Below the Fold

by alisansinister

Summary:

You aren’t in awe of Superman. In fact, you’re suspicious. He’s too controlled— no one is that clean without hiding something. All the while, Clark Kent is dealing with the weight of a god trying to stay a man.

Chapter 1: all the quiet things

You’ve never trusted Superman. He’s too pristine. Too rehearsed. Every quote you’ve read from other reporters feels scripted.

Your reputation in the news room was many things: unflinching, sharp, and possibly brutal if someone got friendly too fast. You’d made your name gutting the puff pieces and rewriting press releases into something that actually bled. If there was propaganda floating through Metropolis, you were the one dragging it into the light and pinning each piece down like an autopsy. Dismantling propaganda in three-inch columns and front page exposés was your niche. 

So, naturally, when Perry assigned you a ‘retrospective’— a glowing look back at Superman’s decade of public service —you thought it was some kind of joke.

"Co-written," Perry said, not looking up from his tablet.

"With who?" "Kent."
You laughed. Out loud. A little too loud. Perry’s eyes finally lifted, slow and dry.

"Clark Kent?" you asked again in disbelief, "Yes, Kent. You could use the balance, and he could use the spine."

This was the beginning of the end. Across the bullpen of the Daily Planet, you spot the tall, dark mop of hair that was Clark Kent. He was face-first in some form of text.

Clark was… fine. He was fine. Always pressed collars and coffee breath. The type to hold the elevator door for too long if he saw someone coming halfway down the hallway. You’d worked in the same building for years, but he’d always stay one polite nod beyond reach. 

Your eyes skit to the small gathering of paper that was slid onto your desk, Perry awaiting your comments. It read ‘Ten Years of Superman: A Legacy of Hope".

"Is this a punishment?"

"It’s a feature," He replied, his eyes not moving from the tablet he had in his hold.

"It’s a fluff piece—" 

"It’s a human interest story."

"He’s not human."

Perry sighed, and gave you a ‘this is your job’ glare in return. As he made his way to the other side of the bullpen, you gave a sigh to match his own. Staring up at the ceiling, you half expected the ceiling tiles to crack open and drop a punchline. It never did. 

---

Clark was exactly what you remembered: unassuming in the most deliberate way. Four years of working together, but somehow, this collaboration felt like meeting a stranger with a familiar face. A stranger who didn’t blink when you took potshots at the subject matter. He was always in a clean button down, complimented with sincere smile. In other words: your polar opposite. 

"So," you began, ‘A Legacy of Hope’, huh?"

He replied with an easy shrug, "Working title."

Your eyes glued to the shared monitor in front of the both of you, sharing a thought after a beat of silence.

"Reads like a church bulletin."

"Hope isn’t such a terrible thing."

He didn’t argue, didn’t challenge you. Just offered a soft smile and handed you a list of quote suggestions. Witness testimonies, heroics noted from across the decade, dates and time stamps logged with absurd precision. He’d done his homework, which irritated you in ways you couldn’t name. Contrasting to the rest of the planet, the only feeling you had toward anything Superman related, was suspicion. 

Yes, tucked away inside you, you appreciated what Superman has done for Metropolis. It means you have a home, and a job to return to. But something stirs inside you when you start to think too much about it. Why is he helping us? What is he hoping to get in return?

You heard the fuzziness of your name being called, and it yanks you back into reality. Clark is slightly turned to you, with a hint of playful concern spread on his face.

"You okay over there?"

After shaking the remainder of your thoughts away, you respond.

"Yeah, just wishing this thing would write itself."

---

A week and a half later, your days blurred into back-to-back meetings and double-shot espresso. The co-writing sessions in the dim corners of the Daily Planet’s twenty-four hour newsroom made the espresso seem worthless. 

It was well past midnight when you and Clark found yourselves alone— just the two of you and the glow of a shared monitor humming like distant thunder. You were cross-referencing statements from survivors of the East Side subway derailment, their stories piece together from handwritten notes and shaky video footage. Most accounts centered around the usual: Superman’s strength, his speed, and the way he carried a ten-ton railcar like it meant nothing. You were scanning through quotes, when a shift in the light of the screen caught your eye.

