[Rating: R - For occasional mild profanity, for some suggestive language and dialogue, for some sensuality, and for some sexuality.]
CHAPTER 2
The sensation of her lips on his coaxes him from his dream, away from flickering light playing across a swathe of red. She pulls back from him and he opens his eyes, breathing in the lingering scents of her shampoo and conditioner, and pursuing her.
"Welcome back," she smiles, moving further out of his reach.
He groans, clearing the sleep from his voice and the image from his mind, and complains, "It's been three hours."
"How do you know that?" she asks, granting him a quick kiss.
"I can feel it," he smiles. And then, he quickly adds, "Like a Jedi."
She chuckles at his pride in his abilities, and at his attempt to overcome the unflattering contrast she drew a little while ago between him and his imaginary adversary. But, still unwilling to give him an inch, she replies, "Even a Jedi can't make the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs."
"That's only because Jedi make honest livings," he counters, noticing the strap of her camisole-style tank top as it falls off of her shoulder.
As he reaches up to push the thin material back into its proper place, she retorts, "And because the only vessel you can pilot is your body."
In response to her dig, his face falls and his hand stops on her shoulder, and she gently laughs at him.
"If it makes you feel any better," she teases, "you are taller than he is."
"I hate you," he grouses, already contemplating his next attempt at undermining her infatuation with a man whose only real crime is having a longer-established claim on her affections than he does.
Satisfied with his adjustment of her tank top, he runs his hand down her arm, already missing the exposed skin that's sure to be covered by the time she finishes getting dressed for their outing.
Still giggling at his resentment, and intuiting his unhappiness at the prospect of her wearing more than just an undershirt all day, she reaches forward to rest a hand on the side of his face, and rubs away his frown. Changing the subject to one less likely to upset him, she informs, "I got a couple texts from Bart while you were out. He asked how your day's going."
"This early?" he wonders, accepting the distraction. "You weren't mean to him, were you?"
"Nah, Bart's alright. We kind of understand each either, I think." Tracing her fingers along the strong lines of his jaw, cheek, and nose, she impishly adds, "I took a picture of you and sent it to him."
"While I was sleeping?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Lois," he grumbles, imagining paper copies of the image plastered all over Watchtower, "if he forwards that to everyone, I'll never live it down."
"I'm pretty sure he'll keep it to himself," she replies, fighting back a smirk.
Confused by the tone of her response, he asks, "Why?"
She leaves his question unanswered as she rises from her seat, and goes to pull back the window curtains. The morning light rushes into the room, and she smiles, watching him deeply inhale and subtly swell with vigor.
As the initial tingling feeling of the rays hitting his skin subsides, he forgets his question, and watches her head for the bedroom door. Getting his first decent look at the dark brown tresses hanging down her back, he doesn't bother to mask his disappointment as he complains, "I could've helped with your hair."
"Next time," she promises, and disappears out of the room and down the hall.
He sits up and scoots back to lean against the headboard, assuming that he's supposed to wait for her to come back. After a few minutes, he gets restless, and his attention wanders to her bedside table. Regarding the drawer, he wonders what about its contents warrants it being off-limits, especially when nothing else about her or the space she occupies is. There must be a good reason, he supposes. But then again, maybe there isn't, and maybe she'd tell him if he just asks outright. He'd hate to upset her, though, should her reasons be genuine and should his curiosity be deemed both rude and unwelcome.
Setting aside his tangential thinking, he throws back the sheets and comforter, and starts to move towards the edge of the bed. But before his feet touch the carpet, the sound of her voice addressing him triggers his hearing.
"Smallville," he hears her warn, "if I get back in there and you're anywhere but in that bed, I'm gonna kick your ass. And don't even think about putting on a shirt."
He chuckles, and shakes his head, taking from the ambient sounds of clinking dishes belying her voice that she's in the kitchen. Next to flying, his hearing has become her favorite of his powers, mostly because she can make unilateral threats, requests, or idle flirtatious comments whenever she wants. The first time she toyed with activating it, he was stepping out of the shower at the farmhouse when he heard her say his name, and then ask him to stop by her apartment before work. With the memory of the ear-to-ear grin that spread across her lips when he opened her front door a short while later still fresh in his mind, he moves back towards the headboard and takes a deep breath, determined to not look impatient when she returns.
A few moments later, she enters the bedroom carrying a bed tray full of foods and drinks.
His eyes fixed on the bounce and sway of her long, lush locks, he asks, "How'd you know I was about to come find you?"
"Because you're just that predictable," she quips, resting the tray over his thighs. "Breakfast is served."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"I like your hair like this," he tells her, taking advantage of her proximity and running a hand through the loose, unkempt waves that only air-drying could leave. "Will you wear it down today?"
