Corrie G.

Rosie looked candidly at Kara. “Sam has told me all about you and your strange books and your visions. Was he really in these books from long ahead times?”

“Not only was he in them, you were in them.”

Rosie gasped, for once shocked. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not joking! You even made it into the adaptation. Everyone wanted to know what happened to Sam, because he was lots of people’s favorite.”

“Well, of course he was,” she said matter-of-factly. “But me—I’ve never left the East Farthing. I’m just a—a barmaid.”

“Sometimes we don’t earn our happy endings, we just get them. That’s what love is all about.”

“I suppose… So then, Sam is going to ask me to marry him?”

“Did he not do it yet?” Kara asked. “I kinda thought maybe he had. You’ve been spending a lot of time together these past weeks. In my story he asked right away—but there were some dire circumstances that probably pushed him a little faster.”

“Oh, he’s courting me right enough, but he might take a while to come to the point. I’m not one as needs a long introduction to a story, if you know what I mean, but I’ll wait for Sam.”

“You could ask him,” Kara said. “Even in my age it’s a little strange for the woman to propose to the man—but why not? It involves you just as much as it involves him.”

Rosie stared at her. “That it does.”

Rosie left the tablet to resume her duties, but when another round of songs had ended, she raised a mug for attention. “Now, listen up, I have something to say. All of you are my friends here!”

There was a general cheer. The hobbits really did like simple speeches.

Anyway, all to say, if Lois saw a face, she remembered that face. And glasses and a bumbling manner weren’t going to get in her way.

She hadn’t interacted with Superman very much by the time Clark got hired—just that one rescue when he stopped the runaway train. It was the Ocean Avenue Elevated, and Lois didn’t even normally ride it. Superman had stopped it, of course, and come inside briefly to make sure everyone was okay. And—yeah, she had kinda followed him back out onto the (crumpled) pavement, asking rapid fire questions. He’d answered a couple, sorta laughed, and then flew away.

Then Clark showed up a few weeks later and Lois looked around at her busy, hard-working, intelligent coworkers—and realized no one saw it but her.

Obviously investigation had to happen. Surreptitiously. Clark might seem like an all-American sweetheart of a guy, and Superman might seem to have a moral code, but Lois was very much in the “absolute power corrupts absolutely” camp of thought, and she was—dubious. If he was really so powerful, what was he doing for himself? What were his vices? How did he indulge? Nobody seemed to know, and that turned her from dubious to highly and emphatically suspicious.

Everybody had their weaknesses. Ice cream or expensive purses, lottery tickets or fast cars… Poor or rich, powerful or pitiful, everybody had their indulgences that got them through the day.

It was just that rich and/or powerful men tended to act out in equally rich and/or powerful ways—and usually if it was a secret, it was that much worse. People didn’t hide their Ferraris or their trophy wives or their fancy watches. They hid things like abuse, addiction, or perversion.

Yes, she was cynical, so sue her. She’d been a successful reporter since she was twenty-four, and she was sure Superman had secrets, and they couldn’t all be adorable dogs.

Another thing on a spectrum, in Lois’s opinion, was compartmentalization. She was less of a savant at this, but she did try to keep her Superman thoughts locked down around Clark. Ugh, he appeared to be such a nice guy! If she treated him with the wary, this-person-is-dangerous reserve she truly felt for the enigmatic (alien?) metahuman, it would be wildly obvious she knew what was up.

So she tried to treat him as he wanted to be treated—a sort of trippy version of the Golden Rule—which was to treat him as an inexperienced new-hire from Kansas.

It was a weird kind of dualism to know he could crush her desk into the wall when he brought her coffee, or that when he pretended to stub his toe, he might’ve dented the concrete. At least in that last situation, her lack of sympathy had come off as impatience, not inside knowledge.

“Ow, that really hurt,” he mumbled, but loud enough for her to hear.

“Walk it off, Kent, you’ll be fine.”

