Superman Plays Board Games: Lorry & Clark Continued

It's been a few months, so I decided to re-introduce these posts.

This is my fan-fiction based on the 1990s television show Lois & Clark, only in my fan-fiction, Lois is Lorry and gay, and Clark is pansexual.

The purpose of this fan-fiction is mostly fun (sarcastic Lorry and dry-witted Clark are enchanting characters to write). I also started it whilst pondering fan criticism that there aren't enough LGBTQ superheroes (there are some). I came to the unfortunate conclusion that any television studio that tried to produce a show with an "out" superhero as the main character would run a gauntlet of instant criticism by the very people making the demand. Whedon decided to make Willow bisexual and then ran the possibility of instant fury should he even suggest that she go back to Oz. (Kudos to Bones' writers for letting character and plot determine Angela's future rather than politics.)

In other words, there are many people not only ready to criticize a gay superhero but so-called supporters ready to criticize exactly how that gay superhero is portrayed--the risk might be considered greater than the reward. Good grief, Barney Miller has been criticized, and that show was practically prescient.

My solution: Why not take an extant show and update it with one or 2 gay characters while keeping everything else about the show the same? That way, whenever the critics build up steam about how backwards and non-forward thinking the studio is behaving (It's not enough!), the studio can claim it is doing a homage.

My political position--and my views on orientation--are libertarian +: see Clark's views below.

October, Year 1: “Honeymoon in Metropolis”

Lorry was working on another of what Perry called his “civil liberties jaunts.”

Namely, Lorry was researching the Luxor Hotel. Would they accommodate a gay couple in their honeymoon suite? He was going to ask Clark to be his “husband” on the story but after the whole perfume debacle, no way no how.

Lorry thought he’d used up a lifetime’s supply of self-mortification in junior high and high school. He’d been short, scrawny, big ears and clumsy limbs. He wrote passionate pieces in the school newspaper about rescuing abandoned animals and saving trees. He gave rambling speeches about the state of the world to anyone who would listen. He’d tried too hard to impress people—including cute jocks—with stupid jokes and self-mocking antics. And the whole time he was terrified about how much he wanted the cute jocks to notice him. Please.

Things got better in college—sort of. There were events from college that he still refused to think about. But he grew taller and lost the clumsiness. He guessed he got good-looking. And he came out, profoundly disappointing his father. He told people that college was “when I found myself.”

“Found myself” was code for “had several total relationship failures.” Yeah, not going there. Repression was a gift.

Still, none of it—none of it—was as bad as him showing up at Clark’s apartment with interest and desire written all over his physical self.

At least, Superman kissed him. That was a boost to the ego. In the meantime, he was giving Clark a wide berth.

Naturally, Lorry’s plan backfired. His stay in the Luxor led to him overseeing a transaction between a senator and several heavy hitters in a nearby office building. That led to Perry authorizing a stake-out—with the insistence that Lorry and Clark work together. Hadn’t Lorry checked into the honeymoon suite to test the Luxor’s tolerance of gay couples? Okay, then: instant gay couple.

Lorry spluttered, but he could hardly say, I am totally mortified. Clark confirmed he was straight the night I showed up at his apartment. Or just aggressively non-interested. I’m the desperate idiot who always pursues the wrong jerk.

Only, Clark wasn’t a jerk.

Actually, Clark was kind and clever and fun. Damn it.

The fact was, usually during a stake-out Lorry was climbing the walls within an hour (literally once, when the stake-out involved a rock-climbing gym). Being a fly on the wall was only fun if one got to fly. Otherwise: dullsville.

Turns out that Clark, of course, was a natural at stake-outs. He patiently set up the cameras to record the building opposite. He patiently checked the batteries on all the sound equipment. He patiently read through the research material on the senator and his funding of underwater weapons’ technology.

Lorry sighed. Clark gave him a sideways glance and a small grin.

“Want to play a game?”

As long as it’s not Truth or Dare. I’m so over the junior high thing.

Turned out Midwestern boy had brought actual non-digital, non-video board games.

They played Trivial Pursuit (Lorry cleaned up in Entertainment and Sports; Clark cleaned up in Science and History; they split Literature & Arts). They played Life. They played Sorry. They played cards.

They exchanged likes and dislikes. Clark’s favorite movie: Babette’s Feast.

“Subtitle guy, huh?” Lorry said.

Clark shrugged. “Not really into action films,” he said. “You?”

“Brick. Joseph Gordon-Levitt. And Bogart references.”

“Maltese Falcon? How about Casablanca?”

“You kidding? ‘Here’s looking at you kid.’”

Clark rolled his eyes and Lorry grinned and things were almost back to normal. Lorry was relieved—he couldn’t afford to lose Clark, who had become, at some unrecognizable juncture, Lorry’s best friend.

***

Clark had no business liking the stake-out as much as he did.

Not when he was still remembering Superman’s kiss with Lorry. Not when he was thinking how nice it was to share a bathroom with Lorry in the mornings—brushing teeth side by side. Not when he was making up lists of games (actual games, no innuendo intended) they could play that night.

Not when he was doing all that and not planning to come out to Lorry. Not yet.

He knew his parents were suspicious. They even called the hotel full of suggestive good cheer—from his mother at least:

“Your boss told us you were staying at the Luxor Hotel with Lorry—is there something you want to tell us, Clark?”

His father was gruffer. “I’m sure it’s for a story, Martha,” he kept saying on the farmhouse’s other phone.

He didn’t seem too sold on that idea, though, and Clark considered that maybe, just maybe, his parents wouldn’t be all that surprised by the announcement “Hey, folks, I’m not exactly, uh, straight.”

So why not tell Lorry? His parents? Lorry, then his parents? His workplace? Why not be rid of this particular secret?

Because “coming out” was never the simple, cathartic thing that people claimed. He “came out” as Superman when he didn't need to. The fact was, Clark could have gone on helping people in secret—the flash at the corner of the eye; the guy behind the scenes. He donned the Superman costume because he thought it would be easier, more direct, more honest.

Look at the result: villains gunning for him; government institutions and political groups either trying to get his patronage or warn him off; news media outlets with a thousand theories about Superman’s agenda, Superman’s sexuality, Superman’s color sense.

And the fans!

I want simple. Uncomplicated. Just—I wake up tomorrow and the day after and Lorry is there and we’re a couple, and there are no questions, no speculation, no fall-out. We just get on with life.

Yeah—but I thought Superman would be uncomplicated.

Face it—life is never that easy.

Take his next kiss with Lorry: done as cover naturally since the maid entered the Honeymoon suite unannounced, and Lorry and Clark didn’t want her checking out the surveillance equipment. Clark wound his fingers in Lorry’s hair, and Lorry tilted his chin at exactly the right angle and the kiss or kisses lasted long enough for Clark to consider—with the non-objective part of his brain—that Lorry’s throat might require exploring.

The door slammed. Clark slowly leaned back. He found Lorry contemplating him, eyes speculative. And then Lorry said, “Huh, gotta make notes for my hotel story.” And they carefully, carefully disentangled themselves.

