Work Text:
“Here you go,” Clark drops your coffee on your desk before heading off to his own.
“Thanks, hun,” you toss at his back. He gives you a brief smile before setting his bag down. Humming, you take a sip and let out a noise of satisfaction.
“Hun?” You hear wheels spinning and then Lois appears at your elbow. You shoot her a flat look that she dismisses with a cheeky grin. “Doesn’t sound very platonic to me.”
“You call me sweet cheeks all the time,” you point out.
Lois sighs, the noise having become far too familiar to you. “That’s because you have a nice ass. It’s objective, nothing else.”
“Well, thank you, but it’s the same with Clark and me.” I wish, you think bitterly. Lois is unconvinced, as always. But she’s got deadlines to meet, same as you, so she leaves you alone and rolls back to her desk. You let out a sharp sigh and try to continue the article you were working on.
It’s hard to focus when your eyes keep getting drawn back to Clark. You almost wish you had a cubicle just so he wouldn’t be such a hindrance to your work.
You’d grown up in Smallville with Clark. Got the same internship as him and joined him here at the Daily Planet. Lois called it adorable in that same way she did when some of your Kansas accent slipped. Slightly condescending and pretentious.
She failed to understand just how little you and Clark interacted. His social circle was wholly wrapped up in Lana and Chloe. Despite the small-town aspect, you really never had any interactions outside of the occasional shared English class.
This newfound rapport is born from the need for a tether back to Smallville. As much as you enjoy Metropolis, sometimes it’s so big and looming that you want to cry and go running back home. Clark understands the ache for home, so you spend lunch breaks reminiscing and talking about visiting your folks.
You place your coffee down and let out a long-suffering sigh. Lois shoots you a look that you pointedly ignore. If Clark ever wanted anything more than a close office friendship, you’d be eagerly presenting yourself as tribute.
But he’s never hinted at anything more, so you take the coffees and lunches at face value. Just friendly office camaraderie.
Clark’s waiting in the lobby as you rush out of the elevator. “Sorry, Perry held me up.”
“No problem.” He has his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched. The effort to make himself small is futile, though; he’s always going to be the tallest in the room. “Where were you thinking of having lunch today?”
“What about that cafe on Fifth? I’ve heard that’s pretty good.”
Clark nods, but he’s cut off by a sharp voice. “Adorable,” Lois has appeared beside you, sipping an overpriced smoothie as she eyes you up and down. “When was the wedding?”
Your skin heats as you glare at her. “Uh,” Clark fumbles for a moment, shooting you a sheepish smile. “No wedding,” his voice cracks around the word and embarrassment burns hot in your gut.
“No?” Lois shrugs and eyes you both with a wicked gleam. “So just work married, then? Because I’ve never seen two people in our office get along for more than ten minutes.”
You suck your teeth and shake your head subtly. “You and I are friends. I believe that’s the antithesis of your point.”
“No, that’s different.”
“How?” You snap, wondering why she’s still holding up your lunch with Clark. She’s teased you, had her fun, and usually she’s grown bored by now.
Lois shrugs and begins to walk toward the elevator. “Have fun, lovebirds.” She calls over her shoulder. Maybe she did have a point about no one getting along. You have never wanted to strangle her more than you do now.
Clark lets out a stiff laugh and rubs the back of his neck. “She’s…” he rocks back on his heels, failing to find a suitable explanation for Lois.
“An enigma.” You finish for him, already leading him out of the building. “And an occasional pain in my ass.” Clark’s laugh is genuine as the air between you settles back into comfortable acquaintanceship.
“Got any plans for the long weekend?” Clark asks as you wait for your food.
You smile eagerly, “Planning on going to see the folks. I haven’t seen my mom in forever.”
Clark’s grin is easy and half-blinding. He’s so naturally charming that it makes your stomach swoop every time you’re on the receiving end. “I was planning to see mine, too. We should drive up together.”
The waitress dropping your plates off saves you from an embarrassing amount of stammering. It’s nothing more than Clark being friendly. He’d probably offer a ride to a stranger if he thought they needed help. Still, his being endlessly generous and kind doesn’t make the butterflies in your stomach calm.
“Oh,” you bite back, with an overeager smile. “Yeah, okay, that sounds great.”
“Really?” He almost seems surprised, eyes widening behind his glasses as he watches you.
“Yeah, it’ll be fun.” You’ve impressed yourself with how easily you’re playing this off as something casual. Like you’re not already mentally preparing a playlist for him and the drive. As if this isn’t what you’ve wanted since you both got the job at the Daily Planet.
Clark picks up his sandwich and shoots you another heart-melting smile. “Yeah,” he agrees. “This’ll be nice.”
