[Rating: PG-13 - For occasional mild profanity, and for suggestive dialogue.]
CHAPTER 11
A distinctive scent greets him as he arrives back outside her apartment door. Smiling, he sets down the four large bags in one of his hands, and then digs around in his front pocket. When he's found his keys, he unlocks and cracks open the door. As rich, sweet notes drift through the sliver in the entryway, his smile stretches into a full grin, and his palate stirs in anticipation. After placing the keys back in his pocket, he takes a brief moment to smooth out his sweater and re-straighten his tie, and to readjust the bouquet in his still-occupied hand. Satisfied that he looks as presentable as when he last saw her, he picks up his bags, and nudges the heavy door all the way open.
"Lois? I'm back," he calls out, announcing himself as he steps into the apartment.
Having expected to find her on the sofa, surrounded by food and attempting to beat his high score on her favorite video game, he can only sigh in disappointment as he arrives in her empty living room, dark in every place except for where the light from the building's hallway streams in.
After flipping on the switch near the entrance, he shoulders the door closed and then locks it. "Lois?" he tries again.
Upon receiving no answer, he supposes that maybe she fell asleep after all. Leaving his bags near the back of the couch, he quickly peers into the dim kitchen, hoping to locate the source of the aroma lingering in the air, but discovers nothing remarkable in plain sight. Abandoning his brief distraction, he quietly makes his way down the hall. When he reaches the half-open door to her dim bedroom, he lightly knocks on it, and then peeks his head just inside.
"Lois?" he whispers, hoping to not disturb her if she's sleeping.
The moonlight flowing in through her window casts an azure glow over what he realizes is yet another empty space. Sighing again, he walks over to her bedside table and turns on the lamp. Not bothering to search the dark area beyond the entrance to her bathroom, he calls out her name one more time, and isn't surprised when the only things that respond to him are the stillness of his immediate surroundings, and the faraway, ambient clamor of the city.
His shoulders slumped in defeat, he plops down on the edge of her bed and starts to rest the flowers on her sleeping pillow, but finds it missing. More interested in the whereabouts of its owner, though, he dismisses the disappearance, and sets the flowers alongside him. Frustrated, he rubs his temples and groans. Things are not going to plan, he silently regrets. He was supposed to greet her, insist that she needs to be pampered far more than he needs to be spoiled, shuffle her off to her bedroom, and then set up for their picnic. In his exasperation, he glances sidelong at her nightstand drawer, which he's certain is mocking him for not considering the possibility of his present circumstance. After all, he well knows that she never stays in one place for very long - not unless he asks her to.
Shaking his head, he forces his gaze away from that which is, to his endless bewilderment, forbidden, and he forces his mind away from thoughts that will only discourage him. He's certain that he well enough articulated to her his feelings before he left, and he's certain that she was pleased to hear them reiterated. So, he tells himself, he shouldn't read anything into her absence.
Having gathered himself, he stands, picks up the bouquet, and heads out of her bedroom. After finding an unused vase in the kitchen panty, filling it with water, and placing the flowers inside of it, he carries the arrangement into the living room, and sets it down on an end table at the edge of the sofa, where it's sure to be the first thing she sees when she returns.
Making himself at home, he takes off his coat and drapes it over the back of the couch. Then, turning his attentions to his other preparations, he finds his bags and places them on the coffee table. But just as he starts to unload things, he realizes that there's no way of knowing for certain when she'll be back. For that matter, there's no way of knowing whether she'll be back at all.
At the prospect of spending the night without her, he quickly reaches into his back pocket and grabs his phone. His anxiety only increases as he holds down the first digit of his speed-dial, and wonders if she's answering, or if her phone is even on. As he brings his cell to his ear and listens to the first ring, he shakes his head at himself. Though she enjoys making fun of him for constantly being continents away from where she thinks he is, the irony is that he loses track of her even more often. As his lips begin to quirk into a smile at the thought of her unpredictability, the sound of her voice interrupts his reflections.
"Well it's about damn time."
He chuckles, both relieved that she picked up and amused by her standard greeting. "Would it kill you to just say hello for once?"
"Would it kill you to keep your manners to yourself for once?"
"Since when is it a crime to show common courtesy?"
"How long have we been together?"
"One year, two months, fifteen days, nine hours, and -"
"- Let me stop you right there, dork. Because my point is that seeing as we knew each other for so long before you mauled and strong-armed me into this relationship, we passed the polite mark somewhere around the first week."
"I don't think you were ever polite to me. Not even for seven days."
