killin'

author's notes: Guys this is sooooo fluffy. It’s very uncharacteristic of me. I kept second-guessing myself lmao.

This is a period comfort fic, because I’m on my period and I want to be with Wade Wilson. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. So here’s this.

Warnings: Expect mentions of menstruation, cramps, medications, heat pads, etc. Nothing too crazy—no mentions of blood or hygienic/care products.

Deadpool is… an interesting guy, to say the least. He’s loudmouthed, rude, and endlessly energetic. He isn’t a hero, but he also isn’t a villain. He’s almost constantly poking fun at you or tailing you on your patrols, but you can rely on him if there’s genuine trouble. You’re somewhat forced to collaborate with him these days—he seems to keep popping up everywhere. It’s annoying, especially on days like today, when he just can’t stop chattering. 

“Just… stop talking,” you eventually hiss, bringing a hand to your temple as it practically pulses in pain. Deadpool’s constant talking is certainly not helping your headache. He’s not actually saying anything of consequence—he’s been detailing the past few episodes of a TV series he’s watching. You’d been tolerant of it for the first five minutes, but you eventually snapped, of course. 

Now Deadpool’s staring at you and whistling exaggeratedly. “Wow, I guess spiders can be cranky,” he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Are you on your period or something?” he huffs. It’s clearly meant to be a throwaway comment, but you hear yourself respond before you can think better of it. 

“Yeah,” you mutter under your breath.

Wade is, unfortunately, observant when he wants to be—and he notices the comment. “Really?” he blinks, tilting his head at you curiously.  

“...Yeah.”

“Oh shit!” the vigilante exclaims, suddenly seeming excited. “No way. No wayyyyyy! That’s perfect!”

Well. That’s not necessarily the first reaction you were expecting. “Why is it perfect?” you squint at him skeptically. Being on your period isn’t exactly… fun. So why is his reaction so positive?

Deadpool ignores the remark. “Congrats, I’m giving you the day off from hero-ing!” he says instead, looping an arm around your shoulders. 

“What?” you ask incredulously. You’re too tired to push him off of you, instead just valiantly pretending not to notice. “That’s not how it works—”

“You can go home now,” Deadpool responds, making a shooing motion with his free hand. “The city can survive without Spider-Man for a day.”

“Wade…” you sigh exasperatedly. 

Wade turns to face you. “Seriously, you look like you’re about to fall over, Webs,” he observes, poking your shoulder.

It’s somewhat true—you’re pretty exhausted. How Deadpool noticed that while you’re wearing your mask, though… you’re not quite sure. You decide not to think about it any longer, because it’ll only make your head spin. “Fine, fine,” you eventually acquiesce. “You win, I’ll go. Just don’t wreck anything, okay?”

“Psh, please,” Wade makes a show of shaking his head. He’s rolling his eyes under his mask, you just know it. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”  

“You said that last time,” you feel the need to remind him, “and then you nearly blew up the bank.”

“Hey!” he exclaims. “That doesn’t count. That was the robbers—I was just trying to stop them.”

“And then take the money they stole,” you interject. 

“Well, duh,” Deadpool scoffs. 

You just take a deep breath. “Never mind,” you say with a shake of your head. You’re not going to deny the opportunity you’ve been given. “I’m going now. Bye.”

“Byeeeee!” Deadpool says with a childish wave. “¡Adios! Au revoir! Sayonara!”

You send a half-hearted wave over your shoulder as you leave. You suspect Wade’s still reciting goodbyes in various languages even as his voice falls out of earshot. 

You hate to admit it, but Wade was right. You’d rather die than utter those words aloud, but here in the comfort of your own apartment, you’re willing to acknowledge that internally. It’s a good thing you took the day off, because your headache is persistent and your cramps are returning. Coupled with the mood swings and just general irritability, you figure it was wise to follow his suggestion. 

Again, you will never admit that to him. Never. 

You’re settled on your couch now, wearing a comfortable shirt and sweatpants. Even changing out of your suit felt like a tedious task today. Everything is just requiring too much effort for your liking. You’re both hungry and nauseous, craving sweet but savory foods. And a lot of minor inconveniences are setting you off.

A blur of motion reaches your peripheral vision and you pause, wondering if you’re imagining things. A few moments pass and you decide to pay a haphazard glance over at the adjacent hall, expecting it to be empty. 

You’re very surprised by what you see. “Wade!” you exclaim, your heart racing in your chest at his sudden appearance. “You scared the shit out of me.” 

“Oops,” he says sheepishly. Since your interaction earlier, he’s changed out of his typical uniform—instead wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. “Your window was unlocked…?” Wade grimaces unconvincingly. 

“No, it wasn’t,” you frown, looking over to the window he came in from. The glass is gone—it’s clear he broke it. You must’ve been pretty distracted not to hear that. Then again, you had the TV on at a decent volume—not to mention, your thoughts have been elsewhere today. You suppose you’re lucky the intruder was only Wade. 

“It wasn’t unlocked,” Wade concedes, casually stepping around a jagged chunk of glass from the window. He senses your staring and rolls his eyes, picking up the glass and casually tossing it out. “I’ll blackmail your landlord into fixing that, don’t worry.” His response is so nonchalant that it almost makes you think you’re the one being unreasonable.  

“What are you doing here?” you finally manage to question. 

“I’ve been waiting my whole life for this moment, dude,” Wade responds with a mischievous grin. Your heart instinctively sinks at the sight. That smirk always means trouble. Sure enough, Wade heads into your living room and props his head up on the back of the couch, looking down at you while batting his eyes. “I’ll be your sexy nurse. Now I just need a slutty costume…”

“Wait, what?” you sputter. “Why? I don’t need a nurse.” And certainly not one in a shitty Halloween costume. You decide to keep that part to yourself, though. A remark like that is just asking for an argument with Wade, and you don’t quite have the energy for that now. 

“You’ve saved my ass way too many times now,” Wade answers easily. “I gotta return the favor sometime. Besides, y’know, hurt/comfort, reader-insert, all the good shit.” 

…You don’t know what that last part means. 

“You’re acting like I’m going to die or something,” you huff, getting off the couch and heading into your kitchen. Wade follows at your heels, idly poking around in your fridge before grabbing a soda. (Secretly, you only buy that soda for him—but he doesn’t need to know that.) Meanwhile, you open one of the cabinets and grab your heating pad, placing it in the microwave and setting it for less than a minute.

“What are you doing?” Wade asks, tilting his head to glance at you as you start the microwave. 

“Using the microwave,” you answer matter-of-factly.  

“Hey, no, no, no,” Wade chides you, putting his soda down to place his hands on your shoulders. “I’m the nurse here; you’re supposed to sit down.”

“Wade, I’m fine,” you sigh in exasperation, secretly touched by his concern but also embarrassed by the fuss he’s making. “This happens every month, it’s nothing crazy. Relax.”

“Relax?” he says dramatically, putting a hand to his chest. There’s a slight quirk to his lips that tells you he isn’t genuinely offended by the statement. “Me? I could never.”

“But seriously,” Wade continues, looking at you imploringly, “just lemme take care of you, okay?” He sounds strangely earnest—and uncharacteristically sincere. You’re not sure why this is such a sticking point for him. You’re about to argue again, but he keeps speaking before you can. “Come on, Spidey, pleaseeeeee? I’ll be so helpful, I promise.”

You just sigh and head back to the couch, sensing this is an argument you won’t win. Wade lets out a victorious sound at your unspoken surrender. He remains by the microwave until it beeps, before grabbing your heating pad and handing it to you on the couch. 

“…Thanks,” you mumble, still feeling a bit awkward about the situation. Then again, Wade quickly literally forced himself into your apartment and took on the role as nurse. He didn’t have to do that. (The question remains, though: why would he do it?) You hold it to your lower abdomen before attempting to get more comfortable. 

And then you realize: you haven’t taken any medication to help the cramps. Damn it. You glance over at Wade, who seems otherwise occupied with studying your apartment. You shift and start to get up, only for him to turn around. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chides you, stopping in front of you with his hands on your shoulders. “What do you need? I’ll get it for ya.” This attitude of his is almost endearing. It feels weirdly… intimate. You’re not usually this vulnerable with anyone. And while Wade kind of forced his way into your apartment, you have to admit: it’s nice to be cared for. 

Plus, you’ve known Wade for long enough to know he’s the most stubborn person on the planet. If he’s committed to do something, nothing will sway his decision. With that in mind, you sigh and consider his question. “Water… and ibuprofen,” you relent. “…Please.”

“Anything for you, baby boy,” Wade responds, sounding far more sincere than you expect him to. He heads back to the kitchen. 

“Wanna sit?” you offer when he returns, making sure to thank him once more before downing the pills. You feel incredibly awkward having him around while you rest on the couch. 

“Hell yes,” Wade responds enthusiastically, moving to sit on the cushion next to you. You watch the movement for a second, raising a brow. 

“I don’t bite,” you huff, watching as he sits a good distance away from you. The remark comes out before you can realize the implications of it.

“Aw, are you touch-starved, Spidey?” Wade grins, looking over to meet your eyes. Damn it, he saw straight through that. “That’s adorable.”

“Shut up,” you scoff, immediately regretting every single action that led to this moment: Wade on the couch next to you, you willingly inviting him to come closer. What is wrong with you?! 

Wade isn’t making fun of you for it—not really. He’s the teasing type, of course. But he isn’t genuinely judging you. In fact, since you pointed it out, he’s been slowly migrating across the couch towards you. “Come on, you know you wanna cuddle with me,” Wade continues, leaning closer with a smile. “Besides, you’re all hunched up over there.” 

You choke on an annoyed groan, struggling to decide your next move. Eventually, you abandon the rest of your dignity and sidle up to his side. To his credit, Wade doesn’t stiffen or flinch—he only pulls you closer and wraps an arm around your waist. 

You lean your head on his shoulder and keep silent for a moment, before coming to a realization. “You’re never going to let this go, are you?” you ask. 

“Nope,” Wade responds shamelessly, a smirk on his face. “The big bad spider gets all cuddly when he’s tired. So cute.” 

“Shut up.” Your default response in this situation is just to brush off his teasing. It’s a defense you’re both familiar with. Wade seems to be expecting you to say something along those lines, because he just laughs. 

“How’re you feeling?” he asks sometime later, mercifully letting the subject drop. For a moment, you can almost convince yourself that this is normal. It’s a bit difficult to get over the inexplicable conviction that you should be embarrassed, though. 

You forget about Wade’s question until he’s gently nudging you. “Eh,” you say noncommittally. “Tired, mostly.” Emotional too, but it’s usually better not to talk about that. It’s a somewhat unfounded feeling, not necessarily triggered by anything specific. Usually this melancholy comes and goes, eventually fading within a few days. If you keep yourself distracted, you can usually forget about it.

