#but joe just stares them down because he knows exactly who was writing those reports

[cementcornfield]

A Retrospective on Ja'Marr's Rough Rookie Preseason (and How Joe Was There for Him Throughout)

Ja'Marr on The Pivot: I just wanted to get in where I fit in, just slowly make my mark and show the guys around me I could still play... Joe even knew that I was getting too hard on myself but Joe was just telling me like, 'I know what you can do, just get back in the rhythm, play your game, and you know we're gonna take off from there.'

Ja'Marr on Pat McAfee: It had a toll on me, it was a little mentally draining, knowing I was getting attacked just getting into the league... it just took a little minute for me to get back into the rhythm of things, get used to the offense again and once all that was coming on, I wasn't really worried about it. Joe helped me pick myself back up and get back on the road.

[gumnut-logic]

A Minute

Okay, a few nights ago I was feeling crappy and vented into this fic. Unfortunately, because I was feeling crappy I couldn’t find the energy to finish it. So the last few nights have been spent wrangling with it.

The wonderful @tsarinatorment​ and @janetm74​ are amazing and say it works, but to be honest it is 1am, I have work tomorrow and I have been fighting with this for more than three hours trying to write the last six hundred words, and can’t see the fic for all the words splattered all over the page. So I’m dumping it here and running.

Whatever it is, I hope you enjoy it. Virgil, Scott, buckets of angst and hopefully a little comfort to help.

-o-o-o-

Her VTOL flared as she came to a halt above the ocean miles from nowhere.

Securing her autopilot, Virgil let his shoulders drop and his head fall into his hands.

Deep breaths.

His ‘bird breathed around him.

“Thunderbird Two, report. Why have you stopped in transit? Is there a problem?”

He didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t want to answer. Couldn’t answer. He just…

“Need a minute, John.” He waved his brother’s signal away.

And closed his eyes.

The throb of VTOL supported his heart.

“Virgil?” Scott’s voice.

No.

Just stop.

Need. A. Minute.

He pushed away from the dash as the comms on his baldric lit up, his big brother’s worried voice tinny in his ear. Standing up, he unclipped his baldric and dropped it onto his co-pilot’s seat.

Where Gordon usually sat.

He spun away only to be faced by the back of the cockpit.

There was nowhere to go.

His name issued from the dash again.

He clenched his fists.

He just needed a minute.

He stepped onto the hatch, grabbed a safety line and clipped himself to his ‘bird.

A shove and he threw the overhead hatch open. Wind whipped around him, tangling in his hair as the roar of his ‘bird battered his ears. But as he rose up into the cold air, it bit into the skin of his face.

He sighed and sat down on the hatch, falling rather inelegantly more than anything else. Cahelium vibrated through the material of his uniform, though his fingertips.

He closed his eyes.

Atmosphere combed through his hair and cupped his cheeks. The beat of his ‘bird echoed his heart and kept it going. And the sound encapsulated him, keeping the rest of the world out.

So he could stop.

Breathe.

Take a minute.

Gordon was okay.

It had been close, but he was okay.

Four had seen better days, but that could be fixed. He was taking her home himself while Scott flew their brother to London and to a very worried Penelope.

Gordon was fine.

Unfortunately, it was becoming very apparent that Virgil was not.

Why a close call like this was affecting him so badly was a question the analytical medic at the back of his mind was desperately trying to ask him. But honestly, he…just…needed…a moment.

He let his sense of touch steal away the terror of his little brother not answering on comms. The roar of his ‘bird shook the image of Four crumpling before him on the dash. Yet again. Again. He was losing his little brother again.

A sound issued from his throat, but he didn’t hear it.

But Gordon was okay.

He was okay.

Virgil’s hands shook as he wrapped his arms around himself and just hung on.

He sat there for he didn’t know how long. At one point he realised he was rocking back and forth.

A part of his brain was yelling at him. He couldn’t stay here forever. He was sitting on his ‘bird, for goodness sake. She needed attention. She needed him to fly her.

But he knew his girl. She was keeping him safe and could keep him this way for some time.

After a while, his mind shut down and gave him some of the peace he was craving. Caught between the roar of his beautiful ‘bird and the world around him.

His breathing slowed.

And an arm slipped around his shoulders.

He should be startled. Should flinch away. But there were only two people in the world who could approach him like this and both of them were brothers. So, instead, he turned towards Scott. Because it was Scott crouched beside him, jet pack strapped to his back, worry in his eyes. Thunderbird One hovered unheard over Two’s roar not far away behind him.

Virgil grabbed at his brother.

Scott’s eyes went wide and his mouth said something unheard as Virgil pulled him close and buried his face in his uniformed shoulder. His brother’s helmet clapped against Virgil’s skull.

Scott’s arms flexed against him, startled, but gripping him tight, nonetheless.

No words made it between them. But Virgil didn’t need them anyway.

He just needed…time.

But Scott was anxious and obviously wanted answers. His brother pulled away and reached for Virgil’s wrist control.

Tired of everything, Virgil let him have it, and quick fingers had the lift lowering before anything more could be said, verbally or not.

As soon as they cleared the overhead hatch, Scott shoved it closed with a grunt.

The quiet was startling and Virgil blinked, staring up at his brother as Scott turned around and pulled off his helmet.

“Talk to me, Virgil.”

Virgil looked up at him with eyes that wanted nothing more than to close and not open for a very long time.

“Is he okay?”

“Gordon? You know he is. Penelope has him. Virg-“

And then there were tears running down Virgil’s face and his throat was trying to strangle him.

Arms wrapped around his back, a hand gently nudged his head to a blue-clad shoulder, stroking through his hair, and his brother muttered worried words that tried to comfort.

It was exhausting, confusing and a little terrifying that he was reacting this way. But it was as if his body had taken over and was demanding release.

Tears ran off his brother’s uniform, the material ever water resistant.

Scott’s fingers were still in his hair, combing gently.

Words bubbled to the surface. “It happened again. I was up here and he was down there and the bridge. All that concrete. So close. So close. I thought he was going to die! Again!” A gasped-in tremble of a breath. “Why? I tried, but…” He pulled away a little and sought his brother’s eyes. “Why? Hasn’t he been hurt enough? Haven’t I…watched enough?”

Scott held his arms. “He is okay, Virgil. He is safe.”

Virgil wilted in his brother’s grip, chest heaving as if he couldn’t get enough oxygen. His forehead dropped to Scott’s chest and he closed his eyes. “I can’t lose him, Scott. Not Gordy, please not Gordy.”

Scott sighed and held him tighter, his voice parched. “We didn’t lose him. He is safe.”

Virgil heard the words, knew their truth, but he couldn’t escape the thought of next time. What would happen next time?

The possibilities leapt up and crowded his brain. But at the same time, he could see no solution.

“Gordon is Gordon.” Scott took the words from Virgil’s mind.

They couldn’t cage the fish.

The thought just wilted Virgil further. This was on him. Gordon was just doing…his job.

A torn sound dragged past his lips.

“Virgil?” Scott’s voice was ever so soft.

He drew in a breath. “I’m sorry.”

Scott shifted, curling around Virgil as he sat down beside him. Virgil’s face ended up nestled into his brother’s collar bone.

“Nothing to be sorry about.” Scott’s tone tolerated no argument.

Virgil groaned quietly, slumping against his brother. Eyes closed, Virgil once again sought calm.

Scott’s pulse danced silently against Virgil’s forehead.

His brother spoke ever so quietly. “When I came back from…Bereznik…I had trouble sleeping.”

Virgil froze. Bereznik was taboo. Scott never mentioned it. No one mentioned it. Topic forbidden.

Because Scott had suffered so much more than just trouble sleeping.

“I tried to hide it, but Dad…Dad knew.” Scott swallowed and his pulse picked up, his skin warm against Virgil’s hairline. “I had trouble with…memories.” Another swallow and Virgil almost pulled away. But Scott must have sensed it and his fingers curled tighter around Virgil’s arm. “He caught me in the liquor cabinet late one night.” A disgusted noise rumbled through his chest. “I’d had it. I just wanted it to all go away. Joe, Sonia, all the faces.” A sigh. “It hurt.”

Virgil shifted, pushing himself up. “Scott, no-“

Blue eyes fastened on him and took his breath away. “I know it hurts, Virg.” Those eyes dipped. “I see him, too.” Scott looked away, but pulled Virgil to his side, holding him close. “Dad saw Mom.”

The lump in Virgil’s throat threatened to overwhelm him.

“I know you remember. You were there. Dad didn’t have anyone to pull him away from the liquor cabinet. I…I didn’t know.”

God, Scott. Again, Virgil tried to sit up, but this time his big brother simply just held him down. “Listen to me, Virg.”

Virgil swallowed and attempted to relax against his brother’s side. Perhaps Scott needed to say this as much as he wanted Virgil to hear it.

“I was angry with Dad for denying me that escape route. After all, it worked for him.” A grunt outlined exactly what Scott thought of that statement. “I wasn’t in a very good place.”

The hand on Virgil’s arm spasmed.

“Dad said memories are to be cherished. For…every bad thought, there is a good one. We can’t choose all of them, but we can choose some.” Another swallow. “I think if something did go horribly wrong, that Gordon would want us to be thinking the good ones.” A half-hearted snort. “Possibly the ones involving pink dye.”

Virgil’s lips pressed together. If only it was that easy.

“Mom had the most beautiful eyes. I can still see her smiling.” Scott looked down at him. “Don’t let her death take away her life.”

His mouth dropped open but Virgil said nothing.

Scott looked away. “It’s not a magic wand, but it is a start.” He straightened. “That and any help you need, Virgil. I’m not kidding. You need it, I’m there.”

And Virgil found himself drawn in close once again. Mouth still open, he let his brother hold him.

A moment and Virgil was returning the embrace, clinging to Scott with every heavy lifting muscle he had. His brother oomphed and almost ended up flat on his back. “Virg, god.”

Virgil had no words. His eyes squeezed shut, still wet with emotion.

He held on for quite some time. A hand returned to stroking his hair.

But reality and responsibility were always waiting. Eventually he pulled away, ever aware of the rumble of his girl, still hovering over the ocean.

Scott didn’t ask if he was okay. It was obvious he wasn’t. But his brother did help him to his feet. A trip to the head and he splashed cool water on his face and took just another moment to finally compose himself.

As his mind righted, embarrassment for his conduct began to swell.

But then Two’s engines shifted an octave and he staggered slightly as she started moving.

Hurrying back to the cockpit, he found his big brother in his pilot’s seat flying Virgil’s ‘bird while One kept pace outside.

“What are you doing?”

“Flying us home. You need rest.”

“Scott-“

“If you say you are fine, I will knock you on your ass. You need rest and home. I’m making both of them happen.” He waved at Gordon’s seat. “Strap yourself in.”

Frowning, Virgil stalked over to the co-pilot’s chair and, picking up his baldric, put it aside and sat down. It was much easier to secure his belt without all his tools in the way.

They sat in silence for a while, both just staring out over the ocean.

“Mom was beautiful, wasn’t she.” The words fell from Virgil’s lips with no thought.

Scott’s voice was quiet. “Yeah. Yeah, she was.”

Silence fell again.

Virgil broke it. “Thank you, Scott. For…trusting me.”

“I’ve always trusted you, Virgil.” Scott turned to look at him with the faintest of smiles. “Always will.”

Virgil stared back at his brother flying his ‘bird. His eyes tracked every line, all the shine and shadow, recorded everything about the man in that moment.

After all, memories were precious.

He might need this one.

-o-o-o-

FIN

[naancypants]

@maddarc you inspired me with this headcanon idea!! I wasn’t sure how to write something like this using regular scenes, so I tried something a little different to help span the time gaps. It’s not the best thing I’ve ever written lol but I just kinda threw it together so it’s whatever, here's a thing ✌ (@nancydrew-onthecase)

Dear Diary,

Tomorrow is my 14th birthday. Since mom is getting me the new Playstation system that I asked for, she made me agree to keep a diary. She thinks it’ll be good for me to write stuff down. But honestly, I don’t even know what to write about. This is gonna be awkward.

Joe

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Dear Diary,

Okay... I did a terrible job at keeping a diary. Whenever mom asked if I was using it I told her yes, but I think she could tell that I wasn’t - she didn’t give me crap about it, though. I’m 15 now, and Frank & I are deep in training to become ATAC agents. That’s the company our dad owns - American Teens Against Crime. We’ve been solving petty mysteries since we were kids, so I guess this is a natural progression for us. An awesome one, too! We get to use so many cool gadgets and go on the best adventures! The secrecy is exciting, but according to Frank, I’ve never been the best at keeping my mouth shut. I guess we’ll see how it goes.

Joe

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Dear Diary,

Frank and I finished off the BIGGEST case of our careers last week! We’d been called out to this small town called River Heights because there was a serial bank robber who’d been evading police for a couple of months - but the best part is we didn’t have to solve the case alone! We met this girl named Nancy; her dad is a business contact of our dad’s. She’s super smart. She figured stuff out even faster than Frank! And when I suggested we go to the ice cream shop to talk over the case - much to Frank’s dismay - she just laughed and said “sure!”. Take that, Frank. It was a lot of fun... she’s a lot of fun. And she’s pretty. ... Stop looking at me like that. Not that you’re looking, because you are a book. But you know what I mean. Or I guess you don’t, because you are a book. But anyway... I hope we get to work with her again, that’s all.

Joe

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Dear Diary,

We’ve gotten to work with Nancy a lot more than I thought, considering how far away we live. She’s cool because she never complains when I want to do something fun, unlike Frank. And I know I said this last time, but she’s reeeally smart. It’s honestly kind of amazing. For one case, we had to break into this abandoned house because Nancy had a hunch - as soon as Frank saw the “no trespassing” signs he was totally going to be a baby about it, but Nancy got him in line real quick. She took a pair of wire cutters and made a hole in the fence for us to crawl through, JUST LIKE IN THE MOVIES! And then she picked the lock of the back door with a bobby pin in like 5 seconds flat! My jaw was literally on the floor. They teach us how to lockpick in ATAC training, but we always have actual lockpicks to do it. I’m hoping Nancy can teach me her method one day.