"Is that why you called? To nag me for not attending whatever finishing school the chicks you grew up with went to?"
"You know that's not what I -"
"- Because if so, then I've got 1960 on the other line for you. And it wants its gender politics back."
"Have you ever considered doing stand-up? That mouth of yours could use the free rein."
"You been thinking about my mouth, Clark?"
The low, provocative tone of her reply sends a strong enough tremor through him to silence any rejoinder he could offer. Having conceded their spar by virtue of his hesitation, he quietly laughs at himself and lets her have the next word.
"Are you back from your date?"
"I am," he replies, gathering himself and bending down to rummage through one of the bags. "And I'm currently standing in the middle of your empty apartment. Where'd you run off to?"
"How'd things go?"
Her avoidance of his question strikes him, and he grows suspicious. "Lemme guess: You're boarding a plane to some undisclosed location for the sake of whatever story you think is gonna one-up my probe into the governor's office? Which it won't, by the way. -"
"How did things go?"
"- Or, you had a hankering for something crappy, and you're at a fast food restaurant. -"
"You're pushing it, Smallville."
"- Or, you just thought it'd be funny to leave me here by myself."
"Answer my question, or I'm hanging up."
Backing off, he sighs, and then admits, "They went about how you expected."
"I knew it! You two were totally made for each other."
"You trying to get rid of me?"
"Not any time soon."
Laughing, he unloads a bottle of wine and a carton of mixed berries, and takes them with him into the kitchen.
"So what did you boys do?"
"Drinks, dinner, cards." Clearing his throat, he pauses, and then adds, "But, uh, it wasn't just the two of us. He invited a woman who he wanted me to meet."
"He brought a date? I thought he and his partner agreed that wasn't allowed since he's been away for so long."
"No, she wasn't his date," he says, as he sets the bottle and the crate in the refrigerator, and smiles as he notices only about half of the broccoli and cauliflower that he prepared left over in a clear plastic container. "But, well, I don't know. You're better than I am at gauging this kind of stuff. They do give off a weird vibe around each other, though. Like their history's kinda complicated."
"Hmm… Well, I take it she's in your line of work."
"She is." After he closes the fridge, his taste buds pique yet again as he breathes in the scent that still fills the air. Determined, he reinitiates his search, and only hears her next question the second time she asks it.
"Is she attractive?"
"Yes," he simply replies, grateful that he doesn't have to soft-pedal such things with her. Having, to his disappointment, found nothing in the oven, he stops in the middle of the floor and readies for what he knows her next question will be.
"Did she hit on you?"
"Only at first."
"Before you told her that you're spoken for?"
"I was about to. But your boyfriend beat me to it."
Listening to her laugh, he peers around on the top of the fridge, only to find nothing new on the surface. Maybe she ate them, he figures. But he soon dismisses the thought as he recalls her firm reminder from that morning that she still refuses to cook for herself. Giving up once more, he grabs the two cloth napkins off of the kitchen table, and heads back to the living room.
Returning his attention to their conversation, he tells her, "We actually talked about you for a bit. I showed her the pictures of you in my phone. She thinks you're very pretty."
"Well, I can't argue with her taste."
"Neither can I."
"So did you like her?"
"Yeah, I did." Reaching into another bag, he takes out two large cartons of flower petals, a few smaller packages of chocolate confections, and a tiny bottle of massage oil, and sets them off to the side, near the napkins. "She's kind of an old soul. Smart and direct. Unique background. Strong personality. But pretty easy to get along with, I think. She's nice."
"Sounds like I'm not the only one taking to strangers."
"You jealous, Lane?" he smirks.
"Oh, please. We both know I own your ass."
Chuckling, he replies, "Bearing that in mind, she'd like to meet you."
"I bet she would."
"He wants her to meet you, too."
"If she's the sorta-ex that he refuses to ever talk about, then I can't imagine why."
"I'm actually with him on this one," he clarifies.
"I get you two together for one evening, and you're already ganging up on me?"
"No. It's just that the three of us had a nice time, and we seem to have a lot in common. Besides, you're both a part of his life, and he's now a part of our lives. So…" He trails off, fully aware that he has to tread lightly, and then slowly suggests, "I figured maybe we could all have lunch at the farm next weekend, before he leaves."
"You're introducing her to Mrs. K. too? Maybe I should be jealous."
"I think you'll like her, Lois."
