Chapter Text
Lois realized his identity before anyone—the first day Clark Kent showed up at the Planet.
She didn’t know what to do with the information. She could break the story, of course, but she didn’t have much evidence. Just her own rock solid knowledge that Kent was also Superman.
Most things are on a spectrum—like autism, musicality, and ticklishness—and also, more apropos to her dilemma, facial recognition. On the far end of that spectrum there were people with actual faceblindess, “The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat” people. But on the other end of that spectrum you had people like Lois.
She had more than a knack for faces, she had a gift. Perhaps needless to say, it was very useful for a reporter to have a perfect recall of faces. She’d been particularly proud of the time she’d nailed one of the president’s crowd of interns—a young man later referred to as “mediocre to the point of invisibility”—as a member of an obscure Austrian terrorist group that she’d once scrolled past on an Interpol list. For that bit of recall (and reporting) she gained early press access until the end of that administration.
Anyway, all to say, if Lois saw a face, she remembered that face. And glasses and a bumbling manner weren’t going to get in her way.
She hadn’t interacted with Superman very much by the time Clark got hired—just that one rescue when he stopped the runaway train. It was the Ocean Avenue Elevated, and Lois didn’t even normally ride it. Superman had stopped it, of course, and come inside briefly to make sure everyone was okay. And—yeah, she had kinda followed him back out onto the (crumpled) pavement, asking rapid fire questions. He’d answered a couple, sorta laughed, and then flew away.
Then Clark showed up a few weeks later and Lois looked around at her busy, hard-working, intelligent coworkers—and realized no one saw it but her.
Obviously investigation had to happen. Surreptitiously. Clark might seem like an all-American sweetheart of a guy, and Superman might seem to have a moral code, but Lois was very much in the “absolute power corrupts absolutely” camp of thought, and she was—dubious. If he was really so powerful, what was he doing for himself? What were his vices? How did he indulge? Nobody seemed to know, and that turned her from dubious to highly and emphatically suspicious.
Everybody had their weaknesses. Ice cream or expensive purses, lottery tickets or fast cars… Poor or rich, powerful or pitiful, everybody had their indulgences that got them through the day.
It was just that rich and/or powerful men tended to act out in equally rich and/or powerful ways—and usually if it was a secret, it was that much worse. People didn’t hide their Ferraris or their trophy wives or their fancy watches. They hid things like abuse, addiction, or perversion.
Yes, she was cynical, so sue her. She’d been a successful reporter since she was twenty-four, and she was sure Superman had secrets, and they couldn’t all be adorable dogs.
Another thing on a spectrum, in Lois’s opinion, was compartmentalization. She was less of a savant at this, but she did try to keep her Superman thoughts locked down around Clark. Ugh, he appeared to be such a nice guy! If she treated him with the wary, this-person-is-dangerous reserve she truly felt for the enigmatic (alien?) metahuman, it would be wildly obvious she knew what was up.
So she tried to treat him as he wanted to be treated—a sort of trippy version of the Golden Rule—which was to treat him as an inexperienced new-hire from Kansas.
It was a weird kind of dualism to know he could crush her desk into the wall when he brought her coffee, or that when he pretended to stub his toe, he might’ve dented the concrete. At least in that last situation, her lack of sympathy had come off as impatience, not inside knowledge.
“Ow, that really hurt,” he mumbled, but loud enough for her to hear.
“Walk it off, Kent, you’ll be fine.”
“You’re not the most empathetic person in the world,” he said with a smile.
“Eh, teachers and salespeople have to be empathetic, reporters don’t.”
He hobbled along as if he’d really bruised his foot. “You don’t think a human interest story should be informed by—human interest?”
She’d laughed a little too loud at this, but shook her head. “I prefer my writing to cut, not comfort. I guess I’ll leave the human interest stuff to you.” She only barely refrained from emphasizing the word human.
She kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he didn’t show any obvious vices. He didn’t even smoke, let alone smell like weed or anything stronger. As far as she could tell, he didn’t drink either. The few after-hours work events he’d come to, he drank Sprite, of all strange and inoffensive (but weirdly offensive) things. If she didn’t know he was an alien, she’d think he was LDS.
