Stardust By Caroline K. Rated PG-13 Submitted June 2007 ___________________________________ Author's Note: This is an alternate beginnings story that picks up right after Clark's first interview at the Daily Planet, except that in this universe, Lois didn't barge into the interview, so she and Clark haven't yet been introduced when this story begins. This story makes use of plot elements, characters, and direct quotations from "The Pilot" written by Deborah Joy Levine. Several lines are also quoted from the song "I've Got a Crush on You," written by Ira and George Gershwin in 1936. Thanks so much to those who commented when this story was first posted at the Fanfic Message Boards. So many of those comments were truly helpful as I revised this story for the archive. Huge thanks also to my friend and beta-reader Sara Kraft, who helped me to polish this story up and encouraged me tremendously by laughing and crying in all the right places. ___________________________________ He'd known from the start that it was a long shot. Even with Professor Carlton's recommendation, there was little about Clark Kent that would tempt a man like Perry White to hire him. Clark had hidden himself in out-of-the-way places for too long; jobs at major newspapers didn't go to journalists who had spent their years since college writing about the mating habits of geckos. Climbing the walls of his seedy hotel room with Perry White's rejection still ringing in his ears, Clark was a little tempted to mourn the death of a dream he'd never even known he had. Just being in the Daily Planet newsroom that day had been a thrill, and he'd felt a little bit like a fifth grader on a field trip, just trying to take it all in. The place had thrummed with energy, with activity. It had been modern, with computers on every desk and phones buzzing back and forth, but it was also steeped in history. It was easy to imagine the days when the air had been filled with the clatter of typewriter keys as the giants of journalism had pounded out their Pulitzer Prize winning stories. He had gone to the Daily Planet that day out of a vague desire to do something different. His wanderlust had been waning for some time, his itch to see every nook and cranny of the world gradually replaced by a hearty appreciation for indoor plumbing. He'd have never come up with the idea of interviewing at the Planet on his own, but when Professor Carlton had offered the recommendation, Clark had been quick to take him up on it. The worst they could say is 'no,' he'd thought with a mental shrug, as he'd packed his battered brown suitcase for the trip to Metropolis. From the moment he'd stepped off the elevator and into the famed bullpen, however, that casual, que sera sera attitude had deserted him entirely. He'd *wanted* that job, wanted to be a part of that place, and yet he'd known from practically the moment he'd handed Perry White his portfolio that there was no chance he was going to get it. He knew for an absolute certainty that Clark Kent's byline belonged on the pages of the Daily Planet, but he also knew there wasn't a single story in his portfolio that would convince Mr. White of that fact. And the worst of it was that Mr. White hadn't even given him a chance to plead his case. There had been one interruption after another during his interview: Mr. White's lunch order, his blood pressure, even his *golf cart* had commanded more of his attention than Clark had. Clark sighed and drifted down from the ceiling, giving himself a forceful mental shake at the same time. It certainly wasn't Perry White's fault that Clark had wandered around the world for four years after college. It wasn't Perry White's fault that Clark had elected to take over as temporary editor of the Smallville Post last summer so that he could help his Dad with the farm. While other journalists had been working their way up the ladder, he'd made other choices. And as he reached for the jacket he'd tossed over the battered desk chair, he realized that he'd never regretted those choices until today. He was sulking like a little kid who'd been denied a treat, and that was ridiculous. But since hanging around his dumpy hotel room wasn't doing anything to cheer him up, he decided he'd go for a walk. It didn't look like he'd be living in Metropolis anytime soon; he might as well take in the sights while he could. ___________________________________ <> Her sister Lucy had said those words to Lois Lane just that evening. And Lucy was right, of course, but most of the time, Lois just plain didn't care. She was too busy to date, and when she did, the man invariably wound up wanting more than Lois was willing to give. The easy ones were the ones who just wanted to get her into bed; she could dump those without a second thought. Every now and then, however, she would have a casual date or two with a nice guy and then realize that he was entertaining fantasies involving picket fences and 2.5 children. Those were the hard ones, the ones who refused to be dumped cleanly and instead always made her promise that they could still be *friends*. Lois always made the promise, but it was tossed over her shoulder as she was sprinting for safety. Those guys didn't want a friend; they wanted someone to decorate their house in the suburbs and host dinner parties for the boss. No, thanks. No, dates just led to trouble, but every now and then she had the impulse for...something. A night out. A little male admiration. A little flirting, just enough to show she still knew how. Maybe a dance or two that made her wish for more. She'd only done it twice - no, three times - before, but each time it had been fun. It had been freeing to leave Mad Dog Lane behind and be someone else for a night. It was easy to do, and with Lucy's comment still fresh on her mind, she peeled off her work clothes and strode to her closet in her bra and panties. She rummaged around in the back until she found the black leather skirt Lucy had talked her into buying more than a year ago. She slithered into it and took her last deep breath of the evening before zipping it up. She paired the skirt with a bright pink sweater that clung to the curves her work clothes worked so hard to hide, and then she slid her feet into the least sensible heels she owned. She smiled at the reflection in her mirror: 'Wanda Detroit' was beginning to take shape. A few minutes in the bathroom and she'd completed the transformation. With her bright pink lipstick and teased hair, she looked as little like Lois Lane as she had when she'd been working undercover dressed as a car thief. And the beauty of it was that if anyone she knew *did* happen to recognize her, she could always pretend she was again undercover for a story. That had never happened, though. The few other times she'd ventured out as Wanda Detroit, she'd kept to parts of town that were reasonably safe, but certainly not frequented by her colleagues and professional acquaintances. She'd had a few drinks, done a little harmless flirting, and then she'd gone home. And that was what she'd do tonight. It wouldn't be a date, exactly, but it sure as hell wouldn't be an interview either. <> she thought, laughing out loud at the very idea. ___________________________________ It felt good to leave the Apollo behind. There was a slight chill in the evening air, and Clark had thrown on a jacket, not because he felt the cold but because he wanted to blend in. Always, he wanted to blend in. A few minutes' observation of the people around him taught him that giving in to his impulse to smile at everyone he passed would defeat that purpose entirely. This was not a part of town where one opened up to strangers. Folks hurried by him with their heads down, streaming toward bus stops, parking decks, and subway stations and exhibiting no interest whatsoever in the young man taking a more leisurely walk through the south side of town. He'd avoided big cities for most of the years he'd traveled, but there was something about them that energized him. Just walking down the street in Metropolis gave him a thrill, as if something exciting might happen at any moment. Each of the people who hurried by him had a story. Each had a history and a future. Whether they were chattering into a cell phone or swearing at a Metro cabbie, they each sparked his curiosity. He'd found interesting people in every remote corner of the Earth, but surely, with this many people, there must be a wider variety of curiosities. He thought of his failed interview and once again felt the disappointment - so much stronger now than he'd ever expected it to be. What a thrill it must be to work at a place like the Planet. What a thrill to take to these streets each day in search of stories. A window display caught his eye and a grin flashed across his face as he paused to examine it more closely. A tattoo parlor, with some very...interesting possibilities advertised in the display. He thought of what his mother would say if he returned home to Kansas with something like *that* on his arm, and it was all he could do not to laugh out loud. Actually, his mom would probably be cool about it, he mused. His more conservative father would be appalled. And it was impossible anyway, but it was fun to think about. He felt his mood lightening just a little as he proceeded down the street. He wandered for more than an hour, until darkness had fallen completely and the commuters had cleared the sidewalks. The homeless were beginning to emerge from their shadow world, and he drew his wallet from his back pocket each time he was approached. Jaded friends had told him before that he was a pushover, that he should keep walking, that his money would just be used for drugs or booze, but he'd never been able to walk by someone in need if it was in his power to help. Maybe that meant that he wasn't cut out for the big city, or maybe it meant that the big city needed more Clark Kents in it. He wasn't sure. He was down to his last twenty dollars but feeling a little better about things when he stepped into a dingy little club he'd seen on an earlier pass through the neighborhood. He might not have noticed it if he hadn't heard the music - not the pounding beat of his generation, but instead, a sultry voice singing old standards that wafted out into the night and seemed to fit his mood perfectly. The Stardust Lounge was dim and smoky but more crowded than he'd expected; the music that had drawn him in apparently drew others as well. He had worried briefly about being underdressed in his jeans and rugby shirt, but a quick scan of the room showed that he had nothing to worry about. There were people there from every age group and every walk of life, and there was nothing to keep him from settling at a table with a beer and blending effortlessly into the crowd. ___________________________________ She saw him the moment he entered the room and watched as he took the place in, glancing around with interest. It was obvious that he'd never been there before, and he took a moment to get his bearings before heading to the bar. She was seated just down from him, but close enough to overhear him order a beer, and she tracked him with her eyes as he made his way from the bar to one of the few available tables. He was a muscular man, but he moved with an easy grace she admired, and she felt her insides flutter a little when he flashed a quick smile of apology at a waitress as he stepped to one side to let her pass by. Without the smile he was handsome; with it, he was devastating, in spite of the heavy glasses obscuring his face. "If I weren't working, I'd sure as hell take a shot," the bartender whispered, startling her. "I can't imagine what you mean," she drawled, staying in character. The bartender just laughed. "Oh, I think you know. Go on over there, and if it turns out he swings my way, maybe you could put in a good word for me." She smiled and winked at him. "Deal." She wasn't sure later if she'd have had the nerve to approach him without the bartender's nudge. The man she'd been admiring was exactly what she'd been hoping to find when she'd set out that night, but the pull of attraction she felt for him was so strong and so unexpected that her first instinct was to run the other way. Lois Lane would have, of course, or would have been so completely abrasive that he'd have wound up doing the running. But she wasn't Lois tonight; she was Wanda Detroit, and Wanda wasn't afraid of approaching handsome men. She came upon him from behind, taking a moment to settle into her persona before she made her move. "It's crowded tonight," she said in a throaty voice, daring to put one hand on his shoulder. "Do you mind if I join you?" The object of her attentions turned to look at her, and seemed to be momentarily struck speechless. "Uh...sure," he said finally, swallowing hard. "Um, allow me." He stood and pulled out the chair next to his, and Lois murmured her thanks as he seated her. "You're welcome," he said. "My name is Clark," he added as he resumed his own seat. "Clark Kent." "It's nice to meet you, Clark Kent." She leaned forward, intruding slightly into his personal space and giving him an opportunity to admire her décolletage at the same time. "I'm Wanda Detroit." She smiled when she saw him drag his gaze back to her face with an effort. It appeared that the bartender was out of luck. "Nice to meet you," he echoed softly, and the funny thing was, she had the feeling he really meant it. "First time in here?" she asked. He nodded. "First time in Metropolis, actually. I was out exploring and heard the music. Do you come here often?" He winced as soon as the words were out of his mouth. "I can't believe I just said that. I'm sorry - I don't usually speak in cliches." She laughed. "In this case, I'll take it as an honest question. I've come here a few times before, but no - not often. So where are you from?" "Kansas originally - a little farming community I'm sure you've never heard of. But since college, I've traveled all over the world." College graduate, she noted, pleased - and apparently well-traveled as well. She might actually get some intelligent conversation out of this evening. She usually played Wanda as a bit of a ditz, but she decided some improvisation might be called for. Wanda with a dash of Lois, perhaps? It wasn't something she'd tried before, but she had a feeling this guy was worth the balancing act. "Really?" she asked, batting her eyes to let him know she was impressed. "What do you do? ...No!" She threw up a hand. "Don't tell me. Let me guess. You're a...pilot." He grinned, and she again felt that unfamiliar stab of desire. This guy's smile should require a permit, really it should. "Nope, but I do like to fly." His eyes twinkled as if at some private joke, and she felt warmed through. "Okay, not a pilot. Let's see, you're a doctor, maybe doing humanitarian work." "Wrong again," he said. "But I think we'd better quit this game. My real job is going to seem very boring next to the ones you're imagining for me." "Well, don't tell me yet. I want to figure it out. I bet you'll drop some hints while we're talking." "I wouldn't count on it, Wanda. I'm pretty good at keeping secrets." "And I'm pretty good at finding them out," she teased. "It's my business, you know - seeing beyond the external." "And what kind of job is that?" he asked, turning the tables. "No - let me guess. You're a radiologist." She laughed. "No. I didn't mean it quite that literally." "OK. A psychic then." "Maybe I am." She dropped her voice suggestively. "Does that make you nervous?" "Not a bit," he said, matching her tone. "Can you tell me my future?" She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. "I'm seeing you with someone," she said. "A woman. You're at a table in a crowded room, and you're...asking her to dance." She looked up at him through her lashes. "Think it'll come true?" she murmured. "You're definitely psychic," he said, his voice husky. He stood and offered her his hand. ___________________________________ As she went into his arms and they began to move slowly together on the dance floor, Clark was reminded of the first time he'd flown - really flown - when he'd shot straight out of his father's wheat field and into a sky so vast it felt as though it might swallow him whole. He'd been scared to death, terrified that one false move would send him plummeting to earth, but he'd also felt as though he'd been set free - as if he had finally found a place he belonged. Having Wanda Detroit in his arms felt a little like that. It was crazy, and he knew it was crazy. It was absurd to think that he'd fallen in love or anything like it with a woman named Wanda in a ratty little bar called the Stardust Lounge. She was beautiful, of course, but she wasn't anything like his usual type. He didn't know anything about her. But something about this - holding her in his arms - felt as thrilling as soaring into that huge Kansas sky. He was *such* an idiot. The quintessential naive country boy let loose in the big city. And it would probably end with her picking his pocket or slapping his face or some other indignity, but it had been a disappointing day, and he wasn't feeling strong enough to hold himself aloof when pulling her close felt so incredibly good. And besides, his wallet only had a few dollars in it anyway. "You're a wonderful dancer," she said, her mouth disturbingly close to his ear. "I learned from a Nigerian princess," he told her, hoping it didn't sound like he was bragging. "Really?" She drew back and looked at him thoughtfully. "Hmm. I've got it! You're a gigolo. An international, world-famous gigolo." He chuckled and dared to pull her a little closer. "I think your psychic powers are a little shaky tonight." "Spy?" she asked, sounding hopeful. