#dcu x reader

it’s a friday night. the night you spend with dick unpacking your entire week and then drink to it.

you’re on your way back from the bathroom when you see him. your ex, standing near the bar like he belongs there, and your whole body does that involuntary thing before your brain has even caught up. he spots you before you can redirect. the smile that never quite reaches his eyes. the way he steps into your space too easily, like the last year didn’t happen.

you laugh at something he says because it’s reflex, because it’s easier, your shoulders drawing in without you meaning for them to. he presses his number into your hand with a casualness that makes your skin feel wrong and you smile your most noncommittal smile and walk away.

you slide back into the booth and dick is already looking at you.

he has very blue eyes and a very irritating habit of seeing straight through you with them.

“who was that,” he says.

“my ex.” you reach for your drink. “it’s fine.”

his jaw does something quiet and controlled. “he give you his number?”

“dick—”

“he gave you his number.”

“it wasn’t like that—”

“cool. cool,” he says, and picks up his drink, and smiles the smile that’s all surface, and you know exactly what that smile means.

the walk home is three blocks and dick spends all of them somewhere else entirely.

normally he fills every silence — some joke, some completely unnecessary observation about whatever you’re passing. tonight his hands are in his pockets and his eyes are forward and he says nothing.

“you’re doing that thing,” you say.

“what thing.”

“the thing where you pretend you’re fine.”

“i’m fine.”

“richard.”

“i’m tired,” he says. “it’s been a long week, angel.”

you both know that’s not it.

you make it as far as the hallway outside your apartments before you stop.

he’s already reaching for his keys and something about the set of his shoulders, the careful performance of it, makes you reach out and catch his arm.

he turns.

you kiss him.

it takes him exactly one second and then his keys hit the floor and his hands are on your face and he’s kissing you back with something desperate and unguarded that he’s been keeping very carefully under wraps all evening. a low groan muffled against your mouth, his fingers curling into your jaw, walking you back against the wall without breaking it.

when he pulls back he’s breathing harder than usual.

he looks at you for a moment. then he bends and picks up his keys and opens his door and picks you up like it’s nothing, carrying you inside, kicking the door shut behind him.

later he has you underneath him and there’s nothing easy about it tonight.

he pushes in slow and the stretch of him makes your breath stutter, thick and girthy, the flushed red tip of him pressing through your plushy folds and sinking into your gummy walls inch by inch until you’ve taken all of him and your walls are fluttering around the fullness of it.

his jaw is tight. his eyes on your face.

“why do you want him back,” he says. low and rough.

“i don’t—”

he snaps his hips forward and the words evaporate entirely.

“hm?” he pulls back and drives in again, his cock dragging against your walls, you feel, oh, so full and overwhelmed all at once. “why him.”

“dick i’m not—i—”

your eyes shut. the pleasure too much, the words bleeding into a moan.

“eyes on me,” he says quietly.

you open them.

and that’s when you see it. something vulnerable in his expression, unguarded and unusual, the kind of thing he’d never let you see if he were thinking straight. something that’s been sitting underneath all of this for a long time.

“why do you want him,” he murmurs, hips rolling and pressing deep, the head of his cock nudging that soft spot inside you that makes your toes curl, “when you have me.”

it’s not cocky. it’s almost like he’s desperate to hear the answer. desperate to hear you say he’s enough. that what you have with each other is enough.

heat builds low in your belly, your body sensitive from the drag of him, your walls clenching greedily around his girth every time he pulls back.

your mouth opens. what comes out is a garbled mess of his name and something that isn’t words at all.

“yeah,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “that’s what i thought.”

something releases in him after that. his pace picks up and you stop trying to think at all, hands gripping his shoulders, your slick walls taking him over and over until the heat that’s been building low in your belly crests and you come apart underneath him with a broken sound, clenching tight around him. he follows shortly after, hips stuttering, a low groan muffled into your throat as he spills into the condom, his whole body shuddering through it.

afterward he’s on his back and you’re tucked against his side.

“i can make carbonara from scratch. i remember how you take your coffee. i’ve sat through every terrible film you’ve picked on a friday night without a single complaint.” he’s quiet for a second. “i’ve been your boyfriend for six months. you just haven’t called me that yet.

you look at him.

“maybe i should,” you say quietly.

he’s very still for a moment. then his hand finds yours and laces with you. warm and calloused and big.

“it was nothing,” you say. “tonight. with him. i don’t want him back. i never did.”

the breath that leaves him is slow. like he’s been holding it since the bar.

“obviously i don’t want him,” you say. “i want you. i’ve wanted you for a while.”

he turns his head to look at you. really look.

“yeah?” he says softly.

“yeah,” you say.

he brings your hand up and presses his lips to your knuckles, and settles back against the pillow.

the city hums outside. the lamp stays on.

“friday nights,” he says eventually. “same booth.”

“same booth,” you agree.

“except now i’m going to hold your hand across the table and if your ex shows up again i’m going to be very annoying about it.”

“That’s precision work,” Lois said from her desk, eyes narrowing as the feed froze on Superman bracing a slab of highway above his head. “See the angle? He shifted just enough weight to keep the pressure from collapsing the other side.”

“Or,” you said, leaning forward on your elbows and squinting at the screen, “he knew exactly what he was doing to my central nervous system.”

Lois’s sigh was audible, Cat gave a delicate snort, and Jimmy didn’t even look up from his notes. They were all used to you by now.

The shot resumed, Superman lowering the cracked concrete as if it were cardboard. His cape flicked in the smoke-heavy wind, the kind of unbothered hero shot film directors would kill to get. Your brain unhelpfully whispered, Imagine those arms around your waist. You blinked it away before the thought could fully settle.

“It’s the third collapse in two weeks,” Jimmy muttered, tapping his pencil against his notepad. “First the bridge, then the construction site for that new government building, now this highway. Someone’s orchestrating it. I just have to—” He cut himself off to scrawl another note. The poor guy hadn’t slept, probably.

“Do you think he smells like smoke after something like that, or is he more of a,” you tapped your chin, “cologne that costs more than my rent kind of guy?”

Lois pinched the bridge of her nose. From the corner of your eye, you caught Clark. He’d just taken a sip of coffee, and now he was very determinedly staring at his computer screen. The tips of his ears were pink.

“Oh, come on, Clark,” you said, sing-song, swivelling slightly in your chair to face him. “Don’t tell me this is weird for you because he’s your bestie.”

His head jerked up, glasses catching the light. “What? No, I—” He stammered, then tried again. “It doesn’t weird me out. And we’re not best friends.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, smug. “You definitely don’t look uncomfortable every time I mention his jawline.”

“That’s not—” Clark rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks now matching his ears. “I just don’t think the, uh, newsroom is the place for…” He trailed off, apparently unable to finish the sentence without combusting.

