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Clark comes out of sleep slowly. The movement from unconsciousness to consciousness feels syrupy, sticky, like sleep is a tar pit still trying to claim him, like his body is only giving wakefulness a cursory effort. He’s drifting from one state to another with all the speed and purposefulness of a half-inflated balloon rising to the ceiling.
And speaking of ceilings, the one above him definitely isn’t the one at his apartment. Too few weird, questionable cracks. And it’s not the ceiling of his room at his parents’, either. No glow-in-the-dark stickers. This ceiling is very mature. Refined. It is a classy ceiling.
It’s about that time that he realizes he’s not sleeping alone. There is a weight, a presence made of electrical impulses and colors he has no name for and the hundred thousand tiny sounds of a functioning human body, beside him.
Clark turns his head very slowly.
Lois.
This is her apartment.
This is her bed.
Oh no.
~x~
“To another successful story!”
“To Lois Lane, the best investigative reporter in history!”
“To Clark Kent, who’s not half-bad himself!”
~x~
Clark struggles to remember how, exactly, he fell asleep in Lois’s bed, but his memory is not being kind to him. He’s hardly gotten any sleep the past two weeks, between Superman things and covering a particularly intense story on the possible connection between an illegal fighting ring and Intergang. He and Lois made great strides on the story yesterday, when the arrests of the leaders of the fighting ring lead to the discovery of documents tying the ring to several other folks whom they’ve suspected of being involved with Intergang for a while.
He and Lois were celebrating their big break, Clark remembers. At the office. Jimmy was setting off party poppers he’d gotten from who knows where, confetti drifting like snowflakes to sit on the heads and shoulders of everyone in the blast radius. Perry was telling old newsroom stories. And Lois... Lois must have invited him back to her place after they left the Planet, right? He’s here. Why else would he be here, unless….
Did he come home with Lois from the office as Clark Kent, or did he stop by her apartment afterwards as Superman?
Clark feels a bubbling rush of panic. He doesn’t remember. He’s not wearing his glasses, but is that because he took them off as Clark to go to sleep, or because he wasn’t wearing them as Superman? He tries to x-ray himself under the covers, see what he’s wearing, but the angle he’s at makes it so he can only see his feet. He tries to shift, check under the covers by lifting them or move into a better position to x-ray himself, and Lois grumbles. He freezes.
Okay. So that won’t work. Think back, and....
An eidetic memory only works if the rest of your brain is working, too. Which Clark’s is not. He hasn’t been this bone-tired since he started being Superman and was laboring under the blatantly false assumption that justice never sleeps. Justice does sleep. Preferably for around nine hours a night. Otherwise justice falls asleep on the job, which is not good for anyone involved.
~x~
“Hey, did anyone invite Superman to this party? He helped with the story too, right?”
“Listen, Jimmy, if you find a way to reliably contact Superman that doesn’t involve being flung off the top of a ten-story building, you let the rest of us know.”
~x~
It occurs to Clark that this is the sort of situation where, if it happened in a sitcom, the characters involved would all have a spotty recollection of the previous night’s events (likely due to alcohol consumption) and wonder if they’d had sex. It would occur after at least several episodes’ worth of sexual tension, and solving the mystery would involve retracing their steps and collecting the often-conflicting accounts of witnesses.
But that’s not what happened here. Neither he nor Lois drank at the celebration - the best Clark can hope for when he drinks is a dry mouth and people congratulating him on his tolerance, which is not at all worth it, and Lois had to drive home and thus couldn’t imbibe - and he knows they didn’t have sex. First of all, he would definitely remember that. Second of all, his genitalia is different enough from standard human genitalia that sex is potentially risky re: the whole ‘no one knows I’m an alien’ thing. So he hasn’t had sex, ever.
But he did fall asleep. In Lois’s bed. With Lois. That is something that very indisputably happened.
He thinks he remembers a car ride, but is that because Lois drove him here or because Lois drove him to his place? Why can’t he think?
(Well, for starters, because he’s been averaging five hours of sleep a night for the past week and six hours of sleep a night the week before that. It’s been a tough story, and on top of that, a big month for winter storms. Superman’s been helping with evacuations, melting snow drifts blocking roads with heat vision, that sort of thing. It doesn’t leave much time for sleep.)
Lois rolls over without waking up. Right into Clark’s side. She smells like sleep and warm skin.
Clark thinks he might actually spontaneously combust. That could be possible, right? He doesn’t know enough about Kryptonian biology to say it’s categorically impossible, anyway.
~x~
“Clark, you just helped me blow the lid off an Intergang operation. Like hell I’m letting you walk home alone at night.”
“Trust me, I’ll be fine.”
“Not a chance, buddy. Come on, into the car, let’s go.”
~x~
So Clark has kind of sort of had a crush on Lois since before he actually met her. He read one of her articles in his junior year of college, when he was figuring out that journalism was maybe something he wanted to do and was looking at the kinds of stories he could cover. He was enchanted by her writing style and attitude, and spent a few months digging through the Daily Planet’s online archives and reading everything she’d ever published. Which might be creepy. He’s not sure, so he hasn’t actually ever told her about it. Telling her could probably make it creepy even if it wasn’t creepy before.
