Poison by Wendy Richards Rated: PG-13 Submitted: November 2003 ~ Poison ~ Author's note: I was stuck for a title for this story, and then found myself listening several times to Alice Cooper's Poison, and these lyrics kind of appealed to me: I wanna love you but I better not touch I wanna hold you, but my senses tell me to stop I wanna kiss you but I want it too much I wanna taste you but your lips are venomous poison Well, that's not exactly what this story is about, but in a way it's close enough. ;) So Poison it is. Many thanks to my terrific beta-readers, Yvonne, Kaethel, Elena and Annette. My grateful thanks also to those who read and commented on the story on the Lois and Clark Fanfic Message Boards and in email, especially those who made helpful suggestions - in particular Irene and Roger, but many others too. I would also like to thank my Archive editor, Kathy MacFarlane, for a very thorough job - Kathy, it's been a pleasure to work with you! All rights to the characters belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros; no infringement of copyright is intended by their use in this work of fiction from which no income is being derived! ~ Prologue ~ 'And, in the end, Jason Trask's obsession caused him to search for a mystical rock he alone imbued with destructive powers, and to confuse one reporter with the target of his fixation, Superman. He came to see this strange visitor from another planet where he was not, and to see enemies where there were none. It was an obsession that for Jason Trask would prove fatal.' Thoughtfully, Lex Luthor laid down his morning newspaper and took a sip of coffee. "Nigel?" His aide and general factotum instantly glided to his side. "Yes, sir?" "What do you know about Jason Trask?" Lex was aware that he had no need to ask whether Nigel had read the story, or had any greater knowledge of Trask. His indispensable assistant was adept at anticipating his master's every need. "The FBI, the army and the government have all disclaimed him, sir. They claim that he was a maverick, dangerously delusional." Nigel's voice was studiously expressionless. "Yes, and do they not protest just a little over much?" Lex murmured, almost to himself. "It is perhaps a trifle odd, yes," Nigel agreed. "However, as to whether his Bureau 39 remained officially, albeit covertly, sponsored by the government, I have no idea - at present. Should you wish to know, sir, I can certainly make enquiries." Lex waved the offer aside; as he was sure Nigel already knew, his interest didn't lie in the existence or otherwise of a shady government unit dedicated to investigating extra- terrestrials. Whether or not there had been cover-ups at Roswell and elsewhere were immaterial to him. "I want that rock," he announced. "That assumes that it even exists, let alone that it does have the power to affect Superman," Nigel observed. "Oh, I believe it exists." Lex opened his expensively-carved humidor, withdrawing a best Cuban. Smoothly, Nigel produced the clippers, snipping off the end of the cigar before snapping open the solid gold Cartier lighter and igniting it. "I also believe that it may just be what we are looking for," he added before taking a deep puff of the cigar. "Yes, sir?" Nigel stepped back, replacing the smoking accessories in their appointed place. "I believe it for a couple of reasons," Lex continued. "First, Lois Lane *doesn't* believe it, which is a good indication that this Kryptonite may have the power to affect Superman. That woman may be attractive - perhaps even beautiful - but she is too besotted by that ape in a cape to see what lies under her nose." He took another long draw on his cigar, pausing to exhale a perfect smoke ring before continuing. "Second, I firmly believe that nothing is indestructible. Nature has created her universe in such a way that every creature has its perfect, sometimes unique, predator. Therefore Superman must have his Achilles heel. We simply have yet to find it." "But it is also the case, sir, that creatures transported out of their natural environment may find themselves free of their predators," Nigel pointed out. "That was true of rabbits in Australia." "Indeed," Lex agreed, nodding. "But that was where science came in, Nigel. Myxomatosis, a naturally-occurring virus, was imported from Brazil to deal with the rabbit population explosion. Likewise, there must be something which is capable of destroying Superman. Nigel, for five months we have searched high and low for a means of weakening our Nemesis. We have subjected him to thorough testing. We have watched him survive situations which would eliminate even the strongest mortal. No ordinary weapon will destroy him. But perhaps something extraordinary can." "A rock, sir?" Nigel mused questioningly. "Assuming that it is indeed just a rock." Lex flicked at the newspaper again. "Apparently, it glows. Now, isn't it interesting that, while Ms Lane appears to go to pains to deny the very existence of this so-called Kryptonite, she is aware that it glows? And then, consider the name she has given it." Lex paused, a faint smile hovering around his lips. "Kryptonite. An invented name, but similar in etymology to... meteorite." The smile became more pronounced. "And... Krypton. The alien's home planet, I believe?" "It is indeed, sir," Nigel confirmed. "So, it seems that the late, apparently unlamented Colonel Trask may have stumbled upon a meteorite from Superman's home planet. A little piece of home, Nigel. Perhaps the very piece of home which will turn out to be Superman's Nemesis, don't you think?" "A persuasive argument, sir," Nigel agreed. "I want this Kryptonite," Lex announced crisply. "Anticipating your request, sir, I set several agents to the task of acquiring some as soon as I read Ms Lane's article," Nigel replied smoothly. "More coffee, sir?" ********** ~ Two months later ~ Lois waved the morning's edition of the Daily Planet in front of her partner. "Another great scoop! Did you see LNN's morning news programme? Lane and Kent are setting the agenda yet again!" Clark grinned back at her. "Yeah, I saw it. Though they were playing up Lex Luthor's part in it too - I suppose they have to suck up to the boss." "Well, he did use his contacts to help us get to Roarke, remember," Lois pointed out. "And, thanks to him, Superman was able to save a lot of lives yesterday." "True," Clark agreed, wishing that he could tell Lois just how much he hated being indebted to Lex Luthor. One of these days, he thought, gazing past Lois and out of the newsroom's picture window. One of these days, Luthor's chickens would come home to roost, and the man would be exposed for the villain he was. ******** Lex Luthor refolded his morning newspaper, dropping it by his plate at the same moment Nigel re-entered the room. "Ah, Nigel. You know what really troubles me about yesterday's little incident?" Nigel waited, an expectant expression on his face. "The degree of corruption which exists among the Metropolis business community. And even among our elected representatives," Lex explained, shaking his head. "To think that a man elected to noble office, such as Congressman Harrington, would stoop to allowing himself to be influenced by someone as unscrupulous as Thaddeus Roarke. Absolutely disgraceful." "Indeed, sir," Nigel agreed. "And if Roarke can have his pet Congressman, why can't I?" Lex added, taking a sip of coffee. "Or even a Senator, perhaps." Lex dabbed at his lips with his white Irish linen napkin, then allowed it to fall onto his plate, uncaring of the smears of preserve which remained. "I have already compiled a list for your perusal, sir," Nigel replied. "However, for the moment, I have something which may be of more interest to you." "Yes?" Lex glanced across at his aide in mild curiosity. Nigel was carrying a small metal casket, something which gave no clue whatsoever to its contents. Approaching the table, Nigel laid the casket down, its plain dark appearance in stark contrast to the snowy white linen. He raised the lid, revealing a small laboratory vial. Lex raised one eyebrow in enquiry. "Some weeks ago, you requested that some Kryptonite be found, sir," Nigel explained. Lex reached into the casket and picked up the vial. It appeared empty... until he looked more carefully and noticed what appeared to be several tiny sparkling crystals, some red, some green. "This is barely more than dust," he commented dismissively. "Unfortunately, sir, it was all our operatives were able to find. We still have people searching for more, but in the meantime the laboratory reports that these specks most definitely emit a radioactive frequency. We were somewhat concerned about the presence of the red fragments, since our information is that the meteorite Colonel Trask had was quite definitely green. However, the red material emits the same degree and quality of radioactivity as the green: harmless to humans, and both clearly from the same source." "Interesting," Lex murmured. Was there any difference between the red and the green? Or was it pure accident that the meteorite came in different colours? Perhaps something to do with the effect of transit through time and space, he thought; perhaps an effect of heat, assuming that the material had had to travel at some considerable velocity. "Despite their size, I thought that you might possibly have some use for them," Nigel was saying. "Hmm." Lex examined the contents of the vial once more, thinking carefully. "They are too small to affect him in any way through external contact, I would guess. And one puff of air and they would blow away." "Indeed, sir," Nigel agreed. "There may yet be other ways." "Internal infection, yes," Lex agreed. "Now, the alien is invulnerable, so it is highly unlikely that he could be injected with a solution containing the fragments. On the other hand," he continued thoughtfully, "there is always the oral method." "That would no doubt be the most efficacious, sir," Nigel agreed again. "Should I give an operative instructions to see that it happens?" "I think not," Lex said, waving a hand dismissively. "I think I would rather enjoy performing this operation myself." ********** The phone on Lois's desk shrilled, and she waved Clark away with her hand. They could finish discussing their follow-up to Harrington's arrest later. "Lois Lane." "Ah! Lois, my dear!" "Lex?" Surprised, Lois leaned back in her chair. "I was just calling to reassure myself that you'd suffered no after-effects from yesterday's near catastrophe," her caller said, concern in his voice. "Oh! That's very kind of you, Lex." Lois smiled. "I'm fine, though. And Clark and I are busy working on the Roarke story. That's someone who's facing a long jail term." "Indeed, and it's no more than he deserves." Lex's tone changed then. "Actually, speaking of your partner, Mr Kent, I was also wondering whether you or he are likely to encounter Superman in the near future." "Superman? Possibly," Lois answered. At that moment, she became conscious that she was being watched, and she turned her head to see Clark looking in her direction, a suspicious expression on his face. Of course; he didn't like Lex. Though even Clark should recognise that Lex had helped a lot in getting to the bottom of the tsunami story, she thought in mild irritation, and looked away again. "Clark seems to run into him more often than I do, but one of us should probably come into contact with him in the next week or so. Why?" "I merely wanted to thank him," Lex replied casually. "He did help to expose the appalling actions of Mr Roarke, which has indirectly saved two of my companies a great deal of money and an enormous cost in reputation, had Project Shockwave gone ahead and then failed, as Roarke intended. Could you or Mr Kent pass a message along to him? Ask him if he would do me the honour of paying me a brief visit, so that I can thank him in person. I may also have some information which could be of interest to him." That was thoughtful of Lex, Lois mused. "Sure, we'll pass that on, Lex. And now..." "Yes, of course," he said smoothly. "You are a busy woman; I understand that. I won't take up any more of your time. Perhaps we could have dinner together again some time?" "Perhaps," Lois answered non-committally. She really wasn't sure whether she wanted any involvement with Lex Luthor beyond the professional. "If you're saying that you're finally willing to give me that exclusive interview I want?" she challenged. "Ah, you never give up, do you, Lois?" She could hear the amused smile in his voice. "Perhaps, one of these days. Goodbye for now, however." "Goodbye, Lex." Lois replaced the receiver, turning her head again to meet Clark's critical gaze. "Now what? It was just a courtesy call. He was asking how I was!" "What was that about Superman?" he asked immediately. Lois explained, adding, "See? He's showing some good manners - which, I might add, you weren't displaying much of when I was on the phone! I'd appreciate if it you didn't listen to my private conversations, Kent!" Clark raised an eyebrow. "You listen to mine." "That's dif-" Lois began, before breaking off, realising that this line of conversation was only going to land her in trouble. "Anyway, if you see Superman before me, just pass on the message, okay?" ********* So Lex Luthor wanted to see Superman. Ostensibly to thank him, though Clark was very sure that was far from being the real reason. He should ignore the summons - it was clearly a summons, despite Luthor having expressed it to Lois as a request. Nothing good could ever come out of a meeting with Lex Luthor on his own territory. And yet... If he didn't go, might it somehow hand Luthor the advantage? What if Luthor really did know something important, something which he might hold against him if Superman didn't turn up? Clark could just hear it now. "Well, I did try to warn Superman, but he ignored my request to come and see me..." Although Clark did find it hard to believe that Luthor could really have any information which would be of use to Superman, and which he would willingly share with his arch-Nemesis. So surely he could be justified in simply ignoring Luthor's command? On the other hand, Clark thought, maybe his real aim should be to show Luthor that he wasn't afraid of him. If he didn't go, then wasn't it just possible that Luthor might believe that he had the upper hand because Superman was afraid to meet him? Maybe he should go. After all, it wasn't as if Luthor could do anything terrible to him. He was invulnerable, he reminded himself. And as long as he stayed close to the window, so that he could leave if the situation became difficult in any way... He'd go that evening, after work. ********* At around seven that evening, Superman was hovering just above the LexCorp tower. Luthor was in the penthouse suite, playing chess with the man Clark knew as Nigel St John, the billionaire's butler or aide or some such factotum. Clark had studied the game of chess during the time he'd spent in China and the Far East. Luthor, he could tell as he watched the two men make their moves, was a very good player; nowhere close to grandmaster level, of course, but extremely skilled. Of course, Luthor would never allow himself to be mediocre at anything, Clark