Oh, sure, Clark’s life wasn’t complicated at all.

He was actually relieved when Lorry behaved recklessly (per usual) and nearly got caught breaking into the office they were surveilling. When Lorry got tied up on the docks with Senator Harrington, Clark could have kissed him again—this time in relief. Give Superman something to do! Right a wrong! Stop a tsunami! Work off that excess energy!

“What about your other story?” he, Clark, asked Lorry when everything with the senator and secret pay-offs and dangerous weapons and corrupt contractors was resolved.

“You know how the villains broke into the Honeymoon suite and trashed the place?”

“Yeah.”

“Hotel thinks it was a hate crime.”

“Well—I mean crimes are usually accompanied by hate—”

“Yeah, well, don’t tell them that. They gave me a complementary stay.”

And off Lorry went, with a final wave and cheeky smile.

Totally uncomplicated. Right.

Superman Is Tempted: Fan Fiction Continued

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.)

Except then the incident got worse. Clark explained what happened, explained about couples hooking up left and right in the staff-room, described how Perry pursued the cleaning lady with his Elvis impression. The Daily Planet gone love crazy! Lorry sat on the couch, a blanket over his lap, glaring at everything except Clark.

“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.

Clark's Mother Is Not Surprised: Fan Fiction Continued

Kansas was holding its annual corn festival. Clark was coming home for the weekend the “human” way: by plane.

“Maybe Clark will bring that Laurie with him,” Jonathan told Martha.

“Maybe,” Martha said.

On the phone, Clark was full of news about ‘Laurie’—Laurie this, Laurie that.

Maybe Clark finally had a steady girlfriend. Except Martha had noticed that Clark’s bylines lately were shared with a ‘Lawrence Lane.’

And Clark had never been a hot-dog with the girls.

Whoever this “Laurie” is, I hope they’re better than Lana Lang.

Lana had taken far too much for granted with Clark. Martha had been relieved that Clark didn’t end up getting Lana pregnant and staying in Smallville as Lana seemed to expect. In fact, she was willing to wager Clark never slept with Lana—which made Martha wonder—not to mention there was so much she and Jonathan didn’t know about Kryptonian physiology—

Let’s just say, Martha Kent wasn’t entirely surprised when her son Clark showed up in Smallville’s town square alongside a slender young man of middling height, bright green eyes, and a sharp tongue.

“I’ve heard about these small towns,” Martha heard the young man tell Clark. “You see Mr. Regular Joe there flipping hamburgers? I bet you he's a cross-dresser.”

Clark, Martha noted with interest, looked more amused than irritated. She didn’t give off the slightest hint of surprise when Clark said, “Mom, this is Lorry. Ah, Lawrence Lane.”

“Mrs. Kent,” the young man, Lorry said politely.

“Martha, please,” she said, and Lorry gave her a surprisingly shy smile.

“You kids must be hungry. Let's get you something to eat.”

“I don't know, Mom,” Clark said in the way he did when he was about to tell one of his ponderous jokes that made his eyes light up while other people shook their heads and sighed. “Lorry thinks that the cook might be a cross-dresser.”

Martha laughed “Honey, that's Clark's father. I can't get him to buy a dress for me, let alone one for himself.”

Lorry blushed scarlet and glared at Clark.

The marvelous Jerry Hardin plays Irig.

Clever. Good manners. Bashful. Not a pushover.

Martha knew exactly what she believed about her son and “Laurie.”

Jonathan was more skeptical. “They must be here for a story,” he said. “That weird affair at Irig’s, I’ll bet.”

Martha let him pull Clark away for a discussion of the “rock” that their neighbor, Wayne Irig had left with Martha and Jonathan before the EPA descended on his farm. She would grill Clark about Lorry some other time.

I know my son. He’s smitten. Maybe he has—what’s the phrase?—a man crush. Bromance. Maybe it’s something else.

Lorry came into the kitchen, his hair still damp from a shower. He was frowning at his phone, and he gave Martha a sideways look.

“Uh, I’m having trouble getting a signal.”

Earlier, when the four of them arrived at the Kent home (of course, Lorry would stay with them!), Lorry made a comment about the “boondocks” and started to explain his need for Wi-Fi. He’d then been thoroughly embarrassed by the Kents’ up-to-date technology set-up. Martha found his current diffidence as adorable as his previous flustered apologies.

She sent Lorry off to the living room to use the computer just as Clark and Jonathan stumbled in from the barn.

Martha was used to worry. Her son might be indestructible, faster than a speeding bullet, capable of leaping tall buildings in a single bound, etc. etc. etc. A mother still fretted when her son dove into a volcano or flew into space.

And yet, she had never felt more frightened than she did now, staring at Clark’s white face and trembling hands.

“It was Irig’s rock,” Jonathan muttered. “I showed it to him and he collapsed.”

Martha touched Clark’s forehead and snatched her hand back: “You’re burning up!”

She reminded herself that regular, non-Kryptonian people did get sick. Lorry, for one, didn’t seem that concerned about Clark’s “fever.” He assumed that Clark was suffering from a summer cold and made jokes about Clark wearing a SARS mask. Lorry’s assessment proved the most accurate. Clark was better the next day after the recommended “good night’s rest.” For a normal young man . . .

Except he wasn’t. Or wasn’t supposed to be. As Jonathan pointed out, they had no baseline, no way they could say, “Oh, sure, this is what to expect.” Or “Don’t worry, it’s a passing phase.”

Martha was reminded of the first time Clark moved beyond lifting ordinary heavy objects to performing feats that not even a circus strongman could manage. The first time he dug up seventy stumps in less than an hour. The first time he ran to Kansas City for a part for the tractor. The first time he flew.

The fair worker is the amazing Patrick Thomas O'Brien.

Normal was her son being able to survive whatever he did. Right now, he was surviving being, well, normal. He convinced Lorry to exchange his slim-fit casual suit for jeans, a plaid shirt, and boots. He even convinced Lorry to go line-dancing. Martha watched Clark challenge Lorry to the typical fair games, watched Lorry laugh while he tried to throw rings into a goldfish bowl.

Would it be so awful for Clark to be normal? To come home on a plane every visit? To not have to always be listening for earthquakes and twisters and multi-vehicle traffic accidents? Would that be so terrible?

“He’s not human,” Jonathan kept insisting. “This loss of power doesn’t make sense.”

“The rock is obviously from Krypton. Nothing else could affect him so much.”

“It did fall on Irig’s property about the same time we discovered Clark as a baby. What does the government want with it now? What do they want with Superman?”

Nothing good. Martha was a Midwesterner born and bred. She distrusted bureaucrats, IRS agents, D.C. news reporters, and anyone who used words like “cisgendered” and thought they were actually communicating.

What if Clark did stop being the object of interest by government agents? Would it truly be so bad if the most difficult part of her and Jonathan’s life was accepting their son’s boyfriend?