He didn’t begin dating anyone at the Planet, which was another possible motivation she’d considered. He was friendly and sort of accidentally flirted with people at times—wow, he was good at the awkward cover persona—but nothing illicit. The Planet employed a number of young college and even occasionally high-school aged interns, and he didn’t so much as blink at them. (Yes, she was cynical, as previously noted.)
If anything, he seemed most comfortable with her, and she was frankly impressed with her own outstanding performance acting normal. (On the spectrum of vanity, Lois was perhaps a tad left of center—although she preferred the term pride rather than arrogance.)
After the first six weeks, a lesser woman would’ve given in and declared his employment at the Planet inexplicable, but Lois was not a lesser woman.
“Why here?” she asked Clark one morning as they rode the elevator up. She felt a little stiff riding in an enclosed box with a man who could fly. “Why did you apply to the Planet instead of say, the Times or Tribune?”
“How do you know I didn’t apply everywhere? Maybe the Planet is the only paper that called me back.”
That wasn’t true. Lois had called in some favors with friends to check. He hadn’t applied to any major paper but this one. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to admit to that much searching. “Did you?”
“Nah,” he admitted. “I wanted this one. If I’d gotten rejected I guess I would’ve tried elsewhere.”
“I suppose you got lucky then. Obviously working with me is a huge bonus.”
He smiled at her just before the doors opened, so genuine and happy his eyes almost changed color. “I certainly think so.”
So, like, what was his deal? As (unabashedly) proud as she was, she didn’t really think it was her. Even if— okay, even if—Cat was convinced he liked her.
It had to be the information, she decided. A newsroom was a good place for breaking news, obviously, and if you were a demigod of some sort who could change news in a heartbeat… But that didn’t entirely check out. He must have incredible hearing or something, because at least half the time, Clark disappeared right before something happened, not right after.
It just made no sense. When he covered sports or celebrity marriages or elections, he was covering a culture that wasn’t his own. What was the point? He was a good writer, actually, but what was in it for him?
Her research indicated he really had grown up in Kansas. Did he need the money? Because if so, he could get a better paying job. He could be a super-fast accountant, or a tax lawyer, or a professional athlete—if he tamped the superpowers down a bit.
“Are you all right, Lois?” he asked as they sat across from each other on the train to New York. She had a lead on a dirty politician, and she wanted to visit a certain hotel in New York tonight to see if they could get a good picture or a quote of her guy with his very sus business partner. She’d been a little shocked that Superman volunteered to go with her. What if something happened in Metropolis? She supposed he could get there pretty fast. She’d take 60/40 odds he would ditch her tonight.
“Lois?” he repeated.
“Huh, what?” Ugh, she’d broken her compartmentalization rule and was speculating about Superman while sitting with Clark.
“So articulate.”
“Watch it, Smallville.”
“It’s just that you’re staring at me—which you know, might normally make my day—” How did he blush on command like that? “But you also kinda look like you’re about to dissect a fetal pig.”
Lois laughed. “That’s—evocative. Points for unexpected metaphor.”
He grinned. “I am a writer.”
“Yeah. How’d that happen? Did you always like to write?”
“Not in school, no. But I was always mentally composing letters. How would I describe this? How could I convey what that felt like?”
“Who were you writing to?” She picked at her cuticle to avoid showing her intense interest.
“My p—imaginary friends, I guess.”
Yeah, he definitely almost said something else. Parents? Patron? Pen pal? “Who were your imaginary friends? Mine were ants.”
He looked delighted. “Ants?”
“Er, yeah. There were two, they were about eighteen inches tall, and they wore clothes but they were—yeah, definitely ants. What about you?”
“Well, I grew up on a farm, so I had real animals and insects, didn’t need to imagine them. Sometimes I imagined a—brother.”
“That’s right—you’re an only child. Big brother or little brother?”
“Big.”
“Somebody to fight off your bullies?”
“Something like that. Maybe just somebody that knew what was going on, who could show me what to do.”
Hmm. Lois created a new item on her mental tab for Superman’s vulnerabilities. “I’m an only child, too. Supposedly that makes us more independent and mature. Also, perfectionists.”
“I’m not a perfectionist.”
“Aren’t you?” Maybe that was his whole savior schtick—a rampant perfectionism about the world that he was still trying to achieve. Darn, that kinda made her feel bad for him.
