Chapter Text
The Watchtower rotates on its axis through another orbital of the Earth, and any brief surface-level glance down to its continental span would indicate that all is well. The screen that you, Wally, and Kyle all find your attention occupied by, however, warns of something to the marked contrary.
“Luthor Surveillance,” Kyle grunts as he scans over the ticker-tape announcement inching across the newscast, “Like he doesn’t already have all the info on anyone he wants with a snap of his fingers.”
“This is just him giving the head’s up that he can do it now.” you cross your arms over your chest. You can already feel a wary scowl forming at the smile on Luthor’s face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “And that everyone should be ready.”
“Oh boy,” Wally claps his hands to his thighs in abject mock-excitement, “Can’t wait for Lex Luthor to have another great scheme to hack into the watchtower.”
“Don’t worry—”—Kyle’s sarcastic reply sails over your shoulder—“—All we have to do is get Clark Kent to write a smear piece about him and he’ll go scrambling.”
This distracts you enough from the impending doom of the situation that Luthor presents. “Clark Kent? You guys have him on speed dial like that?”
Wally’s eyebrows tick together in amusement, as though there’s something beyond your reckoning. His poised bearings appear over-emphasized as he tries to suss out the truth of your interest.
“You could say something like that.” He begins slowly. “Why, what gives?”
You sense that you’re in troubled waters, and affect overt casualness into your voice. “Oh—no reason.”
“Wouldn’t be asking if there was no reason.” Kyle, Wally’s temporary brother-in-arms for treachery, chimes in. “I saw that face on your face.”
“Well—I mean,” you scramble mentally for the best way to verbally downplay this, “I used to run into him every now and then back when I was in Metropolis.”
“And?” Wally asks the real question of the hour. As the two of them turn fully away from the screen with Luthor’s smug face gloatingly looming down upon you, it seems that you are out of options.
You trace your eyes down to the sleek, unblemished ground, wishing you could melt into a fine puddle upon it.
“And—”—your voice sounds a tad more pitched in the silence—“—Maybe I kinda had a thing for him while I was there. And—maybe I still do now.”
There’s a protracted moment that stretches between the three of you before Kyle decides to interrupt it. You wonder if it’s just your imagination that his voice seems carefully, reticently composed. “So…did you ever tell him?”
Your frown in perturbed disbelief at the very notion. “Why would I ever confess my deepest heartfelt feelings like that? Absolutely not.”
“But you confessed them to us.” Wally reasons against the logic of your argument. “So what does that make us?”
You summon your most beatific smile to the two of them. “My greatest enemies if you make me regret it.”
You try not to imagine how much you’ll regret this in the coming days, but as you take in the exchange that they seem to trade wordless hands with, you can’t help but feel that you will.
You find your suspicions and fears ultimately confirmed a few days later, round the corner of a mess hall table with your previous company.
The outside view of the world rotating below your wall-length window seems glacial, tepid in comparison to the way that your heart thunders in your chest. Especially as you find the topic of earlier conversation making unnecessary return to the forefront.
Worse yet—this time, you find yourself wishing that you could magick away the fourth distant interloper on the other side of the room who has just cheerily strode in. Especially as he sends the three of you a lackadaisical wave. Especially as Wally turns to Kyle—and Kyle looks to you.
“You know,” Kyle lolls his head on his shoulder so he can carefully take note of your reaction, “I hear that Clark Kent’s showing up next week for that exclusive League interview.”
“Oh, really?” You ask in composed fashion as his eyes seem to bore into you, searching for any outward, minute change.
You take a prim sip of your drink, wishing that a comet would crash through the hull of the Watchtower and explode Kyle Rayner into a million pieces. So far, no such luck.
“That’ll be great to see him again.” You throw in for emphasis.
“Oh, yeah—”—Wally joins the offense around a mouthful of food that seems to be evaporating into thin air—“—Because you liked him, right?”
You sit perfectly still, hoping that if you refrain from motion, it means that these predators will not be able to see you pointedly avoiding them. On the distant side of the hall, you notice as Superman carefully, slowly looks up from his tray of food.
Kyle, it seems, is impervious to your strategy, and goes for the jugular. “Well, liked means that it’s in the past tense. And you still like him, right?”
“Is that such a bad thing?” You ask, admiring the coastal plain of the Asiatic continent from where you look out the window. It seems futile to wish you could be transported there in the blink of an eye. “Clark’s a great reporter—a smart guy with a fantastic writing style.”
Wally’s voice is slick with malignant intent as he says, “It didn’t sound like you were into his excellent journalistic integrity the last time you mentioned him.”
At least your extra audience seems to be doing his best to provide you privacy in this most intimately embarrassing of moments.
You try to stay afloat. “Little bit of this, little bit of that—maybe it’s got something to do with his smile.”