thought cynically. He drifted down to the balcony, standing just outside the large picture window. Raising his voice, he called, "Mr St John, if you move your king's knight to queen's pawn four, you can have checkmate in four moves." The two men's focus on the game was instantly broken. Luthor got to his feet and strode over to the window, pressing a control which made it slide open. "Superman! Do come in. I'm honoured that you accepted my invitation." Gritting his teeth, Clark stepped forward. He wanted to tell Luthor to drop the pretence, that both of them knew very well that there was neither honour nor courtesy in his presence in the other man's penthouse. But where Lex Luthor was concerned, it was never a good idea to reveal his true feelings. Keeping his guard up at all times was the most important rule. "Luthor," he said calmly, inclining his head slightly. "I received a message that you wanted to see me." "I wanted to thank you, Superman. You did me an enormous favour yesterday, and such an act of kindness cannot go unrewarded," Luthor said smoothly. "Think nothing of it," Clark said, shrugging. "I was just doing my job." "Nonetheless..." Luthor replied. "You'll take a glass of wine with me, at least, Superman? I've just taken delivery of a case of something really special: a 1966 Chateau Mouton Rothschild. Very difficult to obtain, and extremely expensive, but you'll see why just as soon as you taste it. It's a truly magnificent wine." Turning towards St John, Luthor added, "Nigel, bring in the Mouton you decanted earlier, please." Clark had no desire whatsoever to have a drink with his arch-Nemesis. But leaving now would be rude in the extreme - not that he had a problem with being rude to Luthor, as such, but he was trying to stick by his resolve to be outwardly polite. He had to admit, too, that the prospect of sampling a rare vintage Bordeaux wasn't exactly unappealing. Luthor indicated that Clark should move further into the room, which he did reluctantly. "You play chess, Superman?" "Occasionally," Clark conceded. "Would you care to take Nigel's place and finish the game? I'm intrigued to see whether I could defeat your strategy." Clark didn't care to do so. But he supposed that it was one way of whiling away the time he'd now committed himself to spending in Luthor's company. And at least this way he wouldn't be expected to make conversation. He spread his cape out carefully before taking the seat St John had previously occupied, and studied the board. His earlier reaction had been accurate: assuming Luthor didn't block the moves, he could achieve checkmate in four steps. He moved his king's knight. After a pause, Luthor moved his queen's bishop, taking the knight - exactly as Clark had been hoping he would. Nigel appeared at his elbow then, placing a crystal glass of ruby-red wine on a small table beside him before moving to hand an identical glass to Luthor. Luthor raised his glass in front of him. "Your good health, Superman." Out of politeness, Clark returned the toast. "And yours." He took a sip of the wine. It was rich and mellow, and extremely good. He took another sip, before returning his concentration to the board. His next move was straightforward: a sideways move by a pawn, to take Luthor's bishop in a diversionary tactic. "Check." Luthor took a slow sip of his wine before glancing back at the board. "So I see." He waved his free hand towards the glass at Clark's elbow in a leisurely movement. "What is your opinion of the wine? A fine vintage, hmm?" "Indeed," Clark agreed. "I don't pretend to be a connoisseur, but it's very good." He took another sip. Luthor turned his attention back to the chess- board, seeming lost in contemplation of his next move. Left to his own devices, Clark took another drink of his wine. Odd; it seemed curiously gritty this time. There was also something of an aftertaste; a little acidic. Though that wasn't very different from the aftertaste of some Chardonnays, and wine connoisseurs seemed to love that. He shrugged inwardly and ignored it. "You know your game," Luthor observed. "But let's see what you do with this..." He slid a rook across to take Clark's pawn and, it seemed, block any further move. The diversion seemed to have worked. Clark moved the piece he'd intended to all along: his bishop to within two spaces of Luthor's king. "Hmm." Luthor drank from his glass again. "Interesting move, Superman." He gazed thoughtfully at the board again, before glancing at Clark. "Would you like Nigel to refill your glass?" "Thank you, no. Delicious as it is, one glass is plenty." Clark took another sip. Yes, it was definitely gritty. Whoever had decanted it - Nigel, presumably? - clearly hadn't taken care to ensure the sediment didn't get mixed up with the wine. That was surprising. He couldn't imagine Lex Luthor putting up with that kind of service from his staff. However, he said nothing. He had no wish to get the man's butler into trouble. Luthor moved another piece, then leaned back in his seat with an amused smile hovering around his lips. "Check." Clark glanced at the board. "I see. However..." He moved his queen half-a-dozen spaces, capturing the rook with which his opponent had threatened his king. "Checkmate, I believe." Luthor blinked, then stared at the board. "It is indeed." He raised his glass. "You are a worthy opponent, Superman." Bringing his glass to his lips, he drained it. Clark did likewise. "Thank you. But Mr St John had already done most of the work." "I'm not convinced that Nigel could have brought the game to the conclusion which you did, Superman," Luthor said with a smile. "But perhaps we should play again. From the beginning this time." "Some other time, perhaps," Clark said, getting to his feet. To his surprise, he swayed slightly. The wine must have been stronger than he thought - yet he didn't normally feel in any way affected by alcohol. "Of course, Superman. We mustn't keep you. Oh, but I should let you know that the government has halted all funding for Project Shockwave. It was, no doubt, a foregone conclusion after Thaddeus Roarke's regrettable actions were exposed, but I'm sure it will come as a relief all the same." So this was what Luthor had wanted to tell him? Hardly startling news, but it was good news regardless. "I'm delighted to hear it. Thank you for the wine," he said, stepping over towards the balcony. A blast of night air hit him, and he felt oddly light-headed. "Goodnight, Superman," Luthor said, smiling faintly. "Goodnight," Clark echoed, taking flight. He felt himself wobble slightly as he propelled himself through the air; very strange. He should get home as soon as possible, he thought; maybe some strong black coffee would help. ********* Lex closed the window and turned to face Nigel, a triumphant expression on his face. "It worked like a dream. A shame to waste such a good vintage, of course... but worth it in such a cause." "Certainly, sir. He gave no indication of even noticing the grains in his glass. And he drank every drop." Nigel picked up the empty glass. "Perhaps we should put that on display in the museum," Lex said, amused. "The glass from which Superman took his last drink." "I will have a cabinet prepared as soon as we hear the news of Superman's demise, sir," Nigel replied, smiling broadly. Lex glanced back at the chess-board. Despite his pretence of good humour, he had been considerably dismayed to be beaten by the alien. Superman had, he thought, taken undue satisfaction in his utterance of 'Checkmate'. He picked up his king, the defeated leader of his army, then set it back in its place on the board. "No, Superman," he murmured softly. "It's checkmate to me, I believe." ********* Clark reached out and thumped his alarm clock; its incessant ringing was giving him a headache. He turned over in bed, and immediately groaned in pain. Wait a minute... In... pain? He blinked, and then realised that the light streaming in from the window hurt his eyes. Shielding them, he tried to sit up, but only managed to get as far as leaning against the headboard, gasping for breath. What...? But he was invulnerable! He couldn't possibly be in pain! He took several deep, agonising breaths before making an attempt to think through the situation logically. He was Superman. He was invulnerable. Therefore this... couldn't be happening, could it? And yet... Hadn't he lain tossing and turning for some time last night because his gut had felt as if it was on fire? He hadn't imagined that, had he? It didn't make sense, he thought dazedly. There was only one thing which could take away his invulnerability, and he hadn't encountered any of that since that time in Smallville. And Jason Trask was dead, and the Kryptonite was destroyed. Wasn't it? And anyway, he'd only been in excruciating pain when he was in close proximity to the Kryptonite. Once he was away from it, the pain had gone; he'd just felt weak and, of course, been without his powers. So how could he possibly be like this now? Unless... the Kryptonite was in his apartment. He collapsed back onto the pillows. This couldn't be happening! If it was in his apartment, how on earth was he going to deal with it? Even if he could find it, to begin with - which was a moot point, since at the moment he barely had the strength to sit up in bed, let alone get up - he couldn't possibly touch it. But, wait... Hadn't he been feeling a bit funny the previous evening? Yes, when he'd left Luthor's penthouse. He remembered now. It had been very strange - he'd even imagined that the wine must have gone to his head. One glass of wine? With his invulnerable constitution? When even after the few frat parties he'd attended in college he'd always been stone-cold sober? But he'd been with Luthor. A man he knew to be untrustworthy; a man who knew very well that Superman was his enemy. A man who had been strangely friendly the previous evening. Hadn't he? Luthor... friendly. Inviting him in. Offering him wine. Playing chess with him. Offering him wine... Luthor. Friendly. Offering him wine. The sediment in the wine. The acid taste. A vintage Chateau Mouton Rothschild? If there had really been sediment in it, someone of Luthor's sophistication would have thrown it back in disgust. There hadn't been any sediment at all. It had to have been Kryptonite. He had swallowed Kryptonite. He closed his eyes and groaned again. What was he going to do? Even now, it was probably eating away at his gut, doing irreparable damage to his innards. Lying here feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to get him anywhere, he told himself roughly. Gritting his teeth, he leaned across to grab the phone from the nightstand, then dialled a familiar number. "Mom?" His voice almost broke at the sound of the person dearest to him in the world on the other end of the phone. "Clark? Is there something wrong?" As he'd known she would, his mom instantly moved into worried mode. "Yeah... Mom, I think I've swallowed some Kryptonite," he explained, then leaned his head back against the headboard again, closing his eyes. He'd said the words aloud now, and they still sounded as... sickening as ever. Kryptonite. That stuff which, he'd been convinced when he'd encountered it on both occasions in Smallville, could kill him. And he'd ingested it - he had some of it inside him. "You've what? Oh, honey, how did that happen? When? How are you feeling? Do you need us to come to Metropolis? - Jonathan, get onto the airline -" Interrupting his mother, her obvious anxiety making him want to ease her concern, even if he was every bit as worried as she was, Clark said quickly, "That's not necessary, Mom. I know you can't afford to leave the farm right now -" "If you're sick, Clark, then of course we need to be there with you!" "Mom," he said softly. "I'm feeling much better already, just from hearing your voice." And it was true. Okay, his gut still felt as if it was on fire and he was still waiting for the room to stop spinning. And if his head would stop throbbing for even a moment, he might actually be able to work out what other parts of his body were aching. But, whereas he'd felt ready to fall into the pit of despair before calling home, now he felt ready to fight back. He was still scared... but he was determined. Just what he could do, he wasn't sure - but he was going to give it a darned good try. "Tell me what happened," Martha said. "How did you swallow Kryptonite? Was it an accident, or... Did somebody try to hurt you, Clark?" Clark explained, adding, "There can't have been very much of it. I only drank one glass of the wine, and I didn't even taste the grains until about the fourth sip - about half-way down the glass." "And how do you feel now?" she asked, concerned. He grimaced. "Like I've been run over by a Mack truck, Mom. Or like someone's run a red-hot poker through my stomach." "But you can talk," she pointed out. "And, although you don't sound good, you're not fighting for breath - not like you were the first time you encountered that horrible stuff." "No," he agreed. Then, trying to make the conversation a little more light-hearted, he added, "So you think I'll live?" "You've got to get that stuff out of you," his mother said insistently. "How?" "Oh, Clark! The obvious way!" "Uh... not to me, it isn't, Mom!" "The same way as you'd get anything unpleasant out of your system," she pointed out, amusement in her voice. "I don't think you'd want to throw up - and I'm not sure that would work anyway. Just drink plenty of water, Clark. Lots of it. And then let nature take its course." Clark frowned. "Nat- Oh, never mind!" he added quickly as her meaning dawned. "Okay, Mom. I'll do that." "Will you be able to get out of bed?" she asked, all amusement gone now as concern returned. He tried sitting up again. The room still swam, but he was getting better able to control his reactions now. "Yeah, I'll manage. I'll be fine. It'll be just like before - I'll be okay, just not Super." "Not Super, and with a bad dose of flu, by the sound of it," his mother said; he could hear the smile in her voice, just as he could also hear the worry. "Well, I guess now I know how ordinary people feel when they get sick," he replied, in a weak attempt at humour. "Don't worry, Mom. I'll be fine. I really don't think there was enough there to kill me - if there had been, I'd be dead now." "Clark, I know you're sick, but can you please stop making your mom even more worried than she is already?" his father's concerned voice instructed. He pulled a face. "Sorry, Dad. Sorry, Mom. Look, I'm going to be fine, all right? I'm going to hang up and go and get a glass of water. Several glasses. Okay? And I'll call you later to let you know how I'm doing." "You do that, son," his father answered. "And be careful, okay? If you go out at all today, just remember that you're not invulnerable any more." "You should really call in sick," his mother advised. "Maybe," he said, shrugging even though they couldn't see him. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed - and wincing at the jabs of pain in his stomach at the movement, plus the renewed dizziness - he added, "I'll see how I feel after I've showered. Okay?" "Okay, son. You take care." He hung up, then counted slowly to ten. On ten, he slowly, painfully, dragged himself to his feet. The room swam again, and he swayed, almost losing his balance. Grabbing onto the edge of his nightstand, he just about managed to regain his balance. This getting up thing wasn't going to be so easy after all... Okay. Water. Kitchen. He turned slowly and took a hesitant step forward, heading towards the kitchen. Every step was slow, and he almost lost his balance several times, grabbing onto items of furniture, the walls, the door jamb and anything within reach to keep himself on his feet. Finally, after what seemed like the longest walk of his life, he reached the sink, clutching at the edge of it gratefully. The sink. Now, why was he at the sink? Oh, yes. Water. Needed to drink some water. Okay. Turn on the tap, he told himself. That wasn't too difficult a task. He turned it on, then looked in puzzlement at the water running into the sink. How was he to drink - Oh. Of course. A glass. He needed a glass. Okay. And then came the next trial: reaching up to the overhead cupboard to get a glass. The mere act of looking up as he stretched made him dizzy again; while he got the cupboard open, in reaching inside, he knocked a glass off the shelf. It fell to the floor and shattered. Oh, great. Now he'd have to watch his footing too in case his - now very vulnerable - foot trod on the broken glass. "Okay," he said aloud, glad that there was no- one around to hear him talking to himself. "It's okay. It's fine. Calm down... it's only a glass. You can do it..." He reached up again, this time managing to grasp another glass and bring it down to the sink. By the time he'd filled it with water, he felt as if it was a major achievement. Water. Drink plenty of water. That was what his mom had said. That was what he had to do. Well, that was no problem, was it? Clark leaned heavily against the sink and forced himself to down half a pint of water in a couple of swallows. It wasn't easy at first; his oesophagus muscles didn't seem to want to work, and he realised that, in addition to his other aches and pains, he also had a sore throat. "Oh, wonderful," he muttered, refilling the glass. "This is going to be a *really* great day." ********* Lois glanced at her watch. Clark was late this morning, something which wasn't entirely unusual for him, but all the same she wasn't happy. They had a lot of work to do before the afternoon edition went to press, and even more to do before they were ready for the next day's edition. This wasn't the time for her partner to do one of his disappearing acts. Just where was he? Sighing in annoyed frustration, she picked up her phone, intending to call Clark's apartment. If he was still there, she'd... The elevator dinged. Lois glanced up reflexively, and saw her partner stagger out of it. Stagger? But Clark never... Was he drunk? Furious, she glared at him. So that was why he was late! He'd been out boozing last night, obviously, and was still three sheets to the wind this morning. And as for his clothes... His jacket hung awkwardly on him, and she realised that the collar was half-up. His tie was askew. His shirt was unevenly buttoned, and it gaped in a couple of places. And - she allowed her gaze to trail down to his feet - he was wearing odd shoes! One black and one brown, she was sure of it. As she watched him, he reached the ramp to the bullpen and had to grab on to the handrail to prevent himself falling over. Yes, he was definitely drunk. So much for thinking that he was different from a typical man! a tiny voice reminded her. No, it wasn't. It was just a trait more men than women seemed to have in common, especially when combined with bars and sports games and showing up to work hung over. "You look like you need to mainline caffeine," she said distastefully as her partner approached. He looked across at her; his glazed, reddened eyes and unshaven appearance reinforced her original conclusion. "Huh?" he slurred. "You're disgusting," she told him, curling her lip. "Did you have to come in looking like something repulsive the cat dragged in?" He frowned, and the action seemed to Lois to be something of an effort for him. "Wha've I done?" he said, his words sounding thick, as if they'd had to fight their way out of a mouth filled with cotton wool. Lois shook her head, grimacing. "You're not worth bothering with today, Clark Kent. Why don't you go and run your head under a cold tap for half an hour? You might just about be capable of coherent conversation after that - though I'd really prefer it if you shaved first," she added dryly. He gave her a hurt look, the one which never failed to remind her of a lost puppy-dog afraid of being kicked. "Tap? Water? Yeah... need water..." he muttered, his words almost garbled. Then he turned, as if to walk back towards the ramp, and slowly, inelegantly, tumbled to the floor. Lois cursed under her breath. How could he have the nerve to come into work in that state...! Then she noticed that heads were turning in her direction from all over the newsroom; people were craning their necks to stare at Clark Kent lying in a heap on the floor, and some were making their way over. Rubber-necking, of course; they weren't interested in helping him. Or maybe some of them were - there was Darlene from sub-editing, whom Lois had suspected for weeks of having a crush on Clark. She'd be fawning all over him, asking if he was all right and fussing over him so that no-one else could get a look-in... She didn't care what Darlene, or anyone else, thought, did she? Let them fuss over him. They'd soon realise that he was just drunk, and they'd be as disgusted as she was. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Darlene make a move to stand up. Sighing, Lois got to her feet and went over to Clark, bending down beside him. "Come on, get up - everyone's staring at you! How you could come into work like this..." He blinked at her behind his glasses. "Lois... I... uh..." He trailed off, sounding oddly disoriented. Or drunk. Funny, though... she couldn't smell alcohol. Impulse led her to lay the back of her hand against his forehead. Then she gasped. "Clark, you're burning up! You're sick!" "Uh... don't feel so good, Lois..." "You don't look so good either." Lois bit her lip, knowing that she'd misjudged her partner very badly. All the time she'd been accusing him of being drunk, he'd been sick. Very sick, by the look of him; he was running a high fever. He shouldn't even be at work. He should have called in sick. And he probably hadn't because she'd ordered him to be in early because they had a lot of work to do. It was all her fault. Really, Darlene was right: she treated Clark abominably. "Come on, partner," she said softly, nudging his shoulder with her hand. "Can you manage to get up?" He groaned, but responded to her urging, dragging himself upwards and reaching out for support as he did so. She slipped her arm around his waist and led him to the nearest chair; he subsided into it gratefully. "Sorry, Lois... really don't feel too good," he muttered. She patted his shoulder awkwardly. If there was one thing that Lois Lane had no idea how to deal with, it was illness. Whenever Lucy had been sick as a child, she'd left the nursing to her mom - assuming that Ellen Lane had been sober enough to cope with it. And if she hadn't, Lois had called Sam Lane; after all, what was the point in having a doctor for a father if she didn't make use of him occasionally? "Just sit there for a minute, Clark, okay?" she said, retreating to her desk to grab her car- keys. "Jimmy!" she yelled. "Yes, Lois? Hey, is CK okay?" Jimmy came bounding up, a concerned expression on his face. "He's got a fever," she said. "Look, can you help me get him to the elevator? He's too heavy for me to manage alone." "Sure." Jimmy glanced over at Clark again. "You taking him home? Or calling a cab?" "I can't send him home alone in this state," she said, biting her lip again. Clark lived alone. She had visions of him lying collapsed on his doorstep, maybe even dying of pneumonia, if she put him in a taxi. No; her first instinct had been right. She needed to drive him home herself. And anyway, she owed it to him, after she'd accused him of being drunk when he was really sick. "You need me to come down to the parking garage with you, then?" Lois shook her head. "I'll manage. Thanks, though." Between them, they managed to half-drag, half- carry Clark to the elevator. He tried to help, but it was clear that he wasn't capable of working out what was going on, much less of supporting his own weight. It was with relief that Lois allowed him to slump back against the elevator wall. "You sure you'll be okay?" "I'm sure. Now, go and tell Perry that I'll be back in an hour or so. And if he complains about his deadline, you can tell him what he can do with -" "Not me, Lois!" Jimmy interrupted quickly. "You can do your own dirty work when you get back!" ********* Clark was having a really strange dream. First, he'd been falling somehow, gliding downwards, and yet he knew that he wasn't controlling his fall. So he couldn't have been flying. And then he had Lois's arm around his waist, with his own arm around her shoulders, and they were standing very, very close. Close enough that he could feel her heartbeat, could feel the softness of her feminine curves pressing against him. "Come on, Clark, not much further now," she was saying to him. She wanted him to go somewhere with her? "Anywhere, Lois... 'll go anywhere with you," he tried to tell her, although the words sounded to his ears as if they were a foreign language. "Just to..." He couldn't make out the rest of what she said, but he didn't care. All that mattered was that he was close to Lois. She was holding him, and there was a note in her voice which told him that she cared. She cared. She cared about him! And that was good. After all, he loved her, didn't he? And if she loved him back, then that was wonderful. Life was wonderful. Even if he did feel as if he'd done twenty rounds with one of Sam Lane's prizefighters, and even if his brain was being very slow and stupid today. Lois was with him and she cared about him. Nothing else mattered. ********* She'd managed to get him into the car. It had been a lot easier than she'd anticipated; although he'd leaned heavily on her, he hadn't been as much of a dead weight as he'd been when she and Jimmy had dragged him to the elevator. He'd wrapped his arm around her shoulders, dropping his head to turn his face into her hair, and when she'd urged him to move he'd said something very strange... that he would go anywhere with her. And she thought, although she couldn't be sure, that he might actually have kissed the side of her head. Not that she could figure out why he might have done that, but she had definitely felt something like a kiss being pressed against her hair. He was delirious, of course, which wasn't remotely surprising. He was still burning up. Driving out of the parking garage, Lois wondered whether she ought to call Clark's doctor. Though that would be difficult, since she had no idea who his doctor was. He wasn't sick enough to go to the emergency room, but if he had the flu, then he might need medication. Mightn't he? She could take him to her own doctor, but Dr Carey was always busy; even if she called first, there was slim to no chance that the doctor would have a free slot. No; better to take Clark home first, then find his doctor's number. It was bound to be stored in Clark's phone, or listed in his address-book. It wouldn't be that hard to find. Clark was leaning back against the headrest now, his face turned to the road-side. He was breathing well, she noticed, although occasionally his breath turned shallow and he made a low sound, something like a groan. Aches and pains, she decided; they were flu symptoms, weren't they? At least, she thought so. It had been so long since she'd nursed her mother through the flu, and she herself was never sick. At least, never anything which meant she had to take time off work. That was what vitamins were for, wasn't it? She made a mental note to tell Clark, once he was better, to go on a decent vitamin and mineral regime. Better still, she'd write out for him the names of the brands she took. She couldn't afford to have a partner who was prone to getting colds or flu. Arriving outside 344 Clinton Street, she put the Jeep into park and then set her mind to working out just how she would get Clark out of the car and up the steps into his apartment. Persuasion had worked before, she remembered. Maybe if she just talked to him, got through to him, he'd do as she asked? She got out and went around to the passenger door, opening it. Clark slid sideways as she did so - he'd clearly been using the door as support. "Whoops!" she exclaimed, pushing at his shoulder to try to steady him. "Come on, Clark, you've got to help me out here." He blinked slowly before turning to look at her, his gaze unfocused. "Anything... for you, Lois," he said after a moment, sounding as if he'd needed to search for the words. He was certainly being very compliant today - it was just a shame that it took him being sick to obey her every command, she thought ruefully. "Come on." She took his arm. "Can you get down? Can you walk inside with me?" He slid around carefully, giving her a confused look. "Walk...?" "Yes, Clark. Just slide down to the ground... yes, like that," she said, adopting an approving tone, as he slithered inelegantly down from the Jeep, landing awkwardly on the ground. "Okay, can you put your arm around me again?" He gave her a dopey smile. "Oh yeah..." And suddenly she was being held in a somewhat wobbly embrace. "Oh, Clark!" Lois exclaimed, half-impatient, half-laughing. "This is not what I meant... Look, come on, we need to go inside, okay?" "Okay," he echoed, but he allowed her to turn him in the direction of the steps up to his apartment, and when she began to walk he did too. They were making progress. Now, all she had to do was get him inside and call his doctor. Then she could get back to the Planet, to the story which was waiting for her, and no doubt to face an irate Perry wanting to know why there was nothing on his desk yet. With any luck, she'd be back at work within an hour. ******** It hurt. Why did she insist on making him move, when all he wanted was to curl up somewhere and sleep? Sleep until the pain went away. His head was throbbing. His legs felt wobbly, and his innards were still alternately aching and burning. And yet she was urging him to move, her arm around him forcing him forward, the ground beneath his feet strangely uneven - bumpy, even. Oh yeah. They were steps. She was making him climb steps. Why couldn't she just let him fall down, the way he wanted to? He wouldn't be a nuisance; he'd just close his eyes and sleep. Forget the pain, will it to go away. "Come on, Clark." Her soft, concerned voice urged him onwards again, and he was torn. Lois. He'd do anything for Lois, and she was trying so hard to get him to move for her. How could he let her down? Especially when she cared about him so much, and she was trying to help him, wasn't she? At least, he thought she was. And yet it hurt, and he was so confused... he didn't know where he was, or