[Rating: PG-13 - For some suggestive language and dialogue, and for some sensuality.]
CHAPTER 3
"We need to talk about your dinner date. You can't keep avoiding the subject," she presses, tossing another pair of denim jeans onto the pile of boxes and clothes in his arms.
"I've been doing a pretty good job of it so far," he retorts, balancing the bags hanging from his forearms, and the teetering heap of other items in his grasp. "Are you going to help carry anything?"
"My hands are already full," she points out, holding up the half-full cup in her hand. "Do you want some more?"
"No," he glowers at her, barely able to see her over the top of the clothes tower.
"More for me, then," she smiles, dismissing his attitude and taking another sip of the all-natural fruit smoothie that he pestered her into getting instead of the Cinnabon she had her eyes set on.
Following her into the outerwear department, "Lois, we've already made three trips to the car to drop things off. I think we've gotten more than enough."
"You promised you'd let me spoil you."
"Well, I didn't think you'd take it this far."
"I warned you about pouting."
"I'm not pouting. It's just… I mean, you didn't even let me buy lunch."
"I let you buy the smoothie," she reminds, pulling a double-breasted wool coat from a rack and holding it up to him to gauge its fit. "What do you think?" she asks.
"I think that there are already about a dozen coats in your back seat right now."
"All different colors. All different styles. And you need at least one more. You won't be in office-appropriate overcoats and jackets all the time. Those two car coats that we found will be good for your casual days, and this pea coat will be good for your dressy-casual days. It's simple and classic, and it's totally -"
"- Unnecessary," he grouses.
"Look, Mr. Extra-Brawny Lumberjack," she says, putting the item back on the rack and getting another one a size larger, "we've been over this before: You need new clothes -"
"- A few new shirts and pants, maybe. But not an entire wardrobe."
"You're exaggerating," she dismisses, draping the coat over her arm and heading off to find matching gloves and a scarf.
Trailing behind her footsteps, he persists, "I just don't think that you should be spending your hard-earned money on me."
"Clark, it's only because of y -" she cuts herself short, remembering to be careful of her phrasing since they're in public, something to which she's still adjusting. "It's only because of a certain someone's big debut that I've ended up with this windfall. Between the exclusives, the book deals, and every other thing my agent and my publicist insist on, I could buy and renovate a brownstone. And if they get their way about the movie, I'll probably end up owning beachfront property. So, a new wardrobe is the least that I can get for my favorite fashion-challenged farmer, -" - looking over her shoulder at him and quietly adding -" "- who really should do a better job of acting like all the stuff he's carrying is actually heavy."
Taking her meaning, he readjusts his posture and furrows his brow a bit more, feigning discomfort. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize. You were doing fine until a minute ago, when you started sulking," she replies, sifting through a few scarves. "Besides, you can't help preening around me - I get that."
"I do not preen," he lies, knowing full well how much he's enjoyed being able to display his true capabilities to her, as his whole self.
Her eyes still focused on finding a complementary color of scarf, she replies, "Have I ever told you how irresistible you are when you're indignant?"
He smiles in spite of himself and dials back his protest. Studying her energetic, enthusiastic movements, he asks, "You get a real kick out of playing dress-up with me, huh?"
"Yes, I do," she quickly and simply responds, choosing a scarf and then moving to a wall display with an assortment of gloves. "Besides, it's not like you have a problem with my taste."
"True enough. But you're making me feel like a Ken doll."
"Ken doesn't belong in a Calvin Klein underwear ad in the middle of Times Square. You, on the other hand…"
He smiles harder, riding the high of her flattery, and abandons all further protests.
"Wool or leather?" she asks him over her shoulder, gesturing towards two different pairs of gloves.
"You pick."
"Leather it is, then," she decides. After plucking the largest size of gloves from the stand, she turns back around to him, places the new items on top of his pile, and instructs, "About face, soldier," directing him to the dressing rooms. Chuckling, he turns and follows orders.
They stop outside the dressing rooms so that she can pull her purse off of his shoulder and down his arm, and also take her jacket from him. Readjusting his stack of clothes, boxes, and bags, he heads down a narrow corridor and stops at the first open door that he finds. Just as he begins to step into the room, though, he feels a familiar hand grab the crook of his elbow and pull him back.
"What are you doing?" he quickly asks, startled to see her.
"You need a bigger space," she answers, dragging him all the way to the end of the corridor and pushing him into an oversized room.
