The walk back to the farm passed in comfortable silence, their fingers intertwined, both of them processing the weight of what they'd just shared. Even Krypto seemed to sense the moment's importance, padding along quietly beside them instead of his usual boundless energy. As they approached the warm lights of home, Clark felt something settle in his chest - a certainty that whatever came next, this was right.
Martha had indeed gone overboard with dinner. The kitchen table groaned under the weight of every comfort food Clark had ever mentioned enjoying - golden fried chicken, mashed potatoes with his favorite gravy, fresh rolls still warm from the oven, at least three different vegetables from the garden, and what looked like both apple and cherry pie for dessert.
"Martha, this is amazing," Lois breathed, taking in the feast. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble..."
"Nonsense," Martha smiled, pulling out chairs for them both. "It's not every day we get to properly meet the woman who's made our boy so happy."
As they settled in to eat, Jonathan poured everyone fresh lemonade – Martha's special recipe that Clark had missed in Metropolis. "So, Lois," he said, passing her a glass, "Clark tells us you grew up an Army brat?"
"That's right," Lois nodded, accepting the glass. "Moved around a lot. Germany, Japan, different bases across the States. Complete opposite of Clark's upbringing."
"Must have been hard, all that moving," Martha said sympathetically, passing the mashed potatoes. "Though I imagine it helped make you the intrepid reporter you are now."
"It definitely taught me to adapt quickly," Lois agreed. "Though I have to admit, there's something appealing about having roots like this." She glanced around the warm kitchen. "About knowing exactly where you come from."
"Oh, speaking of where Clark comes from," Martha's eyes sparkled with mischief, "has he ever told you about his fourth-grade science fair project?"
"Mom," Clark groaned, recognizing that look. "She doesn't need to hear—"
"Now this I have to hear," Lois leaned forward eagerly.
"He was determined to prove that chocolate milk came from brown cows," Martha continued, ignoring Clark's embarrassed protests. "Spent weeks researching it, even convinced Mr. Peterson to let him interview him about his dairy herd."
"I was nine!" Clark defended himself as Lois dissolved into laughter.
"The presentation was very thorough," Jonathan added, clearly enjoying himself. "Had charts and everything. Even brought in chocolate milk samples for the judges to taste."
"What happened?" Lois asked, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.
"Got honorable mention," Martha smiled. "The judges said his scientific method was excellent, even if his hypothesis needed work."
"That's our Clark," Jonathan chuckled. "Even when he's wrong, he does it thoroughly."
The conversation flowed naturally from there, moving between childhood stories and current events. Martha told Lois about Clark's first attempt at baking, which ended with flour coating every surface in the kitchen. Jonathan recalled teaching him to drive the tractor, how seriously young Clark had taken every lesson.
"He's always been like that," Martha said fondly, getting up to refill water glasses. "So determined to do things right, to help people." She squeezed Clark's shoulder as she passed. "Even as a little boy, he'd bring home injured animals, try to nurse them back to health."
"Still does that in Metropolis," Lois smiled. "Last week he spent three hours helping old Mrs. Rodriguez from the corner store reorganize her stockroom. Wouldn't take a penny for it either."
The pride in her voice made Clark's heart swell, even as he tried to deflect the praise. "It wasn't a big deal. She needed help, that's all."
"That's what makes you special, son," Jonathan said quietly. "You never think it is a big deal. You just help because it's right."
Lois watched this exchange with soft eyes, and Clark could see her understanding something deeper about him, about where his values came from. The way his parents had shaped him wasn't just in the stories they told, but in these quiet moments of affirming what mattered most.
"These rolls are amazing," Lois said after a moment, clearly trying to lighten the emotional weight that had settled over the table. "Clark mentioned you made them from scratch?"
"Family recipe," Martha beamed. "Been in the Kent family for generations. Though I had to modify it a bit when Clark was young – that boy could eat his weight in bread if we let him."
"Still can," Jonathan chuckled. "Remember that county fair when he was fifteen? Eight corn dogs and then asked what was for dinner?"
"Growing boy," Clark shrugged, making everyone laugh.
As Martha served the pies – "You have to try both, dear, they're different experiences entirely" – Krypto raised his head from where he'd been dozing at Lois's feet. The old dog had taken to her immediately, which Clark knew meant more to his parents than they let on. Krypto had always been an excellent judge of character.
"I have to say," Lois said, savoring a bite of apple pie, "this beats any restaurant in Metropolis."
