NUTELLA

Her cupboard was completely bare; she'd been gone for so long. Lois hadn't invited anyone over to her apartment in months,not while she'd been investigating the CEO of the largest banking conglomerate in the US. Unfortunately, she hadn't found anything especially newsworthy, at least not in the US. She and Clark had partnered up for this story, and he'd gone to investigate one of their outsourced offices and the paper trail had led him to Indonesia.

Lois knew he'd find more action there; things were always dirty when it was American big business in Asia, but oftentimes the country's GDP was less than the company's yearly profits, and they were powerless the change anything. At least he'd have a story, and hopefully a name.

Her stomach growled loudly, reminding her of her original purpose— finding something to eat. It was late at night and pouring rain. At three in the morning, even in the huge city of Metropolis, there were few places that delivered, and none on her side of town. She'd managed to save up enough to get a place on the west side, as far away from the Suicide Slums as one could get while not being in a suburb. If she was going to run headfirst into danger for most hours of her life, she'd like to sleep easy at least.

She had a nice view, but few open all night restaurants. And none that delivered.

Lois squinted out of her tiny, fogged up kitchen window. The roar of pounding rain was audible, even from her small corner of Metropolis. It was a freezing April shower, 28 degrees with powerful gales buffeting the storm with a negative wind chill.

Yeah. There was no way in hell she was going outside.

The apartment was silent. Only the sound of the storm kept her company.

Well, the sound of the storm and the slamming of old creaky cupboards.

She frowned. Before, the silence had never bothered her. She'd been without company for as long as she could remember, since she'd moved out of her dorm while finishing her undergraduate at Metropolis University. Lois never was one for having company over, but ever since Clark had come back, she'd gotten used to his looming presence, his quiet comfort, his cooking. Not like she couldn't cook— one didn't live on one's own for fifteen years and not learn how to cook— but she didn't cook like him. Clark cooked like a housewife, or one of those home cooking ladies on the Food Network.

By God, did she miss his cooking.

Back to her task, then, she sighed. Whenever Clark came to cook, he brought his own groceries in brown cloth bags. The glasses suited him in a strange way, she thought, closing yet another empty spice smelling cabinet. If he were fifteen years younger, he'd be a hipster, she'd joked. He never brought canned or processed food; though he would certainly eat out. Just not meat. It was an interesting conundrum that never failed to bring an amused smile to Lois's face.

Thinking of Clark's cooking made her stomach growl even ferociously. She grimaced.

At last, she came upon a cabinet that was not completely bare— the pantry above her formerly dusty and woefully underused stove. There were two cans of tuna— but no bread and no mayonnaise, canned sardines, a small bag of basmati rice, tomato paste, olives, and a single jar of Nutella.

"Yes!" She said out loud, stretching up with practiced ease and snatching the jar, shaking it from the embrace of dust. The golden foil seal wasn't even broken, and when she checked the sell-by date, it was was only four months old.

Four months, she'd been living out of hotels and rent-a-cars, for nothing.

Desolation crept up on the normally unflappable reporter. Her instincts had never led her astray before and those instincts were the very ones that said 'something's wrong here' when an anonymous letter had come in the mail, pointing her in the direction of the largest bank in the US.

Where Lois's drive for news came for her desire to expose corruption and crime, Clark enjoyed writing about the plight of the working man. He was a social justice writer— even his objective pieces had the ability to invoke feelings in readers.

Recently though, she'd been putting him through the wringer on how to write an investigative report. He had an excellent eye for detail, and an engaging, objective voice (when he tried) but a complete inability to tell how much was enough. There were some things that the public just didn't need to know, or couldn't know, or were beyond the average observation of the painfully average person. He could make leaps and connection sometimes even Lois failed to notice— though that had happened only once, she was proud to say (and how about that, her investigative skills outstripped that of an alien with superhuman senses!)- but he lacked a complete drive to look into things. He feared his own curiosity. Lois found that to be a tragedy. If he were unrestrained, no dirty secret killing the freedom of man would stay safe. But she'd been reporting long enough to know that it took more than just the truth to defeat evil.

She sidled through the kitchen, carrying her prize underarm as she navigated expertly through the familiar obstacles of the living room while she fiddled with her phone. The house was too quiet. Even though it was late at night, she wanted some company, even if it is was the voice of a stranger in the form of music.

Clad only in a baggy t shirt and comfortable cotton underwear, fuzzy socks on her feet warming her toes, she flopped onto the couch and turned up the volume on her phone, soft music quickly filling the room. She tossed her phone on the table and crossed her feet, fumbling for her jar of Nutella.

Within seconds, it was unscrewed and in her mouth, and it was chocolatey nutty heaven. As old as the jar was, the spread was still smooth and not hard and crumbly.

Licking absently between her fingers as she hummed along with the words of the song, augmenting the beat of the wind at the windows and the huff and whipcrack of icy water, her eyes drifted closed as she dug her hand into the jar for a second serving.

Oh yes, worry still ached at her, but alone in her apartment with a solitary jar of nutella for company, all she could feel was only a little more at ease.

Still hungry, but at ease.

I checked my stats- this story has a 1,500 reads! Thus, my third most popular fic on ffn, ever! Thank you so much for reading guys! Your comments always make my day. My anons, sometimes I really wish I could reply! Comment on ao3 at /works/ 12385203/ because they are always so thoughtful and never fail to bring a smile to my face.

Thanks for reading!

YellowWomanontheBrink

January 21, 2018

12:04 am