Hey everyone,
Here’s another chapter, it’s a bit slower. I hope you enjoy. Thanks everyone for reading, and of course huge thanks to 90stvfangirl and Socomama for their beta.
TOCChapter seventy-oneAn hour later, four places are set on the table.
I watch Clark work. I’ve learned to read the rhythm of it by now: the parts where he’s actually thinking about food, and the parts where his hands are busy so the rest of him can think about something else.
Lucy gets home, dropping her bag by the door with a thud.
Clark mutes the TV.
“The new couch has arrived,” she announces, then squeals.
“Yes, around noon,” I confirm.
She throws herself onto it immediately and closes her eyes. “Very comfortable.”
Then she gets back up and walks into the kitchen.
“Something smells incredible.” She peers into the pot before Clark can stop her. “Are we expecting company, or is this just an unusually ambitious Friday?”
“Perry’s coming over,” Clark tells her.
Lucy’s eyebrows rise. “Perry?”
“Yes,” I answer.
She looks from him to me, then to the fourth plate. “Okay. Why does that feel like more than a casual dinner invitation?”
Clark sets down the spoon.
“Perry knows,” he tells her.
Lucy freezes.
“Knows what?” she asks, though her voice already suggests she understands.
“About Clark,” I tell her.
Her eyes widen. “Perry knows?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Since yesterday,” Clark answers.
“We had an encounter with Bureau 39 yesterday,” I explain.
Lucy’s face changes.
“They weren't looking for Clark,” I add quickly. “They came to intimidate Perry. But Clark was caught in the middle, and they had the substance with them.”
“The crystal?”
Clark tenses up, so I answer for him, while laying a hand on his arm. “Yes.”
“Were you affected too? Are the babies okay?”
“I wasn’t in the lobby with them, so no.”
Lucy relaxes visibly. Then she leans against the counter, absorbing that. “And now Perry’s coming to dinner?”
“Yes,” Clark replies.
For a moment, the teasing leaves her face entirely. “So he’s okay with knowing you’re special?”
Clark’s shoulders ease slightly. “I think so. He said he wouldn’t publish anything I didn’t want to be published.”
“Perry doesn’t hand out trust to just anyone,” Lucy continues. “I think your secret is in good hands.”
“I trust him,” I tell her.
Just then, Perry knocks. His tie is loosened. He stops in the doorway and takes in the smell, the table, the fourth place setting.
“You didn’t have to cook for me.”
“Wasn’t going to make you sit through this on take-out,” Clark says. “Sit down.”
He reaches for the pot, then pauses. His eyes flick toward Perry before he grabs a kitchen towel and folds it around the handle.
Perry lifts his eyebrows, but says nothing.
We eat. For a few minutes, nobody talks about Trask, the story, or the files. Clark's curry is good, and Perry asks Lucy about her day.
“Your story’s all over the news,” he says to me. “LNN ran Lex Luthor’s statement three times in the last hour. Stagg’s on every local station.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Luthor’s still promising to save the city, and Stagg’s promising he had no idea what was happening in his own building.”
“More or less.” Perry takes a sip of his water. “Luthor’s set up a fund. Big spectacle, cameras, LexCorp logo on everything. He’s calling it the ‘Metropolis Relief Initiative’ or something similar.”
“Of course he is.”
Clark’s expression doesn’t change, but I can hear the shift in his voice. “It’s a lot of visibility for a tragedy that just broke.”
“City’s not wrong to take the help. Just don’t pretend it’s not also good PR.”
“And the anonymous donation?” Clark asks. “One of the anchors mentioned it. Substantial. No name attached.”
Lucy stirs her curry. “Some people would rather help than stand in front of a camera talking about how much they care. When something matters, they just… help. Don’t always stop to think about what it might reveal.”
“Not everyone needs an audience,” I say.
“No,” she agrees, glancing briefly at Clark. “Some people just get on with it.”
Clark lowers his eyes to his bowl, and for a moment I wonder what he is thinking.
Perry leans forward, elbows on the table. “Lois, prepare for the interviews. Henderson thinks the survivors could be medically cleared by Monday. The police want to locate their families as soon as possible. Let Luthor and Stagg have their press conferences. We’ll get the story from the people who were actually there.”
Perry looks directly at me.
“You broke this story. You’ll get the first chance to speak to the survivors, once they’re cleared and willing to talk.”
“I know how to handle an interview.”
“I know you do. But these people have been through enough already.”
“I’m not going to ambush anyone.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“I learned my lesson.”
Perry gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe me.
He sets down his fork. “You said there was something else.”
I nod, and reach for my notepad. “The men who came to the Planet yesterday weren’t random. They knew enough to show up just as Henderson moved on the warehouse. Someone may have tipped them off.”
Perry’s jaw tightens. “You mean someone inside MPD.”
“Possibly. Someone close to the investigation, or someone who heard something they shouldn’t have. I don’t know who yet, but the timing is too convenient to ignore.”
I look at him. “Trask has been operating without oversight for twenty-three years. He must have found ways to get information, cultivate contacts, make people feel they owe him something. We need to find out whether that happened here.”
Perry is quiet for a moment, turning that over. “I trust Henderson. But I don’t trust everyone Henderson trusts.”
“Neither do I,” I agree. “That’s the problem.”
We spend the rest of dinner discussing who might have tipped off Bureau 39. Perry promises to speak to Henderson.
“There’s one more thing,” I say, before he can stand up to leave. “The file. It’s not safe here. Not after yesterday.”
Perry doesn’t hesitate. “Give it to me.” He holds out his hand. “I know a place where it’ll be safe, where I keep things I don’t want anyone finding. It’s safer than leaving this here.”