why he was there, or why he hurt so much. But Lois was there. That was good, wasn't it? And if she wanted him to walk for her, then he'd do it. He took several shallow breaths, and stumbled onwards. ******** At last, she'd managed to get him into his apartment. He seemed worse now than he had at the Planet, and she was worried. Clark, who was never sick, was really ill. He was sweating, and was clearly in a lot of pain. He was also delirious - although he seemed to respond to things she'd said to him, even if it was only when she was asking him to do something, he wasn't really aware of what was going on, and he'd been very clingy. Just now, when she'd got him into his bedroom, he hadn't wanted to let go of her. His arm had remained tight around her waist when she'd released him and tried to persuade him to lie down. She'd only got him to let go by promising him that she'd only be gone a minute or two. That she'd be back. "Don' leave me, Lois..." he'd slurred, before finally tumbling back onto the bed at her push. She'd looked at him, sprawled inelegantly across the bed, fully dressed but with glasses askew, and had been torn. He couldn't possibly be comfortable. Should she do something... maybe take off his jacket and shoes, if she could manage it? Loosen his tie and belt? Remove his glasses? And try to position him rather better than he was at the moment? No, calling his doctor was far more important, she decided, before hurrying out of her partner's bedroom and into the kitchen, where she knew he kept his phone book. Ten minutes later, Lois was almost tearing at her hair in frustration. She'd searched through Clark's address-book from front to back and then in reverse. No doctor listed anywhere. She'd rifled through any visible drawer in search of appointment cards, even returning to Clark's bedroom to check the nightstands. And then she'd looked through the Doctors section in the Yellow Pages, to see whether any was marked or underlined in any way. Nothing. Either Clark carried his doctor's number in his head - or a personal organiser - or he didn't have a doctor in Metropolis. That was ridiculous! Everyone had a doctor. Even if they were as healthy as Clark, everyone was registered with a doctor. It was as much a part of twentieth-century life as having a driving licence. But, assuming that Clark was registered with a doctor, she couldn't find out who it was. She considered her options. Clark was really sick, and when she'd gone into his bedroom he'd been thrashing about on the bed, muttering incoherently to himself. He was definitely still burning up; she'd seen the sweat on his forehead. She had no idea what to do in this situation. She needed a doctor. Why Clark had ever even tried to come into work this morning was beyond her, she thought as she glanced around the apartment, looking for inspiration. His bedroom was a mess, discarded clothes lying on the floor and closets standing open; her partner had obviously had trouble getting dressed. There was broken glass on the floor near the sink; the used glass standing on the drainer told her that he'd obviously broken the other one in his first attempt at getting a drink. A doctor. Clark's parents' number was in his book, and for a moment Lois toyed with the idea of calling Martha Kent. But then, what was the likelihood that Clark's mother would know his doctor's name? And did she really want to worry his parents, when it was probably just the flu and he'd be better in a couple of days anyway? No, there was nothing for it, she accepted finally. Picking up the phone, she tapped in a number she'd wanted to avoid using. "Dr Sam Lane's office," a perky female voice answered. "This is Lois Lane. I'd like to speak to my father, please," she said coolly; no doubt this woman was the latest in her father's series of 'companions', and Lois had no intention of allowing her to 'get to know' her lover's daughter. After almost a full minute of irritating on- hold music, her father was finally on the line. "Lois? This is a surprise." "I just need some advice," she said a little abruptly, reluctant to use the name 'Daddy' or even 'Dad' and so avoiding calling him anything. "Okay, shoot." "It's my partner. Clark. You met him. Anyway, he's sick, and I can't find a number for his doctor. I just want to know what to do, that's all." "Sick? What are his symptoms?" Now Sam Lane was all professional doctor. Which, Lois thought, made the conversation much easier for her. The only thing she had to concentrate on was discussing Clark. "I think it's flu. He's dizzy and sweating and moaning about aches - and he's been a bit delirious. I brought him home, but I don't think he actually realised where he was or what we were doing." "Feverish? Does his skin feel hot and clammy to the touch?" "Yeah. He was burning up," Lois said worriedly. "Okay, that sounds like flu," her father agreed. "He doesn't need to see a doctor unless he shows no sign of improvement within a couple of days." "So it's safe to leave him to sleep it off?" "Well, you should get him to take some aspirin. And leave him plenty of water. He needs to sweat off the fever, too, so he needs to be warm. Other than that, there's not a lot you can do for someone with flu. He'll feel pretty miserable for a while - a bit of TLC wouldn't hurt, too. If you feel like offering it." "Okay. That sounds easy enough. Thanks." Well, the TLC aside, it was easy. Now that she had what she needed, Lois was eager to end the conversation. Although she was learning that she needed to let go of the anger and resentment she harboured against her father, it would be a long process. One day, she thought; one day she'd be able to have something approaching a normal relationship with Sam Lane, but that day wasn't yet. "You're welcome. Uh, Lois...?" her father continued. She hesitated, guessing what was coming. "Yes?" "You wouldn't like to... get together for lunch some time soon?" Lois sighed, a twinge of guilt warring with her instinctive wish to avoid a meeting. "I'm pretty busy at the moment. I don't know when I'll have any free time in my schedule." "Okay. I just thought I'd ask. Anyway, if you think you can manage with your partner, I'd better get back to work." Just as she'd thought: there'd been no need at all for her to feel remotely guilty at rejecting his overture. Her father's attention had already shifted from her concerns back to his work. As always. "Yeah. And... thanks." Lois hung up and thought through what her father had recommended. Okay. Aspirin and water. That didn't sound too difficult. And keeping Clark warm. And... TLC. Well, she'd never been particularly good at that. She didn't know how to be sympathetic and caring, did she? So how on earth was she supposed to learn that all of a sudden now, just because Clark was sick? No. She didn't need to do that. Aspirin and water. She went to the sink; the crunching sound under her foot reminded her of the broken glass. Pulling a face, she bent, picked up the pieces and carefully disposed of them. She couldn't risk Clark walking barefoot into the kitchen and cutting his foot on it. After filling a jug with water, she found a mug - plastic this time, so even if Clark did knock it over, he wouldn't hurt himself - and took them into the bedroom. Clark still lay where she'd left him, but he'd been very restless since, judging by the state of the bedclothes. Leaving the water on the nightstand, she set herself to the task of finding some aspirin. A first-aid box? A medicine cabinet? A kitchen drawer? There was nothing in the bathroom, she realised after one very quick glance in the cabinet there - she couldn't even see any shaving gear, in fact. Nothing was immediately apparent in the kitchen either. She was just coming to the conclusion that she'd have to go out to the nearest Costmart when, finally, she discovered what looked like an unopened first- aid box at the back of a cupboard in the living area. And Eureka! there was a packet of aspirin inside. Remembering to check the expiry date, Lois was surprised to find - given the unused look of the box - that it was still well in date. She returned to the bedroom and poured Clark a cup of water. He blinked a couple of times as she stood next to the bed, and she was sure that he was aware of her. "Okay, Clark, can you sit up and drink this?" "Drink..." he mumbled. "Got to drink... Mom says..." He tried to drag himself up, but it was with difficulty and Lois ended up helping him. With one arm around his shoulders, she held the cup to his lips. He took a couple of sips before she remembered the aspirin. This was going to be difficult, she realised. He was hardly going to be able to take the tablets from her. So she lowered him back against the pillows and held the pills against his lips. "Come on, Clark - I just need you to swallow these, okay?" He mumbled something, but opened his mouth obligingly, and she was able to get him to drink some more water afterwards. Okay, so she'd done what her father recommended. But there was something else... Yes, she needed to keep him warm. Well, he was wearing his suit - but that wasn't very comfortable. But then, she was hardly going to be able to undress him! Okay. She could at least take off his shoes. And his tie. That wasn't difficult, was it? Having done that, she studied her sick partner once more. No, those glasses had to go too. He could hurt himself if he kept thrashing about on the bed. Carefully, she removed his glasses and put them on the nightstand. He looked oddly vulnerable without them, she thought, and actually... quite different from the Clark she knew. Younger, somehow. And maybe even less diffident. Of course, the fact that his hair was flopping loosely over his forehead added to that impression; in addition to not shaving that morning, he also hadn't styled his hair the way he normally did. Yes, with the untidy hair and without his glasses he definitely looked different. But still sick. She tugged at the quilt underneath him, managing to pull out enough of it to cover him. And then, giving him one last worried look, she headed for the door. Clark would be fine - her father had said so. It was time to get back to work. ********* The comforting arm around his shoulders had gone. And that scent... that familiar scent he knew so well... he couldn't smell it any more. So what was... Lois. She was... where was she? She'd been there. He could swear to it. Hadn't she made him climb those steps? And hadn't he told her that he'd go anywhere with her? But... she'd left him. He tried to sit up, but fell back onto the pillow again. It was all too much of an effort, and besides, it hurt. A moan of pain escaped him. "Clark?" That was her voice, wasn't it? It sounded strange... as if she was worried. Panicky about something. Oh, god - someone wasn't trying to hurt her, were they? Because he really didn't think he could help her at the moment. He really didn't think he had the strength... "Lois?" he called feebly, anxiously. Was she okay? "Oh, Clark!" Suddenly, she was beside him again, her hand holding his. "Oh, you really are sick, aren't you?" Her hand stroked his. "I need to get back to work... but... oh, I can't leave you like this, can I?" "Lo's... Stay with me," he murmured, not understanding why she was hesitating; all he knew was that he loved her and he needed her. And she should be with him, shouldn't she? She cared about him too! He knew she did. He wasn't quite sure why he knew, but she did, and that was all that mattered. "Okay, Clark," she said, her voice sounding gentle now, very soothing. He felt himself relax at the sound of it. "I'll stay." ********* Lois stretched and rotated her shoulders. Clark's window-seat looked like the perfect place to sit and work, but after sitting there for close to five hours on and off she was really feeling the lack of proper back support. Still, unless she'd wanted to go to the trouble of dragging in the kitchen table and a chair, it had been the best place from where she could keep an eye on her sick partner. She'd called Perry, who hadn't been too pleased to find that he was losing both halves of his top reporting team for the day. He'd growled a bit at first, but once he'd asked her, a genuine note of concern in his voice, how Clark was doing she'd realised that he was okay with her being there. And he was happier still once she told him that she'd found Clark's laptop and would work on the article there; Jimmy could email her any information she needed, and she'd send the article to Perry by email when it was done. And, in fact, even though she was having to break off her work from time to time to see to Clark, she was getting more done in a shorter space of time than she would have in the newsroom - the advantages of being somewhere with far fewer distractions. After Clark had called her name and asked her to stay with him, she couldn't possibly have done anything else but stick around. There was no way that she could have gone back to the newsroom once she'd heard him plead with her so plaintively to stay. He needed her. Clark needed her - and even though she was less than useless at a sick-bed, she'd had to stay. Though she had managed to be of some help to him. Several times, she'd held cups of water to his lips so that he could sip, in response to his requests for water. She'd dabbed at the beads of sweat on his forehead with a damp cloth. She'd pulled the quilt up and over him again repeatedly after he'd thrown it off - though the last time she'd told him, gently but insistently, that he had to keep it over him, and he hadn't pushed it away since. And twice she'd helped him walk to the bathroom, then waited for him to come out so that she could support him on his way back to bed. She'd also undressed him. That was a task she hadn't anticipated, but within about half an hour she'd realised that it was essential. Apart from the fact that he couldn't possibly be comfortable in his suit trousers and a shirt with a stiff collar, his shirt had been damp with sweat and was sticking to him. It had had to come off. That had been easier said than done. Okay, unbuttoning the shirt was no problem whatsoever. Pulling the hem loose from his trousers wasn't all that difficult. But persuading him to move his arms, and to sit up slightly, so that she could take it off had been much more difficult. Finally, the shirt - somewhat the worse for wear - had ended up on the floor, and Lois had sunk down on the bed, semi-exhausted. And realised that she was sitting right next to her half-naked partner. She had seen Clark's chest bared before, on one memorable occasion, and she'd had flashbacks about it ever since. Even sick, even flushed with fever, his torso was even more impressive than she'd remembered. She'd swallowed and reminded herself that she still needed to get his trousers off. Oh yeah. She'd gulped, then carefully undone his belt. That was the easy bit; then had come the clip fastener at his waistband, and then... the zipper. Delicately, holding her breath, she'd eased the fly fastening down, taking great care not to touch... anything... beyond the wool mix of Clark's trousers. He hadn't moved during the process, which had relieved her greatly. And then had come the task of getting the trousers