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Lois' coffee maker was broken again.
The ancient thing (probably manufactured in an overcrowded sweatshop somewhere in the far East, Lois regretted) had never been very reliable to start off with, but a pitiful three days of use was remarkably bad even considering its track record.
Maybe she'd overfilled it or pressed the wrong buttons or something of the sort, but there it was, spluttering coffee everywhere and making an absolute mess of her kitchenette like a fire hose gone rogue. There was coffee on the counter and in the sink and on the burner, but worst of all it had reached the back splash. She could barely reach the tiles to wipe at the yellowing stains.
Clark had laughed it off when she'd called about it, sounding every bit too amused for her liking, his voice just a tad too high-pitched and stuttery—which it tended to be, but never to such a noticeable degree.
"Broken again?" He'd chuckled through the staticky line of the phone, background chatter from the Daily Planet filling in the gaps of silence. "You sure you don't have the coffee machine curse, Lo? Maybe it’s time to switch to a kettle."
But instant coffee wouldn’t be the death-made-liquid she was looking for. To her ear, it sounded like Clark was making fun of her.
“Fuck you, Smallville,” Lois had thus answered, cigarette in hand. She swore she was going to hit the man when he finally got to the apartment. (The one they shared now in Sullivan Lane, with the balcony she was currently smoking at. She glanced behind herself at the two ceramic mugs resting next to each other on the table and sighed.)
They had only been going out for a bit over a week or so, but they’d shared cubicles at the office long before that. Clark had been there when Lois had somehow managed to overheat the communal coffee maker and burned her hands, and then again when she'd broken the glass sugar jar right next to it while getting in her 10 scoops. Only a newbie intern in the office back then, Clark had helped her clean up the messes with too-thin tissue papers and grocery receipts he'd probably sourced from his pockets. It had been terribly endearing, and it had later pushed Lois to accept when he'd asked her out to dinner.
They weren’t dating per se, or at least not yet. It wasn’t like Clark was really her boyfriend, but he was steadily making a home of her heart even if they bickered a lot. Lois had a tough time with romance, but she knew she wanted the two of them to work.
Still, Clark was supposed to be the clumsy one. He was the one swallowed by disproportionately large flannels and blazers that didn’t fit him quite right, and the one who bumped into corners that were nowhere near the trajectory of his walk (it was truly unbelievable).
What was worse, he seemed to attract harm to his way, something which Lois had worriedly been overseeing ever since the man had first stumbled his way into the office. Lois could not count on one hand the amount of times Clark had travelled to a part of Metropolis that was then immediately hit by an attack. Terrorists, supernatural creatures, those sorts of things. Just today, there had been an attack in front of the small boutique near the office building.
It seemed wherever Clark Kent went, danger followed.
Lois heard keys jingle in the lock of her front door and turned to watch as Clark stepped in, his shoes muddy and clothes soaked by rain. He held up a brown paper bag also ravaged by rain, if the soggy edges and caved in top were anything to go by.
“It’s pouring out there,” Clark started, pointing a finger at the door, “but, um, I bought you a new coffee maker.”
His glasses were completely covered in raindrops, but he made no effort to wipe the lenses dry. Instead, he plopped the bag down for a moment and pulled off his coat, hanging it on the overloaded coat rack nailed onto the wooden door.
Lois decided not to hit him, after all.
“Oh?” She crossed her arms, peering at the cardboard box in the bag. The royal font on the packaging spelled high-end, and she wondered if he’d used a lot of money on it. She hoped not—he was tight on money lately. “Not a kettle?”
“C’mon Lo. I was joking, not serious.” He took off his shoes.
Lois smiled to herself at the man’s words but didn’t let it show on her face. “I’m not sure you made that clear,” she said, cocking her head. “According to you, I am not to be trusted with more advanced electrical appliances.”
Clark frowned and walked over to where she was stood in the kitchen (standing tall, despite not being that tall at all). His hands reached into the paper bag to take the package out, before he placed it on the nearest counter and looked Lois in the eyes. “I just don’t want you to burn yourself, like that one time,” he said truthfully, blue gaze shifting down as if he was embarrassed. “A kettle would be safer. Maybe. Less complicated.”
He was the brilliant sun himself, and Lois’ heart melted. “Worrywart,” she said, but pulled the man down by his shirt collar anyway for a kiss.
The clock on the wall ticked slowly in their shared quiet, the steady sound of it losing the race to the quickening beat of Lois’ heart. It was only their third kiss, and it was over too soon, but Clark smiled at her all the same even through his obstructed vision.
“Wipe your glasses,” Lois commanded with a chuckle and Clark breathed out a short, breathy laugh.
“Sure, sure.” The man stepped away and Lois was left standing barefoot on the kitchen tiles, coldness pricking against her feet. It mirrored the disappointment flooding over her unquenchable heart.
Clark turned to face the balcony, stars littering the night sky while lights littered the city line. Lois watched his back as he took his glasses off to wipe them, the smooth fabric of his shirt probably not convenient for the task but good enough. Clark brought his glasses back up, and they were already sitting on the bridge of his nose by the time he turned back around.