As time passes, you can’t help but relax and lay on his chest. If Wade is bothered by your sudden clinginess, he doesn’t say anything. You’re sure you’ll be super embarrassed by this clingy behavior in the next few days, but right now, it feels nice to have someone next to you. Besides, as much as Wade likes to tease you, he’s still a good guy. He wouldn’t actively try to torment you about this. 

Plus, it certainly doesn’t seem like he minds. You suspect, idly, that he likely needs this human contact as much as you do. The two of you don’t get close to very many people, on account of your secret identities. It’s too dangerous. But times like this make you remember the friends you used to have, the people you used to love. 

At some point, Wade’s other hand cradles your face, his thumb dancing across your cheekbone before stopping at the scar running down the side of your face. It’s relatively faded now, but from a close distance like this, you’re sure he can see it. 

“How’d ya get this?” he asks, his finger tracing the mark back and forth. 

“Dr. Octavius,” you answer.

“The octopus guy?” Wade blinks. 

“Yeah,” you confirm.  

“Huh,” he remarks, studying the scar for another minute. “Thought it’d be a little more… scandalous.”

You blink in confusion, still very much aware of his hand on your cheek. It’s making you feel weirdly nervous. You try to refocus on the conversation. “What, like a suction mark or something?” you huff. “His tentacles are robotic,” you remind him. 

“Yeah, a lil’ robo hickey!” Wade exclaims, sounding a bit too excited at the thought. At your disbelieving look, he says defensively, “Come on, that’d be sick.” 

You can’t help but laugh. “That’s ridiculous.” 

The two of you talk about harmless things for a while longer, before you feel your eyelids begin to burn from fatigue. You’re rather comfortable, your muscles slowly relaxing as you start to lean on Wade. It’s growing more and more difficult to keep your eyes open. The ibuprofen finally seems to be kicking in, which is fighting off the cramps you were feeling earlier. Now, the pain is ebbing away—leaving exhaustion to take its place. 

Sensing your tiredness, Wade trails off mid-sentence. Or, at least, you think he does—it’s kind of hard to tell. It’s been weirdly difficult to focus your attention throughout the past few minutes. 

“Sorry,” you blink, trying to remember where he left off. “What were you saying?” 

“Don’t worry about it, Snorlax,” Wade hums, his hand starting to rub your back. 

“You’re not helping me stay awake, you know,” you mumble.  

“I know,” Wade responds smugly. Then the smirk on his face softens. “You shouldn’t fight it; you need to rest.”

That’s true, but… “I don’t want to trap you here,” you remark, moving back slightly to glance at him. 

“Oh, I really don’t mind, sweetheart,” Wade reassures you, gently tugging you back towards him. “It’s not every day I get a cuddly, cooperative Spider-Man. Gotta take advantage of it.” 

You can’t exactly find fault with that, and you’re too tired to argue the point further. Instead, you just lean into him again and close your eyes. Wade’s hand falls still on your back, a steady reassurance of his presence. 

“Night night,” he says quietly. (Or, at least, as quietly as Wade Wilson can manage.) “I’ll be here to watch over ya, fight off those birds in your nightmares.” He punctuates this remark with a squeeze to your shoulder. “Birds? Wasps? What are the enemies of spiders? Humans and their shoes…?”

You would roll your eyes at him if you weren’t already falling asleep. Wade shifts, grabbing the blanket and ensuring that it’s fully draped over you. You fade too quickly to notice the fond expression that rises on his face.

©2025, @defectivevillain | @defectivehero, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

endnotes: GAWDDDDDD i need this man biblically. *viscerally,* even.

Did Wade change out of his suit so that he could cuddle with you? Methinks yes… Mwahahhaa…

also, huge shoutout to my bestie @connorhasabigtip for calling me yesterday and helping me write this. we were silent on call for a full hour, with me writing and her reading 😭 we'll find you your brown cowboy one day, bitch. looking forward to being badasses in fortnite again today. (she's the Sith and I'm the Jedi, in case y'all were wondering.)

thanks for reading! <3

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

general taglist: @its-ares @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @the-ultimate-librarian @gayaristocrat @always-lying-to-you @moss4ev3r @hottskull

He flinched at your voice, and you felt as though you were undoing the work you’d done. Don't get him wrong, it's not like he doesn't want to look at you. As a matter of fact, he'd spend the entirety of your sessions just looking at you if he could. But then he'd have to fan off the heat from his cheeks and sit through the feeling that every hair on his head was placed the wrong way. Then he'd have to get lost in your eyes and begin imagining soft, unrealistic scenarios—picnic dates, city tours, folding your laundry, doing your taxes.

He gave you a small smile. “We are,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He’d begun to fidget with the hem of his shirt when he ran out of skin to pick. “I’m just—um—thinking.”

You stopped yourself from clicking your pen, knowing how observant he was; knowing he’d notice if you started writing. He was overly keen on his own faults. No matter. Progress looked different on every patient. You were bothered, but not disheartened.

You took a breath, long and focused, hoping he might do the same. “How was this week?” you tried again. “Nightmares? Panic attacks?”

He shook his head in that bashful way of his, lips pressed into a thin line. “No,” he replied. “No, uh. I think this week was fine.”

“You don’t sound very certain.”

That coaxed a small laugh out of him, forced and polite. “It really was fine, Doctor. I guess I just- I always sound uncertain.”

You hummed, tilting your head at him. Finally, you clicked your pen to write into your notes. As always, he peered at your scribbling like he’d be able to read it from where he sat.

“Then that’s good to hear, Robert.” You nodded, and from the corner of your eye you could see that he was nodding with you. “I take it the meds are working well, too? You know you can tell me if they aren’t. I can always prescribe you a different round.” You looked up from your notes and then at him. His eyes darted away the moment they met yours. “The goal is to figure out what regime helps you the most.”

He’d heard it all before. He knew everything about the goals and the regimes and the rounds. Still, he nodded again. Slower, this time. “No observed side effects,” he murmured. “No spikes. No color…”

You glanced at him. “Color?”

A beat passed before he shook his head. “Nothing, just—” he waved his hand like he was trying to dismiss it. “Sometimes my head hurts and it gets bright. Like when you’re putting pressure on your eyes. I sorta feel it in my teeth, too.” He noticed the flicker of concern on your face and he inwardly panicked. “Uh, but it’s gone. I think.” Another beat. Longer, weighted. And then, hesitantly: “Except that one time last Tuesday. But it's fine.”

You sighed. He hated it when you sighed. He felt like he was disappointing you. “Then it’s not fine, Robert.” You were back to writing, and he was back to worrying. “Come on. You can be honest with me. We’re not here to please anybody. Tell me when the treatment isn’t working so we can adjust. It’s my job to adjust.”

“Well, I mean, it’s—” His brows furrowed as he sought the words. His hands were on his lap, then, wringing themselves out. His leg had begun to bounce and his eyes found your ceiling. “It’s just— when I—” He paused. The silence stretched on before he broke it with a sigh of defeat. “God. So hard to talk.”

“I know,” you assured, your expression softer. “I know it is.”

And then you waited. You always did. It was one of the first things Bob had noticed—one of the first things he had needed to ease himself into. Therapy was one thing, but he had gone to plenty of other doctors before. What made you stick out was how you held the quiet. The silence in your office was no vacuum. It wasn’t the silence in his childhood room, nor the silence of his mother, nor the silence in his head. It didn’t demand anything from him. It made room; room he had no idea what to fill with.

Eventually, his fingers stilled. He looked up and, in an act of bravery, met your steely gaze. “I guess I just hate it when something doesn’t work.” He smiled again, mostly to appease you. A fawn’s response. He felt like he was telling you that you sucked at your job. It made being honest difficult when he was always subconsciously trying to make sure he didn't say anything to upset you. He wanted to convince you that he was alright. He wanted to convince you that he was worth working on. “Because, hey, it’s supposed to help me, right?” He made a sound between a scoff and a laugh. “All of this is supposed to be helping me. And if we try for too long and none of it ends up working, then—” He cut himself off, like he was afraid of what he’d say next. “—Then what hope would there be for me?”

You nodded at him, understanding. You set your notebook aside, tossing it at your desk. He seemed to take comfort in that, his tensed shoulders dropping.

“I see.” You tilted your head at him. “Okay. That’s good, Robert. You identified what you were feeling and expressed it to me. I know that doesn’t come easy for you either.”

He nodded too. Though his smile was smaller, it was real this time. “Like spitting up nails.”

“Mm. I like it when you do that.”

Your reply caught him off guard. It was evident in the way his eyes had widened. “D-Do what?”

“When you try to turn your feelings into words.” You leaned forward, resting your wrists on your knees. “I like the way you do it. You’re quite the poet sometimes.”

“Ah.” He made a nervous sound. He was nodding his head again, having no idea what else to do. He felt heat rushing into his cheeks. “I uh— I read. I like to read. I read a lot.” He cleared his throat, his fidgeting going worse. “I have a ton of books back at the, uh, compound. It keeps the brain working. It doesn't work so well when it's quiet, you know?”

You grinned. “Yes. I do know.”

Then there was silence again. You'd leaned over to look at his charts. Bob waited anxiously. He was running all the worst possible scenarios in his head. Among them was you throwing your clipboard to the ground and screaming at him, telling him that he was the worst patient you had ever gotten.

“Okay,” you said, and he flinched again, snapping out of his revere. “No problem. We'll switch up the meds. It’s likely that some of them are clashing with each other. A fault on my part, really. I should've seen ahead.” Your pen scratched at your prescription pad. Bob took notice of your expression, charmingly scrunched up in focus. It drew him in like a magnet. Then you looked up and his eyes found the floor once more—like they belonged there. Like a jumpy rabbit scurrying back to its burrow.

“Will you have to take the Trazodone out?” he stammered, leaning a bit closer. “I was hoping you wouldn't, because I like it. I mean, uh—it's helping me the most, I think. I’ve taken every other sleeping pill in the book and nothing calms me down like that one.”

You nodded your head, partially distracted by your writing. “Gotcha. Actually, Trazodone is originally an antidepressant, but I do hear it clears the mind enough for proper sleep.”

“Yeah. I like that it doesn't knock me out. Just—quiets the noise.” He sat back, further into the couch. Then he added, hurriedly, “Oh and no headaches when I wake up, which is nice.”

“Okay. We'll adjust your next line around the Trazodone.”

He was grateful, and it was evident in his eyes. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“Of course.”

And the session continued.

