DC Oneshots

Here I Go Again

"So what did you think of my article?" Clark leans back in the chair and rests his muddy boots on the desk. If somebody looked up 'Lazy' in the dictionary there would be a picture of Clark Kent right next to the definition.

I can't believe Perry hired that lazy farm boy from Nowhereville. And all because he was the first to get an exclusive interview with the Mystery Flying Man. Bah! His expose on the Flying Man is hot garbage served up with a helping of mediocre pie. I'm no stranger to Clark Kent's usual humanitarian prose. He can make a puppy adoption sound like a ride on the Titanic. So what gives? He's purposively holding back as if he's hiding something. My instincts tell me Clark knows more about our resident hero than he's letting on. If it were me I would have exploited every angle. Nobody cares about his powers unless you can see the man beneath. Clark has failed to ask even the most rudimentary questions like; Where did he come from? How did he gain his powers? What does he do when he's not saving the world? Gah! The story of a century was wasted on Kent.

"It's okay," I nearly choke on the words, deciding to play it safe. I'm usually more brazen, but there's something about those baby blues that gives me pause. He's like a little kid testing the deep end for the first time. And I really don't want him to drown before he learns to swim.

"Just okay?" Clark asks baffled. "You're not someone to hold back, Snoop," Clark teases, using his old nickname for me. "Lay it on me."

"Fine," I swerve around and face him head-on. "It reads like a Nicholas Sparks novel with none of the spice or passion." He wants brutal honesty that's exactly what he's going to get. "First interview with E.T. and you make him - one of the most interesting beings on the planet - sound like a cardboard cutout of Prince Charming," I explain. "Your article is a laundry list of powers and wish-washy quotes that could be found in a fortune cookie!"

Clark stiffens and straightens up. In his haste, he kicks over a cup full of pens and they rain down on him. He grimaces but doesn't make any move to right them. "I never said he was an extraterrestrial." Funny he latches onto that part of my tangent.

"He can fly and shoot fire out of his eyes," I deadpan. "Of course, he's an alien. We just got to find proof. It's our job to expose him."

"Proof? Like a spaceship?" Clark echoes dumbly. "Good luck with that," he says dejectedly.. "He's just an ordinary guy that is using his meta abilities to help."

"Smallville," I sigh, unable to wrap my head around the naivety of that comment. "It's adorable you think that's true. I know a cover story when I see one."

"It's no cover story!" Clark protests. "It's the truth. He really is here to fight for truth and justice and the American way."

"The American way?" I snort. "What does that even mean?" I shake my head. "Singing Kumbaya and hoping for a helping of humble pie." I roll my eyes at Clark. "There are over 3,000 homeless people residing in Metropolis and that doesn't even cover the rest of America. They will read that quote and think he's an entitled, idealistic fool who's never strayed outside his picket white fence."

"I hadn't thought of that . . . I mean I'm sure Nightwing has a plan."

"Nightwing?" Unbelievable. "That's the best name you can come up with?"

Clark's shoulders slump in defeat, suddenly finding his boots interesting. "It's the name of a folk hero The Drifter told me about." The way he says that timid but with a melancholy tone, leads me to believe there is something achingly personal about Nightwing that he's not ready to share with the class. "I like the name."

"We are not calling him Nightwing."

"He's not some stray dog you picked up on the street," Clark says almost seizing.

Wow, she didn't think Clark would get so worked up about something as trivial as a name. It's not like he's the one blurring around and leaving his mark on the city. A mark which was distinctly in the shape of an 'S' not 'N.' Unless. A coffee stain mars his wrinkled shirt and his hair is a rat's nest. The thick glasses make him look like a toad. I have a hard time seeing that dork bench pressing a busload of people or shooting fire out of those pearly blues. Yet, no one has seen The Drifter's face. The snapshots captured show a black-cloaked Herculian figure, his face completely hidden by a gaudy helmet and goggles. The black cape he wears is a complete ripoff of the nut in Gotham. That is going to have to change once I get my hands on him. He's a beacon of hope, not Batman 2.0.

"Don't you think he should have a say in what he is called?" Clark challenges.

"Sure, but I don't see him here to weigh in on the name," I point out. "Trust me I know him, he would not want to be called Nightwing. It sounds like a stripper's name."

"You don't even know his real name!"

"And you do?"

Clark snaps his mouth shut, eyes bulging out comically in the way they always do when he has misspoken and is wrestling with how to do damage control. "Yea, I've . . ."

"I'm going to stop you right there before you embarrass yourself, Clark," I fold my arms over the desk and sigh. "Which of the two of us has the Drifter on speed dial?" I remind him.

"If you're so chummy with him why don't you ask him what he thinks of 'Nightwing?'"

"Alright, I will!" I whip my phone out and call the Drifter, balancing the cell against my ear.

Clark's eyes widen as his phone rings in his pocket and a familiar tune blares to life. He grimaces. I frown and mouth to him, "Is that Whitesnake?"

"Maybe," Clark says cryptically, making no show to answer the phone. I frown at him. There is no way my hunch is right. What are the odds of Clark having Lovehunter as a ringtone at the same time I call the Drifter. The timing is a bit odd. "It's Barry, I''ll just call him back later."

Sure. The line goes dead and Clark's phone stops ringing at the same time. "No wonder you're so touchy about Nightwing." I narrow my eyes at him. "You're him."

Clark laughs so hard he starts to tear up. "You're not the only one who likes Whitesnake."

"So one of my favorite songs just happens to be Barry's ringtone?" I raise an eyebrow at him.

The Drifter failed to answer because he's sitting right here with me. It's all making sense now. The half baked excuses. Clark is never around when the Drifter is in the middle of action. How did I not see it sooner? I lived with him for a year! Are Mama K and and Papa K also super? Are they even his parents?

"Wow, you two have something in common," Clark says in mock horror. "I hear wedding bells in the near future."

"So what's the story with Nightwing?" I dare ask. "Why is that name so important to you Mr. Drifter?" Yeah that name needs to go. And I'll be damned if we replace it with a stripper's name. All things considered Nightwing is a step up from Skyman and if it's that important to Clark I can . . . no there's no way. It doesn't suit him.

"What?" Clark shoots out of his seat and knocks over the chair. "Lois I'm not him!"

"And I'm the Tooth Fairy."

Jack Olson runs into the bullpen completely out of breath, clutching his camera as if its his lifeline. He looks at Clark, face red and patchy with sweat. "C.K. there's a mugging in process on 7th street!"

"Why aren't you there taking photos Olson?" I smirk, reading the room. Clark looks between Jack and I, completely mortified. So he tells the intern, but not me? I thought we were closer than that. "Hell, why haven't you called the police?" I lay it on thick. "What is Clark going to do, talk the thugs into submission?"

"Did I miss something?" Jack frowns, his face turning a shade redder. "Does she . . ."

"No, there's no time to waste," Clark stands and grabs Jack by the arm, steering him away. "You can fill me in on the way there."

"Not so fast partner," I loop my arm around Clark's waist and he tenses. "You're not leaving without me."