bluebird47ep

[bluebird47ep]

Elevator Buttons & Morning Air

.·:*¨ ¨*:·. .·:*¨ ¨*:·. .·:*¨ ¨*:·. .·:*¨ ¨*:·. .·:*¨ ¨*:·. .·:*¨ ¨*:·.

Clark Kent x Reader

⁂ summary: Things take a turn for the worse when your new assignment asks you to dog on Superman. Even after he saved your life.

⁂ tags: slow burn, multiple parts, fluff, no mentions of y/n or reader’s appearance

⁂ tw: mentions of minor injury!

⁂ author’s note: Thank you all for all the likes on Part 1! I feel like a real tumblr writer haha. 100 likes feels insane to me- I made my account this week? I’m just really grateful. Again, if anyone has any ideas for fics they want to see fleshed out, reach out to me or comment! Enjoy! And I’m working on Part 3!

⁂ credit to @uzmacchiato for the borders!

⁂ word count: 4.7k

⁂ link to part 1!

Part 2:

You hadn’t meant for anything to start.

After your first day in the ‘bullpen’, which your coworkers so affectionately called the news room, and your subsequent walk home, which did involve stepping into a 24-hour 7/11 because you were almost positive you were being followed, you were half in love with Clark Kent.

How could nobody else see it?

He seemed… a little too gentle. He was incomparably large, so much so that you were positive he would be some distasteful gym bro. You had asked Cat Grant, your coworker, if he was obsessive about the gym. She had said Totally not, he looks like, a like, gym junkie, but that’s just because he worked on a farm, I think. In like Idaho. That’s the Midwest.

Of course Idaho was not the Midwest, and after you asked her that she proceeded to ask you how many Instagram followers you had and if you had downloaded Tinder yet, but she seemed like a reliable source, right?

He was big, in a delicate way. Sure, he knocked over two stacks of files and someone’s coffee, which sat on their desk far from the edge, in just the single day you’d been there… but he had also caught the apple Jimmy Olsen had thrown him during lunch without an ounce of effort. And when, in the middle of eating his packed lunch in the break room, that he must have packed himself, he received a phone call and said it was just his Ma. His Ma. Is that not the cutest thing you’ve ever heard? Most people would say it’s their ‘mother’ or just ‘mom’, but he said Ma in such a genuine way, it almost reminded you of a little kid. A 6’5’’ little kid.

So that morning, your official second day of work, you were wholly concentrated on looking your best and being the wittiest and funniest and nicest girl you could be. That shouldn’t be hard. Hopefully.

So you threw on an outfit that said I’m a professional and also, I am a confident, sensual woman, and also, I am a cutie pie. That’s what you thought it gave, anyways.

However, life seemed to have other plans, because when you go to work, Clark Kent was not there.

You felt… wilted.

Why is it that everytime you try, the universe has a different plan? And to make it worse, Perry sent you to get quotes and photos and you had to go to the Metropolis library for information on money-laundering, because according to your coworker Lois Lane, there was a librarian there who was a total expert. That did not make sense, and you were so irked already you had thought of sending an anonymous tip to the police about her. But instead you gathered your things and made the trek to the library, because what else was there to do? Pout?

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

You were trudging down the library steps with a frown.

You’ll never get used to research. And the librarian? She asked if this was for a school project. Like, yes! A school project on money-laundering! You weren’t in the mood for her comment, and you also weren’t in the mood to step outside and see a 30 foot alien wrecking the park across from the library.

Great. Lovely.

And because you felt so sour, you reached for your phone in your bag, turning to take a picture of you with a pout and the alien holding a tree like a broccolini behind you. It was supposed to be funny.

What wasn’t funny was how the tree was subsequently hurled in your direction, and suddenly, without warning, without a do I have your consent for this?, you were flying.

Or, not really. Someone was certainly flying. You were in their arms being held bridal style, and if it wasn’t for the fact that you were being flown at what felt like lighting speed, a stranger might mistake you for a couple crossing the threshold. With the groom in underpants.

You were placed, a little too gently, a couple blocks away in front of a comic book store. By none other than Superman.

He towered over you, he towered over everyone, and he was currently giving you a very disapproving look.

