Lois & Clark Forums Forums Fan Fiction Lois & Clark Fanfic Ficathon - With A Source (3/3)

"Clark's at home already."

He ran away? Because he was scared? Or did he figure that working with me meant he could hang off my coattails? "He's gone home?" I say.

"Yeah," Perry replies. "He called in, and I told him to go home to write his story."

*His* story? He wasn't there. *I* was there. I got the story. And I don't want to share it with anyone. Certainly not with an insubordinate hack who lied to me and then pulled a disappearing act.

I try once more. "Perry," I say, "I think it would be better if I work alone on this one."

"I want you working with Clark," he says. I hear that tone. Again.

I don't have the time to argue, so I bark out a demand for directions to Clark's apartment.

I've never had a partner.

I don't want one now.

And if I ever did, it certainly wouldn't be Clark Kent.


Part 3

Clark answers my impatient rap on his door. "Hi, Lois," he says cheerily. "Have you spoken to Mr White?"

"Yeah," I say with a level of distaste that not even Clark could miss. "He sent me here. He's still insisting that we write this story together."

Clark plies me with that dashing smile. I ignore it. I'm a reporter. I'm here - under duress - to write my story.

He leads me down a short flight of stairs and to a computer. The screen is filled with a mishmash of words. He gestures for me to sit on the only chair.

I do.

"Would you like something to eat?" he asks.

I would. I'm hungry. But although Clark appears to have conveniently forgotten that he ran out on me, I haven't. This is not going to be anything more than two colleagues forced to work together by a misguided editor. "No," I say haughtily. "Perry needs this story for the morning edition." I take out my notes and open up a new document on the computer.

"You don't want to read what I've written so far?" Clark asks.

"No."

"OK."

He brings a chair from another room. I don't move aside. I figure now is a good time for him to learn that *I'm* writing the story, and the most he can hope for is that he'll learn something that might accelerate his progress as a reporter.

I skim through my notes, think for a moment, and decide on an opening sentence. My fingers fly over the keys.

"Nice start," Clark says.

I don't respond.

I continue tapping at the keys, and my story flows easily. After a few minutes, I forget Clark is there. Forget where I am. Forget everything except the story pouring from my fingers and onto the screen.

I finish.

I know it's good.

I can't help glancing to Clark. I admit it - I want him to be impressed.

He's looking quizzical.

"What?" I snap.

"Did ..." He looks away, seeming unsure. "Did you talk to Superman?"

"Briefly."

"You ..." He gestures to the screen. "You didn't include any quotes from him."

"The story doesn't need quotes from him."

"I think a few quotes would set it off perfectly," he says.

It's true. But what is also true - and something that seems to have escaped Clark's notice in his slipshod approach to being a reporter - is that I don't have any Superman quotes. "It's perfect the way it is," I declare.

He reaches over to the mouse and switches to his document. "I have quotes," he mentions casually.

"From whom?"

"Superman."

I spin towards him. "You talked with Superman?" I shriek.

Clark nods. He gestures to the screen. "It's all there."

I can think of about a thousand things I would rather do than wade though the ham-fisted, incoherent folderol of a beginning writer.

But in this case, I have no choice.

With an embittered sigh, I turn back to the screen and read his copy.

Two paragraphs in, realisation hits me like the slap of a cold fish against my cheek.

It's good. Not Lois Lane good. But good. Logical. Readable. Detailed. Smooth.

*And* he has sprinkled quotes from Superman throughout his story with a deft hand. Proficiently placed. Skilfully selected.

I reach the end of the story but keep staring at the screen as I try to come to terms with the unsettling revelation that Mr Greenhorn-Softheart-Newcomer-From-Nowhere can actually write.

I turn on him like spitfire. "How did you get these quotes?" I demand.

"Superman said it. I wrote it down."

I can see the glint of amusement in his eyes, and it fires my resolve to affirm my position as the undisputed premier reporter - not only on this story but also in the entire state of New Troy. "You said you could contact him," I say. "You didn't say you had exclusive rights to every word he utters."

