Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lois Lane bought a cute dress over the summer. It wasn't just a dress. It was basically symbolic of Lois's journey of self-discovery and self-actualization. Also it made her boobs look fucking phenomenal.

The choice fell well outside Lois's usual genre of dressing and made her consider the question: How often do I go on picnics? The answer was, Almost never. And that should have prompted her to put the blue and white striped floral dress (ideal attire for a picnic) back on the hanger with nary a backward glance.

But! The summer had been a time of experimentation and risk-taking. Not merely with personal style, but also with maintaining outside of work friendships, opening her mind to the idea that the flyover states might not be completely devoid of value, and exploring just how far she could go physically with her closest friend/coworker/personal cheerleader Clark Kent before they crossed the line between Friends who Cuddle into More than Friends. It was absolutely within the realm of possibilities that Lois might become a devoted picnicker.

Or. You know. Not.

The dress was purchased in July. It took until October for Lois and Clark to get their shit together enough to take the dress (and themselves) out on a picnic in Central Park. 

One of the best things about Clark Kent, when it came to maintaining a friendship with Lois Lane, was that both of them were socially flaky in equal measure. There had been fully a dozen weekends between Lois buying the dress and the two of them finding the simultaneous availability to allow for a meet up. Between questionable weather and their fucked-up work schedules, they’d made plans and cancelled them multiple times. 

Lois was starting to look forward to Daylight Savings for the first time in her life; at least they’d get an extra hour in the day to dash over to Metropolis's prettiest green space.

However, the stars aligned, they (and by they, Lois meant Clark) packed a lunch and met up on a crunchy patch of grass under a tree that hadn’t yet lost all its leaves. It was one of those perfect weather days where the sky was the bluest blue she’d ever seen (next to Clark’s eyes), the sun was warm, the breeze was cool, and the air could only be described as crispy. 

It helped that Clark brought all the stuff; Lois just had to put on the dress and show up. In true Lois Lane, Terrible Friend, fashion she showed up late and empty-handed. In true Clark Kent, Best Guy in the World, fashion he didn’t make any digs about it.

Clark had spread out the quilt from his bed on the ground. He was dressed like an extremely hot scarecrow, in a plaid shirt, suitable autumnal orange, over a white t-shirt and jeans and was unpacking their lunch. The only thing that wasn’t quite picturesque about the scene was the fact that he didn’t bring the food and beverages in a wicker hamper, but instead carried everything in his work backpack. Oh, well. No one could be perfect.

Regardless of the aesthetics, he’d put together quite the delicious-looking assortment of edibles (no, not the kind at the back of his parents' pantry). Their outdoor feast consisted of cold cut sandwiches, hand-cut chips, apple cider mocktails (Clark took the posted sign about No Alcoholic Beverages in the Park more seriously than 99% of Metropolis's park-going population), and pumpkin hand pies for dessert. 

Lois expressed her appreciation the only way she knew how: by tackling Clark in a massive bear hug. Granted, he was the only massive part of the hug, but what Lois lacked in size, she more than made up for in enthusiasm. She suspected that, when he fell backwards, it was not entirely because of the force of her hug, but it was nice for him to pretend that Lois was a being of extraordinary strength and power.

“You’re welcome!” he said, understanding the gratitude implied in Lois knocking him on the ground and sitting on his stomach without her having to voice the words 'thank' and 'you' aloud. “I’m glad we could finally do this - I know our Nordic brethren are like, ‘There’s no bad weather, only bad clothes,’ but I’d rather not do a picnic in the snow.”

“You and me both,” Lois concurred, getting off of Clark and digging through the spread.

She was an adult. Sooner than she wanted to contemplate, she’d be fully thirty years old. She could start with dessert.

The hand pie was the perfect fall bite - spicy and sweet with just enough earthiness to remind the eater that the puree filling had been a vegetable once upon a time.

“Oh my God, this crust is insane,” Lois complimented him, spraying crumbs as she spoke. 

“It’s Grandma Essie’s tried and true pie crust recipe,” Clark told her, starting with a sandwich because he was a conventional fucking nerd. “The secret is a tablespoon of vinegar, for maximum flake.”

“Did she win all the blue ribbons?” Lois asked, assuming the answer was, yes, duh.

The answer was, no, actually. Apparently Clark’s grandma never entered town or county bake-offs; she was opposed to the idea of competition on principle. 

Classic Kent, Lois thought wryly. They were non-conformist, but in a really, really nice way. Radicals, but about concepts like equality, empathy, compassion. Lois couldn’t relate, exactly, but she admired the vibe tremendously, having witnessed it first hand.

The dress was a by-product of the vibe. Over the summer, Lois spent a week in Smallville hanging out with Clark’s friends and family, eating delicious food, and meeting some of the nicest people she’d ever encountered in her life. They were so outrageously friendly that Lois was now included in Clark’s high school friend group chat, despite the fact that she hadn’t gone to their high school, and hadn’t met a third of the people who regularly texted her. 

But that was Smallville: a place so warm and welcoming that at times it felt like it couldn’t be real. Lois held onto her natural cynicism as long as she could, but she succumbed by the end of the trip. On their last night in town they went out line dancing and Lois bought the dress specifically to get her country girl groove on. 

She liked the way she looked in the dress; more specifically, she liked the way Clark looked at her in the dress. The way he was looking at her now.

The only problem was that she bought the dress in the dog days of summer and they were sitting in the shade. While the low neck and little cap sleeves did a lot to enhance the bod, they didn’t provide much in the way of warmth for said bod. Lois couldn’t be sure whether Clark was surveying her admiringly or counting her goosebumps.

“You cold?” Clark asked, already rolling down the sleeves of his button-down shirt and shrugging out of it. He held the shirt out to her without a word.

Lois hesitated before she took it, pretending to be a thoughtful individual who cared about Clark’s comfort. “Will you be cold?”

“I run hot,” Clark said and Lois knew from experience that was true. When they snuggled up on the couch to watch TV during their weekly after-work dinners, it was like having her own all-in-one space heater and weighted blanket (only one that had a cute face and fun personality). 

Lois took the shirt and popped it on; it was ridiculously too big because Clark was a comically oversized individual, but it retained his body heat and the smell of his Old Spice body wash, so it was basically the best shirt ever. 

They made quick work of the food and slowly sipped their apple cider and ginger beer concoctions. Clark got halfway through his before he flopped down on the blanket, hands behind his head, eyes closed, the breeze ruffling his hair, the absolute picture of serenity.

The guy really was the whole package. Square jaw, pretty eyes, delightfully curly hair and a body that both wouldn't quit, but was also clearly a temple to pie. He also had a presence about him; not in a cult leader way, but in a camp counselor way. A trusted buddy who would make you a Frito pie, hold your hand and reassure a freaked out child in a dark forest, but also wasn't averse to playing a little dirty during Capture the Flag.  He was reassuring, gentle. And sweet. Above all else, Clark was sweet.

“I’m glad we’re doing this,” he said, eyes still closed, a gentle smile on his lips. “Thanks for today.”

That, for example. Lois had done jack shit to organize this trip, aside from sending Clark a text that read, in its entirety: Picnic Sunday? He sacrificed his personal bedspread and he made the food. All Lois did was don the dress, which he wasn’t looking at currently, and yet there he lay, happy as a clam, thanking her for just...being there, she guessed.

As though she could absorb Clark’s simple ability to be and be happy through osmosis, she leaned against him, using his stomach as a pillow. She could see the sky through the gaps in the branches; a breeze blew through and a few more leaves floated down toward them, a truly picturesque image.

Until something small, black, and moving in erratic patterns flew past the tree overhead interrupted the mood.

Lois sat up on her haunches, squinting at the mystery object. “Is that a bird?” 

Clark opened his eyes and looked up.  

“It’s a drone,” he said, dislodging Lois as he sat up, trying to spot the pilot. 

Lois stood and left the shade of the tree. The drone was slowly circling the park; it was larger than the typical commercial models used by amateur photographers and wedding videographers. Its presence raised Lois's hackles immediately.

“Oh, ew,” Lois said, drawing the conclusion as the words were coming out of her mouth. “Is that some Eye in the Sky bullshit? Give me your phone.”

Clark’s phone had better video quality than hers and he handed it over as soon as she made the request. Lois took a video of the drone in action, with the intention of uploading the footage onto the computers at the Planet when she got to work tomorrow, to see if there were any labels or identifying information that could conclusively prove her suspicions. 

The Planet wasn’t actively investigating the new public safety initiative, announced last week by the Metropolis Metropolitan Police, but they were definitely aware of it. If the footage she collected showed any evidence of LC branding, she could probably convince Perry to let her do some digging on the clock. The press release submitted to the Planet by the MMPD put everyone around the office on edge; the practiced banality of the language seemed tailor-made to arouse suspicion.

The Metropolis Metropolitan Police Department is proud to announce a new public safety initiative, in collaboration with LuthorCorp: A mobile CCTV program called ‘Eyes in the Sky.’

The announcement went on to describe the effects of the program, which would provide real-time feedback about potential traffic hazards and including up-to-the-minute updates to any citizens who downloaded the EyeApp where they could not only access information collected by the drones, but also submit their own photos and videos to the app. 

With live feedback from our Eyes and our citizens, we can improve traffic flow, public safety, and keep Metropolis’s reputation as the City of Tomorrow intact for the next generation.

The reaction from the Planet squad was swift and derisive. Perry made a Big Brother reference before he finished reading the first sentence. Jimmy observed that it seemed like a lot of tech to decide whether or not the city would install new traffic lights. Lois was concerned that the phrase ‘improve public safety’ was code for ‘actively engaging in profiling.’ Clark thought that it was insane that the city council would approve this collaboration since, in his words, “It’s asking a lot for the public to give up a reasonable expectation of privacy for the sake of avoiding a few fender-benders.” 

Ron didn't say anything directly, just asked Perry to forward him the statement before he popped his noise cancelling headphones on and got to work furiously typing. That's how you win Pulitzers.

The paper published the statement (with questions for the MMPD) and received reassurance from the Chief of Police that this was a pilot program whose focus was primarily on transit issues throughout the city. Keeping an eye out for potholes or areas of congestion.

Yet there appeared to be one of the aforementioned Eyes, buzzing above a public park. Unless there were serious concerns about bottlenecks on the bike path, it looked like Chief Henderson hadn’t been entirely transparent.

Clark got to his feet beside her, doing as the program instructed him: keeping his eyes on the sky until the drone zoomed out of sight. Lois closed the video and emailed it to herself with a small frown - then jumped when Clark’s phone vibrated in her hand. 

“If it’s the cops, then we can be pretty sure there’s audio recording and that’s definitely a legal liability for the program - oh, nope, never mind,” he interrupted himself once he got a glimpse of the screen, which displayed the name Cassie Ross.

Cassie was likely short for Cassidy, the younger sister of Clark’s childhood bestie Pete, who still lived in Smallville. Lois hadn’t spent that much time with the second-youngest Ross, but the time she spent with her she enjoyed, more so than she expected, given that Cassidy was a child and Lois didn’t like children, as a rule. Granted, at fourteen years of ages, Cassidy was an old child and she seemed to take delight in relentlessly teasing Clark, a pastime Lois totally supported.

Lois sat back down on the blanket to finish her drink and check her own phone to make sure the video went through. In the meantime, she kept an ear out and eavesdropped on Clark’s conversation. Since they came back from Smallville, he was more relaxed around the office, more thoroughly himself than the quietly competent professional journalist persona he put on during his first months at the Planet. When he first arrived, he'd tried to smooth out his accent into something close to neutral. While he hadn't been trying so hard to mask his natural speech patterns at work, it really came to the fore when he was talking to someone from his hometown. Lois liked hearing it. A lot.

“Hey Cass!” Clark said warmly, dropping down on the blanket beside Lois, resuming his previous lounging posture. He put Cassidy on speaker and lay the phone, face-up, on the blanket between them. “How’re you doing?”

“Have you read The Great Gatsby?”

“Oh, I’m good, thanks for asking,” Clark replied, absolutely oozing cheeky big brother energy. “I’m out on a picnic with Lois, weather’s real nice - ”

“CLAAAAAAAAAARK - Hi, Lois! - STOOOOOOOOOOP. Did you read the stupid book, yes or no?”

Clark confirmed that he had, in fact, read the stupid book. So had Lois, but she didn’t remember anything about it, except that the green light symbolized hope. Or longing? Or the futility of hope? It had been literally a decade ago, in high school, which was shocking to consider. The length of time Lois had been out of high school, that was, not the fact that she’d read The Great Gatsby.

“Honors English is kicking my ass,” Cassie confessed. “I need ClarkNotes. Only not right now, I can’t believe you answered my call while you’re on a date, you loser.”

We’re not on a date, Lois expected Clark to say, possibly with an eye roll and a smirk at Lois. When Lois met the extended Ross family, Cassie was the one who’d stomped right up to them, demanding to know if Lois was Clark’s girlfriend. He’d played dumb, pretending that girlfriends were girls who were the friends of people generally. She figured he’d perform a similar act of denial now. 

Except he didn’t.

“Aww, well, anything for you, Cassie-girl,” he said, smiling over at Lois, no trace of denial in his voice or expression. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

“‘kay,” Cassie said, then raised her voice and shouted, “BYE LOIS!”

“Bye, Cassidy!” Lois yelled back into the phone before Cassidy hung up and the screen went black. With Clark lying on his back and Lois lying on her stomach, their faces were much closer together than usual. 

They’d been in a similar position before - ironically while Lois was wearing the same dress. Okay, maybe not ironically since Lois bought the dress partially because she thought Clark would think it looked kinda sexy on her. In her case, (unlike in the case of The Great Gatsby), her hopes were fulfilled. When Clark saw her wearing the dress, he said - and this was a direct quote - "Wow."

Things were in danger of tipping from Will They? to They Will, until Lois slammed the metaphorical breaks on their metaphorical relationship (there was definitely a side plot about a car in Gatsby too, but she couldn't remember what happened). She and Clark were slow dancing and he dipped her and it was really cute and his arms around her were really big and strong and his face was really close to hers and she did kiss him, but it wasn’t a kiss-kiss. Not on the lips, she planted one on his cheek. The kind of kiss someone might give to a Grandma Essie, come to think of it.

There were other times over the last few months that their faces came really close together like this and Clark would look at her and she would look at him and… nothing would happen. There was just this string of unspecified tension between the two of them that neither of them verbally acknowledged. 

Clark, because he was a gentleman, probably. He had a blend of old-fashioned manners and modern sensibilities around consent that meant his first impulse was to ask for permission before he did anything that he suspected might be physically out of her comfort zone. Thinking back to their dance, Lois recalled him asking her if it was okay before he dipped her. He definitely wasn’t going to start kissing her without giving her plenty of lead time, ample opportunity to consider the matter before she said yes or no. 

Lois wasn’t much of a gentleman. She wouldn’t say she had violated any of Clark’s boundaries, per se, but she knew that when it came to physical stuff, she would have to be the one to make the move, to start the conversation about making the move.

She hadn’t yet. And today - despite the beautiful weather, gorgeous setting, Clark’s face being so close to her face - was not the day to do it. 

Because what if she wrecked it? Lois had just barely gotten into the swing of Friendship, let alone Romantic Friendship. Despite Clark’s comments to Cassidy, she’d never actually been anyone’s Girlfriend before and didn’t want to fuck it up. If she made the first move, then she felt like the whole relationship, its success or (more probably in her case) failure, would be on her. 

Lois prided herself on competence - nah, fuck it, excellence in her professional life. It made up for the failings of her personal life, at last it had done for the past few years. If she took on the responsibility of a relationship with Clark - the feelings stuff especially - she was worried her incompetence would show. That she’d get hurt, but also that she’d hurt him.  

That was the last thing she’d ever want to do. Clark might have been a big, beefy dude, but he had the emotional fortitude of a marshmallow. He cried during sad animal shelter commercials (not obnoxiously, but she’d caught him furtively wiping away a tear when Sarah McLaughlin started singing). Physical closeness didn’t necessitate emotional closeness (a fact borne out by all of Lois’s previous more-than-friends relationships), but she knew Clark would want that. In fact, she'd go so far as to say he deserved someone he could love with his whole heart and…to be completely, brutally honest (a specialty of hers!) not all the parts of Lois were loveable. 

To her simultaneous relief and frustration, Clark didn’t do anything more than beckon her closer.

“Come over here, girlie,” he said and Lois rolled into his arms. 

He tucked her head right under his chin, where she fit extremely well. He did kiss her, but it was on the top of her head; his lips didn’t even make contact with her skin through her hair. Lois nuzzled her nose into his t-shirt, closing her eyes, all wrapped up and content as could be. 

The day was beautiful, her stomach was full of delicious food, and she was snuggling with her bestie. Screw their lack of an #aesthetic picnic basket, they didn't need it. Lois almost hoped the drones got a good angle on them because she was sure they looked absolutely fucking adorable. 

Chapter Text

Being Superman and being an A+ friend, at times, seemed incompatible, which was a problem for Clark Kent who sometimes had to do both simultaneously. One tool that helped tremendously in this endeavor was his calendar app. 

Every time someone mentioned a major life event (birthday, upcoming medical procedure, wedding) or a minor life event (camping trip, playoffs for their adult softball league, attending a concert for a favorite musical artist), he entered the occasion into the app with instructions for himself on how best to mark the day. That way his loved ones, friends, and coworkers knew he was thinking of them, regardless of what might come up. 

This morning, for example he woke up not to his alarm, but to his phone notifications: 

SSHS Parent-Teacher Night (text Mom)

Texting was really the savior of Clark’s social life. When he purchased his phone, he sprang for the unlimited data plan so that, regardless of where he was (location or elevation), when the occasion called for it, he could always shoot someone a quick text.

This was one of his easier well-wishes. He rolled over in bed and typed out ‘thinking of you’ message while his phone was still plugged in to the charger.

Happy Parent-Teacher Afterparty Day! 🍷🍷

It was a well-known fact that the teachers of Smallville Senior High School made the prospect of an extra-long work day a little more bearable with post-conference drinks. Smallville residents with high school aged kids would do well to steer clear of McKenna’s Taphouse between the hours of 8PM and 10PM on Parent-Teacher Conference Night if they didn’t want to hear what their child’s teachers really thought of them.

Event acknowledged, Clark proceeded to get ready. He showered, cleaned his teeth, ran a brush through his hair and got dressed. Lois teased him for his unvaried work wardrobe so he tried jazzing things up with sweater vests. He thought it was giving off a mid-century college professor vibe, a vision of himself that shattered when he showed up at work wearing one and Jimmy immediately quoted What We Do in the Shadows. 

“FROM PANERA BREAD YOU CAME AND TO PANERA BREAD YOU SHALL RETURN!”

Whatever. Guillermo just so happened to be Clark’s favorite character and he liked his fashion sense. So really, the joke was a compliment and therefore Jimmy was the one who looked like a dick for trying to make fun of Clark and accidentally making him feel really good about himself. 

Clean, dressed (yes, with a sweater vest), and waiting on his microwave breakfast burrito to finish heating up, Clark retrieved his phone and saw that Mama had already written back.

Thank you, baby! Let me know if you need anything when I get home 😉

He snorted and crafted his reply. There was a running joke in the family Clark always seemed to experience some kind of emotional or physical breakdown the night of fall semester parent-teacher conferences. It was honestly unfair since that had only happened…like…four or five times in his twenty-six years of life. And not since he was a teenager, so Parent-Teacher Night Crises were probably a phase he’d outgrown. 

Clark’s return text consisted entirely of laughing/crying emojis. That done, he retrieved his burrito from the microwave, put his backpack over his shoulders, grabbed his iced coffee, and popped in his earbuds for the walk to the bus stop. 

“Morning, Angelo,” Clark said as he tapped his Metro card.

“Morning, Clark,” the bus driver replied as Clark found a place to sit and relax on the commute to work.

Some people might not have considered completing a basic morning routine, followed by twenty minutes on public transportation a personal triumph, but most people were not Clark Kent. Many was the morning he did not get to eat his breakfast burrito or fill his travel mug with homemade cold brew coffee, but instead was dashing into the city at full speed and trying to smooth the wrinkles out of his clothes as he hurriedly dressed behind a dumpster, praying he’d clock in on time.  

This morning, though? Bliss. He was listening to his Commuting Playlist and catching up on the conversations he missed in his various group chats (when half your friends were farmers, the conversations started early).

As he selected reaction emojis and appropriate gifs, Clark found himself awash in contentment. He didn’t know what the rest of the day looked like, but the morning was chill. And, hey! Whatever happened, there was basically no chance he’d end the night having a meltdown on his parents’ couch, so this was already shaping up to be a pretty good day, especially compared to past Crisis days. 

Things just kept getting better when he arrived at the Planet. Lois’s face was the first one he saw when he got off the elevator, which was freaking excellent - even though she met him with a frown and craned her neck to look behind him.

“Did you see Jimmy in the lobby?” she asked. “Perry only installed the fancy photo-editing software on his computer and I’ve had no luck guessing his password - is there still coffee in that?”

Clark was forced to admit that he had not seen Jimmy on his way into work, but that he still had half a mug of coffee left, which she was welcome to, if she wanted it. 

That got him a smile and, if they weren’t on the floor, probably would have gotten him a hug too. As it was, Clark would take the smile and happily relinquished his travel mug to Lois, bidding it a mental goodbye forever. One of the first things he learned about his dear friend and colleague was that things she ‘borrowed’ tended to become her personal possessions. 

It wasn’t theft, exactly, since she wasn’t taking things with the intention of never returning them. It was just that nothing Clark had loaned to her - from pens to umbrellas - ever found their way back to him. No big deal, though; everyone was allowed to have one or two objectionable quirks. It was all part of the human condition.

Also it was Lois, so he especially didn’t mind.

Bereft of coffee, Clark set up at his own desk and booted up his computer. Jimmy arrived shortly after him and Lois practically dragged the poor kid over to his work station, insisting they go over the footage she shot at the park together. 

Clark didn’t get up, but he kept an ear out; he was more than a little interested in the results of this unsanctioned mini-investigation. Not enough to ambush Jimmy at the elevator, but he couldn’t deny that there was something deeply weird about the recently announced collaboration between the police department and LuthorCorp.

The thing was, Metropolis already had a system of CCTV traffic cameras. Clark had a pretty vested interest in knowing what areas of the city had a live feed going back to a control room at the police station, if only to ensure that he didn’t show anyone his literal ass while he was changing into and out of the suit. The cameras were set up in spots you’d expect - high-traffic streets or locations with lots of banks and businesses. One could make the argument that it was just more of the same, only if you thought about it for more than ten seconds, no, it wasn’t.

The CCTVs that had been keeping an eye on the streets of Metropolis for decades were stationary. Yes, they were projecting a feed into some kind of control center, but the monitoring from said control center could vary, as could the storage of said footage. It was likely that most of the video collected from the stationary cameras would not be widely accessed or viewed and was probably purged on a regular basis to free up storage space. 

The use of drones implied the use of drone pilots and thus constant monitoring by said pilots. No precise number was cited in the press release as to how many Eyes were flying above the city. It was possible that all the monitoring was being done by members of the police department, but it was more probable (in Clark’s opinion) that the job of maneuvering and viewing the footage captured by the drones was being done in real time by IT staff at LuthorCorp. 

Assuming that was the case, this new public safety measure was, if not completely illegal, at least ethically grey. Definitely an issue of interest to Metropolis’s citizenry, especially if the drones were spying on family picnics and not just auto-issuing speeding tickets.

“If it’s LuthorCorp, it’ll say so,” Cat declared confidently, having joined the small group of people huddled around Jimmy’s monitor. “Ever since Lex became COO, he never misses a branding opportunity. The rumor is he’s basically running the company with Lionel in quasi-retirement on one of the family’s private islands.”

Jimmy looked up from the photo editing software to glance incredulously at Cat.

“I’m sorry, one of their private islands?” he asked. “How many private islands does one family need?”

“Dude, if things are as contentious in the Luthor family as the rumors say, they probably need one island per member,” Cat informed him. “They’re basically the tech Kardashians, only they’re smart enough not to have a reality show about it.”

“How much money do they have?”

“Oh, you sweet summer child, rich people never put a real number on their net worth. Someone might try to make them pay - gasp! - taxes on it!”

“Guys, save the hot goss for later,” Lois interrupted impatiently. “Focus, we’re looking for proof that this was a LuthorCrop drone. Y’all can speculate wildly about their personal lives later.”

"It'd be easier if you hadn't filmed this on a fucking potato," Jimmy groused, but got back to work.

“Aww, y’all,” Cat drawled, with a significant look at Clark. 

Lois didn’t seem to have heard her, her attention being totally locked in on Jimmy’s computer screen. Cat grinned at Clark and gave him a double-thumbs up.

Clark returned the smile weakly and ducked down, pretending he was as focused on his computer as Lois was on Jimmy’s. He prided himself on being great at compartmentalizing - to the point that his mother was a little worried that he was straight-up dissociating the Superman parts of his life from the Clark parts of his life which was…okay, fair, but if he was aware of it, he probably wasn’t actually doing it. (Right? Right???) With Lois, things were…harder.

It would be easier if they were Definitely Dating. Then, he could simply take the Dating aspects of their lives and separate them from the Work aspects of their lives (dissociating whomst???) The fact that they weren’t dating, but incorporated some dating activities into their daily interactions made things…muddier. Grey, if you will. Like the ethical implications of non-police personnel having access to city surveillance footage, potentially with the financial backing of the taxpayers.

Okay, no, actually, it wasn’t that dire. It was good! Really, really good. But confusing! Also confusing. It wasn’t like Clark wanted to stop the frequent hugs and hang-outs and couch cuddles, but he also wanted to make sure he was aware of where the line was so that he didn’t cross it. Practically, this consisted of following Lois’s lead and then making some educated guesses.

She hugged him, which meant he could hug her. She kissed his cheek, which signaled that he could kiss her cheek/head/hand without feeling like he was doing Too Much. She side-snuggled him, he side-snuggled back, but assumed spooning was a bridge too far, etc. 

Should they have a conversation about this? Probably! Only he didn’t want to bring it up for fear that she’d tell him he was reading way too much into things. That she hadn’t (as he perceived) been taking things slow and progressing toward An Actual Relationship, but that she had taken things as far as she ever wished to go and that he was some big overstepping asshole for assuming the Relationship in their future was anything other than Friendship. 

Those were just the normal anxieties he had about pushing Lois for answers regarding where she wanted things to go down the line. Because if they did have a probably necessary conversation about what they wanted from each other, there would still be the Superman-sized elephant in the room (admittedly, a small elephant, but an elephant regardless). 

There were times when Clark fantasized about hanging up the cape. Mostly when he was forced to be a bad friend or son and miss out on important things going on with the people he cared about most because there were lives on the line. Lately, though, he found himself wishing he could just tell Lois the truth about himself, without having to worry that she’d take that truth and splash it all over the front page of the Planet. 

If he wasn’t Superman it would…okay, it would not be easy , it was never easy to explain his abilities to another person, but it was doable. If he wasn’t Superman, Lois might be taken aback or alarmed, but there wasn’t as much of a chance that his aforementioned friends and family would find themselves set upon by a bevy of reporters, demanding answers. 

When he made the choice to visibly help people, he made that choice for himself. Despite his occasional frustrations with that choice, he knew he’d do it again. He wanted to help people. What he didn’t want was the people he loved most in the world caught up in some international firestorm of attention and interrogation. What really sucked was that it meant keeping one of the people he loved most at arm’s length some of the time. That was the real Catch-22 of what Clark struggled with regarding Lois: he didn’t want to lie to her, but he couldn’t tell her the whole truth either.

All that was to say, when Jimmy shouted, “BINGO!” Clark had made zero progress on his own work and so felt justified in walking over to the computer and joining the commotion. 

The drones had particularly bulbous undersides and it was there that Jimmy managed to freeze and photo-enhance a frame from the video to make out the LUTHORCORP insignia pressed into the plastic. It was black-on-black, which made it difficult to see, but would have been impossible to miss up close.

Lois demanded a print-out and, once she had it in-hand, ran off to Perry’s office to plead her case. When she emerged thirty minutes later, the print-out reduced to a wrung-out wrinkle, rather than a photograph, Clark knew the conversation hadn’t gone as well as she wanted.

“One photo isn’t enough to write an article about,” she informed Clark through gritted teeth, before he asked her what was wrong. He hoped that was proof that their personal bond was strong enough that she could glean his intentions from his body language alone, but she probably just wanted to vent and he was in her direct line of vision. “The Eye could have been on its way to watch the cars and cut through the park. I still think this whole enterprise is fucking bullshit.”

“Perry probably does too,” Clark offered. “We just can’t launch a full-on investigation with a blurry photo and a hunch. Even though you’re almost definitely right.”

Lois eyed him suspiciously, “I’m going to tell the Chief you’re gunning for his job because that’s basically word-for-word what he said.”

Clark grinned at her and leaned back in his chair, swiveling slightly from side to side. “What can I say? Great minds think alike, Lois.”

Then she made his favorite face: the face she made when she thought he was being so dumb it was funny. Her cheeks puffed out with annoyance and her nose wrinkled and then her mouth got all twisted up with the effort it took not to smile at him. It was the most adorable expression in Lois’s arsenal of adorable expressions. 

“You wanna go get coffee?” she asked him, glancing at the clock. “It’s basically break time anyway and I stole yours.”

Clark agreed that he’d like to get a replacement coffee and Cat tagged along with them, also needing a caffeine refresh. 

Clark and Cat became friends when Perry had them covering the classical music series offered by the public library, in concert (pun intended!) with the Metropolis Opera House. That was in late summer. By early fall, they were each other’s unofficial relationship cheerleaders. Cat was extremely invested in the Lois/Clark workplace romance. She had taken to calling them ‘Lark’ which was very cute, if a little premature. Clark was equally invested in the possibility of a Cat/Lana long-distance relationship - ‘Clana’ didn’t have quite the same ring to it and ‘Latherine’ was awful, so he was still workshopping their ship name. 

Lois only had one coffee order: Black. Hot in the fall and winter, iced in the spring and summer. Cat and Clark were both aficionados of what they called ‘afternoon’ coffees (regardless of whether or not they were consumed mid-morning), frothy confections of cold foam and syrup swirls. They were deep in pumpkin spice season, so Cat ordered a cold brew with pumpkin cold foam and Clark went all-out on a beverage called the Pecan Pumpkin Pie which consisted of pumpkin spice iced coffee, cream, two pumps of butter pecan syrup, a caramel swirl, and a topping of whipped cream with tiny pumpkin sprinkles. 

“The girlies are girlying!” Cat declared triumphantly, beckoning Clark to crouch down so that they could take a selfie cheersing their drinks. He happily obliged while Lois chugged what was probably her third coffee of the day, shaking her head at them in disbelief. 

“Can you send that to me?” Clark asked Cat. She obliged and Clark texted it to Lana with the following message:

Getting coffee with the love of your life! 🎃☕♥️

Clark never tried to play matchmaker before and he might have been sucking at it, but (the question of distance aside), he thought Cat was basically perfect for Lana. Intellectually they were a match as they were huge fans of each others’ work (Cat's as a journalist and Lana's as an online historian/vintage influencer). They were each chronically online, but in a way that prompted them to get out of the house and go on outings that were Instagram-worthy. It didn’t hurt that Cat was cute as a button: curvy and blonde, with big blue eyes and impeccable fashion sense (granted, one that was not always office appropriate - the girl never met a crop top she didn’t like). 

Lana wrote back before they left the shop: This picture makes me want to move to Metropolis IMMEDIATELY 😍😍😍

The enthusiasm was typical of Lana, but the three heart-eye emojis made Clark think that he was on to something with his matchmaker side hustle.

Lois finished her coffee while they were still enroute to the office, while Cat and Clark were savoring theirs to avoid brain freeze and sugar rushes. Cat snapped a few more photos as they walked. The day was giving peak Autumn in the City, with the pedestrians in scarves and puffer vests and the Planet crew with their festive beverages. Lois wasn’t immune to the vibes and some of the consternation that she’d worn on her face since she left Perry’s office abated. 

In short, life was good. Until a black BMW with the LordTech insignia pulled up beside them. The driver, a young guy in his early twenties, stuck his head out the window. 

Clark paused, thinking he was going to make some manner of polite inquiry, but the combination of wrap-around sunglasses in concert with the illegally dark shade of the window tint should have warned him that this was a dudebro who was not looking for directions.

Instead of attempting to act in any way, shape, or form like a decent human being, the guy looked directly at Cat, screamed, “OZEMPIC!” and sped off like a demon. 

“What the hell, dude?” Clark yelled after him, though the driver was too far away for the disgust on his face and in his voice to register. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m gonna tear off his fucking windshield wipers,” Lois declared, crouching into a stance only ever struck by Olympic runners.

“No, don’t,” Cat insisted, plucking at the back of Lois’s shirt. Of the three of them, she appeared the least bothered. “It’s not worth it - not over some LordTech douche. If he was a LuthorCorp douche, well, then maybe…”

She smiled and shrugged and rolled her eyes, her entire attitude conveying, ‘This happens all the time,’ in a way that did not soothe Clark’s anger, but actively fueled it. Because what the fuck?  

It wasn’t that shit like this didn’t happen in Smallville, but rather than surveillance drones, they had gossip, which often demanded accountability. You couldn’t just roll down your window on Main St. and shout something disgusting at another person from the passenger side of your dad’s Ford without someone noticing. Inevitably the dickhead in question would be recognized and a call would be placed to his mother - or, God forbid, his grandmother - and something akin to the ‘Good Afternoon Ladies/Good Evening Ladies’ scene from To Wong Foo would take place. It was easier to act like an asshole in public when you were literally driving your own escape vehicle; zero recognition meant zero accountability. 

The LordTech Douche car was stopped at a red light when Clark saw an opportunity for a little…um. Well, a generous person might call this a lesson in accountability, a less generous person might call this revenge. 

He simply couldn’t help but notice that there was a large screw in the gutter, left over from some construction job. Its position meant that it was unlikely to do any damage, but a strong gust of wind could, theoretically, lodge the screw in the rubber tire of a passing vehicle. 

If Clark was a different kind of person, he might shy away from using his abilities frivolously. If he was more serious-minded or, hell, maybe even more religious, he might look at his abilities with a greater sense of awe and only ever tap into them if it was a matter of life and death.

Clark just wasn’t that kind of guy. It was probably better for his mental heath that he wasn’t; if he used his abilities often, for random shit, like heat vision to trim a hazardous tree limb, or flight to dust the vents in his apartment, they seemed less…insanely overwhelming. That way, when he used them to do something BIG like haul a container ship or fly halfway around the world, it wasn’t this utterly inhuman god-like act, just…being a little extra. He had his dad to thank for rattling some of the initial shock and awe out of him.

Jonathan Kent had been raised Quaker, but Jonathan Kent had also been raised in the country; he’d never aim a gun at another person, but he sure as fuck knew how to use a gun and he taught Clark the same as his grandpa taught him. It was a tool, a tool that could be incredibly dangerous or incredibly useful depending on the person wielding it, their intentions, and skill. Same was true with heat vision, he must have figured.

That was one of Clark’s abilities that freaked him out the most; the idea that he could fucking kill someone by looking at them scared him shitless. Pa was wise enough to know that, if a person picked up a loaded gun and took aim when they were scared, they were more likely to hurt someone than not. In this case, Clark figured he was the gun - only Pa didn’t treat him that way, like a dangerous thing. He went about it real gentle. 

On the third day after his heat vision manifested, Clark insisted they call him out from school since he was too scared to leave the house, almost too scared to keep his eyes open much. Pa called the school for him, but then went up to Clark's room, crouched down beside the bed, put a hand on his head and told him to get dressed; they were going shooting. 

“You gotta keep calm, okay,” he said, an almost precise echo of the words he used when Clark was eight and given his first rifle. He hadn’t taken to it at the time, was jumpy and trigger-shy. Pa said he understood being nervous, but he had to practice and get over that. 

“The better you are at shooting, the better it is for the animal,” Pa told him when his only weapons were bullets and the only potential victims were deer. “One good shot means it don’t have to suffer. Don’t shoot mad. Don’t shoot scared.”

Eight years later, they were out back in the same spot on the property they practiced with rifles, with the same paper targets and tin cans set up. Only this time, the danger came not from a Browning and a box of bullets, but from Clark himself. Same as with guns, Pa didn’t show a lick of fear; he put his hands on Clark’s shoulders, spoke to him with the same soft, clear voice he always used when he was explaining things, whether it was how to check the oil in a car, strum a guitar, or aim a rifle. 

“I don’t know what all goes on inside you when your eyes fire off,” Pa said, giving Clark’s shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “Only you know what it feels like. But I know you gotta concentrate. Be careful. And be sure before you pull the trigger.”

Took all day, but he figured it out. Pa was pleased as punch; the first time Clark deliberately shot a tin can clean off a post using his eyes, Pa gave him a high-five.

"That's my boy!" he exclaimed, with a big, proud grin. Clark didn't feel proud of himself, exactly, but he managed a smile back. When Pa figured Clark was all practiced out, he took him for ice cream. Just like he had when Clark got used to the rifle and managed to keep steady through the kickback.

Thinking about his abilities in that context - as a tool, something he could make useful, rather than as these random, horrible things that kept happening to him - made him feel a lot calmer about everything. If Clark incorporated his abilities into his everyday life, (holding the truck to jack it up so Pa could get underneath it, frosting over the fire pit like blowing out candles on a cake, flying up to the top of the house to repaint the shutters without using a ladder), what was once terrifying became mundane. And thus less frightening. 

Additionally, while Clark had been raised to believe in the ideals of pacifism, there was an acknowledged difference between damage to people and damage to property. Waiting on a patch and some air wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to a body. No worse than trying to ruin someone’s day and rattle their confidence by screaming insults out a window, anyway.

Pa taught him well. A quick, concentrated exhale of cold air and…bam. The screw lodged right in the rear passenger tire of the company car. 

LordTech Douche slowed to a crawl by the next block, the tire already visibly deflating and a line of irate drivers behind him blasting their horns as he tried to find a spot to pull over. 

“Ha!” Lois crowed, stopping on the street to do a literal victory dance, complete with song. “‘Oh, God, oh God! People say I’m jealous - ’”

“‘BUT MY KINK IS KARMA!’” Clark and Cat joined in on the chorus. 

LordTech Douche was wise enough to know when he’d been beaten. Not wise enough to actually apologize to Cat for being evil, but he didn’t flip them off as he got out of the car to survey the damage. He merely turned his back on them and held his phone to his ear, on hold for roadside assistance.

Clark was feeling pretty pleased with himself. Until an Eye swooped by overhead, the camera on the body of the drone swiveling slowly to get a 360 view of the street. That dimmed the sparkle of his petty revenge.

Immediately, Clark broke out in a panic-sweat.

Had it seen him? Had it seen what he just did? Even if it had, it wasn’t like there could be a connection made between him exhaling and the screw kicking up, right? He might have been sneezing or - or practicing mindful breathing, or - 

“Clark!” Lois called out to him, waving her hand in front of his face. “Earth to Clark! You okay? Or is the entire moo cow in that drink literally kicking your ass?” 

“Ew, Lois, why?” Cat asked, taking another swig of her coffee. 

“He has a sensitive tummy,” Lois informed Cat, which was not true and also not why Clark was frozen on the sidewalk.

“I’m good,” he insisted, taking a slurp of his beverage (which could not seriously be considered coffee) as proof. “Just. Um. Distracted by the Eye.”

The girls glanced up and saw it hovering by the LordTech Douche’s stalled car. Bizarrely, Lois grinned.

“Ooh, I hope he gets a ticket for parking illegally,” she said cheerfully. Then her nose wrinkled and she frowned, ‘Ugh, no, wait, I take it back. I can’t allow my desire for instant karma to override my knowledge that spying on people is bad, generally.”

“Surveillance of public citizens by private companies, paid for by those citizens without their consent is Bad News Bears,” Cat agreed, with a doleful sigh. Then she flashed a grin, “Still, how crazy was that? If I had a nickel for every time some random shithead was outraged to see a fat person in public, I’d have enough to buy myself one of those LordTech Beemers. I cannot deny that the immediate comeuppance warms the very cockles of my heart.”

They continued to talk about all the other small, but satisfying acts of karma they had personally witnessed over the years, while Clark followed at a short distance, sipping his drink and trying not to have a nervous breakdown.

Glasses fuck with facial recognition software, right? I need to Google that. I wear some chonky-ass glasses to balance out my chonky-ass head, though, so it’s fine? It’s probably fine.  It probably wasn’t even looking at me. Even if it did see me, it probably didn’t clock that I was doing anything weird. And if it did, how will it even know who I am? I don’t drive, I try not to jay walk, I don’t have any traffic tickets, the police don’t have my face on file…

If Martha Kent had a signboard in her house, keeping track of Days Since Clark’s Last Parent-Teacher Night Crisis, the ticker would sadly have to reset to 0.

Chapter Text

Although Perry barred her from investigating the Eye in the Sky program on the clock, Lois’s evenings were her own and therefore she was able to Google to her heart’s content. 

Sitting cross-legged on her bed, she spread out her collection of research, a collection which which consisted of a Jamboard on her laptop, tiny pieces of paper stuck in a Composition notebook, and random sticky notes.

Currently she was looking to standard designs for traffic drones, specifically the kind used by law enforcement and television news stations. Tech wasn’t her specialty, but a random comment that Jimmy made about the Eyes' design wouldn’t leave her brain.

“It’s got a really weird shape,” he observed, referring to the park footage that was downloaded onto his computer and Lois ordered him not to erase (she wasn't his supervisor, she was just bossy and he was weak-willed enough to listen...or maybe he thought she had a point, whatever). “The camera usually hangs off the main body, it's not stuck in the middle like on the Eyes. I don't understand why it's so bottom-heavy - unless the lead engineer was Sir Mix-A-Lot."

“Battery storage?” Lois speculated. “Back up, in case it runs out of charge mid-flight?”

Jimmy shook his head, “No way. LuthorCorp puts a high premium on a sleek, minimalist design for their products - their shit looks way nicer than it actually is. They wouldn’t make a drone this awkward-looking for no reason.”

Once she got home from work, Lois went down a rabbit hole, comparing different drone models. Metropolis News 8 replied to her inquiries pretty quickly - they used LordTech - but no matter the brand, they all looked mostly the same. Spindly legs on the bottom, whirling blades on top, camera mounted underneath. The Eyes were the exception; a middle-mounted camera with blades coming out of the top of its head, like a fucked up Frosty the Snowman. They didn’t even have legs, it was like they never stopped flying.

There was a story here, she knew it. There was something else going on beneath the surface, something bad. While Lois’s research uncovered the fact that the MMPD was one of many law enforcement agencies around the country using drones (which were usually referred to as ‘unmanned aerial vehicles,’ probably to sound more badass), it didn’t go far to make her feel more comfortable with the Eyes. Especially when she found out that public safety drones were often flown and had their information processed by AI. 

She didn’t know what was worse; imagining some techbro, (like the guy who harassed Cat), spying on her and Clark at the park while chugging can after can of Liquid Death, or, a computer watching over them, feeding their images and actions into the Cloud for God knew what purpose. 

Funnily enough, the whole thing made her think of Superman - the original Eye over Metropolis.

A few months ago, she and Clark were speculating about him. Clark, goober of all goobers, genuinely thought that Superman was some well-intentioned working stiff. A regular Joe who just so happened to have phenomenal cosmic powers who chose, out of the goodness of his heart, to use his abilities to lend a helping hand and always let his conscience be his guide.

Lois disillusioned him on that point pretty thoroughly, adding that they’d all be better off if Superman turned out to be a caped android or cyborg. If something that powerful was acting independently, the world would be royally fucked if Superman decided to be less Jiminy Cricket and more…um…Jafar, but after he became a genie.

Clark was a little butthurt about it, but someone had to pop his bubble of toxic positivity. Lois didn’t mind being the bad guy if it meant uncovering the truth - ugh, did this mean that in the world of Disney, Clark was the princess and she was the evil queen? That tracked, he really liked animals.  

After mulling the matter (Lois decided she was cool with being evil since villains got better songs), she decided to kick her concerns up the chain, to someone who knew way more about the surveillance state than she did. 

It would be too much to scroll her messages, trying to find the text thread she had going with her dad. Even as she opened her texting app, she saw there were 25 new messages in Clark’s high school group chat, which she muted on his advice as soon as she was added. One would have assumed that basically nothing of note went on in Smallville, Kansas, but if the text thread was to be believed, newsworthy shit was happening constantly.

Lois ignored the thread and texted the General directly, linking the PR announcement from the MMPD, asking him: How legal is this???

Then she played catch-up with the group chat. There was very little she could contribute -  it was harvest time, so most of the chat consisted of pictures of broken equipment, with requests for advice and/or commiseration. Kelsey Kearns, local veterinarian, uploaded pictures from her latest ultrasound. Rather than resembling a baby in particular, the little white outline looked like nothing so much as a peanut with arms. 

The Smallville group chat was refreshingly honest about the ultrasound (as opposed to when Lois’s sister was pregnant and became extremely offended when Lois couldn’t honestly say which of her parents her niece most resembled in utero, because she didn't look like a person yet). To avoid the mistakes of yesteryear, Lois simply hearted the photo without commentary, but if she had taken a chance and spoken her mind, she would have been in good company.

PeteRoss:
Can someone show me what part is the baby? I feel dumb. 

Evan Kearns, Kelsey’s husband, reuploaded the photo with a big red circle drawn around the fetus, complete with a speech bubble that read, ‘Here I am, Uncle Pete!’

Lana:
Go little squiggle! Way to lose your tail! 🐸 (I was looking for a tadpole emoji and couldn’t find one so you get a frog.)

Smallville Miguel:
Were you confused when it didn’t look like a calf, Kels?

Smallville Miguel:
OMG THAT WAS BRIAN HE LEFT HIS PHONE AT HOME AND IS USING MINE KELSEY I DISAVOW THAT STATEMENT.

Smallville Kelsey:
I’ll be honest: Yes. Yes, I was. But I have been assured this is what a healthy human fetus looks like 👍

Clark with the Glasses🤓:
Aww! What a cutie!!! 🥰

Lois rolled her eyes at Clark’s overly earnest assessment of the picture. Of course he would think any baby was cute, even one that was extremely undercooked. She was about to text him back, privately, to call him a liar when her phone buzzed with a message from her dad.

It must have been a slow night at the Pentagon; she genuinely wasn’t expecting a response before midnight.

Legal. Why?

Lois had to keep it casual; her dad loved answering questions, but not when they were potentially connected to the paper. She had to keep it strictly personal, which was not an area in which the Lane family excelled. 

I saw one of those Eye drones flying around the park when my friend and I were having a picnic. We were neither potholes, nor trying to turn right on red. The announcement says that the Eyes are for traffic surveillance. We are not traffic.

The typing dots appeared and lingered for a while, but eventually Lois got a reply:

That doesn’t matter. Video recording people in public places with or without consent is legal. Audio recording varies by state. 

Lois was aware that this was generally true - Lana literally wouldn’t have a job if she wasn’t technically allowed to film herself doing things in cute outfits - but she felt like it must be different when law enforcement was involved. 

There was NO posted signage at the park that the area was under video surveillance by the cops.

Signage is a courtesy. You were in a public park, not a residence or a restroom. By being in public, you forfeit your right to a reasonable expectation of privacy. Consider that police announcement the posted signage if it makes you feel better.

It did not make Lois feel better. It made her feel incredibly shitty and like she should just constantly walk down the street, middle fingers on display because genuinely fuck that. Of course, she wouldn’t actually walk through Metropolis flipping everyone off, it was a pointlessly rude thing to do and, besides,  her fingers would get tired and she needed them for typing.

She was replying with a half-hearted ‘thank-you’ to her dad, when the General texted back about something unrelated.

We never got together for your birthday. I can get up to Metropolis next weekend. I’ll take you out. 

Lois groaned and tossed the phone down on the bed beside her, rubbing her hands over her face. She appreciated what her dad was trying to do here, but also she would be extremely okay with skipping her birthday this year. It wasn’t a round number and, anyway, she’d already done a mini-celebration with Clark, Cat, and Jimmy. They treated her to an evening at a Barcade where they conquered a truly intimidating tower of pulled-pork nachos, drank brightly colored cocktails, and played video games until midnight when they devoured a deep dish chocolate chip cookie sundae before they pooled their tickets and gave them all to Lois to turn in. 1000 tickets got her a glow-in-the-dark slap bracelet, which she proudly wore to work.

It was a truly bomb present, way better than the $50 Sephora e-gift card from Lucy (which Lois promptly forwarded to Lana) or the night out her dad insisted on treating her to. Sometime after Lois graduated college, Sam Lane got it in his head that birthdays for adult daughters could only be properly celebrated at places with at least one Michelin star. It would be stuffy and pretentious and include tiny portions and they’d both feel uncomfortable and out of place.

Thanks, I hate it, she thought, but did not type. Bravely, Lois picked up her phone and replied with a socially acceptable response.

Sounds good. Let me know when you make the reservation. 

Will do. 👍

She assumed that meant they were Done and she wouldn’t be hearing back from him for a couple of days. Imagine her surprise when he texted her again, seemingly to provide reassurance.

Lois the security drones aren’t a big deal. Assuming you and your friend don’t have anything to hide, you have nothing to worry about. 

Lois frowned at the screen.

What if we’re not hiding anything, we would just rather not be on candid camera EVERY time we step outside?

You don’t like the city’s law enforcement techniques, you always have the choice to leave.

“Oh my God, fuck you,” Lois spoke out loud, glaring at the phone. Her middle finger was moments away from muting the conversation when Dad sent one more text. 

Just don’t move out before we go for your birthday. 😜

Ah, yes. Leave it to Sam Lane to think a goofy emoji made up for his blithe disregard for the privacy of the citizens of Metropolis. Including his own daughter.

This is why we’re not friends, Lois thought irritably, throwing her phone face-down on the bed beside her. It was bizarre, frankly, how three people who lived together for fifteen years could have completely different values systems. There was no point in texting Lucy with something like, ‘Dad doesn’t give a shit about people’s right to privacy if there’s a chance a drone camera could catch someone doing something wrong,’ because she knew her sister was totally on board with that stuff. 

Lucy was one of those people with a Neighborhood Watch App that she actually took seriously, rather than using it solely for gossiping purposes or arguing about Tree Law. When Lois first moved to Metropolis, Lucy used her dorm room address to sign herself up for one in the Metropolis University neighborhood watch things on Lois's behalf, since Lois refused to do it herself. 

She would forward Lois forum posts about suspicious persons (read: anyone wearing a hoodie and out for a walk after dark) in a five-mile radius and she assigned the same risk threat to package threat as she did to attempted kidnapping. Ever since the kids came, Lucy’s paranoia ratcheted up to eleven. Despite buying their current house on the strength of the neighborhood schools, she and David were seriously considering homeschooling the kids, saying dumb shit like, ‘Once they go to school, they’re never really yours again.’

Which made Lois want to throw up in her mouth a little. The idea of being someone’s possession, like a car or a piece of furniture, made her feel actively queasy. 

Really, Lane? Lois asked herself, always her own biggest critic (or best editor, if she wanted to put a nicer spin on it). Remember when Mama Kent held your hand and said, ‘You’re one of ours now,’ and you almost started bawling? How is that different?

It just…it just was. 

When David and Lucy talked about their kids being theirs, it came attached to a sense of entitlement that made Lois uncomfortable on behalf of her niblings. Like, yes, they were their parents, but also, Sophie and Owen were very much…people. Small, boring people, but they were still individuals. When Mama Kent talked about Lois being ‘one of ours’ it felt like an invitation, rather than a demand. The difference between belonging with a group of people instead of belonging to a group of people. 

Then again, Mama and Papa Kent were veteran parents, closer to the General’s generation than her own. It was possible when Clark was a kid they felt more like David and Lucy did: that he was an extension of them, rather than his own person. Although, if they had, they'd clearly moved on from that kind of thinking in a way Sam Lane never did. 

Hey, maybe that was why the General was all-in on fine dining, even though it was an experience neither he nor Lois actively enjoyed: it looked good. It projected a certain image, like, Here We Are, Father and Daughter, Enjoying an Expensive Meal Together, How Nice. That went a long way toward explaining why her dad was so comfortable with being watched 24/7. He had nothing to hide and wanted everyone paying attention to what a good job he was doing living his life. Maybe when (if) he retired, he'd cobble the footage together into a documentary: How to Be a Great Military Leader, an Okay Dad, and...Well, Marriage is Hard, Kids.

In any case, Lois hit an investigative dead-end, got schooled about surveillance laws by her dad, and she was pissed about it. What the MMPD and LuthorCorp were doing was not only merely legal, it had precedent. No wonder Perry told her not to do research on work time, he probably knew all of this information already and this was her object lesson in the perils of not listening to her boss.

With a frustrated sigh, Lois closed her laptop and set it aside. Then she picked up her phone - not to text. To call.

Clark picked up after two rings, “Hey there, Lois!”

She hadn’t checked the time before she tapped his name in her Recents list. A glance at her wall clock declared that it was past eleven - yet Clark sounded fresh as a daisy and, more than that, genuinely happy to hear from her. His palpable good cheer should have pumped the breaks on her bad mood. Why infect Clark her with her vitriol when he was this chipper? But Lois didn't care about Clark, she cared about herself and her own wounded pride and was looking for a punching bag to take her frustrations out on.

It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. When he eventually caught on, got mad and hung up on her, she'd realize how crappy her behavior was, but caught up in the thick of it, Lois neither noticed nor cared.

“You don’t actually think that fetus is cute, right?” Lois asked, sitting cross-legged in bed, shoving her laptop as far away from her as she could with her toe.

“Evan and Kelsey’s baby?” he clarified. “Of course I do! Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s a blob.”

“You can see the little nose! That’s cute!"

“Oh, my God,” Lois groaned, pulling back her metaphorical fist to give poor punching-bag Clark a right hook. “Do you ever turn it off? Like, does the Pollyanna act ever get old for you? It’s starting to get old for me.”

There was a pause and Lois expected Clark to get snippy with her, to tell her that his Pollyanna act was nothing to her Suzy Cynic act and why did she even call him if she just wanted to be a bitch? 

Instead he asked, “Are you okay?”

“No,” Lois said grumpily, rolling on her side and putting the phone on speaker so she didn’t have to hold it while she talked. “Apparently the LuthorCorp drones are fucking bog standard police surveillance equipment, so we should just shut up and never leave the house again if we don’t want to be videotaped and if we’re not happy about that, then we’re freedom-hating pussies who are spitting on the flag. God, my dad is such an asshole.”

Another pause. Then Clark’s voice did The Thing. 

It usually only happened when they were talking on the phone, generally when Lois was worked up (aka times like this). His already deep, gentle voice would enter a magical ASMR realm of maximum soothing and he’d sound like…like suede or butter or something comparably soft and lovely and Lois would feel the tension headache she was giving herself ebb from the first word.

“I’m sorry your dad gave you a hard time,” he said simply. 

“He didn’t,” Lois was quick to retort, then she grit her teeth and glared at her ceiling, rolling around, trying to get her pillows to mimic cuddling on the couch with Clark and failing spectacularly at it. “He just told me a bunch of shit that’s objectively true, but that I didn’t want to hear. I’m being a brat, whatever. I suck.”

“You do not suck,” Clark insisted. Then he offered, “Do you want me to come over?”

Yes, please.

“No, that would be stupid,” Lois replied. It really would be, if not stupid, then impractical in the extreme. Clark lived in a completely different part of town and the buses weren’t running between their apartments at this hour. It would take him forever to get to her place and forever to get back. 

He could stay the night.

Why couldn’t the voice in her head ever tell her anything useful? ‘Oh, Clark could spend the night! Where you’ll throw yourself at him because you feel like shit and think a pity fuck will cure your rapid onset depression!’ 

Get a grip, Lane.

“It’s dumb, I’m dumb,” she said, half-smothering herself on her own pillows which didn’t feel a thing like Clark. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of something plaid and orange, hanging off her desk chair.

It was the shirt Clark wore to the park for their picnic. Lois forgot to take it off before she got on the bus home and she didn't want to give it back to Clark until she’d washed it, which she hadn’t gotten around to yet. Lois got up and yanked the shirt off the chair, not even putting her arms through the sleeves, just wrapping it around her like a blanket. She lay back down while Clark was mid-sentence.

“ - legal doesn’t mean it’s ethical,” he was saying. “I’m worried about those drones too, the other day when we were walking back to the office with Cat I…I got paranoid.”

“Paranoid about what?” Lois asked, turning the collar up on the shirt to maximize the Clark smell. “You’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket, have you?”

“Just because I haven’t gotten a ticket doesn’t mean I don’t speed,” Clark replied. “And if the drones are watching literally everything, that’s loaded with the potential for abuse - misidentification of persons of interest, to scratch the surface. I was doing my own research and facial recognition software is basically a crapshoot. And bigoted! Let’s not forget bigoted.”

The fact that Clark was doing after-hours research related to the Eyes made Lois feel a little better, like she wasn’t off on a wild goose chase. 

“Also, Lois…” he continued slowly. “Um. Obviously I don’t know your dad - ”

“Lucky duck.”

“But…uh, isn’t he kind of important in the military? I can see why he would be more on-board with keeping a close watch on Metropolis than the average citizen, but also…like, Metropolis isn’t a war zone. There's no justification for that level of scrutiny in a city that has a much lower crime rate than the national average - or our closest neighbors. And honestly, I'd be inclined to raise similar privacy concerns if Wayne Enterprises announced a spycam collab with the Gotham City PD - sorry, I’m blabbing, are you still there?”

“I’m here,” Lois said. She almost smiled when she added, “I'm listening to you talk. ”

Clark’s smile was evident in his tone, “That’s new. You…you sure this is just about the drones?”

“No,” Lois admitted. She then essentially turtled inside Clark’s shirt and spoke into her phone through the flannel. “DoyouthinkIgottoofuckedupbymyparents?”

“....come again?”

Lois popped her head out, feeling her face heat up with embarrassment. Thank God Clark hadn’t heard her, that was…she had no idea where that had come from, but it needed to go back inside immediately. Clark wasn’t her therapist and if she treated him like one, he’d never pick up the phone when she called again. Granted, she probably also shouldn't pick up the phone with the intention of being purposefully mean to him, but, you know. Baby steps and all that.

“I’m just feeling sorry for myself,” she said, modifying her trauma to make it more palatable. “I get in a funk when I talk to my dad. Like, I get that he’s trying to...parent or whatever, but we’re on totally different wavelengths. It’s frustrating.”

“‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad,’” Clark said, voice taking on a mild sing-song quality. “‘They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had and add some extra - just for you.’”

Lois raised her head and asked, gobsmacked, “Did you just make that up?”

Clark laughed, “Oh my God, no! Of course not! That’s Philip Larkin, it’s a famous poem. Sorry if it was…too on the nose or rude. It’s late, I’m not thinking straight.”

“No, no,” Lois replied, relieved. “I was just thinking you were some kind of genius, I’m glad to know you’re only regular smart. That is on the nose…well, okay, not your nose, your parents did a great job not fucking you up.”

Clark took a breath, perhaps to argue; he let it out when he realized there was no argument to make.

“They’re only in their fifties,” he said, finally. “There’s still time.”

Lois laughed. Yeah, she was fairly fucked up, but it was nice to know there were people like Clark in the world who got through their childhoods relatively unscathed. Maybe the Kearns fetus would get a similar treatment by their parents. In a world full of Sam and Ellen Lanes, maybe they'd choose to be Papa and Mama Kent for their blob.

“So what's up with the Billy Shakes thing?” Lois asked, changed the subject slightly. She hugged Clark’s shirt around her and closed her eyes. “You went through a high school poetry phase?”

“Is it a phase if it’s still on-going? I got a couple memorized I can bust out for special occasions.”

“Clark!” Lois exclaimed petulant, sounding not unlike young Cassidy Ross. “Fucking stop! You don’t get to do this, you don’t get to be this nice and well-adjusted and read poetry. It’s not allowed, I forbid it! You have to shift the karmic balance and go ki - uh. Go key someone’s car or something.”

The suggestion for antisocial behavior she was originally going to use was ‘kick a puppy,’ but she feared that saying such a thing out loud to Clark Kent, Certified Disney Princess - even in jest - might legitimately make him keel over from horror. She figured he could handle the idea that he go commit minor property damage better than animal cruelty.

Or maybe not, given the fact that even that suggestion made Clark chuckle nervously. “Ha. Ha. I mean, I would - no I wouldn’t - but I especially wouldn’t with all the freaking drones flying around.” 

He had a point. About…everything, really. Lois hated to admit it, but Clark was often right - not always, not about some stuff, like Superman. But he was generally worth listening to about things that really mattered. 

“Thanks for not hanging up the phone when I was mean to you earlier...I'msorry,” she said, the words of regret coming out in a rush. Lois didn’t often apologize when she crossed the line, but that was usually because she felt like whoever was the recipient of her verbal firestorm deserved it. Not Clark, though. Not the Best Guy in the World.

“I knew you didn’t mean it,” he said, in a calm, understanding tone he picked up from his dad. “But thanks for the apology. You sure you don’t want company?”

“No, I’m basically asleep,” Lois yawned, eyes still closed, cheek pressed into her pillow. She didn’t even have the energy to turn her lamp off, instead, she pulled Clark’s shirt over her head enveloping her in darkness in the aroma of Old Spice. She left a little gap so he could still hear her on the phone. “You should read a poem - I’ll definitely fall asleep then.”

She was 1000% kidding. But she’d known Clark too long to be that surprised when he started reciting, probably one of those poems he kept in his cerebral back pocket for special occasions. 

“Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal, there, where the vines cling crimson on the wall, and in the twilight wait for what will come…”

Lois was asleep by the time Clark got to the end of the poem. She missed his soft inquiries as to whether she was still on the line. And his softer sign-off.

“‘Night, Lois. Love you.”

Chapter Text

For the past half-century, much of the heavy-lifting on America’s farms has been done by John Deere and his associates. Machinery was all well and good, but there were things that needed to be done by human hands, especially around harvest time. Having a reliable team of seasonal workers was ideal, but having one guy who could do the work of fifty people in half the time had its upsides too. (Especially if the only payment he would accept came in the form of baked goods.)

They finished up earlier than Clark expected; some of corn crop was taking its sweet time and wouldn’t be ready to fully harvest until closer to Halloween. No matter, Pa knew Clark was good to put in the hours. 

“Nice day's work, buddy,” he said approvingly, giving Clark a pat on the back.

“You too,” he smiled down at his dad, who was peering out over the fields. “How’re the books looking?”

“Ha,” Pa removed his baseball cap and scrubbed a hand over his hair. “I’m not thinking about that ‘til we get all the crop out of the ground. Let’s go back and clean up - you eating with Joey and them?”

Clark confirmed that he was, in fact, eating dinner with the Ross family that night. Pa nodded and the two of them walked back up to the house, Pa favoring his right hip slightly.

Clark pretending not to notice, but the fact of the matter was, the man had turned the corner on fifty and didn't bounce back from twelve hours of work the way he used to. Clark came down as often as possible to help out as much as he could, but given his job at the Planet and his other extracurricular activities, he had basically no weekday availability and free weekends weren't guaranteed. The crop wasn’t going to wait for him to fly down before it went to seed.

Naturally, Pa never complained. And, honestly, aside from the extra wear and tear of harvest time (and Pa’s occasional jokes that he missed out on the trans guy perk of looking perpetually youthful), he was still too young to begin the, 'And One Day, Son, All of This Will Be Yours' conversation. 

If that was a conversation that Pa would think to instigate in the first place. Mama and Papa Kent weren’t pushers, giving their kid a list of expectations to fulfill for them. Clark realized this truth around age was nine, when he screwed up all his courage to ask them if he could quit Little League. He liked playing the first few years, but as the team got older, the games became more competitive and he wasn’t having fun anymore. Clark assumed they wouldn't let him quit that they'd be disappointed in him for asking, especially Pa. 

Pa loved playing baseball. According to Uncle Joey, he was the best pitcher the Smallville Giants ever had. But Pa was forced to quit the team as a teenager; the league refused to make an exception for him to play on a boys’ team once he was in high school. Clark thought for sure his dad wouldn’t want him quitting without a really, really, really good reason. No matter how hard Clark practiced what he’d tell them, it all just boiled down to, ‘I don’t wanna,’ which didn’t feel good enough.

On the day he approached them (with a prepared speech, written down on paper torn out of his Star Wars notebook, with a tiny Ewok drawing in the corner), there was no argument. Mama just shrugged and said, “Okay.” Pa didn’t take it hard either, saying, “If you’re not having fun, no sense in sticking with it.”  

Similarly, when he was old enough to make Important Life Decisions, no one assumed he would go to school for ag. Clark announced in the middle of Sophomore Year that he wanted to major in Journalism and they just asked him what needed to be done to make that happen. 

And, most recently, when he decided he wanted to put himself out there and use his abilities to help others on the global stage, they didn’t try to talk him out of it. They just brainstormed how to make it work with him. 

Clark didn’t feel pressure to take over the farm one day, but the knowledge that he would was one of the constants in his life. Like a reassuring weight in the back of his thoughts, keeping him grounded. With how fucking bizarre his life was, it was nice to have something on the horizon that felt solid. Clark loved his job at the Planet, he loved being a journalist, but writing always felt like flying - he loved flying, but he couldn’t stay up there forever. The prospect of coming back to the farm felt just as comfortable and inevitable as coming down to land. 

The only wrinkle was, he couldn’t see Lois going all-in on farm life, but…well, he had some advantages that made long-distance relationships less of a challenge than they were for most people. 

Speaking of Lois…

“Can you take a picture of me?” Clark asked Pa. He was kitted out in overalls and she had been of the opinion that farm folk wore nothing but overalls. It would probably make her smile.

Pa agreed, though the look on his face conveyed that fact that he had many questions, even if he chose not to ask them. Clark removed his own cap, put it in his back pocket and ruffled up his hair. “Do I have hat hair?”

Pa’s expression cleared at once in understanding. “Your hair looks the same as usual - this for Lois?”

With a slightly abashed grin, Clark admitted that yes, the picture was intended for Lois.

Chuckling, Pa tapped the phone screen a few times and handed it back when he was done. Clark subtly checked to make sure his dad’s index finger wasn’t the dominant image in the pictures. 

“Tell your girl we say hi,” he remarked as Clark paused to text Lois.

He looked up under the fringe of his hair and shot his dad a Look, which didn't prompt a change in expression. He'd left his glasses in his room before he went to work, so they wouldn't get lost in the fields and the Look wasn’t as effective without them.

“Lois isn’t my anything,” Clark reminded his father, regardless of the fact that he’d been calculating how realistic it would be to fly Lois to Smallville after work for family dinnertime and then drop her off at the Planet to clock-in the next day. “Um. We had a…well, almost had a…I think she called me the other night to pick a fight.”

To Clark's surprise, Pa let out a brief bark of laughter in response. 

“That’s funny,” he said, shaking his head. “Not funny, maybe but…your mama used to do the same thing to me back in the day. How’d you handle it?”

“I saw the bait and didn’t take it,” Clark replied, because, really, what else was there to do? Snap back at her? Then they’d both be mad for no reason. 

Okay, well, from the sound of it, Lois had a reason to be mad. She just didn’t have a reason to be mad at him.

“Good man,” Pa said approvingly. “Took me a while, but I caught on soon enough. Just told her I loved her, but I wasn’t gonna go at it with her. She could come find me when she cooled off.”

“Why did she do that?” Clark asked, adding, quickly, “Mom, I mean, not Lois. I know why Lois was mad, she was frustrated with work and had some kind of argument with her dad…now why she called me, I don’t know.”

Pa paused, the house in view. He half turned to face Clark, looking between him and the house where Mama was holed up, grading midterms. “I can’t say what it is for Lois, but your mom…you know she wasn’t raised right.”

Clark did know that. Martha Kent valued honesty highly and from a young age he knew why she didn’t go to meeting with him and his dad, he knew that he had grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins in Tennessee that he’d probably never meet, and he knew that his mom was one of the bravest women in the world.

“The way I saw it...” Pa began slowly, eyes on the house. “Well. I knew she didn’t trust people - me included. Figured she’d get tossed out or worse at the first sign of trouble - it happened before, right? From her own damn parents. So she’d test me out, some. See what it took for me to write her off, see if I had it in me to hate her.” 

Pa let out a breath and shook his head. 

“‘Course I couldn’t,” he said, with a half-smile up at Clark. “Your mama? Ain’t no way. But yeah, she’d test me. Ah, Clark?”

Clark blinked, not entirely sure when the conversation turned from the early days of The Courtship of Johnny and Marty back to him. 

“Uh, yes?” he asked.

Pa looked him over hard, in a considering way, and Clark tried his best not to squirm like a little kid waiting in line for the bathroom. He knew his dad didn’t mean anything by it, that Pa used silence to gather his thoughts and really consider how he wanted to say something (especially something he deemed important) and often Clark appreciated it. Quiet time with Pa was something of a refuge for him - if he didn't think that he'd be the subject of a criticism at the end of the silence. Although Clark accepted that his parents' expectations of him were based on character, rather than career, he still didn't want to disappoint them.

“I don’t think Lois means harm when she gets like that, but you don’t have to take it,” Pa told him, at last. “You can let her know you’re not mad at her, but it’s not okay for her to peck at you, just because she's feeling bad. I had to have that talk with your mama a few times.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine!” Clark quickly exclaimed, eager to exonerate Lois and deny the doormat allegations all in one breath. “She apologized before she got off the phone. Said the s-word and everything.”

Pa’s brow furrowed. “The s-word?”

“Sorry,” Clark clarified. Pa’s expression cleared.

“Oh,” he said simply, with a satisfied nod. “Good for her.”

They went back up to the house, took their boots off, and Pa collected Clark’s dirty clothes so he could run a load of laundry while Clark took a shower. He made sure to pop his glasses back on when he got dressed. Did he need them? No. Did he think his face looked better in glasses? A million times, yes. 

On his way out of the house, Clark poked his head into his mother’s studio/office. 

“Heading out, Ma, see you in a bit,” he told her. 

“See you, baby,” Ma said, briefly looking up from the stack of papers in front of her to blow him a kiss. “Clark, can you set a reminder in your phone? This time next year: ‘Tell Mama no more essay questions?’ Multiple choice or bust.”

“Consider it done!” he assured her and headed out to the Rosses.

It was a pretty night so he walked, rather than flew. The sun was just starting to set and the sky was a gorgeous shade of pink. Clark took a picture to send to Lois. He hadn’t sent her any Smallville photos since September and it wouldn’t be weird for him to have come down for the weekend during the busy season, so he figured he could let her know he was out of town without arousing too much suspicion about his frequent flyer status. 

When he bought their tickets for the flight Thanksgiving weekend, she was surprised the airline didn’t give him a discount and told him he needed to apply for one of their credit cards. 

“It's a great idea! You go home so much, you’d get so many points,” she assured him. It was a great idea, or would have been if every time Clark flew to Kansas, he flew commercial.

