#nutcracker

The words spread a dark, prickly infestation through your ribs, turning to bile that threatens to spill from your mouth. You step forward, tightening your core to once more into relevé.

Clark's intrusion into the carefully bound eco-sphere in the halls is noted from the second he trails snow into the hardwood floors. His glasses fog up in an instant when he somehow steps into a much colder space than winter itself. He takes a moment for himself at the entrance — overwhelmed by the sounds and stifling perfection.

He straightens his coat with the dread of insecurity confronting him. Clark was here for a feature, a page to commemorate. (Which really was a favour he was doing for Lois.)

It was what he told himself before he began to enjoy the art.

From his vantage point, movement itself was carved by every dancer on that stage. Mapping out points marked by hours and hours of practice and instinct. Clark tilts his head, listening without meaning to when the ballerina centre front is briefly airborne — everyone's eyes are on her.

It's when she lands, paired with the hesitation before her eventual reset.

He hears it, the way her breath tightens, untwisting what came undone to straighten. Pain made a noise so quiet that it was almost like it'd been meant for only him to hear. Clark's unsure why the sight of her quiet anguish makes his heart twist.

You lower your head, only letting quiet pants, for your own ears to be heard. As the spotlight on you fades, a snow-tousled figure remains looking at you. It's enough reason to make your heart lurch, being watched by a stranger — but it's his earnest smile shot your way that has your shoulders relaxing.

He approaches carefully, as most begin to disperse backstage. You're still tapping your toes, a ritualistic movement that simply does not halt when the director calls for a break.

"…Hello," he says, "Clark Kent, from the Daily Planet."

You nod without looking up at the stranger, bending at your hips to curl your fingers around your toes.

"I was just wondering if…" he begins, then hesitates, "If I could observe you for a bit?"

When you rise, the flicker of his lanyard lands within your eyeline. You eye the stranger, up and down.

"…from The Daily Planet."

He stiffens when his lanyard grows lighter. You twist at the plastic, straining your neck to get a look at the nervous expression painted across his features.

"Observing is free; you have questions to ask." You point out.

Clark rubs at the back of his neck, he's never been bested by someone with such delicate grace, but what he hears paints a different picture of you, "normally I prefer to — …check with the subject. If they're okay with me overseeing and potentially asking. "

You raise a brow. He was over-explaining.

"It's part of the procedure, and then once I get your say so, I'll just take some time to get some questions sorted, especially because you seem to be a really important — well, play a really important role in the production —"

"Really? What gave it away?"

He blinks dumbly at your swift interjection. Which — it was unclear if it were a joke, though it'd calmed his nerves regardless.

"That…" Clark's palm raises, loosely gesturing to the glimmery, pink tulle that sat on your hips — unlike the rest of the dancers. Even a normie would be able to tell that you stood out as a leading lady.

"…was a joke, Clark Kent." If your tone was meant to be mocking, he doesn't get it, not in that playful lilt it was delivered in anyway.

"Surely you're curious about something." It's a loaded question, and he was certain you had a peek of his 'notes' from observing you.

A strained laughter so unglamorous resounds in his throat, and he points at you, then to the book, "oh…that's…well. I was wondering." His finger twists to himself, and then to his notebook, which was mostly diagrams of circles and x's, mapping out your entire choreography from where he'd observed you from.

"Does spinning…ever get easier?"

Contextually, it was something he was curious about. Especially with how many ungraceful twirls he does midair. Even with superpowers, anyone would get dizzy.

But then again, you didn't have context.

The corner of your lips lifts in a smile at the oddly genuine question.

"It does, with technique. You keep your eyes focused on something. Do they have reporters spinning at the Daily Planet?"

Clark exhales a laugh, entranced by the ghost of a smile you offered him.

"Right. Keeping…focused." He notes, then, whips his head up. "No! I'll uh —…"

You shift to your haunches, tightening the taping with practised ease. His attention, briefly stolen by the bruises along your ankles, smeared makeup only hiding the severity of them.

"…Get some proper questions ready."