Clark’s screen had gone dim. Then, it flickered back to life— not to his draft or the research document, but something else. 

Something raw. Unedited. Real.

He clicked to open a secure folder. No labels. Just time stamps and GPS tags. Your eyes narrowed.

He wasn’t working.

On a separate monitor, co-adjacent to the one in front of you, grainy footage filled the frame. Surveillance video, maybe military grade. It showed a village somewhere far away. Mud walls and tin roofs. Smoke curling like tendrils into the sky.

Then came the wreckage.

Trees flattened in perfect outward rings, craters smoldering. A woman in the corner of the frame screaming silently as dust swallowed her. And there— on the edge —was a blur. 

Blue. Red. A cape catching wind like a shroud.

He hovered for a moment. Then he vanished.

Clark didn’t move. His hands laced together tightly, knuckles pale and rigid. His eyes stayed on the screen, blinking slowly, like he couldn’t afford to look away. His chest rose and fell in shallow intervals— like he wasn’t breathing so much as enduring.

You didn’t mean to stare, but the silence held you in place.

The shaking started in his hands. Subtle at first, then full, visible tremors. He didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he did, and he didn’t care.

After a long stretch of stillness, he exhaled. A long, hollow sound, barely audible over the buzz of the lights. Then he exited the tab silently, cleared his tabs, and minimized everything.

And just like that, he was Clark Kent again.

He turned slightly, catching the edge of your gaze, and offered that same, soft smile. The one you’d seen every day for years. Polite. Steady. A facade, you realized, that didn’t crack. Even when the man behind it did.

"Sorry," he said quietly, "didn’t mean to distract you."
You shook your head once, quickly, like the moment hadn’t lodged itself between your ribs. 
"Long night," you said. 
"Aren’t they all?" he replied.

---

You didn’t ask about the footage. You didn’t ask why he had it, or why it had shaken him so deeply.

But that night, long after you’d gone home and peeled yourself out of your shoes, you sat on the floor of your apartment and pulled out an old, frayed notebook. One you hadn’t touched in almost a year.

The front cover read simply across a taped sticky note, ‘CK’.

Inside were breadcrumbs, notes, little things that never quite added up. Times that Clark had been unreachable— ‘off sick,’ ‘at lunch,’ ‘on assignment’ —each one curiously coinciding with Superman appearances halfway across the city. Minor inconsistencies, eye-witness contradictions. A scrawled note in your handwriting that read:

‘’Never bleeds. Never swears. Never forgets anything.’

You stared at it for a long time.

Clark Kent was hiding something.

And maybe— just maybe —he wanted you to find it.

Chapter 2: held too long

Summary:

You become intrigued by Clark Kent’s quiet perfection and guarded nature. Subtle moments and a warning from Lois Lane hint at hidden depths. By night’s end, you’re certain he’s keeping a secret.

 The newsrooms hummed with life, sunlight slashing across rows of desks and casting long shadows through the windows of the Daily Planet. Phones rang, reporters shout half-finished headlines, and someone spilled coffee two cubicles over. 

You barely notice.

Your eyes are on Clark Kent.

He was already seated at his desk when you arrive, somehow always early without ever seeming to rush. Sleeves rolled, glasses slightly fogged from the heat of his thermos, his posture is impeccable— like he belongs in a painting of honest men. And yet… you couldn’t help but watch him sideways.

 

"Morning," he said with a polite nod.

You set your bag down, "How early did you get here?"

Clark glanced at the time on his monitor,

"A while earlier, just couldn’t sleep."

 

That made the third time he’s said that this week.

 

You eased into your seat beside him. "Still working on the same quote list?"

He smiled softly, "Trying to condense the humanitarian side without editorializing too much. That’s your wheelhouse."

You arched a brow. "So you’re just here for the hard facts?"

"Always," he responded, and his eyes flick toward you. Like he’s trying to gauge how much you believe him.