“What?” You said, which sounded a little more crabby, and a tad brattier than you had intended for it to come out.

“Taking photos with an extraterrestrial who is incredibly dangerous is not funny.” He said steely, his cape billowing almost performatively behind him.

And this irked you even more than the librarian.

“Ok.” You said curtly, turning to head into the comic shop. Why? Where else were you supposed to go and still maintain a shred of dignity?

You can admit you probably looked stupid taking that picture, but also! You’re a journalist. You could tell him that. You could sit Superman down and say, I am not a reckless civilian! I unplug my television everyday before leaving my house because I don’t want my cat to accidentally stick his paw in the outlet and explode like a microwaved corn dog! You could say that.

But you don’t even have to, because he lays a large, warm hand on your shoulder and you’re turning before you know it.

“Please be safe.” He says with such sincerity, and almost intensity, that you just nod.

Then he’s flown away in a flash of blue and red, probably to go get rid of the giant monster alien thing wrecking the city.

By the time you get to the office, you have two new comic books and have wasted half a work day on absolutely nothing.

The bullpen hardly notices you’ve come in, because everyone is gathered around the newsroom television, watching footage of the alien attack. Jimmy and Robert keep making comments on who would win in a fight, Green Lantern or Batman, and Lois is giving her opinion on Superman’s apparently careless manner of saving people.

“He’s destroying crucial infrastructure!” She practically shouts, pointing towards the tv as if we weren’t already looking at it.

Lois had given you her whole spiel on Superman yesterday. Everyone in Metropolis seemed to have strong opinions on him, love and hate, and you just couldn’t seem to make up your mind. You liked Superman. You liked his billowy cape and shiny boots-… if you were a superhero you’d wear the same thing! Sure, he seemed to be a little accidentally destructive. And there was that whole rumor on the harem, and though it was cleared up, you did see his parent’s message on the news back home, and were a little distrustful. But other than that, and his more than reproachful look at you, he was practically a mother tutting at you, you liked Superman! So you had no idea why you said to Lois, “..and he totally destroyed the library.”

Everyone seemed to turn to you.

“He did-… what?!”

“I was right outside. Instead of stopping a tree being thrown at it, he pulled me out of the way. Not a very good problem solver, that one.”

The words just slipped off your tongue, and before you knew it, everyone was crowded around your phone to see the picture you took. As if a perfectly curated joke, Superman could be seen right behind you in the selfie too. Jimmy even made you to send it to him.

So when Lois suggested you write a piece on this attack, which Perry agreed to as long as it was on his desk by tomorrow, you were more than excited. This was your opportunity to whip up a good piece and have your name on the byline. It probably wouldn’t be Pulitzer-winning, but that didn’t matter. Lois and Perry both believed in you and your ability to write a story. This was your job after all. To give the people of Metropolis an inside scoop, to offer them a nuanced argument-… they were busy people, and it was your job as a journalist to spell things out and uncover the truth. So why did you feel guilty writing a Superman hit-piece?

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

Your intention was hardly for the tweet to go viral.

After spending the rest of the day writing a copy for your article on the alien attack and Superman’s inattenion, you had tweeted.

It was a burner account with like twelve followers! You had just gotten so riled up by the piece, so invigorated with reporting the truth, so enamoured with the idea of the community rallying being you, that you had tweeted:

who tf wrecks a public library and the local park and is seen posing with children #supershit #supersellout #youremadweird

It wasn’t even funny! You just tweeted it because you could, and now you have 30 thousand likes and are one of 1.1 million posts under #supershit.

You felt guilty, at least at first.

But then it was time to go home, and you had almost forgotten about Clark Kent and the whole ‘trying to impress him’ thing. Almost.

He walked in a quarter to seven, his dark curls slightly windswept and his glasses askew.

You felt that familiar heat of embarrassment creep up just looking at him.

When he sat at the desk across from yours, you didn’t even have to act cool, because he was immediately looking at you.

“Jimmy said you were amidst the alien attack. Are you alright?”

He sounded so sweet, so genuine, slightly familiar, but that didn’t matter because he cared.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m alright. Perry assigned me to write a piece on it since I saw the damages first-hand.”