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," he said seriously. "If I had a nickel for every time I've heard that." She sighed dramatically, and he broke out in gooseflesh when he felt the warm puff of her breath tickle his neck. "Dance with a lot of spies, do you?" "Constantly. It gets very dull." "Mmm. Good thing I'm not really a spy then. In fact, I'm nothing at the moment." She drew back and arched her eyebrows at that. "Nothing? You certainly feel like something." She trailed an exploratory hand across his chest and he sucked in a sharp breath and prayed she didn't notice. "I meant...I'm unemployed. I came to Metropolis for a job interview, and it didn't go so well." He wanted to kick himself right back to Borneo the minute the words left his mouth. <> he thought with disgust. <> But Wanda didn't seem inclined to judge. "I'm sorry," she said, sounding genuinely sympathetic. "It's all right. I've always landed on my feet so far, and there's a job waiting for me back in Smallville if nothing here works out." Of course, to a smart city girl, living in Smallville was probably a step down from vagrant, but at least he didn't sound quite so pathetic. "*Smallville*? Seriously?" He laughed. "'Fraid so. It's the town I grew up in. Smallville, Kansas." "I'm sure it's...charming." There was no mistaking the doubt in her voice. "You probably wouldn't think so, but it was a great place to grow up. How about you? Where did you grow up?" "I'm a Metropolis girl." "Do you still have family here?" Her bright eyes clouded over, and he immediately wished he hadn't asked. "They're here," she answered, "but not here for me, if you know what I mean. My boss is kind of like family, though. I guess he'd come closest." "I didn't know psychics had bosses," he said, wanting to lighten the atmosphere a bit. It worked. She giggled and then said, "The psychic thing is just a sideline." "Am I allowed to ask about the day job?" She looked up at him, searched his face, and seemed on the verge of answering when her gaze shifted away to the middle-aged singer on the stage. Wanda studied the older woman intently for a minute and then shook her head. "I don't think so," she said. "It's like you said earlier - if I told, it would just seem dull and uninteresting. This is more fun." "This is fun," he said carefully, "but I think really getting to know each other could be fun, too." He hoped he wasn't pushing too hard and held his breath as he waited for her response. But her only answer was a sigh and a slight shake of her head before she rested it on his shoulder. He supposed he had his answer, and if that was the case, then he would just enjoy whatever time he had left with her. In a rare feat of daring, he tipped his head slightly and brushed her cheek with a soft kiss. ___________________________________ Lois knew that she was lost from the moment Clark Kent's lips caressed her cheek. She'd always scorned weak-willed women who claimed they couldn't resist a man, but in that moment she became a card-carrying member of their club. If Clark had chosen at that second to throw her over his shoulder and carry her out to the back alley to have his way with her, she'd have gone without a single word of complaint. In fact, he didn't seem inclined to take things any further than that one sweet gesture, so she took the initiative, reaching up to cup his cheek in her hand and lifting her face to meet his lips with her own. Every cell in her body seemed to shiver with pleasure at that first tentative touch. She gasped, and he drew back and searched her face. Whatever he saw there must have been encouraging because he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her again, and this time she could swear she saw stars. Surely the singer was still singing. Surely there were still other couples dancing around them. Surely the Earth was still spinning, but just then, Lois couldn't have proven any of it. Clark Kent's kiss had the power to blot out the rest of the world. "Wow," he breathed, when he finally drew away from her. "Yeah," she agreed, too dazzled to be articulate. He caressed her cheek with the back of one hand. "I didn't mean to get so carried away." "I did," she said boldly, because she was Wanda tonight, and at some point in the middle of that kiss, Wanda had decided that this time, a little flirting wasn't going to be nearly enough. Dancing cheek to cheek was all well and good, but she had something a little more stimulating in mind. She moved back into his arms, pressing her curves to his muscles, her softness to his hardness. "Wanda..." he said, sounding a little dazed. "I want to feel you against me," she said. "Dance with me, Clark." "As if I could say no," he murmured. They swayed together on the dance floor, their lips occasionally finding one another and clinging briefly. They were making a spectacle of themselves, but Lois didn't care - had quit caring some time ago. Her desire for this man was wiping out every other consideration. "I love this song," she said as the piano began a new tune and it worked its way into her consciousness. She rested her head on his shoulder, singing softly along with the Lounge's vocalist. "I've got a crush on you, sweetie pie/ all the day and nighttime, hear me sigh/ I never had the least notion that I could fall with so much emotion..." "Wow!" Clark said. "Your voice is *amazing*. You should be on that stage." "No, thanks." She smiled up at him. "I'm pretty happy right where I am. Unless..." "Unless what?" he asked, looking adorably worried. "Unless you'd like to go someplace where we can be...alone?" Her heart was hammering, and she hoped she didn't look as rattled as she felt. Because even though she was Wanda tonight, and Wanda had just recklessly propositioned a near-stranger, Lois was still lurking in there somewhere, and Lois hadn't been 'alone' with a man in a very long time. She saw his eyes widen in surprise and felt him miss a step. "Sorry," he said automatically. "Uh, Wanda..." Wanda. She was *Wanda*, she reminded herself. Lois Lane was about to panic, but what would Wanda do? "I'll sing you a solo you won't forget," she murmured into his ear before nipping gently at his earlobe. "Oh, God," he breathed, and she felt his hands tighten briefly where they rested at her waist. He seemed to take a moment to gather his thoughts. "It's not that I don't want to. You have to know that I do...want to...a lot. I just don't usually jump into a relationship quite this fast. I know that probably makes me sound like a complete loser...." "No, it makes you sound like a gentleman," she assured him, feeling wistful for some reason she couldn't fully understand. "The thing is, Clark, I'm not offering you a relationship. I can't." And even though that was one thing she was certain of, she still felt a pang as she said it. But she was in his arms under false pretenses, and if he liked Wanda Detroit, it was a sure bet he wouldn't want a thing to do with Mad Dog Lane. Even if he did, by some miracle, forgive her the deception and want to pursue a relationship with her as Lois, she was sure he'd be one of those men she'd eventually run from and disappoint. Every relationship she'd ever had had been a federal disaster, and she had no reason to think a relationship with Clark would be any more successful. Wouldn't it be far better to have one magical night - something perfect they could both remember for the rest of their lives? "Wanda, are you married?" he asked. Her eyes widened. "No," she said quickly. "Absolutely not. And I'm not engaged or involved with anyone either. Clark, I...." She broke off. Worked up her courage. "I want you to know I don't make a habit of this. And if you say no, I'll respect that. But I feel something for you that I haven't felt for anyone in a long time." She gave him an embarrassed look. "And now I'm the one talking in cliches." "I feel the same way," he said, his tender smile reassuring her. "But if that's the case, why can't we take our time...get to know each other? I'd love to take you out on a real date...." "I can't," she repeated softly. "I know you don't understand, and I can't really explain it to you. I'm just not...relationship material. I can only offer you one night, Clark, but I think that one night could be really special." "Is it because I don't have a job right now? Because I will, Wanda, I promise you...." "No, Clark. I swear, it doesn't have anything to do with that. It has to do with me - with things about me you don't know and I can't tell you without messing up this whole evening. And it's too incredibly perfect to mess up. We're too perfect together." It was cheating a little, but she punctuated that statement with a hungry kiss and some dance moves she was pretty sure his Nigerian princess had never shown him. When she heard his breath hitch with pleasure, she knew she'd won. ___________________________________ "We need to get out of here." The words escaped Clark's mouth in a gasp as he jerked away from the woman in his arms. All he could think - if you could even call it thinking - was that for the first time in his life, he wasn't going to be able to talk his body out of what it wanted. He wasn't even going to try. All the reasons why it was a bad idea to go home with this woman had deserted his brain completely, and if they dared to come back, he fully intended to send them off with stern instructions not to return until morning. He had been saving himself for someone special, telling himself that he would know when the time and the woman was right, and everything he had was telling him that the time was *now* and the woman was *this one*. Wanda Detroit was the woman he'd been waiting for, and if he couldn't get her to promise him more than just the one night, then he would take the one night and pray that something he did or said would convince her otherwise. Because she was right - this was special. This was magical. This was desire on a scale he'd never experienced before, had never even known existed. And if this was his one chance at the kind of passion he felt for Wanda Detroit, then he was going to take it. He caught her hand in his and led her from the dance floor, and then together they threaded their way through the maze of tables, not even pausing at their own, where his beer and her glass of wine sat abandoned. He didn't slow down until the door of the club swung closed behind them and he was taking deep breaths of crisp autumn air. The fresh air revived him a little, and he felt his brain gaining some slight bit of control over the rest of his anatomy. "Where are you staying?" she asked, giving his hand a slight squeeze. "Oh." That brought him up short. "It's not very...I mean, you might be happier at your place, if that's all right." "It's fine, Clark. Wherever you're staying is fine. My sister is staying at my place right now, so...." "The place I'm staying, it's really a dump, Wanda. I figured until I found a job, why spend the money, but I don't mind taking you somewhere else. Maybe you could recommend someplace...." He had a credit card, and for this he'd use it. His parents would loan him the money, wouldn't ask questions. They were great that way. "No." She wrapped her arms around him, kissed him again, though lightly this time - a kiss to reassure rather than inflame. "I don't care about all that." "Are you sure?" he whispered against her lips. "Positive," she said, in that sexy, throaty voice that sent his blood thundering through his veins and immediately undid the fresh air's good work. "We'll make our own ambiance." He swallowed hard. "It's the Apollo...about a block from here." "Lead the way." He held her hand, enjoying the feeling of her fingers laced through his. The contact could have been perfectly innocent, but instead it was like a conduit for the desire that leaped between them. By all rights, he should have been nervous, but whatever nervousness he might have felt couldn't seem to penetrate the haze of arousal. With the reality only a few steps away, he let himself imagine actually making love to her. He pictured himself removing her clothing piece by piece, like unwrapping a beautiful gift. He'd start with the tiny buttons on her sweater, he thought - undo them slowly one by one - and then he'd slide it from her shoulders so gently that she'd shiver at the brush of his hands. He'd take a moment to admire her in her bra, perhaps teasing her by lightly tracing the pattern of the lace. When neither of them could stand it anymore, he'd unzip her skirt and lower it to the floor. He pictured her stepping out of it still wearing her high heels...and he nearly ran smack into a lamppost. He dodged it just in time, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. "You OK?" she asked, smiling up at him. He was a million miles from OK. He was so blinded by lust that he could hardly put one foot in front of the other. "I'm fine," he said, amazed when his voice sounding almost normal. <> He needed to redirect that train of thought quickly, he realized, or he'd have bigger problems than a dented lamppost. This was the woman he'd been waiting for, and he was going to *keep* waiting for her as long as necessary, he instructed his body sternly. She was expecting a 'really special' night, not a 'really special' three minutes, and.... Suddenly an urgent thought intruded - a single sensible thought that had somehow fought its way through his fantasy and into his consciousness. He felt the blush return with a vengeance, and he knew he had to say something but had absolutely no idea how to go about it. "Wanda, um...." She looked up at him, and her glazed eyes and flushed cheeks suggested that maybe he wasn't the only one who'd been engaging in a few fantasies along the way. "We might need to stop...somewhere...." "You want to stop?" Her eyes widened and she looked almost desperate. "*Why*?" "Just for a minute to get...um, I don't have any...." Well, *this* was certainly going well. He wanted to crawl into the nearest manhole and just let the earth swallow him up. What single man in the nineties not only didn't *have* condoms but couldn't even bring himself to say the word? He was an idiot, he was in over his head, he was going to ruin *everything*.... "Oh," she said, sounding almost as embarrassed as he had. "Don't worry about