Author's note: Just a little fluff that I came up with in an effort to procrastinate. This is set sometime after WWW in S3.
Nightshade
He had always, always loved her.
He had loved her between the hum of the Planet newsroom and the light in her eyes. Loved her for her harsh strength and for the way she wore her high heels with poise. Loved her for her brilliance and her scarlet lips and the way she lightly touched his arm in passing.
All the days that had passed before he met her seemed like wasted time. And he knew with perfect certainty that after her there was no other.
Sitting on the sofa in her living room, he watched her stand in her kitchen, drinking orange juice straight from the package. Moments later, Lois put the orange juice carton back in the fridge and slammed the door shut. She came over to him, barefoot and dressed in a pair of thin midnight blue cotton pants and a tight white tank top, and Clark thought she looked beautiful, but of course he always thought so.
“We done for tonight?” he asked her.
She smiled. “Don’t tell me you’re flaking out on me, Kent.”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost two a.m. We’ve been working on this for the past five hours.”
She playfully punched his arm. “Just kidding.” Sobering, she added, “We’re done. We’ll finish this up tomorrow.” Lois started gathering up documents from the table. “How about some coffee before you leave?”
As she rose from the sofa, anticipating his answer, he gladly accepted. While she set to work in the kitchen, Clark wandered over to her CD collection. He took one from the shelf and glanced at the cover booklet: Miles Davis.
Glancing over at Lois, he remembered their first dance together at Luthor’s White Orchid Ball, which had been cut abruptly short, much to his disappointment. Smiling, Clark inserted the disk into the CD player. Moments later, the soft strains of jazz music filled her apartment.
Lois returned with to mugs of coffee, placing them on the table. Clark held out his hand to her and grinned. “May I have this dance, Ms. Lane?”
She returned the smile and took his hand. “You know,” she said after a moment, “I remember you telling me you learned ballroom dancing from a... Nigerian princess, was it?”
He smiled at her, slipping his arm around her waist. “You actually remember that?”
She grinned, not answering. “So, come on, then,” she told him a moment later, her voice as sultry as August night air. “Stun me with your expertise.”
And when she looked at him then, her eyes were the color of deadly nightshade, so dark and seductive that Clark felt his heartbeat quicken and heard blood rush in his ears. She put her hand on his arm and shifted her hips and touched his heart and did it all in time to the music.
She wordlessly whispered to him of birds and wildflowers, of truth and touch and time without end, and her skin smelled of coconut and her tongue tasted of cherries and maple syrup.
He had always, always loved her.
“You really are very good at this,” she said softly.
Clark raised a speculative eyebrow and asked unevenly, “Do I get a reward, then?”
Lois stepped out of his arms and moved away and Clark watched her cross the room in silence. Standing in the archway of her bedroom, she smoothly pulled her shirt over her head and gave him a look. An invitation.
“Well?” she said. “Are you coming?”
She did not have to ask twice.
-fin-