Lois had never seen him without them, and even now she wondered how the blue of his eyes would look unwarped by glass lenses.
“I’ll leave you to read the instructions while I shower?” Clark suggested, raising a dark eyebrow at her from behind the rim of his glasses.
Take me with you, Lois thought lamentably but shot the man a thumbs-up anyway. “Sounds good.”
Clark nodded, then disappeared behind the wall. Lois listened to the bathroom door click shut and the shower turn on a minute later. She could hear the stream of water turn into a patter against tiling, not much unlike the muffled sound of coins dropped on grass.
The coffee maker. Right.
She opened the cardboard package Clark had left on the counter and fished out an instructions pamphlet, which was about 50 pages of A4s in different languages all stapled together, so not really a pamphlet at all. The text detailed several different ways of utilising the new machine, but she was content simply checking out the start/off-button manual and leaving it at that. Even journalists needed brain-free days sometimes.
Once she’d gotten the machine clean and plugged into an outlet, the bathroom door opened and Clark emerged behind her. He had put on a fresh pair of loungewear and had a small towel resting on his shoulders.
“So…” he drew the syllable out, “does it work?” He stepped to stand by Lois’ side as she fumbled with the top part of the machine. There were colorful bookshelves behind him, and Lois thought they framed his figure rather nicely.
“I don’t know, Smallville. Haven’t used it yet,” she answered with a roll of her eyes, working the coffee filter into place and filling it with coffee grounds. The brand she was using was not her usual, instead it was something she’d seen advertised on a board in her karate class. Supposedly, it was fattier than the brand she normally used.
Clark tilted his head curiously, a suppressed grin playing on his lips. “Good thing I’m here then. Won’t be hit by the curse,” he joked, which pulled an exhausted groan from Lois.
“At least I don’t plan my commute to coincide with the locations of all the newest terrorist attacks.”
The jab seemed to work a little too effectively, because Clark’s grin gradually died down and was replaced first by parted lips, then by a small frown. Lois hated the expression on him—it looked wrong in a way she couldn’t explain.
“Relax,” she tried for a light-hearted tone and thought she succeeded pretty well. “I’m sure you don’t do it on purpose. It’s just bad luck.”
Clark looked defeated as he hummed a nondescript noise. “Mm.”
And it was left at that.
The coffee tasted mostly insipid—not bad, not fantastic. Lois did like the fattier coffee type. However, the bean to water ratio needed some refining to get it just strong enough where the notable amount of sugar added by Lois wouldn’t ruin the taste. People in the office often asked her why she even drank coffee if she could only have it with a concerning quantity of sweetener. She never had a proper answer other than “caffeine.”
They sat in the living room together, watching cars speed on by in the distance. They were drifting lights in the nightscape, sliding from one side to the other smoothly, or getting smaller until they disappeared in the horizon or behind skyscrapers. It was a peaceful night, unburdened by the hectic day that had passed. Lois cradled her mug to keep her hands warm, while Clark took small sips of his own (sugar-free) coffee and grimaced comically after each one.
“This stuff doesn’t really satiate, does it,” Clark stated flatly, sloshing his drink around his mug in circles, like spiral waves in a pool.
“No,” Lois agreed. “Did you want something to eat?”
Clark hesitated, evidenced by the nervous flitting of his eyes and the careful tapping of his fingers against the ear of his mug. “Um,” he started and stopped. Lois waited for him to finish his sentence patiently, always willing to wait when it came to him. “If you have bread or something, thanks,” Clark suggested quietly.
Lois huffed in amusement. Clark’s hesitance told her that either A. He was really hungry and afraid to ask for food, or B. He was a picky eater. The journalist in her woke up from a rest day’s sleep to solve the case. “I could make you a sandwich? Did you not like the food at the office today, what was it, mapo tofu?”
Clark shook his head, “No, no. I like tofu–” so not pickiness then, Lois surmised, ”–but…well.”
A few seconds passed where neither of them said a word. “...But?” Lois prodded, the question floating around in the silence. She watched as Clark turned a shade pinker, the color washing over the apples of his cheeks deliciously. Now she was really curious.
“But I didn’t want to eat spicy food,” Clark blurted out. “And that was the only option they had left when I got there.”
Lois tilted her head. “Why not grab something on the commute?”
“Ah, something came up.”
Lois sincerely hoped her coffee maker hadn’t been the reason Clark had gone the entire day without a full meal. It wasn’t the first time the man revealed his poor eating schedule to her. Often when Lois asked him out to a lunch together, he was either “busy” or “too preoccupied." It was confounding, because she knew his deadlines weren’t that tight. Heck, she was the head reporter and even her schedule wasn’t that bad.
“Seems like the spicy food would’ve been a good choice,” Lois pouted, placing her mug down on the round table and standing up. “You can’t skip meals, Clark.”
“Yeah,” Clark admitted. He knew Lois was serious when she used his given name instead of the ingrained nickname she insisted on. The man shifted to sit more widely on the small couch, also putting his mug down. He inhaled before he spoke, “But I didn’t want my mouth to taste like garlic and chili, in case…” He gestured vaguely with his hands. “Just in case.”
