Introduction

This story is set directly after 'Neverending Battle,' and in some 
respects is an early Season 1 rewrite; the A-plots of several 
episodes form the background for some of the story. There are, 
however, numerous differences in what I'm using here, some subtle and 
some more noticeable - that's partly for convenience and also partly 
because I don't want to write a straight reprise of S1 with only one 
major difference. However, the episode plots are there in sequence, 
with the exception of GGGOH, which - in this universe - didn't 
happen. That's not because I dislike GGGOH (quite the opposite!); it 
simply didn't fit into the plot of this story. Jason Trask, however, 
does appear a couple of times.

While I don't wish to give spoilers, I would caution that it is quite 
possible that readers may find themselves disliking one character 
considerably early in the story. I'd just like to suggest that you 
carry on reading; major themes of this story are self-discovery and 
redemption. And it was a challenge to myself to see whether I could 
manage what I'd set out to achieve in that respect.

Several thanks are in order. To everyone who commented on this story 
on Zoom's message boards, PG and nfic, your thoughts and suggestions 
were very much appreciated, whether I agreed with them or not. <g> In 
particular, to people whose ideas I used in the story, I'm very 
grateful: Elisabeth, Sherry and Sheila, to name a few. Most of all, 
though, thanks to my beta-readers. Sheila and Pam, who came in late, 
and Irene, who read early sections of the story until RL got in the 
way: your time and very helpful comments are very much appreciated. 
Yvonne and Helene, you two are the best beta-readers I could ever 
dream of having. You suffered through every sentence of this story - 
sometimes more than once - and always, cheerfully, sent helpful 
comments, criticism and praise. *And* laughed at my weak jokes, which 
is always a bonus. Thank you both very much. This story could not 
have been finished without you.


This is a PG-13 version of the original nfic story. The nfic version, 
for anyone over eighteen who may like to read it, may be found at 
Annesplace (www.annesplace.net).


Wendy Richards


-----------------
Story: Faux Pas
Author: Wendy Richards <wendy@kingsmeadowcr.freeserve.co.uk>
Rated: PG-13
Submitted: January 2001
-----------------



- Faux Pas -



"Hey! It's not as if I *asked* to be mugged! What do you think - that 
I go around with a sign on my back saying 'attack me'? Huh?"

Clark retreated further into the background as Lois took out her 
frustration on the duty officer. He would have liked to stand beside 
her, offering her comfort and support, but he really didn't feel that 
he knew her well enough to presume. And, in any case, he was well 
aware that his reluctant partner didn't particularly like him. No, 
his support would be even less welcome than the police officer's 
questions to which Lois was objecting.

"Well, make sure you do more than just put this on file!" she 
retorted to something the officer said to her. "There are things in 
that purse I want back, and I'm not prepared just to shrug and accept 
they're gone for good, you hear? After all, what do we pay taxes for? 
You know, I've a good mind to write an article about this for the 
Daily Planet - yeah, I'm a reporter at the Planet, did I tell you? 
Yeah, about police inefficiency..."

Lois trailed off as the officer turned his attention to someone else, 
and Clark saw her grimace in disgust, then turn away. "Let's go," she 
said abruptly; he assumed that she was referring to him, although she 
didn't look in his direction.

They exited the police station together; Clark noticed that Lois's 
angry defiance had now altered to bleak resignation. Daring to invade 
her privacy, something he wouldn't even have considered with this 
prickly woman he worked with under normal circumstances, he touched 
her arm lightly. "Hey! It's not so bad. You've already cancelled your 
credit cards, and tomorrow, once the bank's open, you can get a new 
cheque-book and withdraw some cash. And we can get a locksmith to 
change the lock on your apartment, and the Jeep too if necessary. And 
the police said they'd keep an eye on your apartment. It'll be fine." 
His tone was deliberately upbeat; there was just something about Lois 
which made him hate to see her in this state.

"I *know* all that, Clark!" she retorted. "And it's going to be a 
real pain in the butt, too. I can cope with all that, though," she 
added, more quietly.

"So what's really bothering you?" he ventured, now concerned for her.

She rolled her eyes, as if the answer should have been obvious to 
him. "Clark, I can't get into my apartment, and I've got no money 
apart from - " she dug her hands deep into the pockets of the smart 
trousers she was wearing, and came up with a rolled bill in one hand. 
"Apart from five bucks, apparently."

Wanting to kick himself for his thoughtlessness and insensitivity, he 
shook his head. "Lois, that's not a problem. You know I'll lend you 
as much as you need!" He gestured further down the road. "There's a 
cash machine over there I can use. Come on."

But she hung back, her expression now awkward. "That's... kind of 
you, Clark," she began, and he realised - apart from finding it a 
novel experience for her to say anything of the kind to him - that 
she was no doubt reluctant to accept such a loan from him. After all, 
she barely knew him. She'd worked with him for less than two weeks, 
after all, and their relationship was cool, at best. She didn't like 
him; of course she wouldn't want to accept his money!

"Look, I really don't mind, but if you'd prefer to ask Perry, that's 
okay too," he assured her. "We can catch a cab back to the Planet - I 
bet he'll still be there."

She seemed to be working something out in her mind, and he waited 
patiently; she was no doubt finding this very embarrassing. After the 
initial shock of being mugged, and her anger and frustration that the 
mugger had managed to make his escape with her handbag - containing 
so many necessary and indispensable items - had worn off, she was 
left with the very real problem of not being able to get home, get 
access to money, even get into her apartment.

That final thought made him pause. Yes, she had said that she 
couldn't get into her apartment. "There isn't anyone who has a spare 
key to your place, then?"

She shook her head. "Lucy - my sister - moved out last week and she's 
in California now. My landlord had a key so that he could do any 
repairs if necessary, but it got broken the last time he used it and 
I said I'd get another one cut. I never got around to it." Sighing, 
she added, "So if I borrow some cash from Perry, I need enough to get 
a hotel-room."

And reporters weren't paid so much that spending a night in a 
Metropolis hotel was no big deal - unless Lois earned a lot more than 
he did, Clark mused. And there was no way that Lois should even 
contemplate staying somewhere like the Apollo, where he'd stayed for 
his first few days in town, before he'd found his apartment.

For some reason she didn't seem over-keen to rush off and ask Perry 
for help, which suggested that she didn't feel too comfortable with 
borrowing money from their boss either. There was another solution, 
if she'd be willing to contemplate it. He buried his hands deep in 
his pockets and gave her a straight look. "You can always stay at my 
place tonight."

That seemed to take her even more by surprise than his offer of a 
loan had. "Clark... but you hardly know me!"

"True, but I hardly think you're going to murder me in the night and 
make off with my possessions," he answered dryly. "Anyway, I don't 
have anything worth stealing. I just moved in, remember?"

She gave him a suspicious look. "I remember when you were looking 
around that place - "

He interrupted quickly, thinking he knew what she was going to say. 
"Yeah. I know. It was a dump. I've cleaned it up, and painted, and it 
looks a lot better now."

But she shook her head. "How many bedrooms?" Her tone was cynical, 
and he couldn't help feeling a stab of bitterness at this response. 
When had he ever given her any reason to suspect his motives in that 
direction? He'd always behaved himself perfectly well around her - 
okay, she *had* caught him staring at her, that night he'd brought 
the Chinese takeout from Beijing, but as soon as she'd warned him off 
he'd reverted to being completely businesslike.

He took a step backwards, away from her. "Lois, I don't know what 
sort of man you're used to working with, but this is me. I'm not like 
that. I offered you a bed for the night, and that's all you'll get. 
No unwanted company. *If* I feel so inclined, you might also get a 
home-cooked meal, but whether or not you even get my company while 
you eat it is up to you." His tone was harsh, and he knew he sounded 
offended. So what? She deserved to know that her implied accusation 
was unfounded.

She looked away, clenching and unclenching her fists, then spoke 
awkwardly. "I'm sorry if I offended you. I... guess... well, you're 
from Kansas, maybe you don't know what it's like in the city. Here, 
everyone has an angle. No-one's as... as straight-up or genuine as 
they appear to be... as *you* appear to be. Can you blame me for 
suspecting your motives?"

He grimaced, hearing the bitterness and submerged pain in her voice 
which she hadn't allowed herself to express. His opinion of Lois Lane 
was changing by the day, ever since he'd met her. At first, he'd 
thought she seemed supremely self-assured, confident in her own 
abilities and personality; harsh, abrasive and intolerant of those 
who didn't match up to her. That had been disappointing, given the 
way he'd fallen head over heels for her the moment he'd seen her; 
though he'd quickly decided not to let her intimidate him, to give as 
good as he got. Then, a couple of days later, he'd seen a very 
different side to Lois: when they'd been chained together, waiting to 
find out what Antoinette Baines intended to do with them, she'd 
revealed a side of her which was riddled with insecurities and 
longing. He'd been intending to use his powers to get them out of 
there immediately , regardless of the consequences of her knowing, 
but her bleak words had delayed him. Even though he'd known that it 
was more than likely Baines intended to kill them (not that he could 
have been killed in any case, but he'd had no intention of allowing 
it to happen to his companions), it had been essential that he heard 
what she was saying.

Then, the following day, just as he was assuming that a new bond had 
been formed between them, she had made it clear that she didn't trust 
him one inch.

And later, of course, once he'd created his alter ego and Lois had 
fallen like a ten-ton truck for Superman, she'd made it even clearer 
where Clark Kent rested on the scale of human evolution. Completely 
beneath her notice; barely worthy of existence at all. That had made 
him see her in yet another new light. Was she really as shallow as 
her fawning over Superman made her appear? Probably. Definitely, if a 
bright suit and some flashy Super-powers blinded her to any reality - 
made her ignore completely the resemblance between her new partner 
and the man in blue and red Spandex. Shallow, arrogant and rude. Not 
someone he really should waste any of his time or emotions over.

And then she'd surprised him once again, a couple of days later, when 
she'd first shown concern for him - the partner she didn't want - and 
had then proceeded to give a really thoughtful insight into why 
Superman was so important to the people of Metropolis. Not why he was 
necessary to *her,* Lois Lane, who'd been one of the most tenacious 
in her attempts to hunt down his alter ego; but why the idea that 
there was someone out there to give people hope was so important. 
That she could be so insightful, and so caring, had touched him 
deeply, almost to the point of making him forget completely her 
selfish actions in stealing his story.

She was such a complex character; a complete mass of contradictions. 
She *was* selfish; yet at the same time she was loyal. She was rude, 
arrogant and could be obnoxious; and yet he'd seen her go out of her 
way to defend someone she thought was getting a rough deal. She had 
'No Trespassing' signs all over her; yet she could open up with 
childlike honesty at the most unexpected time.

So it wasn't surprising that he couldn't stop himself thinking that 
there was so much more to Lois Lane than she wanted people to see; 
that she wasn't really as brash and forceful as she seemed. He *knew* 
she was insecure underneath, and he knew that she'd have to be 
desperate before she let anyone see it - before she let him see it 
ever again. And now, stranded without her purse or her keys and 
realising that she had nowhere to go - didn't she have any friends? 
he suddenly thought, as the realisation dawned that for most people 
that would have been the first solution in these circumstances - now, 
her vulnerability was showing again.

It occurred to him then that Superman could probably find a way of 
getting into her apartment without damaging the locks. He could 
certainly fly her through a window, and he could repair it afterwards 
- as Clark - without too much difficulty. But, unfair to Lois though 
it might be, he didn't want to bring Superman into this situation. He 
didn't think he could bear to see her fawn over him when in that 
outfit, only to have her ignore him again minutes later. Selfish, he 
knew, but...

He realised that Lois was watching him, still waiting for a response 
to her apology. "Yeah, okay, I guess you're right," he acknowledged 
stiffly. "But *I'm* not like that. And, to answer your question, I 
have one bedroom, with one bed. The bed's yours, and I'll sleep on 
the couch in the other room. That satisfy you?"

"You don't have to give up your bed," she insisted, now sounding 
guilty. "I can take the couch."

Was she actually accepting? He hadn't expected her to, much as he'd 
made the offer in all sincerity. Suddenly he noticed the weariness in 
her expression, the dullness in her eyes which made him realise that 
it had been a *long* day, and that less than an hour ago she'd been 
sent flying to the pavement by some *lowlife* who didn't give a damn. 
Once again, his fists clenched; if only he hadn't chosen just that 
minute to go back into the building so he could take a peek at the 
visitors' register with his Super-vision! It wasn't as if he'd even 
learned anything useful; and by the time he'd heard Lois scream the 
mugger was already making off with her bag. He'd considered making 
pursuit, but the sight of his partner sprawled on the ground had 
tugged at his caring instincts.

She was probably in pain now, no doubt carrying several bruises, and 
desperately wanting just to go home. His conscience pricked him yet 
again, reminding him of the Superman option; but then he told himself 
that the mugger had her apartment keys, and even if the police and 
her landlord were keeping a watch on the place, she could be in 
danger.

He reached to take her arm, the gesture this time seeming more 
natural. "Come on, Lois. My place is this way."

She nodded, falling into step beside him.


*************

What was she doing, going home with this guy she barely knew? Lois 
could hardly believe she'd agreed to his suggestion. In fact, she 
hadn't really; he'd taken her acceptance for granted once they'd got 
past her assumption that he had something less innocent in mind. Yet, 
for some reason, she thought she could trust Clark Kent; that when he 
assured her that all he was offering was a bed for the night, he 
meant it. He wouldn't try to force anything else on her.

This man - this Kansas farmboy she'd had foisted on her - was indeed 
a 'strange one,' as she'd commented very early in their acquaintance. 
His country naivete was very, very obvious at times; and yet there 
were other times when he revealed a cool intelligence born of some 
worldly experience which left her feeling that she lacked something 
of his sophistication. Once or twice, she'd wondered just how he 
viewed her, and had come to the conclusion, based on his attitude, 
that he'd probably weighed her up and found her wanting. He certainly 
didn't approve of her.

