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winterhawkkisses · 6 years

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643.

(for @lissadiane who looks after me when I feel shit)

The garden was filled with that odd, golden, threatening afternoon light that drew everything with sharp edges against the dark sky. The wind teased the trees with brief, hard gusts, tugging and shoving them this way and that. It had the feeling of a protesting crowd on the verge of chaos, the first threatening lunges, the first person bending to grab a chunk of stone. Bucky shuddered and closed the curtain, plunging his bedroom into darkness, and swaddled himself back in his bed.

He had a couple of hours before Steve would come home, enough time to balance himself just on the edges of sleep, where movement was unnecessary and thoughts came slow. If he was lucky, if today was one of the good days, he might be able to tip himself over into enough of a pretense at it that Steve'd leave him be when he came to check.

It was dark outside by the time he cared enough to pay attention again.

He wasn't great at sleeping any more. Sleep dredged up memories, wound them together with fears, left them on his pillow like a cat leaves things that should be dead but bleed and scrabble and shriek. It was a little easier in the daylight hours, though, when he could scream himself hoarse without waking Steve, when waking told him exactly where he was, the framed pencil sketch of Peggy watching him struggle out of sweat-soaked sheets with gentle concern.

The middle of the night, on the other hand, the empty hours before the sun came back, were somehow reassuring in a way that didn't make sense to Steve.

Sure, Bucky had been kept in darkness, over there. Darkness and pain, and harsh incomprehensible voices, and occasionally - when they moved him - a sky without any end to it, an impossible depth of stars.

Day was loud and bright and fast, every damned place the same, too much to take in enough to know where the hell you were. In the dark, every voice was a little louder and even slurring, the words now were familiar. Darkness gave you just enough for the character of the country to come through, rising to your nose and your ears and through the soles of your feet. And of course, this was goddamn America, so even out here in the suburbs there were only so many stars.

Just about midnight every night, Bucky pulled on an oversized sweater, snuck downstairs to make himself a coffee by the dim light thrown by appliances, and went outside to curl up on the porch swing that Steve had always longed for as a kid. Sometimes, if he'd managed to get a couple hours of rest, he'd bring a book out and turn on the porch light, taking down the bug zapper that Steve had installed 'cos the idea of it turned his stomach, these days. He read back through the things he'd always loved before; Pratchett and Verne and Heinlein and Le Guin. He knew how they ended, and kept himself safe. Other nights, he just wrapped his arm and the other arm around his knees and rested his head and didn't think.

Steve had moved out here from Brooklyn when Bucky had come home. He said the two were unrelated, but he said a lot of bullshit before he worked out how Bucky wanted to play this. He'd always been a city boy at heart, and it was a little hilarious watching him navigate the suburbs. He'd already gained a fluttering audience of fans for his daily runs, and he'd started talking about maybe getting a crosstrainer instead to keep in the shed out back.

It was the first time either of them had had a yard that was more than concrete, though, a couple of straggling potplants that Bucky had fought tooth and nail to keep alive. As a result the place was a mess, overgrown bushes and precarious trees, grass that came up as high as your knee. He meant to learn something about it, fix it up into something nice, but it was never quite the right time.

Tonight it was raining, heavy and loud, living up to the afternoon's threat. Bucky could see more of the downpour, the trembling leaves and sparkling raindrops, from just the edges of orange light that snuck back from the front of the house, so he kept the porch light off; it'd never rained, out in the desert.

The flood of bright light from the kitchen of the house next door made him flinch and curl tighter.

The fence between the two yards was, at most, waist height. Steve hadn't had the money for more, but he'd insisted they needed it 'cos the neighbour had a dog. Cute as hell, one-eyed, and a force of descruction on the begonias that had died by now anyway. Steve had the blackest of goddamned thumbs.

(It had been a project for Bucky; it had required leaving the house.)

It meant Bucky could see the neighbour, though, when he opened the back door, stared outside with something that looked very like dismay.

