[Rating: R - For occasional mild profanity, for suggestive language and dialogue, for sensuality, and for sexuality.]
CHAPTER 5
He watches as she closes her eyes in anticipation, and his smile widens. Lightly stroking her hair, he closes the small distance between them and presses his lips to hers. She whimpers at the initial contact and drapes her arms over his shoulders. When he eases her lips farther apart, increasing his pressure, she shifts closer to him. Seeking out more contact, she angles her head to one side, only to be disappointed when she feels him pulling away from her mouth.
"What?" she complains, opening her eyes to meet his.
"The movie starts in half-an-hour."
"And the theatre is only ten minutes away," she reminds, leaning forward to recapture his lips.
He moves out of her reach, telling her, "So we'll get there early."
"I can't make out with you in a fully-lit theatre," she reasons, using a hand to finger-comb his hair back and off of his forehead, revealing his face in the manner that the world-at-large now only sees when he's his other self. "Besides," she adds, "we can always catch a later screening."
He smiles at her persistence and at her restyling, which can only mean that she's serious about him staying put for the moment. Nonetheless, he maintains, "We should go."
"I'm not going to beg."
"I'm not asking you to," he chuckles, pulling his hands away from her and reaching behind her to grasp his shirt. "But I would like you to cooperate - for once."
"You turning me down, Kent?" she asks, finishing with his hair and resting her arm back over his shoulder.
Pressing a light kiss to her temple, he replies, "No."
"Then you must be avoiding me."
He slips his arms into the sleeves of his shirt and makes the mistake of not answering her quickly enough.
"You are avoiding me," she intuits, a broad smile spreading across her lips.
As he tries to close his shirt, she moves her hands to his chest, obstructing his progress.
"Lois," he warns.
"Is this about this morning?" she asks, hardly able to restrain her amusement.
"This is about getting good seats."
She laughs, "Oh, please. You and I both know that we're probably gonna be the only people present for your snooze-fest film."
"Lois," he groans, still trying to button his top.
"It's not my fault that you're a terrible liar."
Her laughter dies down as she watches him hang his head, giving up on his shirt and placing his hands on the bench cushion on either side of her. She'd point out that despite his professed intent, he still hasn't managed to get up off of the floor or to move away from her in any meaningful way, but there's no need to gloat when she's so obviously on the cusp of victory.
"Lois," he attempts, trying to maintain his resolve, "I'd really like to make it out of here alive."
She lightly teases her fingers across the nape of his neck, needling, "So you'll put yourself to every hazard but me?"
"Lois -"
"- You only say my name this much when you're really worked up about something."
"Ms. Lane -"
"- Nice try," she smiles, shifting in her seat. She watches him follow her movements as she scoots back on the bench, putting some distance between them. Uncrossing her legs and easing one of them to the side, she centers her hips in front of him and positions him between her thighs.
He swallows, trying to relax the tension in his throat. His chest rises and falls with his quickening, deepening breaths.
"I haven't even kissed you yet," she taunts, observing his increasing discomposure and moving her hands from his neck to hold the sides of his face. She tilts his head upward until his eyes find hers, and then whispers, "Is this why you didn't want me in here? Because you knew you'd end up in this position?"
His gaze falls to her mouth. She feels the muscles in his jaw flex as he clenches his teeth, wordlessly answering her question.
"I get that you're conflicted for whatever reason, so I'll take from your silence that we should leave now. But if you want to stay a bit longer, then you're going to have to speak up."
He licks his lips and closes his eyes, fighting back the urge to seek out the taste of her mouth. His current predicament is his own fault, he knows. He could've insisted that she not follow him into the dressing room, but then that would've meant interrupting the enchanting enthusiasm with which she delivers her nonstop style tutorials. And he certainly didn't have to initiate a kiss, but then that would've meant waiting even longer for the only thing he prefers to the sound of her voice - for the only thing he intended on pursuing during the course of the movie he never had any intention of watching.
Swallowing, he curses his body and its instinctive gravitation towards her. They weren't supposed to end up like this, not before they could talk.
The morning's interlude and its aftermath replays in his head. He recalls undressing for his shower and finding faint red lines along his thighs, in the places where she swept her nails across his skin. He couldn't explain it at the time, and they've been too busy the last few hours to discuss it since. And now, overcome by the prospect of her nearness, he senses his priorities inverting and his need for her mounting.
She says something, but his inner monologue makes her words impossible to comprehend. Before he can wonder what it was, he feels her pull her hands away from his face and then gently press them against his chest. He opens his eyes and backs away, giving her the room she's asking for. As promised, she makes the decision for them, standing, and pushing against his arm until he moves his hand away from the bench, allowing her to step away from him.