And yet he'd been very kind after the mugging. Okay, if he hadn't 
left his pen inside the Freeman building and had to go back for it, 
she probably wouldn't have been mugged in the first place, but she 
couldn't really blame him for that. He'd helped her to her feet after 
initially seeming to be torn between chasing after the guy who'd 
grabbed her bag and seeing whether she was okay - though what made 
him think he could catch someone who was now two blocks away, she had 
no idea. Then he'd offered her his arm to lean on, saying that she 
probably felt a bit shaken up; she'd declined his offer, but it had 
been nice of him to make it.

Nice? she asked herself then, wondering whether she was turning soft. 
It hadn't been 'nice'; he'd just been flaunting his macho 
credentials. Big strong man offers help to little feeble woman.

Nevertheless, he'd escorted her to the nearest police precinct and 
had stayed with her while she'd filled out seemingly endless forms, 
and then waited while she made some phone calls to cancel her credit 
cards and sort out a few other things. He hadn't needed to do that; 
for one thing, it was well after six pm. He'd have been perfectly 
entitled to go on home; work was finished for the day.

She'd expected him to leave her to it once they'd left the police 
station, but again he was sticking around. Not that she'd given him 
too much choice after she'd let her guard down and reminded him of 
the practicalities of the situation; but even then, he could have 
just put her in a cab and sent her off back to the Planet. Money 
wasn't a problem - they both knew the fare could be put on the 
Planet's account, since they had been out in pursuit of a story.

Yet she hadn't wanted to go to Perry, even though she was well aware 
that he'd come through for her - he'd certainly lend her as much 
money as she needed, and he'd probably insist that she come home and 
stay with him and Alice. Yet... somehow, she didn't want her boss and 
father-figure to know that she'd been so stupid as to get herself 
mugged. He'd fuss too much, and... she just didn't want to ask him 
for help.

Clark's offer of a loan, and then later the offer of a bed for the 
night, really had taken her by surprise. He barely knew her, so why 
should he even care? And yet, just now when he'd taken her acceptance 
for granted, he'd really looked as if he cared about her. That was 
ridiculous, of course, but it was still good of him to offer.

Her hip was really aching now; she'd fallen heavily on the concrete 
when the mugger had shoved her down. Clark had wanted her to go to 
the hospital to get checked out, but she'd refused, insisting she was 
okay. Well, she *was* okay; it was just a few bruises. But they 
hurt...

Suddenly Clark halted, and she realised that he was flagging down a 
taxi. She gave him a puzzled glance; if she remembered correctly, 
they were only a little over half a mile from his apartment. His 
answering glance gave her no clues, but she guessed then that he'd 
somehow realised, or worked out, that she was in some pain and was 
being thoughtful. She was going to protest that she didn't need it, 
but another throb from her hip made the decision for her. She climbed 
into the cab.

After a few minutes, though, Clark asked the driver to stop; pushing 
a few bills into Lois's hand, he waved in the general direction of 
the kerb. "There's a pharmacy and convenience store over there. 
You're going to need a toothbrush and stuff like that. I'll wait 
here."

Even more considerate of him, she mused as she scrambled, not without 
some difficulty, out of the back seat. She needed more than a 
toothbrush if she was going to make an unscheduled overnight stay 
somewhere, and he was giving her the privacy to get what she needed. 
A quick check of the paper money he'd given her revealed a total of 
thirty dollars - "expensive toothbrush!" she muttered to herself, but 
his thoughtfulness was certainly appreciated.

Arriving at Clark's apartment a few minutes later, she waited while 
he paid off the cab, and then instantly his hand was at her elbow. 
Before she could protest or ask what he was doing, he was explaining. 
"You looked like you were starting to limp, before. And there's quite 
a few steps here."

There were; and by the time she got to the top she was grateful for 
the support of his arm. He opened the door, and for a moment she just 
stood and stared. The last time she'd seen this apartment it had been 
a mess. Dirty, dark, with peeling paint and grease and filth 
everywhere, she wouldn't have touched it in a million years. And yet 
now it was bright, airy, with light streaming in from the kitchen and 
the main door; comfortable and welcoming furniture making it clear 
that this was a home where someone relaxed and unwound at the end of 
a day, rather than a showpiece which was little used.

But he was urging her forward. "This way," he said, guiding her 
through into the kitchen, and then under an archway. "That's the 
bedroom," he added with a wave of his hand; it was an unnecessary 
explanation, since she could see the large bed with a 
brightly-coloured spread thrown over it. "And the bathroom's through 
there." This time, he indicated another door. "I think you might find 
some herbal bubble-bath in there - my mom left it behind when they 
visited at the weekend."

She frowned at him, and he gave a light shrug. "I just thought you 
might want to take a bath - it might help with some of those bruises 
I imagine you've got."

Good idea, she realised. "If you're sure that's okay...?"

"Course it is. Look, unless you need me to show you where anything 
is, I'll go and let you get on with it," he added, beginning to move 
away from her. "I need to get started with dinner anyway - pasta okay 
for you? Do you prefer a cream and wine sauce, or a tomato one?"

He was actually going to *cook*? She stared at him disbelievingly for 
a moment, then realised that he probably meant that he'd open a jar 
of sauce, or perhaps that he had frozen pasta dinners ready to be 
microwaved. "Umm... well, tomato is healthier, I guess...."

"But you prefer the cream and white wine, yeah?" he prompted, 
merriment in his brown eyes.

How did he know that...? "Yeah, I guess," she confirmed.

"Well, I think after being mugged you deserve a little treat, so 
forget the tomato sauce," he said, a teasing note in his voice. He 
took a couple of paces back towards the arch, then stopped. "Forgot - 
you'll need something to change into. I guess you probably won't want 
to wear that for the rest of the evening?" He gestured vaguely in the 
direction of her trouser-suit.

No, she didn't, but thirty dollars - thirty-five counting her five - 
had only been enough to get her the toothbrush and some clean 
underwear, pantyhose and a camisole top to go under the suit for 
tomorrow. Not that she was accusing Clark of being stingy, or 
anything like it; he hadn't needed to do anything for her, and he'd 
probably given her all the cash he had on him.

He was rummaging in a drawer, and a moment later he turned to her and 
handed her a pile of clothing. "T-shirt, sweat-pants and a 
sweat-shirt. They'll be way too big for you, of course, but you can 
wear the pants with the legs rolled up or something."

The thought occurred to her then that he obviously lived alone and 
probably didn't have a regular girlfriend at the moment, if he only 
had clothes of his own from which to choose. It hadn't so far 
occurred to her to wonder about his personal life - what was Clark 
Kent to her? - but for some unknown reason the absence of any 
evidence that there was a woman in his life made her feel oddly 
pleased.

He strolled off then, leaving her to investigate the bathroom.


************

Lois Lane was in his apartment. What was more, Lois Lane was going to 
be spending the night in his apartment.

As he chopped an onion, mushrooms and broccoli for the pasta sauce, 
Clark couldn't help musing on that thought and thinking that he could 
barely believe it. Despite his completely mixed feelings about Lois, 
he was well aware that she aroused sensations in him he'd just never 
experienced about anyone before. He wanted her, badly, though he 
wasn't foolish enough to imagine that that was ever going to happen. 
But even that - sex - wasn't on his mind now. As the knife in his 
hand moved with lightning speed over the chopping board, what he was 
focusing on was spending the evening with Lois. Talking. Getting to 
know her. Maybe, even, convincing her that he wasn't the naive, 
clumsy, idiotic country hick she seemed to think he was.

If she actually took the trouble to look about her while she was in 
his apartment, things like his collection of books and artefacts 
would tell their own story. He was an eclectic reader, and his 
bookshelves were filled with fiction of all kinds, plus biographies, 
history books, books on geography, travel and science, and 
journalism-related texts. He had artefacts and souvenirs from around 
the world, plus his cherished college football, given to him as the 
highest scorer in the winning game of the league.

Not that he thought Lois was especially interested in sports, but it 
would show her that he was a pretty all-round guy. Except that he 
didn't want her to know quite *how* all-round he was; she wouldn't 
find anything which would give her any clue as to his Super secret 
identity. The Suits were carefully hidden in his secret compartment, 
where he'd returned them when he'd unpacked the suitcase after his 
crazy decision to stop being the Super-hero. And there was no chance 
she'd find the compartment; he'd hidden it too cleverly for that.

His Super-hearing heard the splash of bath-water; so she was taking 
his advice. He hoped it helped, as he was very sure by now that she 
was in quite a bit of pain. He'd laughed at his Mom's purchase of a 
first-aid box for the apartment, knowing that he wouldn't need it, 
but it would certainly come in handy now. He was pretty sure that it 
contained some embrocation for bruises, as well as some painkillers; 
leaving the vegetables for a moment, he went to get the tube of 
embrocation and took it into the bedroom, leaving it on the bed 
beside the clothes he'd given Lois.


************

Kent was even more thoughtful than she'd given him credit for, Lois 
admitted when she found the tube of cream. Of course, the worst of 
her bruises *would* happen to be in the most inaccessible place on 
her body - not that she would dream of asking for help.

Some delicious smells were floating in from the kitchen, so once she 
was dressed in the very loose clothing Clark had given her - she'd 
had to fold the waistband of the sweatpants over on itself a couple 
of times as well as rolling up the hems - she walked a little 
awkwardly out of the bedroom. Clark stood in front of the cooker, 
stirring the contents of two saucepans. Clearly he *had* meant that 
he was going to cook, she realised, noting also that there was a 
chopping board by the sink which showed signs of recent use.

Her preconceptions about Clark Kent - admittedly, based on nothing 
except prejudice - were tumbling by the minute.

He turned as she approached, giving her a quick smile. "Feeling any better?"

She pulled a face. "A little. You're right about the bruises - thanks 
for the ointment, by the way."

A shrug. "No problem. I just remembered I had some." He turned back 
to stir the contents of one of the pans, then added, "Sorry I haven't 
anything which would fit you better."

"I think I can survive for one evening," she assured him dryly. 
"What're you cooking?"

"Told you - pasta. Tagliatelle, fresh vegetables, and a white wine 
sauce." He did something with the cooker controls. "Okay - the sauce 
is ready to be added to the vegetables, and I just need to boil the 
water for the pasta."

She noticed an open bottle of white wine on the worktop; it seemed 
he'd made his own sauce too! "You enjoy cooking?" she asked idly.

He smiled, giving her a flash of white teeth; she was forced to 
acknowledge, silently, that Kent had a beautiful smile. "Yeah, though 
I don't get a chance to do it as often as I'd like. I don't mind 
cooking for one, but with our job I'm just not here a lot of the 
time."

Yeah, they'd had a couple of late nights when they'd shared takeout 
of one kind or another, and Lois was aware that Clark had worked late 
on a couple of evenings when she'd had other plans. One thing he 
couldn't be accused of being was a shirker, even if he did have his 
mysterious disappearances.

"I don't cook," she informed him abruptly.

"Don't or can't?" he enquired, simultaneously taste-testing the sauce.

She shrugged. "Either. I'm not very good at it, but I don't see the 
point when there's so many takeout places able to deliver."

"True," he drawled, "but then, how many takeout restaurants will make 
a meal just how *you* like it, instead of how *they* like it? Okay, 
order a pizza and you can tell them to hold the anchovies and give 
you extra mushrooms instead, but it's not always so easy. Besides," 
he added as he reached into the fridge for a packet of pasta - 
*fresh* pasta, Lois noticed in amused surprise - "don't you miss the 
sense of achievement you get from having cooked something you enjoy?"

"I get that from writing front-page articles for the Planet," she 
told him, a little sardonically. "If I wanted to fulfil myself in 
domestication, I'd become someone's stay-at-home wife, or work in a 
restaurant. Neither appeals to me." And that should let him know that 
Lois Lane is just not interested in being someone's appendage, as 
well, in case the thought had crossed his mind, she mused.

"My mom loves cooking for her family, but she would never call 
herself a stay-at-home wife," Clark observed. "But then, the house 
and the farm are hers as much as Dad's, and it's important to her to 
make sure everything is as good as it can be."

"Oh, a *farm,*" Lois scoffed. "Definitely not my idea of the perfect 
lifestyle."

Clark looked her up and down, and Lois had the distinct suspicion 
that he was somehow judging her and finding her wanting again. "I 
don't really think you'd be suited to that environment, no," he told 
her, a faint smile playing about his lips as he returned his 
attention to the meal simmering on the hob.

His apparent condemnation of her as useless stung. "So, anything I 
can do to help?" she offered belligerently.

This time, his smile was more friendly. "No, everything's under 
control here. And you don't know where anything is, so you might as 
well leave me to it. Feel free to go and sit down, if you want - oh, 
and help yourself to some wine," he added, gesturing at the open 
bottle. "Glasses are on the table."

So they were; he'd already set the small table in his kitchen for 
dinner, she realised. Cutlery and napkins lay in appropriate place 
settings, each with a wine glass and another straight glass - for 
water, it seemed, since a jug of iced water was also on the table.

Typical bachelor male trying to impress the female he's invited for 
dinner, Lois thought cynically, but then another thought occurred to 
her. If he was really out to impress with a view to seduction, surely 
he'd have candles on the table? No; this seemed to be just the way he 
ate normally.

Taking him at his word, she walked awkwardly through to the living 
area. It was, as she'd noticed earlier, much more informal than her 
own apartment; she would never give that sofa house-room, much less 
the throw and the cushions on top of it, for example. And he had a 
very strange collection of ornaments... Her attention was drawn to a 
photograph, which depicted a slightly younger Clark Kent with a much 
older couple. Must be his parents, she decided; the farmers. His 
father was tall and broad, with a high forehead and a dependable 
face; his mother was quite a surprise, however. Soft blonde hair, 
slim, and with an impish expression, Mrs Kent did not look like 
Lois's image of a farmer's wife. And the way her gaze rested on her 
son made Lois experience a stab of envy; if only either of her 
parents had ever looked at her like that! And judging by the way 
Clark smiled back at his mother, the deep love between them was 
mutual.