"If you want me to," she smiles, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
"I do."
"Then I will."
She leans back up and her hair falls away from his fingers. Reluctantly, he takes his eyes from her, and then lowers his gaze to his meal.
"It's all edible," she assures, as he closely examines the items. "The banana-nut pancakes are Mrs. K.'s recipe. But I came up with the banana-pecan garnish. There's caramel in it, though, so I left it on the side because I didn't know if it'd be too sweet for you. The hash is all mine, too. And it's got roast beef in it, not corned beef, because that stuff kind of makes me wanna vomit. And the eggs are fresh out of the poaching pot, so you should start there before the yolks stiffen."
He stares at his breakfast, astounded by how well put-together it appears and how confident she sounds. After a few moments, he looks up at her, lifting his eyebrows askance.
"What?" she asks, far too sweetly.
He eyes his food again, hardly noticing as she disappears from the room. When she returns, he watches her pull his large overnight bag out of the armchair in the corner, and set it down onto the carpet. Then, holding the newspaper, a bowl, and a mug, she sits down, and leans back into the plush cushions of the seat.
"What are you having?" he asks, continuing to look intently at her.
"Not that," she grimaces, glancing at his tray. "We're not all fortunate enough to have extraterrestrial metabolisms fit to handle a smorgasbord."
"So what are you having?"
"Relax, Mom," she quips, rolling her eyes at his concern for her nutrition. Holding up her bowl, she answers, "Yogurt, granola, and mixed berries."
He smiles, congratulating himself on having broken her of her bear claw and maple doughnut habits. "And what's in the cup?"
Pretending to not hear him, she gestures toward the newspaper, and asks, "Do you want the classifieds?"
"No. What's in the cup?"
"Today may be your lucky day. You should keep looking."
"Maybe later. What's in the cup?"
"Vodka," she matter-of-factly responds, taking a sip.
"Lois."
"Clark."
"Is it coffee?"
"Irish coffee."
"Stop being difficult."
"Don't you have super-senses? Can't you smell what it is from the other side of the building?"
"Only if I try. Besides, I wouldn't put it past you to find an aroma-less blend, so I'd rather you just tell me yourself."
She gently laughs at him, "Don't throw a tantrum. It's white tea, with lemon and honey."
He beams, "I told you you'd like it."
"Yeah, yeah."
"And I told you I'd get you off the java."
"Don't sound so damn pleased with yourself. Your food's gonna get cold," she reminds, setting her cup on the end table, propping her legs up on the ottoman, and unfolding the paper.
"I can just re-heat it."
"Or, you can just stop stalling and start eating."
After a few moments of hearing him not move, she looks up to find him staring back at her.
"Is there something you wanna tell me, Lois?"
"Your bedhead's adorable," she smirks.
He narrows his eyes at her, but she doesn't give in. Backing off for the time being, he breaks their gaze and hesitantly picks up his knife and fork. Arranging his tray, he pushes the bacon, sausage, grits, pancakes, fruit salad, and drinks off to the sides, and centers his hash. After which, he quickly peers at her, watching her scan the front page.
"Looks like Perry decided to run Dinah's feature on you. I guess he's getting more crap from the higher-ups for not coddling the conservatives enough," she tells him, crunching on her granola. "I don't know how many more times the wingnuts, wackjobs, and weirdos need your basics repeated to them. You don't interfere with politics, and you don't intervene in natural events. How hard is that to understand?" Looking more intently at the content, she adds, "Though, I gotta say, you know the world's changing when a red-and-blue super-dude is getting more coverage than the NFL conference championships… And Olsen did finally manage to take a decent picture of you… Cute butt."
He chuckles at her offhanded candor and returns his attention to his plate. Slowly, he pulls his knife across one of the poached eggs. The yolk breaks and spills onto the hash. He gathers bits of egg, potatoes, and roast beef onto his fork and raises it to his mouth. Doubting, he takes another look at his forkful and even raises it to his nose to smell it.
Without looking up, she threatens, "The emergency green-k is in my closet, Clark. Eat, or die."
Steeling himself, he opens his mouth and takes his bite. Spreading the food across his palate, he tastes the parsley, garlic, onions, peppers, and thyme seasoning the primary ingredients. As he begins chewing, he looks up at her again, seeing that she's engrossed in an article.
"Lois?" he says, after swallowing his food.
"Hmm?"
"Lois?" he tries again.
Sipping at her tea, she tears her eyes away from the paper long enough to meet his incredulous gaze.
"You've been keeping something from me."
She tries to restrain a smile, but fails. "I told you it was edible."
"No, it's not just edible. It's good," he insists, taking another forkful into his mouth.
"Thank you."
"No, Lois," he muffles through his chews. "It's really good."