Bob's sessions were nothing like the ones in the movies. There were no tearfilled bursts of confessions, no sudden breakthroughs. It was usually just him, on the couch, talking about his feelings, talking about his dreams. They grew boring sometimes, but it was of the comforting type. He'd take boring over mania any day. He always arrived five minutes early. Never late. Always with his sleeves over his wrists, with hair like he'd been running his hands through them before walking in. He seemed to like that routine. That, or he'd learned to stick to it very well.

“How's the medicine,” you'd ask. “How's your sleep, are you eating well?”

Sometimes he’d say yes, and you’d believe him. Sometimes he’d say yes, and you’d write it down despite knowing it wasn’t the whole truth. But even that was progress. It didn’t announce itself, but was still worth celebrating.

You adjusted his dosage once—a slight increase in the evenings after he admitted he still woke up sweating. “They're not nightmares,” he said. “It just feels too hot. Like something in me’s still burning off.”

You didn’t ask what.

One month became two. Two became four.

At that time, Bob had started leaning forward in the chair. He no longer asked if he should speak and simply did. He didn’t always look at you, but he had begun talking much more. It was an extremely welcomed change. And of course his voice was pleasant to listen to.

As your sessions passed, you'd learned to adjust to him better. You learned his habits, knew his ticks. You knew the face he made when he was about to avoid a question, and you knew to skirt around it. You knew how to show him things through different angles. You were careful with Robert, but not in a way that made him feel feared. Ultimately, you made him feel understood. And from that understanding came his timid but growing trust. Eventually, you'd spend a good half hour chatting about things that had nothing to do with his illness. He played baseball as a kid, cooked good lasagna. His favorite color was green. He liked romantic comedies.

And then, the three months were six.

He sat differently. Still guarded, still a little tense—but there was less flinching. Less white-knuckled silence. There was a growing bravery in his eyes, a growing want that was overshadowing his shame. He asked you questions, sometimes. No longer about himself and instead about you. They were never too personal to deny and his curiosity had an almost innocent appeal to it.

“You ever feel tired of listening?” It was a Monday, and it was raining. Your office was washed in a sleepy overcast gray. He had tracked mud into your lobby and apologized (profusely) with a box of donuts. “You carry everyone else’s stuff. Where does it go?”

You had to think about that one.

By the last week of that sixth month, he came in with two cups of coffee. His posture was relaxed. He was smiling, and he no longer looked like he was being forced to come into your sessions. He'd assured you that his drink was more chocolate than caffeine, knowing that too much was bad for him in his current state. Then he said, before sitting down, “Actually, I wasn't sure what type of coffee you liked—so I guess I got you a basic one. I think that's a latte.”

You smiled. “You can never go wrong with a good latte.”

And then there were stories of friends. A compound of a chaotic family under the guise of just-as-chaotic heroes. He’d tell you about their dinners, their comforting type of loud. Their karaoke nights and half-assed briefings. You were allowed information. You were allowed anything he wanted to tell you. You were a psychopharmacologist under OXE. Your patient-confidentiality wasn’t the only thing making sure that nothing Robert said would leave your office.

You’d listen, as you always did. But as those days stretched on, neither you nor Bob felt like you were doing work anymore.

It started like most days did.

The light through Bob’s window was pale and cool. It made the edges of things look washed-out. He didn’t need to drag himself out of his sheets like he usually did. He sat up, realized that the tiles were freezing, and wore some slippers from under his bed. The weather was getting colder, the winds carrying the first few gusts of the incoming winter. Bob looked out of his window and admired the gloomy view.

Then he headed for the kitchen, a subtle anxious pep in his step. He was up early that day, and Bucky, leaning against the fridge, looked just as surprised to see him. “Morning,” he greeted, with that perpetually gruff voice of his.

Bob slipped past him and reached for the kettle. “Morning,” he greeted back, slippers sliding across the floor. “You think it’ll snow today?”

Bucky shook his head against his mug of coffee. Bob knew just by the smell that it was inhumanly bitter. “Probably not. It’s cold, but I think we’re a week away from proper snow.” He huffed. “Makes getting out of bed all the more difficult.”

Bob didn’t look at him but he was nodding his head. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, fingers tucked, waiting for his water to boil. He glanced at the digital clock on the wall. Then the kettle. Then the clock again, then the window, then back to the kettle. And then, after a beat, his head whipped back to the clock.

Bucky sipped his drink. He wasn’t looking at him either, but he saw through Bob’s anxiousness like he had eyes on the back of his head. (Which, Bob was convinced he did.) Three glances in, and he finally spoke, his voice flat and amused. “You waiting for the ops team to bust in? Or are you still scoping out escape routes?”

Bob made a noise, half-startled. “What? Oh. No.” He cleared his throat. He opened his mouth to speak again, but he jumped at the whistling of his kettle. He rushed to get it off the heat. His hands moved like they had done this a thousand times—which technically, they had. He was making chamomile tea.

Bucky watched him with a quirked brow. “You know we have electric kettles, right?”

“Alexei broke it last Wednesday.” Bob had unintentionally set out two mugs, and was now unintentionally making two cups of tea.

“We have like, three spares.”

“He broke those, too. Same day. I didn’t ask.”

The taller man huffed a breath out of his nose, a sound closer to a laugh. “Right. So if it’s not the CIA, then what are you hiding from, Reynolds?”

Bob hesitated. He finished making the mugs and set one down in front of Bucky. They exchanged glances. “Just, uh—thinking. You know me. Big thinker. I love to think.”

The Winter Soldier hummed. He set his coffee down to pick up the tea with his metal arm, indifferent to the heat of the cup. “And you’re thinking of, what, the live grenade in your pocket?”

“I don’t have a grenade in my pocket.”

“I know, Bob. I’m saying it’s like you have a grenade in your pocket.”

He laughed, forcibly, painfully. And then, as though he, too, like his kettle had been heated to his limit, he blurted, “I’m thinking about asking someone out.”

Silence.

Bob didn’t move, but Bucky set his mug down. “Okay.” He shrugged. “Getting somewhere. Asking someone out isn’t a war crime. Not sure why you’re panicking–”

“It’s my therapist.”

Bucky nodded, finding the mug again. His brows furrowed together. His expression was unreadable, but Bob picked up something like– acknowledgement, almost. Or maybe pity. Or both. “Ah. Is that all,” he said, voice dripping with that flat sarcastic tone of his.

Bob sighed a long, defeated sigh, pressing his forehead against the kitchen island. “I know. I know how it sounds. It’s a really bad idea and it’s so damn typical of me to fall in love with my therapist, isn’t it.”

Bucky nodded again. “Well, yes.”

“That’s not helping.”

His free hand lifted to show his palm, his brows raised. “I’ve got nothing else to say. Do I have experience with therapists? Plenty. Have I ever fallen in love with one? No. Have I ever entertained the idea of falling in love with one? Also no.” A beat passed before he added, “But I guess I can see where you’re coming from.”

He couldn’t possibly hold that against Bucky. But bit by bit, what little confidence he had that morning had dwindled out like a dying flame. “So you’re telling me not to do it.”

Bucky nodded slowly, but then shook his head. “Not really. I’m not telling you to back out. I’m just telling you that it might not go so well. And that you might not even like him and you just happen to feel—seen.”

Bob was letting his mug grow cold. “I’ve considered that.”

“And?”

“And I’m convinced it’s different.”

Bucky made a sound between a scoff and a laugh. He took a slow sip of his drink. He wasn’t big on tea, but Bob really knew how to make a good cup. “Look, if that’s the case, then go for it. I say just—walk right in there and tell him. Seize the moment. If it goes bad, well, that’s months of therapy out the window, but.” He grinned. “It’ll be the bravest thing you’ve done in a while.”

Elevator trips didn’t usually take so long. Your office was only on the 10th floor, and when the lift made no other stops, getting there took about 8 seconds flat. That morning, however, Bob felt as though it simultaneously took him a day and a millisecond. His hands were held together, shaking like they’d never done before. He watched the floor numbers blink by. He wasn’t breathing right, not panicked, but noticeably off rhythm. By the time the doors opened, he was second-guessing everything. Not about wanting to say it—that was settled—but the part that came after. What if it ruined everything? Or worse, what if you looked at him like he was broken again? Something that needed containing?

He barely realized that he had walked to your office. The carpet had always been too soft, masking the sound of his footsteps. If he didn’t know any better, he might’ve said he floated his way there.

You opened the door just as he was about to knock.

“Robert,” you said, with that voice he had grown so dangerously fond of. Warm, but neutral, like you were happy to see him, but knew not to admit it.

He gave you a tight, awkward smile. “Hi.”

“Ever the early bird,” you teased, stepping back to let him in.

The office was the same. It had no reason to be different. Same subtly crooked blinds, same number of pencils on your desk, same half-drunken mug of coffee, same couch, same chair already turned slightly towards him. He sat. You did, too. He watched you flip through your notes as you clicked your pen. “So,” you said, eager to begin. “How was this week?”

Bob opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He tried again, but his face scrunched up like something was hurting him, like something sharp was stuck in his throat.

You looked up. His posture was stiff, and his hands were tight fists on his lap. “Robert?” you said, gentler. “Is everything alright?”

“Can we—” He exhaled, like he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath. “Can we talk about something else?”

Your pen stilled. Whatever drop you felt in your stomach was hidden well under the veil of your unshakable professionalism. You shrugged, casually. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

Then he looked at you. Really looked at you. And it hit him like it always did, like it always has—that sudden, warm and almost burning sensation in his chest, fluttering like a flock of sparrows trapped in his ribcage. Beneath it was a persistent, glowing ball of hope that things wouldn’t go bad. That maybe he wouldn’t ruin it.

He took a breath like he was about to dive into the ocean. And then: “Would it be out of line if I asked you to get coffee with me?” He felt like he had glass in his shoes. He swallowed thickly.

For the first time since he’s met you, you sat silent. Stunned. There was an agonizingly long pause, a suffocating blanket of quiet, smothering the life out of him, making him wish that he could turn back time or just straight up die.

“Yes,” you said.

Bob blinked. “Oh.”

You shook your head. “No, I mean—” He had never seen you stammer before. It was odd, but somehow nice to see. “Yes, it is out of line. But also, yes. We could get coffee.”

His voice caught. His pulse was palpitating, and the tips of his ears felt like they were burning. “Oh.”

“Yes.” You shrugged. “This is good.”

He was half-certain that he was still asleep. “It is?”

You nodded your head with a hum. “Definitely. You’re seeking to socialize outside of your usual circle. I know you have a good support system at home, but initiating connection outside comfort zones is an excellent demonstration of progress.” You were smiling at him then, warm and wider than your usual ones. "Normally, it would not be recommended to see me as anything other than your therapist, but, your circumstances are more on the unique side. Adjustments to protocol can be made."

