I'm slowly trying to combine L&C and The animated DC universe to create a new universe. This is an addition to the episode For the Man Who Has Everything with More Clois.
“What the hell is this Olsen?”
Bimbos wearing slutty Superman onesies dance across the makeshift stage. This is what I get for allowing a fifteen-year-old to help me plan a party. Superman will be humiliated! He’d never speak to me again. “I hired Blink-182 not whores!”
“They canceled,” Jimmy says. “The Steel Sirens was the next best thing!”
“Why did no one tell me?” I had Andrina (AKA Lana Lang) as a backup, but I would rather not invite Clark’s ex-girlfriend. It could get awkward if Clark came to Superman’s birthday party and his ex was there. Where the hell is that lunkhead anyway? Clark was supposed to bring the cake hours ago!
“I don’t see the problem,” Jimmy remarks. “The crowd seems to like them.”
The crowd consists of Lombard, Rolph, and a few of their sleazy friends. Their catcalls echo over the roar of the music. Otherwise, the seats are relatively empty. The women fan themselves under shaded trees, trying to escape the brutal July heat.
“You’re just as bad as them!” I scream. “This isn’t a stripper club! Superman would be scarred for life if he saw the mockery we’re making of his heritage!”
This is supposed to be a family-friendly event! The steel sluts scared off most of the families. All that remains is the Daily Planet crew, bored Gothamites, and a few Super-fans hoping to get Superman’s autograph.
This birthday party was supposed to be perfect. Superman has never celebrated his birthday before. Nothing is going according to plan. Everything that could go wrong has gone wrong.
First, incompetent Bruce Wayne double-booked the Daily Planet roof for a live interview with Jezebel Jet. I had to move the party to Centennial Park. Truly, Bruce Wayne is the most incompetent owner of the Daily Planet we ever had.
Clark promised to make a honey chamomile cake and SURPRISE! Never showed up. I had to drive all the way to Hamilton County to find a bakery that made that cake. It had to be a tea cake! Superman’s favorite cake couldn’t be something normal like chocolate or red velvet! It was as if he were deliberately making this birthday party impossible!
“He better show up soon,” Jimmy says. “I’m running out of ice.”
Jimmy had the brilliant idea to make a Superman sculpture out of ice cream. You know what they say, it’s the thought that counts. To be fair, we didn’t plan on being outside.
“He’ll be here,” I say. “He won’t miss his own birthday party,” I confirmed the time with him yesterday. He has a photographic memory, he won’t forget. Though, I told Clark to tell Superman about the party. It’s possible Clark forgot to tell Superman and I haven’t updated Clark on the location change.
Originally there was to be a video with civilians sharing their appreciation for Superman on the rooftop of the Daily Planet. After the video, some orphans were to present a handmade poster to Superman. Then we would move the party indoors for refreshments while Blink-182 provided entertainment. It was one of Clark’s favorite bands in high school, so I figured it was a safe bet Superman liked them too.
It would help if the man of the hour showed up. It’s not like Superman to miss events. I scroll through the newsfeed, hoping to see him. There’s a nasty flood in China and a landslide in the Congo, but no sign of him. Now I’m worried. I dial Clark’s number. He’s his best friend, if anyone knows where Kal is, it’ll be him. It goes straight to voice mail.
Next, I try the Superman Foundation, but the line is busy.
That leaves me no choice but to call his other incompetent friend. Bruce answers after the fourth ring. “Well, where is Kal?” In the background, I hear a humming noise that sounds suspiciously like the blades of a helicopter.
“I’m not his keeper,” Bruce says. “Ask Clark.”
“Clark is not answering his phone.”
“Hazos! Poso kairo tha kratisei tin alitheia?” A woman says.
My Greek is rusty, but I know one word. Hazos. I’ve heard Wonder Woman call Superman an idiot to his face enough times to recognize Diana’s voice. “Are you with Wonder Woman?”
