Chapter Text
As she dangles, five hundred feet of empty air between her shoes and a hard stop, a detached part of her thinks one of those days, huh. Another, still more detached, part reflects on the fact that that she’s reached a point in life where her response to being dangled off a skyscraper is to joke around with herself.
Yet another more present and pressing part of her thinks shit, shit, shitting fuck. Fortunately, she’s pretty good at keeping her cool in bad situations.
“If you’re trying to intimidate me,” she says, “it’s not gonna work.”
“I’m not trying to intimidate you, Miss Lane,” says the head of security. He has his thumbs notched in his belt and an unpleasant smirk on his face. “I’m trying to eliminate you.”
“Oh, yeah?” she says, the wind picking at her hair. “Better speed it up.”
He rocks back on his heels. “You gonna tell me if anyone else at the Planet knows what you were doing here?”
“What, answer the only question keeping me alive?” she says, heart thundering in her chest. “Hell, no.”
He looks askance, mouth falling open in a genuine smile. It infuriates her, how casual he’s being about this. Not just casual – he’s straight up having a good time. “We don’t really need you to talk,” he says. “Just seemed politer to ask.”
She looks up at the impassive face of the robot that’s holding her wrist. Her arm is really starting to ache. He has an iron grip – literally – but she’s trying not to move too much in case she shakes herself loose. She hears stitches popping in her sleeve. Great, she thinks. This was a good jacket.
She’s not panicking. But even aside from the instinctive mortal terror, she’s starting to experience a twinge of anxiety. This has been going on for a while. Too long.
“You don’t really think I buy this charade, do you?” she says. “You’re gonna, what, drop me off a skyscraper in broad daylight? In downtown Metropolis? Do you have any idea how many witnesses there’ll be?”
He shrugs. “Professor’s got lawyers.”
He’s not budging. She’s starting to think he might not be bluffing. She wriggles in the robot’s grip, swinging herself back and forth in the air. If she’s really careful, she might be able to get her toes onto the ledge. She can work from there. “They better be damn good lawyers.”
“They are.” He smacks his lips. “Any last words?”
The toes of one foot brush the ledge – her shoe comes loose on her foot and as she swings back out into the air it slips off, tumbling down into the open air. She watches it fall, seething. “Oh – screw you!” she sputters.
“There I thought you’d be more eloquent.” He gestures sharply at the robot. “Do it.”
The robot opens its hand.
She has just enough time to call out, “HEY –” before the air is snatched from her lungs – and then there’s only the breathless sensation of freefalling. The uncomfortably and horribly familiar feeling of falling to her death.
A person shouldn’t be familiar with this feeling, the detached part of her thinks. Really, a person should only experience falling to their death the once.
Strong arms grip her around the waist. Her descent slows, but doesn’t stop – she’s floating down towards the ground, in his arms.
“Ms Lane,” says Superman, crisp and professional as always.
“You took your sweet time,” she says, choked, trying to retain as much dignity as she can while being bridal carried in only one shoe.
Being carried bridal-style by Superman is one of those things that sounds better on paper, anyway. He caught her at an awkward angle and her skirt is riding halfway up to her crotch. Her other shoe is threatening to drop off. Her hair must be a mess.
“I’m sorry.” He is, as ever, completely unruffled, with his perfect hair and perfect smile. God, she hates him. “I was out of town.”
She feels the slight jolt of him touching the ground – he always lands so light. She hadn’t noticed they were almost there. When he’s this close by, it’s hard to look at anything else.
“Here,” he says, easing her gently onto her feet. She stands there, lopsided in one shoe. She should have worn flats. “Are you alright?” He lays a hand on her shoulder. “Ms Lane? Are you hurt?”
He’s looming over her, but he has a way of looming that doesn’t feel like looming – a non-threatening, protective loom, but not in a patronising way. Like she’s sheltering under a tree in a storm. His eyes are brilliantly blue and for a second, looking into them, she’s struck dumb.
The trouble with being this close to Superman is: when he looks at her, it’s like she’s the only thing that matters in the world. She has his full attention and having Superman’s full attention is like staring directly into the sun and knowing that it’s looking back at you and that somehow, impossibly, it cares.
She has to remind herself that he looks at everyone that way.
She takes a step back. “I’m fine – quit fussing.” She goes to adjust her skirt and winces at the strain in her arm.
