[Rating: PG-13 - For occasional mild profanity, for some suggestive dialogue, for some mature language, and for moderate sensuality.]
CHAPTER 6
"Barefoot and in the kitchen - just the way I like you," she quips, turning the corner and making her way across the linoleum floor.
He chuckles at her remark and looks up from the open refrigerator. As he watches her pull a chair from under the small dining table, turn it to face his general direction, and then take a seat, his laugh gives way to a wide smile. When she said she was going to go change, he figured he'd be down another set of loungewear by the time she returned. And so, he can't help congratulating himself upon finding her clad in one of his pairs of plaid pajama pants and one of his white t-shirts.
Whereas during their first eleven months, she only ever laid claim to his flannel shirts, in their time since, she's begun hoarding practically ever kind of item that she can get her hands on. Whether his dress shirts, casual button-downs, tees, or sweats, nothing is safe from her clutches - a thought at which he can't help but warm. She was right, he silently acknowledges: There is just something about the sight of her wearing pieces of him, and the knowledge that she's enough at ease to help herself to whatever she wants, that he finds both revealing and reassuring.
Back when they lived under the same roof and she actually bothered with returning his belongings, he mistook her pilfering his shirts and socks and hanging around the farmhouse in them as presumption, an opinion which he reiterated time and again on the occasions when he had to explain her appearance to his father. But now, he understands her habit as a simple expression of her comfort with him and her affection for him - two things that, despite their mutual denial, were there right from the very beginning.
The sound of her voice penetrates his reverie. "You're doing it again," she tells him, crossing her legs into a lotus position, and adjusting the short sleeves that she still had to roll over a couple of times to get his shirt to fit her better.
Though caught in the act of staring, he still smirks, "I'm not apologizing."
"For once in your life."
He chuckles and shakes his head, reaching into the fridge to retrieve the two bowls that he only just placed in there.
As he makes his way over to the dining table, she fusses with the cuffs to his pants, asking, "Does Mrs. K. know you're only staying for two nights?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Because your duffel is pretty packed. There's practically a week's worth of clothes in there."
He sets aside a white cloth napkin resting on one of two placemats, and then replaces it with the bowls. Going to grab a fork, he shrugs, "She knows you steal my stuff, so she probably just packed spares."
She rolls the bottom of each pant leg up one more time, and lightly laughs at his obliviousness to his mother's insinuation. Letting him hold onto his delusion, she shifts gears, asking, "And the extra suit and extra pair of boots?"
"It never hurts to be prepared."
"Spoken like a true Kent," she says, finishing the cuffs. After looking up and finally noticing the bowls sitting next to her, she peers into the dishes, and finds apples slices in one and orange supremes in the other. "Are those for me?"
"Yes. You need a snack."
"And how do you know that?"
"I just do," he smiles, handing her the utensil.
She takes the fork from him, and as he turns to leave her side, she grabs one of his pockets and pulls him back to her. He turns around, and watches her pluck one of the supremes from a bowl.
"Thank you," she tells him, extending the piece of fruit to his mouth.
He leans down far enough and lets her slide the morsel past his lips. Not missing the opportunity, he nips at the tips of her fingers before she pulls her hand away from him.
Smiling at his impishness, she licks the traces of citrus and him from her fingers, and lets go of his pocket. "So what's on the menu?" she asks, satisfied with her quick cleanup.
He finishes chewing and swallowing his fruit, and then bends down farther to place his hands on the chair, on either side of her hips. Closing the distance between his mouth and hers, he jokes, "Well, I wouldn't mind having your lips for dinner, but I'm thinking they may be more appropriate for dessert."
"Alright, it's official: You have the worst lines ever," she giggles, backing away from him. He pursues her, but she pushes against his chest, still laughing. "Haven't you had enough of that? You spent half the movie with your tongue down my throat."
Grinning, he points out, "I let you sleep through the first half. So fair is fair."
"Patient and persistent. Lucky me."
In response, he grips the sides of her chair and stands upright, lifting her and the seat off of the floor until she's eye-level with him. After which, he once again leans in toward her.
She continues laughing and pressing against his chest, deterring him. "This is called 'preening,' Smallville," she teases, observing her current position.
"So sue me." He reaches a hand farther under her chair, balancing it and her in one arm, while he moves his other hand to cradle her cheek.
"Does this mean I'm invulnerable now?"
"Not really. And especially not if I drop you."
At the sound of his retort, she finally gives in, grasps his shirt, and pulls him to her. Their mouths meet in a soft, playful kiss. She teases her tongue across his. He nibbles at her lips. After a few minutes, she slips away from him and leans down toward the table to grab an apple slice. Placing it between her teeth, she offers it to him. Chuckling, he bites off half of the fruit, leaving the rest for her, and then presses his lips to hers one final time. As she chews her piece and lets go of his shirt, he leans down to gently rest her and the chair back on the floor.
"So what's actually for dinner, Martha?"
"Martha?" he asks, confused.
"As in, Stewart. Not Kent."
"Oh, okay. Because if kissing me makes you think of my mother, then I'm doing something wrong," he says, turning around to head back to the fridge.
As he walks off, she places a good-humored slap across his backside, and replies, "No offense to Mrs. K., but if one of your parents were ever to cross my mind, it'd be Jor-El."
"Ew, Lois," he cringes, opening the door to the refrigerator and seeking out the necessary ingredients for her meal.
"There's just something about that condescending tone of his that does it for me."
"He comes across kind of high and mighty to everyone. But he's not so bad once you get used to him." Holding an armful of chilled items, he nudges the door closed with his knee, and adds, "Kind of like the brunette that I'm seeing."
"Smart-ass," she chuckles, grabbing her fork and the bowl of oranges, and beginning to munch away at the fruit.
He leaves his things on the counter, rolls his long sleeves up to the crooks of his elbows, and opens a cupboard, looking through it. "You're having roasted lemon-garlic chicken. Mashed sweet potatoes. And steamed broccoli and cauliflower."
"Oh, c'mon," she pouts. "That's three vegetables. And I hate broccoli."
