#brian bishop

Chris sat down cross-legged across from her before his knees could do something humiliating. “Dad said you don’t remember me.” Lois blew out a breath through her nose. “Yeah.” He nodded like that was normal and fine and didn’t feel like somebody had quietly reached into his chest and squeezed. “Oh. Okay.” “Chris.” He looked up. “I need you to know two things right away.” She settled her elbows on her knees, leaning in like she was gearing up to interrogate a senator. “One: if I could fix that instantly, I would. Two: this is not your fault, and nobody in this building is allowed to make it your problem. Including you.” That got a small, startled huff out of him. “That sounds like you.” “Good.” Lois pointed at him. “I’d hate to think my alternate self had better instincts than me. I’m competitive.” Chris ducked his head, smiling despite himself, then ruined it by swallowing wrong and having to blink quickly. “You really don’t remember any of it?” Lois’s expression tightened. “Not in a way I can swear to. More like...pressure. Shapes around the edges. A feeling that I’m already supposed to know how to do this.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Annoying, frankly.” He nodded again, less convincingly this time. “Hey.” Her voice sharpened just enough to stop him sinking any deeper. “Look at me.” He did. “I don’t remember,” she said plainly. “But I do know how you looked at me when you came in here. I know how Clark looked at you. I know what kind of man my husband is, and I know he does not go around claiming random Kryptonian children unless he has a very good reason and at least three disasters breathing down his neck.” A real laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “There you go,” Lois said. “That’s better.” Chris scrubbed quickly at one eye. “Sorry.” “For what?” He gestured vaguely at his face. “This.” “Oh, absolutely not.” Lois pointed at him again, firmer this time. “You do not have to apologize to me for being upset that your mom doesn’t remember you. That would be insane behavior, and we have a lot going on right now, I’m trying not to add more insanity to the pile.” His mouth twisted. “Okay.” “Okay,” she echoed. “Now, the practical stuff: Michael is being extremely annoying and responsible, which means you’re stuck in there until he’s satisfied you won’t disintegrate, explode, or do anything else dramatic enough to ruin my day.” “Cool.” “I know. Tragic. But people are working on it.” She paused. “And for the record? Whatever this ends up looking like, you are not doing this alone.” He looked at her for a long moment. “You mean that?” Lois’s eyebrows shot up. “Kid, I had to ask Jimmy to cover my meetings so I could rush down here. Jimmy Olsen. Talking to investors. That alone should tell you how serious I am.” That got him again, a little helpless laugh that made his throat ache worse instead of better. Lois smiled, small and crooked. “You’ve got a nice laugh. I imagine I missed it.” Chris went still. She saw it immediately. Of course she did. “Too much?” He shook his head. “No. Just...” He looked down at his hands. “I missed you.” Lois’s expression softened all the way then, and when she spoke again there was no performance in it at all. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “For every part of this.” He nodded because he didn’t trust his voice. For a second she just stayed there with him, neither of them pretending they could fix it by saying the exact right thing. Then Lois clapped her hands once against her knees and stood. “Alright. I’m going to go bully genius men until one of them gives me a child back.” Chris let out a wet laugh. She pointed at him on the way up. “That was not a joke. I’m very good at it.” “Yeah,” he said, voice small but steadier now. “I remember.” Lois held his gaze for one second too long, like that line had hit somewhere tender, then she nodded. “Good. Sit tight.” She went back toward Clark without looking over her shoulder. Chris watched her go until the room blurred.