“I’m not,” he repeated. “Getting things done is messy. The more worthwhile a job—the messier. That doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be done. What’s that Churchill quote? ‘Perfectionism is the enemy of progress.’”
She really wanted to ask if she could quote him on this, Superman’s Philosophy: Progress is Messy. There was a whole article to be written here.
“You’re staring again.”
“Sorry. I’m tired.”
“It’s okay. Gives me a good excuse to stare back at you.”
Lois raised startled eyes back to his. He wasn’t usually so blatantly flirty with her. Or with anyone. “I know for a fact I’ve barely showered or slept in three days, and if I have any color in my face it’s probably ketchup from the hotdog I ate on the way to the station.”
“So?”
“So… I don’t know. Don’t be weird.” Don’t lie, she wanted to say. I know you have an ulterior motive for working at the Planet, and for working with me. Just tell me the truth. But she wasn’t ready to say all that. At some point, when she had enough to write the expose of the century, she would.
“You can sleep,” he said. “I’ll wake you when we get there.”
“Yeah, I might.”
“And—you do actually have a little ketchup next to your mouth—“
“Shut up, Smallville.”
But he leaned forward and suddenly Superman was gently rubbing her face with a tissue. Lois froze as his fingers brushed against her lips. “There.”
He swiped one more time, for good measure, and his blue eyes flicked over her face—clearly approving what he saw. In fact, they lingered just a moment too long on her mouth. His eyes dilated a little and he leaned back, tossing the tissue in the tiny trash slot next to the seat.
Lois didn’t know what to do with her face or her hands. She knew what guys looked like when they wanted something and—he did. He wanted her. She knew he gave off that awkward crush vibe to others, but she hadn’t really believed it until now.
“I’m just gonna go over my notes for the Luthor article.” He pulled his laptop out onto his lap. “Get some rest if you want.”
Marking one of the less courageous moments of her life, Lois closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cold window. She was just not prepared to deal with this.
***
“Hey Lois, wake up.” Clark gently kicked her foot, and Lois woke with a jerk. "Hey, sorry, I just wanted to give you a two-minute warning.”
“Right. Thanks.” She had something soft tucked between her head and the window. It was one of those neck pillows you could buy at the station. It said, I Heart Metropolis. “Is this yours?”
“Yeah, you looked like you were getting a major crick in your neck.”
“Yeah, thanks.” He stuffed it back in his messenger bag. She hadn’t seen it before. Did he buy it for this trip? For her? She shook her head on her spiraling thoughts and realized he really was right about her neck. It gave an ominously loud click and didn’t want to turn back the other way. “Oh—ow.” She tilted her head tentatively. “Ugh.”
The train was coming to a halt, and they both swayed in their seats as the breaks engaged and it stopped. Lois groaned again as she got her bag
“Can I— May I?” Clark asked, nodding toward her neck. His brow was furrowed, like he was genuinely concerned about her and her stupid stiff neck.
“Sure. I never turn down free—ohh.” He was rubbing the kinks out of her neck, and it was all she could do to hold back a truly inappropriate sound. His hands were warm—really warm, did he run hot?—and they were somehow gentle on her skin while being firm on her muscles. His fingers kneaded just below her skull, softly around the vertebrae in her neck and to the top of her shoulders. It was—possibly—the most perfect sensation she’d ever felt on her head or neck. Or maybe anything. Her head dropped forward of its own accord, and he worked back up.
“Oh my gosh.” She tried to return her tone to professionality. “If you ever need a better paying job, you could make a killing as a massage therapist.” She forced herself to straighten after a moment and put her bag on her shoulder.
Did his hand tremble slightly as he pushed his glasses up? “Maybe I missed my calling.”
“Uh. Yeah. You did.” She rolled her head experimentally and her neck was loose and almost pain-free. “You have magic hands.”
He laughed, and Lois rolled her eyes. “Yes, I heard what I said. Don’t make it weird.”
***
Except it… was weird. She was suddenly aware that he wasn’t using his pseudo crush on her as a cover for something else, like to avoid rejecting Cat or someone else who might guess his secrets. He was—unless there was some reason for subterfuge that she couldn’t guess—really into her.
