Damaged by Yvonne Connell Rated: PG13 Submitted: Oct 2004 __________ Acknowledgements: My thanks to Wendy, Pam, Lynn, and Elena for sterling BR services. Elena had to leave the party early due to circumstances beyond her control, but her contribution to the first few sections was much appreciated. Thanks also to Lynn for the inspired title, and for some truly fantastic ideas on how to make all the characters even more miserable than they already were. Finally, many thanks (I think) to the aforementioned BR mafia for insisting that my original concept for the story wouldn't work: you collectively turned a molehill into a mountain. Warning: There are themes discussed in this story which some readers may find disturbing.  There is also a certain degree of implied violence, both physical and psychological. Damaged She sat, knees neatly together, back straight, hands clasped tidily in her lap. Her hair was brushed, her make-up done, and she was wearing her nicest jeans and favourite sweater. He was late. He was never late. Her gaze darted to the clinic's swivel doors as they began to turn and another figure, darkened against the sunlight streaming in from outside, came through. Not him. She looked away quickly so as not to be caught staring, snatched a glance up at the clock behind the reception desk. Nine minutes. He was nine minutes late. The woman receptionist smiled across at her. "Not like Clark to be late," she remarked. She shook her head in agreement. "I expect he's stuck in traffic," the woman suggested pleasantly. Doris, wasn't it? Doris worked the early morning shift until eleven, then Anne did the afternoons. Steve took over in the evening and worked the late shift. After two months of living in the clinic, she knew all the staff. Even the cleaners. But Doris was wrong. Clark didn't drive; he flew. Or walked. Doris knew that, really - she was just trying to reassure. Even the ancillary staff played their part in caring for the clinic's patients. "Nice sweater," said Doris. "Is it new?" She nodded. Clark had bought it for her. She'd mentioned in passing that she didn't have any warm clothes, and the very next day, he'd brought her the sweater. She'd felt guilty, hadn't meant to hint that she wanted anything from him, but he'd brushed her worries aside with a smile and told her to try it on. It had fit beautifully, and instantly, it had become a firm favourite. He was so very kind to her. She knew that now, although she hadn't really noticed in the beginning. Back at the start, she'd been completely immersed in a terrifying world of violent memories and waking nightmares, and nothing else had mattered to her except finding a way out of the terror. Clark had been her guide. The doctors and nurses at the clinic had helped, but Clark had been the one who had held her when the pain and fear overwhelmed her, who had picked her up time and time again when she'd faltered. Set her back on the path away from the terror. She'd liked him from the start. He was different to the others - he smiled and made jokes. He didn't treat her like a freak. Didn't talk to her like she was five years old. He understood exactly what she needed, which wasn't always compassion and sympathy - sometimes she needed a little friction, a little gentle banter from time to time. A woman could only cope with so much sweetness and kid glove handling before she felt an overwhelming urge to scream. Of course, he'd been in her dreams from even before she'd met him, which had helped. She'd felt like she knew him already. But, even if he hadn't been in her dreams, there was just something about him which made her trust him. She'd needed that trust, of course. Once the clinic knew that he could interpret for her, be her speaking voice while her own remained silent and unused, they'd begun including him in her therapy sessions. He became her buffer, the person through whom all her communication with the rest of the world was filtered. She'd been embarrassed at first. Ashamed. Deeply, deeply ashamed. He got to know everything that was in her head, all the vile, unspeakable things she'd seen and suffered. All her fears, both irrational and real. She'd watched his face intently, seeking out the slightest hint that he found her repulsive. She'd seen revulsion. She'd seen appalled disgust. She'd seen shock. But she'd also sensed compassion. Pain that was almost as deep as her own. Tears, even. So gradually, she'd relaxed. Allowed him to speak for her, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. They became two halves of a team, working so well together that sometimes she didn't even finish her thoughts to him before he was relating them to her therapists. Of course, they didn't just attend therapy sessions together. He ate dinner with her, or watched TV and played board games. She liked that about him - that he wanted to spend time with her. He told her things about himself, too - that had started when she'd seen him on TV in a funny ski-suit outfit. He'd had to explain that one pretty thoroughly. It wasn't every day, after all, that you saw a man flying. So she knew about his two jobs - the rescue work and the journalism. She'd been a journalist once, so that work had interested her quite a lot. She'd made him tell her about his stories and had decided he was probably a half-decent writer, although not as good as she'd once been. Clark had very quickly become a big part of her life at the clinic. Lately, though, they'd been trying to wean her off him. She was relying on him too heavily, they said. Clark couldn't speak for her indefinitely. She knew they were right, but her silence had become so profound that it was almost inconceivable to her that she might break it one day. It was her protection, the silence - so long as she remained behind it, she was safe. No-one could get too close, and she didn't need to get too close to them. In fact, the prospect of breaking the silence terrified her. Clark understood that. And while he was around, she was safe. He was her voice. But he was late. Anxiety was rising in her chest like a fluttering moth, nervous and unpredictable. Her eyes darted to the doors again, willing him to stride through them, solid and reliable and wearing one of his bright, beaming smiles. "Do you want me to call upstairs, see if he's left a message with the nurses?" volunteered Doris. She shook her head jerkily. He'd be here any second, she was sure. Any second. "You sure?" Yes, she was sure. Any second. Any second now. Or maybe she'd got the time wrong. Maybe he'd said quarter past, not quarter to the hour. She should have checked her diary before coming downstairs. Maybe he wasn't even coming today. He visited her most days, but maybe not today. She twisted her fingers together in her lap. That was it. She'd got the day wrong. Her memory wasn't as reliable as it used to be. Maybe- A figure appeared behind the doors. Her heart stopped. Right height, right build. Raincoat - yes, he had one just like that. The doors turned, glinting in the sunlight. The figure emerged. Her heart started again, hammering furiously in her chest. It was him. Everything was okay. She stood, forcing herself to move slowly and not rush like a startled rabbit into his arms. Pasted a bright, relaxed smile onto her face. "Sorry I'm late. Have you been waiting long?" She shook her head, ignoring her racing heart beat. <> "I woke up late...I...well, it doesn't matter what happened." He placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek briefly. "So, you still want to go out? It's a beautiful day." They'd been taking walks together lately. The clinic was encouraging her to go out more and more these days, wanted her to exercise a little control over her life. <> He nodded. "Good choice." **************** She walked beside him in the sunlight, wandering down the narrow paths of the rhododendron grove. The bushes were heavy with blooms, bright vibrant colours surrounding them on both sides of the path. She enjoyed the natural beauty, the simple, uncomplicated pleasure they gave. They were such a contrast to her previous existence in that hovel of a room in Brazzaville. She glanced up at Clark, needing the quick fix of his beaming face to blot out the ugly memory. He caught her gaze, rewarded her with a brief, taut, smile. She looked away again, vaguely troubled by his reaction. He'd been subdued since he'd picked her up at the clinic, hadn't spoken much. His smiles hadn't quite reached his eyes, had seemed a bit forced. Had she done something to upset him? Or perhaps he'd grown tired of her. That was more likely. Finally, he'd had enough of her weird behaviour, her tears and her tantrums. Why, after all, should he spend all his free time with a crazy woman in a mental health clinic? He surely had normal friends he'd prefer to socialise with. Perhaps even a girlfriend - a man as attractive as Clark must have women chasing after him all the time. She didn't want to lose him, though. She needed him. <> She pointed at some red flowers, trying to draw him into conversation. He nodded, glancing briefly where she was pointing. "Yeah." He was even walking a little apart from her, holding himself stiffly upright as he moved along the path. <> "Yellow, I guess. Not red." Another brittle smile. She didn't understand. If he didn't want to see her any more, why had he come today? He could have left a message. She understood that sometimes he had other commitments - now and then, he'd rush off on a rescue, for example. So he hadn't needed to come if he hadn't wanted to. Maybe he was just bored. His two jobs must be a whole lot more exciting than just walking in a park with her. He'd come today out of a sense of duty, but now he was regretting it. That was it. Except he seemed more than bored. He was terse. Irritated, even. Oh, God, she didn't want to lose him. <> she blurted out clumsily, unable to keep her insecurity to herself any longer. His head swung around and her heart sank at the frown creasing his face. "No. Why..." He paused, wrapping his arms around himself like a protective layer before continuing. "Why would you think that?" <> He shrugged. "Sorry." They emerged from the rhododendrons out onto grassy parkland again. "Where to now?" His voice was taut and clipped, as if the words were being squeezed out of him with difficulty. She began to wonder whether maybe he wanted to be anywhere in the world except next to her in this park. <> "Okay." He wasn't going to come back again, she supposed. After today, she'd be on her own again. Back to her world of silence and misunderstandings. She could start writing things down, she supposed. That might be okay. No, it would be terrible. Writing was so slow, and she'd have to translate her thoughts into words, whereas Clark did all that for her. Often, he said things better than she ever could. And they had secret conversations, just the two of them, he helping her decide what the doctors needed to know and what could remain hidden. He knew more about her, now, than any other person in the world. That might have frightened and embarrassed her, except that he was so easy to trust - he just didn't seem to have any kind of hidden agenda. The clinic staff obviously trusted him, too, and seeing his work as Superman on TV convinced her that he really was one of the few really good guys in this world. Of course, she still wasn't entirely sure why he wanted to spend so much time with her. Try as she might, she couldn't come up with anything, sinister or otherwise, that he could possibly gain from seeing her. He'd never made a move on her, so he clearly wasn't attracted to her. Could he be gay? Some of the nicest men she'd know had been gay. She hoped not. She'd walked a few paces towards the roses before she realised he wasn't beside her. She stopped and looked back. He was still at the edge of the grass, holding himself tightly around his middle. The pose looked wrong - almost as if he were in some kind of difficulty. Trotting back to him, she asked, <> He glanced mutely at her, then closed his eyes and hugged himself even tighter, sagging forward a little as he did so. <> Hesitantly, she reached out a hand and touched his arm. He didn't respond. Something was definitely wrong with him. Suddenly, his terse conversation and jerky smiles made sense. He probably hadn't been feeling well all morning. Fighting down panic, she grasped his arm more firmly. <> He still didn't seem to hear her, but he straightened up a bit. "Sorry," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Thought I'd be okay..." His head dropped forward again. Frightened now, she glanced around for someone who might be able to help. She wasn't ready for this, wasn't equipped to cope with an emergency. Clark did emergencies. Doctors and nurses did them, too, but not crazy people like her. There must be someone nearby who could take over. But they were in a quiet section of the park, chosen deliberately for its peacefulness, in fact. She appeared to be totally and utterly alone with a sick man. Oh, God. Clark was supposed to look after her, not the other way around. She spotted a park bench. Okay, sitting him down was probably a good idea. She needed to sit down herself. With a guiding arm around his back, she steered him to the bench. She was forced to indicate her intentions with gesture and movement, because none of her thoughts seemed to be reaching him any more. That made her even more frightened. How could she cope if she couldn't even talk to him any more? Once they were both sat down, she turned to him again. <> she implored. His eyes were closed, though, and he didn't respond. She placed her hand over his to gain his attention and was shocked to find it icy cold. <> Although how she was going to do that without him to help her, she had no idea. She glanced around the park again. Still no- one. And now he was shivering and his face was grey. His eyes opened sluggishly and he glanced at her, giving her a quick shot of hope. "S...sorry," he muttered, his eyelids drooping again. Her hope faded. <> Frantic, she shook his icy hand, but whatever had prompted him to open his eyes didn't seem to work a second time. Maybe she could run back to the clinic and fetch help. They'd understand her - they were used to dealing with her mute gestures. She'd persuade one of the doctors to come back here with her and everything would be all right again. Going to the clinic would mean leaving him alone, though, and he didn't look like he ought to be on his own. She looked into his taut, pale face. He really seemed to be suffering. If only she could make him hear her. Then he'd know that she needed help deciding what to do. But she couldn't hear or feel his thoughts at all. It was as if he'd shut down that part of himself altogether. Or maybe he couldn't communicate with her because of whatever was wrong with him. She swallowed and ran her tongue around her lips. There was one option still open to her, but it meant taking a huge step, one she hadn't planned on taking for a very long time indeed. Panic seized her and sent her pulse racing so fast she thought her heart might jump into her throat. She couldn't do it. There had to be another way. Maybe he'd be okay in a few minutes. That was it - they'd just sit quietly for a little while until he was feeling better again. Clark never got sick, so this must be just a passing thing. He'd be okay soon. She sat nervously for a few seconds - or it might have been minutes. She couldn't tell. Unable to wait any longer, she touched his hand again. Still icy, still trembling. Okay, plan B. What was plan B? Walk him back to the clinic. He'd been on his feet not so long ago, so he should be okay doing it