Almost Partners (Chapter Five)

Research.

She glanced over the top of her laptop at Clark as he leaned back, talking on his cell. He was talking to Jimmy about sports. Technically, it was worse of a duty-shirk than what she was doing. At least she was doing research.

She just wasn't doing the research she should be doing. She'd told him she was familiarizing herself with PCOS. She was actually familiarizing herself with what stories there were from The Inquisitor. There were two dirty sides to that coin.

One was that she should be focusing on the story at hand. People were in danger. People that included them, now that they were setting themselves up to be couple-napper bait. But what was there to do? Spread the word and stay on guard. There was nothing wrong with trying to take care of her own issues. And, apparently, she had issues.

And there was the other side. She was seriously looking for answers in what used to be Metropolis' answer to The Weekly World News. But it mentioned things. Smallville things. Not many, but enough. One writer, a hack with limited vocabulary named Nixon, seemed very into Smallville. One article from about seven years ago. Meteor rocks. He kept mentioning meteor rocks. Smallville had been riddled with them in the eighties. He believed they'd caused mutations in the people of Smallville.

This is the kind of town that should be under government quarantine, not shipping their corn all over Kansas. Yet Luthercorp has set up another fertilizer plant. Let's hope, readers, that no one's buying their product. Otherwise, the state of Kansas will be riddled with "meteor freaks," as Claire Milligan, the kid who churns out Smallville High's paper, calls them. It just goes to show that even a child can see there's something rotten in the state of Kansas.

She squinted at the screen. She'd read the article before, but this part kept popping out at her. Possibly because it made her feel so unexplainably... offended. She didn't know why. Well... she knew he meant Chloe Sullivan, but... So the guy got her cousin's name wrong. Who was she to throw stones? She wasn't big on memory lately, it seemed. But... She shook it off and kept reading. It didn't matter.

She just wanted more. Even a rag like The Inquisitor got some things right some of the time. And she knew that Nixon was on to something. She'd wanted to contact the guy herself. But he seemed to be a little dead. And where did he die?

Smallville.

It all came back to Smallville. The Daily Planet's more trustworthy archives had an obit. He was shot by Lex Luthor. Further research brought up that it had been self defense. It seemed Luthor had been involved in no less than five shootings ruled to be self-defense. Was it just that billionaires were targets? Or should she definitely watch her step with Luthor? Possibly both.

But the point was Smallville.

"Lois?"

She jumped slightly and glanced up, minimizing her window. "Yeah?"

Clark tilted his head. "You okay?"

"Me? Peachy. Just antsy about the party. I just hate... casseroles."

He smiled and shrugged. "Jimmy wants to talk to you."

"Oh, sure. Great." She took the phone from him and watched him move into the kitchen. He opened the oven and peeked in. Shepherd's pie, he'd said. It smelled good. Before he'd been talking to Jimmy he'd been on the phone with his mother, taking instructions. He'd told her he'd pass it off as hers so as not to destroy the sweet suburban stereotype they were living.

"Why do we have to cook something?" she'd wanted to know.

"It's a potluck. You're supposed to."

She didn't care if Mitzi and the girls had a conniption if they brought something store-bought. But his cooking served a purpose. It kept him out of the way while she did her own thing. Her own thing that was being heavily interrupted by Jimmy.

"Yeah, Jimmy? What's up?"

"Clark says he's cooking. Does that mean you're having a beer and watching football?"

"Hardy-har."

"No, seriously. How's it playing house? Are you two... seeing a lot of each other?"

"What?" She tore her eyes from the screen and glanced at Clark. Had he said something about her? About the kiss? "Are you implying something, Jimmy?"

"No. Of course not." There was a long pause before he continued hurriedly. "But there may or may not be a bet between me and Rachel. I'd ask Clark, but that would sound weird. Can you settle something for me?"

She sighed and clicked another link. One freaky website with stories about alien activity. As ridiculous as that sounded, she clicked away, looking for anything about Kansas. Could lead to another Nixon story. "Depends on what you need settled, Jimmy."

"Okay... What kind of underwear does Clark wear?"

She rolled her eyes. She was being taken away from her research for this? "What makes you think I've seen his underwear?"

"I don't know. He could have left it in the bathroom or something."

"Put it on speaker," a muffled voice said. A female voice.

"No," she heard Jimmy hiss.

"Then how will I know if you're lying?"

"Tell Rachel it's boxers," Lois finally snapped. "Clark wears boxers."

"What?" Clark called from the kitchen.

"Cool," Jimmy said. "Fifty bucks, Rach."

She glanced sheepishly at Clark, who was frozen with an oven mitt on his hand. "Rachel wanted to know what kind of underwear you wear."

He groaned. "And you told her? I have a hard enough time with her as it..."

