Disclaimer – I own nothing.
Notes – Okay, this has come up in the comments so I thought I'd clear it up. :) The finale and I disagreed (seven years) so I did a lot of foot stomping and left. I only recently came back rewatch the show. Which is fine but I haven't read the s11 comics, nor am I likely to. I apologise if I contradict anything in them.
**/**
They have lunch with Martha on Sunday and usually that's Lois' favourite part of any week. There's no stereotypical mother-in-law relationship here; she loves Martha as much as her own family and likes her a good deal more than some of them. But Martha's due at midday and Lois doesn't wake until after 11:30, groggy and grumpy despite all thirteen hours of unconsciousness, headache and backache thumping.
After reassuring himself that she's not unwell, Clark deals with her snapping at him with a kiss to her cheek and a cup of strong coffee. She tells him that she likes him better when he isn't a pushover, flouncing back into the bedroom, ignoring the way that the scent of her sweet, sweet caffeine is making her nauseous. She consulted google two days ago and can't quite escape certain impossible facts.
For all her sleep, she still manages to zone out on Clark's shoulder sometime after lunch, not really waking until Martha's gone. Hopefully it's all attractive dozing and doesn't involve open mouthed drooling because there are some things that should be left solely to drunken revelry and the resulting hangover – not a sudden attack of sleepiness in front of two of your favourite people.
The latest bout of consciousness finds her stretched out on the couch, a blanket spread over her. She pushes it off and wanders over to where her husband is sitting at the dining table files from his latest case spread across the table. From behind she drapes her arms around his shoulders and presses her lips to his forehead.
Sometimes he drives her up the wall and down the other side. Other times, now, she loves him so much she has to remind herself to breathe. Of course, it's a condition that is likely to change from one breath to the next.
"How is it possible for one person to sleep so long and then still be tired?"
He turns a little to look at her. "Are you sure you're okay?" Worrier.
She comes around to perch on the edge of the table, smothering a yawn, rolling her shoulders. "I'm fine. Just tired."
He studies her and she can see him try to work out if she's being honest. After a moment he shrugs and turns back to the hazy security cam still in his hands; she's not sure if he's decided to believe her or if he's going to sit on whatever busy thoughts that are churning behind his eyes. Honestly, she hopes he's going to go with obliviousness because she's too tired to deal with him being shrewd.
"Thai for dinner?"
Her traitorous stomach rebels and she can't the grimace stop from forming. "Nah. I can make us a salad."
Clark's eyebrows go up. "If you say so."
"Ye of little faith." But his smirk lightens her own mood, putting away darker thoughts in favour of gentle teasing.
**/**
Later, they go to bed early, making love as the sun sets behind the city. He leaves sometime after for a night time patrol, despite her sleepy protest, and is back before dawn, skin cool with a chill he doesn't feel.
**/**
Monday is spent chasing down elusive leads in separate directions, and she is able to duck into a drug store in an unfamiliar part of town. A quick phone call to work to throw anyone off the scent and she heads home. He shouldn't be there and isn't but she calls out anyway, urged on by nervousness and guilt.
The bathroom seems bigger than normal, sound echoing off the tiles. She lays the three boxes out beside the sink, then rocks back on her heels, curling her fingers into fists to try and control the shaking. She closes her eyes and draws in a deep breath, expelling it slowly. "All right, Lois, moment of truth."
She reaches for the first test and tries hard not to predict the outcome.
**/**
Sometimes spending her entire childhood on military bases comes in handy – especially when you want to let three pregnancy tests know exactly what you think of their unanimous results. "Couldn't at least one of you been negative just to throw a little doubt in the mix? I could have worked with that doubt."
The front door to the apartment opens. "Lois?"
Biting back another chain of expletives, she hurriedly shoves the tests and packaging into the waste paper basket, shoves it out of sight and reminds herself to empty the trash before he sees it.
He's standing in the living room, fidgeting. "They said you called saying you wouldn't be in for the rest of the afternoon." He's searching her face, jaw set, brows drawn. She's not getting out of this one with a brushoff.
Her mouth twists with the effort to tell him the truth but she doesn't know how to form the words to tell him he's going to be a father. Instead she does something that she's promised she'd never do to him – lie. "I guess I really am coming down with something." Stomach-flu will buy her a few days to figure this one out.
