The Super Market
by CC Aiken
FLAN warning: FLuff And Nonsense contained within!
This fic has absolutely no redeeming qualities. In fact, I’ve spent the last two days trying, with no success, to scale back the level of ridiculous it reaches. Therefore, discerning readers who find FLAN unsettling should take note. And run! The other way.
The day dawned gray and overcast, the sun’s anemic efforts doing little to warm the shivering crowd below. In the middle of that crowd, in the middle of a long, long line-- which wrapped twice around a building just as gray as the sky-- stood Lois Lane and Clark Kent.
Only not.
For today, for this outing, they were firmly in the roles of Lisa Loon and Chip Klark.
“Lois--”
“It’s Lisa. Get it straight.”
Clark/Chip rolled his eyes and pressed on. “Lisa, right. Sorry. You still haven’t told me why we’re here.”
The crowd shuffled forward, tension mounting, anticipating the opening of the building doors and the dash for the warm entrance that was only minutes away. Lois/Lisa was tensed also. Ready, Clark/Chip knew, to mow down anyone in front of them who didn’t move quickly enough.
Her gaze moved, sizing up the competition, seeing who had worn the proper shoes. Seeking, searching, bouncing off everywhere and everyone... except him.
“Lois?”
“Lisa,” she snapped, this time sparing him a glance and an unconvincing smile. “You know, Chip, you look good as a blonde. And those sunglasses really do the trick.”
“You’re changing the subject.” He put a friendly arm around his wife to better adjust her flaming-red wig. “You couldn’t have gone with a more... subtle color?”
“It was last minute,” she said, chagrined. “I just saw the advertisement yesterday. I knew people would be camping out. This place only opens once a month, you know.”
“Actually, I don’t know. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me. I’m assuming you’ve got a lead on something?”
She didn’t meet his eyes, which, granted, were heavily shaded, but she could have made a show of attempting it. Instead, she focused intently on his right ear, cleared her throat a few times, and settled for, “Yeah, uh, about that...”
“Oh no.” Mental alarm system spiking to life, he tightened his hold and turned her towards him. “This is just a stake-out, isn’t it? It’s not going to be bad, right? Tell me.”
Given no choice, she returned his look, and, oh god, there was definitely mute apology in the deep brown eyes staring into his.
He swallowed hard. Ok. So. All was lost, then. He was toast; they both were. Whatever this was...
Unable to find the silencer on his now unbearably shrill mental alarm, he dropped his hands and took a step back. He stopped, listening hard. Just in case there was an emergency in progress that might require a blonde-haired, sunglasses-wearing superhero.
One could never be too careful...
She read him, of course. Read the direction his thoughts had taken. Closing the space between them, she hooked her arm through his. “No. No way. You’re not. You can’t. I promised your mother, Chip!”
Now they were getting somewhere. Though he wasn’t crazy about the place they were getting. Not if it included disguises, a stake-out in the middle of a large crowd, and his mom. One or two of those, maybe, but not all three. Never all three.
At least not this early on a Saturday.
He sighed. “What does my Mom have to do with --”
Loud cheering smothered the rest of the question. Behind him the building doors opened.
“Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the Super Market!” A man with a bullhorn stood on the threshold. “Now, there’s plenty here for everyone. No pushing. Just move in an orderly fashion up and down the aisles; they’re clearly marked. Someone will assist you in the dressing rooms.”
The man shifted just enough for Clark/Chip to get his first close look inside.
Lois/Lisa held his hand in a death grip. Or it would have been, had he felt it. He’d gone entirely numb.
“A Super Market,” he said thinly. “Funny, by the sign out front, I was thinking--”
“-- groceries, right! As in, a grocery store. A supermarket-type of, uh, supermarket. One word, not two.” She spoke with overdone cheerfulness, and what was threatening to become far too many words at once. “It’s kind of clever, isn’t it? It tells you exactly what it is, but your mind just assumes--”
“We’re not going in.”
That stopped her, even if it didn’t alter the determined set of her shoulders. “Yes, we are.”
“Not,” he said. And to prove it, he stood stock still. A logjam in the stream of humanity, which was cursing and pushing past him. Not any worse than his own wife, though.
“Clark Kent--”
“It’s Chip Klark.”
“Chip... Clark... I don’t care who you are; I didn’t stand out here freezing, looking like this, just so you could chicken out.”
He pried her fingers from his with careful ease. “This chicken is flying home. I’ll meet you there.”
“Don’t you dare! You... get back here! Or I’ll... I’ll... tell your mother! I will. I’m not bluffing.”
