Lois & Clark Forums Forums Fan Fiction Lois & Clark Fanfic We Have a Whole Lot to Talk About

Don't mind me just sneaking in here amidst all the location challenges... 🫣 I'm just posting all 4 chapters and epilogue in one go... it's ~6600 words. Enjoy!

We Have a Whole Lot to Talk About
Rated: PG
Submitted: August 2026

Summary: What if Clark’s proposal in the pouring rain had gone just a wee bit differently? A re-write of the end of “And the Answer Is”/ beginning of “We Have a Lot to Talk About.”

Author’s Note: Bek and I were laughing about a "what if" one night, and this story idea was born. And then it just kinda languished for a while. But I finally turned the idea into a story! It was a bit of a challenge since I didn't have any clue what was going to happen after chapter 1... but we made it work. Thank you so much to SuperBek and JadedEvie for beta reading and cheerleading! Yes, this A/N is short; no, I've not been kidnapped. LOL

Chapter 1: Clark

My mom’s voice plays in my head on repeat even though it’s been hours since I dropped my parents off at the farmhouse.

Talk to her, Clark.

Well, I am here to talk to her, and maybe I’m even convincing myself that it’s for all the reasons my mom packed into that tone of hers. The tone she always uses when I’m in trouble for my own good, the one that says she loves me, but I’m being a lunkhead.

Whether I’ve convinced myself or not, I can’t deny the unexpected wave of relief I felt moments ago when Lois unlocked the deadbolts and shouted through the door to come in and that she was going to go put on, in her words, “some real clothes.” Even just the extra few minutes it will take her to get dressed is a relief, the conversation that much further away.

God, thirty-six hours ago, I was standing in this same spot by her window, looking at the same photograph of us. Had I really been ready to tell her my secret?

Now I’m not sure. I mean, I am sure—sure that I want her to know and that I want to do this, that I’m going to do this. But the idea of telling her is light-years more terrifying now than it was two days ago. Everything is all too fresh in my mind, my parents’ lives threatened. Lois’s life at risk—a stupid, heartbreaking, and heartfelt risk I shouldn’t have let her take.

She’d die for them. For me.

The gravity of that fact is overwhelming in so many ways.

Tell Clark I love him.

Her loyalty and affection are fierce. And she loves me. Yesterday, I heard the words I’ve longed to hear from her for two years now, but they came at a terrifying price. Would she have told me if her life hadn’t been at risk? If she’d been facing me instead of Superman?

I chastise myself. She would have, I have to believe that. I should believe that. After I endured a harrowing few months of doubt and insecurity, Lois chose me. Not Dan. Not Superman. Me. That night and every day since have been so much more than I could have hoped for.

But I need to tell her I’m Superman. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell her. No reason why I shouldn’t have told her long before this. Especially if I want nothing more than to marry her, to live happily ever after with her.

I have to tell her. And I have to do it right now, tonight, while all the terrible and wonderful reasons are fresh in my mind and pushing me toward crossing that boundary I’ve held for so long.

My chest tenses up, and I’d swear my palms are sweaty even though they’re not. I shove them in my pockets and continue to stand here waiting. My bicep bumps against the hard object in my inner breast pocket. A small, velvet box holding an engagement ring I impulsively spent more than a modest amount of money on last week, after that night, and I’ve been carrying it around with me everywhere . . . just in case?

Surely, after all we’ve been through together, it’s not too soon. I think.

“I was thinking we’d take a walk,” Lois says as she emerges from her bedroom.

“Shouldn’t you rest still? How’s your cold?”

“Fine, I’m all fine.” She tucks her hair behind her ears. “I’m dying to get out of this apartment, though.”

I flinch, and she must notice because she gives me an apologetic grimace.

“Sorry, poor choice of words.”

“It’s okay,” I say, shaking my head and allowing myself an awkward smile. “I’m glad you're feeling better.” I’m glad you’re alive.

