A/N: This story takes place in episode 8x05 "Committed," which is undoubtedly one of the greatest Clois episodes of the entire series, so it probably won't be the last time I visit this episode for a "cut" scene. Please enjoy and thank you all so much for reading!
She's lost count of the glasses of champagne she's downed. She distinctly remembers the four before her speech and then at least two after that, but after those, it's all a blur. At some point after Clark brought her a piece of cake "to soak up some of that champagne" she'd forgone the glass completely and now sits with her back to the brick wall, legs splayed awkwardly and very unladylike in front of her, swigging from a bottle of Moët she'd stolen from the bar.
She can't figure out what it is about this whole engagement party thing that rubs her the wrong way—she has no problem with Jimmy, truly, and he makes Chloe happier than Lois can ever remember seeing her. She'd just woken up this morning with a niggling uncomfortable feeling in her stomach and it had twisted and grown into something unbearable. She figures trying to drown the son of a bitch in champagne can't hurt.
"Maybe Clark was right," she says to the bottle before tipping it back and drinking deeply. "Maybe I am jealous."
Her breakup with Ollie still stings because he was undoubtedly one of the greatest things to ever happen to her, not to mention that he was gorgeous, loaded, and really good in bed. But Lois likes to think that she knows herself fairly well after twenty-three years, and she knows in her heart that she doesn't have what it takes to stand by and let the man she loves save the word. She's always been too jealous to be a hero's wife.
"I have been looking all over for you," Clark stands over her, staring down disapprovingly. She wonders vaguely if he even has another look as far as she's concerned.
She holds out her arms and grins widely. "You found me!" she sing-songs and takes another pull from the bottle. Then she burps unceremoniously. "Good job, Clarkie."
He heaves a sigh and slides down the wall to sit beside her. "Jesus… You're wasted."
"Yes." She nods. "But at least I'm keeping my mouth shut. Hey, was it you that told them not to give me a microphone again? 'Cause I was gonna sing for Chloe and Jimmy, but they wouldn't give me the mike... Want a drink?"
Clark takes the proffered bottle, but he doesn't raise it to his lips. Instead, he pours the liquid into a potted plant to his left and tosses the empty bottle out of her reach.
"Hey… That was mine," she slurs as she crawls drunkenly toward the bottle, not even caring that her dress is riding dangerously close to the tops of her thighs.
"Oh, I think you've had enough." Clark's strong arms wrap around her waist and pull her to her feet.
"I'm fine," she says stubbornly, but the room lurches as she takes a step forward and she's back in Clark's arms before she even realizes that she's lost her balance.
"I'm taking you home," he says and the tone of his voice convinces her that there's no point in arguing, so she allows him to escort her out of the ballroom and into the parking lot, where she promptly vomits behind a dumpster.
Clark figures that the throwing up part would solve almost all of Lois's problems, at least as far as the alcohol is concerned, but she still appears to be incredibly drunk when he helps her out of his truck and carries her up the front steps of the Kent Farm. He sets her gently on the couch and takes her purse, shoes, and coat from her.
"Stay there," he tells her firmly before he speeds upstairs and changes out of his formalwear. There's no point in ruining his good clothes by cleaning up puke in them all night.
"Oh God," she moans as he zips back downstairs. "I must have blacked out. There's no way in hell you could have changed that fast…" He shrugs and doesn't see the point in correcting her.
He fetches her a glass of water from the kitchen and urges her to drink, but she shakes her head vehemently and grasps for the remote control on the coffee table.
"What are you doing?" He wrestles the remote from her.
"Music!" she exclaims and blows out a breath, flipping her bangs off her forehead and smattering them wildly around her face. "I still want to sing. Whitesnake, please."
He sighs and places the TV remote in the entertainment center as he flips on the radio and twists the tuner to the '80s rock station. He can't guarantee Whitesnake, but hopefully this is close enough to distract her long enough for him to get some water down her.
She hums through the last bars of an Asia song and then clambers clumsily onto her feet on the middle couch cushion as soon as the soft piano of the next track begins, holding one of Martha Kent's antique brass candlesticks to her mouth as a microphone.
He doesn't see this ending well. "Oh God."
