MADE TO BE BROKEN By Sara Rated: PG13 Submitted: July 2005 Authors Note; I have many people to thank here, and much roundabout explaining to do, so for any impatient souls - I'd skip down to where you see the warnings First and foremost - the largest amount of gratitude and appreciation goes to my fantastic beta/best-readers, sounding boards, psychiatrists, lexicons and punch-bags. Starring in order of appearance; Lynn, Saskia, Pel, Erica, Rachel, Sara K and Avia. I still can't believe I had so many but they were all *utterly fantastic*. They nitpicked. They sorted out plot points. They disputed phrase issues and characterisation. They patted me on the back. They moaned and grumbled and shrieked in horror. They waited through my cliffhangers. They stuck by me through periods where the Muse abandoned me. They nagged. Endlessly. This story is dedicated to them, because it wouldn't have happened without them :)) Thanks to Jose, Elena, Kaethel, Saskia, Pel, AnnaBTG and Julie for their marvellous help with a particular scene. A *huge* THANK YOU to DocJill for her *invaluable* help a few months ago with some medical queries. Another thank you to Jen and Jenni who helped me out on Easter Sunday with some A-plot issues, which included bomb-making and lock-picking. Still slightly scared that you knew so much about them both, guys but your help was *invaluable*. Yet another thank-you to all the wonderful FoLCs on the boards who offered feedback while I was posting this story. You were all *amazing*, but I'd like to say a special thank you to Wendy, KathyM and David for their comments, nitpicks and tremendous help :) You guys are the best. This is a what-if story, partially inspired by the fantastic Near Wild Heaven I by Kaethel - still more thanks to her for letting me off a few months ago when I mentioned it :) Finally, thank you to Jeanne Pare, my GE, for tackling this monster and for catching so many things I'd missed. In this story I've twiddled with the timeline in a few parts, edited the BatP/HoL arc drastically, and I let Lois 'stay home and watch for Superman' in tGGGOH... so she never went to Smallville, but did meet the Kents. Disclaimer; most characters and some dialogue are the property of Warner Bros, DC comics and whoever else has the right to claim them. *** WARNING *** Seriously high ick factor. WHAMs, angst and evilness galore. The only other thing I'll say is that, abiding by the precedent set by some of my favourite writers, I've done my best to put my toys back in the same condition - bar a few scratches ;) FDK *very* welcome at the above address :) ~&~ And you can't fight the tears that ain't comin' Or the moment of truth in your lies When everything feels like the movies Yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive. And I don't want the world to see me 'Cause I don't think that they'd understand When everything's made to be broken I just want you to know who I am ~Iris, by the Goo Goo Dolls ~&~ She gripped the ceramic sides of the toilet, her sticky hair clinging damply to the back of her neck, her breathing irregular. She choked, her throat constricting - and emptied the contents of her stomach into the bowl. After the sea of nausea had ebbed, she rocked back on her heels, one hand clasped to her forehead. She couldn't believe it. She'd thought this sickness had passed. It had been weeks... well, no, not weeks, but days, certainly, since he'd laid a finger on her... why, oh *why* was she still... Staggering to her feet, she washed her face, pausing only once to stare in the mirror. It reflected a twenty-seven year old woman, it reflected someone she didn't know, someone wearing her face but with a different soul entirely. Rubbing her aching stomach, she padded back into the cold glow of the room, pausing and leaning against the doorjamb to survey the bed. The king-sized bed. The luxurious bed, Egyptian-cotton sheets and a down mattress. He wasn't there, had never been there. His side had been stone cold when she'd woken up, the pristine blankets unsullied and the under-sheet smooth. He wasn't there. She sighed, wondering wearily what earth-shattering disaster had called him away this time. Night after night she woke up to find his side of the bed empty, his nightclothes thrown over the chair, the hanger on which his suit hung empty and the door swinging wide open. She'd never thought she could play the role of a forgotten wife, but night after night, she did it in her sleep, not even realising it. He never woke her up, he never left a note. She had gotten used to it, but still, the odd time her heart would twang, and she'd be left feeling desolate, reminded of how important he was and how much time he needed to spend away from her. Away from the house. Away from their life. Away from their life together. She laughed sharply into the empty room. //Our life together.// What a joke. A life that she wouldn't have chosen except on pain of death... She choked, the bile rushing up her throat and filling her mouth with a sour taste. Swallowing deeply, she forced it back down, groaning as the bubbling waves of acid resided in her stomach. Not from any form of sickness this time. From the memory of him, of what he had... what he had... She grasped the handle of the door as the world spun around her. Praying that she wouldn't black out, she managed to stumble her way over to the bed and collapse upon it, gathering her nightgown up around her and huddling into a tight ball. She couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't stand it. The knowledge was too much. The worthlessness she felt in knowing that she hadn't been enough for him. That he had needed more. Other women. He had needed other women. Every time, she had known. Instinctively. She had *smelt* them on him. Watching him undress and slip into the bed beside her, leaning to turn off the light and settle down, turning away from her, she had been reminded of the fact that she wasn't enough. He had needed more. And of course he could get any woman he wanted. No trouble to a man as famous and attractive as himself. <...don't you dare accuse me of being unfaithful... If you would just be home for once when I get here...> Back then... oh, short period of time, but it felt like years... she'd been so *angry*. She couldn't understand her logic now - she knew now that affairs were something to be expected, unfortunate but typical. Men were like that, even untouchable, perfect men... She'd been furious, though, that first time. She'd had to ball her fingers into the palm of her hand to keep from reaching out and wrapping them around his throat. Watching his back rise and fall with the gentle rhythm of his breathing, she had wanted to kill him. She had even begun to plan how she would do it. Oh, she'd been a coward. It would have been so easy to banish his existence, both physically and mentally, from her life... so easy to win back her former life. Even if he appeared invulnerable, she knew him by now - knew the chinks in his armour, imperceptible, minute cracks. Cracks that were there, nonetheless, flourishing and ugly. A window of opportunity had opened briefly... ...and she hadn't taken it. She had wanted to. She had steeled her muscles in readiness. She'd known what to do, how to, what she'd need. She was one of the only people on the planet who knew exactly how to kill him. Time and time again, she had told herself to do it. Told herself that it was fair, it was right. Reminded herself what he had become. Repeated the word over and over again. It would have been so easy. But she hadn't. As the night went on, she had figured a few things out. It made sense, this betrayal. Nobody had ever been truly satisfied with her, when all facades were gone. Nobody had ever loved her for who she was... nobody had ever *loved* her, period. Why should her husband be any different? She couldn't keep him happy, she was wrong, flawed in some way. That was why he needed others. Nobody had ever accepted her for who she was. Nobody except... except... <...I've been in love with you for a long time...> Her stomach plunged as she remembered that unconditional acceptance. How different her life would have been if she had only made the right choices. If she had walked away, run, sprinted away from him as if her life depended on it... because in the end, it did and it had, and she'd thrown it away, and it was *her* fault after all, wasn't it? It was. Her life wasn't meant to be like this, had never been meant to turn out like this. If she'd followed the warning signals, it would have been so different... she would have been... <...you belong to me...> She had given it away. She had *thrown* it away, preferring to bind herself to a cruel world in which everything twisted and distorted and turned itself into a warped image of perfection. She had given her love to that world - a world which didn't want it. <...where will you go? Who wants you now?> Sixteen months ago, in front of hundreds of people - it had seemed like the whole of Metropolis was in attendance - they had promised to love, honour and cherish each other. His eyes had been soft as they looked into hers - brown orbs filled with... with... <...I love you... love you... love... love... love...> ...with some shadowy emotion. She had been scared. She remembered the endless hours she had spent agonising about her wedding. She had still not been absolutely sure that she loved him, one hundred percent, forever, when she had walked down that petal-strewn aisle. <...this is forever... only you... you're all I need...> She had been pushed into it - pressured by her mother, him, her own insecurities. Every single thing she'd thought permanent had turned to shale and crumbled beneath her feet. She'd been rejected, scorned. Acceptance of the fact that he was the best she would get - the best she could ever get - had come easily. So she had married him. Her lip curled as she thought about how short their honeymoon period had lasted. Not even a year and a half married and he was already occupying other women's beds. He had broken her. She didn't know him - had never truly known him - and he had taken her over. Her naturally rebellious spirit was almost non-existent now; the mind games he played taunting her, making her head spin. He was cleverer than she, stronger - obviously stronger - and much more cunning. He had bent her, broken her, until she was nothing like the woman he had married. She drifted through life in a sort of bubble these days, barely aware of who was around her, who she was communicating with. Living, but not alive. She was buried so deeply inside herself that every word that came out of her mouth seemed to reach the surface five minutes after she had said it. The fire, the intensity that had defined her as a person was long since quenched. Gone. Blown out, completely. She smiled bitterly. There was no need for fire or passion in his house. She made no decisions. She helped nobody. She did nothing. She sat around all day and decided what colour to redecorate the front room, what she was going to wear to that charity gig next week. He had done that. She wondered vaguely if that had been the reason why he had married her. To break her. If she had been a prize only so long as she was independent. Independence, liberty. She craved it, an everlasting thirst that would never be fulfilled. She'd never wanted to be a housewife. She'd thrilled with the adrenaline of knowing that the people of Metropolis *knew* her, were familiar with her work... she'd been a public figure. She'd sacrificed so much in the name of marital harmony... A harmony that meant an end to the long silences, cold shoulders, blazing rows and heated exchanges - exchanges in which *he* had had the upper hand. A harmony - though unsteady, at best - that had proved essential for her very safety. Now she had a minder to monitor her activities. She had a spending limit. She had a 'bodyguard'. Everywhere she went, people watched. Waiting to pounce. To accuse. Gleefully relating her misdeeds to her husband. And he was only too happy to distribute punishment as he saw fit for her supposed crimes. She touched her cheek, remembering the first time he had hit her. Four months a newlywed, she had been out working, doing what she did best, and hadn't come home till the wee hours. Walking into the house, she had noted that the bedroom light was on and had assumed that he was up reading. She had been vaguely surprised to enter the room and find him sitting, fully clothed, in the armchair by the window, his fingers steepled and his gaze steely. He'd been angry. <...where the hell were you? Don't lie to me, I know all about your work... another man, perhaps?> She had been strong back then, infuriated by his domineering, possessive attitude. She had argued back ferociously, insisting that she had been needed, that she had the right to stay out for as long as she wanted. That she was an individual. A person. Not a possession. Her rejoinders had quickly ceased when he had backhanded her onto the bed. Oh, she'd fought him. She *had*. No matter how many times her mind taunted her with how inadequate her strength was next to his, she knew she'd tried. Because - she was trembling, she noticed belatedly, trying to make herself stop - because if she hadn't tried, it would have made it all right, and it wasn't all right. Right? She shook her head, images spinning before her. She *had* tried, dammit, she had tried! She had! She'd tried to get out of there, so many times - - but it hadn't worked, and eventually she'd just given up, because it was easier and safer and because she'd - - been scared of what he could do to the people she loved... that was why she'd stopped... Afterwards, while he slept, she had taken a shower. Under the jets of near-boiling water, she had scrubbed and scrubbed at her body until it was red and raw. Intent on wiping his touch away. Desperate to get him off her, she had near-clawed at her skin in an attempt to wash the memory into oblivion. See? That was a small rebellion, right there. She hadn't gone back into bed beside him either, had she? No, she'd huddled in a high- backed chair till dawn... and then, well, she'd *needed* to. She'd been forced to... if she was caught avoiding his touch so blatantly... it would be her fault again, just as it was her fault for coming home late... if she'd just forgotten about the stupid story, none of this would have happened... he wouldn't have... it was her fault... She had been terrified that day -- terrified of the stares, scornful dismissals, of the coolly knowing eyes of his minions. Now that she knew his character was as evil as the stretch to the unthinkable, she had become paranoid, seeing and hearing things where they had not been before. Still, she had not thought that he would have her followed. She had been wrong. She would get him on the rape laws, she had thought. She would nail the bastard now - there was no excuse, no excuse at all. She would go to the nearest police station and report him, immediately. She would show him that she would not -*could* not - be crushed. Dammit, she had been *stupid*. She'd assumed... thought... believed... she'd been wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong. She had had blind faith in the justice system - in good cops like Henderson. She hadn't begun to imagine how far his influence had stretched. At least, not until she had attempted to file the complaint. Not until she had been told to reconsider. Not until she had been reassured that a man like her husband would never do a thing like that. Until she had been warned not to stick her neck in any gratuitous noose. Until she had walked out, fuming, unaware of the watchful eyes of the rookie cop behind the desk, dialling a well- known and often-used number. Until she had met him that evening. She choked, pressing her lips together to form a thin line, her eyes welling with tears. He was right - he was always right. She had nothing - nothing to call her own. She *was* nothing. She couldn't satisfy him - that was why he had to... to do that, because she wasn't... she wasn't good, in some way, she wasn't right... had never been right... <...get the message...