Luckily, she didn’t have a chance to get too used to the idea of a non-super-powered son. She might have wanted it a little too much. Clark got his powers back, then got the government goons (who turned out to be rogue agents) off Irig’s farm, helping Irig in the process.

Same old. Same old. And Clark clearly wasn’t ready to say anything about Lorry. Martha wasn’t entirely sure what Clark believed about his relationship with Lorry or about himself. She wished the “boys” well and kept her biggest wish to herself. I want my small-town son to have a true confidant in his big-city life.

Clark Gets Bored by the Mafia, Lorry Reluctantly Looks After Kids, and Superman Worries about Being a Bad Influence: Fan Fiction Continued

Early June, Year 1: “I’ve Got a Crush on You”

Clark was going out of his mind.

Lorry had gone undercover in one of Metropolis’s unconventional lounges, a high-end place that catered to businessmen with “exotic” tastes—which meant, in this case, Lorry-in-drag.

Clark had seen plenty of this sort of thing in his travels—a great deal of it less deliberately “avant-garde” and rebellious and self-conscious than the American versions. Far less obsession with pronouns for one thing. Clark liked Lorry as Lorry. He liked Lorry as Laura. The pan-part of him simply liked Lawrence Lane. He admired Lorry in costume. Lorry scowled at him.

“Maybe it's non-PC, but I'm not actually a girl,” Lorry hissed.

“I know,” Clark told him patiently and resisted the impulse to smooth his hand along Lorry’s wig and down his back.

“What are you doing here anyway?” Lorry said.

“You’re here undercover because the bar is run by the Metros, right? I’m here to assist my partner.” Clark gestured to his bartender’s vest and apron.

Lorry grimaced, then grinned.

“Kind of a rush, huh? Undercover?”

Across the room, a wealthy gentleman made eye-contact with Lorry and signaled coyly for service. Lorry picked up a tray.

“You’re, ah, just taking his order?” Clark said.

“He’s a man. I’m a man dressed a woman. Do you want me to draw you a diagram?”

“I’m watching you,” Clark growled.

He would have found it easier to keep his eye on Lorry if the lounge’s current manager, Toni, hadn’t approached the bar just then. She was part-suspicious, part-flirtatious, and Clark sighed. He’d gotten used to The Daily Planet, where the women collectively—probably due to Cat—had decided he was off-limits. He suspected that they all knew he was gay. Still, it was nice not to be bothered.

He smiled at Toni and said all the right things and tried not to flinch when Lorry threw him a knowing-glance, as if Lorry was getting confirmation of Clark’s straightness.

I’m not interested in her, Clark wanted to tell him. Especially since I suspect she is in cahoots with the Toasters, a group of arsonists trying to bring down property values in the area.

Lorry was less interested in the Toasters, more interested in the Metro’s inner struggle for power. Toni wanted to take over the organization from her brother Johnny—she had the backing of the family—she wanted the company to go legit—blah blah blah.

Clark found mafia problems less interesting than insect mating rituals--which latter were actually quite fascinating--hey, I coulda been a biologist--which was why Superman focused on things like putting out the Toasters’s fires and making sure Lorry didn’t get thrown into the harbor wearing cement shoes, especially after Lorry’s first piece on the Metros got published, and everyone at the club got very, very suspicious.

Ultimately, protecting Lorry meant giving him up to Toni as the club’s “leak.”

“Traitor,” Lorry snarled at Clark when they met up later at The Planet.

“You were sneaking around the back room. She was already suspicious.”

“We were sneaking around the back room. You could have pretended we were having a fleeting moment of passion.”

Of course, that sent Clark’s imagination into a fantasy involving—

A whole bunch of things he couldn’t afford to imagine.

He said, “I’ll remember that the next time we’re in a closet. It was better for at least one of us to avoid exposure.”

“Nobody knew who I was.”

“You saw Lex Luthor there, didn’t you?” Just like Lex, to show up in a place like that.

Right, Clark, because you and Lorry were there for completely virtuous purposes.

“He wouldn’t have given me up.”

Clark sighed in exasperation. He was fairly certain that Lex was behind the tests that occurred shortly after Superman arrived in Metropolis. The guy blew up a bank! Maybe. He was bad news, worse than the ambitious-businessman-about-town persona that Lorry attributed to him.

Don’t fall for him, he wanted to tell Lorry. But Clark wasn’t in a position to make that kind of request.

I’m such a coward. Sure Superman stopped the Toasters. And Clark helped Toni confess that she’d hired them as part of her take-over bid. But about the stuff that really mattered?

A total coward.

I ignored this scene in my fan fiction--it is never paid off

in the series anyway.

Late-June, Year 1: “Smart Kids”

Clark and Lorry’s next story involved genius children on drugs. Lorry found kids less interesting than stories about garden shows. Plus kids whined.

Perry assigned them to the story anyway. For a prior gay rights story, Lorry had gone through Metropolis’s foster parent paperwork to discover if the city would let him foster. Which they did. So he could. He used those credentials now to help the genius kids. And Clark was all smiley and supportive and Midwestern-down-to-earth laudatory about the virtues of helping widows and children. Which was embarrassing and sweet at same time.

“I bet you were a cute kid,” Clark told Lorry.

This guy is too good to be true. Don’t fall for him, Lorry.

***

Clark was getting worried.

Crime had gone down since his, or rather Superman’s arrival--violent crimes, that is. Petty crimes were on the rise.

“Precincts are slacking off,” stated Clark’s consultant, a criminologist from Metropolis Community College.

Clark had a high opinion of law enforcement. He was no Batman, there to give the authorities of a city what-for.

He said gravely, feeling a little like Frank Reagan without the impressive mustache, “Law enforcement works hard to protect this city.”

“I’m not saying they don’t,” the consultant assured him. “Hey, I’m a retired detective. I’m not even saying any of this is deliberate. But when a superhero might show up at any minute to give a couple of punk kids a lecture on community service—the impulse to let minor things slide is automatic.”

In other words, Superman was making people lazy. And giving adults and children delusions of grandeur if the “smart kids” trying to take over television to demand chocolate shakes and tech were any indication.

I can't not get involved. I’m a responsible person. If I can help, I should.

At what cost? If people start to assume that I will handle every crisis, what will happen to the police, fire, 911? What about funding? What if government agencies decide, “Hey, Superman will cover it—more money for these other programs!?”

Truth is, I can’t handle everything. The city needs those agencies.

What he could do was confine himself to the big stuff. Clark made an appointment as Superman with the Chief of Police, at which meeting he tactfully suggested himself as a kind of emergency-only, ah, assistant. Which went down surprisingly well. Clark suspected that the police were afraid Superman was going to put them out of work.

Don’t worry. What I really want to do? Work at The Planet, help out Lorry, maybe even some day date Lorry and occasionally—-occasionally-—save the world. Is that too much to ask?

Clark Considers Precious Moments Dolls: Fan Fiction Continued

“Partners!” Perry proclaimed. “Bernstein & Woodward!”

“If he compares us to Bernstein & Woodward one more time—” Lorry muttered to Clark.