“Damages? There were hardly any damages, everyone was safe. No lives lost, no one injured.” He said softly, his eyes flicking from your face to the red pen in your hand.

“Well the park is totally ruined. And so is the library. Are Green Lantern and Superman going to clean that up?”

“They saved people’s lives. I hardly think a building that can be repaired is as important as people. Humans.”

“Humans use those buildings. Need them, actually. And the city definitely doesn’t have money to repair the damages as quickly as they need to be repaired. Someone told me Superman is attracting all those aliens here in the first place.”

He swallowed at that. “Did they now?”

“I didn’t know you were a Superman fan.”

“I’m not a fan, I just think he does a lot of good things for the city.”

“A lot of bad things too.”

And when you say that, he wilts. And you feel terrible.

“I know he’s your friend. But isn’t it the press’s job to be critical?”

He looks up and nods. “Though he’s not my friend.”

“You’ve had five interviews with him.”

He just sighs and accidentally knocks over the cup of pens on your desk.

Then you stop talking, and he begins working, and by the time he pulls out a ziploc baggie with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and he offers you half, you shake your head no.

You feel like a dimwitted hating robot, and have been making your penance ever since you left the office. Clark was at his desk with jelly on the corner of his mouth when you said goodbye. He offered to walk you home, but you said it was fine.

“But you’re limping.”

You had to stop and think, were you really limping? You told him it was because of your shoes, that they pinched your heel. He told you to get home safe and that was that.

On your walk home you thought someone could snatch your purse from your arm and you still wouldn’t feel as bad as you do now. Stupid article.

You’re in your apartment, after just having eaten a half-frozen microwave meal, ready for bed and on the couch watching an episode of a show from your childhood you had almost forgotten about, when you hear a rap at the window.

You get up cautiously, holding the remote as a makeshift weapon and you pad over to pull back the blinds.

And what you see makes you drop the remote and stubble slightly back.

Outside your window, in all his blue and red underpantsed glory, is Superman.

He sees your reaction, and his eyes go slightly wide, and then he motions to the window latch.

You were not letting that man in!

First of all, how did you know he was the real Superman? This could be a man on stilts! Or wires. You shouldn’t be so trusting.

But when he motions again towards the latch, an honest smile now creeping on his face, you reach to unlatch the window, against your better judgement. Before you know it, you’re taking a step back, and he is standing in your apartment.

You look up at him. “Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

You seem to take a minute to assess. Not really, Mr.Superman.

“I’m… fine.” But your voice croaks awkwardly on fine.

“You’re limping.” He said, staring down at your right leg.

You squint. Were you old man hobbling and didn’t realize it? You must be pretty bad if both Clark and Superman are commenting on it.

“I guess… I guess it hurts a little.”

“Where? Your leg? Your ankle? Your calf?”

“Ankle. I twisted it on my walk back to work. There was a huge brick on the sidewalk and I didn’t notice and I tripped and landed badly on it.”

Superman frowned. A full frown.

“Can I see?”

“Are you a doctor too?” You say with a huff that sounded more like a laugh.

He shakes his head. “But I can help. If it’s really hurt.”

You stare at him.

He takes you by the wrist and makes you sit on your couch, moving a pillow behind your back at a speed that should scare you, and all before you can manage to protest.

He’s big, in a gentle way. Tall, but right now he’s leaned over you, his hand holding your right ankle tenderly. You hadn’t expected this.

“You said you twisted it?”

You nod and soon he’s in your kitchen, digging through your freezer and then your junk drawer, and later in your bathroom. You heard a clink on the porcelain sink bowl, and try not to crane your neck to catch a glimpse of what he’s doing.

Then he’s back to hovering over you, holding a bag of frozen blueberries against your ankle, fastening it in place with a bandage.

“Does it hurt a lot? Your heart is beating really fast.” He says, all sincere, his hand still warm against your ankle.

“I’m just… a little startled. I didn’t know Superman paid home visits.”

He cracks a smile, and glances around the room, as if taking it in. Usually you would shrink in self-consciousness at the idea that anyone would scrutinize your apartment in this manner, your messy, messy apartment where your dish from dinner was still out. But he wasn’t anyone, he was Superman, and you assumed he was like a firefighter- if you needed him, what you wearing or what your home looked like hardly mattered.

