When your husband is secretly the 'Man of Steel,' you get a lot of special moments. Your takeout is actually from Guangzhou. And home quicker than delivery.
You've seen the aurora borealis. The top of the moon with your own Kryptonian powers (show-off). You've danced in Rio, seen a sunset through Stonehenge, picked cherry blossoms in Japan all in a week. One literal seven-day stretch without the chatty seat neighbors in coach taking the armrests.
But Lois Lane, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, prefers for her nights to be just like this.
She's in a little later than usual after one of the Chief's all-star-reporters-are-required-to-fill-out-mountains-of-paperwork-too days. Clark had conveniently got all of his in yesterday and had left at the normal time, promising to take care of dinner.
She walks into their apartment, dropping her keys in the dish by the door. He's not home yet. All she wants right now is her comfy clothes and something horrid to eat. After going straight to her room to change, she hears the door open. She pads out in an oversized Met U tee and leggings to find Station pizza on the island and her husband putting a dvd into the player. He's in his Grass Roots tee and sweats.
That the people who run that ma & pop pizza place two blocks away know their order by heart, half supreme (no onions) for her, half pepperoni and double cheese for him, and that they will never think of her husband as an alien warms her heart. Because she knows how much he treasures the little slice of normal their life together affords him.
Well, as normal as being married to her would allow, but *ahem* that's neither here nor there.
She knows that he can sense her presence on so many levels, but he doesn't immediately react to them. He knows her so well. He lets her look, lets her get comfortable assessing her surroundings before he reacts. And right now the line of his shoulders stretching that cotton is taking a lot of getting used to.
But pizza is the more pressing matter.
"Hey, baby." She kisses the spot at the nape of his neck.
He turns to her. "Hey, yourself. Get your paperwork done?" he asks, with only the slightest cheek.
"Ugh." She swats at his arm. "Barely."
She heads into the kitchen. Finds a couple of paper plates and grabs two sodas out of their fridge. After bumping the door closed with her hip, she pulls out two slices for her and for him and goes back towards their living room.
It took her a while to realize that Clark was really who he was. Superman was his mask. And it took her even longer to realize that Clark was truly who she was in love with. Ridiculously long. She rolls her eyes at herself and her ridiculous bout of introspection before she reenters the room.
He smiles that dopey half-smile at her as she comes in. She sets the plates and drinks on the coffee table, sitting in his lap for a second. He leans up a little and kisses her, and yeah, he is the superhuman cliché in that department.
But who's complaining?
Soon enough she's on the other side of the couch, romance forgotten in the haze of grease and dough. He chuckles at her not-so-subtle moan as he picks up the remote.
As Rosalind Russell starts lighting in to Cary Grant, she scoots closer to him and he leans an arm nonchalantly behind her.
This is her favorite kind of night.