again, shouldn't he? And it wasn't that far - only a short block away. But what if she was wrong and he collapsed on the way? She'd be in a worse situation than she was now. Deal with that if and when it happens, she told herself. He'd probably be okay. She got to her feet and tugged at his hand to make him rise. His eyes opened, flicked dully up at her, and closed again. She tried again, with the same result. It was no use. He'd turned completely inward and wasn't going to respond to her. She licked her lips again. She'd have to do it. If nothing else, it might surprise him into responding positively to her. She swallowed again. Opened her mouth. Took a slow, shaky breath. "Cl...ark?" The word sounded incredibly loud and her throat felt horribly husky and dry. "Clark?" She found it a little easier the second time, but the word still seemed too big and angular in her mouth. Her tongue felt sluggish and clumsy, too. "L...let's go back." A whole sentence! And the earth hadn't opened up and swallowed her down into hell. His eyes flickered open. "You...your voice..." Thank God - he'd heard her and she'd gained his attention. She nodded. "You're sick," she said, opting for the shortest explanation she could think of. "Can you walk?" He closed his eyes and hugged himself even tighter. Her heart sank. If he didn't want to move, she didn't know what she was going to do next. Find help, she supposed, and hope he'd be okay on his own while she did so. One more try. "Clark?" Anxiously, she waited for his answer. After a moment, he opened his eyes again and nodded. "Yeah." Relieved, she held out her hand to help him stand. ************** Once back at the clinic, she led him to the chair she'd been sitting on when she'd been waiting for him earlier, hugely relieved to have made it back inside after their difficult journey from the park. They'd walked mostly in silence, each of them with their own reasons not to speak much, and all the time, she'd been acutely aware of his miserable state. She couldn't understand why he was ill. He'd explained all of that to her - how he never got sick because of who he was, and how nothing could hurt him because of his invulnerable aura. He'd even proved the truth of his claim to her by inviting her to prick his finger with a pin. Try as she might, she hadn't been able to make the pin penetrate his skin, and when he'd offered to give it a try, the pin had snapped. Yet here he was, shivering and pale, holding himself protectively around his waist as if attempting to quell the shakes. "Who should I call?" she asked him, the words coming easier each time she spoke. He shook his head. "I'll be okay." She frowned. He didn't seem okay. After a moment's debate, she crossed to the reception desk. "Can you call someone?" she asked Doris, whose jaw dropped immediately. Ignoring the astounded look she was receiving from the other side of the desk, she added, "Clark's sick." To her credit, Doris rallied quickly and, after glancing over in Clark's direction, nodded. "Sure, honey. I'll page Frank." She nodded her thanks and went back to Clark. "Frank's on his way." He grimaced but didn't object. Sensing he wasn't up to further conversation, she settled down beside him to wait. He seemed so miserable, she thought, eyeing him sideways. Miserable and suffering. After a moment's hesitation, she slid her arm gingerly along his shoulders. When he didn't seem to mind, she let herself relax a bit and allowed her arm to drape more heavily, hoping the contact might reassure him a little. A few minutes later, the inner doors burst open and out shambled a familiar figure. "Well, if it ain't Romeo and Juliet," exclaimed George heartily, pulling one of the reception chairs around in front of Clark. "Hey, buddy," he said in quieter tones while settling into the chair. "Frank's with a patient, so you got me instead. What's up?" "Hey, George," mumbled Clark. "Since when...when did you start practising medicine?" George chuckled. "I know a whole lot more about it than you do, buddy, so pipe down." He glanced quickly over Clark's appearance, then stretched out and felt Clark's forehead. Then he produced a pencil light and flicked the beam across Clark's eyes a couple of times. Finally, he prised one of Clark's arms away from his body and checked his pulse. While he was doing that, he murmured, "So how long ago since you took the hit, Clark?" Hit? Lois flicked her gaze between the two men, understanding the implication of George's question but shocked that it might apply to Clark. "Last night," muttered Clark through clenched teeth. "But it's not what it looks like." "Oh?" said George, releasing Clark's wrist. "What does it look like, exactly?" "I d...don't have a secret stash," Clark replied. "We destroyed it, remember?" Destroyed what? She understood quite clearly that they were talking about drugs; Clark's drugs, to be precise, but the concept was simply too unlikely to be believable. Clark was a drug addict? Never! "I...I don't understand," she interjected. George's head whipped around to gaze at her in surprise. She smiled shyly and nodded, just in case he had any doubt that the words had indeed come from her mouth. At that, he beamed broadly. "Hey, Lois! Welcome back to the world of sound." Then his smile split into a wide grin. "Great voice." She returned his grin, flattered by his obvious pleasure at her new-found speaking voice. George was another one of the good guys - he wasn't her therapist, but she'd met him a couple of times at group events and she knew that Clark liked him a lot. "Thanks," she said. "I'm still a bit rusty but I'm g...getting there." "Well, it's great to hear you at last," he said. He turned back to Clark. "You should get sick more often, I guess." "You're all heart," said Clark. George laughed. "So, do I tell her, buddy?" Clark grimaced and shook his head. "It's not fair to her." "Well, it's your call, but she's going to find out sooner or later," George said. "Seems to me she has a right to know as much about you as you know about her." "But..." He sighed. "Okay." "Clark here is an ex-drug addict," explained George, confirming her suspicions. "And what you're seeing here are typical withdrawal symptoms - although these are a tad more severe than Clark's usual pattern. Junkies often suffer worse if they take a hit after a long abstinence, and Clark's been clean for, oh, a few months?" He looked at Clark for confirmation, who nodded. "But what I want to know," continued George, "is where he got his fix, since he and I destroyed everything a few months ago. At least, I thought we did." "We did," insisted Clark. "But last night...the art gallery raid...they blindsided me with it..." Lois took a moment to understand what Clark was saying. What did an art gallery raid have to do with him, or with drugs? Someone had caught him unawares with something - the drugs? They'd forced him to take drugs? But how could anyone force Superman to do anything? "You're kidding!" exclaimed George. "The raiders had it? Where the heck did they get it from?" Clark shrugged. George shook his head in disgust. "Shit, buddy. This stinks." "Yeah." "I...I still don't understand," interrupted Lois again, frustrated that the two men were racing ahead and she still didn't understand half of what they were saying. "How could they force him?" She found herself being frowned at by both men. Had she asked a stupid question? She didn't think so. "Oh!" exclaimed George after a moment. "He doesn't inject, Lois. It's a rock - he just has to get close enough to it and he gets high." Surprised, she looked at Clark, who nodded in miserable confirmation. Poor Clark! She wondered how often this had happened to him, although judging by George's reaction, this was a first. "So what happened?" asked George. "Did they get away from you?" Clark grimaced. "Yes and no." "What do you mean? They escaped but didn't take anything?" "George..." Clark's eyes closed briefly, a clear indication of how badly he was suffering. "Can't this wait?" "Sorry," said George immediately. "I'm just kind of blown away by this, you know? It really stinks." "Tell me about it," said Clark. Lois was still hardly able to take it all in. This was a side to Clark she'd never suspected before now. He'd always been so reliable and steady, always so smiling and patient. She'd built up an impression of a guy who was always there when she needed him, was good and kind, had two respectable and highly responsible jobs, and was forever happy in whatever he did. She realised now that her impression had been pretty one- dimensional. No-one was that perfect and free of worry. In Clark's case, in fact, he appeared to have more to worry about than most. Listening to his short, painfully clipped speech and watching his strained face, she suddenly experienced a strong surge of sympathy for him. The agony he was suffering was something she understood very well - not because she'd ever been a drug addict herself, but because his pain was clearly more than just physical. His mental torment was equally acute, and that was something she could easily identify with. "Okay," said George, suddenly all brisk and business-like. "I think the best thing we can do is get you into bed and let you sleep this off. Then when you're feeling better you and I will have a chat. You want to come upstairs? I'm sure Carolyn will be delighted to find you a nice comfy bed somewhere." Clark shook his head. "Ah." George grinned at Lois. "I forgot to tell you - as well as being a junkie, he also has a hospital phobia." Another surprise. Clark spent so much time with her at the clinic, she never would have guessed he hated it. Which meant that as well as keeping his problems tucked away out of sight and only letting her see the happy, caring Clark, he'd been suppressing his fear of hospitals from her. She began to feel guilty. She'd taken him completely for granted, when really, he'd made a lot of sacrifices just to be with her. How selfish she'd been not to notice. "Home," said Clark. George shook his head. "You don't want to be alone when you're going through the screaming heebie-jeebies, buddy." "I'll be okay." George sucked air through his teeth. "I'd really rather you stayed here." Clark shook his head again. "Call me a cab. I'll be fine." George turned to her. "Lois, you tell him." She baulked. George was asking her opinion on something? She didn't do opinions, the same as she didn't do emergencies. Yet after just a moment's panic, she found herself calming down. Felt a new spark of self-assurance spring up within her. She looked at Clark, sitting so abject beside her yet clearly determined not to remain in the clinic for a moment longer than he absolutely had to, and then at George, who clearly wanted his patient to see sense and remain within reach of medical help. She could do this. "I'll go home with him," she announced. **************** The cab journey wasn't so bad. In fact, it was quite exciting. She'd been stuck inside the clinic for so long, she'd forgotten how bustling and vibrant the city was. A lot had changed since she'd last been here - new shops, new buildings, and even new roads had sprung up while she'd been away. She wondered if their journey would take them past the Daily Planet. She'd heard it had been rebuilt after a terrorist bomb had hit it a year or so back, and she was keen to see what the new building looked like. Would the globe still take pride of place at the front? Dragging her gaze from the cab window, she glanced quickly at Clark. Now that she understood what was wrong with him, she was less nervous that he might fall unconscious, but she was still a little anxious that he wouldn't be able to help her find his apartment. The cabbie had the address and she had the correct money to pay him, but once they were out on the street, she'd be relying on Clark for the next stage in their journey. He sensed her looking at him and gave her a weak smile. Okay, things were going to be fine. She looked out the window again, but this time she wasn't really looking at the passing cityscape. She was remembering a different Lois, a strong and independent woman who'd have had no trouble in escorting a sick man home to his apartment. Heck, the old Lois would have commandeered a truck, driven it through the streets of Metropolis and grabbed whoever she needed off the sidewalk to help her if she'd thought that was what it took to get Clark home. She could hardly believe she was the same person as that Lois. Her imagination just didn't stretch that far. The Lois she knew was frail. She shied away from decisions, needed other people to tell her what to do when things got complicated. She frightened easily. Yet she didn't want to be like this. She wanted to be that other Lois again. Being frail Lois was lonely and depressing, and she was afraid of where that might lead if she didn't snap out of it sooner or later. Would she simply wither away completely? Shrink into a tiny little dot of a personality who couldn't even look after herself properly? So she tried. At the clinic, she never missed a therapy session and went to all her classes - even the stupid art class where you were given a blank sheet of paper and told to express yourself. She'd have preferred a music class if they really wanted her to express herself - she knew she had a halfway decent singing voice - but that would have meant breaking the silence and she'd never been brave enough to do that. Clark helped, of course. His way of treating her like a normal human being made her feel a lot more confident about herself, and, better still, he didn't try to make all her decisions for her - even though she knew that sometimes she was terribly hesitant and could take ages to make up her mind. So in small ways, her bravery was paying off. Hey, she was sitting here with Clark, wasn't she? In a cab, on her way to his apartment, ready to help him upstairs and sit with him until he was feeling better. Okay, so it wasn't exactly the stuff of adventure books - she'd read more exciting shopping lists - but it was a start, wasn't it? She smiled to herself as she remembered her conversation with George at the clinic. She'd actually stood up to him. He'd questioned the wisdom of her accompanying Clark to his apartment - he'd been concerned that she wasn't ready for the great outdoors after so many months of cosseted living at the clinic. But then she, the frail, hesitant Lois, had told larger-than- life, opinionated George that she was completely ready for this, and anyway, hadn't the clinic been telling her for weeks that she should take more control of her life? Well, this was her way of doing just that, she'd told him emphatically. He'd raised one eyebrow, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and said, "Well, as Clark knows, I'm a great believer in patients taking control of their own recovery. You're not my patient, though, so I'm going to check in with your own doctor first. If she says okay, then you go. Okay?" She'd agreed, and after a lengthy phone call with her doctor, he'd given her the thumbs up. He'd even given her money for the taxi plus a bit extra for emergencies. She'd won an argument. A touch of the old Lois had emerged, she reflected, allowing her smile to broaden as she gazed out of the window. "Is this the right block?" shouted the cabbie from the front. She looked at Clark. "Is it?" He nodded. She paid the cabbie and in no time at all, they were out of the sidewalk. She glanced up. Clark's apartment block was a modest building in a slightly run-down part of Metropolis. It was kind of what she'd expected - despite the power and fame of his alter- ego, Superman, the Clark Kent she knew wouldn't want to live with