You have a way of phrasing that I wish I could capture in my writing. You turn the ordinary into extraordinary. Beautiful. You turn words into images imprinted on the mind.
Clark hadn't been the same since she'd accepted Luthor's proposal of marriage. Hadn't been the same since he'd gone to see her at LNN. Hadn't been the same since they'd stopped talking after the Chief's retirement dinner. Clark had changed, and I didn't like it. Didn't like seeing the slump of his shoulders, hearing the merest edge of cynicism added to his voice, observing the almost manic energy that had spurred him to continue investigating Luthor without pausing to eat or rest, watching him separate himself ever so slightly from us as he turned all his efforts to saving Lois.
Jimmy the observer. Perry was always telling him to look at the details, but you've captured his soul here and definitely his voice. Old Jimmy's voice.
Even though you wrote it:
I frowned and moved forward to try to help Lois wrestle the white dress into submission, but it was too late. With a sob of frustrated desperation, she took the fabric into her hands and she ripped off what looked to be a mile of train and let it drop to the ground as carelessly as Luthor's body had fallen. Then she threw herself back into Clark's arms, easily sliding into the back seat, all but in his lap as he tightened his hold around her, the two melding into each other in a way that was almost uncomfortable to watch, it was such a private, intimate moment.
I can see Lois tearing off the train of her dress before climbing into the cab.
CK let out a huge breath and sagged forward. I think he slid to the floor, think he might have lowered his forehead to his knees, think he might have closed his eyes over whatever anguish he was feeling, think he might have curled inward to hide his inner pain...but I don't know.
Haunting. I have never seen Clark shown hurting from pain of being Luthor's prisioner as you describe his demeaner.
My hand fell away from his as if burned and my jaw dropped almost to the table when he let out a gasp of pain and tugged free of my touch. The awkward way he held his arm against his side tilted his hand and revealed what looked like a crisscrossing of burns across his palm. The pain evident in his eyes revealed the truth behind his slow, stilted movements. The way he turned away from me, hiding the depths of his reaction, revealed his reluctance to let anyone know that he'd been hurt.
The not wanting Lois to know what he had endured because of his love for her. That in itself was an admission of his love as much as the way he looked at her.
Beautiful. Haunting. Picture perfect. Thank you for sharing.
PS: I'm also a fan of Michael Landes's Jimmy. He had a depth to him that Justin's did not. You captured it well.