It’s pleasantly quiet for a few minutes. Both of you are attempting to eat your food fast enough to be able to make it back to work on time. The sounds of the patrons around you and the low music playing settle comfortably in the silence between you.
“So,” Clark interrupts, having scarfed his sandwich down far quicker than you. “What did Perry want?”
Your brows turn in, “Huh?” You mutter around a mouthful of pesto.
Clark lets out a low chuckle that makes goosebumps prick at your skin. “You said Perry held you up. What’d he want?”
You roll your eyes at the reminder and let out a sigh that settles heavily on your shoulders. “He was telling me that my articles are ‘too sweet,’” you recount to him bitterly. The words have needled their way back under your skin at Clark’s reminder. It makes the forgotten anger resurge with a vengeance.
“Too sweet?” Clark asks, clearly amused as a smile pulls at his lips.
You nod and push the rest of your meal away, your appetite effectively diminished. “No one wants to listen to the news anymore. Every other page is a kid killing or getting killed. Our politicians are corrupt, vigilantes are ridiculous and costly. So, I take the little moments I can find and try to lighten someone’s day. I’m not saying I deserve the front page, but I think sometimes people need a breather before diving back into the harsh reality of the city.”
Clark’s expression softens the more you speak. The sharp line of an amused smirk melts into something more gentle than you can handle. You’re not sure if it’s the glare of the lights or simply Clark existing, but his eyes are shining with something so endearing it hurts.
“Perry thinks it’s too soft. He threatened to stop printing my articles if I don’t get my act together.”
“He’s wrong,” Clark tells you sharply. It catches you off guard, the conviction of his voice. But you know the underlying irritation isn’t meant for you. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to make the world a little kinder. No matter how ineffectual Perry thinks that is.”
You shrug and lean back in your seat. “I appreciate that, Clark, really. But there’s not much I can do. I either write what he wants, or I lose my job.”
Clark lets out a sharp breath that makes you smile. You appreciate it, the anger on your behalf. At least it means you’re not blowing this out of proportion.
“It’s not fair,” he says it lowly, meant more for himself than you.
“No,” you agree. “It’s not.” Biting your lip, you tilt your head and let out a low hum as you look him over. “I envy you, Clark.”
His brows shoot up as he frowns. “Me?” You nod with a small smile. “Why?”
“You get all these exclusive interviews with Superman. I mean, you could write about seeing someone pick gum off their shoe and Perry would print it. Just so he could keep access to our city’s favorite hero. If I had leverage like that, he wouldn’t ever bother me again.”
The way Clark’s face falls makes guilt sour in your stomach. You weren’t trying to make him feel bad for having connections you didn’t have. He earned those interviews; you weren’t trying to take that from him.
“Clark, I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean it like that.”
He shakes his head and you can’t figure out what the look on his face means. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry Perry’s giving you a hard time. You’re a good writer, you deserve better than that.”
You huff out a laugh, stomach settling when you realize you haven’t pised him off. “Thanks, Clark. God, I wish you were my boss. Life would be so much easier.”
“Perry is definitely something.”
“That’s being generous,” you snort and Clark’s smile returns as the tension dissipates.
After returning from lunch, your first task was scrapping your last story. Perry didn’t want to hear about firefighters rescuing little old women or successful fundraisers for underprivileged kids. He wanted muggings in dark alleys and the inside scoop on recluses like Bruce Wayne.
Slumping against the copier, you listen as it shreds your only decent copy of an old article you started on Batman. A little incident from a week ago, when he and Superman had a relatively mild clash. Still, if you gloss over smaller details and exaggerate a bit, you’ve got a gritty enough article.
“Well,” Lois whistles lowly as she walks into the copier room. “You look like hell.” Her lips tilt sympathetically as she surveys your hunched form. “Perry?”
You nod, face smushed against the cool plastic of the machine. “Yep,” you mumble.
She reaches over and rubs your back like you’re a pathetic stray. Honestly, it feels accurate as you despair over the future of your career. He’d told you to head back to Smallville if you couldn’t handle real journalism. Since when did being a journalist mean shoving nothing but blood and negativity down readers’ throats?
“Sorry, sweetie. But I told you if you submitted that article, he was going to blow a gasket.”
Clark steps into the room as Lois tries and fails miserably to comfort you. This feels more like a lecture than consoling. “Talking about Perry?”
You roll your eyes and finally straighten up. “Who else?”
Lois shakes her head with a low sigh. “I’ve been telling her to just play it safe. Perry’s been testier than usual.” She turns back to you, “You were just the closest target.”
“Yipee,” you mutter sarcastically. The copier finally begins to grind out your story about the two vigilantes.
“Hey,” Clark nudges your side with a small smile. “Maybe heading back home will make you feel better.”
