TOC

Author's Note: As a reminder, this story is rated PG-13. It has been modified from the original n-fic version, where I originally placed it due to sexual situations. It has been appropriately toned down, but if sexual themes have the potential to offend you, please choose a different story to read. Thank you.

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I turn towards the bathroom and see Clark hunched over the counter, pulling on the protective gloves. The rippling muscles in his back are stunning: the fluorescent light seems to dance over every contour and I imagine how much more glorious he would appear to be if he were outside on a summer day, letting the yellow rays of the sun soak into his skin.

I hum to myself in appreciation, then blanch when he turns as if he heard me. Because he shouldn’t know how close I am to suggesting he remove his tuxedo pants, too. And we haven’t yet defined the protocols of partnership, but I’m pretty sure there’s diplomatic courtesy involved in building relationships slowly over time.

I return to the bathroom and see that Clark has taken a relaxed attitude, trying to defuse the sexually charged atmosphere inherent in our immodest states of dress. I sit back down on the chair; he tucks in a towel around my shoulders, obscuring my chest from his view. He pretends it’s done to protect my skin, but I’m sure it was done to protect his sanity.

He engages in inane banter, trying to replicate whatever conversation he guesses takes place at a salon. I laugh and play along because it passes the time and distracts me from the oddly pleasurable tingle I feel every time his fingertips rub against my scalp. He studiously follows the directions he found on the internet, painting the dye methodically from root to tip. He radiates confidence and I know he’ll fix this because Clark can do anything and, admittedly, he’s doing a much more patiently thorough job than I did.

“I think I’m done here,” he concludes as he removes the towel from my shoulders and wraps it around my hair. “We just need to wait for the dye to set.” Clark stands in front of me and offers his hand, pulling me up from the chair. “We seem to have missed dinner. Why don’t I go out and get us some?”

“Sounds perfect,” I say, because the thought of us casually eating takeout in my apartment really does sound like the perfect date. As perfect as every casual meal we’ve shared at the opposite apartment – the comfortable familiarity of our partnership that so often ends up with us cuddling on his couch. Because cuddling is our default – we did it as partners and I’m sure we’ll do it again as more fully realized partners.

I follow him out to my living room and see him continue on to the kitchen and set the timer on the microwave. He’s clearly determined to follow the meticulously detailed instructions from the box of dye to an exacting standard. He returns to me, takes my hand, and kisses it with an adorable smile. “What do you want?” he asks.

And I know better than to answer that question with the first response that flashes through my body. So I instead reply, “Chinese, from the good place.”

He winks. “Anything for you.” And it’s all too obvious that he means that as literally as he can.

“It’ll just take me a few minutes,” he says, as he starts to let go of my hand. But I grip a bit tighter, because the protocols of partnership demand a goodbye kiss – that’s clearly been established. I tug him towards me and he follows, instinctively bending his head down at the perfect angle to avoid noses and touch lips. This kiss lingers blissfully as I run my hand over his chest. I smile against his lips. “I think you forgot something.”

He’s confused. I tap his chest and he looks down, shaking the fog out of his eyes, and realizing he’s not fully dressed. He laughs lightly at himself. “I think you distracted me.”

I turn back to my bedroom to retrieve his shirt. Not looking at him lets me have the confidence to tease him. “You can thank me for that later.” When I return, I catch the unguarded four letter L word shining in his eyes and know that my playfulness has hit its mark.

I hand him the shirt; he slides his arms through the sleeves. Before he has the chance, I take the edges of the crisp white cotton and bring them together. I begin fastening the shirt for him, slowly, starting at the bottom. My eyes are lowered in deep concentration as I hide his beautiful body button by button. I’m waiting for his soft breath to blow gently against my head; I revel in the fact that it’s not there, that I’ve taken away his breath once again. I leave the top button undone, then look up and his lips are an inch away, so it’s natural to kiss him again. And as our lips meet, I slide my fingers into his waistband, tucking in the hem of his dress shirt.