“Hi, Lois!” The Amazonian responds gaily. “You’re on speaker.”
“What are you doing with Bruce Wayne?”
“We’re on a date.”
“We are?” Diana asks. “I mean we are!”
I shake my head. Typical. Is there no woman safe from that playboy? He was supposed to be interviewing Jezebel Jet! “Have you seen Superman lately?” I keep the annoyance out of my voice. I expected better from Wonder Woman. Bruce Wayne is beneath her.
“He left the Fortress not too long ago,” Diana supplies. “He probably went to Japan to get some of that spicy noodles he likes,” she guessed. “Fighting Mongul always works up an appetite.”
“Mongul?” I screech, fear ensnaring my senses. Mongul has been a thorn in Superman’s side ever since he kidnapped me and tried to blackmail Superman into stealing an artifact. “Is he okay?”
“Physically, yes,” Diana says. “Mentally to be determined.”
“You see the Man of Steel, and you tell him he’s missing a super birthday party!” I hang up. This is the last time I throw him a birthday party!
He couldn’t bother to pick up a phone and tell me he couldn’t make it! How hard is it to say, ‘Lois, I’m sorry, Mogul ruined my birthday.’ I have to hear secondhand about Mongul from his fucking, gorgeous girlfriend who is two-timing him with the Prince of Gotham.
I’m so livid I could throw him into a volcano. A month of preparation down the drain! I spent half my savings on this party! All so Superman won’t feel alone on his birthday. I wanted to show him how important he was to me. Clearly, we’re not as close as I originally thought.
“Superman is not coming,” I tell Jimmy.
“But he promised to play paintball with me!” Jimmy whined. “I got us matching vests.” The paintball obstacle course in the park was Jimmy’s idea. I hear the other kids laughing gaily in the distance. Their colorful capes and tights flash through the thick trees.
“You can play with Clark when he returns,” I suggest.
“Mr. Kent is boring,” Jimmy makes a face. “And what about Superman’s birthday gifts?”
“I’ll just take them. Hopefully I’ll run into him.”
I load the heartfelt poster, a bunch of framed fan art, and books in the back of the jeep. It’s funny one fan got him a signed copy of ‘Tales of the Weird and Unexplained.’ Clark has that book. Inside the cover is a sweet note:
‘Thank you for keeping me safe and being a beacon of hope. I hope you read this book and think of me on long winter nights. I want you to know you’re not alone. I’m here for you, always and forever.
’ Happy Birthday!
Love,
Penny Barnes.
“Get a life,” I shove the book in the very bottom of the box.
The post office at the Daily Planet is overflowing with love letters from Penny. She doesn’t know when to quit. I know him better than any girl! I feel stupid for not thinking of buying that book. It’s so much more personal than interviews from fans. I wrestled with what to get him for months. And this super-fan who never met Superman got him the perfect gift!
On the drive home, I replay the conversation with Bruce and Diana in my head. Those are two I never imagined hooking up. Bruce is an entitled, dimwitted, playboy with too much money and time on his hands. Diana is an immortal warrior princess who fights for truth and justice and empowers humans to be better versions of themselves. On the surface, she has nothing in common with a spoiled rich kid. She’s old enough to be his great, great, great, great, triple great-grandmother. She belongs with someone with a high intellect and passion for justice. Someone like Batman . . . or dare I say it, Kal-El.
Kal-El. What am I going to do with him? I can’t stay mad at him when I know he has a perfectly reasonable excuse for missing his birthday party. Today it was Mongul, last week it was Toy Man. There’s always something.
But what excuse does he have for not telling me about Mongul? I would understand. There are a thousand phone booths in the Metropolis. He could have picked any of them to phone me at! The only explanation is that I’m an afterthought. A blip in his busy day. No more important than a cat stuck in the tree.
I lug the box of presents upstairs, shifting it in my arms to unlock the apartment door. A whiff of fresh chocolate cake hits me and for a second think I accidentally stumbled into Clark’s apartment.