“Better than Regis and Kathy Lee,” Clark said, and Lorry laughed.

For all his snark, Lorry was in a good mood, and Clark wanted to don his Superman suit and race to the moon and back. He felt like a stupid teenager (he likes me—he really likes me!).

He grinned at Lorry, only to see the other man’s smile fade when Perry said, “You’re going to cover the upcoming boxing match.”

“I don’t do sports,” Lorry bit out.

Perry gave him a look composed of sympathy and decisiveness. “You’re the best person to cover this particular story.”

Lorry scowled and hunched his shoulders. Perry eyed him guardedly and turned to Clark. “Fighters out of Menken gym are setting up amateur bouts. A kind of semi-legal fight club thing—there are rumors of under-the-table gambling.”

Lorry stomped away. Clark and Perry watched him collect his bag from his desk and march towards the elevators.

“Coming, Kent?” he called without looking back.

Perry muttered, “Good luck.”

This came up for "Superman

boxers"--I couldn't help myself.

Clark waited until he and Lorry were outside heading for the gym. He commented on the weather. He pointed out a potential human-interest story of vendors by the park: how did they pick their spots? He wondered if he should break into song. He could handle belligerent, sarcastic Lorry. Withdrawn, quiet Lorry unsettled him.

Lorry said abruptly, “My dad is a doctor. Orthopedics. He performs work on boxers at Menken gym.”

“So he’s our ‘in’?”

“With a son who’s out.”

Clark’s chest constricted. Lorry’s tone was impossibly dry. His eyes were shuttered. So that announcement hadn’t gone well.

Clark was fairly sure that his parents would support him if he came out. Probably. Most likely. They’d supported him through everything else.

But wasn’t it asking too much? After the alien-thing and the superpowers-thing? The worries he knew they had whenever a natural disaster was on the news and Superman flew off to help?

Which didn’t mean that Lorry’s parents shouldn’t fully support him. Lorry deserved it.

He said, “Your dad—ah—"

“He didn’t throw me out on the street to starve,” Lorry said. “He was, what’s the phrase he used, profoundly disappointed.”

Clark couldn’t fathom it—who could possibly look at smart, funny, handsome, independent, informed Lorry and be disappointed? Profoundly or otherwise?

But of course, there was the Grand Canyon-sized gap between people’s public image and their family's and friends’ private expectations. Clark remembered way too many high school and college bull sessions where his peers declared the importance of being honest with themselves, their parents, the world. Be who you really are!

Clark never knew how to respond. Yeah, lying was bad, and he never did it. Except for every moment of every day that he absolutely did. So, sure, he was hiding being gay. He was hiding everything else.

At least, I don’t deliberately hurt people. Or I try not to. I wouldn’t tell my kid I was “profoundly disappointed.” People don't say enough kind things to each other—Clark believed that.

I’m a precious moments doll.

He said, "I don't think Perry should have asked you—"

"Give me a break. Of course, he should have. It's a story. I have a source. Perry doesn't coddle."

A freakin' precious moments doll. Clark sighed.

They arrived at Menken Gym, where Lorry began to rattle off facts and statistics about boxing as soon as they entered. At some level, Lorry must have anticipated this assignment.

Or so Clark assumed until one of the trainers—a short, stocky man of sixty—strode up, face flushed with pleasure, and shouted, “Lorry!”

Lorry gave him a hug before introducing him to Clark.

“This is Ali.” They shook hands, Ali giving Clark a speculative glance. Apparently, he had no issues with Lorry’s orientation and anticipated being introduced to a boyfriend.

“My partner at the paper,” Lorry said quickly, and Clark quelled a pang of disappointment. He had no right to claim Lorry. He tried not to wonder how he was going to react the day Lorry did bring a boyfriend around.

* * *

Lorry hated mixing family and business. He hated having to break off Ali's reminiscences with questions about the gym and his dad. He hated having to watch his dad’s careful responses to his questions about the boxers’ unusual strength, hated his father’s mix of reserve and placating wistfulness (“Hey, I’m trying to get along with my gay son.”).

You treated me like a bigger disappointment than one of your downed athletes.

He was grateful for Clark’s unassailable, patient presence and then pissed because of course, Perry had guessed that Lorry would welcome a partner—buffer—in this case. Manipulator.

Back at The Planet's newsroom, he focused on tracking down the gym’s financials. Who was funding the medical procedures which enhanced the boxers’ strength? Were steroids involved? Clark was interviewing professional boxing organizations about the gym’s legal standing. Were its fighters more WWE-type performers? What was the World Boxing Council’s position?

The phone rang and Lorry hit speaker to keep his hands free. At the sound of Ali’s voice, he picked up the phone to give them more privacy.

“Hey, kid, I think I got something you should know.”

They arranged a meeting. It never occurred to Lorry that Ali might be in danger, that he should have started shouting for Superman the second he answered the phone and heard Ali’s voice. Because Ali never made it to the meeting.

“Victim of a hit and run,” the police officers told Lorry.

Bit of a coincidence. Lorry didn’t say it. He wasn’t in the mood for his own snarkiness. He huddled on a chair in the hospital waiting room, wishing that Perry and his father and the whole world would vanish into a deep dark hole.

A hand touched his shoulder. Clark settled beside him. He’s warm, Lorry thought in bemusement. It’s like he soaks up heat and radiates it throughout the day.

Clark said, “Superman got there too late.”

Clark sounded flattened, subdued. Guess he’s as susceptible as the rest of us to the Superman craze.

“If he’d gotten there in time—”

“Hey,” Lorry said. “Superman is a fast, strong man, person, alien-guy. He’s not God. Crime has gone down since he got here. It hasn’t vanished.”

The big guy relaxed and Lorry let Clark loll against Lorry’s side, knees knocking slightly, arms brushing. Right—I’m letting him.

Clark said, “I think you’re the only person I know who doesn’t think Superman should do more.”

“Idiots,” Lorry said without his usual rancor. “They should try remembering life before he got here—you know, six months ago.”

“I’m–he’s still sorry. About Ali.”

“Ali was a friend,” Lorry said, closing his eyes and letting his head fall against Clark’s shoulder. “He accepted me, gay gene and all.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Gotta love the way my dad’s associates solve their problems.”

“You think—?”

“Don’t you?” Lorry said, too tired to fix Clark with a blistering gaze.

“Your dad may not know what he’s gotten into,” Clark said gently.

Always trying to save people from themselves.

So, okay, yes, if having a partner meant having Clark there, then it wasn’t all bad. Which didn’t let Perry off the hook.

In the end, Lorry’s dad did the right thing: he confessed to performing semi-illegal medical enhancements on the boxers and turning a blind eye to the gym’s off-the-book gambling. Lorry had no time to feel gratified since he was kidnapped by Max, the head of the gambling consortium.

He stood in a dank alley thinking, What the hell is my life? First Ali. Then me. Do I shout for Superman or hope Clark called the cops? Then Lex Luthor stepped out of the shadows and confronted Max. Max’s gun jerked up, Lex shot first, and Lorry stared down at a dead body.

