The first time he spends the night in her apartment, she can't sleep. She's certain that at any moment the NSA or the CIA or the Navy SEALs will come crashing into her apartment and take him away from her. She wants to be awake when it happens, doesn't want to be taken by surprise, curled around her lover and blissfully unaware.
He assures her that he was not followed, that several spy satellites in the area went... "off-line" in the last few days. That nobody paid any attention at all to the scruffy farm boy wearing a flannel shirt and faded jeans, his baseball hat slung low over his eyes. And that is indeed how she finds him, waiting for her in the hallway outside her apartment as she steps off the elevator carrying an armful of groceries.
It has been three weeks since she saw him last, since she kissed him in the rubble of Metropolis and held him as he shook with horror over what he had done. Then he had been gone. In the first few days, she had been too exhausted, too overwhelmed to miss him. And then he was everywhere, on every newspaper in every newsstand, on every channel, the topic of every conversation around every water cooler. She couldn't escape him... she couldn't find him either. She began to wonder if maybe she had imagined everything, had assigned some meaning to the kiss that he never intended. But then he finds her.
She grins as he follows her inside, tossing his hat on the hook by the door as if he'd done it a thousand times. He helps her put away the groceries and is kind enough not to say anything about the crap she eats to keep herself alive. Then all the cans are put away and there is nothing left to do but stare at each other across the expanse of the tiny kitchen, until she moves first and launches herself into his arms. He is so warm and solid, his arms wrapping around her. He buries his face in her shoulder and murmurs "I missed you, Lois" into her hair. She grins against his chest and then he is tipping her chin upwards, finding her lips with his.
It is gentle at first, so gentle. And then her back settles against the wall and his hands find her hips, lifting her. She wraps her legs around his narrow waist and fists her hands in his shirt, eventually finding the buttons and pushing the plaid back off his shoulders. His mouth finds her collarbone, moves across her chest and latches onto the pulse point in her neck. She wonders if they should talk, she has so many questions for him, so many things she wants to tell him. But then his lips are moving and she feels like she's falling, hurtling towards earth. Again.
She gasps, arches, and he stops what he's doing, lets her slide to the floor. His eyes are full of concern, his hands hovering over her shoulders as if he's afraid to touch her. She smirks and shakes her head, slides past him and grabs his wrist on the way to her bedroom. He lets her pull him along and she thinks it's adorable. Lois Lane never uses the word adorable; Lois Lane also never invites aliens into her bed. Lots of firsts today, she thinks, as she finishes removing his shirt and drops it on the floor by their feet.
He is so beautiful, she awes, as her hands trail down his chest. He could be with anyone and he is here, in her tiny apartment, looking at her like... she's not sure, but she never wants him to stop. She blushes then (another first), as his hands tug at her t-shirt, pulling it over her head. He finds the scar, his fingers ghosting over the spot where he burned her. The first time he saved her life. There are scars from the other times too, he'll discover later. But for now he's focused on this one.
"Does it still hurt?" She shakes her head, no. It had hurt for days after, weeks, but the doctors told her he had saved her life. She would have bled out in the Arctic and missed all of this, all of wonderful this.
"I never said thank you," she whispers. He grins and then he is suddenly serious.
"You never have to." And then he is pushing her back onto the bed, his hands spanning her back to support her as they fall towards the mattress. He is unbelievably gentle as they work together to remove the last of their clothing. As he slides inside of her she wonders if it is too fast, wonders why it didn't happen weeks ago, wonders when it will happen again (32 minutes after the first time, she later discovers).
They talk after, when he is sprawled sweaty across her bed and she is tucked into his side, exhausted and happy and deliciously sore. Nothing heavy, nothing sad. They can do that later. He tells her about rebuilding his mom's house, claims he read all her articles. She blushes again, remembering that they are almost all about him. She tells him about the first article she ever wrote for the Planet, a crap piece about a Star Wars convention. Her first embedded assignment... as Princess Leia. He laughs and she thinks it's the best thing she's ever heard.
He eventually drifts off to sleep, the lines on his face softening. He had been exhausted when he first arrived, the dark circles under his eyes a dead giveaway. She doesn't know how long he will sleep for, how long a Kryptonian needs to sleep, but she is content to let him for as long as he likes.
She, on the other hand, is a ball of nervous energy, unable to close her eyes for fear that he will be gone when she opens them. She slides out of bed and wraps herself in his shirt, then goes to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. The clock reads 1:27 and she knows it's only a matter of time until they beat down her door. She settles in by the window, takes first watch. It is here that he finds her, closing in on three in the morning.
She hears him shuffle out of bed, watches with exhaustion as his hands envelop hers and pry the cold mug out of her grip. "Come back to bed, Lois," he rumbles, his voice thick with sleep. She looks up at him and nods, follows him back to her bed, lets him tuck her in and then sighs as he settles in behind her, one arm wrapped firmly around her waist.
She wakes up to an empty bed, sunlight streaming through the windows. She could cry, but then she smells fresh coffee and she knows the NSA would never be so considerate. He's waiting for her in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as if he's always been there. She wonders if someday this will be their routine, then curses her hopeful heart. Don't be stupid, Lane. Don't get hurt.
He pours her a mug, kisses her despite the morning breath. "Good morning" he greets her, one hand cupping her face, his thumbing sliding across her cheekbone.
"Good morning," she returns. "Sleep well?" He nods. Grins. There is a playful gleam in his eyes as he drinks her in, still wearing his shirt. Her breath catches in her throat and she realizes then how much trouble she's in. She doesn't dare call it love, not yet, but her reporter instincts tell her to keep digging.
"I have to be at the Planet in forty five minutes," she informs him before taking a long drag of coffee. This isn't the cheap stuff she buys, she realizes. She wonders what else he was up to while she was sleeping.
"So do I." She cocks an eyebrow in response. "Interview." She looks at him like he just told her he's an alien that can fly.
"Really? What for?"
"And you call yourself an investigative reporter," he teases. "You didn't pull my college transcripts?"
"I wasn't nearly as interested in your grades as I was your extra-curriculars. I mean... Chess club? Really, Clark?" He laughs and she realizes she likes making him produce that sound; wants to do it again. Something about bantering with the most powerful man on the planet in her kitchen over cups of coffee (while wearing his shirt) makes her feel...Almost giddy.
"I thought it might be nice to have a job. Something that would allow me to keep an eye on things. Something that would give me a reason to stay in Metropolis."
"I think I could give you one or two more,"she murmurs, then cringes inwardly. This isn't her talking, she isn't like this. Maybe she is now though.
He laughs and pulls her to him, kisses her thoroughly. She can feel him grinning against her lips and she wants to let herself get lost in this happiness. There is so much that still needs to be said and done, but for now she will push that aside and just be here, with him, while she can.
Later, when she is at work (and if she arrived a few minutes late, well... She had good reason), she hears from a source in Washington that they're calling in Olympic athletes, Heisman trophy winners, half of the players from the Metropolis Generals for unspecified "testing." She breathes a sigh of relief that Clark, with his blue ribbons in 4H, will not immediately draw suspicion. And when she sees him arrive on his bicycle, wearing those ridiculous glasses, she nearly weeps with joy. She knows she'll always share half of him with Metropolis, with the world, but she doesn't think Clark the man is in danger of disappearing anymore.
"Welcome to the Planet."