"No, you don't. You just hate the idea of something that looks so healthy and green."
"I won't eat it."
"Yes, you will. Because you'll have sweet potatoes as a consolation prize."
"Operative word: sweet."
He smiles to himself as he takes several things from the cupboard, and then closes it. "If you had your way, you'd live off of nothing but candies, cakes, and crap."
"You forgot coffee."
"You've gone seven-two days without falling off that wagon," he reminds, washing his hands in the nearby sink. "So let's not even go there."
"I'm beginning to think I'm with the wrong alien. J'onn would never force-feed me vegetables," she taunts, earning a glare as he briefly looks over his shoulder at her. "Anyway, speaking of wagons," she begins, grabbing both of her bowls, standing up, and walking over to his work area, "when are you gonna hop on the one carrying my buddy's band?"
"Never, if I can help it." He looks up from drying his hands and watches her try to scoot onto the countertop next to him, without putting down her bowls. Amused by her struggle and at her refusal to let go of her snack, he steps to the side, grasps her waist, and lifts her up onto the surface.
"Thanks," she says, crunching on an apple.
Before turning to the task of breaking down the foodstuffs in front of him, he quickly kisses her cheek, and smiles, "You could've just asked."
She shifts around on the counter, getting comfortable, and, as if the cause of her difficulty should have been obvious, muffles, "I'm eating."
"What else is new?"
His crack earns him a kick in the leg, being that her hands are occupied and thus unable to deliver a blow.
"You get me to yourself for twenty-four hours, and all you wanna do is bully me? That figures."
"Jackass," she retorts, as she slips another bite into her mouth.
Chuckling, he reaches for a cutting board and a knife as he counters, "Ball-breaker."
"Farmboy."
"Nazi."
"Jerk."
"Harpy."
"Wampa."
"Tauntaun."
"E.T."
"Elliot."
Bested, she can only feign indignation as she carps, "You know, you're impossible to talk to when you get all sappy like that."
He looks up from juicing lemons and chopping parsley, and pokes her leg, goading her. "You like my sappiness. Admit it."
"Never."
"You do realize that that's basically an admission in itself?" he asks, returning to preparing fruits, vegetables, and spices.
"I realize no such thing."
She uses her hand to pick another supreme out of her bowl, and offers it to him. Without looking up from his preparations, he opens his mouth and lets her feed him more of her fruit. She smiles as he dots a quick kiss to her fingertips, his way of telling her that she still has his undivided attention, even while he's poring over making her dinner.
As he continues chopping, slicing, peeling, and dicing, she watches his every movement, impressed as always by the care he takes with anything that has to do with her. With his abilities, he could have her meal on the stove and in the oven in a matter of seconds. But, that would defeat the purpose of his display: demonstrating to her through indirect means his commitment and consideration. With such a degree of thoughtfulness shown to so ordinary a task as cooking for her, she finds it hard to believe that he imagines himself failing her in terms of their intimacy.
Earlier that day, with her back pressed to a dressing room wall, it took an amount of restraint that she didn't know she had in order to keep herself from her release. And had it not been for whatever happened with him, she's certain that her efforts would have failed soon enough. His hands splayed against her, his long, fluid strokes, his rhythm so keenly attuned to that which she responds made it nearly impossible for her to maintain her already tenuous hold on her self-control.
The memory of his pushes and pulls against her sends a ripple of warmth down into her, and, shifting a bit in her seat, she tries to stamp out the beginnings of that burgeoning flame. But, sitting so close to him, watching his eyes fixed on the items in front of him and his hands moving with deft precision over them, she can't help the need to pull him out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and into her bedroom.
At the thought of continuing what they started hours ago, her heart flutters, and she realizes that there's every chance that he heard it. As she sees him pause and look up at her, the wheels in her head immediately begin to turn, and she tries to think of something to say in response to the question she knows is coming.
"Are you okay?" he asks, observing her, his hearing having triggered at the sound of her heart's altered rhythm.
Trying to avoid a direct answer, she responds, "Why?"
He looks her up and down, wondering what the matter is, and immediately perceives the heightened temperature and slight flush of her skin. He studies her further, wondering if he should mention those things, but he can tell from her stiff posture and fixed facial features that for whatever reason, she'd rather he didn't. Giving her the break she's looking for, he suppresses his smile, and simply points out, "You stopped eating. Do you want something different? There's plenty of other stuff."
"No, I'm good," she quickly answers, spearing an apple slice with her fork and taking a bite from it.
For the sake of whatever's bugging her, he picks up the bowl of lemon juice and leaves her side, hearing her sigh in relief as he opens the refrigerator to deposit the bowl in the fridge. Unable to resist teasing her for just another second, he asks, "So are we gonna talk about it?"
"Talk about what?" she nearly coughs out.
He smiles from behind the refrigerator door, and clarifies his question, "About my rival for your affections."
"Oh, him," she replies, grateful to not have to go into what was going on with her a few moments ago. She shifts in her seat again, crossing her legs at her knees, and prepares to get down to business. "I think I was saying something about his bandwagon."
"You were."
"Well, my point," she begins, "is that I can't understand why it's so hard for you to get on board with someone who so many people in your life like. Ollie wouldn't have put him in contact with you if he didn't think you two had some things in common. Not to mention, this is the same guy who helped Chloe disappear, and who helped Mrs. K. make a quick and quiet exit from public life."
"He did those things as favors to Oliver. What does that have to do with me?"
"Everything. So don't play dumb," she warns, wishing he were close enough for her to give him another swift kick in his knee. "Your decision to debut changed things for all parties involved with you. Chloe finally got her rear in gear and bowed out of the superhero game. And Mrs. K. finally had a good reason to leave national politics and resettle on the farm."
"You said 'all parties involved.' What about you?" He stops stalling at the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, and closes the door.
"Well, all I had to do was write an article," she smirks, as she takes the drink that he hands her. "That, and figure out how many more times Mrs. K. can find us mid-makeout on the couch before you die of embarrassment."
"I'd hear her coming if you weren't so…well, you know."
