#dc superman

GREEN emitted from the corner of the holding cell. Kryptonite, created from Metamorpho’s powers. Unwillingly, Superman lay in the corner, weakened from the creation. Purple and blue veins popping and a sickly appearance present.

Metamorpho’s melancholy expression matched the room perfectly. There was a crippling silence between the two, the static of the element filling their ears.

The silence was soon interrupted when lewd footsteps entered the platform and abruptly stopped. Superman’s gaze was turned to the owner of the steps. The owner being Lex Luthor, the man who trapped him there in the first place by creating a pocket universe.

“Wakey wakey Sunshine.” Lex deadpanned, kicking the enclosure simultaneously. “I’ve got a present for you.” he smirked revealing a figure with a sack over their head.

Superman. glanced up, not realizing who it was, until Lex unmasked the person revealing their identity as Y/n L/n, the most important person in Superman’s life. His eyes grew wide with shock mixed with rage. He tried to muscle up enough energy to get up but failed.

“You keep your hands off of her Lex.” Superman replied grittily, his voice horse but his tone aggressive.

“Or what?" Lex snapped before a sly smirk appeared on his face, a brow arched. With Superman's sweetie pie in his clutches, Lex had Superman in the palm of his hand. All it would take was one wrong move before Lex would crush the Kryptonian then and there.

"God-- Lex, I don't know but," he choked on his words, "please don't hurt her." Superman pleaded with raspy gasps for air. Lex let out a chuckle at his pitiful plea. Superman mustered enough strength to move his head up to glance at the girl. Tears accessorized her face, threatening to continue falling from her eyes. She shook with fear, a cloth covering her mouth. Quaint squeals spilled from her lips accompanied by shaky breaths.

"Please," he mumbled, collapsing.

“Aw,” Lex displayed a fake pout on his face. “Is big, scary Superman sad because his sugar pie is going to die?” he asked in a fake infantile voice. He then rolled his eyes before laughing at the hero’s sullen, pitiful state on the floor. Finding his sickly, pitiful appearance amusing and quite hilarious.

Superman didn’t respond. The Kryptonite had been and currently was sucking every bit of life and energy out of him. He was helpless, how could he help Y/n, if he couldn’t even help himself?

“Lex, I’m begging you.” The weakened Kryptonian managed to muster out.

“Superman? Begging lil’ ol me?” Lex laughed, “Cute.” his smile quickly turning into a straight face. “I gave you chance after chance after chance to accept and admit how much of a fraud you really are. I was being nice. . . But did my favor get returned? No. So you’re going to have to learn the hard way.” Lex retorted. “I’m done waiting my turn.” The air still tense and Superman’s life slipping away by the second.

A beat. “Don’t tell him anything.” a muffled voice came from the girl. A voice Lex despised.

“Alright, enough.” he deadpanned. Promplty, before Superman could react or yell for him to stop, Lex pulled out his gun, aiming at her head. The trigger clicked, the chamber was empty. Superman swallowed dryly, wet tears streaking his cheeks. Lex raised an eyebrow at the girl before turning his attention to the weakened hero.

“Lucky, aren’t we?” he teased with a sharp giggle. Superman’s gaze, shyly moving to the girl. She shook as she spoke more sharply this time,

“Don’t do it.” she affirmed. Lex turned around quickly, pulling the trigger again with precision, this time the gun going off. Lex shot the girl in the head at point blank, killing her upon impact Instantly, she was limp against the chair.

“Aw, I’m sorry Superman . . . it was an accident.” Lex replied with fake pity, another pout on his lips.

Superman then let out a crackled, painful scream, as tears relentlessly fell down his cheeks. “Why would you do that?” he questioned over and over again as he sobbed, heavily breathing which turned into quick heaves.

. . .

Clark and Y/n had a sweet relationship. They were freshly dating, yet had shared glances across the office and playful banter for longer than Clark could tell. They shared intimate moments. There were countless mornings they would soak up each others presence skin to skin her dimly lit bedroom before heading to work as if they were nothing more than friends.

Clark had met Y/ns mother and he laughed as her mother shared embarrassing baby pictures with the man, and as he pointed out photos from her awkward middle school phase.

Y/n knew what it would mean, dating a superhero and what the risks were. Her and Clark spent nights discussing it. Clark understood if she wanted to leave, if it was too much for her. But she stayed.

However, Clark never anticipated it would be her in danger from the consequences of his dual life.Clark never expected this of all things to happen. For the villainous, violent man he had a rivalry with, to hurt such an innocent girl.

He wanted nothing more than to just cradle her in his arms, and whisper in her ear that everything would be alright, that Lex wouldn’t and couldn’t hurt her. But the reality was, Y/n was dead, on Lex’s accord and despite being a superhero, Clark couldn’t save the one girl who saving meant the most to. To the person he least expected would need it. And it was his fault.

. . .

The bouquet arrived before he did. Another apology waiting on your welcome mat, just outside your door.

Clark steps into your apartment, ducking his head through the door frame. He held a bouquet of your favorite flowers, ones he had ordered in apology for missing you again. Tonight you offered to make dinner—he promised he’d be there, and rub your shoulders while you watched some rom-com.

But he had flaked. Again. Lex Luthor had let out robots that were terrorizing the citizens of Metropolis. He and the Justice Gang spent close to two hours wrangling them up. Mr. Terrific was studying their code, trying to get an ounce of information. It had failed as usual. In the meantime, Clark helped clean up the city, or at least as best he could. 

He got here as quickly as he could. As he stepped farther into your apartment, he saw dinner on the table, now cold. The lights were out, but the candles still flickered on the counter and in the living room, casting a warm glow over the small space. He peeked over the couch and saw you lying there, in a nice turtle neck sweater and jeans. You’d worn it just for him, and to match the cozy fall happening outside.

Rain tapped on the windows, making him sigh as he set down his briefcase and slid off his glasses. Carefully, he walked around the L-shaped couch, the nice one you had picked together, and looked out on the city below. One of your favorite pastimes together was to read or gaze out of it while holding each other tight. Clark knelt on the floor, the bouquet grasped tightly in his hand, water dripping from the stems onto his chest. His hand went to your arm, and he leaned forward, giving you a peck on the cheek. “Sweetheart… I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice low and soothing.