Of course, flying Air Clark was not the no-brainer it used to be. The last few times he made the trip home, he flew as Superman. It was like he told Lois on the phone; the Eyes had him paranoid. Now, granted, the Men in Black hadn’t turned up at his apartment, asking questions about his involvement with flat tires around Metropolis, but the panic he felt at the time was a stern reminder that he needed to be more careful.

Paranoia wasn’t the reason he chose to walk now. It was nice to be able to take it slow, feel a breeze on his face that wasn’t created by him and just enjoy the night - and the prospect of Aunt Becks’s meatloaf which was freaking excellent. She put ketchup and brown sugar in the glaze.

A whistle, followed by a distant shout of, “HEY SLUT!” made Clark turn his head. Pete was waving at him beside the tractor, which was so far out from the house, he was practically on Kent land. 

“Fan belt shit the bed,” Pete explained when Clark was in normal speaking distance. “I’m gonna head up to the house with you, then tow it back and fix it after dinner. Fucking love working after dark.”

He kicked the tractor for good measure, which was not a traditionally effective method for fixing a fan belt. All of this was an understandable reaction if Clark was in Metropolis and wasn’t going to fly out for the sake of turning a twenty-minute job into a five-minute favor...but since Clark was right there, Pete’s attitude was a little over the top - even for Pete.

“Why don’t I just take the tractor up to the house and you can fix it now?” Clark asked, seeing the obvious solution, but Pete shook his head before he’d gotten the full sentence out.

“Nope, I’m not passive-aggressively asking you to do work for me,” he said, going so far as to wag a finger in Clark’s face. “That’s not what this is - I’m telling you now that I’ll be taking off right after dinner, so that when I do leave, you don’t get it in your head that it’s ‘cause I’m mad at you. Rafi and Maureen are gonna be there with Maisie, she knows her Uncle Clark’s coming over and she’s gonna expect you to play Pretty Pretty Princess with her.”

Pete’s feet were planted and his shoulders were square, like he was taking a stand. Which was weird because there was absolutely nothing to stand up to, Clark was offering to do him a favor - which was barely a favor, he’d be taking the tractor to a destination that he was going to anyway. Why wouldn’t he take it now and spare Pete working in the dark?

“Or,” Clark suggested, like a sane and reasonable person. “I could take the tractor up to the house now and we could all play Pretty Pretty Princess after dinner.”

Pete looked up at him, eyes narrow, hands on his hips. He took a deep breath, like he was going to go off on some kind of long tangent, but merely said, “Nope.” Which immediately sent Clark on an anxiety spiral. The precise flavor of anxiety spiral that Pete told him, on multiple occasions, drove him up the goddamn wall. 

Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it…

“...are you mad at me?” Clark asked, unable to help himself. 

“Fuck’s sake, man!” Pete exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “No! I’m not mad at you! I just fucking said that!” 

And just like that, they were off to the races. The two of them usually held it together pretty well in mixed company, but left to their own devices they lost all trace of anything resembling maturity. It was just what happened when two people had been friends since they both were diapers.

“Then why don’t you want to play Pretty Pretty Princess with me?!” Clark demanded.

“I do want to play Pretty Pretty Princess with you!” Pete responded, dramatically increasing his volume. “I’m trying to be nice to you! Only now I’m yelling at you, so fuck it, sure, fly the fucking tractor in! I’ll just fix the fan belt now and we can play Pretty Pretty Princess after dinner! CHRIST!”

“WHY ARE WE YELLING?” Clark shouted back.   

“BECAUSE I LOVE YOU SO MUCH AND I WANT YOU TO HAVE A NICE NIGHT.”

“I LOVE YOU TOO I WAS HAVING A NICE NIGHT UNTIL YOU STARTED YELLING AT ME.”

If there were any birds in the area, the sound of two grown men crashing out over Pretty Pretty Princess caused them to flee more effectively than any scarecrow in the history of farming. 

Pete’s shoulders slumped and he shook his head. “Forget it, give me your shirt so you don’t get oil on it, at least.”

Forget it? His oldest friend freaked out on him (and vice versa) for no discernable reason and Clark was supposed to forget it? 

“What the actual fuck?” he asked, unbuttoning his shirt and handing it to Pete, turning it inside-out so, if it got dirty from Pete’s clothes, it’d be on the inside of the fabric. “What are you even talking about?”

“Nothing,” Pete said, taking Clark’s shirt and tucking it under his arm as he climbed up onto the tractor. “I was just thinking today that it’s nice you're coming over for dinner without…doing anything? Like, come over because we want you over, not because we expect shit from you.”

Clark picked up the tractor and started flying them back toward the house.

“I didn’t think y’all invited me because you expected shit from me,” he called up to Pete. “I just figured I can help, so I’ll help. Better than you driving around in the dark.”

“Yeah, that sounds real simple when you put it like that,” Pete called back, gripping the steering wheel for leverage. “But I know you, Chicken. I know you. I know your soul. Your over-thinking, panicky-ass soul. That's without mentioning your self-esteem issues - which we don't have time to get into before dinner.”

“I don’t panic,” Clark said, not even deigning to address the alleged issues with his self-esteem (his self-esteem was, fine, damn it). Then, realizing the absurdity of such a statement, in light of the Eye incident, amended, “I’m good in a crisis.”

“You are,” Pete acknowledged. “You’re good in a crisis - volcano erupts, airplane falls out of the sky, you’re the first guy I’ll call. But if someone forgets to say ‘Good morning,’ to you, or if I leave the table before dessert and you don't know why, suddenly it’s the end of the fucking world. And I was thinking…ah, fuck it, we’re already in it, might as well get it all out: I was thinking, I don’t want you getting it in your head that if you’re not doing Super shit all the time, it’s a problem.”

They reached the garage. Clark set the tractor down and Pete clambered off, hanging Clark’s shirt off a nail; Clark’s hands were covered in grease, so he made his way to the hose attached to the house to get the worst of it off. 

“That’s not where my head’s at, but thanks for…thinking of me, I guess,” Clark said, turning the spigot on. 

“You’re welcome,” Pete said, heading into the garage to grab tools and a replacement fan belt. Halfway there he paused and turned toward Clark with a conciliatory smile. “Thanks for moving the tractor.”

“You’re welcome,” Clark said, shaking the water off his hands, rather than wiping them on his good jeans. “Uh. Wanna hear about something dumb I did last week?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”  

While Pete changed the fan belt, Clark told him about the LordTech Douche and his tire. 

“That’s not dumb, that’s karma, baby,” Pete said. “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.”

“Yeah, except,” Clark continued, “this police drone flew by and could have caught the whole thing on camera - obviously, it didn’t because I’m, you know, here and not in some bunker miles underground - ”

“Good to know,” Pete interrupted with a grin. “If you ever miss dinner without calling, I’ll know you got kidnapped by the government and I’ll bust you out immediately - wait. Police drone?”

Clark nodded and explained the Eye in the Sky program, showing him the video Lois took on his phone the day they went to the park.

“That’s so fucked up - that legal?” Pete asked, peering around Clark's shoulder to watch the footage. “Like, if Sheriff Harris wanted to, he could just fly a drone over your parents’ place during a fire pit?”

“No, that’s private property,” Clark explained. He’d forgotten to text Lois the sky and overalls pictures, but sent them along with the caption: Wish you were here? (I do, but that goes without saying.)

“Okay, let’s say Emma-Lynn has the kids out in back of the library for storytime,’ Pete continued spitballing hypotheticals as he took his turn rinsing his hands at the hose. “And Sheriff Harris flies a drone over and there's like…little kids in the picture. Is that legal?”

“Library grounds are public property,” Clark reminded him, putting his shirt back on. “So yeah, kids or no kids. Only Sheriff Harris wouldn’t. Can't, I mean. Them cruisers are from, like, the ‘80s, I’m pretty sure the department doesn’t have a drone budget.”

“That's freaky, man,” Pete said, wiping his hands on his pants since they were already dirty. He side-eyed Clark. “Think they got video of Superman?”

“I don’t know,” Clark said honestly. “Probably? There’s like a million of 'em all over - I don’t really give a shit if they film Superman, everybody films Superman, but I have a big problem with them filming me.”

“Yeah, or you putting the cape on,” Pete said, shaking his head. “Ugh, I’m not trying to tell you what to do here, but sometimes I want you to come the fuck home. Write that novel you’ve been dreaming up since high school. No drones here and there's me.”

He threw his arms out and spun around, smiling knowingly when Clark checked his messages.

HOLY SHIT YES THAT SKY. THOSE OVERALLS. Save a horse, ride a cowboy 🤠 (Love the hat hair, btw, it makes the look.)

“Ah, but Metropolis has Lois,” Pete said teasingly. He put an arm around Clark’s shoulders and gave him a side hug. “Come on, man, I'll change up, then let’s go eat. We need fuel if we’re going to dominate at Pretty Pretty Princess.”

Fuel they got. Pete’s mom’s meatloaf was as delicious as ever, as were the Black Forest cupcakes she made for dessert, but they did not help them dominate at Pretty Pretty Princess. Out of three rounds, Maisie won once (sort of, Maureen was playing on her behalf, Maisie just wanted to wear the jewelry) and Pete’s youngest sister Missy won twice. Clark did okay, at one point having one earring, a necklace and a bracelet, but the game seemed to have a personal vendetta against Pete, gifting him with, at most, two earrings which Missy promptly stole from him.

Pete declared the game rigged, but before a proper investigation could be launched, they called it quits so Rafi and Maureen could pick up their son Frankie from Scouts. Cassie, who had been hovering on the outskirts of the living room, ran up to Clark the second after Maisie finished giving out good-night hugs and kisses. 

“Can you proofread my essay?” she asked, waving the papers in Clark’s face. 

Pete dove in front of him like Cassie was holding a bomb, rather than two pieces of ordinary printer paper.

“NO!” Pete shouted, sprawled across Clark’s lap. “We didn’t invite Chicken over to do work for us.”

Clark reached out a hand over Pete’s flailing form.

“I’m happy to do it,” he said and, truly, he was. 

Whether it was from his (alleged!) low self-esteem issues or not, helping people felt good. There was the big stuff, like the aforementioned planes and volcanoes, but his favorite thing to do was little stuff. Stuff anyone could do, but not everyone could do - like proofread a high schooler’s English essay. He liked doing the Superman stuff, but he loved doing the Clark stuff.

Of course, some jobs were more daunting than others. For Superman or Clark Kent. He barely glanced at the papers in his hands before Clark shot Cassie a Look (way more effective than the one he gave Pa with earlier, now that he was wearing his glasses).

“Girl, Gatsby has a T in it,” he said, flipping the pages over and skimming the contents, instantly suspicious when he read:

The car is a symbol of foreshadowing death. When Gadsby and Nick drive over the bridge, they see a car full of people dancing and drinking alcohol with cases of champagne in next to the driver. This is foreshadowing Daisy drunk driving Gadsby’s car into the auto mechanic’s wife and killing her.”

"Cassidy Anne! You didn’t read the book!” Clark accused her and Pete sat right up, laughing his ass off.

“Oooh, I’m telling Mom!” he got up and sped off to tattle, more like a seven-year-old than a twenty-seven-year-old. 

“I watched the movie!” Cassie shouted at him. She turned to Clark and shrugged, repeating, “I watched the movie. And you told me the car was symbolic!” 

Clark got up off the floor where he’d been sitting beside the coffee table and plopped down onto the Ross’s couch. This wasn't a completely lost cause - hey, at least she didn't use AI to write her essay. A bot would have gotten the spelling of 'Gatsby' right.

“Pete! Can you get me a Coke?” he called into the kitchen where Pete was gleefully informing his mother that Cassie asked to go to the library, not for the book version of Gatsby, but under false pretenses, to procure the movie. “And a pen? Please?”

Then Clark instructed Cassie to get her laptop; he'd for sure help her, but he wasn't about to write the essay for her.

He wound up staying an additional two hours at the Ross’s, not long enough for Cassidy to speed-read The Great Gatsby, but long enough for Clark to get her essay into a shape that wasn’t A-worthy, but at least wouldn’t result in Cass failing her midterm. To Clark's enormous surprise, he got a hug and a “Thanks, Chicken,” for his troubles from Cassie when he left. 

It being so late, he flew back to his parents; no need to change clothes, no need to over think it. There were no Eyes hovering above Smallville, Kansas.

Ma and Pa were still up when he came in. Ma was finished grading and she was lying on the couch, her head on a pillow in Pa’s lap, a half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table. She beckoned him over, scrunching up her legs so Clark had room to sit. 

“Come on in, baby, we’re gonna raise your daddy’s blood pressure,” she said, giggly from the wine. The television was paused on the title card for Farmer Wants a Wife.

“They’re all ranchers,” Pa groused, but his tone didn’t have any bite to it. “I don’t get why you like watching this show, it’s stupid. It’s The Bachelor in a Stetson.”

“I don’t like watching the show,” Ma corrected him, cheeks going pink from laughing. “I like watching you watch the show, you get so mad.”

Clark also thought it was hilarious watching his normally chill and composed dad descend into madness due to silly reality show shenanigans, (seriously, this was the guy who was completely unphased raising a kid who dropped out of the sky as a baby and developed extrahuman abilities in middle school, almost nothing bothered him) so he settled right on in with his parents.

They polished off the bottle and watched television way too late. Having Clark there seemed to produce a soothing effect on Pa because he mostly laughed rather than shouted at the contestants. 

It had been a great day, Clark reflected, as he tried to carve out a tiny sliver of mattress on which to sleep at the edge of his bed (his puppy Otis was sprawled out in the middle, leaving precious little space left over for Clark to occupy). In the morning, if the weather held out, there would be one heck of a sunrise, pretty enough to rival that night's sunset. He’d be sure to snap a picture and send it along to Lois. 

Smallville had a lot to recommend itself. Privacy. Beautiful views. His family and some of his best friends. But Metropolis had its good parts too. His job. Some of his other best friends. Amazing coffee shops. 

And Lois. Metropolis had Lois and was, therefore, the best city in the world.

Chapter Text

To her continuing frustration, Lois hadn’t uncovered anything new about the Eye program, nothing that made it stand out as particularly evil or a potential problem the citizens of Metropolis needed to know about. No human rights violations had been reported by anyone who came in contact with the drones. Even the app had good reviews, but they were so short and generic, ‘Wonderful app, no bugs!’ ‘I feel very safe with EyeApp!’ that she suspected they were AI-generated. Regardless, she hadn’t uncovered enough of a story for Perry to let her unleash the full power of the Planet's investigation team to tackle the issue and she was in a bit of a mood about it. Thank God for TV and Clark Cooks.

Tonight’s menu was school lunch-inspired and consisted of meatloaf melts (aka grilled cheese with a slab of meatloaf in the middle) and oven fries. Clark had been in Smallville over the weekend, helping his dad with the harvest (which, to Lois’s surprise, was a multi-month endeavor and not something that the Kents could bang out in a weekend) and he came back with leftovers. Lois still wasn't sure how Clark was temperature controlling the food he brought back from his parents' on the plane trip, but whatever it was, it worked. She'd eaten meat and dairy brought over from Smallville with nary a tummy rumble. The only thing that made her suspicious about this evening's offerings was the fact that Clark used mayo instead of butter to toast the sandwiches, but all her concerns proved to be unfounded. The result was golden fried perfection.

All Lois contributed was wine, which Clark wasn’t drinking because he didn’t like red. As she lounged on Clark’s couch, under Clark’s quilt, digesting food that Clark cooked, and waiting for Clark to bring her a post-dinner glass of wine so she didn't have to leave her blanket cocoon, Lois’s previous bad mood started to creep back in.

You’re taking advantage of him. 

It was a thought she had, on and off, since Clark officially took over hosting duties during the summer. When they were doing TV and Takeout at her place, they alternated paying for dinner, so Lois felt like it was a pretty equitable arrangement. With Clark providing the space and buying the groceries every week, Lois was starting to feel like a leech. Yeah, she was the one who was commuting to and from his apartment, but he was the one doing…literally everything else. She was basically an mildly entertaining throw pillow that he was feeding at this point.

Not that Clark gave any indication that this was a problem for him. He hadn’t made a peep about the price of eggs, didn’t glance over at the dishes in the sink and sigh dramatically about clean-up; he cheerfully puttered around, making sure she was taken care of and comfortable, without a trace of resentment. 

She should probably just let it ride and thank her lucky stars…only Lois wasn’t one to believe in luck. Clark was sweet, but he wasn't stupid. In time, he would catch on to the fact that he was the only one giving time and treasure toward maintaining their Thursday night hangouts. Lois knew his Midwestern manners would never allow him to ask her for money to put toward groceries, but surely he’d feel put-upon after a while. 

And rather than put on his big boy pants and have a frank conversation with her, he would start making excuses not to get together and all further Thursday hangs would sputter and die a slow, painful death. They would have stilted conversations in the break room about how it had been 'too long' since they spent time together and that they would need to schedule something 'soon.' And they never would. 

It didn’t have to be that way - not if they had an awkward conversation which would probably end with Clark refusing to outright take Lois's money, but agreeing not to question a random $20 that he found shoved in the couch cushions. They just needed to have the talk.

Luckily, Lois was great at initiating uncomfortable conversations. So, really, it was inevitable that she would ask Clark, right after he settled in and got comfy: “Do you think I’m taking advantage of you?”

There was a little strategy in the timing of the inquiry; she waited until she received her wine before she asked it. Lois took a sip while she waited for him to respond.

To her surprise, Clark laughed. Not hard, but the sound he made definitely qualified as a chortle, at least.

“Huh,” he said, cocking his head to the side. The maneuver made his curls flop on his forehead in a way that made him look extra handsome, which was not a useful thing to notice, when Lois was trying to have an uncomfortably honest conversation. “That’s so weird, you’re the second person to ask me that in, like, a week.”

Lois sat up a little straighter, splashing wine on his quilt - whoops. 

“Who was the first?” she asked, getting in the weeds a bit, but she was pretty sure the answer to her first question, ‘Yes, Lois, you’re taking advantage,’ especially seeing as it was Clark who got up to grab a paper towel and mop up the spill.

“Pete Ross,” he said, pressing the towel down on the wet spot where the quilt was draped over the arm of the couch. The wine spilled right over the square made from a t-shirt Clark had worn as part of the tech crew for the Smallville High School production of The Glass Menagerie. Lois hoped it would come out in the wash. “He didn’t say ‘taking advantage,’ but he got…a little, uh...jumpy about me helping him tow his tractor in when it broke down on Sunday.”

Lois wondered if Pete was the one who took that picture of Clark in a field that he texted her. It was one heck of a photo - Clark's hair was in his eyes, he was wearing overalls, which Lois never considered a particularly sexy garment, but his shirtsleeves were rolled up and his beefy forearms were on full display and he was kinda dirty…she refrained from making it her lock screen, but it was downloaded. Maybe he could be her wallpaper.

“Then he practically tackled me,” Clark continued, tossing the paper towel on the coffee table and sitting back down. “To keep me from helping Cassie fix her Honors English homework - which needed all the help it can get, it was tragic before I gave it the red pen treatment. I don't know how that girl tricked the guidance department into letting her take that class, Brit Lit next semester might actually kill her.”

“What was his issue?” Lois asked, though she had a feeling she already knew the answer to that. 

It was awkward to sit around while someone did literally everything for you. Like, did Lois actively want to cook dinner, take care of clean-up, and walk the ten feet to the kitchen counter to get her own wine? No, of course not, but she recognized that it wasn’t fair for Clark to do it instead.

Clark rolled his eyes and took a sip of his own after-dinner beverage - blueberry White Claw because his palette for alcohol was basically that of a sixteen-year-old. 

“Pete has it in his head that I’ve got ‘self-esteem issues,’” he said, using his free left hand to provide the air quotes. “He's worried that I don’t think people…want me around unless I’m doing something for them. Which. Uh. Isn’t…isn’t true.”

Oh yeah, the hesitancy in his voice sounded really convincing. In the manner of a particularly casual therapist, who did not maintain ethical physical or emotional boundaries with their clients, Lois sat up on her knees and made intense eye contact with Clark over the rim of her wine glass.

“Tell me about these self-esteem issues,” she encouraged him.

“I don’t have self-esteem issues!” Clark insisted, throwing his head back and addressing the ceiling. “I just…like taking care of my people. I like helping people out generally. It’s not that deep.”

He took a long draught of his White Claw, eyebrows drawn down moodily, suggesting to Lois that it was, in fact, that deep.

“I don’t know,” Clark added, flicking the top of the can back and forth idly. “I know Pete means well and all that, but sometimes it feels like he knows me too well?”

The tab fell into his drink and Clark cursed quietly.

“Remember back in Smallville," he went on, tilting the can this way and that, trying to coax the tab to the surface so he could fish it out; the size of his hands and the opening of the can were probably going to make that impossible, but it was cute that he was trying. "When we were driving and you said you felt like you got the…beta version of me out here? Or something like that.”

Lois distinctly recalled saying that Smallville Clark was like Clark 2.0. That he was a 2,000 piece puzzle, whereas, in Metropolis, she never noticed more than 500 pieces. 

“Yeah, I felt like I got to know you better when I saw you in your natural habitat,” she confirmed. Then raised an eyebrow and asked, “You think that’s a bad thing?”

“No!” Clark exclaimed at once. “Not at all, but…like, you got to know…current me better. When we were back home, I was definitely more myself - which is good! I want you to - to know me. But the guy you know still isn’t the guy…Pete knows. Because you’re getting…what’d you say? Clark 2.0 And he’s got a lifetime of just plain Clark, the good, the bad, and the ugly - not even the beta version, the alpha version. Clark-DOS.”

Lois’s expression must have conveyed her lack of understanding because Clark looked frustrated and continued (though that might have been his losing battle against the can).

“This is coming out wrong,” he sighed. “It’s more like…I think when you’ve been friends with someone your whole life they get stuck on who you were when you were younger. And assume that’s who you are forever. So, maybe that’s why he has this idea of me, like, in his head I’m still High School Clark.” 

“Did High School Clark have serious self-esteem issues?” Lois asked, trying to understand where he was coming from. She recalled Clark saying his Junior Year was pretty rough, but everyone went through a shitty patch during adolescence. Before he could actually reply, she went on, “I mean, if you did, clearly you’re over it or you should be over it - the beta test was a success! You know you’re pretty fucking great, right? You feed me, you don’t complain about doing dishes, you’re built as fuck, you’re smart, you read me poetry to fall asleep after I was massively a bitch to you. You’re kind of...unbelievable. Like, were you made in a lab or something?”

Oh, shit.

At the ‘lab’ comment, Clark’s face fell slightly and his ears colored slightly pink. A chill of mortification went down Lois’s spine and she wracked her brain trying to think of a way to make what she said sound less awful.

In a moment of completely unprecedented idiocy, Lois straight-up forgot that Clark was adopted. In her weak-ass defense, the Kents meshed so well together as a family unit that it was hard to remember he wasn’t their kid from the word go. Even though, as Clark pointed out the first time she met them, he clearly wasn't related to his parents.

That wasn’t the only thing he told her, which was why the ‘lab’ comment was such an unfathomably crappy thing to say. Clark didn’t actually know who his biological family was. Based on what he told her (dropped off in a field in the dead of night in the wintertime), Lois concocted her own imaginary scenario. That his biological parents were young and scared, not thinking straight to the point where they left an infant all alone on a dark, cold night, as they made their way out of town to start their lives fresh without their kid (so, basically the plot of ‘Jack & Diane’). 

Honestly, that fact alone would be enough to give anyone self-esteem issues. 

Clark recovered from her foot-in-mouth moment before Lois did and gave her a smile as his ears returned to a normal color.

“Uh, to answer your first question,” he said, kindly ignoring everything else that had come out of her mouth. “No, you’re not taking advantage of me, and neither is Pete and neither is Cassie or anybody else. I like cooking, I don’t mind washing dishes and…yeah. Acts of service is my love language, I guess. It makes me happy. And. Um.”

Clark glanced at her almost shyly out of the corner of his eye. 

“It’s not like I’d do TV and Clark Cooks for…y’know. Anybody,” he offered, dimples on display. “You being here makes me happy. You specifically.”

Fuck. Maybe he was made in a lab. If a mad scientist was trying to formulate The Best Guy in the World, well then give them a Nobel because they cracked the code.

“Even though I say awful things to you?” Lois asked, cringing internally at her own words. Which person on this couch was the one with the self-esteem problems, again?

“You’re good,” Clark assured her, even though Lois was many things...good not being foremost among them. He gave up on finding the tab and put his seltzer down on the coffee table, gesturing that she should come closer. 

Lois really wanted to believe him, that  she - that they - were good and bygones were bygones and that having her there made him happy. That, as he once memorably told her, ‘your presence is present enough.’ She to press close against him, drink her wine, and pretend she hadn’t been a completely insensitive jackass a minute ago, but her brain wouldn't let her.

Because how could any of that possibly be true?

“Am I?” Lois asked, wrinkling her nose, heartbeat increasing because she had pretty solidly fucked up back there and, yeah, Clark was being nice and ignoring it, but surely inside he was feeling upset with her and once she was gone he’d probably dwell on it and decided he didn’t want to keep cooking for her if she was going to continue being mean to him and then she’d get an awkward friendship break-up text. The upshot being that she had to salvage this situation. “If we're talking, like, on a friendship scale I'm pretty sure I’m mediocre - ”

“Nope,” Clark interrupted, shaking his head. He held his arms out toward her. “Come here, darlin’.”

Clark probably meant ‘sit by my side as you usually do.’ Because, (in the name of uncomfortable honesty!), Lois knew that naked insecurity was not cute, to put it mildly.

But the thing was...Clark had both arms outstretched. And in order for both of his arms to reach her comfortably, there was really only one place Lois could go. Logistically.

She deposited herself into his lap and, since Clark’s eyes didn’t widen with shock behind his glasses and he didn’t give a little jolt of surprise when she sat down, she figured that was exactly where he wanted her to be.

Clark wrapped her up in his arms, curling around her so he could rest his cheek on the top of her head.

“You’re not mediocre," he said reassuringly. "You don’t suck. You’re not dumb - none of that stuff you said on the phone the other night. You’re Lois Freaking Lane. You’re fucking incredible. I’ll tell you that a million times ‘til you believe me.”

Lois’s head was pressed against Clark’s chest and she could hear his heart pumping away, a steady, reassuring thump-thump. Not too slow or too fast, which meant he was telling the truth - she was pretty sure this was how lie detectors worked. 

“You are scarily insightful - that’s a compliment,” Clark continued, his voice doing that ASMR thing again. Only now it was better than on the phone because she could feel it rumbling in his chest. “You’re smart. You’re brave. You’re hilarious - "

“Ah, I get it,” Lois interrupted him knowingly, perpetually uncomfortable with sincerity, needing to turn it into a joke before she realized she was the joke. “You love me for my mind.”

She tilted her chin up to smile up at Clark and found him looking at her…well. Looking at her. With a not-entirely-platonic gleam in his eyes.

“Not just that,” he said with a little smirking half-smile that sent her. 

His heartrate might have been slow and steady, but hers sure as hell wasn’t. How could it be? When he was looking at her like that, like she was the best thing in the world? No one looked at her like that. No one said the kind of stuff to her that Clark said, or if they said something similar, they never meant it. 

“You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen,” Clark said, raising a hand to her face, to make a catalogue of her features, ghosting his fingertips over her cheek. The feel of his hands on her skin was always a pleasant surprise; they weren't calloused at all and he touched her so gently, it drove her a little crazy. “You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. And your lips are…”

He trailed off and swallowed hard. Their faces were really close together. If Clark just lowered his head a little bit, they’d be firmly in kissing distance. But Clark was a Sensitive New Age Old Fashioned Loverboy and he wouldn’t. So rather than expecting Clark to bridge the gap between them of his own volition. Lois grabbed the front of his shirt and tugged.  

He didn’t lower his head; he lifted her up. And they were kissing.

Maybe it was a chemical thing, but the second her mouth was on Clark’s, the noise in Lois’s head went away. The worrying over taking advantage of his generosity, wondering whether she was too mean to him, her frustration over the Eye issue was gone. All she could think was…

Wow.

Clark held her so easily, so securely, it was like she was floating. His arms around her were solid, but his lips were soft, soft and he kissed with the most perfect amount of tenderness, combined with just enough force that she knew he meant it. The fact that his mouth tasted like blueberries was a sweet little bonus.

Apparently it was pretty good on his end too; when Lois scraped her teeth against his bottom lip, Clark tightened his grip on her slightly and quietly moaned, “Fuck.”

That little word, either of exclamation or an invitation, snapped Lois back to reality. She put her hands on his shoulders and the second she pulled back, Clark did too - only he was still holding her full body weight and his arms were steady, with nary a tremble, which Lois had enough presence of mind to find distantly impressive while some of her anxieties came to her in a rush.

Slow it down, Lane. You’re never going to get everything you want. Use your brain. Don’t mess this up. 

“Okay, listen,” she said, speaking very urgently and very fast. Clark’s pupils were blown out and despite the fact that his irises were only a tiny rim around the black, she was sure she’d never seen them look more blue. “Here’s the thing - I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while and I would like to continue kissing you, but I think we mostly have to leave it there because I really - really value our friendship and I don’t want the With Benefits part to…to…”

‘Really value our friendship?’ Could you sound any more like the most boring Hallmark card on the Clearance rack? 

There was no way he’d go for it. Clark might be The Best Guy in the World, but he was still a guy. Was this not the definition of game-playing? ‘I’ll give you a smooch, but let’s be friends!’ He should probably tell her to make up her mind or take a hike.

He did neither. He kept holding her. 

“I get it,” Clark nodded, sounding a little breathless. “I - I - I - ”

Clark’s arms might not have been tired from holding her, but apparently making out made his brain short-circuit. The way he held her was more in the vein of a bridal carry than anything and while Lois was incredibly tempted to shift in his arms and get her legs around his waist, doing so would surely undo her ‘leave it there’ declaration.

Lois ran her hands through his hair. The curls were really soft. Like his lips. Like his hands.

Clark’s left hand was lightly gripping her thigh, his thumb trailing up and down over the fabric of her leggings, strong and big and warm. His tongue darted out and wet his lips. He was looking into her eyes really intently, a furrow appearing between his brows. His hold on Lois loosened, but he didn’t let go. She didn't quite know what he was thinking and that made her nervous.

“Is Friends That Kiss a thing?” Lois asked him, sounding more than a little desperate. She needed it to be a thing. “I feel like it could be a new relationship category. Very Gen Z of us.”

“We can make it a thing,” Clark declared, nodding with firm conviction. “Like I said, I get it, I don’t wanna…I don’t wanna rush things. I’m a slow-mover in general and…I really want - I really want us to take our time. If that’s okay with you.” 

It was more than okay with her. This was completely uncharted territory with Lois. As a rule, she never caught feelings with her hookups. This kind of thing - from friends, to friends who kiss to…more-than-friends was nothing she’d ever tried. Because there were feelings involved. Because she could get hurt. Clark could get hurt. The bigger the feelings, the more there was to ruin. Not to mention the practical stuff, working together, the fact that she had a non-refundable flight to Kansas booked for November. They really needed to be able to pump the breaks and put the whole thing in reverse if it wasn’t working out…

But it felt so right in the circle of his arms, kissing him felt so…so perfect. And that in itself was bizarre because Lois didn’t believe in perfection. She didn’t believe in fairy tales.

Leave it to her to fall for a Disney Princess. 

Lois curled her fingers in the hair at the back of Clark’s head. She tightened her grip. His mouth fell against hers. And he didn’t put her down until it was time for her to catch the last bus.

It was a tribute to the wonder that was the human body that Lois’s jelly-like legs got her to the bus stop. Clark walked her, as usual and, despite the fact that he’d been holding her all night, picked her right up off her feet to give her one hell of a hug. 

He’s so strong, Lois thought, a little dizzily as the bus pulled up and Clark set her down. He stayed by the bus stop and waved as Lois tapped her card and the bus pulled away. All that hay baling is no joke.

Lorraine, the night driver, smiled as Lois waved back and murmured something to herself that might have been, “Finally,” but Lois didn’t have it in her to notice. Clark remained at the bus stop until the bus turned the corner, waving until they were out of sight. Like a goober.

Still floating on a cloud of dopamine and Clark, Lois sat heavily on a molded plastic seat, checking her phone for the first time since she and Clark sat down to eat their meatloaf grilled cheese - an aphrodisiac! Who knew? 

There was one text from her dad, delivered an hour before:

Just got a notification from the airline that flights into and out of Metropolis may be cancelled or delayed due to inclement weather. The forecast is predicting one monster of a storm. I’m going to try to reschedule my flight for the day after, but we might have to raincheck dinner. Stay safe.

Chapter Text

He kissed Lois Lane. He kissed Lois Lane. He kissed Lois Lane!

Clark couldn’t stop smiling. Like, big cheesy grin all the way home. He may have clasped a hand over his mouth to stifle the giggles that threatened to break free once he was alone in his apartment again. 

“I kissed Lois Lane,” he informed the photo of Lana from high school that stuck up on the fridge. 

“I kissed Lois Lane,” he told the picture of Otis back when he was genuinely a puppy and not just a perpetual baby boy in Clark's heart, taken the day of his adoption from the shelter. 

Zeroing in on the picture of himself and Pete from Kindergarten graduation, Clark addressed his younger self, “Hey little buddy, guess what? One day you - yes, you! Will kiss Lois Lane!”

Was he being ridiculous? Oh, hell yeah. But he kissed Lois Lane, so a certain level of giddy absurdity was not merely expected, the occasion demanded it.

Kissing her was everything he wanted it to be and nothing like he expected. No one could move Clark unless he wanted to be moved, but he did his best impression of putty in her hands and when she tangled her fingers into her hair and pulled.  It didn’t hurt, but he felt it. Was still feeling it. Damn.  

And then - then, when he was coming down off the kissing high and internally scrambling, thinking that he’d have to tell her now, before things went any further, Lois made it clear that she was not interested in things going any further. Which brought him some time before he had to tell her about Whoosh once and for all.

Whoosh being was the catch-all term his friends used whenever they made veiled references to the Superman thing - and by “friends,” Clark really meant Pete and Lana. They were the only two people (other than his parents) who he’d confided in about his abilities. Their reactions were. Um. Mixed.

Pete found out way back in 7th grade. That was the first time Clark realized something was seriously wrong with him: things stopped feeling heavy. Or, rather, that was his easy explanation for his strength. Clark could tell the difference in weight between, say, a cup of coffee, and a 737 and he could feel that the 737 was heavier - like, much heaver - but he could still carry both of them. 

Pete was remarkably cool with this revelation. Honestly, Pete was the person who was the most chill about his abilities, apart from Ma and Pa. Clark recalled Pete hoping that there was something in the water that caused Clark’s emerging powers to manifest, and sincerely wished that, whatever factory run-off Clark ingested, found its way into his system too.

Lana found out later, the summer before Junior Year, when it became apparent to Clark and everyone around him that things were getting worse, not stabilizing. He referred to this time in his life (not fondly) as Hell Summer. Clark didn’t leave the property for almost three months, absolutely convinced that if anyone from town got a good look at him they’d call the government who would of course come and raid the farm, finding the little spaceship he showed up in. Then his parents would be thrown into federal prison and Clark would be shipped off to Area 51 to get dissected if they could find a scalpel sharp enough to actually cut him.

That particular worst case scenario didn’t happen, but Lana did freak out when she saw him a few days before school started. Lots of yelling and accusing him of trying to change himself to fit a cultural ideal of masculinity she thought he was too smart to subscribe to. She only stopped being mad at him when she saw him fly and realized that he wasn’t on steroids, he was just a freak of nature. That was way more forgivable for Lana than being a willing participant in patriarchal gender norms around physical appearance. 

Clark had no idea where Lois would fall on the spectrum, but the thing that worried Clark the most about telling her was the impact that her knowledge of his abilities, (and, subsequently, identity as Superman), would have on his…his real life. 

Real life? Are you serious right now? Like all the people Superman's saved aren't real? Get fucked, Clark.

Yeah, okay, maybe Mama had a point about dissociating if he considered his actions as Superman different from his life as Clark Kent. But he wanted both and he couldn’t have both if Lois found out and felt that she had an ethical responsibility to report the facts about Superman - all the facts - to the public.

Also it was...kind of nice that she didn’t know. It harkened back to what he said before, about Pete knowing him maybe too well, having this idea of who Clark was in his head that was largely informed by who Clark had been when he was a kid - a ball of anxiety who was convinced he was one screw-up away from being kidnapped by government officials, but was more afraid that one day his family and friends would decide he was too much, too weird, too scary and just…give up on him. No wonder Pete was jumpy about Clark feeling like he needed to be helpful to be liked; for a long time, that was true.

But it wasn’t anymore! Clark wasn’t that sixteen-year-old hiding in his room, scared of how the world would perceive him, certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that it would reject him. He had control over his abilities, he was using them to help people as best he could, and he was doing all that while juggling his career,  his social life, and now a romantic life! Sort of!

A friend he kissed was not, after all, a girlfriend. Clark had never been in a serious relationship before, with a person of any gender. He wasn’t kidding when he told Lois he was a slow mover - when it came to romantic relationships, his pace could be best described as glacial. He’d dated around a bit, he had, you know, experiences. Like his mother before him, Clark wasn’t a huge fan of labeling attraction, he found beauty and desirability in many different kinds of people. But in order to really get there physically, he wanted to get there emotionally and that could be difficult. Definitely in college when he was figuring himself out. Maybe moreso Metropolis, where he was trying really hard not to stick out, either as a genetic freak or as a stereotypical redneck. Lois was right: she'd only really started to get to know him after he took her to Smallville. It hadn't been a conscious choice on his part, but it was still true. 

The way he felt about Lois was different to the way he’d felt about people he’d dated in the past. There was her physical beauty, of course, (he’d never seen eyes like hers in his life and he was sure they were a Lois Lane original). She looked like an old-timey movie star with her big eyes and the wicked twist her mouth got when she smiled. And although she was tiny, she emanated a kind of knock-your-socks off energy that he found irresistible. She was a powerhouse of intellect, of wit, possessing a boldness that Clark admired and occasionally feared. Complicating this was the fact that she got down on herself a lot. Lois's habit of negative self-talk was a trait he'd only discovered when she came home with him over the summer. They'd both gotten to know each other better on that trip and, for Clark, it made him want her that much more. Now he knew the feeling was mutual.

The immovable object met the unstoppable force. And it turned out they were really good at kissing each other. Maybe they could coast on that, for a little bit. And Clark could tackle Whoosh later. That wasn’t…a bad thing. Was it?

Am I trying to get Lois to understand me before I finally let her in? Or does she understand me just fine and I'm stalling because I'm a selfish piece of shit? Or worse than selfish. Just a straight-up coward.

Lois was the one who said he was a puzzle she wanted to solve. To do so, she had to see all the pieces and, yes, his abilities were a piece, sure, but one of many. Maybe...maybe it wasn’t that bad to leave it in the box for a while. 

That was what Clark told himself when he went to bed that night, taking his quilt with him, unwashed, despite the wine stain. It smelled like Lois and he hugged it close, falling asleep with his face buried in it...until a mudslide in Kentucky had him out and about at two a.m. Friday’s morning routine did not involve cold brew and a breakfast burrito, but hastily dressing in an alley, hoping no one looked too closely at the dirt under his fingernails. 

For her part, Lois was nearly as good at compartmentalizing as Clark was because when he saw her at work the next day, she acted the way she did every day She didn’t say good-morning when he came in, since Clark arrived a little late and Lois already had her nose to the grindstone. She the first time she spoke directly to him was when she asked if he wanted to go on a coffee run. On said coffee run, she did not make any allusions to The Kissing, but instead confided that she was kind of glad they’d need to batten down the hatches for a storm over the weekend, since that bought her a few days to come up with things to talk about so her belated birthday dinner with her dad didn’t devolve into silence before their apps were served. 

In short, she was really emphasizing the Friends part of Friends who Kiss, and Clark was happy to follow her lead and confine his conversation to the weather - not hard when there was a Category 3 Hurricane making its way to Metropolis. Meteorologists were confident it would be downgraded to a tropical storm before it made landfall, which still meant the city needed to brace for a whooper…but, as far as Clark could see, City Hall wasn’t interested in doing much of anything.   

Way back at the beginning of hurricane season, the Planet ran an article about Metropolis’s storm-readiness. While there was much to praise in the city about their infrastructure, the maintenance of their sea wall and hurricane barrier, Planet reporters did uncover some areas of lack. 

Clark wasn’t involved in the production of the article, but he was more than a little surprised by what he read. A child of Tornado Alley, he was used to a community going all-in on storm preparedness, with everything from phone trees to check on neighbors who lived alone, to the wailing of the tornado siren, a sound which seemed specifically designed as an assault on the central nervous system. 

The City of Tomorrow’s emergency management team was almost comically unprepared when it came to storms. It was like the mayor’s office assumed the residents could handle it on their own. In a world of digital connectivity, residents were expected to rely on their weather apps and make their plans accordingly.

Metropolis was coastal, so they didn’t have to worry about twisters. Metropolis was urban, so they didn’t have to worry about torn-up fields and thousands of dollars of crop being ruined. Metropolis was modern, so most of its citizenry weren’t all that worried about property damage. The old parts of the city were built on high ground, and the new parts were constructed for maximum water drainage, the skyscrapers purpose built to put up with gale force winds. The fiberglass used in the city’s parking garages meant that (for those who could afford the monthly fees), even their vehicles were safe from storm damage.

But not everyone in Metropolis was lucky enough to live in the historic district or a modern high-rise. That was the main focus of the Planet’s article; like most large cities, Metropolis had a significant houseless population and recent changes to the city’s infrastructure was giving them fewer places to go generally, never mind during a dangerous storm. 

The benches in the public parks had been ‘upgraded’ with additional arm rests added, arguably for the comfort of the sitter, but it was notable that people could only sit up on those new benches, not lie down. Some of the monuments and memorials around town had been modified with gates and grates added to facades that were open, but had an awning or an archway that might have provided cover. Statue bases were 'beautified' with the addition of iron fluting around the edges of the steps. 

It was decorative, the mayor’s office said. A safeguard against wear and tear. The most they’d admit to was wanting to deter skateboarders from using these monuments as ramps, rather than sticking to the city’s skate parks. 

All that was to say, at ten o’clock on the night of the storm, (nearly three hours after an emergency Shelter in Place order was finally declared for the city), Superman was out in the middle of the chaos, trying to rush members of the city’s unhoused population to safety.

Metropolis’s shelters earned national accolades for the quality of their safety and services, but they closed their doors promptly at 6:30PM whether there were beds available or not. If you weren’t in, you were out. For some folks, city-sponsored shelters were never an option, regardless of the time of day.

Pets were not permitted inside and plenty of people were unwilling to leave their animals behind. Bags were seized and searched on entry; on the one hand, it made sense to keep weapons out and prevent illicit substances from being sold or exchanged…but on the other hand, when all you had in the world was taken from you, (with no guarantee you’d get your stuff back), for people who had practically nothing, they didn’t want to risk losing what was theirs.

And...well, no shelter system was perfect. One experience of violence - or the worry about experiencing violence - was enough to make people so leery of the entire enterprise that they preferred to take their chances in the rain. 

If it was just rain, the city's first responders could have handled things on their own, but the winds were horrific. Gusts clocked in at over 60 miles per hour, ripping tents out of the ground and turning metal carts into dangerous projectiles. Even the city’s landscaping was a potential hazard; much of Metropolis’s power grid was underground, but anything out on the street, from cars to pedestrians, were at risk of being hit by falling tree limbs.  

For many, once they realized the severity of the threat, it was too late to do anything - or, it would have been, if not for Superman. 

Clark almost left the cape behind, worried that it might get too wet and become more of a hindrance than a help, but he was glad he wore the full suit when he went out. Unclipped from his shoulders, the cape could be used to carry people, animals, and objects that he ferried people from place to place. There were some smaller community centers and houses of worship that opened their doors as emergency shelters. Still, there were plenty of people who refused to go indoors at all.

Clark wasn’t a saint; as the night drew on and the storm got worse, there was a part of him that was sorely tempted to just tuck people under his arms and fly them to safety, regardless of their feelings about it. But he wasn’t going to put his hands on someone and physically take them to a place they didn’t want to go. He also wasn’t about to argue with people who’d been living on streets of Metropolis for years, knew what their options were when it came to seeking shelter indoors, and didn’t want to take them. 

The public library came to him in a belated flash - honestly, he should have thought of it immediately. The building was one of the oldest remaining in Metropolis, constructed in the 1920s out of marble. The design was Classical Revival, which meant there was a huge covered stone porch at the front entrance - up a series of stairs. It could accommodate dozens of people, well out of the way of flood waters and, since Clark was a regular library user, he knew they hadn’t installed anything in the entranceway that would prevent people from sitting or lying down. 

He suggested it as a Hail Mary and, to his tremendous relief, the last of the Marina Encampment holdouts agreed to go there. Not a moment too soon; the storm was rapidly getting worse, not better, and hail was in the forecast.

It was grueling work. Clark wasn’t physically tired, but it was overwhelming, talking to people, finding out what they would accept as their options, then flying around the city, trying to find the best accommodations he could while being pelted with rain, wind, and the occasional clap of thunder and burst of lightning. 

It wasn’t an easy night for the city’s traditional first responders either; Clark could hear sirens over and over, especially in the old part of town that was operating off the old grid. Tuning into radio alerts let him know a not insignificant portion of the city was without power; including Lois’s neighborhood.

Trees were coming down everywhere (so much for award-winning landscaping). Streets that were postcard-ready in good weather were now littered with fallen limbs, the detritus from which were getting in the gutters, preventing drainage, and causing street flooding. Cars were stalled in the middle of major roadways and the noise of all that, combined with the sounds of the rain and wind and the thunder were acting on his nerves like a tornado siren. Still, Clark slicked his hair out of his eyes, wrung out the cape, and took to the sky over Metropolis, getting stalled cars off the street, removing downed power lines from the water, before he turned his attention to the trees. 

A fair few of the older trees, in the parts of the city with above-ground power lines, were at the highest risk of causing major outages and road blockages. They were the kind of old trees that looked pretty, still got their leaves with the seasons, but were half-dead inside. Many of their branches were bent, but not completely broken yet, so he made those his priority.

Pretty, sure...pretty dangerous, was how Pa would have categorized many of the trees lining the sidewalks of Metropolis if he took a gander at them. Their exterior aesthetics were on point, but inside the trees were unhealthy. Apologies to the National Arbor Day Foundation, but Clark turned himself into a one-man felling crew, using his heat vision to taking down limbs and, in some cases, cutting down the whole tree when he looked inside and saw nothing but rot.

A new sound penetrated the noise from the storm and the sound of Clark’s heavy vision sizzling in the rain. At first he thought it was chopper blades, until Clark realized that they were too close.

Looking around, he saw half a dozen LuthorCorp drones in the sky surrounding him. The fact that the little camera drones were operating in a storm like this was nuts , but he could see that this was a situation where they might be beneficial, if they could withstand the rain and wind. They could real-time on power outages, communicated electrical fires or stranded cars to the fire department, alert EMTs to people in distress in their vehicles -

Pop. Pop. Pop.

The sound and sensation confused him. When Clark felt the impact of something small and round hitting his back, he assumed the hail had arrived. But his ears heard gunshots.  

Who the fuck is shooting guns in this kind of weather?

Clark turned and what he saw stopped him in his tracks. It was an Eye. There was a black arm extended from the underside of the drone body. And at the end of that arm was a pistol barrel.

Pop. Pop. Pop. 

It fired off three rounds. Right at his heart. All the while the Eye’s camera stared unblinkingly at him, capturing the entire thing in 4k.

Clark felt the sensation of the impact. The bullets flattened and fell to the ground after they made contact with his chest. The fabric of the suit was briefly hot where the bullets hit, but there were no tears, no discernable marks in the wet fabric. Despite all that, he panicked.

Clark knew his skin was tough, but he’d never been shot at before. Two things could be true at the same time: Superman knew bullets couldn’t hurt him and being shot scared the shit out of Clark. The sound, the impact made him forget all of his dad’s advice about firearms. 

Never shoot scared.

Without thinking, Clark fucking blasted the thing, red-hot beams shooting out of his eyes right into the bull’s eye of the camera in the middle of the drone’s body. 

He realized what he’d done too late - he dove after the Eye to catch it before it hit the ground, but it didn't matter. The drone had been reduced to a twisted hunk of plastic and metal, the camera nothing more than a crater.

“Shit,” he muttered, like he could will it to reform itself through sheer willpower. “Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

The noise got worse. Mixed in with the howling wind, the wailing sirens, and the pounding rain was the entire city, riding out the storm.

“Let’s read Thundercake, sweetie, you’ll feel better.”

“Baba, where are the batteries?”

“Don’t open the fridge, the food will spoil!”

“We’re good, I charged the portable DVD player, we can watch movies until the power comes back!”

The one ability of his that still gave him trouble was his hearing. When Clark was stressed or tired, he had trouble concentrating on what was going on around him. The world kaleidoscoped out, vast, and overwhelming and way, way too big. 

I got shot. I got shot. I got shot. 

The drone fell from Clark’s fingers, which were numb, but not with cold. He wasn’t cold, he could feel cold, he didn’t get cold. He just couldn’t feel his hands. 

The Eyes gathered thick around him. Their bodies were opening and he could swear he saw more barrels descending -

PopPopPopPopPopPopPopPop.

Clark found himself in the alleyway next to Lois’s building without being sure how he got there. Had he flown? Had he run? His heart was beating so fast he could swear it was going to explode and the neck of the suit felt like it was strangling him. It was hard to get air in, he was light-headed and dizzy, like he couldn’t breathe, like he was going to pass out - why couldn’t he feel his goddamn hands?

With clumsy fingers, Clark started taking off the suit, clawing at the clips at his shoulders. The cape fell to his feet in a heap. He peeled it off his arms and chest, feeling for a mark or tenderness, any sign of what happened beyond his racing pulse and the sensation of blood pounding in his ears.

There was nothing. He should have known there wouldn’t be. So why did he feel like he was fucking dying?

Vertigo hit and Clark slid to the ground. A lightning strike illuminated the alley, but Clark wasn’t looking at the stone wall of the next building, his eyes focused on what was inside, to the basement where a small pool of water was building up by the boiler. 

Someone should call the super, Clark thought deliriously, as he was assailed with the voices of the neighborhood. 

“Moooooooooooom, when’s the power coming back on?”

“Can anyone use their data to get online?”

“Do you think they'll cancel school on Monday?”

“9-1-1. What is your emergency?” 

Clark realized he needed to pack it in for the night. His ears were letting everything in, his vision was blurring, and he was having trouble differentiating between what was directly in front of him and what wasn’t. He hadn’t felt this out of control since high school and he knew he was useless - potentially dangerous - in this state. He needed to get inside and calm the hell down. But he couldn’t move. 

“Fuck!” 

Lois. Clark tilted his chin up and saw through the bottom two storeys of her building. She was in her kitchen, digging through drawers, presumably looking for candles or flashlights. The way she was holding her body, leaning on her right leg, it was clear she’d stubbed her toe. 

Clark wasn’t thinking straight. He was barely thinking. All he knew was that he wanted to get home and the closest thing he had to that was Lois. 

He got himself together enough to change clothes and get into her building, which was itself a minor miracle. His whole body was shaking and his mind was whirling. The noise from the city got loud and louder, drowning out the voice of his common sense, which was shouting at him to go to his apartment. To get out of there before she saw him. There was no reason for him to be on her side of town in the storm, she’d have questions he couldn’t answer. He was going to ruin everything. He was going to scare her -  

I got shot. An Eye shot me. There were more. Those things were trying to kill me.

Clark’s vision fluctuated between that of his own hand knocking on the door and the entryway of Lois’s apartment. He could see her anti-theft system (read: a baseball bat), her raincoat hanging from a hook next to her keys, the shoes she’d kicked off when she came home from work in the entryway. Lois responded to the knocking and from the looks of it, she successfully located a flashlight. It cast her face in shadows and the light shone directly in Clark's eyes...wait, no she was behind the door. Just because he could see the light didn't mean he should be seeing the light.

I want to go home. I need to go home. 

He wasn’t sure whether Lois was still inside her apartment or directly in front of him until he saw her eyes go huge as she tilted her head back to take him in, blinking like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“Clark!” she exclaimed when she saw him. Then, again, quiet and concerned when she actually looked at him. “Clark?” 

In a voice that sounded small and far-away and echoey in his ears, one tiny sound amidst the tidal wave of noise that was Metropolis, he asked, “Can I come in?”

Chapter Text

When Lois heard the knock on the door, she assumed it was the building manager, coming to let her know the power was out (fucking duh). The last thing she expected to see, when she looked through the peephole, was a huge chest wearing a worn-out Raiders of the Lost Ark t-shirt spamming her entire field of vision. There was only one person that could possibly be and Lois yanked the door open, despite having no idea why Clark was in her building in the middle of a downpour of Biblical proportions.

As usual, Lois had questions. What was not usual for her was said questions flying out of her brain once she got a good look at him. Clark looked wrecked. And his voice when he spoke…she’d never heard Clark sound like that. He sounded terrified.

“Oh my God, yes, come in, are you crazy?” she said, grabbing him by the wrist and hauling him over her threshold, shutting the door behind him. “Did you get caught out there? Were you at the gym or something?”

The whole situation was surreal, moreso because Lois almost asked if Clark wanted to ride out the storm at her place, but she ultimately chickened out. It felt too…pushy, maybe. Too coupley, when they were not a couple, they were Friends Who Kissed Sometimes. Lois did her level best to resume their normal patterns of socializing on Friday and when she left for the day, she gave herself a pat on the back for friggin’ acing the friendship part of their relationship.

Clearly, she should have told Clark to stay with her. He was shaking like a leaf from the cold - his teeth were chattering and she could see his hands were unsteady.

“Stay there, I’ll get you a towel,” she said, running off to the bathroom to do just that. She came back with two - one for his clothes and one for his hair. “Here you go.”

Lois held them out to him, but Clark didn’t take them. He didn’t move. His eyes were screwed up and his shaking hands were hovering around his ears. His breathing was really fast.

“Clark?” she said, taking a step toward him. He held out a hand, to ward her away, but he dropped it pretty quickly. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, clasping that same hand over his eyes, under his glasses. “My eyes are bothering me.”

His other hand was rubbing at his chest and Lois had a moment of genuine alarm when she considered what might be causing his symptoms.

“Do you have asthma?” she asked, assessing the evidence and putting together a picture of his night. 

She knew Clark was a gym rat (despite his protestations to the contrary), and there was a CrossFit place near her, in one of the converted factory buildings. Maybe that was his regular spot. She knew CrossFit devotees had a bit of a reputation for being obsessive about their workouts. Maybe he couldn’t sleep at night unless he flipped a tire over thirty times and preferred to take his chances in the weather, rather than deal with the insomnia later on. Clark might have forecast-hopped on various weather apps until he found one that reassured him he had time to squeeze in a workout before the storm hit. There might have been a sprinkle of overconfidence thrown in there; being from a place that had a tornado season, Clark probably figured that even if he did get rained on, it was nothing to be sucked up into the sky.

So, off he trotted to get his workout in, then BAM: cue the storm. Because Clark was fallible, but not actually an idiot, he probably tried to wait it out at the gym until the last possible second before they kicked him out, then hightailed it into the street, hoping the buses were running. That would explain why he was at her apartment near midnight, soaking wet and hyperventilating. 

If he had asthma, the workout, combined with the cold weather and all the wind and rain might have fucked with his airways enough that he was having trouble breathing. If he wasn’t getting enough oxygen, that would explain his vision problems.

Lois had a mild case herself and kept an inhaler and nebulizer stocked in the bathroom during cold and flu season, since her symptoms usually only showed up when she was sick. She would happily let Clark use her meds, especially since she didn’t like her odds of getting him to an ER in this weather. 

“I don’t have asthma,” Clark insisted, despite sounding short of breath. “I need to…I need to calm down.”

Panic attack.  

Shortness of breath. Vision problems. Tremors. Yeah. She should have clocked that earlier - getting stuck outside in a monster storm with only a bus shelter for protection would freak anyone out, she was sure, even someone from The Land of Tornadoes. The Kents had a whole-ass cellar to hide in during storms, Metropolis had…um. Basically nothing.

“Sit down,” Lois said, reaching for his wrist and tugging him toward the couch. Clark shuffled along, still keeping a hand over his eyes. She guided him over to the couch and he sat heavily when he felt his legs touch the back of it.

Lois put the end of the flashlight in her mouth as she used both hands to dry his hair. Weirdly, Clark’s clothes weren’t that wet; most of the water on his t-shirt seemed to have dripped down from his sopping hair. She took his glasses off and wiped them on her own shirt. Clark looked up at her; his pupils were dilated like they had been when they kissed, but this situation was…well. A lot less sexy.

Lois removed the flashlight from her mouth and smiled at him. Clark needed the glasses to be taken seriously as a professional, she decided. He looked really young without them. Or maybe her perception of youth was caused by the worryingly vacant, overwhelmed expression on his face. His breathing still wasn’t normal.

Apart from drying his hair or offering him her inhaler, Lois had no idea what her next move should be. She’d never taken care of anyone other than herself before and while Acts of Service might be Clark’s love language, it was a foreign tongue to her. Ironically, if another one of their friends showed up at her apartment, panicking and waterlogged, Lois would have called Clark for advice on what to do. That was very much not an option now, so she defaulted to her go-to for dealing with uncomfortable situations: inappropriate humor.

“Can you even see me right now?” she asked, waving a hand in front of his eyes. “Or am I just a blob that sounds like Lois?”

“I can see you,” Clark said. He didn’t smile, but he seemed steadier. He reached for his glasses and put them back on with hands that were only a little shaky. Clark took a deep breath in through his mouth and let it out through his nose. He closed his eyes and said, “I’m sorry. For…for showing up out of the blue. And bothering you.”

“Uh, you’re not,” Lois said, shaking her head and pressing the towel into his shoulders, on the spots on his shirt that were soaked. “This…this makes us even, right? For all the food you make me. I’m not, um. Good at - at taking care of people, or anything, so really I should be apologizing to you for being a subpar - ”

There was a huge clap of thunder and Lois jumped; a normal reaction to a loud, unexpected nose. Clark, on the other hand, reacted like he’d been electrocuted. His hands went over his ears and she swore she could see every muscle in his body contract. As though, when the lightning struck, it hit him directly.  

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, fixing Lois with an expression of intense misery. “I’m freaking you out, I’m sorry, it’s just so loud.”

It would be a lie to say that Lois wasn’t freaked out, if only because she’d never in a million years expect Clark to act like this. The guy was so unflappable, so solid. He was patient, he was steady, he was calm. Of the two of them, Lois was the one who flew off the handle, taking situations from 0 to 1,000 at the slightest provocation. Even when she saw things (or personally did things) that got to Clark, he never appeared bothered for very long.  

Another piece of the Clark puzzle, one she never expected to unearth; he was hunched over, not with his usual bad posture, but like he was protecting himself from some immediate danger. His voice was so tight and quiet, he didn't sound like himself. And that was in addition to the shaking, which hadn't completely abated.

He was really scared. And Lois wasn’t going to let him apologize to her for being scared.

“It’s okay,” she said, tucking his hair back behind his ear, tracing his face the way he sometimes traced her face. She hoped he liked it as much as she did. 

“I wanted to go home,” he told her, teeth gritting like he was mad at himself. “But…I couldn’t get myself there. You were close by - ”

“Oh my God!” Lois exclaimed, just barely restraining herself from smacking Clark on the shoulder. “No way you should have gone home! You could have been hit with a tree or a flying fucking house like the Wicked Witch of the West, it’s insane out there. I’m glad you came here!” 

Clark’s expression cleared very slightly. He was very locked in on her, looking in her eyes, trying to…it seemed like he was trying to match his breathing with hers, so she was mindful to take nice slow breaths. In and out.

“You’re glad?” he asked, eyebrows raising a little. Hey, incredulity was better than vacant fear, so she counted this as a win.

“Yes,” Lois nodded, tossing the towels aside so she could put both her hands on his shoulders, trying to give him a little reassuring massage, which was easier said than done. His muscles were so tense it was like trying to knead the body of a car. “I’m - I’m always glad to see you, you freaking goober.”

That got her a smile, which made Lois feel like a fucking rock star. Even though Acts of Service was not her love language, she was crushing at it. She should try French next.

“Um, Witch of the East was the one who got hit by the house,” he corrected her gently. “Witch of the West melted.”

Oh, there he is, thank fuck.

“Literally no one cares, you nerd, ” Lois said fondly, playing with a little curl that was stubbornly falling onto Clark’s forehead. 

“I’m from Kansas,” he reminded her, smile deepening slightly. His dimples broke through and Lois decided she deserved a medal in Acts of Service. “I’ve seen Wizard of Oz a lot. It's like our only pop culture thing."

When another thunderclap came, it was further away. Clark didn’t jump this time, but he did wince.

Lois eyed her couch speculatively; it was large enough for her to nap on it comfortably, but Clark was way too tall to fully lie down on it and too wide to lie down on it comfortably. 

Don’t do it, Lane. He’s in a weakened state. All your Friends who Kiss relationship boundaries will be shattered and you’ll be inching dangerously close to Boyfriend Territory, the undiscovered country. DON’T DO IT. 

“Come lie down in my room,” Lois urged him, grabbing his hands and tugging. “It’s late, you should just stay the night and…um. It’ll be…like a sleepover.”

Clark’s smile faded slightly and he looked out the window.

“That’s sweet of you to offer," he said, :"but I should head out.”

Lois followed his gaze; the rain was blowing sideways and she could hear the wind literally howling. 

“Clearly your eyes are still fucked up because it’s wild out there,” Lois informed him. “It would be actively negligent for me to let you leave and go outside, you’ll blow away and you’ll never see me again and that would suck.”

Clark gave a hollow little laugh and extricated his hands from hers so he could rub his eyes under his glasses. 

“I’m okay out here,” he said, gesturing to her moderately sized sofa. “I don’t wanna take your bed.”

“You wouldn’t be taking my bed,” Lois told him. “I’d also be in it. We can be very old timey about it, we can…um. We can do a bundling board.”

The phrase came to her out of nowhere, dredged up from some half-remembered field trip to Colonial Williamsburg when she was little. 

Clark’s face screwed up in confusion. “A what?”

“Never mind,” Lois said because, honestly, she wasn’t entirely sure what she was referencing. “It’s late, we have work in the morning. I’ll bet you five bucks Perry’s going to want us reporting for duty once the emergency order expires, even if we have to swim there. We should go to bed.”

She pulled against him and, once again, it was like trying to pull a literal car (maybe she should join him at the CrossFIt gym sometime). After a moment of hesitation, he responded to her fruitless tugging and let her lead him to the bedroom. 

Thank God for power outages because her room genuinely looked like a bomb went off. There were piles of clothes everywhere, her shoe caddy was empty because they were all over the floor, and the covers were all over the place because Lois didn’t see the point in making her bed in the morning, if she was just going to mess it up again at night. 

Clark makes his bed. He’s going to think you’re a slob - OH GOD WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CHANGED YOUR SHEETS?

“You sure?” Clark asked, one hand on the back of his head, his posture off-kilter and uncertain. “I can take the couch, I don’t mind.”

Lois looked at him frankly.

“Clark, I know in your heart and soul you are a Disney Princess,” she said, trying to let him down gently, “and therefore very small and delicate, but in the physical reality we all inhabit you are Kronk and too big for my couch.”

Clark’s mouth twitched and she thought she might have pissed him off, but then he said, “I really see myself as more of a Pacha. If we’re talking Emperor’s New Groove . An underrated classic.”

“Oh my God, get in the fucking bed - wait!” Lois held up a hand to immediately contradict herself. “I have an extra toothbrush, pristine and wrapped! I use electric and they always give me one at the dentist, whether I need it or not, so I have a bunch.”

Her bathroom was more of a disaster area than her bedroom (she had lived in the same apartment for seven years and never cleaned the grout), but thanks to the limited power of her tiny flashlight, Clark need never know the depths of her ogreishness. Huh. Maybe, instead of being a Disney Villain, she was actually Shrek. He accepted the offered toothbrush and cleaned his teeth while she held the flashlight at such an angle as to illuminate the sink only and not her mildew-y grout or her shower drain, half clogged with hair.

Gym clothes made great sleeping clothes and Lois was already in her jammies (an oversized t-shirt and boxers, which were neither stained nor had holes in them, so in the category of attire and attire alone she was winning). Once she brushed her teeth there was nothing to do but get into bed.

It was a queen and therefore luxuriously roomy when Lois herself was the sole occupant, but things got really cozy when Clark joined her, though he lay on his side and tried to stick to the very edge of the mattress.

Lois went around the other side of the bed and hopped in; Clark left most of the covers for her, which she was about to protest, until she remembered he ran hot. Maybe he usually slept under a single sheet. It would explain why he made his bed in the morning, it was basically zero effort.

“Glasses,” she held out her hand for Clark’s glasses so she could put them on a bare spot on her bedside table (which was littered with water glasses that he hopefully couldn’t see). Clark handed them over and Lois folded them to put them between the half-drunk cups of water. Then she clicked off the flashlight, plunging them into darkness. 

She could still see Clark, a little bit, in the dark, enough that she could tell his eyes were open. Clark looked exhausted, but not actually sleepy. Lois wasn’t feeling particularly tired either and the weirdness of this situation hanging between them was not going to get any less weird or awkward if they pretended things were normal, so she decided to lean into the weird. 

“Does this happen to you a lot?” she asked, curling up on her side to face Clark. “No judgment! Just wondering.”

“Not as much as it used to,” he replied honestly. “Not…I mean, I can anxiety-spiral with the best of 'em, but the physical stuff is rare. Thank God.”

The last part he muttered with a frown Lois could only barely make out. 

“Yeah,” she nodded, propping her head up on her hand, trying her best to channel Empathy and Understanding and not just Relentless Questioning. “I mean, I’ve never had a full-on panic attack, but from the outside it looks awful.”

“It’s not the best,” Clark acknowledged, closing his eyes. “Especially the embarrassment-riddled come-down. I’m really sorry for barging in on you.”

“Oh yeah, you super interrupted my evening plans of wandering around in the dark, bumping into things,” Lois rolled her eyes. “Clark, it’s legit fine. It’s good! Seriously, I never take care of people, so I’m probably sucking at this, but I don’t mind. Scout’s promise.”

She made a peace sign, which was stupid since Clark couldn’t see her - but then he surprised her by laughing, so maybe she overestimated how blind he was without his glasses.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “It doesn’t…I haven’t had one this bad since high school, so I wasn’t…I was not prepared.”

“Well, I feel like if you were prepared, you wouldn’t have had a panic attack,” Lois pointed out logically. 

She lay back down, pulling the blankets up to her chin, settling down now that she realized they really were just going to…sleep. There wasn’t much titillating about helping a friend out with a mental health crisis. At the same time, she was kind of proud of herself for being able to be there for him, that he trusted her enough to go to her for help in the first place. 

“Who helped you out in high school?” she asked. “Your mom?”

“Mom and dad,” he confirmed. “In different ways. Ma’s someone you go to when you need a problem solved ‘cause she gets right on it. Pa too, but he’s more willing to…ride it out with you. They’re both good. You’re good.”

Clark said the same thing the other night when Lois accidentally insulted him. This time she actually believed him. 

“You’re good,” she said, resting her hand between them, tentatively crossing the divide. Clark recognized the intent behind the gesture and he reached for her hand - the size difference was enough that they couldn’t comfortably entwine their fingers, but she did her best. “I hope you don’t think I’m like…secretly belittling you or something gross like that. Everyone gets…scared, you know? We’re all human.”

Oh, fuck.

Lois didn’t know what she said, but she could swear Clark’s face crumpled like he was going to cry…but then he just brought her hand over to his mouth and softly kissed her fingers, so maybe she was mistaken.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, loosening his hold, but not quite letting go of her hand. “I guess you’re right.”

The wind calmed down and the rainfall slowed to a rate that was soothing. Lois fell asleep with her fingertips still grazing Clark's; when she woke up it was to a clear blue sky out the window and an empty bed.

Clark was gone, but he left a note - like, a real note, with pen and paper, tucked in on her bedside table, where she’d left his glasses.

Lois -

Went home to shower and get ready for work.
Thank you for taking care of me. 

🖤 Clark 

She smiled and tucked the note into the drawer of the table, to save it, as a reminder that, if necessary, she could successfully take care of another person when they were having a hard time. The power wasn't back on, but her phone still had a little charge and when she turned her data on, all the messages she missed the night before came through. 

Although Clark hadn't taken her bet, if he had, he would owe her $5; Perry sent everyone in the office an email at 5AM telling them that lateness would be excused, but he still wanted all hands on deck for the day (with the exceptions of the psychos on the storm team who were already there, having been covering the weather event all night, they could pack it up and head home).

There was a message from Steve (the unofficial office king of Reply All) underneath.

Will do, Chief. Who's got the Superman beat? Did you see the Gazette's article? They've got the Big Blue Boy Scout looking DEMONIC. What happened to him?

Lois frowned and ate through her data plan Googling The Gotham Gazette (an exercise in masochism at the best of times). The first thing she saw was a picture of Superman, in living color, and though she was only looking at a tiny image on her phone screen, it was enough to give her a jump-scare.

There were thousands - probably millions - of pictures of Superman online. Most out of focus, taken on camera phones from a distance. Every once in a while someone would get a good shot of him. The suit was what most people remembered, the giant red 'S' or his huge cape billowing behind him. His face was forgettable; blandly good-looking, like a mannequin or a Ken doll. When he realized his photo was being taken and he looked into the camera, Superman usually wore the same pleasantly neutral expression.

For a second, she didn't recognize the guy in the picture as Superman. His teeth were bared, his jaw clenched, the veins in his forehead and neck popping, his dark hair wetted down to his scalp so that it looked like a helmet. But what disturbed her the most (and probably prompted Steve's demon comment) were his eyes. Everyone knew Superman had blue eyes, but not in this picture. In this picture, they were glowing red-hot. It was like looking down the barrel of a firing gun. 

MAN OF STEEL DESTROYS METROPOLIS, the headline read. Pure clickbait, but it worked. Lois clicked. She wasn't the only one; the article had gone live at 6AM and already had 55k views.

Despite the shelter in place order issued by the Metropolis City Hall, the entity calling itself ‘Superman’ was caught using its heat vision ability to fell trees in the city for unknown purposes. In addition to the damage to the city’s award-winning landscaping, a police traffic drone also tasted the wrath of the Man of Steel. In a statement by LuthorCorp, they estimate the damage to be approximately $10,000 and the Metropolis Metropolitan Police Department have demanded immediate payment to be made by the being itself...

It went on like that for a while, in the hyperbolic style preferred by the Gazette's editorial staff ever since Martin Mayne's takeover. The strategy had done wonders for their subscriber base, though it left a lot of questions about their journalistic integrity. The paper's online edition was basically the worst of social media all in one place. There was a live feed of reader comments, which Lois enlarged to read. The content was about what she expected.

What was he doing out there? Like the storm didn’t do enough damage?

I’ll bet he was trying to knock down trees so he could catch them falling on someone and look like a hero. Caught YOU asshole! 

Just goes to show you can’t trust anyone.