He frowns beneath the frames, only half-listening to your superficial small talk before thanking you for the borrowed time. Clark steps back in time to the sight of white lilies, spilling over the silver ribbons that pass through the hallways behind them. Carried through by a stagehand.

He thinks he feels your breath still at the sight of them, but brushes it off when you don't acknowledge it.

ARC II — WALTZ OF THE SNOWFLAKES

Clark Kent's visits no longer feel work-related.

You'd noticed it, somewhere between his third and fourth time. Routine questions to the director, but always back to you. He asks about how it felt to do this particular routine of yours, with a gentleness that you grew accustomed to.

He starts coming even when he has nothing left to ask.

Then he brings Jimmy Olsen. Jimmy brings a different energy, with his camera hung loose on him, he'd be snapping away. Presence unmissable, which was unlike Clark — who only ever observed politely and out of view.

You'd much prefer Clark.

"Everyone upstairs thinks you're clocking more hours here than you'd ever been at your desk."

Jimmy wasn't behind teasing Clark openly; he knew his presence was likely a last-ditch resort not to seem like a stalker.

"That's not…I just think we need pictures."

"Of?"

"…The…"

"Theee."

"The snow. Inside — inside the theatre."

The brunette laughs at Clark's stammer, the red tips of his ears entirely giving away the truth.

"Uhuh. Can't blame ya," Jimmy shrugs, looking through his viewfinder. The lens focused on you mid-routine. "She's a really pretty girl."

Clark opens his mouth to agree, then stops. He pushes Jimmy's lenses to capture something else instead when the green-eyed monster came knocking.

Because that wasn't really it, was it?

He supposes you were pretty, now that he was looking. Incredibly so, but what he'd really been doing was listening.

The admiration and envy that was a common consensus followed you wherever you went, but he was far less interested in that. It was the sounds you didn't quite want anyone else to hear. Quiet, pained grunts you would make when you landed harder than necessary. Or the way your breath stutters when you swallow it all back down.

Your body has tamed itself to obey without flinching. In a perpetual state of correction and endurance. Though lately, that gnawing feeling you successfully kept at bay for the better half of your career resurfaces. Movements that no longer feel soft, but rather sharper.

The director doesn't stop you when he notices the signs. A white swan in the making, he thinks.

Clark looks closer, down to the bottom of your pointe shoes — where satin, roughened by movement and worn thin, bloomed trickles of blood.

It unsettles him, the deliberate pain you seemed to subject yourself to.

"What's all this?"

You're greeted by Clark, usually kept to himself, holding out a manila paper bag for you. Necessities, you note.

"I thought you might need them. Is that alright?"

"I…suppose it's alright."

Vitamin drinks sat in the corner of your desk; winter brought forth long rehearsals after all. Tape soon joined the pile — he's seen the way your fingers tremble in an attempt to compose them. Hydrocolloid plasters just from an instance of looking far too closely. Clark doesn't think he's slept right since.

On its own, harmless. They were caring, making themselves ever so present, morphing into devotion that felt like pressure. Clark doesn't notice it, but you begin to.

It's a routine your mind tried desperately to forget. Gifts that arrive unasked, kindness that repeats itself, that moulds to expectation. So it was no surprise when it finally tightened in your ribs — it was getting far too crowded.

Your forearms sweep across the table with a decisiveness, the clatter of them landing in the metallic hollowed wastebasket. A threat removed, implication that she needed tending to, provided relief that dulled your edge.

When you turn, Clark's standing at the doorway, fists tightly clenched as though he'd stopped mid-knock. You think you spot anger on his face, but it's a realisation that settles in place.

"I'm sorry," his step back, admittedly weak, "I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable."

Embarrassment, or humiliation perhaps from your own paranoia, reflects back onto you, with Clark's apologetic-ness.

"I just, I didn't need all these…things. Is all."

He doesn't sense the cruelty or question in your tone, but he doesn't need an explanation. Clark nods quickly and retreats.

"I'll leave you to it."

