[Rating: PG-13 - For occasional mild profanity, for suggestive language and dialogue, and for sensuality.]
CHAPTER 13
Focusing on the frayed end of a thin wick, he watches as the tiny fibers smolder underneath the heat of his gaze, and then ignite with a sudden burst of warm light. Then, in deference to the element so vital to his existence, he stands perfectly still, waiting for the flickering flame to settle, and for its surrounding glow to calm.
When he's convinced that the flat, circular candle in his hand is sure to not go out again, he gently sets it amongst the many others on the window seat in his new bedroom. Standing in a corner where one end of the seat meets an adjacent wall, he looks down the expanse of white tealights spaced out in several even rows and columns. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so precise in situating them, but, given how long she's been sequestered in the adjoining bathroom, he's had the time to try out a few different variations.
For the third time, he walks over to the main light switch, turns back toward the space he's in, and pulls down the toggle. As the overhead lights cut off and their stiff, lifeless fluorescence instantly retreats, the soft, swaying glow from the candles spread throughout the room imbues the space, giving it an entirely different character. He smiles, satisfied that the results of his efforts are worthy enough of the woman for whom they are intended.
When he's finished scrutinizing the various aspects of his setting, he lets his eyes wander to the bathroom door on the other side of the room. After they withdrew from the kiss that sealed their hopes for the night, she quickly showed him the remaining features of the master bedroom, dragged him back into and through the main area of his new home, and then opened the front door and shoved him, keys in hand, out into the hallway. Before he could ask what he did wrong, she simply explained that she needed to grab a few things that were none of his business out of the closet in the spare bedroom, and instructed him to get lost for at least five minutes. Obliged to give her her space, he used the time to hurry back to her apartment and to retrieve the necessary items for their picnic. When he returned a short while later, she was already hidden away in the bathroom. He asked her if he could get her anything, to which she curtly responded in the negative, and added that she was just changing her clothes and washing her face. But that was nearly an hour ago. And she hasn't said a word since.
At first, he supposed that she could hear him fussing about and thus hadn't reappeared because she assumed he wasn't ready. So after removing what he decided to be an appropriate amount of his own outfit, speeding through the rest of his initial arrangements, and setting everything extraneous in the bedroom's walk-in closet, he forced himself to stay put for long enough to dispel her doubts. To his confusion, though, she still didn't emerge. Perhaps she was having trouble getting out of the dress that he had no idea as to how she got into in the first place, he guessed. But when he considered checking on her again, it occurred to him that it'd be better to let her ask for help, should she need it, lest he give the impression of rushing her.
Content to wait forever, he carefully went about improving the things of which he didn't feel certain: The angle of the bouquet on the nightstand next to her side of what he warmly thought of as their bed. How much of the covers to turn down and how far. Which pillows to leave on the bed, and which to move to the pallet he made on the floor with the extra blankets that he brought from her apartment.
After finishing his second attempt, he returned his attention to his appearance. Looking around, he quickly realized that though the room being only furnished with the bed and its adornments had the advantage of focusing his purpose, the absence of a mirror did indeed pose a minor obstacle. And so, despite his reluctance to leave, he sped his way to the closet in the other bedroom, quickly found the large bag with many of their things in it, and took what he needed into the spare bathroom. His hands and feet, he determined, were perfectly well-groomed, being that she insisted upon doing his nails after she did her own the night before. His hair, however, was a trickier matter. While keeping an ear out for the bathroom door in the master bedroom, he spent a long while fretting over which of his two very different primary styles she'd prefer. In the end, he settled on a combination of both, combing his locks back off of his face, but leaving them looser than he would if he were preparing to appear as his new self.
With his hair finished to his satisfaction, he checked his teeth, breath, skin, and overall scent. After which, he picked a few imaginary pieces of lint off of the fabric covering his lower body, did a swift turn before the mirror above the sink, and, having concluded that he passed inspection, put away his toiletry kit and returned to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.
As he looked around the room a third time and strained to identify something else to change around, his anxieties began to surface. The fears of falling short, of failing to follow through, of finding himself once again beset by panic - every one of his causes for concern tightened the grip of apprehension in his chest and throat. And for a moment, he entertained notions of denial and delay. But the events of the day had made him sensible as to the consequences of his inertia. To resist her, to resist what he feels for and with her, means to suffer the wrath of an inferno for which he has absolutely no defense. Thus, determined to move forward, he took a deep breath, and then busied himself with rearranging the candles resting on the window seat.
When he finished, he turned to observe the improved display. But, in doing so, the slight draft he created extinguished one of the flames. With excessive care, he picked up the tealight and reignited it with his gaze. As he watched the tiny light in his hand find its peace in his presence, he wondered at the unique ability of the far greater power of which that glimmer only signified to affect changes that are, unlike those brought about by every other element, on so fundamental a level as to be immutable. Perhaps he'd never fully understand it. But then, he doesn't have to. Because, as he once again learned as he slept in her arms a few hours ago, all he need do is embrace the ways in which its influence always has and always will transform and sustain him - no matter where or in whom it manifests.
With nothing left to do but wait, he leaves the wall opposite the bathroom, ambles over to the head of the bed, and reaches forward to lightly smooth out a wrinkle in her pillow. Since first resting a hand on the duvet over an hour ago, he hasn't had much contact with their first and most meaningful possession. Even in turning down the flat sheets and comforter, and in removing the decorative pillows, he made a point of touching what he felt to be a sacrosanct space as little as possible. His admission into it, he reverentially resolved, would have to be earned. But until she appears, he can offer no such testament to that which merits him sharing a bed, a future, with her.