Your eyes slowly fluttered open, now eye to eye with him. Clark had an expression of guilt, his lips in a small pout, his eyes sparkling with forgiveness, and his curls floppy and messed up on his head. Slowly, you sat up, taking him in. On one knee, holding more flowers. You loved the flowers, you really did. But you were tired of seeing them every time he had stood you up again, seeing them on your counter for a week, and thinking back to how he stood you up again. You knew about Superman, how he had a busy schedule, and you couldn’t even stay mad at him because he only wanted to help make Metropolis safer.

“It’s fine.” He could tell by the sad look on your face that it wasn't fine. He quickly held the flowers out to you; his hands had a small tremor to them, scared you were mad at him. “Clark…” you mumble, looking at the flowers. When it wasn’t flowers, it was a new book, a handwritten note, boxes of pastries. Always something bought, the thing he thought was right to do. He thought his words couldn’t do much to soothe you, that he was just a bumbling oaf who couldn’t stop messing up the best thing that ever happened to him. 

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he repeats, climbing up to the couch, pressing his forehead to yours. Your silence made his heart beat out of his chest. He could move planes with one hand, could freeze lakes with one quick breath, but he couldn’t be in two places at once for you. That pained him more than anything. “I don’t want another bouquet.” His face falls, and he pulls away, setting the flowers on the table. His hand went to your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. He saw tears build up in your eyes, and your breathing started to stutter, making his heart slam into his ribcage and then rip itself in half. “I just want you!”

Your voice cracked, but not with anger. Just defeat in your tone, because sometimes it felt like the world to ask that of him. You knew he’d be in your arms if he could, that he’d give you the world instead of flowers if you asked, but you also knew the world needed Superman. You had agreed to it when dating him that this would become your reality. Cold dinner and infinite flowers of apology. You looked over at the counter, the two plates, a flickering candle, and a wilting bouquet from the week before. “I know, I want you too. But I got caught helping—” you quickly cut him off. “I don’t need more apologies, Clark. I just need my boyfriend.”

His blue eyes searched the depths of yours, emotion rippling beneath his skin. Clark just nodded slowly, tears pricking the back of his eyes and his throat tightening. He’d do anything to prove to you that he was sorry, that he needed you just as much as you needed him. That he hated treading in late, covered in debris and guilt. But he couldn’t keep these magnificent powers from the world; he had to aid them. 

“I don’t know how to fix this… or make it better,” 

He broke the silence, pressing his forehead to yours again, giving you a desperate plea that his eyes had never shown before. “I don’t want you learning how to live without me. I hate it. It eats me alive!” Clark rasps out. He could hear your heartbeat spike, and he watched the tears spill over the rim of your eyes, tears of magic that almost sparkled as they slipped down your cheeks. “Just stop opening up your wallet,” you whispered, your lip quivering. “Stop sugar talking and get your lips on mine…”

He nods, moving forward to press a kiss to your lips. Clark could do that. Usually, he was too scared to touch you after patrol; he didn’t want you to think he was using you. So he was always hesitant, but tonight was different. His lips moved against your warm ones, his thumb stroking the soft skin of your cheek while his other hand grasped at your hip—showing he was there. “I love you,” he whispered against your lips, wrapping you in a tight hug. His large arms engulfed you like you were something delicate—in a way, you were. 

The doubt in your mind slowly started to slip; the ache didn’t disappear, but the weight of it became lighter under his admiring touch. The sweet scent of his cologne that still lingered from this morning, his ink-stained hand caressing your hip, slowly travelling up your side. The flicker of the candles washed a quiet tranquility over both of you, the stubble overgrowing on his chin rubbing the skin of your neck as he burrows into you. 

“I love you, Kal-El,” you mumbled into his hair, making sure he knew it. His breathing finally evened out, his shoulders sinking, the weight of his body soothing you back to sleep. 

Your heels clicked down the sidewalk, and the only light was projected onto the sidewalk by the streetlight. Guiding you to the glowing entrance of your work, you stepped down the hidden steps and were greeted by a dingy door that led to an old bar. When the door swung open, the familiar aroma of smoke had sunk into the carpets, cash, and expensive perfume that mingled with old whiskey. It always smelled the same, and almost felt like home. Tonight it was busy, the bars packed with men of all ages. Around the mainstage was even more, and you pushed through to get to the backrooms. Your trenchcoat hid your dress underneath, the one you reserved for Wednesday and Friday nights. It was black tie night, where all the ladies wore cocktail dresses and fancier hair, more tame make-up. Where the lacy garment underneath was only revealed during private sessions.

On stage was a co-worker, Jenna, who was working to feed her kids. On stage, she wore that pretty cocktail dress, which was a dark green that brought out the blonde in her hair and went to her mid-thigh. She strummed a guitar, the sound filling the bar as the audience hungrily waited for more. You caught her eye and smiled at her. Every dancer was here for a reason; it was something not everyone was bold enough to do, but it made lots of money. It wasn’t corrupt like some said; many women were just trying to make it without a second income to support themselves. Nothing wrong with that in an expensive city like this. Some were looking to pursue their careers in writing or dancing, so they did this on the side to fund their everyday lives. You knew sooner or later she’d be brought to a backroom, the ones with dim lights and velvet curtains that reeked of spilled bourbon and secrets. 

Backstage was filled with clutter, feather boas, hair clips, wigs, all of them piled up on surfaces and hangers. You sat at your vanity, your name written on the top of the mirror, along with decorations that you had collected over time to make it your own. A friend, Maisy, came up behind you, setting her hands on your shoulders. She pressed a kiss to your cheek, friendly and bubbly per usual. Her hair was done up with shining diamond hair clips. She wore a black dress that hugged her tight. Her Friday night specials were dancing like the girls in movies; it was impressive and always riled guys up, especially when she slowly let her dress slip and revealed the lace underneath by the end. “Hi, Maisy…” you said, quiet and reserved. Your eyes went to hers in the mirror, and she grinned at you. “Hi, honey. I heard we have a big night, Caldwell said that black tie night is gaining popularity.” Her voice was chirpy; it was fake to get her into character. 

No girl went out there as herself. The stage changed you, made you glow. When you were up there, you were the star, and you were no longer yourself. You were confident and self-assured, and despite any doubt, you were the prettiest girl in the room. 

