Addicted 
by Yvonne Connell <yvonne@yconnell.fsnet.co.uk> or 
<yvonne@lcfanfic.com> 
Rated: PG-13 
Submitted: January 2004

________________________

Author's Note: My thanks, as always, to Wendy Richards for beta-
reading this so swiftly, willingly and effectively - and for 
providing the idea for the epilogue. Thanks also to Elena for 
beta-reading a large chunk and offering invaluable cheerleading 
support. Finally, a thanks to all who read the story on the L&C 
Message Boards and gave very helpful and informative feedback.

This story grabbed me by the throat one Saturday afternoon and 
wouldn't let me out of its clutches until it was finished a few 
short weeks later. At times I felt very much as though the story 
was controlling me and certainly not vice versa. This means, of 
course, that I can absolve myself from all blame if it's no 
good...only kidding!

~ Addicted ~

The apartment lights were off but for a single lamp casting a 
pallid glow across the living room. Dim light from the neon 
street lights filtered in through the window, adding a little 
extra illumination to the room, but the figure on the sofa was 
still largely shrouded in shadows.

Clark preferred the semi-dark. It suited his mood.

It allowed him to hide.

In brash, blazing light, you were exposed - to the world and to 
yourself. You were forced to acknowledge your surroundings, and 
if you were at home, your surroundings defined who you were. You 
couldn't hide.

In darkness you could be no-one. You could be anonymous. You 
could even be someone else.

His hand moved towards the small metal box perched in the sofa's 
arm. In the darkness it was someone else's hand, a different 
person who lived a different reality to Clark's.

He noted with detached interest that the hand trembled as it 
reached out and closed over the box. The person, whoever he was, 
was clearly in a bad way. He needed that box, and the contents 
therein, but he'd waited too long before allowing himself to open 
it.

Just one hit. That was all this person needed - just enough to 
take the edge off.

He watched as the hand transferred the box to his lap. The person 
who needed the hit got excited - relief was imminent and his 
pulse started to race in anticipation.

He disapproved of this person. No, more than that - he hated this 
person. They were weak and dependent, not at all like Clark 
himself. He'd been brought up to live life cleanly and honestly, 
to be strong and to face up to challenges head on. He wasn't the 
kind of person to cower in the darkness and tremble with craving 
like some pathetic junkie.

The hand slowly opened the box, red light leaking out around the 
edges of the lid as it was raised. Fully open, the box revealed 
its contents - a bright red crystal nestled within black silk.

He laid his head back against the cushions and let the numbness 
descend over his jangling nerves. His racing pulse slowed and his 
breathing deepened. Better. So much better. Reality retreated 
back into a comforting blur where nothing was really of any 
consequence and problems became mildly interesting puzzles.

Mustn't overdo it, though. He didn't want to become dependent, 
after all.

The hand closed the box and laid it on the carpet beside the 
sofa.

Clark curled up on the sofa and allowed his thoughts to drift 
aimlessly through the nothingness.

*************

He could trace the point at which he became a junkie back to a 
nanosecond in time. It hadn't been the day he'd discovered red 
kryptonite; hadn't even been the day after he'd recovered from 
that first hit. No, it had been the split second after Wells had 
told him that, after a year of searching, Lois was nowhere to be 
found.

Immediately, he'd known that he would need a crutch, an 
alternative way of getting through the day. So far, his crutch 
had been the hope that Lois would be found, but with that gone, 
he would need something else.

At first, he'd mainlined on despair. Each day became a living 
hell, a struggle to get out of bed, drag himself to the Planet 
and sit at his desk writing mediocre copy. He performed his 
Superman duties like a robot, using the bare minimum of effort 
required to get the job done. At the end of the day, he would 
retreat back to his apartment and sit in front of the TV, 
flicking numbly through endless channels of pointless rubbish.

Perry noticed the change first. Clark was in the habit of 
occasionally visiting the new mayor of Metropolis and his wife 
for dinner, and like the good, well-mannered country boy he was, 
he continued to honour this social obligation and others like it, 
despite all that was happening within.

His old friend expressed concern. He noted that Clark was quiet, 
that he never smiled, seldom laughed and hardly ever initiated 
conversation. Clark didn't bother to deny it, but there was 
little Perry could do to make things better.

Then Clark discovered the kryptonite.

He'd been flying over Smallville, drawn there by some crazy 
notion that a sighting of his boyhood home might lift his 
spirits. No such luck - he'd landed on the track leading up to 
the farmhouse and immediately flashed back to the day of the car 
crash. The scene had been as clear as the day it had happened - 
his parents' car on a collision course with Wayne Irig's van, his 
ten-year-old legs running too slowly across the yard and down the 
track, the sickening thud as the two vehicles slammed into each 
other, and his scream of terror when he realised that his parents 
were dead.

He'd stumbled blindly away from the remembered scene, breaking 
into an aimless run that eventually took him to Shuster's field. 
He'd found himself in a coppice of young trees, a corner he'd not 
visited much before. Usually, when he visited the field, he'd 
trace the path of his spacecraft as it had been described to him 
by his father, reliving his spectacular arrival into the world. 
This time, however, he looked around himself and for the first 
time noticed a trail of strange-looking rocks.

He knew instinctively that they were Kryptonian. Unlike green 
kryptonite, however, these didn't appear to be causing him any 
discomfort. He studied them a little closer, noted their pale red 
glow, and decided that since they were one of the few things on 
the planet which connected him to Krypton, he would gather some 
up and take them back to his apartment. Perhaps a touch of home 
would lift the despair gnawing away at his soul.

Surprisingly, he did feel better as he flew home. Nothing seemed 
to weigh so heavily on his shoulders any more, and he even felt 
jovial enough to execute a small loop-the-loop before skimming 
down to enter his living room window. He stashed the rocks on a 
spare shelf of his bookcase and flew straight back out again to 
indulge in some recreational flying.

The next thing he remembered was waking up the following day in a 
sewer.

He had little recollection of how he got there, and of course, he 
was extremely shaken by the incident. He deduced that the cause 
was the red rocks from home, which he immediately dubbed red 
kryptonite. The name seemed to fit, since the rocks had caused 
almost as much distress as the green variety of kryptonite, even 
if he hadn't actually experienced the pain and nausea which 
usually accompanied exposure.

Clearing up the rocks proved challenging, but not impossible. 
Lead, which he already knew protected him from green kryptonite, 
also proved an effective defence against the red rocks. With 
considerable difficulty, he obtained a lead box and a heavy lead 
apron and working cautiously with frequent breaks to ensure he 
wasn't unknowingly being affected by the rocks, transferred them 
to the box.

The box, however, remained in his apartment.

Over the ensuing days and weeks, his thoughts returned time and 
time again to his lost day. The experience had been alarming, but 
also curiously liberating. For a whole day, he had been somewhere 
else, far away from the daily despair of life without hope. He 
remembered feeling happy as he'd flown back from Smallville, 
remembered rushing out to execute frivolous barrel rolls across 
the sky. He'd rediscovered a touch of the old Clark Kent that 
day.

All because of the power of red kryptonite. It numbed. It 
blurred. It blotted things out.

He wasn't sure when this other person had emerged. It just 
happened one day that this other person went out and bought a 
small lead box and found a way to safely hack the red rocks into 
smaller chunks. Then this person placed one of the small chunks 
into the lead box and placed it on his bookcase.

He ignored it for days. At the start, it was enough to know that 
it was there. That was his new crutch - the insurance policy on 
his bookcase. In fact, it was better than an insurance policy; it 
reassured him that he was still in control, because he never, 
ever went anywhere near it. He didn't need it.

But his work had begun to suffer. The aching chasm where hope had 
once dwelt consumed him, diluting his ability to write even 
mediocre copy. His editor complained. Clark heard the regret in 
the man's voice, understood that he didn't want to criticise his 
once-star reporter, but it was unavoidable. Clark was placed 
under close supervision, his work scrutinised and monitored like 
never before. The pressure to produce quality writing became a 
daily nightmare.

Superman barely functioned. He still responded to cries for help, 
but now he dragged himself through the work and bolted away at 
top speed whenever anyone tried to speak to him. The media were 
ignored, the emergency services hardly acknowledged.

And so it was that he found himself sitting on his sofa, staring 
blankly at the flickering images on the TV after rescuing two 
people from a fire and carrying out three dead bodies. There was 
no decision made, no conscious thought process engaged, but 
nevertheless, someone had stood up and fetched the lead box from 
the bookcase.

It had been a strangely calming moment. He'd simply sat on the 
sofa with the box in his lap and opened it. Easy. So easy he 
couldn't imagine why he hadn't done it before.

Those first few times he hadn't really been attuned to the rock's 
effects. He'd exposed himself for a couple of minutes without 
feeling a thing. The first time he wasn't even sure it had 
worked, until he noticed himself actually laughing at a TV 
sitcom. Then he'd felt great - the rock had worked its magic, and 
he was back in the real world again, where life was interesting 
and fun and it didn't matter much what you did so long as you 
enjoyed yourself.

Later, though, he began to notice the subtle changes when the box 
was open. Senses were dulled - the important ones, at any rate, 
like pain and loneliness. Tense muscles relaxed and the endless 
thoughts buzzing around his head like a plague of flies slowed 
and thinned out. He began to enjoy the transition, likening it to 
a session with a good masseuse or a dip in a jacuzzi.

But the real Clark Kent, the one who was brought up on a farm in 
Kansas and taught from an early age to respect himself and 
others, never acknowledged this thing that happened from time to 
time, late in the evening away from prying eyes. No, that was 
someone else collecting the box and opening it for a quick fix of 
oblivion.

************

The trouble was, oblivion didn't always stop conveniently when it 
was time to go to work. Sometimes he was late, and sometimes he 
was still a little too oblivious when he got to work. Worse 
still, oblivion sometimes wore off too soon during the working 
day, leaving him struggling against a near-overwhelming tide of 
despair during the afternoon.

This wasn't in the plan, if plan there was. No, the idea was to 
be totally pain-free at home, but for the effects to dilute down 
to a cosy feeling of well-being during the day.

So a new plan was hatched: take the box to work. That way he 
could take shorter hits and thus take better control of the ups 
and downs.

So this other person, the one who did all the planning and 
executing, bought another small lead box, hacked off another 
piece of rock, and slipped it into Clark Kent's desk drawer at 
the Daily Planet. Better, after all, to avoid carrying the box 
backwards and forwards from work - accidents could happen.

**************

An unexpected side-effect of the rock was the discovery that 
women were attracted to him, and he to them. It didn't seem to 
matter any more that he couldn't have Lois; she was gone and so 
it was time to move on with his life and start dating again.

It was surprisingly easy, he discovered, to land dates with 
attractive women. In the dim recesses of his mind, he 
acknowledged that this might have something to do with Superman - 
they seemed to admire his strength and powers; even get turned on 
by them. But that was okay. He was Superman, they wanted Superman 
- everyone was happy.

Best of all, he discovered sex. That was a big plus. Lana had 
always refused him - not that he'd pressed very hard - claiming 
that she wanted to wait until they were married. There hadn't 
been anyone else in his life but Lana, so he'd remained celibate 
until now.

Losing his virginity had been a little like opening the lead box. 
Not so easy, perhaps, but still with that sense that he really 
shouldn't have waited so long. Sex was no big deal, after all. 
Women expected it after the first few dates.

And it was very enjoyable. Sex was also like the lead box - it 
stopped you thinking for a while.

***************

Soon, the day rolled around for another of Clark's dinners with 
Perry and Alice. He found himself looking forward to the event, 
but just to be safe, he slipped the box into his coat pocket. No 
sense in being a party-pooper because you found yourself on a bit 
of a downer.

The front door of the mayor's mansion swung open. "Perry, my 
man!" exclaimed Clark heartily. "How are you?" He grabbed Perry's 
hand in both of his and shook it warmly.

"I'm fine, thank you," replied Perry. "Just fine. How are you, 
Clark?"

Clark grinned. "I'm good, Perry. In fact, I'm more than good - 
I'm super!" He laughed. "Get it? Super - superman."

"Ah...yes, I get it, Clark," said Perry. "Um, you think I could 
have my hand back, son? I think the blood's starting to back up 
there a little."

"Oh, sorry!" Clark released Perry's hand quickly. "Guess I'm just 
too happy to see you again."

"Yes...well, don't stand out there on the stoop. Come on in," 
said Perry, stepping aside to let Clark pass then shutting the 
door behind him. "Shall I take your coat?" He held out a hand.

Clark blanched. "No, that's okay, I'll keep it with me." The box 
was in his coat; he couldn't risk letting it out of his reach or, 
worse still, letting Perry find it. He laughed quickly to cover 
the awkward moment. "Never know when I might need to rush away on 
a rescue," he explained.

Perry looked puzzled. "Can't say as how I remember you worrying 
about that before. But sure, keep it with you if that's what you 
want."

Clark nodded his thanks. "So, where's the gorgeous Alice?" he 
asked, changing the subject hurriedly. "You got her chained to 
the kitchen again, Perry? Something sure smells good."

Perry raised his eyebrows. "Yes, the lovely Alice, as you put it, 
is in the kitchen. Why don't we take a seat in the lounge for a 
few moments? She'll join us shortly."

Clark followed Perry into the large, comfortable lounge and threw 
himself down onto one of the overstuffed chairs near the 
fireplace. "Boy, I wish my place was big enough for chairs like 
these!"

"One of the perks of the mayor's job, I guess," Perry remarked. 
"Big job, big furniture." He settled himself on another chair, 
perching on the edge and hunching forward. "Son, are you sure 
you're okay?"

Clark experienced a brief moment of panic - had he said or done 
something to give himself away? He didn't think so. "Never felt 
better, Perry," he said. "I think I'm really starting to find my 
feet, in fact."

"That's great to hear, son," said Perry. "But you seem a 
little...well, hyper, for want of a better word. Are you sure 
nothing's bothering you?"

"Nothing at all," said Clark. "I'm just in a good mood. Nothing 
wrong with that, is there?"

"No, I guess not." Perry rubbed his hand along the side of his 
jaw for a few moments. Clearly he had something on his mind, but 
Clark didn't feel like prompting him - he had a hunch that he 
wasn't going to like whatever it was that Perry was building up 
to.