And... okay, yeah, I guess you can look at me like that. Fine. You win this time, diary.

Joe

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Dear Diary,

It’s been almost 6 months since we first met Nancy and a lot has changed since then. For one, I recently learned that she’s been dating this guy named Ned for like a year & a half now, or something like that. Who’s keeping track? Two, Frank basically bullied me into admitting to him that I.. have a crush on Nancy. He’s not going to tell her though, not that I think he would anyway. He gets all weird and dorky when he tries to talk about feelings. It’s not a good look. Either way, there’s no chance in H-E-double hockey sticks that Nancy and Ned will ever break up, and I’m happy for them! He’s such a good guy it’s insane. Probably better than me, and that’s saying a lot.

Joking aside... I’m going to try to get over Nance. There’s no point in feeling this way about her if it’s never gonna happen!

Joe

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Dear Diary,

I swear to God Frank is acting weirder every time we see Nancy. He KNOWS that I had a crush on her but he KNOWS that I don’t anymore... or does he? I think he thinks that I still do, but I’ve done a good job at blocking it out. We’re 18 now, so it’s been a while. I normally don’t even think about it until Frank starts acting like a total loser around her and then I’m like...??? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?? Anytime Nancy mentions Ned or their relationship or anything to do with love, he starts stuttering and blushing and acting all goofy. I’ve started having to fake-tease HIM about having a crush on her just to make it less awkward! I didn’t realize he was sooooo dense when it comes to romance. When I asked him about it, he said my former crush on Nancy was useless information that he wishes I hadn’t told him (NEWSFLASH: he made me tell him) and now he just doesn’t know what to do with it. Nancy seems to think it’s totally normal, but he looks like an idiot.

Joe

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Dear Diary,

It’s been a long time. I’m 24, Frank is 25. I think it’s funny how the only thing I ever really wrote about in here was Nancy Drew. It’s ironic, too, because that’s exactly who I’ve come to write about again.

She’s going through a lot right now and I wish I could be there for her more than I am. I do what I can, but it’s not easy when you live 4 hours away and are constantly being called away on cases. I also don’t want to overwhelm her, considering how long she and Ned were together. It feels... wrong, somehow, that they aren’t anymore. Frank of course has been telling me that I “finally have a shot” or whatever, but I’m not convinced. First of all, she’s only been single for 2 months. Second, she probably thinks Frank is the one with feelings for her, not me; especially with the way the media likes to focus on their relationship. But, as I always joke with Frank, it’s his own fault for making it weird!

Anyway. I feel like kind of a jerk for thinking about my feelings for Nancy when she’s literally going through the worst break-up of her life right now... but it’s weird how thing can pop back up again so suddenly, huh?

And as always, it’s not like I’m gonna do anything about it.

Joe

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Nancy Drew sits on the edge of her chair, sweeping her ponytail so that it drapes delicately across her shoulder. She sucks in a deep breath, fixing her anxious gaze on a random spot in the hardwood of Frank & Joe’s family home. It’s a conversation she’s been avoiding ever since her break-up with Ned 10 months ago. Crazy how time flies. “Frank...” she begins, noticing a distinct discomfort in the detective’s body language as she does so, “I - we’ve all seen the stories. The ones on the news, the speculation... about...?” Frank only stares at her, blankly, with eyes resembling those of a terrified deer. “About the two of us. Being together.” “Uhh, yeah,” Frank scratches at the back of his neck. “I’ve seen them. What about them?” Nancy sighs and allows her shoulders to make contact with the Hardys’ side chair. She crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m a detective, Frank. And I’ve known you & Joe since we were 15. I just want to clear the air about whatever is or is not going on. I guess, to be blunt, what I’m asking you is if there’s any truth to all those rumors.” “You did always have a way of being blunt when you need to be.” Nancy lifts an eyebrow at him, otherwise unmoving in her position. “I... ah, no, Nancy, there -” “It’s okay, Frank, really, if there is. You can tell me.” “It’s not that, Nancy. It isn’t me.” Ding-ding. Nancy hones in on his peculiar choice of words. “What do you mean, it isn’t you?” “I - listen. It doesn’t matter. I told you honestly. Are the rumors true for you?” His attempt to distract her is futile. “What did you mean by it isn’t you?” “Nancy, look. I made a promise that I wouldn’t talk about it.” “Talk about what?” Both Nancy and Frank turn their heads to see Joe Hardy drop his motorcycle keys onto the shelf next to the front door. What serendipitous timing, Frank thinks with a roll of his eyes.  “Nothing,” he says quickly, darting across the living room to the staircase with his hands out in front of him, “I’m letting the two of you talk this one out.” Joe glares after his brother, because despite not knowing what this was about, there’s no way he was going to like it. Nancy approaches him from behind. “All I did was ask Frank if he had feelings for me, like in all the media reports. Then he said it ‘wasn’t him’ and insisted that he wasn’t supposed to tell me about it. Do you know anything about that?” Joe swallows the lump in his throat as his heart rate picks up to about 580bpm. ...At least, that’s what it feels like. Joe’s first instinct is to stop & consider if there’s any way he can worm his way out of telling her at this moment; but at the same time, he thinks it may be better to just let things flow. “Uhh.” ...Okay never mind, decision has to be made. NOW. “Is it... you?” ...Oh, that’s right. She’s super smart. When Joe slowly turns around to face her, he can tell from the glassy look in her eyes that she’s already pieced together the whole thing. And for once, he doesn’t know what to say. So he doesn’t. Her breathing is heavy and uneven, to say nothing of his own. The only sound is the steady ticking of the mantle clock. Joe has no idea why but he has an irrepressible urge to apologize. He just wishes his voice doesn’t crack when he does. “Sorry, Nance.” Her immediate response is to tearfully shake her head and wrap her arms tightly around his waist. “Why are you apologizing?” Joe swallows again, hesitantly allowing his hands to fall onto her cardigan-clad back. “I- I don’t know.” and then after a beat, “Should I?” Nancy chuckles a bit as she pulls back, wiping at her eyes. “You should never have to apologize for how you feel, Joe.” That makes him feel a little better. But then, after an agonizing silence during which they have refused to make eye contact, he feels like sickening nerves start to take up residence in his stomach once again. “How do you feel?” Joe forces himself to ask, bracing for impact. Nancy exhales, placing a hand on her cheek. She has an odd sort of smile on her face that Joe doesn’t think he’s seen in the 9 years he’s known her. “I’ll be honest with you, Joe.” Oh, God. “It’s never occurred to me.” He swallows for the 758th time. Why didn’t he grab some water first? But then, to his surprise, Nancy giggles - like, she actually giggles. He’s never heard her giggle before. “But I think I like the idea.” “Wait what?” She gives him a meltingly genuine smile and steps a little closer. “You’ve always been there for me, Joe. You’ve made me laugh, brought soup when I was sick, gave me a call because I said I was lonely. And you’re always up for an adventure,” she causes his heart to go ballistic once again when she places her palms against either side of his waist, “And you know how much I love new adventures.” Now, at last, a smile cracks on Joe’s face - that goofy, wisecracker smile of his that somehow matches this moment entirely. He nods at her as elation finally makes its way in, and elation is the driving force behind their first kiss. There is a remarkable lack of uncertainty between Joe’s enthusiasm and Nancy’s natural reactions - it’s been a long time coming for one, and for the other, it’s an entirely new adventure.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

[hamlets-ghost-zaddy]

what kind of man?

Joe Toye x Reader

Summary: Assigned as a war correspondent to the European Theater, a string of fluff piece assignments makes apparent you’re a novelty to sell newspapers. You yearn for an interview with someone who will tell you the truth--something real--and you find honesty in a man with a missing leg and a battered copy of War and Peace.

You knew, when Ed McCormick—the human interest editor—slid an Atlantic ocean liner ticket across your (frankly, overflowing) desk along with the declaration of ‘congrats, kiddo, you’re a war reporter,’ there had to be a hitch. The New York Times doesn’t send female war correspondents across the Atlantic Ocean and catapulting into a war zone on a whim—because they think you’ve got gumption, or a certain spark, or felt like taking a chance. You aren’t exactly Martha Gellhorn or Marguerite Higgins—but then again, the Times doesn’t have a Gellhorn or a Higgins.

And now, you’re in an Army hospital in Paris, confronting once again what exactly that hitch is: you’re the novelty ‘girl writer.’ It’s all the rage.

“How long will he make us wait?” you ask, glaring down at your watch face as if you could bully the minute hand to stop moving. To stop showing this Dr. Carl fucking Wainwright, the latest in a long like of interviews for fluff pieces, has kept you and Fred, your photography, waiting for almost forty-five minutes.

“As long as they feel like,” he says, as he lights a cigarette. He uses it as a lecturer’s wand to indicate the ward, populated by wounded and recovering GIs, the smoke leaving a trail. “We’re pretty low on the priority list, kid.”

You lift your eyes to the ceiling, knowing Fred knew as well as you did that wasn’t the whole truth. In the month and a half you’ve been in Paris, the interview appointments you’ve had with doctors, colonels, pilots, naval captains have been consistently well away from the frontlines, the start time delayed or postponed, often cut short when they do begin, all the answers you gather as sweet and vapid as candy floss. No one wants to show the war as it always is, worrying what will happen if their honesty appears on the front page or that the pretty little war correspondent isn’t the one to write about it. “They know I’m not chump change.”

“Nah,” Fred replies. You cock an eyebrow at him as he sucks on his cigarette, wondering if he’s about to compliment you. You had been sure Fred didn’t know how to string one nice—or attempted nice—word after another. He puffs smoke out in a great cloud. “It’s because you’re a girl. They know you’re here to add bit of emotion and feminine touch to this disgusting fucking war.” His words hold no bite, only a crackling frankness, and they land all the harder across your cheek. “You slap your name onto some fluff pieces about the great noble sacrifice of our heroic, home-grown, American boys, and fuck, that’ll sell more papers than my pictures will.”

You bite your lower lip to keep from spitting out something you might regret; it’s not like you didn’t know it, in some dark recess of your conscious.

The girl writer, you think, snorting and crossing your arms over your chest. You squint out of the hospital ward’s window, the early autumn afternoon overcast, the gray clouds swallowing the gray steel of the Eiffel Tower.  You didn’t need Fred to tell you what you already knew. Yet,  sent something sharp and metallic cut into your chest, settling just below your throat. But, you try to bolster yourself, You still got an opportunity. Martha, Marguerite: they started somewhere, too. All it took was an opportunity seized tight in a clenched, white-knuckled fist.

“I just wish I could get a real chance to write something more than fluff,” you say more to the Eiffel Tower than Fred. “I bet I could sell more than an extra paper here or there. I need something I could really sink my teeth into—something real. What the war is like really.”

Smoke curls out of Fred’s mouth. He’s squinting at you, but he’s always squinting at something. It’s why he avoided the draft—his eyesight making him near blind, his refusal to wear glasses making him near stupid—but you’ve come to rely on its consistency. Good old squinting, surly Fred, who saw the world clearer through narrowed eyes than an optometrist could ever help with. He says, “You want some coffee to wash down what you’re sinking your teeth in to?”

“Coffee?” you repeat.

“Sure.” He shrugs toward the closed door of Dr. Wainwright’s office. “Doc’s kept us waiting long enough, I figure we can drink some of his coffee.”

“Ah,” you say. “Well, no, but thank you.”

Fred shrugs. “If he decides to stick his nose out, have someone kind find me.” He doesn’t stick around for an answer, one hand on his camera, hung around his neck, as he trots from the ward. He sends you a wink before he vanishes into the hall.

Sighing, wishing you didn’t have the brand of ‘the girl writer’ seared onto your forehead—what would it be like if you could waltz off to coffee without worrying how’d it look like, what your boss might think, what it might do to your reputation? Pretty damn relaxing, you think, drifting between two cots, the men in either asleep, and lean a hip against the window. Would Martha or Marguerite let themselves be walked over by this Doctor Wainwright? Or yesterday’s Lieutenant Aryes? Or last week’s Captain Sobel?

he Parisian cityscape offers no answers.

“Hey, lady,” a raspy voice calls. Another: “Lady?” Pause, and finally, short and swift and sharp: “Window girl!”

Breath catches in your throat.  Jerking away from the window, you find a soldier two cots away fixing you with a frown. His dark eyes are somehow more disapproving than the downward quirk of his mouth. A book is opened on his stomach. “You’re blocking my reading light,” he says after a beat, you blinking at him.

“Oh, uh,” you reply, intelligently, taking a mincing step away from window only to bump into a cot’s table laden with water and medicines. It takes a quick hand to steady the rattling glasses, and your breath catches as the cot’s occupant grumbles in his sleep—threatening to wake—only to turn onto his side and snore once. Loudly. You exhale. Thank fuck. What kind of person wakes an injured soldier?

“That was elegant,” the dark-eyed man observes dryly.

Moving away from the window and side table, you can’t help your eyes narrowing. “My deepest thanks for that compliment, solider; I’m sure it was entirely sincere.” You feel a whoosh and a plunge in your chest the moment the words are from your mouth because what the fuck? What kind of person says that to an injured soldier? You want to grab the words from the air and stuff them back into your mouth.

But the raspy solider, he, well, he grins?

The disapproval in his eyes has flicked off, a light of interest kindling, and those eyes are sweeping over you, considering. Goosebumps raze your skin, your cheeks flushing, with the prickling heat of his eyes on you and—“You some kind of reporter?”