"'Sister Christian, oh the time has come, and you know that you're the only one to say okay—'" She sings loudly, drunkenly, and more than a little off-key and Clark stands in front of the couch protectively, watching her bare feet for the first sign of imbalance. "'—motoring! What's your price for flight?! In finding mister right, you'll be all—"
Miraculously she manages to maintain her footing until the chorus, and then when she falls, it's directly into Clark's waiting arms. The candlestick clatters to the floor behind him.
"You know…" she says quietly as he sets her gingerly on the couch and takes a seat next to her. "I used to think that Ollie was my Mister Right. Can you believe that? Oliver Queen!" She dissolves into a fit of giggles that ends as abruptly as it began. "But then… Then he had to go and drop the Green Arrow bomb on me and I just…" Lois shrugs and angrily wipes at the corner of her eye. "I just bailed… Like I always do because I'm too damn selfish to even think about sharing him with anyone else."
He knows he should say something, try to comfort her or convince her that she isn't selfish and that everything always works out the way it's supposed to, but he can't figure out how to put that sentiment into words, so he sits with his hands laced together in his lap and waits.
"Clark," she says quietly, after a few moments of silence between them. "Do you believe in soulmates?"
He rubs the back of his neck, and purses his lips. A year ago, he wouldn't have hesitated to answer with a resounding yes. But things look so different without Lana by his side and as much as he'd like to believe there's still hope for them, even after everything that's happened, there's also a part of him that feels like he and Lana were never truly meant to be. Nothing that's right should ever be so hard.
"Well. Do you?" She's staring at him, her mouth open in a tiny 'O,' her eyes wide and expectant, waiting for his answer.
Clark clears his throat. "I guess," he finally settles on, because he has to hang onto the belief that there is someone in the world made just for him, someone who can love him despite all his abilities, maybe even someone who will look at him like he's just a man, even if that person isn't Lana Lang. "Do you?"
"Yeah." She nods. "And I used to think everybody had one. But now I think maybe there are certain people who are just meant to be alone forever, like me." Lois pulls her legs up beside her and stretches out her body until she's lying on her back across his lap, her bare feet dangling over the arm of the couch.
He's never noticed before, but her toenails are always painted the same vivid shade of dark pink.
"I can't even be a cat lady," she says philosophically from his lap. "I'm allergic."
"Lois…" he says gently because he can see the tears already forming in the corner of her eyes. "You aren't meant to be alone forever. Sooner or later, you'll find the one and then none of this other stuff will matter one bit."
She offers him a weak smile and taps her fingers along to the song that plays softly from the radio. "Do you think Jimmy is Chloe's one?"
He shrugs. "I guess that's for her to figure out. But I don't think Chloe would rush into anything. And who says soulmates have to come in a one-to-one ratio anyway?"
"Clark…" It requires a lot of effort, he can tell, but she raises a hand to his cheek and rubs her thumb over his cheekbone. "You're so nice. You're probably the nicest, sweetest boy I've ever met and I'm glad we're friends."
He chuckles, takes her hand in his, and pats it. "Thanks, Lois. I'm pretty glad we're friends too."
"And partners," she slurs. "We are also partners at the Planet. And we make a damn good team when you listen to me."
"Sure, Lois."
She sits up gingerly and looks down at her dress. "I'm so uncomfortable. I need to be in other clothes." She turns her back to him. "Unzip me?"
Clark swallows hard and takes the zipper between his thumb and index finger. He'd be lying if he said he'd never entertained thoughts of helping Lois out of her clothes—he's still a twenty-two-year-old male, after all, and it's not like he gets to choose who he dreams about—and he has to carefully control his breathing as the teeth of the zipper pull apart, revealing the flawless expanse of her back. There's a smattering of freckles over her shoulders and she has a tiny mole just under her right shoulder blade. The black lace of her bra stands out against her skin beautifully and he has to bolt upstairs and find her some other clothes to put on to keep from running his hands around her sides to her ribcage and pressing his lips to the back of her neck.
"Clark?" he hears her voice echo from downstairs and he grabs the first thing he can find, which just happens to be his old football jersey and a ratty pair of gym shorts. At least the jersey will hang loosely from her shoulders and cover up everything. He takes the stairs two at a time on his descent and tosses the clothes on the couch. For some reason, she's twirling around the kitchen in—oh Christ—nothing but a thin slip and that damn bra.
