***Archive warning: This story deals with adult situations 
and has implied violence. Some readers may find the themes 
dealt with disturbing***


In a Dark Time
By Becky Bain <rbain9@earthlink.net>
Rated PG-13
Submitted November 2001

_________________

Author's note: This story does contain a WHAM, but I like 
to think the characters emerge from travail with grace and 
strength.  The title comes from a poem by Theodore Roethke:  
"In a dark time, the eye begins to see..."
_________________


Lois fumbled with her keys as she mounted the steps of the 
townhouse.  It had been a long day; right after lunch, 
there'd been a news flash reporting massive flooding and 
mudslides in Venezuela.  Clark had flashed her a look and 
was gone.

He'd been away for hours, leaving her to cover for him, and 
she knew it might be hours more before he came home; he 
wouldn't leave until he was sure he'd saved everyone who 
could be saved.  And when he did get home, he'd be 
exhausted and dispirited.  She pulled open the outer door.  
Maybe she should think about ordering in some of his 
favorite Chinese dishes.  Or something from that little 
Thai place he liked.  Or...

The knife came from nowhere, sharp against her throat.  
"Don't scream," ordered a low, threatening voice.  "Don't 
move until I say."

With the knife pricking her skin, she didn't dare resist.  
She let him take the keys from her hand, let him open the 
door and propel her inside.

He paused, holding her close against him, the knife steady.  
He didn't turn on a light.  Instead, after a moment to 
orient himself, he pushed her toward the stairs.

Heart pounding, Lois let herself be half-dragged, half-
shoved up the stairs.  The first door they came to was that 
of the guest room.  Her assailant hesitated, peered inside, 
and then, for the first time, took the knife away from her 
neck.

She took instant advantage to spin away from him and throw 
a quick, vicious side kick, but fast as she was, he was 
faster.  And trained, it seemed, in self-defense.  He 
blocked her kick, caught hold of her arm, dragged her close 
and dealt her a savage blow to the face with the fist that 
still held the hilt of the knife.

Dazed, she went to her knees, tasting blood.  He hauled her 
up bodily, his grip on her arm hard and hurting.  "You do 
what I say," he snarled.  "You do only what I say.  And I 
might let you live."  He hit her once more and dragged her 
toward the bed.

*****

Clark flew home slowly.  Lois would be there, and he could 
take her into his arms and just hold her.  Hold her for 
however long it took to forget the limp, muddy, bloody 
bodies.  He was concentrating so hard on holding himself 
together that he was nearly over the house before he 
noticed the police cars.

He hovered for an instant, incredulous, before panic set in 
and he streaked downward.

"Lois!" he called as he pushed past a uniformed officer who 
tried to block his path.  "Lois!"

He started up the stairs.  Inspector Henderson appeared at 
the top, his expression grim.

"Superman," he said, his voice flat, and only then did 
Clark realize he'd forgotten to change.

He struggled to adopt his impersonal superhero guise.  
"Inspector.  What's happened here?  Where's Lois?"  He 
looked past Henderson, scanning the upper level, unable to 
wait for an answer.  A pair of forensics techs were working 
in the spare bedroom.

There was no sign of his wife.

"She's at the hospital," Henderson answered.  "And Clark 
wasn't home."

"Hospital?" he repeated.  "Is she...?"

"She's all right," Henderson said quickly - so quickly that 
Clark knew he must be thinking of the tabloid rumors that 
Superman and Lois had feelings for one another.  Or at 
least that the superhero did, for her.  "Physically," 
Henderson added.

What did that mean?  Panic rose, beating frantically 
against his ribs.  "What happened?" he demanded.

"You know what you can do for us, Superman?"  Henderson 
sidestepped the question neatly.

Clark fought the urge to lift the man by his collar and 
force information from him.  "What?"

"Could you scan the area?  We're looking for a Caucasian 
male, about six-one or six-two, with blond hair and a 
reddish beard.  He's dressed in blue jeans and a worn brown 
leather jacket."

Clark's mouth was dry.  "Why?  What did he do?"

"And if you don't find him, then maybe you could go find 
Ms. Lane's husband?  She said he was working on a story 
down in Hobs Bay, but she wasn't very clear about where we 
could locate him."

It dawned on Clark, belatedly, that the detailed 
description must have come from Lois.  So she was alert and 
talking when they took her to the hospital.  Thanking God 
for that, he managed to nod at the inspector.  "I'll be 
glad to," he said roughly, and shot out of the house as 
fast as he dared.

He made two quick turns around the neighborhood, scanning 
every car and pedestrian, before he couldn't stand it any 
longer.  He hadn't been gone two minutes before he was 
taking the brownstone's front steps two at a time, 
adjusting his tie as he went.

"Where's Henderson?" he demanded of the officer at the 
door.

"I'm sorry, sir, this is a crime scene..." the young 
officer began.

"I'm Clark Kent; this is my house.  Superman said my 
wife..."

"Oh, right."  The officer stepped aside hastily.  "He's 
upstairs.  I'll get him for you."

Clark waited in the living room, frantic, while the young 
officer called and Henderson responded.

"Glad Superman was able to locate you so quickly, Kent," he 
said, coming down the stairs.  His expression was as grim 
as it had been minutes earlier.

"What's happened?  Where's Lois?"  He'd be at her side 
already if he'd only had the presence of mind to ask 
*which* hospital, when he'd been here earlier.

"She's at Metropolis General."  Henderson put out a hand to 
keep Clark from rushing past him.  "Just wait a minute, 
Kent.  There are some things you ought to know before you 
go charging over there."

*****

Sexual assault.  The words beat in his brain, over and 
over, as he drove toward the hospital.  The police escort 
in front of him was the only thing that kept him from 
swerving to the curb, parking the Jeep and streaking to the 
hospital under his own steam.

"She did all the right things," Henderson had told him.  
"She cooperated.  He roughed her up some, but nothing that 
won't heal.  She's very lucky, Kent."

Lucky.  Right.  And he'd been hundreds of miles away, in 
Venezuela.  Unable to hear if she called for help.  Unable 
to protect her.

He closed his eyes against the thoughts, snapping them open 
again at the blare of a horn.  He swerved back into his own 
lane and gave a pained shrug to the officer in the car 
ahead of him, who was looking back at him in concern.

Thankfully, the hospital lay just around the next corner.  
He maneuvered into a parking space and stepped out, pausing 
only long enough to thank the officer before hurrying 
inside.

"I'm Clark Kent," he said to the clerk behind the desk.  
"My wife was brought in a little while ago...?"

"Kent?"  She keyed her computer and shook her head.  "No 
Kents here, sorry."

Not here?  Panic clutched again before reason won out.  
"No, her name's Lane.  Lois Lane.  Is she...?"

"Oh, right.  They've got her back in Emergency.  Down this 
hall and to your left..."

Only habit, long ingrained, kept him from speeding down the 
hallway and giving away his secret.

A woman, conservatively dressed and with a business-like 
air, waited in the hallway outside where he'd been told 
Lois was being treated.  She turned at the sound of his 
footsteps.  "Mr. Kent?"

Surprised, he nodded.

"I'm Detective Mears," she said, showing her ID.  "With the 
Sex Crimes Unit.  I've been assigned to your wife's case."

"Have you seen her?  Is she...?"

"He hit her a couple of times, pretty hard," the detective 
answered.  "She's bruised and sore.  But she'll be all 
right.  The doctor has just finished his examination and 
she's getting dressed right now; I'll be questioning her as 
soon as she's ready."

"May I see her first?"

"Of course."  The detective's voice held nothing but 
compassion.  "Mr. Kent, has anyone advised you how you 
should treat your wife now?"

He frowned, confused.  "Treat her...?"

"Every victim is different, of course, and every reaction 
is different.  She may be angry, or afraid.  She may want 
to talk about it, or she may not want to mention it at all.  
She may want to be held all the time, or she may not want 
to be touched.  She may be irritable, or confused, or she 
may exhibit all these behaviors at various times."

"What can I do for her?" he whispered.  "I want to help."

"Take your cues from her.  Don't blame her..."

He made a swift, abortive gesture, and she shook her head.

"You'd be surprised at how many friends and relatives of 
victims want to pin blame.  Don't even wonder aloud if she 
could have done something different.  She survived, and so 
she did everything right.  Remember that.  And then... just 
love her.  She's going to need all your love."

"She has it," he promised, his voice suddenly hoarse.  
"Always."

Detective Mears gave him a narrow look.  "Right.  Okay.  
Let's see if she's ready for us."  She tapped on the closed 
door.

"Come in."  Lois's voice sounded frail.

Detective Mears cracked the door just enough to stick her 
head in.  "Miss Lane?  Your husband is here."

"Clark?"  Her voice broke on his name, and Clark pushed 
past the detective without further invitation.

She perched on a low stool, looking like a wounded dove, 
her expression wide-eyed and wary.  Her cheek and jaw were 
misshapen by swelling, livid with bruising.  He wanted to 
wrap her tightly in his arms and never let her go.  
Instead, mindful of the detective's warning, he crouched 
before her.  "It's okay," he whispered, feeling that 
nothing could ever be okay again.  "I'm here."

"Clark."

She reached out and he turned his hands palm up to accept 
hers and gripped them hard.  "I'm here," he repeated 
uselessly.

"Miss Lane, are you ready to give your statement?"

Lois looked toward the door and nodded.  Clark stood and 
helped her up, then steadied her as they followed Detective 
Mears down the hall from the examining room to a small 
windowless room with a table and four plastic chairs.  The 
detective took one chair and motioned Lois into another.

"Do you want your husband to step outside while you answer 
my questions?" she asked gently.

Lois gripped Clark's hand harder and shook her head.  "Is 
it okay if he stays?"

"As long as it's okay with you, and he doesn't interfere 
with the questioning," the detective answered.

Clark slipped into the chair nearest Lois's and tried to 
look unobtrusive.

The detective opened a buff folder and took out a pencil.  
"Now, Miss Lane, would you tell me what happened?"

Lois started slowly, her voice low.  She stared intently at 
the table top while she spoke.  "I was coming home... he 
was inside..."

"Inside your house?"

"No, just inside the first set of doors.  The inside doors 
were locked.  It's like a vestibule," she went on, when 
Detective Mears's look of confusion didn't clear.  "An 
outside set of double doors, and then an inside set."

It occurred to Clark that it was incredibly stupid to have 
the lock on the inside set of doors.  Anyone could go 
inside the vestibule and wait.  Someone had.

But if the detective agreed with him, she didn't let on.  
"I see.  Please go on."

"He must have been there already.  I think I would have 
heard him if he'd come up the stairs behind me.  I think he 
must have been waiting."  Lois paused, and swallowed hard.

Clark listened in silence as she described the assault in 
painful stops and starts.  When she reached the point in 
her narrative where her assailant struck her, he couldn't 
help himself.  He jerked his hand from hers an instant 
before it clenched itself into a white-knuckled fist.  The 
same urge drove him to his feet, and into the farthest 
corner of the tiny room, where he stood facing the corner, 
breathing hard.

"Mr. Kent.  If this is too much for you, please wait 
outside."

But he couldn't do that.  Lois had lived through it.  The 
least he could do was listen to her tell it.  To be here 
for her.  He took a deep breath, and then another, and 
gathered his resources.

"No," he answered, turning.  "I'm all right now."

But he was afraid to take her hand, afraid the rage would 
overcome him again and he would crush her fingers in his 
grip.  He placed his closed fist on the arm of the chair; 
without looking at him, Lois reached out and covered it 
with her hand.

The strength - and belief in him - it must have taken for 
her to make that gesture moved him nearly to tears.  He 
focused on the scarred table top, holding himself together 
by pure dint of will, and listened to Lois tell of the rest 
of the assault.

"I'm sorry," Detective Mears said, when Lois finished.  
"I'm going to have to ask you some hard questions now.  
Please understand that these are things we need to know in 
order to catch this man, and prosecute him."

Lois nodded tightly.

"Some of them may be questions you've already been asked by 
the medical staff, but I need to hear your answers myself.  
The medical staff's needs are not the same as mine."

Lois nodded again.

"All right.  Mr. Kent, this would be a good time to step 
out, if you're feeling squeamish."

"No," he said hoarsely.  "I'll stay."

The detective asked a series of clinical questions about 
the assault.  The rape, Clark corrected himself, for rape 
it certainly had been.  Hearing the details in Lois's 
unnaturally subdued voice chilled him.

If he ever got his hands on this... this animal, he might 
well forget every ethic he'd ever had instilled in him.  He 
ached for the chance.

But Lois was forging on, answering the questions, deeply 
intimate questions, as best she could.  And so for right 
now, he had to forget about the man who had done this thing 
to her.  He had to be here for Lois.  And he could do that 
now.  He could do anything, if it was for her.

He took her hand from her lap, rubbed it until the fingers 
uncurled from a knotted fist, and slipped it into his grasp 
where he held it, firmly and gently.

She glanced at him quickly, and then away, but didn't try 
to withdraw her hand.

"Have you had consensual intercourse within the past 
seventy-two hours?" the detective asked.

Low-voiced, Lois answered.  "Yes."

Clark's heart lurched painfully in his chest and settled 
into a quick, unsteady rhythm.

"With your husband?" the detective asked.

Lois nodded once, quickly.  "This morning.  And night 
before last."  She glanced his way for confirmation.

"Yes," he agreed.  His heart ached.  The act they had 
shared so many times in love had been twisted now, degraded 
into a vile thing of brutality and terror.

"In that case," Detective Mears said briskly, "we'll need 
you to come in and give a sample to our lab, Mr. Kent.  For 
exclusionary purposes."

That hadn't occurred to him - that they would need a sample 
of his DNA.  "Blood sample?" he asked, swallowing.

"Clark has a problem with blood," Lois added.  Her grip on 
his hand tightened.  "Maybe he could give hair samples, or 
something."

"I think blood samples are usual," the detective answered 
uncertainly.  "But if the lab is satisfied..."

The detective had a number of other invasive questions, 
which Lois answered in the same low voice; finally, the 
detective flipped her folder closed.  "I think that's it, 
for now," she said.  "Go home, or to a hotel, or to 
wherever you'll feel safe, and follow any medical 
instructions you've been given.  It's especially important 
for you to take care of yourself right now.  We'll call you 
if anything comes up, or if we need anything else."

"If anything comes up?" Clark repeated.