> She had gotten the message, all right. All too clearly. There were worse things than death. The pain had been bad, that first time. She had fallen down the stairs, he'd explained to everybody who asked, with a careless wave and a shrug. Turning himself into a caricature of every man she'd ever despised. Turning *her* into a caricature of every woman she'd ever pitied. After that, he had gotten smarter. Hurt her in places that couldn't be shown. The bruises on her stomach, back, thighs, legs. Legs. Places that couldn't be shown. Trousers. All she wore was trousers. Tailored. Exquisitely cut. Prisons of the best material. Bruises. Not on her arms, though, or her face. He never touched her face any more. Faces were for the kind of drunken idiots his cops arrested every day. Even if the woman kept her mouth shut, too many bruises or broken bones where people could see them and they stopped believing the fell-down-the-stairs excuses and started asking questions, and sooner or later the loving husband ended up on parole... because people didn't know how to mind their own business anymore. But the pain wasn't the worst thing. Knowledge was. Knowledge was undoubtedly worse than pain. The realisation that her family, her friends, the man she... the people she was closest to, could be in danger just because of one toe out of line, one mutinous action, was worse than her own demise could ever be. *That* was why she'd stopped trying. Their lives depended on her. She had stayed. For their health. For their safety. For their happiness. For *her* health and safety as well, admittedly, because if she left, he would follow, and he would inevitably find her. And she had quit her job after six months. Just because she had no energy. He'd probably have let her keep it - reports were good on that score, she hadn't been poking her nose into anything that didn't concern her - but she'd quit anyway. Extremely weak of her, but she had done it. Chained herself to the house well and truly. She'd been afraid that maybe one day she'd overstep the line, make him angry... And if she thought she had had it hard before... it would be *nothing*. Compared to what he could do if he... what he would do if she ever... <...if you ever think of leaving me...> Her bruises would seem like child's play. That she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt. <... think they're going to notice if you suddenly "disappear"? I just have to click my fingers... I own you...> She'd never realised - before - that there was a difference between living and being alive, but she knew now. She felt so unreal, as if she was a ghost or a shadow, a lost wraith, a balloon with too much air, tugging to escape from Earth. She'd stopped caring about her appearance, she'd stopped caring about her weight, she'd just... stopped. He'd wanted her like that. That was what he liked, his creation as his wife, somebody who was so terrified of him that she couldn't think for herself, couldn't escape when the going got rough... She held her hands over her ears, whimpering. She didn't want to think. She didn't want to feel. She didn't want to breathe. She didn't want to live. Numbness. Wasn't that what death was all about? Being numb. Not living. Not thinking. And definitely not feeling. It would have been a blessed release. Such a relief, to cease to exist. To cease to remember. To cease to think. To just... float. <...till death do us part...> It would have been. But she was a coward. Just like always. She hadn't been able to do it, because some stupid... stupid optimist in her wouldn't let her. Though with the way things were going, she wouldn't even have to *try*... just a few more nights of sickness like this one, and she was sure she'd die... she felt so lousy when she had to get up in the night to vomit, but strangely enough, she always felt fine by morning. She hadn't ever heard of any sickness that did anything like this, she assumed it was a direct result of what he'd done to her. It dragged on for so long, made her so sick and made her... Her blood froze in her veins. Made her... ...long for things. She did long for things, didn't she? Grapefruit and oranges and lemons, citrus fruits, sour things... things she'd never liked before... she was longing for things... she could even say that she... ...craved for them. Holy *mother* of... Was she...? Her heart started to thump, the blood pounding in her ears as she tried to think rationally. She creased her brow, doing some quick calculations in her head. How... hold on... why... what? //You haven't been eating much,// a quiet voice inside her whispered, //and you've been under a hell of a lot of pressure... remember what you assumed, he messed more than *that* up... wasn't that unusual, happened to other women...// She swallowed. God, she'd been stupid... why the hell hadn't she figured it out? She pinched the bridge of her nose, suddenly desperately tired. She couldn't deal with this. Not now. She'd have to make a doctor's appointment, wouldn't she? She'd have to verify it. How was she going to explain that one to him? If *she* didn't tell him, one of her watchers would, and then she'd be in trouble... And that would be dangerous, wouldn't it? Extremely dangerous, now. But... maybe she should... after all, how bad could it possibly... She didn't even *know* that she was p... pregnant. Wasn't that right? She wasn't certain. She couldn't make any decision, about anything, until she knew for sure. And to know, she'd need to see a doctor, wouldn't she? And not Dr Mitchell, either - the specialist hired by her husband would doubtless send a report back. She couldn't let him know. Not yet. Because she had to tell him carefully. In such a way to make it seem as though a baby would be a great thing, an heir to the throne, as it were... a little son or daughter to carry on the family name... she had to make it sound appealing... But... hold on a minute. She sat up straighter in the bed. She *didn't* have to tell him. Did she? Not really. It was... not really necessary... She laughed bitterly, a knife in the quiet room. How was she going to explain herself when she turned up with a baby in nine months? *If* she turned up with a baby in nine months? But... but... What if... what if he kept on doing this? Kept on... hurting her? Kept with this existence, stuck to the precedent? What would that do? Wasn't that... bad? Couldn't she lose a baby, if she was carrying one? She had to leave him. Didn't she? She shuddered, placing her hand in her mouth and biting her knuckles hard. So much effort required, so much energy she didn't have, a sharpness that she'd blunted, now the only thing that would save her life. Maybe a baby would bring the... the spark back into her marriage. Maybe it would change him, so he'd be as kind and gentle and solicitous as he'd been when they were dating. Maybe he'd be happy about it - a son or daughter to carry his name would surely appeal to him. Maybe... ...was she *crazy*? What was she thinking? This man had... had lied and betrayed and deceived and... he'd driven someone to his death... because he knew she loved that someone... because of *her*, he'd driven someone to his death... a man... much, much more than a man... her friend... And she was thinking about staying in his house and having his baby, with him? Trying to act like the Walton's of Walton's Mansion? Her at the head of the table, eating a meal she'd cooked, in her grandmother's pearls, her adoring children and husband beaming happily at her? She was seriously contemplating it? What was *wrong* with her? She had to leave him. She had to somehow... screw up her reserves of strength and... and... ...just *do* it. //You don't *have* to... there's another option you're not thinking about...// With a start, she placed both hands on her stomach. Where her baby possibly lay. Her baby. *Hers*. //It's not a baby right now, just a bundle of cells...// She shook her head with a small sigh. This child was a part of her. A very tiny part at the present time, but within her nonetheless. It would be her son or daughter. Not his. Hers. Hers to care for, hers to protect - hers to love. And she couldn't hate it, or want it gone, just because of the method of conception. It wasn't the child's fault. She was all for the right to choose, but... she could never live with herself. She would have it. She was going to have a baby. Or... she cautioned herself. She might *not* be having a baby. She didn't know. She wasn't sure. But... if she *was* pregnant... she would have to leave him. There was just... no choice in the matter. <...there's no place on this Earth you can hide... I'll find you, and I'll bring you back...> She would flee. Somehow, someway, she would manage it. If she had to claw her way out of his citadel with her bare hands, she would do it. Lois Lane was back, and she was not going down without a fight this time. ~&~ ~*When all the world is a hopeless jumble, and the raindrops tumble all around, heaven opens a magic lane...*~ He groaned. "Wake *up*, you great lump..." The voice came calling dimly, reaching the deepest recesses of his mind and stirring his un-co-operative brain into a bleary place between waking and sleeping. "What are you, comatose?" It became more insistent now, more impatient, and he had the absurd urge to reach a hand out and swat it away. "Mr... *yeouch*!" Kenneth's head shot up off the desk. Now fully awake, he looked around for the source of the disturbance, perturbed. The hazy, golden glow from the lamp on his desk was the only immediate source of light. The Independent was almost deserted. Almost... because there was one other occupant in the room. Daniel Hayes, cub reporter, go-fer, copy boy, and all-round pain in the neck was standing close beside him, rubbing his overly large head in pain and annoyance. "Thanks, *sir*," he spat, his voice thick with scorn and annoyance. "Didn't really need my head, anyway." Kenneth stared at the kid incredulously. What was he *talking* about? Unless... he hadn't... had he? "Oh, Daniel, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean..." he exclaimed, jumping up from his seat to push the copy boy down onto it. "Can I get you anything? A glass of water? Some aspirin, maybe? I'm sure I have some lying around..." Already he was rummaging in his desk. Daniel looked at him derisively and returned to his feet. "I think I'll survive, sir. Strong and all as you are, I don't think I'll need an ambulance this time." "Are you sure? Because I'm..." //...you're what? Faster than a speeding bullet? Invulnerable? Impervious to scorching heat, blistering cold, pressure, puncture...?// "...I'm... I was Weightlifting Champ for ten years running back home." The attempt at a recovery was rather weak, but still he felt a flicker of irritation when the young assistant rolled his eyes dramatically. "Mmm. Your mother must have been so proud." Daniel snorted. "Anyway, I was just trying to help. You fell asleep at your desk. Again. Don't you have a home to go to? It's past twelve." Kenneth followed Daniel's gaze to the large, domed clock hanging above the elevator. Another day passed without a single glimpse of the sun. How long had it been since he'd seen the sun? Did it *ever* shine in this wretched, wretched city? His irritation blossomed into full-blown anger. It wasn't any of this kid's business how long he stayed at work. If he wanted to work through the night, then who was this copy boy to interfere? Or anyone else, for that matter? It was *his* life. ~*Someday I'll wish upon a star and wake up where the clouds are far behind me...*~ Kenneth glanced at the kid's shirt. Out of his breast pocket a rather large bulge loomed, and a snaky wire was twisting its way round his neck, leading to a set of headphones out of which the annoyingly chirpy song was blaring. He felt his lip curl. It was too good an opportunity to pass up. He folded his arms across his chest and nodded in the direction of the Discman. "Judy Garland? Dan, you surprise me. I would have thought rock music would have been more your type. Like that group I heard you blundering on to Emma about the other day. What's their name again... Red Hot... Red Hot Turnips... Red Hot Radishes..." "Red Hot Chilli Peppers," Daniel hissed, his face scarlet. "And my taste in music is -" "-cultured and widespread, yeah, I know. So what else you got on that CD?" Kenneth eyed the kid in interest, wondering how much the blood vessels in his face could take before they exploded. "'Tomorrow' from Annie? 'Hopelessly Devoted' from Grease? 'Show Me' from My Fair Lady?" "You need to hurry," Daniel snarled, "if you don't want to miss the tube. I would hate for you to have to walk; Camden is dodgy around this time of the night. Wouldn't want the Weightlifting Champ getting roughed up." "Well, thanks for your concern," Kenneth hissed back, "but that's probably why your first article is still a long-distant dream - you're not observant enough to be a reporter. I drive a *car*." With a hard tap on his computer's "save" key - not that there was anything in that article worth saving, or even worth glancing over - he shoved his chair away from his desk. Preparing to go home. Home. Where the nightmares waited. And the emptiness. Collecting his coat, he felt a mild twinge of guilt at how he'd treated the kid. It wasn't his fault he was a pompous, ignorant idiot. He clearly didn't know any better. And it wasn't his fault that Kenneth's patience for idiots was a little shorter these days. "Hey, thanks, buddy. For waking me up," he called out to Daniel's departing back. "Buddy?" Daniel turned and rolled his eyes again. "Another one of those quaint American endearments, I suppose." His sarcasm exaggerated the plummy English accent colouring his own speech, and Kenneth felt a flush of embarrassment creeping up his face. As hard as he tried, he could not erase the telltale American twang from his voice - even more telling, the bits of slang that were so ingrained in him that only fierce conscientiousness kept them at bay. All of it, his speech, his lack of formality, made him stand out. And these days, he was uncomfortable with anything that made him stand out. Suddenly, the embarrassment was replaced with a hot twist of anger. He was tired. Tired of it all. Tired of watching his speech, watching what he said about himself. Tired of dodging questions about where he was from and what he had done before arriving at the Independent. And now this punk kid had the nerve to give him a hard time. ~*If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow... why, oh why, can't I?"