Title: The Perfect Man?
Author: Zaeria Cheng
Email: zaeria_cheng@yahoo.com
Rating: PG-13
Challenge: Neighbors
Notes: No idea where this final product came from. The fic had started very differently…but somewhere along the way, I got so far off track I never found my way back. The specific domestic-like scene involving the neighbors? Went for a walk, never came back. My profuse apologies.
Summary: Want to find out information about a person? Ask the neighbors!

It was very late at night. The entire building was dark and quiet…except for a single room. Inside, several people sat around the oval office table. The room was lit with a single overhead light, not quite enough to see one another by, but more than illuminating the several glossy photographs spread out over the surface. One person sat back in their seat. “We need a name, people. We need our next, ah…victim. Ideas?” 

“You’re the boss-man, Boss. Peters?” The man to the right of the first suggested. 

“No. He doesn’t have what it takes. Adams.” The woman across from him stated, pushing aside pictures and tapping on a specific one. 

“He’s no longer an option as of three days ago. Had that little mishap involving that A.D.A., remember?” ‘Boss’ reminded her. 

“Damn…that’s right.” She pulled the man’s photo off the table, and tossed it over her shoulder while selecting another one. “What about Nerys?” 

“Used him already. They want something new.” The man across from her stated snidely, reaching across and plucking the new glossy from her fingers. “We should use Chalmers.” 

“Please! The man may be your friend, but he’s as trustworthy as a hungry fox in a henhouse.” She shot back. “I say we use Harris.” 

“No way! Harris?!” 

“What’s wrong with Harris?” 

“He’s…he’s…its Harris for Chrissakes!” 

“Kent might be perfect for the job.” The previously quiet figure spoke up, interrupting the argument raging between her co-conspirators. She unfolded her arms, and raised one perfectly manicured finger. She used it to push the photo she’d been staring at forward to the center of the table. 

“Kent…” ‘Boss’ sounded intrigued. “What do we know about Kent?” 

“Native of Smallville, Kansas. Kind of a geek…” 

“Young enough, fit, by all accounts polite.” 

“Up-and-coming reporter; has to have connections given some of the things he’s written. Might have potential, if we clean him up a little, that kind of thing.” 

“Gets better and better. Find out all you can about him: habits, likes, dislikes, personality. I do believe, ladies and gentleman, that we may have our new patsy.” ‘Boss’ stuck a cigar into his mouth. The woman who’d suggested Clark Kent smirked at the two others, who just rolled their eyes. The other woman spoke up with a sigh. 

“Great. Interviews…I am so not a ‘people person’.” 

“So where does he live, anyway?” the man asked. He picked up the photo, and turned it over to read the information printed on the back. “Clark Jerome Kent…blah blah blah…yadda yadda…whoa.” He blinked. “Not bad for a rookie reporter…” 

“What?” “Hm?” “Well? Where?” 

“Primary address is located in Smallville, but local address gives Madison-Met Apartments. It’s a nice area, good real estate, slightly pricey for any newcomers wanting to move in. Neighbors should all either be older residents who’ve been there for some time or business-professional types.” 

“Okay…Cat, Paul, I want the two of you there interviewing his neighbors.” He turned to the final smirking woman, whose smirk vanished at his next words. “You’ve got the rest of his co-workers.” ‘Boss’ said. “We’ve got a deadline, people. I want information!” 

 “Would either of you like some cookies to go with the iced tea? They’re fresh…I baked them myself, just this morning.” The tiny elderly lady, quite spry for her age, called from the kitchen towards the two young people sitting in the living room. The woman, Cat, answered back. 

“Thank you, ma’am, but no. Just the tea is fine.” She nudged her partner for the assignment, who had been inspecting a homemade lace doily that had been lying on the table. 

“It’s delicious, by the way. We’d like to ask you a few questions, actually, if we may, about your downstairs neighbor? Clark Kent?” He took a sip of his tea. 

“Oh my…!” Mrs. Johnson frowned in concern, coming out of the kitchen. “He’s not in trouble, I hope? Clark is such a nice young man…he and his friend have helped me ever so much…” She sat down on the armchair with her own glass of tea. 

“NO! I mean, beg your pardon, but it’s nothing like that.” Paul said quickly. Cat cut in. 

“We, uh, we’re conducting a survey about Mr…uh…Clark. Just interviewing his work associates, neighbors, that kind of thing.” 