it. I, um, have some." ...he was going to make love to the woman of his dreams! For the space of perhaps three steps, he lost touch with gravity and floated beside her before bringing himself back down to earth. Fortunately, Wanda didn't seem to notice. "I don't want you to think I, um, planned to do this," she said hurriedly. "I really didn't, and I meant it when I said I don't do this kind of thing often...or at all, really. It's just that my mother is...well, *nuts* would be one way of putting it. And she's a nurse, and she doesn't trust men - or me, for that matter - and every time she comes to my apartment she puts condoms in all my purses and goes on and on about how a girl can't be too careful and an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, and...you probably didn't need to know all that, did you?" "I'm not sure I followed it all," he said truthfully, "but I do think I'm going to send your mother flowers. Would that be all right?" She giggled. "Only if you promise to write on the card exactly what they're for." He squeezed her hand and smiled down at her, his embarrassment forgotten. "For the best night of my life," he said simply. ___________________________________ Later, their night together would come back to her in wisps of sweet memory. She would remember his hands. They were like the rest of him - strong but gentle - and they had shaken slightly as he had fumbled with the key to his door. Then, only a few minutes later, those hands had moved nimbly down the row of little buttons on her sweater before caressing her with something like reverence. She would remember her first pure glimpse of his eyes when she slid the heavy glasses from his face and set them gently on the desk. He hadn't had that bare, unprotected look she'd expected. He had smiled at her, his eyes crinkling up a little at the corners, and she'd reacted with an odd shiver of intimacy. Those beautiful eyes would haunt her later, when she let herself remember his look of absolute wonderment at the moment their bodies were finally joined. She would remember the way her heart had stuttered briefly and then started to race when she slid his shirt up and caught her first sight of his chest...the way her hands had just been drawn to his smooth flesh, touching and exploring each incredible inch of him without any instruction from her brain. She would remember that the place was a dump, just as he'd said, but that neither of them had cared. Just the right amount of light had filtered through from the neon sign outside the window to bathe their night together in a soft glow, like moonlight. She would remember the ache she felt as she wrote the note with a cheap pen that kept fading in and out. She would remember the exact way it looked when she placed it on the pillow next to him - the way his name looked in her handwriting. She would remember how wrong it felt to see the name 'Wanda' at the bottom of that note, because already, Wanda was disappearing, and Lois Lane was the one left with the memories. Clark - Thank you for the most wonderful night of my life. Love, Wanda For a weak moment, she wanted to snatch it back and throw it away, to crawl back into his bed and wake with him in the morning. She forced herself to turn away. Tears stung her eyes as she tiptoed to the door with her ridiculous heels in one hand and turned the knob as quietly as she could so as not to disturb him. She slipped out into the hallway and paused just long enough to put on her shoes before hurrying outside to hail a cab. When she crept back into her apartment at three in the morning, Lois was relieved for once to find that Lucy was still out doing whatever it was that Lucy did. Another night, another bar, another guy...and now Lois was no better, not that she'd ever confess as much to Lucy. <> her heart insisted. She wanted that to be true, but she didn't really believe it. Perhaps Clark *could* have been different if she'd had the courage to be honest with him...but no, she didn't really believe that either. Clark wanted Wanda Detroit, not Lois Lane, and Wanda Detroit didn't exist. She had turned back into Lois Lane the minute she'd left a note on Clark's pillow, and she hadn't managed to conveniently leave any glass slippers behind. She would never see Clark Kent again. As she slipped between the cool sheets of her bed, she told herself that it was for the best. ___________________________________ Clark couldn't claim she hadn't warned him, but that didn't make it any less painful when he woke up and saw that all that was left of Wanda Detroit was a note on his pillow. He read it quickly and then folded the scrap of paper and put it to one side. It did nothing to assuage the emptiness he felt. After the night they'd shared, how could she leave him without even saying goodbye? It couldn't possibly have meant as much to her as it had to him; if it had, she would have stayed, would have been willing to find a way for them to be together. "Not relationship material," she had said, but if she wasn't involved with someone else, what could that possibly mean? What could keep two consenting adults from pursuing a relationship if it was what they both wanted? The brief note left on his pillow cheapened what had seemed so magical the night before. It hadn't been a meeting of souls after all; it had just been a one-night stand, no different from any other except that this time it had happened to him. It was the same tired story of hormones running high and two people who hadn't bothered to fight them. And that might have been all right for someone else, but it had never been all right to Clark. He supposed that made him old-fashioned, but he had always thought that sex should be a part of a loving, committed relationship. Never once had he considered that his first sexual experience might be with a stranger he'd met in a bar. No matter how beautiful, how sensual, how passionate the night had been, in the harsh light of day, he had to admit to himself that it had meant nothing. It wasn't the start of something. Wasn't the consummation of anything. It was just sex. Really *good* sex - not that he had anything to compare it with - but just sex. He sighed and rose naked from the bed, picking up the note and then stooping to gather up the torn condom wrappers they'd tossed to the floor the night before. In his utter shame, he almost threw it all in the trash, but then he thought better of it and tucked the note into his briefcase. He might want to look at it again one day. Not soon, but one day. He rummaged in his suitcase for fresh clothes and then turned on the shower, hotter than usual, needing to wash her scent from his skin. Because as much as he wished it weren't so, the faint traces of her perfume and their lovemaking were arousing him and indicting him at the same time. He should just go home, he thought over and over as he showered and dressed. He even packed up his suitcase, tossing things in haphazardly, wanting nothing more than to leave this room and this city forever and as soon as possible. He would fly, he decided - fly home to Kansas and the job he had waiting at the Smallville Post. He didn't belong in this city. He snapped his suitcase shut and then grabbed his wallet and slid his glasses into place. His mom had asked him to do some shopping for her while he was in Metropolis. He was going to do it as quickly as possible, and then he was going to go home. ___________________________________ Lois woke to the sound of persistent beeping and groaned into her pillow. The beeping went on in spite of her protest, and she snarled several very unladylike words before she finally managed to silence her alarm clock with a fumbling hand. She was never a morning person, but on three hours of sleep, she became someone to avoid at all costs. The entire newsroom would probably pay the price for Wanda Detroit's night out, but Lois didn't care. Why shouldn't everyone else be as miserable as she was? She stumbled blearily into her kitchen and went through the motions of making coffee, not bothering with measuring. The result would probably be unspeakably nasty, but if it kept her awake long enough to get to the Daily Planet, she could augment it with some that was only disgusting. She left the coffee maker hissing on the counter and went straight through to the bathroom, where she actually emitted a small shriek when she saw herself in the mirror. She hadn't bothered to take 'Wanda's' heavy makeup off before crawling into bed, and she looked like a raccoon, with smears of dark eyeliner around both eyes. She hoped the damage had been done while she slept; she could hardly bear the thought that Clark's final memory of their encounter would be of her looking like a battered woman. She dashed into the shower, wanting to scrub away the evidence of her deception. By the time she stepped out, the last of Wanda Detroit had been washed down the drain. She dressed for work as she always did - conservative suit, light makeup, sleek hairstyle - with only the slight shadows beneath her eyes hinting that anything was amiss. She was Lois Lane, she reminded herself firmly as she choked down a cup of coffee, and Lois Lane did not wallow. Lois Lane did not allow romantic entanglements to sidetrack her from the pursuit of her goals. She was a successful career woman, and she had work to do: the day before, a brown bag full of scraps of research had been shoved into her hands by a crazy man, and her instincts were telling her that there was a story there somewhere. She would focus on the story. She would not think about Clark Kent, about the way his eyes had crinkled when he'd smiled at her or the way his hands had felt as they glided over her skin. She would not think about the weight of his body on hers or about the.... <> She slammed her coffee cup down, ignoring the resulting mess as the dregs sloshed over onto the counter. <> "Somebody had better have made the coffee when I get there," she muttered to herself as she grabbed her purse and hurled herself out the door. ___________________________________ Clark left the Apollo with every intention of just doing his mother's shopping quickly, but he hadn't spent many minutes outside before he was again caught up in the excitement of the city. Once more, commuters were rushing by him, this time on their way to work, and as he wandered down Forty-Second Street in the direction of some shops he'd seen the night before, he saw business-owners unlocking doors, turning 'closed' signs to 'open', and greeting customers and employees. Clark had intended to hurry, but he found himself pausing again and again to peer into shop windows or to sneak peeks at interesting pedestrians. Wanda had hurt him. His own poor judgment had probably hurt him even more. In his hotel room, surrounded by the memories of the night before, it had almost hurt to breathe. Outside, however, it was a new day, and though he knew it would be a very long time before he was able to put his experience with Wanda in perspective, he could already feel his inherent optimism returning. He would not allow the events of one night to color his entire visit. There was more to Metropolis than the Stardust Lounge and Wanda Detroit and a note on his pillow. He would do his mother's shopping, and then he would take a little more time to explore. Just down the block from where he was standing, Clark noticed a crowd milling around outside of what once had been a lovely theatre. It had unfortunately been allowed to fall into near-ruin, and as he approached, he saw that the crowd was protesting the theatre's immediate demolition. The wrecking ball was in position, and as Clark drew near, he saw the driver of the truck climb in and start the engine. "Save the Sarah Bernhardt!" someone called, and as others took up the cry, Clark lowered his glasses and peered through the thick walls of the building. What he saw nearly broke his heart: an elderly actress standing alone on the stage, speaking her lines to an imaginary audience. Instantly, he turned and aimed a shot of heat vision at the motor of the truck, silencing its ominous rumble. The crowd erupted in cheers, and Clark took advantage of the distraction to slip inside the theatre. She was there, on the stage, and she could have looked sad or ridiculous or pathetic, but to Clark she was none of those things. She was lovely - lovely in the same way the old theatre was lovely. He paused for a moment just for the pleasure of hearing her voice ringing out with such emotion: "Oh, for the days of my childhood! Back when my soul was pure! I slept right here in this nursery, looking out at the orchard from this very room, and every morning I awoke with such joy in my heart! My orchard is just the same as it was then. Nothing different. All of it, all of it dressed in white! My lovely orchard!" She paused then, and he applauded, the gesture heartfelt. He had needed to hear her passion, her love for the theatre and for the play coming through with her every utterance. "Who's there?" she asked, peering into the shadows. "Just a fan," Clark said softly, stepping closer so that she could see him. "I'm not leaving until I finish." Her bright eyes flashed defiance. "All right," Clark agreed. "Mind if I watch? I've always loved this play." "You know it?" she asked skeptically. "'The Cherry Orchard'. Anton Chekhov." She beamed at him then. "His finest, don't you think?" "Definitely." "They don't understand," she said sadly. "A theatre is more than just bricks and mortar. It's drama and passion and mystery and comedy and life. Please don't make me go. I'm not ready." In that moment, Clark realized that he wasn't quite ready to go either. Wasn't ready to say goodbye, though whether to Metropolis or Wanda Detroit he couldn't have said. But this beautiful woman didn't need to hear about his problems. He smiled at her. "We have some time," he said gently, and then he settled in to enjoy the Sarah Bernhardt Theatre's final performance. ___________________________________ The story seemed to pour from his soul straight through his fingertips, and his keyboard was smoking slightly when it was finished. He was pleased with it - as pleased as he'd been with anything he'd written in a long time. He printed it out and tucked it into his portfolio, right on top of his copy of the Borneo Gazette. Thirty minutes later, he was, for the second day in a row, gazing up at the giant Daily Planet globe mounted outside the venerable building. He was going to try again, and this time he was sure he had a story worthy of the Planet's pages. He took a deep breath and strode into the lobby, trying to infuse himself with confidence as he crossed to the bank of elevators and pressed the call button. <> he told himself. <> He was still giving himself a pep talk when the elevator doors opened and he stepped out and glanced across the bullpen, experiencing the same thrill he'd felt the day before. He then set his sights on Mr. White's office door, refusing to allow himself any time at all to lose his nerve. He made his way in that direction with such single-minded purpose that he nearly ran over two Daily Planet employees along the way. "Excuse me," he murmured with a distracted smile, but all the while he was thinking, <> He knocked at Mr. White's door and opened it when he heard the older man's gruff voice call for him to come in. "Mr. White," he said, projecting every bit of confidence he'd just convinced himself he had. "Do you have a few minutes?" Perry White blinked at him and then sighed. "I have time, son, but I still don't have a job for you. You're persistent, I'll hand you that, but...." "Please, sir," Clark said, reaching into his portfolio. "Please just look at this. It's a story I wrote this morning, and I think it might give you a better idea of my abilities. If you don't like it, I promise you I'll never bother you again." The editor gave him a look that was part indulgence and part exasperation. "All right, Kent. Hand it over." He accepted the story and waved Clark into a nearby chair. Clark settled himself quietly, wanting Mr. White's attention to be on his work. "The Sarah Bernhardt Theatre," Perry said, sounding surprised when he saw the subject of Clark's article. "I assigned this story out yesterday, but the reporter told me she wasn't in the mood." "Wasn't in the *mood*?" Clark found it impossible to hide his shock. He couldn't imagine telling a man like Perry White that he wasn't in the 'mood' to complete an assignment. Perry wagged his head. "You'd have to know her," he said wryly. "Well, Kent, let's see what you've got here." He read quickly, his eyes skimming over the text, but his facial expressions were promising, and when he came to the end, he began reading aloud: "She came to say goodbye, as we all must, to the past, and to a life and a place that soon would exist only in a bittersweet memory." He put the papers down on his desk and eyed Clark with new respect. "You know, Kent, if there's one thing I value more than experience, it's initiative. Clark Kent, welcome to the Daily Planet." He stood and offered Clark his hand, and Clark nearly fell out of his chair in his haste to reciprocate. "Thank you, sir," he said, taking care this time not to leave any bruises. "You won't be disappointed, I promise you." "I've got a good feeling about you, Kent. Don't let me down." "I won't, sir," Clark promised. "Go home today, and I'll put the paperwork through to human resources. Be here at eight o'clock sharp tomorrow, and I'll have you fill all that stuff out and get someone to show you around." "Yes, sir!" Clark knew he looked overeager, but he couldn't wipe the grin from his face as left the editor's office, this time as a brand-new Daily Planet employee. ___________________________________ Lois was standing in the middle of the bullpen, sipping a cup of coffee and sniping at Jimmy, when the elevator doors slid open and Clark Kent stepped out. Just like that. Just stepped out of the elevator as if he did it every day. Her hand clenched her coffee mug so tightly that it was a wonder it wasn't crushed to a fine powder. For a moment her brain skittered around in a blind panic before grasping at the reporter's questions out of habit: *Who?