Early Fall, Year 1: “Pheromone, My Lovely” Later, after the entire incident was over, Clark put together the pieces and blamed Lex.
Not fair, he knew. It was Lex who warned Metropolis of Miranda’s plan.
But it started with Lex.
After all, Lex financed Miranda—like Cher, she went by a single name—an experimenter in perfumes. Miranda wanted a relationship as well as funding. Lex turned her down.
He turned her down for Lorry. Lorry had finally gotten an interview with the so-called great man. When Lex gave Miranda the cold-shoulder, did he hint at more than professional interest in Lorry? Or maybe hearing about Lorry gave Miranda her idea: What would make a better target than a news outlet?!
Miranda visited The Daily Planet and sprayed the employees with her lowering-inhibitions concoction (“Lust portion,” Lorry called it later). Which led to the “incident,” namely Lorry coming on to Clark.
Clark didn’t notice at first. Lorry flirted with him sometimes, but always in a hey-have-you-noticed-how-ironic-I’m-being sort of way. Like Lorry was spoofing himself. Or every single gay comedy film ever made. Clark had to admit—quietly to himself, in the utter silence of his rapidly beating heart—that he didn’t mind. If Lorry had done it meanly, a way to make the supposedly straight guy feel uncomfortable—but he didn’t. It was their working relationship.
What Lorry never did was sprawl on Clark’s lap. Or show up at his apartment wearing boxers, an open button-down shirt, and a clear expectation that he wouldn’t be wearing them for much longer.
There was a point in the evening when Clark decided he should be given a sainthood. And another point when he wanted to call up Pastor Neil in Smallville and yell, “You know all those suspicious questions you asked me when I was growing up? You have no idea what a righteous guy I am!”
Seriously. He couldn’t take advantage of Lorry when he was clearly the equivalent of drunk. Not if Clark wanted to save their partnership, their growing friendship. He knew how many barriers Lorry kept up between himself and the potential for a long-term relationship—with anyone. Lorry dated but not seriously. Lorry never discussed prior relationships. Lorry never spit-balled his future perfect guy, the way Cat did.
Clark knew the risks of trampling all over Lorry’s barriers—the barriers that would return the moment Lorry came to his senses.
He stood on the front stoop of his apartment, morning newspaper in hand, absently noting the hearts all over the front page. He reminded himself that he was a good guy, one of the good guys, the man behind Superman’s good-guy persona. He couldn’t--
“What the hell am I wearing?!” Lorry yelled inside the apartment.
Lorry was back to himself. Thank God. (I guess.)
“I don’t chase straight guys,” he said to the nearest lamp.
And that’s where everything went really wrong. Clark knew it, knew it at the time. I should have told him. I should have said, “Hey, did I ever mention, I’m probably gay or something? That’s one thing you don’t have to worry about.”
He didn’t. He hadn’t told his parents yet. Now wasn’t the time. Lorry would probably think he was lying. And—
I’m a coward. But I have to keep things quiet, private, unsaid. That’s my modus operandi. That’s who I am. People are already speculating about Superman—and which of us is supposed to be “out” anyway? Clark or Superman?
Yeah. Coward.
“Don’t worry,” he said instead. “We’ve got to focus on this case. Come on, Lorry, I want my partner back. I’m pretty sure we all got sprayed with some kind of biological agent.”
“Okay, yeah. You got any sweat pants?”
Clark fetched a pair, and Lorry wiggled into them. Clark walked away to start waffles for breakfast.
Lorry called, “You know that horrible stuff Miranda was spritzing around the staff-room? The new perfume? I wonder if that was it, the stuff that messed us all up.”
“Why would she—?”
Lorry shrugged. “That’s the investigative part. Guess you’re not susceptible, huh?”
“I think it wore off faster,” Clark said.
“Well, you did have the wrong stimulus,” Lorry said.
He was in the bathroom, using a new toothbrush (Clark kept several on hand) before Clark realized what Lorry was implying. Clark’s lack of susceptibility wasn’t a symptom of superpowers; it was a symptom of lack of interest.
No, he should have said. No, Lorry, that’s not it. I’m smitten. Honestly. Hand to God.
Except then Lorry would ask, So why aren’t we lying in your bed after an exhaustive night of passion?
Because the perfume’s base is obviously aimed at humans, not whatever I am.
That would mean telling Lorry he was Superman. And nobody could know that.
King of non-answers and lies of omissions. That’s who I am.
Lex’s fault. Sure, Lex figured out that Miranda intended to douse the city with her lust-inducing perfume. He warned Clark that Miranda had gone to the airport where she’d rented a crop-dusting plane. Clark “warned” Superman. Superman stopped Miranda. But if Lex hadn’t funded the research in the first place—
Lorry made it to the airport for the finale, of course. Lorry was capable of catching five cabs, the subway, then hitch-hiking to get where he needed to go. Sometimes, Clark thought Lorry was the one with super-powers, capable of being in seven places at once.
“You, ah, infected?” Lorry asked Superman when he brought Miranda, her plane, and her canisters of perfume down to earth.
Clark told himself later that he’d tolerated a long night of restraint. He had every right to snap. Besides, this was a freebie. Plausible deniability: I was sprayed. And Lorry deserved at least one honest reply.
He caught Lorry’s lips with his mouth, kissed him. Much later, he couldn’t decide if he was relieved or disappointed that Lorry kissed him—Superman—emphatically back.
All Lex’s fault.
