if legend has it that lois lane is in fact the third - fastest thing to a speeding bullet, one of the few things actually faster than a speeding bullet would have to agree with her . standing six - seven with legs for days, kent still finds himself behind her ! struggling, somehow, to keep pace . be it the rather clumsy side of their personality or how metropolis has a way of captivating each of his senses –– demanding him to stand at full attention for it, he’s calling after her . ❝ lois … lois ! wait for me . ❞
there’s a rather disapproving [ THOUGH NO LESS FOND ] shake of his head as she reaches out, soon standing still while she fixes the tie . you can take the reporter out of the midwest … but those mannerisms still demand to be seen . ❝ thanks , lo . ❞ and clark’s finding their lips curving up in unison with hers ; a shared passion for a good story . ❝ i’m ready . should we split up ? in case he leaves through the parking garage rather than the valet entrance ? if he knows we’re coming, he might change his route . ❞
𝙲𝙻𝙰𝚁𝙺 𝙺𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝙸𝚂 𝚄𝚂𝙴𝙵𝚄𝙻 , she decides, in his own ambling way. there’s a sprightly chance felicity that appears to accompany the neat, springtime pleasantness of his cheered mouth, the split - second, gossamer glint in his immaculately framed eye - so different, she thinks, to the narrowed, solivagant nature of her own; in the well - intentioned trappings of his unsophisicated naiveté too, much to her ire, his skylit gaze has occasionally caught the flutter of a fervid footstep, or flash of a flightly fingerprint, that her practiced, practical senses have slid right over. not bad for a farmhand, she supposes.
“ i don’t know, we’re - ” a lithe talisman finger smoothes over the spinning clockwork spool wrapped around her wrist, withdrawing just as quickly. “ ahem. half an hour early. ” a beat. the street is all labyrinthine hedges, groomed to perfection, slotted against piling brownstone, rich as a hearth. what are we gonna do for half an hour ? bicker, probably.
lois scratches her heels on the silver - fresh sidewalk but the moment she realizes the depth of the cold’s plunging crescendo is the same moment she realizes her shivering shoulder is scraping against his strangely taut tweed bicep, which immediately spurs her to raise one eyebrow, begin sifting through his messenger bag, & demand: “ do you have your notes ? and the camera ? it was pretty expensive. ” not that she ... doesn’t trust him to not get pickpocketed on public transport.