Just as his thoughts turn to how much he's beginning to miss her, he hears her voice call out to him from behind the bathroom door.
"Clark?"
Startled, he nearly jumps back from the bed, and, after clearing his throat, quickly replies, "Yes?"
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing," he defensively insists, taking her question as an accusation of some kind. When she doesn't respond, though, he realizes that he may have made a mistake. Easing his tone, he asks, "Are you alright?"
"Yes."
"Do you need anything?"
"No."
"…Okay." Her responses, clipped and uninformative, confound him. And whatever her aim is in speaking to him after having not done so for so long, he cannot make it out. What he can discern, though, is the slight tension in her voice.
As their exchange lulls, it occurs to him that perhaps she hasn't felt as comfortable with their prolonged silence as he has. Perhaps he should've spoken up by now. Perhaps the space he tried to give her has only made her feel detached, isolated from him. Hastily, he tries to think of some sort of gambit, of some sort of way of reassuring her. But before he can attempt to do so, she breaks in again.
"I probably shouldn't have gone with the corseted dress."
Confused by her non sequitur, he only manages, "Why?"
"It was tighter than I realized."
"…Oh."
"I'm saying that it left a lot of lines on me. And I've been waiting for them to go away."
She's exaggerating, he immediately realizes. Human skin may not be as resilient as his, but it certainly doesn't take an hour to recover from the kinds of marks to which she's alluding. But then, she must know that he knows that. Between his training and his practical experiences, it'd be impossible for him to not. Which, he concludes, must mean that she simply wants him to go along with her lie, probably as a way of sparing them both the embarrassment of addressing their very long silence. Taking her cue, he asks, "Are they still there?"
"Sort of."
Though recognizing her lie for what it is, he nonetheless tries to engage her further. "Do they hurt? Can I do anything?" he offers, as he walks around the side of the bed, lifts off of the floor several inches so as to not disturb the wide space between the bench and the window seat, and slowly approaches the bathroom door.
"No, thanks."
"But they do hurt?"
"Not anymore. Just a little at first, when I was loosening the strings. It was kinda like my whole body had just gotten out of a vise, and it needed to inhale, but the first deep breath stung a bit. Does that make sense?"
He smiles, appreciating that ever since he first began explaining his abilities to her as his former, anonymous self, she's never taken for granted that he's experienced the kinds of aches and irritations that she has in the same way or to the same extent. "Yeah, it does," he replies, remembering the crush as he, already depleted from fighting, forced a nemesis several miles beneath the earth's surface. "I'm sorry you were uncomfortable."
"It's no biggie. I mean, it's not like I couldn't breathe. Besides, beauty is pain."
Encouraged by her more relaxed tone, he edges, "It doesn't have to be with me, you know. I always think you look incredible. It doesn't matter what you're wearing."
"You have to say that."
He alights upon the floor a few steps away from the door, letting her hear his nearness, but making a point of not bearing down on her. "Even if I did, which I don't, I'd still mean it."
"You don't know how to turn it off, do you?"
"Look who's talking."
At the sound of his reply, he hears her quietly laugh and then begin moving around for what he realizes is the first time in a long while.
"You can come in if you want. The door's not locked."
Of course it isn't, he thinks, smiling to himself. Reflecting on their day, he realizes that even during the two other times that she shut herself away from him, the spaces in which she was situated were as accessible as the one before him at present. He didn't hear a latch slide back just before she confronted him in the hallway of her apartment, and he didn't turn the knob to her bathroom door only to find it fixed. No matter how private a moment she was having, whether while crying into tattered tissues or soaking in a spacious tub, she never barred him completely. He wonders for a moment whether she's aware of that particular habit. Probably so, he decides. And even though he can't imagine himself ever barging in on her in the same unannounced, unabashed manner that she often does with him, he finds the notions that she leaves him the choice to do so and that she trusts him to know when he shouldn't as reassuring as he finds every other hint at how liberal she wants and allows him to be with her.
Taking a step closer to the door, he considers the genuineness of her offer - whether she'd really like to see him, or she simply wishes him to feel welcome. But before making a decision, he checks, "Are you decent?"
"Not exactly."
"What does that mean?" he asks, listening to her soft footfalls as she shuffles around inside the bathroom, and to the rustling of what he supposes are clothing fabrics as she fusses with them.
"It means that I don't think we have the same definition for that word."
"Are you saying that I actually have one and you don't?"
"Smart-ass."
"Is that a yes?"
"Yes."
With a small laugh, he replies, "Well, going by the only definition between the two of us, are you decent?"
"Not yet."
"Oh." Looking over his shoulder at everything in the room behind him, he, for the sake of presentation, quickly decides against leaving. "I think I'll stay out here."
"Okay. I'll be done in a minute."
"That's fine," he replies. Then, by way of reassurance, he adds, "Just take your time, Lois. There's absolutely no rush."
Upon hearing her chuckle as she mutters something to herself about his ridiculous sense of chivalry, he smiles, and turns away from the bathroom door. With the sounds of her movements in his ears, he makes his way over to the nightstand on the right side of the bed. Reaching a hand into the bouquet resting on the mahogany surface of the small table, he carefully pulls a single flower from amongst the many others, and then readjusts the arrangement a final time. When he's finished, he steps back to check his work, and, content with the display, turns his attention to where to position himself. The other side of the bed won't do, he reasons, as he'd largely be obscured from her view. Wanting to be neither too far from her nor too near, he gauges the distances from the bathroom door to the various areas on the side of the bed just opposite it. Choosing the farthest remove, he walks to the post at the corner of the footboard, and runs the fingers of his empty hand through his hair and looks down his body to re-inspect himself along the way.
