Lois & Clark Forums Forums Fan Fiction Lois & Clark Fanfic Cooking Class (4/7)

"What are you going to do after we've finished?" she asked.

"Well, there's the salad to prepare, the rice to cook, and I brought the ingredients to make something sweet to go with after-dinner coffee."

"Do we have time for all that?"

"It won't take long," he said. "I'll make them while you get ready for your date."

"Them?"

"Little treats. They're a recipe of my mom's."

"Are they romantic, too?" Lois asked, turning to eye him directly. "Like the chicken?"

"Very romantic," he said solemnly.

She leaned sideways - just a few degrees - and nudged him to let him know she wasn't necessarily accepting his definition of 'romantic'.

He grinned. "You'll see."

"Thank you, Clark," she said. "It's very sweet of you to plan such a wonderful meal."

He spooned in a few more pieces of chicken. "Mrs Spangher said this meal is important to you."

"It is." Realising she sounded irresolute, Lois declared, "It's really important to me."


Part 4

The silence that followed Lois's statement hung around them like a prickly blanket. She fixed her concentration on the chicken pieces and firmly subdued her mind's inclination to line up Claude and Clark and conduct a thorough comparison.

Last week, she had told Lucy that Claude could be 'the one'.

"You're doing great," Clark said. He turned the heat to low, skirted around her, and picked up the pan containing the sauce. "We need to switch the pans, and then you can spoon the chicken into the sauce."

Lois slid her pan across the stove as Clark returned the first pan to the heat. "What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I'm going to grind the cashew nuts to a powder," he said, turning from the stove to the counter.

"I'll do it," Lois said, grabbing the club-shaped implement. Was it the mortar? Or the pestle? Either way, she needed to get her mind on the real purpose of this evening, and another display of masculine muscularity wasn't going to be helpful.

"Sure," Clark said, smiling easily as he tipped the nuts into the bowl and pushed it closer to her.

Lois poked the club into the bowl. One nut split in half.

"You might have to be a little more vigorous than that," Clark said, pausing from his task of transferring the chicken into the sauce. "Try a grinding circular motion with the pestle."

Lois did that a few times, and when she lifted it, some of the nuts had crumbled. She glanced up at Clark and saw his smile of encouragement. "Is your cooking class full?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, stirring the chicken through the sauce. "Why?"

"I figure cooking skills could be useful."

"You could apply for the spring class. It starts in a couple of months."

"Will you be teaching it?"

"I don't know."

"You said your initial plans didn't work out."

"That's right."

"So being a 'culinary instructor' is Plan B?"

"Yes."

"What was Plan A?"

Clark didn't respond for a moment.

"Sorry," Lois said. "I'm a reporter. Asking questions that are none of my business is a part of my job."

He smiled again. "Mine, too."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm a reporter, too. At least, that's what I want to be."

Lois abandoned the mortar and pestle and walked over to the stove. "You're a reporter?"

"Yeah. I did some freelance work while I was travelling. Then I thought it might be good to settle somewhere, so I came to Metropolis."

"Did you apply at the Daily Planet?"

"I wrote the editor, Mr White, but he replied that there were no vacancies at present."

"I guess you know I work at the Planet?"

"Yep."

"You've read my work?"

"All the time." He smiled, blushed a little, and said, "You're brilliant."

A wave of pleasure tumbled through her. "Ah … thank you." She returned to grinding the nuts, and asked, "Did you apply at any of the other newspapers?"

Clark didn't reply immediately, which kindled her curiosity. "The Metropolis Star," he said eventually.

"No luck there, either?" Lois asked, wondering just how bad a reporter you'd have to be to get rejected by the Star.

"No. Not exactly."

"Not exactly?"

"I worked there for a short time."

"And?"

"And you need to add fenugreek seeds to the cashew powder."

She slapped her hands onto her hips to let him know his evasion hadn't gone unnoticed. That seemed to amuse him, but he said nothing as he opened yet another pot and sprinkled some wheat-coloured seeds into the mortar.

Lois picked up the pestle and resumed her assault. "Why did you leave the Star?"