“You’re sure?” He reaches out a hand to steady her; she brushes him off.
“I’ll get over it,” she says. “It’s lucky you showed up when you did.”
“I assure, you, Ms Lane,” he says, “luck had nothing to do with it.”
She tugs down the other side of her skirt and wobbles in her one heel. He offers her his help and this time she accepts it, letting him grip her gently by the shoulders.
“Can I ask how you came to be in that, uh,” he says, “predicament?”
“Gave a press tour the slip and stumbled on some stuff I wasn’t meant to see.”
“Ah.” He has a wry twist to his lips. “The usual story.”
“In my defence, there’s no way I could have known about the killer robot,” she says.
“Amazo?” he says.
“Am- what?” She looks up at him properly.
“The robot,” he says. “Amazo.”
She blinks. In her defence it’s been a long afternoon and she spent part of it falling to her death. It takes her a good moment to get her head around what he’s trying to communicate.”
“You’re on first name terms,” she says, “with the robot?”
“We’ve been introduced,” he explains.
“Okay.” She gropes around in her jacket for her phone. “Okay, we gotta talk about that –”
Somewhere overhead there’s a crash like glass breaking. His grip on her shoulders loosens, hands sliding down to her upper arms, as he looks up. His gaze is focused. Business-like.
“Superman?” She keys in her pin. “Can we talk about that?”
“Uh – yeah.” He glances at her, his gaze going back up to the skyscraper. What a crushing sensation it is, to no longer have his full attention. “Some other time,” he says, hands falling away. “I’m sorry.”
The worst of it is he’s genuinely apologetic. He actually means it. The swine. She tries her luck anyway. “Two minutes?”
“I’m so sorry,” he says, rising up into the air in that effortless way he has. “I really have to take this.”
“But –”
“Raincheck?” he says – and in a rushing of air, he’s gone.
She stands there, her phone still in her hand, infuriated; then in a blur of blue he reappears in front of her, holding a high heel.
“Your shoe, ma’am.” He holds it out awkwardly – kind of bashfully, she thinks.
“Thanks,” she says. “Can we –”
“I really gotta run.” The sun is behind him as he floats upward, its rays throwing his face into shadow. “I’ll see you soon.” He shoots her a last smile and turns his eyes to the heavens.
She watches, indignant, her shoe in one hand and her phone in the other, as he rises up into the sky; watches until the bright afternoon sunlight swallows him up, and inexplicably as he’d come, he’s gone.
*
A train ride home, a long shower and two ibuprofen later she’s in front of her bathroom mirror, trying to get a particularly stubborn knot out of her hair.
“Ow,” she mutters to herself around the hair tie in her mouth. “Ow – ow –”
Her mind strays to some uncomfortable questions.
She’s gone back and forth, over the years, on the question of whether Superman feels anything for her. Or rather, she knows he feels something for her; the question is whether he cares for her any more than he cares for every other human he’s dedicated to protect. Any more than for anyone else in the little circle of humans who are almost – almost – his friends.
In years gone by she liked to believe it was a case of I can’t be with you the way we both want on account of my solemn duty to protect the innocent and stand up for truth and justice, et cetera, et cetera; but lately she’s more and more certain that’s just wishful thinking. More likely it’s I’m too much of a godlike alien to be attracted to human women situation, or even the mortifying I’m just not that into you, sorry scenario.
Pausing in her un-knotting she looks at her reflection, pale, under slept, wet hair falling in clumps around her face and dressed in a sports bra and sweatpants. Why wouldn’t any alien demigod want a piece of all that.
Sighing to herself she drags the brush through her hair one last time. The knot comes loose, a spidery clump of hair in her hand. “Yuck.” She drops it in the bin and ties her hair back.
There’s a firm knock on her apartment door. “In a minute!” she calls out. On her way to the door she grabs a sweater from the back of a chair and tugs it over her head.
“Clark.” She shouldn’t be surprised, given that he’s the only person she’s given the code for the street door. The only people who’d come straight to her apartment door are Clark and the superintendent.
“I heard about what happened,” he says, and it doesn’t occur to her to wonder from who. He holds up the plastic bag he’s carrying. “Dinner?”
“Chinese?”
“You betcha.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” She opens the door fully, letting him into the apartment. “I thought you were in California till Friday.”
