[Rating: PG-13 - For occasional mild profanity, for suggestive language and dialogue, and for mild some sensuality.]

CHAPTER 9

Without her around to watch, taunt, chat with, or otherwise engage him, and thus having sped through as many as possible of the remaining steps in preparing her dinner, he places the finished meal items in the oven, and turns his attention to cleanup. Looking around the empty room, he lowers his eyes, regretting her absence, and then sulkily zips his way through straightening up the pantry and refrigerator, wiping down the counters, and washing, drying, and putting away the dishes. As he decelerates to his normal speed and waits for the water in the sink to drain out, he hears the faint sound of her closing her bathroom door, and assumes that she's finished her pre-soak rituals - the first of which, he silently grumbles, was getting rid of him.

He sighs, confused as to whether he's being punished for something he's certain he didn't do, or whether she's just tired of him after so many uninterrupted hours in his company. And though, given a choice, he'd take her being upset with him over her being bored with him, even the former can't possibly be the case, he reasons, given the way they left things a little while ago. In fact, he felt certain at the time that he'd earned a kiss of an entirely different sort than the one he received for completing the task of undressing her without doing whatever it was that he wasn't supposed to do. But, in the end, she only politely told him to get lost without even so much as a punch in the arm and a curt remark as a goodbye. So maybe he did do something wrong, he entertains. Or maybe he just didn't do something right.

After rinsing the sink and blow-drying his hands, he turns to regard the final disheveled area of the kitchen - the dining table. Slowly, he approaches the scene of their most recent interlude, hesitant to change anything at all about the reminders of her touch and her sounds - of the sensuality that's such a fundamental part of who she is, and is so distinct in its complexion and its complexity when shared with him.

His body stirs at the memory of her arms around him and her mouth pressed to his. But, shaking his head, he pushes away thoughts that will only lead to discomfort, and slides the chair that she eased him down onto back into its proper place. As he moves around to the side of the table, he looks toward the entryway of the kitchen, wondering what she's doing and how she is. Maybe he should check on her, he briefly considers. Maybe she needs something. But then, he's sure that she'd say so if that were the case. And he shouldn't make whatever he may have done to land himself in his current position worse by bothering her, especially when she's made it clear that she wants to be alone, or at least that she doesn't want to be around him.

In his mind, he can hear her mocking him for pouting, and then insisting that he get a grip. After taking a deep breath, he follows her likely advice and dials back his defeatism as he resituates the napkins, placemats, and condiment holders. She enjoys being around him, he's certain. Even after spending an entire day at work and then spending an entire evening out in the city with him, she'd still try to get him back to her apartment for an hour or two of one-on-one time. Which makes her putting a bath in between them beyond his comprehension. After all, if nothing else, keeping him at a distance he doesn't deserve flies in the face of the freedom she's encouraged him to have with her ever since she let him hold her hand for the first time.

That simple gesture, wholly unexpected and wholly affecting, made explicit what had long only been implied - that she wanted all of him, and that he could have all of her. Whether in public or in private, he could talk to her, touch her, hug her, hold her, kiss her - whenever, however, whyever. She invited, she delighted in every bit of his affection, even during the many months when its limits were so tightly drawn. And it was also that simple gesture that put into perspective the years of nuance to her interactions with him. How she hardly ever questioned him standing in her personal space, hovering over her, or sitting closer to her than he should. How he never had to hesitate about grasping her shoulders to comfort her, or her arms to get her attention or to direct her away from tense situations. How not having that access to her always struck him harder than he could ever possibly ignore when she pulled away from him emotionally, and thus physically. He'd never experienced such a unique dynamic with anyone else before he crash-landed into her life, and he hasn't experienced anything like it with anyone else since.

In the beginning, he thought her odd, even absurd. He couldn't understand why any woman would wrap an unclothed, full-grown man in a blanket, buckle him into her front seat, and personally escort him around until she was certain he was taken care of - all while taking every opportunity to insist that he was the unusual one. He couldn't understand her genuine surprise at his parents' displeasure with discovering the two of them, damp and in various states of undress, alone in his bathroom. He couldn't understand her complete disregard for every physical boundary and line of propriety that he had - wearing his clothes, eating his food, and dragging him around as if he was never moving fast enough for her. And for all the reasons he'd used through the years to explain her initially crude, eventually considerate, but always uninhibited behaviors toward him, only one, the one that holding her hand for the first time revealed to him, spoke to the simple truth: She liked him. She always had. Right from the start.

