Work Text:
It's not every day you have a Green Lantern in your office, unless 'your' is Clark's and the 'office' is the Daily Planet bullpen.
Your laptop's still dying, saying it's charging, but that's a goddamn lie. You lean over your cubicle to search for another outlet, and that's when you see Clark Kent, mild-mannered political reporter, behind the next row of desks, mid-conversation with a tower of a man in a leather jacket and too-tight jeans.
"So what is it with you, Kent?" Guy's voice punches through the clatter of printers. "You allergic to fun?"
You're walking past Clark's desk, arms full of layouts. Clark smiles sheepishly at you as Guy—sitting on the corner of Clark's surface, oversized boots planted like he's at a bar—gives you a long, up-and-down look that would make most women reach for their taser. Clark clears his throat.
"Guy, have you met—"
"Hot damn, who's legs over here?" says Guy.
You toss the layouts onto the nearest flat surface, pretending they didn't avalanche across the gap between desks and scatter onto Clark's shoes.
"S—sorry," you say, even though you know Clark's genetically incapable of being annoyed at anyone for anything.
Guy Gardner, Green Lantern of sector whoever-the-hell, turns enough to catch your eye fully.
"Please tell me she works here, Clark, 'cause if she doesn't, I'm gonna have to create an interstellar incident to get a date."
You can feel Clark's apology radiate over the cubicle wall like heat from a space heater, even though technically you're neither party nor witness to this.
"She's the city beat," Clark mutters—like that's a defense.
Guy beams.
"That's barely even a job, babe. All the real action's out in space."
He makes a fist, and the gaudy ring lets off a faint, radioactive glimmer.
"You ever see a collapsing dwarf star?" he asks.
"Yeah, last time I dated an astrophysicist," you say, and Clark grins behind his hand.
Guy makes a big show of cackling, then sobers.
"No, but for real. You're the new girl? I like that. I like a go-getter."
He takes in your boots, your messenger bag, your coffee, and—somehow—your sock color, all in a glance that's like being mugged by a full-body scan.
"You got a name, city beat?"
"Perry says you're not allowed in the newsroom," you say, this time directly to Guy.
"Perry says a lot of things," says Guy, waving a hand. "Perry's also allergic to shellfish and still eats shrimp. You want shrimp, hon? I know a guy."
A flicker of Clark's smile.
"She's actually very busy, Guy."
"Damn, Smallville," says Guy, "you're letting this one slip through your fingers? For shame."
Clark readjusts his glasses with faintly red cheeks.
"We're colleagues, Guy."
Guy cocks an eyebrow, half-smirk, like he's just been caught trading sex puns with your dad.
"Colleagues. Right. So is Lois, but I don't see you introducing me to her."
You glance over at Clark, half-expecting him to stammer an objection. Instead, he's dropped his gaze to a layout proof, jaw squared, the muscle in his cheek twitching. The familiar apology's gone, replaced by something that looks dangerously close to offense.
"Lois is out in the field," Clark says, with a careful patience that gets mistaken for passivity by everyone except people who know him. "Unlike you, Guy, she doesn't just drop into the newsroom looking for a spectacle."
"A spectacle," says Guy, and you don't think he's heard a more beautiful compliment. His shoulders spread another quarter-inch. "That's a little harsh, CK. Didn't realize you were jealous."
Clark looks up, finally meeting Guy's gaze.
"Not jealous. Just busy," he says.
"Busy being boring," says Guy. "Christ, you get more square every time I visit."
You wonder—not for the first time—how they even know each other. Clark's whole vibe is battered sweater and brown bag lunch, with a soft spot for stray cats. Guy's more truck-stop, less 'rescues kittens from the rain' and more 'calls the rain a wuss for not raining hard enough'. You hope whatever's between them is deep, complicated, and really, none of your business.
"Guy, can I help you with something?" Clark's voice is warm steel. You sense the minor tectonic movement of his patience shoring up.
"Just checking up on an old pal." Guy slaps Clark's shoulder with enough force to make the chair creak. "And now I see why you've been skipping Justice Gang dinners."
You snort into your coffee.
"You have dinners?" you ask. "What do you do, trade salad recipes?"
"You'd be surprised," Guy says, still laser-locked on you. "But don't worry, you don't have to cook. I bring the appetizers."
He winks, and you feel, weirdly, like you're enjoying his attention. You set your mug down on the desk, eyeing Guy's ring with open skepticism.
"Can you make coffee with that thing, or just trouble?" you ask.
"Anything I can imagine, babe. Lucky for you, I've got a helluva imagination."
"You're not allowed to call me that unless I get to punch you," you say. "That's how work marriages function."
Clark, bless him, looks like he's torn between amusement and horror.