He watches as she throws her cup in a trashcan in the corner, gathers her things and a few bags of already-purchased items, and heads toward the door. His entire body sulks, missing her proximity already, and the only thought his mind can engage is her suggestion from earlier in the day. Trusting her intuition and preemptively conceding his defeat, he pushes his doubts from his mind, acts on his first instinct, and goes after her.
Just as she reaches for the door handle, she feels his hand grasping her forearm, turning her around, and pulling her back to him. Sensing his urgency, she starts to make some sort of quippy remark, but it dies on her lips as he presses his mouth to hers. She drops her things and winds her fingers into his hair as he wraps his arm around her back and holds her to him, turning them around and backing her into the wall farthest from the door.
The chill of the cool surface makes its way through her shirt and she shivers. He pulls at her bottom lip, sweeping his tongue across it, as he runs his hands down her waist. If it weren't for the thoroughly engrossing sensation of his kiss, she'd likely try to think of some way to mock him. But she'd achieve no success in the endeavor, because it's nearly impossible to maintain a single coherent thought - let alone a derisive one - when he treats her like touching her unlocks his entire existence.
She's found herself in nearly this exact same position with increasing regularity over the past few months. Storage closets, empty stairwells, vacant alleyways - it seems he's always whisking her away to any place that offers even the least bit of privacy. The only difference being that, lately, he's dropped the pretenses of needing her help with one thing, or wanting to talk to her about another. Lately, if she gets any warning at all, it's as casual and gentlemanly an "Are you busy?" as he can manage, as he looms over her desk, his eyes dark and his hands trembling from anticipation.
This, though, isn't quite the same as the many times before. Leading up to their current circumstance, she figured he'd torture himself until the lights dimmed in the movie theatre. And by then, his tenor would have been as frantic as it's been every other time that he's managed to get her in this position recently. But she can feel the difference in his touch as he whimpers in appreciation of her taste and slides his hands across her hips. His eagerness, his intensity are as palpable as ever, but far less turbulent than before. And that he's apparently accepted her encouragement from this morning reassures her. Nearly smiling, she eases her mouth farther open and presses her tongue past his lips.
"Mmm…" he gently moans.
His rising volume brings her back to the reality of their situation, and she murmurs against his lips, "Shh."
Not bothering to respond, he glides his tongue across hers and lifts the hems of her long-sleeved blouse and her undershirt, splaying his hands across the skin of her lower back. She suppresses a moan as his kneading fingertips send a rush of warmth directly to her core. Reflexively, she presses her hips into his. As his own arousal spreads through him, he shudders and gasps, louder than before.
Reining herself in, she tugs at his hair, pulling his mouth from hers. "You cannot keep that up," she quietly tells him.
Dismissing her warning, he recaptures her lips. She lets him push into her mouth, allowing the depth of their kiss to muffle his sounds. As he rakes his teeth across her lips, she unthreads her fingers from his hair, reaches her hands into his open shirt, and wraps her arms around his back. Pulling him flush against her, she notices his increasing strain.
"Clark?" she murmurs. When he doesn't answer, she takes a different approach, pulling his lower lip into her mouth and firmly biting down.
He hisses at the sharp sensation. She repeats his name and he hears her clearly. Opening his eyes, he slips away from her mouth, and pants, "Yes?"
"Maybe we should go now," she suggests, lightly fingering the muscles of his back.
"W-Why?" he stammers, fighting through his haze.
She smirks, "Why do you think?"
He pauses for a moment, trying to gather himself enough to understand her. Still confused, he questions her with his eyes, and for his answer, she pulls him closer to her and quirks an eyebrow. Finally taking her meaning, he tenses with embarrassment and averts his gaze from hers. Stay or go, he struggles to decide. But, after giving the matter as much thought as he currently able to, he quickly boils it down to whether the discomfort he'll endure either way is worth staying where he is. With his decision practically made for him, he finds her eyes, and maintains, "I don't mind that."
"You sure? Because after this morning -"
"- Please, stop talking," he interrupts, securing his mouth to hers.
She accepts the insistence of his kiss as he slides his hands up her back, along her skin. Somewhere within, she registers the heightened temperature of his body. Pulling her hands from inside his shirt, she grasps the fabric covering his shoulders and pushes it down his arms. He lets her go long enough for her to finish removing the top. As she tosses it over onto the bench, he brings his hands to her face, angling his mouth and kissing her deeper.
She hoped the air around them would cool him down, but the heat radiating off of his skin only increases. Concerned, she manages, "Are you alright?"
"Hmm?" he responds, pushing his hands back into her hair.
"You're so warm."
"I'm fine," he answers, pressing his lips firmer to hers.
His assurance fails to entirely convince her, but she takes him at his word for the time being. Circling her arms back around him, she hugs him tighter as she lifts a leg from the floor and hooks it across his hip. After nestling him against her, she opens her eyes to watch his face, and gently grinds into him.
