And Then There Was Light

Anti-Kryptonite <dreamnovelist@gmail.com>

Rated PG

Submitted September 2011

Summary: Thinking he was responsible for the heat-wave,
Superman left, taking Clark with him. Now, two months later, Lois
is still struggling to move on alone without both men, a feat
made harder when she's kidnapped by Luthor and thrown in a cell
with...Clark?

Author's Note: Special thanks go to Anonpip, DW, and Morgana for
all their hard work beta-ing this story for me, and to KathyB for
some very helpful comments at the beginning. I'd also like to
thank IolantheAlias for agreeing to edit this story despite its
length.

Disclaimer: A multitude of episodes are referenced, particularly
the first nine episodes of the first season. None of them are
mine; all were written by others. No copyright infringement is
intended.

***

Chapter 1

Darkness.

Pain.

A foul stench that threatened to choke me.

A low thrumming sound that exacerbated the pain eating away at
me.

A sickly sweet taste that sat on my tongue like poison.

My five senses were working -- they just weren't working
together. I tried to move, to sit up, to look around me, but
bindings on my wrists and the cramped space of the trunk I was in
prohibited the actions. I was blindfolded too, I decided after a
moment, not that there would likely be anything pleasant for me
to see. Now that consciousness had been returned to me in all its
tormented glory, I could remember what had happened.

They had jumped me just after I exited the Daily Planet building
late at night. I hadn't even made it to my Jeep before they had
surrounded me, placing the tainted cloth over my mouth and nose.
That would explain the headache currently pounding a tempo worthy
of any marching band behind my eyes. It would also explain the
stench and taste that were working to overwhelm me and send me
back to the darkness I had just barely emerged from.

Only when the vehicle I had been tossed into pulled to a stop did
I realize that we had been moving. I shook my head, trying hard
to snap myself into full awareness. If I was going to be
facing...whoever had kidnapped me this time...I would need all my
wits about me.

Because no one would be swooping in to rescue me.

Hastily, I shoved the thought -- and its accompanying, brightly
colored memories -- away. There was no time for it now. I needed
to focus.

When the lid of the trunk popped up, I was immediately grabbed by
at least one man, perhaps two, and roughly yanked up by my arms.
I bit back my cry of pain and concentrated on standing upright so
they wouldn't see any need to repeat the process.

"Careful with her!" growled a deep voice from near the front of
the vehicle. "The Boss said she wasn't to be hurt."

I decided it was far past time for me to pretend I was still Mad
Dog Lane. "Who is the Boss?" I demanded loudly. "Why have you
taken me? Where are we?"

They were good questions, questions any reporter worth their word
processor and press pass would ask, but I wasn't really
expecting them to answer. In my experience -- and believe me,
I've had a bit -- villains don't normally tell you who they are
or where you are after they've gone to all the trouble of
blindfolding you.

"The Boss is the one who calls the shots," the same voice told
me helpfully, now a lot closer to me. "We picked you up because
he told us to. And as to where you are...why don't we show
you?"

Well, this guy was certainly a lot more accommodating than most
kidnappers I'd met. Not that the unusual mood lasted all that
long. I was jerked forward to the sound of a heavy door being
pulled open -- the hinges squeakily protesting the movement --
and then pushed from behind.

"Hope you enjoy the room," snarled a different man --
presumably the one who seemed to think my shoulders were as
easily disconnected and reattached as a Barbie's.

Surprisingly, I felt something pull at the ropes around my
wrists, and then my hands were free. Before I could take
advantage of my new mobility, the door slammed shut with
sickening finality.

It's interesting how darkness has varying shades. For instance,
locked in the trunk of a car with a blindfold tied around my
eyes, I had known it was dark. Yet the minute they shoved me into
this cell -- even without sight, I had no illusions about where
they had put me -- I knew the difference between that darkness
and the absolute blackness that now enveloped me.

For an instant, I stayed frozen where I was, afraid to move lest
I fall off a ledge or stumble into a vat of boiling acid. Trust
me, in my line of work, those options weren't too improbable. A
twisting snarl of fear was tangled in the pit of my stomach --
and not just because no one would even think to be looking for me
until noon or later the next day. No, I was paralyzed with the
same fear that had been gnawing at me for the past two months.

And I was sick of it.

I hated being weak, feeling vulnerable...missing him. I hated
working alone. I hated being so isolated that no one knew where I
was.

I hated him for leaving me to work without a partner.

Since when had I needed a partner? I asked myself caustically.

Since him.

Enraged beyond all rational thought at that realization, I tore
the blindfold off my eyes -- not that it helped me see anything
-- and beat at the door. "Let me out!" I shouted. "Why are you
doing this? What do you want? Who are you working for?"

A rustling sound from behind alerted me to the fact that I
hadn't been locked up alone.

I whirled to put the door at my back, squinting futilely into the
shadows of the cell. It was impossible to see anything, but I had
the feeling the cell wasn't very big, much smaller than the
bedroom in my apartment, maybe no wider than the distance between
my desk and Cl -- the desk across from mine.

"I could tell you...but I doubt you'd believe me."

All thought temporarily abandoned me, and it wasn't because of
fear. Or not the same kind of fear anyway.

That voice...I knew it. I recognized it instantly. I had been
hearing it in my head for the last two months, and before that, I
had had the privilege of hearing it for real, speaking new words
and phrases and thoughts only he, alive and vibrant and strong,
could formulate.

After he had left, he used to call to talk to me, usually only
for five or ten minutes because that's all I'd allow. They had
been stilted conversations, made awkward by my anger and
his...I'm not sure what his emotions were. I never really took
the time to ask.

I had preferred the postcards coming from all different corners
of the world. They had always boasted a note that tied back to
something he knew about me, subtle reminders of the unique
partnership that had been ours for such a short period of time.
And though I hated the notes for those reminders and the feelings
they stirred up within me, I also savored them because I could
take them out and touch them and look at them. They were tangible
while the phone calls had been transient and elusive, always
leaving me feeling as if I had lost another chance.

But both the phone calls and the postcards had eventually
dwindled away and stopped. I hadn't heard from him in a month --
four weeks, one day, and fourteen hours...well, fourteen hours
since I had left the Daily Planet. I wasn't sure how much time
had passed while I was unconscious.

Still, I thought in outrage, those little moments of
communication were supposed to have come to a halt because we had
drifted apart or because he had met someone else to make perfect
cups of coffee for and guide to her destination with a gentle
hand on her back and listen to her ramble about whatever tangent
she liked and back her wild schemes even when he didn't want to
and...

It wasn't supposed to be because he was locked in a dark cell,
kidnapped by dangerous men.

It wasn't supposed to be because I hadn't even thought to make
sure he was all right.

It was impossible. I refused to believe it.

But it was his voice.

"Who?" I finally asked, my voice ragged and hoarse. I wasn't
even sure what I was asking, or why I asked it. Though I didn't
care to admit it, I think I just wanted to hear his voice again.

"Luthor."

That was not at all what I had been expecting.

I blinked. "Luthor what?"

The faint chuckle brought light to the cell. I know that sounds
stupid and cliched and impossible, but it's true. His smile had
always warmed my heart, and now it did the same for this black
cell. A little bit of my past self, shriveled and cold and buried
for a while now, actually stirred and brightened.

"You asked who had you kidnapped. I said it's Luthor."

"You think Lex is the Boss?" I asked, then winced to hear the
skeptical note in my own voice.

"I said you wouldn't believe me." There was not even a hint of
smugness in that I-told-you-so, and while it might have been
because we were both locked in a cell with no quick hope of
escape, I was certain it was really because he had never known
how to gloat. Not once when my hunches had been wrong or my lead
had been flawed or my sources had lied had he ever said "I told
you so." Not once when his hunches had been right and his lead
had played out and his sources had come through for us had he
ever said "I told you so." In fact, I was pretty much convinced
that he had never learned those words.

"What are *you* doing here?" I held my breath as soon as the
haughty question was uttered.

"The same thing as you, I expect," he replied, and I almost
broke down and cried right then to hear that familiar teasing
note in the voice I had so missed. The postcards had been silent
and the phone calls had been too rushed or stilted to produce the
warm, jesting tone I had so longed to hear.

But Lois Lane did not cry, at least not in front of partners who
had lied to her and then deserted her.

"I meant," I enunciated clearly, as if irritated with him,
"why did the Boss want you kidnapped? If Lex really is the Boss,
I know why *I'm* here, but what have you done to make him
mad?"

"You've made Luthor mad?" The concern evident in that
distinctive voice did make a tear slide down my cheek, but he
didn't have to know that -- sometimes, a bit of darkness came in
handy. He was the one who had left; he didn't need to know that
I had missed feeling as cherished as I did whenever he fussed
over me.

"I've been investigating him," I said with exaggerated
casualness.

There was stunned silence. It continued so long that I had to say
something, *anything*, just so he would speak to me again and
prove this wasn't all a delusion brought on by stress and
exhaustion and grief.

"For the past month, I've been following some leads that might
tie Lex to the underworld leader. There was a pheromone compound
that made people go bonkers with love, and it was funded by Lex
Labs. Even though it was only released on a couple secretaries
and a fencing instructor in Lex Tower before the police managed
to nab the culprit, it made me start thinking about how many
crimes can be tied to Lex in some way or another. But I first
thought of it because of the nuclear -- " I cut myself off
abruptly. I wasn't ready to talk about that, especially not to
him.

"Do you remember the Smart Kids?" he asked after a moment.

I frowned. "Yes. That's when you first mentioned your suspicion
of Lex."

"Why are you calling him Lex?" There was a tinge of irritation
in his voice, and I bit back a smile. Odd, I couldn't help but
think. For the past two months, I hadn't smiled at all, and I
hadn't dared start weeping. Now, only moments after coming face
to face -- or, well, nearly enough -- with him, I had done both.

"What am I supposed to call him?" I retorted.

"Why don't you call him the Boss?" he snapped back.

"I don't have proof yet," I stated defiantly. "Weren't you
always the one who said we shouldn't decide anything until we
had proof?"

"I have proof."

The quiet claim turned me mute. I pushed my hands against the
door behind me, soaking in the chill of its surface to counter
the warmth he offered me, vaguely realizing that I was still
holding the blindfold in my right hand.

"Luthor blew up that building to test Superman right after his
debut," he continued. "He forced those two suicide jumpers to
take their leaps. He was the one behind the cyborg boxers. He was
in league with Toni Taylor and used her Toasters to buy up the
land he wanted. He funded, authorized, and was directly involved
in the Mentamide 5 experiments on innocent children. He killed
Commander Laderman, Samuel Platt, Antoinette Baines, Dr. Carlton,
Max Menken, Thaddeus Roarke, and Congressman Harrington, and
those are just a few of the skeletons in his closet."

"And you have proof of all this?" I asked suspiciously. I
don't know why. I had been investigating Luthor myself; I was
certain his hands weren't nearly as clean as he pretended they
were. In fact, just this morning I had told Perry I thought
Luthor was working with the Boss. So I really wasn't sure why I
pretended I didn't believe it now.

Actually, I did know. I didn't want him to think he could just
slide right in and write the story I had been working on for
almost four weeks. He wasn't my partner anymore. He had given up
that right. I didn't need him or his proof.

"I have eye-witnesses," he said quietly, and for the first
time, I registered how weak his voice sounded. At first, I had
been too overwhelmed at hearing it again to notice. Now, I could
tell that though the voice was everything I had remembered it to
be, it was also exhausted and...pained.

Before I even realized what I was doing, I had taken two steps
away from the door and moved toward where his voice had been
emanating from. Two steps more, feeling him at my feet, and I
knelt beside him. I hesitated briefly before reaching out...and
then I touched him. No matter how I fought to restrain it, I
couldn't stop my sharp intake of air.

For the first time in two months -- two months, four days, and
some unknown number of hours -- I was touching Clark Kent. What
had once been an everyday occurrence had now become a luxury
beyond words that stunned me with its power to strengthen the
hidden me who had been buried very deeply beneath my bitterness
and loneliness.

He gasped too, but I didn't think it was in surprise or
pleasure. An instant later, when my hands informed me that he was
lying slumped against the corner of the cell -- he, the perfect
gentleman, who had risen to his feet any time I entered a room or
neared his desk -- I knew his gasp had to be more of pain than
anything else.

"What's wrong with you?" I asked. All suspicion and skepticism
had vanished from my tone, leaving horror and fear in their
place.

"I don't feel well," he said reluctantly.

"Don't feel well?" I repeated, my hands falling into my lap as
if burned. "What do you mean you 'don't feel well?'"

"I...don't really know how to explain it. I feel...weak. And
disoriented. And ordi -- " He stopped and swallowed audibly.

"Clark..." It was the first time I had allowed myself to say
his name, and I had to pause and savor the feel of it in my
mouth. "How long have you been here?"

"I don't know."

I choked back an aggravated sigh. "Has it been hours? Days?
Weeks?"

"Days," he answered, then wavered. "Or...maybe weeks. I'm not
really sure."

"You're not sure?" I wished I could stop repeating everything
he said, but there was a cold lump choking me and weighing
heavily in my stomach. A lump that made me blink rapidly and
swallow back sobs. I hadn't spoken to him in a month -- a very
long month. "How can you not be sure? How often do they feed
you?"

"Uh...well, they d -- uh, not very often."

"What's wrong with you?" I held my breath as I waited for his
answer. My tentative probing hadn't found any blood, but that
didn't mean he wasn't injured. And if it really had been weeks,
I wasn't sure how much longer he could go without visiting a
hospital. How long did it take to die of malnutrition anyway?

"Uh...they keep...dosing...me with...something. Something
bad."

"Dosing you?" There I went again, repeating him. But how was I
supposed to make any sense out of his answers? He wasn't telling
me anything! "Something to make you talk?"

Or, I thought suddenly, something to make him compliant?
Something to keep him weak and disoriented and unsure -- and
completely unlike the sharp, intelligent man who had not only
been partnered with me but had actually kept up with me? The idea
that this drug might actually be rewriting his personality made
me almost mindless with panic, so I ignored it.

"Are they trying to find out who your witnesses are?" I asked.
"Clark, what do they want from you?"

"I don't know!"

I stilled. I had never heard Clark sound so...defeated. Even when
he had told me goodbye and walked away from me, he hadn't
sounded so worn and tired and despairing. In fact, I hadn't even
been aware Clark knew what despairing meant.

"He just comes and...taunts me. He gloats. And he...doses me
with the...stuff. He never asks me anything. He never tells me
anything. He just...he just keeps me here. He says it's..."

"What does he say?" I whispered, not sure I really wanted to
hear the answer. Or think too hard about who the "he" was. I
had dated Luthor a couple times, after all, before he had dumped
me in favor of his fox-like personal assistant. I had liked him,
or at least felt drawn to him. Just how bad was my luck with men
anyway?

"Never mind. It doesn't matter."

My breath caught in my throat when I felt his hand reach out and
cover mine, so solid, so warm, so...there.

My emotions had gone through some pretty violent fluctuations
concerning Clark Kent. At first, I had been too busy trying to
save Superman to really spare too much thought to my partner's
absence. Then, when Superman had left Metropolis as well, I had
figured that the superhero's absence would cut so much more
deeply, and it was, after all, more prominent. But as I had faced
day after day of that empty desk taunting me and the work I had
to do on my own without Clark's teasing remarks and cheerful
countenance and small touches, I had been startled to realize
that I missed him.

Lois Lane missed Clark Kent.

Instantly, I had been furious. How dare he leave me alone? He was
the one who was all for the partners idea, so why had he
abandoned me? How could he side with Superman over me?

Gradually, as the phone calls grew more awkward due to my sharp
replies and cold shoulder, I had realized that I wasn't angry so
much as I was hurt. I couldn't understand why he had felt the
need to abandon me. Sure, Metropolis had treated its resident
superhero badly. Sure, we shouldn't have tossed Superman out
just because of a bit of unseasonable heat. But couldn't Clark
have stayed with me? Couldn't he have gotten past his hurt and
offense on Superman's behalf and stayed...for my sake?

When apathy, anger, and hurt had all passed, I had finally
settled on confusion. Clark had always confused me when he was
present; why should his absence be any different? I didn't know
why he had left so suddenly, or why he had lied about his reasons
for leaving, or even why he had started traveling the world again
instead of becoming the editor of the small town paper as he had
said he would. Above all, I didn't know why I felt as if he had
taken the important parts of me when he left, packing them up
along with his belongings in that box he had carried as he walked
away from me.

All I had known was that I missed him. And I wanted him back.

And now, unexpectedly, completely out of the blue, he was right
beside me. It was almost more than I could comprehend after the
day I had had.

"Lois," he murmured, and the last of my composure fled,
shattered by the sound of that beloved -- well, appreciated was
probably a better word -- voice saying my name in just the sweet,
intense way he always said it. "I missed you."

"Oh, Clark," I stammered. "I...I missed you too."

He opened his arms, and I fell into them, leaning against the
broad chest I had leaned against so many times before and feeling
the spasmodic shudders that shook his frame. But no matter how
much he trembled or how weak he was, I knew he could hold me
together in his freely offered embrace -- knew it because he had
done it for me before.

And despite our time apart and whatever had been done to him
during his time in this cell, he didn't fail me now.

	

***

Chapter 2

Lois Lane does not fall apart, though, certainly not during a
mere kidnapping, so after a while, I pulled myself free of his
arms and stood. "There has to be some way out of here," I
declared before restlessly moving to examine the confines of the
cell by feel.

"If anyone can find it, it's you," he said, his voice a bit
stronger and more confident.

I ignored the way his words made me feel and continued my blind
exploration. The door was made of some kind of metal, heavy and
cold and impossible to budge. The walls were brick. If I believed
some of the movies I'd seen, we could possibly pull enough
bricks from the wall to make a small exit hole; I was of the
opinion that that option was pretty far-fetched.

"I can't believe this is happening!" I exclaimed when I failed
to find anything else in the cell except for a bucket in the
corner that I refused to think about. There was no cot, no sink,
no lock to pick or window to climb out of, nothing save four
walls to keep us caged. "Why does this always happen to me?"

"Because you refuse to let the world go by without trying to
make it better."

I froze at the words and turned to look in Clark's general
direction. Simply hearing him had been enough at first, but now I
wanted desperately to see him. It had been too long since I had
been able to look into his silvery-brown eyes and see his lips
curve up in that irresistible smile. Except I had resisted it,
quite often in fact. Mad Dog Lane did not melt into a puddle
whenever her farmboy partner smiled at her.

"That makes you a lot of enemies," he added, perhaps thinking I
hadn't understood his comment. But I had understood it. I
understood that even though I had let him walk away from me, he
still thought the world of me. He thought better of me than even
I did, and that was saying something. Or it used to anyway. Now,
almost everyone thought better of me than I did.

An image of Superman was seared into the backs of my eyelids,
mocking me whenever I was tempted to think too highly of myself.

"Lois?" I realized from the rustling noise that followed the
sound of my name that Clark was pulling himself to his feet.

"Don't!" I rushed to his side, slipping my arm around his
waist when I heard him stumble and fall against the wall.

Horror assailed me. I knew the feel of Clark. He had walked me to
my place a hundred times, and a few of those times, he had
tentatively slipped an arm around my shoulders, relaxing only
when I would signal my acceptance of the gesture by looping my
arm around his waist. Due to an embarrassing accident, I knew
what Clark looked like without his square suits, and he felt much
the same way -- solid, steady, firm.

Or he had.

I suddenly knew that no matter how much I had tried to deny it,
Clark had been held here for an entire month. He must have been
in order to lose so much body mass, to lose so much of his
strength.

"Are you all right?" he asked tenderly.

I closed my eyes, suddenly glad he couldn't see me and the tears
sliding down my cheeks. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He
wasn't supposed to be hurt and locked away. Clark had always
seemed too...happy, too cheerful, too full of hope to be confined
in one place. His strength had seemed inexhaustible, surviving
even after a whole night's stakeout filled with my grouchy
retorts and subtle put-downs.

Why hadn't I thought to check up on him? Why hadn't I realized
that he would never stop calling me and sending me letters unless
I asked him to? Why had I allowed myself to forget just what type
of person Clark was? Why had I held onto my anger that he had
gone to find happiness without me, helping Superman wherever he
had ended up and stealing my place at the superhero's side?

"I'm sorry," I whispered, leaning my head against Clark's
chest and trusting his depleted strength to hold us both up.
Because even then, even embracing him and feeling how much he had
lost, I couldn't imagine Clark not being strong enough for me.
He had always been there, always caught me, always backed me up.
He had done such a great job of being my partner that I no longer
knew how to work without one. That was why I had spent the past
two months scarcely sleeping at all, pushing myself harder and
harder to find the stories that used to appear all over the
place, to write the articles that used to almost write
themselves, to prove to myself that I didn't really need Clark
Kent, the hack from Nowheresville that had subtly changed my
life.

"What are you sorry for?" His fingers curled under my chin and
tilted my head up, though why I couldn't say. It's not like he
could see me.

"I'm sorry I let you go. I'm sorry I didn't look for you.
I'm sorry we're here in this mess."

"Hey, it's not your fault." His thumb gently wiped away a
tear, and true to form, since it was him, I didn't even mind
that he knew I'd been crying. "I had to leave, Lois. It
was...nobody could have changed that. And how were you supposed
to know I'd been kidnapped? That's your department, after
all."

A watery chuckle escaped me, and I tightened my arms around Clark
and buried my head in the cleft between his shoulder and his
neck. When his hand tenderly cupped the back of my head, I
wondered if I was dreaming. I had played so many scenarios in my
head over the past weeks -- each one a more improbable reason for
him to return than the last -- that it now seemed impossible for
this to be real.

Even trapped in a dark cell with no civilized bathroom in sight,
this moment was better than what my life had become when both
Superman and Clark Kent had walked out of it.

"You've obviously picked up bad habits while you've been
gone," I managed to say with a hint of the teasing tone Clark
seemed to produce so easily. "You shouldn't have left."

Only when the words had fallen into the still air around us and
sat there trembling for a long moment did I realize that I had
done it again. Clark offered comfort; I offered criticism.

"Not that I blame you," I added hastily.

It was a lie, though.

I did blame him. For a while, I had hated him. He had made me
need him, and then he had left me alone. Two men had promised to
be around whenever I needed them, and they had both walked away
without a backward glance regardless of the fact that I still
needed them.

"I'm sorry, Lois," he whispered. His finger drew a gentle line
along my cheekbone, and I vaguely wondered how he could touch me
so gently and surely in the dark. Had he memorized me so well
that he could still remember every part of me? Actually, he
probably had; I had caught him watching me often enough with that
soft, endearing light shining behind those glasses of his and
making it impossible to feel creeped out by his fascination with
me.

"You're not wearing your glasses," I observed, not even sure
why I said it. It was true, though. I could feel the soft flannel
shirt he wore, had felt the denim of his jeans earlier when I had
knelt at his side, but though my questing hands had found the
beard hugging the contours of his face, I hadn't felt the frames
of his glasses. Funny. I didn't think I'd ever seen him without
them; I couldn't even picture him without them.

His arms tightened around me, but all he said was, "No. He said
I had no use for them anymore."

A thrill of dread curled insidiously through my body. Clark kept
referring to "he" and "him" in a tone that bordered on fear.
Fear...and hate. It had taken me this long to identify that
second emotion because I had never before heard it in Clark's
voice. I had thought him incapable of it.

Once more, his finger trailed down my face, gently tucking a
strand of hair behind my ear. "I can almost see you. They'll be
coming back soon," he told me in a voice barely audible over the
pounding of my heart. "He never lets me recover too much before
returning. Lois...are you sure you're real? I'm not just
dreaming, am I?"

The thought had occurred to me; I just hadn't realized that he
would have the same fear. But then, he was the one who had been
locked in a cell for a month, obviously tortured if this
'dosing' took as much out of him as it seemed. Why *wouldn't*
he think this was a dream?

"Do you dream about me often?" I couldn't resist asking, my
tone neutral.

"Always." The word was little more than an expelled breath, but
I caught it, held it close to me, savored it as if it were a rich
delicacy. His arms tightened around me, pulling me so close to
him that I felt as if surely nothing could hurt me or tear me
from his embrace.

That misconception lasted only until the door was yanked open
with the screeching of abused hinges and Clark let out a breath
that was almost a whimper. He pulled me with him as he backed
desperately away from the door, his spine thudding painfully into
the corner of the cell, his arms locked around me.

"Ah, Lois, my dear. I had heard you were taking advantage of my
hospitality."

I pulled myself from Clark's insistent hold and stepped forward
to meet Lex Luthor.

"And I heard you've been hiding quite a few important facts
from Metropolis," I said coldly.

The light that silhouetted Lex from behind didn't allow me to
read his expression, but the spread of his hands was eloquent.
"We all conceal things, my dear. It's the way of the world, and
most certainly the way of big business. You should have taken a
few lessons from your partner about hiding important facts."

"We're reporters," I stated defiantly. If ever there was a
time for me to reclaim my fearless persona, it was now, standing
before my fallen partner. "We don't hide things."

"Really?" Lex pretended elaborate surprise. "Guess you never
really had a chance for a heart-to-heart with her, eh, Kent?"

Clark said nothing, but he reached out to take my hand and tried
to pull me back toward him. It was a mark of how weak he was that
I was able to shake his hand away.

"Now, Lois." Lex turned his attention back to me. I was
secretly relieved; even in the dim light and pooled shadows, I
could tell there was something almost mad in the way Clark
regarded Lex. "If we're going to be working together, we really
should coordinate our stories."

"Working together?" I repeated incredulously. "You're loonier
than Bugs Bunny!"

"Am I?" The sudden dangerous timbre of Lex's voice made a
shiver run through my body. "Then you will soon be joining me in
that 2-D world. Nigel, bring her. Make it an irresistible
invitation."

"As you wish, sir." The tall, silver-haired Englishman moved
forward, a pistol in his right hand that unwaveringly pointed the
way to my heart. His left hand reached out to grab hold of me.

"No!" Showing no sign of his previous weakness, Clark pulled me
behind him and swatted the gun from Nigel's hand.

"Ah, Kent, when will you learn?"

Clark froze. Entranced despite the bizarre situation -- or maybe
because of it -- I looked between him and Lex. The business mogul
had pulled a small metal box from his pocket and now he played
with the clasp, his black eyes intent on Clark. Clark's
attention didn't seem to be on Luthor's words, or on Nigel as
the pseudo-butler reached out and yanked me toward him; it was
focused exclusively on that box. And no matter that darkness
cloaked his face, I could read terror in every line of his body.

Enough was enough. I didn't know what kind of hold they had on
Clark, but I wasn't about to let that open door be wasted. With
a quick twist of my body, I kicked Nigel in the stomach and
lunged forward to knock Lex down. The billionaire was too quick,
though, dancing back out of my reach and jerking his head toward
the cell in a commanding gesture.

Leaden defeat almost paralyzed me when two more thugs -- probably
the same ones who had thrown me in this cell in the first place
-- moved forward. Nigel was recovering quickly, and he stooped to
pick up the gun.

"Leave her alone!" Somehow, maybe because whatever was in that
metal box had been removed from his sight, Clark had regained his
courage. Without pausing to even look at me, he tackled one of
the thugs, sending him sprawling back into the second man.

No sooner had I moved forward to help, however, than Nigel
grabbed my elbow, the gun a cold, sharp point in my side. "I
wouldn't advise it," he told me sharply. "Mr. Luthor may want
you alive, but bullets don't have to kill. Then again, why
not?"

My eyes widened when he swung the gun in Clark's direction.

"No, wait!" I blurted, flinching when I heard Clark cry out in
pain. From what I could see, I didn't think he was winning his
fight. His strength had never been in brute force or street
fighting; it was in his integrity and spirit. "I'll go with
you. Just...don't hurt him."

"A wise decision." Nigel backed me out of the cell and raised
his voice. "Mr. Luthor, I believe Ms. Lane has accepted your
invitation."

"Well, better late than never," Lex drawled, as if two of his
thugs weren't brutally beating Clark down against the hard floor
of a cell. "Asabi!"

I started when the tall Indian materialized at my side.

Lex smiled at him and handed him the small box that had stopped
Clark in his tracks. "Let's not keep Mr. Kent waiting. I
believe you know how the process works."

Asabi inclined his head and accepted the box before turning
toward the cell. His body blocked my sight of Clark.

Nigel dragged me down a long gray corridor that reeked of mold
and disuse. Lex confidently led my escort and me through several
turns, up a set of stairs, and into a room equipped with
monitors, quietly beeping machines, an odd man-sized, egg-like
object that was transparent, and a vault set into the back wall
-- all very high-tech for the dingy warehouse I had assumed this
place to be.

"Now," Lex said as Nigel left the room, "I think you know as
well as I, my dear, that there won't be any brightly dressed
superhero swooping you up into his arms in a theatrical, daring
rescue, isn't that right?"

I refused to show any emotion, refused to let him see how much
the barb stung, refused to give into the tears broiling beneath
my paper-thin facade. Maybe the old Lois Lane would have been
able to snap back a retort, but I wasn't that person anymore.
That person had been lost with the disappearance of two men and
the mysterious explosion of a gigantic asteroid hurtling toward
Earth. That person had been buried along with the few remaining
fragments of a crimson cape.

"Yes, well, unfortunately, there are a few other matters to
address. To wit." Lex turned to one of the monitors and flicked
it on.

Grudgingly, I turned my attention to the screen. A gasp was torn
from me when I saw Asabi standing over the crumpled body of my
partner. I couldn't see what Luthor's henchman was doing to
Clark -- but I could see Clark writhing in pain.

"Ah, don't worry, Lois." Lex put a hand as cold as a viper's
eyes on my shoulder. "He goes through this every day. Think of
it as...a form of treatment."

"Treatment?" I repeated, my voice as dry as the weather had
been when I let Clark walk away from me. "That's torture!"

"Oh, my dear, if only you knew." The clear amusement on Lex's
features threw me briefly before I could shake off my
discomfiture. The man had succeeded in hoodwinking an entire
city-he could surely manage the appearance of knowing something
about my partner that I didn't.

"Stop it," I commanded uselessly, my eyes locked on what I
could see of Clark. "Stop hurting him! What do you want with
him? Why are you doing this?"

"I already gave you my answer, albeit for a slightly different
question." Lex's breath hissed past my ear as he leaned over my
shoulder from behind. "I told you my goal was pleasure. And
that..." He used his chin to point to the image of Clark's
agony. "That, my dear Lois, gives me a great deal of
pleasure."

"You're sick," I breathed out, tearing myself free of his
deadening touch.

"They always say that about the true visionaries." Luthor's
smile was as cheerful as a corpse's and far more unsettling.
"Now, about my publicity -- "

"Oh, believe me, when I tell the world you're the Boss, you'll
get loads of free publicity."

"You see, I'm afraid that just is not part of my plan."

"Well, it is mine!" I snapped.

"And if we go with your plan, your partner will die a very slow,
excruciating death." His eyes narrowed when he noted my sudden
worry, and that same cold smile made another appearance. "Even
should we make a mutually satisfactory bargain that would allow
Kent to go free along with you, I still can't have you telling
the world about my extra business. So, I'll up the ante -- Perry
White, Jimmy Olsen, and everyone else you care about at the Daily
Planet will also die, along with your beloved paper itself."

I raised my eyebrows. Some small part of my mind tried to warn me
that I was in the middle of a dangerous situation; it didn't do
any good. Suddenly, with something to protect and an enemy to put
away -- and Clark where I could see him -- I felt more like Lois
Lane than I had in a long time.

"You're going to hold a *newspaper* hostage?" I sneered.

"Don't believe me? Try me, I dare you. The world may not know
my true power, but you will see it. You, Lois Lane, great
investigative reporter, will have a front-row seat at the
exhibition of all I control. The most powerful being in the world
-- wasn't that what Superman was called? Yet he is gone and I
remain. No one can stand against me, my dear, not you, not
your...partner, not anyone." Luthor's eyes devoured the image
of Clark as if it were his ticket to the power he was raving
about.

If I hadn't disliked repeating myself, I would have told Lex he
was insane. If I hadn't been so terrified by the implacable
purpose in his tone, I would have laughed at the very idea that
he could do as he threatened. If I hadn't been so afraid for
Clark, I would have told Lex Luthor exactly what I thought of
him, would have tried to trick more information out of him, would
have attempted to learn his entire plan.

But Clark had fallen very still, and Asabi was moving away. Soon
the heavy door with the lock I didn't have the key to would
close. And right now, Luthor was the only one in the room with
me.

"Sorry, Luthor," I said flippantly. "I don't make deals with
crime bosses."

Then, moving as quickly as I ever had, I lashed out with a high
kick that caught Lex squarely in the chest. A blow between the
eyes had him flat out on the ground, bellowing his anger. I
didn't have time to look for a weapon or to come up with a plan,
but then, I rarely planned these things out. Unlike Clark, I
believed "winging it" was a viable option at all times.

Hurriedly, keeping my eye out for Nigel or any other thug Lex had
standing around, I backtracked toward the cell. I wasn't sure
how much time I had before Asabi closed that door -- or how much
time Clark had, period. Sick, I shoved that thought away. I
couldn't lose him, too, not after everything else.

Not after Superman.

I was halfway down the stairs and only one turn away from Clark
when Nigel appeared out of nowhere, that stupid gun clenched
annoyingly steadily in his hand.

"Come now, Ms. Lane," he tsked. "You didn't really think you
could make it out of here, did you?"

"Nigel, you are to be commended."

I whirled and saw Lex at the top of the stairs, trapping me
between himself and his butler. There wasn't any good way out of
this, I realized. And yet...Luthor didn't want me dead. And from
what I could see, I doubted he'd be pleasant to anyone who dared
defy or disobey him. Fear of his displeasure might be just enough
to give me an edge.

Besides, Clark was down the stairs, not up them.

I dove toward Nigel and several things happened all at once.

The Englishman moved the gun and fired something that grazed the
side of my arm.

Luthor let out a roar that froze the blood in my veins.

My foot missed a step and sent me tumbling head-first toward the
ground.

Pain exploded in my body, so much that it took me a long moment
to pinpoint the origin of it. My left arm stung with what felt
like acid; my sides and knees felt bruised and crushed; sharp
glass seemed to be trapped in the vicinity of my shoulder;
something thrummed and roared inside my head.

"Now that was extraordinarily stupid. Of course, I have to
congratulate you: you never do things halfway, do you?"

The cold, reptilian voice swam in and out of my hearing. The pain
encompassing my body tried to drown out the sound no matter how I
fought to hold onto it as a way to pull me from the beckoning
darkness.

"You know, I once thought you might be the one to eventually
bear the name of Mrs. Luthor. Fortunately, the incentive to court
you left before I could grace you with my ring and my name. Of
course...I am tempted. But no. The very fact that you have no
idea who shares a cell with you...well, that seems answer enough
as to your worthiness. Don't worry about your wounds, my dear.
From what I saw earlier, you'll be well taken care of. That
thing in the cell really does seem to have a soft spot for you. A
good thing...for me. Every being, even super-powered ones, have
their Achilles' Heels. Nigel?"

Something grabbed hold of my arm and pulled. I might have
screamed, or maybe it was just my wounds screaming at me.
Regardless, I could no longer keep my head above the sea of
blackness clamoring to have me, and I fell into smothering
unconsciousness.

***

Chapter 3

"It'll be all right, Lois. Look, your blindfold will work to
bind the bullet wound -- it only grazed you, thank God. And you
say optimism is self-delusion; we're not that badly off. You'll
see. Everything will be all right. It'll be okay. You have to be
okay."

I had always hated coming out of unconsciousness. I disliked
feeling disoriented and confused and ignorant of the situation.
But then, I had never come out of unconsciousness to the sound of
a smoky voice whispering my name as if it were the rarest of
treasures and the feel of strong hands cradling me to a broad
chest. If I had always woken up like this, I might have decided
it was a very pleasant habit to develop.

That theory lasted until a sharp pain sliced through my shoulder
and sent lights flashing across my vision, though I was
relatively certain I had my eyes closed.

"I'm sorry. There, it's done -- I just had to reset your
shoulder, that's all. I'm sorry, Lois."

I drifted in and out. Every time I halfway woke up, I heard Clark
talking to me, his words sometimes blurring together, other times
clear and meaningful. Several times, I tried to open my eyes or
speak, but I could never make my body do as I wanted it to.
Whenever I grew too frustrated with my inability to do as I
wished, pain would shriek and scold me and I would fall back into
the darkness I was beginning to despise.

I was vaguely aware that I was leaning against something
paradoxically soft and firm, something that rose and fell in a
comforting rhythm, something that was warm and welcoming. Hands
stroked my cheek, or my hair, or my shoulder, never so insistent
that I grew afraid, never so tight that I felt claustrophobic,
never so impersonal that I felt alone. And the voice...the voice
continued to weave a spell around me, convincing me that it was
safe to wake up, reassuring me that I was not alone, promising
things I had never thought I wanted yet now craved.

"Oh, Lois, please. You don't know how much I wanted to see you
again...but not like this. I wish I could get you out of here,
but -- " I twisted uncomfortably, shaken by the choked harshness
of his voice, and instantly his hand smoothed over my cheek and
his arm gathered me closer to himself. "It's all right. We'll
find a way out somehow. I shouldn't have left you -- I know that
now. I just couldn't see any other option. Superman was always
in the way, and after what happened in Metropolis, there was
nothing I could do to change that. Now, though...now, I don't
care anymore. I just have to get you out of here. You deserve to
be free and happy and safe -- I'd do anything if I could give
you all those things."

The flow of words continued, bathing me in their dreams of a
better tomorrow and wrapping me in the security of his care for
me. At any other time, I might have been vastly uncomfortable to
hear the blatant emotion in his voice and listen to the dreams so
carelessly exposed, but for now, they comforted me and drowned
out the pain waiting for me whenever I was foolish enough to
drift toward the waking world.

When consciousness finally grew so demanding I couldn't deny it
any longer, I cautiously opened my eyes. Surprisingly, I realized
that the pain I had been expecting wasn't enveloping me in its
dizzying embrace. My left arm ached and my shoulder was sore when
I tentatively moved it, but other than that, the agony I
remembered from my ill-fated escape attempt had been consigned to
the past. Healed by Clark's concern, attention, and words, I
realized. He had always been able to affect me in ways that I
swore were impossible.

But then, Superman had, too -- and I hadn't even bothered to
fight those feelings.

"Hey." Clark's voice was soft and gentle in my ear, and only
when I heard it did I realize that his chest was my pillow, his
arm was my anchor, his jacket was my blanket, and his hand was
the pleasurable movement that was sliding my hair back from my
face. I had never before woken up beside anyone else -- at least,
not unless I counted my sister -- and I was startled to find that
I wasn't intimidated by, enraged at, or fearful of finding him
so close to me.

Extenuating circumstances, I told myself sternly. When we got out
of this cell, things would be different. I couldn't afford to
depend on anyone else too much, not when they might walk away at
any moment. I couldn't allow myself to grow close to anyone, not
when I had let Superman fly away thinking he was responsible for
Lex's crime. Not when I had let Clark rot in this cell just
because I couldn't be bothered to ask after him.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Gingerly, I sat up, supported by his hands, and moved my left arm
experimentally. "I think I'm all right. The bullet grazed
me?"

"Yeah, and you're banged up a bit. Did..." He hesitated, and I
wondered at how easily I read him despite the blackness hiding
him from me. I could practically sense his discomfort, his
uncertainty, and his overwhelming concern. "Did *he* hurt
you?"

"I tried to get away," I said succinctly. "The stairs weren't
happy when I dived down them to escape Nigel's bullet."

"Oh." The word conveyed a wealth of emotion, too much for me to
dwell on without a cup of coffee.

"How long have I been out?"

"I don't know. They haven't come to dose me again yet, so
it's been less than a day. Maybe only six or seven hours."

"That long?" I asked, surprised despite myself.

"Are you sure you're all right?" he pressed, and the
tenderness apparent in his voice made me remember in greater
detail all the things he had murmured while thinking I was
unconscious. Suddenly uncomfortable, I shifted on the cold
ground, inexplicably discomfited when his hand warmed my back in
a supporting gesture.

"I'm as fine as I can be after being kidnapped and shot," I
said with a shrug he couldn't see and forced myself to rise to
my feet, clutching his jacket to keep it on my shoulders. Again
surprisingly, I wasn't assailed by the dizziness I halfway
expected. What was it about Clark that made everything turn out
so much better than reality dictated it could? Not that there was
anything good about our situation now, I realized dismally.

"They left some food a while ago," Clark said softly, making me
feel guilty for my false bravado. All right, I admitted silently,
so he had left me, but we were in a bad place, and I should be
more concerned about how we were going to get out of here before
Lex decided to dose him again rather than making Clark think I
had done perfectly all right without him as a partner.

"Some food?" I belatedly realized that I had fallen back into
the habit of repeating everything he said.

"It's by the door."

When I bent and cautiously reached outward toward the cold metal,
I felt a bowl of something, room temperature, not nearly as heavy
as it probably should have been for a full day's meal. A bit
more blind questing revealed a cup of water next to it. I picked
them both up, then frowned and turned back in Clark's direction.
The pitch blackness around us made it seem as if we were
enveloped by a void, a tiny hole in both time and space that was
ours alone.

"They already cleared away your dishes?" I knew the answer, of
course, but I wished desperately -- for his sake -- that I was
wrong.

He was silent for a long moment before saying, "That was all
they gave us."

I didn't know what to say. There were so many options. I wanted
to ask him how, as malnourished as he obviously was, he had been
able to leave sustenance lying around while he took care of me. I
wanted to demand that he stop being so noble and self-sacrificing
so that I didn't have to feel so guilty for leaving him in this
cell for so long. I wanted to break down into tears and hug him
and tell him that I would take care of him from now on.

But I didn't do any of those things. Instead, I walked back over
to him, gingerly sat down beside him, and said, very slowly and
more gently than I had thought myself capable of: "Then we'll
share."

"Lois, I -- "

"You're not going to go all macho on me, are you?" I
questioned, a warning note in my voice.

"No," he replied meekly. A wise man, I thought with
satisfaction; that was something else about him I had missed --
his ability to know when to agree with me.

"You eat first," I insisted.

It was harder than it seemed just to hand over the bowl. The
complete darkness that surrounded us, the way Clark's hands were
trembling uncontrollably, and my own awkwardness with the whole
situation -- it all made the trade-off complicated. But
eventually we managed it, and I listened closely to make certain
Clark really was eating whatever was in the bowl.

"I know why you wanted me to eat first," he said after a
moment.

"Why's that?" I tried, unsuccessfully, to peer through the
darkness and make sure he really was eating. Though I still
hadn't caught a good look at him in the light, his hug and the
way he had held me as I slept had provided proof enough that he
needed the food a lot more than I did.

"You just wanted to make sure there were no adverse side effects
to eating it. Kind of your own personal taste-tester."

I couldn't help but smile at that teasing note in his voice, the
one I would swear I'd hate and yet loved. "That's right, Kent.
And how are you feeling? Any stomach twinges? Choking? Signs of
death?"

"No," he said thoughtfully. "I think you're safe to eat
it."

"Really?" Accepting the bowl when he handed it back to me, I
dubiously used a finger to scoop out a bit of what felt kind of
like the oatmeal I cooked and stuck it in my mouth. Immediately,
I gagged and had to fight not to spit the food back out.
"Yuck!" I exclaimed. "How did you eat this? And you claim this
*isn't* poison?"