But the clock is ticking and Clark is determined to follow the dye’s directions to the letter, so he breaks our kiss and goes to get our dinner, but I know that he’ll come back. Because he doesn’t come and go, he goes and he comes.

I look out the window, hoping he’ll return soon, hoping my hair color will return soon, hoping my confidence will return soon. I understand now that I only lacked confidence in him because I lacked confidence in myself, in my ability to understand myself. That my jealous accusations and colorful hair were a manifestation of my struggle to admit my wish for our partnership to transform into partnership.

But now I know that he wants me and I can admit that I want him. He confessed his love for me and I’ve done it in return, and we’re partners now, and it suddenly seems so obvious that’s what he’s always wanted and what I’ve always needed.

Clark opens the front door, returning with the food, and again I’ve lost time, because the Chinese takeout place next to the corner bodega should have been shut down by the health department years ago and there’s no way his amazing food comes from that hole.

He sets his bamboo containers on my table and I’m about to say something, but he again distracts me with a kiss and I want to believe that he’s just engaging in the protocols of partnership, but there’s something he’s avoiding: the distraction is wonderful, but not subtle. Still, the food smells delicious and my stomach rumbles, so it’s easier to pick up a pair of chopsticks than to pick apart his story.

I retrieve drinks from my refrigerator. Clark takes two plates and some serving spoons from my cabinets and drawers, displaying his casual familiarity with my apartment. Returning to the table, he opens the bamboo steamers and the sumptuous scent of Shanghai surrounds us. We sit and I look over the dishes. “This certainly looks better than Ralph’s Pagoda.”

He chuckles. “I hope so.” He scoops out samples of each dish onto our plates, then watches expectantly, waiting for me to render my verdict. I crunch a dry fried green bean and look over my plate. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing to one of the choices.

“Drunken chicken.” He picks up a piece with his chopsticks and brings it to my mouth. I take the bite as he continues, “It’s marinated in rice wine overnight.”

“Mmmmm. It’s amazing.” I use my chopsticks to select a piece of red pork. “And this?” I ask, as I bring it to his lips.

He smiles and eats the piece of meat. “Hongshao rou.” A drop of sauce dribbles off the end of my chopstick and onto his chin. I wipe it off with my index finger. He impulsively licks out his tongue, sucking the sauce from my finger. His glasses do nothing to hide the sparkle of seduction in his eyes. I giggle and continue the game, trading bites of food and coy smiles.

I survey the remains of the meal. “Where are the fortune cookies?”

“Well, they don’t actually have them in China. They were invented in San Francisco.” Clark stops short and there’s an odd flash of fear on his face, but I can’t understand what’s so frightening about random trivia. Then he quickly adds, “I guess they just forgot to throw them in the bag.” And it’s a reasonable explanation but sounds curiously like a lie.

The timer on my microwave goes off, startling both of us. Clark gets up, takes my hand, and helps me up, too. I lean against his body and am so close to him that I can see a crumb stuck to the corner of his mouth. I brush it off with my thumb, but continue to drag my thumb along his lower lip a moment longer than necessary, and the sexually charged atmosphere returns. He scrapes my thumb with his teeth and looks at me with a blinding radiance.

“Come on,” he says with a smile, leading me towards my bathroom. As he walks through my bedroom, he unbuttons and takes off his shirt, tossing it onto the bed as if it belongs there, as if he belongs there. He pauses outside the bathroom, toeing off his shoes and removing his socks. I watch him walk barefoot into my bathroom, pausing to consider the sink. Then he turns to the shower and nods his head. “I think this will be easier if we use the shower.”

“Ah,” I say with as much seduction as possible. “You just want to get me out of my clothes.”

And he visibly swallows and seems to blush, but we’ve teased each other with sexual innuendo before, so that’s old. But it’s also new, because we’ve never done it with my black bra testing the limits of my camisole’s ability to hold my modesty or with Clark’s body hidden only by tight black trousers. He squeezes past me, moving the chair to a location just outside the bathroom and retrieving more towels. He lays out the towels over the tile floor and directs me to sit down next to the bathtub. He bunches another towel along the edge of the tub for my comfort. He turns on the shower, resting the shower wand on the bottom of the tub and letting the water warm up. The shower curtain is pulled halfway closed, preventing the water from splashing out of the tub basin and onto the toilet and floor.