* Clark Kent. *What?* Walking straight toward her. *When?* Now! Right this minute! *Where?* Wasn't that already covered in number two? Really, this wasn't helping much, and he was getting closer... *Why?* Oh, God...why? *How?* Seriously. How? How had she given herself away? Had he gone through her purse? But no, she'd never had it out of her sight. Would he actually say something in front of Jimmy, who was looking at her strangely and beginning to glance at Clark strangely, too? And Clark was bearing down on them, and all she could think to do was to look down, to take a sip of her coffee as if it were necessary to sustain life - which it was that day, so that part didn't require much acting. "Excuse me," he murmured, as he stepped around them at the last minute. She glanced up in time to catch his fleeting smile - the same one he'd given the waitress the night before, the same one that had sent Wanda Detroit straight into his arms. Only now it seemed like what it was - an impersonal smile he'd give a stranger. It was nothing like the way he'd looked at her when they'd danced. Nothing like the way he'd looked at her when they'd made love. It was a smile for Lois Lane, not Wanda Detroit, and as he knocked at Perry's office door, Lois felt her heart splinter into razor sharp pieces. He wasn't there to see her. He didn't even *know* her. He had brushed by her - their shoulders had actually touched - and while she'd gone weak in the knees, he'd felt nothing at all. He hadn't even given her a second glance. Her theory that Lois Lane couldn't possibly hold any appeal for him was now a stone cold certainty. But that left the 'why?' more up in the air than ever, didn't it? Why would Clark Kent be at the Daily Planet? She thought back to their conversation the night before, and... *No.* Fate couldn't possibly be that cruel. "Jimmy." She grabbed Jimmy's arm so tightly that he would probably have bruises. "That man who just went into Perry's office. Do you know him?" "Uh, yeah. I mean, I don't *know* him, know him, but he was here yesterday for a job interview. Kent something or other, I think." He winced a little and glanced down at her hand. "Do you mind, Lois? I'm kind of attached to that arm." She loosened her grip but didn't release him, not about to let him get away until she'd wrung every last bit of information from him. "What did Perry tell him?" "I think he told him he didn't have any openings. Not sure what the guy's doing back here. Why, do you know him?" "No!" Lois flung his arm back at him. "Why would I know him? Why would I even care? Do you think I know every two-bit hack who comes in here looking for a job?" Jimmy's eyes widened, and he took a cautious step or two backwards now that his arm was once again in his possession. "Uh, no," he said, shaking his head. "Of course you don't. Why would you know...? You're like a lone wolf...or something...in a *totally* non-dog-like way, of course. Listen, I, uh, need to be going." "Don't forget to get me that information on EPRAD," she snapped. "I'm going blind looking through that pile of scraps Mr. Crazy Man called his 'notes'." "Right away," he agreed, nodding and then darting away, out of range. She whirled and headed toward her desk, toward the ragged sack full of papers that hadn't made any sense to her before and certainly weren't going to now that her mind was consumed with the thought of what was going on behind Perry's closed door. She kept sneaking glances in that direction, pretending to be busy as she waited for Clark to come out. When it finally happened, she knew immediately from the look on his face that whatever had gone on in there had been good news for Clark. He looked like he was fighting to keep the smile off his face, and he cast a satisfied glance over the bullpen as he made his way toward the elevators with a spring in his step. Dear God. Perry had offered him a job. Clark Kent was coming to work at the Daily Planet. He was going to meet Lois Lane, and he was going to realize that she was a liar and a fake, that she'd played him for a fool and gone to his bed under false pretences. He was never going to be able to respect her - that was a given. No man respected a woman who fell into bed with him on two hours' acquaintance. And what if he told the whole newsroom? That had happened before, and she'd be damned if she'd let it happen again. She'd worked too hard to get where she was to let a one-night stand ruin everything. Clark Kent was *not* coming to work at the Daily Planet. Not if she had anything to say about it. The elevator doors had no sooner closed on Clark than Lois was up and out of her seat and blasting into Perry's office with all the subtlety of a stick of dynamite. "Well, hello to you, too, Lois," he said mildly, barely glancing up from the copy he was reading. "What can I do for you?" "You can tell me that you did *not* just hire that man!" She threw herself down in an armchair and then immediately sprang back up again, glaring at her boss, who by now had looked up and was studying her with a furrowed brow. "You know, correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure I'm the one in charge of the hiring around here." "You can't hire him, Perry! He's...he's...." A great lover? A nice guy from Kansas? "*Bad news!*" she finished ominously. "Very bad news." "I see." She *hated* Perry's 'I see's.' She knew that trick of old. He would toss out an 'I see' and then wait for her to spill her guts all over his office floor. Well, not this time. She'd learned a thing or two over the years, and she was no longer a rookie who could be trapped by an 'I see'. She folded her arms and met his patient silence with a blistering glare, prepared to carry on the staring contest all day if necessary. Finally, he cracked. "Would you care to elaborate a little bit, Lois? Kent came highly recommended by an old friend of mine. Frank Carlton doesn't seem to think he's 'bad news.' And the story he brought me today was top-notch." He tapped a couple of printed pages on his desk. "Razing of the Sarah Bernhardt Theatre. A story *you* couldn't be bothered to write, if I remember correctly." Lois emitted a snarl of pure rage. He'd stolen her story! While he was supposed to be sitting around his hotel room nursing his heartache, he'd gone out and stolen a story that she'd been assigned. Granted, she hadn't *wanted* the story - hadn't even intended to write it - but that didn't change the fact that *he* had no business writing it. "I'm running it tomorrow," Perry went on. "Kent's got a hell of a nice touch." "Kent is a *hack* from *Smallville*!" she spat. "I couldn't make that name up!" "He's traveled all over the world," Perry pointed out. "Speaks I don't know how many languages...." "Who cares?" she fired back. "The Daily Planet is written in English." "I know that, Lois." Perry's voice was getting softer, more dangerous, and she realized she was going to have to switch tactics. "I'm the editor of the Daily Planet, which means that I know everything about it. It also means that I'm in charge of hiring, and a few minutes ago I offered Clark Kent a job. Now, I don't know what's put this bee in your bonnet, Lois, but you're just going to have to deal with that." She took a deep breath. Calmed herself a little. A very little. When she finally spoke, it was in a low, even voice. "Perry, I'm going to say something to you that I've never said before - never even imagined saying. I'm not going to explain it because I think I've been here long enough and worked hard enough that I should have earned your trust by now." Another deep breath. "Clark Kent is trouble. He is not someone I will *ever* work with, and if you hire him, you'll have my resignation on your desk the same day." "Lois..." "It's him or me, Perry. Take your pick." It was a good exit line, and she took it, bolting from his office without a backward glance. Her stomach was churning, and she made straight for the ladies' room and barricaded herself in one of the stalls. She huddled on the cold tiles, not at all sure that she wasn't going to be sick. What had she just done? Had she really just threatened to quit her job over Clark Kent? What if Perry called her bluff? There was no other paper in the world like the Planet, no other city in the world like Metropolis. She'd spent far too much time building her reputation there to lose it all now. And Clark could go anywhere, she reminded herself. He was young, and Perry had said he was talented. He would get a job somewhere else. He'd even told her he had a job waiting for him back in Smallville. She wouldn't think of how disappointed Clark had sounded the night before, when he'd told her his job interview hadn't worked out. She wouldn't think of the way he'd looked after Perry had offered him a position at the Planet...of the delight he hadn't been able to hide. She *couldn't* let herself think of those things...couldn't let her heart soften toward Clark Kent again. Look where that had gotten her the last time. Perry would send Clark on his way, and she would continue on the same as before. That was the only acceptable outcome, and by the time she finally crept out of the ladies' room stall, she'd convinced herself it was the best thing for everyone involved. ___________________________________ Clark's euphoria over his new job lasted only as long as it took him to get back to the Apollo. Every inch of the place reminded him of Wanda and of the fact that at some point the night before, he'd lost his mind and maybe his heart and decided to act out the lyrics of a bad country song. The worst of it was that he couldn't lie to himself: He knew that if he saw her again, he would be in danger of falling just as hard and just as fast. She would only have to touch him, to look up at him in that bewitching way she had, and he would once again be under her spell. He'd like to think that with the benefit of hindsight he would fight it, but he wasn't entirely sure he would succeed. He was accustomed to thinking of himself as the strongest man on Earth, yet a beautiful woman had, in a single evening, rendered him weak enough to cast aside a lifetime of convictions. It was an uncomfortable realization. And now that he would be staying in Metropolis, he knew he would be looking for her every day, would be harboring a secret hope that fate would bring them together again and the magic of the night before would still be there. He even considered returning to the Stardust Lounge that evening, but he was certain that all he'd find there were more memories, and he wasn't sure he was ready to face them. He'd already checked the tattered phone book in his room, and there wasn't a single 'Detroit' listed - not that that meant anything. Lots of single women had unlisted numbers for their own protection. Of course, having one's name in the phone book was a good bit less dangerous than going home with strange men, but Clark preferred to believe that she'd been telling the truth when she'd said that she wasn't in the habit of picking up men in bars. He had nothing to base that on but his own gut instinct - and maybe the fact that the alternative was just too humiliating to consider. He couldn't have been just one in long line of one-night-stands for her, could he? He sighed and flung himself on the lumpy mattress, trying to ignore the memories of what they'd done on that mattress the night before. But the memories haunted him. *Wanda* haunted him. He had a feeling she always would. Their night together had changed him, somehow, as if making love to Wanda Detroit had ushered in a new phase of his life that he was only beginning to understand. He didn't believe she'd 'made a man of him' or any other such macho nonsense; it was more that he'd caught a glimpse of something he'd never known existed and felt things he'd never believed he'd feel. He suspected that having seen and felt those things might make it impossible for him ever to settle for anything less. It was a lonely thought. He thought about calling his parents to tell them about his new job, but then he realized that his mother, whose psychic powers far exceeded Wanda Detroit's, would know instantly that there was more on his mind than just the job and would attempt to ferret out each and every mortifying detail. He couldn't face the Martha Kent inquisition just then, so he decided to go see his parents in person the following night, when he could tell them all about his first day on the job and hopefully keep up such a running commentary that his mother wouldn't be able to get a word in edgewise. Fat chance, that. Anyway, he could put it off another day. He rolled off the mattress with its sweetly painful memories and decided that it was dark enough outside to risk a flight. He needed to be away from this place, even if it was just for a few hours - needed to be in the one place he always felt comfortable, as if he belonged. Ever since he'd learned to fly, the sky had been that one special place for him, but only very recently had he learned why. He'd spent the previous summer working part time as the editor of the Smallville Post and part time on his father's farm. His dad had suffered a recurrence of an old back injury in May, and without Clark's help, there would have been no harvest that year. Neighbors help one another in Smallville, so Clark hadn't hesitated when his father's old friend Wayne Irig had come to him to ask for a hand in clearing an enormous old tree that had been uprooted in a summer storm. But he and Wayne had no sooner begun the job than Clark began feeling weak and nauseous for the first time in his life. He'd terrified Wayne by collapsing, unconscious, amidst the wreckage of the old tree. Wayne, unable to move him, had called Martha and Jonathan Kent, who had raced to their son's side. It was an odd way to begin a voyage of self-discovery, but since when hadn't