“You’re not the most empathetic person in the world,” he said with a smile.

“Eh, teachers and salespeople have to be empathetic, reporters don’t.”

He hobbled along as if he’d really bruised his foot. “You don’t think a human interest story should be informed by—human interest?”

She’d laughed a little too loud at this, but shook her head. “I prefer my writing to cut, not comfort. I guess I’ll leave the human interest stuff to you.” She only barely refrained from emphasizing the word human.

She kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he didn’t show any obvious vices. He didn’t even smoke, let alone smell like weed or anything stronger. As far as she could tell, he didn’t drink either. The few after-hours work events he’d come to, he drank Sprite, of all strange and inoffensive (but weirdly offensive) things. If she didn’t know he was an alien, she’d think he was LDS.

He didn’t begin dating anyone at the Planet, which was another possible motivation she’d considered. He was friendly and sort of accidentally flirted with people at times—wow, he was good at the awkward cover persona—but nothing illicit. The Planet employed a number of young college and even occasionally high-school aged interns, and he didn’t so much as blink at them. (Yes, she was cynical, as previously noted.)

If anything, he seemed most comfortable with her, and she was frankly impressed with her own outstanding performance acting normal. (On the spectrum of vanity, Lois was perhaps a tad left of center—although she preferred the term priderather than arrogance.)

After the first six weeks, a lesser woman would’ve given in and declared his employment at the Planet inexplicable, but Lois was not a lesser woman.

“Why here?” she asked Clark one morning as they rode the elevator up. She felt a little stiff riding in an enclosed box with a man who could fly. “Why did you apply to the Planet instead of say, the Times or Tribune?”

“How do you know I didn’t apply everywhere? Maybe the Planet is the only paper that called me back.”

That wasn’t true. Lois had called in some favors with friends to check. He hadn’t applied to any major paper but this one. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to admit to that much searching. “Did you?”

“Nah,” he admitted. “I wanted this one. If I’d gotten rejected I guess I would’ve tried elsewhere.”

“I suppose you got lucky then. Obviously working with me is a huge bonus.”

He smiled at her just before the doors opened, so genuine and happy his eyes almost changed color. “I certainly think so.”

So, like, what was his deal? As (unabashedly) proud as she was, she didn’t really think it was her. Even if— okay, even if—Cat was convinced he liked her.

It had to be the information, she decided. A newsroom was a good place for breaking news, obviously, and if you were a demigod of some sort who could change news in a heartbeat… But that didn’t entirely check out. He must have incredible hearing or something, because at least half the time, Clark disappeared right before something happened, not right after.

It just made no sense. When he covered sports or celebrity marriages or elections, he was covering a culture that wasn’t his own. What was the point? He was a good writer, actually, but what was in it for him?

Her research indicated he really had grown up in Kansas. Did he need the money? Because if so, he could get a better paying job. He could be a super-fast accountant, or a tax lawyer, or a professional athlete—if he tamped the superpowers down a bit.

“Are you all right, Lois?” he asked as they sat across from each other on the train to New York. She had a lead on a dirty politician, and she wanted to visit a certain hotel in New York tonight to see if they could get a good picture or a quote of her guy with his very sus business partner. She’d been a little shocked that Superman volunteered to go with her. What if something happened in Metropolis? She supposed he could get there pretty fast. She’d take 60/40 odds he would ditch her tonight.

“Lois?” he repeated.

“Huh, what?” Ugh, she’d broken her compartmentalization rule and was speculating about Superman while sitting with Clark. 

“So articulate.”

“Watch it, Smallville.”

“It’s just that you’re staring at me—which you know, might normally make my day—”  How did he blush on command like that? “But you also kinda look like you’re about to dissect a fetal pig.”

Lois laughed. “That’s—evocative. Points for unexpected metaphor.”

He grinned. “I am a writer.”

“Yeah. How’d that happen? Did you always like to write?”