Then he unwraps the towel from my head, tossing it over the shower curtain rod. “Here goes nothing.”

He starts to kneel down beside me, but is blocked by the toilet on one side and the wall on the other. He laughs nervously, then gets down on his knees directly in front of me and says, “Well, this is going to be kind of awkward.”

And I know what he’s going to do, can see that it’s a rational choice, but my body suddenly screams its desire to do irrational things. I try to smooth over the awkwardness by making a joke. “Not as awkward as platinum blonde hair.”

He smiles, then nervously says with a tone so low and sexy that I shiver, “Lean back.”

I tilt my head backwards, letting my hair fall into the tub, and he crawls over me, straddling his knees around my legs and reaching for the shower head. His movement brings his chest so close to my lips that the slightest of motions could allow me to taste his golden tan skin.

And he’s not oblivious because I hear him catch and hold his breath as if he’s aware that the rise and fall of his chest could be enough to bring his firm skin against my hopeful lips. He takes the shower wand in his left hand and places his right hand behind my neck, cradling my head. I feel the water rain down the back of my hair.

“Is it too hot?” he asks with concern.

“It’s perfect,” I sigh, but I’m not entirely sure if I’m answering his question or talking to his chest.

He looms over me, balancing his weight on his knees, and gently releases the back of my head. His right hand pulls through my hair, washing the water through the strands. His fingers massage my scalp, intent on removing the residual dye, but the back and forth rhythm stokes my arousal and the accidental rocking of his hips in time with the motion reminds me too much of a primal cadence. His body shifts with each pass of his fingers through my hair; his pelvis is a whisper away from touching mine. I bite my lip to prevent myself from revealing to him how much his proximity is affecting me.

Clark sets the shower wand down in the tub and runs his fingers through my hair, examining it for any remaining dye he might have missed. He tilts his head approvingly and says, “I think it may have turned out all right.”

“Thank you,” I sigh, but the words don’t adequately express the totality of my feelings towards him.

I touch his chest with my left hand, slowly but deliberately caressing his pectoral muscles. My right hand presses against his hip, holding him steady. Then I slowly pull his pelvis down against mine. He groans and I feel what his trousers have been concealing – it seems that he’s very good at hiding things.

I slide my left hand off his chest and place it on his shoulder blade, then push down, directing him towards me. And he complies: his chest presses against mine and the weight of his body is exhilarating.

“Lois, we shouldn’t...”

And he’s right, of course. We shouldn’t, but we should. We might as well. Because that’s what people do; that’s what people who come and go do. They come with their sweet confessions and sizzling bodies, and then the taste sours and they go. And I shouldn’t expect him to be any different since he sounds so sweet and sizzles so hotly, so we should do what we both want to do before this turns sour.

I watch a conflict playing out inside him, only partially obscured by his glasses. There’s a desperate need to run, to go before this goes too far. I recognize the look – his fight or flight response that kicks in when I get too close to whatever it is that he hides from me, what he’s afraid I won’t like if I see. But there’s also a desperate need to stay, to come closer to me, to reveal the depths of his soul, to trust that I won’t go.

Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I don’t understand him or his conflict. Maybe the hopeless romantic buried deep inside me is seeing what it wants to see. After all, buried deep under his mild manners and kind words, he’s just a man, and all men have a base instinct to come.

“Okay,” I say. It’s a statement, an agreement to his statement, but it’s also permission. He can choose to interpret the syllables in whatever way he wants. Though as I watch his mind, his heart, and his body whirl through the choice, shifting between should and should not, I believe he’s unable to choose.

So I choose for him.

