Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue

There’s a number above everyone's head.

Always has been, for as long as I can remember, like some quiet, invisible code the world forgot to mention existed, except to me.

A harmless old man crossing the street? Two.

A moody teenager glued to his phone, sulking through life in a cloud of teenage apathy? Three.

A cop with a gun—six or seven, depending on the day, depending on the mood, depending on whether the universe decided to play nice.

The numbers don’t tell me who people are, not really. They don’t whisper secrets about kindness or cruelty or how often someone holds the door open for strangers. They just tell me one thing: how dangerous a person could be. Potential. Threat. The possibility of harm distilled into a simple number, glowing above every head like a secret only I can see. And I’ve learned to live with it. Learned to breathe through it. Learned to sip my overpriced office coffee and type up article drafts with the rest of the world while these silent numbers drift over everyone’s heads like casual, ordinary ghosts.

Most people hover somewhere between one and five. The harmless masses. The quiet, mundane faces you pass on sidewalks without ever wondering if they could kill you. I’ve seen sixes—rare, but they happen. I’ve seen a seven, twice, both times leaving me rattled for days after, nerves wired too tight.

But I’ve never seen an eight.

I didn’t even know ten existed.

Until now.

The guy sitting three desks away from me wears slacks that don’t quite fit, a dorky tie that probably hasn’t been in style since the 90s, and glasses so thick they could double as windshields. He has that awkward little half-smile people get when they’re new somewhere and trying not to take up too much space. And above his head, as steady as the sun, is the number: Ten.

For a second, I just… freeze. Not physically—physically I’m fine. Normal. Calm. But my brain? My brain is running every emergency scenario I’ve ever imagined, and none of them end well. Full-blown sirens blaring in my head, adrenaline kicking so hard I’m pretty sure I could outrun a moving car right now, heart punching my ribs like it’s got somewhere better to be.

A ten. A ten. In the middle of the Daily Planet. The exact kind of place where danger shouldn’t exist, where the worst thing I should have to face is a printer jam or Lois Lane on deadline.

And yet here he is.

What. The. Actual. Hell.

I should stay at my desk. I should keep my head down. I should pretend this isn’t happening because that’s what I’ve always done.

But something—some reckless, deeply stupid part of me—makes me stand up instead. Makes me smooth the crease on my sleeve, makes me put one foot in front of the other like I’m not already calculating the distance to the nearest exit, wondering if I could vault over the receptionist’s desk in an emergency.

I should walk away.

I should run.

But I don’t. Because apparently I’m an idiot.

He turns when I approach. Smiles—awkward, genuine, almost painfully harmless. The kind of guy who probably says things like “golly” without even meaning to sound old-fashioned.

“Hey,” I say, voice flat but polite, because I’ve spent my whole life mastering this tone. “Didn’t catch you yesterday. You new?”

“Yeah,” he says, offering me his hand. “Clark. Clark Kent.”

I shake it. His grip is firm but gentle, practiced but not overbearing, the kind of handshake you read about in HR manuals that tell you how to seem trustworthy. But it’s his eyes—blue, clear, impossibly steady—that throw me. Because they don’t just look at me. They look through me. Like he’s seeing everything I am, everything I could be, everything I’ve ever tried to hide.

“Nice to meet you,” I say smoothly, because I am nothing if not professional. “I'm Janet, staff writer.”

Nice to meet you, walking apocalypse.

He laughs, soft, a little self-conscious. “First day jitters, you know? But working at the Daily Planet has always been a dream.”

“Yeah,” I nod. “Welcome to the Daily Planet.”

And I smile, polite and plastic, because that’s what I’m supposed to do, even as my mind is already spiraling, cataloging exit strategies, eyeing heavy objects I could maybe throw if this turns bad (spoiler: it’s basically staplers and coffee mugs).

I sit back down.

I type some nonsense into my computer.

I glance up—once, twice, three times—and the number hasn’t changed. Ten. Unshakable.

Something’s off.

