Title: Superman Meets Geek Girl
Author: Mindy35
Rating: K
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Tina Fey et al. Quote is Dorothy Parker.
Spoilers: minor, "Into the Crevasse".
Pairing: Guess.
Summary: He was her first. (Successful interaction with a man).
-x-x-x-
She's sitting next to the best looking man she's ever seen in her life. In person, that is. Because she saw Harrison Ford on The Late Show just the other night. This guy doesn't look like Harrison Ford though. He looks more like Christopher Reeve in 'Superman'. He even has the long overcoat and geeky Clark Kent glasses. And his hair, which is straight and shiny and floppy, is as dark as Superman's is, when he is flying through the air in all that spandex or whatever.
It occurs to her suddenly that she's never been alone with a man before. Not that they're technically alone. They are the only two people under the tiny bus shelter. But he probably hasn't even noticed her sitting there. Still, apart from her dad and her teachers, she's never actually seen a real man up close before. Not this close. And definitely not one that looked like a bona fide movie star. Her friends would call him hunky. And by friends, she means the girls in her grade who've kissed a boy who's not gay and never talk to her except to point out when her hair is especially frizzy and even then it's never to compliment her on it's frizziness.
Her hair is pretty frizzy today unfortunately. And she has one really red zit on her chin. But it doesn't stop her shifting forward on the bench, trying to get a better look at her bus shelter companion, who she can only see in profile. His eyebrows are thick and bushy and he's pursing his lips together, making the bottom one stick out. And there's a tiny mole on his clean-shaven cheek.
All the boys she knows don't shave yet. Although Rob Sussman does wear aftershave that smells like he's had a bath in vinegar and cherry cough syrup. Not a great combo. This guy probably wears nice aftershave, expensive stuff, classy stuff. He looks real classy, real…manly. And he probably has to shave three times a day because there is hair even on his hands, his knuckles. He's probably covered in it, like Cornelius in 'Planet of the Apes'. She doesn't know why she thinks this. The only guy's chest she has seen is Brian Fry's freckly, concave chest when he took his shirt off the other day, and there was not a hair in sight.
It's probably the reason why her mom thinks girls and boys should not go on school trips together, and why her parents did not want her to go on this one. Because everyone starts making out in the back of the bus and taking their shirts off when the teachers aren't looking. Then teasing unsuspecting geeks who were so not looking. As if she would ever want to. Brian is gross. All boys are gross.
This guy…isn't though. A boy, or gross. Movie star man. Maybe she should tell him that. Get his autograph. Or, you know, maybe not. Like he'd wanna hear that from a certified dweeb with rain-frizzed hair. He probably hears it all the time, from real girls. Pretty girls. Girls his age. Who like lots of hair on their movie star men's chests. It's as she's deciding that utilising her big mouth to talk to Superman dude would be another dumb move in a life littered with dumb moves that he takes off his glasses and casts her a sideways look -- with blue, blue eyes -- as if he totally knew all along that she was checking him out.
Not that she was really checking him out. Not in that way. Not in a serious way. Only in a…scientific way. Like he was a hairy ape waiting for the bus. Or an exhibit at the Air and Space Museum. Yeah…kinda like that. She was studying him for future reference is all.
"Hey," is all he says.
And her mouth almost drops open at the sound of his voice. It's like a musical instrument. Jazzy. Husky. Low. Nothing like the pipsqueaks she goes to school with who're meant to be of the same species.
"Hey," she says back, gives a little nod. She looks out at the deserted D.C. street, the tarmac being pummelled with rain before she asks him: "Are you waiting for the bus?"
Superman momentarily stops rubbing his rain-splattered lenses with a handkerchief, looking over at her like maybe she's retarded. Not the first time she's been looked at that way. Probably won't be the last either. She's started to grow somewhat immune.
"Yeah," he says in that same weirdly affecting voice.
And she thinks maybe he's not a movie star, but maybe he does the voice-overs for trailers or something. Because that thing is gift. He could win contests with that voice. She's not sure what kind of contests but whatever they were, he would win them. Hands down. Gold medal. No question.
"Do you know when the bus to the Air and Space Museum comes?" she asks him next.
He casts her another sideways look, tucks his glasses away. "I don't, I'm afraid."
"Okay." She nods, turns away. Then a moment later, turns to bug him again. "Do you have the time?"
She watches him push two fingers up his left wrist, under his coat, jacket and shirtsleeve. He's wearing a bulky silver watch and the black, manly hair goes all the way up there too. It's kinda gross and also…kinda not. Instead of just telling her what the time is, he extends his arm towards her, holding back his sleeve so she can read the dial. She does, then immediately forgets the time.
"Thanks," she says, smiling goofily if she is any judge of her own facial expressions.