My stomach gives a little lurch, trying not to remember those agonizingly long seconds it took for her to breathe again, for the sound of her heartbeat to filter back into my senses and weave its way back into the ambient rhythm of my being.

“So . . . walk?” she asks again, in a way that’s clear I’d gotten lost inside my head for too long.

“Yeah.” I try to shake the dark thoughts from my mind. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

It takes just a moment for her to grab her keys from her purse, and a longer moment for her to engage all five deadbolts, and in another minute, we’re out on the sidewalk in front of her apartment building.

“Centennial Park?” I suggest. She nods her agreement, and so we start off in the direction of Metropolis’s largest park, a few blocks from her apartment.

At first, we don’t say much of anything, the colossal reminder of our own mortality sitting heavily between us. No one’s quite said the scary words out loud—that all of us nearly died. Lois and I did a lot of talking around it late yesterday as we wrote up the story for the Planet. My pulse starts racing even just thinking about . . . all of it.

It’s too quiet now, too awkward, and I keep having this feeling that she’s cold. So cold.

A gentle breeze starts up, and I move to put my arm around her shoulders. “You chilly?”

“No,” she says softly.

“Oh.” Disappointment floods me, and I start to draw my arm away, but before I can, she’s drifting a little closer to me and taking my hand in both of hers, effectively anchoring me to her. And now a different feeling is flooding through me, a yearning and hesitant hope that this could be normal for us someday.

There’s still weight and distance between us—as close as she is to me now, I know there isn’t much closer she can really get until she knows everything.

“Lois, I’ve been thinking . . .” I start, trying like heck to sound casual, contemplative, and not like I’m about to seriously risk shattering her trust.

“Me too.”

Because I need to know what’s on her mind and not at all because I want to delay my inevitable confession just a bit longer, I ask, “What about?”

She seems to consider for a moment, but then she decides to turn the offer back on me. “You first.”

“Okay . . .”

I will my heart to stop thundering in my ears so I can focus on getting the words out. We’ve paused just in front of the fountain, so I concentrate on the gentle burbling of the water for a few seconds to help settle myself before I turn to fully face her. And when I do, I’m nearly breathless at the soft, tender expression she wears, the one that’s a rare and treasured glimpse into her truest self, reminding me of the countless reasons I fell in love with her. I hardly know where to begin, but I know I need to finally lay all the cards on the table tonight.

Here goes nothing.

“Sometimes, you think you’re immortal. And you start to think the people around you are too.” My heart kicks painfully. “It just takes a second to realize how wrong you are . . . about everything. I guess what I’m trying to say, Lois, is I almost lost you, and I feel . . . ashamed.”

Her brow crinkles in confusion, or maybe concern. “Ashamed? Why?”

“I kept pushing you away, even when I promised I’d stop.” I shove the self-reproach down deep for a moment, knowing I need to get this out. No more waiting, no more stalling. “If you died without ever knowing why, I’d never be able to forgive myself . . . because I love you.”

Lois’s gaze softens again, but there’s something still tentative in it, cautious, when she reaches up to run her hand gently through my hair, tracing her palm lightly down my cheek.

Silence stretches between us, my second confession of love going unanswered but for the way her eyes are searching mine, as if she’s seeing me again for the first time. And an aching desperation grows in my chest, to hear her tell me—Clark—that she loves me too, needing to know her own confession of love earlier wasn’t all in my head.

Suddenly, it seems far easier to put my heart on the line again than it does to share an even more vulnerable part of myself. My insecurities flare up inside me, and I’m terrified if I tell her first that I’m Superman, I’ll never truly know if she loves me for me.

The thoughts are warring in my head, emotion and logic and self-preservation fighting for dominance.

Tell her. Ask her. Tell her. Ask her.

Without quite realizing it, I’ve turned Lois and guided her to sit down on the concrete wall edging the fountain.

She’s looking up at me, patiently, expectantly. And I think maybe I see an eager anticipation in her eyes, which can only mean she has an idea of what’s coming. And that solidifies the decision for me. There’s no way I can bring myself to pass up the opportunity when she seems to be on the same page as me right this second.