Being more than a little overprotective, it doesn't take Clark long to hustle her into bed. She wants to protest that as long as no one mentions certain food groups then all she's feeling is a little tired but that would be a sure way of opening the conversation back to 'baby'. He brings her her laptop, her phone, a jug of water, a glass, a box of tissues and a book she'd left sitting on the coffee table.
She forces the tears back and urges him to head back to work. He leaves, reluctantly, after making her promise to get plenty of rest and call if she needs anything. The door shuts behind him and she's left alone again in the empty apartment desperately trying not to think about the one thing that is all she can think about. At least she has her work to distract her.
**/**
They eat dinner with Lois still in bed, despite her protests. Clark sits at the end of bed, leaning against the frame, his ankles pressing down on her own, as he tries to make her laugh with an anecdote about two of the newest interns. She directs him back to their case but he has very little to add, just more dead ends.
The conversation falls to a natural lull and she ends up studying his face, like she hasn't in a while, wondering which features he'll share with their child.
Any contemplation is interrupted by the familiar tilt of his head, allowing realty to sink in. A quick kiss to the cheek and he's gone, leaving her with the taste of ash in her mouth and the knowledge that their life doesn't have space for children.
She carries the plates out to the kitchen, covering his and leaving it out for him to finish whenever he gets home. Hers is scraped into the trash, reminding her of the evidence in the bathroom that needs hiding. Letting him find the pregnancy tests – all positive – would allow her to shirk the responsibility of telling him herself… but she is an adult and she will handle this as such. As soon as she's ready.
By the time she shuts the door from a return trip to the garbage chute she's crying. Stupid hormones. Stupid alien husband and his stupid half-alien baby.
She researches abortion clinics and breaks down after two websites, unable to see more than the glow of her screen in the rapidly dimming room. She swipes at her eyes, clears her browser history and tries to turn her brain off with TV.
She cries off and on throughout the evening, cursing everything she can think of to curse that this had to happen now. They've talked about children but distantly, for a future removed from this one. A future where the balance between jobs and superheroes and marriage isn't quite as overwhelming, where they have a little more time – when there aren't times where they can go weeks at a time with barely more the occasional shared meal.
Chloe managed. But Chloe's husband is human and both can afford to take time to be parents. Lois doesn't want to give up her job, her husband or her baby but she doesn't see how she can have the three without all of them falling to pieces.
Eventually she cries herself to sleep on the couch, a melodramatic police procedural playing in the background.
**/**
She wakes to the sensation of being carried, the apartment still and quiet, Clark's chest warm and solid against her cheek. She mumbles something that's meant to be a protest and kicks out with her feet, grateful that he gets the message and sets her back on her feet.
Blinking at him, she finds that he's still in the suit, smudges of dirt and probably ash down one cheek, smelling of dust and smoke and gasoline. She doesn't ask where he's been and he doesn't offer any information; if there's a story to be written it'll wait until the morning for once.
They dress for bed, her brushing her teeth while he washes his face. She's in bed first but he crawls in after her, pulling her against his chest and pressing soft kisses along the curve of her shoulder. He's holding her just a little too tight but no harder than a human would be capable of and it's not uncomfortable. She slides one hand along his arm, pressing her feet back to tangle with his, waiting for him to relax.
"I love you," is the last thing she hears as she drifts off into a more peaceful sleep.
**/**
On Tuesday nausea drives her out of bed and to the bathroom, though thankfully the contents of her stomach stay exactly where they should be.
"Maybe you should see a doctor," he says as she's rinsing her mouth out.
The pallor of her cheeks probably takes some of the heat out of her glare. He's not wrong, but she's not going to tell him this isn't the kind of thing with which she can just wander into the local medical centre. After a moment she nods. "I'll call and make an appointment today." With Emil, because there's not really anyone else to whom she can take her half-Kryptonian child.
She nearly asks Clark to stay, to come with her to see Emil, to ask him to put that x-ray vision to good use and check on their baby because he'll be more effective than a sonogram ever will. But the words still don't come, her brain offering her dual images one of him happy, one wary and not knowing which one she wants to see (happy – she wants him to be happy).
Instead she eats a piece of dry toast, half an apple and kisses him on the cheek as he leaves for work.