"I don't."

"I don't believe you," I proclaim boldly.

Clark's eyebrows lift, but his smile doesn't fade completely. "Don't believe what?" he asks serenely.

He's enjoying this. He doesn't appear threatened in the slightest by my antagonism. "I don't believe that you can contact Superman," I throw at him.

He shrugs, lifting those broad shoulders. "OK." He looks back to the screen. "I understand if you want to keep our stories separate," he says.

Of course he does - *he* has the quotes. I did all of the work and just because he was lucky enough to catch Superman when he had a few spare moments, my story is in danger of slipping to the second page.

I seethe at the unfairness of it.

But I didn't get to be the top reporter in Metropolis without a few tricks up my sleeve. "Get him," I command.

Clark turns from the screen to look at me. "Get Superman?" he says.

"Yes," I say. "You said you can contact him. Prove it."

"Lois," he sighs. "He's probably busy saving someone."

"Ah!" I flare. "So now you're not only saying that you can contact him, you're saying that you know what he's doing at any given moment?"

"Perhaps Superman has more important things to do than fly here on my whim."

*His* whim? Actually, it's me that really wants Superman here. "Shouldn't you give him the opportunity to check the quotes before you submit the story?"

"You think I got the quotes wrong?"

"I'm sure anything goes in Kansas."

"I'm sure you've never worked in Kansas," Clark says mildly. "So you wouldn't know."

"I can imagine," I mutter, but my fire has gone. He's done it again. He hasn't let me walk all over him. But he hasn't allowed it to get personal. Not on his side, anyway.

Clark stands from his seat. "Do you like Chinese takeout?" he says.

"We're working," I reply.

"Are you hungry?"

"No."

"I am," he says. "I'll just be a minute." He climbs the stairs with easy steps.

"Where are you going?" I demand sharply.

"To get some takeout," he replies, ignoring my tone.

"We are *supposed* to be writing a story."

"My story is finished." He stops, one foot on a higher step than the other - which tightens his trousers down the length of his thigh. "Any requests?" he asks nonchalantly.

I peel my eyes from Clark's leg. "Yes," I say, figuring that I'm owed a little fun and knowing just how to get it. "I'd like pork dumplings."

"OK." Clark climbs the rest of the stairs and reaches the door.

"With sauce."

"What type?"

"Sweet and sour," I reply, knowing that he'll never comprehend that it describes perfectly my feelings towards his unfaltering niceness.

"I won't be long," he says as he opens the door.

"From Beijing."

His shoulders drop, and he shoots me a wry look. "Lois," he says. "We're in Metropolis."

"You know Superman," I remind him casually.

With a sigh, he opens the door and leaves.

I smile.

I'm sure now. The whole charade about knowing Superman was nothing more than a ruse to get out of my apartment and get to the story first. I turn back to the computer screen, and I skim over his copy.

It is good. I have to admit that it worked. By sneaking out on me, Clark got to the scene first. He got the interview with Superman. He got the quotes.

With a sigh, I make both documents half-screen and begin the objectionable task of incorporating the two stories.

I don't like it, but I'm realistic enough to know that although my story is more polished, Clark's might just tip mine off the front page because he has quotes. Because he outplayed me with an absurd fabrication, and I fell for it.

A noise sounds near the window, and my head jolts around. My mouth drops. On the balcony, I can see the familiar figure in blue tights and a red cape. "Superman?" I croak with arrant disbelief.

He comes through the glass door and looks in my direction. "Ms Lane," he says. He puts two boxes of takeout - bearing Chinese writing - on the counter. "Goodnight."

"Wait!"

He aborts his takeoff and waits for me to rush over to him. I stop. I stare into his handsome face and palpitate at the nearness of his chiselled body. I can think of nothing to say. And even if I could think of the most sophisticated comment, I don't have the breath to deliver it.

"Have a nice evening," he says pleasantly.

"Wait," I repeat. "You ... you were magnificent tonight. You saved dozens of lives."

"Thank you."

"Did Clark interview you?"