His body twists, and his tongue catches his lower lip, meeting your gaze.

"I thought you were wonderful out there today."

Your lips twitch at the sight of a reluctant dimple, followed by his awkwardly raised palm.

Rehearsals don't wait for Clark.

You think you're better off without the comforting thought of being seen. Days spent practising pliés until the tremble felt in your thighs felt unbearable. The aches that were deep within your bones, down to your ankles. Though you tell yourself this was likely the least challenging routine you've done before.

The backdrop, complete, sets your nerve fray. Shimmers of crystalline frost land by your feet as the very first few notes of Tchaikovsky's Walt of the Snowflakes sound in the theatre — cords meant to spread the magical joy played by the orchestra in the theatre.

Your feet tap incessantly as you wait for your cue, before you're met with the Nutcracker for the pas de deux routine. Hands on your waist felt heavier, nauseating. More so at your lack of perfection than everything else. At the first lift, you visibly adjust your ankle, a second too long, landing a beat late. The Nutcracker's fingers squeeze at your waist, guiding your tempo.

"Again," the director's voice carries through, and it's sharp. Stabbing right through your confidence.

The spin comes in late, following the rest. Another lift came with another misstep. Pirouettes that were far from perfect. Guiding touches on your body are a reminder of your slipping control. Each landing wrong, your gaze flickers to the ghost of a presence that used to ground you.

It eats at you for letting yourself rely on someone else's strength to make up for your failing confidence.

You nod, gentle lighting a blur as you move. Flakes catch on your lashes. And you're feeling the jolt of pain — immediate and potent when you twist a fraction alter than your partner. You smile through it, repeating the sequence through a failure that met you over and over.

The crack was subtle.

"Stop."

Far from a sound, but a sensation that spread like wildfire through your calves. White-hot and enough for your vision to turn spotty. Your body does what it's accustomed to, holding the pose with your chin high until the orchestral ensemble ceases.

"That's enough," the director steps forward in time, and you lower your arms slowly. Adrenaline draining from you to remind yourself of the untimely throb of your feet. "We'll call it here."

"No, I can do it again." You insist.

It's met with a pause, "you aren't stable, and we open tomorrow."

"I need one more run," you step forward despite yourself, "I've done this for months, I can —"

"I know, " he interrupts, "but I can't have you dancing it tonight."

Your lips part in protest when he calls for the understudy, with other dancers ushering you. Voices are muddled, concerns, whispers to take a break, you don't hear them.

The sight of Jimmy Olsen, face twisted in concern that mimicked his much taller counterpart, sits within your eyeline. Someone else you don't recognise, longer hair, deep as raven, speaking to Jimmy in a hushed tone. Quiet pleasantries didn't matter with the theatre practically acting like an echo chamber.

"Well, I think we should!"

"What, tell him? He said he didn't want to bother her."

You move by instinct, crossing the space to corner the two of them.

"Don't."

The two of them startle at your presence, but Jimmy speaks up first with a frown.

"Hey, are you…okay? You look —"

"Please," you interrupt, "don't."

His gaze flickers to Lois, hesitant, "Kent's going to hear about this anyway."

The softer melodies resume behind you, without you, and an acute reminder of your failure sends a dull throb through your chest. It's displaced, the way you feel the need to have someone else responsible for your spiral.

Quietly, you finally speak again.

"What's his address?"

ARC III — WHITE SWAN

"Mrs Fielderman, I promise it's not me making the noise. And between you and me, I think 506 is the one…responsible."

He trails off as soon as his eyes settle on the figure before him. You sniffle once loudly to alleviate some of the awkwardness you feel, looking askew.

Though Clark is rendered utterly speechless.

Freckles of frost dusted your shoulders and cheekbones. Trails of glitter remain on your cheeks. Your hair loosened from its usual state, dampened from the melted snow.

It takes a mere step forward for him to catch it. The shuddered breath you take when you adjust the purse on your shoulders. Down to the crack of displaced bones.

"You should — …you're hurt. Are you hurt?"