"I guess I have a strong constitution," he said, and I frowned
at the hollowness apparent in the tone of his voice.

"Well." I forced a cheerful tone into my voice -- luckily for
me, undercover work developed good acting skills. "You must.
You've actually managed to choke down some of my cooking
before."

"All in the line of duty," he replied. This time, it didn't
take a mind-reader to realize why he sounded so wistful. Even my
cooking and the most dangerous story we had ever chased had to be
better than our current predicament.

No matter how awful the oatmeal -- or whatever it was supposed to
be -- tasted, I forced myself to choke back the little bit Clark
had left. From what I could feel in the bowl, I was pretty sure
he had eaten at least half of it. If I had thought I had a chance
of convincing him, I would have tried to make him finish the
entire bowl, but I knew Clark was far too chivalrous to ever let
me get away with it.

"Here." I held out the cup of water after washing down the last
of the oatmeal. Clark accepted the cup and took a few sips before
handing it back to me. "Are you sure you don't need any more?"
I asked, surprised by how little he had drunk.

"I'm fine," he said. "I don't need much water."

"What *are* they dosing you with?" I choked out through sudden
dread, abruptly reminded of the awful agony he had clearly been
in when I'd seen him in that surveillance video. And if it was
stealing his appetite from him...terror suddenly ruled my tongue.
"It can't be good for you! What if it's killing you?"

"It is," he told me, his voice perfectly even, betraying no
horror at the implications of his own remark. "But Luthor will
make certain he doesn't give me enough to permanently end it."

The resignation and hatred in his tone almost deafened me,
freezing me to the spot of ground on which I sat. Finally, I
swallowed to work some moisture back into my mouth and leaned
forward. "That's not what you want, is it, Clark? You're not
giving up, are you?" My own hands trembled almost as much as his
as I blindly reached out toward him and clutched folds of his
ragged shirt.

"No," he said quietly. He placed his reassuring hands over
mine, pressing them closely to his chest. "Maybe I was before
you came. But now...we have to find a way to get you out."

"I wish Superman were here," I murmured, clenching my hands
into fists beneath his soft touch. "He could get us out."

Clark withdrew his hands and slowly stood. When he spoke, I could
tell that he had his back turned to me. "I wish he were here
too, Lois. But he's not."

I felt as if he had hit me. It wasn't the words, or even the
fact that he had his back to me -- no, it was the awful, crushing
disappointment and -- humiliation? -- evident in his voice. A
moment ago, I had marveled at how easily I read him in the
darkness; now I wished I could understand what I read. But I
couldn't. It was as if he spoke in a foreign language, the words
familiar but incomprehensible to me. Or rather, the words were
intelligible, but the motive and emotion behind them baffled me.

"Clark -- " I was interrupted by the sound of the door opening
and a wash of jagged light that split our cell into bleak shards
and stabbed knives of agony into my deprived eyes.

Jumping to my feet, I moved to stand between the silhouette in
the threshold and Clark. I didn't want to see him writhing in
pain again, didn't want to feel the madness emerge from behind
his compassionate demeanor, didn't want to hear him making those
small exclamations of pain. His hands on my waist, trying to pull
me back with him, sent a rush of fond affection through me. He
was always thinking of me, always trying to protect me, always
there for me. Well, this time, I determined, *I* would be there
for *him*.

"What do you want?" I questioned harshly.

The silhouette stepped forward and resolved into Luthor. Behind
him, a larger form moved into view -- I guessed it to be Nigel.

"Oh, I think we've concluded *our* discussions, Ms. Lane." Lex
cocked his head slightly as he looked behind me. "I've come to
invite Mr. Kent to talk about a business proposition. I think
you'll be very interested in hearing what I have to say,
Clark."

"No." My denial was useless. Even assuming we had a choice in
the matter, I knew it wasn't my decision. And we didn't have a
choice at all. The box Lex pulled from his pocket, the gun held
in Nigel's hands, the thugs doubtlessly waiting outside the
doorway -- it all added up to a big fat no-win situation.

Clark's hands fell away from me as he slowly moved toward
Luthor. I wanted to grab him back and protect him, particularly
when the light revealed that his shoulders were rounded in
defeat. But I was powerless, and so Lex took Clark's arm and led
him out of the cell. When Clark became nothing more than a
shadow, limned in cold, merciless light, I took an impotent step
forward only to have the door slammed in my face.

"Clark!" I whispered.

There was no response.

I tried to keep track of the time, but it was useless. Though I
still wore my watch, I couldn't see it. That seemed to be the
story of my life: things I needed were right next to me, but I
could never see them. They were always just out of reach, just
out of sight, just out of my understanding. And thus, out of my
life. Superman was the only thing I had seen and understood and
tried to grasp...and that hadn't turned out well.

Squeezing my eyes shut against the memories of the unbelievable
superhero, dreading the inevitable conclusion to those thoughts,
I paced back and forth. When I could find no other alternative, I
put the bucket to good use, glad the surveillance camera Luthor
used had been lit only by the light outside the cell and
reluctantly thinking that Clark's absence had one advantageous
benefit.

It was surely an hour before I heard voices outside the door
again, though I grudgingly had to admit that it might not have
been that long. Regardless, it seemed an eternity since Luthor
had led a cowed Clark away, and I was terrified about what shape
my partner would be in when they returned him to me.

*If* they returned him to me.

Horrified by that thought -- and its likelihood -- I pressed
myself back against the wall, as far away from the door as I
could get. Tears stung my eyes; furiously, I blinked them back.

The door squeaked yet again as it was unlocked and pulled ajar.
When it was fully open, the two thugs from earlier stepped
forward. They were dragging a body between them. As soon as they
had carelessly tossed Clark to the ground, they locked us, once
more, in our tiny cell.

I fell to my knees, then bit back a cry of pain when my attempt
to roll Clark onto his back reminded me of the gunshot wound in
my arm. "Clark!" I cried, finally getting him onto his back.
"Clark, are you all right? Please, Clark, please, answer me! Did
they dose you again? Is this what always happens?"

"Lois?" His voice was weak, the simple word slurred almost
beyond recognition.

"I'm here, Clark," I managed to say past my tears. "I'm
here."

"Not a dream," he whispered, and my breath caught in my throat
when his fingers lightly skimmed along my cheek. "You're
real."

"I am," I breathed, turning my face into his palm. Reminded of
the jacket slung around my shoulders, I arranged it into a
bundle, then slipped it under Clark's head, trying to make him
comfortable in one of the very few ways open to me, grimacing
when he whimpered in pain as I moved him.

Clark didn't respond to my touches or further questions, and his
head lolled limply in my hands. His skin was cold to the touch,
almost deathly so, and the rattling that infused his uneven
breaths sent skitters of terror scampering through my veins.
Trying to warm him and reassure myself at the same time, I
stretched myself out beside him, rubbing at his arms in an
attempt to drive the chill from him.

I wanted to murmur soothing sentences, wanted to reveal dreams
and stir hope within him as he had done for me, but words had
abandoned me. I dealt in words every day, fashioning them into
sentences that proclaimed the truth and ensured justice was
served and saw that I received a regular paycheck, and yet now,
when Clark most needed them, I couldn't think of anything to
say. All I had was his name, and I couldn't seem to stop
repeating it over and over again, as if it were a talisman that
would see us both safely back where we belonged -- together at
the Planet.

It seemed to take forever before his skin warmed a bit and his
breathing steadied. He moved to wrap his arms around me just as
he had done so many times before, and yet...and yet this time,
his embrace seemed to me to be more of a cry for comfort than a
reassuring gesture.

From somewhere deep inside me, I dredged up a few words to give
him. "It'll be all right, Clark," I said, and hated that the
unsteadiness of my voice made me sound uncertain, tainting the
gift of my assurance.

"I wish I could save you," he told me in a pale voice, almost
childlike in his simple honesty. "I wish I could be Superman for
you."

"It's all right," I told him even though it wasn't. Clark's
selfless wish only served to remind me how much I had to answer
for.

"You're crying!" The surprised note in his strained voice was
my undoing. The tears that had slipped past my control turned
into full-fledged sobs. "Lois, please, please, don't cry."

Clark's plea and the way he pulled me into a clumsy hug despite
his own weakness and pain only made me weep harder. Lois Lane
didn't fall apart, but I didn't think I was Lois Lane anymore.
In fact, I was pretty sure Lois Lane had died two months ago and
been buried three weeks ago, resting side by side with the
remnants of a red cape adorned with a yellow S.

"I'm sorry," I gasped out through sobs. "This is all my
fault! I'm so sorry, Clark."

"No, Lois. Shh, it's not your fault."

"Yes, it is!" I insisted, tearing myself free of his weak hold
-- suffocating because of the undeserved forgiveness it offered
me. "It's *my* fault Superman isn't here! *My* fault he left
Metropolis! *My* fault he's *dead*!"

Stunned silence was my only reply, and my sobs sounded eerily
loud within the confines of the cell.

"Superman's dead?" Clark finally uttered, his voice a pale
shadow without the customary confidence or concern that usually
imbued it.

And suddenly the timeframe of his disappearance hit me like a
load of bricks. Clark had been missing one month, his last call
just shortly before the Nightfall asteroid had been discovered
hurtling toward Earth in a shower of fire and doom. And
Superman...well, we hadn't found his remains until almost five
days after the asteroid had mysteriously changed course.

Clark hadn't known.

"Clark..." Now that I could fully explain how much of this was
my doing, all my words and confessions had withered away. I put
out a hand and moved it across his body until I found his brow,
then smoothed the sweat-dampened hair back. "Clark, there was an
asteroid. It -- "

"I know that."

"Superman knocked it away from Earth."

"How do you know it was Superman?"

My hand retraced its path to rest on Clark's brow, not surprised
it felt hot since he had just asked such a stupid question. He
must be even more out of it than I had thought, and I regretted
my outburst. He needed me to be strong right now, not break under
the burden of guilt I had been carrying for what felt like
eternity.

"Clark, asteroids don't just decide to break in two, then turn
around and fly a different direction. The military say they
tracked something moving at speeds only Superman could reach,
headed toward Nightfall. And then...the asteroid passed us in
pieces. But..." I wrapped my arms around myself, chilled from
within by the gaping emptiness that had resided within me for so
long now. Suddenly, I regretted divesting myself of the comfort
of Clark's jacket, as if the simple fabric of his coat could
warm me simply because it was his. "But Superman died doing it.
Jimmy found a crater, and all that was left were the remnants of
his Suit and a trace of what forensics described as 'alien
tissue.'" I had to clear my throat and hug myself tighter to
finish. "They held a memorial service for him three weeks ago.
We buried what we found in Centennial Park, by the fountain."

"Superman's dead." The bleak finality implicit in Clark's
acceptance of that fact brought back my tears. "It's not your
fault," he added, and what made it worse was that I knew he
meant it.

"Yes, it is," I said tiredly. I had tried to explain it to
Perry a dozen times, even tried to tell Jimmy, but none of them
would admit what I knew to be the truth. Clark, however...

I wasn't stupid. I knew Clark liked me -- a lot -- knew that he
had wished for more from me than I had to give him, but Superman
had been his friend too. They had been so close that when
Metropolis had demanded Superman leave, Clark had left as well,
out of loyalty and a desire for justice and empathetic hurt.
Maybe if Clark heard what I had done, he would see that it had
been my fault. And if *he* admitted it...if *he* hated me, then I
wouldn't have to hate myself anymore. I could let righteous
anger and defensive hurt and outraged insult take the place of
the guilt and shame and regret that were eating me alive.

"Dr. Goodman called and wanted to talk to me," I explained in a
monotone voice, glad of the darkness that engulfed me in its
concealing folds. "But I didn't go. I was too busy trying to
find Superman and looking through old charts of weather patterns.
After Superman left and the heat-wave completely disappeared, it
just seemed pointless. Yet two weeks later, it was discovered
that the Lexcorp Nuclear Plant had a leak that was causing insane
heat to rise from the underground aqueducts. And Dr. Goodman had
found out about it. If I had just gone and seen her -- found out
what she wanted -- I could have stopped Superman from leaving.
And then when Nightfall came, he wouldn't have had to fight it
on his own. We could have helped him!"

"Are you saying it's my fault Superman's gone?"

I blinked, astonished by this reaction. Without conscious
thought, my hands went automatically to his chest, a
pseudo-embrace meant to convince him of my genuine shock. "What?
No, of course not!"

"Instead of packing to leave Metropolis, I could have been
investigating, too." Clark reached out and took my hand, his
grip so weak that I felt an additional bolt of terror lance
through my heart. "I could have gone and seen Dr. Goodman when
you were too busy, or I could have looked at the Nuclear Plant,
or I could have had Superman stay a bit longer while we
double-checked his responsibility for the heat-wave. But I
didn't. So it must be my fault that he's gone."

"Don't do that," I said with mock-irritation, unable to
explain why Clark's stupid argument made me feel as if a burden
had been lifted from my shoulders. "I *hate* it when you throw
my own words back at me and make them sound irrational."

"Usually, you're brilliant," he said, the laugh that colored
his tone making his voice beautiful. A laugh that was surely as
much of a miracle as a rainbow suddenly appearing in our cell
would have been. "But every once in a while, I remember there's
a fine line between brilliance and lunacy. And the idea that
you're responsible for Superman's...death...is definitely
insane. You were the one who tried to save him, Lois. And for
that, I will always be grateful."

"Well, you stuck by him when no one else did," I told him,
clumsy at reassurance and comfort but compelled to make the
effort. *Wanting* to make the effort...for him. "That counts for
a lot."

His hand briefly tightened over mine. "Thank you, Lois."

"For what?" I asked.

"For being you," he replied simply.

Amazingly, despite my recent bout of tears and the locked cell
door and the desperate pain Clark was obviously feeling, I found
myself smiling. No one besides Clark had ever made me feel so
happy to be myself; it was as if, to him, I could be nothing
greater or better than Lois Lane.

And suddenly, like floodwaters released, all my words came
pouring back into me. "I didn't feel much like me when you were
gone," I confided quietly. The void of darkness surrounding us
made my voice audible, but I truly believed that even if we had
been surrounded by a raucous din, Clark would still have been
able to hear the truth lacing my words. "I think...I think I
forgot who I was when you left."

"I didn't forget," he said softly. "I could never forget you,
Lois."

"I know that now," I replied, too little too late. "But I
couldn't forget you either, Clark. In fact, I spent the last two
months doing nothing *but* remembering you. Why don't we agree
on something -- I won't leave you if you won't leave me?"

Clark's breath caught in his throat, and it took me a panicked
moment to realize he was reacting to my offer and not choking as
a result of whatever Lex had done to him. "Okay." It was a
whisper -- not because he meant it to be, but because it was all
he was capable of at the moment.

"Are you feeling any better yet?" I brushed a hand through his
hair, startled yet again by the beard and the absence of glasses.
I hadn't yet managed to catch a good glimpse of his face, so I
still could only envision him the way he had been before leaving
me.

His hand turned cold and limp, as if the reminder of his living
nightmare replaced his blood with ice-water. "The dosage will
start wearing off in twelve hours or so."

"What did Luthor want?" I asked, careful to use the right
name.

He was silent so long that I was half-afraid he had fallen out of
consciousness, but finally he responded. "He wanted me to know
just what sort of life I have left."

A dozen questions sat in my mouth like breath-mints, but I
swallowed them all back. Clark didn't need questions right now;
he needed comfort. So I slid down next to him and rested my head
on his chest. "We'll find a way out of here," I promised,
responding to the hopelessness in his tone rather than the words
he had spoken. "I've had a bit of experience with this kind of
thing, Clark. Everything will turn out all right."

Clark's arms tightened around me, but he said nothing -- no
optimistic reassurance, no light joke, no caring remark, nothing.
And that, more than anything else in the past twenty-four hours,
terrified me.

Chilled, I pressed closer to Clark and willed the sound of his
heartbeat to drive all the darkness away.

***

Chapter 4

"Help me stand, please."

To the accompanying sound of someone coming toward the door, I
pushed my arm under Clark's shoulder and lifted upward,
surprised by how much he weighed despite the body mass he'd
lost. Apparently, a day or two without much food was making me
weaker than I'd have expected.

"He shouldn't be back so soon," I said, more to cover the
silence of terror than to say anything. My stomach had contracted
into a tight ball of dread at the thought of seeing Clark left
even worse off than he was now. Whatever Lex had done to him the
last time had, in my opinion, nearly killed him. What glimpses I
had caught of him in weak, shuttered light always showed him to
be pale and sickly. I knew, in my head, that Clark had been going
through this for the last month, but I was terrified nonetheless
that if Lex subjected him to another dose, my partner would end
up dead.

This time, I resolved coldly, I would fight for Clark. If nothing
else, I'd try to get rid of whatever was inside the box Lex had
used to taunt Clark the first time he'd entered our cell.

Though Clark said nothing to my statement, I could feel his frame
trembling against mine.

A terrible groaning sound issued from outside our cell, and then
the heavy metal door was torn off those loud hinges and tossed
lightly to the side.

My jaw was hanging open -- not that I cared. My every thought --
my entire being -- was suddenly afire with hope. There was only
one man I knew of who could tear that door off without the use of
heavy machinery.

And there he was, standing silhouetted by the light issuing from
the corridors behind him and shattering the darkness of our cell.
Tall, proud, indomitable, larger than life, his cape swirling
about him, his eyes instantly seeking and finding mine.

"Superman!" I gasped.

Clark went rigid in my arms.

"Lois." Somehow, the light curved around his body to highlight
the small smile he gave me, so familiar that my heart stuttered
and my breath caught. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, now that you're here." Without even realizing it, I had
pulled myself free of Clark's tight grip and stepped toward my
hero -- returned to me from the grave.

"Come on, I have to get you out of here," he said, his voice as
stern and strong as I remembered it. "Clark, I'll bet you're
surprised to see me."

I looked behind me to take in Clark's reaction to seeing his
friend once more, but the darkness, distorted by Superman's
body, had pooled around him, leaving him cloaked in shadows, his
expression a mystery.

"I can't believe you're all right, Superman!" I exclaimed
when Clark said nothing, wondering if I was really brave enough
to touch the caped man before me and risk splintering the
beautiful dream.

"And rescuing you -- just like always." He reached out and took
my hand to lead me from the cell, his flesh warm and soft,
infinitely gentle as he cradled my more vulnerable flesh next to
his own.

Superman was alive.

As that fact sank into my being and resurrected Lois Lane from
the grave where I had buried her, I found myself completely
speechless for perhaps the first time in my life.

A quiet groan from behind reminded me that Clark needed me.
Reluctantly, I pulled my hand free of Superman's and turned to
support Clark. He looped his arm around me almost too tightly.

Superman looked at Clark and beckoned us both outside the cell.
"Most of your kidnappers ran when they caught sight of me; the
rest are tied up. However, we should probably leave as quickly as
possible. I don't want to risk either of you getting hurt. I'll
drop you both off at the hospital."

I looked up at my partner, frightened by his slow pace. After a
month in that cell, he had to be in a rush to get out and yet he
shuffled forward in tiny steps. And it wasn't only the effects
of the dosing; it was almost as if he were afraid to step out of
the shadows. "Take Clark first," I told Superman.

"No!" Clark's immediate -- and vehement -- denial startled
me.

Superman simply looked at him, his expression indecipherable.
"Don't worry, Clark," my superhero said softly, his voice as
gentle as his touch. "I'll protect you -- and your parents. It
won't take me any time at all to get to Smallville."

Clark staggered and would have fallen if I hadn't hurriedly
braced myself to support more of his weight. "Don't," he
uttered hoarsely, his eyes locked on Superman's. "I'll protect
them."

"Clark!" I snapped, horrified by his repudiation of our friend.
Why wasn't he delirious with joy that Superman was actually here
-- just as we had both wished -- and that he was rescuing us?

"I'm sure Superman will be busy with other things." Clark's
gaze never wavered. A message seemed to pass between him and
Superman, confirming my deep-rooted suspicion that the two men
had always been closer than either admitted. "Anyway, Lois,
Superman's strong enough to take us both to the hospital at the
same time."

"Don't be ridiculous," I chastised him, caught between awe
over Superman's return and horrified confusion at Clark's
ambiguous attitude. Once more, I felt as if he were speaking a
language I should understand but couldn't, as if I were missing
a vital key. "You're hurt far worse than I am, and we're both
bruised. It'd be more comfortable if he flew us separately."

"No." Clark's arm tightened around me, and I recognized his
tone. It was the one he always got the very few times he refused
absolutely to let me budge him. I had seen it when he had
pretended we hadn't been in my father's office, when he had
turned me in at the Metro Club -- a particularly fast bit of
thinking I hadn't really appreciated at the time -- and when he
had told me goodbye late one night in the newsroom. I hated that
tone of his voice -- hated it because there wasn't a single
thing I could do to change it.

"It's okay, Lois," Superman offered politely. "He's right --
I can take you both at the same time."

"It's safer," Clark added meaningfully, and I let out an
exasperated breath.

"Here, Clark." Superman held out his left hand. My eyebrows
rose when I saw what he was offering my partner.

His glasses.

"You might need these," Superman added.

For a long moment, Clark simply looked down at the frames. Then,
oddly, he looked toward me, and I would have given up a hundred
front page stories just to be able to brush the shadows away like
curtains and see what expression he wore. Finally, he let out a
resigned breath, reached out to take the glasses, and slipped
them on his face. When he didn't even say thank you, I couldn't
help but wonder what had happened to my courteous, polite
partner.

My confusion didn't last long, though, not when Superman put his
arm around me for the first time in over two months. I literally
thought I might die from the excitement and happiness that
overcame me.

For so long, I had been haunted by nightmares that Superman had
died alone in the blackness of space, fighting an enemy even he
couldn't escape from unscathed. I had blamed myself for not
saving his reputation and seeing to it that he had the support he
needed from the ground. I had feared that truth and justice and
the dream for a better tomorrow had died with him.

Yet here he was, one arm around me and the other around a
seemingly nervous Clark, all three pairs of our feet dangling as
we took to the air. A hole in the warehouse ceiling that hadn't
been there before gave us an exit out into the darkening skies.
Any other detail was lost to me, drowned out by my
hyper-awareness of the spandex beneath my cheek, the feel of the
muscled arm around my waist, the sensation of Superman breathing
against me, the way the air cradled me.

Superman was alive.

Later -- I couldn't tell how much later -- Superman descended
and set Clark and me down just in front of a brightly lit
hospital. I allowed my hands to linger on Superman's chest,
prolonging the moment, a sharp contrast to the hasty, staggering
steps Clark took to separate himself from the superhero.

Understanding hit me with the recollection of how terrified and
antsy Clark had been on the plane trip to Smallville just before
he had left me. Of course! Clark must be afraid of heights, or
afraid of flying -- was that two different fears, or were they
the same thing? Regardless, I felt better knowing why Clark had
been so reluctant to fly with Superman himself -- and why he had
wanted me to come with him. After all, he had held my hand the
entire flight to Kansas, needing the emotional support.

And if he had needed it then, he would need it even more now.

I knew I should step immediately to his side, but I had made the
mistake of looking directly into Superman's amazingly vibrant
eyes and now I couldn't look away.

"I'm glad you're safe, Lois," Superman murmured softly as he
stepped away from me, moving almost as slowly as I was. "I
missed you."

I felt the smile light up my face and basked in the way it seemed
to awake an answering brightness in Superman's eyes. "I missed
you, too." I hoped he would reach out and touch my cheek as he
had done before; that gesture had always reassured me that I, out
of everyone on Earth, was special to him.

Instead, he cupped my shoulder with his long fingers. "I'll be
watching out for you from the air to make sure no one attacks
you."

"Thank you," I said, my voice breathless past the wide smile I
couldn't erase or tame.

"Lois." Clark's voice behind me was so pained that I was
finally able to break free of Superman's gaze. Hastily, even
though stepping away from the superhero was the last thing I
wanted to do, I turned from Superman to help Clark.

"I'll be watching from the air," Superman said again, louder
this time, his eyes on Clark. "Be careful."

Clark winced then, and I placed my hand on his chest, trying to
support him as best I could.

Only when Superman lifted into the air did I realize that I still
had so much left to say to him. "Wait!" I called out, gratified
when he paused to hover before me, an encouraging smile on his
lips. "Uh...I'm delighted that you're back, but...we thought
you had died stopping Nightfall. Is that why it took you so long
to return? Were you hurt?"

Superman's eyes softened as he traced my features with his gaze.
"I waited to make absolutely certain that I wasn't the one
responsible for the heat-wave. I'm here to help, not hurt."

A strangled sound emerged from Clark's throat, but I couldn't
let Superman go without asking him the question that had been
repeating itself over and over in my mind since he had touched my
hand and convinced me he was real.

"Are you staying? In Metropolis?"

His eyes flicked to Clark, then back to me. "Of course. I'm
always around."

My heart skipped a beat. Was he saying what it sounded like he
was saying? Had he really just promised *me* that he'd never be
far away?

Then, with a tiny wave, Superman blurred into the sky and
disappeared. Entranced, I stared after him, unable to look away
despite the rasping quality of Clark's breath in my ear.

Letting out a sigh, Clark dropped his arm from my shoulders.
Surprised, I turned to him, for the first time able to see the
beard painting the lower half of his face, the glasses placed
over shadowed eyes, the ragged, unkempt clothes that hung so
loosely on his spare frame.

The bruises marring his features.

The old, dried blood staining his shirt.

He avoided my gaze and quietly said, "I'll wait for you out
here."

I gaped at him, brought back to reality with a crash that jarred
me with the knowledge of how badly off Clark was. "What? Clark,
you need a doctor! Who knows what long-term effects whatever they
were dosing you with will have! For all you know, you're
addicted to it after a month of -- "

"I'm not addicted to it. And I don't need a doctor. I'll be
fine in a while, once it wears off. But if you want to go in,
I'll wait for you."

"Clark!" I paused and took a deep breath, suddenly reminded of
how frustrating he could be. "You can barely stand up by
yourself, let alone walk."

His shoulders rounded even further, and he turned away from me to
take a hesitant step toward the cab stand. "I can make it."

"Clark!" I wanted to yell at him that it was okay to let other
people take care of him, but he was already several paces away
from me, staying upright by sheer force of his stubbornness. I
took a few hurried steps and caught up to him. "Where are you
going to go, Clark? You don't have your apartment anymore, and
you don't have money for a hotel."

"Then I'll go to Perry's."

That threw me for a minute since it was, after all, a rather
sensible suggestion, certainly more logical than anything else
he'd been saying since Superman's miraculous return. The terror
that seemed to have taken up permanent residence within me
stirred ponderously, and I took a moment to examine my partner.
He was still making his slow, shambling way toward the cab stand,
but his eyes were glued to the ground. His hands, shoved into his
ragged pockets, were probably trembling, and I had no idea how he
could even think past the pain apparent in his shaded eyes.

"Clark, wait!" I cried, and just as Superman had halted at my
call, so did Clark. Only...he didn't turn to look at me. There
was something so lonely, so desolate, about his posture and the
isolated way he stood, something that tugged at me.

"What is it, Lois?" he asked wearily.

"How are you going to pay for the taxi?"

"I was going to call Perry."

"You don't have any change for the phone."

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, his voice so defeated it
felt like a slap.

"What's wrong?" I demanded impatiently. "Why don't you want
to go into the hospital? Why were you so abrupt with Superman --
you were almost *rude*! And why didn't you want him to protect
your parents? I'm sure they'll want to know you're sa -- " I
stopped, astonished, when Clark resumed walking away from me.

"He doesn't know where they are."

I blinked. "Your parents? Clark, Superman knows a lot of things.
You're friends, he mentioned Smallville -- he knows where your
parents live."

Abruptly -- so quickly I wasn't sure how he kept his wavering
balance -- Clark looked over his shoulder at me. "Did you call
my parents any time during this last month?"

Unable to meet his gaze, I looked over his shoulder. "No."

Slowly, Clark faced forward again. "I had them move...once I
began...actively investigating Luthor. I hid them."

"Clark, Superman has x-ray vision and -- "

Once more, he looked over his shoulder to freeze me with the
intensity of his gaze. "Are you saying Superman would spy on
anything and everything to find out something he wants to know?
Are you saying he'd go behind my back to look for my parents,
knowing that doing so might put them in danger?"

"Well, no. Of course not." I hated it when he did that to me --
it was so infuriating.

"Then Superman doesn't know where they are." And Clark again
began making his torturously slow way forward. Only, this time,
he slipped.

I was there instantly to catch him, ignoring the twinge of pain
in my arm. "Please, Clark," I said softly, even more confused
about him than I had been when he had left me or when we had been
in the cell. "Why won't you let a doctor take care of you?"

At first tentatively and then desperately, Clark slipped his arms
around my waist and hugged me close, burying his face in my hair.
"Please, Lois," he whispered in a broken voice. "I don't like
hospitals. Please, just...help me get to Perry's. I just..."
His voice faded until it was almost inaudible. "I need to see
the sun."

Confused, afraid, I tried to give him as much comfort with my hug
as he had always given me with his. And I tried to remember the
last time Clark had ever asked me for anything. I tried to
remember a *single* time when he had begged a favor from me. And
I couldn't think of one, not one solitary request. Yet here, for
the first time, he was pleading with me to help him. Sure, I
didn't understand what was going through his mind. I had no idea
why he had acted as if he didn't care for Superman at all. I
couldn't figure out why a man so concerned with my safety and
well-being didn't care for doctors. But I knew one thing: Clark
needed me. And after all the times he had come through for me, I
couldn't deny him this single favor.

"All right," I agreed softly. I really wasn't sure the effects
of Lex's drug would wear off very quickly or even at all, but I
would go along with this until I could think of a way to convince
Clark my way of thinking was best. "But if you go to Perry's
looking like you do now, he'll insist you see a doctor. Come on.
You can stay at my place until...you feel better."

"Lois!" I looked up and couldn't help but smile when I saw a
blush putting a bit of color back into my boy scout's face.

"Relax, Clark," I said dryly. "You're hurt; I'm hurt.
You're exhausted; I'm exhausted. It won't kill you to sleep in
a woman's apartment under these circumstances."

I managed to convince him to sit on a nearby bench while I
straightened my appearance and visited the ATM in the hospital
entrance, glad I had learned to hide extra ID and bank cards on
my person. The cash withdrawal would be a red arrow telling Lex
where we were, but with Superman guarding us, I wasn't too
worried. Besides, getting Clark someplace where he could lie down
had become my number one priority.

It had occurred to me, as I was walking back toward the bench
where he was slumped, that Clark had spent a month being
tortured, locked away in a tiny cell filled only with pitch
blackness. I had known that before, of course, but this was the
first time I realized that some people -- soldiers, even -- never
recovered from experiences like that. Imprisonment, isolation,
torture...those things ate away at sanity, unbalanced stability,
haunted dreams, and altered personalities.

It took my heart a long time to remember how to beat normally
after I considered the possibility that I might lose Clark even
after finding him again. I had to do whatever I could to help
him. No matter how irritating and puzzling his present actions
were, I had to be there for him.

So I got him in a cab and took him to my place even though I was
convinced he would have been better off at a hospital. I unlocked
the doors using the spare keys stashed behind the loose wood of
the door frame and ushered him into my apartment even though I
wasn't sure what to do with him once he was there. And I
convinced him -- mostly by brute force -- to take the bed and I
set up some blankets for myself on the couch even though I was
desperate to call the police and Perry and the mayor and anyone
else who could make Lex pay for what he had done.

When Clark was safely settled for the night, I sat in a nearby
chair where I could keep a watchful eye on him and turned on the
news, anxious to prove to the little voice in my head that I
hadn't just imagined Superman rescuing us. I wasn't
disappointed either; the news was filled with stuttered,
disbelieving accounts of appearances by Superman, here in
Metropolis, in England, in Africa, even in some country I had
never heard of before. It seemed that, now that he was back,
Superman was planning to stay and eager to assure the astonished
world of that fact.

On one of my frequent glances over my shoulder to check on Clark,
I noticed that he was staring at the TV, its images flickering in
tiny reflections on the lenses of his glasses and emphasizing the
unusual beard tracing the lines of his jaw. Utterly silent, Clark
seemed transfixed by what he was seeing.

Superman *was* his friend, I reminded myself, no matter how
strange their interaction had been. That was, I realized suddenly
with a frown, the first time I'd ever seen them together. Maybe
that was the type of friends they were. Or maybe after hearing
about Superman's death, Clark hadn't been able to comprehend
his friend's safety, his own rescue, and the cessation of the
dosages he'd been so regularly exposed to.

Suddenly, as if he couldn't bear to see anymore, Clark rolled
over, turning his back on the television.

Something was definitely wrong. Even in the cell, I had never
seen Clark so broken, so lost, so hurt. Though I didn't
understand what was going on in his head, I knew he needed me.
And even if he didn't, it was my style -- the old Lois Lane's
style -- to intrude where I wasn't wanted. Curiosity -- if not
friendship itself -- demanded my intervention.

Quietly, I padded across the floor and sat on the edge of the
bed. Clark didn't move, though I knew he wasn't asleep.
"What's wrong?" I asked bluntly.

His eyes gleamed in the muted light as he turned to look at me.
Time seemed to freeze as he lifted a finger toward my cheek.
Then, abruptly, he blinked, dropped his hand, and turned away.
"I'm just tired, Lois."

The way he said my name -- caressed it -- made me determined to
stay at his side till I knew what was going on. "I know
something's wrong. How much pain are you in right now?"

"I'm feeling better."

I snorted; sarcasm was safer than despair. "Anything is
'better' than what you were feeling. Can I get you something to
eat? You must be starving."

"I'm not really hungry." He paused, then said, almost
desperately, "Do you know how long it will be before the sun
comes up?"

I frowned at the windows and their view of Metropolis's night.
"About seven or eight hours, I'd guess. Why?"

He was silent so long I thought he wasn't going to answer, so I
was startled when he conversationally said, "I'd like to see
the sun again."

It must be a farmer thing, I thought with an inward shrug. Or
maybe his body was craving Vitamin D, or whichever vitamin it was
the sunlight gave you. "Well," I said, "I can't make the sun
rise any faster, but is there anything else I can get you?"

"Would you mind...turning off the TV?"

I frowned yet again. Frowning so often was another aspect of
working with Clark that I'd forgotten. Of course, I also smiled
more when he was around so maybe it evened out in the end.

When I flicked off the television, Clark's body relaxed
slightly, as if the news of Superman had been bombarding him with
pain. "Thank you, Lois."

"Do you want to call your parents? I'm sure they're worried
about you." Unlike me, they would have known something had to be
wrong for their son to seemingly drop off the edge of the world.

"No." He swallowed, looking so fragile I almost cried. Clark
wasn't supposed to look fragile. Seeing him vulnerable was
just...wrong. "I can't risk leading him to them."

"Clark." I once more sat on the edge of the bed and tentatively
laid my hand on his shoulder, wishing he would look at me. Even
when he was at his most infuriating, there was something
comforting about his eyes being fixed on me. "I'm sure Le --
Luthor is too busy trying to make it seem he was never at that
warehouse and covering all his tracks to worry about your parents
right now. He's got to be trying to figure out how he's going
to wriggle out of this now that both of us can testify against
him."

"You're not going to press charges, Lois. Neither one of us
are. I'm sure he told you what would happen if we said anything
against him."

My eyes narrowed and my hands clenched into fists, fury hazing my
vision. "He can't destroy an entire newspaper."

"Yes, he can." The certainty in Clark's voice caused
goose-bumps to raise all along my arms. "He can kill Perry; he
can set a bomb; he could even buy it if he wanted to. We'd never
be able to stop him, not without S -- not anymore."

"So, what?" I asked, restraining the urge to grab Clark by the
shoulders and shake him, as if that could make him revert to the
smiling, confident partner I missed so much. "You think we
should give up? Just roll over and play dead?"

"No." Clark's gaze moved past me to rest on the black TV
screen. "I want my life back." And then he *was* looking at me,
and all my thoughts scattered before the intensity of his
silvery-brown eyes and the determined set of his jaw. "But I'm
saying that we need to be careful. We need to gather so much
evidence and proof that there's no way Luthor can possibly
wriggle out of it on a technicality. We need to make sure that
when we take him down, he stays down."

"We can do that," I stated firmly -- maybe even desperately,
though I would never admit that. "Together -- partners again.
Right?"

His smile was small, faint, and beautiful. "Partners," he
agreed. His finger traced the line of my cheekbone, and against
my will, my eyes fluttered closed. I had missed him, missed him
so much that part of me had gone with him. Now he was back --
tormented or not, he was still Clark -- and I knew I would do
anything to keep him safe.

"I wish I could protect you."

My eyes flew open at his fervent words, startled by the way they
seemed to voice my own thoughts.

"We'll watch out for each other," I told him. "Isn't that
what you said partners do? And besides, Superman's back. He'll
help us."

"Superman." Everything that I had just watched light up
Clark's eyes and birth that breathtaking smile of his now
disappeared. "Yes, we do have to remember him."

I watched, helpless and frustrated, as Clark once more rolled
over, hunched in around himself as if in pain. "Superman will
still be here tomorrow," I said, suddenly thinking I might
understand his fear. "It isn't a dream. He's really alive."

"I know." But he didn't uncurl, didn't look at me, didn't
smile.

My heart ached with pain for him. If Lex had been standing right
in front of me at that moment, I really think I would have killed
him for the scars he had given my partner.

My friend. Because, no matter what I said when others could hear
me, Clark *was* my friend. Had been my friend almost since the
moment I had met him. I just hadn't realized it before.
Now...now I realized it. Now I admitted it. And now I knew I
needed to be as much of a friend to him as he was to me.

Slowly, afraid he might bolt if I moved too quickly, I slid under
the covers next to him and lay down, watching him, hoping he knew
he wasn't alone. Though his back was stiff -- clear indication
that he knew I was there -- he didn't acknowledge me in any
way.

Finally, when his body relaxed in the rest he so desperately
needed, I slept.

***

Chapter 5

When I woke, the place at my side was empty and cold. I lifted my
head, instantly awake and concerned. A smile curved my lips when
I saw Clark curled up in the chair near the window, his features
peaceful, his color warm and golden as the sun bathed him in its
light. It was such a compelling picture that I couldn't move,
afraid to disturb him and bring all the pain and fear flooding
back into his being.

Even when I did finally rise from the bed, I made certain to
remain as quiet as I could. The call to Perry was conducted in
whispers; I forbore to talk to myself as I usually did while
showering and brushing my teeth and dressing; I tried to keep my
small exclamations of pain muffled when I rebandaged the wound on
my left arm -- though perhaps I wasn't as successful at that
last as I had hoped.

"Lois?"

I grimaced but stood and moved into the bedroom where Clark could
see me. "It's all right, Clark. I'm here."

"What's wrong?" Though he didn't move -- I suspected he
couldn't, at least not easily -- his eyes, still covered by the
glasses Superman had returned to him, studied me intently and
carefully, flicking to the gunshot wound and away. "Are you
okay?"

My reply was a beat late as I tried to process just how quickly
he had come out of sleep...with my safety his first concern.
"Just redoing the bandage. You did a good job on it, Clark. The
wound's already looking a lot better."

"Good." Content, Clark turned his face once more to the sun. I
wondered how many days -- or weeks -- it had been since he had
last seen the morning sky.

"I called Perry," I told him carefully, not sure how he would
take the news. "He's coming over. The shower's open if you're
up to it, or you might want to wait until Perry -- "

"I can do it," he said hurriedly, and I scolded myself for my
tactlessness. Tact wasn't a quality I had ever seen the need of
cultivating -- reporters didn't get front page stories through
diplomacy -- but now I wished I had.

I had to clench my hands into fists to stop myself from hurrying
across the room and helping Clark as he slowly rose to his feet.
Instead of watching him make his torturous way to the bathroom, I
moved toward the kitchen. "I'm going to see about some
breakfast," I said over my shoulder, and hoped he was too
involved in staying upright to hear the emotion trapped within my
voice.

From the date on my ATM receipt the night before, I knew I had
been held in that cell less than twenty-four hours. Luthor's
thugs had picked me up just before midnight, and I had withdrawn
money from the ATM at the hospital at ten the night before. From
the amount of relief in Perry's voice when I had called him, I
gauged that there had been no ransom note -- not that I had
expected there to be -- and that my co-workers had been caught
between fear that I had been kidnapped and a suspicion that I had
gone undercover to work on a secret story. It wouldn't have been
the first time -- for either possibility -- though both had
become rarer in the past two months.

It seemed impossible that so little time -- a mere twenty-four
hours -- had passed since I had first heard Clark's voice again;
it felt as if surely a year or more had been lived in that dark
cell. And yet, conversely, it felt as if events had hurtled from
one point -- my kidnapping -- to another -- Clark's reemergence
into my life -- and to the best of them all -- Superman's
resurrection.

That was something I didn't think I had fully processed yet, but
that was all right because Superman was still there today, as
proved by the muted news I turned on once Clark shut the bathroom
door. And the superhero would still be there tomorrow, and the
day after that, and the day after that -- "I'm always around,"
he had said, and even the recollection of those words spoken in
his steady voice sent a thrill of elation through my veins.

I had to find some way to talk to him, to touch him again, to
reassure myself that the connection I had felt between us from
the moment he had flown me from EPRAD to the Daily Planet still
existed. That it hadn't been buried with the pieces of his
burned-up cape. That it was mutual.

At the sound of Clark emerging from the bathroom, I hastily shut
off the news and turned back to my perusal of my kitchen's
contents. They were pitifully meager, but luckily for me, I had
bought bagels on a whim a week before and I still had a bit of
cream cheese in the fridge and honey in the cabinets. Feeling
somewhat proud of myself, I set the food out and only then
guiltily realized that I didn't have anything for us to drink. I
had spent my time pondering Superman instead of brewing the
coffee...not that that was unusual.

"Coffee will be ready in a..." My voice trailed off into dead
silence when I turned and saw Clark slumped against the partition
between the kitchen and the living room.

He was draped in the robe I had gotten as a Secret Santa gift
from a reluctant shopper who had apparently chosen the 'one size
fits all' and called it good. Its white color darkened his damp
ebony hair, made him look even paler than he already was, and
seemed to swallow him up in its folds, giving him the illusion --
I hoped it was an illusion -- of small frailty. A perception
aided by the bruises so starkly apparent on his cheekbone beneath
the beard, on the bony wrists emerging from the robe's sleeves,
on his sharply defined collarbone and descending in a bluish mass
lower on his chest and beneath the robe, all of them black and
ugly in the light of day and freedom. All of them as much a mute
testament of what had been done to him as the haunted cast to his
features, the guarded wariness as he looked about him, the
painful shadows beneath his bespectacled eyes, the trembling of
his hands, and the fact that he couldn't walk the length of my
small apartment without growing tired enough to collapse.

"Do..." I paused, my hand outstretched toward him. Tact, I
reminded myself. "Do you want me to help you?"

"I think I can make it," he said, his voice as pale a shadow of
himself as his appearance.

As much as I knew he wanted to do things himself, I couldn't
resist hovering near him as he took the three steps to the small
kitchen table. My hand brushed his shoulder as he sat, so light a
contact it could have been accidental...but it wasn't. I just
couldn't resist touching him to reassure myself that he was all
right. That he would survive. That he was here...with me.