Well, here’s a story, he thought before glancing up at Lex. And Lorry would definitely never be good enough for Superman (or Clark, if Clark wasn’t straight) because the next thing he thought was, Maybe I’ll get an interview with Lex now.

Clark Ponders Suits: Lorry & Clark Fanfiction Continued

“Pulitzer!” Perry announced when Lorry handed in his interview with Superman.

Lorry shrugged. “There’s always another story.”

A scandal. A socially relevant narrative. Every reporter wanted to be the one with the best angle, the pithiest summary. The worse competitors were those self-important reporters from New York and Washington D.C., the ones who thought their merest pronouncements on the state of the world equaled prophecy.

Still, Lorry was grinning when he returned to his desk. A plump woman in a flowered dress bounded up from a nearby chair, her purse slipping from fluttery hands.

“Mr. Lane?”

“Uh, yes,” Lorry said as he retrieved the purse and handed it back to his visitor.

“My husband is the Invisible Man!”

Why do I get all the crazies?

In this case, Lorry knew why. Six months earlier, he’d written an article about an adventurer, some hike-across-Australia guy, who returned to his family after many years abroad. The article ended with compliments to the happily reunited couple.

Mrs. Invisible Man had read the story and loved it. She said, “Being married to an eccentric takes a special spouse—but you understand that, Mr. Lane.”

Lorry didn’t have the heart to tell her that the article’s happy ending had been added by his editor, that Lorry was a cynic about relationships and generally avoided relationship-type assignments.

“He’s not really Invisible, is he?” he said, referring to the man whose antics—stealing food from caterers to give to the homeless—had appeared in the news lately.

“He made a suit,” the wife told him. “You could write an article and tell him to come home. Tell him I’ll listen more when he tells me about his inventions.”

She chattered on, promising perfect meals and unstinting attentiveness and not a trace of criticism until finally--

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll write something,” Lorry said because saying, I don’t dole out relationship advice wouldn’t get her to leave.

“Who was that?” Clark said when Lorry returned from herding his guest onto the elevator.

“Invisible Guy’s wife.”

“Oh, yeah? Sounds interesting—”

Lorry shook his head as he pulled up a piece on a politician’s ties to construction bid pay-offs. At least Clark was no competition when it came to reporting. He was way too gullible.

***

“You picked up, so I know you’re awake,” hissed the voice on the phone.

Blinking further awake, Clark said, “Uh, Lorry?”

“The Invisible Guy is in my apartment. No, I’m not calling the police. He’s not dangerous. But get over here!”

Clark got up and dressed slowly. He’d learned the hard way to not appear too abruptly at people’s doors. Lorry wouldn’t expect him to arrive for at least twenty minutes.

He went out and walked briskly towards Lorry’s side of town, listening all the while for possible crimes and problems. As Superman, he tried not to intervene when the police were already involved. He wasn’t a vigilante. There were rules. Boundaries. Niceties. They kept Clark from going too far, crossing that line from helper to bully.

Besides, it wasn’t as if he could lock people up in some extra-special ice fortress. Where did those type of superheroes get their funds? Did anyone have any idea how much prisons cost?

He helped a lost teen, stopped a car from crashing, broke up a drunken fight outside a bar, and only arrived at Lorry’s ten minutes later than he thought he would.

Which Lorry seemed to find completely normal, so it was probably just as well that Clark hadn’t hurried.

Alan—the Invisible Man—was a meager, friendly man with a special suit. He needed help. Unpleasant people had stolen his extra suits of invisibility to commit crimes.

“I only wanted to play a few jokes,” Alan explained tremulously. “I wasn’t planning anything really bad.”

“Why make the suit at all?”

“I became invisible to become visible again,” Alan said.

Clark got that: Hey, look what I did! I made something! I’m clever! Just try to figure me out! Look for me!

It doesn’t work, Clark wanted to tell Alan. You wear the suit long enough, you’ll disappear entirely.

Lorry gave him a raised eyebrow, a look Clark was beginning to recognize. This is a story, and you’re going to help, right? Lorry was saying.

Only because you could probably talk me into anything.

“Alan can stay with me,” Clark said without thinking.

There was no good reason that Alan shouldn’t stay with Lorry—except that Clark, unlike Lorry, couldn’t be killed in his sleep if Alan turned out to be an insane axe murderer.

“Yeah, okay,” Lorry said quickly. “You’re better with people,” he added to Clark.

Not really, but Clark figured Lorry meant that Clark was less likely to roll his eyes at Alan’s scientific theories and borderline criminal behavior.

“Thanks,” Lorry said, then swung back to Alan. “We’ll help you,” he told the little flustered man. “People shouldn’t steal your stuff, no matter why you made it—”

You may not be good with people, Lorry, but you’ve got a big heart.

Not that Clark would say so.

He watched Alan gather up his stuff. Lorry leaned over to pick up part of the invisibility suit, and his bathrobe fell open to reveal gray sweatpants and a Superman t-shirt.

“Oh, Lorry,” Clark said. “You too?”

***

Clark was staring at Lorry’s chest and not in a “hey, I like what I see” way. He looked resigned.

“It’s not an homage,” Lorry told him, pointing to the t-shirt. “It’s, ah, ironic.”

Clark looked even more resigned, and Lorry had to admit that he was coming off as little better than all those kids in high school who suddenly all liked Game of Thrones—which irritated all the kids who’d liked Game of Thrones before it became super-popular.

Not that Lorry was opposed to pop culture. But he had to admire how completely Clark distanced himself from the Superman phenomenon.

Hey, I can be detached and objective too.

Not the easiest thing to do, especially when Superman ended up rescuing Lorry and Alan from the villains who stole the invisibility suits in order to rob a bank.

“I really hope you didn’t nearly get yourself killed merely to get a story,” Clark said.

“The story is the only thing that matters,” Lorry told him.

He didn’t add anything about being smitten or overawed or whatever by Superman. He was objective. Cool. Unimpressed.

Yeah, right.

Clark Hates Superman: Fan Fiction Continued

Mid-May, Year 1: “Strange Visitor (from Another Planet)”

The tests on Superman stopped. I guess I won’t have to find another costume.

Clark suspected the tester (culprit, supervillain, nut-job) was Lex Luthor. Maybe. Maybe it was the government. A week after the tests ended, the government occupied The Daily Planet on a mission to find out more about “the alien.”

Clark and Lorry had published the most legit stories about Superman—all two of them. Trask, the agent leading the government task force, insisted on questioning them about Superman’s origins, habits, and, potentially, his whereabouts.

Perry blustered about rights and attorneys, but Clark agreed to the interview, or rather interrogation—he wanted to know what types of questions the government would ask (Could they know more about my origins than I do?). Lorry agreed, of course--he was always looking for a story.

It turned out that the government knew nothing. The questions were bland and uninspired. The weirdest (and most pointless) part was being hooked up to a polygraph. Clark didn’t like lying to the government—respect for large institutions kept Clark from going off the rails. But he had a fundamental distaste for fishing expeditions, which this obviously was.