“Not in school, no. But I was always mentally composing letters. How would I describe this? How could I convey what that felt like?”

“Who were you writing to?” She picked at her cuticle to avoid showing her intense interest.

“My p—imaginary friends, I guess.”

Yeah, he definitely almost said something else. Parents? Patron? Pen pal? “Who were your imaginary friends? Mine were ants.”

He looked delighted. “Ants?”

“Er, yeah. There were two, they were about eighteen inches tall, and they wore clothes but they were—yeah, definitely ants. What about you?”

“Well, I grew up on a farm, so I had real animals and insects, didn’t need to imagine them. Sometimes I imagined a—brother.”

“That’s right—you’re an only child. Big brother or little brother?”

“Big.”

“Somebody to fight off your bullies?”

“Something like that. Maybe just somebody that knew what was going on, who could show me what to do.”

Hmm. Lois created a new item on her mental tab for Superman’s vulnerabilities. “I’m an only child, too. Supposedly that makes us more independent and mature. Also, perfectionists.”

“I’m not a perfectionist.”

“Aren’t you?” Maybe that was his whole savior schtick—a rampant perfectionism about the world that he was still trying to achieve. Darn, that kinda made her feel bad for him.

“I’m not,” he repeated. “Getting things done is messy. The more worthwhile a job—the messier. That doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be done. What’s that Churchill quote? ‘Perfectionism is the enemy of progress.’”

She really wanted to ask if she could quote him on this, Superman’s Philosophy: Progress is Messy. There was a whole article to be written here.

“You’re staring again.”

“Sorry. I’m tired.”

“It’s okay. Gives me a good excuse to stare back at you.”

Lois raised startled eyes back to his. He wasn’t usually so blatantly flirty with her. Or with anyone. “I know for a fact I’ve barely showered or slept in three days, and if I have any color in my face it’s probably ketchup from the hotdog I ate on the way to the station.”

“So?”

“So… I don’t know. Don’t be weird.” Don’t lie, she wanted to say. I know you have an ulterior motive for working at the Planet, and for working with me. Just tell me the truth. But she wasn’t ready to say all that. At some point, when she had enough to write the expose of the century, she would.

“You can sleep,” he said. “I’ll wake you when we get there.”

“Yeah, I might.”

“And—you do actually have a little ketchup next to your mouth—“

“Shut up, Smallville.”

But he leaned forward and suddenly Superman was gently rubbing her face with a tissue. Lois froze as his fingers brushed against her lips. “There.”

He swiped one more time, for good measure, and his blue eyes flicked over her face—clearly approving what he saw. In fact, they lingered just a moment too long on her mouth. His eyes dilated a little and he leaned back, tossing the tissue in the tiny trash slot next to the seat.

Lois didn’t know what to do with her face or her hands. She knew what guys looked like when they wanted something and—he did. He wanted her. She knew he gave off that awkward crush vibe to others, but she hadn’t really believed it until now.

“I’m just gonna go over my notes for the Luthor article.” He pulled his laptop out onto his lap. “Get some rest if you want.”

Marking one of the less courageous moments of her life, Lois closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cold window. She was just not prepared to deal with this. 

***

“Hey Lois, wake up.” Clark gently kicked her foot, and Lois woke with a jerk. "Hey, sorry, I just wanted to give you a two-minute warning.”

“Right. Thanks.” She had something soft tucked between her head and the window. It was one of those neck pillows you could buy at the station. It said, I  Heart Metropolis. “Is this yours?”

“Yeah, you looked like you were getting a major crick in your neck.”

“Yeah, thanks.” He stuffed it back in his messenger bag. She hadn’t seen it before. Did he buy it for this trip? For her? She shook her head on her spiraling thoughts and realized he really was right about her neck. It gave an ominously loud click and didn’t want to turn back the other way. “Oh—ow.” She tilted her head tentatively. “Ugh.”

