Disclaimer - These characters are not mine.
Rating - PG 13

Thanks to my wonderful BRs - Iolanthe and Lynn.

A/N This story is set two weeks after Clark moved to Metropolis. Unlike canon, it assumes that the newbie from Kansas was not immediately paired with the star reporter, Lois Lane. In fact, they had very little to do with each other, until …


WITH A SOURCE

(A story for Alisha Knight)

I stand before Clark Kent, offering him the single sheet on which I have just printed out the story that has the potential to turn his life upside-down.

He looks up at me.

Looks from my face to the sheet I am holding. "What's this?" he asks.

"A bribe," I reply.

He is taken aback by my forthrightness but recovers quickly. "What do you want from me?" he asks cautiously.

"I want you to be my partner."

His eyebrows launch as if they're fuelled by rockets. "You want *me* to be your partner?"

"Yes," I say firmly. "I want you to be my partner."


~~ The Previous Day ~~

"Lois!"

I know that tone. I turn around and face my Editor-In-Chief, Perry White. "What?" I say, using my years of experience to get the balance exactly right. Not brassy enough to provoke his wrath. Not submissive enough to shock him into a potential heart attack.

"I want Clark to walk you home."

"Chief!" The expression on Perry's face tells me that he does not intend to back down easily. But the greenhorn from Kansas is watching this play out, and if he has any ability to learn vicariously, I'm giving free lessons. Right here.

"Lois."

There it is again. Perry's tone warning me that he is going to win this argument and the smart choice is to accept it without causing unnecessary dissension. Now, I'm smart, but the ability to back down easily has never been my strong point. "Chief, I'm the local," I protest. "I know the area. I should be walking *him* home." From the corner of my eye, I see Kent shuffle, and I have to admit that I feel a tiny spark of enjoyment at his discomfort.

"Lois," Perry says. "Clark is going to walk you home."

"I'm not scared of a few dumb teenagers who have banded together under puerile names and think that arming themselves with a couple of homemade weapons and taking potshots at each other is a rite of passage," I claim. And it's true. I'm not scared.

"It's a lot more than that, Lois," Perry says direly. "The Blood Squad -"

I make a loud and probably unladylike snort.

"Lois," Perry says with patience that I can tell is wearing thin, "we have two rival gangs that are recruiting dozens of new members every day. They are threatening to riot. They are …"

I tune out. I know all this. *I* wrote the story.

"… the brother of the leader of the Deathblades was killed two nights ago, and they are hell-bent on revenge."

"Exactly," I say as snidely as I dare speak to Perry. "They are intent on killing *each other*. Not us. Not civilians."

Perry picks up this morning's edition and holds it up like it’s a trophy he won. The headline practically lifts off the paper - 'Gang Warfare - Innocent Cabdriver Killed.'

By Lois Lane.

Only Perry White would dare to use my own story against me.

"I didn't get that story by skulking around and being walked home," I say indignantly. "I got it because I ran in when everyone else was running out. I got it because the story was more important than obsessing over every possible whiff of danger. I got it because I'm the best damn reporter you have." And I was better on my first day than that Kansas upstart will ever be, I add to myself.

"Henderson called," Perry says. "He's really worried. He said that if there is a hint of a confrontation tonight, the police are going to consider putting the city into lockdown."

I stare incredulously at Perry. "Why didn't you tell me that before?" I demand. "I could have put it in today's follow-up story."

"Because Henderson doesn't want the city in panic. He doesn't want people flocking to the known trouble areas, hoping for some action."

"So, on one hand, he doesn't want us worried, and on the other hand, he wants us prepared for teenage warlords rioting in the streets?" I say sarcastically.

Perry sighs. "It's a difficult balance," he says. "If Henderson suggests the possibility of a lockdown and nothing happens, people will ignore the warning next time."

"A lockdown is w-a-a-ay over the top," I say.

Perry says nothing. Not verbally. But his face says that there was more to the phone conversation with Henderson than he's willing to divulge.

"Has Henderson forgotten that we have Superman looking out for us now?" I say.

"When the cabdriver was shot, Superman was helping rescue people from the apartment building fire," Perry reminds me. "He can't be everywhere."

Which is a pity. If his powers included the ability to be in two places at once, he could be in my apartment and out saving Metropolis all at the same time. I refuse to dwell on the disappointing fact that although I've left my window open every night since the first appearance of Superman nine days ago, he has never actually graced my apartment once. "I don't think there will be any more problems," I say - not because I know that, but because I *really* don't want the Cub from Kansas walking me home. "They're only kids trying to flex their muscles."

