DC Oneshots

Nightwing

The plan is bulletproof. Clark won't know what hit him. I smirk and conceal the camera in the cabinet by the TV - courtesy of Daddy's secret stash. By the end of the night, there will be no more hiding for the Skyman . . . Drifter — Nightwing. I shudder. Nope, none of those names suit Smallville. Though, certainly, something that starts with 'S.'

The microwave dings and I take the bag of popcorn out. Popcorn is the only food I know how to make without burning the house down. But by gosh I was going to try to be adventuresome tonight. I skip over to the stove where the queso is brewing and stir it gently.

Lucy watches me with amusement from her perch at the counter. "I have never seen you this worked up about a guy," she marvels. "Clark must be a real super stud. You don't just cook for anybody." she laughs.

"Do not ever use Clark and super stud in the same sentence again," I shudder setting a bowl of guacamole on the counter next to the chips. Though that's exactly what I am trying to prove tonight. I've never been more sure of anything in my life. Clark Kent is the Drifter. Yet, it's hard to accept the same guy I dunked in ice-cold water in high school is flying around Metropolis wearing a knockoff Batman costume.

"Clark might not be your usual man of action, but there's no denying he's a hunk." Lucy turns crimson. "I would like to make some sweet music with him," she smiles wistfully.

"Lucy!" I gasp. "You have a boyfriend!"

"And?" Lucy raises a brow at me. "Men like Clark Kent were put on Earth solely for our enjoyment. It would be a shame to not take full advantage of that." I give John Corbin a week. It doesn't matter that he's Daddy's good little soldier, Lucy will lose interest and find a new boy toy.

"Well, I hope that hunk has a stomach of iron," Maisie quips as she layers whip cream on top of the deformed cake I baked. Roomie was kind enough to stop by and try to save the day. I probably would have starved if it weren't for Maisie in college. It must be a Smallville thing. Even Clark, the king of dorks, is a pro in the kitchen.

"It's not that bad," I wince. "You should have seen my last three attempts. At least this one is the right shape." Though it's about as hard as a boulder. Semantics. If Clark is who I think he is a little rock isn't going to slow him down.

"Even dogs won't eat this."

"Then it's lucky we're not feeding dogs."

Ten minutes later Jack Olson arrives, dragging his rosy-frecked-faced baby brother with him. "What is he doing here?" I glare at Jimmy. "This is a no-kids zone."

"We're a package deal," Jack responds. "You want my help nailing the . . ."

"Hush!" I quickly shush him. "We can't have You-Know-Who catching on," I say meaningfully. If Clark is to be believed, our mystery man has superhearing, which come to think of it, explains the weirdly-good hunches Clark seems to always have.

"I didn't realize Voldemort was coming tonight," Maisie says with a straight face.

"That's a good one Maze," Jack laughs nervously, cheeks flushing. "You would make a stunning comedian." Maisie narrows her eyes suspiciously and then trudges back to the kitchenette.

"Real smooth Romeo," Jimmy taps his brother patronizingly on the back. "She'll definitely go out with you now."

"You know squat Little Man," Jack grabs Jimmy in a headlock and rubs his scalp, laughing.

"Jack no!" Jimmy gasps. "You're ruining my hair!"

I smile at the tender sight. It reminds me of Lucy and me, back in the day, before she joined the DEO under the guise of 'getting Daddy's approval.' We both know she only wanted to be closer to that racist dick she calls a boyfriend.