Which was flattering sure, but also a little unnerving. In fact, if he’d suddenly gotten interested that one time that he stopped the train—and then found out where she worked—and then adjusted his resume— and then applied there in order to work with her—
Well, there were a lot of steps to that plan and they kind of had a stalker vibe if you repeated them in the wrong tone of voice.
Was—was she the indulgence in this job? Despite her very healthy self-esteem (as previously noted), this seemed strange.
She put it aside as they staked out the lobby of the hotel. After 10, the concierge had tried to oust them in a genteel, posh way, but Clark had spun a story about his uncle, the Oklahoma oil tycoon, who was supposed to meet them and another friend, but gosh darn it, they didn’t know where he’d got to…
And Clark did it all so innocently and so well that Lois half-believed him. Their story was still holding when her mark and his (actual, corporeal) friend exited together. Even better, there were two beautiful women with them—not their wives—and Lois got several fantastic shots as they all got off the elevator looking very chummy.
“Senator Thompson,” Lois called. “Is it true that Mr. Grande is a major donor this year?”
The senator looked around at her, his thick gray-blonde hair like a helmet. “Who’s that? I’m not taking questions—”
“Is it true that you’ve promised Mr. Grande exclusive contracts with Metropolis Metro Hospital in return for campaign funds? Despite the current malpractice lawsuits against him and his company?”
Mr. Grande was flushed and unsurprisingly defensive. “Hey, those lawsuits are bogus, and what I do with my own money is my own business.”
“Would you describe yourself and the Senator as close friends?”
“I can be friends with who I want to be friends with,” he said belligerently.
“You certainly can,” Lois agreed. “How long have you been close friends?”
“Don’t talk to her,” Senator Thompson said, “It’s that b- from the Planet.”
Clark stepped up next to her. “Would you care to confirm you used a campaign finance account to pay for these hotel rooms?”
“I don’t have to answer your questions,” the Senator said.
Lois turned to the striking woman he was with. “Are you aware that he’s married?”
The woman looked exasperated. “They’re always married, sweetheart.”
“But do they always find out in the news?”
The woman grimaced, “Yeah, I’m out, John. Ta.”
He fumed as she left. Lois was secretly impressed with her smooth gait in stilettos.
“She’s one of the…” Lois blinked as her mind shuffled through faces. “She was one of the Next Top Models from three years ago. She got voted out the second or third week.” Lois would be able to look up her name and call her for a further quote.
The concierge was bearing down on them now, looking betrayed. Clark moved to intercept him with a placating hand.
Lois didn’t have much time. “Why are you in New York, Senator Thompson, if not to spend time with your friend, Mr. Grande?”
He grabbed for her phone. “You have those pictures on here?”
Lous had pretty fast twitch reflexes, particularly with her phone, and she didn’t let go. They were suddenly in a tugging match on it, and his nails bit into her hand. He was bigger and stronger than her, but Lois had the inside grip and the adrenaline of a mother dingo protecting her baby. Or maybe not quite that, but close.
She still managed to spit out, while being tugged towards the elevator by her phone, “Can your constituents in Metropolis expect to see medical coverage by GrandeCare—“
Lois was fine, totally fine, except that it had been raining in New York, and someone had let their umbrella leave a small puddle by the elevator. Her boot slid, her body followed, and she banged herself hard against the wall—or rather, the corner that led to the elevator. In a sudden percussion, her elbow, shoulder, and then head struck the wall. She lost her grip on the phone and caught herself on the small, elegant table next to the two elevators.
Clark was suddenly there, steadying her waist and snatching her phone out of the Senator’s hand.
“Don’t break it!” she reminded him, terrified that Superman with his stupid super strength might crush it by accident. She touched her head and was startled to realize she was bleeding. She’d really gotten herself good.
Clark saw the blood too, and he turned back to the Senator. She saw his persona change, his hand twitch. Thompson blanched and hit the button in a panic, perhaps sensing he was suddenly in real danger. Clark looked as if he would pull the man out—or pull the elevator apart with his bare hands—to get the Senator.
“Whoa, stop,” she said. “We don’t want an assault story!”
The elevator doors slid shut in Clark’s face and she could practically feel him rein it in. She could also feel him adjust his posture, his glasses, his manner—making sure he hadn’t given himself away. “You’re right, you’re right,” he said apologetically. “I don’t know what I was thinking, not like I could stop him anyway.”
