The Lane house stood exactly as Clark had imagined from Lois's stories. A neat colonial with carefully tended gardens that somehow balanced military precision with warm touches that could only be Eleanor Lane's influence. The roses climbing along the front path were her pride and joy, their wild beauty a stark contrast to the perfectly manicured lawn that screamed Samuel Lane's need for order.
"Ready?" Lois asked, squeezing his hand. The tiramisu from Bella Notte balanced carefully in Clark's other hand. "I know things were tense at the gala with Dad and Corbin..."
"Your father has good reasons to be protective," Clark said carefully. After seeing the General's reaction to Metallo at LuthorCorp, he understood the man's concerns about power and control all too well.
"Dad's always protective about something," Lois sighed. "But Mom will love you. Just nod when she offers seconds and laugh at Lucy's terrible jokes."
Before they could ring the bell, the door flew open to reveal a tall blonde woman who could only be Lucy Lane. Her smile held that particular mix of mischief and warmth that Clark recognized from Lois's stories.
"Well, well," Lucy drawled, leaning against the doorframe. "If it isn't the famous Clark Kent. Gotta say, sis, those photos you sent don't do him justice."
"Lucy..." Lois' warning tone just made her sister's grin wider.
"¡Lucy Maria Lane!" Eleanor's voice cut through as she appeared behind her younger daughter. "¿Qué te he dicho about embarrassing your sister? Especially in front of su novio!"
"Sorry Mamá," Lucy didn't look sorry at all. "Just making sure he's good enough for our Lois. We all saw how he handled himself with Corbin at the gala."
"Por favor, mijita..." Eleanor gently moved Lucy aside, her whole face lighting up. "Come in, come in! Sam! They're here!"
Clark found himself enveloped in a warm hug that smelled of cilantro and sofrito. Despite being at least a foot taller than Eleanor, he felt somehow small in her embrace, like being wrapped in pure maternal energy.
"Clark, mi amor," Eleanor beamed. "Lois tells me you speak Spanish?"
"Sí, señora," Clark responded with a smile. "Though I'm sure my accent needs work."
"Better than Sam's after thirty years of marriage," Eleanor laughed. "Still can't roll his Rs properly, even when he's trying to sweet talk his way out of trouble."
Heavy footsteps announced General Lane's arrival from his study. Even in civilian clothes, he carried himself with military bearing. His expression was guarded, remembering their tense encounter at the LuthorCorp gala.
"Kent." His handshake was firm, testing. "Interesting development with Corbin at LuthorCorp. Your coverage has been... thorough."
"Sam," Eleanor cut in smoothly. "No work talk tonight. Besides, Clark brought tiramisu from Bella Notte."
The kitchen smelled amazing, garlic and chilies mixing with something that made Clark's senses dance. Eleanor had clearly been cooking all day, the counters covered with dishes that blended her Mexican heritage with American comfort food.
"Help me set the table, Lucy," Eleanor directed. "The good china! Clark, please, make yourself comfortable. Sam, perhaps you could offer our guest a drink? And behave yourself this time."
The General's study was exactly what Clark had expected. Military honors displayed with meticulous precision, books arranged by height and subject, everything angled to maximize efficiency. A worn leather chair behind the desk spoke of long hours spent working.
"Whiskey?" The General was already pouring from a crystal decanter.
"Thank you, sir."
They stood in weighted silence for a moment, both aware of their confrontation at the gala. The General took a slow sip before speaking.
"Kent, about what happened at LuthorCorp..."
"Sir," Clark said carefully. "I understand your concerns about Metallo, about the changing world. But maybe tonight we could focus on family? This means a lot to Lois."
Something shifted in the General's expression. "Thirty-two years I've been married to Eleanor," he said unexpectedly. "Still can't win an argument when she starts rapid-firing Spanish at me. Especially when she's right." He glanced toward the kitchen where Eleanor's voice carried, giving instructions to Lucy. "The women in this family... they see things differently. Clearer, sometimes."
"Lois certainly does," Clark agreed softly.
"She talks about you, you know. Not just the work stuff. Says you see things other reporters miss. The human stories behind the headlines."
"Lois is the real star," Clark replied honestly. "I just try to keep up."
"My daughter thinks very highly of you."
"I think very highly of her, sir."
"Hmm." The General took a slow sip. "You know, when she first mentioned dating a civilian journalist, I had my doubts. Expected some soft city boy who'd never worked a real day in his life."
Clark waited, letting him continue.
"But I've read your work. Not just the Superman pieces – the stories about corruption in low-income housing, the expose on veteran healthcare failures. Good, solid reporting. Shows you understand what really matters."
