when he sees me
Newest on the team at the Daily Planet, your co-workers set a high bar in terms in friendship.
You like Lois. Jimmy is a decent desk-mate. Cat is nice enough. You don't even want to talk about Steve.
But Clark Kent... There's something about him that irks you.
His niceness.
No-one is that nice. And honestly? You'd rather keep him at arms length, then let him worm his way into your heart ā because youāll be damned if you let that stupid thing get broken again.
(Or: Clark Kent and the string of terrible, horrible, very bad attempts to woo his co-worker. Unsuccessfully.)
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[15k, coworkers to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, one-sided enemies to lovers, fem!reader, you are, lovingly, a difficult women (with some trust issues) but that is exactly what clark likes about you <3 - title from the waitress soundtrack of the same name!!!]
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Click-click. You click your pen, off then on.
The screen of your monitor hums with a faint buzz, just like all the fluorescent lights in the Daily Planet do.Ā
The office murmurs around you, slowly waking with chatter, and it's just one more thing to mentally convince yourself you can't hear. On a good day, you can ignore it.Ā
On a bad dayā¦
Click-click. Off and then on.
Displayed on your screen is what's been served up to your chopping block, a new piece for you to tear to shreds with edits.
You've become the unofficial office shark, a one-stop shop for ruthless edits. Nothing leaves your sight without being slashed to pieces with red pen.
Beside you, on your desk, is a copy of yesterday's print.
You're trying hard not to look at it ānot the title, Superman Saves Downtown; No Casualties in Extraterrestrial Attackā and not the byline either, printing Clark Kent's name on the front page.
Stupid Clark Kent and his dumb, stupid exclusive Superman interviews.
It's actually laughable how your envy reduces you to the insults of a second-grader ā which actually is probably making you dislike it all the more.Ā
With a huff, you try to redirect to the piece you're supposed to be editing.
"You know, your screen's gonna set alight if you keep glaring that hard."
You move your glare from your screen to the speaker behind it. Daily Planet's finest photographer, your desk-mate, and occasional pain in your ass, Jimmy Olsen.
He grins, despite being at the receiving end of your pointed stare. Jimmy is one of the few lucky ones immune to it.
"Alright, Medusa. What's got your panties in a twist this early in the morning?"
"Nothing has any effect on my panties whatsoever," you mumble back, breaking your glare to look back at your screen. Dropping the pen on your desk, you shake the mouse back to life.
"Have you considered that maybe that's the problem?"Ā
"I'm gonna file a formal complaint if you keep talking about my panties," you grouse back, to which Jimmy laughs.
It's all bark and no bite really.
Jimmy is one of the only ones who have actually figured that out about youāthat you're prickly to begin with, but you never really mean it.
The shuttered swirl of the heavy revolving door announces the arrival of, none other than, the object of your morning envy ā though the dropped files are a classic of the Clark Kent entrance.Ā
Papers fly as they hit the floor, scattering in a flutter you can hear across the office. It's quickly followed by Clark's muttered shoot!
One particular piece of paper does an elegant arc, swooping high and settling close to yours and Jimmy's desk.
Out the corner of your eye, you squint at it, but it's too far to make out the words.
Clark scampers after his spilled papers, hasty apologies spilling from him like an overzealous printer stuck on reprint. "Hiāsorry. Morning, hi, sorry, lemme get thatā"Ā
He ends up beside your desk by the time he's gathered them all in his hands, straightening up to his full height.
It's just for a momentāthen he's hunching back over, shoulders curling forward.Ā
Like it does much good; he's still at least 6 feet tall.
"Morning, guys," Clark says warmly, nodding to Jimmy, then you. His retrieved papers are in an untidy pile, held against his chest precariously. "What are we talking about?"
He's probably asking to be polite. Or to distract from his fumble with the papers.Ā
Unfortunately for him, you've decided making Clark squirm is an easy way to enact a quiet retribution.
"My panties." You say plainly.Ā
Jimmy coughs out a laugh, even though you're technically telling the truth. Hey, he was the one who brought them up! You shoot him a wry grin ā then watch Clark.
His mouth has opened, as if to give a response to that, but then he closes it, thinking the better of it.Ā
You imagine it must be hot, blushing that fiercely. His cheeks and the tips of his ears both appear as if heās had too much time in the sun. Farm boy red, you'd call it.
In the end, Clark only swallows. Then nods at you both, his eyes averted, and scuttles away with a mumble you can't hear.Ā
A glimmer of enjoyment toys a smile on your mouth. You convince yourself it's from watching him squirm. For grudge-related reasons, obviously.
"Must you torture him?" Jimmy asks, the moment Clark's out of range.Ā
"No," you answer with a shrug, turning back to your screen. "But he makes it easy."
You don't add that you're pretty sure his bashful disposition is almost surely put on. He's a grown man. No one⦠blushes and sputters like that actually. Certainly not at you.
Instead, you punch the keys of your keyboard a bit too rough, deleting a whole sentence from the piece on-screen.
"It's the Midwestern in him," Jimmy says, with a sympathetic sigh.
"Yeah, well, it makes you wonder how he became such a hard-hitting journalist." You snort, though you make an effort to keep your voice low.
"Seriously, how is it that he's the only one who gets the exclusives with Superman?"
Across the desk, Jimmy's eyebrows raise an inch. "Ah. So that's what the glare was for."
You don't dignify that with a responseāmainly because he's hit the nail on the head. Damn you for choosing a profession where your coworkers are paid to be nosy and observant.Ā
You shrug again and remove another sentence that has the gall to have three adjectives in a row.
Jimmy leans forward. "Y'know, maybe that's the real secret to good journalism ā he's just nice. You could try it sometime?"
He's joking of course, but there is still something in you that stiffens. He's brushed an exposed nerve by accident.
You're nice. You are.
It's just⦠There's something about Clark Kent ā something that seems to irk you specifically.Ā
Beyond his ability to cop all the limited interviews with Metropolis' hero āwhich does indeed drive you up the wallā there is just something about him that gets under your skin.
He's so perfectly polite ā so nice, it's almost to a fault.Ā
You've seen him give his lunch away to someone who forgot theirs. He knows the names of the janitor's kids. He says hi to everyone in the office.
He says 'golly' for Christ's sake.
It's simply too good to be true. No one is just that good by nature ā well, maybe Superman ā and definitely not without something else, some other motive lurking below.Ā
The journalist instinct in you itches. Something about him doesn't quite add up.
Besides, you've been around one of these guys before. Had the displeasure of being the idiot who fell for them and dated one. They're always a real sweetheart, convincing everyone that the sun shines out their ass.Ā
They're the honey in a trap. They lure you in with sweetness for long enough, and you never realise it's slowly become vinegar in your mouth.
You like to think you know better now.
And on top of Clark's infuriatingly nice demeanour, and his penchant for snagging the front-page at the last second ā he's knocked you to the second page of print twice now ā is the fact he's, undeniably, attractive.
You have eyes. You can, begrudgingly, use them.
Even you can admit that Clark Kent is a 6 foot something, dark-haired and light-eyed, tall glass of water.Ā
You suppose it's good thing that he doesn't strut around like he knows it. That might be the thing that tips him from a slight thorn in your side to downright unbearable.
Alright, now you're being dramatic. It's not like he's Lex Luthor or anything of that sort.Ā
It's just that you're somehow the only one who seems to be wary of him, to notice the inconsistencies in his absences, to be distrustful of his kindness.
(You pointedly ignore the voice that tells you that says a lot more about you than it does about him).Ā
It makes that little voice in your head, the one you spent so long working to keep quiet, wonder if you've got it all wrong. If you're losing your touch.
Because you know there is a chance that he is that nice and you're the only one too cynical, too scornful to believe it.
The cursor on the screen blinks back at you, almost mocking.
You steal a glimpse to your left, towards Clark. As if sensing the movement, he looks up from his computer. He smiles crookedly and gives a little wave.
You purse your lips and nod, acknowledging it, eyes quickly back on your own screen.Ā
The cursor is still blinking tauntingly at you, in the same place as before.
You start typing just to get it to stop.
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It's usually a good day when the culinary column has leftovers for the office, you've learned.
It doesn't happen often. Today, it's a much needed pick-me-up. The November weather is gloomy. Overcast. The rain had fallen in sheets this morning, puddles pooling along the path to work.Ā
You're trying very hard not to feel the squelch in your socks.Ā
Impossible when you can hear it, a gross wet noise with every hurried step you take toward the break room, which is where they said the macaroons would be waiting.
Sweet, sweet sugary goodness, not far away ā if you're not too late, that is.
You'd been entirely too wrapped up in your latest article, headphones in and world blocked out, that Lois had to tap you on the shoulder to get your attention.
You'd jumped, then turned with a fury in your brow at being interruptedāthen clocked the treat in her hand.
"Better hurry," she had said, brows wiggling.
Springing to your feet, your thanks is nearly swallowed up by the swiftness of your strideā broken when you hastily have to backtrack to avoid having your headphones violently ripped out.
Headphones safely removed, you depart your desk at double speed.
As you walk, you roll out your sore shoulders. God, it's been a moment since you moved about.
Your neck isn't grateful for the hunched position you've kept it in either, twinging its annoyance. Still, you round the corner to the break-room with an impressive haste.
Andāthere.Ā
On the table, perched in adorable ruby-coloured cupcake wrappers, are macaroons. Sage green little discs, cream sandwiched between them.Ā
There are only two left.
