[Rating: PG-13 - For occasional mild profanity.]
CHAPTER 4
"Give me my pants."
"No."
"Lois."
"Clark."
"Stop being difficult."
"Stop avoiding the subject."
"I'm not avoiding it. In fact, I've already addressed it several times: I am not going to dinner with your boyfriend. And if you're so worried about him getting stood up, then, by all means, you should go yourself."
He advances on her, fully prepared to wrestle her for his clothing. But she glares at him, and he stops in his tracks, steering clear of a match he can't win.
"Do you even care that you're throwing me into the arms of another man?"
"Are you kidding me?"
"I'm serious. You only ever really complain about him so that you can avoid the subject of playing nice with him. But we both know that my relationship with him doesn't really bother you, no matter how much time I spend with him or how much he dotes on me."
Trying a more coaxing tactic, he replies, "No one who's ever had the privilege of knowing you would treat you any differently."
"Nice try, Casanova."
He sighs, and takes another step towards her. Impetuously, she lifts her hips from the bench, slides his pants underneath her, and then lowers herself back down, sitting on them. His state of undress becomes all the more unnerving, given her defiance.
"Do you always have to resort to grade-school tactics to get your way?"
"If that's what it takes, then yes."
"Lois," he grumbles, taking a few steps toward her and reaching out to lift her off of the bench.
"Don't even think about it," she warns, anticipating his tack.
He stops just short of her and contemplates another approach. Deciding on guilt-tripping, he tries, "Playing keep-away with my clothes is not spoiling me. I still have to get dressed and we still have to get through checkout. You're going to make us late for the movie."
In response, she crosses her arms over her chest and lines her jaw.
"Okay. Fine," he concedes, taking a few steps back to give her the space he's sure she'd be demanding any minute. "What's the matter, Lois? That I don't care about you dating the guy? Or that I don't want to date him myself?"
"Both."
He shifts his weight to his other leg and clenches his teeth, wishing she'd let him have this conversation with more on than just his socks and boxers. "Lois," he huffs, throwing up his hands in exasperation, "I really don't see the problem here."
"He's a very good-looking guy."
"He is."
"He's smart. And he's funny. And he's a perfect gentleman."
He pauses for a moment, considers her meaning, and then asks, "Let me get this straight: You want me to be up in arms because he has a brain, a sense of humor, and manners? Why would any of that bother me?"
"You know, we had this same problem with The Blur."
He shakes his head in confusion. "What?"
"You don't care about the company I keep."
"Not true."
"Very true," she counters, getting up from the bench, too restless to continue sitting. "It never once bothered you how much I liked talking to The Blur."
At the sound of her accusation, he starts to say something, but no words come out. There's really no correct response once she starts speaking in a whirlwind of incomprehensibility, he's well aware. There's only riding out the worst until it's over - until she decides she wants to be clear enough for him to understand. At a loss, hoping that the end is somewhere near, he hangs his head and feeds into her incoherence.
"I don't suppose I should point out the obvious about that last comment?"
"No, you shouldn't, smart-ass. Because 'the obvious,' as you put it, is exactly why my relationship with The Blur never bothered you. And now, there's yet another guy in my life who I really, really like, and you don't even blink an eye."
"Wait," he replies, looking back up at her, trying to find the center to her storm. "Are you trying to tell me that he's, like, The Blur 2.0?"
"Yes."
She watches as his face falls, and she immediately regrets her response. Quickly, she clarifies, "I'm not trying to say that he replaces The Blur. I didn't mean it that way. I just meant that he's kind of like…-" - trying to find the right words as he continues looking at her as if she just breathed green kryptonite into the room - "- a live-action version of a friend that I really only ever got to talk to."
"Oh," he quietly replies after a brief pause. "But doesn't that make him better than The Blur?"
"No. Not at all. It just makes him different. Not better or worse. Just different. Besides, I've met the real Blur 2.0, and, between you and me," she says, lowering her voice as if to tell him a secret, "I think he has a crush on me."
She watches a tiny smile quirk at the corners of his lips, and she backs off of a bit as she continues, "What I'm trying to say is that, unlike The Blur, he can meet me for lunch. Or he can tag along when I go shopping. Or he can come over and watch horror movies with me. And what bothers me is that despite how many more things I can do with him than I could ever have done with The Blur, you don't seem to care at all. You complain about him because you don't like him. Not because I do."
She sighs and uncrosses her arms. Breaking their eye contact, she turns toward the bench and moves his pants and other belongings to the side, even taking his glasses off of her head and setting them down. As she fidgets with a few more items, he finally gets what she's been saying.
"Lois, look at me."
She huffs, and plops down in the area that she's cleared for herself. Still avoiding his gaze, she crosses her legs and absently toys with an imaginary spot on her jeans.