Eventually, Perry sighed heavily. "Look, son, I'll level with 
you. People are concerned about you. Some of your rescue work 
lately has been a little heavy-handed."

"When?" asked Clark, feeling the flutter of panic in his belly 
again. "When have I been heavy-handed?"

"I hear you crashed through the side of a truck on your way to 
that bank robbery the other day. And there's a twenty-foot crater 
in State Street where you dropped a crane last week," said Perry.

"The truck should have stopped, Perry," replied Clark. "Besides, 
the driver was fine, wasn't he? And that crane was in a really 
awkward position - I did the best I could in the circumstances." 
He laughed. "Even I'm not perfect, you know." His laugh seemed to 
echo around the room; a little too loud, a little too hearty, 
perhaps. He needed to tone down a little.

Perry grimaced. "Oh, I know," he said grimly.

Clark's panicky feelings increased. He wasn't handling this well, 
he knew that. He should be calmer; less defensive. "Look, I'll be 
more careful, okay?"

But Perry shook his head. "It's not just the rescues, son. People 
say your work isn't what it used to be, either. You don't meet 
deadlines, you miss meetings - heck, I haven't read one decent 
article from you in weeks. You just don't seem to care any more, 
is what they're saying."

"Of course I care!" insisted Clark hotly. "I'm just busy - you 
know how difficult it is balancing my two jobs. I can't always go 
to meetings or hit deadline. What would you rather I do, attend a 
budget meeting or save a life?"

"You used to be able to do both," muttered Perry. He sighed 
again. "Clark, I just don't recognise you any more. You're 
defensive, tardy and bordering on downright rude. What's going 
on, son?"

"I'm fine," Clark insisted, although his heart was pounding in 
his chest. Perry knew. Everyone knew. He wasn't in control and 
they all knew about it. "Look, I need to visit your bathroom, 
okay? Back in a minute."

He stood and walked as quickly as was decent out of the room, 
digging in his pocket for the comforting feel of the box. Once 
safely ensconced in the bathroom, he flipped the toilet seat 
cover down, sat and pulled the box out. Just a quick hit - a 
refresher to get him through Perry's interrogation. He lifted the 
lid and felt cool relief flood over him.

Better. Much better. Perry was being unfair, hounding him with 
all these questions. It was none of his business how Clark ran 
his affairs. Not his business at all.

Once his heart-rate had slowed again, he closed the lid. His 
hands trembled and he nearly dropped the box as he replaced it in 
his pocket. Then he flushed the toilet and stood up at the sink. 
The mirror above reflected a man he didn't recognise - pale and 
haunted, with bags under his eyes and lines of strain across his 
forehead. That would be the other person, he told himself, 
ducking away from the image to splash water on his face. Clark 
Kent was the guy who would be walking out into the lobby in a 
minute, all smiles and confidence.

And yes, he was. He breezed through the remainder of the evening, 
Perry having apparently given up on his third degree. Maybe he'd 
been more convincing with his answers than he'd realised.

**************

Oh yeah, sex was good. It numbed his capacity for conscious 
thought, and all the right senses were heightened - pleasure, 
pleasure and more pleasure.

"Oh, Superman," she murmured.

Afterwards, he discovered they'd rolled over and she was lying 
sprawled on top of him. She was looking down at him, her pretty 
face puckered up into a small frown.

"What?" he asked.

"You're crying," she said.

"Am I?" He reached up to his face and found tears on his cheeks. 
"Sorry," he said, quickly wiping the moisture away.

Damn. He thought that had stopped.

"Sorry," he muttered again.

**************

"I know he's a friend of yours, Perry, and I know he's gone 
through some rough times, but I just can't afford to carry him 
any longer. He's washed up - lost his edge."

Clark didn't usually eavesdrop on private telephone 
conversations, but somehow his unconscious radar picked up on 
this one - perhaps it was the constant mentions of his and 
Perry's names that did it.

"I hear what you're saying, but it's no use. The man's a 
liability, Perry. He's got to go."

He didn't wait to be told. He walked straight into his editor's 
office and handed in his notice.

"I guess you heard," said his editor.

Oh, yes, he'd heard. And he knew, deep down, that this had been 
on the cards for a while - he'd been living on borrowed time for 
weeks.

Words were said, well-meant phrases about how sorry the paper was 
to lose him, and how they'd gladly consider his application if he 
ever wanted to return. But he should get himself sorted out 
first. Take a break, go hiking in the Himalayas, visit some 
friends - whatever it took to fix it.

Well, he was pretty sure he was past being fixed, but it was kind 
of his editor to make some suggestions.

Anyway, things were probably better this way. Now he could devote 
one hundred percent of his time to his other job. Even Perry had 
noticed how difficult it was to hold down a full-time job and be 
Superman at the same time, so now he could prove just how well he 
could do the rescue work if he wasn't being distracted by his day 
job.

Although it was weird how little time you actually had during a 
day. Soon, he couldn't understand how he'd ever managed to work 
full time and fit everything else into his life. It was all those 
little things, like showering, shaving, brewing coffee, shopping 
for food - they all added up, especially if you didn't bother to 
do them at superspeed. What would be the point? Besides, he kind 
of enjoyed doing things the normal way, like everyone else.

Oh, and there was that person with the box. He'd taken to hiding 
the box from that person, shoving it to the back of a drawer so 
that they wouldn't be drawn to it whenever he had a quiet few 
minutes on his own. Mind you, they always found it. Walked 
straight over there, fished it out from under the pile of old 
newspapers, and brought it back to the sofa. He tried to limit 
the person to two hits per day, but sometimes things got a little 
on top of him and he had to let them steal an extra one.

Not every day, though. That would be letting things slide.

*************

Sex was still good, though. Oh, yeah. Not so frequent as it had 
been a while ago, but he and his girlfriend just didn't ever seem 
to find the time to see each other these days. She had a new job, 
apparently, and that made her so tired in the evenings that all 
she wanted to do when she got home was make dinner and crawl into 
bed.

Not his bed. Her bed. By herself.

But once in a while, she'd come over.

"Clark, do you love me?"

This, after they'd just made wild, passionate love and he was 
lying dazed in her arms. "Of course I love you," he replied 
automatically.

At least, insofar as he knew what love was. He cared for her, 
laughed with her, made her dinner, made love with her - you 
didn't do that with someone you didn't love, did you?

"Don't do that," she said. "Don't just say the words as if they 
don't mean anything."

How did you say them with meaning? He kissed her ear. "I love 
you. There, was that better?"

She pushed him away and sat up in bed. "Clark, we never talk 
about anything - nothing important, anyway. We laugh, we drink, 
we eat, and then we have sex. Does that sound like love to you?"

A small kernel of panic began fluttering in his chest. Did she 
know? Had she figured out that Clark Kent was a fraud, a man out 
of control? He never took a hit when she was with him - he'd made 
that a rule. He was proud of it. "The laughing part sounds good," 
he said, keeping his voice light. He picked up her hand and 
kissed her knuckles.

She snatched the hand away. "We never do anything, either. Never 
go out, never see a movie together - never even go flying 
together. I'd hoped we'd do that...Superman."

"You want to go flying?" he said. "We can do it right now." He 
began to levitate them off the bed, up towards the ceiling.

"Clark, stop it!" she said. "Put us down."

"Okay," he said, bringing them back down to the bed. "I thought 
you wanted to go flying."

She put a hand up to her face, and for a horrible moment he 
thought she might be crying. "Clark, I'm going to ask you this 
again, and this time I want to you answer me honestly. Do you 
love me?"

He thought about that for a moment. Obviously his first answer 
had been wrong, because she was asking him again. Well, he liked 
her - liked her a lot. She was his longest-standing girlfriend to 
date, and that had to mean something. And the sex was great.

How did you know if you were in love? Did you break out into a 
rash, or start sneezing, or something? He thought back over his 
previous girlfriends - had he been in love with them? Probably 
not. How about Lana? He'd nearly married her, so that had to be 
love, didn't it?

On the other hand, he didn't really miss her, so maybe that 
hadn't been love after all. The one person he did miss was Lois 
Lane, and he'd never even met her.

Lois.

Oh, god, he hadn't allowed himself to even think her name for 
ages. The flutter of panic in his chest grew stronger, and he 
felt tears pricking the backs of his eyes. This was ridiculous - 
a grown man crying in front of his girlfriend just because he'd 
remembered a name. He needed to get control again.

"Clark, are you going to answer me? Do you love me?"

He looked at her - a sweet, pretty woman with a big heart and a 
great sense of humour. They'd had a lot of good times together.

"No," he said. "I don't love you. I like you a lot, but I don't 
love you."

"I thought so," she replied. "Well, thank you for being honest 
with me, anyway. Who is she, this woman that you do love?"

How could he possibly answer that? He couldn't even think her 
name without breaking down, let alone say it out loud. His pulse 
began to race, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. He might 
have to break the box rule if she didn't stop pressuring him 
soon. "I...I can't tell you," he said. That other person in his 
head was already planning how to get to the box, how to take a 
quick hit without her noticing. Maybe she'd be leaving soon 
anyway.

"Oh, Clark." She reached up with her thumb and brushed away a 
tear from his cheek. "You're a good man, deep down. You're sweet 
and kind, and more thoughtful than any other person I know. But 
you need help. Something is tearing you up so badly that it's 
taking over your whole life. Until you deal with that, there 
won't be room for anyone else."

"Does...does this mean we're breaking up?" he said, his voice 
sounding distant and strained.

"Yes."

"Okay." The box was just next door, in the bottom drawer of his 
desk. He knew exactly where it was, and he could get to it in 
seconds, if he needed to.

She climbed off the bed and dressed quickly. Slinging her purse 
over her shoulder, she looked down at him sadly. "Promise me 
you'll get the help you need. I'd hate to see you slide even 
further away from us all." She bent over him and kissed him 
briefly on his lips. "The world needs you, Superman."

And with that, she was gone.

As soon as he heard the front door close, the dam within him 
burst and tears flowed freely down his cheeks. Blindly, he stood 
and made his way over to his desk, yanked the drawer open and 
snatched up the box.

This time there was no pretence. This time it was just Clark 
Kent, the box, and sweet, sweet oblivion.

**************

"Clark!"

The banging on his front door resumed, the force of the blows 
shaking it on its hinges.

"Clark, I know you're in there, son!"

Didn't Perry realise he was busy? He pressed a button on the TV 
remote and flicked to another channel. Oh, this was his 
favourite!

"Today we're going to make friends with the letter 'Q', kids. 
What words do you know that begin with 'Q'?"

"Clark! Please open the door - I need to talk to you."

He flicked a quick burst of x-ray vision at the door. Perry was 
thumping on it with his fist again. There were a couple of guys 
with him - aides to the mayor, no doubt. Clark felt a little 
sorry for Perry sometimes. He wasn't able to go anywhere on his 
own any more.

"Quotient," said Clark to the TV.

Maybe he should let Perry in. The guy wanted to talk and those 
aides didn't look like great conversationalists. He and Perry 
could talk for hours - at least, they used to. He hadn't been 
around to dinner with the Whites for a while. Perhaps that was 
what Perry wanted - to invite him around.

He dropped the remote on the sofa and crossed to open his door. 
"Hi, Perry," he said. "Hi," he added to the aides, who just 
nodded. Boy, they looked serious. No wonder Perry wanted to get 
away from them.

"Thank god," said Perry. He turned to his aides. "Wait here, 
okay?" They nodded again.

Clark was a bit surprised they were just going to hang around on 
the stoop, but if that was what Perry wanted, it was fine by him. 
"Come in," he told Perry.

"Sorry, guys," he said to the aides as he closed the door on 
them.

Perry hadn't moved off the landing. He was staring around at the 
apartment, and suddenly Clark saw the place through Perry's eyes. 
He hadn't tidied up for a bit, so there were a few more things 
lying around than usual. Newspapers, magazines, clothes - quite a 
lot of clothes, actually. Oh, and last night's dinner plate was 
still on the coffee table. With a few mugs.

"Sorry about the mess," he said. "I've been doing some spring 
cleaning. You know how you get to that stage where everything 
looks worse than when you started?"

Perry nodded slowly. "Sure."

Clark led Perry down to the living area and shoved a few things 
on the floor to clear a space for him to sit. Then he plonked 
himself down on his usual spot.

"Clark, can we turn that thing off?" said Perry, nodding at the 
TV. It was playing a cute song all about the letter 'Q' and 
flashing up dancing words that all began with the letter 'Q'.

"Oh, sure," said Clark, grabbing the remote and thumbing it off. 
"Sorry."

"Okay." Perry sat forward in his chair and faced Clark with a 
grim expression. "Clark, I've got something important to say to 
you, so I want you to listen carefully. It's not going to be very 
pleasant for either of us so I'm just going to come straight out 
with it, okay?"

Clark nodded. "Okay."

"Okay, here it is: Clark, I think you're ill. Quite seriously 
ill, in fact. Not only that, but I strongly suspect that you're 
on something. I don't have any proof of that, and heaven knows, I 
honestly can't imagine what would affect you in this way, but all 
the signs are there."

Perry paused, but Clark could only sit and stare at his old 
friend. He felt the blood draining from his face and the old 
familiar feelings of panic start up in his belly.

Perry knew. He really did know. Everything.

"Now, you can deny it if you like, and we can play this game 
where you explain why you're okay and I tell you why you're not, 
but I wouldn't advise it, Clark. Better to just tell me I'm 
right, and then we can move on to the part where I tell you how 
I'm going to help you."

But didn't Perry understand that he was past help? He snatched a 
glance over to his desk where the box was hidden. That was his 
crutch, his way of getting through each day. Nothing else helped 
like the box did.

"I'm...I'm just a little stressed, Perry," he said. 
"Superman...it's a big job, you know? Sometimes it gets on top of 
me a little, that's all."

Perry shook his head. "Don't do it, Clark. You won't like it when 
I tell you all the reasons why I know you're ill."

He glanced over to the desk again. He could feel the pull of the 
box already. It was calling out to him, asking to be opened - 
just for a second or two.

"Is that where it is, Clark?" said Perry. "This stuff you're 
taking? Shall I fetch it for you?"

Clark snapped his gaze back to Perry in mute horror. No! Not even 
if Perry knew the truth.

Perry stood up and crossed to Clark's desk. "Which drawer is it 
in?" Clark froze and felt his heart leap up into his throat as 
Perry bent down and opened the top drawer. "This one?"