Mommy's boy, she scorned silently as she moved away from the 
photograph, refusing to admit how much it had affected her. No wonder 
he can cook, she added to herself; he was probably tied to his 
mother's apron-strings before coming to Metropolis. He probably still 
called home every night.

He called to her then to say that dinner was ready, so she had to leave 
her examination of his possessions until later. When she returned to 
the kitchen, she noticed immediately that he'd changed his clothes 
and was now wearing a soft blue cotton shirt teamed with faded jeans. 
She frowned briefly - how had he had time to change while preparing 
the food? - but shrugged. Obviously he was quick.

Unsurprisingly, the meal was excellent; delicately seasoned with 
herbs and wine, the sauce was light and very tasty. And the pasta was 
perfectly cooked. The wine he'd chosen was also excellent - a 
Sancerre, with a label in French, she noticed in surprise. He 
shrugged when she questioned it, though, saying that he had a friend 
who'd recently returned from France and who'd given him a couple of 
bottles.

Conversation over dinner was a little awkward, though Lois had to 
give her host some credit for doing his best to keep it going. He 
asked the usual polite questions which tend to be asked of 
near-strangers: where she had gone to school, what she'd studied at 
university (journalism, as if he couldn't have guessed, she thought 
scornfully), how long she'd been at the Planet, what she'd won her 
Kerths for.

It was when they somehow got onto the subject of journalistic ethics 
that she had to revise her opinion of Kent once again. He wasn't 
merely a hack; he had a brain, and he liked to use it. He also had a 
very strong sense of morals, and even if she didn't share all of his 
convictions, she had sympathy with many of them. She was less 
inclined than he was to believe that most invasions of privacy were 
wrong; as she argued vigorously, many people deliberately put 
themselves in the public domain, for whatever reason, and therefore 
they lay themselves open to having their lives investigated.

Clark, however, argued just as passionately - but without losing his 
cool or his articulate manner - that for the most part, the private 
life of someone such as a politician should be no-one else's 
business. "So what if the President had affairs?" he observed with a 
shrug. "As a voter, I don't think it has anything to do with his 
political skills or his ability to run the country. I don't think 
it's any of my business."

"It shows that he's capable of deceit," Lois countered.

"Maybe, but whose business is that?" Clark challenged. "Personally, I 
think that the only person who deserves to feel hurt or betrayed here 
is his wife. She can call him a cheat, a liar, an adulterer or 
whatever, and she's entitled to. But no-one else has the right to 
even know about it, I think. I'd rather judge my politicians on their 
performance in their day jobs. Wouldn't you rather have Johnson, for 
all his alleged affairs, given that he seems to be doing a good job 
with the economy and foreign affairs, than Rooney - faithful husband, 
but barely lifted his finger off the nuke-button the whole time he 
was in power?"

Lois had heard that general argument articulated before, many times, 
including in the Planet conference room. But Clark presented his case 
clearly and in a good-humoured manner, his arguments sounding more 
plausible as a result. And, in fact, she agreed with him in relation 
to the two politicians in question. She'd voted for Johnson for a 
second term, affairs or not, so she couldn't deny the validity of his 
final argument.

To her surprise, she admitted that she enjoyed sparring with him, and 
when they were in too much danger of agreeing on that subject, she 
quickly introduced another one. "So, what's your view on elected as 
opposed to appointed public officials - judges, DAs and so on?" she 
challenged him.

He stood and removed their plates. "Interesting question." Indicating 
her empty glass, he enquired, "More wine?"

She nodded, and he emptied the bottle into her glass. "Don't avoid 
the question, Kent."

"I'm not. I was just going to suggest that we continue the discussion 
in the other room - it's a bit more comfortable. I'll get another 
bottle, unless you'd prefer coffee?"

Lois wondered briefly whether she'd had enough wine - they'd managed 
to drain an entire bottle between them - but then she decided that 
after being muggedshe probably deserved to over-indulge a little. And 
if he was offering more of that delicious Sancerre, she wasn't going 
to object.

"Wine. And yes, let's move. Unless..." She hesitated, feeling that 
she should make some gesture to thank him for his hospitality. 
"Unless you'd like me to wash the dishes?"

But he shook his head. "The pans are already done, so there's only 
the plates - they'll only take a minute." Scrubbing and then rinsing 
them as he spoke, he left them to drain. "I forgot completely - would 
you like some dessert? I think I have some ice-cream...."

Lois rolled her eyes; did everyone talk about her at work? "I suppose 
Ralph or someone told you about my craze for chocolate," she said 
snappily.

But he frowned. "It's pecan flavour. You like chocolate?"

"Oh, never mind," she muttered, taking the wine-glasses and wandering 
into the other room. He joined her, sitting on the armchair rather 
than beside her on the sofa, another point which made her question 
her perception of his character. That was soon forgotten as, within 
minutes, they were deep into a lively disagreement about the relative 
merits of election versus appointment, with Clark arguing that 
election surely made judges more prone to decide and sentence 
according to popular opinion, while Lois made a vigorous case for 
accountability.

Some time later, she noticed that it was almost nine o'clock. "Mind 
if we watch the news?" she asked him.

"No problem." He reached for the remote control and the television 
flickered into life. There were no major stories this evening, 
however - major as judged by Lois, that was, in terms of whether she 
should be following them up for the Planet. There was news of a 
bridge collapse in New Hampshire, which for some reason made Clark 
appear to tense momentarily. But when she glanced at him again, as 
the newsreader was saying that no-one had been killed or seriously 
injured, he was sitting apparently relaxed, so she decided she must 
have imagined it.

The final item on the news was a silly story about a survey of 
kissing preferences which showed a stark gender divide: apparently 
the researchers had found that women disliked French kissing, while 
men loved it.

"That's ridiculous!" Lois exclaimed as Clark reached for the remote 
control again, preparing to switch the TV off.

"What is? That women don't like it?" He glanced in her direction, 
raising one eyebrow.

"Absolutely! Whoever did that research asked completely the wrong questions!"

"Oh?" Now he was smiling in amusement. "So what questions should they 
have been asking?"

"Whether the men they've met have known how to do it properly," Lois 
insisted. "Tongue action can be really good, but too many men just 
want to shove their tongues in and go for it like a battering ram."

Clark's expression was comical; a mixture of apparent revulsion and 
innocent enquiry. "So what's the right way to do it?" he asked her, 
clearly struggling to maintain a serious note to his voice.

How did she get onto this subject anyway? Lois wondered 
incredulously. Of all the things she could be doing on a Thursday 
evening, sitting in her (unwanted) partner's apartment discussing 
kissing technique was not one she could ever imagine.

Clark leaned across and poured some more wine into her glass. "Come 
on - do a guy a favour and tell me what women really like in a kiss."

She pulled a face at him. "I'm not sure I should. If you know what we 
really want, it could give you an unfair advantage."

He held his hands out in front of him in a gesture of surrender. 
"Hey, I promise not to misuse the information! And anyway, I'm just a 
country boy from Kansas. Hardly a heartless seducer or anyone's 
pin-up guy!"

She had to acknowledge that was true, although... sitting across from 
Clark, she was aware, in an objective sort of way, that he was far 
more attractive than she'd realised. In those ill-fitting suits and 
jacket-trouser combinations he wore to work, he looked almost like a 
schoolboy dressed up in his father's clothes, sometimes. Now, though, 
the tight jeans clung to his hips and thighs like a second skin, 
revealing powerful muscles and not an ounce of spare flesh. The pale 
blue shirt wasn't quite so clingy, but when he'd leaned forward a 
couple of minutes ago, the fabric had stretched tight across his back 
and shoulders, revealing muscular biceps and upper body. That, 
together with his strong jaw and the way he looked when he smiled...

But that was all academic, she reminded herself. *She* wasn't 
interested in Kent. Hardly! Now, if it was Superman she was talking 
about...

"So? Come on, Lois, you can't say something like that and refuse to 
substantiate it!" he challenged her.

She supposed not... but how on earth did one describe kissing 
technique? After trying a couple of explanations in her head, she 
conceded defeat. It simply was not going to be possible to sit 
opposite Clark Kent and discuss licking as opposed to sucking, 
delicate stroking as opposed to slurping, and light touching of one's 
partner's tongue, as opposed to vigorous tangling.

It would be much easier to.... No. She stopped her thoughts in their 
tracks. No. No way. She was *not* going to do that. No matter how 
much Kent challenged her, no matter how smug his expression once he 
realised she wasn't able to answer him. She was *not* going to do 
that! She had *no* desire *whatsoever* to kiss Clark Farmboy Kent. 
Even if he did, in casual clothes and in the soft lighting of his 
living-room, look sort of attractive in a clean-cut, boy-next-door 
kind of way. That made no difference; he was still the highly 
annoying smart-ass rookie she was having to work with against her 
will - *and* who had sent her crawling through the Metropolis Sewage 
Reclamation Facility!

No demonstrations. She could do this; she was a professional 
journalist, after all. Words were her professional tools. Okay... how 
to explain it...

"You do *know* how to French-kiss?" he enquired then, in a 
deceptively idle tone; Lois wasn't fooled, however. She could see the 
mischief in his expression.

"Well, naturally!" she retorted. "Better than some of the guys I did 
it with, too!"

"So, come on then - tell me what it is we do so wrong!" He challenged 
her yet again.

She seized her wine-glass and took a sip as a delaying tactic. "Okay 
then... well, it's all to do with being subtle and erotic as opposed 
to just going straight for the target. Kind of like good foreplay, I 
guess."

He surveyed her from over the rim of his own glass, his eyes dancing. 
"But I thought women claim men aren't that good at foreplay either?"

"So I believe," Lois answered, her tone - she hoped - discouraging 
further questions in that regard. She had no intention of giving Kent 
any clues whatsoever as to her own experience on the subject.

"Well, how on earth are we going to learn if women don't show us?" 
Clark demanded.

He had a point, she supposed. Maybe... all in the interest of 
furthering understanding...

No! She was *not* going to kiss Kent! She had no idea what even led 
her to contemplate such a thing... no, that wasn't right, she 
corrected herself. The wine. It had to be the wine - only under the 
influence of alcohol would the thought even cross her mind.

Clark laughed suddenly, in what Lois interpreted as a rather superior 
fashion. "Okay, Lois. I was prepared to believe you, you know, but 
since you can't even give me any examples to substantiate your 
argument I think you're just going to have to admit that you lost 
your nerve and concede defeat."

Concede? Lois stared at the hick from Smallville in disbelief. Didn't 
he *know* that Lois Lane never lost an argument? She was *right,* 
dammit, and she was going to prove it, too. And how dare he imply 
that she was a coward? No-one called her a coward and got away with 
it.

"No chance, Kent," she drawled, deliberately raising one eyebrow. "If 
you insist, I'll prove it. You can show me how you'd French-kiss 
someone, and if you mess up you'll have to admit that I'm right."

Her challenge did appear to surprise him; he froze and gave her that 
deer-in-the-headlights look she'd seen a few times now. She felt a 
sense of triumph. She'd dared him and he'd chickened out! Hah!

But then, the nervous look vanished and he frowned slightly. "But 
I'll only have your word for it that I mess up, if that's what your 
verdict is."

He *was* going to do it... well, okay, she could cope with that, and 
she'd take great pleasure in informing him how bad he was at it. "But 
that's the whole point," Lois insisted. "Men don't know what women 
want, and aren't interested in finding out."

"And... if I am interested in finding out?" he enquired. "Will you teach me?"

"Don't push your luck!" she retorted.

He held his hands up again in a gesture of 'pax'. "Just tell me what 
I do wrong, okay?"

That seemed reasonable, Lois thought, wondering idly why her brain 
seemed a little cloudier than usual. After all, if someone didn't 
know the right way to do something, how were they to learn without 
proper instruction? That wasn't logical, was it?

Shrugging, she answered, "Might as well. No reason another woman 
should suffer, after all, is there?" She hesitated, then added, "I'll 
probably have to show you, I guess."

In a sudden movement, he shifted from the armchair to sit beside her. 
She lifted her face so that he could show her just how inept he was 
at this kissing thing... and was surprised when he paused, a 
concerned expression on his face.

"Lois... are you sure you're okay with this?" he asked her quietly.

"Yes, of course!" she insisted impatiently. "You have a point to 
make, so make it!"


************

Clark didn't quite know how the conversation had taken the path it 
had, or what had got into him to make him turn the discussion of 
kissing technique personal as opposed to generalised. He'd expected 
Lois to change the subject pretty quickly, and he'd been prepared to 
make some light-hearted quip about her not having the courage of her 
convictions but then let it drop.

But she hadn't done as he'd expected, and instead *she'd* called 
*his* bluff. She'd expected him to back down... and he'd known, in 
that moment, that if he had, she wouldn't have let him forget it. So 
he'd had to suppress all his doubts and fears and his sudden 
stage-fright at the whole idea of kissing Lois, and show willing.

Not that he was *unwilling,* precisely...

Oh, he was by no means averse to kissing Lois Lane. He'd wanted to do 
that, and more, from the moment he'd first laid eyes on her. She was 
quite simply the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, but there was 
something more... something about her which seemed to appeal to his 
very soul. A kind of connection... which was a completely stupid 
idea, of course, since she clearly didn't feel it.

Now she was challenging him to kiss her, and he was torn. He 
desperately wanted to, but, for one thing, he was pretty sure that 
the wine was at least partly responsible for Lois's behaviour. They 
had drunk a bottle and a half between them, after all. And he 
suspected that Lois was not normally a heavy drinker - too committed 
to her work, she worked too long hours to have much time for drinking 
in the evenings. So if she was inebriated, was it fair to take 
advantage of her?