“Really? That’ll be good… Wanted to go shopping soon anyway,” you said, smiling at her back. Caldwell was your boss, the guy who owned the bar. He was nice, always made sure the ladies felt protected. He was large and intimidating, and beat off any guy who tried to take more than what they paid for. You guys were lucky to have him; not many gentlemen’s clubs had a manager who cared. “I need to pay for my eye doctor appointment. Stupid that my insurance won’t cover it. Whatever. How’s your hunt for reporting jobs?” she asked, taking your blush off your vanity, applying it to her own carmelly skin. You give an exasperated sigh and shrug, “Just so hard to find something that pays like this. I can start as an intern and get half of what I’m getting now. I’m still waiting for something from Daily Planet.” Maisy shrugs, setting the compact down and starting to stride onto the stage. “Work half-time here while you wait for your big article to strike.” She dips onto the stage, the speakers overhead announcing her while people cheered and whistled just outside the curtain. “Welcome out Maisy Moon onto the stage! Her mysterious moves will bring you out of this world…” and music began to play. Her passion was dance, and she spent her days in the ballet studios teaching kids how to feel the music.

You applied your makeup, always saving that for when you got to work, always in a rush. You wore a cocktail dress, a dark blue one. It shimmered under the light and had a cute little bow on the back. You paired it with dark tights that matched your skin, heels that were bordering on too tall, and elegant white gloves. A small vibration from your phone pulled you away from your makeup. You scrounged through your purse, heavy with resumes that each displayed your credentials, what made you worthy. They floated around with your pencils and planners, journals, and stray cash. It was a nice bag, one that this job had paid for. Your phone lit up with an email, a useless one about your schedule for next week. You gave a grumble of irritation, your eyes going to Caldwell as he steps into the room, clad in his usual jeans and t-shirt, his biceps bulging out. It’s how he ran the bar so effectively that most guys were scared of him. “Hey, almost ready? Maisy is finishing up her act,” he said, voice gruff as he ran his fingers over the thick mustache on his lip. You looked up at him with a nod, standing up slowly. You heard the song lull to an end on stage, and Maisy yelled, “Cheers!” before running back stage. You heard the clinking of all the men's glasses hitting each other in celebration. 

“Yeah, yeah. How do I look?” you ask, giving him a small smile—one that wasn’t quite bright enough for the stage. “Fine, smile big,” Caldwell reminded. He gave Maisy a nod of encouragement and appreciation before walking back out on stage. Carefully, you slipped your earpiece on, colored black to hide it best you could, a final spray of perfume and body glitter, and you were walking over to stage right. He announced your name in a booming voice as you lined up on the side, keeping yourself hidden. “Ladies and gentlemen... you've seen dancers. You've seen singers. But now, we have our very own fortune teller. Except she doesn't use cards... she uses you. Give a round of applause for the lovely lady!” You ran out quickly. Soon, you were transformed. A smile brightening your face, your hands going up to encourage the applause. You looked out into the crowd. It was silent aside from the crack of pool balls colliding against each other by the bar. The applause came to a silence, and you wore your brightest smile, your posture straightened—you were the star. All the attention of every man in there was pinned on you. “Hello, hello!” Your voice was cheery, like all applications, dreams, and desires had been tucked away into the deepest parts of you.

Men cheered as you spoke, you settled them with a hand, lips pursed as you carefully walked up and down the stage. When you looked out into the crowd, you saw many things—you saw the bartender throwing out drinks, servers setting beers down that dripped with condensation, but most of all, you saw different men. Some were husbands or single, others were nervous or confident, some had been here for the first time, and others had been here hundreds of times. You could tell just by the way you interacted with them, the way they kept their cool, how they treated you. You knew who paid well, including tips, and you could tell who wouldn’t pay as well. It was a part of the business, reading all of their intentions. It made your act easier, surprising. 

 Slowly, you walked down the creaky wooden steps into the audience, walking down the rows before stopping in front of a good-looking guy. He had been to events like this before; you could tell by how he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and a smug smirk that could make you believe he owned the world. “Well, well. Looks like you just came here from construction, correct?” He was cleaned up, but only an observant reporter could see his cracked palms, the paint under his nails, and the light specks of paint that dusted his shoes. He laughed, a deep, rich chuckle. “Lucky guess,” and you grin. Moving to the next person, searching the crowd for someone unsuspecting. Your hands grazed your shoulders as you walked by to get attention. You stopped in front of a younger boy, nervous, and clearly it had been his first time. “First time?” you ask, grinning at him, focusing your gaze on him. You watched his straightened, his skin was dark, and his eyes snapped up to your face. A small nod makes you hum as you thought. “Figured, let me guess. You just turned 18, you're with your dad and…” You looked at the boys around his table. Looked older than him. “Your older brothers.” The boy nods, and you hold a hand out to him, and he takes it.

Carefully, you pull your lips to the back of his hand; your confidence puts him at ease. “Happy 18, and good luck,” you nodded. After a few more predictions, nailing each one, you stepped back up the wooden stairs. Doing a bow and earning claps before you ran off stage, Caldwell came out to take your place. Your act wasn’t as wowing as other girls, but it got more private sessions, the people that came through liked to be heard—respected. It got you plenty of tips; vulnerability was the key to these men’s hearts. Most of them came here when they were lonely. You had a client who came every week; he paid to bring you into the back room just to talk. His hands never went on you. He just wanted to spill his feelings. He paid you a lot of money, so you let him do it, watching him talk and pretending to take it all to heart.

The gentleman’s club was like Fight Club. You don’t talk about it. You can acknowledge a client outside of it, because you wouldn’t be talking to the same man. Everything about it stayed quiet, and that’s what you liked about this job. It didn’t bleed into the rest of your life.

You stepped behind the stage, unzipping the cocktail dress as you went. You felt your shoulders sag as you let out a sigh of relief. Tonight would drag on, having to wait for all your co-workers’ performances, which could sometimes take longer. You sat at your vanity, listening to the laughter bounce off the walls. A headache was coming on from the loud boom of music and just… noise. You loved this job, you really did. It was just tiring, putting on a show every night, turning something into nothing. Being on that stage meant analyzing every part of yourself, amplifying it to be appealing. 

You really needed the Daily Planet to call you back. It was your foot in the door, and it would make your life. Since you were young, you aspired to be a reporter. You always asked questions, looking for answers. At family gatherings, you’d get a notebook and scribble down what people said or the answers to your question. Your dad would always come over and mess up your hair before looking over your notes. You would watch him read it with a proud grin, excited to have reported on Grandma’s heart issues or the dog’s Thanksgiving diet. 