He wasn’t sure how to feel. How to react, nor how to respond. He had managed to ask you out, but somehow you had failed to realize that he was asking you out on a date. “I mean, I–” he cleared his throat, trying again. “I don’t want to be talking about medical stuff when we’re out.” He forced himself to laugh. “I was kinda hoping we’d go out as—”

“Friends. Yes.”

Fuck.

Bob sucked in a breath and held it for who knows how long. He had dug his grave, made his bed, and now he had to lay in it. “Right.” He nodded like that had been his intention all along. “Exactly. Yes.”

“I wouldn’t mind it,” you said. “It’s not like we’re strangers. Not anymore.” A laugh sounded from the inside of your throat. “And of course there’s the matter of ethics and non-professional relationships between a doctor and his patient, but—” You winked at him. “I can make some exceptions for you, can’t I?”

He was standing amidst a field of corpses, a lone soldier, uncertain if the battle was won or lost. It felt more like the latter, realizing that you still saw him as your patient, and that you thought the intended date to be another exercise. Another session.

Bob hung his head, still laughing like he had a gun to his temple. “Alright, then. Coffee it is.”

You hummed. “I don't know about that, though. I've had nothing but coffee all week. I think I'm sorta sick of it.”

He looked up at you, meeting your gaze through his lashes.

You leaned forward, briefly wrinkling your nose. “What do you think about roller coasters?”

He blinked. “As a metaphor, or?”

“As a plan.” Your grin was quick, disarming. “Something loud. Crowded and noisy. Fun, even. Exposure therapy of sorts.”

Bob stared at you, caught between disappointment and submission. “But I thought nothing medical.” His tone had been dangerously close to a whine. The small pout on his lips was not something you could miss.

“I know, I know,” you laughed. “I promise it won't feel that way. It's not going to be a session, it's just—a good workaround. We get to hang out, and we get to make sure it benefits you.” You sat back on your chair, assuming a more slacked position. Your brows raised at him, anticipating his response. “Come on, Bob. I love a good rollercoaster. I've always wondered what your hair might look like mid-drop.”

That was the first time you had ever called him Bob. It was always Robert, and was even Mr. Reynolds during that first week. But it had never been Bob.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought of saying something smart, or cool, or at least coherent. Instead, he just laughed—soft, dazed, a little cracked around the edges. Nodding felt like surrender.

"Please," he whimpered, pressing several messy kisses to your inner thigh. "Just a taste, please."

You carded your fingers through his soft hair as you bit your lip. "Just a taste? Hmmmm." You pretended to ponder it for a moment just to toy with him. You absolutely loved when he got this deliciously desperate. "You need it?"

Bob nodded urgently, his hands squeezing the flesh of your thighs, his glassy eyes gleaming up at you. "I need it so bad, you have no idea, I-- I'll do anything."

Your head gently fell back on the wall you were currently leaning against. God, how could you ever deny him? "Keep begging like that and you can do whatever you want to me."

Bob groaned in response to just the idea of doing whatever he wanted to you, pressing his nose and mouth against your clothed core. "I'll make you feel so good, I promise."

You placed your hand on his cheek, gently lifting his head so you could look at him properly. "You always do."

He gave you one of his sweetest smiles, almost innocent like he wasn't about to completely devour you, before his deft fingers slid underneath the waistband of your panties and yanked downward, exposing you. "Jesus," he whispered, eyes now locked in at the space between your thighs with awe. He swallowed harshly in anticipation. "You're so pretty." He leaned in closer and began pressing kisses everywhere except right where you needed him most, until you began to squirm.

"Don't tease," you whined, tugging at his hair. "I--"

Your voice died in your throat when his hot, wet tongue slid right through your folds, your body tensing up at the sudden action. "Bob."

He moaned greedily at the first taste of you. "You're dripping."

You nodded, gasping when he dove back in and licked at you like he'd been waiting his entire life for that very moment. Your chest was heaving with adrenaline; he'd barely began and you were already almost incoherent. "For you."

Bob groaned shamelessly and shuddered against you at your words, the rumble of his voice vibrating deliciously against your soaked cunt. His nose was nudging your clit with every stripe he licked against your entrance, his hands gripping your ass to keep you close. "Taste so good," he mumbled before wrapping his lips around your sensitive bud and sucking hard.

You just about flew off the wall you'd been leaning against, both of your hands gripping his hair for purchase as your knees buckled. Bob never ceased, instead hiking one of your legs up over his shoulder to get an even better angle. The precision of his tongue against your swollen clit sent sharp pleasure shooting across your lower abdomen. "Holy--oh my god, I can't--"

Bob's mouth was relentless as he ate you like a man starved. You normally would've been embarrassed at the way your slickness was dripping down your thighs if it hadn't been for Bob's tongue chasing after it, like he couldn't afford to waste a single drop. It was fucking messy and loud, the sounds of yours and his moans competing with the sounds of his hot mouth lapping at your soaked cunt.

Your climax hit you without warning the second his tongue dipped into your entrance, the pressure exploding in your lower belly before you could process it. You barely registered Bob lowering one of his hands to palm himself through his boxer briefs as he worked you through it, the sight spurring you on. "Jesus Christ, Bob."

Bob didn't answer. His left hand was squeezing your ass to keep your cunt against his mouth while his other hand dipped into his boxer briefs and gripped his pulsing cock. He let out a guttural moan at the relief, his hips bucking forward into his hand.

It was sensory overload. Tears were threatening to escape your eyes as he continued alternating between sucking unrelentingly on your clit and dipping his tongue inside you. "It--it's so much, I can't," you whined, incoherent as your body tried squirming away from him.

He chased after you, his free hand pulling you back to his relentless mouth. "No no no, wait, please I'm not done yet," he begged. "Just please give me one more, I know you can."

And to think you'd been in charge at the start of this.

You'd been squeezing your eyes shut as you had no choice but to take what he was giving you, barely processing your come-down until you opened them at the wet repetitive sound from below you and almost came again from the sight alone.

There he was, face buried between your thighs, eyes shut and brow furrowed in blissful focus as his free hand stroked himself relentlessly, pre-cum glistening at the angry red tip.

"Oh my god," you groaned, thighs shaking around his head. "Fucking look at you."

Bob opened his eyes at your words, mouth never leaving you, and gave you the most doe-eyed, pussy drunk look you'd ever seen. And that was your undoing.

It was devastating, completely desperate, so much more intense than the first time. The image of him getting himself off to eating you out replayed in your mind over and over until the only word you knew how to say anymore was his name. You vaguely registered Bob releasing a sob of your name as he came with you, the sound spurring you on until you were trembling.

You weren't even aware of how much time had passed when Bob finally pulled away from you. You sagged back against the wall, taking your time opening your eyes as you came back to your surroundings. And there he was, sitting back with a dazed grin on his face, his nose, mouth and chin sparkling with your slick. His hand and stomach were covered with his own mess, though he didn't appear to even register it.

"How was that?"

You laughed, lowering yourself onto the ground on shaky legs to get at eye-level with him. You took his face in your hands, gently wiping your mess away as you quirked a brow at him. "I think you don't even have to ask."

He chuckled, looking away bashfully. "I guess not."

You leaned in and kissed him deeply, a small whine escaping you as you tasted yourself on his tongue.

Jimmy Olsen, a name synonymous with charisma and a certain undeniable magnetism, was acutely aware of the stir he caused wherever he went. Though the precise mechanics of his charm remained a delightful mystery to him, its effects were as clear as the headlines he snapped. Whispers followed him down the halls of the Daily Planet, a subtle chorus that swelled as he passed. The women in the newsroom, from the seasoned reporters to the newest interns, seemed to collectively sigh when he offered one of his disarmingly bright smiles. His phone contacts were a veritable Rolodex of potential romantic entanglements, each name a testament to a string of dates that, curiously, always seemed to fizzle out into amicable but definitive endings. It was safe to say Jimmy Olsen possessed an undeniable gravitational pull, a force that drew everyone into his orbit—everyone, that is, except you.

You, the quiet, bespectacled photographer with a penchant for vintage cameras and obscure indie rock, were the one anomaly that drove Jimmy to the brink of delightful distraction. He couldn't fathom it. Why didn't you look at him with the same starry-eyed admiration as everyone else? Why did other men openly flirt with him, yet you treated him with the same professional courtesy you extended to the vending machine repairman? It gnawed at him, a persistent, endearing torment that you weren't head-over-heels for him, especially since he was unequivocally head-over-heels for you.

Jimmy’s days at the Daily Planet often devolved into a series of covert observations and ill-fated attempts at connection.

His desk, usually a bustling hub of activity, became his personal observation post. From behind his computer screen, he'd find himself staring at you, completely oblivious to the parade of well-meaning (and often very attractive) colleagues vying for his attention. He'd catch you adjusting the focus on your camera, your brow furrowed in concentration, and a warmth would spread through his chest. Then, when the inevitable happened and you'd approach him with a question about a developing story or, even worse, just to say "good morning," Jimmy would transform into an absolute fool. His cheeks would flush a vibrant crimson, and his usually articulate sentences would dissolve into a jumble of stutters and half-formed thoughts. The worst part? You'd offer him that gentle, polite smile—the same one he knew you gave everyone, from the copy editor to the janitor—and his heart would do a frantic little flip.

Jimmy often tried to make you laugh, envisioning a scenario where his quick wit and charming anecdotes would elicit a booming, genuine laugh from you. He'd crack jokes, offer playful teasing, even attempt a few self-deprecating remarks. And then Clark Kent would walk by, offer a simple, well-timed comment, and you'd let out a spontaneous, unrestrained belly laugh that echoed through the newsroom. Jimmy would slump in his chair, a defeated groan escaping his lips. How was he, Jimmy Olsen, supposed to compete with Clark Kent, the paragon of earnest charm and genuine goodness? It was a battle he seemed destined to lose.

It was almost embarrassing how much Jimmy knew about you. He knew the exact settings your vintage camera was perpetually set at to achieve those mesmerizingly crisp, almost ethereal photographs you produced. He knew the precise kind of obscure indie rock music you had on your headphones, often humming along to a melody he’d subtly picked up. He even knew, with a certainty that bordered on the alarming, that you shamelessly danced to Lady Gaga in your apartment’s redroom, a makeshift darkroom where you developed your photos. He knew your coffee order down to the exact ratio of cream to sugar, and he was acutely aware that you'd start a full-blown argument if someone dared to disrespect your lanky great dance, Ace, of all things. This vast, almost encyclopedic knowledge only deepened his despair; he knew so much, yet felt so utterly distant.