"If we catch him," the detective said, fury evident in her 
voice.

*****

"Here," Lois said, as they crossed the darkened parking 
lot.  "I'll drive."

Clark handed over the Jeep's keys without comment; Lois no 
doubt needed to feel in control of something, anything.  He 
climbed into the passenger seat and buckled in.

"You have to go see Dr. Klein," she announced, as they 
pulled out.  "He can tell you if your DNA is close enough 
to human.  If it's not, we'll have to think of something 
else, maybe we'll just say I don't want to press charges, 
and then they won't need any samples from you, do you think 
that would work?  Or maybe there's a way he can make your 
DNA look human, even though it's not, except that wouldn't 
work on the samples they already have, would it?  So I 
guess we have to hope..."

He put his hand across the space between them and let it 
rest, gently, on her wrist.  "Lois."  She was thinking of 
him, of his secret, rather than of herself and the ordeal 
she'd been through, was still going through.  It broke his 
heart.  "Lois, stop.  You're not going to tell the police 
not to press charges.  Not because of me, anyway.  If my 
secret comes out, it comes out.  You can't let this monster 
go unpunished because of it."

That stopped her briefly; when she spoke again, her voice 
was small.  "You should still see Dr. Klein.  It would be 
nice to know..."

"Okay.  I will.  I'll see him tomorrow."

"Okay."

*****

At home, the police had gone and the house was dark.  Lois 
hesitated on the sidewalk, looking up, then put her head 
down and forged up the stairs doggedly.  Clark had to trot 
to keep up with her as she pushed into the darkness of the 
foyer.

"I should have put a lock on this door a long time ago," he 
muttered, mostly to himself.  "I'll do it tomorrow.  A 
solid deadbolt."

"Isn't that sort of like bolting the barn door after the 
horse is gone?" Lois asked, with no particular inflection 
in her voice.

She didn't wait for his answer.  She unlocked the inner 
door and pushed it wide.  "Would you look at the mess they 
made in here?" she demanded, turning on the lights.  
"Fingerprint powder everywhere... get me a cloth, Clark, I 
need to start cleaning this up.  And you can sweep, they 
got it all over the floor, too.  And..."

"Lois."

She forged on as if she hadn't heard.  "And the bed 
upstairs... that's got to be stripped, I can't have those 
linens in the house anymore, I know that sounds crazy, 
but..."

Clark tried again, louder this time.  "Lois."

"...there it is, I just can't sleep if those blankets and 
sheets are in this house, and..."

Clark moved to block her frenetic straightening of the 
room.  "Lois.  I think the police took the bed linens with 
them.  It's okay."

She stopped, but didn't look at him.  "I'm sorry, Clark."

He stared at her, incredulous and mystified.  "Sorry?  What 
for?  You didn't do anything wrong.  If anything, I should 
be apologizing to you.  I should have been here..."

She interrupted, sounding lost.  "Then why won't you look 
at me?  Why won't you hold me?  It's because of him... of 
what he did to me..."

"No!  No.  Honey, there's nothing I want more than to take 
you in my arms and make it all better.  But Detective 
Mears... she told me... sometimes women who have... 
after... they don't want to be touched.  You seem so... I 
don't know... so fragile, somehow.  I'm not used to that.  
I don't know what to do, and I don't want to do the wrong 
thing.  I don't want to make it worse."

She looked at him then.  "You couldn't possibly make it 
worse," she said bluntly.

He opened his arms helplessly.  "I know, I... I'm so sorry.  
I should have been here, I should have protected you, I..."

She closed her eyes wearily.  "And what, Clark?  Let all 
those other people die?  You were doing what you had to do.  
It just... it happened.  Now we have to deal with it."  She 
moved forward, into his embrace, and he folded his arms 
carefully around her.  They stood that way, swaying softly, 
for a long time.

*****

Lois had been in the shower for the better part of an hour.  
Clark had cleaned up everything the police had left behind, 
and checked the spare bedroom to be sure the police *had* 
taken away the bed linens - they had.  He stood in the 
doorway for a minute, looking at the bare mattress, before 
he turned away, closing the door behind him.

He lay now on their bed, listening to the shower run, 
wondering how long the hot water would hold out, and if 
Lois was okay.  He was tempted to take a quick peek, just 
to be sure she was all right, but he didn't.  She'd been 
violated already today - he didn't want to add to it, even 
if he was her husband.  Even if she wouldn't know.

Finally she emerged, wrapped from throat to toes in an old 
terrycloth robe.  He reached over and patted the pillow 
beside him.  "Come on, honey.  You need some sleep."

She nodded, and took off the robe to slide into bed beside 
him.  She was wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of 
fleece sweatpants - not her usual bedtime attire.  He 
guessed it had to do with her sense of privacy, with 
wanting to feel secure, and didn't comment.  Instead, he 
reached for her, intending to draw her into the curve of 
his arm.  He stopped when she caught her breath and 
stiffened.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you..." he began.

"I'm sorry," she said, just as quickly.  "I didn't 
expect... I didn't know..."  She stopped, lying still and 
staring at the ceiling with such concentration that Clark 
knew she was trying not to cry.

He waited, and after a few minutes she took a long, 
shuddering breath and turned to look at him.  "It wasn't 
you," she told him.  "It was... I don't know.  Your holding 
on to me - the feeling that I couldn't get away... even 
though I knew it was you - even though I know you would 
never, ever do anything to hurt me... I panicked.  Just for 
that instant, I panicked.  I'm sorry."

"No, don't apologize.  It wasn't anything you meant to do, 
I know that.  I'll just have to start being more careful.  
Make sure you're ready for me to hold you, before I do.  
That's all."

She bit her lip, and nodded.  "I guess so."

"So... you want to come here?"

Her smile was weak, but she moved toward him.  He lay 
perfectly still while she settled herself against him, and 
then, very gently, brought his arm up to cradle her back.  
"Let me know if I'm scaring you," he whispered.  "I don't 
want you to ever be afraid of me."

She turned, nuzzling into his neck, and shook her head.  
"I'm all right.  It feels good, you holding me."

She fell asleep on his shoulder but he lay awake for a long 
time, staring into the darkness.

*****

He woke to her absence, and lifted his head, listening.  
She wasn't in their bathroom, so he extended his hearing 
further, until he found her.  Alarmed, he slid out of bed 
and snatched up his robe, pulling it on as he trotted down 
the stairs.

She was in the kitchen, sitting solitary under the harsh 
overhead light, crying great silent tears interspersed with 
the occasional half-hiccup, half-sob.  He wondered how long 
she'd been at it, and moved forward to take her into his 
arms.  He caught himself at the last moment, and settled 
for a quick, soft touch to the back of her hand as he sat 
down beside her.  "Hey."

She sniffled and tried to stop the tears.

"Hey, it's okay.  Cry all you want.  It's okay now."  He 
held out his hands, offering the comfort of an embrace, but 
she didn't accept.  Instead, she began to cry even harder, 
gasping out a stream of words he could scarcely make out, 
much less understand.

"...how am I... choice like this... yours... his... 
pills..."  On the last, she opened her hand to display a 
small brown pharmacy bottle.  He took it gently and turned 
it to read the label.  Her name, today's date, the 
hospital's imprint.  Something they'd given her at the 
emergency room.  He didn't recognize the name of the 
medication.

"What are they?"

She had to say it twice before he understood that the pills 
were an emergency contraceptive, and that she was 
struggling with the decision as to whether or not she 
should take them.

She stared at him with tear-filled eyes.  "We've been 
trying so hard," she finished, her breath coming in heaving 
sobs.  "It's my fertile period and we've been trying and... 
what if I am pregnant?  What if I was already pregnant, I 
mean?  If the baby's yours... and these pills..."

"Would they work if..."  He let the question trail away, 
not sure how to phrase it.

"Seventy-two hours," she answered.  "They said.  Clark, how 
can I take pills that might kill our baby?"

He looked at the bottle.  "I don't know how to answer that.  
What if..."  he hesitated, and swallowed hard before trying 
again.  "What if... it's not mine?  What if..."

"That's why I haven't flushed them."

"That's why you're sitting down here, all alone, crying," 
he finished for her.  He couldn't help it - he had to reach 
out and offer her physical comfort.

She stiffened at his touch, and then relaxed into his 
embrace, burying her face in his shoulder.  "I don't know 
what to do.  Tell me what to do."

"Lois... honey.  I can't.  I can't tell you.  It's your 
body.  You were the one..." he broke off, unable to finish 
that particular thought.  "You're the one who has to 
decide.  I'm sorry.  But whatever you choose to do, I'll 
support you.  I'm behind you.  I promise."

She pulled away from him.  "Whatever I decide...?"

"Whatever."

She took the bottle from his hand and shook it, rattling 
the pills inside.  "I'm probably not pregnant anyway," she 
whispered.  "We've been trying for months now, and it's 
never happened.  Why should it happen now?"

He refrained from mentioning his Kryptonian heritage, and 
Dr. Klein's conviction that Superman could never conceive a 
child with a human woman.  Which news had dampened Lois's 
spirits for only a few days before she decided there was no 
reason for them to accept that if they chose not to.  Ever 
since, she'd been doggedly taking her temperature, charting 
her cycles, and orchestrating their love life.

"Lois..."

She set the bottle down.  "Come on.  It's late, and we're 
both tired."

He recognized avoidance when he saw it, but he didn't know 
how to deflect her.  And she'd said she had seventy-two 
hours to take the contraceptive.  He moved the bottle to a 
safer spot on the kitchen counter and followed her 
upstairs.

*****

The morning after the attack, Clark picked up the telephone 
just as Lois stepped out of yet another hot shower.  "What 
are you doing?" she asked, suspicion coloring her voice.

"Calling my folks," Clark answered, surprised.

"Oh."  She hugged her terrycloth robe more tightly closed.  
"What are you going to tell them?"

"I don't know, exactly.  I usually don't, when I call."

"Were you going to tell them what happened?"

"Well... yeah.  I guess so."

"Clark..."  Her eyes were wide and imploring, her voice so 
soft as to be nearly inaudible.  "Don't.  Please."

"Why..."  He broke that question off before he finished it. 
He supposed he could see why not.  There were times when 
Lois liked being the center of attention.  Sometimes she 
even managed events so she would be.  But this was 
different.  This would be pity, people feeling sorry for 
her.  Perhaps some would even view her now as damaged in 
some way, or despoiled.  So of course she wouldn't want 
anyone to know.

Just as he finished thinking it out, she said it: "I just 
don't want... people staring at me."

"I don't blame you," he said honestly.  "But my folks 
wouldn't..."

"I don't want them to know.  I don't want anybody to know."

Except me and the police and the people at the hospital, he 
thought unhappily.  But... "Okay," he said aloud.  "I won't 
say anything."

He started dialing, but put the phone back in its cradle 
when Lois went to her closet and started rummaging through 
her business outfits.

"Honey, what are you doing?"

She looked around, surprised.  "Getting ready for work."

"You're not going to work today... are you?"  He tacked the 
question on hurriedly as he saw her expression grow stormy.

"Why not?" she demanded.  "There's nothing wrong with me.  
I'm not sick."

No, but you've been through a traumatic experience, he 
thought.  But he knew better than to express the thought 
aloud.  "I guess not," he agreed.  "What will you tell them 
about your face?"

"My...?"  She touched her cheek as if only just aware of 
the swelling and bruising that marred one side of her face.  
"I'll cover it with makeup," she rallied.  "And I can tell 
them... I was mugged.  Everybody gets mugged," she 
concluded, turning back to her closet.  "They'll believe 
that."

*****

Shortly before lunch time, Perry White stuck his head out 
of his office.  "Lois, honey?  Can I see you in here for a 
minute?"  Perry's voice was too kind for him to be yelling 
about a story, and Lois cast Clark an apprehensive look as 
she went.

"You want to close that door?" he asked, as she stepped 
inside.

"Sure, Perry," she answered, and matched words with action.  
"What's up?"

"You're up," he answered, fixing her with a stern look.  
"What's this story you're feeding everybody about getting 
mugged?"

She touched her bruised cheek self-consciously.  "It was so 
stupid.  I stopped off at this little Italian restaurant 
because I knew Clark would be hungry when he got home, I 
was going to pick up some linguine, he likes it with clam 
sauce, and there was this - this thug, and he just came out 
of nowhere and..."

Perry was shaking his head.  "Lois, honey.  You can sell 
that bull to everybody else, but don't you know you can't 
pull the wool over my eyes?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Perry," she said 
defensively.  "There was this thug, and he came out of 
nowhere and tried to grab my purse, and when I held on, he 
hit me.  That's what happened."

"Except you told Ralph and Margie that when he tried to 
grab your purse, you slipped and went face-first into a 
metal trash bin.  And Carl says Clark told him you hit your 
head on a parked car.  So I want to know what in the name 
of Elvis is going on!"  His voice softened.  "Now, listen, 
honey.  I've been around a lot of years and I'm a pretty 
good judge of character.  I never would have taken Clark 
for the sort of man to hit a woman, but if he's touched 
you, if he's hurt you, you just say the word and..."

It was such a ridiculous idea that she wanted to laugh.  
Except laughing would make her face hurt, and anyway she 
didn't really feel like laughing today.  "Clark wouldn't 
lay a hand on me," she snapped, instead.  "And you know 
it."

"Yeah, I do," he agreed.  "And if he tried, you wouldn't 
stand for it, anyway.  But I just had to be sure."

"Well, now you are."

"But I still don't know how you got that shiner."

"I told you.  I got mugged..."

Perry sighed.  "Right.  But if you were in trouble, you'd 
tell me."

"Of course," she agreed.  "Well, maybe," she amended, when 
he glared at her.  "Oh, all right, probably not, but then 
you'd worm it out of me..."

"Don't forget that, darlin'.  Now..." He shuffled through 
the papers on his desk.  "I have an assignment for you."

*****

It had taken all Clark's willpower not to eavesdrop on 
Lois's conversation with Perry - it had been even harder to 
leave, halfway through, when he heard a frantic call for 
help.  All he wanted today was to be with Lois.  To watch 
over her, protect her.  Keep her safe.

But the call came again - a panicked plea - and so he went.

When he returned, Lois wasn't in Perry's office.  She 
wasn't at her desk, either.  Wasn't getting coffee, wasn't 
at the copier.  The ladies' room?  He didn't have the nerve 
to check, not just yet.  Instead...