*~ "Yeah, we Yanks have quite a few choice endearments," he bit out through gritted teeth, staring directly at the insolent copy boy. "Maybe I could teach you some of them." "Maybe *I* could give you a crash course on how much crap the British are prepared to put up with. Because clearly the Americans have a much higher tolerance for complete gits," Daniel replied, his face etched with an undisguised challenge. He took a deep breath and inflated his thin chest. At this, Kenneth sighed, the anger hissing weakly from his lungs. He should simply report Daniel to his editor, for treating a senior member of the staff so disrespectfully. But his head was pounding, and he just didn't have the energy to deal with anything. This kid wasn't worth it. Nothing was worth this headache. He turned his back. "Goodnight, Daniel," he called over his shoulder. "Goodnight, you son of a..." "Right," he muttered tetchily as he headed for the bank of elevators, cutting out the hissed remark before it was finished. He hadn't been meant to hear it anyway, he was sure - or maybe he had. Either way, another five minutes in the same building with the copy boy and he would have likely strangled him with his bare hands, weightlifter or no weightlifter. He nodded to Craig, the security guard, on his way out of the door. The Independent was a good place to work - a secure, high- quality newspaper - and yet he still felt somehow alienated from the staffers, as if there was some sort of impenetrable barrier between them. One that blocked out everything but the stiff smiles and empty words of distant acquaintances. He sighed in irritation as he reached the small green Vauxhall Astra that was his preferred choice of transport nowadays, fiddling with the keys and finally sliding his tall frame into the tiny car. Another evening of fighting London's unbelievable congestion - a job nearly impossible for even... ... the weatherman had predicted that it would be starry out, that night. Kenneth craned his neck inside the small hatchback, looking for them in vain. As in every big city, the glaring lamps from nearby buildings and offices hid the twinkling balls of light that had brought him such comfort and inspiration for so long. He would never forget what it felt like, to be up there, above the feathery clouds, floating on a tiny pocket of air to gaze at the sparkling orbs that hung above him... ... and it was late. Very, very late. He would have to rise with the chickens in the morning, as per usual, and doubtless he would be exhausted, and would need a strong helping of caffeine before he could start his normal morning activities. How he missed not having to... <...guess you're not so special any more...> ... he blew his horn angrily as car swerved out in front of him. Idiots! He had right of way! Not only did everybody drive down the wrong side of the road in this godforsaken country, but *nobody* could actually *drive*! <...no future for you here... leave town... better yet, the country...> He stalled at a red light, sighing as he pushed a hand through his hair. He was desperately tired. He needed to think more - to remember that he now needed more sleep than he had been accustomed to before. An ordinary... <...think you're better than me, huh? Not so superior now, are you?> //Dammit!!// He pounded his forehead against the steering wheel, as if he could forcibly remove the troubling thoughts from his over-taxed brain. Why did he have to keep torturing himself like this, images of foolish dreams and a life that was long gone dancing behind his tightly-shut eyes? Why did every thought that ran through his brain eventually lead to... <...if you even so much as whisper to her... she'll take your beating. You know what I'm willing to do when I feel that my interests are being threatened... > He shuddered, the fragments running through his mind like a sinister train, circling the tortured track of his brain. <...mine... she's mine... > He shut his eyes tight. "No!" The force of his yell shook the windows of the small car, and he pulled over onto the curb abruptly, shaking his head. Fighting a strange sense of claustrophobia, he opened the door and bolted out of the vehicle, barely remembering to lock it behind him as he made an open break for his apartment, where there would be plenty of distractions to take his mind off... His apartment. Not his home. Never his home. Never home. Not any more. ~&~ ~*One Month Later*~ Running to her doom. That was the thought that kept reverberating through her brain with every slap her feet made on the marble floor. The walls in the brightly lit corridor were cream, and at various intersections a painting hung, originals, Van Gogh, Renoir, Monet. Even without them his house felt like an art gallery - quiet, subdued, reverent. In her mind's eye, the vase of red tulips balanced on the nearest windowsill were bloody hands reaching out to her, begging for mercy. She skidded to a halt, tasting acid in her mouth again, as a thought assaulted itself in her brain. She was pregnant. Definitely. Absolutely. In fact, she'd been pregnant for almost three months now, without realising it. She'd nearly fainted at the doctor's office when he'd confirmed it. With no small measure of disbelief, she'd told him flat out that he must be mistaken. She *couldn't* have let three whole months go by... three months without a cycle. Why hadn't she suspected, or even *noticed*? //You haven't been eating properly... just chocolate, mostly... a lot of stress, and all the bruises and - // She derailed the mental train of thought. She didn't want to think about that, about where the bruises were, what he'd done, the assumption she'd come to believe in... that he'd made her... Three months. Three months since she'd sat, that night, in the bathroom, cried her eyes out for the children she'd never have. She'd just *assumed* - the worst thing anybody could do - and now... Three months. It scared her, terrified her into a state of rigidity. Where had the time gone? Why hadn't she noticed? The days had melted into each other so that she could hardly remember what *day* it was, let alone what date... time had meant nothing to her. She'd seen that half-life stretching into infinity, and in the face of infinity, days passing were nothing. She shook her head sharply. No! That road led to painful memories, to terror, pure and blind, and she didn't want to trip up. She couldn't afford to trip up. She needed to be cleverer than she'd been in months. She needed to be astute and... and calculating and... a damned good actress and... she needed to be able to convince... She was pregnant. A thought she'd never relished, a situation she'd never believed she could find herself in. A situation she'd thought was impossible for her, especially after... especially now. And she damned well wasn't going to go through it alone, she thought fiercely, resuming her march through the corridors. She couldn't *handle* it alone. Maybe she could have, once, but... not any more. No. She'd lost that ability. For all her brave thoughts about leaving her husband, once she thought it through, she knew she couldn't. It was incomprehensible. Somebody as weak and as incapable as she couldn't handle a small child. She had no money to call her own - if she left him, she'd have nowhere to live. She couldn't get a job with a tiny infant that needed to be taken care of. It was extremely unlikely that anybody would employ her, anyway, and she didn't blame them - she wasn't competent enough to do anything. She didn't know even the first thing about babies and if she left, she would have nobody to help her. She couldn't live in a cardboard box and raise her child. He or she would hate her, would long for the life she'd walked away from. She needed support. And if the baby got sick... if it got very sick... if she couldn't afford a proper home and it got an infection... if it died, because she'd walked away from protection and security and... The very best. That was what she was walking away from. And - she felt a strong surge of protectiveness, she placed a hand on her stomach, on the tiny, tiny bulge - didn't her child deserve the best? She needed support. Financial *and* emotional. Surely... surely he'd be pleased, a child to carry his name... she hoped it was a boy, she thought he'd like a boy... she needed so much... She needed... she needed... ...she needed to... just to... She reached his door. A symbol, closed, locked, his life separate from hers. Holy ground, forbidden ground, somewhere out of bounds to her. She raised her hand and rapped very hard on the wood with her knuckles. And then froze. Good grief, what had she done? That stunk of impatience, of spirit even... what, did she *want* him to get angry? Did she want to forfeit the game before she even saw her cards? What was *wrong* with her? A beat, and she knocked again - timidly this time. Funny, how easily you could convey emotion. Emotion you'd had once, or thought you'd had, before it was taken from you. She stood as if turned to stone, her breathing light and rapid. And then she stepped a little closer to the door, and pressed her ear up against it. Knowing what she was doing, what it meant, yet unable to stop it. The thought made her unbearably angry. She... she didn't want to be Lois Lane, Girl Reporter any more! She didn't want to stay there, outside his sanctum, and possibly be caught, and then what would happen? Then where would her long-buried reporting skills get her? Stupid! She was stupid! A hand reached down and grasped the handle of his door. She looked down on it. She didn't know it, didn't know the person it was attached to, had never known her. *She* was altogether braver than Lois herself. Far more reckless too. Her heart thudding madly, she heard the catch snick open. Unbelievable. He'd left his door unlocked. What had caused this, this sudden lapse in his security? //Maybe he thinks there's no need to lock his doors. Maybe he's stopped seeing you as a threat.// She clenched her fists and, sucking in her stomach, sidled in the door. Her back to the door, she had a sudden, horrifying thought and scanned the walls intently for signs of surveillance cameras. To her eye, the room was clean. Of course, he wouldn't want cameras in here, in his private room... and he wasn't expecting anyone else to be in here... he wasn't expecting her to deliberately disobey him... wasn't expecting her to fight back... Well, she'd show him! She'd get some of her old spark back, darn sure she would! She'd uncover some damning evidence, and she'd run, beautiful and alone, to the nearest police station, and the cop she'd meet would be sympathetic and handsome, and he'd support her in her endeavours to find a quiet way to kill him, and at the very end she'd maybe set up a pottery shop or a restaurant. Wasn't that how it happened in those battered-wife-meets-handsome- younger-man, kills-her-abusive-husband and sets-up-an- enterprising-business books she used to read? Yeah, that was right. She'd lose a few pounds while she was at it, too, and she'd end up with her baby on her hip, writing a best- selling novel with one hand and carelessly tossing a crème brulée together with the other, while her new husband and troop of witty business acquaintances watched in admiration. She took a deep breath, pushing the air out of her lungs slowly as she fought to remain calm. Staring across the room at the desk, she listened carefully for any movement outside before picking her way across the wooden floor. It was freezing to her bare feet, almost a trap in itself, biting at her skin, reminding her... she shouldn't be in this place, at this time, no, she shouldn't be... Cautiously, carefully and ever-so-slowly, she eased herself into his chair, teeth gritted in anticipation of an ambush, an alarm sounding, a trapdoor opening beneath her feet. When nothing happened, she breathed out, the relief making her high. She wasn't even sure of what she was looking for. She wasn't even sure why she was in the room. Another hand that didn't belong to her grasped the handle of a desk drawer, pulled it open smoothly. She looked in, her eyes scanning lazily over the contents. She wasn't expecting to find anything. Wasn't that always how it worked? Things only happened if you truly didn't want them to. Then her eyes glanced upon it - a small transparent package filled with white powder. Her heart skittered to a halt for an instant, and she could literally feel the blood leaching from her face. Drugs? Was that what her husband was into? Mind-altering narcotics? Illegal substances? Not to inhale them himself, she knew. He was always perfectly in control - around other people. But then what? To sell? To give... to give to... Her? //That's ridiculous, Lois,// she told herself instantly, her mind reeling with the absurdity of it. Why would he give her drugs? Drugs numbed things, took away pain. Drugs would have been a blessing to her over the last sixteen months. It would have been an act of kindness, not cruelty. She turned the package over in her palm, contemplating. It was bad, whatever it was, she knew that... she could feel the evil soaking through. She almost felt sick with it. For the second time that day, her heart tripped to a standstill for a nanosecond as she turned the bag over fully. To reveal a... a label. And on it... printed in deep black letters, as plain as the nose on her face... a name. Her name. Her name was written on the label. Clear as day. And under that... under that... A skull. With crossbones. Stupidly, her eyes filled with images of eye patches and parrots, the ocean, "yo ho ho and a bottle of rum". Then she returned to sanity - or the masquerade she was passing off as sanity. And she dropped it. One word echoing through her mind, like a gunshot. Poison!Poison!Poison!Poison! Uncertainly, she leaned down, held her head between her legs. Instantly the blood pounded back into her temples, purple dots obscuring her vision. This... this wasn't proof. This wasn't confirmation of anything. It wasn't. It couldn't be. He... he wouldn't be so *careless*, so downright stupid. To leave a package in his desk with her name printed on it? What kind of idiot would do something like that? It was completely out of character... the desk wasn't even *locked*! //Maybe he feels so safe here that he didn't think it necessary,// a voice in the corner of her brain whispered gently. //Maybe he knew there was no chance of you rebelling. And who else would be in here? Maybe that's why...