But he wouldn't be taking advantage, he argued with his conscience. 
It was just a kiss, for heaven's sake! Just one kiss! And she was no 
doubt going to tell him immediately afterwards what a lousy kisser he 
was, so he was hardly going to be the evil seducer here!

And anyway, he wasn't entirely convinced that she was drunk. She 
wasn't showing any of the classic symptoms: her speech wasn't 
slurred; she wasn't collapsing on the sofa or falling asleep; she 
wasn't rambling on drunkenly. If she was obviously drunk, then 
there'd be no question about what was the right thing to do. He'd 
just pick her up, carry her to the bedroom and leave her to sleep it 
off. No doubt at all about that.

But she wasn't behaving like that. Instead, she was watching him as 
if she now thought *he* was about to back out, her raised eyebrow and 
questioning gaze daring him not to respond to her challenge. So... 
well, he wasn't going to give her the chance to accuse him of lacking 
the nerve to put his money where his mouth was... or should that beto 
put his mouth where... oh, he couldn't be bothered to find the 
correct metaphor! All that mattered was that he had a chance to do 
something he'd dreamed of doing every night for the last two weeks.

Maybe she wasn't drunk, though, but she certainly wasn't sober, his 
conscience pointed out. And he had to ask himself - since he knew 
that alcohol didn't affect him - whether it was fair to take 
advantage of her when this was something she no doubt wouldn't even 
consider when sober. It wasn't as if he didn't know her opinion of 
him, after all. Clark Kent would not be her first choice when it came 
to kissing someone.

But... oh, it was only a kiss! And, what's more, when was he ever 
going to get such a chance again? One kiss wouldn't do any harm, 
surely?

However, to salve his conscience, he had to give her an opportunity 
to back out. Her response made it clear that not only had she no 
intention of changing her mind, but also that she was now challenging 
*him* to prove his point.

He moved closer, then wondered briefly what his approach should be. 
His instincts were telling him to show her that he was *not* the kind 
of inconsiderate male she seemed to expect, and therefore to kiss her 
with as much skill and expertise and consideration he could muster. 
Yet another part of him argued that if he played it the other way, 
kissed her in the way she was expecting, he'd earn himself another 
kiss - since she'd already promised to show him where he was going 
wrong.

But then he recognised, wryly, that either approach was based on a 
false premise. First, he wasn't exactly that experienced, so any 
notion he had that Lois would be bowled over by his kisses and 
realise that he was the man of her dreams was a complete fallacy. 
Wasn't going to happen. And, if he knew Lois, no matter how good his 
'technique', she'd still claim that he wasn't up to scratch. No, he 
had nothing to lose; he might as well just go for it.

She would ridicule him whatever he did, but it would be worth it, to 
be able to get closer to Lois than he had ever dreamed could happen. 
There was no way she would kiss him under normal circumstances, so he 
should just make the most of this.

Reaching towards her, he slid his hand behind her head and brought 
his lips to hers.


***********

Lois was prepared for Clark to slobber. She was prepared for his kiss 
to leave her completely cold. She was even prepared for a wet tongue 
to force its way into her mouth and leave her needing to rinse with 
mouthwash. That was okay; she would make her excuses and go to the 
bathroom to brush her teeth once she'd taught him a lesson.

She wasn't prepared for the heady sensation which swept over her the 
instant his lips touched hers.

His first kiss was gentle, a light brush of his mouth against hers, 
which ended even before she'd become accustomed to the sensation. 
Then he was back, his warm lips moving over hers in an intimate, 
sensuous caress. Involuntarily, her lips parted; as if he'd known she 
would do it, immediately he gently sucked her lower lip into his 
mouth, nibbled gently, then released it again.

Without conscious thought, she slid her arms up around his neck, 
drawing him closer. He responded by sliding his free arm around her 
waist, bringing her up against his hard, lean body. His strong thigh 
was pressed against her hip, his thick dark hair invited her to rake 
her fingers through it, and his mouth was still doing wonderful 
things to her senses. Her head swam, and she moaned softly as she 
opened her mouth wider so that she could push her tongue forward.

He anticipated her again, his tongue gliding over her upper lip and 
then invading her mouth, continuing the caress along the inside of 
her lip and then over her teeth. Experimentally, she touched his 
tongue with hers; instantly, he ceased what he was doing and joined 
her in a game of touching and stroking and tangling.

She yearned to get closer still... shifting position on the sofa so 
that she was leaning against his upper body, she lost her balance and 
fell against him. He grunted in surprise, breaking the kiss as he 
fell backwards; she grabbed his head and tugged his mouth back to 
hers, tumbling down to lie sprawled on his chest.

His kiss this time was deeper, more passionate, and it was with a 
sense of satisfaction that she heard him moan. His arms came around 
her, settling her more securely on top of him as he made himself more 
comfortable on the large sofa; as she wriggled into position, 
something became obvious to her.

Recognising Clark's arousal gave her an enormous sense of power. 
*She* had had this effect on him; not that she was going to do 
anything about it, of course, she told herself hazily. But it would 
be fun to.... Deliberately, she rotated her hips a couple of times, 
giggling as his hands moved to her waist to hold her steady.

"Stop that!" he muttered. "Lois..."

"Stop talking and kiss me," she instructed, rejoicing in her ability 
to control the situation, to tell Clark Kent what to do. Sure, she 
told him what to do at work all the time - not that he always obeyed 
- but here, now, in the privacy of his apartment and in a situation 
where she was the guest, he'd thought he was in control. He wasn't. 
He was at her mercy; she'd got him all worked up, and in a few 
minutes, she would...

Would *what*? Just get up and walk away? She'd always despised the 
concept of being a tease, though; why any woman would want to drive a 
man to the point of desperation, without any intention of following 
through, made no sense to Lois. She'd always made a point of being 
straight with a man. If she had no intention of going to bed with him 
- as she had with most men who'd pursued her - she made that very 
clear. She'd never deliberately teased anyone sexually the way she 
was now doing with Clark.

She should get up *now,* apologise for having let things get further 
than she'd intended, and go to bed.

She would... in a minute.

She just wanted to kiss him again, just for a couple of minutes, to 
figure out just what it was about Clark Kent's kisses which were 
making it impossible for her to think straight... to pull away from 
him...

Feeling his hand threading through her hair, she moaned again and met 
him kiss for kiss as her senses swam with the pleasure of his 
caresses, his mouth on hers, his tongue stroking inside her mouth and 
driving her crazy....


***********

Barely able to believe this was happening, Clark cradled Lois on top 
of him, trying to ignore his body's pleadings for him to take this 
further. She wanted him to carry on kissing her, and that was exactly 
what he was going to do. That was *all* he was going to do. Her 
tongue plunged deep into his mouth, and he welcomed it gladly. Her 
fragrance, the feel of her soft curves against his body, the silky 
touch of her hair as it brushed against his face... his senses swam 
with these unfamiliar but deliriously wonderful sensations.

A new touch took him by surprise. She'd slid one hand between them 
and was unbuttoning his shirt; her hand felt soft and warm against 
his skin, and he murmured against her mouth, "Yes... yes, please..."

She shifted, and moved to a kneeling position, leaving his lips 
bereft; but it seemed that ending their encounter wasn't what she had 
in mind. Instead, she unfastened his shirt buttons one by one, 
trailing a finger along the exposed skin of his chest as she parted 
the fabric. When she reached the waistband of his jeans, she pulled 
at his shirt, freeing the material so that she could uncover his 
chest completely. She seemed completely intent on her task, unaware 
that he was watching her every move.

He shivered in anticipation as her questing finger glided over 
towards his nipple; some part of his consciousness wondered why he, 
invulnerable as he was, should feel every single light touch with the 
force of an electric shock.

She knelt back again, removing her hand from his body; again, he felt 
bereft. But then he realised her intention; in a swift movement, 
which he could barely believe was happening, she pulled her borrowed 
T-shirt over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra, and her beautiful 
naked torso was inches from his face. To his amazement, she reached 
for his hand, drawing it to her breast.

"Oh yeah..." he sighed, his hand shaking as he touched her. Her skin 
was soft, warm and felt wonderful against his fingers; driven by an 
instinct he couldn't even explain, he reached up to touch her with 
both hands, stroking and caressing the warm skin which felt so soft 
and silky under his palms.

"Oh yes... yes, Clark!" she groaned, and he took that as permission 
to take the next step. Leaning forward, and tugging her towards him 
at the same time, he rasped his tongue across her chest. Again, she 
moaned, then wriggled forward so that her body was even closer to his 
face. Now, she was squatting over his hips, a beautiful torture.

Passion flared more swiftly and, finding that his shirt was getting 
in the way, Clark rolled them so that Lois was beside him; he threw 
the shirt to the floor and leaned over her to resume their kissing. 
But she now seemed to feel cramped, and he tore his mouth from hers 
to gasp, "You know, maybe we'd be more comfortable - "

"In the bedroom," she finished for him.

Scrambling to his feet, he scooped her up into his arms and strode 
quickly across the living-room and through the arch, depositing her 
on his bed. As he came down beside her, she grasped the belt of his 
jeans. "You're wearing too many clothes."

Without even stopping to think, he stripped off the jeans, lying 
beside her dressed only in his shorts. Trailing one hand down over 
her stomach and along her thigh, he murmured, "So are you."

"Take them off," she invited, her voice a low murmur.

He swallowed, then peeled off the baggy tracksuit pants; her legs 
were long and slender and gorgeous... As he stroked one hand along 
the inside of her thigh, she claimed his mouth again, kissing him 
furiously. Needing to get as close to her as he possibly could, he 
stretched out alongside her, their bodies touching at every point.

Kisses became increasingly passionate, every stroke of her hands on 
him felt like fire, the flames burning uncontrollably within him. 
When he felt her hand slide inside his shorts, he groaned aloud and 
dragged them off. He'd so often imagined how it would feel to have a 
woman touch him just like *that,* but reality was so much more *real* 
than his feverish dreams.

He wanted to touch her, too... Turning thought into action, he 
fumbled and reached for her. After a few moments, she cried out and 
shuddered; thus encouraged, he continued to stroke her. Her hand was 
now gliding up and down on his body in a movement which was 
guaranteed to drive him crazy....

Somehow he was on top of her... she was encouraging him by touch and 
by the little cries she was making, and he knew, by instinct, what 
she wanted. Nothing  else mattered now; his fears and self-caution 
had all vanished in the reality of what was happening between them. 
He wanted her and she wanted him, and they were together, loving each 
other, losing themselves in each other...

He finally collapsed, exhausted but replete, incredibly aware that he 
had never, ever, experienced such a profound sense of *rightness* 
about anything in his life before.


***********

She couldn't let him stop touching her, kissing her... she *needed* 
to feel him against her skin, his sensitive fingers finding her nerve 
endings and making her cry out, his passionate mouth driving her 
crazy. She'd needed to have him touch her; merely seeing his reaction 
when she'd touched his chest had made her long to have him caress her 
too. Ripping her T-shirt off had seemed the natural thing to do, not 
that she'd even thought about it. It had been pure instinct, driven 
by need.

She was dimly aware of agreeing with his suggestion that they move to 
the bedroom, of demanding that he remove his jeans, of wanting to be 
naked too, so that he could continue touching her everywhere with 
those clever fingers.

He responded instantly to her touch when she slid her hand inside his 
shorts; she was pleased when he seemed to read her mind, disposing of 
the shorts so she could have freer access to him. Her body was 
throbbing with fiery intensity, and she longed for him to touch her...

Yes! Yes, his fingers were there at last, and a shudder jolted her 
body as he touched her in just the way she needed; encouraging him 
with soft murmurs, she continued to stroke him, enjoying his body's 
silky smoothness under her fingers. She needed more, though, needed 
him to keep touching her, fill her, take her to ecstasy...

Instinct was now guiding her to demand fulfilment; clawing at him, 
she finally got him to move on top of her; he had to know what she 
needed, had to understand that she wanted him *now*. She wanted 
more...

...and then he was there. One hand reached up of its own accord, 
tugging his head down to hers so that she could kiss him again, drive 
her tongue into his mouth in imitation of the movements of his body 
against hers, showing him what she wanted and that she needed him not 
to stop, to take her all the way...

...and suddenly there was white light all around her, fiery, 
shuddering sensations streaking through her body, starting in the pit 
of her stomach and hitting every nerve ending, stealing her breath 
away and robbing her of awareness. Whimpering in ecstasy, her final 
thought as Clark slumped, exhausted, on top of her was that she had 
never, ever, before experienced such a powerful sensation, or such a 
profound sense of having come home.


************

Lois awoke slowly, gradually becoming aware of unfamiliar 
surroundings. Opening her eyes momentarily, she realised that she was 
in a large, airy room with sunlight streaming in a sloping picture 
window in the far wall. The events of the previous day came back to 
her, and she remembered; her new colleague had offered her a bed for 
the night because she'd been unable to get access to her apartment.

She remembered the mugging clearly now, too; could feel again the 
hard ground as she was thrown backwards by the youth who'd made off 
with her bag. Her hip was still sore; she'd have to remember to apply 
more of that embrocation after she'd showered.

There was something else strange about the circumstances in which she 
now was... with a start, she realised she was naked. She never slept 
naked. Even without her usual nightgown, she'd have slept in a 
T-shirt - the T-shirt Clark had loaned her the previous evening....

No, she was naked, and there was something... warm flesh touching 
hers, a naked leg resting against her thigh, another human being 
breathing close to her.

Her eyes flew open again, and she saw that Clark was sprawled on his 
stomach beside her, his dark hair flopping over his forehead, his 
expression soft in repose.

Why was he...? She caught her breath as she remembered.

She'd started that stupid discussion about kissing - not just any 
kissing, but *French* kissing, and she'd been crazy enough to 
challenge him, claiming that he couldn't do it well enough to satisfy 
her. And then she hadn't had the sense to stop the game, and...