"An innocent person was killed," Perry reminds me needlessly. "Half of this city's cabbies are refusing to work after dark. And the death of the leader's brother has inflamed emotions close to boiling point."

OK, I get that Henderson has my editor worried. But that does *not* mean I need to be shadowed by the very recent recruit. I figure that Perry could use a subtle reminder of how many times I have bent the rules - just a little - and brought home an exclusive. "Anyway," I say airily, "everyone knows that lockdowns don't apply to emergency services."

"We aren't an emergency service," Perry says dryly. "We're a newspaper."

"And the story needs to be written," I insist. However, I can feel that most of the fight has gone from my words. If Perry White is so concerned that he's willing to risk missing a story, he must be worried.

Really worried.

Which I suppose explains why he is insisting that the two-bit probationer accompany me home.

I sigh. I send Perry a look that ensures he understands that this is a one-off. I yank my coat from the back of my seat. I walk up the stairs.

At the top, I look down on the two men, and this time, my eyes pick out the bumbling bumpkin. "Didn't you hear the Chief?" I inquire.

When something finally penetrates that torpid country mind, he can move quickly - I'll give him that much. In a flash, he's beside me, shooting me that ever-present grin that has probably reduced hundreds of women to quivering jello but will never work on me. I like a man with a lot more substance than the ability to smile prettily.

Like Superman, for instance.

With a toss of my head, I walk towards the elevator. As usual, I have a plan. Get home. Get rid of the novice. Get to where the action is. Get the story.

^/\^/\^

After fifteen minutes, we arrive at the door of my apartment. I marched every step of the way, head unwaveringly forward, mouth determinedly closed. He showed unexpected perception in not even attempting a conversation.

I reach into my bag for the keys and send him a cool look that could possibly pass for gratitude where he comes from. "See you tomorrow."

"Will you be OK?" he asks.

I bite back a retort demanding to know how he thinks I managed to remain alive for all the years I've been doing this while he's been ... What has he been doing? Oh, that's right - he's been writing about the sex life of knob tail geckos. "Yes."

He tries the smile again, and I have a bet with myself about how long he will continue to foster the delusion that it is going to be an effective method of dissolving my barriers.

He doesn't move away.

I pause before inserting the key into the door, and give him the look that I have refined to the point where it reduces grown men to spineless jellyfish. He doesn't seem to understand. He just stares back. Clearly, he's too dumb to realise that he isn't in my league. He isn't even in my feeder league. "I do know how to unlock my door," I inform him.

"I know," he says cordially. "But Mr White told me to see that you were safely home."

Right. That must be how it's done in Kansas.

I shove the key into the lock. I have more important things to do than think up disparaging comments to throw at someone who is so naive, he doesn't even realise he's being disparaged.

Finally, all three locks are done, and I push open the door.

"Goodnight, Lois," he says pleasantly.

I grunt in response.

I step forward.

I grasp the door in preparation for shutting him out ...

And the wail of the lockdown siren pierces my ears and shatters my carefully laid plans.

But it's OK. Because Mr Kansas has probably never heard a lockdown siren before, so I can bluff my way through this, get rid of him, and get back on track towards procuring the front-page story for tomorrow's edition.

I push the door shut but it rams against his foot. I stick my head around it with a sigh. "What is it now?"

"There's a siren."

I sigh again. "It's a Metropolis tradition," I say wearily. "When the Metropolis Tigers win, they sound the siren. Just like ..." I try to think of something cutesy-pie that he might understand. "Just like ... church bells ... for a wedding."

"It's the lockdown siren," he says.

Now where did he learn that? "Then you should get home quickly," I say in a tone of voice that would be just right if he were five years old.

Or had come from Kansas.

"You'll stay here?" he asks.

Not a chance. "Yes," I say, mostly because I want to know if he will believe something so implausible.

He turns away and begins hurrying towards the elevator.

As he does, I'm hit by a strangely troubling thought.

What if he is so green that he inadvertently wanders right into the gang warfare and ends up a corpse?

Perry told him to see me home. But, as we both knew, the tenderfoot was always far more likely to get into trouble than I was.

What should I do? If I call him back, I'm stuck with him.

Unless ... a plan forms. I'll get him back, give him something to keep him occupied and slip out when he's not looking. That way, I get the story, and I won't have to face Perry's ire tomorrow morning if he were to discover that Mr Clark Clodhopper put his cute Kansan butt in the middle of a teenage revolt.

"Clark?"

He stops as if he's been shot already. He's probably shocked that I know his name. I can't remember if I've actually used it before.