With a deep breath, I brace myself, and—then the heavens break open, soaking us with pouring rain.

Almost laughing, I throw my head back and say, “Oh, come on, give me a break here.”

Lois lets out an amused laugh. “Do you want to go back?”

I shake my head, rivulets of rain and fresh drops sliding down my face. The crack of thunder is dampened by the loudness of the rain, and thankfully, the lightning isn't on top of us. Nothing can make me run off this time.

“If the earth opened up at my feet, I wouldn’t move till I’d said this.” With my heart thundering in my chest, I drop to one knee and pull the ring box from my inside jacket pocket, opening it. “Lois . . . will you marry me?”

Her expression is one of surprise, but good surprise, I’m sure. She’s searching my eyes again, not exactly hesitating, but contemplative. Or like she’s letting the moment settle over us along with the pouring rain.

I reach my hand up to cup her cheek, and it’s reassuring when her own hand covers mine as she leans into it.

Just as I feel her take a breath and open her mouth to reply, lightning strikes.

Chapter 2: Lois

My body feels different, off, and I’m almost afraid to open my eyes, but I can feel I’m in my bed, tucked under the covers. Slowly, I sit up and look around my room to find everything’s the same, nothing out of place. Light from what I assume is the morning sun spills in through a gap in the curtains. I’m not even mad at whoever left them open because the rays of light feel so good against the skin of my bare arms.

And then I remember why things feel strange, like my body doesn’t quite fit exactly in my skin—Superman froze me yesterday. Clark froze me yesterday, though I only realized they were one and the same just before he did it.

I’ve never been more terrified in my life, but not for my life, not entirely. Never have I felt anything so strong and so pure as I feel for Clark. I never knew what love felt like until yesterday, not that all-consuming romantic love I read about all the time. It actually does exist.

Maybe that’s another reason my body feels strange. I’m not used to all these strong emotions, ebbing and flowing as I remember bits and pieces of the last forty-eight hours. These feelings I have for Clark have never had so much free range before, and they’re tangling up with all of my overcomplicated emotions about who Clark really is and how long he’s kept his true identity from me.

My mind is tumbling so much, I’m content to just lie here for a while longer, right where Clark and his mother left me last night. I smile at the memory of Martha shooing him out the door despite his protests so I could have some rest.

Clark, how is she supposed to get any sleep with you hovering over her?

I’m not hovering, Mom. Just—

Just nothing. Now let’s get out of her hair. Your father and I don’t want to miss our flight home.

Mom, you can . . . change your flight.

Not the point, dear, let’s get going.

I’m not sure whether to laugh or be angry at their pretense. Keeping up appearances like that must be second nature to them by now, I suppose. I was much too exhausted to feel much of anything about it last night, though the idea of Clark taking care of me when I’m not feeling well makes my heart squeeze in an unfamiliar, wonderful way.

But I still have this vague feeling of déjà vu, and I hope I haven’t suffered any ill effects from the whole process of being frozen then thawed. I seem to have all my wits about me, and all my memories, too, I think. Regardless, it was worth it. Clark’s parents are safe. And the bad guys are—well, one’s in jail, the other’s in the morgue.

And I . . . still have a lot of feelings to process.

Part of me doesn’t want to move just yet, but a bigger part of me itches to get up and open the curtains wider, letting the room fill with light and warmth. I toss the covers aside and stare in confusion at my legs. When had I worn these slacks? And was I so exhausted last night that I didn’t bother changing? The camisole top isn’t as much of a mystery, since I often sleep in them anyway. I shake my head, chalking it up to the whole almost-dying thing. It’s not like I tend to remember my clothing choices on any given day, but I do know I never wear slacks to bed.

I rise from bed, then head for the window. After I move the curtains, making the room brighter, I close my eyes and just bask in rays of sunlight. I wonder if I’ll always crave the warmth of the sun like this after having been frozen . . . literally to death.