The night went long, per usual. The dancing and music didn’t stop until well after midnight. You made a lot of money from private dances. Maybe you would get a shopping trip after all. 

The next few days were a repeat: go put in some applications, do an interview, and then head to the bar. Until one night, backstage was rambling about their days, your phone rang. “Hello?” you asked, stating your name after. “Hello, this is Perry White at Daily Planet. We saw your interview and are calling about the Junior reporter position. It’s yours. Can you be on on Monday?” the guy on the other side sounded big, scary. Your jaw was on the floor—you had made it! This was it, you nodded before realizing he couldn’t see you. “Yes, of course. I really appreciate this, sir!” you said quickly. “Nine o’clock. Our reporter, Clark Kent, will be showing you around. Look for him, he’s big with curly hair. Have a good night.” He hung up the phone before you could say anything more. Was he your new boss? You had so many questions. You’d seen Clark Kent’s name a million times before, all over the paper. What an honor. 

You looked over at Maisy who was just slipping her outfit on, ready to walk on stage. “Mais! I got the job!” you said excitedly, relief flooding you now. “Honey, that’s great!” Maisy replied, coming over to hug you. “That mean your leavin’ us soon?” she asked, pulling away from the hug to look you in the eyes, her hands secure on your shoulders. Slowly, you nod. “Yeah, could be my last few nights. Feels crazy…” You mumble, more to yourself as the realization washes over you. You’d spent the past four years of your life here, under the spotlight, and now you were changing to a new spotlight. One that didn’t happen when the sun went down, because when the sun went down, it was all secrets, subtle propositions, and dealing with Mr. Inconspicuous all the time. Maisy grins, patting your arm before gliding out on stage, the crowd roaring with applause and cheering. A sound you had heard millions of times now. 

The other girls around you giggled as they tried on outfits, and you focused on the strokes of your makeup brush on your skin. Making yourself sparkle for your next act. Tonight’s act was different, not in black tie attire. Something less modest. The lace clings to your skin, tight and sensual. To you, it was art; to others, it was pleasure. Maisy came off stage, and you stood up. The dark shimmery body suit, tights that added to the appeal, a boa on your shoulders, twining up your arms, and a top hat on your head for fun. Tonight, the other girls lined up on stage left with you, multiple acts at once to increase attention, so no one felt left out. “Now introducing our triple act. Remember to keep your hands to yourself. A round of applause for our fortune teller, our Hollywood star, and our best dancer.” Applause erupted from the crowd, and you all sauntered out. Ruby always dressed like a 1950’s pinup doll; she was drop-dead gorgeous. She stumbled here when in desperate need to pay the bills while her husband was off in the war. Her act was to flirt with the audience, give them teasing smiles, and torture them with her sweet red lips. Sabrina was on the other side. She was a dancer for Broadway, or at least she tried. She was really good and went here to provide for the lavish lifestyle she needed. Each of you wore smiles that were so convincing you wouldn’t believe they were fake, and your cheeks were warm under the lights of the stage. 

With bows upon your appearance, you each started to spread into the audience. You scanned carefully, and everyone sat waiting eagerly for attention, their glasses full of varying alcohol that lingered on their breath when you got too close. Some smelled strongly of cologne, and others had no smell. Your heels sank into the thick carpet as you walked with poise, your hands gentle as they brushed shoulders, and your eyes lightened with curiosity as you searched the eyes, looking, hunting, for a story. You stopped in front of a man, hunched in on himself. Curly hair and eyes a blue you’d never heard before, he hid behind the thick glasses on his face. Next to him was a ginger with freckles, who was laughing at the man with glasses. The curly-haired man was huge, but folded in on himself. You seized the opportunity, smiling at him. “Hello, sir.” He freezes, eyes widening. 

Clark was here for a bachelor party—he didn’t go to gentlemen’s clubs in his free time just for fun, it wasn’t him. He hadn’t expected you to zero in on him from across the room; he thought he did a good job hiding himself. Your eyes flick up and down him, his suit attire, he hadn’t changed from the office. “Let’s see. You’re here because someone convinced you to come? To loosen up for once?” you asked, knowing you were right. Clark shot Jimmy a scowl as he started to laugh and speak for him. He looked up at you, nodding slowly. His eyes didn’t go to the usual places, not the lace that hugged your legs, or the tight fabric around your waist, but your face. How your smile made it glow, how mysterious you looked with the top hat on. You start to circle him, your hand brushing his shoulder, making him jerk in his seat. “You apologize too much,” you added, stopping in front of him again. You could tell by his size that he felt too big and just in the way. He blinks up at you, a little surprised; it was like you were seeing into the window of his soul. “You like to listen rather than talk, and disappointing people kills you.”

You watched him squirm in his seat; you could tell you were hitting the bullseye on each one, especially after each giggle from his friend next to him. You go silent, and you watch the subtle shift in his eyes, from nervous to desperate to know what a pretty woman like you thinks of a ‘loser’ like him. “But, I think you’re terrible at lying,” you announce, grinning. The rest of the people at the table laugh, you assume his co-workers, as they're clad in suits and office wear. He speaks finally, his voice quiet but firm. “I don’t think that’s…” Clark trailed off, and you shrugged. “I can see it in your eyes.” The way you whispered it, low and alluring, it made his heart jolt and his mind kick into overtime. He had never been seen like that before. Never been so closely analyzed unless it was on the terms of Superman. He watched you roam through the crowd, the haze of smoke covering you, making you look like more of an angel than anything else. He watched everyone go silent as you got closer, the confident sway of your hips. Even when his co-workers had the other girls come up to them, he couldn’t bring himself to care at all. When bows came through, Clark watched you smile, doing a small spin like the other girls. The way your elegant hair framed your face, and he wondered what had brought you here. What dream you were paying for. Nobody stayed somewhere like this without a reason. 

“Want me to pay for a private dance with her, Clark?” Jimmy asked, breaking his train of thought. His eyes strayed from you and looked at Jimmy. “Don’t be crazy… I don’t do that stuff,” Clark mumbled, the music as the main show ended started to bump through the palace, making it feel more alive. Now all the other dancers came out, hanging on guys' arms, persuading them into the private rooms. “You need to relax sometimes, man. It’s like you have the world on your shoulders sometimes, I’ll pay!” Jimmy protested, making Clark scoff. How ironic, he had Superman duties on his shoulders; he didn’t need a private dance to cure that stress. “No, Jim. Don’t… Get yourself something.” Clark shot down the idea immediately, his eyes softening at Jimmy’s kindness. He sat back and watched the other guys have the time of their lives. So much for a bachelor party, Clark hated the idea of ‘your last night of freedom’.

