Archive of Our Own ^beta

i.

The dream starts like most of his days do: the Planet’s bullpen is alive and in turmoil, papers flying, and phones ringing, Perry shouting deadlines across the room. But everything’s…slowed down. Not frozen, just stretched, like each sound is running through water.

Lois is standing at her desk, hair pinned up, sleeves rolled back. She’s arguing with Perry over a headline, gesturing so wildly she almost knocks over her coffee. Her voice carries within, and it’s sharp, smart, impatient–and yet somehow the sound is warm in his chest.

She doesn’t see him. She’s too busy hammering her point into Perry’s skull, like usual. And he just stands there, with a file in hand, caught in this strange slow-motion moment where every detail of her is magnified.

The way her eyes flash when she’s on a roll. The way she pushes her hair out of her face without thinking. The stubborn tilt of her chin.

It hits him then, as sudden and certain as a thunderclap: I’m in love with her.

It’s not infatuation or passing admiration. It’s that unshakable truth that, given the chance, he’d stand here and watch her fight with Perry every day for the rest of his life.

And when he wakes, his first thought is her name.

ii.

In the dream, he's standing on the rooftop of the Planet, his cape nowhere to be seen, and his suit traded for the ordinary work clothes Clark wears every day.

Lois is sitting on the ledge, legs dangling over the side like she doesn’t know the word danger. She’s got her camera in her lap and her bare feet swinging.

He joins her without a word. She leans into him instantly, head resting against his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. They sit there watching the city wake up, the silence between them deep and comfortable.

She hums softly, and he doesn’t recognize the tune–but it’s low and steady and stays with him long after the dream fades.

iii.

It’s late in the summer. The air smells like a mixture of rain and freshly cut grass, and they’re on the porch at the Kent farm, sitting side by side on the old swing, and the boards creak when he shifts.

Lois has her knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. She’s barefoot, hair a little windblown, and she’s telling him a story, some absurd, impossible thing she chased for a lead in college.

Clark’s not really listening to the details. He’s watching her face, the way she leans into the telling, the spark in her eyes when she gets to the ridiculous part. The swing rocks gently under them. Somewhere in the yard, a cicada starts up.

He wants to tell her that this: the swing, the sound of her voice, the way the horizon’s melting into gold–feels like something he’s been searching for without knowing it. But before he can, she laughs, and it pulls the words right out of him.

iv.

This one feels stranger. He’s in the city, but the streets are flooded on a high waist level, the water dark and cold. He can hear shouting from the distance. And then he sees her– Lois, standing in the middle of it all, unbothered, a bundle of soaked papers in her arms.

“Little busy here, Smallville,” she calls, grinning.

Before he can warn her, the current shifts. She slips, and he’s in the water, reaching for her hand. When their fingers meet, she holds on with such certainty it robs the breath from him.

They stand like that for a moment, the water swirling around them, her grip strong and sure. When she smiles at him this time, it’s softer.

v.

The office is dark except for this one tiny lamp. Rain showers against the windows, and Lois is asleep at her desk, cheek pressed to her folded arms, with her pen still in hand.

He walks closer, careful not to wake her. Papers are scattered everywhere–notes, outlines, messy scribbles in the margins.

There’s a pull in his chest at the sight of her like this:  vulnerable, unguarded, and peaceful. He reaches down to move the pen from her fingers before it leaves a blot of ink on her skin. His fingertips brush hers. She stirs but doesn’t wake.

The feeling that follows is hard to name, not quite of longing, and not quite of contentment. It’s something in between, something that stays with him.

the one time it wasn’t a dream. 

It’s late, well past midnight and they’d both promised they were going to bed early. Instead, they’d made popcorn, queued up a movie, and fallen asleep halfway through.

He wakes first. The TV’s still playing quietly, washing the room amidst the dim lights surrounding them. Lois is sprawled across the couch, her head resting against his shoulder, and legs tangled with his. One of her hands is curled loosely against his chest, and he holds her close–fitting perfectly together as if it was always fated to be that way.

For a long moment, he doesn’t move. He just watches the rise and fall of her breathing, feeling the slow warmth of her body against his.

There are nights when his mind still races long after he’s landed, echoes of alarms and cries threading through him, demanding more than he could possibly give. But here–right here it all tones down. Lois Lane is curled against him, stubborn and brilliant and too good for him, yet somehow she is his . Clark thinks about the way her hand always finds him in a crowd, grounding him without a word. The way her laughter lingers longer than any song, sweeter than any beat of a sound.

He remembers moments so small that they’d never make the front page: the way she steals his fries without asking, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s thinking, the way she always insists she’s fine when she clearly isn’t. Every ordinary thing she does has become extraordinary to him, a secret litany he carries even when he’s streaking through the clouds.

And in this mere silence, with her breath brushing his collarbone, he realizes that all the battles and rescues pale beside this–coming home to Lois, being the one she leans on without hesitation. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve her, but he knows he’ll spend the rest of his life proving worthy of her faith.

There’s no dream at this moment. Not a single surreal setting, nothing strange being seen or heard. Just the couch, the slight smell of buttered popcorn, the quiet sound of her breathing.

And it’s enough for Clark. More than just enough. He wouldn’t trade this for anything.