The thought sends a chill through me, but it thankfully fades quickly. As nice and energizing as the sun is, I think I still need something more. I move over to my dresser and pull open the third drawer from the top. Tucked off to the side is the soft, worn fabric of Clark’s college sweatshirt. Exactly what I need.

As I slip it over my head and pull it on, a different kind of warmth surrounds me, and I inhale, catching the faint scent of Clark that still lingers even with how long the sweatshirt’s spent in my possession. I wonder why Superman never smelled quite the same, or maybe I just hadn't noticed.

While at my dresser, I swap out the slacks for soft pajama pants, then shuffle over to the bathroom to relieve myself. I’m just on my way back to my bed when I stop suddenly at the sound of a voice in my kitchen. Maybe two. Before my guard even has a chance to go up, though, I recognize it as Clark’s voice. And while I thought he left last night—at Martha’s insistence to let me rest—I at least know I’m not in danger from an intruder.

Had I asked him to come check on me this morning? I hang back and listen to what must be a phone call with his mom.

“I know, Mom. I know, but with the rain and the lightning last night, before she’d even fully recovered . . . I just couldn’t leave her, not when there’s the chance she might have—”

That I might have what? And why don’t I remember any rain? Darn his mom for cutting him off! Though I do have to smile at the fact I can practically hear Martha’s voice in my head saying, Clark, Lois is perfectly capable of making a phone call. If she needed you, she would have called. And if there are any super concerning side effects from the lightning, then you—

Oh my god.

For the second time in as many days, I feel all my senses sharpening, and new pieces of the puzzle coming into focus. Only this time, my mind assembles all the pieces in milliseconds.

I can hear Martha in my head. I can hear Clark, too, even though he’s speaking very quietly in the next room. And apparently I haven’t even had a full day to process the fact that my partner-best-friend-superhero-crush-maybe-boyfriend has been lying to me and hiding his super powers for nearly two years.

He freaking proposed. Proposed. Got down on one knee in the pouring rain with a diamond ring proposed.

Before he told me the truth.

And now? I’m feeling super angry.

Some weird sort of energy surges in my chest and burns through my veins and behind my eyes, and I realize instantly I need to calm down. I take a measured breath, then another. And then I head to the kitchen to see if the lightning managed to transfer his super liar power too. We have a lot to talk about.

Chapter 3: Clark

“Mom, I gotta go, she’s making her way to the kitchen now . . . yeah, love you too . . . I will.”

I hang up the phone and immediately focus in fully on Lois’s heartbeat now that my attention isn't divided between her and my mom. I could have sworn her pulse sounded like a stampede of wild horses just a second ago, though it seems mostly at baseline now. But I have a strong sense she might be mad. Sometimes mad is her baseline.

“H-how are you feeling, Lois?” I ask tentatively.

“Fine,” she said, her tone ambiguously . . . fine.

She looks okay—really okay, actually—compared to how she did last night after I dried her off and tucked her in to bed. I justified my staying here overnight—which my mom had told me under no uncertain terms the night before last was impolite and intrusive—by not letting myself peek with X-ray vision to check on her throughout the night. Weak excuse.

“Sorry,” I start, “I, uh, would have made you some coffee or tea, but I wasn’t sure when you’d wake up.”

After a brief shrug, she makes her way to the coffee machine and starts prepping things. I hesitate to break the silence again until I know exactly what’s on her mind, why there’s this frisson of tension in the air that’s threatening to keep growing. I don’t think it’s a good sign that she hasn’t questioned my presense here yet.

Finally, she flips the coffee machine on and then turns to face me, leaning back to rest against the kitchen counter and crossing her arms over her chest. Right across the name of my alma mater.

My pulse kicks up a notch at the sight of her in my old Midwestern sweatshirt, the one I thought I lost until just this second. And god if my foolish heart doesn’t start seeing our whole future unfold at all the implications of her keeping and wearing it all this time.