He hurries back to me, his smile dimmed a little by a look of concern. "Yes, Lois?" he says.

"You shouldn't go home," I say. "Not with the city in lockdown."

He stares at me as if he's not quite sure how to process my words. Just so long as he doesn't entertain any thoughts that I care about his safety, we'll be all right. I don't. I just don't want a rampaging Perry on my case. Or a corpse on my conscience. Writing up the death of a colleague is a story to be avoided if at all possible.

I open the door all the way. "Come in," I say.

He hesitates. "I can wait out here," he offers. "The lockdown probably won't last for long."

I reassess his expression. Could he really be that self-effacing that he's willing to wait in the corridor?

No. It has to be something else.

Could he possibly be planning to scurry away as soon as I shut my door so that he can steal my story?

That prospect stuns me. If that's his plan, he has more newshound initiative than I'd thought possible, given where he comes from. So far, all he's shown is a maudlin ability to write gushy nausea-inducing rambles. Like that *story* about the old lady stuck in the fifties and a theatre that was getting in the way of progress.

"You should come in," I say, not caring that it sounds more like an order than an invitation.

Still, he hesitates, his face twisting with indecision.

What is *wrong* with this man?

"Come in," I say, leaving no doubt that if he doesn't comply, he is going to get his first taste of a Mad Dog Lane tongue-lashing.

He finally shows a modicum of sense and walks into my apartment. "Nice place," he says as he looks around.

"Have a seat," I say, wondering what I can offer him that will distract him enough that I can slip out. And I might just deadlock the door behind me. His actions before were suspiciously reminiscent of someone who wanted to get away ... someone who had a secret plan.

He doesn't sit. He's on edge. His hands are deep in the pockets of his over-sized trousers. His shoulders are taut and square.

Is it me that has made him so jumpy?

It couldn't be. He's a man. He has those squeaky-clean looks. He has that beguiling smile. He has a body that is probably loaded with muscle developed while hauling hogs, or sawing logs, or whatever else country people do. He's had women.

So why the panicky act?

He *must* have planned to go after the story.

Alone!

He *must* have thought he could see me safely to my apartment and then chase down the story and take it to Perry like a tail-wagging puppy.

I shoot him a look of pity. Could he really believe I am that easily fooled?

"Make yourself a drink," I say as I gesture in the direction of the kitchen.

I walk languidly into my bedroom, deliberately leaving the door ajar so that I can keep an eye on the external door. If he so much as takes one step in that direction ...

I can hear the noises of him making tea.

Perhaps he imagines he has a chance of trying to lure me into believing he's as gauche as he appears. Perhaps he doesn't realise that no one gets to be the top reporter at the greatest newspaper in the world by being easily duped.

I figure I should change my clothes. I need some reason why I've come into the bedroom.

How am I going to distract him?

He's male.

That means it is most likely he can be encouraged to think with something other than his brain. I choose a blouse that has a low neckline and put it on, leaving the top button undone.

This is going to be easy. A few kisses, a little faked passion, he thinks he's halfway home, I slip out the door and shoot home the deadlock.

We both win. I get the story. He's still alive tomorrow morning.

I walk out of my bedroom, allowing my hips to swing just a little more than is strictly necessary.

Clark looks up from the teapot. A teapot? Where did he find *that*? Perhaps Mom left it here one time.

As soon as recover from the shock of seeing something as homespun as a teapot in my kitchen, I realise that I'm in trouble.

Not me, exactly. But my plan.

The Rustic Rookie keeps his eyes on my face as I approach. Not once do they drop lower. He gives me that smile. "How do you like your tea?" he asks.

"No milk, no sugar," I say without thought. I won't be drinking it.

He pours the dark tan coloured liquid into the two cups and hands me one.

I put it on the bench. "Clark?" I say, draping my tone in blatant invitation.

"Yes?" he replies - with more innocence than you'd find in a litter of kittens.

"I'm sure we can think of something more fun to do than drink tea while we wait for the lockdown to be lifted."

The innocence fades, and I feel a burst of triumph. And, although I don't want to admit it, I also feel a shaft of disappointment. He *is* just like the rest.

"I don't sleep around," he says quietly. As if to emphasise his point, he moves away and sits on the sofa with his tea.

I reel. He - the peasant - has rejected me - the top city reporter. That is shocking in itself. But what really has me speechless is that he managed to do it politely. He made it about himself - not me. There was no condemnation in his tone. I should be feeling miffed. I should be feeling like I want to tear strips of flesh from his sanctimonious face.