Either the polygraph machine is broken . . .

It wasn’t difficult for Clark to level his physical reactions. (Me? I’m not lying. I see Superman every morning in the mirror—that doesn’t mean I understand the guy any more than anyone else does. Truthfully, honestly, I don’t know him very well at all.)

The interrogator fiddled with the machine, and Clark let his attention wander. Focusing his super-hearing, he could hear Lorry’s interview next door.

“Can Superman read thoughts?” the interrogator asked.

“I hope not,” Lorry said, a licentious smirk in his voice.

Which left Clark feeling...he had no idea. Lorry was attracted to Superman. So was everyone. Big deal. Clark couldn’t generate any personal pride in the fact. Superman was a celebrity. He could look like a rodent of unusual size and everyone would still ooh and ahh.

Even if people did find Superman attractive, Superman wasn’t Clark.

And Clark was…

According to Cat Grant, an attractive guy. Mostly, he was a guy without a planet. Adoptee extraordinaire. As Lorry had pointed out when he and Clark brainstormed article topics that morning, adopted kids searching for their biological parents was an overdone special interest story. Clark had to agree. And it wasn’t as if one story about one human kid’s hunt for his origins would answer Clark’s questions. I can fly around the world in less than an hour, but I can’t exactly step next door to find out about my birth parents.

He felt his shoulders tense, and the polygraph went haywire, eliciting muttered curses from the government agents. The operator obviously blamed the machine's strange responses on the machine being on the fritz. Whatever. It irritated Clark that he was obsessing about something that he thought he'd resolved years ago. I'll never know more about my planet, my parents, and why they sent me here. Donning the costume, including the emblem from his old baby blanket, had reminded him how "other" he was.

***

“You know Clark is gay, right?” Cat told Lorry the day after the government arrived and questioned Lorry and Clark for hours.

“Don’t antagonize them,” Perry had told Lorry. But Lorry couldn’t help poking the bear or American eagle, which irritated Trask and made him double-down on his questions. The interrogation went on and on. When Lorry finally got cut loose, Clark had left with Cat.

Of course. Naturally. Cat was gorgeous and interested. She and Clark together looked like something out of a Too Hot For You modeling catalog.

Except Cat was convinced that Clark played for Lorry’s team.

“He’s an upstanding Midwestern farm boy,” Lorry told her. “Last century morality.”

“Tell me about it. All that eager need to please. Those Midwest boys make great lovers. But I’m telling you, Clark is not interested. I think he’s a one-person-for-my-whole-life type of guy, and you’re it.”

Lorry sighed. Cat was always trying to pair people up, from the cleaning lady and the copy guy (both married to other people) to Bob in Sports and Kathy in Finance (both proponents of the single lifestyle).

Clark was no more interested in Lorry than Superman was. The one thing Lorry wanted was an interview with Superman and that was no more likely to happen to him than it was to the government guy Trask.

Especially since it turned out that Trask was a rogue agent, acting without government approval (less American eagle and more American weasel). The story of Superman’s origins fizzled out.

I have got to get an interview with Superman. Trask may be crazy. I totally understand his obsession.

***

Clark was beginning to hate Superman.

Really hate the guy.

Superman was good and upstanding and couldn’t say No to anything, including auctions that gave money to causes that Superman had to support, like orphaned puppies and ill babies.

The auction that night was for Leukemia research. Case and point.

Lorry was there. And he bid on a date with Superman. For one heart-stopping moment, Clark—locked in Superman’s costume—thought Lorry might win. But Lex Luthor’s crowd was present, and some woman won an evening with Superman for more money than Lorry and Clark plus the entire news floor made in a month.

Clark sighed and made arrangements to attend a society function as Superman with the woman.

He slipped up to the roof, changed from Superman to Clark, and slipped downstairs to where the party—filled with small-talk, appetizer-offerings, and appropriate music (jazz, this time)—droned on. Clark made his way to the bar where Lorry slumped over a ginger-ale. Lorry didn’t drink at public shindigs since he liked to stay alert. Clark was grateful since Lorry’s restraint gave him an excuse not to drink; alcohol barely affected him.

Lorry threw him a wry smile. “See me get humiliated?”

“Unless you have a Cayman bank account you’ve never mentioned—”

“Yeah, I know. And it’s not like Superman is going to date a guy. Not that I was bidding for a date,” Lorry added quickly. “I want a story, you know.”

Clark was still thinking about Superman and dating; he said slowly, “Maybe Superman is afraid of revealing his true feelings.”

Lorry shook his head and Clark sighed. Yeah, you’re right, superheroes are plastic people with plastic feelings.

Lorry said glumly, “I tried to get Superman’s attention at the Key ceremony. Not a chance. Not in that crowd.”

Clark nodded. Nobody had consulted him about Metropolis offering Superman the key to the city, but then it wasn’t as if anyone in city government knew how to contact him as Superman. They advertised the affair in multiple newspapers, on local television stations and the radio instead. It would have been rude for him not to show.

He’d been utterly unprepared for the hoopla—people in Superman T-shirts, kids with Superman action figures and dolls, stalls selling Superman coffee mugs and mouse pads.

I want to help people. Not show up and get cheered.

Maybe I should have gone with a not-so-bright costume. But I wanted to be friendly. Approachable. The kind of superhero who will rescue a cat from a roof. Why not?

Clark was beginning to suspect that neither he nor his mum were all that media-savvy.

Lorry said morosely, “It would be the scoop of the century. A one on one interview.”

Clark gave him a considering look.

***

Lorry collapsed into a chair in The Daily Planet’s offices and glared at his computer screen. Maybe I should settle for writing stories about vacation spots and garden ornaments.

“Hullo,” said a deep voice that Lorry recognized even though it had been weeks since he heard it last.

He tried not to appear excited or happy or awestruck or weirded-out. You’re a reporter, Lorry. Act like one.

“Government people are looking for you,” he told the man in the costume.

“I know.”

“Omniscient, huh?”

“Not exactly.”

“You believe in God?”

“I’m pretty old-fashioned. Values-wise.”

“So a human with powers? Or—”

“Alien. From another planet. But, um, I’ve been here awhile. I like Earth. I consider it my home.”

“People can have dual citizenship.”

“I don’t, uh, know much about my planet of birth.”

The deep voice faltered, and Lorry felt a pang of sympathy.

Maybe Clark has a point about adopted kids—after all, this guy adopted an entire planet.

“Tell me more—”

Superman Contemplates Bruce Willis: Fan Fiction Continued

Early May, Year 1: “Neverending Battle”

“So did you and Superman join the zero gravity club?” Cat teased Lorry at the earliest opportunity.

“Superheroes are always straight.”

“There’s that guy from The Flash,” Jimmy suggested. “And that other superhero guy from some alternative universe. And Deadpool is supposed to be pan-sexual or whatever. But yeah, heterosexual is definitely the norm.”

“Makes sense,” Lorry said, who preferred his fiction not be filled with designated tokens.