Beside them, standing at the table, are Jimmy and Clark. Thankfully, both already have a wrapper in their grasp, meaning they've at least had one.
"Yo," Jimmy says, as you beeline for the table. "Just in timeā"
Clark, for once, doesn't greet you with a smile. Instead, he frowns a bit, seeing your locked focus as you lead with an outstretched hand towards the plate.Ā
"Oh, gimme," you urge.
Then, right as your fingers close around one, it's suddenly batted out of your hand.Ā
It flies from your hand and makes not a sound as it lands on the ground, crumbling into the world's saddest pile of green crumbs.
Bewildered, you gape down at it, bottom lip unconsciously jutting out.
Your sorrow turns quickly to indignation. You look up at the culprit, eyes narrowedābut don't even get to speak before Clark's explaining himself.
"You're allergic to pistachios!" Clark stresses, sounding appalled. "What- why would youā that's why I didn't bring you one!"
Right, okay. What? Well, fine, okay, yes, pistachio would explain the green colour of the macaroons.Ā
And yes, you are, technically, in the eyes of the law, allergic. Barely.
What's some itching in the throat?Ā
Actually, better question: How does Clark know that?
Your brain skips a couple times, struggling to compute through both the implication that he's somehow figured out your very mild nut allergyāor that he would've brought one to your desk.
Your eye twitches. "Youā how do you even know that?"Ā
"You⦠You mentioned it during one of the team-bonding exercises they made us do," he says, abruptly sheepish.Ā
He shifts on his feet. One hand scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly.Ā
Jimmy, who usually can't take the cue to be quiet, picks now to say nothing. You decide you hate him.
"Thatā" You start, still reeling through Clark's answer. That exercise was months ago, when you first started at the Planet.
Born of tiredness, the weather, and the fact Clark's appalled expression is nearly, nearly cute ā which is infuriating ā a pettiness rises within you.Ā
Despite being entirely correct, suddenly, you can only think, who is he to tell you what you can or can't eat?Ā
"It's a mild allergy, Kent." You stress the word mild. "I think I'll live."
You can tell on his face that he doesn't really like that answer.
Frankly, you've decided you don't really care.
Glancing between the plate on the table and Clark, you make a split-second decision.Ā
Your hand shoots out, but Clark is fasterāand he snaps up the final macaroon before you even reach the plate.
Incredulity colours your face as you whip around, a scoff forming on your lips. Clark holds the macaroon between his fingers, his face one of tentative panic.Ā
Then he promptly stuffs it in his mouth, whole.Ā
"Clark!" Jimmy says, finally breaking his silence.
Clark, his cheeks now a burning red, begins to chew awkwardly through the treat in silence.Ā
You stare at him.Ā
What the hell? You're not sure if you're more pissed off that he stole the final macaroon from right under your nose ā or that he did it to self-proclaimedly help you.Ā
You can't quite believe the sheer audacity of the move. Or that he also, somehow, manages to look cute while he does it.
Woah. Cute? You blink hard.
The lack of sleep and excess of caffeine has to be getting to you. You do not find Clark Kent cute. Much. Not when he's just cheated you out of two macaroons now.
You open your mouth, ready to unleash a string of how dare you and just who do you think you are and what the freak, dude ā and then you catch Jimmy's eye.Ā
And you remember his stupid comment about being niceāand think about how he probably thinks Clark did something good.
Noble Clark Kent, saving the office idiot from herself. You close your mouth, say nothing.
Biting your tongue, it feels like your socks squelch extra loud in your aggravated exit.
Left behind in the break-room, Clark watches you go.Ā
He finally manages to swallow the macaroon, which goes down lumpily. Cringing, he thinks that might be a top competitor for the driest mouthful of his life.
Never mind that. It's definitely taking out the top spot for one of his trying-to-help-turned-bad-turned-worse moments with you.
Clark has more of those than he cares to admit.
Gosh, how did he manage it? To not only fumble in the worst ways whenever it came to you, but consistently?Ā
You might be one of the only people on the planet with a genuine reason to potentially dislike him. And it's entirely by accident.
Ironic, really, considering he feels pretty much the opposite.
Maybe that was the cause of this, his newest fail of epic proportions. The daft betrayal of his heart to go sky-rocketing at the simple sight of you. Though, Clark thinks simple is too small a word to describe you aptly.
Scintillating. Gorgeous. Otherworldly ā and he actually has some idea of that. None of the words really match up to the image of you.
You've got purpose. Fire. You're a woman who knows how to do her job wellāand that's exactly the kind Clark can't help being drawn to.
Too bad it's completely fruitless.
Clark stares at the doorway you've just disappeared through and positively wilts.
"So." Jimmy says, a thousand words stuffed behind the single syllable. Clark turns with a soft sigh to find Jimmy grinning like he's definitely enjoying this.Ā
"How's that wooing going for ya?"
Clark sighs again, more weary this time, his cheeks no less hot.
He's beginning to regret telling Jimmy of his feelings for youādespite the fact it's good to have someone to lament to about your constant rejection.
Though, it's not as though he really handed that information over willingly. Jimmy had wormed it out of him after catching one too many lovesick glances across the office. Clark had vehemently denied it, but to no avail. He's pretty sure Lois has also caught on.
"You know, I think this was easier when you didn't know."
"Sorry, man," Jimmy grimaces, though he's really not radiating apologies. "Hey, I'd take it back if I could."
Clark delivers him a look that tells him exactly how much he believes thatānot at all.
Jimmy laughs. "Yeah, okay, I'm lying. It's fascinating, watching you crash and burn every time."
He makes an airplane noise, a little neeeow, swooping his hand through the air before miming an explosion. Really helpful stuff.
It just makes Clark slump over even more than usual. His shoulders droop so much he's almost in danger of dragging his knuckles on the ground.
His eyes roam over the remains of the first macaroon you'd attempted to eat on the ground. Staring at it, Clark can admit it wasn't his finest moveā and his only defense was that he'd acted in surprise.
Batting it out of your hand, though? Jeez, you probably think he kicks puppies in his spare time too.
It's just a touch humiliating that the situation he is so desperate to succeed in, is in the most hopeless.
Sure, he can save the world, but a regular interaction with his co-worker whom he happens to be crushing on? No dice.Ā
His cheeks flare hot again. In an attempt to preserve some of his dignity, he buries his face in his hands.
"I don't know how you think this is helpful," Clark says, words muffled behind his hands.
"Okay, I'm sorry," Jimmy relents genuinely, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'll be helpful. What about⦠Have you thought about doing, I don't know, a romantic gesture? Getting her flowers?"Ā
Clark drags his hands off his face, knocking his glasses as he does. A fingerprint smudges on one of the panes. He fixes them, straightening up at the seriousness in Jimmy's tone.Ā
"You think?" He asks earnestly. "Whaā but I'm not even sure I know which kind she likes the most."
Jimmy does that half-hearted eye roll he always does when Clark's being infuriatingly earnest. He shrugs, slowly backing toward the exit. "You're a journalist, Clark. Figure it out."
Just before he disappears through the door, Jimmy pauses.
Mouth twisting to hide another smile, he points down to the crush of green macaroon that's slowly sinking into the carpet.
"Better clean that up before Perry sees it ā otherwise we'll never get culinary treats again."
Then he leaves Clark alone in the break-room - with nothing but the remaining evidence of his latest fumble and a plan.
Half a plan.
The beginnings of one.
It's something at least, Clark thinks wistfully.Ā
The siren of an ambulance whirs by on the street down below. Someone three floors up coughs. One of the interns peeks around the doorway, her face hopeful.
Clearly, word of macaroons passed round quickly.Ā
Her face droops at the sight of the empty plate on the table. Well, Clark hopes it's because of that ā and not the sight of him. She moves on without a word.
With a final sigh, Clark pushes back his sleeves and crouches down beside the green mess. As he picks, he ponders.
Flowers. Sure. Yeah, he could do flowers.
How on earth could he possibly fumble that?
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There's a bouquet of flowers on your desk.Ā
It's Monday morning, 8.45am, and you already have a plan of exactly how this day will unfold.Ā
It's going to go swimmingly. You'll tackle the brute of that interview you'd gotten from Todd Inc. Industries yesterday; you'll treat yourself to a sandwich from Benny's for lunch; and you'll have no interactions with Clark Kent, if you can help it.Ā
You've forgiven him for the macaroon incident ā solely on the fact that he had somehow been a little bit right.Ā
Not that you went home, bought yourself your own damn pistachio macaroons, and had to wheezily jab your EpiPen in your own thigh.
Of course not. You would never do such a thing. (Nor admit that to Clark).
So, begrudgingly, you've decided he's forgiven. The incident is not quite forgotten though.
All of this is to sayānowhere in your plan is a bouquet of flowers.
Treading a little slower, you approach your desk like it holds a ticking time-bomb and not an array of freshly cut greenery.
Your skeptical gaze darts over them, narrowed, looking for⦠something.
But they're just flowers.
Displayed in a pale blue vase, wrapped in coloured cellophane, bright marigolds and deep blush-coloured posies peep over the side.
You step closer, tentative. Your nose twitches. God, you can smell them sweetening the air. Which means they're probably expensive.Ā
Which means your first thought is that this must be some kind of mistake ā you are not the person who just gets flowers.
Stepping closer yet, you eye the bouquet as if it's going to grow teeth and bite you, dropping your bag into your seat.