PAY UP YOU BIG BLUE BITCH. NO ONE IS ABOVE THE LAW.

Scary stuff.

It was a lot of bullshit, but Lois understood where the last commenter was coming from. The photograph of Superman was genuinely frightening, prompting the viewer to immediately imagine themselves in the line of Superman's heat vision. So far he'd never turned his abilities against a person, he'd only ever used them to help, but this picture forced the question: What if he did attack someone?

It wasn't often that Lois found herself agreeing with Steve, but she couldn't help wondering as she turned off her data and got ready for work: What the hell happened to Superman? 

Chapter Text

It might have been worth it (it wasn’t worth it, but it might have been!) to lose his goddamned mind in the storm last night to wake up beside Lois.

As was typical, the morning after the storm was more than usually beautiful. The sky was clear and the sunbeams that came in through Lois’s bedroom window dappled her cheek with a golden glow. Her long dark eyelashes brushed her cheek and either she was having a great dream, or she always smiled a little as she slept. Thoroughly adorable. Thoroughly loveable.

Clark wanted to stay, but of course he couldn’t. He didn’t technically need to stay as long as he did, he could have gotten home just fine hours ago, but Lois insisted and he was so…tired wasn't the right word. Weary, maybe, was a better descriptor. But now it was morning and he had to get up, get to work. And try to figure out what the hell happened last night. 

The fact that the Eye drones were capable of firing real bullets changed everything about Clark’s perception of the Eye in the Sky program. No longer a highly suspicious, but technically legal public safety initiative, an unmanned piece of technology that could kill someone had to be communicated to the public. There was just one problem: Clark had no evidence the drones were kitted out with guns.

He examined the spot where he’d been shot at, but it was clean, either scrubbed by LuthorCorp, the MMPD, or the rainfall itself. No bullets or casings remained. And, of course, Clark’s body showed no signs that anything out of the ordinary happened to him.

Lois asked him once if he’d ever broken a bone and Clark truthfully told her no, but he had gotten hurt before. When he was younger, he could bruise and get cut, just like anybody else. Looking back, there were signs he wasn’t…normal. All his childhood scrapes healed completely. He’d never gotten a sunburn, not once in his life. No scars, no moles, no freckles. Just smooth, unmarked, skin that never got darker in the summertime or lighter in the winter. 

If you get shot, but the bullet doesn’t leave a mark, does it matter? Clark mused, slightly bitterly as he let himself into his apartment. 

His brain certainly thought it did. Though the bullets didn’t bust through his suit into his body, his mind reacted just like it would have if he was actually in danger of injury. As horrible as it was, Clark found a little kernel of gratitude in his heart for his misfiring amygdala. 

Everyone gets scared, Lois reassured him. We’re all human.

For all his body was inhuman, Clark had a very human response last night. And for that he was…yeah. He was grateful. 

Clark threw the suit into his in-unit dryer to air it out. Ma did a burn test on the material he’d arrived in and determined that it was organic; it didn’t melt or catch fire when exposed to flame, but it would scorch, though the marks would come out in the wash. She figured it was something like wool, though from what kind of creature, they had no way of knowing. It almost never got really wet - like wool, it was water-repellant, so the fact that it still felt damp to the touch was a testament to just how bad the rain was last night. His MetroMetro app for the bus line kept sending him notifications about delays due to street flooding. 

Trying to clear his head, Clark attempted to complete his morning routine. He took a hot shower, dressed for work, and poured his cold brew into his travel mug. Clark was warming up his burrito when he checked his phone.

30 Unread Messages

Most of them were from the group chat, which wasn’t unusual. The topic, however, wasn't the typical Smallville fodder: everyone was talking about Superman.

Evan
Superman really said ‘fuck them trees’ huh? 🤣

Miguel
It’s a well-known fact that Superman HATES Arbor Day. 

Kels
It’s clearly a slow news day if the big story is ‘SUPERMAN DOES SOME PRUNING’ God forbid a man has HOBBIES 🙄

Miguel
For real, my dad wants to know if he can do our yard next ✂️🌳 If rescuing hundreds of people every week from certain DEATH becomes a hassle, Superman should open a landscaping business 💰

Brian
Just in case anyone was wondering, I think that picture is very sexy and Superman should feel AMAZING about himself #superstud 😘

Miguel
We need to get that hashtag trending IMMEDIATELY. LANA. WAKE UP. 

Only four people in the world knew Clark was Superman - or, rather, only four people in the world had been told Clark was Superman. No one in Smallville ever mentioned it, but for a while Clark suspected that the knowledge of his abilities was a bit of an open secret and it was inevitable to conclude that folks drew some conclusions about the identity of Superman based on what they already knew about him. Occasionally, threads like this emerged in the group chat, discussing Superman as though he was an acquaintance of theirs, but something about the tone of this one made Clark apprehensive...a feeling which only increased when he saw a separate, private text from Pete. 

Pete
Are you okay?

No dumb gifs. No emojis. No five-minute voice memo about nothing as Pete drove into the fields to start his day. Just a question that he didn’t know how to answer. Was Clark okay? That remained to be seen.

Clark ignored the microwave beeping and Googled 'superman.' An article from the Gazette was trending. And the photograph which accompanied it made Clark abandon all thought of actually eating breakfast; he felt like he was going to throw up. 

He’d never seen what his face looked like when he used his heat vision - how could he? He could barely see, period. The world went red and warped, while his face felt hot and a pressure built up behind his eyes. If he overdid it, he could count on a six-hour tension headache which no amount of ibuprofen could touch. 

Now, though, he saw what he looked like. And what he saw made him feel sick. He looked...he looked like a monster.

Clark left his phone on the counter and went to the sink to splash cold water on his face, inadvertently throwing himself back - ten years back - to the first time his heat vision kicked in.

He’d been getting awful headaches for months, but one day at the end of sophomore year it was so bad he asked to see the nurse. Nurse Alvarez thought it was an ocular migraine, based on his symptoms,(too much time in front of the computer, editing the school paper, maybe brought on by spring allergies). They called his mom down from her classroom to take him home to rest. 

It got worse on the drive. It didn’t feel like a regular headache, it felt like there were two hot knives behind his eyeballs fucking stabbing at him, he felt like his entire head was going to crack open, right down the middle, then…

Then he was kneeling in a muddy field near the Ross/Kent property line and something was happening, something bad. For a moment, he thought head was splitting open and Clark tried to cover his face, to hold himself together only the skin on his hands was blistering and bubbling, like he’d grabbed hold of a fire poker that had come right out of the flames.

It was a pain that he hadn’t experienced in years. He couldn’t hold it in. So he lowered his hands and ground around him roiled and cracked and steamed like it was trying to contain an active volcano. Only there wasn’t a volcano, there was just him.

Not just him. When he bolted out of the car, his mom followed. She ran right up to him. No hesitation. She touched him and said his name and Clark looked at her, until he remembered what he’d just done and then he swore he’d never look at her or anyone else ever again. If he hadn’t jumped out of the car, if he hadn’t gotten away from her…

Clark knew his mother was one of the bravest women in the world. She had to be, to look at that fucking face and approach him, touch him, reassure him, and help him to his feet. The echo of her voice in his mind was as clear as though he was remembering something from yesterday and not a decade ago.

“I’m right here, baby, it’s okay. It’s all gonna be okay.”

Mama called him ‘baby’ more than she called him ‘Clark.’ He never minded, not even when he was of an age when most kids would have. It made him feel…safe, corny as that was to admit. Protected, really. Like, he was hers and she was looking out for him. That she’d always look out for him, take care of him. Even when it looked like she was the one who needed protection from him.

Not for the first time, Clark wondered how she did it, how either of them did it. How his mom and dad, when faced with the reality that the child they were raising was…was dangerous, consistently came to him with love. His mom told him to put his seatbelt on for the drive home, for Christ’s sake! And then when they got home, after he washed the mud off, she was waiting for him at the kitchen table with the first aid kit and gauze. She’d seen the damage he did to his hands and she wanted to patch him up. Take the pain away. Make him feel better.

Once she’d cleaned out the wounds and wrapped his hands, Mama kissed his palms. Then she looked at him - right in the eyes - smiled and said, like he was five and scraped up his knees, "There we go. All better."

That was when Clark lost it. Despite his certainty that he was turning into some kind of monster, that his mother shouldn’t let him near her, he fell into her arms and sobbed, harder than he’d ever cried before in his life. Ma never showed a glimmer of fear. She held him, rocked him, rubbed his back and said over and over again,

“It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you. Shhh. You’re okay.” 

He was already taller than her, but not as big as he’d get - Hell Summer hadn’t started in earnest. She could still get her arms all the way around him back then and Clark buried his face in her shoulder, fear washing over him like it never had before. Looking back, it was his first panic attack; one of many more to come.

This wasn’t the first of his abilities to manifest, not by a long shot. He’d been strong since he was twelve, fast since he was thirteen, and he hadn’t been injured or gotten sick in years at that point. Still. Plenty of people were strong. Plenty of people were fast. Ma’d been a public school teacher so long she basically had a cast-iron immune system. There were more and more metahumans popping up every day with some ability or other that was beyond the scope of ordinary human achievement.

This, though? This was so far beyond normal that Clark couldn’t pretend he was anything like a human being anymore. And that knowledge terrified him.  

“Why - why is this happening to me?” he managed to gasp, breathless and shaking, hardly able to get the words out. “I want it to stop. I want it to stop. I want it to stop.”

Mama had no answers for him. No one did. All she could do was hold him as tight as she could. 

“I know you do. I know. It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.”

From the vantage point of now, Clark thought she'd been right at the time. He was doing okay. He was over it. He thought he’d made his peace with what he could do, thought he was…better at twenty-six than he was when he was sixteen.

That was a crock of horse shit. All it took was one picture, one mirror image confronting the reality of what he was and it was like the last ten years hadn’t happened. He was that scared kid, screaming in the mud, sobbing on his mother’s shoulder, convinced he was a monster.

The cold water on his face helped a little; despite what his heart was telling him, his brain knew that times had changed. Whatever he was, he had a job to get to and he was already running late.

Clark hastily swiped to get the Gazette article and that awful picture off his screen. He texted Pete a lie, I’m okay, and managed to be distantly grateful that Coast City was three hours behind Gotham and Metropolis. He still had about an hour before Lana saw the news and he had to explain himself to her.

There were no messages from his parents, but that didn’t surprise him. Pa rarely checked his phone first thing in the morning and Ma was probably already at work and wouldn’t be looking at the news until her break in the afternoon. 

Clark left his coffee and his breakfast behind as he headed out the door. His phone buzzed in his pocket. 

Pete Ross…

Clark picked up because he knew Pete would just keep calling if he didn’t.

“I’m fine, I’m running late for work - ”

“Bullshit!” Pete cut him off, yelling over the sound of machinery in the background, probably a reaper. “I mean, you might be late, who knows, but what the fuck, man? I saw the picture! You looked like something scared the shit out of you. What the hell happened?”

“I can’t…” Clark glanced around, looking for Eyes. He didn’t see any in the immediate vicinity, but he didn’t want to push his luck so he only replied, “Nothing happened. I’m fine.”

“Uh, nope, you’re not,” Pete scoffed. “Clearly something went down - ”

“Something did, but I’m fine,” Clark cut in, barely managing to make it to the bus before it pulled away. He gave Angelo a tight smile as he tapped his Metro card and lowered his voice “I’m not…I’m not hurt, so it doesn’t matter.” 

“It does fucking matter, Clark!” Pete shouted, briefly drowning out the reaper. “I don’t care if it left a mark or not, I want to know if you’re okay, and you’d better not bullshit me or I swear to God, I’m leaving my dad to deal with the sorghum and getting on a flight to Metropolis tonight to check on you myself - I’M ON THE PHONE WITH CHICKEN, DAD, GIVE ME A MINUTE.”

Clark tapped the volume button on his phone, but Pete was basically screaming at this point, so there wasn’t much he could do besides mute him.

“I’m on the bus,” Clark said in a whisper. “I can’t keep talking, but there’s no need to come down. There was…fuck it, I can’t tell you exactly what, but… physically, I’m fine.” 

“Uh-huh,” Pete said, but he responded at a normal volume; the machines behind him were silent and Clark wouldn’t have been surprised if Uncle Joey had his ear by the receiver to listen in. “And mentally? Emotionally? How are you doing? Dude, when I saw your sad little face, I wanted to jump into my phone and human shield you from whatever the fuck was going on.”

That was a mental image he didn't need. The Eyes. The barrels. The gunshots. And Pete between him and the bullets.

“Well, that’d sure be stupid, you’d be dead,” Clark snapped, then immediately regretted his tone. “I’m sorry. Pete, I’m sorry - ”

“Let’s see,” Pete said, his tone speculative. “Who’s running the best deals right now? Southwest? JetBlue? JetBlue has the little TV screens, so I could watch a movie - ”

“You don’t have to come down,” Clark said urgently. “I’ll tell you everything next time I see you, I’ll fly in Friday -”

“Nope, too long, today’s Monday - ”

“Fuck it, I’ll fly in tonight,” Clark said, reasoning that he only had about fifteen minutes to get Pete off the phone before he made it to the Planet building. “Don’t come down, I’ll come to you. I’m fine, really, I’m okay - ”

“I don’t believe you,” Pete said flatly. “I told you last week, I know you, and I know you’ve been having a nine-hour freak-out with no one there to help  - ”

“Lois did,” Clark insisted. “You're right, I did - I did freak out, I… glitched, you know how I…yeah. But I was near her place and she let me in and…took care of it. Of me. So if that’s what you’re worried about, I - I appreciate it, but I’m good.”

There was a long pause and Clark held the phone away from his face, worried he’d been disconnected and Pete was legitimately trying to book a flight. The call time was still ticking away, so Pete was still on the line. A second later, Clark heard his reply.

“Oh, thank God,” Pete sighed, sounding so nakedly relieved that Clark got a little choked up hearing him. He knew Pete loved him - he sure wasn’t shy about saying it, especially when he was being annoying on purpose, trying to rile Clark up. Still, times like this when he really felt it could throw Clark for a loop. He swallowed hard as Pete continued. “Okay. Okay, I’ll let you go, get back to it. You can’t - when you say you can’t tell me is it ‘cause of that stupid spy shit y’all got going on?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Clark confirmed. “I can tell you tonight if you want. In person.”

Pete sucked in a breath, then let it out slowly.

“Nah, you stay put,” he said finally. The machine noises were starting back up. “Don’t come out here on account of me, I can wait ‘til Friday. Tell Lois thank you, okay? Give her a hug from me?”

“Will do,” Clark confirmed. Then cleared his throat and added, “Thanks for checking in. I appreciate it.”

“Oh, I know,” Pete replied with a snort. “Just takes you a minute to remember, that's all. See you, Chicken - I love youuuuuuuuuu!”

“Love you - ”

“LOVE YOU, CLARK!”

“Love you too, Uncle Joey,” Clark said to Pete’s dad with a wan chuckle. He’d just broken all the rules of bus etiquette by carrying on a prolonged phone conversation, but he didn’t feel too guilty about it. On his list of recent offenses to the human race, annoying people on public transit was at the bottom. 

Clark’s phone buzzed as Pete added to the group chat.

Pete
Looks like Superman said HELL NO to Big Brother. Good for him 👍

Brian
I never understood the point of that show. SURVIVOR FAN FOR LIFE #marrymedaddyjeff

Miguel
On the other hand Lana, stay asleep. That hashtag should NOT catch on.

By the time Clark got into work, the rest of the team was assembled. Naturally they were talking about the Gazette article. He put his stuff down at his desk and tried to sidle over to the group nonchalantly, like he’d been there the whole time.

Clark channeled a little bit of Superman to school his face into a neutral expression when he caught sight of the photo from the article on Jimmy’s computer screen, full size and big as life. This close-up he could see that Pete was right; he did look scared. But he was willing to bet that no one would look past the hellfire shooting out of his eyes to notice.

Jimmy was looking at it so closely, his nose was practically pressed against the screen

“They used a weird filter,” he commented, toggling between two views of the image, one enlarged, one not. “I think it was to edit out the raindrops, but they overdid it - see how it looks like he just has one long tooth? I don’t know, guys, I don’t think it’s legit, they might have photoshopped his eyes too - ”

“It’s legit,” Ron confirmed. He was leaning on Jimmy’s desk and had his glasses balanced upon on his forehead; there were visible bags under his eyes and he looked like he hadn’t slept at all. “Superman was using his heat vision to take down some tree limbs and he hit one of the Eyes, no evidence either way on whether it was deliberate or accidental. That headline is misleading, though. It’s LuthorCorp, not the police department, who are claiming intentional property damage - without proof. They’re the ones looking to get paid. Read my article, it’s better.”

Lois, who’d been squinting at the monitor over Jimmy’s shoulder, did a double-take at that announcement.

“Your article?” she asked, taken aback. “When did you publish? In your sleep?”

“We got the email about the busted Eye from a LuthorCorp rep at three a.m.,” Ron grimaced, stifling a yawn. “I got everything written and edited by seven. I’m taking a half-day and leaving early. But, hey, sleep-deprived and writing on the fly, I came up with a more balanced story than this shit - not as popular though. Our online edition only has 20k views.”

Jimmy clicked over to the Planet’s homepage and frowned. 

“No picture?” he asked, looking up at Ron.

“There’s a picture,” Ron informed him. 

Indeed there was, but it wasn’t of Superman. The photograph used was of the steps of the Metropolis Public Library where a tiny tent city had been erected on the portico; a United Way relief bus was parked on the lawn and volunteers appeared to be passing out supplies. 

Ron opted for alliteration, rather than sensation. His headline read: STORM DAMAGE, SHELTER, AND SUPERMAN.

Jimmy started reading it aloud. The article opened with pretty standard stats about the amount of rainfall, the wind speeds, and the duration of the shelter-in-place order. He also quoted the initial storm damage assessment, some of which was attributed to Superman’s actions.

“'It appears that whilst removing hazardous tree limbs, Superman damaged a traffic drone that was dispatched as part of the Metropolis Metropolitan Police Department’s Eye in the Sky initiative, conducted in a partnership with LuthorCorp. Early this morning LuthorCorp issued a statement wherein they requested that Superman, or his controlling entity, reimburse the company for the cost of the drone, which they value at $10,000. In that same statement, they urged the city of Metropolis itself to charge Superman for the damage he caused to city landscaping - ’ Aww, come on, Ron! Way to throw Superman under the bus,” Jimmy interjected.

“The city should be thanking Superman,” Steve said, folding his arms over his chest. “I don’t give a fuck if he has demon eyes or not - every time there's a bad storm, trees go down and smash up everyone’s windshields. I can’t afford a garage, my car’s out on the street, same as everyone I know - ”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa - ” Lois interrupted Steve’s rant and pointed at one of the lines Jimmy read. “The Eye cost 10k? The way the Gazette worded it, it sounded like that was the cost of the total damage. Why the fuck does a little flying camera cost ten-thousand dollars?”

“And there are dozens of them,” Cat added. “Like…did the cops actually spend a quarter-million dollars on drones that no one asked for?”

Ron was unbothered. “Keep reading.” 

“‘The Man of Steel was not the only individual out in the storm,’” Jimmy continued. “‘The city’s shelters close their doors at 6:00p.m. every evening. No exception was made last night, despite the shelter-in-place order coming at 7:30p.m. leaving much of the city’s unhoused population at risk for severe injury or death. The Marina Encampment, Metropolis’s largest tent city with a population estimated at approximately one-hundred residents, was in particular danger of flooding due to the heavy rains. Superman personally evacuated many of those individuals to various houses of worship in the city, in addition to the Metropolis Public Library. As of the time of the article’s publication, no loss of life has been reported.

Our readers will recall The Daily Planet exclusive, obtained by our special features reporter, Clark Kent, which covered the library’s decli -  decli- declination,' Ron, where did you even find that word? ' to use funds obtained by the city via a capital gains grant for exterior structural improvements. The library board cited concerns about potential alteration to the building’s historic architecture as the primary reason for their refusal. Local activists called this rejection of the grant funds an act of resistance against what they referred to as anti-homeless architecture.’”

Lois caught Clark’s eye and gave him a thumb’s up, probably in reference to his in-text shout-out by Pulitzer winner Ron Troupe. On a normal day, Clark would have been flattered to the point of glee, but today was not a normal day and all he could manage was a tense smile at Lois. The article concluded:

‘“While there are certainly valid concerns to be raised about Superman’s actions during the storm, the foremost question on this journalist’s mind is: Can Metropolis truly call herself the City of Tomorrow when she cannot provide adequate shelter from the storm for her most vulnerable population?’

“Ooof, Ron,” Jimmy said, sounding a little awed. "Ouch."

“Jesus,” Cat said, blinking watery eyes. “That last sentence packs a punch.”

“Ha!” Lois crowed, holding her phone aloft and waving it around so that no one could actually see the screen. “The Gazette already printed a retraction! Eat my entire ass, Martin Mayne!”

It was true, the Gotham Gazette did print a retraction to their, clarifying that it was LuthorCorp, not the city of Metropolis, asking Superman to pay up for the damaged drone. Regardless, their headline remained unchanged and the most dominant part of the article - the photograph of Superman - was the first thing people saw when they opened the newspaper’s website. The article had 200k views and rising and Clark would bet that not many of those two-hundred thousand people even noticed the retraction.

“It’s a bad PR day for Superman,” Ron acknowledged. “But a good day for us. We’ve got hard numbers now. LuthorCorp wants Superman to pay the city $10,000 for the damaged drone. Meanwhile there’s a whole fleet of these things hovering over our heads. Exactly how much of the taxpayers’ money is tied up in this half-assed ‘public safety initiative’ that we didn’t even get to vote on?”

“I’m going to talk to Perry - ” Lois began, but Ron held out a hand to stop her.

“Already did, we’re cleared to look into this,” he said, then made a show of looking at his watch. “Seeing as how I’m heading home, Lois, you take the lead. We’ll want people putting out feelers to the police - how much the drones cost, if they cut a deal, anything like that.”

“Like military surplus?” Steve speculated. “I know they got a tank that way - like, what the fuck are they going to do with a tank?”

“They’re not going to be recreating the DLA arrangement with a private company,” Lois shook her head. “LuthorCorp wouldn’t be selling to the MMPD at a loss, that makes no sense.”

“Tax write-off?” Jimmy speculated.

“We don’t know anything, so anything’s possible,” Ron pointed out. 

“Um, I downloaded the EyeApp,” Cat raised her hand, as though she was volunteering for something. “I figured it was shady as fuck and, wouldn’t you know, it is! It’s basically a gamified NextDoor, users are encouraged to take photos and share information about everything from porch pirates to graffiti to litter. You have to upload once a week, otherwise your account gets locked and you get, like, points you can use to ‘buy’ little stickers for the forum posts. It’s weird and lame, but it’s also basically McCarthyism for the digital age, so it’s weird and lame and evil.” 

“Cat, I admire your chutzpah,” Jimmy said, “but…maybe don’t add yourself to the McCarthyism app?”

“Oh, I use a burner phone with a fake profile,” she assured him. “This isn’t my first rodeo - I upload pictures of my bathroom succulents to keep the account active. The app is evil, but like many evil things it is also stupid and it sucks. It thinks I’m uploading pictures of road obstructions.”

“Put all that in an email and send it to me,” Ron told Cat. Locking eyes with Clark he added, “Clark, you’re our best researcher, what I’m going to need from you is any information you can get on the scope of what the Eyes are doing, whether they’ve been involved in any arrests or have taken photos of persons of interest.”

Those things are fucking armed. They shot me. Next time they might shoot someone who isn’t bulletproof.

"You good?" Ron asked.

Clark nodded, just a beat too late. He desperately wanted to say something, but couldn’t. He’d sound crazy. He had no proof, no evidence. Nothing but his own memories and those weren’t worth shit right now. 

“On it,” he said, a little weakly. “I think…does anyone know if LuthorCorp sells those drones directly to the public?”

“I checked already,” Jimmy told him - clearly everyone on staff had been hustling after–hours on the Eye in the Sky program. It was why the Planet was the best and also why the staff had such a high rate of burn-out. “They do sell drones - lots of drones - but none that cost $10,000 and none that are as bootylicious as the Eyes.”

Everyone snickered at the ‘bootylicious’ comment, except for Clark. He’d seen what was in that compartment and it wasn’t anything to laugh over. Not that he could tell anyone. 

“Maybe someone on the crime team could reach out?” Clark suggested. “See if they can get their hands on one of the Eyes. Or you, Ron, you’ve got the cred.”

Ron snorted and rolled his eyes.

“That’s nice, Clark, but I don’t think the MMPD gives a fuck about my shiny award,” he said. “They’ll probably say no, but it’s worth asking.”

“If you do get one,” Jimmy said, eyes lighting up, “I want to look at it. I’ve got a tiny screwdriver and years of experience dissecting cameras, I can take it apart, put it back together, I swear they’ll never know.”

Everyone had their marching orders, so Ron decided he was going to head home and catch up on the sleep LuthorCorp stole from him. He blamed LuthorCorp specifically, not Superman. 

Clark sat down in front of his computer, booting it up, swearing to himself that he wouldn’t read the comments section -

“Hey.”

Lois was leaning on his desk, smiling at him. 

“Hey,” he said, returning the smile gamely. “You were right.”

Lois’s smile turned into a huge grin and it was…goddamn. Pure sunshine. He could bask in it all day.

“Oooh,” she cupped a hand around her ear and leaned in closer. “I love to hear you say that. Go on. Say it again. Once more with feeling.”

Clarke leaned closer, murmuring, “You were right… darlin’.”

Lois lowered her hand and bit her lip and Clark was starting to genuinely feel better after the emotional fucking whirlwind that had been the last twelve hours - until the elevator doors opened and Ron stalked back into the bullpen.

“New plan: no sleep. Just coffee,” he said, marching over to the Keurig. There was a piece of paper clutched in his left hand - a parking ticket. 

There was a garage near the Planet, but the rates were exorbitant and most of the staff took their chances on the street, at least until the afternoon, preferring to pay for a half-day. It was generally understood that the meters wouldn’t start charging until noon. 

The ticket Ron had charged his car for non-payment at the meter, $15 per hour for a total of $30 for the ticket. According to the ticket, a verifying his license had been taken by an Eye drone, once at 8AM and once at 10AM.

“I’ve been parking in that same spot between seven and twelve every day for fifteen years,” Ron said, snapping a pod into the coffeemaker with more force than was strictly called for. “Never once have I gotten charged for overstaying the meter.”

“Until the day you made the city look bad,” Lois concluded. She raised an eyebrow. “And they charged you thirty bucks. There’s petty and then there’s… petty.”

“I’m not paying it,” Ron said, crumpling the ticket and throwing it in the garbage can. “No more than Superman’s going to give the Luthors ten grand. What I’m going to do - what we’re all going to do - is investigate the shit out of this. Right, Chief?”

Perry had emerged from his office amid the flurry of activity and fished Ron’s parking ticket out of the trash. 

“Don’t call me Chief,” he said reflexively. “But you’re right. There’s something rotten about this whole enterprise and we’re going to get to the bottom of it.”

Lois got off Clark’s desk and went to her own workstation, typing furiously. Clark started combing through the police logs, looking for any mention of the Eyes in the arrest logs and incident reports. 

When he heard the tell-tale whirl of tiny blades outside their office windows, he put his headphones on and played music to tune them out. Although the Eyes didn’t leave a mark on him, the noise alone was enough to call to mind the feel of the bullets hitting his chest and back.

Rites of Passage was the soundtrack of his childhood. It was still too early for Ma to have seen the news and Clark wasn’t about to call his mom out of the classroom just because he wanted to hear her voice. Amy Ray would have to suffice…though, when the first track hit, he thought he should have opted for Swamp Ophelia instead.

'Three hits to the heart son, and it’s poetry in motion…'

Chapter Text

There was one problem with doing a lot of research off the clock: when you were back on the clock, sometimes you had nothing to do but flail wildly while shouting paranoid delusions at your boss.

Of course, Lois would not qualify what she was saying to Perry as either paranoid or delusional. Ever since Ron’s article went live, she noticed an increased presence of Eye drones around the Planet building and why would the drones be buzzing around their office if they weren’t spying on them? She knew it was true, she absolutely knew it. Only Perry wasn’t convinced.  

“Really?” Perry challenged her, gesturing at the window behind his desk which showed nothing but sky. “You have data for that? You tracked how many drones were visible on this street at the launch of the program and compared that data to the number of drones in the immediate vicinity of the Planet after Troupe published his article?”

“You know I didn’t,” Lois shot back, frustrated beyond belief that he wasn’t taking her seriously. “But I know there are! They’re either taking video or they have audio recording capabilities or freaking both and it’s just straight-up illegal.”

“You don’t know that,” Perry replied evenly. “You suspect it, but you don’t know it. They’re traffic drones, right? This street has traffic. They could just be doing what they’ve always been doing. You don’t have any data, just a hunch.”

“My hunches have been pretty good so far,” Lois grumbled, giving a jolt when she saw a - oh. No. Not an Eye outside the window, just a bird. Dammit. 

Perry scrubbed a hand over his face and beckoned Lois closer to his desk. “Lane. Sit.”

Lois sat across from him, folding her arms and giving every indication that, rather than being a professional investigative reporter, she was a teenager called into the principal’s office. Luckily, Perry chose not to comment on her demeanor. Instead, he went for the jugular and called out her character.

“I’m not interested in hunches,” he said plainly. “I can’t publish hunches - this is not the Gazette, Lane, I’m not about to let anyone on my team run half-cocked theories that we’ll have to retract an hour later. You’re good. Your instincts are very good. But, as a reporter, you’ve got a big problem that you need to get in check.”

“Clark proofreads my articles,” Lois interrupted, absolutely sure she knew where this criticism was going. “So all the spelling mistakes are technically on him at this point - ”

“Your typos are not the problem Lois,” Perry told her. “They’re a problem, but not the problem. What you just did right there? That is the problem.”  

Lois stared at him blankly, so Perry spelled it out for her.

“You jump to conclusions,” he said succinctly. “You get a little information - maybe good information - then you concoct a whole narrative around it based on what your gut is telling you is true. You could be right, but you could be wrong just as easily. In our business, we have an ethical responsibility to make sure we’re as close to the truth - objective truth - as we can be before we run a story.”

I don’t jump to conclusions, Lois wanted to retort. I make logical inferences based on the information I have. For fuck’s sake, I’m an investigative reporter, if it was that easy to access “objective truth,” there would be nothing to investigate. People would just tell me everything.

She kept her mouth shut because yapping would get her absolutely nowhere - except possibly taken off the story. Clearly (wrongly) Perry was half-convinced she was messing things up already, bringing him ideas without data. Mulish silence probably wasn’t helping her case, but at least it wasn’t hurting her.

“Come back when you’ve got hard data,” Perry said, a pointed dismissal. “Or find a new angle to look at. One parking ticket and you staring out the window more than usual isn’t newsworthy. I need you to take your hunches, your gut feelings, whatever you want to call them and set it all aside. Pretend you’re coming at this clean. Look at the evidence you have collected and only that. Okay?”

“Sure,” Lois said. She gave Perry a sharp, strained smile as she got up, squeezing the back of the chair she’d been sitting in, leaving little half-moon marks in the leather with her nails. “Blank slate. Tabula rasa. No conclusions. I’ll work on that, Chief.”

Then Lois saluted Perry, like he was her superior officer before she stalked back to her desk, promptly ignoring all that good advice. She did not need to work on anything, fuck you very much, except for the fact that in the period of about a month, Metropolis had gone from The City of Tomorrow to Orwell's Oceania. 

“Just in time!” Cat intercepted Lois on her way to her desk, grabbing her by her sleeve and dragging her over to the television. “Look who’s back!”

Superman. It had been a few days since anyone had seen him and the vloggers and Redditors were having a field day speculating why. In truth, it wasn’t that unusual to go days or even weeks between Superman sightings. Not every disaster situation merited superpowered intervention and there weren’t always cameras at the ready in situations when he did show up. That didn’t stop the speculation about the End of Superman or theories that he was only a beta test for his creator and that even now in a secret lab in an undisclosed location, unknown scientists were working on an upgraded model. Stronger, faster, less disposed toward shooting traffic drones out of the sky. 

Yet there he was. Flying in to hold up a bridge that was in danger of collapsing after an encounter with a cargo ship that underestimated the space it needed for clearance. 

Steve gave a little cheer, “Let’s go, Big Blue!”

It was all pretty par for the course for Superman - he kept the bridge intact long enough for cars to make it to safety, then, as it started to fall, he dove under the ship and manually dragged it toward the docks. The footage was being taken from a medical helicopter in the area. Consciously or not, Superman stayed well out of the way of the camera. Once all was well, he flew off, his cape a red streak in the sky before he disappeared behind the clouds. 

“That’s our guy!” Jimmy exclaimed, and he and Steve high-fived; they were firm believers in the theory that Superman’s base of operations was Metropolis. 

Nerds online tracked his flight patterns and determined that, more of then than not, his point of origin was somewhere in the vicinity of their city. They’d adopted Superman as a little bit of a mascot, which wasn’t the flex it might have been. The only other option was Comet, the mascot for the Metropolis Meteors, and the lameness of a giant rock wearing a baseball cap as a representative for The City of Tomorrow could not be overstated. 

“Did you hear about the GoFundMe?” Cat asked Jimmy. “Someone’s trying to cash in on the Eye drama, they started a campaign to help Superman pay off his LuthorCorp bills. I think they raised a few hundred dollars, it’s really heckin’ scammy.” 

“Gross,” Jimmy replied, shaking his head. “That’s going to be the next Gazette headline: SUPERMAN SCAMS PEOPLE OUT OF TENS OF DOLLARS. When it’s not even him, just some rando online.”

While Cat and Jimmy debated the relative merits of GoFundMes and how often they tended to be scams, Lois sat down at her desk, staring at her JamBoard, more than a little pissed.

All anyone wanted to talk about was fucking Superman. As usual, she had zero problem with him saving cars and trucks and boats and…just everything Richard Scarry-related, but it consumed the news cycle, and not only that! Polls were showing that his being photographed felling tree branches improved the public’s perception of the Eye program.

To quote Ben Franklin from the movie version of the stage musical 1776 (who might have been quoting the real Ben Franklin, but Lois wasn’t sure), ‘Those who would give up some of their liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety.’

Was everyone stupid? Couldn’t they see the danger the Eyes presented? Yeah, sure, the picture of Superman and his big red laser eyes was scary, but it wasn’t the story. Though, what else could she expect from the kinds of people who would donate to a clearly fake GoFundMe, probably set up by some thirteen-year-old who was going to take the money to buy weed?

It was so, so frustrating and Lois hated everyone. 

“Wanna go get a coffee?”

Okay, Lois didn’t hate everyone. She didn’t hate Clark.

“Yeah, sure,” she agreed, getting up from her computer with a groan. “I need to clear my head - literally , the Chief said all my ideas are bad ideas.”

“Hmm,” Clark tapped his chin and made a show of looking thoughtful. “Is that literal? Could you repeat the words he actually used and not the sentiment you heard?”

As they headed out toward the coffee shop, Lois recounted her conversation in Perry’s office while Clark provided a sympathetic ear.

“I get what he’s saying,” he said as he held the door open for her. 

“No!” Lois exclaimed, blocking the doorway as she turned to yell at him. “Not allowed! You’re my friend, you have to be on my side!”

“I am on your side,” Clark insisted, gently putting a hand on her back to guide her away from the door as a young mom with a stroller tried to enter. They let the mom get in front of them; as badly as Lois needed caffeine, that woman probably needed it more. “And I get why you’re mad, I really do, but Perry’s right. We need to publish articles supported by data, not just…something we thought we saw.”

They ordered their drinks - Clark’s a truly stomach-churning combination of syrup and cream that Lois was sure he’d be paying for later. Her, a black coffee. With a shot of espresso.

“I need strength,” she explained as she deigned to put half a pack of raw sugar in her drink to balance out the bitterness. 

“Working late - ” Clark began, then his expression cleared and he interrupted himself. “Oh! Your dad’s in town - dinner tonight, right? For your birthday?”

“It’s no longer for my birthday,” Lois told him as they took their drinks over to a table by the window. “My birthday was two months ago, I don’t care anymore, I’m over it. This is to stroke his ego, so he feels like a good dad.”

Clark’s brow creased in concern and Lois waved her hands around, like she was banishing his thoughts away.

“He’s not a bad dad,” she hastened to add. “He just…what do your parents do for your birthday? Like since you moved out - oh, wait, don’t tell me. You fly home, right?”

Clark nodded sheepishly scooping whipped cream off the top of his drink with his straw. He got it into his mouth without spilling it, which was pretty impressive. 

“It’s pretty standard,” Clark told her with a half-shrug. “I tell them what I want for dinner, then I head home and we…eat it. If it’s not too cold we’ll do a fire pit, the neighbors come over…that’s it. I have the same cake every year.”

Lois looked at him expectantly. Clark’s cake preferences could be important for her to know some day.

“Red velvet,” he told her. “It’s my favorite.”

“That sounds nice,” Lois said and, truly, it did sound nice. Better than a hoity-toity meal with tiny portions and a sprinkle of truffle oil on everything (Lois did not like truffle oil and considered it a plague on steakhouses and gastropubs, ruining perfectly good French fries). “My dad takes me out for a fancy dinner, just the two of us.”

This year, at least, they were going to an upscale Italian place, which had Lois slightly more optimistic than usual about the meal itself. Surely she could get one pasta dish that wasn’t drowning in truffle oil.

“That’s…your experience is your experience,” Clark said cautiously. “But that sounds…nice also?”

“If we had anything to talk about, it might be,” Lois admitted. “It’s not that either of us are boring people, it’s just that we’re boring…together. Like, topics that we feel passionately about, we disagree on, so it’s either sit in silence or argue. Either way, indigestion city - or it would be if the places we went to served decent portions.”

Last night was a TV and Clark Cooks, though they skipped the TV portion since both of them worked late and only had time for dinner. Clark made a pumpkin-turkey chili with a jalapeno-cheddar cornbread that was out of this world good. Lois packed up a Tupperware to take home, had warmed some up for lunch, and still had more left over to eat Saturday. The man did not cook small, that was for sure. 

They ate dinner at the counter, before Lois left to catch the bus. There was no couch time, therefore no couch cuddles and therefore no couch kissing. Or kissing of any kind. 

Lois would be lying if she said she didn’t miss it, but also, she was very happy to be maintaining a friendship equilibrium, uninterrupted by her baser urges. Not that those urges disappeared or anything. Lois had been very much consumed by work, but she wasn’t such a victim of the capitalist machine that she didn’t notice the little smear of cream on Clark’s upper lip. She was overcome with the urge to help him get it off (WITH HER MOUTH) until Clark took care of it, his tongue darting out between his lips, prompting Lois to lean a little closer to him. 

“Are you…harvesting, this weekend?” she asked. 

“That’s the plan,” Clark confirmed. He gave Lois a chagrined smile and added, “I also got roped into a group costume for Trunk or Treat at the library Saturday afternoon. Maureen put Maisie on the phone and she asked me herself, so I couldn’t say no.”

“Well, no, that would be child abuse,” Lois agreed, getting up to toss her coffee cup and head back to the office because their break window was rapidly closing. “What are you guys going as?”

“As you know,” Clark informed her, “it is the law in the state of Kansas that every child must, before age five, watch The Wizard of Oz, look at the sepia-toned backdrops and convince ourselves that it is an accurate representation of where we live. Maisie was indoctrinated back in September and we’re doing a whole Oz costume thing - she doesn’t want to be Dorothy, though, she’s going as Toto.”

“That is extremely valid of her,” Lois nodded. “Okay, do you want a drumroll or something? What’s your costume?”

“Heh, it’s very on-theme for me,” Clark informed her with a nervous laugh. “The Cowardly Lion.”

On the one hand, that produced such an adorable mental image, Lois could scream. On the other hand, the implication that he thought he was personally cowardly (probably an allusion to the night he spent at her house) also made her want to scream, but for very different reasons.

“Mmm,” Lois said, looking him up and down appraisingly. “Big and cuddly. Yeah, that checks out.”

“Aww,” Clark said and blushed and it was fucking adorable. He put an arm around her shoulders and she put one around his waist. “Thanks.”

Lois gave him a squeeze - so soft, so warm, so cuddly, fuck it, she should have just missed the last bus back and walked home from his place. A cuddle and a kiss from Clark could have shored her up for the hours of tedious non-conversation that awaited her in at dinner.  

She couldn’t fault Clark for being a little insecure after the storm, it wasn’t as though Lois wasn’t a judgmental person, she absolutely was. She just wasn’t judgmental about this particular issue, especially when it came to Clark. Reflecting on the night, she got a little squirmy about her own reaction, her surprise, at least, that he dealt with that kind of anxiety. She thought of Clark as so easy-going, sensible, chill, that he didn’t seem the type to ever truly panic, about anything. 

A Google search and a few blog posts changed her way of thinking. Clark could be a solid, sensible, thoughtful, calm person and still have an anxiety disorder. One didn’t cancel out the other. And, she read, it was important for friends of people who did have panic attacks not to treat them like they were…broken. Or delicate, after the fact. 

Clark sure as fuck wasn’t either. And he definitely wasn’t a coward - though Lois was sure he was going to be the cutest fucking thing in a Cowardly Lion costume.

When the two of them parted for the day, Lois made him promise to send her pictures and she headed home to get dressed for the night. She decided to wear The Dress to dinner, the one she bought in Smallville. Lana told her she could dress it up with heels and jewelry and Lois did exactly that. She even gave herself an at-home blow-out, following a YouTube tutorial on her phone, precariously balanced on a soap dish. Despite her grousing, she knew her dad was trying his best. She was willing to try her best too. 

As Clark would say, she was Lois Freaking Lane. And nothing if not tenacious. 

Lois Ubered to the restaurant, finding the General already seated at their table; the Uber driver’s GPS rerouted them around an alleged road obstruction, though the street was clear when they passed it. Lois wondered if the GPS was getting information from the EyeApp and they’d detoured to avoid one of Cat’s succulents.

Like his daughter, Sam Lane wasn’t a particularly large person, but he had a large presence; when people found out he wasn’t six feet tall, they were shocked . On the cusp of sixty, he looked every year of his age, with frown lines around his mouth and furrows worn deep in his brow, so his neutral expression always read as pissed. He wore his salt-and-pepper hair in the same high and tight style he adopted upon entering the Army. He stood up and gave Lois a hug and a kiss on the top of her head. 

“You look pretty,” he complimented her. “That a new outfit?”

“Uh, yeah,” Lois said, a little surprised that her dad noticed. She took her seat and put her napkin in her lap. “I thrifted it, with my friend Lana.”

“Who’s Lana?” Dad asked and, explaining who Lana Lang was, provided enough conversational fodder to get them through ordering drinks. Explaining what a ‘content creator’ was, got them through apps. 

“I don’t understand,” Dad said as they shared small plates of calamari and stuffed mushrooms. “She gets paid by YouTube to make…videos? About clothes.”

“Sort of,” Lois explained. “She has a monetized YouTube channel, so she earns ad revenue. And she has a Patreon, so fans of her YouTube channel can give her money if they want to support her. And she posts extra stuff for that, like bonus content, hair and make-up tutorials, day-in-the-life vlogs or whatever.”

The lines in the General’s brow deepened. “That doesn’t sound like a real job.”

“She makes more money than I do,” Lois informed him, though she didn’t know that for sure. What she did know was that it was even more expensive to live in Coast City than it was in Metropolis, so she jumped to the conclusion - ah. No, she did not do that. She made a logical deduction based on the available data that Lana's income stream was larger than Lois's own.

“You don’t have a real job either,” the General pointed out. The corners of his mouth were quirked in a smile, so Lois knew he was teasing, but she still wanted to kick him really hard under the table. The fact that she was wearing open-toed shoes was the only thing that made her refrain. “If you ever want a position as a copy editor, you know that door is always open.”

Oh, yeah, here it comes. When in doubt of what to say, invalidate all of Lois’s accomplishments and life choices. I guess the General got bored talking about YouTube.

“I’d rather fucking die,” Lois replied, with a smile, right as the waiter came back.

The color in his face drained and he stammered as he asked if they were ready to order their entrees. The General smirked; this was fine, this was their dynamic and if the waiter couldn’t handle stressful family dinners, they should probably find another line of employment. Maybe he  could be a copy editor for the Pentagon.   

Lois ordered the bolognese, since she was reasonably sure it wouldn’t have truffle in it. The General ordered a steak. They both got refills of their wine, which they sipped as silence descended. They’d been talking for solidly thirty minutes, which was a new record for them. Lois was going to have to text Lana, thanking her for her service in providing conversation fodder. 

Of course, thinking of Lana made her think of Smallville, which made her think of Kents and, on her second glass of wine, with nothing in her stomach but a few pieces of squid and a mushroom cap, thinking of the Kents made her jealous.

The first few days she was in Smallville, Lois genuinely thought that Clark and his parents were engaged in a pantomime for her benefit. Putting on a little show where they not only loved, but liked each other. It wasn’t that they came across as fake or inherently disingenuous, she just couldn’t believe that an adult man would willingly sit down with his mom and dad and watch television with them during his free time. That they could spend every mealtime and every car ride engaged in idle chit-chat. Granted, Clark and Mama Kent were the talkers in the family, Papa Kent was more on the quiet side, but he never zoned out, started messing around on his phone, or ignored them.

Smallville was an hour behind Metropolis. It was solidly Jeopardy time over there. The Kents were probably picking Clark up from the airport, but they could have recorded it so they could all sit down and play along together, since that was a ritual of theirs Lois noticed when she visited over the summer.  

Lois took her phone out of her pocket and surreptitiously texted Clark under the table.

Reminder: I need 🦁 pics.

Clark got back to her at once; he must have just landed.

You got it, girlie! 📸 

The food arrived, which slightly revitalized the conversation. The Lanes talked about how delicious their dinners were (Lois’s pasta was, admittedly, very good) and then her dad started talking about the upcoming food-adjacent holiday.

“If you have time off around Thanksgiving, I’m hosting Lucy and David and the kids,” he told her. “We'd love it if you came down. I can always give you a little help with the flight, if you need me too.”

Lois paused with her forkful of pasta halfway to her mouth. Fact: she did have time off to travel for Thanksgiving. Fact: she’d already booked a flight to Smallville, Kansas to spend the holiday with the Kents (and Rosses and Langs). Fact: there was no good way to tell this to her father.

She could lie. Offer up the response he expected: That she couldn’t take enough time off to justify the travel for the holiday, but she appreciated the offer. Only Lana was planning on being there. 

While Lois adored Lana from the roots of her bottle-red hair, to the tips of her immaculately pedicured toes, she knew that girl would be snapping selfies. And she also knew that, no matter if she asked her not to include her in pictures she posted or tag her in those same posts, it would slip her mind in her photo frenzy and Lois’s face would be plastered all over social media, with accompanying tags.

Lucy would see the photos. Lucy would be very upset by the photos. Dad would be upset because Lucy was upset. Cue the family drama.

It would give them something to talk about over pumpkin pie, Lois mused. Maybe she should let it ride. Do them all a favor.

Only it wouldn’t be a favor to her when they started blowing up her phone with five-paragraph texts about what a selfish, ungrateful daughter and sister she was in the middle of the Kents’ dessert course. So, to spare herself maximum misery later, Lois made herself a little miserable now. Like a freaking adult.

“Um, I already made plans for Thanksgiving,” she said, taking a bite of pasta so she had the excuse of chewing, to cover her rapidly planning how to best describe her plans.

If Clark was her Official Boyfriend, things would be different. Lucy respected heteronormativity to a pathological extent. She’d just take it as a matter of course that Lois would ditch her bio family for her boyfriend’s family on a national holiday. But since Clark wasn’t technically her boyfriend, just her friend she kissed once, it was Not The Same. 

“Change them,” the General said bluntly. “What are your plans? Take-out in bed while you watch the parade?”

Okay, ouch. To be fair, those had been her ‘plans’ for the last five years running, but the way her dad said it made them sound like bad plans, which they weren’t, just easy to execute. He should appreciate the practicality. 

“I can’t, I’m travelling,” she said, stabbing at her pasta rather violently with her fork. No way she wasn’t going to get tiny dots of sauce all over her cute dress. Maybe Lana would have some magical formula to get grease stains out of clothes.

“For work?”

“No, my friend Clark’s parents invited me to their farm for the holiday,” she said, evenly, but in a rush. Like the ideal way to rip off a band-aid. “I already said yes and I have my flights booked, so they’re not plans I can change.”

“Who’s Clark?”

“He’s a friend of mine, we met at work,” Lois said, which wasn’t a lie at all, but it felt like one coming out of her mouth. It was a pathetic way to describe Clark Kent, but if she said what she really thought, her dad would definitely take it the wrong way.

He’s the biggest goober I’ve ever met, he has the warmest smile and he gives the best hugs. He’s smart, but about the nerdiest stuff you can imagine. He knows the words to every Disney song and he’s not shy about singing in public. He’s funny and silly and open-hearted in a way that seemed like it should be fake, but is 1000% who he is. He has the best parents and the best friends ever. If I didn’t know him, I wouldn’t think someone like him could be real. Craziest thing of all is that he really likes me.  

“There’s always Christmas,” the General muttered. Then he smirked at Lois over his fillet. “Unless your friend’s parents invite you for that.”

The way her dad said ‘friend,’ rubbed her the wrong way. Not like he was implying that Clark and Lois were more than friends. It felt like he thought the idea that Lois might have a friend was impossible.

“They’re Quaker,” Lois said, wanting to give shot-for-shot before she realized she was hitting the Kents with friendly fire. Super inappropriate, considering their faith background. “They don’t. Um. Do much for Christmas.”

The Q-word sat as badly with her father as she suspected it would. Now it was the General who was violently carving into his dinner, like the hasselback potatoes were The Enemy.

“Oh, wow,” he said, sarcasm dripping off every word. “So your ‘friend’ is from a family of draft-dodgers.”

“They’re pacifists, Dad,” Lois replied, as though this was common knowledge and not something she discovered during a flurry of furious Googling after Clark told her he wasn’t raised to believe in Santa Claus. “Quakers - not just the Kents, but all Quakers - have been pacifists for, like, four-hundred years. It’s not like this is something they came up on the fly with to avoid serving in ‘Nam.”

The General just grunted, like four centuries of history were irrelevant. To him, they probably were.

“Well,” he said, holding out his hand expectantly.

“Well, what?” Lois asked, looking up from her plate. She should have asked for parm. Where was their skittish server?

“Let’s see him.”

“See who?”

“Oh for the love of - this friend of yours,” Dad said, still speaking the word 'friend' like he'd never heard it before and it was a new piece of slang Lois just made up. “The draft-dodger. Clark - I don’t think I know a Clark who’s under sixty.”

“That’s rich coming from the guy who named me Lois, number one baby name of 1929,” she muttered, scrolling through her phone to find a decent picture of Clark…huh. She had kind of a lot of pictures of him in her camera roll. Which made choosing one harder than she expected. 

There was one from Barcade night (you know, her ACTUAL BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION) where he was posed on a motorcycle racing game. He was so friggin’ big it looked like he was sitting on a kid’s dirt bike...yeah, not that one. Then another she snapped of him at the park, looking very sexy in his t-shirt and jeans (her dad wouldn’t appreciate it, so she scrolled on by). Then, a picture Cat texted of the two of them covering Opera Night at the library where they both looked extremely dapper (Cat was very boobalicious in the photo, which Lois admired, but the General would have Comments about). 

“It’s a family name,” the General reminded her, though, pointedly, he didn’t add that it came from Ellen’s side of the family. 

Clark in the pool shirtless…no. Clark in the field all dirty…no. Clark and his dad in accidentally matching outfits…maybe.

In the end, Lois pulled up the photo of her and Clark that Mama Kent snapped on the porch the night they all went out dancing. It was an okay picture of Clark and a thoroughly awesome picture of Lois. Dad’s eyebrows drew down over the bridge of his nose and he shook his head. 

“He’s too tall,” the General said, holding the phone out for Lois to take.

“Too tall for what?” Lois leaned over the table and snatched her phone back. Her elbow knocked into her wine glass, sloshing it over the pristine white tablecloth. Lois mopped at the spill with her napkin while the waiter made an appearance to take over cleaning the mess. He took the glass away without asking Lois if she wanted a refill, which she found extremely rude.  

“You said you know him from work?” the General asked skeptically. “What does he do?  Bench-press printing presses?”

“Weirdly, that’s not a job that exists,” Lois frowned at him. She pushed her plate slightly away from her; she hadn’t eaten much, but she’d lost her appetite. “What do you think he does? He’s a reporter. Obviously.”

“Obviously?” her dad replied, scoffing. “Cletus there looks like he doesn’t know how to spell ‘Metropolis,’ much less live here. What’s on the menu for Thanksgiving? Road kill and lard? Don’t tell me - his parents met at a family reunion.”

The fact that her dad was being such an asshole about Clark made Lois mad; the fact that he was saying the same things now that she’d thought about Clark a year ago made that fury bubble over into rage, as much for herself as for her father.  

“Fuck you,” she muttered, gloves totally off now. “Clark’s a great guy. He’s smart, he’s good at his job and his parents are fucking fantastic people - ”

“Don’t you talk to me like that,” the General said, glaring at her in earnest. “Settle down. We’re having a nice dinner - ”

“This is not a nice dinner!” Lois exclaimed, neither noticing nor caring that people were looking at them. “You’re the one who asked me to come tonight, I didn’t want to. You’re the one who hasn’t stopped shitting all over me and my friends since we sat down - ”

“Lois.” The General’s voice got tight and clipped. “Lower your voice.”

There were dozens of people - hell, probably hundreds of people - who, when her father gave an order in that tone, would have obeyed immediately and without question. Lois wasn’t one of his subordinates. She wasn’t a good little soldier. She was his daughter and at times like this, she wished from the bottom of her heart that she wasn’t. 

“I’ll do you one better than that, I’ll leave,” she said, tossing her napkin back down on her plate, just as the waiter was returning with a new glass of wine for her. “Happy fucking birthday to me. You know what would be a really great present, Dad? For you and me? Ignoring it next year.”

Lois shoved her chair away from the table, grabbed her phone, her bag, and stood up to leave. The General remained exactly as he was, tight-lipped, posture ramrod straight. 

“And just so you don’t feel obliged,” she added, white-knuckling her phone. “Happy Thanksgiving. Merry Christmas. There. Now we don’t have anything to say to each other until New Year’s. What a relief.”

Lois stormed out of the restaurant, speed-walking four blocks to the nearest bus stop, just in case her dad tried to follow her to the rideshare pick-up. Of course, he didn’t, so she jogged all that way for nothing, in heels, and her feet were killing her. 

As if to add insult to injury, Lucy texted her while she was waiting for the bus.

Dad said you threw a temper tantrum and ruined dinner. He’s trying his best, you need to give him a break. He went out of his way to spend time with you. Also, are you really spending Thanksgiving with strangers??

An Eye wafted by overhead. Lois looked right up at it and flipped it off. She held her phone up, finger poised to call Clark and yell in his ear until she felt better.

No, don’t, her common sense cut in. What are you going to say? ‘Hey, my dad saw a picture of you and he thinks you’re an inbred hick! Just in case you were wondering.’ Be nice, Lane. Let him have a good weekend. It’s not his fault that in the family lottery, he’s the big winner and you’re a loser.

The bus pulled up and Lois subtly took her shoes off for the ride. She ignored Lucy’s text, as well as the impulse to call Clark. She had nothing good to say to him and while Clark had been extremely kind to her the last time she called him to blow of steam, she knew he wouldn't take being used as her verbal punching bag as well the next time she did it. It wasn't fair to him. He didn't deserve it.

The sensation that there was a giant knot in her stomach abated by the time Lois limped up the stairs to her apartment. She was starving. Luckily, she still had leftovers from the dinner Clark made for them. 

Lois draped The Dress over the back of a chair, as a reminder to ask Lana about stain removal. She changed into sweats and put band-aids on her blisters. She turned on the TV, so the background noise would trick her brain into thinking she wasn’t alone. Then, as she went to retrieve her food from the microwave, her phone buzzed. 

Clark with the Glasses 🤓 :
Ma just hot-glued the ears. What do you think?

The image over the caption was of Clark wearing what could only be described as a tan-colored bonnet - maybe crafted from an old sweatshirt, which tied under his chin. Around his head was a “mane” made of different colors of yarn in various shades of brown and tan. There were two fuzzy felt ears sticking out of his head and he was grinning the cheesiest grin ever up into the camera.

I love you, was what Lois thought. You’re the only person in the world who makes me happy.

Of course, she couldn’t say that. It would be unhinged to make a declaration of Actual Love (via text) to a man with whom she shared the relationship moniker Friends who Kiss. Especially when said man was wearing a silly little hat.

I think , Lois texted instead, you’re purr-fect .

Clark with the Glasses 🤓 :
Aww, shucks 🥰 I’ll tell Mama you liked her handiwork. How’s dinner going?

Lois almost left him on read until she considered her immediate surroundings. She was wearing comfy clothes. She was about to eat delicious leftovers. She was chatting with her best friend. This counted as "dinner."

Dinner’s great! Have fun tomorrow!  

Clark with the Glasses 🤓 :
I’ll try, but it’d be more fun if you were here.

Do you need someone to play a flying monkey? They scared the shit out of me as a kid, but I can conquer my fears and become that which I once despised!

Clark with the Glasses 🤓 :
Believe it or not, we need a Dorothy! Assuming Maisie has completely forgotten this and doesn’t mind a repeat, we can recycle the costumes next year and you can step into the role. 

Huh. Fitting. Although Lois never would have believed it of herself, as she sat alone in her apartment, she wished with all her heart she could just click her heels and head back to Kansas.

She picked up the remote and searched through movies, making the obvious selection. The MGM lion roared onscreen, before fading into a sepia cloudscape as the opening credits of The Wizard of Oz scrolled by.

Chapter Text

Progress on the Eye investigation plateaued. Unsurprisingly, the MMPD refused to hand over a drone to be examined by anyone on the Planet staff, or a third party. All inquiries for interviews were declined with the same pat reply:

The Eye in the Sky program is an investment in community safety. The MMPD is proud to partner with LuthorCorp in this endeavor to keep our city safe. Thus far the program has yielded favorable results. 

Which was more than they got from LuthorCorp when they reached out to their representatives directly. All inquiries made directly to the company itself went unanswered and unacknowledged.

It was almost impossible to determine where footage came from when the MMPD published a photograph of a person of interest, or released images from crime scenes or areas under investigation. Maybe it was generated by the Eyes, but it could have been body cam footage or images captured on security cameras. The police department was vague and inconsistent about labeling the sources of the footage they shared with the public, but that was a persistent problem, not an issue that popped up alongside Eye in the Sky.

There was a slight uptick in the number of traffic citations and parking tickets issued, but not one that was statistically significant. If anything, far from showing the Eyes to be a problem, that data supported the claim that they were performing as intended.

Clark was aggravated and apprehensive; he couldn’t help feeling this pervasive sense of dread, like it was only a matter of time before an Eye opened fire on a civilian rather than Superman. 

Going home for the weekend provided a nice break. The only time he really had to dwell on the Eye situation was when he explained to Pete what happened on the night of the storm. They stole a few minutes to talk privately in the Kent’s barn while everyone else was getting ready for Trunk or Treat.

“What was your crime even?” Pete asked, poking straw into the brim of his hat (he’d been assigned the role of Scarecrow and just showed up in the clothes he’d worn for work in the morning). “Vandalism? They shoot people for vandalism in Metropolis?”

The dismissive response was to be expected of Pete, who made it his personal business to be Superman’s staunchest defender and biggest cheerleader, but Clark could see why the Eyes fired. He didn’t feel good about it, but he understood it.

“They might have a program to fire at armed suspects,” Clark replied, perched on a bale. He was wearing a brown button-down over a tan t-shirt. Originally he was planning on wearing his orange plaid, to be festive, but he hadn’t seen it since he and Lois went on their picnic at the beginning of the month and he suspected it was part of her stockpile of his things that she'd permanently borrowed. “There’s about a million ways that can go horribly wrong, but if they perceive there’s a discharging weapon around, that might trigger them to shoot. Which, is so fucking bad, but - ”

“You didn’t have a weapon!”

As often happened when he had these kinds of discussions with Pete, Clark felt torn. On the one hand, it was really cool that Pete cared about him, worried about him, all that. Like he was the kind of person who could get hurt, who deserved to have people fussing and fretting over him. On the other hand, it could be frustrating, feeling like Pete didn’t grasp the scope of Clark’s abilities, how very little there was to fret over. This level of outrage was warranted if the Eyes had opened fire on a legitimately unarmed civilian, but that wasn’t what happened. They fired bullets at Superman and Superman was bulletproof - not just that. Superman was something worse.

Clark looked up at him and heaved a sigh. “Pete, I am the weapon.”

Pete stared at him for a beat, his tightening as he clenched his back teeth. Despite his best efforts, he busted out laughing.

“I’m sorry!” Pete managed between guffaws. “Dude, it’s just… you saying that sentence, like you’re the freaking Terminator, while you’re wearing that hat is just the funniest shit ever.”

Okay, fair point. Clark tugged at the little bow tied under his chin.

“I’m the king of the jungle,” he intoned, trying for a flat affect and intense demeanor. “Top of the food chain. A fearsome predator. Rawr.”

“Listen, lions are big cats, but they’re still cats,” Pete pointed out, tugging at one of Clark's felt ears. “They mostly sleep all day and they don’t deserve to get shot at by drones either - oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Whatever microexpression Clark made caused a change in Pete’s demeanor. The smile fell away from his face and he crouched down, balancing his hands on his knees, to look him right in the eyes. 

“Clark,” he said seriously. “You didn’t deserve to get shot.”

“I’m not saying I deserved it,” Clark was quick to respond. “I’m just saying - ”

“Dude,” Pete sighed. He straddled Clark’s lap and put his hands on his shoulders - sitting on him was his preferred strategy when wanted Clark to pay attention to what he was saying. “No.”

Clark looked up at him with a glum expression, potentially giving more Leo the Late Bloomer than the Cowardly Lion. 

“I shot back without even thinking about it,” Clark admitted, guiltily. “I got scared, which was stupid since I couldn’t actually get hurt, but I just…Pete, it was completely destroyed.”

“Yeah, I know,” Pete nodded, like Clark was telling him some boring, mundane fact about the weather. “But it was a thing, Clark. A creepy spy camera. Not a person. And it shot you first.”

“Okay, but what if it had been a person?” Clark asked, giving voice to a fear he hadn’t wanted to admit, even to himself.

Pete was the only person who knew he'd been shot. When Ma and Pa eventually called to check in on him, he…he hadn’t lied, but he hadn’t told the complete truth either. He let them draw their own conclusions, which boiled down to the idea that he’d been felling the dead limbs and the drone got in his way. That it was a total accident. Ma shrugged it off as the cost of doing business and Pa’s only advice was that maybe next time he could let the city take care of their own landscaping. Then he went on a tear about urban landscapers who didn’t know the first thing about horticulture picking trees for style, rather than suitability for the environment, and Clark eagerly leaned into the sidebar. They hadn’t brought it up since.

At the time, he tried to convince himself he just didn’t want to worry them, but the truth was, he didn’t want them to know that he’d lost control so easily. They put so much trust in him and he was…yeah. He was scared he’d lose their trust, their faith in him, if he told them he slipped up as badly as he had that night. 

“This time it was a creepy spy camera, but…I can’t react like that again, I shouldn’t have reacted like that in the first place,” Clark insisted. He swallowed hard, eyes unfocused, looking at the wall of the barn, but not really seeing it. “I could’ve killed somebody.”

Uncharacteristically, Pete fell silent. Clark’s heart clenched in his chest, fear bubbling up that finally Pete would get it, that Clark wasn’t someone who needed protecting. That his worldview would shift, exponentially. That, next time he wanted to argue with him, Pete would choose to do it from a safe distance…or maybe he’d never argue with him again, which on the face of it sounded good, but was actually fucking horrible to think about -

Pete pressed their brows together, smushing their noses against one another’s, smearing the face paint his sister Quinn had applied an hour before. Clark had nowhere to look but his eyes.

“That didn't happen,” he reminded Clark firmly. “It wasn’t a person. You didn’t hurt anybody. Let’s think about what really went down, huh? You got shot at by some brainless machine. You shot back. A billionaire’s out ten grand - consider that a good deed, man. You’ve never hurt anybody.” 

“I could,” Clark replied, chest feeling tight. 

“Sure,” Pete acknowledged, pulling away slightly to nod at him. “But you haven’t yet. You didn’t last week. Pretty good track record, if you ask me.

“And,” he added, tightening his grip on Clark’s shoulders. “If anyone comes around shooting at my Chicken, well, just remember, I got a gun too.”

Clark’s mouth twisted in an involuntary smile. “That is the most fucking hillbilly thing you’ve ever said.”

Pete laughed and got off his lap, shrugging carelessly.

“What can I say?” he asked, giving Clark a lopsided smile. “I look after my teeny-tiny, itty-bitty baby brother - ”

“We are functionally the same age! I’m, like, a month younger than you, at most,” Clark countered, standing up and revitalizing a dispute between the two of them that started in preschool and was still ongoing. The completely outlandish comments about his stature weren't even worth remarking on. Pete would just say he had a bigness of spirit which Clark lacked.

“Listen, from the moment Doc Jackson pulled me out of my mama and slapped me on the rear, I was locked in,” Pete insisted. “I got a real jump on you in that month, so I’ve got nothing but wisdom to impart…”

“Oh yeah, you got a jump on me alright,” Clark rolled his eyes, as the two exited the barn, with the intention of asking Quinn, (extremely apologetically), to fix their face paint. “A whole extra four weeks of crying and shitting yourself - ”

“Shitting myself with wisdom!”

They didn’t talk about it again. Not the Eye program, not Superman, none of that and, for a few blissful minutes snatched here and there throughout the weekend, Clark could pretend that the world wasn't any bigger than Smallville, that he didn't have anything to worry about beyond the harvest and having a little fun with his family and friends. They went to Trunk or Treat and ate a bunch of candy, then had a fire pit. Reese's cups and good company were a great distraction. It started him off in a good mood to start the work week. A better mood than Lois, that was for sure. Clark should have brought a bag of Reese's back with him. 

Clark knew the lack of progress on the Eye investigation was getting to her. Enhanced hearing aside, he was pretty sure the rest of the office could hear the sound of her teeth grinding, not to mention the occasional growls she emitted every time she hit a dead end. 

“I can’t believe people aren’t upset about this!” Lois declared when they got together for dinner on Thursday. Clark was making chicken parm calzones and crimping the dough as she yelled at him. “We need a mandate from the masses, demanding that the Eyes be dissected or something so we know what they can do! They’re flying around overhead, capable of God knows what, the people should know!”

“The people don’t want to know,” Clark pointed out, slashing steam vents in the top of the dough before he popped them in the oven. “The drones are polling well - I don’t like it, but we’re not going to get a mandate any time soon.”

“UGHHHHHHH.” 

Lois bent over, as though she was going to slam her head on the counter, but Clark didn’t give her the chance. Rather than a formica countertop, she wound up face-down in his palm.

“I wasn’t going to do it hard,” she groused, frowning up at Clark in minor annoyance. Her expression shifted into something that was almost pleading. “You know I’m right, don’t you? That the Eyes are doing way more than taking pictures?”

“I…”

You’re right. They’re armed. They’re dangerous and I can’t fucking tell anyone and it’s driving me crazy.

Objectively, this was a good time to tell her about Whoosh. It might have been the best time to tell her - yes, there was the potential for shock and betrayal, but there was a very good possibility that Lois would be so excited about having her suspicions confirmed that she might…she might look at his abilities as a good thing, almost. Beneficial for her, at the very least, which might make the reality of what Clark could do, what he’d been doing, an easier pill to swallow.

Come on, Lion Boy. Be brave.

He almost did it. Almost full-on confessed everything while their calzones baked up in the oven. If the theory of the multiverse was correct, there was a reality in which Clark did exactly that and, after some initial skepticism, he and Lois put their heads together and typed up an article to submit to Perry’s desk in the morning. An exclusive interview with Superman himself, outlining his encounter with the Eyes and what that could mean for the public.

They didn’t live in that reality. They lived in a reality where Clark was a semi-automatic Cowardly Lion, capable of terrible destruction, but desperate to hide that fact from the person who…who maybe most deserved to know the truth about him. Both because it was in the best interest of the people of Metropolis and because Clark was becoming more and more convicted that he was lying to her. It didn’t feel good.

What held him back from spilling his guts was the comment Lois made, months ago, when they were discussing Superman, the questions Lois would ask if he did sit down for an interview with her. Clark threw out the notion (as a hypothetical possibility) that, maybe, Superman was just…a guy. A guy trying to do the right thing under strange circumstances.

Lois responded to that suggestion with an immediately scoffing dismissal, pretty typical of her when she was in Debate Mode. Then she said something that knocked Clark’s sense of self slightly out of orbit. What you’re suggesting would actually be kind of horrifying. Superman just being…some dude with infinite power. 

The use of the word ‘horrifying,’ the way she threw it out there so casually, like it was a no-brainer, haunted him ever sense. Yeah, there was a chance Lois would be okay with knowing he was Superman, knowing about his abilities, maybe grateful he told her if it helped her blow the story wide open. But there was an equally likely chance that she’d be horrified. Scared of him. And Clark wasn’t brave enough to face that possibility. Not yet.

Too bad you can’t go to the Wizard to get yourself a shot in the arm of courage - not that it would help. The Wizard was just a shady con artist from Kansas, after all.

“I think you’re right,” Clark settled on, finally. “But we need proof and the cops and the tech bros don’t want us to get it.”

“That’s proof enough!” Lois declared, slamming her hand down on the counter, which was a major improvement over slamming her head. “If they’re not hiding anything, what’s the harm in letting us look at their drones?”

Clark made a more-or-less gesture with his hand. “Careful. That’s sounding like that thing your dad said about how if we don’t have anything to hide, we shouldn’t mind being filmed.”

Lois actively glowered at him and Clark instantly knew he’d stuck his foot directly in his mouth. 

“Fuck LuthorCorp,” she said succinctly. “Fuck the MMPD. And fuck my dad.”

Clark paused as he removed a jar of pesto from the fridge, looking at Lois curiously. “Did something happen?”

Lois nodded, “He was an asshole when we got dinner so I told him to fuck off and not talk to me for the next three months - oh, yeah. I didn’t tell you that, sorry, I kind of lied, I didn’t want to dump on you and mess up your weekend.”

As they ate dinner, Lois told him that, rather than being great (with an exclamation point!), her birthday dinner with her dad was a huge disaster. He was rude, dismissive, and apparently made some pointed comments about Clark himself that must have been bad because Lois declined to tell him exactly what he said. 

“I’m so sorry,” Clark said, putting the dishes in the sink, feeling just awful that her father treated her that way, that he turned what was supposed to be a celebratory event into an opportunity to pick on her. 

“Don’t be,” Lois replied, flopping down on the couch in front of the TV. “I gave him hell, told him to fuck off right in the middle of the restaurant, so we’re even.”