“Oh, I, uh.” Shuffling inside he adjusts his glasses. “I had to come back early. Some stuff came up. Are you okay?”
“I’m just fine.” She goes into the kitchen and he follows her in that puppyish way he has. “You get prawn crackers?”
“Of course.” His eyes scan over the papers scattered across her kitchen table. “Figured you’d still be working.”
She shoves some paperwork aside at random to make room for the food. “Hey, you know,” she says, “when someone tries to kill me I usually wanna know why.”
“Can’t argue with that.” He plunks down their takeout in the space she cleared. “I take it you talked to the police?”
“They’re looking into it,” she says mockingly as he unpacks the bag. “You wouldn’t think it’d take them that long to track down Ivo’s head of security.”
“You’d think.” He squints at her. “Is that my sweater?”
“No,” she says, firmly pulling up a chair. “It’s my sweater.”
“I, uh,” he says, “I don’t think it is, Lois.”
“You left it here over a month ago and you haven’t asked for it back.” She opens her chopsticks. “That’s an official waiver of ownership. It’s my sweater now.”
He rubs at his temple, pushing up his glasses, and sounding utterly defeated says, “I like that sweater.”
“Maybe if you ask nicely I’ll let you take it home.” She digs into her noodles. “How was California?”
“Oh, you know,” he breezes. “Same as usual. What are you working on?”
“I was right about Ivo and Luthor,” she says. “Some of the tech I saw today had Lexcorp branding on it. There’s a connection there, I just can’t find it.”
“Need any help?”
“I don’t need anything,” she retorts. “I could use another pair of eyes and a cup of coffee.”
“It’s a bit late for coffee.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t planning on sleeping.” She scoops noodles into her mouth. “Make me some?”
For half a second he looks like he’s gonna argue. As usual, he gives up. “Sure.”
Eleven PM finds them still sitting at her kitchen table, the take-out containers shoved to the side, poring over her notes. “This is driving me nuts,” she says. “Everyone knows Ivo’s dirty. It’d be a PR disaster for Lexcorp if it came out that they were working together, and I know they are, I just can’t – ugh.”
“Pity I broke into a restricted part of his lab and saw Lexcorp branded goods isn’t good enough proof,” he says.
“I did not,” Lois replies, “break in. I walked through the door. I have some class, you know.”
“Classiest lady I know.”
She huffs a laugh. “Coming from you, Smallville, that does not mean a lot.”
He snorts.
“Ugh.” She stretches. Her arm’s aching again and she winces at the strain.
“You okay?” he says.
“I’m fine,” she says. “I pulled something in my arm – can you hand me the ibuprofen?”
He grabs it from the counter. “You sure you don’t need to see a doctor or something?”
“I’m sure.” She downs another dose. “Quite fussing.”
His eyes track over her shoulder, studying it. He shrugs. “So long as you’re sure.”
“Of course I’m sure.” She tosses the packet aside. “God. And you know what else? Superman definitely knew something about that robot but he wasn’t talking.”
“He – he’s a very busy man, Lois,” Clark stammers. “He can’t always make time to talk to reporters.”
“Why are you always defending him?” she says. “Have you even met the guy?”
He laughs. She’s actually pretty sure he hasn’t. Sure, he’ll have seen him around – everyone in Metropolis has by now – but she doesn’t think he’s so much as been to a press conference Superman was at. Unusual, in the circles they move in. You’d almost think they were avoiding each other.
“I’m not defending him,” he says. “Just sayin’. Anyway, he dropped the ball with the robot, I’ll give you that."
The robot, according to the Metropolis PD twitter, was still at large. One of those only in Metropolis press releases, huh.
She sighs. “I just can’t help thinking there’s something obvious I’m missing.”
“You wanna take a break?” he says. “Clear your head? We could watch some TV.”
“No,” she says. “I want to finish this. We gotta run something Monday.”
“You’ll get there,” he says – soothingly, like he thinks she’s really stressed about this. Which to be fair, she is; it’s just that she’d thought she was doing a better job of hiding it. “I know you will.”
“Whatever.” Lois flips over a document.
Leaning over the paperwork he’s studying, Clark hitches his glasses up his nose and wrinkles it in thought. “You wanna go over it from the top?”
