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Clark Kent had developed this awful new habit.
He wasn’t sure when it first started, but he knew, now, it was unbreakable. You had become his compass. Even mid-flight, his muscles screaming as they wrenched open the jaw some monster or another, as he was fighting, some portion of his brain was still orienting himself to you. Was he flying towards you? Away from you?
When a building fell, were you nearby? Had your subway train screeched to a halt, as another emergency shelter-in-place warning ravaged through the city, and the sky exploded into flames and smoke and the breath of a furious, evil creature?
Wherever he was, whatever happened, he oriented himself to you. Superman was a holy thing, and yet he used the suit and the powers – just sometimes – because that way he could see you. A zip of blue and red past your window, silent footsteps behind you on the street, it was all excusable. Because he was Superman. He was saving you.
Clark had looked up stalking on his work computer, just in case, but he decided he was in the clear. His intent was good, and that was what mattered. How pathetic, that he’d laughed into the sky above Metropolis when he saw you reading his front-page article about Superman outside a newsagents, mouth agape.
For a week, he had been buoyed. He had carried groceries for anyone who smiled at him, and lifted firefighters down from buildings to safety just to save them the effort after their own heroism. He had brought extra coffees to work and written up meeting notes he didn’t have to, and he’d put on the Superman costume just to makes kids smile. And every single time he’d gone out of his way, above and beyond, he’d glanced quickly around, scanning the crowd to see if you were there. He would do it all anyway. Of course he would.
But for some reason, Clark desperately wanted you to see him. For the man he was. The metahuman he was. He just wanted you to see him at all.
You had only met a handful of times, a consultant on some stories, so well-liked and knowledgeable that you’d be called back in every time your expertise was needed. Lois had found an excuse to bring you in to the ‘Planet just last week, and Clark had stumbled in, taking coffee and pastry orders.
“How’d you get that expensed?” Lois had asked afterwards, an eyebrow raised as they finished off the piled of pastries and cakes Clark had procured.
The table was messy with crumbs and paper bags – missing only the one you’d taken with you – not keen to eat until your work was done.
Lois already knew, of course, that Clark didn’t have a company card. That he’d swiped his own, hardly aware of the price because he was itching to run back, and watch the expression on your face as he handed you your drink, his fingers dancing away from yours in fear he’d overstep.
Lois knew because his face was tinged pink, and because Clark had asked half-a-dozen times when you were due to arrive, despite being nothing to do with the story.
“I just wanted to make sure we made a good impression.”
Snorting, the reporter packed up her things, recorder in hand and notes in a pile.
“You’re something else, Clark Kent.”
One part of his brain, of course, was processing the sound of you laughing politely with the doorman downstairs. The rest didn’t miss Lois’ eye roll, and his cue to turn even more red.
“I’ll clear up in here,” he interrupted her tidying, “you get going with the story. I know you wanted to get it in the Saturday edition.”
With a grateful smile, and one last glance over the table, Lois departed. He knew, knew, it was weird, but Clark let his hand rest on the arm of the chair you’d been sitting in.
*
Seeing you again had been dreadful. Perhaps the worst thing that had ever happened to Clark. Because the first few times he’d been overwhelmed, a little dazed, fumbling – just the way he liked Clark Kent, reporter, to be. The next times, though? He had to anticipate you arriving. Understand the way his heart was going to pound and his face was going to grow hot, and how he wouldn’t be able to say a word without watching your face to see how you reacted to him.
That last time, that interview with Lois, had been the final straw. She’d left an invoice from you out on her desk, and the address on it was the hardest Clark had ever tried to forget anything. You lived two blocks away from him. He’d accidentally flown past your building twice on every single patrol of the city since. He would wander home from work that way, on autopilot, and he couldn’t understand why every fifth person on the street suddenly looked like you did from behind.
Then, a fortnight later, he’d accidentally seen you. The real you. Not just someone your height or with your hair, or with a laugh that rang like yours did. It was you.