You grinned. Clark made this too easy. “For what, Clark? For me appreciating a local hero in the way God clearly intended?”

Lois barked a laugh without looking up from her screen. “Careful, Clark. We’ll never hear the end of this.”

“Don’t remind me,” Clark muttered, but his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. For a split second, his eyes flicked to yours, warm and amused, before he ducked his head again. You caught the moment and dismissed it, chalking it up to friendly teasing.

Cat finally chimed in, reclining back in her chair. “If you ask me, the man could use a fan club. It’d do wonders for his image. You’re just ahead of the curve.”

“See?” you said, pointing at her in triumph. “Visionary thinking.”

Clark ducked his head further, but you caught the edge of his grin, hidden half behind his mug. Something about it—shy, crooked, almost like it was meant just for you—did a strange thing to your stomach. But you brushed it off, too caught up in the replay of Superman on screen.

You leaned back in your chair and let your gaze drift back to the paused screen. Superman, larger than life, standing amidst wreckage. It was ridiculous, really, how one man could manage to look both divine and approachable at the same time. Like he’d save your life and then ask if you’d eaten lunch.

Your heart did its now-familiar lurch, the one you’d been trying to write off as mere professional admiration for months. Totally normal to want to interview Superman. Totally normal to wonder what his laugh sounded like up close. Totally normal to imagine how those lips would feel brushing your—

Okay, no, dangerous territory. You shook your head, blinking hard. Because the problem wasn’t just his lips. It was how easily your imagination filled in the rest: his hands spanning your hips, your back pressed against some convenient wall, that cape falling heavy around both of you like a curtain. You swallowed, realising your coffee had gone cold in your hand.

Focus. Colleagues. Professional environment. Stop picturing the man of steel doing decidedly un-heroic things to you on top of your desk.

“Okay,” Jimmy said, still scribbling furiously, “if we trace the supply chain for the explosives used in the bridge collapse, we might—”

“Jimmy,” you cut in, “I support your heroic quest, but I do need to ask: how many hours of sleep have you had this week?”

“Uh…” He blinked. “Enough?”

“Four,” Lois corrected without looking up.

You chuckled, but your gaze wandered back to Clark. He was pretending to read his notes, but his pen hadn’t moved in several minutes. When your eyes caught his, he looked away quickly, but you could swear the flush crept a little further down his neck.

And for one moment, you wondered why Clark Kent of all people looked like he had something to hide. When he shifted in his chair and you saw the way his broad shoulders strained against his shirt, your brain did the traitorous thing again: Superman would look like that under a button-down.

You pressed your lips together, willing the thought away, but it was no use. The images kept tumbling in. Superman loosened his tie after a long day, tugging it down with those big hands. Superman leaning over your desk to point at your notes, the heat of him close enough to make you forget how pens worked. 

You caught yourself and dug your nails into your palm. Focus. Work. Journalism. Not turning your colleague’s blush and your favourite hero’s shoulders into one disastrous fantasy cocktail.

Lois’s voice cut through your spiral, brisk and sharp. “I don’t care how he does it—I need to call a source and find out where those explosives came from. If someone’s targeting infrastructure, we need a lead before the next one goes down.”

Jimmy perked up, already rifling through his notes. “If you’re calling sources, I’ll start pulling records on construction contracts. Somebody has to be benefiting from these collapses.”

Lois shot him a quick nod. Clark just looked down at his desk, hiding behind his glasses like the world’s most suspicious Boy Scout. 

You took another long sip of your cold coffee, trying not to think about how your crush on Superman was starting to feel a little less hypothetical than it should.

The train station was always quieter at night. A few tired commuters in suits, a cluster of teenagers sharing earbuds, a woman in scrubs leaning against a pillar with her eyes half-shut. You had your usual spot, halfway down the platform, where the overhead lights didn’t flicker so badly. 

You tugged your coat tighter around you and glanced at the clock. The train was due in two minutes. Just enough time to scroll aimlessly through your phone and pretend you weren’t waiting for a metal box to ferry you back to your little apartment.

Then the floor shuddered.

At first, you thought it was just too much caffeine, not enough sleep—until the tremor rattled the railings and a hollow boom echoed from below, drawing startled murmurs from the crowd.

Your stomach dropped. The lights overhead flickered. One of the teenagers yelped. A crack zigzagged across the tiled wall behind you, spiderwebbing out with a groan of stone under strain. The entire platform trembled.

Someone shouted. A woman clutched her child. You backed away instinctively, heart hammering so hard you thought you might be sick.

The train headlights tore through the tunnel, but instead of the usual rhythmic glide, it burst forward at a terrifying tilt. Wheels screamed against metal. Sparks shot out in jagged bursts. The whole structure groaned, a sickening chorus of strained steel and cracking concrete.

You didn’t have time to process before the world blurred red and blue. Superman shot into view, cape billowing, eyes set on the train. The first car teetered dangerously on its rails, but he braced himself in the centre of the tracks, caught the nose of the train with both hands, and pushed.

The train screamed against the tunnel walls, sparks spitting. Superman slowed it until, impossibly, he lifted the first car clear and set the whole train down on solid ground like a misplaced toy.

And then the platform gave way. The slab beneath your feet buckled with a roar, pitching you off balance as chunks of stone sheared away into the tracks below.

“Go, go, go!” you shouted, snapping into motion before your brain could catch up. You gently pushed the teenager nearest you toward the staircase. “This way! Keep moving!”

People surged toward the exits, panicked but moving. You caught the eye of the woman with the child and gestured sharply. She nodded, clutching her kid and running. Cracks raced faster along the ceiling. The platform lurched, a violent tilt that knocked you off balance.

The floor started splitting beneath your feet. You were going to die. The thought carved itself into your mind in cold, perfect clarity. You gasped, shutting your eyes and bracing for the fall.

Except, suddenly you weren’t falling. 

Strong arms locked tight around your waist, solid as steel, lifting you as easily as if you were weightless. The air shifted in a rush as you were carried effortlessly through the haze of dust and chaos. Debris rained down behind you, but all you could register was the fact that there was no ground beneath your feet and you weren’t dying.

Superman caught you mid-collapse, scooped you up as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His grip was secure, unyielding, like nothing on Earth could pry you from him. You clutched at the fabric at his shoulder—instinct, panic, maybe something else—and your fingers found the smooth fabric of his suit.

Superman carried you down in a controlled dive and set you gently on solid ground beside the others. Your knees wobbled, but his grip lingered for a beat, steadying you until you could breathe again. The station you were standing on moments ago had crumbled, but first responders were already on the scene.

All you could focus on was the man in front of you, his eyes sharp and intent, the smell of smoke clinging faintly to him. Your pulse hadn’t caught up yet, and neither had your brain. One minute, you’d been waiting for the train like always. The next, you were pressed against the chest of the man you’d been daydreaming about for weeks, only this time he wasn’t on a screen.