After a short while spent standing in place, doing his utmost to remain as composed as possible, he hears her movements settle and sees the fluorescence under the door of the bathroom go out. Watching the knob begin to turn and then seeing the door slowly swing back and open, he quickly straightens his posture and clears his throat. As she appears, stepping out of the darkness of the bathroom and into the light of the bedroom, his breath catches and his heart wavers. He'd both hoped and expected to see her once again nestled in her preferred sleepwear: one of his flannel shirts and a pair of her own boxers or pajama pants. But now, such a notion seems narrow - perhaps even naïve - compared to the arresting sight of her swathed in nothing but red.
Disbelieving, he lowers his gaze to the floor, where the long, abundant fabric gathers at her feet, creating a slight train behind her. Still doubting the reality of the vision before him, he trails his eyes up the lithe material draped around and held to her by her mostly covered, folded arms, and pauses where the tops of her bare shoulders peak out and her hair, no longer partially pinned, hangs loosely down her back and over her chest. A subtle movement of hers as she turns to close the door behind her reanimates him, and he follows the candlelight playing across her skin along her neck and up to the curves of her face, stripped of every artificial adornment except for the light moisturizer on her lips.
Perfect.
If only there were more words for it, he'd tell her every single one. But at present, having only just remembered to breathe, he's lost all sense of eloquence. Knowing he should at least say something, though, even if it limits his wonder and appreciation to a single word, he blinks a few times and swallows, gathering himself. But just as he begins to speak, he sees her turn her head back toward him, and he immediately recognizes her uneasy expression.
"What did you do to your room?"
Her question, absent any humor or sarcasm, sends him reeling. "Um… I, uh… I just…"
As he grasps for an appropriate response, she takes her eyes from his and runs them back over their surroundings. While unsurprised to find the wine, chocolates, and fruit for their picnic resting on the bench at the foot of the bed, and the pallet made up in the open space between the bench and the window seat, she hadn't expected the remaining aspects of a setting even more elaborate than one with which he presented her for his reveal. Looking around the room, she observes the votive candles lying in tall, deep-set holders lining the carpet along the walls, the tealights arranged on the window seat, and the floating candles drifting in clear basins on each of the nightstands. What she finds even more affecting, though, are the orange and yellow rose petals strewn across every surface except for the bed. Were it not for him choosing the same color scheme for his setting three months ago, she'd question the meaning of the present display. But, already appreciating the sentiment conveyed by his gesture, she has no need for the words she's not even sure she could manage.
Watching the fabric around her pull closer to her body as she tightens the fold of her arms, he begins to second-guess his choices. After all, his intention was to impress, not to overwhelm. Having regretfully accomplished the latter, he instinctively steps toward her, offering, "Lois, I didn't mean to -"
"- Seriously?" she cuts in, watching him cautiously approach her. "You're gonna apologize for this?"
"If I need to, then yes."
"Who said you needed to?"
"Well, you don't seem to like it."
"I didn't say that." As he stops a stride or two away from her, she tilts her head to one side and then to the other, looking around and past him. "It's just… I mean, you think I'm the one who tends to go overboard, and… Well, you've kinda redefined the word here." Growing all the more doubtful, he starts to offer some kind of explanation, but before he can, she asks, "Were you gonna do this to my apartment?"
"…I guess."
"Where were you gonna put all of it?"
"I hadn't worked that out yet," he admits. As her eyes continue peering everywhere but directly in front of her at him, he starts to ramble, "Look, Lois, I can get rid of some of this if you want. Or I can get rid of all of it. I just wanted tonight to be different. Special, you know. And I figured - Well, never mind what I figured. My point is just that if this doesn't feel right to you, then I'll change it. Okay? Whatever you want is exactly what I'll do. So just tell me. Name it. Anything at all. Big or -"
"- I want you to stop talking for sixty seconds."
"Why?" he worries, his face falling. "Are you mad at me?"
"No."
"Then why don't you want me to -"
"- Shut up, Clark," she insists, finding his gaze and looking sternly at him.
Heeding her warning, he takes his eyes from hers, steps off to the side a bit, and remains quiet.
With him out of her line-of-sight, she once again tries to adjust to the atmosphere. Having not expected the door through which she passed to transport her into an environment so drastically different from the one in which she sat for most of the last hour, she can't help feeling as taken aback by the contrast of the two spaces, as by the meaning underpinning the tender and enchanting world that he's created. The fold of the blankets, the fluff of the pillows, the arrangement of the various foods - every one of his meticulous efforts captures her notice, and conveys to her his affections without a word. Licking and then biting her lower lip, she wishes she weren't as unsettled - possibly even intimidated - as she is, especially given her awareness that any nervousness of hers will only exacerbate his.
After taking a deep breath in the hopes of putting her mind more at ease, she peers at him out of the corner of her eye. With him looking anywhere but in her direction, she takes the opportunity to run her gaze over his figure - ever constant in its vibrancy and luster.
Notwithstanding the unusual circumstances under which they first met, she knew there was something different about him right from the start. His skin, always bright and always unblemished, belied the lifetime he'd spent doing manual labor on his family's farm. Initially, she dismissed it as the result of an active lifestyle, good genes, and dumb luck. As she grew closer to him over the years, though, she occasionally entertained the notion that his flawless looks were simply the physical manifestation of his limitless generosity and his unfailing compassion. But now, even after having learned the truth of the source of his vigor and strength, she's completely convinced that his appearance has more to do with his character than anything else.