Warmth blooms in your chest at the thought of golden fields and smiling faces. A far cry from the cramped roads and dirty streets of the city. “Yeah, I bet.”
Lois glances between both of you, eyes narrowing with a sharp smile. “Heading home?” Her eyes dip to you and you feel your stomach drop at her look. “Together?”
“Yeah, I thought it would be fun,” Clark tells her, completely oblivious to the scheming glint in her eye.
“Hm… Such a long car ride, just the two of you. Sounds,” she draws the word out, her voice a low purr. “Intimate.”
Your eyes widen as heat begins to rush through your body. Her teasing has begun to turn into full-blown bullying. At this rate, Clark is going to figure out your less-than-platonic feelings and be totally skeeved out by you. You’re barely even friends, let alone anything more.
“Completely platonic,” you snap at her, voice sharp. “There’s nothing else going on, Lois.”
Clark’s eyes dart to you as he lets out a soft sigh. “Right,” he mutters. His hands clench around his papers and you frown. “Better get back to work,” he turns and walks out before you can stop him.
The noise Lois makes has you feeling like a complete idiot. “He didn’t even use the copier,” you point out.
Lois just rolls her eyes. “You know, if you listened to me, your life would be a hell of a lot easier.” She pats your shoulder as she walks out and you’re reluctant to admit that she’s probably right. If you weren’t constantly getting in your own way, who knows, you might actually be happy.
Papers sprawl along your living room rug, and you’re struggling to push through the last half of your article. With a low groan, you reach for your wine glass and swallow the rest down. Your head slumps into your hands as defeat begins to settle over you.
You hated this. Hated writing about fights and exaggerating the details into something bloodier. You liked your other article. And it had featured Bruce Wayne, his event for troubled children and their lives at the homes he funded. Perry just had a stick up his ass and you were the easiest one to berate.
Tossing yourself back with a dramatic sigh, you collapse to the floor. You’re fighting to keep your eyes open and debating abandoning the article when you hear it. The slightest tap against your window. Barely audible over the music you have playing.
Frowning, you reach over and pause the song. Your head tilts toward your porch doors and you hear it again. Another tap. You would say it’s a branch or someone knocking, but you’re on the fifth floor. Neither of those is actually plausible.
Reluctantly, you get to your feet and creep slowly toward your curtains. Taking a fortifying breath, you jerk them back and immediately drop with a shrill scream.
The man on the other side of the glass flinches back with a wide-eyed expression. Meanwhile, your eyes have nearly bulged out of your head as you openly gape at Superman.
“What the everloving hell?” You curse under your breath, scrambling to your feet. He gives you a hesitant smile as you rip open your door. “Superman?” You ask, voice tight because you’re not entirely sure this isn’t a dream.
“Hello,” he greets you warmly. “Do you mind if I come in?” You can’t even formulate words as you step to the side and he floats into your living room. You eye his cape incredulously and pinch yourself. A sharp sting shoots up your arm and you dismiss the idea that this isn’t real.
“Why,” you clear your throat and finally close your door. “Sorry, but… why are you here?”
Superman props his hands on his hips, eyes roaming over your small apartment with an unusual amount of interest. “I was going to meet Clark for an interview.” His voice is so low, but you swear you recognize the cadence. “But he told me you might be better to speak to tonight.”
Your brows turn in as something warm rushes through your chest, easing the aching tension. “Clark said that?” You ask softly.
Superman turns, but he never lets you get a full look at his face. “He seems to care about you a lot,” he tells you.
“Clark cares about everyone,” you dismiss. Superman lets out an almost irritated huff before he begins pacing slowly through your living room. You keep your eyes on him, digging through your bag for your recorder.
“What,” your voice cracks and you swallow roughly. “What do you want to talk about?”
Superman smirks and gives you a look that makes you burn hot. “Isn’t that your job?”
Yes, it is. Because you’re the journalist. You almost slap yourself as you try to shake off the shell-shock. “Right, right. Well, I was writing about your run-in with Batman earlier this month. All the bloody bits.”
Superman’s jaw tightens and you can’t help but admire just how tall he is. And how ripped he is under that tight-ass suit. You blink, trying not to openly ogle the superhero in your apartment.
This is the weirdest night of my life.
“That’s not what people think it was. We were working together, and we just had a slight disagreement.”
Smiling, you take a seat on your couch. Something about him is strangely familiar in a way that makes you relax. “Alright, tell me about that, then. The partnership,” you clarify. “I don’t care for the grittier bits. Everyone knows about that, but they don’t know the other side.”
“Exactly,” he agrees eagerly. He picks up his cape and takes a seat at the far end of your couch. Far enough that your dim lighting still won’t let you get a good look at him. “I see why Clark wanted me to see you.”