Despite his current state of bewilderment, he can't help smiling at the memories of her long-sublimated fondness for him, even when he could only manage exasperation with her. But then, she was far more tolerant, far more rational than he. Because years after their initial collision in the middle of a cornfield, from the moment she crash-landed back into his arms after having disappeared into the future for far too long, there was no stopping his need for and his pursuit of her. His oldest friend, his mother, and especially his artificial father - everyone knew. And as his eyes fell upon her face and every bit of him warmed with relief and exhilaration, he knew, too.

Lost in his ruminations, he reaches out to pick up his button-down from where she left it on the table, but stops when he feels the fabric shudder against his grasp. Startled, he peers down at his hand, and finds it unsteady. Gritting his teeth, he shakes his fingers and clenches his fist. Not again, he worries. Not when the only remedy he knows is shut behind a closed door and off-limits for the near future.

Ignoring the first and all-too familiar sign of whatever his body's been trying to tell him, he checks his watch, and realizes that he's been standing in front of the table for the past several minutes. Huffing, he raises his eyes to appeal to the ceiling for suggestions as to what he should do. Were they at work, he could simply ask her to meet him somewhere. Were she around right now, he wouldn't have to ask her anything at all. But neither is the case at present. And he can't interrupt something as private as her bath just because he'd rather be around her.

After grabbing his shirt, he checks his internal clock, and determines that he's still got a while before he has to be at the hotel. As he exits the kitchen and wanders into the living room, he takes a long look at the front door, figuring that he should just leave her a note about actually eating her vegetables, and take off. Maybe he could walk the streets a little. Maybe he could even take a flight though the city to let people see him. But without a doubt, his appearance would make the news and every social-networking site, and he'd have to answer to her for bending the rules of his day off. Besides, as great as the evening air may feel, it can't compete with the atmosphere of her apartment, the only space in the world filled to the brim with her.

Resolved to stay, he first peers over at her desk and notices the section of the newspaper that she saved for him from earlier in the day. But, thoroughly uninterested in adding the disappointment of another fruitless search to the present disappointment of being apart from her, he quickly dismisses the notion of scanning the classifieds, and focuses his gaze elsewhere.

Next, he glances at the couch and considers a nap. Failing reality, he could always spend some time with his unconscious's equivalent of her. But, turning his head and looking down the hall at her partially open door, he knows he'd prefer the genuine article, even if he can't be as close to her as he wants.

And then, it dawns on him: There's nothing wrong with splitting the difference. Just because he can't be near her doesn't mean that he has to stay as far away as her apartment will allow. Besides, he needs to put his shirt in a hamper for when he does their laundry tomorrow evening, and he'll have to change before he eventually leaves for his dinner, anyway. And both of those tasks can only be accomplished in one place.

Convinced of his logic, he heads down the hall and into her bedroom. Not wanting to make any noise, he lifts off of the carpet when he reaches the doorway, and drifts toward her laundry basket. As he raises the top, the dark blue from the two items in which he last saw her comes into his view. Recalling the sight of her figure - shapely, strong, and impossibly feminine - framed in scant material that still left more than enough to his active imagination, he takes his eyes from the hamper and turns them toward her bathroom.

Just underneath the door, flickers of candlelight glimmer, marking the boundary between a cold, dreary reality and a warm, vibrant fantasy. And from beyond that which he can see drift the soft sounds of rustling bubbles and rippling water.

Still gazing at the door, he makes his way toward her bed, situating himself above its middle, and quietly alighting upon it into a seated position. She's probably half-asleep, he muses, picturing her hair pinned up and her head resting against the back of the tub.