off him. That, of course, had involved lifting his hips and at the same time trying to get the fabric down. And he hadn't been unaware of what she was up to, either; he'd clutched at her arms, buried his face in her chest and moaned her name. Had she been hurting him? She still wasn't sure, but of course if he was aching all over, as was more than likely the case, moving him around like that probably had hurt. But she hadn't been capable of worrying about that at the time. Having Clark's head pressed against her, his mouth against one fabric-covered breast, had been enough of a distraction. If he'd moved... if he'd parted his lips just one more bit... he could have been kissing her there. And she'd been shocked to the core by how much the thought had thrilled her. This was *Clark*! Her partner! Her friend! Not a prospective boyfriend or anything like that! Now, if it had been Superman she was nursing - or perhaps Lex, although somehow she was having great difficulty envisaging Lex nuzzling against her in the way Clark had, or even herself wanting him to - she could have understood it. But Clark? How could Clark possibly make her want him to - But of course she didn't - want to, that was. It was just... well, this whole situation was exceptional. Out of the ordinary. Clark was sick; for some unknown reason his pitiful state had aroused some dormant maternal or caring instinct within her, and that was all it was. She had finally managed to get his trousers off, but had then made herself avert her eyes swiftly from the sight of his barely-clad form. He wore briefs - charcoal in colour, and definitely well-fitting. He'd rolled over onto his side just as she'd turned back to him to pull the quilt back over him, and she hadn't been able to help noticing just how well- defined his butt was under the thin layer of cotton. As for the front view... She'd swallowed quickly and jerkily thrown the quilt over him. Now was *not* the time to get all hot and bothered over the fact that her partner had a terrific body! She'd sponged off his face once more and run into the bathroom to splash cold water on herself. Only because undressing Clark had been a difficult job, she'd told herself. Only because he'd been little more than a dead weight, and it had required considerable exertion of strength to achieve her objective. That was the only reason why she was hot and bothered, she'd insisted. Then she'd hurried back to her position on the window-seat, and to the safety of the article she was working on. Clark had been barely aware of his surroundings for most of the day so far, but she knew that he was conscious of her presence. On the few occasions when she'd had to go into the kitchen for something - more water, a cup of coffee, to make a sandwich - she'd come back to find him restless and fretting. But, each time, once she spoke to him softly, or squeezed his hand, he settled down again. On his bathroom trips, he'd seemed slightly more alert and aware; both times, he'd managed, with obvious difficulty and pain, to sit up in bed, and when she'd come over to him he'd muttered, "Bathroom." And, although he hadn't actually made any attempt at carrying on anything approaching conversation en route, he'd been sufficiently responsive to thank her. About half an hour ago, the phone had rung. Lois had ignored it, but then the answering machine had kicked in and she'd heard Clark's mother's voice. Martha Kent clearly knew that Clark was sick and was worried about him. So Lois had picked up the phone, responding to Martha's surprise by explaining why she was there and reassuring the older woman that Clark seemed to getting better and that in any case it seemed to be nothing worse than a dose of the flu. She'd felt embarrassed at Martha's profuse thanks for taking care of her son; after all, she'd almost left several hours earlier. It was a good thing that she'd stayed, she acknowledged now, glancing across the room again at the relatively-still form of her partner lying in his bed. Clark had needed taking care of. And she felt good about herself, knowing that she'd helped him. Maybe it would just be a twenty-four-hour bug after all, she thought. She hoped so, anyway; she needed her partner back at work in good health, and the sooner the better! ********* It was dark when he became aware of his surroundings again. He felt incredibly tired, as if he'd been using his powers all night and hadn't yet been able to allow the sun to recharge him. He felt drained of all energy; even the mere thought of getting out of bed exhausted him. It must have been one heck of a night, Clark thought. But then memories started to return: disjointed, puzzling memories. Pain. That was the abiding memory - he remembered pain. And nothing else. He'd woken up in pain before, hadn't he? Horrible, agonising pain... All over his body, he thought. He seemed to remember that his stomach had hurt. And when he'd tried to move, to walk, hadn't that hurt too? *He* had felt pain. And yet he was invulnerable; he was Superman. How was that possible? Slowly, as if he was fumbling his way through a mist, his brain began to give him answers. Kryptonite. It had been Kryptonite. But was the pain still there? How could he find out? Moving... that would do it, wouldn't it? Yeah... he could try that. But what to try first? He tried to focus, but his mind was still very fuzzy. He wasn't sure, but had his stomach hurt most? Maybe he should try something else first - flex his arms and legs... would his muscles complain loudly? Nothing. Nothing happened. Okay. Something more daring this time: tensing his stomach muscles. Ouch. Well... not that bad. Definitely better than what little he remembered from earlier... however much earlier it had been. The final experiment: he lifted his head slightly from the pillow. Still some dizziness, but none of the earlier sensation of being thrown about helplessly on some sadist's idea of a roller-coaster. But he felt weak, so incredibly drained. And also confused and disoriented. He was at home, in his apartment - in his bed. And yet he seemed to have vague memories of having got up, showered - well, sort of - tried to shave, and dressed for work. He'd left his apartment, hadn't he? And he'd walked to the subway station - at least, he thought he had. He couldn't remember an awful lot about that part of it. However, he was fairly sure that he'd made it to the newsroom. He'd seen Lois, hadn't he? He did seem to have a pretty recent memory of her talking to him, being around him. Or at least he thought so. And yet he was at home. In bed. And - he raised one arm from beneath the quilt - somewhat lacking in clothes. And he had no memory of getting himself home or undressing. All the same, he seemed to have so many gaps in his memory today, so it was hardly surprising if he didn't remember that... A faint tapping from the other side of the room attracted his attention. Turning his head carefully, without lifting it from the pillow, he identified the source of the sound. Lois was sitting on his window-seat, a laptop on her knee, engrossed in typing. Lois... in his apartment? But what was she doing here? In his bedroom? And why hadn't he known that she was here? On the other hand... He did have all these strange, jumbled memories of her, didn't he? Lois with her arm around him. Lois asking him to do something for her - him telling her that he'd do anything for her. Hadn't he? Lois promising that she wouldn't leave him. Lois sitting close to him, holding his hand, stroking his forehead, gently undoing his clothes. Lois murmuring to him that she needed him to get well. Telling him that she couldn't manage without him. So, naturally, her being here made a huge amount of sense, he realised suddenly. And maybe more, too. Like the fact... that he wasn't dressed? Was it possible that Lois had undressed him? He glanced down at himself, and then back at his partner. Funny; his brain really was working slowly at the moment, but he couldn't quite see... Then he frowned as something else came back to him - a memory or a dream? Lois tugging his shirt off, holding him close to her as she did it. And she'd smelled nice, too... There were other memories too, all jostling for space in his mind suddenly; he couldn't quite work out how they fitted with these ones, but he was very sure that they were real. They were far too vivid not to be real. Lois and himself kissing. Several times, in fact. He'd been holding her tightly, as she'd held him, their lips locked together in an incredible embrace. And he'd told her then that he loved her; he was pretty sure of that. Very sure, in fact. And it had been after he'd told her that that she'd kissed him. She'd kissed *him*. And there was more. Another scene was in his mind: lying on a bed together, wrapped in each other's arms with him lying on top of her luscious, curvaceous body, kissing passionately. He'd smoothed back her beautiful hair, caressing her as he'd loved her. She'd clung to him. She'd moaned. She'd been lost in the kiss, just as he had been... ...until, he vaguely remembered, something had interrupted them. Funny; he couldn't seem to remember what had happened after that, but since they'd been together on a bed it was probably not too difficult to guess. It was just a pity that he couldn't seem to remember it. After all, he thought, it would have had to have been their first time, wouldn't it? But there would be other times, he reminded himself with an inward smile. He loved Lois. And she loved him too, didn't she? Well, of course she did. She'd shown him that today, too, at least so far as his dim brain could remember. But then, there was plenty of evidence that she had. She was here, wasn't she? She'd come home with him. She'd put him to bed. She'd undressed him. And she hadn't been able to leave him - she'd stayed in his bedroom, working and watching over him. Lois. His Lois. His wonderful, beautiful Lois. He struggled to sit up just a little bit, and the movement must have alerted her. She turned her head and looked at him, and a smile curved across her beautiful features. "Clark! You're awake!" "Yeah," he said. He thought that his voice sounded a little strange, but wasn't sure. "Hey, that's great!" she exclaimed, putting the laptop aside and getting up to walk towards him. "How are you feeling?" "Uh... bit fuzzy still." And that was true; he was finding it very difficult to concentrate on anything. Except for Lois, anyway. She... now, he could look at her all day. Her eyes, her beautiful face... her smile. Especially the way she was smiling at him right now. She came to his side and laid her hand against his forehead. "Hey, you are better! Your temperature's come right down!" "That's good, huh?" he managed to say. "Sure is!" She gave him another bright grin, smoothing his hair back off his forehead before removing her hand, and his heart turned over. His Lois. She was so loving and gentle with him. Of course, she wasn't normally quite this tender, but then he was sick, after all. And she'd been taking care of him. His wonderful Lois! He'd always known that they were meant to be together, and the way things had changed between them lately just showed that he'd been right all along. Not that he could remember *exactly* when things had changed, but they had, of course. That was obvious. After all, he remembered those soul-stirring kisses, and the way she'd been with him today. Touching. Caressing. Caring. Loving. He reached out and caught her hand in his. Her look of surprise made him frown; why should a simple gesture like that be unexpected to her? She was used to that between the two of them now, surely. "Hey," he murmured, and did his best impression of a smile. She smiled in response, a brilliant, warm smile. "Hey back." What had he been worried about? Of course she was used to their open affection! He'd been silly. "I love you; you know that, don't you?" he said; the words sounded kind of slurred, but that didn't matter, did it? She would welcome the sentiment. Even if she did already know it. "Aww," she said, and blushed. "That's really sweet of you, Clark." Yes, it was, wasn't it? But that wasn't quite the response he'd been looking for. She knew that, surely? He frowned, wondering where he'd gone wrong. "Lois?" he prompted. Again, she looked taken aback. But she gave him an embarrassed smile and squeezed his hand back when he exerted pressure on hers. "Oh, Clark, you know I love you too..." she began. "Yeah," he said slowly, happily, as he let a blissful smile curve across his lips. He tugged at her hand. "Kiss me, Lois. Kiss me again." ********** *Kiss* him? What was he talking about? She'd thought that Clark must be better when she'd seen him awake and alert - and when she'd discovered that the fever seemed to have gone, she was sure that he was well on the way to recovery. But asking her to kiss him - to kiss him *again* - what was going on? He'd just said that he loved her, too - that had been weird, but she'd assumed that he was just expressing gratitude for her taking care of him. But, together with the kissing thing, now she was beginning to wonder just what he'd meant... ...and what he'd thought she meant in return! Okay. She was going to have to get Clark to let go of her hand, and then she needed to explain, very gently but very firmly, that he seemed to have got the wrong end of the stick. For some reason, it seemed as if he imagined they were dating or something. That he had the right to ask her to kiss him, and to expect to exchange declarations of love. He was clearly still delirious, and he'd probably be mortified once he was better and realised what he'd done. "Clark," she began awkwardly, not really knowing how to explain to her partner that he didn't know what he was doing. "Lois." He gazed up at her, giving her a sloppy smile and an expectant look. "Clark, I -" He tugged at her hand again, and the unexpected movement caused her to overbalance. She tumbled onto the bed, half beside, half on top of him. "Clark!" she exclaimed. He laughed softly. "This is much better, Lois. Isn't it? Just like last time." And he released her hand, bringing his hand up to caress her face. She shivered as his fingers touched her skin. What was this? She was getting turned on by *Clark*? her inner voice observed. That hadn't been a real kiss, she reminded herself immediately. Clark had only been keeping up their cover because the maid was on her way in. But still... it had been one heck of a kiss... It suddenly occurred to her that perhaps that was what he'd been talking about when he'd said "Kiss me again." Was he, in his delirious state, forgetting that their kisses then had been fake? His fingers slid into her hair, and his palm caressed her cheek. "You're so beautiful, Lois," he murmured. What he was doing to her was just so beautiful... His face was very close to hers. His free arm was sliding around her shoulders, bringing her closer to him. And his lips were parting... If she didn't want him to kiss her, she was going to have to stop this *right now*! On the other hand, a tiny, tempting voice suggested, did she have to stop it? What if she didn't? What if she let him kiss her? It wasn't as if he'd remember it when he was better, was it? He was