You glanced at the screen, noticing that one of the quotes is misattributed. You begin, "That quote’s from the UNICEF rep, not the bystander."

Clark leaned in, squinting at the mentioned quote. "You’re right, good catch."

You pause.

"You’ve been through these three times already. How’d you miss it?"

Clark’s body straightened slightly before he responded, "Guess I’m not as perfect as you thought."

You’re not sure if it’s meant to be deflection or charm, but it almost works.

 

Almost.

 

Around midday, you found yourself elbow-deep in old Superman footage. Combing archived material for inconsistencies, angles that don’t line up, timelines that move too cleanly. You weren’t entirely sure what you’re hunting anymore— but you’d know it when you saw it.

Lois Lane appeared like she always did: composed, caffeinated, and two-steps ahead of the conversation.

"Careful," she began, setting her coffee on your desk. "You’re going to burn a hole into Clark’s sweater if you keep it up."

You glanced up, "Just trying to figure him out."

She gave you a knowing look. "Aren’t we all?"

You tilted your head. "You’ve worked with him the longest."

"I’ve worked with a lot of people," Lois replied. "Clark’s… different."

"In what way?"

Lois leaned in, her voice in a hushed tone, "He never slips up. Everyone does, even me. But him?" She concluded with a shake of her head.

You frowned. "So you think he’s hiding something?"

She sipped her coffee, "I think that he doesn’t trust people easily. Which is ironic, considering how much people trust him."

 

Before you could press further, Perry shouts from his office and Lois is gone again, leaving you with a hundred questions.

And no answers. 

---

By late afternoon, the bullpen softened into something quieter—less electric, more casual. You and Clark sat across each other at the long table, surrounded by files and half-eaten pastries.

You slid a photo across the table. It’s Superman—mid-flight, blurred at the edges. "Do you ever get used to him? The fact that he’s just… out there, all the time?"

Clark looked at it for a long time. "No," he said softly. "I don’t think anyone does."

You press, "You’ve never talked to him? Not even once?"

Clark’s voice didn’t waver, "Only from a distance."

You stared at him. Seems like he has an answer to everything. "That’s surprising. You’re one of the most respected reporters in the city."

"I don’t chase bylines," he said. "And he doesn’t chase praise."

There was a beat of silence. You glanced at him, but his gaze was on a memo that doesn’t matter. He cleared his throat, "We missed a quote from the Gotham rebuilding initiative. Want me to track it down?"

You hesitate, "Sure."

 

But even as he stood and walked away, you’re still thinking about his actions. His body language. His answers.

You’re not sure what you’re chasing, but you’re certain of one thing:

Clark Kent is leading you somewhere.

And you’re not ready to stop following.

The office thinned out after eight. By nine, the bull-pen was half dark, low-lit and soft, scattered with the occasional hum of fluorescent lights and the clacking of a printer on it’s last legs. The city glowed behind the windows— amber, pulsing, alive.

You should’ve gone home hours ago.

But so should’ve Clark.

Before you headed back to your desk, you stopped by the break room for stale coffee. Lois greeted you, leaning on the counter and stirring her coffee. She doesn’t look up as you enter.

"You’re here late."

You shrugged, "You’re one to talk."

When she finally met your eyes, she was smirking. "Habit. Hard to sleep when you’ve got a city full of secrets."

You stepped beside her, and began to pour yourself a cup of coffee. "Or liars."

Lois gave a half-hearted chuckle, dark and knowing. "Same thing."

 

There was a beat, and then she looked at you a bit sharper.

"Working with Kent on that Superman retrospective?"

You nodded, your guard hardening slightly. Lois sipped her coffee, "Be careful with him."

Your brow twitched, "Why?"

Another beat, and then her eyes never left your own. 

 

“Clark’s the kind of guy to give you just enough rope to hang yourself. And the worst part is, you won’t even realize it until you’re already off the ground."

"He’s been nothing but decent, maybe a little suspicious but—"

" That’s the problem."

She pushed off the counter, coffee in hand, and walked out without another word. You’re left in the humming quiet, cup burning in your palm and a chill up your back.