It’s a shame he can see your body heat, because you are certain you’re lighting up the room right now.
Despite the very professional front you’ve been meticulously keeping up, you can’t stop yourself. The second you see Clark the next day, you’re practically throwing yourself into his arms. He lets out a surprised chuckle as he catches you.
Lois whistles at the display, but you’re not paying a lick of attention to her. “Thank you so much,” you gush, face buried in Clark’s neck.
His arms squeeze around you before he sets you back on your feet. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” his attempt at playing dumb is laughable. You can see why he never auditioned for the plays in high school.
“You’re a bad actor, Kent,” you tease, slapping his shoulder lightly. “I mean it, really. Thank you. You have no idea how much that helped me.”
Clark opens his mouth, but a cool voice intercepts. “Are you going to elaborate on this display of PDA, or do the rest of us have to guess the context? Because I promise, you won’t like any of my ideas,” Lois snarks.
Swallowing roughly, you glance around to find half the office watching you. Realizing how close you are to Clark still, you take a respectable step back. His hands linger on your arms for a moment before he lets go.
“I gave her some information Superman shared with me for her article. I figured she could use some extra help after what Perry said.”
Not a lie, not the truth. But it’s enough to make sure that the rest of the office doesn’t start demanding interviews with Superman from him when they’re on a tight deadline.
Even with something as small as that, you can still see how Lois’s lips are pursed. The only reason she’s not laying into him about favoritism is that she knows you need the win. Well, at least this is proof she does have a heart. You were beginning to wonder.
Lois hums and shoots you a sharp look. “Well, look at that. You really are like a work marriage; Clark gives you special privileges. And you… What exactly do you do for him?”
You open your mouth to answer, but fall short. Clark brings you coffee every morning. Clark insists on fielding the bill for lunch every time. He does a dozen little things for you every day, to show you he cares. Has this been so one-sided the whole time?
Lois waits with a raised brow as you flounder over the idea that you’re a horrible person. “She’s always checking out my articles for me. And,” Clark looks at you now, the smile on his face so soft it makes your chest ache. “You leave those little notes for me when I’m having a rough day.”
Your throat goes dry as you stare up at him. That’s just Post-it notes with smiles on them or little cheesy words of affirmation. He never mentioned them, you thought he didn’t care or notice.
“Oh,” is all you can manage.
Lois clears her throat. You and Clark rip your eyes off each other like you were doing something you shouldn’t be. “Well, that’s pretty darn cute.” Her tone is mocking but you can hear the genuine pleasure she takes in seeing you and Clark being together.
“It’s nothing,” you dismiss, eyes dropping to your feet so Clark doesn’t see the flustered look on your face. Lois hums, but she’s done teasing you both, for now. She turns back to her computer, and you feel the tightness of your chest loosen.
When you look back up, Clark is still watching you. The look in his eyes is intense and knots your tongue before you can even think of something to say. “You always do that,” he mutters.
“Do what?”
“Downplay yourself. Make yourself smaller than you are. I don’t know why, but you shouldn’t. You’re great.” The way he says your name after that makes you feel like someone important. Someone he actually values in his life.
For a moment, you don’t let the feeling diminish. You let the warmth of that sentiment burn you from the inside out until you think you could glow from Clark’s affection. “Thank you,” you whisper, voice quiet so you don’t shatter this tentative feeling between you.
Clark simply smiles. The type that makes butterflies flit through your stomach. But when the feeling grows too strong, when the warmth burns away into something acidic, you clear your throat. The moment shatters between you as you take a step back.
“My bag’s all packed, so we can head out after work today.”
Clark blinks a few times, frowning as he steps back and allows space to grow between you. “Alright,” his voice is strained as he nods, no longer meeting your eyes. “Sounds good.”
You hum an affirmative, too unsteady to risk anything more. Silence lingers before Clark finally turns and walks back to his own desk. With a heavy sigh, you drop into your chair and let your head fall into your hands.
Lois’s stare is burning into your back as you pointedly refuse to make eye contact. “Don’t,” you warn. You don’t feel like stomaching another ‘I know better than you’ lecture.
“Wasn’t going to say anything,” she defends, but it’s a blatant lie she doesn’t even try to hide.
“Excited to see your folks?”
“Ecstatic,” you tell Clark, smiling as he takes your bag from you and heads into the elevator.
“I have so much I need to tell my mom.” The majority of it is about the man standing next to you, but he absolutely does not need to know that.
“Yeah,” he rubs the back of his neck and you melt at his subdued look of excitement. “I need to get out of the city for a while. Don’t get me wrong, I love Metropolis, but sometimes it’s just too…”
“Crowded?” You offer. “Smoggy, rude, overwhelming…. Loud.”
He grins and his small chuckle makes your heart race. “All of the above.”