He groans and shudders, tearing his mouth from hers. Feeling her press into him again, he squeezes his eyes tighter shut, and grates out, "Lois…"
"Yes, Clark?"
Holding her forehead to his, he brokenly insists, "I-I don't…I don't mind -"
"- Then let me mind for you."
He moans as she rolls her hips again. Then, shakily, he asks, "A-Are you sure? Here?"
"If here is where we are, then yes."
"But what if, um…I-I don't want to…"
"You'll be fine," she assures him, dotting kisses across his cheek. "We won't let you."
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
"This isn't fair to you."
"Yes, it is. So stop worrying, and try to relax," she purrs, punctuating her final word with another enticing swivel of her lower body. He moans again, and she quietly reminds, "Just don't be so loud."
Bearing in mind her caution, he clenches his teeth and bites back his sounds. He squeezes the hair at the base of her scalp as she continues moving against him.
Her long, deliberate strokes coax his reluctant desire toward its full bloom. But the escalating pace of his heartbeat and quickness of his breaths warn him against going any further. He tenses, and rasps her name.
"Hmm?" she answers, kissing the dip behind his lobe.
"I don't think I can -"
"- I told you: We won't let you."
"I know. It's just -"
His protest is silenced as she presses her mouth to his. Again and again, with torturous persistence, she massages his tongue in time with the rhythm of her hips until, finally, he whimpers, exhaling his tension and giving in to her.
Gently, she whispers against his lips, "You don't have to control yourself, Baby. Focus on what you feel. Focus on me."
Her use of the one endearment she rarely ever utters convinces him of just how significant a point she's trying to make. He nods, biting his lip, as she runs her mouth back across his jawline. Over and over, she presses along him. With the sound of her cajoling sentiments echoing in his ears, he concentrates on their points of contact, relishing the sensation of her body writhing against his.
More confident than before, his level of arousal at a comfortable height, he grows uneasy about so much of their attention being lavished on him.
"Lois…" he half moans, half asks.
Brushing her lips across his ear, she intones, "Hmm?"
"Can I?"
"Of course you can." Stopping her movements, she takes a hand from his back and grasps one of his in her hair. She drags his fingers and palm down the side of her body until she reaches the highest point of her thigh. Securing his grasp across the rough denim of her jeans, she whispers, "Slow and even."
After pressing an encouraging kiss to his cheek, she relaxes her back flush against the wall, unthreads her fingers from his, and rests her hand against the back of his neck.
Mindful of her request, he firms his grip across her thigh. And then, smoothly, he grinds into her.
"Mmh…" she whimpers against the skin of his neck.
Her soft exhale reverberates to his core, further heightening his senses. Feeling his body heat rise even further, he worries that his temperature is becoming too high for her. He clenches his jaw and swallows, considering whether to back away, but she only holds him closer, pressing her hands against his back and neck, urging him on. Convinced of her comfort, he continues pressing against her, focusing on her breaths, careful to not push either of them too far.
Her eyes closed, she trails suckling kisses across the fiery sinews of his throat. But with her mouth on him, he can barely make out her sounds. On its own volition, his hearing triggers, vastly amplifying the volume of her breaths and her pulse in his ears. And yet, even that fails to satisfy his need to hear her vocalize.
He slows his stroking, but increases his pressure. With more insistence than before, he rocks into her - over and over. His tenderness comes off of him in waves, charging the air around them. Her skin tingles and blushes, glistening with sweat.
"Clark…" she sighs in satisfaction, skimming her teeth along the curve of his throat.
He trembles as the sound of his name from her lips, threaded with such desire, sears onto his memory. Cleaving to the first instance of that intonation, desperate to hear it again, he maintains the tempo and tenor to which she seems to respond the most.
For a moment, he considers taking her from the restrictive surroundings that are apparently compromising her expressiveness, and laying her down on the couch in her apartment. They wouldn't be seen, he reasons, given his speed. And her brief protest to their sudden change in setting would be worth it if it meant soon after divesting her of her blouse and perhaps even her undershirt, and feeling more of her skin against his.
As he thinks the better of his impulse and tries to dismiss the thought, he registers that her teeth and tongue lightly sweeping across his neck and shoulder somehow feel sharper than they should, and that the pressure of her fingertips at the base of his scalp is becoming almost unbearable. Confused, but decidedly unwilling to pull away from her, he refocuses and persists.
"Lois…" he whispers, letting the sound of her name curb his trepidation.
Back and forth, he rocks against her at a steady pace, soothing the burning aches at both of their cores. Surrendering herself to his ministrations, she feels the cadence of his heartbeat reverberate down into her. His touch, his tone, his scent spread through her in wave upon wave until each ripple resounds in one of two distinct notes - entirely different, but somehow the same. She's here, and yet she's not. Caught between two moments in time, her body is overcome by the echoes of a forgotten dream. She bites her lip and resists her distraction, wanting only to be in his arms, here and now.