I place my hand on the back of Clark’s head and softly pull him towards me. He complies with the silent request and dips his head, stopping an inch away from my lips. I see him catch and hold his breath as I wind my fingers into the hair at the base of his neck. His right hand cradles the back of my head as I stretch up to join our lips.

I feel like I’m floating as my lips slide over his and my eyes flutter closed. My right hand reaches around his back, desperate to close the distance between us. He understands what I want and we scoot our bodies along the floor so I can lay flat against the tile. His right hand remains at the back of my head, acting like a pillow. I moan softly against his lips and hear his soft echo.

Then he releases the tension in his body and rests his chest solidly against mine. I’m enthralled by the warm heat radiating off his skin and I wish my top would disappear.

He kisses me again - there’s an insistent quality to it. I part my lips as he demands entrance; my head swims in the sensation of his questing tongue. I open my eyes and see that his are squeezed painfully shut. I roll out my tongue and lick his throat, feeling the quiver of his vocal cords as he utters an unintelligible sound.

I move my right hand south and cup his butt cheek. I should have guessed how firm it would feel: I’ve groped it in my mind an inordinate amount of times. He’s towering above me and a visceral delight at the thought of being dominated by him glimmers through me. I shouldn’t feel it – it contradicts every feminist ideal I subscribe to, but I can’t deny that I like that he’s on top, that he’s taken control of this situation. Because confidence is sexy and I don’t always have to be in control.

My hands wander over his body and his slide over mine. Clark’s body shudders and he groans, “Oh, God!”

Then he scrambles off me, backing away to the other end of the tiny room. He sits on the floor, bracing his back against the wall, visibly trying to slow his breathing. I sit up and look at him curiously, but he averts his eyes. “You should dry your hair,” he says.

I’m confused. I start to say something, start to ask something, but can’t formulate the words. Because in the space of a second, he lost his confidence and seems to need a distraction. So I get up from the floor, turn off the shower, and retrieve my hair dryer and brush. I catch my partially undressed state in the mirror and decide I look ridiculous, so I rearrange my shirt. I plug in the blow dryer and turn it on, running the brush through my hair in long, even strokes.

Clark stays seated on the tile floor, but seems to return to a normal breathing pattern. He’s looking up at me with an odd smile and this scene feels so domesticated, like we’ve been sharing counter space forever. My hair tussles around in the artificial wind. He stands up as I set the blow dryer down, then takes the brush from my hand. He runs his fingers through my hair once before using the brush to straighten the style. We both look into the mirror to admire his work.

“I think we fixed it,” Clark says with a smile.

I toss my hair, catching it in the fluorescent light, then touch the strands, relieved to feel like myself, thrilled the brown hair is back. “You’re my hero!”

And Clark smiles radiantly, like it’s everything he’s always wanted to be for me.

Confidence is the color of cocoa and I make a move. I push my hand into his chest, pressing him against my counter. I wrap my arms around his neck and smother him in desire with my wet lips and darting tongue. He responds, wrapping his arms around me, sliding his hand from the small of my back to the curve of my butt. And I remember why I like to be on top, why I enjoy being in control, and flashes of dirty dreams I’ve had about him flip through my mind.

I rock slightly backwards, putting space between our bodies, then unwrap my arms and take hold of my camisole’s hem. I strip the shirt off, tossing it onto the floor; Clark gasps and bites his lip. I reach behind me and unhook my bra. I push the straps down and let the lace fall away off my arms. Then I press my chest against his, reveling in the joy of our naked flesh together at last.

He whimpers and looks to the heavens as if he’s summoning strength and willpower. I run my fingers down his torso and rub lightly against the top of his leg. Then I slide my hand between our bodies and solidly stroke him over his pants.

His hips buck against my hand and he softly cries, “Lois, please.” But it sounds more like a mournful need to halt than an uncontrollable urge to continue. And I don’t understand because whether we should or we shouldn’t, it certainly feels like we both want to. But now the sweet moment is starting to turn sour.

Clark removes his hands from my butt and places them against my shoulders. He stops me. “We don’t need to do this now.”