The station was a mess of coughing commuters and scattered debris, but Superman’s voice carried through it with calm authority. “Is anyone hurt?” he called, scanning the crowd.

Around you, people coughed and steadied each other, shaken but safe.

Superman’s shoulders eased. His cape, still settling from the landing, brushed lightly against the ground as he turned back to you. “Are you alright?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Superman stepped closer, lowering himself slightly so his gaze met yours directly. His eyes were the clearest blue you’d ever seen, bright even through the haze of dust. “You need to breathe,” he said gently. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

You obeyed. Inhale. Exhale. Your pulse steadied, if only because Superman was watching you so intently, like you were the only person in the station. His voice was low but commanding, the kind of voice that made you want to obey before you even registered the words.

“That’s it,” he said, encouraging, his mouth curving into a small smile. And just like that, the apocalypse backdrop melted into irrelevance. His smile wasn’t dazzling in the flashy, toothpaste-commercial way. It was worse, soft and entirely real.

The sight of it pressed heat down your spine. He smelled faintly of scorched air and something clean, like fresh rain on concrete. Your fingers itched where they hovered near your sides; half a breath away from reaching out, from brushing against the impossible fabric stretched across his chest. God, the suit. The material clung like a second skin, sculpting every inch of broad muscle, and your treacherous brain immediately imagined peeling it back. 

What would he feel like under your palms? What would his mouth taste like if you tilted forward just a little?

Internally, your brain was sprinting laps. Superman was right there. Superman was holding you steady. He was looking at you like you weren’t just another face in the crowd. Your body hummed, a giddy mix of adrenaline and something far less noble.

Externally, you cleared your throat and managed, “I’m fine. Thank you.” Your voice was steadier than you expected.

Superman nodded, but didn’t step back. His gaze lingered, checking for any flicker of pain you might be hiding. His proximity made it hard to think straight. Warmth radiated off him in waves, like he carried the sun under his skin. Your heartbeat went wild, thundering in your chest, and you knew he could hear it. Luckily, you could always blame it on what just happened.

When he was finally satisfied, he let out a small breath of relief. Which, of course, made you blurt out the dumbest possible thing.

“I’m a reporter for The Daily Planet?” Smooth. Very casual. Worded like a statement but lilting up at the end like a question.

Superman smiled, raising his brows. “Are you?”

“Yes.” You straightened, trying desperately to salvage dignity. “And, if you ever had the time, I’d love to sit down with you for something in-depth. Not about today specifically, but… more of a profile. Who you are, not just what you do.”

His smile tilted, amused, and Superman was even more devastating up close. A smile like that should come with a warning label. Your knees hummed with the urge to buckle. His jaw was sharper than it had any right to be, shadowed just enough that you wanted to feel it scrape down your neck.

You scrambled to fill the silence, trying for a playful tone. “Unless you already have some kind of exclusive deal with Clark, in which case I completely understand.”

Superman blinked, then laughed. It was a quiet, genuine sound that made your chest flutter. “No,” he said, shaking his head, curl shifting faintly at his forehead. “No exclusive deal with Clark.”

“Good,” you said, aiming for a professional tone. It came out a little too quick, a little too breathless.

Oh my God, he laughed. He has dimples. He has actual dimples. You needed to lie down on the floor immediately. Or kiss him. Or both. Preferably both. 

“I’d be delighted,” Superman added, and something in the warmth of the word nearly unmoored you.

“Great,” you exclaimed. “Wonderful. You could, uh, come by the Planet whenever it fits your schedule.”

Superman nodded, thoughtful. “How about a week from today? Next Thursday night?”

Your brain short-circuited. Eventually, you managed a brisk nod, like this was perfectly ordinary business. “Next Thursday night works.”

“Good,” he said, with the kind of certainty that could stop tectonic plates from shifting. Superman’s gaze held yours a beat longer, steady and knowing, like maybe he could tell what was running through your mind.

Which was unfair. Kryptonian x-ray vision was one thing, but thirst-detection was cruel.

You finally tore your gaze away, blinking as if that would shake the image of his smile branded onto the inside of your eyelids. Around you, the chaos of the station hummed back into awareness—sirens in the distance, EMTs rushing down the street, civilians muttering shakily about what had just happened.

But Superman didn’t move. His presence, his eyes, and his impossible steadiness all lingered, anchoring you in place. 

For one dizzying moment, you weren’t just the reporter who made too many jokes about his biceps in the office bullpen. You were the person he couldn’t tear his eyes away from.

The newsroom was buzzing the next morning, every desk alive with the sound of clattering keyboards and the smell of burnt coffee. You slipped through the doors with your bag slung over your shoulder, hair still faintly carrying the scent of smoke from last night’s disaster.

“Holy shit,” Lois shot up from her chair the second she saw you. Her pen clattered against her desk. “You’re alive.”

“Barely,” Jimmy added, already halfway across the bullpen. His camera bounced against his chest as he looked you over like you’d been through war. “The police report had you listed as one of the last witnesses on the platform! Do you have any idea how freaked out we were?”

You blinked as Lois and Jimmy converged on you like an overprotective tag team. “Uh… sorry?” you offered weakly. “I meant to text but my phone sort of didn’t survive the whole crumbling-infrastructure thing.”

“You think we care about your phone?” Lois demanded, gripping your shoulders. “We care about you. You could’ve been crushed, you idiot.”

“Love you too, Lois,” you deadpanned, though your chest warmed at the concern.

Jimmy shook his head, relief etched in every line of his face. “So what actually happened? The article said Superman caught the train, stabilised the structure, but—”

“—but left out that he pulled me off a collapsing platform at the last second.” You shrugged, casual, like you weren’t replaying it every three minutes in your head. “It was very dramatic. Definitely gave me a couple new grey hairs. Oh, and…” You cleared your throat, trying not to sound too smug. “I might’ve gotten an exclusive Superman interview out of it.”

That got their attention. Both jaws dropped in unison.

“You what?” Lois demanded.

“He’s coming by next Thursday night,” you said, as nonchalantly as if you were announcing a dentist appointment. “So everyone better clear out by then.”

Lois groaned. “Of course you get a Superman exclusive. I nearly got trampled during an alien invasion last month, and all I got was a sprained ankle.”

Jimmy pressed a hand to his heart. “You’re out here living the dream.”

Before you could respond, Cat breezed by, heels clicking against the tile. She didn’t even pause to lower her voice. “Well, well, look who finally gets to meet their celebrity crush in person.”

Heat shot to your face. “That is not—” You cut yourself off, then laughed, shaking your head. “Fine. Maybe a little bit.”

