Chapter Text
Saturday mornings were the only time Superman could wind down and cling to the rarity of being able to be a normal person— not a superhero, or people-pleasing Clark Kent; just a person.
He likes to start his mornings off at 8, with the aroma of a steaming fresh cup of coffee, that's already been pre-set to brew, permeating his home. He likes to take the morning slow, cook up a fresh batch of bacon and eggs, or maybe toss up some French toast– just like Mama used to make. He doesn't like to speak a word until his stomach is warm from sugar and coffee, otherwise, his crankiness spews like poison from a lamb. His plans for the day would follow after a nice warm shower, all before the clock reads nine.
But those plans were thrown out the window as soon as he flew out from it last Friday night.
He had spent the entire evening patrolling the city. The fatigue of piling up a strangely large amount of thieves and law-breakers hung heavy on his eyelids and shoulders, so much so that he began pulling off his suit as soon as his door sounded shut. His sore body wailed every time he raised his arm or stepped further into his bedroom, and he didn’t have the brain to turn on the lights to see where he was going. He conked out as soon as his cheek met his pillow.
In the apartment next door, you’ve started your Saturday morning once the sun stretched out the cast of your windows across the room. Ten minutes later, you're up and about your apartment, casually clad, and your stomach full from a random concoction of fruits and greens. Your music plays from your speaker as you fix the mess of unpacked belongings in your living room.
Moving into your apartment wasn't as graceful an activity as unpacking inside of it. Still, boxes rested on your counters, your floors, and your couch—the only piece of furniture other than your bed that was assembled. The place looked like an attic from a horror movie, where the main character discovers a cursed object that they later learn they never should have touched. But the beautiful French windows let the sun shine so majestically, illuminating the soft glittering dust of the new beginning. You forget what a nightmare it’ll be deciding where things end up.
All the commotion in your place woke Clark Kent up unceremoniously; bright, early, unwillingly, and four hours before noon. He's been dryly blinking at his ceiling for the past thirty minutes, hearing the dragging of chair legs through walls. He feared this would happen. From the moment he noticed men moving boxes into apartment 304 next door, he feared he’d be cursed with a noisy neighbor.
At first, he tried to ignore it and chase the fading dream leaving his consciousness. But as long as your music played, it didn't matter how many twists and turns he made: he was up.
He rubs his eyes tiredly, and slowly lifts himself off his bed, grabbing at his glasses on his nightstand, slipping his feet lazily into some soft slippers, and heavily making a bee-line for his front door. He realizes his coffee is brewing by the time he opens his door; he tries to find a reason to justify his caviling as the smell hits him…
But…how dare you be in sync with his usual morning routine? His knuckles meet your door as he slips his glasses on.
You’re singing along to a soft song when the knock at your door interrupts. He's blinking to adjust to his glasses when your door opens. But his vision only clears when his eyes land on you.
He forgets what he came to whine about when you soak up his view. To say you were pretty, was the understatement of the century. Your cheeks looked a little flushed, baby hairs frizzy and curling out the sides of your head from running around all morning, and your hair lazily pulled up. Clark didn't know shit about colors, or what contrast or complementary means, but he knew for sure the color of the top you were wearing made you glow.
And immediately it hits him: he's in his fucking pajamas.
“Hi,” he sputters out. He tries not to look down at his embarrassing choice of clothes: a blue Dunder Mifflin tee-shirt and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pajama pants. He hates his hand for reaching for whatever it could find. Mentally, he’s ridiculing himself for his blue slippers that look so fucking ridiculous my God, Clark, he thinks. His palm flies up to tame the same cowlick at the top of his head that appears every morning.
“Hi,” you chuckle back, a little confused to find a tall half-awake man at your doorstep, but polite enough to smile up at him.
For many seconds, he stands there, beginning words and never finishing them.
“Did you need something?” You try to help him, wondering if that simple question would do the trick.
As if his brain clicked into the right slots, he says the wrong thing with no pauses, “Silence.”
Your brows raise in surprise. Immediately, he's mortified. “I mean-” he frets, his hands out before him as if you were about to faint. But you're standing completely still, one hand on your door, the other on the frame, curiously waiting for this stranger’s explanation. He shakes his head and is embarrassed that his words came out like they did.
“I just…I live next door,” he thumbs to his right, your face peeking out to follow as if you didn’t know which way was ‘right’. “Um, your music’s a little loud.”
Your face softens. “Oh!” Seeing your reaction convinces him he’s the worst person in the world.
“The walls are kinda thin,” he sheepishly adds, hoping to soften the blow. He left out the part where they technically aren't because he didn't want to make you feel bad about the fact that your low music and loud decorating managed to penetrate through all six inches of drywall between you two. He’s a little restless with his hands and tucks them under his arms as you begin to apologize.
