Play Date Chapter 2 (Patreon)

Busman’s holiday. That was it. Lois was relieved she didn’t need to break down and ask Clark what that phrase was for when you enjoyed your day off by doing the same stuff you did on your days on. Usually, it was spelling that was her bugbear, not vocabulary, but maybe she was getting old.

No. No, that was just a stupid phrase. What even was a busman, anyway? How could they expect people to remember a word like that?

What Lois did remember was trouble. She had a nose for the stuff. Where other people might see an eighteen-wheeler with the driver being a little reckless, leaning on the gas pedal a little hard, she saw a truck hurtling out of control through a New York City street, one collision away from being a news story. She had her hand on the signal watch and a fervent prayer that Clark wasn’t too busy with something else to intercede—then she froze. Her finger literally on the button.

In the blur of motion, Lois could’ve mistaken it for being Spider-Man, it was moving so fast—but white and red instead of blue and white, and curves that could never be Spider-Man’s. She was still tall, with the lithe physique of a swimmer or a runner—a dancer if not for the aforementioned curves.

Spinneret came down on top of the truck’s cab, feet sticking to the top of it. She was good… as good as Spider-Man, to Lois’s reporter eye. If she might make a mistake that Spider-Man’s experience would guide him through, Lois didn’t see it that day. Multitasking effortlessly, Spinneret shot out weblines that connected the truck’s trailer to the surrounding buildings, each stretching to bleed away the careening truck’s speed. At the same time, she was shooting weblines out ahead of her, pulling the truck below her this way and that, keeping it from running aground like she was breaking in a wild horse.

She could guide the truck, but stopping it was another matter. The weblines stretched and took away what momentum they could, but the masonry they’d been attached to inevitably gave way, leaving the truck unmoored. Spinneret shot webbing down to the wheels, trying to make them stick to the pavement, but that just tore up the road. And the truck was approaching an intersection now, its sheer bulk sure to cause a multicar pile-up.

Lois considered calling Superman, just to be safe, but before she could, Spinneret flipped forward, tucking and rolling in front of the truck and coming up into a crouch before it continued on into her. She’d braced herself, calculated the speed with which it would hit her, so she was carried along by the impact instead of flattened. Then, with the truck jammed against her slender shoulders, she dug her heels into the earth and said it couldn’t move anymore.

Her boots dug two massive trenches in the road. The tonnage of the eighteen-wheeler buckled and wheezed like an animal trying to break out of its cage. It strained for the intersection till its dying breath—but Spinneret brought it to a stop just shy of the cross-walk.

Now Lois could get a good look at her. She definitely looked the part of a superhero, with that statuesque physique that you apparently got the moment you could so much as bend a spoon. It made Lois wonder how long until Jon had six-pack abs.

The woman was a good six feet tall, not muscular like an Amazon, but supple and toned all over. This was a woman who had never skipped a spin class a day in her life. Bright red hair struck Lois as shoulder-length, but it was gathered up into a messy bun, which struck Lois as maternal practicality. If Spiderling was her kid, then it made sense to Lois that the woman valued a good defense over looks. If she had to fight someone, she wouldn’t want unbound hair flowing all over the place—not if her child was battling alongside her, maybe depending on her not to get dead.

Perhaps Lois was projecting. Ever since that time she’d married her biggest scoop, the personal and the professional had had a tendency to run together for her.

She rushed up to Spinneret quickly enough to catch her muttering to herself—something like ”Almost makes me regret complaining about labor pains. At least I had an epidural.” Her costume didn’t look like the padded unstable molecule leathers that Lois was used to when it came to superheroes, always so militaristic and butch. It looked more like silk or nylon, flattering her body, surprisingly fashionable. Lois would’ve expected to see something like it on a Parisian catwalk—neither homespun amateur hour or boringly sturdy professionalism. Lois filed that info away for later.

“Great rescue. I’m something of a connoisseur,” Lois said. She held her notepad in front of her and clicked her pen. For some reason, people found it less intimidating than a tape recorder. Maybe it was her penmanship. “Lois Lane. Daily Planet.”

Spinneret’s plump lips quirked in amusement. Her make-up was on point too. “You think you need to tell me that?”

“With our circulation numbers? Probably.” Lois jotted down her observations about Spinneret’s hair and stylish costume. She’d probably remember, but you never knew. There could be a swarm of Parademons between now and her sitting down in front of a word processer. She wouldn’t want to lose track of any little details. “Any comments for the folks at home?”

“Drive safely. Get your annual physical. Maybe keep the Big Belly Burgers to once a week.” Spinneret ripped the door off the truck cab to check on the driver. He seemed pale and sweaty, but not on death’s door. Spinneret checked his pulse. “Look, I’m a big fan, but I don’t have time to chat. You know how it is, days to save, damsels to un-distress. Why don’t you look for Spider-Man? He tends to handle the press.”

“By webbing people to their chairs?” Lois retorted.

