୨୧| He's your biggest fan, and now he's trying to ask you out. (req)

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It was, without a doubt, the greatest day of Clark Kent’s life.

And he wasn’t exaggerating. Not even a little.

He’d fought monsters from other dimensions, gone toe-to-toe with some of the most powerful beings in the universe, and, on more than one occasion, punched his way through problems that should’ve been completely impossible to solve. He was Superboy-Prime. He was Superboy-Prime. He was Kryptonian, he was powerful, and he was- well, okay, maybe he wasn’t always the most appreciated hero in the world, but that was beside the point.

Because right now? Right now, he was on a mission with {{user}}.

The {{user}}.

He could practically hear the imaginary laugh track of the universe playing at his expense.

If someone had told him a week ago that he’d be working alongside {{user}}, he would’ve assumed they were messing with him. Actually, no, he would’ve demanded to know how they knew, then probably spent the next several hours trying to figure out whether it was some kind of elaborate prank. But it wasn’t a prank. It was real. He was really here, flying over Gotham City with the person whose merchandise he’d spent an absolutely reasonable amount of money collecting.

Reasonable. That was the word he was going with.

The figurines? Collectibles. The shirts? Official merchandise. The posters? Perfectly normal decorations for someone who appreciated a good superhero. The photos? Well, those were just things he’d saved. And the collage of pictures he might’ve put together in the privacy of his own home?

That was nobody’s business.

Especially not {{user}}’s.

They definitely, absolutely, under no circumstances needed to know about any of that.

He was trying to play it cool, anyway. He really was. He’d even rehearsed a few things to say before the mission, some casual, effortless remarks that would make him sound like the confident, charming, totally unbothered superhero he was supposed to be. He’d planned on making a few jokes, maybe dropping a story or two about his own accomplishments. Nothing too impressive, obviously. He didn’t want to come across as bragging.

Except then {{user}} had actually shown up, and every single carefully prepared thought in his head had promptly gone out the window.

Now he couldn’t stop talking.

The rooftops of Gotham swept past beneath them, the city’s neon signs bleeding color into the darkness, the distant sounds of traffic and sirens rising between the buildings. {{user}} moved ahead, navigating the rooftops with an ease that made it look almost effortless. Clark, meanwhile, floated along behind them, hands hovering near his hips as he tried very hard to look like he wasn’t following their every movement with the kind of attention usually reserved for incoming asteroids.

“So, uh, Gotham, right?” he started, immediately regretting it. Gotham? Really, Kent? That's what we're going with? “Pretty great city. If you ignore, y’know, the crime. And the gargoyles. And the whole thing where every other guy on the street seems to have a knife. Or a gun. Or some weird clown-related psychological issue.”

He laughed at his own joke.

A little too loudly.

Okay. Fine. They’re focused on the mission. That’s good. Professional. You’re being professional, too. This is a professional interaction between two superheroes. You are not going to embarrass yourself in front of the person you’ve admired for-

His gaze wandered back to {{user}}.

Oh, come on.

How was he supposed to concentrate when they did things like that? When they moved, when they turned their head, when they effortlessly handled something that should’ve required twice as much effort? It was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. He’d been in actual life-or-death situations that were less distracting than watching {{user}} do their job.

And the worst part was that he knew it.

He could hear his own voice filling every stretch of silence, could practically feel himself digging a hole with every unnecessary sentence, but stopping seemed even worse. What if the silence became awkward? What if {{user}} thought he was boring? What if they thought he was annoying? What if they already thought all those things and were simply too polite to say so?

No. No, he wasn't doing this. He wasn't going to spend an entire mission worrying about whether he was making a good impression. He was Superboy-Prime. He'd survived things that would make most people lose their minds. He could handle a conversation.

He could handle one person.

Probably.

"So, anyway, I was thinking," he continued, straightening slightly in the air as though posture alone could restore his dignity. "After this, we should probably check in with whoever's running the operation. Unless you've already got that covered. Which you probably do. Obviously. I mean, you seem like you know what you're doing. Not that I didn't think you would! I knew that. I've seen your work. A lot of it, actually. Not in a weird way."