"Distracting?"
"That's an understatement. But yes."
"Quit complaining. She's never once been bothered by catching us."
"She's never once let me forget about her catching us, either."
"Poor you. Your mother encourages you playing tonsil hockey with me. Life must be so hard."
"You two are impossible. Dad would've taken my side."
"I like to think that even Mr. Kent would've sided with reason. You're pretty, and even with Madden 11 in the room, I'm only so strong. What could he expect?"
"Not the family room, at least."
"Well then, until you find a place in the city, it's a good thing I'm flexible enough for the tractor."
"You're relentless."
"You're worth it."
He smiles at her light flirtation, happy that she's entirely over her momentarily lapse in composure. After a few moments, he sees an amused smirk peak at the corners of her mouth. His smile inverts as he wonders why she's on the verge of laughing at him. It takes her looking him up and down, pointing out his current position, for him to realize that he hasn't moved from standing directly in front of her.
"Oh," he quietly states, remembering what he's supposed to be doing. Getting himself back on track, he heads off to the pantry, and thanks a higher power that she didn't make as much fun of him as she could have.
While he searches for something, she returns to the matter at hand: "Anyway, let's not forget that if there really was a reason for you to have a problem with the guy, then your sixth sense would've told you that something was up with him, just like it does every other time you run into someone with ulterior motives. I mean, c'mon, Clark, you trusted him with your own mother. And even though he apparently sucks at farm chores -"
"- Kind of like someone else I know," he quips, knowing that she wishes he was close enough to punch him.
She rolls her eyes, tallying how many blows she owes him, and presses on. "Yes, despite being an even suckier farmer than me, he liked Mrs. K. so much that he wanted to help out while he visited with her. That had nothing to do with you. But it does say a lot about his character. What else do you need to know about him?"
"Him getting along with the women in my life is not reason enough for me to fall all over him," he maintains, reminding himself to straighten up her unorganized pantry when she's not around to give him a hard time for doing so. Closing the pantry door, his sought-after items in hand, he goes on, "Besides, I only met him a couple months ago and we've already had it out twice. I think that goes against us getting along in the long-term."
Remembering hearing both sides of their petty arguments after the facts, she can't help but chuckle at his protest. Each time, they sounded like a pair of squabbling siblings who refused to share a toy, which, she allows, isn't a dynamic with which either one of them is familiar.
As he retakes his position beside her and asks what she's laughing at, she manages, "Two alphas that are trying to figure out how to breathe the same air are bound to butt heads. I'd be shocked if you two hadn't fought by now."
Dropping a few sweet potatoes onto the cutting board, he incredulously denies, "I am not an alpha."
"Oh, gimme a break," she giggles, waving off his assertion and chewing away on her last orange supreme. "You are and you know it. The second you're in hero mode, you command whatever space you're in and the attention of everyone around you. And the problem is that he's the same way. You two only argued because you're not used to having any competition on that front."
"And on the civilian front?" he asks, pulling open a drawer and searching for a peeler.
Setting the empty bowl aside, she shrugs, "Well, I have no idea what your problem is there. The guy's basically me, just with a few things added, and a couple of things subtracted."
"According to your math, I might as well date him," he grumbles.
"He'd have to get through me first." She watches him smile in spite of his overblown objections and close the drawer, peeler in hand. Taking advantage of his lowered defenses, she nudges his leg with her bare foot, and gently says, "C'mon, Smallville. He likes you. You like him. And we both know that there's no good reason for you two to not get along. So what's the real problem?"
He lets out a long, contemplative sigh. As juvenile as he knows his reasoning is, he can't help that it's still there. Shaking his head, he picks up a potato and begins removing its rough skin. "You'll think I'm just being stupid."
His sulky reply immediately brings a joke to her mind. But, not wanting to discourage him from articulating whatever's been the matter, she simply asks, "What is it, Clark?"
He stops peeling, takes a steeling breath, and meets her gaze. Prepared for whatever her response may be, he puts his question to her: "Regardless of our relationship: Do you like him more than you like me?"
She tilts her head to one side, studying his wrought facial features. Apparently, she's been right all along, and a toy really is what's at issue. Shifting her remaining bowl of fruit into one hand, she reaches over with the other and rests it on his forearm. Offering him an honest reply, she says, "I like you both. For your similarities, and for your differences."
Looking down at her hand touching his skin, he asks, "Similarities?"
She thinks for a moment, running her hand from his wrist to the crook of his elbow. Having gathered her thoughts, she explains, "Beyond having about the same sense of justice and the same commitment to justice, you two are incredibly complex, incredibly smart, and incredibly sweet. And neither of you can beat me at Guitar Hero."
Despite himself, he can't help but chuckle a little at her response. Looking up at her, his face warmer and more relaxed than before, he wonders, "And our differences?"
Sensing the change in his mood, she sets down her bowl, uncrosses her legs, and lightly pulls at his arm. He takes her hint, leaving the potato and the peeler on the cutting board, and moving to stand in front of her.
Grasping his waist with both hands and pulling him closer, she replies, "Well, you two are like day and night when it comes to stuff that's not the basics. Country mouse; city mouse. Flannel and denim; cashmere and silk. Black and white; shades of gray. The list just goes on and on."
As she eases him between her legs, he rests his hands on her knees and voices his final reservation: "And if, today, you were to meet both of us for the first time, who would you choose? Romantically, I mean."
Her lips stretch into a broad smile, and she matter-of-factly replies, "You. Every day of the week and twice on Sunday."
"Why?"
"For one, you're taller. For two, you're bulkier. For three, I have this thing for extraterrestrials," she teases, running her hands up the sides of his torso and across his shoulders. She watches him look down and follow her wandering touch, and warms at the thought of how sidetracked he gets by something so simple. Leaning forward, she rests a hand on his cheek, and presses several lingering kisses to his other cheek. As she traces her thumb across his lower lip, she quietly tells him, "But, most importantly, you complement me in a way that no one else ever has. Whereas, dating him would kinda be like dating myself. And even I have to draw the self-love line somewhere."