Crossing your arms, you reply, “I’m not ‘some kind of reporter;’ I am a reporter. A war correspondent. For the New York Times.”

“Oh yeah?” He cocks an eyebrow as if asking if he should be impressed. The heat still burns in his eyes. He’s enjoying this, you realize. “What was all that about sinking your teeth into something real then? Doesn’t seem like you’re a war correspondent for the Times.”

“I am a real—” you being to protest hotly, but under your glare, his lips twitch precariously close to a smile and you bite off your words. “You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?” Your tone is flat.

His smile grows. “Nah, not you in particular, more anything that makes being in a fucking hospital a little less boring.” You expect him to stutter to an awkward halt, to apologize for swearing in front of you—a lady—but he doesn’t. You can’t help mirroring his smile. “I mean, look, I’m reading for Christ’s sake! I never read.” He waves to the book still on his stomach, and you move a few steps closer to read the title and the English major, shut away in your heart since you graduated from Brown three years ago, sings.

“War and Peace?” you say. “That’s appropriate.”

He wrinkles his nose faintly. “I guess, but I’d rather fucking eat it then read another word. It’s horrible! Boring and unrealistic, I mean, seriously, are you telling me that this Andre fella isn’t going to kiss the living-fucking-daylights out of that Natasha broad before he goes off to war? Fucking war? Or that Pierre ain’t going to kiss her? Jesus.”

You consider pointing out, though apparently horrible, he is awfully invested in the romantic entanglements of the main characters. Instead, you settle on, “What would you change to make it more realistic?”

He shrugs, shifting in his bed. You’re not sure if it’s because you’ve drifted to stand over him, or if no one has asked his opinions on literature before, but you pull up a nearby chair to at least alieve one issue. He stares at you for another moment, jaw working, trying to decide something, before settling on: “Well, I can’t really say what’s unrealistic or not about the fucking Napoleonic war, but if you’re wanting a book about war and peace now, I’d tell you to write more—like, a fuck ton more—about soldiers being scared out of their goddamn minds. I am, uh, was a paratrooper until…” he nods toward his legs—well, no, not legs. You realize, blinking and hiding your surprise poorly, where one leg shoulder be, the sheets are deflated. Amputated, he’s destined to relay on one leg and a crutch for the rest of his life, all in service of his country.

Your stomach clenches painfully. You release a silent, steady breath, focusing doggedly as he gathers his thoughts and continues: “I had jumped out of a plane five times just for the right to call myself a paratrooper, right? But, on D-Day, when that plane was flying through a fucking Fourth of July fireworks show as the Germans were firing over us? I might as well have never jumped once. I stood there, waiting and waiting, for the red light and then the green light to turn on thinking, any second, a German anti-aircraft shell would send us up in a great fireball.” He pauses. To the battered novel, he says softly, “I’ve never been so scared.”

Balling your fingers into fists, hidden in the cloth folds of your lap, you restrain yourself from leaning forward to take his hand. He doesn’t need your sympathy, and you don’t have empathy—you could never understand the hell he’s seen. So instead, you ask: “What about the peace?”

He doesn’t reply immediately, his dark eyes dragging reluctantly away from you, as if fighting a magnetized pull, and to his book. Movements slow, as if forgetting the fingers beating a lazy rhythm onto the book’s cover belonged to him, his eyes grow distant. You watch him fall into his memory—allow in memories of terror, his comrades, the firefights, death—and you’ve seen eyes untethered from reality (hell, you’ve seen amputated legs before) but seeing this man, this soldier who talked about literary characters kissing and seasoned his speech with ‘fuck’ like a cooking spice, it meant more. Landed heavier in chest, packed a punch that left you winded around a clenching throat.

I don’t even know his name, you think.

“I think that’s my big problem with it,” he begins slowly, nodding again to the book. “‘War and Peace.” He snorts. Then repeats, low to taste the words in his mouth: “War and peace. Implying that the two can coexist. There isn’t peace, there hasn’t been since ’41 when we got dragged into this fucking war. War murders peace; when you aren’t getting shot out, you’re thinking you might get shot at, or dreaming about being shot at, or your buddy’s shot. You’re constantly wound tight, waiting in the time in between, because there’s no peace. It’s just a lapse in hell so Death can trick you again, and worse this time around.” He says ‘death’ with a capitalization, as if it’s a proper noun, a close friend, someone he’s dined with multiple evenings in a row. A grin spreads on his mouth. “Guess I gave you what you wanted, huh? How’d you trick me into doing that?”

“What?” you ask, blinking. You forgot the origin of the conversation

“You said you wanted to write about the real war.”

“Oh, I do, but…” your voice fades in thought.

“But?”

“But, I won’t use what you told me.”

His dark brows furrow, mouth turning into a downward slash. “What? Why? Do you want something more glorious or heroic, because, lady, I thought you said real—”

“I won’t use it because,” you say over him, holding a finger up to silence him. He presses his lips into an annoyed line, but he swallows his words. “Because of two reasons. One: I haven’t asked permission. May I quote you in a story?”

Jutting his chin out mulishly, he shrugs and you see in him the little, obstinate boy he used to be. You briefly wonder what hell he gave his mother (you briefly wonder why you suddenly feel a fervent hope to know about his childhood, his mother, his family, his life). “Sure, yeah, why not,” he says. “What’s the second reason, then?”

“I don’t know your name.”

“Oh.” In his raspy voice, the word is almost a musical note. “Joe Toye. I’m with the Airborne, the 101st.”

You tilt you head, unable to keep from smiling at the simplicity of it—Joe Toye—and how his name came in the same breath with his division; a division that warmed his breath, squared his shoulders, and puffed his chest. He’s proud to be a—it takes a moment for your mind to come up with it—a Screamin’ Eagle, or maybe prouder to be associated with the men who also wore the Eagle. Still smiling, you offer your name, adding, “I’m with the New York Times.”

He doesn’t give the usual lines you’ve heard from men—‘pretty name for a pretty girl,’ ‘nice name, but can I call you mine?’—instead saying, “Good to meet you, uh, formally. And thanks for listening.”

A crooked grin twists your lips up. “Listening is literally my job.”

“Take the compliment, would you, woman?” he asks, laugh barking and brief, the noise scattering goosebumps onto your arms as it zips over your skin, only to burrow and live in your memories. When he quiets, when the blush on your face threatens to permanently stain, he props himself up further, dog-earring War and Peace and putting it aside. To his fingers, stitching and unstitching themselves on his lap, he says, “Nah, I mean it. It’s been awhile since anyone has taken the time to listen to me just, you know, say shit.”

“Well, you’ve got a lot of interesting shit to say,” you say, mildly and trying your best not to let your voice quiver. You want to inject the swirling tide of emotions boiling in your chest into your words, to make him understand just how much you feel your words—instinctively feel his worth, his importance—but what kind of person does that? What kind of person acts all emotional at a guy she literally just met? A silly girl, your brain supplies, unhelpfully.

But you know you failed because Joe’s looking at you all strange—all quirked eyebrows, mouth parting into a surprised ‘o,’ and his eyes seeming to flicker—and you snap your mouth shut. The blush, you’re sure, will redden you as a badge to what a colossal, idiotic, overly-emotional girl you are and forever will be.

What would Marguerite or Martha do? you ask yourself.

“Miss?” a voice says then, interrupting your internal spiral. “Miss—uh, Miss…?”

“Y/n,” Joe says, a question pitching your name up. “I think he’s talking to you?”

You turn and, from the name patched onto his lab coat, find yourself blinking at the elusive Wainwright. He’s a thin man, wiry and wrinkled and tired, and he blinks expectantly at you from behind round glasses. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Miss, but I’m ready to interview now.”

“Oh, um,” you say, standing, and running nervous fingers over your hair and hoping the fluffing you put it through before you left the hotel—over two hours ago now—hasn’t completely deflated. “Wonderful, great, I’ll just…” But your words catch in your throat because you do something you shouldn’t have: you glance down at Joe and he’s—

He’s grinning at you just as he did when you sassed him, an eye-tooth dominated smirk, creasing his eyes as if every inch of his face wants to be involved. You empty your lungs in a long breath. Joe Toye. Joe Toye curses even though you’re a female, he looks at you with bright interest and tells you what’s real. He doesn’t shy from the fear and exhaustion that every other person you’ve spoken with tries to keep out of the newspapers—or protected and secreted away from the pretty little war correspondent.

“Actually,” you begin, knowing when Fred eventually returns, he’ll redefine hell for you, “I just needed to speak with you to see if interviewing this soldier here was okay.”

“Oh, uh,” Wainwright says. He adjusts his glasses, though they sat just fine on his nose, eyes darting between you and Joe. “If he’s agreed, then yes, of course.”

You nod, smiling your most charming. “Thank you, sir. Awfully kind of you.”

“Sure,” Wainwright replies, already drifting away to tend to other demands on his hospital ward.

Watching him go, you cling to the few seconds of an excuse before you have to look at Joe and judge his reaction.

Joe doesn’t wait for you to look at him. Voice quiet, he asks, “Why did you do that?”

“Because,” you say, tearing your eyes from Wainwright’s back and to Joe. Joe, who’s eyebrows are pinched and who’s eyes flickering again. “Because you have more interesting shit to say.”

A week later, an article appears in the Times, “A Screaming Eagle Talks: An Interview with an Elite American solider.” You receive a clipping of it along with a letter asking if you want his autograph. It’s the fifth letter you and Joe exchange. You send them to each other—at first across France, then across the Atlantic when he returns Stateside—but you stop counting at eighty-four letters (the war’s over and you get to hear, instead of read, all the interesting shit by then. Of course, Joe insists he’s only got something interesting to say if you’re writing it).

[caroline18mars]

A Man On Fire - Chapter 10

“Can I have my hand back?” what was the deal with this tug of war with her hand? Sweet, he finally let go “ow-kay..now, I've been listening to some of your music and I've been looking over the plans, so I made you a storyboard, nothing too fancy though, keep in mind it was done on a plane but I think you'll get the general idea” she pushed the rough sketches in his hand. “I would make a cube or a rectangle of lightpanels and I would plant the stage in the center of the venue, after all there's a lot of interaction with your fans right? That way everyone feels really close to you and there's a lot more potential for interaction” she was standing there with her back turned to them, gesturing at where the stage should be. “In other words, you can create your own little Universe, right here on this stage and let people be part of it”, 

Jared stared completely dumbfounded at the storyboard “Shayla, send these over to the technicians right now, tell them to digitalize this and then have them call me” he pushed the papers in her hands “I want a clear visual by the time I get there, get a car ready, have Harper's things brought over, we're leaving in half an hour, you stay here and get Shannon on a flight to Frankfurt”. What? What was going on? Going to Frankfurt now? Jetlag, hello? “Sean, you're coming with us” he briefly said as he legged it back to his dressingroom, followed by Shayla who had to almost run to keep up with him. “You're taking Sean? I'm coming too” she hissed at him, slamming the door of the dressingroom behind her, “No! No, you're not! For your information, this is still a professional environment, not some playground where you're more focused on fucking Sean than anything else! There needs to be some professional distance, Shayla, in a week or so, he'll be hanging from the ceiling, that job is a dangerous one and I'm not gonna let him break his neck because you're constantly distracting him! Besides, you're needed here to finally do your job and keep things going! And I'll be damned if I'll continue to stand here and get lip from you every single day!”. Sean noticed how Harper was biting her lip, “I don't know what you're fretting about but we've got two hours to kill in the car on our way to Frankfurt” his arm slipped around her shoulder. “I'm not fretting, he just..seems pretty harsh, can't you hear him yelling at Shayla? Poor thing”. Ugh that irritating giggle of his “don't worry about her, she can handle him, it's you I'm more worried about”, whoooaa wait a minute, what? “Huh?”, Sean took a deep breath and weighed his words “just don't get caught up in his web, alright? I know what he's like with women and it ain't pretty”. Amazing, just what women needed, a guy with a big brother/father complex, well, welcome to the 21st century where women took care of their own and didn't let any man stand in the way of whatever it was they needed or wanted, besides she wasn't interested in any guy, no, not true, if she was honest with herself, there was only one name stuck to one man that kept haunting her, try and keep up Sean!

From: BJLCubbins

To: HCDeRobiano

Subject: Re: re: friends again?

Coco,

You're not in the States anymore? Would it be too forward to ask where you are then? I know you're thinking that it's none of my business and maybe you're right, but I just want to know how you're doing, if you're safe? I know, I know, who died and made me your keeper? But hey, I care, alright?! I know you have your heart set on making me squirm and practically beg but I just need to say that I miss our conversations, I think we can both do with a friend right now,..

Who do you call 'a friend'? From what you wrote previously I could tell you grew up in hostile surroundings with your Dad and all..does that anger inspire your work (seeing that huge painting you're working on, I take that as a yes, or is that a one-off where all that pent-up frustration came spewing out?), what else inspires you?

P.S. Also in one your e-mails you mentioned being cut off financially? Can I help? I'd still like to buy that piece

ttys?