“Do you think I care if you’re bluffing or not?” He had to raise his voice to cover the growing space between them, since Lois... darn it... Lisa... hadn’t budged from the line.
He scoffed inwardly. She’d tell his mom? Good grief. That particular threat had lost its effectiveness when he was eight years old. His fake-redheaded partner could say whatever she wanted to say, to whomever she wanted to say it. It made absolutely, positively no difference.
“What are you going to tell her?” he heard a voice suspiciously like his own ask.
Rats.
It was his voice. Not that it meant anything. He was a reporter. He asked things. Investigated stuff...
“What-- ” he repeated, raking his fingers through his really bad dye job. Lois had sworn it would wash right out, and he was going to hold her to that. “-- are you going to tell Mom?”
She took pity on him, the combativeness leaving her face as she gave up her spot to join him. “Martha’s just tired. Tired of having to sneak out of town to find blue spandex whenever it goes on sale. Tired of repairing the wear and tear. The water spots she can’t get out of the red silk. It’s a lot of work. We need spares, half a dozen, ready-made. And the Super Market is the place.”
“Mom really said that?” He glanced nervously towards the line, pitching his voice low. “She could have told me. I can sew. It’s just that she’s always done it, so, I didn’t think...”
“Don’t beat yourself up. You can’t help it if you’re really hard on those suits.”
“You would know,” he said, letting her tug him back to the line. Their place in it was long since gone, but with Lois, he knew that wasn’t going to be a problem.
She glared their way through the doors, parting would-be protestors with the arch of her brow.
“All those vats of acid,” he murmured. “Underground lairs covered in dust, rat vermin, and who knows what else. Smoke damage, bomb debris, and what was it last week?”
“It was toxic slime. Are you implying something, by any chance?”
“No. No. Not implying. Just thinking out loud here. Wondering. Maybe if I didn’t have a certain reporter to look after, I’d still be in the original suit. And it’d be like brand new.”
“I’m just keeping you on your game. You should thank me.” She smirked at him, and he tried and failed to stay mad at her.
“So, the disguises are...”
“... for our protection. We can’t be associated with this.” She waved her arms over the market with a flourish. He forced himself to take a long, slow look. Then closed his eyes before the images were burned into his retinas, half-fearing it was too late.
“For Mom’s sake,” he said through gritted teeth. “And yours, Lo--, er, Lisa.”
“Good man,” she replied. “Where do you think we start?”
He shrugged. He was here. He would do whatever he had to do, but he wasn’t looking forward to entering the sea of people churning around them.
“Hey,” he said, on the heels of that thought. “I understand what we’re doing here, but what about everyone else? Why on earth would all these people need--?”
“Halloween parties!” Lois’s face was suddenly burning as red as the horrid shade on her head. “Ok? It’s all for Halloween. And I don’t think we should dwell on any other possibilities.”
“Deal,” he vowed, getting the picture. “I won’t. Halloween is... a big holiday. People really... enjoy it.”
“Yes! That’s it exactly!” Her answer was far too bright, too loud, but he loved her all the more for it.
Unbidden, he chuckled. “Though... it is kind of interesting that it’s all couples here. And... I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we aren’t the only ones wearing disguises.”
“It’s for Halloween,” she ground out, face set forward.
“Which is nine months away. Some kind of advanced planning, huh?”
Her answer was stone silence.
“Where exactly did you see that advertisement, Lisa? I hope you don’t mind me asking. There’s so much about you I don’t know.”
She muttered something he pretended he was unable to hear. Cupping his hand to his ear, he leaned in. “I’m sorry. Did you say ‘from Ralph’s personal collection of periodicals’?”
She shook her head sadly. “I don’t think things are going to work out between us, Chip. I’ve just decided. You’re not my type.”
“I can change!” he declared in mock dismay. “For you, I can be... Superman!”
“I liked you better when you were too afraid to come inside. Before I scared you with your mommy.”
“Now, see here,” he growled, looming over her, enjoying the spark in her eyes, the music in her spurt of laughter...
“Ah. A-hem.”
The raised voice made them start like guilty children. A smiling, pleasant saleswoman approached. “Are you in need of assistance? I assure you, it only looks confusing...”
“Get rid of her,” Lois muttered.
“She works here,” he breathed.
“... but it’s very well laid out. Aisle one is boots. With laces and without. Aisle two is capes. Differing lengths and weights, but the shade is exact!”
”Oh... good,” Clark said, since she seemed to want him to say something, and Lois was suddenly deeply involved in pretending she had nothing to do with the conversation. He could feel her impatience, aware she wanted to do this without supervision.