"Do you want cream cheese or honey on your bagel?" I asked him,
doing my best to keep my tone light and steady. When I had fallen
apart while tied up at the behest of Antoinette Baines, he had
remained calm and brave. When I had called him, terrified and
shaken by the head and invisible body that had shown up in my
apartment, he had come immediately with a teasing smile and eyes
devoid of fear. When I had almost broken down after throwing my
father to the wolves, he had been there for me with a steady hand
and a sympathetic ear. When I had trembled in his arms after
seeing him almost die at Trask's hands, he had held me and
calmed me with his touch and kept my hands clasped in his until
they steadied. After all that, how could I fail him now?

I couldn't.

I mustn't.

So I smiled at him as if it were perfectly normal for us to be
eating breakfast at my apartment after being rescued from a grim,
life-or-death situation. Actually, I thought with a slight frown,
that *had* been somewhat normal for the reporting team of Lane
and Kent. What wasn't normal was the fact that he was sick and
tormented and looking lost while I was solicitous of his health
and worried about his state of mind and afraid for him. That was
almost a complete switch to what had once been normal. I missed
those days when he had been the one to hover over me, but I had
missed *him* more, and if this was what it took to get him back,
it was a small cost.

I sat down hurriedly, idly wondering if that sudden realization
was written all over my face.

"Are you all right?" Clark's brow creased as he studied me,
and his hand moved to rest on the table, palm-up.

Restraining the urge to weep at the fact that I could see every
bone in his wrist and in each finger, I put my hand in his and
smiled brightly at him. "I'm fine. How are *you*?"

His smile was wry. "I've been better."

"Well," I said, inexplicably cheered by his miraculous smile.
"We'll have to see what we can do about that."

"Just being in the sunlight is enough," he said very seriously.
And when his eyes met mine, that light I had thought never to see
again -- the light that betrayed just what he thought of me --
was glittering like the sun, shattering the darkness of my
thoughts. "Being with you."

"You're just saying that because you don't want me to go back
to being the senior partner," I replied archly.

"You stopped?" He raised his brows in mock surprise, then tried
to hide his wince of pain.

"Well, I let you think I did, anyway." The flippant comment was
made almost by habit as I studied him closely. No matter how much
he smiled, I could tell he was a lot worse off than he was
pretending.

"I'm just glad you're *letting* me be your partner again."
Clark looked down at our hands, intertwining his fingers with
mine. "After I left you the way I did...I wasn't sure you
would."

"I've gotten used to you." I shrugged, almost desperate to
keep the light mood alive. We both needed it, needed a few
moments when we could pretend -- no matter how weakly -- that
everything hadn't changed. "Besides, I still haven't learned
your trick of guessing the correct codes to locks or finding all
the doors with rusty padlocks."

"Ah, so I'm your personal locksmith, not your reporting
partner."

"You're both," I told him, my voice much too serious to
sustain our teasing byplay, the staple of our relationship. But
as I had already noted, our relationship couldn't go back to the
way it had been. It had to change, evolve, develop into something
more. I couldn't just take whatever he gave me anymore; I had to
give something back.

I just wished I knew how.

"So..." Clark looked down at the bagels. "Cream cheese or
honey, huh?"

"Yeah." I squeezed his hand lightly, disturbed by its feverish
heat and the uncharacteristic sweat on his brow, before
withdrawing to retrieve some plates. "Oh, you like sugar and
milk in your coffee, don't you?"

"You remember that?" His surprised tone might as well have been
a slap, stinging all the more because I knew he hadn't meant it
as a condemnation.

"Don't you remember what *I* take in my coffee?" It was a
rhetorical question. I knew, without a doubt, that he remembered
everything about me. Hadn't I been reminded of that fact with
every personalized note, every awkward phone call, every touch of
his hand and glance my way? In fact, he had once sent me a
package from Columbia with all the makings of a cup of coffee,
complete with a handcrafted mug and the one packet each of
artificial sweetener and non-fat creamer that I took with it,
accompanied by a note that said he missed getting my coffee for
me every morning.

"Of course," he answered needlessly, his gaze on his hands,
folded loosely atop the table before him. "But...I don't think
I can handle any sugar or milk right now."

"Are you sick?" The question was so stupid even I winced. "I
mean...aren't you hungry?"

"A little," he said, but I wasn't sure that he wasn't just
being polite. Hastily, I turned to the task of getting our drinks
before he could see how shaken I was.

"Well," I said once I was sure my voice would emerge steady.
"I still have that box of tea you brought me a while ago. Why
don't I fix you a cup of that instead?"

"Thank you." His smile was infinitesimal, his words almost
inaudible, the wince of pain as he shifted in the chair
heartbreaking.

This was not Clark Kent! Clark Kent was...cheerful, and hopeful,
and sometimes annoyingly careful, and...and a lot more things
that ended in -ful because the truth of the matter was that
whatever Clark might be, he was wholeheartedly and completely
that thing. He didn't hold himself back, didn't compromise,
didn't commit himself any less than a hundred percent. He
was...honest. And that meant that whatever you saw, whatever you
heard him say...that was what you got.

He wasn't a shadow. He wasn't a wreck. He wasn't a pale
imitation of the partner who had left me on behalf of a friend he
now couldn't even seem to stand hearing about.

Why, I thought in frustration, did such a simple, unpretentious
guy like Clark Kent always have to be such a mystery?

"Here you go." I set our cups down and sat across from him.
"You never told me what you wanted on your bagel."

"Nothing. Just...just the bagel's fine."

We both reached for one at the same time, and our hands
collided.

"I can get it," Clark insisted quietly, not meeting my eyes.

"Okay," I said just as quietly. The sticky feeling of honey on
my palm made me realize that I was staring at Clark instead of my
own bagel, but I couldn't seem to stop. I wasn't sure if I was
afraid that he would disappear like a mirage or that he would
collapse into a boneless heap. Whichever, I didn't dare look
away.

"I'm not going to break," he said without looking up.

I started. Tact, I yelled at myself. I had to acquire that
quality as soon as possible. "Can you read minds?" I demanded
suspiciously. "Because it's a bad habit!"

"I can't read minds," he said with a quirk of his lips that
faded all too quickly. "In fact...I can't do much of anything
right now."

"I'm sorry," I blurted and decided to go for honesty in lieu
of tact. "I just...I don't know what to do here, Clark. Even
you can't pretend you're physically well -- and tact aside,
I'm not sure you're all that well mentally either. I mean, what
that monster did to you -- lesser men would gibber at the dark
for the rest of their life after treatment like that! But I
don't want to hurt you while I'm trying to help. So...tell me
what to do. Should I help you move or let you do it yourself and
watch you fall?"

"Lois." His hand on my shoulder halted my fountain of words.
His gaze was open and earnest, everything I was so afraid he
could never be again after a month in that lightless cell. "I
don't like this situation any more than you do. I feel just as
confused and uncertain and lost as you do -- probably a hundred
times more. But I do know that we all have to play the hand
we're dealt. And no matter what...permanent...effects I have
from my stay with Luthor, I have to figure out how to be the
best...whatever I am now...that I can be. Because I really do
believe that we're put on this Earth -- or whatever planet
we're put on -- to do better than we think we can, to be kind
and helpful and generous. And forgiving."

His voice broke the slightest bit on the last word. I didn't
notice. I was staring at him -- flat-out, jaw-on-the-ground,
eyes-popping-out-like-a-cartoon staring at him. Because I hadn't
even known people like that existed.

Superman, I reminded myself. Superman was like that.

But Superman had special powers and an extraordinary history and
an eye-catching Suit. He was bound to be extraordinary. But my
partner? The small-town nobody who stood when a woman entered the
room and carried a handkerchief in his pocket and said hello to
everyone on the street and would give the jacket off his back to
anyone in trouble -- who expected *him* to be extraordinary? Or,
I thought slowly, were all those little oddities part of what
made him so special?

And how had I forgotten that this was the type of man he was?

"Well," I said tremulously, shaking myself as if from a dream.
"I'll help you, Clark. You do know you can count on me,
right?"

"I do," he said, his voice none too steady. "Thank you,
Lois."

"Yeah." My own voice probably couldn't have lasted more than
that single word.

We both jumped a bit at the knock on the door. I let out a guilty
chuckle -- though I didn't know why -- and shrugged. "I guess
I'd better see who that is."

"Yeah." As he turned a bit toward the sound, Clark's face went
even whiter than it already was, and I suddenly wondered if there
were any internal injuries beneath those black bruises.

"Are you all right?" I asked, ignoring the insistent knocking
for a moment. "Clark? Clark!"

He swiveled his head to look at me, and I was astonished to see
that his eyes had gone almost black.

Concerned, I looked in the direction he had been staring so
fixedly, but all I saw were the open windows. When I looked at
Clark again, his head was hanging low and his hands gripped the
edges of the table tightly. "Clark?" I asked worriedly.

"You should get the door," he said blankly. "But, Lois..." He
caught my hand when I started to walk past him. His eyes were
pleading as he looked up at me. "Be careful what we say.
Luthor...might have planted bugs in your apartment while you were
in the cell."

"Good idea," I told him, impressed by the deduction and knowing
I should have thought of it myself. I winced as the knocking
turned into banging. "I'm coming, I'm coming!"

As soon as the locks were all undone, the door opened on a very
worried Perry and a grim Henderson. "I hope you don't mind that
I called Bill," Perry said quickly. "But I figured he should be
here, and as I had originally suspected, you hadn't called him
yourself. Are you okay, darlin'?" I chuckled a bit at his spill
of words and didn't even feel uncomfortable when he pulled me
into a fatherly hug. "I don't know what's more miraculous --
Superman's return or the fact that you came out of another
kidnapping safely."

"I'm fine, Perry. Clark's the one who's hurt. I don't know
what all they did to him, but..." My voice trailed away, and I
angrily realized that Perry's open concern and affection had
brought me perilously close to tears. Which was ridiculous. As he
had said, Superman was alive again; I shouldn't be able to stop
celebrating long enough to cry!

"Clark -- you said on the phone you had found him." Perry
glanced all about, his eyes brightening. "Where is he?"

"He -- " I turned and belatedly realized he hadn't moved into
sight from behind the partition wall. "He's pretty weak, and
he's in pain. He's in the kitchen."

"Who did this to you?" Henderson questioned me as Perry gave me
a last smile and hurried toward the kitchen.

"Not that I have a lot of proof I can hand you at the moment
aside from the bruises I gave him," I said acerbically, "but it
was Lex Luthor. Clark says he's the Boss."

"Is that so?" Henderson raised an unimpressed eyebrow,
considerably less of a reaction than I had expected to my
startling accusation. "You should have given us your statement
last night, Lane. Or at least gone to the hospital. What happened
to your arm?"

"Clark was hurt." I had meant to say the words hotly, a defense
against the recriminations on my actions, but instead they came
out morosely. "He was afraid that Luthor would find us at the
hospital."

"And he wouldn't find you at your place?" the inspector
questioned sarcastically.

"Superman's guarding us," I explained, satisfied when
Henderson nodded his acquiescence.

"Here, Clark, easy now."

I turned at the sound of Perry's gruff encouragement and gasped
involuntarily when I saw my mentor half-carrying Clark to the
couch. "He tried to stand and fell," Perry explained tersely
while he situated my partner as best he could. Clark's eyes were
tightly shut, his face twisted in a mask to conceal his pain, and
one hand clutched his glasses to his face, as if terrified he
would lose them again.

"You weren't kidding when you said he was hurt, were you?"
There was no sting to Henderson's words, only traces of shock
and horror. Before I could reply, he moved past me to sit on the
couch across from Clark. Moving almost in a daze, afraid to look
away from my partner, I sat beside Henderson, across from Perry.

"You all right, son?" Perry was studying Clark intently, partly
out of worry and partly, I knew, because he had missed the young
reporter he had been so willing to mentor.

It had been hard, I remembered, passing Clark's letter of
resignation to Perry and seeing the editor's face fall as he had
read it. For several days after that, he hadn't been able to
shout out curt orders or smile when his reporters scampered at
his command. After that, he had been even more bad-tempered than
usual -- trying to overcompensate, I had guessed. Gradually,
however, he had gone back to normal; everyone had, even Jimmy,
who had been unusually depressed for weeks after his friend had
left. I alone had seemed unable to put Clark behind me, and yet
everyone thought I had simply because I was working twice as
hard. No one but Perry had understood that I was overcompensating
just as much as he had been.

"I'm fine," Clark managed to say, and convinced no one. "I
just need to sit here in the sun for a bit."

Perry indicated a duffel bag I hadn't even noticed him carrying,
dropped by the door. "Well, I brought over some clothes you left
in your locker at the Planet, and I thought you might need a few
things, so I grabbed some socks, shoes, necessities, a comb, a
razor, stuff like that. Unless you like the bearded look."

The hand holding his glasses drifted lower to skim the beard in
question. "No, I..." Clark's eyes drifted past my shoulder to
the window behind me, and his hand fell limply to his lap.
"Chief, you know I -- I mean, Mr. White, I -- "

"Chief's fine, son," Perry said, a betraying roughness to his
voice.

A tiny smile flickered life into Clark's eyes. "Chief. Would
you mind helping me shave? Razors have always...been a bit
awkward."

"Sure, sure, not a problem." Perry's eyes flicked to Clark's
trembling hands. When Clark tried to stand on his own, Perry was
instantly there with a shoulder under his arm. "Let me help you,
son. There's no shame in havin' friends."

"No." Clark's jaw clenched tightly, his eyes suspiciously
bright. "There's not. Lois, please don't start telling
Henderson about what happened until I get back. And would you
mind turning on the news? We might find out where..." He winced
and shifted his stance. "Where Superman is right now."

I gaped after him as he and Perry disappeared into the bathroom
with the duffel bag. "Can you believe that?" I demanded of the
taciturn investigator to fill up the silence that fell on us so
abruptly. "Last night, he would hardly even let me say
Superman's name, and he acted like the news was pure torture!
*Now* he wants to watch it!" Despite my grumbling, I stood and
turned on the television, having my own reasons for wanting to
catch another glimpse of the caped superhero.

"Lane." Henderson shifted until I met his gaze. "I know Kent
wants us to wait for him, but...how long was he a prisoner?"

"W-why?" I berated myself for the slight stammer.

"Because I'm seeing some signs I don't like. He doesn't trust
us, for one thing. He's worried -- terrified -- about something
or other, but he's hiding it. Pretense isn't a good thing when
it's coming from a trauma victim."

I winced to hear Clark so bluntly and cavalierly referred to as a
'victim.' "I...I think he was held a whole month, maybe a few
days less."

A muscle twitched in the inspector's jaw. "Conditions?"

"Bad." The word was like poison, all the more potent because it
was true. "They dosed him with some kind of drug every day. A
really painful, really debilitating, possibly fatal drug."

"They gave you the same treatment?"

"No," I said hastily. "But I saw them do it to Clark. And I
don't know how much they fed him, but..."

"Not a lot," Henderson concluded, his eyes flicking briefly to
the closed bathroom door.

"And Lex taunted him. Clark says he...gloated and...I don't
know what all else. But it had to be bad -- Lex referred to him
as 'that thing.'"

The inspector's low curse and slow shake of his head made my
stomach clench into a knot even Superman couldn't have undone.
Terror turned my limbs leaden and filled my mouth with dust.

"What?" I demanded, heedless of the shards of panic slicing my
voice to ribbons.

Henderson sighed as he removed his tinted glasses to pinch the
bridge of his nose. "I've dealt with victims who've been held
by a madman, Lane. Even when it's just for a night or two, the
trauma is extensive...and it can be very long-lasting."

"Are..." I had to stop and swallow, suddenly wishing Clark was
holding my hand or rubbing my back or whispering soothing words
in my ear. But he wasn't, and this time, *I* needed to be the
one strong enough to do all of that for him. Funny -- for all
that I had taunted Clark by saying he could never make it in the
big city, I had never really thought of him *needing* anything.
"Are you saying he'll never get better?"

The inspector met my water-cloaked eyes. "I'm saying it'll be
hard. But if anyone can do it, I'd lay money on Kent. He's
got...something. Some inner strength I haven't quite figured
out. And he still smiles when he looks at you, Lane, so I'd say
there's some hope."

The lump in my stomach metamorphosed into delicate butterflies
that couldn't seem to find anywhere to land.

"But, Lois, you're his friend." Henderson paused, waiting
expectantly.

Instantly, I stiffened. "Well, we're partners."

"Lane," he said threateningly.

I heaved a heavy sigh. Old habits died hard. "Fine, of course
we're friends."

"He's going to need you, and Perry, and Jimmy, and whoever else
can tie him back to the time before his imprisonment. So, be
careful with him...and be patient. I know that's asking a lot,
but -- "

"I can be patient!" I insisted haughtily. Hadn't I already
been patient? Hadn't I been kind even though I wanted to shake
him and find out why he had been so wary of Superman? I had even
made breakfast -- didn't that count for anything?

"Well, try your best." The wry twist to Henderson's lips gave
him away, but I rolled my eyes anyway. Just because.

"Clark was worried Luthor might have planted bugs in the
apartment," I suddenly remembered. I didn't think we had said
anything Lex didn't already know, but this was one time where
even I wasn't reckless enough to forget about Clark's warning.
"Can you test for them?"

"Not without a lot more equipment." Henderson pointedly met my
gaze, warning me that what he was about to say was as much a
warning for whoever might be listening as it was advice for me.
"Lois, I think you and Kent should both stay here. That way
Luthor -- or whoever's behind this" -- He ignored my indignant
'I said it was Luthor!' -- "won't panic and do something
we'd all, hopefully, live to regret, but it also puts you right
where my people can watch over you and give you some back-up if
they do make a move. I'll have someone come by later today and
check the place over for bugs. I'm also going to send the police
medic to document that gunshot wound you've got as well as
Kent's condition. Just so when we do catch whoever did this to
you, we've got it on record."

"Here we go."

Henderson and I both fell silent and looked up when Perry helped
Clark back into the room and lowered him onto the couch. I
couldn't help gaping; I was pretty sure that I couldn't have
gotten a word to emerge from my throat even if someone had paid
me.

With the beard shaved off and hair trimmed, his glasses firmly in
place, and himself fully dressed in clean slacks and a black
shirt, Clark looked like...Clark. Every time I had envisioned him
while he was gone and speaking to me through a phone or a note,
each time I had pictured him in my mind while we sat in the cell
together...this was what I had envisioned. Minus the bruises and
gauntness and guardedness, but still...

Clark looked up and met my wide eyes that widened even farther
when he smiled at me. "I must have looked awful before if this
is your reaction now," he teased me.

"It's just..." I shook my head and forcibly recalled who I was
-- Lois Lane, star reporter, not a foolish girl who went
speechless because of a smooth jaw and a beautiful smile -- or,
good-looking smile -- well, really, just a...nice smile, yes,
that was better. A nice smile. A pleasant smile. A *really*
pleasant smile. A
not-as-nice-as-Superman's-but-so-close-it-might-as-well-be
smile.

"Good to have you back, Kent," Henderson said, leaning forward
to shake Clark's hand.

"Thank you, Inspector."

"So, Lois, darlin', what happened to you?" Perry cut through
the awkward silence in danger of falling on us like jagged rocks,
his sharp eyes incisive on me.

"Uh, just a second," Clark interrupted. "Lois, have you
seen...Superman...on the news yet?"

I glanced to the television set. "No." A suspicious frown
reshaped my features. "I thought you weren't too fond of him at
the moment."

"I'd...just like to know where he is." Clark shifted
uncomfortably, then looked at Perry and Henderson. "You didn't
offer them any coffee, Lois?"

"Coffee?" I repeated incredulously. "We need to tell them
about Lex so they can go arrest him for what he did to you! You
said you had pro -- "

"I just think it's polite to offer guests something to drink,"
Clark said hastily. My rejoinder was stifled when I noticed him
clenching his hands, his eyes darting about as if he were afraid
of something.

"Fine," I said after a brief pause. "Henderson, Perry, would
you like some coffee?"

"Sure," Henderson said with a warning glance that reminded me I
had sworn myself to patience. We could all tell Clark was
reluctant to admit to what had happened, or maybe he was afraid
to let the memories come spilling back in. Either way, a few
minutes of time wouldn't hurt us.

"Uh, none for me," Perry said with a worried frown in Clark's
direction. "You know I only drink the newsroom brew."

While I was getting Henderson his coffee, a news bulletin
interrupted the regular broadcast to announce an earthquake in
Indonesia. Perry stood and moved to sit beside Henderson so he
could turn the volume up on the TV. Almost spilling Henderson's
coffee, I glued my eyes to the screen, eager to see Superman.
Intellectually, I knew he was alive and that I hadn't imagined
the whole thing, but I certainly didn't mind a bit of extra
proof.

"Finally," I thought I heard Clark mutter at the first sign of
Superman appearing on the scene. I couldn't help but stare at my
partner, utterly puzzled by his manner concerning his friend.

"Who would have ever thought we'd get to see him again?" Perry
asked in an awed tone as he watched Superman spin beneath the
ground.

"He's something else," Henderson agreed, as close to effusive
amazement as I'd ever heard from him.

"So, Lois," Perry prompted as soon as I had torn my own eyes
from the news, handed Henderson the coffee mug, and sat down
beside Clark. "You were going to tell us what happened to
you."

"I'm going to record this conversation, if that's all right."
Henderson pulled out a tiny tape recorder while Perry turned to
mute the news again. "And also..." He pulled out a
complicated-looking gizmo that blinked red until Henderson
clicked a button and switched the light to green. "I didn't
want to mention this earlier, but it should block any bugs that
might be here -- not permanently, you understand, but it's at
least a stopgap measure until an inspection team can get here."

"Aren't those extremely hi-tech?" Perry asked skeptically,
eyeing the device closely.

"When Superman first showed up and started taking an active role
in investigations, I got a friend of mine in the NIA to get me
one. Figured I might need it." Henderson smirked at me. "The
press can get a bit nosy when there's a hot story at stake."

"Ha, ha," I said, shifting uncomfortably. I had done a lot of
things I wasn't exactly proud of when Superman had first
debuted, my fervor sometimes eclipsing my sense of journalism
ethics. I darted a glance to Clark, but his gaze was locked on
his hands; he didn't seem at all reassured by Henderson's
safety measure.

Perry looked between Henderson and me, then obviously decided he
didn't want to know. "Well, then, all's good. Now...Lois?"

Inwardly giving myself a stern talking to, I snapped back into
the present and tore my gaze from Clark. "Two or three thugs
picked me up outside the Daily Planet building at midnight the
day before yesterday." I paused, half-expecting Clark to
interrupt again, but he remained silent, his eyes on his lap. "I
was blindfolded and thrown into the trunk of a car, then taken
inside some kind of warehouse and tossed into Clark's cell. At
one point, Lex took me aside and started raving about how he was
more powerful than Superman and that he controlled the city. When
I tried to escape, his henchman, Nigel St. John, shot me in the
arm. Clark bandaged it before he was taken aside for his own
private conversation with Luthor. And then Superman rescued us
and dropped us off at the hospital. Neither one of us felt
comfortable waiting inside for Lex to find us, so we came
here."

"Do you know the address of this warehouse?" asked Henderson.

"No. But I could take you right to it." Being in Superman's
arms had been overwhelming, but I had known enough to assess our
location.

"It's in the South Side," Clark said quietly. "I don't know
the number, but it's on Canter Street."

Henderson's finger hovered over his small tape recorder. "1462
Canter Street?"

"You've already been there?" I asked excitedly. "I should
have known Superman would have led you to it last night."

"I wasn't there," Henderson corrected, "and neither were my
people. The fire department, on the other hand, was there most of
the night. It was such a ferocious blaze that there's nothing
left except a pile of drenched ashes. The next warehouse over
went up too, but it dealt in chemicals, so the general prognosis
is that some of the barrels collided or leaked."

"Or Superman started it himself." Clark's mutter was so quiet
that I was the only one who heard it.

I was so shocked that a minute, an hour, or a year could have
passed me by and I wouldn't have noticed, wouldn't have been
able to do anything but sit there and stare at Clark. Clark, my
naive, idealistic partner who had believed that even Trask had
redeeming attributes and that Toni Taylor hadn't been all bad.
My partner who had just sounded so paranoid that I was sure he
could have been admitted to a hospital ward on that statement
alone. How could he hold such xenophobic fears when he himself
had pretended to be Superman in order to save the superhero from
Bureau 39 and their imaginary rock? What had Lex done to him?

Shrinking under the weight of my shock, Clark's eyes darted up
to look at me from beneath lowered brows, but he didn't fully
meet my gaze. Though he had never been afraid of my anger, he had
never -- except when he deliberately provoked it -- seemed to
like being the recipient of it either.

"Clark? Clark!" Gradually, Henderson's call broke through to
both Clark and myself.

"Yes, Inspector?" Clark turned toward the older man.

"Can you confirm Lois's statement?"

"Yes." His voice was almost inaudible.

"Can you give your own statement about what happened?"

Clark folded his arms tightly across his chest, as if he sought
desperately to hold himself together. "A month ago, I was
visiting my parents on my way to...complete a task. I told them I
had proof of Luthor's business dealings. When I returned two
days later, I was...confused about something. While they were
helping me, we were...threatened...by one of Luthor's men. He
must have been following me and keeping my parents under
surveillance. I had a...an errand...I had to finish, so I hid my
parents where Luthor couldn't find them, and I left. And when I
returned, Luthor was waiting for me. I was surprised, and
he...subjected me to something painful and took me to the cell.
Then, last night, Lois and I got out."

"How did Luthor treat you?" Henderson asked bluntly. "I know
this is hard, Kent, but we need to know."

I wanted to reach out a hand and reassure Clark, to quiet the
tremors invading his body, to smooth out the torment invading his
eyes, to relax the stiffness of his folded arms. But I couldn't.
My shock at his accusation of Superman mixed with my horror at
what I had allowed to happen to him paralyzed me, leaving me
unable to move or speak or breathe.

"He..." Clark swallowed and locked his eyes on the sun, shining
in through the two windows facing my living room. "He dosed me
with something. Every day. Sometimes more often."

"Do you know the name of this substance?"

"No. I don't know its real name."

"What did it look like?"

"It...was green." Clark spoke only in a monotone, his voice
dead, his eyes blank, his body frozen.

"What exactly did it do to you?"

Finally, Clark did move, his eyes turning to look at the TV where
Superman was using rubble to build a dam that held back the
effects of the ensuing tidal wave. "It made me weak. It made me
vulnerable. It made me...broken."

"That's enough," Perry said quietly, shaking his head slightly
at Henderson. "Let's, uh, move on to somethin' else."

The inspector didn't argue, but he didn't entirely change the
subject either. "Is there anything else you can tell us? I
notice you're bruised up -- did he have you beaten?"

Clark didn't seem to hear him. Superman's heroic actions were
reflected on the lenses of his glasses; the red and blue masked
Clark's gentle, tormented eyes from me.

"Those happened when he tried to stop Luthor from taking me
aside," I explained, finally breaking free of my paralysis to
lay a hand on Clark's arm. Despite the muscle tone he had lost,
I could still feel every tendon pulled tight as he fought his way
through inward darkness.

"Clark?" Henderson's eyes never left my partner, and though
intent, his voice still possessed a hint of gentleness. "Were
there other times?"

"Sometimes." The word was torn from Clark, and I shifted closer
to him, smoothing my hands over his arm to let him know I was
there.

"Did he want information from you?"

"Yes."

I frowned, certain that Clark had told me Lex -- no, *Luthor* --
hadn't asked him questions. He couldn't be lying -- Clark
didn't lie -- but what if he had been subconsciously repressing
memories?

"What sort of information?" Henderson asked patiently.

"I don't know exactly." Clark's hands tightened into fists,
but he instantly relaxed them when I slid my hands down over his.
"He just...watched me all the time. Observing everything. Always
watching me."

"I see." The inspector exchanged glances with Perry. "And
you're sure it was Luthor? You can both make a positive
identification?"

"Yes," I said. Clark contented himself with a jerky nod.

"All right." Henderson leaned forward. "Well, we have more
than enough to charge Luthor with kidnapping and assault, but I
warn you that he'll get off on it somehow or another. These
things never stick, particularly when it comes down to your word
against his. However, if you hold off on this, we might be able
to go after him for something bigger. Without the immediate
evidence we need -- "

"Why didn't Superman get the evidence?" Clark asked abruptly.
Henderson, Perry, and I all stared at him. He stirred and looked
at each of us. "Superman broke into the warehouse; he said he
had tied up all the men who hadn't run. When he dropped us off
at the hospital, he should have gone back to take them to the
police. That's his standard procedure. Or when the fire started
-- why didn't he save them? Why didn't he *stop* the fire?"

"Clark, you saw Superman on the news last night!" I exclaimed.
"He was busy with a dozen other emergencies! I told you he
couldn't be everywhere at once!"

"But he left those men tied -- bound and helpless -- and there
was a fire. No matter what other emergency there was, Superman
would have felt morally compelled to go save those men first!"

"He probably didn't know there was a fire," Perry said
soothingly, holding out his hands in a calming gesture.

Clark met his gaze without flinching. "Trust me, Chief. He knew
there was a fire. So why didn't he report it to the police? He
always used to try very hard to work with the regular
authorities. So why did he just leave? He knew we needed that
evidence."

"I'm sure he got distracted," Henderson said. "And I'm
certain he'll come talk to me about it as soon as he gets a free
moment. It's all right, Kent. We'll find out what's going
on."

"No." Clark stood, every movement he made almost painstaking in
its slowness and yet rife with purpose. "We need to put Luthor
away. We need to gather everything we have. I have my own
evidence -- bank records, witness statements, incriminating
photos -- but it's all hidden somewhere I can't get to at the
moment. Lois says she's been investigating him. And obviously
the police have had at least a hint that Luthor's not the great
philanthropist he wants everyone to think he is." He barely
waited for Henderson's confirming nod. "We need to compile
everything we have and see what evidence we still need to collect
in order to convict him."

Henderson stood. "Kent, we've been trying to tie Luthor to
something we can nail him on for years, but he's slippery. Do
you really think you can get him?"

Clark paused to look down at me and offered me a hesitant smile.
"Partners, right?"

No matter how confused I was about his behavior, I couldn't deny
him this, not when there was so much desperate hope in his
demeanor. Not when he was begging me. Not when I wanted the same
thing just as badly as he did. "Partners," I told him.

"Then they'll get him for you," Perry interjected. "They're
the best I've ever worked with."

"All right, then." Henderson nodded decisively. "I'll bring
you what we have. We're going to set up undercover bodyguards
and an anonymous perimeter around this building. I'll give you
whatever resources you need, but only the minimum of people
necessary will know our real goal. From now on, we're gunning
for Lex Luthor."

I grinned cockily, reasserting myself as Mad Dog Lane. "He
doesn't stand a chance."

Only I heard Clark whisper, "Maybe one." And when I saw his
eyes drift once more to the image of Superman, I felt a chill run
down my spine.

***

Chapter 6

"Henderson, can I talk to you for a minute, please?" Clark
tried to stand, but the inspector stilled him with a gesture and
moved to sit beside him. Our conversation had dragged on longer
than was probably good for Clark, but we had needed to map out
our strategy for going after Luthor and our plan for the next
couple of days.

Perry took my arm and led me to the other side of the room; he
knew me too well to think that I wouldn't have tried to stand
close enough to hear their whispers. "What are we going to print
in the afternoon edition?"

I grinned up at Perry -- he and I had always been something of
kindred spirits, the ink in our veins connecting us as closely as
if we were truly related by blood. "Well, I don't want Luthor
to think I'm hiding scared, so I'd like to at least run the
story of my capture and rescue by Superman. The rest is still
under investigation. I'll write it up and e-mail it to you."

"All right, sounds good. Now, uh, Lois, you promise me you'll
be careful?" Perry placed a warning hand on my shoulder. "I
don't want to wake up one morning and find out you've
disappeared to the same place as Elvis."

"All right," I said with a mock-reluctant sigh, "but what a
story that would make."

He chuckled obligatorily at my weak joke. "Maybe. But not good
enough to risk your life over it. Or Clark's life."

I frowned over my shoulder at Clark, who was still whispering to
a perplexed-looking Henderson. "Does he seem all right to you,
Chief?"

"Lois, honey, I..." Perry looked, suddenly, much older than I
knew he was. "People change, Lois, especially when there are
outside forces just beggin' them to."

"But he's still Clark?" I had meant it to be a statement;
unfortunately, it came out sounding more like a question.

"Yeah," Perry said with a smile I could tell was forced. "Uh,
yeah, he's Clark. You...you take care of him, all right?
He...well, let's just say he needs you. Just...just be careful
with him."

"I will." Two simple words, two syllables alone out of the
entire English language, but they felt like a solemn promise, one
I had already made in a blackened cell.

When Henderson stood and moved toward the door, Perry walked back
over to Clark to give him that weird half-handshake, half-hug men
were so fond of. "Now, Clark, I know we're keeping your
reappearance under tight wraps, but would it be all right if I
told Jimmy you were here? The kid's been missin' you somethin'
awful."

"Sure," Clark said after a hesitation that was evident only if
you were looking for it. And I was. I was looking for anything
that might give me the key to unlocking the mystery known as
Clark Kent.

"Just don't let Cat know," I warned, only partly
sarcastically. "Oh, and, Perry, have Jimmy bring over all my
Lexcorp research. He knows where I've got it stashed at the
Planet."

"Sure thing. You two take it easy, you hear?"

"The medic and tech team will be by in a bit," Henderson added.
"Stay close. We can't afford to lose you two, not when you're
our star witnesses."

I didn't think it was very fair that Henderson gave *me* a
warning glare, as if I were untrustworthy or something. I mean,
Clark was too weak to even stand on his own -- did they think
I'd just abandon him to go out chasing leads? The loud thump as
I firmly shut the door behind them gave me a little vindictive
satisfaction -- and drowned out the quiet whisper in the back of
my mind tempting me to do exactly that.

"So," I said, turning back to Clark. This morning, despite my
uncertainty about how to handle his weakness, we had been
comfortable with each other. Now, for whatever reason,
awkwardness seemed to have made itself an unwelcome intruder.
"What do you want to do? I have to write up the story of my
capture and rescue, and after that, hopefully, I'll have my
research to look through."

"Please." Clark's mouth tightened, turning almost white, his
lips tinged a pale blue. "Don't mention me in your story. I
don't want my parents to show up while we're...in the middle of
this."

"We...we already agreed, just a few minutes ago, that we'd keep
your presence a secret," I said slowly, tenderly. "So, anyway,
what do you want to do?"

His eyes flickered. "Well, like I told Henderson, I can't get
to my stuff right now, but I can at least make a list of what I
do have so we know what we've got to work with."

"Sounds good. I'll get you a notepad and pen."

"Thanks." His voice was faint with weariness, and he slumped
back against the cushions as if even holding his head upright was
too great a feat for him.

The rest of the day passed in a progression of visitors. Some
medic with hands considerably less deft and gentle than Clark's
treated and rebandaged my wound after taking a few pictures of
it. He wanted to look Clark over, but my partner, who had been
dozing in between jotting down his list of photos and witness
names and file numbers, roused himself to flee into the bathroom
and even I couldn't get him to come out until the medic had left
entirely.

A team came by and scanned for bugs. They didn't find any, but
Clark still seemed nervous about saying too much. He also refused
to let me turn the news off. If one station stopped covering
Superman, he'd flip through the channels until he found another
appearance. When the superhero wasn't on the screen, Clark
seemed edgy and unsure, constantly glancing out the windows and
jumping at small sounds.

Finally, just after dinner -- a dinner at which Clark ate even
less than he had at breakfast or lunch -- Jimmy showed up, his
arms wrapped around a box of all my files and disks, his
enthusiasm for seeing Clark so real and cheerful that I couldn't
help but relive my own joy at seeing Clark again. It was good to
be reminded past my growing bewilderment over Clark's behavior
that it was a miracle I still had my partner at all.

I took the box of research from Jimmy so he could sit next to
Clark, the words spilling from his lips so many and so fast that
they filled my apartment with their excited tones and animated
cadence. Clark listened to him, a smile on his lips that, though
small, was genuine and pleased. Every once in a while, he'd
murmur a reply, his deeper, slower tone a counterpoint to
Jimmy's rambling words. I watched from the kitchen -- I didn't
want Clark to be upset that I hadn't offered Jimmy a drink --
and then from the opposite couch as I sat down to begin
organizing the things Jimmy had brought from the Planet.

Finally, even Jimmy could tell that Clark was exhausted and
needed some rest, but when the kid stood to leave, Clark roused
and grabbed hold of Jimmy's arm. "Don't go," he protested.
"I haven't seen you in so long."

Jimmy's face transformed with an enormously pleased expression,
and he willingly sat once more. "I know. It feels like years,
huh? I'm glad you're back. The phone-calls weren't enough."

"I know." Clark's answering smile was drowsy. "Have you
gotten your own byline yet?"

"Yeah. Well, Lois helped me, so I got to share it with her. We
wrote the..." Too late, Jimmy saw my frantic head-shake. His
voice slowly trailed off.

"Wrote what?" asked Clark, completely oblivious.

"Well, I'm the one who found the remnants of Superman's cape.
So we wrote the...you know, the 'Superman Is Dead' article."

"Oh." Clark opened his eyes fully for the first time since
Jimmy had made to leave and he met the kid's gaze. As closely as
I looked, I couldn't find even a hint of Clark's recent
discomfort with the subject of Superman. "I'll bet that was
hard for you, Jimmy, but I'm sure you did a great job. I always
knew you were going places -- probably behind Perry's desk one
day."

"Really?" Jimmy brightened, and I suddenly understood why he
had taken Clark's departure so hard. Clark had believed in
Jimmy, had always been there to help him and encourage him to
aspire to better things -- and Jimmy had needed that. *I* hadn't
done that for Jimmy, nor had anyone else in the newsroom. Though
we respected him for the information he could dig up for us and
found him useful for running errands, we certainly didn't look
at him and see a future editor-in-chief.

But Clark did.

It suddenly occurred to me to wonder how many others Clark had
done that for. Even Cat had seemed different -- in a manner of
speaking -- while Clark had worked at the Planet, and a
surprising number of people had immediately noticed his absence.
How many of those people who had asked me about him had been
inspired to greater and better things while Clark was there?

"I'll have to read it." Clark's voice recalled me to the
present, and I hastily looked down at the file in my hands to
hide my preoccupation.

"I'll bring you over a copy," Jimmy volunteered eagerly. "I
tried to make sure everyone knew Superman had gone out a hero --
Lois helped a lot, of course."

"I'm sure she did," Clark said with no hint of sarcasm. "Lois
is very good at helping newbies. She sure taught me a lot."

"A senior reporter's job," I said breezily, but inwardly, I
was shaken. The truth was, I had only been able to write the
retrospective Superman article because I had learned how to do
what I termed the "touchy-feely" stuff from Clark. In fact, I
had written a great deal of that article by imagining what he
would have said and how he would have said it.

"Well," Jimmy said, "I should probably get going."

"Already?" Clark clearly struggled to sit up straight, his gaze
moving to the news. "But I haven't heard about your latest
girlfriend."

"What girlfriend?" Jimmy said morosely, once more sinking back
to the couch. "Like I told you before, I haven't had a
girlfriend since Lucy moved to California."

I bit back a comment and studied Clark over the top of the file I
was supposedly reading. It was obvious that he was exhausted, and
I was pretty sure he couldn't be that pressingly concerned about
Jimmy's love life...so why didn't Clark want him to leave?

My breath caught in my throat. Unless...unless he didn't want to
be alone with me? Maybe my tactlessness had offended him. Or -- a
much more likely possibility -- he was afraid I'd start asking
him some serious questions once we were alone.

Clark kept Jimmy there for another ten minutes before I decided
that I needed to intervene. "Clark, you need some rest," I said
bluntly. "Jimmy can come back later. We -- "

"Actually," Clark moved his gaze from another news report about
Superman to Jimmy, "I needed to ask you something, Jimmy. As you
can see, I can't go anywhere right now, but I need all my
records on Luthor, and they're hidden quite a ways away. You
still have your car?"

"Yeah." Jimmy nodded. "It's not much, but it can get me
places."

"Good. Do you think Perry would let you leave for a couple days
if it were for the investigation? If I gave you written-out
directions, would you mind getting my stuff for me?"

"I wouldn't mind." Jimmy shrugged. "And I think the Chief can
get by without me now that I'm not having to reset his bass and
fix the horn on his golf cart all the time. Where do you have the
stuff stashed?"

"I've written the directions down," Clark said slowly, pulling
a piece of paper out from beneath his leg. "But memorize them,
Jimmy, and then burn the paper as fast as you can. And don't
ever read or speak the directions out loud -- you never know
who's listening. And don't tell anyone where you're going. Can
you do all that?"

"But why -- "

"Please, Jimmy." Clark turned that same pleading expression he
had given me earlier onto the kid. And if *I* hadn't been able
to resist it, I was absolutely certain that Jimmy didn't stand a
chance. I was right, too.

"All right, CK. If it's important to you, I'll do it."

"Thanks, Jimmy." Clark shook Jimmy's hand, his smile a bit
tremulous. "I've missed hearing you call me that."

"Well, then, make sure you stick around this time, okay?" Jimmy
grinned at Clark's slow nod and stood. "I'll see you later,
then, CK. Good night, Lois."

"Good night, Jimmy." I stood and locked the door behind him.
When I turned back to Clark, I saw him picking up the remote and
flicking off the television he had insisted remain on all day.

"Why did you ask him to go get the stuff?" I asked quietly. Out
of all the questions boiling up within me, I'm not sure why that
was the first I uttered.

Clark stiffened. "Did you want to get it?" he replied.

"No. But why did you tell him he couldn't even keep the
directions?"

"Luthor's dangerous, Lois." Clark finally turned to face me,
his gaze steady, his expression sincere. "He has resources very
few people would guess he has. He's powerful enough to control
every criminal operation on the eastern seaboard, and smart
enough to keep it hidden from everyone for years. I don't think
we should be underestimating him...or his tools."

"Hmm. Maybe so, but I still think you're acting a little
paranoid." I crossed my arms over my chest. And yet, inwardly, I
was pleased. Clark had always been the more sensible one of our
duo. I couldn't even begin to count the number of times he had
tried to stop me from doing something a little reckless. He had
even, astonishingly, succeeded a few times.

"Please, Lois, just..." Clark sighed and fiddled with his
glasses. "Just humor me."

"It's all right, Clark." I crossed the room, sat at his side,
and placed a warm hand on his arm, stilling his nervous
mannerism. "Le -- Luthor scares me too, but we'll get him."

"Thanks, Lois." Again, he smiled at me, and again, I reminded
myself that it was a miracle he could still smile at all. But I
didn't want this tired, washed-out, polite, weary smile. I
wanted his brilliant, blinding, incinerating smile, the one that
almost always preceded a delayed chuckle, the one that stemmed
from a quiet confidence and gentle grace such as only Clark Kent
had possessed. I wanted the smile that reassured me he was just
as he had always been.

"Have you finished your list of the proof you have?" I
questioned, aware that our silence had stretched out like a
strained rubber band.

"Not quite yet; I'm sorry. Did you need help with your
research?"

Under the guise of looking at the files I had strewn all across
the coffee table, I considered what I should do. Both Henderson
and Perry had warned me to be careful with Clark, and I really
was trying, but impatience was burning underneath my skin like
its own network of veins. I didn't want to be cooped up in this
tiny apartment looking at paperwork when I could be talking to
Superman.