After stumbling through the entrance, he turns to close the door, but she pushes inside and past him. "Are you kidding me?" he hisses. "Get out."
"No," she flatly refuses, shutting the door. "I've been waiting outside all day and I'm sick of it. It wastes time." She reaches into his arms and takes his jacket and the yet-to-be-decided-upon items from him.
"This is a men's dressing room, Lois. You're missing a few prerequisites for being in here."
"Save it, Smallville," she replies, placing the clothes, their jackets, her purse, and her cup onto a wide bench on the other side of the room. "My balls are as big as anyone else's in here."
"That's not an image that I needed," he winces, as she makes her way back over to him and takes the rest of the boxes and bags from him. At a loss, he stands in the middle of the large, open area while she sets the already-purchased items on the floor in a corner and then goes to take a seat on the bench.
"We don't have all day, Clark," she insists. "Strip."
"No."
"You are such a pain in my ass sometimes," she remarks, getting up and walking over to him. She pulls his glasses from his face, slides the earpieces and temples into the sides of her hair, and pushes the rims up onto the top of her head. Reaching for the top buttons of his cotton shirt, she offers, "Here, I'll help."
"Oh, no, you won't," he deters, ducking out of her reach. "I can undress myself. After you leave."
Amused, she smiles, and pursues him across the room. "Calm down, Clark. I'm not leaving and you need to drop the modesty."
"I am not being modest."
"You know, you get more and more irresistible by the second."
Still avoiding her advancing form, he continues taking steps away from her until his back finally hits a wall. Trapped with nowhere to go, he tries, "Lois, please."
"What's your damage, Heather?" she asks, stopping directly in front of him and resting her hands on her hips.
Looking down at her, several pieces of his plain, unremarkable hair fall past his forehead, and hang over his brow. Brushing a few dangling strands of the minimal style that's meant to hide his face out of his eyes, he objects, "You shouldn't be in here."
On the verge of laughing, she replies, "Relax. I'm not going to jump you. Not right now, anyway."
An image of them pressed into a wall flits across his mind, and, in spite of himself, he frowns at her easy dismissal of the possibility. He knows he shouldn't be as disappointed as he feels, especially given that he swore to himself that he wouldn't let them get caught up in such a position before he could broach the subject of the inexplicable thin welts he discovered on his thighs earlier that morning.
She studies his expression, and then smirks, "Unless you want me to…"
"I-I don't," he weakly replies, hoping that she doesn't intend to start anything that he most certainly doesn't have the willpower to stop.
Enjoying his discomposure, she takes a step closer to him and lowers her voice to a more provocative tone. "You sure about that? You sure you're not thinking about me running my hands up your chest…around your neck…into your hair…pulling you down to my lips -"
"- I'm not."
True to her word, she reaches out and trails her hands up his torso and over his shoulders, and reaches around to tease the hair at the base of his scalp. A tremor runs through him and his jaw trembles. Taunting him, she purrs, "Oh, you're definitely thinking about it."
He swallows hard, and tries again, "Lois -"
"- If I kiss you, will you calm down?"
"No," he lies, as his eyes fall to her lips.
"I hope you're always this easy, Smallville," she smiles, as she stands on her toes and closes the distance between their mouths.
Despite his previous protestations and his lingering apprehensions, he eagerly accepts the sensation of her lips on his. As she eases his mouth open and lightly runs her tongue across his lower lip, he makes a soft sound of appreciation and relaxes into her. But just as he moves to wrap his arms around her, he feels one of her knuckles graze the skin of his chest. Taken aback, he quickly pulls away from their kiss and looks down.
"What the…?" he asks, seeing that she's undone half of his buttons.
She gently laughs, "I told you you're easy."
Embarrassed, he pulls her hands away from his shirt and scowls.
"Stop pouting. I'm just trying to help this process along."
"You're not helping anything."
"Except for your super-sized libido?" she quips, quirking an eyebrow at him. He shifts a bit, and lowers and shakes his head. "I thought so," she observes. "Look, what is the problem? You traipse around my apartment in nothing but your boxers whenever you stay over."
Trying to regain some ground, he raises his head and meets her gaze. "I'll wear briefs for the next day if you agree to lay off."
"As tempting an offer as that is, I think you already spend enough of your time in spandex."
Having lost that battle, he can only scoff and remain silent.