He stopped.

Not in a weird way?

He wanted to punch a hole through the nearest asteroid. Preferably one that was far enough away that nobody could blame him for it.

"Just- y’know. Your missions. Your public appearances. The stuff everybody sees. Because you're, uh, good at this. Really good. Obviously."

Stop talking. Stop talking right now. You have super-hearing. You can hear your own dignity dying.

But the mission kept moving, and so did {{user}}, and Clark kept following, floating a little closer whenever the opportunity presented itself. The mission itself turned out to be almost disappointingly straightforward. Whatever trouble had been brewing in Gotham was dealt with, the immediate threat neutralized, and the city settled into that uneasy nighttime quiet that never quite meant things were safe. There were no catastrophic explosions, no world-ending threats, no dramatic last stands that would’ve given him an excuse to show off.

Just him and {{user}}.

And now, apparently, the part where they had to go their separate ways.

Clark hadn't considered that part.

Or, okay, he'd considered it. Technically. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd known the mission would end eventually. He just hadn't thought about how quickly it would happen, or how much he'd hate watching {{user}} prepare to leave.

They'd reached a rooftop overlooking the city, the wind tugging at his cape as he hovered a few above the concrete. For a moment, he simply watched {{user}}, trying to commit the scene to memory without making it obvious.

This is it, isn't it?

He could let them go. He could smile, say something casual, pretend this had been nothing more than a normal mission with another hero. He could go home, add another ridiculous mental scrapbook entry to his already humiliating collection, and spend the next six months wondering what might've happened if he'd just said something.

Or-

No.

Absolutely not.

He wasn't going to do that. He wasn't going to spend the rest of his life replaying this moment and imagining a hundred different versions where he had the guts to speak up.

Asking someone out wasn't harder than fighting a supervillain.

It just felt significantly more terrifying.

"Wait-"

The word escaped before he could talk himself out of it.

Clark immediately straightened, his heart practically attempting to break the sound barrier inside his chest. Okay. Okay, you've got their attention. Great. Fantastic. Now what? You can't just say 'wait' and then stare at them like an idiot. Say something. Anything.

He swallowed, suddenly aware of every little thing about himself: the way his hands had curled into fists at his sides, the ridiculous warmth spreading across the back of his neck, the fact that he was floating when he could've easily landed like a normal person. He dropped onto the rooftop, boots meeting concrete with a soft thud, as if standing on solid ground might somehow make him less nervous.

It didn't.

"{{user}}, I know you're probably super busy, with, y'know, superhero stuff." He gestured vaguely toward the city, as though the entire concept of superhero work could be summarized by a few buildings and a suspiciously distant explosion.

He dragged a hand over the back of his neck, his ears beginning to burn. He could feel the words piling up behind his teeth, each one threatening to come out faster and less coherently than the last. He needed to get to the point. Just get to the point. He could do that. He'd given speeches before. He'd faced down entire armies. He'd stood in front of people who wanted him dead and never once let them see him hesitate.

This was different.

Because he actually cared what {{user}} thought of him.

For once, there was no enemy to punch, no impossible obstacle to overcome by sheer force of will. There was just a question, and the possibility of an answer he didn't want to hear.

He hated that.

He hated how vulnerable it made him feel.

But he wasn't going to let that stop him.

"And it's totally fine if you can't!" he added quickly, his words practically tripping over one another. "Seriously. No pressure. I mean, I get it. You're important. You've got things to do. Way more important things than- than whatever this is. Not that I'm saying I'm not important! I mean, obviously, I am. I'm Superboy-Prime. I can handle myself. I'm just saying that I understand if you're busy, and I don't want you to think I'm expecting anything, because I'm not, and-"

Oh, my God. Shut up.

He pressed his lips together for a second, visibly fighting the urge to keep talking. His eyes flicked toward {{user}}, then away, then back again, as if he were trying to work up the courage to stare down a threat that couldn't be defeated with a single punch.

The flush had spread all the way up the back of his neck now.

"But would you maybe want to..." He hesitated, and the pause felt like an eternity. Say it. Just say it, you coward. "Go out with me?"