Joe

Mind your own business, why don't you, Joe? And what the hell was 'ttys', it sounded like some serious illness to be honest, sure yeah, she could sit here and act all smug, but the truth was that she was a tech-retard, plain and simple, the look on that guy's face, ugh what was his name again?come on, floppy hair guy..uhm uhm uhm, tip of your tongue..J-Jared, yes! The look on his face when he got her storyboard, 'digitalize this and digitalize that' bleghhh, not exactly Mister El Sympatico. Sean's flapping hand startled her as he sat down next to her, “bye, I'll call you” he yelled at his lover in the slamming door, instinctively she raised her hand at Shayla standing on the pavement, I'm waving..not that I know you, but ok yeah I'll wave at you because it's the right thing to do, the polite thing for you is to wave back and at least act like you mean it. As the car sped out towards the late afternoon traffic, she dug her phone inside her pocket, not now, an insane jetlag was not the best headspace for replies, no, forcefields up and phasers set to stun, at least for now...oh hello fatigue, what do we have here? A friendly arm to snuggle into? Excellent, best news all day! Sean's arm instinctively pulled her against him, letting his exhausted friend nestle against him. Checking the rearview mirror, Jared noticed Harper all snuggled up against Sean and envied their closeness, when was the last time he had done something so intimate and yet non-sexual as that? He could get sex every hour of every day, but this kind of friendship between a man and a woman, talking, sharing things, laughing, no tension, simple, true, and for him almost impossible to find. “Is she ok?” he caught Sean's eye in the mirror, “yeah, completely jetlagged, I'm just glad she's here..” Sean softly answered so not to wake her up. Sean, Sean, sweet yet not so bright Sean, who had yet a lot to learn still about a scorned woman's fury that would leave his ears ringing and his heart ripped to shreds, just keep it away from my tour, he leaned back in his seat and kept his hand tightly wrapped around his phone, come on Coco, I'm waiting.

Harper was still rubbing the sleep from her eyes when the lightpanels were hoisted on chains up into the sky, “just make it a rectangle, like a box..yes, perfect..hang on” she quickly climbed the ropeladder. She was like a cute, little monkey climbing the ladder and swinging her way high up to the ceiling to show all these guys how things were done, his heart literally skipped a beat when she made all the light panels become a tight light box, blasting colourful and mysterious visuals across the screens. “Told you she was amazing” Sean came standing next to him, “amazing and then some, fucking hell” Jared rubbed the goosebumps on his arms when one of the new songs flowed from the speakers. She looked down to see floppy hair guy jump on the stage underneath her, filming it all, that was a good sign right? Funny though, how she had done so many installations and everytime the reaction was 'well, yeah, I guess they're just lights, but is it art?' or 'what the hell am I supposed to feel?' but once music and some cool rock band was added to the equation, then hey presto, definitely Art, with a capital A. “And?” she jumped down, startling him as she landed right next to him on stage, and bit her lip as she looked up at her own creation above their heads, pretty neat, Harper, pretty neat!. “Dinner? Drinks after? To celebrate?” what? Celebrate? Floppy hair guy looked so happy, whoooo! “sure” she answered, jetlag forgotten all about for a couple of minutes. But it hit her twice as hard in the car when she was touching up her make up and briefly looked out of the window, heavy rain crashing down over Frankfurt, the buzz of her 5 minutes of success wearing off..

From: HCDeRobiano

To: BJLCubbins

Subject: Where is Coco?

Joe,

I promised myself I wouldn't give you the light of day, leave things the way you decided to leave them in New York, but here I am reporting for duty, guess this compulsive loner needs a talk, a talk about the most cynical thing on this planet, love, L.O.V.E! because I miss love in my life, yes I do, there I said it, I put it out there, and if you think that makes me the biggest joke on the face of this Earth, then so be it! I'm only human and I can't keep my feelings in check all the frikkin' time.

I dunno, I guess it's just my friend (let's call him 'Jack' for privacy reasons, because I don't know if I can still call him that if he would ever find out I'm writing this silly stuff down) who got me thinking, I see him with his girlfriend and he's excited and loud and ridiculous around her, but then when we are alone and spend time, he turns into this warm, calm and protective animal I can be 'me' with, you know? It's like he's acting around her, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, he's never himself around her or any other girl I've seen him with romantically. Have all my relationships gone belly-up, because those guys felt they couldn't be themselves around me? Did I ever really knew them? I think not! Men just want to do unconventional things with conventional girls, to me that is a recipe for disaster. So that's 2 of your questions answered: yes I'm safe with my friend Jack! My whereabouts are none of your business

I'm just gonna ignore the financial help part in your e-mail, I'm trying very hard not to be insulted, I think I'll just let it slide this once, just don't ever mention it to me again! Oh and don't mention the 'Dad' painting either, ok?

What else inspires me? Well, at the moment not so much, I just accepted a work thing in a city that is cold and boring, but I'm dreaming of better days, better times, a better me, in the meantime I promised myself I'm going to check out some museums tomorrow, maybe that'll help (or not because other artists make me wanna throw all my work out of the window).

What makes you dream? If you dream at all? Or maybe you dream of your lovely wife and 2,4 kids, wouldn't surprise me if you had them, you know? Oh and another thing, what the hell is 'ttys'?

Bye

Coco

[cr00kedt33th]

Another “small” snippet of my Office AU because @brbdaly is banging on my imaginations and writings muses door with all the fan doodles and also BECAUSE THEY DESERVES IT

"Ms. Pataki you have an appointment at 2 pm today this afternoon"  Helga frowned, not remembering anything scheduled for the day. Before she could ask who it was the line was dropped. She blinked once and then twice before rolling her eyes. She didn't have the time nor patience to actually care.

Without further distractions she dove into her pile of work, review data bundles that were compiled and sent to her work email about profits, read through for updated policies that had to be signed off on, basic review over large client files and organizing the accounts of the day. Helga also had to compile several reports for the day but it wasn't anything she couldn't handle. As long as she was out by 4.

At one point Helga plugged her headphones and streamed calls back to her assistants desk. Drowning out the world around and delving into a place where no other thoughts could reach her. Or so she thought.

She kept this nagging fear of having to see Arnold, even having their eyes meet might bring about something from long ago she locked away. Sometimes she forgot what she felt towards him those years ago. But now they kept resurfacing and eating at her. She didn't exactly have the expertise in this kind of situation, and it wasn't like she had many options to turn to when it came t getting advice for something like this unless it was online reddit forums.

At one point Helga took her smoke break outside on the benches with the rest of the employees. Staring at her phone and scrolling through her news feed, puffing on the cigarette every so often, her brow raised at a few images but she could really say anything happened. She was still on edge, walking on razors as soon as she stepped out of her office. She knew it was ridiculous and stupid. She was the boss right? She could intimidate him into leaving the corporate rat race and she wouldn't have to worry about much beside an angry outburst from Gerald maybe.

But Helga almost felt disheartened into using those methods on him now. But she didn't care to dwell on those thought particular thoughts. Instead she went back in her office and slipped in the earphones and continued to drown out the world around her. Chewing through her report at a steady pace as he toes tapped to the beat of the song that blasted through the tiny ear buds. The world was a blur and not even a grumbling stomach could snap her out of her focus.

Not until someone turned up the light in her office causing her to wince, she pulled out the earphones and looked up ready to snarl at whoever the idiot was who interrupted her. But she fell short.

At the door in the whole casual, professional attire, were Gerald...and her worst nightmare in a daydream.

Arnold Shortman.

"Hey....Helga"  He waved sheepishly. His hair was combed back, leaving his green eyes to bore into her. She almost squirmed on the spot. They both seemed silent and when she switch to analyze Gerald expression she realized his brow shot up to the top of his hairline.

"Can I help the two of you?"  She finally broke the minute long silence. Something was sufficating the room and she couldn't tell what. She glanced at the clock to see it had reached 2 pm "You better make it quick I have an appointment coming up in a minute" She tapped her nails on the desk.

"I uh...I am your appointment?" Arnold chuckled nervously. Helga's eyes nearly bulged out and Gerald started looking curiously between the two.

"No...No you aren't" She blurted out.

"I...Yes? I am? I made the appointment with your secr-"

"Assistant, she likes to be called my assistant" He was referring to Nancy, the sweet old lady that was coming up to retire soon. She would greatly miss her but the old gal would deserve it.

"Well, I made the appointment with your assistant because I wanted to speak with you about something and meet my new boss...which I was surprised to find out was you heh" Helga was taken a back and a little annoyed. She stood up and rounded around her desk, keenly aware that both of them reacted like she was a wolf stalking her prey. Oh come this was ridiculous. She placed her hands on her waist and leaned on her hip.

"Alright then, Gerald if you will excuse us. This is an official appointment you made after all, and I do believe you have work to be doing" She raised part of her brow. She didn't miss the look of panic Arnold shot to his friend and she sighed. Her temper beginning to flare at the sight of two people acting like sheep towards her "Unless you made the appointment together?"

Why was she always giving this idiot the easy out?

The two nodded and she took steps past them and closed the door and dimmed the lights again, grumbling to them not to touch the settings again. She rounded her desk again and sat down, motioning them to sit in the two chairs in front of her desk.

Arnold rubbed the back of his neck."So It's been a while Helga-"

"Cut the pleasantries Mr. Shortman, we've known each other a while and I am busy" Helga set her chin in her hand. Gerald cleared his throat  and loosened his tie.

"Alright Ms. Pataki," He cracked a smile at her. Helga felt her cheeks tint a bit before she unwillingly cracked a smile. "Look, we all got past history with each other, me and you work together without problem right? We just wanna make sure things go smoothly here. Everyone gettin' a fair chance so our department prospers and you get a big fat bonus from our productivity right?" He was smooth talking. Helga saw this plenty when he was trying to smooth over rough fights with Phoebe. Never admitting it but she was kinda jealous Phoebe married someone so smooth.

"Alright Gerald you are making the point you don't want me to bully Arnold out of the company. I'm not dumb, and I won't. That wouldn't be fair or ethical," They both seemed relieved for a moment "He is gonna leave because I'm giving him the worst job ever" She snickered when she saw their backs go ramrod straight. Both seemed to be searching for the words to say.

"Ha! You believed me. He has already been hired for a position that 'Big Joe' Put him in. Remember Gerald, you went above my head to get your friend hired here?" She began fiddling with a pen. Arnold looked between the two before settling n Gerald.

"She...She didn't know?" The blond man asked. Gerald shrugged.

"Thought she sniffed it out I mean-" Helga cleared her throat, interrupting Gerald.

"You mean what? What exactly do you mean about your boss?" She clicked the pen a couple of times.

"You just...uh..you look nice is all" Arnold swallowed nervously. That caught Helga off guard and made her teeth clench. Arnold steeled his nerves and looked up at Helga, her blue eyes expecting him to say something worthwhile in this appointment. "Look Helga...I need this job, I just don't want our personal history to effect our workplace and you look really nice you do but I-" Helga raised a brow questioningly. From what she was getting out of his fumbled words was...the most laughable outcome.

"So lemme get this straight Mr Shortman" She didn't notice the flinch when called him that. "You are worried that what happened in our past is going to...what? Happen again here? If you don't mind me saying so...that is completely conceded of you" She crossed her legs and leaned back. Desperately trying to control her temper.

"Well it's just that one time you-" Arnold stopped himself. Looking at Gerald before silencing himself. Helga glanced between the two.

"Well, this was a big waste of time. Gerald, Mr Shortman, back to work please" She pulled up her report on her monitor again. The pair looked at each other before shrugging and getting up and making their way towards the door. But before Arnold made it out the door Helga called out one last thing "And Mr. Shortman two things for future reference. Call me Ms. Pataki as everyone else does-"

"Gerald just called you Helga like six times in there"

"He is also married to my best friend," Arnold gave her that one "But what I was going to say is...Don't worry about that stuff. I have a date with a man named Teddy everyday after work. You aren't the object of my affection anymore"

Maybe it was the way she said it, dryly, like it was just an everyday fact. Or maybe because she wasn't even looking at him. But it stung to hear something like that.

....

[latetothegreysparty]

Bosses, Brothers, and Boyfriends

I’ve managed to get another one of my prompts written. This one was for a prompt about Owen and Derek talking about Amelia. I chose to write it as Derek asking for his job back upon returning to Seattle in season 11.

Bosses, Brothers, and Boyfriends

Owen sat in his office, perusing budget reports and trying desperately to get his mind to focus on the numbers on the screen. This was decidedly his least favorite part of the job of chief of surgery. His time in the army had given him ample practice in pushing through administrative tasks that were his responsibility, but that didn’t mean he had to enjoy performing these tasks. He was so bored by the report on his computer screen that he was actually relieved to hear a knock on his door. Even if it was a surgeon coming in to inform him of some big mess that he needed to handle, it would be far more exciting than the monotony he was currently sifting through. “Come in,” he called out. The door opened, and Derek Shepherd stepped into the office and shut the door behind him. “Shepherd, I didn’t expect to see you around here, what can I do for you?”

Derek crossed the room and sat down in the chair in front of Owen’s desk. “If you could offer me my job back, that would be great,” Derek said with a chuckle and that lazy smile that seemed to endear everyone he met to him.

Owen’s eyebrows rose. This was definitely not the kind of issue he expected to be dealing with when he heard the knock on his door. “What happened?” He couldn’t help but indulge the curiosity that had piqued at Derek’s out-of-the-blue request.

Derek sighed and sat back in the chair. “It’s a long story. I’d love to tell you over a beer at Joe’s sometime. Right now, though, I’m trying to get a whole bunch of things back together, and I need to be getting back home halfway soon.”

Owen nodded. “I’ll have to take you up on that beer sometime. I think we could both use it at this point.” Derek laughed softly and agreed. “Back to your question. I guess it depends on what you mean by ‘offer you your job back.’ I certainly have a spot for you in the neurosurgery department if that’s what you’re asking for.”

Now it was Derek’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “I appreciate it, Owen, but I was wondering about my old position,” he said, hoping Owen wouldn’t make him spell out specifically what he was asking for.

Owen paused for a moment before realization dawned on him. “Oh, you’re talking about being the head of the department again?” Derek nodded. “Derek, that position is already filled. I can’t just take it away from your sister without any sort of reason. She hasn’t done anything to merit a demotion.”