You wandered out, walking back over to Clark. You saw his watching eyes, how they weren’t hungry, but full of curiosity. You stopped to speak with another customer, laughing at silly jokes. He watched the way it made the apples of your cheek redden and your dimples come out. You had quite a crowd, some wandering up to you to talk. As they surrounded you, you told a story, their eyes drinking you in. You did this with no effort, pretending like they didn’t just want one thing from you. Clark watched as a man stood up, pressing cash into your hand before following you back into the private room. It had thick leather curtains and a neon glowing side outside that indicated its purpose. His ears picked up on the swift glide of the rings on the curtains sliding shut. Who knew what he had just paid for? Clark tried not to feel nauseous in his stomach, finding himself wondering again what the story might be. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at Clark Kent instead of through him.

You wrapped that night up with extra tips; the curly-haired man didn’t pay for any services, but his friend did. Most men ordered the whole package, but not him. It made you smile to yourself at the thought as you cleaned up your vanity. On your way out, you spoke to Caldwell, putting in your notice. He gave you a small grin, “I knew you’d get it, kid. Your last day’s tomorrow, take care of yourself out there.” You gave him a nod before walking out of the stage room, walking the path through the bar, and up the stairs for the second-to-last time. The wall was covered in portraits and old posters, some from the 50’s or the 70’s, each one displayed a unique woman performing in this very space. You ran your hands over the splintered stair railing before stepping out into the fresh air. Upon stepping out into the dimly lit alley, you lit a cigarette, slowly puffing on it as you walked home. Sunday night was your last night, and then Monday was the first chapter of your new life. You’d turn in your feather boas and high heels for a notepad and pens, button-ups and slacks. Performing the haze of cigarette smoke and bad decisions had become your life. You looked back on it one last time. The glowing neon sign above the small staircase leading down sighed. 

The last day was the busiest you had ever seen it; apparently, you had a following you didn’t know about. Lots of familiar faces gathered up, paying you extra. You walked out with the most money you’d ever made. Your pockets were full, and your mind is busy with the ideas of how things would unfold after this.

The morning of your first day, you were stressed. The night before, you had thought it would all be easy. But you were wrong. The pounding in your chest hasn’t settled for a moment, not after deep breaths or a shower. It was like the walls were caving in—this was your first ‘normal’ job in ages. Before the club, it was serving tables, but it didn’t compare to this. You were about to be in The Daily Planet, Metropolis’s fastest traveling media center. A competitor to The New York Times. This thought didn’t help settle your rapidly beating heart; it felt like it was about to fall into the pit of your stomach and burrow there. 

You looked in the mirror, carefully rubbing lotion into your face. You did minimal make-up, your hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, stray hairs smoothed back behind your ears. You padded away from the bathroom, the tile on your bare feet echoing through your apartment. Each step rings through your head. It wasn’t long before you stepped into your slacks, black and ironed to perfection. Then a button-up, pulling a cream colored, knitted sweater over top. It was classy and snug. You stepped into black heels and held an earring in your mouth as you pushed the other one into your ear. If you didn’t hurry, you’d be late. You grabbed your tote bag off the back of your island chair and your coffee, tucking it under your armpit as you lock your front door.

Daily Planet was only two blocks from your apartment, you weasled between people, and dodged the bikers that sped by without a care if they hit someone or not. It wasn’t long before you turned the corner and sauntered up the street that you were looking up at the big building. The globe on top gives it away, making it seem important. You felt the lump in your throat get bigger. When someone bumped into you, grumbling about where you were standing, you quickly went inside, going to the front desk. “Hi… I’m a new Junior reporter. Where should I head to?” you asked, your voice calm and collected, despite your heart throwing itself into your ribs over and over again. The man at the desk looked up at you, cocking an eyebrow like you were crazy. You self-consciously ran a hand down your front to avoid anything sticking out. “Do you know who you're looking for?” he asked, his voice bland and uninterested. He wasn’t married, and deep into his 40’s, you could tell by the wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, and how his eyes held an exhaustion you could only earn after years in a city like this. “Clark Kent,” you said, voice unwavering as you looked at him hopefully, head tilted to the side.

“Right, go to the right of my desk, take the stairs or elevator up to the third floor. He should be in one of the cubicles there… I think.” You nodded suspiciously. Clark Kent was a huge reporter, but why wasn’t he being treated like one? A small ‘thank you’ left your lips before you headed for the elevator, ringing it down to the lobby. When it opened, it was empty, but other people followed in behind you, packing it to its near-max capacity. From now on, you’d be taking the stairs. The elevator creaked with the weight before dinging on the third floor, where you had to push through the people to get out, frazzling you beyond belief. You were spit out onto the busy floor, filled with cubicles, reporters who were talking passionately, hustling to print out an article or picture. Your head could nearly start spinning as a younger woman brushed by you as if you hadn’t been there. How did someone reserved survive a room like this?

You slowly started to walk, confused, before a woman scooped you up. “Hi, you look lost. Lois Lane,” she introduced herself, hooking her arm around yours as she started to take you deeper into the offices. From the main room, there were side rooms meant for big meetings and discussions, and others were private offices of the owners, you presumed. You told Lois your name, giving her a small smile. “What, kid? Turn the volume up,” she mumbles at your quiet tone, it made you want to crawl up and die suddenly. “Sorry, pleasure to meet you. I’m looking for a reporter, Perry White told me to find him to be my… guide,” you replied, your voice not much louder, but enough for Lois to nod along. “Who are you looking for?” she asked, guiding you to her desk. “Clark Kent,” you mumbled, making her laugh. “Wow, you know he’s shy like you, this’ll work great.” You couldn’t tell if she was teasing, and that made you feel a bit squirmy. Most of the cubicles were full of things, if not people. Papers were sprawled out, and coffee mugs were stacked in corners after being forgotten to be taken home. “Here, I’ll catch you later. I’m busy.” Then Lois was gone as soon as she got there. In front of you stood a tidy desk with little pictures of a man with his parents, his keys, and coffee were the only clutter on his table besides his notebook and pen, filled to the brim with writing. The stranger slowly wheeled around in his chair and looked up at you.