"Jimmy, where's Lois?"

Jimmy paused on his way to the darkroom.  "Chief sent her 
out on an assignment," he said.  "Where've you been?"

"A fire in an apartment building on the west side," Clark 
answered.  "Some kids were trapped, and Superman rescued 
them."

"Oh.  How do you always find out about the Superman 
stories?"  But it was a rhetorical question; already Jimmy 
was going on his way.

And Clark still didn't know where Lois was.

"Hey, Sandra."  He snagged a passing reporter.  "You seen 
Lois?"

She shrugged.  "At some press conference, I think.  Ask 
Perry."

But Perry wasn't in his office.  "Ralph, you know anything 
about a press conference?"

"At police headquarters?" Ralph guessed.  "I thought I 
heard someone say they were having one there.  Say, did you 
hear about this story I'm working on?  I'm about to catch 
Judge Carter with his pants down..."

Clark tuned him out and reached for the phone.  Henderson 
wasn't in, but Sergeant Zymack was.

"Press conference?  Sure, it ended a few minutes ago.  
There's a serial rapist going around assaulting women.  Got 
his third victim last night.  The commissioner and the 
mayor wanted the people warned."

Clark barely managed to thank him before slamming the phone 
down.  What was Lois thinking?

But of course he knew.  She was thinking that nothing had 
changed.  That she could go, and listen, and not be 
affected.

Pigheaded.

He slipped into the storeroom and out the window; seconds 
later, he stepped out of an alley and onto the street in 
front of police headquarters, straightening his tie.

He'd spotted the Jeep from the air and headed straight for 
it.  Lois wasn't there.

But if the press conference had ended only minutes ago, she 
could still be inside.  He hurried up the steps.

He listened for her, but with so many other people around, 
he couldn't pick her out.  He couldn't find her with 
discreet use of his x-ray vision, either.  But she had to 
be here.  "Have you seen Lois?" he asked of several people 
he knew, but no one had.

And then he spotted a small knot of people outside one of 
the public restrooms.  "What's going on?" he asked a woman.

"There's a lady inside, acting strange," she told him, a 
gleam of excitement in her eye.

Clark eased his glasses down for a quick peek inside, then 
shouldered his way into the center of the group and 
addressed an authoritative woman who seemed to be guarding 
the open door.  "Excuse me," he said.  "I think the woman 
inside might be my wife.  Would you mind...?"

"Be my guest," the woman answered, and stepped aside.

There was another small knot of women at one of the white 
porcelain sinks; Clark saw one of them, her face drawn with 
compassion, reach out, but Lois flinched away and the woman 
dropped her hand.  The other women seemed equally at a loss 
as to what to do; they looked relieved when they saw Clark.

"My wife," he murmured.  "Let me..."

They stepped aside, and began a subtle retreat toward the 
door.

Lois stood at the sink, washing her hands.  Steam rose from 
the tap, and the skin of her hands was raw from scrubbing.  
Her shoulders were hunched defensively, and she was 
sobbing.

Clark wanted to rush and take her into his arms, but he 
remembered her reaction the night before, her flinch here 
from the woman who wanted to help, and approached softly.  
"Lois?  Honey.  It's okay.  I'm here."

She kept scrubbing, kept sobbing.

"Sweetheart?"  He laid a careful hand on her shoulder.  
"Your hands are clean.  You can stop now."

"Not clean," she choked out, around the sobs.  "Not clean 
ever again.  I need a bath, a shower.  Never be clean 
again."

"Yes, you will.  You are."  He slid his hand across her 
shoulders, so that his arm lay lightly across them.  "It 
wasn't your fault.  None of it was your fault."

"They were talking about him," she went on, as if she 
hadn't heard.  "At the conference.  About him, and saying 
what he did.  To me.  Did you know there were others?  
Before me?"

"I heard," he acknowledged.

"And then me, and tomorrow maybe somebody else, and I just 
felt so *dirty*, Clark!  I came in here to get hold of 
myself, and I went to wash my hands, and I couldn't stop.  
I just kept washing and washing..."  Her hands hung limply 
in the sink now, and her head rested against his shoulder.  
"I don't know what to do..."

He turned off the water and reached for a paper towel.  
"I'm taking you home.  Right now."

"I'm scared at home," she whispered.

"I won't leave you," he murmured, into her hair.  "I 
won't."

*****

While Lois was in the shower, Clark called Perry.

"Tell Lois I'm sorry she's not feeling well," Perry said.  
"What'd she find out at the press conference?"

"I'm sorry, Perry, you'll have to ask someone else to get 
that."

"What, you mean she didn't even cover it?  What was she 
thinking, going out when she felt that bad?  Every paper in 
town knows what's going on but the Daily Planet!  Now I'm 
going to have to..."

"Perry, she didn't do it on purpose," Clark interrupted, 
sharply.  "I'm sorry.  She's sorry.  But you're going to 
have to put someone else on that story."

"All right, all right."  Perry calmed down.  "I know Lois, 
she must have thought she could handle it.  In fact, I'm 
kind of worried about her, it's not like her to just step 
away from a story like that."

"She really isn't feeling well, Perry," Clark insisted.  
"She just physically couldn't do it."

"Okay.  You stay home, take care of her.  Tell her I said 
for her to take care of herself!  I'll put Simmons on to 
finding out about the press conference."

"Thanks, Chief."

Lois was still in the shower when Perry called back five 
minutes later.  "My God, son, why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?" Clark asked warily.

"I just got off the phone with Bill Henderson, who read me 
the riot act for assigning Lois to that press conference.  
I never would have sent her if I'd known.  If I'd had any 
idea.  Why didn't she tell me?"

Clark sank down onto the edge of the bed.  "She didn't want 
anyone to know.  She doesn't want anyone to know."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of!" Perry bellowed.  "It's 
that monster's fault, not Lois's.  She ought to know that!"

"She ought to," Clark agreed, "and on some level she does, 
but deep down..."

Perry sighed.  "Yeah.  I guess so.  Well, you give her my 
best, and tell her to take all the time she needs.  I'll 
square it with the big shots upstairs, and without telling 
them what happened, either.  You, too.  If she needs 
you..."

"Thanks, Perry.  We appreciate it."

Lois emerged from the bathroom as he cradled the phone.  
"Perry?" she inquired.

"I called to let him know we wouldn't be back in," Clark 
explained.  "Honey... he talked to Henderson."

Lois, who was never still, went quietly motionless.  "Oh."

"He says for you to take all the time you need.  Me, too."

"Half the newsroom must know by now."  Her voice was flat, 
expressionless.

Clark hated seeing her like this, hated not being able to 
do anything tangible to help.  "I asked him not to say 
anything.  He promised he wouldn't."

"Who's Perry putting on the story?"

"Simmons."

"So he'll know, and then..."

Clark shook his head.  "The police won't reveal the names 
of the victims, Lois, you know that."

"Henderson talked to Perry," she shot back, with a burst of 
spirit.

"Henderson was yelling at him for sending you to the 
conference in the first place," Clark pointed out.  "I'll 
bet he thought Perry already knew.  Or he was so mad, he 
let it slip.  He wouldn't tell Superman what happened last 
night."

Lois looked at him curiously.

"When I came home... I saw the police cars, and the 
lights... I was so scared, Lois.  I didn't even think - I 
just flashed down here to find out what happened.  To find 
you.  And all Henderson would say was that you were at the 
hospital, and could I please find your husband."

"Oh, Clark."

"It's okay.  Luckily, Superman knew right where to look."

She smiled, as he had meant her to.

"So come on, I'll fix you some lunch."

*****

"I'll clean up," Clark said, after they ate.  "You didn't 
sleep much last night - why don't you go lie down for a 
while?"

Lois shook her head.  "I don't want to."

"Lois, come on.  You have to take care of yourself.  Just 
close your eyes for a while."

"Well... maybe I'll lie down on the couch," she conceded.  
"But don't let me sleep all afternoon."

He promised, and she took herself off into the living room.

He tidied the kitchen at a human pace and got some chops 
out to thaw for supper, then tiptoed toward the living room 
to check on Lois.

She wasn't sleeping.  She wasn't even lying down.

Instead, she'd taken all the books off the bookcase and was 
industriously polishing the shelves.

"Lois, what are you..."

"I started to lie down, Clark," she said, without stopping.  
"But these shelves were a little dusty, and it was bugging 
me, so I thought I'd just..."

"I could do that."

"I know, but you do most of the cleaning anyway, and I 
guess I'm sort of in the mood..."  She flashed him what 
might have passed for a mischievous grin, if he hadn't 
known her so well.  "You should take advantage of it."

"Honey..."  He wished there was something, anything, he 
could do to assuage her pain.

"I'll be done here in a minute," she muttered, but it was a 
half-hour or more before all the books had been dusted to 
her satisfaction and replaced on the shelf.

From there, she moved on to cleaning out the storage 
closet.  After that, she scrubbed the guest bathroom.

She was just finishing up when Clark lifted his head, 
listening.  A robbery at a jewelry store across town.  
"Honey, I need to..."  He broke off because she was staring 
at him, her expression a blend of determination and terror.  
"Honey?"

"Go on," she said, the determination winning.  "I know you 
heard something.  Go."

But the terror in her eyes held him there.

"What are you waiting for?"  Her voice was shrill.  "Go!"

Slowly he shook his head.  "It's just a robbery.  I'm not 
going."

She tried to look angry, but relief was in the breath she 
let out.  "Not going?"

"No.  I'm staying here.  With you."

"You don't have to do that, Clark.  I'm a big girl.  I can 
take care of myself."

"I know that."  The last thing he wanted was for her to 
think he planned to hover over her.  "But I think maybe you 
just need a little..."  Time, he'd been going to say, but 
he broke off as a new sound reached him.  This one wasn't 
the shrilling of an alarm.  It was the all too human shriek 
of children.

"What?"  Lois clutched at his arm.  "What do you hear now?"

"Some kids - from the elementary school two blocks over, I 
think.  I have to go to this one."

"All right."  She was pale, but the determination was back.

He changed and made a superspeed circuit of the house, 
arriving back in front of her scarcely before she'd 
realized he was gone.  "I've checked all the doors and 
windows - they're locked.  I'll be back as soon as I can."

"All right," she said again.

He wanted to kiss her, reassure her in some tangible way 
that everything would be all right.  But the screams of 
children were loud in his ears, and besides, she would 
shrink back if he tried to touch her now.  So he settled 
for a smile.  "Love you," he said, and sped away.

*****

The scene at the school seemed almost innocuous at first.  
A minivan sat crushed against the stout timbers of a 
playground climbing gym, steam issuing from its burst 
radiator.  The shrieks he'd been hearing came from dozens 
of children, gathered around and staring in horror.  
Teachers tried to herd them away, but without much success.  
A quick scan of the kids showed no injuries more severe 
than scrapes and bruises, though, so Clark turned his 
attention to the van's driver.  The woman behind the wheel 
moaned, but an x-ray scan revealed no broken bones, and the 
reek of alcohol was probably responsible for her fuzzy 
perception.

Only then did he notice the subject of the children's 
horror: under the wheels of the minivan lay a young woman.  
Her eyes were open and she was conscious enough to 
recognize him - he saw her lips form the word "Superman," 
but there was no sound.  He knelt beside her and tried to 
assess her injuries.  She was pinned, her leg crushed by a 
tire.  He didn't dare try to move the minivan off her until 
the paramedics were here to immediately tend to her.  He 
hated accidents like this, when he could do nothing but 
wait.  His superhearing picked up sirens, and a quick 
calculation told him they were just minutes away.

Comfort was all he could offer until they came, so he took 
the woman's hand in his and squeezed.  "It's going to be 
okay," he said.  "We're going to get you out of here.  
What's your name?"

"Jan," the woman replied, faintly.  "Jan Brooks."

"Miss Brooks saved us, Superman," one of the children said 
tearfully.  "She pushed me out of the way.  She pushed 
Randa, too.  And then the car hit her.  Please don't let 
anything bad happen to her."

"I won't," he promised rashly, without taking his eyes from 
the injured woman's face.  "As soon as the paramedics get 
here..."

As he spoke, an ambulance pulled around the end of the 
building and bumped over the playground grass.  Uniformed 
technicians jumped from the vehicle and Clark stepped back 
to give them room to work.

A small boy tugged on his cape.  "Superman?"

"Yes?"  He bent down to hear.

"Please help Miss Brooks," the child pleaded.  "You're 
supposed to help."

"I promise I'll do everything I can," he said.  "Look, the 
EMTs are fixing her up - in a minute we'll be able to take 
her to the hospital."

"She's my teacher, Superman," a little girl added.  "I love 
her."

"I know, sweetie."

The children gathered around him, pressing close, as if 
proximity to Superman would protect them.  He stood there 
stolidly, letting them take whatever comfort they could 
find, until the paramedics gestured for him.

"Just lift the van up, Superman," the woman EMT said.  
"It'll take us a minute to get her onto the backboard and 
out from under."

"I'll just lift it right away from her," Clark countered.  
"If that's all right."

The EMT looked first startled, then sheepish.  "Oh, right.  
For a minute, I think I forgot who I was talking to."

He had to smile at that.  He'd spent enough time helping 
with disasters that most of the city's emergency personnel 
knew him and had worked with him.  The awe factor didn't 
apply so much any more.

It was the work of seconds to lift the minivan and move it 
safely away from its victim; the driver had already been 
removed by the police.  He waited, in case the EMTs needed 
him for anything else, but they waved him on as they opened 
the back of the ambulance and loaded the young teacher 
inside.  "Thanks, Superman!" one of them called in 
farewell.

He turned to the small group of children who still huddled 
on the playground, watching.  "Go back to your classes, 
children.  Miss Brooks is going to the hospital now, and 
the doctors there will take good care of her."

"But, Superman," one child asked, her face tearstreaked.  
"Can't you just fix her?  You're *Superman*."

His heart quailed.  She had such faith in him.  How could 
he tell her it was misplaced?  "No, honey, I'm sorry.  I 
can't."

"But you're *Superman*," another child said.  "You can do 
anything."

He shook his head.  "I can do a lot of things, but not 
everything.  Not this."  I couldn't protect Lois, he 
thought, painfully.  Lois, who was home, and afraid.  "I 
have to go now.  Go inside, and listen to your teachers."

He waited until the group began to shuffle toward the 
building under the watchful eyes of teachers, then shot 
skyward.