And she'd had sex with him. Let him invade her body.

She'd had *sex* with Clark Kent!

Groaning inwardly in despair, she blinked back tears. Would she ever 
learn? This was exactly what she'd done with Claude, and he'd 
betrayed her, walking out on her, stealing her story, and making sure 
that everyone at the Planet thought that she was an easy lay. After 
that, she'd vowed never, ever, to sleep with any man again unless she 
was positive that she could trust him and wanted to be with him on at 
least a semi-permanent basis. She'd learned from bitter experience 
that men just couldn't be trusted; they were selfish, disloyal, 
always out for the main chance. She'd never yet encountered a man who 
genuinely cared about what she wanted from their relationship, 
whether that man was her father, a friend, or a potential lover. And 
she'd been hurt too many times when she'd allowed herself to hope 
that *this* man could be different. She'd learned from experience 
that the phrase 'a decent man' was a contradiction in terms, a 
complete impossibility.

And yet last night she'd slept with Kent, the hack from 
Nowheresville, the junior reporter who, she suspected, viewed her 
with amused contempt most of the time - apart from when he lusted 
after her, she added bleakly. A man she barely knew.

She could see history repeating itself with a vengeance, now.

Now, he would no doubt regale the male portion of the newsroom with 
the story of his success; of how easy it had been to seduce Mad Dog 
Lane, the iceberg. How she'd fallen into his bed like a ripe plum 
from the tree.

How could she have been so *stupid* as to believe his promises that 
she was safe with him, that he had no intention of trying to lure her 
into his bed? Oh, he certainly hadn't seemed like a smooth-talking 
practised seducer, but he sure used that Kansas wide-eyed country boy 
innocent look to good advantage!

Bitter tears stinging her eyes, she stumbled out of bed and towards 
the bathroom. She had to get dressed and out of here. There was bound 
to be a subway station somewhere near, and she had a couple of 
dollars left over. That would get her to the Planet, where she could 
sort out her bank cards and getting a new lock for her apartment. 
Then she could decide how to handle Mr Super-Stud Kent, without 
letting anyone guess at how humiliated she was.


************

The sound of running water roused Clark from a deep sleep. He felt a 
sense of deep contentment as he stretched in the bed, and idly 
wondered why today was different... and then he remembered.

Lois.

Lois had stayed at his apartment last night... and they had made love.

It had been the most wonderful experience of his life. He still felt 
sated, blissfully happy and longing to love her again.

He'd turned towards her side of the bed before realising that the 
running water indicated that she was in the shower. That was a shame; 
he'd liked to have spent a few minutes just kissing and caressing 
each other before getting up. Of course, they couldn't delay long; 
they were both due into the Planet, and Lois also needed to get her 
keys and bank cards sorted out - he would help her with that, of 
course. But a few minutes just spent being close while they both woke 
up properly would have been the perfect way to start the day.

Still, if she was already getting washed, the least he could do was 
prepare breakfast. He pulled on his shorts and a T-shirt and padded 
into the kitchen, finding orange juice, cereal and - in a sudden 
impulse to impress his guest - flying at Super-speed to France for 
fresh croissants.

They needed to talk, but there wouldn't be time that morning, 
unfortunately. This wasn't how he'd imagined starting a relationship 
with Lois. They'd done it all backwards; they'd made love without 
ever having dated, while they still barely knew each other. Not that 
he really objected to that, he thought with a happy smile as he 
filled the coffee filter. It would be fun getting to know each other 
properly. There was so much he wanted to find out about Lois, and so 
much he wanted her to know about him - even his special powers. After 
all, she'd trusted him with her body in the perfect act of 
lovemaking. It was only fair that he trust her with the knowledge 
that he was Superman. What did it matter that she seemed to have a 
crush on the Super-hero? She'd made love, generously, beautifully, 
with the man behind the Suit.

He heard sounds from the bedroom, and quickly finished laying the 
table; by the time she emerged he was pouring coffee.

As he turned to look at Lois, his lover, two things struck him at 
once. First, she was wearing her business suit and looked ready to 
leave immediately. Second, she was absolutely furious, hatred burning 
in her dark eyes.

"Bastard!" she hissed venomously, and turned to walk towards the door.


***********

Lois had hoped that Clark would still be asleep when she finished 
showering, but when she crept back into the bedroom his bed was 
empty. She dressed hurriedly, not bothering about drying her hair 
properly; finger-combing it into position would have to do for now. 
Hoping that her host would have the decency to keep out of sight, she 
walked purposefully through to the kitchen.

Clark was there, to her dismay, putting some items on the table. He 
wore a T-shirt and a pair of hip-hugging shorts, but she quickly 
averted her eyes; she wasn't interested in his anatomy. He turned to 
face her and, unable to stop herself, she let herself vent her rage 
at him before heading for the door, just catching sight of his 
completely stunned expression as she did so.

<Probably thought I'd be so impressed by his... talents that I'd be 
begging for more> she thought angrily, focusing on just getting to 
the door and leaving Kent's apartment. She had to get out of there; 
what had happened was just too humiliating...

Suddenly, her arm was caught in a firm grasp. "Lois - what's this all 
about?" a very confused voice asked her. "What did I do to deserve 
that?"

Trying to shake off his hand, she glared at him. "What do you think, 
Kent? So much for your promises! Now I know exactly what your word's 
worth!"

She couldn't fail to see the bewilderment on his face, but she 
dismissed it. He was obviously not used to being rejected by women; 
like every other man she'd known, he clearly thought himself 
irresistible. Well, he'd soon learn that there was a first time for 
everything.

"Lois, I really have no idea - " he began, but she cut him off, angry 
at his fake show of innocence. What had he expected her reaction to 
be?

"Oh yeah, sure you don't!" she threw at him scornfully. "Try 
remembering what you did last night! You told me you had no intention 
of expecting sex when you offered to put me up for the night - you 
even got all offended when I questioned your motives. And then what?!"

He stared at her, apparently dumbfounded.

She shook her arm vigorously, hating the feeling of being trapped as 
much as the reminder of Kent's touch. "And let go of me!"

He suddenly seemed to realise that he was holding on to her, and 
released her arm. "Lois, hang on a minute!" he exclaimed as she again 
made for the door. Before she could grab the handle, he was there in 
front of her, blocking her way.

"Let me go," she demanded, struggling to keep her voice even instead 
of giving way to the fury - the self-disgust - which was so close to 
the surface.

"Please - we have to talk about this," he insisted, and she noticed 
that he now looked... what, hurt? That didn't seem to make sense, 
unless he was really taking it personally that a woman could reject 
him the morning after.

Unless... unless he'd assumed that this was going to be some hot 
affair, which would continue until he decided it was over. Maybe that 
was it - Mister Would-be Hot-Shot Kent thought she'd be begging for 
it the morning after. Well, he was in for a rude awakening.

"I don't know what you think you're going to gain from stopping me 
leaving," she told him coolly, all the time trying to prevent bile 
from rising up into her throat at the memory of what had happened... 
what she had done. She *didn't* sleep with men she barely knew - men 
she worked with, what was more. Once was more than enough for that. 
She'd vowed never again to let a good-looking man sweet-talk her into 
his bed. She felt... dirty. Humiliated. And furiously angry at the 
way he was behaving now. She just wanted to get out of here, get her 
life sorted out again so that she could go home to her own apartment 
and shower again and again, until she'd washed the memory of him off 
her body. It was taking a real effort to maintain this outwardly calm 
appearance.

"I just think we need to talk," he repeated stubbornly. "Lois, what 
happened between last night and this morning? I really am lost here!"

She shook her head, unwilling to be dragged into an argument with him 
when she only wanted to get out of there and try to forget this had 
ever happened. How could she have been so *stupid* - how could she 
have trusted him? Why hadn't she just made her excuses and gone to 
bed straight after dinner? But she hadn't; and instead she'd fallen 
victim to the most practised seducer she'd ever encountered.

"Lois, I really am serious," he said, his voice sounding strained; he 
still hadn't moved from his position in front of the door. "I don't 
know what's going on here. Last night - "

"Last night was a mistake. I never should have made the mistake of 
believing you could be trusted," she flung at him.

He stared at her, his expression incredulous. "Lois... *what* are you 
talking about?" He ran one hand agitatedly through his rumpled hair. 
"Okay, okay, I'm getting the message that you think our making love 
should never have happened. I'm sorry you regret it, I really am. But 
I really don't see how that makes me the bad guy in all of this!"

"No?" She gave him a scornful look, then tried to reach behind him 
for the doorknob.

He sighed. "Lois, I am prepared to take my share of the blame for 
what happened. My *share.* In case you don't remember, it was very 
much mutual."

She flushed, remembering her own behaviour all too well. It was 
mortifying to remember how she'd behaved with this man she didn't 
even like, kissing him so furiously, taking off her T-shirt and 
inviting him to touch her, agreeing with his suggestion that they 
move to the bedroom, touching him so intimately...

It had been the wine. Obviously. It had to be, because she would 
*never* have behaved like that under normal circumstances, and 
certainly not with Clark 'Farmboy' Kent. Of course she wouldn't. She 
wasn't even attracted to him!

She tilted her chin and stared straight at him. "You got me drunk," 
she accused flatly.

He stared back, the bewilderment in his expression now vanished 
entirely. In its place was a cold anger which made her shrink back 
involuntarily. "You think I deliberately..." He broke off abruptly, 
gritting his teeth. Then, in a sudden movement, he stood away from 
the door and flung it open. "Go. Get out of here, before your twisted 
imagination moves on to accusing me of rape."

She fled, hearing his biting words echoing in her head as she ran 
down the street.


************

Clark stood, almost rooted to the stop, as Lois rushed away from him 
as if he were the devil incarnate. How could two otherwise 
intelligent people have read the same situation so completely 
differently? How was it that he had been convinced they'd made 
wonderful, beautiful, mutual love, while Lois believed that he'd 
callously seduced her?

He couldn't fathom what was going on inside her head, how she could 
turn something so beautiful, so perfect, into an act of shame. He'd 
been so completely unprepared for her reaction, but even before he'd 
heard her first hissed word it had been obvious that there was 
something seriously wrong.

Closing the door, he turned to walk back through the apartment; he 
felt as if he'd aged thirty years in the space of five minutes. He 
made himself relive that crazy, passionate hour last night - had he 
been wrong? *Had* she been unwilling, reluctant? Could he have 
misread the signals - taken a shout of protest for a moan of 
encouragement?

No. He might have been inexperienced, but he had enough knowledge to 
know when a woman was encouraging him. And she'd been with him every 
step of the way - ahead of him in some ways. She'd been the first to 
move to an even greater level of intimacy; and even now he groaned 
silently as his body tightened at the memory of her slender fingers 
curling around him. She'd touched him, caressed him... and it had 
been she who'd encouraged him to move over her, to ready them for the 
culmination of lovemaking. Not that he'd been reluctant in any way... 
but, even carried away by passion as they had been, he was sure he 
would have been hesitant to take that step without some form of 
permission.

So why was she now behaving like a wronged innocent? It just didn't make sense.

Or... His jaw tightened as he remembered one overheard conversation 
as he'd been about to enter the men's room one day. It had been one 
of the times when he'd regretted his Super-hearing and its ability to 
activate at certain prompts. Like someone crying 'Help!' Or 'Fire!' 
Or... 'Lois.'

And it had been Ralph, of course; Clark had barely been able to be 
polite to the man subsequently. Ralph had - at what prompting Clark 
did not know - pronounced Lois a 'prick-tease.' He'd said that she 
got pleasure out of rejecting men in as superior a manner as she 
could; that she thoughtherself too good for just about every man she 
encountered, with the exception of Superman - Clark had concurred 
with Ralph's observation on the likelihood of Lois actually getting 
anywhere with Superman, but disagreed completely with the other man's 
reasoning. He'd decided, however, that Ralph's opinion of Lois's 
attitude to men was nothing other than sour grapes; after all, he'd 
heard Lois dismiss the older man's crass attempt at flirtation only 
the other day. Jimmy, who'd clearly seen Clark's surprise at the 
incident, had dryly informed him that Ralph frequently made passes, 
and Lois just as frequently rejected them.

Could Ralph have been right? Did Lois somehow enjoy having men at her 
mercy, delight in the knowledge that she had them in her thrall 
sexually but knowing that she never intended to follow through? *Was* 
she a...?

He refused to allow himself to articulate the word. Despite his hurt 
and bewilderment, and his cold fury at her final accusation, he 
couldn't bring himself to believe that Lois had deliberately led him 
on, intending to reject him. He'd never seen any sign of that 
behaviour in her - he'd be more inclined to believe that of Cat, who 
was quite definitely a vamp. And anyway, Lois hadn't tried to stop, 
at any point. If she was... what Ralph suggested, she'd never have 
practically dragged him on top of her, never begged him to make love 
to her.

Not that he'd needed any persuasion... but she hadn't tried to get 
away from him at any point.

So just what had happened to make her not only regret what had 
happened, but also to see him as some sort of vile seducer?

He slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, and his gaze was caught 
by the breakfast he'd so lovingly prepared. Before he knew what he 
was doing, he'd seized a croissant; a second later it was only crumbs 
on the floor.

He'd been *stupid*! - stupid to imagine that last night had 
represented the beginning of the relationship he'd wanted all his 
life. There had been no reason to believe that, after one night of 
sleeping with him, being made love to by him once, Lois Lane would 
want to be with him. For all he knew, last night could have been the 
worst sex she'd ever had, instead of - as it had been for him - the 
most wonderful experience he had ever dreamt of. After all, she was 
an experienced woman. She hadn't been, unlike him, a virgin who 
barely knew what he was doing...

But...

