14356/An Ill-Timed Trip

An Ill-Timed Trip
Date of Scene:	03 May 2022
Location:	Lois Lane's Apartment
Synopsis:	Clark comes to visit the ailing Lois after she cancels date night. He manages to do the impossible, talk her out of something she wants to do.
Cast of Characters:	Lois Lane, Superman

---

Lois Lane has posed:
While Lois hadn't been feeling the best last week, this week had been rough. She managed to come into work the last two days, but was found sleeping at her desk at least once and to say she looks strung out is to be putting it mildly. Tonight was supposed to be a date night, but she begged off sick. Still, there was a small timber of something behind her voice that spoke not just of laying in bed doing nothing. She might have had double reasons for calling off the date. However, she's still in her apartment as of this moment, well into Tuesday evening. He can hear her behind closed doors, smell her scent through the myriad of far less pleasant things in her hovel of an apartment.

Lois doesn't live in the best area of metropolis. In face, Suicide Slum is probably considered one of the worst neighborhoods. She's managed to afford a fairly large, two bedroom apartment in a building that is, otherwise, falling apart, but nothing else about the place is pleasant. People are always smoking weed, or worse. There are roaches skittering the hallways, half the overhead lights are out, and her neighbors aren't the kind sort. But she's made her own little home here and doesn't seem to mind it among the chaos.

Superman has posed:
Clark's been busy since his vacation ended; a little bit of family time, a little bit of tropical paradise, and the Man of Steel is once more ready to devote himself to the wellbeing of the world and the Daily Planet. The latter, especially, has found itself quite busy as of late, the target of frivolous lawsuits and threats from the cult that Lois exposed. The Planet's legal counsel has been earning their pay -- and that irritation has driven the journalists there to redouble their efforts, digging into the cult and related subjects with gusto.

The latest news? Thusfar unconfirmed reports that the cult's recruitment success comes from pharmaceutical sources, employing the use of drugs to victimize people. The official head of the cult, a man named Francis Willemont, has vehemently denied these accusations -- as well as mercilessly throw the branch leader Lois' exposed, and Superman and Batman helped take down, under the bus as a rogue element.

But that's work, and right now, work's not important. What is important is the roughness in Lois' voice when she called to cancel, leading to the current situation..

"One-oh-one, one-oh-two, one-oh... oh, excuse me, no thank you," Clark stammers, lifting up a hand and shaking his head as a young black man offers him a joint. "I'm just here to visit Lois -- oh, you sell to her? That's wonderful, gosh, I've always admired small business owners, what do you -- oh, you sell her pot. Right. Of course you meant that, ha, ha, ha."

A little later, and a firm knock smacks Lois' door. Tap-tap-tap tap tap... tap tap.

"Lois? Lois, I brought you some things. May I come in?"

A cockroach scurries by Clark's foot. He doesn't even blink.

Lois Lane has posed:
In truth, Lois didn't feel up for any sort of business travel, much less the sort that was going to have her staking out a small town church and chemical production plant for days in a row. But, her idle research over exhausted body proved fruitful, and she was not going to let a good lead die on the vine. Therefore, instead of flopping on her couch in pajamas and eating junk food until she passed out (god, she was starving again), she's pulling herself through the processes of packing a bag.

While the changes have been subtle over the last few weeks, it's getting to the point they are noticable. Lois' clothing is hanging off her frame. Tasks that would normally be a fairly easy breeze, even for her oft abused body, now leave her winded. One of those tasks being packing at this moment. She lets out a little curse as she hears his familiar knocking, but quickly realizes he's no doubt heard that as well. There's no hiding anything from Clark. Therefore, not bothering to pretend she wasn't packing or isn't exhausted, she slams shut her half full suitcase and trundles over to the door.

She is, at least, in her pajamas. A pair of oversized shorts rolled down low on her bony hips and a tank top, so it looks like she wasn't planning on leaving the house tonight. But the signs of preparation for a journey are behind her. She pulls the door open with a washed out smile, "I know... I know I cancelled, I'm sorry... Come in. You also know you're always welcome here." As she ushers him in the door. "There is a window, if it makes it easier."