the ostentatious trappings of celebrity. "I'm on the top floor," he said, dragging her attention away from the building. He was shivering again and had his arms wrapped around his body. In the warmth of the cab, he'd seemed to get a little better, but out here on the street there was a cool breeze blowing which, despite his invulnerability, seemed to cut right through him. To her relief, however, he switched into auto-pilot now that he was nearly home, leading her inside and up in the elevator to his apartment. They walked up to his front door. In his trembling hand, his key rattled ineffectually against the lock casing. After watching him struggle for a moment and swithering as to whether her help would be welcome or not, she couldn't bear to see him humiliated by so simple a task any longer. Without fuss, she reached across, closed her hand over his, guided the key in and turned it with him. Together, they pulled the key out of the lock and pushed the door open. Mortified eyes met hers as they paused on the threshold, but she just smiled and said, "That's what I'm here for, isn't it? To help?" Feeling more confident now, she ushered him inside with a light hand on his back and closed the door for him. Nice place, she thought as she took in the apartment with a sweeping glance. She liked the bare brick walls and stripped wooden floor, the hard surfaces softened by rugs and wall hangings. A couple of comfortable-looking sofas and a low coffee table formed a welcoming living area, and there was a wonderful floor-to-ceiling window on one side of the apartment, with a small concrete balcony beyond. Clark seemed unsure what to do now that they were inside. Heck, she was pretty unsure herself. Just what was the protocol on helping a man, who was normally a whole lot more competent than she, to settle himself down and rest until he was well? And in his own apartment, where she was a stranger? "Why...why don't you just head off to bed?" she suggested. "I'll make myself comfortable out here." That appeared to settle his indecision and he nodded stiffly. "Okay." She followed him down the few steps into the living area and headed for one of the sofas, noting, without making it too obvious that she was doing so, where his bedroom was. She'd wait until she was sure he'd be settled and then, if she could screw up her courage, she'd look in on him to make sure he was okay. A dark red phone on the coffee table caught her eye. She hadn't used one in years, whereas the old Lois would have had a receiver glued to her ear for half the working day. Which led her to another thought. By now, Clark should have been at work. The old Lois would have done something about that. Biting her nails, she eyed the phone nervously. It was one thing talking face to face with Clark and George - and Doris, she reminded herself - but quite another to pick up the phone and address a total stranger. Maybe he wasn't expected at work today. Maybe, just this once, he'd taken the whole day off. Who was she kidding? He'd been wearing his work suit - of course he was expected at the Planet. She could do this. She'd already done the hardest part of all - breaking her silence - so this should be a breeze. Besides, what use was she if she couldn't do this one, small thing for him? Maybe the phone wasn't working. She couldn't phone if it wasn't working, now could she? Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course the phone was working. Turning decisively, moving sharply before she could chicken out, she crossed the living room and stopped near his bedroom. "Is...is there anyone you'd like me to phone?" she called out. "The Planet, maybe?" There was silence, and for a moment, she thought maybe he was already asleep. Then he appeared from around the corner. She gulped and tried not to stare. He was naked from the waist up, and the resulting view was...wow. All that chest...those biceps...the flat stomach...she'd never expected to feel like this about a man again. Not after everything she'd witnessed in Brazzaville. "You sure?" he asked. She nodded. "If you'd like me to." "Okay." A violent shiver shook his large frame and he began hugging himself again, stooping forward slightly. "Th...thanks." He really wasn't well, she reflected. "You'd better get to bed," she said. "Get warm." He nodded and turned back into his bedroom. ************* She dialled the number nervously, her fingers shaking a little on each button. Her first call to Information, to get the Planet's main number, hadn't been so bad, but this second call, to the Planet itself, was proving to be a lot scarier than she'd expected. This was her first real interaction with the outside world since she'd returned from Brazzaville. The cabbie hadn't counted because she hadn't needed to tell him her name, but in a moment, she was going to be announcing who she was and asking to be put through to the editor. And that was the even scarier part. She was going to be speaking to the editor of the Daily Planet. This was as close as she'd ever come to stepping back into the old Lois Lane's life, and the prospect was daunting. The editor, a man she'd never met, but whose predecessor had known her better than her own father, would instantly recognise her name. He'd know all about her, both past and present. There would be questions. Perhaps she'd say she was just a friend of Clark's. "Good morning, Daily Planet," said a chirpy male voice. "How may we help you?" "I...I'd like to s-speak to the editor," she said, the words suddenly clumsy and angular in her mouth again. "I'll put you through to his secretary," replied the receptionist. She listened to a few bars of a Mozart symphony, and then a woman said, "Editor's office." "Hello-this-is-a-friend-of-Clark-Kent's-can-I-speak-to-the- editor-please?" Okay, Minnie Mouse on speed wasn't exactly the impression she'd intended to make. She'd been rehearsing the line too much, evidently. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" Oh, boy. This woman didn't know just what she was asking. She took in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and tried again. "Hello. This is. A friend. Of Clark. Kent's. May I speak. To the. Editor please." There. That was better. A triumph of clear and concise communication. Well, sort of. "I'm afraid the editor is busy right now. Perhaps I could put you through to one of our junior writers?" Lois could hear the condescension dripping from the woman's voice. No doubt she thought she was dealing with a crank caller. "No, I need the editor," she insisted. "I'm sorry, but he's unavailable," said the woman. Something in her snippy tone told Lois she was probably lying, but, on the other hand, Lois couldn't blame the woman for shielding her boss from nutters and time-wasters. She tightened her grip on the receiver. There was one sure-fire way of convincing this scary woman to let her talk to the editor, but she'd decided not to do that, hadn't she? She'd wanted to remain anonymous. Still... "Look," she said. "This is Lois Lane, and you can bet your bottom dollar that your boss won't thank you one lousy cent for preventing me from talking to him," she drawled, and then sucked in a sharp breath as the aftershock hit her. Where had that come from? The old Lois Lane had just made an abrupt, hit-and-run return and left her with wobbly knees and a thumping heart. Wow. Although no doubt the secretary would now slam the phone down with indignation. "Lois Lane?" asked the secretary. "The reporter?" "Yes," she answered, trying to keep her voice steady and firm. "I used to work at the Planet." "Hold on," snapped the secretary. She could just imagine the conversation between secretary and boss - I've got some woman on the phone, claims she's Lois Lane. Want me to get rid of her? The line clicked. "Just putting you through," said the secretary. Oh, God. Her heart began racing, hammering loudly in her chest. "Hi, can I help you?" asked a deep male voice. She froze. Her pulse raced even faster, but the words wouldn't come. Her mind went blank. Think! Think, think, THINK! "Hello?" said the editor. Quick, before he cuts you off again! "I...Cla...ark asked me to call and let you know he's n...not feeling well," she said. At last. She'd delivered the simple message she'd set out to convey roughly two lifetimes ago. "He won't be in today," she added, belatedly remembering the rest of her message. "Oh," replied Clark's editor. "Well, thank you for letting me know. Will he be back tomorrow?" "I expect so. It's nothing serious." She had no idea who knew he was an ex-addict, so she'd already decided that she'd keep the nature of his illness to herself. "I see." Was it her imagination, or did his editor sound annoyed with Clark? Surely taking just one day off sick wasn't so bad? But before she could think of a polite way of saying that, he said, "Look, did you say your name was Lois Lane?" Here it came. The questions. She gripped the receiver tightly. "Yes." "Well, it's a pleasure to finally talk to you, Lois," he said. "I've heard a lot about you from Clark and Perry." Of course he had. No doubt between them they'd told him everything there was to know about her. "Thank you. I think." He laughed. "Oh, don't worry, it was all good stuff. I hear you were one of our best reporters, way back when." "Well, I was," she said. She'd always known she was good, and the old Lois hadn't been ashamed to tell people exactly that. Old habits died hard, it seemed. He laughed again. "Seems all that other stuff I heard about you was true as well. Look, you must drop by sometime so we can have a proper chat about the old times. Maybe bring Perry with you - the paper could run a retrospective. How about it?" "I...I..." She clutched the receiver. "I'd like that." Why had she said that? On the face of it, it sounded like a nightmarish scenario - walking back into the Planet, running the gauntlet of staring faces, pretending as if nothing was any different. She couldn't imagine anything much scarier. Yet she'd accepted, and not just because it had been easier to say yes than to explain why she was saying no. A small part of her, the daring part, actually wanted to go back to the Planet and see what it was like now; get back amongst familiar things. It was, after all, a place she'd once loved to be. "Great! Call my secretary and let her know when you're free," he replied. "In the meantime, tell Clark I hope he feels better real soon." Again, that note of irritation in his voice. Was this another problem of Clark's - a poor relationship with his boss? She'd ask him about it when he was feeling better, perhaps. "I will. Thanks." She bid him goodbye and returned the receiver shakily to its cradle. Wow. She'd done it. She'd spoken to the Daily Planet - the editor, no less - and accepted an invitation to visit. Was there no end to her daring? ******************* She tip-toed into Clark's bedroom, feeling massively as if she was intruding on his privacy. He'd drawn the curtain, so it took her eyes a moment or two to adjust to the dim lighting. When they did, she noted with approval that the room was like the rest of the apartment - hard surfaces softened by rugs and soft furnishings. A bit like the man himself - a core of inner strength wrapped up in a kind heart and a generous nature. He was curled up on his side under the bedclothes, his hair tousled, his face pale and looking just a little naked without his glasses. She couldn't get over the difference from the person she'd got to know over the past couple of months. Unlike the dependable, self-assured man who'd been her protector through so many gruelling therapy sessions, this Clark was vulnerable. He had flaws. He made mistakes. He had hang-ups and he got sick. Amazingly, she had more in common with Clark Kent than she had ever imagined. When he'd seemed so perfect and self-assured, she'd been just a little in awe of him. And then, when she'd learned that he was Superman, he'd seemed even more perfect. In fact, she'd considered herself fortunate to receive so much attention from such an important man, but his status had thrown into sharp relief even more so the differences between them: she was a floundering crazy woman, he was a confident superhero. Luckily, he was always very approachable and informal, so she never felt awkward around him, but nevertheless, she'd concluded that she could never look on him as more than a very friendly care worker. Which had been difficult to accept, because she liked him. Liked him a lot. He'd become her friend - her only friend. As she watched him, he huddled further into his bedclothes, hunching the coverlet higher up over his shoulders. Was he warm enough? George's brief instructions - delivered laconically with a fatherly pat on her shoulder - had been to ensure that he was rested, that he was warm, and that he took in plenty of fluids. So perhaps she should hunt around for extra blankets in case he needed them. She tip-toed back out of his bedroom, pleased that she'd found a task with which to make herself useful. *************** Invulnerable men, it turned out, didn't keep extra blankets. She supposed he never felt the cold. In fact, following that logic, she wondered why he bothered with bedclothes at all. Well, a bare mattress wouldn't make much of a decorating statement, would it? And he'd need blankets and stuff if any of his family came to visit. Although, come to think of it, he didn't have any family, did he? He'd mentioned that he was an orphan. Still, it was a generously-proportioned double bed... Duh. His girlfriends would need blankets, wouldn't they? She bit her lip - she'd heard a couple of comments on TV that implied he'd had a lot of girlfriends at one time. She hadn't liked that; had chosen not to believe it. He just didn't seem the type. But on the other hand, he was a good-looking guy. Why shouldn't he have girlfriends? Maybe not lots of one-night stands, but steady relationships - that was the Clark she knew. Steady. She sighed, not wanting to imagine him with other women. Instead, and just for a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it might feel like being made love to by Clark Kent. He'd be a sensitive, gentle lover, she thought. None of your wham, bam, thank you, ma'am from him. He'd give as well as take. Wouldn't force the pace unless he was certain his partner wanted to as well. Not that he wouldn't be passionate - she could imagine him being pretty intense and emotional when he made love. Doubly so, now that she understood a little more of his complexities. But who was she kidding? Clark Kent would never be interested in her, not when there must be any number of non-crazy women he could date. And, actually, the thought of any kind of intimacy with a man was difficult for her. The acts of violence she'd seen in Brazzaville might well have put her off sex for life. For a fateful second or two, she let her guard slip and the memories came flooding back. Vile atrocities performed in the name of black magic, rituals so horrifying she'd thought she might pass out from sheer terror. Once a hardened reporter who'd thought she could handle just about anything, she'd been turned into a quivering wreck by the violence she'd witnessed. She'd seen rape performed on adults and children of all ages and sexes. Thankfully she'd never been touched herself. Nevertheless, she'd lived in daily terror that she might be next; in fact, had been aware that she was being kept 'clean' for something extra special. It had been her abject fear of that 'something special' which had finally silenced her. At first, she'd stopped speaking because she'd been so scared of what a single misplaced word might do to her chances of survival. She'd seen how