Determined to content himself with his current position as much as she's contented herself with hers, he swallows, lies back onto the bed, and closes his eyes. Finding himself all the more anxious, though, he readjusts a bit, stretching out a bit more and turning his head to the side. As he realizes that he's lying on her pillow, he instinctively breathes in her scent, and his mind soon wanders to their shared moments throughout the day:

Her hands tugging his arm as she pulled him out of her apartment after breakfast. Her legs draped across his lap as they ate lunchtime salads on an indoor bench. Her body nestled against his as she slept in the movie theatre.

Her taunting remarks, her playful laughter, her endless chatter.

That voice. Always that voice.

Feeling his heart begin to pick up its pace and his breaths growing more uneven, he blinks his eyes open and turns his head to face the ceiling. Lying in her bed, he realizes, may not have been the best of ideas, given how much more heavily her presence lingers in that place above any other. And positioning himself so close to and yet so far away from her may have been an even worse idea, as it's only exacerbating his frustration. If only he could bring himself to leave. If only he could keep his mind off of her.

He brings his hands to his face and sharply exhales. She wouldn't want him struggling like this. She's dropped what she was doing or rearranged her schedule too often over the course of the last couple months for him to think otherwise. On occasion, she's even put off her favorite pastime, fighting with their editor, just to spend a few minutes alone or on the phone with him.

And besides, he just wants to hear her - see her, if possible. There's nothing wrong with that. He doesn't have to stay and he doesn't have to invade her private time for very long. She won't mind, he tells himself. Or at least, she won't mind all that much.

Sitting up, he drops his hands from his face and lifts off of the bed. As he closes the distance between himself and the bathroom door, he considers his approach to getting past that barrier. He needs an actual reason for interrupting her, he concludes, or else he may run the risk of seeming inconsiderate.

As he lands on the carpet in front of the door, he clenches his teeth and thinks harder. First, he considers offering her a massage, but he quickly dismisses the idea when he realizes that he may sound indecent, given her present situation. Then, he considers offering to bring her her dinner, but he can't imagine warm food and warmer water being a pleasant mix, even for someone with an appetite like hers. Lastly, he considers telling her the simple truth - that he thinks he may be losing it again, and that, just like she's been encouraging him to do, he's trying to concede his defeat as early on as possible. But then, he's not certain as to whether he'd be rewarded for his preemption, or teased for even having to employ it. Probably both. Definitely both.

Content to improvise, he swallows, and then quietly clears his throat. She won't mind, he continues repeating in his head as he hesitantly raises his knuckles and prepares to knock.

"What is it, Smallville?" he hears her ask before he makes his move.

Taken off guard, he nearly bolts to the other side of the bedroom, fully prepared to deny that he's been standing outside the bathroom door for the past few minutes. Maybe she doesn't know how long he's been here, he tries to convince himself.

"Clark?"

"Um, y-yeah," he responds, instantly regretting the awkwardness in his tone.

"You're living dangerously, superhero. Whatever you want, just spit it out."

His mind goes blank, even with his pretexts, and he panics. Failing to think of something useful to say, he states the obvious: "I finished your dinner."

"Thanks. I'm sure it's great. Are you heading out?"

He curses himself, sensing that she's already trying to get rid of him again. Dejected, he leans his forehead onto the surface of the door, shut his eyes, and answers, "Yeah, I was gonna stick around for a bit, but I, uh… I figured I might as well go." Offhandedly, he adds, "Can I get you anything before I leave?"

He listens to her pause, and he holds his breath, preparing for a verbal assault of some kind. After another moment, he hears her begin, "Yes, actually," and his ears perk up and his eyes fly open. "Could you bring me a glass of ice water and some fruit?"

Beside himself with shock and anticipation, he quickly accedes, "Yeah. Sure. What kind?"

"Surprise me."

"Okay. I'll be right back," he replies, and then takes off.

Arriving in front of the refrigerator, he realizes how quickly he got there and berates himself for having been overeager. Ignoring his trembling fingers and grateful that he can't cut himself, he goes about slicing a couple different fruits into the larger chunks that she prefers, and placing them and a fork into a bowl. When he's finished, he grabs a cup from one of the cupboards, fills it with ice, and then grasps the water pitcher out of the refrigerator. As he begins to pour, he spills a little over the sides. "Calm down," he tells himself aloud, and tries again. More successful the second time, he covers the ice cubes, puts the pitcher away, and gathers the bowl from the counter.