You nod, letting your head rest against the cool wall. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Lois teases me all the time about not being able to take the small town out of the girl or whatever, but sometimes I feel so out of place here.”
Clark frowns, motioning for you to step out first as the doors open. “What do you mean?”
You shrug, following him to the car park. “As much as I wanted this job, this escape, sometimes it just feels so wrong. Like I’m too small for such a big life.” You let out an embarrassed laugh and shake your head. “Does that make any sense?”
Clark places your bag into the backseat beside his own and shakes his head. “Not at all.” You’re slightly taken aback, eyes widening as he opens the car door for you. He catches the shocked look on your face and shoots you a wry grin.
“Jerk,” you scoff, slapping his shoulder as you get in.
He slides into the driver’s seat and, god, he needs to stop smiling with those perfect teeth and kind eyes. “I know exactly what you mean. I just don’t think you give yourself enough credit. You earned your place here, just like me. And a little homesickness doesn’t mean that you don’t fit in perfectly with everyone else at the office.”
You smile, but it falls flat. “Perry disagrees.” He opens his mouth to argue, but you’re sick of feeling sorry for yourself. “But I appreciate it, Clark. Really. I don’t think you know how much your encouragement means to me.” Translation: How much Clark means to you.
A light blush blooms along his cheeks and your heart stutters at being the reason for it. “Happy to be of service,” he jokes, switching the subject as he pulls onto the highway. The conversation flows easy, slightly shallow, but enough to keep you entertained for the long drive ahead. The entire time you just think about how shocked high-school-you would have been to be so close to Clark Kent. To be talking to him like you guys could be more than just friendly work acquaintances.
Clark drops you off at your front door, a gentleman through and through, as he insists on carrying your bag inside. Your mom, of course, is overjoyed at the prospect of you finally visiting home with someone rather than being single (as usual). You’d had to race to speak over her before she assumed Clark was your boyfriend and said something absolutely mortifying.
The disappointment on her face would have been laughable if you didn’t have that same expression every time you thought of you and Clark.
“If you feel up to it,” Clark tells you, standing by his car as he lingers for as long as he can. “Maybe you could come over for dinner tonight. I’m sure my Ma would be more than happy to finally meet you.”
Finally? You question internally, but don’t voice the thought out loud. “I’d love to,” he lights up and you get that sinking feeling in your gut. “But,” his face falls and you grimace, “I think my mom and dad will probably want me home tonight.”
“No, we don’t!” You jump, heart pounding against your ribs as your mother’s overly enthusiastic voice rings through your ears. She stands beside you, somehow materializing from the kitchen straight to you and Clark. Your eyes widen as she practically tosses you at the first man showing you an iota of interest. “Please,” she pleads, “take her.”
“Jesus, Ma,” you hiss, glaring at her. Clark only laughs and you just pray he finds your family charming rather than overwhelmingly obnoxious. “Well,” you suck on your teeth and turn to him with flat lips. “Guess I’ll be coming over.”
Clark looks happier than you expected at the news and you can’t help the way your expression softens into something dopey and close to (in) love. “I’ll pick you up at six.”
“Sounds good," your mother speaks for you. Clark only gives you an endeared look before he gets in his car and heads down the street toward his parents. The second his car’s out of view, you drop your smile and whip around on your mom.
She’s already moving toward the house, back facing you. “Someone had to do something,” she defends.
You scoff as you race after her. “Did you have to make me seem like a desperate charity case?”
She pauses by the door, eyes narrowing as she looks you up and down. She suddenly reminds you so much of Lois it’s disturbing. “You are a desperate charity case, sweetheart.” Her voice is so sickly sweet, you can almost ignore just how barbed and backhanded her words are. But you can’t and you also can’t deny that she’s absolutely right.
Clark is right on time, not that you expected anything else, waiting by the front door for you like a gentleman as your mom lets him in. You were planning on just wearing what you’d worn on the drive up to dinner, but she had effectively prude-shamed you and forced you to change. Now, you wore the sort of sundress you’d abandoned when you’d first moved to Metropolis. It was too short and too girl-next-door in your newfound environment.
But, back home, the soft dress seemed just right. Especially if the look Clark gave you was anything to go by. He’d gotten so used to seeing you in nothing but pantsuits and professional attire that he’d probably forgotten the woman hiding behind the work persona.
“You look…” He struggled with the word, probably trying to find something appropriate for a work-friend. “Pretty,” he finally settles on and it’s embarrassing how warm you grow from the praise. “Really pretty,” his voice is slightly breathy as he trails off into an awkward chuckle, seemingly remembering your mother standing over him, watching like a hawk.
You shoot her a sharp look that she ignores as she comes up behind you and all but shoves you at Clark. Your father, as usual, simply sits in his armchair, reading his book and leaving you to the mercy of your overbearing mother.