**/**
"Obstetrics isn't exactly my forte," Emil tells her as he presses a stethoscope to her stomach, frowning thoughtfully. She shrinks back from the cold metal a little. "Though it would seem you and your cousin are trying to change that."
"My regular doctor doesn't usually deal with aliens so that makes us even." She's incredibly grateful that Watchtower is empty today. The last thing she needs to deal with is Chloe or a bunch of curious superheroes having a say in what's going on with her body.
He strips his gloves off. "You know, until right now, I could have sworn that a human and a Kryptonian wouldn't be able to produce a child."
"Surprise. I'm walking medical miracle." She doesn't comment that Clark had certainly believed it possible though had been uncertain how likely. Clearly likely enough that when contraception had failed, Lois had conceived.
"You're probably about eight weeks along. And the good news is you're healthy and everything appears to be developing normally—"
"For a human baby."
"For a human baby."
Lois nods. There's no guarantees, not with her half-human, half-Kryptonian child. Her fingers twitch toward her stomach but she forces them back so she can hook them into the belt loops of her jeans. "Thank you." Then, "You're not going to tell anyone, right?"
"Doctor-patient confidentiality still exists in this situation, unless I think you're actively a danger to someone."
"Which I'm not."
"No, but the sooner I can access resources like Clark or even Martha Kent, the sooner I can come up with some estimations about this particular pregnancy."
Lois swallows and nods. "Right. Okay. I think I'm going to go now." She slides off the table, ignoring the sudden rise in nausea.
**/**
Chloe's cheerful and exasperated when Lois calls. Apparently her rug rat – Lois' godson – has created some rather charming art on his bedroom wall.
"Thankfully his picture of 'Daddy' just involves a lot of green. I dread the day when my little Louis Rhead knows what arrows look like." In the background a sponge hits water and Chloe sighs. Bright childish chatter comes from some point further away, asking to talk to 'Aunt Wois'.
Anxiety and nausea curl in Lois' stomach. "Yeah. Look, Chloe, I've got to go."
**/**
Wednesday she ignores the nausea resolutely enough that she convinces a sceptical Clark she's well enough to go to work in the hopes that distraction will settle her stomach. And she's fine – until a trip past the coffee machine sends her rushing to the ladies room to lose her breakfast. She rinses her mouth and is glad Clark is out of the office.
He's still out during her second trip. But he catches her third.
"I thought you said you were feeling better." Clark levels her with the full force of his 'I am a disapproving, city-saving, god-like alien' frown. Sadly, it didn't work on her when they were eighteen and couldn't stand each other; he may be better at it now, but she's also that much better at ignoring it.
"I was. I am."
The furrows in his brow deepen and a lump forms in Lois throat. She wants so badly to tell him about the baby but for all she crafts words for a living she can't seem to even form the correct ones into a sentence. Instead she brushes past him, catching sight of a startled intern very quickly retreating in the opposite direction. Let them all duck for cover. They all already think that she is the psychotic bitch and he is the henpecked husband.
She blinks back tears, glad he's still behind her.
Or not. A soft rushing of air passes her and he's in front of her, one hand wrapped around her left bicep. "Lois…"
"What if someone saw you?" she hisses, looking past his shoulder.
The furrow in his brow deepens. "Rogers is gone."
Meaning he probably checked before moved. She's not sure if that makes her feel better or worse. "Whatever. I have work to do." But when she tries to shake her arm out of his grasp he refuses to let go, which should make her furious. Instead she just wants to sink to the floor and cry until he makes it better.
"You should be at home in bed."
The will to resist is slowly vanishing. "Clark, I'm fine. This—" she uses her free hand to indicate herself and then the bathroom— "will pass. You can even check with Emil." His expression suggests that he might just do that. "Until then I've got a story to write." She resists the urge to bite her lip as hand falls away. "Please. I promise you can do whatever mothering—" bad choice of words— "you feel necessary tonight."
He nods, throat bobbing, and pulls her into a hug which she willingly accepts, breathing him in, and relaxing. For the first time in days the churning in her stomach settles.
-x-x-x-
Thursday dawns with a fresh wave of nausea that drives her out of bed and to the bathroom seconds after her eyes open. Whatever comes out of her stomach seems to be far more than she ever put into it and the thought of breakfast just makes it turn over again.