"Aaw, rain," he said, like it was a surprise to him, like he hadn't been able to hear the pounding of it against his windows and doors. Bucky extended the hand he'd been given, watched the raindrops sparkle against metal, and waited patiently for the guy to go back inside.

He didn't. He sat down just inside the back door and pulled on a pair of battered sneakers that'd hold up about five minutes under the deluge, picked up the rustiest garden fork Bucky had ever seen, and forged out into the darkness with only the light falling from the kitchen to guide him. So he was gonna get tetanus and die, probably. Whatever. It wasn't Bucky's problem.

It was a little soothing, though, watching him dig away at a patch of ground be the porch, digging weeds away from whatever the hell it was he'd actually planted. And -

Bucky's libido had pretty much taken a nose-dive for the past few months. It was no massive surprise. The therapist he had phone appointments with said something about the lack of bodily autonomy or something, he'd been playing Tetris and hadn't paid all that much attention. He had to admit, though, the rain, and the white shirt, and those goddamn shoulders - call it his aesthetic sensibility, if you like, like Steve did when he went to a museum to ogle the goddamn nudes.

Bucky tired of it all before the neighbour did. He got up, bare feet splashing in the puddle that had drifted in on the wind, and opened the back door, the neighbour not even lifting his head at the creak.

"Bucky?" Steve's voice floated out of the darkness, and Bucky climbed the stairs towards him, letting Steve wrap him up in his arms. He was kind of an octopus when he was sleepy; Bucky didn't so much mind. "You're all wet. You been outside?"

"I was watching the neighbour do some gardening," Bucky told him, and dealt with the unintentionally patronising grin.

Bucky managed to sleep a couple of hours in the safety of the morning, woke up panting and sweating but managed not to scream. He told his therapist about his crazy neighbour - a little to trigger her rant on ableist language, he wasn't gonna lie, 'cos he didn't feel all that much like talking, that day. There was about five minutes - after the sleep, and the therapy, after he'd managed to heat himself up some food - when he considered walking down the block to the grocery store. He rocked back and forth in the open front door for a moment or two, then swore and retreated back into the house. Curled up on the couch with a new book, read two pages before he had to go find something he knew.

He had things he could list as progress, at least. Steve'd be proud.

Sometimes he didn't recognise himself in the mirror, any more. Months of not leaving the house in the daylight had left him pallid and sickly; his hair was getting long; he hadn't shaved in about a week.

He thought about calling his sister.

He climbed back into bed.

There was a gentle tap on the door, some indeterminate amount of time later. Bucky grunted something that worked as enough acknowledgement for Steve to come on in, the evening sunlight pouring in after him until he looked a little bit like a work of art. Like one of those saints with the beautiful longsuffering expressions; maybe they had useless asshole best friends, too.

"I'm going out for dinner with Sam," Steve told him, and yeah, that was one of his nicer shirts. "You wanna come with?"

"I'm not crashing your date, Stevie," Bucky told him, and hey, progress, this was the first time that Steve just blushed, didn't reach for the automatic denial. "Besides," he added, "I'm starting to offend myself, I'm gonna change my sheets and take a bath."

"Sure," Steve said, doing a pretty poor job of biting down on his grin. "Sure, that's great, just leave the sheets by the basement door."

Bucky grumbled another response and ducked back under his blankets, 'cos he hated that he still couldn't - the basement was solid stone, and dark, and it didn't have enough windows. He couldn't.

Steve left with a cheerful jangle of keys and a slam of the front door, which was echoed by the slam of the door on the neighbour's truck. He seemed to work weird hours, leaving before light and stumbling back when it was just about dark, and Bucky felt kinda sorry for his dog. He contemplated, for a second, offering to walk the mutt for him; it was just about as fantastical as the books he read.

It'd be nice to get a closer look at those shoulders, though.

Bucky peeked out of his bedroom window just long enough to get a glimpse of the top of a scruffy blond head, then efficiently stripped his sheets and bundled them together, dropping them over the banister so they landed directly outside the basement door. He had to venture into Steve's room - neat as a new pin - to find himself a clean towel, but the shower was too long denied bliss.

