14195/Late Night At The Daily Planet

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Late Night At The Daily Planet
Date of Scene: 15 March 2022
Location: Daily Planet, Central Business Dist.
Synopsis: Clark finds Lois asleep at her desk after getting back from an intense under cover story. He gives her the pep talk she needs to get her head back in the game.
Cast of Characters: Lois Lane, Superman




Lois Lane has posed:
It's somewhere after midnight. It's a truly ludicrious hour of the night for anyone to be at their desk, but Lois Lane is at her desk. She's just back from a long term, 'undercover' expose` with some mountain clean living cult that she spent over a week straight pretending to be a part of to get the story. Now, she's been trying to get all her experiences and notes down into some sort of sensible story, but it's not going well.

At some point, probably within the last hour, her mind gave up. It doesn't help that she's been drinking out of the JB bottle in her desk drawer *and* the shitty coffee from the break room. Even the two empty 5 Hour Energy bottles in her desk's trash can can't help her. The only thing that can help her is what her body has decided she needs -- sleep. That means she's face down, slumped over her laptop and her handwritten notes on her desk. She's still in her comfortable clothing from the day, jeans and striped sweater, but she's switched out her boots for her secret desk slippers. Chances are, she was planning on sleeping here. Just not like this.

Superman has posed:
Clark Kent is not at the Daily Planet.

That's only natural, considering it's after midnight. Unlike Lois, he has a life outside of work, and he cherishes those moments where he can hang up his pen and take some well-deserved rest and relaxation. As far as his coworkers know, he's made good progress on that write-up for the new STEM magnet school opening up in the lower-income immigrant neighborhoods, spearheaded by Stark Industry's very own Pepper Potts. Of course, Pepper isn't sexy enough a name for a major story; when people hear Stark, they want Tony, not his right-hand woman.

"Get STARK, Kent, STARK!" has been the mantra of the editor-in-chief, Perry White, for awhile. It's put Clark in a pickle: he understands the news demands a more eyecatching hook, but the good deed is Pepper Potts', and letting Tony take the credit... well, it sits poorly. Perhaps he'll square that circle, get a picture of Tony, and then write glowingly about Pepper...

All that's for another time, though. At the moment, Clark is taking his R&R -- by which of course we mean Superman has been traveling the world do-gooding. It's only now, during a lull in the heroics, floating above the stratosphere, that he gazes down. Many miles away, his focused senses zoom through clouds and across landscapes, narrowing in on nearby Metropolis. And there, sprawled across her desk, is Lois.

Superman's lips purse, and shortly thereafter, Clark Kent is coming out of a back office, where he must have gotten lost and fallen asleep himself hours ago. Blearily, he wanders toward Lois, reaching down and placing a hand on her shoulder to shake her gently awake.

"Lois, come on. That's no way to sleep."

Lois Lane has posed:
The hand on her shoulder was unexpected and, for just a moment, Lois isn't there. She's being pulled awake in room with a dozen other people, all wearing linen, staring a little too dead-eyed at her. "I'm up!" She gasps out, guiltily, her ice blue eyes jerking around the room for a few moments in half panic before she realizes where she is. Home. The Daily Planet. At her desk, which feels more like home than her own apartment nowadays.

She takes a few more shallow breaths, trying to straighten her own glasses as she looks over her shoulder in Clark's direction. She gives him a slightly awkward but warm smile, forcing her shoulders to straighten up and pushing one hand back through her carelessly waving black hair. She's trying to look put together. Why she wants to look put together for Clark, she'll never know, but she is trying.

"Shit, Kansas, shouldn't you have been home hours ago? You look half asleep. Come on. It's past your bed time." She teases him gently, blinking through her own exhaustion. She's still got a piece of hair stuck to her cheek and some of her handwriting, in pen, has bled off of her note book and onto the edge of her jawline from where she fell asleep on her book.

Superman has posed:
Kansas, as he's called, looks disheveled and bleary: his tie's loosened, his jacket is unzipped, and there's some wrinkles in the fabric of his shirt and pants that demand a good ironing. "Oh, well, I meant to get home earlier," he admits, reaching out to casually brush the stuck hair away from Lois' ink-stained cheek. "I wanted to catch a few winks, first, in a back office... we've all been having late nights, lately. Seems everyone kind of just... forgot I was back there."