Her thoughts bring a slight smile to her face in spite of her anxieties - as does the charm of him standing silently beside her, terrified that she'll say something cynical or disapproving. Shifting the fabric in one of her hands into the grasp of the other, she continues holding the enveloping material to her as she reaches outside of it.
At the feeling of the cloth covering the side of his leg moving a bit, he looks down to find her lightly running her fingers over the cotton.
"I like these," she tells him, admiring the dark purple of his only piece of clothing. "The color looks good on you."
Taking her compliment as an indication that he's finally allowed to speak, he quietly replies, "Thanks." As he watches her let go of the garment, though, he realizes that he hasn't yet managed to express how he feels about any aspect of her appearance.
But just as he parts his lips to enunciate, she turns away from him, and asks, "Are those for me?"
Seeing that she's referring to the bouquet of red-tipped yellow roses resting on one of the nightstands, he suddenly remembers the flower in his hand. "Yeah, they are," he quickly replies, lifting the rose from his side and awkwardly holding it out to her.
"They're beautiful," she says, finding his gaze and grasping the long stem in his hand. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," he offers with a timid smile.
With both of his hands now empty, it occurs to him that perhaps kissing her cheek would be appropriate. But he then realizes that she didn't graze his fingers as she usually does when she takes something from him. Uncertain as to whether her avoidance was intentional, he discovers his answer in studying her bearing and finding her stiff. Attempting to veil his discouragement, he feigns cheerfulness as he asks, "Can I fix you something to eat?"
"Um…" she contemplates, looking over at the platter of chocolates and fruits lying atop a tray of ice. "I don't think so. I'm not all that hungry."
Too thrown by her response to stop himself, he raises his eyebrows a little, both in question and in confusion. Apart from when she's sleepy or sick, he's not quite sure that he's ever heard her turn down visually appealing food - whether or not she's already sated. In fact, they'd only been together a couple of weeks when he determined to make a point of always keeping snacks around for her. Whether dried fruit in his desk for when they're at the office, granola bars in his jacket pockets for when they're out investigating, or mixed nuts in his truck for when they're making the long drive out of or back into the city, he's taken to storing food everywhere and for every occasion, lest he ever be caught unprepared when she starts to fidget and complain from want of something to consume. And so, that he's somehow managed to destroy something as constant about her and as indicative of her mood as her appetite tells him exactly how much he's put her off.
But even as he internally berates himself, he tries to not let his bearing betray anything further. Forcing a smile, he considers his other options. The massage is out of the question, he decides, given his certainty that he shouldn't try touching her until she relaxes. But reading to her probably won't help matters, either. She probably just needs something to do, he figures. And though he hadn't planned on it, he could always go grab their video game handhelds.
"But maybe you could eat something?"
"What?" he asks, having been too lost to his own thoughts to make out her suggestion.
Trying to offer him something with which to occupy himself while she tries to get her bearings, she repeats, "Maybe you could eat something?"
"Yeah. Yeah, that's fine," he replies, eager to grant any wish she may have at the moment. "Where, uh… Where do you wanna sit?"
"Wherever."
Her reply, spoken in a less than genuine tone, communicates to him her real answer, which is that anywhere but the bed will do. Taking her hint, he nods, looks around the room, and settles upon as noncommittal a space as possible.
In silence, she follows behind him as he leads them across the petal-strewn carpet and around the corner of the pallet. With tense, stilted movements, he slides the towels and the bottle of massage oil down to the far end of the long bench, and replaces part of the now-empty area with one of the pillows he previously repositioned on the floor. After smoothing out the makeshift cushion, he gestures toward it, and she thanks him and takes a seat on it.
With her situated, he goes about fixing himself a plate. Having picked up one of the round, flat dishes from the stack of two or three others near her, he scoops a couple spoonfuls of whipped dark chocolate ganache onto it, and then fills the rest of the plate with mixed berries, a few different kinds of truffles, and some chocolate-covered pretzels and almonds. After which, he reaches into an ice bucket, picks up the wine bottle and then a large water bottle, and pours himself a glass of each liquid. When he's done, he moves everything except for the massage items, his foods and drinks, a utensil, and a cloth napkin to the floor next to the pallet.
Mindful of not sitting as close to her as he usually does, he picks a spot a few arm's lengths away from her, and takes a seat. As he settles in, draping his napkin across his thigh and picking up his fork, she watches the defined muscles in his arm and down the side of his torso contract and relax from his slight motions. Reflexively, she pulls her lower lip into her mouth, and bites down on it. When he looks over at her, though, he takes notice of her readjusting her arms and shifting around a bit, and thus takes her chewing her lip as a sign of discomfort.
"Are you okay?" he checks.
Releasing the hold of her teeth, she clears her throat, and replies, "Mm-hmm."
He lowers his eyes to her mouth, watching the blood beneath her skin rush back into her lip. The sight sends a faint tremor down his chest and into his belly, and it's all he can do to keep himself from setting his plate aside and reaching out for her. But he knows that he shouldn't. Not until he's confident that he's allowed and that she wants him to.
Swallowing, he lifts his eyes, only to find her looking right back at him. Without having to wonder, he's certain that she sees what his reaction has been. But, rather than turn away, he doesn't try to hide it. She deserves to know, he tells himself.
As she watches him watch her, with his gaze focused and dark, a flush of warm tingles run down her arms and legs. He never lets her see his longing so open and unguarded - at least not until he's too wrapped up in her to resist doing so. He must have meant what he said not long ago, she muses: He does want tonight to be different.