He scanned the house before he descended because he didn't 
want to startle Lois when he entered.  What he found broke 
his heart.

He went in through the upstairs window he always used - its 
lock had been modified a long time ago so he could open it 
from the outside - and  spun into his ordinary clothes as 
he hurried downstairs.  "Lois?  Honey?"

She was as he'd seen her, sitting huddled in a chair, 
positioned so she could see both the front door and windows 
and the French doors in the back.   The chair was drawn up 
against a wall, so that no one could creep up behind her.  
She had the fireplace poker in her lap.

She started at the sound of his voice, and tried to slip 
the poker behind her chair.  "Oh, you startled me," she 
said, flustered.  "I was just..."

"Honey."

She must have known from the sound of his voice that he had 
seen her, because she stopped trying to hide the poker.  
"Are the kids okay?"

"What?"

"At the school.  The kids.  Are they okay?"

"Oh, yeah, fine.  One of their teachers was hurt in an 
accident, but the kids will be fine."

It was a sign of how unsettled she was that she didn't ask 
for further detail.  Instead, she nodded and moved past 
him, toward the stairs.  "Are you going to be home for a 
while?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Sure," he answered.  *Unless there's an emergency, and I'm 
needed,* was the unspoken addendum, but she knew that.  And 
it would have to be a pretty spectacular disaster to make 
him leave her again so soon.

"I'm going upstairs to lie down for a while," she said.  
"Tell me if you go out, okay?"

"I will.  I promise."

*****

Lois slept, but fitfully.  Clark kept an eye on her, ready 
to streak upstairs at the first sign of overt distress, but 
her restlessness and muttering never evolved into anything 
that resembled a nightmare, at least not from his 
perspective.  She looked better, if a bit rumpled, when she 
came downstairs two hours later.

"Good nap?" he asked.

She shrugged.  "I guess so."  She looked at the coffee 
table, and the telephone book lying open on it.  "Looking 
for something?"

Clark glanced at the phone still in his hand.  "I ordered a 
lock for that outside door," he said.  "And an alarm 
system."

"An alarm system?  Can we afford that?"

"I don't care if we can afford it.  I want you safe.  I 
want you to feel safe, even if I'm not here.  I'll do 
whatever I have to do, pay whatever I have to pay, to have 
you safe."

"I can take care of myself, Clark," she answered sharply.

He didn't want to crush her spirit, not when she was 
fighting so hard.  But he couldn't let her be hurt again.  
Not like this.  "No," he said, gently.  "You can't.  Not 
all the time.  Not even Superman can take care of himself 
all the time.  You've been around.  You know that."

Hostility had flared at his first words, but mention of 
Superman had dimmed it.  She must be remembering, as he 
was, times that the world's strongest man had been 
helpless.  She knew he didn't mean she was weak, or 
helpless in any conventional sense.  Just that sometimes, 
someone else was stronger, or more prepared, or had some 
other advantage.

She dropped into the chair opposite and nodded.  "You're 
right.  I... you're right.  I might feel safer with an 
alarm.  Or a dog.  Maybe we could get a dog."

"Sure, if that's what you want."  He gestured toward the 
phone book.  "There's some places in there that train dogs 
to protect..."

"Clark, no.  I don't want a guard dog.  If we get a dog, I 
want a pet.  A friendly face when you're not around."  She 
gave a small, sly grin to see how he was taking that, and 
her ability to tease lifted his spirits.  "All the dog 
needs to do is growl or bark if he hears something.  I can 
do the rest."

He supposed she could, at that.  If not for the advantage 
of surprise, yesterday's assailant might well have been 
unsuccessful.  This time.  Clark's blood ran cold as he 
remembered that this man was a serial rapist.  He'd 
attacked before, and he would again.  In a day or two, some 
other woman would be subjected to the same ordeal Lois had 
been forced to undergo.  Some other husband, or boyfriend 
would be going through what he was.  Or father or brother 
or friend.  Rape, he was learning, had many victims.

He stopped that train of thought before rage overcame him, 
and flipped the phone book closed.  "If you think you want 
a dog, we can go to the pound this weekend.  Or look in the 
paper, find a puppy.  Whatever you want."

"I'll think about it first," she said.

"Okay."  He paused, studying her, then plunged ahead.  
"Listen, Lois, last night at the hospital..."

He could see her tighten up, all her muscles going rigid 
with memory.  But when she spoke, her voice was steady.  
"Yes?"

"Detective Mears gave you a card.  For a support group?"

Her expression grew frosty.

But he'd started; might as well see it through.  "I was 
thinking maybe you ought to give them a call."

She pushed to her feet and leaned forward, her body 
language as angry and aggressive as her voice.  "I don't 
need a support group.  I'm fine."

"You don't act fine," he said bluntly.  "When have you ever 
been afraid for me to leave the house?  But you were afraid 
earlier.  I know you were."

"It was just being home alone for the first time," she said 
defensively.  "Nothing happened, so I'll be fine now."

"And what if you aren't?"

"I will be."

Maybe if he tried a different tack.  "Lois... honey.  These 
are people who can understand.  It might help to talk about 
it."

"I don't want to talk about it!" she flared.  "I don't want 
anyone to feel sorry for me.  You don't know what it was 
like, Clark.  You don't know how it felt.  I just want to 
forget it ever happened."  By the time she reached the end, 
she was crying, and instinctively he reached for her.

And when he touched her, she flinched.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I forgot."  He backed away, hands 
raised.  He'd never felt so helpless.

But just as quickly, she was coming toward him, her arms 
open.  "No, I'm sorry.  I keep doing that to you, and I 
don't mean to."

He let her wrap her arms around him and place her head on 
his chest before he very gently folded his own arms around 
her to hold her close.  "I love you, Lois," he whispered 
into her hair.

"I know," she answered, her voice muffled by his shirt.  "I 
know."

*****

It was two days later that Clark noticed the small 
prescription bottle was missing from the kitchen.  It 
wasn't in any of the bathrooms, either.  The seventy-two 
hours were up - and he didn't know what Lois had decided.  
Had she taken the emergency contraceptive, or thrown it 
away?

But he wouldn't ask.  If she wanted him to know, she'd tell 
him.  Meanwhile, the bruises on her face were starting to 
heal, and he could only hope that inner healing would 
follow.

He was careful, now, of how he moved when she was near, 
never reaching towards her without warning, never coming 
too close without an invitation.  She guarded her personal 
space more fiercely than before, and he knew she had 
nightmares.  She woke in the night, sometimes, sobbing, and 
what hurt most of all was that he couldn't simply gather 
her close and comfort her.  He had to speak to her, slowly 
and clearly, from his own side of the bed, until she 
recognized him.  He had to wait for her to come to him.  
Only then could he close his arms around her and hold her.  
Only then could he kiss her hair, and murmur soft 
reassurance.

The security company came and installed an alarm.  Lois 
complained it was too sophisticated, and too expensive, but 
Clark insisted.  All the downstairs doors and windows were 
wired, and there were motion sensors strategically placed.  
Clark would have enjoyed a dog, and Lois wouldn't ever have 
had to be at home alone, but they finally discarded that 
idea, deciding their current lifestyle wasn't really suited 
to pets.

He also made the promised visit to Dr. Klein.

"Ah, Superman!"  Dr. Klein looked up from his microscope.  
"How nice of you to drop in."

"Sorry," Clark answered.  "It's not a social call."

The doctor sighed.  "It never is."

"No, I guess not," Clark agreed, and wondered fleetingly if 
maybe he should try dropping in occasionally when he wasn't 
in trouble.  But there wasn't time for that now.

"What can I do for you today?" Dr. Klein asked.

"You can answer a question," Clark said, leading into 
things gradually.

Dr. Klein brightened.  "I'd be glad to.  What is it?"

Clark swallowed.  "How different is my DNA?"

"Oh, quite different," Dr. Klein answered, with enthusiasm.  
"Several of your..."

"So a forensic scientist would be able to tell by 
looking..." Clark hated interrupting, but he didn't want 
the scientist to get off on a tangent.

"Forensic scientist?"

Clark paused and drew a deep breath, considering what it 
would be safe to say.  But this was Dr. Klein, who knew 
more about him than anyone except Lois and his parents.  He 
could trust him.  "Yes," he said slowly.  "The police lab 
is going to be comparing samples of my DNA with someone 
else's for exclusionary purposes.  But it sounds like 
they'll be able to tell..."

But Dr. Klein was shaking his head.  "Oh, they won't.  Not 
if they're only doing forensic testing.  You see, your 
nucleotide ratios are quite similar to ours, so the type of 
testing they're doing, comparing only a few RFLP 
markers..."

Clark didn't even try to follow the science, he just 
grasped at the meaning.  "They'll think I'm human?"

"I don't know why they wouldn't," Dr. Klein answered.  
"It's only when you start breaking down the..."

Clark broke into his explanation.  "Thank you, Dr. Klein.  
That's what I needed to know.  I'm sorry I can't tell you 
why."

"That's all right," Dr. Klein answered.  "I'm always glad 
to help."

*****

"So it'll be okay," Lois said, when he told her.  "No one 
will know you're... who you are."

"Dr. Klein says no.  Not in the kind of testing they're 
doing."

"So I guess," she said, with a kind of bitter humor, "that 
as long as they don't try to create any clones, we're 
okay."

"Yeah," he answered glumly.  "I guess so.  I'll go by the 
police lab tomorrow and give them a sample."

*****

In the weeks that followed, the rapist struck three more 
times.  Each time he got away.  The police were growing 
progressively more frustrated.

So was Superman.

With the new alarm system in place, Lois felt safer when 
she was home alone, so Clark went out most evenings, 
patrolling fiercely, ignoring minor accidents and incidents 
so he could focus on one thing.  Finding the tall man with 
the reddish hair and beard.  He wasn't quite sure what he'd 
do with the man once he got his hands on him, but he ached 
for the chance.

"Well," he heard a policeman say, once, "He's left his DNA 
all over town - if we ever lay hands on him, we can sure 
put him away."

But there was nothing.  No sign, no clue, just another 
victim left crying in his wake.  Another woman's life 
forever changed

And Lois, still bravely fighting her own fears.  Lois, 
who'd lost weight and looked increasingly wan.  Lois, who'd 
finally agreed, five weeks after the attack, to go to the 
doctor.

His parents, who still didn't even know the assault had 
taken place, were coming this evening for a visit which had 
been scheduled long ago.  He'd suggested postponing, but 
Lois, who'd allowed herself to be persuaded in the matter 
of the doctor, was adamant.  "We can't cancel, Clark, 
they'll want to know why."

"We'll just tell them you aren't feeling well," he answered 
stubbornly.  "It's the truth."

"Your mom will just want to come nurse me," she retorted.  
"And I don't need nursing!  So just let them come.  
Everything will be fine."

But Clark had his doubts.  If nothing else, his mother 
would be sure to notice that the guest room had new 
curtains and a new bedspread; Lois hadn't been able to look 
at the old ones, even though they'd been chosen less than a 
year before, and she'd loved them then.

That the bed was the same was a near thing; not long after 
the assault, Clark had come home to find Lois standing 
stiffly in the doorway to the guest room with its stripped 
bed and bare nightstand.  She wasn't doing anything, just 
looking.  He cleared his throat to be sure she knew he was 
there, and stepped up behind her.  "What are you looking 
for?" he asked gently.

"I don't know," she answered.  "Maybe... my innocence?  My 
belief that nothing this bad could ever happen to me?"

"Honey..."  Very slowly, he put a hand on her arm, and when 
she didn't flinch, slid it around her waist and pulled her 
toward him.  Prepared for his touch, she accepted his 
embrace and leaned back against him.

"Maybe if we got rid of the bed..." she murmured.

He tightened his grip, not enough to frighten her, just 
enough to reassure.  "I wouldn't like to do that," he 
replied.

She twisted in his arms to look up at him.  "What?"

He smiled down at her.  "We spent our wedding night in that 
bed.  Remember?"

"Oh."  She looked back, and some of the tension bled away 
from her shoulders, her spine.  "I do remember."  Her hands 
tightened on his.  "Can we replace the mattress?"

"Sure."

The new bed, a king-size, went into their bedroom; the 
extra space seemed to make it easier for Lois to sleep.  
The old mattress from their room went on the bed frame in 
the guest room.

The mattress on which the assault had taken place went to 
the dump.  Superman saw to that personally.

*****

Lois wasn't yet home when Clark and his parents reached the 
townhouse.  He'd just set them down in the living room and 
his mother was heading upstairs to unpack when he heard the 
Jeep pull up outside.

He'd wanted to accompany her to the doctor, but his parents 
were expecting their transportation - Superman Express - 
and anyway, she hadn't wanted him to come.  But now he was 
anxious to hear what the doctor had said.  Maybe he'd 
prescribed some vitamins or something.  Anything, if it 
would take away the dark circles under her eyes, and help 
her regain her appetite.

He hurried to open the front door so she wouldn't have to 
fumble with her keys.

"New alarm system?" his dad asked, watching him touch the 
proper code into the keypad to disarm the system.

"Um, yeah," Clark agreed.  He opened the deadbolt on the 
inside door and crossed the vestibule to the outer door 
with its shiny new lock.

"You been having trouble?"  Jonathan asked, eyeing the 
lock.

Clark couldn't lie, not to his dad.  But he couldn't tell 
the truth, either.  Lois had made him promise.  He mumbled 
something unintelligible and opened the door.

Lois stepped past him and began taking off her coat, moving 
mechanically.  She didn't smile, didn't speak.

"Lois?  What did the doctor say?"

She froze in place for a moment, then turned very slowly.  
Her face was pinched, her expression flat.  "I'm pregnant."

On the stairs, Martha let out a happy gasp, and began to 
hurry down.  Jonathan beamed and came forward, saying, "A 
baby!  Did you hear that Martha?  Lois and Clark are going 
to..."

And then it all stopped.  Clark could see it, in a surreal 
kind of way, a frozen tableau made up of he and Lois, 
facing each other, and his parents off to the side, 
realizing that this wasn't a happy announcement after all, 
that something was terribly wrong.

And all the time, Lois was looking at him with despair in 
her eyes.

It was Jonathan who put the scene into motion again.  "Come 
on, Martha," he muttered.  "Let's go upstairs, give these 
two some privacy."