Clark Kent been odd? His mother was the one who had found the green rocks mixed with the dirt and the tree's root system and guessed, based on their strange glow, that they might have something to do with her son's unprecedented illness. They had tested that theory once they'd gotten him home and conscious again. His father had shown him one of the rocks, and he hadn't been able to keep from crying out at the excruciating pain. It was just one more thing that set him apart; a rock that bothered no one else - no one *human* - had the power to render him unconscious, maybe even kill him. That night, his parents had taken flashlights to Wayne Irig's field. Like homespun archeologists, they had spent hours sifting through the freshly turned earth, collecting every bit of the green rock they could find, down to the smallest pebble. "What did you do with it?" he'd asked his dad at the breakfast table the next day. He had thought that being felled by a shiny green rock would be his biggest surprise of the week, but nothing could compare to the shock he'd received when his parents had exchanged a glance and his father had replied, "Well, I, uh, put it in that old trunk of Grandpa's and buried it with your ship." Clark's jaw dropped. He had a *ship*? He'd known that his parents had found him in Schuster's field - now Irig's field, not that anyone actually called it that. He'd known that there had been a bright light, that his parents had followed it, and that they had assumed he had somehow fallen to Earth. How had it never occurred to him to ask what had happened to the ship? Because obviously there had been one. He'd crashed to Earth in *something*; he hadn't been dropped off by the stork. In hindsight, he realized that he hadn't asked because he really hadn't wanted to know. Being dropped off by the stork was somehow preferable to knowing for a dead certainty that he'd come in a spaceship. He had to live every day with the evidence of his otherness, but at least he looked normal and acted normal, even if that's what it was: an act. He hadn't asked about the ship because knowing about it would have been just one more tally mark in the "not normal" column, and he really hadn't needed that while he was coming to grips with the strange things his body could do. But at twenty-seven, he was ready to know about his ship. He was more comfortable with the fact that his brand of not-normal *was* normal for him. He could fly and see through things and hear things he shouldn't and had a host of other weird abilities with varying degrees of usefulness. He'd finally learned to live with all of that. He was ready to learn to live with the rest of it, he thought, whatever that might entail. He'd lost his powers briefly during his illness, but when he had recovered, he'd insisted on digging up the ship. His parents had protested, worried about him getting too close to the rocks again, but something in the trunk his dad had found must have shielded him because it didn't prove to be a problem. He'd had the ship out in just under five minutes, and if it hadn't been for the strange glow, he might have missed the tiny globe that had fallen from the ship and into the bottom of the hole. It was with some trepidation that he'd floated back into the hole to retrieve the globe; he hadn't had particularly good luck that week with glowing relics of his arrival on Earth. The globe had felt surprisingly warm in his hands, and the minute he'd touched it, he'd seen the continents shift from the familiar green arrangement of Earth to an all-new configuration in bright red. <> The one word had insinuated itself into his consciousness with perfect clarity. It had felt immediately right...almost familiar. While his parents watched in silent awe, he had touched the red land masses and then had immediately looked up into the sky, searching the stars for the one that had once been his. He was an alien. A visitor from the planet Krypton. At one time, he'd have cringed away from that knowledge. Holding the globe in his hand, however, he'd felt only peace. This, then, was why he was so different. This was why he never quite felt he belonged. This was why he felt most at home when he was drifting in the quiet space between the stars and the Earth, as if he were waiting for one or the other to claim him. As he'd stood in that darkened field, holding the tiny globe in the palm of his hand, he'd wondered if perhaps Krypton was staking her claim. But as he'd held Wanda Detroit in his arms, he'd felt *certain* that she was. He'd spent his entire life trying to fit in but still feeling as though he were set apart; with Wanda, he finally felt as though he'd found a person who could anchor him to Earth, to humanity. It sounded ridiculous in the light of day, but with her body pressed to his, it had all made perfect sense. He had this crazy feeling that if he could just find her again, it would still make sense. If he could just find her.... But she was gone. She had slipped away from him and into the night, like a dream he would soon only half-remember. And with her had gone that confidence that Earth was the place he belonged. He was uncertain now, and with the uncertainty came the urge to disappear into the night sky - to pillow his head on the clouds and wrap himself in a blanket of stars. He found a dark, secluded alley and double checked to make sure he was alone. As he drifted up into the sky, into that comfortable, private space above the clouds, he waited for the familiar peace to steal over him, but it didn't come. He stayed up there more than an hour, but it never came. ___________________________________ He arrived early at the Daily Planet the next morning, wanting to make a good impression. The newsroom was barely stirring. The night shift had gone home, and only a handful of early birds had trickled in. Clark relished the mingled smell of coffee and newsprint and smiled a little as, for the third day in a row, he cast his eyes over the jumble of desks in the pit, this time wondering which would be his. He would know soon enough, he thought with satisfaction. He threaded his way through the maze and knocked at the editor's door. "Come in!" Mr. White called. Perry White was, as before, seated behind his desk, but this time the entire surface was covered with newspapers. The morning edition of the Daily Planet was there, of course, but so were at least five other newspapers that Clark could see. At that moment, Mr. White was thumbing through The New York Times. "Ah, Kent," he said, folding the Times and setting it to one side. "Good morning, sir. I'm a little early. I hope that's all right." "It's fine. Sit down, Kent." The editor gave him a stern look. "We need to talk." Clark suddenly felt as though he'd been called to the principal's office. Every instinct was telling him that something was very wrong. He perched at the edge of a chair. "Yes, sir?" Mr. White shifted in his chair and drummed his fingers against his desk. Just when Clark was sure the sound was going to make him scream, the editor stopped and rubbed his chin. "I'm not a happy man, Kent." <> Clark thought desperately. Before he could come up with anything, the editor went on. "I don't know how they do things in Borneo, but here at the Daily Planet, we're professionals. I expect honesty and integrity from the people who work for me; I won't accept anything else. And when I interview someone for a job, I expect that person to be up front with me - to tell me if there are any potential...bumps in the road. Because there are some questions I wouldn't even think to ask, but that doesn't mean that you couldn't have volunteered the information instead of letting me be blindsided. Do you understand?" "Yes, sir," Clark said automatically, but then he thought about it and realized that wasn't true. He really didn't understand anything about this at all. "Uh, no, sir," he amended. "I mean, I'm not sure what this is about. There's a...bump...in the road?" "Actually, 'bump' isn't really the right word. It's more like the road is...washed out." "Washed out?" "There's a big storm, lot of damage...it happens sometimes." Clark nodded. "Uh, that's true, sir. I've seen that happen." "I'm glad you agree," the editor said. "Because when that happens, sometimes the only thing to do is to take another road." "Another road," Clark repeated, trying his best to stay in the conversation. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'm a little confused." Perry White gave him a grim look. "What I'm trying to say is that I'm seeing detour signs, Kent." "I'm not exactly sure what that means, Mr. White, but it doesn't sound good." "Well, then let me just clarify it for you." The editor leaned forward and pointed an accusatory finger. "If you had a major problem with a member of my staff, you had an obligation to tell me that before you let me offer you a job." Clark had been nervous when presented with the washed-out road analogy, but now he was nearly lightheaded with panic. "Mr. White - sir - I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about." Mr. White sighed. "I find that mighty hard to believe, son. Now listen, I know as well as anyone that there are two sides to every story. The problem is, Lois Lane is the best damn investigative reporter in this city, and I can't afford to lose her. I know she can be difficult, and I know that whatever happened between the two of you might be as much her fault as yours, but the bottom line is that it doesn't matter. She's prepared to quit over this, and I can't let that happen. If I have to choose between an unknown reporter and a three-time Kerth winner who consistently brings me front page stories...well, I'm sure you can appreciate my position." Clark was stunned into speechlessness as he tried to make sense of Mr. White's words. But there was no sense to be made! He'd been completely lost since they'd hit that first bump in the road. He took a deep breath, determined that one of them should say something that made some sense. "Mr. White, I *really* don't know what you're talking about. I don't know Lois Lane. I read a few of her articles when I was preparing for my interview, and I was impressed with her work, but I've never met her. I can't imagine what I could have possibly done that would make her hate me enough that she would threaten to quit." Mr. White gave him a hard look. "I've known Lois a long time now, and I know she wouldn't have come in here yesterday and said the things she said about you without some reason." "*What* things did she say about me?" Clark could feel anger gradually overtaking his panic. He had no experience at being called a liar or at being slandered by a stranger, nor did he have any intention of sitting still for it. "I don't think that matters." "It matters to *me*," Clark insisted. "If I'm being accused of something by someone I've never even met, I think I have a right to know what it is." "She knew you were from Smallville, Kansas. Pretty good guess for a total stranger." <> Clark's thoughts were in a whirl, his anger making it impossible for him to make sense of anything. But she knew he was from Smallville. She *knew* him. This Lois Lane person somehow knew him - knew him and hated him enough to try to cost him his dream job. He felt a sense of creeping paranoia. What *else* did she know about him? Could she have been investigating him? Could this be the beginning of everything his parents had ever feared - had taught him to fear? He felt the blood drain from his face at the thought. "Now listen, Kent: I've made you an offer, and I'm a man of my word. But I'm going to have to make that offer provisional, and I've gotta tell you - I don't have a whole lot of hope of this working out. I'm going to give you and Lois two weeks to try to resolve whatever this problem is between you. If it can't be worked out - if it disrupts my newsroom - then you're going to have to look for something else." It was on the tip of Clark's tongue to tell the editor to forget the whole thing. His first instinct was the same as it had always been when he'd felt the threat of exposure: Run. Fly away. Start over somewhere new. But he was *tired* of running, tired of starting over. He was tired of always looking over his shoulder, of always being afraid. He had the feeling that if he ran this time, he would never stop. And he needed to know. If this Lois Lane suspected him of something, he needed to know that. If she knew about a baby in a field or green rocks or a buried spaceship, then it wasn't fair to his parents that he just run away without trying to find out just how much danger they all were in. And if it turned out that he'd met her somewhere, so long ago that he couldn't even remember it, and somehow offended her, then he deserved the chance to tell his side. But leaving without understanding this situation would surely drive him crazy. He noticed that Perry White was giving him an expectant look, obviously waiting for his answer. Clark nodded slowly. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate your honoring your offer to me under the circumstances. I'm honestly not sure what the problem is, but whatever it is, I'll do my best to work it out with Ms. Lane." "Good luck," the editor said, pulling a manila folder from beneath a stack of newspapers and offering it to him. He added under his breath, "You're sure enough gonna need it." "Uh, thank you, sir." Clark took the folder and glanced inside. Employment application, tax forms, insurance forms...they'd take half the day to fill out, and it would probably be a waste of time anyway. "Fill those out this morning, and I'll get Jimmy Olsen to show you around. There are a couple of empty desks out there. You can just pick one for the time being." He didn't say that he doubted Clark would be using it long anyway, but Clark got the message loud and clear. "Thank you," Clark said again. He took his folder and left the office, feeling Perry White's suspicious look following him out the door. The activity in the newsroom had picked up while he'd been closeted with Mr. White, and he immediately stopped the first person he saw, a young man rushing by with his arms full of folders. "Excuse me. Can you tell me where I can find Lois Lane?" "Sure. She's right over there." The young man shifted the folders to one arm and pointed to a nearby desk. The woman seated there was hunched over her keyboard, her dark hair falling forward to conceal her face. "Thank you." Clark gave the kid a quick nod and headed straight for his target. "Excuse me. Lois Lane?" "Yeah?" She didn't look up. Kept typing furiously, hidden behind her curtain of hair, though Clark noted with some satisfaction that gibberish was filling her screen. <> he thought. <> Aloud he said, "I think we need to talk, Ms. Lane." "Well I don't. Goodbye." She was up and out of her seat and headed away from him before the words were out of her mouth. He had a considerable speed advantage though, and caught up to her in seconds. "Ms. Lane," he said angrily, "I think I have a right to..." He trailed off. Searched the face that was turned on him in utter fury. "Wanda...?" he whispered. "Don't call me that!" she hissed. "I...I'm very confused." And he was. He was so confused. Because this was Wanda Detroit, but it also clearly *wasn't*. "We need to talk." "No. No we don't. I need to work, and you need to leave. So goodbye. Good luck to you...wherever." She made an agitated motion with one hand and then turned away from him again, but this time he put a hand on her shoulder, stopped her. "You left me without saying goodbye." His voice trembled with shock and hurt and anger and a whole host of other emotions that he'd be weeks sorting out, and he took a moment to steady it, to attempt to sound calm and rational. "And then you tried to cost me a job - a job you knew perfectly well that I needed. Now either we find someplace private to talk, or we have this conversation standing right here where everyone can listen. Which is it going to be?" Her eyes flashed briefly, but