There is 1000% absolutely, definitely going to be fake dating in this story. REALLY. I PROMISE. We WILL GET THERE.
It's not as though it was inevitable. If it had just been the photo by itself, or Bruce being ridiculous and glib and a dick in isolation, everything probably would've just blown over.
But the photo and the interview answer put together gives the whole thing legs. It makes people feel like they're—like they're on to something, like there actually is something there to be on to. Clark starts getting phone calls that are more about looking to interview him than his own interview requests getting back to him, and the entire internet finds his Planet work e-mail, which results in a horrifying conversation with IT about how to handle his filtering now that he's getting ten times as many messages and doesn't want to answer any of them. He doesn't even get to yell at Bruce over it: this week of all weeks, there aren't any major disasters for the League to deal with, which Clark should be happier about; and Clark showing up at Bruce's office isn't going to do anything but make all this worse.
It stops being anything like funny the Tuesday after the talk show airs. There's actually a photographer waiting for Clark outside the Planet in the morning, which is just so—everyone's supposed to look at Superman, that's the whole point. That's the only way for Clark to get to be himself the rest of the time, and it's almost frightening to have that start to fall apart.
He manages to be polite, to smile while he brushes past her without slowing, but it makes him feel cornered in a way he can't shake. Which means Ron doesn't even have to say anything more substantial than "Left the honeymoon phase yet, loverboy?" to earn a glare so fierce Clark's vision actually gets a little red.
He catches himself before anything can heat up, carefully squeezes his eyes shut; but he can't stop himself from snapping, "Will you all just shut up."
"Hey, whoa," Ron says, and he's kind enough to say it easily, without any rancor of his own. "Sorry, Kent, sorry. Guess that photographer out front really got after you, huh?"
Clark sighs. The rosy tinge is gone, so he lets himself open his eyes again and look up, and Ron's gazing down at him with amiable sympathy. "Yeah, she did," Clark lies, because he feels gotten-after, even if it's not really the photographer's fault.
"And I think we can all agree nobody does annoying like reporters," Ron says.
"Some more than others," Clark says pointedly. But he offers Ron a smile after, and Ron grins at him and then claps him gently on the shoulder.
Once Ron's gone, Clark lets his head drop and presses his thumbs into his temples—with a little of the strength applied, just enough that it actually creates some real pressure against his skull. He blows out a deliberate breath and rolls his shoulders out; and when he looks up again, Lois is watching him.
She doesn't pounce right away. Her reporter's instincts are better honed than that, Clark assumes. She waits instead, lets him calm down and get a little work done; and then at half past noon a hand appears between Clark and the blank white screen where the human interest piece Perry wants by Thursday is supposed to be.
"Earth to Clark?" Lois says, waving it a little bit; and Clark stops blinking at it stupidly and makes a face at her.
"Always with the alien jokes," he says.
"They're so much funnier when I make them about you," she says, "and you're the only one who knows it. Who else am I supposed to tell them to?" She tilts her head and looks at him fondly for a second, and then crosses her arms and adds, "Come on. I'm taking you out to lunch."
"I think you're supposed to ask," Clark says, "not issue an ultimatum," but it makes for a pretty halfhearted protest when he's already getting out of his chair.
It doesn't occur to him until they're already on the street outside that maybe going out to lunch isn't the best way to minimize his visibility. But the photographer from the morning is gone, and when he glances over his shoulder, Lois says, "There are still plenty of people more interesting than Clark Kent to follow around. We aren't going to get mobbed."
"No, of course," Clark says, pressing a hand to his eyes. "Sorry."
"You're stressed," Lois says. "I understand. You don't want people looking too closely."
Clark grimaces and darts a glance at her face: she's been so much better than he deserves about the whole Superman thing, especially considering he'd died on her for a while there. When he'd first come back, she'd calmly agreed to help him lie to Perry about his death being faked; and then she'd given him his ring back and hadn't spoken to him for a month. Not because she was angry, or at least not exactly, but she'd needed the space.
They're better now—but it took time, and the last thing Clark wants to do is bury her in more Superman problems.
But she looks back at him, clear-eyed and steady, and says, "Come on. I know just the place. We'll get sandwiches the size of your head and you can tell me all about it."
The sandwiches are the size of Clark's head, pretty much, and there's also cookies about eight inches across. They're both a lot more attractive to Clark than trying to figure out how to talk about Bruce without making any references to Batman that he shouldn't, and Lois doesn't push. She waits until both sandwiches have vanished and Clark has half a cookie in his mouth before she takes matters into her own hands and says, "It was hard for me."
Clark raises an eyebrow inquiringly.
"You dying," Lois obligingly clarifies. "I loved you—I mean, I still do, but I really loved you, and then you were just gone. Which I realize wasn't great for you either," she adds quickly, "but it didn't sound like you were actually around for that much of it—"
"No," Clark agrees, once he's managed to swallow without choking. Most of what he remembers about being dead is a lot like being asleep. It hadn't even really hurt that much, by the time he was actually conscious; his body had had to get through a lot of the healing already just to make it possible for him to wake up that far.
"But we've worked all that out now, you and me," Lois says, and puts a hand over his on the table. "I mean, I feel like we have, anyway. So I do mean it, Clark: you can tell me all about it. I know there aren't a lot of people you can go to who know everything. If you need someone to talk to about your—uh, your hobby—it doesn't bother me.
"And it wouldn't bother me, you and—and Mr. Wayne—" She stops and wrinkles her nose, not seeming to notice that Clark's gazing at her with dawning horror. "That just sounds weird now. Can I call him Bruce?"
"... I'm sure he wouldn't mind," Clark says feebly, and then puts the other half of the cookie in his mouth before he can make this any worse.
FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (3/?)
It's not as though it was inevitable. If it had just been the photo by itself, or Bruce being ridiculous and glib and a dick in isolation, everything probably would've just blown over.
But the photo and the interview answer put together gives the whole thing legs. It makes people feel like they're—like they're on to something, like there actually is something there to be on to. Clark starts getting phone calls that are more about looking to interview him than his own interview requests getting back to him, and the entire internet finds his Planet work e-mail, which results in a horrifying conversation with IT about how to handle his filtering now that he's getting ten times as many messages and doesn't want to answer any of them. He doesn't even get to yell at Bruce over it: this week of all weeks, there aren't any major disasters for the League to deal with, which Clark should be happier about; and Clark showing up at Bruce's office isn't going to do anything but make all this worse.
It stops being anything like funny the Tuesday after the talk show airs. There's actually a photographer waiting for Clark outside the Planet in the morning, which is just so—everyone's supposed to look at Superman, that's the whole point. That's the only way for Clark to get to be himself the rest of the time, and it's almost frightening to have that start to fall apart.
He manages to be polite, to smile while he brushes past her without slowing, but it makes him feel cornered in a way he can't shake. Which means Ron doesn't even have to say anything more substantial than "Left the honeymoon phase yet, loverboy?" to earn a glare so fierce Clark's vision actually gets a little red.
He catches himself before anything can heat up, carefully squeezes his eyes shut; but he can't stop himself from snapping, "Will you all just shut up."
"Hey, whoa," Ron says, and he's kind enough to say it easily, without any rancor of his own. "Sorry, Kent, sorry. Guess that photographer out front really got after you, huh?"
Clark sighs. The rosy tinge is gone, so he lets himself open his eyes again and look up, and Ron's gazing down at him with amiable sympathy. "Yeah, she did," Clark lies, because he feels gotten-after, even if it's not really the photographer's fault.
"And I think we can all agree nobody does annoying like reporters," Ron says.
"Some more than others," Clark says pointedly. But he offers Ron a smile after, and Ron grins at him and then claps him gently on the shoulder.
Once Ron's gone, Clark lets his head drop and presses his thumbs into his temples—with a little of the strength applied, just enough that it actually creates some real pressure against his skull. He blows out a deliberate breath and rolls his shoulders out; and when he looks up again, Lois is watching him.
She doesn't pounce right away. Her reporter's instincts are better honed than that, Clark assumes. She waits instead, lets him calm down and get a little work done; and then at half past noon a hand appears between Clark and the blank white screen where the human interest piece Perry wants by Thursday is supposed to be.
"Earth to Clark?" Lois says, waving it a little bit; and Clark stops blinking at it stupidly and makes a face at her.
"Always with the alien jokes," he says.
"They're so much funnier when I make them about you," she says, "and you're the only one who knows it. Who else am I supposed to tell them to?" She tilts her head and looks at him fondly for a second, and then crosses her arms and adds, "Come on. I'm taking you out to lunch."
"I think you're supposed to ask," Clark says, "not issue an ultimatum," but it makes for a pretty halfhearted protest when he's already getting out of his chair.
It doesn't occur to him until they're already on the street outside that maybe going out to lunch isn't the best way to minimize his visibility. But the photographer from the morning is gone, and when he glances over his shoulder, Lois says, "There are still plenty of people more interesting than Clark Kent to follow around. We aren't going to get mobbed."
"No, of course," Clark says, pressing a hand to his eyes. "Sorry."
"You're stressed," Lois says. "I understand. You don't want people looking too closely."
Clark grimaces and darts a glance at her face: she's been so much better than he deserves about the whole Superman thing, especially considering he'd died on her for a while there. When he'd first come back, she'd calmly agreed to help him lie to Perry about his death being faked; and then she'd given him his ring back and hadn't spoken to him for a month. Not because she was angry, or at least not exactly, but she'd needed the space.
They're better now—but it took time, and the last thing Clark wants to do is bury her in more Superman problems.
But she looks back at him, clear-eyed and steady, and says, "Come on. I know just the place. We'll get sandwiches the size of your head and you can tell me all about it."
The sandwiches are the size of Clark's head, pretty much, and there's also cookies about eight inches across. They're both a lot more attractive to Clark than trying to figure out how to talk about Bruce without making any references to Batman that he shouldn't, and Lois doesn't push. She waits until both sandwiches have vanished and Clark has half a cookie in his mouth before she takes matters into her own hands and says, "It was hard for me."
Clark raises an eyebrow inquiringly.
"You dying," Lois obligingly clarifies. "I loved you—I mean, I still do, but I really loved you, and then you were just gone. Which I realize wasn't great for you either," she adds quickly, "but it didn't sound like you were actually around for that much of it—"
"No," Clark agrees, once he's managed to swallow without choking. Most of what he remembers about being dead is a lot like being asleep. It hadn't even really hurt that much, by the time he was actually conscious; his body had had to get through a lot of the healing already just to make it possible for him to wake up that far.
"But we've worked all that out now, you and me," Lois says, and puts a hand over his on the table. "I mean, I feel like we have, anyway. So I do mean it, Clark: you can tell me all about it. I know there aren't a lot of people you can go to who know everything. If you need someone to talk to about your—uh, your hobby—it doesn't bother me.
"And it wouldn't bother me, you and—and Mr. Wayne—" She stops and wrinkles her nose, not seeming to notice that Clark's gazing at her with dawning horror. "That just sounds weird now. Can I call him Bruce?"
"... I'm sure he wouldn't mind," Clark says feebly, and then puts the other half of the cookie in his mouth before he can make this any worse.