sick. Delirious. Didn't know what he was doing. But then, wasn't that taking advantage of him? Taking advantage? Hardly! Lois's lip curled at the thought. He was a man. He was obviously attracted to her. And he hadn't seemed to find it any hardship at all to kiss her before. So it was hardly as if she was assaulting him or something, was it? He moved closer. And she met him half-way. ********* They were kissing again. And it was even more wonderful than his memories of the other times. Lois had come to him - he had a vague impression that he'd made the first move, that other time. But now, she'd slid across to him on the bed and touched her lips to his, almost tentatively, but as soon as he'd begun to kiss her back she'd slid one arm around him, using her other hand to stroke his hair. He loved her so much, he thought as he took advantage of her slightly-parted lips to let his tongue glide towards her mouth. This - being with her, in love, kissing her and being intimate - was what he'd dreamed of ever since that first moment he'd set eyes on her. And she loved him too. Although he'd - sort of - begun to have doubts when she'd been so hesitant about responding to his invitation to kiss him. Her smile had dimmed, and she'd looked doubtful. He had even been afraid that she was going to pull away from him. And he'd begun to worry that she might have changed her mind about him. Had second thoughts. Realised that she didn't love him after all. It wasn't as if he was the only man interested in her, was he? He did vaguely recall... there was Lex Luthor, wasn't there? How could he forget that man's interest in his Lois. And there was Superman. Superman... but *he* was Superman, he reminded himself, wrapping his arm more tightly around Lois as she deepened the kiss. But she didn't know that... Or did she? He couldn't remember telling her, or her guessing - but he wasn't wearing his glasses, was he? And Lois had undressed him. He had no idea whether he'd been wearing the Suit or not, but even if she'd seen him without his glasses she would have guessed. And if she hadn't already known, she'd have been mad... So she must already have known. So he didn't have to worry about Superman as a rival, did he? She'd probably just been worried because he was sick, he thought. Concerned that maybe he wasn't well enough yet to be making love. Making love. Now, where had that thought come from? But, of course, that was a natural progression of where they were. In love. Together. Kissing. And, after all, it wasn't as if this was just casual - he and Lois were meant to be together. If he wanted it, and she wanted it too... then why not? ********* Lois had never known a kiss could be so tender, and yet so passionate. It was a revelation to her; she'd been kissed dozens of times, at least, but never like this. Not even on those occasions when she and Clark had kissed as a ruse. Even the harsh stubble which rasped across her face wasn't enough for her to want him to stop kissing her. His lips had brushed across hers at first as if she was a precious object he was treating with reverence. And then he'd come back to kiss her again, but this time with desire and longing. If she'd had any doubt that, at least somewhere in his subconscious, Clark Kent was attracted to her, his kiss banished that thought completely. So why had he told her, after that embarrassing pheromone incident, that he wasn't? Though that really didn't matter right now... It was just as well that Clark was sick, Lois decided after several dizzying kisses. She wasn't sure that she wanted him to remember how easily she'd given in to his persuasion... and how much she was enjoying this. That would be giving her partner too much information entirely! But his arms wrapped more closely around her, and as he drew her nearer the quilt slipped; suddenly, she was being held against Clark's bare chest. She was lying on the bed, and he was beside her, half-leaning over her, and her hands were touching his bare skin. He felt amazing... warm and smooth and muscular under her fingers. And she couldn't stop her hands from wandering, from tracing the smooth skin of his back, the line of his spine, and back up to his nape. And he liked that... he moaned slightly against her mouth and tugged her closer. So close that she could feel the warmth of his chest against her silky blouse. And, suddenly, she wanted to feel his skin against hers. Against her bare skin. Yes. This was crazy. What was she *doing*? Lois struggled with herself, making herself loosen her grip on Clark. She would just get up, off the bed, and put some distance between her and her partner. He was delirious, after all. And she... she was *not* romantically interested in Clark. This just shouldn't be happening! And, if she got up and left now, with any luck Clark would fall asleep again and he'd never even remember that it had happened in the first place. That they'd shared some of the most thrilling, the most passionate - the most arousing - kisses Lois had ever experienced. She shivered. She had to tear herself away, while she still could... ...and then his arms tightened around her again, and his lips slid along her jaw so that he could nibble at her ear. And even the stubble against her cheek made her quiver instead of recoiling. "Lois..." he murmured, his voice sending another shiver along her spine. Just another couple of minutes. Another kiss. Then she'd get up and leave. One more kiss wouldn't hurt, surely? His lips found hers again. And his hand found its way to the front of her blouse, his fingers fanning out over her breast. And she moaned in pleasure. ******** Lois was so lovely and warm and soft in his arms. Her kisses burned him like fire, and her arms around him, her hands tracing paths up and down his back, drove him to even greater heights of insanity. His *bare* back. And she was still dressed... She was wearing far too many clothes. And he wanted to touch her. He *needed* to touch her! Her breast brushed against his arm as they writhed on the bed. Distracted, he placed his hand on her chest, sliding it upwards. She was so soft. So warm. So... inviting. He slid his fingers higher. There was too much fabric in the way. He couldn't feel properly... That was easily solved. Moving his hand, he easily disposed of the buttons on her blouse, then let his hand slide inside her blouse until he found what he was seeking. Again, his questing fingers were halted by fabric - this time the lacy material told him it was her bra - but it was no barrier. Pushing it aside, he was soon cupping warm flesh. And she moaned. "Oh, Lois," he sighed against her lips. His body throbbed for her. And she wanted him too; the way she was responding to him told him that. The way she was arching her back, making it easier for him to stroke and squeeze her. The way she was returning his kisses. The way she was stroking him. "Clark..." The way she was saying his name, as he broke their kiss for just long enough to nibble along her throat again. She was wearing too many clothes. Throwing aside the quilt which was still irritatingly in the way between them, he leaned up and over her, then pushed open the two sides of her blouse and slid one hand under her back to undo the clasp of her bra. That skirt would have to go too... She was simply beautiful. More of her was bared to his gaze now, and he couldn't help it; he had to stop kissing her and just look at her. With reverent fingers, he touched her skin, wondering at its soft, silky feeling... and he wanted more. As he caressed her, Lois's hands clasped his head, tensed for a moment, then held him there. And her breaths were coming faster, shallower. "I love you, Lois," he murmured, then reached up to kiss her lips again. ********* This was getting out of control! In another minute, they'd be... ...making love. Making *love*. Suddenly this wasn't a game any more. It wasn't just a matter of enjoying being kissed by Clark, knowing that this was an almost unreal situation - that Clark was delirious and sick and probably wouldn't remember any of this, except probably as a dream, once he was better. He wanted to make love to her. And she... She wanted to make love to him. But that couldn't possibly be true, she reasoned with herself with what tiny portion of her brain was capable of any degree of sanity while Clark was kissing her breasts. Her, Lois Lane, wanting to make love to *Clark Kent*? Or, come to that, to anyone in this sort of situation. Hadn't she decided, after Claude, that she would never again get up close and personal with someone she worked with? That there was no way on earth that she'd allow a colleague - a rival - to get that close to her? And yet... she was attracted to Clark. Always had been, if she was honest with herself. So... what was she saying? She couldn't possibly be contemplating...? Oh, no. No. She couldn't. No way. And yet... Clark was sick. Well, okay, he didn't seem to have a fever any more, so he couldn't be all that sick, but he definitely wasn't himself. He was certainly delusional - he'd somehow managed to get the wrong end of the stick about their relationship, for one thing. And he was acting completely out of character. He was entirely uninhibited, which was not at all the Clark she knew. He was *sick*! He didn't know what he was doing! And, in similar circumstances only a couple of weeks earlier, he'd been incredibly noble and honourable and hadn't laid a finger on her, in spite of the way she'd thrown herself at him repeatedly. Didn't she owe it to him not to take advantage of him now? Though that, she reminded herself, was making a huge assumption: that she was seriously considering letting this go any further. She'd always been attracted to Clark. Secretly, she'd wondered for some time what it would be like to make love with him. And here was her chance to find out. Safely. Secretly. Without fear of repercussions. After all, if Clark was sick, and she knew he was, it was hardly likely that he'd remember this all that clearly once he was better. He'd fall asleep afterwards, no doubt, and if she left while he was asleep there was every chance that he'd think he'd dreamed it. And she would never tell him any different, would she? So she'd be safe. No gossip in the newsroom. No knowing looks. No snarky comments. No pressure, silent or otherwise, for a repeat performance. No *comments* on her performance. The only one of them who would remember would be her - and she could live with that. Of course she could! It would be a private memory, a good one, she hoped, one she could remember from time to time whenever those moments of doubt about whether she was actually any good in bed resurfaced to disturb her. And she'd find out what Clark was like as a lover - and whether the passionate kisses they'd shared really did herald the promise of something wonderful. And she could do that without fear of what would come next. Without worrying that she was letting herself in for another doomed relationship, or leaving herself open for yet another betrayal by a man she thought she could trust. Or even worrying about what the heck she'd do if Clark wanted more than a one-nighter. She wouldn't. It was as simple as that. She didn't want a relationship with Clark. Or with anyone, really - well, except maybe Superman, but even despite his passionate kiss at the airfield that day she was positive that it would never happen. After all, if he'd really wanted to pursue a relationship with her then that would have been the perfect time to do something about it... but he hadn't. And that was the clearest sign of all that he wasn't going to. So, other than with Superman, she didn't want a relationship. But neither was she the type of person to engage in casual sex, as if she had an itch which needed to be scratched. Nor did she want to be in the position of having to deal with the morning-after scenario of trying to get rid of her night's companion and make it clear that she didn't want to see him again. This, therefore, was ideal. Wasn't it? Even if she did run the risk of inconvenient memories surfacing whenever she looked at Clark; whenever she touched him or spoke to him. A moment of self-doubt hit her: could she really just return to business as usual? To working beside him every day as if nothing had ever happened? Once everything had changed, as it would have once she had sex with him? Of course she could, she told herself immediately. This was no big deal. No problem. His lips brushed her lobe, and she shivered. Of course she could forget it... But, an annoying part of her objected, could she really do this? That was different, she told herself immediately. Clark hadn't known whether she was really attracted to him, or whether it was all the drug making her do something she would *never* have done otherwise. But she knew Clark was attracted to her. No matter what he'd said, she knew it. He wanted her. And anyway, if he wasn't likely to remember this as anything but a dream, where was the harm? But that was different, she reasoned. Clark knew that, in her right mind, she would never have done anything like that. While he... well, she *knew* he was attracted to her. He was making it very clear right now, whatever he'd said the other week. And of course he wanted to have sex with her. He *would* have had sex with her if the pheromone hadn't worn off by the morning after! So he wasn't all that noble, after all, that time. And she knew he wanted her. He *loved* her, if his words said in the height of delirium were to be believed. He loved her. He wouldn't have been taking advantage, just looking for a one-night stand. As she was. But... but it was *different*! Men took sex very lightly anyway. They rarely saw it as something special, something to be entered into with care and caution - something which belonged with love. Well, okay, she had no idea where Clark stood on that, and of course she also knew women who were equally casual about sex - Cat Grant for one. But still - it seemed to be something in men's genetic makeup that sex, to them, wasn't the same as it was for women. Even if Clark was telling her that he loved her. And he wanted her - the state of his body was testament to that. Wasn't she doing him a favour by giving him what he wanted? He might be sick, she told herself, but he wasn't incapable. And right now he was making it very clear what he wanted! another inner voice came from somewhere else and shouted. But... if this wasn't right, if she wasn't being fair to Clark, should she really - Clark moved up to claim her lips once more in a deep, open-mouthed kiss, and instinct took over. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him down to her, and she did what she'd wanted to do almost since she'd met him: let one hand wander down his back to caress his firm buttocks. His lower body pressed into her. And she was lost, passed beyond the point of no return. ******** She was so soft, so responsive... his body throbbed and burned... the way she was touching him was simultaneously setting him on fire and making him melt... Her hands, all over his back, down to his butt, sneaking under his briefs... her body beneath his, soft and yielding and femininely curved... ...her breaths coming faster and with little sighs and moans... Frustrating clothing still separating them... with a sudden movement, he ripped off her skirt, throwing it aside. A scrap of lace and satin remained. ...her hands joining his, tearing away the remaining barriers between them; her hands on him, around him, stroking... ...her voice, in whimpers and pleas... "Now, Clark - please, Clark, now!" ...moans and cries and gasps and new sensations and... ...