It’s hard to stay cynical in the face of Clark Kent and his relentless optimism. Looking at him there, still in his button up shirt from his business trip, sleeves rolled up, still focused even though it’s pushing midnight, she feels a warm, steady wave of fondness in her chest.
She wishes they could do this every night. Not the pulling a furious all-nighter right after someone tried to murder her – that part she could take or leave. But it would be nice to spend every evening with Clark. She’d always told herself she liked her space, but being with Clark was like having space and having company rolled into one.
It would be nice to have dinner with him every night. To just – come home with him every night, and eat dinner, and wash the dishes and watch TV together. It would be nice to have him in her life, all the time.
Then her highly caffeinated, sleep-deprived brain catches up with the implications of that thought process, and she thinks, shit.
Oh, not now. She can’t deal with this right now. She’s had enough drama for one day. She’s in the middle of a story and she doesn’t have the time or the space or the emotional energy or the – anything to deal with –
“Lois?” Clark blinks at her behind his glasses. “You wanna go over it again?”
“Uh, actually.” She swallows. Her throat is dry. “Maybe you’re right. I could use a break, and – I’m pretty tired, maybe we should just call it a night.”
He shifts, setting his elbows on the table. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, it’s just – been a really long day, you know?”
“Are you okay?” He studies her – his eyes scan over her whole body in that way he has. Not like he’s checking her out, more like he’s making sure she still has all her limbs. He does it to everyone. “Your, uh – you seem kind of out of it,” he settles for. She has the sensation he was going to say something else.
“I’m just – tired,” she says. “I’ve been staring at this stuff too long?”
“Do you want me to leave?” he ventures.
“I’d appreciate it,” she says. “I need to sleep.”
“Okay,” he says, reaching for his suit jacket. “That’s okay.”
*
She’s known Clark a really long time.
She’d only been at the Planet a year when he’d shown up. Straight up out of the blue – she’d never heard of him before. He might as well have dropped out of the sky.
She knows he’d had a crush on her early on – he’d never made a move, but he hadn’t been subtle about it – he wore his heart on his sleeve, as the old romantics said. He’d followed her around all stammery and big blue eyed, like a lovelorn little puppy. Usually if she knew a guy was into her and she didn’t reciprocate she’d keep him at arm’s length, but something about Clark and his sweet, hopeless infatuation had been endearing.
He’d probably gotten over her years ago. Nobody actually carried a torch for someone that long in real life. You moved on. People did.
As far as she knew he hadn’t dated anyone since they’d met. Or at least, he’d never mentioned dating, but she guessed he could just be private about it. It wasn’t as if they usually talked about their love lives.
It was hard to find the time, in their line of work. Clark had never struck her as the casual dating typing. She dated, but she sure as hell didn’t have the space in her life for a relationship.
Anyway, it was hard to get serious about any of the guys she dated when she was hung up on the most handsome man in the world. A man who was – to all intents and purposes – a literal demi-god. She’d been swept off her feet and nothing was ever gonna compare.
Superman was a tough act to follow.
Frankly, it was embarrassing. She tried to act like she wasn’t head over heels for him, but she was pretty sure it was shamefully obvious. She wanted a man who could probably count half the women in Metropolis amongst his groupies. She wanted a man who would never, ever want her back.
She’d figured a few months in that it was going nowhere. Honestly, it should have been obvious from day one, but she was no quitter. She aimed high. She’d done everything she could to communicate the whole hey, if you ever want to sweep me off my feet and take me back to your Fortress of Solitude for a night of passion I’d be amenable short of spelling it out, and she’d got jack shit in return. One way or another, that wasn’t something he wanted.
Clark had always seemed like the kind of guy who’d be pretty good looking, if he put any effort in. As it was, he wore suits that didn’t fit and glasses that covered most of his face. He gave off such an air of please don’t look at me that it was hard to judge if he was actually attractive or not.
He was just – always there. He’d stuck around longer than most of the men in her life. She remembered a moment a couple of years in when it had struck her that she spent more time with him than with most of her best friends. She’d thought it was funny. She hadn’t wanted to admit to herself that he was her best friend.
She’d got comfortable with the idea eventually. She’d thought she was comfortable with it. She’d never thought of Clark romantically before, but now she was thinking about it and it was –
– Nice.
There was always some apprehension, wasn’t there, when you started dating someone? That what if they don’t like me. What if I say the wrong thing and ruin everything. What if when they see what I’m really like, they don’t want me.