He exhales and his broad shoulders slump. Classic Kent, big as a bull, quiet as a mouse, easily fading into the background so much that even his co-workers don't notice him unconscious and snoring behind a potted plant and an office table. The moment's self-deprecation passes and he smiles a bit, the left side of his mouth rising more sharply than the right. They don't teach proper smiles in Kansas -- his has always been a little lopsided. But it's charming, in a way.

"As for you, Miss Lane," he begins, "it seems you had a bit too much of a nightcap." He tilts his head and makes an old-fashioned drinking pantomime, eyes glancing toward the left-out bottle of booze she'd been sipping from. "Oh, and your face is all... come here." There's a water bottle nearby and he squirts a bit of it out on his shirt sleeve, leaning in to wipe Lois' cheek, if she allows him.

This does mean his white shirt is now stained, but he doesn't seem to care.

Lois Lane has posed:
Ice blue eyes, perhaps not quite as blue as the ones hidden behind Clark's glasses, but close, look the linebacker of a man up and down. That's when she notices the wrinkles in his shirt, the muss of his pants, and the fact his eyes seem almost as bleary as her's. She shakes her head, giving him a few good tsks from her throat as she reaches up to try and straighten his collar in turn. "Come on, Kent. There's only room for one hot mess around this office and I've firmly taken that throne. You can't fall asleep in the back, I'll think you're trying to play catch up." She teases him lightly, both exhaustion and fondness behind her voice.

It's good to be home.

Then he's going at her cheek with the water on his sleeve and her nose wrinkles, one eye shutting in vague protest, but she doesn't pull away. "What are you, my mother? God, Clark, I can wash my face! And it wasn't... I didn't... really... I didn't have that much. I swear. Just a few sips to calm the mind, you know? And *in coffee*, so that evens it out. Just this damn cult. They really were crazies. Lights out at 10 pm. Who lives like that? I have jet lag from being in a f*ckin' cult." Lois mutters, cheek now cleaned and his shirt stained, but she's looking far more herself.

Superman has posed:
"You've always been the better reporter, Miss Pulitzer," Clark teases in response. "I thought I should start learning from the best." Clark's a hard worker, and he's even out-scooped Lois at times, but the simple fact is she's consistently the superior writer; she has more name recognition, more clout in the field, and a fantastic nose for sniffing out stories. "So if you don't mind, I think I'll take a sip."

He reaches out for the left-over bottle once he's cleaned Lois' face, plucking it from the desk and twirling it back and forth in his hand, before tipping it back toward his mouth. He takes a little sip and purses his lips, his whole face puckering.

"Oh, now I remember why I don't drink," he laments, his face still scrunched up as he swallows the taste away. "Oh, that must have been just awful, Lois. I bet they brushed their teeth every morning and night, looked both ways before crossing the streets, and even said Grace before dinner." That smile again, and he gives her shoulder a squeeze. "However did you manage?"

Across the city, across the country, across the world, voices cry out for help.

Lois Lane has posed:
As he plucks the bottle off of her desk, Lois winces, almost about to warn him, but he's a grown boy who can make his own decisions. "Clark, learning from the best includes coming on some research trips with me, a whole lot of patience, and a decent bit of luck. I'm not the *best*, I'm just a stubborn bitch and have been doing this longer. I promise you, it's not the booze or sleeping at the office. Some might even say that makes me... " She winces a little, her pride hurting to admit it but she hates to infect him with her life style, "Not quite as professional as I should be."

She reaches up and tries to swipe back her bottle. If she manages to get it out of his hands, she screws the lid back open and knocks back the near-full last shot that was left in the bottom. Mickey empty. Another for the trash can. She gives him a little, drowsy grin, "There. Saved you from the rest of those bad decisions." She winks.

And then he's asking about the cult. Her expression closes off a bit more, blue eyes turning from his handsome features to the messy notes on the desk in front of her. "Yes to the teeth and the grace. No to the streets. That would have required them to let any of their women out of the compound enough to go on the streets, which they don't. And the grace was a little too... world is ending, savor the food until it's all taken away in fire, for my tastes. It was... Intense." Not much bothers Lois. Whatever this trip was? It got under her skin. She habitually reaches for the bottle that usually lives on her desk, but she just emptied it. Instead, she grabs her cold coffee.