Everyone laughed, the tension lifting, and eventually the newsroom settled back into its usual rhythm.

Clark appeared at your desk with a fresh cup of coffee. He set it down in front of you carefully. “Thought you could use this,” he said softly.

You glanced up, and your chest squeezed instantly. Clark’s tie was a little crooked, his hair rumpled like he’d rushed into work, and those glasses were sliding down his nose. One curl had slipped loose at his temple, dangerously close to endearing. It shouldn’t have been a look, but somehow it was devastating.

Your pulse tripped over itself. The cup was warm in your palms, but not half as warm as the flush creeping up your neck. “Thanks,” you murmured. “You didn’t have to.”

Clark gave a small smile. “I wanted to. You really scared us when we saw your name on the witness list.” His voice dropped, quiet enough that only you could hear. “I’ve… seen a lot of situations where Superman had to step in. It’s not easy, being right there when it happens.”

Your throat tightened. The way he said it, almost protectively, made your chest ache. “Yeah,” you admitted. “It was a lot. I was the last one on the platform. For a second, I really thought that was it for me.”

Clark’s expression shifted, softening further. His brows drew together in concern, and you had to look away before you got lost in it. “I’m glad you’re still here,” he said, voice low but steady.

Something fluttered low in your stomach. You tried to play it off with humour. “Me too. I’d hate to miss this coffee.”

His mouth twitched, but his gaze stayed steady on yours, searching. “You’re really okay? Not just saying that?”

You took a sip of coffee to buy time. “I’m okay,” you said finally, quieter than you meant to. “A little shaken, maybe. I’m just really grateful Superman was there.”

Clark was standing so close you could see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way the morning light caught in his hair, almost too ink-black to be real. You were noticing things you shouldn’t—like how broad his shoulders looked even under the modest cut of his suit jacket, or how his fingers brushed lightly against the rim of your desk.

Your pulse wouldn’t settle. Every time Clark’s voice dipped low, something in you seemed to respond instinctively, a shiver at the base of your spine, the kind you’d blame on adrenaline if you were being honest.

“Well, if you ever need a near-death buddy to swap stories with…” You said, aiming for lightness, though your voice was a little thinner than usual.

Clark chuckled, low and soft, and the sound wrapped around you like a blanket. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As he pushed off your desk, he gave your hand a gentle tap with his finger. It was barely a touch, just enough to make you jolt with awareness. Then Clark smiled again, that shy, crooked thing that somehow undid you just as much as Superman’s blinding perfection.

It turned out that seven days could stretch into eternity if you were waiting for Superman. All week, the newsroom had been merciless.

“Big date Thursday,” Cat crooned whenever she passed your desk.

“It’s an interview,” you corrected, every time.

“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding sagely as though she knew exactly how hard you were trying to keep from grinning.

Lois was subtler, though only barely. “You’ve got one shot,” she told you, smirking over the rim of her coffee mug. “Don’t blow it by asking about his workout routine.”

“I wasn’t going to!” you protested.

“Sure,” she said. “Because the first words out of your mouth when Superman sits across from you are definitely going to be Pulitzer material.”

You were counting down the days. You were rehearsing imaginary questions on your walk home, in the shower, brushing your teeth. You caught yourself doodling little Superman logos in the margins of your notes like you were twelve again, which Lois spotted once and nearly choked on her gum.

But the strangest shift had been Clark.

Since the train incident, you’d had found yourself more at ease with him. He wasn’t different, exactly. Still the same polite, slightly awkward Midwestern farm boy. But you felt different around him. 

It was like something in your body had quietly decided you could lean closer, joke softer, trust deeper. Clark lingered at your desk more, offering to help with sources or swapping stories about Perry’s legendary rants.

By the time the day actually arrived, your nerves were a live wire.

The newsroom emptied out slowly, staff peeling away with warm pats on the shoulder or smothered grins. Cat called, “Good luck, darling,” on her way out.

Lois added, “Remember. Profile, not thirst essay,” like she hadn’t already marked up your interview questions in red ink and told you how great they were.

When Perry finally gathered his coat, he paused at your desk. “You’ll do fine, kid,” he said, his gravelly voice gentler than usual. “Just don’t let him charm you into forgetting to take notes.”

Then it was just you.

The bullpen seemed unnaturally large once empty. You’d dressed deliberately in the outfit you felt most confident in, using flattering colours that made you look your best. It was sharp enough to be professional, but fitted enough that you still felt good.

You perched on the edge of your desk, back straight, hands folded over your notebook. For a moment, all you could hear was the thud of your heartbeat in your ears. You reminded yourself that this was work. You were a professional. You had a list of thoughtful questions.

You were absolutely not going to melt into a puddle at the sight of Superman, no matter how gorgeous he was.

A soft rush, like the flap of something vast against the wind. Papers fluttered on the corner of a desk. You turned your head, and there was Superman. He stepped forward from the open window, cape settling around him, posture relaxed.

He was smiling, not the world-saving, photo-op grin you’d seen splashed across front pages, but something smaller, crooked at the corner. A sweet smile, soft-edged, as if he’d just helped a neighbour carry groceries inside.

“Hope I’m not late,” Superman said, voice warm, easy. “Got caught up with a little kid who lost his dog. Turns out he didn’t actually have one yet, he just thought I might help him find a dog who needed him.”

A laugh escaped you, nervous and bright. “No worries. Did you end up finding one for him?”

“Found his parents first, then gave them the address to a nearby shelter.” His grin widened, as if you’d just won him over by expressing your curiosity.

Your heart thumped painfully against your ribs. Up close, Superman was too much to catalogue at once. The sharp line of his jaw dusted, the impossible shade of blue in his eyes, the breadth of his shoulders that made even the high ceiling of the bullpen feel suddenly close. 

“Thank you for coming,” you managed, gesturing to the chair across from your desk. “Please, have a seat. Do you mind if I record this?”

“Not at all,” Superman replied, his voice as rich and warm as velvet.  He moved toward the chair opposite yours.

You clicked your recorder on, notebook open, pen ready. “Let’s start with some broad questions,” you said, clearing your throat. “What drives you to keep doing this? Day after day, when it would be easier and safer not to.”

Superman leaned back slightly, considering. You noticed the way his eyes flicked briefly upward, as though he was searching the sky beyond you for answers.

“Because I can,” he said finally. “Because I was given abilities most people don’t have. And if I can stop someone from suffering, even for a moment, how could I choose not to?”

The way he said it wasn’t self-righteous. It was gentle, like he believed it was the easiest truth in the world. You scribbled down details about his tone and cadence, even though you knew you’d never forget it.

“That sounds… lonely,” you mused before you could stop yourself.

A flicker of surprise crossed Superman’s features, then something quieter. “It can be. But loneliness isn’t an excuse to do nothing.”