“Have fun, feel free to keep her out late!”
“Ma-” You’re cut off as she slams the door in your face. “Shameless,” you hiss.
Shaking your head, you turn back to Clark, who’s taking far too much joy from your embarrassment. “I think it’s sweet.”
“What?” You deadpan. “How she throws me at any breathing man?”
Clark grimaces slightly but nods as he opens the car door for you. “I mean, it means she cares, at least.”
“Yeah,” you scoff. “Too much.”
“It’s the culture out here,” Clark explains, fingers flexing around the steering wheel. “My mom hasn’t left me alone ever since I told her about-”
His jaw snaps shut and your brows crease together. Your eyes narrow as the nagging feeling that you should have heard the end of that sentence settles heavily in the car. “About?” You probe, but Clark just shakes his head, lips stubbornly clamped shut.
“It’s not important.”
You settle back in your seat, eyes still narrowed. “I don’t believe you,” he makes a high-pitched attempt at explaining himself that you dismiss. “But I’ll let it go since you were kind enough to drive me up here.”
Clark shoots you a look from the side of his eye that has heat rushing under your skin. “I like spending time with you,” he says your name and the low timbre of his voice nearly makes you jump his bones right there in the car.
Only the reminder that you’d have to drive back to the city with him after something so mortifying keeps you seated.
It doesn’t take long for Clark to pull up to his parents’ farmhouse. Martha pokes her head out of an open window and waves at you both. Despite the sun glaring into your eyes, you attempt to return it. Clark hops out of the car, eagerly opening your door and helping you out.
After so long spent in the company of citymen who’d rather let a door slam on a woman than waste a few seconds, his courtesy always takes you off guard. And the reminder of just how wonderful he is always makes you sink even deeper into an inescapable pit of unfortunate affection.
Clark’s dad, just the same as his son, holds open the front door for you both, welcoming you inside with a subdued smile. You barely get a chance to return it before Martha plants herself in front of you.
“Oh, it’s so wonderful to finally meet you.” Your brows furrow but you don’t get a chance to question her before she’s tugging you into a hug.
“Well,” you let out a little gasp at how she squeezes you. “It's nice to meet you as well, ma’am.”
She pulls back and you take the chance to get your air back. “Just call me Martha, sweetie. You have no idea how happy I am that he finally brought you home for us to meet.” It feels like you’re missing something here, some crucial piece of information. Because you have no idea why she would be so excited to meet you.
“Ma,” Clark urges and she huffs, releasing you and heading back to the kitchen. Clark’s face is flushed and you realize that your mothers are remarkably similar. He’s right, it’s just the culture. “Sorry about her,” he tells you lowly, breath brushing against your hair as he dips his head toward you.
“Consider us even,” you tell him, shooting him a conspiratorial wink as you follow Martha toward the kitchen. Clark lags behind for a moment, his father laughing at him as he pats his shoulder, urging him forward.
Dinner with the Clarks is pleasant. Despite Martha’s eager greeting, she doesn’t probe you for details on your job or love life. She lets the conversation flow naturally in a way your mother would never comprehend. Johnathan is quiet for the most part, and Clark too. But you enjoy speaking with his mom; she’s kind without being overbearing.
The food’s delicious, the type of home cooking you’ve forgotten how much you’ve missed in the city. You swear to god you almost cried when you took your first bite. It was like being fifteen all over again, racing through downtown or someone’s farm, not a care in the world. No bills to pay or deadlines to meet, just freedom.
God, you missed that feeling.
When the food’s been finished, Clark and Johnathan stand to help clear the table. But a loud, pained bellow from the fields stops them both in their tracks. “Was that a cow?” You ask, brows furrowing as you get to your feet.
“Dammit,” Johnathan curses. “Been having some trouble with coyotes lately.” His eyes dip toward Clark, something you can’t understand passing between them.
Clark nods, “I’ll go check on them.” He rushes out the back door and Martha shakes her head with a tired sigh. She moves toward the sink as you help Johnathan clear the plates.
It’s as if a switch has been flipped in Clark’s absence. The calm demeanor of Martha is immediately gone as she smiles at you eagerly. “You know, I never thought he was going to let us meet you.”
It takes you a moment too long to realize who she’s talking about. “Clark?” You question, wondering why you seem to be such a hot topic in their home.
“Martha,” Johnathan shoots her a look that she waves off.
“Hush,” she scolds. She looks back at you as you place a plate by her elbow. “He talks about you all the time,” she explains.
You look toward Johnathan for confirmation, not quite believing either of them. A reluctant smile breaks on his face as he lets out a small chuckle. “We were starting to think he made you up.”