Heartened by both his honesty and his resolve, she gives him a slight smile of understanding, and then takes her eyes from his. He watches her exhale, relaxing enough to lean back against the footboard and to drop the fold of her arms from her chest to her stomach. Glad to know he's helping, he smiles to himself, and returns his attention to his food.
Gazing out in front of her, she begins to count the tealights on the window seat as she traces her fingers over the top of the rose in her hand. He looks over at her every now and again as he quietly eats a few bites of fruit and sips his water. Seeing her easy breaths and her tranquil features, he assumes that she, knowing where he is and how he's feeling, is more comfortable in their present silence than she was in their previous hour-long one. And so, he leaves her to her thoughts.
After a few minutes with nothing filling the air but the soft sounds of the cutlery against his plate and his glass goblet against the wooden bench, she lifts her hand to her hair to run a finger along her bang, and starts to cross her legs. Hearing her shift, he glances in her direction again, and stops chewing as he glimpses the fabric covering her lower body slightly falling away, revealing every inch of the bare skin beneath her knees.
Gradually, he trails his eyes from the tips of her toes, across her ankles, along her calves, and up to the bottoms of her mostly concealed thighs. As he, transfixed as much by what he can see as by that which is between him and what he can't, swallows his bite, he realizes that she's draped her leg furthest from him over the one nearest to him. Recognizing her subtle, though nonetheless inviting, gesture, he regards her profile and contemplates a response.
After a brief pause, he gently reintroduces his voice to the air around them, asking, "Are you warm enough?"
Amused by his delicacy, she lets out a low chuckle from deep in her throat, and peers down at her legs as she slowly rubs her dangling ankle up and then back down the side of her other calf.
His stomach tightens a bit at her enticing, unspoken reply. And, without thinking, he licks his lips.
Finally turning her head back toward him, she finds his gaze, as entranced as it was when she first walked out of the bathroom, lingering over the fabric resting against the outline of her hip.
With a smirk in her voice, she comforts, "I'm just borrowing it, Clark."
His eyes still trailing over the smooth lines and full folds of the fabric surrounding her, he clears his throat, and then replies, "I have extras. You can keep it if you want."
"In case I ever decide to wear it again?"
Her question, as much of a promise as a taunt, sends another tremor through him. Instinctively, he shifts toward her a bit, only realizing his gravitation and halting his progress when his foot brushes one of the pillows at the edge of the pallet. Holding still, he raises his eyes to hers, and finds her gazing both tenderly and teasingly back at him.
"I'd rather you hang onto it," she tells him, choosing to not remark on how much closer to her he obviously wants to be.
Disappointed, he asks, "Why?"
"So that whenever I have to watch you wrap it around some damsel who you know is faking a chill just to get your attention and a once-in-a-lifetime flight to a hospital, I'll be able to keep my cool by reminding myself that no one gets as close to it or you as I do."
Pleased by her logic, he smiles in agreement. With her responses, both spoken and unspoken, growing all the more indicative of her usual demeanor, he feels encouraged enough to mention what he's been meaning to tell her. "You know, Lois," he begins, "I've sort of seen this before."
"Seen what?"
"You. In that," he says, briefly glancing down at the material around her.
"When?"
"This morning. Before you woke me up."
"Really?" she asks, a full grin blooming across her face as she remembers the conversation they had while they bathed together. "This was your wish?"
"Yes."
She lightly laughs, and then bites her lip to contain her excitement. As a thought occurs to her, though, she checks, "But how do you know you didn't just get some kinda vibe from me, and what you really saw was the future? Maybe I'm just getting predictable."
"Not possible. The last thing you've ever been or could ever be is predictable," he replies. "That's how I know."
"Are you just saying that?"
"I'm not." As she generously smiles upon hearing his assurance, he takes a long breath and a longer pause to find the words to approximate how he feels. "Lois, you look…" he tries, before trailing off. Uncertain of how best to phrase what he wants to convey, he sighs, shakes his head at himself, and settles upon the only characterization of which he can conceive: "You look like a dream."
His sentiment, simple and sincere, earns a look of thorough appreciation from her, brightening her features even further. Happy to have struck the right note, he exhales in relief and feels himself warm as he watches her uncross her legs, and begin to slide toward him.
She stops a couple inches short of where he's seated, and he starts to put his plate down on the opposite side of him, but he sees her reaching toward it. He follows her movements as she dips the index finger of her free hand into the ganache he's yet to try. After she's gathered a bit of it, she lifts her hand, offering the confection to him.
Taking her gesture as the opportunity it is, he holds her gaze and eases his mouth open, letting her slip her fingertip just inside. He watches the hoods of her eyes lower a bit and he feels her pulse quicken as he presses his tongue to her slender digit and softly slides along it, clearing away the creamy dessert. His own heart rate increases as he appreciates both the first touch and the first taste he's had of her in far too long. As she slowly withdraws her finger, wavering for a moment at the sensation of his lips against her skin, she quietly asks, "How is it?"
After spreading the treat around his palate and then swallowing it, he comments on more than just the chocolate as he replies, "It's delicious."
"Describe it."
He momentarily lowers his gaze to her legs as she crosses them again, rubbing her calf down the side of his knee in the process. The fork on his plate shudders a bit as his hand trembles from her light touch. "It's, uh…" he considers, as he struggles to maintain his composure. "It's light, but still really rich. Not too sweet. It's got a little bite to it, I guess." As he sees her body begin leaning toward his, he looks up from her thigh to find her eyes.