unpredictable her captors were. Then, over time, she'd discovered that the silence was comforting. It helped keep her distance from her captors and the atrocities they performed; from the constant danger she was in. She put her face in her hands and drew in a few deep, slow breaths. The memories needed to be controlled - these days she was able to recognise the signs before she was overwhelmed. The clinic had taught her some basic relaxation techniques, and she used those now to reclaim the upper hand. Control the memories, don't let them control you - that was her motto. A few minutes later she felt better and in need of something to do. Check on Clark, she decided. Make sure he was okay. ************ In his bedroom, she watched him turn restlessly in bed - he didn't seem able to tolerate any position for more than a couple of minutes at a time. Surely he was just going to make himself sicker with all that thrashing around? Whatever, he certainly wasn't getting the rest George had prescribed. Perhaps a drink might settle him. "Clark?" she whispered, and was a bit taken aback when he immediately turned towards her and opened his eyes. "How...how are you feeling?" she asked. He hunched up under the coverlet, pulling it tightly around his shoulders. "Don't ever get addicted to anything," he muttered. "It's the pits." She nodded. "Can't sleep?" "Not a wink." He grimaced. "Look, I'm sorry you're seeing me like this. Last thing you need, I imagine." "Hey," she murmured, sinking down onto the edge of his bed. "Everyone gets sick." "Except Superman," he said. "He's not supposed to get sick." "I can imagine," she agreed. "Is...is that what your editor thinks?" He grimaced again. "Let me guess - he wasn't happy when you told him I wouldn't be at work today?" "Well, he did seem kind of unsympathetic," she said. "Why is that?" "I messed him around pretty bad when I was at my worst. He was actually pretty patient with me, kept me on the staff for far longer than he should have, but in the end he would have fired me if I hadn't resigned first," he explained. "So I can't really blame him for his attitude now - he probably thinks I've started hitting on the kryptonite again." "But you haven't!" she objected. "You should tell him." "I'd just sound like I was making excuses for myself," he replied miserably. "Well, I'll tell him," she said firmly. "The next time I speak to him." He smiled weakly. "Hey, listen to you," he murmured. "Seems like there's no stopping you now that you've broken your silence." "Yes, well, it turns out that wasn't such a big deal after all," she said. "I just needed the right reason." "So George was right?" he replied. "I should get sick more often?" "Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that," she said. "Look, can I get you a drink? Maybe it'll help settle you." "Not unless it's laced with a certain red-coloured rock," he said. It was a poor attempt at humour, made all the worse by the half-hearted smile which looked more like a grimace. His hand tightened on the coverlet, his knuckles turning white from the effort. She bit her bottom lip, a little embarrassed at the honesty of his admission and somewhat at a loss for a suitable reply. What did you say to an ex-addict who needed his fix but knew he couldn't have it? There, there, here's a band-aid - just plaster that over your craving and you'll be fine? "Sorry," he murmured. "Just kidding." But he wasn't, of course. "Is that what it's like?" she asked. "Even after all this time, you still want it?" He shook his head. "Not really. I just know it would stop me feeling like this." He screwed his eyes shut as if in pain and she thought she heard him mutter, "Please make it stop," under his breath. She wished she knew what to do. Clark had always seemed to know what to do for her when she was distressed. He'd give her a hug, or play some stupid game of cards with her, or sometimes just let her talk until she'd emptied out all her emotions on him. All she had to offer was a drink and he'd rejected that. A bolder Lois would climb right onto the bed and give him a big hug. She wouldn't worry about whether he'd welcome it or not, or whether she was overstepping some kind of intimacy threshold. She'd just get on with it. Today's Lois, though, really wanted to hug him but just didn't have the nerve. Reluctantly, she stood up. "I'll let you get some rest," she murmured and made her way out of the room. "Don't." She heard his whisper just as she was stepping into the living room. For a moment, she wasn't sure if he'd been addressing her or talking to himself. She turned around. "Clark?" "Stay with me?" he asked huskily. "Please?" Her heart did a little flip-flop. "Of course," she replied, returning to her perch on the side of his bed. "I'm here." Feeling a surge of protectiveness towards him, she reached out hesitantly. A hug was still out of the question, but maybe she could stroke his face and soothe away some of the tension she could see there. But no, even that was probably too intrusive, too intimate a gesture. Instead she settled for placing her hand lightly over his where he clutched his coverlet. He could always move away if he didn't welcome her touch. At first he didn't move at all. Then she felt his hand relax its grip. And then her heart melted as his hand clasped hers. He needed her. Clark Kent, the man she'd thought so self- contained and confident, needed her, Lois Lane. She wasn't useless after all. She squeezed his hand gently, reassuring him that she'd stay with him for however long he needed her to. *************** All too soon, it seemed, he was restless again. In fact, when she reached out to touch his hand, which had earlier slipped from her grasp, she discovered he was icy cold and shivering. "You're freezing," she murmured, more to herself than to Clark. She'd thought he must at least be dozing, but again he surprised her by responding immediately. "Can't...can't seem to get warm," he whispered, his eyes still closed. She saw him curl up into a ball under the bedclothes and hunch the blanket tight around his shoulders. "Don't think I've ever felt so cold in my entire life." Oh, God, he was really sick. For a moment, panic set in again - she was out of her depth and she should never have taken on the responsibility of caring for him. He was going to die and it would be all her fault. She should call the clinic right now and get them to send an ambulance before it was too late. Then he moved restlessly under the blankets and sense reasserted itself. He wasn't going to die. He was just cold and miserable. What could she do to help him? There weren't any extra blankets, so what did that leave? Five minutes of searching around his apartment produced a winter coat, a leather jacket and assorted sweaters. She piled them all on top of him. "Thanks," he muttered. "Any better?" she asked. "A little." She suspected he was just saying that to save her worrying about him; he didn't seem that much better. "Would it help to talk a bit?" she suggested. He grimaced. "At this point, I'll try anything." "I wondered...what happened at the art gallery?" she asked. "I didn't really understand earlier, when you were telling George." He nodded. "I heard the burglar alarm go off and flew over as Superman to investigate," he explained. "When I got there, they'd already stripped most of the valuable stuff off the walls and were getting ready to pack up and leave. There were three of them." "So what did you do?" "Gathered them up at superspeed and tied them together with those barriers made out of tape and metal stands." He paused, closing his eyes in either recollection or pain; she wasn't sure which. "But there was a fourth guy," he continued. "He must have been in an adjacent room - I didn't see him until I felt it." "Felt what?" He grimaced again. "The best sensation in the entire world. Everything you ever wanted to feel, all at the same time. There's nothing like it." She understood. "Your drug?" "Yeah," he whispered. He opened his eyes and looked directly at her, as if challenging her to make some sort of judgement on what he'd just admitted. And yes, she realised, he'd just effectively told her that he still enjoyed the effects of his drugs. That kicking his addiction hadn't meant he'd stopped liking the high it gave him. But she had no inclination to judge him. Instead, she reached out and clasped his hand in hers. He'd have to find someone else to pass judgement; she was here to provide comfort and understanding. He squeezed her hand, and, in a stronger voice, continued, "It had been so long since my last hit, I was high instantly. Couldn't think straight - could hardly see straight, it was so strong. I...I heard him taunting me, asking me if I liked it, did I want some more - that kind of thing." "And did you? Want some more, I mean?" "Of course I did. Once an addict, always an addict - that's what they say, isn't it?" He hunched the blankets closer over himself, causing her precarious pile of clothes to dislodge. Quickly, she stood up and rearranged them on top of him, then settled back on the edge of his bed. "I tried to fight it," he said. "Tried to ignore the cotton-wool in my head, but it was useless. If the police hadn't arrived at that moment, the thieves would have gotten away with the entire collection while I grinned inanely from the sidelines." "But they didn't?" "No thanks to me. And I heard a report on the radio this morning that the most valuable painting is still missing. Don't ask me how." He screwed his face up miserably. "It can't happen again, Lois. Somehow, I have to stop it from ever happening again." "I'm sure you'll find a way," she said. It seemed a very inadequate thing to tell him, but it was the best she could offer. "Do you know what happened to the drugs the thieves had? Did the police take them?" "I don't know," he said. "I...I don't remember much after the police arrived. That's what happens when I'm high - I pretty much blank out everything. The first thing I recall clearly is waking up this morning and realising I was late for our walk in the park." No wonder he'd been so distracted when they'd gone out. "I'm sorry I didn't notice you were sick," she said. He shrugged with one shoulder. "I've gotten a lot of practice at hiding it over the months. Not that I was hiding it as well as I thought I was, but still..." He sighed. "Anyway, I guess I should find out what happened to that kryptonite - the drugs," he added for explanation. "Thanks for reminding me." She smiled, delighted that she'd been of help. "Are you feeling better? You don't seem to be shivering any more." "Yeah, I guess I am." "Get some rest, then. Try to sleep. George said you needed to sleep." "He did, did he?" he said. "He's not even a qualified medical practitioner, you know." "He knows more than you do, so pipe down," she said, remembering George's words at the clinic. Clark chuckled softly. "Has he been coaching you? Okay, I'll do my best." She watched him as his eyes closed and his breathing began to settle into a steadier rhythm. He seemed much more relaxed this time, and it wasn't long before she was certain he was in a deep sleep. ******************* A strong sense of menace pervaded the air. Something bad was happening, and it was happening somewhere very close by. If she turned, she'd see it. Better not to move. Better not to speak. There was muttering, someone chanting low incantations in a language she didn't understand. A match was struck, its sudden splash of colour creating a harsh light both unnerving and threatening. The light settled down to a pallid, flickering glow - a candle had been lit. The chanting began again. Someone groaned. A sharp slap silenced the groan and the chanting resumed, louder and faster. Another match was struck, another candle lit. She recognised this ritual. Knew what would happen next. Don't look. A man cried out in pain. More voices joined the chant, drowning out the man's cry. The candlelight grew stronger as more matches were struck and more candles were lit. The man yelled again. Don't look. She sensed movement, vicious and stabbing. The chanters were egging on the lead protagonist, enthusiastic and excited in their incantations. Don't look. "Help me!" Oh, God, the man was an American. She whirled around. No! Not him. Please, not him. Not Clark... Alarm bells began ringing in her head, obliterating the chanting and Clark's cries. She pressed her hands to her ears, holding her head in pain as the ringing grew louder and shriller, deafening her. Make it stop. Please make it stop... She gasped, recognising the words as Clark's own. Her eyes shot open of their own accord and she was jolted sharply back to the present, back to the real world. There in the corner was Clark's chest of drawers, there, his shoes, there on a chair a brightly patterned tie, and here beside her, his bed. She was okay. Clark was okay. It had been just another dream. But the ringing. His telephone. Her gaze darted to Clark, but he was clearly sleeping - and peacefully so, by the look of it. She should answer the phone before it woke him up. She rushed headlong into the living room and grabbed the receiver. "Hello?" "Hey, Lois! Still using that great voice, I hear." George. Thank God for George. "Yeah, there's no shutting me up now," she replied. She glanced around the living room, trying to replace the lingering menace of the dream with the homely, comfortable scene before her. This was reality now. The other was a memory; an existence she'd left behind when she'd been rescued and brought home to Metropolis. George laughed. "So how's Clark?" "He's sleeping." "Sleeping? Wow, Lois, I'm impressed," said George. "What did you do - talk him to sleep?" She smiled. "No, and I didn't sing to him either." "Shame. I bet he would have liked that," replied George. "Anyway, I just rang to say I'll probably drop by later - see if he's ready for that chat I mentioned." He was coming here? "You don't usually do house calls, do you?" she said, certain that George and the other therapists always worked from their rooms at the clinic. "No, but Clark's kind of a special case," said George. "And don't you dare tell him I ever said that, okay? The boy's got enough insecurities without thinking I treat him any different to my other patients." "I won't," she replied, reflecting that George's rough, wise- cracking exterior really was an act hiding a much softer heart than he'd probably ever care to admit. "Good." He cleared his throat. "Okay, I guess I should let you get back to holding his hand or whatever it is you were doing before I rang." She felt herself blushing. How had he known that? She bid him goodbye and replaced the receiver. As well as being a big softie, George must be a little psychic, she decided. Not only had he called at just the right time, dragging her away from her dream, but he knew that she had feelings for Clark. George was definitely one of the good guys. ************* She had to admit, there were certain aspects to this trip home with Clark that she was really enjoying. Okay, so the phone had been a little scary at first, but she'd used it three times now and was pretty proud of herself. She'd mastered that, and the art of speech - all in a single morning. Her latest adventure had been in Clark's kitchen, and she was now carrying the results of her work into his bedroom: one tin of soup, heated and poured into two bowls. There was even bread, butter and cheese to accompany the soup. Hunting around his kitchen for these things, and the equipment to heat and serve them, had undoubtedly been fun. The old Lois wouldn't have considered cooking to be fun. She'd hated it and was most definitely not God's gift to