// Like one in a dream, she heard the tramp of footsteps outside from far away. Far away... but getting closer. Advancing. Advancing down the corridor. In her direction. And... this room was the last one in that row, and they'd passed all the others by now. Which meant... they were headed... for her. She hadn't locked the door. In one movement she shoved the container of... of whatever back into his desk and dove for the window. There was a ledge outside that she was sure - almost sure - would hold her weight... please god, please god... Then she was out and she was clinging as hard as she could to the stonework, wishing, praying. Her husband was in the room behind her, chattering with his manservant, and if she was caught she was dead. "Sir, may I inquire as to how your wife's been feeling recently? A little... green around the gills, I hope?" She wondered how he would kill her. Maybe he'd stage an accident. Maybe he'd order one of his henchmen to... She strongly doubted she was important enough for him to do it himself. Maybe he'd actually use that stuff in his desk, if he wasn't planning to already... During the lapse in concentration her foot slipped slightly off the ledge. She was surprised when she didn't have to bite back a scream. Then she realised that falling wouldn't be the worst thing. In fact, if it was a choice between falling and being discovered, she'd take the former. She swallowed deeply, trying her best to ignore what was being said and straining to hear it at the same time. "Don't be ridiculous... I haven't even started it yet... needed to get used to eating with her first, so I'd know what she drinks..." Her confusion, the past few evenings, when he'd shown such an interest in dining with her... not out saving the world, spending time with her... she'd thought... she'd actually thought... when he'd fixed her drink for her, she'd thought he was... She'd thought he was being *kind*! "Should work fairly well in her wine... there *is* a definite trend of alcoholism in that family, so useful... made it so much easier to get her mother out of the way..." Her throat clogged suddenly as he confirmed what she'd long suspected. After nearly fifteen years of being completely clean, her mother had relapsed uncontrollably earlier that year and was now in therapy in one of the cushiest clinics in the country. He'd paid for it. Patted her back and said softly that it didn't matter, he'd do it for her. "I'll start tonight... can't afford to waste any time - she's become tiresome, boring... no challenge anymore... and so damned unresponsive, like a rag doll... I'll have to find someone with more spark in her... and who'll be able to give me children." Her gaze dropped immediately to her stomach. Wh... wha... what? "That's the damned annoying thing about women... so flimsy, so fragile... barely one year married and already her reproductive system's mucked up... she's no use to me now." An appreciative laugh. So he *had* noticed when her cycles had stopped. "No evidence later, I presume?" "No - arsenic gives the impression of a natural death..." Her mind shot back to that white package, to her reaction, Poison!Poison!Poison! flashing through her brain. "...no real side-effects... aside from the fact that the body doesn't decompose properly, but we'll hardly be digging her up again..." "...excellent. Really excellent, sir... ingenious..." "Yes, it was one of my more brilliant ideas... poor Lois, she has no idea what's coming to her... start preparing my press release, would you? About how I'm riddled with grief about the death of my beloved wife, life partner, etc etc. Some Hollywood schmaltz for the masses... their hero, grieving for his wife..." Grieving for his wife. And his unborn child. If she died, her baby would too. Her baby would die if she stayed with him. Dimly, in the background, she heard the door slam closed, heard the voices of her husband and his manservant disappear back down the corridor. Then she put one foot, then the other in through the open window and collapsed in a heap of raw nerves on the Oriental rug. He was planning to poison her. Because he suspected she was barren. He assumed he'd made her barren and now he was trying to kill her for it. He'd actually noticed when her periods had stopped. She'd thought he was indifferent to her, but of course, he still insisted that they share a bed, share a room - keeping his friends close and his enemies closer, as always. He'd actually noticed, and he'd assumed, like she had, that he'd damaged her reproductive system... now he was planning to discard her like a used tissue because she was of no more use to him... Some part of her numbed brain registered that she should be angry, that this should make her unbearably angry, and determined to fight back, but she didn't feel any of it. She didn't feel anything. Except maybe loss. And... protectiveness. Not for herself. Never for herself. For her child. Her tiny, innocent, perfect baby. Consequences be damned. Cardboard box or no cardboard box, she wouldn't let him kill her child. She'd never seen herself as a mother, but she loved it too much already. She'd rather die herself than see it hurt in any way. What did you do? Where did you go when you decided to leave your husband? What would she need? Money. And a place to run *to*. Right? She looked around her slowly, evaluating her situation. Whatever about the latter, she could sure as heck do something about the former, now that she was in his private domain. Moving faster now she had a purpose and an aim, she strode - strode! Like she had confidence! - over to his desk, pulled open the desk she'd inspected earlier. The bag of poison was gone - how careless it was for him to have left it there in the first place, he must really have felt safe in her meekness - but that wasn't what she was looking for. None too carefully, she swept her hands through the contents of the desk, and *there it was.* Her one way ticket out of his clutches. Her freedom shone at her from the plastic face of a small ATM card. The air hissed out of her lungs as, carefully and deliberately, she removed the card from its resting place. Staring down into the drawer, she nearly whimpered as she spotted the wad of bills, concealed underneath. Another tough decision. She picked it up, her hands shaking, and flipped through it. Her eyes boggled as she counted the number of hundred-dollar bills. Five, ten, fifteen... //In for a penny, in for a pound...// She peeled off three of the bills, breathing hard. Her fingers itched to take more - three hundred wouldn't get her very far - but the money would surely be missed. He couldn't *not* notice a loss of a thousand dollars, could he? It would be... negligent and... idiotic of her to take more... when she needed to be on her toes... a thoroughly stupid manoeuvre... No. She couldn't risk it. She slid the drawer back into its place and turned around, walking slowly out of the room, trying her hardest to appear nonchalant. Stuffing the money and card into her pocket - Versace prison- trousers this time - not daring to stop and stare at it, she reflected that it was the simplest things she missed the most. Money. Her own money. It had been... what, six months? More? She couldn't remember, but it seemed like a lifetime. A lifetime ago that she had controlled her finances independently, free to scatter and distribute at will. <...what's yours is mine...> She didn't even know where he had put her cards. ATM, credit, everything. Even her chequebook. <...where did you get this?...don't need this junk... frivolous spending... are you trying to ruin me?> She stopped, caught short, at the sight of the ornate door. Twisting around, she looked down the hallway in astonishment. She had crossed the entire house, already? She was moving that quickly? She'd thought she'd forgotten how to move that quickly. She twisted the handle of the door carefully, wincing at every squeak and fault. Slipping inside, she closed it behind her, thanking the ceiling silently for the second easy entry - a blessing, indeed. She'd planned to retrieve her lock-picking tool from its hiding place if needed, but was extremely thankful that the instrument had proved redundant - in the time lapse, her memory and skill had grown as rusty as the old doors she used to pick so dexterously. How she had hidden that... that little lock-picking thing. How she had kept it away from him. How she had kept it with her as a remnant of her old life, a realisation that things had been better once, a tiny piece of something real that might save her life, someday. She looked around the empty room philosophically. Strangely enough, even though it was the place that... the place where... everything had happened; she had something to be thankful to it for. Her epiphany had taken seed here, and now it was about to help her escape. But if she was caught in this particular room, at this particular time of day... She swallowed and shook her head. No time for thinking. Just do it. Walk over and do it. She was in front of the wardrobe in the next instant, her eyes wide and her breathing harsh and irregular. Grasping the handle of the door, she pulled it firmly toward her, wrinkling her nose as the smell of expensive clothing wafted out. She swallowed roughly as she spotted the dress. The white dress. The backless one, with a slit up the skirt and thin straps. That was the one, undoubtedly. He preferred that dress to any other garment of clothing she had. Taking it firmly between her hands, she glanced up and down the seam, searching for points of weakness. Clenching her fists, she brought them apart suddenly, grimacing as the resulting tear and rip of the fabric echoed around the cold room. Thank goodness chiffon was so flimsy - if it had been cotton or wool, she was sure she'd never have been able to rip it. There. It was done. No going back now. //Right. Go. Now. Get out. Get out of here. Right now.// Turning around purposefully, all rational thought flew out of her head as her wedding picture, encased in a grim silver frame, leapt out at her from the bureau. Letting the dress fall in a pool at her feet, she stepped over it, as if hypnotised, and let her feet carry her unwillingly over to the photograph. She picked it up, and the deathly chill radiating from it nearly made her drop it again. Staring at herself, she wondered how she could have been so blind. Unable to see. Or do. Unable to stop herself. Unable to fight, to run. While she still could. The woman in the picture was a totally different person. She knew that now, as she never had before. A true bride, radiance beaming out of her face as she looked at her new husband. She wasn't a bride any more. She wasn't beautiful or radiant or self-assured. She was a wife. Invisible. Retiring. Meek. Not like the woman in the picture, sure and... Although... she peered closer, looking at her not-self. There was a hint of hesitation in her face in that photograph. How...? She bit back the bile in her throat. //Stupid. So, so stupid, Lois.// She had *known*, back then. She had *known* that she wasn't in love with him, had never truly been in love with him. On her wedding day, she had *known*, and that knowledge had shone out of her face, imperceptible to anybody except herself, and maybe a few of her closest friends. Was that why they had abandoned her? Had they been disgusted at the fool inside of her who had insisted she go through with the wedding? Had they seen, back then, what she could not? Had he noticed? Was that why this life had been bestowed upon her - because he knew? Was the stinking hell that she had suffered for the past sixteen months essentially of her own making? Was that why she had failed so miserably as a wife - because he had known that she didn't love him? Was that why? She peered closer at him, almost afraid to move her finger over his immortalised face. As if she were afraid the stiff cardboard would come to life and bite her. Tall, dark-haired, brown-eyed as ever - and handsome. So damned handsome in that stupid tuxedo. A bride's dream. A *woman's* dream. How could she not have seen, that day, the evil that lurked within, waiting to appear? How could she not have seen past the kind, caring, compassionate facade that was his everyday life? Why couldn't she have known back then, so that she could have saved herself now? She stared in disgust at the wedding ring, stationed on his finger as it clasped hers. Just beside his monogram. Those sickening initials. That sickening name, now clamped to hers. She slammed the picture back down. She was procrastinating again. She was sure to get caught if she didn't move. After all, she wasn't supposed to be here. If he found her, he'd automatically assume... She strode out of the room, the ruined garment swinging on her arm, the ATM card burning a hole in her back pocket. ~&~ It had been easier than she had thought, she reflected, thirty minutes later. The sentry had taken the torn dress at face value; she was now certain that she wasn't being watched and that nobody was - or would be - suspicious of her motives for some time to come. To the slow-witted security guards, she had gone shopping to replace a dress that had gotten ripped on a nail. Stupid woman. So careless. The boss would be angry later, no doubt. Might as well give her a chance to hide it. Wouldn't make any difference, but hey... She took a deep breath, steeling her muscles in readiness. She opened her hand, trembling, and gazed in enthralment at the knife in her hand. She had filched it from the kitchen months and months ago - as a promise, perhaps, an insurance that no matter how bad things got, she could always get out of it. The smallest corner of her mind - the Wife part of it - was screaming at her not to do it. This was going to extremes, surely! She didn't need to do this. She could just go back. It would be so much simpler, and wouldn't involve feeling. Not much, anyway. It certainly wouldn't involve pain. Or if it did, it was no change. She was used to it, by now. She gritted her teeth, shaking her head wildly and pushing Wife to the very back of her brain with an effort. This was going to be a *little* cut. Nothing much. Just enough so that she could leave a few droplets on the dress, and maybe on the ground leading up to it. Yes. It wouldn't hurt - not much, anyway. It was only a *nick*! Breathing hard, her hand moved of its own accord, bringing the instrument down across her palm, hard and fast. She cried out; a second later, the knife clattered to the ground, and she watched in horrified fascination as beads of blood welled up on her palm. Gritting her teeth, she squeezed the incision, and the wound began to throb, bleeding freely. Whether it was the fact that her heart was suddenly pumping wildly, sending burst after burst of precious, life-giving blood to her hand, or just that time had stopped for that short while as she watched her blood flow out of her, splattering the dress luridly, the whole scenario took mere minutes. She had bled in this dress before. And she knew - blood didn't come easily out of chiffon. He had awful trouble trying to hide that fact. Then again, being who he was, he had managed it - all but a tiny brown speckle on the shoulder that nobody would notice unless in close proximity to her. And he had made sure that nobody got in close proximity to her. As she sat there, watching the life drain out of her, she had a sudden flicker of concern, deep in the pit of her stomach. She clamped her unhurt hand to her abdomen, suddenly scared. What would the loss of blood mean to the baby? Could it mean - heaven forbid - could it mean that its life was now at risk? Because of a few seconds' pain endured by its mother? Could she - could she lose it now? Because of a little blood? This baby was her lifeline. Her reason for survival. The spur that had made her run. She couldn't bear to lose it - if she ever... Swallowing hard, she scrunched the chiffon tightly. Her basic human instinct made her hang on to consciousness, but at this point it would have been a blessed relief to let it go. //Breathe. Think. Come on, Lane - you're *smarter* than this!