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“I’m gonna do the dishes,” Clark says quietly, gently moving Lois’s feet off of his lap and onto his office chair as he stands up.
“I can do them later,” Lois offers, glancing up from her laptop, but she lets Clark press a kiss to the top of her head without making a move to stand up herself.
She tries to pay attention to the way his body moves as he darts from beside her to the kitchen with his signature airplane whoosh. She still can’t seem to get a handle on it. Whatever—not like she’ll be able to publish that pet piece anyway.
She thinks she might be a bad person for letting Clark do her housework. She’s just so busy lately. And he’s just so happy to do it.
Lois barely startles when Clark whooshes back into the room—it’s a sign of the progress of their relationship, really, that she’s not yelping anymore every time he practically teleports.
“Took out the trash, too,” Clark reports, offering Lois his little lopsided smile that makes her heart flutter every time.
“Mm, yeah?” Lois shuts her laptop, leaning forward. “That’s kinda hot.”
Clark moves the laptop to the table beside them, sitting back down. “Have I ever told you you have really low standards?”
Lois crosses her arms, feigning solemnity. “Oh, of course I do. Most men wash the dishes and take out the trash regularly.”
“I should hope so,” Clark says earnestly, brow knitted and fucking adorable little curl falling in his eye.
“Even if that were the case,” Lois points out, “you don’t actually live here.”
Clark looks around as if realizing that himself. “Okay, but—”
Lois hooks Clark’s chair with her foot, pulling him forward. “S’okay,” she whispers. “I’ll let you keep cleaning the kitchen. You just have to admit I have really fucking high standards.”
Clark’s cheeks flush, like they always do when she swears.
Lois grins. It feels pretty awesome, making Superman blush. She wonders idly what his parents will think of her—big-city girl, corrupting their innocent little Kryptonian farm boy.
“I still think you’re easily impressed,” Clark says, steadying himself and the chair by gently touching Lois’s knees. “But that’s okay—I’ll just keep doing things to impress you.”
Lois cocks her head, smiling. “Well, you seem sure of yourself.”
As if Clark needs to do anything more to impress her.
Clark hums, and then whoosh, he’s gone. Lois barely has a moment to miss his hands on her knees before he’s back, pressing a Bit-o-Honey into her palm and sinking back into the chair.
Clark’s doing his little lopsided smile again. Lois resists the urge to kiss him about it.
“How did you get this that quickly?” she asks instead. “Surely you can’t check out of a grocery store at super-speed, too? Did you steal it, Kent?”
“Of course I didn’t steal,” Clark protests immediately, reddening. “I just— I had it lying around.”
Lois puts the taffy on the table behind her, resting her arms on her knees so she can meet Clark’s eyes. He’s always doing shit like this—remembering little things about her, crafting romance-movie schemes to make her happy. She’s never been good at that—at being romantic.
“Clark Kent, did you go out and buy my favorite candy in advance to impress me?”
Clark smiles sheepishly. “So what if I did?”
“So, maybe it’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done.”
Clark raises his eyebrows. “I highly doubt that.”
“No, it’s up there.”
“I could point you to a lot of notable sonnets—”
“Clark.”
Clark stops.
Lois picks up Clark’s hand in her own, bringing it to her face and kissing it softly. She likes how Clark’s hands are always warm.
“It’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done,” she repeats, and it should be a good thing, but it just feels like another reminder of her own shortcomings. “You’re the sweetest guy I’ve ever been with, and I’m not like you. I’m not good at this shit. I don’t know how to be sweet, or romantic, or— I just— I need to learn how to do these things too—I need to figure out how to impress you, Clark.”
“You’re Lois Lane,” Clark says, like it’s self-explanatory. “You don’t need to do anything to impress me.”
Lois drops Clark’s hands, shifting back. “And you’re Clark Kent. You don’t have to do anything to impress me either, but here you are.”
Clark’s brow furrows a little. “Yeah, ‘cause I like to, Lois. I don’t understand what this is about.”
Lois runs her fingers through her hair. Her hands are cold.
She’s been avoiding it, but she’s felt it coming on for a while. This is the part where things are getting serious, and there are expectations, and she can’t handle it. This is the part where she cuts ties and leaves.
She just can’t stop thinking about the Bit-o-Honey sitting on the table behind her, and about how Clark probably has an entire bag at home and he doesn’t even like them.
“I really like you, Clark,” she says carefully. “I don’t want to mess this up. I just sometimes worry that you’re the one with low standards, and you’re going to realize it eventually.”
Clark is quiet. Lois looks at the ceiling. Maybe she won’t have to cut ties after all—maybe he’ll do it for her.
“Your argument needs work,” Clark says.
Lois blinks.
“You’re saying that I do all of these sweet things for you, and you do nothing for me, but that only works if you define sweet through a very narrow lens.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Lois, you’ve spent all afternoon communicating with conspiracy outlets. Don’t act like I don’t know that’s the reason you’ve been so busy lately—you might be the only reason Superman hasn’t been—probably never will be—traced back to me.”
Lois rolls her eyes. “That’s different—that’s not romantic, Clark, that doesn’t count.”
Clark gives her a look.
“Well I think—I think that’s dumb, then. What, when I do it it’s sweet but when you do it it doesn’t count? What kind of reasoning is that?”
Lois shrugs. It is different, even if she can’t articulate it. Maybe the problem is in her approach—that she’s more worried about getting it done than making Clark happy. Maybe just the fact that hours upon hours of scraping through conspiracy forums is innately unromantic.
“I really like you, Lois,” Clark says quietly, putting his arms on her shoulders and meeting her eyes. “And you can come over and wash my dishes if you really want to, but I think you’d be trying to fit some ideal that doesn’t capture what I really like about you. And it’s just one thing, but this—you wading through all of this stuff you hate just to protect my identity, my home—to protect me? You can think that’s not romantic, but to me, it’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done.”
Lois doesn’t break eye contact like she usually does. She supposes what she’s doing is, at its core, protecting Clark, even if it’s not like in the movies. She supposes when you look at it like that, it’s not so unromantic after all.
Clark closes the distance between their faces, pressing his forehead against hers. He likes doing that—pressing their faces together like it’s the only way he can get close enough. Lois wraps her arms around his shoulders, scrunching her fingers loosely in his curls.
“Well, you seem sure of yourself,” Lois whispers to the space between them, trying to memorize every rise and fall of Clark’s shoulders.
“I’m sure.” She can hear the smile in Clark’s voice. “And it’s kinda hot, too.”
Lois pulls back. “Clark!”
Clark’s face is flushed, but he’s smiling. “What? You think the kitchen-cleaning is hot, I can find your extraordinary ability to manipulate history attractive.”
Lois finds Clark’s hand, pulling him to sit next to her on the couch. “You’re easily impressed.”
Clark follows easily. “Mm, you’re the star reporter at Metropolis’s leading newspaper, but sure.”
“I still think you’re easily impressed,” Lois says loftily, leaning in for a soft kiss. She smiles. “That’s okay—I’ll just have to keep impressing you.”