I've read and enjoyed a lot of your stories since finding this site last year.
This story is set at the beginning - an alternate pilot.
I'll post the 2nd part in 2 days, and the 3rd 2 days after that.
I've used Australian spelling. Please excuse any other Australianisms which slipped through.
Any feedback is welcome.
WEEKEND IN SMALLVILLE
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: anything you recognise - characters, lines, themes - is not mine. The rest is.
The look on Perry White’s face gnawed at Lois Lane’s good humour. She, more than anyone else at the Planet, could bend him, but this time she knew he wasn’t budging.
“It’s a big story and I need my best reporter on it.”
“But Perry, it’s... it’s,” she scanned the brief he’d given her. “Smallville. Smallville,” she repeated with contempt. “Is it even in the known world?”
Perry leant forward and lowered his voice. “Apparently there was a very-hushed-up UFO sighting in Smallville in 1966.”
Lois rolled her eyes. “That’s not news, Perry, that’s history.”
“It might develop into news Lois, and your career will be history if you don’t get yourself to Smallville.”
“Perry, you have a newsroom full of reporters, send one of them.”
“I have a name for you.”
Anything less than the President and she wasn’t interested. “Who?”
“Franklin Hodge.”
Her eyes shot to his face. “Franklin Hodge?” she repeated in a low, awe-struck tone. “The Invisible Aide?”
“The man with no official position, no job description...”
“... no mention on any official correspondence.”
“The man who has turned inconspicuous into an art form.”
“But who is always exactly where the President needs him.”
“Always...” Perry patted Lois’s hand. “Here’s your plane ticket and accommodation.”
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Lois, a bag on each shoulder, a suitcase in one hand and details of her hotel in the other, struggled across the main street of Smallville. She already regretted giving in to Perry. At least she’d found her hotel. Not that it was difficult, Smallville had only one.
“If Franklin Hodge *is* here, he shouldn’t be hard to find,” she muttered, adjusting the bag strap which was most painfully digging into her shoulder.
The woman at reception was bland. “Lois Lane,” Lois said.
The bland woman consulted the battered book. “Who?”
“Lois Lane.”
“We don’t have a booking for that name.”
“Let me simplify this for you. My office made the booking earlier today. Lois Lane. Daily Planet.”
“Daily Planet? Is that some sort of Environmental group?”
Lois sighed. “What’s my room number?”
“You don’t have one. We don’t have a booking.”
“Can I look?” Lois snatched the book and scrolled down the guest list. No Franklin Hodge. Not surprising. She committed every name to memory and returned it with a forced smile. “Could I have a room, please?”
“For when?”
“Tonight.” The word came out strangled, a consequence of her wanting to scream and trying very hard not to.
“We’re fully booked,” the woman said with satisfaction.
“Why?” Lois asked, the reporter surfacing above her personal situation.
The woman’s reaction couldn’t have been greater if Lois had sprouted another set of ears. “It’s the Smallville Sunflower Celebration this weekend.”
“Oh, of course,” Lois chortled, realising her sarcasm would be wasted, but unable to resist. “How could I have forgotten? Could you check again? Please?”
The woman gave the book a cursory glance. “We’re completely full,” she said in a tone which finished the matter.
Lois picked up her bags and left. She pulled her cell phone from her bag and started to dial Perry. She had no signal!
How *did* people live in this place?
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“There’s one hotel and it’s ‘completely booked out’” Lois told Perry, imitating the bland receptionist.
“Leave it with me, Lois. I’ll organise something.”
“Can’t I just *leave*, Perry? This place is killing me. Hodge is way too smart to come to Smallville.”
“There’s a story here Lois and you’ll be glad you stayed when that Pulitzer hits your desk.”
She doubted that. In fact, she’d bet her entire career against it. Nothing in Smallville was of the slightest interest to her.
“Where are you?” Perry asked.
“In the pay phone. I’m outside the cafe in the main street.”
“Which one?”
“There *is* only one, Perry.”