Your face pinches together in thought, then quickly glance around the office, hunting for someone who's missing flowers.
Clearly, they've been put in the wrong place.
No obvious flower-shaped indent glows back at you, indicating their true place. You huff a sigh and look back at the flowers.
They are⦠lovely, you'll admit. Automatically, you check the office, making sure no-one's observing you.Ā
Then, gently, you reach out and brush your thumb pad over one of the posy petals. It's fleshy, soft. Unbidden, a soft noise of longing escapes your throat.
When was the last time you got flowers?
The thought stains as it hits, and you remember exactly what the last occasion was. You snap your hand back.Ā
Then squint at the flowers as if they might give you the answer. Would heā¦?Ā
No. No, you hadn't heard anything since the break-up and that had been- been like a year ago.
He wouldn't. He wouldn't. You had been very clear.
You give a forceful shake of your head to clear the thought.
If it's not him, you're still not going to be foolish enough to entertain the thought they're meant for you.
Wrangling your bag to the ground, you slump down into your chair. The elevator chimes, people still trickling in. The clock reads closer to 8.50am now. You glance past your monitor.Ā
The absence of your desk-mate is actually somewhat of a relief. Even though you have nothing to do with this, Jimmy is precisely the guy who will rib you for days for this mix-up.Ā
You can already hear him now: Any flowers this morning, milady? Any callers to court you today? Shall we be expecting a marriage proposition any day now?
"Good morning."Ā
Speak of the devil ā you've spoke a smidgen too soon.
You turn, eyes already narrowed at Jimmy returning from the printers. He spots the flowers, face contorting into surprise, and really hams it up ā which means he's definitely already seen them. Fantastic.
"Ooh, lucky lady." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Flowers, huh?"Ā
You're not sure why you feel so defensive. "They're not for me."
"Aren't they? They're on your desk."Ā
You cut him a look. You have to bite your cheek to stop yourself from commending his incredible observational skills.Ā
But then, Jimmy leans forward, plucking a delivery card you hadn't spotted from the bouquet.Ā
He turns it in his handāand your name is printed on the other side in swoopy, curled letters.Ā
Huh. You blink at it. They are for you.
After a moment, your brows knit together. That⦠might not be a good thing.
Did you piss off another band of lawyers, are getting sued to hell, and this is to soften the blow?Ā
Are you being pranked right now?Ā
Maybe you're getting fired. A moment later and you laugh at yourself at that thought. Yeah, that and Perry has grown a sudden unexpected soft spot for you overnight, enough to send you off with a fresh bouquet. Unlikely.Ā
Jimmy offers out the card, and you take it, bringing it closer, as though the letters might change form if you look closer.Ā
They don't. It's your name, for sure. Your desk number and everything.
You turn the card over in your hand. There's something written on the back.Ā
I hope you can forgive me.
Blinking hard, you read the words again.Ā
What day is it today? Your eyes glance to your desk, at the small flip calendar you have, and familiarity flashes from the date.
You read the card again.
Then once more, just to be sureāeyes darting between it and the date.
"Everything okay?" Jimmy's voice filters in, muted in your ears.Ā
You make some noise in response, but it's far away from you. A sinking feeling begins to bury itself in your stomach. You really didn't want to be right, but you are. You must be.
Marigolds and posies. On the 16th day of November. I hope you can forgive me.
The sinking feeling transforms into a sharp sort of anger.
This Monday is really not going the way you planned. No way you're getting goddamn stalked.Ā
Brashly, you stuff the card back into the bouquet, uncaring of the way they crush under your harsh movements.
"Woah, okay, whatā?"Ā
You ignore Jimmy and his surprise ā you'll explain it later, or maybe never ā and scoop up the flowers from the vase.Ā
Water trickles out, leaving a scatter of fat droplets across your desk. You'll be pissed about it later, undoubtedly, but right now, you need these flowers out of your sight. Shredded. Do flowers burn well?
Goddamn, you thought this was done.
You thought he was out of your life for goodāand that he could be remembered as a shitty ex, your worst mistake, and nothing more.Ā
But, no. Of course, he's the type to love-bomb.
To think he can swoop back in, a year later, and pretend that nothing even happened. Your boots click loudly as you head for the trash at the front of the bullpen.
Which is, of course, when Clark makes his arrival.Ā
You spot him coming around the corner and can already sense his unfathomably polite greeting. He sees you and smiles, giving an awkward wave that he plays off as adjusting his glasses. "Oh, heyā"Ā
He appears to just now notice the flowers in your hands.
"Oh! Um, flowers-! Wow, those sure are niceā"
"I don't have time for you this morning, Kent." You say, for once not meaning to snip at him in particular. He's just in the crossfire of your very, very bad morning.
āYou donātā¦?ā
Clarkās sentence trails off as you donāt even pause, breezing right past him.
The flowersĀ crumple beneath your fingers further as your grip tightens without even meaning to, mind blazing with a well-rooted anger. You come to a stop before the trash.
With a resounding flourish, you dump the flowers.
They hit with enough force to flutter your hair back and send a loose sticky-note afloat for a second.
You huff, a little more settled at the sight of your ex's unanticipated attempt at a re-entry into your life exactly where it should be: going out with the garbage.
"Wow." A voice snaps you from your focused stupor.
You glance up, relieved to find Loisāeven if she is glimpsing at the ruined flowers amongst the junk of the office with an amused look.
She asks, "What'd they do to you?"
You huff again, your shoulders sinking down as you do. "Let's just call them an unwanted advance."
Lois' dark brows raise, her lips pressed together as if holding back her next comment. She eyes the greenery in the trash once again, then her eyes travel over your shoulder. She focuses back on you.
"Well," she says evenly, her smile polite. "I'm sorry it feels that way."
Her eyes dart over your shoulder again, just momentarily.
You almost want to peer over your shoulder to see what had drawn her gaze. But the string twined around the flowers snapped, the cellophane around the flowers unwrapping in a loud, dramatic crinkle.
You eye the marigolds with a barely contained contempt.
The thought of who gifted them to youāof him tracking you down, finding your work, figuring out your very desk numberāis nearly enough to make your lip curl.
A droplet of water slips down your forearm. You look down, spying the dew on your arms.
Abruptly, you're aware of just how you'd stormed across your workplace with all the grace of a toddler in the midst of a tantrum. All to trash some flowers.
You blink, then press your hands to your jeans, half to wipe them, half to calm yourself.
Right. You were fine. This was fine.
Just becauseā you weren'tā just because he used to call you crazy didn't mean it was even remotely true. Even if you crashed out over a bouquet of flowers sent on your old anniversary.
You screw your eyes up and take a breather. This is why you kept your distance from him. He toyed with you. He liked seeing you rattled.
Feeling less ruffled, you wipe your hands again and trek back to your desk.
You pass Clark's desk, footsteps slowing. He sat now, his head bowed.
Despite all your usual prickliness, his averted eyes and the memory of your snappish tone brings a lump to your throat. An apology lodges it in.
Even your worst envy and disgruntlement hadn't had you being quite this rude before.
You open your mouth ā then close it.
How does that apology even go?
So sorry Clark, my ex-boyfriendā who I nearly considered getting a restraining order against āsent me a bouquet of flowers, the same kind he always used to, specifically on our old anniversary as a pathetic bid to see if any chance with me ā or maybe just to fuck with me ā which isn't your fault, so I really shouldn't have snapped at you and your handsome, likeable face.
Bit of a mouthful, really.
You decide, maybe a bit cowardly, you'd rather swallow the regret instead. Continuing forward, you collapse into your seat opposite Jimmy.
For only a moment can you pretend to not notice his gaze.
Clearing your throat awkwardly, shuffling your papers, your eyes flick up. Your desk-mate stares across at you for a long moment, his eyes a little wider than usual.
Slowly, one eyebrow floats up.
He doesn't even have to voice his question aloud for you to know what it is. You can feel it.
What the fuck, man?
"Sorry," You exhale tiredly, too tired to explain for the same reason you didn't apologise to Clark.
"Just, y'know," you're muttering now, "Like, god, it's justā ugh, dating, andāyou know?"
It's barely a sentence. Even as his eyebrow joins its others' raised position, Jimmy is kind enough not to comment.
He only narrows his eyes into a bewildered squint. It doesn't match the polite, absentminded smile on his face.
Which you suppose is fair, considering the sentence you just said makes you sound like a six-year-old being asked her opinion on boys.
Shuffling your papers again for something to do, you sink down further in your seat. Embarrassment slights you.
God. How the hell did your morning get so bent out of shape?
The baby blue vase is still intruding on your desk space, so you nudge it to the side. The water within sloshes.
You sigh. "I'll explain later, okay?" you say, and you leave it at that.
Jimmy takes the cue from you and dutifully begins actually doing his work, as opposed to simply pretending to.
It takes another half hour to stop glancing over at the place you know the crushed flowers lie. It crosses your mind an infuriating amount of time, the niggling worry that theyā that you might be wrong.
But you steel yourself. Marigolds and posies and on today, of all days. It has to be him.
You're too good a journalist to ignore the coincidence. Occam's Razor agrees with you too.
Besides, who else would be getting you flowers?
Ā· Ā· ā Ā·ā¶Ā· ā Ā· Ā·
"Okay, I do think maybe the universe is working against you," Jimmy says, his chair gliding across the tiles of the Daily Planet.
He's got a cup of coffee in his hand, and the motion of his roller-chair nearly spills it, a wave of amber liquid sloshing up the side of the ceramic.