You tapped the pen against your notebook. “If you could teach a stranger one lesson, what would it be?”

“That strength isn’t about what you can do,” he said without hesitation. “It’s about what you choose to do even when things feel impossible.”

“You sound like a philosopher,” you teased, hoping humour would loosen things up a little.

Superman laughed, low and warm and so thoroughly human. “I’m not sure anyone’s ready to put me in that category. I just… spend a lot of time thinking, I suppose.”

“Flying above the city gives you plenty of time to ponder?”

He gave a half-shrug. “There’s a lot of silence up there. A lot of space to reflect.”

You nodded, scribbling notes, though your handwriting was starting to slope dangerously toward the edge of the page. Superman’s voice was steady, but every so often, his gaze lingered on you just a second longer than necessary.

It was silly, but you couldn’t help feeling like he was studying you, too.

“Do you ever wish you could do something else?” you asked.

He tilted his head, considering. “No. But sometimes I wish I could be better at ordinary things. Doing crafts, for instance.”

The idea of Superman trying to knit or crochet made you laugh out loud before you could stop it. His grin widened at the sound, the corners of his mouth tugging higher with pride.

“I can stop a runaway train,” he added wryly, “but ask me to make anything creative and the best I can give you is a stick-figure drawing.”

“Tragic,” you deadpanned, trying to scribble something discreet in your notebook so he wouldn’t notice your smile. “The city may never recover from this revelation.”

You hesitated because the next question felt personal. “Do you ever wish you didn’t have to be Superman?”

Silence stretched long enough that you wondered if you’d crossed a line. But then he said, “No. I wish I could balance it better sometimes. But wishing I wasn’t Superman would be wishing I wasn’t me.” 

You weren’t supposed to notice how tense his forearms looked resting on his knees. Or the faint, distracting warmth of him leaning slightly forward. You nodded, throat tight. Yeah, totally calm.

“You’re good at this,” Superman said suddenly, a glint of humour sparking in his eyes.

“At my job?”

He shook his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “At making someone feel like they can be honest.”

Your stomach flipped. You tried to smile, keep it light. “I’ll take that as a professional compliment.”

“Of course,” Superman said, and his gaze lingered just enough to make your heart speed, a quiet heat settling low in your chest.

You tapped your pen against the notebook again, grinning like a fool. “Alright,” you said, leaning back slightly. “Time for rapid-fire. Quick answers, gut instinct, no overthinking. Deal?”

Superman’s brow quirked, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Deal,” he said, and the word carried a weight that made your chest skip anyway.

“Favourite pizza topping?”

“Pepperoni,” he said instantly.

“Desert island snack?”

“Apples.”

You laughed. “Really?”

“They’re versatile,” Superman said, chuckling lightly. “And nutritious. Hard to get sick of.”

“Alright. What does Superman do on his day off?”

“I watch baseball, read if I can, maybe just walk the city. Sometimes old movies,” Superman grinned, “the really sappy ones.”

You smiled back. “What’s a movie that always makes you cry?”

“Anything with Gene Kelly,” he confessed. 

You nodded, trying not to laugh at how sweet the mental image was. “What’s your guilty pleasure?”

Superman hesitated just a fraction, and you caught it. That brief flicker of vulnerability made your chest squeeze. “I… bake pies. Really obsessively, sometimes.”

You blinked, pen hovering mid-air. He smiled faintly, but there was a softness to it, the kind that made you want to lean closer, to hear more.

“My mother’s pies are the greatest thing in the world. Truly, I was getting spoiled every day growing up. I miss them a lot.” Superman reached out just slightly, brushing an eyelash from your cheek with the pad of his thumb without thinking. Your pulse jumped. “So when I moved out, I had to learn to make them myself.”

His eyes flicked to yours, warm and unguarded. The eye contact was unwavering, intense, and you felt a jolt each time your eyes met. 

“That’s kind of amazing,” you said, smiling widely. “I never pictured Superman in an apron.”

He chuckled, low and easy. “Neither did I, initially. But it’s comforting. Makes me feel connected to her and my hometown.” Superman shifted slightly, brushing his knee against yours casually, as if unaware, but you weren’t about to move.

“I like baking too,” you admitted. “But I’ve never made a pie. I usually stick to chocolate cake. I make a mean dark chocolate ganache.”

His eyes lit up. “That sounds perfect,” Superman said quietly. The way his gaze held yours, steady but gentle, made your stomach flutter. He shifted again, almost mirroring you, hands resting just a fraction closer on the chair arms, shoulders angled toward yours.

The conversation slipped easily, naturally, like a door had opened that neither of you realised existed. “So, pies,” you prompted, leaning forward. “What’s your favourite? Apple? Cherry? Something more adventurous?”

“Apple. Classic, reminds me of my apple trees back home,” Superman declared happily. “But I experiment sometimes, even when it’s beyond my skill set. I love pecan pie in the fall. The kitchen gets messy.” His laughter was soft, but the movement behind it made you acutely aware of the curve of his shoulders, the gentle tension in his forearms.

You bit your lip, imagining him in his kitchen. Rolling dough, flour dusting his hair, his sleeves rolled up. Your thoughts skidded forward unbidden, picturing other domestic scenarios that were far less innocent. You shook your head, trying to focus.

“I like things a little messy,” you teased.

Both of your eyes widened at your unintentional innuendo.

Superman blushed. He actually blushed. “That’s good to know,” he said, and without thinking, his hand brushed your forearm. “Do you bake other things too?”

“Occasionally. Strawberry shortcake, sometimes brownies. But never pies, anything beyond cookie dough is too intimidating.” You laughed lightly.

He smiled, and it reached his eyes, softening them. “Maybe I could teach you. Not just the pie, but… how to enjoy the process. Even the mess.”

You felt your pulse jump. The casual offer—the closeness, and the easy intimacy of it—was impossible to ignore. “I’d really like that,” you admitted.

Superman’s eyes lingered, and you caught a subtle tilt of his head, the barest exhale that brushed the air between you. You found yourself leaning slightly closer, almost imperceptibly, drawn by the warmth and steady intensity of his gaze. It made you wonder, suddenly, what he was like when he wasn’t saving the world. 

“Do you get homesick a lot?” you asked instead of acknowledging the growing tension between you, recalling how he mentioned his hometown earlier.

“Yes. Every day,” he said quietly, voice carrying a hint of wistfulness. “My parents kept me grounded. They’re amazing; taught me right from wrong, made me… human, I guess. And where I grew up is a huge part of that. Having a community like that made me realise how important it is to nurture relationships.” 

Superman reached out, lightly resting a hand near yours on the notebook edge, then pulled back almost immediately, as if startled by his own actions.

“I get that,” you murmured. “I mean, no matter how long you live in the city, nothing ever quite compares to that feeling of being home. It’s not just a comfort, it’s a familiarity that you can’t ever replace.”