Having arrived back outside her bathroom door, he lightly knocks on it.

"Come in."

He starts to reach for the doorknob, but hesitates. Clearing his throat, he asks, "Are you decent?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"No," he sighs, hoping that she's not going to start in on him for not having the same unblushing attitude that she and his mother share.

"You really are your fathers' son."

Suspecting what she's getting at, he replies, "Which one?"

"Plural. Not singular."

"Well, you know, either way -"

"- I meant it as a compliment."

"…Really?"

"Really."

"Oh."

"So are you coming in, or are you gonna make me get up?"

"You, uh… You never answered my question."

"I'm completely covered."

Having gotten her verification, he takes a fortifying breath, grasps the doorknob, and turns it.

Warm, heavy air sweeps across his skin as he crosses the boundary out of his chaos and into her idyll. Avoiding looking directly at her, he lets his eyes wander about, noticing the steam on the mirror, and the couple handfuls of large candles lining the surface of the sink.

"You're gonna let in a draft," he hears her tell him.

Mumbling an apology, he quickly spins around and closes the door. Turning back to face the direction of her voice, he trails his eyes along the floor, up the side of her spa-style bathtub, and across the surface of a sea of lush, voluminous bubbles, until he reaches her shoulders and her face. The sight of her damp skin, flushed and glowing from the heat of the water, sends of ripple of warmth through him, and he realizes that leaving is going to be even more of a struggle than he expected.

"Lemme guess," she taunts, breaking his reverie, "You're wondering how your homecoming present stacks up to Ollie's?"

His eyes still transfixed by the flickers of candlelight dancing across her skin, he swallows to relax his throat, and tries to sound composed. "I think that Oliver remodeling your bathroom was more of an apology for his, um…complicity in hiding my secret, and less of a 'welcome back' kinda thing."

"Either way, I've gotten way more mileage outta your Wii."

"Well, had I known that your new friend would end up riding shotgun for most of those miles, I may have gotten you something similar to this," he says, gesturing towards the deep-set, oversized tub. "Something more, uh…intimate."

Rather than respond, she lets his last word hang in the air as she continues watching him take her in. After several moments, she clears her throat to get his attention. "Smallville?"

"Hmm?" he answers, trailing his gaze over her hair, pinned in just the way he imagined.

"What did you bring me?"

"Oh, um…" he quietly exhales, realizing that he's been standing in one spot ever since he entered the bathroom. Finally animated, he takes a few swift strides toward her and holds out the bowl for her perusal. "Is this okay?"

Craning her neck to see over the side of the dish, she makes out a ripe mix of kiwis and bananas. "Good call."

He gives her an unsteady smile, happy to have succeeded in completing his task, but dejected to no longer have a reason for staying. After setting down the bowl on the broad ledge at the back of the tub, he offers her the cup of water. She takes the glass from his unsteady hand, and he feels her fingers graze across his. Watching her place the cup behind her and next to her fruit, he rubs his fingers together, trying to press away the tingling sensation left by her touch.

As she resettles underneath the blanket of bubbles, he takes one final glance at the painfully tempting curves of her neck and shoulders, before meeting her gaze just as her eyes find his. Unsure of how to make his exit, he continues looking at her, waiting for her to break their silence.

After a long pause, she puts him out of his misery, and offers, "Thanks again for dinner. And for the snack."

"My pleasure," he responds, wishing that every word out of his mouth didn't sound so laden with desire. Trying to smile through his discomfort, he adds, "Just, uh, you know, try to actually eat some of the broccoli. I know it's not your favorite vegetable, but it's still, um, you know…"

"Good for me."

"Yeah," he agrees, struggling to keep his eyes on hers. "Anyway, I know how you feel about your bath time, so I figure I'll just go hang out in the hotel lobby or something until it's time for the big sit-down."

"Okay."

"So, um… I'll just…"

"Go," she finishes.

