This story was written in response to Hazel's challenge. There's much to be said on the generosity and selflessness of beta-readers and general editors - and I've been privileged to have some of the very best look over both my best and worst attempts at writing fanfic. All of my stories would be drastically worse if it weren't for the people who I've been lucky enough have as BR's and GE's-- so thank you Kaethel, Wendy, Erin, Lynn, Nqoire, LabRat, MissyG, Roger, and Tricia for all your hard work
You're ALL stars!
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The golden glow of the kitchen beckoned entreatingly to a bleary-eyed Clark Kent as he made his way unsteadily down the stairs. He winced at the unexpected burst of brightness onto his tender pupils, and shook his head, smiling ruefully at the beam that slitted out onto the carpet through the narrow crevice of the half-open door. He should have known.
Marriage had made him complacent, he reflected as he half-stumbled down the dark stairs. After a year of sharing his bed with his wife, he had become accustomed to the warm glow that emitted itself from her body as she lay next to him, and the warm weight of her head as it rested on her shoulder, and the soft sound she made as she breathed -- so accustomed, in fact, that he had taken it for granted, and as with all simple pleasures of life, he had barely noticed it was there until it was taken from him. She had been beside him as sleep clasped him to its warm embrace -- unfortunately, she had not been there when he had woken up in the wee hours, missing the sense of comfort that her body provided. The under sheet had been wrinkled, confirming her earlier presence; the coverlet thrown back from her side, and the pillows rumpled and twisted, as though a strong force had pummelled them into a state of submission.
Clark grinned suddenly. Yeah, a strong force -- Hurricane Lois.
He made his way awkwardly across the dimly lit sitting room; his hands out before him like some gross imitation of the walking dead of horror movies. His superpowers insured that he wasn't normally this clumsy, but sleep had befuddled him, and Lois's absence from his side had bewildered him; to the very point when he simply had to get up and investigate where his wife had wandered at three o'clock on a cold winter's morning.
She looked up at once when he entered the kitchen, and a flicker of pure joy went through his eyes as he saw the same spark enkindle in hers -- remembering their bond, he kissed the top of her head tenderly, and, pulling a chair over, hugged her shoulders to him warmly, silently thanking the ceiling for the exquisite flower in his arms.
"Hey," he murmured softly, dropping a butterfly kiss on her waiting lips, "what are you doing up? I thought farmers were the only ones who rose with the chickens."
"You're letting yourself down, Farmboy," she teased, an impish smile curving the corners of her mouth. "Chickens don't wake till around six, remember? In fact," she poked a teasing finger into his chest, "I believe it was *you* who informed me of that fact, on our last visit to Smallville."
"Oh, yes," he grinned, remembering the look of sleepy horror on her face as he introduced her to their prize rooster, the Colonel, and informed her cheerily that he would be her alarm clock for the weekend.
She grinned at him, the same memory clearly present in her mind. He pulled her in snugly to the circle of his arms, resting her back to his chest and encircling her waist with his arms.
"So what exactly *are* you doing, honey?" he mumbled, feathering light kisses up and down her neck as he spoke. He glanced at the pile of paper on the table and winced. "Sure looks complicated, whatever it is. What's all that... red stuff in amongst the normal black text?"
She grimaced, and looked back down at the mess of paper.
"It is pretty bad, huh?"
A nod to the affirmative satisfied her, and she explained, "Perry has me on sub-editing duty, and he's just assigned me to this greenhorn reporter. Her name's a real mouthful - Sandra-Anne Rollins-Atkinson."
"That's a mouthful, all right!" Clark agreed, laughing. "Why doesn't she just shorten it to Sandra Atkinson?"
"I actually asked her about that," Lois said thoughtfully. "She got all offended and wouldn't respond if I just called her Sandra, or if a messenger or somebody just called her Ms. Atkinson. It had to be the full thing for some reason."
Clark rolled his eyes. "As if it even matters."
"Yeah," replied Lois. "Isn't it ridiculous?" She paused, and looked again at the page before continuing. "I could even forgive her for that, if it weren't for the mess she makes of journalism."
"Ouch." Clark made a face. "Bad story?"
She looked doubtful. "I'm not sure. She's been getting a lot of compliments from the people in the newsroom, but the jury's still out for me on whether she deserves them or not. She's been getting a lot of tips from people, and her writing... well, it's better than what it once was, I suppose."
"Oh? What's so bad about it, then?"