He didn’t say much when you returned.

Just a polite nod and a few shared words as you slid into the seat next to him. The desk-table was covered in scattered notes, printouts, voice-recorder batteries, and multiple disposable coffee cups. Neither of you has moved in a few hours, other than your coffee trip.

You glanced over at your notepad, pretending to scan your transcription. In truth, you’re watching him.

Again.

Clark Kent is composed. Too composed.

Elbows on the desk, eyes forward, and brows furrowed just enough to make it look like he’s focusing.

But his hand— his right hand— rested near the edge of the desk, fingers lightly twitching every so often like they’re trying to work something out. It’s the same hand that shook the night you caught him watching the footage. You haven’t brought it up, and he hasn’t offered an explanation.

---

The air between you is careful, like glass.

"This quotes’ off." He said suddenly.

"Hm?" You blinked, and drew your eyes to where he pointed on his notepad.

"In the Q&A, with the fire captain, he didn’t say ‘collapsed’ he said ‘compromised. You had it right in the earlier draft."

You squint at the page.

And, of course he’s right.

"Good catch," you said slowly, "didn’t realize you remembered it word-for-word."

He doesn’t look up, "Some things stick."

It’s neutral, too neutral  Which seems to be the norm these days with Clark.

You go back to your notes, but your eyes kept darting sideways— just enough to catch the way he tucked his thumb under the page like he’s nervous. Like he’s thinking about being nervous.

No one is this perfectly mild all the time. No one that kind  

That generous.

That maddeningly guarded.

 

You’re halfway through editing the final paragraph, when a pen rolled off your desk and tumbled near your feet. You reached for it at the same moment Clark bended down to pick it up. 

Your fingertips brushed against the palm of his hand. Warm, rough, a too-quick touch.

Your breath snagged as you clasp your hand around the cold plastic of the pen.

But the moment stayed. He doesn’t look at you. You don’t look at him.

The space between your chairs began to shrink, even though neither of you moved.

You tapped your pen against the paper, pretending to read the last line of a paragraph. You underlined a sentence three times just to keep your hands busy.

You had a feeling Clark noticed your fervent underlining. For a second, you swore you saw his hand flex after your brief contact. His jaw tensing under the warm, late lamplight from the desk. He looked tired— no, exhausted . The low lighting enhanced his dark eye bags.

After dragging your eyes off of him, you break the intermittent silence.
"We should lock up, it’s almost eleven."

Clark answered with a silent nod, not making eye contact as the both of you began to stand and pack your things.

 

While he didn’t make eye contact, you could feel his eyes flicking over you in short instances. As if he was studying. You hoist your briefcase up by the handle and give a soft smile before speaking,

"See you tomorrow morning, Kent."

The loud echo of clacking heels was your send-off into an otherwise quiet night.

You still don’t know who he is, but now you’re certain he’s hiding something.

And for the first time, you’re not sure if you want to know what it is.

---

When you return home, you had your purse swung across your body and a stack of various mail in your hands.

Bills, scams, more bills. 

The last card in your hand felt sturdy. It's a dark green, untouched by even a slight bend or wrinkle from being jostled around. 

Your brows furrowed as you look further-

No return address. And nothing about the letter being addressed to you in particular. 

You pick at the sealed paper until you feel it give, and tear the top of the envelope open with your fingers.

Inside, was a small slip of paper.

Ms. [Your Last Name],

It seems we share the same questions about our Hero of Metropolis. You know where I am. Come tomorrow.

L. Luthor

Of course you knew who he was. The popular millionaire, Lex Luthor. Your heart caught as you felt suddenly that you were being watched more closely than you notice. 

You lock your doors, windows, and draw all of your shades.

No definitive proof, but you could solidify your own wonders. 

Or, you could leave it alone. 

Laying in a cold bed, you're wide awake. 

Thinking. 

Chapter 3: man in the crowd

Summary:

The day is here-- 10 years of Superman in Metropolis. The city is a symphony of people, cheer, and wonder. You were expecting to find one Lex Luthor another time-- and definitely not at a celebration for his nemesis.

