A/N: This is my take on what happened when Lois bought Clark a drink and then disappeared for a while. That being said, please note that this story takes place between episodes 7x18 "Apocalypse" and 7x19 "Quest." Also, it is (shamelessly) inspired by "Shut Up and Dance" by WALK THE MOON. Because really, when there's a song containing references to kryptonite and destiny, how can you not make it about Clois? ;)
He didn't take Lois seriously when she told him that she would make it her personal mission to make him a fan of nightlife and, in retrospect that was probably his first mistake. The second, perhaps the more serious one, was letting her bet him that she could out-drink him.
To be fair, he's only had a working theory about the extent of his alcohol tolerance. His twenty-first birthday was only last week, and he's had his hands full dealing with Kara's absence, Brainiac, and Lana's mystery illness. He really shouldn't have even accepted Lois's invitation to buy him a drink, but she'd looked so determined to be a good friend to him, sounded so steadfast to make him feel better, and, if he's being completely honest with himself, the distraction is welcome.
Clark knows he should be at the Planet tracking down the best neurologists in the world, but if what Lex said was true and Lana's condition is humanly irreversible, it won't do any good anyway. Besides, he knows whereas Lex only suspects that her coma is alien. An alien cause almost definitely requires an alien cure and he's the only person who can find it. And that's exactly why he should be spending time with Kara now that she's back. But she'd just looked so tired when they returned to the farm, so he'd drawn her a hot bath and told her to get a good night's sleep before they started trying to cure Lana in the morning. He should be doing something else, something, anything other than sitting in a sticky polyurethane booth in a dimly lit bar nursing a beer and watching Lois toss back tequila shots.
But even he has to admit: it's almost entertaining to watch her as she pulls the lime wedges between her lips and licks the salt from the skin between her thumb and index finger.
He really, really shouldn't have let her challenge him to a drinking contest, though. Even if the pink flush high in her cheeks is so un-Lois-like that he can't control the corners of his lips from turning up whenever he looks over at her.
"I have to say," she calls over the loud music of the bar, "I am impressed, Smallville. You're sure you never snuck any of Pa Kent's whiskey when he wasn't looking?"
Clark chuckles. "My dad was pretty much a beer-only man. But no. I never drank underage, except for champagne at weddings and sips of wine at dinners."
Lois sighs. "Just when I think I've found a flaw in the perfect Clark Kent." She waves at the bartender, signaling for another round. "Well, still. You've got a seriously high tolerance because I am tanked, my friend, and you are fine, and that is no small feat."
He watches her as she accepts the shots from the bartender and lines up their next shots. Then he matches her move for move as they drink. He sputters. The alcohol may not affect his motor skills, but he can still taste it. "How did you get so good at this?" It sounds ridiculous and he hopes she doesn't take offense.
Thankfully, she just shrugs. "Side effect of growing up on Army bases and hanging around with the recruits. A lot of them got a kick out of 'corrupting the general's oldest daughter.'" She wiggles her fingers in air quotes. "I got a kick out of them supplying my liquor through high school."
He grins. "Lois Lane, rebel."
"And don't you ever forget it." She winks as she takes a long drink from her beer. "Jesus, aren't you feeling anything?"
He isn't, and from the line of shot glasses on his side of the table, he's assuming that his hypothesis about Kryptonian metabolism being no match for alcohol is correct. But Lois is liable to drink herself into a stupor in an attempt to get him a little buzzed. So he drains his beer in three gulps, smacks his lips, and makes a show of bracing himself on the table.
"Now I am!" he exclaims, forcing a slur into his words and tacking on an uncharacteristic whoop to really sell the point.
Lois raises her hands in celebration and laughs with him. Then they sit quietly for a few moments, listening to the music and the various conversations around them. She sighs contentedly as she nurses her beer. Clark watches her carefully.
"Thank you," he says after a bit. Then, to her confused expression, he continues, "Thanks for tonight. For getting me out and not letting me sit at home and beat myself up over… Well. Over everything."
She blushes and turns her face down, suddenly intrigued by something in her lap. "Oh… Well... You've always been such a great friend to me, I just… I wanted to return the favor."
