pure FORESHADOWING (nifra_idril) wrote,

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And Fic Spam the Last - Why the hell not?

Make a clean sweep of all the Superman related things, while I'm at it, I guess.

Title: Stasis
Fandom: JLA
Spoilers: A Better World (set in the Lorder 'verse, actually.)
Summary: Lois wishes she didn't want him.

(again, thoughts as to where to post/archive welcome, nay encouraged)

Lois sits on the window ledge, looking out at the street. It's hard to see it clearly from behind so much barbed wire and twenty stories up, but there are people-shaped blotches of color all over the sidewalk that Lois tracks with her eyes. She rolls the cigarette she's smoking between her fingers over and over again, worrying the thin paper. When it goes out, she lights another one immediately and just holds on to it as it burns. She smokes cigarette after cigarette until she feels sick, because she can.

When he comes for dinner, he'll smell the smoke and X-Ray her lungs. Then he'll probably make sure to issue orders that she isn't to be smuggled any more cigarettes. It's too dangerous for her to smoke - she might get sick, he'll say, looking concerned and soulful.

"And, Lois, if I lose you..." he'll whisper, and she doesn't give a rat's ass what'll happen if he loses her. At this point, Lois isn't too worried - what the hell is he going to do that he hasn't already done - become a fascist dictator of a brainwashed and terrified society?

Yeah, been there, done that, got the world dominion to prove it, she thinks, taking a long drag and blowing out smoke that ghosts away from her and hangs heavy by the ceiling of her bedroom. Maybe she'll close the window, keep the smoke in so that when he walks through the door, the smoke will rush out to greet him. Like a butler, or something.

He'll definitely ban the cigarettes then. Whatever - Lois has been planning to quit since she was sixteen anyway. He'll probably even send up the patch, so she doesn't have to go through 'too much discomfort'. He's just that courteous.

Of course, he won't say a word of any of this during dinner. Why cause any disruptions?  It wouldn't do for them to snipe at each other over filet mignon or foie gras or whatever goddamned thing is on the table. After all, the leader of the free (ha!) world needs his soothing dinner conversation about ice skating and migratory birds, just like the average Joe.

Or, hey! Maybe he'll even try again to make her see the light about his happy little war machine of a world. That's always fun, she thinks bitterly, pressing her forehead up against the glass of the window.

And isn't it great how much his Utopia looks like a brutally repressive totalitarian regime?

When she says that, he'll sit back in his seat like he's shocked. Like she's slapped him, and just stare at her. He always expects to make her see - every time, every *single* time - and when he doesn't, he acts like it hurts him.

And that's bullshit, because if he cared what she thought, all of those articles in the Daily Planet that have her name on them would actually be written by her. They'd say things like, "the actions of the Justice Lords are unconscionable - cruel and immoral" or "how is it that Superman, who once stood for truth, justice and the American way now stands for nothing other than his own megalomaniacal search for power and glory" or "help me, I'm locked in my penthouse and I can't get out!"

Lois hates him and she misses Lex Luthor, and if that isn't sign enough that everything in her world has been turned on its head - when the bastard who's locked her up looks at her with those eyes of his and touches her lower lip with his long fingertips, she still holds her breath and wants him to kiss her. She hates him, and she needs him, and that just makes her hate *herself* and God, how she wishes she could strangle him or someone or some*thing*. She wishes she could get out, she wishes she could watch television, she wishes she could write emails or letters or anything at all to send to the outside world.

She wishes she didn't want him so damned much.

Smoke gets in her eyes, burns a little, and God, Lois misses the way things were. She misses waking up at five in the morning and going to bed at one, if at all. She misses the gym, and the coffee place down on the corner, and that ugly old lady who always used to glare at her when she went jogging. She misses Perry and Jimmy and Chloe and Monica down in copy-editing who can't set typeface to save her life. She misses her desk - oh, dear Lord does Lois miss her desk, and the way her desk chair fit her body perfectly. She misses interviews and deadlines and Clark.

She misses Clark almost as much as she misses leaving her apartment - almost.

These days she sleeps until noon and doesn't get dressed until two. She makes coffee in her kitchen, and she cooks big elaborate meals because she doesn't have anything else to do, and she's been there long enough to finally apply herself to learning how to cook. It was interesting at first and now it just pisses her off all that much more because she's cooking for Superman like a good little wife, and Clark's disappeared entirely into the body of this fascist asshole that sits across from her at dinner and tries to sell her on his private empire.

It's like Superman's killed the man Lois worked with - like Clark Kent never even existed. And, God, Lois loved him. Maybe that's what Lois can't forgive the most. Maybe if it was Clark and not Superman who'd walk through the door tonight for dinner, she wouldn't mind so much.

And that's a lie that's too sentimental for Lois to even let herself get away with so she smirks at her reflection in the window, sadly. Yeah, she'd mind - Lois hasn't ever liked being told what to do, or when to do it. And maybe she's just severely disassociating because Clark *is* Superman, and Superman *is* Clark, but they don't look the same to her. They never have. And Clark never would have done this to her. He was a better man than that.

Lois takes a deep breath and props her chin on her knees, forces herself to calm down. There's no use in getting worked up - it only leads to pacing, and Lois has paced over every inch of this apartment, again and again and again. Pacing doesn't get her anywhere, nothing does. She takes another drag off her cigarette and smiles bleakly at the sun as it shines. Maybe tomorrow when her cigarettes are gone, she'll drink all day instead, and maybe after that when there's nothing left for her to abuse, she'll let herself fuck him.

Maybe then he'll let her go.

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