He glanced at your coffee table, at your empty dish and mug, and soon his eyes traveled to the two comic books splayed on one another by your bag. Here was your opportunity to shrink.

“Superman comics?”

You swallowed thickly. “You left me in front of a comic store. I had to go in for… for safety.”

“I thought that didn’t concern you.” He said, and you felt reprimanded once again.

“The store owner really wanted me to buy them.”

“The store owner wanted you to buy ‘Superman: The Wedding?’” He asked, and you swore he was trying to play innocent.

He held the comic up in his hand, looking at its cover intently. On it was Superman in his suit, holding a bride in his arms as he flew above a city skyline. His eyes traced the drawing, slightly misty now, you’re certain of it, before he cleared his throat and put it back down on the coffee table.

Then he straightens up, pats your cat on the head, who through this entire process has not so much as cracked an eye open, and was now turning over to get a belly rub from Superman.

“You should feel better with that. Rest. That’s the best remedy for injury. And sunshine, get lots of that.” He said, a little too gallantly, and then he flew out the window just as fast as he came.

You were slightly stunned, and mostly grateful. You reach for your laptop, which sits just underneath your left leg. Propping it open, you begin to edit your story.

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

Ok, so you didn’t exactly complete your assignment. Perry had asked you to cover the damages to the city after the alien attack, and instead you had written a fluff piece on Superman’s crucial role within the city. You compared him to the transit system, that’s how fluffy it was.

When you sent him the finished copy, you were positive it was not going to be published, and that Perry would fire you for being such a weak writer.

Surprisingly, all you got was an email with a thumbs-up emoji.

You were sitting at your desk, working on your copy for the money-laundering bakery story, finally, when a stack of papers scatter at your feet, and you hear a familiar oh, I’m so sorry, let me get that for you. Clark.

You look up to find him as you always seemed to: glasses askew, tie slightly loosened, gathering papers off the floor as quickly as he could. You bend out of your seat too, your knees hitting the rough carpeted floors, as you help him pick up the last of his papers.

He looked up at you, a dopey grin already forming. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” You say without looking up, and when you both get up, his papers now happily back in their folder, he’s staring at you with his mouth slightly open.

“I-… Perry-… Perry asked me to edit your recent story.”

“Oh. Oh, alright.” You say, taking a seat back in your chair. You don’t exactly want him to read your writing. Especially not after what you said yesterday about Superman wrecking the city. You didn’t want to be proven wrong. Nevertheless, you pulled up your copy, and while you intended to simply pass your laptop to him, he chose instead to hover over you and read over your shoulder.

He placed a palm flat on your desk to steady himself, his head angled right above yours. You tried your hardest not to crumple… you could feel his warm breath against your ear. He was so close you could hear the second his lips unturned in a grin.

“This is really good.” He said, and the sound slightly startled you. His voice was warmer than his breath, and you felt yourself glow under his compliment. He thinks your writing is really good. Part of you wondered if it was because of the Superman flattery. He had certainly pleaded his case to you yesterday- no doubt he was a fan. But you also knew your piece spoke less on Superman’s character, and more on the city’s need for his action.

When Clark finally pulled away, now leaning slightly against your desk, he spoke again.

“I thought you were against Superman. Something about… damages?”

“Yeah, well, I’ve changed my mind. The damage to the library and park really wasn’t all that bad. My first argument wasn’t a very good one.”

He just nods thoughtful, and then looks at you, a little piercingly.

“Is your ankle better?”

“It is.” You paused, had you told him about your ankle? You honestly couldn’t remember. You probably had. Probably.

“I have to go down to city hall for some records for a story I’m working on. Interested in coming?”

You pause to think on his offer.

As if sensing your trepidation, he adds, “You know, sunshine is the greatest cure for an injury. That and something warm to drink. That’s what my Ma always said.”

You smile. You had heard that recently, but where? You more than likely read it somewhere. You stand and grab your bag and soon you’re heading inside the elevator.