"What do I taste like?"
His groin tightens at the low timbre of her voice, the provocativeness of her question, and the nearness of her mouth to his. Licking his lips in anticipation, he doesn't hesitate to respond, "Cherry. And vanilla."
"You know that's probably just your imagination, right?" she whispers, closing the small distance between them until he can feel her breath against his lips.
His eyes fixed on the moist, ruddy curves of her mouth, he replies, "That doesn't make it any less real to me."
"Such a smooth-talker."
Unable to suffer the wait any longer, he tilts his head down a bit to capture her lips. But, to his dismay, she moves out of his reach and gets up from her seat. He looks up at her and starts to complain, but he withholds his protest as she casually takes a pretzel from his plate, and slips it into her mouth.
As she chews, he smiles at the welcome return of her appetite, and doesn't resist as she takes the napkin from his lap and sets it aside on the bench, and then reaches for his wrist, pulls him up out of his seat, and guides him onto the pallet.
"Can I ask you something?" she says, exchanging the rose in her hand for the plate in his.
"You can ask me anything."
She smirks at his eager affirmation as she kneels onto the plush surface of blankets covered by one of the flat sheets from the bed. He follows suit, and then sits back completely when she pokes a finger into his chest. "Where do you even get the ideas for this kinda stuff?" she wonders, glancing around the room.
He shrugs, "I don't know."
Shuffling toward him and nudging his legs apart with her knees, she intuits, "That's not true."
Happy to have her near him again, he obliges her with the space she needs as she takes a seat, positioning herself sideways, leaning back against the inside of his propped-up knee, and draping her legs over his outstretched one. As she finishes settling in, he reluctantly answers, "From books, mostly."
Suspicious, she slowly asks, "What books?"
"The, uh… The ones you keep in your candy drawer at work."
"The romance novels?" she snickers, picking up an almond and sliding it past his lips. "You've been studying chick lit when I haven't been looking?"
Concerning himself more with her proximity than her retort, he brushes the backs of his fingers along the fabric covering her arm, and muffles through his bite, "I guess."
"Well, for the record: I read those for the style, not the content. So whenever Perry sticks me some snore of an assignment, I can just make the article sound more colorful to get people to actually read it. It's an old trick from my days at the Inquisitor."
"Oh," he absently replies, trailing his finger along the uppermost edges of the fabric, where it meets her shoulder and her chest.
She observes his face, watching his eyes following his wandering touch, and she warms at the thought of how much he's enjoying her choice of ensemble. As she offers him a pretzel, it occurs to her, "You know, Clark, I read all kinds of fiction. Why doesn't it look like the Great Hall at Hogwarts in here?"
"Because I figured that maybe you were just embarrassed by liking the romantic ones. And I wanted to surprise you."
"Seriously? I'm capable of a lot of things, but I don't think being embarrassed makes the list."
"Fair point," he concedes, crunching on the pretzel. "But look at it this way: The colors in here are pretty close to Gryffindor's."
Impressed by his familiarity with the book and film series that he only tolerates for her sake, she playfully bumps his stomach with her knee, and ribs, "Nobody likes a know-it-all."
He smiles at her approval and forgoes a reply.
Turning her attention to his plate, she disregards the fork, and uses her hand to pick up a strawberry, swirl it into the ganache, and then take a bite. "Mmm," she delightfully intones upon first tasting the smooth texture and luscious flavor. "Totally worth the trip."
He gently strokes her hair and remains quiet, contentedly watching and listening to her as she spends the next few minutes trying out the other various items on the plate, and complimenting his choices as she goes. As she bites into her second truffle, he reaches behind him to grasp the glass of wine on the bench. When he holds it out for her, though, she looks at him skeptically.
"What?" he asks. "It's Pinot Noir. It's your favorite."
She giggles at his obliviousness and feeds him the other half of the round treat. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"
"Of course not," he quickly denies, mumbling through his morsel. But as she continues laughing at him, he realizes his miscue. "Oh. No, I completely forgot. It's just that all the stuff I've read online and all the people I talked to said that red wine goes well with chocolate and fruit, and I didn't originally plan on us, well -"
"- Wait. You've been doing research? Why?" she grins, not bothering to contain her amusement.
"Why else? For you. I finally figured out how to keep the cold out of the fortress, so I thought we could spend some time there as kind of a retreat after things settled down."
"With your parents present?"
"It doesn't work like that. They're not around unless me or someone I trust calls for them."
"So you figured you'd get me liquored up while we're all alone in the middle of the arctic?" she teases. "That's kinda sleazy, Smallville."
"I just told you that I didn't think we'd be -"
"- I mean, for as often as I let you drag me away from my desk and into the copy room, you really shouldn't feel the need to grease the wheels."
"You know I'd never do something like -"
"- But I guess you did at least put some thought into it. How much research are we talking?"
"Asks the woman who made pages and pages of notes for my wardrobe."
"Touché," she grants, plucking the glass from his grasp. For his benefit, she swirls the cool liquid around in the wide bowl, inhales the bouquet, and then takes a sip. "Nice choice," she congratulates, handing the glass back to him. "But that's as much as those of us with non-super-powered metabolisms should have tonight."
In response to her remark, he lifts the rim to his lips, and swallows the rest of the wine in one long gulp.
"Smart-ass," she chuckles, shaking her head at him. "Never mind using the blue-k for a sparring match. We're gonna hole up one night with as much alcohol as possible, and I'm gonna drink you under the table."