Clark watches it worriedly ā it's a bit too late for coffee, but Jimmy never seems to let that stop him. It doesn't spill somehow. Jimmy comes to a halt next to his desk, thinking face on.
"That or she hates you." He offers, far too blasƩ about that potential for Clark's liking.
He's rolled over because you've taken a break from your desk to head to the restroom. It's the first time you've left your desk since The Incident. The blossom blunder. The flower fiasco.
Gosh darn writer's brain, Clark thinks, wishing he could turn it off for a moment.
He's grateful for Jimmy, but he's not sure he really wants to talk about it so soon after.
"Please don't say that," Clark says with a sigh, then drops his head forward into his hand. It's an all too familiar motion now. "I think I need to- or I don't think- Iā"
He cuts himself off with another sigh, unburying his face from his hands.
He'd told Jimmy, yes, because the other man had all but squeezed the information out of him, but mainly because he needed help.
It had become evident that, despite all his best attempts, no wooing that Clark Kent can offer can seem to capture your attention. Now he can see it a bit more clearly.
You're inscrutable.
Or completely uninterested ā in him.
"I think I need to leave it." Clark says with finality. He glances at the door that leads to the restrooms, checking you haven't returned. "I'm clearly bothering her."
"Mm, no." Jimmy says immediately. He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. "There's something else there. I can, like, sense it."
"Sense it?" Clark echoes, almost too eagerly. He feels himself flush.
"Yeah, sense it." Jimmy shrugs nonchalantly, taking a sip of his coffee. "Call it my journalistic instinct. It⦠It doesn't make sense. It's gotta be something else."
Clark opens his mouth to defend you, to say that actually, you not being interested in him is something that may make perfect sense ā but Jimmy beats him to the punch.
"How'd you pick the flowers?"
Clark blinks. He checks the door again. "Um. Social media."
"Social media? Which one?"
"The- the pictures one?" If Clark's being honest, there are far too many sites, and he's on none of them. "I just typed her name in, and a bunch of photos came up."
"In where?" Jimmy presses, eyes a little narrowed.
"The search bar�"
Jimmy's face twitches, as though Clark's given a severely wrong answer, but he doesn't say anything.
Instead, he pushes back to his desk ā coffee floundering again ā and returns with his laptop in one hand.
"Okay," he starts, finally placing his hazardous coffee down, both hands rested and ready to type. "What and where exactly did youā"
In a manner much unlike himself, Jimmy abruptly shuts his mouth.
He presses his feet against the tiled floor and sails back to his desk smooth - just in time for Clark to catch a glimpse of you heading back for your desk.
Clark straightens up instinctively ā then hunches back over. For once, he's not trying to catch your eye, not trying to sweeten your day with a smile.
It feels wrong to ignore you. But, well, whatever Jimmy says, whatever sense he says he has, Clark thinks you've made yourself perfectly clear.
You are not interested in him in the slightest. Not even as friends.
Ā· Ā· ā Ā·ā¶Ā· ā Ā· Ā·
For the remaining Monday, a day that feels like it's dragging its heels just to spite you, you do what you do best.
You ignore the flowers, the office, and dive headfirst into your work.
You're half an editor for the office ā hence the office shark title ā but half trying to shed the title. The big goal has always been to commit fully to your writing. It's⦠a steady work in progress.
Perry likes what you show him, enough that he keeps giving you assignments, but you're far from being relieved of editing duty.
Today, you're happy to have it. Tearing through first drafts and all but rewriting entire sections is much easier than doing any writing yourself.
The day goes slow, feeling as though time barely trickles by.
But no day can exceed its 24 hours. Five o'clock drags around, eventually, and frees you from the shift.
You have a date with your bed, hidden beneath the covers, and a re-watch of Dirty Dancing. Maybe some wine ā though it is Monday.
It's as you're packing up with haste, eager to be out through the revolving door and away from work, that your gaze sweeps across the office. The realisation comes gently. Despite being in his usual place, you haven't seen Clark all day.
Huh.
And it continues that way.
Not that you're noticing, no. Of course not.
You actually normally make an effort not to notice Clark. He makes it difficult, what with his height and Midwestern manners that make him the nicest guy in the office.
But, somehow, when you make an effort not to notice someone, it can somehow have the opposite effect.
Like the task suddenly becoming suspiciously easy.
You make it all the way through Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday before you slip up.
Because, really, you should know better than to invite Lois Lane into your business. Doing so is basically giving her a pass to snoop into your feelings. And snoop she will, when given the chance.
Still, the question has been bugging you since the beginning of the week.
So much so that you can allow some snooping if it gives you some answers.
"Is Clark avoiding me?"
You're stopped at Lois' desk.
She's here early, like you are, and there's no Jimmy, no Clark, no Steve, no Cat, or much of anyone else to eavesdrop on your conversation.
"Mmmm," Lois barely manages to drag her eyes away from her screen to focus on you. The question you've asked sinks in a second later. "Avoiding you? Doesn't sound like Clark. Why don't you ask him?"
"You know, the funny thing about avoidance isā¦" You say dryly.
Lois' gaze is already back on her article. She shrugs, voice distracted. "Maybe the flower thing."
That has your eyebrows raising.
A glum guilt forms a stone in your throat that you have to swallow back. What, because you had a bit of a meltdown, he suddenly can't stand the sight of you?
You feel ticked off. Then realise you're feeling ticked off that Clark Kent, who usually irks you, is ignoring you. What has the world come to?
"The flower thing?" You start, already a bit ready for a tiff. "That's notā"
"Look," Lois interrupts you, a quiet desperation in her tone. "Can we please pin this? I'm in the middle of something here, and I really need to get this done before 1pm."
Your annoyance washes away in a moment, face pulling a sympathetic scrunch. "Yikes, a Perry-special deadline?"
Lois nods, an exasperated sigh blowing out of her mouth. "The very one." She pulls a thankful smile at your understanding.
"Need more coffee?" You offer.
"Oh, so much." She groans, moving to grab her cup. You take it from her, well aware of the pressure of a Perry-special deadline, and more than happy to help.
You grab yourself a cup while you're there and decide to brew a fresh pot for the office too, because it gives you more time to think.
Because, really, if you think about it, you shouldn't have noticed.
Since starting at the Daily Planet a couple months ago, a transplant from Metropolis Star, from day one has Clark Kent's seemingly innate niceness been there.
And since day one, you've been suspicious of it.
You maintain: no-one is that nice.
And not to you, least of all.
You're, for lack of a better word, abrasive. You know you can be⦠harsh.
According to your ex-boyfriend, you're seven kinds of crazy and a bitch too. A rude woman who's never going to find someone else who will love you like he does. (In your books, that's a relief).
You try not to take that to heart, because he certainly is an ex for a good reasonābut, you also know that there is some degree of truth to his words.
You're⦠unpalatable to some.
You'd knocked heads with Lois for a while before eventually, shakily finding your footing in that friendship.
Jimmy and you had taken at least a month to move out of the frosty zone and start talking beyond glib comments.
You still can't stand talking to Steve.
But Clark? He'd been nice to you from day one.
There has to be a catch. The other shoe must be dangling, invisible and overhead, waiting to drop.
Because if there is, the grudge is easy.
Clark Kent stays at a distance, with you holding a ten-foot pole made up of unresolved issues.
You don't have to worry about what it does to your heart that he's still kind to you, even when he's seeing the worst parts of you. Let's you excuse the moments you've been storing to the side, harbouring, fueling something.
The grudge means you don't have to worry about what it means if he sees you.
It keeps you safe from the part of you that wants him to see you.
When the coffee smells like it's nearly burning, you're shaken from your thoughts, with a suspiciously yearning-shaped lodge in your throat.
You take the coffee off just in time to rescue it. It's a tad overdone, but you don't think Lois will be complaining. You hope.
You pour a cup for her, then half the sugar jar in too.
As you pour one for yourself, you resolve that you're⦠just not going to think about it.
Grudges, Clark Kent, feeling safe? Sounds like a problem for Future-You.
Probably to be dealt with in a healthy way, never.
You tell yourself it's a good thing that he seems to be avoiding you, because you can get more work done.
Then you nod to yourself as if that can make it true, and set off to deliver Lois' coffee.
Time dwindles by.
Jimmy makes a remark about the burnt coffee when he makes it to his desk, to which you glower in response.
Perry chews out some intern in the back for a serious misprint in yesterday's paper.
Keyboards clatter, and the soulless blink of the cursor taunts you all day.
You're ready for home by 5 o'clock, but ā "You coming tonight?"
You look over your desk and blink at Jimmy before frowning. "Tonight? What's tonight?"
"Drinks." Jimmy reminds you, eyebrows raised. "Remember? For Cat's birthday?"
Right. As he says it, the memory does tickle at your mind.
The plan that Cat had made cute, personalised invitations for: black card, cat-themed, very fitting.
You quite liked Cat, even if you didn't know her too well.
Truthfully, going to a bar sounds like the last thing you want to do right now.
You've had a date with a big bottle of red wine booked and waiting since Mondayāsince the very moment those flowers graced your deskāand the last thing you want to do is try to socialise.
"Yeah," you say eventually, though it comes out a bit weary. "Yeah, I'm coming."
Jimmy grins. "Great. We're all thinking of walking together."
Your eyes travel up past him to the little group that's congregating close to the door, waiting for the stragglers to finish packing up.