He began to sweat, his sticky palms leaving patches of damp 
wherever he clutched onto the sofa cushions. But he couldn't 
move; couldn't speak while Perry continued his tortuous 
exploration of the desk.

Perry opened the next drawer down. "This one?" He looked across 
at Clark. "I'm getting close, aren't I?"

Clark closed his eyes. "Please, Perry, don't do this."

"But you need it, don't you?" Perry replied. "I'm just fetching 
it for you."

Clark heard him grasp the last drawer handle. *The* drawer. "This 
is it, isn't it?" said Perry. "This is where you hide your stash. 
Let's take a look..."

"No," he whispered.

"Sorry, Clark?" said Perry. "I didn't quite catch that."

He shuddered. It was over. Perry knew, the whole world knew. 
Clark Kent, the farmer's son from Kansas, was a fraud, an out of 
control kryptonite junkie.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, you're right." He fought silently with 
himself for a moment, defeat warring with the need to remain 
private, to keep the sordid little secret to himself. But Perry 
had cracked him open, and he soon found the words tumbling out of 
his mouth. "I can't...I can't live without it any more."

His voice broke and the tears came again, rolling down his 
cheeks, wracking his body with sobs he couldn't control. "I'm a 
mess, Perry," he sobbed. "I can't do anything right any more. 
Job, girlfriend, Superman...it's all gone to hell. The kryptonite 
is the only thing that gets me through the day."

"Hey, hey there." Perry's solid frame was suddenly beside him, 
strong arms hugging him tightly while he blubbered against his 
friend's shoulder. "We're going to get you some help, okay? 
Whatever it takes, we'll find it for you."

The words were comforting, but Clark knew in his heart of hearts 
that Perry would never be able to find the one thing that he 
really needed. Without Lois Lane, he was nothing.

"Son, did I hear you right? Did you say kryptonite?"

Clark nodded miserably. "Yeah, not the green stuff that makes me 
sick. This stuff is red...it has other properties."

"I see," replied Perry. "Well, that's a relief of sorts. For a 
minute there I thought you were dosing yourself up with something 
that could kill you."

"Not so far as I know, it can't," said Clark.

Perry pushed him gently away and held him at arm's length, 
resting his hands on Clark's shoulders. "Here's what we're going 
to do. First, you're coming home with me. Alice already has a 
room ready for you, and you're welcome to stay for as long as you 
need to. Then, once you're settled in, we're going to take you to 
see a friend of mine. He's got a lot of experience in helping 
people in trouble, and I think you'll like him."

Clark dropped his eyes. "He's a psychiatrist, right?"

"Yes, he is. It's nothing to be ashamed of, Clark," said Perry. 
"You're ill, and he's the best man I know to get you well again. 
Okay?"

Clark nodded.

"Good. Now, unless you want to do it, Alice is going to come by 
later and pack up a few things for you. Is there anything you 
want to take with you right now?"

Clark swallowed. This was it. This was where he admitted that he 
couldn't go anywhere without it. Not even to the corner shop and 
back. He dashed the tears from his eyes and turned away from 
Perry. "The box. I need the box."

"Of course you do. Do you...uh...need some now? Before we leave?"

He cringed inside, hating the person he'd become. The person who 
schemed and planned, who cowered in the dark, who hid from prying 
eyes but strode around with false bravado. He'd thought he was 
fooling everyone, but they had all known. He was the one who'd 
been a fool.

"Look, I'll just wait for you outside, okay?" said Perry. "You 
come out when you're ready."

He nodded, grateful to his friend for allowing him to preserve 
some semblance of dignity. "Thanks, Perry. You're a good friend."

Perry cleared his throat. "Hey, you'd do the same for me, right?" 
he said gruffly. "I'll be just outside."

Clark waited until Perry was safely out of the way and then 
retrieved the box. He didn't even bother to sit down first, he 
just opened the lid and stared down into the beautiful red 
crystal. It didn't give him such a good hit these days; he'd been 
considering hacking off a larger lump from one of the rocks and 
buying a larger box. Still, it was enough to take the edge off.

He wondered what it would be like if he just swallowed a piece. 
Maybe that would take the edge off permanently. It would be 
easier than carrying a heavy lead box around, that was for sure.

But Perry was going to get him the help he needed, right? He 
wouldn't need this stuff at all once Perry's friend was finished 
with him.

Yeah, that sounded better. He would be back to his old self, and 
she...well, he wouldn't even remember her name. She'd be erased 
from his soul.

***************

The talking cure - that was what they called it, he'd heard. 
Well, they were right. He'd never talked so much in his life. 
George, Perry's friend, asked him an endless battery of 
questions, some of them laughably trivial, some deeply searching, 
and some highly personal and very embarrassing. All were 
designed, he understood, to assess his mental state and ascertain 
his needs, treatment-wise. Perry had been right - he did like 
George, a rotund, genial man with a wry sense of humour and a lot 
of sharp intelligence behind thick, heavy glasses.

George, after meeting him that first time, suggested he admit 
himself to a psychiatric clinic for a few days. They wouldn't be 
able to cure him in such a short time, but they'd set him on the 
right path towards recovery and prepare him for the remainder of 
his treatment, which would be home-based.

He declined. The thought of incarceration, no matter how 
civilised and friendly, filled him with terror. It fed into one 
of his most deep-seated fears - that of the scientist's lab and 
the instruments which poked and prodded at the alien lying on the 
examination table. His father had planted those ideas from an 
early age, and whilst his many foster parents hadn't added 
further fuel to them, the fear still remained with him.

So Alice and Perry became his carers. Alice mostly, because Perry 
was at work during the day and often had functions to attend in 
the evenings. She became an expert at detecting his mood swings, 
knowing instantly when he'd discovered her hiding place for the 
box and taken an illicit hit. Of course, hiding a box from a man 
who could see through anything except lead was almost impossible. 
Her only weapon was psychology - she knew that he wouldn't search 
in her underwear drawer, for example. Not at first, anyway.

The box had to be moved to the clinic where he was now a day 
patient. But even there, it wasn't possible to hide it entirely 
from his x-ray vision, and it soon became apparent that wherever 
they put it, he would find it. He could fly anywhere quicker than 
they could drive, scan an area vaster than they could reach 
within a reasonable length of time, so it wasn't even practical 
to store it offsite somewhere.

"Clark, what do you suggest we do?" asked George one day. "I know 
you're trying your best, but it's just not working, is it?"

"No." He'd tried to stick to the regime; he really had. But as 
soon as they made things a little hard for him, he faltered. If 
they made things really hard, asking the questions that he 
couldn't answer even if he wanted to, the other person came out 
and began searching systematically for the box. He'd become very 
good at searching over the past few weeks, and he always, always 
found it and got his hit.

"Ideally, I'd prefer that it was your choice not to look for the 
kryptonite in the first place, rather than our responsibility to 
hide it from you," George continued. "But I don't think you're 
quite ready for that yet, are you?"

"No."

"So, what should we do? Is there anything we can do with lead 
shielding? Plant decoys, perhaps?"

Clark shook his head. "I'd find it. It doesn't take long with 
superspeed."

"Well, then, is there anything we can do about your powers? Is 
there something which resists all your powers, not just some of 
them?"

His gaze, which up to now had been fixed on a neutral point 
somewhere on the carpet, snapped up to meet George's. Yes, there 
was, and he had a fairly good idea where to find some of it. 
"Green kryptonite," he said. "It weakens me."

"Okay, then that's the answer," said George. "Do you know where 
we can find some?"

**************

He was eavesdropping on a conversation again. Some sixth sense 
always kicked in and told him when people were talking about him. 
He'd always ignored it in the past - after a few blows to his 
pride and self-esteem, he'd learnt that it was best not to listen 
in. But lately, he found that he wanted to know what people were 
saying about him. This time he was upstairs in his room at 
Perry's house, and two people were downstairs in the lounge 
arguing.

"George, I don't think it's a good idea. Do you realise what that 
stuff can do to him?" said Perry.

"He said it weakens him - sounds ideal to me. We make a shield of 
the stuff and put the red kryptonite inside. He won't be able to 
reach it," replied George.

"What he neglected to tell you was that it can kill him," said 
Perry. "It doesn't just weaken him, it causes massive pain and 
nausea, and if he's exposed for long enough, he'll die."

"Jeez, he never mentioned that!"

"I don't think it's a good idea to leave stuff like that lying 
around near him, do you?" said Perry.

There was a long pause, during which Clark heard someone pour out 
a large glass of something - probably brandy. The decanter 
stopper was replaced, and then George spoke in a low voice. "You 
think he's suicidal?" "What do you think?" replied Perry in an 
equally low voice.

There was another long pause.

"Well, you know him better than I do, Perry, but no - on balance, 
I don't think he wants to take his own life. Besides, couldn't he 
just fly off to wherever this stuff is and kill himself at any 
time - if he really wanted to?"

"True. But having the stuff conveniently to hand might just tip 
him over the edge if he was that way inclined," said Perry. 
"Heck, it's your decision, George. You're the expert here. I'm 
just here as his friend."

"And a damned good one, too. God knows what would have happened 
if you hadn't rescued him." George sighed. "I think we're making 
progress, but he's a hard nut to crack. He doesn't give much 
away."

"He's used to internalising everything. That girlfriend of his - 
not the one he just broke up with, the one he nearly married - 
she didn't do him any favours in that department," said Perry.

"Yeah? What was she like?"

"Self-centred and a control freak. Treated him like her pet 
donkey."

Clark tuned the rest of the conversation out - he didn't want to 
hear a re-run of his relationship with Lana.

So they thought he was suicidal, did they? He rolled the idea 
around in his head for a while. True, he'd neglected to tell 
George the whole truth about green kryptonite, but that had been 
because the pain and nausea part hadn't been relevant at the 
time. Also, he didn't like telling anyone, even his therapist, 
about the things which hurt him. That didn't mean he had an 
ulterior motive, did it?

No, he wasn't suicidal. He laughed internally - perhaps he should 
drop downstairs and reassure them.

On the other hand, perhaps not. He glanced at the clock on the 
mantelpiece. Ten hours, fourteen minutes and twenty seconds to 
his next hit - boy, he was getting good at mental arithmetic 
these days.

He rolled over on the bed, curled up and pulled the covers over 
his head. Time for the nightly endurance test.

***************

The green kryptonite was duly obtained. Clark had been right - 
there were deposits in Shuster's field, not so very far away from 
where he'd discovered the red variety. He'd been lucky not have 
gone too close, in fact.

The protection mechanism they came up with for the red kryptonite 
was simple - a nice, hefty lump of green kryptonite stored in the 
same box as the red. Clark was escorted to the clinic's medicine 
cabinet to witness its installation, standing a safe distance 
away but still near enough to view the proceedings.

So now he had a new dependency. No longer could he help himself 
to red kryptonite whenever he needed it, he was one hundred 
percent dependent on others to fetch it for him.

It was a tough regime, and for a long time, he felt that they 
were being far too stingy with his crutch. Gradually, or not so 
gradually, it seemed to him, he was being forced out into the 
blinding light of total reality. He felt naked and exposed out 
there. Edges were sharp, nerves jangled, and he could see himself 
far too clearly.

He didn't like what he saw. Clark Kent, the fine, upstanding 
farmer's son from Kansas, was a wreck. All too often, he got the 
shakes and broke out into a sweat when he was waiting for his 
next hit. He was a burden to Perry and Alice, although they 
treated him as their own and never once gave the impression that 
they didn't welcome him in their house. The staff at the clinic 
found him hard to cope with, because his special abilities made a 
mockery of some of their standard procedures.

Nevertheless, progress was made, and eventually he was down to 
one hit per day.

"Congratulations, Clark," said George. "You've done really well, 
and you should be proud of yourself for getting this far."

Clark's mouth twisted. "Thanks, George, but don't you think we 
should save the celebrations until I've no longer memorised the 
location of every single piece of red kryptonite on the entire 
planet?"

George laughed. "Maybe, but this is an important milestone. How 
do you feel?"

Clark met George's gaze. On the surface, this was a cosy chat 
between friends, but behind George's amiable expression lay 
piercing enquiry and deadly serious analysis. "The truth?"

"However ugly, yes. I've heard it all, Clark - you can't shock 
me."

Clark drew in a slow breath. "If I could lay my hands on a piece 
of red kryptonite right this minute, I'd do it." He snapped his 
fingers. "Just like that."

George nodded. "That's okay. I wouldn't expect anything else at 
this stage. How do you think you'd feel after you'd taken the 
hit?"

"Guilty as hell," Clark replied immediately.

"Anything else?"

"Maybe disappointed," he said. "In myself, I mean. I've got this 
far, as you say, so it would be a shame to ruin all the good 
work."

"Okay, so you still want to get better?"

Clark nodded.

"Good, because I'd like to try something a little different 
today. We've talked a lot, you and I, haven't we?"

"Yeah," said Clark warily, wondering where George was leading 
him. "You know so much about me, you could be my official 
biographer if I ever needed one."

George chuckled. "Now there's a thought - Superman's biographer. 
Well, if I'm ever strapped for cash, I'll consider it. But for 
all that I know about you, Clark, there's one thing we haven't 
talked about at all."

"What's that?"

"Lois Lane."

Oh, god. Why did George have to do this to him now? He'd been 
feeling so good - relaxed and pretty much in control. They'd been 
having a cosy chat and now George had turned it into an ordeal.

"Clark? You okay, buddy?"

He began to nod automatically, but then turned the movement into 
a quick head-shake. "No. Can we talk about something else?"

"No, I'm afraid we can't this time. Take a few deep, slow breaths 
and then tell me all about Lois Lane."

He snatched a glance at the nearest clock. Eight hours to his 
next hit. Too long. "I can't, George."

"Yes, you can," insisted George, fixing Clark with those 
piercing, intelligent eyes of his. "Now do as I tell you and take 
those deep breaths. You want to lie down on the couch? You might 
feel more comfortable there."

"Okay." Anything to delay; keep the questions at bay. He moved 
over to George's couch, a traditional psychiatrist's model that 
he'd never have dreamt of being at ease on until his sessions 
with George. Nowadays it was his friend, a place where he could 
talk freely about himself without fear of embarrassment or worse.

