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“Oh,” you say with some minor disenchantment bleeding into your voice, “So the harem thing wasn’t true?”
Clark looks appalled as he turns from the monitor, stammering for the words that seem to come to him disjointed and jerky in their delivery. “Well, uh, the message was correctly translated.”
“So he does have a harem?” You ask, frowning in confusion as you drum your pencil on your desk rat-tat-tat. That’s the last time you take a vacation to Gotham—figures you’d miss out on every conceivable scoop of the century in the span of five days.
Clark seems to be turning a redder color than he usually does, except for when you happen to linger too closely in his space in the water cooler. Or that one time the elevator hiccoughed, lost power, and you tumbled into his arms. Or that other time that Lois muttered under her breath a little too audibly beside him, “just fucking kiss them already.”
“Well, it seems like that’s what his family wanted for him.” Clark begins slowly, already cringing at the delivery of the translation, especially at the way your head angles low and your eyebrows inch up your forehead. “But that’s not what he’s doing.”
“You know that for sure?” You ask, pressing the eraser into the space under your bottom lip, mulling on this. You stare up to the ticker-tape screen behind Clark’s head where Superman and Mr. Terrific pose rather woodenly for the cameras.
“Sure I’m sure.” Clark reassures you. “I, uh, took the liberty of asking during my interview with him a few days ago.”
“Mmm,” you say despondently, pushing yourself into a slow revolution in your office chair, “Because I would’ve signed up.”
“Uh, for what?” Clark asks, bewildered as he passes you by on the third rotation.
“For the harem.” You reply simply, reaching out a hand to the cluttered edge of your desk to stop yourself. It’s only after a marked pause that you realize Clark is dead silent, and you check to see if your desk neighbor is still verbal and breathing.
He seems to be cognizant, but his eyes are wide—you’re no medical expert, but you’d say his pupils are certainly dilated, his nostrils flared. He seems to be leaning forward, almost on the edge of his own chair, staring at you keenly.
“What?” He asks, not quite flatly. There’s a degree of interest—okay, maybe disbelief. You realize that what you said, is, in fact, batshit insane, and start to run defense.
“Well,” you say, trying to explain yourself even as the heat pools under your cheeks, as Clark still ogles you in shock, “I mean. Who wouldn’t want to be a part of his harem?”
“You would want to be…” Clark’s eyes practically bulge as he searches for a word in his impressive vocabulary, “…his concubine? For Superman?”
You laugh, covering your face as though this will spare you the sweet embarrassment coursing over you.
“Well, why not? He’s Superman, after all. I bet he’d be a nice overlord in bed.” You say blithely, not attaining full comprehension until all the words are out.
When you finally do, you bolt forward, a shock of terrible adrenaline coursing through your system. “Wait! I mean—“
It’s too late, of course—if you thought Clark was red before, he’s scarlet now, putting a fist to his mouth to cough into.
“Oh my God—”—you say, covering your face in abject humiliation, “I didn’t mean it like that—”
Except you kind of did, your heart hammering loud enough in your heart to deafen anyone close to listen. You thank your stars Clark doesn’t have super-hearing as he tries to recover, finally straightening up as he clears his throat. You consider the possibility of melting into a puddle and evaporating into mist, to become a fine cumulonimbus and never return to Metropolis again.
“Uhm.” Clark says audibly, and you make another silent thanks to anyone listening that the two of you are the only ones on the floor during the lunch hour.
He inches forward on the wheels of the chair, rolling those long legs towards you and your personal bubble of shame. “I, uh, didn’t know that you felt that way about Superman.”
“Let’s pretend this conversation never happened,” you laugh sheepishly, hoping the light fixture above you both will come crashing down upon you. “Um. I would like that a lot.”
“Sure,” Clark says, stopping short a few feet from you, his jaw setting tight, “Just as long as you know one thing.”
“What’s that?” You ask, looking askance from the floor up to him. There’s a set determination in his eyes that you can only question its source, as he looks directly at you, any trace of good humor temporarily vanished.
“Just that—if some evil alien overlord did have a harem,” he says, brow furrowed, “I’d be fighting tooth and nail to keep you out of it.”
You stare at him for a long second, at the intention in his eyes as they draw protectively over you, his arm that leans on your desk. At his fingers which are settling inches from yours, so close yet so far. At the way it’s clear he means every word of what he says.
“Clark,” you say, a smile rising to your face and a sweet affection soothing through you, “You wouldn’t happen to be jealous of me joining a hypothetical alien harem, would you?”
Clark seems to realize the inanity of this situation but remains steadfast. “If it involves you, maybe I would be.”
You giggle, at what he confirms without even realizing it. This makes him seem to relax a tick, though that searching gaze of his sweeps over you.
“That’s sweet,” you grin. “Just for you—”—you hold out your hand in sworn oath—“—I promise I’ll go about it the traditional route. First dates and going Dutch and getting ghosted and all that jazz.”
“Oh, well, uh—”—Clark says, not sure if this is the aim he was shooting for. He watches wordlessly as you rise to your feet and snag your backpack to sling over your shoulder. “I don’t think that’s quite what I—“
“Well, come on then,” you say, giving a game look to the office clock ticking away the imperious minutes, “We still got about thirty minutes on the clock. Bet we can grab a sandwich and soup to split—“—At this, you look back at him, hoping that your words ring clear and true—“—If you want.”
It’s a slow moment of dawning comprehension, but that jubilant, goofy smile breaks through, and then he’s a gawky, handsome tangle of limbs getting ready to go on an impromptu lunch date. He sure moves quick for such a tall guy, you think.
“Come on,” you say, motioning for the door, “I hear the fifth time you get added to an alien polycule, you get a drink for free.”
When his bright, genuine laugh washes over you both as you make tracks for the door, you can’t resist a small smile of your own.