Superman has posed:
Thump, badump, the heart beats and the blood flows and the breath catches in a hoarse throat; before Clark's inhuman senses, the myriad frailties of the human form reveal themselves. Clark can see the mucous-laden particles suggestive of a cold or flu when Lois exhales; he can hear the scratch in her lungs and throat; he can see the faint trembling pulse of blood beneath her skin.

"You're sick," he remarks, furrowing his brow and stepping into her run-down apartment, closing the door behind him and locking it with the rather hefty built-in latch it comes with. "You've lost weight, and you're unsteady on your feet. It's a good thing I brought you some Nyquil."

There's a plastic bag clutched in his right hand, in which is some day and night time cough syrup, some vitamin C drops, and a few other niceties that help soothe a battered body during a routine flu. Which, so far as Clark is currently aware, this is; he has keen senses, but he is no medical genius, nor is he himself a complete replacement for a laboratory.

But he can see something is wrong.

"And I don't mind that you canceled, Lois. I came here to bring you some things I knew you wouldn't pick up yourself -- and, apparently, to remind you that you're in no condition to be doing what we both know you're thinking of doing."

At the window comment, he laughs. "Lois, I know how to use a door."

Lois Lane has posed:
"I know, I know... I'm just saying, unless you want a key, the window is fine." Her expression softens a moment, realizing that her words aren't coming out quite the way she wished they would, a product of her exhausted mind. "Wait. Sorry, what I *mean* is you are always welcome here. Always. My door is open for you." The fact that she even vaguely offered him a key is a huge deal, though her mind has just tripped beyond it. She's never offered a guy a key before.

Then she's locking the door behind him and steals the bag from his hands, very carefully ignoring the comment about what she's thinking of doing. Instead, she picks through the goods, carrying them into her rather sparse kitchen. She's messy, not *dirty*, so there's a few plates in the sink and little else. The pile of to-go boxes in the trash speaks much of how she's been feeding herself and why there isn't more of a mess in the kitchen to clean. She lays out the goods on the middle kitchen island, immediately picking up the bottle of NyQuil. She doesn't bother flashing to read the label, but unscrews the top of it and chugs a good gulp straight out of the bottle.

"See? There. Better. I took my medicine." Her throat isn't that bad, but she's definitely mildly fevered as her body fights off something, but this sickness seems as much exhaustion and something turning her into skin and bones as anything. She's leaning on the kitchen island now, letting her body catch its breath and even out from the daunting task of opening the door and unpacking a small grocery bag.

Superman has posed:
"Lois, you're a grown woman, and I'm not going to tell you what you can and can't do," Clark begins, in that tone of voice that approaches but does not quite reach a lecture; it's a voice she's heard him adopt often during their friendship, a voice that says you're being a moron but I'm too nice to say that. "But I can tell you're very sick, even without super senses, and I love you and think you should stop chasing stories, get a day or two of bedrest, and go see a doctor if you're not feeling better. Surely you've noticed your clothes aren't fitting right? That's some serious weight loss -- even though you're eating. It's like you have a tape worm."

There's a pause, and then she might notice his gaze flick down to her stomach.

"You don't have a tapeworm, by the way."

He offers her a lopsided smile, reaching out to entwine his arms about her and wrap her in an embrace. He's gentle, for all his strength and her sickness, and she'll find that rather than have to walk he's levitated a half-inch or so above the floor, floating her toward her sofa that she need not strain to walk.

"You're feverish, too. Your immune system's working in overdrive. If you push yourself, you'll collapse -- and then Perry will *force* you off the story, Lois. Better to rest and start it late, when you're better, than get the boot and never touch it at all."