Once he was settled, George came over and picked up his wrist, 
monitoring his pulse. "Okay, now take those deep breaths - 
remember what they taught you in those relaxation classes."

Yeah, they were part of his treatment regime at the clinic. Every 
Tuesday and Thursday afternoon - how to relax your cares away 
with Dr Deirdre Watts. He could hear her soft Irish voice even 
now. "Find your centre, Clark. Find your sea of tranquillity and 
cast yourself free upon it." Well, this was something he was 
pretty good at; one of his small successes at the clinic. He 
located that tranquil sea and was floating along as free as a 
bird in no time at all.

"Good." George gave him his wrist back and settled back in his 
chair. "So tell me, Clark, who was Lois Lane?"

"A reporter at the Daily Planet," he replied. That part was easy.

"And when did you first meet her?"

Now things were starting to get a little harder. "When she came 
back from the Congo." Not the real truth, but the official truth. 
"She'd been missing, presumed dead, for years."

"That must have been quite a shock, for you and everyone else."

"It hit Perry the hardest, I think," said Clark. "He was the only 
one left who'd known her before she disappeared. It took him a 
while to adjust, I think."

"And what about you? How did it hit you?"

Clark recalled the first time he'd seen her. She'd bowled him 
over - literally. One second flat into their meeting and she'd 
kissed him right on the lips. It was as if someone had struck him 
right between his eyes.

"Well, I never knew her before, so it didn't really have an 
impact on me," he said.

"Really? Didn't she kiss you that first time?"

Clark frowned. "George, if you already know all this, why are you 
asking me?"

"Because I like the sound of your voice. Now answer the question 
- did she kiss you?"

"Yes, she kissed me. But it didn't mean anything," he added 
quickly. "She mistook me for someone else." Now it really was 
starting to get complicated. He wasn't sure how much longer he'd 
be able to keep the official truth and the real truth straight in 
his head. George had a nasty habit of making you say things you 
didn't mean to.

"I see. Let's move on a little - you started working with her, 
didn't you? Tell me about that."

And so the session continued, with Clark relating a fairly 
sanitised version of events and George winkling out extra little 
details from him. Nothing too controversial, and Clark managed to 
keep to the official line throughout. He was feeling pretty 
pleased at having negotiated his way through George's 
interrogation so neatly, when they reached the official end of 
the story.

"She disappeared again, didn't she, Clark? What can you tell me 
about that?"

"Nothing," he said immediately.

"Oh, come now. You were working pretty closely together - you 
must have some idea why she left."

"I can't tell you."

"Can't or won't?"

His heart was thumping in his chest, his sea of tranquillity a 
raging Force Nine hurricane. How could he explain parallel 
universes and duplicate Lois Lanes to George? Even if he could, 
there was no way he could explain the feelings of loss, of deep 
longing and love for a woman he'd never even met.

"Can't."

George sat forward in his chair. "Clark, this is important. I 
know it's hard for you, but I want you to try. Give me anything 
you can - an idea, a hint, a small crumb of information. Anything 
will do."

"I can't."

"Come on, buddy, you can do it. One little morsel. A nugget."

"I can't."

"Okay, tell me why you can't," said George.

"It's complicated."

"I'm an intelligent guy. Try me."

God, he was so insistent. "George, believe me - I'd tell you if I 
could. You think I'm crazy now, but if I told you what you want 
to know, you'll pack me straight off to the lunatic asylum. And 
I've already said too much."

"Hey, this sounds really interesting," said George. "I like a 
good tale from a wacko."

"Not a very professional term, George," said Clark. "Won't you 
get struck off for telling me I'm a wacko?"

"Nah, you'd be surprised what we shrinks can get away with. My 
point, my friend, is that there is no way I'll be packing you off 
to the asylum, or anywhere else, come to that. You're not a 
wacko, just a guy with a story to tell," said George. "So come 
on, let's hear it. Why can't you tell me the reason for Lois's 
disappearance?"

Clark rolled his head back and forth on the couch. "I told you, I 
can't."

George sucked in air around his teeth. "Okay, buddy," he said 
softly, patting Clark's arm. "I guess we're not going to crack it 
this time around. Sorry I pushed you, but this one's important."

Clark felt the relief roll over him in waves. No more grand 
inquisition. He felt totally drained; he was drenched in sweat 
and his pulse was galloping along like he'd just lifted a 
spaceship into orbit.

"Here."

He looked up to find George offering him a glass of water. 
"Thanks," he said, taking it in one trembling hand and then 
needing both to steady it as he sipped.

"Look, is it me?" asked George. "Is there anyone else you'd 
prefer to talk to about this?"

Clark shook his head. He now knew quite a few of the staff at the 
clinic, but George was the only one he could imagine talking to 
about this stuff. There was Perry, of course, but he wasn't 
staff.

"Okay. You want to stay there a while, catch your breath? Have a 
snooze if you like."

Clark nodded. "Thanks, George. Do you do this for all your 
patients?"

"Nah, only the ones who give me a hard time." He grinned down at 
Clark. "We're going to get there, buddy, don't you worry." Then 
he produced a blanket and draped it over Clark. "Want me to kiss 
you goodnight and tuck you in?"

"George, it's eleven am."

"Oh, you noticed? See, I told you you're not a wacko."

****************

The other person, the cool, calculating schemer, was on a 
mission, stalking the dimly-lit corridors of the clinic under 
cover of the night. At this time of day, there was only a 
skeleton staff manning the wards, and so it was easy to slip by 
unnoticed. If necessary, there was always the option of flying 
near the ceiling. Nobody ever looked up, not even the guard 
watching the security cameras.

It wasn't hard to reach the medicine cabinet. It was even easier 
to break the lock - the schemer didn't suffer the burden of a 
conscience to hold him back. Drawing out the lead box and placing 
it on the counter was hard, though. Hands trembled and the pulse 
quickened, making the task difficult and treacherous. A wrong 
move now, a bottle knocked over, or pills sent skittering across 
the formica floor - all would give him away and cause people to 
come running. People who would separate him from his goal.

But the box was safely extracted and placed on the counter. Now 
for the hardest part of all. He figured he had about a second to 
snatch the red rock before the green one forced him back. So a 
swift execution was needed. Lift lid, snatch rock, close lid. 
Simple.

Deep breath.

Lift lid - oh, Jeez! He staggered backwards, the pain nearly 
knocking him out instantly. His legs turned to jelly and he felt 
himself weave around, fighting for balance. He hadn't realised it 
would be this bad - he didn't remember being in this much agony 
the last time he'd encountered the green stuff. He could hardly 
believe his body was capable of inflicting this level of pain on 
him.

Almost blinded, he tipped himself forward towards the counter, 
reaching clumsily into the box to find his prize. White hot coals 
burnt his fingers, forcing him to snatch his hand away with a cry 
of surprise and pain. It burnt! He hadn't known it would burn.

Blackness began to creep in at the edges of his vision. No... But 
he was powerless to stop it. He crashed against the counter and 
down to the floor, the clatter of the box informing him that he'd 
knocked it over somehow. Great. No respite from the pain, then.

Darkness rescued him, pulling him down into oblivion.

**************

He awoke to a dull, insistent ache in his limbs, a thick, 
throbbing headache, and a wretched feeling of nausea in the pit 
of his stomach. When he cracked open his eyes, he found the 
round, genial features of George gazing down at him. No smile, he 
noted. George almost always smiled.

"That wasn't so smart, now was it?" said George. "Why'd you do 
it, Clark?"

He closed his eyes again. "Don't beat about the bush, George," he 
mumbled sardonically. "Say what you mean."

"Yeah, well I like to cut to the chase," replied George. "So 
why'd you do it?"

"To get the kryptonite."

"Red or green?"

He forced his eyes open again and met George's steady gaze. "Red, 
George. I'm not suicidal. At least, not yet."

George raised an eyebrow. "You know, listening to other people's 
conversations is considered bad manners in some circles."

"Guess I don't move in those circles," said Clark. "Not any 
more." He turned his head away from the therapist, too tired to 
play any more word games with him.

"So how do you feel?" asked George.

"Lousy."

"Yeah, you look pretty awful. White face, sunken cheeks, bags 
under the eyes - the full set, in fact. As for your temperature, 
well, I was impressed. I never knew thermometers could go so 
high," said George.

"George, did anyone ever tell you your bedside manner sucks?" 
mumbled Clark.

"Oh, frequently. I flunked out on the bedside manner class." He 
leant back and clapped his hands together. "Okay, we have two 
choices here. Either we can move you to one of those very nice 
single rooms upstairs, with TVs, videos, en suite facilities and 
full room service - I know Carolyn, the head nurse up there, 
would love to have you - or I can call Alice and have her take 
you home. What'll it be?"

There was no contest, so far as Clark was concerned. "Home."

"Why did I know you'd say that?" said George. "You know, some day 
you and I are going to have to have a long talk about your fear 
of hospitals." At Clark's mute look of surprise, he grinned. 
"Yeah, it's scary what we shrinks can figure out about a person. 
Twilight Zone stuff, huh?"

Clark closed his eyes again. "George, I'm not in the mood. I may 
just have to throw up if you don't shut up."

He felt George's hand on his shoulder. "Hey, buddy," he said 
softly. "Hang on in there. We're going to get you through this, 
okay?"

"Yeah, you said." "I'll call Alice, all right?"

"Okay."

***************

Lana came to visit him. As always, her timing was impeccable. He 
was lying on his bed feeling lousy, the day after his encounter 
with the green kryptonite. Alice had been cosseting him all 
morning, bringing him cups of tea and trying to tempt him with 
food, but when she stuck her head around his door and told him 
Lana was downstairs and did he want to see her, he nearly spilt 
his mug of tea all over the bedclothes.

Lana? What on earth did she want with him? Their paths hadn't 
crossed in almost a year.

Anyway, he decided he might as well find out, so he asked Alice 
to show her up. Lana, being Lana, stood at the threshold to his 
bedroom, arms akimbo, and declared, "Clark, you look awful."

"And nice to see you, too, Lana," he replied.

He didn't bother to climb off the bed to greet her, mostly 
because he still ached all over and any movement seemed to 
exacerbate the nausea. Perhaps he was also setting the tone for 
their encounter - she was tolerated rather than welcomed.

She came further into the room and looked around for something to 
sit on. The room wasn't large and didn't actually contain much 
other than the bed, a wardrobe and a set of drawers. Frustrated, 
she perched gingerly on the very edge of his bed, as far away 
from Clark as possible.

"So what brings you here?" he asked when she didn't immediately 
start talking.

She brushed her long blonde locks away from her face and then 
laid both hands neatly in her lap. "Steve and I were having a 
clear-out and found some of your old things. I brought them 
around in a box."

Steve was her brand-new husband, an accountant with one of the 
more stuffy legal firms in Metropolis. She'd wasted little time, 
after breaking up with Clark, in finding a new man and marrying 
him. Clark didn't know the guy, but had heard that he was the 
perfect match for Lana - reliable, unimaginative, predictable and 
totally devoid of any distinguishing characteristics whatsoever. 
Safe.

"Well, thank you, Lana. Congratulations, by the way," he said. 
"On the marriage."

She looked down at her hand and played with her wedding ring. 
"Thank you. He's a wonderful man."

"Yeah, I heard."

Her head snapped up; his tone must have given him away. "I love 
him to bits," she said. "Daddy likes him, too."

His mouth twisted. "Well, I guess that's as good a reason as any 
to marry a guy." Clark wondered idly if Lana had applied the same 
rules to Steve as she had to him, or if sex before marriage was 
okay if your fiance wasn't an alien? Not that he minded any more 
- he suspected that sex with the xenophobic Lana would probably 
have left him more damaged than sex with the Superman-obsessed 
women he'd eventually lost his virginity to. At least they had 
wanted him to touch them.

She fired him an angry look. "He's going to join Daddy's company. 
He'll probably end up running it one day, when Daddy retires."

A not-so-subtle barb aimed at Clark, of course, who had refused 
to join Daddy's company. Daddy and Clark just didn't see eye-to-
eye on so many things.

"I'm happy for you, Lana. Sounds like you're all set for life. I 
guess the next thing is kids."

"Next year," she said primly. "Steve says we need to spend some 
time just on our own first."

Or maybe the poor guy was afraid of losing his hard-won conjugal 
rights. "Sensible guy," he remarked.

"Yes, he is," she said, shooting him another angry look. 
Seemingly, his tone of voice hadn't been quite right again. "You 
know, you really do look terrible."

"Thanks, Lana - you really know how to make a guy feel better, 
don't you?"

She pursed her lips together. "She did this to you, of course," 
she muttered.

It was his turn to flare up in anger. "Who, Lana?" he asked, 
although he knew perfectly well who she was referring to. "There 
have been a lot of women in my life lately - you probably heard - 
so I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific."

"That Lane woman," she spat. "Lois Lane."

A pulse began thumping in his head. "Don't you dare, Lana," he 
said. "Don't you dare tell me this is her fault."

She laughed. "Look at yourself! Listen to yourself! You're a 
mess, Clark. Who else do you think did this to you if it wasn't 
her?"

"I did this to myself, Lana," he said. "No-one else. Just me."

She shook her head. "You're pathetic."

"Is this why you really came here, Lana?" he said. "To gloat? To 
tell me how low I've sunk and then show off your wedding ring and 
tell me what a wonderful life you're having? I'd call that pretty 
pathetic, wouldn't you?"

"She took you away from me," she said. "She turned you into that 
ridiculous circus act and then wrecked your life. No wonder 
you're a mess."

"She showed me what a mess my life had already become," he 
retorted. The pulse in his head was really beginning to hurt, to 
drive through his brain like a rapier. "You have no idea what 
Lois did for me."

He wrapped himself protectively around her memory, keeping Lana 
and her twisted version of events at bay. Lois had been the best 
thing that had ever happened to him. She was his inspiration and 
his guiding light through dark times. Lana had no right to attack 
her.

"Turned you into a drug addict, by all accounts," she snapped.

He closed his eyes, shielding himself from the pain and her 
barbed comments. "Just go away, Lana. You've said what you came 
to say, proved to yourself that you're better than me. Go away 
and have a nice life with safe Steve."

"You never used to be this bitter," she said. "You've changed, 
Clark."

"Funny, that's what my therapist says, too," he said. "Only he 
makes it sound like a good thing."