Clark had seen the whole Lois Lane package, more or less. God, he’d once sat with her while she threw up after making some inadvisable decisions at the company holiday party and he still wanted to be around her.
She’d never thought she was attracted to him. But now that she thought about it, it felt so natural. Comfortable.
It was a fantasy. But not an idle one. Clark wasn’t an alien demi-god. He was just some guy at her office – some guy who might actually be into the idea of dating her. Hell, they were halfway to dating already. She had a toothbrush at his goddamn apartment.
Assuming, of course, that he was even interested. It had been years, and sure, she liked to think she was an all-round pretty attractive person – a solid nine and a half, always room for improvement – but she wasn’t bold enough to think she was so special that a guy would wait that long for her to come around.
The last thing she wanted was to lose him.
Sighing, she threw down her cigarette and ground it furiously underfoot. She slid another one out of the box and lit it.
It’d been a couple of days since their aborted all-nighter. There she was, smoking on the roof of her building, leaning against the wall and ruminating on Clark Kent when she had a story to crack.
“Smoking again, Ms Lane?” says his voice from the air above her.
Superman, floating above the rooftop in that effortless way he has, his cape fluttering in the night-time breeze. He has a way of looking majestic even when on top of an ugly apartment building in south west Metropolis.
With him there, it feels somehow less ugly. He has a way of raising everything up to his level. The rest of the world feels majestic too. She’s floating above the street, the lights of the city a twinkling sea around her, the darkness overhead velvety. The night vibrant, bursting with possibilities.
“It’s been a long day.” She brushes her hair out of her eyes. “I’m quitting tomorrow.”
“Sure.” His feet softly touch the rooftop. “Were you wanting to talk?”
She doesn’t exactly have a formal way of contacting him – it’s not like Superman has a phone number – but he knows where to find her, and he knows when she wants to see him.
“I’d appreciate it,” she says. “I know you must be very busy – saving the planet and all of that.”
His mouth quirks into a smile – from him, that’s as good as a genuine laugh. “I can make time.” He steps towards her. “I take it you want information on Amazo.”
“Actually, no,” she says. “Well – yeah. But if you’ve got a little time, I was wondering if I could get some advice.”
“Oh?” He comes to a halt beside her. “Is it a professional matter, Ms Lane?”
“More of a personal matter,” she admits. “If you’d prefer to stay out of it, I’ll understand, but I could use your perspective.”
He lays a hand on the wall. “I can do my best.”
For all he’s acting casual, she can tell the request’s got him off-guard. She takes a drag on her cigarette, and slowly blows out the smoke. “It’s like this,” she says. “Most of the men I know are jerks.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I could really use a man’s perspective on something,” she goes on. “You always seem to have your head screwed on right and you’re about the most sensitive guy I know.” Well, except maybe Clark – but she can’t exactly go to Clark about this.
“Thank you,” he says. “I think. What’s this all about?”
“There’s this guy,” she starts.”
He cocks his head to the side like a curious and disapproving spaniel. “Ms Lane,” he says coolly. “Are you asking me for romantic advice?”
“Is that a problem?” she asks.
“I’m just not sure it’s my area,” he says. “That’s not really, uh – it’s not my kind of thing.”
It’s rare to see him so uncertain of himself. She’s kind of into it. “I know,” she says. “But you’ve always struck me as someone with a pretty good grasp on what makes people tick, emotionally speaking.”
“I’d like to think so,” he agrees. “But – still.”
“Can I at least run it by you?” she says. “I could use an external point of view and you’re about as external as it gets.”
He looks away, the wind picking at his hair, giving her a perfect view of that statuesque profile and for a moment she aches inside at the thought that she can’t keep him. No-one can keep him. He doesn’t belong here with her, down on the earth.
He meets her eyes. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s hear it.”
“There’s a guy,” she says again. “He’s – someone I’ve known a very long time. Lately I’ve come to realise that I’ve got feelings for him.” She puts her cigarette to her mouth and decides it’s best to be honest. After all, who’s be gonna tell? “To be blunt,” she says, “I think I’ve fallen in love with him.”
And Superman’s face sinks.
It’s just for a moment. A twitch, on his handsome face, before he rearranges his features back into a tranquil mask. It’s enough. Enough to make her think that maybe she’s had him all wrong – maybe it is and always has been that he wants her and can’t have her, and not that he could have her but doesn’t want her.