"C'mon, Clark. Is it the being undressed that's bothering you? Or is it the getting undressed? Because if it's the former, then I wouldn't mind sitting here in just my skivvies and my heels while you try on your clothes. -"
"Lois," he groans, as yet another image flashes before his mind's eye.
"- And if it's the latter, then I'd be happy to do a quick striptease, since you enjoy them so much."
"You're not gonna leave me alone even if I ask you to nicely, are you?"
She persists, "I don't see what the big deal is. You'll only be down to your boxers. Which shouldn't matter anyway, given that I've already seen you naked."
Her dig provokes him just enough, and he latches onto the indignation that he feels swelling in his chest. "You saw me naked once. Once."
"That was all it took," she evenly states, crossing her arms and shifting her weight to one leg, readying for their spar.
"You can't pretend to remember something that happened nearly seven years ago."
"What can I say? You left an impression."
"It was dark outside."
"I saw all I needed to see."
"You saw nothing."
"I saw no hair."
"…Th-That's -"
"- A fact."
"…Even if it was -"
"- Past tense? Really? After this morning?"
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Are you saying I'm wrong?"
"I'm saying that that incident happened a long time ago."
"And yet, I remember it all so well."
"…I'm not seventeen anymore."
"Your point?"
"I'm older. I look different now."
"Bigger, you mean?"
"Lois!"
"Smaller?"
"Please, stop."
"You do know that that's not something that matters to me, right?"
"I hate you right now," he groans, dropping his head into his hand, feeling his entire body blush.
"And might I also remind you, Mr. Modesty, that you've witnessed me way more than just naked. You've had a full-on sensory experience of me in about the most compromising position a person can be in."
Grumbling under his breath, he regrets, "Yet another image that I don't need right now."
He rubs his tensed brow as the memories of his future-self and her flood his brain. He clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he could forget the sights and sounds of their night together. But try as he might, there is no putting it out of his mind.
Every touch that she shared with him plays in full, living color. His need for her and her compassion for him were so potent, so palpable, that many of her memories were practically surreal. There were no broken walls and there was no broken world around them when a darkened man consumed every glimmer of the light that she brought back into his life.
He shakes his head a bit and clenches his jaw, holding fast to the knowledge that his future-self didn't have the same opportunity that he's had to grow with and to learn her, to aspire to a lifetime with her, and that, most importantly, he's shared with her the truth that his future-self did not.
Still though, despite that man's disregard for the concerns, both material and emotional, that should have held him back, he was, at least in one very basic sense, unbound. And for that reason alone, part of him can't help envying even so inconsiderate a man.
His head throbs and his heart aches as a recurring terror grips him - the fear of whether he'll ever be able to convey what he feels for her as freely and unrestrainedly as he wants to and as she deserves.
All of a sudden, he's ripped from his ruminations by the impact of a fist landing soundly against his chest, accompanied by a firm, "Stop it, Clark."
"Ouch, Lois!" he quietly exclaims, as he looks up at her and reflexively moves his hand to the area that she assaulted.
"Was that a sincere 'ouch'?" she demands, narrowing her eyes at him.
"Yes," he sharply replies. "I told you: It hurts when you hit me."
He watches her take a couple of steps away from him and plant her hands on her hips as she bites back, "Good. Now suck it up."
"Excuse me?"
"Get over it," she snaps. "You had it coming for thinking what you were thinking."
"Since when are you clairvoyant?" he retorts, rubbing away the remaining ache.
"Since you turned into a typical male - again."
"Is there a point to this abuse?"
"Is there a point to what you were thinking, other than you beating yourself up - again?"
He glares at her, confused.
"That look you just had on your face was the same resentful, discouraged look that you used to get whenever you'd watch me drink my morning coffee."
"Wait. What? How did this even… What are you talking about?"
Crossing her arms over her chest, she slowly and evenly replies, "You were jealous of my coffee."
"You know, Lois," he scoffs, dropping his hand and not bothering to temper his exasperation, "times like this just remind me of the fact that we really do come from two totally different worlds. But for the record: I was never jealous of your stupid coffee."
"Yes, you were," she pointedly corrects. Shifting her weight to one leg and assuming her power stance, she explains, "You'd see me downing some piping-hot cup, and you'd compare yourself to it. You'd doubt whether you'd ever be able to give me the same rush that that blitz of caffeine did once upon a time. And, Clark, I am telling you that your concerns, while understandable, are completely unfounded. Because even if I could remember the taste of coffee, I wouldn't care, since no amount of anything else ever has or ever could come close to the effect of even just one sip of the man that you've become."