"Coming from the son of Ma Kent, that's touching."
Shaking his head in disbelief, he looks down at his plate, and then back up at her. Hardly believing the words as they make their way past his lips, he declares, "Lois, you can…cook."
"Don't sound so shocked. And try the pancakes," she instructs, returning to reading the article.
Eager to oblige, he grasps his cup of water and takes a long drink, washing away the savoriness of the hash. After setting the cup back down, he picks up a small bowl and spoons the syrupy banana-pecan topping onto the pancakes. Putting the bowl and the spoon aside, he then grabs his knife and fork, cuts into the stack, and takes a bite.
"Oh, my god," he mumbles in delight.
She smirks, listening to his sounds of gratification as he works on a few more mouthfuls. She's halfway through the NFC Championship preview by the time he manages to form words.
Crunching on a strip of bacon, he demands, "Explain yourself."
"Explain what?"
"Save the act, Lane," he replies. "I am…speechless. When did you learn to cook?"
"After Mrs. K. moved to Washington."
Shoveling more hash into his mouth, "Huh?"
"Well, I missed her cooking when she left, and you hadn't yet appointed yourself my personal chef. Not to mention, I got sick of everyone giving me a hard time about how awful I was in the kitchen. So, in between Dr. Phil and UFC Fight Nights, I started watching the cooking channels and practicing."
"Does Mom know you can cook?"
"Of course. She gave me tips while I was learning. And she wouldn't have let go of her pancake recipe if she thought I'd screw it up."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Wryly, she responds, "Because I didn't have a reason to before we started dating. And after we got together, it was obvious that you got a huge kick out of mothering me, so I figured I'd only break the news to you when the time was right."
He slows his chewing for a moment, recognizing her line of reasoning. "Are you trying to be funny?"
She laughs at him, and riffs, "Cooking abilities. Double identities. It's just easier to not disclose these things."
"Oh, you're hilarious," he retorts, looking down and realizing that he's already polished off his pancakes. Disappointed, he lets out a sulking groan.
Seeing that he's staring at an empty plate, she figures, "You miss your pancakes?"
"Yes."
Chuckling, she sets her bowl and paper on the end table, rises from the armchair, and leaves the room. After a couple of minutes, she returns with another stack and more topping, only to find him finishing his hash.
"You know, I've seen half-starved basic-trainees eat slower than that."
He foregoes a reply, accepting his second round as she takes away his empty plates. While he munches away, she brings him more hash and another glass of milk.
"Thank you," he muffles through a full mouth.
"You're welcome. Do you feel spoiled?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Do you feel surprised?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Good," she smiles, kissing the flexing muscle of his jaw. As she makes her way back to the armchair, she casually mentions, "I hope you don't intend to eat like that at dinner. You'll embarrass Mrs. K."
After washing down a spoonful of grits with cranberry juice, he replies, "Give it up, Lois. I'm not going. Besides, if anyone should be having dinner with the guy, it's you."
"He didn't invite me. He invited you." Plopping down in her seat and reaching for her nearly empty bowl, she maintains, "It won't kill you to sit down and talk to him."
"We've already talked."
"A couple dozen clipped conversations and two full-volume pissing contests do not count as talking."
"Excuse me for taking offense when some stranger shows up and starts insinuating himself into my life, as if he's somehow entitled," he grouses, remembering how quickly his own mother took to the newcomer while he spent a day with her at the farm, even going so far as to insist upon helping out with chores.
Swallowing the last of her tea, she replies, "You know, despite how much he enjoys getting under your skin, he does like you, and he does just want to get to know you better. Why else would he still be here?"
"And I guess I should ignore the fact that he's been dating you for nearly two months?"
"Here we go again…"
"He takes you out to eat."
"God forbid someone other than you and your mother try to feed me."
"He gives you flowers."
"Never roses. Never red."
"He sends you dresses -"
"You like me in those dresses."
"- and heels."
"The man has good taste."
"He calls you 'Lola.'"
"Ollie calls me 'Legs,' and you don't have a problem with that."
"He even followed you to New York for those two weeks."
"And he promptly made himself discreet whenever you showed up to visit me."
"He's courting you, Lois."
"You are willfully misconstruing things, Clark. And I really think you're only doing it so that you can avoid playing nice with him."
"I'm willfully misconstruing that he's been spending the time with you that I haven't been able to? Even when he knows how much his doing so annoys me?"
"Has it ever occurred to you that maybe, at least in part, he's trying to do you a favor? By looking out for me, and taking an interest in me, and keeping me entertained?"
"By dating you, basically?"
"He is not -" The sound of her ringing cell phone interrupts her. "Who is it?" she huffs.
He leans over toward her bedside table, where her phone is resting. Checking the Caller ID, he tells her, "No name. But it looks like a work number."