"Do you know what happens when dancers start to think instead of just moving?"

It spills out of you all at once. You step past him without waiting for permission, the movement sending one final wave of pain that throbs in your ankles.

He shuts the door with a thud, brows creased at your words. While he was listening for the most part, his gaze dropped below in concern.

"When…when the body stops moving on instinct, and is aware of the other senses."

You gesture at your leg anyway. "This."

"I'm not…following." He counters, "you were injuring yourself far before I'd even —"

"You mean before you distracted me? No." You press, taking a step forward with a wince, "no, I was tired. A-And sore. It's normal."

"But this?"

His expression tenses at the hitch of your breath.

You were still over-exerting yourself.

"This happened when I hesitated, when I kept thinking about how you never showed up. I'm not wrong for not wanting to be softened by what someone else does for me — I'm not wrong."

The admission hangs unfinished. Clark could tell there was a much larger issue you were battling with at play.

Silence grows more precarious when he doesn't say a single thing to defend himself, absorbing all of the anger that had no business remaining in you.

"Stay put."

He hadn't so much as left, the air whizzing in a swiftness that left you in shock. Papers on his desk fluttered, squarely by your feet.

Confusion was secondary, irk was a better word for it. He'd heard all you had to say, remained quiet, then just vanished.

The present irritated you more than if he had just sniped back.

You shift instinctively. Regret immediately sending shock-waves up your spine.

"Urgh—! God…" A sharp mutter tears past your teeth as you grip the edge of his desk to steady yourself through the blinding pain. Fingers crumpling over papers beneath your hold.

His workplace was in obvious disarray. At first glance, there would be no question of his craft in the slightest. With stacks of drafts, covered in handwritten sticky notes, and photos clipped and temporarily mounted.

You shouldn't intrude, but you do.

Articles draft of the Nutcracker adaptation sits on his desk, mostly superficial directorial notes where your name appeared every now and then.

You twist the edge of the paper in the bitterness that was a reminder of your messy performance from earlier, flipping it over. Photographs catch your attention, none of them quite from the performance itself.

But rather, from behind the scenes. Every one of them is just a representation of your endurance. Head bowed with your fists tightly gripped around the barrel. Some while you were adjusting, taping yourself tighter to bite down on whatever turmoil you were feeling.

Just how much of you had he noticed?

"They didn't make the cut." Clark's voice pipes up from behind you, sounding breathless while setting down a plastic bag of medical supplies he seemingly disappeared to retrieve.

Weird. You hadn't heard the front door. (Though you don't quite notice the curtains from his balcony fluttering from the now-opened door.)

"Jimmy thinks….it felt too stalker-ish." He continues, raking his gaze over what you were looking at. Despite his nonchalance, the reddened tip of his ears gave his embarrassment away.

You turn on your heel a little too quickly, expression visibly scrunched when you rebalanced yourself. Clark's body moves, with a hand hovering over your shoulders, that quickly turned to a fist.

"Shouldn't…sneak up on people like that." You murmur, subconsciously edging yourself toward the radiating warmth he was exuding beside you

He tilts his head, with the same easy smile he'd shoot you from a distance in the rehearsal halls.

"In my own house? I think you're the one sneaking around."

You huff, holding the pictures up loosely.

"Very stalker-ish, by the way."

Your ankle throbs, unwelcome. This time, you don't hold yourself enough to recover. Clark's palms are there, steadying you before you could've braced yourself.

"Easy," he murmurs, turning you and perching you onto his desk within that same breath.

You tilt your head up to meet his gaze, which was fixated on your ankles. All tensed as though he could see through your compression socks.

"I blamed you." You admit.

"…I know." He murmurs, shifting to pull the squeaky chair behind him to sit down. Your ankles are then gently placed on the surface of his thighs.

The full crinkle of the bag spills its contents over, and he wordlessly twists the cap off.

"You didn't deserve it."

"Probably not," he shrugs, dragging his fingers down the swollen, bruised skin of your ankles thoughtfully, "you looked like you needed somewhere to put it."