Clark, Lois, Steve, a couple girls from other departments you don't know the names of.
Great. Cool. That won't be an awkward walk at all.
Though, you guess Clark isn't avoiding you anymore.
The revolving door has dragged a bit of snow in, the tiled ground wet with its melt. Stepping out into the chilly November night, you shiver instinctively.
Snow has been falling all day, a little softer now, little flurries that pass by and stick to your hair. The streetlights glow amber. The city is quieter under the muffle of fresh snow.
You keep your hands buried deep in your pockets. You end up at the back of the group.
It's a short walk to Crowley's, the dive bar Cat's chosen, so you don't mind too much. You're still the newest addition to the work group so you know how this goes.
Though, there had been some half-baked plan to stick by Jimmy's side. That idea clearly had been shared. The two girls whose names you don't know walk on either side, giggling easily.
Right. Because, somehow, Jimmy is the ladykiller of the office.
That had been surprising to find out ā because if you had to pick anyone at a glance, you'd have put money on Clark.
Not that you would admit that. Aloud.
As you round the last block, you slide a little on an icy patch, stomach swooping. You curse under your breath, righting yourself a moment later.
Silently, and watching your feet more closely, you huff a sigh of relief, because wiping out with co-workers you're still getting to know ranks up there in terms of embarrassing.
You look back up, making sure you're still with the group ā and lock eyes with Clark momentarily. He's looked back to check on you.
But then he's tugged back into conversation with Cat.
His head turns, showing an aggravatingly attractive side profile. You watch as his dimples appear with an easy smile, then subsequently curse yourself for finding them so endearing.
The chill has nearly made its way through your coat, so it's a relief to get down the stairs into Crowley's.
Inside, it's warm, crawling with heat that brings a flush to most everyone's faces.
A crowd of bodies fill the space, packed loosely. It's pretty busy for a Friday night.
Thankfully, Cat has had the forethought to book out one of the booths. You follow the single file of your group, filtering through the crowd one by one til you reach the back of the bar.
The booth fills up quickly, and in a matter of moments you realise there's only one seat leftā the one next to Clark.
He looks at you still standing and blinks before giving you a hesitant, crooked smile.
You feel your treacherous heart give a lurch and damn it to hell. Then damn Clark for being as attractive and nice as he is.
You look at the seat again, considering.
Think of the flowers from Monday and his avoidance all week; think of the mess of your heart that only threatened to worsen when you got closer to Clark.
Yeah, you're gonna need a drink before that happens.
The wooden bar is sticky from spilled drinksā a fact you find out after placing your hand on it.
You pull it back with a frown, shaking your hand out with a quiet bleh! You make sure not to lean on it as you survey the scene before you.
Behind the bar, the bartenders look flustered. There's three of them, each moving with a pace that is both not fast enough and entirely unsustainable - making you extra thankful your retail days are behind you.
The wait gives you time to think. Gives you time to decide on exactly what you want to do tonight.
You'd been, for lack of a better word, moping for the better part of this week.
It had been an unsettling Monday, followed by a bout of paranoia that had you checking all your accounts.
Maybe you missed one; maybe there was something you'd forgotten.
You hadn't. Your ex was blocked on every single one of them, just as you'd left them a year ago.
It should appease your anxiety. Instead, it just makes it that much worse that he'd managed to figure out your exact desk.
The only regret you'd had with dumping the flowers, the only glimmer in your angry armour, was not taking the message card, hunting down each and every shop the brand had, and confirming your suspicions.
You decide that, between the flowers and the weirdness of Clark actually avoiding you back, you deserve a drink.
And an irresponsible hook-up.
Cat would forgive you ā in exchange for the gossip.
Which is all good and well, because as you're done deciding, someone sidles up beside you, pushing through the crowd.
It's a man ā a decent-looking one too, from what you can see.
He's tall, not quite as tall as Clark (shut up, brain), and he's got a beard that could probably be better taken care of.
But he's got a strong jaw and a decent head of hair. You can't tell what colour his eyes are in the dimness of the bar.
Eyes which fix on you for a moment.
Then he leans two arms up on the bar. "What's your poison?" He says, in lieu of a greeting, nodding in your direction. His voice is low.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" You say with a smile you don't quite feel.
You're testing the waters. Sue you, you like to play with your food a bit - see if they can handle you being a little mean.
"I would," the man says, turning more to face you. His eyes flick up and down, clearly checking you out. "That's why I asked, isn't it?"
It's a good enough response for you. You eye him up and down and decide, yeah, fuck it, you deserve this.
You know exactly the kind of guy he is.
He won't call you. The sex will be good⦠enough. It'll scratch the itch, leave you feeling probably a little shit about yourself.
Right up your self-deprecating alley for tonight. After all, misery does love company.
"Scotch." You say, in answer to his first question.
That makes his eyebrows raise. "Really? You can handle that, huh?" His eyes glitter darkly. "Didn't peg you for that kind of girl."
"You have no idea what kind of girl I am."
It comes out a little harsher than you're going for, but you blame it on the bad week chafing.
You go for a more simpering look to make up for it ā but the man's eyes aren't on you anymore.
They're over your shoulder. You become aware of a sudden warmth behind you.
"Everything okay over here?"
You don't recognise the voice at first, as it's deeper than it usually is, but you don't even have to turn the whole way to know.
Striped tie, white button-up, broad shoulders.
Your simper turns into a scowl on a dime.
"Kent," you greet, through slightly gritted teeth. "What are you doing?"
Clark looks down at you, surprise showing on his face at your expression.
His 'tough' demeanor ā tough your ass, Clark Kent doesn't have a tough bone in his body ā melts under your glowering gaze.
"I'mā I was checking in." He stammers. He seems to shrink down a little, realising there seems to be a misstep somewhere.
"I don't need you toā"
"This guy your boyfriend or something?" The man at the bar interjects.
You whip back around, already blinking in shock. Boyfriend? How in hell did he make that jump?
"No," you say ā at the same time Clark says, "Boyfriend?"
You shoot another glare over your shoulder because he isn't helping. It's too late.
You can tell the man has decided you're not worth the fuss, his hands raising up in a defensive motion.
"Look," he says. "Whatever you've got going on, I'm not getting in the middle of it. My bad."
You watch as he slips away from the bar, disappearing through the throngs of people, with a sinking feeling in your chest.
The moment he's out of sight, you tear around to face Clark. He at least hasn't fled the scene ā which is more than you can say you would've done.
Your eyes scrunch closed, your hands raised in little claws of confusion. "What⦠just happened?"
Clark has the decency to look sheepish when you open your eyes, his shoulders rolled in, head hung low. "I thought he was harassing you."
"Harassing me?" You repeat, in a bit of disbelief. You'd love to know what hoops he jumped through to reach that conclusion. "I was flirting with him."
"Flirting?" Clark echoes. "You sounded mad at him!" He defends himself.
"Yeah? Well, do I sound mad at you?" You drop your hands, flexing them at your side. "Because I am! I can't believe youā you- ugh, that just cost me my hookup."
"Hookup?" Clark says ā and oh my god, is there an echo in this bar?
You glance up at him, still confused, and notice there's a colour to his cheeks that wasn't there a second ago. "You were gonna sleep with him?"
Your jaw drops open an inch. Okay, yeah, he's from a small town in the South, you can excuse it a little bit.
But you hadn't expected him to be so tightly strung about thisāespecially considering it's none of his business.
You fold your arms tight across your chest. Clark gets an expression that embodies the word apprehension.
"Okay, Smallville, I don't know if you know, but it's 2025ā"
Clark cottons on to exactly what he's said wrong, and though it seems impossible, his face flushes darker.
You barrel on, "āwhich means I don't need to be married toā"
"No!" He interrupts desperately. "That is not what I-! I would never insinuate thatā I firmly believe in a woman's right to choose. You can⦠do as you wishā¦"
It ends on a feeble, quiet note as though Clark's realised all his problems tonight stem from talking too much.
He raises a hand to rub the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks still flaming.
He does seem genuinely remorseful ā because he's so goddamn genuine in everything he does ā that it softens you a bit. You know he would have had the best of intentions stepping in.
However, good intentions only go so far to dull your sharpened tongue.
"Yeah, well, thank you so much for your permission, Kent."
Clark's eyes shutter closed, an obvious regret rolling off him in waves. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overstep, Iā I'm just sorry."
God, how are you in this situation ā where your co-worker, who you begrudgingly think is hot, but also don't like much (liar, says your brain), scares off your hookup and gets called your boyfriend in one exchange?
Deciding you'd rather apologise with a bottle of wine to Cat, you do what you should've done at the beginning. You decide to go home.
You sigh, "I think I'm just gonna head out."
"Because of me?" Clark says, sounding incredibly guilty.
It must be contagious, because you suddenly feel quite guilty too.
He rolls on, pleading in his voice, "No, please don't. I'm sorry- I'll help you find another one, another, uh," He coughs awkwardly. "Hookup."
He nods, not at all confidently.
Somehow, you doubt that would go over well.
Though, the thought does amuse you ā Clark going around the bar, politely tapping different gentlemen on the shoulder, asking their availability and then talking you up.
God, you can't imagine he'd have all that much to sell them on.
His expression reminds you too much of a kicked puppy to fib to him. "No, not because of you," you say with a soft sigh. "It's just been⦠a week."
Somehow, it's as though your words make him look guiltier.