He gathered up his clothes and then threw 'em in a bag with half the contents of the laundry basket, dropping that beside his blankets; he figured he could pay Steve back by cooking him some lunches, give him a break from cardboard-dry sandwiches from the office canteen. He used to love cooking, wasn't sure when that changed.

Half an hour later, hanging over the rail of the back porch, emptying his guts at the scent of cooking meat - yeah. He remembered.

His second attempt was mushroom risotto. That one, he could do. He served himself a bowl and packed the rest of it up into lunch-sized portions, stacking them neatly in the refrigerator. It was tempting to go sit out on the back porch, but he wasn't sure he could deal with the sun, so he settled himself on one of the stools by the kitchen island instead, folded his cold feet over each other and reminded his body how good food could be.

Midnight found him out on the porch again. Steve hadn't made it home, which he'd sent many alternating judgey and lewd texts about, but the truth was it made him kinda restless. He wasn't gonna stare out the front window like a creeper, though, so he came out and curled on the back porch instead, leaving the kitchen light on so he could see enough to sketch spaceships.

He wasn't an artist, not like Steve. His drawings were always kinda businesslike, no emotion. At least, that was how he had always thought about it. His therapist had found it interesting that when he put pen to paper he exclusively designed spaceships, said something about looking for escape. Bucky didn't see any problem with that.

Bucky looked up, startled, when the neighbour's back door slammed open, a bundle of golden fur shooting out. The neighbour followed at a more sensible pace, rubbing the back of his neck, his hair standing up on end like he'd only just woken. He glanced over, startled a little when he caught sight of Bucky, and lifted a hand in greeting.

"Hey," Bucky said, which was the first time he'd spoken to anyone outside of Steve and his therapist in... a month and three days. Man, he really needed to call his sister.

"Hi," his neighbour said back, and grinned, lopsided and kinda charming before it spread into a yawn. "You're Bucky, right?"

"Yup," Bucky said, tapping his fingers restlessly against the notepad on his lap. "Sorry, I don't -"

"Aaw, Steve didn't mention me? I thought we were bros!" The guy actually held his hand out, like he hadn't registered the distance between their respective back porches, and then looked awkward and rubbed the back of his neck again. "I'm Clint," he said.

"Hey, Clint." Bucky stood abruptly, losing the pen he'd been drawing with into the darkness of the yard. "I'm gonna -" he gestured loosely and headed back into the house, so goddamn unsettled by an exchange of words with someone he didn't know that he had to turn off the kitchen light and curl up on the floor there, breathing in deep with his head between his knees.

Once his heart was a little steadier, he climbed the stairs and took a right instead of a left at the top, opening the door to the spare room that overlooked the garden. He was just a little worried, he told himself, 'cos Clint was using sharp tools and he'd looked more than half asleep. Just making sure there were no injuries.

(Didn't stop him laughing like hell, though, when Clint tripped over his goddamned dog.)

It took a couple weeks to get past greetings, even if that was only a conversation about why the hell Clint did his weeding in the dark. Turned out he had two jobs, a mailroom job in the day and an archery range after hours; he slept through some of the evening, gardened a little, slept a couple hours in the small hours of the morning too.

"I'm not great at sleeping," Clint said with a look that Bucky recognised.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Me too."

It was kind of inspiring watching Clint gradually taming the wilderness behind his house, by kitchen light and torchlight and the light of the damned moon. It ended in more injuries than Bucky was happy with, he'd admit, and he took to keeping a tube of Bactine and a box of band-aids under his seat. First time he grabbed Clint's bloody hand, even with the safety net of the fence stretched between them, he'd felt like his heart was gonna pound its way out of his chest.

(Three months, six days since he'd touched anyone that wasn't Steve. Two and a half years since he'd touched anyone he wanted this bad.)