Something’s very off.

I’ve never been more terrified in my life.

And I intend to find out what…

I think.

Chapter Text

There are a lot of things I expected to deal with when I took this job. Deadline panic? Check. Printer paper mysteriously vanishing every other day? Check. Mild caffeine addiction? Already there.

What I didn’t expect was sitting three desks away from someone with a glowing 10 over his head like the universe decided to drop a boss fight into the middle of an open-plan office.

I haven’t stopped watching him. Not in the creepy, binoculars-from-the-rooftop way. More like… survival instincts. The kind of hyper-awareness you get when you see a spider the size of your hand crawl under your couch and then disappear.

I’m working. Sort of. I’ve opened the same email draft eight times. I’ve typed two sentences. Deleted them. Typed them again.

Meanwhile, Clark Kent—I still can’t think of him as anything other than Mr. Ten—is just… there.

Laughing at people’s jokes. Helping someone with the coffee machine. Dropping his pen and looking genuinely apologetic when it rolls under a desk.

And not once does anyone else in this entire godforsaken building seem to notice that he is—numerically speaking—the equivalent of a natural disaster in slacks.

I glance over again. The 10 is still there. Steady. Calm. Looming.

At this point, I’m not even panicking anymore. I’m past panic. I’ve looped around to this weird, detached place where all I can do is sip my coffee and accept that I’m probably going to die via laser eyes or alien mind control before the week is out.

It’s fine.

Totally fine.

“Everything okay?” someone asks. Jimmy, probably. I don’t even look. I just nod, hyper-focused on pretending to work while my brain is holding an emergency board meeting titled:

‘What the Hell Is Clark Kent and How Do I Not Die.’

And then—because the universe is cruel—Clark catches my eye. Smiles. Waves.

I wave back. Automatically.                               

Why am I waving??

Why do I feel like I’ve just been spotted by a predator that hasn’t decided yet whether it’s hungry?

I immediately stand up and head to the break room because I need air. Or sugar. Or both.

Which is how I end up at the vending machine, where—because the universe hates me—it immediately eats my dollar.

Of course it does.

I rest my forehead against the cool glass and let out the most dramatic sigh of my life.

“This is fine,” I mumble under my breath. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

Except none of it is.

Because the number doesn’t lie. 

I’ve seen dangerous people. Cops. Soldiers. One guy at a bar who definitely had a knife in his boot.

None of them ever hit a ten. Not even close.

And now here’s this… guy.

Who says things like “golly” without irony.

Who fumbles his phone like a baby deer.

Who looks like he’s never had a violent thought in his life—and who could, by the numbers alone, end everything.

And no one else sees it.                                       

No one else ever does.

By the time I drag myself back to my desk, he’s gone. Probably home. The number is gone with him.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.                                                                   

My heart is still pounding, though.

I sit. Stare at my half-written article.

"Clark Kent is either the nicest person I’ve ever met or the reason I’m going to die in the next seven to ten business days.”

I delete it. Probably not a good look for an article about rising rent prices.

Note to self:

1. Don’t panic.                                                   
2. Gather more intel.                                     
3. Absolutely, under no circumstances, do not fall for the hot dorky smile.

Because I’ve seen disaster before. But never disaster with dimples.

Chapter Text

Today, I made a plan.

A simple plan.

A brilliant plan, if we’re being honest.

Avoid Clark Kent.

That’s it. That’s the whole thing.

No talking. No eye contact. No accidental run-ins by the copier. Just quiet, steady avoidance until I can go home and rewatch crime documentaries while stress-eating cereal out of the box like a functioning adult.

Unfortunately, the universe hates me.

Because not ten minutes after I clock in, Perry White himself slaps a folder on my desk and barks, “Kent’s shadowing you today. Show him the ropes.”

Excuse me?

Excuse me??

“I—what—wait,” I start eloquently.

Too late. Perry’s already yelling at someone else across the bullpen, leaving me staring at the folder like it just threatened my family.

