Title: Bean Boy
Author: firstflier
Rating: PG
Length: 888 words
Summary: 'And you wish you could tell him what he meant to you. That you could have had the chance to say goodbye.'
Author's Note: This is a very AU drabble that I have had knocking about since the end of season 8. I thought I would post it anyway because I kind of like exploring how Lois would have reacted to the knowledge of Jimmy's death. She spent a month with Jimmy in Star City and I don't think she would have done that for just anyone. I don't know, I just liked their dynamic and I was disappointed that we didn't see Lois' reaction to his death so here is something that wouldn't leave me alone.
Bean Boy
She has this dream.
It's different every night but follows the same pattern. It is when she is lulled to a place beyond sleep, beyond meaningless dreams, to a place where she can be fully honest with herself, with her conscience.
It always starts the same; she is back at the Daily Planet, leaning on the coffee cart as the technician repairs it.
He is young, almost looks too young to be in a full time job. He has a mop of curly hair that looks like liquid amber and her fingers itch to push out of his eyes. He is quite chatty, friendly even, in a unique way that doesn't have her defences up instantly.
"How are you today, Miss Lane?" He asks, in that unassuming way of his, as he cleans one of the pipes hidden in the coffee cart. She shrugs, feigning nonchalance.
"Alright. Not much to report. Same old, same old really."
She watches his head nod absently, a hum working its way up his throat. It is a non-commital noise and she allows her gaze to wander around the room, settling on the desk opposite hers. A sigh worms its way through her lungs and she refuses to exhale the breath and aknowledge that things are not quite as alright as the facade she tries to present to the rest of the world suggests. She remembers her manners belatedly.
"How are things with you, anyway? Busy week?"
His answer should not matter to her, she is, afterall, only making polite conversation until she can get her hourly dose of caffeine but, for some reason, she finds herself actually caring about his response.
"Nah. Not really." He flashes a grin at her that shouldn't disarm her or charm her or make her feel anything but, amazingly, something warms in her and she manages a smile back. There is a brief silence as he gets back to work on the machine. "I hear things." She tilts her head curiously. "Just, you know, notice things."
"Oh yeah? What kind of things?"
"That's Clark Kent, you're Lois Lane."
A slim eyebrow inches towards her hairline.
"Well, we do have name plates, genius."
"Okay." He looks contemplative for a moment and bends to pick up a cleaning cloth. "You and Clark used to be best friends but something has shifted recently."
Her face is a trained mask of indifference.
"Right. But anyone could tell you stuff has been weird between us lately."
"You blame your cousin, Chloe, for the death of Jimmy Olsen."
She is, very effectively, shocked into silence. He gazes gravely at her and resumes work as though he has not just accused her of having some deep seated hatred for her dearly loved cousin-pseudo-sister.
"What? That's ridiculous." She waves him off with a derisive snort and crosses her arms defensively.
"No. You do. You're not even really sure why you do but you're angry. So angry." He is murmuring now, more to himself than her it seems until he pins her with his honey coloured eyes. "And hurt. And you wish you could tell him what he meant to you. That you could have had the chance to say goodbye. Tell him that he was so much more than just a dorky photographer to you. Tell him he was one of your best friends."
She is sure her jaw has gone slack and she is staring at him like a moron.
He carries on relentlessly.
"You're not going to tell Chloe." He surmises easily. "You won't ever tell her. You will let your friendship dissolve over time and blame it on work, life, travel. Any number of reasons. But, eventually, she will become another name on your Christmas card list that you feel obligated to write to but neither of you have anything to say. Nothing of any value anyway." She is staring avidly at him, hooked on his every word, and she wonders when she forgot how to breathe. "You will grow apart and, inevitably, you will become as cold and indifferent to her as the dying light of a distant, wandering star."
She wakes in the night, sweating, panting, the sheets suffocating her. Her hair sticks uncomfortably to her neck as her lungs drag in air. Her mind screams that bean boy knows nothing of her life; hell he's not even a real person. She scrambles for her mobile at the side of her bed, flicks it open, the sudden light blinding in the darkness. She scrolls to Chloe's name, her hand shaking violently. Her thumb hovers above the 'call' button but pauses before she can send the electronic olive branch.
'It is late.' She thinks.
'I will call in the morning.' She thinks.
But it has been a year now and she still hasn't called that number and she is busy.
With work, with travel, with life.
But she will not call Chloe tomorrow. Or the next day. Or even the day after that. The next night she will dream of the coffee cart boy with the amber hair, of his sweet, syrup accusations that she cannot deny and she will hope that the scene will play differently.
But it always starts the same; she is back at the Daily Planet, leaning on the coffee cart as the technician repairs it.
&&Fin.