“Oh—his smile.” Kyle nods obsequiously. “And not his fat ass?”
You settle your metal cup onto the top of the table with a reverberating clack—you don’t look because it would add to your mortification, but you can hear Superman coughing rather loudly into his arm—“—Okay, Rayner, I didn’t say anything about his ass last time—”
“But you’re not saying no now, are you—”—Kyle’s smug grin is breaking across his face as he leans in to better twist the knife.
“Oh my god, you’re insufferable—”—you press a finger to your temple to better soothe away the piercing headache splitting across it.
“Or was it his dreamy blue eyes?” Wally asks, because it’s not bad enough that Kyle has decided to rub salt in the wound—it seems there needs to be someone to help massage it in as well. The heat under your cheeks seems to be spreading in a fine cloak about every other remaining stitch of your body.
“The cute, dimpled cheeks?” Kyle teases, nearing closer—“—Or was it that nice little—”
The three of you look up abruptly as you take note of the figure that approaches the demented site of your torture. If it wasn’t for the fact that you have to work with him in continued regularity, you’d consider leaping out the window right now and exposing yourself to the vacuum of space.
Instead, because it benefits you to maintain good relations with him, you look up to that handsome face with blue eyes that are appraising you with a degree of singular clarity.
“When was the last time you talked to Clark?” Superman asks as he bears a tray laden with food—several muffins, mac and cheese, roast chicken—details that you commit to memory to better dissociate out of the awful situation you seem to be captive in.
“Oh god, Superman—”—you cover your face with the protective shield of your fingers, as if this will help you better deny reality—“—Please tell me you didn’t hear any of that.”
At least he has the good grace to appear sheepish as he informs you, “Well, voices do carry.”
“Just forget you ever heard the last two minutes.” You let your shoulders slump as you feel the acuteness of your predicament. “These two idiots are bullying me right now.”
“We’re loudly encouraging them to voice their opinion on important topics, that hardly counts as—”—Wally advocates his part, but is gently interrupted by Superman.
As you lower your hand, he still seems to be closely watching you. You wonder if this conversation is lowering his opinion of you.
“So are you going to talk to him when you see him on the Watchtower?” You blink at the direction that the question has taken, and find yourself unsupplied with the answer at hand. With what little defenses you have, you allow yourself to ruminate on this.
It seems that the other three, from the way that Kyle and Wally once more share cautious stares, before looking up to Superman once more—and Superman himself has yet to move his eyes from you—are all quite invested in what you have to say.
“I will,” you admit with a degree of unexpected honesty, “If certain bozos don’t poison the well for me before he even gets here.”
At this, you take aim with rather venomous glare upon Tweedledee and Tweedledum, who offer nothing but broad, shameless grins back your way. The casual, unhurried shrug that Superman makes draws your eyes back to him, the trace of a soft smile over his face lingering as you watch him.
“Who knows? I’d bet you have a chance.” Superman reassures you.
“We don’t have delicatessens in Themyscira.” Diana explains as the two of you trail out of the transporter deck—this only prompts the smirk on your face to grow.
“All the more reason that you have someone take you to a good one—instead of being led astray by other liars.”
“Other liars that happen to be on the team?” She asks, a matching, knowing smirk on her face. The two of you trail around the curved hallway as you continue to plead your point to the princess.
You’re so engrossed in your argument that you don’t even take heed of the person approaching from the other end of the hallway, though Diana seems to note their treading pace in the direction of you both.
“I won’t name names if you won’t.” You clock a conspiratorial grin up at her. “Besides, I know a fantastic place in Metropolis—Marston’s, it’s a deli—”
A voice, low and calm and reassuring—and one that you don’t think that you have heard for some endured time, interrupts your recommendation. Said voice seems to seize the words from your mouth and the breath from your lungs.
“Oh, the one with the reuben and matzo ball soup combo?” They ask.
You find yourself looking up from polished albeit well-worn leather dress shoes, up to the familiar press of slacks a size too big, your eyes skating past a beloved, patched messenger bag. You don’t stop, it seems, until your gaze has found purchase on a sweet face that has remained perfectly emblazoned in the template of your memory. As if you could forget his kind, dimpled smile, to the curve of rounded glasses that protect wistful, melancholy blue eyes.
“Oh my god—”—Mentally, you curse yourself for such a terrible re-introduction, but you can’t help yourself—“—Clark Kent.”
“That’s me.” He smiles, a humble note present as ever in his voice.
You scramble for something to say. “Good—good to see you again.” (Nice.)
There’s a delicate moment hanging in the balance of something you can’t quite put definition to, where the two of you stare back at each other. It seems Diana finds this a perfect moment to make her departure.
“I will consider your recommendation,” Diana interrupts the carefully pressurized atmosphere of the conversation, “But I must confer with Batman over other matters.”