"He said you were working together."

"Would you like to check the quotes? For our story? I ... I would hate to misrepresent you."

Superman crosses to the computer, his cape swinging majestically. He clasps the mouse, and Clark's story whirs up the screen at lightning pace.

Superman straightens. "All perfect," he says. "Goodnight, Ms Lane."

"Would you care -"

There's a blur of colour, my hair is blown back, and he's gone.

" ... to join us?"

I could almost believe that I imagined the entire encounter. Except the boxes are still here - and the air is rapidly filling with delicious aromas.

"Goodnight, Superman," I whisper in awe.

The other door opens, and Clark enters, holding two coffees. His eyes jump to the counter. "I see Superman beat me," he says.

In every way possible, I think. But I don't say it.

Clark crosses to the minimalistic kitchen and gathers up everything we will need. "You eat first," he says as he hands me a plate. "I'll type."

"It's *my* story," I say, disregarding the fact that I had already decided to use his quotes.

"You tell me what to type," he says easily.

I have to force myself to concentrate. The story of a little girl kidnapped, of a policeman-father blackmailed, of two rival gangs wanting war ... it's no longer the story foremost in my mind.

There's a bigger story tonight.

Clark Kent knows Superman.

I absently open one box and inhale the delicious aroma of the dumplings. I take out one and dip it into the sweet and sour sauce. I chew slowly as I think, putting off the moment when I have to admit to Clark that I'm willing to combine our stories.

Clark focuses his attention on the screen where our two stories sit, side by side.

Part of this game is knowing when to give a little. Not much, just a little.

Knowing when to accept that life has thrown you a curveball.

I'm good. I can beat anyone in a fair playing field.

But this isn't fair.

Clark can contact Superman.

"Superman Saves Metropolis," I say. "By Lois Lane and Clark Kent."

Clark types. He doesn't comment on the byline. He highlights a quote from his story. "Perhaps this would fit at the end of your third paragraph," he suggests.

I nod and watch as he copies it to my document.

I've never worked with anyone.

But ... the advent of Superman has changed everything.

Half an hour later, the story - *our* story, the culmination of the combined efforts of Lane and Kent - is finished and sent to Perry.

The takeout is almost gone. We're finishing our cups of coffee, and I have the time to mull over the revelation that will still be affecting my life long after the events of tonight have blurred into the pages of history.

Clark knows Superman.

Clark can send Superman on an errand to get Chinese takeout.

Clark is not going to reveal anything about Superman. He isn't going to spill how he can summon Superman. He probably isn't even going to tell me how he knows the superhero.

I wouldn't tell either. If I were the only reporter who knew how to contact Superman, I wouldn't tell a living soul. And not only for professional reasons. Imagine having a secret. Just Superman and me. Imagine being able to invite him around. For supper. Or a quiet evening. Alone, together.

Imagine if one day, it's not a hick from Kansas I'm sharing takeout with but Superman.

Clark Kent has the greatest source ever, and it's watertight - packed away and protected by his countrified values and irrational obsession with doing the honourable thing.

But that doesn't mean I can't try.

"You don't trust me," I say, doing a pretty good job of making it sound like an accusation when the truth is that trusting me with this particular secret would rank as one of the stupidest moves in the history of the newspaper business.

I expect him to ignore me. Or to pretend he doesn't know I'm referring to Superman. Or to ridicule me for even thinking that he would ever trust me. He doesn't do any of those. He slowly sips from his coffee, and I know he is formulating a reply. "Lois ..." he says. "This has to be handled really carefully."

"Or?"

"Or else Superman won't have a life."

"*Does* he have a life?" I ask quickly. "What does he do when he's not being Superman?"

"Lois, I can't say anything," Clark says.

"How do you know him? How long have you known him? Where did you meet him?"

Clark stares at me. He's not rude enough to brush me off. He's not unscrupulous enough to lie. He's not fickle enough to reveal what he knows about Superman.

"The story about the kid falling down the drain?" I speculate.

Clark says nothing.