The train was coming to a halt, and they both swayed in their seats as the breaks engaged and it stopped. Lois groaned again as she got her bag

“Can I— May I?” Clark asked, nodding toward her neck. His brow was furrowed, like he was genuinely concerned about her and her stupid stiff neck.

“Sure. I never turn down free—ohh.” He was rubbing the kinks out of her neck, and it was all she could do to hold back a truly inappropriate sound. His hands were warm—really warm, did he run hot?—and they were somehow gentle on her skin while being firm on her muscles. His fingers kneaded just below her skull, softly around the vertebrae in her neck and to the top of her shoulders. It was—possibly—the most perfect sensation she’d ever felt on her head or neck. Or maybe anything. Her head dropped forward of its own accord, and he worked back up.

“Oh my gosh.” She tried to return her tone to professionality. “If you ever need a better paying job, you could make a killing as a massage therapist.” She forced herself to straighten after a moment and put her bag on her shoulder.

Did his hand tremble slightly as he pushed his glasses up? “Maybe I missed my calling.”

“Uh. Yeah. You did.” She rolled her head experimentally and her neck was loose and almost pain-free. “You have magic hands.”

He laughed, and Lois rolled her eyes. “Yes, I heard what I said. Don’t make it weird.”

***

Except it… was weird. She was suddenly aware that he wasn’t using his pseudo crush on her as a cover for something else, like to avoid rejecting Cat or someone else who might guess his secrets. He was—unless there was some reason for subterfuge that she couldn’t guess—really into her.

Which was flattering sure, but also a little unnerving. In fact, if he’d suddenly gotten interested that one time that he stopped the train—and then found out where she worked—and then adjusted his resume— and then applied there in order to work with her—

Well, there were a lot of steps to that plan and they kind of had a stalker vibe if you repeated them in the wrong tone of voice.

Was—was she the indulgence in this job? Despite her very healthy self-esteem (as previously noted), this seemed strange.

She put it aside as they staked out the lobby of the hotel. After 10, the concierge had tried to oust them in a genteel, posh way, but Clark had spun a story about his uncle, the Oklahoma oil tycoon, who was supposed to meet them and another friend, but gosh darn it, they didn’t know where he’d got to…

And Clark did it all so innocently and so well that Lois half-believed him. Their story was still holding when her mark and his (actual, corporeal) friend exited together. Even better, there were two beautiful women with them—not their wives—and Lois got several fantastic shots as they all got off the elevator looking very chummy.

“Senator Thompson,” Lois called. “Is it true that Mr. Grande is a major donor this year?”

The senator looked around at her, his thick gray-blonde hair like a helmet. “Who’s that? I’m not taking questions—”

“Is it true that you’ve promised Mr. Grande exclusive contracts with Metropolis Metro Hospital in return for campaign funds? Despite the current malpractice lawsuits against him and his company?”

Mr. Grande was flushed and unsurprisingly defensive. “Hey, those lawsuits are bogus, and what I do with my own money is my own business.”

“Would you describe yourself and the Senator as close friends?”

“I can be friends with who I want to be friends with,” he said belligerently.

“You certainly can,” Lois agreed. “How long have you been close friends?”

“Don’t talk to her,” Senator Thompson said, “It’s that b- from the Planet.”

Clark stepped up next to her. “Would you care to confirm you used a campaign finance account to pay for these hotel rooms?”

“I don’t have to answer your questions,” the Senator said…

***

If so, it was the cruelest thing in the world. She would far rather have had Jeb’s words for the rest of her life than some stranger’s.

She turned slowly to look at the man behind her. It was the YouTuber, Tyler Owens, who’d tipped his cowboy hat at her earlier.

He smiled, gesturing to the vans. “So, you work for Storm Par?”

As easy as falling, Kate exhaled. Bless him for asking a yes or no question. “Yeah.”

His breathing didn’t stutter, but she caught a slight pause and a momentary furrow of his brow, as if kicking himself for asking a stupid question. “Where you coming in from?” he asked.