She leans back against the bus shelter as the rain outside starts to come down harder, enveloping her and Superman dude in a misty cocoon. Her feet fidget in her shoes, toes bouncing up and down. She can't sit still. Something is making her nervous, impatient. Maybe it's him. Or maybe it's the fear that she won't find her retainer and her dad will be so, so mad at her. And then he'll find out that she skipped out on the last day of the school trip to go find it, cavorting around Washington solo. Then he'll be extra mad.
If only she could tell him that Superman was her chaperone. Then he wouldn't be half so upset. Because surely with Superman, she is safe. She feels safe. Like they're a protected port in the storm. Or like she can trust him, even though she doesn't know him. And even though she is hoping he isn't actually wearing bright blue tights and stretchy briefs under that expensive suit of his. Or a cape. Especially the cape.
Superman shifts on the cold, wooden bench, turning slightly towards her. "You like science?"
She blinks at him a moment. "Oh no. I'm not a total geek. I just left my retainer there. I'm on a school trip. And I need it before I go home."
"I see," he muses, a little smile on his face.
He's probably laughing at her. Internally, that is. If he is, he doesn't hide it very well.
"I have bad teeth," she shrugs, then bares her teeth at him, muttering through gritted gums: "See? They're…all…crooked."
Superman just nods, looking a little perplexed. And why not? Jeez, she's a nerd. Why'd she have to show him her teeth? And tell him about her retainer? Could she never just be remotely cool?
"You actually have something…" he tells her, pointing to her mouth.
"Oh…" She rubs her front teeth with one finger and finds a bit of green stuff there. "Great…" Never. Eating. Kebab. Again. Ever. Kebab. Evil. Kebab. Enemy. Til death.
"Much better," he nods when she grins at him again.
She points at him, hoping to shift the focus off her poor dental hygiene. "You have nice teeth."
"Thankyou," he replies, rather arrogantly.
He even puffs his chest out a little as he speaks and she has to hold back a snort. Superman dude is a bit full of himself. Not that she can blame him. He has nice everything. Including clothes. He probably comes from a really rich family and has never had to do a decent day's work in his life. He probably has a mom who dotes on him and a dad who'd be totally understanding if he accidentally misplaced his dental plate. Supposing he needed one, which she doubts. He probably has a girlfriend too, who thinks he's the best thing ever. Hell, he probably has five girlfriends that he splits his leading man looks and smouldering voice between. There's certainly enough to go around.
"I bet you have a girlfriend," she adds, before she can stop herself: "I bet she's pretty."
He smirks, eyes cast out at the falling rain. "I do. And yes, she is."
"Does she have good teeth?" she asks him.
He nods once. "Excellent teeth."
"Good for her." She bobs her head a few times. "What's her name?"
"Debbie," says Superman, chest extra puffed out.
This time she can't help a snort. "Debbie?"
He looks at her, brows lifted. "What's wrong with that?"
"What does Debbie do?" she cracks, only afterwards realizing that Debbie probably does Superman, with all his fur. And that's probably part of the reason why his chest is so puffed out. She assumes. She assumes that's what happens when guys get laid. Not that she has any personal experience of this. Or is expecting to have any, any time soon, if her track record – or lack of one – is anything to go by.
"She's a student at Harvard," he replies imperiously. "That's where we met."
Now she can't help looking impressed. Which is probably what he wants. But she doesn't care. Because not only is he the best looking man she's even seen in person, he's also super smart, he'd have to be. "You're at Harvard?"
"I was," he says with a nod. "After Princeton. I graduated. With honors."
"So, what're you doing in DC?" she asks, eyes wide.
He turns the eyes on her again, inspecting her like she's a moderately entertaining if slightly annoying gnat buzzing round his head. She doesn't mind it as much as she probably should, seeing as how it's pretty condescending. But this is still the best conversation she's ever had with a male in her life. Apart from the video store guy who always tells her what's new and good in comedy, he is the first grown-up dude she's talked to properly. And he's actually talking back. He's actually…kinda nice.
"You like to ask questions, don't you?" he muses.
She shrugs, pushes her glasses up her nose. "Sorry."
Superman just grins a fully-fledged grin that makes his eyes twinkle and creates two deep indents in his hunky cheeks. And all she can think is -- well, one, yikes, and two, poor Debbie. Because if he can grin like that for the next thirty years, then any female is totally done for. Debbie doesn't have a chance in hell against a grin like that. It would render any woman defenceless. Probably a few men too. She'll bet that he and his grin will always get him exactly what he wants, how he wants it, the second before he even knows he wants it. Until he's old enough to not want it anymore, if that even happens.
Superman draws in a breath, patience lining his tone. "I'm in town for a job interview."
"Oh," she says: "What're you gonna do?"
"Be rich," he answers without a shred of doubt. "Be successful," he adds, looking over her head and presumably, into the future.
"Rad," she comments in her coolest possible voice.
