Title: Tip of the Iceberg
Author: Sundroptea
Rating: PG? Not too bad.
Summary: There was a wickedly delightful missing scene in Committed between Clark bringing an inebriated Lois home and a newly sobered Lois waking up. This is my take on what might have happened.
Author's Note: This was written for a fic challenge awhile back. I've tweaked it a bit, in procrastination of working on a new fic or the woefully neglected Now and Then. I hope you enjoy.
S
"Chloe, this isn't… I can't… I just- Look, your cousin is in my kitchen and I don't know if she's naked but she's definitely singing Whitesnake and I just really don't think I can do this!"
The phone crackled with static as Clark's desperate plea was met only with peels of unabashed laughter.
"Stop laughing, Chloe! This isn't funny!" He heard her breath hitch, little exhalations meaning she was no where near finding this situation as distressing as she should be.
"Clark, I go to ridiculous lengths for you. This is my engagement party. You can't do me one, small, eensy, weensy, itty, bitty- oh my god, Lois, please stop with that noise!- favor?"
Clark risked a brief glance towards the room where an extremely inebriated Lois Lane lay in wait, belting out at top volume, "A high-heeled, double-trouble backstage queen! Who gets what she wants and knows where she's been!"
"Chloe, this… small? No! This is not small. Naked!"
Chloe began laughing again, completely devoid of sympathy, and just before the dial tone sounded, he heard something like, "Get used to it, Clark."
**Sometime Earlier**
The street was free of people but for the two lone figures just barely touched by the warm yellow glow of the street lamps.
"Lois, just give me your keys."
"Smallville!" she trilled, giving him a very wobbly poke in the chest. "I am surprised at you! What distrust! Do you truly think that I would attempt to drive myself while in this condition? God. Did you hit your head? Again?"
She drew herself up to her full height, and the motion left her swaying dangerously. Clark reached out instinctively to steady her, and came back with her purse as a prize. She blinked owlishly at him gripping her satin clutch. He started sifting through it, only to receive a firm, if slightly misaimed, smack. She stood, one hip cocked out belligerently, with her eyebrows raised. Clark found it adorable, and had to shake himself.
"They aren't in there, Sir-Rifles-A-Lot," she sighed, dismissively. "And I don't know why you need my keys. How did you get here? Run?"
"Yes, Lois. As a matter of fact, I did run here. All the way from Metropolis, in my suit, and I didn't even break a sweat. If your keys aren't in here, where are they?" His dry tone suggested that his patience was beginning to fray.
"I'm either drunk or you're funny. And we both know that I am drunk." She began swaying again, and it took both his hands to straighten her this time. At this point, she appeared to give up on standing entirely, and positioned herself to lean back against his chest as though he were a very conveniently placed, man shaped wall.
"Lois," he begged. "Please. Your keys!"
"Alright, Pushypants." Bracing herself more fully against him, she abruptly thrust one well manicured hand down the front of her dress, pawing it seemed through her ample cleavage.
"Lois!" he gasped.
"Ohmigod. Calm down, Nancy. I keep my valet key in my corset."
It was at that moment exactly that Clark understood the full extent of the trouble he was in. Damn Chloe, his trusty sidekick and her fancy engagement party, anyway. "Get Lois home in one piece," she'd said. "Lois will sober up soon," she'd said. "It's not even like she's that drunk!" she'd said. Chloe apparently liked lying.
Lois was still speaking.
"It's better this way. Even if I lose my purse, I have my key! Or, if I get attacked, I have something pointy to claw with." She seemed to be having trouble locating it. He could see straight down her top, and though he was trying to be a gentleman, his vantage point allowed him to notice that she needed to reach more to the left. Instead, she went in with both hands. Clark yelped, masculinely, and took a hold of her shoulders, thrusting her to arm's length, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as he did so.
"Lois!"
"Found it!" she slurred brightly, before promptly passing out, leaving her top askew, and Clark frazzled, with the knowledge that this was sure to be the tip of the iceberg tonight.
This feeling held steady as two people walked by, extremely curious as to why a man was wrestling an unconscious lady into the back of a small Sentra.
Tip. Of. The. Iceberg.
***
She'd woken up on the ride home, briefly, and proceeded to list, in rapid succession, the several reasons that she felt reversed her earlier opinion on her level of sobriety. His favorites:
"Smallville, I'm a journalist. Journalists don't get drunk; we get serious!"
"Mmm-hmm."
"If I were drunk, I'd be dancing. Do you see me dancing?" (He actually did. She'd been wiggling in approximate time to the radio the entire conscious part of the ride. She had even, on occasion, shimmied.)
"Sure."