He had been Clark, fumbling with too much to carry, and feeling too big for the whole world as he tried to avoid barging into anyone on the sidewalk. You hadn’t seen him, until you were too close to each other, and walking too fast in opposite directions so you just beamed and nodded in recognition, and then you were gone and Clark was standing still on the sideway, blocking traffic and wandering what his face had done when you recognised him.
The final straw.
One day, he thought, you’d need saving, and Superman could carrying you away from danger. Or Clark would need you, for a story, and he searched every possible idea in his list for a way he might tangentially bring you in as an expert.
He liked a coffee shop between your building and his, or so he’d decided, and every time he walked up to the steamed-up windows he’d scan every single person inside just to see if you went there too. His heart would spike with it, the hope, and he tried not to hold it against you every time you weren’t there.
Clark had decided he was losing it.
This couldn’t go on. He couldn’t waste time scanning every crowd for you, calculating the velocity of every enemy in the packs which attached, always to see if it any danger was heading towards you. Most of all, he couldn’t keep hoping. Ridiculous, pointless hope. That maybe you would need saving, or take issue with Lois’ article and storm into the Daily Planet offices, or worst of all – that you’d remember awkward, fumbling Clark Kent, and somehow come and find him.
Metropolis was a big city, and somehow every single part of it directed him back to you.
*
How ridiculous, then, that after three months of daily, obsessive, internal tug-of-war with himself over seeing you, that Clark almost missed Lois’ birthday party.
No part of him had considered that you might be there, in the private room of a basement bar near the Daily Planet offices. He hadn’t imagined that you might be buying Lois a drink and batting her credit card away with a laugh, that you might be dressed up and a little tipsy, and that your eyes might light up as Clark stumbled in a little late, fluffing building dust out of his hair.
He smiled, raised a hand in a little half-wave, but you were already tapping Lois’ shoulder and pointing him out to her, and the reporter was waving him over to the bar, asking what he drank.
“I’ll get these,” you offered again, as the bartender pulled him a pint of something cold and golden.
There was something extra about Lois tonight, a challenge in her eyes, as she handed over a lite beer she knew was mainly for decoration. Still, even Superman needed to cool down sometimes. Clark’s whole body felt boiling hot – not just from the fight he’d won, the people he’d saved, but from the way he was fastidiously avoiding your eye contact.
“To Lois,” you were saying, raising your drink, and forcing the journalists to join, “my dear friend. Happy birthday. Thank you, for making me sound smart in the newspaper.”
Lois snorted into her cosmo.
“Like you need any help. I googled every other word you said.”
“I, uh, didn’t know you two knew each other,” Clark interrupted, too soon, too loudly, “I mean, obviously, you knew each other…”
You were looking concerned. So was Lois, eyebrows drawn together, though amusement danced at the corners of her lips.
“I just mean… socially,” he continued, “I didn’t know what you knew each other. Sources and journalists, y’know…”
“I’m a source?” you were asking, as Lois stood up a little straighter, head tilted in challenge.
Clark could hardly hear himself speak, it was like he was underwater, the words distant and foreign. He was making a fool of himself. Months, months, of planning how you’d meet again. How he’d charm you, and tell you how special he thought you were.
“Of course not! It’s just… you’re… not one of us, y’know?”
“Clark!” Lois finally interrupted, her good will for his bumbling had clearly run out already.
“We got on well. We go to the same gym, actually. And we both work with absolute morons, sometimes. So, we’re friends. Is that going to be a problem?”
“You’ve just never mentioned her…” he continued, lamely, beer slumping over the edge of its glass.
“Charming!”
You’re laughing, which Clark supposes is good, but he’s also not sure he’s ever been this socially inept in his entire life, which is quite bad.
“I’m going to take you over here now,” Lois is saying to you, and patting Clark on the shoulder for a reason he can’t really discern, “before Clark manages to put an end to our glorious friendship.”
You’re laughing again, and pulling at Lois’ arm, with a promise you’d never replace her because you need someone to force you to go to the gym. You’re also, he realises, watching him as you walk away. Slumping onto a bar stool, face in one of his hands, Clark realises he’s currently experiencing the new worst thing that has ever happened to him.