"The story I missed because I was covering the derailed train that threatened hundreds of lives?" I had intended my question to make it clear that my story - involving the rescue of hundreds - was more important than Clark's - involving one.

Except, I know Superman wouldn't see it that way.

"Superman could easily miss something if he didn't have a way for someone to alert him," I muse.

Clark still says nothing.

"Why you?" I ask. To my surprise, there is curiosity in my tone, not disrespect.

"I'm sorry, Lois," Clark says. "I won't say anything."

I stand abruptly and pick up my bag. I flounce up the stairs towards the door.

Clark follows me and gets past me in time to open the door. "Would you like me to walk you home?" he says.

I pass him without even looking in his direction.

I hear him chuckle softly. "Goodnight, Lois," he says.

I stride away, knowing he's watching me.

An uncomfortable awareness settles in my gut.

I can wrangle most things out of most people.

But Clark Kent will never tell me what he knows about Superman.

He won't.

He just won't.

He has the greatest source ever. And I want it.

If I can't have it exclusively - this time, I'll make an exception.

This time, I'm willing to share.

^/\^/\^

~~ The Next Morning ~~

As I walk to the Daily Planet, my story cries out from every newsstand.

OK, *our* story.

Perry's reaction to it was effusively positive. When he called me late last night, he didn't miss any opportunities to drive home how his unconventional pairing had resulted in an impressive front-page story.

A story that seamlessly melded my experience with Kent's freshness.

My determination with his tact.

My impetuosity with his steadfastness.

My passion with his patience.

My brain with his heart.

Which suits my plan perfectly.

I'm not looking forward to it, but I have no choice.

I haven't got to where I am by balking at the hard decisions.

And make no mistake, this one was hard.

I know what I'm signing up for.

That smile. That unwavering civility. That country chivalry. That antiquated integrity. That aversion to bending the rules.

I shake my head, barely able to believe what I am about to do.

He'll want to curb my penchant for risk-taking. He'll try to protect me.

He'll probably even open doors for me and help me into my coat.

I enter the elevator and two minutes later, I'm standing in front of Clark's desk, offering him my deal.

If he becomes my partner, I won't spill what I know about his 'super-source'.

Clark takes the sheet from me, and I watch his face closely as he reads my words.

"You want *me* to be your partner?" he asks.

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

Clark reads my story again. He's smart enough to realise the implications. If it becomes public knowledge that Clark Kent can contact our greatest hero, Clark will never be left alone. People will call him, write him, hound him, all pressuring him to be a bridge between Superman and a clamouring world.

His eyes lift to crash softly into mine. "Are you threatening to print this?" he asks.

I don't answer him verbally. Of course I'm *threatening* to print it. But I won't because it would disadvantage both me and my newspaper.

But this way, Clark can't help but discern my true motivation.

No one else will know - not even Perry - but if I'm going to survive a partnership with Clark Kent, he has to know that it's not *him* I want.

He has to understand that I'm top banana.

"Sometimes I'll need to go where you can't follow," he warns quietly.

I know what he's telling me. Our partnership is not going to extend to me knowing how he can signal to Superman that we need him.

On the outside, I nod my solemn agreement. On the inside, I figure that a country boy isn't going to be any match for the best investigative reporter in Metropolis.

Clark extends his right hand in my direction. "OK," he says. "Partner."

I take his hand.

And for the first time in my life, I have a partner.

With a source.

The End

^/\^/\^

Alisha's requests ...

Three things I want in my story:

(1) A revelation (it doesn’t have to be *that* one, but it can be, it’s up to you and your muse)

(2) Lois and Clark trapped somewhere together, just the two of them, for a significant period of time

(3) A deadline.

Three things I don't want in my story:

(1) Lots of WAFF, fluff and all that sweet, sickly stuff.

(2) Too much focus on other characters, including Superman (other people can be mentioned, and briefly included if needed for the plot, but I want this to be about Lois & Clark, not Superman or anyone else.)

(3) Time travel

Preferred Season: Series 1 or 2, but before they start dating.