"Listen, Clark, this stuff can wait until tomorrow. I think I
might just take a walk and see if I can't find Superman. I can
ask him all the questions you had for him earlier -- which I'm
sure he'll have an explanation for. It'll -- "

"No!" Clark had gone so pale that I instinctively put out my
hands to grasp his shoulders, certain he was about to faint.
"Please, Lois, don't leave! Henderson said we should stay here.
And the bodyguards -- "

"Clark, I'm a reporter, not a desk jockey!" Trying to contain
the edginess that had been building up within me all day, I
sprang to my feet and began to pace. "I can't sit around and
let other people do my running for me! And *Superman*, Clark --
he's alive! Do you know what that means?"

"I think I do." His quiet words cut through my arguments and
dampened the skitters of impatience sparking through my body.
"It means you don't have to blame yourself anymore. It means
you're freed of all the guilt you've heaped on yourself. It
means your dreams...can still come true. It means a second
chance."

"Exactly!" I sat beside him and placed an earnest hand on his
knee. "Clark, I *need* to see him."

"I know that." He placed his own hand atop mine, the weight of
it sturdy and comforting, the feverish heat of it frightening.
"But, Lois...I..." He withdrew his hand to run it through his
hair, a nervous habit that was as familiar as it was endearing.

It was time for me to give back to him -- hadn't that been my
own earlier decision? Hadn't I, just this morning, promised
myself that I wouldn't let him down?

Swallowing back my sense of urgency, I smiled gently at Clark and
patted him on the shoulder. "You're right, Clark. It's late
already, and we've been at it all day. Why don't I put on a
movie or something? Tomorrow's soon enough."

Clark's hand dropped to his lap and it was his turn, finally, to
gape at me. "What?"

"One night can't hurt anything. And I was just kidnapped, so an
evening of relaxation is probably exactly what I need."

"You're serious?" Given my cooperation, Clark didn't seem to
know what to do with it. "Are you...sure you're all right with
this?"

"Clark..." Once more, I took his hand. Ours had always been a
somewhat physical relationship -- which baffled me, really,
since, post-Claude, I hadn't been all that comfortable around
men -- but I couldn't remember ever feeling such a need to hold
his hand or pat his shoulder or feel his arm near me. Though I
didn't want to admit it, maybe I was still afraid of losing him,
of turning around and finding that he wasn't really there, of
waking up alone again.

"Clark," I said again. "I understand that you don't want to
be alone, and it's all right. I promised I'd be there for you,
remember?"

"Yes. I do." His smile wasn't as blinding as the ones I longed
for, but it was radiant in its own way.

For the rest of the evening, I didn't allow myself to even
consider leaving the apartment, or wonder how I could contact
Superman, or think about all the questions I wanted to ask him.
Instead, I sat next to Clark, and I laughed at the movie, and I
luxuriated in the feel of Clark's arm around my shoulders, and I
remembered all the reasons I had missed Clark Kent.

When the credits began to roll, I turned my head toward Clark. An
involuntary smile curved my lips when I saw him sleeping, his
glasses sliding off his nose and a lock of hair draped across his
temple. I allowed myself to simply watch him for a moment,
stunned by the amount of protectiveness I could feel toward a
single person.

"Clark," I finally whispered. I was reluctant to disturb him,
but I knew he'd sleep better on the cot the police had set up
under a window in the bedroom -- the cot he had earlier made me
promise would be his. "Clark, wake up."

He stirred and sleepily looked up at me. He'd been weak all day,
but it was only since evening had fallen that he had begun to
look and act so weary. Whatever drug Luthor had dosed him with
was obviously still in his system, and it scared me. The medic
had quietly explained to me that if Clark had been consistently
dosed with a narcotic, we could be facing a torturous withdrawal.
He'd warned me of several symptoms to watch for, yet I was
desperately hoping that Clark would exhibit none of them.

"Come on, Clark." I stood and took his hands to help him to his
feet. "Time for bed."

I helped him to the bathroom door, then kept myself busy tidying
up things in the living room. Every instinct I had was screaming
at me to help Clark, but I wanted to let him do as much as he
thought he could. Remembering what he had said this morning when
I asked him how to help him, I could do nothing but respect his
wish to accustom himself to his own new limits.

When Clark emerged, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt and fiddling
with his glasses, I watched him to make sure he got into the cot
all right. "You have enough blankets?" I asked him worriedly,
trying my hardest not to hover.

"I'm fine. Do you think the sun will shine through this
window?"

Despite myself, I chuckled. "I knew you'd ask that, so I made
sure of it. What is your deal with sunlight, anyway?"

Pulling the blankets up around himself, Clark shrugged. "I
don't know all the specifics, but...it makes me feel stronger,
better, more alive."

"Well then..." I paused, suddenly realizing that in a bizarre
sort of way, I was tucking him in. In all the scenarios I had
dreamt up over the last two months of what we'd do if I ever saw
him again, this had not even been a possibility.

"Good night, Lois. Thanks for helping me out." Clark's words
defused my sudden awkwardness. He had always seemed to possess a
sixth sense for me, able to instantly detect if I was
uncomfortable around him, and he had a real talent for keeping
himself unthreatening.

"You're welcome, Clark. I'll see you in the morning, all
right?"

"Yeah. And, Lois..." He waited until I turned to look at him,
his own face cloaked in shadows while I stood in a beam of light
emanating from the living room. "Please, be careful."

I frowned at the unusual good night, though inwardly I was
pleased that he cared so much. "Of course. And you...dream of
the sun."

"Always." It was the same reply he had made when I asked if he
dreamed of me, and I had the distinct impression that he
considered it to be the same question. That should have made me
uncomfortable; it should have scared me into thinking up a way to
get him out of my apartment. Instead, I found myself smiling as I
walked back to the living room.

I don't know why I was surprised. Clark had always had that
effect on me.

***

Chapter 7

I tried. I really did. I cleaned up all my research and made sure
it was ready to be looked through in the morning. I rearranged a
couple items of furniture to make it easier for Clark to move
around and situated a chair close to one of the windows in case
-- or rather, *when* -- he wanted to soak in some more sunlight.
I even washed the coffee mugs used by all our visitors. But in
the end, I just couldn't stay inside. Lois Lane had been
resurrected such a short time ago, and she was much too alive now
for me to hold still.

Slinging on a jacket, I made certain to lock the door carefully
behind me. With any luck, Clark would sleep deeply and never know
I had briefly left. With even better luck, I'd be able to find
Superman. I didn't allow myself to consider just how much
astronomical luck I'd need to get more than just a moment with
the superhero.

The bodyguards Henderson had assigned me were probably around
somewhere, but I didn't waste my time looking for them. If I
ended up just taking a walk around the block, they could follow
me; if Superman actually made an appearance, they could take a
break.

"Superman?" I called quietly, little louder than a whisper. He
had promised he would be around, and Clark had seemed to think he
could hear a fire in a Metropolis warehouse even while answering
emergencies out of the country, so...okay, maybe it was a stupid
idea, but it was the only one I had. He had, after all, told me
himself that he had good hearing. "Superman?"

"Good evening, Lois."

I whirled and found myself looking up at Superman, hovering a
foot in the air, his cape swirling about his shoulders. Awe
choked me for a moment, and all I could do was smile mutely up at
him. When I finally got my voice back, I managed an intelligent,
"Superman!"

"You called?" The nearby streetlights illuminated the flash of
humor in his dark eyes.

"I...yes, I did." I straightened, furiously trying to get a
hold of my dignity. "I wasn't sure it would work, but I...I
needed to talk to you. *Wanted* to talk to you," I amended a bit
breathily. Every time he left, I swore I'd be more calm and
collected the next time I spoke with him, and every time I saw
him again, I broke that promise. It was even worse now, when I
had, for so long, thought him dead.

"Well, this is a bit conspicuous." Superman glanced over his
shoulder -- probably straight at the bodyguards I hadn't yet
caught a glimpse of. "Why don't I give you a lift?"

My breath caught in my throat. He couldn't possibly mean...could
he? "A lift?" I repeated. "You mean..."

His amused smile was rare and even more amazing than his usual
stern expression. "I mean...a lift." And his arms lifted me
from the ground and collected me close to his chest.

And I was flying.

Delighted by his gesture -- and an excuse to loop my arms around
his neck -- I ignored the sight of Metropolis falling away
beneath my feet and stared up at Superman. I wanted to memorize
every one of his features -- I *had* memorized them all, poring
over every newsclip and photograph available -- but he was
different in the flesh. More real, more stunning, more...just
*more*.

"Wow," I said aloud, doing my best not to appear too awed. The
flight was amazing, no question; he, however, was enough to amaze
even the most jaded individual. "This beats taking a cab."

Superman's chuckle rumbled through his chest, making his
amusement a sensation I felt as well as heard. "I'm rather fond
of it myself."

"You are?" I winced, but it was too late. The words had already
winged their way out into the skies cradling our bodies. "I
mean, it's...well, natural for you, kind of like walking is for
us, you know? So, well, I just wasn't sure you thought of it as
-- "

I could have kissed him when he interrupted my nervous rambling.
Actually, I could have kissed him, period. "I enjoy the small
pleasures as well the large, Lois." His voice caressed me; his
eyes enflamed me.

My stomach dropped out from under me, lost to the night's mist
behind us. Even an explosion going off right next to us couldn't
have gotten me to look away from him at that moment. It would be
so easy to believe that we were the only two people in the world,
that the moon and stars were shining just for us, and that he was
telling me so much more than he was saying. But I had just barely
gotten him back after thinking him gone forever. That was enough
of a miracle for me to try to comprehend...at least for now.

So I found breath enough to form a small laugh, and I tore my
eyes from his piercingly intent gaze. "I should have known.
Clark said you were probably just like us, that without the
flying you could be an ordinary person."

"No." Superman drew me a little closer to himself, his skin
radiating a warmth almost enough to counteract the January chill
around us. "I am different. But there are some things that are
the same."

Idiot! I raged inwardly at myself. He's staring right at you,
taking you out for a flight, and you can't even get yourself to
form a single coherent sentence! Wake up! Show him -- and
yourself -- that you can be a competent reporter again!

"Uh..." I had to swallow to give myself time to come up with a
few more intelligible words. "Clark also said that you...he
was...have you spoken to Henderson?"

"I did. Why?"

"Did he mention that the warehouse where you found us was burnt
to the ground last night?"

"Yes." Superman met my questioning eyes, his expression grave.
"Trust me, Lois: had I known there was a fire there, I would
certainly have protected those men."

"I know." Daringly, I reached up and ran my hand down his neck
and along his shoulder. "You were saving innocent people -- and,
well, I know you don't presume to esteem one life above another,
but...you were doing what you always do -- saving the world."

"Still...I -- "

Oddly, his downcast expression reminded me of Clark. "You were
doing what you thought best," I told him, feeling a bit more
confident. It was strange how emboldening it was to realize that
Superman could use encouragement just as Clark or Jimmy or myself
could.

He arched a brow in an almost sardonic expression. "Henderson
said Clark sounded like he thought I left them there on
purpose."

"He's not well yet," I said quickly in Clark's defense. No
matter how confused his attitude made me, I didn't want Superman
to lose Clark as a friend, not when it seemed he was his *only*
friend. "He just needs a few more days to get acclimated to
freedom."

"Clark's been through a lot," Superman remarked in a somber
tone. Beneath us, the clouds parted to reveal a glittering
reflection of the skies, marred by the slithering movement of
waves. "I don't know if you realize just how much he endured.
It would be hard for anyone to recover from the things done to
him, let alone for someone as innocent as Clark."

"He's strong," I assured us both. "He'll get through this --
I know he will."

"I hope you're right, Lois." There was something incredibly
deep and profoundly sad in Superman's expression, and he turned
his face away from me as if realizing I wasn't ready to see the
truths written there.

"He will be okay," I insisted stubbornly. "He and I are
already working on proving that Lex is behind all this."

"Luthor?" Superman shifted me in his arms so he could peer into
my face

.

"Didn't you see him at the warehouse?"

"No. Is he the one responsible for hurting you?"

I let out a scoffing breath. "He's responsible for most of the
crimes in the city. Clark and I are investigating him so we can
expose him to the world. We're going to see to it that he pays
for his crimes. You could help," I added, visions of working
side by side with Superman flashing before my eyes like an
irresistible temptation.

"If I can," he replied succinctly, the tiniest hint of a smile
lifting the right corner of his mouth. "I am kept somewhat busy
with emergencies."

"I know." I smiled warmly. The feel of his arms holding me free
of gravity, the warmth of his body so close to mine, the
sensation of his breath skimming past my cheek, it was all making
me forget my decision to accept his miraculous return without
wanting more. "I've been watching you on the news all day."

"Have you?"

"Yes. Clark will hardly let us turn it off. He likes to be able
to see you. I don't think he quite believes any of this is real
yet."

"And you?" Superman asked, his voice gone soft and low. "Do
you believe this is real?"

"I..." I swallowed, then gave a tiny laugh. "Some moments are
easier than others."

"How about now?" Superman looked upward, and I followed the
direction of his gaze as we flew straight up though a bank of
clouds. And there, unrolled before us was the moon, huge and
shimmering and whiter than I had ever before seen it. The clouds
lapped at Superman's waist, unable to pull him back to the
Earth, unable to claim him fully as their own.

"It's beautiful!" I gasped. "And," I added softly, my hand
tightening on his neck, "this moment seems more like a dream
than real life."

"I am real, Lois." Superman wasn't looking at the
awe-inspiring scenery around us; he was gazing intently at me.
"I'm not just a figment of imagination or a disguise that fades
away when you look at it too closely. I'm here to stay."

Furiously, I blinked back tears. Language escaped me, as did the
skill of moving my mouth to shape words. I could no more have
spoken in that moment than I could have flown without Superman's
capable help. It was my fault Superman had been run out of the
city thinking he was responsible for the heat-wave -- though I
had later cleared his name, the vindication had come too late.
But now Superman was back...and joy suffused me with a glowing
thrill that rivaled the moon behind us.

"Are you cold?" he asked gently.

Until he voiced the question, I had been unaware of the
temperature, conscious only of the fact that I was being held in
the arms of a living, breathing miracle, but now that he had
broken the spell, chills began to shiver along my skin. My coat
did little to counter the frigidity stirred by the shifting
clouds through which we were wading.

"A little," I admitted, afraid that if I said more, he'd take
me away from this small, infinite pocket of air that seemed to be
his world.

"Here." Holding me securely with one arm, he reached back and
gathered his cape, then wrapped me in its warm, red folds.

If I hadn't already been madly in love with him before, I would
have fallen for him again right then. He might claim he was real,
but there was so much about him that could only be described as
"too good to be true." I couldn't begin to understand why he
had singled me out among all the reporters swarming around the
shuttle launch, or why he held me so much more tenderly during a
rescue than he did anyone else, but I was extremely grateful for
it. The awed crush birthed the moment he had smiled at me after
swallowing a bomb had grown into so much more when he had cupped
my cheek in his long fingers and promised me I would always be
special to him. And now...now I wouldn't hesitate to call it
true love.

"I come here a lot," Superman explained quietly, finally
looking away from me to survey the magnified stars around us.
"Between the stars and the Earth, not part of either one -- this
is where I belong. It's quiet up here, serene, and yet, looking
down at the cities below, I can see how much I am needed. I have
the might, which means I have the right to do what I can to help
people."

"It's an enormous responsibility," I remarked, filled with a
boundless admiration for this so-powerful man who used his
abilities only for good. He was like all the stories of knights
in shining armor and prince charming and angels put
together...and yet he was real. I could feel his heart thumping
steadily beneath my hand, could feel his chest rising and falling
with his breaths, and was warmed by my proximity to his skin.

Superman half-shrugged. "It's my place."

"But..." I glanced around me to take in the emptiness of the
sky, the sight of the earth below impeded by the engulfing
clouds. "Don't you ever get lonely?" I inwardly winced even
before the question had been fully asked, my thoughts tainted
with panic-tinged horror. Out loud, it sounded even more like a
come-on than it had in the instant before I spoke it.

The night air caressed us with silken fingers as cold as
Luthor's eyes had been when he threatened to slowly kill Clark.
Silence -- as heavy as the gravity that couldn't conquer
Superman -- covered us, cloaking the air in a pall of emptiness.
Superman stared at me silently, as if he weren't quite sure what
to make of my thoughtless question.

"I mean," I added hastily, my mind racing in an effort to make
the question seem innocent. "Well, don't you have anyone that
helps you? Or that you can talk to? I mean, I know you and Clark
are friends, but you haven't been able to talk to him for a
month."

Tact, I thought mournfully. Tact and patience -- harder to
acquire than a Pulitzer, but, boy, did I need them, and fast!

"Friends?" Superman repeated. He spoke the word slowly, as if
he were mulling it over, considering it from every angle.

"Well, yeah." A tiny pang of disappointment pierced the haze of
awe surrounding me, mixed in amongst the cloud's vapor. Why did
Clark and Superman cling so tightly to the ridiculous facade that
they hardly knew each other when they had to know I had figured
out just how much of a lie that was? "I know you used to talk to
him -- you treated his apartment like it was your home too. And
when he called you at his place while Alan Morris and I were
there, you acted like you spoke to him all the time. But...who do
you talk to now?"

Superman's eyes darkened, and his fingers spread over my back as
if to encompass the whole of me. "I'm talking to you."

"Yes." A giggle escaped me -- well, *not* a giggle! I did *not*
giggle. It was more of a...a strained chuckle. Yes, that was it.
We were very high up, after all, and the air was thinner than I
was used to. "You are." When he said nothing, his eyes
devouring me, swallowing me whole in their fathomless depths, I
finally managed to regain enough coherence to add, "I want to
help you, Superman. You can talk to me whenever you want."

"Thank you, Lois. That means a lot to me." He ducked his head,
and for a searing instant, I thought he was going to kiss me. My
stomach dropped out of my feet and fell toward the ground; my
thoughts scattered in a dizzying whirl and left me with only the
sudden realization that I was thousands of feet above the earth,
held aloft only by a pair of arms; my entire body went completely
motionless, unable to move an iota.

But Superman only adjusted the cape around me, drew me closer to
his chest, and began to descend back toward the Earth. Broken
from my breathless anticipation, I felt almost sick, knowing that
I had only minutes left with him, that any moment now he would be
setting me down and stepping back, taking with him the comfort of
his embrace, the security of his hold, the warmth of his cape,
the enthrallment of his presence.

Slowly, trying not to draw attention to the fact yet hardly
caring if he noticed, I snuggled in closer to him, sliding my
hand up his shoulder toward his neck, turning my face into his
chest and closing my eyes. Every sensation, every breath, every
instant -- I burned it all into my memory. Even if this was the
only time I ever flew with Superman and experienced such a
personal moment with him, I would have this night to treasure and
remember.

But I wanted so much more than one flight, one moment, one
secret.

I wanted a *lot* more.

"I'll set you down on the street," Superman murmured in my
ear, his voice pitched low enough to send a shiver down my spine.
"It's better if Clark doesn't see us."

"I'm sorry," I whispered, reluctant to open my eyes or lift my
head from its comfortable perch, knowing that his sensitive
hearing would pick up the words anyway. "I can't imagine how
hard it is to get your friend back only to have him..."

"Dislike me?" Superman finished for me.

Jarred by a flash of how awful it would have been if Clark had
treated me as he was Superman, I stirred myself to meet
Superman's shadowed gaze. "I'm sorry," I said again, hating
the uselessness of the words yet willing them to mean something.
"I'll try to talk to him, Superman, get him to realize that
you're still his friend."

Though he gave me a small smile, Superman said nothing, and I
knew he didn't think talking to Clark would do any good. And
really, I didn't either, but I refused to just give up.

He set me down on his feet, and I bit back my protest when his
cape dropped away from my body and left me exposed to the
elements. "Well, good night, Lois. Remember, I'm watching."

"My own guardian angel," I teased, rewarded with his quiet
chuckle.

"I forgot my wings at home." He reached out his hand but curled
it around my shoulder rather than my cheek.

"You don't need them," I told him. "The cape is more than
enough."

An almost childlike grin changed the superhero's entire
demeanor. "I like it, too." He sobered quickly, however. "I'd
better be going. I'm required elsewhere."

"Good night." I wanted to add something personal, like the
notes in Clark's postcards, but before I could think of
anything, he was gone, a blur and a whoosh that faded away and
left me standing alone.

I almost floated back into my apartment building and up to my
floor. Fortunately, I came back to the earth in time to remember
to be quiet as I unlocked the door and entered. I made certain to
turn the locks again behind me and moved toward the bedroom,
shedding my coat as I went.

Moving in the dark, I nonetheless looked over toward the cot,
reassured of a fear I hadn't even known I possessed when I saw
the silhouette of Clark lying beneath his blankets. Oddly, he was
still wearing his glasses, the lenses marked by the lights
reflecting off the glass. No doubt it was another aspect of his
long imprisonment -- perhaps having been without the glasses so
long, he was afraid to set them aside -- and I shrugged it aside
as I tiptoed toward the bathroom.

"Are you all right?" Clark's voice -- worried and helpless --
startled me and I jumped a good foot into the air.

Trying to convince my heart that it wouldn't do any good to
escape my chest, I stepped to Clark's side. "Yes, Clark, I'm
fine." Surprise made me sound more irritated than I had intended
-- well, surprise and exasperation. I was an exceptional reporter
and a very good snoop, if I did say so myself, yet I never seemed
to be able to get one over on Clark.

"Lois." Clark's voice was incredibly hesitant. Usually, his
natural politeness was tempered by the confidence that seemed so
inherent to him; now, however, that confidence was hard to
detect. "You should be careful with him."

"With who?" I asked innocently.

With a sigh, Clark obliged me. "With Superman."

"Why?" I demanded, belatedly realizing that the tone of my
voice was probably not what Henderson had meant when he warned me
to be patient and exactly what he had meant when he doubted I was
capable of that patience. "Superman's saved both our lives --
not to mention the entire world!"

"Lois, you don't know anything about him!" Finally my own
irritation must have gotten through to Clark because, for the
first time since he had told me to call Luthor the Boss, his
voice rose with frustration. "You don't know his motives or his
whereabouts or his...his...well, he could be married for all you
know!"

"Married?" I repeated incredulously. "Superman? Clark, that's
rid -- " Abruptly, I paused. Clark knew so much more about the
superhero than I did, but he would never betray confidences.
So...what if Clark knew something I didn't and was trying to
warn me? But if that were the case, why had he once told me
Superman might just be afraid to reveal his true feelings?
Maddeningly, Clark's expression was concealed in the darkness.
"Did he tell you he was married?" I asked cautiously.

Again, my emotion was reflected in Clark's voice. "W-what do
you mean?"

I shrugged, impatient with the deflection. "When we were flying,
he mentioned that he talked to you."

"He took you flying?" There was a bleak, yet oddly wistful,
note to Clark's voice that paused me and dampened my
frustration. I hated this. Why couldn't Clark just be happy with
friendship? Why did he always have to compare himself to the
superhero? Why couldn't he understand that he was perfect just
the way he was and that he didn't need to fly to be special in
his own way? Why hadn't *I* understood that before now?

"Yes," I answered shortly. "Anyway, Clark, I know you guys are
friends and -- "

"What...what makes you think that?"

"Are you saying you're not?" I asked bluntly.

"Lois, the man you were flying with, he isn't -- " Clark went
silent as suddenly as if someone had clamped a hand over his
mouth. By the dim light emanating in from the light in the
bathroom, I saw his head tilt toward the window beside him. The
shadowed lump that was Clark seemed to shrink and curl in on
itself. His voice was shuttered when he spoke again. "I don't
know him all that well. I just think you should be careful."

Incredibly, I softened. It wasn't my usual tactic, but Clark had
been so lost recently that I couldn't help it. And as always, he
was only looking out for me. "I'll be all right, Clark. I know
he's a superhero, and I know he belongs to the whole world. In
fact, that...was illustrated to me pretty clearly tonight. Don't
worry. I won't let my expectations get too out of hand, all
right?"

"Lois, that's n -- " He cut off as suddenly as before, then
sighed in dejection. "All right. Good night."

"Good night, Clark." I watched him a moment longer, but when he
made no further move, I turned and went into the bathroom. I
readied for bed as quickly and quietly as possible before
slipping under the covers. The mere thought of sleeping seemed
impossible, not when my mind was jumbled with images of Clark and
flashes of being held aloft in Superman's arms and snippets of
conversations with both men and the cold, harsh memory of Lex
threatening all that I loved and held dear.

Yet as impossible as it seemed, I did sleep. And as could be
expected with that shifting collage of thoughts and memories, I
dreamed a nightmare.

I was standing on the ledge of a tall building and looking at
Superman, who hovered in the air before me as if the ledge
extended another two feet. He was gazing at me with the same
expression he had worn when I woke in Clark's apartment to find
Superman watching over me while we were investigating the Golden
Boy Barnes story.

Later, after waking, I couldn't remember what was said between
us in the dream, but I knew that Superman and I were talking, one
trapped by gravity, the other unhindered by any constraint. And
then, suddenly -- as happens in dreams -- we were embracing, and
I was holding fistfuls of his cape clenched in my hands as I
pulled him closer to me.

We were about to kiss, I was sure of it -- only, in my dream, I
was much more confident about it than I had been adrift in the
clouds. As he bent his head and moved his mouth close to mine, I
felt the cape in my hands being pulled and stretched. Superman
was slipping away, I realized, falling toward the far-away
ground, prisoner to all that had once been unable to claim him. I
called his name and tried to hold onto his cape, tried to pull
him onto the ledge with me, but he was too heavy, too ponderous.
And all the while, as I screamed his name and pulled at his cape,
he said nothing, only stared up at me with an awful, crushing,
sorrowful disappointment.

For one, breathless moment, I held him suspended in the air...and
then he dropped.

"No!" I screamed. "Clark! Clark!"

But Clark didn't come and Superman was gone, swallowed up by
distance and mist. And when I fell to my knees at the edge of
solidity, bowed beneath the weight of grief and regret, I blinked
my tears away to see what I held clenched in my hands. It wasn't
Superman's cape anymore.

It was Clark's glasses.

"Clark," I whispered, and abruptly realized that it wasn't
Superman who had slipped away from me -- it was Clark. And he
hadn't been torn from me -- he had left of his own free will.

And in the curious way of dreams, I knew that if I jumped off the
ledge out into open air -- jumped to certain death -- I would
find him. So I stood at the very edge of solid ground to look out
at the perilous drop, Clark's glasses clasped tightly in my
hand, and...I couldn't do it. I couldn't jump, not unless
Superman would catch me.

I had failed him. I was too afraid, too wounded, too human to
rescue him, and so he was gone, left abandoned and desolate and
haunted by shadows.

"Lois? Lois, please wake up. Shh, it's all right. It's okay.
It's okay."

"Clark!" I wasn't sure whether I said the name in my dream or
because I became aware that I was awake and that he was perched
on the edge of the bed, holding me in his arms. I didn't care
which it was. All that mattered was that he was still there, that
he was holding me together, and that his whisper stirring my hair
reassured me that it had all just been a dream.

"Clark," I said again and, ignoring the twinge of my sore
shoulder, threw my arms around his neck. I didn't care what he
thought of me or that Lois Lane wasn't supposed to fall apart; I
just wanted him to hold me. I just wanted to hide the tears
trickling inexplicably down my cheeks. I just wanted to erase the
pain of seeing Clark and Superman both slip away from me.

"Shh, it's okay. It's okay." Clark continued to repeat his
soothing whispers, holding me tighter as I desperately clung to
him. He was warm, single-handedly combating the chill that sought
to pervade my body. He was solid, driving away the phantoms of my
dream. He was alive, calming newly-awoken fears.

My breaths were more like shuddering gasps. I couldn't even
bring myself to imagine pulling away from Clark, not yet, not for
a hundred more years. It was as if all the trauma and fear and
horror and stress and relief -- all the reaction I hadn't
allowed myself to feel earlier -- were crashing down on me. I had
been strong for Clark; I had been calm for Superman; I had been
determined for Perry and Henderson; I had been confident for
Jimmy. Now, however, in the middle of the night with only Clark
as witness -- surrounded by a darkness made softer than the
cell's pitch blackness by the dim light glowing around us -- I
could drop all my masks and just be myself.

"Were you dreaming about Luthor?" Clark asked, worry and fear
turning his voice to sandpaper.

All I could manage was a short shake of my head.

"Your kidnapping?"

"No," I whispered, burying my face even deeper into the cleft
between his shoulder and his neck. I didn't want to try to put
my dream into words, didn't want to try to explain it, didn't
want to do anything but forget it. Seeming to read my mind, Clark
stopped talking and simply held me, rocking me slightly back and
forth until the shudders drained from my body and the tears
evaporated and sleep once more began to tap on my shoulder.

"Here." Clark moved to lower me gently back to the pillows.
Instantly, my entire body tensed and I held onto him with a
death-grip, selfishly forgetting the bruises covering his flesh.

"Don't leave me." I pulled back just enough to look into his
eyes, his expression finally revealed by the bathroom light,
concern and tenderness limned in gold. "Please, don't leave
me."

"Okay, I won't," he promised me, and I relaxed. Because Clark
didn't lie, and if he promised me he'd stay, he would. Till the
end of time.

Forcibly, I banished the memory of him walking away from me,
disappearing behind the Planet's elevator doors.

"I'm right here," he murmured soothingly. "I'm right
here."

Daring to loosen a hand from around his neck, I pushed the
blankets aside so he could slide in beside me, then rearranged
them over him when he settled himself next to me.

I had already curled up next to him, my eyes squeezed tightly
shut, when I realized that I wasn't really being fair to him. It
had been a well-known fact among the Planet's grapevine that
Clark had a crush on me; I myself had recognized that since at
least the second or third day I had known him. I should pull
away, chuckle and say I was fine, let him go back to his own cot
and save us both from future embarrassment.

But he had promised he wouldn't leave me.

And I didn't want him to go.

I needed him, and right now, he needed me. We had slept together
in the cell without a second thought, and in a way, we were both
still prisoners, both still locked away from the rest of the
world and the future -- he imprisoned by fear and I consumed with
guilt. Both of us still trapped in that pocket of black void,
frozen in time.

Besides, he felt so good and so safe, as if nothing could hurt me
while he was protecting me. So I muted my inner argument, and I
pressed closer to Clark, and I relaxed when he tightened his own
arms around me, and I slept.

If I dreamed again, the dreams vanished into obscurity.

***

Chapter 8

Bruises ringed Clark's wrist.

They had probably been there the entire time I was in the cell
with him. Certainly, they had been there yesterday -- in fact, I
had even noted the fact that he was bruised over a significant
portion of his visible body. But yesterday, I had had the relief
of our freedom to counter the effects of the bruises. Yesterday,
I had had my elation over Superman's return from the grave. I
had had my resolve to see Luthor put away for good and my
confusion over Clark's altered behavior.

Today, I had nothing.

Today, I woke with my head pillowed on Clark's chest, my hand
resting near my face, his hand lying reverently over mine, and
the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was the black bruise
adorning -- scarring -- his sharp wrist. Like pieces of darkness
torn from our cell to rest beneath his flesh with the appearance
of inescapable manacles.

And it was my fault.

No, I hadn't been the one to beat him or menace him with a green
drug or gloat over him. But I had let pride and work and anger
stop me from doing what I was best at -- investigating. What
would it have taken to realize Clark was in trouble? Surely after
not receiving a call from him after Nightfall's destruction --
to make sure I was all right, to hear me rave about Superman's
astonishing heroism -- surely then I could have called his
parents. And when I found out they were gone...well, wouldn't
that have jumpstarted me on a road that might have led to that
tiny cell?

One phone call.

One phone call that had never happened, and now the sunlight
Clark so craved fell in a wide swathe across the bedroom to shine
a spotlight on what he had suffered as a result.

I didn't, as I had halfway expected, feel embarrassed to wake up
in the arms of my colleague and friend.

I felt ashamed.

I felt physically sick.

How could Clark not blame me for, if nothing else, at least the
duration of his imprisonment? As nice as he was, as much as he
liked me, didn't human nature itself *demand* that some part of
him -- no matter how small and neglected a part -- hate me for
what had happened to him?

And yet, just as Superman said nothing about the heat-wave or my
belated article proving his innocence, Clark had said nothing to
indicate that he blamed me for anything that had happened to him.
He didn't say anything about how I had fought -- no matter how
uselessly -- to keep Superman in Metropolis and yet refused to
raise a finger to stop him from leaving. He didn't breathe a
word about the fact that I could have started a search for him
weeks ago.

Instead, he tried to comfort me. He soothed my fears and chased
my nightmares away. He gave and gave and gave, stark contrast to
my suspicions and frustration and stubbornness. And I wondered if
the darkness of that cell was actually encased in my heart even
more so than in Clark's flesh. His bruises would fade and
disappear, banished by the light; mine might fester and grow in
shadows.

Everyone was so concerned that Clark wouldn't get over his
captivity, but I hadn't, frankly, seen that the forced
imprisonment had changed Clark's basic character all that
drastically. But what about me? Would *I* ever be able to heal?

As smoothly as haste allowed, I slid free of Clark's arms --
cringing when he stirred in his sleep and whispered my name,
relaxing fractionally when he calmed -- and ran to the bathroom.
When I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, the dark
circles under my eyes looked too much like Clark's bruises, and
I was abruptly, violently, ill.

I only wished that bitter failure was as easy to wash away as the
taste of vomit.

Two men in my life -- one a hero, the other a friend -- and I had
failed them both. Yet even Henderson had recognized the fact that
Clark didn't seem to have changed his opinion of me at all. And
Superman...

For whatever reason, Superman seemed to hold me in high regard. I
don't know what I had done to deserve it -- he had seemed to
feel the same toward me even before I had introduced myself to
him just before our flight to the Daily Planet -- and I don't
know why he had never seemed to revise it. Last night, he had
looked at me with the same approving gaze he had given me since
my first glimpse of him; he had spoken to me with the same level
of openness and trust as when he had assured me I would always be
special to him; he had shown me a new side of himself in a way
that I had, quite honestly, never really expected.

But I didn't deserve that level of consideration from either of
them.

And with that dark realization, the joy of the day before
disappeared, leaving bleak resolve in its place.

I showered and dressed out of habit, almost perfunctorily taking
care of my gunshot wound. I was careful to avert my eyes from my
reflection lest I once again be reminded of Clark's pain. I made
some toast and cut up some apples for breakfast, and I actually
remembered to brew the coffee and set some water on the stove for
Clark's tea. And then I sat down in the living room and began
going through all my intel on LexCorp. I couldn't allow myself
to be distracted by daydreams about Superman or worry for
Clark's mental and physical condition. I didn't dare think
about the past lest I find Lois Lane once more buried beneath a
mountain of guilt and self-recrimination. I simply concentrated
on the daunting task of bringing down Metropolis's largest
crime-lord.

"Lois?"

"Good morning, Clark." I allowed myself a glance at Clark and
instantly regretted it. The sight of him drooping and confused in
the threshold to the bedroom was like a punch in the gut. He
looked so vulnerable! Still! When would he be better? Would he
*ever* be better? "There's toast and apples in the kitchen.
Please, eat some. You need the proteins, or vitamins, or whatever
it is that food gives you."

"Really?" The wry humor apparent in his voice stole my breath,
but I dared not look away from the file in my hands.

"Yeah. Oh, and where did you put the list of what evidence you
have? I'd like to look it over. Henderson's supposed to send
over copies of what they have later today."

"It's still on the notepad." Though he gestured to the coffee
table, he didn't look away from me, and his brow was furrowed,
as if he were trying to read my mind. Which scared me a little --
he was so good at seeing everything I fought so hard to keep
hidden.

"Call me if you need help with anything," I said. It sounded
more like a dismissal than a helpful offer.

"All right," he said uncertainly.

Only when the bathroom door closed behind him did I lower the
file and squeeze my eyes shut. What was I doing? Just because he
was a reminder of all that I was seeking to atone for didn't
mean that I had to push him away!

When he emerged from the bathroom dressed and looking a tiny bit
steadier on his feet, I managed to dredge up a smile for him.
"Are you feeling any better?"

"I think so." He said it confidently, but I wasn't sure how
far I could trust his assessment of his own condition since he
had, after all, tried to tell me he felt fine the same night
Superman rescued us.

"You didn't shave," I observed.

Almost nervously, he reached up and adjusted his glasses. "I...I
wasn't sure I'd be able to."

"You've been shaving for a while now," I observed dryly.
"Surely it's gotten easier over the years?"

"Well, I..." Again, he adjusted his glasses, and this time, I
noticed that his hands were still shaky. Clark shifted his weight
uncomfortably, a shadow darkening his expression.

"Let me do it," I offered impulsively.

Clark froze. "I...I don't think..."

"It can't be that hard," I interrupted, setting aside the
papers and standing up. "Come on."

Shaving his stubble wasn't exactly taking down Luthor, but it
was something that Clark needed. Something I could do for him. I
knew Clark well enough to know that he would never countenance
the idea of me working to pay off a debt to him, but that wasn't
what I was doing, not really. I just wanted to show him that I
was willing to be his friend despite what my inactivity had cost
him. I wanted to reassure him that he wasn't alone.

In my dream, both Superman and Clark had been torn from me, yet
it was Superman who had given me that disappointed look. I hated
analyzing myself or my dreams, but I couldn't shake the thought
that Superman had been the one to be disillusioned because Clark
knew me well enough not to expect anything more. He hadn't
expected me to look for him in the month he had been captured. He
had known I hadn't called his parents to find out what had
happened to him. He had been surprised to realize that I
possessed any incidental knowledge of him -- such as what he took
in his coffee.

But I *wanted* Clark to expect more from me. I wanted him to know
without a doubt that I would stop him if he tried to leave again,
that I would look for him if he disappeared, that I would never
let anyone hurt him again. Helping him shave was just a symbol of
my silent promise to him.

Clark stayed utterly still and strangely quiet while I erased the
dark hints of stubble from his face. His eyes never left my face,
which could have been discomfiting. Could have been...but it
wasn't. Instead, I kept my own expression open and friendly,
though it did flicker with surprise when he ducked away from my
attempt to remove his glasses.

"I'd rather keep them on," he said quietly.

"All right," I agreed slowly.

I finished in silence, my movements slowing when I took a washrag
to wipe his face dry. He was quiescent beneath my touch, his eyes
almost painfully intent upon mine. And suddenly I couldn't help
wondering how many times he had broken the silence of his cell to
beg me to search for him. How many times had he prayed that I was
coming for him? How many times had his voice echoed in the
confines of that black cell only to fall on deaf ears? Was that
why he was silent now?

My hands shook, and I hastily lowered the cloth, turning away to
hide my shattered expression from Clark.

"Lois." His voice was as gentle as the hand on my arm freezing
me in place. "You're not still blaming yourself for Superman's
exile, are you?"

That was close enough to my thoughts that I promised myself I'd
never again believe him when he said he couldn't read minds.

"No," I said shortly. "You're all done. You need to eat
something."

"It's not your fault, Lois. You can't take responsibility for
other people's actions or crimes."

"I know." I faced him, forcing a smile that did nothing to
smooth out the crease in his brow. "I'm just...I'm eager to
find something on Luthor. He's probably laughing right now,
thinking he's gotten away with kidnapping just like he's gotten
away with everything else."

"He probably is," Clark agreed far more evenly than I could
have in his place. "Just remember that he's the one behind
everything. He was the one who framed Superman for the heat-wave,
not you. He's the one who -- "

"He *framed* Superman?" I gaped at Clark, staggered by the
revelation.

"Well..." A strangely panicked expression washed the concern
from his features. "You...I read your article that proved it was
LexCorp Nuclear Plant that had been causing the rise in
temperature. That Superman was innocent."

"It was," I said impatiently. "But...it wasn't an accident? I
mean, I suspected that Luthor knew his Plant had problems and
covered it up, but...you think he did it intentionally?"

Clark seemed to shrink in on himself. "That's what he said.
He...he liked to brag about how he had pulled Superman down from
the skies."

"Something else I should have investigated," I remarked,
bitterness tainting my tone.

"Please, Lois, don't do this." Clark stood to place his hands
on my shoulders. "Did you take responsibility for the
Messenger's explosion? Did you blame yourself for the fires
started by the Toasters? Did you confess to complicity in your
father's work? Just because you report on the stories -- or
don't know about them to report them -- does not mean they're
your fault. This was all Luthor's doing -- let *him* take the
heat for it!"

It was hard to see him; his features blurred as if I were looking
at him through water. And I was -- tiny drops of salty water.
"But...you were his prisoner for a *month*, Clark! I could have
gotten you out! I *should* have gotten you out!"

"Shh, it's not your fault." Clark pulled me into a hug as
naturally as if we were simply shaking hands -- more naturally,
even. As soon as his arms were around me, holding me close to his
too-slight frame and comforting warmth, I felt tension drain
away. My bones threatened to collapse in a trembling pile; my
muscles relaxed with a single touch; my emotions calmed and
settled, allowing his convincing arguments to echo and rebound
within my head.

"I am sorry, Clark." I lifted my head to look up at him, though
I didn't step out of his embrace. I didn't think I was yet
strong enough to stand on my own. Which was odd, considering the
fact that he was the one who wavered on his feet. "I understand,
in theory, that your captivity is not my fault. But...I'm still
sorry that I didn't look for you."

"And I'm sorry that I left you." His smile was only an
imitation of the ones he used to give out, but it was a smile
nonetheless, and for now, it was enough. "So, no more apologies?
No more beating yourself up over things that aren't your
fault?"

"I guess," I said, pretending casualness in order to conceal
just how much his open forgiveness was affecting me. "Just make
sure you eat something -- you look like you're going to blow
away," I added as I reluctantly took a step away from him. A
flicker of something -- disappointment? -- passed across his face
when his arms fell back to his sides.

I walked with him to the kitchen and made sure he was eating
before I returned to the research on Luthor. Strangely, I was
even more determined than before to see Luthor sentenced to life
in prison. Clark's forgiveness should have allayed my terrible
impatience for justice; instead, it only seemed to make it
stronger. Clark was so good, so open, so...so undeserving of the
things Luthor had done to him.

And Superman...Superman deserved justice for being driven from
his home. I could still remember the crushing pain he had tried
to hide the day he had said goodbye in the midst of that crowded
hallway in the courthouse. It had devastated him to think he had
been responsible for the heat-wave; it had almost destroyed him
to be asked to leave the city he had adopted as his own. I could
only imagine how hard it must have been to travel constantly from
city to city, country to country, always moving lest he bring
down the sun's heat on those around him, never able to use his
powers to allay the suffering he encountered.

All Lex Luthor's fault -- not mine. Clark was right. Luthor was
the monster, and it was up to me -- and Clark -- to take that
monster down.

Henderson himself came by to deliver the MPD material as well as
some forms we needed to fill out in order to file a formal
statement. I greeted the inspector distractedly and listened only
well enough to register how little the police actually had
managed to get on Luthor. Clark's list of proof was a bit more
impressive, including copies of actual files that proved Luthor
had implemented his plan to build his own space-station *before*
the Messenger had been sabotaged, witnesses who claimed that
Luthor had funded the development of the Toaster weapons and the
Mentamide 5, transcripts of phone conversations between LexTower
and known terrorist groups, and photographs of a blurry Luthor
confronting Roarke and Congressman Harrington the night before
they turned up dead from an alleged "botched mugging."