"Mmh… Clark…" she quietly moans, concentrating on him, losing herself in his rhythm.
Her voice, her breaths wash over him, singeing his skin. His chest tightens. His heart pounds. She whimpers his name again, and he feels her fingers press into his lower back. He braces himself, and she skims her nails across his skin. Wincing, his jaw trembling, he fights back a groan.
Frantic, piqued by the violence of his arousal, he fails to find the words to respond, to explain whatever's happening to him. His body persists of its own accord, continuing to press into her again and again. She grazes her teeth along his neck, pulling at his skin, and he grimaces. Fluttering trembles run down his arms and legs, further confounding him. And when she closes her mouth over a strong sinew and gently bites down, he sharply inhales, "Ah…"
Hearing the pain in his voice, she opens her eyes and turns to face him. Immediately, she notices the moisture, where none should be, across his knotted brow. "Clark?" she worries, but to no avail, as he fails to perceive anything but the fury raging through him. Growing more concerned, she quickly moves her hand to his chest.
Registering the gesture that speaks the loudest, he finally hears her clearly as she tells him, "Clark, stop."
At once, he ceases his movements. Frozen in place, his chest heaving, he feels her slide her leg from his hip and lower it to the ground.
Cradling his face in her hands, she presses, "Open your eyes."
He does as told, letting her see the contesting impulses in his gaze, both the longing and the uncertainty.
"What's wrong?" she asks, her alarm evident in her voice.
He swallows, trying to gather himself, wishing he could give her an answer.
"You're sweating, Clark," she pointedly states.
Confused all the more, he unthreads his hand from her hair and touches his brow. Pulling his hand away, he examines the moisture on his fingertips. "Uh…I-I don't…um -"
"- Oh, my god," she gasps, taking her hands from his face.
"What?"
"Your neck," she panics, pushing at his upper arms and turning him around.
At too much of a loss to resist, he lets her direct him toward the wide, full-length mirror on the other side of the room. His mouth falls open as he sees what she's talking about. Raising his hand to his neck and shoulder, he touches the large patches of deep reds and purples marring his skin.
"I did that? I can't believe I did that. I didn't know that could happen," she rattles off, backing away from him.
"It…can't," he quietly states, still examining the reflection of his contusions. Suddenly, he hears her gasp and he turns to see her terrified expression. "What is it?"
Her hands covering her mouth, she muffles, "Your back."
He turns his head over his shoulder, looks at the mirror, and discovers the source of her distress: four long, deep welts lining the skin just above his pants. Given the similar lines from that morning, he's not entirely surprised to see more of them now, but the severity of the broken ridges does give him pause.
"I'm sorry," she quickly apologizes, ashamed of what being close to her has done to him. "I didn't know that would happen. I'm so sorry."
Hearing a hitch in her voice, he turns to face her, and sees the excess moisture beginning to gather in her eyes. "No, Lois. Please, don't cry," he says, moving toward her.
Reflexively, she takes two steps back.
His chest tightens and he stops in his tracks, knowing that he'll only make things worse by pursuing her. "Lois, this isn't your fault."
"Yes, it is," she shakily replies.
"No, Sweetheart, it's not."
"Do not call me that right now," she insists, her eyes brimming.
"I'm sor -"
"- And don't apologize."
"Okay. You're right -"
"- And stop handling me!"
"I'm not handling you."
She swallows, nearly choking on the knot in her throat, as the first salty stream makes its way down her face. "I didn't even touch you that hard."
"I know," he says, trying to reassure her. "But this wouldn't be your fault even if you had."
She shakes her head and heads toward the door, but he steps in front of it.
"We are not leaving with you in tears."
"We can't talk about this in here, anyway," she points out, as more moisture spills out of her eyes.
Understanding her meaning, he takes a moment to focus his hearing. Listening through and past the walls around them, he checks the other dressing rooms and the nearby areas of the store for the sounds of breaths and heart rhythms. Grateful for what he finds, he returns his attention to her. "There's nobody else back here. No one's going to hear us."
"I broke you," she sobs, looking at his marred skin. "I broke the Man of Steel."
Her stricken, guilt-ridden face overwhelms him, and he tries to find the right words to assuage her. "Lois, please -"
"- No, Clark. I did. I broke you. And I probably would've killed you had we gone any further. I can't believe I did this to you."
"Lois -"
"- Stop trying to talk me down! You don't sweat, your skin doesn't bruise, and your skin doesn't break. There's no way to explain that. I hurt you. I can't believe I hurt you…" She trails off as a few drops fall from her chin to the floor.
"You didn't hurt me," he lies, trying to sound believable.
"Yes, I did," she struggles to articulate. "You said, 'Ow.'"