I’m embarrassed that he doesn’t want me and feel the swelling of irrational anger. “Oh, you only say yes to blonde bimbos.” I can’t help the jealousy slip from my lips; I thought I had buried it along with the tragic hair dye, but it’s hard to transition from partners to partners when the old insecurities are still there.

“I’d only say yes to you. Lois, there have never been any blondes or bimbos. There will only be you.”

I have no idea how he expects me to believe his confession because no man is that patient, so his rejection hurts that much worse. “But you didn’t say yes.”

“I didn’t say no either. I’ll say yes in the future. We have all the time in the world, Lois. There’s no need to rush this.”

And I should be content with that answer, because comers and goers stay and then leave, but Clark is a goer and comer, so he’ll leave but then stay. But I don’t want the past or the future, the going and the coming. I want the present. I want his presence. Because he told me he loves me and I told him I love him and it happened tonight on my bed and I want to hold onto those words and that emotion and his body and if he walks out the door I’m terrified that he’ll take that love away with him like every other man has.

I shut my eyes tightly, afraid that the welling tears will leak from my eyes, spilling the truth onto my cheeks. Because confidence is sexy and blondes have more fun, but I am a brunette and if he sees my roots he’ll know that no amount of hair dye can mask pain.

But Clark is telepathic and he doesn’t need me to tell him how I feel because he already knows. He’s always had an annoying ability to read me like no one else ever has. He knows when I need him and he knows what to do. So I don’t say anything to him and he doesn’t say anything to me. He just pulls me into a hug and surrounds me with love. I place my head on his heart; one wet drop of water escapes my eyelashes and slides down his golden tan skin and an infinity loop completes itself because we were partners then and we’re partners now – we always have been and always will.

He pulls out of our embrace. I can feel him looking down at me and am compelled to return the gesture. He brings his left hand to the side of my face and slides his fingers through my hair. The apartment is silent and still and we’re temporarily lost in our own universe and I know that shouldn’t was the right choice.

Then he suddenly glances away from me, as if he’s looking for something beyond my bedroom walls, but shakes his head like he’s talking to himself. “It’s been a long day,” he finally says. “Why don’t you get ready for bed? I’ll turn off the lights.” His hand caresses my cheek before he lets go and walks out to the living room.

I slowly walk into my bedroom, cross over to my dresser, and strip off my running shorts and underwear. A light clicks off in the other room as I pull on a soft t-shirt and comfortable sleeping shorts. Then I pick his crisp white dress shirt off my bed and place it on a hanger in my closet.

He returns to my bedroom and I switch off the bathroom light. The apartment is lit only by the moonlight that creeps in from around the edges of my window treatment. I crawl onto the left side of my bed as he circles around to the right. I pretend to avert my eyes as he removes his trousers, folding them and placing them on top of my dresser. His tight white briefs fill me with relief: there’s a comfortable familiarity in strolling around half-naked without expecting it to lead any further. He lays down on the right side of the bed – his side, because partners always have sides of the bed – and that becomes part of the established protocol.

I lay on my side, facing away from him so he can’t search my eyes for more truth. He’s learned enough about me tonight; I don’t think I have any more secrets that need to be shared.

I sense that he’s waiting for me to signal my intentions. I scoot backwards until my back rests against his chest and my butt molds against his hips. I hear him sigh as if he believes that was the perfect thing for me to do. I feel his fingers curl my hair behind my ear. I listen, because there’s a pause to his breath and it seems like he wants to say something. But the moment passes, and instead I hear the clink of his glasses being placed on my bedside table. A blissful sense of security blankets me as Clark wraps my comforter over us and curls his right hand around my waist.

“Good night, my love,” Clark whispers into my hair. He says it casually, like it’s been rolling off his tongue since the day we met. And I finally understand that he has been saying it forever – I just needed time to hear it, accept it, and reflect it back.

“Good night, my love,” I say, I mean, I feel. Because “Lois Lane and Clark Kent” is the default, and whatever problems we will face as partners or as partners, we will fix them.

Together.

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