The sensation of her finger running across his mouth, the scent of fruit tingeing her breaths, the sound of her voice soft in his ear push him further to distraction than he realizes. Beyond controlling his own faculties, he offers an instinctive reply: "Where exactly?"
The tone of his response stops her mid-motion, and she feels his entire body go rigid as he realizes what he just asked. Pulling back from the side of his face to meet his gaze, she finds him looking nothing less than mortified. Unable to restrain her amusement, she chuckles, "Clark Jerome Kent. Really?"
"I, um…" Ripped from the haze he was just in, he struggles to find some sort of excuse. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."
"Then why are you blushing?" she giggles, watching every bit of his exposed skin turn redder than she's ever seen it before. When he takes his hands off of her knees, averts his gaze, and begins backing away from her, she grabs his shirt and pulls him forward, insisting, "Come back here." As he shakes his head, silently berating himself for his utterance, she asks, "You meant that, didn't you?"
Trying to regain some degree of his composure, he sharply exhales, and looks up at her. His jaw trembling from humiliation, he rambles, "Did I, um… Did I offend you? I'm sorry if I offended you. I don't know where that came from. Had I been thinking clearly, I never would've…"
As she listens to him try to account for his slip, she can't help being reminded that his modesty is one of the things she finds most remarkable about him. That he's not beyond being embarrassed by her or even by himself speaks to the unassuming nature that's so essential to the person he is. Despite how much he's seen and been through, he's still not beyond surprise. There will always be something at his core that can never be jaded - something that the best parts of world can always affect, but that the worst parts of the world can never touch.
Hearing him stumble, hearing him fall over himself to make up for what he assumes was an offense, she adores him all the more. Focusing on her is what does this to him. Her proximity and her touch derail his sense of propriety, making it nearly impossible for him to hold back the truth about anything - especially his desire.
For a moment, she considers interrupting his mea culpa by telling him that she's never needed him more than she does right now. And if it weren't for the fact that such an admission would lead directly to what she's been trying to avoid, and if it weren't for the fact that there's something woefully unromantic about their first earnest attempt at intimacy taking place on her kitchen floor, she would.
But, reining herself in, she simply moves her hands to hold his face, and tells him, "Stop apologizing. I'm not offended."
"You don't have to say that to spare my feelings. You could tell me if -"
"- Please, stop," she insists, trying to tune out his persistent litany of unintentionally endearing apologies.
Taking her response as a sign of discontent, he continues, "I'm just trying to tell you that I'm sorry. We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but I'd at least like to say…" He trails off as she breaks their eye contact and takes a hand away from his face. Certain that he's dug himself as deep a hole as he's ever dug with her, he remains silent, watching her dip her index finger into the empty bowl where her orange supremes were, and drag along the bottom of it. Not knowing what to make of her seeming disinterest in him, he tries again, "Lois, if you'd just hear me out -"
"- Stop talking, Clark," she whispers, observing his bemused expression as she lifts her finger and traces the juices coating it across his mouth.
Part of her knows that it shouldn't be playing with fire, but a larger part of her is finding it harder to care. Watching him watch her, she takes her finger away from him and slips it past her parted lips. Slowly, she rolls her tongue along her slender digit, before closing her mouth around it, and gradually withdrawing. Her display achieves its intended purpose as he forgets to breathe, and the air stills in his lungs.
Draping her arms over his shoulders, she regards his expression, recognizing it as the same one he wore in her bed that morning, right before she made clear to him what he'd yet to fully accept - that she has never been insensible of the sway she holds over him, and that her hitherto reluctance to impose certain aspects of that sway should in no way belie her interest or her intent. From his speechlessness and his motionlessness, she can tell that he's braced for a similar demonstration. But after their exchange in his dressing room, she's certain that there's no need. Instead, she'd much rather convey her admiration for the attributes that have landed him in his current position.
Grateful that his glasses aren't around to get in the way, she runs her fingertips over the sensitive skin between the backs of his ears and his hairline. Not above drawing out his anticipation a bit longer, she asks, "May I?"
Entranced, unsure of what's motivating her, unsure of anything beyond the sensation of her hands and the warmth of her gaze, he exhales, "Yeah."
Someday, she tells herself, she'll have to explain to him that the facet of his demeanor that she gives him the hardest time for is precisely what she's currently responding to. But for now, she lets the mystery hang in the air as she slowly leans toward him, and quietly instructs, "Stay still."
His jaw quivers at the first touch of her mouth to his, as she lightly presses against his upper and then lower lip. Drawing back to within a breath of him, she licks her own lips, tasting the sweet tang of the juice that she left on him. Extending her tongue just enough, she sweeps across the outline of his mouth, gathering the remaining bits of liquid. Anticipating her, he closes his eyes to fully appreciate the next sensation, and isn't disappointed as she eases his mouth open with hers, and presses forward.
Softly, she slides her tongue against his, sharing with him the flavor of citrus. His breaths increase, and his hands tremble in the open air on either side of her legs. Had he not been told otherwise, he'd try holding her waist, her arms, her face - anything to keep him from feeling as if he'll float away. But he wouldn't give her an excuse to stop what she's doing for any need of his to stay grounded. And so, he lets her easy presses, flicks, and rolls against his lips and tongue lull him into some higher state.
Had he the capacity to maintain a coherent thought, it'd amount to his constant wonder at her duality. No one who spends his or her workdays with her or encounters her under most other circumstances would suspect there being anything patient or tender about her. And even the few people who receive just as much of her sympathy as they do of her hostility don't realize that she's still never at full tilt with them. For that, only he is ever present. And it's long been understood between the two of them that she doesn't forego the filter because she thinks he'll put up with anything when it comes to her, but because she trusts his unique ability to perceive the complexity and the meaning beyond her sound and fury.
Somewhere within his reverie, he registers the hints of apples and oranges disappearing across his palate, leaving the flavor that's distinctly hers: vanilla and cherry. Without fail, that taste of something sugary and yet spiced, mild and yet sharp, never leaves her. It's some kind of material manifestation of the two fundamental parts to her whole. And while either would be remarkable on its own, combined, the two amount to so much more - to someone whose entirety never ceases to amaze him.