He wouldn’t usually finish a beer, except no one here knows he’s Superman except for Lois and Lois doesn’t care. It won’t affect him at all, even with the sun setting outside, and so he orders another one and pays for it himself (even though another colleague offers) because he wants to be left entirely alone.
With some good luck, you and Lois might forget he exists. It might be for the best.
Before, you had been a fantasy. A hope he clung to, alone on rooftops and curled up in bed. A pretty girl who would smile at him and let him carry her things, and be sweetly charmed when he told you how clever and pretty and capable he thought you were. Someone to fall in love with.
Now, he realised, he had measured himself up against the fantasy of dating you. For the first time in his life, he hadn’t made the bar. He was a thoughtful writer. A good man. A kind man. He strived to be all those things. Tonight, he’d been none. He was Lois’ rude, incompetent colleague.
She’d passed him once, on the way to the ladies room, and he’d tried to catch her attention on the way back. She had stopped only enough for another cosmo – and the bartender was strikingly efficient.
“Please,” he’d asked her, letting his card clatter down on the bar, plastic on metal, “I’m sorry for being a douchebag. I was just surprised, tell her I’m sorry. That I’m a normal guy.”
“What’s gotten into you?” she’d replied, fumbling with slightly-tipsy fingers to pick up his card and toss it back at him. “You are a nice, normal guy. You should apologise to her yourself. She thinks the world of, y’know, you.”
Her pointed look wasn’t helpful, and he said as much.
“I want her to think I’m normal.”
“I really don’t know how I can help you here, man.”
Drink in hand, Lois was in the process of sauntering away, friends turning to welcome her back to their little Clark-less huddle. You were there, he noticed, watching the whole scene with guarded interest.
“I didn’t mean to be rude,” he stumbled out, and when the words reached his ears, Clark thought he sounded like someone else.
Like a little boy, in a tiny school in Smallville, Kansas, who was too shy to make friends with the other kids.
Lois softened straight away, and despite the haze of the evening, he still saw that startling cleverness when he met her eyes, sharp and brown.
“After you first met, she asked me about you. In the elevator back downstairs. And at the gym, sometimes. She said she saw you on the street, and she talked about it for like, a day. And I can see this matters to you too. Talk to her, Kent. You’re better than this.”
“Really?”
Clark thought his voice still sounded small. His heart was pounding, twice the pace a normal man’s physiology could withstand. Yet he knew, inside, he was still that little boy, in that hulking shell, all the complexity of the life he’d made stripped away. It was childish, a feeling from two decades ago, of wanting to be liked and loved and not being sure how to show it.
“You’re so sweet,” Lois was smiling, quiet, to spare his dignity, “but yes. Really. You got this.”
It took whole minutes for Clark to centre himself. He listened to the sounds of the city, not sure if he wanted to hear the wrench of metal and screams, for an excuse to escape, or whether he wanted nothing more than to sit on this barstool fifteen feet from you.
Finally, he stood, took his useless beer and traipsed into the tiny, lantern-lit beer garden behind the pub. It was an alleyway, really, with grating overhead and composite furniture barely a shade different from the decking. Still, it gave the illusion of fresh air, and cooled the sweat which had decided to make a rare appearance on his face.
“Mind if I join you?”
You had peeled away from the group. They were still stood inside, in that big circle, laughing and celebrating Lois’ birthday. A cake had arrived at some point, and Clark felt a pang of guilt for not being inside, supporting his friend. He hadn’t answered, and so your steps out of the patio doors were cautious, until he turned and tried his best at a smile.
“Sorry, yes. Of course. I’m in my own world, tonight.”
“Too many of those?” you smiled, and he grimaced, putting down the sweating glass on the nearest table.
“I don’t think so.”
For a moment it was silent in the beer garden, and the space was filled by the rumble of traffic outside, the cheering and chatter of the party in the bar. He hadn’t realised that he’d tuned into your shallow breaths, but he was unconsciously matching each inhale.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, before he realised what he was doing, “for how I was earlier. I really didn’t mean to be rude, I’m glad you’re here.”
You regarded him for a long moment, playing with the stem of your glass. It was empty, and you were rolling it between your palms. Clark hadn’t realised he was holding his breath.