You were then met with a punch to the gut—blue eyes you’d seen before. Thick glasses, a pristine suit, and a mop of precious curls on top of his head. You had told his ‘fortune’ in lingerie, in front of a crowd. You felt a piece of yourself die as the heat rushed up your neck. It was pure embarrassment and pity. You saw him falter; he knew. He moved to open his mouth, and you feared what would come out. Would he tell you to go away? Call you names? Tell your boss? “Hello, Ms. It’s very nice to meet you, I’m Clark Kent,” he said, grinning ear to ear. He was polite, and the dimples in his cheeks enhanced it. You gave a grin of relief, your shoulders slowly rolling back to relaxation. “Hi, honor to meet you. I’ve read all your articles, you are admirable,” you compliment, grinning.

Clark felt his stomach twist at that smile, the same one he hadn’t stopped thinking about since he saw you that night. He stood up, quickly towering over you, more than you had expected. He tried not to stare, to make you feel small for what you did. He didn’t judge you; he knew there was some reason behind it. He knew a thing or two about secret identities. Clark was in a disguise now, just like you were. The sparkles and curls were gone, and all the fancy dresses had been replaced by office wear. And he still found you just as beautiful. Your smile had attracted him in the first place. “Thank you, I try my best,” he replies, with an awkward chuckle, leaving him. He walked to the empty cubicle opposite his that shared a wall with his own. “This is your desk, Perry said you should be near me for a while, just so I can help with any questions.” Clark hunched a little, hiding his mouth behind his hand to tell you a secret, “I’d never go to Perry; he can be very mean.” You nod. Right. Stay away from the boss as much as you can. 

Soon, Clark was bringing you around the whole office, your heels clicking behind him, when just the night before, your heels had been muffled by the carpet as you sauntered through the crowd mysteriously. Copy machines, beeping of printers, coffee makers for when the days got intense, and you had to work overtime to compensate. He cracked corny jokes as he did, ones that earned sweet giggles from you, making his ears warm up. You couldn’t help but grin every time he said, “Golly,” after doing something clumsy. You wondered now, how Clark Kent—who seemed nervous to talk to his own reflection—could write such bold articles. He was hunched in on himself and very clumsy, as he bumped into more people than you could count on your hand, and he apologized to each one profusely. 

“Okay… and here’s your work-issued computer,” he said, tugging it from a charging cart. Clark opened it, setting it on top of the cart, making sure it works. He gave a nod before shutting it and handing it to you. “Should work pretty well, you can always exchange it if you ask Perry. You looped back to your desk, and Clark plopped down in his chair, watching you carefully. Your mind was still racing about what he knew, how troubling this could be to your reporting job, and whether he would say anything. “Thank you,” you hesitated, looking down at him now. Across the way from your desk was another set of cubicles. The other boy from last night, Jimmy. With the orange hair and freckled face that was hard to forget. Gosh, what if he noticed too? Lois Lane and another woman, who you later found out was Cat, sat around him. Clark looked at them, then up at you before thinking better of it. No need to put you on the spot.

He drank you in one last time, how quiet and introverted you seemed. How your sweet outfit had once been just silk and ribbons, you were wrapped in what men could only claim as their dreams. But he could just remember how you saw through him, how you paid attention to him as he mattered. Clark was known to the world as Superman, where he was praised and well-loved. In the workplace, outside of the powerful meta-human he really was, he was some kind of office joke. Gullible, trusting, and easy to prank, despite being a good friend. He let Steve call him names and let others walk all over him when he knew he could write a better article than a lot of people in there, but he decided to be humble. Clark kept his head down and just worked. “Well, now you should go visit Perry. He will give you an assignment or four,” Clark said cheerily. Meanwhile, you felt your stomach drop. Or Four? That number sounded spirit-crushing, on top of this issue blossoming under your skin. You were going back and forth about what Clark Kent really thought about you.

You were whisked away into Perry’s office. He was an older man with white streaks through his hair, and his skin was dark. A cigar hung between his lips as he welcomed you in. You stood with your shoulders straight, a soft look on your face, as you had practiced at the club. “Hi, I’m the new junior reporter. Clark Kent told me I should come to you for my assignments?” You said it like a question, no confidence in your tone, and you watched him scowl. Your blood was running hot, and your eyes flicked to his eyes, then the floor, and repeated. “Alright. I assume you got your work computer? Anything that happens to it will end in a fine,” he reminded at the end, his voice booming and bone chilling. It wasn’t like Caldwell’s voice, tinged with kindness. His voice was tinged with a cold tone that made you nervous. Suddenly, you missed Clark Kent’s warm voice, how gentle he was with you, and how he really listened to you. “Yes, sir,” you replied, looking down at him on his desk. He handed you a piece of paper on which were your assignments. 

Lex Luthor’s attacks w/ Clark Kent - Due 7/21

Romance Column w/ Cat Grant - Due 7/15

Scientist’s findings about our pets - solo - Due 7/25

You nodded, looking up at him after reading the page. “Cat has a relatively easy section. I want to find where you write best, and remember, kid, no biases. People notice. It’s opinion-free on this paper, you hear?” He waits for your small nod before excusing you. You hustle out, going back to your desk and sitting down with a sigh. Your chair slowly sank under your weight as you carefully spun it back and forth while you thought. This was it, your time to prove you could make it in a place like this. The time flew by, and you got along well with Cat. She reminded you of Maisy, how cheery and easy to talk to she was. Then you got resources to write your solo article. You hadn’t had time to talk to Clark. 

It was six now, and the lights had dimmed; janitors walked up the halls and mopped. Earbuds crammed into their ears as they sloshed along, dragging your attention away. You were one of the few there, and Clark was there. On the other side of the cubicle, you could hear his pen scratching away, and your mind drifted with it. You had to talk to him. Slowly, you stood up, poking your head on the other side. “Can we… talk?” you asked, eyes on the floor in shame. You weren’t ashamed of what you’d done persay but it was hard to outwardly admit to it, when it was frowned upon in plenty of industries, despite their employees crawling into that place after work. He looked up at you, nodding for you to continue. Clark dropped his pen and looked up at you, his hands intertwining in his lap. You noticed how caring he was to everyone else, how he always made people feel valued in a way. 