“Oh. Ok Lois, sit tight. I’ll see if I can pull some strings.”
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Twenty minutes later a woman in her fifties approached Lois. “Lois Lane?” she enquired.
“Yes. You’re from the hotel?”
“No. I’m Martha Kent. I live here.”
She admitted it! Lois wouldn’t have. Not for a million dollars.
“I understand you need somewhere to stay.”
“Well, ah, yes.”
Martha smiled. “You come with me, honey. You can stay with us.”
“No, really, I just need a room in the hotel.”
“It’s the Sunflower Celebration this weekend, they’re full.”
“But I can’t impose on you. I don’t know you.”
“What difference does that make?”
Martha Kent was either really dumb or she really did think it was ok to invite a stranger into her home. “Do you have the internet?”
“No, but the library does, and I can drive you into town any time you need.”
No internet! At least it would be an excuse to get away. “How did you know about me?” Lois asked.
“Mr White rang. He said I’d find you here.”
With somewhat less than gracious acceptance, Lois picked up her bags and followed her new-found friend.
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“Our son Clark is away, so you can have his room,” Martha said.
“Thank you.” The room was spacious, neat and uncluttered.
“The sheets are clean and the bathroom is down the hall. Get yourself settled, have a bath if you want. We’ll eat in about an hour.”
She turned to go. “Mrs Kent?” Lois said.
“Call me Martha, please.”
“Martha. If I didn’t seem very appreciative before, I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”
Martha patted her arm. “See you soon.”
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The evening meal was surprisingly pleasant. Martha’s husband, Jonathan, was a big man who hadn’t aged as well as his wife, but he was easy-going and friendly. The food was simple, but beautifully cooked and presented. “I love cooking for company,” Martha confided.
“There’s not much challenge in cooking just for two,” Jonathan added with a smile to his wife. “But when Clark is home, she excels herself.”
Clark. The son. His name came up a lot. Clearly he was a shared joy. Lois glanced to the bureau and the photograph of a young teenager – dark hair, glasses, intense. He didn’t look like either of his parents.
They hadn’t said where he was – school maybe, or college. She’d be long gone when he came home.
Lois thanked them for the meal and offered to help wash the dishes. They declined, saying it was their nightly ritual and gave them time to communicate. Lois headed for her... well his ... bedroom, conscious she was more than a little relieved to escape the need for social niceties.
She jotted notes, including the names of the people favoured enough to be at the hotel, then changed into her pyjamas. Despite her weariness, she wasn’t ready for sleep, so she turned off her light and sat on the window ledge as twilight fell around her.
She heard the low murmur of voices and saw Martha and Jonathan emerge from the trees. They were deep in conversation, punctuated with occasional laughter. Jonathan’s arm was draped across Martha’s shoulders.
As Lois watched, they stopped and turned to each other as if they were puppets controlled by a single puppeteer. Jonathan lifted Martha’s chin with a gentle hand and dropped a kiss on the end of her nose.
Lois scurried to bed, uncomfortable at having intruded on a private moment. As she lay in the darkness, the barrenness inside her bubbled over. Had her father ever kissed her mother’s nose? She doubted it – during the meagre moments her father was home, they had been too busy trading insults and accusations to leave time for... for what? Love? Tenderness? Appreciation of what they had?
Jonathan Kent sure didn’t look like a Romeo. But he’d managed to take a simple kiss and turn it into one of the most romantic moments Lois had ever seen.
This Clark guy, wherever he was, was one lucky yokel.
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Clark Kent landed in his back yard, careful to avoid damaging his mother’s tomato plants. It was only just past dawn, but the aroma of fresh coffee drifted tantalisingly from the kitchen window.
The kitchen was empty. His parents were probably doing the farm chores. His hunger could wait. What he really needed was a shower.
Two minutes later, he came out of the bathroom and headed for his bedroom, wearing only his glasses and a towel carelessly slung low across his hips.