Encouraged by his polite interest, at least, the woman turned and pointed. “Next you have aisle three. Spandex. There’s a natural slow-down there because it’s hard to know the right size. Someone will take your measurements.”
“Measurements?” He tossed Lois a mournful look, which she pretended not to see, just as thoroughly as she was pretending not to hear. It was as if she had... reverse superpowers.
“Then that just leaves aisle four. Belt and briefs. The belt is standard, but by popular demand the briefs are varied. There’s original design, of course. Some designer labels. Some novelty ones. And then, there’s our bestseller...”
“Your bestseller?” No longer deaf and blind, Lois broke-in. “You actually have a bestselling... brief?”
”Oh, goodness, yes.” The woman’s already wide smile widened considerably. “Our clients come from all over for them. Some travel hundreds of miles. They’re not available on the internet, you know.”
“Uh... no,” said Clark faintly. “We didn’t. Know that. That is.” And then he fell silent, lost in implications he just... didn’t care to be lost in. At all.
“Shall we get started on aisle one?” asked the woman they were clearly not going to be rid of. “What size boots, sir?”
“Aisle four,” said Lois. “We’ll start there.”
The saleslady hesitated. “It’s... irregular. Out of order. See, you’ll want to build your suit piece by piece.”
“The red brief piece,” Lois persisted. “That’s where I want to start.”
“But isn’t that rather like having the dessert before--”
“Stop right there,” Lois said, cool menace in her eye. “We’re the customers, and the customer is always right, right? So... let’s move it, lady.”
Wide smile long since wiped clean, the woman turned and fled, not even daring a look back to see if they were keeping up.
Since everyone else had gone with a more orderly piece by piece approach, aisle four was unpopulated. High shelves of warm polished wood stretched to the ceiling. And just as promised, they were filled with briefs in every size.
“As far as the eye can see,” Lois teased him, having heard his strangled exclamation.
“I think it would have been easier to start with the boots,” he whispered back. “That way we could just... get used to it. Like wading into cold water.”
She rolled her eyes at him, just as she should, he conceded. When did Lois Lane ever wade into anything?
And speaking of Lois Lane...
L-O-I-S L-A-N-E.
Her name. The letters- eye-catching and glinting under the lights- were waving right before his eyes.
“The bestseller,” trilled the saleswoman in whose hand the Lois Lane banner flew. “Oh, I wish you could see your faces.”
Lois tried, but Clark beat her to it. In a blur he hoped wasn’t too obvious, he snatched the cloth from the woman’s hand, turning it over in his own. From the front it was just a simple pair of red briefs. It looked exactly like Superman’s, down to the usual weight and feel.
But from the back...
He flipped it over, Lois’s gasp telling him he hadn’t been hallucinating.
“Why is my... Why is Lois Lane’s name sewn onto the back of Superman’s underwear?”
Clark tensed. That had been asked quietly, almost conversationally. And that was bad.
The saleslady, not seeing it, not knowing about the quiet, and the badness it foretold, laughed. “Well, there was that item about the two of them in the paper a few years back...”
“A tabloid,” Lois said, again very quietly. “By no means a real newspaper.”
Clark stifled a groan.
“And the name isn’t sewn on,” their saleslady forged ahead. “It’s beaded on with genuine crystals from the deepest caves in Angora. You don’t find that quality just anywhere. See how they reflect the light? The little prisms of color?”
“I see,” said Lois, this time so quietly Clark knew he had to do something, say something. Pity he was a complete blank. “So, since you people believe that tabloid article, you thought it would be nice to decorate Superman’s butt with a married woman’s name?”
The quiet was dissolving rapidly.
Shoving the offending garment back onto the shelves, Clark opted for the fast exit. Possibly the ‘invisible to the human eye’ exit...
“We don’t believe either Superman or Lois Lane would cheat,” he said with as much dignity he could manage. And considering that they were talking about his marriage and his underwear -- which, to be fair, he never actually wore under anything-- he thought he sounded pretty good. “We need to leave.”
“I see,” said the deflated saleswoman. “We do have other kinds. The originals, perhaps?”
Clark shook his head, one eye on Lois. “We’re going to leave now.” But he was wishing out loud. He knew that, even before she confirmed it immediately.
“Oh no, we’re not.” All her quiet well and truly gone. “Not without those briefs, we’re not! We’re buying them!”
“We’re buying them?” he repeated back to her, his volume matching hers. “We are not! We don’t condone this!”