Life is what it is. Accept it. There’s a flying space alien in town, and you and every other reporter on the planet wants an interview.

Yeah, but Superman flew me back to Earth.

Okay, yes, maybe the latter was because otherwise, Lorry and The Planet might have been fined several thousand dollars for Lorry being an uninvited passenger on the shuttle to begin with (hadn’t these people ever heard of Julius Chambers who committed himself to a mental institution for a story? now there was dedication). At least Superman indicated he had sympathy for Lorry’s job.

If only Lorry had actually thought to ask questions on the (far too fast) trip home rather than staring around him and pondering how it was he could breath and didn’t burn up on re-entry. Superman’s cloak? His body heat?

I need an interview.

***

Clark was irritated.

First of all, he had to find an apartment, which meant rushing off to meet with potential landlords at a moment’s notice.

“Girlfriend?” the tenth maybe landlord asked. “Boyfriend?”

Clark shrugged. “I’m single,” he said vaguely.

The apartment was a mess, but he could fix it up. He didn’t mind the extra work although he’d probably need to get someone to help with the plumbing. A guy with superpowers who could heave old refrigerators into the sun wasn’t so good at fiddling around for hours with gaskets, lock-nuts, and washers.

The episode includes the marvelous Bruce Kirby.

The now-actual landlord offered terms. Clark agreed. One problem solved.

He was still irritated. Someone was testing Superman. Two jumpers on the same day in the same city both from the tops of buildings in line-of-sight of each other? Sure, Clark saved them both. It was still irritating, especially since it distracted him from people in real need.

Then, Lorry stole his story about the jumpers.

When Clark confronted his erstwhile, occasional, maybe reporting partner, Lorry got snarkily defensive. He spouted off about Clark needing to be a tougher reporter, never letting go of a lead, etc. etc. etc.

“Sorry, man,” said Bob from Sports who overheard Lorry’s rant. “It’s not like Lane though. The guy’s relentless, but this is the first I’ve heard of him playing dirty.”

Clark sighed. The problem wasn’t Lorry. The problem was Superman. The costume, the “disguise,” was supposed to help Clark help people. Instead, it was turning him into this vaunted hero-type figure—who was loved and despised (the news networks were already trying to determine whether he was a liberal or conservative threat). And tested.

When a call came in about a bomb at a bank, off Clark flew—as Superman—prepared to rescue civilians and stop mayhem, only to discover that the bomb was programmed to go off only when he, Superman, arrived.

I don’t understand people.

He stomped outside, covered in dust, trying to look non-irritated and non-upset. Anybody at any moment might snap a picture. Superman’s constant subtle movement—even when standing still—meant that no photo could completely capture his face. Still, he had a duty to be calm and collected and not miffed as hell. No throwing chairs and shouting the “F” word like a deranged Hollywood celebrity.

So Clark, as Superman, was all stoic and judicious and “no comment” guy right up until he saw Lorry interviewing a bomb expert on the edge of the scene. Lorry was bleeding from a cut on his forehead.

Superman changed back to Clark so rapidly, he left off his socks.

“There were extra cameras in the bank?” Lorry was asking as Clark approached. Arms folded, he studied the bank blueprint held by the bomb expert. He glanced briefly at Clark, who flinched. The cut looked worse close up.

“How did that happen?”

“I got here right before the bomb blew.”

“Did you get it looked at?” Clark said, his fingers brushing Lorry’s forehead.

Lorry scowled, then shrugged, quick-silver smile manifesting briefly.

“I’ve been in worse situations,” he said. “Listen to this—there was no theft or terrorist threat. Yet there were extra cameras in the bank, and the bomb didn’t go off until Superman arrived and was inside. I think someone is testing him.”

“Yeah,” Clark said.

Yeah. What was that movie with Bruce Willis? The one where a villain needed a hero? Once a hero arose, a villain had to arise in response? Or vice versa?

Was Clark Bruce Willis? Only slightly less taciturn? With a mom who liked to sew? Was the bomb the product of his designated supervillain, responding to his or, rather, Superman's appearance? Did there have to be a supervillain? Some kind of balance-to-the-universe thing?

If so, wasn’t it better to have no superheroes and no supervillains and just let people get on with life the best they could?

Superman Dilemma #1

“Superman should leave Metropolis,” Clark told Lorry glumly later that night.

He was helping Lorry with the bank story—he’d even flown off to get authentic Chinese food (“Great local place,” he told Lorry, not adding that the great local place was local to Shanghai)—and they were kicking back late at night at The Daily Planet.

Lorry glared at him, and Clark sighed. Even glaring, Lorry had gorgeous green eyes. Unfortunately, those green eyes drew Clark’s eyes to the bandage on Lorry’s forehead. My fault.

He added, “Things are going to get crazy—already have. Superman is a catalyst or whatever. Something new enters the system, and it goes out of whack.”

“He can handle it.”

“Not everything. I mean, sure, a lot. But he can’t be everywhere at once, no matter how fast.”

Not to mention that Superman had a job and parents, a life, and couldn’t spend every waking second lurking around Metropolis waiting for disaster. Because there was a horrible way to live.

Not that Clark hadn’t contemplated the lurking lifestyle when he was flying Lorry back to Earth, but it seemed to his Sunday-School-trained brain that living as his true self—as Clark—would enable him to help his fellow citizens better than living outside of society. Didn’t superheroes who followed the latter script eventually go nuts and try to boss everybody around?

Shrugging, Lorry said, “Whatever Superman can do, that’s enough.”

“And if people get hurt?”

“The greatest happiness for the greatest number.”

“What about the minority?” Clark said. “The outliers?” Collateral damage, he was thinking.

“Civil defense is all about the majority,” Lorry said. “It has to be. In the long run, the outliers will suffer if the majority isn’t secure. Anarchy sucks for everyone.” He leaned back, popped a dumpling in his mouth and grinned at Clark.

“Superman shouldn’t leave,” he declared as if the matter was settled.

And it was, Clark found to his astonishment. He—Superman—was going to stay. Lorry’s non-B.S. version of the world was, ah, insightful. (Not perfect, not comforting, not something I've been looking for all my life—because Clark was trying very hard not to be the big puddle of mush he knew he could be.)

I am not going to fall for him.

Of course, the possibility that Lorry would fall for Clark was slim to none—especially since Clark wasn’t “out.” Not to mention, Lorry had apparently decided that he and Clark were in direct competition for the “Best Reporter in Metropolis” title.

“You are never going to get a better byline than me,” he informed Clark.

“Not yet.”

“Not ever.”

Clark shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Arch-nemesis

“How long can you hold your breath?” Lorry raised a brow, snorted, and sauntered off.

“A very long time,” Clark muttered. It was probably best not to mention that he once swam half-way across the Mediterranean before he popped up for air. A very long time would do.

[My fan fiction contains some changes to the episode's original order of events. Also, Lois & Clark fans may note that I hold off on Clark figuring out that the tester is, in fact, his arch-nemesis, Lex Luthor. While I dislike shows that keep people circling round and round and round an obvious truth--see Merlin--I would have favored Superman/Clark not figuring out "the man behind the curtain" immediately.]