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Lois had just awoken. She checked the time and decided she could spare a few moments to lay and listen to the silence. She remembered Jonathan’s kiss and her thoughts wandered to the son who completed this family triangle. What was he like?
Probably overweight by now, she concluded. Anyone living with Martha Kent would be well fed. Was he brash and arrogant? Or one-dimensional and dull?
Lois sat up and stretched.
The door sprung open, freezing her yawn. It was a chest, ah, a man with a chest, a flawlessly muscled chest and a towel and glasses and damp black hair with one lock falling across his forehead. He looked more stunned than she was.
“Excuse me,” he managed eventually.
“You’re *Clark*?” she gulped.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Lois Lane Daily Planet.”
He swallowed. “You’re a long way from home.”
“Tell me about it,” she muttered.
“But that doesn’t explain why you’re in my bed... room.”
“The hotel was booked out and your mother invited me to stay. I didn’t know you’d be home today. I’ll be out within an hour.”
He raised his hands as if to stop her leaving. “No, no, it’s ok. I have a bed on the porch. I often sleep there in the summer. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.” He backed out of his room. “I’m very sorry Ms Lane. I hope I didn’t cause you any embarrassment.”
Well he certainly hadn’t run to fat.
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Lois walked towards the Kent kitchen, irritated her apprehension hadn’t subsided. She’d interviewed Presidents, for goodness’ sake. How could she be nervous about breakfast with a couple of Kansas farmers and their son?
It wasn’t nervousness, she told herself firmly. It was the certain knowledge she would be subjected to the snide amusement in Clark Kent’s eyes and double-meaning comments alluding to their encounter.
She walked into the kitchen and he stood up. She thought he was making a quick exit until he sat again when she sat down. He was dressed now – well-worn jeans and a checked shirt. Martha and Jonathan welcomed her with smiles and somehow the awkwardness dissipated amidst questions and answers about what she’d like for breakfast.
Clark Kent asked her to pass the sugar – he had three in his coffee! – but otherwise seemed content to let his parents do most of the talking. They clearly adored him, but it was far from a one-way relationship. He stopped Martha from getting him more toast with an “I can get it, Mom, you sit and eat yours,” and a loving touch on her shoulder.
They included Lois in their conversation, but asked nothing about her work, nor why she was in Smallville. Clark, it seemed, was going to help his father paint the barn. Martha had a morning art class. They gave her a spare key to the house – how did they know she wasn’t a psychotic killer? – and told her to make herself at home. Martha offered her a lift into “town” which Lois accepted.
As Lois packed her notebooks into her bag, she resolved to check the hotel again and tried to ignore the fact she wouldn’t be totally devastated if they were still full.
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In the Smallville library, Lois e-mailed the names of the hotel’s guests to Jimmy Olsen and asked him to check them.
She went to the cafe and eavesdropped on surrounding conversations while she sipped her coffee. They talked a lot about visitors to the town, but only in the context of the Sunflower Celebration.
She was at something of a loss. In Metropolis, it was so instinctive. She got a lead, she followed it, she questioned and hounded and harassed until she got to the truth, then she wrote the story. Easy.
But Smallville had dammed her writer’s juices.
She idly glanced out of the window and sat bolt upright. A man was crossing the road, walking away from her. She recognised his dark curls and easy gait. She abandoned her coffee and chased him.
“Mr Hodge! Mr Hodge! Franklin!”
He turned and frowned. “Ms Lane. What are you doing so far from Metropolis?”
“I could ask you the same question.” He was dressed in jeans, not his usual business suit.
“Fishing.”
“Fishing?” Yeah, right.
He laughed. “Yes, fishing. You know, hook, line, sinker, fish, supper.”
“I’ve heard there’s a top secret meeting regarding a UFO sighting in the sixties.”
“Really?”
“What do you know about it?”
“Not a thing, thankfully. I’m here to fish, Ms Lane. It’s called relaxation. You should try it sometime.”
“So you’re not here on national business?”
“I’m here because there’s nothing quite like the taste of Brown Trout and no place like Smallville Lake for Brown Trout.”