Clint was somehow an idiot and whip-smart. Clint was clumsy as hell and a freaking gymnast. Clint was so strong it was making Bucky weak for him, and he felt like he was getting pulled in so many directions that it was tying him up in knots.

Clint made Bucky laugh. He'd forgotten he knew how to do that.

"Maybe I'll come over there and sit by you someday," Clint said one night, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the gentle patter of rain. "Judge whatever you're drawing like you judge my *totally awesome* pruning skills."

Bucky's heart leapt into his throat and he nearly choked on it. He shoved up to his feet violently enough that the swing crashed into the side of the house and locked the kitchen door just as soon as it closed behind him.

Fuck. *Fuck*. Why in hell was he so goddamned *scared*?

"Hey," he said to his therapist the next day. "I want to - how do I get better at talking to people? How do I - I want to do that." He felt like an idiot, choking on his words.

He didn't go sit on the back porch for a couple of weeks.

The next time he went out, it was edging into dawn, just on the edge of whatever opposite twilight had. Clint's garden showed signs of furious activity, the bushes neat, the beds dug over, only the grass to go. It was pretty impressive work for someone who refused to use anything with a motor, not wanting to piss off his neighbours by waking them up in the middle of the night. Of course he wasn't out there. Bucky didn't even bother pretending to himself that he wasn't disappointed.

He lurked pathetically for a minute or two, looking towards the back door of Clint's house like his longing'd be enough to draw the guy out. He squinted at something leaning against the back door there, and swore when he managed to make out that it was a goddamn *scythe.* Nuh-uh, no way; he'd seen the damage the guy could do to himself with a pair of goddamn *scissors*.

"You're sure about this?" Steve said, the next morning, helping him haul the mower they'd never used over the rickety fence. Bucky was a little lightheaded about being out in the daylight, but he set his jaw; there was no way he was gonna let Clint get tetanus and die. Not without Bucky getting to kiss his dumb face first.

Steve called him downstairs that evening, after texting him once or twice to make sure it was all right. It'd given Bucky enough time to get himself dressed, something a little better than the stretched out shirts and sweatpants that were his normal attire. He came down the stairs, chewing on his lower lip, hesitating in the doorway for a moment or two before he swallowed his heart back down to where it should be and made himself walk into the lounge.

Clint looked different in lamplight. More solid, more beautiful, more like he was something that could be touched. He got to his feet as Bucky approached, shoving his hands deep into his pockets like Bucky wasn't the only one feeling tactile about this. Clint smiled, and Bucky couldn't help mirroring him, pleased at the way Clint's eyes dropped helplessly to his mouth.

"You cut my grass?"

Bucky shrugged. "I was saving you from yourself," he said, and stepped a little closer, looking up into Clint's blue eyes. "Seemed only fair; you kinda did the same for me."

#winterhawk #veteran!bucky #gardener!Clint

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pendragonfics · 6 years

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Lost Time: Part One | Part Two

Paring: Conner Kent/Reader

Tags: female reader, Poor Reader, high school, Conner Kent has feelings, angst, fluff.

Summary: You're just a poor kid, living out of her parent's caravan in Happy Harbour. Little do you know when a new kid, Conner, arrives at school, your life will never be the same again.

Word Count: 2,531

Current Date: 2018-04-15

Nobody really liked High School. It was, for everyone, an awkward phase in which you were trying to get through unscathed, and you weren’t very good at that. While everyone else was working on being a great cheerleader, a nerdy enough geek, a good jock, or a skilled student. But after school, you didn’t want to burn out in a caravan to be forever forgotten in Happy Harbour, no. You wanted to be an artist, and, while there were the cliques of all sorts, you didn’t fit into the categories.

Thus, you, ________, were a freak.

It was okay, back in freshmen year. But now as a junior, the end in reach, you felt like all the eyes in the school were always on you and your binder full of doodles. It wasn’t helpful, either, that you had a habit of being a little flustered around the popular crowd; it wasn’t your fault you were shy. It made for many pranks, and no matter what you did, they never lessened off.