“About the other night. We saw each other, and I want you to know I’ve quit that job. I’m moving on, and that isn’t me anymore, so please don’t report me! I finally got my foot in the d—” his brows creased, and you cut yourself off as he opened his mouth. No sound came out, and he shut his mouth. He took a deep breath, looking up into your eyes with wonderment. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it,” he paused, giving you a small smile as he searched your eyes. “I’m not here to judge how you got money, I figured you were doing it for a reason… to support something.” With that, he stood up, starting to pack his notepad into his briefcase. You faltered, ready to be defensive, but he had accepted you? “Really… Well, that was much easier than I thought,” you mumbled under your breath, and somehow he caught it. Surprise washed over you.

Somehow, he made everything feel lighter, freer. Like you could laugh and joke, and he wouldn’t judge you. Maybe because he was just a gentle giant. He laughed, a deep rumble in his chest at your half-joke. “I thought you were wonderful… You made everyone in there feel so,” Clark stuttered towards the end of his bold comment, stuffing things into his bag more quickly. He wasn’t one to flirt, and especially with the fresh meat in the office. You didn’t need a big oaf like him hanging off of you from day one. He panicked, watching your face change, “Seen,” he concluded. You felt your heart flutter. You knew it made them feel seen, but hearing it from someone like Clark? It hit a million times better. The warm little center in your chest is expanding. He was distinguished and well-manicured; he was polite, calling you wonderful. “

“It was my practice for journalism,” you said, packing your own bag on the other side. You needed to get home to your apartment, maintain the place, and your pets. “Observant, I admire it. Just hope you're safe,” Clark said, his voice trailing off. This seemed out of his range; you could tell by how he squirmed, his hands fidgeting in the confines of his pocket. You didn’t make him suffer anymore. “No need to worry about it anymore, Clark. See you tomorrow so we can work on this article,” you say, slinging your packed bag over your shoulder. It had gained what felt like 15 pounds with this new computer; it weighed down on your shoulder, and Clark watched you walk out discreetly. Not to watch your hips sway, or see how that sweater clung to you, but to drink in your form, the femininity that radiated off you. It was a miracle how you went from a practical doll to someone so… normal. Hair tied back, showing your pretty face. He couldn’t stop thinking about you, not at all.

His superhearing couldn’t pick up on you in the city, nothing like the laughter that had bubbled out of your lips back in that dingy club, when Jimmy made a stupid joke. Clark wasn’t a stalker, but he hadn’t felt like this since he started working here. The first time, it was Lois Lane, but it fizzled out in under 6 months when she made it very clear her intentions towards him. It had been 3 long years now, nobody to confide in or look forward to seeing at work. Clark found you different; you had a secret identity, too. You knew what I felt like to lose yourself in between the cracks of what was supposed to be your normal and the secret you wanted to hide. He was never really Superman; it was an act. To him, he was Clark Kent in a costume. Sometimes, he didn’t quite feel like the Clark Kent the world knew, either. He wasn’t clumsy, didn’t try to make himself small. In the confines of his own apartment, could he really be himself, not clumsy or stuttering. Just Clark.

This office crush went on for months, and everyone but you seemed to notice. You grew close to him after his spiel about how he didn’t care what you did. You sat with him at lunch, he got you coffee, and you gave article advice. What Jimmy, Lois, and Cat saw that you didn’t was how he looked at you like you moved the stars when you talk. How his eyes wouldn’t leave you once, like a puppy. Whenever he cracked a joke, he looked at you, waiting for a laugh or anything. The printer wasn’t working the other day, and so you called him in. “Clark!” You hollered and watched him shoot up. He came shuffling over, bumping into the metal door frame on the way with a wince. The machine before you sputtered and faltered as its screen told you its list of issues. You gave him a guilty grin, stepping away. “I don’t know what I did, but this is going… crazy!” you complained, watching him get down on one knee to start tinkering. His brows were furrowed, and his glasses slid down his nose. You couldn’t help but think he looked cute.

After a few failed attempts, it started to print properly. “Oh gosh, thank you! Saving my life, should call you Superman,” you teased, collecting your papers and stapling them together for editing. Clark chokes a little. If only you knew. Your hand landed on his arm as you moved for the door, making him tense. “Oh, no biggie, I’ve done this plenty…” You gave him a nod and walked out, going away from the desks and to the editing room. Clark walked back to his desk, slumping into his chair with a sigh that could be considered dreamy. Jimmy’s voice made him jump. “You could just ask her out, you freak.” A small laugh followed it and a hum of approval from Lois, who was poised on Jimmy’s desk. She had photographs in her hand and was looking over them carefully, Jimmy looking up at her hopefully. “What? I don’t know what you’re—” Clark was cut off by Cat. “Bullshit, Clark! Just try and ask her out, she was totally checking you out while you were fixing the printer!” she said, using Lois as a reenactment. “Oh, Clark, I just need you to save me!” Cat said dramatically, Lois half-heartedly catching her, and Cat grabbed onto her bicep as a joke. This earned a snicker from Jimmy, too. Clark just nervously played with his tie, avoiding eye contact as his ears reddened. “No, it’s a silly idea!” he grumbles, and you came strolling back.

“What’s a silly idea?” you asked, sitting down in your swivel chair. Everyone watched Clark squeak into silence before straightening up and looking at you like a puppy. “Oh, nothing, just Cat on her column,” he said before giving you a grin that made his dimples come out and his eyes crinkle in the corners. You gave him a small smile, one that was much sappier. Lois and Cat started to laugh as they walked away. Jimmy just cocked an eyebrow at Clark. He pulled up his phone and discreetly texted Clark. “If you don’t ask her out today, I’ll do it for you. Tick Tock.” When his phone screen lit up, he swallowed hard. He knew Jimmy would do it too. 

When 5 PM rolled around, everyone was clearing out, and Jimmy had left the area momentarily. Clark stood up, his hands nervously at his sides, occasionally wiping the sweat off them. He cleared his throat, and you looked up at him, giving a small smile. One he had seen plenty of times now that you worked here. It wasn’t forced like the one at the club had been; nothing was hiding beneath it. “Are you busy? After work or tomorrow night?” he asked, playing with a seam inside his pocket, trying not to freak out. He was never bold, not like this. Not when he was wearing big glasses and an oversized work suit to hide all the muscle beneath. You considered before giving him a small nod, your heartbeat was starting to race. Clark heard it, the anticipation, and soon his heart was at the same spot. “Will you go out to dinner… on a date with me?” Clark asked, swallowing hard. You watched his Adam’s apple bob; he was calm despite how much he was squirming now. 