If only the rest of the world knew the secret of her true identity to the extent that he does. If only they could imagine that for as harsh as she can be, she can be just as gentle. If only they could witness a brash, indiscriminate storm of a woman kissing an invulnerable man so delicately that even he thinks himself capable of breaking.
At the feel of moisture dampening the pad of one of her thumbs, she pulls away from him to study his face. His eyes still closed, he gravitates forward, seeking out her mouth. When he doesn't find it, he finally manages to crack open his heavy eyelids enough to find her waiting for him to come back to himself.
Before he can wonder why she stopped, she softly asks, "Where'd you go?"
Not understanding her meaning and not entirely certain as to why it should matter at present, he leans toward her, trying once again to recapture her lips. But before he can reach his destination, she takes a hand away from his face and puts it in his line-of-sight. Deterred, he focuses on her thumb, seeing a smear of clear liquid spread across its tip.
Again, she asks, "Where'd you go?"
The only other time she found him teary in the middle of one of their kisses was the night she returned from her six-day escape, after he told her not only the truth about who he really is, but also the truth about what she means to who he really is. Leaning over him as he lay in her bed, she could understand his overflow of emotion, being that he'd spent the entire time she'd been gone agonizing over how she was, and over whether she'd still want him in her life after having been deceived by him for so long. But the pain of uncertainty and the fear of loss can't possibly be what have prompted the current state of his watery eyes.
He watches her watch him as she cradles the sides of his face in her hands, caressing his cheeks with her thumbs, giving him however much time he needs to form a response. Gazing at her, reminded yet again of what makes her so exceptional, he feels another stream dribble its way down his cheek, and onto her hand.
He lowers his eyes, takes a breath, and swallows, trying to pull himself together. Why he's suddenly on the verge of losing it over the enormity of his affection for her, he hasn't a clue. Just a moment ago, he was getting teased for acting like a toddler in the company of his equally childish non-competition. And just a moment before that, he was casually eating fruit from her hands and lips. But now, for reasons that escape him, lines of salty water run unbidden down his face.
His head hanging, his eyes squeezed shut, he recalls having done this with her before. Or rather, he recalls a different version of himself having done this with her before.
As the sun rose in a red sky, his future-self shed quiet, unrestrained tears that marked the completion of the metamorphosis, ill-gotten as it was, that he experienced after spending a night wrapped up in her. That detail was one of the many that he left out when briefly describing to her what happened between her and his counterpart. But now, despite his contempt for that man's dishonesty, he wishes he brought himself to relate to her more than just the generalities of her memories, if only so she'd understand that across time and space, she still has this effect on him.
For the second time today, she's certain that she's broken him. One minute, she's putting bruises across his indestructible skin, and the next minute, she's kissing him to tears. His admission from that morning about his struggle with keeping a handle on the physical manifestations of his psychological investment in her now rings all the more true. And for as much as she sympathized with his inner tumult while sitting across his lap with his head buried in her chest, the day's subsequent events have shined an even brighter light on just how beyond his control his feelings for and reactions to her are.
If she weren't as certain as she is that he doesn't want to continue making such a spectacle, she'd wrap her arms around him and let him cry it out - like she did the last time. At that thought, she pauses for a moment to correct her thinking. He's never done this before. Not to this extent. That night a few months ago only resulted in two or three tears, and certainly didn't want for a prolonged embrace. Not like the streams trickling across her hands at present.
She blinks a few times and breathes deeply, attempting to shake off her peculiar sense of familiarity with his emotional upheaval. Refocusing on him, she thinks for a moment, considering how to help him without making him feel more uncomfortable than she's sure he already does.
Still holding his face, she presses a quick kiss into his hair, and then tilts his head up. When he doesn't open his eyes, she takes as indignant a tone as possible, and tells him, "Man of Steel, my ass. You're nothing but six-and-a-half feet of mush, Clark - I swear to god."
Upon hearing her reproach, a small, disbelieving chuckle makes its way past his lips. That she's decided on abuse of all things to address his current issue speaks directly to the fact that her intuition, though odd and sometimes exasperating, is seldom, if ever, wrong.
Seeing him smile, if only a little, she persists, "I'm serious, Smallville. My next front-page headline is going to read, 'I Spent the Night with the Man of Mush.' And don't think that Perry 'I-Never-Saw-a-Circulations'-Ploy-That-I-Didn't-Like' White won't go for it. He'll probably think it'll appeal to the middle-aged, middle-American market of women who already line their walls with pictures of you, like you came right out of the pages of their trashy romance novels…"
As she continues taking shots at whomever and whatever crosses her mind, he drops his head and chuckles a little more, grateful for the distraction. By the time she's rounded back around to making some pretty pointed digs at him, his tears have finally stopped enough for him to hazard opening his eyes. He blinks a few times to clear away the excess moisture, and finally peers up at her to find her looking back at him with concern. But, rather than coddle him, she simply rolls her eyes and concludes her invective: "And as for my exposé on how much of a sap you are, when Perry asks me how I know what I know, I'm just gonna flat out tell him that I cheated on you with, well, you, and that you fell apart in the middle of it, because either you have the emotional fortitude of a Twi-hard tween, or I'm just that damn good."
As she finishes her final stab, he quietly laughs and shakes his head. For the first time since he removed them from her knees, he manages the presence of mind to do something with his hands, lifting them from his sides and resting them on her forearms. She brushes her thumbs underneath his eyes, wiping away the dampness that's still there, and he warmly smiles at her, silently thanking her for helping him to regain his sense of equilibrium. Returning his smile with a small one of her own, she deeply inhales and slowly exhales, and he follows her example, ridding his body of the discord it was experiencing moments ago.
He moves his hands up her arms, and feels the wetness still lining the back of her fingers and her wrists. Remembering his father's handkerchief, he reaches a hand into his back pocket and retrieves it, and then takes one of her hands from his face. After running the cloth over her skin, he rests her dried hand on her leg, grasps the other, still-damp one, and begins drying it in the same manner that he did its counterpart. When he's finished, he places her hand on her other leg, folds the handkerchief over, and begins wiping his eyes and face. All the while, she watches his movements and studies him, wondering if he knows how much she empathizes with what he goes through.
