Chapter Text
Lois didn’t like him at first.
Well, that’s a lie.
It was more of a skeptical kind of curiosity. A quiet suspicion she couldn’t shake. Saying she didn’t like Clark Kent would be like someone saying they didn’t like puppies; it was suspicious in its own right.
Because if there was one constant when it came to Clark Kent, it was this: people liked him.
They warmed to him immediately, instinctively and you know what? It confused Lois immensely.
Lois, well, she wasn't the most easy-going person in the workplace. She was a bit rough around the edges, to put it very lightly. Still, it just seemed so incredibly easy for him, so natural - like a gravitational pull.
Secretaries smiled wider when he walked by. Interns lingered around his desk when many were scared to approach their own bosses (one reporter was known to toss a stapler when he was angry). Even Perry, who trusted no one under forty and barely tolerated a well-intentioned smile, had once mumbled something close to, “He’s got a good head on his shoulders that one.”
What was it about this man? Maybe they just liked that even though he was practically a giant, he was bumbling and innocent and far too kind to everyone.
Clark was 6'4", broad-shouldered and soft-spoken, and - Lois would admit, but only under extreme duress - very easy on the eyes. It's not like she had time for that. She had articles to write and coffee to down.
The thing was, Lois was all about facts. And the fact was that, from her high school years, she’d learned to equate “attractive” with “dimwitted” or, worse, “entitled.” Blame the football team. Blame every smug prom king who ever spoke to her like she was the prize at the end of a scavenger hunt.
But Clark somehow skirted the accusation. He was humble and handsome, which somehow irked her more. Like pick a lane, dude!
His writing was solid and clean. She wouldn't go out of her way to say that it was amazing, but also, it wasn't anything to be embarrassed about. It was good enough to land him a desk at the best paper in the city, so that was an achievement in its own right. Still, his pages were never flashy enough to draw attention to themselves.
It was almost jarring to read his writing sometimes. Hers was biting and provocative and sometimes altogether too honest. Clark wrote like someone who had nothing to prove, someone who was just happy to be able to write.
It was weird! Wasn't it? Was she being too harsh? Sometimes (and only sometimes!) people said she was a bit too skeptical. But aren't journalists supposed to be skeptical of people? It was literally her job to investigate, and to know when to do so.
Besides his writing, he was just nice? Like too nice? He opened doors for people, not just when they were walking within a few feet, but when they were clearly far enough away that it would be acceptable to just continue on your way.
At this point, Lois hardly ever had to worry about doors when he was around, since she was constantly juggling a laptop, a coffee, and at least one source on the verge of disappearing.
After watching The Materialists, Cat had called him a unicorn. Without the Pedro Pascal penthouse, of course.
“I want that man to check all my boxes,” she had said, fanning herself with the pages that Lois definitely had to proof.
Lois had snatched them from her and rolled her eyes with an exasperated huff.
So, Lois did what Lois does best: she looked for the cracks.
Like, shit! Nobody is that perfect and Lois was quite sure that anyone who seemed that perfect was just hiding something even deeper, below the surface.
She would put her journalist hat on and see for herself. Yes, that's what she would do.
After typing and then retyping and then deleting the paragraph with her 'observations' altogether, she realized that this would be harder than she thought.
She came up with a few dings in the armor. Minor ones, but dings nonetheless.
He was perpetually late (but somehow always got his stories in on time). His fashion sense left room for improvement. His suits never quite fit. Maybe they were hand-me-downs from a stocky uncle or from the sale bin at the closest thrift store.
His ties always looked like they’d been tied in a moving elevator, which was entirely plausible since she had once seen it herself. He hunched over his laptop like he was trying to disappear into it. Quite a funny look for someone of his relative stature.
She even looked up those posture devices that buzz when you slouch, half-tempted to slip one into his desk drawer anonymously.
But even with all that very technical, very well-researched research, it was all cosmetic. Easy fixes. She should get him the number of her friend who works at Brooks Brothers.