For a few minutes, you just talked about childhood memories and the comfort of home. Your forearms brushed as you both leaned forward in sync; he adjusted slightly, shoulders angling toward you, while your eyes held his without wavering.

Each accidental touch was electric. Superman’s gaze lingered just a fraction too long on your mouth, your eyes, your fingers as they flipped pages of your notebook. 

By the time you looked up, the Daily Planet interview had completely dissolved. Notes were scribbled, pens tapped idly, and all that remained was the quiet intimacy of shared confessions, laughter, and mutual understanding. Both of you had unconsciously leaned closer, shoulders nearly touching, hands lingering a heartbeat too long near each other.

You lowered your pen, letting your hands rest on the notebook. The words you had written about pies and home felt personal in a way that made your chest tight.

“I don’t have to print all that, about the pie and your parents and hometown,” you said, keeping your voice steady, despite the cartwheels inside your stomach.

Superman’s blue eyes softened, unwavering. “You should leave it in,” he said quietly, leaning slightly toward you, shoulders angled in a subtle invitation. “As long as you’re not too specific. I don’t want anyone figuring out who or where my family is.”

You nodded, pulse jumping. You felt a faint itch in your fingers, a desire to reach for Superman, to touch the solid strength of him even once.

“You know,” he added, lips just curving, “not a lot of reporters would offer to do that. Most would just run the story.”

You tilted your head, feeling heat coil low in your ribs. “I like to think that what we just did was not just a reporter talking to Superman,” you said, your voice catching a little. “It was two people talking. And it’s not fun for me if I share anything too personal with the rest of the world.”

He blinked, then smiled widely, dimples on display. “I think you’re right,” Superman agreed. You felt the faint brush of his fingers against yours, and the contact made something swoop in your belly.

“I promise I’ll be careful with it,” you said, leaning forward slightly. “Not just your words, but your intentions.”

“I know you will,” he murmured, voice calm and warm. His eyes never left yours. 

You let your gaze drift to his mouth for a moment too long. The curve of his lips was soft and compelling. Your fingers itched to brush against his jaw, to feel the strong shape beneath your touch. 

“I…” you said, and then the words faltered. Your chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts, the air warm in your lungs and tight in your ribs.

“You what?” Superman asked patiently.

“I don’t think I’ve ever connected like this with anyone before,” you admitted, exhaling shakily. 

You’d spent years admiring Superman from afar, and now, inches apart, this connection felt immediate and tangible. You were suddenly aware of every detail in his body. The breadth of his shoulders, the soft line of his collarbone, the slope of his nose, and the faint exhale he didn’t realise he was holding.

For a few seconds, you just sat watching each other. Superman’s hand moved imperceptibly closer to yours, and you could feel the heat of his breath against your cheek. Neither of you moved away. Every glance, every tilt of the head, every subtle shift of a shoulder felt like a conversation on its own.

Superman shifted slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Just double-checking that I’m supposed to ask if something can be off the record before I say it?” he asked, eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your chest thrum.

You swallowed, breath catching. “That’s right,” you said, voice breathless.

He tilted his head, gaze flicking down at your lips and back to your eyes, the movement smooth and deliberate. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I’d really like to kiss you. Preferably off the record.”

Your chest jumped, and a laugh burst from you before you could stop it. “I think it’s better that way,” you agreed.

That was all he needed. Slowly, deliberately, Superman closed the distance. Your breath hitched as his hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and your arms came up around his shoulders almost instinctively. You felt the warmth of him, the broad strength in his chest, and the way he moved with careful precision, as if making sure nothing about you felt unsafe.

Your lips met his, soft and tentative at first, a sweet, careful press. Your pulse was frantic, every nerve firing. He leaned into you a fraction, and the small sigh you let slip mirrored the quickening of his own breath.

Then the kiss deepened, becoming hungry, insistent. Your hands threaded through Superman’s hair, tangling in the soft curls, and you felt the press of his body against yours. His lips parted yours, tongue teasing, and your knees nearly buckled at the sensation. You gasped, and he hummed into the kiss, a low vibration that made your stomach tighten and your chest ache in a delicious, unbearable way.

He pulled back just slightly, lips brushing yours, eyes searching yours. “I want to be careful,” Superman murmured against your mouth. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

Then he gently lifted you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and your hands fisted lightly in his cape as he set you on your desk. The movement was careful, precise, but you felt the thrill of it, your heart racing in your ears.

You giggled breathlessly. 

Superman smiled, leaning in closer, forehead brushing yours. “Why are you giggling?” he asked, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“I’ve had this fantasy before,” you confessed, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. “For a long time.”

He raised an eyebrow, lips curving. “Oh yeah?”

You nodded, heart hammering. “Yeah.”

That was all it took. Superman kissed you again, letting you melt against him. 

His hands roamed under your shirt, pulling you by your lower back to adjust your position, and yours explored the firm planes of his shoulders, the curve of his chest, the solid warmth of his muscled abdomen.

Every gasp, every low moan, every teasing bite of Superman’s lips sent heat coiling through you. Your fingers grazed his jaw, tangled in his hair, and you could feel the barely restrained strength beneath his touch. He sighed softly into the kiss, lips and tongue moving with urgent tenderness, each motion deliberate.

You pressed your body closer, rocking lightly, feeling his hands anchor you to him. The desk beneath you shifted slightly, your notebook sliding to the floor with the movement, but neither of you cared. You bit gently at Superman’s bottom lip, eliciting a deep, drawn-out groan from him that sent a shiver straight through your spine.

When Superman finally pulled back, just enough to catch his breath, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling. His hands lingered on your thighs, holding you firmly but with care. 

You kissed him harder, frantic now, teeth grazing his bottom lip. Your body arched instinctively, searching, needing, until you could feel the solid, unyielding heat of him pressed against you.

The desk beneath you creaked and shifted, pens clattering to the floor. Superman’s breath hitched, his head falling to the side as you kissed along his pulse, leaving a mark behind his ear.

The sharp smell of ink from the spilt pens, tangled with the faint, clean scent of him, offered you a moment of sudden clarity. The desk. The scattered papers and pens. The silence of the empty newsroom echoed around you. 

You stilled first, breath ragged, and felt Superman freeze too, lips lingering against your skin before he lifted his head. His chest heaved as he looked at you, a trace of the earlier fire still smouldering in his gaze alongside something gentler. His hands loosened their grip on your thighs, slipping back to rest at your waist instead.

Your pulse thundered, but a shaky laugh escaped you. “Wow,” you managed, half-breathless, half-disbelieving.

Superman smiled faintly, brushing his forehead against yours. “Yeah,” he agreed softly, like it was all he could say without unravelling again.

