it's a great life, if you don't weaken (matociquala) wrote,
it's a great life, if you don't weaken
matociquala

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So, this may be the funniest thing I've thought of since the Horta shock troops. And it's all kit_kindred's fault.



He came up the stairs four at a time, because he was alone, but not in costume and not alone enough to risk flying. A good thing he chose to be cautious, because she was waiting for him beside the door of his apartment, her handbag's strap dangling limply from her hand, the bag itself slumped beside her size five Prada shoes. He recognized her breathing before he hit the fire door and slowed, but he still shoved it open hard enough that it would have rebounded off the wall if he hadn't caught it halfway.

There was a knack to not leaving fingerprints in the metal that had taken him years to work out.

"Lois," he said, straightening his tie and pretending to breathe hard. He raked his hair back off his forehead and stepped into the hall. "Did I leave something at the office?"

Her bag swung off the floor as she crossed her arms, her eyebrows drawing together over a nose he wouldn't live to call "pert" twice. One pointed camel-brown leather toe tapped almost silently. "You could have told me," she said.

Not for the first time, he wished he had the psychic powers that some people claimed he did. "Told you what?" He pulled out his keys, careful not to let them snag on the lining of his jacket pocket, and stepped past her to fit one in the lock.

"Clark," she said, and shook her head, dark hair falling into her eyes. "I'm just hurt you thought you had to pretend with me, is all. I know about you and Superman."

He heard each pin rise inside the lock as he eased the key around inside the fragile oaken door. He turned his head, too, and looked at her through plate glass. "You know."

"And before you ask," she said, letting her hands fall to her sides, "I'm not angry. And I respect your privacy. I just wish you had trusted me."

"I see," he said quietly, opening the door. "How did you figure it out?"

"The exclusive interviews, the clandestine meetings, the interrupted dates that never quite seem to lead anywhere, the never seeing the two of you together in public. Really, if I had half a brain, I would have caught on months ago that you pull a vanishing act when he's going to arrive."

He held the door open. "Would you like to come inside?"

She shook her head. "No, I have a dinner interview. I just wanted to let you know I... I understood."

"Thank you," he said, and held his breath so he wouldn't knock her down when she went up on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. "I hope we can still be friends?"

"No more fake dates?" she asked, nose to nose with him, still fearless.

"No more fake dates," he promised.

"Good." She smiled and stepped back, swinging her bag up to her shoulder. "And I wanted to tell you that I understand why you wanted to keep things private, considering how the public might react. But, Clark, one thing?"

"Lois?"

She blushed, dropping her gaze to his wingtips. "Look, I understand, I really do. And I promise I won't breathe a word to a soul. Not Jimmy. Not anybody. And if you need me to cover for you, all you ever need to do is ask. But... with everything that's going on, would you consider doing me a favor?"

"Anything," he said, and wouldn't allow himself to regret it.

"Would you ask Superman if he would, maybe... consider marching in Saturday's Pride Parade? It could really make a difference to... well, to the way people think. Would you ask?"

She blinked those big charming eyes at him, about as innocent as Mae West, no matter how good she was at faking it. He swallowed, hard, biting his own invulnerable lip, sure he'd gone completely white by the way she raised one hand, as if to retract her question.

He let his breath out slowly, carefully, and nodded once. "Sure," he said. "Sure. I'll ask."

She grinned, and swung her bag jauntily as she turned away. The tip-tap of her shoes was very distinctive. He slid inside, shut it behind him, and waited until he heard her take the elevator downstairs, leave the building, and wander out into the crowd before he let his head fall back against the wall beside the door.

A good thing. Because he forgot to be careful, and spent the next few moments spackling the hole he'd made, and then washing plaster dust out of his hair.



Forgive me, father, for I have committed fanfiction. But it was just too good to pass up.

(And these aren't my characters, and are copyright and trademark a great big huge corporation that could come break my fingers, but they are used here in a spirit of parody and critical metatextual discourse rather than with any intent to make money off them or infringe on said copyright or trademark.)





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Tags: big blue boyscout, cultural necropsy, fanfiction
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