"Oh, yeah. You've just met this woman and you're already trying to put her in the same room with your mother and me. I'm sure I'll be her biggest fan. As a matter of fact…"
He chuckles, listening to her rattle off several indignant remarks, and starts removing the items from his last and largest bags. When he's finished, he regards the dozens and dozens of various-sized white candles, and their clear glass basins and holders. He got far too many, he realizes, looking around the room and trying to picture where he can put them all. Briefly, he reconsiders setting up in her bedroom, the only space in the apartment larger than the living room. But, as special as he wants their night to be for her, he doesn't want to come across as presumptuous, and he certainly doesn't want to pressure her with suggestive surroundings.
Though still entrenched in his thoughts, he takes the time to cut short her protestations. "Look," he begins with exceeding indulgence, "I can cancel if you're uncomfortable with -"
"- Uncomfortable? Just who do you think you're talking to? You can cozy up to every crime-fighting hottie in the universe for all I care. I'm not threatened."
His cheeks strain as he fights the urge to laugh. Only a shot at her ego could change her tune so quickly. Minding his tone, he evenly asks, "Did I just hear a yes to lunch?"
"…Only if I get to pick out your outfit."
"Why?"
"Because ever since you went public, you've had to play down your looks. Which means that I've stopped getting green-eyed death glares from people who hated me for taking you off the market."
"You never got death-glares."
"Oh, yes, I did. From the day you mauled me in the middle of the bullpen -"
"- Okay. C'mon, Lois. I did not maul you."
"You grabbed me, and you shoved your mouth onto mine. You definitely mauled me."
He rolls his eyes at her taunting characterization, and asks, "Do you always run off to spend two weeks with the mothers of guys who maul you?"
"Smart-ass. -"
Smiling at her response, he puts off figuring out how to arrange the living room, picks up the massage oil, and walks back through the apartment to her bathroom.
"- What I'm saying is that after your little PDA stunt, I was despised. There was practically a hit out on me at work. But now, these past few months, nothing. Not even a passing glance. And yeah, sure, everyone knows how painfully gorgeous you are as a superhero, but I can't claim you as mine when you're in red and blue."
"'Painfully gorgeous'?" he asks, beaming.
"You heard me."
His chest expanding from her approval, he has to restrain himself from sounding too pleased as he replies, "You can choose what I wear. I don't mind."
"And what about your hair? Can I do your hair?"
"No fauxhawks," he stipulates, arriving in her bathroom. He pauses in the doorway as he flips on the switch, and reveals a world quite unlike the one in which he left her. Feeling himself deflate, he takes in the sight of the empty tub, the bare sink, and the plain walls, all awash in stolid fluorescent light.
Standing in place, he can't help being reminded of the days he spent staying at her apartment while she got the distance and perspective that she needed after his reveal. Given how they left things, he knew that he was overstepping by occupying her space, but there was nowhere else he could bear to be. Still though, no matter how busy he tried to keep himself and how useful he tried to make himself, nothing was the same without her. Her warmth wasn't there for him to gravitate to. Her energy didn't charge the air. And each night as he fell asleep in her bed, her absence and the circumstances surrounding it grew all the more insufferable.
"Hello?... Earth to Clark?..."
Shaken out of his thoughts, he realizes that he hasn't heard whatever she's been telling him. "I'm still here. Sorry. I got distracted."
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine," he says. Assuaging himself with the memory of the night she returned, the first night they shared the same bed, he returns to the task at hand, making his way over to the sink and opening the cabinet beneath it. "What were you saying?"
"I was agreeing to not give you a fauxhawk. But you will still have to have something out of your face and very dramatic… Maybe a pompadour. Like James Dean! Oh, yeah, that's definitely gonna be your theme. You'll need a vest. Did we get you a well-tailored, casual vest?"
"Are you putting together an outfit or a costume?"
"What's the difference?"
"I've created a monster," he retorts, having found what he was after.
"The same monster who gave you your hero hairdo, thank you very much. -"
Standing straight up, he opens her bottle of bubble bath and then his bottle of massage oil, and compares the scents. Certain that the oil he found closely enough matches the lavender and vanilla of the water in which they soaked, he closes the tops and puts the bubble bath back as he continues to listen to her reply.
"- And in case you've been hanging out too high in the clouds for the past two months, people love that Cary Grant feel. Had E.T. just had your hair, he would've been welcomed with open arms."
"Why is the ugliest alien the only one you ever compare me to?"
"Take that back! E.T, was not ugly! He was gross, sure. But he was cute!"