Clark frowned at the back of her head, biting back a sigh. Whether Lois publicly shamed her dad or not, it didn’t make the situation suck any less. Piling on, getting the last word…Clark couldn’t be sure, but he had a hard time imaging that it completely took the sting out of her father’s nasty comments.

Family feuding was at topic pretty far out of his wheelhouse to address. It wasn’t that his parents never disciplined him when he was a kid, or that they didn’t disagree, that they never disappointed each other, but…they weren’t mean to each other in the way that the Lanes were. They didn’t try to make each other feel bad, they didn’t pick each other apart, they didn’t try to score points based on who came up with the best zinger. They cared for one another, they wanted the best for each other, regardless of whether they saw eye-to-eye on everything.

And when they messed up and hurt each other - never intentionally - they owned up to their mistakes and apologized. That was where the healing was. In Clark’s experience, genuine remorse and forgiveness was the only way for either side to actually feel better. To get back to ‘even.’ And it was absolutely awful that Lois's experiences were so far outside what he thought of as the norm.

He joined her on the couch and opened his arms as an invitation to cuddle. Lois fell against him, clinging on, burying her face in his chest, and gripping his shirt tight in her fingers. 

“I wish you told me,” he said, holding her around the waist with his left arm, rubbing his right hand over her back. When he held her like this, it always took him aback how tiny Lois was. Still a powerhouse! But maybe not quite the one-woman army she gave the impression of being. “You should have. You could have called.”

Lois snorted skeptically into his chest. She balanced her arms on his chest and Clark adjusted slightly so that he was basically lying down. If they were at sea, she could have used him as a floatation device. 

“Yeah, that went great for you the last time I was pissed at my dad,” she reminded him. “I was a total bitch and I made fun of a baby - like, the most helpless baby, one that’s still in the womb and can’t even come out and fight me.”

“Well, Baby Kearns is due in February,” Clark told her. “She can fight you then. I’ll give Kelsey and Evan some tiny boxing gloves at the baby shower, that way she’ll be prepared.”

Lois snorted again, but this time it was because she was laughing. It was honestly a relief; between work stress and family stress, Clark hadn’t heard her laughter in a week and he missed it. 

“I didn’t want to wreck your weekend with Hurricane Lois,” she told him. “Not when last weekend got wrecked by…okay, well, it wasn’t a hurricane by the time it got here, but you know what I mean.”

Clark did know what she meant and he appreciated it, but it was also very important to him that she know her options for reaching out when she needed to weren’t limited to, ‘Be extremely nasty over the phone,’ or, ‘Suffer in silence.’

“It’s not…I don’t want you calling to pick a fight,” he admitted.

“Fair,” Lois said, banging her forehead gently on her folded arms. When she spoke it was into his shirt. “That’s why I didn’t call you, doofus. I’m trying to be good at friendship, give me a little credit here.”

“I’m not done,” Clark continued patiently. “I don’t want you calling just to pick a fight with me when you’re upset, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t talk to me at all when you’re upset. Just…pick a different lead-in.”

Lois lifted her head again, raising an eyebrow at him, like he’d asked her to do something that was theoretically possible, but extremely unlikely to be successful. Like successfully balance on top of the Daily Planet sculpture while it was rotating.

“For instance,” Clark suggested. “Instead of being like, ‘Baby Kearns isn’t cute, you liar,’ you could be like, ‘Hey, Clark, I went through something really rough today, do you have time to talk about it?’ and I’ll be like, ‘I’m sorry to hear that Lois, what happened? I always have time for you.’ Like that.”

Lois’s mouth went small and tight as her right leg swung up and down, big toe tapping him repeatedly on his left shin. “That sounds fake.”

For all that he tried to school the muscles in his face into an expression that wasn’t, ‘Oh, baby girl, what happened to you?’ Clark was pretty sure that was exactly the sentiment he was conveying. He didn’t think Lois would appreciate it, but he couldn’t help it. Clearly something (maybe several somethings) had gone sideways in Lois’s life that left her thinking she couldn’t ever ask people for help or…or be wrong, or turn to another person for support. That made her think the only way to cope with conflict was to get even.

“It’s not,” he said, raising a hand and tracing his thumb down the side of her face. “I promise it’s not…do you…what do you think’d happen if you called me up and said all that? Really, what do you think?”

Lois frowned and hoisted herself up, hiding her face in his neck. Clark caught her up in his arms. Her voice was muffled when she spoke but he still heard her clear as day.

“I think you’d laugh at me,” she said honestly. “Or…okay, maybe not you, you might not laugh, but you’d blow me off because no one actually wants to deal with my shit.”

Clark had been taught to believe that violence was never the answer. It was a lesson he learned well and agreed with. However. Hearing Lois say that made him want to gather up everyone who’d ever laughed at her or blown her off when she needed them and…well. Give them a strongly-worded talking-to, at the very least.

“I do though,” Clark insisted. “I want to deal with your shit. Lois, I care about you, we’re friends. Friends care about each other, they do things for each other. In good times, bad times - ”

“Better, worse, richer, poorer, blah, blah, blah,” she muttered, still not lifting her head from his neck. “You're just plagiarizing wedding vows. Clark, I’m the child of divorce, that crap doesn’t work on me.”

Clark wasn’t about to launch into a spirited defense of the institution of marriage. He’d seen it work, but he knew Lois had seen it disastrously not work. Both could be true. 

“It’s not just for marriage,” he said, wrapping her up tight in his arms, wishing he could convince her of his sincerity through osmosis. Maybe this was how Pete felt every time he sat on him to have a serious conversation. “It’s any close relationship, you know? It’s not just about having fun and all that, we stick with each other through bad times too. That’s…kind of the most important time to stick it out with someone. We all…wade through each other’s shit together, if you want me to get all farm life about it. Hey, you stuck with me the other night.”

“That’s different,” Lois said, shifting her weight, turning her head so her face wasn’t quite as smothered in his shoulder. “You were having a…chemical imbalance, you couldn’t help it, you needed someone - ”

“Girl, you do not need a doctor’s note for me to take care of you,” he interrupted her. “You can just be having a bad day. You are entitled to ask for help from a buddy on a bad day. I think that’s in the Constitution.”

Lois went quiet, considering. Then, “How many bad days do I get before you get sick of me asking?”

Clark might have interpreted her comment as sarcasm, if he hadn’t had that talk with Pa weeks ago.

“I knew she didn’t trust people. So she’d test me out. See what it took for me to write her off.”

“You can always ask,” Clark told her truthfully. “And if I can’t answer the phone or I need a minute before I get to you, I’ll always call back. I’ll always get to you. I promise.”

On instinct, because it was a habit between him and Lana, Clark raised his right hand, thumb and pinkie extended. Either Lois saw them do it before, or their Pinkie Promise Ritual was not as proprietary as he thought because Lois linked her pinkie with his, gave her thumb a peck and said, “Quack,” same as he and Lana did.

Then she followed up with something neither he nor Lana had ever done. She tilted her chin up, parted her lips and asked, “Care to seal that with a kiss?”

Did he ever.  

The old wives’ tale about two people consuming garlic canceling the taste out while kissing was true. At least, when Lois’s lips fell on his, Clark didn’t detect anything but sweetness in her kiss. 

For a brief, blissful few minutes, everything fell away, as it had in Smallville over the weekend. The world wasn't any bigger than his couch and he couldn't imagine having anything more important to do with his time than kiss Lois. Just a guy and his favorite girl. Not a weapon. Not a target. Nothing that would horrify anyone.

Of course, Clark being Clark, couldn't remain cocooned like that indefinitely. He always kept a listening ear out. Just in case there was trouble. Although, even as he listened, he bargained in his mind. With what, he couldn't say. Something like...God, or the universe, maybe.

I'll tell her, I promise I'll tell her. Not yet. Another day. Another week. Let me have this a little while longer. Please. 

Chapter Text

For three weeks the best of the best of the Daily Planet’s crack team of journalists were devoting their considerable investigative powers to uncovering any nefarious goings-on in the Eye in the Sky program. In all that time, they hadn’t been able to prove that the MMPD was misleading the public about the true purpose or capability of the drones they purchased from LuthorCorp. The rumor around the office was that Perry was going to reassign them all to different projects. 

He’d already taken Clark off the story. Perry said (not wrongly) that there were other issues in Metropolis that needed attention. Where he was royally fucking up (in Lois’s opinion) was deciding that the Eyes didn’t need any attention. 

She was desperate. Desperation made her reckless. And recklessness had her up on the roof of the Planet with an expensive piece of camera equipment, which she didn’t know how to operate. Lois should have paid more attention to Clark and Jimmy when they nerded out about photography. She figured it was just a matter of point and click, but alone with thousands of dollars worth of camera stuff, she found herself riding shotgun on the struggle bus. It didn't help that she’d forgotten about Daylight Savings Time and it was hella dark outside. 

Jimmy asked Lois whether or not she knew how to use a telescopic lens before he gave her the key to the camera cabinet. She hadn’t technically said yes, just made a scoffing sound and held her hand out expectantly. It got her the key and she was currently squinting at her phone which was queued up to a YouTube tutorial, trying to figure out how to attach the lens to the camera. It was…not going particularly well. 

You should’ve asked Clark to come on this stake-out, she thought as her frustration with the camera mounted. Text him now. He said he’d come if you called.

Lois could not allow herself to get sidetracked by Feelings at the moment, but she was fairly sure that when Clark said, ‘I’ll always come when you call,’ he meant if she was…sad or something, not banging expensive pieces of camera equipment together, in the dark, trying to take a picture of another piece of camera equipment.

Jimmy managed to do wonders with the blurry-ass video she took on Clark’s phone and Lois figured that if she got a clear, close-up image of one of the Eyes, it might reveal…something. Enough of a something that Perry didn’t pull the plug on her investigation, while wagging a finger at her and saying, ‘Let this be a lesson to you about jumping to conclusions, young lady.’ 

She was saving them both an uncomfortable meeting with HR; if she had to deal with more Father Knows Best bullshit this month, she was going to go ballistic. 

Lois had a moment of triumph when she got the lens attached to the camera…then plunged into deepest despair when she held the camera to her eye and couldn’t see anything out of it. 

Call Clark. He knows about cameras. Even if this is a wild goose chase, you can count on him not to laugh at you. He promised.  

She didn’t care about getting laughed at. She cared about getting the story. 

Oh, hey, hi, this is your common sense checking in with you - is this about The Story or about feeling like you can’t do anything right lately?

Lois gritted her teeth and messed with the settings on the camera and - aha! There was the cityscape.

She could do some things right. She could figure out how to work a camera. And she could do friendship with Clark. That she was doing very well. Only she couldn’t let herself get sentimental and sidetracked, thinking about Clark and his soft smile and his kind eyes and his pinkie promises. She had a job to do. 

“Come on, you creepy little assholes,” Lois murmured as she brought the camera to her eye. “Say cheese.”

The roof of the Daily Planet as old as balls. Because they were designated as a place of historical significance, they weren’t required to make modifications to bring the building up to code (which Lois was mindful of as she set up near one of the low ledges, waiting for an Eye to whizz by). She probably wasn’t visible from the ground, perched on the ledge of an art deco leftover from the age of the great American newspaper. 

Their newspaper were still great. In an age where print media was on the decline, they were winning awards, they had a reputation for quality journalism that was internationally renowned. Despite her frustration, she knew where Perry was coming from; the Planet had high standards when it came to the articles they published. It was part of what made them great in the first place and kept them great in a world of clickbait and Martin Maynes. 

Lois wanted to be part of that legacy of greatness, to communicate truth. Not for clicks or for internet infamy, but to do some good. To help people. Their readers had greater access to information than any generation before them. When the Planet building was new, people only had radios and newspapers to tell them what was going on around them and help them make sense of the world. Now, anyone could publish anything they liked to an audience of millions, no fact-checking, no research, no integrity. And people thought that was a good thing. Including her family.

Newspapers just feel so…elitist, Lucy told her once. Who are you - not you-you, but reporters in general - to tell me what to think?

It’s a dying field, Dad said grimly, on the day of Lois's college graduation, almost as soon as she stepped off the stage with her diploma. Ten, twenty years down the line, journalism will be a thing of the past. You’ll be okay, though, knowing how to write persuasively is a skill you can apply to a lot of different fields. 

This was her field. This was the only place she wanted to apply her skills. To cut through the bullshit, not to persuade, to grift, but to give people quality information. To tell the truth, to question everything. To answer her own question of  why she started feeling so unsafe in her city, her home of ten years, only after this ‘safety initiative’ was implemented.   

The sculpture on the top of the building - the Saturn-like kinetic sculpture that slowly rotated shone like a beacon - gave her light enough to photograph by. Lois recalled stories from the archives that she read when she was in college, about how the only time the light on the Planet building went out was when the air raid sirens went off during the war. Still, the journalists would work behind the blackout curtains by candlelight. Doing anything to get the news to the people.

She wasn’t comparing what she was doing to working during a freaking war, but it was still important. Something was wrong about the Eyes, she was certain. She just needed proof. And she was running out of time to get it. 

A whirring sound caught her ear and Lois got so excited, she almost dropped the camera. She righted it, raising it up and clicking the shutter as the Eye…froze right in front of her. 

It wasn’t moving. It was hovering only a few feet away, so close that the use of the telescopic lens would likely distort the image. For a moment, they were frozen in a tableau. A woman holding a piece of equipment in her hands, peering through the lens with one violet iris. Across from her, the hard molded plastic body of the Eye, with its steady red light, controlled by a faceless entity in an office, or functioning off of a code, programmed months ago, whatever human being was involved in its creation long gone and working on other projects.

The Eye hovered. Lois lowered the camera, confused - then it flew directly at her. 

She had to duck out of the way - it came so fast it almost took her head off. 

What the fuck -

Lois let out an involuntary scream as it charged her again. This was no close call. This was no awkward swoop. The thing was aiming for her, trying to throw her off-balance. Right at the edge of the building. 

She stumbled backwards. She dropped the camera. Then she lost her balance and tumbled, right over the low ledge of the Planet’s roof, briefly silhouetted against the light of the iconic rotating sculpture, which might be the last thing she ever saw.

When Lois fell, it wasn’t like in the movies or in books when people talked about near-death experiences. Her whole life didn’t play out before her eyes in vignettes, she didn’t see a bright light, she didn’t feel an overwhelming sense of calm and acceptance. She also didn’t experience the other end of the spectrum, not going gentle into that good night. She didn’t scream, she didn’t flail her arms. Her expression didn’t even change. The breath got stuck in her throat and Lois went so still and so stiff it was like she was already -

Saved.

Arms locked around her, she found herself pulled against a broad frame, and all of a sudden there was a big gold-and-red ‘S’ in her line of vision. 

Lois’s lungs abruptly started working again and her eyelids fluttered rapidly, the adrenaline and the wind in her face combining to make her eyes tear up, blurring the emblem of the figure who held her.

Superman. Fucking Superman. Saving her from falling off a building. What were the odds?

“Th-thanks,” she said, still breathless, shaking very slightly, blinking to clear her vision.

As was typical of encounters between the two of them, Superman didn’t fucking talk to her. Which was, okay, fine when she was shouting questions at him behind a police line, but honestly pretty rude when he’d just saved her from certain death. She thought that merited a kind of kinship between the two of them. At least enough for her to get one of his rote variations on, 'Happy to help.' Maybe his voice box was broken.

That’d be funny, Lois thought, on the cusp of hysterics from mild shock. If LordTech or Apple or whoever made him puts out a call for voice actors, and Clark gets the job and actually makes Superman sound like Kermit the Frog…

Maybe it was the fact that she’d begun breathing something close to normally again and her brain was getting enough oxygen. Maybe it was her body acclimating to being flown across the city so that her vision cleared in the breeze. Maybe it was the fact that she could swear the feeling of Superman’s chest under her cheek and his arm around her back felt familiar, but when she raised her head to look up and saw mostly the underside of Superman’s jaw, she could only think one thing.

“Clark?!”

She barked the name and that was when the flailing began, accompanied by a colorful and emotional array of cuss words. Because that was Clark Kent’s big dumb head. He might have been dressed like Superman, but she had cuddled with this man too many times to be fooled by a cosplay, especially when he tilted his head down and looked at her for the first time and - oh, yeah, the panic-stricken look in his big blue eyes was one she was intimately familiar with. Even if he slicked his hair back and traded his glasses for contacts. 

Lois grabbed Clark around the neck, hard enough to strangle him, which, on the one hand would have been bad, but on the other hand, everything was bad, actually, because Clark Kent couldn’t fucking fly! 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she asked, hyperventilating as her vision started to go black and white and fuzzy around the edges. “What are you doing? How are you doing this? Why the fuck are you dressed as Superman?

“Lois, you need to breathe regular,” he said urgently. “Or you’re gonna faint.”

It was Clark’s voice. Not his Professional Metropolis Voice. Or Superman’s Bland Newscaster Voice. Or Clark’s shitty Kermit the Frog-sounding Superman impression. This was Clark’s normal-ass, corn-fed, rural Kansas country twang. Like his vocal chords were strings on a fucking banjo. 

“Take a deep breath,” he advised her. Lois wanted to slap him, but that would require letting go of him and she was not about to do that.

“You take a deep breath!” she shot back, though the air necessary to get that sentence out did require a deep breath, so Clark got his wish, lucky him. “Seriously, how the fuck are you doing this?”

“I’ll answer all your questions,” he said, looking around apprehensively. “Just…not out in the open. Just…just in case.”

The drones. The Eyes. One of the points they’d been debating was whether or not they had audio recording capability. Or…or had they talked about that? Because while Lois definitely had that conversation with Clark Kent, Superman wasn’t third-wheeling the debate. Or was he? 

Lois wasn’t a detective, but she’d read enough Sherlock Holmes stories as a kid to have gleaned a thing or two from their pages. Specifically: When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

The idea that Clark Kent - Clark Joseph Kent, of Smallville Kansas - was Superman should have been the impossible scenario. There was no way. Superman flew around the world, saving people all the time. Clark had a job. A social life. He spent most Thursdays next to her on a couch, for crying out loud! They heard stories about Superman on the radio, they debated different theories about Superman, he couldn’t possibly be Superman! He didn’t have time! Like, what, he stopped that bridge from collapsing while he was on a bathroom break?

Maybe, Lois realized. 

She didn’t remember Clark standing around with the rest of the team, watching the live feed. She didn't pay attention to the clock. She hadn’t been looking for him. She remembered they got coffee after. He told her red velvet was his favorite cake.

The Daily Planet was a well-oiled machine, but it wasn’t a total dictatorship where management spied on everyone’s break times. No one clocked whether or not Clark was gone for fifteen minutes or fifty. And if people noticed? They would have assumed he was dicking around on his phone, or chatting with someone in the mail room, or combined his bathroom break into a break-break and stuck in a long line at the coffee shop, not that he was five states away holding up a fucking bridge.  

Lois swallowed hard and looked up. Superman wasn’t looking at her anymore, but they were slowing down as they approached her apartment. The shock of the Eye swooping bearing down on her, of falling off the roof, the numbness that accompanied those experiences, started to abate as a feeling of overwhelming dread coiled in the pit of Lois’s stomach.

They landed on the balcony of her building. It had been added in the ‘70s to give the old tenement a face lift and was probably pretty once upon a time, but no one used it anymore. The brickwork was cracked, the potted plants were all bowls of dirt. Everyone once in a while an intrepid tenant would try to revive the spot, but without much success. It was dark and gloomy and depressing; Lois never spent time out there, but it was useful in this case. It provided a way into the building without having to go through the front door.

Superman set her on her feet and Lois stumbled backward, but managed to catch herself and stay upright. He took a step toward her, hands outstretched like he was going to steady her, but she held a hand up to ward him off. Her heart was pounding in her ears, fear starting to lick at her mind. She hadn’t felt fear on the roof of the Planet, there hadn’t been time for emotions to bubble up, just her body’s desperate feinting, trying to escape, to survive. 

Now that she was back on solid ground, the fear kicked in. She didn’t turn her back on Superman as she unlatched the balcony door. It took her a few tries to get the door open. Her hands were shaking like crazy.

“Can - can I come in?” 

Clark - or Superman, or whoever the fuck - was standing there meekly among the crumbling brickwork and empty pots and it was so utterly bizarre to see Superman and Clark simultaneously inhabiting the same body. There was the Superman suit in all its big blue glory, but with Clark’s slouched posture, the nervous energy that he had when he was newly arrived at the Planet and Lois met him for the first time and dismissed him as a big, dumb hick with everything to prove. 

Clark - or, the thing that introduced itself as Clark, that she thought of as Clark - told her once that he didn’t want to come across as intimidating. She laughed at the notion at the time. Yeah, Clark was a really big guy, but he was so obviously not a threat. He held doors for people, he kept a respectful distance, he was sweet and sincere and kind and…and…

He was Superman. Superman was…massive, yes, but not in a cozy, farm-strong kind of way. Superman could lift a commercial airliner over his head. Could move container ships the way little kids could pull Radio Flyer wagons. A chill went down her spine as she recalled the Gazette photograph. He could destroy a building or a person with a glance. 

Lois was a truth-seeker. And the truth was, she was in way more danger on the balcony of her apartment building with Superman than she was on the roof of the Planet with the Eye. 

If she said, ‘No, you can’t come in, get out of here!’ would there be a point? This was Superman. If he wanted to come into her building there was absolutely nothing Lois could do to stop him. 

She almost told him to leave. Almost. Like, as a thought experiment, just to see if he would actually listen to her. If her words held any power. Of course, she didn’t. She had too many questions to ask. 

“Yeah, come in,” she said, mouth a little dry. The invitation came out in a rasp. 

Superman hesitantly followed her inside, shutting and locking the balcony door behind him. Alarm bells rang in Lois’s head, telling her she was trapped , but she tried to logic them quiet. It’s not like she hadn’t been alone in her apartment with Clark before. She never felt unsafe with him, not even for a second. Then again, that was Clark. She had no idea who - or what - the fuck this was.  

Once they were in her apartment, Lois turned on the kitchen light and stared at him. She couldn’t account for what her face was doing, but Superman looked apprehensively at her and his eyes flickered to the bathroom door. He shifted his weight slightly in that direction.

“I’ll go change into normal clothes - ” he began, but Lois interrupted him.

“No, don’t,” she said, voice firm now, the anger winning out over the shock and the fear. “You stay just like that, Superman.”

He flinched. He honest-to-God flinched. Like she’d hurt him or something, which was ridiculous - nothing could hurt Superman.

Lois breezed past him, turning her back on him. A reckless move, but fuck it, this was the opportunity of a lifetime, right? Right? If everything else in her life imploded - if the person she thought of as her best friend, as...as someone she loved - turned out to be a fucking disguise for an AI robot metahuman thing at least she’d get the exclusive about it. All of the personal stuff (her being deceived and falling for someone who wasn’t even real) could be edited out. For space and clarity.

“Are you willing to go on the record?” she asked, getting her back-up audio recorder out of her desk drawer. It wasn’t charged, but she could plug it in. She held it out in front of her like the world’s least effective sword.

Superman looked from the recorder to her face incredulously - at least, Lois figured he looked incredulous. She was avoiding his eyes and mostly staring at the shield on his chest.

“‘What’s up with the ‘S’” she asked the newsroom rhetorically when the first images of the flying man were being widely circulated. “Does it stand for…super? Super-Man?”

“You wanna…you wanna interview me?” Superman asked, still doing the Clark voice. Lois’s grip tightened on the recorder. 

“Are you,” she repeated, slowly, like Superman was incredibly stupid. “Willing. To go. On. The. Record?” 

Superman’s face fell, but Lois refused to notice. Either she was getting her story or he was wasting her time. Like he'd been wasting her time for almost a year.

“I…yeah, sure,” he said, sounding defeated. Like the flinching and the posture, she knew it was all bullshit, so she ignored the little impulse that thumped at the base of her skull, telling her to back off, she was hurting him. Nothing could hurt Superman. 

Lois turned the recorder on. This time, her hands didn’t shake.

“Where do you come from?” she asked, no introduction, no hesitation, no timestamp. She had these questions prepared for months. Clark asked about them once. God, she was such an idiot. How had she not known?

And yet, despite having essentially cheated the interview, Superman was standing there, looking all upset and nervous, like he had no idea how to answer her.

“I can’t - I can’t tell you that,” Superman stammered, holding his hands up, palms out, helplessly, which was just another lie because Superman wasn’t helpless. “Where I come from originally. I don’t know the answer to that.” 

“Were you lab-created?” Lois asked. 

“I don’t - I can’t say for sure,” he said, uneasily rocking back on his heels. The cape swayed with the movement of his shoulders, but otherwise sagged, still and heavy, toward the ground. “I don’t think so? I have a belly-button, so…probably not?”

Oh yeah, that was the headline that would break the internet: SUPERMAN HAS A BELLY-BUTTON. 

Lois had seen the alleged belly-button. She'd seen most of his body in the pool, while she sipped lemonade and Clark babysat his friend’s niece in the shallow end, on a day that seemed like it happened a lifetime ago. Hardly front page-worthy stuff. 

More little tidbits from that trip crept into her mind, side comments here and there made by or about Clark that were so insignificant she half-forgot them the moment after they were uttered.

That man is basically the Energizer Bunny.

I never plan on taking off.

Where’d you go anyway?

The last one was a question she’d asked. They’d gone out to a bar with his friends, one minute Clark was there, the next minute he wasn’t and an indeterminate amount of time later, there he was, strolling down the street. Clark responded with a non-answer when Lois asked where he went and she hadn’t pressed him because it didn’t seem important at the time. That was the night she asked Clark about the details of his adoption, his life. He didn’t know much, he told her. Not his real birthday. Not who his biological parents were. Just like Superman was telling her he didn’t know much about his origins either.

In the parking lot of McKenna’s Taphouse, she felt sorry for Clark. In the middle of her kitchen, she was furious with Superman. Had he only agreed to speak on the record because he knew there was nothing she could actually use?

This was not how she wanted her interview to go. This was not how she wanted her life to go. Still, Lois pressed on. 

“Okay, fine,” she said, a bite of anger suffusing her voice, making Superman cringe like a kicked puppy. She ignored the poor-me act. “Superman does not know from where he originated, but his anatomy suggests a biological, not synthetic, creation. I can do something with that. Next question: how can you do what you do? And don’t fucking tell me you don’t know.”

The last she added in the heat of the moment, watching his shoulders raise in a shrug, watching that stupid fucking fake helpless look flit across his face. It was bullshit, it was all bullshit and it was getting in the way of her story.

“Is it tech?” she asked, eyes roving over him from top to bottom, looking for a plug, a switch, a visible implant. “Is it the outfit?”

“It’s not tech, it’s not the suit,” Superman said, finally deigning to give her a definitive answer. 

Superman fiddled with his hands nervously, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. Those hands that held up a bridge, could carry a plane, hands that had saved Lois’s life, twitching and fidgeting like a kid who got in trouble on the playground. It was insulting. Like, how stupid did he think she was?

Pretty fucking stupid. To spend almost every day with the guy for a year and not figure out that he's Superman. To be fair to him, Lane, you fucked up big time. So much for the power of your gut feeling, huh?

“It’s just…me,” he continued, his eyes huge and...watery? Was he pretending to cry? Maybe that was another of his superpowers, he could cry on cue, a way to make Lois believe he actually got in his feels about animals in shelters or the scene at the end of Coco where the little boy plays the guitar for his grandmother. “My - um. I heard a theory once, and it seems pretty…plausible, um. That my - my abilities might have something to do with the sun. Like. Light from the sun. Maybe. Like I said, it’s just a theory.”

“You heard a theory?” she asked, interest piqued. “Who from? Who came up with this theory?”

Finally, Superman showed a glimpse of his true colors. His big sad eyes turned flinty and he shook his head.

“I’m not telling you that,” Superman said, voice firm for the first time since he advised her to breathe. 

Instantly, Lois knew this was a dead-end line of inquiry. If she was being smart, she would have pivoted, but she wasn’t smart, she was an idiot. Clearly. Since she never realized Superman was pretending to be her co-worker and friend. Someone who gave a shit about her. Someone who she gave a shit about. Someone who said he’d always be there for her, whenever she needed, that he’d never get sick of her, that she didn’t need permission to go to him for help. That alone should have tipped her off that he was a liar.

“Can’t?” she demanded. “Or won’t?”

“Won’t,” Superman shot back. “Not on the record. Um. Also. Just as a…the - the recorder isn’t actually on, I think? It - it  probably needs to get charged.”

Without conscious thought, Lois turned and hurled the thing at her living room wall. Fast as blinking, Superman sped across the room in a blur and caught it before it smashed and cracked the plaster. He opened his palm and there it lay, a tiny black box in his huge right hand. 

Lois marched up to him, snatched it back, and shoved it in her desk drawer, scrubbing her hands over her face in frustration. 

“Do you want me to leave?” Superman asked and it pissed her the fuck off.

How dare he act like this? Like he wasn’t the one who held every iota of power in the room? Like he hadn’t just moved at Mach-10 to stop Lois from destroying a hunk of plastic that hadn’t picked up any usable audio, that wasn’t even that expensive. They went for $50 a pop, she could have another one shipped to her apartment in the morning. Was he worried about her security deposit? Was she supposed to believe that Superman cared about something as insignificant as that? 

And he kept up the act, which was absolutely infuriating. Who was he doing this for? Lois’s benefit? Was it…was it funny to him? Was he laughing at her?

“Do you want me to leave and…and come back? ” he asked. “Or, what…what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to fucking stop,” Lois said, rounding on him. To her utter fury, Superman took a step back. “Stop that!”

Lois screamed at him, in a way she hadn’t screamed at anyone in years. Superman flinched again. And that was when she completely lost her shit.

“Stop pretending!” she demanded, walking right up to him, jabbing him right in the middle of the giant ‘S’ on his chest. “Stop pretending you’re just…some guy. Stop pretending I’m…making you sad. You have all the power in this room - in the world - so stop pretending that anything I do or say matters.”

Crestfallen. That would be how she described the look on Superman’s face. If she was looking at his face. If it hadn’t gone blurry again as her eyes welled up with furious tears.

“Of course you matter - ”

“No I fucking don’t,” she shook her head so hard there was a not-zero chance she’d given herself a concussion. “Not to something like you.”

The jaw tightened. The voice, by contrast, got quieter, but more resolute. “Don’t call me a thing.”  

“What am I supposed to call you?” she burst out. Her fists were clenched, her shoulders high and tight with stress. Superman still hadn’t lost his slumped ‘First day at the office’ posture he’d worn since he landed on the balcony. 

“Just…Clark,” he said and it sounded like pleading. “You can always call me Clark.”

Oh, she would have loved that. Absolutely loved it if she could, if she could go back to the way things were…an hour ago when she considered calling Clark because he promised he’d always show up for her. Before she realized there was no Clark Kent.

“Clark Kent isn’t real,” she retorted, a derisive laugh in her voice. “Clark Kent can’t be real, not if you’re Superman. Clark Kent is…”

The best person I know. A six-and-a-half foot Disney Princess. The living embodiment of a flower crown. The kindest, most generous, funniest, most ridiculous goober I’ve ever met and I love him.

Lois could never get anything right. Not about people. It figured she’d fall in love with a man who never actually existed. 

“Clark is - was - a person,” Lois said finally. “You - if you’re telling me the truth, you don’t even know what you are.”

The expression wavered and then transformed into something new. This time, Superman didn’t seem devastated or like a pathetic little meow-meow. He was angry.

“That’s - that’s bullshit,” he said, voice raising slightly. “Bullshit, Lois. I might not know what I am, or where I come from, or why I can do the things I can do, but I do know who I am, okay? I know why I use my abilities the way I do - to help people. Wanna charge the recorder? Get that on the record? The charge time on that thing is slow as shit, but I’ll wait.”

Lois didn’t want him to wait. She never wanted to see him again. 

“Forget it,” she said, blowing him off, blowing Superman off, which was potentially dangerous, but she didn’t care anymore. It was just like she thought: Superman was…a nothingburger of a story. No origin. No explanation. Good deeds. Thanks for the life-saving, but fuck you for the lies. “You don’t make good copy.”

The anger thatpuffed Superman up a second ago left him. The shoulders were once again slumped. The expression resumed being pathetic. 

“Okay,” he said, the word more breath than sound. “I’m gonna go. I guess, I’ll…I'll go.”

He almost made it to the door before he stopped, glancing over his shoulder, hesitating.

“What?” Lois asked, her voice steady as a rock while his sounded as crumbly as the 70s balcony.

“You’re not…you won’t tell anyone, right?” he asked and the pleading look was back. Like when he insisted he was Clark. “I’m not asking for me, not really, but…my-my parents and my friends, everyone back home. If it got out, it’d be hard for them. Really hard.”

Of course she wasn’t going to tell anyone. As with the Eyes, she had no real proof. Her recorder died. Who would believe her if she ran down the street, shouting to the heavens that Clark Kent was Superman?

When she thought of all the people she’d met, the connections she’d forged, the friends she’d finally made in Smallville, she wanted to be sick. Who were they? Not family, not friends. Why would Superman have friends? What did he need them for? When he could do anything, what possible use could he have for parents?

Lois felt her stomach turn over as she considered the implications. A being as powerful as Superman could make anyone do anything. Maybe they were being forced to act as a fake support system for Superman’s alter ego, a system he tried to drag her into. And everything she thought she’d gotten out of her trip to Smallville was as fake as Clark Kent, down to the hyperactive group chat. It made sense. It should have occurred to her before now that it was all way too good to be true. No one in her life liked her and cared about her as much as the people of Smallville pretended to. As much as Clark pretended to.

Maybe Superman liked cosplaying as The Nicest Most Harmless Guy on the Planet because it was funny to him. Just like pretending to care about Lois. Faking his way through hours of reality shows and chit-chat, kissing her, dancing with her, making her dinner. It was all a sick joke. And Smallville was a little Truman Show he could tap into whenever he wanted - like Marie Antoinette and her milkmaid roleplay. 

A kernel of doubt crept into her mind, a gut feeling that she couldn’t shake: What about the night of the storm? He was genuinely freaked out. He needed help. You helped him. You calmed him down. That fear wasn't fake.

For the first time in her career at the Planet, Lois took Perry’s advice. She ignored her gut and looked at the evidence. If Clark Kent was Superman, he was invulnerable. There was no reason he should ever be afraid of anything.

He got off on it, probably. Faking being this big gentle softie with a heart of gold. Touching her face so gently when he could crush her bones to powder as easily as snapping his fingers. Kissing her like he cherished her when, if he got bored, all he had to do was open his eyes and blast her skull apart like it was nothing. Like she was nothing.

Lois refused to be nothing, even in the face of a god that cosplayed as a human being. Refused to be helpless. She was smart. She was resourceful. She might not be big and strong, but she had a way with words - she’d always had a way with words. She wasn’t very powerful. But she was capable of being very, very mean.  

She didn’t completely ignore her instincts. Despite her mind insisting that this thing in front of her couldn’t be hurt, something deep inside her knew he could be. And she knew exactly what to say that would slice the deepest. Because she wanted to hurt him. She wanted to make him like his heart had been ripped out of his chest, his soul pulverized. To punish him for lying to her and making her feel loved. 

“I won’t,” Lois informed. Then, with a smirk and an air of bravado she didn’t actually feel, added, “I mean, do I have a choice? If I don’t do what you want, can’t you just kill me? It’d be easy for you.”

Off with his head.

Superman’s face crumpled. His chin trembled. His voice broke.  

“If you actually think that,” he said, with such convincing devastation that Lois almost apologized, “then…you don’t know anything about me. And I mean nothing, Lois. Nothing.”

He walked past her and Lois's whole body tensed when he drew beside her...but he wasn't looking at her. He kept going. He left. Shutting the door behind him with a gentle click.  

She didn't chase him out into the hallway. She didn't run after him to get the last word. She sank down onto the floor, onto her knees, covered her face with her hands and screamed. Screamed like her heart was breaking, the world was ending. Then, when she ran out of breath for screaming, she cried. Sobbed, right on her kitchen floor in a way she never had. Not when her mom left. Not when her sister cut her out. Not when her dad made it clear what a disappointment she was to him. She was crying like someone had died.

And the sickest part of it all? The only thing she wanted to do, as she felt the pain and grief and misery flood over her, eclipsing her fury, was call Clark. 

I'll always call back. I'll always get to you. I promise.

Lois thought she was a truth-seeker. And she'd been taken in by a huge, obvious lie. It was fact, maybe more than anything, that left her wrung out and gasping for air on the cold tiles. That she couldn't trust Clark Kent was painful, that she'd let a being of immense power get close to her, make her feel things she'd never felt before, was terrifying. But the worst part of all was the overwhelming knowledge of just how wrong she'd gotten everything. Lois didn't trust other people, that was a constant. But she'd always been able to trust herself.

That trust was gone. Shattered. And it was going to take a hell of a lot more than $10,000 to put the pieces back together.

Chapter Text

She knew. She knew and she hated him. Worse than that, she was scared of him. 

No matter how many times Clark replayed the night in his mind, questioning what he could have done to handle himself better, how he could have spoken to her differently, it all boiled down to the same thing: Lois falling, him catching her, and everything else breaking apart.

There was no scenario in which he let her fall. Heartsick as he was, through the noise of his misery, Clark held on to the one good thing he knew to be true: better for Lois Lane to be in this world, than to have been taken out of it. Regardless of the fact that saving her might cost him everything, there wasn’t a shadow of a doubt in Clark’s mind that, if given the choice to do it again, he’d do it all over again.

The pain he was feeling now was nothing compared to the relief of having her safe in his arms. Even if she’d never feel safe with him again.

Clark called out sick from work. He didn’t try to justify it as being for Lois’s sake, ‘Oh, she’ll feel more comfortable if she doesn’t have to see me for a few days,’ that would be total bullshit. He called out for himself. Because he couldn’t handle looking into her eyes and seeing that fear again. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

It didn’t occur to him to stay at his apartment that night. Not because he was worried Lois would go back on her word, but because he spent so much more time in his apartment with Lois than without her that it felt less like his space and more like…theirs. He knew he wouldn’t sleep if he went there, and while he wasn’t technically tired, he desperately wanted to go to sleep.

Clark let himself into his parents’ house through the back door; it was midnight when he got in and they were less likely to hear him creeping around in the mudroom than in the front hall. 

Callie was the only one in the house who heard him come in and she padded over to him, uncharacteristically subdued. She sat at his feet, tail slowly wagging against the floor. She cocked her head up at him with that collie-typical curiosity. Her furry little eyebrows were raised and her entire demeanor seemed to ask him if he was okay.

“Hey there, girl,” Clark intoned softly, dropping down to his knees, reaching a hand out to give her a scratch behind the ears. “You’re not scared of me, right?” 

Callie hopped up on him, paws on his thighs, neck straining to reach his face and give kisses. Clark picked her up in his arms, buried his face in her fur and stifled a sob. 

Everyone else who knew what he could do (officially or unofficially) had known Clark his whole life. He only started to change into…whatever the hell he currently was in junior high. It didn’t escape his notice that their baseline perceptions of him were as a regular kid who’d developed the ability to do impossible things, so it was likely that, when they thought of him, they’d think first of Clark Kent, whose most remarkable childhood achievement was making it to the State Finals for the Spelling Bee in fourth grade (he came in 62nd out of 150 kids and spelled ‘violaceous’ with a second ‘i’ instead of an ‘e’). 

Can I have a definition? 'Of a violet hue.' Can you use that in a sentence? 'Lois Lane has violaceus eyes.'

He still thought of himself, fundamentally, as the person he’d been in the first half of his life. The kid who worried a little too much, cried a little too easily, was a mediocre baseball player, an excellent speller, and a voracious reader. Who was goofy, compassionate, kind, a good friend, a good son… who was Clark Kent, in short.

Lois was the first person who’d found out about his abilities who hadn’t known him since before they manifested. And she looked him right in the face and declared that Clark Kent didn’t exist. That because he could do what he did, all his other qualities - his humanity - didn’t count. That he wasn’t a person anymore. She called him a thing.  

It wasn’t true. Clark knew that wasn’t true. Still hurt, though. Still really fucking hurt. 

After he let her go, Callie stuck with him like glue the rest of the night. The stairs creaked, so he didn’t go up to his room, just lay down on the sectional for the night. She curled up right beside him; there was plenty of space because the couch was ridiculously large for the size of the living room. His parents bought it when Clark was in high school, though the original couch wasn’t worn out enough to merit replacing. They paid it off in installments. Because they wanted to have furniture he would be comfortable on. 

His parents, their neighbors, his friends, they all knew him as he was and when he changed, they accepted it and accommodated him. Lois only knew him as he was now and when she found out exactly what he was, she reacted just like she said she would. She was horrified. She wouldn’t use his name.  

Clark couldn’t get it out of his head, the contemptuous way she said, ‘Superman.’ The cold look in her eyes when she declared that it would be easy for him to kill her. 

Maybe it hurt so bad because while she wasn’t right, she wasn’t technically wrong either. What he could do was pretty fucking scary. And if she couldn’t see him, only the potential he had to cause harm…yeah. She had every right to be afraid. 

“Elizabeth! The last I heard, you’re in Savannah, you got married after art school, happilyyyyyyy!”

Clark must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew sunlight was streaming through the front window and his mom was singing in the kitchen. 

“I don’t want to look you up! I’m pretty sure it’s just enough. When you put on ‘Little Queenie’ and bring me another whiskey - oh, shit! I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t know you were in there, want some coffee?”

Ma was paused in the doorway, holding the coffee pot in one hand and her travel mug in the other. She was fully dressed, with a bandana tied over her hair to keep the flyaways out of her face. She was probably doing oils with her students and she hated getting paint in her hair. She basically lived in bandanas during Hell Summer. 

“No, that’s okay,” Clark said, sitting up. “I’m sorry I…um…”

She set the mug and the pot down on the coffee table with a thud. Ma sat down on the arm of the couch and looked down at Clark, brow creasing with concern. “What’s wrong?”

When she was right in front of him, looking at him so closely, it was harder to dance around the truth than it was talking to her and Pa on speakerphone. Besides, he was supposed to be in Metropolis. If he said, ‘Nothing, just really wanted to sleep on this particular couch, that’s all,’ she’d never believe him. 

“I needed a break,” he said, which was closer to the truth, but nowhere close to an explanation. “I took a sick day.”

Ma smiled at that, but the line between her eyes didn’t ease at all. She was the one who told him that mental health was included under the umbrella of ‘health’ and therefore it was totally legitimate for him to call out sick from school, work, whatever if he felt like he needed it. No doctor’s note required. Like he told Lois about asking for help.

She’s never going to call you again. She’s never going to trust you enough to lean on you ever again. She might never feel safe in her own home again, she knows if she changes the locks you can just tear through them like paper -

“Clark?”

Clark blinked, and when he focused on his mother’s face, the smile was gone. Mama was looking at him with real worry, he must have zoned out. 

“Do you want me here?” she asked, removing her phone from her pocket. Mama changed her lock screen; it was a picture from Trunk or Treat where he was wearing the lion mane hat she made. “I can take the day.”

“No, don’t do that,” Clark insisted, sitting up straighter, swinging his legs over the side of the couch, as though he was about to get up, even though as soon as he heard the car back out of the driveway, he had every intention of crashing into his real bed, just so he didn’t have to replay this conversation in twenty minutes when Pa came downstairs. “I’m fine - ”

“Does this have to do with that picture?” she asked, a steely note entering her voice. “The one where you look scared half to death?”

Well. Apparently his ability to conceal, don’t feel, was just as shitty over the phone as it was in person. So much for not worrying his parents.

“Daddy and I knew something must’ve happened, you looked like someone took a shot at you,” Mama continued, then she caught a glimmer of some telling expression on his face and her eyes went wide. “Are you serious?!”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t have to - holy hell, you got shot?” his mother asked, her hands hovering anxiously over him, like she wanted to check for a wound both of them knew didn’t exist. “Who by? Some looney-tune who’s obsessed with Bradford Pears?”

“What’s all the commotion?”

Pa was on the stairs, still in his night-clothes, his straw-colored hair stuck up all over the place; he needed a haircut. Otis bounded past him down the staircase, making a beeline for Clark. He jumped up on him and started enthusiastically licking his face, tail wagging so furiously the coffee pot was at serious risk of being knocked clean off the table. 

“Clark got shot,” Mama informed him, holding the pot clear of danger, as Pa’s face went pale.

“Not really - Otis! Otis, sit,” Clark said, trying to bring order to chaos.

“Now’s when you think that dog needs to learn his manners?” Pa asked incredulously. He hustled down the stairs so that both he and Ma were standing over him, radiating concern. “When’d this happen? Last night? You okay?”

“It was weeks ago, I’m fine,” Clark insisted. Otis continued pawing at him, probably because he’d never heard Clark give him a direct command before and had no idea what he was being asked to do.

“Otis, settle,” Pa said and, instantly, the pupper lay down at Clark’s feet. Mama looked at her watch and cursed.

“Y’all are gonna have to work this out,” she sighed, then gave Clark an apologetic look. “If we weren’t starting a new unit, I’d stay - ”

“You don’t have to stay,” Clark insisted. “I’m fine.”

Ma put the coffee pot back down, crouched down and looked at Clark over the rim of her glasses. She said, with a tone that would brook no back-talk, “Don’t lie to your mother.” 

Then she wrapped him up in a fierce hug and kissed him on the side of his head.

Clark hadn’t realized how much he needed a hug until his mom’s arms were around him. He hugged her back, feeling his throat close up and his eyes get hot. Not the dangerous kind of hot. Just the regular, weepy kind. 

Mama didn’t let him go. She adjusted her hold on him, tucking his head into her neck and scratching her fingers through the hair on the back of his head. Clark took a minute to get himself together, until he was able to relax. She didn’t loosen her hold on him until he started to pull away first.

“I love you, baby,” she said, more softly. She took his face in her hands and gave him a kiss on the top of the head. “We’ll talk when I get home.”

Clark didn’t say anything - he’d definitely cry if he tried to talk, and if he cried his mother would call out of work and he’d feel worse than he already did. To spare them both, he just nodded. Ma didn’t bother with her travel mug; she just took the entire coffee pot with her when she went to the car. 

“None for me, then,” Pa muttered, but he didn’t seem too hard done by. He sat on the coffee table facing Clark, leaned his elbows on his knees and asked, “So. What’s going on?”

Clark looked down at Otis, not even sure where to start. The night of the storm? Last night? Way back to when he came up with the whole idea of flying around the world in the first place? Every choice he’d made for the last three years led him here. With a little distance, he might be able to balance out the good he’d done with the harm and find that the good came out on top. Right now, it was hard to have any perspective.

Lois found out what I can do and she thinks that’s all I am. It scares her. I don’t want to scare people. 

“Hey.”

Clark raised his eyes. Pa reached out and gave his arm a squeeze.

“We can leave it, if you want,” he offered, though worry was etched in every line of his face. With a small reassuring smile, he added, “‘Til your Mama gets home, at least.”

“You deserve to know,” Clark said hoarsely. He sniffed and cleared his throat. Otis pressed his wet nose into Clark’s ankle and Clark bent down to give him a scratch. 

Pa stood up, stretched a kink out of his back and inclined his head toward the kitchen. “I’ll get out that French press machine, make some coffee and some breakfast. You come on in when you’re ready, okay?”

Not for the first time, Clark marveled at his father’s capacity for patience. Forget heat vision or flying, Pa was the real superhero in the room. 

“Thanks, Papa,” Clark said. Once Pa was gone, Otis jumped back up on him and, true to form, Clark didn’t try to curb his enthusiasm. 

After some love from his sweet baby boy, Clark felt a little steadier. Steady enough to follow his nose into the kitchen where Pa set out hot coffee and fresh-griddled breakfast sandwiches - eggs, bacon, and hot sauce for himself, eggs, bacon, and cheese for Clark. 

“I hate that thing,” Pa glared at the French press. “I can’t ever get a clean cup of coffee out of it, sorry about the grounds.”

“That’s okay,” Clark replied reflexively. “Thanks for breakfast.”

Pa didn’t poke or prod. He didn’t ask him any questions or look at him with an air of expectation. He poured them each a cup of coffee (Clark’s loaded up with milk and sugar), and sat down, starting in on his sandwich. Of course, he would have known something was wrong. Clark cut his sandwich into triangles, picking them up, eating slowly. He only made it a quarter of the way through before he started talking.

Pa already knew a lot about the Eye program from their previous conversation over the phone. This time, Clark told him everything he told Pete. That the Eyes were armed. That he’d been doing everything he could to uncover a piece of hard evidence which supported his claims, but had come up empty and eventually been removed from the investigation.

“Perry wants to shutter the whole thing, but I think he’s holding off because Lo-Lois is so invested,” he said, voice catching on her name. Clark addressed the tabletop rather than his dad directly when he said, “She has a hunch. She’s usually right about things.”

Then he took a breath, braced himself and said, “She knows.”

Pa’s expression didn’t change. He took a sip of his coffee. Then he replied, “You said that like it hurt worse than the bullets.”

Fuck, if that wasn’t true. Clark let his coffee get cold as he told him, as best he could, what happened the night before. He heard her scream, found her falling off the roof of the Planet building and caught her - 

“What the hell was she doing up there?” Pa asked, interrupting him for the first time.

Clark…didn’t know. There hadn’t been time to ask. She might have gone up to clear her head, he knew she liked the view of the city from up high, she’d told him that before. He could attest it was an amazing sight, having been up there a few times himself. But the building was old. The ledges were low. And if Lois slipped and fell, there was nothing she could do to hold herself up.

“I don’t know. It didn’t seem as important as her falling was,” Clark said, swallowing hard. 

It wasn’t often that he helped individual people. Usually, when he intervened it was for large-scale disasters, where dozens of lives were at stake. It was rare that he got up close and personal with anyone afterwards, though there were some folks emblazoned on his memory. A family he’d rescued from a wild fire. An elderly woman who lived alone and broke her hip, whose soft moans of pain caught his ear only because he’d misplaced the plug of his white noise machine and heard her when he was trying to sleep.  A man who’d gotten lost hiking and hadn’t had any water in almost two days. 

The image of Lois’s body careening toward the ground as part of that group of people, the memory of whom made his breath catch as he wondered, What if I didn’t get there in time?

Clark told his father the rest. How he rescued her, dressed as Superman and she recognized him almost immediately. Until…until she stopped seeing him at all.

“I probably should’ve told her before,” Clark said. Then he frowned and corrected himself. “No, I should have told her. Way before now. I was…I was being a coward. I knew - I knew she’d be scared. I was right. When she said that…when she said that if she knew Superman was just…some guy, she’d be horrified, I should’ve told her then or…or maybe left her the hell alone. So she could sleep easy at night.”

Pa’d finished his sandwich already, but he hadn’t touched his coffee since Clark started talking about what happened yesterday. His lips were pressed into a thin line and his knuckles were white, hands folded tight on the top of the table.

“I wish she was just mad at me,” Clark concluded quietly. “If she was mad, I could…I could apologize. Make amends. If she’s just plain scared of what I can do, of - of me, I can’t blame her for that. And I can’t do anything to…to fix it.”

If Pa was a different sort of man, no less kind, but a little less honest, he might have tried to reassure him. Tell Clark that he was wrong, that this was a salvageable situation. That he hadn’t made any mistakes. That Lois would come around. That there was nothing to be afraid of.

He didn’t say any of that. Instead, he stood up and moved around the table to Clark’s chair. Like Mama did in the living room, he gave him a hug, tucking Clark’s head under his chin. 

“I’m sorry, buddy,” he said simply. “I’m really sorry.”

Clark was sorry too - he wanted to tell Lois that so badly. He promised he’d be there for her. When she told him about her family, about how she didn’t believe there was anyone who would let her lean on them if she needed help, he promised he could be that person for her. He let her down. Just like everyone else had let her down. If she forgave the rest, how could she forgive him for that?

Pa didn’t say anything more. He hugged him tight. Kissed him on the top of the head, just like Ma did. And carried their empty plates and half-full mugs of cold coffee to the sink. 

“I’m going upstairs to get dressed,” he said, resting a hand on Clark’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. The look in his hazel eyes was pure sympathy. “Then I’ll head out back. You know where to find me.”

Clark joined his dad at work. Pa didn't kept their conversations to the matters at hand, he didn't ask any questions of Clark about Metropolis, Lois, Superman, nothing. He provided him with the space to take break, but occupy his mind and his body, which was exactly what he needed. If he didn’t, Clark might do something awful like spy on Lois, which he was sorely tempted to do. Just take a listen, see if she was at work, reassure himself that she wasn’t all alone, that she had people around. 

Keeping busy stopped him from doing that. If he was honest with himself, Clark knew that, even if Lois had gone to work, she wouldn’t be any less alone. She didn’t trust anyone. She barely trusted him before yesterday. And he’d irrevocably broken that trust.

Saving lives isn’t only pulling people out of fires or flood zones. There’s so much more to it than that. You can hurt someone without raising a hand to them. Shatter a person just as easily as shattering a drone. You should have been more careful. She deserved better from you. 

Could she have gotten better, though? Along with her screams, her words played over and over in his mind. The things that were true. The things that weren’t. 

Stop pretending you’re just some guy!

Clark Kent isn’t real.

Can’t you just kill me? It’d be easy for you.

Some thing like you. 

You don’t even know what you are.

No. No, he didn’t. Clark didn’t know why he had so much power. Too much, maybe, for one person. He’d spent the past decade trying to justify it to…to justify his existence. And he’d been doing okay. But after what Lois said to him, he couldn’t shake the sense that he'd been wrong all this time.

If I just use my abilities to help people, that means I'm okay. Acceptable. It means I’m allowed to be here too. In a world where I can do so much harm, if I do good instead, that balances the scales. Doesn’t it? 

It didn’t. Not to Lois. Not to him. All it did was wake up all the fears of his adolescent mind, his teenage self-doubt.

There’s something wrong with you. You don’t belong here. You’re gonna slip up, you’re gonna hurt someone. You need to hide. Somewhere far away where you’re no danger to anyone and no one has to be afraid. Where Lois can know for sure that the monster’s gone and will never scare her again.

As the sun began its descent over the horizon behind the house and Pa was showering off the worst of the day's work, Clark was sitting on the porch steps, watching the sky turn a darker and darker shade of blue until his mother’s car came into view. 

There were flecks of paint on her overalls, the toes of her clogs, the fabric of her bandana. She took it off and tucked it in her back pocket. There was color under her fingernails and she smelled strongly of turpentine. 

Pa must have called her on the ride home to tell her what happened because she didn’t ask him any questions. She sat down beside him on the steps, right up close. She put an arm around his waist as best she could and leaned her head on his shoulder. 

When he looked down at her, he saw her eyes were bright and he felt answering tears of his own well up. Clark took a sharp breath, voice trembling as he asked, “You must’ve been scared too, right? Even if you never showed it?”

Mama swallowed and raised her head up so she could look him full in the face.

“I was scared for you,” she told him. Though even as her eyes spilled over and she raised a paint-stained hand to brush at her eyes under her glasses, she added, “Never of you, Clark. Never.”

“How?” he asked, voice breaking. “How, Mama? When I’ve been - I’ve been fucking terrified since I was twelve years old.”

She caught him up in her arms as he had it out on her shoulder, like he had when he was sixteen. Was it always going to be like this? Falling apart and pulling it together, faking it, until he couldn't, over and over again until he…until she, both of them, his mom and dad were…gone?

And that was another big fear of Clark’s. The biggest one of all. What if, just like how he couldn’t get sick or hurt, he couldn’t die?  

His parents wouldn’t be around forever. Or his friends. What if, at the end of it all, it was him all alone with his abilities and no one who knew him before was left? And then, when everyone who loved him was gone, it would be as Lois said? Clark Kent would no longer be real. There would only be Superman, this…this thing without a family. Without a home. Without love. How could he lay claim to any humanity once there was no one left who saw him as human?

“I hate this,” Clark whispered, a truth he’d never spoken aloud, barely allowed himself to think because it was too big, too awful. If he said it aloud, how could he possibly go on? How did any of the choices he made in life even make sense? “I hate being like this.”

Mama froze up against him, going stiff all over. Then she took a deep breath, letting it out really slowly, like she was absorbing a blow. 

“I know, baby,” she replied simply, rubbing a hand up and down his back. “I know.”

Incredibly, once it was out in the open, Clark didn’t feel the weight of his own words driving down on him, sinking him into the muck and mire like he thought they would. Saying it, the unspeakable truth, hearing his mother’s accepting response made him feel...lighter. Like he’d put down an unbearably heavy burden after a long journey. Planes, trains, cars, he could carry without an effort. Keeping this secret, though? That had been unfathomably heavy.

“Do you hate it?” he chanced to ask her. “Did you? Ever?”

He felt her shake her head. No.

“I hate that it’s so hard for you,” she admitted. “But I don’t hate what you can do - how could I? It’s all part of you. And I could never hate any part of you, baby. Never.”

Clark pulled away to wipe his face, but his mother gently urged him to put his hands down. She took off his glasses and hooked one of the arms over the bib of her overalls. She wiped at his tears with her own thumbs, smoothing the skin of his cheeks. Her own face was wet, but she dried her face with her sleeve. 

“Remember that time we went clothes shopping?” she asked, putting her right arm through the crook of his left elbow, holding him close to her. “That August before Junior Year? After you outgrew everything in your closet over the summer?”

How could he forget? It had been horrible . Not just the aches and pains of a body shooting up and out faster than it was meant to, but the indescribable shock of passing a mirror day to day and not recognizing yourself. Ma figured he couldn’t go back to school naked and arranged a non-negotiable trip to the mall, which was a completely reasonable decision, even though Clark threw a hissy fit at the time. 

He dreaded seeing himself reflected in the eyes of others, the double-takes, the open-mouthed gawping and pointing and, ‘Holy shit, get a load of that guy,’ that he shouldn’t have been able to hear, but did anyway. Wondering what was wrong with him. What he was taking. If he was safe to be around. Yes, he remembered, but he wished he didn’t.  

“Yeah,” he said, apprehensively, not sure where Ma was going with this.

“We were coming home,” she recalled. “And you asked me to pull the car over. You did the same when your eyes shot off the first time, in the spring and…you probably know this, but when we got home after that, I cried and cried. Like I said, I was scared for you.”

Clark did know. He heard her crying in the kitchen all the way in the upstairs bathroom. He’d known she was breaking down, but she held him up, despite all that. 

“So, when you had me pull the car over again,” she continued, “I was…worried. That it’d be like before, that you’d show me something you could do that you that - that you hated. But you remember, don’t you? What it was you showed me. And you hadn’t shown Pete or Papa yet, so you know I felt real special.”

Clark remembered. “I flew.”

“You flew,” Mama nodded and she was smiling now. “And, baby, I’ll tell you, I almost cried again, but because I was so relieved. I could tell you were…joyful, up there, and I thought - I thought thank God, that you had an ability that didn’t scare you. That made you happy. That’s when I knew you’d be okay. That everything was going to work out.”

“That was when?” Clark asked, both eyebrows shooting up. “You sure said it a lot before!”

“You need to hear it!” she exclaimed, the smile fading a little. “You were having such a hard time. And…I know it’s still so hard. And it doesn’t feel this way right now, but you’ve come so far from when you were younger. I’m proud of you. For that and a million other things.”

Clark’s throat went tight again. How the hell was she proud of him? When she knew he panicked over being shot? When he hurt Lois so badly? 

As though she could read his mind she asked, “Have you…reached out to Lois at all? Sent a text or anything?”

No, the only way I wanted to reach out was to eavesdrop and make sure she didn’t spend the day alone in her apartment, terrified that I was going to kill her. 

“I think I’m the last person she wants to hear from,” Clark said. “Ever again.”

“Mmm,” Mama hummed, like she doubted him. She sucked her teeth and regarded him frankly over her glasses, before she removed his frames from her overalls and put them back on his face. “I wouldn’t be so sure. I…ah…see a lot of me in that girl. I won’t tell you what to do, but…I think she’d feel better if you sent her a message. I think you both would.”

Clark wasn’t going to go so far as to tell his mother to her face that she was wrong, but she hadn’t seen Lois the night before. The look in her eyes on the balcony, the sound of her voice when she screamed. There was no way Lois wanted to hear from him. Not a chance.

“I scared her,” he said simply. “I scare her, I shouldn’t talk to her. Not unless she tells me she wants me to.”

Ma’s mouth worked, like she wanted to say more, but was holding herself back.

“Okay,” she said, sounding more resigned than accepting. She gave his arm a squeeze. “I’m gonna head in, get supper started. You coming with me, or you wanna sit out here a while longer?”

The sun was setting in earnest and the stars were starting to come out. It was pretty, but it was early; Clark never liked winter. He especially disliked winter in the city. TV and Takeout was a godsend to look forward to on days when he went to work before sunrise and went home after sunset. It was way too soon to look that far forward, but a winter without Lois was going to be unbearable. He never liked the dark. 

“I’ll go in,” he said, standing up, holding out a hand to his mother, so she could get to her feet. “Want any help?” 

She took his hand and got to her feet, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze before she dropped his fingers. “That’d be great, baby, thank you.”   

While Ma cleaned up, Clark checked his phone for the first time that day. There were 60 unread messages in the friendship group chat, one from Cat telling him she hoped he felt better soon and asking if he needed her to pick up any meds, and one from Lana:

Why did Lois unfriend me on socials? I know *I* didn’t do anything so it must be YOU. Did y’all have a fight????? (You can’t be fighting, like Dido I WILL go down with this ship!) 🚢

Clark texted her back one word:

Whoosh. 

The phone buzzed immediately.

“What happened?” Lana asked him as soon as Clark picked up. “How’d you tell her? Was she mad? Is she mad at me?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Clark replied. “I can’t really talk, I’m helping my mom with dinner - ”

“You’re home?” Lana asked incredulously. In a more subdued tone she added, “It was that bad?”

“Yeah,” Clark said, unable and unwilling to lie. “She’s…she’s really scared, Lana. Of me.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone, punctuated here and there by shuffling noises. When Lana hopped back on the line she only said, “See you tomorrow.”

Clark sputtered, holding the phone slightly away from his face. “What - ”

“See you tomorrow,” she repeated. Then she hung up.

Chapter Text

Lois went to work because of course she did. 

She wasn’t going to let Superman chase her out of her job. She wasn’t going to let Superman chase her out of her life. This was her city. She’d gotten there first. She was a ride or die for this town and if Metropolis wasn’t big enough for the two of them, it was on Superman to get the fuck out.

Which he…did. Without an old-West style stand-off to mark the occasion, which would have been fitting considering his Son of the Heartland persona. Maybe now that Lois knew about him, he decided to go full mask-off.

It was kind of a let-down, honestly. Once she was all cried out (and whoever said crying was cathartic was a fucking liar, it just gave Lois a headache), she hyped herself up for a confrontation.

Instead of sleeping, she strategized. She could picture the whole thing so clearly, Superman dressed like a knock-off Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society. She liked to imagine a look of surprise crossing his big, dumb face, like he imagined she wouldn’t have the nerve to be sitting at her desk, clacking away at her keyboard, doing her job, all nonchalant and normal. She might even smile at him, just to fuck with him, and her eyes would communicate ‘I know what you are,’ and then he’d be so unnerved by how calm, cool and collected she was that he’d shed the Clark Kent persona like a snake or leave, burst out through the roof of the Planet building in a blur of blue and red, leaving behind a frumpy sweater vest and a pair of glasses. 

Assuming she wasn’t hit by falling debris, Lois would be able to stand in the ruins of their office, asbestos raining down on her and declare that she had the story. That she was going to run the expose of a lifetime. Everyone would be cowering under their desks like in a 1950s Cold War PSA, but they’d tentatively rally, bolstered by her calm demeanor and crack journalism. Perry would vow to submit her article to a Pulitzer jury before it was even written. 

Imagining the fantasy was better than sleep, Lois decided. She got to work early on to stake out her territory (and scurry up to the roof to grab the camera equipment and return it to the cabinet before anyone noticed it was missing). She was ready.

Superman never showed up. In fact, he called out sick, which was hilarious . When he sneezed, did he take out city blocks?

Okay, so, no epic stand-off appeared to be in her future, but Lois still basically won. Superman ceded territory. She straight-up Louisiana Purchased his ass and no wonder. Knowing that Superman hid behind the persona of Clark Kent, Best Guy in the World gave her a tiny bit of leverage over him, a modicum of power. It meant she couldn’t actually publish a Man of Steel expose (blackmail was only useful BEFORE the person with the knowledge spilled the beans, not after), but whatever. Lois imagined that Superman was drafting a resignation letter that would hit Perry’s desk in the morning and the Planet would officially be hers.  

Knowing she’d gotten the better of him in one area of her life - in the most important area - bolstered her spirits. Especially when she came in to work on Day 2 of Superman’s Sick-Out and found herself pulled off the Eye story. Not just her. The entire investigation was being called off.

Perry didn’t even have the decency to tell her to her face, he sent an email, like a coward. It concluded:

If, at any time, new information emerges which is in the public’s best interest to know about, the Planet will be there to break the story.

It was almost as pat as the communication they got from the MMPD and Lois was tempted to transfer it to her spam folder, just to be petty. Especially because Perry reassigned her to an investigation of the landscaping company that contracted with the city to maintain their green spaces - he didn’t think there was enough story with the Eyes, but he did think there was enough story with Superman’s pruning activities.

He was raised on a farm, he knows what a sick tree looks like, Lois thought, scanning her assignment with disgust. There’s your story, Chief.

Lucky for her, the assignment came at the end of the day on Friday, which meant she didn’t have time to do much more than send out a few emails and look up the information about who applied for the contract when the city put it out to bid. That left her the weekend to…

Do absolutely nothing. This wasn’t the kind of story that required putting in any after hours legwork. The people she was going to be contacting were city employees, they clocked out early and maxed out their sick time. Lois wondered if this was a punishment for her wasting the paper’s time and resources on the Eye drama. 

Whatever. Lois was an adult with a credit card, living in the most exciting city in the world. People made travel vlogs that went viral with titles like ‘The Best Way to Spend 24 Hours in Metropolis!’ With 48-uninterrupted hours, the city was her oyster. She could go to a club or take herself to dinner, catch a live show or a movie. The Metropolis Ice Rink opened after Halloween, she could see if Clark was around and wanted to check it out -

Fuck. She caught herself doing that more times than she liked to admit. Lois would see a funny Reel or meme and be half-way toward texting the Menace Formerly Known as Clark before she remembered and hastily deleted the message. She found herself on the cusp of making plans, scrolling through lists of upcoming events around town and thinking to herself, ‘I should see if Clark wants to check that out.’

Superman broke her brain, clearly. Mind control was obviously one of his unreported powers and it was still affecting her. Whatever. Lois was tough. She’d beat it.

If she could get a good night’s sleep first. Lois was on the verge of turning her 48 hours of unstructured time into 36 hours, when her phone buzzed insistently at 8A.M. on Saturday morning and woke her up from a fitful night’s sleep.

One of the first things she’d done, after learning the truth about Superman, was to distance herself from his lackeys. She left the group chat and unfollowed everyone she met in Smallville on social media. She didn’t need PeteRoss’s Trunk or Treat photos popping up in her timeline. She didn’t need to see video recommendations for Lana Lang’s YouTube channel. 

The most recent video was titled, ‘Are They…You Know?: Cary, Kate, and the Complicated Legacy of Sylvia Scarlett,’ which Lana talked about all the way back in the summer. She said her film critique videos didn’t do as well as her try-ons and hauls, but they were her favorite videos to make. Lois promised to watch it to boost viewership. Now she had the channel blocked.

She hadn’t blocked their phone numbers, though. Lois thought about it, but couldn’t bring herself to hit the button. Not because she thought they were friends or anything, she figured that she’d keep an escape route open if they decided to get out of Superman’s thumb someday.

Although it was a fake social life, it still stung slightly when she realized how much she’d been relying on it for microbursts of serotonin. Lois hadn’t received a single text in two days. Every time she opened Instagram, she got the sad sack message: ‘You’re all caught up on recent posts! Click here for recommendations.’

It was therefore a bit of a surprise when her phone woke her up at 8AM on Saturday with a text which purported to be from Lana Lang:

I’m outside, let me in.

Lois blinked at it, then put her phone back on her bedside table (there was plenty of space for it, she’d cleaned up the glasses after the night Clark…after the night Superman …after the night of the storm when she realized she lived in squalor). There was no way - Lana lived in Coast City, clear on the other side of the country. The odds of her being outside Lois’s apartment were -

Buzz. Buzz.

I’d shimmy up the drainpipe, but I don’t know which window is yours. I have coffee. And bagels. LET ME IN LOIS 🥯☕

What. The. Fuck.

What the hell was Lana doing in Metropolis? Why did she want to see Lois? Had Superman sent her? If so, why did she bring bagels rather than, like, wrath? Other than the fact that bagels were easier to carry.

Buzz. Buzz.

GIRL IF YOU DON’T GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE IN THIRTY SECONDS I’M GOING TO START SINGING AND YOU KNOW I GOT SOME LUNGS ON ME.

Lana was the loudest person Lois had ever met. That was the deciding factor that drove Lois down the stairs of her building, not a moment too soon. It took Lois approximately forty-five seconds to get from her bed to her stoop if she hustled; she could hear Lana through the heavy wooden door.

“OUR GOD IS AN AWESOME GOD, HE REIGNS FROM HEAVEN ABOVE, WITH WISDOM, POWER, AND LOVE OUR GOD IS AN AWESOME GOD - oh, thank Christ.”

It was an effort for Lois to keep from smiling. The song, coupled with the oath, the unselfconscious singing, immediately followed by the relief that she could stop now that Lois was there. It was just so Lana. Or, at least, the version of Lana that Lois met in Smallville, which was not the version standing outside her building.

Ordinarily, she was styled to the nines, in an adorable vintage-inspired outfit. Hair teased, full face of make-up, the works. Today she was wearing leggings and an oversized sweatshirt which said, ‘Just a Barbie, Looking for her Midge’ in the iconic pink Mattel font. Her hair was up in a clip and there wasn’t a single speck of make-up on her face. Because Lana was Blonde, Actually under the henna dye job, she had basically no eyebrows to speak of without cosmetic enhancement. She resembled nothing so much as an exhausted-looking egg with killer cheekbones. Like Humpty-Dumpty’s hot daughter.

“I was going to Uber right from the airport, but I figured if I came bearing snacks, you’d be more likely to open the door,” Lana said, stepping over the threshold, breezing past Lois with the coffees and bag of bagels from Holey Dough, a breakfast place that was heavily advertised as being one of the best in Metropolis, that Lois kept meaning to try, but hadn’t. “I just got black, I figured you could zhuzh it up with whatever you’ve got at your place - which one is your place?”

Lana only stopped moving and talking when she reached the staircase and needed some direction. There was a carry-on duffel bag hooked over her shoulder; considering the number of bags Lana packed for a week in Smallville, Lois would be shocked if she was planning on spending more than one night in Metropolis.

Lois glanced outside, not sure what she was expecting to see - Superman, maybe, hovering over the sidewalk with his arms folded, glaring at her with his eyes aglow. He wasn’t there. It was just the usual cohort of dedicated runners, people walking their dogs, and parents with strollers, on their way to the park.