“Oh…well then, what would you dears like to know?” Mrs. Johnson took a sip of her tea.

“Well, first off: What kind of a person is Clark?” Cat asked, pulling out a small tape recorder. Paul glanced at it, scoffed silently, and whipped out his own Personal Data Assistant in preparation to take notes. 

“Oh, Clark is such a fine young lad.” Mrs. Johnson smiled. “Reminds me of my dear Herbert, Lord rest his soul. So thoughtful, he and that nice friend of his are! They call me Ms. Edna; always so polite! Why, not two weeks ago, he took me out to lunch? At this fancy French place downtown…I love French food, I honeymooned in France, oh way back in the day…got rave reviews in all the magazines, the restaurant did. Lovely decorations on the interior, too, the flowers were so fragrant; they say you have to place reservations weeks and weeks in advance... But anyhow, while we were out, his friend remodeled my kitchen! I had been having trouble with that old stove I had before…but now! Beautiful! And my, but the lads can cook!” 

“Restaurant?” “Cook?” The two spoke simultaneously, turned, and had a few seconds’ worth of silent argument before Cat capitulated, all while Mrs. Johnson was lost in the happy memory “Mrs. Johnson?” 

“Oh, call me Edna, dearie.” 

“Edna, then. You say Clark can cook?” Edna Johnson fairly beamed. 

“Clark cooks like a dream! Absolute dream, I say! Why, if I were only fifty years younger, I’d snatch that boy right up! Or I’d try…Learned from his mama, he said he did. Fried chicken, roast vegetables, and his desserts…Now I make a beautiful pie, I do. Won the ‘Best Pie’ award at my bridge club for ten years running, and my great-grandchildren absolutely adore their ‘Nana’s’ Pecan-Praline-Chocolate-Chip pie. But let me tell you…Clark and his friend make a French-Cream-and-Apple Pie that is divine, absolutely heavenly! The crust is so flaky and delicate, the rich cream whipped so light it almost floats, and the apples are sliced so thinly they’re transparent, but they have none of that diluted, dried out gritty texture you get when the apple is left out for too long. My my my…I asked him the secret, once, and the dear boy said that they use only fresh ingredients, and do everything by hand. Clark certainly is talented in the kitchen!” 

As Edna Johnson continued listing Clark’s kitchen prowess, and share anecdotes about Clark and his mysterious ‘friend’s’ antics in the kitchen, the two on the couch looked at each other. Edna Johnson obviously adored her downstairs neighbor…would everyone else they talked to in the building have the same sentiments? 

Paul scrolled through his notes as the two of them walked slowly down the hall after their last interview of the day. “Okay, let’s recap. Mrs. Edna Johnson, 72, in apartment 718 is practically in love with Kent because he can cook. The downstairs neighbor is away on vacation; found out from his neighbor that Kent’s friend is taking care of his two prize pureblood greyhounds for him at Kent’s request. The Mendezes to the right think the guy is God’s gift to parents because he’s wonderful with children. The four-year old triplets all like him because he’s nice and funny, and his friend gets them cool toys.”

Paul paused here, and shuddered a little. “Three four-year olds. One is bad enough; I can’t imagine the kinds of damage that three of the little monsters can create! Yet the Mendezes say that they trust no one more than Kent and his friend to babysit their children. Would you trust your neighbor and a friend of his to look after your kids?”

Paul shook his head. “Anyhow, Mr. Carlton to the left is away on a business trip, but his strange Goth-teenage brainiac of a daughter says that Kent is ‘cool’ because he knows someone who can speak fluent Latin and who understands ‘The Theoretical Application of Biochemical Energy in Matter-Dark Matter Transference.’ Whatever the hell that means. And the twin brother, total opposite by the way, I mean, jock and airhead? With a sister like that? Those two are night and day. Anyway, the kid praises Kent for helping him practice and get into shape for the football team; said that he made it all because of Kent’s help and Kent’s friend’s ‘totally kick-ass private gym.’ Christy Mercer, hard-nosed no-nonsense stockbroker with a reputation for having balls of steel, lives across the hall, practically worships the man and his friend for helping to clean up her apartment after her ex-boyfriend trashed it. Bonus: they all say that to their best knowledge, Kent doesn’t have a girlfriend. What else?”