"How did you get all this?" Henderson asked incredulously after
he had skimmed the list. I wasn't sure I had ever seen the
laconic inspector so impressed before.

Clark shrugged. He was ensconced in a chair by the window where
he could soak in the sunlight. "I realized almost from the
moment I came into town that Luthor was corrupt, so I started
investigating him right away."

Henderson shook his head. "If you ever want to become an
inspector, just let me know. I'll have the paperwork ready."

Slowly, Clark's eyes moved to me, though I pretended not to
notice. "No thanks, Bill."

"Well, I'm already feeling much better about leaving this
investigation to you two." Henderson shot me a warning glance.
"Just be careful, please. Luthor's sure to have a way to
explain away seventy or eighty percent of what we have. You two
as witnesses, however, that's what'll tip the case."

"Superman's looking out for us," I assured him.

The inspector nodded, clearly relieved. "Good. I was hoping
he'd keep an eye on you. All right. I'd better leave. No need
to draw more attention your way than absolutely necessary.
You're looking better, Kent."

"Lois is taking good care of me," he said. For some reason, he
seemed more subdued than he had a moment earlier.

"It must be the sunlight," I said with a puzzled frown.
"You'd almost think it had healing powers the way you sit in it
all the time."

"Whatever works," Henderson interjected.

As soon as the inspector had left, I returned to my obsessive
perusal of our proof. Clark was going through some files, too,
but out of the corner of my eye, I noticed him dozing off a few
times. The medic had said it was a good thing if he got a lot of
rest, so I didn't disturb him.

I wasn't aware of how much time had passed until my stomach
growled in dissatisfaction. Surprised, I glanced up and realized
that the noon hour had come and been replaced by early afternoon.
Guiltily realizing that I hadn't bothered to see that Clark ate
any lunch, I glanced over at him. He was slumped over in the
chair, a file resting in his lap, his head propped up against the
back of the chair as he slept. In the sunlight, his skin looked
almost golden, and I dared to hope that it had permanently lost
its ashen tint.

Promising myself that when he woke, I'd make sure he ate
something, I ignored my own hunger and turned back to the
research. Maybe I couldn't solve this in a day, but I was
determined to give it my best effort. I wanted Clark to feel safe
again. I wanted Superman to feel welcome again. And I...I wanted
closure. I wanted to put this chapter of my life behind me
forever.

"Lois?"

Startled out of my intent focus, I looked up. "Clark!"

He set a hand to the coffee table as he bent to look at me, but
otherwise, he appeared much steadier than he had just that
morning. "Lois, I think you need a break. You're working *way*
too hard."

"I thought you were the one who said we needed to put Luthor
away."

"I did, but I didn't mean you had to do it all before tomorrow.
Please, Lois. It'll be good for you to get out." I had just
opened my mouth to protest when Clark glanced back toward the
sunlit window. "Besides, I haven't been outside for a long
time. I'd love to take a walk in the park myself, if you don't
mind."

"O-of course not!" Hastily, I jumped to my feet, wincing when
files scattered across the floor. "Do you have a coat or a
jacket?"

"Perry brought me one. I think he must have raided his sons'
closets."

"Where is it? I'll grab it when I get my coat."

"It's with the rest of the stuff he brought." Clark moved
toward the door. He walked slowly but steadily; all in all, I was
amazed at how much better he seemed. It was hard to be sure in
the late afternoon shadows, but I was relatively certain that the
bruises had faded somewhat from his face.

"Great way to take care of him, Lane," I muttered to myself as
I opened the closet and pulled out my coat, then ducked into the
bedroom to grab Clark's jacket from the duffel bag Perry had
left. "Just forget all about him and make him beg you to take
him outside -- that's sure to make him feel better!"

The minute I came into view around the corner, Clark's eyes met
mine. "You're not blaming yourself for things again, are
you?"

My step checked. "What? No, of...of course not. Why would I do
that?"

The sight of his restrained grin stole the breath right out of my
lungs and left me literally incapable of taking another step
forward. "No reason."

"Good," I managed to say. "Then...then let's get going."

Luckily, Jimmy had brought my Jeep back when he had visited, so I
was able to drive us to Centennial Park. Not that I wanted to go
to Centennial Park, but Clark did, and no matter that I had
avoided the place since they erected Superman's memorial, I
didn't have the heart to deny Clark's request, not when he was
obviously taking so much pleasure in being out and about. The
piercingly sharp winter sun fell across his lap in a
gold-and-carnelian bundle that gave him the illusion of having
more substance and fewer bruises as he drank in the sight of
everything we passed.

As soon as I parked, I jumped out and hurried to help Clark out
of the Jeep, but he had already slid to his feet. For a long
moment, he didn't move at all, just looked around at the sights,
his gaze pausing first on a cluster of trees, then on the benches
set near the perimeter of the park, then on the groups of people
strolling along the green pathways. I didn't turn to see
everything else he looked at; I just watched him. I had never
known anyone to take as much pleasure in the small things as
Clark did, as if he delighted in normality and thrived on the
ordinary. Once, I had scorned that quality; now, I envied it.

"You ready?" I finally asked, careful to keep my tone patient.
Ha! I thought triumphantly. Wouldn't Henderson have been
surprised if he were there?

"Yes." Clark turned his face up to the sun, then smiled down at
me. I could have sworn the dark bruise perched on his cheekbone
had shrunk before the warm light. And was it my imagination or
was he standing straighter than he had since before I woke to his
hand on my shoulder and watched him walk out of the newsroom with
his shoulders slumped?

When my hand settled in the crook of his arm without any
conscious direction, I tried to tell myself that it was just
because I didn't want him to stumble and fall as we walked
toward the fountain set in the center of the park. But that was a
lie. The truth was that even before he had left me, even before I
had known him a full two weeks, I was already taking his arm
proprietarily. I had always told myself it was just to keep him
out of Cat's clutches, but the gossip columnist was nowhere in
sight now.

The delighted smile Clark gave me in response to my gesture
scattered my thoughts so completely that I forgot I needed to
justify the physical closeness.

"Hmm." Clark glanced around us at the steady stream of people
passing us in both directions. "Why is it so busy here?"

I paused, abruptly reminded of the reason I had avoided this park
for the past month. "Don't you remember, Clark? I told you this
is where they buried Superman. Well," I hastily added with a
glance up to the sky to check for any hint of a red and blue
flash. "Not Superman -- just his cape. It's usually much busier
than this, but I guess the news of his return has made the
memorial seem a bit...I don't know, unnecessary?"

"Superman's memorial?" Clark fell completely still, his arm
beneath my hand turned suddenly slack, his gaze fixed on the tip
of the Superman statue visible in the distance.

"I suppose he'll probably visit it himself and make some sort
of statement," I said thoughtfully. "He's always been good
about stuff like that. But he has been awfully busy all over the
world lately."

Clark gave me a sidelong glance. "He has to build up good
will...secure his place."

I scowled at him, unable to bite back my irritation on
Superman's behalf. "I think Superman helps because he cares."

"Superman does, yes," Clark agreed carefully. "Lois, would
you...would you mind if we visited the memorial? Or...or do you
not want to?"

After a slight hesitation, I shrugged. "It's all right. Now
that I know he's alive, I don't think it'll be near as
painful."

The closer we got to the memorial -- the more Clark's steps
slowed and his expression closed down -- the more I wondered if
this was such a good idea. Clark already seemed to possess some
inexplicable hostility -- or, at the least, mistrust -- of
Superman; what would the sight of the life-size statue of
Superman and the plaque at its base do to his mental and
emotional state?

Clark's step checked when he caught sight of the memorial and
the carpet of flowers, tokens, and cards that lay at the steel
feet. As if in a trance, Clark moved forward until he had to
crane his neck to look up at the superhero's silver eyes, fixed
on their stern perusal of the city before him. I kept close to
Clark's side and was glad of that when his knees buckled.
Quickly, I helped him to the bench placed where visitors come to
pay their respects could sit and gaze upon the statue as they
remembered the myriad ways Superman had influenced their lives.

"So much admiration," Clark murmured, almost as if he spoke
only to himself. His eyes roved over the multitude of items left
behind by well-wishers from all over the world. "So much
acceptance...not alienation. Not fear. Not distrust. And
yet...what good is it now? He's stolen it from me." The last
sentence was whispered so softly I convinced myself that I had
heard him wrong.

"Clark." I hesitated, then placed a hand on his shoulder,
determined to help him even as I reeled in confusion over his
seeming ambivalence toward his friend. "What's wrong? Why do
you..." I trailed off, unable to even explain his strange moods.
"Don't you like Superman?"

"I do like Superman," Clark said softly. When I followed his
gaze, I saw that he was now staring directly at the S symbol
engraved in steel. "He was always there when he was needed, able
to save lives, able to safely do things no one else could. He got
to see hope birthed in people's eyes, got to see them realize
that the world possessed more than just darkness, that it
contained good and hope and light as well. When I was absent, or
late, or just...not enough...he was there. He was what everyone
wanted, what the world needed. What *I* needed." Abruptly, Clark
turned his head and looked straight into my wide eyes. "He saved
your life a dozen times, Lois -- and that alone makes him worth
it all."

"He saved your life, too," I pointed out eagerly.

"Has he?" Clark looked away as his hands clenched into tight
fists.

A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold bench on which we
were sitting passed up my spine and traveled through my body in
spreading ripples.

A stray memory floated to the forefront of my mind. Clark,
depressed after covering a drive-by shooting, sitting next to my
desk and bitterly asking what good Superman was if he couldn't
save everyone.

Suddenly, with the speed of a lightning bolt that left one
electrified with shock, I thought I might understand why Clark
distrusted Superman. Why he seemed to fear him one moment and
idolize him the next. Why he couldn't stand to talk to him yet
wanted to know where he was at all times.

I had been blaming myself for Clark's prolonged captivity; it
had been Clark himself who had assured me that it wasn't my
fault. And yet...he had said nothing to indicate that he didn't
fault *Superman* for it.

Was it possible? Could Clark, even if only subconsciously, be
blaming the superhero for not rescuing him earlier? Did he think
it was because he was Superman's friend that he had been
captured by Luthor and tortured?

And if that was the cause of Clark's ambivalence...what could I
possibly do to change his mind? How did you undo a month of
torture? How did you downplay four weeks of pain and isolation
and terror? How could you possibly expect a man -- even a man
like Clark Kent -- to set aside his nightmares and give a smile,
a handshake, and unequivocal forgiveness?

"Clark," I asked, already dreading hearing his answer so
unmistakably spelled out yet needing to confront it. "If you
could ask Superman one question -- *any* question -- what would
it be?"

Clark shifted, then gave me a forced smile. "Is this an
interview?"

"No," I replied softly. "I just...I just want to know."

"Okay." His brow creased slightly as he considered his answer,
the emotion in his eyes diffracted by the lenses of his glasses.
"I would ask him...is he happy?"

"What?" I blinked, caught off-guard.

"I'd ask him if he's happy being Superman. If being rescuer,
savior, and world icon is enough for him. I would ask him if
a...a half life...is enough to sustain him. Because I think
that's something he needs to know. Something *I* need to know,
now more than ever."

My mouth was open, but I couldn't get a single word to emerge.

Clark angled his body slightly toward me, as if to block out the
sight of the statue. "So, Lois, if you could ask Superman one
question -- *any* question -- what would it be?" The shift in
his position had shaded his glasses from the direct glare of the
light, and now I could see cautious hope warring with uncertainty
in his soft eyes.

If he had asked me that question before I had heard his response,
I don't know what I would have said. Maybe a question about what
Superman did when he wasn't making rescues or attending
emergencies or flying me above the clouds. Maybe I'd have asked
him how he could be so good as to give up so much in order to
save so many.

But after hearing the concern inherent in Clark's answer, I knew
there was only one thing I could say. And not only for his sake,
but for mine as well -- because I now badly, desperately, wanted
to know Superman's answer.

"I think," I began slowly, "I would ask him why -- when he was
there countless times to save my life -- why wasn't he there to
save *you* from harm?"

Astonishment eclipsed all other emotion in Clark's face, his
expression disbelieving yet touched.

"Why didn't he save you?" I asked again. "Where was he? You
were so loyal to *him*, Clark -- leaving your dream job and your
friends to traipse after him from country to country. I know it
wasn't for your career -- every time I received one of your
postcards, I would look up the local news of whatever city it
came from. There were always reports of minor miracles, lives
inexplicably saved, small catastrophes averted, all done quietly
and carefully before you both moved on and I'd receive another
card from yet another city. Yet you didn't write a single one of
those articles -- you didn't capitalize on the fact that you
were Superman's companion. You simply went with him because...I
guess because you hate injustice and because you didn't want him
to be alone. So why, after all that, was *he* not there for *you*
when you needed him most?"

"Nightfall -- " Clark began with an unsteady voice, but I
interrupted him.

"I know." I smiled and looked down, slightly uncomfortable with
the amount of emotion I had unveiled. "I know he was saving the
world. And I respect him for that, and I admire him, and I'm
extremely grateful. But...that's the question I would ask."

"You know," Clark began consolingly, his fingers curling under
my chin to tilt my face upward. "I wasn't as bad off as you
seem to think."

"What?" I gasped disbelievingly.

"I mean, sure there was the Kry -- the dosing. And,
occasionally, Luthor would come with his men and..." Nightmares
flashed through Clark's eyes, their potency undiminished by his
glasses, before he banished them to some dark corner of his mind
with a smile and a glance my way. "But...most of the time, I was
just left in the cell." The care with which he chose his words
was a dead giveaway to the fact that he knew he was putting an
insanely positive spin on things. "Lois, I was so used to seeing
everything and hearing so much and always having to be somewhere,
always needed by someone. But...well, in the dark, it was quiet,
and...and I wasn't always needed, wasn't constantly being
bombarded by sensation."

"Except by pain," I interjected, thinking that his description
of his conditions sounded a lot like sensory deprivation -- in
other words, like torture, particularly for someone as sociable
and friendly as Clark.

"I wasn't used to the pain," he admitted, abruptly standing,
as if afraid of what his face would give away. "But I could
ignore it. I could escape it by fleeing into memories. I'd
remember my parents -- how much love they gave me, how much
unconditional acceptance. And my friends, people I've met all
over the world. And the Daily Planet -- Perry and Jimmy, even
Cat. And I'd remember you." The genuine smile he gave me was
close to his old smile but not quite there. "After all, Lois,
it's impossible to be depressed while thinking about you."

"You know, Clark," I began, trying and failing to hide that I
had a lump in my throat, "I think everyone knows that the dark
side of the moon has never been touched by light, but I'll bet
you could find a bright spot even there."

"I could if you were standing there." As soon as the words left
his mouth, Clark blushed, his eyes dropping from mine, and he
began to stammer out a clarification...or a retraction I didn't
want to hear. So I stood and pulled him into a hug, holding on
for dear life to keep him from evaporating. If willpower alone
could have granted me one wish, then my touch would have taken
away all the pain Clark had endured.

"I'm so glad you're here," I told him without lifting my
head, the next plea falling unbidden from my lips. "Don't leave
me again."

His arms held me together while his hand pressing my face to his
shoulder grounded me to this reality. "I'm not going
anywhere," he promised fiercely.

And without doubt or hesitation I believed him.

***

Chapter 9

We were halfway back to the Jeep, walking through lengthening
shadows, when Clark's returning strength ran out. My first sign
that he wasn't as well as he had been was when he stumbled and
almost fell. Only his arm around my shoulders kept him upright.

"Clark! Are you all right?"

"I'm okay," he said, the weakness of his voice belying his
words. "I guess maybe I...maybe I got an overdose of sunlight
today."

Despite the fact that I was supporting half his weight as we made
our stumbling way to the Jeep, I couldn't help but smile. "An
overdose of sunlight, huh?" I repeated. "You always have had a
way with words."

He didn't make a reply until I had leaned him up against the
side of the Jeep so I could fish out my keys and open the door.
"I didn't know you thought that," he said quietly.

"Thought what?"

"That I had a way with words."

My hands froze, the key inserted into the lock yet unturned. "I
wouldn't have let you be my partner if I didn't," I finally
settled for saying. It was such a weak response, so much less
than I wanted to say, so much paler than the truth, and yet it
was the sort of comment I was comfortable with making. Whereas
the truth...that wasn't nearly as comfortable.

And yet...didn't Clark deserve a little encouragement?
Shouldn't I be building him up instead of sticking to the
teasing repartee at which we were so skilled?

I opened my mouth to tell him seriously just how much I admired
his writing when I caught sight of...*it*.

It was blinding. It was brilliant. It was incinerating.

It was his old smile.

His lips curved upward. He ducked his head when he thought I
wasn't looking, and he allowed a grin to make his -- admittedly
handsome -- features even more beautiful, and he swallowed back a
chuckle.

It was the old Clark.

I had first witnessed that sight in the reflection of the
elevator doors as they closed after I had given him a thoroughly
scornful speech meant to assure him I was way out of his league.
After that moment, I had witnessed it a dozen or more times, and
strangely enough, despite the fact that he was obviously laughing
at me, I never felt as if he were making fun of me. Rather, it
was as if he saw through my bluster to the person I was
underneath, as if by smiling at the facade he was assuring me
that he was in on the joke and by hiding the smile he was
promising that he wouldn't give me away to everyone else. It was
as if it were a secret solely between the two of us, and I could
trust him to keep it that way and never to think the less of me
for it.

So, in the end, I didn't add anything to my statement; I just
grinned up at him, savored the easy smile I received in return,
and helped him into the Jeep.

"I'm sorry," he murmured when we finally, painfully, got him
situated in the passenger seat. "I should have had us turn back
sooner. I didn't mean to -- "

"Don't worry about it," I instructed him softly, aching inside
to see the drowsiness already taking the edge off the sparkle in
his eyes. The day we had been at Smallville's Corn Festival,
Clark had walked and danced and helped set up tables and erect
tents, and yet at the end of the day, he had still been alert and
ready to do it all over again. Seeing him so depleted after a
simple walk in the park -- far shorter than the route he had
walked from his old apartment to the Daily Planet every day --
was agonizing.

Even after I had climbed in the driver's side and started the
Jeep, I couldn't stop casting sidelong glances at him. Sudden
guilt assailed me when I remembered that I never had gotten him
any lunch. Not, I realized, that I had any food at home to feed
him.

"We should probably stop off and get something to eat," I
recommended, ignoring the blaring horn sounded by a driver that
must have been new to Metropolis because that light had obviously
been yellow when I started across the intersection.

"All right," Clark agreed complacently. If he hadn't spoken, I
would have thought he was already asleep; his eyes were closed
and his head drooped forward.

"And you need to eat more," I added, hating the mother-hen tone
in my voice, knowing it was necessary. "There's no way you're
eating nearly enough. That medic left me a list of things you
should be eating, but I'm not sure how many take-out places
serve that kind of food. Maybe a place that sells soup. Surely
chicken noodle soup was on that list. If it wasn't, it was
probably because of an oversight. So obvious they didn't think
it needed to be written down, maybe."

"I'm fine," Clark interrupted with a small, tired smile.

"Are you?" I retorted quickly. "I'm worried about you,
Clark."

His eyes gleamed in the early evening sunlight when he turned to
meet my gaze. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault!" I pulled into a parking spot in front
of a deli I knew carried soup. "Luthor's the one who did this
to you."

His smile was tiny even as he closed his eyes again. "I thought
you called him Lex."

"I thought you told me not to," I replied.

"I thought you didn't listen to me."

The smile that curved my own lips was born partly out of relief.
"I thought you knew better."

"I thought you tried to keep me guessing."

"That comes naturally -- I don't have to work at it," I said
with a grin. "Now, do you even like chicken noodle soup?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"I don't," I said with a grimace. "But wait here a minute
while I get us some."

As if sensing my impatience, the line in the deli crept forward,
slowing in direct proportion to my haste. When I finally got to
the front of the line, I bit back the impulse to rant about the
server's lack of speed and ordered enough soup to ensure I
wouldn't have to come back for a while. I also grabbed a couple
sandwiches. After all, *I* wasn't eating any of the chicken
noodle soup, and if Clark would eat more of a sandwich than he
would the soup, I certainly wasn't going to refuse him.

By the time I finally made it back out to the Jeep, Clark was
sound asleep, his neck cricked in what looked to be a painful
position. Despite that, I didn't want to disturb him so I was
extra careful with my driving. The three honks I did get didn't
even stir my sleeping partner.

Unfortunately, that meant *I* couldn't easily stir him either.

"Come on, Clark." I left the food, knowing that coming back for
it would be easier than trying to juggle it while also supporting
Clark's weight and managing the doors. I went around the Jeep
and opened his door for him despite the fact that he hadn't yet
moved. "Clark! Clark, we need to get inside."

He rolled his head toward me when I set my hand on his shoulder.
The immediate smile that sprang to his lips when he blinked up at
me was, astonishingly quickly, replaced by a bleak sadness that
felt like a punch in the gut.

"I'm sorry, Lois," he slurred as I reached across him to undo
his seat belt. My hands stilled when his finger stroked the edge
of my jaw. "I'm so sorry. You think we're free, but we're
not."

"Oh, Clark." I set my hands on either side of his neck to
steady him. "It's all right. You're safe now."

"No." A desperate look contorted his features and sent
uneasiness skittering along my spine. "We're still in the cell,
Lois -- it's just bigger now."

"Clark -- "

A sudden whoosh was the only warning I had before a warm hand
landed on my shoulder and a smoky voice sounded in my ear. "Can
I give you a hand, Clark?"

Clark's expression went suddenly, awfully blank. His hand fell
limply from my cheek to lay unresisting in his lap. "Superman."
There almost seemed to be a question mark at the end of the
appellation.

"Oh, Superman, thank goodness you're here." I gestured to
Clark and stepped out of the superhero's way. Perhaps this was
just what was needed to make Clark realize that Superman was
trying to make amends for the lateness of his rescue. "I let
Clark do a bit too much, and now..."

"Let me help." Superman set a hand on Clark's shoulder.
"I'll carry you up to the apartment."

"No!" Clark batted Superman's hand away. Hostility was the
only word for the naked emotion exposed on his face.

Superman's expression remained neutral, but when Clark set his
feet to the ground, the superhero stepped aside. I wanted to
protest, wanted to point out that there were a good ten or so
steps up to my apartment building's front door, wanted to shake
Clark until he expunged Luthor's brainwashing from his mind and
greeted his caped friend as he deserved to be greeted.

Instead, I said nothing. I, of all people, understood pride; I
knew how much it could burn to have others think you weak. And
Clark's speech from breakfast the day before was still fresh in
my memory. So I said nothing, and I stood at Superman's side,
and we watched Clark make his slow but dignified way up the
steps. When he finally made it to the top, he paused to lean
against the wall, his head hanging as he caught his breath.

When I made to move to his side, Superman's fingers wrapped
around my arm just above the elbow. His breath was warm against
my cheek as he bent his head toward mine. "Please be careful,
Lois. If Luthor is the enemy as you say, then it's not safe for
you to go out. I'm protecting you now, but I could never live
with myself if any harm came to you."

"I won't let Luthor make me afraid to live my own life." I
stiffened a bit, more to counter the impulse to melt at
Superman's touch than because I took offense at his concern.

"I know that." Superman's smile was breathtaking, and it was
just a tiny smile. I could only imagine how much effect a full
grin could have on me. On second thought, maybe it was best he
kept his smiles small for the time being -- I wasn't strong
enough to face the full blast.

"Don't worry," I assured him, astonished by my hand's
boldness when I saw it spread itself over the yellow and red S.
"We'll be fine."

"I hope so," Superman breathed. He ducked his head again, but
this time, I knew it wasn't to kiss me. I wouldn't make the
same assumption I had when he had flown with me. No sirree, this
time I knew he was just -- 

His lips brushed my cheek.

My stomach hit the pavement at about the same time as my heart
hit the clouds currently roofing the sky.

A silly smile painted itself across my face. I wracked my mind
desperately for something -- anything! -- to say and came up
empty.

With a smile that conveyed both amusement and tenderness,
Superman took a step away from me. I almost cried out when his
dark eyes moved from me to Clark. "Good night, Clark."

Clark said nothing, though his gaze was locked on us, his hand
clenched over the doorknob so tightly I knew his knuckles would
be sickly white. His mouth was twisted as if he felt sick.

"Thanks for stopping by," I managed before Superman floated
upward into the air and disappeared as abruptly as he had come.

If I had been alone, I might have stood there and stared after
him for a moment, but Clark was waiting by the door and I had no
illusions about how real his show of strength was. Remembering to
wipe the adoring smile from my face, I turned and quickly walked
past Clark to unlock the door. I moved to support him as we
headed for the elevator, but he walked forward alone,
determinedly resolute, as if to prove that he didn't need
Superman.

I felt ready to explode with everything I was containing within
my body -- my elation over Superman's appearance and the kiss he
had given me, my frustration with Clark's mental state, my
startling compassion for his hurt and sense of betrayal, and my
similar empathy for Superman over receiving so little from Clark
-- yet somehow, I managed to contain it all.

Clark collapsed into a chair as soon as we got into my apartment,
and yet I took comfort in the fact that his coloring hadn't
reverted back to its wan pallor. Though he looked tired, he no
longer looked sick, so I refused to regret the -- perhaps --
ill-advised excursion.

"I hope you're hungry," I announced when I returned from my
second trip to the Jeep to retrieve the food. "Because I'm
going to make sure you eat every bite of this."

"I *do* feel kind of hungry," Clark said, sounding almost
surprised. He refused to meet my gaze when I handed him the soup
I had dished out for him.

"Here's some water, too." I set the glass down on the coffee
table in front of him. "Do you need anything else?"

"No." The word was sharp, almost brusque. From anyone else, it
would have simply been an answer; from Clark, the shortness of it
practically screamed anger.

Stung, I remained frozen in place. Count to ten, I advised
myself. Stop and think what he's been going through. Remember
how betrayed you felt when Clark left you -- Clark must have felt
even worse when Superman failed to show up. He needs time; don't
blow up at him.

I had just taken a deep breath to let loose the retort my little
pep talk was doing nothing to discourage when Clark visibly
relented.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. When he raised his eyes to meet
mine, I was taken aback by the maelstrom of unidentified emotions
evident within his eyes. "I didn't mean to snap at you.
I...I'm sorry."

Forcibly, I set aside my frustration and managed a fake smile.
"I'll forgive you if you eat that bowl of soup and forget to
tell the medic that I let you go without lunch."

"Deal."

We didn't say much as we sat there and ate dinner, yet it slowly
transformed itself into a companionable silence, the kind Clark
and I had shared numerous times when he had still worked at the
Planet. The kind I had missed more than seemed possible in the
two months he had been gone.

Clark actually ate all of the soup and a piece of buttered bread,
and he drank a glass and a half of water. That, coupled with how
well he was looking even near the end of the day, made small
seeds of hope begin to plant themselves in my mind. Maybe things
really weren't as bad as they had seemed. After all, hadn't I
myself thought that Clark made things turn out better than they
should? This might just be another example of the same.

Clark dozed off and on through the movie I picked out for us; I
had meant to work some more on our story as the movie played, yet
I found myself watching Clark. I was haunted by the idea that if
I looked away and looked back, he'd be just as sickly and pale
and bruised as he had been the night we argued outside the
hospital. It was a ridiculous fear, utterly absurd, and yet I
couldn't shake it.

At the sound of the video automatically cycling into rewind,
Clark stirred. He smiled sheepishly up at me. "I guess I wasn't
much company, huh?"

"That's all right." I shrugged. "I never like it when people
talk through movies anyway."

Relief pervaded his countenance, and yet I couldn't understand
why. Clark had always been a bit of a puzzle to me despite my
claim that I had him figured out, but he had never seemed as
perplexing as he did now. And the thought persisted that if only
I had the right puzzle piece to click into place, everything he
did and said and thought would make sense.

Shaking off my inner musing, I stood and held out a hand to him.
"Come on. I expect your help in researching this story tomorrow,
so you need your rest."

"It'll be just like old times, huh?" he asked. His hand was
warm in mine, and soft, his long fingers curling around mine as
he stood. For some reason, his proximity unnerved me, though why
I couldn't say. It had never bothered me before.

"Sure. But you'd better be good," I warned him with a stern
glance he didn't believe for an instant.

As before, I let him get ready for bed first; I made sure he was
safely settled on the cot before I ducked into the bathroom. My
reflection didn't have any dark circles to remind me of bruises;
in fact, there was a sparkle in my dark eyes that hadn't been
there for a while.

Slowly, reverently, I brushed my fingers over the spot on my
cheek where Superman's lips had so briefly rested. I had never
heard of the superhero being so affectionate with anyone else,
not even with that date who had outbid me at the charity auction.
He had allowed *her* to kiss *his* cheek -- something that had
sent hot flames of jealousy spiking through my mind -- but he
himself had remained aloof at all public appearances. The closest
he had ever come to kissing me was...when I had almost collapsed
into his arms after he had burst through the wall of that bank
vault.

*You will always be special to me, Lois. You're the first woman
who ever-interviewed me.* I was even more certain now than I had
been then that he had meant to end that sentence differently, and
I would have spent another day in a cell if I could have heard
his original thought.

With my mind full of Superman, it was impossible to feel tired. I
knew Clark was still awake, too, because he turned his head to
watch me as I exited the bathroom and slipped under the cool
covers on my bed.

"Good night, Lois," he said softly.

"Good night," I replied, my voice sounding a bit dreamy as I
recalled the way Superman had twice told me good night now.

Memory after memory of Superman wrapped themselves around me like
a quilt, worn with use, comforting and comfortable. I found
myself tossing back and forth, unable to settle, moving this way
with this memory and that way with that recollection.

"Do you have insomnia?" Clark's question pierced the darkness
and allowed a breath of cooler air to slip past the quilt of
memories.

"What? No." I bit my lip as soon as the answer was uttered. Now
I had to have a reason for why I was keeping him awake with my
restlessness, and it was sure as the Planet's status as the
number one paper in the world that I couldn't admit to him the
true reason I was still awake. "I...I'm not really used to
sleeping in the same room with someone else. It's a
little...unnerving."

That was stupid, I told myself acerbically. For one thing, this
was our third night together in the same room -- or fourth if you
counted the cell. For another, it meant that Clark immediately
sat up and said, "Do you want me to move to the living room?"

"No, don't!" I exclaimed. I'd never live it down with
Henderson if he found out that I made Clark sleep on a tiny
loveseat half his size on the same day I had forgotten to feed
him lunch. "Please," I added, already regretting my lie.
"It's just different, that's all."

Slowly, probably doubting my sincerity, Clark lay back down.

"You know," I began, desperate to keep him in place -- more
desperate than if I had simply been worried about a lecture from
Henderson. "My sister and I used to share a room. We'd talk
into the morning hours about little things and dreams of the
future, exchanging secrets that were ours alone. Not that Lucy
had that many secrets," I said tartly. "Her life was pretty
much an open book. But we'd tell each other things we wouldn't
tell anyone else and laugh about things we might have cried over
alone. It was...nice. Sometimes I miss that."

Hearing the nostalgic tone creeping into my voice and wondering
why I was confiding -- *again*! -- in Clark Kent, I hastily
added, "Of course, then I remind myself that she always borrowed
my clothes and tried to tell me how to live my life -- despite
the fact that she's younger than me -- and made me feel guilty
about things that I didn't need to feel guilty about -- well,
maybe some of them I did -- and then I don't miss it as much."

Wincing at my own babbling, I clamped my mouth shut. Why did
Clark have to be such a good listener? If only he'd shift
uncomfortably every once in a while, or surreptitiously roll his
eyes, or *something* to make me realize that he really didn't
want -- or need -- to hear every detail of my life story! But no,
even tired and hurting, he had to listen so patiently and
attentively and compassionately -- it was really his own fault
that I told him so much.

"Exchange secrets, huh?" he asked quietly. Perhaps he wasn't
as much of a mind-reader as I had thought this morning.

"Yeah," I said. In contrast to my earlier flow of words, I
couldn't think of anything to say now. Which was good, I
reminded myself. We were supposed to be sleeping, after all.

"I had amnesia once." Clark's words, spoken rapidly and
abruptly, were sudden and almost too loud in the quiet that had
descended.

I rolled my head in his direction. "You did not."

"I did," he asserted a bit more confidently, his voice smoothed
out slightly.

"People don't really get amnesia," I informed him. "It's
only on television shows and novels. And, Clark, you don't have
to make up secrets to tell me. It's all right, really. I mean,
how many secrets can you accumulate in Smallville anyway?"

"It's terrifying not to know who you are or how you fit into
the world," he continued, as if he hadn't heard my teasing. So
much for being a good listener. "And confusing to know more
about mundane details like how to drive or what a post office is
than any fact, large or small, about yourself. It made me feel
lost and disoriented...and afraid. But my parents helped me. And
I could remember...one thing...and the more I remembered about
that one thing, the more I remembered about myself."

What thing? I wondered.

"How long did you have this amnesia?" I asked doubtfully, then
blinked in surprise. That hadn't been the question I was
thinking.

"A day," he answered.

"That's not very long," I heard myself say. Why couldn't I
ask him what one thing he had remembered? Ask it, I commanded
myself, and opened my mouth. "How did you get this amnesia?"

He took a very long time to respond, and I sensed him looking
over at me, as if his answer was more important than it seemed.
"I hit something very hard and very fast."

"It must have been *very* hard and *awfully* fast," I said,
infusing my voice with skepticism. So what if I didn't ask him
about the one thing he remembered? It probably didn't mean much
anyway; in fact, it was most likely his parents. I had seen
firsthand how close he was to them, how much he loved them.
Despite my thoughts, however, I couldn't quite convince myself.
There had been something in his voice when he said he remembered
one thing, a quality in his tone that usually appeared when he
talked to or about m -- that certain thing.

"It was," Clark confirmed, recalling me to our conversation.
"I was lucky that I was able to get to Sm -- uh, that...I was
near my parents when it happened."

Deciding to humor him, I turned on my side to face him in the
imperfect darkness. "And when was this? You never mentioned it
before."

"It was after I left Metropolis." He turned to face me, too, as
if reflecting me back on myself. He cleared his throat, and I
frowned at the quiver suddenly affecting his voice. "It was
during Nightfall."

My eyebrows rose. "You had amnesia while an asteroid was headed
our way about to destroy all life on the planet?" I wasn't sure
why I suddenly believed him -- I mean, come on! Amnesia? -- but I
no longer doubted him. And accepting this story made me suddenly
swallow, hearing again the way he had described his state while
his memories were hidden from him.

"It made it worse," Clark confessed quietly, confiding in me as
I had confided in him. It made me feel special to know he trusted
me. As friendly as Clark had always been, he was also very
private. It had always seemed there was a boundary within him
that no one could cross. The closest I had ever come was the
short time we had spent in Smallville; and now, today, he was
allowing me another glimpse over that wall.

"Worse?" I asked softly.

"Yeah. To face the end without even knowing what had brought me
to that point? It was frightening."

"I'm sorry." I didn't know where the words came from -- this
was one thing that hadn't been my fault -- but the emotion in
them made me abruptly uncomfortable.

"It's okay." I felt Clark smile again, though how I couldn't
explain. The darkness still enfolded us in shadows. "Like I
said, I remembered pretty quickly."

Eager to bring things back to normal, I shifted positions yet
again. "Well, I've never had amnesia. Not that I'm saying I
believe you." As soon as the sentence was uttered, I regretted
it. For one thing, it was a lie. For another, it made Clark go
suddenly still.

"It's true." His statement was almost inaudible.

"Yeah," I agreed at a matching volume. "I mean, I've never
known you to lie."

The apartment went so quiet any intruder would have thought it
was empty. I don't know what Clark was thinking, but I was
frowning and trying hard to remember if I *had* ever heard Clark
lie. The closest thing I could think of was when he had done me
the favor of covering for my father. And even then, he had hardly
been able to look Perry in the eye, squirming guiltily and
sticking to sentences that *were* true. Well, and then there was
the whole undercover thing with Toni Taylor.

"I have lied," Clark blurted suddenly.

"Wh-what?" I sat bolt upright and glared over at Clark. I felt
as if the world had suddenly turned into an alien, unknowable
place; I couldn't have been more shocked if...if...well, if
Superman had admitted to being a fraud!

And that confused me. I knew everyone lied -- it was an
inescapable fact of life. It was a lie that had started this
whole conversation to begin with! So...why did it hurt so much to
know that my honest partner was capable of altering the truth?

"I try not to," Clark added hurriedly, and everything reverted
to normal. Of course, I thought with vast relief. In order to be
as kind and polite as he was, Clark surely had to lie a few
times.

"Everybody lies," I said, lying back down and rearranging the
covers. "We all tell lies to make ourselves look better, or to
avoid hurting someone's feelings, or to get out of things, or --
"

"It's something like that. Something I did -- didn't do."
Clark sounded so guilty that I couldn't help but smile fondly.
If not for the fact that he had swiped some evidence while we
were investigating the Smart kids, I would have written him off
as an irredeemable Boy Scout.

Then I frowned. "You're not talking about that night with Cat,
are you? Because your story and hers never did agree."

Clark heaved what sounded like a weary sigh. "I never lied about
that."

Feeling strangely reassured, I relaxed again. "Hmm."

"It's more about things I had to do, but then...well, I make
excuses. Little lies -- but I always try to do what I said
anyway, so it's not as much of a lie."

"Clark," I interrupted. "You're talking about white lies.
Those almost don't even count."

Clark paused, then murmured, "It's that 'almost' that has me
worried."

Terror invaded my system and set every cell afire. I jumped from
my bed and crossed to Clark's cot in two strides, perching on
the edge so I could feel his forehead for a fever. "Clark,
you're fine. You have to be fine. You're not going to die, all
right? There is absolutely no need to confess any sins -- you're
going to be fine."

For some reason, I couldn't stop touching him, resettling his
covers, brushing back a strand of hair, straightening the collar
of his t-shirt. He was staring at me, an indecipherable
expression illuminated by the glow of city lights outside the
windows.

"I don't want to hear any more talk like that, okay?" I added
sternly, not sure I could take another scare like that. "You're
going to be okay because I need you. And your parents need you.
And the Daily Planet...well, it doesn't *need* you, but...it's
better with you there." Trembling, I voiced the question I
hadn't yet been brave enough to ask. "You...*are* coming back,
aren't you? When all of this is over?"

His hand on my cheek was as cool as a breath of fresh air, as
gentle as a slight breeze, and as reassuring as the sight of a
sunrise. "Yeah," he whispered, his voice dry. "I'm coming
back."

"Good!" Relief replaced terror, and I found myself hugging him
spontaneously. His hands cautiously rested on my back as he
returned the hug. Suddenly embarrassed, I pulled away and gave
him a self-conscious smile. "So, you're feeling okay?"

He nodded, his eyes wide as he stared at me.

Needing distance, I stood and took a step toward the bed before
looking over my shoulder. "No more midnight confessions,
right?"

"I guess not." Inexplicably, he sounded *disappointed*.

With a sigh, I resigned myself to the fact that I would *never*
understand Clark Kent.

***

Chapter 10

I was, needless to say, very surprised by the sight that greeted
me when I emerged from the bedroom the next morning. Clark,
dressed in sweat pants and a t-shirt and already shaved, was
planted squarely in the center of the sun bursting through the
windows -- not that that was surprising. In fact, that had become
pretty much par for the course in the past two days. No, what was
surprising was that he was doing push-ups under that golden
spotlight. And he looked...good. Not old-Clark-from-before good,
but oh so much better than seemed possible after a measly
fifty-six hours away from Luthor's cell. I didn't see any sign
of bruising, and he was more filled out than the paltry amount of
food he had been eating could account for.

A terrible thought invaded my mind, an unwelcome intruder I
nonetheless couldn't repel.

Had Clark found more of the drug? Had he dosed himself with it?
Had his awful symptoms been withdrawal rather than the direct
effects of the dosing?

Disgusted with myself, I hurled the thought away and slammed the
walls closed against it. That was ridiculous. I had seen Clark
after Luthor had dosed him with whatever the drug had been; he
had been in pain, weak, suffering, barely coherent. Another dose
wouldn't make him better; it would make him worse and undo all
the good these past days of freedom had granted him.

Thus assured, I leaned slightly against the door and watched
Clark, content to salve the wounds of my heart with the sight of
him.

He finished his push-ups, then folded himself into a cross-legged
position, his head tilted back, eyes closed, mouth slightly open
as he drank in the sun. The lines of tension, the marks of
stress, the hints of fear, the moments of irrationality -- they
were hidden, dissolved away by the sun pouring into him,
seemingly imbuing him with everything that made him the man I so
respected and admired and...liked.

Not just tolerated as I had tried to convey to the Daily Planet
staff, but really, truly liked. Maybe better than anyone else in
the world. Even Superman...well, though I was certain I loved
him, he was too amazing to merely *like*.

Clark rolled smoothly to his feet, moving with the grace that had
been so characteristic of him and so pointedly missing since his
captivity. Then he turned in my direction, his eyes unerringly
finding mine, and he smiled.

The brilliant smile.

The incinerating smile.

The smile I had scoffed at, doubted, cursed, ignored, or missed,
depending on the day. The smile that had made Toni Taylor take
time out from her bid to rule West River. The smile that had
charmed Antoinette Baines before she tried to kill us. The smile
that really, really should *not* look so good.

"Good morning, Lois," he said. There was not even the slightest
stain of weariness, pain, or fear tainting his voice.

"Good morning." My own, on the other hand, was somewhat hoarse.
"Are you sure you should be doing all that?"

"All what?" He blinked innocently. The man was *daring* me to
admit that I had stared at him while he exercised! Well, he could
just keep hoping -- there wasn't a chance in the world I'd
accommodate him.

"Standing in the direct sunlight," I said with a smirk. "You
said you got an overdose yesterday. You can't be too careful."

He chuckled. "I'll be sure and watch my intake." He stepped to
my side and took my hand -- a perfectly ordinary movement and
gesture, one that had been enacted between us a dozen times.
There was absolutely no reason for my heart to start pumping at a
hundred miles a minute or for the temperature to suddenly feel a
bit warm. Honestly, there must have been something wrong with
that sandwich I'd eaten last night. Or maybe even the smell of
the chicken noodle soup had been enough to contaminate me.

"Here, I made breakfast." Clark tugged my hand to lead me to
the kitchen. He didn't seem to notice my predicament, which was
a relief. I didn't want to worry him, after all; he had enough
on his plate. "You've been doing everything for me the past
couple of days -- I figured it was my turn."

Using the very few ingredients my kitchen boasted, Clark had
turned out a surprisingly good breakfast of French toast with
cinnamon, sugar, and honey; the coffee he had brewed somehow even
managed to taste better than mine. He still drank his tea, making
me very glad that I had never gotten around to throwing out that
box he had given me, complete with a swallowed back chuckle of
amusement, after the night I had burst into his apartment in a
fury and he had recommended a soothing herbal tea.

"Good enough?" Clark asked after I had taken my last bite.

"It was very good. Too bad for you," I said with a careless
shrug.

Clark's brows rose. "Oh? Why is it a bad thing?"

"Because proving that you can cook a meal out of practically
nothing -- and one that's edible besides -- means you
automatically get all the kitchen chores. Congratulations."