“Let me do it.” You say, reaching to press the button to the lobby, but his hand is already there. Your hands touch for a second before he quickly pulls his back. You didn’t mind that he had pulled his hand back so quickly, but you also didn’t mind the warmth of it either.

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

Your day so far has been wonderful. You and Clark had gone to City Hall, and afterwords he insisted on sitting outside on a park bench, hyper-fixated on that you both get plenty of sun, and if it came from anyone else you’d argue, but you did what he said. You talked about life before Metropolis, and he told you about Smallville, the almost laughable name of the town he grew up in. Then you got coffee, which he graciously payed for, and maybe it was how sun drunken you were, or the cool breeze that passed every now and then to whip through his curls and caress your face, or the rush of caffeine, but you had asked Clark Kent to dinner.

You meant for it to be casual. A hey, what are you doing tonight? Want to do it with me?

Wait, no. That sounds wrong. You had just asked if he had plans. And when he said no, you said you were looking to try some places around the city, and if he knew of any. He started talking about a diner he loved, especially after a late night at the office, and before you could stop yourself you were asking him go with you. Just in case you can’t find it.

He smiled when you said that, and said well if I must.

It was funny. In the office he made a mess of everything. He tumbled over his own feet, spilled everyone’s coffee, and Jimmy told me he breaks a camera every quarter if he’s around them. But now, in the sunshiney park, with the backdrop of the sharp blades of grass that held droplets of morning dew even now into the afternoon, Clark seemed like a new person.

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

He had walked you home, and was now sitting on your couch. Clark, was.

After work, which felt painstakingly long with the idea of your upcoming date, not a date, just dinner, but that fact doesn’t make your heart beat any less fast, you and Clark walked to your apartment together. It would have made more sense to get dinner right after work, but your heels had your feet aching, and you feared your limp would turn into a complete hobble by the end of the night if you didn’t immediately change shoes.

So he was sinked into your couch, with your cat making himself comfortable in his lap.

“It’s like he met you before.” You remarked humorously, but it must not have been funny, because Clark just smiled and turned pink.

You managed to change into something more comfortable and sightly, because if you were going to dinner with Clark, you’d have to look as best as you could.

You walked into your living room to find Clark rubbing the cat’s belly as he made biscuits in the air. This is exactly how you imagined it. It was sweet domesticity repackaged as friendly professionalism. You swallowed that blooming heat in your chest, because you didn’t know if he felt the same, and it would be stupid to even assume, because you know what they say about people who assume…

“Ready to go?” He said softly, looking up at you.

The diner he had mentioned was only a couple blocks away from your apartment, and as you walked in unison, one of his hands sitting idly in his pocket while the other dangled precariously close to yours, he asked you why you had really changed your mind.

“It wasn’t anything really. I always liked Superman, if I’m honest.”

He turned to glance at you, his eyes meeting yours and then dropping before returning again. “Really?”

You nod. “He’s… cool. He saved me the day of the alien attack. Compared to all the other superheros I know, he’s the only one who would do that.”

At that comment, he smiled at the pavement and nodded.

“Maybe that’s true.”

“It is.” You said, looking at him.

He chuckled and looked up at the sky for a second, and then looked again towards the sidewalk.

The diner was unlike any you had seen around the city. Clark held the door open for you, and upon hearing the jingle of bells hanging over the entrance, you were transported into another world.

The diner was covered in checkered everything. The walls, the booths, the floors. The bare part of the walls were a pale baby blue-… it was straight out of a Grease film.

Clark led you to a booth by a window. The food was all-american, and the menu seemed like it was from the seventies, all frayed edges under lamination.

“How did you even find this place?” You say with a smile, still looking at the retro decor.

“Late night, and I was a little sick and just trying to find some place still open. Do you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s cool.” You say, glancing at the menu.

Clark had ordered a reuben sandwich and a matzo ball soup.

It was weird, seeing him eat. Sure, you had seen him eat his packed lunch. But this was different. Those lunches were domestic, in plastic containers and a little too delicate to have been made by him. He ate it hunched over in the break room, as if he were trying to take up as little space as possible. He did everything that way, hoping for everyone to sidestep him, ignore his practically palpable presence.