// It was only a *little* blood. She had what - eight pints or so of the stuff in her body. This was a mere drop in the ocean. Nothing major. Nothing life threatening, to her *or* the baby. She took a glance at the cut, feebly trying to brush the excess blood away from it so she could gauge how deep it was. Growling in frustration as her efforts turned up nought, she quickly stuck it up to her mouth, cringing at the metallic taste. A few minutes later, her patience wrought and her disgust raw, she pulled away, peering closely at the wound. Her own cowardice had stopped the knife from penetrating too deep into her skin. She wouldn't need stitches, thank goodness. Just enough and not more. Hadn't that been her mother's motto, once upon a time? Yes, it had - and very useful to Ellen Lane, as well. When the subject wasn't alcohol, of course. She scrunched the sheer chiffon up tighter, balling it into the smallest bundle she could manage, and deposited it quickly behind a garbage can. Gasping, she caught her hand below the wrist, squeezing in and out in convulsive movements as she walked up out of the alleyway, careful not to get any of it on her clothes. She leant back a few minutes later, satisfied. There was no way anybody could *not* notice the trail - now all she had to do was get out of there. Fast, before anybody saw her. Her husband was a powerful man. Worth a lot of money. It wasn't completely outside the realm of possibility that his wife could be kidnapped. Held for ransom. Missing, presumed dead had a... sinister ring to it, but it worked for her. For the moment, at least. ~&~ "Kenneth!" He closed his eyes briefly. "Hi, Emma." "It's... good to hear your voice." "Y-yours, too," he struggled, pinching the bridge of his nose with his finger and thumb. "What can I do for you?" "Well..." He had caught her unawares, and he knew it. She hadn't expected him to be so forward - she was used to beating around the bush. Now she didn't know what to say. He could feel her hesitation. He could almost taste it. "What are you up to?" "Right now?" He tried to sound blase, not wanting to appear either rude or interested. It was late - he was tired. "Getting ready for bed." He glanced at the remote control in his hand, his eyes darkening at the lie. "Why?" "Oh." The disappointment in her voice rang through the phone line, echoing hollowly inside his head. "I... I just... oh, gosh, it's not important, but..." "Yes?" "Well, we know each other pretty well, now - I mean, we work together, and we're pretty good friends... right?" "Sure we are." He gritted his teeth in selfish annoyance. //Get to the point...// "I was wondering... I don't know, maybe I thought that some evening after work, we could... grab a bite to eat together? There's that new restaurant in Lewisham that I've been dying to try... The Granary?" "Um..." "As friends, I mean. Purely professional." She laughed nervously. "Oh, I knew it was a stupid idea... it's just that you're always so nice and kind to everybody, and I thought... well, I guess I thought wrong. I'm sorry to bother you at home, I know you're probably busy..." "No!" His head was spinning now - round in circles. God, he *hated* women. How could she hold such power over him when he barely knew her? "I mean... no. Don't apologise. I - uh - that... that would be g- okay. Sure." "Really?" She sounded absurdly pleased, and he winced. Some tiny part of him was watching what he was doing, warning him of the consequences - of what would surely happen if he took this woman up on her offer. He berated it to keep quiet. Emma was one of his colleagues - an old hand at the Independent, a high-driven career woman... but one who asked what people were thinking, one who didn't let her job dominate her life, one who enjoyed human-interest stories. She was effervescent and... safe. So unlike... Anyway, there was nothing to lose here. There was no chance of... "Sure." He forced himself to keep his tone light. "I'll... uh... I suppose tomorrow works?" "Tomorrow does work." Her answer was quick. "Tomorrow works brilliantly! Shall we say... eight?" "Um... okay," he mumbled, fighting a rising wave of panic. The last time he had picked a woman up for a date... "Shall I meet you there?" "Great!" Her voice was pathetically eager. "See you soon!" "Right." He clenched his eyes shut, wishing for solace. For peace. For the carefree attitude that was so hard to find. "See you soon." The dial tone buzzed in his brain, shutting out all other thoughts, and as he replaced the receiver gently, he was struck by the thought that he was alone again. ~&~ An hour later, not one person would have recognised Lois Luthor as she walked slowly along the sidewalk of downtown Metropolis. She was struck by the sudden, ridiculous thought that it was terrifyingly easy to kill somebody. It had taken no time - no time at all - and it was so *simple*... so perfect that there was no way anybody could have anything more than the slightest twitch of doubt in their minds about her health. *He*... couldn't think anything other than that. Heck, it was probably a relief to him. Save his poison for another day. People would joke about it - maybe rib each other about the fact that with all his money, he couldn't stop his wife from being killed. She swallowed, patting her baseball cap to make sure that none of the chin-length strands of hair were showing. It was probably a little uneven, she knew - she hadn't had a mirror, and the knife, though quite sharp, was still too blunt to make an elegant job of slashing through her thick hair, but she had done the best she could. At the time of her marriage, it had been to the middle of her neck when completely straight. She had liked it like that... but he hadn't. More feminine, he had thought, to have hair stretching halfway down your back. That was his excuse, anyway. Sometimes she wondered if it were just another easy method of silencing her - pulling her hair, twisting it around her neck in a solid, deadly coil. Cutting off her air supply so she couldn't scream. He had nearly strangled her to death with her own hair. Now she was free. Free. Her first taste of liberty had been cutting and dying her hair, one-handed in the Ladies room of a bar, which no other woman would have dreamt of going into. She'd never thought of herself as a blond and she had been straightening the heck out of her curls since she'd been a teenager - he'd never seen her with her hair curly. Back to nature, and what a blessing it was. The red sweater she had been wearing as she left was perfectly adequate once she ripped a hole in the arm of it. Also her baseball cap, which she had bought to stuff her hair into, as an extra precaution. Her jeans... Calvin Klein jeans... well, they would have to do. Still a pretty good disguise. He would not tolerate her wearing jeans, they were altogether too common and they made her too pretty, too young. She hadn't dared to use a taxi, hadn't dared to exhaust any more of her funds until she knew her situation, so she had walked. Just... walked. For what felt like miles. She glanced around her, for the first time absorbing her surroundings, and started in surprise. Where the... what... where *was* she? Was she even in Metropolis any more? She glanced across the street, wildly searching for any sign of familiarity. She had been on autopilot - *stupid*! Stupid, stupid woman! Just like always, not thinking about what she was doing, not considering the consequences... A large, yellow-and-black taxi with the blocky word 'METRO' stamped on the side in bold black letters immediately affronted itself into her line of vision. Right. Still in Metropolis. Pretty far away from where she had started out, obviously. She blew her breath out slowly as she came to the first intersection, debating as to where she should go. Getting out of town was a top priority, that she knew, but... She wasn't used to making decisions for herself anymore. She turned right, then left, then right again, stumbling across the crosswalk to slump against a shop window at the other side. Her head was going round in circles, her stomach plunging. She clamped her hand to her sweaty forehead, desperately trying to think. //*Think*...// Her hand! She swung it abruptly away from her forehead, glaring at it as if it were a dog about to bite her. Of course! She should have known. She had turned *right*. That was *bad*. Years beforehand, Bill Henderson had told her that when people were running away, trying to be clever and confuse their followers about which direction they were going in by trawling through various intersections, they were usually only going in the direction of their dominant hand. She was *right*-handed. This would be the first place any detective, hired to find her, would look. She was being *stupid*! She crossed over the road again and turned left, this time, looking down at her hand with a pleased expression. It had been ages since she had actually thought about what she was doing - a week ago and she would have continued on that way, not caring about whether her husband... //Husband...// The name whirled around in her brain, madly, as she stared at the proof, stationed conspicuously on the third finger of her left hand. The hand that still bore the mark of her desperation to get away from him. Her injured hand. She tugged them off swiftly; appalled to have anything that had once belonged to him touching her skin. Cradling it in her hand, she glared at them, twinkling up at her so innocently. Clenching her fist, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut as the edge of the rings bit into her palm. The last tie. The last connection. She opened her fist, looking at them again. The pure, shocking rage that had gripped her at the sight, moments before had ebbed now, and all she was left with was a detached, clinical sense of contempt. For the rings. For the man who had given them to her. She took three steps, debating what to do with them. "Ouch, dammit..." Rubbing her aching foot, she glared at the object that she had walked into, darkly reflecting that... A garbage can. A *garbage can*. She looked slowly at the entity, then back down to the ring in her hand. Several times. The thought, struggling to reach the top of her brain, broke through all at once, with a splash, and she was standing before the bin almost before she knew she had moved. Such an easy way. A quick, easy way to finally rid herself of the last things tying her to him. She opened her hand, slowly tipping them sideways, making them slide back and fro in her palm. She couldn't do it. She was weak. She was... it was like he... They would buy her food. Wouldn't they? She could sell them, if things got too bad. She could *pawn* them, for goodness sake! It would be foolish to throw them away. Like money down a rat hole. Stupid, when she had so little to begin with. The rings were huge and expensive, especially her engagement one. It would buy her so many things, if she sold it wisely. A chunk of rock that she could live on for months; maybe even years, if she was careful. She clenched her fist, breathing hard. "Hey lady, you okay?" She looked around, wide-eyed, to spot a youth with psychedelic red hair and bulbous pimples in an apron with a sweeping brush in his hand, surveying her curiously. A sign in the window of a restaurant bearing the same logo as his apron caught her eye - "Help Needed, Apply Within". "Yes," she began, and choked as something became suddenly, terribly apparent to her. "No!" She clapped a hand to her mouth, and retched. Alarmed, he caught her by the elbow, hurrying her into a side-alley, where she was copiously, disgustingly, slowly sick into a dumpster. Twice. He waited as the last retches ceased, and magnanimously produced a large handkerchief. She nodded, leaning her head back against the dumpster and closing her eyes. "Thanks," she said, and cringed at the weakness in her voice. "For the hanky, I mean. I'll wash it and... mail it to you, or something..." "Don't worry about it," he said nobly, "I have plenty." A few minutes passed in silence. Not caring how dirty the alleyway was, Lois slid to the ground, rested her arms on her raised knees and buried her head in them, trying desperately not to faint. "Hey... you got pretty sick there," he said, accurately if a little obviously. "You feeling OK now?" Lois nodded, rubbing the back of her hand across her mouth in a vain attempt to rid it of the sour taste. "Yeah, it usually goes away in a few minutes." "I'm sorry?" His young face was a mixture of concern and confusion. "The nausea." She smiled at him weakly. "I'm pregnant." She felt a tiny thrill, sharing that - a spark of excitement igniting as she said the words out loud - as if by giving the words form and exposing them to light, she had physically forced it into being. She surveyed him, as he digested the words. She didn't know what strange twist of fate had ensured that this kid should be the first person who she told about her pregnancy, but somehow it seemed right. He opened his mouth, and promptly closed it again. And again. And again. "Oh," he said, finally, then blushed to the very roots of his ginger hair. He glanced at her hand, then frowned. "Are you in some kind of trouble?" Lois felt a tendril of panic twist in her still-churning stomach. Could he tell that she was running away from someone? That she was disguised? Oh god, what if this kid called Lex? Her voice was unnaturally high when she answered. "No, of course not. Why would you think I was in some kind of trouble?" "It's just that I noticed..." he mumbled bashfully, gesturing towards her left hand. She glanced at it herself, noting with surprise the bare, independent look about it, the doughy texture of the skin around which her rings had been. "You're not married?" She considered the question. "No." It flowed out of her, truer than any lie she had ever told. He held his two hands up. "Hey... it's none of my business." Another pause, in which she started thinking about getting to her feet. It might help. Maybe. Too soon, though. The ground was too unpredictable. You never knew when it might suddenly rear up on you. "Whoa!" She looked at him, heavily curious to know what he was exclaiming at, to find that his gaze pointed northward. She looked down, and gasped, clenching her fist immediately. The fist that had gone limp as she lay there. The fist where the rings had been before she had had the sudden attack of nausea. The fist out of which a half-a-million-dollar diamond was now peeping. "Damn," she whispered reflexively, squeezing her eyes shut. She leant her head against the dumpster, and opened them wearily. He was staring at her with an expression of amazement - awe, even. She looked into his eyes, and had the strangest sensation of unrealism - almost as if dollar signs would pop into them at any second. Then the look was gone, replaced by something hard and suspicious. "I thought you weren't married? Where did you get those?" he asked, his tone aggressive. She almost burst out in hysterical laughter. Great! Just great. It was over before it had begun. The urge died in her throat as she looked at him. No. No. She'd come too far and worked too hard to blow it now. "I'm on my way to pawn them," she said, cool as you please, looking him straight in the eye. "You're going to *pawn* your wedding rings?" She raised an eyebrow at him. "Thought in the great scheme of things, if it came to a choice between owning a diamond ring and not starving to death, the last one would be more important." His eyes bugged slightly, and she felt victorious. She'd read him right. He had no real authority in him, no command. He was faking it, as was she. "How in the world does a woman go from owning a rock like that to being in danger of starving to death?" She sighed, feeling the vestiges of impatience stir inside her, savouring the feeling, the freedom. She could snap at people all she liked now. "Long, sordid story." He looked at her sharply. "I've got time." "Have you? How nice for you," she bit sarcastically, jumping to her feet. A moment later, she regretted the action as the world swung around her. She put a hand on the cool steel of the dumpster to steady herself. "Unfortunately, I'm fast running out of it, so if you don't mind I'll just..." "You're really in trouble, huh." His expression was very serious. She rolled