She snorted. "Drugs and therapy...your parents would be ashamed 
of you."

The pain in his head doubled at her mention of his parents. "Shut 
up, Lana. Just shut up and go."

He felt the bed move as she stood. "I hope you get the help you 
need, Clark. You deserve it," she added harshly.

And she was gone. At last.

He felt like he'd been flayed alive. He turned on his side, her 
accusations against Lois swirling around his aching head. Tears 
pricked the backs of his eyes as he considered the possibility 
that she might actually be right. If he'd never met Lois, he 
wouldn't have discovered what a sham his life had been, and he 
wouldn't now have to live with this aching chasm of loneliness 
and missing love. Had Lois turned him into a junkie?

No! He rebelled against the idea, but the doubt had taken hold.

He turned over onto his other side. God, how he needed some red 
K. This would all go away if he had some - not much, just a quick 
hit.

There was a soft knock on his door. "Clark? Are you okay?"

Alice. Alice could get him some red kryptonite. He could tell her 
he felt really ill, that he had the shakes and couldn't breathe 
properly. Yes, he'd die if he didn't get the red kryptonite - 
that was it. She'd get him some then.

No, no, no! He turned over again, fisting a handful of coverlet, 
fighting the craving. Please help me, he begged silently to 
anything or anyone that might be listening.

Lois didn't turn you into a junkie, he told himself fiercely. You 
did it yourself.

He curled up into a tight ball. Please make it go away...

"Clark? I'm just going to come in and collect your empty mug, 
okay?"

She mustn't see him like this! He turned onto his back and pushed 
himself up a bit on the bed - just in time for her to open the 
door. Lying rigidly on the bed, he followed her with his eyes as 
she moved across the carpet to his bedside table.

"Would you like a refill, dear?" she asked, picking up his mug.

He shook his head silently.

"All right. You're sure I can't tempt you with a nice hot bowl of 
soup?"

He shook his head again.

"Well, just you shout if you need anything, you hear?"

He nodded, then watched her cross back over the door, mug in 
hand. She opened the door.

"A...Alice?"

She turned, smiling back at him. "Yes?"

"Could...could you stay a minute?" he croaked.

"Aw, hon, of course I can!" she said, closing the door 
immediately and crossing to sit on the edge of the bed next to 
him. "What's up?"

"Nothing...I just need some company..."

To save me from myself... His hand screwed up a fistful of 
bedclothes tightly.

She frowned at him, her head cocked to one side. "Lana give you a 
hard time, did she?"

He nodded. "You could say."

"I knew I shouldn't have let her in, you being so poorly and 
all," she said, shaking her head with disgust at her own lack of 
care.

"Not your fault," he said. "I could have told you not to send her 
up."

She began rubbing her hand up and down his arm soothingly. "You 
do know not to listen to anything she says, don't you?"

"Yeah, but it's hard, you know?"

"I know, hon," she said.

He closed his eyes and leant his head back against the headboard 
of the bed. Alice was a big help - just sitting beside him and 
talking in that sympathetic, Southern drawl of hers made him feel 
better - but the craving was still there. Lana had lit it, 
kindled it and brought it up to a slow burn with her barbs and 
insinuations.

"Is it bad?"

She knew. Alice always knew when he needed some. "Yeah," he 
whispered. "Time for the Scrabble board, Alice."

It was their thing, their way of fighting the craving together. 
He'd lost count of the number of Scrabble games they'd played 
while he'd silently fought the internal battle between need and 
good intention. Sometimes it was difficult to place the finicky 
little pieces on the board, if his hands were trembling too 
badly, but then Alice would simply do it for him. Usually, he 
lost, but it didn't matter. The game was the thing.

"Coming right up, hon," she said. "You going to beat me this 
time?"

"Sure. I have this whole new vocabulary of psychiatric terms," he 
said. "You won't stand a chance."

She laughed. "Honey, your psychiatric terms are nothing against 
my Elvis terminology."

He couldn't even begin to imagine what she meant by that.

****************

If Clark thought that self-inflicted illness would lend him a 
respite from George's treatment regime, he was wrong. He was 
allotted one day to recover from the worst effects of the 
kryptonite radiation, and then he was back on the treadmill 
again. Relaxation classes - although he was already so good, it 
was hardly worth attending, art classes - to help him explore his 
emotions, writing exercises - which irritated him because he was 
a professional and these people were amateurs, lessons on 
addiction - interesting but not exactly revelatory, and his 
sessions with George.

Amazingly, George actually apologised to him for the green 
kryptonite incident. Clark had imagined if anyone was going to be 
doing some apologising, it would be him, so this came as 
something of a surprise. Apparently, George had warned the clinic 
staff that he was about to hit Clark with some extra tough 
sessions, so would they please put additional security measures 
in place around the red kryptonite store - just in case his 
patient felt desperate enough to steal a hit despite the inherent 
risks to life and limb. But someone had been off sick, and 
someone else hadn't passed the message on, with the result that 
Clark had been easily able to reach the red stuff.

Clark was somewhat humbled by this behind-the-scenes look at how 
George was handling him. He hadn't realised the extent to which 
he was being carefully manipulated, and the realisation, 
surprisingly enough, increased his respect for his treatment 
schedule. He understood, at last, that all the sessions and 
classes had a purpose - and that basically, these people really 
knew what they were doing.

He didn't realise it at the time, but this was a turning point.

**************

"Okay, Clark, today we're going to get into the real messy, heavy 
stuff," said George, rubbing his hands together. "You ready for 
some action?"

Clark eyed George balefully. "What if I say I'm not?"

"Then I ask you why you're not, and you say you're having a bad 
day, and we get into a really tedious session that takes for ever 
and gets us nowhere," replied George cheerfully. "Want to do 
that? Believe me, I can last longer than you can at that game."

"George, you can be really annoying, you know that?"

"Yeah, I pride myself on it. Okay, so here's what we're going to 
do." George opened a drawer in his desk, lifted something out and 
placed in on his desk in front of Clark. "You know what this is, 
don't you?"

Clark frowned, wondering what game George was leading him into 
now. "Looks like a lead box containing red kryptonite to me, 
George."

"Yup, you got it. Like I said, I'm going to be asking you some 
tough questions today, and we all know what happens when I do 
that, don't we? You get an overwhelming urge to hit the red 
stuff."

"Yeah." In fact, just George's promise of a tough session was 
enough to make his pulse race and ignite the craving that always 
hovered just beneath the surface.

"So I've made it easy for you, Clark," said George. "It's right 
here, whenever you need it."

Clark dragged his eyes up from the box to frown at George. 
"Sounds like one hell of a crazy way to deal with an addict," he 
commented.

George grinned. "See, that's how far you've progressed, Clark. 
You just told me you were an addict without even blinking."

Clark pulled a face. "Oh, sure, I can say the words. Doesn't mean 
I'm cured."

"Of course it doesn't. You're still one sick, screwed up 
individual, but you're less sick and screwed up than when we 
started."

"Gee, that's so encouraging, George."

George shrugged. "I try. So, here's the plan. I ask you 
questions, you answer them. Any time you want a hit, you just say 
the word. But you keep answering the questions, okay? That's the 
deal."

"Why?" asked Clark. "Why is it suddenly open season on the 
kryptonite?"

"Because I'm going to crack you wide open, buddy. I need you to 
tell me stuff, and if it takes the red K to keep you talking, 
then that's what it takes." George laughed. "Don't look so 
scared. It might hurt a little, but it won't be terminal."

Clark wasn't so sure. There was already a slight tremor in his 
hands and his mouth was dry. He knew exactly where George was 
heading and it wasn't just going to hurt a little, it was going 
to rip right through him like a dagger.

"Want some before we get started?" offered George once Clark was 
settled on the couch.

Clark almost laughed - he sounded like a butler handing around 
tea and biscuits. "No."

"Okay, first question - define your relationship with Lois."

Easy. "We were friends."

"Friends that kiss."

Oh, George thought he was being so clever! "She kissed me, 
George. I never kissed her."

Score two for Clark, zero for George.

He would have, though. Just one more millimetre, that time on her 
sofa late at night, when the barriers had dropped, when they'd 
forgotten who they really were. They'd been two lost people - 
she, without her husband, and he, stranded in the wrong universe 
and finding himself becoming more and more attracted to this 
wonderful woman called Lois Lane.

"Run that one by me again," said George. "You never kissed her? 
Not even a friendly kiss?"

"Nope."

"Did you want to kiss her?"

Damn. One to George. He closed his eyes. "Yes."

"When?"

"Once. Late at night on her sofa. We'd been talking. Things got a 
little...out of hand."

"What happened?"

"We...forgot. Got caught up in the moment...you know. But we 
realised...came to our senses, I guess, before anything 
happened."

"And why would kissing her have been so bad, Clark? I hear she 
was an attractive woman, you're a good-looking man - why not 
share a kiss or two?"

It started - the dull thud of his heart, the sweaty palms - 
sooner than he'd expected, but then again George wasn't wasting 
any time getting into the heavy stuff. "Because...because we 
weren't attracted to each other. Not really. It was just a late 
evening thing."

"But you'd broken up with Lana by then?"

"Yes, but that didn't mean I was ready to jump right into another 
relationship. Besides, she was married."

Damn again - he hadn't meant to say that. Two to George.

"Married? I didn't know that."

"No-one knew except me."

"So you were her confidante, as well as her friend."

The thud in his chest was steadily building, the need rising. "I 
guess so, if you want to put it like that."

"Did you sleep with her?"

"No! I just told you she was married."

"Oh, so you just wanted to sleep with her."

The thudding grew louder. He flashed on that restless night spent 
on her sofa, knowing she was just upstairs in bed. He'd tried to 
force his thoughts elsewhere, but they'd kept returning to the 
woman just out of reach up the staircase. Finally, finding 
himself staring up at the spot on the ceiling where he knew her 
bed would be, he'd allowed his x-ray vision to flick on. Just to 
sneak a quick peek - to make sure she was okay. Nothing more. 
"No, George."

He'd glimpsed her, though - sleeping on her side, curled up and 
looking incredibly cute in her pyjamas.

"I see. Ever find your yourself floating up to the ceiling just 
thinking about her?"

Oh, god. His pulse was racing in earnest now, nerve-endings 
jangling, thoughts skittering around his brain as he tried to 
fend George off. "I don't want to answer that."

"Oh, come on, Clark, it's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I think it is. She was married."

"How quaint. Look, it happens, okay? You're a guy, I'm a guy, we 
see a pretty woman, we get...interested. It's biology."

If only he'd stop. Shut up, George, you're getting too close.

And he was starting to lose control. Everything was okay so long 
as he was in control. George was messing things up. "You don't 
understand," he blurted out. "I wasn't supposed to be attracted 
to her."

"Because she was married?"

He grabbed onto the half-truth. "Yes." But that wasn't right. 
"No."

"Which is it, Clark?"

"I don't know." He shook his head, rolling it back and forth on 
the headrest of the couch. "You're confusing me."

"Why else shouldn't you be attracted to her, Clark? If it wasn't 
because she was married?"

"I can't tell you."

"Yes, you can."

"I can't, okay?"

"Come on, Clark, quit holding out on me. Tell me this one thing 
and then you can have some red stuff."

He shook his head again. "No...not supposed to..."

"I've made it okay, remember?" said George. "You can have some 
today. You just need to tell me this thing first."

His head was going to explode. If George didn't stop asking 
questions, making him say things he didn't want to say, his head 
would split open, spattering messy thoughts all over the room. 
And, oh god, how he wanted the kryptonite. The pain would go away 
if he could have a hit. He'd die for a hit. Say anything for a 
hit...

"She wasn't my Lois!" he blurted, the words tumbling out of his 
mouth. "She was the other Clark's Lois. My Lois was lost in the 
Congo, okay? Wells looked for her but he didn't find her. Came 
back and told me she was gone forever, but I need her, I need her 
so much. Can't live without her." The words were pouring out now, 
running away from him like an express train. "That's why I need 
the kryptonite - the kryptonite stops me thinking about her. It 
blurs, it makes me happy, blocks the pain, blocks everything. I 
need it," he gasped. "I need it so I can stop the hurting."

He'd lost his bearings, hardly knew where he was any more. The 
pain and need swirled around his head, making him dizzy and 
breathless. He felt a hand on his shoulder, heard George's steady 
voice. "Clark, open your eyes and look at me."

He did as he was told. George's round features gazed intently at 
him, focusing him, bringing him back from the swirling, dizzy 
hell of his unchecked, out of control emotions. "Here," said 
George, placing the box in Clark's hand. "Take it."

Still panting, he stared wildly at George for a moment, hardly 
understanding the psychiatrist's words. Then he looked down at 
the grey metal box, felt comprehension dawn, saw his other hand 
move shakily to the lid. It hovered there, millimetres from the 
lid but unmoving. Why wouldn't his hand lift the lid?

"It's okay, Clark," said George. "You can open it."

He looked back up at George, desperate to understand why his hand 
wouldn't open the box.

"Open it," said George. "You need it."

He turned his gaze back down to the box and saw his hand slowly 
open it. The red crystal glowed invitingly within the grey lead, 
leading him down into its blissful oblivion. Shame at taking a 
hit so openly, right in front of someone else, made him hesitate 
momentarily, but the pull of the kryptonite was too strong. He 
relaxed back on the couch and let the relief flood over him, 
feeling his muscles relax and his breathing slow down. Hell went 
back into its box.

"Okay, buddy," said George softly, patting his shoulder. "You did 
good. Just relax while I go take a leak, okay? I'll be back in a 
few minutes."

"Sure," he said, his interest as to whether George stayed or 
remained leaking away as the red kryptonite worked its magic on 
him.

***********

"Okay, buddy, time for part two."

Clark opened his eyes and smiled hazily at George. "Sure, George. 
Anything you say, George."

"I think we'll just take this away, okay?" said George, taking 
the box from Clark's slack fingers. "You can have it back later 
if you need it."

"Okay." He felt mellow - George could have anything he wanted, if 
Clark was able to supply it. George was a good friend. He'd made 
Clark say a few things he probably shouldn't have, but that was 
cool. George wouldn't break a confidence. Clark could trust good 
old George.

"Feeling good, are we?" said George.

"Yeah. Real good."