"She really will," he says, and you feel a flicker of pride at his certainty.
"How about a date this Saturday?" says Guy.
Clark, who's been holding his temper like it's a hot coal, finally looks right at you.
"You're not obligated," he deadpans.
Guy's eyebrows climb his forehead.
"Obligated? She's not on parole, CK. Let the lady decide."
That's the thing about Clark. He never thinks he's saving you, but he always steps in like he should. You tilt one of the layouts at Clark, catch his eye through the glass.
"I think I can fend for myself, Kent. But thanks for the backup."
Clark's gaze lingers a beat too long, like he's searching for a warning light in your eyes, but you meet him with the same deadpan you'd use on a hostile witness. He yields, says "let me just ... check on Perry" and vanishes towards the glass office, shutting the door on Guy Gardner and his full-court press.
You hear the door click behind Clark, and the entire bullpen seems to tilt on its axis. Guy orbits closer, a planet with his own atmosphere, giving you a conspiratorial leer.
"So, city beat," he says, lowering his voice. "You and Clark, what's the deal? You're an item?"
You half-laugh, half-scoff.
"You really think anyone could pull that off?"
Guy shrugs, rolling a toothpick between his teeth.
"I dunno. He's got those farmboy arms. Some girls go for that."
He grazes your forearm with the back of a knuckle.
"Not your type?"
You look him dead in the eye.
"What makes you think I have a type?"
"You give off that vibe," he says, like it's some unspoken law. He leans on your cubicle wall—your actual wall, not the metaphorical one—elbow to the nameplate, just enough to torque his weight your way. "Sharp, city. Tough. I can always spot an army brat, or a cop's kid."
"My mother was a tax consultant," you say, "but I appreciate the compliment."
He snorts.
"Yeah? Bet she could drink mine under the table. So, what do you write, besides travelogues for the Metropolis sewer system?"
His glance drops to your badge and your battered notebook.
"You do crime, right? Ouija board for the underworld?" he says nonchalantly.
"I know how to ask the right questions, if that's what you mean," you say.
He grins.
"Okay, time for a pop quiz. Ask me anything."
He asked for it.
"Clark said you were in the Justice Gang together. I didn't even know he knew any capes off-duty. Are you friends, or was it court-ordered?"
Guy's face blanks so fast, it's almost impressive. Then he does a little stage laugh, immediately issuing a few glances thrown your way from Cat Grant and Jimmy Olsen.
"Nah, nothing like that. We go way back, Kent and me," he says. "Like, uh, Midwest stuff. Farms, cattle, blue skies. You wouldn't believe how many aliens end up in cornfields. It's a whole thing. Anyway, enough about Clark. Now's your chance to ask me anything."
You look him over slowly to buy yourself a second. Guy Gardner in full pose is a lot to process—too much for this much caffeine, not enough vodka. You straighten your spine.
"Anything?" you ask.
"Anything," he says. He punctuates it by making a ring of spinning, specular dice appear between his knuckles, blue-and-green and coldly phosphorescent. "Sky's the limit."
"Why do you always land in Metropolis, instead of, say, Tokyo or Milan or, I don't know, anywhere with better coffee?"
He squints, like he's not sure if you're mocking him.
"Because this place has gravity," he says, weirdly earnest. "You got aliens, lizard cults, banana republics with nukes, but real trouble always lands right here. Plus—"
He nods at the window. It's halfway fogged with brick dust, but the skyline cuts like a tattoo. "It's the show."
You try not to smile at that. You don't quite succeed.
"You're afraid of being bored," you say, more softly.
For a second, the angle slips. You see the kid under the leather, just long enough to want to see it again.
"Maybe," he says. "You figured me out?"
"Not even close," you admit.
"How about a real one," he says. "Ask what you really want to know."
You hesitate, just long enough for him to see it. Your face, always so good at crosstalk and smart replies, betrays you. You can feel it warming, doing that thing your skin does when you get cornered by compliments or the kind of attention you never really trust.
"Why are you hitting on me?" you blurt, half a notch too loud.
Guy's laugh is a bark, cut short by a grin so wide it straddles the line between idiot and genius.
"Because you're fucking cute," he says, "and you know how to throw a punch, and you put up with Kent, which makes you at least as weird as I am. What, you want me to pretend it's about your news sense?"
You stammer. Just a syllable. He's watching now, the way your fingers twitch at the edge of your notes, how your feet belligerently want to move but you won't let them.
"I'm not," you say, but it doesn't go anywhere, so you change the subject with a speed that would impress any newsroom veteran. "Isn't there a Lantern rule against seducing civilians?"
"Only on duty. I got leave," he says, holding up his hand so the ring glints. "You want to frisk me for contraband?"