"Clark," she said earnestly, making what looked like a supreme physical effort to turn herself in the seat to face him. "If I were drunk, I would be naked."
He almost crashed her Sentra.
"No! Nono! Not drunk!" he chimed, watching her hands stray to the straps of her dress. "Sober. Very, very sober. And clothed."
"Good. So long as we're clear," she sighed. "I don't know how else to prove it." She fell asleep again.
Clark groaned, resigned.
***
He got her up to the house fine; not having to worry about prying eyes meant that he could just swing her up into his arms with ease, and he didn't have to fake a struggle.
It was only once they got there that things went pear shaped.
He'd set her gently on the couch to go get a glass of water, with the intention of waking her to make her drink it. Lois, as usual, beat him to the punch. Her eyes fluttered open as he leaned down to nudge her.
"Smallville, you need to help me."
He set the glass down next to her and moved to prop her up as she struggled upright.
"I am helping you. This here? This is me helping you." She reached up and took his face in both hands.
"No, you have to help me specifically."
"Alright. How can I do that?" He reached up to tug her hands away, but she shook her head, and leaned closer, staring into his eyes. Or trying to. More like she'd stare into one eye, lose focus, and stare into the other. To her credit, she was trying really hard,
"I need to go to the kitchen."
"You don't need to go to the kitchen."
"I need to go to the kitchen."
"Why do you need to go to the kitchen?"
"Because I need coffee."
"You don't need coffee."
"I need coffee." She shook his head a little.
"Why do you ne- no. Lois, it's nearly midnight. You do not need coffee. You need this water, and to go to sleep."
"I can't sleep, Smallville!"
"And why is that?" She dropped her hands to his shoulders and used him to lurch to her feet.
"Because I will wrinkle my dress. And because if I slept now, it would mean I was drunk."
He took her hips in his big hands, and set her back down. "Lois, if you had something else to sleep in, would you sleep?" He stood, slowly, not wanting to jar the couch.
She blinked up at him, contemplating. "Yes. I do believe that is acceptable." She nodded.
He walked upstairs, the normal way, giving himself a moment to process the amazing nonsense of a drunken Lois Lane. He was chagrined at how… well… fun it was to take care of her. She so rarely needed care. Well, care that wasn't connected to a life or death situation. It was… nice.
He came back down, her favorite plaid shirt and some sleep shorts in his hands, smiling, until he saw the empty couch.
**Now**
He tossed the phone down, cursing Chloe and her sense of humor, and braced himself. He covered his eyes with one hand, and pushed the door open blindly with the other.
"Lois?"
"All or nothing! I'm gonna make you see!" she sang, from where she was gyrating on the table, which he heard squeaking under her slight weight. "I've made up my mind, for sure, this time! You're gonna spend the night with meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"
"No more Whitesnake," he sighed. "Lois, are you decent?"
"Smallville, I am fabulous."
"That's… not what I meant. Can I look, I mean?"
"All you want! Feel free."
He slowly allowed his hand to fall, blinking tentatively, still not convinced. Her dress, he could see, was still on, which was for the best, he told himself. Then she turned and he saw it was unzipped. Torture and hells.
"Here!" he thrust the shirt at her. "For sleeping. When you sleep. Here."
He was ardently glad that she wouldn't be able to remember this. His incoherency at a little bit of flesh would never be lived down, if she had.
She gave him a dirty look, and shook her head. She flicked it with the tips of her fingers in an incredibly snotty little fashion, before concentrating on giving him a scowl.
"Buttons. I hate drunk buttons. I can't sleep in drunk buttons. It took me absolute minutes to unzip my dress, see?" she braced herself on the table, and pulled her hair aside, to allow him a closer look.
He spent an eternal moment gaping, then worked out what she meant. He had a sudden, devious, delicious idea, and though he berated himself for being so ridiculous, his heartbeat sputtered in his chest at the thought.
"Alright," he managed around a dry, sticky throat. "No buttons."
He made no pretense of normalcy this time, super-speeding to his room, and coming back with what he considered his reward for his patience. She snatched the shirt he offered her and kicked him out of the kitchen. He could still hear her singing quietly to herself, and all attempts at his entering and getting her upstairs were met with resistance. Some time later, the singing stopped and he risked it.
She was sprawled out along his counter, long legs left bare, shorts apparently not meeting her exacting drunken specifications, his jersey barely covering anything else.
It was a beautiful sight. Her long hair was unbound and everywhere, and her dress a crumpled mess on the floor. He picked it up, and then scooped her up as well, setting her up nicely in front of the fireplace, and leaving her dress to hang.
He thought Chloe might be on to something. He could see himself getting used to this.
The End