Cat snorted.  “I was right. Kent has got to be connected. La Fleur Française, that restaurant Mrs. Johnson was talking about? Has a waiting list of four-plus months. Plus, very distinguished clientele only, and the prices are ridiculous. New kitchen contains only top-of-the-line items. Those toys Kent’s ‘friend’ got for the Mendez children? Very popular, very pricey, limited numbers made. That retired Professor that Kent and his friend put Ms. Carlton in contact with is world-famous for his work in theoretical research. Tons of published papers, and the guy doesn’t talk to just anyone. The game tickets gotten for young Mr. Carlton as ‘congratulations’ for making the team sold out in half an hour; it was the biggest game of the season. Scalped tickets were inflated as much as 5000%.” She shook her head. “Mercer said Kent and friend not only somehow cleaned up her apartment, all by themselves while she was down at the police station making her report, which took no more that three hours, they fixed her furniture, and didn’t accept any kind of payment in return. And did you see those new candleholders she said his ‘friend’ got her, to replace the broken ones? Swarovski crystal. Expensive stuff.” 

“So…Kent looks like the perfect candidate, huh?” Paul sighed. “Cooks like a dream, good with children and animals, smart, athletic, helpful, trustworthy, and he cleans to boot. All of his neighbors genuinely like the guy.” 

“Yeah. Loaded, too. Why can’t I ever find a guy like that?” Cat pouted. “Clark Kent may just be the Perfect Man – Mr. Domestic Partner Extraordinaire. Prime husband material. All that’s missing is that he does the laundry.” 

“He does do the laundry.” The two of them looked up. There was a pretty young woman there, holding a basket of freshly laundered clothes. “Were you looking for Clark?” Cat and Paul glanced at one another, tensing up slightly. Maybe the neighbors weren’t in the know after all… maybe Clark wasn’t perfect for the job… 

“Yes…as a matter of fact, we were. We’re, uh, associates of his…from…work. Are you his girlfriend?” Cat questioned. 

“Oh! I wish, but Clark doesn’t have a girlfriend.” She giggled at their visible relief at her (misunderstood) words, and continued. “I’m his neighbor – Sheila Barnes. I live down the hall. Clark was down in the laundry room; we ran into each other earlier. It’s in the basement.” She said. “I think the last load is drying…but Clark might be busy. Every time the laundry is being done, something invariably causes a…distraction. They’d be folding clothes and all of a sudden, there’s a towel-fight going on. Honestly…some men…” With this, she walked past them towards her apartment. 

“Thanks!” Paul called after her retreating form. He turned to Cat. “Wonder what all that was about.” She was looking pensive. 

“Never mind that. Let’s go; a man doing laundry I’ve got to see…” She jabbed the down button for the elevator. 

The basement was softly lit, and quiet. It was divided into three different sections; there was a security area, a rather large exercise area, and the laundry room off to the side. As they exited the elevator, Cat and Paul were quietly discussing who would get to present what to the Boss. They paused, however, as they heard the low husky ‘Hey!’ ring out. The looked up just in time to see a slim person with a bright plaid shirt over their head dash into the open laundry room doors, being chased by the larger form of one Clark Kent. Who was wearing nothing but sweat pants?! They paused, blinked, and made their way over as quickly and quietly as possible. The two of them peeked through the large viewing windows just in time to see Kent hoist the unknown person over his shoulder, deliver a swat to their backside, and march over to a folding table in the back corner of the room. They watched in growing disbelief as Kent bracketed the unknown individual with his surprisingly muscled arms, and leaned in intimately. All they could see of the person was their eyes and legs; everything else was either blocked by Kent’s body or covered by the plaid flannel. 

Cat turned away and folded her arms in a huff, thereby missing what happened next. “I knew it was too good to be true! A guy with his qualities – unavailable! Why are all the good ones taken?!” Paul, however, was still watching, and tried to cut in. 

“Uh…Cat?” 

“I mean, he’s the perfect guy! And all his neighbors loved him, too. What are we going to tell the boss?” 

“Cat…” 

“And what the hell is he doing working as a rookie reporter for? I mean, the restaurant, the tickets, the crystal…the guy has to be rich! Wonder if his partner knows…nah, or she wouldn’t’ve volunteered Kent for the job…” 

“Cat.” 

“And I wonder who the lucky lady is…?” 