But sitting here, across from you in the booth, he was straightened up to his full size. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off his incomparably large forearms. How was he not some kind of body builder?

He grasped the sandwich with both hands, which made it seem comically small. He smiled at you over his sandwich, and your heart melted.

You two sat in the diner for longer than you should have. It was easy talking to him. He was expressive with his hands when he talked, and he laughed at every joke you made, even the dumb ones. He wasn’t offended when you had called him corny either, though you had really just said it to get a reaction out of him.

When you finally did leave the diner, it was dusk, and soft rain was hitting the pavement with a pitter-patter.

Clark had the brilliant idea of just running back to your apartment, the whole three blocks. He had taken off his coat, a wooly grey material, and held it over your head as you speed-walked to your apartment, because you do not run.

You unlocked your door as you both stood in the hallway panting, slightly soaked from the rain, and grinning ear to ear.

You had laughed the whole while you entered your apartment, while you both shed your wet coats, to the turning up of the heater, to the making of tea in the kitchen, to the moment beside the sink, when your hands trembled, but there was no going back now, and you placed a hand on his forearm, and reached up to kiss his mouth.

Then the laughing ceased.

Because he was meeting you halfway, bending lower to catch your lips where they were, and you could feel the heat rising to his face as your lips connected in a sweet, unhurried, kiss.

And as you pulled away, his glasses, they were askew as they always were, managed to slip off his face and into his hands.

He looked up, his eyes slightly wide, and what you saw made your heart stop.

Looking back at you, dark hair and electric blue eyes, was the same man who put frozen blueberries on your ankle.

The same man who asked you about the comics. Who prescribed you sunshine. Who knew your cat.

You were never good at puzzles, or riddles, or even crosswords, and that made sense, because how had you not seen this?

“I-… you’re-… you’re Superman.”

.·:*¨ ¨*:·. .·:*¨ ¨*:·. .·:*¨ ¨*:·. .·:*¨ ¨*:·. .·:*¨ ¨*:·. .·:*¨ ¨*:·.

[bluebird47ep]

Elevator Buttons & Morning Air

┏━•❃•°❀°•❃•━•❃°•°❀°•°❃•━•❃•°❀°•❃•━┓

Clark Kent x Reader

⁂ summary: It’s your first day at the Daily Planet. All you have to do is be on time. Everything else should fall into place, right?

⁂ tags: slow burn, multiple parts, fluff, no mentions of y/n or reader’s appearance

⁂ author’s note: I’ve never written any type of fan-fiction before but Superman (2025) and all the writers on tumblr inspired me! Oh, and the opening lyrics of Taylor Swift’s ‘Ours’. If anyone has recommendations for future stories, reach out to me! And enjoy! Part 2 will be posted soon. Bear with me, I’m completely new to tumblr!

⁂ word count: 2k

part 1:

“Excuse me, sir, do you have a pen I could borrow?”

Dark curls graced his forehead. His electrically colored blue eyes peered over the frames of his too-big glasses, that tipped haphazardly on the bridge of his nose.

“You-… you said a pen?”

He seemed to unravel before you, dropping his chestnut leather briefcase right onto the linoleum floors of the coffee shop. Right in line.

“If you don’t have one it is perfectly fine-“

You were cut off by the sight of the burly man in front of you holding a blue pen between his thumb and forefinger, his expression earnest and slightly out of breath.

You smiled slightly, reaching for it with a polite thanks a ton jotting down in your legal notepad a serious of practically unintelligible scribbles.

By now the man had picked up his briefcase, trying to not look as interested as he was in your notes.

You glanced up for a second, now with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, life of a journalist. I had a lead on a story and my pen just so happened to fall in a grate right outside.” You sigh, looking towards the shop’s front window, overlooking the bustling streets of Metropolis.

The dark-haired man nodded twice, smiled, and stepped forward in line to order.

You smiled slightly too now, not out of politeness, but because now that you looked at him…he was exactly the kind of handsome stranger you hoped to meet in a new, strange city. You felt heat rush to your face, looking down once and then twice at your shoes, readjusting your scarf and fluffing your hair as you watched his back.

Two Americanos, hot, and a vanilla latte.