"Thank you, sir. Though Lois deserves most of the credit – she's the one who taught me to dig deeper, to see the human side of every story."
Something in the General's expression softened slightly. "She gets that from her mother. Eleanor always said the most important stories are the ones about people, not politics."
Before Clark could respond, they heard Eleanor calling everyone to dinner. The dining room table was set with what was clearly the good china, Eleanor's famous pot roast steaming in the center.
"Clark, come sit by me," Lucy patted the chair beside her, ignoring Lois's glare. "I want to hear all about how you convinced my workaholic sister to actually take dinner breaks."
Dinner was... surprisingly wonderful. Eleanor's cooking lived up to Lois's praise, and once the initial awkwardness faded, conversation flowed naturally. Lucy told embarrassing stories about teenage Lois ("Remember when you tried to sneak out to that concert but got stuck in your window?"), while Eleanor shared childhood photos she'd apparently been keeping ready for this exact moment.
"Mom!" Lois protested as her mother produced a particularly adorable shot of five-year-old Lois in her first reporter outfit – a too-big blazer and a notebook bigger than her head.
"What? He showed you his childhood photos, didn't he?"
"That's different..."
"How?" Lucy grinned. "Oh! Did you see the one where she tried to interview the neighbor's cat?"
Even the General relaxed as the evening went on, sharing stories about Lois's determination to get her first real press badge. Clark watched her with her family – the way she bickered affectionately with Lucy, how she helped her mother clear plates despite Eleanor's protests, the soft way she said "Daddy" when her father started one of his longer stories.
"More wine, Clark?" Eleanor offered as they moved to the living room for dessert. "Sam, don't start with the war stories. Tell Clark about Lois's first attempt at the Army obstacle course instead."
"Mom!" But Lois was laughing, curled against Clark's side on the couch.
The tiramisu was a hit, though Eleanor insisted Clark call her Ellie after he complimented her coffee. Lucy produced a photo album she'd apparently been saving for maximum embarrassment potential, and soon they were all laughing at pictures of teenage Lois's attempts at punk fashion.
"I was going through a phase!"
"A phase that lasted three years," Lucy corrected gleefully. "Remember that time you tried to dye your hair purple but it came out orange instead?"
After dinner, as Lois and her father became engrossed in a spirited debate about military funding, Eleanor beckoned Clark to follow her into what was clearly her art studio. The converted sunroom was filled with canvases, both finished and in progress, the walls decorated with photographs and sketches spanning decades of family life.
"Sam insisted I have this space when we first bought the house," Eleanor explained, moving to uncover a large canvas. "Said every artist needs their own sanctuary. Even if he doesn't always understand my work, he understands what it means to me."
Clark studied the painting she revealed a vibrant street scene from her childhood neighborhood in Mexico, every detail infused with warmth and memory. His enhanced vision caught subtle touches that others might miss the way she'd captured light reflecting off worn cobblestones, the exact texture of ancient stucco walls.
"This is incredible," he said honestly. "The way you've captured the light..."
Eleanor's face lit up. "You see it? Most people just notice the colors, but it's the light that tells the story. This was my abuela's street in Mexico City. Every morning, the sun would hit those walls just so..." She gestured to another painting. "And this one I did when Lois was small. Look at how she's watching Sam read the paper: always studying, always wanting to understand."
The painting showed a young Lois perched on her father's knee, her tiny hand reaching for the newspaper while the General pretended not to notice her stealing sections. Clark could see hints of the reporter she'd become in the determined set of her small shoulders.
"She hasn't changed much," Clark smiled. "Still stealing my newspaper sections at work."
"Some things are in the blood," Lucy said from the doorway, carrying three cups of coffee. She handed them out before settling on a worn art stool. "Though Mom's the real journalist in the family. She sees everything."
Eleanor laughed softly. "I just paint what I see. The stories people tell without words." She pulled out a sketch pad. "Like this one I did at the gala last week. See how Lois keeps looking at you, Clark? Even when talking to others?"
The sketch captured a moment Clark remembered vividly Lois in mid conversation with a diplomat, but her body was subtly angled toward where Clark stood across the room. Eleanor had somehow caught that unconscious gravitation perfectly.
"You've got her essence exactly," he said, understanding now where Lois got her gift for seeing past surfaces.
"Mom did all our baby portraits," Lucy added, pulling down a framed sketch. "Look at tiny terror Lois, already trying to escape her crib."