The city was alive in a way it hadn’t been in years.

Metropolis had been decorated like the crown jewel of the world, banners snapping from rooftops, streets lined with confetti and streamers, every lamppost strung with Superman’s emblem.

The ten-year celebration of his first appearance had drawn in crowds so vast that from the steps of Centennial Plaza, the entire skyline seemed to breathe with anticipation. 

You were there with a notebook in hand, and—inevitably—Clark Kent at your side. The Daily Planet had paired you together to cover the event, though you knew “covering” was a generous word for a parade that already seemed to have written its own headlines.

The people adored Superman. He was, at least to them, a savior without blemish.

 

But you weren’t here for puff pieces. You were watching Clark. Always Clark. And lately, he gave you more reasons to.

He hovered close beside you, tall enough to cast a shadow even in the late afternoon sunlight.

The crowd pressed tight, thousands of bodies shifting with the energy of the celebration, and more than once his hand found the small of your back, steadying you when someone jostled too hard.

Every time, the heat of his palm lingered a fraction too long, enough to make your skin prickle. 

 

“You all right?” he asked, leaning down so you could hear him over the music. His voice brushed your ear, low and careful.

“I can handle a crowd,” you said, though your voice came out thinner than intended.

 

His mouth quirked like he knew. He pulled away, glasses flashing in the sunlight. 

You hated how aware you were of him now—his nearness, his height, his restraint.

You hated it.

It tangled with your suspicions, and suspicion was supposed to sharpen, not soften.

 

---

 

The parade rolled on.

Floats blazed past, one a glittering tribute to the Justice League, another shaped like the Fortress of Solitude in ice-blue papier-mâché. Children on their fathers’ shoulders waved red-and-blue flags.

Then, as the final float pulled up, the crowd surged, a ripple of voices swelling into a roar. Superman himself was about to take the stage.

Clark shifted, glancing over his shoulder toward the back of the plaza. “I’ll be right back,” he said quickly, too quickly.

Before you could question him, he was gone. Slipping into the throng with surprising ease for a man his size.

You frowned. “Seriously?”

Now, you were alone in this very energized crowd. For a man who's title alone made the gears in your brain grind.

With all five of your senses in overdrive, you decided you needed a place away from the crowd of fanatics. You shuffle toward the back of the crowd, murmuring 'excuse me's every second. 

Soon, the cheering erupted.

Superman had landed. The stage trembled with the impact of his boots, and there he was—impossibly striking, his cape snapping in the wind.

He lifted a hand, waved modestly, and the crowd went mad. Cameras flashed like lightning storms.

 

The timing was perfect. Too perfect.

 

Your pen stilled in your notebook. The thought clawed at you:

Clark vanishes. Superman arrives. Every time.

 

You had a passing thought that you were imagining it.

 

But you didn’t believe it.

 

---

 

Hours later, the speeches had finished, the parade floats dispersed, and the city had dissolved into street-level festivities.

Music played on every corner, food stalls crammed the sidewalks, and the air smelled of fried dough and fireworks.

You found yourself near the edge of the plaza, jotting down stray impressions, when a voice like smooth steel slid in beside you.

 

“Quite the spectacle, isn’t it?”

Lex Luthor.

 

He was impeccably dressed, tailored charcoal suit catching the fading light, a violet tie knotted sharp at his throat.

His smile was razor-thin, and his eyes—green, calculating—flicked over you with unsettling familiarity.

“Mr. Luthor,” you said cautiously. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Oh, I never miss an anniversary,” he said lightly. “Even if it’s for a man I don’t particularly celebrate.” He tilted his head toward the stage, where Superman was now greeting dignitaries. “I hear you’ve taken an interest in him. Your pieces have been… sharper than your colleagues’.”

Your stomach tightened. “I’m doing my job.”

“Mmm.” Lex stepped closer, voice dropping low enough for only you to hear. “Or perhaps you’re trying to uncover what the rest of the world won’t dare ask. Who he really is. What he really wants.”

