Clark knows he should be listening. He knows several members of the League like to complain about Bruce's "endlessly boring rants", to which Clark gently chides them, it was important to receive feedback, to constantly strive for improvement.

But, well, you were just so cute today. How could anyone expect him to pay attention to Bruce's monotone droning when you were sitting across from him?

Your nose scrunches adorably at something Bruce says, arms crossed against your chest as your lower lip juts out in an enticing pout.

He watches your lashes brush against your cheek, your eyes on display for once as your mask rests on the table. You'd once confided in him that the mask wasn't just to protect your identity, but because you sometimes struggled to control your facial expressions. Something that exasperated you but just made you all the more endearing in Clark's eyes.

Since then, Clark has unintentionally made it his goal to study every microexpression, committing each to memory. He could spend hours just staring at you, admiring every emotional detail as it flickered to life.

Not in a creepy way! You're just so... special.

He sighs softly, unaware of the knowing smirks thrown his way, Batman pausing mid-sentence as he turns to stare at his friend with a raised brow. "Superman?"

When Clark doesn't answer, Bruce follows his gaze, huffing as he crosses his arms in a show of stern disapproval despite his internal amusement at Clark's obvious pining.

"Superman?" Bruce clears his throat, speaking a little louder as snickers ring out across the room.

Sensing a change in the atmosphere, Clark blinks rapidly, a blush covering his sheepish face as he stares into the blank white lenses of Batman's cowl whilst trying to play off his inattention.

"Anything to add, Superman?"

"I, er..." he coughs, "No, I think you've covered everything."

There's a handful of snickers that let Clark know he's failed spectacularly, and he has to fight the urge to sink down in his chair. Mortification flooding his veins, cheeks flushing an undoubtedly bright red, had he really been so obvious with his... admiration of you?

Oh gosh, had you noticed him staring? He thinks he might throw up. What if you thought he was some weirdo lecher?

You hide a laugh behind your hand that only he can hear, eyes sparkling in amusement, and suddenly the embarrassment is worth it.

Oliver and Dinah are the first to intervene, a half-cocked plan forming over wine and dinner the night of Clark's pitiful display during the League meeting.

"Oh, come on, Ollie, you have to admit, it's cute."

"It's pathetic, I was cringing in second-hand embarrassment for him." Oliver denies. "I mean, he's been pining like a puppy for how long now?"

"You're getting really worked up about this, babe." Dinah raised an amused brow.

"I mean, they're clearly perfect for each other." Ollie tugs at his hair, "It's painful, Di, painful I tell you!"

Dinah's not sure how that one conversation led her here, sitting next to you in a cozy cafe across from Ollie and Clark in what is definitely a double date, despite her husband's reassurances that they were just friends 'hanging out.' But she's starting to understand Oliver's frustration.

"Where are Hal and Barry?" You ask, clearly suspicious when 15 minutes pass and neither of them shows up, your gaze narrowed on a fidgeting Oliver.

"I didn't tell you? They're uh, busy, work things, you know how it is."

"Yeah, work things." You hum.

"Right, looks like it's just the four of us then. Who's ready to order?" Oliver claps, flagging down a waiter as Clark keeps alternating between staring dopily at you and staring holes into the poor menu.

"So, Clark, you working on anything at the moment? This one's always telling me how much they enjoy reading your articles." Dinah prompts, elbowing you with a sly grin as you stare at her with wide-eyed betrayal.

"Really?" Clark coughs, staring at you hopefully.

"Well, yeah, you're a talented reporter, Clark. I can tell you put a lot of heart into everything you write." Clark looks torn between puffing his chest in pride and collapsing in on himself in embarrassment.

"I think you're really talented too!" Clark blurts, and it's your turn to be flustered at the compliment.

Dinah's beginning to see what Ollie means.

Diana's the next to meddle, deciding it's time for a more physical approach. Which is how you somehow find yourself standing across from Clark in the Watchtower training room, trying (and failing) to keep your traitorous eyes from trailing over his ridiculously toned form.

The biceps he usually kept hidden away beneath his suit were on display for once, drawing your attention like a blaring neon sign. Look at me! They taunted you, beckoning your gaze as your imagination dove into sinful places. How easy it would be for him to pick you up, hold you against him or even throw you around—

"Are you ready?"

"Ready?" You parrot, dazed, swivelling to stare at a smug Diana.

"To spar?" Right. Yes. That. The spar, the spar you were about to have with Clark. The no powers, close quarters, sweaty, contact-filled spar.

Your heart hammers like a jackrabbit, and though Clark throws you a concerned glance, he's kind enough not to mention it.

The spar is, quite frankly, painfully embarrassing.

At first, you're both hesitant, circling each other as you test the waters. When it becomes clear that Clark won't attack first, you make the first move, slowly building confidence as you find a rhythm. Confidence, which turns to annoyance to outright anger, when Clark doesn't even attempt to hit you back.

