Work Text:
It’s not that Clark doesn’t love what he does. He does—loves it deeply, in that soul-rooted kind of way that keeps him steady even when the world tilts sideways. He loves being Superman. He loves the responsibility, the purpose, the grit, and how it isn’t easy. Loves that he has to make an effort, that he can make people smile and feel safe. He loves that he gets to help when others can’t, that sometimes just showing up is enough to give people hope.
He loves being able to inspire—not just in the cape-and-boots kind of way, but in the quiet ways too. A steady hand, a reassuring nod, a smile offered in the chaos.
But still… It’s a lot, you know?
It’s the kind of weight that settles in his bones, even if they’re not supposed to get tired when the sun is up. Fighting off alien threats, trying to keep everyone alive—everyone, not just the people on his side. And everything, trying to make sure there’s as little damage as possible in the aftermath. Then there are the arguments that follow, always sharp-edged and exhausting: Guy and Mr. Terrific, voices raised in another ethics debate about why it was fine to obliterate some poor creature without so much as trying another way. Without even asking if it had a name.
Then the smaller things, the ones that don’t necessarily make headlines unless he interferes. Like the afternoons he spends in the library helping a kid he’d met at the park with homework, long division turning into a full-on math circle when six more children joined in, pencils clutched in tiny hands and hopeful eyes blinking up at him like he might actually know what he was doing.
He didn’t.
Clark barely remembered the formulas himself, stumbling through each problem with a sheepish grin and a prayer to whatever cosmic force governed decimals. Because let’s face it—he’s a writer. A reporter. He hadn’t taken a math class since high school, and even then, he’d spent most of it dreaming up headlines and sketching out columns in the margins of his notebook.
So, yes—being Superman is good work. Important work. But it’s still a lot.
And the only reason it doesn’t crush him—doesn’t swallow him whole some days—is you.
The knowledge that, no matter how long the day stretches, how heavy the cape feels on his shoulders… he gets to come home to you.
He doesn’t bother with the door anymore.
There used to be a wall of sleek ceiling-to-floor windows in his living room of the apartment—an architectural choice meant to make the space feel expensive, expansive, with a view of the Metropolis skyline. It shattered months ago during a late return from Tokyo, when he couldn’t be bothered with the doorman, the lobby cameras, or changing out of his suit at all.
He never replaced the glass. Just cleaned up the broken pieces and left the sky wide open. Maybe he should buy some curtains.
Tonight, like most nights, he drifts in through the gap on his wall, boot soles brushing the hardwood with the softest of thuds, cape fluttering behind him before settling in a heavy line down his spine. He lands like he’s done it a thousand times. Because he has.
The apartment is quiet. Dim. Only the soft blue glow from the TV and the familiar orange halo of the corner lamp light the room. The air smells faintly like something yours. Your cooking and some cocoa (because Clark doesn’t really like the taste of coffee, and sure, he’ll have a cup of joe every once in a while, but he’d much rather have a hot cocoa or juice). Clark can’t help but blush at the thought of you in his kitchen, making food on his stove, and he vaguely wishes he’d been home to help you. Stupid, little things like this always make him flustered, no matter how long he’d been dating you.
His stomach grumbles at the thought of food.
Then, he exhales.
The suit clings to him more than usual tonight—soot crusted in the fibres, ash smudged across his chest like fingerprints he couldn’t shake. The aftermath of a city-sized wildfire up in the woodlands of Canada, or maybe it was from the quake in the Caribbean (or was it eastern Asia?)—he doesn’t know anymore. The day bled into night somewhere over the Pacific, and his brain never got the memo by the time he got back to Delaware.
His fingers flex at his sides as he steps further in, the dirt crumbling a little with each movement. He winces, knowing he’d have to sweep it up come morning. Not now, not when his shoulders ache. When his ribs feel bruised, even though they’re not. The Superman Robots and Gary made sure to take good care of him.
The only part of him that isn’t exhausted is the part that knows he’s home.
Then he sees you.
Tucked into the couch, knees pulled up, curled under a familiar shade of red.
He nearly steps past it, assuming it’s another throw blanket at first glance, but then his whole body halts mid-stride, heart giving a strange, unsteady lurch. It flutters somewhere between his ribs, then sinks low into his gut, warmth unfurling from the centre of his chest and crawling up into his throat, his cheeks, the tips of his ears.
Because there you are—wrapped in his suit.
Not the one he’s wearing, obviously. This is a different one. Another spare. He keeps a few stashed away; in the Fortress, one folded neatly in a drawer back home with Ma and Pa. And then there’s this one.