"Lois?"
"What?"
"You want me to be jealous?"
"No, Clark," she groans, finally looking up at him. "I don't want you to actually be jealous. But especially when someone like him walks into my life, someone who I like as much as he likes me, which pretty much never happens, I would like for you to at least fake it every now and again."
Despite how much he wants to grin, maybe even laugh, he knows she'd probably only take it as him making fun of her or being dismissive. He considers his options for a moment. Then, putting on the sternest face that he can manage at the moment, he looks past her and spots her purse. Without warning, he walks straight over to the bench, ignoring her perplexed look.
"What are doing?" she wonders, as he reaches for her purse, unzips it, and starts rummaging through it.
He ignores her, pushing various things aside, taking care to not bend the edges of an unsealed envelope, and thinking nothing of the brass knuckles and lock pick set that he comes across, until he finds what he's looking for. Grasping her cell phone, he hands the bag to her as he steps away and starts scrolling through her list of contacts.
"Clark, what are you doing?" she tries again, firmer than before.
He finds the name he's looking for and presses the correct key. Turning back to look at her, he raises the phone to his ear, and calmly responds, "Calling him."
"No the hell you are not!" she nearly shouts, throwing her purse to the side and bolting up from the bench. She hurries over to him, reaching for her phone.
"Yes, I am. And I'm going to threaten him, since you've finally given me license to do so," he evenly states, trying to contain his amusement as she tries every move and every threat possible to get her phone away from him. Times like this, his height, size, and quickness give him an undeniable advantage, something that he knows she can't stand. "Quit it," he deters, pushing her hand away from his wrist almost as soon as she manages to reach it. Keeping his back to her, he adds, "Shh. It's ringing."
"Clark, I swear to god! Give it back!"
"Stop interrupting me," he throws over his shoulder as she leaps up, trying to reach over his back. Talking into the phone, he says, "Hello… No, this isn't Lois -"
"- Ignore him!" she tries, speaking toward the mouthpiece.
"No, ignore her," he corrects. "She's upset because she thinks I don't care about how much time you've been spending with her the last couple months… I will." He looks over his shoulder at her and informs, "He says to tell you that that's ridiculous."
Affronted, she turns her ire from the man in front of her to the man on the phone. "Tell him to stay out of this if he values his life."
Addressing the caller, he asks, "Did you hear that?... Good. Anyway, I'm calling to tell you that from now on, as far as you and the rest of the world are concerned, Lois Lane is off limits. And to show everyone how serious I am about that, I intend to lock her away in a tower somewhere, and throw away the key… You're right: She will probably find a way to break out at some point. But a man's gotta try -"
"- I'm gonna kill both of you," she insists, shoving him in his back.
He stumbles forward a bit, still talking into the phone. "Yeah, you can say goodbye to her. But just remember that if you ever come near her again, I'll have no choice but to break every bone in your body."
He turns around, ignoring the fire shooting out of her eyes, and calmly hands her her cell. She takes it from him and pushes him in his chest. Raising the phone to her ear, she talks into it as she continues glaring at him.
"Hello?" Upon hearing the man on the other end, she scoffs, rolls her eyes, and sharply replies, "Go to hell, Ollie."
Finally able, he cracks a smile and quietly laughs as she continues making threats.
"Your ass is mine the next time we see each other… Dinah's gonna hear about that comment… Screw you. He couldn't be in better hands… I'm getting off the phone now, Ollie. Goodbye." She presses the "End" key, and looks him in the eye. As incensed as she is amused, she shoves him in his chest one last time for good measure. "Very funny."
"I thought so," he quips, continuing to laugh.
She rolls her eyes, a slight smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, and walks back over to the bench. After putting her phone away, she turns back towards him and, crossing her arms and trying to appear as insulted as possible, asks, "Was there a point to that little prank?"
"Yes."
"Which was?"
"Payback."
"For?"
"For the picture you sent Bart."
She laughs despite herself, and unfolds her arms. Shaking her head at his smirk, she tells him, "Well, next time, can you find another way to get your revenge? Because if you make any more distress calls, you're gonna have everyone thinking that I'm spending the day torturing you or something."
"Yes, sir," he retorts, calming down a bit. "I take it Oliver said something about me?"
"He said, and I quote, 'We're going to find him a different babysitter if you let him get anywhere near 'the office' before tomorrow,'" she replies, using the agreed-upon code for his and his allies' activities. "I mean, first Bart? Now Ollie? It's like everyone thinks I'm going to send you back to work with bumps and bruises. Does no one trust me with you?"
"I do," he offers.
She smiles, but maintains, "You don't count."
"Jor-El does."
"He doesn't count, either."
"How about Mom?"