Abruptly, she straightens, turns back to face the counter ,and busies herself with pulling out mugs from the upper cabinet. At least she’s grabbing two. I get the nonfat creamer from the fridge and set it on the counter close to her, and she gives me an almost imperceptible nod of thanks.

I’m at a loss still as to what her mood is other than extreme agitation. I wonder if the silence is uncomfortable for her, too, or if she’s just giving me the silent treatment, hoping I’ll yield first and explain why she walked out here to find me in her kitchen. Uninvited.

Ah, why the heck didn’t I just sit outside the building on the bench across the street?

“Look, Lois, I—”

“—were worried about me.” She sets the mugs down and turns to face me again. “Lightning strike right after being literally frozen to death and then thawed like a fish stick. I get it. Why didn’t you take me to the hospital, Clark?!”

“I—I . . . Superman . . . checked and didn’t find any signs of cardiac distress or vascular irregularities, no burns or tissue damage, and you were breathing regularly. And I, uh, figured getting rest at home would be better than all the fuss of an ER visit?”

God, I’m a jerk. A grade-A jerk and a huge lying liar.

Tell her. Tell her. Tell her.

Lois is still silent, regarding me closely, her expression revealing nothing, before she turns back around to pour the coffee.

Why can’t I just open my mouth and let it spill out? I only practiced it hundreds of times over the last few weeks.

“Lucky Superman was nearby,” she said acerbically.

For torturously long seconds, the only sounds in the room are the clinking of a spoon against cereamic and my pulse roaring in my ears.

“D-do you know . . . ?” I’m too much of a coward to be more straightforward than that.

More seconds tick by until, finally, she faces me, a mug in each hand. She reaches out to give me mine, so I take it carefully and then follow her lead, sitting down at her kitchen table.

“Do I know what, Clark?” she asks like it’s not even a question.

We both know what she means.

“I was going to tell you, I’ve been trying to tell you, and things just kept getting in the way and—”

“—you thought proposing first was the right choice last night?”

“I—I . . . was scared. I was going to tell you last night, I didn’t want to go on any longer with you thinking my constant running away was some sort of fear of commitment, and then—”

“—and then, Mr. I’m-Not-Going-to-Move-Until-I-Say-This, you decide ‘Will you marry me?’ are the words you want to say so badly while we got soaking wet during a thunderstorm?”

“I . . .” Oh god, I have to come clean, there’s no getting around this one because she’ll ask for the reason why any second now. I take a deep breath to try and steel myself. “I was . . . worried that . . . It would have really hurt if . . .”

She raises an eyebrow at me, inviting me to continue, the anger coming off her in waves as she takes another sip of her coffee before setting it down with a measured intention that makes it clear she’s doing her best to rein herself in.

“You know how there are things that make sense in your head, but the second you try to verbalize it, it sounds . . . bad . . . ?”

“Can’t say I’m familar,” she shot back. “Spit it out, Clark.”

“I was afraid you might only say yes to Clark if you knew he was . . . that I was Superman.”

I watch her eyes flare wide for just a millisecond before she pounds a closed fist on the table hard. I move fast, making everything seem like it’s in slow motion as I stop the tabletop from flying across the room with one hand and then catch both mugs in quick succession with the other hand.

Lois’s mouth hangs open as though the words she was planning on shouting at me just disappeared. Her fist is still clenched, and I don’t miss the fear that flashes across her expression before she straightens out her fingers, flexing them slowly, and shuts her mouth.

Her reaction is telling—she knew. She was only suprised at what her outburst caused, not that it happened like it did.

I should not, absolutely not, be grateful for the interruption of what would surely have been my death. And I really, really shouldn’t be excited that she has my powers.

Chapter 4: Lois

“Stop looking at me like that,” I say, growing increasingly uncomfortable under Clark’s intense gaze.

“Like what?” His obliviousness is not endearing in the least right now.

“Like you’re a damn puppy who’s excited I’m hiding a bone but who’s also giving me those poor pitiful puppy-dog eyes because I just yelled at you.” I wrap my arms around myself, trying to regain my connection with reality.

