So he helped her. That's the thing. He sat at the table and looked at her list of all the ways Oliver had failed to be a normal man and he steered her gently, expertly, into the tall grass — but he was at the gala that night, are you sure about the dates, couldn't that just be — because he'd promised, on a roof, secret for a secret, and a promise was a promise even when keeping it meant standing between Lois Lane and the truth with his whole body.
And the entire time, under the lying, the litany ran. He couldn't stop it. You're chewing your pen, which means you're three steps ahead and bored that I'm not there yet. You touched your collarbone, which means you're about to pretend you don't care about the answer. You ordered the cinnamon scroll and gave me half without asking, which you do when you're nervous, which you'd deny. He knew her like a language he was fluent in and would never get to speak out loud. He was the keeper of both their secrets — Oliver's hood and Lois's heart, the green truth and the soft one — and he didn't get to have a single thing in either hand. He just held them. He held them so carefully. He held them the way you hold something you've already decided you're not allowed to keep.
— from here, by me (head full of poison, smallville s6 clois feelings realisation, with some clollie)