“Exactly. We don’t. So we’re buying them. All of them. Every. Last. Pair.”
They faced off for less than a blink in time. Then she was moving- whirling, scattering, pulling briefs off the shelves by the handful. Shoving them into her purse, her pockets, his pockets, his arms...
“Honey,” he tried, though it was a lame attempt. He’d learned to recognize these moments, these ‘Lois will throw me under a bus if I interfere’ moments.
“How many have you already sold?” Lois turned on the poor, poor woman whose only sin had been thinking they were a couple in need of some direction. “I want names. I want addresses. I want the manufacturer’s head on a shiny, genuine crystal platter...”
“Honey,” he said, loudly, more firmly, because bus or not, this was headed down the tubes faster than Lex Luthor could fall off a building. “Have you seen the price for just one pair?” He tried to catch her eye over the stack he was holding, though it was now chin-high. “Look at the tags. These are expensive.”
“They’re handmade,” the saleswoman squeaked. “Hand stitched.”
“Handmade!” Lois whooped in mad laughter. “Did you hear that? If Martha only knew there was a market for this! Your parents could buy another hundred acres.”
“Lisa,” he said warningly, pointedly. “Let’s not bring... Chip’s... parents into this.”
She wasn’t listening. She was digging into her purse. She was pulling out her credit card. “Ring them up. We’re paying.”
“Lois... Lisa... we talking about thousands of dollars.”
“Then look the other way while I steal them!”
“What? No! You know I can’t... we can’t...”
“I do know, you overgrown Boy Scout. You leave us no choice. We’re buying them. Even if we have to take out a second mortgage!”
“A second...?” He dropped the pile he was holding. “Have you lost your mind? We can’t afford that. Let’s just... take a deep breath. Get some perspective. We are talking about underwear here. Underwear! It’s nothing...”
“Easy for you to say! You’re not the one whose name is splashed across it. In sparkly, shimmering, glittering for the entire world to see, letters!”
“Easy for me to say! Easy for me? Whose backside are these things meant to be on? I thought I was Superman, but it turns out I’m just a pair of cheeks. A kinky, flashing, flying billboard!”
“So we’re agreed. A second mortgage. And the names and numbers of every last person who has ever purchased a pair.”
“Eep,” said the saleswoman, sinking to the bench which lined the aisle, and which was now lined in the red briefs Lois was flinging.
“Get a shopping cart, lady,” Lois snarled at her. “Get two. Get the whole damn fleet. And lock the doors. This place is closed.”
“Are you... Are you two...? Are you two, really...?” She was peering at them closely. Her gaze moving between them, finally landing in his blonde hair, studying it with a new sharpness.
“Ah...no. No. We’re not... two anything. We’re just... it’s a... hard time for us. Uh, we have issues and deep-seated... complex... emotional things. We’re just...not.” He shook his head. “I don’t think this will save our marriage, do you? The costume and roleplaying and... such?”
He watched as she melted back onto the bench, relief washing over her, over him too, in near visible waves.
Then he turned towards Lois. Wig eschew, jaw set, a windmill of energy and outrage.
He sighed. And pulled out his wallet. “I think between my credit cards and hers, we can cover it. And we will need those carts.”
Since it was undoubtedly the single biggest commission she would ever receive from a pair of crazy people, she moved at superspeed to get them through the check-out. And she looked the other way when they signed their names, the real ones, to their receipts.
The night fell, dark and blustery, the moon’s faint glow doing little to illuminate the quiet house below. In the middle of that house, the one place they could truly be who they were, sat Lois Lane and Clark Kent, huddled closely on the sofa. Two bottles of wine long since drained were discarded on the coffee table. Every other flat surface was buried under countless pairs of handmade, hand stitched, recently sold-out red briefs.
“The important thing,” Lois was explaining, slurring only slightly, “is that we stayed cool. Calm. We didn’t blow our cover.”
“Well, we’re seasoned professionals. Grace under pressure, and all that.” Clark eased Lois off his shoulder just enough to look into her bleary eyes. “And now for the serious question...”
“Mmmm?”
“Which one of us is going to call Mom and tell her Lisa Loon and Chip Klark flew away from the Super Market with three years worth of credit card debt, but not a spare suit to speak of?”
“I kn- kn-ew you were afraid of her,” Lois/Lisa hiccupped, and fell immediately asleep, settling the question conclusively.
“Maybe it can wait,” Clark/Chip told his sleeping partner, his eyes scanning the room. “At least until we find the phone.”
The end.
Dedicated to Hatman, who treated me to his company and an ice cream sundae last week.