Superman has posed:
When Lois reaches for her coffee, expecting it to be cold, she'll find it's actually pleasantly warm -- a little hot, but not so much as to scald. She must have made some in a half-asleep inebriated stupor earlier, before passing back out on her desk.

Clark, meanwhile, stares down at her with gentle eyes. "Lois, watch your language," he chides, reaching out to rest his hand on her shoulder in a friendly, almost paternal fashion. "It's not only cruel words from others that hurt us, but cruel words from ourselves. There's no need for that self-deprecation around me; you don't need to be perfect to be a good woman." He gives her a faint squeeze as she looks at him, and there's simply no guile at all shown on his lopsided face; he's a bit more stern at the moment than usual, but nothing he hasn't demonstrated before. Like a good friend, like the simply decent man he is, he doesn't want to hear her talk down about herself. "You work hard and you play hard. There's nothing wrong with that -- in moderation."

Admittedly, boozing at work and falling asleep there at midnight may not be moderation, but Clark's tone is sympathetic more than judgmental. He sees the best in Lois; he always has.

"End-of-the-world cults can be a little odd like that. I'm not one to deride another's beliefs -- 'cast out the beam of thine own eye' -- but there's a point where belief becomes ideology, and if you're imposing it by force, well, that's... well that's just no good, no good at all."

He makes a mental note to visit this compound. There might be a need for a Superman.

Lois Lane has posed:
As he gives her that pep talk, one she's heard before, will probably hear again, but never fully manages to process, a bittersweet smile tugs itself across her lips. Lois can't lock eyes with him too long. She enjoys him, but there also seems something very raw and bared about her soul when she looks at him like that. All her sins on the table, in compare to his goodness, and she doesn't know how to ever measure up. Therefore, instead, she looks back down to her surprisingly warm coffee and takes another deep sip. It gives her an excuse not to answer for a few heartbeats.

But he's onto talking about work. That is easier for her. She sighs at the still-open notebook on the table. "I got some great photos. Had one of the pen cameras from Jimmy, the only technology they didn't take from me -- my pen. Only way I was able to take notes, too. But the expose` will done. Perry'll run it by the end of the week. People will stare at the cult porn and shake their heads. And no one will do a damned thing about it until they all kill themselves, because... I guess, it's technically not illegal. All I did was give the world a bit more click bait and some new things to sensationalize." Of course, that's half of Lois' stories -- going behind the scenes with different communities and people. But this one got to her, it seems.

She finally sighs, closing the book and shutting her laptop down before looking back to him, "But, it's late. We... should both be getting out of here. It's way past your bedtime, Kansas. You need me to come tuck you in?" She asks with a renewed flirtatious smile.

Superman has posed:
In the face of Lois' stare and then her breaking of eye contact, Clark faintly blushes, looking away as well. "Well, sorry, I don't mean to lecture," he apologizes. "But I believe in you, Lois. You're better than you think you are -- everyone is, deep down, but especially you. You wouldn't beat yourself up like this and... self-medicate if you didn't care about the people you write about. I know it's not easy to watch someone suffer and not be sure how to help, but -- well, gosh darnit, Lois, you can't do everything. You're not Superman!"

He laughs at that, and withdraws his hand from her shoulder, giving her some space as the topic turns to work. "Sunlight is the best disinfectant. We have to trust that the work we do matters; that when the people know a wrong is being committed, someone will stand up and right it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. Maybe it's just one person who plants their feet firmly on the ground and says today I'll be better, today I'll work hard. But I think, um..."

He realizes he's lecturing again. Clark stammers and keeps talking when he gets nervous, as if he'll talk himself out of whatever embarrassing situation he talked himself into to begin with. His hand goes to the back of his neck.

"... I think if you inspire even one person to be better, you've done something wonderful, Lois."

He smiles nervously at her, then turns away. "Oh, I'm -- I think I can tuck myself in, Lois. But I would like to walk you out of the building, at least."