But he's not looking sanctimonious. He's quietly sipping his tea, not meeting my eyes. I go to the fridge, and take out the milk. Its rancid aroma assaults my nostrils, and my examination explains why. It has solidified.

I toss it into the trash can. I'm annoyed. Annoyed at the milk. Annoyed at Clark Country Boy Kent. And annoyed that my city is in lockdown, and I'm not out there getting the story.

I've wasted enough time. While I'm here babysitting the fledging, another reporter from another paper is getting my story. I fasten the top button of my blouse, stride to the sofa, and purposefully sit down next to him.

"I have to go out," I announce.

"The city is in lockdown."

"I'm a reporter. I'm not going to get the story by cowering here."

"You can't go. Lockdown means everyone has to stay inside."

"Rules are made to be broken."

"Rules are made to keep you alive."

"I've broken more rules than you've had hot suppers," I say. "And, as you can see, I'm still alive."

My phone rings suddenly. I leap from the sofa and pick it up. I huddle against the wall. If it is one of my sources, I don't want Mr Greenjeans eavesdropping his way into my story.

It's not a source. It's Perry.

"Just checking that you got home safely," he says. Anxiety ripples through his words.

"I did."

"Where's Clark?"

I want to lie. I'm not sure why, but I really don't want to admit that he's here, I'm here, and we're alone in my apartment. "He's here, too."

Perry sighs with relief. "Ah, good. The city is in lockdown. You are both to stay there until it is lifted."

"Perry!" I grate. We've been through this about a million times. He wants the best stories. He wants me to stay where it's safe. The two are not compatible.

They could be, my brain interjects. In a world where Superman is at your beck and call, they could be very compatible.

I push aside that delicious thought and reaffix my attention to Perry's voice.

"This is serious, Lois," he says. "The leader of the Deathblades has called Henderson to demand that he gets all cops off the streets."

I hear a noise behind me. I turn. Clark is at the door, his hand reaching for the third lock. "Kent!" I scream. "Don't you even think about it!"

He spins around. His arm drops. He buries both hands in his pockets. He looks up at me with soulful eyes that make me want to roll mine.

"Lois," I hear in angry tones from the phone. "You've just blown my eardrum."

"Ah, sorry Perry," I say, trying to sound apologetic while still looking daggers at the sneaky lowlife who was trying to slip out of my apartment to steal what every instinct is telling me is going to be a huge story.

"What did Kent do?"

"Huh?"

"What was Kent doing that -"

"Oh, that," I say. I glare at him, sending the unmistakable message that if he even attempts to pull that stunt again, he'll wish he *was* going home in a casket. "He tried to sneak out to chase the story."

I hear Perry sigh. It's deep and laden with apprehension. "You have to stay where you are," he says, sounding like a father and a boss and a cop all rolled into one. "Both of you."

"OK, Chief," I say. "I'll make sure Kent understands the seriousness of the situation." I send him another heavily loaded scowl that is meant to convey that if I wasn't shackled with him, I could be out there chasing the story.

"Henderson says he'll call me as soon as it's safe. When he calls me, I'll call you, and you and Clark can get the story together."

Me and Clark? "Perry, I work alone," I say coldly. We've had this discussion before, too.

"Not this time, Lois," Perry says. "This is too big for one reporter. I want you and Clark on it together."

"Perry," I hiss. "He's been here a week. He knows nothing -"

"He's been here two weeks," Perry corrects. "And I want you working on the story together. It'll be a good experience for him."

"I'm a reporter," I say bitterly. "Not a magician. I can't take hayseed and transform it into the ability to write decent copy." I can't help but glance over to see if my arrow hit home. He's staring ahead, his face so blank, I'm not even sure he heard.

"Lois," Perry says wearily. "There's safety in numbers."

"Good," I fire back. "Get me Superman. I'll work with him."

Perry sighs, and the realisation suddenly crashes through my brain that my editor has more on his mind than arguing with me. "Lois -"

"It's OK, Perry," I concede quickly. "I'll do it. This once."

"Thank you," he says, obviously relieved. "And you'll stay there until I call?"

"Yes," I reply, already trying to think up the excuse I'll need later when I hand Perry the story, and he's fluctuating between congratulating me and haranguing me. "Do you know if Superman has arrived?"

"No, he hasn't," Perry says. "When Henderson called, he asked if I knew how to contact him. Metropolis needs him. You've had more Superman stories than anyone, Lois. Do you have any ideas?"

If I had any ideas about attracting Superman's attention, I wouldn't have spent the last nine evenings standing forlornly at my open window. "No," I say. "But he seems to know when we need him. I'm sure he will this time, too."

