#driverseats

that's no question for a girl she just met, though, even if @driverseats does already feel familiar to her. even if she's heard more stories about lois lane than she has all the cryptids in the midwest, combined.

(she knows this. she can be cool.)

"pizza," she agrees ⸺ reluctant, but lana's used to this dance. it's hard, admitting you need help. it's even harder when you don't feel like you've earned it (at least, in her experience). what she wants to say is hey, i have some savings, and i'm not paying rent, let me buy dinner, but she won't risk sounding patronizing (or, worse: like she's after something). "start in the back?" lana gestures, thumb over shoulder, toward the boxes most in danger of getting run over.

to her horror, one of them ⸺ in her arms, promptly ⸺ is full of records: joan jett, def leppard, ac/dc...

"eighties fan." like, clearly. "but i'm guessing you're not the cousin behind chloe's little shop of horrors phase."

he hasn't warmed to her, he's certain. this is a conversation of convenience. of feigned companionship to deter any suspicions around his presence in this town. ( and yet . . . there is an honesty to her that he has come to respect. a brightness that tends to be stamped out of humans by the end of their twenties. if he must endure them ⸺ the company could be worse than lorelai gilmore. )

the question takes him by surprise; morgan freezes, glass halfway to his mouth. he's put the pieces together about emily, of course. knows that there is an emily. his hearing is an irritation, most of the time, but the information it gives him is worth the burden.

after a second, he flashes a smile at her. it isn't warm. isn't cold. is just there.

rory found lorelai standing in the kitchen at nearly midnight eating pop-tarts straight from the box while old music played quietly from the radio beside her.

riley glanced up from her laptop the second maya walked into her apartment carrying two coffees, her best friend’s face looking entirely too smug about something. a sight she knew all too well but would never change.

Some concepts are poison before a girl is old enough to learn what they even mean, or rather, what they are supposed to mean. Perhaps there are few words more insulting than home. Because home suggests, at best, belonging, and at worst, family. It does not matter that Selina has clawed her mark onto Gotham City; it matters even less, somehow, that she has found people she loves. She remains, as much as she despises it, a woman defined by things that never were.

And some things that never were can, also, never be.

❛ Well, darling, ❜ Selina begins to say, the false familiarity stinging her like the fangs of a snake. She plays the part of many different women, sinking into any role that will ensure her survival. But with Lois she feels some shame at the prospect of being dishonest. She feels shame about sitting on Lois's sofa with her knees drawn up to her chest and being less than the woman she wishes she was. Less than the friend than the likes of Lois Lane deserves.

In some ways, being Superman is a lot like being the Blur — go in, fix the problem, save as many people as possible. It's the aftermath that's different. The Blur had been a faceless presence. Superman is a hero. People want to hear reassurances from him.

So instead of leaving the crime scene immediately, Clark stays — talking to the crowd, making sure that everyone who needs medical attention makes it to an ambulance, ensuring the police have everything they need to make the proper arrests.