“Upstairs?” Lana guessed when Lois didn’t answer immediately. “I figured because you took your sweet-ass time getting to me and these sandwiches are heavy - ”

“What are you doing here?” Lois demanded, folding her arms defensively over her chest. Then she dropped them because Lois Lane didn’t play defense. It was Lana who should be squirming here, not Lois. She hadn’t done anything wrong.  

But…genuninely, why? If she was there to yell at her for disrespecting Superman, why bring food? And if she was there to ask Lois for shelter in getting away from Superman’s little Supe-topia in Kansas, why would she be singing awful religious ballads at the top of her lungs which Superman would definitely hear if he was tracking her.

The look on Lana’s face gave nothing away. Her face wasn’t screwed up in anger, or tense with desperation. She was smiling. Legit smiling, like they were real friends and she’d dropped in to shoot the shit.

“To serve up some hard home truths with a side of carbs,” she replied, shaking the take-out bag in Lois’s face. 

It smelled so fucking good. And since a world without Clark Kent meant a world without TV and Clark Cooks, she had been bereft of delicious leftovers this week.  Not that she’d felt like eating much. Yet the sight of Lana and her goodie bag of bagels triggered Lois’s baser instincts and she found herself suddenly famished.

As justification for her actions, Lois told herself that free food was the only reason she was letting Lana in. Whatever she had to say to her, she had until Lois finished her bagel to get it out. Then her perky butt would be out on the street in her Old Navy leggings and…Lightning McQueen crocs. If Lois thought Lana was the kind of person to own crocs, those were not the ones she would have picked for her. 

“Oh, cute!” Lana crowed approvingly, when Lois let her into her apartment, toeing her crocs off by the door and setting her bag beside them. “I love that hideous balcony, it’s giving early season Sesame Street in the best way. Shabby, not chic, but there are so many pots for puppeteers to hide behind. Do you want to sit out there and eat?”

Out there? Out there where she discovered that she’d been living her life and planning trips and making friends based on the biggest deception of the century? That she was blowing off her family to spend the holidays with fake people in a fake town, encouraged to do so by a fake man? That they’d weaseled their way so successfully into her head that she found herself bragging about those people and defending them from her dad and sister? 

If she took a single bite of food on that balcony, there was a not-zero chance she’d projectile vomit it all over Lana’s travel clothes. Which wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of blowing chunks all over one of her irreplaceable vintage finds, so, no, she would not fucking like to eat on the balcony. 

“There aren’t any chairs,” Lois said. Lana was undeterred. 

“That’s fine, your couch works!” she said brightly, setting the sandwich bag down on the coffee table. “I got us their most popular breakfast sandwiches, the Nacho Average Egg and Cheese - it has salsa, so it’s probably soggy by now, I’ll eat that one if you have texture issues. And the Mortgage Payment. It’s basically an avocado toast, so the reference is kind of dated, but it’s allegedly good.”

She breezed around the kitchen, opening cabinets, while Lois wondered whether or not she should brush her teeth or something so she wasn’t a completely offensive specimen. Then again, did she care? Lana was so obviously Team Superman that she deserved to be punished with morning breath.

“I hate drinking coffee out of paper cups, it affects the taste, I swear,” Lana kept rambling on, pulling down two mugs. It was a mark of how well she knew Lois that she subtly checked them to make sure they were clean enough to drink out of.

Lois felt her face flame. Not that she was embarrassed about the state of her dishes, but because it was humiliating that Lana should know her like that, that she’d let her guard down and been so fucking open and trusting of people who were barely people. Just pawns in a weird game Superman was playing with her.

Lana decanted the coffees into mugs. She put the bagels onto plates, noting approvingly that they’d been cut in half already. She sat down in Lois’s usual place on the couch, leaving her to fill in the corner Superman usually sat in.

Was this a mind game? Did Superman tell her, ‘Hey, when you get in there - she’ll let you in, carbs and cheese are two of her weaknesses - make sure you sit on the left-hand side of the couch’? That would be insane, but there was nothing sane about this entire situation.

“I’ll take the soggy sandwich,” Lois said, not sitting on the Superman cushion, but on the middle cushion. It placed her closer to Lana than she wanted to be, but at least she wouldn’t have to sit in the Superman corner.

She took a bite of the sandwich, which was a little drippy, but not a textural disaster. The coffee was…truly excellent, she was forced to admit. 

The only thing that shut Lana up was the food. She ate her glorified avocado toast and sipped her coffee casually, like they were two buddies who were having a lazy at-home brunch, rather than adversaries in the Superman war.

Lois knew Lana wasn’t to be trusted the moment she laid eyes on her. She was too polished, too put together. Clearly her Sapphic Pixie Dream Girl Next Door energy was a facade, possibly designed by Superman. He was a decent writer, after all. Maybe everyone was just working off a character sheet he gave them. It made sense, right? Everyone she met, if Lois really thought about it, was pretty tropey…just with some inexplicable extras thrown in for no reason.

Pete Ross clearly fulfilled the role of Charming Idiot Blorbo, the only catch there was his ridiculously large family. If she was editing The Smallville Show manuscript, she’d tell Superman to drop at least three of his siblings. Keep Cassie for the snark and the oldest sister Maureen, so Superman could add ‘is good with kids’ to his collection of green flags. 

Mama and Papa Kent also had way too much backstory going on and, frankly, it made their characters inconsistent and unrealistic. In what world did two people who’d been let down so badly by their families go on to become so fucking good at parenting? There was no way. Just keep them simple-minded farm folks who never had a hard day in their lives and came from standard nuclear families. Boring, uncomplicated individuals who were actually equipped to raise a boring, uncomplicated son. Also - Quaker? When coming up with the religious background of a Typical Midwestern Family, whose first instinct was, ‘Ah, yes, Quakers! Kansans fucking love oatmeal!’

Lana set her plate down with a clatter, startling Lois from internal script doctoring.

“Clark doesn’t know I’m here,” Lana informed her. “He thinks I had to book it back West to finish up a filming deadline, which is true, but fuck it, some things are more important than the algorithm. I was basically halfway to Metropolis anyway, so I figured I might as well come see you.”

Hearing Lana throw out the name ‘Clark,’ so casually stung in a way Lois didn’t expect. She folded her arms and put the last few bites of her bagel on the plate. She wasn’t hungry anymore. 

“He doesn’t know?” Lois asked, sarcastically. “Man can allegedly hear a person scream halfway around the world and I’m supposed to believe he’s not keeping tabs - ”

“Oh, ladybug, I’m not playing this game with you,” Lana rolled her eyes and adjusted her seat, crossing her legs and turning to fully face Lois. “I took a red-eye to get here and you know I don’t sleep on planes. I’m coming up on twenty-four hours straight up wakey-wakey eggs and bakey. I look like shit and I brought you breakfast, so let’s not, okay?”

Lana took a huge gulp of coffee and finished her mug. She glanced over her shoulder at Lois’s coffee pot, then got up to make more coffee, talking the whole time.

“I’m not going to bother getting into a whole thing about how Clark Kent is an actual cinnamon roll, too good, too pure for this world,” she said, pulling the container of store-brand Trader Joe’s out of the fridge. “Because and - let’s be so fucking for real right now - you already know that.”

Lana poured several heaping tablespoons of grounds into the filter, added water, turned it on and waited. When she spoke, it was to Mr. Coffee and not Ms. Lane.

“Clark thinks you’re scared of him,” she said bluntly. “He’s holed up at his parents, wringing his hands, fucking heartbroken about it since, surprise! That’s basically his worst fear…which I think you might know? I tried to set the record straight, but he wasn’t ready to hear it. Doesn’t matter, I know you wouldn’t have acted like such a bitch if you were actually afraid - ”

Okay, enough. Breakfast or no breakfast, Lana couldn’t just waft around, saying whatever she wanted and expect Lois to sit there and take it. Maybe she wasn’t going to do battle with Superman, but Lana Lang was a worthy opponent.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Lois snapped, half-rising off the couch. “Do you know what he can do? And you’re going to come in here and tell me off because I was a bitch?”

Lana turned away from the coffee machine, a look of deepest astonishment on her face.

“I’m not telling you off!” Lana exclaimed, flabbergasted. “I’m relating to you. Lois, I am the queen of the Saying Mean Shit to Clark Kent for No Good Reason. I’m the fucking President and Founding Member of the Clark Kent’s Bitchy Friends Club. You’re now the Vice President. This is our first official meeting. It’s a very small club, thank God, because I don’t think that poor boy’s heart could handle more than two members.”

“He’s not a ‘poor boy’!” Lois burst out, though she did lower back down to rest on her knees on the couch cushion. “He’s…I don’t what the fuck he is. A metahuman on steroids?”

“Girl!” Lana yipped, more excited than upset. She crossed back to the couch, clambering over the arm to sit beside Lois. She drew one leg up and clasped her arms around her knee. “You are literally me. I accused Clark of being on steroids too!”

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and started tapping, looking for something specific. Her eyes lit up when she found what she was looking for. Lana held the phone out proudly for Lois’s perusal. It was a Facebook memory from twelve years ago. 

It took Lois a minute to realize the picture was of Clark and Lana, both of them looked so different. Lana was still blonde and rocking the best of 2010s fashion. She also had braces, which thinned out her lips and showed that even Lana Lang, Certified Glamazon, had an awkward phase. 

There were photos of Little Clark around the house in Smallville, including an entire wall leading up the staircase charting his school photos from grades K to 12. Superman had one of those faces whose key features were recognizable from a young age. The black curls, big blue eyes, and dimples were constants. The kid in the picture had all that, just without the glasses that were part of the Clark Kent persona. 

From the neck down, though, there was nothing distinct about him. He was taller than Lana, but not by much - Lana was about half a foot taller than Lois herself and, in the photo, she was about eye-level with Superman’s (Superboy’s?) chin. He was wearing a t-shirt and shorts and had the kind of nondescript, gangly build typical of most teenage boys. Not someone anyone would look twice at. 

“I spent the summer before junior year as a counselor at sleepaway camp,” Lana explained for context. “I was gone mid-June to August and the Kents took us to the go-cart track my last night in town. Pretty sure it was the last time Clark fit in a go-cart so it was a momentous occasion. Not that anyone knew that at the time.”

She held out her hand for her phone back and, once Lois returned it to her, did a little more scrolling. Before Lana handed it back, she held it to her chest. Like she was giving the phone a supportive hug.

“I have, like, two pictures of Clark from when we were juniors,” she said. “He hated having his picture taken - luckily he’s over it now or we legit could not remain friends. Mama Kent always took our picture together on the first day of school, he only agreed to be in this one ‘cause she asked. So, just to be clear, this was taken three months later.”

Lois took the phone. Lana looked exactly the same, down to the braces and the Bumpit in her hair. The figure standing beside her was immediately recognizable as the version of Clark Kent Lois knew. Which meant he looked totally different from the boy in the first picture - not in the face, the face was basically the same, but it was like someone copy/pasted his head onto a completely different body. Lana’s head only came up to his shoulder and his shoulders were almost as wide as the door behind him. 

Another notable thing about the second picture was the room for the Holy Spirit Clark and Lana left between them. At the go-cart course, they had their arms around each other in a casual, comfortable, friendly pose. In the back-to-school photo, they were standing slightly apart, each radiating, ‘Can we just get this over with?’ energy. 

“I think he grew, like, four inches in four weeks? Something insane like that,” Lana said, taking her phone back and frowning down at herself and Clark. “Which maybe wouldn’t have been that traumatic on its own, but by July he started having trouble fitting in compact cars. And I had no idea because he didn’t tell me.”

The camp Lana was working at had extremely limited internet access, so Clark and Lana were forced to communicate with each other via letters, like it was the ‘90s.

Lana had alluded to this before, that Clark was self-conscious about his size because he had a crazy growth spurt in high school. 0/10 unrelatable content for a girl who’d gone through life as the shortest member of every class she was in, but even Lois, who would have loved to dip into the 50th% percentile for height, wouldn’t have wanted this kind of transformation. 

There was an ache in her chest that made her uncomfortable to contemplate. Superman was the ultimate power fantasy - bigger and stronger than everyone else, impossible to harm, capable of destroying the world, doing whatever he wanted. You’d think the average teenage boy would have been ecstatic about becoming something so awesome (not in the ‘80s sense of the word 'awesome,' in the Biblical sense). To hear Lana tell it, that wasn’t the case.

“Looking back,” she mused, “like, not to play armchair therapist, but I think he was…trying to pretend it wasn’t happening? Because I wasn’t around, I was the only person who, when I thought of him, pictured him how he was before Godzilla puberty hit. Then I saw him and I… Freaked out doesn’t do it justice. I said heinous things to him, accused him of some truly unhinged stuff.”

It probably wasn’t that bad, Lois found herself thinking uneasily. You probably didn’t call him a thing.   

“And, fun fact,” Lana continued. “I never apologized to him about it! I realized that when I was talking to Clark yesterday, like, we got over it because he made the effort and was like, ‘Hey, babe, ’ - this is the vibe, not a quote, he’s never called me babe - but in terms of vibe he was like, ‘Hey, babe, I’m not a ‘roided up toxic alpha bro now, the new look is part of a series of random other things I have going on that are honestly a lot weirder than just magically having biceps the size of your head!’ And I was like, ‘Oh, shit, I get it now, we’re cool.’ Except I never said sorry for dragging his ass until literally yesterday. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is while you might not have been the most super hecking valid version of yourself the day you found out about Whoosh, I’ve been there, it’s basically fine.”

Then she smiled like she’d brokered world peace or something. Far from hating to burst her bubble, Lois felt a grim satisfaction build in her chest. Delicious breakfast aside, Lana had come all the way out to Metropolis for basically nothing. She thought she knew Lois? She didn’t know shit.  

“If you think a few pictures and a sob story is going to get me on Team Superman - ” Lois began, but that was as far as she got before Lana interrupted her. 

“Oh, no,” Lana shook her head emphatically. “I fucking hate Superman.” 

That was…not what she was expecting. Like, at all. 

Seeing Lana on her stoop after all that happened the other night, Lois assumed she'd come to defend Superman. That this was all a lead-in to tell Lois all about the good he was doing for humanity, that he stood for…for truth, justice and the American Way or some crap. To shake her finger at her and scold Lois for not being supportive enough of him. To tell her how grateful she should be for the man in the cape.

She jumped to a conclusion. Perry would be disappointed, but not surprised.

“I don’t know if you remember, the day we went to the fair I was bitch-bitch-bitch to him,” Lana said, but Lois didn’t need the reminder. 

She remembered Lana making Clark pinkie-promise not to “take off.” Clark disappeared shortly after the group finished lunch and didn’t come back until dusk. Lana accused him of blowing them off, Clark got all butthurt about it, then she and Pete left the fire pit and when they came back, Lana and Clark made up. 

Lois was cuddled up with a bottomless glass of wine at the time, mostly concentrating on trying to up her relaxation game. The night overall was a little fuzzy, but she remembered thinking that their fight seemed weird and pointless. Wild what a few months and a little perspective could do. Lana was pissed off that Superman was ignoring his friends and family to save strangers. It was simultaneously deeply understandable and incredibly selfish. 

Despite Lois’s misgivings about him, she had to admit that it was hard for someone to justify going on a Ferris Wheel if there were lives at stake. Hard to justify someone riding a Ferris Wheel at all when they could fly. Which led Lois to wonder what Superman even got out of The Smallville Show. Surrounding himself with regular people living regular lives, wouldn’t that be boring to him? For a guy who could move at the speed of sound, didn’t they seem slow? No wonder he didn’t bother with the thrill rides, his whole life was a thrill ride.

Yeah, he didn’t go on the thrill rides. Instead he took a baby to a petting zoo, Lois reminded herself. How do you square that, Lane?

“Okay,” Lois said, folding her arms. She backed up slightly, inadvertently winding up in the ‘Clark’ portion of her couch. Lois almost scooted forward, until she remembered that she wasn’t ceding territory to Superman. Then she jammed her shoulder into the arm of the sofa, pressing herself against the cushions. “So, you want him, what, to be a regular guy for you? He’s not, and being delulu about it isn’t going to make your life better.”

“Lois, shut the fuck up for a second and listen.”

That was rich coming from the woman who showed up unannounced, at her apartment, and dominated the entire conversation. Lois was tempted to physically throw Lana out the front door, but something in her voice stopped her. Despite the mile-a-minute gabbing, the no-shits-given rambling way she talked, when she told Lois to shut up, she sounded more serious and more vulnerable than she’d ever heard. 

So, Lois shut the fuck up and listened.

“Clark’s big thing is that, because he has all these crazy powers, people will be scared of him,” she said. “But my thing is…I’m not scared about him having powers. I’m scared of him losing them.”

Lana drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. She looked past Lois, out the window to the balcony. Her gaze was sad and faraway.

“We don’t know why he can do what he does,” she said, uncharacteristically quiet. “It’s something that just…happened to him, all of a sudden. And because Clark’s a Kent and the Kents are good neighbors, he feels like because he can be the best neighbor in the world, he should do that. And…obviously, it’s good, the work he’s done. The people he’s helped, holy shit, the lives he’s saved? It’s objectively fantastic - present company very much included! - and maybe this is just my damage, but every time he flies off, all I can think is, ‘What if he doesn’t come back?’”

Lana’s voice was thick and strained. A tear escaped from the corner of her eye and she wiped it away with the sleeve of her Barbie sweatshirt. 

“Sorry,” she sniffed. “Thinking about Superman always makes me cry, it’s so annoying. But I can’t help but think, what if he’s out there, somewhere far away where no one knows him and it all stops? He falls out of the sky or he gets hurt and he’s…he’s dying or something, surrounded by people who have no idea who he is? Who don’t…who don’t love him, who don’t care about him, who don’t see him as a person?”

She was crying in earnest now. Not in the gut-wrenching way Lois had when she lost it on her kitchen floor. Quietly, hastily mopping up her tears before she could let them fall. 

“That’s… I’ve legit had nightmares about that,” Lana said. Nothing in her posture was calling out for comfort and she took a deep breath, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. This was clearly a self-soothe she’d been practicing for a while. “I just need to get over it. Like, it’s his body, his life, what he chooses to do is his business and it’s - it’s a good choice, right? I don’t have to like it, but I have to accept it. I’m working on that. But I still really don’t fucking like it.”

The only thing Lois could think of was the Velveteen Rabbit. At least, that was the quote that popped into her head as she watched Lana crumble apart over Superman.

If you love something, it becomes real.

Lois would have had to have been pretty fucking thick to deny that the emotion Lana was exhibiting was real. To decide the love she had for…for Clark was fake or a performance she was putting on for Lois’s benefit. Or something Superman himself had put her up to. The feelings were real. So Clark Kent was real. And if Lois was being so fucking for real…Lana was right. She’d known that the whole time.

You wouldn’t have acted like such a bitch to him if you were actually afraid. 

She hadn’t lashed out because she was scared. She did it because she wanted to hurt him. She wanted to make Clark - not Superman, Clark - feel the same kind of hurt she did. She knew he couldn’t bleed, but that didn’t matter, because while sticks and stones couldn’t break his bones, words could definitely hurt him. 

Lois called him a thing. Said he wasn’t a person. Told him ‘Clark Kent’ wasn’t real. Yeah, okay, maybe she spent a few days trying to convince herself of that, to protect her ego from missing something so huge, so obvious in retrospect…but it hadn’t worked. Despite what he could do, despite the threat inherent in that, she’d known the truth the entire time. 

I may not know what I am, but I know who I am.

Lois had too. The only reason she'd lost her shit all over him was because, in her gut, she knew it was safe to do so. That Clark wouldn't hurt her. That he might...he might even forgive her.

“I need to apologize to him,” she said, the dread of having to admit she was wrong in such a cruel way sitting like lead in her stomach; it didn’t settle in there comfortably with the bagel. Despite not being on the balcony she might throw up anyway.

“Oh, yeah,” Lana said, blowing her nose on the take-out napkins. “You really do, but I mostly came over to let you know that it’ll be way easier than you think. I want us clubbies to avoid repeating each other’s mistakes. Like, definitely apologize, don’t wait ten years.”

Then she gave Lois a double thumbs up, cocked her head to the side and extended her hands, palms up. “Hug?”

Lois crawled across the couch and Lana met her half-way. They hugged and Lois really regretted not ducking into the bathroom to brush her teeth. She held her breath as Lana said, “I move to close the first meeting of Clark Kent’s Bitchy Friends Club.”

“Seconded,” Lois muttered, turning her face away from Lana so she was breathing in the opposite direction of her. “Next time, we should have wine.”

“I almost bought a bottle at the airport,” Lana told her when she sat back. “I should’ve trusted my gut.”

Yeah, Lois thought uneasily. So should I.

Lana got up to put their plates in the sink and throw her snotty napkin away. Lois asked if she had anywhere to stay.

“Oh yeah,” she nodded. “I’m flying out tomorrow, I booked one night at the Marriott downtown, so I’m going to head over there to sleep and freshen up. Wanna grab a late lunch after? I’m technically on vacation, so day-drinking is absolutely a thing I should do. You can take me sight-seeing and do things that aren’t talking about Clark for a few hours.”

If Lois was serious about making a ‘Best Way to Spend 36 Hours in Metropolis’ itinerary, there was no one better to start that time with than Lana Lang. Just for a few hours though; Lana had a date.

“Clark kinda set me up with Cat Grant,” she told Lois, a little color suffusing her cheeks, making her look less egg-like. “I figured, hey, I’ve got one night and one night only, why not shoot my shot? We’re going to grab a drink around eight, that way if we’re not vibing I have the, ‘Oh, wow, this has been great, but I have a flight in the morning,’ excuse to call it early.”

Lana/Cat (Clana??) was a pairing that would never have occurred to Lois. Thinking about it, she had no doubt that they would vibe extremely well together. Like, forget a second drink, depending on how early Lana’s flight was, Lois could see her pushing it back. And good for them, honestly. Good for Clark for seeing the potential. 

Lois walked Lana back out to the stoop, promising to meet her at her hotel in a few hours. Lana’s rideshare driver was rounding the corner and she was halfway down the steps when Lois asked her a question.

“Why did you come out here?” Lois asked, unable to stop herself. “This…this could have been a phone call. Did you really fly out here just for Clark?”

Lana stopped and shot her a withering look over her shoulder. She turned right on her heel and walked back up the steps. She dropped her duffle bag on the stoop and reached out to put her hands on Lois’s shoulders.

“Honeybee,” she said, with all the authority of a captain commanding a battleship. “I cherish Clark, but I’m not overpaying for a red-eye because my best buddy has a chronic case of the sads. I came out here for me. If y’all don’t kiss and make up, that means I get less Lois Lane in my life. And I refuse to accept that.”

Lana took Lois’s chin gently, but firmly in her hands. She bent down and pressed a kiss to the tip of Lois’s nose.

“My sister from another mister,” she said when she straightened up. The driver had pulled up and it was time for her to go. “You might be able to send our lil’ Chicken flying back home with his tail feathers tucked between his legs, but I don’t scare so easy. See you later!”

Lois gave Lana a weak wave as she bounded off toward the car. She watched it take her down the street. Then she went back upstairs, closed her apartment door and took a deep, deep breath. 

Lois’s phone was still on her night stand where she left it. She had one unread message. 

Clark with the Glasses 🤓 :
I just got Perry’s email about the Eye investigation being closed and that really shouldn’t happen. I have something important to tell you, but it needs to be in person. I’ll be back at work on Monday, let me know where you would feel most comfortable meeting up.

Chapter Text

Clark stood on Lois’s stoop, feeling like his heart was going to burst right out of his chest, it was beating so fast. Anxiety-sweat pooled in his lower back and his left leg was tapping a tuneless rhythm on the stonework. Nothing that qualified as a panic attack, but all definitely panic-adjacent.

When he got Perry’s email, he couldn’t not reach out to Lois. The investigation was being shuttered for lack of compelling reason to continue, but he had a reason and she knew about Superman, she was the only person he could tell. The only person who would take him seriously - if she was willing to talk to him.

He waffled about sending the text, caught between the necessity of telling Lois what was truly up with the drones and worrying that she would think this was some nefarious pretext to get her alone to…to hurt her. 

A few days’ distance hadn’t lessened the sting of her parting words. Lois thought he was capable of willfully harming her. No matter what his mom or Lana said about how she was only mad and lashing out, that she didn't really mean what she said, Clark couldn’t fully believe them. If she didn’t believe it, she wouldn’t have said it. 

In the end, it was Pa’s read of the situation that made Clark press the ‘Send’ button.

“If you’re gonna be seeing her at work Monday anyway, there's no harm in sending a text,” he pointed out. “‘Specially if it’s about work. Up to you, though.”

Clark sent the text. To his absolute shock, Lois got back to him almost immediately, three times in succession.

Lois:
Meet up at my place tomorrow night? 

Lois:
I’m assuming this is a conversation you don’t want to have around other people.

Lois:
Let me know if I’m wrong.

She wasn’t wrong about wanting privacy, but Clark couldn’t believe she was comfortable having him over to her place, given all that happened. Mama was reading over his shoulder and she smirked. 

“Told you,” she said, ruffling his hair and heading to the sink to get started on the breakfast dishes.

Are you sure? He typed and deleted over and over again. Pa got up and idled behind Clark for a minute, watching the struggle.

“Mmm,” Pa hummed contemplatively. “Kinda sounds like you don’t think she knows her own mind. Sure that’s the kind of message you want to send?” 

Uh, no, Lois would hate that. So instead, Clark deleted his original message and opted for:

You’re never wrong.

Lois left him on read a long time, but eventually responded with:

Lois:
😅

An emoji was good. An emoji was great. And smiling, no less! Clark was so grateful to get a smile out of her (even if it was a fake digital smile) that he breathed an audible sigh of relief. He wanted to reopen the floodgates of texting, but knew that resuming their usual patterns of communication would be too much, too soon. To avoid temptation completely, he made a point of leaving his phone behind when he joined his dad on a trip to Tractor Supply to stock up on auto parts. 

That was yesterday. He flew home that morning, making a pit stop at his apartment to drop off leftovers.

Ma made peach cobbler last night and insisted he take the rest home, with a piece saved for Lois.

“She’s still invited to Thanksgiving,” she told him. “Let her know that when y'all talk, okay?”

Clark chickened out and left the cobbler at home. Despite all the hope he’d projected onto that emoji, he wanted to proceed with caution. Turning up with sweets felt like an overstep, too familiar, now that they were basically back to square one - colleagues. There was no evidence that Lois agreed to talk to him for any other reason than discussing the Eyes. He wasn’t going to push it.

Especially because it took Lois such a long time to let him in, Clark thought she changed her mind about seeing him. He was about to text her a question to that effect when the door opened and - oh. She got a haircut. 

Deeply inappropriate, but all Clark could think was that it looked really good. Lois had bangs and the rest of her hair fell in layers around her shoulders. It made her eyes stand out even more. 

Clark was a little nervous about looking her in the face, sure he’d see the fear that had been so present on the balcony, but Lois only looked annoyed, not apprehensive, which he was going to count as a temporary win.

“I thought you’d be out on the balcony,” she said, opening the door wider so Clark could come in. 

“Oh, no,” he replied awkwardly, stepping the threshold, trying not to touch her, just in case it made her nervous to be too close to him. 

“How’d you get here?” she asked, leaning against the door after she shut and locked it behind her.

“...bus?” Clark replied questioningly, as though it was a trick question. "Like usual."

Lois’s eyes raked over his body, up and down. The annoyance remained, along with a trace of frustrated confusion. Her mouth was screwed up and tilted to the side, while her eyebrows were down, brow furrowed. It was an expression generally reserved for her computer when she’d misspelled a word so uniquely that spellcheck had no idea how to help her. 

“Okay,” she said finally, leading the way up to her apartment. Once they were inside, she rounded on him and asked, “You seriously didn’t fly?”

“Uh…no,” Clark replied, taken aback. “I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Um…”

There were a lot of reasons, none of them particularly interesting. He didn’t feel like changing into the suit unless it was necessary (it was really tight). He wasn’t in a hurry. If people glimpsed Superman flying around in the middle of the day, they might assume something was wrong and he didn’t want to worry anyone. Also he liked riding the bus. Metropolis had one of the best public transportation systems in the country, the buses were comfortable, fuel-efficient, and reliable. If he wasn’t in the driver’s seat, he could relax, listen to music or a podcast. Chill for the twenty minutes it took to get across the city.

“It’s a nice time to decompress,” he said, finally, shoulders hitching awkwardly. 

Clark was idling in the doorway, not sure where to put himself. He didn’t want to stand in front of the door, blocking the exit, but it also felt presumptuous to plop himself down on Lois’s couch, like nothing had changed. 

Lois certainly wasn’t giving him any direction. She was standing between Clark and the sofa, looking up at him with that same frown on her face. 

“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” Clark spoke into the uneasy silence between them. “I know it’s probably really hard so I’ll just tell you what I need to tell you and then I’ll get out of your hair - ”

“I’m sorry.”

Clark’s heart sank. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t face him. The emoji meant nothing.

“The Eyes have guns,” he said quickly, backing up toward the door. “That’s why they’re shaped so weird, they have these little pistols tucked up in their undersides. I don’t have hard evidence, but they shot me, so - ”

Lois’s face went through a series of unreadable contortions. First, confusion. Then the clarity of realization. Finally, horror.

“They shot you? When?” she demanded. She turned her thumb and forefinger into a gun shape and mimed pulling the trigger. “Like…bang-bang, with real bullets?”

“Yeah,” Clark nodded. “I - I think so. The storm washed them away, I think, and I wasn’t…I wasn’t in the headspace to think to grab hold of any evidence, so - ”

“But you didn’t get hurt, right?” Lois asked, walking up to him, eyeing him critically, apparently looking for visible evidence that supported his claim. Naturally, there wasn’t any. “You can’t - you can’t get shot. Wait! Was that why you wrecked one of them? Was that why you had a panic attack? That doesn’t make any sense!”

Well, that was technically true, but good luck getting his (self-diagnosed) anxiety disorder to listen to reason.

Clark rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “I guess…my brain knows I can’t get hurt, but my central nervous system doesn’t care.”

Lois’s expression softened slightly and she tilted her head to look up at Clark. She didn’t seem scared. He didn’t know what she was thinking. All Clark knew was that she looked really unhappy.

“And you came here,” she said. “You got shot and you came here.”

“Yeah, I…” Clark swallowed, trying to come up with a way to explain himself. “When I get like that, I lose control of some of my abilities - my hearing and my vision, usually. I can’t tell exactly what’s in front of me, what’s behind a wall. It gets so loud I can’t think straight. That’s what I meant when I said I couldn’t get home, I…I literally couldn’t move. If I tried I might have crashed through a wall.” 

He directed his comments to the floor, not wanting to see her reaction. It hurt. It really hurt to be in her apartment, a place they’d grown a whole friendship, knowing that relationship was…gone. Broken, at the very least. And not having any way to fix it. 

Suddenly, Clark found him looking at the top of Lois’s head; then her face. She’d come right up to him and stood inches away. Clark almost held his breath, grateful she would get that close, worried he was going to scare her off.

“You got to me,” she pointed out. He nodded in response; he hoped she didn’t feel used, but he couldn’t blame her if she did. It was one thing to help out an ordinary friend who was having a tough time, but understanding that he - that Superman - might ever need help like that must be hard to understand.

“It helps if I have someone to focus on,” Clark admitted. “Someone I know well. Someone I trust. It helps me calm down. You helped me calm down, that’s…I know it’s probably hard to believe - ”

“I believe you,” Lois interrupted him. “About that, I…I knew you couldn’t fake being that scared. Even if you didn’t tell me why. Can you sit? Can we…talk? Not just about the Eyes - don’t get me wrong, I want to talk about the fucking Eyes! But…I have questions.”

Questions. Yeah, of course she would. This was Lois Lane, self-described Professional Question Asker.

“Sure,” Clark agreed - then, he hesitated. A comment Lana made came to mind.  

Lana flew into Smallville Friday morning and was at his parents’ by the afternoon. They had a long talk. Some of it was about Lois, but mostly they talked about them. How she’d reacted seeing him after Hell Summer did its work on him. 

Lana apologized to him for what she said in high school. Clark hadn’t expected that; it had been so long that he felt like an apology wasn’t necessary anymore, that it wouldn’t benefit either of them. It wasn’t that he’d forgotten - Lana’s angry speech was one of those things that would come to him, randomly, at the witching hour when he was right on the cusp of sleep.

“What the hell did you do to yourself? You think getting ripped is…what, being a man? Is that what this is about? You want to be some big, ‘roided up monster? That’s fucking disgusting, Clark! You are fucking disgusting. Your dad’s gotta be so ashamed of you! How do you think this makes him feel?”

Restless nights aside, it didn’t bother him anymore. He and Lana were good. Solid. They’d moved past it and resumed their friendship practically before school started up again. And, at the time, he felt…not that he deserved it, exactly, but he understood that she was shocked and upset. He was shocked and upset. He got it. It was…it was okay. He was fine. He didn’t need an apology.

At least, that was how he felt until Friday, when Lana grabbed his hands and said, “Clark Joseph Kent. I am so fucking sorry for the mean, dumb shit I said to you the summer before junior year. You were going through a really hard time where you needed me to be there for you and I let you down. Just because someone is scared, it doesn’t give them the right to treat you badly.”

He felt so much better. Like he’d been shouldering the burden of Lana’s judgment for ten years without realizing it, and it only lifted when admitted she'd been wrong. Their conversation seemed especially important, not only for the two of them, but for him and Lois going forward, assuming there was a way forward. 

Just because someone is scared, it doesn’t give them the right to treat you badly.

Clark still felt bad for how Lois reacted to learning the truth about him. Hell, he felt a little bad for how Lana reacted to him ten years ago. But that struck a chord with him. He scared her and she hurt him. Both could be true. And he didn’t have to sit there and take it if Lois was going to talk to him the way she had Wednesday night.

“We can talk,” Clark added cautiously. “But…I need this to be a conversation. Not an interview. Not on the record and…not as much yelling.”

Lois winced and Clark’s immediate impulse was to backtrack and say, no, never mind, it was fine, she could talk to him however she needed to, he was the problem, the freak, the monster in the room, and any reaction to him, no matter how negative, was valid. 

It’s not okay for her to peck at you, just because she’s feeling bad.

That was Pa’s advice. Clark took it now and didn’t say anything, he stood his ground and waited for Lois’s response.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Sounds good.” 

Lois walked over to the couch and sat cross-legged in her spot on the close side, with the better view of the TV. She nodded her head toward the corner he usually occupied. The motion made her new bangs slide into her eyes and while Clark shouldn’t be focused on how pretty she was at the moment, he couldn’t help himself.

Clark sat down, feeling a sense of deja vu sweep over him, seeing as how he was in the exact same position he’d been a year ago. It was disheartening, but not actually bad. Lois invited him in, let him sit on her sofa with her. It was a far cry from how close they’d been recently, but she was willing to be near him, to talk to him. That he was being given the chance to earn her trust back was more than he hoped for a few days ago.

As he had done a year ago, he was mindful not to crowd her, not to loom anything like that. He confined himself to his cushion, no sprawling, no touching. Nothing that could be taken as a threat. 

Lois took a breath and laced her hands together in her lap. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

Leave it to Lois Freaking Lane to come out of the gate swinging; interview or no interview, she couldn’t help asking the hard questions.

“I was,” Clark told her. “Not…I didn’t have a plan for when, but I was going to tell you. Everyone I…everyone close to me knows. My parents, Pete, Lana. I was gonna tell you, just not yet.”

“You didn’t trust me,” Lois concluded.

“No, that’s not why,” Clark said, almost reaching out to her, but stopping himself at the last second. He put his hands on his knees and squeezed slightly. “I’ll admit…for a while, I didn’t tell you because I thought you’d write it all up. I figured you’d care more about the people’s right to know than my…privacy. I’m sorry if that’s not fair, but it - ”

“No, that’s fair,” Lois said, cheeks puffing up with a breath she let out slowly. “It’s…I’m not going to, but it’s something I would do if you weren’t…you.”

And who am I to you? Clark thought. Clark? Superman? Still think I’m a ‘thing’?

One major impact Superman had on Clark was that he helped him regulate his impulses. Superman couldn’t fly off the handle, Superman couldn’t become visibly upset, or get snarky with people. Clark could imagine how it would feel, having this seemingly all-powerful being glaring at you or being a sarcastic little shit - it would be scary, especially if someone only knew Superman and not Clark. 

Around his friends and family he could let his guard down. None of his friends thought they were in danger if he got mad or loud with them. Ma didn’t feel like she had to jump to obey his every whim if he was zoned out on the couch watching TV and whined at her to bring him a drink if she was in the kitchen so he didn’t have to get up. Pa saw his strength as a net positive - not just for work on the farm, but the fact that he could send his famous fastball whizzing at Clark when they played catch in the yard without having to worry about hurting his hands. 

Lois knew very well that Clark had developed an almost compulsive ability to hide the more questionable aspects of his personality if necessary. The present conversation felt like a necessary occasion. 

Lois was playing with her hair, a tic Clark had never seen before. He couldn’t tell whether it was due to nerves or the compulsive touching that often accompanied a new haircut. 

“What…” she started, then paused and rephrased the question as a demand. “I want to know everything you’ve told me up until now that isn’t true.”

That was a hard question to answer. Because there really wasn’t anything Clark lied to her about. It wasn’t like she’d ever asked him, ‘Hey, by the way, are you Superman?’ or, ‘Quick question - can you fly?’ He talked about Superman like he was a different person from himself, but…he kinda was? Superman was a character Clark played, anyway. It wasn’t a lie if the person who wore the Mickey costume at Disney World said they weren’t Mickey Mouse. Right?

“I haven’t really lied to you,” Clark said, slowly. “There are some things about myself I haven’t told you, but there’s also a lot I can’t tell you. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t know.”

Clark let out a low, huffing chuckle. “Believe me, I’d sleep easier at night if I knew more about me too.”

“You sleep?” Lois asked him. “You need to sleep?”

“Oh yeah,” Clark nodded. “I can do maybe a week of zero sleep before it starts getting to me. Like, physically. Um, if you ask my dad I get ornery if I pull an all-nighter, so I probably should sleep every night for a little while, at least. It helps me get my head in order.”

“Okay, so a week without sleeping,” Lois muttered, like she was taking a catalogue. “How long can you go without eating?”

“Um…”

That was a question Clark genuinely had no response to. It never occurred to him to try and see how long he could go without eating or drinking before he started to feel the effects. 

“I’ve never tested that out,” he said. With a slightly chagrined smile and a sweeping gesture over his torso, he added, “I really love food.”

For the first time in almost a week, Clark got to see Lois smile - grin, in fact, which was amazing.

“I thought you had IBS,” she confessed, which made Clark burst out laughing. Despite herself, Lois responded with giggles of her own. “It made sense! When you left the fair, you’d just eaten a fuck-ton of fried food! I thought you had a sad tummy!”

“My heart was sad to leave y’all, but my tummy was a-okay,” Clark said, still smiling. “I should pull that one out the next time I need to leave in a hurry.”

“It totally works!” Lois agreed enthusiastically. “It’s common enough that everyone will know what you mean and gross enough that no one will question you. Rock solid alibi!”

Unthinking, Clark relaxed slightly and draped his left arm over the back of the couch. Lois didn’t come closer, but she didn’t bat an eye at his change in position, so Clark remained as he was. 

“So the meteor shower story, your parents finding you in a field,” she said, smile dimming as she got back to her questions. “That all really happened?”

“It did,” Clark confirmed. “I don’t remember, obviously, but…yeah. There was a meteor shower and I was…part of it. I crashed into their field in a baby-sized rocket ship - my dad called it the tin can. All those stats I quoted you from the paperwork they filled out was true.”

Lois’s mouth fell open and her eyes went huge, eyebrows totally disappearing behind her new bangs. “You’re from fucking space?!”

God, I hope not.

“I don’t know,” Clark told her instead. “Maybe? There was some writing on it, not in the English alphabet. It was more like…script or hieroglyphs? But hard to see because the whole thing got really charred up. I don’t want to say definitely no, but I don’t want to say definitely yes.”

You don’t want to say definitely yes because if you are an actual alien from another planet, what does that even mean? Can you claim humanity if you’re not even human?

Clark banished those thoughts to the back of his mind. He looked human. His blood (back when he did bleed) was red, not green like Mr. Spock’s. He aged like a human (so far). All his systems seemed to work like a human’s. The only thing that was different were his abilities and those hadn’t always been part of him, which was Lois’s next question.

“Did you bust out of the can, like…” she trailed off and rather than asking anything specific, just curled both her arms up in the classic strong-person pose.

Clark was quick to shake his head. “No, no. I was all swaddled up in there, I couldn’t move. My parents heard the crash, and drove over but then heard me crying and they started running. They busted that thing open, fast as they could. I haven’t always been like this, it started…I remember it starting when I was round about twelve.”

Lois’s nose wrinkled up in confusion. “I thought you said it was during your junior year?”

“That’s when this happened,” Clark gestured once again at his body, less appreciatively this time. “And other things - the heat vision, x-ray vision, cold breath, my hearing. Being able to fly - that was the only good one. At least, that’s how I thought at the time. But I knew I was…I knew something was wrong for a while before that.”

“Wrong how?” Lois asked, narrowing her eyes. 

“Things stopped feeling heavy,” Clark said, recalling his first inkling that he wasn’t right. That he wasn’t like other people. That he couldn’t just keep ignoring the kiddie-sized space ship in the storm cellar. “It’s kinda dumb to think of now, but it was my backpack that tipped me off. The junior high didn’t have lockers, but we still had to change classrooms, so we were lugging our book bags around all day and mine was always extra heavy because I’m a freaking nerd and I’d stop by the library after school to get more books.”

Clark remembered like it was yesterday. It was a sunny spring day, Ma was waiting for him in the car and, like usual, he bent down to haul his backpack off the floor by the front door like he'd been doing every morning since Kindergarten. And he lifted it so easily it might as well have been empty. 

Clark put it down and stared at it. It was busting at the seams, he could see the corners of his textbooks and the library books he’d squished inside the night before, when he packed up his homework.  His lunch bag and thermos were on the floor beside his backpack, he had to carry them separately because the bag was so full. He crouched down, unzipped it and unpacked it. All his books were inside. He put them back. And could still lift it up, no problem. If he really concentrated on the sensation of it in his hand, he could feel that there was weight to it, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t a strain to pick it up.

Then Mama leaned on the horn and he ran out to the car, but he couldn’t shake the sense that something had happened to him. Something bad. Later that night, he lifted up his dresser, which not only was stuffed full of clothes, but was also about a hundred years old and made of heavy wood. Clark dropped it so hard, he was surprised the floors didn’t crack clean through.

His parents heard the thud and came upstairs, but he blabbed something ridiculous about falling off his bed. Looking back, he was pretty sure they didn’t believe him - like they hadn’t believed him when he said the Eye only got in his way. Wild how years on, he thought he could pull the wool over their eyes about anything. 

Clark pulled himself out of his memories to give a truncated version of what happened to Lois. 

“One morning I could pick it up like it was nothing,” he said. “Didn’t take me long to realize I could carry a lot more than that. But even before then…I used to get hurt. Get sick. Bruises, cuts, bee stings…I can’t tell you when the last time I got sick was, but I know it was before seventh grade. I would have had perfect attendance, but my mom said mental health days were the same and she’d call me out once a semester.”

“Who came up with the sun theory?” Lois asked him.

“My dad,” Clark replied, no hesitation since he trusted Lois wasn't going to be printing this anywhere. “He noticed that when things…changed, big things, it was usually in the spring or summer. Like, I got really strong the summer before eighth grade. Then next year I could…move really fucking fast. Then the year after that I wasn’t getting cuts or scrapes anymore. Just, on and on. I mean, Pa’s a farmer, he’s in tune with the seasons, it’s part of the job, so he might be biased.”

“Okay," Lois nodded slowly, building up a mental rolodex of All Things Clark. "Are you weaker in the winter?”

“I hate winter,” Clark responded automatically. “Sorry, that’s unfair, uh…I get really down in the winter, but I can still be Superman, which I think is your actual question. Um.”

He tapped the fingers of his left hand on the back of Lois’s sofa.

“This isn’t…related to what you’re asking about,” he went on, a little nervously. “But I just wanna…I was nervous, last year, about dealing with winter in Metropolis. Like, it’s not easy back home, but being in a new city and all, I thought it was going to… really suck. But then you invited me over on Thursdays and I had something to look forward to and…it was a big help. I just want to say thank you for that.”

Lois closed her eyes and shook her head.

“That’s crazy,” she sighed. Then her eyes flew open and she hastened to add, “I’m not calling you crazy! Seasonal Affective Disorder is a thing! Fuck, no, I’m…it’s crazy to me that I ever helped you. That’s what I’m trying to say. When you’re…a professional helper.”

Professional Helper. Clark liked the sound of that way more than Superman. It was probably too late to change the moniker, though. People were used to it. Besides, Lois was the one who came up with it, so he’d always associate the name with her. Which meant he'd always like it.

“Lois, people help me all the time,” Clark told her honestly. “You more than most. I know you might not believe me, but I’m a - I am a person. Sometimes I need help.”

Lois scrubbed her hands over her face and groaned. She peered at Clark through her fingers.

“I’m sorry I said that,” she apologized. “I tried to tell you earlier, but you said that whole thing about getting shot and kind of derailed that moment. But I wanted to…I’m sorry I was so fucking mean to you. I was mad and I was confused and I thought…I thought a whole bunch of stuff that wasn’t true and I knew it wasn’t true, but I wanted to hurt you. I did hurt you. And I’m really, really sorry.”

As ever, when Lois said the s-word, it was like she was allergic to it. Her whole body tensed up with the effort it took to get the sentiment out. And she said it four times.  Clark was downright touched.

“Thank you,” Clark said, a bit of awe seeping into his tone. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. Or in a better way.”

“I mean, you did save my life,” she pointed out. “So, it was…the best way, kind of. Like. If you let me kerplunk on the sidewalk just to keep your secret - I’m kidding! I’m kidding, holy shit, don’t make that face!”

She lunged at him and rather than keeping a respectful, non-threatening distance, she pressed herself right up against Clark, brushing her fingers over his cheeks. 

“You look like you’re going to cry, stop it!” she ordered him. “It’s the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, I hate it, stop it.”

Clark managed an extremely sad smile, which made Lois bury her face in his shoulder.

“That’s worse,” she spoke into his shirt. “Goddammit, Clark.”

Clark.

His breath caught; that was the first time she’d said his name since Wednesday. It had been like a punch to the gut every time she said, ‘Superman.’

Cautiously, he brought a hand up to press lightly against her back. Lois didn’t tense or draw away, so he left it there - lightly resting. Just in case.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he said, turning his head to whisper into her hair. It smelled faintly like chemicals. 

“You didn’t,” she replied. Lois sneaked her arms around his sides, and Clark shifted forward slightly, placing some space between himself and the couch. Lois held on and he tentatively put both arms around her in a loose hug. 

“Or, like, I guess I was scared,” she continued, “but it wasn’t because of what you can do, it was because I thought you weren’t real. Like, you, Clark. I thought…I thought everything you told me was a lie. About how you’d always be there for me, which was so dumb? Like, truly stupid, I mean, the second I needed you - life or death needed you - you were there.”

Lois raised her head and looked at Clark with eyes that were much drier than his, but so full of sadness that his chest ached looking at her.

“You were right there and I couldn’t see you and I’m so sorry, Clark,” she said again and now the tears started to well up.

“Come here,” Clark said, drawing her close and giving her a real hug this time. Lois curled up in his arms. She sniffled against his chest and he lifted his hand to hastily wipe at his own eyes. “Shh. Don’t cry, it’s okay. Thank you for apologizing - I forgive you, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay!” she insisted. “I was so awful to you, I was wrong - ”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Clark amended. He truly had forgiven her. Would have forgiven her, even if she never apologized, like he had Lana. But...as with Lana, he couldn’t deny that it felt really good to hear it. 

Clark found out about Lois’s upbringing in fits and starts. Little comments here and there that made him double-take, that appalled him, and broke his heart. For a long while he’d suspected that her aversion to apologizing and admitting she was wrong was because it wasn’t allowed, somehow, when she was a kid. That it made her feel weak and vulnerable. The fact that she was here, with him, admitting she was wrong, apologizing over and over again, was a huge gift. And Clark was going to treat it as such. 

“I’m really grateful for you,” Clark said, rocking her very slightly in his arms. Lois let him and he could tell from her breathing that her tears were tapering off. “For inviting me up tonight and…giving me another chance. You didn’t have to.”

“Yes, I did!” Lois insisted, smacking him lightly on the chest. “I fucking missed you. I kept almost-texting you over and over. It was so embarrassing.”

“I missed you too,” Clark said. He brushed her hair gently away from her face, causing Lois to essentially burrow into his chest, like a mole. It was deeply adorable.

“I also had a minor freak-out last night and gave myself bangs,” she mumbled. “I did a very bad job and I paid way too much money to get my hair fixed today. I kind of hate them.”

Oops. Well, that explained the haircut.

“I can’t cut my hair with regular scissors,” Clark told her. "If I could, I'm sure I'd have given myself a few freak out buzz cuts."

“Oh no!" Lois exclaimed, pulling back to look up at him, not so subtly wiping her face on his shirt. “You can’t get rid of the curls, they’re iconic. And…soft.”

Clark smiled, but Lois frowned, but not an angry frown, a thoughtful frown. She ran her fingers through his hair, then her gaze fell on his torso - specifically his stomach. Lois pulled back and poked him a few times, her finger sinking in with each jab.

“You don’t feel bulletproof,” she said, her tone mildly accusatory. That was a little bit of a surprise to hear; Clark thought she appreciated his cuddle factor.

“Well, that’s…good, right?” he asked. “If I did, no one would want to hug me.” 

Lois laughed again and this time she sounded relieved. 

“You’re such a dork,” she declared, undeniably fondly. “A big, squishy, superpowered dork.”

She got it. She truly got it.

“Yeah,” Clark nodded. “That’s…basically me. I'll be stealing that for a subtitle if I ever write a memoir.”

Lois fell against him again, fully in his lap and Clark embraced her again. It felt so good to have her in his arms, whether she smelled like perm chemicals or not.

“I’m glad you’re bulletproof,” she murmured. Then she pulled back again, the familiar Lois Freaking Lane gleam in her eye. “Now we need to talk Eye in the Sky. That’s the reason I fell off the roof, by the way.”

Lois added that last piece of information so casually, that Clark was sure he misheard her. 

“Whoa, hang on - one of them things pushed you?” he asked, so horrified that his voice went Full Country.

“Well, not really, it doesn’t have arms,” Lois pointed out. “I didn’t think it was deliberate, not then, I thought it was malfunctioning or something, but now that you told me those little fuckers are weapons, I’m not so sure.”

She got up off his lap and scurried off to her bedroom. She came back with her laptop, a composition notebook and a slightly overwhelming number of overlapping sticky notes. 

“I’ll pay for us to Doordash dinner,” she told him. “We’re gonna be here for a while if we’re going to get a decent pitch to Perry tomorrow. Obviously we can’t tell him Superman is our source and…um…I don’t want to tell him about my whole roof thing, for reasons that are not important, so we’re going to need another angle and I’ve been going over the city budget for this bullshit assignment I got Friday and, honestly, the financials on this whole thing aren’t making any sense, but I want you to look at the numbers in case my math is wrong. I know, I know, you’re not a numbers guy, but I just want to explain it to you and you can tell me if I’m on to something…what?”

Clark was smiling at Lois in a way that he could feel from the strain in his cheeks was goofy. He was just so…happy. To be there with her. To have her looking at him and seeing him. To know she wasn’t afraid. It was nothing he expected when he was standing on the stoop. Clark was tempted to pinch himself, just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, but he knew he wasn’t. His dreams were rarely this perfect.

“Nothing,” he said, not dropping the smile one iota. He did hold his hands out for her laptop, though. “Talk me through the financials. I’m all ears.”

Lois picked up her laptop, then hesitated before she handed it over. “All ears…darlin’?”

Clark didn’t think his smile could get any bigger, but he sure as hell tried.

“All ears,” he confirmed. “Darlin’.”

Chapter Text

Lana was right: saying she was sorry to Clark was the easiest apology Lois had ever made. Suspiciously easy. He literally said, ‘I forgive you.’ Who did that?

The reason why Lois almost never said ‘sorry’ was because of how pointless it was. Like, sure, she could apologize and all, but saying ‘sorry’ (or feeling sorry) was no guarantee that it would matter to the offended party. Offenses were to be gathered, like poker chips, so the next time Lois fucked up, they (and by ‘they’ she meant Lucy or her dad) could go all-in on reminding Lois of how awful she was. Her mistakes were never taken as being one-off screw-ups, but deliberate attacks, pieces in the puzzle whose box picture depicted Lois Lane: Terrible Person.

Lucy watched some video series, years ago, that she referenced when Lois was trying to patch things up ahead of her wedding, after she got fired as maid-of-honor.

“Apologies are only useful for the person who gave the offense because they get to feel like they're being a good person. It puts all the pressure on the victim to do the hard emotional work. We're expected to let the offender get away with their previous behavior without consequences. I don’t accept your apology. And I never have to.”

Which was fair, Lois supposed…only Lucy drew this line in the sand when Lois asked why it was so important for her to get married less than a year after getting engaged. Suggested maybe she should wait awhile. Possibly get a job that would earn some money, which she could use to pay for the wedding. 

That was an unforgivable sin, according to Lucy and whatever TikTok account she was using in lieu of therapy (okay, okay, Lois didn't think it was actually fair, she thought her sister ridiculously overreacted). Lois questioned Clark’s personhood and he didn’t hesitate to accept her apology - no, more than that. He said he forgave her and that everything would be okay, and then when Lois cried because she was so mad at herself and so relieved that he was being so nice to her, he fucking hugged her! Cradled her like a baby and didn’t even yell at her for crying and making it all about her. 

Then again, he cried too, so maybe they were even. That reminded Lois of something Lana said before she left.

True to her word, they didn’t talk about Clark during their afternoon together. They went to the Metropolis Museum of Art, then had a late lunch in the cute little French cafe attached to MetMA. Lana’s history degree meant that she basically gave Lois a personalized guided tour through some of the exhibits, in particular a display of John Singer Sargent paintings which were accompanied by the clothes the sitters wore.

The General was a museum junkie, so Lois had some baseline knowledge about the history stuff, but Lana was like a walking textbook. It was a side of her Lois hadn’t seen in Kansas, the nerdy fashion historian, not just the Instagram girlie - she got down on her hands and knees to point out the wear on the hems of the skirts and informed Lois that the shiny green beads sewn on a dress were actually beetle wings. Which was interesting, beautiful, and gross (the Holy Trinity of fun history facts, according to Lana). They had a truly great time together.

Anyway, they didn’t talk about Clark again until Lois dropped Lana off at her hotel to get cute for Cat. Before she left, Lana reached out and grabbed her arm.

“I know it might feel like a mindfuck, but try to remember: Clark’s just Clark, even in the outfit. He’s a sweet, soft boy. Like the bear that sells detergent.”

Lois wasn’t great with integrating two, seemingly contradictory, pieces of information. Like, sure, Clark was Clark, but he was also Superman. He was snuggly soft (exactly like the detergent bear), but also bulletproof. He could blast or crush Lois out of existence with zero effort, but could also get his feelings hurt. Lana was exactly right. It was a mindfuck.

She was trying! Try really hard to integrate what she knew about Clark with what she knew about Superman. It started on Sunday night, and the journey was far from smooth-sailing. Lois managed to put her foot in her mouth almost immediately when she accused Clark of essentially spying on everyone around him all the time.

He looked at the numbers and confirmed that the math wasn’t mathing on the Eyes. Conservative estimates put the program’s cost to the city at a quarter-million dollars, yet it wasn't reflected anywhere in the budget. The program was implemented in August, the fiscal year turned over on the first of July. That money wasn’t accounted for anywhere in the last fiscal year, nor was it reflected in the budget projections for the current year. 

In a city the size of Metropolis, a quarter million wasn’t actually that much money. Even when doubled to include salaries for the IT team who would have to maintain the Eyes, the app, and consolidate the information they generated, it was only half a million. However! While it was a drop in the bucket of the city budget, it was a significant chunk of change when the budget for the police department was taken in isolation. Lois hadn’t been able to find that money anywhere. Neither had Clark. 

“Like, the money set aside for the landscaping was easier to find than this,” Lois pointed out to Clark as they ate their fortune cookies and frowned over Excel spreadsheets. “And, like…those things can issue parking tickets. And fucking shoot people! How the fuck is the police department paying for this?”

“I don’t know,” Clark said, getting up to wash his hands clean of sweet and sour sauce before he touched her laptop. “Uh…you’re not gonna like what I’m about to say, but hear me out.”

She turned to look at him expectantly. Clark stayed in the kitchen when he suggested, “I think we need to loop Ron in on this. Lean on his contacts in city government to follow the money - or, like, the lack of money.”

“You’re right,” Lois shot back immediately. “I hate that idea! Also, what makes you think he’ll listen to us? Why not just ask Perry - ”

“Perry’s kinda over it, I think,” Clark interrupted her carefully. “His email was pretty short and flat. Ron’s still mad about that parking ticket, so he’s more likely to want to dig up dirt on the Eyes. Especially without more compelling evidence against the program.”

The ‘compelling evidence’ he was referencing was Superman getting shot and Lois getting knocked off a building. They’d briefly discussed bringing it up with Perry, but mutually decided against it. Neither of them had the clout to pull the, ‘I have this outrageous piece of information from a super secret source, trust me on this,’ card and Lois didn’t love the idea of confessing to her boss that she directly disobeyed him and possibly broke a really expensive camera in the process. She didn’t believe in ‘insubordination’ as a concept, but the camera she dropped cost thousands of dollars.

“Besides,” Clark added, in the face of Lois’s mulish silence. “If we get Ron on our side, he’ll know the best way to pitch it to Perry. I mean, they’re married, he’s gotta know how to talk to him so he’ll listen."

Clark threw that last piece of information out so off-handedly, Lois was sure she’d misunderstood him, that her ears were stopped up by rage at the notion of handing her story to someone else. An allergic reaction to potentially sharing a byline.

“Married?” Lois asked, brow furrowing.

“Yeah,” Clark nodded. “It’s not like Perry’d do a nepotism, but - ”

“Like…married-married?” she repeated, mouth hanging open. “How? When?”

“Um, I’m assuming they did it the regular way, courthouse, ceremony, reception,” Clark replied. “And…uh, I guess ten years? They went to the Dominican for their anniversary.”

Lois raised her eyebrows - she could feel them vanishing under her stupid new bangs, which was maybe good to conceal some of her facial expressions for interview purposes, but she still hated her haircut.

“Oh yeah?” she remarked, folding her arms and giving Clark a knowing look. She leaned toward him, cupping a hand around one ear. “Were you listening?”

No, Clark clarified when he caught on to the fact that she thought he was using his super-hearing to obtain office gossip.

“I asked Ron if he had fun plans when he went on vacation last spring,” he told her, with a shrug. “He said he and Perry were going to a resort for their ten-year anniversary. Perry’s a lie-on-the-beach-all-day guy and Ron’s a let’s-explore-a-new-city person, so they switch off choosing their vacation spots.”

Try as she might, Lois couldn’t remember Perry taking a vacation…ever. Then again, there were times when she couldn’t catch him in his office, but he was always available via email, so she always assumed she’d just missed him. It never occurred to her that he was working from a cabana - it never occurred to her that he left the office, period. She assumed, like a Kindergartener would of their teacher, that Perry inflated an air mattress and slept under his desk every night. 

“Uh…” Clark glanced at her side-long, pulling her out of her stunned reverie as he approached the couch. “I don’t…eavesdrop. As a rule. There’s times when I hear things without meaning to - like the night of the storm when everything was just…a lot. But I’m not constantly listening in on people. That’d be rude.”

Lois looked up at him, suspecting she had her answer before she asked the question; she was working on not jumping to conclusions. “So, you really didn’t know Lana was here?”

Based on his dumbfounded expression, either Clark was the world’s best actor, or…no, he hadn’t. 

“Lana was here? When?” Clark asked, looking around the room like he expected her to pop out from behind a bookshelf at any moment. 

Yesterday, Lois clarified. And then, because if Clark was going to blow her mind with relationship intel about their boss, turnabout was fair play, she added that Lana went on a date with Cat while she was in town. 

That effectively derailed their professional conversation for a while, Clark plopped himself back down on the couch and proceeded to furiously text Lana for thirty minutes, asking for details. Things went well; Lana requested a late check-out from her hotel and flew back to California in the evening, rather than the afternoon, as she originally planned. 

While Clark beamed at his phone, Lois studied him, trying to consolidate all the information she had to make sense of what she was seeing: the most powerful being on the planet, giggling and kicking his feet about the fact that one of his oldest friends had a good date with one of his newest friends. Someone who could keep tabs on the whole world if he wanted to, choosing to not know things. To give people their privacy. Because…manners.

Why? Why did he limit himself? Why did he have a job?

On that last point, while Lois had questions, she was also grateful that Clark chose to waste his time in Special Features at the Planet . The next day, rather than bursting into Perry’s office with a cork board full of red string, Lois swung by Ron’s desk with a single-page summary (which Clark typed up) detailing the financial discrepancies and asking him if he could he’d reach out to City Hall for some answers.

He said yes. You know. Just like he did when Perry got down on one knee and whipped out a ring. SERIOUSLY WHO KNEW THEY WERE MARRIED? 

“They might spill, since I backed off asking to look at the Eyes up close and personal,” Ron mused aloud. “They could look at it as good PR, if…”

Lois waited for him to finish his sentence with an air of impatient expectation.

“If…” she led him on pointedly, but Ron just gave her a look.

“Nothing,” he said flatly. “I’m not giving you an excuse to jump the gun - not that you need an excuse. I’ll let you know if I hear back from the city. Thanks for the tip, Lois.”

In order to avoid adding fuel to the ‘prone to jumping the gun’ dumpster fire that was her professional reputation, Lois swallowed back the growl of frustration she felt bubbling up in her throat. Objectively, this was a good thing, despite putting her story in someone else’s hands. The fact that Ron hadn’t blown her off was honestly a huge relief - it meant he thought the story had legs, even if Perry didn’t. He’d been in the game longer than her and had stronger contacts than she did. It made sense to pass the baton to Ron, she accepted that. It didn’t mean she had to like it, though.

One thing that helped improve her mood was the sweet smile and double thumbs-up Clark flashed her way when she passed his workspace. 

Lois sidled up to him and perched on the edge of his desk, invading his personal space in a way that wasn’t entirely work-appropriate. He looked surprised, but not upset, especially when Lois bent low to whisper in his ear.

“Were you… listening?”

Clark scooted back a few inches in his chair, blinked owlishly at her from behind his glasses. 

“Um, I mean, I could hear you,” he replied with a nervous smile. “Your voice carries.”

Clark cleared his throat slightly and lowered his tone, but he didn’t come any closer. Lois couldn’t understand why; if HR didn’t have a problem with the Editor-in-Chief being FUCKING MARRIED to one of the lead reporters, why would anyone look twice at two coworkers chatting inches away from each other’s faces? (Granted, both Ron and Perry were reporters when they tied the knot, but that was very much beside the point.)

“Good work, handing it off to Ron,” he added softly. “I know that was hard for you, but I think it’ll work out for the best.”

“You would,” Lois said, shoving Clark slightly. He scooted even further away in response to being pushed and she grinned at him.

The smile faded by the time she was at her desk. That was…fake, right? Like, there was no way she could move him under her own power, swivel chair or not. Then again, if Clark was a normal guy who happened to be built like a brick shithouse, she also wouldn’t be able to shove him so easily. Pushing himself back might be the kind of playful move that a normal dude would pull…but it could also be the action of a metahuman, trying to conceal their Immovable Object status. So, which was it? 

Lois half-heartedly clack-clacked her way through an email chain with a group of native plants enthusiasts she’d emailed Friday afternoon, asking for their opinions on the city’s landscaping. In short: They hated it. They also unexpectedly had some concerns about the Eyes, which they’d noticed hovering around one of their CSA sites - specifically a site LuthorCorps lost a bid on in the ‘90s when the land went up for sale. Lois forwarded much of their conversation to Clark; he’d be able to communicate more effectively with the green thumb crowd than she could, that was for damn sure.

Emailing Clark gave her an excuse to obsessively stare at him, watching for him to open the message. He looked…well. Mostly the same as he usually did when he was working. He had his headphones on and was reading something on his computer screen. Then he took his headphones off, got up from his desk, and left without saying a word to anyone.

Lois perked up, instantly on alert. She glanced out the window, but didn’t see a red and blue streak in the sky. Then again, he might have gone around the other side of the building. She opened a new tab in her web browser and Googled ‘disaster’ OR ‘catastrophe’ OR ‘accident’ OR 'emergency' OR ‘death’ OR ‘peril’ OR ‘collision’ OR ‘flood’ OR ‘fire’ OR ‘eruption’ OR ‘explosion’ along with the date, but got a mess of chaotic search results which didn’t indicate where Superman might be going.

Wherever the issue was, it took basically no time at all to sort out. Clark was back in his seat barely five minutes later. He paused putting his headphones on when he saw he had a text from Lois.

Where did you go??

Clark with the Glasses 🤓 :
…to the bathroom. TMI???

He gave her a bland smile over the top of his monitor, popped his headphones back on, and resumed working. 

Lois tried to do the same, but between her preoccupation with wondering whether or not Ron was making any progress with City Hall and being hyper tuned-in for any SuperStuff from Clark, her concentration was basically shot.

Like, she knew Clark was insanely strong, but there was a difference between being able to (briefly) lift a full-grown man over your head and being able to pull a fucking oil rig across the Gulf. He typed quickly, but not at a crazy fast speed (she had referred to his accuracy as ‘freakish’ in the past, maybe his typing should have tipped her off that he was Superman). He regularly took public transportation, which was a wild way to spend $100 a month when he could fly. True, she rarely saw him sans glasses, but on those times she had, she never had the thought, ‘Holy shit, Clark looks just like Superman!’ She thought Clark looked like Clark, but not wearing glasses. 

Although Lois came around to accepting the premise that Clark was basically still Clark, there had to be some degree of pretense, right? How much of the day did he spend disguising his abilities? 50%? 90%?

For example, when he looked like he was reading things off his monitor he had to be pretending most of the time. Surely, if he was going at a “normal” Superman speed, he’d be done in like two seconds and was faking for the benefit of his coworkers. When he put his head on his arms and told Jimmy he was having trouble wording an article in a way that would get his point across adequately and fit the space, he must have been pretending. Like, he didn’t need this job, so why would he be stressed about it? And when he went to Cat’s desk to borrow her Tide-To-Go pen because he dribbled coffee on his shirt, that had to be to divert suspicion. There was no way Superman could screw up drinking out of a mug. 

She got her chance to ask him about all that later in the evening; Clark invited her over for peach cobbler after work. 

Clark was heating their dessert up in the oven when Lois leaned on his countertop, tipping forward on her barstool and asked, “How come you’re not doing that with your laser eyes?”

Clark set a container of vanilla ice cream down on the table in front of her and smiled nervously.

“Um…” his gaze flickered back and forth between her face and the oven timer. “To heat up food? It would be a little…much. Like, using a machete when you just need a butter knife. Also, I don't want to risk the counters; if I move, I want my security deposit back.”

“Superman needs to worry about security deposits?” Lois blurted out skeptically. 

“That guy? Nah,” Clark shook his head, putting on an oven mitt in anticipation of the timer going off. “But my name’s on the lease and I want my twelve-hundred bucks back. Superman’s basically a squatter - ”

“An oven mitt?” Lois reached over and snatched it off Clark’s right hand, getting a little frustrated when he just…let her. “Oh, come on! You don’t need that! Why’d you let me take it?”

The oven pinged over and over again as the two of them stared at each other. Clark silently held his hand out for the oven mitt, which Lois begrudgingly handed to him. Clark replaced the mitt and removed the casserole dish, doling servings into glass bowls. 

“I use oven mitts because you’re supposed to,” he said, peeling the plastic safety seal off the ice cream (Ben & Jerry’s, which was good, but not MacPherson’s Dairy good). “I don’t want to get out of the habit, just in case I accidentally hand something burning hot to another person. I didn’t think you were going to steal my oven mitt, so it didn’t occur to me to stop you. Is this...is this a test?”

“Kind of,” Lois admitted, taking her bowl of cobbler, watching the ice cream slowly melt into the pasty. “I don’t know, like, couldn’t you have used superspeed to stop me from grabbing the oven mitt? What if, um, the oven mitt was actually a baby and my hand was holding a knife and the baby was being kidnapped - ”

“Okay,” Clark interrupted her, holding up a hand to stop her. “That’s…literally a completely different situation. Obviously, I’m gonna to react differently in an emergency or where there’s a clear and present threat to a freaking baby than you taking my oven mitt to prove a point.”

“But what’s your baseline?” Lois demanded. “Like…”

She thrust her cobbler bowl under Clark’s nose. 

“Is the ice cream melting so slowly to you?” she asked. “Wait, let me translate this into Clark-speak - when people are talking to you, does it sound like Dory when she’s speaking Whale in Finding Nemo?”

“Your ice cream is melting really fast,” Clark said, putting a fingertip on the rim of Lois’s bowl to urge her to set it back down on the table. “You should eat it before it’s soup. And, no, no one sounds like they’re speaking Whale, as much as I appreciate the reference. My baseline is…normal I think? It’s like how no one’s default is… running. Like, Usain Bolt doesn’t get out of bed in the morning and go twenty-five miles an hour to get to the shower. I mean, I assume he doesn’t, I don’t know his life...oh, shit.”

Clark trailed off, tension entering his face. He glanced out the window, then back at Lois.

“I have to - to go,” he stuttered. “There’s a rollover on the freeway, I just want to make sure the driver’s okay, I’ll be back when the paramedics get there. Please don’t leave!”

Lois’s hair blew around her head, the rush of wind making her close her eyes instinctively. When she opened them again, Clark was gone. 

Two disparate thoughts came to mind: 

So, that’s what it’s like when Superman goes up, up, and away. 

And:

A rollover is how Papa Kent’s dad died. I wonder if Clark's thinking about that. 

Lois tried to reconcile those thoughts. Failed. And, because her ice cream was melting really fast, started eating her cobbler. Like everything else Clark’s parents served to her when she was in Smallville, the cobbler was really, really good.

She picked up her phone and hesitated before she texted Mama Kent. No doubt Clark told her what happened last week. He probably told both his parents. And while he said he’d forgiven her, there was a not-zero chance that his mother hadn’t. Still, Lois took a gamble.

Thanks for the cobbler! It’s sooooo good!

Mama Kent:
You’re welcome, honey! Looking forward to seeing you in a few weeks! 🦃

Lois was surprised, both by the speed at which Mama Kent got back to her and the fact that she was still invited for Thanksgiving. This was good for her wallet since she’d already bought the ticket, but she was surprised Clark’s parents weren’t holding a grudge. Maybe he didn’t tell them what happened.

Incredibly, Clark was back before Lois finished her cobbler. He let himself in through the door of his apartment, eyes crinkling up in a smile when he saw her sitting at the counter.