Clark hardly noticed them leave.  "Lois," he managed to say 
finally, his throat suddenly dry, his voice hoarse.

She pushed past him and headed for the kitchen as if she 
hadn't heard.

He followed, letting the kitchen door swing closed behind 
him.

Lois was at the refrigerator, as brittle as the ice she was 
putting into a glass.

"Lois.  Honey."

She stopped, facing away from him, and carefully put her 
glass down on the counter.  "What am I going to do?" she 
asked, her voice bleak.

"Do?"

"The doctor said... it's safest in the first trimester.  
Easiest.  So I have a few weeks to decide.  But... what 
will I decide?  What will we decide?"

Bewilderment changed to understanding.

Abortion.  She was talking about abortion.  His heart 
clenched in his chest.

"It's your decision," he said, fighting to keep his voice 
steady.  "Whatever you decide.  Whatever's right for you."

She spun then, and her expression frightened him.  "I don't 
know what's right!  I don't know.  I've been driving 
around, thinking and thinking, and I don't know!"

He put out his hands to placate her.  "I know, honey, I 
know.  It's a big thing.  Huge.  Give it some time."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I can't make that decision for you, Lois.  It's your body.  
What happened - happened to you.  But whatever you do..."

"You'll support me," she finished for him, and nodded 
stiffly.  "Your parents must be wondering what's going on."

"I'll think of something to tell them," he promised rashly.  
"I don't know what, but I'll think of something."

But she was shaking her head in slow denial.  "I don't want 
you to have to lie to your parents, Clark."

He waited, watching her, wishing with all his heart he 
could take her into his arms.

"Maybe you'd better just tell them."

"About the assault?"

Her flinch was barely noticeable.  "Yes," she answered in a 
whisper.

"Do you want to..."  Before he could finish the sentence, 
she was shaking her head violently.

"No!  I... I'll just see about starting supper."

He studied her, his heart aching.  Everything was wrong, 
and it just kept getting worse and worse, and there was 
nothing he could do to stop it.  Lois, his beautiful, 
brilliant, pigheaded wife, was falling apart in front of 
him, and with all his strength, all his extraordinary 
powers, he was helpless to stop it.  "Okay," he agreed 
softly.  "I'll tell them."

*****

Jonathan and Martha reacted pretty much as Clark expected - 
with horror and compassion.  When he was finished, Martha 
took her hand from her mouth and stood up, determined.  
"Poor Lois!" she announced, and marched toward the kitchen.

Clark came to his feet, not sure if Lois would want to see 
or be seen right at this point, but a quick glance through 
the door, still swinging from his mother's passing, 
reassured him.  She had her arms around Lois, hugging her - 
and Lois was hugging back with a lack of restraint he 
hadn't seen in weeks.  Five weeks, to be exact.

Of course she'd feel safe with Martha, who was a woman, he 
rationalized, trying not to be hurt.  Just because she 
hadn't been able to let him comfort her in the same way...

His miserable brooding was interrupted when his father laid 
a big, warm hand on his arm.  "Clark?"

"Sorry, Dad," he said sheepishly, and pushed his glasses 
back up his nose.  "I was just..."

"...making sure Lois was okay," Jonathan finished for him.  
"Of course you were.  But how are you doing, son?  This has 
to be pretty rough on you, too."

"I'm okay, Dad.  I'm just doing my best to be here for 
Lois."

"I'm sure you're doing that," Jonathan said.

"I don't know, Dad.  It's been hard.  She's jumpy, and 
afraid, and you know Lois was never afraid.  And she tries 
so hard not to be, now, and..."

"That's why you have the new alarm system," Jonathan said, 
nodding.

"Right, and it helps a little, I think.  But it still 
startles her if I touch her unexpectedly, or try to hold 
her, or...

"I've heard," Jonathan said, his voice carefully neutral, 
"that sometimes women have a hard time with, well, with 
sex, after something like this."

"That's what I hear, too," Clark answered, keeping his 
voice bland.

His father took the hint, and dropped the subject.  "So.  
About this... this bombshell Lois just dropped.  I thought 
there were drugs they could give a woman after something 
like this, to prevent..."

"They did."

Jonathan's face was a mask of bewilderment.  "Then... 
didn't she take them?"

Clark shrugged.  "I don't know.  She had them... and then 
they disappeared.  I don't know if she took them or not.  
Well..." He paused, thinking.  "I guess she didn't."

"Why wouldn't she take them?"

He shrugged again.  "If I had to guess... denial.  She kept 
saying it might be my baby, but we both know that isn't 
likely."

Jonathan's hand closed on his wrist.  "I'm sorry, son.  
What are you going to do now?"

"I don't know.  Talk to Lois, first.  Find out what she 
wants."

"To have the baby?"

"Or..."  Clark left the other alternative unspoken.

"And what do you want?"

"I don't know," he said, yet again.  "It's not really my 
decision, anyway, is it?  It's Lois's."

"But it's a decision you'll have to live with.  Have you 
thought about that?"

"I don't know, Dad.  I don't know anything, yet."  He 
pushed to his feet.  "I'm going out.  If Lois needs me..."

"I'll holler," Jonathan agreed.  "Go ahead, son.  You've 
got a lot to think about."

*****

His dad was right - he *did* have a lot to think about.  
And for once, he didn't want to fly while he was thinking.  
He wanted to walk.  Fast, with his head down and his hands 
stuffed in his pockets.  He went all the way to the Planet, 
curved around to come back through Centennial Park, and 
spent some time just sitting on the edge of the fountain 
with his head in his hands.

It was well after dark by the time he got back home.  He 
was scarcely inside before he realized the only one in the 
house was his father.

Alarm flared.  "Dad?  Where's Lois?  And Mom?"

"Lois had a card someone gave her - they went to a support 
group meeting."

Clark felt his jaw drop.  "I've been trying for weeks to 
get Lois to at least call, and she wouldn't even discuss 
it.  And now she's going?"

Jonathan grinned.  "Your mother can be mighty persuasive."

"I guess so.  Wow."

"What about you, son?  You come to any decision?"

"I kept thinking about it - about the baby."  He looked up, 
into Jonathan's kind, compassionate face.  "And what I keep 
coming back to is... it's Lois's baby.  No matter who its 
father is, it's a part of her."  He shook his head.  "I 
want her to have the baby.  I want us to keep it."

"Are you sure?"

"As sure as I can be."

"You have to be surer than that, Clark.  You have to know.  
Because a baby isn't something you can take back if it 
doesn't work out.  So what you have to ask yourself is... 
can you love another man's child?"

That was easy.  Clark looked into his father's eyes.  "You 
do."

Jonathan's expression softened, and he nodded.  "Yes, I 
do," he acknowledged.  "But my son's natural father never 
hurt my wife."

"I know, Dad.  But none of that is the baby's fault.  It 
didn't choose to be conceived.  It didn't get to choose who 
its parents are.  In a few months, it's going to be born, 
and it'll be little and helpless and just need to be loved.  
I can do that."

His father clapped him on the shoulder and smiled.  "I know 
you can."

*****

Lois came back from the support group with a spark in her 
eye that Clark hadn't seen in five weeks.  "I want to do a 
story on this," she announced, as they were getting ready 
for bed.

Clark tossed his dirty clothes into the hamper and came out 
of the bathroom frowning.  "Don't you think you're too 
close to be objective?" he asked, carefully.

She turned to glare at him.  "I can be objective!  There 
are all sorts of ways that men assault women.  If you'd 
been at the meeting tonight, if you'd heard the stories..."

It had obviously helped her to hear those stories herself.  
Perhaps she had even shared her own.  She was fired up and 
determined.  He slid into bed and propped his head up on 
his hand to watch as she moved around the bedroom, talking 
rapid-fire the entire time.

His Lois was back.

*****

Lois knew that half her need to chatter was excitement over 
the story she planned to write.  She knew exactly what 
angle she wanted to take, and could hardly wait to get to 
the Planet in the morning, so she could start on it.

But the rest was pure nervousness.  She'd mostly listened 
in the support group meeting, but toward the end she'd 
found the courage to speak up herself.  She hadn't gone 
into details on her assault - those memories were still raw 
- but she did mention her pregnancy.  She'd been gratified 
- and a little embarrassed - by the outpouring of 
understanding from the women in the group.  They'd made her 
see that she and Clark must talk about this, and soon.  
Waiting would only let the knowledge fester.

In the car on the way home, Martha had agreed.  "You don't 
have to decide what you're going to do right now," she'd 
said sensibly.  "But you should talk it over, get a feel 
for how you're both thinking."

"Clark wouldn't help me decide about the pills they gave 
me," she'd said, unable to keep bitterness out of her 
voice.  "All he'd say was that it was my decision, and that 
he'd support whatever I wanted to do.  I don't think he 
even knew, before tonight, that I didn't take them."

Martha put her hand across and gripped her wrist warmly.  
"He was trying to say that whatever you did was okay with 
him," she explained.

"I know that!  But not knowing what he wanted - it made it 
harder."

"Then tell him.  Tell him you need to know what he really 
thinks.  Tell him it's not something you can decide alone.  
He may be stubborn about it, but eventually he'll listen."

So when Lois finally wound down and crawled into bed, she 
was ready to do battle.  She moved across the expanse of 
sheet between them and laid her head on his shoulder, 
keeping herself still as he wrapped an arm around her 
shoulders and pressed a kiss into her hair.

"We have to talk."

"I know," he answered.  "Have you made a decision...?"

She lifted her head to look at him.  "I can't.  Not by 
myself."

"It's not something I can decide for you, Lois.  It's your 
body.  I can support you..."

Exactly what she'd hoped he wouldn't say.  "No!"  
Frustration made her louder than she'd intended.  She 
modulated her voice with effort.  "I have to know what you 
think, Clark.  I have to know you won't hate me for 
whatever I decide to do."

"I could never hate you," he said quickly, holding her 
closer.  "No matter what."

"So you have to tell me."  She barreled on without waiting 
for him to stop speaking.  "What choice couldn't you live 
with?"

"I can live with any..."

Suddenly furious, she smacked him, hard.  And then clutched 
her hand.  "Ow!"  He reached for her, his expression 
contrite, but she pushed away and sat up to face him.

"I need to know.  Tell me what you think."

"Okay!  Okay."  He sat up, too, and pushed a hand through 
his hair.  "I talked with my dad about it, and he says the 
same thing - I should tell you what I think."

Bless Jonathan for making it easier for her.  She'd 
expected a lot more resistance from his stubborn, over-
protective son.

"And...?" she prompted.

He sighed.  "Dad helped me think it through.  He asked a 
lot of questions.  Hard questions.  And at first I didn't 
know what the answers were.  But I thought about it, and 
thought about the things Dad said... and what it comes down 
to is... Life is important.  *This* life -" he gestured 
toward her midriff, "- is important.  So... I want this 
child to live."

Her heart pounded and she gripped the edge of the 
comforter.  "All right."  She still wasn't sure what it was 
that she wanted, but it did help to know his thoughts.  But 
there were more questions.  "If I have the baby... what 
happens next?"

He shrugged, and she could see how hard he was working to 
appear neutral.  "We could put it up for adoption.  There 
are lots of couples out there who would love the chance to 
raise this baby.  They'd give it a good home, and love it, 
and..."

Impatience flared.  "Geez, Clark, you make it sound like a 
puppy!"

"I'm not... I mean... I'm just trying to lay out the 
possibilities."

Suddenly, she wasn't at all sure this was a possibility she 
could live with.  Carry a baby for nine months, labor to 
deliver it... and then give it up?  But she kept her face 
impassive, and tightened her grip on the comforter's 
bunched edge.

"And the other choice...  you know Dr. Klein says we can't 
have our own children..."

Of course she knew that.  She didn't necessarily believe 
it, but she knew what the scientist had said.  "This might 
be..." she began, voicing the other possibility.

"But it's probably not," he interrupted.  "Best to face 
that now.  It's probably not mine.  It's probably his."

She could feel her face tighten into the lines her mother 
always called stubborn.  It took all the effort she could 
muster not to argue.

Clark plunged on.  "So I was thinking that maybe, in some 
bizarre, twisted, painful way... this is sort of a 
blessing.  A chance to have a child of our own.  To raise, 
and love.  That's what I was thinking."

She sat very still, looking at him.  Gazing into his eyes, 
trying to gauge how much truth there was in what he'd just 
said.

He looked back, his expression open and even, waiting.

Waiting for her, just as he'd always waited.  She took a 
deep breath and let it out, letting the tension go out with 
it.  "Yeah.  That's what I was thinking, too."

His expression - she was a writer, but she couldn't have 
described it.  Suffused with joy?  Yes, but there was more.  
Admiration?  Maybe.  She knew he thought she was strong, 
although personally she had some doubts.  But definitely 
love.  Love that encompassed her, made her safe in spirit 
the way she now knew she could never be in body.

She pushed him down - he let her - and settled herself 
against his shoulder.  "Maybe this is the good they say 
always comes out of bad things.  The silver lining in the 
cloud."

"Some cloud," he said wryly.

"Yeah."  She looked up at him and smiled.  "But some silver 
lining, too.  I guess this means we're going to have a 
baby."

"Guess so."  His answering smile was tender, and full of 
love.  Gently he leaned down and kissed her.

She wanted to respond.  She loved him so much, and she 
missed being close.  She struggled for a few long seconds 
to stay relaxed, to kiss him back, but the now-familiar 
terror rose up, gagging her, and she had to twist her face 
away from his questing lips.  He let go of her with a gasp 
and she scooted across the bed, far enough to quell the 
panic.

Clark was breathing hard, fists clenched.  "I'm sorry!  I 
forgot..."

"So did I, for a second," she admitted shakily.  "Clark, 
I'm sorry.  I don't mean to react that way.  It just 
happens."

"I know that."  He reached out and she crept close, 
snuggling against him.

"It happens sometimes," she told him.  "I learned in the 
meeting tonight, some women get panicky when their husbands 
or boyfriends touch them.  Just like me.  And it's stupid, 
and I don't want to react that way, but I can't help it."

"I know, it's okay."

"One woman said tonight that it's been more than a year, 
and she still hasn't been able...  I don't want it to be 
that long for us, Clark!"

"Shh.  It's all right.  It takes however long it takes.  I 
can wait."

She let out an irritated sigh.  "I'm not sure I can."

He laughed.

"It's not funny!" she flared.

"I know, but it's either laugh or cry..."