"You are a good friend, Lois." On impulse, he reaches across the table and grasps her hand. "Even when it comes to dealing with the sad parts."
She offers him a small smile. "Well, I know a thing or two about nursing a broken heart and you didn't strike me as the Chunky Monkey and chick-flick kind of guy, so I thought: alcohol." Lois holds out her hands, as if she's displaying the bar to him.
"I didn't believe this would be fun at all, but you proved me wrong." He grins and she blushes harder in response… Or the alcohol is kicking in even more. Before he can decide, she slaps her palms on the table.
"I love this song," she exclaims.
So the extra coloring in her cheeks was from the liquor. Probably better, he decides. The last thing he needs is for her to think that he's weirdly infatuated with her or something.
While he's been lost in thought, she's pushed herself to her feet and grabbed his arm. "Come on!" She tugs firmly.
Clark is so taken aback that all he can do is acquiesce, so he slides out of the booth and follows her. The question of where she's leading him dies on his lips as it becomes suddenly clear: a sparsely populated dance floor looms before them. His stomach drops.
Lois tugs on his arm impatiently. "Come on!" she slurs.
He chuckles. "I don't dance."
"Tonight you do." They inch forward toward the colored lights.
"Lois, I'm serious." He could plant his heels and refuse to budge, but that would raise too many questions. Even in her inebriated state, Lois would notice. So he makes his tone as firm as he wishes he could make his body. "Lois, I'm not doing this."
She stops tugging on his arm and turns to face him, hazel eyes blazing. "Why not? Maybe this is exactly what you need. Jesus, how long has it been since you just said, 'screw 'em all' and enjoyed yourself?" She shrugs and sighs and her face softens as she reaches for his arm again. "Look, I know that you feel responsible for everyone, especially Lana, but, Clark… Maybe the best way to help her right now is to clear your head."
He scoffs. "With liquor and making a fool of myself in front of a bunch of people?"
"No one's paying attention to us. Trust me, Clark, everyone has things they wish they could leave on the dance floor."
He studies her. She isn't as drunk as he'd thought a few minutes ago and maybe that was intentional on her part. He really hates dancing and swore after a few disastrous proms that he'd never do it again. But Lois looks so vulnerable and fragile and desperate for him to just forget about all the bad things for just a few minutes that he wonders if she isn't affected by all this too. And it's so tempting… If only he knew he would stop hurting, even for a little while…
"Come on." She extends her hands to him and he grips it firmly and allows her to guide him to the dance floor. When she's pleased with their location she stops and moves his hands to her waist, and hers to his shoulders. Her sky blue top rides up a few inches, and his fingers brush bare skin. It's like a jolt of electricity.
She doesn't feel it too, she can't have, because she just smiles up at him and that shock definitely isn't something that she could just ignore. Slowly, they begin swaying back and forth, but the song isn't suited for romantic, slow dancing, so after a few moments, Lois unclasps her hands and clears her throat.
"Well, now that I've got you warmed up, let's boogie."
And she does. She bounces around and flips her hair and spins and whoops and laughs. It's contagious. Before long, Clark finds himself bending his knees in time with the song and awkwardly waving his arms. He stops moving when the realization hits him and just watches her. Lois looks amazing. He looks like a fool.
"What's wrong?" she asks breathlessly as the song fades out and into the DJ's announcement about the drink specials.
Clark sighs. "I look ridiculous."
"Because you're worrying about what other people think again." The music returns, just as loud and quick-paced as before and her eyes light up. "Okay." She grabs his shoulders and squares him in front of her. "Now. Don't you dare look at anybody else. Just focus those baby blue-greens on me."
He rolls his eyes hard before he looks down at her. Then her hands snake around his waist and she situates her body flush against his and starts to gyrate her hips to the beat of the music.
He jumps back automatically. "No, no way. Jeez, Lois. You're certainly holding back." The sarcasm drips from his words.
"Clark." Lois once again presses her body to his and demands his gaze with icy silence. "Look at me."
"I don't like this," he mutters. "This whole night was a mistake. I should be on the phone with doctors, hospitals, whoever. I can't believe I actually—"
"Clark!" she says sharply and grasps his face firmly between her palms. "Shut the hell up and dance with me."