Half of you wants to question whether this is a lie. The other half seems to only have the brain capacity to keep looking at Clark Kent, and wonder how to string words together into verbal coherency.
Clark, for all of his vaunted qualities, offers Diana a polite smile as she strides back. There is a precise neutrality on her face as she casts one final look back upon the two of you—and then she is gone.
“Good to see you too.” He says, and mercifully there’s only a ghost of humor present in his voice. “It’s been, what—?”
“Six months?” You would cringe at the fact that you have knowledge of such specific timestamps, but at this point, it’s a miracle you can even speak right now.
“Yeah, it’s a shame not seeing you in the sky with Superman anymore.” There’s that gentle, friendly smile you remember seeing every time that you arrived at the Daily Planet, the same one that would send your pulse into the base of your throat, the very one that would send a familiar clench of butterflies in your stomach. “You’re missed back in Metropolis.”
You shrug offhandedly as though the news is not wracking an odd current of pleasure through your body. “Oh, well, I get to work with him up here in the Watchtower—”—Your eyes sweep the floor so you can better summon your defenses—“—So not much has changed.”
“Is it different up in space, than in the skies over the rest of us?” He asks, which, when he says it, has a way of making it seem both like it’s not so different. And yet, it also seems to highlight the magnitude of how far you’ve ascended from the rest of the mortals.
Even this one, who seems to be making your heart race. You suppose it’s that excellent journalistic instinct.
“Not really—”—You assume that treading towards honesty is the best policy here. “He’s still great up by the moon or splitting a hot dog on Brand.”
He chuckles, a smooth, uninterrupted note—you feel a rush of pride, before this is clouded by a lick of hesitancy. “Wait—is this an interview? Should I get ready for twenty questions?”
You’re teasing though, confidence bolstered at that smile that has yet to fade on his face. Small miracle for little wonders, it seems.
“It’s not an interview, unless you want it to be.” He reassures you, soothing and serene. “And in all honesty, I’d rather pick up this conversation at Marston’s—”—He holds up a hand, with thick fingers that you think would interlace quite nicely between yours—“—That is, if you’re interested.”
“Oh, as in—”—You go out on a limb—“—A date?”
Ever the perfect gentleman, he’s got the perfect reply up his mended sleeve. “Only if you’d want it to be.”
“Oh—”—you simply can’t believe your good luck—“—I definitely want it to be.”
He chuckles at your enthusiasm, a rich, furrowed note. You could, it feels, leap from the top of the Daily Planet without suffering a scratch. “Sounds good to me. When are you free?”
If you’re interested, the gurus advise enthusiasm, so you opt for it readily. “For you? Anytime.”
“How does tonight sound?” It seems like he’s taken the page out of the exact same book you have, a delighted, genuine glint of excitement in his eyes. “I’ll meet you outside the place at 6.”
As if he couldn’t have wrapped up this opportunity with a brighter bow, he tacks on, “My treat.”
Now you know that there’s a smile on your face, but you can’t resist how it grows. “Anyone ever tell you you’re an absolute doll, Kent?”
He ducks his head, finally retreating to the shyness that he seems regularly wreathed in—how interesting that here, miles away from the rest of the human race, he finds his bearings. Not that you’re complaining.
“I sure hope you’ll say the same thing at the end of our date.” He says, finally reconciling the courage to glance up to you and share prolonged gaze with you, letting you see those perfect blue eyes once more.
“I’ll be sure to let you know.” You say, your voice trailing off, strangled away by the abject happiness that you cannot deny is making you feel like you’re treading air. And now you feel like you definitely need to make an exit before you put a single blemish upon this platinum moment.
“Well—”—You sigh through your teeth, a cheery noise—“—Looks like I’ve got a few things to do before I clock out.”
You hold up a reassuring hand, gesturing to your uniform for the time being—you try not to note how his eyes, wide and laden with interest, trace down your form. “But I’ll be dressed up to the nines for deli food when I see you.”
“Looking forward to it.” The slightest color ruddies his cheeks as he tears his eyes away from prolonged observation of your body. “I’m sure you clean up nice for the sauerkraut.”
“Well, the good-looking company doesn’t hurt either.” You supply, and if he wasn’t blushing before, he certainly is now, a satisfied, albeit embarrassed chuckle escaping him.
“I could say the same of you.” He replies back—opting for boldness in the daylight? How very unlike him—you find yourself more excited to get to know the Clark Kent that he’s become since you were away.
“Charmer. Guess I'll see you soon, Clark.” You beam at him.
Your name on his lips is a sound that you’ll hope you’ll have the repeated pleasure of hearing tonight—and in the continued future.
“See you soon.” He repeats, the look in his eyes shining with a radiant incandescence.