Your breath actually hitches, in mere exhaustion at the simplicity of his words.

"I wouldn't want to do that to anyone."

Clark's arms steady around your calf, fingers twitching at your hesitation.

"You don't always have to carry it alone." He adds after a beat, thumb smearing the medicated cream over the swell.

You weren't sure what it was about him that made you feel seen and heard in a way that just wasn't humanly capable.

The fight leaves your body as you slump into him, face slotted in the crook of his shoulder. It's immediate the way he steadies you, wide palms spanning across your back, rubbing up and down in a soothing gesture.

That's when you feel his words pressed warm against the side of your head.

I can take it all.

And maybe this time, you'd let yourself rely on someone else.

ARC IV — PAS DE DEUX

You weren't on stage on opening night.

The sentiment of giddy joy doesn't quite reach you. With feeling like a traitor at best, you slip into the opera house through the back entrance. A route only the people in the know could navigate.

Bigger, comically oversized glasses sit on the bridge of your nose. Which you'd say is pretty convincing, considering no one had stopped you.

The view of the stage feels alien to you from afar. It wasn't a sight you were used to, considering it'd been the opposite all your life. Nina, your understudy, takes your place.

Moving with an unhurried grace, a moment that she was awarded — waited for, relying on the inevitability. Your foot subconsciously taps on the oak floors, to the pull of trumpets.

"Far too slow," you mutter under your breath. Heels are knocking at the same time as Nina's.

The stares from the people in the back rows don't faze you.

"Clean turn. Rushed landing."

Your jaw tightens at the visual performance that follows. Flawed but human. There wasn't any bitterness in your observations, just born out of habit, perfection that was embedded in your bones.

As soon as the curtain draws before the next act, you feel a warmth cocooning your shoulders. Instinctively, you stiffen, slowly relaxing when the loom of a threat wanes at the sight of cashmere. Tucked gently in place.

"You didn't have to sneak out."

The voice behind you sounded amused, and you tilted your head up with a knowing frown.

"We could've just come together," Clark says with a tight smile, trying not to outwardly laugh at your ridiculously elaborate disguise from being seen.

"Tonight isn't about me." You admit softly, pulling the soft fabric higher up your chin.

His expression softens at that. Even now, you were worried about someone else.

"You're allowed to take a break. You know that, right?"

You snort mockingly at that, and Clark raises his palm in surrender. It was a fruitless battle after all. His knuckles lower to brush against your cheekbones, gently tugging off your glasses.

"This," he points out, "is a pretty awful disguise."

A wry smile quirks at the corner of your lips.

"Yeah, alright, four-eyes."

He takes you home before the final bow.

You don't engage in conversation the entire way home. Didn't need to. Clark learned how to exist with you, keeping pace with your hand twined with his, tucked in his coat, where it remained warm.

Where Metropolis was humming with overwhelming life, Christmas this year was a lesson on forgiveness for you.

To the people you'd failed, to Clark, and to yourself.

It hits you hardest at your apartment.

Your crutches lay beneath your feet by the couches when the full static from the television does nothing to ease the hollowness. Clark's hunched over by the stove, stirring a pot filled with Ghirardelli's.

"I've trained for months," you say insistently, with your body turned to the kitchen, "and it's looking like I'm gonna miss the entire…run."

Clark sets two mugs before him, pouring the brown, luscious liquid into them, before walking over to you.

"Doesn't erase the work you did. More opportunities will come." He tries, handing you the Grinch mug, keeping the Santa-shaped one for himself.

You frown at him, "funny."

"Well, it's fitting!" He counters with a barely contained grin. "It's snowing outside, you're taking some well-deserved time off. And —"

He sighs, watching you for a beat.

"You still want to dance."

"It feels like everyone's telling me I need to stop breathing. This is breathing."

Clark glances down at your feet, where your uninjured foot is bent to a pointe. He stands suddenly without elaborating, holding his palm out for you.

"C'mere."

You eye him with a raised brow, tutting when you try to reach for your crutches.