her eyes at him, set off for the street again. She desperately needed to get out of there, away from this stainless kid before she doomed them both. He trotted after her. "I'd like to help." It came tentatively. She looked at him suspiciously. "Why?" she demanded. "Why? I'm just a woman who staggered in off the street and got sick in your dumpster. Why would you want to help me?" "Hey, lady, my Mom taught me better than to just look past someone in trouble," he said tetchily. "I'm just trying to do my civic duty, or whatever they're calling it this week. I appreciate that you're under pressure and broke, but that's no excuse to..." "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she apologised, flushing at his speech. The kid was just trying to help, and here she was jerking him around over it. He looked at her warily. "Apology accepted." She sighed. "I guess... it's just hard to believe that there are still good guys left in the world." "I'm a good guy." His eyes were very earnest. "I'll help you. However I can. What do you want?" He made a sudden convulsive movement with his shoulder - as if shrugging off a lingering doubt about her. She flinched. His arm immediately flew up from his side, but he evidently abandoned his original intention because a few moments later she felt the lightest touch on the tender, exposed inside of her wrist. "Hey. You okay?" he whispered. She swallowed roughly. "Fine. Just fine." She looked around her for a moment, before shaking her head viciously and stamping her foot. "No, dammit, no, I'm not fine!! I'm not fine!! I'm standing here, pregnant, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, with a total of..." She slipped her hand inside her jean pocket and drew a bill out, "...twenty dollars in the world, standing here in an alleyway, talking to some strange kid who doesn't even know my name, and you know what? You know what?" She grabbed him by the arm and shook him. "I have absolutely no idea what I'm going to do or where I'm going to go." Her voice was deathly quiet all of a sudden. "So that's the first thing we have to figure out." His voice was amazingly calm, considering the fact that a pregnant stranger had just yelled at him and was now hanging onto the lapels of his apron for dear life. She released him abruptly, suddenly feeling sick again. She drew a hand tiredly across her forehead. "Oh, it doesn't matter. No matter where I go, where I run, he'll find me. Eventually." She clenched her fists. "He always does," and a second later, "Ouch, dammit!" "What? What's wrong??" She looked at him, then slowly opened her clenched left fist. He gasped when he saw the blood, a sickly brown where it had flowed and dried, and breaking freshly out of the tender, minutes old film which had formed over the cut. "We have to get that cleaned up," he pronounced gravely. At her sceptical look, he added, "Hey, you don't want to get an infection," defensively. Inwardly, she smiled. He sounded like the kind of kid who had been reared on those little tissues, soaked in disinfectant that came in the tiny blue paper satchels. She could almost imagine him sticking a band-aid with green and yellow dinosaurs over the wound. In the course of the next half hour, she learned his name was Charlie, that he had a girlfriend named Amber, that he had turned eighteen the month before last, and that someday, he and his garage-band friends hoped to sign a record deal. He played the drums, was partial to the Guns n' Roses but still appreciated the classics - Bruce Springsteen, Led Zeppelin, the Beatles. She'd always thought teenage boys were sullen and withdrawn. Not Charlie. He kept up a steady stream of conversation, which meant, thankfully, that he didn't seem to expect much of a response from her. She still felt slightly queasy, and her nerves were stretched to near breaking point. He fixed her a grilled cheese sandwich and poured her a tall glass of milk, which she forced herself to drink although she would have preferred it with a healthy dose of chocolate syrup. After she had something in her stomach, she felt better. At least physically. But as she looked around the empty diner, the terrifying doubts started to pull at her again. She stared out the window, wondering what was supposed to happen next. What exactly did a newly- murdered, beloved-wife do? And where, precisely, did she go? As far as she knew, there was no road map out of hell. She released a deep sigh, then blushed when she realized that it had been louder than she'd planned. He looked at her, silently enquiring. She twisted her mouth. "I have to get out of here, Charlie," she whispered. "Hey." His voice was concerned, and even in the midst of her desperation, some tiny part of her smiled as he tugged on the sleeve of her sweater rather than put his arm around her. "It'll be okay. Nobody else saw. You can get out of town as easy as pie..." She looked at him sadly. "I can't afford an airplane ticket. And even if I could, it would be traceable. Not that I have anywhere to go anyway." He frowned. "You don't have any family? No friends?" She looked down. "Too dangerous. For them and me. And my friends have long since... no. No friends I can go to." He tried again. "Nobody who would take you in, even if only for a day or two? Come on, think about it. Nobody is *that* alone. Surely there must be somebody who lives in the middle of nowhere that can help you out?" Nowhere. Nowheresville. Just like the dollar signs in his eyes before, if she had been in a comedy short, a light bulb would have exploded above her head. He had noticed her face. "There." His voice was almost pathetically eager. "You *do* know somebody, don't you?" She nodded cautiously. "I do. Or... at least, I *hope* I do." "So... you have someone to stay with?" "Once I can figure out a way to hike halfway across the country on five dollars... then I'll be all right. I think." He frowned again. "You could take the bus." She laughed. "The bus? Have you seen the kind of people that ride on those things? And what if I get sick?" "Greyhound buses have bathrooms, you know." "Joy. Do I have any other options?" "You could always hitchhike." She threw up her hands. "Perfect!" He took her elbow, a determined expression crossing his face. "Come on," he insisted. "Where are we going?" "To the nearest bus station. We're going to find some kind of a map and draw up a travel plan for you." "You don't have to do that," she protested weakly. "Sure I do. I won't feel right till I see you safely on your way." "It's not safe." "Sure it is. I don't know you. You don't know me. I'm just a guy helping a lady out." She wondered at his simple, unquestioning manner. "What about your job?" She pointed at his large, conspicuous, and official-looking apron as they crossed in front of the shop. He ripped it off and balled it up. "Forget that. Lou never gets back from lunch before three. He'll never even know I was gone." For the first time in what felt like years, Lois smiled. ~&~ ~*"Superman! Help, Superman!" Somebody was calling him - he could hear her, but he couldn't see her. The thick fog smothered any attempt at X-ray vision, the holes he tore in it through flying filling up as quickly as they had come. "Please help! God - my husband - my baby - help! Help me, Superman!" There! Columns of flame leapt up out of the mist and he levelled his body at it, desperately praying to reach it. //Come on, come *on*...// He was with her at last. She was sobbing so intensely that her breath came in great hiccups and he could barely understand the spluttered sentences she gasped at him. "Bobby... he ran back in to save Carter, but the stairs collapsed..." He didn't need to know any more. Gathering his cape tight around him, he dashed into the inferno, desperately trying to scan through the smoke to locate the father and child. //Find them... find them, dammit!// Somewhere a baby screamed, and he made a bolt in that direction, desperately, stupidly batting at the thick smoke with his hands. Finally, he stood in front of them - the father was nearly unconscious with smoke inhalation, still hanging onto the baby for dear life. "Stay calm," he tried to instruct, "I'll get you out." He took the child from the father and tucked his arm around him, motioning towards one of the upstairs rooms, which hadn't yet been affected by the blaze. "Come on... over here... I'll help you out of the window if you'll just..." But he was way beyond the point of reason, and slumped to the ground. Gritting his teeth, Superman managed to hoist the man onto his shoulder while still cradling the baby in his other arm. He made an open break for the window, swinging out of it just before the house collapsed. Landing quickly, he gave Carter back to his mother and hurried over to the ambulance, where the paramedics had a stretcher waiting. The team got to work and within seconds, the man was lying comfortably. He hurried over to the nurse by the stretcher, who was frantically feeling the man's wrist. "Is there a pulse?" he asked desperately. The young woman looked up, her face a mask of sorrow. Slowly she shook her head. He was dead. The baby's father, the woman's husband, was dead. A strangled gasp sounded behind him and he turned and watched as the life drained out of the young widow's face. "It's all your fault," she gasped. "You... if you had just been here three minutes earlier... you killed him." "I'm so... I can't..." He reached his hand out desperately, needing to sympathise with her, to express the depths of his sorrow, and winced as she recoiled. "Get away from me!" she screamed. "Murderer!" Her words struck him directly in the chest and he staggered back, physically rejecting the word. Her image swelled until it was all around him, her face waxen white, and screaming... screaming so loudly... and suddenly it wasn't her face at all, but another woman's, dark-haired this time, screaming the same word at him... "Murderer!" "No!" he screamed, reaching out and shaking her. "Noooooooo!" Her eyes grew wide, her body limp. Suddenly her head flopped back, and he dropped her, terrified. The young nurse who had confirmed the man's death rushed over and put her fingers on her neck. A second later, she looked up at him, her eyes wide, and slowly shook her head. He was falling, falling, down a deep well, her image multiplying and flipping so that no matter where he looked, she was there. He knew that there was going to be an end to his fall that would be infinitely more painful than the falling itself, but some idea told him that it was a long way off. A distant noise greeted his ears, and he wondered faintly who was screaming.*~ ~&~ Three seconds later, a man called Kenneth Clarkson sat upright in bed, flailing his arms wildly as echoes reverberated around his head. The bottom came swiftly, then, clumping him so hard over his head that he felt dizzy. Gathering his sheets around him, he lay shivering there, feeling the loneliness, the isolation. It was cold. He looked up, expecting to see a circle of light somewhere up ahead, but the room was black and unmerciful. It took a while for it to sink in that he wasn't at the bottom of a well, but lying there, awake in his apartment, at three in the morning, crying. ~&~ "You're sure you'll be okay from here?" "Exactly what do I have to do to get you to buzz off and leave me alone?" His expression was very serious. "Tell me you'll be all right, and promise you'll look after yourself." She sobered immediately, recognising the sincerity in his voice. "I'll be fine. Thanks to you." She swallowed, realising the enormity of what the kid had done for her. "Go on, then. Get back to that café before you lose your job." He grinned sunnily at her, raising his hand to his forehead in a mock salute. "Aye aye, cap'n." "You are so weird," she exclaimed, laughing at him. They smiled at each other for a few minutes, before Lois broke eye contact and cleared her throat. "Well... the bus is due to leave in ten minutes ... guess I should find out where it is. And maybe make a pit-stop." "And you're right, I should get back. I need this job. Gotta save up for a new drum kit, you know." She nodded appreciatively, smiling. "Goodbye, Charlie. Thank you... thank you so, so much." He nodded. "Anytime." She was walking away from him when suddenly he yelled, "Hey!" Twisting around, she looked at him with a puzzled expression. "What?" "You never told me your name," he shrugged, burying his hands in his pockets. She paused, thinking hard. "My name... it's Lo-Louise." "Just Louise?" "Yes. Just Louise." She was definite on that front. "Okay." He was silent for a few minutes. "Bye... Louise." She smiled at him and he finally turned, walking away without a glance behind. She watched him leave, feeling foolish for the twinges of sadness in her stomach. Another friend, gone out of her life. Another face that would haunt her dreams at night. Another man, leaving her to be blown around like a thistle in the wind. Another departure. She swallowed roughly, bringing her hand up to bat fiercely at the sudden salty moisture on her cheeks. She was being a sentimental idiot. And Charlie hadn't abandoned her. Heck, he was just a kid! Just a kid who had helped her a little. Got her on her way. It was just... unfamiliar, after all this time, a man showing any kindness towards her. That was the only reason why she was crying. With a start, she realised that the dam had broken. Sixteen months of hell, and she had never cried. Not once. Crying was not something you did in his house. Neither was screaming. Neither was fighting back. If you absolutely *had* to vomit, then do it neatly into your apron, as soon as you got enough breath back. Contribution to conversation was not tolerated. Passive submission. Blankness. That had been the name of the game. For sixteen whole months. And it had been a *kid* - an adolescent, barely eighteen years old - who had made her cry. She shook her head viciously, dabbing at the corner of her eye again. Taking another look around her, she slipped the card out of her pocket, swallowing queasily at the shininess and texture of it. She could almost feel his oily business dealings seeping through it, staining and shaming her. Trying her hardest to appear nonchalant, she sauntered over to the machine and slotted the card in, breathing hard as the welcome message appeared on the screen. She knew the pin. Date of her wedding day, backwards. He'd been so like that in the first few months of her marriage - kind and solicitous and unbearably patronising. She hadn't even noticed the patronising part till that very second - how cruel, that she should be reminded just now, standing at this ATM, how blind she'd been, what a cruel sadistic powerful *monster* she'd married... She froze, her heart thudding to an abrupt halt. Power. Powerful monster. Lots and lots of power, and lots and lots of money, and lots and lots of contacts... Contacts who could let him know exactly where and when his ATM card had last been used... and how much had been taken out... instantaneously. Her hand came down hard on the 'cancel' button, and she watched as her card reappeared and the machine wished her a nice day. What... what in the *world* had she been thinking? What kind of stupid, *stupid*, idiotic, self-destroying psycho was she? *How* could she have taken his ATM card? How could she have knowingly taken it all the way over to the bus station, punched in those numbers and never have figured out the direct link to the area? But now... what was she to do for money? Her mind flashed back to the wad