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The thing about journalists was, figuratively speaking, each of them was supposed to be two people—a reporter who found out the news, and a writer who ensured the news was understandable and interesting to an audience.
And, yeah, yeah, everyone knew most journalists were better at one or the other. A gifted storyteller. A dogged fact-finder. The talents were rarely equal, and reporters would be jealous of writers whose copy would flow with zip and zing and clever turns of phrase, while writers would be jealous of the scoops and sources and quotes a reporter could gather and compile into compelling information.
So, reading Clark’s copy—Lois read everyone’s copy, not just Clark, not just gangly and smart and oh-so-wholesomely cute Clark—it became obvious pretty quickly that Clark wasn’t figuratively two people.
Clark was literally two people.
“Hey,” Lois said, the heat of a faux-nonchalant sip of bittersweet coffee the perfect complement to her irritated slam of that morning’s Daily Planet onto Clark’s desk. “I see you managed to get another exclusive interview with Superman.”
“Yeah, he’s a nice guy.” Clark’s eyes lowered. Was he looking at his own front page byline? Or did X-ray vision work through those ridiculous glasses? “You should talk with him sometime.”
Ah, Clark the writer was falling into Lois the reporter’s trap.
“That would be great.” Another sip of coffee. Damn, Lois needed to cut down on the sugar. Talking with Clark had her all jangly, sarcasm spurting out in her fury at his breach of journalism ethics to secretly interview himself, the quotes from Superman too good, too writerly, too perfect … except in consideration of Clark’s talent for prose. “You, me, and Superman. We could go out to dinner.”
Clark’s gaze shifted upward, away from the newspaper, and Lois wouldn’t fall for his Smallville stammering.
His adorable, endearing, not-at-all-punk-rock, Smallville stammering that went formal when he got nervous.
“Miss Lane … are … are you asking me out on a date?”
Lois hadn’t been asking Clark out on a date.
Lois had been trying to goad Clark into admitting he was Superman.
But he was so darn sincere.
And it wasn’t coffee pulling low in Lois’ belly at the way Clark’s voice tipped shy-but-eager at the prospect of going out on a date. It wasn’t the sugar quickening her blood to thrum her heartbeat in her ears.
Damnit.
Plenty of women had a crush on Superman. Why did Lois have to have a crush on Clark?
“Um, yeah.” She could focus on his byline on his desk, remember what she wanted to accomplish: kiss Clark. No! No! Well, yes. But more importantly: trick Clark. Trick Clark into admitting he was Superman. “Pick me up tonight at 7. You choose the restaurant. Nothing too fancy. Just you, me, and Superman.”
Did Clark blink in surprise? Did his perfect nose crinkle in panic at the idea of the “three” of them going out to dinner? Lois should have looked at him to gauge his reactions, but her face was hot and what the hell was she going to wear tonight?
“All right,” Clark said, and there was a pause as if he wanted to say something else, something important. But nature abhorring a vacuum had nothing on a newsroom abhorring a pause, and Perry’s shout for Clark to head downtown to the Metropolis mayor’s office to cover a proclamation was the end of whatever Clark might have wanted to say.
At least temporarily.
Hours later, amid sleuthing for her own article for the next day’s paper, Lois’ phone pinged with a text from Clark: I’m pretty sure I’ll be done here in time to pick you up, but I’ll let you know if I think I’ll be late. What’s your address?
It figured that Clark was stuck downtown. The mayor was long-winded. Plus, Clark would have to actually interview the mayor, not create just-a-smidge-too-good quotes the way Clark did for Superman.
A reminder of media ethics and expectations would serve Clark right. Though Lois’ fingers did tingle with excitement to text him back: You’re a journalist. Figure out my address yourself.
He didn’t text back.
Just a thumbs up on her message.
A stupid, nerdy, sweet little thumbs up that shouldn’t have made her smile except it did, little glances at the tiny text reaction as Lois worked and wrapped up her day and went home.
Clark texted her again fifteen minutes before he was supposed to pick her up, and her barefoot pacing in her living room was perfectly normal before a date, heart flutters of excitement nothing to worry about, her skirt one that Clark had seen before but her shirt was too low cut to wear to work so that was new at least. And the text ping wouldn’t be a cancellation, Clark wouldn’t do that, and Lois’ hand was steady to read the message on her phone screen.
Lois, if you had to choose only one person to have dinner with tonight … if you had to choose between me or Superman … which one of us would you choose?
She should have been happy, a cackle of victory and the elation of winning like lightning in her chest. Clark was ensnared in her trap, unable to be two people at one time. Her stomach shouldn’t have lurched in sympathy that he seemed scared by his own inability to figure out which man she wanted to go out on a date with, which man she might have fantasized about kissing her goodnight except even the fantasy was muddled, a soft kiss of hope from Clark and a firm-handed ass-squeeze of confidence from Superman.
How the hell did Lois end up in a love triangle that was a straight line?
No thinking. Just typing a reply to Clark—Why do I have to choose? Is there something you want to tell me?—and tapping send.
On the other side of Lois’ front door, there was a very familiar text ping.
And her bare feet moved fast, almost a run, and the doorknob cool in the heat of her hand as she yanked the door toward herself to open it wide.