"Flattery will get you everywhere," Martha smiled. "Especially if it's about my pies. Though I'm sure you must miss the city's variety sometimes, Clark?"
"The food's good there," Clark agreed, "but nothing compares to home cooking. Especially yours, Mom."
"Smart answer, son," Jonathan winked at Lois. "We taught him well."
After dinner, they moved to the living room, where Martha insisted on showing Lois the family photo albums. The old leather-bound books were well-worn from years of handling, with fading photos telling the story of Clark's life in Smallville. Some corners were bent, others marked with Martha's neat handwriting noting dates and occasions.
"Oh no," Clark groaned as his mother pulled out the elementary school album. "Not those years."
"These are exactly the years I need to see," Lois said, settling next to Martha on the couch. The lamp cast a warm glow over the pages as they turned them, revealing a young Clark in various stages of growing up.
They found his unfortunate bowl cut phase ("Every boy had that haircut!" "In what decade, Smallville?"), his first newspaper article for the Torch about the cafeteria's mysterious "mystery meat" that had actually led to the school changing their menu, and his high school graduation where he'd somehow managed to trip on his own gown.
"Someone definitely stepped on it," Clark insisted as Lois studied the sequence of photos capturing his ungraceful descent from the stage.
"Nobody was within three feet of you, son," Jonathan chuckled from his armchair. "Some things even your mother's hemming couldn't prevent."
"Oh my god," Lois suddenly sat up straighter, pointing to a particular photo. "Is that you in the school play?"
The image showed Clark at seventeen, decked out in full cowboy regalia - boots, hat, and what he'd thought at the time was a convincing frontier swagger. His ears reddened as Lois leaned closer to study it.
"Oklahoma," he admitted. "I was Curly."
"He had such a lovely singing voice," Martha said proudly. "Still does, though he won't admit it."
"Really?" Lois turned to him with newfound interest. Her reporter's instincts were clearly kicking in. "I didn't know you could sing."
"Mom..." Clark warned, seeing the familiar glint in his mother's eye.
"The whole town talked about it for weeks," Martha continued, ignoring his protest. "Especially after that opening number. What was it called, Jonathan?"
"'Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin','" Jonathan supplied helpfully. "Used to practice it out in the barn. Gave the chickens quite a shock at first."
Lois was already pulling out her phone, trying to be subtle about it. "You have to sing some. Just a tiny bit."
"Absolutely not," Clark said, though he couldn't help smiling at her enthusiasm.
"Please?" She fixed him with her best puppy-dog eyes. "I showed you my junior high photos with the braces and the unfortunate perm."
"That's different," Clark protested. "Those were cute."
"The perm was not cute," Lois countered. "Come on, Smallville. One verse. For me?"
Clark looked between her hopeful expression and his parents' amused faces. Even Krypto had perked up, head tilted expectantly.
"One verse," he sighed in mock defeat. "And no recording!"
He saw Lois press record anyway but decided to let it slide. Standing up (because if he was going to do this, he might as well commit), he cleared his throat and began:
"There's a bright golden haze on the meadow,
There's a bright golden haze on the meadow,
The corn is as high as an elephant's eye,
And it looks like it's climbin' clear up to the sky..."
His voice was warm and clear, the familiar lyrics bringing back memories of rehearsals in the school auditorium. He'd forgotten how much he'd actually enjoyed it, before self-consciousness had taken over.
"Clark Kent," Lois said when he finished, her eyes wide. "You've been holding out on me."
"Not exactly front-page material," he shrugged, sitting back down.
"Are you kidding? Wait until Perry hears about this-"
"You wouldn't dare," Clark made a playful grab for her phone, but she held it away, laughing.
"Oh, I absolutely would. This is going in my special blackmail folder, right next to your coffee maker disaster from last month."
"There's a lot of hidden talents in this one," Jonathan said, watching their banter with obvious approval. "Though some should maybe stay hidden – like that brief attempt at growing a mustache senior year."
"Dad!"
"Now that I have to see," Lois said eagerly, turning back to the albums.
"No, we can definitely skip-" Clark reached for the page, but Martha was quicker.
"Here!" she pointed triumphantly to a photo Clark had hoped was lost forever. His teenage self stared back, sporting what could generously be called an attempt at facial hair.
"Oh, Smallville," Lois pressed her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. "That's... quite a look."
"I was trying to look older," Clark defended himself. "Everyone was doing it."
"Everyone was trying to look like Tom Selleck?" Lois raised an eyebrow.