Apparently, time in the city has just made you brain-dead, because your mind is still just repeating: HUH? “Clark talks about me?” You ask, again.
Martha hums, clearly oblivious to the turmoil on your face. “Oh, yeah.” Her eyes lift and she gives you the soft sort of smile that seems to say, you sweet summer child. “He’s crazy about you, hun.”
Your eyes widen just as hers and Johnathan’s do. She stops drying the bowl in her hand, face going slack as she stares into the suds in the sink. “Oh, shoot,” she whispers under her breath. Johnathan lets out a world-weary sigh, head sinking into his hands.
“Uh,” you back up, body stiff. “I was not aware,” you clear your throat, stomach twisting itself into knots. “At all,” you finish, voice stilted.
“Of course not,” his father mutters.
Before you can ask them one more time, Clark? Clark Kent talks about me? The man of the hour comes traipsing back into the house. “Whoo,” he lets out a panting breath, grabbing a towel and wiping off the back of his neck.
“It’s a killer today,” he says, cheeks sun flushed and smile blinding. “Cows are all good,” his eyes dart between you all, seemingly just picking up on the tension.
“Did I miss something?” He jokes, glancing at you for help.
You drop yourself back into your chair and shake your head, smile too forced to be believable. “No,” you clear your throat, heat rising to your face at how squeaky you sound. “We were just talking about the article I’m working on.”
Clark’s face lights up, even more excited about it than you are. “Oh, yeah, it’s great! Perry’s been telling her to cut back on the positive stuff, I have no idea why.” Martha nods along, eyes darting to you every once in a while like she’s begging you not to tell her son she’d snitched on him.
But you can’t pay attention to any of them. Vaguely, you can pick up on Clark’s continuous praise. He seems to think you’re the best writer since Shelley, as if your silly little articles are groundbreaking. They’re hardly better than the Sunday comic, but you wouldn’t know that listening to Clark gush about you.
Instead of soaking in the praise like you should be, you sit there… just wondering if you’ve always been so stupid or if it’s just a situational thing because of Clark. But sitting here, listening to how highly he speaks of you, far kinder than anyone would be to an acquaintance, you worry that you’ve always been an idiot and no one’s ever had the heart to tell you.
Oh my god… Clark likes me
And I’m fucking stupid
You jump up, chair screeching obnoxiously against the hardwoods. With such an ego-wrecking realization, you don’t know what to do with yourself. Especially when Clark trails off and his family sends you alarmed looks.
“Is everything okay?” He asks, smile fading as he takes a step closer to you.
You clear your throat, not one damn good excuse coming to mind. “I… Have to go.” Your voice trails off and the idiot claims are building a solid case against you. “Yeah, have to go.” You nearly trip over your chair as you rush to the back door. “Bye.”
And, in what is the worst possible way one could react to reciprocated feelings, you run. Their screen door slams behind you as you take off into their golden field and race to the street. Dirt kicks up under your heels, staining the hem of your dress as you pump your arms furiously. The sun is beating harshly against your back, but it just pushes you forward.
You’ve already completely humiliated yourself by running away; you can’t just turn around. No matter how much you might want to.
Clark Kent likes you, the thing you’ve hoped, dreamed and wished for ever since you got the internship at the Daily Planet has just been confirmed.…. And you ran away like a fucking child.
I’m never showing my face at work again.
You’d bypassed your mom when you got home, just sent yourself to your room and buried your face in your pillows. Your brain, tiny as it is, has just been going in circles, reviewing every way that could have gone better. All of it starts with you not running away from your feelings and just talking to Clark.
So, sucking up what little remains of your confidence, you forced yourself out of bed. Again, you ignore your mom pestering you as you walk down the stairs and out the door. You just have one goal in mind: Clark’s house and then an early grave.
The sun’s setting as you grow closer to their pasture, your hand trailing along the fencing, careful to avoid the barbed wire. You can spot the herd of cows off in the distance, their mooing more placid now.
You’re not entirely sure what you’re going to say to him. You know you need to apologize for how you left, especially to Martha. You should have at least given them a proper goodbye. And you consider, for a moment, fessing up your feelings.
Martha seemed to confirm that they were mutual, so what could go wrong, really?
A lot, according to your overworked mind. You kept seeing a million different ways Clark might reject you. Maybe Martha misinterpreted how he spoke about you. Maybe he changed his mind on the drive up or during your freak out at dinner. Still, no matter how many horrifying hypotheticals your mind concocts, you don’t let yourself stop.
You keep going until you’re opening their gate and stepping closer to the field. Their tractor is going off in the distance. If you squint, you’re pretty sure it’s Clark you see driving it. It stops and you nearly call out to him.