"Yeah," he slowly concedes, trying to will his body to the other side of the door.

His breaths quicken as his anxiety increases. Trying to mask his nervousness, he lets out a slight chuckle, and then internally scolds himself for such an idiotic move. As a last-ditch effort, he kneels down onto the floor, telling himself that kissing her goodbye will be enough to placate him until he sees her again in a few hours. Avoiding her mouth, he leans toward her and softly presses his lips to her cheek. But the subtle fragrance of the water moistening her skin hits his senses, stopping him mid-motion as he starts to withdraw. He pauses a breath away from her as she turns her head to meet his gaze. Her unreadable expression brings him back to his immediate objective of leaving, and he stands up a little faster than intended.

"Can I get you anything else?"

"No, thanks."

"Okay. Well, enjoy your bath," he quietly says, more than a little disappointed to no longer be of use. Accepting his futility, he gives her a small smile, pulls his eyes away from hers, and turns around.

As he arrives at the door, he starts to reach for the knob, but pauses, and takes a moment to gather himself.

"You're afraid you're gonna rip the door off its hinges, aren't you?" he hears her giggle from behind him.

Too aggravated to pretend otherwise, he simply replies, "Yes."

"And what did the door ever do to you?"

"Nothing. I just…need a second."

"Tick tock, Smallville."

The amusement in her voice collapses what's left of his poise. Embarrassed and intent on cutting his losses, he reaches for the doorknob despite his instability. "I'm sorry. I was leaving," he apologizes over his shoulder.

"No, you weren't," she laughs, deciding to finally offer him a lifeline. "You were trying to find an excuse to stay."

He leans his head against the door, recognizing her mocking tone.

Asking the question that he so often puts to her, she wonders, "Do you even know what you're so upset about?"

"No," he groans, lying.

"Try again."

"Fine." Talking into the wooden surface, he confesses, "I missed you."

"Already?"

"I take it back. What I meant to say is that I hate you."

Still chuckling, she offers, "Hating me aside, would you mind keeping me company for a little while before you go? "

"No. I wouldn't."

"Then leave the defenseless object alone and come pick on someone your own size."

Relieved, he abandons his current position in search of the one he wanted to be in in the first place. Deciding that the floor probably isn't a very practical place to sit, he finds the stool underneath the sink, carries it to where he determines to be an appropriate distance from her, and sets it down. As he takes his seat, he suddenly notices the slight tension against the fabric of his pants. Clenching his jaw and hoping that it's not obvious, he shifts around into as comfortable a position as possible, rests his hands in his lap, and resolves to ignore his problem.

Tilting her head to the side, she studies the affected composure that he only adopts when he's in an aroused state that he feels is somehow ill-timed. Which, she muses to herself, tends to happen at some point just about every time they're alone. A passing glance, an inadvertent touch, a vaguely suggestive remark - that's sometimes all it takes to ignite both his body and his mind. But though she's come to understand why he fights it, she's never understood why he hides it. He can't help the potency of his virility any more than he can help anything else about him that's necessarily heightened and strengthened by the sun. Still though, that he tries to conceal it, that he thinks it's somehow impolite for him to respond to her as easily and as often as he does and, moreover, for her to know it, she finds both charming and amusing.

As she continues watching his useless attempt to deny what he's never been able to, she can't help imagining the various other ways she could mess with him for the time being. But, despite the temptation of having a little more fun with him, doing so is neither her wish nor her intent. After all, in spite of what she's sure his hesitancies must have been, he did manage to get himself into the bathroom, and that alone makes him deserving of no further torment - whether it be of her doing or of his own.

Careful to not disturb too many of the bubbles, she leans forward from her reclined position and glides through the water. Stopping at the edge of the tub closest to him, she gets right to her point and quietly asks, "Would you like to join me, Clark?"

His chest tightens and he forgets to breathe. After a second or two, he coughs out, "Excuse me?"

"Would you like to join me?" she repeats, slower and more pointedly than before.