"I'll cook," he agreed easily, his eyes sparkling with good
humor. "But that means you have to do the dishes."

"Ha!" I scoffed. "You're not even paying rent -- that
automatically means you've got to earn your keep."

"Earn my place here, you mean?" Something flickered in his
eyes, some emotion I couldn't recognize, and though he tried to
hide it with a smile, the attempt was so weak that I saw right
through it. "Well, you know, I'm sure Perry would let me stay
with -- "

"Clark!" I narrowed my eyes, replaying the conversation in my
head to try and make sense of what had so suddenly doused his
playful mood. "I was just teasing. Henderson said it's best if
we're both in one place."

"I know, but..." Clark shrugged uncomfortably. "I *am* better
now, and I don't want you to feel like I invaded your space."

"Clark." I reached out and put my hands over his, stilling
their nervous skittering across the surface of the table. No
matter how much better he looked, the feel of the fragile bones
in his fingers and wrist -- as well as the abrupt reversal of his
mood -- was proof enough that he was far from completely
recovered. "I *want* you here. All right? Now, what do you say
we get to work?"

His eyes drifted closed, his expression reverting to what it had
been when he drank in the sun, and I had the sudden impression
that he was taking as much strength from my words as he had been
the light. "I'd like that a lot," he finally said.

"Then let's get to it."

Clark had changed, there was no question about that, just as
there was no doubt that I, too, had changed a great deal from the
person I had been when we were first introduced. And yet it was
somehow the easiest thing in the world to slip back into working
together. Much as I had once hated to admit it even to myself,
Clark was incredibly good at what he did, and he complemented my
own work habits and writing style perfectly. I wasn't sure how
much of that was natural and how much was purposeful, but
regardless, he seemed to have lost none of it. He read much
slower than he had before, and he wasn't quite as focused, but
he knew the material intimately, backward and forward, which
evened things out.

After two months of trying to prove to myself and to the world
that I didn't need a partner, I found myself immeasurably happy
-- yes, that was the word -- *happy* to have him back. I no
longer had to pause and remind myself that I wouldn't need to
discuss that with Clark, or look over toward his desk and find
myself jolted from my focus at the sight of its emptiness, or
start to scribble a note to have Clark look into something and
have to catch myself and furiously erase it. Instead, I could ask
him where a piece of information I remembered seeing earlier was,
or tell him to remember a certain fact so that he could quote it
to me later, or just pause to stretch and see him working
industriously, meeting me halfway, picking up what I missed,
encouraging me with a well-placed word or a silent smile or by
virtue of his simple presence.

"Clark," I said abruptly during one of these pauses. "That
night when we were working on the boxing scandal -- were you
really staying late to work on something? Or were you there in
case I wanted to 'share my problems?'"

"I..." He set down the file he'd been holding and fiddled with
his glasses. "I was finishing up a few things."

"Uh-huh." I didn't look away.

"I...might have been waiting. To see if you needed anything."

"Uh-huh," I said again just because it was kind of funny seeing
him squirm. "Hmm. Well then...thank you." And I turned back to
my own pile of files, leaving him staring at me in puzzlement. It
was far past time to give him a taste of his own medicine, I
thought with an inward grin. After all, someone needed to keep
him on his toes.

As fun as it was to work with Clark and tease him, though, it was
hard to believe the picture of Lex Luthor being formed by
everything I was learning about him. The man I had chased for
months in pursuit of a story -- a story I had, coincidentally,
never gotten -- the man I had actually dated and allowed to kiss
me, the man who had claimed to be my friend as he asked for an
extra spoon to the ice cream, and the man who had saved my life
from Max Menken, was actually a criminal in a league surpassing
Capone and approaching Hitler.

Deception on a city-wide level.

Sabotage.

Kidnapping.

Experiments on children.

Wanton destruction of property.

Framing others for his crimes.

Cold-blooded murder.

Manipulation of public opinion...and of me.

That night he had come to my apartment and complimented me on my
singing, he had told me not to look any further than Toni Taylor
-- he had flat-out manipulated me to keep me from probing past
the blonde crime-boss and finding him. The way he had set up
Menken and pretended to rescue me...for what? To make me think I
could trust him? So I'd tell him what stories I was working on,
keep him apprised of any of his criminal endeavors that might be
in danger of becoming public? Just to gloat over how easy it was
to deceive an award-winning investigative reporter?

And torture, I silently added to the list with an involuntary
glance to Clark -- that crime above all was impossible to forget.
I closed my eyes and clamped my lips over a whimper at the memory
of the two thugs throwing Clark back into the cell and the
coldness of his skin, the stuttered rhythm of his breathing, the
despair when he had wished Superman were there to save me. The
way Luthor's eyes had gleamed as he watched Clark's suffering,
freely admitting that it gave him immeasurable pleasure.

I stood abruptly, heedless of the fact that I was scattering
papers. "You know what, Clark? I could use a walk. You want to
get out of here for a while, maybe find some lunch or some
groceries?"

Clark blinked but didn't hesitate in setting aside his own work
and coming to his feet. "Okay."

Words were trapped behind my dry throat and parched mouth, so we
remained silent until we were half a block away from my apartment
building. The temperature was colder than it had been the day
before, the sun hidden behind snowy-white clouds -- excuse enough
to loop my arm through Clark's and press close to his side. He
willingly allowed me to cling to him, simultaneously comforting
me with his warmth and reminding me of everything I had just
tried to flee with the feel of his strengthening frame.

"So where are we going?" Clark asked conversationally when we
neared an intersection.

"I don't know." I shrugged, regretting the movement when it
pulled me away from Clark. I settled myself closer to him,
gratified when he finally wrapped his arm around my shoulder. "I
just needed to get out of there for a while -- get some fresh
air."

"I know what you mean." Clark's voice was quiet, but the
gentle way he rubbed my arm spoke louder than anything he could
have said. A shared understanding passed between us as surely as
warmth, a mutual acknowledgement of how much it hurt to be
exposed to the kind of evil Luthor dealt in.

Again, I shivered, and again, I pressed closer to Clark, feeling
colder now than I had when Superman had taken me toward the
stars.

"No snow cones, today, huh?" There was a hint of laughter
feathering the edges of Clark's voice, and it warmed me.

"What?" It was hard to think past the sight of his old smile
and the sound of his old laughter.

"During the heat-wave, remember?" Clark gestured with his free
arm toward a sidewalk vendor we were passing. "We got snow cones
and ate them while walking to an interview."

"That's right." My brow creased as I tried to remember the
specific occurrence. Clark and I had walked a lot of places,
bought snacks or lunch at a dozen different kiosks, and ate
together four or five times a week. "I meant to pay for them,
but you ran up and gave the man a bill before I could open my
wallet."

He shrugged that specific aside. "You had the red flavor and I
had the purple. I still can't figure out if you did that on
purpose or not -- did you know I liked the purple better?"

I didn't answer for a moment, unwilling to tell him that, more
than likely, I had taken the red because it had reminded me of
Superman; I didn't want to bring up the superhero's name and
possibly ruin Clark's good mood. So, finally, I just said, "How
do you remember all that?"

"I have a photographic memory," he admitted in a low voice that
reverberated through his chest. "And like I told you, I
remembered a lot of things...in the cell."

What was I supposed to say to that? I wasn't sure, so I simply
reached up and took hold of the hand resting on my shoulder.

"So how have *you* been, Lois?"

"What?" My brow creased in puzzlement.

"We've talked about me a lot -- too much." He shook his head
as if putting that topic behind him. "But what about you? There
was a whole month I didn't get to talk to you. I suppose you won
another Kerth or two?"

"Not exactly," I scoffed. "Superman's dea -- disappearance
and the fallout from Nightfall's destruction took up most of my
attention. I did take a couple days off to relax at the Lexor
hotel."

"Relax?" Clark pretended to stagger in surprise. "Lois Lane? I
leave for a couple weeks and the whole world turns upside
down!"

"Well," I drawled, "I did end up looking out the window and
witnessing something that led to the story on Roarke and
Harrington's death."

"Aha! I knew it. You can take the reporter out of the newsroom,
but you can't take the newsroom out of the reporter." Clark's
eyes sparkled with amusement as he grinned down at me. And I
couldn't help but smile back, couldn't help but laugh aloud,
because Clark was back. *My* Clark was back -- unchanged,
unaltered, unaffected by the awful things that had been done to
him. He was my partner, my friend, the rock I could lean on. I
wasn't alone anymore.

And then Superman descended from the skies and landed before
us...and the moment ended.

Clark's smile disappeared, all emotion shuttered behind his
eyes. His body tensed, causing him to stumble slightly as he
pulled us to an abrupt stop. His hand tightened over my shoulder;
I wondered if he was trying to protect me or seeking some
assurance for himself.

A flash of some indecipherable emotion passed across Superman's
face as quickly as his own shadow flashed across city streets.

"Superman," I greeted him. For myself, I was always happy to
see the superhero, and I couldn't help the thrill of excitement
that coursed through me at the thought that he might have come
just to see me. But for both Clark and Superman's sake, I felt
uneasy. There was no denying the heavy tension that simmered
between them like its own form of electricity.

"Hello, Lois, Clark." Superman nodded politely. A small smile
graced his stern features briefly as he gazed at me; it
disappeared when he looked to Clark. "Are you sure you should be
out walking the streets? Your bodyguards are looking a bit
anxious."

"Bodyguards?" Before I could think better of it, I found myself
craning my neck to try to spot them. Whoever Henderson had
picked, they were good. I hadn't yet caught a glimpse of them.
Feeling a bit foolish -- and as a result, bristling a bit -- I
turned back to Superman. "But we have you watching over us.
Besides, Luthor thinks we've caved into his threats -- why would
he need to target us and stir up a lot of controversy? We're
fine, really."

"You should still be careful," Superman chided gently. "I'd
hate for anything to happen to you." His gaze moved once more to
Clark, and I instantly softened. Of course the superhero would
inflict himself with a burden of guilt over what had happened to
his friend. It was only natural that he'd become overprotective.
Once again, my fledgling tact had failed me.

"We will be," I promised. "We're not going far."

"Clark..." Superman hesitated, his expression so decidedly
neutral it was almost painful. "We should talk. Can...can we go
somewhere?"

For a long moment, Clark said nothing. With growing despair, I
noticed that his face had grown once more ashen-hued, the hint of
bruising now discernible against the paler complexion. I opened
my mouth to intervene when he abruptly clenched his jaw and
straightened, his arm falling from my shoulder. "You're right,
*Superman*. We should talk."

"That's a good idea," I said encouragingly, thrilled beyond
measure by this hopeful sign. "I'm sure you have a lot of
catching up to do."

"We do," Superman confirmed with a short nod. "And they are
things best discussed soon, before anything else can happen."

Clark's eyes narrowed, and he took a small, almost
confrontational step toward the superhero. "What else could
happen, *Superman*? With you watching over us, we're the two
safest people in the world. Isn't that right?"

I winced at the blatant accusation in Clark's tone, hating the
forced neutrality of Superman's expression. "Clark!" I
snapped, and his gaze switched to me, softening and mellowing.
"Just talk to him, please. Whatever's going on between
you...I'm sure it can be straightened out."

"Please, Clark," Superman added, arching his brows.

His shoulders drooping a bit, Clark took a deep breath, the fire
that had so briefly filled him seemingly doused, leaving him
looking small and frail. I was struck by the sudden feeling that
he was slipping irretrievably away from me, which was ridiculous.
I above all others *knew* that Clark and Superman needed to have
a good talk.

Superman was a hero, not just because of his superpowers, but
because of his manner in regard to others and his dedication to
saving others -- Clark had to see that the superhero would have
saved him if it were at all possible. And Clark was a good man,
the most forgiving person I had ever met -- one of the reasons he
was able to be my partner, I would have to admit if forced to
total honesty -- and he would surely get over his irrational
anger. They were like two brothers, at odds with each other and
both too stubborn to sit down and work it out. Therefore, a
conversation alone, where they didn't have to speak in code or
guard their words, had to be just what they needed.

"Go," I said, tugging on Clark's arm to push him toward
Superman. He didn't budge. "I can go shopping and pick up some
groceries, then I'll head home. Superman, you'll give him a
lift back, won't you?" Not until after the question was out did
I remember Clark's fear of flying.

"If that's what he wants," Superman agreed easily. "See,
Clark? Everything will work out fine...if you come talk to me."

"I'll listen," Clark conceded woodenly. He turned his head
stiffly toward me, and the semblance of a smile that twisted his
lips was so dark and un-Clark-like, so different from the one he
had given me just a moment ago, that I couldn't help but flinch
away. "Are you sure you know what groceries to get?" he asked.
The effort it took to imbue his voice with that teasing lilt was
readily apparent, and yet the very fact that he was even trying
in front of Superman was enough to reassure me that he really was
on the road to recovery. "I am the one with cooking duties,
remember."

"I'll manage," I said, rolling my eyes. "I have faith that
you can come up with some kind of meal out of whatever I get."

"I hope you're right." His eyes caressed me one last time, and
then he turned to face Superman. Without me right there beside
him, with the tall superhero before him, he looked small and
alone.

"Superman," I blurted, delaying the moment when Clark would
leave, stalling for him even though I couldn't explain it even
to myself. "I've been meaning to ask...you haven't given
anyone a statement about where you've been or why you came back
now. Would you be willing to give Clark and me the exclusive? We
could tell it better than anyone else."

I was rewarded by both Clark's tiny, real smile and Superman's
full attention, the force of his dark, vibrant eyes nearly
staggering me.

"I wouldn't give it to anyone else," he promised me, and I
felt as if the whole world exploded with color and promise.
Superman stepped up behind Clark and placed his hands on his
waist in preparation of their ascent. Clark didn't make a sound,
his eyes dropping to his shoes, his hands clenched into fists.
"Perhaps tomorrow?"

"Definitely," I said, perhaps a tad too eagerly. Guilt stabbed
me as Clark winced when he and Superman began to slowly lift into
the air. "But, Superman, please be careful. Clark doesn't like
flying."

Two identical expressions of surprise were turned on me, one
obscured by glasses, the other unveiled. Clark quickly looked
away again while Superman tried to conceal the hint of a grin.
"I promise to be careful," he said wryly.

And then he flew up and away, Clark held securely in his arms,
and I was left alone on the street. For an instant, I was jealous
of Clark, wishing that it was me Superman had asked aside,
longing to be the one flying with him. But Clark needed this
time, I firmly reminded myself. He needed to have his faith in
Superman restored, needed to remind himself that the hero was his
friend, needed to see for himself that Luthor had lied about the
caped superhero.

And I needed to stock my kitchen.

Clark was right, naturally, infuriatingly, about my unfamiliarity
with a lot of grocery items. Luckily, I remembered enough about
the list the medic had given me to collect a reasonable amount of
ingredients for meals Clark should be eating. At least, that was
my sincere hope. The whole ordeal only took me a little over half
an hour, so I was able to get back to the apartment fairly
quickly.

My intention was to get back to work, but I found that it was now
so hard to piece everything together. Something had changed in
the past hour, something that had taken away the ease with which
the facts had flowed through my hands earlier.

Clark.

He wasn't there, and suddenly investigating wasn't so fun.
Suddenly I was remembering the long months when he had been gone
and I had struggled just to write the ordinary stories, let alone
the Kerth-worthy articles. The long months when I had lived for
the phone calls and postcards I pretended to only tolerate.

I was glad for the excuse to stop working when the phone rang.
When Henderson's voice snapped in my ear, however, I was tempted
to revise that opinion.

"What do you and Kent think you're doing?" the inspector
growled. "Do either of you have any inkling what the words
'low-key' mean? I shouldn't be getting calls from my officers
saying you've been gallivanting all across the city!"

"Gallivanting all across the city?" I repeated sarcastically.
"Yesterday, we went to Centennial Park -- which is six blocks
away -- and we took a walk down two streets this afternoon. I
hardly think that's setting up a huge neon sign announcing our
presence."

"It might as well be," Henderson snapped. "Luthor's got eyes
everywhere -- he owns over half the businesses in Metropolis in
some way or another! I expected this from you, Lane, but I
thought Kent was smarter than that."

Frost edged my tone. "Clark's the one who wanted to go out,
Henderson. He's been confined for a month -- I didn't think I
was supposed to exchange his old cell for my apartment. Should I
get the living room fitted for some chains?"

"Don't get hysterical, Lane," Henderson commented, and I could
swear he was smiling. "I didn't say anything after your first
midnight trip because I knew you were with Superman, but it's
not a good idea for you both to be parading yourself around,
particularly Kent. We still don't know what exactly Luthor
wanted from him, and it's a safe bet that Luthor will try to
take your partner out before letting him testify. So, all I'm
saying is -- be careful."

"Do you know how many times I've heard that?" I exclaimed,
throwing up a hand in frustration. "Does everyone think I run
out and jump in front of every gun I see? I can -- "

"Lois." The seriousness of Henderson's tone and the fact that
he used my first name bought my immediate silence. "I'm not
doubting that you can take care of yourself. If you couldn't,
you'd have been dead a hundred times over by now."

"Wow, thanks," I began to say, but he interrupted me again.

"But Clark isn't so lucky."

I froze, the phone clutched tightly in my white-knuckled hand.

"My medic might not have gotten a really good look at him, but
in his professional opinion, Clark doesn't look too good. He's
still weak and suffering who-knows-what from coming off whatever
Luthor was feeding him -- and that's without the trauma of being
kept in a hole for a month. So, this isn't about you -- it's
about your partner. Superman gave me his word he'd keep a close
eye on him, but that won't do a lot of good if you drag him with
you on one of your wild goose chases."

"Those 'wild goose chases' usually end up solving a couple of
your cases," I observed acerbically before relenting. "But...I
see what you mean. I'll be careful. Clark's with Superman now,
so...you don't have to worry."

"Thanks, Lane." Henderson paused, and I had the impression that
he had more to say, but he just sighed. "All right. Keep
working."

"And have a good day yourself," I muttered when the dial tone
sounded in my ear.

Somewhat chastened -- and *hating* that feeling -- I returned to
my research, but I didn't get very far. I kept glancing in
between the door and the windows, looking for Clark. By the time
two hours had passed, I was about ready to hire a helicopter and
go out looking for him and Superman. Where could they have gone?
I had wholly agreed with the need for a conversation, but two
hours? Seriously? And men complained about women talking for
hours!

I had repeated the sequence of grabbing my jacket in preparation
of going outside and then hanging it up again about four times
when I finally heard something in the hall outside. Ignoring the
possibility that it was a neighbor returning home, I yanked the
door open and stepped into the hallway, then froze when I caught
sight of Clark sitting on the floor, propped up against the wall,
his head cradled in his hands.

"Clark?" His name fell from my lips without me having to
consciously will it spoken.

He looked up, his hands dropping into his lap. "Lois." The
smile he gave me was so faint it was practically invisible.

"Clark, what are you doing out here?" Cautiously, oddly afraid
that he'd startle away like a frightened animal if I moved too
quickly, I stepped closer to him and knelt at his side.

"Just...thinking."

When he didn't add anything more, I arched my brows. "Can't
you think *inside* the apartment?"

"Yeah." With none of the grace he had displayed just that
morning, he rose to his feet. Maybe it was vertigo; he was still
recovering from the flight and its effects on him. But much as I
tried to convince myself that was the reason for his disconsolate
air, I knew, with a sinking sensation, that the conversation with
Superman hadn't miraculously solved everything.

"Did everything go all right?" I asked when I had shut the door
safely behind us both and turned the locks.

"Uh...yeah. I guess." Clark sank into the chair beneath the
window, heedless of the fact that clouds curtained the sun and
captured the sunbeams before they could reach him. "Everything
went just as he planned."

For once in my life, I was able to bottle up my curiosity.
Whatever had happened, I was pretty certain that neither Clark
nor Superman would readily tell me, and for some strange reason,
I didn't want to have to *coerce* the information out of them.
So, instead, I gestured toward the kitchen and said, "Well,
it's closer to dinnertime than lunch now, but the cooking chores
are still yours. If..." I hesitated, grasping for tact, then
shrugged. "If you think you're up to it."

"Hey, fair's fair. If you got the groceries, I can certainly
manage to cook." Clark came to his feet. "Uh, Lois?"

"Yeah, Clark?" I responded quietly.

"Would...would you mind helping me? Keeping me company?"

"Of course not." I pretended surprise. "You didn't think I
was going to do all the investigative work while you lazed around
in the kitchen, did you? But one warning, Kent." I held up a
stern finger. "I will cut vegetables, set the table, and maybe
even retrieve certain ingredients for you -- but I will *not* be
cooking anything. Got it?"

His expression was so tender, yet so grateful, that I had to
swallow back a sudden lump. "Got it."

Clark was mostly quiet as he looked over what I had bought and
decided on a meal, then set me to cutting up some vegetables for
the stew he was making. I was afraid to say too much, knowing
that if I started talking, I'd just end up babbling; when I did
speak, I tried to keep it light, tried to hide how worried and
curious and frustrated I was, tried to reassure him that he was
safe.

Finally, when we were both setting the table, he began to relax a
bit. He actually smiled at me -- not nearly as beautiful as his
earlier grin, but enough. A few moments later, as we waited an
interminable amount of time for the stew to be done, he ventured
a joke, and soon one might be tempted to believe that he was
fine.

But I knew just how faulty that assumption would be, and I
couldn't help remembering Henderson's warning about pretense
coming from a trauma victim.

"You promise this doesn't taste like chicken noodle soup?" I
asked dubiously when he spooned out my portion of stew. The smoke
that rose from the milky surface carried a scent so delicious
that I wasn't too worried about the taste. My stomach rumbled
quietly; it was definitely dinnertime now.

"It's nothing like it," Clark insisted. "This is stew, Lois.
It's completely different from soup."

"It looks very similar."

"Taste it," Clark dared me with the hint of a grin. "If you
don't like it, you can take over the cooking chores."

"Oh, very nice," I retorted, unable to bite back my own smile.
"I can already tell you that I love it."

"Uh-huh. You haven't tasted it yet." His eyes avidly watched
me as I lifted a spoonful, blew on it, and then popped it in my
mouth.

"Wow," I murmured after chewing and swallowing. "It's
delicious, Clark," I said honestly. "Thank you."

He ducked his head and dipped his spoon into his own bowl.
"It's my mom's recipe; all I did was follow it."

"Right, so simple," I said sarcastically.

"Not simple," he countered. "It takes attention, focus, and
patience."

"If you brought out chocolate, you'd have my attention. If you
mentioned an interesting lead for an article, I'd be totally
focused. And if this were a stake-out with a front page article
on the line, I could fake the patience. But for a meal..." I
pulled a face. "Take-out's so much easier."

My lack of patience -- and cooking skills -- was totally worth
the laugh that escaped Clark, bringing back the sparkle of
amusement that Superman's appearance had banished. "That's why
*I'm* cooking," he replied as he took a bite of the stew.

"Clark." I looked down at my bowl, spooning up a piece of
potato. "This morning, why did you get so serious when I
mentioned earning your keep? What did I say wrong?"

His expression flickered. "Nothing, Lois. You didn't say
anything wrong."

I nodded. "Then why did you stop smiling?"

I had a feeling I already knew the answer, but I wanted him to
say it aloud. The bit of research I *had* managed to get done
while he was gone had been on the Internet, acquiring information
on trauma victims and how to help them. One major component every
single site had mentioned was making the victim talk about what
had happened, refusing to allow them to isolate themselves and
hide behind a facade.

Clark shrugged uncomfortably, his eyes tight. "Luthor...he said
I..."

"What?" I asked gently. With my free hand, I reached out and
curled my fingers over his. "What did he say?"

"Why do you want to know?" He met my gaze without flinching,
his hand slack beneath mine. "What good does it do to talk about
it?"

"I want to know because it matters to you. And that means it
matters to me. What did he say to you, Clark?"

He turned his hand and threaded his fingers through mine, staring
at our intertwined hands as if they were more fascinating than
Perry's poker games. "He said I didn't belong here. That I had
to earn my keep. Buy my way into acceptance. He said I'd
never...that I was an al -- too different."

"He was wrong," I told him softly. I dropped my spoon and laid
my hand on Clark's cheek in the same gesture he had made for me
numerous times. "You do belong in Metropolis, Clark. Perry
wouldn't have hired you if you weren't a great reporter. Jimmy
wouldn't idolize you if you weren't a great person. The only
thing different about you is that you're a good man through and
through -- that, I admit, isn't exactly normal."

"I know he's wrong." Clark closed his eyes. "But...the
memory's there."

And he had a photographic memory, I realized with the beginnings
of despair. What did I know about dealing with a trauma victim?
Did I really think that a couple words from me could undo days of
torture, pain, and verbal abuse? Or was I just kidding myself?
Jumping in without caring that the water would swallow me whole
and suck me under?

Clark reached up and placed his hand over mine, holding it
against his cheek. His lips didn't curve up at all, but the way
he looked at me...it was still a smile. "But memories of you are
better. I'm already getting more than enough to use in place of
memories of Luthor."

"Good," I managed to say. "Then let's finish eating."

The rest of the evening passed much as had the last one. We put
on a movie that neither one of us really watched. I managed to
get a bit more work done, though the next step was pretty much
beginning to write the article, something we really weren't
ready to do, not until we found more solid proof. Wherever Clark
had hidden his own evidence must have been far away because Jimmy
still wasn't back yet. I'd have to call Perry in the morning
and ask him to get in touch with a few of my snitches, see if
they couldn't dig up anything.

It had been a pretty unproductive day, as a whole, which never
failed to make me feel even more tired than the exciting days
that filled me with adrenaline. So, as soon as the credits to the
movie started rolling, I stood up. "I'm heading to bed," I
stated.

Clark had looked up the minute I moved, but now he looked down at
his lap. "I'm going to stay up a while more."

I frowned. "You sure? You're not too tired?"

"No. I'm feeling much better." The assurance was made by rote
and sounded it. Still, I couldn't force him to go to bed. "I
want to write a few ideas down." As if to back his claim, he
leaned forward and picked up a notepad and pencil from the coffee
table.

"All right," I agreed reluctantly. "Good night, then."

"Good night, Lois." I felt his eyes on me as I walked toward
the bedroom, but when I paused on the threshold to look back, he
was scribbling something down on the notepad.

Readying for bed, crawling underneath the cool covers, and lying
staring up at the obscured ceiling didn't get me any closer to
sleep. It wasn't even thoughts about Superman keeping me awake
this time; in fact, I had scarcely spared a thought for the
superhero since Clark's return. Which made me feel slightly
guilty, but not enough to distract me from worry over Clark.

I tossed and turned for twenty or thirty minutes before giving up
and throwing the covers back. When I padded into the living room,
I was surprised to find Clark still awake. He was staring into
space, the notepad balanced on his knee and the pencil laid
neatly down on the table.

"Come on, Clark." I reached out and took the notepad, setting
it aside. Absently, I noticed that the top page was blank.

He looked up at me, seemingly recalling himself from somewhere
far away. "Lois?"

"Come on," I said again. "You need some sleep, Clark."

"Clark." His smile was bleak. "That's who I am."

I sank to my knees beside him, my hand clenching spasmodically
over his wrist. "Yes, you are." My own tone was dazed and numb.
*Trauma victims will, in rare occurrences, disassociate to such
an extent that they find themselves losing hold of their own
identity.* The articles I had found on the Internet swam through
my mind, causing ripples that upset all other thoughts in my
head.

"I always wanted to be Clark." He swallowed painfully. "And
now that's *all* I am."

"That's *enough*, Clark," I said slowly, meaning every word.
What more could he be? How could he improve? He was everything he
needed to be. Or he had been, anyway. I wasn't sure how much of
that man Luthor had left me.

Clark's smile turned softer, warmer, more hopeful. The sensation
of his fingers feathering across my cheek was all that kept me
from weeping in grief. I couldn't cry, I instructed myself
sternly. If I wept for Clark, it'd be like admitting that the
man he had once been was forever gone. And I wasn't ready to do
that.

His thumb traced the edge of my jaw. "Lois, I..." His voice
trailed off, but his eyes finished the sentence for him. It was
almost frightening to realize how much he needed me, how much he
wanted from me -- yet I never backed down from a challenge. And
though I couldn't be everything to him that he desired, I could
be a friend on whom he could rely, someone to connect him back to
the life Luthor had tried to steal from him.

"Come on." I helped him stand and took his hand. As we turned
toward the bedroom, I caught a glimpse of finely shredded
notepaper in the wastebasket -- paper filled with bits of
Clark's handwriting.

"Lois?" Clark began to look toward where I was staring.

Hastily, I pulled him forward with a smile to distract him from
my interest in his trash. "We haven't exchanged our secrets
yet," I said quickly.

"Oh? Were we going to do that every night?"

Heartened by his banter even though I knew how transient the mood
might be -- *Trauma victims will often exhibit abrupt, severe
mood changes and emotional fluctuations* -- I grinned. "Well, if
you have that many secrets."

He sobered. "Not anymore, Lois. Not anymore."

While he ducked into the bathroom to change, I straightened his
bed. When he emerged and settled himself on the cot, I couldn't
resist perching at his side for a moment, reluctant to leave him
without at least a hint of hope.

"So, Clark, come on," I cajoled. "You must have *one* big
secret."

"Actually, I do. A very important one." The lamp left us in a
silken pool of light, but shadows lapped at my feet, emphasizing
the serious intensity of Clark's gaze, though the glasses
obscured the specifics of his expression.

"Well?" I prompted.

"Would you turn the TV on?"

I let out a disappointed sigh. So much for that conversation with
Superman having *any* effect. *A trauma victim may suffer extreme
paranoia, living in a constant state of terror, panic, and
edginess, projecting their fear onto other things or people, even
those totally unconnected to their situation.*

Determinedly, I shook the thought aside and, responding to the
implacability of Clark's request, turned on the TV. I flipped
through the channels twice, but there was no sign of Superman.
When I looked back to Clark, though, I realized he was watching
me instead of the television.

"What's your secret?" he asked softly. There was nothing of
expectation in his manner, just a terrible patience that extended
to more than one aspect of his life.

"Well." I hadn't really considered mine, but after hearing
what Luthor had told Clark while he was in the cell, I knew there
was one secret I should have told him a long time before. "My
secret is...that I'm sorry, Clark, for stealing your story. And
even though I said I didn't, I *do* like having you for a
partner."

"Wow." The word was little more than an expelled breath.
"I...I don't think you could have any other secrets better than
that one."

I laughed, made a bit uncomfortable by the amount of sincerity in
his voice. "You don't have much of an imagination, do you?"

Clark gave a half-shrug. "It'd be like reaching for the moon to
dream for anything higher, Lois."

But his eyes never left mine. His hand cradled mine as if it were
a treasure. And I knew: he did wish for more.

A *lot* more.

Sirens dimly penetrated the silence that had enveloped us.
Tearing my eyes from his unveiled heart, I looked to the TV. The
sirens continued, but the local news didn't mention a Superman
appearance.

"Lois." Clark tugged my hand and reached up to pull my head
down near his lips.

I tensed with surprise, hating to reject him, suddenly terrified
that this moment would ruin our friendship and destroy our
partnership. But instead of trying to kiss me, he put his lips
near my ear and whispered: "My secret, Lois -- you remember how
Trask said there was a meteorite called Kryptonite that could
kill Superman?"

I gave a tiny nod, his hand still buried in my hair. "I named
it."

His lips quirked. "I think *I* named it. But regardless...it's
real."

"What?" I pulled back in shock, then had to lean near once more
to hear his next words.

"I know firsthand, Lois; I was there. It takes Superman's
powers away. It hurts him. It...it can kill him."

"No," I whispered in useless, desperate denial, my thoughts
dazed and numb. "Superman is invulnerable."

Clark's eyes bored into mine; he enunciated each word
separately. "It makes Superman ordinary, Lois. It makes him --
just -- like -- me. It's a stone that glows green. And Luthor
has it."

My skin turned cold as goose-bumps sprang into existence on my
arms. Clark, I thought through my panicked horror. Clark needed
me to be strong, to reassure him. "It's all right," I told
him, my voice growing stronger as I contained my terror. "We're
taking Luthor down anyway. We'll find the Kryptonite and hide it
-- *destroy* it. We won't let Luthor hurt Superman again."

"Thank you." Relief and gratitude suffused Clark's expression.
And I knew -- this was my sign of hope, my proof that he would be
all right. Despite whatever he might hold against Superman, Clark
was still worried for his safety, still looking out for him,
still putting everyone else's needs above his own. He was,
despite all the damage, still Clark.

It was not the first time I had had the realization, but I
welcomed it nonetheless.

With the secret now given to me for safekeeping, Clark seemed
able to finally rest. His body relaxed, and within moments, he
slept. I sat beside him the whole time, offering no excuse, just
holding his hand and watching him. When I heard his breathing
deepen, I pulled my hand free of his. "Clark?" I whispered.
Only when he made no response did I rise to my feet and head
purposely into the living room.

The wastebasket was filled with what looked to be three or four
pages filled with whatever Clark had written on them. They were
shredded into several hundred tiny strips, yet the scope of the
task before me didn't faze me. I had followed harder trails for
front-page stories and this was so much more important than any
mere article.

I dumped the contents of the wastebasket on the kitchen island
and started separating out the strips. Even after I had gotten
rid of everything that didn't have Clark's handwriting on it, I
still had a formidable pile of what might as well be puzzle
pieces. In more ways than one -- I needed the key to unlock the
things Clark told me. One piece of information, I was convinced,
and surely everything he did and said would make sense. It had
to. I refused to believe that Luthor had been able to destroy
Clark Kent. My partner was much too stubborn to be defeated so
easily.

It took me three hours of back-breaking, eye-watering, extremely
frustrating work, but finally I had two and a half pieces of
paper taped back together.

And after I read them, I hid what had turned out to be a letter,
and I crawled into bed and huddled beneath all the blankets and
still shivered with bone-deep, mind-numbing cold.

And the darkness engulfed me.

***

Chapter 11

Sleep didn't come for a while, and when it did, it was filled
with dark shadows and frustrating mysteries and secrets that
danced just out of reach. I was dimly aware that I tossed and
turned and whimpered, unable to still myself or hold back the
tiny exclamations of frustrated grief. Finally -- hours later,
minutes later -- a hand slipped into mine and a low, husky voice
whispered in my ear. A calm, strengthening presence lent itself
to me, and I quieted and stilled, as if I could not help but
respond to him.

When I finally woke in the morning, I had to squint against the
light piercing through my otherwise-dark room. Though it was
bleary and unclear to my tired eyes, the clock revealed that I
had slept later than I had the last few days and yet not nearly
enough to catch up on the sleep I had lost piecing Clark's
letter back together again.

Clark's letter.

Instantly, I was wide awake, sitting bolt-upright and looking
toward the cot by the window.

It was empty and neatly made. I didn't hear any sign of Clark.

<Do you know why I'm up before you almost every day? Do you know
why I can't sleep without being able to see you?>

Forcibly, I shoved the memory of his written words out of my
mind. I didn't want to remember it all. I didn't want to
revisit the simultaneous awe and terror that had been birthed
within me while reading the secrets of his damaged heart.

Trying to achieve strength and resolve by faking them, I threw
the covers back and stood. I hadn't quite made it to the
bathroom when Clark peeked his head into the bedroom.

"Good morning," he said tentatively.

I opened my mouth to return the greeting, but no sound emerged.

<I'm really not trying to hide things from you, Lois.>

"There's breakfast when you're ready," Clark said after an
awkward moment of silence. Then he retreated, and I was left
alone.

But then, even when he was in the room, I was alone, wasn't I?
Alone in sanity, anyway. Clark was lost, lost to whatever Luthor
had done to him. And yet...even lost, he was still more...human,
more caring, than anyone I had ever known.

Wishing I could simply stop thinking -- wishing I had never read
that letter -- I quickly washed and dressed. Sight of the razor
Perry had brought for Clark, lying so innocently by the sink,
made me realize that a shadow of darkness still marred Clark's
chin this morning; he hadn't shaved again. What so scared him
about that simple act?

<I dream about you, Lois...dream that all the things Luthor
threatened to do to you are really happening. And I can do
nothing. I'm just as powerless as I -- >

I clapped my hands over my ears, hating that his paranoid,
beautiful words were trapped in my head, emitting light, casting
shadows, going round and round so that I didn't know what to
think anymore. Clark had always confused me, but never like this.
He had never made me feel as if I didn't know him, as if he were
so far beyond me I could never reach him...as if I didn't even
deserve to try.

Clark seemed to realize that I couldn't have spoken to save my
life, so he just gave me a friendly smile when I entered the
kitchen, and he set a plate of hot scrambled eggs, sausages, and
honeyed toast before me with a cup of steaming, aromatic coffee.

He even remembered exactly what I liked for breakfast.

<I could never hurt you, Lois. It's impossible for me. I care
too much.>

"Thank you," I managed to whisper, my voice hollow and dry,
little more than an echo. I dared not look toward the wastebasket
where I had rearranged strips of torn, handwriting-covered paper
over the top to hide that I had stolen his secrets from him.

Almost hovering, Clark watched me eat my breakfast. I would have
sworn that I wouldn't have been able to eat more than a few
mouthfuls, but it was so delicious -- and Clark looked so hopeful
-- that I couldn't help but finish it all.

"I'll do the dishes." Clark pounced on the chores before I
could do more than blink; he seemed to have forgotten that he had
told me I would have to do the cleaning up in exchange for his
cooking. But I knew he hadn't forgotten. It was just his way of
caring for me. He cared for me so much, in fact, that it had been
Luthor's key to unhinging his mind.

<He's stolen everything from me.>

"You, uh..." Clark gave me a hesitant smile, as if unsure how I
would receive it. "You wanted to call Perry this morning,
remember, and ask him to get in contact with some of your
snitches."

"Right," I said, forcing a short nod. "I'll see if they've
got anything on Luthor."

"Tell them to be careful, though. Luthor's dangerous."

I fled the room before the words beginning to slowly boil up from
within me erupted to wipe the smiles from his face and the
patience from his eyes.

<But I'll hope, Lois. That's something I can never stop
doing.>

It took me ten minutes before I regained enough composure to dial
the familiar number; it took only the sound of Perry saying hello
to bring me right back to the verge of tears.

"Hello? Who is this?"

"Perry..." I managed before my voice gave out once again. It
was as if Clark's written words had stolen my own voice from me,
consigning it to the shredded state his letter had been in before
I had unwisely put it back together.

"Lois? Darlin', is something wrong?" The panic that threaded
Perry's voice gave me back the power of speech.

"Everything's fine," I assured him hastily, tasting the
bitterness of the lie. "I just wanted to ask you to get in touch
with some of my sources and see if they can dig up something on
Luthor."

"You sure they won't spook if they hear from me instead of
you?"

"They have to know already that something's wrong -- I've only
written two articles in the past week. I've told them enough in
the past so they should know they can trust you."

"All right, then. I'll get right on it." Perry hesitated, and
I held my breath, unable to decide what I wanted him to do or say
at that moment. "Uh, Lois, honey...are you okay?"

"Yeah." My voice again crumbled into dust.

"Is it Clark? Is he all right?"

The irony of the Chief's question was like a physical blow. The
only thing that stopped me from breaking down into sobs was the
fact that I knew Clark would come rushing in at the sound of
them.

<At worst, you'd think I'm crazy -- as if I could disprove that
one the way I am now! At best, you'd accuse me of -- >

My grip on the phone tightened until it was a physical pain,
ripping me from the memory of the words seared into my mind.
"I'm scared for him," I whispered into the phone. "He's so
different, Perry. Luthor...changed him."

But had he? I wondered. Or had I simply never realized just how
deep Clark's feelings ran? Had I blinded myself to what he was
really feeling and thinking? Had I ignored what I didn't want to
face?

"Lois..." Perry fell silent, and I could picture him behind my
closed eyelids, sitting hunched over his desk, cradling the phone
against his ear, his face caught between concern and uncertainty.
"I'm sorry you have to go through all this. Do...do you need me
to come over?"

For a moment, I was seriously tempted. Maybe I could even get
Perry to insist that Clark stay at his place so that I could have
some much-needed distance. Maybe Perry would be able to cure
Clark, coax him out of his delusions, calm him from his terrors,
cajole him from his fixations. Maybe I would, after a few days of
distance, even be able to pretend that I had never read the
letter Clark had written and then decimated. Maybe I could go
back to the person I had been before witnessing the desperation
of Clark's private hell.

<Do you know why the only day I got up later than you was because
I was holding you in my arms and knew you weren't dead? I need
to remind myself, sometimes.>

"No, that's okay, Chief. Thanks for the offer. I just...had a
bad night, and I'm a bit grumpy this morning. Really,
everything's fine."

"You sure?" There was a fair bit of suspicion lading Perry's
tone.

"Yeah. We're getting pretty far on the investigation on our
end. Any problems on yours?"

"Not particularly. We're playing it safer than a black cat
hidin' in a shadow. You make sure you're doin' the same, you
hear me?"

"I hear you, Chief." I couldn't, for the life of me, have said
from where I managed to dredge up the cheerfulness infusing my
voice. "Let me know if any of my sources come through."

I could almost see Perry's relief. "Hey now, who's in charge
here? You watch yourself."

With a fake laugh, I told him goodbye and hung up the phone.
Which meant it was just Clark and me again. Just me...and a man
who cared for me far too much and believed lies about Superman.

<The man you think is Superman is an imposter.>

The conversation with my mentor gave me enough strength to walk
back into the living room, offer a small, pale smile as a
reluctant gift to Clark, and sit on the couch across from him.
The intel we had on Luthor had all been sorted, but today, we
needed to begin using it all to build a case against him.
Henderson was limited in what he could do without tipping off any
politician that might be in Luthor's pocket or even bought men
among his own officers, so we needed to do what he couldn't.

"Lois?" Clark said my name slowly, uncertainly.

<If I tell you, Lois, you'll die.>

"I'm just tired, Clark," I said quickly without looking up
from the file in my hands, though I couldn't have said what was
written across its white surface. All I saw were Clark's neat
letters, swimming in front of my eyes, blotting out everything
else.

The sight of Clark's hand taking the file away and holding my
own hands between his sent the words scattering. In fact, it sent
every thought I had flitting away, and I remembered the touch and
whisper that had allowed me to sleep through the night. Not a
dream, I was suddenly sure.

"What is it, Lois?" His eyes were so intent that I couldn't
help but look up and so soft that I couldn't look away. "Is it
something I said?"

<I can just hear you chiding me, telling me to keep to the point,
stick to the facts or let you write the piece.>

"No." I spoke so quietly he must have read my lips.

"Are you afraid of something?" He studied me so closely that I
was sure he could have described every minute detail of my
expression.

The urge to confess slammed into me like a freight train,
knocking the breath out of me and leaving me wide-eyed and
gasping. Confess, I told myself. Tell him you saw his letter.
Tell him you read it. Tell him you don't know what's going on.
Tell him you want the old Clark back with no complications, no
expectations, no implications. Tell him...tell him you're afraid
-- both *for* him and *of* him.

"Please," he prompted gently, kneeling there before me,
completely at my mercy. I could let him know that I had read his
letter and now knew him to be, truly, a *victim*. I could inform
him that he needed professional help. I could trample all over
his heart and take away the hope he clung to so tenaciously.

<It's the only power I have left.>

"Clark," I began, turning my hands to clasp his more tightly
than the loose grip he had instigated. "I..."