"No, I didn't -"
"- Don't argue with me."
Clenching his jaw, he tries again, "You didn't do anything wrong. I'm fine."
"Then why do you look like you were just in the fight of your life?"
"Well, I can't explain why the marks are there in the first place, but I'm willing to bet that the only reason they haven't gone away yet is because I'm making you cry over something that isn't even your fault. It's mine. I should have brought this up earlier this morning, when -"
"- Earlier this morning?"
"Yes, there were, uh…red lines, where -"
"- Where I touched you? Why didn't you tell me?"
"Well, to be perfectly honest, those marks weren't exactly in a place that I wanted you examining. But I was going to bring it up later. And I didn't think we'd end up in this kind of situation before we could talk."
She shifts her weight to one leg and narrows her eyes. "So you figured you'd let me push you to the brink of death before you spoke the hell up?"
He watches her wipe away a few more tears, grateful that at least they're becoming angrier, and less sad. He'll take her being mad at him over her being upset with herself any day.
After clearing his throat, he attempts to account for his delay. "Lois, I didn't mean -"
"- You should go."
"What?" he asks, almost terrified of her response. Her trying to leave would be one thing. Her kicking him out would be something entirely different.
She shrugs and sniffles, "You need sun."
"I'm looking at my sun."
"Oh, god," she scoffs, glaring at him. "Now is so not the time for you to lay on the sentimentality."
"I'm not being sentimental," he replies, only realizing that he's stepped toward her when he sees her step away from him. Stopping himself in place, he persists, "I'm trying to tell you that this will all go away if you just stop avoiding me."
"No," she responds, shaking her head as devastated tears continue running down her cheeks. "I'll probably kill you."
"No, you won't." He clenches his jaw and takes a breath, thoroughly regretting the repercussions of his decision to put off their discussion. Unsure of what to say or of what side of her to appeal to, he resolves to not waste any more time wondering, and simply asks, "Lois, what's it gonna take? Just tell me. Do you need me to make up some lie about why this is happening? Would that at least make you feel better for the time being?"
"No."
"Then do you need to hear that you mean too much to me for this to be your fault? Or would you rather I just stop talking and let you cry it out?"
"No, and no."
"Then what do you need?"
Her eyes on fire, she sharply replies, "For you to have brought this up before you pinned me against the damn wall."
"Alright. That's fair. Point taken," he tells her, relieved to have finally identified a problem that he can address. "I have procrastination issues. We both know that. And if you want to tear me a new one about it later on, then I'll completely understand. But for now, Lois, you're upset and so am I. So why don't you just let me hold you, and we'll both feel better?"
She pauses, regarding him with frank defiance, a clear indication that she's on the verge of giving in. Respecting her final moments of resistance, he remains silent and indulges her indignation.
She shifts and sniffles, and finally relents. Forgetting for a moment why she ever refused to do so in the first place, she crosses the small space between them and walks into his open arms. He exhales in relief and encircles her in his embrace. His warmth and strength instantly curb the strength of her sobs, and her tears begin to slow. Sighing and relaxing into him, she wraps her arms around his back and buries her face in his chest. He holds her closer and soothingly rubs her back until she's perfectly still in his arms.
After several long minutes, he hears her whisper, "You're cooler than before."
He smiles at her observation, and, without needing to verify anything for himself, bares his neck to her, asking, "All better?"
She pulls her head away from his chest and examines his throat and shoulder. Then, standing on her toes, she looks over his shoulder and into the mirror behind him, checking his back. Seeing no signs of damage, she settles back onto the floor, and tells him, "Yes."
"I told you you'd make it go away," he whispers, pulling a hand from her back to stroke her hair.
She smiles at his sentiment, and sniffles, "I need tissue."
"There are restrooms on the third floor," he suggests, relaxing his hold. "I'll be back in two seconds."
Hugging him tighter, she insists, "Too long. Stay here."
"I wasn't exaggerating."
"I know, Preeny McPreenerson."
He lightly laughs at her remark, and then, after a moment, remembers, "Oh, wait. I have something." Reaching into his back pocket, he produces a large, folded square of floral-printed white cotton.
Noticing the familiar pattern and the initials "M.K." embroidered in a corner, she pulls away far enough to meet his gaze. "Why do you have that?"
"Mom's orders," he answers, wiping the faded linen just underneath her eyes. "She gave me this one and a small box of blank new ones after she moved back home."
"Why?"
"Tradition, I guess," he shrugs, running the cloth along her chin and nose. "Dad used to carry them around for her."
"So you've got a bunch of handkerchiefs just waiting to have my initials slapped on them?" she retorts, taking the one in his hand from him.
"Only if you want," he answers, while she dries the spot on his chest where she pressed her damp face. "I know you're not big on this kind of thing. It's just that she made me promise to keep that one in particular on me, and to not bring up the others until I had to offer it to you."