then she said, "We can use the conference room." She whirled away and led him to a little glassed-in room, taking herself immediately to the farthest corner of it and crossing her arms defensively. She looked like she expected him to attack her, he realized, appalled. What could he have possibly done to make her afraid of him? He was missing something here, something huge, but then, nothing about this day had made the slightest bit of sense to him. He closed the door carefully behind them and then sat down, putting the table between them. "So you're not Wanda Detroit," he ventured. She rolled her eyes. "*Brilliant* deduction." He felt her sarcasm like a slap but pressed on. "Why? Why did you lie to me?" "You wouldn't understand." "Try me." "No," she snapped. "It's none of your business. All you need to know is that there *is* no Wanda Detroit. She doesn't exist. She's just someone I made up to...to...just someone I made up. So whatever fantasies you built up around her...not gonna happen. And if you can't handle that, that's too bad. Wanda told you she could only offer you one night, and that's what you got." "You!" he said. "*You* told me. Why are you talking about yourself in the third person?" "I'm talking about *Wanda* in the third person because she isn't me." Clark tried to follow that. Failed completely. "You just finished saying that she doesn't exist at all. So who did I spend the night with?" "Wanda." "The person who isn't you and who doesn't exist," he clarified. "Exactly." She actually looked pleased, like a teacher who had finally gotten through to a slow pupil. "You realize, don't you, that you're not making any sense? I mean, really, none at all. You can't change your whole identity by changing your hair and clothes!" "Yes, I can!" she shot back. "I fooled you, didn't I?" "Yeah, you fooled me," he said bitterly. "Are you proud of that? Is that what you set out to do - to make a fool of me?" "I said I fooled you, not that I made a fool of you. They're not the same thing." She wouldn't look at him. "Well, it sure feels like it from where I'm sitting. I really felt something for you...her...whoever." He looked down at the smooth conference table. His throat had gone tight, making it hard to speak. "That night meant a lot to me." "Yeah," she said acidly. "It meant so much to you that when you saw me the next day, you didn't even know me." His head came up and he blinked at her. "What?" "You walked right by me on your way to Perry's office! Didn't give me a second look." "I...I was nervous! I wasn't thinking about anything except what I was going to say to him. And you really do look...different." "*Different*. That's one way of putting it." "I didn't mean it like that." He searched frantically for the right thing to say, but it seemed impossible. She was so angry. So *different*. Wanda he could have teased or kissed or *something*, but Lois Lane was a stranger - a very hostile stranger. But he had to try to understand this. "So is that what this is about - with the job, I mean? You were angry that I didn't recognize you, so you went to Mr. White and told him...what, exactly?" "Don't flatter yourself!" she spat. "If you'd recognized me instantly, I still wouldn't be working with you. I live by three rules." She ticked them off on her fingers. "Never get involved with your stories, never let anyone else get there first, and *never* sleep with anyone you work with." "You *didn't* sleep with someone you worked with! In the first place, we didn't work together then..." "Or ever," she interrupted. "...and in the second place, it wasn't you, remember? It was *Wanda*, who doesn't exist." "See! This is exactly what I'm talking about - why you working here could never work. You just can't let that go, can you?" "It's a pretty big thing!" "And you'd never forget it, not as long as we both worked here. It'd just be this big, awkward thing between us, and you'd never be able to see me as anything except some tramp you'd picked up in a bar..." "I *never* thought of you like that!" "...and you'd probably spend half of every day trying to look down my blouse or up my skirt, and I don't *need* that. I've worked damned hard to get where I am, and I don't intend to let a stupid one-night-stand ruin everything!" <> The words hung between them, even Lois seeming slightly shocked by the way they changed the atmosphere in the room. She stared at him, wide-eyed, but she didn't take it back, didn't recant a single word. Clark cleared his throat slightly and hoped that the devastation he felt wasn't written all over his face. "I see," he said quietly, when he thought he could speak again. "Well, you'll be disappointed to know that Mr. White is letting me take the job provisionally. I think he was hoping we could work things out." "We can't," she said, her voice slightly unsteady. "We can't work things out. We *can't* work together. Just tell him that you...." "No." He spoke more sharply than he'd intended. But he'd decided he wasn't running away this time, and he wasn't going to let himself be pushed away either. "What?" "I haven't done anything wrong here, and I'm not telling him anything. He's agreed to let me try the job, and that's what I'm going to do. If you're so sure we can't work in the same building together, then you can be the one to leave." "Oh right!" she scoffed. "You think Perry's going to choose you over me?" "I don't think he should have to choose at all," Clark said. "You're the one who's forcing that issue. If it matters to you, though, I can promise you I won't be looking up your skirt or down your blouse or any of that other stuff you're worried about. I won't even speak to you if that's the way you want it." She made a sound of frustration. "So how long is this *provisional* job supposed to last?" "I think that should be between Mr. White and me." Clark stood up and tried to look her in the eye but couldn't manage it. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to go. <> he thought. <> "Please, Clark...." Her voice changed completely all of a sudden, and when he looked at her, he was horrified to see the sheen of tears in her eyes. "Please don't do this to me. It was supposed to be one perfect night...just one night...and you're *ruining* it." Her voice broke. "You're ruining everything." *He* was ruining everything? It was too much, on top of everything else. It was just way, way too much. His chest tightened at the sight of her tears and the bittersweet sound of his name on her lips, but he refused to be swayed. He was in the right here, and he wasn't going to let her manipulate him into believing otherwise. "It quit being perfect the minute you left," he told her around the lump in his throat. "Right then, it became...what did you call it? *A stupid one-night-stand.* And that was *your* choice, not mine. I wanted to know you. To know...everything about you. And you weren't willing to give me that chance." "You wanted to know Wanda," she whispered as the first tear made its way down her cheek. "I wanted to know *you*," he insisted. "You just didn't feel the same way about me. And that's fine - that's your prerogative - but don't dress it up in a bunch of talk about perfect nights and people who don't exist. You wanted a guy for one night, and you got him. What I don't understand is why you want to punish me for it. I need this job. I *earned* this job. All I'm asking is that you give me a chance to do it." "What about everybody else?" she asked in a low voice. "Is the whole newsroom going to know...how we met?" He gave her an incredulous look. "Is that what you're worried about? That I'm going to go around bragging?" "Most men would." "I'm not most men." And the fact that he'd let himself be used for a night of anonymous sex was hardly something to be proud of, but he didn't bother telling her that. He doubted she'd believe him. Her opinion of him - or maybe of all men - seemed to be so incredibly low that there was little point in trying to change it. "As far as I'm concerned, I never met Lois Lane before today." He was pretty sure he could swear to that in court. Her head jerked in a quick nod, but she didn't say a word. "Lois...." He was surprised at how right the name felt on his tongue. He waited for her to look at him, and when she finally did, he went on, as gently as he could given the turmoil of his feelings. "I'll try to stay out of your way, I promise. I mean, you're Lois Lane, and I'm the new guy from Smallville, Kansas. I'll be busy covering school board meetings while you...I don't know...topple heads of state and single-handedly rid Metropolis of corruption and graft." He saw her lips turn upwards slightly and thought he might be on the right track, but her next words proved otherwise. "This isn't going to work," she said stubbornly, hugging her arms tighter around herself. He again turned to go, realizing that the conversation was futile. She wasn't going to give him her blessing, and he didn't need it anyway. "I'll try to stay out of your way," he repeated, with his hand on the door. "And...I'm sorry." He wasn't sure why he even said it, but just then, the regret was so powerful that it threatened to overwhelm him, and something made him put words to the feeling. How could he have been so incredibly wrong about everything? How could he have messed up this badly? And she was right - this was *never* going to work. He wasn't even sure why he was so determined to try. She had lied to him, deceived him, pretended to be someone she wasn't, and now she obviously wanted nothing more than to cost him his job. He should be running away from Lois Lane - running as far and as fast as he possibly could, which was very far and very fast. He was almost afraid to analyze the impulse that was making him stay, but he was pretty sure it didn't have as much to do as it should with wanting to be a reporter for the Daily Planet. The only thing he was absolutely sure of was that he was sorry - sorry for both of them - that the fleeting pleasure they'd found together now had the power to cause them so much pain. ___________________________________ Lois waited until Clark had made his way from the conference room before she swiped at the tears that were making hot tracks down her cheeks. Even after he was gone, she could still see the hurt that had flared in his eyes when she had dismissed their night together so cruelly. He had looked...shattered, and she had been the one who had shattered him. She had been the one who, with a few brutal words, had sucked the light and hope out of his eyes. She'd *had* to do it though. However painful it was for both of them right now, she couldn't let him think that their night together had been real. She couldn't live with seeing him every day, knowing that he was searching her for signs of the woman he'd loved and finding her wanting. He would never see Lois Lane as anything more than a pale and cranky shadow of Wanda Detroit, and it was easier for both of them if he realized that now. So she'd driven him away from Lois Lane, but she'd failed in her attempt to drive him away from the Daily Planet. Why couldn't he see that it would never work? Why couldn't he get a job somewhere else? He'd even told her that he had a job waiting for him back in Smallville. Why wouldn't he do the right thing and take it? She was very proud of the thick walls of defense she'd built between her work and her personal life, such as it was. It just wouldn't do to let a man like Clark Kent - or any man - breach those walls. Why couldn't he see that? "Lois?" Perry appeared in the doorway. "Yeah?" She tried to paste on an expression of cool professionalism, but she knew it was a wasted effort. She had wiped away the tears, but she was still huddled like a cornered rat on the far side of the conference room - a fact that Perry was unlikely to miss. "You all right? I saw you come in here with Kent." Her mouth was dry. She wished she had a drink of water. She wished she had anything at all to drink. And while she was at it, she wished she were somewhere else drinking it. Somewhere very, very far away from the corner of the conference room, which was dusty and cobwebby and starting to feel a little humiliating, she'd been huddled there so long. "Lois?" Perry prompted, sounding impatient. "I'm, uh...I'm fine." Perry shut the door and turned to face her. She was desperate for comfort, but one glance told her that she wasn't going to get it from Perry. She could tell that he wasn't interested in being her friend and mentor at that moment; he was her *boss*, and he looked like he needed that blood pressure monitor he'd bought the week before. "I'm gonna ask you a question," he said flatly, "and I want an honest answer." She nodded, feeling her stomach twist with dread. He was going to ask her about Clark. He was going to say something - and it wouldn't take all that much - that was going to break the fragile hold she had on her emotions. "This problem you have with Kent - I don't need the details, but I want to know: is it personal or professional?" She stared down at the floor. Definitely dusty. "It...*was* personal," she admitted, not trusting herself just then to construct a believable lie. "Now it's professional." "Now that I've hired him, you mean." She nodded and dared a peek at her boss. She immediately wished she hadn't; Perry's face had flushed an alarming shade of red. "So what you're telling me is that yesterday, when you came into my office and told me that Clark Kent was 'bad news' and that you'd quit if I hired him...what you're telling me is that you didn't have a thing to say against him professionally. Is that right?" She didn't answer. Couldn't. She clenched her hands into tight fists, trying to focus on the small pain of her nails biting into her palms. "Lois, do you know how close I came to sending that man packing this morning?" Perry exploded. "I consider myself a man of integrity, and I'd made that fellow an offer - an offer based on his professional abilities and the initiative he showed in going out and getting me a damn fine story. I nearly compromised that integrity this morning by sending him away without giving him a fair shot. And now I find out that it's *personal*?" "I can't work with him, Perry," she said desperately, emerging a step or two from her corner and meeting his eyes for the first time. "*Please* don't do this to me." He heaved a deep sigh and his face softened for the first time since he'd come into the room. "Are you afraid of him, honey? I mean, he seems like a nice enough fellow to me, but looks can be deceiving. Has he threatened you? Harassed you?" *Yes!