"And what makes you think I can't hold my own?" he counters, setting the glass aside. "I am bigger than you."
"Oh, please. On an equal playing field, your tolerance doesn't stand a chance against mine. I was playing beer pong with commandos before you were even born."
"How many times do I have to remind you that you're not that much older than me?"
"A margin is a margin is a margin. And as your wiser and more experienced elder, I'm telling you that you can't beat me." Leaning around to the side of his face, she presses a light kiss to his cheek, teasing, "But don't worry. I'll nurse you through your hangover."
"I'll toss the blue-k before I give you the satisfaction."
With an impish tone, she laughs, and then tilts her head back a little farther to whisper, "You sure you wouldn't rather I take care of you?"
He closes his eyes as the vibrations in her voice travel into his ear, and amplify as they make their way down through his torso and into his core.
She feels his inner thighs tremble and she feels him tense a little against the side of her hip. Persisting, she brushes her lips across the shell of his ear, and purrs, "Answer my question."
"Lois…"
"Yes or no?" she asks, skimming the tip of her tongue behind his lobe.
His skin beginning to tingle and his need for her beginning to mount, he slides his hand from her shoulder around to her cheek, and turns his head toward her. As he reaches for her lips, though, she pulls away once more. Leaving his disappointment plainly evident on his face, he questions her with his perplexed gaze.
"You never gave me an answer," she explains, picking up a raspberry and placing it in his agape mouth.
As she returns to munching on the food in front of her, he chews over both his bite and her behaviors. Every sign of her initial discomfort has since dissipated - of that, he's sure. But despite her being back to her usual self, he can discern something different, something more, to her demeanor. Playful and yet pointed, her actions seem calculated to incite, but not to insist - almost as if she's resolved upon restraint, he determines. If such is the case, though, he can certainly imagine why, as theirs is still a precarious situation.
Peering down at the material on which she's yet to release her hold, he begins to appreciate her reluctance to do much more than encourage him, and her determination to allow him the choice of how far to progress their evening. But, no matter what her concerns for him may be, he doesn't want out of what they've begun, and he doesn't want her denying herself anything - especially him. And that, he tells himself, she deserves to know.
As he swallows his bit of fruit, he contemplates an approach. Glancing around them, he locates the small bottle of massage oil, and then reaches onto the bench to pick it up with his empty hand. Clearing his throat, he starts to make his offer, but she sets his plate down on her legs and takes the oil from him. Baffled, he watches as she unscrews the top, and then breathes in the scent of its contents.
Recognizing the similar notes to her bubble bath, she smirks, "That smells familiar."
"I thought you'd like it."
"I do," she assures him, closing the bottle and handing it back to him. "But I bet it tastes terrible."
Grasping her meaning, he accepts the oil from her and shakes his head at his oversight. "I didn't think of that."
"Which is what you have me for," she casually replies, picking up the plate from her lap and leaning farther back against his knee.
As she scoops up more of the ganache with one of the pretzels, he sets the bottle back on the bench and considers a less indirect tack. After giving the matter a few more moments of thought, he turns around to rest the rose still in his hand next to the oil, and to grasp the goblet of water. When she's finished swallowing her bite, he offers her the glass, which she gratefully accepts.
With his eyes on her face, he lowers the hand with which he held the goblet to the inside of her knee, just where the wrap of fabric separates. As his fingertips, still chilled from the glass containing the icy liquid, make contact with the especially sensitive area of her skin, she jumps a bit and shivers.
"Clark!"
Feigning confusion, he asks, "What?"
"Are you kidding me?" she complains, glancing down at her leg and then back up at him.
"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking." As she continues glaring at him, he spreads his hand against the offending part of her knee, and begins kneading it in slow, deep circles.
In no time at all, her indignation gives way to something else entirely, as the area beneath his palm warms, and the effects of his thoughtful touch spread down her calf, and up her inner thigh.
His expression earnest and his tone low, he asks her, "Is this better?"
Understanding him, but unsure of her voice, she intones, "Mm-hmm," as she raises the glass to her lips and draws a sip from it.
"Good."
She watches as he takes his eyes from hers and, rather than abandon her skin, curves his hand around behind her knee and gently lifts it, propping up her leg. As he runs his hand down to her ankle, she checks, "Do you wanna try anything else? Another truffle or something?"
"No, thank you," he evenly dismisses, his voice absent any lightness or humor.
Focusing more on him than on the remaining desserts in her grasp, she follows his movements as he leans forward just enough to press his lips to the side of her knee. Taking his time, he trails his kisses as far down the side of her leg as he can reach without readjusting either his position or hers, and slides his hand back and forth across her calf, lightly massaging now and then.
When he's eventually made his way back up to her knee, he reaches his hand over to her other leg, and runs a finger along the edge of the fabric covering the lower part of her thigh, and pushes it away. "Can I ask you something?" he softly asks, watching as more of her skin comes into his view.
"Sure."
"Why do you hardly ever use my new name?"
As he props up her other leg, she sets down the water and takes a moment to consider his question. "I don't know… I guess it just sounds too schmaltzy coming from me. And people don't need any more of a reason to wonder about us."
"I think you're just being paranoid," he offers, finding her gaze as he rubs her other calf.
She smiles, "Oh, really?"
"Mm-hmm."
Putting down the plate next to the glass of water, she replies, "And I suppose you also think that no one suspects your real interest in me just because you're formal with my name?"
"You worry too much," he smirks, brushing his lips across her shoulder.
"I do not. My name totally sounds like an endearment when you say it."
"Probably because that's how I mean it."