You wondered who drank Americanos, and why? Too bitter for you. You wondered if you’d be late, and felt that familiar pang of anxiety in your stomach. You glanced down at your phone. 7:52. My first day at the Daily Planet and I’m late? You just couldn’t do that. You’d given all you had to get this job-…leaving your hometown and moving into a too-small apartment on the side of town where your neighbors recommended giving yourself a curfew. Stay out too late and you’re asking to be robbed, is what the man across the hall had told you. He smelled like garlic bread, and not in a good way. You had hauled your entire life into this city and now you were about to be unemployed! Great. And by yourself at that!

So when it came time to order, stepping into the spot the dark-haired stranger had just been, inhabiting the same air, which was a creepy thought, yes, but your mind was racing with a million things already.

“I’ll have a vanilla latte with almond milk, please.”

The barista took your order down and you paid quickly with a rumpled five-dollar-bill from the bottom of your leather tote. When she handed you your change you let it spill in the tip jar, going over to stand by the pick-up counter.

By the time you had your coffee in hand, too hot in the chilling Metropolis wind, you were racing down the block towards the Daily Planet. Towards your first day on the job.

You had an unfailing tactic. Take huge steps. The last thing you were going to do was run down the block-… you were holding a coffee for pete’s sake! And your tote contained a very expensive laptop and canon camera you had spent all the money you earned working at the local cinema during college to get it. You were not running. The next best thing was your comically large steps, like a character straight out of Super Smash Bros. You blipped down the sidewalk, not caring who saw you. You were a journalist, a serious one! And that meant you had to accept there were going to be times where you simply had to embarrass yourself.

You were stepping so hard, stride a little too sure, you hardly noticed a now-familiar dark-haired stranger grinning beside you.

“You’re-…you’re in a hurry.” He couldn’t help but remark, eyeing you with a dopey grin on his face

You almost froze. Almost. You have somewhere to be!, don’t you?

“I’m about to be late to my first day at a new job.” You say breathlessly, though not without humor.

“I see… where are you headed to?”

“Daily Planet.” You say on instinct. And not without pride. You were going to work at the Daily Planet. Home of Metropolis’s Pulitzer Prize winning writers. That could be you one day-… hopefully.

He seemed to pause at that, taking a proper look at you. Before he could say more, you were speaking again, still walking quickly, though now it looked like you were trying to match his longer stride rather than rush to some very important destination, earning you negative cool points without a doubt.

“Here’s your pen. Sorry I took it, I was majorly distracted.” You say apologetically, offering the pen to him as you walked.

“Oh. Oh-… you can keep it. I have a drawer in my desk just full of them-“ He says, and to your surprise, he holds the glass door of the Daily Planet building open for you.

“After you.”

You intake a sharp breath that hits you square in the chest, but walk inside anyways, your feet moving before your body could act out in embarrassment and trepidation and a little bit of… excitement? Not the time- at all!

You manage to smile as you step inside.

The lobby of the Daily Planet is totally cool. Floor to ceiling widows surround the building, and the lobby is bursting with receptionists, a large desk housing them and their various corded phones.

It smells like ink and printer paper and musk and you haven’t even made it to the news room. You take one good look, let your eyes scale every window and up at the too-high ceilings, and then you’re trailing after the stranger once again as he gets to the elevators.

“Do you know what floor Mr.Perry’s office is on?”

The stranger, or is he a friend now? You don’t even know his name… nodded twice again, was that his thing?, and in the process of attempting to press the third floor elevator button, he managed to press garage, one, and two.

You closed your eyes for a second in frustration. Really, dude?

He began to profusely apologize, fumbling his briefcase, repeating I’m so sorry, but you shook your head at him.

“It’s fine. I was going to be late anyways, probably.

“I’ll make it up to you. I’ll tell Perry it was my fault you’re late. Don’t even worry about it.”

You sighed, but conceded. “Alright, thanks.” You paused to think, and then, with all the courage you had, managed to look up at him. “So… are you a journalist?”

He seemed to take a breath when you looked at him, seeming slightly flustered, and nodded.

“I am.”

When you looked at him as if to say, yes? continue?, he bit his lip in trying to speak.

“I’m Clark. Nice to meet you.”