"I hope so," Perry says, and I can hear the desperation in his voice. "Because unless a miracle happens, this is going to be one of the darkest nights in our city's history."

And I'm stuck playing shepherd to Lambkin. "Bye, Chief," I say.

"Bye, Lois," he replies. "You stay right there."

Instead of answering, I hang up the phone. I turn on Clark and storm towards him.

"What do you mean by trying to slink out and get the story by yourself?" I scream. "Are you *trying* to get yourself killed? Do you think I want to waste my time writing a story about the slaughter of the stupid country hick rather than the *real* story?"

He stares at the floor for a couple of beats, but when his head lifts, he faces me steadily. "I'm sure you've gone into places alone when chasing a story," he says. "More than once."

It is true. I have. And again, I want to give freedom to my razor-sharp tongue and slice him into little pieces. But again, I am stopped by his manner.

He has a way of standing up for himself without trampling on me.

It's disconcerting.

I've never met anyone else who could do it. "That was Perry," I say in a tone that sounds like I resent having to give him even that information. "He says we are to stay here."

"Are you going to?"

Another idea swings into my mind. "Clark," I say with more friendliness than I've ever shown him. "I am the Daily Planet's top reporter. You are not. I need to go and get the story. You do not. As your senior, I'm asking you to stay here and answer the phone when Perry calls."

"And tell him what?" he asks dubiously.

"Tell him I'm asleep in my bed."

"No."

"No?"

"No."

My transient friendliness dissolves. It's just my luck that I get saddled with the greenest greenhorn to ever set foot in Metropolis. So green that he hasn't even realised that a successful reporter has to take a few risks. "Why not?"

"I won't lie to Mr White."

My jaw drops. I can feel it floundering somewhere around my chest. "You won't lie?" I say, hardly able to believe what I'm hearing.

"No," he says calmly. "I won't lie."

"What *are* you?" I grate. "Which century did you come from? And how did you manage to convince Perry that you could write anything other than fairy tales?"

He waits impassively as my exasperation washes over him. "I won't tell Mr White that you're here if you're not," he states again.

I have had enough of this. My city is in lockdown. Two rival gangs are champing at the bit to get at each other's throats, and I'm arguing ethics with a straight arrow.

I snatch my bag and stride to the door.

He gets there first. He can definitely move quickly when he wants to. He backs against the door, blocking my way.

"Move," I bark.

"Lois," he says. "You can't go."

I have never liked being told that I can't do something. I don't listen to Henderson. I disobey Perry. There is no chance that I am going to be stopped by a youthful yokel masquerading as a reporter. "I have a black belt in Taekwondo," I inform him icily. "And I have no problems with damaging any part of you in order to do my job."

His expression doesn't change. Either he's so shocked he can't respond or he really believes that he could prevent me from dissecting him.

"I'm not fighting you, Lois," he says quietly. "If you insist on leaving, you can. But I'm coming with you."

"You'll never keep up with me," I boast.

His deadpan expression crumbles to a hint of that smile. "I think I'll keep up," he says.

There it is again. He's quietly standing up to me - which only Perry ever does - but he's doing it without trying to squish me under his foot.

It's disturbing. So disturbing, I blurt out, "Why? Do you care about my safety?"

"Yes," he says, not hesitating for a second. "Yes, Lois, I do care about your safety."

He's serious. I'm speechless. His brown eyes hold mine, and I can see the sincerity in them.

The phone shrieks again. I ignore it. I can't seem to break away from his gaze.

I realise something. Something mind-boggling.

He's not scared of me. He's just *not*.

Is he stupid? Or fearless?

I can't actually decide which it is, but I manage to break away from the lure of his eyes and flounce to the phone, trying to cover how shaken I am by what I have just glimpsed of Clark Kent.

"Lane," I snap into the phone.

"Lois." It's Perry again. "Are you watching the television?"

"No."

"Turn it on."

"Why?" As I ask, I gesture towards the television. Clark steps towards it and turns it on.

"The Deathblades have kidnapped ..."

I tune out Perry's voice as the television screen fills with Inspector Henderson.

He's crying.

Henderson is crying.

I never, ever thought I would see the hardened Metropolis cop reduced to tears.

And not just tears, but uncontrollable weeping.

With a mighty effort, he gathers himself. He wipes his eyes. He looks into the camera. "Please," he begs shakily. "The Deathblades have my daughter. They have Maddy. She's only five years old. They say they will kill her at ten o'clock unless I take all the cops off the streets. If I do that, many people will die. If I don't, m...my daughter will die."