Rating: K+
Disclaimer: I think we're all very glad I don't own anything in regards to Smallville or the Superman lore. In my hands, neither would prosper long.
Summary: That feeling... It's like being kissed! Or, actually, it's like pancake mix.
Author's Note: Okay, so I wrote this in 20 minutes time. No joke. But I was looking at the sheer volume of stories I've written (AKA, very little), and I decided I should start to rectify this. Otherwise, I'm all take-take-take, and no give. Then again, some of you may decide that what I have to give isn't worth the severe lack of brainpower.
Pancake Mix and a Dash of Salt
There's a special feeling you get when you break a story. Your language is powerful, your style is witty, and your facts are impeccable. Some unexplainable emotion bubbles up inside you, beginning in the stomach and causing you to stretch your body taut to slowly relieve the tension. You know what's coming next, and that's not just a smile on your face or warmth in your chest and cheeks.
Yessir, you're going to be a hit. This piece is front-page material, and you know it. Your boss, on the other hand?
She may not know it yet. Whatever. Screw her- this story is being published, and you'll get that Pulitzer yet.
Here's the problem, though- you have to share the byline. Not just any byline, but THE byline- from the story of the century. And you aren't sharing it with just anyone, you're sharing it with the copy boy across the desk from you. The copy boy who, despite expectations, has risen far faster than anyone would have ever expected. But this doesn't bother you, of course. He's doing well- that's great. Swell. Just peachy.
Okay. Sometimes, life just sucks. Lemons have nothing to do with life, now- lemon juice, on the other hand, mixed with a handful of salt and a pinch of shit, might fit the bill.
Yeah, you've never been good at cooking, but you sure know how to spin a drink! That one you'll label as "The Dirty Truth." Or, more simply, "Shit."
There's a special feeling you get when said copy boy looks at you, too, and that bothers you.
Understandably.
Your language is witty, your style is impeccable, and your facts are powerful. You know your way around the battlefield of life and love, and you know better than to fall into his trap. After all, who wants to kiss a bumbling farm boy in plaid and primary colors? He can't even keep his facts straight! We won't even *think* about his fashion sense- let's just say he lacks style. And let's not forget who gave him those rules- which he framed and forever keeps at hand. Let's not forget, here, either, who's boss: you are.
Of course he's rising faster than anyone expected- he's being personally tutored by the best! Really, you should consider charging him hourly to work with you. You're doing him a service! (Maybe he could earn his keep by cooking, now that you think about it. That'll be his fee. Bring that up with him later.)
Oh, he's looking at you. Say something. Staring is not an option. Say something!
Dammit, SAY SOMETHING!
"Spit it out, Smallville. You're not being paid to stare at me."
Smooth.
"I could say the same to you," he replied. Lois quirked an eyebrow and opened her mouth to speak, but Clark beat her to the punch. "You've been staring at that screen for nearly ten minutes." His expression softened. "Is everything all right?"
"All right?" she scoffed. "My life is the epitome of fantastic." Glancing back to her computer monitor, her expression hardened. "Ever wonder why we do this, Clark?"
Her conversational and emotional 180 threw him off. "Sorry?"
"Ever wonder why we work here? Why we accept the crappiest hours and the total lack of privacy? Ever wonder why we work at a job that offers no thanks, a job that actually gets us in more trouble than anything else?"
Flabbergasted, Clark floundered for a response. After several seconds of silence, Lois looked over to watch the emotions that raced across his face as he tried to process her words and come up with an adequate retort. Finally, he settled on, "Because we love it?"
Lois's hard stare melted as a small smile fluttered across her features. "Yeah, we do," she quietly agreed. Her expression hardened again. "But that's not why we do this, Farm Boy. We do this because it gives us a purpose in life. We get to reveal the truth, uncover the sickness of society, and bring hope to the people. We have the opportunity no one else has to try to fix the world. We can change this godforsaken pile of dirt with some carefully selected words and passion. It's like that pancake mix I use, but for reporting- just add some water to the truth, and voila! Instant gratification. Granted, it's not really instant, and it usually tastes more like paste than pancakes.
"Besides, there's this feeling you get when you're about to uncover something big, you know? It's like this weird bubbling feeling that makes your stomach dance and your chest to heat up. You get all tense, and the only release you have is your keyboard. You have to tell the world this great story, and the only way you can is to write it up. It's…" She pondered her next words for a moment while Clark merely gawked at her. A sudden "aha" expression made itself present as she realized what the feeling was like. "It's kind of like being kissed, but even better."
She stared dreamily into space for a minute while Clark stared at her, dumbstruck. He knew she was passionate, but damn!
"Pancake mix," she muttered to herself after a couple more seconds. "I like that." Whipping her eyes back to her screen her fingers frantically rode across the keyboard, editing her work. Clark, snapped from his zone, slowly got out of his seat and walked around to her desk. Kneeling, he pretended to read her article.
"Lois?" Clark ventured wearily. She ignored him. He cleared his throat and repeated, louder, "Lois?"
With a frustrated sigh, her fingers ceased their busywork and she turned her eyes to him once more. "What, Smallville? I've got a deadline to meet!"
He grinned a bit at that. "We have a deadline to meet, Lois, but that's beside the point." He paused, and she impatiently motioned for him to go on. His grin grew exponentially wider.
"What?"
A second later, his lips were on hers, chaste and innocent. He pulled back and quickly walked back to his chair before she had time to even respond. The so-deemed "mega-watt" smile never left his face.
You know what's coming next, and that's not just a smile on your face or warmth in your chest and cheeks…
"You're supposed to add an egg to that pancake mix you use. Not just water."
Well, I guess you don't know exactly what's coming next.