You roll your eyes, but there's no blood in your cheeks; it's all migrated to your ears, pounding out every beat of the moment. You try, one more time, for nonchalance.
"We barely just met."
"Best time to hit on someone," says Guy, giving you a shrug like you should be taking notes. "After an hour, you learn about the restraining orders and the weird sleep schedule." He leans in a hair, voice lowering in that way that wraps a little pocket of privacy around just the two of you. "You're not scared of me, right?"
You nervously tap your fine-point pen on the battered legal pad.
"I'm scared of what happens when Clark gets back and finds out you used his lunch fork to pick your teeth."
He flicks the purloined fork against the rim of your mug with a little chime.
"You know," he says, "I like a girl who gets in front of trouble instead of hiding behind her desk. Most people in this office, you ask them a tough question, they fold like origami. You just kinda ... blade outward. It's nice."
You're about to volley back—some flippant rejoinder about OSHA violations and workplace romance—when Guy drops the grin, just for a breath, and lands on a note of sincerity so rare it clangs. It's like a full stop in the middle of traffic.
"You should say yes," he says. "You got that look like the city gets when it's about to break into a real good thunderstorm. Could be nice, for a night off the clock. But if you're not into it, I got a whole espresso bar's worth of rejection built up. Go ahead and hit me with your best shot."
Your mouth opens, then closes. The thing is—there's nothing wrong with this. Not in the ordinance manuals or Perry White's unspoken code of professional behavior. And sure, you're a little out of practice, but that's not what's throwing you off balance. It's that you want to say yes. Just—yes, let Green Lantern get you into trouble and out again. See what the city looks like when you're not working its veins for a story.
You don't let yourself overthink it anymore than you already are. You just do what you do best: act like it was always the plan.
"Fine," you say. "But if you get us arrested, you're the one posting bail."
A slow, appreciative nod.
"Deal," he says, and sticks out a mitt of a hand.
That's the moment Clark returns, carrying a mug and a look that says he's done refereeing whatever boundary dispute Perry and the sports department are at it over this time. His eyes flick from your hand to Guy's, to your faces, and his mouth does a thing—a subtle downturn and then a flat line, the way a power line sags in August heat.
"Everything good here?" he asks.
"Peachy," says Guy, without letting go of your hand, which you realize is still warmly ensconced in his. "We were just making evening plans. Turns out I'm free, city beat's free, and you—" he points the fork at Clark, "—look like you're about to give us a curfew."
Clark takes a careful sip from his mug, eyes skimming the gap between your faces. An awkward implosion of silence, then Guy leans in.
"You want in, Kent? I don't mind sharing."
Clark sputters, mid-gulp, and sends a fine spray of lukewarm newsroom coffee arcing across the front page proofs. He coughs, blushing in visible units.
"I'm good," he manages.
"Suit yourself," says Guy, but the edges of his voice have softened, less competitive more—what, hopeful? You didn't know 'hopeful' was a setting on this particular action figure, but there it is, shining through the squint and the sneer like a dime taped to the bottom of a shot glass.
Clark arranges the layouts with all the nervous intensity of a man organizing a peace summit. He pointedly does not look at either of you, but the silence between the three of you is suddenly the kind that makes you want to fill it, even if it's just with the sound of your own bad decisions.
"Well," you say, struggling for a neutral, adult tone despite Guy's whole arm still draped across your cubicle, "guess I'll have to finish my copy so I'm free for tonight."
"Don't keep me waiting, city. I'm not the patient type."
He spins away, making sure you catch exactly how much ass fit into those jeans, and saunters for the elevator—pausing only to leave an imaginary tip at the front desk with an actual, solidly-bright green flower conjured from nothing. Must be for you.
You can practically feel Clark's relief when the elevator doors close. He gives you a glance, a prism of concern and caution, then follows Guy's trajectory for a moment like he's watching a meteorite skip the atmosphere.
"I'm sorry about him," Clark says, and you suspect it's not the first time he's apologized for Guy Gardner, nor will it be the last.
"Don't be," you say, but the words hang oddly in the air, as if your vocal chords are surprised to find themselves defending a Green Lantern.
"Should I warn you," Clark says, "that he's actually much worse than he pretends to be?"
You look at him, at the way he can't quite meet your gaze, and wonder what the manual for interplanetary friendships suggests in these scenarios.
"I know how to handle myself," you tell Clark.
He nods, and behind the Clark-ness—a little smile, a little embarrassment—there's something else, something almost like envy.
When he says, "yeah. I know you do", you believe him.
And then Perry White's yelling from the office, something about a deadline and the city's water commission, and you're already a third of the way back in the thick of it.