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[ruff_patch]

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[ruff_patch]

He lifts a brow at the amount of sugar she dumps into her coffee, "Would you like some coffee with your sugar?"

It's a little joke which means he must not be feeling like total death, although really it would take him dying to not make jokes.

"I know chicks hate this question, but how old are you?"

[superjournalist]

“Nah, this is perfect,” she says before taking a sip. No creamer. Just black coffee and a lot of sugar.

Lois smirks at him. “You know what ‘chicks’ hate more than being asked their age? Being referred to as ‘chicks’.” She takes another sip. “I already told you though. 35.”

[ruff_patch]

Richard snorts and rolls his eyes, "Sorry. Chicks, girls, women, dames, ladies, female presenting human beings. Whatever."

"And I'm sure you did but my brain is barely working." He says and takes a long sip of his black coffee. "I barely remember my own fucking age right now."

[superjournalist]

“I think dames is worse, unless you’re Helen Mirren or Judi Dench. Stick with ‘women’.”

The waitress returns and Lois orders some pancakes, because why fucking not?

“42, right?” She asks Richard after the waitress leaves. “Why’d you ask my age?”

[ruff_patch]

"If we were in an old detective novel you'd totally be a dame." He says with a little smile, "You'd be 'that crazy news hawk dame with a pistol in her purse.'"

Richard meanwhile orders some bacon and toast.

"Yeah 42, and mostly just to make sure I don't have to mock you for calling yourself old. I hate it when 20 somethings are like 'omg I'm sooooo old now'."

[superjournalist]

Lois laughs quietly at his old-timey voice. He’s actually pretty good at impressions. “A femme fatale?” she asks.

Looking up, she blinks at him, her face serious now. “Are you saying that I’m old?”