Derek sat forward in his chair again. “Owen, you and I both know that Amy is an incredible neurosurgeon with immense promise. She’s my baby sister. There is not a person in the world who is more proud of the surgeon she is, including our own mother. That being said, I know her, and I know that she isn’t ready for this kind of responsibility yet. While the surgical skills are there, the maturity and decision-making aren’t. She’s impulsive. She has a temper. She’s immature. She’s arrogant. She has a long way to go personally before she’s ready to be in charge of an entire department. I believe she’ll get there someday, but she isn’t there yet. I think we have a great opportunity here. Put me back in there at chief of neuro and I can mentor her. I can help her smooth it all out so that one day she will be ready to be the chief of neuro. Please let me do that for her.”

Owen stared at Derek for a moment, carefully choosing his words before beginning to speak. “Derek, you’re her older brother. I don’t know if you can be objective in evaluating this situation.” Derek opened his mouth to speak, but Owen raised a hand, signaling to Derek that he had some things he wanted to say first. “You say she’s impulsive. So are you, Derek. I have a feeling that much would become apparent if you told me the story of how you came to be back in Seattle.” Derek glared, but chose not to say anything yet. “You say she has a temper. I’ve seen you lose it and chew someone out in the OR on more than one occasion. You say she’s immature. Are you sure that you’re talking about how she manages her department? Because the most immature behavior I’ve seen from either of you is in the way you bicker with each other. You say she’s arrogant. Most surgeons in this hospital, yourself included, have a healthy arrogant streak in them.”

Now Derek could hold his tongue no longer. “Wow, Hunt, I came in here to ask for my job back, and what I got was a list of everything that’s wrong with me. I didn’t know you were so dissatisfied with my performance.”

“No, you came in here to discredit your sister’s qualifications,” Owen argued. “I know you love her, Derek, but you’re looking at her as the little sister you grew up with, not the surgeon she is today. I don’t know what she was like when you two were growing up. I’m sure she was hell on wheels.” Derek managed a small laugh at this, hoping it might earn him a bit more favor from Owen. “But now, as a surgeon in Seattle, she has shown herself to be a competent head of department. More than competent, actually. The success rates in the neurosurgery department are higher now than they were when you were chief of neuro.”

“Well that might be because-” Derek began, but he was stopped once again.

“No, I don’t need an explanation,” said Owen. “I told you that not to indict you, but to support her. You did a great job running the department Derek. I was very happy with the job you did, and I never would have been in the market for someone to replace you. But then you left, and we did have to replace you, and it turned out that your replacement did an outstanding job as well. She is a skilled neurosurgeon, but she is more than that. She has the necessary qualities to be a great leader. She is cool under pressure, she is decisive, she is kind, she is compassionate, and she cares deeply about getting the best results for all of her patients. She has been a great chief of neurosurgery, and as her superior and yours, I don’t see any reason to take her job away from her. You walked away from that job, Derek. When you left and I promoted her, it became her job. It’s not yours to come back to and take. It belongs to her now. She’s earned that.”

Derek sat in silence, staring pensively at Owen. It seemed like Owen was very adamant that the chief of neuro position was not up for grabs. For the time being, anyway, Derek would probably need to let this one drop. As he continued to think, though, he couldn’t help but wonder about what all had happened when he was gone. There was a bit of an undertone to this conversation, and Derek simply couldn’t ignore it. “Hunt, can I ask you a question? Not as a surgeon, but as a friend.”

Owen narrowed his eyes a little. He was concerned about what direction Derek might be trying to take this conversation in, but he felt like he owed him an honest conversation, if that’s what Derek wanted. “Sure.”

“You seem to know a lot about my sister. I know that you’re her boss and it’s your job to mentor and guide her, but it seems like you know quite a lot about her personal qualities. You certainly know more about Amy than I knew about most of my heads of department when I was chief of surgery. How exactly did you come to know Amy so well?”

Owen could feel the warmth spread across his face. He didn’t know if a tactful, safe response to that question existed. “Um,” he stuttered as he tried to buy himself some more time to come up with an answer, “well, Amelia and I, we uh-”

Derek decided to put Owen out of his discomfort. “If the blush on your face is any indication, I’d say you’ve probably gotten to know my sister on a more personal level.” Owen dropped his eyes sheepishly. “Look, I know this probably seems like some stupid cliche, but I have to ask you what your intentions are with her. Amy has had a lot of pain in her life, and I can’t just sit back and watch her set herself up for more. If you’re just looking for an easy lay, look elsewhere. I know you’ve probably heard that she gets around, and she does, but when she opens up to someone, she really gives them a piece of her heart. If you’ve gotten to know her this well, she’s probably emotionally invested, even if she won’t tell you that.”

Owen looked up to meet Derek’s gaze. He was no longer embarrassed. Now he was beginning to become angry. “Derek, with all due respect, you walked in here not 10 minutes ago to tell me about all of your sister’s flaws. I had to remind you of all of the reasons she’s good at the job she now holds. Now you have the audacity to imply that I’m the one who isn’t considering her feelings? How do you think she would feel if she knew that her brother told her boss that he thought she was unfit to be the chief of neurosurgery?”

Derek’s nostrils flared. The tension in the room was rising quickly. “Are you blackmailing me?” he accused. “Are you telling me that if I don’t leave you alone about your relationship with Amy, you’ll tell her what I said in here today? I thought I could trust you. I thought we were friends. I brought those concerns to you in confidence. I never thought I’d have to worry about you using them as a weapon to keep your place in my sister’s pants.”

Owen took a steadying breath before continuing. Things were getting out of hand, and he really wanted to get it back under control while that was still possible. “No, Derek, I’m not threatening to tell her. I would never tell her what you said. Not as a favor to you, but as a favor to her. There is nobody whose opinion she cares more about than yours. Despite the fact that you discount her accomplishments, she still looks up to you and wants you to think well of her. It would hurt her if I told her what you said, so I would never do that. What I’m trying to point out to you is that you’re not the only one who is capable of caring for her. I care about her far beyond just looking for a nice lay. She’s beautiful. I won’t lie to you and say she’s not, we both know she is. But she’s more than that. She’s brilliant, driven, hardworking, and selfless. At this point, I am looking for more than just someone to hook up with. I’m looking for someone to build a life with. I think Amelia could be that person. I hope she’s that person. I will be a lucky man if she agrees to stay with me for the long haul.”

Derek stared at Owen, caught off guard and unsure what to say. After staring for several more moments, he finally found some words. “So you think this is real, huh? You think my sister might be the one?”

Owen brought his hands up to run over his face. “I don’t know, Derek. This is all so new. I can’t tell you I’m sure when it’s only been a few weeks. It feels so right, though. She feels like everything I’ve ever wanted, and I can’t help but think that maybe I’ve finally found it.”

Derek nodded thoughtfully. “She really is something. She’ll drive you insane most days. She’ll make you want to tear your hair out and wring her neck.”

Owen chuckled softly. “Oh, don’t I know it?”

“But she’ll also love you more than any person in the world,” Derek said. “She’ll give her whole heart over to you without question. She’s a lot of trouble, but she’s worth every bit of it.” Owen nodded. He felt like there was no addition he needed to make to what Derek had said. That was a pretty good summary of his feelings for Amelia Shepherd. Thankfully, Derek spoke up again. “Look, I like both of you. She’s my sister, and you’re my friend. I want both of you to be happy. It would be great if you could be happy with each other. Just be careful. You’ve both got a lot of baggage, and you both can get pretty intense in relationships.”

Owen nodded again. “I know that. I know that it probably looks volatile from the outside. But you and Meredith had a lot of baggage going in, and you’ve had your fair share of intense moments. It can work if you love each other and put in the effort to work past the bumps in the road. You of all people know that.”

Derek chuckled softly. “Now I feel like you’re throwing this back onto me and my current predicament.”

Owen’s head tilted slightly in confusion. “What exactly happened out there in DC? It sounds like it was pretty eventful.”

Derek internally winced as he remembered that he hadn’t yet told Owen what had brought him back to Seattle. “Like I said before, it’s a long story that’ll have to wait for when we go grab a beer. I really should be getting back home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yep,” Owen affirmed, “you’ll be back working in Dr. Shepherd’s neurosurgery department tomorrow.”

Derek rolled his eyes at the reminder that he would be working under Amelia for the foreseeable future, but nonetheless smiled as he walked out the door.

[andrewuttaro]

New Look Sabres: GM 11 - NYR -  Egg Laid

Madison Square Garden has been a bad place for the Sabres for a few years now but there may be only two meaningful narratives when it comes to Sabres-Rangers. One is that the Rangers have managed one of the quicker rebuilds in the National Hockey League of the salary cap Era. The other is who’s the best NHL team in New York State? Which one of those am I going to waste words on? Which one do you think is most fun? Yeah, we’re the best team in New York State right now! Fight me, I mean it! Next week we play the Islanders and I’ll revive this silly narrative. Josh Allen and the Bills first two games inspired me, what can I say? Back to the best club in this state: the Buffalo Sabres got to play the Rangers at each major moment of last season like a thermometer up your ass. We got em shortly before the ten-game winning streak and for a deflating loss in the New Year. The three games against this New York last year were frustrating. That trend continued tonight. I think they handed us our first real stinker of this season. The losses in Columbus and Anaheim didn’t have this sting or score line so I think this is the big egg laid we were fearing. I’m going to take the Ralph Krueger approach and make shortcomings an opportunity for improvement! As you can imagine in a game Vladimir Sobotka and Marco Scandella were the only goal scorers there were a lot of players not playing to potential or pay grade. I want to throw a fit about this one but that will probably be reduced to a few naughty words here or there. I don’t have enough negative vibes from this 2019-2020 Sabres team to muster a rant. Sorry, rant in the comments. While you’re doing it: like, comment and share this blog. Maybe that will help this be one of very few eggs laid by this New Look Sabres team this season. We can only hope, eh?

The first period was twenty minutes of digging a hole. Rasmus Dahlin and Colin Miller were on a pairing tonight and that is not untried. Tonight however it was completely bow-legged. Both defenseman looked lost and sent passes to places the other was not as if they weren’t even talking. It culminated in Rasmus Dahlin’s worst play as a Sabre. He is transitioning the puck through the neutral zone and back passes it. I want to defend him and say he thought Miller was there, but nobody was there, not even close! Artemi Panarin was there to pick up the puck and streamed right in on Carter Hutton and wrapped around him to get the Rangers the early lead. Now let me tell you: I could write an essay about how this fanbase cannot handle good players. We misjudge them and unduly punish them. We chase them out of town and we elevate average joes to be heroes. Dahlin is going at a point-a-game pace right now, he’s not a blackhole but he has not been fire either. He’s made a lot of poor choice with the puck and been directly responsible for three goals against now through 11 games. This one is the most egregious. That doesn’t mean he needs to go to Rochester for a conditioning stint you unbearable dumbass! Even players with half Dahlin’s talent need to be allowed some leash in their first couple seasons. He’ll be okay. We’re allowed to criticize him, but we also need to be able to let him figure it out. He will figure it out. Hopefully this isn’t a narrative for much more of the season… oh, Brett Howden scored and Dahlin didn’t check the guy who got the puck to him? Uh oh, tonight’s going to be a bloodbath for anyone who uses computers isn’t it. Shit. The Sabres got a powerplay chance to inspire some hope and it got one shot. ONE SHOT! Bad turned to worse in the dying minute of the first period when Ryan Strome scored a redirect to put the Rangers up 3-0. That’s quite a hole by anyone’s measure.

This year’s Sabres are motivated machines. Even staring down 3-0 you’d be forgiven for thinking a comeback was possible. This game was a real bastard because it gave you just the evidence you would need to believe a comeback was possible. Marco Scandella scores a second chance through a forest of blue and red defenders and the score is 3-1. I’m no hater, the Sabres are undefeated in games Scand-ezzy scores in. If he’s knocking pack bangers anything is possible, right? No, you see this was the first game frustration really truly got to the Sabres. They were boxed out of the Ducks game because those assholes cheat, they lost this game because they lost hope. One thing I loved to do for Sabres-Rangers games was make fun of Jimmy Vesey. Now Greasy Vesey is a Sabre and I was one of the foolish few who really felt a goal breakthrough was in order for him tonight. Not only was I wrong, Vesey got a little bump and didn’t return in the third! That’s the kinda game this was. I’ll be honest, I really lost hope when Tony DeAngelo scored. He got a great pass and caught Hutton out of position to put the home team up 4-1. Hutton was making good saves this game, the final result really isn’t on him I don’t think but he probably wants that one back… probably the Panarin goal too but yeah, you need a defense in front of you and that just didn’t show up tonight. It’s worth mentioning that the Rangers are not a good team. Yes, they’re better than their record coming into this game but they’re very young and they’re not exactly clicking yet. The middle period got chippy and what had largely been a neutral ice battle turned into a Rangers rout. But wait, not unless Vladimir Sobotka has something to say about it! Okay so Dahlin and Skinner had a lot to do in that play but our favorite pinata got the final touch so that’s goal for him. Do note Henrik Lundqvist was in net so that goal will look awfully weird when we look back on it. It maybe THE highlight of Sobotka’s season.

I am happy to report the Sabres excuse machine is a little rusty. It hasn’t been worked all that hard this season so far. I was seeing a lot of tweets about the bad ice in MSG. That feels like the poorest of poor excuses. I’m not saying it isn’t based in fact, but it didn’t have a meaningful impact on the game. I heard the refereeing excuse too. Sorry fam, the zebras didn’t decide this game, the powerplay falling silent might have. The third period didn’t have anything worth watching from a Sabres perspective. I don’t really feel the need to be the Sabres optimist after this one. What am I going to say: they outshot the Rangers 33-24! Like what would that be for? This was just a stinker. It was an egg laid. Ryan Strome added another and Chris Kreider added one at the end just for salt’s sake. It will be interesting to see how Ralph Krueger and the coaching staff respond to this. Late in this game you saw him play around with the lines to no avail. After the game Krueger said, “It was a very strange game… we lacked puck management and damaged ourselves”. It will be interesting to see how the players respond to this! How about some words from the room! Marcus Johansson: That was bad. Rasmus Dahlin: I got the puck to far from my body… that’s a learning for me [sic]. Carter Hutton: We gave up a lot of east-west plays… we couldn’t get a whole lot going when we did have the chances. To Hutton’s credit he acknowledged poke checking Panarin wasn’t the best move on that first goal against. They’ve only lost twice before this and in both instances they came back with a vengeance in the following game. They fly to Detroit now for a game tomorrow night that poses a mighty fine chance for a rebound effort. Make that effort. If these guys come out flat against the Detroit Red Wings, a team so certifiably bad this year they’ve sent NHLers down to their farm club, then there will be hell to pay.