"Ugh. It's probably Perry calling to nag me for pulling out of that panel discussion on FOX. I swear, that man needs to get laid, if only to get him out of the office every once in a while..."
As she continues complaining, he disconnects the phone from its charger and tosses it to her. She catches it, and offers him a quick thank-you. He returns to his remaining hash and grits as she clears her throat, and then answers the phone.
"Lane speaking… I'm sorry. Who is this?... Oh, hi!... No, I'm sorry. I just didn't expect it to be you… Why are you calling me from the Planet? Why are you even at the Planet?..."
He raises his eyebrows at her, wordlessly questioning the identity of the caller. She mouths a name and he scoffs, before moving on to his fruit salad. Ignoring his response, she continues her conversation.
"How'd you manage that?... Well, be warned: Perry's kind of a grouch, and he'll probably take offense to someone like you dropping in on him… That bravado isn't gonna help you. Either way, you'll be lucky to make it out of there alive…" At the sound of the caller's joke, she lets out a warm laugh.
"Hardy har har," he chimes in, just loud enough to make his presence known.
Narrowing her eyes at him, "Yeah, he's right here. He's finishing his breakfast… I'm still working on him… No, don't cancel the reservation. He'll be there…"
"Like hell I will," he grumbles under his breath.
"Thanks, but no thanks… No, really. I'll be fine on my own for dinner… You do realize that this kind of chivalry is not helping?… Maybe, but still… Anyway, I should go. He's about done eating… Sure, I don't mind. Just stay away from the Godiva truffles in my top drawer. They were a gift… You're welcome. And good luck with Perry. Tell him you have my seal of approval. He'll deny caring about it, but he'll go easier on you in the end… You, too… Bye."
She hangs up the phone, and then sets it down next to the empty bowl and mug on the end table.
As he gathers the final pieces of fruit onto his spoon, he asks, "Why is he always eating the food that I get you?"
"One: You just heard me tell him to keep his sweet tooth away from my chocolates. Two: You mostly only get me healthy crap, which is right up his fitness-obsessed alley. And, three: He replaces all of the stuff that he eats, and then some."
"Exactly," he grumbles, taking his final bite. "Add grocery shopping to the list of things that I should be doing for you, but that he's taken it upon himself to do, too."
She shakes her head and chuckles at his petulance. As he chews the bits of fruit, she stands and walks over to him. "If it makes you feel any better, you're the only person I've ever served breakfast in bed to," she offers, examining his bare plates and bowls.
He swallows, and then drinks the last of his water, washing his palate clean. "Does he know you can cook?" he asks, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
Cutting short the silly game of one-upmanship that she knows is going on in his mind, she gently suggests, "Let's not talk about him for a while."
He watches as she lifts the bed tray and sets it down on the floor. Giving him a generous smile, she climbs onto the bed and into his lap, sitting back onto his thighs. As she drapes her arms over his shoulders, he wraps his arms around her back, forgetting everything but her nearness.
"Are you dessert?" he teases, leaning forward and brushing his lips across her neck.
Deeply and throatily, she laughs, "Do you want me to be?"
He nods against her skin and pulls her closer to him. "You do know that this is ridiculous?" he murmurs, dotting kisses down to the parts of her shoulder that aren't covered by her tank top.
"What is?"
"You spoiling me. If anything, this should be the other way around, seeing as I'm responsible for us having been apart so much lately."
"Are you kidding me, Smallville?" she teases. "I can't get away from you these days. Everywhere I go, someone's talking about you. Everywhere I look, you're plastered on a magazine cover or a TV screen. You're always around. It's actually getting to be pretty irritating."
He laughs at her ribbing and pulls away from her shoulder. She threads her hands into his hair, stroking his unkempt locks, and meets his gaze. "I meant what I said about your bedhead," she tells him.
"I know," he grins, always happy for her flattery. He inclines his mouth and presses a light kiss to her lips. "Thank you for breakfast."
"You're welcome."
"It was delicious."
"I'm glad you think so."
Rubbing her back, "I take it this means you're just as capable with lunches and dinners."
She nods.
After thinking for a moment, he worries, "Well, now that your secret's out, are you going to stop letting me cook for you?"
"Of course not. Just because I'm capable doesn't mean that I'm willing. And besides, I know you enjoy micromanaging my nutritional intake. I wouldn't rob you of that."
"Thanks," he smiles, relieved.
She scoots forward and wraps her arms around his back. Hugging him to her, she rests her head in the curve of his neck and breathes him in. They hold each other for long, quiet minutes, enjoying one another's warmth.
After a while longer, she hears him say her name.
"Hmm?" she responds.
"Are you sure we can't stay in today?"
"Mm-hmm."
"But -"
"- I know."