"Great, because we've got a few loose ends to tie up here before 
I can let you go," said George. "I'm a little confused - you said 
Lois wasn't your Lois, but the other Clark's. This other Clark - 
he was her husband, right? The one no-one else but you knew 
about?"

"Yeah, that's right. He was in the other..." Oops, nearly 
mentioned universes. George wouldn't understand that. "Place. He 
lived someplace else."

"Where? Where someplace else?"

"In Metropolis. In a house. He's a journalist, just like me, 
actually."

"Really? Where does he work, Clark?"

"At the Daily Planet."

"That's where you work, isn't it?"

He frowned. Darn, he shouldn't have said that. Good old George 
had caught him out again. "I...I think he moved, actually. I've 
never seen him there."

"Where have you seen him?"

"At their house," he said, remembering his mirror-image who'd 
stood there so confidently and assuredly - a man certain of 
himself and his place in the world. "Told him he was lucky to 
have his Lois. Then Wells said he'd help me find my Lois."

"Who's this Wells, Clark? You haven't mentioned him before."

"He's...a friend." Score one very big point for Clark - he'd 
managed not to admit that Wells was a dead author from England. 
He was proud of himself.

"Does he live with the other Clark?"

He frowned again. George clearly hadn't got the hang of the set-
up yet. "No, he travels around a lot. I'm not sure where he 
lives."

"I see. So the other Clark is married to Lois, and Wells is 
looking for your Lois. Is that about right?"

"Yeah, except Wells couldn't find my Lois. He's stopped looking 
now. That's why I need the kryptonite."

He felt a twinge of something, a slight shudder of unease. 
George's questions were starting to get to him again. He looked 
around the room, located the box on George's desk.

"There's one thing I still don't understand, Clark. You say the 
other Clark is married to Lois, and they live in Metropolis. He 
used to work at the Daily Planet, but you think he may have moved 
on to another newspaper," said George. "You've even visited them 
at their house. But we all know Lois disappeared a year ago. How 
do you explain the discrepancy?"

With difficulty. He flicked a glance across to the box again. 
"She...they moved away," he said, unhappy with the lie but unable 
to see another way to explain it. There was no way he could tell 
George about parallel universes.

"Clark, are you sure about that?" said George. "A minute ago you 
said they were living in Metropolis."

"I forgot. They moved." The box wasn't too far away; he could get 
there in less than a second. "They definitely moved."

Shame he couldn't levitate the box across the room. All these 
amazing powers, yet no levitation ability. What an oversight.

"I see. I guess that makes sense." said George. "Do you want it, 
Clark? Shall I fetch the box for you?"

He nodded. Just to take the edge off.

"Okay," said George. "I think we're done for today anyway."

A moment later, the box was open on his lap once more. Better. 
The unease faded away again.

He felt George place a hand on his arm. "Buddy, can you focus 
here a minute? I need to say something important."

He opened his eyes and looked up at the psychiatrist. "Hey."

"I know you don't like hospitals, but I really think it would be 
helpful if you stayed with us tonight." At Clark's unenthusiastic 
look, he nodded his understanding. "I know, but you've been 
through a lot today, and I'd be happier if you were here where we 
can keep an eye on you. Carolyn's already got a room ready for 
you, and I'm sure Alice wouldn't mind bringing over a few 
things."

"What exactly do you think I might do, George?" he asked.

"Probably nothing. It's just a precaution," said George. "But I 
strongly advise you to listen to me on this one, buddy."

Clark shrugged. "If you think it's necessary."

"I do."

**********************

The room wasn't so bad. Even sobered up, Clark felt reasonably at 
ease with his surroundings. There was a good quality en-suite 
bathroom, and the bedroom furniture was simple but well-made and 
attractive. The room was decorated in warm, neutral colours, and 
he even had a window with a view over the clinic's garden.

He'd spotted the spy camera straight away, of course - it was so 
easy, what with his enhanced vision.

He'd waved at whoever was monitoring the camera. Even considered 
zapping it with a burst of heat vision, but dismissed the idea. 
There wasn't any point in staying here if he didn't buy into the 
whole thing, spy camera and all.

"Perry, thanks for dropping by."

Why was it his hearing always picked up on George's voice 
whenever he mentioned Perry's name? This eavesdropping really was 
becoming a bad habit...

"Well, when Alice said that Clark was staying here overnight, I 
figured something must have happened. Is he okay?" Perry sounded 
anxious.

"He's fine. We're just keeping an eye on him as a precaution." 
There was a pause. "I can't tell you any more than that."

"Patient confidentiality, huh?"

"Kind of," replied George. "Look, do you mind if I put the radio 
on? I'll explain why in a minute."

"Sure."

Clark winced as loud rock music suddenly assaulted his sensitive 
ears, drowning out Perry and George's conversation. Okay, so 
George was obviously now wise to his bad habit of eavesdropping.

Sitting on the bed, he hunched his knees up to his chest and 
pondered the situation. The right thing to do was forget it - 
turn on the TV and ignore the fact that Perry and George were 
discussing him downstairs. That was what Clark Kent, the well-
behaved farmer's son from Kansas, would do. Besides, nothing good 
ever came of eavesdropping - he knew that from bitter experience.

But Clark Kent, the addict and mental health patient, wanted to 
know what other people were saying about him. Were they saying he 
was a basket case, or were they celebrating a momentous 
breakthrough and expecting him to be back to his old self in a 
matter of weeks or even days?

He chewed on his bottom lip. He really, really wanted to know 
this. Especially given the stuff he'd told George today - he was 
a little hazy on the details, but he was pretty sure he'd told 
George things that he hadn't meant to. Things that no sane person 
would believe.

Maybe if he concentrated really hard, he could tune out the music 
and focus in on the two men's conversation. He closed his eyes, 
bowed his head and listened to the melee of noises, gradually 
locating the lower, unpitched tones of speech underneath the 
thumping, twangy rock music.

"...head trauma? Is that possible?"

"...doubt it. The guy's invulnerable." That was Perry, robustly 
dismissing George's question.

"That's what I thought." George sounded disheartened. "...sorry, 
but your friend...lot sicker... Does he have...doctor? ...advice 
on medication..."

"No..."

"Damn. ...identity disorder...medication...don't know what 
effect..."

Clark froze. Identity disorder? They thought he was confused 
about who he was? He was confused about a lot of things, but he 
knew darn well that he was Clark Kent from Smallville, Kansas! 
And that was twice he'd heard the word medication.

Alarmed that they were totally misunderstanding him, he redoubled 
his efforts to pick out the conversation.

"...multiple personality syndrome? Is that what you mean?"

"Yeah, Perry. He kept talking about another Clark today, someone 
who lives and works in Metropolis - who even works at the Daily 
Planet. He was a little hazy on that last point when I pressed 
him, but I think that was only because he suddenly realised his 
story sounded a little way out there, so he changed it. And get 
this, Perry, this other Clark is married to Lois Lane."

"Oh, my. You think this other guy is Clark himself? He's split 
himself in two, with one half living in a fantasy world with 
Lois?"

"Something like that - and I think he uses the kryptonite to 
reach that other world. Our Clark said he needs the kryptonite to 
forget Lois Lane, but I think the other Clark needs it to 
remember her. Live with her, if you like."

"Have you tried talking to the other Clark?"

"No, not yet. Now that I've got him here tonight, I'm going to 
try and keep him here for a few days longer while we work through 
this stuff. It could get pretty messy. Which is why I could 
really do with someone medical on the case."

Clark had heard enough. They were going to lock him up and pump 
him full of medication! Terrified, he leapt up from the bed, flew 
downstairs and flung open the door of George's office. "You're 
wrong!" he cried. "You've got it all wrong!"

He took in the scene at a glance - Perry, with a cut-glass whisky 
tumbler in hand, twisting around in his chair and staring with 
shock at his sudden entry. George, already rising, concern 
written across his genial features.

"Clark, son, I don't know-"

"Perry, let me handle this," said George sharply. He finished 
standing and looked steadily at Clark. "Okay, buddy, let's take a 
couple of deep breaths together."

"I'm not crazy! At least, not like that. I-"

"Clark." George's voice cut through Clark's like steel. "Listen 
to me, buddy. I need you to do exactly as I say - take in a slow 
breath to a count of three-"

"Quit trying to humour me, George," snapped Clark. "I just need 
to tell you-"

"I'm not trying to humour you, Clark. You can have your say in a 
minute, okay? I just want you to slow down a little first. It'll 
be easier that way."

Clark caught a glimpse of Perry sitting behind George, his 
knuckles white as he gripped his whisky tumbler and watched the 
scene unfold. His friend looked alarmed - fearful, even.

That did it - the thought that he was scaring a good and trusted 
friend with his behaviour made Clark realise that he really did 
need to calm down a little. He followed George's advice and took 
the calming breaths, searched around for the good old sea of 
tranquillity and more or less found a calm spot where he could 
bob up and down in the gently lapping waves. Perry turned the 
radio off, and suddenly the room felt a lot more peaceful and 
civilised.

"That's better," said George. "Now come and sit down and talk to 
us."

Clark joined them on the comfortable chairs arranged around 
George's antique coffee table. Perry, he noted thankfully, seemed 
more relaxed, although he caught the reassuring glances which 
went between George and Perry as he settled himself.

"Want a drink?" offered George. "I've got a very good 
Glenmorangie here - if Perry's left any in the bottle, that is."

"No, thanks," said Clark. He preferred the peatier single malt 
whiskies, and anyway, the circumstances just didn't feel right 
for drinking, no matter how congenial George was trying to make 
things.

"Okay, then shoot. I guess you heard everything I said?"

"Yes. Sorry." Clark took a deep breath, framing the words he 
wanted to say in his head so that he didn't blurt out a story 
that would send George scrambling for the nearest straitjacket.

"Uh, maybe I should leave," interjected Perry. "If this is going 
to be a patient-doctor type of conversation, that is."

Clark shook his head. "No, Perry, this affects you, too. I'd 
prefer if you stayed." He smiled shakily. "I'm not sure I'm up to 
repeating this more often than I absolutely have to."

"Fine, then he stays," said George. "But any time you want him to 
go, just say the word, okay?" He looked over at Perry, who nodded 
his agreement.

"Thanks," said Clark. Another deep breath. "Okay, if someone had 
told you three years ago that there was an alien living in 
Metropolis, you'd have had serious doubts about their sanity, 
wouldn't you?"

They both agreed, and it was from there that he took them through 
the events surrounding his two encounters with Lois Lane. He kept 
it as impersonal and factual as he possibly could, but even so, 
it was a difficult and sometimes harrowing story to tell. Several 
times he had to repeat himself or explain things he'd forgotten 
to include, and they were naturally sceptical from the outset, 
causing him to expend a lot of energy in simply convincing them 
that he was telling the truth.

It didn't help that the first part of his story came as a 
complete shock to Perry, who had, until that point, believed that 
Lois had returned from the Congo just over a year ago. Clark had 
to witness the resurfacing of Perry's guilt - the guilt of 
sending a member of staff into a dangerous situation which 
ultimately resulted in their presumed death. Perry's stricken 
face when he finally accepted the truth of Clark's version of 
events brought Clark to a stumbling full stop.

There were several moments of complete silence.

Eventually, George cleared his throat. "I think Perry would 
appreciate it if you finished the story," he said to Clark. "That 
okay with you, Perry?"

Perry nodded.

"Clark? You okay to continue, buddy?"

No, he was very far from okay. His hands were trembling and his 
heart was thumping, and he was very aware of the fact that the 
medicine cabinet containing his red kryptonite was only just down 
the corridor from George's office. The addict in him was already 
scheming, thinking up clever ways to get to the stuff.

However, his fear of the consequences if he didn't persuade them 
to believe his story won over his need for a hit. He nodded 
tightly. "Yeah."

He finished the story, taking them through his visit to Lois's 
universe. In some ways that was even harder, because it was this 
second encounter that had really branded his soul with Lois's 
amazing personality. He'd realised exactly what was missing in 
his life; what would still be missing in his life when he 
returned to his own universe.

His whole body was trembling by the time he finished. "S-so now 
do you believe me?" he said shakily.

"Hell, yes," murmured Perry. "Son, that's one heck of a story. Do 
you know-"

"Perry, I think that's enough for tonight," interrupted George, 
his gaze flicking over to Clark with professional assessment. 
"Clark and I will pick this up tomorrow, huh, buddy?"

Clark nodded, wrapping his arms around his body in an effort to 
stop the shaking. "I hope you've got that medicine cabinet well 
guarded tonight," he said, attempting a sardonic smile. "I'm 
feeling just a little rough."

George grimaced sympathetically. "I wish there was something I 
could give you, but I'm reluctant to medicate you without medical 
advice."

"I understand," replied Clark. "I don't suppose you've got a 
Scrabble board handy, have you? It's Alice's patented cure for 
addicts with the shakes."

George laughed. "Sure, buddy. Let me show Perry to the door and 
then we'll crack out the Scrabble."

*******************

Over the ensuing days, Clark discovered an unexpected benefit of 
his confessions that night. The heavy cloud of despair, which had 
become part of his daily existence for so long he couldn't 
remember living without it, actually lifted a little. It didn't 
take him long to realise why - at last, there were two people; 
three, counting Alice, whom he gave Perry permission to let into 
the secret, who knew exactly what had happened to him. Even when 
he wasn't actually talking directly about his experiences, it 
felt good to know that there were people close to him who really 
understood what he'd been through.

He still had a long way to travel, though. Now that George 
understood more fully the causes of Clark's addiction, he began 
strenuous work on addressing those causes. He explored areas of 
Clark's psyche that Clark found intensely uncomfortable, such as 
the loss of his parents and his break-up with Lana. He delved 
deep into Clark's loneliness, bringing him to tears on more than 
one occasion, and spent a lot of time on his Superman persona.

In particular, he wanted to know how Clark dealt with trauma - if 
someone was badly injured, how did that make him feel? If he 
witnessed a death, or had to bring dead bodies out from a 
disaster scene, did he talk to anyone about it? Mostly, the 
answer was no, although now and then he did talk to Perry or 
Alice about his work - it depended whether one of their dinners 
happened to coincide with a recent event or not. George made him 
realise how dangerous this was - that he was bottling up a lot of 
strong emotions which had undoubtedly contributed to his present 
illness.