She smiles a bit more, affected by the larger significance of his mother's gesture. "Embroider away, Smallville," she replies, handing the cloth back to him. "But since you're the crier between the two of us, don't be surprised if you get more mileage out of them than I do."
He chuckles, happy to be able to please both of the women in his life, and relieved that the one in his arms is back to her usual joking self. After tucking the handkerchief into his pocket, he brings his hand to her cheek, presses a kiss to her temple, and asks, "Do you feel better?"
She nods in reply, moving her arms from around his back and reaching up to hold his face.
Brushing his fingers along her jaw and chin, he offers, "I'm sorry I scared you. And I'm sorry I didn't bring this up earlier."
"You're forgiven. I'm sorry I freaked out."
"I'd expect nothing less," he quips, and immediately receives a firm punch to his shoulder. "Kidding, kidding," he smirks. "Considering how I know I'd react if I ever thought I hurt you, yours was a mild response."
"You wouldn't hurt me, Clark," she replies, inclining her mouth and sealing her assurance with a soft kiss. After pulling away, she asks, "You sure you feel okay? All your super-systems are go?"
"Yes, and yes."
"Good," she responds, titling his head down and quickly pressing her lips to his brow.
As he leans back up to look at her, he finds her, quite predictably, in investigative mode. And so, he's unsurprised when she grabs his shoulders, pushes him backwards until his legs hit the bench, and unceremoniously shoves him down into a seated position.
"Alright. From the top," she tells him. "Why were you so warm?"
"I'm not sure," he answers, watching her as she starts picking up the things she previously dropped, clearing the area in which he figures she intends to pace around.
"Try again," she presses, setting most of the items down in a corner, and then dropping her purse and coat onto his lap.
He looks down at her things, unsure of what he's supposed to do with them. When she doesn't hear him begin to offer any details, she turns back toward him and realizes what the matter is. As he regards her with confusion, she mumbles something about habit, grabs her things out of his lap, and sets them on the bench next to him. He gives her a teasing smile, and she insists that he shut up and answer her question.
Obliging her, he explains, "All I know is that I usually have to be exerting a ton of energy to run that hot. But even then, I don't sweat, because my body can take it. My temperature just doesn't need to be regulated like a human's."
"How much energy are we talking about?" she asks, walking aimlessly around the room.
"As much as it'd take for me to lift… -" - trying to quantify - "- The Daily Planet. While standing on the ground, though, not while in flight. It's gotten easier for me to lift things when I'm in flight than when I'm not. I could probably lift one of the Rockies if I were mid-air and concentrated hard enough."
"Yeah, why is that exactly?"
"I'm tactile-telekinetic. Which basically means that I kind of unconsciously transfer a degree of my invulnerability to things that I touch. Well, to things that are at risk, anyway." Pointedly, he expounds, "So something that, say, falls from really, really high up and lands in my arms -"
"I'd remind you that I was thrown from that rooftop."
"- doesn't get hurt or damaged in the process of me catching it." As she rolls her eyes at him, he continues, "It's also the same principle that keeps things or people that I run or fly with from feeling the stress of traveling with me at such high and rapidly alternating speeds."
"Which is why I don't get whiplash?"
"And also why your hair doesn't get windblown. -"
"Because, god knows, you'd pitch a super-sized fit if anything bad ever happened to my hair," she mutters under her breath.
"- And also why you can handle the low oxygen and low temperature when we're way up."
"It's funny how you know that, and yet you still wrap that cape around me like it makes the least bit of difference at 35,000 feet."
Ignoring her dig, he finishes, "The point is that my flight is a mind thing, not a body thing. So when I fly, since my brain is working harder, the things that I touch get even easier for me to carry and move. And they get even less vulnerable."
She sighs, and then turns on her heel and paces back in the other direction, processing the latest bit of information about him. "Tactile-telekinetic, huh?"
"Yes."
Chewing her lip, she contemplates, "So you don't even break a sweat moving mountains, but you just broke one with me?"
"Apparently. The only other times it's happened were when there was kryptonite around," he replies, shifting in his seat, trying to gauge her mood. Figuring he shouldn't hold back, he edges, "And, generally, for someone or something to leave a mark on me, well…he, she, or it would have to be at least as strong as I am. Though, even then, the mark usually wouldn't last very long."
She sharply exhales and runs her hands through her hair, thoroughly put out by the notion of her touch having effects anything like those of his greatest weakness or those of his enemies' blows. Trying to come at things from a different angle, she asks, "Well, what did you feel just now?"
In response to her question, his cheeks flush a bit. Seeing his reaction, she grasps what he's thinking, and a slight laugh bubbles up from her throat. Her anxieties somewhat tempered by her amusement, she waves a hand, dismissing his misinterpretation, and clarifies, "I mean, other than the obvious, what were you feeling?"