"Have I been too -"
"- Nope."
"Are you worried about…?"
"Not at all."
"…Is this because I'm not, um -"
"- No."
"Even though -"
"- Clark, you know that doesn't bother me."
"…It bothers me."
"Why?"
"Because you deserve perfection. And I don't want to…ruin anything."
She takes in a breath and slowly lets it out, considering how to answer his concerns. Pulling away from his neck, she moves her hands from his back to cradle his face. Holding his gaze, she tells him, "First of all, I know that you'd bring me the moon if you thought that's what I wanted. But I don't want the moon. I want you -"
Eagerly, he reassures, "- You have me."
"I know that," she smiles, still not quite accustomed to his increased degree of expressiveness over the last few months. "And that's exactly why there's no possible way that you could ruin anything." Kissing his cheeks, she goes on, "And second, don't worry your pretty little head about 'perfection.' As long as you're comfortable with me, that'll take care of itself."
With a cautious smile, he nods.
She runs her hands down his neck and over his chest, asking him, "Something still the matter?"
Slowly, he responds, "You don't feel…deprived?"
"Of what?"
"Of…us."
Taking his meaning, she tries to suppress the chuckle that she feels itching to make its way past her lips.
Crestfallen, he complains, "You can laugh all you want, but I'm serious."
"I know you are," she attempts to say with a straight face, but her giggles take over anyway.
Embarrassed, he leans forward and presses his forehead into her chest, hiding his face from her. "I hate you," he mutters.
"I know, Smallville," she teasingly sympathizes, trailing her hands back around his neck and into his hair. Massaging his scalp, she tells him, "It's just easy to forget how rocky, narrow, and short this particular road has been for you."
"Do you have to remind me?" he groans, wrapping his arms further around her back.
Feeling him hold her closer, she understands his unspoken request for her assurance. But, unable to resist needling him for a moment longer, she replies, "You're the one who brought it up in the first place."
"It's not the same," he says, talking into her shirt. "When I bring it up, I worry about ruining this. When you bring it up, I know that I will."
"We are really going to have to work on this thick alien skull of yours." She kisses the top of his head, and then murmurs into his hair, "Does this have to do with your abilities?"
He nods against the fabric of her top.
"Don't go all non-verbal on me now. Let's hear it."
He takes a deep breath and buries his head further into her chest. "I know we can. Technically."
"But…?"
"But, Lois…" He squeezes his eyes tighter shut and lets his concerns flow freely. "Sometimes, when I'm around you, I just…I don't even know what's happening to me. I don't know what I'm doing or what's going on. And one second, I'm just looking at you from across a room, and the next second, I have you in my arms. And I have no idea what happens in the moments between when I'm not touching you and when I am."
Absently, she reaches over to her bedside table and grasps the glass of water. "Well that explains why I'm always getting dragged into the copy room or pushed up against the wall in the elevator."
"You don't understand," he quietly exhales, as he feels a few streams of water dampening his hair.
Setting her glass back down and spreading the water through his wavy locks, she encourages, "Explain it to me."
"It's…it's not impulse. I've felt impulsive before. But with you, it's…it's just something that's always there. And it's only gotten worse. Not bad-worse. Just…way less manageable."
"Since when?" she asks, rubbing away the tension she feels underneath her hands.
"Since I told you the truth about me," he answers, still talking into her chest. "Ever since that night, I've just been drawn to you in a way that's fundamentally different than before. It's like I physically can't take going too long without having some kind of contact with you. It takes touching you or at least hearing you for me to feel…less frantic…like I'm not totally losing it…"
Sensing that there's more, she presses, "What else?"
He clears his throat, determined to be honest with her, even if she finds the truth off-putting. "I've been…more tuned into you than before."
"'Tuned in'? Gimme a for instance."
"You know the calendar that I used to keep for your cycle?"
Twirling several strands of his hair around her fingers, "Mm-hmm."
"I don't need it anymore. If I'm around you and I wonder about it, I just know. And it's other stuff too. Like, if it occurs to me that you seem tired, I can sense whether it's because you need to eat something or because you need to get more sleep. I can tell the difference between your core temperature and your skin temperature. I know the difference in your heartbeats. I can tell the worried ones from the angry ones from the excited ones. And the distressed ones trigger my hearing. Like when you were watching that horror film last week."
"So that's why you showed up out of nowhere? You could have just told me that at the time," she offers, combing his dark tresses up and out.
"You had company."
"He would've taken off if you needed to talk to me."
"It doesn't matter anyway, because I didn't even understand it at the time." Returning to his immediate concern, he asks, "You're not weirded out?"
"Get over yourself, Smallville," she teasingly scoffs, her voice tender and bright. "It's gonna take something much more than you knowing when I'm riding the crimson wave to break through my shock threshold." Moving on, she asks, "Have you asked your dad about this?"