Keeping in check the desires that her feelings for him inevitably brought about was a near-impossible undertaking during the long months prior to his reveal, when it was clear that he wasn't prepared to progress their relationship past its chaste status. And though learning the nature of his concerns in that regard soon after he told her everything about himself at least gave her a clear basis for her continued restraint, it also gave a sharper and all the more significant focus to her yearning.
More than anything, she wants to help him learn to trust her with himself and to trust himself with her. But he's fragile, and she knows that better than anyone else - better than even he knows it himself. And so, she could very well do an irreparable amount of damage should she put him in the position of not being ready or able to give her what she needs. Which, of course, is him.
She regards him with doubt, growing increasingly concerned about whether they'll be able to put his misgivings to rest before he begins to lose his faith in their ability to do so, and growing increasingly anxious about what such prolonged and repeated difficulties could mean for his outlook on their relationship. If only he could feel her against him, hear the effect that he has on her, taste how much she aches for him, then he'd understand what she's known from the very beginning, what she's felt from the moment she found him lying lost, helpless, and alone in a cornfield: He doesn't have it in him to hurt her.
All the same, reaching a point at which he's comfortable enough to pursue the intimacy they both hope for demands of her a degree of fortitude and foresight that's becoming all the more difficult to maintain the longer she spends near him, missing something that she can't remember having, haunted by a presence that she can't remember forgetting.
At so close a proximity, even without observing her expression, it'd be impossible for him to not pick up on such a significant change in her mood. Just as he finishes drying the last damp spot on his cheek, he notices the slight tremble of her right hand, and can just make out the altered pattern of her breaths. Setting the handkerchief next to her on the countertop, he takes her hand in both of his and looks up at her. Finding her regarding him with something he doesn't entirely recognize, the worry lines in his face appear, and he asks, "What's wrong?"
Dismayed by a question that she can't answer honestly, and knowing that he won't be able to focus on anything else until she answers him satisfactorily, she racks her brain for a means of putting some necessary distance between them for the time being. Dropping her head to avert her gaze from his, she takes her hand from his, grasps his hips, and prepares to ease him away from her.
Confused by her movements and put off by her silence, he bends down far enough to find her eyes. "Lois?" he tries. When she doesn't respond, he rests his hands on the sides of her face and tilts her head up. Finally getting her to look at him, he repeats, "What's wrong?"
Gathering herself, she puts on a smile that she wishes were more genuine, and quickly tells him, "You're never gonna finish cooking if I'm around, so I'm just gonna go answer a couple emails, follow up on a few things, maybe do some spell-checking…" She trails off, as she starts pushing against his hips.
Not believing her reply for second, he points out, "You didn't answer my question."
"Yes, I did." Abandoning his hips and reaching for his forearms, she ties to sound convincing as she adds, "I need food. Which, for me, is as big as a problem gets."
As she pulls his hands from her face, he falters a bit, "But, y-you…" Taking a breath, he suppresses his wounded response to her rejection of his touch, and attempts reason, "You just had a snack. Besides, I'd probably be able to tell if you were hungry."
Hearing his disappointment and reluctant to push her excuse to a full-blown lie, she drops the act, and simply tells him, "I just need a minute."
"Why?" he asks, as she pushes against his chest to get him to move back. When she's finally gotten enough room, she slides off of the counter without having answered him. More determined than before, he repeats, "Why?"
"Please, stop asking me that," she replies, trying to maneuver around him.
He plants both of his hands on the edge of the counter, keeping her in place, and asks, "Did I upset you a minute ago? I didn't mean to upset you."
"You didn't."
"Then why are you leaving?"
She groans, stuck between not wanting to hurt his feelings and not wanting to tell him the truth. If he weren't taking a day off, she could at least hold out for some sort of claim on his attentions to reprieve her predicament. But in lieu of an external force and failing her own willingness to deceive him, nothing is going to get him away from her until she comes clean. Still, she tries, pushing against one of his arms until he relents.
"Lois, what's wrong?" he presses, unsure of what she needs to hear or of what he should do. As she walks by him, he finds himself reaching for her hand before he can think to stop himself. "I want you to stay," he tells her, as she turns back to look at him.
Glancing down at their only point of contact, her hand in his, she fights to maintain her resolve. "Ten minutes, Clark."
He steps closer to her, and gently replies, "In ten minutes, you'll be acting like nothing ever happened, and I'll never find out what's going on with you."
She scoffs and rolls her eyes. He's right, and she knows it.
When she once again fails to respond, though, he clenches his jaw and shifts his stance. He knows her well enough to know that if she were determined to leave, she would've been gone by now, even if it meant saying something cutting enough to dissuade him from following after her. But at the very least, her silence means that she's conflicted, and, since she never minces words or actions when he's the object of her discontent, it also means that he himself isn't technically the problem.
"Talk to me," he encourages.
Her resolve waning, she clears her throat and pulls her hand out of his. "Later," she assures him, and turns on her heel to head for anywhere but where she currently is.
Seeing her take her first step away from him, his mind switches into a higher gear, and he watches her movements slow to the point of nearly stopping. Though momentarily taken aback by the involuntary activation of a power that typically only his conscious mind can command, he doesn't resist it if it means keeping her from avoiding whatever the issue is. As he watches her body barely moving at all, he steps around and in front of her, positioning himself between her and the entrance to the kitchen. And then, taking a breath, he slows his mind back down to its regular pace.
Before she makes it a step toward the door, she feels a burst of air blow through her hair, and sees him appear directly in front of her. "Dammit, Clark!" she shouts, bouncing off of him and stumbling backward as her heart nearly leaps out of her chest.
He reaches forward to grab the backs of her elbows, keeping her from falling down. After righting herself, she jerks away from him, scolding, "When are you gonna get it through your head that my nerves cannot take you materializing out of thin air? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
Grateful that she's talking to him even if she's yelling, he offers, "I don't actually mean to scare you."