Blue eyes wide, he swallows thickly. "Look, I know I likely contriā"
"Kent," you cut him off. "I'm sorry, but I don't want to talk about it. I'm just," you heave another sigh. "I'm taking this all as a sign. It's not my night."
You shove your hands in your pockets, already dreading the cold that awaits you outside. "Think you can apologise on my behalf to Cat?"
Clark, looking more downtrodden than you've ever seen him, gives a slow nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do that for you."
"Thank you," you say, lips pursed tightly. You nod awkwardly, already ready to excuse yourself through the crowd. "Goodnight, Clark."
He watches you go.
The cold keeps you company the whole long, lonely walk home.
Ā· Ā· ā Ā·ā¶Ā· ā Ā· Ā·
November rolls into December and cold, snowy weather gets pulled along with it.
Despite Jimmy's protests, Clark knows he was right to stick to his instinct ā that you were thoroughly uninterested in him.
He loses himself in assignments, head down, as the whole office struggles to meet deadlines in the abysmal weather driving down morale.
The only light glistening at the end of the tunnel? The Daily Planet Christmas party.
It's held at this swanky ballroom, same as every year. The fanciness of the place is balanced out with its cozy decor, dozens of couches and cushy armchairs dotted around the place.
Wreaths and garlands are strung around in all the colours of Christmas, sparkling under the fairy lights.
There's holly in every corner, tinsel around the doorframes ā and Clark's sure he's seen some mistletoe under one of the doors out to the balcony.
It's Christmassy in a way that reminds him of home.
Reminds him of Smallville, plaid bedsheets, and the smell of Ma's fresh apple pie.
He's only half hoping you'll come.
A half hope because it appears that whenever he has any interaction with you, it somehow ends with him inserting his foot into his mouth.
It was becoming a concerning pattern at this point ā one that he was rather desperate to break.
Yet still, some other part of him ā a larger part if he was really honest with himself ā still wanted to see you here tonight.
Amongst friends, even if he wasn't one of them.
And it's that part of him that sighs, a wistful romantic sigh he really should work on containing, when you wander in.
It's only been twenty minutes since the party started, so you're not exactly late.
And Clark would be lying if he said he hadn't been counting each minute of it, his eyes checking the door each time it had opened and someone new wandered in.
As subtly as he can, he takes you in with another longing sigh.
There's snow in your hair and on your coat. You look a little peaky from the cold, but Clark can already see the good the warmth of the party is doing to you. There's a bit of glitter on your eyelids, a berry-red colour on your lips.
You look captivating.
Gosh, he's in deep. Clark curses himself and his gooey heart. Despite all his fumbles, all his missteps, he can't shake the crush just yet.
He will. He will. You're perfectly within your rights to rebuff and reject him ā you don't owe him a single darn thing.
But feelings are silly things. No matter how respectful he might be of your own, there's no quick fix to get his own to fade.
And with the way you look tonight, enigmatic and beautiful, all at once, Clark knows he's far from getting over it.
Tucked away in a corner, waiting for Jimmy to return with some drinks for the both of them, Clark fiddles with his tie awkwardly.
It's one Ma sent for his birthday ā spotted and autumnal in colour.
He's not sure if it's in style or anything that suits him, but his Ma bought it for him, so of course, he's going to wear it.
"Yo," Jimmy announces his arrival, both hands occupied with two cups that are nearly overflowing with eggnog. "My bad I took so long. Got caught up talking to Cassidy at the punch bowl."
Jimmy hands one cup to Clark ā who takes it ā and then he glances over his shoulder, back at the punch bowl.
With one hand free, Jimmy sends a little wave back to the drinks table, to Cassidy. She promptly bursts into flustered giggles.
Clark takes a sip of the eggnog, though he knows it won't have an effect on him in the slightest. He gives an awkward smile at Cassidy, attention back on Jimmy when he spins back with a sudden, renewed interest.
His eyes are wide, sparkling with a devious enthusiasm, like when he's picked up a new lead in an assignment.
The moment he speaks, Clark realises why.
"I think I know why y/n trashed the flowers."
Clark holds back a little groan. It's nice that Jimmy is still rooting for him, really, it is. But there comes a time when it needs to be put to rest.
"Jimmyā"
"No, Clark," Jimmy interrupts ā and he's grinning a little in a way that catches Clark's attention properly. "I was so right about my sense. It was something else altogether. I think, if youā just, waitā"
He takes a chug of his eggnog as he fishes his phone out of his back pocket, eyes fixed on it as he begins to hunt through.
A few clicks and thenā he's holding it out towards Clark, showing a recognisable photo.
It's you ā and another man, technically. But Clark hadn't been looking at that, just at the bouquet of flowers in your hands.
Marigolds and posies. You're smiling at the camera, but, looking a little closer, he can tell it doesn't quite reach your eyes.
"The photo you found, was it this one?" Jimmy asks, sounding like he already knows the answer.
Suddenly feeling a little timid, Clark shifts on his feet. Then nods. "Uh, yeah. Why does that matter?"
"Clark," Jimmy starts, phone still held out. "That's her ex. After what happened, I looked up her name, like you did. And look, I follow her, and these photos? Nowhere on her page."
He takes another fast sip of the eggnog, talking through his mouthful. "So I followed the thread, and all of those photos are on his. He just accepted my follow, just now. Look, he has all these photos up, but she's deleted them."
Jimmy's pulled the phone back, his thumb scrolling down the page on his screen.
Photos flash by, the dates stretching back, and you're in all of them ā smiling stiffly, on his arm, looking like a completely different person.
"And," Jimmy adds on, drawing his hand back. He studies his phone intently, clearly looking for something in particular. "Look. Look. The day you sent them?"
He waits until Clark's squinting at the screen ā taking in the date of the post in particular.
"It was on their goddamn anniversary."
Clark blinks, taking in the information. The realisation settles over him, feeling like a burst of sunlight amongst the snowy weather.
"She didn't know it was me who sent it." He murmurs more to himself, tasting the words, the understanding, as it melts on his tongue, sweeter than anything.
You hadn't known it was him.
You'd thought it was ā your words suddenly ring back through his memory. Let's call it an unwanted advance.
An ex you've all but scrubbed from your life, clear you want to be rid ofāan ex that still has all your photos posted, clearly holding on.
Gosh, no wonder you'd trashed the flowers in the manner you did.
Then you'd hunted for something to soothe the sting in the bar ā just for him to ruin that too.
Oh, Clark thinks he might be the unluckiest fool in all of Metropolis.
Jimmy watches all the shades of Clark's realisation, pocketing his phone and trying not to look too smug. He fails horrendously.
"See, what'd I tell you?" He sips his eggnog again, brows raised a mile high. "Sensed it."
"She didn't know." Clark repeats, unknowingly clenching his cup of eggnog a bit too tight.
Did it get warmer in here? His tie suddenly feels too tight.
He blinks and looks down at Jimmy with a seriousness usually reserved for Superman affairs. "I have to let her know."
"Yeah, you do!" Jimmy says, giving an affectionate punch to Clark's shoulder.
It bounces off easily, and Jimmy hides his wince, giving his hand a delicate shake. "Universe working against you, I called it. There's still hope, man."
"Whaā Jimmy, no." Clark pivots, realising what his friend meant. "Look, what matters most is that she knows she isn't gettingā getting stalked by an overbearing ex, okay? Not my feelings."
He thinks back to the bar, the fumbling interjection, the misread situation, the frustration in your face.
No, Clark had dug himself a big enough hole. It was time to put down the shovel.
Jimmy's expression grows serious, his brows pinched together.
"Look, Clark, you haven't tried just⦠telling her. How you feel. You've been so focused on these hints, these gestures, and look where it's got you."
Clark winces at the reminder, and an apologetic look settles over Jimmy's face.
"Sorry, sorry. Just ā maybe being forward is the best thing here?" He offers, shoulders hunching up in a shrug. "Like, as far as we know, she could have no clue what your feelings are. Don't you think you should at least let her decide before you take away the chance?"
Clark sighs, glancing up from his eggnog to look across the room.
You're easy to spot, because Clark has so much practice, his eyes drawn to you easily.
Jimmy did, despite all his smugness, have a point.
"Fine," Clark says eventually, a sigh laced through it. He's crashed and burned through several interactions with you; what's one more? "Okay. I'll tell her."
An infectious grin spread across Jimmy's face like wildfire, his cheeks rosy from the eggnog that he's probably already had too much of.
Jimmy's a small guy. Him and liquor are an interesting equation.
"Attaboy!" He crows ā going to sock Clark in the shoulder again, before he thinks the better of it. "Trust me, it'll go well. I can sense it."
Clark's pretty sure Jimmy's just talking it up to make him feel better ā but if Clark pretends to believe it, he can use it.
He rolls his shoulders back, ditches his half-finished eggnog on a nearby table, and swallows nervously as he adjusts his tie.
Sure, yeah, Jimmy's sense was usually right. It's just a lot to hang on a usually.
Clark tries to haphazardly fix his hair, running a few fingers through the black curls. He hopes his cologne still lingers.
As he straightens out his sleeves, he looks back to Jimmy, nerves already rearing up. "Do I look alright?"
"Buddy," Jimmy says earnestly. "You look like a million bucks. Go get her."
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Christmas parties aren't usually your thing.
Work events are a strange in-between social activity, where co-workers cross lines they never would at work, and you get the pleasure of seeing your boss in a tinsel bowtie.
Christmas jingles play all night, and the drinks are either not boozy enough or far too boozy.