But even if he was a lousy lover - which wouldn't be unlikely, since 
he *had* been inexperienced, that still didn't explain *this* 
reaction. She wasn't complaining that he had failed to satisfy her. 
She wasn't telling him that he hadn't a clue about how to treat a 
woman in bed. Nothing of what she'd said could be interpreted as a 
criticism of his skill as a lover - though, if he had satisfied her, 
he saw that as luck more than skill. No, this was Lois regretting 
that it had happened at all, not complaining that he hadn't done 
enough to make it good for her.

It still didn't make sense, he thought as he padded slowly through 
his bedroom to the bathroom. Sure, he could understand that she might 
regret sleeping with him. After all, she barely knew him, and, from 
her attitude, she didn't seem to like him very much. He hadn't gained 
the impression, in the couple of short weeks he'd known her, that she 
slept around; and now he remembered her reaction when he'd angrily 
accused her of trading sex for favours in the case of Lex Luthor. 
That had been the response of someone appalled at his implied 
allegation because she found the idea entirely repugnant.

She wasn't into casual sex - which was an attitude of which he 
entirely approved, though no doubt she'd never believe him now. Heck, 
*he* barely believed himself now! He'd *never* been interested in 
casual encounters - that was why he'd still been a virgin at 
twenty-six. And yet he'd participated more than enthusiastically in 
their lovemaking... but then, he'd assumed it *was* genuinely 
*love*making. It had been, for him, and it was that conviction which 
had overcome any reluctance he might have had. He'd been waiting, 
before, to find a woman he loved, with whom he wanted to share the 
whole truth about himself. And he'd been convinced, from the moment 
he met her, that Lois was that woman. Sure, in the cold light of 
morning he'd recognised that he would have preferred to take their 
relationship more slowly, to get to know each other as friends and 
then as two people who were dating before plunging head-first into 
bed. But that wouldn't have mattered if their feelings about what 
they'd shared had been mutual.

Since they weren't... well, he couldn't bring himself to regret 
having lost his virginity on what looked like being a one-night 
stand. It wasn't what he'd wanted, how he'd dreamt of his first 
serious relationship turning out. But it had been with the woman he 
loved...

...and who clearly hated him.

So if Lois wasn't the kind of woman who slept around, morning-after 
regrets wouldn't be unexpected. But what was still a complete mystery 
to him was why she should have persisted in treating him as the bad 
guy. If she'd just been embarrassed, told him that it shouldn't have 
happened and wouldn't happen again, he would still have been hurt. 
But he could have understood it!

This reaction was something else, though, and Clark had no idea what 
was going through Lois's mind. Although... A dim memory flashed into 
his consciousness as he scrubbed his hair in the shower; Lois, tied 
up and expecting to be killed, telling him that she'd broken all of 
her rules, that she'd slept with a man she worked with, and he'd 
abandoned her and stolen her story.

But that was *crazy*! How could she equate *him* with that worthless 
so-and-so? Didn't she know he wasn't like that?

Probably not, Clark concluded. But that still didn't excuse her behaviour.

Although...

In his fury at her accusation that he'd deliberately tried to get her 
drunk, he'd ignored the underlying implication of her parting shot. 
She'd been drinking last night - well, they both had, but *he* at 
least wasn't affected by alcohol. Lois, presumably, was. And he had 
even wondered himself whether she would have issued her challenge, 
behaved as she had, if she'd been sober. He hadn't thought she was 
drunk; in fact, he was certain that she hadn't been. But it was very 
possible that she'd been tipsy, at the very least. And if that was 
the case, her inhibitions would have been lowered, and she could have 
acted out of character.

And, since alcohol had no effect on him, *he* should have behaved 
sensibly. He should have stopped things before they got out of hand. 
*He* had undoubtedly been sober, even if he had been carried away by 
a rush of blood to the head.

Maybe Lois had a point.

Maybe he had behaved badly; taken what she would never have wanted to 
give, sober.

Maybe...

*No*!

He slammed his fist into the bathroom wall, only just remembering in 
time to rein in his strength so that he didn't make a large hole in 
the wall. He had *not* done what Lois suggested. He hadn't 
*deliberately* plied her with alcohol. There had been no 
pre-meditation whatsoever on his part.

And he had asked her whether she was sure about kissing him; given 
her every opportunity to back out. She'd made it clear she didn't 
want to. And later, when he'd tentatively begun to suggest moving, 
she'd pre-empted him and insisted they moved to the bedroom. She had 
been sufficiently in control to make it very clear what she wanted, 
both then and later.

If she hadn't been entirely sober, that wasn't his fault, he insisted 
to himself, ignoring the tiny voice of his conscience which repeated 
over and over that it had been his responsibility to stop things 
before they got out of hand. Lois could have refused more wine, he 
told himself. And he could swear she hadn't been drunk enough to have 
no control over her actions. Maybe he shouldn't have risen to her 
challenge, but that didn't make it his fault. If she had regrets the 
morning after... well, how was he to know that would happen? *He* had 
no regrets... or at least, he hadn't until less than half an hour ago.

As he dressed - at normal speed for once, since he was really in no 
hurry to get to the Planet - Clark remembered the reason why Lois had 
been at his apartment in the first place, and wondered whether he 
should offer to help her with gaining access to her apartment. If not 
as himself, then as Superman. But he dismissed the idea. The less he 
saw of Lois today, the better, for his own peace of mind.

Unfortunately, convincing his body to forget how wonderfully 
responsive she had been was going to be a lot harder.


*************

After a few paces, Lois slowed down, realising that her hip was still 
painful; but nothing would have prevailed upon her to go back to 
Kent's place to call a taxi. Even if she had to crawl, she would make 
it to the subway station.

Fortunately, there was one a little over a block away, and once 
inside the train - standing, as it was early rush-hour - she began to 
calm down and work out what she needed to do. The first, and most 
important, thing for the time being was to put Clark Kent from her 
mind. He could wait. She'd have to work out how she was going to deal 
with him, but she could do that later. For now, she had to sort out 
getting her bank cards back and getting the lock changed on her 
apartment door.

That took up most of the morning. She'd called Perry to say she'd be 
late in, and then spent well over an hour in her bank branch, first 
trying to prove her identity - not easy, when everything of that 
nature she had was in her purse, which had been stolen! Finally, the 
official agreed to match her signature with that held in the bank's 
records, and also asked her a list of questions to check whether the 
answers matched those on her details. She was then issued with some 
temporary cheques and was permitted to make a cash withdrawal.

Getting her apartment sorted out was simpler, since her landlord was 
around; he agreed to hang around while the locksmith did his work, so 
she was able to claim one of the new keys immediately and leave. Then 
it was the Jeep's turn; she had to get the garage to come and tow it 
back to the workshop, and then wait while new locks were fitted. 
While she was waiting, she called the precinct where she'd reported 
the mugging, but even when she'd managed to get hold of an officer 
who could find her file, there was no news. No progress whatsoever 
had been made in finding the guy who did it, let alone in getting her 
belongings back. Lois was singularly unimpressed by that; it was well 
known that, once they'd taken anything of value, thieves usually 
dumped the remainder of their haul somewhere. There were other 
personal items in that purse which she wanted back.

During the whole of the frustrating morning, Lois couldn't stop her 
thoughts from occasionally drifting back to Clark Kent and the 
previous evening's activities. She'd been so *stupid*! After Claude, 
she'd been determined never to be taken in by a smooth-talker again, 
and yet she'd allowed Kent to seduce her into bed. Oh, he'd played it 
so cleverly, taking the opportunity she'd given him over that 
French-kissing article and challenging her to support her assertion; 
he just hadn't let it drop, even when it must have been clear to him 
that she wanted to change the subject. No, he'd persisted; and then 
he'd issued that bare-faced challenge he *knew* she wouldn't be able 
to resist.

<You could have resisted. He even asked if you were sure you wanted to do it>

No. He'd been goading her, trying to make her back down so that he 
could taunt her with it. He'd persuaded her to kiss him, or to let 
him kiss her, at any rate. And he'd used all of his experience to 
make sure that it didn't stop at kissing.

She wondered grimly just how many notches Clark Kent had on his 
bedpost. Perhaps so many he'd lost count. He was clearly very 
practised at it, anyway; he'd managed to win her over so completely 
that she'd been with him all the way. She'd even agreed to his 
suggestion that they move to the bedroom... and the way he'd touched 
her, with such expertise she'd nearly been screaming underneath him, 
had ensured her surrender.

<At least he made sure *you* enjoyed it, too> her conscience objected 
at this point, but Lois brushed the thought aside. Any experienced 
guy should be able to make sure that a woman had an orgasm.

<But Claude hadn't... and nor did Joe in college> that irritating 
voice reminded her.

She gave a mental shrug. So Kent was a better lover than either of 
them; that still didn't justify what he'd done. She would *never* 
have slept with him by any conscious choice of her own, she was sure 
of that. He'd created the circumstances - well, not the mugging, 
though it had no doubt provided the perfect opportunity for him to 
get her to his apartment. He'd plied her with alcohol, goaded her 
until she'd ended up inviting him to kiss her... and that had been it.

And yet he'd had the... the *gall* to complain about her reaction 
this morning, to claim she was practically accusing him of raping her!

<Be honest with yourself, Lois; isn't that pretty much what you 
*were* doing?> her inner voice annoyingly pointed out. She took a 
sharp breath; *no*! She hadn't said that - she hadn't even thought 
it! She wouldn't...

<Admit it, Lois, you were willing. You are attracted to him>

That was the problem. She *had* been a willing participant, but she 
wouldn't have been if she'd been sane - no, *sober* - at the time. 
There was no way in any normal circumstances that she'd have gone to 
bed with Clark Kent. The only way she'd have done it was under some 
form of...

No! Not duress - that was the word which had almost come to mind, but 
she knew very well that wasn't true. But she wouldn't - couldn't - 
have slept with Kent if she hadn't been under the influence of 
something intoxicating. Would she?

<You weren't incapable, Lois. You knew exactly what you were doing!>

No! Clark *had* plied her with alcohol, and then used his powers of 
persuasion on her. No, he hadn't raped her, but he had made her lose 
her inhibitions; without the wine, she'd never have gone along with 
his little game. The fact that she, a grown woman, had been perfectly 
happy to enjoy the wine was irrelevant. Of course it was!

So how dare he accuse her of being unfair by turning him into the 
'bad guy'? He knew exactly what he'd done. Of course he did; he no 
doubt did it all the time.

<You weren't drunk. You know what a drunk looks like, and you weren't 
like that. And you don't even have a mild hangover>

She sighed, trying to push those thoughts aside for now. And now, she 
had to get to the Daily Planet before he capitalised on her absence 
by stealing stories. Especially Superman exclusives: Kent was showing 
that he was very determined to beat her to the finish on as many 
Superman stories as possible. And that wasn't fair; *she* had found 
him. She had broken the story of his existence, had the first 
exclusive interview. *And* she had named him.

But then she acknowledged to herself that her biggest worry wasn't 
whether Kent was busy grabbing all her stories in her absence. 
Instead, she needed to worry about what he was saying about her. Was 
he already boasting about how he'd taken Lane the Ice Maiden to bed? 
Who knew what he could be saying by now? The story was probably all 
around the newsroom, and the research floor and the morgue and the 
marketing division too, if she knew the Planet grapevine.

So how was she going to deal with that? And how was she going to cope 
with her own feelings of shame and mortification, whether he told 
anyone else or not?


***********

Because he hadn't done a Superman patrol the night before, Clark 
decided to delay his departure for work by about half an hour. He and 
Lois had put in quite a bit of overtime recently, covering Superman 
for the paper, so he figured that Mr White wouldn't object. And 
anyway, he needed some more time to calm down and collect his 
thoughts before seeing Lois again. He had no idea how he was going to 
behave towards her; he just hoped that she would have the good sense 
and diplomacy to keep their personal situation out of the newsroom. 
He certainly intended to. He *could* be polite to her, but only if 
she reciprocated. If she intended to brand him publicly as the 
'bastard' she'd labelled him that morning, it would be very difficult 
to maintain a facade of good manners towards her.

He *did* want to talk to her, to clear the air if possible and 
explain his side of what had happened, perhaps even to apologise if 
she really did think that he should have realised she'd had too much 
to drink, but he knew that there was no way they could have that 
conversation at work. The best he could hope for was to persuade her 
to come for a drink - non-alcoholic - with him after work, if she'd 
calmed down by then. Though he suspected that was probably unlikely...

Maybe tomorrow. Or some time next week...

It was some seconds before he realised that his flight-path had 
carried him over the part of town where Lois had been mugged the 
previous evening. He didn't know whether this was pure accident, or 
something subconscious, but he was just about to accelerate and head 
for another part of the city when something caught his eye in an 
alley not far from the building they'd been in.

He flew down and went straight for the large refuse container... yes, 
that was a black strap hanging out of it. Frowning, he pulled at the 
strap; that looked like Lois's purse. He used his X-ray vision to 
check the interior, and saw Lois's press pass as well as a photo of 
Lois with her sister Lucy. There were no bank cards, and no cash 
either.

He scanned the purse carefully, looking for fingerprints, but even 
his eyes could only detect one main set of prints - Lois's, no doubt 
- and a very blurred set which he knew he wouldn't be able to do 
anything with, so it was unlikely that the police would. He 
hesitated, wondering whether he should hand it to the police, but 
then wasn't sure how he'd explain having found it. Superman wasn't 
even supposed to know that Lois Lane had been mugged.

For a brief instant he entertained the thought of taking it to her as 
Clark. That would make her think twice about some of the things she'd 
said to him; she'd have to eat humble pie and thank him.

But he quickly rejected the idea. He knew enough about Lois by now to 
realise that she wouldn't back down that easily; he might get a 
grudging thanks, but nothing more. And she'd want to know why Clark 
Kent was searching in dumpsters for her purse; she'd no doubt accuse 
him of trying to impress her, or, even worse, suggest that he was 
somehow in league with the mugger.