“Yeah…exactly.”
“But you’re bleeding—here, I’ve got some napkins.” He was applying pressure before she could blink. “Do you feel nauseated or light-sensitive? You could have a concussion.”
“Pretty sure I don’t have a concussion. Didn’t lose time or get disoriented or anything.”
He was standing close to her, with his hand holding the wad of napkins at her hairlineabove her ear. “Have you had a concussion before?” he asked skeptically.
“Yeah. A few years ago. Have you?”
“Er—no, I don’t think so. But I’ve had my bell rung pretty good a couple times. You have to be careful.”
She pictured an article from several weeks ago, Superman shoving a family in a minivan to safety only to be flattened by the falling bridge. He’d exploded out of the rubble a minute later, to everyone’s relief. She wondered if that counted as getting his bell rung.
She put her hand up to take over the makeshift bandage. “I got it.”
Their fingers overlapped as he passed off the wad to her, and his fingers were again warm, comforting. She really wanted to entwine her fingers with his… or maybe ask him to rub her neck again. Maybe he really was the incredibly guy he seemed to be— “Darn it, maybe I am concussed.”
“Why? What’s the matter?” His eyes flickered over her face again, and she could almost see the grid. Was he x-raying her skull? Good luck with that, bone wouldn’t allow him to see her brain. He’d need CT-scan-vision for that and honestly that term didn’t sound nearly as catchy as X-ray vision…
“Lois?”
“I’m just…a little scattered. We should head back to the train station. We got what we came for.”
“Mm, we wouldn’t get back until what—2 am? I think you should lay down.”
“Lie down,” she corrected automatically. “See, my inner grammar nazi is fine.”
The concierge wanted them out, and he was harrying them toward the door. “I’ll alert the police if you don’t leave at once. Harassing a senator is a serious—”
“We’re going,” Clark said. He took Lois’s arm like an old-fashioned gentleman, probably afraid she was gonna collapse.
She wasn’t, she was just overwhelmingly tired all the sudden. Clark must’ve felt her slump a little when they got back on the wet pavement, in the dark, with the city lights glaring in her eyes. It seemed like a long walk back to the train station. “Maybe we could Uber,” she said.
He agreed and pulled it up on his phone, but when the Uber released them, it was… an Urgent Care.
“Ugh, Clark! I’m okay. There’s nothing they can do for a concussion anyway, other than tell me to take it easy and not tire my brain for a couple days. And I don’t think I got a concussion. A little rattled, that’s all.”
“Okay, compromise,” he offered. “I won’t make you see a doctor if you agree to get a hotel room and actually rest.” He gestured to the cheap hotel across from them.
“I didn’t bring clothes or anything.”
“Neither did I. Just sleep and we’ll be back on a train first thing in the morning.”
A bed did sound heavenly. Like really freaking fantastic. “Fine, okay. Let’s go.”
To Clark’s discomfiture, the hotel only had one room left. The clerk chewed a wad of gum that had to be old from the effort it was taking. “It’s the Wayne Expo and the president’s rally," he explained. "Between the two…”
“Nobody going to the Wayne Expo would stay here,” Clark said, with a surprising lack of tact.
“Rude,” Lois said.
The clerk shrugged.
Clark’s mouth thinned in frustration. “I’m really sorry, Lois, I’ll grab another Uber…”
“Heck, no. We’ll take the room.” Her whole body ached and she really wanted to assume a horizontal position.
“Are you sure?” Clark asked
“Hey, you tried to make me be responsible, now you’re stuck with the consequences.” She pulled out her wallet and watched muzzily as the clerk ran her card. “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.”
“I don’t think making my concussed partner take a break is a stupid game,” he muttered.
The clerk gave them their key cards. “104.”
“Hallelujah, it’s on the first floor.”
When Clark opened the door and flicked on the light, Lois laughed. There was only one bed. “This is totally your punishment for being too managing.”
He sighed. “I’ll work at the desk.”
“All night?” Lois face planted onto the bed. “This smells funny, yet I don’t care.”
She turned her head to see him put both their messenger bags on the desk. He pulled his laptop out.