"Jimmy just won fifty bucks, if it makes you feel better."

"No," Clark grumbled.

"What did Rachel think?" Lois asked Jimmy.

"Nothing."

"Well, that's obvious, but..."

"No. Nothing. She thinks Clark goes commando."

"What are they saying now?" Clark hissed, coming closer.

"Rachel's wishful thinking had you in no underwear."

"I heard that," Rachel's muffled voice said in her ear.

"Get away from the phone, Rachel," Jimmy groaned. "And pay up."

"Jimmy, we have to go," Lois said, minimizing her screen again, hoping Clark wasn't coming over. Seeing her on a nut job alien conspiracy site was more embarrassing than it was incriminating, but still... "Clark and I have this pot luck and..."

"Yeah, yeah. Sounds like fun, except not... Oh! And Rachel wants you to set up a webcam when Clark's in the shower."

"That is such a lie," Rachel shrieked. "Of course... If she could..."

"I'm hanging up," Lois said quickly and did just that. Jimmy wouldn't be offended. He never was. That was the nice thing about Jimmy. He was pleasant. Clark, however, looked less than pleasant, leaning against the counter and frowning at the floor. "What's wrong?"

"I'm getting kind of sick of being treated like a piece of meat by every maneater and middle-aged woman in Metropolis."

Lois shrugged. "I don't treat you like a piece of meat."

"You're not a maneater or a middle-aged woman. You're... different." His eyes landed on her as he said it. And they seemed a little... warm. Or maybe she just felt warm.

"Yeah. Thanks. It's great to not be an old cougar." She cleared her throat and restored her window, hoping he'd just go back to cooking and stop... looking at her. "Better finish with the Betty Crocker routine. It's nearly five and we should..."

"Oh." He straightened up and held up his oven-mitted hand. "I'm on it."

She hastily avoided watching him bend and turned her eyes to the world of aliens. Kansas, Kansas, her mind whispered. Come on. She shouldn't even be doing this now. She should be getting dressed for the party. She should be focusing on Met Vista. She should be... Lois Lane. Her name. There it was. Her name. Right next to the words "Global Warming or Alien Invasion?"

She clicked, zooming in on the scan, trying to get to the words.

...And what force could possibly blow a barn door off its hinges and over a mile away, where it almost hit an innocent jogger? Some skeptics would say weather patterns, microbursts, something easily explained by science... or is it?

No. This was not her. This was not even close to her style. Somebody was writing with her name. It was over two years ago. Maybe they just had the same name. It wasn't inconceivable that there was another person with the name Lois Lane. She scrolled down the article to the bottom, scanning over the ridiculous claims and run-on sentences and... the tiny picture of Linda.

She stood slowly, shaking her head. Linda? A tabloid reporter? "What the..."

"You okay?"

She closed the window and straightened, squaring her shoulders. "I'm fine. I'm going to get dressed... for the party. Okay. Doing that." She walked away shakily. Clark was, of course, looking at her like she was nuts again. He'd done it in the medical building, too, right after the elevator--when she'd actually hallucinated. Not only that, she'd imagined saying words that weren't her own. Maybe that was the interest in The Inquisitor. All that paranormal crap. Something was happening to her.

She closed herself in her room and leaned against the door, breathing deeply. Her head ached again. It's all in your mind. These headaches are... just that. There's no reason... She breathed deeper and opened her eyes, gulping in air and letting it out slowly. It helped. It was the only thing that helped. She'd given up on aspirin. It did nothing.

She spotted her purse on the bed and moved toward it, pulling out her phone, dialing, waiting...

"Lois," Linda breathed. "I'm so glad you called."

"Linda..."

"I understand how you feel from earlier. It's totally valid, but you have to know that you can trust me. I'm not doing things behind your back. The Clark stuff was just because I was worried about your..."

"Linda," she cut in loudly. "I'm not calling about that."

"Oh... Well... How's Met Vista going? I'm very..."

"Did you ever write for The Inquisitor?" she asked suddenly.

"Wh-what?"

"Tabloid rag, shut down a year ago, had an article with my name on it."

"R-really? That's... weird. Must not be such a rare..."

"My name and your picture, Linda."

"Okay." She heard Linda's deep breath and long-silence before her voice finally came through again, tight and hard. "I... uh... tried out journalism briefly. Didn't work out, really."

"And you... used my name?"

"Technically, I... yes. I used your name. It was my pen name." It came out dull and robotic. "I'm... I'm sorry I never told you."

"What is wrong with you?"

"What can I say?" Linda said, still with that nearly angry edge to her voice. "I'm... very sorry."

"I don't believe you," Lois said, feeling confused and hurt. It was the same as this morning. Linda apologized, but she didn't sound sorry at all. She sounded mad. And Lois didn't get it.