It was really nothing that satisfied the deeper question.
Because how was he just… so good?
He bought bagels for the interns - and not the cheap bagels, the good bagels that came straight out of the ovens. The ones with crunch. And not just plain bagels. He picked up a french toast bagel for Jenny (weird, but her favorite), a cinnamon raisin for Andrew, and egg everything for all the rest. Steve once brought bagels from the frozen section of Stop & Shop and yammered about his generosity for weeks.
And that wasn't all. Clark fixed the copy machine without being asked. He kept a stash of sugar at his desk, specifically for her, because he’d noticed she liked fourteen packets in her coffee and the office supply always ran out before she could even make it to a solid ten.
He didn’t brag and didn't preen (like many of the attractive guys on the floor). He didn't post passive-aggressive notes in the break room about “cleaning up after yourself.” He just did what needed doing and left it at that.
And that made her nervous because Lois Lane didn’t believe in unexamined goodness. Never had and never will.
Maybe it was her upbringing. Maybe it was because her father instilled in her that things came with a price.
She hadn’t grown up in a world that rewarded kindness. Her life had been one of sharp corners and curfews and thinly veiled insults, and not always thinly veiled. People smiled when they wanted something, when they were trying to squeeze it right out of you without you even realizing. She had to protect herself.
The idea of someone who gave without keeping score made her itch.
He had to be a fraud or deluded, which might be better. Or hiding a pile of bodies in the trunk of a very polite white SUV. Something. Anything. It just didn't add up and everything always adds up.
So she decided to get to know him better.
Not friendly better. They weren't friends. She didn't even know what that would really mean.
Investigate better.
She started watching him and noticing the little things.
For one, the way he always seemed to sense when she needed air and quietly stepped between her and whatever chaos was brewing. Usually, it was annoying coworkers which seemed to fit many of them to a T.
The way he remembered the name of every intern, every source, every guy who delivered takeout to the bullpen.
Hell, he even remembered things she never said out loud.
Somewhere along the lines, he realized that she would often forget to eat. It wasn't a one-time thing; it happened pretty regularly. Everyone knew that she mostly lived off instant ramen (but Shin Ramen, the good kind!) and granola bars, and just accepted that as another Lois-ism. Clark actually did something about it. He started splitting his lunch without comment, just casually leaving half a sandwich on her desk like it had always been hers.
At first, she had protested, not wanting to be treated as a child, but now, she was even annoyed to admit that he had worn her down - and his lunch choices were top-notch. For inferior cold cuts, she would've put up more of a stink.
And then, there was the thing with the umbrella. So, Lois always forgot her umbrella. Sue her! She had other things to think about. Maybe one of the things Clark started to think about was how he could be the one to walk her to the subway with his, shielding her more than him. Again, wore her down. He never mentioned it being a hassle, and never even made a show of it.
Clark even noticed how her coffee would get cold when she was, again, too focused. He got her an Ember mug for Christmas. Fucking Santa Claus.
Lois couldn't tell you how it happened. It was somewhere between softly interrogating him and just getting used to him being there when she started to lean on him.
She would never say that she needed him, because Lois Lane didn't need anyone. It was more like, how do you put this, it was more like she started to count on him being there.
She knew that he would offer her a napkin when her coffee spilled, or fill in the gaps during meetings when her focus had been on 101 other things.
Lois learned to count on him, until one day, he was just gone. It wasn't for a tragic reason, no. When she asked Jimmy, he told her that it was his mother's birthday.
The weird thing was that the bullpen felt off-kilter. She wouldn't say it was worse or better. It was just missing a piece.
Lois would catch herself throughout the day glancing over at his desk, ready to throw a joke his direction and wait for him to quip back.
It felt like reaching for a light switch in a room that was already dark. She told herself it was just habit, muscle memory, routine, or any combination of the three.
But then she sat at her desk and took a sip of her coffee, and grimaced because it was so very bitter.