the culinary arts. So maybe this new model Lois had a few things going for her after all. She set the tray down and carried a bowl over to her chair beside his bed. As she settled down, he stirred. A few moments later, he was opening bleary eyes and turning his head towards her. "Hey," she murmured. "How are you feeling?" "Better, I think," he replied. He squinted at the bowl in her lap. "Is that soup?" "Yes," she said. "Want some?" He pushed himself up in bed, rubbing his eyes. "Maybe," he said warily. "But first..." He swung his legs over the other side of the bed and stood up. "Back in a minute," he mumbled. Oh, right. She found herself staring goggle-eyed at his...well, his everything, really. Hastily, she bent her head to her soup and resolved to hold her gaze down until he was back safely under the bedclothes. She sensed him return a couple of minutes later. "Actually, I think I'll get up," he announced. "Oh, okay," she said, studying her soup intently. "I'll just..." She stood up with her bowl and turned without a glance in his direction. "I'll see you next door," she said quickly and beat a hasty retreat. There was no way she was sitting in his bedroom eating soup while he - and his everything - got dressed. She settled at his dining table with her soup and tried not to imagine him moving around his bedroom with nothing on. Eat your soup, Lois, eat your soup. "Thanks for this." She looked up to find him setting the tray down opposite her and shifting the contents onto the table. He'd changed into jeans and a grey t-shirt, but hadn't bothered donning his glasses. The look suited him, she decided. She glanced at his bowl of soup. "Would you like me to re-heat it for you?" she asked, rising from her chair. He shook his head. "No need." He stared intently down at the bowl until steam rose. Of course - she'd forgotten he could heat things up with his eyes. "Handy talent," she commented. "Yeah," he agreed, beginning to sip cautiously. Watching him eating, she observed, "You must be feeling better if you're up and eating." "Yes, I am," he replied, nodding. "Thanks for...you know...staying with me." She'd noticed a slight tremor in his hands, indicating that he wasn't quite as well as he was making out. Still, he was much better than earlier. "Feels good to be helping," she said. "Makes a change." He smiled and returned to his soup. *************** They'd been eating and exchanging small talk for a while when Clark quietly laid his spoon down, his soup still half-finished. When he didn't move or say anything, she knew he was struggling. She continued eating, though, not wanting to fuss unless he really needed her. She wondered what had made him turn to drugs. He seemed so stable and settled - why would he ever need to escape into a drug-induced fantasy world? Maybe it was his Superman work. She could imagine certain rescues being incredibly stressful, especially if he didn't have anyone to talk to afterwards. He hadn't ever mentioned any friends, although she was sure he must have had girlfriends at some point in his life. There was George, of course, but she was a little hazy on the relationship between Clark and George - it had seemed more like a casual acquaintanceship than a close friendship or a patient- doctor thing. Until today. "You must be pretty disappointed in me," he said suddenly. Surprised, she looked up. "No, of course I'm not," she said, noticing the lines of tension distorting his face as she spoke. He looked awful - like he was just about ready to explode out of his skin. "How could I be, after everything you've done for me?" "Your superhero isn't so super any more," he insisted. Apparently, he was determined to be miserable - not without justification, she reflected. From his point of view, he probably thought he'd been exposed as a fraud, especially if the cause of his addiction was a failure to cope with Superman- related stress. Add to that the fact that he was clearly ashamed of his addiction, and was still feeling strung out, and you got a recipe for a pretty miserable individual. Instinct took over. She abandoned her food and moved around to his side of the table. "Stand up," she said. When he frowned up at her, she gestured upwards. "Stand up," she repeated, her nerve already beginning to falter. Please just do it, she prayed, not sure how much longer she could maintain the take-charge act. He pushed back his chair and stood up slowly. Oh, boy. Even vulnerable and sick, he seemed to loom large before her, a daunting prospect for her frail sensibilities. Physical closeness had been difficult for her in the early days, and even now, she needed good clear signals if someone was going to come into her personal space. Nevertheless, she stepped up close to him and wrapped her arms around his large frame. Immediately, she felt the tremor in his body, the result of all that pent-up tension she'd seen in his face. "Put your arms around me," she suggested. As he obeyed hesitantly, she hugged him tightly. "I will never be able to thank you enough for the last couple of months," she murmured. "To me, you'll always be super." "But-" "Shhh," she said. "Just let me hold you." He fell quiet, and for a long time they simply stood hugging each other. They'd embraced like this before, when she'd been the one in need of comfort. Now, Clark needed her. Eventually, she began to sense the tension leaching away from his body. His muscles relaxed and his breathing became slower and deeper. There came a point, in fact, where she stopped worrying quite so much about him and began to notice just how nice it was to be holding Clark in her arms. With just his thin t-shirt separating her hands from his bare skin, she could feel the lean, muscular contours of back. His chest rose and fell against hers, solid and comforting, and his scent was clean and fresh. She snuggled into his shoulder. "Lois," he murmured huskily, so close she could feel his breath fanning her neck. Such a sweet sound, that, his voice whispering her name. She couldn't remember hearing him use that voice on her before - so tender and soft. Something was happening. He felt different in her arms, less passive, more...interested. Like he was holding her because he enjoyed it. Surely he couldn't be interested in her, though. The flake he visited at the mental health clinic? Yet he was nuzzling his face against her neck...any moment now she felt he might even kiss her there. Oh, please do, she thought fervently. Because she felt different, too. More confident and alive than she'd felt for months. More like a real person. Attracted, even. Oh, yes, definitely attracted. She felt him move infinitesimally. Her heart began to race in anticipation, and then his lips brushed her neck with a gossamer- light touch. Her skin came alive where he'd touched it and sent a glowing tingle radiating outwards over her entire body. A low murmur of approval escaped from her. Her reaction was a surprise. Not so long ago, she was sure she would have frozen up if a man had made anything approaching a sexual gesture towards her. She would have had to remind herself that he wasn't one of her captors, that this wasn't the start of her worst nightmare - the rape which had never, in the end, taken place. But no, this felt natural and very, very nice. He kissed her again, his soft lips lingering longer this time. They were so tender, his lips, pressing gently against her skin with exquisite subtlety. She didn't think it was possible to enjoy one single kiss as much as this, but that was before Clark had kissed her. There was no denying the flutter in her stomach and the trembling in her legs, or the beautiful, warm glow suffusing her entire being. But then he pulled away and faced her. "I'm sorry," he said guiltily. "I shouldn't have done that-" "No, it's okay-" "No, really," he insisted, moving further away. "I shouldn't have...I got carried away-" "I didn't mind-" He moved to the table. "I should clear this away," he said, indicating their abandoned lunch. "Unless you're still eating...?" "No..." Why the sudden change? One minute amorous, the next...oops, big mistake? Oh, no. Her heart sank. Obviously he wouldn't want a damaged woman like her. Not when he could have his pick of normal, vivacious, happy young things. "Okay. I'll make us some coffee," he said. "Then maybe we could play Scrabble?" She shrugged. "Sure." Okay, Lois, abandon all hope. It was exactly as she'd suspected - she'd been just another job for Superman. He'd seen a woman in need of help, and had taken her under his wing. He'd been kind and thoughtful towards her, but that was as far as any feelings he might have for her went. Lois, the flake, got Clark, the considerate superhero. His girlfriends got to see the romantic Clark - the passionate Clark. They were lucky women, these girlfriends of his. Lois just hoped they realised exactly how lucky they were. She flopped down onto the sofa while he disappeared into the kitchen. How could she ever have imagined he'd be interested in her? He'd just forgotten for a moment, thought she was like all the other women he'd known. But his kiss, and her reaction to his kiss... No. After all, what did she really know about him? How could she even be sure of her own feelings towards him - she'd only known him for a couple of months, after all. Pretty intense months, when he'd spent most of the time listening to her reveal the sordid and grotesque details of her life over the past couple of years. Horrible stuff; things she'd been ashamed to admit. There hadn't been much time left for him to tell her about himself. She'd got snippets here and there - enough to know the bare bones of his background - but not enough to really know a person intimately. For all she knew, he'd been an axe-murder in a previous life. No. Not Clark. But if only she hadn't enjoyed that kiss so much... She hugged herself and tried not to cry. This was all too hard. She wasn't used to dealing with all these complications. Things were so much simpler back at the clinic. Already, today, she'd dealt with a sick man, stood up to George, spoken to people she didn't know, used a phone, and made soup. She couldn't be expected to deal with Clark kissing her as well as all that. ************* By the end of their third game of Scrabble, it was clear that Clark was feeling a lot better. The tremor had disappeared from his hands and his movements were relaxed as he tipped the Scrabble pieces into the bag and folded away the board. She was pleased for him, of course, but she was also disappointed, because her reason for staying with him was rapidly disappearing. Any minute now he'd be offering to take her back to the clinic. She'd rallied after a few weepy moments on the sofa earlier. Told herself not to be so pathetic. Clark was a nice guy and she was lucky he cared so much about her. Okay, so he'd accidentally kissed her - twice - but it didn't mean anything. Yes, he'd held her like a man holds a woman he's attracted to, but that was probably just instinct and hormones. And, yes, she was attracted to him too, there was no doubt about that. She couldn't deny that tingling sensation when he'd kissed her. But it was just a physical thing, a bit like his hormones. It didn't mean she loved him or anything. You couldn't love someone you'd only known for two months. She glanced across the table at him. If only he wasn't so darned handsome! And nice. And kind and thoughtful. And funny. And interesting. And... ...smiling at her. She returned his smile briefly before ducking her eyes back down to the table, embarrassed to be caught staring admiringly at him. A huge yawn suddenly took her surprise. Quickly, she suppressed it, covering her mouth with her hand. Yes, she was tired. This had been a long, busy day by her standards and the unaccustomed activity was starting to catch up on her. She'd sleep well tonight - nightmares permitting, of course. But as tired as she was, she didn't want to go back to the clinic yet. "Tired?" asked Clark as she handed him the Scrabble piece-holder thingy. "No," she denied. "I just need food. I know we ate lunch late, but I'm used to meals as regular as clockwork at the clinic, and right now, my body is telling me it's dinner time." Which was a total fabrication, but sounded convincing enough to her, at any rate. Maybe over dinner she could find a way of getting him to open up about himself a bit more. "Maybe I should take you home," he said. "Don't want you to miss dinner." She pulled a face at the thought of a clinic-style dinner. "It's okay, I'm not that desperate for food." "Oh? I thought the food wasn't too bad there," he said. Of course, he'd been a patient there himself. Darn. "It's okay for a week or two, but it gets pretty bland after a couple of months," she said. Which was actually true, she realised with a touch of surprise. She'd been growing tired of their food without even noticing it. "Yeah, I guess that would be true." He stood up. "I could make us some pasta, if you like? It won't be anything fancy - just a throw-everything-together-and-hope-it-turns-out-okay kind of a thing." "Sounds great," she said. "Um...if you're sure. I mean, if you haven't got other plans for tonight...?" Like dinner with a girlfriend? "Nope," he replied cheerfully. "Just me and the TV. You'd be surprised how much time we spend together, in fact. I'm thinking of proposing, except I'm not sure the state allows marriages between men and their electronic gadgets yet." She laughed. Interesting...he spent a lot of time alone watching TV. Which backed up the lack of friends theory. And really, she was pretty sure he didn't have a current girlfriend - he'd never mentioned one. She just wished the telepathy thing extended to more than just conversation. It would be so useful to be able to look at him and figure out what he was thinking, or pick his brains for information about himself. On the other hand, it wouldn't be so good if he could do the same to her. That would be a disaster. No, better to stick to conversation only. He already knew too much about her from their sessions at the clinic; she didn't want him in her head all the time. "Oh, I nearly forgot!" she exclaimed. "George called earlier - said he'd come by later to see how you're doing." He looked surprised. "Well, I guess I should make enough pasta for three in case he arrives while we're eating, then." ************** Oh, boy, real food. Real pasta, fresh tomatoes, smoky bacon, peppers, and a glass of red wine. She'd almost forgotten how good food could taste. She hadn't eaten this well for months - years, even. Back in the prison-hovel in Brazzaville, she'd been fed sporadically, the food frequently unfamiliar to her palate and often of very poor quality. Nothing had been served at the right time of day, and she'd become accustomed to grazing on whatever she could stomach at any particular time. She'd been as thin as a rake when she'd arrived at the clinic. Eating their wholesome, four-square food had been difficult, and it hadn't been until Clark had turned up that she'd been able to tell them exactly what she could and couldn't manage. Things had looked up a lot that day, not least because she'd finally got her hands on some chocolate. Okay, so chocolate wasn't exactly nutritious, but it had helped her find a way back to more normal eating habits. And now here she was, eating real food again. There had been so many days when she'd thought she'd never live to see Metropolis again, let alone sit opposite a great guy, eating his home-cooked pasta and feeling so welcome and totally at home. Her throat constricted. Suddenly it was all too much. She didn't deserve to be this lucky. "Lois? You okay?" She looked up, realising she'd