Work Text:
“So while you’re working the human interest angle, I’m going to see if -” The dopey newbie journalist she’s been saddled with yawns for the third time in as many minutes, and Lois glares at him. “Am I boring you, Kent?”
“No! No, I’m listening. Sorry. Late night.” He rubs his eyes and knocks his almost comically large glasses askew. He does look more bedraggled than usual, Lois notes, and his eyes keep almost drifting shut. But that’s his problem.
“There’s a perfectly functional coffee machine in the break room. Get yourself a cup and get back here, we’re on a schedule.”
“I can’t…” Kent does a wiggly sort of hand gesture. “Caffeine. It makes me weird. I swear I’m paying attention.”
Lois gives him a skeptical look. “How did you get through school without caffeine?”
“... with a reasonable sleep schedule?” Kent says. It sounds like a question. “Not everyone replaced their blood with coffee when they hit high school, Miss Lane.”
“I’ll have you know I replaced my blood with coffee in middle school,” Lois says, “and we are getting off-track.” He has a horrible way of doing that to her. Distracting her. Drawing her into weird banter that’s unrelated to work. It’s funny, he looks like he takes his fashion inspiration from the pictures beside dictionary entries for the word “dweeb” and he speaks and moves so quietly he seems a foot shorter than he actually is, but he’s one of the few people who’s actually capable of verbally sparring with her.
Not winning, of course. But participating.
“I do human interest. You do something probably vaguely illegal and definitely invasive. Is that about it?”
“You learn fast, Kent. I’ll give you that.”
~x~
Lois is typing up her notes and thinking ahead to how she’s going to organize the story when she hears a muffled giggle. She looks up.
Jimmy Olsen, intern and professional pain in the ass, is standing over Kent’s desk. Lois follows Jimmy’s gaze and sees that Kent has fallen asleep. Jimmy is sticking writing implements into Clark’s curls. So far there are seven standard yellow number 2s and three ballpoint pens. Jimmy has his phone out, presumably to document his handiwork.
“That doesn’t look like working, Jimmy,” Lois says. Jimmy jumps backwards and pockets his phone. Kent doesn’t stir.
“He’s not working, either,” Jimmy says, like that’s an excuse.
“Great. Now you’re both not working, and there’s twice the slack for the rest of us to pick up. Go make yourself useful, or at least less in the way.” Does he know how many people would kill for an internship like the one he’s got? Here he is, working at the Daily Planet, and he thinks the best use of his time is misusing writing utensils and harassing his coworkers. The brat.
“Aye aye, Boss Lady.”
“Never call me that.”
Jimmy salutes her, turns neatly on his heel, and steals a roll of Smarties off of Kent’s desk before sprinting to Perry’s office.
Lois contemplates her slumped partner. He’s going to have a hell of a backache if he sleeps in that position - she would know. He’s also not working on his story. And he’s kind of sort of her grudging responsibility. So she should do something about this.
She decides that the something she should do is prod him in the arm with the back end of a pencil and say “The news waits for no man, Kent. Wake the fuck up.”
He scrunches his nose, makes a quiet mumbling noise, and turns away from her. One of the pencils falls out of his hair, but the rest remain. Lois prods harder. “Deadlines, Kent. We call them deadlines because if you don’t make them, you’re dead. Wake up.”
The mumbling is louder and has a distinctly unhappy edge now. Lois moves from prodding with the pencil to rhythmically tapping Kent on the shoulder with it. “You are taking me away from my writing, Kent. Keep this up and I’m going to pour water on you.”
“Mmh.” Kent twitches, like he was going to try to stop her from tapping him but the message didn’t quite make it to the appropriate muscles. It would almost be cute if it wasn’t incredibly obnoxious.
“I swear to God, Kent. I’m going for the water cooler right now.”
Kent picks his head up. His glasses are hanging off the tip of his nose, held to his face only by the earpieces and luck. He looks even more tired than he did this morning. “‘S Lane?” he half-slurs.