"Yes, it is," he replies: "It is rad." He narrows his eyes at her face, seemingly focusing on her for the first time. "What're you going to do?"
She shrugs her shoulders. "I don't know yet."
"I'll bet you're smart," he says, putting out a hand.
She furrows her brow at him. "Why, cos I wear glasses?"
He tips his head to one side. "And you're kind of funny."
She rolls her eyes. "I'm sure that'll be real useful."
"Well. You never know," he murmurs, checking his watch again.
As he glances up and down the barely visible road, she slips off her glasses, rubbing the ridge of her nose. Smart and funny. The two words pretty much sum up her entire interaction with guys. Not that there's been that much heretofore. Probably because she will randomly use words like heretofore. Although she's fairly sure her unruly hair and ever-present zits and the fifteen pounds she hasn't been able to lose by joining the volleyball team also contribute. But if smart and funny can't get her a boyfriend, she can't really see how it's gonna get her a career worth having.
As if reading her thoughts with his x-ray vision, Superman asks suddenly, a bit teasingly:
"So…do you have a boyfriend?"
And she really wishes she could come up with something smart to say back. Something cute and cutting. Something to bring him down a peg. Or two. She opens her mouth and for a millisecond, she's positive something will come. And it will. Tomorrow, probably. Or the next day. Something brilliant will occur to her then. And she'll write it down, wishing she'd been smart enough at the time to think of it. Except she wasn't and she didn't, so instead she'll just squirrel it away for some other moment when she needs it.
For now, she just scoffs a completely careless: "No!"
"You don't like boys?" he asks as if she's a four-year-old having trouble mingling with the other four-year-olds at daycare.
"Not boys my age," she replies, fully aware that she sounds defensive.
"At what age do you like them?" he murmurs with a sly smirk that lets her know he's totally convinced she is into him after only talking to him for like, five minutes. And despite being at least ten years younger than he is. He probably thinks every girl who looks at him loves him on sight.
"That's not what I meant," she mutters. "Boys my age are just…idiots."
"You might be right about that," he admits, sitting up straighter: "Although, some of us do grow out of it."
She looks over at him, brows raised. "Oh yeah? When?"
He chuckles, surprised.
She laughs too, just because he laughs and the sound is nice, and she made him do it, which gives her a little rush of power. Then she's telling him, though she's not sure why exactly: "My mom says I shouldn't wear my glasses all the time. You know…" she rolls her eyes: "round boys."
"Ah…" he nods in comprehension: "Men seldom make passes?"
"Huh?"
"It's a famous aphorism." He pauses, waves a hand as he recites: "'Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses'."
She points to herself. "Living proof."
Superman eyes her red frames, folded in her lap. "Well, your mom's right, you know." He leans forward, peers at her face, then smiles briefly before sitting back again. "You have nice eyes."
She looks up. Her eyes blink. Her ears perk. Her spine straightens. That was an actual compliment. Her first. From an actual man. Who is not related to her in any way. She smiles. A man thinks she has nice eyes. And not just any man. Superman. That's…a thing. A good thing. A nice thing. As she is basking in the glow of this casually tossed out praise, a bus zooms up to the curb, wheels splashing through the grey gutter water. Superman immediately jumps up, the ends of his coat flapping in the wind. He strides over and boards the bus, without another word to her. But, after a few seconds he calls back to her from the lowest step.
"Hey! Hey, Geek Girl!"
She stands, calls back: "That's me!"
"The driver says the next bus to the Museum will be along in about five minutes. You alright til then?"
She slips her glasses back on and hurries over to the open bus door. Part of her wants to retort that she's not a little kid, that she can take care of herself. But she's not sure if he's being an over-protective adult or whether it's just the act of a gentleman. As she's never met a gentleman before, she gives him the benefit of the doubt and assumes he is one.
"Yeah. Thanks," she nods, squinting up at him as she holds a limp DC map over her hair: "Hey, good luck at your interview. Break a leg."
Grasping the handrail, he leans down, two fingers at his ear. "What?"
"Break a leg," she tells him a little louder. Then, with a grin: "It's an aphorism."
He lets out a little 'ha!' of quick laughter then starts to head deeper into the humming bus.
"Hey--" she blurts out as he is turning. "What's your name?"
He grins down at her with white, white teeth and blue, blue eyes, water dripping off the rim of the bus roof and onto one shoulder. It rolls off, not daring to leave a mark. "John." He extends his hand, raising his voice over the roar of the engine and the rap of the rain. "John Francis Donaghy."
She takes his hand, but the handshake is not complete. The bus door closing cuts them off so that she has to yank her hand back or risk losing it. She watches the bus rattle off into the stormy distance, with Superman in it. Or John Francis Something-or-rather, who she sees take a seat on the left-hand side, running a hand over his damp hair.
With her hand half held out, she mutters after it: "Liz Lemon. Nice to meet you."
The End/Beginning.