Clark vanished at some point in the night and has yet to reappear so she pulls herself up in front of the mirror, fills a waiting cup with water and rinses her mouth. She splashes her face, brushes her teeth and flicks the shower on. For the first time – probably in forever – all she wants to do is crawl back into bed and sleep some more.
In the shower she stares at the tile and resolves that the time has come for her to tell him if only so he doesn't get around to noticing she has a second heartbeat first.
Arms settles around her waist and she startles. "Sorry," he murmurs against her ear, barely audible over the pressure of the water.
She shrugs and relaxes back against him. "Where were you?"
"Beijing."
She wishes she could see his face because his voice isn't loud enough for her to pick out intonation. "How bad?"
Against her back, his chest rises and falls in a sigh. "Not very." Just bad enough that he'd decided Superman needed to fly to China to help.
She turns in his arms and kisses him, long and deep before reaching past him for the shampoo.
**/**
Hours later she sits in her car in front of the abandoned warehouse where she's meant to be meeting a source. But, in another first, a very large warning is sounding in her head, gut instinct screaming 'don't go in'. Don't go in, because now she's responsible for more than one life.
Even if meeting this one source might make a difference in a thousand other lives?
The internal debate rages on for several minutes before she gives in and calls Clark. She hates that she feels she has to, hates that she feels like she's giving up a piece of her independence, even if it's the right choice to make. At least he can check to make sure what she's walking in to is safe.
He answers on the second ring. "Hi."
"Hi, can you—" She is cut off by a deafening blast that is big enough to push the car, sideways, rocking it up on to two tires before smacking back down on the footpath, making Lois' teeth rattle and her ears ring.
"Lois!"
"Clark?" she's disorientated, confused. Across the street the warehouse she had been about to enter is now on fire.
Her door opens and she's pulled out. His eyes are wider than she's ever seen, cheeks deathly pale. His phone is still clutched in his hand. By Lois' standards this isn't a particularly close brush with death so she's not entirely sure what's upset him so much. She's unharmed, the baby's unharmed (though maybe a trip to see Dr. Emil is not out of the question) – being nearly blown up is something of a regular occurrence, if not usually while she's on the phone to him. Right now she's far more worried about her source.
"I was meant to be meeting someone in there!" Her voice is muffled to her still ringing ears so she shakes her head a little to try and clear them a little.
Clark pulls her tight against his side, arm locked around her waist as he scans the building. He hasn't changed, still dressed as 'Clark Kent', and she guesses they can be grateful for the mostly deserted area of town where she's found herself. If they're unlucky there will be a couple of homeless people in one of the nearby warehouses, able to see them, but there certainly isn't anyone in sight of where they're standing now.
The streets won't be empty for long, though, not if the sirens she can hear are headed this way.
"There's no one in there."
"What?" Her hearing is still muffled maybe she misheard him.
"There's no one in there." He blinks at her, not quite accusing but definitely leaning in that direction. "The building is deserted."
Which doesn't necessarily mean she was set up. It only probably means that she was. Before she can stamp her foot or swear bloody vengeance on her supposedly trustworthy source – who she's going to have to replace after having her arrested for attempted murder – the world spins and blurs. In the blink of an eye he's setting her down in the living area of their apartment.
She stares at him for a full two seconds before nausea takes over, sending her sprinting for the bathroom, hand over mouth, hoping she'll make it in time. She hasn't eaten since before her last trip to the bathroom, not long before she left to meet her source, so all that's left is bile. She spits and rinses – first with water, then with mouth wash – promising herself the whole while that there will be only normal travel for her from now until she stops feeling nauseous all the damn time.
When she turns, she finds him standing in the door, arms crossed, watching her. "Why won't you tell me what's wrong?"
She brushes past him, heading for the main room. "Because there's nothing wrong with me."
"Lois..."
"I'm not sick, Clark." He opens his mouth to respond. "I'm pregnant." She's surprised at how the words, when they come, come so easily, how much lighter she feels to have finally told him.
Even as his face goes blank, features evening out with surprise, she knows that somehow it's all going to work out.
**/**
NB - "Five Days More" - the five days from Clark's pov will be up in a few days.