Lois is also sort of the reason why Clark even applied to work at the Daily Planet. He didn’t think he’d actually get to work with her. He just knew that the Planet ran the kinds of articles he wanted to write, and if he got a chance to maybe shake Miss Lane’s hand and tell her what an inspiration she was, that would be neat. But then Perry assigned Lois to show Clark the ropes, and then Perry decided they made a good team and kept having them work together, and then somewhere along the way Lois decided they made a good team too, and honestly Clark’s still baffled by it.
He definitely never expected to have Lois Lane snuggled into his side. Daydreamed about it, maybe. But to have it actually happening? What if he smells weird? What if his stomach makes a noise and wakes her up? What if Lois is so disturbed by his presence that she gets him transferred and he never sees her again? Regardless of any romantic feelings Clark harbors for her, she’s the best friend he’s ever had. He doesn’t want to screw this up. Any more than he might have already, anyway, given the double identity and all that.
And there’s still the question of whether she thinks he’s Superman or Clark right now, which - wait. Clark pulls his arm, the one that’s not trapped under Lois’s body, out from underneath the covers.
Dress shirt. Not costume. He fell asleep here as Clark. That’s one mystery solved.
~x~
“Um, Lois? Isn’t this your apartment building?”
“Fuck! I’m on autopilot right now. Hold on, let’s turn around -”
“Lois, with all due respect, if you’re tired enough that you drove me to your place instead of mine, I don’t want you to drive me anywhere.”
“Well, if you’re tired enough that you didn’t notice that I was driving to my place instead of yours, I don’t want you walking home.”
“So, what, then?”
~x~
Lois stirs. “Time ‘zzit?” she mumbles against Clark’s collarbone.
“Uh.” He looks around for a clock, or a phone, something with the time on it. “I dunno.”
“Clark?” Lois blinks at him, lips pursing in confusion. “What - oh. We fell asleep.”
“We fell asleep,” Clark confirms, because at least he’s sure of that bit.
“So much for you taking the couch.” Lois rolls away from him and sits up, stretching. Clark tries not to feel the loss of her body against his too acutely. “It’s a shitty couch, though, so I guess this works out.”
“You were going to make me sleep on a shitty couch?” Clark asks.
“That or the floor.” Lois squints at him. “Don’t you remember that conversation?”
“No,” Clark says.
“Jeez, Smallville, are you even awake right now?” He can hear the humor running under her words like a river beneath a thin layer of ice.
“Probably not,” Clark says. He still hasn’t sat up, and his eyes keep trying to drift shut. “I remember basically nothing about last night.”
“You came home with me, and we decided you could take the couch, and then we came in here to watch bad movies until we got tired. I guess we got tired a lot sooner than we thought we would, because I remember the opening scenes of ‘Lady in the Water’ and not much else.”
Clark grimaces. Ah, yes, it’s coming back to him now, though he would have preferred what little he saw of that film to remain forgotten. “Whoops.”
“Whoops,” she agrees. “Come on, Smallville, up you go.” Lois nudges him in the hip with her foot, slips her toes into the gap between his shirt and his waistband.
“Your feet are freezing,” Clark complains. He would squirm away, but it’s not like the cold really bothers him. He just prefers, at this moment, the cocoon of warmth that is the bed, and would like to enjoy it without Lois’s icicle toes on his skin.
(He’s stuck on snow metaphors. There have been a lot of winter storms.)
“The better to kick you out of bed with. Get up. It may be the weekend, but if you want to sleep the day away you can do it in your own bed, at your own apartment.”
“Will you drive me?” Clark asks. He does not get up. Lois has really nice sheets. Also, the room is kind of cold, so the bed is the most comfortable spot to be, Lois’s cold feet notwithstanding. This seems like a good place to stay. He could stay here forever. Just never move. From this spot. His eyes drift shut at some point during this train of thought, and Clark really can’t think of a good reason to open them again.
“Don’t you fall asleep on me,” Lois says, and her toes slip upwards along his side.
Clark squeaks. Then claps a hand over his mouth and opens his eyes.
Lois is looking at him with a bemused and decidedly wicked expression. “Are you ticklish, Clark?” she asks.
“There is no way to answer that question that will end with you not tickling me,” Clark says, and tries to escape by rolling off the bed. The sheets catch underneath him. He’s trapped. Lois descends, fingers wiggling, and Clark squeaks again before falling into helpless laughter. “I’m trying to get out of bed! I’m going, I’m not asleep, Lois-!”
She stops tickling him. “Too far?” she asks, and he shakes his head.
“No. But I kind of have to go to the bathroom, so maybe let me up now.” Lois sits back, away from him, and Clark detangles himself from the sheets. His shirt and pants are spectacularly wrinkled. Who knew his work clothes weren’t designed to double as pajamas? “Um. I don’t remember where your bathroom is.”
“Out the bedroom door, to the left,” she says.
“Thanks.”
~x~
Clark trips on the threshold, and Lois steadies him, laughing. “Yeah, you could definitely walk home like this,” she teases, kicking off her shoes and losing two inches of height. “You could fight off any goons that Intergang sends after you.”