"You know what, Cuz?" Linda started to speak again, but just noises came out. "I... I gotta go. Bye."

Lois stared at the "call ended" text on the screen and dropped the phone on the bed. There was something weird with Linda lately. Something she wasn't sure she could trust. It was becoming the story of her life. Facts didn't add up, people didn't add up. Nothing seemed true.

Or maybe she was hearing things, seeing things. Things that weren't there. She stripped slowly, dimly registering the ring of the house phone. Clark could get it. She was too busy going crazy. She turned on the shower as she slipped the last of her trail of clothes off. Her panties hit the floor and she stepped in.

"One story at a time," she whispered to herself. She was done delving into dead ends and paranormal phenomena. For real this time. She had a potluck to go to, a dastardly deed to uncover. The only time she felt whole was when she was on the story, whatever the story happened to be. So why did Smallville and events pertaining to it tear her to pieces?

She ducked her head under the spray. She couldn't think about it now. There was danger there. She felt it.

******************************

Clark heard the shower running as he picked up the phone. He checked the clock as he brought it to his ear. It was after five. Lois had better hurry.

"Hello?"

"I hate you. I hate you so much."

"Linda," he groaned. "I guess hello is not in your vocabulary anymore."

"She's pissed at me again. I just got another call. Now it's about Lois Lane's time writing for The inquisitor."

"How did she..."

"I don't know," Linda said tightly. "But she found something. I've got Victor blocking your new IP address from certain sites, but she must have found something."

"Hold on." Clark looked toward the wall between him and the master bedroom. The shower was still running. He sat in front of her laptop and pulled up her internet explorer, clicking on the history tab. "She's been to a few sites about... aliens?" It was close. It was too close. He brought up a link under one item. "It's your article, alright. And here's another one by... Nixon."

"The dead president?"

"No. He was a reporter from a while back. He got a little too close to... It doesn't matter."

"I... I can't take it anymore. I'm the one who keeps getting shit on, here. Get mad, blame Linda. Linda, who happens to be the only innocent party in all this. And you get to be that coworker that I roped into my devious little plan and..."

"Linda, I get that you're mad. But do you think I like this? I spent many years hiding things from her and to start it all again... I just..."

"You're just the reason she handi-wiped her head in the first place."

"That's not true. There were many other..." he sighed and closed her window. "I have a story here and I can't deal with all of it at once. Okay? Let me get through this and then we can concentrate on finding Grady."

"Yes. Well, we're doing plenty of concentrating at our end and all the mayor's horses and men can't put that together. We are trying, here. And you're sitting around playing house and..."

"Do you even know what's at risk here?" He stood and strode to the nursery, stripping his T-shirt over his head. "People are missing. Their actual lives could be in danger. I don't have time to listen to you take your anger at Lois out on me."

"I'm not angry at..." He heard her sigh. "Okay. Maybe that is a little of what I'm doing. I just... I can't take it anymore. I just want it all back the way it was with my cousin loving me and hating you. The way it should be."

"Oh, thank you."

"I'm serious. Our Lois is on the fast train to crazy town if we don't sort this out."

"And five couples could already be in... dead... ville."

"You suck at banter, Smallville. Just... just keep an eye on her. Okay? Keep her attention where it should be."

"I'll keep her close," he said, tossing his sweatpants in the corner. He opened the closet and took out a pair of dress slacks, hurriedly speeding into them and the black shoes on the floor.

"Not too close," Linda warned.

"Linda, will you just let me go?" He grabbed his watch from the dresser, feeling a surge of frustration. "I have enough to deal with right now."

"Fine. But... Oh, never mind."

He heard the dial tone. It was almost the best sound ever. He slipped his watch on and felt his anger dissipate as he strode to the closet. Linda was being shit on. That much was true. It royally sucked to be her. But did she have any idea how hard it was to see her day in and day out? All the while knowing what they'd had before. He pulled a dress shirt on and started on the buttons, then stared at the bag at the bottom of his closet. He'd almost forgot the suit. His hands undid the buttons again as he bent over and pulled it out.

Maybe he didn't need it tonight. It had been so quiet in the city. Then again, he was in the north of the city, where crime was probably outlawed by the home owner's association. He almost wanted to be back in his crappy apartment downtown. He could hear things there. Here, any screams of terror were associated with broken antiques or stock market disasters.

There was a knock on the door and he quickly shoved his suit in the closet, closing the door. "Just a sec." He opened it on Lois. Lois with wet hair and a black pencil skirt and a red sweater. A tight red sweater. He swallowed hard. "Hey."

"Hey," she said to his chest. No other words came out.

"Did you... need something?"