Lois Lane has posed:
If it's not his words, it's the wrap of his massive, warm arms around her fragile frame that makes her stop for a few moments. He was so warm to touch and she felt half freezing and clammy nowadays. She knew he was right, but his body makes a better argument than his words do right now. Lois leans deeper into his chest, burying herself in his warmth and letting her head tuck against his shoulder and collarbone. "Mm. You feel good. I should have just told you to come here and not cancelled..." But then he couldn't talk her out of being on the story.

She doesn't even realize they are moving, her eyes mostly shut and body drowning in his gentle hold. She feels like some fragile bird in his arms, breakable in a way she normally isn't. Her eyes jar open as they make it to the couch, sinking down into it with him. He's stopped her from packing now, at least.

"Flight isn't until 6 am. I'll get a few hours sleep tonight and see how I feel, I promise. But if this story dies on the vine because I had a head cold, I'd never forgive myself. You know that. They're fighting back against us, Clark. No one fights this hard unless we're onto the truth." She whispers against his throat.

Superman has posed:
"I have a lot of friends who fight the good fight, no matter the cost," Clark rumbles, letting Lois nestle against him as they sink down upon the cushions. His fingers curl and stroke through her hair, tracing idle designs upon her scalp. There's no fear in his mind that he might catch whatever she has; come on, he's Superman, colds, flus, and mortal parasites are beneath him. It's that unthinking confidence that lets him share his warmth with her even when she's ill and potentially contagious. "Believe me, I understand it. I'm fighting too, you know that, I'm on your side here -- but if you want to be a superhero, Lois, then I'm going to treat you like one. When a member of the League's clearly not fit for duty, we don't ignore it. And beyond that -- what kind of boyfriend would I be if I ignored my main squeeze blowing away in a stiff breeze?"

Clark grins. Main squeeze is not a term he uses often. Or at all. It rolls off the tongue in an amusing way. But then his expression turns both hard and soft, looking down into Lois' eyes with an earnest concern.

"You're not the only woman in the world who can dig up the truth. Rest and trust me -- trust the rest of us -- to hold down the fort until you're better."

Lois Lane has posed:
His hands through her hair and that heavy warmth of his body make a very good case, especially when no part of her body wants to get up and move for at least 48 hours. A low sound comes in her throat, appreciative and relaxing. "This isn't fair. You coming here and using all your...handsome body and farm boy hands and sweet words to keep me off the job. This is an unfair fight, Clark Kent." Lois teases against his throat before turning her head to press a gentle kiss against his adam's apple.

"I can't wait long. A day at most, unless this gets a lot worse. And I don't know who else to trust to sent. We sure as shit aren't sending Cat Grant out there... and you're a little obvious, even just as Clark. Who else do we trust to cover this? So...I'm going to sleep tonight, and see in the morning, but if I'm like this I..." She sighs, defeated, and she hates it, "I'll wait another day."

Superman has posed:
Clark leans his head down and presses a kiss to Lois' tired brow, giving her shoulder another warm squeeze. "I'm a pretty good actor, you know," he counters. "Infiltration's my specialty. All I have to do is throw on a pair of glasses and you earthlings can't even tell I'm a big, spooky alien." His other hand lifts up and he wiggles his fingers ominously. Once upon a time, in his youth, the knowledge he's not human weighed on him -- but Clark's long gotten over his hang-ups, and is content with who and what he is now. At the least, comfortable enough to wisecrack.

"But.. well, it's not a good fit for me, undercover work. Even if I can do it, the time commitment -- it's hard enough juggling Superman and Clark, I can't be a third person on top of it."

Lois Lane has posed:
"Exactly. So, I'll handle the undercover work, and you handle saving the rest of the world, alright?" Lois whispers, kissing the side of his jaw one more time. "But... for now, your job is to be my bed. Because you are warm. And that NyQuil is potent shit." And she was utterly exhausted. She can feel herself falling asleep so, instead of fighting it, she simply settles in the way she's curled up against him. Her breath evens out in less than a minute, dead asleep in his arms. She didn't even set her morning alarm. He's won the debate today.