In the end, he went back to his apartment and wrapped it in an 
anonymous plastic bag, including a note written in stiff block 
capitals.

"I FOUND THIS AND THOUGHT YOU WOULD WANT TO HAVE IT BACK.
SUPERMAN."

He would find a way to leave it on her desk in the newsroom.


************

Lois finally arrived at the Planet shortly before noon, tired, 
frustrated and still very upset and angry about the night before. 
Walking out of the elevator, she looked anxiously around her, 
expecting to be the focus of sniggers and nudge-nudge-wink-wink 
gestures. To her surprise, no-one looked at her.

As she walked to her desk, Jimmy came running over to her. "Lois - 
where've you been? The Chief said you called and said you had things 
to do, but that was hours ago and I think he's getting a little 
cranky now."

Lois frowned; didn't people know she'd been mugged and had to deal 
with the aftermath? Surely Clark would have told them that, as an 
explanation for why she'd been at his apartment in the first place... 
unless he wanted people to assume that he'd been as successful in his 
chat-up lines as in his seduction technique. She told Jimmy to tell 
Perry that she'd be in to see him in a minute, and proceeded to her 
desk. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Clark Kent at his 
desk, diagonally opposite hers, but she averted her gaze. Just as she 
did so, she noticed him glancing up, but looking away swiftly; his 
expression was unreadable.

There was a package of some sort on her desk. Curious, she opened it, 
and to her amazement her purse was inside. It was a bit battered and 
dirty, but... but what was it *doing* there? She opened it quickly, 
and discovered to her delight that, even though things like keys and 
cards and cash were all gone, her other personal items were intact, 
though left scattered loose.

A piece of paper fluttered to the floor, and she reached down to grab 
it. Scanning the note, she felt her stomach flutter. *Superman* had 
found it? Superman had brought it to the Planet for her? And she'd 
missed seeing him!

Jimmy passed her desk again on his way somewhere, and she grabbed his 
arm. "How did this get here?" she demanded, gesturing at the bag.

He shrugged. "Hey, Lois, I may look like I spend all my waking hours 
in this place, but I promise you, I don't! I have no idea where that 
came from or how it got there."

Disappointed, she released him. Sensing that she was being watched, 
she allowed her gaze to flick very briefly over to Kent, but he was 
already turning away. He would know, some instinct insisted; but 
there was no way she was going to ask him.

Instead, she contemplated calling the police to tell them that her 
purse had been recovered, minus valuables, but decided against it. 
Since they clearly hadn't shown any interest in trying to recover it 
themselves, and it was unlikely they'd ever catch the thief, what was 
the point?

It was time to see Perry, before he came out and started demanding 
whether she wanted to be put onto a part-time contract. And anyway, 
there were things she might want to say to Perry, depending... well, 
depending on exactly what Kent had been saying about her.

Nothing, it seemed; though Lois thought cynically that he was 
probably biding his time. Waiting for the right opportunity, and the 
right audience, no doubt. Perry had other concerns on his mind, since 
it seemed some Government agents had been sniffing around the Planet 
looking for information on Superman. They hadn't identified 
themselves, but one had called the man in command 'Trask,' and 
apparently Kent had managed to discover the man's full name and rank 
after they'd left.

They had already interviewed Kent, who apparently had *not* been at 
all happy at the idea, and wanted to talk to Lois as well. The 
alternative, she discovered when she protested, was having her 
computer confiscated and searched. She decided on the interview, 
which, it seemed, would probably occur the following day.

"Okay, Lois, but once you've seen off these guys I want you and Kent 
to investigate them. Find out who they are, who signed their orders 
and what the heck they're doing in my newsroom!" Perry ordered, 
looking more furious than Lois had ever seen him before.

But he'd given her an instruction she just couldn't comply with. 
Shaking her head in raw denial, she spoke jerkily. "No... Chief, no. 
I can't."

"Can't *what,* Lois? What the Sam Hill is going on here? You're my 
best reporter, Lois, and I need you on this! I want to know what this 
Colonel Jason Trask is up to!"

"And I'll find out," she promised. "Just not with Kent. I can't work 
with him, Perry," she whispered.

He frowned, then stared at her. "Judas Priest, Lois, I thought you'd 
got over that! I know you didn't want to work with him on the 
Messenger explosion, but even you had to admit that he did a good 
job! Kent's a good reporter, Lois. I know he doesn't have your 
experience or your instincts, but he'll learn. And he's intelligent, 
so it's not as if you're dragging around someone who can't keep up 
with you - "

"Chief!" Lois bit out, interrupting him. "It's got nothing to do with 
that. It's... personal. I just can't work with him."

His eyes narrowed. "Lois... are you okay? Did Kent do something I 
should know about?"

She was briefly tempted... but only very briefly. This was personal, 
and not something she wanted to drag into the newsroom. She didn't 
want anyone to know what she'd been stupid enough to do, anyway. 
Shaking her head, she denied his suggestion. "No, Chief - I told you, 
it's personal. I... don't like him and don't want to work with him."

Perry was silent for a few moments, then he nodded. "Okay. I don't 
like it, but if you're telling me that's the way it is, then okay. 
You work alone. I'm just going to have to put Kent on a different 
story, which is a pity because he was all fired up to work on this 
one..."

He paused, and raised an eyebrow at Lois as if to ask whether she was 
going to change her mind. She stared unblinkingly at him, and after a 
while he sighed deeply. "Go on, get out of here, Lois. I've got a 
newspaper to run."


************

Clark sat at his desk, pretending to work but unable to focus on 
anything in front of him. Today had gone from being terrible to being 
the worst day of his life. As if Lois's reaction on seeing him 
earlier hadn't been bad enough, he'd come into work to find some FBI 
agents demanding information on Superman. Why did the FBI need to 
know about a Spandex-clad Super-hero anyway? And, of course, because 
he was one of the reporters who had written Superman stories, he was 
prime target for their questions. He'd managed, with difficulty and 
not without the surreptitious use of some Super-powers, to pass the 
lie-detector test, but it had been obvious that the man in charge, a 
Colonel Trask, wasn't satisfied.

What did this mean? Were his father's fears finally going to be 
realised - *was* he going to be caught, and stuck in a laboratory, 
and dissected? Always assuming they could manage it, he thought with 
a cynical smile. On the other hand... He still had no idea who or 
what he was. What if he really was a government experiment - but a 
*US* government experiment? What if now was the time his creators had 
chosen to claim him? The thought made him go cold with fear and 
horror.

He *liked* his life. He was Clark Kent, reporter, working in the job 
he'd wanted ever since he'd started journalism school. He was working 
for the greatest paper in the country; he'd been there for under 
three weeks, and already he'd had three front-page stories. There was 
no way he wanted to give up that life because some government 
scientists who'd played God with genetics wanted their creation back.

So he *had* to find out what was going on; what Trask's agenda was 
and, if possible, who *he* was. Because he wasn't really Clark Kent. 
That was only the name his parents had given him when they'd adopted 
him. So perhaps he should try to see Trask's visit as an opportunity 
as well as a threat.

Perhaps. But he had a bad feeling about all this.

Then Lois had arrived; he'd watched her, wondering whether she'd 
calmed down at all and whether he could persuade her to talk to him. 
He'd toyed with the idea of inviting her for lunch, somewhere quiet 
where they could talk about what had happened. He could explain that 
the idea of getting her drunk had never crossed his mind and that he 
hadn't thought she was drunk anyway, and tell her that... well, maybe 
*not* tell her how much making love with her had meant to him, but at 
least try to get her to accept that he wasn't some kind of Casanova 
with a score-chart above his bed.

But she'd ignored him completely.

Her expression as she'd crossed the newsroom had told him that she 
wasn't over her temper, not by a long way. He'd mentally written off 
his plans to talk to her over lunch, though he knew that this was a 
conversation which shouldn't be avoided for too long. There were 
other concerns, one of which had only occurred to him after he'd 
arrived at work.

He'd seen her expression when she'd found her purse; delight, 
combined with chagrin that she'd missed seeing Superman. <Yeah, 
right> he thought bleakly, watching her ask Jimmy who had put the 
package on her desk. <If she only opened her eyes, she'd realise just 
how close to her Superman is...> Not that he really wanted her to 
know. Not now. It wasn't a good idea at all....

Now, if she'd thought to ask *Clark Kent,* the guy sitting almost 
opposite her, who'd left the package there... but he knew she 
wouldn't.

When she'd gone into Mr White's office, he'd been unable to resist 
listening in on some of the conversation. He hadn't even bothered 
trying to justify his eavesdropping to his conscience; he knew it was 
wrong, and he didn't care. He needed to know whether Lois was trying 
to get him sacked, for one thing.

The fact that she didn't do so gave him little cause for comfort. 
She'd made it very clear to their editor that there were good reasons 
why she and Clark could not work together. That was not going to do 
him any favours at all.

As Lois emerged from the editor's office, Clark tried to look busy; 
he didn't want to give the impression of having been watching for 
her. Pulling up a search engine on the Planet network so that he 
could begin checking out Colonel Jason Trask's credentials, he mused 
bleakly that whoever had said getting involved with someone you work 
with was a bad idea had been right. It was a *terrible* idea.

But they were both adults; they should be able to be professional and 
put it behind them. He *would* do that... once his body stopped 
reacting as soon as he saw Lois, once the memories of last night had 
faded into nothing, once he...

"Kent! In here!"

His thoughts were interrupted by the editor demanding his presence. 
Unsurprised, he entered the office and closed the door behind him. 
"You wanted to see me, Mr White?"

"Yeah. I have no idea what's gone on between you and Lois, Kent, and 
I don't much care. What I do know is I have a newsroom to run and a 
paper to get out, and it *doesn't* help me when one of my reporters 
refuses to work with another!" Perry White paused, and Clark avoided 
the older man's gaze. This was *not* all his fault, and he had no 
intention of taking the blame, but he had only been at the Planet a 
couple of weeks. Lois, on the other hand, had been there a few years. 
So, if Mr White was saying that he couldn't *employ* two people who 
couldn't work together...

But he wasn't. After a moment or two, the editor continued. "I'm not 
assigning any blame here, Clark. I know what Lois is like, and I'm 
not leaping to any conclusions. But I'm going to have to take you off 
that FBI story, since Lois is working on it."

"But I've already made a start - " Clark protested.

"Doesn't matter," the editor interrupted him. "If you've got anything 
useful so far, you give it to me and I'll pass it on to Lois. Look, 
Kent," he added, more gently, "I need an experienced reporter on this 
case. And out of the two of you, that has to be Lois. She's got far 
more contacts in this town, for a start." He sighed, then added, "You 
work with Myerson on the mayor's tax plans, okay?"

Clark reluctantly agreed, knowing that he didn't have a lot of choice 
and resenting Lois for being the cause of this setback. He didn't 
like it at all; working on this story had been one legitimate way of 
finding out just what Jason Trask and his superiors knew about a 
small baby abandoned in Smallville in May 1966.

It seemed that he would just have to sneak around, using his powers, 
and find out what he could behind both Perry's and Lois's back.


************

Lois was feeling frustrated. She'd spent most of the afternoon trying 
to track down this Colonel Trask, and coming up against a complete 
blank. The FBI had actually disowned him, which was a first for that 
organisation. In her experience, the FBI's response to most things 
was a bland 'no comment;' in this case, a senior information officer 
had called her personally to inform her that no-one by the name of 
Jason Trask was employed by the FBI in any capacity.

So was he a fake? What was he up to? It was all very suspicious.

A further major irritation was the continuing presence of Clark Kent 
only a few feet away from her. He seemed to be keeping out of her 
way, but he was *there;* any time she raised her gaze from her 
monitor she could see him out of the corner of her eye. And seeing 
him brought back lots of reminders she simply didn't want; memories 
of her anger at waking up and finding herself in his bed, the feeling 
of betrayal she'd experienced when she'd discovered that he was just 
like any other male. Only after one thing, no matter how much he'd 
insisted that she could trust him.

But at the same time, more frustrating memories kept flooding her 
brain: how it had felt when he'd kissed her, the sensation of his 
skin under her fingers, the way he'd stroked and caressed her when 
they'd moved to his bedroom, how she had felt when they'd moved on to 
still more exciting things. No matter how much she now regretted it, 
how much she hated him for having taken advantage of her, she knew 
that last night had been probably the best sex she'd ever had.

But she hadn't *wanted* it! And not with Clark Kent.

She ignored the nagging voice of her conscience which insisted that 
there hadn't been a lot of advantage-taking going on; in fact, it 
could as easily be argued that she'd taken advantage of him. She 
didn't want to admit anything of the kind! She didn't want to think 
about that incident in any way other than negative. She didn't *want* 
to have any kind of relationship with Clark Kent; she would have 
given almost anything just to be able to go back in time twenty-four 
hours to wipe out the entire incident.

It wasn't just that she worked with Kent, although that was part of 
the problem. After the Claude incident, she had determined *never* to 
get involved with a colleague ever again. It just carried too many 
risks. And she didn't want to be a main topic of conversation in the 
men's room; she didn't want to wonder continually if her lover was 
telling his pals all about their sex life. Nor did she want to cope 
with the inevitable fallout at work after a relationship ended.

There were other reasons for not wanting to get involved in any way 
with Clark Kent. He wasn't her type, for a start - he was far too 
much of a country hick, for one thing, and he was also profoundly 
irritating. He needed to smarten up, treat her with more respect and 
generally acquire a *lot* of street-smarts before he could even begin 
to cut it in the city and in the Daily Planet. She had little or 
nothing in common with Clark Kent.

<But you had no trouble carrying on a conversation with him last 
night!> her conscience reminded her. Kent had shown that he was both 
intelligent and articulate, and he had a wickedly subtle sense of 
humour.