And instead of feeling that sharp intake of air you always felt when handsome men spoke to you, you smiled.

The elevator suddenly felt warm, and when you told him your name it felt unfamiliar in your mouth. When he repeated it back to you, just to be sure, your hands tingled at the sound of your name on his tongue, his glasses once again slipping down his nose as he looked at you.

It was the first bit of peace you felt all morning, standing in that elevator with him as it passed through four floors, until you finally reached the newsroom.

You definitely had thought too soon, because as soon as the elevator doors opened, you were met with chaos to the highest degree.

Papers flew about the room as journalists and reporters passed each other like synchronized swimmers in a heated pool. You must have looked shocked and a little in over your head, because Clark smiled in that dopey way and said, “Welcome to the bullpen.”

—

By the time you made it to Perry White’s office, discussed your resumé, been introduced to your fellow reporters, been given a cup of mostly burnt day-old coffee, and been assigned your new desk, conveniently next to your new friend, you were exhausted.

Luckily, and thanks to Clark, you already had the notes for an upcoming story Perry greenlighted on the foreclosure of a local bakery, just after they were accused of being a money-laundering scheme. Perry set you to work on it immediately, and you spent what felt like forever writing an outline and questions for community members. This is what you wanted, right?

Everyone is the office had already left, well except for one person, who still sat at the desk opposite yours, seemingly working every hard at his computer, the orange desk light above his head casting funny shadows on his face.

You gazed up every few minutes to look at him. What the hell was he working on? Rewriting the entire dictionary?

Now, very much bored, and practically finished with your first day’s work, you tapped at his desk with a red pen.

“What are you working on?”

He looked up slightly startled, but cleared his throat and attempted to appear unfazed. Any other guy doing this would unsettle you, of course they’re trying to act cool! But Clark felt genuine, as if he really did need a facade to function correctly around you, or anyone, not just you, why you? Chill.

“An interview actually.”

“Oh, nice. With who?”

“…Uh-… Superman.”

You looked at him, now impressed.

“No way? The Superman? Like the alien?”

He looked nonplussed.

“Well yeah-… but he’s not just an alien.”

“Doesn’t the fact… I don’t know, disconcert you? He’s not natural.”

“He is completely natural!” He said indignantly, but there was a growing smile on his face.

“How natural can an alien be? And I heard he has a harem. That’s insane. Where does he even get the women from? It has to be unethical.”

“First of all- he does not have a harem! He’s a monogamous man!”

“And you would know…how?”

“I interviewed him, that’s how. And he’s very sincere.”

“Oh sure, I can imagine.” You smile. “How did you get the interview though? He seems like a pretty busy guy.”

“I was lucky, right place right time.”

“That’s pretty lucky. But good for you.”

He nodded and smiled. “You got your first story, I assume?”

“Yeah, about the bakery down the block. I heard my neighbours talking about it in the stairwell and thought, this could be something. Perry said it wasn’t bad. My story will probably be on the last page anyways.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. If it’s first page material, then it’s first page material.”

And for the second time that day, you feel comforted. All because of your new pal, Clark.

“Are you finishing up? I wouldn’t want to leave you here all by yourself.” He said, standing from his desk.

“You’re afraid I might be a secret villain or something? Sneak into the files to aid my evil plan to overtake Metropolis with an army of artificially intelligent space robots?” You joke, your mouth quirked up to one side as you looked up at him.

“Not exactly.” He laughed then. “I was just worried you wouldn’t know how to shut the lights off.”

And that made you laugh too.

By the time you two were in the elevator you hardly cared he had fumbled the buttons again, sending you up two floors before finally climbing down five floors just to get to ground level. You hardly minded. Especially when he told you if you ever needed help proofreading, he’d be happy to do it. And even though you were firmly against letting other people read your writing in such a scrutinizing way, dumb because you were a writer, you exchanged phone numbers. And you felt special putting the name ‘Clark’ into your contacts. Not ‘Clark from work’ or ‘Daily Planet coworker’, just Clark. Old-fashioned name, sure, but you felt hopeful.

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[bluebird47ep]

when the ao3 author is funny in the chapter notes and i get lowkey parasocial