She contemplates letting this go. Seeing his face drop like that makes her guts squirm – she never meant to hurt him. Sure, it’s not up to him who she dates or doesn’t date, but if he might actually have feelings for her this whole topic of conversation might be kind of – insensitive.
“That’s, uh,” he says, still not fully recovered. “That’s wonderful news, Ms Lane. I’m very happy for you.”
“That might be a little premature,” she says. “I don’t even know if he feels the same way.” She takes another drag. “He’s a good friend,” she goes on. “We’re close. I don’t want to do anything that might jeopardise what we have.”
“Ah,” he says. “That old problem.”
“Right,” she says. “And I don’t want to make him uncomfortable. You know?”
“It’s difficult,” he agrees.
“But if I have a chance with him,” she goes on. “I don’t want to miss it.”
“Of course not.”
“I don’t know what to do,” she says. “I can’t – I need to be clear on this. It’s driving me crazy. But I’ve never felt this way before, and I – I just want to do the right thing. You know?”
Again, he looks away, gazing out for a long moment at the city, out towards the darkened river.
“Well,” he says at length. “The way I see it, it’s never wrong to tell someone how you really feel.” He looks her in the eye. “You’re a very special woman, Ms Lane – any guy would be lucky to have you. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
“I’ve known him a long time,” she says. “If he was interested, he’s had years to make a move.”
“So have you.” She ducks her head to the side, conceding the point. “It’s sounds like he’s a good friend to you,” he goes on. “I’m sure you can work this out, one way or another. And if he’s a good guy, he’s not gonna give you a hard time about it.” He leans forward, once again looming over her in that protective way he has. “Is he a good guy?”
“Best guy I know,” she says.
“How’d you know him?”
“I, uh,” she says. “I work with him at the Planet, actually.”
He perks up a little, intrigued – which figures. He’s pretty familiar with the Planet staff. “Oh, yeah? What’s his name?”
“Clark,” she says. “Clark Kent.”
Superman is, frequently, a difficult guy to read. After all, he’s an alien. His mind’s gotta be full of all kinds of lofty, important concerns that are entirely above her. But at the sound of Clark’s name, his face goes – heavy. Blank and inscrutable in a way she’s never seen before. He says nothing.
“Superman?” she says, gently prompting him.
“Oh,” he says. “That’s, uh.” His gaze drops to the floor, looking at his feet as if overcome with embarrassment. He takes a deep breath.
“Are you okay?” she says.
“You know, Ms Lane,” he says, meeting her eyes. “I – I think it’s best you forget about what I said just now. I should have known better, than to – I really don’t know anything about this kind of stuff. It’s not my place.”
“Sounded like pretty solid advice to me,” she says.
“Ms Lane –”
“For god’s sake.” She doesn’t know where in the hell this is coming from all of a sudden – he is just a nightmare to have a conversation with, and she can’t take it anymore. “You’ve known me almost a decade. For the last time, will you call me by my damn name?”
Again, he drops his eyes; then looking at her, he says, “Lois.”
At once, she regrets the request. Her name on his lips – it’s too much. It’s too intimate. He says it like a confession. Pinned down by his gaze, she’s awfully aware of the brilliant, alien blue of his eyes.
“I’d just,” he goes on. “I’d hate for you to do something you’d regret just cause I told you to.”
She takes half a step closer to him and jabbing a finger at his chest says, “I’d never do anything just because you told me to, sir.”
“I know,” he says. He steps back; and his feet lift off the ground, just slightly, just enough to startle her. “I should go,” he says. “I got – places to be.”
“We didn’t get to talking about the robot,” she says.
“Right, right, the robot,” he says, distracted, and she’s certain he’d forgotten all about it. “Some other time. I’m sorry. I’ve really gotta go.”
“No you don’t,” she says. It’s a quiet, perfect night. No way does he have superhero things to do. For whatever reason this conversation is making him uncomfortable and he’s running away with his cape between his legs.
“I do,” he says, rising higher. “I’m sorry, Ms Lane – we can talk some other time.”
“We can talk now,” she says shortly.
“Some other time,” he says. “Soon. I promise.”
The wind rushes, and he’s gone; the roof once again just a roof, grungy and grey and cold, her cigarette burning down in her hand.