"More like trying to copy his father," Martha said fondly. "Jonathan had quite the mustache when we first met."
"Still say I looked distinguished," Jonathan touched his now clean-shaven face.
"You looked like a young Kevin Costner," Martha corrected with the smile of a long-running joke between them.
The evening wound down naturally after that, comfortable silences mixing with easy conversation. Clark noticed the little ways his parents had accepted Lois - his mother's casual touches to her arm or hand when making a point, his father asking her genuine questions about her views on everything from politics to farming subsidies.
Later, as his parents insisted on sending them home with leftovers ("You're both too skinny, working those long reporter hours"), Clark caught his mother's eye. The look they shared said everything - about love, about approval, about seeing your child find happiness with someone worthy of them.
"You'll come back soon?" Martha asked as she hugged Lois goodbye. "Maybe for the harvest festival next month? The whole town turns out for it, and I could teach you my pie crust technique."
"I'd love that," Lois said sincerely, and Clark could tell she meant it. This wasn't just politeness – she genuinely wanted to be part of this world, his world.
As they loaded the leftovers into their car, Jonathan pulled Clark aside. "She's special, son," he said quietly. "The real deal."
"I know, Dad," Clark smiled, watching Lois laugh at something his mother was saying. "Trust me, I know."
—
The stars were coming out as they pulled away from the Kent farm, the Kansas night spreading vast and beautiful above them. Lois had insisted on driving back to Metropolis, claiming Clark needed rest after playing tour guide all day. But they both knew the real reason – she wasn't quite ready to leave yet, to break the spell of this perfect evening.
"Your parents are amazing," she said softly, eyes on the dark road ahead. "I can see where you get it from."
Clark smiled, watching the farmhouse grow smaller in the side mirror. "They loved you, you know. Mom's probably already planning what to teach you at the harvest festival."
"About that..." Lois glanced at him. "Would you... would you want to meet my family too? I mean, properly? Not just the awkward run-ins with Dad at press conferences?"
Clark reached over to take her hand, his thumb tracing gentle circles on her palm. "I'd love to."
"Really?" She sounded almost surprised. "Because Dad can be... intense. And Mom tries too hard sometimes, and Lucy will definitely try to embarrass me with childhood stories..."
"Sounds perfect," Clark said sincerely. "When?"
Lois was quiet for a moment, chewing her lower lip in that way she did when working up to something. "What if... what if we went tomorrow? For dinner?" She rushed on before he could respond. "I mean, we're already halfway there, sort of. And my apartment's closer to their place than yours, so you could stay over tonight and—" She stopped, a blush creeping up her neck. "I mean, if you want to. Stay over. With me."
The implications of that suggestion hung in the air between them. In their month of dating, they hadn't taken that step yet. Not because they didn't want to, but because everything had felt too precious to rush.
"I'd like that," Clark said softly, meaning both staying over and meeting her family. The way her hand tightened on his told him she understood.
"I should probably call Mom," she said after a moment. "Give her some warning. She'll kill me if I just show up with you unannounced. Mamá gets intense about dinner guests." She fumbled for her phone, then remembered she was driving. "Would you...?"
Clark found her mother's number and dialed, putting it on speaker. The phone rang twice before Eleanor Lane's warm voice, touched with a familiar accent, filled the car: "¿Mija? Es muy tarde. Is everything alright?"
"Everything's fine, Mamá. Better than fine, actually. I was wondering... would it be okay if I brought someone to dinner tomorrow? Someone special?"
There was a pause, then: "Clark Kent? ¡Por fin! Finally!"
Lois shot him a surprised look. "How did you...?"
"Ay, mija, por favor. The way you talk about him? Every time you call, 'Clark wrote this' and 'Clark said that.' I've been waiting for this call." Eleanor's smile was audible. "Of course he's welcome. I'll make sure your father behaves himself."
"Mamá..."
"And I'll call your sister. Lucy's in town this week, ¿sabías? Working on some big case. She'll be thrilled to meet him."
"That's not exactly the word I'd use," Lois muttered, but she was smiling. "What time should we come?"
"Seven? That'll give me time to make something nice. Voy a hacer tu favorito - my special enchiladas verdes." There was a rustling sound, then: "Clark, mi amor, any food allergies I should know about?"
"No señora," Clark answered smoothly, his accent perfect from his time in Mexico. "Me encanta la comida mexicana."
There was a delighted gasp from Eleanor. "¡Ay, habla español! Lois, why didn't you tell me? Sam! Sam, ven aquí – Lois is bringing Clark to dinner tomorrow! And he speaks Spanish!"