“Whatever works,” Spinneret shot back. “And don’t try throwing yourself off any buildings. We’re fast, but we’re not speeding bullets.”

She shot out a webline and launched herself into a swing, leaving to a fanfare of klaxons rushing into to fill the dead air she’d left behind.

Lois scribbled down a few final thoughts on her notepad. “You win two Pulitzers, fine, but jump off one building…”

***

How many six-foot-no-heels redheads—the only dye that on the outfit—with drop-dead-gorgeous bodies could there be in New York? Well, if there were that many, Lois would have to rethink bringing Jon there. But how many of them were enough of a fashionista to have a suit that wore like Alexander McQueen? Lois hailed a cab to the fashion district to find out.

It wasn’t that she was writing an expose, except mentally. She knew how important secret identities were. She also knew that Spinneret’s secret protected Spider-Man and Spiderling, not just herself. So maybe finding out that secret was a way to contact the Spiders in case of an emergency, or if Clark couldn’t get a hold of his fellow family man.

That was some weak sauce, Lois knew. Maybe she just wanted to be an investigator again, even if it was only for the sake of her own nosy curiosity, with the stakes not being life or death but simply her own ego and satisfaction. Which only felt like life or death.

This next part was a bit of a crapshoot, admittedly, but part of reporting was the gambles. Lois swapped out her hair bow for a red wig. She redid her make-up with Gimme A Hint pink lipstick the centerpiece. She also swapped out her practical flats for towering pumps to replicate Spinneret’s statuesque height.

Lois didn’t think she was in any danger of being mistaken for Spinneret anytime soon—she wasn’t short of self-confidence, but that woman could be a supermodel. What she wanted was to jog someone’s memory, get a reaction of ‘you know who you remind me of?’ And from there, she could really get into trouble.

She fluttered around, the social butterfly. Dropping into this boutique or that, showing off her new ‘do, asking if any of the proprietors had any idea what to do with her towering height and fire-engine hair. She got some snooty dismissals for not being a Size Zero and an equal amount of compliments on her bone structure, until finally she came to one of those small businesses that had a dressmakers mannequin proudly displayed in the front window.

“Oh, MJ, finally you’re back, the bank called about—oh, I’m so sorry,” the shopgirl apologized. “I thought you were someone else.”

Lois smiled benevolently at her. “Anyone I’d know?”

“Mary Jane Watson? The fashion model? She owns this store. Well, Mary Jane Watson-Parker now. We get so many guys dragged in here by their wives and they are just shocked that the Lobsterman girl is not still doing FHM. She’s a mommy and a business owner and once, I could’ve sworn we got a phone call from Tony Stark.”

“Parker…” Lois mused. “Not Peter Parker? The photographer?”

“One and the same.” The shopgirl gestured around to some of the photos hung up on the walls. There were some of Mary Jane, both in her younger modeling days and with her family, while others were scenic vistas of the city, all but landscape paintings. “He gave us a great deal on the furnishings. Wait, do you know him from somewhere? Because you look like you could’ve been a fitness model.”

Why does she have to specify fitness model? “I get my pay stub from a newspaper. It’s a small world. I remember Parker used to work at the Bugle here in NYC. Got some great photos of—in his time.”

No, Lois thought to herself. No way. After Clark made his bones interviewing himself, there is no way another superhero got himself a job taking selfies.

She drew the girl at the counter into a conversation while she shopped, actually ending up liking a lot of the items for sale. The material was good, the fashion was chic, and the prices weren’t outrageous. Lois felt a little obliged to repay Mary Jane for the thrill of the hunt by buying some of her merch. Who knew—she liked the way she looked as a redhead. Maybe Lois would dye her hair someday soon.

“I actually think I saw your boss this morning,” Lois commented as the shopgirl rang up her purchases. “She was definitely wearing one of these pieces. You mind if I leave a note? I feel like I owe her some thanks for the ‘recommendation’.”

“Go right ahead,” the shopgirl said. “I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.”

Lois took out her notepad, swished to a fresh page, and jotted down a note. Nothing incriminating, of course. She could always be wrong about Mary Jane Watson-Parker. She certainly didn’t have anything on her that she’d take to court. But that, of course, wasn’t why she did it.

She knew how lonely it got to be, taking on the world by yourself. Even when your strength was heroic, it could feel like you weren’t making any headway at all. But just as Lois had been blessed to be able to count herself in Clark’s corner, it seemed Peter and Mary Jane had found their support in each other. And as much as that intimacy must count for, it couldn’t hurt for them to know there was more than one person who appreciated them.

Mary Jane, Lois wrote. Thought I saw you this morning catching a cab. You looked sensational. Keep looking good and making good. And tell your husband he makes me wish I had a shutterbug as good as he was back in the day. Hope I catch you next time. XOXO.

P.S. See if you can work up a nice pantsuit by the next time I’m in town. As good as your stuff is, I wouldn’t want to run a six minute mile in a bandage dress.