But then, he’s hopping out of his seat and peering down at something on the ground. Before you can even process taking a step forward, he bends down and lifts the goddamn tractor. And this isn’t one of those new fancy ones that barely even need a driver. This is old school, probably his grandfather’s tractor. Heavy, industrial, and absolutely not something any man should be able to lift with one hand.
“How in the fu…” You race toward the barn, creeping around the walls and crouching to get a better look. Sure enough, he’s holding the goddamn thing. No wires or lift beneath it. It’s just resting in the palm of Clark’s hand as if it ain’t no thing.
But it is a thing.
A big thing.
Jesus Christ, you didn’t think you could get any stupider, and here you are. How could you not have seen this before? You’ve met Superman on multiple occasions, been rescued by him, and just recently had him sitting on your couch. Yet, a different hairstyle and glasses, and all of a sudden, you had no idea who Clark is? The very man that you’re halfway in love with.
Clark looks up, and you let out a gasp, pressing yourself firmly against the barn's wall. When you hear the tractor going again, you finally peel yourself away and go racing back to your home. Tonight no longer seems like a good night to spill your guts to Clark. Superman?
You almost wished you’d just stayed stupid.
The ride back into the city on Monday is…. Something. You wouldn’t say awkward because Clark spoke to you as if you hadn’t spazzed out on him. And you did your best not to let what you’d discovered slip out. But there was a tension between you that you were struggling to ignore.
That tension only worsened when you were back under Lois’s scrutinizing gaze. She practically sniffed out the drama, eyes glaring at you both like one of you might spill what happened on the trip. But you kept your lips sealed, eyes only occasionally darting up to Clark as you wrote your article.
Every time you glanced up, he was already staring, offering a small smile before turning back to his computer. There was no lunch today, both of you working through it as if neither of you could handle anymore close proximity. Lois noticed, of course, and she bugged you, but you didn’t offer anything except your fast-approaching deadline.
And when it was time for everyone to head home, it was still just you and Clark in the office. Neither of you was ready to say goodbye or approach one another.
Shockingly, it was you who took the first step forward.
You clutched your freshly printed paper in your hands, nearly shaking as you took in a sharp breath. If you got this wrong, read Clark wrong; this was it. Whatever could have possibly been between you both would be officially obliterated.
“Hey,” Clark didn’t jump, not at all surprised by your approach. But he did tense, shoulders lifting as he turned slowly toward you. You held out your article, a strange peace offering as you gave him a stiff smile. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind checking over my article for me?”
His brows dip, almost looking disappointed as he takes it from you. “Oh,” he clears his throat and offers a weak smile. “Sure.”
“Tonight,” you add quickly. He raises his eyebrows, and you offer a stilted laugh. “Please,” you implore. He nods, watching you carefully. Restless under his gaze, you nod and then rush back toward your desk. You plop yourself back in your chair, eyes lifting to meet his every few minutes.
When he gets off his computer with a definitive click, your shoulders shoot up to your ears. The second he picks up your article, you’re already packing your bag and getting ready to book it to the elevator.
What you’d written was a shot in the dark. One that you’d shocked yourself by taking. It was your interview with Superman, praising his work in the community and how much he’s helped Metropolis. About halfway through, however, you started switching Superman out for Clark. And then, at the very end, just one little sticky note for Clark.
I wish I’d seen it sooner. I can’t believe how long I’ve held us both back. I like you, Clark, probably more than I should and I’m pretty sure you feel the same way. (Your mom kind of told, sorry).
I’m sorry for holding us back so much, but if you want this to be something real, then so do I.
Not very eloquent, but you’d started running out of room on the Post-It and were too much of a coward to tell him everything. Like how often you thought about him. How long you carried his smile with you as you made your way home. How you’d started imagining your domestic routine, but he was right there with you.
You couldn't say everything, but at least you could finally tell the truth.
Shouldering your bag, you make your way to the elevator, heels clicking as you ready yourself to leave the office. Your foot taps against the ground, rapid and impatient was you wait for the doors to open.
Stepping inside, you take a shuddering breath, attempting to calm down the nerves spiking under your skin. Just as the doors begin to close, a hand slips through the crack and they shoot open. Your eyes widen, gaze lifting from the floor to meet Clark’s flushed face.
“I’m sorry-”
You’re cut off as his hand cups the back of your hand, pulling you forward as his lips press against yours. It’s gentle, not a rushed claiming of your mouth. A light press of your lips against each other as you sink into his hold.
This is what he’d wanted the whole time. Not long, drawn-out paragraphs that struggle to encapsulate exactly how you feel for each other. He wanted something real, solid that he could hold and know it meant the same to you.
You let out a breathless laugh and smile up at him. Clark brushes some hair off your cheek and grins down at you. “Took you long enough,” he mutters, already swallowing down your protests with another kiss.