They heard the General's gruff voice in the background: "Kent? The civilian?"
"Dad..." Lois's warning tone was met with rapid Spanish from her mother: "¡Samuel Lane, no empieces! He's a good boy, you'll see."
"Don't worry, mija," Eleanor switched back to English. "I'll handle your father. You two drive safe now. Te quiero."
"Te quiero también, Mamá," Lois replied softly before hanging up. She let out a breath she'd been holding. "Well, that's happening."
"They seem nice," Clark offered. "Your mom reminds me of Doña Rosa from Mexico, with the same warm energy."
"They're... complicated." Lois was quiet for a moment, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel. The Kansas night spread vast and dark around them, broken only by their headlights and scattered stars. "It wasn't always complicated. Before Mom got sick, we were almost disgustingly normal. Well, as normal as you can be with General Sam Lane for a father."
Clark watched her profile in the dashboard lights, seeing the tension in her jaw that always appeared when she was working up to something difficult. "Tell me?" he asked softly.
"It was at one of Dad's bases in Germany," she began, the words coming slowly at first. "Mom was teaching art at the base school. She loved working with kids, sharing her culture through painting. She'd have these amazing classes where she'd teach them about Mexican artists, show them how to mix colors to capture sunset over the Sierra Madre." A smile touched her lips at the memory.
"Then she started getting these headaches. Really bad ones. The base doctors kept saying it was stress, or maybe migraines. But Mom knew something was wrong. She'd never been sick like that before." Lois swallowed hard. "Finally, one of the teachers noticed her hands shaking during class. Made her go to a real hospital off base."
Lois fell quiet for a moment, lost in memory. Clark waited, giving her space to continue.
"Stage three brain tumor. Just... there, growing all that time while doctors told her to take aspirin." Her voice cracked slightly. "Dad went full military mode. Started pulling strings, calling in favors, getting her transferred to the best hospitals. But you can't fight cancer with rank or orders."
Clark reached over, taking her hand. She squeezed back hard, drawing strength from his touch.
"Lucy was thirteen, right in that rebellious phase anyway. But watching Mom go through chemo, losing her hair, being so sick she couldn't even hold a paintbrush... Lucy started acting out. Staying out late, picking fights. I think maybe she thought if she caused enough trouble, it would somehow make Mom better. Like the universe would trade one problem for another."
"And you?"
"I went the other way. Perfect grades, perfect behavior. Started taking care of everything at home. I was sixteen, trying so hard to be the strong one. Like if I just didn't make any mistakes, didn't cause any problems, somehow it would fix everything." She laughed softly. "God, it was exhausting."
"You were trying to help the only way you knew how."
"Yeah, well. Mom saw right through both of us. Even when she was so sick she could barely sit up, she was still... still such a mom, you know? She started having Lucy sit with her during her good days, teaching her to paint again. The art therapy was supposed to help Mom's recovery, but really... really, she was helping Lucy find a way to process everything."
"What about you?"
"She'd send me on these elaborate errands. 'Mija, I need these specific chiles from that Mexican market across town' or 'Can you find that special paint I used to use?' Took me forever to realize she was making me take breaks, forcing me to step away from trying to be perfect all the time."
The highway stretched empty before them as Lois continued, "The hardest part was watching Dad. General Sam Lane, who'd faced down enemy fire without flinching, completely lost when faced with something he couldn't fix with military precision. He'd just sit there during her treatments, holding her hand, looking so damn helpless."
"How long was her treatment?"
"Fourteen months. Surgery, radiation, chemo, more surgery. But she fought through all of it. The doctors called her their miracle. Five years cancer-free now." Lois smiled, real joy breaking through the old pain. "She started painting again during recovery. These incredible scenes from her childhood in Mexico. Bright markets, her abuela's garden, the street where she grew up. Like she was filling our house with color again when everything had felt grey for so long."
Clark could picture it clearly, teenage Lois with that same determination she carried now, trying so hard to hold everything together. And Eleanor, even while fighting her own battles, finding ways to help her daughters through theirs.
"She still gets checked regularly," Lois said softly. "Every time there's a headache, every scan... we all hold our breath a little. But she refuses to live in fear. She taught art classes through her whole recovery, started a support group for other military families dealing with cancer. She's actually stronger now, in a way. We all are."
They drove in comfortable silence for a while, hands linked, both processing the weight of what she'd shared. Finally, Clark spoke. "Thank you for telling me."