Scoffing, he walks over to the tub and takes a seat on the edge. "So I get compared to the bug-eyed blob because you like him?"
"That, and because you get touchy whenever I mention -"
"- I just don't see what's so great about him."
"He was my first love, Clark. You're gonna have to get over that."
Huffing, he glances over his shoulder at the dry, deserted well behind him. He still has no idea what she's up to, he realizes. And he's beginning to think that she just doesn't want to tell him. Downcast by her evasion, he unwraps a few fingers from the bottle in his hand, and uses them to rub his brow.
"Why haven't you left the bathroom?"
"What?" he asks, in no mood to be teased.
"I know you're just sitting around in there. I can hear the echo. What are you doing?"
"Wondering where you are."
"Aww…"
"Please, tell me."
"Nope."
"Are you coming back?"
"Maybe. Maybe not."
"You don't make anything easy, do you?"
"What can I say? Someone's gotta bust your super-powered chops."
"Lois -"
"- You know, now that I think about it, why would she hit on you with him around? That's kinda tacky."
After taking a long, exasperated breath, he replies, "I'm pretty sure she only did it to get under his skin."
"Really? How'd he take it?"
"Not all that well, which is probably why he was quick to mention us." Standing up and trudging toward the light switch, he turns it off, and forces himself out of the bathroom.
"Poor guy. Maybe I should've gone after all. He could've flirted with me to get back at her."
"Only if you wanted to watch me break his legs." Pacing around dejectedly near the foot of her bed, he speaks over her giggles, asking, "Are you busy or something, Lois? Is that why you won't tell me anything?"
"You think I've abandoned you, Smallville?"
Hearing her patronizing tone, he throws up his hand in frustration and looks around her room for leverage. Upon finding the first thing that strikes him, he tells her, "If you keep this up, I'm gonna open your nightstand."
"You wouldn't."
"You don't know that."
"I really do."
He grows silent, scrutinizing his old foe.
"That stupid drawer really gets to you, doesn't it?"
Accepting that he's already admitted as much, he quietly replies, "Yes."
"Why?"
"Well… Nowhere else around here is off-limits."
"You're hopeless, you know that?"
"Forget I ever mentioned it," he sighs.
"If you want to ask me, Clark, then ask me."
"…What's in there?"
"Do you remember your question from earlier? The one you tried to apologize for?"
"Yeah."
"Part of the answer is what's in there."
"…Where's the other part?"
"I'll give you five guesses."
His mind stirs and his body warms at her intimation. He blinks, and shifts, and swallows. Why he ever let himself agonize over so simple a matter now entirely escapes him, as nothing but thoughts of her swirl through his head.
"Clark?... Clark?..."
Finally hearing her, he clears his throat, and then quickly replies, "Yeah?"
"Pull yourself together and stop keeping me waiting. I have a surprise for you."
Taken aback, he wonders if she's returned from wherever she's been. Not wanting her to come upon his unfinished setup in the living room, he speeds through the apartment, and stalls, "What's the surprise?"
"Why are you whooshing?"
"I didn't whoosh," he lies, focusing his vision and checking the space opposite her front door.
"Whatever. Why would I tell you what the surprise is?"
Finding the hallway empty, he falters, confused all the more. "Um… Because I asked nicely."
"It's a lap dance."
"No, it's not," he scoffs, trying to sound disinterested.
"It is if you want it to be."
"Are you messing with me?"
"A little bit. Now stop being a pain and come find me."
He quickly looks around the room and works through his options. Whatever her surprise is, he determines, it can't take up very much of their time. And he can always finish arranging things later on. His mind made up, he zips through the living room, loading the various items back into the bags, and hiding everything except for the bouquet in the pantry. Having put his coat back on, rechecked his appearance in her bedroom mirror, and placed a couple of granola bars in his jacket pocket, he turns off all the lights and then returns to his normal speed.
"You're whooshing again, Speedy Gonzales."
"Maybe there's a draft," he tells her, as he exits the apartment and locks up behind himself.
"You're a terrible liar."
"Sue me."
"Are you coming or not?"
Glancing to his left and his right, observing the vacant hallway, he replies, "Tell me where you are."
"Where's the fun in that?"
Chuckling, he plays along. "Marco."
"Polo."
"Marco."
"Po -"
Closing his eyes, he focuses his hearing past the walls, ceilings, and floors around him, and out into the restless city. As he searches for the distinctive rhythm buried deep in her chest, every other sound - stray animals, traffic lights, idle conversations - goes deaf to his ears. Listening through vehicles, buildings, crowds, and the chilly winter air, he extends his reach further and further until he identifies and keys in on an unmistakable cadence - a lullaby to which he's fallen asleep on countless nights.