Across the room, Clark is smiling. Waving. Walking over.

I pretend I don’t see him. I fail spectacularly.

“Hey, partner!” he says, all cheer and sunshine, like we’re coworkers in a buddy cop movie and not two strangers whose danger levels differ by nine entire points.

“Hi,” I reply flatly, because I’m committed to the bit now: the bit where I pretend I am not slowly unraveling on the inside.

“You okay?” he asks, eyebrows creasing in concern. “You look a little pale.”

I stare at him.

Of course I’m pale. I just got told to spend the entire day next to a man whose threat level is one missed alarm away from leveling a city block.

“I’m great,” I lie. “Thrilled. Ecstatic. Let’s get this show on the road.”

The show, as it turns out, involves a lot of walking. Clark insists on carrying both our notepads and even opens doors for me like we’re on a weirdly professional date. He’s polite. Thoughtful. Alarmingly competent.

Which only makes it worse.

Because every time he helps someone with a jammed printer or compliments a co-worker’s new haircut, I’m sitting there thinking:

“This man could crush a car with one hand. And he’s apologizing for breathing too loud.”

By lunch, I’ve had three internal panic attacks and one moment of genuine admiration, which is frankly unacceptable. I end up at a table with Lois (who is terrifying in a way I deeply respect), Jimmy, and—of course—Clark, who sits across from me like we’re besties.

“How’s shadowing going?” Lois asks, raising an eyebrow like she’s testing me.

“Oh, it’s… good,” I say, voice several octaves too high. “Real good. Great.”

Clark beams. “Janet’s been really helpful.”

I smile back. I think my face twitches. I may be having a stroke.

Jimmy, oblivious as ever, chimes in. “Right? Clark’s like, the nicest guy ever. Like, weirdly nice. Did you know he brought muffins for the interns this morning?”

“Oh god,” I mutter.

It escapes before I can stop it. Everyone stares.

“I mean—wow. So sweet,” I recover, barely.

Clark just laughs. “You don’t like muffins?”

“I love muffins,” I say deadpan. “I love waking up in the morning and thinking, ‘You know what this day needs? Potential doom disguised as a baked good.’”

There is a long pause. Clark blinks. Lois narrows her eyes.

I cough. “Kidding. Obviously.”

Nervous laughter. Mine. Definitely mine.

By the time the workday ends, I’m emotionally fried.

Clark waves goodbye as he leaves and I wave back because I have apparently lost all sense of boundaries and self-preservation.

I sit down at my desk. Pull up a blank Word doc.

Type the words:

He offered me half his sandwich and now I don’t know if I’m being courted or hunted. I deleted it again. This is, unfortunately, not a romance column.

Tomorrow,

I will do better.

Tomorrow, I will avoid him.

Tomorrow, nothing will go wrong...probably

Chapter Text

I had a plan.

A real one.

Not like yesterday’s half-baked “pretend to work while drafting my obituary” strategy.

No, this one was solid. Foolproof. Built on one sacred, unshakable rule:

Avoid Clark Kent.

No eye contact.

No talking.

No situations that might lead to accidental bonding, awkward silences, or him offering me food again like we’re best friends and not coworkers who share a workplace with comically different threat levels.

Simple. Clean. Elegant.

So naturally, it all goes to hell before 10 a.m.

It starts when Lois Lane, investigative juggernaut and terror of interns, flags me down while I’m halfway to the break room.

“You,” she says, pointing her coffee at me like it’s a weapon. “You’re helping Kent with that zoning article.”

I blink. “Why?”

“Because I said so,” she says, breezing past me like that’s an acceptable explanation.

Clark appears thirty seconds later, smiling like a golden retriever in human form.

“Hey, partner,” he says cheerfully. “Guess we’re working together again!” I smile back. I think my soul leaves my body.

New plan: Complete the assignment. Be professional. Escape.

Except Clark has this annoying habit of being… good. Like really good. He asks smart questions. He types fast. He has surprisingly legible handwriting. Who does that?