She smiled wryly, and curled closer.

"Lois... can I ask you something?"

She looked up at him, surprised.  "Of course.  Anything."

"He... when he..."

There wasn't any question in her mind who 'he' was.  She 
went stiff in Clark's arms, though she didn't move from his 
embrace.  "Go on."

"When you were telling Detective Mears about it... you 
never said anything about him... kissing you."

"He didn't."  She said it quickly.  "He never tried to kiss 
me.  Thank God."

"That's what I thought."  He subsided into pensive silence.

"Clark?" she asked, after a minute.

"Hmm?"

"Why did you ask that?  Why does it matter?"

"It doesn't... matter, exactly.  I mean, I'm glad he 
didn't, that you didn't have to go through that, too, on 
top of everything else.  But I wonder about something."

"What?"

He must have heard the way her heart was thundering in her 
chest, the shaky rhythm of her breathing.  He ran his hand 
along her arm soothingly.  "I understand why you tense up 
when I forget and try to hold you or hug you when you're 
not expecting it.  Or when someone gets too close, too 
fast, invades your personal space.  I thought you were 
going to take Ralph's head off the other day..."

She nudged his ribs to get him back on track.

"That's the feeling of being constrained, of not being able 
to get away," he continued.

She nodded against his shoulder.  She wished he would stop, 
wished he would hear a cry for help, or get a sudden 
craving for a drink of water.  Anything to stop the 
questions, to quell the flood of memories.

But he went on.  "But kissing..."

"I don't know," she answered quickly.

But he wasn't so easily taken in.  "Lois, honey..."

"I don't know!" she repeated, more loudly.

"Yes, you do.  I wish you'd tell me."  He waited quietly, 
holding her gently, letting the fingers of his right hand 
trace light patterns on her arm.

Finally she sighed.  "Because..."

He waited.

"...because kissing doesn't stop there.  It's only what 
comes first."

"I don't only kiss you when I want to make love..."  He 
sounded affronted, and a little hurt.

"I know, but... the connection is there, I guess... in my 
mind.  And so when you try to kiss me, all I can think - 
only it's more reaction, not really thinking - is that next 
you're going to want... and I know I can't, and I get 
scared, and..."

"Shhh..."  He cut her off, gently, and gathered her against 
him.  "It's all right, I understand.  I just wondered, 
that's all."

*****

Martha and Jonathan accepted with warmth and approbation 
the news that they were to be grandparents after all.

"I'm so glad," Martha said, as she gave Lois a 
congratulatory hug.  "You're all right with this, aren't 
you?"

"I think I really am," Lois answered.

And she was, mostly.  Clark was absolutely glowing with 
happiness over the baby, and Jonathan beamed with 
grandfatherly pride.  Only once in a while did she suffer a 
twinge of... well, of uncertainty.  Having a baby was a big 
thing.  Huge.  Nerve-wracking under the most normal of 
circumstances.  And her circumstances were anything but 
normal.  She could start with the superhero husband, and go 
from there.

But mostly, to her surprise and pleasure, there was a warm 
glow.  She actually liked knowing she carried another life 
inside her.  That it was growing and developing, that her 
own body was nourishing it and providing for its needs.  It 
felt good in a way she hadn't known she could feel.

She could love this baby.  She *did* love this baby.  And 
she was going to be a good mother if it killed her.

*****

After a week's visit, Martha and Jonathan went home.  Lois 
missed the comfort of Martha's presence, but she was 
feeling better now, and was able to do what she usually did 
when things weren't quite right - throw herself into her 
work.  Perry wasn't enthusiastic about the story on 
violence against women she planned to write, but Lois 
didn't care.  She'd write it anyway.  He'd print it once he 
saw it, and she could fit the writing of it in around her 
assignments.

She was working on the wording of a difficult paragraph for 
one of those assignments when, with her new awareness of 
what was around her, she realized someone had stopped by 
her desk.  She looked up to find Clark standing there 
looking uncharacteristically uncertain.

"Clark?"

He hesitated, then spoke in a rush.  "I was wondering... 
would you like to go to dinner tonight?  With me?"

She frowned a little, puzzled by his demeanor.  "Sure, that 
sounds good."

"Some place nice," he added.  "So dress up a little bit.  
I'll pick you up at seven-thirty."

"Pick me...?"

But he was gone, threading a path through the crowded 
newsroom and vanishing in the direction of the supply room.

What a strange encounter.  Clark never advised her on what 
to wear unless she asked his opinion of a particular outfit 
- and she'd pretty much quit doing that, since he claimed 
to like everything she put on.  And what did he mean by 
he'd pick her up?  They lived in the same house.  Unless he 
had something else going on this evening that he'd 
forgotten to tell her about.

But no, he was there when she got home, lounging on the 
living room couch with the TV remote in his hand.  "Hey, 
hon," he greeted as she came in.

"Hi."  As it was already past six-thirty and it took her a 
lot longer to dress than it did him, she hurried upstairs 
to shower and change.  It took her a little while to choose 
the right outfit - pregnancy was altering her figure, 
thickening her waist and making her breasts fuller.  It was 
7:28 by the time she was fully dressed and putting on her 
earrings, and still no sign of Clark.

That was unusual.  Even though he could dress in a matter 
of split-seconds, he liked to come upstairs and get ready 
at a normal speed.  They would chat, and help one another 
with zippers and clasps, and she always enjoyed the 
appreciative glances he gave her.  But tonight there was no 
sign of him.  She frowned, wondering if he'd been called 
out on an emergency.  He'd been conscientious about telling 
her when he had to leave the house, but maybe, this one 
time, he'd forgotten.  But a peek down the stairs showed 
him still reclining on the couch in t-shirt and shorts, 
flipping through channels.

She paused at the head of the stairs, confused.  Had he 
forgotten?  Or had she misunderstood him?  But she was sure 
he'd said tonight; she remembered thinking that it was 
midweek and Clark usually cooked something, or they ordered 
carry-out.

Just then he looked up.  "Hey, you look good," he told her.  
"Big date, huh?"

Big date?  Now she really was confused.  She drew breath so 
she could properly interrogate him, but he cut her off 
before she could get started.

"You'd better finish getting ready, you've only got a few 
minutes."

Mystified, she stared hard at him, but he'd gone back to 
the infuriating flipping of channels that men seemed to 
enjoy so much.  She let out an exasperated sigh and headed 
back to the bedroom, half expecting to find Clark there 
before her.  Maybe this was some quirky game he was 
playing, and she'd find him getting dressed and smiling at 
her.

But no, the room was still empty.  She slid her feet into 
pumps and checked her makeup and hair one last time.  
Satisfied with what she saw, she turned away.  If Clark was 
still on the couch watching TV, she was going to give him a 
piece of her mind.

She was reaching into the closet for her wrap when the 
doorbell rang.  Drat!  Whoever it was better not stay long 
enough to spoil their evening.

A moment later, the bell rang again.

"Clark, are you going to get that?"

There was no answer.

"Clark?"

She went to the head of the stairs.  No Clark.  The TV was 
off, and the remote was lying on the coffee table.

She listened, but there was no sound at all from 
downstairs.  No whoosh of Clark changing at super-speed, no 
voices at the door.  Just silence.

The bell rang yet again.  Whoever was there wasn't going 
away.

Lois descended the stairs slowly and steeled herself to 
approach the front doors.  She hesitated - opening doors 
when she was home alone was still difficult for her.  Then, 
with a surge of determination fueled by impatience with her 
own trepidation, she threw open the inner door, strode 
quickly across the little vestibule, and peered through the 
peephole.

Clark stood on the front steps dressed in his best dark 
suit, holding a bouquet of flowers.

What in the world...?  She quickly disarmed the security 
system and opened the door.  "Clark, what are you..."

"Hi," he said brightly, and thrust the flowers at her.  
"These are for you."

She took them automatically.  "Thank you.  But what...?"

"I said I'd pick you up at seven-thirty," he reminded her.

Yes, and moments ago he'd been lying on the couch, watching 
TV.  Lois's head was starting to spin.  "Let me just put 
these in some water..." she muttered.

When she came back from finding and filling a vase, he was 
still standing just inside the door, looking for all the 
world like he was a guest, and not someone who lived here.

Lois shook her head and plopped the flowers into the vase.  
Whatever he was playing at, it was obviously giving him a 
great deal of pleasure, to judge by his grin, so she'd just 
go along with it.  She let him help her with her wrap and 
guide her out the door.

Dinner was elegant and excellent, and they followed that 
with a leisurely stroll in the park.  Clark stiffened once 
and took on his listening pose, but relaxed after a moment 
so it couldn't have been anything too serious.  When she 
pestered him about it, he acted as if he didn't know what 
she was talking about, so she finally gave up and just 
concentrated on enjoying the evening.

She was relaxed and happy as they climbed the steps to 
their front door.  Clark let her unlock the front door and 
disarm the alarm, but made no move to follow when she 
stepped inside.  Surprised, she turned to look at him.

"I had a really good time tonight, Lois," he said 
seriously.  "I'd like to do it again sometime."

"Well... sure," she stammered, confused again.  He was 
acting like this was merely a date, and not an evening out 
with his very own wife.

He reinforced that by shoving his hands into his pockets 
and nodding at her.  "Go on," he said.  "I'll wait until 
you've locked up."

Leaving him on the outside.  Right.  More deeply mystified 
than ever, she secured the front door and set the alarm.

She wasn't afraid to go inside - she'd seen Clark slip his 
glasses down as they came up the stairs, and knew he'd 
scanned the house.  And anyway, he was just outside and 
would be here in an instant if she shouted.

But no... he was already in the living room, lounging on 
the couch in the same t-shirt and shorts he'd been wearing 
earlier.  He looked at her when she came in.  "Have a nice 
time on your date?"

He was definitely playing some sort of game.  Well, she 
could do that, too.  "Yes," she answered breezily.  "It was 
lovely.  I hope he asks me out again."

That seemed to flummox him, and she swept up the stairs 
before he could find his voice.

*****

Their next "date" was to a movie, followed by dessert and 
coffee.  Again, Clark waited on the steps for her to get 
inside, and managed to be waiting for her after she locked 
up.  She was figuring out this game, and even having fun 
with it.  "Date" Clark wasn't her husband.  He wasn't even 
Superman.  Or rather he was - the fifteen minutes it had 
taken him to visit the men's room halfway through the movie 
told her that - but he pretended she didn't know his 
secret.  It was kind of fun to watch him fumble for an 
excuse, since she knew what was going on.  The Clark at 
work was brisk and business-like, but didn't hesitate to 
touch her hand or arm if he though she needed a moment's 
tenderness.  At home - he was like a brother.  Friendly, 
affectionate, teasing, always loving... but careful not to 
crowd her, or make her feel pressured.  He never tried to 
kiss her, only hugged her when she invited it.  In bed, he 
accepted whatever contact she initiated, and never asked 
for more.

For all this, she was intensely grateful.  Knowing he 
wouldn't push made it easier for her to be natural with 
him, to touch him and even flirt a little.

The Clark she saw on their "dates" was different.  He was 
clearly interested in her as a woman - but he behaved as if 
they were in the very early stages of a relationship, so 
there was no pressure there, either.

After their third "date," an evening at a tiny club, 
listening to jazz music, she invited him inside.

"Well... sure," he answered, after the slightest 
hesitation.

She wondered if she'd gotten the game wrong somehow, but he 
waited patiently while she unlocked the door and disarmed 
the alarm, then let her usher him inside.   "Could I get 
you something to drink?" she asked, finally, when it became 
clear he was going to behave as if he'd never been inside 
the house before.

"Sure," he answered, but he didn't accompany her to the 
kitchen.  When she came back with coffee, he was perched on 
the edge of the couch, just waiting.

"You could have made yourself comfortable," she chided him, 
teasing.

His grin was sheepish, and he settled back and accepted the 
steaming cup she offered.  She sat beside him, keeping a 
decorous distance, and sipped her coffee.

The conversation was stilted at first, but gradually they 
relaxed and spent an easy half-hour talking about the book, 
a political expose, which Lois was reading.  It seemed too 
soon when Clark put his cup down and got to his feet.

"I should be going," he said.

She walked him to the door.  He turned on the step and 
looked at her.  "Thanks for the coffee."

She smiled.  "Any time."

He grinned.  "Yeah?  I'll remember that."  His expression 
softened and sobered, and his gaze dropped briefly to her 
lips.

Her heart began to thunder even before he leaned toward 
her, but whether it was excitement or fear, she couldn't 
have said.  He drifted slowly - if she'd wanted to move 
away, she could have.  But it was anticipation drumming in 
her ears.  His lips touched hers, brushing the lightest of 
kisses across them, and then he stepped back, giving her 
space.  She lifted her hands, wanting him close again, but 
he was moving away.  He paused halfway down the steps.  
"I'll call you, okay?"

"Okay," she replied, her voice constricted by the tightness 
in her throat.  "Good night."

"Good night."

As he walked away, he was whistling.

Smiling, she went into the house and locked up.

She was beginning to tidy away the coffee cups when Clark 
came down the stairs.  She was amused to see that the book 
in his hand was the very one they'd been discussing only 
minutes earlier.

"Hey," he greeted, his tone casual.  "How was your date?"

"Pretty good," she answered, working to stay just as 
offhand.  "How was your evening?"

"Pretty good," he said, echoing her.

By the rules of the game, she should have moved on then, 
carrying the cups to the kitchen.

But she didn't.  Instead, she paused, fixed to the spot, 
looking at the man who was her husband.  Her husband, her 
suitor, her best friend.

He stood halfway down the stairs, book in hand, and watched 
her.

Something warm and wrenching rose up inside of her, almost 
choking her with its intensity, and compelled her to give 
it voice.  "I love you, Clark."  It came out quietly, but 
she could see he felt the power of it.

"I know," he answered, just as quietly.  "I love you, too."

*****

At the next victim's support meeting - she still had 
research to do, after all - she mentioned the "dates," and 
was surprised at the response.  The other women were 
charmed by the idea.  The group's leader, Nancy, whose own 
attack had taken place more than ten years earlier, and who 
was now the most centered, focused woman Lois had ever 
known, with the possible exception of Martha Kent, gave a 
beatific smile.  "I think that's wonderful," she said.  
"He's courting you!  And giving you a chance to explore 
your sexual feelings without any pressure or expectations."