*new*? They had - before - hadn't they? ...new and wonderful and incredible and amazing and indescribable and... ...oh wow. ********* Lois's breathing finally returned to normal, and she turned to look at her partner - her *lover* - who was lying beside her, sprawled out on the bed. Oh god... That was... ...possibly the very best lovemaking she'd ever experienced in her life. No, not possibly. Definitely. She had *never* felt like that before. Never. No previous lover had ever... None of her exes - not that there had been very many, she conceded, so she didn't have a lot of experience to compare this to - had ever been able to bring her to climax during lovemaking. She'd tried to tell them what she needed, but in the end it had been simpler to fake it. This had been... ...perfect. Clark hadn't needed any instruction, any guidance. He'd just... made love to her thoroughly, passionately and very satisfyingly. Okay, at first he'd just torn her clothes off - with her assistance, admittedly - but even that had sent tremors throughout her body. Later, he'd slowed down and used his hands and mouth, added to the rest of his body, to set her aflame. And now, she felt exhausted and tingling all over. And completely loved. *Loved*? Made love to, she quickly corrected herself. It wasn't *love*. Of course it wasn't! Clark was her partner. Her friend. And, true, she was attracted to him - after this, how could she deny it to herself? - but that was all. If she was in love with anyone, surely it was Superman? But Clark loved her... Did he really? she asked herself sceptically. He wasn't himself. He was sick. Delirious. And somehow lacking in all his normal inhibitions. Okay, she didn't really think that he was the kind of guy to tell a woman he loved her just to get her into the sack - he was no Claude - but could she really believe his repeated declarations? Just then, he turned over and draped an arm heavily over her. "I love you, Lois," he murmured again, burying his head in the curve of her shoulder and nuzzling her skin. Oh god... What had she done? What had she let herself in for? She'd slept with Clark, but she wasn't in love with him. Of course she wasn't. She'd known at the outset that, as far as she was concerned, this would be a once-only thing. Just sex. Just *good* sex. And it had definitely been that. Now, she could give a metaphorical one-fingered salute to those ex-lovers who'd called her frigid. With the right man, she obviously wasn't. Wait a minute... the right man? she told herself. Just because she'd had the best sex of her life in the past hour, that didn't mean that Clark was the right man for her! It didn't mean anything other than that there was some raw chemistry between them. And so what? Chemistry meant nothing. It didn't mean that they were compatible in any other way. It didn't mean that Clark was boyfriend material. It didn't even mean that she had to *like* him. Though of course she liked him! He was her friend! Her friend. Which was the most important reason why this couldn't go anywhere. Why she had to get up *now* and leave Clark's apartment and hope that he never remembered that she'd been there. He was her friend. In some ways, her rock - the solid support that she'd never really had from anyone before. The man she could talk to about almost anything, as she'd discovered when they'd shared the honeymoon suite for two nights. The man she called late at night when she couldn't sleep, or just wanted to chat. The man who made her laugh, who hugged her when she was feeling low, who could even edit her copy without making her mad at him. The man she'd probably instinctively run to if she were ever scared or in need of help. Maybe even the man she'd run to if she'd ever made the mistake of... of jumping thoughtlessly into bed with someone without considering the consequences, and when the possible consequences were almost too frightening to contemplate. Just as she'd done now. Not that she could run to Clark over this... Her *friend*. And there was no way she could risk losing that relationship - which was exactly what would happen if she allowed what had just happened ever to happen again. She'd slept with her *best friend*. And she'd done it knowing that he was sick and that if he hadn't been sick it would never have happened. It would probably never have occurred to him to want to make love to her if he hadn't been sick. she told herself bitterly. For now, the best she could hope for was that Clark, whose even breathing told her he was asleep again, would wake with no memory of their lovemaking - or that, if he did vaguely remember it, he'd decide it had to be a dream. Anything else was too horrible to contemplate. Too dangerous - to her peace of mind and to their friendship. She carefully edged out from beneath his arm and slid off the bed, then gathered her clothes and headed for the bathroom. To dress, and then to go home - alone. And to try to put her own memories of their wonderful, *perfect* lovemaking behind her, locked away in the recesses of her mind where, if she was lucky, they could rest undisturbed. ******** "You rang, sir?" Lex turned from his contemplation of the night- time panorama from his balcony. "Yes, Nigel. I rather thought that some champagne might be in order." "I believe there is some Cristal on ice. Unless you'd prefer Bollinger to the Roederer?" "The Cristal sounds just right." Lex smiled broadly. This was a moment of triumph, and it deserved the very best in celebration. "The Waterford crystal goblets, too. You'll share a glass with me, of course." "Of course, sir. I will be just a few moments." Nigel glided silently from the room, and Lex again faced his view over the city. *His* view. *His* city. And no longer would this perfect scene be spoiled by the unwanted appearance of a man in blue with a silly cape. Life was bliss. He was very sure that the Kryptonian was gone. Earlier that evening, he'd had Nigel set up a little accident. Nothing major, just a little gas explosion with a few dozen lives at risk: just the sort of thing the cape-wearing do- gooder would have rushed headlong in to help with - had he been capable of doing so. Had he been alive. There had been no sign at all of a Spandex-clad freak from outer space. Lex smiled again as Nigel returned with the champagne, bearing it in on a silver salver. This was truly a perfect day. Superman was dead; long live Lex Luthor. ********* "Help! Superman, help!" Clark snapped awake instantly, the cry for help reverberating inside his head. In under a second, he was dressed in his Superman suit and flying off his balcony. He found a woman whose car had crashed through the barrier on a bridge and was perched precariously half-over the Hobbs. It was the work of seconds to push the vehicle back onto the road and then straighten the crash-barrier. He welded the metal back into place and then tested it by pushing hard on it; he was fairly sure that it was back to its previous degree of strength, but he made a mental note to tell the city council to check it over all the same. People - including the driver of the car - seemed to be giving him odd looks. Clark couldn't understand it, but he shrugged it off. Maybe they just didn't expect to see Superman fixing a bridge. The important thing was that he'd helped someone, and he didn't care what anyone thought of him beyond that. It was as he was flying back to his apartment that realisation hit him. The previous day he'd been sick. Very sick. He'd swallowed Kryptonite! He remembered the pain now, and the dizziness and the fear - the fear he'd tried to keep from his parents, but which had been very real all the same. What if he didn't recover from this? What if having swallowed Kryptonite was different to just being close to it? What if he got over the pain, but never got his powers back? And yet, of course, he had his powers back. As far as he could tell, he was back to normal. He'd noticed no change or deterioration in his flying speed or ability to sustain himself in the air, or in his strength or vision powers. It seemed that he'd managed to get the stuff out of his system. That was thanks to his mother's good advice, of course. He'd called her, hadn't he? At least, he thought so. His memories were pretty hazy, but he seemed to remember drinking a *lot* the previous day. And making a number of bathroom trips. So he must have managed to wash it out. Though his swift recovery also suggested that there really hadn't been very much of it in the first place. Well, Lex Luthor hadn't succeeded, he thought in angry relief. That was one part of the previous thirty-six hours he remembered very clearly: that this was all down to Lex Luthor. Luthor and his expensive vintage wine. He had a score to settle with Luthor. Later. Right now, Clark thought as he landed on his balcony and walked through to the bedroom, he'd better get ready for work. Given that he must have been absent yesterday, he had some time to make up for. He couldn't even remember having been coherent enough to call Perry and explain, which probably meant that he'd been AWOL. He headed for the bathroom, shedding his Suit on the way to the shower. The warm water was refreshing, and he leaned back against the wall, just letting it cascade over him. He'd lost an entire day. Beyond the memory he had of waking up in pain and figuring out what had happened to him, he couldn't seem to remember a thing about the previous day. But, as he continued to soap himself, he realised that he must have spent a lot of time sleeping. Because he'd certainly had some very vivid dreams! In one of them - and his body became taut at the memory - he'd been kissing Lois. He couldn't remember who'd kissed who first; just that he'd told her that he loved her, and suddenly they'd been on his bed together, wrapped in each other's arms, and kissing passionately. And... it hadn't stopped at kissing. In his dreams, they had gone much further than that. In his dreams, she had undressed him. She had been naked too, and he'd been touching her, caressing her, getting to know every inch of her body. And she'd been touching him too, in every way he'd ever longed for. And they'd made love. That part of the dream had been incredibly vivid. The sensation of being with her, kissing her, *making love to* her had been amazing. It had been the most wonderful experience of his life. And yet it had only been a dream. Yet... It felt so *real*, it was hard to believe that it really was only a dream. But it had to be. Lois hadn't even been here. And there was no way on earth that she would have made love with him! Hell would have frozen over first, he thought with a wry laugh. No, there was no way that it could have happened in reality. Shaking his head, as if to rid himself of the notion that his dreams could possibly have been real, he shut off the water and exited the shower, snagging a towel as he did so. The phone rang suddenly, its shrill tone shattering the silence of the apartment. Clark wrapped the towel around him and headed quickly for the bedroom, suspecting that his caller was most likely Lois. In fact, he thought with a sigh, he really needed to check his answering machine. There were no doubt at least half a dozen messages from Lois, demanding to know where he'd been yesterday. As he remembered it, they'd had a lot of work to do. She'd make him grovel, of course, even once he told her that he'd been sick... "Hello?" "Clark! How are you feeling?" "Mom!" Yes, he had called her yesterday. And she'd been - as always - sympathetic and full of practical advice. "I'm fine," he added quickly. "Completely better. My powers are back, too. So I can't have swallowed that much of the stuff." "I'm so glad to hear that, honey!" she exclaimed. "You were being so brave yesterday morning, but it was obvious that you were worried. And in pain. It was a relief when Lois told me that you seemed to be getting better." "Yeah, I'm really fine - Wait a minute!" he said sharply, backtracking. "*Lois* told you?" "Yes! She was there, honey - in your apartment. She answered the phone when I called to see how you were. She said that you'd gone into work but almost immediately collapsed, and she'd taken you home. You're very lucky to have her, Clark - it sounds like she took very good care of you." "I guess," he murmured abstractedly. So Lois *had* been at his apartment? Did that - *could* that mean...? "Your father and I were just a bit concerned... you know, that you hadn't done anything to give yourself away?" "I don't think so. I mean, I was pretty much out of it for the entire day," he said. But he was no longer really focusing on the conversation. Lois had been here? She'd been looking after him? And... what else had she been doing? Could it possibly be...? His dreams. Maybe *not* dreams after all? He had to know. But how? It wasn't as if he could just go up to Lois and ask her, after all. He could imagine the conversation... "Hi, Lois. Thanks for taking care of me yesterday. Uhh... by any chance, did you happen to make love with me while you were there?" "Are you completely crazy, Kent?" Oh, yeah. That would work. Like heck it would! His mom was speaking again, and Clark suddenly realised that he'd missed half of what she'd said. "Uh - sorry, Mom. I was... could you repeat that?" "Are you sure you're better?" she asked, but he could hear the humour in her voice. "I'm fine. Sorry - it's just that I sort of remembered something..." "You didn't know Lois was there yesterday, did you?" his mother said, chuckling. "And now you're all worried in case she's put off by the way you look when you're sick!" Clark winced. "No, it's not that, Mom! It's just... oh, heck. I have to go. I'm sorry. Can I call you back later?" She laughed. "Sure you can, honey. Give Lois my love, won't you?" Clark rolled his eyes. How did his mother always seem to know just what he wanted to do? "Goodbye, Mom," he said firmly, waiting for her to echo him before hanging up. He *had* to see Lois. As soon as possible! He had to find out just what had happened between them yesterday. She'd been at his apartment, true, but was the rest a dream? Or had it really happened? And if it had... *how* had it happened? He simply couldn't imagine Lois getting into bed with him - making love with him - willingly. She wasn't interested in him in that way, was she? Even in spite of what the pheromone had suggested, he was well aware that Lois had eyes for no-one but Superman. So why would she have slept with *Clark*? Had he...? No, he couldn't have. Wouldn't have. Not even in a state of delirium could he possibly have... ...forced her. He shrank from the thought. But was it possible? Could he have been so lost to any idea of reality that he might have... persuaded... given her no choice about it? Raped her? He recoiled. No. No way. He could never... Surely