"No, just…trust me." He follows up gently.

After a moment's hesitation, you take his hand with his help. Weight follows supported by him. Then, you brace — for a pain that doesn't come.

It doesn't register until the room shifts in your eyeline. And you look down at your feet being lifted from the floor. Realisation settles when Clark tightens his arm around your waist. The two of you, suspended mid-air.

Immediately, your gaze snapped upward to a shy Clark.

"Shoot, too high," you feel his grunt reverberating low in his chest when he winces, ducking to avoid your low ceilings.

Your lips part in bewilderment at the present situation, gently being guided by the wind and an inhuman force. The cold chills of up balcony have you seeking more of his warmth.

He begins to turn, holding you steady against him. Your body melts at the hum of wind, following a rotation so familiar it tears a laugh through you. A real, and unguarded one that makes your entire body feel feather-light.

Clark Kent, who had you feeling like you were in a pirouette mid-air, just because you had a fresh hairline fracture.

It was ridiculous. And perfection in every way.

You tucked your face in the crook of his neck. Holding him so tightly as your ankle curve through memory.

"That's it," he coos, softly. "Feeling better?"

Clark tilts his head just to get a peek at the sweet smile you hid from him. Smiling fully, dimples leaving dents deep enough to feel the dip.

Snow drifts onto the two of you in a cold lull, and he sways you.

"I can't believe you pretended to climb a chair to hang the star on the tree."

ARC V — APOTHÉOSE

The change was far from subtle.

Everyone had noticed.

Conversations often dropped half an octave when you entered the room. With gaze following you in awe, curiosity and jealousy. Your warm-up by the barre with ease, muscles alert, responsive and at ease. It was the tilt to your heart and mind that brought this forth; your director would say.

"You think she's taking something?"

"Nina took over the whole of the Nutcracker season..."

"Maybe she just had rest."

"Maybe all of you should be practising instead of gossiping."

They weren't exactly quiet. But you had far more pressing things to worry about. But your body was now at ease, stomach unknotted despite the knowledge of the Royal Ballet Association representatives coming to the studio for you.

"Seriously, what do you think she did?"

THIRTY MINUTES AGO

You're pacing the span of your dressing room. Biting into your thumb with an intensity sharp enough to tear through skin.

The decision comes in impulse, dropping down to your knees by the conditioning unit for the panels — it was where you stashed a crumpled pack of cigarettes for emergencies exactly like this.

Every tick of the clock frayed you even further, followed by the lack of the cancerous box that would instantaneously provide you with a relief no other vice could've.

The weight in the room shifts, and you feel it. That judgy, watchful, maddening yet calming presence.

"I swear," you begin, tone bristling. "If you hid my cigarettes —"

"I didn't."

He's thankful that you can't hear his heart race at the lie.

You whip around to stare at him with an unnerving suspicion, getting up while dusting your palms off.

"Then why are you standing there like you're about to lecture me."

Clark uncrosses his arm clumsily, letting out a soft sigh. You lean into the gentle tug of his palms on your hips.

He could feel that you were antsy. It was the sort of flightiness he spent months coaxing out.

"You need to relax." He tries, taking your name in a gentle tone that would usually ease you.

"I-I can't. Everything, everything rides on this."

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump

"I know."

He walks you backwards. Rubbing the sides of your shoulders, down to your forearms.

Thump-thump-thump-thump

"I've wanted this since I started. I can't fail."

"I know." He repeats.

You're lifted off your feet gently and promptly deposited onto your dressing table.

He presses a kiss to the side of your head.

Thump-thump-thump

Then drags his lips down to your collarbone and sternum, smiling into you and when your heartbeat finally steadies.

"Clark." You huff with an exaggerated lilt.

"Let me take care of my girl."

You don't protest when he drops down to his knees. Pressing a peck to the base of your ankles. Working his way upward.

"Hm?"

If you weren't entirely thinking with your pussy, you might've pointed out the ridiculously obvious box shaped dent peeking out from Clark's back pockets.

"Okay."