As your frustration builds, so too does the power behind your hits. "You're not even trying," you hiss.

"I don't want to hurt you." Clark stammers, and your rage reaches an all-time high. Did he think he was better than you?

"Excuse me? What's that supposed to mean?" Instantly, Clark knows he's said the wrong thing, your brows furrowing even further in anger. His stumbled explanations fall on deaf ears as you lash out with renewed vigour.

"Yeah! Kick his ass!" The unexpected voice takes you both by surprise, your eyes briefly darting to the sidelines, and when did Wally and Nightwing get here?

You looked away for one second. One second of inattention, a brief, infinitesimal moment in time. But one second was all it took (you could practically hear Batman's scolding tone in your mind) before pain exploded across your face like a supernova.

You're not even entirely sure what's happened as your knees buckle, hands instinctively clutching your face, only to come away concerningly wet.

Tears of pain slide down your cheeks, but you don't even notice over the searing agony of your definitely broken nose.

The gallery devolves into chaos; spectators yell and clamour around you as Clark apologises profusely. Horror fills his eyes, and you can't help but think that if anyone should be crying, it's you.

Still, he's clearly distraught, trailing after you as you stumble half blindly toward the infirmary.

"I'm okay," you try to reassure him, the word's garbled through your mouth full of blood.

It has the opposite effect.

You see very little of Clark in the weeks after he accidentally breaks your nose. Not because you’re holding it against him, but because he looked so distraught when he saw your healing face that you stayed away from the Watchtower until it completely healed over.

That didn't stop the influx of apology texts, or the apology flowers, or other little knick-knacks and souvenirs from around the globe. It was cute at first, but your living space was getting a little crowded.

"Clark, seriously, it's fine; it was an accident." You sigh, for what must be the hundredth time.

"I know, but—"

"But nothing." You take his anxiously twiddling hands in yours without thought, just wanting to calm him down. It stuns him into a flustered silence, and keeping up with your emboldened momentum, you bite the bullet. "Make it up to me then. There's a movie I've been wanting to see. Come with me? You're paying."

The high of your victorious attempt to ask Clark on a date lasts five seconds before Booster Fucking Gold ruins it.

"Wait, are you guys talking about that one with the hot redhead? I wanna come!

"He likes you too, you know." Bruce can't believe he's doing this, but it's been years, and neither you nor Clark has made a move. It was pitiful.

(Also, he may have overheard his children concocting some harebrained kidnapping scheme with Harley Quinn of all people and decided enough was enough.)

"What?! I have no idea what you're talking about." You respond somewhat shrilly, the picture of nonchalance. Trying not to falter under the weight of 'unimpressed batstare vol. 3.'

Your shoulders hunch in on themselves, eyes alternating between the monitor and his stone-faced expression. "Really? I mean," you cough. "he said that? Like... to you?"

Even behind the mask, Bruce's stare is deadpan, the kind that said he'd rather be literally anywhere else right now. "Just put us all out of our misery and kiss him already."

"Wha? Like right now?" His stare is expectant, with the promise of hell to pay if you don't get out of his sight right now.

You take the hint. You nearly trip over your feet as you scramble to escape under Batman’s heavy stare.

You're not sure if you're hoping Clark is currently on the tower deck or not. Batman’s words had given you the confidence boost you needed, but there was still that underlying anxiety.

What if he was wrong? What if Clark’s feelings had changed? What if -

Clark finds you first, a sunny smile on his face as he approaches you. He’s so beautiful, radiant even in the sterile watchtower lighting. He’s saying something, asking you a question maybe, but you barely hear it over the roar of blood in your ears.

You don't speak; you know you'll lose your nerve if you do, and quickly lean in to kiss him mid-sentence. Gently at first, your hands ghost the tops of his shoulders, giving Clark ample opportunity to pull away if he wants.

Large hands move to cradle the small of your back, pulling you closer as Clark tilts his head and deepens the kiss with a soft sigh.

Your arms move to lock around his neck, and Clark lets out a small hum of approval that makes your stomach swoop.

“Get a room!”

“Yeah Supes, get some!”

“Fucking finally!”

The various jeers and exclamations startle you so badly you jolt in Clark’s arms. If it weren’t for him holding you up, you likely would’ve hit the floor, because at some point during the kiss Clark had started floating.

Over his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of some colourful costumes before you’re suddenly whisked away. It’s not the first time you’ve experienced Clark’s speed, but it’s still enough to pull an alarmed scream from your throat.

“Clark!” You hiss in embarrassment when he finally sets you down in a room occupied only by the two of you, though his hands still linger on your hips.

“Sorry, just wanted to get you alone.” He grins bashfully, and it’s enough to douse your annoyance. Your eyes stay narrowed in a mock glare, but you both know there’s no heat behind it.

“I’ll make it up to you.” He whispers before kissing you once more.

(Later on, you’ll scold him for it, for now you’re more than content to keep kissing him.)