"Are you trying to get us caught?"
"I can't help it," he quietly explains, pressing a single kiss to the side of her neck and then finding her gaze. "I look at you, and I still see you. It doesn't matter what I'm wearing."
Affected by his sentiment, she slightly tilts her head to the side to regard him. And after a few moments, she watches him hold still in anticipation as she slowly leans forward, and lightly touches her lips to his.
He beams at the lingering sensation of her approving gesture as she pulls away just enough to rub his nose with hers. Emboldened, he releases her calf and begins to reach into her hair and to recapture her lips. But before he can, he feels her arms lightly pushing against the circle of his, and he sees her gazing at him intently. Initially, he wonders whether he misread her, and she isn't yet open to any kind of advance. As he peers down, though, he realizes that the space she needed was for an entirely different purpose.
Rapt, he watches the fabric draped around her part down its middle as she slowly releases the fold of her arms. And when she sits up from her reclined position on his knee, he follows the material as it slides away from her shoulders and down her back, revealing the smooth, supple curves of her breasts, the taut, flat plane of her stomach, and, to his amazement, the delicate, silken lace of a pair of thong panties bearing the exact same hue as the cloth no longer surrounding her.
His breaths begin to deepen and his cheeks begin to flush as he trails his eyes over the intricate designs running across her hips and down between the juncture of her thighs. And only when he feels her hands wrapping around his back does he realize how long he's spent memorizing the sight of her before him. Gathering himself, he finally manages to sweep his gaze back up her figure and to find the satisfied expression on her face.
"I'm never wrong, am I?" she whispers, shifting closer to him as she refers to his obvious favorite of her many types of underwear.
Smirking at her remark, but deciding against a reply, he slides a hand around her back and threads the other into her hair. But as he tilts his head down, she pulls out of the reach of his lips yet again, and quirks an eyebrow at him, teasingly insisting upon an answer.
"You're never wrong, Lois," he indulges, with a mix of both sincerity and amusement. "At least not about me."
Both smiling in response to his sentiment, they lean forward until their lips meet in a long-awaited kiss. As their mouths meld, they fall into a slow and simple rhythm of soft rolls, light flicks, and gentle nips. Neither of them worried, neither of them rushed, they allow one another the thorough satisfaction of their initial moments. And though familiar, their exchange seems somehow new, teeming with the discovery and the promise of unprecedented possibility.
When, after a long, leisurely while, their touches grow deeper and more needful, he murmurs her name against her lips.
"Hmm?" she intones, though only hugging him closer and persisting in their kiss.
Loath to deny her anything, he lets them continue enjoying the ease and exhilaration of their shared sensations for some time longer. Running his fingers through her hair and his hand up and down her back, he lavishes his attention upon her, and feels her skin begin to warm as her sounds of appreciation - her whimpers and her sighs - gradually increase in volume. Nevertheless, when he eventually feels her withdraw from his lips and begin shifting her position, he lifts his heavy lids, and tries again, "Lois?"
"Yes?" she absently responds, her eyes focused on his mouth as she sits up onto her knees and turns to face him.
Instinctively, he grasps her waist to help her and closes his legs a bit to accommodate her as she scoots forward and sets one of her knees on either side of his hips. When she's nearly settled, he thoughtfully inquires, "Do you wanna ask me anything?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know. You've always got questions," he points out, as she sits back onto his thighs, drapes her arms over his shoulders, and begins leaning into him again.
"I can't think of one right now."
He reciprocates as she tilts her head down to press her lips to his, and, for quite a while, he loses his train of thought to the mesmerizing swirls of her tongue. As his body temperature begins to tic up, though, he somehow manages the presence of mind to pull back, and to interject once more. "Lois?"
Half-ignoring him as she reaches to reinitiate their kiss, she replies, "Yes?"
"Lois, please," he nearly begs, doubting whether he'd be able to keep himself from her again.
Registering his tone, she stops just short of his mouth and finally finds his gaze. Watching him catch his breath and force himself to concentrate on whatever it is that he wants to say, she leans away from him a tad, and waits.
When he's sure of his voice, he tries to be clearer than before as he asks, "Do you wanna discuss anything?"
"Like what?" she repeats, running her hands down his shoulders to his elbows.
"Anything. It doesn't matter."
Finally understanding him, she smiles a bit as she says, "Like ground rules?"
"Yeah."
"They haven't changed since this morning, right?"
"Right." Rubbing her back, he gently explains, "I just wanted us to, uh…you know…"
"…Talk?"
"Yeah."
She watches as he takes a deep breath, peers down, and apprehensively runs his gaze over her. Concerned, she slides her hands up to his cheeks and tilts his head up, asking, "What is it, Clark?"
"…You'll tell me, right?" he honestly, though tentatively, replies. "If, um… If anything feels wrong…or just not quite like you think it should…for, well…for any reason at all? You'll tell me?"
"Of course," she assures him, leaning forward to dot a few kisses to his brow. "And the same goes for you, right?"
"Yeah."
As she pulls back enough to meet his gaze, he sighs away his hesitation and peers up and into her eyes. Whatever his as-yet-unresolved doubts, he's never been more certain of both her and her belief in him. Regarding her, knowing how essential a role her compassion and her conviction have played in holding them together long enough for them to reach a point at which he once never imagined he could, he finds himself feeling exactly as he did upon first encountering her years ago:
Safe.
Thus, glowing with the sense of security that she's never ceased to inspire in him, he allows himself to embrace that which he's long been reluctant to as he threads a hand into her hair, and tilts his head up to capture her lips.
...