Clark's social life was also picked to pieces, particularly his 
recent run of short-term girlfriends. His attitude to sex within 
a relationship was analysed, and it wasn't very long before 
George discovered just how recently Clark had lost his virginity. 
Clark's confession of tears after sex then came as no surprise to 
George, who merely pointed out what Clark already knew in his 
heart of hearts - that, for him, sex wasn't something that could 
exist outside a loving relationship. He wept because he wanted to 
be making love with Lois Lane, not having sex with a woman he 
barely knew.

Bringing these issues out into the open helped Clark understand 
them better, but didn't really cure the root cause. He still 
longed to have his Lois Lane by his side.

*************

"Clark, do you want to be Superman?" asked George one day.

"Yes," he replied, slightly surprised that George thought it a 
question worth asking. "Of course I do."

"Why 'of course'?"

"Well, because it allows me to use my abilities to help people," 
he said. "Before I was Superman, I'd do what I could, but I was 
never able to do as much as I wanted because I had to hide what I 
was up to. Now I can help whenever I want."

"Do you ever help when you don't want to?"

"Not really."

"It's never inconvenient for you?" George said. "What if you're 
in the middle of a date and you hear something? Do you want to be 
Superman then?"

Clark pulled a face. "Okay, so sometimes it's not convenient. But 
I have to go."

"Why do you have to go?"

"Because people might get hurt if I don't," he replied a little 
impatiently. This seemed like a pointless line of questioning to 
Clark - he did what he could, when he could.

"So does Clark Kent control Superman, or does Superman control 
Clark Kent?"

He frowned. "It doesn't work like that. I do what I have to."

"It's just that you're now saying 'I have to', when you started 
out by telling me that Superman was a good thing because you 
could help 'whenever I want'," pointed out George. "Which is it?"

This was becoming irritating. George seemed to be acting 
deliberately obtusely - but then, that was what George excelled 
at. "George, you can't do what I do half-heartedly," he said. 
"You either do it to the best of your abilities or you may as 
well not bother at all."

"Okay, I'll accept that," said George. "But tell me this - are 
you satisfied with what you do? Or could you do more?"

"There's always more to be done," he muttered.

"I see," said George. "So - ever thought of becoming Superman 
full time? If there's always more to be done, it would seem like 
the next logical step, wouldn't it? I'm sure you could persuade 
the city to pay you some sort of a salary if money was a 
problem."

"Yes, but..."

"But what?"

He'd never actually considered doing anything so drastic, but now 
that George was forcing him to consider it, he knew immediately 
why it had never occurred to him before. "If I was Superman all 
the time, I wouldn't be me."

George tutted. "Sounds like a pretty selfish point of view, 
Clark. Think of all those extra people you could save if you did 
it full time."

Clark rolled his eyes. "George, did anyone ever tell you how 
obnoxious you are?"

"Oh, yeah. Now answer the question, buddy."

"What question?" said Clark. "You made a statement."

"Smart-ass," shot back George. "Okay, why don't you want to save 
even more people by becoming Superman full time? Why isn't that 
selfish?"

Clark smiled. "Now you've asked me two questions. A good reporter 
only asks one question at a time."

"Well, lucky for you, I'm a psychiatrist and not a reporter. 
Answer the damn question, Clark."

Game over. He sighed. "Because I have to be me some of the time 
in order to be Superman the rest of the time."

"Wow, that's very noble of you," said George. "You spend time as 
Clark Kent only so that you can be as good a Superman as you 
possibly can? I didn't know I was psychoanalysing a saint."

Clark snorted. "Far from it, my friend. Okay, the truth - I'd 
hate to be that all-good, too-perfect cartoon cut-out all the 
time. It would drive me crazy."

George laughed. "I hate to tell you, buddy, but you already are."

"Very funny, George."

"So, tell me," said George, sobering quickly. "How do you square 
this selfish attitude of yours with your conscience? You're not 
willing to be Superman full time, yet you know you ought to do 
more. How does that work?"

Clark bit his bottom lip. As usual, George had boxed him into a 
corner and was asking him the unanswerable. "It doesn't," he said 
quietly. That was the big problem - he lived with a constant 
guilty conscience. Whatever he did wasn't enough, and he berated 
himself for not doing more. But even when he pushed himself hard, 
to the point of exhaustion, it still wasn't enough, because 
people still died.

No matter what he did, people died.

"Hey, buddy, talk to me. What are you thinking?"

He raised his hands to his face, hid behind the double safety of 
his closed eyes and palms. "People die and I can't stop them."

"And you think you ought to save them all? That pretty much puts 
you up there with God, doesn't it?"

"George, I'm not that naive," he murmured from behind his hands. 
"I know I can't save everyone. Intellectually, anyway. 
Emotionally...well, sometimes I forget."

"Which brings me to this - do you think you're emotionally well-
equipped to be Superman?"

Clark knew the answer to this one. It was obvious - why else was 
he here, in a mental health clinic, receiving treatment for 
addiction? He sighed and pulled his hands away from his face. 
"No."

"Why not?"

He knew the answer to this one, too - had known it for over a 
year. "Because I don't have anyone to talk to at the end of the 
day. The other Clark had his parents, and then Lois, to talk 
stuff over with. I have to do it all on my own." He sighed, his 
voice catching on his next words. "Which is why I need my Lois."

Everything always came back to Lois. No matter what George said, 
what clever questions he asked, Lois was always the answer.

He knew he shouldn't pin all his hopes, his whole reason for 
living, on a woman he'd never met and was most probably dead, but 
he couldn't stop himself. Maybe it was because he couldn't 
actually believe that she was dead.

Missing.

It was such an ambiguous word. Missing from what? Missing from 
life? Missing from friends and family? Missing the way back to 
her old life?

She could be anywhere.

Maybe if he could just have some closure - be shown a dead body, 
or something.

His eyes smarted with unshed tears which had suddenly sprung up 
from nowhere. That was all he did these days - fight back tears 
and an absolute devotion to a stupid red rock he'd found in a 
field.

He felt George's hand on his shoulder. "You want to take five?"

"Yeah."

"Tissues are in the usual place."

He almost laughed. George could read him like a book.

*********************

He decided to pay Lana a return visit. She'd battered him to 
pieces the last time he'd seen her, but he was feeling a little 
stronger now that he had friends around him who understood him. 
The green kryptonite incident, too, had strengthened him in a 
strange way - he'd hit rock bottom that day, and now that it was 
over, the only way to travel was up.

It wasn't that he sought retribution with Lana; he just wanted to 
redress the balance between them a little. Show her that he 
wasn't quite as pathetic as she made out.

He didn't tell George he intended to visit her. George might not 
have approved - told him he wasn't ready to take on his waspish 
ex-fiancee. But Clark felt he could cope.

It probably helped that he'd got himself down to a day and a half 
between hits. That had just happened spontaneously - he'd made a 
spur of the moment decision on his way to the treatment room at 
the clinic where he was usually given his hits to simply not go 
there. He went for a flight around the city instead. Then he'd 
told the clinic he'd like to change his treatment schedule and 
they'd agreed immediately. Just like that.

Of course, he timed the visit to Lana very, very carefully. He 
made sure he was roughly half-way between hits - not too high 
that he didn't care what he said, but not so low that he was 
totally vulnerable.

"So, they let you out, did they?"

"Amazing, isn't it?" he replied. "Do I get to come in, or are we 
going to trade insults on your doorstep?"

She moved aside to let him in and closed the door behind him. 
Lana and Steve lived in a very nice house right in the centre of 
the smart end of Metropolis - all white paint, gold chandeliers 
and stripped wooden floors. Stylish and totally impersonal, in 
Clark's opinion. He preferred something with a little more 
character.

She led him into the lounge. More stylish features, such as an 
over-designed beige sofa that looked sleek and elegant but was 
totally uncomfortable to sit on, and brushed aluminium light 
fittings that wouldn't have looked out of place in an operating 
theatre. Clark wondered how all this chic smartness would fare 
once Lana started producing the brood of children she and Steve 
had apparently scheduled for next year.

"What can I do for you, Clark?" she asked, perching on the edge 
of the uncomfortable sofa.

"I thought I should return this," he said, holding up a lumpy old 
sweatshirt she'd borrowed from him many times. "I mean, you 
practically made it your own when we were dating, so I'm just 
returning it to its rightful owner."

She eyed it with distaste. He'd known full well that shabby 
sweatshirts certainly didn't fit with her new lifestyle when he'd 
unearthed it from the back of his wardrobe at home. This moment 
was to be savoured.

"Thanks," she said, making no move to take it from him.

He stood up and held it out to her. "Here, why don't you put it 
on for old times sake?"

"Clark, don't be ridiculous," she snapped, snatching the garment 
from him and dumping it on the sofa. "Is this some pathetic 
attempt to remind me about us? I'm married, Clark. You can't have 
me back."

"Lana, I wouldn't take you back if you paid me."

She bristled. "You wouldn't talk to me like that if Steve were 
here."

"No?" He drew himself up to his full height and looked down at 
her with his arms crossed over his chest, Superman style. "I'd be 
afraid of him, would I?"

She shot up from her seat and faced him defiantly, her arms 
crossed exactly the same as his. "At least he'll be able to give 
me children, which is more than you'd ever have been able to do."

The words hit him like a slap across the face, but he stood his 
ground. "Is that all a husband is to you, Lana? Someone to put 
food on the table, buy you a nice house, and give you kids? Oh, 
and join Daddy's company," he added. "Mustn't forget Daddy."

"Get out," she said. "Get out of my life and never come back."

"Gladly, Lana. Just remember that you were the one who brought us 
together again, though. You were the one who came to hurt me when 
I was down," he said. "I'm just here to show my gratitude, Lana - 
you made me a lot stronger that day, so I thank you for that."

"Any time," she replied sarcastically. "Now go, before I throw 
you out."

"Already on my way," he said, lifting slowly off the floor and 
gliding through the lounge door to the entrance. He particularly 
enjoyed the blatant use of powers in front of her - she hated 
that. "Don't bother to see me out," he threw over his shoulder.

He opened the front door and flew up into the sky, free as a 
bird.

******************

Okay, so it had been a little immature of him to make that visit, 
but it had felt great. For once in what seemed like months, he'd 
been calling the shots. He'd been the one in control.

George had asked whether he controlled Superman, or vice versa. 
In the beginning, he'd definitely been in control. It had all 
been so new that he hadn't automatically heard every cry for help 
or every incident requiring the help of a superhero, so he hadn't 
been that busy, and consequently the job hadn't been so hard to 
slot into his life. People even helped - they accommodated his 
abrupt departures and late arrivals. For a while, he'd even 
thought he had a better deal than the other Clark, who always 
needed to create some sort of smokescreen to cover his 
disappearances. There came a time when he felt pretty good about 
this new life of his - by breaking up with Lana, he'd regained 
control of his private life, and by becoming Superman, he'd got 
control of his powers. Plus he was helping people - what could be 
better?

Later, though, he'd become more skilled at hearing all the 
important sounds of distress and, as a result, his response had 
become more immediate. Anything he heard required his attention. 
Control had begun to slip from Clark Kent to Superman. Superman 
wanted to do everything, and it was Clark who had to hold back, 
to keep a part of himself alive as just another guy in the 
street.

Just another guy in the street.

That was the other problem. At first, this new celebrity status 
had been novel and exciting. As Superman, he found it fairly easy 
to do the press conferences, the media interviews, sign the 
autograph books, and so on. As Clark Kent, he asked people at 
work to treat him normally and, mostly, they did.

However, when Superman became more widely known - and more 
importantly, the values he stood for became widely known - Clark 
realised that people expected him to be as perfect as his alter 
ego. It wasn't that he wanted to behave badly all the time, but 
he couldn't even behave badly for five minutes.

So, eventually, Superman controlled Clark Kent - he dictated when 
Clark had time to himself, and he dictated how Clark should 
behave.

Yet another two reasons why he needed his Lois.

"Do you think you'd need Lois so much if you weren't Superman?"

He blinked, George's question bringing him back to the present. 
He was on the couch again, playing their usual game of twenty 
questions. Or make that two hundred questions, he amended 
ruefully.

He pondered George's question. It was hard to imagine his life 
without Superman, but he supposed that logically, he'd been sort 
of okay when he'd just been plain old Clark Kent - he hadn't 
needed a Lois Lane back then.

But how did you erase someone from your soul once they'd branded 
themselves on you? Just as he couldn't imagine his life without 
Superman, he couldn't imagine life without Lois - even if he 
never met her again, she'd always be part of him.

So could he cope; live his life with just the mere memory of a 
lost love to sustain him if he wasn't Superman?

"Maybe - I mean, maybe I wouldn't need her quite so much," he 
conceded. "But you're asking me to imagine the unimaginable."

"Well, just humour me for a moment," said George. "How about 
giving up Superman? Given that you can't have your Lois, would 
that make things easier for you?"

He shook his head immediately. "No." As hard as he found the job, 
and as bad as things had become, he just wasn't prepared to give 
it up. "Superman is what I am - it's what I do," he said.

George cleared his throat and resettled himself on his chair. 
"Okay. Let's summarise things so far. You definitely want to be 
Superman, and, even though you have this big guilt problem 
because you can never do enough, you're not prepared to give up 
being Superman. And even if you can't have your Lois, you still 
want to be Superman." He chuckled. "I got to tell you, buddy, 
you've got a lot of determination - and that's what will probably 
get you through this, you know.

"But, and this is the big but, you told me the other day that 
you're poorly equipped, emotionally, to be Superman. Frankly, I'd 
agree - you don't handle stress well, and you don't have much of 
a support system in place. Occasional dinners with Perry and 
Alice just ain't enough, buddy."

Clark pulled a face. "You're really cheering me up here, George," 
he said. "I feel better already."

"Hey, I said you were determined, didn't I?" replied George. 
"Anyway, how do you suggest we fix this mess? How do we make you 
into an emotionally strong Superman?"

"Isn't that your job?" said Clark. "To tell me what to do?"

"Oh, no, that's your job, buddy. I just ask questions."

"Seems to me you're overpaid if all you do is ask questions."

George grinned. "Why do you think there are so many therapists in 
the world? We know a good thing when we see it. So what's the 
answer? I'll give you a big clue - the answer doesn't involve 
Lois Lane."

Clark closed his eyes, hurt by George's careless dismissal of 
her. "Then I don't know."