At one point, he even gets a quote out of a notoriously grumpy city official who’s told me to “go bother someone else” more than once. Clark just smiles at the guy, says something friendly, and bam—exclusive quote.

I stare at him like he just performed magic.

Which, honestly, might not be far off.

Because the 10 above his head? Still there. Not flickering. Not budging.

I pretend to scribble in my notebook while making a mental list titled:

“Signs Clark Kent Might Be a Government Weapon.”

1. Too nice
2. Too competent
3. Doesn’t drink coffee (??? suspicious behavior)
4. Possibly bulletproof
5. Brought extra pens

By lunch, I’ve decided I’m either hallucinating or in the world’s slowest horror movie. I try to escape to the roof. Jimmy follows. Jimmy brings Clark. I pretended to choke on my sandwich to avoid talking and Clark literally offers me his water bottle.

“Do you need help? You’re kind of red in the face,” he says.

I am red. I’m red from the sheer pressure of being near someone who could probably sneeze and level a small town.

“I’m fine,” I wheeze. “Just… chewing enthusiastically.”

“Ah,” Clark says, nodding like that’s normal.

Back at the office, I spend the rest of the afternoon subtly shifting my desk supplies so I can build a wall of staplers between us.

Clark doesn’t notice. Or he pretends not to.

We finish the article. Perry approves it. Everyone claps. Someone says, “Wow, Janet and Kent make a good team.”

I considered eating my ID badge

End of day. I’m packing up. Clark walks by, all casual and devastatingly polite.

“Great working with you again,” he says. “Maybe we’ll get partnered again soon.”

I nod. Smile. Lie. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

The 10 glows calmly above his head. I go home and lie facedown on my couch.

Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow I will avoid him. Tomorrow, fate will not conspire against me.

...Right?

Chapter Text

It started with hunger and one questionable yogurt.

I was mid-stare at the office vending machine, debating if “Honey Oat Cluster Surprise” was worth emotional damage, when Clark appeared.

“There’s a café nearby,” he said with that smile that could solve international conflict. “I was heading there. Want to come?”

I was too tired to argue. Or think. Or be alone with the vending machine again.

So I said yes.

And now here we are.

There’s Clark.

Seated at a table in an aggressively cozy café that looks like a Pinterest board exploded. Edison bulbs. Succulent on every table. Probably a secret poetry reading in the back 

Clark waves. Cheerful. Gentle. Sunshine in a tie.

He looks like the kind of guy who’d apologize to a chair if he bumped into it. He is the exact opposite of threatening. If I hadn’t seen that glowing, menacing TEN above his head, I’d assume the most dangerous thing about him was how many sugars he puts in his coffee.

But today… Clark isn’t the problem.

Today, the problem is sitting next to him.

I spot him immediately.

Aviators. Indoors. Half-unbuttoned shirt. Designer jacket pretending it’s casual. Grin like a man who’s never met shame and wouldn’t like it if he did. He turns toward me, and I swear the café lighting adjusts for dramatic effect.

Oh no.

He has the voice. The flirty, velvet-lined, just-woke-up-like-this voice.

He sticks out a hand. I shake it automatically.

“Hey!” he says, voice like a warm bourbon night. “You must be Janet. Clark talks about you all the time.”

He sticks out a hand, and I shake it automatically. It's warm. Firm. The kind of handshake people write bad fanfiction about.

“I’m Bruce,” he says, with the confident smile of a man who’s never once checked his bank account balance. “Bruce Wayne.”

Pause.

Bruce Wayne.

Like—the Bruce Wayne.

That Bruce Wayne. The one from the tabloids. Gotham’s crown prince of expensive mistakes. The man whose net worth has its own zip code. The guy who once dated a runway model and a duchess in the same month and somehow got invited to both weddings.

My brain takes a moment to recalibrate.

And then—

I see it.

The number.

Ten.

A solid, glowing, can’t-unsee-it TEN.

I actually stop breathing for a second.

