Please, my story has not been beta-read, so I would appreciate it if you could point out any errors-spelling, grammar, or otherwise-in a review so I can fix them.
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Later, when Smiley is asleep and the night is deepening, Clark sits, smoking at the table in the corner of the room. He decided long ago to blame the moonlight streaming through the windows for his lack of sleep. He ignores the niggling thought of just closing the curtains. He prefers standing and smoking.
Searching though his memory, no purchase of smokes registers, so he supposes Smiley must have bought them. He doesn't take the time contemplate their origin; he just keeps on puffing. Eventually he decides to open a window.
Opening the window also opens the hotel room to any number of outside sounds, the most prevalent of which are the groan and growl of car engines and the irritating honking. People on the street are yelling things, mostly obscene, at each other, and Clark thinks he might hear thunder, but he can't be sure. He sharpens his hearing, but there is nothing there.
He doesn't sleep at all.
Smiley finds him standing there when she wakes, her black hair haloing her face like some dark or fallen angel. The dawning sun illuminates her pale skin and turns the bruises and sunken places into soft shadows. He stares at her, unseeing for a long moment as she comes to stand next to him.
"Did you get any sleep, Kal?"
He doesn't answer, deciding to just ignore the probing tone. He just basks in her serenity. She seems peaceful, at ease. She doesn't press him like he knows she wants to, but he can still feel the concern slipping from her lips and radiating around them without her having to say anything. It makes him feel strangely warm.
They stand there, watching the sun rise through the hotel room window. When Clark turns away, he bumps into the table. "Fuck!" He almost-yells. "I'm fucking sick of this goddamn room!" He swings his hand to knock the table over, but sees Smiley's camera sitting there, glinting in the light. Instead he settles on slamming his fist into his hand and gathering up his stuff. "Pack your shit." He orders, and doesn't wait to see if Smiley complies. He throws his packed bag on the bed and storms out the door, telling Smiley to wait for him there.
When he returns, she's sitting on the bed. Her face is grim, and her lips are stretched thin over her face. "Let's go." He says. He picks up his bag and looks around for hers, but there is none to be found. "Where's your bag?"
"I didn't have one so I packed my stuff in yours."
Clark looks at the black duffel, hoisting it into the air a couple times to gauge the weight. "Alright."
They leave, hurrying down the hall and into the elevator. Clark is careful not to crack the glass elevator button when he presses 1. When they get to the car, Clark pulls fast, probably too fast, out of the parking lot and onto the street. He drives with purpose, up this street and down that one, winding through traffic like driving in Gotham is old hat. They stop in front of a tall, old building, covered with gargoyles and looking very dark.
"Wow, this is gorgeous. I love gothic architecture." Smiley says. Clark looks at her incredulously. "What? I'm not completely uneducated. This stuff is a photographer's dream!"
He raises his eyebrows and gets out of the car.
A doorman opens the door for them and Clark watches Smiley's reaction as they enter the lobby. There is a receptionist sitting behind a counter who watches them closely as they approach the desk.
"Can I help you?" She asks. She's a very pretty young woman, maybe twenty years old. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a low ponytail and her wide blue eyes are alert and attentive.
"You must be Claire." Clark smiles disarmingly. "We spoke on the phone."
"Kal?" Her face lights up as she gives him the once-over and extends her hand. He shakes it and holds it a second longer than necessary, looking her dead in the eye. When he pulled away she was visibly flustered. "It's so wonderful to meet you!" She begins fretting about her desk, pushing aside papers and looking in drawers. "Of course, we didn't expect you so soon."
"I like to do things right, Claire. It's just impolite to leave someone waiting." He says it in his smarmiest voice, amused by the echo of Lionel Luthor he could hear in his tone. Of course she doesn't notice anything amiss.
"Of course." She giggles almost nervously, and finally looks down at what she's doing. "Oh!" She cries, and picks up a form from where it lies, right on the top of the pile. She hands it to him and he looks at it for a moment.
"Can I have a pen?" He asks snarkily.
"Of course!" She squeaks and pulls a pen out the pile. "You just need to sign here- and here- and we need this in formation in this box here." She outlines the box with her pen and then hands it to him. Clark hands it to Smiley.
"You have to do it." He says, sliding the form over to her.
She looks confused, but does what he says, writing her full name and vital statistics. When it comes to previous address she looks up at Clark. He sees where she is and turns to the girl. "We've been living in hotels for the past little while."
Claire looks at him dazedly. "Um. You can just leave that blank, then."
Clark grins all the way through the surprisingly short ordeal, and Claire hands him a shiny silver key with a tag attached.
He hurries Smiley up six flights of stairs, and she has to pause for breath at the top. Clark watches her heave for breath, hands on her knees. She looks up at him. "Jesus Christ." She says, somewhat reproachfully. "You're not even winded."
"I always eat my Wheaties." He replies, and then takes hold of her elbow, pulling her down the hall. They stop on front of a nondescript door. It looks identical to all the other doors running through the hallway. Its brown paint peels slightly at the edges, and around the door number: 611.
Clark slides the key easily into the lock and turns it, opening the door with a flourish.
He watches Smiley step into the honey brown environment. It is the antithesis of everything he had in Metropolis. All polished wood and soft sunlight and huge, plush sofas and chairs. He watches her ooh and aah over the view and the space and him for a few minutes.
"Is this ours?" She asks him with wide, happy eyes.
"It's yours." He says. Her eyes widen a little and she goes back to exploring.
He's not doing it for her, that's for sure. He's doing it so they can live somewhere comfortable and he doesn't have to deal with putting his name down in print or the hassle of a fake ID. That's all.