Lois Lane, with her razor-sharp wit and uncanny ability to see through Jimmy's carefully constructed façade, would always tease him mercilessly. "Lover boy," she'd call out, her voice dripping with mock sweetness, "has Cupid finally gotten his man yet?" Her sarcasm would only elicit a pitiful groan and whine from Jimmy, who would then launch into another round of desperate pleas for advice. He’d corner her by the water cooler, in the elevator, even once almost during a breaking news briefing, begging for guidance. "How do I even approach him, Lois, without wanting to vomit from nervousness and embarrassing myself even further?" he'd ask, his voice a low, frantic whisper. Lois, ever the pragmatist, would usually just roll her eyes and offer some variation of "Just talk to him, Olsen!" – advice that, to Jimmy, felt as helpful as telling him to fly.

The rhythmic vibration of his phone against the worn surface of his desk was a persistent, unwelcome hum in the otherwise focused quiet of Jimmy Olsen’s corner. He sat hunched, pen caught absently between his teeth, his eyes scanning the latest draft of his article. "Mutant Toes" – the contact name glowed accusingly from his screen, a relentless barrage of texts demanding his attention. He was desperately, perhaps foolishly, trying to ignore them. He knew, with a sinking feeling, that a reply would only invite more, spiraling into an evening he simply wasn’t in the mood for. His mind, instead, was a tangled mess of thoughts about proper aperture settings for low light, a debate sparked by a passing comment you had made earlier that morning.

A sudden, firm pressure on his shoulders startled him, sending a jolt through his frame. He nearly swallowed his pen. Before he could even register the touch, a low, amused murmur rumbled just above his ear. "Mutant Toes," you breathed, the words a gentle, almost conspiratorial whisper. You were leaning over him, your hands still settled warmly on his shoulders, a familiar scent of old paper and developing chemicals wafting subtly around you. He could feel the slight brush of your shirt against his back, and his breath hitched. The blood, which moments before had been dutifully supplying his brain for article revision, seemed to rush south, pooling somewhere around his knees. He found himself utterly, hopelessly speechless.

He could feel your gaze, not just on his phone, but on him. Your presence, so close and unexpected, completely derailed his carefully constructed facade of indifference. He was acutely aware of the warmth of your hands, the subtle shift of your weight as you leaned in, your breath ghosting across the top of his head. It was a dizzying sensation, like the world had tilted slightly on its axis.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you straightened slightly, though your hands remained. Your voice, still low but now laced with a hint of playful curiosity, broke the silence. "Well?" you prompted, a soft chuckle rumbling in your chest. "Are you going to answer it, Olsen?"

Jimmy's brain, already reeling from your proximity, struggled to process the question. His gaze flickered from your face, which was now partially obscured by his own reddening ear, down to his vibrating phone screen, then back up to your eyes. He could feel the warmth of your hands through his shirt, a comforting weight that made him want to lean back into your touch.

"Uh...it's...it's nothing," he stammered, finally finding his voice, though it sounded reedy and entirely too high. He made a fumbling attempt to cover his phone with his hand, but it was too late; you'd already seen the offending contact name. A nervous laugh bubbled up from his throat, escaping before he could rein it in. "Just... an old college friend. You know, with a really... unique sense of humor." He tried to project an air of nonchalance, but the tremor in his hands and the furious flush on his neck probably betrayed him.

You didn't move, your hands still resting on his shoulders. He could almost feel the silent question in your posture, the unspoken demand for a more satisfying answer. He risked a glance up, catching a sliver of your amused expression. Your lips were quirked in a slight smile, and your eyes, magnified by your glasses, held a knowing glint. It was a look that made him feel utterly transparent, as if you could read every embarrassing thought swirling in his mind.

"Right," you drawled, the single word loaded with skepticism. The playful tone in your voice, however, was a balm to his nerves, signaling that you weren't actually going to press the issue too hard. You finally lifted your hands from his shoulders, though the phantom warmth lingered. He instinctively straightened up, missing the contact already.

"Well, 'Mutant Toes' seems rather insistent," you added, stepping around his desk to lean against the edge, arms crossed over your chest. "Unless you're planning on ignoring them all day, you might want to address whatever urgent matter they have." You then gestured vaguely towards the camera bag slung over your shoulder. "I was just heading out to get some shots of that new exhibit at the natural history museum. Thought I'd grab some coffee on the way. Want to... join?"

The invitation hung in the air, unexpected and utterly delightful. Jimmy's mind, momentarily freed from the torment of "Mutant Toes," instantly latched onto the prospect of spending time with you outside the confines of the newsroom. His internal monologue went into overdrive. Coffee? With you? This is it, Olsen, don't screw it up!

He nearly jumped out of his chair. "Coffee? Yeah! Absolutely!" he blurted out, a little too eagerly. He scrambled to turn off his phone, silencing "Mutant Toes" with a fervent jab of his thumb, then began tidying his desk with a frantic energy that suggested he was preparing for a critical mission rather than a casual coffee run. He snatched his jacket, almost knocking over a stack of newspapers in the process, his cheeks still burning.

You just watched him, that same amused smile playing on your lips, a subtle warmth in your eyes. "Alright, just let me grab my lens case," you said, pushing off the desk and heading towards your own cubicle, leaving Jimmy to a silent, triumphant fist pump under his desk.

Jimmy practically vibrated with nervous energy as he made his way towards the Daily Planet elevators, his jacket clutched in one hand, his phone (mercifully silent) in the other. The thought of getting coffee with you, just you, was both exhilarating and terrifying. He was so caught up in devising casual conversation starters and mentally rehearsing nonchalant poses that he almost didn't notice the two pairs of eyes fixed on him from across the newsroom.

Lois Lane, perched on the edge of her desk with a sardonic smirk, slowly turned her head. Clark Kent, ever the picture of earnest observation, followed suit from his own desk, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. Their gazes met in the middle, a silent, telepathic exchange passing between them before they both swiveled their attention fully onto a blissfully unaware Jimmy.

"Well, well, well," Lois purred, her voice carrying just enough to reach Jimmy's ears without attracting too much unwanted attention from the rest of the busy floor. She pushed off her desk, strolling leisurely towards him, Clark rising to join her, a gentle giant of quiet amusement trailing in her wake. "Look what the cat dragged in. Someone looks... positively giddy."

Jimmy’s forward momentum faltered, and he felt a familiar blush creep up his neck. He knew that tone. He knew that look. He was about to be subjected to the Lois Lane Interrogation, with Clark Kent as the ever-present, silently judging Greek chorus.

"Giddy?" Jimmy scoffed, attempting to project an air of sophisticated indifference, which failed spectacularly as his voice cracked slightly on the last syllable. "I'm not giddy. I'm just... going to get coffee." He gestured vaguely towards the elevators, as if that explained everything.

Lois raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her smirk widening. "Coffee, huh? With who, Lover Boy? 'Mutant Toes' perhaps?" She glanced pointedly at his pocket, where he'd quickly stashed his phone. "Or perhaps... our resident camera wizard?" Her eyes twinkled with mirth, then flickered towards your cubicle, from which you were just emerging, lens case in hand.

Jimmy's blush deepened to a furious crimson. "Lois!" he hissed, casting a desperate glance over his shoulder to ensure you hadn't overheard. He felt like a deer caught in headlights, exposed and utterly vulnerable.

Clark, usually more reserved in his teasing, chuckled softly. "She does have a point, Jimmy," he said, his voice warm and kind, but with an underlying current of playful mockery. "You're practically bouncing on the balls of your feet. It's quite the transformation from your usual, dare I say, composed demeanor."

"Composed?" Lois snorted, linking her arm through Clark’s and leaning conspiratorially towards Jimmy. "He looks like he just chugged five espressos and won the lottery. And for what? A coffee run with our charming photographer. It's adorable, really." She paused, her eyes narrowing in mock contemplation. "Though I have to admit, Olsen, even with your undeniable charm, you're acting like a total schoolgirl around him. Stammering, blushing, the whole nine yards."

Jimmy groaned, burying his face in his free hand. "I am not acting like a schoolgirl! And I don't stammer!" The words tumbled out, fast and defensive, which only made him sound more like, well, a stammering schoolgirl.

Clark clapped him gently on the shoulder, a gesture that was both comforting and utterly condescending. "It's alright, Jimmy," he offered, a wide, innocent smile on his face. "Everyone gets a little flustered when they're around someone they... admire." The emphasis on "admire" was subtle, but it landed squarely on Jimmy's already frayed nerves.

"Admire?" Jimmy squeaked, his voice rising in pitch. He tried to protest further, to deny the undeniable truth that was plastered across his face for the entire newsroom to see, but then you called out, your voice casual and clear.

"Ready, Olsen?"

Jimmy snapped his head up, seeing you standing by the elevator, your expression unreadable but patiently waiting. He momentarily forgot about Lois and Clark, his entire focus narrowing onto you.

"Coming!" he yelled, his voice a burst of enthusiastic relief. He sidestepped Lois and Clark with surprising agility, practically tripping over his own feet in his haste to reach the elevators.

As the elevator doors began to close, Lois let out a loud, theatrical sigh. "Oh, to be young and hopelessly, embarrassingly smitten," she declared, loud enough for Jimmy to hear even through the closing doors. Clark merely shook his head, a fond, knowing smile lingering on his face as he watched the digital numbers climb.

The elevator ride down was, for Jimmy, a torturous blend of elation and self-consciousness. He kept casting furtive glances at you, who seemed perfectly at ease, your eyes scanning a message on your own phone. He desperately wanted to say something cool, something witty, something that would make you laugh that genuine laugh Clark seemed to effortlessly pull from you. Instead, he just stood there, acutely aware of the space between your shoulders and his, the almost imperceptible hum of the elevator, and the frantic thumping of his own heart.

As the doors opened onto the bustling street level, the crisp morning air was a welcome distraction. "So," you began, your voice cutting through his internal monologue, "any particular coffee place in mind, or are we just wandering until inspiration strikes?" You looked at him, a slight, expectant tilt to your head.

Jimmy, caught off guard, fumbled for a response. "Uh, well, there's that new place on 3rd, 'The Daily Grind'?" he offered, his voice betraying a hint of desperation. It was a perfectly respectable coffee shop, but hardly the kind of edgy, artsy spot he imagined you frequented.

You considered it for a moment, then shrugged, a small smile playing on your lips. "Works for me. They have decent cold brew, and I'm practically running on fumes today."

The walk was punctuated by your comfortable silence, which Jimmy found both endearing and frustrating. You occasionally pointed out interesting architectural details or a particularly striking piece of street art, offering brief, insightful comments that Jimmy eagerly latched onto. He found himself nodding along, feigning deeper understanding than he possessed, just to keep the conversation going. He wanted to ask about your photography, about your life outside the Planet, but the words seemed to stick in his throat.