"Well... she just, loves putting her, commas in, all the wrong, places. Her speling is awfull. She uses brilliantly conflicting adjectives. Her punctuations mark's are all over the place. Her grammar isn't proper. She breaks her
paragraphs off at the wrong points. She uses annoying, atrocious, appalling, abominable alliteration. And her similes! - used in all the wrong situations, and as mixed up and nonsensical as a bull in a china shop. *Plus* she keeps repeating repeating herself!"
"That must be a fun story to edit, so." Clark was trying, he really was, but he just couldn't keep the grin off his face. He loved it so much when she got all fired up about things...
"It's *impossible*," she said seriously, obviously making a conscious attempt to keep her mind away from his mouth, which was now busy in exploring the left side of her face. "In fact, first thing tomorrow morning, I'm going straight in to Perry and asking him to re-assign the story. I can't imagine *anybody* who would have the patience to endure this!!"
Clark paused. "Oh, I don't know, honey," he said thoughtfully. "After all, there are some pretty amazing individuals in the world. I'm sure somebody would be able to do it."
"Well, they'd have to be one heck of a human being to take it and edit it fairly, and at the end of it all, be able to tell her some *nice* things about it!! I can't imagine *anyone* who'd be able to do it!"
Clark laughed. "You're entitled to your opinion. Frankly, *I* think it's possible."
She glanced at him, a challenging look on her face. "You're sure, Mr. Kent?"
"Positive, Ms. Lane," he said, kissing the top of her nose.
"Well then." Her tone was purely innocent. "I propose a challenge."
"You do?"
"Yes. The next story Sandra-Anne writes, *you* have to come along and edit it, and be as nice and as fair as possible, never judgemental, always nagging her to get out on the beat and find more stories, telling her the things that work and more importantly, the things that don't." She paused. "Think you're up to it?"
Clark laughed, the joyous sound ringing around the kitchen. "Oh, I don't know, honey," he teased back, chuckling. "After all -- you said it yourself, it would take some effort, and time out of *my* schedule! Who says that I would be prepared to give up some of my private life to help a less experienced writer out?"
"Well, sweetheart, you *did* say that there are people who could do it. Are you trying to tell me that my husband, the strongest man in the universe would shy away from such a task?"
"Yup." His expression was grave. "I just don't have the time, between my own stories and Superman rescues and you, to dedicate to a complete stranger."
"Well, I'd imagine that once you did it, then they'd stop being a stranger to you, huh?"
"Well, maybe. I'd imagine that the person on the receiving end would be rather in awe of the editor, don't you think? Wouldn't that make it a bit difficult?"
She waggled her finger. "Ah, but if these editors are as self-giving and virtuous as you say they are, then surely they wouldn't lord over the hapless newbie?"
"That's a very good point, Ms. Lane," he murmured, his eyes dancing. "I'd imagine that they'd be very good friends as well as everything else." He paused, then shrugged his shoulders. "I'm afraid that I'm going to have to give in and agree with you on this one, honey," he pronounced in mock sobriety.
"You are?" she said, uncertainly.
"Yup. Such people just *can't* exist in today's world."
She laughed, the sound booming around the kitchen and sending a little ray of warmth directly to his heart.
"Two hundred years ago, everybody *knew* that the world was flat. Four years ago, everybody *knew* that men couldn't fly. Now you *know* that there's no such thing as a person who could do that." Her face, which had been beaming impishly up at him, grew mockingly thoughtful. "Am I sensing a pattern?"
He grinned at her. "Maybe you're right, honey. Maybe you're right."
"I'm always right," she smiled at him, leaning her head towards him for a kiss, which he was only too happy to supply. He sighed with happiness into his wife's warm mouth, smiling so that he could barely kiss her. Lois - his life - his home - was perfect.
He tugged gently at her forearms, pulling her into a standing position and wrapping his arms around her waist as he gently explored her neck with his mouth and tongue.
"Come back to bed, honey." It came out as a low groan. "This... Sandra-Anne person can wait..."
"Oh, I don't know," she teased, wriggling out of his arms to scan the pile of paper again. "It's an awful lot of work... maybe I should have one last shot at it before I give it back to Perry..."
A baleful growl greeted her words, and her giggle was lost in the gust of wind that roared through the kitchen as the door slammed and the lights went out.
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Most of the spelling/grammatical errors in this story are on purpose [but then, you knew that already, didn't you? ] but I'd imagine that there are still some I neglected to notice... just illustrates the necessity of BR's, huh? <g>* * * * * * * * * *