“Are you hungover? Is that what this is?” Lois demands. She didn’t take him for that kind, but men are always finding new and exciting ways to disappoint her.
Kent jolts upright. His chair creaks. “Oh, heck. I fell asleep,” he says. “Miss Lane, I am so, so sorry. I promise I’m not hungover, I don’t even drink, and it won’t happen again…” His face is darkening, a blush spreading from his cheeks across the bridge of his nose and up to the tips of his ears.
“Less excuses, more copy. Chop chop, Kent. The people want to know what Lexcorp has to say about the warehouse explosion.”
Kent massages his temples. “I’m on it.”
“And Kent.”
He looks up at her. He has very earnest eyes. Like a labrador. “Yes, Miss Lane?”
“Get some real sleep tonight or develop a caffeine habit like the rest of us,” she says.
She’s halfway back to her desk when she hears Kent say, plaintively, “Why are there pencils in my hair?”
~x~
Lois never thought she would be excited about hearing someone knock on the window of her fourth-story apartment. But then, she never thought that she would be the primary media contact of a man who decided that the best use of cosmic power was averting natural disasters, rescuing hostages, and helping little old ladies cross the street. A lot can change in two weeks.
She pulls aside the curtains and sees Superman floating outside. He waves at her. She waves back.
Ugh. He makes her feel so… third-grade.
She opens the window and steps aside so he can come in. He drifts in carefully. “What’s the story this time?” she asks. “Any news on that warehouse explosion last week?”
He shakes his head as he lands. “I’ve been through the rubble a dozen times. There’s still no sign of what caused the explosion, which is weird, but not exactly evidence. I-” he stumbles suddenly, tripping over nothing, and Lois is rushing forward to catch him before she can think.
He’s very solid. And warm. A little warmer than she'd expect, actually, which she hopes is normal for him. She wouldn’t know what to do with a feverish Superman. “Are you okay?” she asks, and immediately wants to hit herself. Of course he’s not okay. He’s Superman, he wouldn’t just fall over if he was okay.
“Ah. Yes. Just… got a little dizzy.” Lois is still holding onto him. She should probably let go before it gets weird.
She takes a closer look at him instead. His eyelids look puffy, his brilliant blue eyes bloodshot. “You look exhausted. Do you need to sleep?” she asks. “I mean, in general. Also now, specifically.” Stop talking. “Because if you need a place, you can sleep on my couch. If you need a place.”
He takes a breath, but lets it out in a quiet ‘whoosh’ instead of answering her. Then he smiles, a careful smile that looks somehow fragile, very different from the smile he gives the cameras. “I do need to sleep. Generally and specifically. And I appreciate the offer, but I do have a place.”
Lois takes her arms off of him. For some reason, she does it very slowly. Then she steps back, gives him an appropriate amount of personal space. “Then you should go there. Get some real rest. We’re never going to solve the warehouse explosion if you’re dead on your feet.” Who knew that stubborn disregard for one’s physical needs was something that superheroes could have, too? Well. She probably should have guessed. No one with a high regard for their wellbeing regularly interrupted gunfights, even if they were invulnerable. “I’m serious. I’d better not send you off and then hear you were off stopping train heists in Beirut.”
“Do train heists happen anymore?” Superman asks.
“I don’t know, and you’re not going to try to find out. You’re going to go get however much sleep you need. Go. Shoo.” She flaps her hands towards the open window. “Bye now.”
She just shooed Superman. She is an embarrassment to the human race.
Superman, however, does not seem offended. Kind of the opposite. He smiles at her, a little less hesitant this time. “Okay. I’ll go.”
“Good. And if you don’t go to sleep, I will find out and I will find you.”
He laughs, a full, happy sound. “I have no doubt. Goodnight. You get some sleep, too.”
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” she tells him, and he laughs again before lifting off and flying out her window. Lois closes it behind him, flicks the lock and draws the curtains.
Her life is so weird.