"Yes," he answers. Taking a second, he breathes a sigh of relief, assuaged by her unfailing openness to embracing his oddities, no matter how slight. He holds her a little closer, enjoying the sensation of her fingers running across his scalp, wondering if she's trying to give him a mohawk again. Smiling at the thought of her silliness, he continues, "All he did was make some spiel about how my emotions necessarily determine and affect my physiology and my psychology. If I were on Krypton, under a red sun, I'd still feel this fundamental connection to you - it just wouldn't have this kind of effect on my physicality. But on Earth, the sun's yellow, and blah, blah, blah."
She lightly laughs, "He basically told you that you've got it super-bad?"
"Basically," he responds, sharing in her amusement. "Which is easy for him to say. He didn't live his entire life here. He can tell me why I feel what I feel, but he can't really empathize." He turns his head to one side and nuzzles deeper into her softness. He waits a few moments until he can feel the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat, and then, his tone more contemplative, more concerned, he admits, "Lois…this need that I have to be around you, to hear you, to touch you - it's completely out of my control. I'm completely out of my control. And that scares me, because…I don't know what'll happen if we get…closer…and I still can't contain what it is that I'm feeling for you."
"Let me get this straight," she smirks, satisfied that she's gotten enough of his hair to stand up. "You think that I'm a moth, and you're a flame?"
"It's the other way around."
"But you're invulnerable, so how can you be the moth?"
"Because I just am."
"Why can't I be the moth? Is this because I can't fly? Are you prejudiced or something?"
"Yes. Yes, that's exactly it."
"I gotta tell you, Skywalker, you sound like the boy who cried 'Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi' just to keep a hottie in his lap all day long."
In spite of his anxieties, the corners of his mouth stretch into a broad smile. Somehow, her perspective - even when it's of the mocking kind - on his problems never fails to make them seem smaller, without making them seem trivial. He takes in a long breath, and slowly lets it out, relaxing into her and allowing himself to be comforted by her effortless - if, oftentimes, counterintuitive - sense of compassion.
"You wouldn't hurt me, Clark," he hears her tell him, barely above a whisper.
Wishing he felt as certain as she sounds, "Lois -"
"- Let me finish. Then, you can agonize." She pauses for a moment and nestles her cheek into his hair, not minding that she's ruining her hard work on his styling. Breathing in his scent, she tells him, "This isn't automatic, Clark. You spent most of your life either not knowing what you're capable of, or being afraid of what you're capable of. So it makes perfect sense that you can't just wake up one day and see something like this with new eyes. I know having Lane FM blaring in your ears all the time must be unsettling. But, maybe the volume only seems so loud because you haven't tried actually listening to the station."
"I may never understand your thing for metaphors."
She chuckles at his remark, and then clarifies, "I'm saying that maybe the only reason that you don't know what happens during those moments in between our desks and the copy room is because you spend too much time trying to keep yourself under control. So, eventually, your body just does what your mind won't let it do."
He considers her assessment, and soon grasps what she's driving at. But, preferring to hear her go on for a bit longer, he feigns confusion, and replies, "You lost me."
She feels him begin running his hands up and down the length of her back, wordlessly betraying his lie. Happy to indulge him, though, she restates, "The way I see it, we both know that at some point every day at work, you're going to corner me in the break room or pull me into an empty office. So, maybe instead of fighting a war that you can't win, you should try conceding defeat the second you feel a battle about to start."
"Another metaphor? I think you just want me to pin you to the bed," he teases, trailing his fingers along her spine.
She chuckles, "Focus, Clark."
"Don't say I didn't offer." Sighing, he returns to the matter at hand. "I do understand what you're saying. But, you know, if I start doing what you're suggesting I do as often as I get the urge to do it, then Perry's bound to start wondering what we're up to all the time."
"Oh, you sweet, innocent man," she taunts. "I'm sure Perry already knows exactly what we're up to. All the time."
Embarrassed, he turns his face back into her chest, and groans, "Really?"
"Really."
"Why doesn't he say anything?"
"Because he knows that the Planet is a stressful place, and that everyone there needs some kind of occasional…break. Besides, as long as he never finds you and me on his desk, Perry would pretty much let us get away with anything."
"Which is odd, seeing as you two are constantly at each other's throats," he mumbles against her top.
"We yell because we care." She lifts her cheek from his head and presses several kisses into his damp hair. "Now, back to you. We agreed over two months ago, when we first talked about this, to take things slowly. Because the more comfortable you get sharing other things with me, the more comfortable you'll feel when we eventually share the thing that worries you the most."
He lets out an exasperated sigh. "But I've never actually… I mean, those aren't things that I've…ever, um -"
"- You are too adorable for words."