"Oh," he shyly smiles, relieved to not have to detail his arousal. After clearing his throat, he tries, "Well, hot, obviously. But even though that's not normal for me in this kind of situation, it is normal for me in others. So, the heat itself didn't bother me. I mean, it was probably uncomfortable for you, but -"
"- It wasn't."
"…It wasn't?"
"It wasn't."
"…Oh. Okay, well…I felt…hyperactive. Overwhelmed, I guess. Kind of like I passed the limit of what I could take. My hearing even triggered for a while there -"
"- Wait, wait, wait," she interrupts, stopping her strides and squaring her shoulders in his direction. "Your super-hearing?"
"Yes," he slowly replies, certain that he's said something wrong.
Unable to resist the opportunity to taunt him, she crosses her arms, quirks an eyebrow, and sternly demands, "Was I not loud enough or something?"
"I didn't say that," he quickly denies.
She switches gears from provoked to provocative, relaxing her face and posture, and asking, "You want me to be louder?"
"I want you to do whatever you're comfortable with," he sincerely responds, relying on his senses of decorum and diplomacy. "And I don't want you to do anything that you're not comfortable with."
"Always such a gentleman," she chuckles. Answering the question his ears already asked, even if his mouth won't reiterate it, she promises, "Well, tell your super-hearing that it won't be necessary if you ever get me alone somewhere that's not in earshot of shoppers, employees, and mall security."
She can practically see the shudder that runs through him at the sound of her assurance. He blushes a little harder, averts his gaze from hers, and quietly laughs at himself. Somehow, he's certain, she'd still find a way to flirt with him even if the world were to end in the next ten seconds.
Backing off, she waits a few moments, letting him regain his composure. Then, she returns to the matter at hand. "Okay. So, presumably, you went into overdrive or something. Which explains the heat." Beginning to pace again, she goes on, "But even if you were a little too revved up, I still shouldn't have been able to hurt you, right? At some point, your instincts should've kicked in and you should've resisted the pain. So what went wrong?"
"I'm not sure," he shrugs.
"Has anything like this ever happened before?"
"No. Never." Thinking harder, he tells her, "I mean, while I was still maturing physically, my abilities did go haywire every now and again. But that doesn't happen anymore. Besides, I don't think this has to do with my powers. It's more like…my sense perception, maybe."
She pauses in place again and covers her face with her hands. Rubbing her temples, she groans, "I still think this means that I broke you."
"Lois, if there's an issue here, I'm sure it's with me, and not with you," he maintains, as he gets up from the bench and walks over to her. Hearing his approach, she drops her hands from her face and gives him a discouraging look. He stops moving and rolls his eyes as she steps forward, grasps his shoulders, and pushes him back toward the bench. As she shoves him down again, he continues explaining, "Normally, yes, my sensory threshold keeps me from incurring damage and keeps me from getting hurt, no matter what extreme the sensation that I'm engaging is on. But, I don't know, maybe I just…over-engaged your sensations."
"You've never 'over-engaged' me before," she says, resuming her pacing.
"Yeah, but we've never, you know, done anything…like that…before."
"Well, I wish I could say that I'm flattered to get such a unique reaction out of you. But if it means me hurting you, then I'm not thrilled in the least."
He starts to get up once more, but reminds himself to stay put. Gently, he replies, "Lois, you don't have to be afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid of you. I'm afraid for you. If I make you super-sensitive, then that's a problem." She pauses for another moment, and sighs again. Never has she considered their positions being reversed in so ironic a manner. And having only experienced such a degree of fear and guilt for the past several minutes, she can hardly imagine what it must have been like for him to carry a far greater burden for years on end. At a loss, she throws up her hands, and suggests, "Maybe you should just take a trip to the fortress."
"No. Not a chance," he nearly laughs, as the notion of listening to his parents dispute how best to reassure and edify him plays out in his mind. Perhaps his mother, whose essence was summoned forth the moment he first flew, would manage a few gently conveyed, though entirely awkward to receive, insights. But, on the other hand, he can just imagine the booming, humorless voice of his father explaining to him the logistics and mechanics of a physical relationship.
"Clark," she sharply reproves, affronted that he finds something amusing. "If there's even the slightest chance that being close to me could hurt you, then you're gonna have to drop the modesty and talk to someone about this. I mean, I barely even touched you and you looked like you just did twelve rounds with the entire Kandorian army."
As concerned as he knows she is, he still can't help but find a certain amount of humor in their odd role reversal. Trying to restrain himself, he tells her, "I wish you wouldn't blame this on yourself. I'm the alien here, remember?"