Inside The Daily Grind, the aroma of roasted beans enveloped them. "What are you getting?" Jimmy asked, trying to sound casual as you approached the counter.

"Just a large black cold brew," you replied, pulling out your wallet. "You?"

"Oh, uh, same!" Jimmy blurted out, before quickly correcting himself. "No, wait. I mean, uh, a latte. Yeah, a latte. With extra foam." He winced inwardly. A latte with extra foam? He usually just drank plain black coffee. This was not the sophisticated, cool image he was trying to project.

You raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in your eyes, but said nothing. After placing their orders, you moved to a small, two-person table by the window, the soft morning light casting a gentle glow on your face. Jimmy followed, his movements a little too stiff, as if he were trying to avoid breaking something.

"So," you began, taking a sip of your cold brew once it arrived, "that new exhibit at the natural history museum is pretty wild. Lots of obscure fossils, apparently. Good challenge for light."

Jimmy seized on the topic, eager to discuss something he knew you were passionate about. "Oh, yeah! I saw the press release. Are you hoping to capture some of the smaller details, or more of the overall scale?" He tried to sound knowledgeable, like he understood the nuances of museum photography.

You thoughtfully tapped a finger against your cup. "A bit of both, I think. The challenge is always conveying the majesty of something that's been dead for millions of years, without making it look… stale." You paused, then looked at him directly. "You know, you've got a good eye for composition, Olsen. I've seen some of your photos – you really capture the chaos and the quiet details simultaneously."

Jimmy's breath hitched. A compliment. From you. His face instantly warmed, and he felt a ridiculous grin spread across his features. "Oh, uh, thanks!" he stammered, nearly spilling his foamy latte. "That means a lot, coming from you." He tried to rein in his excitement, but it was like trying to contain a supernova. He wanted to jump up and cheer. He wanted to tell you that you had the most incredible eye he'd ever seen, that your photos made him feel things, but the words were lodged somewhere behind his rapidly beating heart.

You chuckled softly, taking another sip of your coffee. "Just being honest. So, what are you working on today, besides avoiding 'Mutant Toes'?" you teased, a playful glint in your eyes.

Jimmy laughed, a little too loud, grateful for the change of topic. "Oh, you know, the usual. Another exposé on city hall corruption. Thrilling stuff." He suddenly felt more at ease, the compliment from you a potent confidence boost. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't completely invisible to you after all.

The Natural History Museum was a symphony of hushed whispers and echoing footsteps, a stark contrast to the bustling newsroom. You moved with a fluid grace that Jimmy found utterly captivating, your camera an extension of your arm. You'd pause, tilt your head, adjust a lens, and then click, capturing the silent majesty of a towering dinosaur skeleton or the intricate details of a prehistoric plant fossil. Jimmy, meanwhile, was less focused on the exhibits and more on observing you.

He followed a respectful distance behind, occasionally offering a quiet comment or asking a question about a particular fossil, eager to engage you in conversation. You patiently explained the nuances of lighting in a cavernous exhibit hall or the challenge of making a million-year-old rock look dynamic. He tried to absorb every detail, not just about photography, but about you – the way your brow furrowed in concentration, the soft hum you sometimes made when you found the perfect shot, the genuine enthusiasm that lit up your eyes when you spoke about your work.

You led him into a dimly lit exhibit on ancient aquatic life, the skeletons of colossal marine reptiles suspended from the ceiling. The muted lighting cast dramatic shadows, and Jimmy watched as you meticulously adjusted your camera settings, your movements precise and practiced. You knelt, peering through your viewfinder, your body perfectly still as you framed a shot of a massive ichthyosaur.

It was in that quiet, almost reverent moment, that the thought, utterly unbidden and completely unfiltered, leaped from Jimmy's mind to his lips. He was mesmerized by your focus, by the way you seemed to become one with your art, and the question just… came out. He'd been racking his brain for weeks, trying to find a logical explanation for your apparent immunity to his charms. The only one he could land on, the only one that made sense in his universe, was that you simply had to be taken.

"Hey," he blurted out, his voice a little too loud in the hushed space, making you flinch slightly and pull away from your camera. "Are you... are you seeing anyone?"

The moment the words left his mouth, Jimmy wanted to retract them, to shove them back down his throat and pretend he'd been talking about the ichthyosaur. Your head tilted slightly, your eyes, wide and surprised, meeting his over the top of your camera. A faint blush dusted your cheeks, and for a terrifying second, Jimmy thought he'd really messed up. His own face flamed, realizing the sheer abruptness and awkwardness of his question.

"Because," he rushed on, digging himself deeper, his brain scrambling for a plausible, less pathetic-sounding follow-up. "Because you know, like, you're always so busy with work and everything, and I just figured, with your talent, you must have, you know, a lot going on." He gestured vaguely, his hand movements as frantic as his internal monologue.

You slowly lowered your camera, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. Your gaze held his, and Jimmy felt like he was under a microscope. He braced himself for a polite dismissal, for the confirmation of a significant other, for anything that would explain why you weren't head-over-heels for him. Because it couldn't be that you just weren't interested in guys. He’d distinctly overheard you and Lois, just last week, in the newsroom. Lois had been working on her piece about the upcoming Metropolis Pride parade, and he'd clearly heard you mention being gay. It was a fleeting comment, a casual aside about an event you were looking forward to, but he'd filed it away, desperate for any scrap of information about you. So, no, that definitely wasn't it. It had to be someone else.

You finally spoke, your voice soft but clear. "No, Jimmy," you said, your eyes sparkling with a familiar amusement that both charmed and utterly mortified him. "I'm not seeing anyone."

The simple statement hung in the air, a tiny, unexpected victory. Jimmy's mind reeled. Not seeing anyone? His heart did a delighted little flutter, immediately reinterpreting weeks of perceived indifference. Could it be? Was he finally making progress?

You then offered a small, knowing chuckle, before you turned back to your camera, leaving Jimmy to grapple with the dizzying implications of your answer, his mind already conjuring up a thousand new scenarios of hopeful pining.

Jimmy stood frozen by the ichthyosaur, the air thick with the unspoken, delightful implications of your "no." His mind, a chaotic kaleidoscope of hope and confusion, raced to process this new information. Not seeing anyone. So, the coast was clear? But if you weren't seeing anyone, then why... why the seemingly impenetrable wall of platonic politeness? He was so engrossed in his internal debate that he barely registered you returning to your photography.

He watched you work, every click of your camera a subtle reminder of the chasm between his fervent hope and the reality of your calm professionalism. He longed to say something, anything, to bridge that gap. To ask why you weren't seeing anyone, to probe further, to somehow maneuver the conversation towards him. But the words felt clunky, ill-timed. He was just Jimmy Olsen, the guy with the camera and the perpetually red face.

You eventually straightened up, a satisfied hum escaping your lips as you reviewed a shot. "Got it," you murmured, a genuine smile gracing your features. You then turned to him, your expression softening slightly. "Ready to head back? I think I've captured enough ancient sea monsters for one day."

"Oh, yeah! Absolutely," Jimmy stammered, shaking himself from his reverie. He followed you out of the exhibit, his gaze lingering on your back. As you walked through the echoing halls, past the towering dinosaur skeletons and the gleaming fossil displays, Jimmy's resolve began to solidify. He couldn't leave it like this. He couldn't just walk away from this coffee-and-museum excursion without making some kind of move.

The bustling street outside was a welcome return to reality, but it did little to quell the nervous butterflies in Jimmy's stomach. The afternoon sun cast long shadows as you both began the walk back to the Daily Planet.

"Hey," Jimmy began, his voice a little shaky, "Thanks for letting me tag along. This was... really great." He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to appear casual, but his fingers were twitching with nervous energy.

You gave him a small, genuine smile. "Anytime, Olsen. It's always good to have an extra set of eyes, even if they're not focused on the fossils." There was a playful glint in your eye, a subtle acknowledgement of his distracted state during the museum visit.

This was it. His chance. He took a deep breath, marshaling all his courage. "Listen," he started, stopping abruptly outside the Daily Planet building. You paused too, turning to face him, your expression curious. "I, uh... I was just wondering if... if you'd maybe want to, like, get dinner sometime? Not for work, or anything. Just, you know. Dinner."

He felt his cheeks burning, convinced he'd just made a fool of himself. He mentally braced for the inevitable polite rejection, the "oh, I'm just too busy" or the "I only see my colleagues as friends." But the rejection never came.

You looked at him, your expression unreadable for a long moment, and Jimmy's heart pounded like a drum against his ribs. Then, a slow smile spread across your face, a genuine, unreserved smile that reached your eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. It wasn't the polite smile you gave everyone; it was something else, something warm and utterly captivating.

"Dinner?" you repeated softly, your voice carrying a hint of amusement. "You know, Olsen, I think I'd like that very much."

Jimmy's jaw practically dropped. He hadn't dared to hope. "Really?" he blurted out, a wave of pure, unadulterated relief washing over him. He felt like he'd just won the lottery, discovered a new element, and saved the world all at once.

You chuckled, a soft, pleasant sound. "Really. How about Friday?"

"Friday! Yes! Perfect!" Jimmy practically crowed, then quickly tried to dial back his enthusiasm, remembering the "schoolgirl" comment from Lois. "I mean, Friday sounds great. I'll, uh, I'll text you." He fumbled for his phone, then realized he already had your number. Of course he did. He knew practically everything about you.

You just watched him, that easy, confident smile still on your face. "Sounds good, Olsen. I'll look forward to it." You turned and headed towards the revolving doors of the Daily Planet, leaving Jimmy standing on the sidewalk, a goofy, triumphant grin plastered across his face.

A warm spring breeze blew through the crack in the window dragging in the distant sounds of Manhattan. The yellow glow of a street light floated into the messy room, illuminating discarded medical supplies and strewn about work clothes. Two day-old coffee mugs sat on a rickety nightstand held together by tape and a prayer.

You had fallen onto the mess of sheets lying on the bed. Your suit was torn and dirty; the skin underneath was bruised. Heaviness had long since seeped into your bones, holding you down on the bed. Sleep pulled at your eyelids, but they refused to shut. Instead, they stared blankly at the old walls around you.

It had been a rough night.

It was always a rough night.

The story was always the same. You patrolled, you saw something wrong, you stepped into help, then you got your ass kicked, but at the end of it all you got the bad guy. Didn't mean it didn't hurt every time they landed a hard blow to your ribs, or knocked your feet from below you. It was what heroes did, you owed the city it, you owed everyone you couldn't save.

The window squeaked open—a reminder of yet another thing you needed to fix—and a familiar face crawled in. Peter didn't look any better than you did. His suit had a new tear right at the shoulder, with a nasty looking scratch already stitched up underneath it. Dirt, scuffs, and mud turned the blues and reds dark. He peeled his mask off and carefully threw it into a drawer, running a hand through his dishevelled brown hair. Dark bags weighed heavy under his eyes as he scanned over the room.