"I'm going to screw this up."
"No, you're not," she says, running her hands down to the side of his face and pulling him away from her. Meeting his gaze, she tells him, "You're going to do what you do best."
"Which is?"
"Take care of me."
Hearing her sentiment, the worry lines in his face disappear, and he smiles.
She returns his grin and dots her lips across his relaxed brow. "Are you done giving me grief for now?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because the thing I'm most worried about is a ways off. And we're going to take our time getting there."
"Exactly." Wrapping her arms around his back, she checks, "Now, is there anything else you'd like to ask me before I kick you out of my bed?"
His good humor retreats from his face as he clears his throat and contemplates his wording.
"Spit it out, Smallville."
"Well, it's just… I mean, it's…" he trails off and clenches his jaw. Trying harder, he manages, "Are you sure that after we've gone this long, that what we're talking about is…enough?"
She scoffs, "Wow."
"What?"
"Just…wow."
"Lois -"
"- You are such a guy sometimes," she says, pulling her arms from around his back and crossing them over her chest.
"What did I do?" he asks, confused by her body language, wondering why she hasn't left his lap if she's as irritated as she sounds.
"We're gonna drop the first part of your name, and just start calling you 'Man.'"
"Are you mad at me?"
"Annoyed."
Starting to take his hands from her back, "Why? What did I do?"
"Don't move," she demands.
Stopping his progress, "You're giving me mixed signals."
"I'm going to give you a crystal clear one in a minute."
Holding perfectly still, he repeats, "What did I do?"
"You turned into a typical male. And you may have even insulted me."
"I'm sor -" He cuts himself short. "I'm not allowed to apologize, am I?"
"Correct."
"Because I don't really know what I'm apologizing for?"
"Precisely."
Having been warned against letting her go, he attempts the opposite tack and tries to hold her closer.
"I told you not to move."
He freezes again, confused all the more. "Lois, um…I accept that I've done or said something to offend you. So, can you please explain it to me? Because you're kind of scaring me right now."
"Before I explain anything to you, I want you to know that you brought this on yourself."
"Brought what on myself?"
"What I'm about to do to you."
"Is this going to involve the silent treatment? Or the kryptonite? Or both?"
Narrowing her eyes at him, she states, "For the record, Smallville: Reproduction boils down to one thing. Intimacy does not."
Beginning to realize where he went wrong, he tries, "Oh, I-I didn't mean to -"
"- But you did."
"…Yes, I did."
"Because we idiot terra firma-nites have put a singular image in your extraterrestrial head."
Recognizing that her quip about his origins means that he's nearing contrition territory, he asks, "Um… Is this the part where I, uh…where I get to -"
"- Apologize?"
"Yes."
"Are you actually sorry?"
Clearing his throat and concentrating, he tells her, "For suggesting that certain aspects of an eventual part of our relationship are somehow not enough, and for giving you the impression, even for a second, that I think we could ever be anything other than utterly fulfilled by any and every experience that we share in that regard - or any other, for that matter? Yes, I am sorry. Because that's not at all how I truly feel. I just…had a lapse into stupidity or something. But I'm back now. And I do apologize."
She smirks and shakes her head, amazed as always by how quickly he learns and by how quickly he switches on the articulacy that he typically only employs when appearing with his shield on his chest.
"You're forgiven."
He breathes a sigh of relief, and looks her up and down. Finding something still amiss, he asks, "Then why are your arms still crossed?"
"Because I'm not finished with you."
"But you said -"
"- Don't worry. I'll take some of the blame, here. You never would've doubted certain things being 'enough' had I simply made myself clear the first time we had this discussion."
He watches as she unfolds her arms and reaches forward to rest her hands on his face. Unsettled by the tenderness of her touch juxtaposed with the menace of her words, he stammers, "L-Lois, um, I-I don't -"
"- Sorry, superhero. We're past the 'tell' part of the conversation."
He swallows at the sight of her biting her lip and trailing her eyes over his mouth. Unsure of her intentions and still afraid to move, he makes one last plea for clarification: "I still don't underst -"
"- Stop talking," she gently instructs, running a thumb over his lips.
His chest tightens and the air in his lungs stills at the timbre of her voice, and he recognizes that she's preparing to make a point. He feels her thumb slide away from his lips and watches her lean down to replace it with her mouth. His eyes fall closed as she makes contact with him, sweeping across his sensitized skin. She presses against his lips, lightly at first, and then with more force and insistence. Pushing her hands back into his hair, she adjusts her angle and eases his lips apart. At the sensations of her fingertips massaging his scalp and her tongue pushing into his mouth, he quietly whimpers and pulls her closer to him. Having gotten the response she was waiting for, she lets go of his hair and reaches around her back to thread her fingers into his. He groans into her mouth as he feels her take his hands away from her.
