#never do

Despite being crammed like a sardine in a tin can, the narrowness of the alleyway was at the rock bottom of Clark’s problems. Why? Because, he had you slumped against his body. Unconscious. Snoring. (He wouldn’t even address the darkened patch of blue on his suit from the drool leaking from your mouth.)

This was your fault. As most downfalls of missions were.

You, a vigilante within your own right, were reckless, blinded by impulsivity and the incessant need to one-up your unofficially assigned partner: Superman. A loose canon, waiting for the worst time to set yourself off. Green Lantern once referred to you as a ‘spitfire’ and refused any further collaborations with your efforts. Clark wholeheartedly agreed, on the ‘spitfire’ part, but had enough common decency to wade through the ocean of flaws you had; because you had the same motive as him.

To do good. In your own maniacal way.

You basked in the peril of your own actions, putting yourself in precarious situations that Clark ended up fishing you out of with a mouthful of reminders as to why you shouldn’t listen to the little voices in your head. At some point, you had caused irrefutable damage to Clark’s nervous system and any grey hairs he had found nestled in his dark hair were in result of being partnered up with you. Not the heavy burden of feeling the need to be the saviour of Metropolis, not the deadline he hadn’t reached at Daily Planet, not even Lex Luthor.

You.

Golly. You were…OK. Call a spade, a spade: You were…gorgeous. In an infuriatingly obvious way that had Clark’s jaw slacken the first time your paths crossed.

But, that was besides the point. All the bad overshadowed the good, and it was the very reason you were propped up against the ‘S’ on Clark’s chest.

It had happened in a split second. An alien species had spawned in the middle of Metropolis, causing carnage in its wake, and it was up to you, Superman, and the Justice League—when they decided to show up—to contain and snuff the growing flame out. You had shown up first in your tactical gear and a point to prove that even without the ‘fancy schmansy powers’ that had been bestowed upon your fellow hero-friends…You were the one who managed to get to the scene of the intergalactic crime.

It drove Clark mad.

And then, you started as you meant to go on. Bickering.

With Clark in the sky and you on foot, chasing this…thing—you couldn’t even identify what it was. It was just ugly. And a pain in your ass—the petty arguments that were highly anticipated happened through a small earpiece, that you had gifted Clark and the Justice League during the winter festivities.

For work purposes. Not to chew their ears off.

You were amidst correcting Clark that when he said, ‘On your left’ and you asked: ‘My left or your left?’ That the response was not to say: ‘Does it matter? It’s left!’ Because, how disorientating to your senses if you couldn’t decipher whether Clark Kent meant his left or your left. It really did matter.

That’s when it managed to hit you. Square in the face, a plume of pollen-like particles exploded in your face and you hit the deck like a sack of potatoes; your skull making a nice crunching sound when it hit the concrete below.

Clark had been watching you from above. As he always had to, because again, you were unpredictable in the worst sense. When you went from upright to horizontal in a matter of seconds, Clark projected himself from the sky, with little regard to the alien form tormenting the streets of Metropolis, as his sole focus honed in on you.

His chest burned when he reached you, his heart pounding as he dropped to his knees and gathered you up into his lap.

“No, no, no. Please—!” Clark panicked outwardly, his eyes darting over your features. His ability to hear your heartbeat was overruled by his own blood pumping in his ears from the anxiety he felt. He then dropped his head to your chest. Thud thud, thud thud, thud thud.

You were alive.

You then began to stir in his arms. Eyelids weighty, a groan elicited from the back of your throat from the searing pain that pierced through your skull that had been well and truly rattled.

“Supey.” You slurred. “I’m so—I’m really tired.”

“OK.” Clark nodded along to your yawn with one palm applying pressure to the bloodied gash on the backside of your head. Something he didn’t need to address for the time being. He scanned the area, “OK. I’ve got you, sweetheart. Come on.”

Clark hooked two thumbs under your armpits and dragged you backward into an alleyway that had seemingly been made for people that were 2D. He managed to manoeuvre you so that your back was against the wall opposite to him.

Your head lolled and Clark was quick to take your face into his hands so you could maintain eye-contact with him.

He tapped your cheek, “Hey. Keep your eyes open, do you hear me?”

“Don’t…” You lazily prodded a finger into his chest, “Tell me what to do, Supey.”

Clark gave you an incredulous look. Even compromised, with an open wound at the back of your skull, you still managed to argue with him. His nostrils flared, “I need you to stay awake for me. I’m not sure what you got hit with. Can you do that, please?”

“What’s are you? Me—My mother or sumn’?” You closed your eyes for a moment, “Gets off my back.”

“Golly gosh. Do you have to argue with me over everything?”

And, within five minutes and one stress-signal sent out to the Justice League to get their asses to the scene, you had dozed off on Clark Kent’s chest. Body slumped forward, Clark struggled to keep you upright from the position he had dragged you both into.

It was when your knees began to buckle from beneath you, beginning your decent to Clark’s lower half.

“Gosh, no. No.” Clark awkwardly had to bend his body to pick you back up. His cheeks were aflame as he spoke, “Don’t go there. Please—”

He nervously chuckled to himself after you were brought back up to rest against his chest. He watched you for a moment, mouth agape, eyes moving beneath your lids and the softest snore Clark had ever heard. It was a stark contrast to the chaos that you brought in your wake. The silence from you—aside from the ambient snores—was almost terrifying.

(Clark wouldn’t admit it. But, he supposed he would miss your endless amount of vocabulary if it ever happened to stop on a more permanent basis.)

He also noted, with his chin tucked to his chest and his mop of curls falling forward in order to look at you…that, you were even prettier up close. Hey, Clark Kent would go as far to say that he’d be thrilled if this were the first thing he woke up to in the morning.

OK. He needed out of this close proximity.

“Michael!” Clark whispered to the monitor in his ear. You shifted. Clark held you tighter. He spoke again, “Have you got it under control?”

There was a pause and Clark thought he might have to sit you down and hide you beneath some damp cardboard boxes, so he could throw himself back into the action. (He’d apologise to you profusely if you woke up beneath the mountain of junk at a later time.)

As he began to move you, his earpiece crackled. “Under control. Some sort of sleep paralysis demon. Half the city was put to sleep, some of them are starting to rise now.” Mister Terrific continued, “How’s the alleyway with Spitfire? She still unconscious?”

You began to stir in Clark’s arms again. Brows furrowed in your sleep as you let out a whine that let Clark know you were dissatisfied by the noise feeding through your own earpiece.

Clark sighed with relief. “Yeah—Yeah. Still asleep.” He shifted you up against him once more. The red flush now spread to his ears at the thought of you nuzzled into his neck. When Mister Terrific asked if he needed to come get you, Clark was quick to add, “It’s OK. I’ve got her.”