Lorry & Clark: Superman DOES Have Inner Conflict

While writing my Lorry & Clark summaries, I came to the conclusion that Superman's lack of inner conflict is not Superman's fault.

The material provides plenty of possibilities for inner struggles. Some graphic novels have addressed this--Secret Identity by Busiek and Immonen is one of the best--but generally speaking, there is an assumption that only Batman has angst. Superman is all about the external problems.

Truth is, Superman has lots and lots to worry about, especially if he is as ethical as Superman is supposed to be. Superman's internal issues don't come down to "oh, I feel so bad about my dead parents!" angst, which may be why most writers avoid Superman's inner life. (Face it: death is easier to write about.) But issues of identity, self-doubt, and morality are certainly there.

So here are Lorry & Clark again with more inner voice dialog from both characters. I start with the gay stuff, then move into the ethical stuff. I'm not sure if I'll cover all 4 seasons, but I will be covering most of Season 1:

"The Pilot"

Clark Kent, 26, 6’2”, Kryptonian, was not “out” to his adoptive parents, Martha and Jonathan Kent.

They took him in, a baby who’d fallen to Earth in a spaceship. They raised him. They protected him. They coped when he began to manifest more and more superpowers.

“Hey, Mom and Dad, by the way, I’m gay” was a shock he preferred not to deliver. It didn’t matter how many school assemblies spouted off about diversity. One more difference, Clark decided, is one too many.

So he dated girls, took Lana Lang to the prom, stayed a virgin, which luckily—even in twentieth-first-century Kansas—was, well, not exactly a norm but at least an expectation. He could claim a desire to stay on his parents’ and pastor’s good sides without too much push-back or rolled eyes. It wasn’t as if most of the boys he knew weren’t virgins too (no matter how big they talked). In any case, he suspected that the girls he dated, including Lana, were relieved at his “chivalrous” attitude.

He graduated from high school, went to college, got a degree in journalism, traveled abroad, lost his virginity in the spiritual if not technical sense, moved to Metropolis.

And met Lorry, Lawrence Lane, reporter for The Daily Planet.

And the world got a lot more complicated.

One more thing.

* * *

Lawrence (Lorry) Lane, 25, 5’9”, Daily Planet staff member, never wanted to be anything other than an investigative reporter. Get inside the story. Learn the truth. Find out things nobody else knows (yet). Be the fly on the wall.

Bursting into Perry White’s office with a story about the space program, a story that mattered, he glowered at the way-too-handsome, excessively polite guy with the perfect hair, perfect teeth, and shy smile. Straight, Lorry told himself. Not reporter-material. Not my type. 

“Who's the cutie?” Cat Grant from Lifestyles & Fashion asked as Lorry escaped Perry’s office followed by Perry’s hollers that Lorry “get me that theater story!”

Lorry shrugged. The “cutie” was not his problem.

Until Perry hired the cutie—who stole Lorry’s theater story; okay, sure, whatever, Lorry didn’t want the theater story, but still—and assigned him to Lorry.

Okay, yes, maybe Lorry took too many chances. And maybe he got pulled into stories at the expense of other assignments. And maybe he needed someone to be his gopher.

What he didn’t need was a babysitter.

“He’s a hack,” he told Perry and glowered at Kent, who smiled benignly back.

Perry sputtered. Kent waited with more patience than Lorry could muster in his pinky let alone his entire body.

“Fine,” he snarled because the guy really was way too attractive. And big. But not swaggering and pushy, which made him totally Lorry’s type.

Straight, he reminded himself.

“Let’s go,” he said brusquely. “I like to stay on top of things.”

He was almost at the elevators when he heard Kent say softly, “I’m sure you prefer to top.”

Lorry spun around, glared. Kent smiled benignly. Patiently. Non-threateningly. Innocently.

Except there was glint in his eye.

So the big guy has a sense of humor. Huh.

By the end of the day, after multiple interviews with space program personnel, during which Kent continued to stay preternaturally calm and good-humored, Lorry had to admit that his temporary partner wasn’t...totally useless.

* * *

Lawrence—Lorry—Lane was trim, fit, always moving, sharp as a tack (as Clark’s mother would say), and a mass of barriers and “keep off” signs. Just as well. Clark was not ready to do anything about his bi- or pan- or whatever-sexuality. Not in any public way that involved coming out and so on and so forth.

Not when he was trying to figure out how to come out as Metropolis’s superhuman protector. A man in civilian clothing who just happened to end up in the middle of sabotaged construction sites and bomb scares and car pile-ups was too suspicious—even if Clark claimed he was there as a reporter. People would start asking questions, would start complaining. He didn't want to lose his job at The Planet, not when he'd finally achieved his dream (no matter how corny that sounded).

Nevertheless: Lorry was super tempting. And quite frankly and cheekily “out,” which Clark envied to no end. When Lex Luthor held a soiree announcing his plans for a privately-owned space station, Clark stood at the nearby bar and watched Lorry unabashedly flirt with the so-called great man.

Lorry winked and grinned and swaggered towards the bar. Lex’s eyes stayed on him for a few seconds before some high-powered somebody or other claimed his attention. And Lex Luthor, Clark had already determined, was not easily distracted from his single-minded ambitions. Which just proved Lorry’s attractiveness.

Which, Clark decided, Lorry was utterly unaware of.

Lorry got to the bar, ordered a soft drink. He gave Clark a sideways glower and hunched his shoulders.

“Lex is bi,” he said belligerently. “I want an interview.”

Clark smiled because saying, Yeah, I gathered, and I wish you’d flirt with me that way wasn’t a possibility.

Then Lorry sighed and produced a quick-silver smile. “Yeah, well, I’m not in that guy’s wheelhouse,” he said into his drink. “Or yours. Don’t fall for me, farm boy.”

Too late.

* * *

Life wasn’t awful. Lorry had a good story, an okay (temporary) reporting partner. Maybe his (temporary) partner was occupying his thoughts a little too much these days (Straight, remember?) but life could be worse.

Life didn’t get worse. It got way more complicated. First, the space shuttle blew up. Lex Luthor offered to move forward the building of his privately-owned station. The Congress of Nations thanked him kindly but refused his offer of collaboration. Lorry, Clark, and Jimmy—The Daily Planet’s newest photographer—then uncovered a conspiracy to sabotage the Program’s latest project. Lorry finagled a place on board the remaining space transport vehicle. Not his smartest move, since it had also been sabotaged with a bomb. And he would have died—except—

Superman showed up.

Superman. A humanoid wearing a garish costume—with flapping cape—walked—no, flew—onto the space transport vehicle. He dismantled—swallowed—the bomb, burped slightly, smiled at Lorry and introduced himself to the rest of the passengers, as if his appearance was everyday normal.

And then he picked up Lorry and flew him back to The Daily Planet.

Lorry’s life was never going to be the same again.

What a scoop!