“Oh,” he says defeatedly.

He’s quiet for a few seconds, making me feel edgy. Or maybe that’s just the super energy I have flowing through me. I’m just about say something else—I’m not even sure what, but something to end this awkward silence.

Then I see a small smile twitch at the corner of his lips, and he looks at me almost apologetically, though it certainly isn’t an apology for his lies.

“Did you . . .” he starts but then pauses, pursing his lips for a second before continuing. “Did you want to . . . table the discussion?”

I want to groan, but instead I burst out laughing. He joins in, and we laugh for what seems like forever. I reflexively move my arms to clutch at my aching sides, only to realize they’re not actually aching. And that sobers me a bit.

Our laughter subsides, and I find myself wiping the tears from my eyes, which strikes me as really odd. And so, because I don’t have any clue how to actually start this conversation, and I’m sure he doesn’t know, either, I ask.

“So . . . tears of laughter, but not aching sides, I guess?”

“Huh.” The look of confusion on his face is almost adorable this time. I see understanding dawn a second later. “Uh, yeah. Yep.”

I stare at him and his sudden lack of elloquence.

“Sorry, I just—that was not really a question I expected, and certainly not the first one,” he says by way of explanation.

“What did you expect to be first?” I ask, infusing as much curiosity into my tone as I can manage to mask the flare of irriation at the fact he was, indeed, expecting questions instead of, maybe, letting me know that Lois having super powers might be a possibility.

“Honestly, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” I can’t mask the irritation this time.

“Not really, no. I guess I was so focused on—”

“—on how much longer you’d be able to keep me in the dark?” I spit out, not sure if I regret the words or not.

“No! On your life, Lois! For days I’ve been under an impossible amount of stress after everything with Mazik and my parents. Lois, you died. At my hands. And if I hadn’t been able to bring you back, I would have never forgiven myself.”

“But it was my idea, I was the one who begged, who convinced you to do it. That’s not your fault. It was my choice to take that risk.”

“Don’t you see, Lois? It was a soul-crushing decision to make, and it still doesn’t feel like it was the right one. It was excruciating to see you so lifeless—it was my worst nightmare right in front of me, seeing you dead because I couldn’t save you.”

“It’s not your job to save me! I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, and—”

“But it is, Lois. It is my job, whether you like it or not, and I mean that in the least controlling way possible. You are more brave and capable than any woman I’ve ever met. I’ve never thought otherwise. This was never about playing overprotective bodyguard. It’s . . . it’s self-preservation. I have to keep you alive because it would kill me to lose you.”

His words steal my breath, and while I’m sure I could find at least five problematic things in his declaration I want to tear apart, I can’t dismiss the edge of desperation in his voice nor the slight tremble of fear, not unlike how he sounded just before leaving for Nightfall, the emotions he almost managed to hide. Puzzle pieces try to slot into place, but my mind struggles to make one plus one equal one man.

Clark takes my silence as permission to continue, and he might as well, because I can’t think of anything with the sound of his heartbeat thudding in my ears. I watch him run a hand through his hair, and I swear I can feel all the intense emotions coursing through him—is that one of his powers? He blows out a long breath, and then he speaks again, so softly I might need to figure out how to work the super hearing.

“It’s no excuse, really, but everything all at once like that, and just when you were still recovering . . . the lightning . . . and you passed out cold. I may be invulnerable, but I’m not immune to that.”

I sit quietly for a moment, letting myself fully take in the whole of what he’s said. It’s pretty overwhelming, especially replaying his words in my head with the soundtrack of his racing heartbeat going in the background.

And of all the places for my mind to go, I don’t expect it to call back to that horrific night at Georgie Hairdo’s club, watching Clark get shot right in front of me, his lifeless body slumping to the ground. Red-hot anger flares in me, and I’m almost ready to tear into him for letting me believe he was dead. But then, in my mind, like it’s keeping my best interests at heart even while I rage inside, I hear the nightmarish echo of the gunshot, and then I hear his heartbeat stop, as if I’d had superhearing back in that moment, too. The remembered agony rips through me, now with the absence of the strong beats of his heart, even though he never really died, and it’s violently unbearable.