Clark must have been sitting with his spine curved to rest against the door, his tumble backward a blur of long limbs and dark hair and glasses.
He looked up at her, all blue eyes and desperation sprawled on her floor, as if he was a turtle stuck on his back unless she picked him up and set him right.
A bob of his Adam’s apple, embarrassment maybe. Or nerves.
A twitch of his fingers, perhaps wanting to reach for her, to touch her, but he wouldn’t do that without permission, he was too respectful.
A rise of his chest, an inhalation as if to speak. But he was quiet, a pause the newsroom never would have allowed, and his exhale came out jagged, scared.
“You know,” the floor was cold on Lois’ knees, her kneel next to Clark instinctive, her hair falling over her shoulder to almost-but-not-quite rest on his forehead … his pretty, pretty forehead that helped protect the mind her trap had thrown into more turmoil than Lois had anticipated but Lois could explain, Lois could make Clark see that she had some idea of what it was like for him to be both Clark Kent and Superman, “when I was in high school, I was editor of the student newspaper. Not a surprise, I’m sure. But I was also really into punk rock bands, and I would go to gigs and concerts and shows with my heavy eyeliner and dark lipstick. And it was weird, Clark, how people almost never recognized that the kid who busted a member of the school board for taking a bribe in exchange for instituting a uniform policy was the same kid dancing at the punk rock shows stoned off her ass. And I didn’t intend to lead a double life like that, Clark, but it also didn’t bother me. It was nice to have different ways to express the different parts of me, to be truly myself no matter what and, even if those selves seemed disparate, they were both fully me, you know?”
He curled toward her, fetal position, his arms pushing himself up to sit, and Clark’s face was so close to hers, so close, so close.
“Lois … you, uh …” he said, the lack of prescription in his glasses allowing the clarity of his eyes to take her in, black pupils dilating in understanding that she knew he was Superman, blue irises like the sky he flew into to save people, and could X-ray vision see how love pierced her heart, her bones, her marrow with adoration for this man who was so ridiculously good … and hot? All broad chest and chiseled jawline that arced up and down as he spoke. “You shouldn’t do drugs, Lois.”
What?
Oh, being stoned at the punk rock shows.
And a peal of perfectly sober laughter escaped—of course Clark would tell her not to do drugs—and Lois held his hands to help each other stand, and it was as if Clark’s goodness was contagious by touch, flowing into her, and Lois looked up at him, no traps, no games, just: “Only coffee these days. And, um, the high of getting a front page story. Ethically. Objective journalism, not that advocacy shit. And don’t think I’ll let you off the hook for interviewing yourself because that isn’t right either. And, um …”
And Clark was a writer. Lois was a reporter. A journalist was supposed to be both, but to be two people at once had to be natural, not something imposed. If dating Clark was going to work, though, Lois would have to get used to him being two people. Lies of necessity to friends and colleagues to allow Clark and Superman to live their overlapping lives. Which meant honesty, whenever possible, would be essential to keep everything straight in her brain.
“And, um, I guess I should admit,” embarrassment heated Lois’ cheeks, and the need for privacy sent her bare foot to kick the front door closed with a slam that echoed, echoed, echoed off the walls, “that I might feel a little, um, high when I look at you. Clark. Superman. Whatever you want to call yourself. I like you.”
Surprise lifted his eyebrows.
And it was so typical for Clark to quietly understand that Lois had figured out he was Superman, but to be surprised that she liked him when he was at her apartment to pick her up for a date.
“I like you, too, Lois.” There was no desk or newspaper for Clark to pretend to look at as his gaze lowered. Bashful. Clark could be so bashful. “I like you a lot. I’ve wanted to ask you out since the day I met you, but sometimes bravery stays with the cape and the boots.”
His gaze lifted. And Clark wasn’t hiding anything anymore, his eyes shining with a love that was stark and raw and pure.
Clark Kent was in love with her.
Superman was in love with her.
And Lois loved him right back, the shitstorm relationships of her past unimportant, the hope of the present the only thing that mattered.
“I think you can be brave.” Her bare feet became tiptoes, her arms rising to hold him close and, hot damn, the Superman suit wasn’t padded and Clark’s clothing hid the perfectly puffy curves of his very muscular chest and arms. “And I think you should prove me right about just how brave you can be.”
He was so warm, so easy with murmurs of low-toned excitement, the heat of his breath dancing along her cheek, his hands strong on her back, and it was purple prose to say that someone was weak in the knees but she was, Lois was weak in the knees as Clark found the bravery to kiss her, his lips meeting hers, soft, tentative, searching, finding, yes, he understood that she was kissing him back, eager, wanting this, wanting him, her fingers tangling in his hair, hot breath and eager lips and the motion of flowing into each other, and was she actually floating with him or did it just feel that way, Clark’s dreamy gasps of happiness and Superman’s hand tight on her ass?
Maybe this was what it was like to truly know someone, to recognize the different parts of a person that formed a whole and maybe, just maybe, this was what Lois the reporter and Lois the punk rock fan had needed—Clark the writer and Superman the defender of humanity.
Two people.
In love.