"Uh..." Her gaze traveled to his eyes. "Yeah. The... uh... I need to be pinned... to wear... a pin. That pin Mitzi gave me. The... uh... You seen it?" she finally finished, wincing slightly, her face red.

"Actually, yeah." He moved to the dresser. "I found it caught on me this morning." He came back, holding it out.

She laughed nervously. "Guess it gets around. Darn cornucopias." Her hand moved to take it, but he found himself holding that hand, trapping the pin between them. She looked up, her eyes wide. "Clark?"

"Let me," he said moving closer before releasing her hand. "You might pierce your skin." A flimsy excuse and he knew it, but the temptation... Just to get a little closer to said skin. Her sweater had a large square neckline and there was all that lovely skin. He could smell it. She wasn't wearing perfume or lotion. He just smelled her.

He breathed in, taking in her flushed skin as he pierced her sweater, just at the corner of the square neckline. She hadn't done her hair. It hung in wet chunks around her bare face. He could see it stir slightly as he breathed, lingering over the pin, playing with fire. Surely she'd noticed that it didn't take this long to pin a woman with an ugly cornucopia. But she didn't seem to mind, not if his sense of smell was accurate. There was a slightly sweet, musky scent underneath the smell of skin. He was definitely playing with fire now.

He licked his lips and reluctantly moved his hands away. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and her lips were parted. "Do we... really have to go to the party?" he asked. His hands were at his sides but he hadn't moved away. He couldn't. "We could just skip it. Hang out."

"Yeah. We could... Huh?" She suddenly started and jumped back. "No. we can't. Of course we can't," she said quickly. "This is... an important party. We... uh... need to button up..." She winced. "Buckle up," she corrected. "No. Uh... Buck up or... Oh, whatever it is they say. So I should just... finish. Yeah." She nodded to herself and turned on her heel.

He shook his head. What was with him? It must have been the look in her eyes that did him in. He hadn't seen that look for so long. It was a look that spoke of want. Her mind may have forgotten him, but her body remembered. He knew it. He heard her blowdryer through the door across from his. He could see it now. He would take it out of her hands, her reflection in the mirror surprised as he bent to her neck. She wouldn't protest for long. It would be so easy. She wanted it. He could tell. He could smell...

"No," he hissed aloud. "Stupid." He buttoned his shirt quickly, taking deep breaths. He started to tuck his shirt in, but looked down. No tucking. Tucking would be a bad idea in his state. His mind pictured Perry White in a bikini. It was a funny thought. It was also a disgusting thought. But it did the trick.

He'd really have to watch himself with her.

*************************

She didn't even want to look at him.

She brushed her tangled and blown hair to the side, parting it at three quarters. Her bangs had grown out now and she'd let the rest of it match their length. The ends reached the middle of her neck and she curled them under with the brush. A stray hair fell to her chest. She brushed it off, glaring at the ugly pin she just had to wear as a nod to the hostess. It was crooked, too. She adjusted it, wondering why she'd just stood there practically salivating while Clark crookedly pinned her. Humiliating.

She shook her head and went back to furiously brushing her hair. It was better than thinking about Clark. She glanced at her roots. She'd had a touch-up last week. It still looked good, though the woman hadn't done the best job tinting her eyebrows. She picked up a brow liner and worked at them, wondering why she kept the dye job up. What was so bad about blonde? She could go blonde.

Then again, she'd probably look just like her cousin. It was straight out of The Patty Duke Show, that resemblance. She found herself singing lightly. "There's Cathy who's lived most everywhere..." She groaned and tossed the pencil in the sink.

What was wrong with her? Her mind was all over the place. Still, better that than where it wanted to be... "Clark," she sighed. He hadn't seemed immune to their little moment, either. Would it be so bad if they... No. They worked together. People that worked together did not sleep together. Even if it was just one time. Just to see...

"No," she said aloud, picking up her mascara. It was a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. And she would stop thinking about it... any minute now.

When she came into the living room, he was on the couch. His shirt was buttoned. She was relieved. Or that's what she told herself. "So..." She clapped her hands together. "Party time."

He smailed slightly, awkwardly. "If you want to call it that."

"One of us should bring the casserole."

He shot up. "I got it. I just have it warming, so..."

She moved to the dining table for her purse as he opened the oven. He started to reach in. "Clark!"

"Huh?"

"You'll burn your hands. Get a potholder... Oh, here." She settled her purse on her shoulder and moved past him, grabbing two oven mitts. "I'll carry it over. It'll further the myth that I cook. You get the wine." He stared at her, but didn't move out of the way. "I might need to be in front of the oven to..."

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry."

She let out a shaky breath as he moved away. He was distracted. She was distracted. A fine story they'd have when this was over.

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Chapter Six