I look at Clark. He nods.
“Read it,” I tell Perry, handing it over. “You should know what we know. If Henderson calls you back with something that doesn’t add up, you’ll need the context.”
Perry takes the file and looks at it a moment longer than the handoff requires. “That bad?”
“Worse,” I tell him.
Clark has gone silent, staring at the floor.
Perry notices but doesn't ask any more questions. He holds the file for a moment before tucking it into his bag.
I reach for Clark's hand and squeeze it. His fingers close around mine.
“I’ll keep it where nobody will find it.”
***
After Perry leaves with the file, the apartment feels quieter than it did before he arrived.
Clark locks the door behind him, then stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob.
Lucy gathers the dishes before either of us can move.
“You’ve done enough today,” she informs me.
“I can help.”
“You can sit down,” she corrects, steering me toward one of the kitchen chairs. “Clark washes. I dry. You supervise from a safe distance.”
“I’m pregnant, not helpless,” I protest.
“I know.” She hands Clark the first plate. “But you’ve also had a day involving government agents, secret files, and Perry White in our kitchen. Rest is not a punishment.”
Clark gives me a look that clearly agrees with her.
I sit.
For a few minutes, the only sounds are water running, plates being set carefully in the rack, and Lucy quietly scolding Clark for using too much soap. It is such an ordinary argument that something in my chest loosens.
“You handled that well,” Clark murmurs eventually.
“I fed Perry curry and gave him a secret file.” I watch Lucy dry another plate. “I’m not sure that qualifies as handling anything well.”
“It does tonight.”
Lucy finishes the last glass and dries her hands.
She narrows her eyes at him, but the corner of her mouth lifts. “Goodnight, Clark. Goodnight, Lois.”
“Goodnight,” I murmur.
Lucy disappears into her room, closing the door softly behind her.
Clark dries his hands and turns off the tap. Then he switches off the kitchen light and holds out his hand.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “You’ve done enough for one day.”
“I could tell you the same thing.”
“You could.” His mouth curves. “But I’m going to make you stop working anyway.”
In the bedroom, I change into something soft and crawl beneath the covers. The sheets are cool against my skin, and I shiver as I sink into the mattress. Clark joins me a moment later, bringing with him the faint warmth of his body and the clean, familiar scent of soap.
When I tuck my cold feet beneath his legs, he gives me a knowing look. His thigh shifts beneath them, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
“Cold?”
“Freezing.”
He lifts the blanket from my feet and focuses on them. A faint red glow flickers in his eyes, painting a soft reflection across the darkened room. I hold still, watching him, aware of the concentration in his face and seeing his hand hover near my ankle without quite touching it.
A moment later, warmth spreads through my feet, gentle at first, then deeper, easing the chill from my toes and sinking into my bones.
I look up at him. “You know, I could really get used to that.”
His mouth curves, though there is still a trace of uncertainty in his eyes. His fingers flex against the blanket.
“I’m still getting used to being able to do that,” he admits.
There is a vulnerability in his voice that makes my chest tighten. I smile and tuck my feet against him again, letting him feel how completely I trust him.
“Thank you.”
Then I reach for his hand and lace my fingers through his, giving them a gentle squeeze. His hand closes around mine, and for a moment neither of us says anything.
His hand moves over my stomach, warm through the fabric of my nightshirt. I place my hand over his, holding it there.
I turn toward him and touch his cheek, tracing the line of his cheekbone with my thumb. His eyes soften, and he leans into my hand almost imperceptibly.
He kisses me.
It begins gently, but when I slide my hand into his hair and draw him closer, something in him gives way. His arm comes around my waist, pulling me against him until there is no space left between us. The kiss deepens slowly, but full of everything we have been holding back. I feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric between us, the quiet tremor in his breath, the unmistakable pull between us.
For a little while, there is nothing but his mouth against mine and my fingers curled into his hair.
I shift closer, fitting myself against him. He draws back just enough to look at me, his breathing no longer quite as steady as it was. His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel the effort it takes him not to close the small distance again.
I brush my lips against his.
“Lois,” he murmurs.
I want him. That hasn’t changed. If anything, the days we have spent holding back have made it harder to pretend otherwise. But when I look at him, I remember the file open on our table, the things Trask wrote about him. I remember how carefully Clark tried to keep those pages from changing the way I saw him.
I don’t want those words in the room with us when I show him that he hasn’t changed in my view.
I rest my forehead against his.
“Not tonight,” I whisper.
His eyes search mine. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I brush my thumb over his cheek. “I want you, more than anything. I just don’t want us to have to fight our way past everything we read this week to get to each other.”
He closes his eyes. His expression eases.
Then he kisses me gently, and rests his forehead against mine again.
“Neither do I.”
I draw him back to me for another kiss, slower this time. There is no urgency in it now, only the quiet reassurance of being close, of choosing each other after a week of fear and distance. When I finally sink against his chest, he wraps both arms around me, his hand returning to mine over my stomach.
“Tomorrow can wait,” he murmurs.
For once, I don’t argue. I listen to his heartbeat beneath my ear, feeling the warmth of his arms around me.
Just as my eyes begin to grow heavy, he shifts beside me.
“I love you,” he whispers, so quietly that I almost feel the words more than hear them.
I lift my head enough to kiss the underside of his jaw, then lay back against him. “I love you too.”
I take his hand and draw it around me, rest it at the small of my back.
“Stay close,” I murmur.
“Always,” he answers.
His arm tightens around me. I curl closer, sliding my leg between his until there is no space left between us, and let the steady rhythm of his breathing carry me toward sleep.
T. B. C.
