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Sorry, Arawn - I didn't mean to offend you.

Lucas came over and sat on the edge of Clark's new desk. "Well, I see they've at least given you a desk and a computer." He raised a brow as he glanced at the retreating form of Cat Grant. "And I see you've met some more of the staff. But now we need to see about getting you into some real investigative reporting."

"Great." Clark felt a strange tingle when Lucas patted him on the shoulder.

"Okay, but before we get started we need to get one thing straight. I like you Kent, you seem like a nice guy, but I'm the senior partner, you are the junior. You aren't working with me, you are working for me. If you are going to learn from me, you'll have to listen. That means that I'll be doing all the talking in our interviews. In this little partnership, I'm the top banana, got it."

Clark opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it. He just couldn't say it.

Then she noticed his costume and realised why his voice was so
distorted. Just her luck. Was there no end to the weird costumes
tonight? Darth Vader?

She began to roll her eyes, but then reminded herself that the
guy had actually done her a favour. At least, she thought, he’d
had the good sense to leave the cape at home. That really would
have been over the top.

She made herself smile at him.

Of course, she couldn’t tell whether he was smiling in return or
not. “I was glad to help. Though I was beginning to think I’d
have to use my light-sabre on him if he didn’t take his hand off
you.”

Lois eyed him, pretending wariness. “You carry that thing with
you? Do you have a licence?”

“Darth Vader does not need a licence!” he pronounced sonorously.
Then he extended his arm towards her. “So... is it just reindeer
you don’t dance with, or men as a species, Ms Anthony? Cause I
wouldn’t want to risk offending a fine suffragette such as
yourself.”

“You sure about this loser of yours? Because I really don’t mind removing him for you. Or maybe the woman you think he’s seeing. It would be no trouble at all. One blast of my light-sabre and poof! They’re history.”

She giggled again. “Well, I guess I wouldn’t object if you wanted to vaporise her.”

“Consider it done,” he promised. It was true anyway; Mayson was history as far as he was concerned.

FROM: “Lucy Lane” < littlesister@metcooksch.7287.edu >
TO: “Lois Lane” < maddoglane@dailyplanetnp.met.r.com >
SUBJECT: Follow these directions CAREFULLY!
DATE: 12 Jul 19:02:29
Follow these directions carefully. Rest assured, there is NO microwave involved. First, you walk over to the oven, which is that thing on the wall next to your window. I believe you’re presently using the handle to the oven door as a rack for your dirty towels. Anyway, there are a couple of dials on the oven and they are critical to the success of any recipe. One dial turns the oven on and one dial sets the temperature. They work best when both are used at the same time. You turn the first little dial to BAKE. You turn the second little dial until shows 350 degrees. The temperature indicator should match up to the little slash mark on the front of your oven. This insures that you have set the oven to the correct temperature.

Next, you take ½ cup of mayo and you put it in a glass measuring cup. It’s always a good idea to actually measure things, Lois, they turn out better that way. Once you have done this, transfer the mayo to a bowl, which is big enough to hold all the other ingredients. Rinse out the glass measuring cup and dry it, okay? You will need it again and it helps if you use a clean measuring cup. (You wouldn’t, by any miracle, have *two* measuring cups on hand? Makes things a lot simpler.) Then, measure out ½ cup of the sour cream. Again, you transfer it to the bowl which has the mayo in it. You’ll be mixing all these ingredients together.

At this point, I really think the artichokes, DRAINED AND CUT UP! should go in the bowl. Since this IS an ARTICHOKE dip, they are rather crucial to the recipe. We don’t need to forget those.

Add 1/3 cup Parmesan cheese which I hope you bought already grated. If didn’t and you bought a block of Parmesan that needs to be grated, my recommendation is to hold the grater in your LEFT hand and the cheese with your RIGHT hand and go S-L-O-W-L-Y. This makes it less likely that you will scrape your knuckles on the grater and get blood in the mixture. (You do have a grater, don’t you?)

Add 1/8 teaspoon of hot sauce to the mix. If you don’t have a measuring spoon that small, just give it ONE squirt. You don’t want to douse the mix and make it inedible!

Finally, you mix it up. Here you can take out all your frustrations about Clark and stir madly for all you’re worth. Pour this mess into a small ovenproof dish (please tell me you have one!) and bake it at 350 degrees for 30 minutes. Providing you remembered to turn on the oven, it should be bubbly and hot when done.

FROM: “Lois Lane”< maddoglane@dailyplanetnp.met.r.com >
TO: “Lucy Lane” < littlesister@metcooksch.7287.edu >
SUBJECT: Recipe
DATE: 12 Jul 19:23:04

Lucy,

Sarcasm does NOT become you. Okay. I’ll give it a try. If it doesn’t come out, it’s your fault!