The afternoon light painted warm patterns across the art studio floor as Eleanor shared more of her work. Each piece seemed to tell a story the General in his early days as a young officer, his face softer but still carrying that core of strength. Lucy's first day of school, clutching her sister's hand. Lois receiving her first press badge, pride radiating from every line.
"I had such plans for a gallery show once," Eleanor mused, carefully replacing a portfolio. "But then life happened, in the best ways. Still, I kept painting. Sam made sure I always had supplies, even during the lean years when he was just starting out."
"He'd drive three hours to Mexico City to get her special brushes," Lucy told Clark. "Said the PX art supplies weren't good enough for her talent."
Clark helped Eleanor reorganize some canvases, noting how each was dated and catalogued with military precision. The General's influence, showing love in his own way.
"Tell me about your mother's garden," Eleanor said as they worked. "Lois mentions her flowers, her vegetables. Another artist, I think, just working in different colors."
"Mom would love to hear you say that," Clark replied warmly. "She's always said gardening is just painting with living things."
"Smart woman. We should exchange recipes sometime. My mole sauce for her famous pie?" Eleanor's eyes twinkled. "Though Sam might object to sharing state secrets."
"Mom's pie recipe is pretty classified too," Clark laughed. "But I think an exchange could be arranged."
They spent another hour in the studio, Eleanor showing Clark her technique for capturing light and shadow. She even had him try a few brush strokes, praising his steady hand. Lucy contributed running commentary on family stories behind certain paintings, her legal training showing in how precisely she remembered details.
When they finally rejoined Lois and her father in the living room, Clark noticed the General's small smile at seeing paint smudges on their hands. Clearly, Eleanor sharing her art studio was a significant gesture.
"Making trouble in the studio?" the General asked, but his tone was fond.
"Teaching Clark about proper light and shadow," Eleanor replied in Spanish, making her husband shake his head fondly.
"Thirty two years," he told Clark, "and she still thinks I don't understand when she talks about art in Spanish. As if I haven't learned every word for every color just to keep up."
The rest of the evening passed comfortably, with Eleanor insisting they take home leftovers ("La comida es amor, Clark. Take it with love.") and Lucy extracting promises about future family dinners. The General even unbent enough to show Clark his collection of military histories, pointing out ones that gave good context for understanding current defense policies.
As they prepared to leave, Eleanor pulled Clark into another warm hug. "You see her," she said softly. "Not just Mad Dog Lane the reporter. You see my Lois."
"She makes it easy," Clark replied honestly. "Everything's clearer when she's around."
Eleanor studied him for a moment, then nodded as if confirming something to herself. "Love isn't always simple, mi amor. Especially not with Lane women. But it's worth every complicated moment."
The General pulled him aside while Eleanor fussed over Lois's coat. "Kent."
"Sir?"
"What I saw at the gala. How you handled Corbin, how you write about difficult subjects. That shows judgment." He clasped Clark's shoulder. "You're good for her. Different from what I expected, but good. Just don't make me regret approving of you."
"No sir," Clark said sincerely. "I won't."
Lucy caught him in a quick hug before they left. "Thanks for letting Mom share her art," she said quietly. "Not many people really get it, you know? But you saw what she was showing you."
The drive back to Metropolis was quiet, both of them processing the evening. Finally, Lois spoke: "So... that was my family."
"They're wonderful," Clark said honestly. "Complicated, like you said, but wonderful. Your mom's artwork..."
"She doesn't share that with just anyone," Lois said softly. "Dad says the studio is her soul room. For her to show you those paintings, especially the family ones..."
"I loved seeing your story through her eyes," Clark replied. "The way she captures moments, feelings. Like that sketch of you stealing your dad's newspaper."
Lois laughed. "I forgot about that one. God, I was obsessed with the Daily Planet even then. Poor Daddy, trying to read the sports section with this tiny terror climbing all over him."
"Your mom really caught your determination though. The way you were reaching for that paper like it held all the world's secrets."
"Still feels that way sometimes," Lois admitted. "Chasing the truth, trying to understand everything. Except now..."
"Now?"
"Now I have a partner who sees the stories I miss. The human angles I sometimes overlook when I'm focused on the bigger picture." She squeezed his hand. "I love you, Clark Kent. For seeing the people behind the headlines, for understanding my crazy family, for being exactly who you are."
"I love you too," he replied, meaning it with every fiber of his being. "Every brilliant, complicated, amazing piece of you."
When they reached her apartment, Lois turned to him with that determined look he loved so much. "Stay?"
Clark pulled her close, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, the lingering traces of her mother's studio paint, the essence of everything that made her Lois. "Always."
That night, tangled together in her sheets, Clark listened to Lois's steady heartbeat and thought about family.