Taking a sip of the punch you've served yourself, you cough a little, throat burning. Definitely on the too boozy side.
You silently pray no one witnessed that, taking a quick glance around, to quickly realise that at least one person did. Lois sidles up to your side, holding back her laughter with a smile.
"Don't say a word." you say a little hoarsely, before she can speak.
That makes her break, a laugh tittering out. She hides it behind her cup of punch.
"The punch has been taken over by Cat. If you'd been here earlier, I would've made sure to give you some warning."
She gives you a delicate nudge with her elbow. She looks beautiful tonight ā a darker lipstick that she normally wouldn't wear to the office. Her blue eyes are darkened with make-up, her lashes long and spidery.
She comments idly, "I wasn't sure if you were gonna make it."
You decide you need another sip of punch so the honesty can slip out.
"I wasn't sure if I was gonna make it either, to be honest."
You glance around the party filled with your co-workers ā and wonder if you'll ever truly shake the feeling of alienation. You know half of it is in your head. Yet, you've been at the Planet for months, and you still feel so new.
"Yeah, well, given you didn't stick around at Cat's drinksā¦" Lois trails off, and when you turn to her, she's fixed on you. Her eyebrows raise an inch.
She wants you to explain. You suppose that's fair.
Mulling over your thoughts, you think of how best to put it, whenā "Was it because of Clark?"
You blink, a little surprised at her question.
"What?" Then, a beat too late. "No. No, it wasn't because of Clark."
Lois doesn't seem convinced by your answer, tilting her head with a little hum. "Mm, I saw him go up after you to the bar. Which, shortly after, you left."
You feel exposed that she witnessed your little spat with Clark. You'd hardly call it a spat though ā it was more like, well-intentioned, incredibly nice Clark Kent stepped in and you snapped in his face.
You heave a sigh, thinking back to where you should start. The flowers?
Actually, now that you think about it, Lois never did tell you why Clark was avoiding you over that.
She beats you to the punch again, this time with a question that peels back all your layers. "You don't really like him, do you?"
She's not wrong, so why does the question bite?
Maybe the sting in your chest means she and you are both wrong.
You think over how much Clark has plagued your thoughts these last few months, how he'd managed to aggravate you, managed to draw your attention seamlessly.
He just⦠vexed you.
He's tall and handsome and so fucking nice ā and he pushes your articles to the second page, gets all the Superman interviews, and, apparently, remembers you have a nut allergy.
He'sā He's Clark!
You suck in a sharp breath. "What? No."
It sounds weak, even to your ears.
For some reason, that seems to irk Lois. She takes another sip of her drink, brows still raised at you over the rim of it.
"I don't get it," she says, after she swallows. "He's so nice. Like, chronically nice. Why is it such a chore for you to admit that he's a good guy?"
Something inside you stings and recoils at being called out for being unreasonable. Your excuses start tumbling out.
"Because I can't!" You hiss quietly. "Becauseā because he steals my front-page spots, and he gets all the exclusive Superman interviews. He rubs it in my face!"
Lois scrunches her face up a bit. "He doesn't steal them; Perry gives them to him." She states factually.
Which, yes, you know that Lois ā but isn't she supposed to be on your side?
"And he can't control who Superman decides to talk to." She continues on, her tone nonchalant, easily picking all your gripes and dissolving them to nothing. "They have a relationship that allows Clark an in. It's a source the same as any otherāyou can't expect him to share that."
You huff, shoulders deflating, the wind thoroughly taken out of your sails by Lois' sound logic.
Of course she's right. Of course you're the stubborn idiot who can't let it go.
"Aren't you supposed to be on my side?" You whinge.
"There are no sides." She says with a smile and an affectionate roll of her eyes.
"Seriously, I think you're getting in your own way with this one. Why is it so hard to admit that you might have no real reason to dislike him?"
"Because-" The word gets stuck on your teeth. "Because he can't just be that nice! And if he is, and if I do admit it, then I have to admit how much I actually like him."
It comes out scathing ā as if that can cover up the truth of what you've just revealed.
You don't even hear it until Lois's expression settles into something far too close to a smirk.
Oh shit. What did you just say?
"Wow," Lois says, blue eyes bright. "How much you like him? Do you⦠Do you have feelings for Clark?"
A preposterous idea. Positively ridiculous. Nonsensical.
No, you've never thought of Clark in that wayānor how great he would likely be at being a boyfriend.
You didn't think of how different he treated you compared to your last boyfriend, how much nicer he was to you, without the two of you even being friends.
Your denial is fast.
"No!"
Lois is faster.
"So you're just pretending you don't have feelings for Clark?"
"Yes!" You sputter, then realise exactly what you've just admitted. "No, I mean, no! Fuck, stop interviewing me right now, I'm- I'm notā"
Your words trail off into a lackluster sigh. You couldn't even kid yourself now, not with Lois' interrogation tactics shoving you into a spotlight.
You swallow, feeling the uncomfortable truth go down, burning like a gulp of the too-strong punch.
Clark Kent is nice. You like that he's nice. You like him ā and there was zero chance in hell that he liked you back.
And you would rather tie yourself in knots than look that truth in the face.
"Okay, you know, this actually makes a lot of sense," Lois muses, more to herself than to you. She's staring at the floor, clearly turning things over in her head.
"Yeahāand yeah, but, then," she looks up, now graciously including you in the conversation again. "Why trash the flowers?"
You sigh again, the chafe of your ex coming up yet again wearing you down. "Look, my exā"
Someone clears their throat behind you.
You watch Lois' expression as it changes from polite surprise to something far more knowing. A smile pulls on her lips.
"Hi, Clark," She says ā and you feel a jolt of anxiety run through you.
God, is this the Christmas party from hell? You've barely been here 15 minutes, had your feelings for your fellow co-worker weaseled out of you by a different co-worker, and now he's here? Behind you?
God, you can't catch a break.
"Hi, Lois," he says as you slowly spin on your feet.
You go slowly, as though it might somehow, through divine intervention, change who's standing behind you.
No dice. Clark stands before you, in one of the most hideous ties you've ever laid eyes on, his attention fixed on you.
You swallow thickly. Think about saying hello, then decide nothing but a squeak will come out if you open your mouth, and save yourself the embarrassment.
It doesn't deter Clark.
In what looks like a nervous motion, he nudges his glasses up his nose and clears his throat.
"y/n. Might I talk to you for a moment?" He glances up to Lois, then back to you. "Privately."
Another jolt of anxiety, this one straight to your system. You feel your pulse pick up a bit, wondering what wicked deity above had it out for you.
Steeling yourself, you think: fine, let's rip this bandage off.
It sounds strong in your head, but your voice comes out as a croak when you say, "Alright."
Still, Clark nods.
He turns, and you, albeit reluctantly, follow him through the crowd, making sure to keep your distance. You don't look back at Lois, already picturing the expression on her face.
Ahead of you, Clark's eyes spy over his shoulder every couple seconds, as if checking you're still there. When he reaches the edge of the room, it's apparent he hadn't thought about what private place to take you to.
"Darn," he says, more to himself. "There isn't exactlyā¦"
He trails off, eyes locking onto something, and you follow his gaze to the balcony door. You resist the urge to snort.
It'll be private for sure ā no one else is foolish enough to brave the cold outside.
Clark glances back at you, an infuriatingly endearing expression that reeks of polite guilt. Yet still, he pushes forward, sliding the door open and stepping out into the snow.
You glance at the mistletoe hung over the balcony doorway and gather yourself with a slow inhale. Then bravely follow him out.
Outside is a whole different world.
Whiter than white, flurries of snow twirl about in the soft wind. You can see the street out here, a traffic light cycling through its rainbow of greens, ambers, and reds. There are cars on the roads too, yellow taxis and blue buses braving the slippery streets.
The sound of them is muffled against the snow, so much so that all you can really hear is the crunch of your own footsteps on the balcony.
It's decently tucked away from the party, wrapped around the part of the building that none of your co-workers are really inhabiting.
Private, indeed.
Your breath comes out in a cloud before you. Really, you would've grabbed your coat if you knew you'd be facing the frosty climate again so soon.
Wrapping your arms tightly around your middle, you focus on the man you'd followed out here.
Clark, irritatingly, doesn't appear cold at all. In fact, his arms remain at his side, his hands clenched into tense fists.
You eye him up and down and prepare for the worst.
Rip off the bandage, Kent, you will him mentally.
"I want to apologise."
You blink. Huh?
"W-What?" It's so unexpected that you stumble over your response.
"I'm sorry," Clark says genuinely, then keeps going like he's on a roll, and if he stops he won't be able to get the words out. "Iā it was meant to be a nice gesture, but, well, the wires got a little crossed. And I can see now, that was my fault. Really, I should've signed the card but Iā¦"
Signed the card� You know you must be looking very confused right now.
"I," Clark clears his throat, then shoves his hands in his pockets. "I was the one who sent you the flowers."
A dim realisation goes off, like a lightbulb at the very, very back of your head.
The card he should've signed; the flowers. The flowers! The flowers!?
The very ones you had very publicly, in front of the whole office, in front of Clark, trashed.
You can feel the confusion pulling at your face, contorting it to a bewildered expression.
There are a thousand questions.
One stands out.
"Why would you get me," You jab a finger into your own chest harshly. "Flowers?"