She wondered how many of her words he had. “Yeah,” was a complete sentence, but you never could tell. “New York.”

He didn’t clutch his chest or whoop or do any of the things you saw people do in viral soulmate meetings caught on video. He just raised his brows. “City girl, huh?”

Kate felt a swoop of relief. “I guess. Excuse me…”

Another man jogged up. “Tyler, have we decided which storm we’re going to chase yet?”

Tyler pointed to her, “Maybe we should ask…”

Kate hesitated. It felt dangerous to give her name to her supposed soulmate—but it would be weirder to refuse. “Kate.”

“I’m Tyler.”

“And I’m Ben.”

She shook Ben’s hand, relieved that Tyler had not offered. Some people claimed there was a tingling warmth, a knowing when you touched your soulmate the first time.

“I’m writing an article about American storm chasing,” Ben said. “Tyler is kindly allowing me to ride along.”

“Yeah, he just had to promise to write nothing but good things about me.”

“Good luck with that.” Kate turned away. Why had the universe tried to match up her and this guy—?

“Elaine, eh? She had thin lips and narrow hips, but it takes all sorts. Is that what the prince likes?”

“Didn’t you see him ogling Vera at the dock?” Another sailor broke in. “That’s what he likes.”

Eric had blushed. Vera was a pretty woman whose younger brother was captain of one of the other ships of the queen’s line. She did not have thin lips or hips, quite the reverse. “It’s not like that,” he’d said, much to everyone’s amusement.

“Might as well be like that, Vera might be a bit old for you, but she wouldn’t say no to a prince. She’s a right one in fact, you could do far worse.”

“Hoo, Vera!” Another made a suggestive gesture. “I’d marry her tomorrow if she’d have me!”

“Why? When she could have me?” said toothless old Carlos.

The men cackled and Eric was hoping the spotlight was off himself, but there was too much time on a ship. Soon they reverted.

“Come on, Eric. What’s it like to have wenches crossing the ocean for you? Don’t tell us you waste it all.”

Carlos grinned his toothless grin. “‘Course he wastes it—do you not know the boy? He’s out here with all o’us. We have our living to make, but he’s here on his own account.”

Pierre took the coiled rope from Eric, lifting its wet bulk as if it was nothing. “Aye, what’s that about—you’d rather be here with a handful of rough grunts like us than back at home with a handful of sweet curves?”

Eric knew he was blushing then, but he only shook his head. “I’ve told you how important the sea trade is. I believe in this trip.”

“I believe in a long pair a legs!” Carlos called.

The men cackled and a ribald list of favorite body parts came from various men on the deck.

“What about you, Eric?” Juan asked.

“I suppose I like—eyes,” Eric said, knowing he would only set them off again.

He didn’t much mind the men’s ribbing, though he wasn’t as annoyed by Grimsby’s interruption as he sometimes was.

“Eric, I believe I have mentioned before—but it’s time you start to distance yourself from the men. At least do not indulge in this sort of—jesting.”

“They don’t mean anything by it. Half of them are happily married.”

“I am far from suggesting that you need to marry any time soon, but a strong alliance with the mainland would not exactly hurt. You of all people recognize how fragile our island’s economy is.”

“Yes. That’s the point of this trip, and the last one, and the next one! We can ally ourselves through regular trade with half of the Americas. I cannot marry that many women.”

Grimsby’s lip twitched. “A fair point, sire. Not but what the ambassador from Colombia had a very pretty daughter. In fact, I thought you rather enjoyed her.”

“Claudia was very kind, but she was homesick the whole time she was here.”

“I daresay she’d get over it. You do realize no one who’s visited would say no?”

Eric frowned and ran a hand through his damp hair, perturbed for the first time that day. “That makes it worse, can’t you see? I don’t want someone who has already decided to say yes. Or worse, someone who feels like she can’t say no.”

***