"What is it?" He was so totally trusting, looking up at me with
shining eyes and open expression. He trusted me. He needed me. We
were partners. Partners...and friends. I should tell him. He
would listen to me. He would do whatever I told him. Even if it
killed him.

"Clark, I need to tell you something." But I could not, for all
the front page bylines in the world, decide what that was. There
was so much that *should* be said and so much that *could* be
said...but what *would* I say?

The tiny, infinitesimal smile that curved Clark's lips and made
the gleam in his eyes explode through the lenses of his glasses
was my undoing. "You can tell me anything, Lois."

"I know," I said very quietly. "But can *you*?"

He froze, his hands in mine suddenly very still. "I'm trying,"
he finally whispered back.

<I *can't* tell you this, Lois. You have no idea how much I want
to, which is why I'm writing this letter.>

"Just tell me," I commanded Clark. "Tell me the exact thought
you're thinking right now." Surely he was thinking about the
letter. Surely that was all *anyone* could think of at the
moment.

He swallowed, looking more afraid than I had ever seen him
before, even in the cell when Luthor had pulled out that tiny
box. "I can't."

Disappointment covered me like a second skin. "Why not?"

"I'm afraid."

<Yet still I can't resist dropping hints.>

"You don't have to be afraid," I told him. Pulling one of my
hands free of his, I laid it against his cheek. "I'm right
here. I'm not going anywhere."

"I think you would if I told you what I'm thinking at *this*
moment," he admitted with the hint of a self-deprecating grin.
"It's not something you exactly welcome."

And with a start, I realized that Clark was *not* thinking about
the sentences that burned like coals within my mind. He was
thinking of three little words that weren't exactly a secret.
Three little words I couldn't bear to hear right now, not at
this moment, not like this, not when I didn't know him as well
as I thought I had.

Abruptly, I pulled my hands away from him and clutched them
protectively in my lap. My eyes fell away from Clark's, but it
was impossible to miss his flinch of disappointment and the way
he shrank in on himself. I should have just told him what I had
originally planned, I thought dismally. It would have hurt him
far less.

"Clark," I said again, then paused when he did not look up to
meet my gaze.

"It's all right," he said hurriedly. He stood and moved so
that his back was to me, hiding his expression from me as he had
never been able to hide his heart. "I guess we should...get back
to work. Right, partner?"

<But I'll never get you to believe me.>

Making a sudden decision, hoping I could undo the damage that
rounded his shoulders and tightened his eyes, I stood. "Clark,
about last night...you and Superman and the l -- "

The knock at the window forestalled my confession. Clark hunched
even deeper in on himself while I looked to the window and saw
Superman floating there, tips of skyscrapers brushing the
cold-blue sky his otherworldly backdrop. My immediate impulse at
seeing him was to smile, but somehow, the expression could not
form itself on my face.

"You'd better get that," Clark said dully. "We need the
exclusive, right?"

Wincing away from the bitterness I expected to hear in his voice
-- and yet, strangely, did *not* hear -- I moved to the window
and pulled it open. "Superman." I couldn't help the breathy
quality that automatically pitched my voice a bit higher. The man
was flying, after all -- it was hard not to be affected by that!

"I promised I'd give you the exclusive," the superhero said
with the hint of a smile as he floated into my apartment and
touched down on the floor. His eyes flicked to Clark, behind me,
then moved back to meet my gaze. "Is this a good time?"

"Uh, yes, of course." The smile finally broke through to
reshape my features. I ignored the prickling sensation at the
back of my neck, caused by the feel of Clark's eyes on me. "Did
you want anything to drink?" I remembered to ask as I gestured
Superman toward one of the couches.

"No, thank you." His eyes tightened a bit when Clark sat beside
me, though Clark's expression remained decidedly neutral.

<The man you think is Superman is watching us -- watching *me*.
He's doing all of Luthor's dirty work.>

"So," I said brightly, feeling more uncomfortable than I ever
had in my life. I wished I could scrub Clark's insane
accusations from my mind. "You were gone a long time -- two
months."

"Yes." Superman crossed his arms over his chest, his cape
wrapped around him.

I waited a moment more, then said, "What were you doing?"

"Until your article clearing my name became public knowledge, I
was traveling the world, moving from city to city, convinced it
was unsafe for me to stay in one place for very long."

Clark tensed beside me; he could not have been more rigid if he
had been made of steel.

<He's playing us. He's the jailor in our prison -- >

"Couldn't you return to your home planet?" I watched Superman
closely, afraid of his answer, suddenly realizing that I had
never before dared to think about Superman leaving my world.

The superhero's vibrant eyes flickered slightly. "That is
impossible for me. This world is mine now, so I remained."

"And after it was discovered that you were innocent?" I
prompted, leaning forward to grab a notebook and pencil off the
coffee table in order to conceal the depths of my soul-shaking
relief.

Superman shrugged. "When I read your article, I was ready to
make a public appearance. However, with the realization that
Nightfall was headed our way, I had no choice but to delay my
return to Metropolis."

A cough erupted from Clark, but I was certain without even
glancing toward him that it was made more out of derision and
disbelief than anything. The assertions from his letter tried to
pry their way back into my mind, but I refused to allow them
entrance, focusing instead on Superman's earnest gaze.

"Was it hard stopping the asteroid?" I asked in concern. It
hadn't been so long ago that I had thought Nightfall had killed
Superman -- and that I had been partially responsible for him
having to face it alone.

Strangely, Superman's gaze moved to Clark. "It took a lot out
of me. That's why it took so long for me to...return."

I looked between Superman and Clark for a moment, about ready to
grab them both and shake them until they started giving me some
straight answers. But they wouldn't, I was sure. Once again, I
ignored the memory of Clark's haunted message.

"Superman." I leaned forward. "Were you hurt? Were you alone?
Why didn't you ask anyone for help?"

It wasn't until I heard my own voice uttering the questions that
I realized I was asking as much for Clark's sake as I was for my
own curiosity or desire for a story. I had told Clark that if I
could ask Superman any question, I would ask why he had not saved
Clark. Surely if Clark realized that the superhero had been hurt
saving the world, he would realize that it was not Superman's
fault he had not been able to help him.

"I was not hurt," Superman replied.

Again, I waited for an illuminating reply that was not
forthcoming.

"But you said it took a lot out of you," I commented, biting my
tongue to keep from letting loose an irritated retort. Why had I
never before realized just how...evasive...Superman was? Had he
always been this close-mouthed? I had to admit that the lack of a
mask, the openness of his persona, the air of integrity that
surrounded him -- it had made me -- it had made *everyone* --
think that he had nothing to hide. Were we wrong?

<He's Luthor's puppet.>

"It did. I had to recover my strength." Superman smiled at me,
and I had a hard time keeping *any* coherent thought in my head,
let alone the snatches of sentences Clark had written.

"And where were you while you were...recovering?" Clark asked,
startling both me and Superman. His dark eyes, shaded by the
glasses, were intent on Superman. He gave no sign that he noticed
either my puzzled frown or Superman's close study of him.

"I prefer not to say," Superman answered after a pause. "Even
I need a safe place to recharge without being mobbed."

My vague suspicion melted away. The hero was so alone, I
marveled. So aloof, trapped in the sky while the rest of the
world remained on Earth -- a planet alien to him. The only planet
left to him now, for whatever reason. And yet he never seemed to
waver or to doubt that he was doing the right thing.

"That's understandable," I murmured with a soft smile that
made Superman seem to relax a bit. "So..." I cleared my throat
and shifted to break the suddenly intimate moment. Clark looked
away, a muscle ticcing in his jaw. "Do you have any plans now
that you're back?"

"I will do what needs done," he replied simply, starkly.
"There is nothing else for me to do."

"And," I began cautiously, remembering the question Clark had
wanted to ask him. "Is that enough? Are you happy?"

Superman cocked his head, a puzzled expression sitting
unnaturally -- and yet, somehow familiarly -- on his features.
"Happy?"

Clark leaned forward, intensity caged within him. "Do you ever
feel like there should be more? Isn't there something missing?
What do you do when you're not making rescues?"

Superman's smile was almost grim as he locked stares with my
partner. "You should know that better than anyone, Clark. Are
*you* happy?"

Clark went suddenly and completely white. He wavered, looking as
if he might collapse at any moment. His mouth was so tightly shut
that white lines crimped his jaw.

I stared between the two men uncertainly.

"I am happy, Ms. Lane." Superman looked away from Clark to meet
my gaze. "I was made for a purpose, and I am fulfilling it."

"Made?" I repeated slowly, assaulted by yet another line from
the letter.

<...when Superman was first created...>

A smile heightened Superman's already-amazing looks. "Created.
Born. We each have a purpose."

"Destiny," Clark said, his hands clenched tightly over his
knees. "You believe that certain things are fated to be? That
there's nothing we can do to change them?"

"I believe that we should each find our place in the world --
and accept it." Superman shrugged, though his tone was anything
but casual. "I believe that...everything works better when we
each know where we should be."

"An interesting viewpoint," I interjected quickly. "Of course,
lots of people believe very similar things. But getting back to
the focus of this interview...were you ever threatened while you
were...away?"

The merest hint of a frown crossed Superman's features. "No."

"But you were in disguise, right? I mean, how else would you
have been able to quietly move from city to city? I don't
suppose you'd tell me what alias you were using?" I shot a
sidelong glance to Clark, who was shifting somewhat
uncomfortably. I was sure that he knew the answer to this
question already and equally sure that he would never betray it,
regardless of his suspicions.

Superman hesitated a long moment. "Let's just say that I was
careful to avoid inciting mass panic. Back then, it was still
believed that I conducted and attracted the potent energy of the
sun."

"I see." Trying to hide my disappointment and tamp down on my
curiosity, I straightened. "Well then." I looked once more at
Clark as he studied Superman closely. "Superman, how much do you
know about the Kry -- "

Clark made an indeterminate sound that turned into a delayed
groan, which was, I had no doubt, simply a ploy. Superman started
a bit, then gave Clark a puzzled frown. I clenched my hands into
fists, thoroughly sick of this whole evasion routine.

"Are you all right?" I asked my partner dutifully.

"Uh..." Clark swallowed, looking incredibly guilty. So much for
the lies he supposedly told all the time -- the man couldn't
tell a lie to save his life! "I have a headache, I guess."

"Oh, that's too bad," I said with false sweetness. "And you
were feeling so much better. Superman, why don't you carry him
into the bedroom and put him on the cot? You do need your rest,
Clark."

"Of course, Lois." Superman stood so quickly that Clark had
time only to toss me a betrayed look before being picked up by
the superhero and carried farther back into my apartment.

I couldn't bring myself to follow the two men into the bedroom,
feeling a tiny bit remorseful for the petty revenge. It was just
all so frustrating! Superman's evasions, Clark's
irrationality...my own confusion about both of them. I had been
in love with Superman from the moment he flew me in his arms, but
Clark was right -- I didn't know that much about him.

And Clark? I hardly knew what to think of him. Each time I saw
him, the letter consumed my every thought. I had thought he was
an open book to me, but the letter proved that there were whole
chapters I hadn't even realized existed. And what was I supposed
to do with this newfound knowledge?

Aimlessly, I picked up the notebook I had held earlier, though I
hadn't written anything in it. I should start scribbling ideas
on how to write an article with what little Superman had given
me, but...it was useless. All I could see were the sentences
Clark had composed while sitting alone in the dark.

"Lois?"

I turned, trying to control the suddenly racing beat of my heart.
Superman stood near the door, the light from my fish tank casting
an ethereal glow onto his skin. The stillness of his posture did
nothing to help me regain my composure, which had vanished with
the sound of his low voice.

"S-Superman," I managed to say, not quite intelligently. I
tried a smile to distract him from the slight stammer. "Is Clark
all right?"

Instead of replying, Superman took two steps nearer me, his cape
floating lightly around him. The sight of him filled my mind so
there was no room left for anything else, not even Clark's
letter. "You seem sad, Lois. Is there anything I can do?"

His kindness threatened to send me flying apart, but if I let
that happen, I would have to explain why I was so on edge. I
would have to tell him about the letter. And that wasn't his
secret -- or mine, truthfully. It was Clark's. And no matter how
paranoid he was acting, I couldn't betray my partner. So I
smiled, and I gestured toward the window that led to the fire
escape.

"It's just this investigation," I lied as I stepped out onto
the cold metal, followed closely by Superman, whose warmth seeped
into me even at the careful distance he kept between us. "I hate
hiding. I'm not used to sitting still. I want to see Luthor
dealt with already so Clark and I can move on. It's not fair to
him to stretch this out so long."

"I understand." Superman looked up at the sky. When I followed
his gaze, I saw the first snowflakes of a winter storm spiraling
down from the large gray-white clouds. Like tiny fairies, they
danced and spun until descending to my level and alighting on my
hair, my cheeks, my nose, my opened palms.

"It's beautiful," I whispered.

He heard me and stepped closer, his eyes more captivating than I
had ever before seen them. Slowly, gently, he raised his hand and
brushed his fingers across my brow, my cheek, my chin, stroking
away the snowflakes and igniting sparks to take their place.

"Th-thank you for giving us the interview," I said, my voice
shaky and as soft as the snow.

"I would give you anything, Lois."

My mouth dropped open in surprise.

And Superman kissed me.

Another woman might have frozen in astonishment, might have
melted away in a burst of vapor, might have gaped up at him
foolishly. But not me. I was Lois Lane, and I didn't let any
amount of surprise stop me from sliding my arms around his neck
and kissing him back. I had dreamed of kissing him before, but
this was the first time those dreams had ever transmuted
themselves into reality, given substance and form that were,
ironically enough, almost dreamlike.

It was over far too quickly, and yet not really because Superman
kept me in his arms, pulling back just far enough to talk to me.
"I care a great deal for you, Lois."

"I...care for you, too," I responded, a very weak statement
considering all that I wanted to say and do. But he was Superman,
and that he had kissed me at all was enough out of character that
I wasn't surprised when he let his arms fall to his sides and
took a step back.

"If I find anything on Luthor, I'll let you know," he promised
intently. "I don't want anything to happen to you."

"Thank you." I dared to reach out and put my hands on his arm,
eager to make up for the vicious accusations that had -- even if
they hadn't originated from me -- been swirling through my mind
throughout our entire interview. "I'm glad you're back,
Superman. I know it must seem that we -- the world -- rejected
you on a theory that didn't have a lot of proof to support it,
and that we accepted you back for...selfish reasons. But...most
everyone is very happy you're here. Especially me," I added
softly.

His hand cupped my shoulder for a brief instant. "I don't need
acceptance -- I'm doing what is right-but thank you for the
thought."

When he began to float into the air, I reluctantly stepped back.
"I'll see you around?"

"Of course." His smile was almost a grin, nearly childlike in
its simplicity. "I get around fast."

It seemed an odd thing to say, but I smiled anyway just to see
the glimpse of this more relaxed, happier Superman. And then he
was gone, the snowflakes rioting in his wake.

I'm convinced that I was actually floating as I ducked back
inside the living room. If I was, I was quickly brought back down
to earth by the sight of Clark standing in exactly the same place
Superman had stood just moments earlier. Only, the glow of the
humming water beside him cast shadows across his face rather than
giving him an otherworldly air.

"Why didn't you want me to ask him about the Kryptonite?" I
questioned him, struggling to keep my voice neutral even as I
panicked, wondering how much he had seen of my interlude with
Superman. Just because I didn't feel for Clark as he did for me
didn't mean that I wanted to rub his face in the fact that I
loved Superman. I mean, sure, before he had left, I had mentioned
it quite frequently, using it somewhat as a deterrent against the
crush I knew Clark had on me. But now, after the letter, after
the conversation we had had just before Superman's arrival...it
seemed inordinately cruel.

"Why worry him about something that we've decided to take care
of for him?" he responded, his voice quiet and...tired. "Are
you hungry? It's almost lunch time."

"Sure." I wasn't, actually, not after the big breakfast he had
given me, but one rejection in a morning was more than enough.

The sandwiches he fixed were delicious, naturally, as was the cut
fruit he served on the side. I managed to eat half the sandwich
and a bit of the fruit, not wanting to irritate him and not
having any idea what to say. He didn't say much either, not
during lunch and not during the afternoon as we silently worked
on the piece. But I didn't get the impression that he was angry.
Rather, it was as if he were...focused. As if he had made a
decision and now was determined to see it through.

Which frightened me. Because, with the memory of his letter
annoyingly fresh in my mind, how could I know what that decision
was?

How could I know that it didn't involve Kryptonite and a private
meeting with a man he no longer believed was Superman?

And how could I ever assimilate what that letter had said with my
unassuming, kind partner?

"I don't know how to tell you this, Lois. I *can't* tell you
this. You have no idea how much I want to, which is why I'm
writing this letter. I know I can't give it to you, but if I
don't do *something* to warn you, I'll explode.

"The thing is, even if I did tell you, you wouldn't believe me.
At worst, you'd think I'm crazy -- as if I could disprove that
one the way I am now! At best, you'd accuse me of jealousy.
You've done it before when Superman was first created, and again
when I tried to warn you about Luthor.

"Jealousy.

"I hate that word -- hate it because I cannot honestly say I
don't feel it. Even more so now than ever before.

"He's stolen everything from me." That line had been crossed
out, I vividly remembered, but not so heavily that I hadn't been
able to read it.

"I'm really not trying to hide things from you, Lois. I want to
tell you, but...Luthor made it very clear what would happen to
you if I did.

"Do you know why I'm up before you almost every day? Do you
know why I can't sleep without being able to see you? Do you
know why the only day I got up later than you was because I was
holding you in my arms and knew you weren't dead? I need to
remind myself, sometimes.

"I dream about you, Lois...dream that all the things Luthor
threatened to do to you are really happening. And I can do
nothing. I'm just as powerless as I wished to be so many times.

"If I tell you, Lois, you'll die. And not pleasantly, if any
death can be said to be such. No, you'll die, horribly and
alone.

"Yet still I can't resist dropping hints. And I know he knows
it. Which means...I don't know what it means. Will he *not* kill
you? There must, after all, be something of me in him. And I
could never hurt you, Lois. It's impossible for me. I care too
much.

"But if he won't kill you -- I wonder if I can take advantage
of that. I've tried already, but...it's so hard to talk to
him.

"Enough rambling. I can just hear you chiding me, telling me to
keep to the point, stick to the facts or let you write the
piece.

"But you can't write this one.

"The man you think is Superman is an imposter. He's Luthor's
puppet. He's playing us. He's the jailor in our prison -- a
prison you can't see, with locks formed of threats and chains
made out of helplessness.

"Luthor told me the rules of this game just before he let us out
of that cell and into this one. The man you think is Superman is
watching us -- watching *me*. He's doing all of Luthor's dirty
work.

"But I'll never get you to believe me. How could I? It's not
like I can prove any of this. Not now. Maybe not ever again.

"And how can I even think of telling you at all? How can I
endanger your life just because I feel dead inside when you smile
at him?

"I can't. So I'll destroy this letter. I'd burn it if I still
had the ability to do so.

"And I'll say nothing.

"But I'll hope. That's something I *can* do. Besides...it's
the only power I have left."

***

Chapter 12

Talking to Superman had allayed the vague fear I hadn't even
admitted to myself -- the fear that Clark was right about the
superhero. After seeing the sincerity in Superman's eyes, and
hearing his answers -- even if they were a bit evasive -- to my
questions, I was reassured that paranoia was the only explanation
for Clark's unthinkable assertions. I had to admit that the kiss
hadn't exactly hurt matters for Superman either, but that was
really beside the point.

Anyway, I felt badly enough about sending Clark alone into the
bedroom in the grip of a man he feared that I was ready to give
him a bit of a peace offering. I ignored the tiny whisper in my
mind that said I was trying to make up for the fact that I was
pretty certain he had seen me kiss Superman -- or Superman kiss
me, rather. Whichever, it hadn't helped Clark's mood any.

Though he hadn't shown any signs of anger, his mute withdrawal
had lasted all day, and even my teasing during dinner couldn't
do more than draw a handful of responses from him and the
slightest shadow of a smile he clearly forced for my sake. So,
when he settled into bed for the night, I waited until he had
pulled the blankets up around himself, then moved to sit at his
side as I had the night before.

He didn't seem surprised, merely looked up at me and scooted
over a bit to give me more room. The clouds had cleared up during
the evening, so the moon shone clearly through the window and
cast a spotlight across Clark's face. "I'm sorry I wasn't
better company today, Lois," he offered before I could say
anything.

I shrugged, not exactly eager to follow that topic. "We all have
our off-days."

"Still friends?"

I froze, unable to decipher the emotions straining his voice.
"Of course, Clark. You can't get rid of me that easily."

A flicker of something passed across his features, illuminated by
the glow of the moon. Belatedly, I realized that my 'rejection'
this morning had made it seem to him that he *could* get rid of
me fairly easily. But I couldn't go there, not right now. Not
ever. I was in love with Superman, after all.

I hated that I had to remind myself.

"Okay," I said, making it clear through my tone that I wasn't
moving until he obliged me. "Time to exchange our secrets."

He looked away, gazing out the window, probably not incidentally
hiding his expression. The shadow of the stubble he had never
shaved seemed out of place on his jaw. "I...don't really have
anymore, Lois."

"Well, I have one," I said, refusing to be deterred.

"Lois." Clark shifted uncomfortably, the blanket sliding off
his shoulders and revealing that, beneath the t-shirt he wore, he
had regained a bit of his muscle tone. He must have done a couple
more push-ups than I had realized, I thought numbly. "You don't
have to do this."

"I want to," I assured him, shaking off that weird feeling and
meeting his eyes. Something in them -- something deep and
beautiful and extremely compelling -- drew my hand toward him. It
settled on his shoulder; I wasn't quite brave enough to bury my
fingers in his hair as he had done to me while confiding a
secret. Then, as if this were the reason I was touching him, I
leaned close to whisper in his ear, now purposely mimicking his
position when he had told me of Kryptonite.

"Here's my secret. When you kissed Toni Taylor...I was
jealous." I pulled back to study his reaction.

On the one hand, I knew this could seem cruel, as if I were
taunting him or leading him on. And yet...I couldn't forget the
way he had flinched away from my physical withdrawal that
morning. I couldn't forget the way he had turned his back on me.
I couldn't forget the defeated tone in his voice. Maybe I was
wrong, maybe I was being selfish or foolish, maybe I just wanted
to do anything to keep him fixated on something besides
Superman...whatever the reason, this was the secret I knew I had
to tell him.

I just wasn't sure he would appreciate it. So I held my breath
as I studied him.

Almost unconsciously, his hand rose to cover mine, still lying on
his chest. Almost invisibly, the same gleam as from this morning
shone through his glasses. Almost unbelievably, the hint of a
smile was hiding in the corners of his mouth. "Well," he said
slowly. "To be perfectly honest, I was pretty jealous of all the
time you were spending with her brother."

I grinned, immeasurably relieved. "Well," I copied him again,
still repeating his words back to him, just as I had ever since
hearing his voice slice through the darkness of a cell. "To be
perfectly honest, I served drinks once -- *once* -- to him, seven
or eight of his lieutenants, and Toni. Not very intimate."

Clark hesitated. "I guess I do have a secret, Lois."

"What is it?" I was suddenly hyper-conscious of the warmth and
weight of his hand atop mine -- warming rather than stifling,
comforting rather than suffocating. It was hard to focus past
that and on his words. What was wrong with me? Superman had
kissed me just hours earlier -- why did that now seem
so...unimportant?

"When I threw you in that dumpster...I kind of enjoyed it."

Unexpectedly, I started to laugh, but he wasn't done, his voice
dropping a little lower and unfurling a strange feeling in the
pit of my stomach.

"But when I sent you to the Sewage Reclamation Facility...I
*didn't* enjoy that."

"Neither did I," I told him with a chuckle to disguise how
off-balance I felt. "But I'm glad you did it, Clark. Both
times."

"You are?" His brow furrowed. "Why?"

I moved my hand to stroke the hair from his forehead, more to
dampen the feelings evoked by his touch than because I had
miraculously become any braver. Unfortunately, touching his hair
seemed addictive, and I found that I couldn't pull away.
Clark's eyes, wide and filled with -- awe? -- never left me.

"Well," I said softly as I was enveloped by the same feelings
of trust that I had felt in the cell. "Because the first time,
it made me respect you as a journalist. It made me stop and see
you. And the second time, because...well..." I laughed
self-consciously. "You had been so perfect up till then. Always
saying the right thing, doing the right thing, always knowing
what to do and handling everything -- me -- so well. It was kind
of nice to see you be a little...vindictive. It made you seem
more human."

He stiffened. This time, I recognized the signs -- the change in
demeanor, the flash of nightmares in his eyes, the way he looked
away -- and I brought up my other hand to hold onto his shoulder
and force him to look at me. "And you *are* human, Clark, no
matter what Luthor may have told you," I said firmly. "In fact,
I think you're the most human person I've ever met."

"And you're the bravest," he whispered, his finger stroking my
cheek so lightly that I almost wondered if I imagined it. "You
amaze me with all that you're willing to do."

"I don't always feel brave," I told him carefully. At that
moment, in fact, I felt like a coward because what I really
wanted to tell him was that I was sorry for hurting him that
morning, even if only inadvertently.

"And I don't always feel human." His voice was so soft I was
surprised that I caught the words, so sincere that I blinked.

"That's why they're secrets," I said quietly. "Only we can
know. You and me against the world."

"Us against the world," he agreed, and this time I knew I
didn't imagine the touch of his hand on my face. Hearing my
words spoken back to me, I suddenly wondered if I wasn't feeding
his paranoia, but...he seemed so much happier. So much more
confident. And he was smiling again. Surely that was not a bad
thing. It couldn't be. I wouldn't allow it to be.

"Good night, Clark," I told him, cheered for some reason I
didn't choose to examine too closely. When I stood, his hands
fell back to the blankets. My own, hanging at my sides, felt
strangely empty and cold.

"Good night, Lois."

The short conversation didn't make the letter go away, but it
did make it easier to sleep that night. It made me feel a bit
better about the Superman exclusive we had sent to Perry. It made
me a little more hopeful about Clark's chances of recovering
from Luthor's brainwashing. It made the world seem like a better
place.

It was a good thing I wasn't troubled by nightmares that night
because Perry woke me with a phone call far too early the next
morning. I was still half-asleep when I answered the phone,
already hushing it even before I picked it up and put it to my
ear.

"Shh!" I hissed. "Hello?"

"Lois, darlin', is that you?"

"Shh," I commanded again, blearily looking in the direction of
Clark's cot. Sunrise had painted the window pink and orange and
cast golden shadows across Clark's still form. "Clark's still
asleep!"

"Oh?" A touch of surprised disbelief tinged Perry's voice, and
he hesitated a moment before continuing. "Well, I'm sorry then.
I didn't realize a bit of beauty sleep was more important than
this little tip I just got from some dame callin' herself Long
Legs Lulu. Should I call back at a more convenient time?"

"Long Legs Lulu?" I repeated in a hushed tone. "She called you
with information? On Luthor?"

"Well, she says she has the word on the streets about who they
think the Boss might be."

"The Boss?" I sat up excitedly, almost knocking the covers off
completely in my haste. Worried and thinking I had seen him stir
out of the corner of my eye, I glanced toward Clark; the light
reflecting off his glasses made it impossible to tell whether he
was awake or not. "She knows who the Boss is? Does she have
proof?"

"She said it was worth your while."

My heart, already beating at a reasonable pace, sped up even
more. "Really? She doesn't say things like that lightly. I've
got to see her. Did she say where to meet?"

"An alley down in the Red Light district. Lantern and Days Blvd.
But, Lois, you're not thinkin' of goin' down there, are
you?"

"Of course I am," I whispered incredulously, already hunting
for the sneakers I knew I had kicked under my bed a while ago.
"This *is* why I had you ask them to be hunting up clues for
me."

"It could be dangerous," Perry worried. "The Red Light
district isn't the nicest place. What if -- "

"I've got bodyguards following me around, and Superman's
promised to keep an eye on me from the sky," I interrupted.
"The only way I could possibly be safer is if the National Guard
came along."

"I'd feel better if they did," Perry said, but I could tell I
had won him over.

"Oh, Chief?" Once more, I looked toward Clark. He might have
shifted positions slightly, but it was hard to tell with the
blankets all bunched up around him. "Do...do you think you could
come over for a while? I just...I don't know that Clark should
be alone."

I bit my lip as I waited for his reply. It wasn't like we were
anywhere near the lunch hour, and Perry hated leaving his
newsroom for even that inconvenience.

"Uh...sure." Perry's acquiescence was a bit delayed but no
less sincere for all that. "I can be over in about forty
minutes, is that all right?"

"Perfect. I'll be gone before then, but...I'd just feel better
if you checked in on him. I'll leave him a note explaining
things."

"Okay. Well, then...you be careful, darlin', all right?"

I rolled my eyes, my tone fond. "I promise. Thanks, Chief."

The minute I hung up the phone, I had rolled to my feet and was
tiptoeing to the closet to grab some jeans, a t-shirt, and a
lightweight coat. Ten minutes after that, I was slipping out the
door and locking it quietly behind me with a silent prayer that
Clark remain asleep until Perry arrived.

I didn't see my bodyguards, though I assumed they were following
me closely, probably calling Henderson to see if he could explain
why I was out for an early morning drive to the bad side of town.
The inspector would doubtless have another condemning speech
ready for me when I got back home, I knew, but that didn't
change the fact that I had to see this source. I was more than
ready to put Luthor behind bars for what he had done to Clark and
Superman.

As a precaution, I parked the Jeep a couple blocks down from Long
Legs Lulu's office, then slowly jogged forward. The fairy-like
snow from the day before had turned into a thin layer of mush,
mud-colored and soggy, and the neighborhood wasn't exactly the
kind in which one took an early morning run, but I tried to
pretend that was precisely the reason for my presence.

There was no sign of the long-legged prostitute in the alley, so
I slowed my pace, hoping she would show up before anyone else
did. I wasn't exactly comfortable in the Red Light district,
being in a profession very different from Lulu's, and I didn't
want to attract any attention. The last thing I needed was a
proposition before breakfast.

Though I had been doing this on my own for the past two months, I
found myself wishing Clark were there beside me. It had always
been...comforting...to have him along.

The sound of a low voice touched by a familiar accent caught my
attention. Glancing around once, I flattened myself against the
edge of the alley and crept forward in the direction of a garage
that gaped open into the dark interior of a warehouse attached to
one of the buildings. My eyes, adjusted to the sunlight, peered
ineffectually through the darkness as I peeked around the corner
of the opening.

"That's right, Mr. Bender. Mr. Luthor doesn't like
complications, which is why he has need of your immediate
services."

My insides twisted with excitement and the beginnings of fear
when I recognized Nigel's smooth voice. Through the shadows, I
could just make out that he was speaking into a cell phone, his
back to the open door.

"Of course, Mr. Bender. I look forward to our meeting with
pleasure." The click of the cell phone closing corresponded
exactly to the prickling at the back of my neck that let me know
I was *not* alone.

With exaggerated casualness, I turned around and found myself
facing two men, both bulky though one was shorter than the other,
both dressed in black, both looming over me. Both very familiar.
They were the two thugs who had kidnapped me and thrown me into
Clark's cell, I realized with widening eyes. The two men who had
supposedly died in the ferocious fire that had turned that cell
into crumbling brick and dark ashes.

"Good morning!" I chirped merrily as I edged sideways in an
effort to sidle past them, my instincts coming to my rescue. I
was feeling almost sick despite the fact that I knew Superman
would come the instant I called for him. "Nice day for a run,
huh?"

The two men closed in on me, any possibility of escape
disappearing quickly. Suddenly, sticking around didn't seem like
a very good idea.

Twisting my body to slide through the narrow opening between
them, I darted forward, knocking one aside to make an avenue I
could fit through. He stumbled slightly but used his momentum to
lurch forward and wrap his arms around me from behind. I lashed
out with a high kick that caught the thug in front of me in the
chest, then planted my feet and rolled my body forward to throw
my captor over my shoulder. Before either could recover, I
started running toward the mouth of the alley.

Nigel stepped from the darkened garage just in front of me, that
same pistol as before clenched in his hand and pointed straight
toward my heart.

"That is getting really irritating," I told him with false
bravado.

"I had a feeling you might decide to drop by," Nigel said, a
smug smile twisting his lips. "How fortunate for us." Using his
gun to gesture toward the garage's interior, he added, "We'd
just like a word, Ms. Lane."

I had just opened my mouth to do what I should have done from the
beginning and call for Superman when one of the thugs from behind
hooked his arm around my neck and jerked backward. Black spots
swam in front of my eyes as I futilely gasped for air, my hands
scrabbling vainly at his arm.

"Bring her inside." Nigel glanced behind him and jerked his
chin toward the taller man. "Make certain we're not
disturbed."

Only when we had been enveloped by darkness did my captor allow
tiny sips of air to be intermittently delivered to me. It wasn't
nearly enough air to clear the spots from my vision, but I took
what I could get and desperately tried to think of a way out of
this latest predicament.

"Now, Ms. Lane. You seem to have forgotten the agreement you
made with Mr. Luthor."

I gaped at Nigel, muscles tense from holding myself as far away
from my sweaty captor as possible. "What agreement?" I choked
out through the stranglehold he had on me.

The Englishman's silvery eyebrows rose in assumed surprise.
"Why, the agreement to write what he tells you to write. It's
always such a disappointment to him when people back out of their
agreements."

"I never made a deal with him," I said boldly. One more taste
of air, I promised myself, and I would be able to shout for
Superman. Even if he was busy on the other side of the world --
which seemed likely since he hadn't yet stepped in -- my more
human bodyguards would be showing up any minute. I just had to
hold on a moment or two longer.

Pain exploded with all the force of Independence Day firecrackers
when Nigel unexpectedly rammed the butt of his gun into my
stomach. I doubled over with harsh, racking coughs that made a
thousand more fireworks dance through my nerves system. The thug
let go of me, and another glancing blow, this time to the side of
my head, wiped away any thought of calling for anyone as I fell
to the concrete.

Nigel was saying something more, but I couldn't understand him,
couldn't focus on the words to differentiate one word from
another. Snatches of his voice wove through the haze of pain that
enveloped me as surely as the garage's shadows did. Something
about articles, and Luthor, and favorable appearances.

"Superman," I whispered, only aware that I was bleeding when
the barely audible utterance of the superhero's name allowed
salty liquid to dribble inside my mouth. The hot taste of it
roused me from the agony encasing me in red-hot sparkles and
black nausea.

"Please, Ms. Lane, don't embarrass yourself." Nigel leaned
down over me, his face swimming before me even as his voice
echoed strangely through the ringing in my ears. "You're a
strong, intelligent woman -- no need to cry for help. Just
promise to write the articles Mr. Luthor wishes you to write."

"No." I clenched my hands into fists, bracing myself for the
unfavorable response that reply was sure to elicit.

Instead of striking me again, Nigel merely shook his head. "Tsk,
tsk. Mr. Luthor will be very disappointed. In fact, he might
think it's time to visit a few of your friends. What *did* he
offer you in exchange for your services?"

"No!" I said again, but this time, it was a terrified plea, not
a mark of defiance. The man behind me hauled me abruptly to my
feet, and if I hadn't recognized him before, the careless way he
yanked me around would have reminded me of where I had last
encountered him. My surroundings blurred around me and I felt so
sick that I swallowed repeatedly to keep from vomiting right then
and there. I couldn't give in to this -- I had to be strong. I
had to ignore the nausea roiling through me with all the force of
a spring storm and keep myself focused on the immediate present.

With a dramatic gesture, Nigel threw a folder down on the ground
at my feet. Photos slithered from between its pages and slowly
coalesced within my consciousness to thrill me with anguished
terror.

Perry and Jimmy walking down the street outside of the Daily
Planet building. They were laughing, Perry's hand resting for a
frozen instant on Jimmy's shoulder.

The Daily Planet building itself, its metal globe sparkling in
winter sunlight.

My sister locking an apartment door behind her, her expression
caught in an unguarded moment.

Clark. Walking beside me. His arm around my shoulders. His lips
just beginning to curve upward in that wonderful smile. His eyes
still sparkling with the light that Superman's appearance in the
next moment had doused.

"Your partner enjoyed our hospitality once before," Nigel said
conversationally. "I'm certain he could be persuaded to become
our guest once more."

An inarticulate sound of distress tore itself free before I could
catch it. I clenched my jaw tight, refusing to give into either
my fear or the pain threatening to send my mind exploding in a
hundred different directions. "Superman will stop you."

The corner of Nigel's mouth quirked upward. "Really? That's
your defense -- an alien will stop us?"

"Yes." I willed myself to believe that. Painted over the mental
image of Clark writhing in agony as Luthor smiled gleefully with
the image of Superman tearing the door from the wall and allowing
splintered light to cut darkness into shreds. And I took a deep
breath and shouted, "Superman, help! Superma -- "

A hand clamped itself over my mouth from behind. Nigel stepped up
close to me, the smile gone from his face, the gun hanging from
one hand even as the other rose toward me. "Be quiet," he
commanded, and his hand dug into the gunshot wound on my arm.

A half-scream was torn from my throat and dampened by the
suffocating hand covering the bottom half of my face. For a
moment, every thought I had scattered before the pain, whimpering
mutely as each sought refuge from the overwhelming agony.
Fiercely blinking away tears, I forced myself again to focus on
the moment; I could give in to the pain later. Much later.

"Superman will not help you, you fool," Nigel told me in a cold
voice, all hints of false congeniality wiped from his demeanor.
"Your only hope -- your *partner's* only hope -- is to
cooperate with Mr. Luthor."

Fear obliterated the awareness of pain as my eyes darted
involuntarily toward the pictures of my life strewn at my feet
like the flowers and gifts thrown before the feet of Superman's
statue.

Clark was all alone at the apartment, I realized with growing,
sickening dread. My bodyguards hadn't shown up -- anything could
have happened to them...and to his. He was defenseless,
completely alone -- and he would never call for Superman.

"Well?" Nigel demanded.

I couldn't let Clark be captured again. I couldn't bear it if I
was once more responsible for him being caged in the darkness.
Clark was meant for the light; he needed to see the sun, to bathe
in it, to drink it in. He needed to be free. He needed to be able
to smile. Luthor had already done so much damage to him-I
couldn't allow him to hurt Clark any more.

I needed him in my life.

At an impatient nod from Nigel, the thug lifted his fingers from
my mouth, allowing me a gasping breath of refreshing air. I took
advantage of it while I had it, knowing that I had to do what
Clark wouldn't. "Superman! Help!"

The thug let go of me when Nigel drew back and hit me in the
stomach, and I crashed helplessly to the cold, hard ground. I
wanted to call again for Superman -- wanted to let him know by
the urgent panic in my tone that Clark was in danger, that I was
hurt, that we needed him -- but the breath had been driven from
my lungs, and for a long, panicked moment, I couldn't draw in
air no matter how hard I fought.

Dimly, I was aware that the thug guarding the opening was calling
something. Even more distant was the sound of the beeping
warnings sounded by a delivery truck reversing. Nigel moved
toward the guard, irritable words winging their way over my
head.

This was it, I realized. The thug over me was distracted, Nigel
was pointing his gun elsewhere -- I wouldn't get another chance
like this. I had to get to Clark, had to warn him, had to save
him.

I shifted on the ground, resettling my weight, knowing it would
attract the attention of my captor. When he turned toward me, I
pulled my legs back and rammed them into his chest. Then,
scrambling to my feet, cradling my left arm close to myself, I
took off running. The front of the garage was guarded by Nigel
and his remaining henchman, and even should I get past them, the
alley was blocked off by a large white delivery truck backing
down the alley, so I ran deeper into the shadows of the garage,
frantically searching for a door into the connected building.

Shouts from behind motivated me to run faster; the pain in my
arm, the agony thrumming through my head, and the burning ache in
my stomach slowed me down. A loose board under my feet sent me
tumbling headfirst to the ground. I tried to roll with the
impact, but the move jostled my gunshot wound and I screamed.

A foot on my back stopped me from rising, and I froze when Nigel
leaned closer to point the gun at my head. "Don't move, Ms.
Lane."

Defeat filled my limbs with lead and my mind with fog.

The two thugs -- my captor having risen to his feet -- were near
the opening of the garage, watching the truck make its slow way
past. Nigel loomed over me, making escape impossible. "Most
unfortunate -- " he began.

Whatever else he might have had to say was cut off by the crash
of the delivery truck veering against the side of the garage and
bringing dust and rubble down on the two thugs. Nigel's foot
pressed painfully down on me as a man, dressed in white
coveralls, climbed from the passenger side of the truck.

My bodyguards, I thought abstractedly. It had to be them. Why
else would a truck come out of nowhere to effect a rescue?

But where was Superman?

"Superman!" I called out, wincing as I broke into a fit of
painful coughing.

"Lois!"

Elation threatened to rob me of what little coherence I had
retained. I focused past the pain to look all around me for the
caped superhero I was sure had arrived...but there was only the
deliveryman hurrying toward me, white cap pulled low and shading
the glasses that could not conceal the panic written across his
face.

Glasses?

"Clark!" I cried out. Instinctively, without thought, as if I
had forgotten where I was, I tried to rise and flee to the safety
of his embrace. Nigel's foot and the feel of the gun pressed
against the back of my head pulled me up short.

"Ah. Mr. Luthor thought you might make an appearance." I
couldn't see the Englishman's expression, but from the corner
of my eye, I could see him reaching into his pocket with his free
hand, pulling out a small box, and flipping its cover open. There
was something about the box that seemed familiar, something that
tugged at the edges of my fraying consciousness, but when I
reached for the memory, it slipped away.

An appallingly loud noise echoed through the garage...and with a
strained cry, Clark crumpled to the ground.

"Clark!" His name passed my lips with no conscious forethought.
I was wholly unable to move, unable to think, unable --
*unwilling* -- to make the connection between the gun in Nigel's
hand and the abrupt, terrifying way my partner had dropped as if
his strings had been cut.

For a timeless moment, I was transported back to that moment in
Smallville when Trask had pointed his weapon at Clark, when I had
frozen in horror, when a gunshot had sounded like thunder.

My stillness must have convinced Nigel I was helpless, for he
removed his foot from my back and took a step toward Clark.

Clark stirred.

The world crystallized around me, every detail painfully sharp,
each instant crisply realized, my pain submerged beneath the
awareness of everything around me.

Clark was alive.

Nigel was moving toward him, that box -- the one with which
Luthor had menaced Clark in the cell, I realized with my newfound
clarity -- opened and held ready in his hand.

One of the thugs was rising from the debris at the opening of the
garage.

"No," I whispered, then yelled, "Stop! Leave him alone!"

I reached out with groping hands in an attempt to stop Nigel from
moving nearer Clark, but the Englishman shook me off impatiently,
a sneer on his face as he turned and kicked back at me. Fire
erupted in my left arm when his foot knocked against the gunshot
wound. A whimper slipped from my throat.

"Lois!"

Ripped from the overwhelming pain by the sound of Clark crying my
name, I looked up, that crystalline clarity still bringing the
world around me into sharp focus.

Pain twisted Clark's expression -- pain...and grim
determination. He forced himself up onto his hands and knees,
moving slowly toward me, twisting so that he would be between me
and Nigel. "Don't touch her," he ordered, an astonishing note
of command infusing his voice with strength that overshadowed the
pain giving it a ragged edge.