It’s the one from earlier this week, the one he’d left draped over the back of his desk chair in his bedroom after peeling it off post-meteor rescue. He meant to wash it. You must’ve beaten him to it. It looks freshly laundered, no question—cleaner than he’s felt in days. And now it’s wrapped around you.
The cape drapes over you like a weighted blanket, swallowing your frame in waves of bright crimson. The fabric dwarfs you, stretched wide in the shoulders, long in the sleeves—the suit is too big in all the ways he is. The crest is wrinkled slightly where your arms are wrapped around it, like you’d been holding it and yourself.
You’re fast asleep, breathing gently, mouth slightly open. Even drooling a little. You must’ve tried to wait up. The TV is still on, volume low, flickering gentle colour across the walls and casting soft shadows over your sleeping face. A familiar comedy movie he can’t recall the name of slowly comes to an end, and he fights back a smile at the sight of two mugs on his coffee table.
Yours is nearly empty, and the other is still full of cocoa, long gone cold.
A deep, familiar pang settles in his chest—the kind that doesn’t come from wounds or exhaustion, but from disappointment in himself. He can’t remember how many times it’s happened now: you, waiting up; him, caught somewhere between firestorms, alien debris fields, and time zones. The world always needs something from him, and you’re left holding the space between.
The guilt and disappointment that hurt his chest have something gentler beneath them. Hope, maybe. Or fear. He wonders, not for the first time, if there’s a part of you that resents him. If there’s some hidden corner of your heart that’s gone untouched for too long. If your silence ever folds in on itself, turns bitter without him noticing.
Even with all his abilities, he knows better than to assume he can see and know everything.
But you’re here. You stayed. Wrapped in the folds of his old suit as if it means something to you beyond fabric and stitching. And he knows that kind of comfort—the reaching for something just to feel close to the one you miss. He knows it because he feels it too (and he takes a few things of your own for himself). He knows you miss him as much as he misses you, so much so that you try to find some comfort wearing his clothes.
He sighs, quiet and rueful, reaching over to gently flick off the TV. The apartment falls into stillness, warm and dim.
Then he moves toward the couch.
You don’t stir as he crouches beside you, one arm sliding beneath your knees, the other behind your back. You’re so warm, soft against the roughness of his suit, and you sigh in your sleep as he lifts you into his arms, like your body already knows it’s him, and in response, he can hear your heart kick up a few beats.
The moment he straightens, you stir in your sleep. The edges of it slip from you as you start to wake, and Clark immediately goes still.
“Hey, Superman,” you mumble, eyes still mostly closed, a lopsided little grin tugging at your lips.
He looks down at you, your face still nestled against his shoulder, and feels his own lips twitch into a smile he couldn’t stop if he tried.
“Hey, you...” he whispers, voice softer than a breeze. And then, because Clark can’t bite back a bad joke even if it kills him. “Guess there’s two of us now. You fell asleep on the job, though.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, breath warm against his collarbone. Thank God. No one laughs at his jokes like you do—genuinely, softly, like you think they’re clever instead of corny. But he knows you think they’re corny and find them funny anyway. “It’s part of your charm,” you told him once.
Your arms loop around his shoulders, pulling yourself closer with the easy kind of trust that knocks the breath right out of him.
“Well,” you say, voice still heavy with sleep, “your suit was warm. And it smells like you. Couldn’t resist.”
As you speak, Clark’s heading toward the bedroom in long, steady strides. The door swings shut behind him with a soft thud as he nudges it closed with the toe of his boot. He sets you down gently on the bed.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, eyes cast downward and dropping to his hands as they trail away from your sides. “About being late.”
You barely sink into the mattress before you’re pushing yourself back up again, arms tense beneath you, spine straightening like the words alone jolted you fully awake. Your brows furrow, a wrinkle forming between them, eyes wide with soft disbelief.
“What?”
Clark opens his mouth, hesitates. He feels… embarrassed now. A little silly. Ridiculous, even. But it’s there, stuck in his chest like something splintered and raw. Still, he tries.
“I just…” He shifts, the words clumsy on his tongue. “I feel like I’m keeping you.”
Your head tilts, confusion still drawing shadows across your expression. “From what?”
He lets out a breath, glancing away. “From sleep. Mostly.” His lips quirk, but the smile doesn’t land. Now he definitely feels silly. “But you know... other stuff. Normal stuff.”
“Normal stuff?”
“Yeah.” His voice, unfortunately, cracks.