“It’s no big deal,” Lois said. “I shared a room with Jimmy in DC once. And with Cat in Houston, which was probably more ethically questionable. Nobody cares.” She wriggled up the bed to put her head on one of the white pillows. “Goodnight.”
Another time, maybe she would’ve been a little concerned about sharing a room with a superhero who (weirdly?) had a thing for her, but she sincerely doubted this was some master plan. He was too annoyed with the situation. And apparently he had allayed enough of her cynicism that she was confident he wouldn’t take advantage of the situation.
She slept.
When he woke her in the middle of the night, Lois groaned. “Is this my concussion check-in? You are such a Boy Scout.”
“Why don’t you count back from 50 and we’ll see?”
“If you think you can make me do that, you’re even more of an idiot—“ She cracked an eye open and saw his perfect lips twitch. “You clown. Shut up and go back to sleep.”
“Yeah, fine. You do seem pretty lucid.”
Lois closed her eyes again and felt the bed move as he sat on the other side. “What time is it?” she asked.
“About three.”
Lois lay there for a while and groaned. “I hate you. Have I ever mentioned that I don’t sleep well? It’s really hard to get back to sleep.”
“I’m sorry.” He sounded half-asleep. “I really am.”
Lois rolled over to face him. The dim light from the bathroom door fell diagonally across him. He was upright, but leaning against the pillows, with his head tilted back. His glasses were off and his eyes were closed. She was a little surprised he took his glasses off around her. He seemed to feel like they were some magical, protective force field.
He really was incredibly handsome. Strong jaw, smooth skin, that dark hair that he brushed forward or back depending on his persona. He had his arms crossed over his chest and his hands tucked in, but his forearms were a freaking work of art.
His mouth fell open slightly, and his face went slack with sleep. She hadn’t even been sure Superman needed to sleep, but apparently he did. That was good to know. She put it under the vulnerabilities category.
Except—it was starting to feel kinda mean to keep a mental list of weaknesses when Clark was only ever nice to her. And to everyone, pretty much.
To her surprise, her eyes drifted shut of their own accord while she stared at Clark and his ridiculous perfection.
He didn’t wake her in the morning, which was good. Once had been annoying, twice would enter “I will expose your secret identity for revenge” territory. She woke up on her own a little before seven.
“Ugh, no toothbrush,” Lois said, stretching. “Nasty.”
“I went out an hour ago and bought some,” he said. “It’s all in the bathroom.”
“You went out at—5:45 and bought toiletries?” She wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or depressed that he was more thoughtful than men she’d actually dated.
She felt worlds better after taking a shower, washing her face, and brushing her teeth—even with day-old clothes to put back on. “I admit,” she said after she came out, rubbing her wet hair. “I feel a thousand times better. This was probably a good idea.”
“What’s that? Maybe a little louder for those in the back?”
“Yes, you do have a good idea on occasion. Now take a shower, you probably stink.”
He looked a little offended, but he didn’t say anything. Come to think of it, he probably didn’t sweat or something weird like that. And he didn’t stink, she’d noticed that when she woke up. His side of the bed smelled like pine, newspaper, and something else… maybe cinnamon, she thought wryly. That would be appropriate.
Which brought her to another thought, and she was glad he was in the bathroom. Did Superman even have relationships with women? So far, none had claimed it, at least not any that weren’t whackadoos, and she imagined someone would capitalize on it if they had the chance…
Lois forced herself to sit and write about GrandeCare Corp so that her face was an appropriate color when Clark got out of the bathroom. But her precaution was a waste, because he came out with his shirt only half-buttoned, and his hair wet, and his glasses off. His shoulders were broad and his chest was defined... He did up the next few buttons with his long fingers and then ran a hand through his hair, momentarily pushing it back and looking a whole lot like Superman.
She spun back to the desk as if he’d walked out naked. He should really be more careful of his identity.
“Ready to head out?” Lois asked.
“Yeah, I’m almost ready.” He sat down to pull his socks and shoes on, and Lois discovered that a man’s bare feet could be attractive. What the heck was the matter with her? Ugh, now she was making it weird.
She ruthlessly saved her files and closed down her computer. She was investigating Superman and Clark Kent. She was not falling for them. Him.
That would be stupid, and Lois was anything but stupid.