"Well, I can't argue with that one."
"Good."
Satisfied that she's less upset than before, he takes a couple of steps toward her and reaches out to hold her shoulders. She looks left and then right, observing his large hands covering her upper arms, recognizing that he's about to make some kind of point.
Lifting her head to meet his gaze, she gripes, "Are you handling me?"
He gives her a gentle smile and slightly shakes his head.
She shifts a bit, a small part of her wanting to protest his lie, just for the sake of doing so. But the larger part of her - the part that's already hanging off of his every word - wins out.
Rubbing her shoulders with his thumbs, he asks, "Do you have any idea how incredible you've been these past few months?" When she only responds by quirking an eyebrow at him, he chuckles, "Of course you don't."
She remains quiet, waiting for him to clarify.
"Lois," he smiles, "since I told you the truth, you've made two demands of me: that I discuss Harry Potter with you whenever you want, for however long you want, and without complaint; and that I never forget to kiss you goodbye if I have to leave in the middle of the night. That's it."
"You're losing me."
He smiles a bit more, unsurprised that he has to explain the matter to her so clearly. "I'm saying that you had every reason to want me out of your life after I came clean. But, in spite of all of them, you didn't.
"And since then, you have completely accepted my world into yours. The stuff that would stress just about anybody else out doesn't stress you out. You're as happy to see me come back as you are to see me take off to wherever I have to go. You've been curious about my heritage, and interested in the tiniest things about me. And you haven't tried to be this accepting. You just are. And I continue to be more and more amazed by that - by you."
Her cheeks warm at the sound of his sentiments, and she bites her lip to keep herself from smiling too hard.
He slides his hands up her shoulders and neck, and cradles her cheeks. "Now, would you like to know what all that has to do with your new friend?"
She gives a slight nod, and raises her hands to hold his wrists.
Tenderly, he whispers, "You share me with the entire world - graciously and gracefully… The least I can do is share you with one man."
Her smile breaks through, and she excitedly asks, "So he does actually bother you?"
"Of course he does," he admits, happy to see her so pleased. "In all the time that I've known you, I've never seen a guy grab your interest so quickly and keep it for this long. But you're both type-A personalities. You both have big mouths and even bigger egos. And you like a lot of the same things: fashion, food, and whatnot. If I weren't so secure about you and me, I would be a little jealous. But as it is, I'm just glad that you've met someone who challenges you and who makes you laugh. I mean, don't get me wrong, I do think he's courting you…" He trails off, not quite wanting to acknowledge the truth about the nature of her new friend's regard for her.
She chuckles, and presses, "But…?"
"But… I don't think he's doing it romantically."
"Because?"
"Well, setting aside how much I don't get along with him," he sighs, moving his hands to her waist, "I think that, for a guy like him, it's probably rare that he meets someone who actually impresses him, and it's probably even rarer that that person couldn't care less about his name. So I can understand why he goes so far overboard with you. It's just his way of paying you compliments, I guess."
"Aww…" she teases, draping her arms over his shoulders.
"What?"
"You're trying to help him."
Incredulous, he denies, "I am not."
"Yes, you are. You can't stop yourself, because it's just what you do. On some level, you sympathize with where he's coming from, and you think he could use a friend. So you're loaning me out to him."
He shakes his head in amusement. "Lois, loaning you out to someone is the absolute last thing I will ever do. And if I weren't so convinced that you would eventually find some way to escape, I would seriously consider the tower idea."
Giggling, she replies, "That may be the sweetest thing you've ever said to me." She stands on her toes and wraps her arms around his neck. He bends down a bit, accepting her hug, and she nuzzles the side of his face with her lips, venturing, "I think you do like him. And I think that for whatever reason, you just don't want to admit it."
"I wouldn't go that far," he grumbles, rubbing her back.
"Will you go so far as to reconsider your date?"
He lets out a long, complaining groan and drops his hands.
Still holding onto him, she whispers into his ear, "Please."
He huffs and sighs, and then answers, "I'll tell you what: If you let me make you dinner, I will let you try to talk me into it while I'm cooking."
She loosens her hold on his neck and lowers herself back onto the ground. "Clark, that's cheating. I'm supposed to be doing the spoiling."
"I have stated my terms, and they are non-negotiable," he smirks.
She cocks her head at him, trying to think of a way out of the corner he's backed her into. Unable to come up with one, she sticks her hand out, and replies, "Fine. Deal."
"Deal," he echoes, reaching out to shake her hand and seal their agreement. "Can I get dressed now?"
She lets go of his hand and takes a moment to look him over. Exhaling a sulking breath, she turns around to the bench and gathers a few of his things. "If you must," she sulks, pushing his pants and his shoes into his chest.