*
Dinner tonight? she says over the company messaging app. My place?
It’s a long minute before Clark answers. She can see him by the photocopier, flicking through his phone. It’s not like he hasn’t seen.
I’m pretty tired.
My treat, she replies.
He glances over his shoulder, adjusting his glasses, his loosened tie swinging. For half a second their eyes meet across the crowded space. Then he takes his copies, and goes into Perry’s office.
Ten minutes or so later, she’s getting coffee when her phone pings. I’ll meet you downstairs at six.
“I just cannot believe he’s giving you grief over this,” she says, fumbling with her keys.
“Well, it was important –”
“Screw that.” She manages to slot the right key into the lock and shoulders her door open. “We’re allowed time off for family emergencies.”
He shambles into the apartment after her. “It uh,” he says, “it wasn’t technically a family emergency. It –”
“Perry can go to hell.” She juggles her keys from hand to hand as she tries to get her coat off without dropping her laptop. She ought to have put it down first. Clark’s eying it anxiously – he’d offered to carry it for her, as usual. She’d won that battle and lost the fight over her groceries. “You told him Mrs Grabowski doesn’t have anyone else to look out for her, right? What were you supposed to do, leave her alone in the hospital?”
“I told him I was sorry,” Clark says. “Can we just leave it at that?”
She gets her coat off and thunks her laptop bag down on the floor. “Well, if I was you I’d have told him where to shove it.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Lois,” he says, hitching his glasses up his nose. “I just don’t have your, uh. Intimidation factor.” He turns to go into the kitchen and walks straight into the coat hooks. “Oop!”
“You’ll put your eye out.” Taking him by the wrist she revolves him gently around and gives him an encouraging shove towards the living room. Unresisting, he goes where she puts him. He’s the easiest guy in the world to push around.
He really doesn’t have the intimidation factor, she reflects as she starts up the coffee machine. He’s the tallest guy in the office and yet people routinely fail to notice he’s in the room. She once watched him try and fail to get a waiter’s attention in a restaurant for a full ten minutes before taking pity on him.
On her way through to the living room, she grabs her cigarettes and lighter from her jacket pocket. She wants something to do with her hands.
“So, uh.” He’s sitting on her couch. He’s shed his jacket, and as she comes in he’s in the act of loosening his tie. “You want to order dinner? Or –”
“Sure.” She sits, tentatively, on the other end of the couch, perched uneasily on the edge of the cushion. She’s been trying not to think too hard about this all day, but now she’s here and there’s no more avoiding it. Time to rip off the Band-Aid.
She’s got her whole evening planned out. Six o’clock: leave work. Six fifteen: buy eggs. Six thirty-five: arrive home. Six-forty: confess undying love to Clark Kent.
“Lois?” Pausing in the act of unfastening his tie, his eyes flick to the cigarettes in her hand, and she realises she’d probably gone quiet for too long. He knows her well enough to know she only smokes when she’s stressed out. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s – fine,” she says. She slides a cigarette out of the box and taps it against her knee. “I was just wondering if we could talk a little before dinner.”
“Oh, yeah?” He seems to have gotten lost somewhere with his tie – an embarrassingly frequent event considering that he wears one every day. She’s had to re-tie it for him more than once. Scowling he yanks the wrong way and pulls it into a tiny, tight knot. “Oh, yikes –”
“You want me to –” She reaches out. He brushes her off.
“No, I – I got it.” He pulls the whole thing over his head and drops it on top of his jacket. “Lois,” he says. His face is grave. “I, uh. I think I know what it is you want to talk about.”
She blinks. “You do?” There she thought she’d done a great job of acting casual at work – but maybe it was screamingly obvious. Maybe everyone at the Planet knew just exactly what was going on inside her head.
“Before we –” He adjusts his glasses. “There’s something I wanna get off my chest.”
“Can it wait?” she says. She has a whole – thing planned out to say. If she doesn’t get it over with now she might lose her nerve.
“No – no, Lois, it can’t wait.” Sighing, he takes his glasses off and toys with them, not looking her in the eye. “I just – before you, you make any decisions, there’s something you ought to know about me.”
“Clark,” she says, baffled. “I’ve known you eight years. There’s nothing you could possibly tell me that would change the way I feel about you.”