Lois Lane has posed:
Sometimes the lectures help. Sometimes they drive her some place darker. Tonight, it's a mix of both. There is an ache of sadness behind the hope in her eyes as she turns away from her now closed up desk and looks into his blue gaze behind those glasses. "I... hope you're right. I really do. And I know that's why I do this -- if people don't know what is fuc-... Messed up, then they can't know what to try to fix. I'm not Superman. I'm not a social worker. All I can do is tell their stories. It just..." She sighs, staring back to her desk and her half full coffee, "Sometimes it doesn't feel like it's enough."

Then she unfolds herself from that desk with a crackle of joints and a pop in her back from having been leaned over in the worst position far too long. All of her is aching. It was fine to fall asleep at her desk in her 20s, but now in her 30s she feels that stiffness bone deep. She's also a little uneven on her feet, tired and tipsy after bad sleep for a week straight. She's not at her best.

"I'll take the escort out. Even if I work better here than home. I don't suppose I can order you to go home without doing it myself?" She asks with an arched brow. She is tempted to try.

Superman has posed:
Lois stares into her coffee, lost in her grief and tiredness and doubt, and behind her, unseen, Clark Kent's heart aches. This is Lois Lane, someone he's admired since he became a journalist, someone who has become a friend to him -- and while not more than a friend, whatever their occasional flirtatious banter might suggest, she is someone he cares for.

She's not wrong. If there's nothing illegal going on, there's a limit to what the authorities can do. The simple fact is abuse, exploitation, and all manner of evil can't be prosecuted if the victims have been conditioned to accept it or even crave it; the ultimate art of victimization is convincing someone they haven't been victimized at all. It's unfair, it's hurtful, it's wrong...

But someone could fix it. Clark's back straightens and his shoulders square. His hand drifts to his glasses, trembling, and then stills. He could do it. He could tell her. It's just them here, and she'd keep his secret, and he could promise her he's going to save those women, that he's going to make it all better, and she'd believe him, because he's --

"Lois."

It is Clark-but-not-Clark. The mild-mannered reporter is always nasal, but this voice comes from the chest, the stomach. It's stern and deep and downright heroic. "Lois, I -- "

By the time she turns, he's slouched over once more, glasses on, looking for all the world like the world's biggest dweeb. His hands are in his pockets.

"I think things will be alright," he finishes lamely. "Come on. It's late."

... she'd believe him, because he's Superman. And then she'd never see him as Clark again.

Lois Lane has posed:
If she wasn't so exhausted and half drunk, Lois might have picked up more on that tone shift in his voice. As it is, she has the instincts of a reporter, honed and sharpened over the years. There is something different, even if she can't put her finger on it. She turns blue eyes quickly back to him, gaze narrowing as she tries to pin point what she's feeling in the air and heard in his voice. Now standing, she fully turns to face him, even if she has to look up and up to properly meet his eyes. He's so tall, no matter how much smaller and nerdier he seems sometimes.

"Clark...?" She asks softly, not moving from her desk area yet. "Is... something on your mind?" She asks softly. It felt like he wanted to tell her something. That's what her instincts are screaming at her. But she can't figure out what. She's studying his face, and she can't read it from his eyes. Whatever was in his voice is there and gone again.

Superman has posed:
Clark chuckles and continues to walk. "Come on, Lois, you're practically a zombie," he teases. "I'm just ready to get to bed, that's all." On some level, he feels guilty for lying to her like this, for making her doubt her own perceptions; it isn't kind, but the fact is, Clark Kent isn't ready to lose a friend. Once she knows his identity, she'll never forget it. He won't be Kansas anymore, or Clark, or the nice guy she talks to and flirts with.

Sorry, Lois, he thinks. But there's no revelation tonight. Just a quiet, peaceful escort out of the building.

Lois Lane has posed:
A little grunt of acknowledgement escapes her throat. "I'm not a zombie. I've worked far later nights than this!" She protests to him, all the while stepping forward and looping her skinny arm through the grasp of his elbow, so she can lean against him as they walk out of the building. He wanted to escort her? She'd make him properly escort her the whole damn way! Besides, it was nice to simply touch someone she properly wanted to touch. To feel his warmth, his solidness, after the week and change of being completely out of sorts. He was grounding. He felt like home. She leans a bit closer against him as they make their way to the elevators.