* She wanted to say it so badly. Perry was giving her the perfect out, and all she had to do was to say that Clark Kent was dangerous. All she had to do was weep a little and say that she was afraid of Clark, afraid to be in the same room with him. She couldn't do it, though. Clark Kent was the most dangerous man she'd ever met, but not the way Perry meant. Never like that. And as much as she wanted him gone, she couldn't bring herself to tell that particular lie. Not when she could still remember the gentle touch of his hands on her body and the sweet words he'd whispered in her ear. Not when she could still remember how safe and content she'd felt in his arms. She swallowed hard and wished again that she had something to drink. Her throat was aching and her mouth was dry and Perry was waiting...waiting for her to tell him the truth. "No," she said in a low voice. "As far as I know, he's exactly what he seems." "I see." There it was again. Another 'I see.' And she knew he was expecting some sort of explanation from her - some reason why she'd tried to scuttle a decent man's job opportunity, some reason why she'd lowered herself to issuing ultimatums. But she couldn't. It was too personal. Too embarrassing. And way, way too painful. "Should I be expecting your resignation, then?" he prodded. "Clark said...." How strange it seemed to say his name out loud to someone else. Even his name seemed personal and private somehow, as if it were meant just for her. But it wasn't, of course. It was just his name, and now she had less right to it than anyone. "He said you made the job provisional." "Whatever is going on here, I need to know that it isn't going to disrupt my newsroom. If it does, then obviously one of you will have to go." "One of us?" she exclaimed. "Perry, you can't seriously be suggesting..." "What I'm suggesting is that you and Kent find a way to keep your personal problems out of my newsroom," he said firmly. "And I'm also suggesting that if you ever hit me with an ultimatum like that again, you'd better have your resume up to date. I'd hate to lose you, Lois, but no one is irreplaceable. Remember that." She nodded, hugging her arms tighter around herself and wishing Perry would just leave her alone so that she could cry or be sick or somehow fall into a thousand pieces right there in her dusty, cobwebby corner. She had suddenly remembered that Clark was outside the conference room somewhere, and now that corner seemed like the perfect place to spend the rest of her career. Perry, of course, had other ideas. "All right, then. Get back to work." He turned and waded into the newsroom, bellowing questions and orders at other reporters - his own special brand of motivation. Lois unfolded herself from the corner and made her way back to her desk on wobbly knees, deliberately not allowing herself to look for Clark. If she didn't see him, he wasn't there, right? She sank into her chair and took a big gulp from her coffee cup, nearly spitting it right back out again when the cold, bitter coffee hit her taste buds. She poured the remainder into her bedraggled African violet and got up to get some more, slamming to a halt when she caught sight of Clark sitting at a desk on the direct path to the coffee pot. "All right there, Lois?" Jimmy asked, coming up right behind her. "Fine." She veered off in the direction of the ladies' room, still clutching the coffee mug in her hand, and once inside, she barricaded herself in the same stall to which she'd fled the day before. She felt sobs tearing at her throat, but she refused to let them escape. She couldn't be caught crying. Not at the Planet. A few tears leaked past her defenses, and these she quickly attacked with a wad of toilet paper. She took several deep breaths and tried to figure out how she was going to get through this. She could either hand Perry her resignation - and in the mood he was in, he was likely to accept it - or she could find some way to work in the same newsroom as Clark Kent for as long as his 'provisional' employment there lasted. She needed her job, so the latter was the obvious choice, but she had no idea how she was going to manage it. Just the brief glimpse she'd had of him sitting at a desk had been enough to stop her in her tracks and send her on a headlong flight to the ladies' room. He hadn't even been looking at her - just dark hair and broad shoulders had been enough to unnerve her. And she *hated* that. She hated any man having such power over her. She wanted to hate *him*, too, but couldn't quite manage it - and then she hated her own susceptibility to him most of all. She froze in place when she heard the door open and a pair of chattering voices entered the restroom. She could only place one of them - a recently hired copy editor she'd butted heads with only two days before - but the subject of their discussion was quickly apparent. "...see him?" the copy editor said with a giggle. "Oh my God." "Shame about the glasses," the other woman said as she entered the stall next to Lois's. "Otherwise...yum." "I think the glasses are kind of cute." The copy editor stopped in front of Lois's stall, facing the mirror. Lois could see the heels of a pair of black pumps beneath the door. The other woman laughed. "Like you'd know. You were too busy looking at his butt to notice them." "Well...yeah," the copy editor admitted. Lois heard the sound of running water; the editor was apparently washing her hands. "But can you blame me?" A flush came from the stall next door. <> Lois thought, gritting her teeth. <> "Not at all." Lois heard the sound of the-woman-she-didn't-know arranging her clothing. "Whoever he is, he has one of the world's most perfect butts. It should be in a museum somewhere. There should be poems written about it. I may write one myself." Her friend burst out laughing. "I want to read that." Lois heard the door next to her open. "You can help me write it if you want. We'll call it 'Ode on the New Guy's A**' and become rich and famous." "But then women everywhere will want to see it. I'm not sure I want to share." "You can't keep a tush like that a secret, Shari." Shari...that was her name! Shari Thomas. <> Lois thought viciously. "Well, but there's no point in advertising it either," Shari argued. "Has Cat seen him yet, I wonder?" <> Lois wished there were an oven nearby so she could stick her head in and be done with it. She'd thought it couldn't get any worse than hearing these two twits having raptures over Clark's as...sets, which as far as she was concerned were absolutely off-limits to all women, including herself. *Especially* herself. But the thought of Clark in Cat Grant's clutches ranked right up there with moving back in with her mother, disaster-wise. If Cat even thought about hitting on Clark, Lois wasn't sure if she'd be able to keep herself from scratching the gossip columnist's eyes out...and of *course* Cat was going to hit on Clark. Cat hit on *everyone*. A man didn't have to be nearly as good-looking as Clark was to become another notch on Cat's garter belt. <> Clark's voice echoed in her head, and her conscience whispered that he was absolutely right. She'd done the very thing for which she'd always scorned Cat Grant. So why was Cat able to get away with it, time after time, with no apparent repercussions? Lois had tried it *once* and now she was hiding in a toilet. "I doubt she's in yet," the other woman replied, "but then, I was only in the newsroom for a minute myself. If she puts on a good show, promise you'll call me upstairs and tell me about it." Upstairs. That meant that Other Woman was in advertising or accounting. Lois tried to peek through the crack in the door to see if she recognized the woman, but all she could see was a white sleeve and a sliver of blue skirt. She would just have to start hating all of the women upstairs on principle. Or maybe it would be easier just to hate all of the women in the whole building. She didn't like most of them much anyway, so it wasn't like it would take a lot of extra effort. "I will," Shari answered. "Right now I'm going to head back. I wanted to watch the shuttle launch." "Oh, I forgot that was this morning," Other Woman said. She didn't sound particularly interested, but the reminder of the launch hit Lois with a jolt. Normally, she wasn't all that interested in shuttle launches either. She'd covered them before and at first had found them exciting, but now they all seemed pretty much the same. There was the countdown, and then the shuttle would go up, and afterwards the talking heads at EPRAD would say the same old things about it: new frontiers...coup for the space program...blah blah blah. She hadn't even been assigned the story, but she could write it in her sleep. The only thing that distinguished this launch from any other was that a couple of days before, Samuel Platt had burst into the newsroom insisting at the top of his lungs that the Messenger shuttle had been sabotaged and was likely to explode. She hadn't believed him, but she'd been interested enough to hold on to the notes he'd thrust into her hands, and she'd spent some time since then trying - and failing - to make sense of them. She'd decided that Platt was probably a crackpot, but Shari's mention of the shuttle launch was enough to distract Lois - at least a little - from her jealous anger at the two women and her consuming dread of working in the same newsroom with Clark Kent. She had a mystifying pile of notes on her desk that could lead to a story...and if it did, the story just might keep her out of the newsroom and away from Clark. That thought alone was enough to inspire her, and the minute the women had left the restroom, their cheerful voices fading away down the hall, Lois freed herself from her stall, filled her coffee cup with water from the sink, and then charged back into the newsroom with renewed determination. A crowd had formed around the television to watch the countdown to the shuttle launch, and Lois couldn't seem to keep her eyes from automatically seeking out Clark, who was standing nearby with Jimmy. He had taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp, white shirt, and Lois could see exactly why he'd caught the eyes of the women in the restroom and probably of every other woman in the building. The jacket had hidden the broad shoulders and tapered waist - as well as that other part of his anatomy the women had been so impressed with - but without it, Clark Kent would draw the eye of any living, breathing woman, and probably quite a few men as well. He had certainly caught her eye that night at the Stardust. But there was so much more to Clark than that, and among the many other confusing emotions he was arousing, she felt offended on his behalf that women in the building were jokingly composing poems to his physique without knowing anything about his sweet spirit and quick wit. She'd only had time to catch glimpses of those things herself, but she knew instinctively that they were what made him special. She admired broad shoulders and a perfect behind as much as the next woman, she supposed, but they were not the reasons she had found Clark so irresistible that night at the Stardust. Still, she was baffled by this odd feeling of...was it protectiveness? Possessiveness? Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, she knew it was outrageous for her to be feeling that way, in light of her own outright attack on Clark. She had no claim on him and no obligation to protect him. With an effort, she forced her attention away from him and to the television screen. The countdown was already in progress, and as soon as the shuttle lifted off, Lois planned to go back to her desk and sift through Platt's notes one last time. But then a panicked voice broke in, interrupting the countdown, and suddenly the Messenger launch wasn't routine at all, and Samuel Platt didn't seem like quite such a crackpot. *"Wait a minute...there's something wrong...there's a fire! There's a fire!"* She and her coworkers all surged forward with a collective gasp just as the Messenger exploded on the launch pad. While many of the women around her covered their eyes, Lois stared at the screen, the horror of witnessing such a thing accompanied by the prickle of excitement she always felt when she knew she was on to a good story. She welcomed the feeling without a shred of guilt, having made her peace with that aspect of herself long before. It didn't make her a bad person. She didn't *want* terrible things to happen, but when they did, she wanted to be there to report them - as honestly and fairly as possible. As the murmur of shocked conversation began to fill the newsroom, she turned and sought out Perry, pulling him to one side. "I *knew* there was something to Platt's story! I just knew it." "Lois, just because one madman's prediction came true doesn't mean there's a conspiracy to sabotage the entire space program." The words were right - the words of an editor trying to ensure that she didn't go off on a wild goose chase - but Lois knew Perry, and she could see that he, too, had caught the scent of a story the minute the Messenger had gone up in flames. Their earlier altercation was forgotten. This was business. This was what they did - what was in their blood - and she knew that it wouldn't take much convincing for Perry to back her all the way. "Maybe not," she agreed. "But with more than a hundred colonists going up in the next launch, are you willing to take that chance?" "I guess not," Perry conceded, just as she'd known he would. "So what have you got?" "Right now just a lot of confusing notes. But I'll get more. I need a task force, though. I can't cover this alone." "Take Jimmy." She gave him a look of disbelief. "Chief, we're talking about the space program." "Too bad. Take Jimmy." "What about Myerson?" "Busy." "Burns?" "Budapest." "Chief, Jimmy is a kid." "Fine. Then take Kent. He's free." Perry gave her a challenging look. Maybe their earlier altercation *hadn't* been completely forgotten. "Jimmy's fine," she said quickly. Except it wasn't true. Not only was Jimmy ridiculously inexperienced, but he was also still standing with Clark Kent, chattering and gesturing wildly as if they were new best friends. She let her eyes flicker in their direction and saw that Clark was still staring at the television, looking somber as he took in the sight of the emergency vehicles swarming over the scene. Then, as if he could feel her eyes on him, he turned the look on her - a look so full of sorrow and regret that she sucked in a breath at the sight of it. Had she put that look on his face, or was it the tragedy unfolding on the television screen? For a few seconds she was caught, unable to look away as something achingly painful passed between them. She even took an instinctive step forward, in an insane urge to offer comfort, before remembering that she was the last person on Earth from whom he would want it. "Lois?" Perry asked. "You change your mind about Kent?" "Uh, no." She dragged her eyes away from Clark. "I'll take Jimmy." "Fine. Get him and get out of here. If there's a story in this, I don't want some other paper beating us to it because you were too busy staring at Kent to be bothered." "I wasn't..." she protested, but she broke off when she realized she was talking to Perry's retreating back. "Oh, all right, I was," she muttered to herself as she worked up her nerve to approach Jimmy and Clark. She steeled her expression into one of icy professionalism and walked up to the two men. She could feel Clark's presence, like a shiver over her skin, but she was careful to give no hint of it. Instead she locked her gaze on Jimmy, who looked slightly alarmed at the sight of Lois bearing down on him. "Let's hit it," she told him, giving his arm a tug and turning her back on Clark as quickly as she could. "Uh, where are we going?" Jimmy asked, scrambling to catch up with her. "To interview Samuel Platt." She snatched her purse from the drawer of her desk. "He's convinced the Messenger was sabotaged." "Wow! Really?" "Yes, *really*," she said in her most scathing tone. "Listen, you just stand there and be quiet. If I need you to do something, I'll tell you, all right?" "Right. Fine." Jimmy was practically dancing beside her as they headed toward the elevator. "Seriously, Lois, you won't regret this. I've thought all along I might have a knack for investigative work. I just needed that chance, you know? And it's so cool that you're willing to give me that. I can't tell you what it means to me to know that you have that much faith in me." "Everyone else was busy," she snapped, and then she felt a little guilty when she saw his face fall. It wasn't Jimmy's fault that her nerves were in shreds that day. "But that doesn't mean you can't learn something," she added, a little more gently. A smile broke through the clouds on Jimmy's face as he hurried to press the elevator button for them. "I will," he chirped. "You can count on it. So who is this Platt guy, anyway? Is he the one who came in here the other day? 