"Come on, buddy. Use your imagination - how else can you make 
yourself emotionally strong?"

Clark sighed. "I don't know, George."

"I'll give you another clue - support systems."

He shook his head. "Oh, no. I tried that - tried it a lot. They 
were all really nice women, but I couldn't love any of them."

"Why not?"

"Because I didn't have those sorts of feelings for them. I 
pretended a little, but they soon figured me out."

"But did you even try to love any of them? Love takes time, you 
know - it's not all that dewy-eyed, love at first sight crap you 
see in the movies."

"George, I'm not stupid," said Clark. "I know all this."

"So why didn't you give love a chance?"

"Because they weren't the right type...because I already loved 
someone else." Clark swallowed back the inevitable lump in his 
throat, determined not to give in to his emotions yet again. 
"Look, there's something you don't seem to understand," he said.

"What's that, Clark?"

"All those women...any woman I meet - they all know who I am. 
They date me because I'm Superman, not because I'm Clark Kent."

He flashed on his latest girlfriend, murmuring breathlessly 
beneath him. "Oh, yeah, Superman. You're so big, Superman."

They'd all been like that. And even if the women he'd dated while 
he'd been high on red kryptonite were shallower than the sort of 
woman he could imagine wanting to form a deeper relationship 
with, the Superman thing would always be in the way. He'd always 
wonder if they'd like him so much if he were just plain old Clark 
Kent, farmer's son from Kansas.

"Oh, you mean this?" said George, flicking a tabloid newspaper 
into Clark's lap.

"I SEDUCED SUPERMAN"

The headline was emblazoned across a two-page centre spread. Sub-
headlines declared "He Was Insatiable," "Super-Sex," and "Love On 
The Ceiling."

"Or this?" George flicked a second newspaper on top of the first.

"BETWEEN THE SHEETS WITH SUPERMAN"

More lurid sub-headlines - "He Said He Loved Me," "Always The 
Gentleman," and, most embarrassingly, "Impressive."

Clark winced. He'd been aware of these, of course, but had 
resolutely ignored them; pretty much denied they even existed, in 
fact. At the time, he'd hardly cared what anyone thought of him, 
so long as they didn't know that he was out of control and high 
on red kryptonite. That had been the important secret to protect 
- by comparison, newspapers printing scurrilous gossip about 
Superman had seemed like an unimportant annoyance.

He pushed the papers aside. "I was out of my mind, George. I 
didn't know what I was doing half the time."

"Yeah, you could say. Yet you base your whole theory of 
relationships on your experience with these women? Did you even 
know any of them for more than few days?" said George.

Clark shrugged. "Mostly, no. One or two lasted longer. But that's 
not the point. Even if I met someone who I thought I might 
actually learn to love eventually, I'd still wonder if they were 
attracted to Superman or me."

"So it's safer not to risk finding out."

"Yeah."

"Sounds like a pretty lonely existence you've mapped out for 
yourself, buddy."

"I don't have a choice."

"You know, I think the women of the world might be a little 
pissed that you've written their whole sex off as shallow and 
undiscerning," remarked George.

"I'm not doing that," objected Clark. "I guess I'm just saying I 
don't think I could stand being hurt again. I've already been in 
one long-term relationship that ended badly - I don't want 
another that ends the same way."

"Love hurts, buddy."

"Spare me the fortune cookie stuff, George."

"Didn't you realise my whole therapeutic approach is based on 
fortune cookie sayings?" said George. "Okay, let's talk about 
Lois for a minute. Your Lois, that is - the one who disappeared 
in the Congo. Say she came back tomorrow - she'd know you're 
Superman, just like everyone else. How do you know she wouldn't 
treat you like those other women?"

"Because she just wouldn't," said Clark. "I've met her 
counterpart, and she wasn't like that."

"So she'd be exactly the same as the Lois Lane you met, huh?" 
said George. "Just like you're exactly the same as that other 
Clark, yeah? The one who grew up in a stable family home, broke 
up with Lana when he was a teenager, and doesn't have to deal 
with everyone knowing that he's Superman. I'm sure you're just 
like two peas in a pod, aren't you?"

Clark rolled his eyes. "No, George. But we have a lot in common, 
and I think my Lois would have a lot in common with the Lois I 
met."

"So your Lois is a safe bet, huh? You're certain not to get hurt 
in a relationship with her, is that it?"

"I guess so." George was so annoying sometimes. He made Clark's 
explanations sound stupid and narrow-minded.

George laughed. "You know, what? I think you're lazy. And a 
coward. It's easier to live your lonely, miserable life wishing 
Lois were here than it is to get off your butt and take a few 
risks."

"That's not true. I don't get off my butt, as you put it, because 
I know I can't love anyone else."

"How do you know until you've tried? I'll say it again, buddy - 
you're afraid of taking the risk."

"That's not true, either," protested Clark. "I take risks all the 
time."

"As Superman, maybe, but not as Clark Kent."

Clark bit his lip. George was right. Superman was the flamboyant 
part of his character - Clark Kent just plodded along in his 
wake, doing as little as possible to make waves. Especially 
during the last year, when he'd begun to lose his edge as a 
reporter. Once upon a time, Clark Kent would at least have broken 
the occasional major story; made a nuisance of himself until he 
uncovered the news that no-one wanted told.

"Look, buddy, I think that's enough for today. Hopefully I've 
given you a few things to think about, okay?"

Clark nodded.

George began scribbling a few notes on his clipboard. "It's time 
to start thinking about how you're going to live your life once 
you're out of this place and rid of my ugly face," he said, his 
head still bowed over his notes. "We'll work on that some more 
next time."

Clark unfolded himself from George's couch. "Actually, I was 
thinking I might move back to my own place soon," he said. "Do 
you think I'm ready for that?"

George's head popped up, a big grin spreading over his round 
face. "Do you know how long I've been waiting for you to say 
that? Bud, if you're asking the question, you're ready."

Clark smiled. "Okay, I'll tell Alice and Perry. I'm sure they'll 
be glad to get rid of me."

*******************

George's questions occupied a lot of Clark's thoughts over the 
next few days. He'd known from the start that he needed to find a 
way of living without red kryptonite - that much had been 
obvious. But what George had made him realise was that he needed 
to find a way of living without Lois.

In one of George's later sessions, it was suggested that Clark 
was really in mourning for the loss of his Lois. It made a lot of 
sense. Wells's news that he was unable to find her after his 
year-long search was almost the same as confirmation of her 
death, and that had plunged Clark unknowingly into a period of 
intense mourning. He'd turned inward, focusing on his grief and 
despair, just like a person might who'd been bereaved. Even his 
hope that she was still alive, and his dreams about her, could be 
compared to the feelings and experiences of a person who'd 
suffered the loss of a loved one.

George even suggested that Clark might like to hold a small 
memorial for her; perhaps lay some flowers on her gravestone and 
propose a toast or two to her amongst good friends - Alice and 
Perry, basically. Clark declined. He wasn't ready for that. He 
felt nauseous just thinking about the idea.

However, he did think that perhaps he could find a way of living 
with his loss. Other people managed that, so why couldn't he? 
Widowers even remarried.

So a fresh start was needed. He'd move back into his apartment, 
kick the kryptonite habit, and gradually ease himself back into 
normal life. He'd even date, but this time he'd look for the 
right woman, not just any woman willing to jump into bed with 
him. She'd be bright and funny, sensitive and intelligent, and 
somehow, by a miracle of fate, she'd want to be with Clark Kent 
and not Superman. As George had pointed out, there had to be at 
least one woman out there somewhere who could look beyond the 
cape and tights.

And who knew - in time, he might even find a way to love her.

Ripples of unease broke the surface of his otherwise tranquil sea 
whenever he found himself thinking that. Logically, he knew that 
there was no reason why he shouldn't love the right woman, 
but...well, it was that 'but' that caused the ripples. He wasn't 
sure what the 'but' meant, but it was there, nonetheless. 
However, his recent sessions with George had borne in him a new 
determination to make things right again, and that meant pressing 
forward - thinking positively.

Of course, it was easy to decide these things in the safety of 
his room at Perry and Alice's. It was considerably harder to 
actually do any of them.

The first part was the easiest. Within a week of making his 
plans, he was back in his apartment. Alice had arranged for a 
cleaning company to visit, and she'd visited herself to add a few 
personal touches, like a brand-new Scrabble box set prominently 
on his coffee table. He laughed out loud when he saw it.

It felt good to be home. He had all his own things around him 
again, and he could do exactly what he wanted, when he wanted. 
Control was back within his grasp.

Of course, he still had appointments with the clinic, and he soon 
found out how closely they were keeping an eye on him even though 
he was at home. He forgot about an extra session George had 
arranged for him with one of the relationship counsellors, and it 
only took them five minutes into the appointment time to phone 
him to ask where he was. Presumably if he hadn't answered the 
phone they would have sent out search parties!

Kicking the kryptonite was harder. For anyone else, the hassle of 
traipsing over to the clinic every other day for a hit might have 
lessened their craving, but for Clark, it was a breeze to fly 
there, get his fix, and then drift slowly back on a kryptonite 
high. The clinic usually held him back for the first couple of 
hours to make sure he was safe to himself and everyone else, but 
even that didn't seem like much of an inconvenience - he was too 
high to care.

However, the day eventually came when he decided that enough was 
enough. He was never going to get better if he was continually 
feeding his habit, so he told George he was giving it up and that 
was that.

****************

Well, not quite. The trouble was, he didn't have anything to do 
all day long, and that made for an idle mind. Idle minds sought 
ways to relieve the boredom, and one great way of doing that was 
to disappear into a cloud of kryptonite-induced oblivion.

So he had lapses. The clinic had strict procedures for dealing 
with lapses. Any time he appeared on their doorstep begging for 
kryptonite, he was taken for assessment by one of the staff 
psychiatrists. Often, it was George, but not every time. They'd 
start by trying to talk him out of it, reminding him of how 
disappointed he'd be with himself afterwards, of the fact that it 
had been his own choice to give up the red stuff in the first 
place. Sometimes, they'd win the battle, and sometimes they'd 
lose. If they lost, a nurse would escort him to the treatment 
room and remain with him while he was granted the briefest of 
hits. She'd time his hit by monitoring his pulse - when it went 
below a certain rate, the box was closed and locked safely away 
with the green kryptonite once more.

It was all very medical, and designed, it seemed to Clark, to 
make him feel as guilty as possible. They never denied him his 
dignity, but boy, did his conscience take a battering.

The other strict rule concerned Superman. At his sickest, Clark 
really hadn't noticed the cries for help any more, hadn't been 
tuned into the unique sounds of distress and disaster which had 
dominated his life before his breakdown. But now that he was 
recovering, he began to hear them again.

"Clark, this is a cast-iron, non-negotiable rule," George 
announced. "This is one you do not break, okay? You are not to 
respond to any requests for help. I do not want you going 
anywhere near that red cape until I say so."

Clark frowned. "Not even the minor stuff? I can't stop old ladies 
from being mugged or catch petty thieves? Those sorts of rescues 
are good for me, surely. Make me feel useful."

"Yeah, but I don't think you know where the boundaries are, 
buddy. When does a minor rescue become a major rescue? When the 
mugger shoots someone? When the thief takes a hostage, or two, or 
three?" George shook his head. "I just don't think you're ready 
to cope with the emotional fall-out yet."

"But-"

"No buts. I'm the professional here, okay? Let me do my job."

So he ignored the cries for help. In truth, there were hardly any 
in any case, because people had lost the habit of calling for him 
during his absence from the skies.

Harder to ignore were the accidents. Metropolis was a big city, 
with an extensive transport system and the usual high volume of 
impatient, hasty drivers. Minor knocks were commonplace, and 
larger incidents were fairly regular. Clark valiantly ignored 
them all, until the day of the multiple pile-up on one of the 
major freeways on the west of the city.

He heard the radio reports first. Helicopter-based reporters, 
quick to the scene, described a terrible picture of twisted 
metal, jack-knifed vehicles strewn across the highway, and 
crumpled crash barriers. The TV news soon joined in, and it was 
when Clark heard the first human scream that he couldn't bear it 
any longer.

He didn't hesitate for a millisecond after that scream. He flung 
on the first available suit from his wardrobe and was airborne 
while the reverberations from the scream were still ringing in 
his ears.

At the scene of the accident, he had a brief moment of 
nervousness, not to say nausea, as he flew over the chaotic mass 
of broken vehicles. It was a long time - or at least, it felt 
like a long time - since he'd done this. Did he still have the 
skills? Would he be accepted by the emergency services? How much 
did they know about his illness?

They did indeed look at him askance when he swooped down to the 
hub of the rescue operation. However, having arrived, there was 
no going back, so he strode straight up to them and asked firmly, 
"What can I do?"

There were a few more sideways looks from busy rescue workers, 
but then one of the more senior-looking firemen stepped up and 
barked, "The jack-knifed truck near the other end. It's stopping 
the bigger fire engines from getting through."

He nodded once and then took off. That was the ice-breaker - 
after that first job, he became a member of the team, just like 
old times. The remainder of the rescue proceeded slowly and 
painfully, as these incidents always did, but eventually, all the 
injured were either in hospital or at home, and the freeway was 
cleared of debris.

He returned home and sat staring blankly at the TV for a long 
time. He didn't feel elated, but he didn't think he felt 
depressed either. He'd seen some pretty horrific injuries and a 
couple of extremely distressed people who'd been trapped in their 
cars for a long time, but none of it seemed to have had a 
significant impact on him. Mostly, he was confused because he 
didn't think he felt enough of anything at all.

The phone rang eventually. "Come and see me tomorrow, okay, 
buddy? Ten o'clock."

He confirmed the appointment and rang off. Relief settled over 
him - George was on the case and would explain these weird, non-
feelings to him.

He tumbled into bed, exhausted.

************

Well, as usual, it turned out that George had out-smarted him.

"I knew you wouldn't be able to sit on your hands for very long," 
he said with a note of triumph.

Apparently, the non-negotiable, unbreakable rule had been a ploy 
- George's way of making sure Clark was ready when he went out 
for the first time again as Superman. The theory went like this: 
if Clark was prepared to break George's cast-iron rule and also 
risk his own well-being, then he was probably resilient enough to 
do Superman's work. Well, the theory