"- lo."
"Marco," he smirks, smoothing out his outfit one last time, and taking off.
"Po -"
"- lo!"
Hearing his voice finishing her reply and calling out from behind her, she takes her cell from her ear, opens the door to her hybrid hatchback, and peers out to see him walking toward her from behind a concrete column, out of the view of any security cameras.
"What took you so long?" she quips, hanging up her phone and then slipping her glove on her hand.
"Are you serious? That was way under a second."
"Admitting our limitations, are we?"
Slighted, he insists, "I'll go back and do it again if…" He loses his thought as she steps out of and away from her car, and into the light beaming down from the parking garage's rows of overhead lights. Slowing his stride, he takes in her face, made up for the first time today and in dramatic shades meant, he assumes, to complement an outfit that's completely obscured by the black of a full-length wool coat tied about her waist. He realizes that he's stopped walking when he hears her stiletto pumps clicking in his direction, closing the rest of the distance between them. As she approaches him, he runs his eyes over her hair, which was loose and unkempt for most of the day, but is now perfectly manicured, with her bang swept across her brow, and with the top half of her coif pinned back off of her face and flowing into the rest of the fresh waves and curls hanging down her back.
"You're gonna dent whatever car runs into you if you keep standing there," she teases, grabbing his sleeve and tugging him with her out of the driving lane.
Ignoring her remark, he takes the opportunity to trail his gaze down the back of her coat to where it stops, just at her bare calves. Watching her legs, slightly flexed by the height of her heels, he lets her guide him to wherever their destination is. She says something, but he doesn't pay any attention to it, as he's too busy wondering which of the outfits he's seen in her closet could now be underneath her jacket. If the color of her shoes is any indication, he surmises, then there are at least a couple dozen possibilities. He grins, enjoying his guessing game, and lifts his gaze from her lower body just as she lets go of his coat, and they stop in the open parking space on the passenger side of her car.
"So, now or later?"
"What?" he asks, unsure of what she's talking about.
"Were you listening to anything that I just said?"
Unapologetic, he chuckles and shakes his head. In response, she starts to punch his shoulder, but he catches her forearm with one hand and wraps his other around her back. Caught off guard, she steps forward as he pulls her into his embrace.
Her body pressed to his, she peers up at him and, when she's sure of her voice, asks, "Something on your mind?"
He slides his hand along her forearm and over the back of her wrist, and then threads his fingers into hers and presses her palm to his chest. She smiles at his unspoken reply as he leans down past her cheek, avoiding smudging her makeup, and presses a light kiss to the side of her neck, just above the closed collar of her coat.
Tilting his head back up, he finds her gaze, and warmly tells her, "Hello."
"Hi."
"You look nice."
"You don't look so bad yourself."
Rubbing her gloved hand, he observes, "Your hair's different."
"I wet-set it after you left."
"What does that mean?"
She laughs, "Really? As much as you have crammed into that brain of yours, you don't know what wet-setting is?"
As he begins to gently sway her back and forth across the empty space, he whispers, "Your grooming habits weren't exactly a part of my training."
"Any other limitations you wanna own up to tonight?"
"No," he quietly replies, leading her around their makeshift dance floor. "So are you gonna explain your hair to me?"
"Are you gonna insist on helping next time?"
"Maybe."
"I can't tell you all of my secrets, Clark," she smirks, following his slow steps and subtle turns. "The mystery keeps you on your toes."
He laughs, grasping her hand and letting go of her back, and moving away just enough to twirl her around. When she returns to his arms, he stands still and leans down to kiss the other side of her neck. "Does that mean I shouldn't bother asking why you've been hiding three blocks from your apartment?" he whispers against her skin.
Sighing in enjoyment of his especially affectionate spirits, she quietly intones, "Mm-hmm."
"And you're not gonna tell me why you're dressed up?"
"Not yet."
"Fair enough."
Completely oblivious to the various noises and commotions beyond them, he leans back up, moves both of his hands to her waist, and takes her in. Flattered by his gaze, she gives him his moment as she runs her hands up and down his upper arms.
After a brief time, he shifts his stance, reminding himself of their surroundings, and says, "We should get you inside before you catch a cold."
"I've been sitting in the car with the heater blasting. I'm fine," she replies, waving off his concern and moving around him.