He smiles just like his dad does. Except they're not related. He might not be human. How is that possible?

“How’d it...go?” Lois asked, feeling deeply uncomfortable because what the fuck? Clark just looked so normal. Like he was late coming back from work, not like he’d flown out to the freeway to pick up a semi truck and fly it to a mechanic or whatever.

“Good,” he said, slightly breathlessly, whether because moving like that made him winded, or he was nervous was impossible to tell. “The driver’s going to be fine, I did have to put the engine in deep freeze so there was no fire risk, but the important thing is no one got badly hurt oh - dang.”

Lois hadn’t put the ice cream back in the fridge after Clark left, so it was looking pretty…wet. Clark gave her a bit of a self-conscious shrug before blowing on the ice cream, freezing it solid immediately. 

“If I take care of it, it doesn’t get as freezer-burnt,” he said, replacing the lid of the container and putting it away. He turned to Lois, looking apprehensive. “Was that…too much? I’m sorry, I won’t do stuff like that in front of you if it bothers you.”

Did it bother her? Yes, but only because she didn’t understand it. It didn’t make sense, that a guy could one minute be putting out a fire on the highway and the next be worried about freezer burn ruining his six dollar pint of ice cream.

“I don’t get it,” Lois confessed, putting her spoon back in her bowl and her head in her hands. “I don’t get you. Why…why… why are you wearing glasses?”

That was the crux of the issue, right there! Lois hadn’t realized it until that moment, but the glasses were the key to cracking this whole thing wide open. It was the culmination of all things Clark versus all things Superman. The guy was willing to zoom out of the room at a million miles an hour in front of her, instantly freeze a container of ice cream with the same effort other people used to blow out candles. And he was wearing glasses, which he didn’t need. Why was he wearing a disguise when she already knew his secret?

“I…always wear glasses,” Clark replied, uneasily. “Except for when I’m sleeping, obviously. Or flying - I don’t want them to fall off.”

She raised her head and squinted at him, utterly confused.

“But why?” she asked. “You don’t need them. They’re not prescription, right?”

In answer, Clark took them off and handed them to her. Lois had to press the bridge to her face to keep them from sliding directly off her nose, but it was as she thought - the lenses were just clear glass. And slightly smudged with Clark’s fingerprints. 

“Do you use your x-ray vision to see past the finger marks?” she muttered as she handed them back.

“Wow,” Clark intoned as he wiped them on his shirt before putting them back on his face. “What a call-out.”

Clark picked up his bowl of cobbler soup and started eating; he didn’t blow on it to re-freeze the ice cream, probably because it would also freeze the cobbler. 

“I wear glasses because I think I look better in glasses,” he told her between bites. “That’s literally it. Medically, I don’t need them, but aesthetically, my big ol’ head needs all the help it can get.”

“I like your big ol' head,” Lois replied, frowning down at her empty bowl. With a sigh she added, “I’m making this all weird. I’m not trying to, if that makes a difference.”

It probably didn't. She was probably making this worse. Any minute now Clark would start listing off every thing she'd even done to upset him or hurt him or piss him off since the second she met him. It would start when she smirked at him and said, "Smallville? Sounds fake," and conclude with, "Do you use your x-ray vision to see past the finger marks?" Because she could never stop, she never thought before she opened her mouth, and this was why she sucked so hard at friendship, eventually people got sick of overlooking her bull-in-a-china-shop way of relating to people and Clark would be no different because, as Lana pointed out, he was the Snuggle Bear and Lois kept treating him like he was the wrecking ball, not her -

“Lois.”

Clark set his bowl aside and leaned on the counter, hands pressed flat on the formica. Was he leaning on it? Or did Clark spend his time just hovering really close to things so he didn’t constantly crush everything? Except that didn’t make sense because he’d touched her, he’d kissed her, she felt him! And he’d never crushed her, so it stood to reason he wasn’t going through life not touching anything, he had to touch his keyboard to type...

He was touching her now. Clark curled a finger under her chin to gently urge her face up to look at him. Had he always been like this? So thoughtful, so careful? Or had it taken years of practice for him to feel comfortable getting close to people - touching close - without worrying about hurting them?

“I'm weird," he said plainly. "It's a weird situation. We're...figuring it out. I've never...heh."

Clark gave her a sheepish smile and ducked his head adorably. 

"I almost said 'come out,' my mom will either think that's hilarious or awful of me," he remarked. "But...you're the first person who knows about me who hasn't always known me. I guess I'm getting...testy because you'll ask me something and I wanna say, 'Yes, of course,' or, 'No, don't you already know that?' But you don't, necessarily. I feel - I feel like you're so much a part of my life, it's like you've always been there. I need to remind myself you haven't."

Jesus fuck. How did he do it? How did he manage to be so sweet all the time?

"Are you sure you want me to stay part of your life?" Lois asked because she just couldn't stop. Maybe Lucy was right - what was the point of forgiveness when she just kept making the same mistakes over and over again? "When I'm so bad at understanding you?" 

Clark walked around the counter, pulling out a barstool and sitting down so he and Lois's faces were slightly closer together. He didn't reach for her, he twined his fingers loosely together in his lap, but he leaned closer to her so that she was looking right into his eyes, past the smeared fingerprints of his non-prescription lenses. 

"I want you to stay part of my life forever," he said, then cleared his throat nervously. "Uh. Or as long as you want to. I don't need you to get it, all at once. Especially when there's a lot I haven't told you and that I can't tell you. I'll never be mad at you for asking questions, Lois. It just bugs me when you make up your mind about something before you ask the question. That's all." 

No one ever promised her forever. Lois wasn't completely convinced by Clark's offer. But, hey, if he could put up with her indefinitely? Forgive her over and over again? That was one hell of a superpower.

"I'll try not to bug you," she said, as close to a promise of 'forever' as she could muster. 

"Thanks," Clark said, reaching out a hand for Lois to take. She met him halfway, marveling over the fact that his hands could crush rocks to sand, but felt so soft and comfortable in her grasp. Whether it was natural or the result of long, hard practice, Lois would never get over how gentle Clark was with her. "I promise to be honest with you. And...if you do bug me, it's okay. I'll bug you too! Pete bugs the shit out of me, but I love him anyway."

Clark was rubbing his thumb in little circles over the back of her hand. It was very soothing. He wouldn't be doing that if he hadn't actually forgiven her. There was no way.

"It's all...part of having relationships, caring about people," he pointed out. "You love 'em, even when they drive you crazy - maybe especially when they drive you crazy. And you forgive them when they mess up - and they forgive you. Over and over again. That's...life, you know?"

Lois didn't know, not really. Not about forgiveness. Not about forever. She wasn't sure what to say, but she was saved by the buzz. Clark's phone lit up with a text from Cat.

Cat:
Everything okay? Superman was spotted flying out of your neighborhood, there's a new feature on the McCarthyism App - 'Superman Sightings' go directly to notifications, I can't figure out how to turn it off, it's SO ANNOYING, but when I saw he was near you, I wanted to check in. I hope there isn't an emergency!

Cat:
(Also I went on a date with your friend Lana and she's SO NICE and SO SMART and SO PRETTY and YOU NEED TO BE OKAY BECAUSE I HAVE TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT IT!!!)

Chapter Text

EYE SPY - DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR DATA IS?
City financials raise questions about LuthorCorp’s true investment in the Eye Program
This article is by Ron Troupe, Lois Lane, and Clark J. Kent

“Once again, urban agriculture saves the day!” is what Clark kept telling everyone after Perry gave them the green light to publish their article about the Eye program. 

Hey, it was true in his heart, whether or not it was the smoking gun that tied the entire conspiracy together (it wasn’t). Still! Clark’s interview with a representative from MetroVeg, one of the city’s CSAs, was enough of a contribution to get him the last credit in the byline.

“You might say, the conspiracy started from the ground up!”

Jimmy laughed, but that pun in particular was what prompted Lois to make an audible gagging sound and advise him to, “Pack it in, Pete Ross.”

Her painstaking research into the financial situation was, admittedly, more powerful evidence of government corruption than a bunch of delightful hippies noticing the Eyes conducting what appeared to be a survey of their largest plot. Really, if anyone was entitled to make terrible puns, it was Lois, but there wasn’t much you could do with ‘contracts’ and ‘corruption’ as lead-ins. 

The real breakthrough came from Ron and he hadn’t made a single pun, so Clark supposed he should cool it for propriety’s sake. His contacts at City Hall came through and admitted (proudly!) that the MMPD hadn’t paid for the drones - LuthorCorp ‘donated’ them, retaining the rights not just to the machinery itself, but also to the surveillance footage the drones captured.

“I had a hunch back when LuthorCorp was trying to charge Superman for breaking one of them,” Ron told Lois and Clark. “It was stupid, but it was a very specific kind of corporate stupid - ”

“Wait, you knew that LuthorCorp owned the drones the whole time?” Lois exclaimed, incredulous. “And you didn’t say anything!”

“I didn’t know,” Ron corrected her. “I suspected. I didn’t have evidence until you came to me with the financials and I didn’t have confirmation until City Hall spilled the beans. There’s an order of operations here, Lois.”

To say that Lois didn’t love that explanation would be the understatement of the year. She openly scowled at her desk and blew off everyone’s congratulations about the article. She slammed the door to Clark’s unit when she let herself in for TV and Clark Cooks. 

Clark made her a copy of his apartment key and told her his code for accessing the building; that way if he was late getting in, (for Superman-related reasons), she could stop by and they didn’t have to completely cancel their plans. Tonight wasn’t one of those nights, but letting herself in meant she got the pleasure of making as much noise on entry as possible. 

She didn’t perch on one of the bar stools, she went directly to the couch, flopped down on the cushions, and extended her hand in his direction.

“Wine me,” she commanded, her free arm thrown dramatically over her face.

Clark poured her a glass of wine, but opted not to put it in her hand while she wasn’t looking.

“Um, so, I might be a little slow on the uptake,” he said, standing over her, “but…didn’t all your dreams come true today? Shouldn’t this be celebratory wine? Not grumpy wine?”

“I’m not Grumpy, I’m Doc,” she said, deigning to look at him with one exposed eye. “The smart one. I feel like we’re missing something. Like there’s more going on that we’re missing.”

Is Doc the smart one? Clark found himself wondering. Or does he just wear glasses?

“More going on than the city letting a corporation spy on its citizens with the cooperation and support of the police department?” Clark asked, placing the glass in Lois’s outstretched hand. 

She sat up to drink it, which was a relief - it was pricier than Clark’s go-to wine purchase (read: everything from the $15 and under section at the grocery store) and he didn’t want the carpet drinking more than Lois. She requested it specifically; apparently this was the bottle she and Lana split during their afternoon at the art museum. 

“More to the whole conspiracy, like the App!” Lois explained. “I get that Cat and Ron think it was trying to gamify spying to make people more comfortable with the Eyes, but…that requires a level of 4-D chess that I don’t think LuthorCorp is playing. Like Ron said, they’ve been stupid. I feel like the app is also stupid, but stupid-important, not stupid-pointless.”

Cat texted them both after work; she checked her burner phone and the EyeApp was down for 'maintenance.' She seriously doubted that it was going to come back and hoped that the drones themselves would soon become a thing of the past.

Cat’s You won!!! 🎉text appeared to be a contributing factor to Lois’s bad mood.

“This feels easy,” Lois said, dismissing several weeks’ worth of research, investigation, and hours of arguing with Perry, then washing her dismissal down with a huge glug of wine. “Everyone’s like rah-rah, case closed, and it shouldn’t be this easy.”

Clark could see where she was coming from (the whole Superman Sighting feature on the EyeApp obviously had him concerned), but with the App down and the police department scrambling in the face of this PR disaster, he was starting to breathe easier on that subject. He wished Lois could too.

“I think you’re underestimating how much work you put in,” Clark offered, heading back to the counter to pour a glass of wine for himself before he put the bottle back in the fridge. “You were the one who pushed the story, you did the heavy lifting on the stats, you deserve - ”

“The lead credit on the byline?” Lois anticipated him, voice echoing slightly since her glass was already raised to her mouth. “Yeah, I agree.”

Okay, so that’s where the Grumpy vibes were coming from. Clark really should have known. He sat down next to her and sipped his wine; it was sweet, which he appreciated, and almost made up for the heftier price tag (at the end of the day, Clark thought all wine just tasted like wine, whether it cost $13 or $30). 

“You did a lot of the work,” he repeated. “But Ron got the key interview, he consolidated all our evidence, he wrote the bulk of the article - ”

Lois kicked him in the leg with her right foot. In accordance with Kent family tradition, she left her shoes by the door and was sitting on the couch in her socks, which sported a dapper diamond pattern. 

“Stop being fair,” she pouted, taking another very large gulp of her beverage. “I wanna sulk, I feel abandoned, you’ve abandoned me. Zero out of ten, bad at friendship. Boo!”

Then she gave him a thumb’s down, like the most adorably ruthless Roman Emperor Clark had ever seen.

“Listen,” he acknowledged. “I may have abandoned you emotionally, but if I was sulking too, who'd get the mac and cheese out of the oven?”

The dinner bubbling away in the oven was a special request from Lois; she’d never had a macaroni and cheese casserole before, she’d only ever had stovetop versions, usually from a slender blue box. 

This statement did nothing to quell Lois’s frustration, it seemed to make it worse. She fell forward and face-planted onto his arm; she’d drunk so much of the wine already, there was no risk that it would slosh out of the glass. 

“Stop being reasonable!” she demanded, voice muffled on his sleeve. “This is worse than the puns!”

Clark patted her head in what he hoped felt like a sympathetic and understanding way. Then he decided to become The Worst. He couldn’t help it! They had diametrically opposed feelings about their article, while Lois was thoroughly bummed out, Clark was pleased as punch they were able to get the story out, regardless of where he fell in the line of credit. Maybe he could cajole her into a good mood - the odds weren’t in his favor, but it couldn’t hurt to try.

“Look at it this way,” he said, with a sly smile Lois could probably hear, even if she couldn’t see his face. “I planted the seeds - ack!”

Clark broke off in a burst of shocked laughter - Lois bit him. Straight-up, turned her head to the side and mimed sinking her teeth into his arm, complete with a CHOMP sound effect. She mostly gummed his sleeve, leaving a mark behind from her wine and spit. It was equal parts gross and charming.

More than that, it demonstrated a degree of physical comfort with him Clark was grateful for, regardless of the wet spot on his arm. 

“Did you just bite me?” he asked, delightfully scandalized.

Lois pulled back and nodded at him, with the cutest little frown on her face.

“You deserved it,” she declared solemnly.

It was so tempting to lean over and press a kiss to that sweetly pouting lower lip, but Clark refrained. They were regaining equilibrium, but he didn’t want to rush things. Lois was definitely cool with being friends, but he didn’t know if she wanted to be Friends Who Kissed again; he wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.

Clark had been turned down in the past by people who were put off by his size, who didn’t like the idea of being with a partner who was significantly bigger and stronger than them. (Someone once memorably commented that they didn’t want to go to bed with anyone they didn’t think they could take in a fight and his pacifist bonafides had no impact on their appraisal.) Lois hadn’t minded that, but it was one thing to trust a normal tall guy who she assumed was a gym rat, it was another thing to trust someone who literally couldn’t be overpowered.

It didn’t matter that he would never press his advantage, that the idea of a partner feeling trapped by him made Clark feel actively queasy. Lois didn’t live in his head. He could say anything he wanted; she wasn’t truly safe with him if she didn’t feel safe with him. Period.

Clark stayed exactly as he was and pretended not to notice how delightfully kissable her mouth looked when she was being a little bratty. Lois leaned back against the arm of the couch and put her feet up on Clark’s lap, crossing her legs at the ankle. 

“There was a time,” she observed airily, taking a more moderate sip of her wine as she eyed him up and down, “when I really questioned your friendship compatibility with Pete Ross because he can be so fucking annoying. Now I get it. You’re both annoying, you’re just better at hiding it.”

Clark grinned and exclaimed, “Ha! You discovered my secret - I lure ‘em in with homemade food and then I bust out the puns! Cheers, girlie.”

Lois cheersed him with her nearly-empty glass. 

“You’re lucky your accent is cute,” she huffed, draining the rest of her drink and holding the glass out expectantly to Clark for a refill. He got up to oblige her, once she moved her legs so he could stand up.

“Aww, that’s sweet,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to smile at her and add, “I’ll be sure to tell Pete you think his accent’s cute.”

“YOU SUCK!” Lois declared, sinking back down into the sofa. “Also your couch isn’t comfy enough! Why do I even come over here? My couch is way better!”

That Clark agreed with; he mostly bought it because he could fully lie down on it and he liked a nap in front of the TV from time to time. The oven pinged and Clark turned the timer off on his way to the fridge; he figured Lois would want her wine before she wanted her pasta.

“For the food!” he reminded her, heading back to the oven to take the casserole out - it needed a minute on the range to cool down and set up. This time, Lois didn’t try to take his oven mitt so Clark was able to remove the dish in peace.

While Lois was occupied with her wine, Clark pressed the tip of his finger into the side of the casserole dish, an expression of frustration briefly flitting over his face. He felt that it was hot, but it didn’t hurt at all. No red welt appeared, Clark could have held his hand there indefinitely and been none the worse for wear. It was better to use the mitt, he thought decisively. Better to do things the regular way, if only so he didn’t forget how to live like a normal person. 

Which, admittedly, might be a little bit of a melodramatic thought to have about a freaking oven mitt, but Clark didn’t want to take a chance that he might lose touch (pun not intended on this rare occasion). Sure, he’d use his abilities to keep his ice cream at maximum deliciousness, but he didn’t want to cut too many corners in his daily life. Clark wasn’t someone who ascribed to the ‘slippery slope’ argument in general, but he felt it was warranted in his case. 

“You wanna eat on the couch?” he asked Lois nodded. While Clark didn’t relish the thought of getting cheese stains out of the couch he was still paying off, he wanted to get some carbs in that girl before she polished off wine number two. 

They dug into their bowls and all of his ShopPay worries vanished as Clark was instantly hit with a sense of home. Ma occasionally remarked that the only thing she kept from her original family were the recipes and this one slapped. When he was old enough to be curious, but too young to realize how painful it might be for her to answer, he asked her about it.

“Does it make you sad when you cook your family’s food?” Clark asked one night, when he was helping Ma was make cheesy potato casserole for dinner. “Because they weren’t nice to you?”

Ma was crushing up corn flakes and looked up from the mixing bowl to smile when she answered him.

“Nope,” she replied, easily. “It’s not their food anymore, it’s our family’s food. And it makes you happy to eat it, doesn’t it?”

Clark replied with all the affirming enthusiasm his seven-year-old self could muster. At that point in his life, he would have happily lived off of potato casserole and hot dogs. He did need to be reminded from time to time that it wasn't good manners to scrape all the corn flakes off the top and only eat the crust, though.

“It makes you and Papa happy to eat it, so I’m happy to make it,” she replied, getting back to pulverizing the cornflakes. "This one's an oldie, but a goodie, baby: living well is the best revenge. Your turn - let's get that butter mixed in."

She wasn’t stingy about giving the recipes out, which Clark was grateful for - and Lois, apparently, based on the borderline obscene moan she emitted when she took her first bite.

“Oh my God,” she closed her eyes and had a private moment with her dinner. “Oh my God. This is so delicious, I wanna marry it.”

“I’ll get the paperwork started,” Clark chuckled. He set his bowl down and leaned forward to retrieve his phone off the coffee table, to text his mom Lois’s compliments. The group chat was actively oddly late into the evening, for his sake; Kelsey Kearns dropped a link to the Eye article into the chat.

Kels:
NOT OUR BOY ON THE FRONT PAGE THOUGH. 

Lana:
OH SHIT NOT CLARK KENT INVESTIGATOR TO THE STARS 🤩

Evan:
Congrats, but dude. Dude. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH METROPOLIS?

Kels:
He means WAY TO REPORT YOU FREAKING REPORTER.

Brian:
I hate this for you, but I also LOVE this for you. Like, scary spy drones bad, Clark being a TRUTH TELLER FOR TEH AGES?? Love that!
*THE

Clark smiled to himself and wrote back:

😊😊😊 Thank you! But also, I was the least important cog in the reporting machine, as evidenced by my third-place writing credit.

Miguel:
But you’re the only one who got a middle initial! 🙌

Pete:
My dad is saying that because the J stands for Joseph, he also deserves credit for the article. Think your paper will cut him a check?

Lois’s head was pressed against his arm again, though thankfully this time there was no biting; she was reading over his shoulder. Clark thought she was going to complain about the byline or the lack of overt praise for her in the group chat, but she sagged against his shoulder and sighed.

“Is there any chance I can get back in the group chat?” she asked. “Or would it be weird?”

“I’d say your chance of getting back in the group chat is the exact opposite chance of Uncle Joey getting a check from Perry,” Clark said. With a few taps on his phone screen, Lois was back in the mix. “There we go, done. Don’t forget to mute notifications.”

Lois nuzzled against his arm and sighed. “You’re so nice. Please tell me that’s one of your sun-based superpowers and you’re a huge dick during the winter. Like, to balance things out.”

Comments like that were completely inexplicable to Clark. Like, why would anyone need to balance out being nice? Why would she sound so actively hopeful that he was a huge jerk occasionally? Clark certainly wasn’t perfect, but he did try to avoid being a dick. Why wouldn’t everyone strive for a default of ‘nice’? 

Then again, when Clark was in a trash mood, he tended to turn his frustration inward, while he knew Lois’s impulse was to lash out. Different strokes for different folks, he guessed.

“I’m mopey sometimes,” Clark admitted, replacing his phone with his bowl so he could finish his dinner before it got cold. “Does that count?”

“Mmm,” Lois grumbled, sitting up and eating more pasta. She finished her bowl and Clark assumed that when she got up, it was to get seconds. He was wrong - she went back for more wine. 

Clark had experience with this version of Lois before - drunk!Lois was a lot of fun, but also very affectionate, in a way that was equal parts endearing and also drove him a little crazy. The last time Lois got tipsy, she invited him to spend the night in the guest room at his parents’ house, a request that would have been music to Clark’s ears if she was sober, but went over like a lead balloon when he knew she didn’t really mean it. 

So it was now. Clark got up to get her a nice, big glass of ice water (which she neither requested, nor drank much off) and no sooner did he sit than Lois climbed into his lap, tilting her chin up hopefully and pulled on his shirt the same way she did the first time they kissed. Unlike that time, Clark didn’t let himself be drawn down.

“I think you’re tired -” he began (because, in his experience, drunk people hated being told that they were drunk), but Lois tightened her grip on him, tugging uselessly.

“I’m not tired, I’m drunk and I want a kiss,” she informed him plainly. “Many kisses, even. Pleeeease?”

The slightly drawn-out please was extremely precious, but Clark held firm. 

“Not tonight,” he said, gently. It wasn’t always fun to be the Constantly Sober Friend, but Clark supposed it was part of the cosmic karmic balancing scale: someone with his abilities shouldn’t be able to lose control of themselves that easily. 

Clark covered Lois’s hands with his own and gave her a slight smile, hoping she let it go. If he was perfectly honest with himself, he wasn’t ready yet. 

Clark had forgiven Lois, he knew she was sorry for what she’d said, but one thing he hadn’t wrapped his mind and heart around was her assertion that she hadn’t meant it. Regardless of whether or not she was afraid when she was saying the worst of her diatribe, she’d been scared of him earlier. He knew that as surely as he knew she was sorry.

The knowledge that he had frightened her, that he might do it again, doused whatever flame of passion sparked to life when he looked at her beautiful face or felt her body against his. He still felt everything he had before he was only…well. Not-quite-human. Human enough to want her, badly and human enough to feel a cold wash of anxiety overtake him when he considered the possibility of Lois realizing she was still afraid of him once they were in a more vulnerable position. 

Clark wasn’t ready to follow through yet, even if Lois thought she was. Rebuilding trust went both ways and the fact that she only approached him like this after she’d been drinking made Clark believe she was actually in the ‘not ready’ category, regardless of what she was doing and saying in the moment.

“Can we cuddle, at least?” Lois asked, accepting defeat temporarily. 

Clark agreed and started stretching out on the couch, but she shook her head.

“Your couch is not comfy,” she reminded him sternly. “Can just go into your bedroom? I promise not to take advantage of you! Scout’s honor.”

She raised two fingers in a peace sign, which Clark noticed her do before when she said, ‘Scout’s honor,’ and he assumed she was being playfully ironic. It only now occurred to him that Lois might genuinely think that was how Girl Scouts pledged. Lana would be appalled.  

“What if my bed’s the same comfy-level as the couch?” Clark asked, unable to make up his mind about whether taking up Lois’s suggestion was a good idea or not. It wasn’t like they hadn’t shared a bed before, but circumstances were extremely different. In about every conceivable way. "Like. Not comfy?"

“Oh, there’s no way,” Lois shook her head decisively. “No way my Disney Princess sleeps on any bed that isn’t snuggly soft. I’ll bet you can detect a pea twenty mattresses under you.” 

Clark burst out laughing because he couldn’t even pretend that wasn’t true - his mattress topper was literally advertised as providing a ‘cloud-like’ sleeping experience. He supposed, in that way, he was a little bit of a princess. He’d own it! Seriously, who wanted to sleep with a pea under their mattress? 

“Okay,” he relented. “We can…move. If you want.”

“Carry me?” she asked, arms extended and Clark finally stopped arguing with her. 

Lois snuggled against him while he tried not to recall exactly what happened the last time he held her like this - the yelling, the accusations, the absolute fucking terror of watching her careening toward the ground. 

This is different, he reminded himself. She knows. She’s starting to trust you again. You’re not going to let her down.

Clark did set her down on the bed and Lois immediately sprawled over the mattress. It was a big bed and she didn’t take up that much of it, so she could go full starfish. 

“Dude, this is barely a mattress,” she informed him, pressing her hands into his blankets. “This is a marshmallow, I friggin’ knew it.”

“Well, yeah, you’re never wrong,” Clark told her, making his way to a drawer and grabbing his PJs. “I’m gonna change out of hard pants, be right back.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Lois replied and, under different circumstances, that might have been an extremely sexy statement, but she yawned massively and Clark winced when he heard the crack her jaw made on the descent. 

Hiding out in the bathroom gave Clark a chance to get his head together. To banish thoughts of the awful night they’d had when Lois discovered the truth and put off the promise of resuming their status as Friends Who Kiss. Potentially Friends Who Did More Than Kiss. 

Cuddling, he could do, though! He was very much down to cuddle: DTC. That abbreviation would definitely be catching on among The Youth. 

Clark brushed his teeth, figuring fresh breath was appropriate for all occasions, not just kissing occasions. Lois was curled up on her side and appeared to be slightly dozing when he re-entered the bedroom. She stirred when the mattresses dipped under Clark’s weight.

Lois immediately rolled toward him, scooching up to tuck her head under his chin. She lifted her face to look at him and asked, “What if I told you I’m totally sober now and ready to rock and roll?”

“Uh, the fact that you said, ‘rock and roll’ tells me you’re very much not,” Clark smiled. “I don’t mind, you’re awful cute when you’re tipsy.”

“But not cute enough to kiss,” Lois lamented dramatically. “Not cute enough to come first in the byline, not cute enough to kiss, worst day ever - oh, hey, that’s nice.”

Clark brushed her bangs aside and bent down to press a kiss lightly to her forehead. He hesitated only slightly before he kissed the tip of her nose and the apples of her cheeks. Then he lifted her hands and gave her fingertips the same attention. Lois emitted the sweetest little giggle, toes curling against the covers. She was smiling crookedly at him and some of Clark’s walls came tumbling down on the strength of that smile alone. 

She might not be sober, but she doesn’t look scared, he thought, slightly heartened. Way to not be scary, Clark. Keep it up. 

Lois propped herself up on her elbow and said, “Okay, my turn.”

The wine made Lois’s movements a little clumsy, but in a nice way. When they kissed before, she was forceful and direct - very Lois Freaking Lane, which Clark adored. This time, though, she was a little softer. Rather than pulling his hair, she ran her fingers through it, wrapping the curls around her fingers. The kisses she gave him, on his cheeks, his forehead, even his chin, were lingering and soft. 

There was a brief second, where her eyes set on his mouth and a determined expression flickered across her face, but it vanished quickly. Instead, her gaze charted upwards and she reached toward his face, pulling his glasses off and rolling over to put them on the bedside table, on top of his stack of library books.

"You shouldn't lie down wearing glasses," she informed him primly. "You'll make them all fucked up and bent out of shape."

Clark's breath caught, worried, that if he wasn't wearing his glasses Lois would stop seeing Clark, she'd only see Superman, and she'd freak and maybe the kissing-just-not-on-the-mouth was more intimate contact that he should have allowed himself, maybe he crossed a line, maybe he should already be apologizing -

Lois didn't freak out or panic. Clark didn't see a smidgen of fear in her face. She didn't actually look at him all that closely or that long. Once she got his glasses out of danger, Lois turned away from him, laying on her side with her back pressed to Clark's chest. She guided his arms to wrap fully around her and nestled against his body with a happy sigh.

“You are so freaking comfy,” she murmured appreciatively. “I bought a weighted blanket, but it’s not the same.”

“It’s not better?” Clark asked, feigning surprise. “Weighted blankets make fewer terrible puns.”

Lois shook her head and replied, “Puns are part of the package. And I love the package.”

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nope. No, no. Shut it down. She was drunk. She definitely didn’t mean it like that. There was no fucking way and Clark’s heart really needed to calm down because Lois could probably feel it pounding against the back of her head.

Clark just pulled her closer and kissed her hair, nuzzling her head and breathing deeply. She didn’t smell like salon chemicals anymore, she just smelled like Lois, an aroma Clark was pretty sure he could get intoxicated with, even if alcohol couldn’t do it for him.

“I should get my phone,” Clark reflected, though getting up was the last thing he wanted to do…ever. “I don’t want you to miss the bus.”

“Can I just stay?” Lois mumbled, sounding half-asleep. “I can catch the bus in the a.m. We don’t have to do anything, we can just sleep. Unless you need to up, up, and away.”

Clark snorted against Lois’s head and felt her silently laughing beside him.

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” he said, sinking into the pillows and his marshmallow-like bed. Once Lois conked out, he might go to the kitchen to do dishes and put the casserole away, but that was a problem for Future Clark. "You stay as long as you want."

For now, though? He was content to stay exactly where he was.

Chapter Text

The feeling of vague dread that floated around Lois since the Eye story broke solidified into a bone-deep knowledge that she was making a huge mistake going back to Smallville. Unfortunately, by the time she had that stark realization, she was sitting at her departure gate, quietly freaking out because their flight was boarding in twenty minutes and Clark was nowhere to be seen. 

For the fifth time in ten minutes, Lois checked her phone for a text or a missed call - nothing. She scrolled over to Instagram, which was a mistake. Lucy updated her story with a passive-aggressive quote, rendered in impossible-to-read swirly text on a background featuring a faux watercolor rendering of a butterfly. ‘When people show you who they are, believe them. - Oprah Winfrey.’

Lois’s coffee soured in her stomach, a nauseating combination of rage and guilt. Not feelings she wanted to be experiencing first thing in the morning, especially when she might literally be flying solo. She supposed Clark not being at the airport didn’t mean he wasn’t coming at all, he could catch up to her in Kansas - hey, he was faster than a speeding bullet, he'd probably beat the plane. She’d just like confirmation that she wasn’t going to turn up in his home state, bags in hand, with no one waiting to pick her up.

Naturally, Lucy would believe this was a karmic judgment on Lois for being The Worst and that she deserved to spend the holiday weekend as the airport hobo, subsisting on Sbarro pizza and handfuls of water from the taps in the bathroom. She basically said as much when she called her last night.

She caught Lois at a good moment - she was feeling really proud of herself for her personal evolution when it came to travel to Smallville, in that she was packing before midnight. Lois was in the process of trying to Tetris her clothes into one carry-on (they were only staying four nights, rather than seven, so she felt like she shouldn’t need a checked bag) when her phone started buzzing. 

Assuming that Lucy was calling to bitch about how useless David was being in the run-up to the holiday, Lois answered her call and put the phone on speaker, greeting her sister with a distracted, “Hey, what’s up?”

Lucy replied with a question of her own, “Are you seriously not coming for Thanksgiving?”

Ordinarily, Lois would have held her own in the stalemate, outlasted her sister during this opening round of  Questionception, waiting until Lucy broke first, but she still needed to finish packing, so she let Lucy have this one.

“No, I told Dad I had plans already,” Lois replied. “Literally a month ago, he already told you.”

“He did, but I figured you were making shit up because you were mad,” Lucy countered. “Honestly, I thought you’d be over it by now, you're being such a baby.”

“I’m over it,” Lois confirmed. She was over it! In the sense that she was going to shove their argument into her mental closet of Things Dad Did That Pissed Her Off and not think about it until the next time he pissed her off. Clark wasn't the only one who could do forgiveness. “But I’m not going to D.C., I’m going to Clark’s parents’ house. I had my flight booked to Kansas way before Dad - ”

“Cut the crap, Lola,” Lucy replied and Lois swore she could hear her sister rolling her eyes on the other end of the phone. “Dad told me about your fake boyfriend - the photo was a nice touch. He said it looked like you crashed some college theatre production of Of Mice and Men and paid Lennie twenty bucks to take a picture with you. Whatever, I get it, you’re trolling us, ha-ha, very funny, now please call Dad and tell him to book you a flight for tomorrow. You’ll probably get stuck with a middle seat, but that’s on you for dragging it out this long.”

The conversation quickly fell apart after that. Lois spent an inordinate amount of time trying to convince Lucy that Clark (although not her boyfriend) was a very real person and she had a flight on a very real plane to his very real hometown.

“I was just there over the summer!” Lois reminded her, abandoning packing since her sister developing a case of sudden-onset amnesia seemed to require all her time and attention. “You saw the pictures!”

“That was in Kansas? I thought you were in New Jersey!”

Then Lucy shifted gears - she now believed Lois had gone to Kansas over the summer, she believed Clark was her actual coworker, but she couldn’t quite get there on the whole ‘spending the holiday weekend with his parents’ thing.

“You invited yourself to their Thanksgiving?” she shrieked into the phone. “That is insane! Certifiable! Oh my God, I can’t believe you did that! I can’t believe you’re going, what is wrong with you?”

“They invited me!” Lois insisted, though her sister’s insistence that this was impossible made her doubt her sense of exactly how genuine the Kents (admittedly repeated) invitations were.

“Use your head, ding-dong!” Lucy shot back. “They didn’t mean it! They were just being nice. Holy crap, in what universe do people want some random girl crashing their family holiday?”

The end of the conversation was probably what prompted Lucy to take to Instagram with passive-aggressive Stories content. 

“So, you’re blowing off your real family to spend the weekend with people you barely know who probably don’t even want you there,” Lucy concluded, sounding thoroughly disgusted. “Really nice. I don’t know why I’m surprised, it’s not like you’ve ever put anyone else’s needs before you in your life.”

Did Lois respond to that accusation with grace? Did she apologize for not understanding that putting in an appearance at her family’s Thanksgiving gathering was a ‘need’? Did she promise to bookmark the time off for them next year?

No. No, she did not. Instead Lois told Lucy that if it was actually that important to her, she wouldn’t have waited until two days before the holiday to let her know. The satisfaction she got from her sister hanging up on her lasted until she finished packing. She was going to have to check a bag, there was no way around it considering how much bulkier cold-weather clothes were than summer ones. 

The anxiety started creeping in on the way to the airport: was it possible she was wrong? That the Kents weren’t actually enthusiastic about her coming for the holiday? That her perception of the warmth and friendliness she enjoyed over the summer was a conclusion she’d jumped to?

It could have been. It was months since she'd last been to Kansas, she might be reviewing her memories of the summer trip through nostalgia-glasses. Not to mention everything that transpired since the last time she’d been there. Despite Mama Kent’s texting, did Clark’s parents really want her coming down to visit them? After she treated their son like garbage? Clark may have forgiven her, but there was no guarantee his parents had.

The question of forgiveness was one that had been knocking around in her brain for weeks. Like, yeah, okay, Clark said he forgave her and was acting like he did. He was cooking for her again and treated her to the sexiest cuddling sesh she’d ever experienced before in her life, but they hadn’t officially resumed the status of Friends Who Kissed yet.

Therefore, he must still be mad at her and if he was still mad at her, he hadn’t actually forgiven her and if he hadn’t actually forgiven her, it was likely that his family hadn’t and given the fact that Lana showed up at her apartment knowing the whole story, Clark probably blabbed to everyone in the group chat about what happened and so now his whole town knew that she was a Grade A Bitch who was mean to their poor little meow meow and, yeah, Lucy was right, they didn’t actually want her to come for Thanksgiving, which was why Clark wasn’t even at the airport -

“Hey!”

With fifteen minutes to spare before boarding, Clark deposited himself down in the seat beside Lois, fishing around in his backpack for his phone cord; he immediately plugged it into the chair where the little battery symbol popped up, indicating that he had no charge to speak of.

“Sorry I’m late,” Clark apologized. “My phone died a few hours back and it’s been busy.”

Ah. He was out Supermanning. That made sense. 

“Anything newsworthy?” Lois asked, refreshing her feed in case there were new Superman clips to view. 

With the EyeApp officially dismantled and the MMPD formally announcing the end of their collaboration with LuthorCorp, the media was back to posting blurry videos of Superman taken on people’s phones.

“Nah,” Clark shook his head, passing a hand over his face. He looked like he’d come directly from bed, he was wearing sweats and slides with socks, all the faster to get through security with, topped off with a t-shirt, the neck of which was all stretched out. His hair was frizzy and sticking up all over the place, giving him a windblown look. “A lot of nasty crashes and almost-crashes, the roads’re bad this time of year, lotta drunks.”

A woman who was sitting near them overheard and gave Clark a sympathetic smile. 

“Thanksgiving week is the worst week for DUIs,” she tsked, packing her Kindle away in her Louis Vuitton travel duffel. “My husband’s been working double shifts, he’s a cop too. Have a good holiday!”

Clark returned the well-wishes cordially, with a tense smile as the woman made her way over to the gate. Quietly, he murmured to Lois while bending down to retrieve his phone charger, “Do I look like a cop? I mean, do I give off cop-energy?”

“No,” Lois snorted, giving him the once-over. At the moment, given his outfit choices and wild hair, he was giving off ‘frazzled college student’ energy and Lucy’s comments about Lennie in Of Mice and Men came to mind. “You do look stressed, did you scramble to get here? Couldn’t you have just…um. Met me?”

She was extremely grateful for the scrambling (apropos for the holiday). Clark making it in time for boarding meant Lois wouldn’t spend the entire flight freaking out that Clark had blown her off completely and she was going to spend the entire holiday weekend stuck in Wichita until her flight Monday. But still. It seemed more practical for him to just…go. And not bother flying with her.

It only just now occurred to her what a huge waste of time and money all this was for him. Lois got to her feet uneasily, reaching for her carry-on, feeling like shit, like a burden, until Clark snaked an arm around her to pluck her bag off the seat and carry it for her. Lois felt like she should object (fr feminism, maybe), but she didn’t. It was way easier for Clark to get stuff in the overhead bins than it was for her. 

“I guess,” Clark winced as they made their way to the gate. “Ouch - that was the sound my bank account made when I thought about burning the money I spent on the flight. Anyway, Air Clark doesn’t come with complimentary pop and snacks.”

They scanned in and found their seats, Clark putting their bags up in the overhead bin without a problem. They were sitting in the emergency exit row, as they had been the last two times they flew together so Clark had somewhere to put his legs. Lois watched him listen attentively to the safety instructions the flight attendant gave them, while Lois let everything go in one ear and out the other, as she scrolled her phone for the latest episode of her favorite unsolved murder podcast. No need to worry about a plane emergency with Superman on board. 

She was doing better about that - trying to consider Clark and Superman as one general thing rather than two completely separate personalities. It could be tough. The night she drank a little too much wine and woke up in the middle of the night in his bed, unable to get back to sleep, she had a silent freak-out when she couldn’t mentally mesh Clark and Superman together.

Clark left a glass of water beside the bed for her, but Lois had no idea how she was going to get to the water. She fell asleep in his arms, and assumed that trying to slip out of Superman’s grasp would be like trying to sneak out from under a pair of steel girders. 

That turned out not to be true. The second she shifted her weight away from him, Clark’s left arm slipped off her, limply falling to the mattress. It was an entirely unconscious movement; there was no hitch in his breathing and Clark appeared to be fast asleep. At least, Lois thought so, when she chanced to turn her head and sneak a peek at him. 

There was nothing strange or eerie or alien about Clark as he slept. He didn’t sleep with his eyes open, he wasn’t unnaturally still. In fact, his mouth was open and he drooled on his pillow the tiniest bit. 

It should have been adorable, but instead Lois found herself cringing back against his headboard, rapidly sipping the water, trying to stave off a hangover, mind unable to square being in the presence of something so powerful that nevertheless slept with his face smooshed against his pillow like any other person. 

It didn’t seem right. It didn’t make sense.

Try as she might to move carefully and not wake him up, Clark did open his eyes while she was curled against the headboard, staring at him. Maybe he could feel her watching him. Like a super-sense that went off when people looked at him too hard.

Whatever the reason, Clark woke up. He reached out and rubbed her leg lightly. He asked how she was feeling. And in that moment of physical touch, his voice softly speaking to her in the dark, her mild panic went away and she felt like Lois got him again. Or maybe that was the lingering effects of the wine.

Lois was stone-cold sober now (it was only six-thirty in the morning) and while she perceived Clark sitting beside her, ordering a ginger ale and searching for a movie to watch from the complimentary offerings, Superman was nowhere to be seen.

Whatever. Having a buddy beside her for the flight (be it Clark or Superman or both) took the edge off of her anxiety. Lois fell asleep when they were taxiing to the runway (despite the Keddie Cabin Murders episode she had queued up being exceptionally interesting) and didn’t wake up until they were landing. 

This time, Clark was much more confident navigating the airport and he got them down to the designated pick-up area much more efficiently than the first time they’d flown into Kansas and his mom had to drive around trying to find them in a random spot in the parking lot.

Mama Kent wasn’t their ride this time since she was teaching. Instead, PeteRoss and Lana met them at the curb in Lana’s Aunt Ruth’s station wagon. 

“MY FAAAAAAVES - GIRL, WHAT? BANGS! STOP IT, YOU ARE TOO CUTE!” Lana exclaimed, bursting out of the passenger seat to wrap Lois up in a hug so fervent she was briefly lifted off her feet. “I love it! When’d you get a haircut?”

“A few weeks ago,” Lois replied, gracefully avoiding mentioning the fact that this was an emergency haircut, brought about by her own stupidity. She hated it less now that it had settled down into a trendy ‘70s-inspired shag.

“Too chic, too cute, I love it,” Lana declared approvingly, giving Lois another bracing hug before she pounced on Clark, who had finished putting the bags in the trunk. Lois crawled into the backseat of the station wagon where she was greeted by PeteRoss, behind the driver’s seat.

“He-e-e-y there, Lois,” he yawned, giving her a tired smile in the rearview mirror. 

It was definitely more subdued than his usual style of greeting, but understandable when Lois considered the fact that, although she and Clark had just gotten off an almost three-hour flight, Lana and Pete volunteered for nearly six hours of travel (round trip) in order to pick them up from the airport and bring them back to Smallville.

Not just inconveniencing Clark, but his best friends too. Nice, Lane. Real nice.

Lana joined Lois in the back, snagging a takeout bag off of the passenger seat so Clark could sit down. 

“We got McGriddles for the ride!” she declared, opening the bag and filling the car with the sweet, slightly artificial smell of McDonald’s breakfast sandwiches. Immediately Lois’s mouth started to water and she gratefully took a bacon, egg and cheese from Lana’s outstretched hand, finally able to relax a tiny bit.

If they didn’t want me here, would they have gotten me a McGriddle, Luce? Lois thought, sinking her teeth into the syrup-injected pancake-style bread. Is this the action of an indifferent or hostile person? 

Lana certainly seemed thrilled to bits by their reunion. Unlike Pete who was wearing flannel pajama pants and a faded Smallville High School Marching Band sweatshirt, she was dressed in corduroy bellbottoms, paired with a black turtleneck and knit poncho that looked like the itchiest thing Lois had ever seen.

“The band is back together!” Lana crowed, peeling the wrapping off of her sandwich with one hand and scrolling her phone with the other. “This is great! I’m gonna pull up the menu for tomorrow, just to give y’all a sneak peek.”

“Isn’t it the same as every year?” Pete asked, confused. He was keeping his hands on the steering wheel as they navigated out of the airport, Clark was being a true friend by holding a breakfast sandwich at the ready so Pete could take bites without taking his eyes off the road.

“Well, yeah,” Lana admitted. “But this is Lois’s first down-home holiday, I want her to feel prepared. Speaking of plans and preparations, we can do the football game on Friday, but only if you want to Lois, for, like, the cultural experience. I fucking hate football and I’d rather not, but I want you to live your best life.”

“My best life does not involve high school football,” Lois informed her and Lana would have extended a hand for a high-five except that both of her hands were full. She went for an elbow-bump instead, which Lois reciprocated. 

“Oh, thank God,” Clark sighed in obvious relief. “I hate football. Wait, no, that’s harsh. I hate awkward interactions with Coach Peters.”

“That man still hasn’t forgiven Clark for not joining the football team at the end of high school,” Pete informed Lois with a glance into the rearview mirror. “You broke the guy’s heart, man, he’s convinced you were the secret sauce that would have brought gridiron glory.”

“In what world?” Clark asked, gesturing grandly (as grandly as he could while holding a sticky breakfast sandwich in the front seat of a car). “I don’t know anything about football! I’m a fucking nerd!”

“A giant fucking nerd,” Lana agreed, leaning across the seat to pat his shoulder. “It’s just that Coach Peters only saw the first part of that descriptor and not the second.”

“Well, maybe if he cast based on talent and not looks, the football team wouldn’t suck so bad,” Clark grumbled, hunkering down in his seat to finish his sandwich.

“Did you just say cast?” Lois asked him. “Was that ironic or was that you genuinely being a dumbass?”

“It works!” Clark insisted. “Players audition for the football team, they get cast in a variety of roles - ”

“They try out, angel baby,” Pete interrupted him, rolling his eyes. “They don’t do a two-minute monologue and a one-minute song. Also, dude, full offense, you built sets for drama club, you didn’t try out for the shows, so let’s not get it twisted in front of Lois. Your boy here was not a thespian.”

“I thought you were American,” Clark shot back and before the two of them could descend into a horrible holding pattern where they quoted Vines for the rest of the ride home, Lana interjected with more weekend plans.

“OKAY, SO NO FOOTBALL,” she said, way too loudly for the confines of the car. “Thank God. We’ll just chill on Friday or find something else to do - Pete, is it Sunday your family’s getting their tree?”

“Saturday,” he confirmed and explained the outing for Lois’s sake. “There’s a place my family’s been getting Christmas trees from forever, but it’s cool even if you’re not buying anything. They’ve got a really nice light display and live music on the weekends, along with the best hot cocoa - ”

“The best hot cocoa,” Clark echoed.

“ - that you’ll ever have,” Pete finished. “With Schnapps, if you’re feeling frisky!”

“Sold!” Lois agreed enthusiastically, but Lana shook her head furiously back and forth.

“They’re burying the lede,” she informed Lois. “The best part of the tree farm is when Pete and Clark run the gauntlet.”

“We’re not gonna run the gauntlet,” Pete and Clark chorused at the same time.

Lana grinned wickedly at Lois and shook her head, “They always say that, but they always do.”

Lois took the bait. “What’s the gauntlet?”

“It’s not a thing,” Clark said over his shoulder. “Lana calls it that, no one else calls it that, she just makes a big deal - ”

“Because it’s such a cute story!”

As Lana explained, once upon a time, when Clark and Pete were extremely young, the Kents joined the Rosses on their annual post-Thanksgiving trip to a local tree farm to get their family’s Christmas tree. The second his dad set him on his feet, Pete took off running through the row of trees directly in front of them. Clark immediately ran after him, the two of them disappeared into the dark, and, according to legend, the only way their parents were able to find them among the felled evergreens was by following Clark’s tiny little voice, shouting, “PEEEEEEEEEETE! PEEEEEEEEEETE! WE HAFTA HOLD HAAAAAAAANDS!”

“And if they don’t recreate that moment every year,” Lana concluded. “Rudolph’s nose doesn’t glow so bright and none of the little children in Smallville get any presents on Christmas morning or the third night of Hanukkah. That’s just facts.”

“Welp, too bad for the kids,” Pete said. “‘Cause we’re not doing it!”

“The charm is gone,” Clark shook his head sadly. “I can’t do the voice anymore - if you watch old home movies of me as a toddler, I literally sound like a whistle.”

“Oh, she will,” Lana declared confidently, patting Lois on the knee. “We do a home movie re-watch after Thanksgiving dinner every year at Clark’s house - ”

“We don’t have to,” Clark said, in what he thought was probably a reassuring manner for Lois's sake. “Like. We can skip it this year. It'll be boring for Lois.”

Lana didn’t say anything out loud, but she mouthed to Lois, “WE’RE NOT SKIPPING.”

The conversational patter was all so distinctly Smallville that Lois was almost…not disappointed, exactly, but mildly surprised. She thought things would be different now that they were all on the same page about Clark. That, even if no one was mad at her for crashing out on him, they’d act like members of some super sketchy fraternal organization with a vaguely menacing reputation. Shooting each other significant looks and speaking in hushed tones around The Secret.

Apparently not. Lana seemed to think there was nothing more important in the world than rattling off the menu for the next day, which consisted of two turkeys, at least a dozen side dishes, a truly unhinged number of pies, and weird Midwestern salads that didn’t contain vegetables.

“And beer and wine,” Lana said. “I’m making sangria! I found a recipe on the Taste of Home website that looks promising. Is there anything you want? We’ve got time, we can hit up a grocery store on the way back, right Pete?”

“Sure can!” he replied readily. “We can give you alone time in the kitchen if your family’s funny about sharing recipes. I’m also totally down to be blindfolded at the store while you shop for ingredients, we can go full cloak and dagger.”

“My parents’ll take care of the bill,” Clark informed Lois. “Ma said she should’ve called you to ask ahead of time to ask if you wanted something special, but she forgot.”

“I think you’ve got it covered,” Lois replied with a half-hearted thumb’s up. “That already sounds like more food than I could ever reasonably consume, but I’m always up for a challenge!”

“Okay, but, like, are there any Lane family specialties that you’re craving?” Lana persisted. “Since we’re borrowing you from your family this year? Ooh, should we call them? We can thank them for letting us have you!”

“Honestly, we should,” Lois replied, rolling her eyes. “That way I can prove you guys exist and that you’re not actually bummed out that I’m crashing your Thanksgiving.”

Lois laughed at her own comments, but no one else did. Pete took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot a Look at Clark (the first significant glance of the trip). A cold prickle of anxiety skittered down Lois’s spine as she considered that maybe the patter was cover for the fact that she was inconveniencing them and no one wanted her there and, rather than Lana trying to include her on plans, she was making it clear that they had set plans and wouldn’t be changing them for Lois’s sake.

Only Lana undercut that assumption by looking actively horrified as she asked, “Who the fuck said that to you? Where do they live so I can find them and kill them?”

A little extreme, but that was Lana Lang for you. Lois made a careless waving gesture and shrugged nonchalantly. 

“My sister,” she said. “She called last night because she thought I was lying about having plans, it’s no big deal.”

“You have a sister?” Lana asked, sitting bolt upright with a mystified expression on her face. “Older? Younger? How did I not know this? Did I know this? Did you tell me you had a sister and I forgot?”

“I probably didn’t tell you.”

Lois was unable to recall whether Lucy had come up in conversation with Lana before. She knew she’d talked about her with Clark, in the context of David being kind of a shitty dad. Since Lana presented as being as kid-indifferent as Lois herself, she didn’t have any reason to mention Lucy to her at all and so hadn’t.

“She's younger," Lois continued, giving the bare minimum information since it wasn't like Lana was ever going to meet her. "We’re not close. Honestly, I don’t know why she thought I’d be going to D.C. for Thanksgiving at all, I haven’t done a family holiday in…five? Maybe six years.”

She shrugged again like it was no big deal, getting more and more uncomfortable the longer Lana kept looking at her like she’d said something terrible. To be fair, her family relationships weren’t…the healthiest, Lois was aware of that, but they were still solidly in the bubble of Normal Family Stuff. Every sitcom ever was plotted around the idea that people who were related basically hated each other. 

“Sorry, I’m stuck on the part where you said you were crashing,” Pete spoke up. “She said that to you? She used those words in that order?”

“Not that exact order,” Lois clarified. “No, I mean, it was whatever. She just said that. Um. Clark’s parents invited me…to be polite? And that it was crappy for me to accept when they didn’t mean it, I’m making your holiday weird, etcetera. That kind of thing.”

“Is that a kind of thing?” Pete asked speculatively. “I don’t think that’s a kind of thing.”

“But…but we love you,” Lana insisted, fury giving way to a look on her face and a tone in her voice that was so sad, Lois redirected her attention to the back of Clark’s head. “Of course we want you to come! I would’ve been devastated if you didn’t come, but I was prepared to be extra brave and fake-understanding because I figured you might’ve just gone with your family by default.”

“Yeah, there's no default,” Lois hastened to explain, trying to walk back some of the somber mood she unexpectedly created in the car. “It’s fine, if we called she probably wouldn’t pick up because she’s mad - whatever, it’s fine. I mean, hey, maybe she’s right! Clark hasn’t said anything and he’s my host, technically so - ”

“Chicken’s being quiet ‘cause he’s pissed,” Pete interpreted for her. “He takes ‘If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all,’ as a Golden Rule.”

Clark didn’t turn around immediately, so Lois didn’t know what his expression looked like, but she could see his left leg jiggling up and down, a tic she noticed he employed when he was nervous or uncomfortable. He did turn to face her eventually and looked as serious as she’d ever seen him. His face was almost as grim as it was when he told her not to call him a 'thing.'

Well, if he was cool with you coming for Thanksgiving, you fucked it up now, Lane, Lois scolded herself. You made it personal and weird and now everyone’s uncomfortable and they’re going to spend the whole weekend talking about how awful you must be that your started a fight with your sister the night before the Gratitude holiday -

“I don’t like the way your family talks to you,” Clark said in a clipped tone. “It’s not right. And that’s all I’ve got to say.” 

He folded his arms across his chest and stared back out the window at the highway. Silence didn’t settle into the car because Lana kicked the back of his seat.

“Oh, I’ve got lots more to say,” she muttered darkly. Then brightened up and added, “It’s all good, though! As Mama Kent says, living well is the best revenge! We’re going to take so many aesthetic pictures of the food, they’ll be hella jeals.”

“Lana, Jello salads are not aesthetic,” Clark told her, easing them into safer conversational territory. 

“They are if you put them in a fun mold!”

Mercifully, thanks to skillful maneuvering by Clark and Lana, the conversation got back on track to discussing safer topics than Lois’s family dynamics. They rattled off a few more holiday traditions (the weather was looking good for one of the Kent family’s routine fire pits), and Lois was genuinely interested in the conversation surrounding Clark growing up not believing in Santa Claus.

“When Pete found out I always knew Santa wasn’t real, he was so mad at me,” Clark recalled with a visible shudder. “It’s one of my formative childhood traumas, he didn’t talk to me for two days - ”

“I wasn't mad that you knew Santa wasn't real,” Pete corrected him. "I was mad you knew and didn't tell me and I had to find out from my shithead cousin when I was eight, like a chump! And I only gave you the silent treatment for a day."

“Solidly a day and a half,” Clark insisted. “And you didn’t tell me why you weren't talking to me, which was the exact combination of circumstances specifically designed for me to lose my goddamned mind.”

“And ever since that day,” Pete intoned seriously, “Clark can only experience true peace of mind if I call him up every hour on the hour to let him know I’m not mad at him.”

Clark nodded. “I’d prefer every half-hour, but I understand you’ve got a life.”

As was the case before when Lois visited Smallville, it was easy to let the conversation flow around her without feeling the need to get involved - kind of like listening to a podcast, only with less murder than Lois preferred in her entertainment offerings.

Pete dropped Clark and Lois off at the Kents ahead of bringing Lana and the car back to her aunt’s house. They departed with promises to see each other later; Lana and her Aunt Ruth would be coming by after Mama Kent got back from school to help with dinner prep and drop food off for tomorrow.

“Oh, wow,” Lois said, pausing in the driveway to take a look around the property. “You guys really cleaned house.”

Over the summer, the house was surrounded by fields of corn and a grain which Lois assumed was wheat, but was actually sorghum (which was not only different from wheat, it was also different from soy, facts Lois was totally ignorant of until Clark told her). All that was gone now and the flat land around them looked downright desolate. No wonder Clark said he hated winter, the emptiness around the house was seriously depressing. Though it would have been a good setting for a horror movie.

The horror movie vibes immediately abated when they went inside and Lois saw the familiar sight of the pastel rainbow staircase which led to the second floor and heard the joyful barking of the Kents’ dogs, Callie and Otis. They ran to the front door and Lois found herself knocked on her butt as both dogs jumped on her, competing for pets and kisses. 

Clark stood above them all, holding Lois's bags and his backpack, mouth falling open. “Oh, come on! What am I, invisible?”

“Hey there, Lois!” Papa Kent called to her, shooing the dogs away and helping her to her feet with a twinkle in his eye. “Good to see you! You come alone?”

Clark sputtered and made some outraged noises as Papa Kent gave Lois a hug, huffing with quiet laughter. Lois laughed herself when she looked up and saw Clark literally pouting by the door.

“What the hell?” he whined, setting the bags down on the ground.

Papa Kent let Lois go and shook his head up at Clark with a fond smile on his face. Clark's dad had the nicest smile, which tracked - it was uncannily like Clark's. 

“Come here,” he said, opening his arms and gesturing for Clark to bend down for a hug. He patted him firmly on the back and said, “Calm down there, buddy. You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m not sure I believe Pete,” Lois teased Clark when his dad released him. “I feel like you did more in drama club than build sets.”

“It’s true,” Clark confirmed, crouching down to pet the dogs now that they deigned to notice him. “I also worked a spotlight once during the spring musical.”

“He did a great job,” Papa Kent confirmed, smirking. “Best part of Oklahoma!, hands down.”

“Well, yeah,” Clark agreed, speaking to his dad, but his pitch was higher since he had a tendency to speak to the dogs in a cringe baby-voice. “The show was really bad.”

“Oh, I know,” his dad agreed, putting his hands in his pockets and giving a slow nod. “I saw it three times. I’ll leave y’all to settle in - glad you came Lois, it’s good to have you back.”

“Thanks,” Lois replied automatically, missing Clark's searching look as his dad went off into the living room to put his feet up in front of the TV, accompanied by the dogs. 

She passed the Great Wall of Clark and went upstairs to the guest room, the unsettling sense of being unable to consolidate the dual images of Clark/Superman creeping in again, looking at his childhood pictures. 

Yet again, it was the normality that threw her off. The fact that the Kents literally found a kid in some kind of spacecraft and…brought him home. Not only that, they formally adopted him, took him Christmas tree shopping with their friends, enrolled him in school, went to see shitty high school musical theatre because he was on the tech crew, taught him to drive when he could fly, and just…treated him like a regular kid. Even when it became undeniably obvious that he wasn’t. 

Clark followed her upstairs so he could drop her suitcase off inside the guest bedroom. He handed Lois her travel bag and looked down at her a little uncertainly. “You good?”

“Oh yeah,” she nodded. “I mean, I feel grubby, so I might take a shower. And a nap. Am I…do I have to cook? Does your mom know I don’t cook?”

“You might have to chop or mix, peel potatoes, nothing crazy, though, it's Martha's kitchen, we're all just sous chefs,” Clark acknowledged. He rubbed the back of his head. “Um. Lois?”

His tone was low and he looked…worried, kind of. Lois quickly assured him that she wouldn’t poison anyone and would try not to cut herself and bleed into the mashed potatoes.

“No, no, it’ll be good, it’ll be fun,” Clark said distractedly. ”I just…”

He leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded, chin tilted down toward his chest. He didn't look happy.

Fuck, what did I do? Lois asked, heart sinking. 

She was trying! She was really trying to get things back in gear, to be a good friend, make it up to Clark. She might be sucking, but she was making an effort and it would nice if he could give her a break or a little bit of credit, but she wasn’t about to hold her breath because no one ever gave her a fucking break. 

“I’m sorry I was rude about your family in the car,” Clark said, raising his eyes to look at her nervously. “I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I just wanted you to know…we want you here. I want you here.”

Oh. Okay, then. Not what she was expecting. 

Clark’s sincerity always put her off, but Lois was starting to realize that it wasn't the sincerity itself that bothered her, she was bothered because Clark's favorite flavor of sincerity was so nice. Lois was extremely comfortable with honesty as long as it was brutal honesty. It wasn’t until she met Clark that she realized honesty could be kind.

She didn't know what to do with it. If a person criticized her, she could defend herself. When someone was nice to her, she just had to stand there and…take it. Lois wasn’t good at being passive.

"Good to know," she replied awkwardly. "It's fine, Clark, Lucy was looking for something to be mad at me about, she called me to pick a fight. It's not that deep. You know I'm an easy person to get mad at!"

She smiled when she said it, it was a joke, but as happened when she talked about her family in the station wagon, no one else seemed to get her humor. Maybe it was too sophisticated for Smallville. 

"I'm not mad at you," Clark said quietly, fingers clenching under his folded arms, making his veins stand out in a not-unattractive way. "I don't like being mad at you."

"But it is easy!" Lois grinned harder at him, then walked right up to Clark, and squeezed his arms. Both for personal pleasure and as an attempt to improve Clark's sense of humor through osmosis. It almost worked - he deigned to give her a little half smile. "You have to admit it's easy!"

"Nope," he retorted, bending down so they were nose-to-nose. "You're too cute to get mad at." 

Clark gave her the quickest little kiss on the tip of her nose and straightened back up before she could return the gesture. 

"Rest up," he advised her before he disappeared into his bedroom. "I might take a nap too - once my mom gets home, it's go time."

Chapter Text

Clark let Lois have the shower first, so he could get a head start on napping. That was his plan, until his phone buzzed with a text notification.

Lana:
TELL ME EVERYTHING YOU KNOW ABOUT LOIS’S SISTER WHO I HATE. WHAT IS HER NAME SO I CAN GOOGLE HER AND PUT A FACE TO MY ENEMY???

Clark texted with his face half-buried in his pillow, lazily, reading Lana's return messages with one exposed eye.

Her first name is Lucy, she’s married and from what little I know about her, she probably changed her name. 

Lana:
…married? Lois said she was her YOUNGER sister. Lois is OUR age, was her sister a CHILD BRIDGE????

I think she was twenty-twoish when she got married.

Lana:
So, she WAS a child bridge.

Lana:
BRIDE. My phone keeps autocorrecting to bridge, which is extremely weird. WHY IS SHE SO MEAN TO LOIS?

I don’t know much about her except that she’s married with two little kids. Also her useless husband is in the Navy. 

Lana:
I FOUND HER. Her Facebook is private, but I can see some of her old profile pictures.

Lana:
Update: Sister is basic as fuck, I can tell her husband has sweaty hands just by looking at him AND WHO IS THIS MUSTACHE???

Lana texted him a screenshot of a photo which appeared to have been taken at Lucy and David’s wedding. Clark hadn’t actually looked her up before and he zoomed in, trying to see if he would have assumed she and Lois were sisters based on looks alone. It was kind of hard to tell because Lucy was wearing a lot of makeup, but Clark couldn’t see many similarities aside from the two of them being dark-haired and short. 

It was like Lana said, she was a generically pretty girl with none of the vivacity Lois exuded in photos. To be fair, she looked happy in the picture, her teeth were very straight and very white. David was…there. Honestly, when Lois described him, Clark had a very specific image in his mind (think: the kind of guy who had a podcast where he would shill crypto and self-describe as a high-value man), but he was inoffensive-looking and had a very friendly smile.

The MUSTACHE???, as Lana put it, had to be Lois’s dad and he was more what Clark expected. When he heard ‘Military General’ Clark pictured Patton (not the actual historical man, but George C. Scott in the movie Patton) and the reality wasn't too far off. He was slight, but gave off an intensity that was a little much for a wedding picture. He wasn’t frowning, but he sure wasn’t smiling either.

And, yes, these were Clark’s biases showing, but it freaked him out a little that both David and General Lane were wearing military uniforms to a freaking wedding. Probably dress uniforms, but still. Did they think an invading force was going to lay siege to the Hilton ballroom? 

Lana:
A BABY LOIS 😍😍😍

The next picture she sent had to be more than a decade old, a close-up picture of two young girls with their arms around each other’s shoulders and the Grand Canyon behind them. Clark zoomed in and could finally see the similarity between the sisters. They had the same nose and chin, though their eyes were totally different. Referring back to the first picture, Clark saw that Lois’s dad also had brown eyes and he wondered if Lois got her eye color from her mom. 

They were grinning big, overdone smiles of kids who had clearly been told, ‘SAY CHEESE’ one time to many on the family vacation. Lois, who appeared to be about twelve or thirteen, had hair down to her elbows and she was wearing a grey beanie. The whole look gave off vague goth vibes, considering the fact that she was wearing an all black ensemble in Arizona while Lucy was wearing shorts and a tank top. This confirmed Clark’s suspicions that, had he and Lois known each other in middle school, she would have been way too cool to talk to him. 

Lana:
The sister calls her /Lola/ which is very cute BUT IT IS THE ONLY CUTE THING ABOUT HER 😡

Lana:
I’m over it, Lois is OUR FAMILY NOW, but just so you know if I ever see her sister it’s ON SIGHT 🤜🤛 

Clark sent Lana a thumb’s up emoji (usually he didn’t endorse violence, but the odds of Lana actually running into Lois’s sister to throw hands were close enough to zero that he wasn’t worried about it). He then turned off his phone’s connection to the Wifi so he could concentrate on napping.

After a fitful hour of dozing on and off rather than sleeping, Clark had half a mind to check for a pea under his mattress. Only half because he strongly suspected he knew what the problem was: his bed, although extremely comfortable, was sadly Lois-less. It had never been a problem for him before, but the fact that she was literally a wall away from him was messing with his usually well-contained urge to pine over her.

If he was at his apartment and she was at hers, it was a lot less excusable to pop over and sheepishly ask if she was DTC. With Lois in the room next door the urge to get up and ask was a lot stronger, but Clark suppressed it, reminding himself that, while he slept best with another living thing in the bed with, he didn’t know for sure that Lois did. Clark genuinely couldn’t remember a cozier night than the one he’d passed at his place with Lois snuggled up against him, but that might have been a one-time thing. Anyway, she always seemed more eager to be close to him when she was drunk than when she was sober. 

Given the fact that she’d been squished next to him on a plane for over two hours, followed by being trapped in the backseat of a car for another three, Clark thought she would appreciate the alone time. Rather than trying to force sleep, he resigned himself to pulling two all-nighters playing a high-stakes game of Frogger. Anyway, school was about to let out and he wanted to talk to his dad before his mom came home.

Clark took a quick shower and wandered out to the yard where Pa was splitting logs ahead of Friday’s firepit. The house still had a working woodstove and his parents used it occasionally as supplemental heat, but Grandpa Clark had propane installed in the ‘80s. After sixty years of getting up in the middle of the night to reload, the man was basically over it and, as someone who almost never got a full eight hours, Clark could understand why he made the switch.  

The wood pile was looking a little low, so Clark sidled up to his dad (making plenty of noise because, while it wouldn’t do him any harm, Pa would still be mortified if he caught him in the forehead on the upswing) and asked, “Want me to tap in?”

“I’m good,” Pa told him, holding the axe in one hand and making a shooing gesture with the other.

Clark wasn’t surprised at the dismissal; his dad had it in his head that he could stave off the onset of arthritis if he just kept moving . It was worth noting that, while Jonathan Kent was a man of many talents and quite a bit of knowledge, he was not a medical doctor. Clark wasn't sure how sound his reasoning was on that score...then again, he wasn't a doctor either and Pa seemed to be moving pretty easily, so he didn't push back. There probably wasn’t any harm if he stacked the split logs though and it was to this task Clark applied himself without asking. 

“Did Lois settle in good?” Pa asked, eyes on his work.

Clark confirmed that she had; that she was in the guest room taking a power nap before Ma got back and marathon food-prep began. There were a few dishes that would need to be prepared morning-of, but his mother was of the mind that if they put their noses to the grindstone the night before, they could devote themselves to making merry and getting tipsy starting around ten in the morning. 

“Uh, before Mom gets home…can I ask you something?” Clark asked, regarding his father cautiously out of the corner of his eye. Pa leaned the axe head against the splitting stump and squinted at him.

“You can ask me anything,” he replied. “Only, is this a work kinda conversation or a sit-down conversation?”

That was a fair inquiry, which Clark considered for a second before he replied. 

“Sit-down,” he admitted, finally, and Pa nodded, embedding the head of the axe in the log before he nodded for the two of them to head to the chairs around the fire pit. Either the weather’d been good or Ma and Pa had company recently, since everything was already set up. Pa paused halfway to the chair, giving Clark a half-smile. 

“One more thing,” he asked, eyes flickering to the kitchen door. “This a wet conversation or a dry conversation? It's noon, we're on holiday-time, I could go for a beer if that'll help.”

“Uh…dry, I think,” Clark replied, with a small smile. 

Work conversations versus sit-down conversations were established designations dating back to his childhood, but it was only since Clark turned twenty-one that the wet/dry debate factored into it. Usually he left it up to Pa to determine what kind of conversation it was since, other than have something to sip on while he gathered his thoughts, it didn’t matter much to Clark.

“It’s about,” he began in fits and starts. “Um. That stuff you were telling me back in October. About Ma and…how she used to. Uh. Peck at you?”

“Wet conversation, then,” Pa murmured, but he didn’t head back in the house for a beer. He took a seat and gestured that Clark should do the same. “I thought you said y’all were doing good. Lois still skittish?”

I’m not tired, I’m drunk and I want kisses.

“Not skittish,” Clark confirmed. “We are good - we're getting to good, I mean. It’s mostly…I kinda snapped at her on the ride over here. I apologized! But I was wondering if you had advice on how to…not do that.”

He almost lost his temper again when he followed her upstairs to drop her bags off in her room. Folding his arms was bad enough. It was not a good look, tapping into his Big Guy Energy when she knew what he was capable of. It was like he told his dad, they were solidly on track back to Good. And he didn’t want to cause a train derailment by scaring her or intimidating her. 

It was just so hard. Hard not to pull a face, or tense up, or get grumpy when she talked about what her sister said on the phone the night before. It didn’t help that Lucy put words in his mouth - into all their mouths. She didn’t know them, so what gave her the right to speak for them? Let alone say something awful, like they didn’t really want Lois to come for the holiday, that they were basically liars and phonies who were putting up with her, like they weren't all ecstatic to have Lois over for the weekend. 

Clark knew Lois had serious issues with trust, he was working on rebuilding the trust he’d broken with her over a major issue. Frankly, he was pretty pissed off that Lucy would put all those doubts in her sister's head over a day that was supposed to be plain fun. Every time Lois said, ‘It’s fine,’ with that tense smile on her face and fake-sounding laughter, Clark wanted to scream.   