been quiet too long. "Just thinking." "Oh? Let me guess - Clark should stick to his day job and never open a restaurant. Am I close?" She shook her head. "No, it's great. Really." She attempted a wobbly smile. "But...?" She shrugged. "Nothing," she said, sliding her gaze back down to her plate. She began to toy with her food, her appetite lost while she tried in vain to press her unruly emotions back down where they belonged. She didn't want to cry in front of him. He was never going to see her as anything other than a pathetic basket case if all she did was sob on his shoulder all the time. But all her efforts to gain control were undone when he reached across the table and covered her hand with his own. "It's been a long journey, hasn't it?" he murmured. She nodded, her plate of food going blurry in front of her eyes. Clark knew better than anyone, even the clinic people, of what she'd been through to reach this point in her life. Sometimes she regretted telling him so much, but at times like this, he was a huge comfort - she didn't have to explain herself to him, because he already understood. She just wished for once that she could hold back the tears. It wasn't asking so much, was it? "I guess sometimes it's hard to believe you've really escaped," he added. She nodded again. "You have, though," he said. "Look at you - you're here, out in the real world. Talking to people, making decisions, helping people. I'm so proud of you, Lois." Tears began to slide down her cheeks. Why did he have to be so nice? He made it so easy to cry without shame. "Hey, hey," he murmured. His thumb began to stroke her hand in a quiet, soothing motion. "It's okay. You made it back. You're safe." She nodded. "I know," she quavered. But still the silent tears leaked out of her eyes and down her cheeks, while Clark quietly rubbed his thumb against her hand. It was comforting, the understated gesture. Like he was showing her how confident he was in her - that she'd bring her tears under control without needing to be hugged like a small child. She was grateful for that. But she should be the happiest she'd ever been. Like he'd just said, she'd escaped. She was safe. She shouldn't be a confused blob crying her eyes out for absolutely no reason. Maybe she was crying because she was happy. Yes, that was it. She was happy. "I...I think I'm happy," she said, looking up at him through blurry eyes. He smiled softly across at her. "Maybe. Sometimes being happy can be as hard as being sad, especially when you're not used to it." She chuckled through her tears. "And I really am not used to it." His hand squeezed hers. "Things will get better, Lois, I promise you." She nodded. "They already are better." She dashed her hand over her eyes to wipe the tears away. "I'm sorry - I don't suppose your girlfriends fall apart like this over your cooking." His hand stilled. "My girlfriends?" Oh, no. Had she really said that? "Sorry...I didn't mean..." "I guess you've heard stuff on TV," he muttered. "I should have expected-" "I didn't believe any of it...what they said about you," she said, realising too late that he must be well aware of the cruel things they hinted at about his sex life. No doubt he had to put up with a lot of that sort of thing. "I just meant...I assumed you must have had girlfriends. I mean, you're an attractive guy." His hand slid away from hers and he stared down at the table. Darn. She'd obviously struck a nerve - he resented being the subject of gossip, she imagined. Well, who would? "I'm sorry, Clark. I guess you're sick of-" "The thing is," he began, then sighed heavily and fell silent again. When he didn't continue, she got nervous: she'd clearly hurt him badly, and all because of her own silly insecurities. She should have kept quiet - this speaking thing wasn't always a blessing, she decided. "The thing is," he repeated stonily, "I did have a lot of girlfriends." Huh? She stared at him, searching his face for clues, for any sense at all that he wasn't saying what she thought he was saying. But his eyes slid quickly away from hers. "I'm not proud of who I was back then. I was in a bad place, although that doesn't excuse what I did." "What?" she asked, bewildered by this new Clark. "What did you do?" "I...I was searching for something I couldn't find," he said, his voice distant and low. "I was high on kryptonite most of the time, and when I was high, I did things..." He sighed. "You say I'm an attractive guy, and yeah, I'm not totally stupid. I've seen the looks some women give me...so when I was high, it was easy. I let them know I was interested. Very interested." He looked up at her, making it clear from his grim expression what 'very interested' meant: he'd slept with them. Used them for sex. "There were a lot of women, Lois," he said. "Mostly, they just wanted to know what Superman was like in bed. Once they found out that he was just like any other man, they lost interest. Not that that excuses what I did." He sighed. "Still think your superhero is super?" "I...I don't know," she said. "Have...have you apologised to them?" she asked, floundering around for anything which might throw what he'd done into a better light. "No," he whispered. "Although I guess I could. The ones I can trace." Which sounded like he didn't even know all their names. "W...why?" she asked. "Why did you do it?" "To escape. Sex was like another drug - when I was with a woman, I didn't have to think." "I see." Oh, God. Clark was a womaniser...a man who used women for sex. Just like her captors. But he'd been so nice. She'd thought he was different from other men; he was so open and honest...at least, she'd thought so. Hadn't she been reminding herself not so long ago that she hardly knew him? Well, here was the proof. "I...I think I'd better go home now," she said. "Of course," he replied. "But please, Lois, I don't want you leaving here thinking I'm like that now," he added urgently. "I've changed...I know that's probably what all men in my situation would say, but with me, it's true. I'm not like that. The person who slept with those women was a different me - ask George. Ask Perry. I only did it when I was hitting on the kryptonite." Her bottom lip was quivering again. She put her hand up to her mouth as a cover-up. "Please," she said, hearing the wobble in her voice and wishing she could stop it. "I just want to go home." "I've really disappointed you, haven't I?" he murmured. "I'm so sorry, Lois. I...I'll fly you home-" "No!" The word whooshed out of her mouth, propelled by a sudden and absolute dread of being held by him. He'd put his arms around her, great coiled ropes of steel imprisoning her against his body. A switch flipped in her head and panic consumed her, his confession bringing back the pictures; horrible, terrifying images of men committing heinous acts of violence against their fellow human beings. The nausea of fear rose rapidly in her throat: he used women for sex, just like the men in Brazzaville. He probably worked for them; they'd followed her here from Brazzaville. Hunted her down to claim her; claim their clean, white woman. She was out of her chair and backing away from him before she realised what she was doing; finished up in the middle of the room, her hands up at her face, shaking with fear and confusion and not knowing where to turn. She was trapped in his lair. She saw his large frame rise slowly from the other side of the table and whimpered. He was coming for her. She took another step backwards. "Lois," he said softly. "It's me. Clark. I'm not going to hurt you." But he was. He was going to force her to have sex with him. At long last, her turn had come. She wasn't going to be kept clean any longer. She knew what happened next. She'd seen it too many times: a young, terrified woman - no more than a girl, really - pushed to the centre of the circling ritualists. Forced down onto the bare concrete floor and pinned down by strong hands. A man sprawled on top of her, his face contorted in a snarl of carnal pleasure. Onlookers chanted, egging him on. The victim whimpered quietly, turned her face slowly towards Lois. Her own face stared accusingly back at her. A sob escaped from her and she backed away again; felt cold, solid wall behind her and cowered against it. Still he advanced slowly on her, mouthing words she couldn't hear above the chanting onlookers. Any moment now he'd seize her and drag her to the floor. Her fingertips touched another wall and she shrank into the corner, making herself as small as she possibly could. How much would it hurt? Would he strike her? Should she try to resist or would that just prolong the pain? He was close now, too close. She swivelled and buried her face into the corner. Maybe if she couldn't see him he'd go away. A hand touched her shoulder and she screamed, darting away as fast as she could, pushing past his large, powerful body. She hit something - a chair, perhaps - and tripped, tumbling painfully to the floor. It was over. Winded, she half-sat, half-lay, waiting for him to push her down and climb on top of her. He had her exactly where he wanted her. <> She knew that voice. It was a good, safe voice. <> She whimpered, wanting to believe the voice but too frightened to let herself trust it. <> The clinic. That was safe. No-one would hurt her at the clinic. She nodded. He hadn't come for her after all. She was still intact; still clean. Perhaps today wasn't her day after all. But then she sensed movement and cowered into a ball. Maybe he was just taunting her. She closed her eyes, hiding from him again. Words were spoken. They drifted across to her through a dense veil of white noise which robbed them of any sense. A blanket was draped over her - she realised she was shivering and drew it around her shoulders. The danger was fading a little; the safe voice had lessened her fear. But she was still scared and confused. The threat of violence hung in the air like an invisible shroud, paralysing her ability to think clearly. A distant bell rang somewhere. More words were spoken. <> Hands clasped her shoulders lightly. She flinched but understood that she was being encouraged to stand. Scrambling to her feet, she found herself face to face with him. Clark. She took a step back automatically, but then stopped in confusion. He represented the threat, didn't he? Yet he was just Clark. <> She nodded thankfully. <> The cab driver would protect her, she thought. Clark wouldn't try anything with a witness present. But he wouldn't try anything anyway. He was just Clark. She nodded again. <> Tears rolled down her cheeks. All she wanted was to be home. *************** Back in the safety of her room at the clinic, Lois huddled under her bedclothes and tried to banish the lingering sense of menace still hanging over her. She was secure here, she told herself. Brazzaville was hundreds of miles away and there was no way they could find her here. The people here were nice, caring people who just wanted to help her feel better. Deep breaths and focus on her favourite image: a bowl of hot chocolate. Perhaps a marshmallow or two in there, plus a generous dollop of cream. Yes, that was better. Steam rose invitingly from the bowl, and she could almost smell the sweet, smooth aroma. Hey, why not be totally self-indulgent and add a large chocolate brownie on the side. She deserved it tonight. Better. Clark was just Clark. He wasn't a rapist or a murderer, he was just a man who'd done a bad thing. **************** The sun shone brightly through large picture windows, bringing the pale yellow walls and blonde-coloured furniture of Lois's therapist's office to warm, vibrant life. Lois liked days like this; they reminded her of happier times when she'd been a junior reporter and the possibilities for an exciting future had seemed endless. How wrong she'd been! A day had passed since her visit with Clark and she was here for her first session since regaining her voice. A solid hour of talking loomed ahead. Not that Lois minded her sessions with Francine. She was a kind, motherly lady who didn't seem phased by anything Lois told her. Everything was dealt with calmly and rationally; every new revelation just another obstacle to be examined, understood and put into its proper perspective. But today, Lois was approaching her session with some dread, because Clark would be there. He always attended her sessions with Francine, because up until today Lois had needed him to speak for her. She suspected no-one would have thought to contact him and tell him not to come this time. Would she freak out again when he walked in? She was pretty certain she'd rationalised away her fear of him, but then again, that first panic attack at his apartment had taken her as much by surprise as it had Clark. How could she know she wouldn't suddenly make all the wrong connections again as soon as she saw him? "Lois? Is everything okay?" asked Francine. "You seem a little nervous." "I'm fine," she replied, dragging her gaze away from the door. "Is...is Clark coming today?" "Yes. I thought it would be useful to have him here for the next session or two. Just until you're comfortable with speaking directly to me instead of expressing yourself through him," said Francine. "If that's okay with you?" She hesitated. Francine was right; voicing her thoughts and feelings out loud was going to be hard, she knew that. Up until today, Clark had taken her fragmented thoughts and clumsy, ill- chosen words and turned them into eloquent sentences. Doing it herself would be tough. So long as she didn't freak out. She nodded. "I guess." "You sure? You don't sound too convinced." She shook her head. "No, you're right. We need him." "Shouldn't that be 'I need him'?" pointed out Francine. "Is there something I need to know? Has anything happened?" "No," she said. "I'm-" The door opened and there he was. Smart, charcoal-grey business suit, crisp white shirt, stylish tie, and looking as handsome as ever. Funny how the new Clark looked exactly like the old Clark. "Hi," he said, stepping into the room and closing the door. "Morning, Francine. How are-" "A moment, Clark," interrupted Francine, holding up her hand to silence him while keeping her grey-eyed, steady gaze on Lois. "Lois? You sure?" She nodded. So far, she was fine - no panicky feelings. And after a couple of night's sleep and a day of plodding through her routine at the clinic, she really had managed to find a better perspective on Clark's numerous girlfriends. Yes, he wasn't perfect. Yes, he'd done bad things. Yes, she'd like a lot of reassurance that he wasn't likely to rush out and pick up another raft of women tomorrow or the next day, but otherwise, she was no longer horrified by what he'd done. Just...uneasy. Humiliated that she'd embarrassed herself so thoroughly in front of him. Not that her unease had prevented her from taking as much care over her appearance as the day before yesterday. Apparently, knowing that Clark wasn't the man she'd imagined him to be hadn't taken the edge off her attraction to him. She'd fretted for ages this morning, trying to decide which top made her look the nicest. "Okay," said Francine. "Sorry, Clark, we were just finishing up something. Take a seat." "Thanks." Lois watched him as he settled into the third easy chair in the room. He smiled at her and bade her good morning, but she saw immediately that his smile didn't quite seem to reach his eyes. "So, Clark, now that Lois has found her voice again, I need you to fade into the background," said Francine. "Unless Lois gets into real difficulty, you keep quiet. Okay?" He nodded. "I understand." "And Lois, no sneaky thought-conversations with Clark, okay? Everything goes directly from you to