“This is so silly,” you confessed, gaze fixed a little past his shoulder, “but I was really hoping you’d be here tonight.”
“Why?”
Blunt. Rude. Again! What was wrong with him? You were looking at him with outright worry, and he hated to see the lines forming on your forehead, the visible faltering of your confident.
“I am so sorry! I swear, I am never normally like this. You… you do something to me. Make me act wrong.”
Again! Clark was sick of himself. He wanted Lois to save him. And excuse to throw a building, or wrench a window from a skyscraper. Anything, that would be easier than this. He took a deep breath. Tried not to notice the way you were shifting your weight back, away from him, towards the party.
“I really, really wanted to see you again,” he interrupted you, just as you were about to speak.
So, unconscionably rude. His Ma would clip him around the ear. Still, though, Clark couldn’t stop. He had to get the words out, before he never saw you again.
“So much. I went to the bakery near your place, and I thought about asking Lois for your number but I didn’t want to be a creep, you’re gorgeous and I –”
He’d admitted to knowing where you lived. To hanging around the area. He wanted to fly out over the ocean, and never come back.
“Lois said you were funny.”
“I’m… that’s the crazy thing, I’m not joking. I really, really liked you and I don’t know how not to screw this up.”
“Liked?”
“Like! I really, really like you. Sorry.”
Finally, you shift your weight forwards. You laugh. You don’t quite approach him, but you watch him.
“For what?” you’re asking sincerely. Not to tell him off, or because you want an apology.
“For being such an idiot about all this. I swear, I wanted to buy you flowers, and coffee – ”
“You did.”
“Well, yeah, but only because I wanted an excuse to see you, and Lois wouldn’t give up the interview –”
You were smiling. The weight in his chest subsided, and he just couldn’t, couldn’t stop talking.
“Would you let me? Take you on a date, and buy you flowers? I’m sorry this was such a weird start. I worry about you, all the time, and I swear I was just so shocked you were friends with Lois this whole time while I was worrying I’d never see you again –”
You interrupted him again. You had to, there was no other way to get a word in.
“I’d really like that.”
“What, when?”
“Well, it’s nice enough out here, and Lois seems to be managing without the both of us. My drink is empty…”
Clark moved past you so fast, it was almost unnatural. You blinked and he was at the bar and ordering another of ‘whatever she’s been drinking’ and a prepaying a cosmo for Lois. Then he was back outside, on the little patio, and pulling out a chair for you at one of the tables with a candle lit on it. Then back to the bar again, and then your drink in front of you. You exhaled with a laugh, in disbelief, as a smiling, exhilarated journalist threw himself onto the chair opposite you.
“That was fast!”
“I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”
You beamed, and Clark felt something settling in his chest. A panicked, rushing thing which had been exhausting itself between his lungs for three months, finally at rest.
“I was so afraid I’d never get the chance to do this,” he confessed, only feeling the weight of the words once they’d formed in his throat and left his mouth.
“Do what?” you asked gently, hand resting on your jaw, trying to do anything but just stare at him.
He’s outrageously pretty, you’d complained to Lois once, wheezing out the words between sets, and she’d just laughed.
“Get to know you.”
You smiled tightly, and reached for his abandoned drink, sliding it in front of him.
“You might not like me, you know,” you teased, “what if I’ve got some big, scary secrets?”
He stopped, then, the jaw-aching grinning and the hunching forwards, trying to get closer to you. He searched your eyes, looking for the joke, looking for any chance you knew.
“I don’t think you have any,” he settled on, finally, and you raised your eyebrows.
“Really?”
“Yeah. And if you do, we’ll figure them out together.”
You held your drink up, and he was confused by what to do, until you tilted the rim a little, and wrapped his fingers around his beer.
“To figuring it out together.”
Clark couldn’t say anything. Over your shoulder, Lois was offering a thumbs up, beaming and generously keeping her iPhone camera firmly in her bag. He snapped back to you, the excitement on your face, the contours of your face illuminated only by candlelight and the distant, hipster bubs hanging over the bar. He raised his glass, and tapped it to yours as gently as he could, just to make you laugh.
“Together,” he agreed.