And it clicks into place, how tormented he’s been the last few days. It doesn’t take away the hurt and the betrayal of his lies, but the feeling is center stage, demanding the importance it deserves. God, I’m not sure I’d survive this torrent of intense emotions if I weren’t currently invulnerable.

“Lois?” His voice is still low, and it’s filled with so much uncertainty.

My gaze lifts, and I search his eyes for a moment, trying to determine what all the right answers are, or at least what the right thing to say is.

“You listen to my heartbeat, don’t you?” I ask gently, but I rush on before he can answer. “I can hear yours, it’s . . . it’s almost soothing except it’s so . . . anxious right now.”

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of losing you.”

“Clark, I’m invulnerable right now, I hardly think you need to worry—”

“No,” he cuts in softly. “I’m afraid you’ll never forgive me.”

“Oh. I . . .” My eyes dart down to my hands, his anguished expression too much to bear. I’m not sure what to say to that, the very idea of it the furthest thing from my mind. But it’s warranted, isn’t it? How much angrier would I be if I hadn’t been struck by lightning and Clark had just been kneeling there offering me a ring instead of a confession?

The burn of anger tries to reignite in my chest, but it doesn’t catch fire. Being mad seems so unimportant when what we both need right now is reassurance.

I find Clark’s eyes again and shake my head slightly. “I’ve got so many emotions swirling around, it seems impossible to even start sorting through them, but the one thing I am sure of right now is that I have a hard time imagining my life without you in it. So I have to believe our friendship is strong enough for us to endure this.”

Clark lets out a long, slow breath, much of the tension leaving his shoulders and his expression. “Thank you, Lois,” he says softly.

I merely nod; you’re welcome seems such an odd thing to say. There’s this awkward silence trying to grow between us. It’s uncomfortable and unfamiliar, and I refuse to let it take root. So instead, I stand abruptly and grab hold of Clark's hand.

“C’mon, let’s go,” I tell him, dragging him out of his seat and toward my living room. I have to bite back a laugh when it occurs to me I’ve had the power to drag a Clark-clad Superman around long before I had his super abilities.

“Where are we going?” Clark asks, an amused but wary tone to his voice.

“Where do you think?” I tease, tugging him to my window. “You're gonna teach me how to fly, farm boy.”

The End

Epilogue: Lois

Two months later

“You know, this was supposed to give me an edge, not hinder my ability to get the scoop,” I grumble as I hover cross-legged next to Clark on the roof of the old LexTel building.

“You already had an edge—have an edge—with or without super powers,” he says with not-an-infintesimal amount of impatience.

I let out an aggrieved sigh, dropping an inch and then rising again. “You know what I mean, Clark. We’ve been here for three hours, the goon is a no-show, and sitting here doing nothing with all these powers is making me antsy.”

He’s holding his breath, and I’m really starting to miss the days when I couldn’t hear that. The patience this man has for me sometimes is more extraordinary than he is. It’s not surprising I’m testing it. Again.

Lowering myself to sit on the ledge next to him, I sigh again, more resigned this time. “I’m sorry, Clark. I’m making you antsy with my hovering again, aren’t I?”

“A little,” he admits, giving me that apologetic grimace of a smile that has no right being as endearing as it is. He bumps his shoulder into mine. “It’s okay, Lois. I understand. I’ve had most of my life to get used to my powers—and all the times I can’t use them. You’ve only had two months.”

“Thanks,” I say softly. Some of the agitation melts away as I lean into him, and when he lowers his head to rest atop mine, the remainder of it fades into the background.

The warehouse a few hundred yards away remains disappointingly devoid of bad guys to catch in the act. Hours seem to pass, though it’s likely only minutes, and I wonder idly if being able to experience the world at super speed makes everything else seem so much slower. It’s not until I feel the comforting weight of Clark’s hand on my knee that I realize I started swinging my legs.