That was true, Lois thought wonderingly.  That was what was 
different about the kiss on the steps that night.  She'd 
known, absolutely, that when the kiss was over, Clark would 
walk away.  A kiss was all there was going to be, and she 
could let herself enjoy that.  And she had enjoyed it.  
Very much.

She found herself looking forward with more than the usual 
anticipation to their next "date."

*****

Clark had no idea where the idea to date his wife had come 
from.  It was born, he knew, of her admission that her 
assailant hadn't kissed her, that she froze up because 
kissing was only a prelude.  He'd thought about that for a 
long time, wondering how he could make her feel safe, make 
her know, make her instincts know, that it was safe.  That 
he was safe.

And then it had come to him, between one breath and the 
next.  The memory of their first real date, and later, of 
their first real kiss.  Close on that had come the flash-
vision of himself, asking Lois out.  Escorting her, being 
open and warm and friendly... and then saying goodnight on 
the front steps.  How much safer could she get?

And it was working.  He knew it was.  He'd even caught the 
sparkle of anticipation in her eyes when she thought he was 
adopting his "date" persona.  Not that it was always easy.  
He had to remember, always, to keep that little extra 
distance between them, and he did miss the old easy 
familiarity.  But on their dates, Lois was relaxed and 
open, with none of the instinctive shielding he saw so 
often at home.  He had his Lois back then.  Anything was 
worth that.

A week after their third date, he came back from a late 
rescue to see Lois going up the steps.  Support group 
meeting night, he reminded himself as he landed in some 
handy shadows and whirled into jeans and a flannel shirt.  
"Hey, Lois," he called, hurrying along the sidewalk.  "Wait 
up!"

She paused at the head of the stairs and waited until he 
reached them, then opened the outer door and went through.  
He caught up with her on the far side of the tiny vestibule 
and held the door for her.  He locked up and armed the 
security system while she hung up her coat.

"How was the meeting?"

She shrugged.  "About like usual.  I'm about done with my 
story, so I probably won't go back."

Uh-oh.  That wasn't good.  She'd continued with the 
meetings even after Martha returned to Smallville.  Clark 
knew she'd been all but finished with her story about women 
as victims for a long time, and suspected she was delaying 
handing it over to Perry just so she'd have an excuse to 
continue with the meetings.  And they were helping her.  
Talking with other women who'd been through the same ordeal 
was helping her.  He hated to think of her quitting now, 
and losing that support.

"I thought you liked the meetings," he ventured.

"Well, you thought wrong," she answered sharply.  "They 
were research, Clark," she went on, more calmly.  "You know 
that.  Just research."

She went upstairs, leaving him watching her and feeling 
bewildered.

Moving slowly, he double-checked all the locks on doors and 
windows, and turned out the lights.  Lois was in the 
bathroom when he got upstairs - he could hear her in there 
moving around.  He turned back the covers on the bed and 
started getting undressed while he waited his turn at the 
sink.

He was standing in front of the closet, unbuttoning his 
shirt, when he heard the bathroom door open.  He glanced 
over his shoulder just to make sure Lois was all right.

Every nerve ending in his body sprang to attention.  She 
was standing by the bed, wearing a gown which covered more 
than it revealed, but which emphasized every delicious 
curve, every enticing shadow.  Even the swell of her 
pregnancy drew him.

He could smell perfume, the first she'd worn in months, and 
she was wearing cosmetics, too - not much, just enough to 
enhance and define.  She took his breath away.

He was still trying to get it back, still trying to engage 
his brain when she came gliding across the carpet to stand 
before him.

"Let me help you with that," she murmured, her voice 
sultry, and she reached for his shirt.

Stunned and eager, he let her push the shirt from his 
shoulders, let her take his hand and lead him to the bed.  
He lay down beside her and put out a tentative hand.  He 
ached to touch her, but he didn't want to scare her.  He 
definitely didn't want to trigger a panic attack!  Not now.  
Not when she was urging him on...

Her skin was silky under his palm.  He ran his hand up her 
arm, down her side, over her hip and leg.  Her scent was 
intoxicating, her touch dizzying.  He buried his face in 
her hair, then pulled her closer and sought her mouth.

Only gradually did he realize that her responses were slow, 
that she seemed stiff in his arms, that she ended their 
kisses much sooner than usual.  He forced his eager hands 
to stop, and held her a little away from him.  "Lois?  Are 
you okay?"

"Fine," she answered, but her voice sounded as rigid as her 
spine.  "Keep going."

His body wanted nothing more, his instincts urged him on, 
but his love for her held him back.  "No."

With effort he moved completely away from her, propped his 
head on his hand, and looked at her closely.  "Lois, this 
isn't right.  Why are you doing this?"

She edged closer.  "I just want you to be..."

"No," he interrupted, afraid of what might happen if she 
came too close.  "This isn't about me.  It shouldn't be 
about me.  This should be for you.  And you're not ready."

"I am," she insisted, avoiding his anxious look.  "I'm 
just... nervous.  But I'm ready."

But he knew her too well, and now that desire wasn't 
clouding his reason, he could see all the signs that said 
otherwise.

"No," he answered simply.  "You're not.  What's going on?  
Why are you doing this?"

Her face crumpled and she began to cry.

At least he knew his part in this - he pulled her carefully 
close and cradled her head against his shoulder.

"There's this woman," she sobbed out breathlessly.  "In my 
support group.  Her name's Pat, she's nice and I like her.  
Her... her husband left her."

"Because...?"

"Because she couldn't... she was like me.  They're not all 
like this, you know, Clark.  Some of them never had any 
trouble sleeping with their boyfriends or their husbands.  
They're okay with that.  There are just a couple of us... 
me and Pat and Dina... we're the only ones who freeze up, 
and Dina's getting over it.  But then Pat's husband left, 
and I got scared, and I thought if I could just..."

"Just what?  Force yourself to do something that you're not 
ready for, something that frightens you, that would make 
everything okay?"  Clark couldn't quite keep the 
indignation from his voice.  Did she really think so little 
of him?

"I just thought... yeah.  I guess so."

He moved her away from him, just enough so that he could 
look into her eyes.  "Lois, you don't need to do that.  
You've been through a terrible ordeal, and it takes time to 
get over something like that.  I want what's best for you, 
and if that means waiting, then we wait.  I wait.  For as 
long as it takes.  Okay?"

She sniffled, but didn't answer.

"Got it?" he repeated, more insistently.

Finally, reluctantly, she nodded.  "Okay."

He looked at her without speaking for a long moment.  "I 
love you, Lois.  That's not going to change."

She nodded again.  "I know."

"You have to be patient "

Being patient wasn't something Lois was very good at, and 
she scowled.

"Lois..."

"Okay!  I'll be patient."

"Good.  Now..." he swatted her lightly on the rear.  "...do 
me a favor and change into one of those frumpy sweat suits 
you've been wearing to bed lately.  Because this outfit's 
driving me crazy!"

As he'd hoped, she responded with laughter, tear-choked but 
genuine.  "Hey!  Who're you calling frumpy?"

*****

A couple of days later, Clark disappeared just before 
lunch.  He was gone nearly two hours, and Lois couldn't 
have said what it was that made her look up in time to see 
him, his expression grim, striding down the newsroom ramp 
toward her.  He paused for an instant at her desk and 
looked as if he wanted to say something, but the words 
wouldn't come.  He reached down, grasped her wrist in a 
hard grip, and pulled her to her feet.

Fighting down instinctive panic, she trotted in his wake.  
Something was terribly wrong, and Clark would never hurt 
her.  She kept repeating it silently, like a mantra; it was 
just enough to keep panic at bay.

Clark dragged her into the conference room and slammed the 
door so hard the glass rattled.  He faced her for a span of 
heartbeats, his gaze fixed on hers, and then pulled her 
into a fierce hug.

She took long, deliberate breaths, keeping herself calm.  
She couldn't free herself from his embrace anyway, not if 
he didn't let her go, and she didn't want to give in to the 
urge to struggle.  Slowly the trapped feeling subsided.  
This was her husband, she loved him, and he obviously 
needed her.

As her heart slowed, she was able to make out the words he 
was muttering into her hair.

"Thank God," he said fervently.  "Thank God you didn't 
fight him.  I'm so glad you didn't fight him..."  He 
repeated it, over and over.

She held on to him and let him ramble, until finally he was 
calm enough to let her go.  She stepped back just far 
enough to look into his eyes.  "Clark, what is it?  What 
happened?"

His voice shook.  "Him."

Involuntarily she stiffened.

"There was another assault," Clark went on, blindly.  "I 
was flying back from... I heard her crying... he'd already 
left.  I... she'd tried to resist.  Tried to fight him off.  
He beat her... I transported her to the hospital.  She 
lapsed into a coma on the way.  The doctors... they don't 
know how bad it is.  They don't know if she'll be all 
right.  And all I could think was how glad I was that you 
didn't try to fight him.  It could have been you..."

He pulled her close again, burying his face in her hair.

And Lois felt a weight she hadn't known she'd been carrying 
lift from her shoulders.  He didn't blame her.  Of course, 
he'd never, by slightest word or deed, indicated he did, 
but still it had gnawed at her.  Should she have put up 
more of a fight?  Struggled with him there in the entry, 
maybe, before he was even in the house?  Or on the stairs?  
Maybe she could have put him off balance, overpowered him.

But he'd been careful to keep her close to him, she 
remembered.  His grip was hard and practiced.  She'd made 
the decision to wait for her moment, and when it came, 
outside the bedroom door, she'd taken it.  And he'd parried 
her kick easily, and punished her for it.

It was after that, dazed and bruised, that she'd decided - 
she could remember deciding - not to struggle any more.  
The cold, flat look in the man's eyes had frightened her, 
enough so that she let him do what he wanted.

Let him.  And wondered, ever since, if Clark knew.  If he 
blamed her.

"If I find him..."  Clark's voice broke, not with tears, 
but with fury, and she stepped back to look at him.  "If I 
can just get my hands on him..."

She hadn't realized he was so angry.  Or rather she had, 
but she'd wondered if some of his anger was for her.  Now 
she knew it wasn't.  None of it.  It was all for him - the 
man who'd forced his way into their house and stolen her 
belief in herself.

Superman in a rage could be deadly, and Lois began to think 
it would be better if the police, and not the superhero, 
found her assailant first.  Much as she wanted the man 
arrested, tried for his crimes, and incarcerated for the 
next four or five hundred years - preferably in a dank, 
smelly, rat-infested dungeon - she suddenly wanted Clark 
nowhere near when it happened.

*****

The morning headlines blared the news that the man now 
known as the Switchblade Rapist had struck again.  His 
victim count was up to eight.  Six of the women had been 
surprised as they entered their homes.  The other two had 
been home alone; in both of those cases, the assailant had 
entered by means of an open window.  The victims ranged in 
age from nineteen to fifty-three.  All had been threatened 
with a knife, and seven of them had been struck, usually in 
the face, with a closed fist.  The level of violence had 
increased with each attack, and the most recent victim, a 
forty-three year old mother of two, was hospitalized in a 
coma.  The doctors were guarded about her chances for 
recovery.

The police recommended precautions, asking women to leave a 
light on if they were going to be getting home after dark, 
reminding them to make sure they locked doors and didn't 
leave windows open.

The people were growing angry.  "Why can't our police catch 
this man?" one irate letter to the Daily Planet's editor 
asked.  "And where's Superman?"

Superman was doing his best, Lois knew.  The public unrest 
was getting to him, too, and he was spending more time in 
the air, circling the city, all senses attuned to pick up 
the slightest cue.  He often slipped out of the house after 
she was asleep, and sometimes didn't get home until just 
before daybreak.  He disappeared from the Planet for hours 
at a time, too, leaving her to cover for him.  Not that 
this was unusual, but it was more frequent now, and too 
often there were no headlines later, explaining where he'd 
been.

She woke early on a Saturday morning to find Clark's side 
of the bed empty and cold.  Again.

She sighed, and settled back into her pillows.  She tried 
to understand - he was doing it, or thought he was, for 
her.  But pregnancy was making her back ache, and morning 
sickness, which in her case presented itself as mild nausea 
which lasted all day, was making her cranky.  It was making 
her petulant, too, and she wanted her husband home with 
her.  If he were here, she could snuggle up against him and 
go back to sleep.

Deep inside the small mound of her belly, something 
fluttered.

Her eyes came open in shock, and she put an instinctive 
hand on the place where she'd felt it, willing it to come 
again.

Long seconds passed... and then she felt it again, soft and 
delicate as a butterfly's wings.  But she *had* felt it, 
she was sure she had.  She held her breath, waiting.

"Lois?"

Startled, she looked toward the bedroom door.  Clark stood 
there in sleep shorts and rumpled t-shirt, looking 
concerned.  So maybe he hadn't been out flying around, 
after all.

"Is something wrong?"

She shook her head, shifting her focus back to her own 
body.  She felt like she was glowing.  "Not wrong.  Not 
wrong at all."

A small frown puckered his forehead.  "What do you look so 
stern for, then?"

"Do I look...?  I guess it's because I'm concentrating."

"On..." he prompted.

"Clark.  I think... I'm almost sure... I felt the baby 
move!"

His face lit up the way she suspected hers had.  "Really?  
Just now?"

"Just now," she confirmed.  "While I was lying here 
thinking about getting up."

That made him grin.  He knew how much time she'd been 
spending, recent mornings, thinking about getting up 
instead of actually doing so.  He came around the bed and 
perched gently on the edge.  "Can I...?"  His open palm 
hovered over her midriff.

"I'm not sure you'll feel anything.  I barely felt it 
myself.  But sure, right here..."  She positioned his hand 
right over the spot where she'd felt the elusive flutter.

The warmth of his bare skin against hers made her throat 
tighten.  But not in the instinctive fear.  This was warm, 
and wanting, and she held his hand harder in both of hers, 
pressing it into her flesh.  His expression was one of 
hope, of expectation - it was clear he had no idea what he 
was doing to her, inside.

The flutter came again, and she gasped.  "Did you feel 
that?"

The disappointment on his face gave her the answer even 
before the slow shake of his head.

She almost cried out when he took his hand away, but 
swallowed instead and said, "I'm sorry.  It's just so soft 
and feathery.  Maybe in a week or two..."

He nodded, and the look of expectation came back.  "Yeah.  
Probably when the baby's a little bigger, and stronger."

"Right."