"Fenugreek seeds can get a bit jumpy when you hit them. The cashew powder helps keep them in the mortar."

Lois thrust the pestle into the mortar, and two seeds flew out and bounced along the counter.

Clark retrieved them, tossed them back, and shot her a grin. "See?"

"Yes," Lois said. She used her other hand to make a cover for the bowl and began pounding again.

"The editor of the Star sent me out to investigate some missing funds at the Port Authority," Clark said as he turned back to the stove and continued stirring.

"Really?" Lois said, immediately interested. "I didn't hear anything about that."

"That's because there weren't any missing funds."

"Uggh," Lois said. "I hate it when a story fizzles out to nothing."

"I told Mr Carpenter and he asked me to write what I had discovered, so I wrote a few paragraphs about the funds being used for training in safety procedures."

It didn't sound like the most riveting story, but Lois refrained from commenting as she increased her efforts to crush the seeds.

"He printed my story the next day, failing to mention the safety training and adding in a lot of innuendo about misappropriated funds," Clark said. "I assumed he'd found some evidence I'd missed, so I asked him about it. He said the newspaper business was about giving the readers what they wanted and he wasn't going to let a lack of evidence stop him printing the best stories."

"He dismissed you?"

"No."

"You quit?"

"That day."

"And now you teach people to cook?"

"It pays the bills," Clark said. "How are you going with the seeds?"

Lois drove home the pestle, catching her finger between it and the mortar. "Ouch!"

Clark was at her side in less than a second. He grasped her hand and gently peeled away her hold on the tip of her throbbing forefinger.

"I think I broke my nail," Lois cried.

Clark gathered her hand in his. He pushed his glasses a little way down his nose and peered intently at her finger. As he set his glasses back in place, he turned to her with a dazzling smile. "No, you haven't," he informed her. "The nail's fine." He shuffled them both to the sink and put her finger under the slowly running water. "How does that feel?"

"My finger's OK," Lois said. Her hands, sheathed in his, were burning far more than the finger that had been squashed. "But I felt my nail break."

Clark turned off the faucet and bundled her hand in a towel. As he carefully dried her fingers, he gave her a reassuring smile. "It's OK. Really."

His eyes connected with hers.

Time slowed; her heart raced.

She slid her hand from his and examined her finger. It was a little red, but the nail was perfectly intact.

She tested it with her thumb.

"See?" Clark said, his smile sounding in the word. "I told you it was fine."

"I must have bent it, but it feels secure enough now."

Clark picked up the pestle and ground the powder for a few seconds. Lois took the spoon and mindlessly stirred as the streams of tingly warmth slowly abated.

She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder and was struck again by Clark's good looks. He glanced up from the mortar and gave her a smile that revitalized the streams to rushing torrents. "How's your finger?" he asked.

Her finger had been forgotten in the wash of physical attraction. "It's … it's good," Lois said.

He tipped the powder into a bowl, added some water, and stirred vigorously. "This will thicken the sauce as it simmers," he said.

"It's done?" Lois asked, disappointed.

Clark checked his watch. "You have an hour until your guest arrives," he said. "I'll make a salad and something sweet to go with coffee at the end. Then, I'll set the table."

"What about cleaning up?" Lois said.

"I'll do that, too."

"I could help," Lois offered, reluctant to leave.

"I gave my word you would have plenty of time to get ready."

"You'll watch this?" she asked, indicating the pan.

His smile flashed. "I won't let it burn," he said. "I promise."

"OK," Lois said. She rested the spoon against the edge of the pan and went to her bedroom to get ready for her date.

With Claude.

--~--

Clark's smile died as Lois left the room.

The strain of covering his feelings had intensified with every passing minute.

Lois Lane was beautiful. Smart. Talented.

And currently preparing for her Valentine's date with another man.

The sting of jealousy was something Clark had rarely felt before; now it was sharp, jabbing painfully across his chest.

He'd been aware of Lois Lane - her work - before he'd written to Mr White. When Mrs Spangher had called a few hours ago and given the name of their client, he'd been excited by the prospect of meeting her.