me, with no side-trips to that handsome man over there in the suit." She smiled. "And the same goes for you, Clark. Button up that telepathic mug of yours. First one I catch thinking gets fined two Double Fudge Crunch bars, okay?" Lois smiled. "Okay." "Good. So here's what I've been itching to know since I got that phone call from George - how was the trip, Lois? How did it feel to finally get out into the real world again?" She gulped, not having anticipated that Francine would want a retelling of her visit quite so soon into the session. "Um...pretty good," she said, trying not to catch Clark's eye. "What was good about it?" "Well," she said, "I got to ride in a cab - used to use them all the time when I was a reporter here, so that was a bit of a nostalgia trip. I saw the city; saw how it's changed since I was last here. And it was nice to be somewhere entirely different for a while - different surroundings, different people...you know." "And that was okay, was it? Everything being different, I mean?" Well, at that level, yes. Clark being different was another matter entirely. She shrugged. "Yes, it was fine. I enjoyed it, actually." Francine smiled. "Good for you. So, no nerves at all? Nothing that made you feel uneasy?" This time she couldn't help it. She looked at Clark. His expression was unreadable, but she thought she saw a muscle jumping along the side of his jaw. She turned back to Francine. "Small things, I guess. Like whether I'd be able to find Clark's apartment if he couldn't help me. Or using the phone for the first time in years...speaking to people I didn't know. Heating up soup - would I get the setting wrong and ruin his kitchen." She grimaced. "Stupid stuff." "Not at all," replied Francine. "I think you did really well, actually. How come you were using the phone?" "I offered to call Clark's work to let them know he'd be off sick for the day," she replied. Francine's eyebrows shot up. "You called the Planet?" Lois nodded. "Yeah." "Wow. Way to go, Lois!" exclaimed Francine. "So, I'm already seeing a pattern here, and I'm wondering if you're seeing it too." Lois frowned. "You are?" "Oh, yes," said Francine. "Let me give you some clues: who decided you were going to ride home with Clark?" "Well, I did, although you made the final decision to let me go," she answered warily. "True, but we'll come back to that," said Francine. "Who offered to phone the Planet?" "I did." "Who decided to heat up the soup?" Lois rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I did." "So...? What's the pattern?" "I'm making decisions?" She shrugged. "Wow, big deal. Lois makes a decision to heat soup." "Not just decisions, Lois. You're taking control. You're deciding what you want, and taking the necessary action to make sure you get it. That's a big step." Francine grinned. "Tell me, if I hadn't agreed to let you go, what would you have done?" She frowned, trying to recollect her feelings that morning. She remembered the shot of courage she'd got from successfully helping Clark; that moment of daring when she'd declared confidently that she'd take him home and look after him. George's tacit agreement that she could do it and her burgeoning self-confidence at that point. "I'd have argued with you," she concluded. "Exactly. So this is a bit more than heating soup, isn't it? You're asserting yourself." Francine laughed. "Something tells me you're going to be a bit of a pain in the posterior from now on. Docile Lois just left the building." Lois grinned, pleased with the idea that she wasn't a doormat any more. "Yeah, I guess I do feel like I have more say in what happens to me." "I thought so," said Francine. "Not only that, but you actually want to have that say, don't you?" "Yes, definitely." "Good, because from now on, we're going to be pushing you a lot more to make your own choices. We're going to start looking towards the future and building up a plan for your life outside the clinic," said Francine, leaning forward in her chair. "And you're going to be in the driving seat, Lois, not us," she added. "Does that sound scary to you or exciting?" "Exciting, mostly," answered Lois. "But also scary. I'm not sure if I'm ready yet." "Why not?" Wasn't that obvious? She was still a crazy woman who had waking nightmares, panic attacks, and usually about as much self-esteem as an amoeba. Feeling his gaze on her, she glanced at Clark. He knew. He'd seen her total meltdown in the middle of his living room. But again, his stony expression gave nothing away as to his opinion on the issue. "Because I'm not competent," she said, pulling her gaze back to Francine. "I need people to help me when I get into trouble." "We all need people to help us from time to time," said Francine. "Doesn't mean we're not competent." She shook her head. "You don't understand. I didn't cope. I...I totally lost it." "Oh? What happened?" "I..." She looked at Clark. His expression wasn't quite so unreadable any more; he looked uncomfortable. And still not looking back at her. His gaze seemed to be firmly fixed on the opposite wall. Was he wishing he'd never come? "Lois?" prompted Francine. "I panicked about something," she answered. "What?" "Just...something," she repeated, snatching another look at Clark. If only he'd look back at her; give her some idea of whether she had permission to talk about what had happened at his apartment. "Doesn't matter what. The point is, I didn't cope as well as you seem to think I can." "Actually, I think the cause of your panic does matter," said Francine softly, then fell quiet. Completely and utterly silent. Lois squirmed as the silence grew longer. And longer. Francine was good at these pauses, which were designed, Lois knew only too well, to make her feel like she needed to fill them. Well, this time she wasn't going to. How could she, with Clark in the room? She was ashamed enough of her delusions about him - that he was one of the men from Brazzaville - without having to admit them in front of him. "It wasn't, by any chance, something to do with Clark?" prompted Francine. To her chagrin, Lois felt herself blushing. "Sort of." "Okay," said Francine, nodding. "Clark, could you give us a few minutes? Perhaps you could grab a coffee in the visitors' lounge. One of us will fetch you when we're ready." "Sure," replied Clark, already on his feet. It seemed to Lois that he couldn't get out of the room fast enough. Was he angry to have been excluded? Or was it the relief of escape which was making him stride so quickly across the room? The door closed behind him and she gnawed at her lip guiltily, feeling bad herself because, she realised, she was actually glad he'd left the room. "Okay, Lois, tell me what happened," said Francine. "When did you start feeling panicky?" She squirmed inwardly, still not wishing to relive her thoughts that day. She knew she'd been stupid and totally irrational, and she was more than a little apprehensive of what Francine would think of her when she explained her crazy thoughts. It didn't help that she'd have to break Clark's confidence, either. She had no idea who knew the real truth of his relationships with all those women. Okay, so sleeping with a lot of women didn't exactly make him public enemy number one, but Clark's obvious reluctance to tell her what he'd done, and his disgust with himself, made it clear to Lois that this was something that mattered a lot to him. He wouldn't want just anyone to know about his not-so-admirable past. "When Clark told me something," she answered obliquely. "About himself." "I see. Was it something that scared you?" She nodded. "It shouldn't have, though. It was a stupid thing to get scared over." "Can you tell me what it was?" She shook her head. A lot of women, he'd said. How many was a lot? Three? Five? Ten? The thing was, he just hadn't seemed the type to use women like that. Not that she was sure she could walk down the street and pick out the men which definitely were that type. How did you tell? Something in their swagger which said, "I've got a ton of sexual experience under my belt with a whole host of hot, sexy women?" Which led her to another genuinely scary thought. A man as experienced as Clark would expect sex fairly early into a relationship. Not only that, but he'd be good at it and he'd expect the same from his partner. Whereas, for her, the thought of any kind of intimacy at that level sent her into a cold sweat. Kissing was one thing, but sex? No way! "Why not, Lois?" said Francine, breaking into her thoughts. "Why can't you tell me?" "Because it's a private thing - to Clark, that is." Francine frowned. "Okay, so he told you something which scared you. You started to panic - what were you panicking about?" Lois squirmed again. If she told Francine she'd imagined Clark was one of her captors, the next question would be why. Except she couldn't answer that, because that came back to her explaining why she'd got scared in the first place. And so on... "Lois? Does this come back to the private thing you can't tell me?" She nodded. "I'm sorry." "You do know that whatever you tell me here is held in the strictest confidence, don't you?" "Yes. But this thing...it just doesn't seem right, telling you about Clark when he's not here to defend himself. Not that it's such a big deal, this thing...but to Clark it clearly is." "I see." Francine fiddled with her necklace for a few moments. "We're not getting very far here, are we? I can't help you if you won't talk to me." Lois shrugged apologetically. "I know..." "Tell me, do you want to talk over this issue? Personally, I think you should, but you have the choice not to." Well, yes, she probably would feel better if she could talk over everything that had happened with someone. She nodded. "Well, normally I wouldn't suggest this, but how would you feel about talking to George? As Clark's therapist, he pretty much knows everything there is to know about the man, which probably includes whatever Clark told you," said Francine. "So you wouldn't be breaking any confidences if you spoke to him." Lois immediately thought it was a great idea. Heck, hadn't Clark himself even told her to talk to George about whether or not he was a habitual womaniser? Well, here was her chance to get at the truth! "Yes, I'd like that," she said. "I'd have to give George all the details of your case - you realise that? And George would still need to maintain patient confidentiality with Clark, okay?" "I understand." Okay, so maybe she wouldn't be able to grill George on everything there was to know about Clark, but surely he could confirm a few things? "All right, I'll see if I can set you up with an appointment." Francine smiled. "You'll like George - he's good entertainment as well as an excellent counsellor." Lois grinned. "I know." ************************ He was on his own in the lounge, a lone figure at the far window, holding a Styrofoam cup and staring out at the clinic's small garden. She approached him nervously, unsure of the reception she'd receive from him. In fact, Francine had offered to let him know on her behalf that they were finished for the day, but she'd declined to take the easy way out. After his cool attitude in Francine's office, Lois wanted to find out where she stood with him. He didn't turn as she drew nearer. With Clark, you never knew how much of an act that was. His supersenses would surely tell him someone had entered the room; probably even who the person was if he knew them well. So was he really deep in thought as he stood staring out the window, or merely ignoring her? She stood next to him at the window and looked out at the modest flower beds and small rockery. "Thanks for waiting," she said. "No problem," he replied. "How did it go?" "Fine," she replied automatically, then wondered if she should tell him she'd be seeing George soon. No, that would just complicate an already difficult conversation. "Um...we're finished, actually," she said. "Sorry to waste your time." "That's okay," he said. "So, does this mean you won't be needing me any more?" She winced at the heavy resignation in his voice. "I'm not sure. You'd better ask Francine whether she wants you at my next session." "Okay. Well, I'd better get back to work-" "Clark, please." She turned to him, hoping to see more than stony neutrality in his expression. His carefully schooled features cracked into a small frown. "What?" Was that a frown of irritation, or a frown of incomprehension? She ploughed on. "I...I'm sorry that was so awkward for you. I didn't expect Francine to ask about the other day in so much detail." He shrugged. "It was fine. I'm glad you're making such good progress." Such a bland, catch-all kind of a statement. "So...you're not mad at me?" "Why would I be mad?" "I don't know...it was just that you seemed very quiet." "I was just doing what Francine told me to do, Lois. No big deal," he replied. "Look, I really must get going-" "I didn't tell her, you know," she blurted out. "Didn't tell her what?" She looked down at the carpet, embarrassed that she might be making a big mistake - that she'd totally misread his sensitivities about the past. Maybe he didn't care who knew about his sex life. Maybe she was just being stupid Lois again. "About your girlfriends," she muttered. He snorted, his sudden break from the unemotional startling her. "You think she doesn't already know? Everyone knows - it was all over the media for days. Thanks for trying to protect my reputation, Lois, but it was already shot to hell." He screwed up his cup and threw it in the nearest trash can. "I'm just sorry you had to know so soon." He began striding towards the exit, his strides so long that she had to jog to catch him up. "I'm sorry, Clark-" "There's nothing for you to be sorry about, Lois," he said. "The fault's all mine." "No, I-" "Tell Francine I'll call her tomorrow." He stopped abruptly, causing her to almost run into him. Turning, he faced her with a taut, false smile which seemed to strain every muscle in his face. "Take care, Lois. I hope today isn't the last time I see you." "No! Of course it won't be," she exclaimed. "I want to see you again." He nodded jerkily, then turned and walked away. ************** She was crying again. Oh, well, what was new? "Here." She looked up through tear-blurred eyes to find George looming over her with a box of tissues. Plucking out a couple, she dabbed at her wet cheeks and blew her nose noisily. "You'll get used to this," she sniffled. "I seem to have very leaky tear-ducts." George chuckled. "It's a bummer, isn't it? I have the same problem with my stomach - it's constantly demanding more food." He settled his ample girth back onto his chair and dumped the box of tissues on his desk. "So what happened next?" "After he told me I'd never see him again and walked away from me?" she asked. "Pretty much this," she said, indicating her wet face and the bunch of tissues in her hand. She hadn't meant to tell George all about her last conversation with Clark. This session was supposed to be about her meltdown in Clark's apartment, but when George had made an innocent remark about a rescue Clark had performed later that same day, the whole sorry mess had come pouring out of her. She was pretty certain she hadn't made much sense, but George had very kindly just listened and prompted her now and then with interested grunts. "Tell me again what he said earlier," said George. "Something about blame, wasn't it?" "He said the fault was all his," she said. "I don't understand what he meant by that. I mean, I was the one who got all these crazy ideas about him." "Crazy ideas?" "Yeah, I thought..." She laughed nervously. "I thought he was going to hurt me. Stupid, huh? I mean, Clark would