But no. There’s my Whitesnake pillowcase on the sofa. I set the box of presents on the coffee table and notice the TV is on. A masked man sword fights with a Sirius Black look-alike.
‘You’re using Bonneti’s defense against me.’
The man in black casually deflects his blows. ‘I thought it fitting considering the rocky terrain.’
I know this movie! It’s on the tip of my tongue. Clark forced me to watch it in college. Some medieval chick flick with a dumb blonde.
“Clark?” I head into the kitchen and gasp. Superman stands at the counter smoothing whipped cream on a huge chocolate cake. A pot of chocolate ganache sits on the stove, smelling heavenly. I’m immediately self-conscious about my ice cream-stained dress.
“Superman?” I frown at his bare feet. The iconic red boots are discarded under the kitchen table. His crimson cape lays in a wad on one of the counter stools. Without the cape, he looks like a lost diver. He must be drunk, but then I recall alcohol doesn’t affect him. His pupils are blown wide and red as if he hasn’t slept in days. Tear stains glisten on his sharp cheekbones like trails of stardust. Has he been crying? Do I ask what’s wrong, mention the tears? Pretend I don’t notice. What is the protocol for this?
If he were Clark I would know exactly what to do. I’d punch him and tease him till his smile returned. We’ll go to Ace o’ Clubs and share our problems over burgers and fries. Then finish off the evening with a comfort movie and ice cream. I can’t imagine taking Superman to a restaurant. Does he even eat?
Of course, he does! He’s baking! Superman is baking in my kitchen! I’ve seen Clark bake the same cake enough times to know it’s a tuxedo cake. Funnily enough, that’s one of Clark’s coping mechanisms. When he’s stressed or depressed he bakes enough sweets to feed an army. I check the oven, smiling when I see two rows of chocolate chip cookies. A tray of half-eaten brownies is on the counter. I lick my lips. If Superman’s cooking is anything like Clark’s, I’m in for a real treat.
“Is this destress cooking or are you baking for The Salvation Army?”
“Bit of both,” he responds distractedly, focusing intently on frosting the cake. “Anything I don’t eat I give to the homeless.”
“You never cease to surprise me,” I climb onto the high stool and munch on a brownie. Juicy and a little crunchy on the outside, just like Clark’s brownies. “It’s your birthday and you’d rather be baking for strangers than celebrating.” I lick melted chocolate off my fingers.
“It’s not really my birthday,” he sighs, not meeting my eyes.
“Do my ears deceive me or did the Man of Steel lie to me?” I tease. Superman flinches, sufficiently chagrined. “You did say your birthday was July 18th, did you not?”
“According to the AI of my father, yes, that’s correct,” he admits, drizzling chocolate ganache on top of the cake and then setting it on the stove I never use.
“So it is your birthday today,” I’m confused, either it is his birthday or isn’t.
“I suppose it is.”
“You suppose? Don’t you know?”
“Yes!” he snaps, breaking the Pyrex bowl.
Gooey chocolate splutters over his suit. His eyes comically bulge out, his expression contorting into one of embarrassment I know well. I stifle a laugh. He’s as clumsy as Clark.
A blur of white nearly knocks me off the stool. Suddenly a massive white wolf pounces on top of Superman, and she licks the chocolate off the ‘S.’
“Z’ah Eira!” Superman grabs her by the scruff of the neck. Eira wriggles her butt excitedly. Superman’s arms flail about, trying to brace against the counter. He whacks the tray of brownies and they skid to the floor. “No not the brownies!” He soars to catch them but Eira beats him, chugging down the gooey brownies in the blink of an eye. “Dol fun! Kehb! NOW!”
He screams some more commands in Kryptonese and Eira finally settles beneath the sink, unhappily. “Ru’ten!” he holds up a firm hand. “No more chocolate for you!” Eira growls and turns her back on him, plopping on the rug in a huff.