That was irrelevant, she told herself. She had no interest in him at 
all on a personal level, and last night had been a *mistake.* A 
mistake he had contributed substantially to, by making sure that her 
inhibitions were lowered enough so that she would go along with his 
sly seduction technique. She should have guessed what he was really 
like under that faux-naive exterior; should have realised that he was 
a complete womaniser. She'd even seen him flirt with Cat, on his very 
first day at the Planet - hadn't that been enough of a warning for 
her?

Well, never again. And Clark Kent could whistle for the opportunity 
to work with her again; she'd told Perry that she wouldn't work with 
him, and she meant it.

A tiny voice again suggested to her that perhaps her anger was being 
directed at the wrong target; that she was blaming Clark so that she 
didn't have to face the unpalatable truth that she'd broken her own 
rules *again.* That Clark wasn't really the person she was upset 
with. The humiliation was all self-inflicted, and the only reason she 
was focusing on Clark Kent as the villain here was so that she didn't 
have to face up to the reality that this situation was all her own 
fault. Tears stung the back of her eyes as she tried to shut her mind 
to this possibility; it *was* Kent's fault. He *had* deliberately 
seduced her!

A phone call distracted her then; a few minutes later, she replaced 
the receiver, all thoughts of Kent forgotten. She had a lead!

On her way out of the newsroom, Kent suddenly appeared in front of 
her. "Lois, we need to talk," he announced, his tone quiet.

"I'm on my way out," she informed him bluntly, not wanting to talk to 
him at all. "And anyway, I said all I want to say to you this 
morning."

"This is important," he insisted, following her into the elevator.

The doors closed before she could dart out again, leaving her trapped 
with him. She was *not* going to show him that she was uncomfortable 
with the situation, she determined, and simply selected the button 
for the ground floor. He pressed the 'stop' button, however, and 
leaned against the control panel to prevent her starting the elevator 
again.

"Get away from there!" she demanded coldly, determined not to let him 
see how much she was shaking inside - from fear, from humiliation, 
from the force of the memories of him kissing her, touching her, 
sliding into her... "You want me to report you to Perry for stalking 
and harassment?"

"I just want to ask you something," he replied quietly, though she 
could see an oddly determined expression in his eyes.

"What?" she demanded, intentionally rudely.

"Well, to tell you something and then ask you something," he amended. 
"I wanted to *tell* you that I had no intention of getting you drunk 
last night, and I'm sorry you thought I did. I really didn't realise 
we'd had so much to drink, and I apologise for that."

She didn't respond, deliberately looking away from him; she hoped he 
would interpret her silence as meaning that she had no interest in 
the conversation. She did *not* want to talk to him; did *not* want 
to be reminded of last night in any way. She just wanted the whole 
subject dropped and forgotten about; better still, she wanted to 
pretend that last night had never happened.

"And I want - need - to ask you: is there any possibility that you 
could be pregnant?" His voice sounded strained. No wonder, Lois 
thought cynically once she'd recovered from her own momentary shock; 
she was amazed that the possibility of pregnancy hadn't even occurred 
to her. The reason for his question - and the strain in his voice - 
was evident. Kent was no doubt panicked at the thought that he might 
actually have to take some responsibility for the consequences of his 
actions. The idea that a child might result from one of his 
one-night-stands was obviously scaring him rigid.

Well, she had no use for a man who couldn't face up to his 
responsibilities anyway. But beyond that, she didn't want Clark Kent 
having any role in her life in any sense, so the prospect of having 
his child filled her with horror. But she wasn't on the Pill at the 
moment, which meant that pregnancy was a definite possibility. 
Resolving to make an appointment to see her doctor first thing in the 
morning to arrange emergency contraception, she turned a cold gaze on 
Kent.

"Rest assured, Kent, that I would do everything possible to ensure 
that I am *not* carrying your child," she bit out. "You'd never even 
know about it." He flinched slightly at her words, and she realised 
that she'd probably given him the impression that she would even 
contemplate abortion to avoid that outcome. Whatever her principled 
views on the subject in general, she wouldn't ever consider it for 
herself; but she had no intention of telling him that.

Anyway, it was no doubt what he would want her to do in any case, so 
she'd just saved him the trouble of insisting on it.

"Now, are you going to let me go to see my source, or do I have to 
start screaming for help?" she demanded icily.

He didn't answer; instead, he pressed a button on the control panel 
and the elevator began to move again. As they reached the ground 
floor and the doors slid open, he stood back to let her past as if he 
was deliberately avoiding any physical contact with her.

Ignoring him, she stalked past and out of the building, on her way to 
meet Mr Thompson, the man who had called her claiming to have 
information about Jason Trask.


***********

Standing back to allow Lois to pass him, Clark felt the cold fingers 
of shocked disbelief close around his heart yet again. As if Lois's 
unexpected accusations that morning hadn't been bad enough, he was 
now having to assimilate something far worse. The idea that Lois 
would have an abortion rather than bear his child was too awful to 
contemplate; did she really hate him that much, or did that reflect 
her opinion of children in general?

He felt frozen to the spot, only remembering to move when the 
elevator doors started to close. How could the woman he'd fallen for 
at first sight have turned out to be so... so cruel, so selfish, so 
cold-hearted? Did he really have such appalling taste in women? How 
could he have been so completely wrong about Lois? Oh, he'd known 
from the start that she had a hard, stubborn exterior, but he'd been 
so sure that the few glimpses he'd had of a different Lois meant 
that, underneath, she was a much nicer person. Kind. Soft-hearted. 
Generous. Lacking in self-confidence, and looking for love... a love 
he could offer her.

Even after her reaction this morning, he'd still been sure that the 
woman he'd thought he'd glimpsed in Lois still existed; it was just 
that he had to try harder to find her.

But now... his illusions had been shattered with a few harsh words.

He'd been fooling himself. The woman he'd thought Lois Lane was did 
not exist; in her place was a cold, hard, selfish bitch. He flinched 
at his mental use of the word, but he was well aware that many men of 
his acquaintance would use it to describe her.

And he'd actually genuinely wanted to apologise; that was galling. 
Her accusation that he'd got her drunk had refused to leave his head 
all morning, and he'd finally conceded that he *had* to accept some 
responsibility there. After all, alcohol didn't affect him. He *knew* 
that. So he'd been completely sober all along, and he'd *known* that 
she wasn't. She might not have been rolling-in-the-aisles drunk, but 
she had been inebriated sufficiently for her inhibitions to have been 
lowered. And, while he couldn't explain to her why he hadn't been 
affected by the wine, he'd decided that he did owe her an apology for 
what had happened. It *had* been more his fault than hers, he 
thought, despite her very obvious willingness.

The pregnancy thing had only occurred to him after he'd made his 
decision to offer her contrition. He'd suddenly realised that he 
hadn't used any protection - he didn't *have* any to use! - and that 
he couldn't take it for granted that Lois had. He was a responsible 
adult, and responsible adults did not behave carelessly and ignore 
the consequences; so, he'd decided, he needed to let her know sooner 
rather than later that, if she was pregnant, he would be there for 
her and help her in any way she wanted. He *would* be a father to 
their child, even if she didn't want him as part of her life in any 
other way.

Well, she'd made her feelings about *that* only too clear.

Could he ever have imagined that he would feel so disillusioned the 
morning after his first time making love? Last night had, for him, 
been so incredibly special, made even more so by being with the woman 
he thought he was in love with... the woman who clearly existed only 
in his imagination. He'd wanted his first time to be special, and it 
had seemed at the time that it *was* - but now, he felt empty inside.

He inhaled deeply and then blew out sharply; he had to make himself 
forget about that wonderful night. *He* might have enjoyed it; he 
might have fooled himself that it was the start of a beautiful 
relationship, but Lois Lane certainly didn't think the same way at 
all. Far from it. And the sooner he got used to the idea - and 
accepted the fact that Lois was not the woman he'd imagined - the 
better.

Right now, though, there was something more important to focus on, he 
reminded himself. Lois had a lead on the Trask story, it seemed, so 
if he wanted to have any chance of finding out what was going on - 
who and what he was - he needed to follow her.

He strolled out of the Planet building, quickly ducking into an alley 
and spinning into his Super suit. Moments later he was hovering in 
the air above the newspaper offices, looking for his colleague; 
within a few seconds he'd spotted her in a taxi which was cruising 
down the road. A nano-second later, he was hovering several hundred 
feet above, following her to her destination.


***********

Late that evening, Clark sat cross-legged on the window seat in his 
bedroom, staring down at the small object cradled lovingly in his 
hands. For the first time in his entire life, he knew where he came 
from.

Krypton.

Just a name, that was all; in an objective sense, it meant nothing to 
him, or to anyone else. He hadn't even needed to search through all 
the published works on astronomy he could find in the Metropolis 
University Library to discover that, although he'd done it anyway. 
Krypton was nota known planet, either in this solar system or 
anywhere else. But it was the planet from whence he came. The globe 
had told him that.

He was from Krypton. *That* was what made him different; not because 
he was an experiment gone wrong and then discarded; not because he 
was a freak; not because he was just inexplicably weird.

He was an alien, from another planet. He was Kryptonian. And, 
although he had no idea why he had ended up on Earth, or where 
Krypton was, or why his birth parents - or the Kryptonian community - 
had sent him here, that didn't matter for the moment. Time enough on 
some other occasion to wonder whether there were more Kryptonians on 
Earth, whether others had grown up, as had he, in complete ignorance 
of their origins. Although, he mused, if there were and their genetic 
make-up was the same as his, why hadn't they made themselves known 
when he'd started appearing as Superman, flying and revealing lots of 
other powers?

That wasn't important for now. Now... he knew. For the first time, he 
could answer for *himself* the question: 'Who am I?'.

"I am Kryptonian. I am from another planet." He spoke the words 
aloud, feeling elated. No more wondering... well, except about *why.* 
That was still the tough part. But now he knew *who.* And he felt a 
sense of wonderment about this knowledge, a feeling which hadn't left 
him since the instant he'd lifted that tarpaulin and seen... *it*.

His parents had been astonished when he'd flown to Smallville to tell 
them. They'd been delighted for him, that he finally knew the answer 
to at least some of the questions he'd asked himself, and them, over 
and over ever since they'd realised that he was *different.* His 
mother had told him that it would have made no difference to them, in 
any case, regardless of whether he was the product of a Russian lab 
experiment or a Martian. He was their son, and they loved him. As he 
loved them, the couple who had taken in a foundling and brought him 
up as their own son, protected him all his life, and especially since 
they'd all realised just how different he was.

They'd told him again, in detail, about the night they'd found him, 
the craft he'd been lying in, their rescue of him and Jonathan's 
burial of the spaceship... and the fact that some Government agents 
had come sniffing around a few days later.

He now knew what that was all about...

Allowing his mind to backtrack, he remembered floating above the 
anonymous-looking office in which Lois had spoken to the man she'd 
gone to see, someone called Thompson who'd claimed to have been sent 
by the Government to investigate Trask, apparently a rogue agent. 
He'd seen that she hadn't believed a word the man had said either; 
then he'd been irritated as she climbed into a cab afterwards to 
follow Thompson. *He'd* planned to follow the man. This was the best 
chance he'd ever had to find out the truth about himself, and he 
didn't want to lose it because Lois Lane did something stupid and he 
had to rescue her.

But, much to his relief, she merely watched Thompson enter the 
warehouse on Bessolo before leaving. Clark had hung around for almost 
an hour before Thompson and Trask had left. To his disappointment, he 
hadn't been able to hear their conversation, since it would have 
meant hovering too low in an open area where he'd be visible to 
passers-by, but he would find them again. And in the meantime, there 
was the warehouse to search; its contents looked intriguing...

He could never have dreamed of what he would find. The file had been 
the first shock: opening a cabinet at random and flicking through, 
he'd come across files labelled by year and place. The place-names 
all seemed to ring a bell, but while he'd still been trying to figure 
out the connection, suddenly he found *it.* One slim manila file, 
labelled 'Smallville, Kansas, 1966.'

His home town. The year he was born... no, the year his parents had found him.

He scanned the file's contents at Super-speed. There had been a 
report of a strange, unidentified light streaking through the sky 
above Schuster's Field. Some unnamed local source talked about a UFO. 
There was a mention of a man, unidentified by the source, burying 
something late at night a day or two later. When B-39 sent agents to 
investigate, the file recorded, no objects were found in the field. 
But there had been a depression in the grass, graduated, as if 
something had gradually come into land and then coasted along the 
surface for a few feet before coming to a halt.

B-39... what was that? he wondered. By the look of the other files in 
this cabinet, and the contents of this file, these people were 
interested in UFOs. But who were they? Government, or some mavericks? 
Thompson, allegedly a government investigator, knew about this place 
and about Jason Trask, so Clark was inclined to believe the former... 
which made his father's advice to him all the more resonant. 
Officialdom *was* dangerous to him.

Someone in the government knew that his ship had come to Earth in 
1966, and where it landed. Therefore it was possible that someone 
could know what was in that ship, and where he was now....

His heart beating frantically, he'd forced himself to continue 
reading. The buried space craft had been discovered after a lot of 
searching, and was in B-39's possession. No trace had been found of 
any objects or living organisms which might have been in the craft.

And the file said nothing whatsoever about the origins of the craft. 
It seemed that this organisation didn't even know there had been a 
baby in there, let alone where that baby came from and why. He was no 
closer to figuring out his origins.

But - assuming that Trask was part of this B-39 operation - what if 
they now linked Superman with that space craft? What if the link had 
already been made? He'd looked again at the file in his hand, and had 
realised something. It was less dusty than the other contents of the 
cabinet, and - he scanned it with his X-ray vision - there were 
recent fingerprints on it. Someone had been looking at this file in 
the last couple of days.

Was Trask close to figuring out who Superman was? The thought had 
made him shiver with fear.

He'd shoved the file back into the cabinet, worrying about protecting 
his secret and that of his parents.

But then his attention had been drawn to the tarpaulin-covered 
objects. What if...? Breat