He's so taken aback by her forceful words and the fire that blazes in her hazel eyes that his breath catches in his throat and he can't stop himself from gripping her hips tightly and moving in time with her. He lets her lead for a bit while he tries to get his bearing, but soon, he can't stand Lois Lane being in charge of him like this. So he tightens his fingers even more—to the point where he's almost afraid he'll leave bruises—and dares to take a step backwards, just to test her obedience. She follows him, surprise obvious in her expression, and turns in his arms when he motions, pressing her back to his chest.
Her hair is flipped over her right shoulder, exposing her neck to him, and he can see her pulse point flutter lightly under the sheen of sweat. His head swims. Maybe all that tequila is just now catching up to him, because there is no way that Lois is having this kind of effect. She sways, her body flush to his, and throws a hand up around his neck to tangle her fingers in his hair. Her eyes close and she leans against him, trusting him fully.
He's kissed her before, last year when they were both under the influence of that damn red kryptonite lipstick, and as much as he'd pretended that it hadn't been that great, as much as he's tried to convince himself that he much prefers Lana's lips, he can't deny that Lois can kiss. It's been a long time since he's thought about kissing her, because things with Lana have been so fragile, and, after Bizarro, so strained.
But Lois is undeniable and he can't help but feel that there's something there, something deeper than just friendship. It isn't love, not by a long shot, but it's definitely something. His fingers, he realizes, have disappeared under the fabric of her top.
She stops moving and he silently curses himself for losing himself in his thoughts. But then, then she turns and looks up at him with wide eyes and everything around them ceases to exist. The air grows heavy and the tops of his ears burn. He has to do something, he has to move.
His body aches for her presence again, so he finds the small of her back and pulls her close to him. Then he bends to her, inhaling her scent, breathing in the very essence of her sweat and perfume and the alcohol that already escapes through her pores, and his lips land on her jawbone. He hears her gasp, and before he can stop himself, he kisses her full on, swallowing her small noises of surprise. She tastes like lime and liquor and something so inherently Lois that he only recognizes from their red kryptonite fueled affair.
He grips the back of her neck and he could swear that all the liquor he's consumed tonight begins roiling in his gut.
"Clark…" she mutters as she pushes away from him. "We've done this before and it doesn't end well."
"That was different," he says quietly and moves toward her again.
"We're both drunk."
He shakes his head. "Not as drunk as you think."
She places a hand on his chest, maintaining the distance between them. "Lana."
Clark glances down at her, one-half of him desperately wanting to reclaim those lips, the other feeling incredibly guilty. She's absolutely right. Lana is sitting in an asylum and, if he's to believe Brainiac, fully aware of her surroundings and in excruciating pain. He's been drinking and dancing and kissing Lois and having the time of his life while the only woman he's ever loved is fighting to hang on.
He hates himself.
"I'm sorry, Lois." He stumbles off the dance floor and back to the booth, where he collapses. The good news, he admits, is that his head has stopped spinning. Why did the liquor have to surface at that moment?
He watches Lois across the room as she settles their tab at the bar and shoves her credit card into her back pocket. Then she approaches him and his stomach lurches and the floor seems to tilt violently underneath him. It isn't the alcohol at all. It's her.
"We, umm…" She studies the sticky floor. "We should get going, I guess."
He reaches for her keys. "You can't drive."
She scoffs. "Trust me, Smallville. That sobered me up pretty quick."
He nods. He isn't happy about letting her behind the wheel, but he figures his reflexes are quick enough to prevent anything drastic from happening. And he isn't exactly in the mood to argue with her right now. The ride home to Smallville will be torture enough.
In typical Lois fashion, she disappears from Metropolis for the next few weeks. Chloe says she needed to spend some time with her father and Lucy, but Clark has seen this pattern emerge far too often to believe his friend.
He sits at Lois's desk at the Planet and researches traumatic brain injuries until his eyes cross and the words blur together in front of him.
When he leans back in her chair, he catches the slightest whiff of her perfume, and his stomach rolls.
His alcohol tolerance may be off the charts, but he's a lush when it comes to Lois Lane.
A/N: Thank you so much!