Your eyes trailed over him drinking in the sight of him. A tired silence filled the air, both of you too exhausted to say any words. None were needed to explain what had happened, you'd long since passed that necessity. The bed groaned as you carefully sat up and walked over to him, reaching out a hand to gently inspect him. Your fingertips gently dragged over his shoulder noting the slight wince he let out when you hit the wrong spot. His weight dropped down onto your shoulder, breath gently tickling your neck while his hand tangled into your hair.

Slowly, you leaned into him and pressed a gentle kiss on a bruise that had formed on the edge of his jaw. Then another on the scratch by his collarbone. Your eyes quickly met his as you looked for any sign of discomfort, but only found a familiar warmth. Soft, yet slightly chapped lips quickly melted onto your own. He tasted the way he always did after patrols—generously donated food and adrenaline—a taste you began to recognize as home. You pushed into the kiss allowing yourself to be lost in the moment. Hands trailed along beaten and bruised skin cataloging each blow they weren't fast enough to stop.

Neither of you pulled away for a while, you rarely did on nights like this willing yourself to forget everything in turn for one soft moment, like maybe if you stayed connected for long enough you would stop fearing of never returning.

Then his forehead rested against your own, eyes flickering shut. Both of your calm breaths aligned as the stillness seeped into the room. His hand found its way to the zip of your suit reminding you that you were still wearing the tattered clothing. Long since were the days when you would have hid the mess you were. You lightly nodded your head as he slowly began to undo it. You follow with, pulling his suit with a form of reverence you only reserve for him.

Skin tight fabric hits the floor with soft thuds as you begin to pull him toward the single bathroom in your cheap apartment. The door whines as you push it open and turn the old shower handle to hot. The pipes groaned as water gently flowed from the broken shower head. Peter plants soft kisses along your shoulder focusing on the fading bruise that takes its place. A gentle hand carefully pulls him into the shower with you.

The water hits you both scathingly hot at first, but the warmth melts into your skin soothing the aches that never seem to leave. Hands cradle around each other too afraid to part just yet. Tentative kisses trail across each other's bodies willing the other to feel even a fraction of a bit better. A light kiss on a fading bruise on your arm, another on the curve of your hip. A kiss placed on his chest, a few more on the scattered marks on his thighs.

When the water started to cool you massaged the shampoo into his curls. Money was tight but you could spare the small amount to take care of each other. You quietly ran your hands tenderly through every coil, stopping every once in a while to place small, scattered kiss anywhere you could. The scent of the lavender-cedar soap filled the air as Peter ran the old washcloth over the both of you.

The sound of dripping water filled the small bathroom when you both finally stepped out. The threadbare towel scratched at your skin as you both dried off. Hands eventually found their way back to their familiar holds, pulling each other back together. You gently swayed as you soaked in the feeling of being together. All sounds faded making room for the gentle patter of his heart, the slow rise and fall of his chest, and the hum of the rusty heater that never ran right.

You don't know how long you stayed like that before Peter carefully picked you up and carried you to the bed. The comfort of an old shirt swallowed you whole before the both of you tucked into the thin sheets. The bed creaked under your weight, the springs begging for a reprieve. Somewhere above the neighbors were shouting, the thin walls doing them no justice. A cop car sped past, sirens blaring. The hair on the back of your neck rose willing you to check and see, but strong arms pulled you back in, holding your head tight against his shoulder while the other ran along your back in a soothing pattern.

Despite the comfort, you knew neither of you would fall asleep any time soon. There were too many monsters that lurked in the depths of a dream. Instead you continued to follow the maps of each other. A scar on your arm, one on his cheek, another on your neck, a faint one plastered on his lip. Then a new sensation graced your fingertips, the soft trail of a tear. You tried to pull back to look at him, but his hand held you in place, a silent will to give him this moment.

His breathing was shaky, and he trembled beneath you. A pit formed in your stomach, one that taunted you by saying you could never do enough. No amount of love could solve this, no words could make everything okay again. More tears passed, the tremors eventually subsided to a soft rocking. Only then did he say his first words for the night.

"It was a rough night." He softly said.

"Mhm," another vibration of his chest that rumbles through your back, and another squeeze to your waist, more firm and aware than the previous one. "I am, darling."

You give a light nod, and before you can say anything else he's burying his face into the side of your neck. A small smile starts pulling at your lips as you feel the tickle of his scruff, one of your hands leaving the spot it was occupying on your pillow to instead cover his. Your fingers tangling together almost immediately.

"That all you wanted to know?" A soft peck to the base of your neck and another light nuzzle.

For a moment you shake your head, but the doubts of him being able to see the gesture in the darkness of the blackout curtains take over soon after. "No, was just making sure."

A comfortable silence settled in, the only little sound making it through the still air of the night a light ruffling of fabric caused by the rhythmic rubbing of Bruce's thumb over your wedding band.

"Which one would you rather be…" you have to pause for a second, lightly biting the inside of your cheek to avoid laughing preemptively. Perhaps this kind of questions were part of Bruce's reasoning for only leaving his responsibilities as the Bat once you were deep in sleep. "A cowboy or a pirate?"

A sigh leaves him, one that only makes it harder for you to hold the laugh in. Quietness settles for a minute again, only interrupted by the surprised squeal that leaves you when Bruce easily turns you around so you're facing him.

"Hi," it should be embarrassing, how lovesick the little coo that leaves you sounds, specially given that it's prompted by a barely-perceptible contour of his face.

"Hi," perhaps not as embarrassing when his murmur comes just as soft. Your eyes fluttering closed when the pressure of his forehead settles against yours. "Mind repeating that question for me, sweetheart?"

"Mhm," there's a light nod to go along with it, although it mostly achieves having your forehead a bit more squished up to his. "My question, my dear, was weather you'd be a cowboy or a pirate if you could choose."

He hums for a moment, as if deep in thought, truly contemplating the type of lifestyle he'd pick. Instead, "and where does that question come from?"

You let out a dramatic little groan, readjusting so you can bury your face into his neck as a sign of your discontent at his lack of straight answer. Despite your pretended indignation, any tension in your muscles melt the moment the familiar smell of his cologne fills your nostrils. "Curiosity. Not everyone has ulterior motives."

"Are you sure?" Right, you can't see him, but you can hear the smile in Bruce's tone, the way he's just being complicated for his own amusement now. "How can i know this is not a set up?"

"A set up for what?" your head lifts so you can look at the spot in the void where you presume his eyes are. "So i can ship you off into a life of pirate adventure? Even if it were the case, how would that be a bad thing? It sounds awesome."

A satisfied smile settles on your lips when a soft yet unrestrained laugh leaves him, one of his hands finding the spot between your shoulder blades so he can pull you in and onto his chest. You're more than happy to melt against it, ear perfectly placed to hear the constant thump of his heart.

"So you did plan to sail me off?" You're the one laughing this time, snaking your arms around his waist to give a light squeeze.

"You wish," you murmur with a lighthearted scoff, pressing a soft kiss to his shirtless pec before resting your head there again. "You're stuck with me, love."

A soft scoff leaves Bruce at the same time his arms tighten around you, making it so every part of your body is pressed up against his. "Nowhere else i'd rather be."

Comfortable silence blankets the room once more, the mix of his even heartbeat under your ear and the light drag of his fingers against your arms and shoulders proving to be effective to lull you to sleep.

"Pirate then?" you mumble, words slurred in that way that only happens while being in the brink of sleep.

"Definitely not," he murmurs in return, his head ducking for a moment so he can press a kiss to your forehead. "Cowboy all the way. Would manage cattle all day and then get home to you as soon as the sun goes down."

⋆. 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𐙚˚ || 𓄹 ⊹ . 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 . 𐐒𐐚₊⋆｡˚

You didn't remember how this started, but it's been weeks. At least, that's what it felt like. You weren't sure how long you'd been stuck in this fit. You felt childish, as if you had nothing to be upset about, but you couldn't help it. It felt like there was nothing you could do to help yourself.

You didn't want to leave your bed, your room, your home. It wasn't even out of comfort. You felt no comfort under your sheets. No matter how warm the blankets were, you felt like you were freezing. You felt cold to the touch; hollow, empty, like a useless shell of the person you usually were.

The days went by unknowingly, at least what you assumed were days. Your curtains shielded you from the bright sun, and your phone died long ago. You couldn't be bothered to charge it after it died. You didn't need it anyway; you found a sunken distraction in watching the blank wall of your room.

The thoughts in your head were ever-flowing. They were the only constant during your episodes besides your worsened mood. All you could think about was how it felt like no one would care for you if you expressed how you felt. How nothing felt worth it. How you had to use the bathroom, but couldn't bring yourself to do anything about it. At least you hadn't drunk any water since you lied down. It wasn't so bad.

You most often wondered if anyone was thinking of you. It wasn't unusual for you to not reply to texts; you often kept yourself busy or too distracted to check who was texting you and why. You pondered if anyone was concerned with your well-being.

A big part of you thought not. Not because it felt good, but because it felt right. No one cared. Why would they if you didn't?

You were stuck, slow-moving like molasses. It felt horrid, but you didn't know how to force yourself out of it. You would likely die in this bed. A pathetic way to go, but fitting for you. Perhaps it was what was meant to happen. You'd stay like this forever and be unable to do anything about it.

It almost scared you when you heard a knock at your front door. Almost. You couldn't bring yourself to even jump over the surprise of the sound. Was it that bad? Someone had come to check on you?

After a few moments of no response from you, there was another knock, followed by a voice calling your name.

"Are you in there?" He followed up.

It was Clark. Of course, it was Clark.

Maybe it was because he was naturally kind to everyone in his life, and as he often told you, "everyone deserves some kindness." Or perhaps it was because everyone around you was sure you both shared mutual feelings for one another. You didn't know why he was there, but your heart fluttered in your chest nonetheless. Which was more than it had been doing for as long as you stayed in bed. The beating had gotten monotonous, and it made you unsure if you were even still alive.

"Um, I'm gonna come inside. I'll fix your doorknob later." He called out to you, followed by a noise that sounded very much like your front doorknob being forced out of place to open it. You wondered how strong he had to be to be able to do that. Probably strong enough to battle depression without someone needing to break his doorknob.

You heard his footsteps wander through your apartment, checking the living room, kitchen, and bathroom before stepping into your bedroom. The door creaked as he entered, and you very barely shifted in your spot, mainly trying to hide under the covers, not that it worked, since you barely moved.

"Hey there, Sweet Pea." He greeted you, his voice hushed and soothing, as if trying to coax you out from under the covers, "Are you okay?"