You mentally curse out your landlord for not mentioning the wall situation or lack thereof. “I'm so sorry about that. I swear I’m not inconsiderate,” you genuinely and wholeheartedly say. “See, I only just moved in about a day ago. If I'd known, this could've been a much warmer introduction.”
He smiles at that. But hearing your tone and seeing the charmingly embarrassed look on your face made Clark feel bad about the awful things he was thinking before he put a face to the clangor. He kindly dismisses you with a palm up, “It's okay. It’s not your fault. Really. I'm up early usually, it’s just-”
It wasn't a complete lie. Superman is usually up early; Clark isn't.
“Had a late night?” You finish his thought.
He half-smiles. “Yeah. Very late night.”
That eases you a bit. As you both stand there, you realize you haven't introduced yourself yet. You extend your hand out as you tell your neighbor your name, which he gladly takes and replays in his head before telling you his. Your name, however, sounds a little familiar, as he mumbles the syllables a few times. “Are you by any chance the new hire for the Daily Planet?”
A suspicious look replaces the warm one on your face, an eyebrow cocked slightly. “Yeah…?”
“Overheard last week. Mr. White mentioned it. Oh, Clark Kent by the way,” he says, awkwardly scratching at his neck.
You announce your surprise with a pleasant scoff. “No way,” you smile, leaning against your doorframe, arms weaving into each other. “Well, it'll be nice to walk in knowing someone.”
A beat of silence settles, and you feel caught off guard when he interrupts it. “Well, I'll see you on Monday, then. Or around, I guess, since we both live here,” he flashes a shy smile and begins backing away.
“Definitely,” you grin as you say his name. “And sorry again,” you bare your teeth, feigning confidence, though your cheeks still felt hot.
“No worries,” he says. He gives a small wave, setting the other on his door handle. He watches your face disappear before hearing your door close. Clark’s gaze rests there for a second longer, before shaking his head to himself.
Until he realizes he locked himself out.
His eyes shut, muttering out a “ Fuck .” The course of events that morning were unexpected to say the very least, but what Clark certainly expected was to make a fool of himself. He leans back on his heels to check if you were securely inside your home, before darting up the stairs to the rooftop. He sighs tiredly and mutters to himself as he carefully flies down the side of the apartment building, obstructing himself from anyone's view, and finally reaching his window from the outside.
He’d never admit that at this point, he could find his apartment window blindfolded with the number of times he’d locked himself out. He pulls it open, thanks to him not closing it after a late night of ass-kicking, and slips inside, his knees digging into his mattress. A much-deserved deep breath later, the aroma of dark-roast coffee greets him with open arms.
Right on time, he chuckles. “Goddamnit.”
𓆦𓆦𓆦𓆦𓆦
The new routine was a tad disorienting. You were so used to having the mornings free and freezing. You grew to find comfort in writing from home and submitting articles to whoever would accept them. But you were quickly falling in love with the city of Metropolis. The people down below on the city streets cozied and clothed in two layers was humorous to you, considering you’d go out in a swimsuit in this weather if you could.
With your bag, keys, and thermos, you shut your apartment door and your shoes pat-pat against the carpeted floor on your way to the elevator. As you reach the end of the hallway, entering the elevator, Superman backs out of his place juggling folders and jingling his cacophony of keys. You light the ‘lobby’ button up, but an unexpected protest resounds before the doors close. Without a second thought, your hand sandwiches the doors. As they open up, Clark is catching his breath before stepping in.
“Thanks,” he pants as he settles.
“No problem,” you chuckle.
He regains composure and glances at you. "Good mornin’." He uses his free-ish hand to shove the folders slipping out of his grip into his satchel. You glance at him when he speaks.
"Good morning," you smile, facing forward, catching his reflection in the scratched stainless steel doors.
He fixes his glasses a little. Then his tie. Then his watch. His eyes are on the elevator screen, watching the number lower. You glance at it, tucking your lips between your teeth. Clark holds his breath; his attempt to not bring up the Saturday morning fiasco faltering. “Sorry about Saturday, again. I was just…I was out of it.”
You can’t help but blink at him. He was still thinking about that? “Don’t worry, it’s water under the bridge. I mean, there’s not even a bridge,” You shut yourself up. “It’s nothing, I mean.” You wave it off with a grin.
“Okay, good. That’s good.” He exhales discreetly.
The elevator dings open, and he lets you step out first. You both reach the doors of the building at the same time and he awkwardly but chivalrously lets you exit first.
“Okay, well, I’ll see you at work then,” he breaks the silence and starts twisting in the opposite direction. You say something along the same lines, but then you ask yourself curiously; where is he going? From what you know, the subway, the bus stop, and the location of the Daily Planet were all in the direction you were going.