You nod, your cheeks flushing a light pink that reassures him. “Yeah, I would love to! Are you all finished? We could head out now?” You suggest standing up to start packing up your stuff. You slipped your computer into your bag and tried to ignore the sweat building up on your neck. To be honest, you hadn’t been all too good at this stuff either. All your flirting devices seemed to have been left behind on that stage. “Yeah, yeah! Sure,” he said, starting to pack up his stuff. He had 3 articles due within the week, but they could wait for you, even if he was already on a time crunch. 

He took you to a nice Italian restaurant up the street. At first, he was awkward, but slowly, he came out of his shell as you talked about music and movies, talking about home, and he was inspired. It was a night of storytelling back and forth, each of you laughing, and he admired the war your eyes crinkled in the corner, and how genuine it sounded. Like you were light and full of purity. He made sure to open doors, pay (despite your insisting you split the check), and walk you home. Clark walked you down the side streets he knew were safe. The ones that were illuminated by the street lights and only had the building towering over them around you. Only a few people passed with their dogs. Soon, you were standing face to face with your apartment lobby. “This is it?” he asked, turning to face you. Clark didn’t want to impose and invite himself in. So he let you go here. “Yeah, thank you for dinner… it was great, really,” you said, voice soft. You looked up at him, and he stepped closer. “My pleasure, maybe we can do this again sometime?” You heard his hopeful voice and grinned, nodding. He had been such a gentleman; you hadn’t met many guys like him. 

Slowly, you leaned into a kiss, leading it with your lips. You moved your mouth against his in a soothing rhythm that he opened up to, going from stiff to loose. His hands went to your hips, your arms around his neck, and it felt like a fairytale. The birds sang quietly, and the warm lights coming from the lobby cast a glow that was hard to compete with. When you pulled your lips away, he moved a hand to rub the back of his neck. “Well, golly… I think I have my answer.” You laughed, your forehead resting on his chest. “You know, you’re the first guy I’ve ever met that says ‘golly’ on the regular,” you shook your head, unwrapping your arms and stepping away. You didn’t hate it all; it was endearing. “Just my southern charm! Goodnight!” Clark said, watching you walk inside, waiting until he heard the elevator ding and your heels click out of the elevator and down the hallway. Then he went home, no patrol tonight, as he had done it early that morning. 

Once inside, you pressed your back to the door, smiling like an idiot. That was the most romantic night to ever happen to you. He opened doors, made you laugh, teased you the right amount, and at the end, he wasn’t expecting you to give out. He would’ve happily left with no kiss. You found yourself spinning around your house, your cat rubbing at your feet for dinner. 

Coffee breaks turned into dinners. Dinners became walks through Centennial Park after work. On weekends, he’d invite you to museums or bookstores, and you’d drag him to little cafes squished between apartment buildings. Somewhere between sharing fries and arguin over the best reporting leads, you stopped thinking of him as the man from the gentleman’s club and started thinking of him simply as Clark Kent. Your co-worker with a dorky sense of humor, and the sweetest man you had ever met.

Lois came over, your article in hand, “Kid, are you afraid of periods? One more comma in this, and the whole thing might as well be one big run-on sentence!” The article landed with a plop on your desk, and you looked down at it with a scowl. Clark stood up, “No need to get hasty, Lois. You can’t spell very well. We all have our strong suits.” She quickly shot Clark a glare and crossed her arms. He swallows hard, coming behind you to look over your work. Looking over the sentences he helped edit that were critiqued. “Clark, go back to your desk. She is very capable of doing it on her own.” A small giggle left you, and he sighed, going back to his seat. “Just trying to help,” Clark grumbles, like a puppy that had been rejected by its owner. “We know, puppy.” Jimmy started to laugh, and he shot a look at him, making him shake his head. Clark wasn’t intimidating to Jimmy, even if he tried. 

Then it was dating. Clark asked you after a long walk through the park, and after ice cream, he walked you to your door, asking you with a necklace that he had in his pocket all day. He made sure it matched your other jewelry, which wasn’t hard considering his photographic memory. “Will you… Be my girlfriend? I’ve always been enamoured by you since I saw your smile, the big ones and the small ones. You’re everything I could ever want in a person,” he looked at the ground as he said it. You grabbed his chin with your hand and nodded before pulling him in with a kiss. It started gently before he picked you, spinning you around as he pressed quick kisses all over your jaw and cheeks. “I thought you’d never ask, Clark,” you gush, stroking a wild curl back before it fell into his face again. 

Now that you were dating, it was like he was the new accessory to your apartment. Clark’s clothes had a small spot in your dresser, spare glasses on his side of the bed, and flowers he left behind for you. When he wasn’t doing articles or out doing Superman work, then he was cuddled up with you. His arms wrapped around your waist, and his face buried into the plush of your stomach. You were telling him some stories about work, your walk home, and your trip to the pet store. He had been out on patrol for most of this. As rain tapped on your apartment window, a quiet settled over the room as you stopped talking. “Why’d you stop, honey?” he asked, looking up at you. You were propped up against your pillows, and a too-big sweater was drowning you as you played with his hair. In here, Clark wasn’t clumsy, and he let his shoulders be taller. “Feels weird…” You murmured, under your breath, but Clark could still hear. “What does?” You pause before answering, moving to take off his glasses as the frames dug into your skin. He quickly stops you, sitting up instead, crawling next to you, and tugging you into his side. “Not hiding. I don’t feel like I have to hide anything from you, not even my time at the club,” you mumble, brushing off his fit about never taking off his glasses. His fingers threaded through yours; you didn’t know how much he understood his feelings. You could tell there was something he wasn’t telling you, a secret, but it didn’t bother you much. You trusted Clark to tell you when the time was right.

Clark breaks the silence, his big hand massaging one of your shoulders as he holds you close. “Can I ask you something?” You looked up at him, making a small noise as he dug into a tender spot. “Sure,” you reply, your eyes going to the big window. The rain pattering on the surface of the gray clouds brooded over the sky. You had candles flickering in the room, setting the mood. “The first night we met… what did you see when you looked at me?” He asked, a twinge of insecurity in his tone. You smile, thinking before mumbling. “A man pretending to be someone smaller than he really was.” Clark freezes. She understands him without knowing he was Superman, understood all of his layers without explanation.