read this one too! as always, no pressure :)