What does it matter why Clark is coming over? What’s important is that I e-mailed you for a recipe and you keep changing the subject! Uhm—sudden thought--Clark mentioned Mayson made a red velvet cake for him. Do you think I could do that?

Lois

FROM: “Lucy Lane” < littlesister@metcooksch.7287.edu >
TO: “Lois Lane” < maddoglane@dailyplanetnp.met.r.com >
SUBJECT: Cake
DATE: 26 Aug 14:09:11

Lois,

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! No.

Lucy

Omigodohmigodohmigodohmigod! Forget all previous e-mails! Clark just told me that his parents will be in town and asked if they could come over, too! I need something that is absolutely foolproof! What do I do? Should I fix a dinner?

Lucy!!!

Are you there? Where are you!?? I’m waiting!

Lois

Hey Lois,

Sorry for the delay. When I read your last e-mail, I had just taken a swig of Coke and I laughed and it came up through my nose and got all over my skirt so I had to change clothes and I couldn’t find anything I liked in my closet so I went to your place and borrowed something of yours. You’re kidding me, right? You wouldn’t seriously consider attempting a dinner, would you?

Lucy (who’s still laughing but not drinking Coke at the same time)

Don’t make me come over there!

Lois

I don’t understand the problem here. Can’t you be honest and tell them that your idea of cooking is to open a box, pour the contents into a bowl, listen for the snap-crackle-pop and eat?

Lucy

No! Superman told Clark I could cook and he probably told his parents. I’ve been to Smallville and eaten Martha’s cooking! She makes Chef Andre look like a donut turner at the Tast-E-O! I remember when Jonathan and Martha switched jobs during one of their visits here. Jonathan supposedly fixed dinner from scratch but instead he snuck in Chinese carryout and tried to pass it off as homemade. Martha knew he’d ordered in and even what Chinese restaurant he’d gotten in from! There is no way I can fake her out! She’s Michelangelo, I’m paint-by-numbers! She’s Julia Child, I’m Mudpies 101. I’m hyperventilating here. Help me out!

Lois

Correction—you never attempted Mudpies 101, remember? You wouldn’t take the time to find perfectly good dirt that was the right consistency for making mudpies.

Lucy

I did TOO look for dirt!

Lois

Yeah, on Mrs. BelCanto!

Lucy

I thought it was funny with a Kerth winner that wasn't archived. Doesn't the author want people to read it

Clark surreptitiously scanned her pack with his X-ray vision and rolled his eyes as he readjusted his glasses. She must have been in a rare snit when she went home to collect her things. Nobody as smart as Lois was could have packed so stupidly otherwise. To supplement her chocolate, she had brought a Tupperware container full of what looked like potato salad, a jello cup and a bag of pretzels. The potato salad would be spoiled in a few more hours, the jello would melt and the pretzels wouldn't last the night. He hoped she liked fresh caught fish.
[…]Clark confessed to having with him a change of shirt and underwear, a book, a pocket knife, a brown bag with a grease spot on the bottom and a couple of cans of pork and beans. When Jimmy pointed out that he had forgotten to bring a can opener, Clark felt appropriately stupid. He really had to do better keeping up with appearances.

"Paul, I guess, was mainly about my pride. I really worshipped him, but I never really knew him. Claude..." she closed her eyes against the memory. "That was probably the most humiliating experience of my life." She began to dig into the wet wood with a thumbnail. "I'd only been at the Planet a few months, and I let myself be seduced by the paper's resident womanizer...why, I don't know...except that I knew I was too young for the job and in way over my head. I thought Perry had been a fool to hire me." She was silent for a moment. "Everyone knew afterwards. Apparently all the other guys on staff lived vicariously through Claude and depended on him for a full story of his conquests. They got it." Viciously, she snapped the twig in two and threw the pieces back into the water.

Clark felt a sudden murderous urge toward the unknown Claude. He sincerely hoped for both their sakes that they never met. He could hear her reluctant hesitation as she haltingly told her story. He knew instinctively that Lois was saying these words aloud for the first time and he understood what it was costing her.

"Well, I've been thinking...I've known you for almost two years now. You're my best friend, but I really don't know that much about you, beyond the obvious things. I mean, I know you like basketball, baseball, the usual guy stuff. I know you eat garbage most of the time, and it doesn't show which means you'll probably die young. You read way too much and you're into the wrong kinds of music. You have a great apartment in a lousy part of town. You like your privacy, you keep people at arms length, but at the same time you let them walk all over you.

"Go on." said Clark, intrigued by her assessment.

"Well, you have a secret love of weird, useless facts. You mow some old lady's lawn every week. You actually seem to get along with your parents. You must have an incredible nightlife, 'cause you're almost never there when I call.

For a half an hour she remained motionless on the sofa, waiting. Around her the sounds of life were nearly deafening. The steady hum of the fish tank’s aerator. The sounds of the traffic in the street below. The click of the clock as the minutes ticked past.