BRUCE WAYNE IS A TEN?!.

I blink once. Twice. Slowly.

No. No, that can’t be right. He’s Bruce. He looks like he’s never heard the word “consequences” in a sentence that didn’t involve his assistant. He just winked at the barista. He probably thinks “stealth” is a cologne brand.

This man is not a 10. He is a disaster in a jawline. He’s a 2 wrapped in Armani. He’s a 3 if you count his cardio.

He is the personification of the phrase “I’m not touching that; my lawyer said not to.”

And yet a TEN, i must be delirious that can't be right!?

Bruce Wayne, king of the accidental sex scandal and designer-scented brunch, is in the same threat category as Clark Kent. You know—Clark, who helped Mrs. Castaneda carry her groceries last week and smiled the whole time like a golden retriever in glasses.

Clark is soft rays of sun on a cold morning.

Bruce is champagne with a knife in it.

And I am not okay.

“I hope I’m not crashing,” Bruce says, sliding a second espresso across the table like it’s a peace offering. “Clark said you liked coffee. Or at least looked like someone who survives off it.”

“Thanks,” I say. My voice is level. My soul is screaming.

He grins. “You’re hard to read. That’s cool. I’m mostly used to people asking me what cologne I wear before I say hello.”

“Oh? What cologne do you wear?” I ask, because I enjoy pain.

He leans closer. “None. It’s just how I smell.”

Clark nearly snorts his drink. I want to melt through the floor.

“How do you two know each other?” I ask, because what is self-preservation?

“Work,” Clark says simply.

“Yeah, work,” Bruce adds. “And brunch. But mostly work. He interviewed me quite a lot.”

He throws Clark a sideways grin. “Got pretty personal, too. Real penetrating questions.”

Clark chokes slightly on his drink. The rest of the conversation is a blur of chaos.

Bruce talks about once being mistaken for a waiter at his own gala. He tries to order a croissant “deconstructed” and the barista tells him that’s just “a pile of ingredients.” He tips her anyway. He flirts with a plant. He tells me I have “CEO energy.” At one point, he says he’s thinking of buying a satellite because he wants “a better weather app.”

“I like knowing when it’s going to rain before my soul does,” he says, completely seriously.

Clark smiles at him like this is normal.

I sip my coffee and try not to have an aneurysm, whatever that means.

Bruce leans back in his chair, all smug grin and espresso confidence. “Anyway, Monaco wasn’t that mad once I returned the tiger.”

“You had a tiger?” I ask, voice a little too flat.

“Technically it was a tiger cub, my youngest son Damian wanted one” Bruce says. “Very legal. Ish.”

I blink.

Clark chuckles, setting down his mug. “He’s exaggerating. The tiger was rescued. Kind of.”

“I don’t think ‘kind of’ belongs in that sentence,” I mutter.

“Hey,” Bruce says, mock-offended. “I am very responsible. I once filed my taxes on time.”

“On accident,” Clark adds, smiling.

“It still counts!”

I sip my coffee like it contains answers. It does not. Only pain and caffeine.

“So what do you do, Janet?” Bruce asks suddenly, chin resting on one hand. “Other than steal hearts with those dangerously deadpan looks?”

I blink again. Clark laughs like this is normal.

“She’s a writer,” Clark says proudly. “Really sharp. One of the best in the office.”

“Ah,” Bruce says, as if I’ve just confessed to being a brain surgeon. “So you’re scary and smart. Amazing. I’m in love.”

Clark hums thoughtfully. “She did once survive three print deadlines and a press conference in the same day. I think that counts as a superpower.”

I stare at Clark.

Clark, who just called me a superpower.

Clark, who is an actual danger level ten and doesn’t even realize it.

“You both need hobbies,” I mutter, cheeks hot.

“Mine is you,” Bruce says.

“Bruce,” Clark warns lightly, tone amused.

Bruce raises his hands. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”

I’m thinking about crawling under the table and starting a new life as a feral cat.