“Catherine!” Paul snapped. Cat whirled to face him. 

“Don’t call me ‘Catherine’! What the hell do you want?” She snapped. 

“I think we’ve got a bigger story than the annual ‘Daily Planet: Looking For Mr. Right?’ to run.” He tilted his head. “Take a look at Kent’s ‘significant other’ in there. Anybody you recognize?” Cat turned back to the window, and her jaw dropped. 

The flannel was now on the floor behind Kent. The man in question was sucking at the neck of the other person. Who had HIS familiarly bald head tilted back slightly, eyes closed, mouth parted slightly, hands in Kent’s thick hair, legs wrapped around that trim waist. 

“Oh…My…God…” Cat blinked in shock. “That…that…that…he…he…Lu-lu- Luthor?!” Cat squeaked out. Paul nodded. They both gravitated towards the still-open doors, and were just able to hear the conversation that took place between the two men. 

Clark lifted his head, looking at the purpling bruise on Lex’ neck. He gave it one final, satisfied lick before pressing a short, hard kiss to his lover’s parted lips. “How many times have I asked you to keep your hands to yourself while I’m doing the laundry?” Lex opened slightly glazed eyes, and smirked at Clark. 

“Oh…just about every time. But you just look so…domestic when you do the laundry!” He chuckled, tugging on his double handful of Clark-hair. “And it’s so fun to try to scandalize your neighbors…besides, I know Sheila likes watching the two of us together.” Clark groaned in exasperation. 

“Le-ex! She’s my neighbor! Don’t say that! And you don’t know for sure!” Lex pulled back his hands. 

“Oh, yes I do. On my way down here, I ran into the lovely Ms. Barnes, who gave me something.” He reached into a back pocket and pulled out a set of 5x7 pictures. “See?” Clark visibly choked, as Lex began to rotate the pictures. 

“Oh…God…what…why…?” 

“Mm-hmm. Remember, Sheila is a photographer. She was testing out her new telephoto lens. First we have this lovely scene, of the two of us folding Ms. Edna’s linens together. Sweet, isn’t it, how domestic we look? I’m having this one framed. I may just send a copy to your mother. Next, one of you wrapping me up with that lace tablecloth. I don’t look good in a dress; I’m burning this picture, and I want those negatives, too. Maria Mendez, with her daughters Jennifer and Joycelyn in tow, all laughing with you laughing at me. You realize that your neighbors are evil, evil people, right? They didn’t even help me, just collected their towels and left. Once the girls stopped their hysterical laughter, of course. Bob Carlton coming in with his laundry. Why do you think he’s in Russia right now? He didn’t help me, either, and I’m the man’s boss’ boss. And why is it that you r neighbors all seem to do their laundry whenever I come visit you, and you’re doing your laundry? Hm…I’ll have to look into that. Later, though.” Lex set these four pictures aside, and waved the last one in front of Clark’s nose. 

“Wh-what’s that last one?” Clark looked worried as Lex’ smile turned positively evil. 

“This last one is why I’m sending Sheila a two-person, all-expenses paid trip to Hawaii. Wanna see…?” Lex waved the small photo enticingly. Clark gulped, and nodded. Lex flipped the picture over. Clark gasped. 

“…I’m going to kill Sheila…! Lex, gimme that picture. LEX! ALE-MPH! Mmm…” Clark was efficiently cut off as Lex dropped the photo and kissed him to distraction. 

“Damn…I wonder what that last picture shows…” Cat muttered as she and Paul backed away from the door. The two occupants of the laundry room were getting rather…active. 

“Clark Kent is not single. He is the ‘Perfect Domestic Partner,’ though…Lex Luthor’s mysterious ‘significant other’.” Paul couldn’t help it. He smirked in glee.  “Let’s get back to the office. Wait until Perry finds out his newest rookie reporter is also the S.O. of the country’s youngest multi-billionaire.” He patted Cat’s shoulder. “I’ll even let you break the news to Lois.” Cat shook her head slowly as the two of them moved towards the elevators. 

“All the good ones are taken…or gay.” She sighed, then groaned in annoyance. “Paul…I’ll bet you anything that Luthor is the ‘friend’ all the neighbors kept mentioning. Damn it! The neighbors kept repeating Kent ‘doesn’t have a girlfriend. They all knew about their relationship all along!”

The End