Out of habit and out of his element, he tries to think of an appropriate reply. "It's nice of you to ask. But, uh, I have to go soon. So…"

"You didn't answer my question," she persists, refusing to let him talk himself out of her offer. "I asked if you'd like to. So is your answer a yes or a no?" She watches him swallow and she watches the wheels in his head turn as he tries to avoid a direct response. "I'll take that as a yes," she smiles. "Now, let's hear your excuses as to why not."

"They're not excuses," he lies. "It's just that I do have to be knocking on a penthouse door in -"- checking his watch - "- a little over half-an-hour."

"We both know that you're fast enough to dry off, change, and get to the hotel in under a minute. Next."

"…Won't I get the water dirty?"

"You're the cleanest person I know."

"That's, um… That's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant. And I don't think there's anything dirty about that."

Trying a more diplomatic tack, he reasons, "But I'm in your way as it is. I really don't wanna bother you any more than I already am."

She reaches a dripping hand through the space between them, and rests it on the clasp of his watch. "If you were bothering me, you never would've made it through the door." As she pulls the leather band from its buckles, she asks, "So what's really stopping you?" Having removed his watch, she sets it on a shelf just off to the side of the tub. Holding his gaze, she reaches into his lap and pulls one of his hands away from the other, and threads her fingers into his. Lighting tugging, she adds, "And don't say that you won't fit, because you could do laps in here if you wanted to."

He lets her pull him out of his seat and onto his knees just in front of the tub. As she reaches forward over the edge and grasps the bottom of his shirt, he admits, "I, uh… I'm not sure that I'd be comfortable."

"So we'll leave your boxers on," she simply replies, pulling his tee up his torso and over his head.

"But that's not fair to you."

"How do you know that? Maybe I'm wearing bikini bottoms."

"Are you?"

"Why don't you peek through the water and see for yourself?"

"Lois, c'mon, I'm just trying to -"

"- Respect my boundaries?"

"Is that so wrong?"

"Nope. And I wouldn't expect anything less from you. But do you really think that this is a line that I draw?"

"…I guess not."

"So would you prefer I just stand up and show you?"

"Lois, please…"

Giving him a generous smile, she backs off, and evenly answers his question: "I'm not wearing anything, Clark."

At the sound of her low tone and her simply reply, he instinctively swallows, and then clenches his jaw. After taking a moment to steady his voice, he asks, "So…that's not fair, right?"

"You are so adorable."

He watches her calm features as she drops his shirt onto the floor and begins working on his belt. Uncertain as to how he wound up in his current position, he tries to wrap his mind around things. One second, he was convinced she was either upset with him or tired of him. The next, he was forcing himself to believe that she wouldn't object to a brief intrusion. And now, she's in the middle of undressing him and gently persuading him to bathe with her.

All at once, he's forced to abandon his thoughts as he feels her finish undoing the button at the top of his pants.

"W-Wait," he says, peering down and covering her steady hands with his shaky ones.

Not giving his reserve the chance to take hold of him, she insists, "Clark?"

Grudgingly, he raises his head and finds her eyes.

"I always know."

"Lois -" he groans, his cheeks flushing as he drops his head.

"- Shut up, and look at me."

He sharply exhales, and searches the bath rug for help. Finding none, he bites his teeth, gathers himself, and finds her gaze once more.

"I always know," she tenderly reiterates, holding his eyes as she eases the slider of his zipper down over his partial rigidity. "I never mind. And I couldn't be more flattered."

After taking a moment to absorb her reassurances, he sighs, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"…I don't know."

"Well, while you're figuring it out," she smirks, pulling her hands away from him and settling into the middle of the tub, "finish taking off your pants, and get your ass in here."

He lets out a small, stilted chuckle, and then glances around the room as he tries to regain his bearings. In the tranquility of their surroundings, he considers how quickly and how completely the space he's in has transformed. What began the morning as a place of utility and necessity has, in the evening, become a place of leisure, of wonder. Every surface - the floor, the walls, the ceiling - smolders with soft, fiery hues. Every bit of the air holds a light, serene scent. He seems to have found himself in a world apart - somewhere beyond what's real and what he's never let himself imagine.

Taking a breath, he returns his gaze to her, the author of so extraordinary a universe, and watches her smile as he slowly continues what she began.

...