But he couldn’t, he shouldn't even frown. It would freak her out, he was sure it would. It wasn’t happening as frequently as it had in the first few days after they reconciled, but he would sometimes catch Lois staring at him with a searching, suspicious look on her face, trying to catch him out. Like she was looking for confirmation that he had lied, that he truly was this…soulless, inhuman thing that she was right to be scared of. Clark hadn’t earned back enough of her trust to expect understanding in the face of his anger.

Pa gave a small cough of a laugh and quirked an eyebrow at Clark.

“What makes you so sure I never snapped at your mama?” he asked. Then he settled back in his chair and added, “Not proud of myself, but it happened. Still does, from time to time. I'm only human.”

I'm not, Clark thought grimly. That's the problem. 

"What went on with you all, that's working your nerves?"

Clark gave a quick recap of the last few hours. How Lucy called Lois the night before, accusing her of inventing her holiday plans, expecting her to come to D.C. How she planted these seeds of doubt that Clark and his parents wanted her to spend the weekend with them. That told Lois she was crashing and implied that she was an imposition, a burden.

Lois told him over the summer that she hadn’t believed the trip he planned for them was real until it was almost time to go to the airport. At the time, Clark had been offended. Like, what had he done to make Lois think that he’d invent an entire fake vacation as a nasty prank? It happened again, more recently, when she confessed she thought that if she reached out for help when she needed it, she’d be ignored or - worse - laughed at. 

That stung too, but now Clark realized there was nothing for him to get offended over. Lois just thought that meanness and trying to get the upper hand was how people were to each other. Even family. 

“And she keeps saying it’s all fine - like, she's said the word 'fine' about fifty times since this morning - or she’ll laugh like it's funny, ” Clark continued, running a hand through his hand in agitation. “When really, this stuff she says is - ”

“The worst shit you’ve ever heard in your life?” Pa asked, mouth set in a grim line.

“...yeah,” Clark agreed. “That.”

“Mmm,” Pa made a humming noise, then stood up, pacing a little bit around the fire. He paused, eyes out on the field. “Yeah. Your Ma’d do that. Tell me a ‘funny’ story or make some little comment about stuff from when she was a kid, like everyone went through it the way she did. Only what she’d say was enough to break your heart.”

How many bad days to I get before you get sick of me?

“I should’ve kept my big mouth shut,” Clark said, anticipating his dad’s likely criticism. “But instead I opened my yap and said I didn’t like the way her family talks to her, which I don’t, but it’s not my place to say. I don’t know them - ”

“I’m gonna cut you off right there,” Pa interjected. “You might not know them, but you know how they treat Lois. That’s enough. Could be, she needed to hear it.”

Clark doubted that. He remembered how Lois talked about the belated birthday dinner she had with her dad, telling him to fuck off in the middle of a fancy restaurant after he spent the night belittling her. She said they were ‘even,’ after that. He hadn’t believed her then, he didn’t believe her now, but no matter what he thought, Lois felt like it was true. How did him openly criticizing her family help at all? The way Clark saw it, he was just adding more mean to a situation that was already swimming in it.

“Used to be, I’d get mad,” Pa continued, putting his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “When your ma put herself down or told horrible stories, expecting me to laugh along with her. I thought she was calling me out, lumping me in with her folks, and that’d piss me off. Kicked off a few fights that way, but…honestly, Clark, sounds like you did good.”

“No, I didn’t,” Clark retorted immediately, shaking his head. “I got mad - ”

“Yeah,” Pa acknowledged, “but you didn’t put it on Lois. That’s the thing: you can’t control how her daddy and sister are with her or how she feels about it, but you got the right to say you don’t like it. Sometimes…”

Pa went quiet as he squinted up at the house, gathering his thoughts. The sun was starting to dip in the sky and Ma would be getting home soon; Clark kept an ear out, but she was still a good ways away, blasting Tanner Adell, whose music Lana introduced her to over the summer.

“Sometimes,” Pa repeated, when he figured out what he wanted to say. “I think your mom would bring it up, all the bad stuff, because she wanted to hear someone say out loud it wasn’t right. Like, she knew it inside, but needed…”

Pa trailed off, again, searching for the right words to convey his meaning. Usually Clark was good about waiting, but today he didn’t have the patience. He wanted to know what to do, he wanted to understand, he wanted to help. And not rely on his own instincts because they weren’t appropriate in this situation. 

A month ago he wouldn’t have worried so much - hell, he raised his voice when Lois told him her brother-in-law didn’t change his kids’ diapers. No way that kind of outburst would go over as well now as it had then, he was sure.

“Confirmation?” Clark supplied. “Reassurance?”

“Ehh,” Pa made a more-or-less gesture with his right hand. “More like…righteous anger. You know your mama, she’s a spitfire, burned real hot when we first got together. I think she wanted someone to get mad for her, not at her, for once.”  

Okay, sure, that made sense and totally worked when it came to his mom and dad. Pa was well suited to be a knight in shining denim because, killer fastball or not, his dad still couldn’t level a city block if he got worked up enough. Clark could and Lois knew he could and he wasn’t convinced that she knew he wouldn’t.

“I can’t get mad, though,” Clark insisted. “That’s the thing, mad for her or at her, doesn’t matter. I want to get back to good and I can’t do that if I…scare her. Like, what if she thinks because I shit-talked her family that they’re in danger now? Like that I’m gonna…go after them, or something?”

“Oh, I think that’s your brain lying to you,” Pa offered immediately. “Eyes up here.”

Pa set both hands on Clark’s shoulders and looked steadily down at him, until Clark lifted his head and looked his father directly in his calm, hazel eyes. 

“What do we know?” Pa asked him rhetorically. “We know Lois is upstairs taking a nap. She sure wouldn’t be if she thought you was about to run off half-cocked all the way to Washington to fight her baby sister. You might’ve been mad, Clark, but she didn’t get scared.”

As ever, when cooler heads prevailed, the worst-case scenario situations Clark’s brain conjured up for him to ruminate endlessly on sounded completely absurd. He was grateful (the reason for the season!) that Pa was always willing to ride out the worry with him. That he never minded how long it took for Clark to get his head together. At the same time, he felt awful that Lois didn’t have anyone she could rely on for that. Worse, knowing that, if he offered to be that person for her, she wouldn’t let him. Because she wouldn’t want to give him the opportunity to let her down.

“How’s that?” Pa asked when Clark didn’t respond right away. “Want me to keep going?”

“No, no, it’s good, I’m good,” Clark said and Pa gave his shoulders a squeeze before he let him go. Clark straightened up and gave his dad a slightly embarrassed smile. “Thanks.”

Pa reached up and ruffled his hair, chuckling in chagrin, “It’s partly my fault you’re all wound up. I should’ve known better than to tease you when came in. You looked like hell - ”

“Oh, gee, thanks, Dad.”

“ - and if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times,” Pa continued evenly. “You and all-nighters don’t mix. Let highway patrol do most of the heavy lifting tonight, will you?”

“If I can,” Clark agreed, which was less of a definitive promise than he knew his dad would prefer. “It’s just…I want everyone to make it home safe to their families, you know?”

The car stuff was personal to him, maybe more than it should be. Every time there was a major accident, he couldn’t help thinking of his dad’s dad. Grandpa Clark was Clark’s great-grandfather, but he was the man who raised his dad (along with Grandma Essie) after Pa’s father died in an accident on the road. Clark heard a million stories about his great-grandfather, but almost nothing about Grandpa Sy (full name: Hiram Silas Kent, the tradition of Kent men going by their middle names was definitively broken with Pa).

Pa didn’t remember much about him; he was only three when he passed and his grandparents didn't talk about him much; it was probably too painful for them. Clark felt strongly - really strongly - that If he could save another family from going through that, it was worth a few hours of lost sleep.

Pa might have been thinking along those lines because his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes when he nodded and pat Clark’s shoulder encouragingly. 

“I know,” he said, turning back to the axe. Then he paused and looked back over his shoulder, giving Clark a wink. “Still. There’s times I worry I raised you too good.”

Clark laughed and went back to assisting with Operation Log Prep. It wasn’t long before Ma pulled up the driveway; even without using enhanced senses, he could hear ‘Throw It Back’ maxing out the Subaru’s speakers. Pa heard it too; he raised his head and gave Clark a grin.

“Come on, buddy,” he said, heading back up toward the house. “You go on in and wake up Lois, I’ll meet Mama in the kitchen and get our marching orders - oh! Hang on there a minute, I got one more thing to say to you.”

Clark paused and turned around, waiting on him this time, no filling-in or anticipating. He didn’t know what his dad was fixing to say and braced himself for anything.

“I understand you’re trying to make Lois comfortable and that’s good, I’d never say it wasn’t,” Pa started out cautiously. “Especially considering what all y’all’ve been through. But I don’t want you to start thinking making her comfortable means you don’t get to be yourself. Okay?”

Oh. Well. He had been braced, but not for anything. Clark certainly hadn't been expecting that.

“That’s not…” 

…what I’m thinking, was going to be the end of that sentence, but Clark shut up because his dad was absolutely right. 

“It won’t do either of you any favors,” Pa advised him. “You, ‘cause no one ever did right by themselves twisting up in knots, trying to be somebody they ain't. Her, because she deserves to get to know you. Not some watered-down version that you think she’ll like better. You want her to trust you, sure, I get it. Just trust her enough to make up her own mind about you, no hiding.

“And,” Pa added, “I’m sure as hell biased, but I think you’re pretty great.”

Clark couldn’t help smiling.

“Oh, sure,” he said, heading in and holding the door for his dad. “Says the man who thinks he did too good a job raising me.”

"Told you I was biased," Pa said, pausing to remove his boots. He looked up and gave Clark a genuine smile. "Go on, get your girl."

"Lois isn't my anything," Clark reminded his dad as toed off his shoes and darted out of the mudroom.

He made plenty of noise as he bounded through the kitchen and up the stairs, hoping Lois would hear him coming so he didn’t have to actually wake her up and risk incurring her wrath (which, honestly, was still better than her fear). Turned out he didn’t have to worry, she was up and scrolling her phone with one hand and petting Callie with the other. Otis was curled up asleep at the end of the bed, Lois was using his belly as a foot-warmer. 

Clark truly had been ousted from the puppers' affection which would have been extremely hurtful if the image of three of his favorite beings in the world all cuddled up together wasn’t the cutest thing in the whole world. He’d left his phone charging in his room and almost went back for it, but Lois looked up at him and swung her legs over the side of the bed, ready to go.

“Oh, God, you’re on-theme,” Lois groaned, putting a hand to her head. At first, Clark had no idea what she was talking about, until he looked down and realized he was wearing his Samwise Gamgee-inspired potatoes shirt. Sorry: PO - TAY - TOES. “Of course you’re on-theme, you goober.”

“Uh, ‘scuse you,” Clark retorted. “Goobers are peanuts. I’m clearly repping potatoes right now, the word you’re looking for is spud.”

Lois laughed so hard she snorted, then cried out, grabbing the bridge of her nose - she was so loud she woke Otis up from a dead sleep.

“I think I pulled something!” she shouted at him accusingly, stalling in the hallway where the sounds of Ma banging around downstairs, dropping things off in her studio could be heard through the walls. “Yeah, I’m definitely injured, oops, sorry, I’m useless, I broke my sense of smell and will be a hazard in the kitchen.”

She was smiling, but it was that strained, fake smile she used when she was laughing off the awful things her family said. Maybe it was the nap mellowing him out, but this time it didn’t irritate Clark, it worried him. 

“You okay?” he asked, brow creasing. “I mean…you don’t have to help if you don’t want to. Is it the cooking making you nervous? It’s not hard, I swear, half the recipes are just opening cans and dumping them into bowls - ”

“It’s not - I do - I just - ”

Lois blew her bangs out of her eyes in frustration, then covered her face with her hands. When she spoke it was into her palms and Clark had to really listen to make out the words.

“Areyourparentsstillmadatme?”

“Uh…”

That threw him for a loop and Clark had no idea how to answer. In order for his parents to ‘still’ be mad at her, they would have had to have been mad at her to begin with. Unexpectedly, he felt a very slight pang of sympathy for Pete and his hourly check-ins. Not that Clark was about to tell him he’d never ask for ‘Are you mad at me?’ reassurance again, he could sympathize, but he could also be an anxious hypocrite. It was a lot easier to help other people with their problems than to help himself with his own, just saying.

“Because, you’re like, their pride and joy or whatever,” Lois continued, in a rush. “And I was so mean to you -”

“Lois, eyes up here,” Clark said, straight from the Jonathan Kent playbook, which, fuck it, was a pretty good playbook.

She lifted her head, mouth all puckered and twisted up, violet eyes large and nervous. Clark hated to see that look on her face; she was Lois Freaking Lane. It wasn’t right that she should be feeling so bad over something that was supposed to be fun.

“No one in this house is mad at you," he assured her. "Hey, I’ll bet you five bucks no one in the county is mad at you.”

Her chin creased and Clark was briefly alarmed, thinking Lois was going to cry and, hey, maybe running off half-cocked to D.C. wasn't a bad idea, he was a pacifist after all, he wasn't going to do anything to her family, he just wanted to talk -

“I mean, does MaryEllen from the Historical Society live in the county?” Lois asked, nose wrinkling. “I’m pretty sure she’s still salty about not making the Planet’s Arts and Leisure column.”

Clark threw his head back and laughed, both because she was genuinely funny and he was so relieved she was making real jokes again and not terrible ones about how totally fine and normal it was that her family consistently tried to turn happy occasions into content worthy of a therapist's analysis. 

“Okay,” he admitted, “I owe you five bucks. But MaryEllen’s been mad at everyone in town, it’s basically a Smallville right of passage at this point. Congrats, you’re a local now.”

Lois still looked a tiny bit reluctant and Clark was about to punctuate his last statement with jazz hands to see if that helped (and to reassure her she didn’t have to come down if it didn’t) when his mom’s voice bellowed up the stairs, “WHERE’S MY GIRL AT?”

Instantly, Clark perceived that his ma yelling was a better pick-me-up than awkwardly inserted jazz hands. Lois grinned and called, “Coming!”

She sighed and tucked a few flyaways out of her face behind her ears. 

“Let’s go,” she said, nodding toward the stairs. “I’m sorry, I’m making everything weird - ”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Clark insisted. “I’m really happy you’re here.”

He reached out to put his hands on her shoulders to bring her in for a hug, when he realized what she was wearing. At first he thought it was a plaid orange shirt-dress, but Lois was wearing jeans and a crop top underneath it and while he thought she looked great in everything, she wasn’t so fashion-forward that she’d wear two outfits simultaneously.

“Is that my shirt?” he asked, having all but forgotten about the shirt he let her borrow on their picnic until he saw her wearing it now.

“Um, yes,” Lois confirmed, shrugging out of the shirt and handing it to him reluctantly. “I meant to give it back to you, but I wanted to wash it first and I never washed it, so here you go! You have laundry now! Ta-da!”

Then Lois did jazz-hands and Clark did a total 180 on his evaluation of their effectiveness at lifting one’s spirits because he was pretty sure that he’d never seen anything more charming in his entire life.

Clark held the shirt to his chest, closed his eyes, and said with real feeling, “I will remember this moment - this opportunity - and cherish it always.”

Lois rolled her eyes and smacked him on the arm. 

“Goober,” she began, heading off toward the staircase. She caught herself and paused with one hand on the bannister. “Sorry - spud.  Let's go mash some potatoes or whatever."

"I mean, yeah," Clark agreed as he followed her down the stairs. "You can mash 'em. You can also boil 'em. Stick 'em in a stew."

"Is that one of your nerd things?"

"It's mainstream! It's literally on my shirt!"

"Mmm-hmm. Did you get that shirt from Wal-Mart? Or did you have to go to Etsy?"

"...no comment."

Chapter Text

Family holidays were a mixed bag for Lois, with most of the contents of the bag being kind of crappy. PME (pre-Mom Exodus), she recalled bouncing between her dad’s family in Chicago and her mom’s family in Boston. PME (post-Mom Exodus…she might need to come up with more distinct acronyms), they stuck to Chicago or ate at home, just herself, Lucy, and her Dad. All of the above options had their drawbacks. 

Ellen came from a big family, everyone (except for the Lane contingent) lived locally and were constantly in and out of each other’s homes and lives, very Smallville-coded, but with different accents. Trips to Boston were where Lois got the chance to develop her observational skills, so they weren't a total wash. No sooner would she have taken off her jacket and given obligatory hugs and kisses to adults she barely knew than she’d be ordered into the finished basement to play with her cousins. The adults took it as a foregone conclusion that, because she shared DNA with these kids, that they’d eagerly welcome her into the fold. 

Yeah, not so much. Lois didn’t have to strain her memory very hard to recall long, boring hours playing alone or, more often, sitting on the basement stairs, watching them all run around. The cogs in her itty-bitty child mind would be turning, trying to figure out what she could say or do in order to be allowed entry into the other kids’ long-established friendships. 

Looking back, she probably came across like a freaky little weirdo, silent and staring in her itchy party dress, while everyone else was enjoying familial chaos. No wonder they never asked her to play with them.

Of course, that brand of waving through a window awkwardness didn’t last very long. Once Lois was seven, her dad’s parents’ house was the only holiday destination available to them. The Lanes' brick McMansion in the ‘burbs was very different from her mom’s parents’ multifamily tenement house, but it was no more comfortable to visit. 

It wasn’t very often that a modern high schooler could relate to the life of an Austen heroine, but Lois was able to grasp Regency economics like a freaking champ because her dad’s family would have been right at home among the landed gentry. To put it bluntly: the Lanes were loaded, her grandfather inherited a profitable real-estate firm and eldest son James Jr. went the nepo-baby route and was hired by the firm right out of college. He ran thing himself now that her grandfather was retired. Her father, the second son, went into the military, like many a Colonel Brandon or Fitzwilliam before him. Youngest brother Christopher wasn’t a clergyman, he was a lawyer and either way, the vibes were stuffy.  

There was no playing in the basement at Lane family dinners, which were so not child-oriented that there wasn’t even a kids’ table. They either ate out at the golf club where her grandfather and uncles were members or they had a catered dinner in her grandparents’ formal dining room (yeah, they were the kind of people who had two dining rooms). Either way, Lois was back in an itchy party dress with no one to talk to, apart from Lucy, and not even for the whole meal. Her grandmother had a rule that children weren’t allowed to speak at the table until the dessert course, a course Lois rarely saw because she refused to follow that stuck-up bitch’s stupid decorum rules and wound up banished to the guest bedroom and denied dessert more often than not.

She was pretty sure Dad hated it at his parents’ too because, by the time Lois was in high school, they spent the holidays wherever home happened to be that year. There was no cooking involved, Dad would pre-order a standard holiday meal from whatever local family-style restaurant had the best reviews. If Lois had to guess, she assumed that was the MO this year. Lucy hadn’t posted anything on Insta since her fake Oprah quote and Lois didn’t doubt that, if she was doing any food prep, her Stories would have been full of progress photos, with accompanying passive-aggressive captions: ‘Sooo hard, but sooo worth it! 🥰’

Lois was a little apprehensive about being put to work (her brain was utterly convinced that she was going to slice her hand open and bleed all over the turkey, thus ruining the main protein for everyone), but she figured that food-prep in Smallville had to be better than being banished to a basement, eating in silence, or hanging out with her dad and sister. 

Things were already looking up when Lois came downstairs. Mama Kent greeted her with all the enthusiasm she’d shown the last time Lois was in town, a whirling dervish of positive affirmations who, like Lana, lifted Lois straight off her feet in an enormous bear-hug (also like Lana, she was also very into Lois’s new haircut). Once Clark received a hug and kiss of his own, they were off to the races.

“Okay,” she began, with all the concentrated energy of a colonel about to lead a cavalry charge. “I got the recipe cards all laid out on the table in prep order - Lois, I need you to get the green bean casserole started, Clark, you’re on funeral potatoes. Just mix the wets, cover ‘em in plastic wrap, stick ‘em in the fridge, we’ll add the crunchies in the morning. I’m gonna run upstairs quick, put my hair up, get my shit clothes on, and take my bra off, be right back!”

In a move very much like the one Clark pulled when he Supermanned out of his apartment, Mama Kent flew (metaphorically) up the stairs, a blur of red hair, rather than a red cape. 

Lois turned to Clark, about to ask what the hell ‘funeral potatoes’ were, when his mom yelled another order down the stairs.

“TIE YOUR HAIR UP SO IT DOESN’T GET IN THE FOOD!”

Lois had a hair tie in the pocket of her jeans that had probably gone through the wash about ten times, but still had enough stretch to do the job. Clark grabbed a rubber band from the junk drawer and proceeded to give himself the world’s tiniest top-knot.

“Is it giving Qui-Gon Jinn?” he asked hopefully. “Or is it more I Dream of Jeannie?”

Lois beckoned him to lean over with one quirked finger. She had to. She had to! There was no resisting the urge to…

“Boing, boing,” she provided sound effects as she flicked the teeny-weeny ponytail. The action brought on a rush of serotonin so ferocious that Lois clapped her hands and cackled with glee. “You look so dumb!” 

That got Clark smiling his biggest goober smile and it started the evening off on a good note. The glass of wine she was given helped tremendously (as did the fact that preparing green bean casserole only involved dumping the contents of many cans together in a bowl, which she could do like a pro) and once Mama Kent was back, she put a portable speaker on the fridge and cranked some music.

It was livelier than her usual mellow mixes of folk soulful sapphic singer-songwriters. Some of the songs even included bass, which was a major departure for her. It kept the vibes high as people started trickling to help.

First, came Mrs. Ross who arrived with her youngest daughter Missy and her grandson Frankie. Missy, the eleven-year-old, was tasked with chopping vegetables. Frankie dragged a chair over to Clark’s assigned work station and was given the job of dumping things out of cans and mixing them together…which, yeah, was also Lois’s job. Yikes. She decided she outranked Frankie in the kitchen by virtue of the fact that she got wine for helping out, while the only libation he was permitted was apple juice. 

Not that Mama Kent much of a taskmaster, on the whole. Everything was very well-organized and it was clear from watching her and Mrs. Ross dodge around each other in the kitchen that this was a dance they’d performed many, many times before - and she meant ‘dance,’ quite literally. There were frequent pauses taken for both shaking one’s groove thing and for pausing the work to belt along with their favorite parts of a song. 

Maybe that’s why you’re such a crappy cook, Lane. Not enough dancing.

All work ceased completely as Mama Kent and Mrs. Ross serenaded the kitchen with a particularly melodramatic singalong to ‘The Night The Lights Went Out in Georgia,’ a song which Lois had never heard in its entirety before. To be totally honest, she had no idea what the song was about before the moms sang it and had no idea what the song was about after they sang it; all she was sure of was that the judge in the town had bloodstains on his hands.

“Aunt Becks knows the entire Julia Sugarbaker monologue from Designing Women by heart,” Clark bragged to Lois when the singalong concluded. 

This led to another pause in activity wherein Mrs. Ross stood in the kitchen and dramatically recited said monologue. At least, Lois assumed that was what she was doing; she’d never seen Designing Women, and vaguely thought it might be that movie with Dolly Parton that took place mostly at a hair salon. 

Lana arrived just as Mrs. Ross was wrapping up her speech and bolted into the kitchen, shouting along with her at the top of her lungs while carrying no fewer than six pies in tin plates with plastic covers, stacked precariously on top of one another. 

“AND THAT, MARJORIE - JUST SO YOU WILL KNOW, AND YOUR CHILDREN WILL SOMEDAY KNOW - IS THE NIGHT THE LIGHTS. WENT OUT. IN GEORGIA!”

Clark, the kids, and Mama Kent burst into applause, which Lois joined in belatedly, starting to think that maybe the Dolly Parton movie was a different thing. The speaker was still playing and, when the applause died down and Lana heard the song, she shrieked and begged Clark’s mom to skip it. Clark picked his way across the kitchen and gingerly took the pile of pies away from her before Lana dropped them on the floor. 

“You love this song!” Mama Kent protested.

“I do,” Lana acknowledged. “But I’m not explaining to Ruthie what a ‘buckle bunny’ is!”

“Oh, I can!” Mrs. Ross laughed, polishing off her glass of wine. “It’s like this, Ruthie, when a rodeo cowboy and a sorority pledge love each other very much - ”

“EW MOM STOP!” Missy declared, lunging at Frankie to put his hands over his ears. Frankie had been stuffing handfuls of shredded cheese into his mouth and seemed oblivious to the chaos around him. 

“Frankie, my guy, slow down,” Clark admonished him, lifting the bowl of shredded cheese up over the kid’s head. “We need some of that for the pineapple casserole.”

Lois was wondering what the fuck pineapples and cheddar cheese had to do with each other, as Mama Kent darted past her to switch the track over before Lana’s Aunt Ruth made it into the kitchen, carrying just as many pies as Lana had been. Seeing all three mom and mom-adjacent women together in one space was a trip, especially for Lois who, being sans-Mom most of her life, didn’t have that much experience with groups of middle-aged women. Clark would appreciate that her initial assessment could be summed up in two words: Sanderson Sisters.

It fit! Mama Kent was tall and red-haired and she loved to sing! Her clothing choices were a lot more grunge hippie than witchy, though. Mrs. Ross was shorter, curvier and dark-haired, dressed in a plaid tunic-top and jeans, like a rural Ina Garten. Lana’s Aunt Ruth was thin, had straw-blonde hair (which, given the fact that she was at least a decade older than Clark and Pete’s moms probably came from a bottle). Her style choices weren’t as bold as Lana’s and they certainly weren’t vintage-inspired, but she was definitely Dressed, in tan pressed slacks and a blue polka-dot blouse - definitely not ‘shit clothes’ as Mama Kent described her own cargo shorts and bleach-stained baggy t-shirt. 

Once Aunt Ruth’s hands were free, she put them on her hips and looked around, with a small frown on her face. “Where’re the husbands at?”

Out back, Mama Kent explained. They were assembling a rig in which to safely fry a turkey, so they were temporarily off the hook for meal prep. 

“Well, I’m sure Johnny’s working on the rig,” Mrs. Ross remarked, crossing to the fridge to pour wine for Lana and Aunt Ruth (and refill her own glass). “He’s handy. I don’t know what the hell Joey’s good for out there, aside from moral support.”

“Well, you can tell Joey to get on in here, but Johnny prepped the birds, so he did his part already,” Mama Kent said with a slight shudder. “I can’t abide touching a carcass - ”

“Oh, crud!”

That exclamation came courtesy of Pete’s mom, who slapped a hand to her forehead and groaned. She explained that her daughter Quinn told her she was going vegan two days before and it slipped her mind until Mama Kent mentioned carcasses. 

“It’s all good!” Mama Kent assured her, going into problem-solving mode, ticking off the menu on her fingers. “We’re doing the mashed potatoes tomorrow, I’ll just make a note that they need to be olive oil mashed potatoes and Lana’s vegetable Wellington is vegan already, so they can share that, plus roast broccoli - oh! You know what, I haven’t started the dressing yet, so I’ll just use oil and veggie stock, she’ll have a full plate.”

“Lana, honey, can you ask the phone if Cool Whip is vegan?” Aunt Ruth asked, accepting her glass of wine. “I think so and if it is, there’s about three pies Quinnie can eat.”

“It doesn’t matter if the Cool Whip is vegan, the Jello definitely isn’t, Ruthie,” Lana replied without consulting her phone. She stamped her foot like a horse and grimly intoned, "Neigh."

“Is Snickers salad vegan?” Missy asked Clark, who had moved on from funeral potatoes to that unholy abomination at the moment. She held out a hand expectantly and Clark obligingly deposited a piece of candy in her palm.

“Nope,” he shook his head. “Even if we left out the butterscotch pudding, the candy bars aren’t vegan.”

Missy smiled broadly and popped the Snickers piece into her mouth. “Oh, good, more for me!”

“Ugh, this is all Pete’s fault,” Lana announced accusingly. “He should have told us on the drive back from the airport! We could have gone to the store and grabbed coconut milk, there’s like a million desserts you can make with it!”

“I usually have some on-hand, just in case,” Mama Kent shook her head. “I ran out last month and it didn’t make the list for the big shop.”

“Well, I didn’t say it at the time because I thought it would start a fight,” Mrs. Ross muttered into her wine. “But I did think it was a little inconvenient to jump straight to vegan two days before Thanksgiving! Wait ‘til after the holiday - ”

“Oh, come on, Becks, give the kid a break - ”

“You didn’t let me finish, Marty!” Mrs. Ross held up a finger to stop her. “I was gonna say, wait until after the holiday, or make up your mind before everyone’s got all the shopping done! Not to mention - ”

“Yet there you go, mentioning it,” Mama Kent muttered, rolling her eyes.

“ - that girl ate an egg salad sandwich for lunch on Monday and wore her daddy’s old leather jacket to school every day this week!”

“Well,” Lana butted in, in a quasi-apologetic tone. “Wearing vintage leather is technically better for the environment than vegan leather, since it’s plastic, you know? Ethically, it’s a solid choice!”

Mrs. Ross folded her arms and regarded Lana and Mama Kent frankly, “I’m telling y’all right now that you’ve put more thought into this in the last thirty seconds than Quinnie has in the last two days.”

“I’ve still got a can of pumpkin left,” Mama Kent said, ignoring Mrs. Ross. “All I need’s some sweetened condensed coconut milk to make a pie. Do y’all think it’s faster to get to Dillons or Hy-Vee?”

What followed was a long, overlapping conversation about which store was closer, which was more likely to have sweetened, condensed coconut milk in stock, all while Mrs. Ross protested that no one needed to go shopping, she didn’t want them to go shopping, and Quinn was not going to die if she didn’t get to eat dessert tomorrow.

“But it’s Thanksgiving!” Everyone chorused, horrified at the thought.

Everyone except for Lois, who had retreated to the outskirts of the kitchen, drinking wine and observing the supermarket debate without commentary. Well, without spoken commentary, anyway. Lois firmly on Mrs. Ross’s side: was it that big a deal to wait another day before going Full Vegan? Couldn’t Quinn be vegetarian for twenty-four hours as a stop-gap measure? At least then she could eat the already-prepared pies, if nothing else.

Ah yeah, the old holiday standby, silently staring at everyone like a weirdo. Hey, at least you’re not in a basement. You’re moving up in the world, Lane! Literally!

“I don’t want anyone on the roads right now if they don’t have to be,” Mrs. Ross said firmly. “Give it a few hours and all the drunks’ll be behind the wheel, it’s not worth it.”

“I can go,” Clark offered. He finished making his disgusting-looking Snickers concoction and handed the bowl to Missy to put in the fridge. “I’ll be quick.”

Lois straightened up at that offer, eyes darting around the room to gauge everyone’s reactions. Although he hadn’t phrased it quite that way, Clark was definitely offering to literally fly to a grocery store, right? Surely everyone clocked that.

“I’m sure you would be,” Mrs. Ross acknowledged, lips pursed disapprovingly. “But I don't want you putting yourself out over something frivolous.”

“Pie isn’t frivolous!” Clark insisted. “Especially on Thanksgiving!”

Then Clark’s face contorted in a way Lois had never seen before. His already big blue eyes got even bigger and bluer. His lower lip jutted out very slightly and his voice took on a plaintive note as he said, “It’s no bother, I’m happy to do it! Pleeeeeease?”

Turned out his puppy eyes dealt just as devastating a blow as his heat vision because Mrs. Ross began to visibly falter. What Lois couldn’t understand was why this was even a debate. If Clark wanted to fucking fly to the supermarket to do a teenager a solid, it wasn’t as though anyone could stop him. Yet he didn’t make a move to go anywhere until Pete’s mom gave in. 

“Oh, fine,” she relented. “All this fuss - thank you, sweetheart, that child owes you one.”

Clark grinned and headed out the back door. “Back in a jiff!” 

“Wait! Let me give you the money first!” Mrs. Ross shouted, snatching up her purse off one of the kitchen chairs and chasing him outside. “Clark Joseph! You get back here right now!”

And that was that. Business as usual in Smallville, apparently. Even Lana didn’t raise any objections, despite the fears she voiced to Lois when she visited Metropolis. She didn’t so much as give Lois a meaningful stare when she dutifully plugged in the food processor and started making cranberry relish. Maybe she was less worried about Clark falling out of the sky if he was within driving distance of her.

Mrs. Ross came back in then, looking very pleased with herself.

“Caught him!” she declared proudly. “I gave Clark a twenty dollar bill and told him he has to give me the change so I know he paid with it. I know that boy, he’ll just put it right back in my purse when he thinks I’m not looking. Metropolis is so expensive, he needs to save his money.”

There was a general murmur of agreement, accompanied by head-shaking over the cost of city life, with sighs over how much prices were going up locally. Aunt Ruth took over Clark’s prep station, while Mama Kent pivoted to making vegan pie crust. 

Well, there you go, Lane, she thought as she stared at the blades of the food processor, pulverizing the frozen cranberries into red goo. The successful integration of Clark and Superman. It can be done. You’re just slow on the uptake.

What Lois just witnessed was objectively nuts. The fact that Clark might spend a few dollars of his own money seemed to bother Mrs. Ross way more than him defying the laws of physics so a teenage girl could eat a slice of pie. She also wondered what Mrs. Ross meant when she said she ‘caught’ him. Did she literally snag him by the ankle why he was going up, up, and away?

Lois’s ponderings were interrupted when Lana flung her arms around her neck from behind, smooshing their cheeks together and rocking side-to-side in glee. 

“I’m so happy you’re here!” she declared, a louder, much more physical echo of Clark’s sentiments earlier. “Also your hair looks hot when it’s up, very Dakota Johnson in Fifty Shades, but in a sexy way, not a pathetic way.”

Missy wrinkled her nose in confusion and took serious notice of Lois for the first time since her mother ordered her to say ‘hi’ when they first showed up.

“I thought you were Clark’s girlfriend,” she said, confused. “Are you Lana’s girlfriend? Are you dating both of them?”

Lois looked at Lana in mild panic, unwilling to engage in a conversation about polyamory with a literal child. There was also no good way to answer her question without accidentally insulting Clark, Lana, and their parents. What did she mean she wasn't both their girlfriend? Who wouldn't want to date those precious baby angels?

Lana was no help, only squeezing Lois tighter and beaming at Missy. “Oh, honey, if you ever get lucky enough to get a girl like Lois, you’ll never wanna share.” 

“Uh…” Lois wavered, longing for a spot on a lonely basement staircase. Luckily, one of the parents came to her rescue. 

“Since you’re joined at the hip, can I ask you girls to go check on the husbands?” Mrs. Ross asked, giving Lois an out from the awkwardness that was this conversation. “If they’re not working, they’re drinking and I need those boys to drink and cook.”

As if to reinforce the Girlfriends since Lana linked their arms as they headed out into the yard, only letting her go so they could put their shoes back on before they went outside.

The dads, as it turned out, were drinking and working, which explained what was taking them so long; they were each down a usable hand since they were holding beers, while attempting to attach a pulley system to a ladder with zip ties.

“Hey!” Mr. Ross cried out happily when he spotted them. “Reinforcements! Can you girls give us a hand with the bolt cleat?”

Lana skipped happily over to them and Lois followed, wondering if it was necessary to know what a bolt cleat was in order to give someone a hand with one. Luckily, the outside preparation was similar to the inside preparations in that she didn’t need any previous knowledge of construction to be useful; she only had to follow Papa Kent’s instructions, which mostly consisted of tightening bolts. She got to use a wrench, which made her feel very handy.

Naturally, Lana couldn’t resist the opportunity to take a picture. “Say cheese, Rosie!”

Lois cheesed in front of the ladder, wrench held aloft like she was the Home Depot version of the statue of liberty. Lana snorted and it only took Lois one glance over her shoulder to realize she’d been photobombed by the dads.

Unlike the Sanderson Sisters in the kitchen, Papa Kent and Mr. Ross looked like two peas in a pod. If Lois had been told that they were brothers, she’d believe it. They both had the same coloring, similar sandy-blonde hair and light colored eyes, though they were built differently. Papa Kent was average height and rangy, while Mr. Ross was taller, with a thicker build overall and he sported a full beard, while Mr. Kent was clean-shaven. 

“Beer, Lois?” Papa Kent asked when the turkey-frying contraption was complete. “Beer, Banana?”

Lois really was slow on the uptake because, for a second she thought they were being offered banana-flavored beer (hey, she was going to be served a pineapple cheese casserole tomorrow, so gastronomically speaking, anything was possible). It took her way longer than she cared to admit to realize that ‘Banana’ was Lana’s nickname.

“Is it Blanton’s time?” Lana asked eagerly. “Or is it too early?

Papa Kent squinted up at the sky, which was starting to turn very dark blue as the sun began to make its descent. “Could be just about that time, yeah. You a whiskey drinker, Lois?”

She was, actually. One of the few things Lois and her dad ever really bonded over was their mutual love of whiskey, bourbon, and scotch (well, mostly they bonded over teasing Lucy about the fact that she couldn't handle it, but whatever). Admittedly, it took Lois a few tries to acclimate herself to the taste and she might have feigned more enjoyment than she felt at the beginning of her journey. When she was in college she was afflicted with a bad combination of chasing the General’s approval and Not Like Other Girls Syndrome, which led to her trying a lot of things she wound up not really enjoying. Brown liquor was one of the few things she experimented with at that time that stuck. Cigar-smoking and car culture were not. 

Papa Kent beckoned them into a tool shed where he retrieved a bottle of Blanton’s Single Barrel Bourbon. It was half empty and he poured everyone the equivalent of one shot into some lowball glasses. 

“Don’t shoot it now,” Papa Kent advised Lois when he handed her a glass. “This is the good stuff, special for the holiday.”

“Johnny and I suck at presents,” Mr. Ross explained. “So I get him a bottle on his birthday and he gets me a bottle on mine, nice and easy. What’re we toasting?”

“Lois, duh!” Lana exclaimed enthusiastically. 

“Gotta be Lois,” Papa Kent agreed.

“Don’t know why I asked,” Mr. Ross smiled. “To you, darlin’.”

It didn’t produce quite the same effect as when Clark called her ‘darlin,’ but Lois felt her cheeks go a little pink at all the fuss. Loathe as she generally was to admit it, Clark was right. No one seemed mad at her at all. Lana insisted on taking a video of them cheersing and Lois heeded Papa Kent’s advice to sip the whiskey rather than chug it.

The liquor went down as smoothly as the tentative realization that no one - not a single Kent, Ross, or Lang - seemed to think Lois was imposing herself on their family holiday. The fading sunlight in the shed window went completely dark and Lois worried about rain until a cute, dumb face appeared in the window. Clark was back. He'd taken his tiny, stupid ponytail out of his hair, disappointingly.

“Oooh, you're about to be in trouble,” he declared in a sing-song voice. “I’m gonna tell the moms y'all're hiding out here drinking instead of helping.”

Clark got shoved out of the way by Pete who tapped on the glass and asked, “You got drive-through service? Oh, hey, is that the expensive stuff? Can I have some?”

“You can have some if you don’t go off tattling to your mama,” Mr. Ross told him. The Blanton’s was kept in a wooden chest which only contained four glasses, so he poured another finger of whiskey for Pete into his own glass and beckoned him inside.

Pete joined them, but Clark remained, leaning an arm against the top of the doorway so he could participate in the conversation without coming inside. It was getting awfully cozy in the shed without his big ass squeezing inside. He wasn’t drinking anyway and boldly declared that the top-shelf whiskey tasted, ‘like paint stripper and death.’

Inappropriately, Lois's brain latched onto the word 'stripper' and she had to avert her gaze from Clark in the doorway, lest his kith and kin catch her ogling him. The way he positioned his arm over the door made his nerdy t-shirt ride up exposing a strip of skin on his stomach that looked incredibly soft and inviting and touchable, not to mention the way his arm flexed to support his weight and really tested the amount of stretch the sleeves could take. (They could take a lot of stretch.)

“Don’t you go and tell on us either,” Papa Kent said warningly to Clark. “Took you long enough to get back, I don’t think the shopping lines were that long, even on Thanksgiving.”

“I had to hit up three stores!” Clark declared. “Hy-Vee and Dillons had coconut milk, just not sweetened condensed. I wound up doubling back and going to the Wal-Mart. Lines weren’t that bad, probably because no one was dumb enough to go food shopping the night before Thanksgiving. Except. Y'know. Yours truly.”

“You were doing a good deed,” Lana pointed out. “Do we know if Quinn and Cass're coming for dinner?”

Pete shook his head, “Nope, they’re going to the movies. I was gonna drive ‘em, but Harrison Smith got his permit and he’s taking the whole crew in his mom’s minivan. Riding in style.”

“I don’t like that,” Mr. Ross grumbled. “Too many idiots on the road tonight and I don’t trust that Smith kid behind the wheel. I might go pick ‘em up myself, they got their phones?”

“They always do, Pop, but I’ll text Q to be sure, her phone's usually charged.”

Once again, Lois found herself on the periphery of the conversation, not feeling shunned, exactly, but she had nothing to contribute. She wandered over to study the whiskey box, which had a cool burned-on image. It was a little hard to see in the fading daylight, but Clark noticed her looking and reached inside the shed to flick on a light switch for her. 

“Marty done that for me,” his dad remarked proudly. “Carved it herself and burned that in…ah, what’s it called, Chicken? The real name, not just wood-burning drawing?”

“Pyrography,” Clark supplied helpfully.

“Yeah,” Papa Kent nodded. “That was my fortieth birthday present. Still looks great, don’t it?”

It did look great. The picture was very clear and very Norman Rockwell, featuring two grinning, bare-chested kids in front of a lake, with their arms around each other’s shoulders, each holding a fish toward the camera with their free hands. 

“That there’s me,” Mr. Kent pointed out the kid on the left. “And that’s Joey. From a fishing trip when we were nine. Joey’s grandpa snapped the picture, it’s a great shot.”

“Remember when we redid it?” Mr. Ross asked. “Summer after you got your chest done? Same camera too.”

“I do,” Papa Kent replied. “Marty’s got ‘em side by side in the album. Funny you mention it, Martha was saying the other day that she wants to do another one, if you can find the camera and get it working.”

“Oh, you have to!” Lana insisted. “That would be so cute!”

“Would it?” Mr. Ross squinted skeptically at her. “Easy for Johnny to say, thirty years on, he looks damn near the same! I look like my grandpa did when we took the first picture…oh, shit.”

All the color drained out of Mr. Ross’s face as he exclaimed, “I think I’m the same age PawPaw was when we went fishing that summer. Jesus Christ, we’re old.”

There was some general middle-aged lamenting about where the time went, while Clark, Pete, and Lana gamely reassured their dads and dad-figures that they were not old, that fifty was the new thirty-five and they had many, many years of life to enjoy ahead of them. Also that they should definitely recreate their fishing trip photo.

“Then you can do another one when you’re eighty,” Clark suggested brightly.

All of this was almost as mind-boggling to Lois as the casual attitude toward Clark that everyone exhibited had been. To think that Papa Kent and Mr. Ross had been friends for fifty years was bonkers. That they stayed friends that whole time and intended to stay friends for another thirty years. How was that even possible? Did they just never fight?

Mr. Ross predicted that there would be a fight on the horizon if they didn’t get inside and resume helping with the dinner preparations, so Papa Kent gathered up everyone’s glasses, put the whiskey and its special chest away, and led the charge back to the house.

Flood lights came on from the back of the house and the barn as the sun went down over the fields. Lois paused for a second, taking it in. It was really pretty and not horror movie adjacent at all. 

A warm, heavy arm fell over her shoulders and she looked up to see Clark smiling down at her. The sunlight on his face made his blue eyes pop behind his glasses.

“How’s it going?” he asked. “You having fun?”

“Your mom wouldn’t let me use a knife,” Lois frowned, voicing her one complaint about her experience. She quickly smiled and added, “I’m having fun, everyone’s being really nice to me.”

Clark’s mouth did a twisty thing she had a hard time interpreting, but his expression smoothed out again and he gave her shoulder a little squeeze. “Good.”

When they went inside, everyone was helping themselves to chili - the same pumpkin chili Clark made her for TV and Clark Cooks, only Mama Kent made with with Impossible meat for Lana and served honey cornbread on the side, rather than jalapeno, probably out of consideration for the kids. The adults ate in the kitchen while the kids (which, in this scenario included, Clark, Lana, and Pete) ate in the living room watching a recorded episode of WWE's Smackdown . 

Once the bowls were scraped clean, some of the couch cushions migrated to the floor and Missy and Frankie proceeded to pretend to beat the crap out of each other. Lois and Lana got up to refresh their wine.

When they returned, the kids were tag-teaming Clark, who wasn’t faring too well against them, as Pete’s commentary affirmed. Clark’s glasses were perched on top of Pete’s head, probably to keep them from getting broken.

“She’s going for the ankle lock!” Pete shouted as Missy grabbed one of Clark’s legs while Clark obligingly lay on his stomach and sold the hell out of the move, contorting his face in evident agony. To add insult to injury, Frankie sat on his back and straight up grabbed his face, putting him in a two-armed headlock. 

“Ahhhh!” Pete shouted, covering his eyes. “THE STF! BIG FRANK’S GONE FOR THE STF! Is Chicken gonna tap? IS HE GONNA TAP?”

Clark moaned and groaned and really gave it his all before he reached out his right hand and gave the couch cushions a few pats.

“DING DING DING!” Pete crowed. “VICTORY BY SUBMISSION!”

The kids cheered and Lana gave them an appreciative woo-hoo, while Clark continued to lay on the ground like he was actually dead. Frankie crouched down in front of him and grabbed his head, picking up his chin, but Clark just flopped back down, face-planting into a cushion. 

“Come on,” Frankie insisted, pushing Clark’s shoulders. “Get up!”

Clark opened one eye and gave the kid a mischievous smile. Then he popped up, pinned Frankie down on the cushion and tickled him without mercy while Frankie shrieked with laughter. 

“The bell rang!” Lana exclaimed in mock outrage. “Heel tactics!”

Missy leapt on Clark’s back and put him in a more traditional headlock, but Clark only let up when Frankie yelped, “STOP, UNCLE CHICKEN!” 

No sooner did he let Frankie go than the kid shoved him in the chest with both hands - Clark collapsed to the cushions and lay there helplessly while the kids once again took turns beating him up. 

Despite Lois not being a naturally kid-friendly person, she’d have to be a real Grinch not to admit that it was cute watching Clark play with Pete’s sister and nephew. The care he was taking with them was obvious, as was the fun all three of them were having. Lois’s niblings were younger than Frankie; Sophie was three and Owen was one. Babies, basically. Lois hadn’t spent much time with them in their short lives, but the time she did spend was not exactly comfortable. Or fun.

Like, what were you supposed to do with a baby other than hold it? That lost all appeal after about two minutes when the weight of their giant heads in the crook of her arm made her fingers go numb. But there was no elegant way to hand a baby back. Saying, “I’m done now,” tended not to go over well with the parents (ask her how she knew) and while the baby getting fed up with her and crying had the advantage of giving her an out, it tended to result in every head in the room swiveling toward her like she’d done something wrong. 

Toddlers were, theoretically, capable of being more fun, but every time Lois interacted with Sophie once she was in the walking stage, she was in an Outfit, like a Lana Lang Instagram post-worthy child fit and it was usually a shade of beige and couldn’t get dirty. There were only so many times Lois could say, ‘Hello?’ into a toy phone before she needed someone who possessed a real vocabulary to Yes, And her child-improv.

In short, she was taking notes from Clark; maybe in a year or two she could plop down on the floor and let them hit her. Maximum fun for them, minimum effort for her. Hopefully Lucy would consider that sufficient bonding. Lois settled in on the couch, keeping one eye on the pro wrestling and one eye on the amateur dramatics being enacted in front of her, when Clark stopped the proceedings abruptly and told the kids he had to go and he’d see them all tomorrow.

Clark headed for the staircase, pausing long enough to shoot Lois an apologetic smile. 

“See you in the morning, Lois,” he said, and it sounded like a promise.

Lois smiled and waved, try to seem cool and chill, like she didn’t give a fuck and it wasn’t completely mind-blowing that Clark was leaving to go be Superman. Lana didn’t react at all, except to drain her entire glass of wine in two long swallows, which was simultaneously worrying and impressive. Pete distracted the kids from asking questions about where Clark was going and when he’d be back by telling them it was getting late and they should head home. 

They don’t know, Lois concluded as Pete went out to the porch, where the Actual Grown-Ups had gathered to let his parents know he was leaving with the kids. Everyone else followed suit because the next thing Lois knew, Aunt Ruth poked her head into the living room and asked if she’d be staying or going. 

“Going,” Lana said, taking her wine glass into the kitchen. “I should do some editing before I completely check out on work this weekend. BYE BABE!”

Lana shouted her farewell as she ran back into the living room and did a truly uncanny impression of Missy when she pounced on Lois and wrapped her up in a hug, giving her a smacking kiss on the cheek (they were truly never beating the girlfriend allegations…which reminded Lois, she needed to ask Lana how her date with Cat went). 

Aunt Ruth nodded in Lois’s general direction and bid her good-night. It was only nine o’clock and Lois wasn’t ready for bed yet. Rather than head right upstairs now that the rest of the guests were gone, she made herself useful. Lois put the cushions back on the couch and went into the kitchen to wash the bowls, cutlery, and glasses that were left in the sink. That got her all the way to nine-fifteen, aka, too early to go to bed. 

“Did you do the dishes?” Mama Kent asked from the doorway.

ERROR. MAJOR FUCK-UP LANE! YOU OVERSTEPPED AND YOU PROBABLY DID IT WRONG AND NOW MAMA KENT IS PISSED.

“You are just the best ever,” Mama Kent gushed, putting an arm around her shoulders like Clark had when they paused to watch the sunset. His mom went one step farther and gave Lois a kiss on the top of the head. “Papa and me are gonna settle in and watch the British Bake-Off if you want to join us.”

This happened once over the summer, when Clark had gone to bed early (or, in retrospect, probably left to be Superman) and Lois went upstairs, opting to doomscroll until she fell asleep, rather than awkwardly hang out with her friend’s parents. This time, she decided to give hanging out a try. The Great British Bake-Off was one of Lois’s favorite shows to have on in the background while she was working or to play on low volume when she was trying to sleep. It was effortlessly soothing, but also invited her to have very strong opinions. 

“Sure,” Lois agreed. “That’d be nice.”

And it was! It was extremely chill. Like Lois, Mama and Papa Kent also had a lot of opinions about the challenges and they all agreed that making a self-portrait out of cookies was an extremely dumb thing to do.

“Hang on,” Papa Kent said, sliding out from under his wife to depart the sofa so he could grab one of the photo albums that were stuffed into a bookshelf. 

The only thing that was slightly awkward about their impromptu hangout was how into PDA Clark’s parents were, but that was a her-problem. Lois assumed most people wouldn't even notice, she was simply unused to married people being so openly affectionate with each other. She had zero memories of her own parents sharing so much as a hug when they were together, she hardly ever saw Lucy and David in same room when she visited (David spent Owen’s first birthday party sipping beer and chatting with their friends while Lucy ran around like a chicken with its head cut off, doing the hostess thing). Not to mention Ron and Perry, who were so scrupulously professional at work that Lois could forget that they were married for days at a time. 

Clark’s parents didn’t scream married either, to be totally honest, they screamed DATING. Mama Kent watched TV with her head on Papa Kent’s shoulder, one arm wrapped around his stomach in a loose embrace. It wasn’t dissimilar to how Lois cuddled on Clark when they watched television together, only Clark usually rested his hand on her leg and not her butt; Mama Kent’s ass was clearly Papa Kent’s favorite armrest.

Clark’s dad quickly found his quarry and returned with a photo album.

“Lois saw the box you made,” he explained to his wife. “I thought she might get a kick outta the genuine article.”

Lois took the album from Papa Kent and took a look - it was deeply impressive how accurately Mama Kent copied the photograph onto the wood, Lois wondered if she used a stencil or another kind of guide. As Papa Kent said in the shed, there was another picture of he and Mr. Ross when they were older, Papa Kent boasting some healed, but still fairly fresh scars from his top surgery. The fish they caught in the second picture were smaller than in the first, but their smiles were just as big. It was wild how much Mr. Ross in the photo resembled Pete today.  

There were two versions of the older, child photo. One incredibly bleached, creased, and washed out to the point where a lot of the detail was sapped from the boys’ faces. The second one looked a lot clearer, the color and detail brought back to life.

“Clark got it cleaned up,” Papa Kent tapped a finger against the second picture. “I don’t have a ton of pictures from when I was a kid that I like, that one’s been through the wringer. Clark got it restored for my fortieth, so I could have a copy that didn’t look like shit.”

“And that’s Clark and Pete down there,” Mama Kent pointed out the fourth picture on the double-page spread. “Jonathan and Joey took them fishing and wanted to redo the picture - the kids didn’t catch anything on that trip, but they had fun.”

Instead of holding fish, Clark and Pete were shooting the camera dual thumbs-up like the twin goobers that they were. Twins in vibe, of course, not in looks. Pete boasted a fairly intense sunburn in the picture and was beanpole skinny. Little Clark was shorter than Pete and on the chubby side. He didn’t have a sunburn, his skin was the same slightly bronzed hue it always was, like he was perpetually recently returned from a beach vacation. 

Objectively, this was a great opportunity to do some digging. To ask the Kents what went through their minds the night they found Clark, what made them decide to keep him, how they went about explaining their situation to the authorities, what steps they took to get him documents, like a birth certificate. Only none of those questions came to mind. 

“I don’t have any pictures like this,” Lois admitted, handing the album back to Mama Kent. “Like, from when I was little. They’re all at my dad’s house, I haven’t looked at them…maybe ever?”

Not voluntarily, anyway. Lucy was the only one in the family who liked to haul out the photo albums, demanding that they sit and review the pictures, recalling when they were taken, who was in the photos, what they were doing, blah, blah, blah. Still. Despite her tendency to indulge in nostalgia, Lucy was still canny enough not to remark on all the empty spaces in the albums where pictures had been taken out.

“I don’t have any pictures from when I was little either,” Mama Kent told her when she got up to put the album back in its spot on the couch. “I just tell people I popped into existence when I turned eighteen. Hey, from a certain perspective, it’s true!”

Clark's parents turned shortly afterward, but assured Lois they didn’t mind if she kept watching the show without them. Lois sort of did, but she was fading fast. It occurred to her to go upstairs and change into her PJs, but the Kents’ sofa was ridiculously comfy and insanely deep; it was like being in a bed already. 

When Lois woke up, hours later it was still dark outside, and it took her a minute to get her bearings; the sounds of Clark and his mom’s voices in the kitchen clued her in that she was in Kansas, that she’d fallen asleep on the couch. At first she thought that maybe they were already getting ready for the holiday and wondered if she would be expected to shake off the fog of sleep and join them, but quickly realized they weren’t talking about oven times and table settings. Clark sounded like he’d been crying.

“I just don’t understand, like, why would you get behind the wheel when you’ve got kids in the car? Why get behind the wheel at all? If he didn’t care about himself, shouldn’t he care about other people?”

“People who drive drunk aren't thinking about other people. It’s stupid and it’s selfish and it’s horrible. You need give yourself a break, Clark, you did the best you could - ”

“And those kids are still spending Thanksgiving in the hospital! And the mom was yelling at me about how I wasn’t doing anything, but I didn’t want to move ‘em before paramedics got there, if their necks and spines were busted up, they coulda been paralyzed - It was the worst crash I’ve ever seen, Ma, the car didn’t even look like a car - ”

“You did the right thing! The EMTs said so, right? Baby, you gotta, breathe, okay? Take a deep breath in, hold it, let it out…”

She shouldn't be hearing this. Lois wanted to flee upstairs, but she didn’t want to move and alert the Kents to the fact that she was listening. Clark’s non-eavesdropping policy suddenly made a lot more sense to her; it sucked to hear people’s private conversations. There was a long silence, punctuated by Clark’s stilted, ragged breathing. Then his mom’s voice cut in again, low and soothing.

“Go on upstairs. Wash off, get in bed, and don’t set an alarm. Can you do that for me, baby?”

Lois rolled over so that her back was to the hallway; she heard the heavy tread of Clark’s feet on the floor, the squeak of the wood as he climbed the staircase. A few minutes later, the shower turned on, accompanied by the thrumming of the washing machine running behind the walls. The softer shuffling of Mama Kent’s bare feet on the floor. She didn’t continue upstairs; she paused in the living room and Lois was briefly convinced that she was going to get yelled at, accused of listening in, and reprimanded for intruding on their family’s privacy.

Mama Kent didn’t say anything. There was a light breeze and Lois felt something soft brush her cheek. She covered Lois up with a blanket before she continued making her way back upstairs to bed. 

It took Lois a long time to fall back to sleep; when she woke up again, the sun was shining and Mama Kent was in the kitchen, singing and making breakfast. Like she hadn’t gotten up in the middle of the night to comfort the most powerful being on earth. Like she hadn’t done Superman’s laundry. Like it was a totally ordinary day.

Chapter Text

The old chestnut about animals sensing when a person was in need was true; Clark was showered up and in his PJs when he found himself back in Callie and Otis’s good graces. They were waiting for him on the bed and thoughtfully left about six consecutive inches of mattress at the very edge for him to precariously perch upon. Best boy and girl in the whole world.

Callie shifted over to him when he lay down and ran her tongue over his cheek. Clark kissed the top of her head and wiped his face; she was always extra sweet when he was going through it because she liked the taste of salt so much. 

You knew this would be hard when you decided to put on a cape and fly around the world. You knew there’d be times like this. You need to grow a thicker skin, you bulletproof dumbass. You don’t get to cry when you’re not the one in danger.

Unsurprisingly, negative self-talk didn’t make Clark feel any better; concentrating on Callie snuggled up beside him, burying her little puppy face in the crook of his neck did. Took awhile, but eventually he fell asleep. Per his mom’s instructions, he didn’t set an alarm and it was past eight when he opened his eyes to sunshine dappling the floor beside the windows, dust mites catching and sparkling in the light - and the sound of his parents doing a godawful job keeping their voices down outside his door. 

It was like he told Lois, he didn’t intentionally eavesdrop. Clark just so happened to live a life surrounded by people who were bad at being quiet. 

Based on context clues, Pa was all set to knock on the door to wake him up when Ma intercepted him, giving him a run-down of the accident that rattled him the night before. With additional commentary.

“ - beside himself. Now, what I didn’t say to him because it wouldn’t help, was that I have serious doubts that man’s father of the year when he’s sober,” Ma hissed, voice getting farther away as she and Pa headed downstairs. “And I also didn’t tell him that maybe, just maybe, his wife shoulda taken the goddamn keys off him before they got in the car, rather than yelling at my kid about it after the fact - ” 

“They all make it?” Pa interrupted.

“They did, which has got to be a miracle. Clark said the car was totaled, worst accident he’d ever seen…”

For all Pa’s griping about modern cars being made of tinfoil and zip-ties Clark was grateful for the technological innovations that allowed cars to absorb impact and fold like an accordion around its occupants. That way, while the car might be undriveable after a wreck, the people inside could walk away. That was the case last night - it was what the EMTs told him, anyway. Clark had to believe that was true, since he had no way of knowing.

The lack of follow-up was an aspect of being Superman that Clark never took into account when he was plotting out the cape venture. He hadn’t realized - or realized how much it would bother him - that he wouldn’t be able to check up on the people he helped, reassure himself that they were truly going to be okay.

Some incidents weighed on him more than others. Some folks lingered. Clark knew that car accident, that family would linger for a long time.

I hope the dad gets some help, he thought, rolling onto his back, eyes on the ceiling. 

The dogs left to get their breakfast. Clark stayed in bed, despite the fact that he was wide awake. He needed a little time before he got up to face the day. Not too long, though; he heard Lois’s voice join his parents downstairs and he wanted to get up and hang with her before the company came.

Clark meant to check in with her more yesterday. There were long periods that passed when he didn’t hear her voice within the hubbub and, given all the crap her sister told her, he was worried she might be feeling left out. It was a little too easy for him to fall into comfortable routines, being back home. It wasn’t that he forgot about Lois, but she slotted in so easily within the rest of his friends and family that Clark didn’t think of her as his special guest, but as an essential part of the group. Like she'd always been there and always would be.

He hoped Lois felt that way too. There were times it seemed she did, like when she was drinking in the shed with the dads or laughing at him wrestling with the kids. But then he left and hadn’t gotten to talk to her before she went to bed and now, rather than checking in with her, here he was, still in bed and awash in anxiety.

This is not the time for you to fall apart, Clark silently scolded himself. Lois deserves your attention. You are literally invulnerable. Act like it.

Clark hauled himself out of bed, put on clean clothes, brushed his hair and teeth and went downstairs. Clark found Lois sitting on the couch with a mug of coffee in her hands, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on the TV. 

“Your mom told me to sit here,” Lois said, as though Clark was going to scold her for not working. “She said that watching the parade was one of my required duties for the day, I’m not slacking.”

“Uh, Ma’s absolutely correct, this is a requirement,” Clark agreed, crossing to the couch, with every intention of sitting down and joining her. “The holidays don’t get off on the right foot if someone isn’t sat watching the parade.”

If he was hoping to have a cozy morning on the couch getting in the holiday spirit with Lois, he was sorely mistaken; no sooner did his ass touch one of the cushions than she sat up, thrusting her coffee at him.

“Okay, well, you take this shift, I’m going to shower,” she said, hopping up and heading for the stairs and it was then Clark realized that she was dressed in yesterday’s clothes. 

Had she slept in her clothes? No shade, but it would be very Lois to pack at the last minute, realize she’d forgotten something as crucial for a vacation as pajamas, and preferred to sleep in jeans rather than admit she made a mistake.

Clark glanced down at the coffee; Lois probably intended for him to drink it since it was still hot, but wouldn’t be by the time she came back from the shower. However, in addition to being hot, it was also black, so Clark got off the couch and made his way into the kitchen to add some milk and sugar and make it palatable. 

He almost let go of the coffee when he saw his mom wrestling a twenty-pound bird into the hot oven; the edge of the roasting pan caught the lip of the oven rack and she nearly dropped it. She righted the pan and shoved it into the oven, shooting Clark a smile over her shoulder and giving him a Rosie the Riveter-style arm-flex after she closed the oven door.

“I give you a heart attack there, baby?” Ma asked, eyeing the cup in his hand. Rather than taking it, she poured Clark a fresh mug prepared the way he liked it: equal parts coffee and milk with objectively too much sugar. She set it on the kitchen table and nodded, expecting him to sit.

“Just about,” Clark replied, taking a seat. He sipped his coffee; it was perfect. “I could’ve done that for you -

“I know, I know,” Mama agreed, dismissively, flapping her hands around. “But, honestly, Clark, you don’t have to do everything for everyone - oh, don’t give me that face. You can take the bird out when it’s done, how’s that?”

Her eyes roved over him and Clark attempted a smile, which his mother responded to by frowning. She stood over him, pushed his hair off his face and smoothed her thumbs down on either side of his head, a maneuver she didn’t get to perform often since his glasses were usually in the way. He left them in the living room the night before and hadn’t put them on yet. 

With a nervous jolt, he wondered if that was why Lois left the living room so quickly after he got there - maybe she saw Superman, not Clark. It made sense that she wouldn’t want to watch TV with Superman. She was probably thinking something like, ‘Why would you want to watch giant balloons flying through the street? You’re basically a parade balloon all by yourself!’

His mother’s voice overrode the imaginary Lois scoffing in his brain.

“Did you get enough sleep?” she asked, gazing at him critically. “I know the coffee’s not gonna perk you up.”

“I slept plenty,” Clark insisted, getting up to return to the living room without eating. He wanted to be wearing his glasses when Lois came back down. Ma’s hands fell away from his face when he stood up, but he smiled wanly again and added, “Anyway, I didn’t wanna miss the parade.”

Ma’s mouth quirked slightly to the side. 

“Alright, get to it,” she relented, shooing him out of the kitchen. “Holler when Snoopy gets there.”

Clark settled on the couch, glasses on his face, Otis curled up with his head and paws in his lap, and watched for Snoopy or anyone from the Peanuts gang. The Rockettes were on screen when Lois appeared in the doorway, making his breath catch and heartbeat pick up. 

God, she was gorgeous; apologies to the professional dancers, but the most symmetrical high kicks in the world couldn’t compare to Lois Freaking Lane. Her hair was a little damp from the shower, gently curling around her face. The dress code for Thanksgiving was festive, but casual; Lois was wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a plaid shirt, tied up and slightly cropped. She’d left a few buttons undone and Clark swallowed hard, fighting the urge to reach for her. In the first place, if he shoved his sweet baby boy to the floor, Otis would never forgive him. In the second, Lois lit up when she saw the Rockettes and sat down on the far side of the couch, watching with the biggest most beautiful smile on her face.

“My timing is perfect!” she declared triumphantly. “This is always my favorite part.”

That settled the matter; Lois couldn’t watch her favorite part of the parade if Clark pulled her in for a kiss.

Assuming she wanted a kiss in the first place, which Clark doubted. Lois hadn’t said anything about kissing since the night she spent at his apartment. After the last two days of watching people endanger themselves, loved ones, and strangers while driving under the influence, Clark was more convinced than ever that he really couldn’t trust anything people did or said when they were drunk. Like. At all.

Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t help thinking about the wreck the night before, the man who was responsible for it. How did he feel when he woke up in the hospital, found out he was the reason he was there, that his wife and kids were there? Like the worst person in the world, probably. Like a monster.

At least Clark could console himself that he was right not to push things too far that night at his place, to go along Lois said she wanted. What if she changed her mind come morning?

“I could have been a Rockette,” present-day Lois declared confidently. “If I was a million times more flexible and I had a sense of rhythm? Oh, I’d be in the center of the line, no doubt.”

“Totally,” Clark readily agreed, trying and failing to hide a skeptical smile. “Except I think they put the tallest girl in the middle, so you’d be more over that way - ” 

Before he could gesture vaguely at a place somewhere off to the extreme left (Clark loved Lois dearly, and didn’t doubt she could do almost anything she put her mind to, but destined for the Rockettes she was not), Lois grabbed a couch cushion and walloped him. Direct hit, right to the head. Which would have been completely fine, had she not knocked his glasses off his face…and broke them.

It was like the oven mitt incident. Clark hadn’t expected Lois to go for a headshot, so he didn’t try to protect his face. When he felt the glasses taking flight, he didn’t expect them to go quite so fast or far. Hitting the wall snapped the left arm clean off. Colliding with the edge of the bookshelf cracked the lens.

Clark could see the break before he got off the couch and picked them up, unable to stop the frown he could feel spreading over his face. He really liked that pair. 

Behind him, he heard Lois shifting uncomfortably. A heavy silence descended on the room. 

Clark pinched his lips shut, keeping his back to her. It was just a pair of glasses. They were only two years old, he might be able to buy those exact frames again. He could pay extra for expedited shipping. They would be waiting for him at his apartment in Metropolis by Monday. It wasn’t that big a deal. It was, however, One More Fucking Thing after a solid forty-eight hours of Fucking Things and Clark couldn’t recalibrate as quickly as he wanted to. 

Definitely not quickly enough for Lois, who broke the silence to defensively exclaim, “You just let that happen! Why didn’t you do anything?”

Why aren’t you doing anything, Superman? Why won’t you help us?

Clark’s left hand spasmed, closing convulsively around the frames, squeezing hard. There was a soft popping sound. 

Fuck.

Clark felt the grit in his palm, between his fingers. He hadn’t snapped the frames further, hadn’t popped the lenses out - he reduced the glass to powder, the plastic to tiny shards. Lois may have be responsible for breaking the glasses, but Clark destroyed them.

“Sorry,” Clark muttered, getting out of the room as fast as he could, parade viewing be damned. 

He didn’t look at Lois’s face, didn’t want to imagine her skin, so pretty and pink from the shower, going pale as she was confronted with the damage he was capable of doing, to things, to people right there in front of her. Clark took the stairs two at a time, rushing as fast as he could into the bathroom without breaking into a speed run and freaking her out further. He brushed the detritus from his palms and washed the powdery residue of his hands, face burning hot with the dregs of anger and his rising mortification that he’d lost control like that in front of Lois. Ma and Pa would have shrugged it off, Pete would have laughed, Lana would have seen it as a great opportunity to take to the internet and buy new glasses. Clark couldn’t imagine Lois being anything other than afraid.

Pa was right, Clark concluded grimly, looking at his face in the mirror, the lines of strain around his eyes and mouth. You should have taken the night off and let highway patrol handle it.

Clark retreated back to his room, wishing he hadn’t tossed his old college frames - it wasn’t like they had an old prescription, they were still good. And when got himself together enough to approach Lois, to apologize again, to sincerely offer to make himself scarce so she could still enjoy the holiday. Obviously, if she wanted to leave immediately, if she didn't feel safe with him anymore, he more than understood, he’d hate himself forever, but he’d understand -

There was a knock at the door, which startled him out of his spiral.

“Hi,” Lois said, poking her head around the doorframe. “Can I come in?”

Clark was half-lying on his bed with his feet planted on the floor and he lifted himself up onto his elbows to look at her. She didn’t…huh. She didn’t look scared. She looked sheepish.

“Yeah,” Clark said, swallowing hard as he sat up to fully face her. “Lois, I’m really - ”

“I’m sorry,” Lois spoke over him, shutting the door behind her and stealing his line. “For breaking your glasses and then yelling at you about it. It was a thousand percent my fault. I was just. Um. Being shitty? It’s what I do. I’ll buy you a new pair, right now, let’s do this.” 

She raised her right hand, which contained her cell phone and a credit card.

“You don’t have to,” Clark replied automatically. “It was an accident. You - ”

“Hit a man wearing glasses,” Lois interrupted. “It’s. Like. The ultimate shitty person cliche.” 

“You’re not a shitty person,” Clark sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It was an accident. You didn’t mean to. And it’s like you said, I could have…have done something - ”

His voice broke like he was a teenager and Clark covered his eyes with his hand, letting out a slow exhale. 

Why aren’t you doing anything, Superman?

“I’m not mad at you,” he clarified, because he really wasn’t. If he was still mad, it was only at himself. “I had a rough night. That’s all.”

There was a quiet that stretched on so long, Clark thought Lois must have left and he was so focused on keeping it together that he missed her going. He was therefore a little startled when suddenly she was right there , standing between his knees with her arms around his neck. 

“I don’t know what to say, so I’m not going to say anything,” Lois said into Clark’s ear. “Other than, having a bad night and then me breaking your glasses is like…both insult and injury. I get it. Still mostly my bad, though. This is very hard for me. I like to be right and know the right thing to say, but I don’t and I can admit that. Look at me admitting that. Anyway, I’m being so brave and a real champ right now.”

She patted Clark on the back like she was trying to reassure him. His shoulders shook slightly with the effort it took to hold back giggles. Leave it to Lois Freaking Lane to attempt a supportive silence and wind up spouting off an entire monologue. It was incredibly typical of her and deeply, deeply loveable. 

Clark took a chance and hugged her back, dropping his head onto her shoulder, which was admittedly easier to do when he wasn’t wearing glasses.