You shake your head and walk down the block, remembering it’s really none of your business.
Outside, the sun is barely ascending in the sky and hasn’t gotten to clearing up the blue shadows of the city. The sun has only reached the very tips of each building, and the morning spring air kisses any skin that’s exposed.
Metropolis was a big city, and you loved seeing new faces with every step you took. Your life in this moment felt so right, like everything you wanted; a new job, a perfectly shabby apartment, living in the city. You cherished every moment you were away from that lonely town miles and miles away, all tormenting memories dissipated into the air.
Well, almost all of them.
The office smells of stale coffee and warm paper from the printer when you reach your floor. With five minutes to spare, you take a look around your cubicle before sitting in it. There’s a pair grabbing Dixie cups of coffee and making small talk. Others come in a rush and let out a deep breath as they sit in their swivel chairs.
You sigh and smile to yourself, falling even more in love with your new life.
𓆦𓆦𓆦𓆦𓆦
LAST EDIT: 8:05 PM.
Coming as no surprise to local Metropolitans, Bruce Wayne, founder of Wayne Enterprises, has bought another property in the bustling city. Anonymous sources claim that Mr. Wayne is looking to expand his biotech inquiries and possibly venture further into medicinal fields. Locals are outraged at his “imperialist business” now expanding from Gotham City to Metropolis.
You stare at the blinking cursor. You have no idea where to go from there. Chomping down on the rest of your homemade dinner, you look over your rough drafts, but your brain has started warping words and you just need something sweet.
You slip on a jacket but before you open your front door, it’s probably a good idea to search for a place first. Scrolling through reviews and nearby spots, you’re so overwhelmed by choices that you let out a small groan. And before you can settle for a reasonable thing to do, your knuckle meets Clark’s door.
The reality that perhaps he’s sleeping or not even at home dawns on you. My god, what if he thinks you’re weird for-
“Oh. Hi.” He gives you a wry little smile and you grin.
“Hey. Happen to know any good dessert places by any chance?” You chuckle.
“Holy shit.”
The rich chocolate drizzle melts in your mouth and Clark laughs. “It’s good, right?” You nod, humming, and take another spoonful of the stracciatella ice cream.
“Wow. If I was blindfolded, I would’ve thought you actually walked me to Italy.”
Clark laughs at that. “So. You gotten around to exploring the city?” He takes a spoonful of his vanilla cup.
Shaking your head, you look ahead you two, the strip decently busy for a Thursday night. “No, I’ve been busy with my piece. I’ve only seen the plaza, Stacchio’s, and that Starbucks near the apartment.”
“I see,” he smiles. He watches you for a long second, noticing how with each bite you twist your spoon to slide your ice cream onto your tongue. “There’s some good spots near. If you have the time, you should check out Java the Hutt.”
You giggle at the name. “Like Jabba the Hutt?”
“It sounds,” he immediately feels a wave of embarrassment. “Silly, but it’s a Star Wars-themed coffee shop. A friend of mine owns it, and he’s a total Star Wars nerd. They make really great lattes.”
“I’ll definitely show it some love.” You both sit down at a nearby bench. “How did he get the licensing for that?”
“No idea.” You both laugh.
But the moment is cut short when you hear a gunshot go off in the distance. Your head snaps in the direction, seeing a man run out of a bodega just ten feet to your left, his hands clasped around a duffel bag.
“Oh my God,” you stand up, startled along with other bypassers. But the man’s plan is cut short when a flash of red zooms by, knocking the man right off his feet.
“It’s Superman!”
Your heart hammers in your chest. Just being in the same street as the man of steel was exhilarating, and you watch as the foolish man attempts to shoot at him, each bullet giving out. Even in the moonlight, you can see the bullets glisten on the ground. “Clark, are you seeing this?!” Your arm searches to shake his, but he’s nowhere to be found. “Clark?” Police sirens soon approach the scene, and you watch as people cheer for Superman who flies off, the stranger shortly being handcuffed. What was just as amazing as seeing Superman in the flesh was seeing just how quickly the cops came.
“Hey,” Clark says and you turn around to watch him walk towards you.
“Where were you?”
He holds up a wad of napkins. “I went to get some napkins.” His eyes land on the scene while handing you half of the stack. “Whoa. What happened?”
“Some guy robbed a store and Superman swooped in,” you say so casually you could almost laugh at yourself. Two weeks ago you would twiddle your thumbs for excitement; you could only imagine living in a city filled with action.
Clark feigns surprise on his face. “Man, I missed him?” He begins wiping at the vanilla running down his wrist. “How is your ice cream not melting already?”