Clark Jonathan Kent gets up at exactly 6:30 am, this cement coloured Saturday, August, 2008, a half hour after his wife, Lois Lane Kent. It took a while (he's forgotten how many years but it hasn't been many) to develop, but their reporters. Farmboy and army brat. It had to.
He takes an extra three seconds, which is a goddamn privilege considering he actually managed to get five hours of sleep last night. Bizzaro and the Prankster were placed in the same Rykers cell block two nights ago while the great white retard was in mid transfer, and God knows how that could have gone. So he's entitled to take advantage of the fleeting peace, right? The city isn't Gotham or Hub, but still…
The wet towel to the face shatters that delusion.
He used to wonder how strange it would seem to her, shaving with heat vision and alien alloy, the scent of shaving foam, burning hair, brewing coffee and the fain pine smell of the floors. Used to.
Breakfast (toast, because it's the one thing they have a chance at not burning) goes slowly, because if the world expects either of them to fly or crawl without a single drop of caffeine in their veins it can go save itself. They practise the daily ritual they developed on their first actual conversation (after she pulled the claws back in) and restarted on their first actual lunch date that wasn't just lunch; mocking the esteemed competition.
The Star: passable, but the visiting ambassador was Polish and it's spelt Green Lantern.
The Times: isn't the Southern stereotype old news by now?
The Bugle: Lois thinks his butt looks cute in that trunkless blue outfit. Clark refrains from commenting, except that Jimmy could have nailed that angle better.
The Globe: how much did she pay to get caught in that position?
The Enquirer: Not gonna go there.
Lois gets ready to leave for work, subway pass ready because the cars been in the shop forever. Clark is momentarily stunned. They have a car?