He wasn’t there to hand her a sugar packet - the one she needed. The fourteenth.
And that’s when it hit her - softly, stupidly, like a headline buried in the classifieds.
One: she knew him better than she meant to. After all that digging, all the silent investigation, she'd found what she was looking for, and it wasn’t a scandal or a skeleton in the closet.
It was goodness, like complete and cheesy goodness.
Yes, he was clumsy and sometimes too straight-laced. Lois would even call him naive at points, and optimistic to a fault, but Clark Kent was kind.
Wholeheartedly, consistently, impossibly good. It was the kind of good that didn’t need to be earned or announced. It just… was.
And two - and this one landed deeper - he knew her better than she'd realized and honestly, better than most.
Somewhere along the line, without press passes or interviews or exposés, Clark Kent had been learning her in the most gentle, non-serial killer way.
And Lois Lane, who never let anyone get that close, hadn’t even seen it happening.
---
Clark walked into the bullpen at exactly 9:17 a.m., not that Lois was watching the clock. His coat was slightly askew, his tie crooked, glasses slipping a fraction down his nose.
She didn’t look up immediately, of course. She wasn’t waiting for him. That would be ridiculous. Pfttttt.
Then, his hand appeared. A paper cup of coffee was placed gently on the corner of her desk, balanced with theatrical precision. Resting on top: a chocolate chip muffin.
“Morning, Lois,” he spoke, setting them both on her desk, careful not to put them within spilling distance of the mess of papers littering the desk.
He was already at his own desk, shrugging off his coat and pulling out his chair.
Lois stared at the coffee and the muffin that was more chocolate than muffin and the space he had just vacated.
He was back. The thing in her chest unclenched, just a little.
The rest of the morning was fine. Normal. If you didn’t count the fact that she kept watching him. She noticed everything now.
The way he set his satchel down gently, like it might bruise. The way he answered questions with thoughtfulness, never rushing, never speaking just to hear himself. How he actually listened to people, really listened, without waiting for his turn to talk. That was rarer than it should’ve been.
She hated how much it stood out and now she couldn’t stop noticing.
He passed the copy machine a few minutes later and casually opened the side panel. Cleared a paper jam. Didn’t tell anyone.
Stopped by a columnist’s desk to ask about her brother’s surgery - first name, exact hospital, remembered everything.
When Perry started yelling about assignments from the comfort of his own office, Clark didn’t shout back. No. He was calm. He was collected. He gave Perry a beat and then two. Then, calmly, pointed out that one of the stories had already been reassigned and everything was already in process. Perry grunted something vaguely approving.
He threw ridiculous puns her way all the time, ones that would land him a Best at Dad Jokes award. And she smiled more often then not. He was just… familiar.
And that was the part she couldn’t shake.
Because Lois Lane didn’t do familiar.
She didn’t lean. She didn’t rely on others, except for the ice cream guy down the street. Goddamn did she rely on him.
Didn’t miss people, and certainly not a guy who wasn't even actually a friend.
But she had missed him when he was gone, more than she’d let herself admit even to herself. And seeing him slip back into her periphery - with coffee and sugar packets and muffins, and the ability to read her better than most - was unnerving.
It made her feel unsteady and unmoored. Like she’d stepped into someone else’s life for a moment and forgotten how the ground worked.
He hadn’t done anything dramatic, really. It's not like they poured their hopes and dreams out to one another. Clark hadn't shared a tragic story that explained his immense decency.
He was just being Clark.
That was the terrifying part - the part that she couldn't shake.
Because the man she’d studied, side-eyed, half-interrogated, and fully doubted… he wasn’t a fraud. He wasn’t hiding behind some too-good-to-be-true act.
He meant it.
All of it. The goodness. The patience. The care.
And now, she wasn’t just investigating him.
She was protecting something she hadn’t even defined yet.
Something she wasn’t sure she wanted to name.
Fuck.