You could see it in him. The quick rise and fall of his chest, the way his breath stuttered as if the air between you was too thick. But what you couldn’t see was what it felt like from the inside. Clark could get addicted to it; the taste of your lips, the press of your body against him. He’d kissed you—or, rather, Superman had kissed you—and it had been everything he’d dreamed of for so many years.

But now reality pressed in. The office. The interview. The not-so-small matter of you not knowing that Superman and Clark Kent were the same person. He wanted to tell you, but the words wouldn’t come.

Superman swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. “I… should apologise,” he said, though the thought of it made his chest ache. “This isn’t exactly what you signed up for when you asked for an interview.”

Your lips curved, and you shook your head. “Don’t you dare apologise. This was better than I hoped for.”

Clark’s heart lurched. Your smile could knock the air from his lungs faster than any blow. He wanted more of it; all of it. So he let as much of the truth slip out as he could. 

“I’d really like to see you again,” Superman said, voice low, tentative, but sincere. “Not as Superman in an interview. Just the person you’ve been talking to tonight. Could I maybe walk you home?”

A grin spread across your face, brighter than anything Clark had ever seen before. “I’d love that,” you agreed, voice warm and sure.

The next morning, you tried to walk into the Daily Planet like it was any other day. Coffee in hand, bag slung over your shoulder, head high. Completely normal. Totally casual. Absolutely not the person who spent the previous evening melting against Superman’s chest in your office chair.

It might’ve worked if Cat hadn’t immediately pounced on you.

“There you are,” Cat sing-songed, swivelling dramatically in her chair. “Our very own Clark 2.0. Tell me everything. What did he smell like? Don’t say soap and sunshine unless you want me to scream.”

You nearly choked on your coffee. “Good morning to you too, Cat.”

“Don’t deflect,” she warned, heels clicking against the floor as she crossed the room and leaned against your desk. “There are already whispers on Twitter that he walked you home and stood outside your building for an extra twenty minutes afterwards. Staring at the windows. Probably your windows. So,” she leaned in conspiratorially, “Did he maintain eye contact the whole time? Did he lean in close? Did he keep reaching out to touch you?”

You blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“Body language,” Cat exclaimed with gravitas, as though you’d just admitted to not knowing what gravity was. “It’s what men do when they’re attracted to you. He did it, didn’t he?”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but Superman had done all the things Cat mentioned. He’d kept eye contact like he couldn’t bear to look away, brushed his fingertips across your wrist when you dropped your pen, the way he’d leaned a little too close when he smiled, his gaze lingering on your mouth before—oh God. 

Cat smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

Before you could dig yourself out, Lois dropped her bag onto her desk with a thud and said, in the most pointedly disinterested voice imaginable, “If you two are done pretending this is Page Six and not the Planet, maybe we could talk about the actual work part?”

You shot her a look. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

Her lips twitched. Just the tiniest crack in the façade. “Fine. I’m curious. Did he actually give you anything new for the interview, or was it the usual save-the-day PR stuff?”

Grateful for the lifeline, you fished the printed stack of recorder transcripts out of your bag and handed them to Lois. “See for yourself. I printed this last night but haven’t edited it yet.”

Lois took it, flipping through like she was barely interested. She didn’t even skim the first pages; she went straight to the end. And then she snorted loudly.

You frowned. “What?”

She turned the transcript around so you could see: a string of gibberish letters, a line of nonsense that could only have been your recorder desperately trying to process the sounds of Superman kissing you like you were the last person on earth.

Lois raised an eyebrow. “So, when exactly in the interview did it become… off the record?”

Cat let out an unholy shriek of laughter, clutching at her chest like Christmas had come early. “Oh my God, you didn’t!”

You buried your face in your hands. “I hate both of you.”

“Liar,” Lois said smoothly, flipping the transcript back over and skimming with a little smile tugging at her lips. “You love us. Just maybe not as much as you love Superman’s lips.”

For the rest of the morning, you did an excellent job pretending to be normal. Coffee in one hand, your transcript and notes stacked in front of you, and a serious expression plastered on your face as you typed furiously at your keyboard.

Just a totally professional reporter who definitely did not make out with Superman on their desk last night.

Clark walked in an hour after you got there, late as usual. Which meant no one looked twice. He shuffled to his desk with that lopsided gait, muttered a sheepish “mornin’” to Perry, and collapsed into his chair like the commute had been uphill both ways. Classic Clark. 

Except then he bumped his knee under the desk and groaned.

Your hands froze on the keyboard.

Not just any groan. The groan. Specifically, the low, rough sound that had escaped Superman’s throat last night when you’d bit his lower lip and he’d pressed you back against your desk like he was starving for you.

Your stomach dropped clean through the floor. You told yourself you were imagining it, because otherwise—well. Otherwise, you’d have to face the fact that your mild-mannered colleague-slash-office buddy was also the man who’d kissed you like the world might end if he stopped.

When Clark leaned down to rub his knee, you saw a smudge of red, half-hidden by a curl behind his ear. A bruise, small but absolutely unmistakable. The kind of bruise one might get if, say, someone had gotten carried away kissing their way across his neck last night.

Your breath caught so loudly that Cat looked up from across the room, eyebrows climbing. You flapped a hand vaguely like you’d forgotten to pay your rent and snapped your attention back to your computer. Except, you couldn’t type a single word because your brain was busy shrieking nope nope nope nope.

But it wasn’t “nope,” exactly, but a horrifically thrilling “yes.”

Clark Kent was Superman. Superman was Clark Kent. You’d made out with Superman, who was also Clark, and left physical evidence behind.

You stood up so quickly your chair squeaked. Before Clark could blink, you were at his desk, yanking him up by the sleeve of his jacket. “Break room, now.”

“Wh—?” His glasses slid down his nose as he looked at you, bewildered.

“No questions,” you hissed, dragging him across the newsroom. Jimmy didn’t even glance up. Cat’s mouth fell open in delighted scandal. Lois, the traitor, smirked into her coffee mug like she’d been waiting for this day her whole life.

You didn’t stop until you’d shoved Clark into the break room, slammed the door shut, and planted him firmly against it with both hands pressed to his chest.

You stared up at him, chest heaving, eyes flicking from his startled expression to the very obvious hickey by his ear. There was no talking yourself out of this anymore.

“Clark,” you breathed, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. “Oh my God.”

He blinked down at you, all wide eyes behind crooked glasses. “Uh. Morning?”

“Don’t you ‘morning’ me.” You jabbed a finger at the hickey by his ear. “What is that?”

He flinched like you’d accused him of grand larceny, reaching up to cover it with a hand. “Oh, uh, must’ve—ran into a door—”

“Ran into a door?” you whisper-yelled. “Clark, that’s not a door bruise! That’s a hickey!”