You were staying in after school, waiting for the photography club to meet on the school athletic field. They usually started at four thirty, but for some reason, the cheer squad were on the track. Sitting in the bleachers, drawing pad in hand, you worked a little sketch of the people you saw. While you usually drew faces in profile, it was a little harder to the side, and so removed. You tried to get a good sketch of Wendy Harris, but it just wasn’t working for you. After a few tries, you took your eraser to the page.

But that’s when you hear a thwomp! and suddenly the boy who had been accompanying the recruit to the Bumblebees has fallen from the bottom step to the bleachers, and face first to the ground. He’s wearing a black tee, jeans, and army boots, and with a face full of dirt and messed-up hair, you pause, breath held.

You sit there, frozen where you’ve sat upon the bleachers, watching as the cheerleaders laugh at him, calling him names. It’s then when something in your chest tightens, and your breath comes out slowly, lips ajar. Oh no, you think, he’s cute.

Later, when the cheer team have cleared the area, and the photography club gather around with their gear that you catch up with a fellow stranger to the common ground of friends and the game of popularity. Marvin White. But when you mention the guy to him, he shrugs, pulling the strap of his camera around his neck.

“Uh, I don’t know, ________,” he says, taking the lens cap off, “He and his friend Megan started today. They’re in our year.”

From your backpack, you took out your little flip phone, and opened the camera function. “Cool, White. Does he have a name, or just Megan…?” you ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know, Cameron? Conner? Why do you care, ________?”

“I don’t know, Marvin.” you shake your head, and before you go off to meet with the club leader, you turn to him, and whisper, “Just don’t tell anyone, okay? Or I’ll do something drastic.”

“Who knew freak wallflowers could be so scary?” Marvin grins, going to ruffle your hair. At the last minute, you shift away, and instead, he laces an arm around your shoulder as if you’re old friends. “Okay, ________,” he promises, “your secret’s safe with me.”

---

While you don’t mind history class, Mr. Carr doesn’t like it when people draw in the margins of his pop quiz papers. Which makes it your least-liked class of all. Too many times have you argued with him about it, too many times have you gotten detention for it, and too many times have your fellow classmates snickered behind your back about it. So today, instead of doodling to your imagination’s content upon the page, you take a biro to your skin.

“Ahem, ________,” Mr. Carr intones, narrowing his eyes at you. “If you were paying attention, you’d know that you’re paired with Mr. Kent for the group assignment.” He looks between you, and Conner, who sits three rows behind you, and groans. “Now, as everyone else had done, Miss ________, move beside your partner.”

There are giggles from classmates, and quietly with a roaring heat across your face and neck, you pack up your things into your arms and lug in three rows behind to Conner. He gives you a small nod, and wordlessly, passes a sheet of paper with the word assignment brief written in a computerised font.

“I’m ________,” you tell him quietly.

The whispers increase, as does the shade of embarrassment upon your face. In daydreams, you had thought of any other scenario than this to introducing yourself. Where you’d appear to be a cool kid. Maybe slightly popular. Edgy? No, that wasn’t you. You were just…you. ________ ________, the kid whose parents on welfare couldn’t afford to buy you shoes in fourth grade, ________, who had outdated textbooks and reused everything.

He gives you a small smile. “I’m Conner.” He says, and looking past you, glares at a bully, “Are they bothering you?”

You shake your head, not wanting to cause a scene. “Please, let’s just – uh, focus on the assignment.” You read over the typeface, and say, “It says it’s for out of classroom time. Maybe we could meet at your place –,”

Conner shakes his head. “Can’t. My – uh, family don’t like friends over.”

You nod understandingly. “Yeah, same. Maybe we could meet at the library?” you suggest, and add quickly, “Are you free Saturday, after the football game?”

“Sure,” He says, making a note of it, just as the bell rings. “See you Saturday, ________.”

