Coming Out (RP for mom_of_steel)
It's been a long night.
He'd come over to Martha's apartment early the previous evening, and she'd managed to find an assistant who would gladly take on all the paperwork she would normally have had to do. Perry White was scheduled to make an appearance the next day, and they were determined to be ready.
After living for a year in an attic, Lionel is finally beginning to feel like himself again. Martha has purchased a new suit on his behalf (her assistant, once again, bewildered), and she's cut his hair - hardly his usual $1,000 haircut, but she's made it neater than it otherwise might have been.
"I tried to cut Clark's hair once," she had remarked. "That was a pair of scissors that was never right again."
And then... then they'd intended to go over exactly what he would say. Years ago, Lionel had been the one acting as devil's advocate for Martha, honing her debating skills and editing her speeches in her living room. Last night, she had done the same for him, trying to think of every reaction Perry might have, from the insightful to the petty.
Arguing, and even pretend arguing, had taken their toll, however. In reality, neither of them had truly known what the following day - or the eventual published article - might bring. They have both agreed that it's impossible to continue this relationship with Lionel constantly hiding, but... But with the reveal comes the possibility of judgment, and the possibility that they'll lose each other in any case.
Mid-debate, Martha had pressed her fingers to his lips, and slipped onto his lap. "Just hold me," she'd said, and he had.
They'd kissed and made love, and tried to pretend that the tension was just a foolish response, that everything would be fine, that they'd live happily ever after. Lionel suspects that neither of them had really done much sleeping.
Now, they're sitting in the lounge, washed and groomed and dressed as though waiting for an audience with the President. Lionel squeezes Martha's hand. "I love you," he says quietly.
And the doorbell, finally, rings.
He'd come over to Martha's apartment early the previous evening, and she'd managed to find an assistant who would gladly take on all the paperwork she would normally have had to do. Perry White was scheduled to make an appearance the next day, and they were determined to be ready.
After living for a year in an attic, Lionel is finally beginning to feel like himself again. Martha has purchased a new suit on his behalf (her assistant, once again, bewildered), and she's cut his hair - hardly his usual $1,000 haircut, but she's made it neater than it otherwise might have been.
"I tried to cut Clark's hair once," she had remarked. "That was a pair of scissors that was never right again."
And then... then they'd intended to go over exactly what he would say. Years ago, Lionel had been the one acting as devil's advocate for Martha, honing her debating skills and editing her speeches in her living room. Last night, she had done the same for him, trying to think of every reaction Perry might have, from the insightful to the petty.
Arguing, and even pretend arguing, had taken their toll, however. In reality, neither of them had truly known what the following day - or the eventual published article - might bring. They have both agreed that it's impossible to continue this relationship with Lionel constantly hiding, but... But with the reveal comes the possibility of judgment, and the possibility that they'll lose each other in any case.
Mid-debate, Martha had pressed her fingers to his lips, and slipped onto his lap. "Just hold me," she'd said, and he had.
They'd kissed and made love, and tried to pretend that the tension was just a foolish response, that everything would be fine, that they'd live happily ever after. Lionel suspects that neither of them had really done much sleeping.
Now, they're sitting in the lounge, washed and groomed and dressed as though waiting for an audience with the President. Lionel squeezes Martha's hand. "I love you," he says quietly.
And the doorbell, finally, rings.