There’s a flicker in your gaze then—concern, maybe even a bit of heartbreak. You move on the bed, inching toward him as he stays standing at your side, still in full uniform like he’s half-holding himself apart from this space. From you.
You reach for his cape with gentle fingers, giving it a tug. “Clark, come on,” you sigh softly, coaxing. “Sit down.”
He doesn’t answer at first. Not with words, anyway. He watches you with that faraway look he sometimes gets when he’s trying too hard to stay grounded, to not float off with the weight of it all. But after a moment, he sits beside you. The mattress shifts under his presence.
“It’s just…” he starts again, quieter now. “It’s something that’s been on my mind a lot.”
“It’s on your mind?” you echo.
“It’s how I feel,” he says finally. Clark lifts his gaze just enough to meet yours, then drops it again, watching his fingers loosely thread together in his lap. His shoulders lift in a slow, awkward shrug. “I just... I can’t help it.”
You notice the way his jaw tightens, how his brows pull together in that way they always do when he’s caught in his own head. And then, gently, you shift closer.
It takes a second—you’re still wrapped in the bulk of his suit, swimming in it. You fumble with the cape first, shoving the heavy red fabric behind you with a soft huff so you won’t sit on it. He watches as you move, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, despite himself.
It makes you smile, too, a breathless laugh escaping you at the ridiculousness of it.
Finally settled, you press a hand to his shoulder, fingers curling gently into the fabric of his suit. You tilt your head slightly, that familiar teasing glint in your eye softening the line of your mouth. “Well, I’m honoured I’m constantly on your mind,” you murmur, your voice just as warm as your touch. “I just wish you weren’t beating yourself up about it.”
He exhales, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t quite make it. “It’s hard not to.”
“Clark...” you breathe, thumb brushing over the muscle of his shoulder, then you reach a little higher, nails raking the base of his skull. “We’ve talked about this.”
“I know.”
“If anything, I’m sorry I make you feel like this.”
His eyes flick up sharply. “It’s not your fault.”
“And it’s not yours either.” You inch in even closer, your knees touching his now. “I knew what I signed up for when you told me. I know you’re going to be late sometimes, and yeah... I worry. But I also know you’re out there helping people. That you’re doing something good. That you’re doing what only you can do.”
He’s quiet, just listening, his eyes drinking you in like you’re the first calm he’s had all week.
“And that’s what’s more important,” you finish, gently. “Besides, you always find time for me.”
He shakes his head, barely, like he doesn’t want to disturb the moment, even as guilt stirs low in his chest .“Not enough.”
But you’re already leaning forward, your forehead nudging his, your nose brushing his with a quiet, tender smile. “Yes, it is. It’s enough,” you whisper, your words skimming against his mouth. “And you’re not keeping me from anything, Clark. You’re what I come home to.”
That makes him smile, teeth and all; he can’t stop himself if he tried. He can feel it blooming over his face, stretching his cheeks until they ache. And when he sees your grin mirror his—just as wide, just as real—it knocks the breath from his lungs all over again.
Warmth floods his chest. It’s dizzying—heady. The way you look at him like that, like he’s something precious and whole, like he’s never once faltered under the weight of his mistakes. He doesn’t know how you do it: you can hold all of him like it’s so easy. Like it’s always been meant for you.
You’re effortlessly radiant, and he can’t help but think that maybe the earth made sense the day it brought you into it. That it would only ever make sense if you were part of it.
His thoughts scatter as you inch closer again, shifting in the oversized suit still wrapped around you. It pools at your arms, slides against your skin with every small motion. You huff softly, shoving the bulk of the cape behind you again, pushing it like it’s an old blanket you’ve worn a hundred times.
There’s a glint in your eye, a spark of something playful under all the softness. Clark can’t stop smiling at you, and it’s all he can do not to melt into the floor.
Butterflies threaten to consume him fully, fluttering hard against his ribs. All thoughts are no longer tinged with guilt or second-guessing.
He’s not prepared for you to lean closer and kiss him. It’s gentle, warm, and slow, like you’re feeling the shape of him all over again. You drink in the pleased sound he makes in the back of his throat like it’s sustenance. Your lips move slowly against his, but he can’t quell his sudden eagerness now that you’re this close.
He doesn't even think before leaning in harder, lips moving more eagerly against yours.
His hands find your waist, sliding around you to pull you flush to him, holding you close like he’s afraid you might slip away. You shift easily in his grasp, fitting against him like second nature. Your fingers find the nape of his neck, brushing through the hair that lies short there, nails raking lightly—a touch that sparks a shiver right down his spine.