You liked the way he called you sweet pet names. It made you feel warm. Though the warmth was unwelcome today, you didn't deserve to feel warm in your eyes. You deserved to feel cold under this stupid blanket.

He neared you slowly before sitting on the edge of your bed, facing your back since you lay on your side, your empty eyes boring into your stupid wall.

He hesitated before placing a hand over the blanket, near your shoulder. You shifted, the hand moving off of you, and you automatically felt worse. You didn't know if you wanted him to comfort you or leave. You didn't deserve him, but you craved his worry, his company, him.

"Sweet pea," God, it made tears fill your eyes, "Can I see you? Please?" His voice held a gentle desperation, and it made your breath hitch in your throat. Your throat felt like it was swelling and straining. You wanted to cry out so badly.

This time, when his hand reached for you, you allowed him to pull the blanket from your head. He let it go on your shoulder, not wanting to make you too uncomfortable. He let out a quiet sigh as he caught sight of the tears that quietly began to slip from your eyes. It was as if it pained him to see you this way. You felt worse. You never wanted to make him upset. He was practically sunshine on Earth.

"How long have you been feeling this way, honey?" He asked you. His voice was gentle, as if a hug from the sun itself. It enveloped you much nicer than your stupid blanket ever could. It enveloped you more than you deserved.

You shrugged in response. You didn't want to talk. You didn't want to do anything. You also didn't want to let him leave. You selfishly wanted him to stay, even if you didn't want to talk and barely wanted to move.

"Have you eaten? Used the bathroom? Showered?" He asked, obviously worrying about you. You felt more tears fall onto the pillow beneath your head, his worry making you even more upset. You didn't deserve him. You were only friends, yet he was the only friend to come check on you.

You shook your head in response. You hadn't done any of those. You didn't know how long it'd been since you did, but your stomach was practically screaming at you, your bladder ached, and your hair was greasy. You should get up. You should stop being an idiot about it. Who cares if you were depressed? You had nothing to be sad about. You were pathetic.

"I can make you food." He offered. You shook your head, your sad eyes glancing over to him. His frown made your heart clench horrifically. "Do you have to use the bathroom?" He asked. You thought about it. Your bladder hurt. You hurt. You really had to pee. You didn't want to get up. You shrugged.

It seemed that he knew what you meant because then he suggested, "I can carry you there." Your eyes returned to the wall. Was it that bad? So bad that you had to embarrass yourself in front of the man you liked by letting him carry you to the bathroom because you were too sad?

You shrugged again. Your eyes felt heavy from the tears. Your tears weighed on you. He took your shrug as a go-ahead. He stood from the bed before circling it to move to your side.

He smiled at you, a sympathetic, too sweet for you smile, before crouching beside you, "I'm gonna pick you up now, okay?" You gave him the smallest nod; you could barely muster moving your head too much. His arms slipped under your limp body, picking you up almost effortlessly. Your blanket fell from your body, but you didn't find yourself cold. His strong arms held you with such warmth that you didn't need a blanket. You leaned into his touch, as undeserving as you were of it, and it made him look down at you with the most loving eyes.

He carried you to the bathroom and set you gently on the toilet. He gave you a kiss on the forehead before leaving the bathroom, giving your privacy. You used the bathroom as meekly as you thought you would, almost slipping when raising your pants back up. It made you feel pathetic. It made you feel worthless.

Your slow tears made way for a silent yet horrid sob, tears falling in fat dollops onto your thighs. You pushed your face into your shoulder, covering your mouth to stop yourself from being too loud. You sat on the toilet while sobs wracked through your entire body like terrible waves.

It took you a while before you mustered the will to stand and wash your hands. After you did so, you opened the bathroom door to see Clark there, waiting for you as sweetly as he typically existed.

As soon as he saw your tearstreaked face, he pulled you into possibly the warmest hug you'd ever experience. He leaned down, his head pressing into your hair. You felt bad; it was so greasy.

"What can I do for you, sweetheart?" He asked into your hair, his words a soft murmur. All you could do was cry. You bawled into his chest as he held you. It was all you really felt like you needed. To be held. Held by someone who actually seemed to care. He cared. It meant so much to you that you couldn't help but cry even harder at the realization. You clung to him as if being held by him would save you.

There was no silence as you sobbed into his chest, but you eventually broke the cry-filled quiet with a small voice, "I'm sorry, Clark." Your words were shaky, muffled by his shirt that now had a wet spot from your tears.

"For what, honey?" He asked. You shrugged, "For needing you to come check on me. For worrying you. For being a sad, pathetic loser." Your words made you cry harder, causing your tone to wobble and tear apart.

"Sweetheart, you are anything but. I was worried, of course I was, but you don't need to apologize for that. I'd rather worry and come check on you than let you suffer alone. You don't deserve to be alone. You're worth so much, Sweet Pea. Even if you're sad. You're not pathetic, and you're definitely not a loser." He responded, his words ever so lovely and comforting. You could only cry out a "thank you" as you held onto his shirt as tightly as you could.

You stayed that way for a while, crying into his chest as he held you, occasionally pressing small kisses to the top of your head. You deserved it, he claimed, so maybe you did.

This wouldn't snap you out of your episode, but seeing his care for you definitely healed a piece of you. Your already strong feelings for him were only affirmed with this visit. He was worth it. Worth giving your heart to. Because now, he'd seen all of you, but he still stayed with you in your small hallway, holding you as you cried, whispering sweet nothings that felt like everything to you. And maybe they felt like everything to him, too.

After likely multiple minutes, he spoke quietly into your hair again, "I'm gonna make you something to eat, okay? At least, something small. I need you to eat, honey." You simply nodded into his shirt. You felt his lips curve into a smile against your hair. It made you feel soft inside.

Without notice, he carried you to the living room, setting you down on the couch. Your hands automatically reached for the blanket you had left there, and his reached for the remote. He went to YouTube on your television and found his way to a video he remembered you mentioning. It was one you would rewatch all the time.

"I know you like this one." He smiled at you, as nicely as he always did. Tears filled your eyes again, and he only leaned down to kiss your forehead with a quiet, "Be right back". With that, he retreated to your kitchen, and you felt deep in your soul that you'd find a way to be okay again. You'd heal from this bump because it was worth it. Life was worth it. He was worth it. And maybe you were worth it, too, especially if Clark was taking care of you.

He returned a few minutes into the video. He hadn't made you anything big or extravagant, knowing your stomach may not be able to handle it, but he still cut up some fruits for you to eat. To pair with the fruits, he brought you a glass of water. Was it obvious you hadn't had any in a while? Likely so. He was thoughtful. It made you want to cry again.

As you ate your fruit and watched your video, he sat beside you, letting you lean on his shoulder. It felt nice. Having someone be nice to you. Care for you.

"How long do you think you'll stay?" You asked him suddenly. He turned to you, wrapping an arm gently around your shoulders and kissing your cheek lovingly, "As long as you let me." It made your heart skip a beat.

"I also have to fix your doorknob."

You laughed a bit. The sound was odd to hear since you hadn't heard it in so long. It made Clark smile, letting out a laugh of his own. His laugh was bright, hearty. It made you relax into his side.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Permission to enter the royal bedchamber?”

Clark’s dumb posh play voice echoed through the stuffiness of your ears. You had a decision to make: use your remaining energy to crack open an eye and watch his grand entrance or offer a monosyllabic reply. You sipped on your water through the bendy straw that was pre-positioned to fit right into the pillow pile. Then you called out to your boyfriend.

Your bedroom door creaked open. Despite your boyfriend’s monstrous size, he crept across the room as graceful and silent as a ballerina. Swapping the bowl around, he lifted the flap of the blanket up, watching you wince at the hint of daylight from outside the room creeping in.

“I made you some food,” He held his offering close to you.

Burying your face into the pillow, you hummed – a contradiction that you could tell Clark was dithering over. But he knew you were happy it wasn’t another round of medicine.

“Wanna try?”

He waited patiently as he perched on the edge of the bed. Your head rolled on its axis after summoning the power to do so from deep within your soul. You squinted at the bowl, pleased to actually focus on something further than an inch in front of you. The man would probably baby bird the food for you if you asked – regrettably, but still counted. Thankfully, you were aware enough to stretch an aching limb out and ladle the porridge into your mouth.

A glow of sweetness amidst the oats flickered on your taste buds and you reached for another spoonful, propping yourself up onto your side. Soon enough, you were gulping back the porridge. Gulps for air punctuated your gratitude at the swirl of jam.

“Thank you,” You mumbled, covering your mouth with the spoon.

“You can’t infect me.”

“I feel gross.”

“You’re not gross,” Clark assured you and leant in to prove it. He met with the palm of your other hand.

“Don’t kiss me. I can’t breathe when you do.” A hard truth to swallow for both of you. You swore to make up for it once your nose was clear.

“It’s too muggy in here,” Clark patted the shape of you under the bed (presumably your hip?), “C’mon, we’re getting you some fresh air.”

“You’re a mental health practitioner’s wet dream,” You slumped back down.

Clark’s subdued astonishment was picture perfect and you hoped that your sickness hadn’t fried your brain cells so badly that they couldn’t recall this when you were well.

“Pardon?” He asked, his voice caught between stern reprimand and morbidly curious.

Your nasal tones paired well with the simpering tone you knew and barely tolerated: “Just go for a walk in the fresh air, you’ll feel better.”

Exhaling, Clark plucked you from your kingdom of cosy blankets, though he granted clemency and allowed you to keep one around you as he pulled you to sit up. He slotted your slippers on, which had you snorting because it made you think of “Sneakernight”, which then made you choke on your own phlegm as well as your hubris. He rubbed your back until the coughing fit subdued.

“Where are we going?” You flexed your feet to test how achy they were.

Instead of replying, he hoisted you into his arms. His warmth reminded you he was far preferable to your bed (though you loved to have him in it). Nuzzling into him with sleepy eyes, you let carry you across the apartment and struggle over the window sill. You could tell he had to fly just a little when his bulk refused to crush you to fit through. It just made you feel more spoiled.

Golden rays glowed behind your closed lids and warmed where your ankles were exposed by your pyjama bottoms. As Clark sat back in the chair he’d placed earlier out on your fire escape, you curled into his lap and allowed drowsiness to take over.

The weight of you grounded him as much as the yellow sun. If he closed his eyes and tuned out the traffic, Clark could imagine sitting out the front of his house in that rocking bench, dawn instead of dusk, hay bales instead of high rises, your hand still peeling back his shirt and thumbing at the bare skin at the base of his throat.

You sighed in his embrace; your grip on his shirt slacked. From your heart rate, Clark could tell you were close to falling asleep again.

“Feel better?” He whispered just before you could slip from him.