“I could!” Clark insists. “I’d just - pow. Knock them over.” He tries to kick his shoes off like Lois did and almost falls over. Lois almost falls over laughing at him. Clark unties his shoes. Shoelaces are hard. Unreasonably difficult. He should replace all his shoelaces with velcro.
“Ooh, my fearless fightfighting partner in journalism,” Lois says. “You can take on all of Intergang bare handed, but you can’t manage your shoes.”
“In my defense, I think these shoes were designed by Lex Luthor.”
“Why would you buy shoes designed by Lex Luthor?”
“There’s no ethical consumerism under capitalism, Lois.”
~x~
Lois takes the bathroom after Clark’s done. He sits on her couch with his forearms resting against his knees, wondering if he’d be overstepping if he made breakfast.
(It’s 10:30. They just woke up. It would count as breakfast.)
On the one hand, he did fall asleep in her bed and he knows that Lois’s cooking skills are abominable, so breakfast might be a welcome exchange. On the other hand, invitation into certain parts of her home and life doesn’t mean that he can just do whatever without her permission. And some people hold their kitchens to be the most sacred and private parts of their homes.
“Lois?” he calls, pitching his voice in a way he hopes will carry properly through the bathroom door. “Can I make breakfast?”
“Only if you make me some too,” she yells back.
Like he would make breakfast out of her food, in her kitchen, with her cooking implements, and not share. He stands up and begins scoping out the refrigerator and pantry with x-ray vision while he walks to the kitchen. She has five eggs, a package of pre-cut vegetables, a takeout container of fried rice, and a bag of wilted-looking celery in the refrigerator. In the pantry, she has half a box of granola, some pasta, an unopened bottle of soy sauce, and canned green beans.
Okay. This won’t do.
“I’m going to shower,” Lois calls, and Clark feels a small grin tug at his lips.
This looks like a job for Superman.
~x~
“Why is the TV in your bedroom?” Clark asks, flinging himself gracelessly onto the mattress.
“I like falling asleep watching TV,” Lois says. “The noise. Or something.”
Clark considers this new information. “That’s adorable,” he tells her.
“I’ve never been adorable a day in my life,” she responds, with great conviction.
“You’ve been adorable every day I’ve seen you,” he tells her earnestly, and she giggles. Honest-to-goodness giggles. It’s - “See? Adorable.”
“Flatterer,” Lois says. “I hope you’re ready to watch something horrible, because I don’t have the brainpower for a good movie right now.”
“Horrible funny or horrible awful?” Clark says.
“Horrible funny. So bad it actually loops back around into a parody that would be genius if it was intentional.”
“Heck yeah,” Clark says.
Lois sets up the movie, then lays with her back against the headboard. Clark is left with the question of how to arrange himself in relation to Lois, on Lois’s bed. What’s appropriate in this situation, for two people who are coworkers and also friends and one person has a crush on the other person and the other person might have a crush on the first person’s alter ego? He’s never actually gotten a solid answer on whether Lois’s interest in Superman is crush-like in nature or strictly professional. But that’s irrelevant right now.
“Get up here and snuggle, you’re like a giant heating pad and I demand warmth,” Lois says.
That solves that. Clark half-crawls, half-rolls up the bed to her side and carefully tucks himself against her. Touching Lois is a really nice sensory feeling. Lois, in general, gives him nice sensory feelings, and Clark’s not sure if that’s part of the reason why he likes her so much, or if him liking her so much is why he enjoys the sensory experiences of being near her. Maybe both. She’s all coffee and fresh pencils and ink and clear recordings and royal purple and ozone and silk. And she doesn’t hardly smell like cigarette smoke anymore, and he’s working on getting used to the scent of her makeup, and he lets her borrow his coats, and she lets him borrow her scarves, and it’s just. Nice. This is nice.
Lois pets his hair absently as the opening credits roll, and Clark makes a tiny, happy noise.
~x~
When Lois gets out of the bedroom, showered and dressed for the day, Clark has just gotten the grocery bags set up on the kitchen counter. He meant to only get things for breakfast, but then he saw the store had that one kind of chocolates that Lois likes, and there were some really nice apples, and then he thought it would be cool if he could maybe make a few things besides breakfast, because who knows when Lois will actually try to make time for grocery shopping, let alone cook for herself, and then it kind of got out of hand.
“Clark - how - what?” Lois says, stopping dead the moment she can see the kitchen.
Clark smiles sheepishly at her. “If this is overstepping, I kept the receipt and can give it all back.”
“Well…” Lois taps her index finger against her lower lip. “That depends on what you got.”
“Okay.” Clark rummages around in the bags aimlessly. “I don’t know where anything goes, so would it work if I took things out of the bags and you either told me where they go or if I should take them back?”
“Sounds good,” Lois says.
She winds up deciding to keep all of the groceries once he explains what he’s planning to cook with them. Then he makes breakfast, eggs and roast vegetables and cut-up winter fruits, and they take their plates into the bedroom and watch ‘Lady in the Water’ from start to finish.
It really is a spectacularly bad movie.
But breakfast is good, and the company’s better.