Nothing. No whispers. Nothing at all but the beating of her own heart.

Maybe it had been the stress. Or maybe she really had been going crazy to think Clark had ever spoken to her across the cosmos. She didn’t know or really care.

She only knew that she finally had to accept that whatever it had been, it had stopped. She couldn’t hear him anymore, and he couldn’t hear her.

Silent tears flowed down her cheeks as she fed the fish and double checked the locks. She no longer sobbed. Being loud in her misery didn’t lessen the pain at all, she’d learned after suffering days of aching ribs and near laryngitis.

The sleeping pills were starting to work their magic, her head growing thick and heavy. She trudged back to the bedroom, wading through the clothes littering the floor. She’d forgotten to stop at the dry cleaners yet again. Which meant she had nothing to wear to work the next day. With a withering glance at the maroon suit draped over the chair, she sighed. She’d already worn it once that week because it was the least wrinkled thing in her closet. It would have to do again. No one would dare remark about it. Even if they did, she didn’t care.

Without bothering to brush her teeth, she dropped into bed, wincing at the bunched blankets and linens underneath her. Maybe she’d actually make it in the morning, the way she used to. Maybe not.

"Here, read this."

Perry looked up at Lois who was holding a sheet of paper under his nose. He took the page and asked, "What is this?"

"It's an article that just came over the wire."

Perry read the first couple of paragraphs, then looked back up at Lois. "Our foreign correspondent already submitted an article on this."

"Just finish it, please?" Lois asked, impatiently.

"I don't have to read it. We don't need two articles on the same subject."

"The subject's not important," she insisted. "Please just read it." Lois waited with her hands on her hips while Perry read through the article. "Well?"

"Okay, it's a good article, but we still don't need it."

"No," she sighed. "It's him. It's got his style written all over it. Don't you see it?"

"Clark."

The arms stiffened.

"Clark, it's you."

She heard him expel a soft breath, but he didn't answer.

"This isn't Superman holding me," she said with finality. "This is Clark."

When he still didn't say anything, she reached up and pulled off the blindfold that had ironically opened her eyes.

The faint glint of starlight left his face in shadow. She wished she could see his expression.

"Where are we?" she asked softly, postponing the inevitable flurry of questions.

"Centennial Park," he answered mechanically. "No one comes here at night any more; it's too dangerous."

"So you could land without being seen," she concluded.

Without replying, he gently lifted her off his lap and set her down on the grass. The two of them simply sat there, looking at each other in the chilly darkness.

"I'm sorry," she finally said. Those two words carried the weight of everything: her regret that she'd forced his hand, her empathy for the tremendous burden of responsibility that he carried, her sympathy for the lonely life he must lead in such a constrained existence.

He must have understood, for she caught the swift white gleam of his teeth as he smiled briefly. "I'm not sorry you're alive," he parried gently.

She smiled despite herself. "Well, I appreciate that." She reached out slowly, ready to stop if he flinched away, and removed his glasses. She set them carefully on the grass and studied as much of his face as she could in the dim light.

He seemed almost amused by her scrutiny. "Do you think I'd look better with contacts?"

She picked up the glasses and shook her head. "Clark doesn't wear his glasses when he's wearing his Superman suit," she said by way of explanation. She stopped short as she realized what she'd just said.

Clark Kent was Superman.

*Her* Clark Kent was Superman.

"Clark --" she unconsciously shifted a few inches closer to
him. "Clark, he obviously doesn't know about you. Maybe you
*can* stop him somehow."

"Lois, thank you for the vote of confidence, but I don't think
so."

"Why not?" she demanded. "You have the abilities. You just
never put on a red cape."

"Let's not forget the blue tights," Clark said dryly. "Or the
red underwear, for that matter."

"But Clark, don't you *see*? If you *do* become Superman, you
can stop this!"

His expression showed his exasperation. "Lois, how exactly can
I stop him, just by putting on that awful suit?"

"It's not awful! It's -- eye-catching, that's all!" She nodded
emphatically. "Besides, it's so much more than that. It's the
idea behind it, Clark. It's a symbol. You're making yourself
into a beacon!"

He looked at her for a long moment, as if not quite sure she
was actually finished. "Are you always like this?"

She flushed, suddenly realizing that she'd gotten a little
carried away. "I'm sorry. I'm a little high-strung sometimes, I
think."

"A little?" He laughed. "Lois, you're a Stradivarius!" He
sobered and shook his head. "Besides, I am most definitely not
putting on that suit."

"Why not?"

He took a deep breath. "Look. You seem to have this incredibly
relaxed attitude towards my abilities, but not everyone is
going to look at it that way. I've always made sure to hide
what I can do."

Lois winced. "So you never have a chance to be yourself?"