he couldn't have! Clark walked on shaky legs back to the bathroom, absently draping his towel over the rail. He needed to see Lois. He needed to see her *now*. Clothes. He needed to put something on... Spying his Suit on the floor, he pulled it on quickly, before hurrying to the balcony and taking off. ********* Lois studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror and sighed. Even despite the moisturiser she'd applied twice before going to bed last night, and her shower just now, her face still glowed and stung with a red rash. Why did stubble have to be so painful? And how was she going to show her face in the newsroom looking like this? And, if Clark was better, how was she going to face him? She was going to have a hard time doing that anyway, she admitted with a sigh. She'd made love with him. The best sex she'd ever had - probably was ever likely to have. And, if she was honest with herself, she didn't want it to be a one-time affair. But how could she ever tell Clark what she'd done? That she'd taken advantage of him like that when he wasn't truly aware of what he was doing? He'd be furious with her, and he'd have every right to be. Regardless of the obvious fact that he'd wanted it every bit as much as she had at the time, he'd been sick. She'd known that. He hadn't been capable of making a conscious, rational decision. Even if she was pretty sure that, in perfect health and clear mind, Clark would still have wanted to make love to her, she'd had no right to make that decision for him. Despite his evident willingness, what she'd done was as much a sexual assault as Clark taking advantage of her and sleeping with her when she'd been under the influence of the pheromone would have been. And to claim otherwise, as she'd done yesterday in an attempt to rationalise her decision, was to follow the sort of double standard she continually complained about: one rule for women, another for men. Men always wanted sex, therefore to sleep with Clark, even when he wasn't aware of what he was doing, was perfectly okay - he'd want it anyway. Wouldn't he? At least, that was how she'd rationalised it to herself. Generalising about men, in the kind of way she hated to see men do about women. When she knew darned well that Clark wasn't any average guy - if there was even any such thing in reality. Women were more cautious - and choosy - about whom they shared their bodies with, so Clark would have been completely in the wrong had he slept with her when she'd been begging and pleading with him to do so - he was well aware that she wouldn't have wanted to do it if she hadn't been drugged. She knew exactly how she'd have felt if he had taken advantage of her when she'd thrown herself at him and begged him to make love to her. He'd resisted and resisted, knowing that she wasn't herself, knowing that when she was in her right mind and not under the influence of a drug she would never have behaved like that. Yeah, she would probably have threatened him with a rape claim, and at the very least demanded that Perry transfer him to another department, if not division. And yet, when Clark had been equally not himself, she'd... Yep, a double standard. And, Lois thought with a grimace, it was far from the first time that she'd been guilty of making that kind of generalised judgement about men, something she wouldn't do about women. And something she'd raise hell about if she caught anyone else doing it about women. No, she couldn't tell Clark what she'd done. It wasn't just that she couldn't bear the embarrassment; she couldn't take the risk that he might never speak to her again. That he might hate her. That he might even accuse her of assaulting him. No; she would just have to block it from her mind and make sure that no hint of what had happened ever slipped out. And, if she couldn't tell him, could she possibly pretend for him that, if they ever did make love again, it was their first time? Oh god... and what if she was pregnant? Frantically, she did some mental arithmetic. Then, sighing with relief, she realised that she was highly unlikely to be pregnant. And that was just as well. What she'd already done to Clark was bad enough. How could she possibly have told him, some weeks in the future, that he was going to be a father? And, okay, she could have simply *not* told him, but he was her friend! He'd want to know who the father was, for the simple reason that he'd hate to see her pregnant and abandoned. That would have been a very difficult situation - simply horrible. And so totally unfair to Clark. Lois swallowed. She really owed Clark a huge apology. If she could ever find the courage to tell him what she'd done... A noise coming from the living-room startled her. Lois dragged on her robe and peered around the bathroom door, both puzzled and alarmed. A flash of blue and red outside her window reassured her. Quickly, she crossed the room and waved at Superman. "It's open." He pushed the window up and stepped inside. As he did so, Lois saw his face, and she stared at him. He was unshaven. In fact, unless his beard grew Super fast, he hadn't shaved for a couple of days, at a guess. His eyes also looked very faintly bloodshot. If she didn't know any better, she'd say that he'd caught Clark's flu. "Superman?" she said, puzzled. "Are you okay?" But he was staring at her, too. "Lois... your face..." Her face...? She put one hand to her cheek, then remembered the rash. "It's nothing, Superman," she told him, trying to hide her embarrassment. "Just... got too close to something that irritated my skin." "It's stubble rash. Isn't it?" he asked, and Lois could have sworn that he'd just got some sort of shock. He sounded stunned. She blinked. "That's none of your business, Superman! Though while you're being nosy about me - why haven't you shaved today?" But he didn't appear to have heard her. Instead, he shook his head, a disbelieving expression on his face. When he spoke, in a low, ragged voice, it seemed as if the words were dragged out of him. "I didn't dream it... it happened, didn't it? You... we made love... oh, god, tell me I didn't force you, Lois!" Stunned, she could only gape at him. What was he talking about? This was *Superman*. Not Clark. It was Clark she'd made love with... It was Clark she'd made love with... It was Clark. Clark. Lois swallowed, then stared at Superman again. This time, she tried to visualise him with his hair loose and falling forward over his face - and she remembered her partner naked. He had a terrific body. Toned, muscular, powerful... *Why* hadn't she seen it? "Clark?" she exclaimed, half-accusation, half- question. The man in the Spandex suit caught his breath, gulped, then ran for the window and jumped out. In a sonic boom, he was gone. ********* Fool! Idiot! *Lunkhead*! If his mom knew what he'd just done, she'd rip him asunder, invulnerability or not. And yet... She knew. Lois *knew*! How was he supposed to handle that? She *knew*. Knew he was Superman. What on earth had possessed him to go flying over to her apartment in the Suit, anyway? He must have been crazy. He hadn't been thinking straight. Still wasn't - she'd figured out his secret, and he'd just run away? Clark paused in his flight, rubbing his forehead tiredly. He definitely wasn't himself still. Oh, physically he was fine, he knew that. But he wasn't thinking at all straight, and he was making stupid decisions. Acting without thinking. And that wasn't like him. Okay. So Lois knew. And that meant he needed to talk to her... ...but he was forgetting something. The reason why he'd gone over in the first place. He *had* made love to her. She hadn't actually confirmed it, as such, but he knew it was true. The stubble-rash on her face - and, of course, the fact that, as soon as he'd referred to what he thought had happened between them, she'd made the connection between Superman and Clark. And he'd run out before he could get the answer to that question either: just how had it happened? Had she been willing? Or had he... taken advantage of her in some way? But he wouldn't do that, he argued with himself. He'd never even tried to persuade a woman to change her mind when she'd said no to even moderate intimacy. There was no way that he'd go beyond persuasion to... compulsion. Not when he was in his right mind. In full possession of his senses, a tiny voice pointed out. He needed to talk to Lois. And as soon as possible. But not as Superman. As Clark. And so he had to get home first - and shave! - and then find her. Always assuming that, after what had happened yesterday and after what she now knew, she was willing to talk to him. And, knowing Lois, there was absolutely no guarantee of that. He'd just better start hoping that she hadn't managed to lay her hands on some of Luthor's Kryptonite! ******** Furious and still barely able to believe what she'd discovered, Lois stared at the window through which her visitor had departed. How could he run out on her like that? *Now*? When she'd just realised who he was? Superman was Clark. Clark was *Superman*. She'd made love with *Superman*! And he'd run away. Flown off before she could confront him with how she felt, before she could ask why he'd deceived her. a tiny voice pointed out to her. That wasn't the same, Lois wanted to object. But then she realised that she was wrong. In many ways, it was very much the same. In that instant, her anger disappeared. How could she possibly be angry with him in the circumstances? Given what she'd done? *Everything* she'd done? She'd wanted to leave before Clark woke up again and she wouldn't have been able to deny that they'd made love. She'd wanted him to think, assuming that he'd remembered it at all, that he'd dreamed everything. He had remembered something. With a sudden shock, the way he'd phrased his question came back to her. "I didn't dream it... it happened, didn't it? You... we made love... oh, god, tell me I didn't force you, Lois!" He hadn't known whether to think it was a dream or not. And... ...oh god, he actually thought he might have... "...tell me I didn't force you, Lois!" ...he thought he might have... She shrank from using the word. And yet that was what he believed he might have done. Clark was afraid that he might have raped her. She took a sharp, painful intake of breath and crossed to the sofa, sitting down just as her legs threatened to give way beneath her. *Clark*, her gentle, caring partner, actually thought that he could have used force to have sex with her? But, even if she hadn't known all too well just how their lovemaking had happened, she was very well aware that using force of any kind - and especially on a woman - would be anathema to a man like Clark. Clark simply couldn't hurt anyone. And he would never, *ever*, resort to anything approaching rape, even when not in his right mind. It just wasn't possible. But he thought it was possible... She took a shuddering breath. *Why* would he think it possible? Surely he knew he'd never be capable of that? The answer came almost immediately. She'd always made it very clear that she wasn't interested in him; wasn't attracted to him. She'd warned him off in no uncertain terms. She'd made sure he knew, over and over, how attracted she was to Superman. She'd been in denial, to herself as much as to him, about how attracted she really was to *Clark* - although that made sense to her now, now that she knew that Clark was Superman. So why on earth would he assume that she'd gone to bed with him willingly? After all, she'd given him every reason to believe that such a thing couldn't even be remotely possible. And so, because she'd never been honest with him, and because she'd sneaked out on him in such a cowardly way yesterday, Clark thought that he was a rapist. And yet, if anyone was... Well, she was the one who'd taken advantage of him, wasn't she? She'd known that he wasn't himself, that he was sick. And she'd taken advantage of his state and taken what she wanted. A shiver ran through her again. There was no way she could let him go on thinking that he'd forced her into anything. She had to find him. She had to talk to him as soon as possible and tell him the truth. *Now*. She hurried into her bedroom, dragged clothes at random from her closets, and dressed rapidly before grabbing her car keys and leaving the apartment. All she hoped was that Clark would be easy to find. And that he'd let her undo the damage her actions had done - not just yesterday, but for as long as she'd known him. ********** Clark stood in front of his bathroom mirror, shooting darts of heat vision back to his face. And, as the two-day growth of stubble disappeared - it was no wonder people at the accident scene had been staring at him, he'd thought wryly once he'd looked properly at his reflection - he stared at the face which looked back at him. The face of a sex fiend? Of a man who would take advantage of his best friend? He couldn't have raped Lois. He was - well, probably eighty percent sure of that. But there was still that niggling twenty percent suggesting, whispering to him that he could be wrong... That it was just possible that all his ethics, all his values and instincts could have gone out of the window when he'd been under the influence of the Kryptonite. Though that was something he still couldn't understand. He'd encountered Kryptonite before, and it had taken away his powers as well as leaving him in a lot of pain as long as he was close to it. It hadn't driven him to do crazy things, or act in a way completely unlike himself. And yet this time he'd clearly acted completely out of character. He'd never made love before yesterday - that had been an intimacy he'd deliberately, with much soul-searching, decided to save until he'd met the woman with whom he could be completely honest about himself. Over the years, although he'd been tempted on several occasions, with women who'd been attractive and willing, he'd managed to keep a tight grip on his control. He'd always walked away with a kiss goodnight and a friendly hug. He'd never come even close to sharing his body with someone. Yet he'd done just that yesterday. Without any hesitation, if the hazy memories he had of the event were reliable. That didn't make any sense. And nor did it make sense that he must have been the aggressor - because he well knew that he must have been. Lois would never have seduced him. Clark sighed. None of this made sense, but right now that couldn't be his priority. The most important thing he had to do was talk to Lois. He needed to find out what really happened, and just how appallingly he'd behaved - and then establish whether there was any shred of a chance that she might forgive him. Oh, and he also had to deal with the little matter of her knowing that he was Superman - A sharp rap on his door disturbed his thoughts. Pulling a face, he checked his reflection once more - he looked mostly presentable now - and then headed out to the living area and up the steps to the door. It was Lois. Not knowing whether to be relieved or worried that she'd obviously come to the same conclusion as he had - that they needed to talk - he pulled the door wide open to allow her entry. "Hi," he said awkwardly, letting her pass him. "Hi." She stopped at the bott