But he hadn't expected to be captivated by her before she'd even properly opened her door and granted him entry into her apartment.

Until today, he'd been sceptical about the notion of love at first sight.

Now, he knew better.

He'd seen Lois Lane. He loved her. It was that simple.

Except, it wasn't simple at all. There was a guy, Claude, whom she cared about a great deal. Someone she wanted to impress. Someone she wanted to be with on Valentine's Day.

Clark assembled the ingredients for his planned dessert on the counter and glared at them.

When 'Lois Lane' had been merely a name in a byline, chocolate kisses had seemed to be the ideal way to conclude her romantic dinner.

Now …

Just thinking about Lois kissing another man felt like poisoned thorns burrowing into his heart.

Lois was going to share the evening with Claude. They were going to eat the meal he, Clark, had planned for them. They were going to finish the meal with chocolate kisses.

Which could lead to -

He couldn't think about that. He wouldn't.

Clark beat the egg whites, added the sugar, and carefully folded in the cocoa and almond meal. He piped twelve individual mounds onto a baking tray and set them in the oven.

Ten minutes later, the salad was assembled in the bowl.

He took the kisses from the oven and allowed them to cool while he washed the equipment and packed his boxes.

He had dreamed of this a thousand times - preparing a meal in anticipation of sharing it with the woman he loved.

Never again would his dreams be about a vague lady.

Now, they would be all about Lois Lane.

He set the table, trying not to think about Lois and Claude sitting together. Would they hold hands? Would they laugh? What would they talk about?

What had she planned to wear? She'd looked so pretty in her jeans and sweater, but Clark figured she was going to be stunning when she walked through the door, ready for Claude.

He melted the dark chocolate and stuck pairs of kisses together, trying valiantly to attain the indifference of a hired cook. He rinsed the rice and set it on the stove to boil.

By seven-fifteen, everything was prepared - the table awaiting diners, the food ready, and the air embellished with the aromas of butter chicken, tempered by the sweet fragrance of chocolate.

The bedroom door opened. Clark turned, and his breath stopped. His mouth dried. His heart bounced across his ribcage.

Her black dress clung enticingly, accentuating every feminine curve. He hauled his eyes to her face and fixed his gaze on the smile that had become so familiar.

"You look amazing," he said, careful to inject a measure of detachment into his voice.

"Thank you." She surveyed her apartment. "Clark," she said. "It looks great. Thank you for everything."

"I put the dessert in the fridge."

Lois walked across the room, her heels clicking on the floor, and put her hand on the fridge door.

"Don't," Clark said quickly, not wanting to face questions about the kisses. On her puzzled look, he added, "Keep it for a surprise."

"Oh." She backed away from the fridge. "OK."

"The rice is simmering. Turn off the heat when the water has been absorbed. Don't let it stick. And keep stirring the chicken."

Lois reached for her handbag. "You have been fantastic, Clark," she said. "How much do I owe you?"

Clark was sure he couldn't stomach being paid for arranging the perfect evening for Lois and her date. "Mrs Spangher will send you an invoice," he said. "Settle it with her."

"OK." Lois replaced her bag.

Clark slipped on his jacket and picked up the boxes. "Have a wonderful evening, Lois," he said, hoping he didn't sound too insincere.

"Thanks," she said. "Bye, Clark." She opened the door. He walked through it. The door closed.

And his brief presence in Lois's life ended.

Clark wandered dejectedly down the corridor, mourning the loss of something that had never been his.

As he waited for the elevator, Lois's phone rang. Before he had the chance to close down his hearing, he heard her say, "Hi, Lucy."

The doors of the elevator grated open. It was empty. Clark didn't enter; instead, he went to the stairs and descended a few steps. He stopped, stalled by an idea that had sprouted in the cloud of his misery.

If he waited here, he would see Claude as he passed by on the way to Lois's apartment.

Collecting memories to fuel his torment was a stupid idea, but Clark couldn't help himself. He took less than a second to return the boxes to his apartment and then dropped back onto the steps to await the arrival of the luckiest man on the planet.