He meets her eyes – and in spite of his obvious agitation, his gaze is uncharacteristically steady. She’s not used to seeing him without his glasses. She’s never noticed before just how blue his eyes are.
Then he says, inscrutably, “It would be nice if that was true. Wouldn’t it?”
She stares at him. He breaks the eye contact, breathing out, the sudden confidence that had gripped him passing. “What are you talking about?”
“There’s just.” He taps his glasses against his leg. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you for – a long time. And I’ve been thinking all day how best to say it, and I – I think –”
“Spit it out, Smallville,” she says, almost on reflex.
He breathes out, slowly. Then he tosses his glasses carelessly onto the coffee table and scrubs his hand over his face.
Turning to look at her, he says, “Lois. I hope you can forgive me for this.”
“What are you talking about?”
He doesn’t answer her. He gets up off the couch, and steps away, around the coffee table. She watches him go, completely lost. She can’t imagine where he could be going with this. If it were anyone else she’d think it must be a joke. But it’s Clark. He doesn’t joke around like that.
Standing in the middle of her living room, he shifts; and then his whole stance – changes. He squares his shoulders, lifting his chin, drawing himself up to his full height, and she’s aware in a way she’s never been before of just how big he is. He fills the whole space, towering over the couch. She didn’t think – she doesn’t know what this is, but she didn’t think he had it in him.
Then – just as she thinks she can’t get any more lost than she already is – he starts to unbutton his shirt.
She watches, with increasing incredulity, as he unbuttons. It’s on the tip of her tongue to say why in the hell are you taking your clothes off. But then –
A flash of a familiar blue – of red. And there it is, what he wanted to show her.
She tears her eyes away from his chest and looks him in the eye. She looks at his face, and as she looks, it slides into focus – like double vision, resolving into a single image. There’s a soft click, inside her head, as she grasps it.
Long seconds tick by. She’s still holding her lighter and unlit cigarette. She puts them down on the coffee table. She heaves a deep breath.
“I’m making coffee,” she says. “You want coffee?”
“Lois –”
“I’ll get us some coffee.” It should be about done. She gets up off the couch and goes into the kitchen. She sets out two mugs – her own, plus the one Clark likes to use when he’s over.
“Lois.” He’s standing in the doorway. Looming at the corner of her vision. “Can we talk about this?”
She pours herself a mug of coffee. “There’s milk in the refrigerator but I think I’m out of sugar,” she says. Clark takes it sweet.
“We need to talk.”
“What were you thinking for dinner?” she says, replacing the coffee pot. “Cause I don’t wanna do Chinese again but you know how I feel about pizza on work nights.”
“Lois –”
Something inside her snaps and wheeling around she flings the coffee mug at his chest. It shatters, fragments bouncing across the floor, brown droplets spraying the refrigerator.
He stands, his hands upraised, mildly consternated but otherwise unfazed by the scolding hot coffee sinking into his clothes. Of course he isn’t fazed. Why would he be fazed.
“What is wrong with you?” she yells.
“Lois,” he says, in careful, measured tones. Coffee is dripping off his shirt onto the floor. “I understand why you’re upset –”
“Oh, you understand, do you?” Turning away she slams her hands down onto the counter. She can’t look at him. She can’t even bear to look at him, this man – this thing in her apartment, who isn’t Clark but isn’t him either.
The face is Clark’s, naked without his glasses. But the way he’s standing – the way he’s moving – it’s all wrong. The voice is all wrong. He’s too big for her tiny kitchen. He doesn’t fit there.
Tears prickle her eyes. This is getting embarrassing. She’s not gonna cry in front of him. She’s not.
“Get out,” she says.
“Lois – please –”
The way he keeps saying her name – in that voice – it’s too much. She can’t stand it.
“Get out of my apartment.” She shoves past him, out into the living room.
“Lois,” he says yet again, pleading.
“Stop talking.” She grabs his jacket and tie from the couch – his glasses, from the table – shoves them into his arms. “Button your damn shirt and get out.”
His expression as he gathers up his things – it’s all kicked puppy. All Clark. For a moment she feels like the world’s biggest asshole, for making him look that way. He looks like he’s gonna argue, and she almost wants him to.
“If that’s how you feel,” he says, softly. “Okay.”
He goes. She slams the door shut behind him – she listens to his footsteps retreating down the hallway.
She presses a hand to her mouth, and tries to breathe.