He smiles and takes a few steps back as she retakes her seat on the bench, crosses her legs, and disappointedly watches as he starts putting his clothes back on.
Seeing her dejection, he tries to lighten her mood, teasing, "You know, there is one thing that I wish you'd ask him to stop doing."
"What's that?"
"Kissing you."
She gently laughs, and clarifies, "He kisses my cheeks as a hello and a goodbye. Besides, people make out with you all the time."
"That doesn't count," he chuckles, pulling his pants over his hips and zipping them up. "Those people are usually a bit jittery because of whatever they've been through, and they just want to say thank you."
"What about Aden?" she counters. "He laid one on you at the winter holidays party, and you were in a suit and tie then."
"One: His boyfriend had just broken up with him - on the Day of Ashura, at that. Two: He was drunk. Three: He's still apologizing to us," he reminds, buckling his belt. "And four: If my memory serves me, which it always does, there was a big-eyed brunette cheering along with everyone else at the time."
Grinning, she remarks, "It was the most interesting thing to happen all night. I'm just sorry he realized what he was doing before he could manage to slip you some tongue." As she watches him pull on a shoe, she continues, "Anyway, the point is that me getting pecked in places that are not my mouth every now and again is hardly the same as people sucking face with you on a fairly regular basis."
He slips on his other shoe, and points out, "But yours are the only lips I ever kiss back."
"Except when some hussy spellbinds you into thinking she's me."
"But she wasn't you," he tells her, his voice earnest. "And it only took me a couple seconds to realize that."
"And it took her even less time to skip town before I could put her in her place."
"I took care of that."
Hearing his tone, low and firm, she smiles. For as much as she admires his geniality, she holds in just as high a regard his intolerance for certain things, one of which being malicious intent toward her or toward their relationship.
Prior to their revelatory night three months ago, he may have faltered in his reassurances to her, knowing that no matter his sincerity, his shroud of secrets made it difficult for her to believe him entirely. But since having every one of her misgivings dispelled by his honesty and transparency, she has known nothing but the embrace of his affections. And that embrace, unwavering in its warmth and its fortitude, has made allowing his new persona the latitude that it needs as easy and as natural a thing as she's ever done, regardless of how much it impresses him.
Perhaps for someone who revered him too highly and thus felt overshadowed by his significance and his endeavors, a relationship with him would be intimidating, even impossible. But for her, his exceptional standard is the only standard for him and the only standard to which she holds him. Thus, she's never doubted the truth of what he told her on the morning of their first anniversary, the very day that he debuted: He is committed to his calling and he is committed to her. And though that balance takes work, she is never in competition with any other aspect of the life he's chosen to lead.
Being held so securely by so high an esteem and by so strong a conviction, knowing who he's become and knowing what she means to that person, she is as confident that there is nothing that could shake his dedication to her and to them, as she is that, try as some might and occasionally do, there is no one.
Watching a familiar expression settle across her features, he wonders where her mind drifted to, and how his simple avowal could've earned such a tender gaze. "What?" he asks, hardly able to keep himself from grinning at the sight of her admiration.
She shakes her head as he beams, and simply replies, "Nothing."
Letting her have the thoughts that are written all over her face, he happily abandons his inquiry. Noticing her aimlessly shift around a bit in her seat and hearing her exhale a soft sigh, he lets his smile shine through. After a few beats, he asks, "Would you like me to kiss you?"
"Excuse me?" she replies, cocking an eyebrow at him.
"You heard me."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Your mouth is saying one thing. But the rest of you is saying something entirely different."
"Oh, really?" she asks, daring him.
"Mm-hmm," he responds, with menace in his tone. As he slowly closes the distance between them, he keeps his eyes on hers, and explains, "That's the fifth uneven breath that you've taken since I asked my question. Your pulse has quickened by seven beats per minute. Your skin is flushing a very particular shade of red. Your core temperature has ticked up half-a-degree. And, if I'm not mistaken, you just fought back the urge to bite your lip." He stops directly in front of her, and begins kneeling down onto the floor as he concludes, "So, I'll ask you again: Would you like me to kiss you?"
She watches him lower himself until he's eye-level with her, positioned along the side of her legs. "Just so we're clear," she quietly tells him as he reaches out to brush his fingers across her cheeks, "if you ever read me like that when we're fighting, I'll kick your alien ass all the way to some other galaxy - far, far away."
He chuckles at what, for her, amounts to a concession speech. Answering her threat in the appropriate manner, he offers, "Heard, understood, and acknowledged."
She smiles at his tenderness and at his thoughtful appeal to her military upbringing.
"Now that we've settled terms," he smirks, threading his fingers into her hair and leaning forward to whisper against her lips. "With your permission, Ms. Lane?"
"Granted."
…