Your arms wrap around his shoulders, tugging him even closer, and the contact floods his system with sensation. He’s glowing from the inside out. His lips keep seeking yours between smiles and breathless laughs without real meaning. And when you shift into his lap, knees braced on either side of his thighs, he leans back a little without protest, lips chasing yours all the while.
He keeps pressing kiss after kiss to your mouth when you move, some missing—a soft brush to your cheek, the corner of your mouth, even your chin. You laugh at the clumsiness of it, at the stupidly happy grin spreading across his face, and it only makes him kiss you again.
When you lean back slightly, just enough to look at him, Clark is sure he must be blushing a ridiculous shade of red. Like a teenager. His breath catches, heart stammering a beat too hard against his ribs.
You’re glowing—or maybe that’s just how he sees you. Lit by the soft lamp-light, eyes gleaming, hair tousled, smile curling at the edges like a secret meant only for him. He stares up at you like you’re responsible for the stars in the sky. “Aw, shucks. You really are somethin’ special, y’know?”
You smile wider, “I can’t believe you say that stuff unironically.”
“What stuff?”
“Shucks.”
“People say ‘shucks.’”
“You’re literally the only person who’s ever said ‘shucks’ in my entire life.”
He shrugs like he’s shy, “Guess that makes me special too, huh?”
“Golly gee, good for me, then.” You roll your eyes fondly.
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Just a little.”
His hands settle at your waist again, thumbs stroking small, unconscious circles. And he feels the little flutter of your heartbeat stuttering at the attention. His grin turns a little crooked, a little helpless. If he could bottle this moment, he would. He’d carry it with him always, like a talisman.
But then your expression shifts a little. You bite your lip, brows twitching in the faintest hint of frustration as your arms reach behind you.
Clark blinks, watching you carefully. “What is it?”
“I’m just…” You fumble a bit beneath the cape still draped around you, puffing your cheeks in mild annoyance. “Trying to find the zipper.”
He tilts his head, amused. “Hm?”
“Of the suit,” you huff, dropping your arms and resting your hands on his shoulders with a sigh. “It’s heavy, you know?”
That makes him laugh—a quick, unguarded sound, half-snort, half-sigh. He thinks it’s wildly unattractive. But your smile only grows at the sound of it, and that alone makes his cheeks flush hotter.
“Here,” he says, voice gentler now, full of quiet affection.
He helps you peel the suit off with a kind of practiced care, fingers moving patiently as he guides the fabric down your arms and off your shoulders. You shift, stepping out of his lap and out of the suit in one smooth movement, the blue and red pooling like silk at your feet.
You’re left in a delicate and pretty, soft white tank top, with tiny ruffled edges along the neckline and hem. There’s something impossibly endearing about it, especially paired with the fact that you’re not wearing any pants, legs bare and beautiful under the low light.
Clark doesn’t even try to hide how he’s admiring you. You saunter back to him, hips swaying slightly, and his heart skips again. Gosh.
“Thanks,” you sigh, climbing back into his lap with familiar ease. Your fingers cradle his face gently, and then your lips brush his. “I love you,” you whisper against his mouth.
“Love you more,” he says, already breathless.
You giggle between his lips, soft and amused. “Literally not possible.”
“I think it is,” Clark murmurs, barely a breath. He sighs into the kiss like it’s the only oxygen that matters. One of his hands slides lower, daring past your hips, tracing the edge where the soft fabric of your underwear ends and warm skin begins.
And just when his mind begins to slip into that space where everything blurs but the feel of you, you pull away. Not far, just enough to press soft, teasing kisses along the edge of his jaw, then down the strong line of his throat. His fingers twitch on your hips and waist, aching to pull you closer, to hold you like a lifeline.
“Mmm, wait,” you breathe, palm pressing gently to his chest as you lean back to really look at him. Your expression twists, “No dirty clothes on the bed.”
Clark blinks. “Wha—?”
“Go,” you laugh, nudging him off with a light kick on his side that barely lands. You settle deeper into the pillows and clean sheets, “Go change. And shower. You smell.”
“I don’t—”
“You do,” you say sweetly, grinning like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve got dirt and sweat all over you. Go. I’ll still be here when you’re back.”
He drags a hand down his face with a dramatic groan. “Fine. Sure, okay. Don’t fall asleep. I’ll be quick.”
“Whatever you say, Big Blue.”
You can’t see his smile widen when he walks into the bathroom, but you know it does.