If you have an idea for greatest game against let me know. That’s my reoccurring segment with every divisional matchup this 50th Anniversary season. What was the most significant game in Sabres history against the game they’re taking on? Tomorrow night it’s Detroit. If you want to get you mind off this egg take a stroll down Sabres Memory Lane and let me know what you think is the best game against the Red Wings in Buffalo Sabres history. The New York Rangers will take this win as a big boost after a brief losing streak. You know why? The Sabres are good. They prepared for this game thinking they were taking on a tough opponent. They ended up taking on a relatively easy opponent. Small solace, the Sabres are a team opponents prepare for now. Let’s hope it stays that way.

Thanks for Reading.

P.S. Maybe this isn’t the best time to say this, but I still love Henrik Lundqvist. He needs to choose if winning a Cup is something he wants

[thekryptonianandthecitygirl]

Arms crossed over her chest, she stares right at him, eyes not wavering.

"You're kidding."

"No, I'm not," he simply answers, his tone matching hers as he keeps writing whatever he's on, unphased. She barely holds back an annoyed sigh. Doesn't, really.

"I work better alone, Perry. You know that."

"You've never even tried to work with someone."

"That's because I don't need to." He snorts.

"Are your ankles okay?," he asks ironically, sparing her a brief, amused glance before getting back to his papers. She rolls her eyes.

"They're fine, thanks. And I don't need assistance."

"I know you don't, Lois - otherwise you'd already be at the door, because that attitude of yours is starting to get on my nerves," he reprimands, glaring as he finally puts down his pen and glasses to give her his full attention.

She simply glares back, and he sighs. "The guy is just a stringer, but everything he's send me so far is pretty solid, and I have yet to not publish it. He digged up the story, and he deserves to be the one to investigate it and bring it to light."

She frowns.

"If it's his story and he's so deserving, why are you sending me over there?"

"Because the scale of it is new for him. He's never had to investigate on something that big before. But," he quickly adds before the protest leaves her mouth. "I think he can handle it - he just needs a little help. You're the best around, I think you two could make a good team, and he's good enough that you can actually work with him without getting annoyed."

"Great. So now I'm a baby-sitter," and it's his time to roll his eyes. "Thanks, Perry, I really appreciate all the new experiences I get to live thanks to you."

"Well actually, Mrs Sassy, I think you are going to end up thanking me on this one."

Rising her eyebrows at him in challenge, she balances her weigh on one foot, unimpressed.

"Really? How so?" He smirks.

"The story involves Luthor Corps."

It takes everything she has, but Lois keeps a straight face. He knows he's won, though. Smartass.

"So, do you want to work on a story that can break the perfect image of one of the most famous and beloved billionaires in the country you've always suspected, or are you too busy pouting about having to share it?"

Deliberately choosing to ignore his satisfied smirk, she heads towards the door, not without making sure of sending another glare his way with a mumbled 'Fine'.

Right before she leaves his office, Lois turns back to him, frowning.

"What's his name, anyway?"

"Clark Kent."

She arrives in town early in the night - although the word 'town' is a bit of a stretch, given the size of it. Apparently, the guy decided not to enter the twenty-first century along with everyone else and doesn't have a cellphone, so all she has is the address and time he gave Perry a couple of days ago.

That, and a pretty odd request from the mysterious prodiguee.

Closing the door of her rental behind her, Lois tightens her jacket around herself and enters the old bar where they're supposed to meet. The place is pretty standard: rusty wooden stools, a pool table, dimmed lights, a few booths at the end of the room. A small scene where musician probably comes once in a while, with a dark and dusty velvet curtain behind it. The smell of whisky hangs in the air, and the two morons looking at her like she's some kind of meat are already getting on her nerves.

Ignoring them, she heads towards the bar, and the sixty something year-old man behind it.

"Hi. I'm looking for Joe Cooper, do you know him?"

"Yeah, that's him, over there," he responds, pointing towards a broad figure at the end of the room before going back to his clients. Muttering a quick 'Thanks', Lois adjusts her bag, and walks to her soon to be co- worker, stopping right behind him.

"So: can I call your Clark, or are you sticking with Joe?," she asks, just loud enough for only him to hear. He immediately turns and looks at her, surprise registering on his face.

The first thing that crosses her mind is 'Wow, is that guy tall'. She didn't notice it before, as he was crunched down above the table, but he is. Blue eyes (very blue), black curly hair, strong jaw covered with a three day beard that quite suits him.

Lips slightly quirking up, she extends her hand. "Lois Lane. I was told you had a story that was worth checking?" His shoulders immediately relax, and he shakes her hand.

"Right. Nice to meet you, Mrs Lane," he says, voice deep as he gives her a polite smile. It's a good smile, she decides.

Breaking contact, he gestures towards the bar. "And sorry about that, but Joe would be better around here, if you don't mind."

"Lying to your employer, huh? You sure know how to live on the wild side." His grin grows, amused this time, and, bending his head down for a second before looking back at her, he nods.

"I guess you could say that, yes." His expression then turns apologetic. "I'm sorry, but my shift only ends in fifteen minutes," he starts, visibly bothered by having to make her wait. She waves his apology away.

"It's fine – I'm early: it's my fault, anyway. Can I wait for you here?" she points to the table behind him. He moves aside.

"Of course," and he lets her settle on the bench. "Can I get you anything?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Okay. I'll be right back, then." And, with a small smile she answers, he gets back to work.

He's – okay, she thinks. So far. She knew Perry wouldn't have bothered with an asshole, anyway, but she had had more than a few sexist, machist, idiotic encounters in her line of work. She learnt to handle it pretty fast, whether it was mesuring dicks with them before setting things straight, or immediately announcing that she wasn't going to take any shit just because she had a vagina.

So far, it had always worked – or at least, had always gotten her what she wanted.

But he's not like that. She's pretty good at assessing character quickly, and that guy strikes her more as the polite, discreet, well-raised and good-manered gentleman type than the ego maniac, jerk one.

Good. At least she won't have to put up with anything she doesn't have the time for.

Getting her notebook and research out of her bag, Lois takes her eyes off him, and focuses back on the investigation.

She snaps back out of her thoughts and of the theories already building in her head and into the world when a beer is suddenly but carefully settled right in front of her. She looks up to see him take his white apron off before he sits opposite her.

"It's on the house. To make amends," he says simply, then continues at her questionning look. "Mr White told me you weren't exactly thrilled to work with a stringer, so consider this a peace offering." Her eyes roll almost from themselves, but he doesn't look mad.

"Let me guess: he told you I'd act like a jerk and treat you like a newbie."

"No. Well, not on those terms, anyway," and the corners of his lips go up in a discreet smirk. An amused one, she thinks.

"I just like to get a raise out of him," Lois shrugs as she reaches for her glass. "And he did take me off guards. I am a little skeptical about the team work thing, I'll give you that, but I'm not gonna be an ass – you can relax, Joe," she assures, a little smile he returns on her lips. "Besides, I read your stuff: it's not bad." Pursing his lips, he nods.

"I'll take that as a compliment," he says, the note of amusement so subtil in his voice you could almost miss it.

And with a sense of humor, apparently.

"You should. Thanks for the beer," she gestures, taking a sip.

After her three hours drive, it feels like heaven. "So, fill me in: what did you find?"

Expression turning serious, Clark Joe obliges, telling her all about the shaddy deals he noticed while working on the oil plateform near here (she mentally makes a note to find out what the hell he was doing working on an oil plateform, at some point), how he connected it to Luthor Corps, what proof he has or can get, who he can and has talked to. They talk for almost an hour and a half, Lois stopping him only to ask details or enlighten some points. They exchange points of views, ideas, throw theories back and forth.

He really is not bad, for someone who doesn't have much experience in deep investigations (his words). There's some things to correct, of course, and room for improvement, but she doesn't think she's going to have to carry him or anything – he's doing just fine.

(Then again, Perry probably wouldn't have sent her here, if he thought she would have had to. He knows better.)

"Did you start interviewing the witnesses? Employees?"

"I thought about it, but – I've never really done that before. I thought it was best to wait for you." Shaking her head slighty, Lois chuckles.

"At least you're honest about it."

"I never pretended to be a real journalist," and she knows he's not taking it the wrong way when she sees amusement in his eyes. Nice ones, really. "To be honest, I thought Mr White was going to give the story to another reporter all together." She archs an eyebrow.

"And you called him anyway? Not really the kind of right moves, if you want to build a reputation for yourself."

Finishing his own beer, Clark simply shrugs.

"The important thing is that the story gets out, not my name on it."

Well...aren't you an odd one. "So, how much time do you think we need?"

Shaking her head slightly, Lois hides her chuckle, and answers.

"Not long, really. You've done most of the work, so I'd say four or five days, just so we can re-check some things, maybe talk to a couple more people, then edit." She smirks. "You should get back to being a dedicated waiter in no time, don't worry. "

He doesn't miss a bit.

"Wonderful: I wouldn't want to compromise my rise to the top. Speaking of which, I should probably get back to it now, if I don't want to get fired." Lois frowns at that.

"Didn't you say your shift was over?"

"I took an extra one," he explains, helping her gather all the documents she had laid down. "I have a passion for fine jewellery I need to finance," he deadpans, glancing up at her, and Lois holds back her chuckle.

"Right. I could tell you were the type – I bet pearls look great on you."

The next day, she comes back to meet him for breakfast. He manages to get several breaks along the day, and they make considerable progress, putting the puzzle together piece by piece. It's even more satisfying knowing that this could finally help show Luthor's other (and true) side to the world.

She never trusted him – never bought his whole perfect, progressist, nice, smooth guy act. Way too suspicious for her taste.

Working in duo is not that bad - or at least, working with him isn't. It sure is different, but bouncing of ideas and leads off of each other is an interesting way of approaching a job she usually handles exclusively alone. A stimulating one, even. It certainly seems to help reach the goal, and the fact that the process is not unpleasant is a plus, she supposes.

As it turns out, her suspisions were right. Clark Kent slash Joe Cooper has his way with words, and gets the hold of things pretty quickly, managing to follow easily once she's shown him the path. But he's also very perceptive, very smart. Hell, probably even smarter than her.

("You read a lot, don't you?" she asks him at one point after he's raised her suspisions and curiosity yet again, her eyes on his endearing focused scowl while he re-reads an official Lex Corps report. Frowning, he looks up, a bit confused.

"Uhm - yeah, I guess. It was kind of an escape thing as a kid, so," he admits. Sensing a sensitive spot she doesn't want to push, Lois nods. Then, smiles.

"I bet your favorite book was from Spinoza or something." He smiles back.

"Platon, actually," and she rolls her eyes.

"Of course it was.")

He's clever, intuitive, yet...maybe not shy, exactly, but – reserved. That's definitely the word for it, now that she thinks about it. Watching him, and particularly watching him interact with others, even in that short of a time, the reporter in her can't help but motice how discreet he is, self-effacing. It looks like he's been here for at least a month, if not more, yet he doesn't seem to have bond with anyone, or given any detail about his lie and identity all together.

She doesn't mind. As far as she's concerned, as long as they're not screwing something or somedy over, everybody has the right to have their own private thing going, reason or no reason.

Still, Lois thinks that his particular story would be one she wouldn't mind hearing.

"Three days in, and I still didn't get one complaining call or whiny text. Does that guy drug you or something?"

Letting her motel room door shut behind her, she rolls her eyes.

"That's very funny, Perry. Have you been taking comedy classes from Lombard or something?" Kicking off her shoes, she listens as he snorts on the other side of the line.

"I'll take that as a no. So, how is the article coming along?"

Things run their course. They dig in, he learns, the investigation progresses. They work in their usual booth, once in her motel because she can only take so many drunk men yelling at the damn football game.

(He doesn't say anything, but she can see his eyes linger on the TV as they go out of the bar. Men and their sport.)

The next day, it's well past nine when they finally end their round of interviews. She's pretty satisfied with the results and, for a rookie, Clark's done very well yet again, but she's exhausted and God – starving.

Throwing her bag at the end of the bench, Lois lets herself ungraciously fall on it with a growl. He smiles.

"Worn out yet? I thought you were supposed to be unstoppable." The mocking irony in his tone makes her send a glare she doesn't really mean.

"Ahah. Don't pretend you're not glad you don't have a shift right now, witty boy."

"Not even going to try," he concedes. "We made good progress though, right?"

"Definitely." Her lips quirk up. "You're not as helpless as you could have been, Kent," she teases him. She likes doing that, she finds. Again, that makes him smile, then nod in fake gratitude.

"Thank you – that really means a lot. Same to you." Her chuckle is cut short as soon as she smells the french fries approaching their table.

"Here," the girl – Chrissy, she's learnt – says politely as she put the sacred little basket of greesy goodness in front of them. Lois isn't even sorry for the way she immediately leaps on the damn thing. "Your orders should be ready soon."

"Thanks," Clark politely smiles, sending her an amused look before focusing back on his co-worker as she talks again.

"So: how is the investigation going?"