of cash she'd discovered in his desk drawer, back in that horrible imposing shadow of a house he'd built them. How she bitterly regretted her timidity now. She should just have taken the money and left the area as fast as her feet could carry her... The area. If she withdrew a couple of hundred dollars - the maximum a card would allow her take in one day - from the *wrong location*... that way if he did figure it out - when he figured it out - he'd lose valuable time looking in the wrong place. Not her original escape plan, sure. She'd wanted to drop off the face of the planet and make him think she'd never existed. But this was... a suitable alternative. Make him sweat. Make him pay. Make him doubt himself. And then peel that carefully- constructed public mask away and reveal the horror within... She whistled for a cab. ~&~ ~*One hour later*~ She'd done it. She'd actually done it. She'd ridden all the way back to the outskirts of their - his - house, and she'd withdrawn almost eight hundred dollars from their - his - account. And now she was back where she'd started, about to take a Greyhound bus to... Glancing around her to ensure nobody was watching, she withdrew the map that she had received and pored over it. Charlie had ringed her destinations in red Magic Marker - she grinned as she remembered how proudly he had whipped it out. Missouri. Home of the Ozarks and that banjo-playing boy from 'Deliverance'. She shuddered. She'd been to St. Louis, which was a nice enough place, but other than that large city, she didn't have great expectations of the state as a whole. Rural, backwards, boring. Altogether not a first choice of vacation destinations. But the perfect place to lose yourself, if one needed to get lost. >From St. Louis, she'd make the transfer to Joplin, where hopefully she'd be able to lose any scent of a trail he might have picked up, should the dress fail to convince him of her untimely death. Then on through towns that got progressively smaller the further west she went. Hill City, Plainville, Greensburg... until she and the bus parted ways in the last town that had a bus station ... Friend. That name sounded comforting, even in her head. It would take her three long days of bus-riding misery, and still she'd be thirty miles or so shy of her final destination. How she was going to manage it eastward when the time came was beyond her, but it was a start. A... beginning. Definitely better than her other option, which was to stay in Metropolis until he inevitably tracked her down. Crumpling the paper viciously, she shoved it back into the pocket of her red sweater, biting her lip as she walked into the main terminal of the bus station. Suddenly feeling daring, she withdrew five dollars from her funds and ordered a large latte and chocolate brownie from the Starbucks stand. Taking a distracted step away from the stand, sipping her coffee, she bumped headlong into a tramp, who promptly fell to the ground. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, standing her coffee on a seat nearby, hefting him to his feet and trying not to wrinkle her nose at the smell. He brushed his hand down his coat distractedly, smiling toothlessly at her at last. "No harm done, ma'am," he croaked, his eyes fixated on the brownie in her hand. Suddenly feeling a cold twist of pity in the bottom of her stomach for him - he who had so many more troubles than she - she smiled encouragingly at him and slipped her hand into her pocket, then tucked a bill into one of the pockets of his greatcoat. "Here," she said, trying her hardest not to appear like she was being charitable. He caught her hand and squeezed hard. "Thank you... thank you," he said, nodding fervently and wringing her hand between his two. She nodded back, slightly apprehensive now, and pulled her hand from his grasp. It felt good to be generous again, she reflected as she walked away, heading over to the stop where the bus would pull in. She didn't see his jaundiced eyes watching her every step, and she didn't see him darting a sharp glance at the glaring neon sign that displayed the time and destination of the next bus. She didn't see him. If she had seen him doing that, she might have gotten a little nervous. But she didn't, and she boarded the bus five minutes later, confident that she had escaped at last. ~&~ "...fourteen, I saw this television show - funny, I don't even remember the name of it now - and from then on, I knew I wanted to be a journalist..." "... wanted me to be a secretary, or a nurse... a 'woman's job'. He had very fixed ideas. It was... tough, especially since I've always been shy, but eventually I managed to break away." A tinkly laugh. "I waited tables and saved my birthday money for almost eight years, and at the end, Daddy finally relented and sent me. All the way to Cambridge..." <"I've missed you," she said, almost shyly.> "...you decide to go into journalism?" she asked, smiling encouragingly. "Did you go to college, or did you do it the old- fashioned way?" He blinked, leaving his fork down. He suddenly wasn't hungry any more. "I... uhm... that is..." He broke off, shaking his head hopelessly and looked at her, despairing. "...didn't go to college?" she asked, clearly surprised. "Gosh, I would never have had the patience to start as a novice! Was it difficult?" //Smart. Real smart.// "No!" he burst out. She raised an eyebrow. <"Oh... okay, I guess." She laughed nervously. "Tiring. This month. I mean, I know that you're supposed to relax on your honeymoon, but..." "Yeah," he said, cutting her short. He couldn't bear to hear the rest of that sentence. "Where'd you go, anyway?" he asked, more out of politeness then any real interest.> "...of course, I wouldn't know, I went to college from the first day and started when I had my degree, but I suppose it's as good a way as any to do it..." He shook his head viciously, trying to clear his brain, not registering the fact that she was taking the gesture as a knee- jerk reaction to her statement. <"Paris is lovely at this time of year..."> "...but I suppose anybody would think that. I mean, I didn't think college was so great, either, when I was going, but now I think it was really the best option... for me, I mean..." He snapped to attention, shaking his head irritably. "No, no. I went to Midwestern University. In the US," he added for her benefit. A long silence followed. "Oh." Funny, how you never really noticed detail unless you were looking close at something. The pattern of the wallpaper was actually very intricate. Some kind of circular, loopy thing. It almost seemed to depict... he held his head on one side, trying to figure it out. "So... whereabouts are you from, then?" She was off again. "In America, I mean." He gulped. Not good. "Oh, no fixed spot, really," he lied through his teeth, shrugging his shoulders uncomfortably. "We kind of drifted from place to place. Then I went travelling myself when I got my degree." <"I'll have to see for myself one day ... when I'm in a better mood to enjoy it," he said meaningfully. He realised belatedly that the sentence had been cruel when he noticed the red line creeping along her cheekbone.> "...must have been fascinating. I've always wanted to do that, myself. I suppose you've seen a lot... more than I have, anyway..." "Yeah, I've lived through some pretty... interesting experiences." He shifted around in his seat impatiently. <"Can we still be friends?"> He was lost in thought, swirling in the never-ending cesspool that was his memory, sinking deeper and deeper into the echoes of a broken man and the sweet torment of her... "...Kenneth?" His head snapped up, and he was suddenly staring at her, embarrassed, under the glaring lights of the little restaurant. She was uncomfortable, he could tell - and trying desperately to hide it. "I don't really mind," she admitted bashfully. "I mean, the meal was lovely - I just wanted to know... who wants dessert, anyway? Only makes you fat..." He glanced at the column of black-and-white that suddenly arrested itself into his line of vision, colouring as he noticed the inquisitive waiter hovering at his elbow. "Oh, Emma, I'm sorry," he gasped, acutely aware of his rudeness. "I was... a million miles away." She smiled half-heartedly. "I did notice," she admitted. "Dessert sounds... good," he hurried. "Chocolate, I assume?" She made a face. "Nope. Never worked for me." She was addressing the waiter now. "I'll have the creme brulee, please." He swallowed, mumbling, "Just coffee," at the waiter and looking down at the tablecloth. He had to remember. This wasn't... this was Emma. *Emma*. Not... not... "...all right? You're so pale... and Daniel says you've been working long hours lately. There's a 'flu bug going around, did you know? You should really take better care of yourself... get some chicken soup or whatever you Americans are so obsessed with..." Another tinkly laugh. <"Clark," she whispered, her eyes wide and tremulous. "Clark..."> "I'm fine," he blurted out. His voice sounded too loud to his own ears. "Absolutely fine." "You look so haunted..." Emma remarked worriedly. "Kenneth?" A soft hand touched his own, and he jumped back as if scalded, cursing his luck as he saw the immediate withdrawal in her soft blue eyes. Blue eyes. And coppery hair. And human interest stories. A non- chocolate-fan. And totally, completely wrong for him. The back of his knee connected sharply with the chair behind as he stood up, throwing his napkin on the table beside a shell-shocked Emma. "This was a bad idea," he blurted out. Remembering his gentlemanly attitude at last, he threw five twenties on the table, adding "For the meal," as a way of explanation. Brushing past a taken aback waiter, he made his speedy departure from the stuffy restaurant, cursing his situation, his stupidity, his shame. He walked through the streets, hands in his pockets, as the flaring, old-fashioned lanterns chased the shadows away from his mind, leaving it free to remember his intolerable cruelty, his boorishness, his total and absolute lack of decency. One hundred dollars. No, one hundred *pounds*. Surely too much for the meal - but then again, what did he know? This was London. Food was horrendously expensive in London. He was an outsider. Of course, that was nothing new - he'd been an outsider all of his life - but somehow, this time it was... different. More painful. More acute. He had some inkling of what it felt like to belong, and now that he didn't... it hurt more. So what if he had overspent? Forget the money. She could have it. Compensation for the lousy way he had treated her all evening. He'd arrived at the restaurant nearly thirty minutes late; he'd fallen asleep again, of course. She had accepted that excuse without question. Somehow, he thought that had been the part that hurt most. He broke into a run, determined to leave the bitter memories and half-remembered dreams spinning in the dust behind him. The movement didn't allow for thinking, and the cobbles that feet so easily stumbled upon stole his concentration. He didn't have time to dwell on exactly *what* reminiscences had drawn his attention for most of the meal. That would come later. While he was conscious, it was easy to distract his brain with other things. But when he slept, when he dreamt, he couldn't escape. Couldn't escape the bitterness. Couldn't escape the pain. Couldn't escape the confusion. He couldn't escape... ...and it was killing him slowly. ~&~ <...she shrugged. "That sort of thing doesn't really matter to me anymore." He looked up sharply, the papers in his hand falling limp as he stared at her, looking strangely crestfallen. "It doesn't?" "I need to concentrate on making my marriage work," she explained. "I don't think I'd have that much time for reporting anymore. Besides, I've already *got* a job, remember?" He cocked an eyebrow at her. "At LNN? But Lois, you've always been a newspaper reporter!" She shrugged, again. "I've been working with newspapers for almost ten years now. I think it's time for a change." "I see." He stared at the coffee table for another minute, his fingers laced and a vein twitching in his temple. "Besides, repairing the Planet is economically illogical. It would be twice the cost of building it in the first place. You know how flippant insurance companies are; for the most part, they fell through. No help there." He glanced at her, and for a moment, the look in his eyes scared her. She was killing him, she knew, but she couldn't help that. Better to do it metaphorically than for real. "Don't you even want to know what happened that day?" he asked, and his voice was desperate. "Don't you want to know who destroyed our lives? Don't you want..." "Perry, they've caught the guy who did it. Remember?" He stared at her as if she had some sort of strange disease. "Jack," she explained, looking at him as if he were three sheets in the wind. "They caught him, Perry. You don't have to worry." He recoiled instantly. "Lois, you can't tell me that you really believe that!" She raised an eyebrow at him, politely enquiring. "Do you really think that boy would have had the knowledge it takes to create a bomb big enough to destroy a building like the Planet was? And besides, why would he *want* to? It was his job, as much as anybody else's." "He lived on the street, remember? Who knows what he could have picked up? And I don't *know* why he did it. How am I supposed to figure out what drives a sick, twisted..." "Lois, don't you talk about him like that." He was growing angry now. "And besides," she continued, as if he hadn't spoken, "the Planet is gone now. There's no getting past that. What's the point in figuring the cause of the thing if it won't do us any good, anyway? It's not going to bring it back, is it? We should all just try and move on - *especially* me. I mean, I'm married now, Perry! I need to concentrate on..." He waved his hands in the air irritably. "I know, I know, you've told me already." He cleared his throat, and threw a glance at her. "It's just that somehow I always figured the Planet meant more to you than that." She straightened up. "The Planet does... did mean a lot to me, but..." "Not as much as your new life does," he finished for her. "I see." An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. He looked as if he were trying to swim through cement - he was still having difficulty believing her. Swallowing the story. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead. She *had* to make this work - she had to make him believe her. To save him, she had to push him as far away from her as possible. "That chapter in my life is closed, Perry. I have to move on. No good dragging in the past - I have to make my future work. You don't know how important my marriage is to me - I don't want to -" "Jeopardise it. I know." On impulse, she stretched out her fingers and caught his hand, staring up into his face. "I'm... uhm... I'm very..." "Happy?" She swallowed, disappointed. "Yeah. Happy." She squeezed his hand and gave it a gentle shake. "You don't have to worry about me." He grunted, nodding briefly. "I... uh... well, I wish you all the best, Lois. You'll... you'll do just fine." A corner of her mouth quirked up. "I will," she promised, idiotically. She watched him shuffle his papers together, get to his feet and take one more look at her before leaving the small cafe. She bit her lip viciously, trying desperately to stop her disobedient mouth from calling after him. "You deserve an Oscar, Mrs. Luthor. I must admit, I'm impressed." She winced as Nigel's plummy, bored voice echoed around her eardrum, and put a hand up to her head, nervously making sure that the tiny earpiece was still concealed. "I'm glad you appreciated it," she hissed irritably into the microphone, pinned onto the front of her jacket, concealed as an elegant brooch. "Now can you *please* get out of my head?" He snorted. "Trust me, Mrs. Luthor, I have no desire whatsoever to be in your head. I assure you, I have no wish to trail after a nosey, stubborn shrew all day." "Yes, well, the feeling is mutual," she muttered touchily, as she watched Perry disappear around the corner. "So I can assume you're satisfied? *Both* of you?" He chuckled darkly. "I'll let you find out for yourself. That hand gesture was a bit friendly, wasn't it?" She glanced around suspiciously, under her eyelashes. "How did you..." "See the man sitting on the park bench, right across from you?" She darted a glance over her shoulder. There was indeed an old guy sitting there, feeding the ducks. "Yeah?" Her tone was wary. "What about him?" "Helpful when you have friends in low places, isn't it? Barry was always eager to please..." She stared at the man in shock. As if he had read her mind, his gaze lifted and he was suddenly looking straight into her eyes. He grinned widely, shooting her a thumbs-up. She ripped the device out of her ear, shuddering as Nigel's bark- like laughter washed around her brain, making her head throb hopelessly. A single tear rolled off her nose and plopped heavily into her coffee as she sagged forward, over the table. At that precise moment, she knew three things. She knew that that look which had lingered in her surrogate father's eyes would haunt her for the rest of her life. She knew that she would always remember the worthless feeling that thumbs-up had brought. And she knew that from that day on, she would live with the realisation that she had given her soul to the devil incarnate.> ~&~ Her forehead met the clear glass of the window with an audible crack; cursing softly, she brought a hand up to soothe the ache, rubbing her fingers in a circular motion all over her head. Blinking, she groaned as the rollicking motions of the bus brought her sharply back to reality. The girl next to her shifted away; glancing at her, Lois could see that she obviously had noticed her discomfort. Looking back out the window, her reflection jumped out at her from the clear pane, and she saw that her face had turned a delicate shade of pea-green. She swallowed queasily, regretting the brownie she had eaten earlier as it threatened to hurtle upwards, as the memories and remnants from her dream spun around her crazily, tilting her world from side to side. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead gently against the rattling glass as a hot tear made its way slowly down her cheek. She would carry that image with her till the day she died - her surrogate father, mentor and great friend, walking away from her like a defeated puppy as Nigel's cackles echoed in her brain. She had pushed them away - she had pushed them *all* away - but sometimes she thought doing that to Perry had hurt even more than the rest. He had been the final straw. The second she had seen that photograph of him, asleep on a beach in Florida, with his sunglasses perched jauntily on his nose and his hat slumped over his forehead, she had given in. Lucy, her mother, her father; there had been little risk to them. How long had it been since she had spoken to any of them? How much had they had to do with her life? Not a lot. Certainly not a lot, and pushing them away then had only been a slight intensification of what she had been doing all her life. It had been Perry who had hurt the most. Perry... and... and... She let out a slight whimper as her throat closed over her anguish. That had hurt a lot. That had definitely hurt a lot. She suddenly felt cold... so, so cold. The light red sweater she had on was insufficient to protect her from the stiff breeze that was suddenly rattling in the window. She huddled up in a tight ball, her teeth chattering, folding her feet up underneath her, tucking her head tight into the hollow of her own shoulder and slipping her hands into the large pockets on either side of the sweater, curling into herself. All of a sudden unable to prevent the heavy fogginess of sleep from settling on her eyes, she uttered a fervent prayer to whoever was listening for the sweet blank silence of oblivion. ~&~ The elevator pinged and expelled him into the newsroom. He stepped cautiously down the small flight of stairs, looking around at his bustling colleagues, trying to spot her before she spotted him. He breathed a sigh of relief. No firm hand on his shoulder, no accusatory tone, no blunt objects thrown full-tilt at his head. She must be out of the office... "Kenneth?" He groaned mentally. She wasn't out of the office. English women were just a good deal more reserved than American women, that was all... Banishing the painful thought from his mind, he turned around, presented her with the withered flower of his smile. "Um... hey." "I called you last night," she said, her head on one side, a steely undertone in her voice. "A couple of times." He winced. He'd heard the phone, just hadn't bothered answering it, too caught up in the memories which had haunted him on their date... ...their date. Oy. "I... I was... um... busy." "I gathered." The steel had spread to her eyes, to her stance. He gulped. "We need to talk." Inwardly, he moaned, recognising the take-no- prisoners tone in her voice. There was no room for discussion. They would talk, whether he liked it or not. "Conference room?" He eyed her doubtfully for a moment, then sighed, nodded, and followed her in. Once inside, she swung around, folding her arms under her breasts to face him full-on. He groaned mentally again. Not the stance. Please, not this. It had been far too long... "I want to discuss our 'date'," she said tightly, "and why you felt the need to abandon me in the middle of a busy restaurant halfway through it. Is my company really that bad? *Why* did you do it, Kenneth? I don't understand." Her face was an endearing riddle of confusion, and for a moment, he loathed himself for putting her through this. The moment passed, and he found himself doing a complete about- face. Now he loathed *her* for putting *him* through this. He swallowed, opened his mouth to speak, and promptly shut it. Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and looked at his feet. "I dunno," he mumbled sullenly, opening his mouth as little as possible. "I just had to get outta there." He hated himself for the slang coming out of his mouth, but at that moment, he didn't think he had enough energy to form the words fully. "Was it... I mean... did *I* do something? You just looked so troubled - almost ghostly." He gulped queasily, his stomach churning. "Emma, I just can't talk about this right here." A very unfamiliar look set over her face. It took him a minute to realise that it was determination. "Well, it's lunchtime," she said, checking her watch and looking at him keenly. He sighed, shaking his head at her. "Mr Lewis won't allow it." "You mean Kevin?" Her expression was incredulous, obviously amazed at his formality regarding their editor. "Kenneth, Kevin's already gone to the Merry Fiddler. He won't be back till two for love nor money. We have plenty of time." He swallowed. Oh. This editor didn't work through lunch. This editor was overweight and lazy and friendly. This editor didn't demand the impossible. His reporters didn't *achieve* the impossible. He stabbed a thumb backwards, out of the window, in the general direction of his barren, empty desk for a moment or two. She obviously anticipated the excuse before it popped out of his mouth, and she beat him to it. "Oh, don't tell me you've got a lot of work to do," she exclaimed impatiently. "The only reason that could possibly mean you can't go to lunch is if you really can't stand being around me for more than five minutes at a time." Where was the hesitant, blushing woman? Where had she gone? Why was he being forced to deal with this... this... *tornado*? He got to his feet. "Don't be ridiculous," he said brusquely, collecting his coat and shrugging it on. She smiled brightly and made a movement as if she intended to thread her arm through his. He jumped back as if he'd been scalded, covering the move hastily by grabbing her own coat and holding it up for her. Looking slightly puzzled, she stepped into it, and they walked up the stairs together. ~&~ He groaned silently as she led him in through the door of the establishment. Oh, god, not another pub. Not again. To his left, a group of excited students chattered loudly. To his right, two old men sat bent over a pint, contemplating life. He coughed as a wave of evil-smelling smoke hit him. Why, in the name of all that was holy, had she chosen this place? Why couldn't she have chosen something nice and airy, somewhere that served pastrami on rye and creme soda and... why couldn't she? She led him straight over to a secluded booth, slid in, and gestured to the seat opposite. He sat down, ordered his food with her, watched her warily as it came, as he raised his fork to his mouth. He was sending out a plea to whatever higher power was listening that she'd hem and haw for a little, engage in some light pleasantries before... "Kenneth, I just don't understand it. I thought you liked me, I thought maybe this was the start of something... but then, the other night. What happened? Was it my fault?" "Kenneth?" A sigh. "Good Lord, can't you concentrate on *me* for two minutes? Can't you even stand to talk to me?" She looked at him for a few seconds as he struggled to answer, then sighed again and raised her fork to her mouth. "I don't know *how* to talk to you." She looked up, her loaded fork falling onto the plate with a definitive clink. He watched the strands of spaghetti unravel and fall back into the sauce slimily, feeling the same sensation in the pit of his stomach. "I don't know what you want to hear. I don't even know why I did it. I just had to go - to get out of there." Her eyes were bright with interest, now. She wiped her mouth with her napkin, her entire body sitting upright. He considered that this was probably the longest she'd ever heard him speak. The thought made him strangely sad. "You're the first woman I've dated in... almost six years. Since college, in fact." She had been taking a sip of her mineral water; at this, she choked. He watched disinterestedly as she coughed discreetly into her napkin. "Ex-excuse me?" she spluttered finally, her eyes wide with shock. "*Six* years?" He nodded, then shook his head, then finally nodded again. "Six years since I've taken a woman out - seriously, I mean." She cocked her head to one side. "How old are you?" she demanded, all etiquette suddenly forgotten. He allowed the corner of his mouth to quirk up. "Thirty." Her eyes expanded even further as she did the mental calculation. "So you haven't had a date since you were twenty-four?" she squeaked. He wriggled, smiling bashfully. "I travelled a bit... a lot. Left no room for a relationship." //Liar,// his mind taunted. He'd had plenty of room for a relationship. The object of his affections just hadn't been interested, that was all. Her eyes narrowed. "But you did settle, right?" Her tone was suspicious, suddenly aware that there was a drifter sitting across the table from her. He nodded slowly. "I... well, I stayed in a major city in the US for a year and a bit. I was..." He broke the sentence off, swallowing painfully. "...pretty well settled there." "Oh." She fell silent for another minute; probably pondering his enigmatic existence, he thought, depressed. If only she knew how enigmatic it really was. "Why did you leave?" "I'm sorry?" "Why did you leave this... this city?" He was pretty sure that his lower jaw was hanging slightly open. He closed it, wincing as his teeth clicked together. "Um... There was some... personal problems." He cleared his throat carefully. "The newspaper I used to work for... it burned down. And... well... a few things didn't pan out. It ended - pretty viciously - with me handing my apartment key to my landlord with two month's rent and taking a cab to the airport." He cleared his throat. "I haven't looked back." She nodded. "A woman." He would have tried to deny it, but her tone was so flat, so defeated, so certain that he knew there was no point in protesting. He stared into his plate, moving his head in a tiny, lightning-fast nod. Maybe if he didn't make it last, it wouldn't hurt so much. "She broke your heart?" His voice was low. "You could say that." She cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable. "This fire... that you told me about... she didn't... did she?" He shook his head slowly. "She didn't die, if that's what you mean. She..." He paused, unsure of how to phrase it. "She married... someone." His voice sounded cold, detached to his own ears. "Else," he added, just to clear any confusion. As he watched, a dart of sympathy flashed across her face. "I'm sorry," she said softly. Her hand reached out, and for one terrifying moment, he thought she was going to take hold of his, but she evidently thought the better of it, and the next instant he felt a butterfly pat on his knuckles. "That must have been... tough for you." He swallowed roughly, wondering if the tears would spill when inside the restaurant or whether they would wait till he got to the car. "Yes." She was playing with her spoon now, threading it between all her fingers, clearly uncomfortable. "Last night... when you were... err... when you kind of - zoned out for a minute or two - you were thinking about her?" This was too hard. Much too hard. "I don't want to talk about it, Emma," he said, harshly, desperately. She looked at him oddly, her head on one side. "Do you know what's wrong with you?" she asked, almost angrily this time. "Do you want to know what you have to do?" He looked at her mutely. "Stop running away. Stop hiding. Sooner or later, you have to face your demons." He put his hand up to his mouth instinctively, his fingers scraping off of the rough moustache that covered his upper lip. "I... I..." he said faintly. "I don't know if you heard me saying last night that my father was very strict when I was growing up." Her eyes were bright, intent. "About little things. Things like food, clothes, makeup... since my mother died when I was just a child, he was anxious to prove he could bring me up properly on his own. Made me a regular little Quaker," she added, dry irony in her voice. "It took me fifteen years to finally have it out with him, to tell him how I felt - but I eventually did it. And you know what?" He had a feeling there was going to be a moral to this story. "I don't regret it. Not for a moment. It was hard, at the time, tough to face him and the black mood he was in for months after, but I stuck it out - and look at me now." There it was. He had to admit that she had a point, though. One of the best reporters at the Independent, she was their Editor's favourite girl, and she knew it. Of course, she could never replace... but she was intelligent, and plucky, and he respected her in her own right. He hadn't shown her that respect last night. "I'm sorry for what I did to you, Emma." His voice was painfully sincere. "It was arrogant and wrong, and you deserve better." She smiled warmly. "Glad you realise it, Clarkson!" He swallowed, hard. The teasing slur, the twinkling eyes, the affection in her gaze...