“You are so brave,” he said and really, really meant it. Pulling back slightly, Clark tilted his head at Lois and asked, “You wanna…wanna help me pick a new pair?”

That suggestion was greeted with an enthusiastic YES! so, Clark and Lois sat down side by side on his bed, scrolling Zenni and Warby Parker, looking for the right frames. Clark was able to get two - they were running a buy-one-get-one early Black Friday sale and he was his mother’s son, he couldn’t resist a BOGO. One pair was almost identical to his old ones, big, square hipster glasses, perfect for everyday use. The get-one pair were what Clark referred to as Hobbit Chic and what Lois referred to as Unbearably Dorky - round, with tortoise-shell frames and a gold bridge.

“I can have these for special occasions!” Clark gushed with real enthusiasm, pausing before he selected ‘Add to Cart.’ Lois was staring at him with that intense scrutiny that made him nervous. “What? Do you hate them? Like, hate-hate them? Like you won’t be able to look at me without vomiting if I wear them?”

If they were that repulsive to Lois, Clark could reluctantly part with them. There was another pair he liked in green that had a fun hexagon shape, but he worried they’d be too small for his face.

Lois interrupted his thoughts by shaking her head and replying, “I don’t hate them! I wouldn’t be caught dead in them personally, but…you should get them. They work for you.”

She snatched the phone out of his hand and clicked ‘Add to Cart’ herself. Then she insisted on plugging in her credit card information and buying them. Clark allowed it, making a mental note to hide a $50 in her apartment the next time he was there; he could understand the logic in her replacing the old ones, but she shouldn’t pay for the second pair, especially if she wasn’t jazzed about them. 

The dopamine rush of Buying New Things almost made up for the off-kilter sense that he wasn’t fully dressed without his glasses. Like, Clark had already raised a hand to adjust them and poked himself between the eyes twice while they were scrolling his phone. And that wasn’t his biggest concern.

Deciding to be brave and a real champ, Clark stole a side-long glance at Lois and chanced to ask, “Um. Is it…are you weirded out by my naked face?”

There was a lot contained within that question. Are you only seeing Superman right now? Does that bother you? Do I bother you? Did I scare you? Are you scared?

Lois seemed to sense some of the seriousness underlying the awkward phrasing. She  looked up at him, her eyes big and bright and luminous in the mid-morning sun. Then she reached up and Clark let himself be led as she pulled his head down to kiss his nose.

“Nah,” she said, releasing him with a smile. “Remember, I like your big ol’ head.”

Clark let out a sigh of relief and gave her a smile back, extending a hand to help Lois up off the bed. She took it and together they headed down to the kitchen, not a moment too soon. Ma switched her playlist featuring Alanis Morissette, The Runaways, and Fiona Apple, so she was clearly stressed.

“What do you need?” Clark asked, over the sound of Heart’s ‘Barracuda.’  

Mama responded by throwing a packet of chocolate chip mini-muffins at him. Clark caught them and, while he didn’t unhinge his jaw like a snake and devour the entire bag in one enormous mouthful, it was a near thing. If Lois was still taking notes about his ability to deprive himself of sleep, food, and water, she could add to her tally that it took about twelve hours without eating for Clark to descend into a level of crankiness that was frankly unacceptable in a civilized society.

She threw him another package and said, a little testily, “You missed hot breakfast and Snoopy. That’s fine, you’re here now -  Clark. I’m gonna need you to wash and chop the broccoli so it’s ready to go in the oven when the bird comes out. Lois, you’re gonna peel potatoes for the mash. Papa’s out in the yard working, but baby, wherever we’re at in an hour, you drop everything and get your butt outside, okay? I want you out there when your daddy drops the second bird in the oil. Got it?”

Clark winced and squirmed very slightly; with the stress of the day, he almost forgot it was Thanksgiving. While he was trying to get his head in order, and fretting over whether or not Lois liked the frames he picked out, his mom had been working her ass off in the kitchen the entire time.  

“Yes, ma’am,” Clark replied meekly, heading over to the sink to give the broccoli a rinse.

Lois did one better: she saluted, which made Ma crack a smile. 

“Oh, come on now,” she said, rolling her eyes and handing (as opposed to throwing) dish towels to the two of them so they could get started helping. “We’re Quaker, we don’t do all that.”

They prepped the fresh vegetables, and got the rest of the casserole dishes out of the fridge, in anticipation of the first bird coming out of the oven, which would free up the space necessary to get everything roasty toasty together. Clark was standing over the stove, stirring the maple-glazed carrots, bopping along to ‘Not the Doctor,’ when Lois’s phone rang. 

“Is that Lana?” Clark asked as Lois glanced at the caller ID. “Tell her we’re good, she doesn’t need to come over early - ”

“She does if she’s got the sangria ready to go,” Ma interrupted with a grin and a wiggle of her eyebrows, pausing as she ran the potatoes through the ricer so she could put two bottles of white wine into the fridge to chill. 

Lois didn’t reply. A line appeared between her eyebrows when she took the call and voiced a wary, “Hey. What’s up?” 

There was a long, long silence. From Lois, at least, the sound of a man’s voice carried over the phone’s speaker. The words were impossible to make out, but whoever he was, he didn’t sound happy. For a brief moment, Clark had a flash of panic that they’d put their vacation requests in wrong and Perry was calling, wondering where the hell they were - but if so, why just call Lois? Why not Clark too? Hell, if it was someone from the Planet, why not put them on speaker so they could reprimand them both simultaneously, save some time? 

“Okay, I get that,” Lois said tersely, shoulders hitched as she walked out of the kitchen, taking the phone into the living room for more privacy. “I don’t know what you expect me to do - ” 

Although the man’s voice faded they could still hear Lois’s increasingly loud responses and Clark started doubting that the conversation was taking place between Lois and someone he knew; she wouldn’t have left the room if that was the case. 

“Did you actually set a place for me? Because that would be so fucking stupid when I told you I wasn’t coming - ”

Okay, a family member. Her dad? Only, from the little Clark knew about Lois’s military general father, he didn’t think he was the kind of person who would set a place at the table for someone he knew wasn’t joining their family for dinner. It felt inefficient for someone who was supposed to be all about…um. Precision, maybe? Clark honestly didn’t know much about how the armed forces functioned or what all the different ranks meant, the closest he got to educating himself on the U.S. army came from watching the movie White Christmas with Lana every year. When Frankie was a baby he loved when they’d sing 'The Old Man' song to him.

“How is that my problem? How? You guys should have planned for me not coming when I told you - repeatedly - that I was not coming.”

It sounded like Lois had everything in hand and Clark started to focus on the carrots again, turning the heat down so the glaze could thicken, until there was a shift in her voice. A note of wrath and sorrow Clark only heard from her once before, the night she found out the truth about him.

“Are you fucking serious - ”

Clark and his mom started moving toward the living room at the same time. Ma grabbed Clark by the elbow and redirected him to the stove.

“You’re on carrots,” she reminded him succinctly. “Let me take this one.”

Mama squeezed his arm and walked double-quick to the living room. Clark heard her say, “Lois, give me the phone,” in the same firm, soothing way she told him to take a shower and go to bed the night before. From the sound of it, Lois handed the phone over, but she didn’t come back into the kitchen; the sound of the front door slamming told Clark she’d gone out onto the porch.

“This is Martha Kent, who am I talking to?”

Alright, so Clark might have overstated his commitment to not eavesdropping very slightly. While it was true that, unless he was wildly stressed or tired, he didn’t use his abilities to listen in on other people’s conversations, he wasn’t quite as unwaveringly ethical when it came to the everyday human kinds of nosiness. All that to say, while he stirred the carrots to keep them from burning, he leaned his head as far as he could toward the living room to catch his mom’s side of the conversation.

“Well, you made this my business when you called my house to bother one of my guests,” Ma was saying. “Mmm-hmm. Now, I don’t know what all it was you said, but it sure as shit wasn’t ‘Happy Thanksgiving,’ which is about the beginning and end of what you should be calling about today.”

There was a pause when she let whoever was on the line talk, but Mama didn’t let them go on for long. 

“Okay, maybe you could write a letter, get those big feelings sorted out, take up journaling, I don’t know, I honestly don’t care, and I do not have the time right now. We’re fixing to eat in about an hour - ”

Another pause, then:

“Mmm, yeah, David, the time difference is not to blame here and I think we both know that. So, why don’t you just hang up, go concentrate on your family - oh, no. No, I don’t think so. Let me tell you something right now, as a woman whose been married going on thirty years: your wife’ll appreciate a hand in the kitchen or keeping the kids occupied way more than she will you giving her sister a hard time over the phone. It’s not as helpful as you think, bless your heart.”

Clark paused and turned the heat off the carrots, covering the frying pan with a lid; when his mom employed the most devastating phrase in a Southerner’s lexicon, he knew it had to be bad.

“Y’all have a good holiday.”

The name ‘David’ rang a bell - that was Lois’s sister’s useless husband, who was in the Navy and (from Lois’s infrequent accounts) appeared to do absolutely nothing else. Except for taking time out of his holiday morning to harass his sister-in-law. Clark shuffled out of the kitchen, just in time to catch his mom ending the call on Lois’s phone.

“It’s not as satisfying as slamming the receiver down,” she said regretfully. “Poor kid. I’m gonna go check on her, can you head out and see if your dad - fuck’s sake!”

Lois’s phone started insistently buzzing in Mama’s hand. She thrust it at Clark with a noise of frustration. He took the phone and looked at the name flashing across the screen - it wasn’t a name, it was a title: Baby Sis.

Ma headed for the porch and Clark, thinking this might be a terrible idea, answered the call. 

“Hi,” he said cautiously. “This is Lois's friend Clark. I’m. Um. A very real person who does exist.”

“...hi. I’m Lucy, Lois’s sister. Can you…get her? Please.”

Whoa. The two of them sounded exactly the same on the phone, a similarity that was enhanced by the identical note of exasperation Clark detected in their voices. Usually when Lois called him instead of texting it was specifically because she wanted to vent.

“She’s not here,” Clark told her, not willing to hand the phone over, in case David and Lucy decided to work together for the first time in their marriage and form an anti-Lois tag team. Clark would happily tap in for this bout. 

“When is she coming back?”

“Couldn’t say,” Clark replied curtly. 

“Could you…okay, whatever. Could you tell her something for me?”

“Depends on what all it is you want me to say,” Clark said. 

Despite the fact that he shouldn’t have said it out loud, he had the same opinion of Lois’s family now that he expressed in the car yesterday: He didn’t like the way they talked to her. Period. And if Lucy wanted him to say something awful to Lois on her behalf, it wasn’t going to happen. He’d screwed up enough in the past twenty-four hours, when it came to Lois and…everything else. The least he could do was stand up for her now.

“Tell her I didn’t know David was going to call her - I didn’t ask him to call. No one set a place for her, I realize she's not coming, I'm not stupid. I don’t know why he said that, I’m…I’m not happy with him. It wasn’t right for him to interrupt your holiday. Can you tell her that? Does that meet your standard for things I’m allowed to say to my sister?”

Clark frowned and glowered at the phone, which felt more permissible now that he was alone in the room; he kept his hand steady, his grip light. To be completely honest…nope. That didn’t quite meet his standards, which would have, at minimum, included a word that began with ‘s’ and ended with ‘orry.’ But considering how similar Lois and Lucy sounded, Clark wasn’t surprised that her baby sis had difficulties apologizing.

“Okay,” Clark said simply.

“Okay, like you’ll tell her?”

Clark looked out toward the porch; he could see two sets of knees on the porch swing, one set belonging to Lois, the other set wearing grease-stained and worn out jeans.

Ma caught his eye on the way back to the kitchen. 

“Pa’s got her,” she confirmed for Clark. “I texted everyone and told them to give us another hour - except for Lana, she’s coming now, I need a drink. Who’s that?”

“Hello? Hello? Clark? Are you there?”

“WHO IS THAT?” Ma mouthed, pointing to the phone, then she mimed the universal symbol for ‘phone’ beside her head.

“HER SISTER,” Clark mouthed back. He raised the phone back to his ear and spoke aloud, figuring if his mother could indulge in a little passive-aggression on the phone, so could he. It was a birthright thing. “I’m gonna let you go - ”

“Will you tell her I called, at least? Or I can keep calling until she picks up, it’s a free country!”

“Yeah, I’m…not gonna do that,” Clark replied slowly. “You want my opinion - you probably don’t, but I’ll give it to you anyway - I think it’s best if you…leave it, for now. Enjoy your holiday, enjoy your kids. Text Lois tomorrow and you can say what you've got to say when y’all've cooled off some.”

Clark curled and uncurled the fingers of his free hand, feeling the phantom crush of glass in his palm. He, more than most people, understood the importance of cooling off when tempers where up. 

Lucy heaved a sigh that Clark had heard many, many times before and he felt his walls of irritation crumbling slightly; it was difficult to draw a hard line with someone who sounded so much like Lois. 

“Okay. Okay. That’s…probably a good idea. I have a lot of work to do, this is really throwing off my day.”

Then again, she wasn’t Lois and the bite of annoyance in her voice that emerged when she talked about her day being thrown off didn’t do much to endear her to Clark when she was the one who called them.

“Have a good holiday,” Clark offered because, really, what else could he say? Lucy didn’t respond, but she did hang up, which was all he really wanted.

“I know we don’t usually do much for Christmas,” Ma remarked the second Clark put the phone down on the ottoman. “But I’ll decorate a tree, get Papa to do a roast, buy presents, hang lights, the whole nine yards, if Lois has an excuse not to spend another holiday with those people.”

“Sounds good,” Clark muttered, shooting a glare at Lois’s phone, which, thankfully, wasn’t ringing. Hopefully her family would leave her the hell alone and they could still salvage the day. Lois and Pa appeared to be on the porch swing and Clark wondered if he should go out and do something, say something -

“Pa’s got her,” Ma repeated, lifting a hand to rub Clark’s back. “You know him - five more minutes, she’ll be right as rain. You don’t have to handle everything by yourself all the time, baby. You can let other people have a turn - ”

The oven started beeping; the turkey was ready to come out. 

“Want me to handle that?” Clark asked with an ironic smile.

“Yes,” his mother replied, folding her arms. “Only because I already did everything else this morning. Come on, sweet boy, let’s deal with the bird. Here's hoping it’s not all dried out come dinner time.”

Chapter Text

Lois sat on the porch swing, legs drawn up, seething silently. She couldn’t stop David’s accusations from playing on a loop in her head. This was awful for several reasons, primarily because she preferred going through life forgetting that David existed for days at a time. Secondly, because what he said… it hurt. It hurt a lot.

“You’re exactly like your mother.”

If Mama Kent hadn’t grabbed the phone when she did, Lois wouldn’t have a phone anymore. There was no doubt in her mind that she was about two seconds away from throwing the thing against the fucking wall, just like Clark’s glasses. It would have taken more than a clenched fist to pulverize her phone into a pulp, but fuck it if she wasn’t going to give it her best try -

Yeah. Definitely for the best that Mama Kent took over the call. Now, what the hell she thought she was going to say was beyond Lois. Especially if David got in her ear and started telling her all the ways that Lois was a crappy sister, aunt, and daughter. The Kents didn’t know her that well, after all. While Lois didn’t think they’d be so callous as to ban her from Thanksgiving at this point, it sure as hell was going to be awkward if everyone was gathered around the table eating their nasty pineapple and cheese casserole while wondering how they were going to get through the next three days with an independently verified sociopath in their midst.

“How can you do this to your sister? How can you do this to your dad? He opens his home to you, sets a place for you, and you just blow them off!”

“Hey there, Lois.”

Papa Kent was standing over her, work gloves in one hand. There was a streak of grease across his forehead, which spread through the creases in his brow, a concern in his expression that Lois assumed had to do with David telling his wife what a monster she was over the phone. 

“I’m not that bad, I swear to God,” Lois defended herself, voice cracking like a whip. “There was literally no reason for me to assume my family would want me to come to D.C., they haven’t asked me in straight-up years so that’s why I said yes when you guys asked me.”

This was the first time since college that she was able to get a PTO request that fell around a holiday approved. And the Kents asked first!

…and okay, maybe, it was conceivable that she should have let them know she was putting in a PTO request so they had first dibs? But, no, not really! Was she genuinely expected to - all the way back in freaking July - say, ‘Let me just check in with my dad and sister real quick, they haven’t invited me to D.C. for Thanksgiving since I was in college, but maybe this will be my year!’ Why should she have expected that?

If she was a different kind of person, better with people, would she have expected it? Would Clark have expected it?

No, she realized, dread settling around her like a heavy blanket. Because if she was a different kind of person, she would have been invited to take part in her family's plans all along. Her dad would have offered to cover her air fare, or David and Lucy would have invited her as a plus one to David’s family’s house. If she was more like Clark than she was herself, she would have turned down an invitation to go to Thanksgiving with a friend’s family because she would have had standing plans with her own family.

Papa Kent sat with one leg hitched up on the porch rail. He folded his work gloves up and put them in his pocket, rubbing his hands on the thigh of his jeans, talking as he did so, “Honey, I don’t think you’re bad at all. I figured you were here because you wanted to be here.”

“I did!” Lois exclaimed, dropping her feet to the floor of the porch, making the swing sway back and forth, haphazardly. “I do, but David called and he’s saying that I’m re-traumatizing my sister by being here. Because not going to Thanksgiving is exactly the same as walking out of her life forever, apparently.”

Papa Kent let silence settle in around them which, fair, nothing she said made sense unless he was aware of the absolute minefield that was Lane Family Dynamics - unless Clark told him. Which, ugh, fucking duh, of course he did. He was probably one of those deeply sad weirdos who considered his parents his bestest friends and told them everything. Just like that, Lois’s certainty about the security of Clark’s familial connections soured and curdled like milk in her heart. (Jealousy was basically the human body’s version of rennet.)

Like, on the one hand it was theoretically cute that Clark was close with his parents, but on the other hand it was extremely fucking childish of him and probably psychologically unhealthy. It was…it was codependent  of him to spend every weekend and all major holidays at his parents’ house, Lois decided.

Being an adult meant breaking away from the apron strings, right? It meant that it was allowable to get along with your parents, but you shouldn’t need them anymore, for anything. Definitely not cooing over your superhero side hustle, patting your hand and saying, ‘There, there,’ like Clark relied on his mother for last night.

Lois, people help me all the time.

Maybe they shouldn’t. Maybe it was…better, safer, more grown-up, at least, for people to learn to rely on themselves. On that point, Ellen Lane could be looked at as having done Lois a favor: she jumpstarted her on the path to adulthood a little earlier than most people. Well, her and Lucy, but only Lois remained chugging along on the independence train, Lucy hopped off when she got married. 

You think you’re a Real Adult with your mortgage and your marriage and your kids? Lois thought bitterly. You didn’t even have the brass ovaries to call me yourself to bitch me out, you made your husband do it. Real fucking mature, Luce.

Lucy hadn’t grown up, she sacrificed self-reliance for a safety net and spent every minute of every day patching up holes. Instead of saying, ‘Oh my God, yeah Clark, I’d love to go with you to Smallville and play Leave It to Fucking Beaver with your mom and dad and the extended Cleaver brigade!’ she should have said, ‘Clark, you’re on the wrong side of twenty-five to be sleeping in your childhood bedroom and eating food your mommy and daddy made for you. Let’s be mature about the holidays and eat take-out in our separate apartments on Thanksgiving because living an independent life is what it means to be an adult.’ It would have been a big favor for both of them.

Lois was backsliding here. Regressing into the kind of person she didn’t want to be, dependent and vulnerable. It was insane that Superman chose to live this way. The man who could do anything, choosing to rely on other people? Fucking certifiable.

The swing swayed slightly as Papa Kent sat down in the vacant place beside her. Since he was slender there was still plenty of room for them to sit side by side without touching. He sat on the edge of the seat, like he was ready to get up at the first sign she didn’t want him there. It was very Clark-coded, which had the effect of being extremely comforting, regardless of whether or not Lois wanted comfort at the moment.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asked, his voice soothing and gentle in a way that made her want to spill her guts, but Lois held herself back because, really, what would be the point?

“No, I’m…” Lois tightened her grip on her forearms; it wasn’t cold, but it was a little too chilly to be outside clad only in a crop top. It was new and the purchase was partially motivated by the hope that Clark would think she looked hot. A hope that was currently dashed because there was nothing attractive about bringing Lane family drama into his parents’ house. “Talking isn’t going to change anything. I’m here. Not there. Everyone’s mad at me - story of my life. The end.”

“No one here’s mad at you,” Papa Kent said simply. “We’re happy to have you around. That’s just facts.”

He smiled like he meant it. Like there was nothing more in the world he’d rather be doing than sitting in front of his house, waiting for his son’s work friend to confide in him about her personal problems. It was diabolical. Lois could feel her resolve crumbling by the second.

“Who’s David?” Papa Kent asked, like he truly didn’t know. “He your brother?”

“Brother-in-law,” Lois clarified, but it felt like adding 'in-law' still felt like she was describing a closer relationship than the one she and David had, where they almost never interacted. Genuinely, the number of words he barked at her on the phone had to be more than he'd spoken to her in the last five years. “He’s my sister’s husband. He called to yell at me for ditching them. Clark probably told you, my mom left when we were kids and I guess me not spending Thanksgiving with them is the same and I’m re-traumatizing her.”

“Clark didn’t tell me that, no,” Papa Kent said, casting some doubt on Lois’s Unhealthy Codependency Theory of Kent Togetherness. He cocked his head at Lois and regarded her frankly, “You know all that’s bull, right?”

Yes, she did! But…also no, not really? Like, she didn’t doubt Lucy was having a freak-out, she did doubt that the emotional impact of Lois missing a random family holiday was the trauma twin to Ellen Lane’s Great Escape. She still felt like shit either way, so…did it actually matter whether Lois was wise to her family’s bullshit or not? 

“Whatever,” Lois replied, eyes on wooden slats on the floor of the porch. One of them was water-damaged and loose, with peeling paint. It bounced slightly when Lois pressed against it with her toes. “Bullshit or not, it doesn’t make anyone less mad at me.”

Papa Kent went quiet for a while. He rocked back and forth on his heels, making the swing sway gently.

“You usually spend the holidays with your folks?” he asked, finally. 

Without looking up, Lois shook her head silently, not sure where he was going with the question. Maybe he was trying to gauge for himself where she fell on the Terrible Person Scale, between one and ten. 

“They ever call you up and give you a hard time about it before now?”

Again, she shook her head. It was 50/50s whether or not she’d get a Seasons Greetings-style text on federal holidays from her family. Not that she held it against them - she forgot to text them holly jolly well-wishes too. She didn’t think they were That Kind of family, but apparently she’d been misreading things all these years -

“Hmm.”

It wasn’t much. A little hum that might not have anything to do with her - Papa Kent was settling into the swing, it might have just been a Random Old Man Noise - but something about the disapproval baked into the sound, gave Lois pause. 

It was...a little weird that the only time anyone in her family gave her grief about how she was spending a holiday was when she had real plans. And yeah, one could make the argument that Lucy was hurt and it was really, really important that Lois know exactly how badly she’d fucked up with regard to managing her sister’s feelings when it was way to late for her to do anything about it…but honestly? That would be kind of a shitty argument. 

“I don’t know if you know this,” Papa Kent said, leaning back against the swing, hands behind his head, looking off at the sky. “My mom wasn’t around much when I was a kid. She moved out when I was four. Haven’t seen her in person since I was eight. Haven’t heard from her since I was sixteen.”

Lois did know that; not the specifics, but Lana told her over the summer that Papa Kent’s mother remarried after his dad died, to a man who didn’t want anything to do with Papa Kent - neither a stepdad nor a dad who stepped up. 

“That’s a deep kind of hurt,” Papa Kent continued. “I know because I’ve been through it. I’m gonna say it again, just so I know you heard me: what your brother-in-law said to you was bullshit, Lois. It was nasty. And it’s not true.”

He stretched an arm out along the back of the swing, still not touching her, but the invitation to lean in was clearly there. The action was so much like something Clark would do for her - had done for her - that, while Lois wasn't 100% convinced by what Papa Kent said, she couldn’t bring herself to argue with him. 

“There’s a kinda...mind trap it's easy to fall into,” he said carefully. “Thinking that the things people say to us that sting the worst have the most truth in ‘em. But just ‘cause it hurts, don’t mean it’s true.”

Shades of Clark again: the truth didn’t always have to hurt. Sometimes honesty could be kind. Lois wasn’t sure she believed them, the Kent men, but what she couldn’t deny was that listening to them made her feel better.

“Do you guys, like, write this stuff down?” Lois asked Papa Kent, smiling weakly. “The nice stuff you say, is it all off the cuff? Or do you have a little notebook you carry around for when inspiration strikes?”

Papa Kent flashed her a smile and stood up. He removed his gloves and turned out his pockets: empty.

“No notebook,” he replied with a shrug. “Can’t vouch for Chicken, though, him being the writer in the family. Well, hey there, now - you can ask him yourself.”

The screen door opened and Clark poked his head out onto the porch.

“Ask me what?” he inquired, looking between his father and Lois curiously. 

Clark asked her if it bothered her, looking at his naked face. Lois understated things, a little: she didn’t just like his big ol’ head, she loved it. Without his glasses, his eyes looked even bigger and bluer than usual. Right now they were the exact same color as the clear, late-autumn sky overhead. If Lois stared into them long enough, she wondered if she’d see fluffy white clouds roll through his irises. 

“I’ll leave that up to Lois,” Papa Kent said, gesturing for Clark to move aside so he could get into the house. “I’m gonna clean up, let you know when it's time to drop the turkey in the oil - say, half an hour?"

“Sounds good,” Clark confirmed. Papa Kent patted him on the arm and gave him and  Lois a smile before he went inside, leaving the two of them alone on the porch. Clark’s brow furrowed and he started shrugging out of his flannel shirt asking, “You cold?”

Lois glowered up at him. “Is that another one of your super-senses?”

“Nope, you get the most intense goosebumps I’ve ever seen,” Clark informed her, wrapping her up in his shirt, draping it around her shoulders like a cape. 

It was the same shirt Lois borrowed/stole from him in October. The flannel was warm from the heat of the kitchen and Clark’s own body. He sat down next to her on the swing, leaving no space between their bodies; he couldn’t. It was a much tighter fit for the two of them than it was for Lois and his dad. This time, when Clark was the one who stretched his arm around the back of the swing, Lois leaned against him and he curled his arm around her, tucking her close.

“Ma wants you to know you’re invited for Christmas,” Clark informed her, with one of his smiles that looked like his dad’s - big and genuine, the skin around his eyes wrinkling up. “No pressure, but she said we’d decorate a tree if you came - that’d be a big first for us! I have to head to the Rosses to get my tree fix every year.”

It was probably another Quaker thing, but Lois still found the fact that Clark Kent, Actual Disney Princess, was raised in a household utterly devoid of The Magic of Christmas™ to be totally incomprehensible. 

“Oh my God,” Lois laughed involuntarily. “No Santa Claus, no Christmas tree - what was your childhood, the Little Orphan Clarkie Radio Hour?”

Lois was totally unprepared for the impact of that statement on Clark. The whole swing rattled as he did a full-body shudder and the poor guy looked like he was going to throw up. Lois could swear, she saw him literally go green. 

“Little known fact about me,” Clark said, once he was recovered. “I. Hate. Being called ‘Clarkie.’ Like. Absolutely loathe it. I had a preschool teacher who thought I needed a cutesy little nickname, but the first time she said it, I stood my ground and told her my name was Clark. I spelled it for her, in case she was confused.”

The image of a wee!Clark glaring up at some sweet old lady, spelling his name for her like she was an idiot, was the cutest fucking thing Lois’s brain had conjured up all day and a nice contrast to the recent slurry of criticism and catastrophizing.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Clark’s shirt slipped off Lois’s shoulder as she turned to more fully face him and held up a hand to cut him off. “You can’t deal with Clarkie, but you let people call you Chicken? Make it make sense, dude! Make it make sense.”

“Uh, ‘Chicken’ is a quirky term of endearment, which evolved organically,” Clark explained, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The Forbidden Nickname is condescending AF and makes me want to stick a fork in my eye every time I hear it.”

“I mean, that would go worse for the fork than it would for you,” Lois pointed out, taking a chance and teasing him.

“Well, sure,” Clark agreed, easily. “Only, today’s Thanksgiving and we need as much intact cutlery as we can get.” 

Clark gave her another big smile and she thought he looked relieved; a similar kind of relief that she saw on his face when she followed him upstairs after he extra-broke his glasses. It was a little…intense, to watch them basically vanish when he crushed them, but where Lois was startled, Clark looked totally mortified. He apologized to her, never mind the fact that she was the one who fucked his glasses up in the first place. It took her a second to understand why he was apologizing; not for breaking the glasses, but for reminding her that he was effortlessly, inhumanly strong. 

Lois hadn’t given him a real answer when he asked if she was bothered by him refreezing the Ben & Jerry’s. Maybe he thought that silence was the same as an out-and-out ‘no,’ from her. Joking about Clark busting forks on his eyeballs was kind of a gross way of establishing that she wasn’t scared of what he could do, but she hoped it was effective.

“I guess I can accept that,” Lois sighed dramatically. “I’m probably on your mom’s shit list for taking off during potato duty - ”

“Nope,” Clark interrupted her, pausing to pull his flannel back up over her shoulder - she thought she caught his eyes lingering on her chest, but reflected that it might not be because he thought her shirt looked hot. He might have been looking for goosebumps. “That woman wants to break a thirty-year streak of treeless Christmases for you, you’re her favorite.”

It was on the tip of Lois’s tongue to argue that of course she wasn’t. That she couldn’t be her favorite if Mama Kent got an earful of what David had to say about her. Because he definitely shit-talked her and she definitely believed him.  

Just ‘cause it hurts, don’t mean it’s true.

“Oh, dang, spoke too soon,” Clark said, glancing over his shoulder down the driveway. A second later, Lois saw Lana striding toward them, dragging a cooler along behind her. “You’re about to be unseated, Lana’s bringing sangria, so she’ll take the number one spot. It’s okay, though, you’re still my favorite.”

Clark got up to meet Lana halfway, presumably to take the cooler. That gave Lois a few seconds to get herself together. To get at the truth of the day.

Fact: Her entire family was mad at her.

Fact: The family that was hosting her with was not.

Lois could spend the rest of the weekend feeling miserable, alternating between anger and guilt about what David said to her over the phone, pondering the weight of his words, wondering how much she was really like her mom. Or she could…just…not.

She could drink Lana’s sangria. She could eat the casseroles with their questionable combinations of ingredients. She could watch boring home movies while on the cusp of a tryptophan coma and pretend that she belonged there. It might not be true and it might be extremely childish and codependent, all that...

But it also sounded…nice. Really, really nice.  

Lana came bounding up the porch steps, leaving Clark to follow in her wake with the sangria cooler tucked under one arm. She jumped up onto the swing and would have sent both herself and Lois toppling to the ground, had Clark not run over (just a little faster than should be possible) to grab the swing and keep it steady. 

Lana barely noticed; she seized Lois and hugged the stuffing out of her.

“This is going to be the best day!” she declared, eyes sparkling, cheeks very red - which might have been from the walk to the Kents’ house or a result of her taste-testing the sangria to make sure it was just right. 

“Hell yeah!” Lois enthusiastically agreed, hugging Lana back. Lois looked up at Clark and found him grinning down at her, like he agreed with her - despite his bad night, the broken glasses, and David’s phone call. 

It didn’t hurt. And, as the day shook out, it felt like it might be fairly close to the truth.

Because the weather was pretty nice, the Kents decided they could set up folding tables for an al fresco Thanksgiving, Charlie Brown-style. Mama Kent got the fire pit going to keep the chill out of the air and Lana’s cooler was packed full of beer and wine, in addition to the sangria which was sweet, but delicious. It was also extremely powerful; Lois was only part-way through her first glass before the world started to go pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. That was when she was able to pivot from simply not being miserable to actively having fun.

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!” 

PeteRoss and his dad showed up early for turkey frying purposes. It was really funny to see Mr. Ross and Papa Kent hook the turkey up to their ladder rig and lower it into the pot of oil with all the glee of kids setting off firecrackers in the driveway.

“No!” Clark insisted. “No fire! Only safety!”

“FIRE!” Pete shouted, putting one arm around Clark’s shoulder while he used his free hand to play a song on his phone, which Lois vaguely recognized as a wrestling thing.

“BURN IT DOWN!”

Even Clark (who was involved solely due to his usefulness as a fire extinguisher), couldn’t stop himself from singing along as the dads lowered the turkey into the pot of hot fryer oil where…

…absolutely nothing bad happened. The turkey bubbled away and continued to do so for about an hour. In the absence of an actual emergency, everyone refreshed their glasses of sangria and started setting up for dinner as the rest of the Ross and Lang families arrived. 

There was no kids’ table, everyone just grabbed a plate, loaded it up with food, and found a place to sit. Lois got a great spot between Clark and Lana, across from Pete’s sister Quinn - who, in turned out, settled on being vegetarian, not vegan, rendering the mad dash for coconut milk the day before totally moot. 

The craziest part? No one said anything. There was no complaining or scolding Quinn for disrupting the cooking process or making Clark go out of his way for her. The only one who made anything of it was Missy, who scooped two heaping helpings of Snickers salad onto her plate - sandwiched between her turkey and her mashed potatoes - to make sure she got just as much as she wanted. 

Lois had actually sampled Snickers salad before, when Clark brought it to a work potluck once, shortly after her was hired. Lois opted to be a huge bitch about it, making snide comments about how it looked like cat litter and was, by no definition, a salad. Because Clark was a fucking nerd he pulled up the Merriam-Webster definition of the word ‘salad,’ which - much to Lois’s extreme annoyance at the time - stretched to include chopped up foodstuffs, mixed together in some kind of dressing or gelatin. Out of morbid curiosity, she tried it and was forced to admit it was pretty tasty, but only as a dessert. Lois wasn’t such a convert that she was going to eat bites of it as a palate cleanser between chowing down on turkey and green beans. 

Lois’s plate was firmly savory and entirely delicious. She tried both the traditional turkey and deep-friend turkey (both amazing in different ways), sampled the funeral potatoes (cheesy bliss!), and was deeply impressed with herself for successfully combining canned goods into a tasty green bean casserole.  

Mama Kent alone didn’t sit down with everyone else, but that was because she was taking a video log of the proceedings, which included turning the camera on Lois when she had a mouthful of mashed potatoes, which was no doubt an extremely flattering image and not at all embarrassing. 

“And we got Lois this year!” Mama Kent crowed, like ‘getting’ her was some kind of crowning achievement and not at all the result of Lois assuming she wouldn’t have alternative plans and in so doing smashing a wrecking ball straight through her actual family’s Thanksgiving.

Luckily, the sangria was still doing its thing and so rather than grimace, Lois swallowed her potatoes and grinned a big, cheesy grin up at the camera, complete with a wave. Lana flung an arm around her shoulders and kissed the side of her head.

Mama Kent insisted that they hold that pose so she could get a picture. She also urged Clark to hunker down and get in the frame with them, since his first impulse was to try to lean away from the shot. His arms were so long he was able to side-hug Lois and Lana (at least partially) and according to his mom (so, not a biased source at all) they were all, ‘The cutest things!’

Lois turned to Clark and gazed up at him doubtfully once Mama Kent moved on to make the next memory. 

“Don’t tell me,” she said with a smirk. “I’ve got gravy on my nose or something?”

“Well, now, you know I’m not wearing my glasses,” Clark pointed out, looking Lois over with an exaggerated squint. He did that thing he liked to do where he traced his fingers from her forehead over the curve of her cheek. He very gently turned her head this way and that, then sighed a happy little sighed. “No gravy. You’re perfect.”

Lois felt her face go hot and she stood up from her folding chair to pop into the house and get a glass of water - clearly the sangria was working a little too well. 

The Kents had hosting down to a science - once dinner was over, everyone marched into the house to divvy up the responsibilities of putting together to-go containers for guests, wrapping up the remaining leftovers, and washing the dinner dishes, glasses, and cutlery so they’d be ready for Round Two: Pies and Jello Salads, in an hour or two. The post-dinner breaktime was the traditional period in which home movies were watched.

Missy and Cassie complained; apparently they did not appear on the particular DVD that Lana was inserting into the player, but their objections fell on deaf ears; this particular compilation of clips was a favorite among the over-21s for its usefulness as a drinking game.

“Something happened when my dad was burning it to the disc, so there’s these random flashes from other video files that were on the old computer,” Clark explained to Lois from his spot on the floor. “Like, you know how in Fight Club there’s those inserted clips on Brad Pitt from time to time? It’s like that only with me, like, eating my own hand and stuff.”

“It’s basically an art piece,” Pete called out - he was on the periphery of the room, sitting on a kitchen chair he dragged in, since space was at a premium. 

“Take a drink every time there’s a Baby Clark Jumpscare!” Lana advised Lois.

The two of them were squished together one one cushion and very cozy, but Lois still thought they were better off than Clark, who had Frankie and Maisie sitting directly in his lap while Missy and Cassie were propped up on either side of him, blatantly napping since there was nothing for them to look forward to in the home movies, not being featured characters.

There wasn’t much for Lois to look forward to either. It wasn’t too often in her life that she had been subjected to other people’s home movies (or her own family’s, to be fair) and she wasn’t exactly looking forward to the experience with unbridled enthusiasm - oh, hey, speaking of bridles, the DVD opened on horse footage. 

The camera was zoomed on the snout of a brown horse (named ‘Tilney,’ according to the comments of the people in the room). The camera pulled back to reveal Child Clark getting the horse all outfitted to go riding, with a saddle and…um. Other stuff that was necessary for the riding of horses that Lois didn’t know the names for. Clark looked a little older than he appeared in the fishing photograph, maybe eleven or twelve. He looked up and waved at the cameraperson, who turned out to be his mom. 

“We jumping today, baby?” The voice of Past Mama Kent inquired.

“We’ll see!” Past Clark replied brightly in his squeaky little kid voice, patting Tilney on the side of the neck. “What’d you think buddy, you got it in you?”

“God, that horse loved you,” Pete reminisced as the video changed to show three kids on horseback. It was a little hard to tell at the distance and under their helmets, but Lois was pretty sure Pete and Lana were the other two. 

“Shots!” Lana interrupted as the image flickered to an image of a teeny-tiny dark-haired, blue-eyed baby in a swing absolutely going to town chomping on his chonky little hands. After a few seconds, the video returned to kids on horses.

“He still does!” Clark said, craning his neck to look over at Pete, without disturbing the pile of children who were using him as a bean bag. “Every time I go over to the Kearnses, I stop by the stalls to say hey. And give him food that's not on his Old Man Diet - don’t tell Kelsey.”

“Oh, okay, bribery,” Lana nudged Clark in the shoulder with her toe, snorting into her wineglass. “That’s how you did it - I could never get that horse to do anything I wanted, Knightley was my forever fave, RIP.”

“Tilney was just a nervous little guy,” Clark remarked fondly. “And I was a nervous little guy so we were two peas in a pod.”

Lois’s eyes were glued to Past Clark on the screen - it appeared that Tilney did have it in him to jump because Clark and the horse cleared a small white fence-looking thing. It was very impressive to Lois’s eyes, but no one else in the living room seemed that into it. Lana even apologized for how boring she thought this section must be.

“Sorry, the baby stuff is coming, that’s way cuter - and I get a shout out - oh, my God,” she glanced away from the TV with a wince. “Don’t look at that, jumping was never my thing, catch me on a chill trail ride any day - oh, hey! There’s an idea! Do we want to book a ride this weekend or is it too short-notice?”

“You could text Evan, but I’d give it a day,” Clark said, leaning his head back to address Lana directly. “Him and his dad had a whole situation last night - one of the boarders showed up round about midnight wanting to ride, they had to call the sheriff to get him off the property. I saw the lights and texted to ask what was up.”

“Midnight?” Mr. Ross asked, raising his eyebrows. “They drunk or something?”

“Or something,” Clark confirmed, rolling his eyes. “There's always some...bullstuff going on with the boarders.”

This led to a sidebar where everyone lamented the difficulties of (what sounded to Lois’s outside perspective) like running a horse hotel. Lois tuned them out to lean down and murmur to Clark.

“So…what are the chances of you going full-on cowboy this weekend?” she asked slyly. 

“Ha,” Clark smiled at her and shook his head. “Slim and none. I haven’t been riding much since I was in high school, there’s. Um. Limits for safe riding, we’ll put it that way. Like. For the horse’s sake.”

“He’s too big,” Frankie told Lois succinctly. “He could hurt the horses, Uncle Chicken weighs, like, a million pounds before tack!”

“Thanks, Frank,” Clark muttered, ears going a little red. Then he cleared his throat and semi-shrugged, trying not to dislodge the girls. “The ASPCA might have words for me, we can leave it at that.”

“You could always just…” Pete trailed off, then held his hands out, stacked on top of each other with an inch between his palms, indicating hovering. “‘Til they get a Percheron with the right build, at least.”

Clark snorted, “Yeah, no thanks, it’s not the same. It’s cool, I’m happy to just visit - oh, okay! Lois if you want to understand me and Pete’s dynamic, here it is in its purest form.”

The horseback riding footage cut out, replaced by a scene of a summer afternoon barbecue. The camera panned over a giant pile of dirt - the Kearns family pool in-progress. Lois wasn’t looking at the TV for Past Clark, though. Present Clark had her attention for now.

She’d have to be a total idiot to miss the wistfulness in his voice, the fact that Clark wanted to get off the subject of horseback riding asap. The embarrassment that flickered across his face when Frankie said he might hurt the horses. The video evidence showed that he liked it, Lois assumed that he was good at it, it probably wasn’t safe to jump over things on a horse if you weren’t good at it. 

An uneasy sense that she missed something slithered in her guts like a snake (to be fair, that might have also been the pineapple casserole, which she tried and did not enjoy). Back over the summer when Clark avoided riding the rinky-dink carnival attractions, Lois chalked that up to him finding ordinary thrills like that beyond mundane compared to his super skillset.

Maybe she was right! It could be that if Clark’s height and weight were well within the safety specs, he might still prefer to keep both feet on the ground, unless he was launching into the upper atmosphere under his own power. But something about the sad little note in his voice when he said, ‘It’s not the same,’ made her think otherwise. It never occurred to her until now that, because of the Superman of it all, there were things Clark couldn’t do.

Lois was distracted from her musings by a collective coo from the adults in the room. Up on the screen, Papas Kent and Ross were kneeling on a picnic blanket, each holding a…baby. Lois couldn’t even begin to guess how old they were, somewhere between zero and two? But context clues made it pretty easy to guess that they were each holding their own sons, since one of the babies had so much dark hair it looked like it was wearing a wig and the other one was totally bald.

“Shhhh!” Lana hushed the room. “My shout-out!”

There were off-camera voices from people Lois couldn’t see, though she thought they sounded like a combination of the Moms, Mrs. Ross, Mama Kent, and Aunt Ruth. 

“Did Candace have the baby, do we know?”

“She did, a little girl, they named her Lana Ruth. I guess I should be flattered.”

“That’s nice. Is she…okay?”

“Had to stay at the hospital for a few extra days since she come early. She’s no bigger than a minute and jaundiced, but the doctor said she’s all good for now. We’ll see how things go. I’ve been been dropping by with food and…well. Last time, Candy was passed out on the sofa, Jim’s nowhere, baby’s in the crib, hasn’t been looked at in Lord knows how long, so I stayed ‘til she woke up - ” 

“Well, you know we’re here if you need any help! We’re happy to take her if they…need a break. We’ve got all the baby stuff already!”

“Us too! Clark was just telling me the other day, he wanted a little sister, weren’t you, baby?”

Present Day Mama Kent leaned across the sectional and gave Lana’s knee a pat, “See how we were all champing at the bit to take you? We all wanted you, we loved you before we ever met you!”

“Well, of course,” Lana grinned, grabbing Mama Kent’s hand and squeezing it. “I was new, I was chill, unlike those two drama queens!”

At the sound of his name, Past Clark looked toward the camera, giving Past Mama Kent a big smile. He had two tiny teeth at the bottom of his mouth and was slobbering a drool trail on the blanket that Lois could distinctly make out even through the cruddy twenty-five year old video footage. Gross.

“Everybody watching?” Past Papa Kent asked, looking up at the camera.

“This is gonna be it, I can feel it!” Past Mr. Ross insisted. “Don’t let me down, boys! Count us down, Maur!"

A little girl who looked like a slightly older, much blonder version of Maisie ran on camera and shouted, "Three, two, one - crawl!”

Baby Pete and Baby Clark gave it their best effort when their dads let them go. They got absolutely nowhere, but they tried! Baby Clark got up on his hands and knees, rocking back and forth like he was going to launch himself forward, but somehow never did. Pete managed to get some momentum going, but it was backward momentum - he got further and further away from Clark every time he tried to move forward. A look of frustration overcame his squishy baby face, which screwed up as he started howling. Baby Clark gave a jolt at the sudden noise, then he started crying along in solidarity, his little ol’ head sinking down onto the blanket as Baby Pete reached for him with one chubby hand. 

In the past and in the present, the adults in the room laughed.

“It’s giving…I’ll never let go, Jack,” Lana observed, not inaccurately.

“And they’ve been like that ever since,” Quinn confirmed grimly. “It’s like the inverse of the Male Loneliness Epidemic. I think you two could both be more lonely, it’s probably healthier.”

Pete reached for Clark across the room, letting out a keening noise. Clark looked at him despairingly, taking in Cassidy conked out on his right arm and Missy sleeping on his left.

“I’m trapped!” Clark cried out, with all the conviction of a man frozen in place by the weight of a sleeping cat.

“Nooo!” Pete howled. 

The noise roused the sleeping kids and signaled that it was time for the deserts to be served. Everyone got up to head into the kitchen for Eating Round 2 and abandoned the living room. Everyone except for Lois. No one turned off the TV and she found herself strangely fascinated by Past Clark. 

The images flickering up on screen were the most recent yet: high school-age Lana and Clark, from around the time the picture of the two of them at the go-cart track was taken. They were presenting the story of Wuthering Heights as acted out by Fisher-Price Little People. It appeared to be for a class project and concluded with them singing the Kate Bush song in the most eye-watering falsettos Lois had ever heard, complete with arm flourishes.

“HEATHCLIFF! IT’S ME CATHY, I’VE COME HOME!”

It was cute. It was funny. It was also pretty cringe, which was probably why Present day Clark rushed back into the room to grab the remote and mute the TV.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry, that is literally torture,” he apologized, standing over Lois, with an chagrined expression. “We’re not hazing you, I promise, even if that’s what it feels like.” 

The video glitched again and this time it was footage of Baby Clark lying on a bed in a onesie, holding his feet and rolling back and forth. Papa Kent was crouched next to him, leaning down to kiss his cheeks every time Clark rolled toward him. It was hard to tell, since the sound was muted, but he looked like he was laughing. 

If Lois hadn’t seen what he could do, if Clark hadn’t told her the full truth of how he came into his parents’ lives, she would never have believed it. Looking at the old home movies, of Clark looking so freaking normal, she could never have imagined where he’d come from or how he’d turn out. He really had been just like any other kid.

“Ready for pie?” Present Clark asked. “No worries if not! If you’re tired no one’ll hold it against you if you wanna go upstairs and have a nap or…are you okay?”

Are you okay? was on the tip of Lois’s tongue. Seeing the videos of Little Clark brought home just how much everything he’d been through was. What he could do, what he looked like. Lois understood that he gained incredible power when he was a teenager, but she hadn’t understood until today that he lost things too. Maybe it was the lack of glasses; it brought Present Clark and Past Clark closer together.

“Do you want your phone back?” Clark guessed when she didn't immediately reply. “We weren’t hiding it, it was low on battery, it’s charging in my mom’s office - ”

“I’m okay, it can keep charging,” Lois said dismissively. She told herself (and, most importantly, Lana) that today would be fun and listening to a slew of weepy voicemails from Lucy was the opposite of fun. She took Clark’s hand and let him pull her to her feet. “I’m ready for pie!”

Lois sneaked an arm around Clark’s waist, pressing herself up against his side, arguably because they were going back out into the cold, but mostly because she wanted to give him a hug. He smiled down at her and draped an arm over her shoulders, thumb tracing a path idly up her left arm. Not quite as nice as the sensation of his hands on her face, but she’d take it. 

“I promise when we come back in we’ll watch a movie or something,” Clark said as they made their way back outside. “A big ol' professional studio movie and not one that was filmed in my bedroom. Lana likes a Christmas classic with her dessert, like Miracle on 34th Street or White Christmas, but you’re the guest of honor so you get to pick.”

It was kind of funny, but watching the home movies, getting a glimpse of the past while sitting with everyone in the present made Lois feel less like a guest than she had before.

“Oh, no, let's stick to tradition, I'm down for a Christmas classic,” Lois reassured him. “Question: do you remember what grade you got for your Kate Bush karaoke?”

“Pssh, of course, I do! As all around, girlie! Ms. Dixon freaking loved us - I don’t think that’ll be much help to Cassie next semester, but you never know, she could name drop me or Lana, see where it gets her…”

Chapter Text

“Are you good?” Lana muttered to Clark as they set out the last of the pies - pistachio cream and apple crumble. “You’ve been weirdly twitchy all day.”

Clark could argue that anyone would be twitchy after listening to the two of them belt their fifteen-year-old lungs out to Kate Bush, but if he was honest, it was more than that. He was trying to ensure that Lois had The Best Day Ever without being obnoxious about it. 

It wasn’t cute or comfortable, this slow-burn of anger that had been smoldering in the back of his mind since Lois left the kitchen to take her brother-in-law’s call. All day Clark had been simultaneously trying to quell the stabs of irritation that rose whenever he caught Lois appearing anything less than delighted with her surroundings, while not letting on that he wasn’t feeling like his most festive self. It was frankly exhausting and, while he was doing okay with the former, clearly he was sucking at the latter.

Not that Clark could tell any of this to Lana, neither the internal struggle, nor its source. He knew that girl and he was convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he mentioned anything about the phone calls, she’d book herself a flight to D.C. that night, armed with print-outs of the wedding photo from Facebook, demanding to know where she might find General Lane and…Captain (probably not Captain) um. Not!Captain David? Clark didn’t know Lois’s brother-in-law’s last name. He should since Lucy definitely used it on her Facebook profile, but he hadn’t been looking at her About Me info when Lana texted him the screenshots, he’d mostly concentrated on Lois. 

Who seemed fine, for what it was worth. She’d looked more delighted than not all day, though he caught her frowning watching the home movies, he started to worry. Clark couldn’t fault her for the change in expression; no doubt she was bored out of her mind. And it was probably extremely jarring for her to see Clark’s Before and After images laid out so starkly before her. Like he was a contestant on an extremely upsetting reality show. 

There was no elegant way to throw himself in front of the TV with a forced smile and would-be-careless chuckle, communicating, ‘Ha! Yep, I used to be regular, I'm not anymore, let’s all move on! Please, for the love of God, pay no attention to the alternate version of me you see before you! ANYWAY WHO WANTS PIE?’

“I’m good,” Clark replied to Lana, tamping down all the negativity swirling around in his noggin in what was probably an extremely healthy and mindful way. “I just…I want to make sure Lois has a good time.”

Lana snorted and dabbed a dollop of Cool Whip on the tip of his nose, “Of course she will! She is! She’s with us and not her terrible family, dumb-dumb! Also, I keep meaning to ask: where are your glasses?”

Clark and Lana held back from the initial dessert table rush as he gave her a truncated explanation (after swiping and eating the Cool Whip dollop, of course). Lana was momentarily put-out that he purchased such a major component of his personal style without consulting her, but she perked up when she saw the frames he’d chosen (‘Oh, I love! Who is she? Bilbo Baggins whomst?’) and favored him with a sly smile when Clark mentioned that Lois was his companion on his purchasing journey.

“I totally get it,” she remarked teasingly as they loaded up their plates with dessert. “I mean, Lois is the one who has to look at you all day - and all night, if you’re a lucky stud-muffin. She should get a say in how you decorate your face.” 

“More muffin, less stud,” Clark muttered before taking a bite of pumpkin pie - the vegan option which, alone among the dessert line up, was totally untouched. It was pretty good and therefore worth zipping around the county on a mission to find coconut milk.

Since he was chewing and his mama raised him right, Clark couldn’t respond to Lana’s optimistic commentary about the time of day in which Lois might be looking at his face. That was all for the best, seeing as how his first impulse was to scoff that it was completely impossible for Lois to gaze upon him with the eyes of lust after watching his and Lana’s (admittedly, A-) performance of ‘Wuthering Heights.’

Like, Lois stared into the void and not only did the void stare back, it screeched at her and did an interpretive dance. That had to be negative sexy points. Forget stud-anything, Clark was firmly in spud-territory, which was appropriate, considering his and Lois’s conversation yesterday. Apologies to Mr. Potatohead, but he wasn’t likely to be included in the contents of a GQ listicle any time soon. Clark should try to claw his way back up to goober status; at least Mr. Peanut was a dapper dresser, with his monocle and spats.   

Not that he was totally without optimism, though! Could be he was reading too much into things, but the way Lois leaned down close and asked Clark what the chances of him going ‘full-on cowboy’ were…well. That certainly carried…uh…call them implications. Promising implications. As established, while he might not be able to get on a horse this weekend, he could get near one and maybe Tilney would cooperate long enough for Clark to stand near him and do his very best Michael Landon impression. Everyone thought Pa Ingalls could get it. Right?

Granted, Clark’s hair didn’t have that kind of swoosh, but Lois liked his hair. She said so, she said his curls were iconic, which was basically the same thing. At the moment, though, it didn’t matter what his hair or face looked like, Lois didn’t so much as glance his way during dessert; she was sitting with Ma and Quinn, who were trying to select portfolio pieces to submit along with the latter’s college applications. 

As happened the day before, Clark was torn between feeling like he should be doing more of an active role playing host for Lois, but also feeling like they’d graduated beyond that. Like, yes, she was a guest, but she wasn’t a guest any more than Pete and Lana were guests. They stayed after the desserts were put away, the folding tables and chairs tucked away in the shed until spring, and piled onto the sectional with coffee to watch a movie - White Christmas, Lana’s perennial favorite. She and Pete sat side-by-side on the chaise part of the couch while he and Lois sat on the far end.

They started out sitting, anyway. No sooner had Danny Kaye convinced Bing Crosby to let him join the act (yes, Clark knew the characters had names, no he did not remember what they were) than Clark slumped down and put his feet on the ottoman. Lois tucked her legs up underneath her and leaned against his arm, firmly in lounging territory. By the time Rosemary Clooney and Vera Ellen (again: yes, their characters had names, no Clark did not care to remember them) were performing ‘Sisters,’ he was the only one on the sofa who was still conscious.

Pete and Lana were both sleeping with their heads tilted back, mouths slightly open, while Lois was slumped against Clark, her right arm hugging his left arm against her, like it was a teddy bear. She looked totally comfortable and for the first time in a long time, Clark felt himself fully relax. He sank back into the cushions and Lois sank with him, emitting a soft exhale. 

He did listen in around the property - his parents were upstairs, not asleep yet, but well on their way. Callie was padding around the bedrooms while Otis was snuffled around in the kitchen, taking care of the last of the crumbs. All was calm, all was bright. So Clark took a chance to lean ever so slightly over to grab the remote from where it was laying beside Lana. Everyone was comfy cozy at the house. There were no pressing concerns in the rest of the world. There was no reason Clark shouldn’t do something for himself.

He liked White Christmas fine, but it wasn’t his favorite way to close out fall and welcome winter. He made the switch from Prime to Disney+ to turn on a movie he considered a holiday classic even though there were no holidays celebrated during the film itself: Beauty and the Beast. 

Lana and Pete showed no signs of noticing the movie had changed, they were both out like lights, but Lois blinked blearily as Belle started singing about the crappy town she lived in. 

“How long’ve I been out?” she whispered, detangling their arms and sitting up slightly. 

“Not long, I just changed the movie - want me to put it back?” Clark asked quietly, raising the remote, fully prepared to switch back if she asked.

“Oh, no, this is way better than White Christmas,” Lois declared, snuggling back against Clark’s body. He eased his arms around her and she tucked right up against him. Still a perfect fit. “I had this movie memorized as a kid. I was like, ‘I am Belle,’ you know, because she had dark hair and liked to read. With age and experience, I now know that’s not true. I’m not Belle. I’m the Beast.”

She said this with a satisfied smile and Clark couldn’t help laughing - quickly stifled, since he was mindful of his buddies passed out in the corner. 

“I wanted to be Lumiere,” Clark confided. “But I’m not that cool, I think I’m Cogsworth. Tightly wound.”

Lois shook her head and tilted her chin to gaze up at him thoughtfully. “Nah, you’re a princess! We’ve been over this. The question is which princess…”

She threw out a few options, but ultimately landed on Snow White because he had black hair, he cooked for her all the time, and he loved animals. 

“I don’t love to clean, though," Clark said. They were at the part of the movie where Maurice was lost in the woods, so not much was happening that they needed to pay attention to. “Whistling doesn't do much for me and...I mean…Belle doesn’t not love animals.”

“Belle has horse,” Lois acknowledged with a yawn. Then she stiffened slightly beside him and the frown she wore when she watched the home movies was back. “You had horse.”

“I never had horse,” Clark clarified. “Tilney’s a Kearns Ranch horse. I just got to ride him.”

The frown didn’t move. “Until you couldn’t.”

The sense of contentment he’d been riding high on started to dissipate. This was…what was this? Another test? Like all her questions over the past few weeks about whether he found out about people from listening in, rather than being told. How she’d stare at him, like she suddenly expected a mask to slip and the real guy to peek out. 

“Nobody rides Tilney anymore,” Clark said, shifting his weight to get up. “He’s a crotchety old man with arthritis. I’m gonna get some water, you want some?”

Before she had the chance to answer, Clark was up and off the couch. Otis bounded over to him in the kitchen, knocking a chair to the ground with a clatter as he jumped up on him, expecting to be showered with affection. 

“Ooh, Pa might be right, buddy,” Clark said, bending down, petting Otis with one hand and righting the chair with the other. “It’s past time you learned some manners. You gotta be more careful, okay? You’re not a little guy, you know.” 

Otis peered up at him with his big brown eyes and sweet puppy face and all of Clark’s resolve melted like an ice cube in a heatwave. He picked the dog up, all thoughts of teaching manners out the window as Clark kissed Otis on the top of the head over and over. His sweet baby boy returned the favor, licking him in the face with total abandon, which Clark allowed since there was no chance of Otis knocking his glasses off. 

“Oh, sorry,” Lois said behind him. “Clearly I’m interrupting something, you two are having a moment.”

She didn’t seem mad or anything, but Lois was looking at him with that searching expression on her face, the one that made Clark nervous. Like this was a test and he was failing. All Pa’s good advice about not letting her nettle him went flying out of his head; Clark cared Lois so much that the desire he felt for her know him and trust him felt more important than establishing a strictly healthy communication style. 

“I should probably tell you,” Clark blurted out. “Um, Otis is technically my dog - like he lives here and all, but I pay all his vet bills and I take care of most of his grooming and baths and stuff. I mean, I’d have him with me if my place allowed dogs and there was a decent green space, but I get down here a lot, so it’s not like I’m a deadbeat like Rey Mysterio or anything - ”

“Clark.”

Otis was wiggling to get down so that Lois could give him some attention. Clark set him on his feet and he trotted cheerfully over to her so she could give him scritches, which Lois dutifully attended to. Clark turned to the sink to get her a glass of water, figuring he left it too long and that was why she followed him into the kitchen. Granted, it had been, like, a minute and a half, but what with Lois constantly checking in, asking why he used his powers for some things and not others, why he flew down to Kansas with her on a commercial airliner, why he paid for a Metro card, why he used oven mitts, she most likely came in to ask why he hadn’t brought her water instantly. 

“Clark?”

“Here you go,” he said, holding a glass of water - just plain water, which may have been a miscalculation since Lois looked at it, but didn’t take it. “Did you want ice?”

Lois’s brow furrowed, then cleared. She looked up at Clark with wide eyes, as though she was seeing him anew and that made him even more nervous.

“Oh,” she said, like she was privy to some big revelation that Clark totally missed. “This is what you were talking about - or what Pete was talking about.”

Clark’s body might be capable of superspeed, but his brain sure as hell wasn’t. Try as he might, he couldn’t make the connection between Lois maybe wanting ice water and…honestly, anything Pete Ross had ever said before ever. 

“What?” he asked, as slow on the uptake as he was getting Lois a water.

She took the glass from his hand, but she didn’t drink it. Instead, Lois placed it on the table beside them and reminded Clark of a conversation the two of them had, way back around Halloween, when he mentioned Pete getting antsy about him helping out too much.

“He was right,” Lois said frankly. “You really don’t think people want you around unless you’re doing things for them. Like. I can get my own water.”

“Okay, but I was already getting up,” Clark countered, incredibly astutely. If he didn’t have a deep and abiding aversion to conflict, he would have been a real asset to the Debate Club in high school. “To get myself a water, so it would’ve been rude for me to not offer to get you a water - ”

“Uh-huh," she interjected skeptically. "And where’s your water?”

While Clark’s reasoning faculties didn’t move at superspeed, Lois’s sure did. Clark never confirmed whether or not she was ever star of a Debate Club, but he didn’t doubt that she would have crushed at it, if she ever tried. 

While the two of them engaged in their tete-a-tete (a conversation, not entirely dissimilar to the cadence of the dialogue faintly emanating from the television - ‘If you hadn’t run away, this wouldn’t have happened.’ ‘If you hadn’t frightened me, I wouldn’t have run away!’), Otis got bored of them and made his way into the living room. From the twin yelps which sounded from the sofa, he pounced on Lana and Pete, demanding to be loved. 

“You did not get up to get water,” Lois concluded, correctly. “You got up because I…hit a nerve or something. Was it about the horse?”

“No, it’s not about the horse!” Clark exclaimed, way louder than he meant to. 

Cringing as he glanced up at the ceiling. He didn’t need to use x-ray vision to know what was coming. A beat later someone (probably his mom) stomped on the floor with a thumping rhythm which clearly communicated, ‘Quiet down, people are trying to sleep!’

From the living room, there was a curious silence broken by the sound of sleigh bells and Paige O’Hara’s crystalline voice declaring that there was something there that wasn’t there before. 

“Are mom and dad fighting?” Lana stage-whispered to Pete. “Also who changed the movie? Rude.”

“Wha’ time izzit?” Pete spoke, a sentence that was half words, half yawn. Some shuffling ensued and Pete poked his head into the kitchen. “Dude, it’s late as hell, is it cool if me and Lana crash on the couch? Also is it cool if I borrow some pajamas? And your toothbrush?”

Clark confirmed that all of the above was cool, Pete responded with a thumb’s up and a tell-tale creaking indicated that he and Lana were making their way upstairs. 

In the kitchen, Lois made a gagging noise.

“You let him use your toothbrush?” she asked incredulously. “Quinn was right, you guys really should be more lonely. You’re like the Spiders Georg of male friendship.” 

“That is a worryingly deep internet cut,” Clark replied. “And, I mean…it’s fine, it’s not like we’re gonna to swap germs or anything - and before you ask, no, I’ve never tested how long I can go without brushing my teeth before my breath stinks because that’s a question the world doesn’t need asked or answered.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shut it down, Clark. Shut it down. You're scaring her, you're going to scare her.

Clark sounded mad - or, irritated, at the very least. He raised his voice. He didn’t mean to, but he did and louder than the irate thumps coming down from the ceiling, was the pounding of the blood in Clark’s ears. He fucked up. He showed anger and they were nowhere near the place in their relationship where he was allowed to get angry. The foundation wasn’t strong enough yet, he knew it wasn’t. Now he’d formed a crack in that foundation, just as fine, but damaging as the one in the lens of his glasses that morning. Unlike this morning, he needed to keep it together and not pulverize everything into dust.

A bit desperately, Clark tried to salvage things.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, taking a step backward toward the mudroom, running a hand over his hair. “I think I’m just…um… you know, it was a big day and I’m - I’m tired, probably. And I know it hasn’t been a week yet, but…I mean I have been sleeping, but I haven’t been sleeping well, so I’m not at my best right now, but that’s not your problem, so I’m just gonna - ”

“Stop,” Lois said, reaching out and grabbing his wrists to stop his hands from their frantic pinwheeling. “Take a breath, jeez. I…the whole reason I came in here…not the whole reason, but…I wanted to tell you that you don’t have to…to constantly explain yourself and make excuses for yourself. To me. It wasn’t - ”

Lois looked down. Her hands were too small for her fingers to meet around his wrists, but she stopped Clark’s panic-flailing all the same. 

“I know I made you feel like you had to,” she acknowledged. “All the questions I asked and all the…conclusions I jumped to. And I appreciate you being willing to talk, but, for the record, I am a bottomless pit of wanting to know things and I will never be satisfied until I know absolutely everything there is to know about the world. That’s just facts. But it’s also unrealistic and unfair. Specifically unfair to you.” 

Lois let him go and took a step back, tilting her chin up to look at him with an expression that wasn’t searching or suspicious. She looked guilty. 

“You can tell me to shut the fuck up sometimes,” Lois informed him. “I don’t want you to - like. I know that everything is fragile compared to you, but…seriously, I'm not fragile. Tell me to back off. I can handle it. Just like I can handle getting my own water.”

“I know that,” Clark replied with a cautious smile. “You’re Lois Freaking Lane, you can handle anything.”

“And you’re Princess Clark,” Lois replied brightly. “And you ca - I mean. You can also handle stuff, the Disney Princesses are a tough crew, they’ve been through shit. But just because you can take a lot of…punishment doesn’t mean you should have to. Which I think was also what Pete Ross was trying to say, only I said it better.”

Lois tried for a smile, but it came across a little weak. Clark reached out for her and tilted her chin up, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

“Hey,” he said softly. “It’s not a punishment to talk to you. Or answer questions. You’re the best at questions, it’s literally an honor to be subject to the Lane Inquisition.”

“Sometimes,” Lois acknowledged, reaching out to hold his wrist again. “But also, you don’t…owe me every tiny facet of your life. Like, I don’t need to know that you fly home every six weeks to groom your dog - ”

“Ha,” Clark choked on a laugh. “Otis is a newfie, that boy gets a bath twice that often on top of brushing, otherwise he’d just be one big, sad, matted furball. But also, um. I…want you to know stuff about me. I know I kept a lot hid and I shouldn’t’ve. But that’s done with, now, I’m an open book. You’re welcome to every tiny facet, if you want it.”

“Mmm. We are very different people,” Lois muttered, so low under her breath that Clark was pretty sure she didn’t want him to hear it. So he pretended he didn’t. Instead he gave her an abashed grin when she pulled away and added, more loudly, “You sure didn’t seem like you wanted me to know all the many facets of your vocal stylings earlier.”

“Uh, yeah, because that was embarrassing and annoying,” Clark reminded her. “I was trying to spare you. We can get back to it, if you want! I can switch over to the DVD player and you can watch…God, what else is on that tape? I think we’ve got Pete’s First Communion, Kindergarten graduation - oh! Definitely footage from a t-ball game where Lana and I got bored and started making flower crowns out of dandelions in the outfield.”

“You are never beating the princess allegations,” Lois reached up and patted his shoulder. “But speaking of, I’m down to wrap up Beauty and the Beast.”

Clark couldn’t hear Pete and Lana in the living room, but he could hear Angela Lansbury telling Chip to get back to the cupboard because it was past his bedtime.

“We’ll have to rewind,” Clark cautioned her. “We missed my favorite scene.”

“Oh, yeah?” Lois asked as they walked back into the living room. “Which one?”

“When he gives her the library,” Clark told her, leading the way back into the rest of the house. “Smallville Public’s great and all, but when I was a kid and I saw the Beast’s library, it blew my ever-loving mind.”

Clark paused the movie and the two of them went upstairs to change into PJs - carefully creeping down the hall so as not to disturb his parents. When they entered their respective rooms, they saw two other people who did not seem like they wanted to be disturbed. Pete and Lana were fast asleep in Clark and Lois’s beds, respectively. Lana was wearing one of Clark’s t-shirts as a nightgown and Pete was clad in a pair of Clark’s pajama bottoms, which were falling perilously low on his hips, despite the drawstring being drawn as tight as possible. Otis followed Lana into Lois’s room and Callie was sprawled out next to Pete, leaving very little space for either Clark or Lois to hop in alongside them.

The two of them exchanged a look and a shrug; they each emerged from their respective rooms, clad for bed, then went back downstairs to rewind the movie. Clark settled into the chaise and Lois lay down beside him, using his chest as a pillow, but covering up his legs with a throw that had been living on the back of the sofa all day. They rewound the movie to the wolf fight.

“Real talk,” Lois asked, and Clark assumed it was going to be either super strength-related, given the Beast tossing a whole wolf against a tree like a ragdoll. He was therefore very surprised when she actually asked, “Do you think the Beast is hotter as a Beast or a Prince? Be honest.”

“Oh, um…” Clark pretended he’d never thought about this question before, though of course he had and there was only one right answer. “Gotta be the Beast. I mean, come on, the voice alone is way better. How ‘bout you?”

“Okay, so if you asked me in high school, I’d say Beast all the way,” Lois replied immediately, proving that this was a matter she’d given a great deal of thought to as well. “Only, you know, as I’ve become a mature adult, I appreciate the Prince design more. He’s got some shoulders on him. And I like that he’s a ginger with a big nose, it makes him distinct. And, let’s be real, the big blue eyes are a selling point either way.” 

Lois drew an arm around his middle, nuzzling into Clark’s chest drowsily. She probably wasn’t going to make it to the library scene, so Clark chanced to ask, “Big blue eyes are a selling point, huh? Lois?”

She sighed in a dreamy way, then opened one eye and looked at him with an expression that was…okay, objectively, extremely tired. But also full of promising implications.

“What do you think?” she asked, giving him a squeeze, tossing a leg over his lap as she really settled in. “It’s a major weakness of mine. But shhh - it’s your favorite part!”

“I can’t believe it…I’ve never seen so many books in all my life!”

“You…you like it?”

“It’s wonderful!”

“Then it’s yours.”

“I swear, I love this movie,” Lois remarked, yawning, eyelids at half-mast. “I’m just having a hard time staying awake. Wake me up for my favorite part.”

“And that is…?” Clark asked expectantly.

“Kill the Beast,” Lois replied, removing her hand from Clark’s midsection to rub it over her face. “Yeah, yeah, I know, I said I identify with the Beast, we’re not going to unpack that right now. I mostly love the line about how they’re fifty strong and fifty Frenchmen can’t be wrong, I thought that was peak humor when I was ten. So, wake me up for that.”

Clark promised he would…but he didn’t. It wasn’t intentional; Lois fell asleep before the ballroom scene and Clark wasn’t long to follow. Both of them missed The Mob Song, the transformation, all of it. Eventually the television idled out and the screen turned to black. 

It wasn’t the smoothest Thanksgiving Day in Clark’s memory, but, rough as the morning had been, the night got better. Way better. And even though they weren’t the kind of family to make everyone go around and list off their blessings before they got to eating, Clark wouldn’t have any trouble coming up with something to be grateful for; she was right there, fast asleep in his arms.