But, you did not see him Saturday. The other days of the week dragged on and on, your classes a hellish nightmare to get through, and yet, when Saturday arrived, and you waited for two hours after the football game out the front of the public library until the librarians came out and told you it was time to leave, you couldn’t help yourself. Deflated, in both expectation and pride, you made the walk home from the library to the caravan park, knowing what rumours would be made by Monday.

You kicked a rock as you walked, hands in your pockets, head low. You’d thought Conner Kent was different than the other kids. That he was an outcast, like you.

You were wrong.

---

Come Monday, you barely find the energy to pull yourself out of bed, but you do. It might be halfway through the first term, sure, but if there was one thing about you, it was that you weren’t a quitter. And so, you hitched a ride into town with your neighbour, Bob, and strode into the gates of the school like you had nothing to lose. You walked into homeroom, and then into first period history, and kept your eyes ahead when he entered the room.

“________,” he says, walking by your desk. Your eyes are to your page, where your pen, instead of drawing the doodle of the day, is taking notes from your textbook. “Hey, ________, I’m sorry about what happened. I had a family thing come up.”

“A family thing?” you glance to Conner, unsure. “So, you weren’t doing it to make fun of me?” you ask, having to get it out in the air.

He shakes his head. “We had a…reunion. In Metropolis. They’re big into last minute stuff, and I didn’t have your phone number to text –,”

You nod. “I get it.”

Conner frowns. “You’re not mad, are you? I get it, if you are.”

You hesitate, taking a breath, and then, instead of using the words you had intended with that breath, you breathe out. “I –,”

“Mr. Kent, Miss ________,” Mr. Carr enunciates your names as if you’re in trouble. You can just hear him tearing off a detention slip already, and you sit further in your chair. But instead, he says, “…talking about the group assignment?”

Conner nods, arms crossed. “Yes sir,” he declares.

Mr. Carr smiles, turning to the blackboard with a thin stick of chalk. “Don’t chat too long, class is about to start.” He glances over his shoulder to you, and adds, “It’s good to see you’re participating, ________,” he says, kindly. “If you keep this up, you’re on track for a B!”

Before he leaves to his desk, Conner passes you a folded note.

In block letters, you read, LET ME MAKE IT UP TO YOU. CAFETERIA, LUNCH. MY TABLE.

When lunch rolls around, you’re hesitant; last time there was an invitation to sit with people, it ended with your food through your hair, your sketchbook stolen, and humiliation. But tray in hand, you see Conner at the back of the room, sitting with a girl with red hair. She looks a bit like the reruns of your Mom’s favourite show, Hello, Megan! – in fact, come to think of it, she’s the new cheerleader. Before you can turn away and walk to your usual lunchtime haunt, they see you, and wave.

“Hey, ________,” Conner calls out.

Megan waves. “Oh, you’re ________? Conner’s told me so much about you!” She grins, waving you over to sit opposite her. “I’m Megan Morse.” She introduces. You frown, thinking back to when Marvin said they were friends. She’s literally the American dream girl, and here you are, wearing dorky second-hand clothes. “I better catch up with Wendy, we’ve got cheer practice this afternoon.” She gives you both a wide smile, and ruffles Conner’s hair. “Don’t wait up, I’ll get Uncle John to get me.”

Once Megan’s gone to the cheerleader’s table, you take the assignment brief from your bag. “I was thinking of splitting the work sort of fifty-fifty…” you begin, pointing out your notes. “…that way we get more covered. Is that okay?”

He nods. “Sure.”

---

Five years pass like agony. But the real pain is that in your entire body – you can’t quite remember what made you come back to your hometown but laying in the rubble of what used to be the third floor of the old steel factory, you’re trying not to cry. Your leg trapped, fire breaking out somewhere nearby you know this is the end. You came from a home of nothing, and just like any other background character, would always go back to nothing. In the morning, the papers would report you along with the others who had been in the building’s hourly tour as numbers dead, and not names.

“There’s still more people in there!”