"Well, uh, originally to apologise for the macaroon incident in the break-room. But also becauseā¦"
Clark sucks in a deep breath, then stares up at the sky, as if gathering his strength. A few snowflakes find a home on his eyelashes. God, he's so pretty (shut up, brain), it's not even funny.
"Because I like you." He says, evidently nervous. "In a romantic sense."
Maybe when you came outside, you slipped on the ice and hit your head.
That must be it ā this has to be some dazed dream from a knock to your head.
Because you could've sworn Clark Kent just told you⦠he likes you.
Romantically. As in, with romance in mind. He's crushing on you, so to speak.
Wants to hold your hand and kiss you on the mouth.
Unwittingly, you warm a little at the thought. It's overshadowed by the much, much stronger emotion: astonishment.
"Youā¦" You can't help how the disbelief colours your words. "Like me?"
"Well, uh," Clark clears his throat, glancing up at the sky again nervously for a moment. He nods, finds your eyes, and speaks more surely this time. "Yes. Yes, I do."
Yes, you've hit your head. You're probably in the back of an ambulance, high on pain-meds, at this current second.
That, or Cat spiked the punch with magic mushrooms and you're experiencing a very, very vivid hallucination.
It doesn't compute.
"But I'mā¦" You struggle to find the right words. He can't like you. It just doesn't make any sense.
The words come out a bit opposing on instinct: "But I'm rude."
"You are not," Clark defends quickly, his brow furrowed. He pulls his hands out of his pocket to wave them around. "You're spirited."
"I'm distrustful." You counter.
What are you doing!
"You're protective!" Clark claims.
"I stole an assignment from under you in my first week at the Planet!" You say with indignation.
Internally, you reel at yourself. It feels like there are a thousand little gnomes running around wildly in your brain, bashing it with hammers.
Why, why, why are you trying to convince him not to like you?
"You needed to establish yourself as a writer." Clark says easily, with a shrug of his shoulders. "And it was a beautiful article, much better than how I planned to write it."
"I threw your flowers in the bin!" You remind him, a little more desperately now, despite the fact you very much did not know they were from him until about 70 seconds ago. "In front of you. And everyone else at work."
"You thought they were from an ex," Clark says with another shrug, far too understandingly. "Who you suspected was stalking you."
"I'mā¦" You're running out of things to say now.
How is he not flinching in the face of all your flaws? At all your ugly parts?
How have you done all this to keep him at arm's length, and he's still decided⦠still says heā¦
"I'm mean." You say firmly.
So why does it feel like your bottom lip is about to start trembling?
That for some reason makes Clark chuckle, a smile breaking out on his gorgeous face.
He shakes his head. "Well, that one is just plain untrue."
You stare at him for a long moment. He has an answer for all of it. He means it. He likes you.
"You really believe all that about me, don't you?" You ask, and it comes out a little awed.
Like his faith in the world, in people, is something you're finally seeing the size of ā and you can't see past the end of it. It goes on forever. He really does think you're wonderful.
It makes a stone form in your throat. It doesn't matter what he thinks; you know how this ends.
Good intentions only get you so farāand whilst you've somehow convinced Clark you're worth it, you can't keep that up. Something will fracture. He'll get tired of something ā of you.
"It doesn't matter," you say, a little bitterly, your eyes dropping to the ground. "It's- weā I couldn't."
Clark shifts somewhat uncomfortably on his feet. "Well, yes, if you don't feel the same way, Iā"
You don't mean to cut him off, but a laugh, a nearly delirious, scornful one, bursts out of you.
You hadn't been looking at it, but Clark's confession slides your feelings right under the microscope ā magnified and impossible to ignore.
You're laughing at yourself. For letting a pretty face and some niceness win over your best attempts to deny yourself this. You have the backbone of a chocolate Ʃclair, clearly.
This is such a bad idea. Why do you still want it anyway? You're wildly torn, head and heart tied in a vicious battle. How do you have this and keep your heart safe at the same time?
"I," you begin, stammering to a stop. "Clark, you'reā you're you! Of course, even when I was trying not to, I had⦠I had feelings for you."
There's a long moment. You worry your words have been swallowed up in the snow. You really don't want him to make you repeat it.
But he only asks, quietly, "Had?"
You want to laugh again ā because you could probably have slipped that past anyone else. Not Clark.
"Have," you say, feeling pathetically exposed.
You can't look at him. You're studying the pile of snow building up on your shoes with intense interest, wondering how the hell this doesn't end wrong.
Part of you is still reeling from his confession, still churning out new disbelief. He likes you. He likes you.
"You say you couldn't." Clark says gently, making a very important distinction. "Did you mean⦠you wouldn't? Why not?"
"Me." You state plainly, finally looking up at him.
You gesture to your chest - to the big, gaping hole in your heart - like it's obvious, like he should be able to see it from freaking space.
"I'm why not. I'mā"
You cut yourself off to a mutter.
"It wouldn't be good. We'd go on one date andā and it'd go bad, or I'd mess it up, and you'd realise what everyone else already knows. And then we'd have to be awkward co-workers for the rest of time. Which, if you think before was bad, let me tell you, it can get worse."
He doesn't say anything for a moment, eyes studying the ground, and you think, with half relief and half devastation, that you've convinced him.
Oh god, please don't have convinced him.
You feel like your heart's on a string, and you keep tangling it up, then giving Clark the knotāwaiting for the one he can't undo.
Waiting for the problem too difficult, the one that's finally not worth the effort.
"Maybe," Clark says eventually, with an even shrug, and your heart sinks.
Plummets. You wanted this; you wanted this ā you can't be this devastated.
And then he says, "I can't promise the date will be good, butā¦"
Your heart soars again, tugged up your throat. You look across the balcony at him, and you can barely feel the chill of the wind anymore.
"I know that I like you enough that I'd like to try."
Your gaze shifts to stare at the ground, hard, because you don't think you can take something that genuine head-on.
God, he really gives a shit about you. Like, he really likes you, the full ten yards, and everything. How did that happen?
You can do this. Can you do this?
He wants to take you on a date. You're spirited, protective, a bit too harsh sometimes, and Clark has looked at that whole package and said, That's the one I want.
You've been helpless at denying yourself this whole time. Really, what's one more time?
Despite the part of you that screams about how it could all go wrong, you grip the hopeful part of you that sings, What if it all goes right?
Shit, is that itchiness behind your eyes? Are you about to cry?
You sniffle and give yourself away in one sound.
"I haven't been on a date in a while." You admit very quietly, letting yourself open up just a crack. "I might not be very good, uh, company."
You hear the snow crunch as he steps closer, closing the distance between you. The balcony suddenly seems so much smaller.
You force yourself to be brave, to look up ā and you're instantly rewarded with a smile you've never seen before.
Clark is beautiful when he's happyāgrinning with the radiance of the summer sun.
You realise you've never really had that grin directed at you. For you. Because of you.
"That's okay," Clark says, closer to a whisper. It sounds like he really means it. "We can figure out a good date together. Whatever you wanna do."
God, he looks gorgeous out in the snow. It eddies around you, carried by the wind, and even with the cold, it feels like a part of you has finally thawed out.
You might not get to have this ā but you get to try. And that's enough.
Clark huffs, a happy sound, opening his mouth to speak whenā
"Yo!"
A loud rapping on the glass door startles you both, whipping towards the sound in an instant.
It's goddamn Jimmy Olsen.
He's holding a cup of the eggnog, and you can spot a bit that he's spilled down his front.
His cheeks boast the warmth of indoors ā or maybe it's just the booze of his drink. You and Clark both blink at him, bewildered by his interruption.
"Mistletooooooe!" He points above the balcony doorway, at the one you'd remembered seeing as you passed under it.
It stretches the rules a bit ā you and Clark aren't under it ā though you have a feeling Jimmy doesn't care about that in the slightest.
His voice is a bit muffled through the glass, but you can clearly make out what he says as he yells, "Them's the rules!"
You fluster a little, turning back to Clark ā who, adorably, looks much the same.
"He's drunk," he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "And he's been listening to me try to woo you for months, so," he coughs awkwardly. "Excuse him."
Only Clark Kent would use the word woo and mean it with complete sincerity.
The other words catch up. Months. Months, he said.
How did you deserve this?
Itās a small voice in your brain youāre becoming very unfond of. Shaking off your past, you decide, at least for tonight, you're done with that question.
You step a little closer, close enough to feel the fan of Clark's breath over your skin.
He smells like bergamot, something musky, and a spiced Christmas pie.
"It's the rules, right?" You say, a little breathier than you intend.
But Clark is watching you closely, pink colouring the apples of his cheeks. His beautiful mouth is pulled into a hopelessly endeared smile, his dimples showing.
He's looking at you like you're all he wants.
"Right," Clark breathes, the word barely audible.
You can hear it just fine, because it's a murmur that passes his lips as he leans down, nearing your lips.
He hesitates. You know it's because he wants you to be sure you want this so soon. You've think youāve wasted enough time already.
Pressing up on your toes, you grip him by his unsightly tie, and ā for the first time in months ā you meet him midway.
And with his lips against yours, soft, warm, entirely dedicated to kissing you breathless?
You can't even feel the cold anymore.
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ok my loves i'm posting this thang so i can get OUTTA here and start watching me show :) i hope it is enjoyed!! @citrinesparkles @sparklingsin are the two peeps i know would like to be tagged and my usual frends @spideystevie @djarinova @brettsgoldstein @strangerstilinski, i relinquish this the tumblr void & hope it doesn't flop :P