“Sorry, guess all that pent-up energy needs to escape, whether we like it or not.” I drop my gaze to look at the wall beneath me, and then give Clark a sheepish grin. “At least I didn’t crack the stone this time?”

He huffs out a laugh and squeezes my knee. “Small mercies.”

There’s quiet between us for another long moment—still nothing happens down at street level. As it’s been doing all too frequently these past weeks, my mind wanders back to past stakeouts and slightly-not-legal searches of buildings belonging to criminals.

“Are you sure we can’t—”

“Lo-is,” he chides.

“But how is it any different from when you ‘helped’ during our investigations before?” I ask indignantly.

There’s the breath holding again. He’s caught off guard because this isn’t the usual path of the conversation we’ve had dozens of times over by now. “It was just different. I was Clark, and—”

“Nope, that’s a cop-out. You’re always Clark.”

He purses his lips like he’s weighing his words carefully. “There were . . . uh, quite a few times I had to . . . keep you—I mean us from being caught.”

“And the other times?”

“Like what?”

My mind races through all the past incidents at super speed, searching for memories of times when our luck was a little too good. Loose doorknobs and faulty locks. His apparent knack for guessing passwords and door codes. An uncanny ability to read lips and know when the coast was about to not be clear.

“So stealing confidential documents from a state-run orphanage is okay?” I know I would have done so much more than that, but I’m trying to prove a point here.

“That was trash! Something we could have gotten from the dumpster later, but I figured it’d be easier—and cleaner—to snag some before that.”

I cross my arms over my chest and groan slightly. “Fair point. But what about . . . destroying electronic keypads to gain unauthorized access. Breaking the locks on desk drawers and file cabinets? That’s not exactly legal, is it?”

“It’s . . . not, no. But I was just trying to speed up the process, be as quick as possible so we didn’t get caught?” His voice has that little lilt in it that means he’s not being entirely truthful.

“You . . . wouldn’t have been using your powers to impress me, would you?”

“Hah, more like trying to keep up with you.”

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing; I can tell he didn’t mean to let that one slip. I decide he can have a pass there, though, because selfish or not, I do like the idea of him bending the rules a little to show off.

But I’m getting off track. I’m not entirely sure where the track was even supposed to lead, but I’m not on it. Clearing my throat, I reset myself and start in again.

“Stealing a bottle of perfume from Miranda’s shop? No, wait, I don’t even want to argue that one. She deserved it.”

Clark chuckles and then groans. “I’m really tempted to agree there, but it’s hard to know where to draw the line, especially when there isn’t time to spare. I guess the point is, it’s not our job to decide who deserves it or not, not if we’re trying to uphold the very justice we seek—the system isn’t perfect, but it’s in place for a reason.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” I sigh in resignation, feeling more defeated knowing that, whatever we can do . . . it actually isn’t enough, not to right all the wrongs in the world. “It’s just . . . as much as I love being Ultra Woman—being able to save people, help out in disasters . . . help Superman save the world—it’s made it so much harder to stand by and do nothing when there are criminals to put behind bars. There’s so much evilness and cruelty in the world, sometimes it feels hopeless, you know?”

“I know,” he agrees in a rough whisper, and my heart cracks a little more.

He grasps my hand, intertwining our fingers and then bringing our joined hands to his mouth to press an achingly tender kiss against my knuckles.

“I don’t know how you stand it,” I say, feeling a heaviness in my heart that no super strength could lift.

His other hand comes up to cup the side of my face in that oh-so-familiar gesture—the one that clued me in to his secret in the first place—and he strokes his thumb over my cheek. “I have you.”

“Oh, Clark,” I breathe as I rest my forehead against his. All the feelings thrumming inside me are impossibly strong, but somehow they’re more grounding than overwhelming. Somehow, the knowledge that he has me and I have him makes it all easier to bear. “Always.”

The end

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