She waits a moment, and watches the stress lines in his face disappear as he grasps her meaning. Easing the severity in her tone and unfolding her arms, she gently adds, "I don't deny how I felt about my coffee - or my sodas, or my bear claws, or my Ding Dongs, or my any-other-things. But you - every bit you, right now, regardless of what you're wearing - are without compare."
He takes a second to appreciate what she's told him, knowing that her sentimental flourishes are few and far between. Part of him wants to ask her how long she's been waiting for the opportunity to convey those assurances. But he gets the strong sense that she's wanted to ever since the one and only time he mentioned the matter on the night of his reveal.
She provoked him on purpose, he realizes. And she addressed an issue that he'd never be able to bring himself to in a manner that was quick and easy - for his sake. A small smile makes its way across his lips as it occurs to him that he may never reach the bottom of the depths of his admiration for her. He resolves to tell her just that someday, but, for now, he offers her the only reply that she needs: "Understood."
"Good," she responds. "And you believe me?"
"I do."
"And you feel better?"
His smile widens at the sound of her concern for him. Feeling his mind at ease and his body relaxed, he responds, "I do."
"Good," she sighs in relief. They regard each other for a long, quite moment, until she breaks their silence, and asks, "Did I really hurt you that much?"
"Yes, bully," he chuckles.
Making a sympathetic sound and stepping forward, she closes the distance between them. He tilts his head down and watches as she pushes the fabric of his half-open shirt away from part of his chest, and presses several soothing, apologetic kisses on and around the place where she landed her blow.
Pulling back and running her fingers over her kisses, rubbing them into his skin, she asks, "Better?"
"Always."
He moves his hands from his sides and tucks a few errant strands of her hair behind her ears, as she looks down at his shirt and asks if she can finish. Feeling less flustered than he did prior to their brief dispute, he gives her a generous smile and a slight nod.
She slides her hands down to his top and begins to slowly undo the last of his buttons. "Wanna hear something interesting?" she asks.
"Mm-hmm."
"I walked into the break room at work the other day," she begins, offering him the comfort and distraction of her voice as she continues undressing him, "and I ran into this tiny group of people hovered over that photo essay that Time ran on the Man of Steel. They were all drooling over his figure, wondering what he looks like without his red and blue on. Aden from HR was a part of the crowd, ironically enough."
"And I'll bet they asked you to join in the discussion," he ventures, regarding her face and hair while she focuses on his clothes.
"Of course they did. So between me and the rest of his fan club, we all decided that he probably doesn't have much, if any, body hair, because he's so highly evolved." Finishing his buttons and running her hands and eyes up his torso, she continues, "Which means that his skin must be impossibly soft… supple… smooth."
He smiles wider as she pushes the fabric off of his shoulders, and goes on, "They asked me what it was like to fly with him. And I told them that it was like nothing I've ever experienced before. Being wrapped up in arms that big, that strong. Touched by hands that gentle. Feeling totally connected. Like there's no end to him, and no beginning to me." She pulls the shirt off of his arms and tosses it behind her onto the bench. "They wanted to know if you're jealous of him."
"And what did you say?" he wonders, grateful for the consolation of the exaggerated parts of her story.
"I told them that you're not threatened by my occasional flights with a superhero, because you know I prefer a nerd with glasses any day of the week." Brushing her hands down his waist and across the skin just above his dark khaki pants, she edges, "But I did add that if there is someone in this universe who gets to be as close to him as I am to you, then that person is very, very lucky."
He beams all the more, still watching her face as she pulls his belt from its buckle. "You know, I probably should be jealous," he jests, playing along. "You're a relentless flirt, Lane. Am I really supposed to believe that a guy like that doesn't bring something so fundamental out of you?"
"Maybe not," she smirks, looking up to meet his gaze. "But trust me, Clark," she says, slowly pulling down the slider of his zipper, "yours is the only ego I have any interest in stroking."
The air sticks in his throat and he coughs. She smiles at his reaction and takes her hands away from him, and then walks back over to the bench. As he tries to pull himself together, she sits down and crosses her legs.
"I'll let you finish," she offers, picking up her smoothie and taking a sip. "We wouldn't want a repeat of this morning."
...