'Cause he seemed like a kook to me. Of course, what do I know?" <> Lois thought, gritting her teeth as Jimmy kept up a running line of excited blather. Usually she liked Jimmy...mostly...or at least she tolerated him better than she did most of the rest of the people at the Planet, but if she was able to keep from choking him that day, it would be an absolute miracle. But then, she was getting out of the newsroom, and if time was on her side, she might not have to see Clark again until tomorrow. She would focus on her story, on the-man-who-might-not-be-a-crackpot-after-all, on not killing Jimmy...it was all surely enough to distract her from Clark Kent. But as the elevator chimed its arrival, she couldn't help letting her eyes slide toward the place where she'd last seen Clark standing. He was still there, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, and he was making no attempt to hide the fact that he was watching her. She felt the bottom drop out of her stomach at the intensity of his gaze, and she turned quickly away, stepping into the elevator and releasing a ragged sigh of relief when the doors closed between them. ___________________________________ Lois Lane...Lois Lane...Lois Lane... Her name had seemed to throb in his temples all day long, never giving him a moment's peace. It continued to play in an endless loop as he let himself into his depressing room at the Hotel Apollo. The room was still filled with memories of Wanda Detroit, a woman he now knew had never really existed. How could he have fallen in love with someone who didn't exist? The answer, of course, was that he hadn't fallen in 'love' at all, and he'd reached that conclusion on his own even before he'd met Lois Lane. Now, though, he realized that even his attraction, his infatuation, had been misplaced. Wanda Detroit had been soft curves and sweet laughter, gentle caresses and hope for the future. Lois Lane was sharp corners and cutting insults, flashing eyes and petty revenge. She was not someone he could like, let alone love. And he didn't like her - not one little bit - but that didn't keep her from inspiring a terrible fascination. He hadn't seen her much after their conversation in the conference room, but the few times they'd both been in the newsroom, he'd felt a powerful awareness of her, as if the whole room became charged with electricity the minute she entered it. It was not a comfortable feeling; it kept him on edge, and he'd been glad when she left with Jimmy, glad that she'd stayed gone most of the day. Once she was gone, he'd at least been able to think straight, but even that wasn't much of a reprieve, since his thoughts continued to return to her, again and again, even after the dreadful explosion they'd witnessed that morning. How selfish did it make him that even after watching a man die in a fiery explosion, he had continued to think about his own hurt? His problems were clearly nothing compared to what Commander Laderman's family must be feeling that day, but no amount of telling himself that managed to drive Lois Lane completely from his thoughts. Not that he didn't think about the Messenger explosion as well; it was all anyone could talk about in the newsroom, and it was never far from his mind, even if it was sharing space with Lois. As he'd stood and watched the explosion and its aftermath, he had the same thought he always had when he witnessed or heard about a disaster: Was there something he could have done to help? Was it wrong for him to stand on the sidelines, to passively report the news, when his unique abilities made it possible for him to do so much more? Maybe he couldn't have predicted the explosion. Maybe he couldn't have gotten there in time to prevent it. But he could have put the fire out quickly, preserving more of the fuselage for investigation. He could have kept firefighters from risking their lives battling the flames. He could have done *something*. He had helped in small ways for years - surreptitious acts that he thought were unlikely to be noticed, and whenever they were noticed, he had quickly moved on. But he couldn't help with something like the Messenger explosion surreptitiously. To help with major disasters would mean exposing himself as an alien, and his parents had counseled against that for as long as he could remember. He knew their fear was for him, for what it might do to his life if he were exposed, but he also knew his frustration was mounting. It went against every inclination to stand by and do nothing when it was possible for him to help, and he felt as though he'd been locked for years in a battle with his own nature. Every time he did nothing when he could have been making a difference, he was a little closer to losing that battle, a little closer to a step that seemed as inevitable as it was terrifying. And now he had little hope for the job at the Planet working out. Maybe the whole fiasco with Lois Lane was a sign that he'd been pursuing the wrong kind of life all along. Maybe it was exactly what he needed to convince himself that 'normal' would never be an option for him anyway, so why keep fighting so ridiculously hard for it? He loved being a journalist, and he thought he was pretty good at it, but he had a whole set of unique abilities that weren't being used at all. As he'd watched the emergency crews desperately trying to extinguish the Messenger fire, he'd known deep down that his place was with them, and that it was only his own cowardice that kept him from doing what he *knew* he should be doing. Of course, only two days before, he'd been convinced that his place was at the Daily Planet. And then hours later, he'd been convinced that his place was with Wanda Detroit. Now he was sure that his place was helping at disasters. Obviously, he couldn't be right on all counts. He'd have to be three people - or at the very least two - and that was impossible, even for him. As he stripped off his tie and tossed it to the floor by his suitcase, he allowed himself a snort of self-derision. Why not just admit that he didn't have a clue where he belonged? And that maybe he never would? Why this need to find a 'perfect' place anyway? Was that something most people looked for, or was it some side effect of knowing he was so different? He'd probably never know. It wasn't the sort of thing one asked casual acquaintances, and except for his parents, casual acquaintances were practically all he had allowed himself in years. Clark was invulnerable, so one set of clothes was no more or less comfortable for him than another, but it still felt good to peel off his dress shirt and tie at the end of the day and climb into his blue jeans and a t-shirt instead. He had been out of college for years, but he still felt like a kid playing dress-up every time he put on a coat and tie. He hadn't had to wear a tie to the Smallville Press office, but working at the Daily Planet called for a more polished look. If by some miracle the job worked out, he'd have to expand his professional wardrobe. Lois had looked every inch the polished professional that day, sleek and stylish and utterly different from Wanda Detroit. Wanda's clothes had been loud and just a little too obvious for his usual tastes, but Lois had been dressed conservatively, in a suit that flattered her figure without flaunting it. It would not be true to say that Lois faded into the background when she wasn't dressed as Wanda Detroit - he had a feeling that she'd have caught his eye in any case - but she certainly looked *different*. So different, in fact, that if he hadn't confronted her practically nose-to-nose, he might well have missed the fact that she was Wanda. Apparently he'd walked right by her the day before without even realizing it. Astonishing. He'd told her that she couldn't change her whole identity by changing her hair and clothes, but he was beginning to think that maybe she had. If he understood the situation rightly, she had put together a whole other person out of bits and pieces she found in her closet, and then she had given that person license to behave in a way she wouldn't normally behave. It had worked because she had believed it herself; for those few hours, she had let herself *be* Wanda Detroit. He stared down at the pile of work clothes he'd just tossed to the floor. Was he a different person in his blue jeans and t-shirt than he was when he wore a coat and tie? Not exactly, but he felt more comfortable in the jeans...more himself. Could he do what Lois had done? If, for instance, he dressed as a street tough and wore a temporary version of one of those tattoos he'd seen in the window that night, would he be able to play the part convincingly? Would he be able to rob someone or hurt someone - to do something completely contrary to his values? He didn't think so. No matter what he wore, he would still be Clark Kent where it counted. But what if the thing he was doing *wasn't* contrary to his values? What if it was something good...but something he would never have the nerve to do as Clark Kent? An idea that seemed to have been swirling formlessly in his mind for a long time finally began to take shape. It was crazy. Completely insane. He felt his heart started to pound with the sheer reckless daring it would take to pull it off, but at the same time, he felt as though a missing puzzle piece had finally been slipped into place. <> He'd thought it was impossible, but maybe it wasn't. Maybe he'd always been two people - Clark Kent of Kansas and a visitor from Krypton - and it was finally time for the Kryptonian to get dressed up and come out of hiding. If Lois Lane could be Lois by day and Wanda Detroit by night, why couldn't he be both Clark Kent and...well, whatever he decided to call that part of himself that could fly across the country in minutes and lift his father's truck with one hand? If he could find something distracting enough to wear - Wanda's tight pink sweater flashed through his mind - and change his body language, he was sure that no one would think to associate him with a bespectacled reporter covering minor stories for the Daily Planet. He whipped around and tidied his room at super-speed, suddenly anxious to get to the farm for dinner. He'd been almost dreading it before, there being so many things he preferred not to share with his parents just then, but now he knew that they were the only two people in the world who could help him with his plan. They would think he was crazy, of course, and they would worry, but they would help him. He knew they would. ___________________________________ The rich aroma of his mother's home cooking greeted him before he'd even landed in the yard of his parents' small farmhouse. When he drifted to earth, he stood silently in the glow of a lighted window for a moment, listening to chirping of the crickets and the rustle of the wind in the trees. Inside the house, he could hear the gentle clanking sounds of his mother getting dinner. After the day he'd had - after the *week* he'd had - he was moved by the sheer normalcy of a quiet night in Kansas and the knowledge that the two people inside the house loved and welcomed him. He didn't try to deny the instant affinity he'd felt for Metropolis or for the busy newsroom at the Daily Planet, but he realized in that moment how lucky he was that wherever his wandering had taken him, he'd always had this one precious place in the world to call home. "Clark?" His father stuck his head out the screen door and peered into the darkened farmyard. "You out there, son?" "Yeah, Dad." Clark came into view and greeted his father with a smile. "Thought so." Jonathan Kent stepped out onto the porch and welcomed his son with a smile and a brief hug. "Heard you land a couple of minutes ago. What're you doing standing out here?" "Just appreciating the quiet, I guess." It wasn't quite true, but it was as close as he was willing to come. He actually liked the bustle of the city - the energy of it - but his battered heart needed the uncomplicated peace of home just then. "Not like this in the city, is it?" Clark laughed. "Everything about Metropolis is different, Dad. But...I think I could like it there." "I couldn't live there for a minute." "No," Clark agreed. The city would never suit his father. "But there's something about the city...the pace...everyone going somewhere." "Impatient - like you." His father gave him an understanding smile. "So have you finally found your niche? Ready to stop living out of that old suitcase?" "I...it's kind of complicated. But I do have a job. I went back to the Daily Planet with a new story, and Mr. White agreed to give me a try." Even now, in spite of everything, Clark couldn't suppress the surge of pride he felt in telling his father that. "Clark, that's wonderful!" Jonathan exclaimed, clapping his son on the back. "What's wonderful?" Martha Kent stood at the screen door, her hands on her hips. "And why are you two telling secrets out here on the porch?" Clark grinned. "No secrets, Mom. I was just telling Dad that I got a job at the Daily Planet." His mother let out a shriek of delight and stepped outside to pull her much-larger son into an exuberant hug. "Oh, honey, I'm so proud of you! Why didn't you call and tell us sooner? Have you started yet?" Clark laughed, feeling almost good for the first time that day. "I wanted to surprise you, and yes, I started today. Let's go inside and I'll tell you all about it. I'm starved." "You are not," his mother countered. "OK, I'm not. But I can't wait to eat anyway." He sniffed the air. "Is that meatloaf?" "And mashed potatoes and green beans from Mrs. Sanders' garden." "Mmmm." He cast an appreciative look in the direction of the kitchen and then paused in front of an elaborate metal sculpture - obviously his mother's latest art project. He cocked his head at it, frantically searching for something to say about it that would please her. "Do you like it?" she asked eagerly. "I call it 'Too Much, Too Soon, Tortured Heart, Waning Moon'." Too much, too soon... Well, that sounded about right. His reunion with his parents had temporarily pushed Lois Lane to the back of his mind, but his mother's art project brought her back again with a vengeance. Or, not the art project, exactly, since to his untrained eye it wasn't much more than a twisted heap of scrap metal, but the name of it sounded like it had been plucked straight from his own folly. "What do you think?" his mother prodded. "Too cerebral?" "No," Clark said, in a voice he hoped was enthusiastic rather than tortured. "It's very...inspired." "Uh huh." Jonathan said skeptically. "Oh you," Martha said. "You just have no appreciation for art." "Not true." Jonathan pointed to the meatloaf resting beside the stove. "That right there is a work of art, and I'm all set to appreciate it." Martha laughed and took the hint, and soon the little family was seated around the cozy kitchen table. Clark spent most of the meal telling them about his first day at the Daily Planet, though since he hadn't done much more than fill out forms and tour the place, he didn't have anything very exciting to tell. Still, his parents were an appreciative audience, and he allowed himself the luxury of basking a little in their pride and happiness for him. He wasn't being totally honest with them, and he knew that wasn't right or fair, but he needed a few minutes of unconditional approval before he broached the more difficult subjects. So he waited until they were eating his mom's cherry pie to mention the idea he'd had back in his hotel room, opening the new subject without any attempt at a segue. "Mom, how's your sewing machine?" Martha blinked at him from behind her round glasses, obviously surprised to hear him inquiring after household appliances out of the blue. "I guess it's fine, honey. I haven't used it in a while." "Do you think you could use it to make me some sort of a costume?" "I suppose I could. Are you going to a party?" "Uh, no. Maybe costume was the wrong word." "So what's the right word?" Martha stared at her son, her fork poised half-way to her mouth. "Uh, *disguise*, maybe. Something...flashy, you know? Something that will distract people from the fact that it's me." "Distract people from the fact that it's you," Jonathan repeated. "What exactly are you going to be doing that you need to distract people?" "Well...helping, I guess." "Helping." Martha put down her fork. "Honey, we're trying to follow this - really we are." "Listen, I *know*