He watches as she swings open the passenger door and reaches down to pick up a rectangular tin resting on the front seat. "What were you saying earlier?" he wonders.
"I was asking you whether you wanted both of your surprises now. Or, one now and one later. But since you weren't listening to me, I've decided for you." Turning back toward him, she holds out the container for him. "You'll get the second one in a little while."
"Thank you," he smiles, accepting the tin. For her benefit, he carefully studies its dimensions, shaking it a bit, and raising it up and down to gauge its weight. "It's not a bomb, is it?"
She giggles, "Not this time."
Satisfied with her response, he stops stalling and slowly cracks open the lid. Before his eyes even land on the contents, he breathes in the same scent that filled her apartment, and his palate excites in both relief and impatience.
Watching him take off the top and reach inside, she says, "I didn't know if you had dessert."
"They had some kind of soufflé thing with a weird topping. I passed," he quickly replies, picking up a cookie, still warm from having spent so long in her toasty car, and eagerly taking a bite.
"I know how much you like chocolate chip, but I wanted to put my own twist on it, so there's oatmeal and walnuts mixed in. They're still pretty simple, though."
Too delighted to speak, he makes a sound of thorough appreciation as he chews away on his treat. After he's swallowed, he observes, "These taste homemade."
"That's because they are. I had to fiddle with the recipe a bit, but it worked out, I think."
"They're delicious, Lois. Thank you." After taking another big bite, he realizes his neglect, and holds the tin out to her. "Do you want one?" he mumbles.
"No," she chuckles, stretching up onto her toes and kissing his cheek. "They're for you. Enjoy."
Needing no further encouragement, he continues munching away as she uses her thumb to wipe away the bit of gloss that she left on the side of his face. After she's finished, she turns around to reach back into the car.
When he sees her return with a large satin scarf in hand, one of his eyebrows quirks up in suspicion. "What's that for?"
Ignoring him, she grasps his shoulders and leads him around to the passenger side of her vehicle. Regarding her with confusion, but undeterred in his snacking, he lets her sit him down and buckle him in.
"What's going on?"
"Glasses on or off?" she asks, holding up the scarf.
Realizing the answer to his question, he picks up another cookie, takes a bite, and slowly chews. There's no point in asking for details, he's sure. But he hadn't planned on them being away from her apartment for as long as her appearance and her intent seem to imply they may be. Though already knowing her response, he peers up at her, and suggests, "Can't we just stay in for the rest of the night? Maybe do this tomorrow?"
"A promise is a promise," she reminds.
Loath to spoil her fun, he sets aside any further objections and resolves to cooperate. "On is fine," he replies, offering her a reassuring smile.
She bites her lip to contain her excitement as she leans down a bit, and covers his glasses and his eyes with the thin material. After tying a snug knot around the back of his head, she closes the door, hurries around to the driver's side, and gets in.
"No peeking," she insists, placing a thermos in his hand and then cranking up the car.
He chuckles at the keenness in her voice, nods his head, and relaxes back into the seat.
With nothing before him but darkness, he continues chewing away at his dessert as she drives them through what he assumes is still just the city, given her car's constant stops and the din of traffic. Along the way, she gives him the highlights of the football game that did indeed end up being as much of a blowout as was projected, and he tells her more about the conversations he had over dinner and about his impressions of his new acquaintance. By the time her car comes to a full stop and he feels her shift it into park, he's polished off all but a few of the dozen or so cookies that were originally in his tin, and most of the milk in his thermos.
Listening to her turn off the whisper-quiet engine of her car, he jests, "Are we there yet?"
Lightly laughing, she gets out and makes her way over to the passenger side. After swinging open his door, she reaches down to take both containers from his hands, and to replace their tops.
"I wasn't finished," he complains.
"How do you not eat Mrs. K. out of house and home?"
"By not actually needing all that much food."
"And yet, she's constantly buying groceries."
"Gimme a break. If you of all people could eat as much of what you like, you wouldn't stop, either."
"Touché, Cookie Monster."
He smiles at his small victory as she leans over him to unbuckle his seat belt, and then pull him out of the car. He steps out into an area that he notices is significantly more subdued than the parking garage they left a while ago.
Grabbing her purse and sliding the handle up onto her shoulder, she checks, "You're not peeking, right?"
"Right."
"You swear?"
"Only when provoked - usually by you."
Rolling her eyes and smirking, she shuts the door and locks the car. He listens to the rustles of her jacket as she moves about, situating something, he imagines. Soon after, he feels her reach for his hands and rest them on her waist. Taking the opportunity, he closes the small space between them and wraps his arms all the way around the front of her stomach, hugging her.