"Well, thanks. Joe here still has a lot to learn," Lois emphasizes, keeping a straight face as she feels his amused gaze on her. "But he's alright," she shrugs non-chalently, stealing another fry.

"I'm sure. Are you going to be done soon?," and even if she looks at her, too, Lois can't help but notice how her eyes linger on Clark – and the small, smitten smile that doesn't leave her face while she does.

"I'm not sure. Lois?"

Trying to hide her amusement, she shrugs again.

"A couple of days, maybe three? We'll see, but it shouldn't take that long."

"Oh, okay. Well, I should get back to it," the young woman motions behind her. "Enjoy." And, with a last smile towards Clark, she heads back to the bar.

Taking a sip of his beer, he focuses back on her, then frowns.

"What?"

"You didn't tell me you had a girlfriend, Clark Joe."

"I don't," and she raises an eyebrow at him as she throws another fry in her mouth. "Chrissy and I are just friends."

"Right."

"We are. It was just - " He stammers a little, getting embarassed. She finds it surprisingly cute. "It wasn't a big thing. And it's over now."

"Look at you, all blushing," she grins, not able to hold back her chuckle when he tries to glare at her. "Okay, I'll stop. But just so you know, it doesn't look like her crush is going anywhere."

"Lois - "

Taking pity on him, she holds up her hands in surrender, a small smirk still floating on her face.

"Fine. Entertain me with something else, then." Relaxing, he shakes his head at her, half amused, half exasperated.

It's not a bad look on him, either.

"With what?"

"Well, first, the obvious question: what is a guy like you doing serving beer instead of taking a proper reporter gig?" He smirks, looks at her. Kind of a - mysterious look, for lack of a better term.

(How ironic, for a journalist – for her. Then again, there's something about him since the beginning, something she can't quite put her finger on.)

"What does 'a guy like me' mean?"

"Fishing for compliment? Really?"

"I'm just trying to understand what you're saying."

"You're just trying to avoid the question."

Giving in, he sighs, and even though she can tell he's not mad, he's careful.

"There's a lot of – unanswered questions about my past. I need to find the answers before I can consider the proper gigs and the proper life."

A part of her wants to dig in, but, feeling a touchy subject, Lois decides to let it go. Which is a first, really – usually, touchy subjects make her pen itch.

"Alright, mystery boy. Tell me where you come from, then. Unless that's classified information too?"

There's a small smile that makes her think something's getting past her before he answers – again. It takes all that she has for Lois to ignore her instincts.

"I grew up in Smallville – it's in Kansas. And now I'll let you get that clever comment you're dying to make off your chest."

"I'm hurt, Smallville," she feigns, proud of herself when he rolls his eyes at the surname. "I would never. Although you do have to introduce me to all your cows and chickens, one of those days."

"No cows, I'm afraid. Lots of corn, though – and a dog."

"Now I'm just jealous."

"I'm sure. What about you? Where did you get that subtil sense mockery from?"

"Oh, all over – Kansas excepted, I'm afraid," she winces in fake apology. He relaxes back on his seat, sighing.

"I can't believe I didn't realize how big a mistake telling you that was."

"Poor thing. Don't worry though! there's plenty to make fun of in my up-bringing, too. Army brat," she explains, pointing at herself with her thumb. "And I bet I've lived in places far more isolated than corn specialist Smallville."

Chuckling, Clark smiles. "Entertain me, then."

Thirty-five hours later, they're done.

A last coma here, a word change there, and here it is: Lois Lane and Clark Kent's collaboration article. His first major publication, her first by-line.

The first of many articles exposing Luthor's questionnable activities to the world, she hopes.

"Do you think it will make a difference?"

"I doubt it," she admits, not wanting to lie to him. His disappointed, hurt puppy expression makes her smile. "But it's a start. Luthor is a powerful man: it will take something huge to make him fall from his pedestral. But our story is a first step – if anything, it will at least install doubt in people's mind."

She shrugs. "Or it could be a total disaster," she deadpans, making him laugh. "Come on, the next round is on me."

His eyes eyes light up, amused and teasing.

"So I take it you thought I did a good job, then?"

Containing her own grin, she gives him a fake unimpressed look, and makes a face.

"Decent."

He smiles.

They spent the next hour and a half sitting in their booth, the first beer quickly turning into a second, a third.

By the time they get up, Lois is way more dizzy than she should.

"You can wipe that smirk out of your face, Smallville," she hisses at they exit the bar, trying her best to glare at him.

He raises his hands, playing innocent.

"I didn't say anything." The amusement in his eyes, however, says a lot. She grunts.

"Whatever."

"Sober as you may be," he starts, the insolent bastard, "can I walk you to your motel?" She crosses her arms at him.

"I'm perfectly capable of walking by myself, Kent."

"Maybe I just want to walk with you," he smiles a smile she can't help but returning. Rolling her eyes for good mesure, Lois hooks her arm to the one's he's offering to her.

She tells herself that the warm feeling settling in her stomach as they start their journey back to her motel is purely alcohol-induced.

"So."

"So."

"What's the next move for you, Clark Joe? Are you planning on staying here for long?" He shrugs against her.

"I don't know. I haven't really thought about it yet."

"Is there more to take out of this place?," and Lois feels his eyes move to her.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you said you needed to find answers, right?" He nods. "Do you think you can find them here?"

She swears his shoulders shift a little at that, his blue eyes fixed on the road ahead of them. He shakes his head slightly.

"I don't think so. I didn't really think I'd find them here in the first place," he chuckles, even though there isn't much humor in it.

In the early night, she can see him swallow down, and hears the slight sadness in his voice. "I don't even know where to look, to be honest."

In the seven days that she'd known him, it's the first time Lois hears him like that. She knows he's not doing it on purpose, that he's not even fishing for compassion, but there's hurt in his voice, desperation. It's raw, and yet, quieted down – like him.

Like he's been carrying a burden for long, so long, and has always made sure to keep it his own, to keep his pain hidden and to himself.

She aches for him. A simple sentence, and yet she's just -

It takes her a moment to get her voice back, which is suprising, a small part of her notes. Lois Lane doesn't really react like that. She's not immune of the horrors she sometimes witness in her job, of course, but she doesn't usually get like that for people she just met, people in general – not so suddenly, not so deeply.

"I'm sorry," she eventually manages, her hand momentarily tightening around his arm. "Maybe I could help: looking for answers is my job."

His eyes meet hers, and this time, his smile is genuine. Grateful. He looks at her for a few seconds, and she thinks she sees something else in there, too.

"I think this is something I have to do on my own. I'm not sure anyone can help me – although if there was, you'd definitely be my first choice," he adds with fake seriousness, teasing.

Lois smirks back. "Well, I should certainly hope so, Smallville. I mean -"

But that night, Lois doesn't get to finish her sentence.

Everything goes fast – so fast.

A flash of light. Tires scrunching. They both turn around, but it's too late. Their smiles froze. After its missed turn, the huge truck coming in front of them tries to get the control back. It does. Its truckload still goes free.

As she watches the huge pieces of wood coming at them, Lois feels herself pulled back and towards the ground. But the ground is covered in ice and they slip, and her head hits something.

The last thing she sees is the tree trunks crashing down on them, and Clark's entire body shielding her as she understands that they're going to die.

After that, everything goes black.

Her head hurts.

That's first thing Lois' aware of as she slowly regains consciousness. She vaguely registers that it's raining, that she's warm, most probaly in her motel room bed. She tries opening her eyes, but it takes more effort than it should.

After a couple of tries, she finally succeeds. With a growl, she painfully sits up, and, as she leans on her right arm, yelps in pain – and that's when it all comes back to her. The bar, the walk, the truck.

Clark.

"Clark." Suddenly wide awake, she frantically looks around her room for him, but he's nowhere to be found. She's alone.

Dropping on her back, Lois lets the enormity of it all dawn on her. He's – Hell, she doesn't even know what he is. What she does know, however, is that the man saved her life.

She can't remember much, but she remembers enough to know he's perfectly fine. At least six tree-trunks have fallen on his back - and given that she's still alive and in one piece, probably broke and bounced off his back – and he was unarmed, the vague memory of him carrying her, whispering that she was going to be okay, inked in her brain.

Wow.

A thousand theories immediately start running in her head. Scientific experiment? Struck of lightening, maybe? Simple very strong body structure? But no, this couldn't be it: no matter how much time spent at the gym, no man would have ever survive that. Plus, Clark clearly isn't the type to go the gym seven hours a - Lois suddenly freezes.

Unless he's not a man – unless he's not human.

As crazy as it may seems, the thought makes sense. She's willing to bet than no Guinness book has ever recorded such a strong amount of strengh on this planet, so the most logical explanation is that he comes from another one, and just happened to live here, on Earth. Sure, he looks exactly like a human-being, but Lois' never believed in the small green alien cliché.

She's never believed in aliens, period – until today.

But that's what he must be. Clark Joe Kent – an alien. Holy freaking hell.

His words come back to her. 'There's a lot of unanswered questions about my past', he had said. 'I need to find the answers.'

"I bet you do, Smallville," she whispers to herself. He wasn't from Smallville, though, she mentally corrects herself. He'd lie about that. Which would be understandable, really.

Yet, she's not sure he did. He certainly didn't seem to be lying, talking to her about his town, about his farm, about his parents. Were they aliens, too? But something wasn't right.

Not only he didn't appear to be lying, Lois believes with all she had that he was sincere, the previous night. He needed answers, he'd said. 'I don't even know where to look, to be honest. I'm not sure anyone can help me.' The people that raised him weren't like him, then.

He was alone.

Lois is surprised to find herself feeling more compassion than curiosity at that realization.

He is, though, which would explain a lot: somehow, he had ended up in a farm in the middle of Kansas, was raised by regular Earth people, grew up wondering about his origins, and was now living to find the truth. Hence, the not so normal life, the lack of proper jobs.

He was probably too busy and desperate to find out where he came from for that – and probably didn't want to stay too long in the same place, at the risk of accidently revealing himself at some point. By helping people, she thinks.

Like he helped her.

Only hesitating for a second, Lois gets up from her bed, grabs her jacket, and heads towards the door.

As soon as she walks in, she knows something wrong.

As she crosses the treshold, Lois immediately scans the room for any sign of him, but the music suddenly stops, and her attention is instantly drawn to the far corner of the bar, where all eyes are directed.

"Or I'm gonna have to ask you to leave," she hears Clark's deep voice.

Making her way into the small crowd gathered, she sees his familiar broad figure, his back to her, as the man in front him responds.

"I think I'll probably just leave when I'm good and ready." And with that, he throws his beer in Clark's face. Laughter rises among the men.

Her blood runs cold.

Clark doesn't immediately reacts, his head still down, and there's a second of silence again before he looks up. Lois can't see his face, but as she starts to move to untie his apron and teach the son of a bitch a lesson, he speaks again.

"Oh, there he is," he says, proud of himself, before pushing him.

Except Clark doesn't move.

The movement was hard, violent, but he doesn't move, and instead, it's the man that almost goes flying, stumbling as a glass he knocked over breaks behind him. Everything stops.

The room goes silent once more, Chrissy freezes, the asshole's face is nothing but shock. Lois herself stops in her track, the tension holding everyone. After what feels like an eternity, Clark starts to move, and her heartbeat starts skyrocketing with fear and anticipation when the young waitress has the good sense to stop him.

"It's not worth it, sweetie."

He pauses, looks at her, looks at the man. Eventually, he takes his apron off, and turns away.

Lois releases a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. But the truck driver doesn't leave him be, feeling courageous again now that he's seen that Clark won't do anything to him.

"Hey asshole, don't forget your tips," he hisses, throwing an empty beer can at Clark's back, making his pack of idiots chuckle.

Clark stops, and just before he leaves, she sees his face, all frustration, tiredness at a humiliation that seem too familiar to him, and her chest tightens.

He's been gone for a good handful of seconds when Lois finally draws her eyes away from the door he's just exited by. The helplessness and ache she feels morphs into anger again as the jokes and chuckles at his expanse start rising.

Snickers, mockeries, brags coming for the filth that is now laughing out loud. Those are the last straw.

As she turns back to go and talk to Chrissy, Lois hears his muffled moans of pains, mixed with a few colourful names he kindly (but not too loudly, she notes) adresses to her.

She smiles.

It takes her half an hour to reach his place.

Chrissy's indications are clear enough, but it's so secluded, so far into the forest – for a city girl like her, anyway – that at some point, she thinks she's lost.

What a delightful last twenty-four hour it would have made: almost getting crushed, an alien discovery, and getting to starve and freeze to death in the freaking woods.

But she doesn't, and, after a short walk, a few curses and a barely avoided fall, Lois finds herself in front of a small wooden cabin. Hidden among the trees, the place is nothing extravagant, quite simple. Nice, though, she thinks. Charming, peaceful.

How adequate, she thinks.

His home is nothing extravagant, indeed, but as she makes her way around it to reach its front, Lois understands why Clark probably chose it.

The lake reflects the orange colored sky as the sun slowly sets, the dark trees bordering it offering a perfect contrast. It's so quiet, she's sure she could hear a leaf fall.

It's breathtaking.

Even seated, Clark imposing figure betray his physical power, but somehow, he looks perfectly in place, in the middle of that painting worthy landscape.

"You know, I never took you for the type of guy who just saves a girl from being squashed and leaves," she starts when she's reached him.

He doesn't turn to look at her, but Lois sits down anyway, settling down next to him and mirroring his position, legs hanging off the deck.

"Nice job on picking the house, by the way - very trendy. A little too big for my taste, though," and she's relieved when she hears him chuckle a little. "The lake view is pretty nice, though. My hotel room's window gives on an alley wherre drunk gentlemen like to come and relieved themselves from all the beer you serve them, so I admit I'm a bit jealous on this one."

"Sorry about that."