 

Your pulse jumped. You wanted to step back, but the crowd behind you boxed you in. Lex noticed, of course. His smile widened.

“I could help you,” he murmured. “You’re intelligent, ambitious. And I happen to know things about Superman no one else does. Things you’d never hear from the Daily Planet.”

 

He was too close now, the air thick with his cologne. You opened your mouth to respond—when the air changed. Heavy, electric. The kind of silence that precedes a storm.

Clark slid between you and Lex, body cutting through the wind like a blade.

 

“Leave her alone, Luthor.” His voice was calm, but iron-hard. His eyes locked on Lex with a quiet warning.

For the first time, Lex faltered. Just for a second. But then his composure returned, smug and sharp. “Protective, aren’t we?” he said softly, gaze sliding between you and the man of steel. “Almost possessive.”

Your face burned. Clark didn’t flinch.

 

Lex leaned closer, his voice dropping to silk. “Careful, Kent. People might start to wonder why you care so much about one particular-.”

Clark's jaw tightened. “Leave.”

And somehow, Lex did.

He tipped his head, a mock bow, and disappeared into the crowd with the ease of smoke. But not before brushing against your arm, tucking something into your coat pocket.

A note.

You felt it immediately. Heavy paper. Crisp edges.

Your fingers twitched to open it, but Superman was still there, his broad frame shielding you from the dispersing crowd. And when his eyes finally dropped to yours, for one wild second, you forgot how to breathe.

 

“You all right?” he asked.

The same tone. Too familiar.

You swallowed hard. “I’m fine.”

 

But you weren’t. Not even close.

When you finally were able to slip the note from your pocket, the words inside made your blood run cold:

 

You’re looking in the right direction. Don’t trust him.

 

It was signed with Luthor’s name. A daunting, cursive seal. 

 

---

 

You were still with Clark half an hour later, his hair mussed from the wind, glasses slightly askew. He carried two paper cups of coffee, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry—long line.”

Your chest ached with suspicion. You forced a smile. “Of course.”

The heat of his hand brushing yours when he passed you the cup nearly made you drop it. 

And you knew—absolutely knew—that you were falling into something you might never crawl out of.

 

The day was still early, so you and Clark made your way back to your desks at the Daily Planet to give reports on the finished piece of your work. 

Obviously, Metropolis was adoring every word. Nothing unusual for an article about their favorite hero. 

Before you could make it to your desk, you had to make a trip up the elevator. Just a few floors, but your legs ached from wandering around the city. 

When it opened, there stood Clark.

He had papers tucked under his arm, and no blazer from the impact of the heat outside. 

You stepped in, and many others followed. 

In an uncomfortable turn of events, you get pushed closer to Clark.

 

A bustle of your other coworkers apparently also had the same idea-- take the elevator, not the stairs. 

 

While the elevator is likely at capacity, one more person squeezed in and made the group shuffle once more. 

Your entire back half was then pressed to Clark. His body felt tense, and you could feel him looking down at the top of your head. 

The blood running through your body heated your face as you suffer through the crowded elevator. At least in the city, you can leave. 

What you firmly believed was Clark's belt buckle pressed into the small of your back, making you shuffle. 

You hear him hesitate mid-breath, adjusting the way he stood. 

The pain still bothered you, so you try and move again. The amount of people in the elevator simply would not budge. 

Clark lowered his head, lips barely brushing against your ear. His hands stilled your body by your upper arms, grasping firmly. 

 

He spoke in a low whisper,

"Stop fucking moving."

You scoff in distaste at his rude tone. 

"Maybe you shouldn't be all up in my back."

You reach behind yourself to separate the both of you-- feeling the cold of the belt buckle just above the pain in your back. 

His eyes flashed with an unknown emotion. You couldn't look away once they made contact with your gaze. 

You began to feel a pooling between your legs, and a slight warmness in your lower abdomen. 

For a moment, you forgot about everything. Superman, Lex, work---

All replaced with a want. Or rather, a need.

 

The elevator opened with a ding.