It was real now.  It wasn't just morning sickness, slacks 
that wouldn't button, and dresses that wouldn't hang right.  
It was a baby.

A real, living, moving, growing baby.

Her sudden anxiety must have shown on her face.

"Lois, what is it?  What's wrong?"

"It's real."  The words burst from her on a wave of 
astonishment.

"Yeah," he answered, clearly uncertain whether he was 
supposed to be questioning or reassuring.

"I mean... I knew it was, but it's been sort of abstract.  
But this... it's *real*."

As her meaning sank in, he began to smile.  "Yeah, it is.  
Pretty miraculous, huh?"

She grinned back, relaxing.  "Pretty miraculous.  Yeah."

*****

That evening was another of their "dates."  Clark had 
surprised her with tickets to a community theater 
production of Gilbert & Sullivan's "Pirates of Penzance".  
She was a little uncertain going in - she'd heard of 
Gilbert & Sullivan, but had never seen an actual 
performance, and wasn't sure how she'd like it.

She loved it.  Even at the community theater level, the 
acting was decent and the singing voices strong and clear.  
She couldn't understand all the words in the major-
general's song, but it went so fast, she wasn't sure she 
was supposed to.  The dancing was lively and made up in 
energy what some of the actors lacked in skill; her 
favorite was a song and dance in the second act, called, 
according to the program, "With Catlike Tread."  The actors 
were clearly having a fine time stalking their way across 
the stage brandishing their swords.  She and Clark talked 
about the play all the way home.

"You want to come in for a while?" she invited when they 
reached the house.

His hesitation was mostly for show, she suspected.  "Sure," 
he said, and followed her in.

When she came back with drinks, he'd turned on the TV and 
was just setting down the remote control.  "'True Lies,'" 
he said, pointing to the screen.  "It's just starting."

"Great," she answered breezily.  "Action-adventure and 
comedy.  Who could ask for more?"  She settled on the couch 
beside him to watch the movie.

After a while, Clark stretched elaborately and eased a 
little closer.  His arm came to rest on the back of the 
couch, behind her shoulders.

She didn't move and didn't look his way, but inside, she 
felt like she was vibrating.  She was so aware of his arm, 
mere millimeters behind her, that she imagined she could 
feel its warmth.

Just when the tension seemed unbearable, Clark stretched 
again.  When he settled, his thigh was pressed firmly 
against hers, and his arm had shifted so that it lay, close 
and warm, across her shoulders.  She couldn't help it - she 
turned to look at him.  He was looking back at her, his 
expression deep and inscrutable.

It happened without thought - she lifted her chin ever so 
slightly, in silent signal.  Clark responded so slowly she 
thought she might explode from anticipation, drawing her 
toward him and leaning in until he met her lips with his 
own.

She didn't know how long the kiss lasted, but it was too 
short.  She heard herself whimper, ever so softly, when he 
pulled away.  The look he gave her was long and deep.  She 
could feel his heart pounding in his chest; its thunder 
nearly matched her own.

And then he eased away from her.  "I think... I'd better be 
going."

Her body clamored for another kiss, for the touch of his 
hands, and the warmth of his scent.  But as she drew breath 
to plead with him to stay, her imagination leaped forward.  
Touching, kissing... these led to other things.  Things 
which made her throat tighten, and her heart pound in a way 
that wasn't pleasant at all.  "All right," she said 
instead, and got up to walk him to the door.

There he paused, turning back to face her.  "I had a really 
good time tonight, Lois," he said softly.  "A really good 
time."

"Yes," she answered.  "So did I."

His goodnight kiss held more promise than passion, and she 
watched him go with a blend of longing and relief.

To her surprise, he wasn't inside waiting for her, as he 
usually was.  She wondered wryly if he'd had to take a 
detour to the North Pole, for a super-version of a cold 
shower.

While they'd been saying goodbye, the movie had ended, and 
the late news was just starting.  For once, Lois couldn't 
summon any interest, and moved to turn the TV off.  She 
paused with her hand on the remote, then let it drop into 
her lap as she sank onto the edge of the couch. There'd 
been a passenger train wreck near Detroit.  Superman, an 
eager reporter confirmed, had just arrived to help.

Her heart sank.  He'd be hours on the scene.  He wouldn't 
leave until he was certain every survivor had been removed 
from the wreckage, and even then he might stay to help with 
the horrific task of extracting the dead.

Disappointed, and annoyed with herself for that 
disappointment, she went to bed alone and fell into an 
uneasy sleep, waking at every creak and groan the old house 
made.  And then, finally, fatigue overcame nerves and she 
slept deeply.

Dreaming.  She knew she was dreaming, but she couldn't 
break free of it, couldn't stop herself from plunging 
straight into horror.

It began innocuously enough - she was at the hospital, 
giving birth in a Disney-like setting, with no pain and no 
unpleasantness.  Clark was there, beaming with pride as a 
white-capped nurse (nurses never wore those caps anymore, 
did they?  So she *must* be dreaming!) brought to them a 
small, blanket-wrapped bundle.

"A little boy," she announced, with a seraphic smile, and 
placed the baby in Lois's arms.

She looked down... into the seamed, angry face of her 
rapist.

She screamed and screamed... and woke trembling and 
drenched with sweat.

"Lois?  Honey?"  Clark leaned anxiously toward her, careful 
not to touch.  "Lois, wake up."

"...awake..." she mumbled, heart pounding.  "I'm awake.  
Clark, hold me."

He slipped his arms around her carefully, slowly, and 
pulled her to his chest.  She rested her head there, just 
above his heart, and tried to think of anything but the 
dream.

*****

"I thought I was past that," she raged, the next morning.  
"I thought I was past worrying about who the baby's 
biological father was.  I was looking forward to it being 
born, and loving it, and...  Clark, what if the baby looks 
like him?"

"It's not going to look like anybody at first," he said 
placidly.  "Babies don't, usually.  The ones I've seen have 
been sort of red and squished."

"But when it gets older.  It's going to look like 
*somebody*."

"It might look like you," he answered reasonably.  "It 
might look a little bit like Lucy, or like your parents."

"Oh, please, don't let it have Daddy's ears!"

He smiled at the forced joke.  "It was just a bad dream, 
honey.  Your subconscious getting rid of a fear that wasn't 
really rational to begin with."

"I guess so."  She sank down on the side of the bed with a 
sigh.  "I thought I was past the nightmares, too."

He put a cautious arm around her shoulders and she let him 
draw her to his side.  "It might be a long time before 
you're past the nightmares," he said softly.  "You know 
that, don't you?"

She leaned her head against his shoulder and nodded.  "I 
guess so.  I keep thinking I'm over it, and then something 
else crops up."

"You'll get past this, Lois.  I know you.  I know how 
strong you are, and I know you can do this.  It's just 
going to take some time."

And she'd have to let it out of its box and look at it, 
they'd said at the support group.  She couldn't keep 
pushing it away, the memories and the fears they evoked.  
She needed to face them, over and over, if necessary, until 
they'd lost the power to paralyze her.

And despite everything Clark said, everything he believed 
about her, she wasn't sure she was going to be able to do 
that.

*****

She almost walked in on him.  She'd thought herself alone 
in the house, and was at the bedroom's threshold when she 
realized Clark was home.  He lay on their bed, head thrown 
back and eyes closed.  He wore only a shirt, open down the 
front; his trousers and jacket were draped over the arm of 
a nearby chair.  His hand...

She poised in the doorway, seized by a fierce wave of 
desire.  He was so beautiful, and it would be so easy, so 
natural, to go in and join him on the bed.  She longed to 
touch him, to replace his hand with hers... but then he 
would touch her, too, and the thought of his hands...

She stayed there, frozen between fear and wanting, until 
suddenly he arched and let out a soft moan.  She retreated 
then, in shame and frustration and helpless dread.

When Clark came downstairs some fifteen minutes later, she 
was in the kitchen, attacking the oven with fury.

"Hey, I didn't know you were home," he said.

Of course he didn't.  His super-hearing didn't seem to work 
during passionate interludes with her - she wondered why it 
surprised her to think it didn't work when he was by 
himself, either.  Concentration, she supposed grumpily.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" she snapped.  "Cleaning 
the oven."

"Oh."

She could feel him watching her.

"Honey, is something wrong?"

"No."  It came out as a grunt as she scrubbed viciously at 
something which had spilled over on the oven floor.  "I'm 
fine.  Everything's fine."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is, Clark, why would you say it isn't?"  She sat 
back and glared at him.

He pulled a kitchen chair around and straddled it.  
"Because we have a self-cleaning oven.  And I'm the one who 
always cleans it."

"So?  Does that mean I can't do it once in a while?  It's 
my oven, too."

"I know it is... honey, please?  Stop for a minute.  Talk 
to me."

As suddenly as it had come, all the fight went out of her.  
She sank back on her heels, let the soapy steel wool pad 
drop from her fingers, and stripped off the rubber gloves.  
"I got home a little while ago," she whispered.  "I went 
upstairs... you were... you... I saw you."

"Oh."  He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts.  "I guess 
that wasn't exactly what you were expecting to see."

She shook her head.  She couldn't bring herself to look at 
him.

"Honey."  He stood, and held out his hand.  "Lois?"

She was so confused about what to feel, what to do.  But he 
was patient, and finally she put her hand in his and let 
him pull her close.

"Come here," he murmured, and drew her into his lap.

She perched uneasily on his knees; he eased her closer, 
until she lay against his chest, her head on his shoulder.  
Slowly, and with exquisite tenderness, he folded his arms 
around her.

His scent, warm and familiar, helped her resist the urge to 
go rigid in his embrace; gradually she relaxed.

"There you go," he said, encouraging.  "Now, let's talk."

"Okay."  Her voice came out muffled by his shirt, but she 
didn't move her head.

"Are you mad at me?"

Her headshake must have lacked conviction.

"Did it... upset you... that I was... doing that?"

She shook her head again.

"Lois..."

"Not upset, exactly.  I was... surprised."

"Surprised?"

"That you would... I didn't know you did that."

He let out a low laugh.  "Honey, how do you think I made it 
to our wedding night?  I may be the Man of Steel, but I'm 
not made of steel.  But if it bothers you, I won't do it 
anymore."

"Anymore?  You've done it... since... before?"

He hesitated.  "A couple of times."

"But Clark... why?  I mean..."

He was silent so long, she was afraid he wasn't going to 
answer.  "Lois, this is going to be hard to explain.  
Please promise me you'll listen, and believe that 
everything I tell you, everything... is the truth."

That was scary.  She swallowed.  "Okay."

"What I said to you last week, all of it, is still true.  
It will always be true.  I love you, and I want to be with 
you, and I'm not going anywhere just because we don't make 
love."

She nodded against his neck.

"But... I miss you, Lois.  I miss kissing you, touching 
you... I miss holding you, like this.  I miss making love 
with you.  And so sometimes... well, it helps.  A little.  
Makes it easier for me to be with you and not... I don't 
know, give into my urges, I guess."

She pressed her face harder against his shoulder.  "Clark, 
I'm sorry.  And ashamed..."

"Ashamed?"

"Because I watched you.  And part of me wanted, so much, to 
be with you.  But I was scared.  Of you, Clark, of you, 
when you've never done anything to hurt me."

He began to rock, gently.  "Shh.  That's not your fault.  
It's okay."

"I'm so tired of feeling this way!  I want to do things, 
and then I just freeze up.  I've always been able to do the 
things I want to do!  Always!  And now... it's like someone 
else has control of me, and I hate that!  I want myself 
back.  I do."

"I know.  It'll happen.  It just takes time."

"I'm sick of people telling me that," she answered 
fiercely.  "I wish they'd just catch him.  I think if they 
caught him, it would help.  I don't know why I think that - 
I don't really think he's coming back here to hurt me again 
- but still, I think it would help.  If they caught him.  
If I knew he was in jail."

*****

"Turn that TV on!"  Perry charged out of his office, waving 
his fist in the air.  "Don't you people know there's a 
breaking news story?"

No one pointed out that Perry was the one with the police 
scanner in his office.  Jimmy reached up and snapped on the 
newsroom television.  It swelled to life, sound before 
picture.  "...repeat, the man known as the Switchblade 
Rapist is believed to have been apprehended and is now in 
police custody."

Lois, having joined the group crowded around the screen, 
drew a quick, involuntary breath.  Claustrophobia gripped 
her; panicked, she pushed back, trying to escape the tight 
knot of people.

The voice on the TV, accompanied now by a shot of the 
outside of the Metropolis Police Department's main 
headquarters, continued.  "We're being told that Superman 
was responsible for the suspect's capture.  He 
apparently..."

Panic over the sense of being trapped transformed itself 
swiftly into another kind of dread.  Clark.  What had he 
done?

The rational part of her mind struggled to remember that 
they were showing the police station, not a hospital, and 
the announcer had said the suspect was in custody, not that 
he was injured, or...

She bumped into someone broad and solid, started back, and 
looked up to see Clark, his expression grim.

Relief flooded her and she caught his hand and hauled him 
toward the conference room.  Once inside, she swallowed 
down the remnants of her earlier panic and followed 
instinct by putting her arms around him.  He leaned into 
her and dropped his head onto hers.

"I was on my way back from that hazmat spill," he said, 
before she asked.  "I was flying over... and I heard a 
woman's... not a cry, exactly, but a sound of alarm, cut 
off.  I focused in on it and I heard this man saying, "Do 
what I say, do exactly what I say, and you won't get hurt."

Even though Clark's delivery was monotone, the words had 
the power to send a frisson of terror down Lois's spine.  
She struggled to suppress it.

He lifted his head and looked at her.  "I knew it was him.  
I was down there before he could say another word.  He 
didn't have time to hurt her.  He didn't have time for 
anything."

"I was afraid, when you found him, you'd..."

"I wanted to.  Part of me wanted to just pick him up and 
break him in half for what he did to you.  For what he did 
to all those other women, but especially what he did to 
you."

She swallowed, her mouth and throat painfully dry.  "But 
you didn't."

He shook his head.  "I took him to the police pretty fast, 
though.  I wasn't sure how long my resolve would last."

She hoped the flight had been swift enough to terrify the 
passenger.

There was a soft knock on the conference room door, and 
then Jimmy stuck his head in.  "Lois?  There's a Detective 
Mears on the phone for you."

She looked at Clark, stricken.  She'd forgotten that as one 
of the victims - she hated that word - she wa