He finally looks at her, and Lois turns her head to meet his gaze. He's smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes - inside them, there's nothing but sadness, hurt. She hates that sight more than she expected to.

She smiles back gently. "All forgiven, Smallville. Although if you're taking suggestions, I think buying the next round would be a nice way to make amends," she deadpans, earning herself an amused look.

"Deal." They look at each other for a few seconds, before his eyes turn more serious again. Concerned, guilty, she thinks. "Are you all right?" She snorts.

Even in a situation like this, the man thinks of her first. Unexpected, from what she's seen and experienced so far from human kind – coming from Clark, she supposes it's not really that surprising. She did smell the perfect, selfless good guy type pretty quickly, after all.

"I feel like I should be asking you this." He frowns. "I went to the bar looking for you – I saw what happened."

He drops her gaze for a second, swallows.

"That was nothing," he tries to shrug it off. Shaking his head slightly, he looks back at her, and smiles a smile that she knows is not quite true. "I'm used to it, anyway," and even it was supposed to have the opposite effect, his words make her heart break a little more. "How are you feeling?"

Shaking her head in disbelief, Lois answers. "I'm all right. No pain, except for the bruise on my arm and the pounding in my head this morning that reminded me a little too much of my hangover days in college," she jokes. "But apart from that, I'm fine."

She looks at him, waits for him to look back. "Thank you." This time, his smile is sincere.

"You're welcome." Chuckling, Lois snorts.

"I can't believe I managed to get hurt in Canada. War zones in Afghanistan and Irak, I'm fine – almost empty fisher town in the world's most friendly country, and I barely avoid getting crushed," she rolls her eyes. "Thank God Perry won't know: I'll never hear the end of it."

He laughs at that, a genuine, big laugh, and she can't help her own smile. "What?"

"Nothing, it's just – well, first, that wasn't exactly the reaction I was expecting from you," and she archs an amused eyebrow at that. "I was getting ready for the hundred questions a minute, to be honest."

"Oh, it's coming, Smallville - don't worry." She shrugs nonchalantly. "I just thought I'll wait a little and get you by surprise: more interesting answers that way," she says seriously, before they both chuckle. "What's second?"

"Most people usually run in the other direction, when they find out. Or go for the looks and the whispered comments whenever I'm around, which is much better," he adds with irony. The corner of his lips strech up as his eyes meet hers.

"Well, I'm not most people," she smirks. The small smile and intense, yet soft gaze he gives her at that wakes something deep down in her, straight down to her insides.

"No, you're not."

Lois suddenly feels the intensity level rise up – and the temperature, for some reason.

"And anyway," she adds in a poor attempt to pretend to ignore the warmth in her entire body and her betraying heart skipping a beat. "You saved my life, so the least I can do is act like a decent human being – it's only fair."

"You'd be surprised," he starts, eyebrows raised. "I once caught an old lady before she fell to the floor, but she saw me coming to her at a speed, well, a little too high to be considered normal."

His eyes light up with amusement. "She hit me with her unbrella and yelled at me to go back to Satan."

It's awful. It really is, but all of the sudden, the image of an helpful Clark confused as he's assaulted by a lady half his size comes to her mind, and that, the ridiculous things she was shouting, and the ridiculous situation itself added to Clark's face right now is just too much – and they both burst out laughing.

It takes them more than a few seconds to finally manage to calm down.

"God," she whispers, wiping the tears that had escaped her away. "People are crazy."

"In their defense, it's not everyday you see a man going faster than a train or coming out of flames unarmed," he argues. Lois is surprised to find that his understanding shocks her more than the fact than he's apparently able to walk through fire.

"You're always taking it, aren't you?" He frowns.

"What's that?"

"Their defense."

His smile falls a little at that.

"I was angry for a long time, actually. Not just at people – at the situation, at myself. At God." He thinks, shrugs. "But at some point, I had to decide what kind of man I wanted to be," he finally says, eyes and head far away. Years away, if she had to guess. "And beating up people just to get even wasn't that. It wouldn't help much, anyway."

After a moment, he comes back to reality. "People are not ready," he smiles, looking back at her. "Maybe they'll never be – I accept that."

Shaking her head, she huffs.

"Well, I don't. The fact that you are who you are doesn't give anybody the right to treat you like that – shouldn't mean you have to go through things like what you've just been through with that jerk at the bar," she adds, her blood boiling again.

Her hold tightens on the wood underneath them. "That's bullshit."

"Thank you." She looks back at him, surprised. After a moment, she understands what he means, and somehow, it calms her down.

"For what?" she says instead of the litany of curse words she was about to drop. "Not being afraid of you because of a few special habilities?" She snorts, both to dedramatize the situation and to make him smile. "Please, Smallville – I've been around, you know."

"Among other things, yes," he teases.

"Yeah, well, that's my point: you shouldn't have to thank me. Or to hide."

"I'm not from here."

She doesn't miss a beat.

"So?"

She holds his gaze, not willing to give him any reason to doubt her words, not willing to accept the way he's decided to seems to see himself. She means it – and what, if he's from another world? She'll concede she was shocked when she first realized, and her head is still kind of reeling at the fact that aliens do exist, and she can understand that that alone is, well, mind blowing.

But he's also just a man, in the end – a good one, at that. In just a couple of days, she's come to realize just how much, not mentionning funny, and kind, and smart. Hell, if she wasn't careful, she bet she could fall for the guy – probably already was, a small betraying inside voice whispers.

He gives her a small smile, then, his face unreadable before they both fall into silence. Eyes fixed on the other side of the lake, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

"Is that the reason for the no settling and no proper reporter gigs?" she asks after a while. "You're afraid that someone might found out?"

He thinks for a beat before answering.

"Maybe on some level, yes," he admits. "But I'm also looking for answers. Where I come from, why I'm here. Why I'm alone."

"You really don't know any of that,?" she blurts out before she can stop herself. He smiles sadly.

"No. My adopted parents found me in a field near their house – in a spaceship," he adds, amused at the look on her face. "Very sci-fi, I know."

"Tell me about it," she whistles. Then frowns. "I'm surprised the Governement didn't show up at their footstep the following day."

"They were as well, actually. For days, my mother was afraid they would come to get me – but they never did."

They leap into silence once more. Lois doesn't really know for how long, too deep into her own reflections. Over those people, that are so good, they took care and protected a small child despite the fact that it could have brought them troubles in more ways than one. Over him, so humble, so human, despite a life and situation that most, including herself, wouldn't be able to handle so gracefully, if at all.

Over how heavy a burden it must have been, for a small child to bear.

Given what he's told her and what she picked up, it doesn't seem like the people that knew were as understanding and kind as his parents.

"It must have been pretty lonely," she says after a while, her voice quiet. "Growing up, I mean." He chuckles, not much humor in it.

"Still is."

And here she is again: aching for him, somehow. Swallowing down as best as she can, Lois turns to look at him, but before she can think of anything to say, he continues, eyes still fixed ahead. "It could have been worse, I guess. My parents were great, so it helped a lot, but – I just didn't feel like I fitted in. I didn't. Hence all the reading," he smirks knowingly at her. She smiles back.

"So Plato and Aristotle were Clark Kent's best friends, huh?" She can picture him, sitting under a tree, reading to try to understand what it meant to be human.

"And don't forget Hank – my dog," he adds with a falsly serious nod, and she plays along.

"Right."

He stares back at the water before his voice rises again.

"I always had to hold back. It was more difficult when I was a kid, but sometimes - " He hesitates, almost ashamed of himself, she thinks. "Sometimes, it's like I'm fifteen again. If it wasn't for Chrissy, I'm not sure I would have stopped myself in time, at the bar," he admits through gritted teeth. Confesses, she realizes.

"I know you wouldn't have hurt him," she says confidently, not wavering for a second when his suprised eyes meet her own. "Even if the son of a bitch deserved it." She tries to keep the smirk out of her face as she shrugs. "Which is why I did."

As his expression goes from shock to amusement, Lois laughs with him.

That night, as he walks her back to her motel, they pass the bar – the bar, and the trucks parked not far from it.

Noticing his gaze, she smirks.

"Do it."

Startled, he turns back towards her, frowning. "You're thinking about destroying that douche's truck – and I really think you should." He hesitates briefly, but eventually, her encouraging smile makes his own grow. "Come on, Kent: show me what you got."

He does.

"So."

Hands in his pockets, he purses his lips, a faint smile on his face. "So."

"There's no way to make you change your mind, huh?" She thinks his smile turns a little fond. There's something else there as well, something she can't quite identify.

"I have to find out where I'm from, Lois – who I am."

"Well, you're Clark Kent, and you have what it takes to be decent journalist. A job, that, might I point out, comes with a lot of perks: this could actually help you in your research."

"Really?," he asks, amused. "How so?"

Lois just shrugs, sure of herself.

"Clearance, means to investigate what you want, helpful sources around the world – you name it. And it's the greatest job in the world, so." She breaks pretense of snobiness when he chuckles.

Her face turns more serious, then. "You can have a normal life, settle down." She sees the slight distress behind his blue eyes at that, and a part of her feels like it's what's he's always wanted, yet had always been deprieved of.

"You don't have to hide, Clark," she says, sincere. "You don't have to be alone."

Once she's sure he's heard her, she shrugs again. "And Metropolis is a pretty good place to live," she adds with a perkier tone, wanting to make that sad look from his face. She pats herself on the back when it works.

"Nice restaurants, great bars, always buzzing. Plus, it could use something other than douches."

"So I'm in the nice guys category, then?", he jokes, bragging.

"Decent," she smirks. "Don't let it go to your head, farmboy."

They laugh, and looking at his ridiculously blue eyes, Lois realizes that she's probably going to miss them. Miss him, in fact.

How about that.

She clears her throat just to make sure her stupid voice doesn't betray her before speaking again.

"Anyway: for what it's worth, I really do think that it's possible. And, most importantly, that you deserve it."

He seems to hesitate for a while, his almost hopeful gaze staring at her. But, after a moment, he drops his head, shaking his head only slightly, as if to convince himself, before looking back at her with a faint smile.

"I can't, Lois – I have to know."

"And you can look and have a life," she insists softly.

As they look at each other, she knows she didn't convince him, though. Sighing, she gives him a small smile, accepting her defeat. "Alright, Smallville," she concedes, holding up her hands in surrender. "Your choice."

There's nothing more to be said, and so they just stand here, face to face. Lois wants to kiss him, and is much too aware that she probably won't have another chance to.

So, she does.

His lips are softer than she imagined, just like the skin under her fingertips, despite the light stubble on his square jaw. She doesn't immediately open her eyes afterwards, but when she does, her face inches away from his, his are still closed.

She smiles when he looks down at her.

"Thank you for saving me, Superman."

A couple of days after their article is released, she receives an email.

"Looks like it wasn't a total disaster, after all. It was a pleasure to work with you, Miss Lane."

Perched up behind her Daily Planet desk, Lois smiles.

"Nice working with you too, Joe."

Days pass, turn into weeks. She keeps investigating, the bad guys keep getting their faces shown to the world.

She thinks about him, sometimes. Often. More than she's supposed to, probably.

It could have worked, she thinks. It's foolish to even think about it (she had only spent one week with the guy, for God's sake) and on paper, it shouldn't have. Not because of the whole alien thing – that, she couldn't care less about. It was on everything else that they weren't compatible, or at least, shouldn't be.

he was an optimictic when she was a cynical, believed in humanity when she lost faith in it a long time ago. He was quiet and reflexive, she was loud and impulsive. He was dangerously close to their human definition of perfect, and she wasoh so far from it.

And yet – yet, she believes it could have worked. She wanted it to.

Too bad destiny had other plans for them.

"Come on, Lois. When are you gonna throw me a bone?"

Leaning towards her, he smirks, apparently pretty proud of himself. "Courtside seats to the game tonight. What do you say?"

Shaking her head slightly, she barely holds back a roll of her eyes.

"I say you should go back to trolling the intern pool," she smiles defiantly, raising her eyebrows. "You'll probably have more luck, " and of course, that's the moment Jenny chooses to show up.

Her smile turns half apologetic, half amused as she hands the youg woman her article. "Sorry."

Steve simply shrugs, and turns his attention to Jenny, waving his tickets.

"Courtside?"

"Don't," Lois advices with a smile, chuckling as she gets back to her computer when Jenny snorts.

"Lombard, Lane, I want you to meet our new stringer, I want you to show him the ropes. Lois, I'm sure you'll recognize your partner."

She's not going to lie: when she turns around, her freaking heart stops.

"This is Clark Kent," Perry finishes for Lombard's sake. "Good luck, kid," he says with an encouraging pat to his shoulder, then leaves.

Leaving her shocked, speechless, questionning what's she's seeing, and probably gaping.

He's shaved, wearing a tie and a plaid dress shirt she'll probably tease him when she regain the abilily, and has the dorkiest pair of glasses perched up on his nose, but there's no mistaken – standing right in front of them, Clark Joe himself.

His short exchange with Steve gives her time to get her self-control back - or at least, enough to get up, control her smile as best as she can, and get her voice back.

The stupid thing in her chest, however, is still going wild.

"I thought cold fisher towns were more your style, Kent," she manages, painfully aware of Lombard's presence next to them. She takes comfort in the fact that Clark seems to be having as much trouble as her containing his grin.

"I thought a change of scenery would be nice," he simply answers, his deep voice almost sending shivers to her spine.

Come on, Lane. "I was told that Metropolis was a pretty good place to live," he smirks, insolent.

"Smart choice, farmboy. Well, in that case." Extending her arm, Lois fights to keep as straight a face as she can. "Welcome to the Planet."

She almost breaks at the slight shock on his face, his eyes widening for a second at her carefully chosen greeting as he takes her hand. After a couple of seconds, he smiles back, amused.

"Glad to be here, Lois."

                                                     EPILOGUE