Clark’s ears went pink. His mouth opened, shut, opened again. “Maybe it’s just—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence. I know what a hickey looks like, Clark. Especially one that I made!” You clutched your own hair, pacing a two-foot circle. “Oh my God, it’s you. Superman kissed me, except Superman is you. You’re him. You’re—” You threw your hands in the air, searching for the right word. “Clark Kent, but with, like, a cape!”

He winced. “I meant to tell you, I just—”

“You meant to tell me?!” Your voice cracked, whisper hitting a glass-shattering pitch. “Clark, we’ve known each other for years. I copy-edit your work when you’re behind on your deadline. You steal my fries every time we order take out, and you owe me twenty dollars from that time you lost a bet and didn’t have any cash on you. And you forgot to mention you’re also Superman?”

“I didn’t exactly forget—”

“Oh my God.” You dropped your hands from your hair and grabbed the front of his shirt, glaring up at him. “Say it. Out loud. I want to hear you say it.”

Clark swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. Then, quietly: “I’m Superman.”

Your knees went weak. Sensing this, Clark reached out and grasped your hips carefully, preventing you from sliding straight onto the floor.

“You kissed me last night,” you whispered. “A lot. There was heavy petting involved, it got kind of obscene towards the end—”

Blushing bright red, Clark cut you off: “I did.” His voice was soft now, steady with a vulnerability you’d never heard before. “Look, I understand if you’re disappointed—”

“Disappointed?!” you whisper-screeched. “Clark, are you kidding me?! The guy I’ve been gushing over for years was in front of me the entire time? He’s one of my closest friends? My celebrity crush just turned out to be the guy who brings me doughnuts on Fridays?!”

Clark’s brows furrowed. “So… that’s a yes? Or a no? I’m sorry, the yelling is kind of confusing me.”

Instead of answering, you surged up on your toes, grabbed him by the collar, and kissed him. The second his hands steadied you, warm and firm at your waist, and he kissed you back with that same starved intensity as last night, you forgot about everything else.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, you both stared at each other for a long, stunned beat.

Then you blurted, “Wow. I’ve waxed poetic about your biceps right in front of you for years without knowing it.”

tugging on the drawstrings of his sweatpants while he moans lowly into your mouth. he shuts the door with one arm while the other holds you up against him. he knows you don’t like to touch communal spaces, no matter how clean your gym may be. so jason holds you up against him, pulling your weight back into him over and over. moving your hips until you’re grinding back against him while his hands on your hips keep you firmly planted there. though he second guesses himself still and he watches you intensely.

“are you sure you’re good ma? we can go home.”

you shake your head vigorously, tugging at the hair on the nape of his neck to bring his mouth closer to yours. “i’m not waiting jay.”

when you fucked like this, it was an out of body experience.

mostly because jason held your weight and his own like no problem and there was nothing to dwell on but how it felt. he places a large palm over your mouth when he guides his length through your soaked folds. dragging it up and teasing before pushing inside like he belonged. he let you moan into his hand and watched your eyes roll back in your skull. he shushes you by your ear.

“i know baby, i know.” groaning out quietly as he prods to fit himself in. “fuck— you’re so tight.”

tears prickling at your eyes already, you shake your head slowly while his hips make slow circling movements. “it’s cause you’re so big.”

jason smiles wide, hips thrusting a little meaner as he watches you try grind back against him, but still not to the hilt yet. “yeah? i’m big? but you like that shit don’t you?”

you’re nodding through the haze of pleasure, nails gripping his back as he continue fucking you through it slowly. not even fully inside, giving half just to pull it away. like being manhandled in the gentlest way possible. his strength unmatched and his body intentional, grinding his hips back into you over and over just feeding a few inches before taking it away. waiting to see you whisper in his ear that you need more, desperation evident.

then he waits until he sees the tears by your eyes start to dissipate before he gives you anymore. feeding another inch inside, his eyes drop to watch him split you open. though even after taking him before this, you weren’t used to his size.

“jay, it’s too much.” you gasp out, the feeling overwhelming. “it won’t fit.” too much and not enough at the same time.

“you’ve done this before ma.” jason tsks, “and said you could handle it. so you can take it hmm?”

his voice deliciously sensual already. you cave immediately. your lip trembles and you nod to let him continue. immediately you moan out loud enough for someone to hear and jason clasps his palm right over your mouth again. but he doesn’t coo you through it, his eyes stay piercing yours while his rhythm picks up and he pushes himself deeper. choking on his own spit at how you felt around him, his hold on you remained tight. he stays buried for a minute to stare at you, watch you catch your breath and adjust to his size.

“can you move please?” you’ll ask breathlessly and he’ll shake his head.

“remember what i said baby. deep breaths.” mimicking what he meant, he watches you. breathing deep and letting it out harshly. when you copy him he smiles. “there you go ma.”

then he shifts his hips again and you lose your train of thought. more intense than it usually is, every movement he makes feels like it drags through you. like you’re pulsating around him and he purposefully continues. but his hands still on your mouth when he realizes that you’re close and he pushes further like he could reach the depths of you. kissing your cervix effortlessly while he turns your head to bite at his shoulder. cause it only felt like the good kind of pain, he’d say.

jason would feel his high approaching and whisper sweet nothings in your ear, reminding you how much he loves you like he wasn’t taking you apart without breaking a sweat, yet. his flush tip with the perfect curve, hitting sweet spots everytime. it was a good idea to make you bite down on something.

groaning into your hair, he lifts you sloppily up and down on him, creating the perfect friction. he almost whines when you clamp around him and whisper that you can’t hold on.

he pants by your ear and his voice is huskier than when he’s not like this. “gonna fuck you so full. take you again when we’re home.”

entirely feral just as you are for him, jason caves and sputters when you wrap your legs around him tighter. he’s just as gone as you and you’re practically begging him to follow through on his words. when you finally let go, that’s when he does too. shooting rope after rope and painting you deep from the inside. like the most beautiful and precious thing he’d ever held, he holds you through it.

his hips with a mind of his own, continuing to thrust up into even when your legs wobble around him. he keeps one arm around your waist, firm and stable while the other rests on the wall to keep him upright as he loses himself completely. still sloppily pushing back into you when you whimper and drop your head against his. that’s when he finally stills and pulls your hair gently, just enough to see your face again.

then he kisses you with all the sweetness the world has to offer. he deepens it as he eases you with both arms now, and keeps your legs around him so you don’t fall. letting lips trail down to your neck to leave gentle bites.

when the door gets knocked on hard, the voice that followed made both of your faces burn. suddenly it occurs to both of you that anyone could’ve heard you. roy’s voice is whisper yelling but you’re sure anyone could’ve heard him with how thin the walls are.

“please stop fucking so i can change outta my trunks. i’m chafing over here.”

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.

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