never intentionally hurt anyone." If she'd hoped George would confirm that, she was wrong. He merely said, "When was this?" "At his apartment. When I took him home that day." "Ah, is this the thing you couldn't talk to Francine about?" She nodded. "Yes. Although considering what he said afterwards about everyone knowing, I guess that was pretty naive of me." George sucked his teeth; something she was already learning he did a lot of when he was thinking. "Okay, something tells me we're going at this backwards and I'm in danger of misconstruing the whole thing. Let's start with you at Clark's apartment just before you had the panic attack Francine mentioned. What were you doing?" "Um...eating dinner," she said. "Clark was feeling much better by then and had cooked us some pasta." "Yeah, I hear he does a great Amatriciana sauce," said George. "I'm still waiting for him to give me the recipe. So what were you talking about, other than his great cooking?" She shrugged. "Nothing much. But then I made this stupid remark about his girlfriends, and he thought I meant the gossip you hear about him on TV - you know, the stuff about Superman and his women - and that was when he told me." "Told you what?" "That...that it was all true. That he'd slept with lots of women when he was high on kryptonite." She snatched a glance at George to confirm that none of this was news to him. His face was implacable, just like Clark's had been, but he nodded at her to continue. Surely he must know - Clark had more or less told her so. "He said he slept with them because he didn't have to think when he was with them," she continued. "He used them for sex, just like-" She caught herself just in time. She'd nearly done it again - accused him of rape, or as near as, dammit. She dabbed at her face with a trembling hand, her tissue now a shredded mess. "Just like what, Lois?" asked George. She shook her head violently. "I don't want to say it." "Why not?" "It's not fair to Clark," she said. "He's not like that." "Lois, this is about you, not Clark. Just like what?" "He...I...I got confused. I do that when I panic. Everything gets jumbled up. It's stupid. I'm stupid." "No, you're not," said George. "You're a highly intelligent young woman. Shit, you may even be smarter than me, and that's saying something." She smiled. George was okay. "So tell this dumb old psychologist what you were thinking," he continued. "Maybe you thought he was like someone else?" She nodded. It seemed like George had figured it out anyway, so there was little point in denying it. "I...I thought he was like the men from Brazzaville. I totally panicked, practically ran away from him. Got it into my head that he was one of them - that he was going to attack me. R...rape me." She shrugged. "I told you. Stupid." "Will you quit telling me you're stupid?" he exclaimed. "I'm the one with the psychology degree, not you. I get to tell people when they're stupid, not you. Okay?" She smiled weakly. "Okay, got it." "Fine. God, why is it my patients always think they know more than I do? Clark's the same, you know," he said. "Anyway, back to you in his apartment. You think Clark's one of your captors. Why?" "I...I don't know," she said, although she knew perfectly well why. She remembered making the connection. He used women for sex; so did they. "Oh, I think you do. You said it yourself just a few moments ago." "I did?" "Yup. And let me warn you, I'm dangerously close to calling you stupid if you don't get this right." She chuckled in spite of herself. "Okay. It was because he used women for sex, just like they had." God, she couldn't believe how easily she'd told him that. "See, I knew you weren't stupid. But let me ask you this - what makes you think Clark used women for sex?" She frowned. "He said so." "Did he? What were his exact words?" "He said he slept with a lot of women when he was high. That having sex stopped him needing to think." "Okay, and why do you think he took drugs?" She frowned. "He never said." "Sure, but in general, why do people take drugs? Why do they need that high?" "As an escape? To get away from reality?" "Exactly. So, in Clark's own words, he had lots of sex to stop himself thinking about stuff, and we think he probably used drugs to escape from reality. Basically, for Clark, sex and drugs was all about escape. Sound reasonable?" "Yes, I guess so." "Okay, so if we want to accuse Clark of being a user, what would we say he was using?" "Sex and drugs." "Ah, ha," said George triumphantly. "Not women?" She rolled her eyes. "That's a fine line you're drawing, George." "Sure, but I'm building a case here. Next question - why do you think all these women were willing to sleep with him?" She frowned. "Because he's an attractive guy, I guess." "Yes, but word gets around, doesn't it? Most women don't want to sleep with a man who appears to be bedding anything in a skirt, do they?" This was true. She certainly wouldn't. But a certain kind of woman might. "You're not saying he used prostitutes?" "Not so far as I know. My guess is that they were women at work, or women he met at functions or in the course of his Superman duties," said George. "So try again. What's so special about Clark that women might want to have sex with him even though they know he's sleeping around a lot?" She felt her eyes go wide - she'd just never considered that angle herself. "Because he's Superman? He's an alien? He's got..." She blushed. "Superpowers?" George nodded. "All of the above. So now who do you think was doing the using?" Oh, God. Poor Clark. All those women going after him when he was vulnerable; only wanting one thing from him. "And, by the way, he's well aware of that," added George. "He knows they were only interested in him because of Superman. Clark Kent, in his view, would never have attracted the same interest." She put her hand up to her mouth. "And I told him he ought to apologise to those women," she murmured. "It's really the other way around, isn't it?" "Well, he ain't no saint, Lois," said George. "Let's not lose sight of the fact that he could have turned them down. And really, the purpose of all this isn't to make you change your opinion of Clark. What I want you to understand is the difference between Clark's behaviour and what your captors in Brazzaville got up to." She nodded. "I get that...knew it before, really. It was just that in the heat of the moment, my head made this illogical connection between the two." "And that's the other lesson I want you to take away from this," said George. "Understand yourself a bit better. Know that at the moment, you're so sensitive to danger that you make these weird connections. You can't just switch off the sensitivity like a light, but you can use your intelligence to temper it a little. Next time you feel under threat, ask yourself if you just made one of those weird connections that doesn't make a lot of sense. Think you can do that?" She shrugged. "Don't know until it happens, I guess. But I'll try to remember." George grinned. "Think of it as the Clark-is-a-monster syndrome. Any time you feel the panic setting in, ask yourself if this is a monster Clark situation." She laughed. "I like that. Monster Clark." "Just don't tell him I coined that for you." He clapped his hands together. "Now, is there anything else you'd like to talk about?" "Loads, but I suspect you'd have to break patient confidentiality with Clark to answer me," she said. George shrugged. "Try me." "Well, I still don't understand why he said the fault was with him when he walked away from me the other day," she said. "Surely I'm the one to blame? I made the stupid remark about girlfriends, and I threw the panic attack. Not him." George chuckled. "If there's any blame floating around, then Clark's sure to grab onto it and make it his own. The boy's got a guilt complex the size of New Troy. In this case, I'd guess that he's blaming himself all over again for sleeping with those women, because of the consequences for you." "But that's crazy!" "Nope, it's Clark," said George with a grin. "Anything else?" "Well, he told me to ask you this one himself, so I guess it's okay...what he did when he was addicted...the women...that's not the real Clark, is it? He doesn't usually sleep around like that?" George sucked his teeth. "Okay, this one's sailing a bit too close to confidentiality. I can't really disclose the sexual habits of another patient to you. Better if you reach your own conclusions on that one - sorry." "But he said to ask you!" "Yeah, well, I refer you to my previous remark about qualifications." She sighed. "I guess you'll say the same if I ask you why he got addicted to red kryptonite in the first place." "Yup. You need to talk to him yourself, Lois." "I would, except I'm not sure he wants to talk to me," she said gloomily. George chortled. "Okay, I'll give you this one for free, Lois - he wants to talk to you. He may not act as if he does, but believe me, that's all it is. An act." He sobered a little and leant forward. "But take a little advice from an old pro - don't let yourself get sucked into anything you're not ready for. Clark's a likeable guy and a very eligible bachelor, but you've still got some healing to do. You need to be surer about yourself before you enter into anything with Clark - or anyone else, for that matter. Make certain you're setting the pace, okay?" She nodded. "I will." In fact, George's advice was reassuring. She had been feeling a little out of her depth with Clark, and it was good to know that she was right to feel that way - also, that there was someone else who thought she shouldn't rush into anything. Hopefully, that would give her the confidence to deal with Clark's expectations regarding sex. If things ever developed that far, of course. Right now, despite George's reassurances, it seemed that Clark wasn't the least bit interested in any kind of relationship with her, platonic or otherwise. ****************** She hatched a plan of campaign. She, Lois Lane, erstwhile investigative reporter and scourge of the criminal underworld of Metropolis, sat in her room at the mental health clinic and drafted a scheme to get Clark back. Well, not that she'd had him in her grasp in the first place, but you were allowed a little poetic licence when you were crazy. And she wasn't exactly sure what she was going to do with him once she got him back, but, hey, the plan was the thing, wasn't it? Or was that the game's the thing? Shakespeare had never been her strongest subject in English lessons. Anyway, it gave her something to do, this plan, and she really did want to make Clark her friend again. He was upset. That much she'd figured out. Not only that, but he wasn't actually upset with her - which was a big relief - but was upset with himself. George had given her the clue when he'd said Clark was probably feeling guilty all over again about his sexual relations with all those women. So not only did he still feel guilty about how he'd used them, but he now also felt guilty that, by confessing his sins to her, he'd brought on that stupid panic attack in his apartment. She had to convince him that there was nothing to feel guilty about, and that she didn't really think any less of him because of how he'd behaved in the past. Now, that was a challenge, because crazy women weren't renowned for their ability to help other people with their personal problems. Still, she was going to give it a try. Oh, and there was another thing. She needed to know this new Clark Kent. Find out how much she really liked him. Which meant spending more time with him. *************** Step one of the plan was to let Francine know that she definitely wanted Clark to attend her next session - maybe even the next couple. She really wasn't sure if she was ready to manage alone yet, she told Francine. Yes, she'd coped perfectly well on her own with George, but that had been a one-off, whereas Francine's sessions were part of a long-term programme and she needed the consistency that Clark's presence afforded. Francine's eyes twinkled as she absorbed this highly logical argument. "This wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that Clark's a darned handsome young man, would it, Lois?" she asked when Lois had finished her presentation. Lois blinked in surprise. "I hadn't noticed. Is he?" Francine laughed. "If I was twenty years younger, I'd probably be after him too." She sighed. "But, Lois, realistically, I'm not sure if this is a good idea. Clark's not a qualified practitioner, and while he was a great help when you weren't talking, I'm finding it hard to find a good clinical reason why he should be here now that you are." Lois pouted. "What about the happiness of your patient? Isn't that reason enough?" "Sure, your happiness is important to me, but I have to look at the longer term as well as the short term," answered Francine. "Frankly, I worry that any kind of relationship you might establish right now will just confuse you." "I don't want to start a relationship with him, I just want to win him back as a friend," she objected. "It can get pretty lonely in here, Francine. I need a friend like Clark. Someone who's not a counsellor, or a nurse, or another patient...well, okay, he is, sort of, but he doesn't live here. He's my friend on the outside." Francine raised her eyebrows. "Is that what it feels like? You're stuck in here while he's free as a bird on the outside?" Lois nodded. "Sometimes. I feel like I'm in a cage - it's a very nice cage, with nice people and good amenities - but it's a cage, nevertheless. Clark's my contact with the outside. With reality." "Okay," said Francine, looking thoughtful. "So if I let Clark sit in on our next session, how is that going to make him your friend again?" "I think maybe he's feeling a bit like he's been used and then unceremoniously dumped," said Lois. "You should have heard him when he asked if we'd need him any more - he sounded really sad." "Well, you know, it's really George's job to help him deal with that, not yours or mine," pointed out Francine. "We're here to get you well, not Clark." Lois sat up straight, crossed her arms over her chest, and fixed her therapist with a firm, no-nonsense look. "Look at it this way, Francine. If Clark's happy, then I'm happy. If Clark remains my friend, then I'm happy. If I'm happy, then I'm well." She shrugged. "Seems to me that it's your duty as my therapist to help Clark." Francine burst out laughing. "Oh, boy, but you're good! Okay, in the interests of a quiet life, and completely against my better judgement, I'll invite Clark to our next session." Lois grinned. This self-assertion business was getting easier every day. ************* Step two in the plan was to accept the Daily Planet's editor's invitation to visit, with Clark acting as her guide and host. This was even scarier than step one, but hey, she'd done rescuing a sick man from a park and heating soup in a strange man's apartment - visiting her old place of work should be a breeze for an old pro like her. Not. It was a lot more complicated to organise, for starters. Did she pick up the phone and call Clark at work? "Hi, Clark, it's that crazy woman you visit from time to time at the clinic. I'd like to visit you for a change - at your workplace. Okay?" Or did she phone the editor again and ask him to appoint Clark as her guide for the day. "Hi, it's that crazy woman who rang you the other day, Lois Lane. You know Clark Kent, the guy you're irritated with for his constant absences from work? Well, I'd like you to give him some more time off work to show me around the Planet." No. She'd have to wait until Clark was next at the clinic and somehow bring the topic up then. ************