"So why do you keep doing it?" As he starts to respond, she interrupts, telling him, "You know what, don't even bother."
She starts to step around him, but he moves in front of her. "I'm sorry, and I will be more careful next time. But you still haven't told me what's the matter."
"I don't want to talk about it," she insists, with warning in her tone.
"You don't have to. Just tell me what it is."
Sizing him up and trying to figure out a way around him, she refuses, "No."
"Why not?"
Exasperated, she runs her hands through her hair and lets out a sharp groan. Cocking her head to the side, she flatly responds, "It's a woman's issue."
"Okay. What kind?"
"Not the kind that I want to talk to you about."
"There is no kind that you don't want to talk to me about."
"This is different."
"I don't believe that."
"You weren't supposed to."
"Are we fighting?"
"No. But I am gonna kick your ass if you don't move."
Sighing, he steps forward and reaches for her hand. "You can threaten me all you want, just -" He stops short, watching her cross her arms over her chest and step back. Halting his progress and narrowing his eyes, he lets his frustration surface as he tells her, "I didn't do anything to deserve that."
"Tough."
"Is this your idea of spoiling me?"
"Oh, don't even go there."
"Why are we fighting?"
"We're not!" she shouts, throwing up her hands in aggravation and marching toward the small opening to his left.
As she approaches him, intent on insinuating herself past him and out of the kitchen, he considers letting her. But he hasn't spent over a year in their relationship without developing as stubborn a disposition as hers.
Just as she clears his side and has the entryway in sight, she feels his arms quickly encircling her torso and pulling her backward. Taken off guard, she loses her balance and nearly falls into his chest. He wraps her up, grasping one of her upper arms and one of her forearms, holding them against her body and restricting her range of motion. Realizing the position she's in, she musters as much attitude as possible, and grates, "You have got to be kidding me."
"You'll get over it," he retorts, waiting for her useless attempt to get loose.
Huffing, she moves her arms to test his hold, but finds him inflexible. Gritting her teeth, she pushes forward against his arms, and backward against his chest, determined to get him to budge. She grunts and strains, and tries and tries, over and over. For a second, she even considers throwing her head back into his chin, if only to prove a point. But, standing in front of him with nothing on her feet, she's not quite tall enough to do so. Much to her chagrin.
"You are unbelievable," she grumbles, twisting from side to side, failing to make any progress with that maneuver as well. "We both know that I've taken down guys twice your freakish size. So you better believe that this crap wouldn't fly under a red sun. In fact…"
Hearing her launch the first in a volley of toothless abuses, and unable to let the humor of her futile exertions escape him, he smirks as he speaks over her, "Would you knock it off? You'll just exhaust yourself."
Petulant to the last, she gathers herself, and then presses against his embrace with everything she has left.
Utterly unfazed, he chuckles a bit, reminding her, "You've seen me brace a falling high-rise for half-an-hour. Be realistic, Lane."
As her body finally reaches its limit, she gives up, collapsing back into his chest. Struggling to catch her breath, she pants, "One of these days, you, me, and a chunk of blue-k are stepping into a ring."
He takes her weight, glad that she's stopped fighting the inevitable, and asks, "Are we talking boxing or mixed martial arts?"
Swallowing, her chest still heaving, she maintains, "Whichever. Either way, you don't stand a chance."
"It's a date," he replies. "But since there is absolutely no way I'm ever going to punch, kick, or throw you, you'd save me from taking a beating if you'd just pull the obvious trump card."
"I don't speak alien, Smallville. Translate."
He chuckles at her gibe, and then tilts his head down to whisper in her ear, "You can always tell me to let you go, Sweetheart."
His words linger in the air as she contemplates her situation. Regarding the entrance, and then peering down at his hulking arms and large hands enveloping her, she weighs her options. Somehow, she reasons, he must know that he's not fighting fair. She'd have to be on a real tear to walk away from him right now, and if she were on that sort of tear, he wouldn't have made such a move in the first place. Deferring to his perceptiveness and accepting her body's wishes over her mind's reservations, she closes her eyes, and leans her head back into the front of his shoulder.
After feeling her relax and hearing her breathing return to normal, he quietly asks, "Do you remember the last time you were really upset about something?"
She thinks back for a few moments, and then shakes her head.
"Well, I do," he says, loosening his grip on one of her arms to knead her overworked muscles. "While you were in New York, some commentator from FoxNews set you off by insinuating things about the nature of your relationship with me. And you nearly lost it on the air because of what those sorts of suggestions could do to the perception of your journalistic integrity."
Recalling the incident, she scoffs, "Well, he wasn't exactly wrong. I am sleeping with you - technically."
"Technically, yes," he agrees. "But not as far as the rest of the world is concerned." Moving a hand underneath the oversized sleeve hanging down over her elbow, and rubbing her upper arm, he adds, "Besides, he only made that assumption because he couldn't imagine a woman with your eyes, and smile, and hair, and skin, and figure landing a story as big as mine solely on her professional merits."
"You're not going to sweet talk me out of the fact that -"
"- Stop it, Lois. We've been through this before: We were barely even speaking the first time I asked you to write my story," he reminds. "You have a background in reporting about extraordinary things. You have a great reputation with your colleagues and your readers. Your public involvement with my new persona doesn't put any kind of secret identity at risk. And, most importantly, I trust you. That's why it had to be you, and couldn't have been anyone else. This," he emphasizes, wrapping his arms all the way around her and holding her closer, "is just coincidence. Okay?"
She nestles her head further into his shoulder and reconsiders his reasoning. Convinced of his sincerity, she nods.
As he begins rocking her back and forth, he asks, "You still want me to jettison him into deep space?"
She nods again.
"I'll think about it," he playfully indulges. Returning to the matter at hand, he recalls, "Anyway, I was in Chile at the time that interview aired, and I didn't get your voicemail about it until later that night, at the same time that I got your friend's voicemail about how upset you were. But even when I finally made it to your hotel, I was only there for a few minutes before I found out about Victor and Carter being abducted. And I didn't see you again for three days."