It’s super hot hearing him speak Kryptonese. I’m envious of the dog. I want to lick the chocolate off his super kissable mouth.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Lane,” he speeds around my kitchen, righting everything. I’m struck dumb. Superman is cooking in my kitchen and breaking items. Take away the superspeed and skin-tight suit and it could be Clark.
I shake my head. No. Dr. Friskin and I talked about this in our last session. I’m trying to make Superman and Clark one person in a lame attempt to create my dream guy. It’s unfair to Clark to compare him to a Kryptonian and it’s unfair to Superman for me to put him on a pedestal. So he had a clumsy moment? Big deal.
“Sorry,” Superman gathers the broken glass and tosses it in the trash bin under the sink. He moves with practiced ease around my kitchen like he’s been here a million times. Clark has been here a million times. He’s cooked a fair amount of meals in this dingy kitchen.
But Superman also has X-ray vision. His apparent familiarity is because of his super senses.
“Eira is not usually this crazy,” he shoots the dog a look of reproach. “Except when chocolate is involved,” he salvages the brownies from the floor. “I’ve trained her to lick food off my apron... . so she was just waiting for me to screw up. I promise you, otherwise, she’s well-behaved. You know how it is? Chocolate can be addictive. And we never had that on Krypton. Krypton didn’t even have coffee or hamburgers.”
His rambling is beyond adorable. I want to hug and kiss him till his invulnerable lips are chapped. Chocolate flecks tangle in his black curls, making him even more irresistible. The El Crest is stained brown, but he’s never looked sexier. If I squint I can imagine he’s Clark wearing his dorky ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron. Snap out of it Lane!
“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” he says. “I can leave now.” Eira sits up, pointy ears twitching eagerly.
“No!” I jump off the stool and grab his biceps. “I mean of course you can leave if you want to,” I loosen my grip. “I’m not going to hold you against your will. If there’s an emergency that needs you . . .”
“There always is an emergency,” he says grimly. “I should patrol the city and let you recuperate from the party.”
So he hadn’t forgotten. He chose not to attend his birthday party. I would have been downright murderous a few minutes ago. But, I sense he’s slowly drowning, grasping for a reason to stay afloat.
Something brought the Man of Steel to tears and the first place he thought to come was my apartment. I should be giddy with glee. Superman could have gone to any of the Leaguers for support. Instead, he chose me; I’m too worried about him to be excited about that win.
“Or you could stay?” I offer. “It is your birthday after all . . .”
“So they keep telling me.”
“Alright, spit it out, El,” I fold my arms on the counter. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” he continues to clean. “I wanted to do something nice for you after missing the party. ” Is he trying to make me fat? There’s enough dessert here for three bridal showers.
“You’ve been here for the last two hours baking,” I observe. “Don’t bother denying it. I’ve seen Clark bake a tuxedo cake enough times to know the drill.”
He sighs heavily and sits on the stool beside me. “I bake when I’m upset.”
Add that to the long list of things Superman and Clark have in common. Now is not the time to analyze the Clark/Superman shitshow.
“Talk to me,” I stroke his arm. “You’ve got to trust someone.” Eira crawls to his side and rests her head on his knee.
My touch is Kal’s undoing. His shoulders slump and he trembles with grief. Tears pool in the corner of his eyes. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
If that were true he won’t be here. I close my hand over his. His pulse is racing. If he were Clark I would already be hugging him. Screw this.
I scooch closer and coax his head to my shoulder. I stroke his head as he quietly sobs. I hold Kal El just like I once held Clark when Lori dumped him and he thought he was destined to die alone.
“We . . . I uh had a son,” he sniffs. I stiffen, sure I misheard him. “A version of us,” he says in a hoarse whisper. He’s not making any sense. I was expecting news of Mongul killing a teammate.
“Felt so real, Lois. I could taste the pancakes,” he swallows audibly. “I tripped on Krypto’s pee and was livid . . . Van was supposed to walk him. My father was alive. Krypton never exploded.”