Lois regarded him intently as he avoided her gaze. Her brain worked the puzzle out like connecting a thousand jigsaw pieces, slotting the tabs and blanks together in record time. A flamelet lit in her stomach as she figured out what the man was leaving unsaid, and it quickly started blazing hotter when she understood why he was being so reserved.
The tips of Clark’s ears burned red with heat.
“Can the sandwich wait for a second?” Lois asked suddenly, feeling a fervent itch in her fingertips, like an unyielding craving she couldn’t fight off. The man really knew how to rile her up and push all the right buttons.
“Um, sure but–” Clark managed to say, and just like that Lois was on top of him, straddling the man against the cushioned couch. Her arms crossed behind his head as she gazed down at him. Clark made a squeaking ‘ngk’ sound at the sudden contact, his eyes wide. They were an unnatural blue behind the lenses of his glasses—bright and a touch too vibrant of a cobalt hue, an ocean trench. There were sparkles in his eyes like a school of fish, glimmering on the surface water. Lois found herself entirely captivated by them.
“You’re too cute, y’know.” She brushed one of his curls back, the stubborn one that always fell onto his forehead despite his efforts to tame it. It was her favourite. “This alright?” she asked and waited for the man to answer before doing anything else.
“Y-Yeah,” Clark answered, swallowing audibly as he looked at Lois. His hands were a bit shaky when he nervously placed them onto her waist, the touch only featherlight and tentative, like he was holding himself back.
Lois smiled heartfully. “Then eat up, Smallville,” she whispered and kissed him with intent.
Clark’s glasses bumped against her nose as their mouths drew together, his lips faintly chapped (in a way that she adored). The world melted around them, everything honeyed and sweet. Lois felt strong hands gently reach up her sides, before they settled just below her breasts. Could Clark have been shy? She wanted him to reach higher, touch higher.
And lower, if he wanted to.
Her own hands were tangled in Clark’s hair, fingers carding through a mess of ebony curls and scratching lightly at his scalp, applying the tiniest bit of pressure with short-clipped nails. She could feel the man sigh happily into the kiss.
Clark tasted like black coffee.
At the realisation, Lois hummed, a grin overtaking her lips and she couldn’t help but giggle even as Clark kept peppering her mouth with insistent kisses.
“You taste like coffee,” she mumbled when she got the chance (not a lot of those with Clark, who was even more insatiable than her).
“And you like 10 scoops,” he replied, placing a small kiss onto the corner of her mouth. He was unnaturally warm, like a burning sun, pressing himself against her body vehemently.
“You love it though,” Lois laughed, feeling a kiss on her jaw. “Clark,” she started and swatted lightly at his arms on her waist, "Clark." The man immediately paused to pull his head away and look at her. He wouldn’t continue unless he was convinced she was a hundred percent in. Lois would do the same for him.
“Tell me, Lois,” Clark said, maintaining the eye contact with conviction.
Lois cupped his face in her hands, a playful smile on her lips as she willed herself to speak. “I’d love to continue, but you really need your sandwich.” And she meant it, she really wanted to continue. But more than that she wanted Clark to eat something.
Beneath her, Clark groaned in frustration. “You said it could wait.”
Lois laughed and pinched his cheeks. “For a second, yeah. It’s been several minutes,” she snarked. “Besides, I like my men healthy,” she continued, placing a small peck on his nose as he squeezed an eye shut. “We can take our time after, if you’re still down?”
The line of Clark’s mouth went all squiggly at that.
“Alright, you win,” he professed.
“I always do, Smallville.”
They got up a bit after that, shifting over to chat in the kitchenette. Lois whipped up a PB&J (not having a variety of other options in her depressingly empty fridge, a half a dozen oranges waiting to be juiced on her counter) while Clark reached the back splash to wipe the remaining coffee stains off with a rag of some sort.
The sandwich tasted of sweet grapes and earligrow. Lois would taste them on Clark’s lips later, pressing herself against him as they pulled down the Venetian blinds and dimmed the nightlight low.
The night grew long. Eventually dawn awoke and stirred slowly in the sky, painting the sky in oranges and yellows.
If Lois ever pieced together why Clark left some things unspoken—the hints as to why he was always so busy, why danger followed him like a loyal dog, why his stutter sometimes vanished without reason. Why he refused to take his glasses off even when they were fogged up from the warmth of his laboured breaths, from whispering her name...
If she ever figured out the reason, then that stayed between the two of them, fended from the prying eyes of the strangers outside their apartment. After all, Lois had fallen in love with Clark Kent, reporter at the Daily Planet and corporate klutz, first and foremost. She could learn to fall in love with Superman too.
And who was she to say? Maybe Jimmy could know one day (if he could keep it a secret from his five hundred girlfriends).
But for the time being, the two brewed themselves new cups of coffee and drank them in a comfortable quiet, Lois cuddled against Clark’s bare side on the couch. The sun rose outside, and morning sunshine sneaked its way in through the gaps of the blinds.
This time when Lois kissed him, Clark tasted like 10 scoops.