"Someone's in a mood," she comments, reaching onto the hood of the car to grab the thermos and the tin.
"I'm just trying to keep you warm."
She looks up over her shoulder at his face, and observes the parts of his contented features not covered by her scarf. Happy to encourage his good humor, she smiles, "You can stay. Just don't step on me."
"Yes, sir."
With her gentle laughter in his ears, he holds her as closely as possible as she begins leading him off in some direction. Employing his highly-attuned perception, he takes care to not trip her as they wind around a corner, and up a slight incline. From the vehicles ambling about not far away from them, and the echoes of car doors opening and closing, he guesses that they're in a parking structure of some kind. After a short walk, they pause for a moment, and he hears the squeaking of a glass door as she opens it and then guides them through it. Wherever they are, he reasons, she must be familiar with the place, given her easy, purposeful movements.
As the door closes behind them, the treads of tires and the hums of engines fade, and they pause again just a few strides inside an area of still, temperate air. After she reaches forward, he hears the pings of what can only be an elevator.
"I know where we are," he tells her, toying with the belt knot in the front of her jacket.
"No, you don't."
"I've been a lot of places."
"Well, you haven't been in here. Not on business, anyway. I checked the papers."
Poking and twisting a finger into her waist, he teases, "Oh, really?"
"Yes, really," she giggles, tickled by his touch. "Now knock it off or you won't get your cookies back."
Heeding her warning, he takes his hand away from her side and wraps both of his arms back around her. At the sound of a loud chime, he follows her as she guides them into an open elevator. As the doors start to close, he feels her lean forward to prevent them, and he hears the quick step of someone making his or her way out of the parking area, through the vestibule, and aboard the mobile space with them.
He listens silently as she asks a person with a cheerful, feminine voice which floor she needs, and then presses a button for her. Given how high the number is, he rules out the parts of the city with buildings too squat to be the one in which they are currently. As she exchanges pleasantries with the newcomer and then, prompted by what must have been the woman's curious gaze, gives her her name and explains why she looks so familiar, he smiles, noting the ways in which she directs the conversation to keep him from learning their location. After a brief pause, he hears the stranger lower her tone as she asks her what the quiet, blindfolded man behind her did to get so lucky. He slightly shakes his head and suppresses a smile as she tersely, but pointedly, explains that he works hard. The elevator stops as the woman makes a sound of understanding, cordially wishes them a good night, and exits.
When the doors close and the elevator starts moving again, he wonders, "Why do women flirt with you all the time?"
"For the same reasons that men do."
"Lemme try that again: Why do women flirt with you in front of me all the time?"
She chuckles, "Because, unlike dudes, chicks aren't intimidated by your size. To us, you just look like an overgrown boy scout who's way more likely to be my little brother than the guy whose mouth I can't keep away from me."
In response to her remark, he quickly leans down and nips at the side of her neck.
"Ah, quit it!" she shrieks and giggles at the sudden, tickling sensation.
She tries to get away from him, but he holds onto her and persists, leaving light, playful bites along the skin just beneath her ear. Her cheeks strain with her laughter, and he only lets up when the elevator pings again and she insists that they've reached their stop.
He grins in triumph and leans back up, listening to her clear her throat as she collects herself, and then feeling her resettle into the circle of his arms. When the doors slide open, she leads them out into a quiet area, disturbed only by the sounds of their footsteps moving across a hard surface and a distant lock clacking into place. After making a couple of turns and a final straightaway trek, they come to a stop.
"Are we there yet?"
"We are," she replies. "So you have to let me go now."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Do you want your dessert back or not?"
"I prefer you to cookies."
"You really are in a mood, aren't you?"
"I'm just making up for the last few hours," he smirks, finally releasing his hold.
She steps away from him, and he listens to her slide something into her coat pocket, and then set something on the floor. When he then begins to hear her clothes rustling again, he figures she freed her hands of the thermos and tin in order to take off her gloves and jacket. And he deems himself correct as he soon after hears her walking around behind him, and feels the warmth of her bare fingers and knuckles untying the knot at the back of his head.
"Keep them closed," she instructs.
"You're the boss, Lane."