“It was just a dream,” I reassure him, massaging him between his shoulder blades.
“A dream I never wanted to wake up from,” he straightens. “I had a son, Van,” he squeezes my hand. “I remember his birth, his first step. Even the silly persuasive essay you made him write to convince us to get a dog,” he scratches Eira’s head, smiling sadly. "We named him Krypto."
“You don’t have a son,” I frown. Or does he? And all this time he’s hidden him from the world. But he said “you” suggesting that was our son. Kids are so far from my mind they’re in another galaxy.
“I know,” he shoves a brownie in his mouth. “Bl-awk mussy . . . Made it full real.”
“I can’t understand a word you say when you talk with food in your mouth,” I smile. “Heck, I’m having a hard time understanding you anyway.”
“Sorry,” Kal swallows a lump of brownie. “There was a gift left for me at the Fortress this morning. It turned out to be from Mongul.”
“Have you never heard of the Trojan Horse?”
“The card was from Hawkgirl. I thought it was legit.”
“You are way too trusting,” Another thing he has in common with Clark. But who’s keeping score?
“How was I supposed to know it was from Mongul? The card was from Hawkgril!” he repeats.
“You could have checked her handwriting and corroborated Hawkgirl’s story by oh . . . I don’t know ASKING her if she sent you a gift,” I say. “Two reporter friends and you haven’t learned squat. Always check the source!”
“Yeah, Clark would never be fooled like that.” Do I detect a note of sarcasm in his voice?
“So what was the gift?”
“A flower. It’s called a Black Mercy - it feeds on the life force of its host while trapping you in a dream world.”
His earlier words sink in. “In the dream world, were we married?” He gives a curt nod.
I can’t begin to fathom that. Sure. We’ve shared a few romantic moments through the years, but it was just innocent flirting. I gave up my schoolgirl crush on Superman once Clark and I got serious. Did I lead Superman on in some way?
“How is that even possible?” I ask. “ Krypton exploded. I’m a human, you’re an alien,” he flinches, hurt clouding his features. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No. It’s okay. I’m an alien,” he grits his teeth. “Call it like it is. A strange, monstrous alien that has no business dating outside his species,” he quotes. He’s been reading too much of Linda Lake’s column.
“Don’t put words in my mouth El!” I snap. “I don’t care that you’re an alien. I’m just pointing out a plot hole in your dream world. If Krypton never exploded you and I would have never met.”
“Maybe that would have been a good thing,” he shrugs off the stool. “You would have been safer if I never came to Earth.”
“And thousands, millions of people would be dead. Me included,” I point out. “You don’t want me to be dead.”
He doesn’t answer and struts to the sofa. It’s uncanny how natural he looks on the couch. Give Superman sweatpants and a Star Trek shirt, and he’ll pass for my dorky boyfriend. Nope. I’m tricking myself into seeing things that are not there.
I burrow against Kal’s side, surprised when he doesn’t retreat. His arm easily loops around me, dragging me into his lap. The heat rolling off him is like an old friend. I can’t shake the feeling we’ve snuggled here before.
“It was a nice dream,” he muses. He closes his eyes as if in pain. “I had to kill my son to break free. How can I miss someone who wasn’t real?”
“It doesn’t have to be a dream,” I brazenly kiss his cheek, secretly hoping my hunch is right. “You never know, there might be a baby El in your future.”
“Doubtful,” he says. “There are no other Kryptonians.”
Kal-El falls asleep in my arms beneath the glow of an 80s movie. A clang of swords and ominous music plays in the background. Superman’s snores deepen and it sounds like a pig broke in. I watch as the dumb princess knocks the pirate down a hill.
‘Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while.’
And it hits me. This is Princess Bride, one of Clark’s favorite chick flicks, though he would argue it’s an adventure movie, not a chick flick. Pure coincidence Superman’s comfort movie is the same as Clark’s.
Right?
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