"Thank you for wanting to know," she replied. "Most guys run when the family complications come up."
"I'm not most guys."
"No," she smiled, squeezing his hand. "You definitely aren't."
It was past midnight when they reached her apartment. The elevator ride up felt charged with possibility, both of them acutely aware of what staying over meant. When they reached her door, Lois fumbled with her keys, suddenly nervous.
"We don't have to..." Clark started gently.
"I want to," she cut him off, finally getting the door open. She turned to face him, backlit by the soft glow of her apartment. "I really want to."
The door closed behind them with a soft click. For a moment they just stood there, the air heavy with anticipation. Then Lois reached for him, and everything else fell away.
Their first kiss was gentle, tentative, like learning each other all over again. But then Lois made this soft sound against his mouth, and Clark felt his careful control waver. He pulled her closer, one hand tangling in her hair while the other spread across her lower back.
"Clark," she breathed when they parted for air. Her eyes were dark, cheeks flushed. "Stay with me?"
He followed her down the familiar hallway, past her wall of achievements. Framed articles and awards mixed with family photos. He caught glimpses of their story: Eleanor teaching young Lois and Lucy to paint, their faces spotted with bright colors. A teenage Lois accepting a journalism award, the General actually smiling with pride. Lucy's law school graduation, the whole family together and happy.
Lois' bedroom was exactly like her. Organized chaos with flashes of hidden softness. Case files shared space with romance novels on her nightstand. A silky robe hung next to her most professional blazer. And there, propped against her pillow, was the small stuffed bear he'd won her at the carnival last week.
She turned to face him, and for once, Lois Lane looked uncertain. "I haven't... it's been a while."
"Me too," he admitted. His hands trembled slightly as he cupped her face. "Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything," she whispered, rising up to kiss him again.
They came together slowly, learning each other by touch and taste. Clark kept his movements deliberately gentle, terrified of hurting her, but Lois seemed to sense his hesitation.
"I trust you," she whispered in the darkness, her hands guiding his. "Completely."
That trust undid him more than anything else. This fierce, independent woman who never backed down from a fight, who faced down criminals and corrupt politicians without flinching, trusted him enough to be vulnerable. To let him see all of her. Not just the star reporter, but the girl who'd grown up too fast, who still painted with her mother on Sundays, who kept a stuffed bear in her bed.
Later, tangled in her sheets, Lois traced lazy patterns on his chest while Clark played with her hair. The city sounds drifted up from below. Traffic and distant sirens and all the normal chaos of Metropolis at night. But here in this room, in this moment, everything felt peaceful.
"You're thinking too loud," Lois murmured against his skin.
"Just thinking how lucky I am," he replied honestly. "How amazing you are."
She lifted her head to look at him, her hair falling like a curtain around them. "Pretty amazing yourself, Smallville." Her eyes held so much warmth, so much trust, it made his heart ache. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For wanting to know all of me. The complicated family stuff, the hard parts... for not running when things get messy."
He pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I love all of you, Lois Lane. The complicated, the messy, all of it."
When sleep finally claimed them, Lois was curled against him like she'd always belonged there, her breath warm against his neck. Clark stayed awake a little longer, just watching her, marveling at how this incredible woman had chosen to share not just her bed, but her whole self with him.
The next morning found them still tangled together, sunlight streaming through her bedroom window. Clark woke first, marveling at how perfectly she fit against him, her hair spread across his chest. The night's memories washed over him. Every touch, every whispered word, every moment of perfect trust.
Lois stirred, mumbling something about coffee. Her eyes opened slowly, finding his. A smile spread across her face, soft, unguarded, just for him. "Morning, Smallville."
"Morning," he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Sleep well?"
"Mmm. Though someone kept hogging the blankets."
"Me? Never."
She laughed, stretching like a cat. "What time is it?"
"Almost ten."
"What?" She sat up, suddenly alert. "We're late for work!"
"It's Sunday, Lois."
"Oh. Right." She settled back against him, tracing patterns on his chest. "So we have all day before facing my family."
"About that..." Clark chose his words carefully. "I was thinking maybe we could stop somewhere first? Pick up dessert or wine?"
"Already trying to bribe them?" She grinned. "Smart man. Mom loves tiramisu from that little Italian place near the Planet."
They spent the day in comfortable domesticity – sharing Lois's tiny shower (which led to being even later getting started), picking up the tiramisu, stopping by Clark's apartment so he could change. By the time they pulled up to the Lane house in the suburbs, the sun was just starting to set.