After feeling the scarf loosen and after feeling her pull the material away from him, he squints his eyes farther closed, lest she think he's not cooperating, and rights his glasses, which went askew during their journey. Then, standing perfectly still, he waits for her to finish fussing about, picking things up, and mumbling to herself. A ways off, he hears a door open and close, and then the plodding pace of someone making his or her way down a hall, and then the chimes of an elevator. From the white noises that flowed out of the space beyond the person's briefly opened door, he makes what he feels is an accurate guess as to what kind of building they're in. But, for her, he keeps it to himself.
"Okay. I'm ready now. Open your eyes," she says, breaking into his thoughts.
"You sure?"
"Yes."
With an amused grin on his face, he lifts his lids. But his smirk quickly falls away as his jaw slackens at the sight of her, clad in a strapless burgundy dress that must be new, because he would've remembered it in particular had he ever seen it before. Without needing to be asked, she slowly turns, letting him take in the varying aspects of her ensemble: The subtle, sweetheart neckline flattering her bust. The formfitting silhouette hugging every one of her curves. The understated accent lines trailing down her sides and along her hips. And the dramatic, full-length corseted back, with thin cream-colored strings, running from the bottoms of her shoulder blades all the way down to just below the crooks of her knees.
She finishes her turn and waits for him to say something, but he doesn't. After giving him another second, she demurely asks, "So what do you think?"
Hearing her enough to register her question, but not nearly enough to find her eyes just yet, he shifts his stance and adjusts his tie. She smiles at his reflexive response, and then snickers as she watches his cheeks flush ever so slightly.
Another few moments pass before he manages to lift his gaze. Upon finding her eyes, he chuckles unsteadily as he grasps for a coherent thought. Finally feeling sure enough of himself to venture speaking, he swallows the tension in his throat, and then slowly replies, "Lois, that's not a dress. That's…an occasion."
"Would you like to know what the occasion is?" she grins.
"Giving me a heart attack?"
"Cheesy."
"I'm serious, Lois," he says, stepping back to appreciate the whole of her appearance, from her hair down to her heels. But as a thought occurs to him, he gestures to her dress, and asks, "He didn't give you this one, did he?"
"Of course not. He doesn't have a death wish."
Accepting her assurance, he moves back toward her and starts to reach for her waist. But she steps away.
"What?" he asks, at a loss as to what he did to deserve her avoidance.
Lighting laughing, she tells him, "I didn't mean it like that."
"Oh. Okay." He approaches her a second time, but she slips out of his reach again. Even more uncertain than before, he presses, "What did I do?"
"I'm not the surprise, Clark."
"But you're the surprise I want."
"There's that mood again."
Dismissing her remark, he once again tries to eliminate the space between them. "Come here."
"Later," she nearly laughs, extending her arm and pressing against his chest to keep him away. "Look around."
He groans his disappointment, and then complies. For the first time since he opened his eyes, his mind stirs to their surroundings. Glancing to his sides and back over his shoulder, he notices that they've arrived at the end of a long, well-lit corridor, across the hall from a stairwell exit, and just in front of a numbered door. Realizing that he was correct and that they are indeed in a residential building, he looks at the door again, and then at her, and whisperingly sulks, "I don't wanna see whoever's in there."
"Really?" she giggles. "That's your guess?"
"Well, this definitely isn't a hotel."
"It's not."
"So am I wrong?"
"Very." Sticking her hand into one of her coat pockets and then producing a small, gift-wrapped box, she beams, "Happy Off-day!"
"Thank you," he hesitantly replies, reaching out for the present.
Biting her lip in excitement, she watches him unwrap the box and then remove its top. Slowly, he pulls back a few bits of tissue paper, and reveals two pieces of cut brass.
"I don't understand," he tells her, picking up the items.
She takes the empty box and the wrapping paper from him, and quickly pushes them down next to the thermos in her jacket pocket. "Well, open the door."
Quizzically, he looks down at the keys, and then back up at her. Doing as told, he turns to the side and fiddles about until he figures out which key fits the doorknob, and which one fits the deadbolt. After unlocking the door, her grasps the knob, and then looks over his shoulder at her.
"Go on," she encourages.
Still questioning, he turns back, twists the handle, and slowly pushes the door open.
Tranquil, warm air and a faint, familiar scent greet him as he steps just inside an entirely lit and entirely empty area. After peeking around, he admits, "I don't get it."
Hurrying through the door, she shuts and locks it, and moves past him. He watches her scamper off to his side, leave her belongings on a counter, and quickly make her way back to stand in the center of a large area, several strides in front of him.
Grinning ear to ear, she throws out her hands to gesture all around her as she exclaims, "Surprise! It's your homecoming!"
...