“Where are you staying?”
He smiled, but it wasn’t far from a grimace. “There’s a choice?”
“Your name’s not in the book.”
“That would be because one has a much greater chance of catching trout when one is not accompanied by a pack of nosy journalists.”
Lois watched him saunter away, not sure whether she believed him or not.
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Clark Kent was painting the barn, a job made infinitely easier by his ability to hover. His immense strength helped too. If he’d used his incredible speed, the job would have been finished an hour ago. But he didn’t – he liked working with his dad, just like a regular guy.
Also, this way gave him time to think – and his mind was chock-full of Lois Lane. He’d been reading her work for a long time. She was brilliant. She inspired him. She was the single reason why he had sent a resume and examples of his work to Perry White. She was why he wanted to work for the Daily Planet – just being in the same newsroom would make him a better reporter.
But he hadn’t known she was beautiful. He realised he had subconsciously formed an image of Lois Lane as he’d read her work. He’d been way, way off track. She was younger, smaller, more feminine than he’d imagined. And more vulnerable too. At least that’s how she’d looked in her pyjamas waking up in his bed.
Clark needed a distraction from his thoughts. He dropped down beside his father. “How’s it going, Dad?”
“Great,” Jonathan replied. “We should be finished by lunch. Wanna go fishing this afternoon?”
“Good idea.” Clark tried to inject his usual enthusiasm into his reply. He loved fishing with his dad, but it would give him unlimited think time. And maybe that was not necessarily a good thing. Not today. Not with Lois Lane resident in his bed and relentless in his thoughts. “I noticed the roof has worked loose in a couple of places,” he said. “I’ll fix them.”
“Ok, son.”
Clark returned to the roof with hammer, nails and a determination to concentrate on the job. He lasted less than a second.
She was beautiful.
She must be here on a story, but what in Smallville could possibly be of interest to a great Metropolitan newspaper? In particular, its top reporter? It could *not* be the Sunflower Celebration.
When he’d barged in, her grey singlet had been stretched enough that he’d known she wore nothing underneath.
“Ouch!”
“What’s up, son?” Jonathan called from below.
“Hit my thumb with the hammer.”
“Did it hurt?” Jonathan asked, clearly surprised.
“Well, yes, a bit.”
“Clark, if you hit the nail too hard, you’ll pile-drive it into the centre of the earth,” Jonathan said with mild amusement.
“Yeah. I guess I should concentrate.”
He tried, but she was back instantly. She’d been wearing shiny pink sleep shorts. He tried not to think of the incredibly shapely legs emerging from the pink satin.
She is beautiful.
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Clark and Jonathan ambled towards the farmhouse. Clark could smell fried chicken and hear the sounds of his mother preparing their lunch. Then she spoke.
He lowered his glasses and looked through the wall. He saw his mom at the oven and Lois Lane setting the table.
“Jonathan, Clark.” His mother smiled her usual welcome. “Go wash up, we’re almost ready.”
He caught Lois Lane looking at him and tried to smile. She quickly returned her attention to the table, adjusting knives and forks which were already in place.
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“We’re going fishing this afternoon,” Jonathan announced.
“Fishing?” said Lois Lane, with interest. “Fishing in Smallville Lake?”
“Why, yes.”
“Could I come with you? Please.”
Clark watched her while his father said they would love to have her along. Fishing didn’t fit either of his profiles of Lois Lane, but her interest seemed genuine. “Do you enjoy fishing, Ms Lane?” he asked quietly.
“Love it,” she enthused. “There’s nothing quite like the taste of Brown Trout and no place like Smallville Lake for Brown Trout.”
Clark heard his father’s small cough and avoided looking at him. They both knew not one Brown Trout had been pulled out of Smallville Lake in living memory.
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Perry was getting impatient.
“You’ve been there nearly 24 hours, Lois. What in the Sam Hill is going on?”
“Franklin Hodge is here. I talked to him. He denied everything. He says he’s going fishing.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going fishing too.”