"Lois -" he begins to protest, opening his eyes.
"- Shut up, Clark," she whispers against his lips, as she presses his hands into the mattress on either side of him, scoots her hips away from his, and settles halfway down his thighs.
Missing her warmth against his hands, he closes his eyes and focuses on her kiss. She trails her hands up his arms, dragging her fingers and nails across his shoulders and chest, as she massages his tongue with hers, pushing deeper and deeper into his mouth. His breaths grow heavier, his heart pounds, and his skin tenses and tingles. He fights his urge to touch her, fights how badly he wants to pull her closer. Feeling his body heat rise, she flicks her tongue across his lower lip, before pulling it into her mouth and biting down. He moans, clearly and headily, at the exquisite pain, and the sensation spreads through him, down his body, and settles in the pit of his stomach.
Gasping, he abandons their kiss and tries to regain his bearings. She persists, despite his shuddering breaths, and, though shaking, he manages to reciprocate. She rolls her tongue against his as she trails her hands over the muscular contours of his chest and stomach. When her hands reach the line of his boxers and her taste overcomes his palate, he takes in a sharp breath and moans again. He hears her ask him something against his swollen, flushed lips, but he can't make it out through the pulsing in his ears. She says something else, and he finally manages to hear her.
"Focus, Clark," she tells him, pulling at his lips, moving her hands down across the fabric covering his hips and thighs. "Are you listening?"
Fighting through his haze, he nods as she presses her tongue into his mouth again. Dizzying at her taste, he feels feverish, nearly faint.
"Do you want me, Sweetie?" she whispers, pulling away from his lips.
He shudders and whimpers at the loss of contact, answering her question without a word. She trails her fingers along the skin of his thighs, before slipping her fingers just under the hem of his boxers.
"Do you want me to touch you?" she murmurs against his cheek as she trails moist kisses up along his jawline. "Because I have every intention of doing exactly that," she promises, tracing her tongue over the indent at the base of his ear.
Beset, piqued by the burning strain at his core, he squeezes his eyes further shut. As she slips her hands further underneath the fabric, inching up his thighs, his mouth falls open and he gasps, drawing in shaky breath after shaky breath. Compelled, overwhelmed by the need to touch her, he starts to lift his hands. But, the severity of the force raging through makes him think the better of it, and he pushes his hands back onto the bed and grips the sheets.
Lightly raking her nails along the skin of his inner thighs, she whispers, "And when I do touch you, it'll be no casual thing." Brushing her lips across his ear's ridges, "It won't be about temporary gratification. And it won't be easily dismissed as a mere prelude."
What began within him as a radiating ache becomes a pulsing throb as she continues, "When I touch you, when you feel me press again you…teasing you, kneading you, stroking you…there'll be no doubt in your mind that I'm doing anything short of making love to you."
She moves her hands from his inner thighs and skims them up his skin until she reaches his hips. "And at some point," she goes on, running her tongue through the dips of his ear, "probably when you're too caught up in your passion to consciously realize it, -" - squeezing, rubbing his hips - "- right around the time you feel yourself completely surrender your desire to me, -" - tracing her thumbs down the lines of his groin - "- just as the pressure inside you becomes too much to take, -" - pulling at his lobe - "- you'll understand that there's nothing more to want -" - purring, whispering directly into his ear - "- than my hands…my lips…my tongue…my mouth…all over you."
Without preamble, she pulls her hands away from him, and climbs off of his lap and out of the bed. His eyes fly open, and he shivers as the cool air in the room invades the space where her body just was. Still breathing heavily, confused even more by her abandonment than by his novel reflex to the chill, he watches her walk over to the end table by her armchair, and collect her mug and bowl. His mouth agape, he wonders at the ease of her movements as she makes her way back over to the side of the bed, bends down to rest her dishes on the bed tray, and then lifts it off of the floor. Astounded, he can only stare at her as she smirks, observing the bedding bunched in his clenched fists and the quick expansions of his heaving chest.
"I'm going to go wash the dishes and straighten up the kitchen," she tells him as she finds his gaze. "We need to be out of here pretty soon, so you should get up and go take your shower."
Peering down at his lap, her smile widens. Mortified by what he realizes to be the source of her self-satisfaction, he quickly shuts his eyes, berating himself for his lack of restraint and deeply regretting his choice of sleepwear.
She presses a chaste kiss to his cheek, and then leaves his side and heads for the door. "Where would you be without that freezing breath of yours?" he hears her throw over her shoulder before disappearing from the room and down the hall.
He tilts his head back, intent on looking anywhere but down, still too beside himself to notice - much less question - the stinging red lines left on his inner thighs.
…