Seeing the edges of his mouth quirk up, she stalks over to stand directly in front of him. "I cannot believe you find this funny." Planting her hands on her hips, her indignation reaching fever pitch, she goes on, "If you think the media storm was crazy after your debut article, then just wait until I publish your obituary. I'm gonna go from noted to notorious in the time it would've taken you to change into your red and blue."
At the sound of her rebuke, his smile breaks through and he begins to chuckle. Seeing how irritated she's getting with him, he tries to stop himself. But the harder he tries, the harder his laughter comes. "I'm sorry, Lois," he brokenly manages through his rolls of giggles and chortles.
"What is so damn hilarious?" she demands to know, punching his shoulder.
"Lois, you've met my parents."
Still not getting the joke, she drawls, "So…?"
Laughing even harder than before, his cheeks straining and flushing, he struggles to say, "So, Lara would be one thing. But can you imagine Jor-El answering the kinds of questions that you have?"
She considers what he's asking, and remembers him introducing her to the fortress. Bearing in mind his father's overblown sense of formality and grandeur, she understands just how unbearable it would be to hear him answer questions of a physical nature.
She looks down at him, nearly breathless from his hysterics, and pushes him in his chest. Seeing him enjoy himself this much, she can only shake her head and chuckle a bit. Considering how broody he was once upon a time, him now being able to laugh at a situation before torturing himself over it is a victory she'll happily accept. Smiling despite herself, she watches him work through his mirth until he's calm enough to quietly offer her his signature grin - the one that she finds both infuriating and irresistible.
"Are you done now?"
His lips ruddy and his eyes bright, he eagerly nods his head.
As he finishes catching his breath, she rifles through a few things on the bench. After finding his shirt, she bends down, pulls him up from his seat, and turns him around. He cooperates, and lets her help him slip his arms into the sleeves. But before he can start to button up the garment, he feels her yank him around and then push him back down. Yet again, he calls her a bully, and she smiles in response. He starts to pretend aggravation a bit longer, but thinks the better of it when he realizes why she handled him so brusquely. Almost without thinking, she places a hand on his shoulder for balance, and sits down across his thighs.
"Habit?" he teases, brushing some of her hair out of her face.
"Shut up, Smallville."
As he shifts her around a bit, making sure that she's comfortable, she crosses her legs, pulls the open sides of his shirt together, and begins to slip the buttons back into their respective holes. When she's halfway done, she quietly tells him, "I'll be more careful next time."
He rests one hand on her knee, and rubs her back with his other. "You don't need to be careful."
"All evidence to the contrary?"
"Stop agonizing," he smiles, kissing her cheek.
"I don't want to kill you, Clark."
"I'll die happy."
"Would you please take this seriously?" she huffs, dropping her hands into her lap, having finished with his buttons.
"I am taking it seriously. And I am seriously not worried," he consoles. "There's every possibility that this only happened because there's been over a year of buildup between us."
"That's a stupid reason."
"Why?" he asks, taking his hand from her knee and threading his fingers into hers.
As she watches him lift her hand to his lips and kiss the life and love lines of her palm, she explains, "Because if the buildup was the issue, then you wouldn't have lasted as long as you did."
Holding his ground, he retorts, "Do you always have to hit below the belt?"
She smirks, and pushes back, "In case you weren't paying attention a little while ago, I have nothing but the utmost respect for what goes on below your belt.'"
"You really are relentless, Lane," he whispers, easing his mouth open and tracing his tongue across the sensitive skin of her inner wrist.
"Stop that," she half whimpers, taking her hand away from him.
Satisfied with her response, he rests his arm across her legs, meets her gaze, and offers her a gentle smile.
"What if this happens again?" she asks, the corners of her mouth turned down.
"I don't think it will."
"You could be wrong."
"Maybe. But any scenario that begins and ends with you in my arms is fine by me."
"Oh, god," she replies, her frown disappearing as she giggles and shakes her head. "Your lines are getting cheesier by the second."
"But no less sincere."
"What has gotten into you?"
He grins, watching her reach down next to him and pick up his glasses, and simply responds, "I'm just having a good day, is all."
"Despite the two near-death experiences?" she asks, sliding the frames back onto his face and then using her fingers to comb his hair back down over his brow.
"I don't really mind tempting my fate."
"Says the man with the weak link in his invulnerable chain."
"You are not my weak link, Lois," he tells her, wrapping his arms farther around her. "I didn't lose my abilities. I didn't lose control of my abilities. And I didn't pull away from you. That tells me that I just had an overreaction of some kind. And as tends to be the case when something goes wrong with me, I'm sure you're the solution, not the problem."
His tender assurance puts a wide smile on her face, and she leans forward to hug him. He holds her close, continuing to rub her back and stroke her hair.
After several moments, she pulls far enough out of his embrace to meet his gaze. Her amusement clearly evident in her tone, she checks, "You do realize that we're not gonna spend the entire movie trying to solve anything?"
"I do now."
…