Your breathing quickens, blinking. There’s people looking for survivors? Of course, there are. You live in a world with Batman, and Green Arrow, and the rest of the Justice League. You go to shout, to alert the person looking for you to your location, but your throat is dry, and all that comes out is a squawk. You almost expect it to be someone from the fire department, but, when you feel a pressure releasing from your leg, it’s not a firefighter.

“Conner?” you say, bleary.

You get a look at the person scooping you into his arms; he has the same dark hair, the same face. Except, you notice, before your eyes grow heavy, he’s wearing an S on his chest like the Blue Boy-Scout of Metropolis.

“Hold on, ________,” your hero says, moving to escape the crumbling building.

“Superboy,” you whisper, trying to stay awake. “Thank y-you.” But it’s no use, and, it’s all dark.

When you come to, you’re not in your dingy hotel room, or in afterlife. It looks like a government facility, or something underground hollowed out to be a place habitable by humans. It’s a bedroom, you come to realise; you’re on a bed, wearing a black t-shirt that isn’t yours.

You blink.

“Hello…?” you call out.

It’s then you remember the accident. You’ve been spending your days interning for the Daily Planet newspaper, trying to chase stories to keep the rent paid and your electricity on. It’s not easy living on it, but when you pieced together a mystery that lead back home to Happy Harbour’s own old steel works factory, you thought you had the gold. Not a death wish. There had been a flash of light, and a laugh, and diving out of the way, you had narrowly escaped a bomb – just not the rubble.

“Hello?” you call out again. You go to move off the bed, but it’s then you realise your leg that had been trapped is discoloured with an array of bruises. “Ah,” you groan.

The door opens.

You thought it had been a dream, but no, it’s real – it’s Conner Kent, the boy you had a crush on in junior year of high school, and senior year too. He’s wearing the same shirt he wore when you saw him in the steel works building, and a soft frown.

“What are you doing up? You need rest.” He says.

You harrumph. “Still blunt as always, Conner.” You note, obeying his instruction. Not that you could do anything else. “So…have you always been a superhero?” you ask.

“Yes,” He nods sharply, and, taking a seat beside the bed, adds, “Can I get you anything?”

“Answers? Glass of water?” You shrug. “You were the only friend I really had, you know. They called me a freak.”

“They called me a freak too,” Conner ruminates, and gesturing to the side table, you see a mug of water. “But I am, I’m an experiment made from Superman’s DNA.” He gives you a wan smile, and says, “I haven’t seen you since graduation, what are you up to?”

“Not superhero stuff,” you reply.

He raises a brow.

“I’m a junior reporter for the Daily Planet,” you explain. “…but mostly a gopher. I thought if I chased the story, I’d get the attention I deserved in my workplace.”

Conner frowns, “It’s never that easy.” He blinks, “what about your art? You used to have a doodle pad, didn’t you?”

“No, I don’t really draw much these days. I’m a people-watcher.” You say, sipping your water. Your eyes widen, realising your notebook is nowhere to be seen. You run a hand into your hairline, defeated. “Oh no, my notebook!”

He shifts where he sits, pulling out a familiar faux leather-bound A5 notebook. “I checked out your notes, ________.” He turns the pages and shows you what he’s been looking at. You feel a blush take over your face – it’s a sketch of Superboy, from the first time you saw him on the TV nightly news. Conner flips more pages, more pictures of himself. “You’re really good, ________,” he says, voice small.

“Thank you, Conner,” you whisper.

A beat passes between the two of you, and he asks, “uh, could I take you out for lunch sometime? To make up for you being hurt.”

You giggle at the absurdity, “But – but you saved me!” you protest. “You don’t have to make up anything to me!”

He shrugs, “How about for lost time?” He says, getting out of his seat, to sit beside you on the bed.

“Sounds great, Superboy.”

#conner kent #conner kent/reader #conner kent x reader #superboy #superboy x reader #superboy/reader #kon-el #kon-el x reader #kon-el/reader #dc comics x reader #dc comics fanfic #young justice x reader #chaotic--lovely #pendragonfics #Female reader

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