Opening her eyes and turning her head to look up at him, she reassures, "I didn't mind you being busy."
He offers her a warm smile, telling her, "I know that. But my point is that my calls to duty cut us short enough of the time. So on the one day when my focus is you and only you, I'm not going to let you stay in a bad mood if there's something I can do to fix it."
She breaks his gaze and turns away from him. "I'm really not up for a discussion."
"Why not?" he asks, letting both of her arms go, sliding one hand across her stomach and resting the other on her waist.
Finally free, she wishes she weren't. Hers is a rapidly devolving situation. She can't bear to go. And yet, staying, with his hands still on her and with his rich, deep voice in her ear, only means that her body's bound to betray her eventually. "Can't you just drop this?" she sighs, speaking as much to him as to herself, as she instinctively moves her hands to rest on his arm and hand covering the front of her torso.
"Can I? Yes. Will I? Not a chance." Lowering his head to her shoulder and sliding his hand down her waist, he gently suggests, "How about this: Don't tell me the problem. Just tell me what I can do or what I can get you to make it better. A punching bag, maybe? Chunky Monkey? The Empire Strikes Back? All of the above?"
As his lips land on her shoulder and his hand drifts across her hip, she trembles and tenses. Closing her eyes, she hopes against hope that he didn't notice her reaction, while cursing her body for being more loyal to his touch than to her own will.
Her response, however subtle, to his slight display of affection strikes him loudly and clearly. He's felt her do that before, he realizes, during a time when he was obliged by his own mire of deceit to ignore it. Taken aback, he replays in his head the little moments between them prior to his reveal. Her barely audible sighs of disappointment as he tucked her into his mother's bed, and then left to go spend the rest of the night in his own. Her muted whimpers as he pulled away from their never-too-deep kisses, and offered some excuse, real or imagined, to take his leave. Her nervous flinches as his hands brushed her neck, or his lips swept across her cheek. It was all there. Frustration with no articulation. Passion with no object.
And now, in the time since his reveal, the distance between them has come to be defined not by lies, but by truth - by his paralyzing fear of the harm his desire for her could do.
He looks down at her, studying her closed eyes and still body, and begins to grasp how long and how hard she's been fighting her own impulses, resigning herself to a state of longing, just as she once resigned herself to the parts of him that were inaccessible.
Though she's never admitted it, he knows how disappointed she was by all the things he wasn't telling her at one time. And if not by the many signs he saw back then, then her erstwhile discontent has been borne out over the last few months by the interest she's taken and the delight she's shown in acquainting herself with every detail of himself and the life that he's led - talking at length with those who have known the truth longer than she has, visiting the fortress to chat with his parents, and picking his brain even while he sleeps. Clenching his jaw and frowning, he regrets that it takes such occasions as him accosting her during the last phone conversation he had with her as his anonymous self, or him confronting her in the middle of her kitchen and inadvertently touching her in some particular way for her even to intimate her feelings.
Being as self-contained and as supportive of him as she is, she tends to overindulge him in matters that concern his reserve, which has the unfortunate consequence of enabling the worst of his habits: his complacency. Part of him wishes she were as severe with him about his insecurities and irresolutions as she is with him about most other matters. But he understands that the care she takes with him is simply an expression of how much he means to her, and he trusts that her intuitive sense of how best to handle him is, as it's always been, exactly right.
Still though, theirs has already been too long a history of denial and forbearance, and he cannot reconcile himself to her restraint, and to the things she thinks he's not prepared to hear.
Unnerved by the focus of his gaze and knowing that the wheels in his head are turning, she opens her eyes, timidly clears her throat, and prepares to say something - anything - to avoid the trajectory of their too-quite moment. "Clark?" she utters barely above a whisper, hating the uneasiness in her tone.
In response, he slides his hand on her stomach all the way around her torso, while raising his other hand from her hip and brushing her hair back off of her shoulder to expose her neck.
"Clark?" she tries again, feeling him run his hand down her arm and lower his mouth to the base of her throat, where the collar of her oversized shirt doesn't quite cover. As his lips make contact with her skin, she squeezes her eyes shut, and holds her breath to keep herself from whimpering.
Trailing soft, lingering kisses along her throat, he takes one of her hands on his forearm, lifts it up, and rests it on the back of his shirt collar and neck. The large sleeve of her shirt falls down to her shoulder, followed by his fingertips sweeping across the delicate expanse of her inner upper-arm.
She exhales a shuddering breath and inhales an even shakier one as she tries to get her mind around her situation. When he finds his way to the dip behind her ear and nuzzles his lips into it, a ripple of warmth spreads outward from there to the rest of her body.
Opening her eyes in the vain hope of finding something to focus on other than him, she quietly says his name, more pleadingly than before.
"Hmm?" he absently responds, holding her tighter against him, and running his free hand from her arm, across her collar bone, and up along her throat to cradle her cheek.
Swallowing, and trying to steady herself, she says, "We, um… We didn't finish talking about your date."
"I'll go."
"…Just like that?"
"Yes. And I'll behave, and I'll enjoy myself," he replies, answering the other questions she was sure to ask. He skims his thumb under her jaw and tilts her head to the side, giving himself greater access to her neck, as he gently but firmly adds, "And now we're done talking about it."
"Clark, please," she sighs, unsure of what she's asking for.
Persisting, he pulls his hand on her waist across the front of her torso, and rubs it back and forth. His coaxing touch so low on her stomach has its intended effect, as she relaxes further into him and holds his forearm tighter. He runs his kisses down and back up the side of her neck, and she bites her lip, fighting the strong sense that she's reaching her breaking point.
After tilting her head back in his direction, he lightly presses his lips to the upper curve of her jaw, and lifts his mouth to whisper into her ear, "What do you need, Lois?"
The dark timbre of his voice and the inescapable simplicity of his question push her past her line of restraint. Closing her eyes in surrender, she licks her lips, and exhales the only truth she has the capacity to comprehend: "…You."
...