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Lois looked from the wriggling worm she held in one hand to the hook in her other. She knew what she was supposed to do, but...
“Can I help you, Ms Lane?”
Clark was looking at her, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Rejection of his offer sprung automatically, but there was no superiority in his tone, so she shut her mouth and gave him the worm and the hook.
His fingers brushed against hers as he took them. While he was threading the worm, she had opportunity to study him from close range. He smelt great. He was freshly shaved. His fingers were long, his hands definitively masculine, his nails surprisingly clean for a farmer.
He handed her the hook, the worm now secured.
“Thanks,” she said.
“You’re welcome, Ms Lane.”
“Now you’ve hooked my worm for me, I think you should call me Lois.”
He smiled. He had a jaw-dropper of a smile. “Ok, Lois.”
Moments later, Jonathan lurched and Lois watched as he landed the fish. It was smaller than she expected, but Jonathan and Clark seemed pleased.
“It’s more gold than brown,” Lois mused. She saw the look that telegraphed between Clark and his father. “It’s not a Brown Trout?”
“Not this one,” Jonathan said.
“I don’t fish much,” she confessed.
“There are no Brown Trout in here,” Jonathan explained. “The water’s not clear enough and it’s too warm. But there’s a lot of Yellow Perch.”
“So if someone said he caught Brown Trout in this lake, you’d think...”
“He didn’t know a whole lot about fish,” Clark finished for her.
Or he was lying.
“Is that why you came here?” Jonathan asked. “To fish for trout?”
“No.” Her reporter’s mind had soared into gear. She needed to find Franklin Hodge. She thrust her rod at Clark. “This has been great. Thanks.” She marched off.
“Hey, Lois?” Clark called. “Where are you going?”
“Smallville.” She kept going, her mind sorting through a thousand ideas. Hodge was here, he didn’t want her to know why, he didn’t know anything about fishing, he hadn’t caught trout in Smallville Lake. She heard a step behind her and turned to find Clark following her.
“What?” she barked, annoyed he’d broken her train of thought.
“Smallville’s that way,” he said, pointing in the direction opposite to the one she’d taken.
“Oh.”
“It’s three miles away. How about I drive you?”
“What about your father?”
Clark smiled conspiratorially. “What he’d really like is the chance for an afternoon nap.”
“Ok. Thanks.”
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Clark stopped the car on the edge of Smallville. “Do you mind if we talk for a minute?” he asked.
Lois had been thinking about what she needed to ask Franklin Hodge. “I have something I need to do.”
“This won’t take long.”
She sighed. “Ok. What is it?”
“Well, firstly, I know who you are... I mean, I’ve read your work.”
She couldn’t help being pleased, but tried to hide it.
“And I know you get so many Page One stories, you wouldn’t be here unless it was something big,” Clark continued.
“Reporters take vacations.”
“Not to Smallville.”
“Do you have a specific question?”
“Two actually,” he said. “Firstly – whatever your story, does it involve my parents?”
“How could it?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve racked my brain and I can’t think of any reason why you’d be here.” He faced her directly, his brown eyes grave. “I’ve travelled a lot Ms Lane, enough to realise many people would find it easy to ridicule their seemingly simple lives.”
“It’s not that sort of story.”
“So nothing that could hurt them?”
“No.”
He deliberated for a few moments. “Ok, my second question - is there anything I can do to help you?”
She stifled her desire to snigger. Help her? Right! She worked alone, always had, always would. “I have it under control. Really.”
“You could tell me as much or as little as you wanted. But I have local knowledge. I know the people, I know the history, I know how things work around here. The people are honest and friendly, but guarded around strangers. They know me - that could be useful.”
He was right. But this was her story. “I’m not a team player.”
“This wouldn’t be a team. It’s your story.”
She was tempted. Just his car would be handy. And her sense of direction simply didn’t function out here.
He cleared his throat. “There is something else I should tell you.”
He wanted her autograph? A date? His bed? Credit in her story? “Oh?”