"Chloe!" She trills into the phone pressed to her ear. "It's your cuz. Guess who came to my rescue? Not Oliver Queen…" She giggles a little. "Clark Kent! He is just the sweetest boy I have ever known and I—"
"Lois! Get dressed. I'll be right back," he somehow manages to say before he runs back upstairs and braces himself on the bathroom sink. He meets his own gaze in the mirror and takes a few deep breaths. "No way," he tells his reflection. "Not Lois. Not ever."
"Clark?" she calls again, but this time her voice is tinged with unease. "Clark, I'm coming up. I'm pretty sure I'm going to puke again." Then there's a thud on the stairs.
He's at her side as quickly as is humanly possible, because he can't run the risk of using his powers again and Lois maybe remembering anything weird about tonight, and he's mortified to see that she's foregone the gym shorts and just pulled his football jersey on over her shoulders. It's impossible for him to miss her toned thighs and the black lace panties as she lies sprawled on the stairs. And she's pulled her hair out of its messy up-do so that it hangs in curls around her shoulders that now have his name emblazoned across the back. He sighs. She's going to be the death of him, one way or another.
As embarrassed as he is at her state of undress, he can't just leave her lying on the stairs, especially if she's feeling ill; so he hoists her into his arms and carries her to the toilet. She curls her body around the commode and heaves. Her right hand clutches the toilet seat tightly and the left tries desperately to grab her hair and keep it out of the way. With nothing else to do, Clark leans over her and gathers the thick brown waves into his hands. It's softer than he realized, now that he's actually touching it, and it smells inherently like Lois and everything he associates with her—coffee and newsprint and so many other things he never realized were just her.
Then the acrid smell of vomit hits his nostrils and he turns his attention to the welcome distraction of breathing through his mouth.
Lois glances up at him when the vomiting finally abates (after what feels like hours) and offers him a weak smile after she flushes the toilet. She's exhausted, clammy, and shaky, and she knows she has puke all over her face—super attractive. But Clark is staring at her like she's the only thing in the world he's concerned about and that both flatters and terrifies her.
"You okay?" he asks quietly, releasing her hair carefully and moving to the sink to wet a washcloth for her.
She nods. "The room finally stopped spinning." Her voice is thick, her head is pounding, and her throat is raw. All she wants to do is crawl into bed and sleep for three or so days.
Clark kneels beside her and presses a cool cloth to her forehead before using another to wipe her mouth. She's humiliated. No one should have to take care of her when she's like this. No one ever has.
"You don't have to do this, Clark…" She reaches up to take the cloth from him, but he narrows his eyes at her in silent protest and continues cleaning her face. She's too tired to fight and it actually feels wonderful to have someone else to depend on.
"We'll get some water in you and then you'll sleep the rest of it off. No offense… But you're sleeping on the couch tonight. I don't want to wash sheets at four in the morning." He pulls his hand away with a small grin. "There we go. That's the Lois Lane we all know and love."
She rests her forehead on the toilet seat and watches as he perches on the edge of the tub.
"What? You look like you want to ask me something."
"Why are you being so nice to me?" She's wondered all evening why he didn't just drive her back to the Talon and toss her in her own bed to sleep it off. It would have made the most sense and would have saved him the trouble of having to drive her back to her car in the morning. But she has to admit, it's been kind of wonderful having someone around to make sure she didn't do anything completely ridiculous.
He shrugs. "We're friends, right? Besides, I thought maybe you didn't need to be alone tonight."
Lois eyes him warily. "That's not happening, Smallville. Ever in this lifetime."
He blushes and shakes his head. "No—that's not what I meant. I just…" He sighs. "You seemed pretty upset earlier and I thought it might be nice if you had someone around if you wanted to talk about anything. And I guess it kind of worked."
She groans. "Look. All that stuff I said about Ollie and soul mates and whatever… Just forget it, okay? I'm sure I will."
"I'm sure you will," he echoes as he moves to help her to her feet. "But Lois… The next time you feel like crawling behind the bar and drinking an entire bottle of champagne, come talk to me first, okay?"
"Sure, Smallville." She nods sleepily and falls against his side, wrapping her arms around his neck and hoping against hope that he'll sweep her into his arms and carry her downstairs. Not because she'd enjoy it or anything; she's just not sure she can be trusted on stairs yet. She closes her eyes in relief when she feels his arm behind her knees.
The last thing she remembers is feeling absolutely, perfectly safe in Clark Kent's embrace.