“I’m a reporter with the Smallville Press.”
*Now* she understood. “Nice try Kent, but you’re not getting your hands on my story.”
“I’m not trying to get my hands on your story.”
This time she did snigger. She’d heard some ludicrous things, but this was close to the most unbelievable. “Then you’re not much of a reporter.”
She could see that stung him. “If I give you my word,” he said, “I won’t go back on it.”
His gaze didn’t waver. It was a nice line, she had to admit, but no one, certainly not an even half-decent reporter, would swallow it. “You’d put your word ahead of your story?”
“Always.”
“That’s why you’re working for the Smallville Press.”
She’d stung him again, but this time, she felt mild regret. It was too much like provoking a puppy. She looked away.
He started the motor and drove into Smallville in silence. When he stopped, she didn’t get out. “How well do you know the receptionist at the hotel?” She braced for a comeback – a cutting comment about her now requesting his help, or a straight out refusal. She got neither.
“Her name is Jane, I went to school with her.”
“I know the names of the guests, but I need to know when they booked and how long they’re staying.”
“Ok, anything else?”
“Does the hotel have internet access?”
“I think so. I’ll find out.”
“See if you can get me a room. I really need internet access.”
“You’re welcome to use my desk at the Press.”
”Really?”
He nodded. “Anything else you need to know?”
“Not at the moment.”
“I’ll meet you in the cafe in an hour?”
“Ok,” she agreed.
He was possibly the nicest person she had ever met.
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Clark was already in the cafe, talking to a female sheriff, when Lois arrived after a fruitless search for Hodge. When he saw Lois, Clark picked up two take-away coffees and gestured for her to follow him to the car.
He offered her one of the cups. “I had to guess what you’d like,” he said, somewhat apologetically. He unlocked the passenger door and held it open for her. “I went with no fat, decaf and no sugar, but you’re welcome to some of mine.”
“I take three.”
He got into the driver’s seat. “You do?”
She nodded and held out her hand. He dropped the three little packages into her hand and sipped his coffee. She chuckled softly as he tried to cover his distaste.
“I lied,” she said. She opened all three sachets and poured them into his coffee. “I don’t have sugar. I just wanted to see if you’d give me yours.”
He seemed puzzled. “Or course I would.”
She tried her coffee – it wasn’t too bad at all. “What did you find out?”
He took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “Here’s the list of guests, when they booked and when they’re leaving.”
“Do you know any of these people?”
Clark leant closer. “I put a cross next to the names of the people who have stayed at the hotel during past Sunflower Celebrations.”
There were five names without crosses. “Any of them book recently?”
“This one. Buddy McGlynn. He booked early yesterday.”
“I don’t suppose you thought to get a description?”
“Jane couldn’t recall too much. She said he sort of faded into the background. He has dark curly hair and he brought a fishing rod, but hasn’t been fishing yet.”
Lois threw her arms around his neck in spontaneous delight. With dawning horror, she realised that not only had she hugged a man she barely knew, she’d spilt her coffee down his back.
She withdrew. “Sorry,” she stammered, knowing her face was scarlet. “Did I burn you?”
He laughed. “No. Would you like another coffee?”
She shook her head. “Any spare rooms at the hotel?”
“Nope,” he said. “Looks like you’re stuck at the Hotel Kent.”
“Is that ok? I feel bad taking your bed.”
“Don’t,” he said and smiled. “I’m perfectly happy on the porch.”
He drove them out of town towards the lake. Lois said nothing. Every man she knew would have made a crack about sharing his bed. And another about her burning him. Clark Kent hadn’t. He’d said nothing, either directly or indirectly, about their encounter when he, almost naked, had come into his room and caught her in skimpy pyjamas. He opened car doors for her. He’d found information for her even after she’d said he wasn’t much of a reporter. He bought her coffee and willingly gave her his sugar.
Clark Kent was a relic from another time.
It wasn’t something she could stomach long term of course, but for now it wasn’t totally intolerable.
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