A chuckle, cold and mirthless, escaped Nigel. He slipped the gun
into his pocket and raised that small box threateningly. "I
believe you've forgotten something."

A flicker of fear washed across Clark's features yet quickly
gave way to that stern resolve. He tried to stand, stumbled, fell
to his knees, tried again. Agony played itself out on his face,
but still he tried to force himself to his feet. I couldn't see
the blood on him, couldn't tell where he had been shot, but the
sound of the gunshot still echoed through the contours of my
mind.

When Nigel took a step nearer Clark, my partner groaned and fell
to the ground.

Terror and my own brand of determination eclipsed everything
else.

Filled with a strength I had never realized I possessed, I
crawled forward and grabbed Nigel's ankle, then yanked savagely
backward while chopping at the back of his knee with a flattened
hand. The Englishman toppled to the ground with a yell that cut
off disturbingly fast when his head hit the concrete. The tiny
box tumbled out of his hand and rolled nearer Clark.

With a small exclamation, Clark curled in on himself, his face so
pale I immediately looked again for any sign of the blood I knew
he had to be losing.

"Clark!" Ignoring Nigel, I scrambled forward to kneel at
Clark's side. I almost broke down into tears when I touched him,
the instant so reminiscent of that moment in the cell when I had
first set hands to him and felt him flinch in pain.

"Hey!"

The shout was totally unexpected and viciously loud within the
vast closeness of the building. The rapid tempo of approaching
footsteps was followed by the appearance of one of the thugs. I
instinctively covered Clark's body with my own, flinching away
from the thug, but he showed no interest in me. Instead, he knelt
beside Nigel, scooped up and closed the small box, threw a
frantic look over his shoulder at the sound of more footsteps and
another shout, and took off running toward the back of the
building. An instant later, the sound of a slammed door joined
the rest of the fading echoes crowding around us.

I glanced toward the second set of footsteps and saw a man --
dressed in white coveralls identical to Clark's -- approaching
with a worried expression. Dismissing him as a threat, I looked
back down at Clark. He seemed to have relaxed a bit, but he was
still curled in around himself. His cap had fallen to the ground
and his glasses had been pushed askew, giving him a disheveled,
abandoned look.

"Clark? Clark!" I gave him a tiny shake before realizing that
might just be hurting him. I gentled my touch, running my fingers
down along his cheek, his neck, his shoulder, his arm, knowing it
wasn't helping, unable to stop. "How bad is it? Where were you
hit?" I looked toward the stranger. "A doctor! Call 911!"

Straightening a bit, Clark finally met my gaze, his expression
smoothing out, the pain fading, the fear disappearing, that
strangely familiar sternness melting away to be replaced by soft
tenderness and quiet hope. "No! I wasn't shot, Lois. I'm
fine."

I gaped at him, my mind literally incapable of comprehending the
words. "But...I -- I heard the...the gunshot. You fell."

"There was no gunshot. It was just Harv" -- he nodded toward
the man standing over Nigel as if to guard him -- "closing his
door. The echoes..." He trailed off when I pushed on his
shoulder, rolling him over so that I could see his chest.
Unsatisfied, still feeling that at any moment blood would start
seeping from a wound he didn't yet realize he had, I tore open
his coveralls and stared disbelievingly at the t-shirt beneath.

There was no blood. No wound. No holes. Needing to convince
myself, I ran my hands over his chest again and again before
finally realizing that he had not been shot.

He was safe.

He was unharmed.

He was alive.

Letting out a tiny murmur -- no words, just an unintelligible
exclamation of vast relief -- I bent over him, my forehead
resting on his shoulder. His hand came up to stroke my hair, his
other hand resting lightly on my shoulder.

"You're okay," I whispered -- to him and to myself. "You're
okay."

And only then, with his hand caressing my hair, did I finally
believe. And only then did the world recede and the shadows
disappear in a blaze of light.

***

Chapter 13

I must have blacked out for a moment because it felt as if I were
awakening from a deep sleep when a soft hand touched my shoulder,
long fingers curled around my arm, and that so-familiar voice
cajoled me from the darkness into the light. "It's all right,
Lois. Everything's fine, really."

"Hey, are you all right?"

I blinked and squinted against the unexpected glare creeping in
around the contours of the delivery truck. The man dressed in
white coveralls was peering at Clark and me from his
self-appointed post over Nigel.

"I'm fine," Clark assured his friend -- and me, I suspected.
"Lois, this is Harv. I met him when we were investigating the
South Side fires. He used to be one of my sources, but today, he
let me borrow a uniform and hitch a ride with him."

"A doctor," I commanded the man. Serrated shards of light and
darkness were alternating within my head and embers burned in my
left arm; the only way to distract myself was to focus on what we
needed to do. "We need a doctor. Clark -- "

"I'm fine," he said yet again. He even stood up, as if to
prove his point, rather shakily offering me a hand to pull me to
my feet as well. "I don't need a doctor. But you..." The
shadows seemed to gather in his eyes as he studied me. "You're
bleeding, Lois."

It was true. My gunshot wound had, unsurprisingly, broken open,
and I could feel the stickiness of dried blood on my temple.
Still, that was inconsequential next to what could have happened
to Clark. "It's nothing," I said with a shrug that made me
immediately wince with pain, belying my statement.

"Then no doctor." Clark's voice was filled half with command
and half with a plea.

"Fine," I acquiesced. Then I glanced toward the unconscious
Nigel. "Police. We need to call the police. Or take him to the
police." I shook my head, trying to clear out the gauze that
wrapped my mind, probably protecting me from the full extent of
my injuries.

Clark wrapped his hands around my arms, but looking up at him, I
wasn't sure whether he was steadying me...or himself. "Lois --
"

"Clark!" I exclaimed, a ray of light suddenly piercing through
the mental haze. "Do you know what this means? We have Nigel! If
we can get him to testify against Luthor, we...we could be almost
done with this."

His smile was slight, as if he didn't comprehend how close we
were to seeing Luthor behind bars. Well, he'd realize it soon
enough, I determined. It was far past time to close this horrible
chapter of his life forever; time for him to move on. And I would
help him. Soon, everything would go back to normal, to the way it
had been before he and Superman had been forced to leave me.

As if my thought had summoned him when my cries for help
couldn't, a whoosh preceded Superman's hasty entrance into the
warehouse. His step checked briefly as he took in the scene. A
strange expression reshaped his features, but when he met my
eyes, I saw only aloof neutrality.

"Superman." I turned toward him even as I wrapped my uninjured
arm around Clark's waist, not quite sure he was able to stand on
his own. "You're here!"

"What happened here?" Superman looked straight at Clark. "How
did Nigel -- "

"I'll tell you later," I promised him impatiently. "We have
to get him to the police right now. And," I added when Clark
wavered unsteadily, "I need to get Clark back to the apartment.
A taxi! Harv." I turned to Clark's friend and had to say his
name twice more before he was able to tear his gaze from the
larger-than-life superhero. "Get us a taxi, would you? We can
take Nigel to the -- "

"I'll take him," Superman offered. "It looks like I was...too
late...for the original rescue. So, the least I can do is drop
him off for you."

"Oh, thank you!" I sagged a bit in relief. A long stay at the
police station filling out papers and repeating our statements
was something I was more than happy to avoid. "There's another
man unconscious by the opening. Tell Henderson we'll be by later
today to give our statements. Right now, we just..."

"Of course." Superman smiled, but it seemed much more distant
than the smile he had given me after kissing me the night before.
Not that I was in the best shape to analyze his expressions; not
that I could tear my attention from Clark's quickly dwindling
strength and warm touch to focus on the superhero.

"Thanks," I said again when Superman bent and hoisted Nigel up.
I forced a smile for him, feeling a bit bad that I couldn't
spare him more attention. But he performed rescues all the time,
I assured myself; he surely understood that there were more
important things to attend to at the moment.

"I'm glad you're all right, Lois." Superman smiled again -- I
couldn't summon the strength needed to compare this one to any
of the others -- and moved to pick up the other thug. He looked
back toward us, shadows blanketing his form. "Clark. We'll talk
later." Then, with another whoosh and the fluttering of his
crimson and gold cape, he disappeared into the sky.

Though he stiffened at Superman's words, Clark betrayed no other
reaction.

Instead of watching Superman until all sign of his trademark
colors had faded, as I usually did, I turned back to Clark. "All
right," I said softly. "Let's get out of here."

Harv had a taxi for us in short order. Clark tried to apologize
for any damage made to his vehicle, but Harv waved it off with a
remark that he'd been meaning to get an overhaul done on that
truck anyway. I gave him my own absentminded thanks before
getting Clark settled in the seat.

We didn't say much as we made our way back to the apartment;
Clark was slumped back against the seat, his face turned toward
the sun, and I was trying to order my thoughts and push away the
pain beating out a jarring tattoo in my head and stroking tiny
blades along the wound in my arm.

"I'm sorry," Clark mumbled when I had to support him on our
way up the steps into my apartment building. "I thought I was
done with this."

"Hey, it's okay." I smoothed my hand over his chest as I
leaned him against the wall in the elevator. "You'll be back to
normal again after a bit of rest."

He nodded and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the
wall.

"Clark." I kept my eyes fixed on the elevator doors, my voice
small. "Thank you. For coming after me."

His fingers curled around mine in a gesture so much more
comforting than could be explained through mere words. "You'd
have done the same for me."

But I hadn't, I thought dismally as I helped him into the
apartment and guided him to my bed instead of the cot. He was too
drained to even notice -- or at least to protest -- and he pulled
off the coveralls and stretched himself out without a murmur.

For a long month, Clark had faced the kind of treatment I had
gotten such a small taste of today...and I hadn't come for him.
I hadn't even looked for him. Luthor might have been the one who
imprisoned and tortured Clark, but I was the one who had let him
stay there.

Yet Clark, who had been free for less than a week, had dared to
follow me into a situation that could have easily seen him back
in a cell...or dead. He had even tried to place himself between
me and his captor, no matter that Nigel had been holding that
box.

All the terror I had pushed aside came surging back inside my
mind like a flood, knocking aside everything else and filling up
every crevice and niche. I couldn't seem to stop touching Clark,
reassuring myself that he was well, that he was alive, that he
was here with me.

"So," I said, desperate to distract myself from the image that
kept replaying in my head -- the image of Clark crumpling
lifelessly to the ground. "How did you know where I was?"

A slightly guilty expression painted itself across his face. "I
overheard you talking to Perry."

"You overheard me," I repeated, at first surprised before
remembering that there were several instances when Clark had
demonstrated that he had remarkable hearing. "Oh, Perry -- "

Clark's hand on mine stopped me from rising. "I called before I
left and told him I was fine and that he didn't need to come
check up on me."

"And he believed you?" I asked dubiously.

"No." His tiny chuckle drove back some of the shadows still
flooding my heart. "But I think I convinced him to hold off on
coming until the lunch hour."

"So he'll be here any minute," I realized with a glance to the
clock. "Great. He'll never pass on a message from a source to
me again."

Aside from a tired smile, Clark didn't reply. He kept staring at
me, though I was surprised that he hadn't fallen asleep again.
Something took my heart in a tight hold as I stared back at him,
something that made colors seem brighter, edges seem sharper, and
days seem both longer and shorter and altogether infinitely more
worth living. Something that made it hard to breathe and stilled
the dizzy swirl the room seemed to want to travel around me.

"You shaved," I whispered, reaching out to stroke the
smoothness of his face.

"It was easier this morning," he said, as if that explained
anything. His jaw clenched as he looked away. "I don't know
that it'll be as easy tomorrow."

"But there'll *be* a tomorrow for you!" The fierce words were
out and shivering between us before I had even realized that I
was speaking.

Clark studied me a moment in silence, his expression evenly
divided between concern, curiosity, and hope.

"I thought you were shot," I admitted numbly. I splayed my hand
over his chest, still amazed that he was unharmed. Only when I
felt liquid warmth on my cheeks did I realize that the flood
within me was leaking out into the open by way of tears that
seemed even more distant than that old Lois Lane who didn't cry
and wasn't afraid to investigate tips and only tolerated her
partner.

"I'm fine, Lois. Really." Clark smiled up at me, one hand
rising to cradle my face next to his palm. "I wasn't shot."

"But you fell," I insisted, uncertain why I couldn't just let
this go. Uncertain why I was looking at him as if I had never
seen him before. But I hadn't, had I? I had never before
realized just how much of a hero my partner was. I had never
before allowed myself to recognize just how much courage and
integrity and brilliance hid beneath the Midwestern exterior.

"It..." Clark hesitated and looked away. "It was just
a...shadow of an old pain."

The box. Whatever was in it -- more of the drug they had dosed
him with, I guessed -- scared him. The simple sight of it was
enough to pause him. And yet...he had still forced himself
forward. Still come to me.

"Are you sure you're all right?" I asked him softly, my voice
little more than a breath.

For the first time, Clark allowed me to see a hint of the
uncertainty he felt. For an instant, his fear was unveiled behind
his glasses. "As long as you're real, Lois...I am."

Compassion -- overwhelming, unfamiliar, all-consuming -- seared
away the flood of terror within me and filled my mind and heart
with a soothing, healing, cleansing warmth.

"Oh, Clark." Without a second thought, I stretched myself out
beside him and took him into my arms, resting my head on his
chest. "I'm here," I whispered in his ear. "I'm really here.
I'm not going anywhere. This isn't just a dream. I'm here."

All the words I hadn't been able to give him in the cell...now I
had them. Such simple words, just an affirmation that I was there
with him, that he wasn't alone -- and yet they seemed to do
wonders. Clark's arms tightened around me even as he relaxed
under me. I couldn't see him, not with my head pressed against
his shoulder, but I swore that I could feel the darkness of the
cell retreating from around him, reluctantly relinquishing some
part of their hold on him.

One of his arms kept me held tightly to himself while the other
drifted upward to cup the back of my head. It was the same way he
had hugged me after he had almost been shot by Trask, the same
way he had hugged me after rescuing me from that bank vault -- 

I frowned suddenly. That hadn't been Clark. That had been
Superman. He had crashed through the thick, reinforced walls as
if they had been paper and caught me before I could fall. He had
carried me outside into the cool air and set me down on my feet
only when he was convinced that I could remain upright.

Clark hadn't been there that day.

And Superman hadn't been there the day in Smallville when I had
suddenly -- as sudden as the sound of a gunshot -- realized just
how much Clark meant to me, not just as a partner, but as a
friend. When I had seen how close I could come to losing him and
ran to him and taken him into my arms because I knew, then, that
I did not ever want to be without him.

I had tried to erase that memory in the two months he had been
gone, but in doing so, I had lost so much of myself and left
Clark buried in darkness.

But now he was back. He was here...with me.

"I'm here," I continued to whisper to him, a calming stream of
words and promises and assurances that dulled the agony flaring
through my arm and slowed the pounding tempo in my head. "I'm
really here. I'm not going anywhere."

When his hand in my hair loosened slightly, I pulled back and
tilted my head upward, moving automatically. I had almost brought
my lips to his before the feel of his breath feathering across my
cheek jolted me from my thoughtless move.

Shaken, disturbed, I resettled my head on his shoulder as if that
had been the reason I moved at all. Clark's arms didn't tighten
around me, he didn't say a word, his eyes were closed as he held
me -- I dared to hope that he didn't realize what I had almost
done.

How *could* I have almost done that? Something fluttered through
my stomach, something akin to the ethereal pixie dancing through
my heart and disturbing its even beating. My thoughts had
scattered in a drunken whirl as soon as I realized what exactly I
was about to do.

I had almost kissed Clark.

Worse, I had almost done it without even thinking, as if it had
been an automatic move, as if it had been as natural as...as
breathing!

But I loved Superman! He had kissed me just the day before! I had
been in his arms! He had told me he cared for me! What was wrong
with me? Kissing Clark would have been unfair to all three of us
-- Superman, Clark, *and* myself!

"Thank you for being here, Lois." Clark's quiet murmur
startled me. "I just...I don't...just...thank you."

"Don't worry about it," I said in a voice as dry as autumn
leaves.

Don't worry about it. I was doing the opposite myself, but I
knew it wouldn't do any good. Just leave it, I advised myself. I
had a head wound, after all, and had just gone through a somewhat
traumatic experience. The almost-kiss had only been a byproduct
of the fact that I had been thinking about Superman, that was
all. If I had been dazed enough to confuse Clark and Superman in
my memories, then it was obvious that I could have done the same
thing in the present moment as well. Clark had saved me when I
called for Superman and Superman had left in a hurry just as
Clark had been prone to do -- clearly, the distinctions between
the two men had blurred, but once I got some sleep and maybe some
Advil, I'd be fine.

By the time I managed to talk myself into shrugging off the
incident, Clark had fallen asleep, his embrace strong and sure
around me despite the weakness that had been evident in his
steps. For a long while, I couldn't resist studying him, my head
tilted upward on his shoulder, my thoughts gradually slowing
their frenetic pace and drifting toward sleep.

Finally, with a deep sigh, I burrowed closer to Clark and slept,
falling into a dream where Clark cradled me in his arms and took
me flying through the skies, his glasses casting bright sparkles
of light until I took them off with a laugh and tucked them
protectively close to myself as the wind caressed us with cool
fingers.

The strident ring of the phone jolted me from the strange dream.
Groggy and disoriented, I tried to shake off the effects of the
dream -- which had obviously been influenced by that strange lack
of distinction between Clark and Superman -- and slipped as
gracefully as possible from Clark's arms to grab the phone. A
hiss of sharp pain slipped from between my teeth when I
unthinkingly reached out with my left arm.

"Hello?" I asked into the phone while trying to convince my
body that curling up into a ball wouldn't make the pain go
away.

"Lane!" Henderson's voice was so full of surprise that I
almost missed the note of relief also imbuing it. "You're
home?"

"Of course. Where else would I be?" Spotting Perry's
distinctive handwriting on the notepad beside the phone, I tilted
my head to read the note he'd left behind.

*Lois, didn't want to wake you two, but I expect a full report
on what in the Sam Hill happened today. I'll be by this evening.
And I hope you don't expect me to ever believe you again when
you say there's nothing to worry about. -Perry.*

I glanced at the clock, surprised to see that Clark and I had
slept a good four hours.

"Where else would you...!" Henderson took a deep breath.
"Maybe where I am -- or someplace worse."

"Didn't Superman tell you I'd be by later to give my
statement?" I scowled. Though my head was no longer aching, I
already regretted pulling myself away from Clark's warm embrace
to listen to another lecture from the irascible inspector.

"Your statement?" Henderson repeated. "Superman? What are you
talking about? You're sure you're all right?"

"What are *you* talking about?" I retorted. "Shouldn't you be
trying to get Nigel to testify against Luthor?"

"Nigel?" The inspector paused for a moment. "Lane, I'm at the
hospital. I rushed down here as soon as I got word that the
protective detail I gave you was here. They're in surgery right
now. One of them woke up long enough to inform me that while
following you toward the Red Light district, their car was
inexplicably hurled toward the side of the street and into an
oncoming semi-truck. The officers left behind to watch Clark were
attacked by some rough characters that look like they came
straight from Gotham's alleys, all of whom insist they were paid
off by some gang lord they can't -- or won't -- name. So...why
don't you tell me what *you're* doing?"

I sat down on the side of the bed heavily, the phone clutched to
my ear out of sheer habit. No wonder my bodyguards hadn't come
out of nowhere to save me this morning.

But...there was something missing in Henderson's sharp report.

"Nigel," I said aloud. "Are you saying you never...Superman
said he'd take him straight to you."

"Lane." There was a warning note in Henderson's voice, similar
enough to Perry's when I went off on a tangent that I snapped
back into the present.

"This morning, Perry passed on a tip from one of my sources. She
claimed she knew something about the Boss."

"And of course you went to meet her."

"Yes," I said, choosing to ignore the sarcasm dripping from
Henderson's voice. "She wasn't there, though. I don't know if
Nigel paid her off or...well, I didn't see a body, but...Nigel
was there. He -- "

"Was Kent alone in the apartment then?" Henderson cut in.

I couldn't help but glance back at Clark, relieved to see that
he was still sleeping, his glasses sitting incongruously on his
nose. The late afternoon sun immersed him in its almost-liquid
glow. "No. He came after me."

"So there was no one at the apartment?"

"No," I said with an irritated scowl.

"All right. I'm coming over with a team. They might have bugged
the place again. Stay put, and don't say anything you don't
want a certain someone else to know."

"Bring a medic," I said with another look to Clark and cradling
my injured arm closer to myself.

Henderson didn't bother to make a reply -- unless an aggravated
sigh counted as a closing remark.

Hanging up the phone, I turned once more toward Clark. A line had
appeared to crease his brow, and his hand twitched over the side
of the bed I'd been sleeping on. The confessions he had made in
his letter about the nightmares Luthor had left him were still
starkly clear in my mind, so I sat next to him and reached over a
gentle hand to caress his cheek.

Instantly, he quieted, his brow smoothing. "Lois," he whispered
drowsily. A slight smile chased the fear from his features.

I froze, then quickly withdrew my hand.

I had thought my emotions had fluctuated wildly concerning Clark
when he had been gone, but that had been nothing compared to now.
It terrified me how much he seemed to depend on me. And yet it
amazed me how strong he was even after everything that had been
done to him. Half the time I felt only the protectiveness one
should feel for a partner; the rest of the time, I was trapped
between frustration, awe, and an inexplicable feeling that left
me unable to clearly see anything but the softness of his eyes
and the warmth of his smile and the way he seemed to exude a
light that shattered the shadows his absence had birthed.

The letter had thrown me. Its astonishing accusations, its
blatant confessions, its startling statements...I hadn't known
what to make of it. It had left me feeling as if I couldn't know
the man who had written it because there was so much more passion
and boldness within its words than Clark ever allowed me to see
when I looked at him.

Yet the letter didn't really change anything, I realized with an
inward start. Clark was the same person he had been before. It
was only I who had changed. I who had grown with the realization
that Clark didn't fit into the nice, neat label I had given him
upon our first introduction. He didn't slide into any category I
had assigned him-in fact, he seemed to move between them, partner
and friend and brother and -- 

A shudder passed through my body like the precursor to an
earthquake.

A brother? 	

When had Clark ever acted like a brother?

Never, I thought, and a lump appeared in my throat. It would be
easier if he had, easier if that was all he meant to me, easier
if I could leave it there and turn my attention back to
Superman.

And maybe that was what had so scared me about that letter. Not
his absurd assertions concerning Superman's allegiances. Not his
revelations about the things that had been done to him. Not the
confusing statements that were impossible to understand without
some ambiguous piece of information he had neglected to write
down. No, what had left me unable to speak to him and barely able
to look at him had been the -- the *love*; I forced myself to
think the word -- the love that infused each word and every
sentence.

Clark loved me.

And that was why I had been bouncing back and forth between
holding him at arm's length and snuggling up beside him at
night. That was why I went from kissing Superman to telling Clark
that I didn't like seeing him with other women. That was why I
sat here at his side, unable to move, barely able to breathe as I
watched his chest rise and fall just hours after I had thought
him dead.

Clark -- the best man I had ever met aside from Superman -- loved
*me*.

It was such a blinding revelation that I was left hunched in on
myself, shielding my eyes from the brilliant, burning light. As
much in the dark as before...and all alone.

***

Chapter 14

I was almost relieved when I heard a knock at the door, though I
hadn't yet looked in the mirror, washed my face free of the
blood, or ran a comb through my hair. With a sharp intake of air
when I jostled my arm standing, I moved to the door and let in
Inspector Henderson and what seemed to be about a dozen men.
Numbly, I moved to one of the couches, sat down, and waited for
the storm of busyness to subside.

"You all right, Lane?" Henderson sat on the couch across from
me and leaned forward, his eyes intent on me from behind the
tinted lenses. He nodded to someone out of my line of sight, and
the same medic as before sat beside me. After I nodded my
permission, he rolled up my sleeve and began attending to my
wound.

Gritting my teeth, I looked away and concentrated on Henderson.
"I've been better, I'll admit. Nigel gets a bit grumpy when
things don't go his way."

The inspector opened his mouth, then glanced at the officers
checking for bugs and visibly forced back his questions.

I was grateful for the reprieve. There was a bigger question on
my mind at the moment, one that had hit suddenly and without
warning. One that made me remember every chilling comment Clark
had ever made concerning the returned Superman.

What had happened to Nigel?

Superman had promised he'd take him to the police -- I was sure
of that. My headache hadn't been so bad that I'd forget
something like that. And yet...Superman didn't lie. He told the
truth. So if he had dropped off Nigel...where was the Englishman
now? What could have gone wrong?

And was Superman all right?

Clark had told me Kryptonite was real. He had insisted it could
hurt Superman -- that it could kill him.

And if anyone would have thought to get himself a chunk of
Kryptonite, it'd be Luthor, I was sure of it.

It was terribly unfair, I couldn't help but think, that the only
options I could think of had Superman either hurt and dying...or
a traitor.

"So, Lane?"

At Henderson's quiet prompting, I looked up, surprised to
realize that most of the officers had packed up their equipment
and left the apartment. The medic was just finishing up with the
bandage on my arm.

I shook my head slightly, then waited for the medic to look at
the bump on my head, dab it with some chemical that made me
wrinkle my nose, and give me a pill to counter the pain throbbing
its slow, steady way through my arm. Only after he asked a few
final questions, gave me some last-minute instructions, nodded to
his inspector, and left the apartment did I feel ready to talk.

"You sure you don't want him to look Kent over?" Henderson
asked as soon as the door clicked shut behind the man.

"Clark wouldn't let him anywhere near," I said briefly.
Reminded of my sleeping partner, I glanced toward the bedroom. I
was certain he hadn't slept through all the commotion and even
more certain that he was hiding in the bedroom until he was
certain the medic was gone.

"So..." Henderson readied his tape recorder, then leaned back
with exaggerated casualness. "Your bodyguards are in the
hospital following a very strange accident; you're all banged
up; I'm assuming Kent isn't that well since he hasn't showed
yet; and you mentioned Superman bringing Nigel to the police --
something I couldn't prove. I assume you'll explain
eventually."

"It's not that complicated," I said.

And then I stood up and did something I couldn't explain even to
myself.

I turned on the TV and watched for any mention of Superman.

Only when there was a sound bite mentioning that he had been
sighted in Ecuador at a large mudslide did I turn back to
Henderson and blurt out the whole story. "I followed a tip, went
to an alley, overheard Nigel on the phone arranging a meeting
with Bender -- I'm assuming Sheldon Bender, Luthor's attorney
-- and quickly realized it was a trap due to the sudden
appearance of the same men who grabbed me just a week ago, which
is itself interesting considering that we thought they had died
in that fire. Luthor still thinks I'm going to write the stories
he wants me to write -- or at least, that was the excuse given."
I frowned thoughtfully. "Though it seems a bit flimsy if you ask
me. I mean...attacking a journalist in broad daylight with some
pretty clear intimations of letting her go afterward isn't the
smartest thing to do. It's almost as if..." Once more, I found
myself glancing toward the bedroom. "Almost as if he's baiting
Clark."

"Interesting theory." Henderson cocked his head. "You have
anything to back it up?"

"No." I stood and began to restlessly pace, a habit that
allowed me to think more clearly. "Sometimes I get these
inexplicable feelings...these thoughts, ideas that don't
necessarily make sense right away. Clark calls it intuition.
Sometimes they're right; very occasionally, they're not.
Anyway, it just...just seems that Luthor has some kind of
personal vendetta against Clark. He follows him to Smallville,
threatens his parents, kidnaps him, keeps him for a month, throws
me in a cell with him, then just lets him go free? It doesn't
add up."

"He didn't 'let you go free,'" Henderson pointed out.
"Superman rescued you."

"Yes, but Luthor hasn't come after us! It's almost as if he's
daring us to prove anything. As if he's toying with us. With
Clark." The idea scared me so much that goose-bumps rose up
along my arms.

"Then the big question," Henderson said slowly, "is what Kent
did to make himself Luthor's obsession."

"I existed."

Henderson and I both turned to watch as Clark entered the room,
slumping down beside me as if the trek across the apartment had
taken all his strength. He offered me a wan smile that I
returned, though his words did nothing to make me feel any
better.

"What do you mean?" Henderson asked cautiously. "No offense,
but why would Luthor concern himself with a reporter, even one as
good as you?"

"I recognized him for what he was right away," Clark said with
a small shrug. "He knew I knew."

"How?" I interrupted.

Clark shifted a bit. "I...confronted him. Not the smartest
thing, maybe, but I thought it might limit him if he knew someone
was watching. I'd hoped he would reconsider his position.
Instead, he took it as a challenge."

"Men in his position usually don't hear anything else."
Henderson turned his attention back to me. "So, Superman rescued
you from St. John, then?"

"No. I called him, but he didn't get there in time." The
statement, spoken aloud, paused me. The only other time Superman
had been too late -- in fact, had never shown up -- was the time
Trask had almost killed Clark in Smallville.

And the day Luthor captured Clark.

With a slight shake of my head, I recalled myself to the
conversation and finished filling Henderson in on what had
happened, giving as many details as possible. Clark explained
again how he had come to follow me there, adding the
recommendation that Harv not be charged for the damage inflicted
on the warehouse.

"And Superman said he'd bring Nigel and the other man straight
to you," I finished firmly, pointedly not looking at Clark,
hoping he wouldn't say something else to trample the bit of
composure I had managed to bring to my thoughts. "I don't
understand what happened."

"I think I might know." With a heavy sigh, Henderson leaned
forward again. In a pointed movement, he removed his glasses and
pinched the bridge of his nose. "As was said before, we've had
inklings that Luthor isn't the philanthropist he appears to be.
One of the reasons we've never been able to prove it -- and a
large part of why you two are being allowed to spearhead this
investigation -- is because there have been instances where cops
have sold out."

"You think that's what happened here?" I asked doubtfully. My
skepticism, I knew, was in large part due to the relief I felt to
realize that there was an explanation for Superman's seeming
failure...an explanation aside from Clark's unthinkable
assertion.

"I called the precinct on my way here to ask if St. John had
been processed. It seems two officers went missing this
afternoon. I knew both of them -- neither one has any immediate
family in the area. If I had to guess, I'd say Luthor got to
them and Nigel's now free because of it."

I didn't even have to look at Clark to know he didn't believe
Henderson's story. I, on the other hand, grasped hold of it as a
drowning man grabs the first piece of wood he sees, no matter how
flimsy it might be.

Henderson tilted his chin toward the TV where the news was
replaying clips of Superman in action. "Superman showed up at
those mudslides just before one o'clock this afternoon -- just a
little bit after he met up with you, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes," I answered, a wealth of emotion evident in my voice. I
couldn't restrain the bit of smile that wiped the last vestiges
of doubt from my features. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw
Clark's jaw clench as he looked away. "He must have been in a
hurry to respond to the cries for help and just left Nigel with
the first officers he saw."

"That's our assumption. Of course," Henderson looked straight
at Clark, "I'll be looking into it."

"And *we'll* be looking into getting Nigel back," I stated
decisively. "He said he was looking forward to meeting with
Bender -- that Luthor had need of his attorney's services. If we
watch Bender, we're likely to catch sight of Nigel or some other
lackey of Luthor's when they meet up with him."

"Let's hope it's Nigel," Henderson said. "With your
testimony, we'll have more than enough against him to book
him."

"*We'll* conduct the stakeout," I warned the inspector. "This
is still our investigation. Besides, if you have cops on the
take, we can't risk word getting to Luthor. This is our best
lead without Nigel already in custody."

"Agreed," Henderson said, complying so easily that my jaw
dropped open. "This *is* why I allowed you two in on this from
the beginning."

"*Allowed*?" I sputtered. "The only reason you have a case at
all is because of us! In fact, so far I haven't seen that your
people have done much besides lose us our key witness!"

"Lois." Clark's voice was soft, kind, and it instantly quieted
my defensive anger. He turned to Henderson. "Thank you for
helping us, Bill. Please, pass on our well-wishes to the officers
who were hurt while protecting us."

A seed of remorse tangled within me, choking off the apology I
should have offered. Clark's gentle hand on mine provided
reassurance instead of condemnation, his words making it seem as
if the condolences he gave were as much from me as from him.

"Thanks," Henderson said brusquely, slipping his glasses back
on and shutting off the tape recorder. "We'll have to find out
where Bender's keeping himself. If he's heard about today's
events, he'll probably be laying low."

"Yeah," I said quietly with a regretful look that Henderson
seemed to accept as an apology. He offered his own tight smile in
return.

Another knock at the door distracted all three of us from our
conversation.

"It's probably Perry," I said with a glance at the clock. "He
said he'd drop by this evening."

As soon as I pulled the door open, Perry pulled me into an
exuberant hug, though, tellingly, he didn't jostle my wound at
all. "Darlin'! Are you all right? Clark, son!"

The next few minutes were pretty much a repeat of the last as we
filled Perry in on the events of the day. However, he had his own
surprise up his sleeve.

"Bender!" he exclaimed. "Cat just mentioned to me that the
high-profile attorney had gone into hiding. Apparently, he claims
that he's had too much media exposure and wants to get away for
awhile."

I rolled my eyes, reluctant to accept any piece of information
that came from Cat. After all, she was just a rumor-monger, not a
real journalist.

"Does she know where Bender's hiding?" Clark asked, a spark of
interest evident in his eyes. I couldn't resist scowling at him,
though I comforted myself with the knowledge that he had given me
his word nothing had happened between him and that floozy.

"She said something about the marina, but I'll check it out and
get a more specific location," the Chief promised. "In the
meanwhile, I expect you two to both rest up. Judas Priest, you
both look like you just got through wrestlin' with a pair of
wildcats!"

I glanced at Clark, seeing him with new eyes and realizing that
Perry was right. Though he didn't look nearly as bad as he had
just a few days before, Clark had lost a lot of color, dark
smudges had returned to linger along portions of his face, and
the air of energy and life that had gradually returned to his
presence had vanished once more. Yet there was that same look of
determination in his eyes as had been there since we'd
interviewed Superman. That manner of having some mission he alone
could -- and must -- complete.

It was reassuring to know he wasn't giving up; it was
disconcerting to think of what he might be planning.

Clark didn't seem aware of the considering gazes Perry,
Henderson, and I were all giving him. His own gaze had locked on
the window, a muscle ticcing in his jaw. When I followed the
direction of his stare, I was somehow not surprised at all to see
Superman floating just outside the apartment.

"Superman," I greeted him as soon as I had pulled the windows
open wide enough to allow him to float into the living room.
"Are you all right?"

Mud was sloughed over much of his suit, obscuring the blue and
weighing down the cape so that he seemed shorter than he usually
looked. His brow was lined, his eyes narrowed, his mouth tight,
and his hands clenched into fists; if he had been anyone else, I
would have said that he looked as if he were in pain. He remained
floating an inch over the floor to keep the mud from staining the
wood.

"I heard what happened," he said without answering my question,
his glance taking in all four of us, lingering longest on me and
almost entirely skipping over Clark. "I wish you to know that I
did hand Nigel St. John over to the proper authorities. I was not
aware that the -- "

"It's all right, Superman," Henderson offered quickly. I
observed with interest the slight flush adorning the inspector's
cheeks. "This is the fault of my people, not you."

Perry stood abruptly, his weathered features pulled into a slight
frown. "Let's not get confused here. This is Luthor's fault.
We're doing what we can to bring him down -- we're not the bad
guys. Gettin' bogged down in misplaced blame isn't doin'
anyone a lick of good."

"Regardless," Superman stated intractably, "I give you my
personal word that I will do anything you need to bring this
monster down." He met my gaze. "Earlier, you asked if I would
help you in your investigation. Now, I give you my answer -- I
will not rest until this matter is settled."

I should have felt infinitely relieved, even ecstatic, already
certain of victory with Superman on our side. Instead, I felt
only immeasurably tired, a thin layer of weariness covering a
soul-deep resolve to see Luthor pay for his crimes.

Henderson and Perry thanked Superman and began filling him in on
the investigation in broad terms. Despite his evident tiredness,
Superman listened attentively enough, nodding every once in a
while, his eyes narrowed with concentration. It was a
conversation that I would have dominated eagerly just the day
before, yet now I felt distanced from it, as if it were happening
somewhere far away.

My roving gaze fell on Clark, sitting alone and seemingly
forgotten on the couch, his eyes locked on Superman. There was an
oddly vulnerable, almost wistful expression casting a slant to
his features, one that pulled me from my exhausted disinterest
and tugged me forward to sit beside him. Immediately, he turned
to me, that pensive expression still lending him a sad air even
as he gave me a small smile.

"So..." I said, not sure why I had sat beside him in the first
place. Not sure why I had more attention to spare for Clark than
for Superman. Desperately, I cast about for a valid topic. "That
disguise you wore today-I almost didn't recognize you."

He shrugged, the hint of another smile tugging at the corners of
his mouth. "Disguises have always worked well for me."

I nodded before realizing how absurd that statement was. "Wait a
minute! What do you mean, disguises always work for you?" I
scoffed with a spontaneous grin. "That Charlie King persona was
ridiculous! I recognized you right away!"

A real smile made the shadows congregating about him skitter away
and hide in shame. "Oh, yeah?" he retorted. "If I recall
correctly, Charlie King was a lot more effective than Lola
Dane."

"Only because Charlie King turned out to be a Benedict Arnold!"
I replied quickly.

"Charlie King might have betrayed you," Clark said, his words
suddenly charged with some tension I refused to identify, his
hand placed carefully, tenderly, over mine. "But Clark Kent
never would."

*If I tell you, Lois, you'll die.*

*I could never hurt you, Lois. It's impossible for me. I care
too much.*

The phrases ran through my mind like a mantra that soothed, a
litany that promised things I had first realized I wanted while
listening to careless words dropped so tenderly as I restlessly
slept in a blackened cell.

"I know that," I heard myself saying -- promising him. There
was a tension almost matching Clark's in my own voice, one I
couldn't explain, one that made flames leap to life in his
eyes.

"Clark." Superman's stern voice broke the moment as abruptly
as if we had been splashed with cold water.

All expression vacated Clark's face as he turned to the hero.
His jaw was clenched so tightly that I wasn't surprised he
didn't say anything.

"I'd like to talk to you for a moment. Privately."

"I was waiting for you to ask," Clark said, his voice monotone.
He paused, then swallowed, that wistful expression reappearing.
"Are we...flying?"

For the barest instant, Superman's features...softened, turned
more malleable, more understanding. Almost pitying. "Yes," he
answered shortly, quietly.

"Then let's go." Moving stiffly, Clark rose and stepped up to
Superman. The superhero nodded his farewells to Perry and
Henderson, paused to offer me a tentative smile, then flew my
partner out the window.

Henderson adjured me to caution one more time, gave me a last
warning glare, and let himself out with the excuse that he had to
look into the two missing officers. Perry stayed a while longer,
doing his best to make me laugh, and even succeeding a time or
two. In fact, by the time he left with a last fatherly hug, I was
feeling much better. Not only had Clark smiled at me -- one of
the real, bright smiles -- but he had actually seemed almost
willing, in a resigned sort of way, to talk with Superman, who
had given me his own, private smile.

Best of all, and maybe a key contributing factor, was the fact
that the pills the medic had given me had actually kicked in,
dulling the insistent burn in my arm and smothering the tempo in
my head. Their effect was doing such a good job of convincing me
that pain was a thing of the past that when Perry left, I felt
awake enough to turn to the papers and files stacked in
inconspicuous spots throughout the living room and start looking
for every mention of Nigel St. John.

About an hour after he had flown out the window, Superman
returned with my partner. Strangely, Clark's eyes were sparking
with anger, an emotion he had shown only a handful of times
before. I was as surprised to see it now as I had been the first
time I realized that he could get angry -- when he snapped at a
cop who had demonstrated a callous sense of humor over a dead
man.

I kept my arms folded over my chest as I met Superman's gaze.
The urge to throw myself into his arms was almost overwhelming --
the same urge I experienced every time he grew near me -- but it
was tempered by Clark's presence and the tiny, niggling feeling
at the back of my mind.

The feeling that said that mudslide in Ecuador had come at an
extremely opportune moment.

And the fact that I could even entertain such a suspicion made me
horribly angry at Clark. He was, after all, the one who had
planted such awful thoughts in my mind, the one who was now
standing in the middle of the room and watching Superman and me
with narrowed eyes and clenched fists.

Superman seemed unaware of Clark's angry glare; he stared into
my eyes as if we were alone in the room. "I'm sorry I wasn't
there for you, Lois."

"You can't be everywhere at once," I told him, the niggling
feeling coiled within me loosening and retracting the slightest
bit. "You're the world's superhero, not mine."

For the first time since his return, Superman lifted his hand and
traced the edge of my face, ghosting along the bruise adorning my
temple, compliments of Nigel. "Still...I don't like to see you
hurt."

"Well," I forced a smile for his sake. "No harm done. Clark
was there."

Superman's hand dropped to his side. I wanted to turn and
observe Clark's reaction, but the intensity of Superman's
powerful gaze stole my breath and my ability to control my
muscles. "Next time," he promised, "I will be there for
you."

"I know that," I replied, then could have kicked myself when
Clark turned abruptly and walked into the kitchen. I had used the
same words, I realized dismally, the same words I had used with
Clark in that quiet moment between the two of us -- and I had
given them to Superman as easily as if they meant nothing.

Superman curled his hand around my shoulder one last time,
half-moved forward as if to kiss me, then stopped and cocked his
head in a gesture I could have sworn I'd seen several times
before.

"What is it?" I inquired, intrigued by the realization that he
was hearing something that could have easily been as far away as
another city.

"He's calling me." Superman stepped toward the window, his
hand dropping to his side.

"He?" I repeated as I stepped after him. "Who's 'he?'"

He tilted his head again, his entire countenance filled with
impatient anxiety. "I have to go. He needs me."

"But who -- " My hair fluttered across my eyes, the curtains
billowed with a cold wind, and Superman was gone. Slowly, trying
to sort out the plethora of emotions filling me up and pushing
aside rational thought, I closed the window, shivering from the
chill that leaked inside, wishing for a bit of warmth.

Almost reluctantly, I looked toward the kitchen. Clark was
clearly visible, his back toward me, his shoulders hunched as he
concentrated on his task at the counter. Tact and patience, I
reminded myself for no other reason than that it gave me an
excuse for my sudden self-consciousness as I joined him.

"Clark?"

He was cutting up some sort of meat, I observed. A pan was
already sizzling with butter or grease or some other unfathomable
ingredient, and it threw off sizzling sparks when Clark placed
the meat inside and set a lid over it.

"I thought I'd make us some dinner," he explained, carefully
avoiding my eyes. "We missed breakfast and lunch."

"Are you mad?" I asked bluntly, giving up on trying to catch
his eye or read his expression.

He stilled, the profile of his face as solemn as if etched in
stone. "I'm not mad at you, Lois. I'm...I'm tired of this. I
don't...I thought I was done feeling this way. But..."

"Dinner will help," I offered when his words seemingly ran out.
"Skipping a meal always makes me a bit grouchy."

He chuckled, a sound so surprising that I bumped up against the
kitchen island. "Is *that* what it is?"

"I don't miss that many meals." I made a face at him that he
must have caught out of the corner of his eye because he
laughed.

"Here." He handed me an assortment of vegetables. "Could you
cut these up for the salad?"

"If you provide detailed instructions," I returned pertly and
was rewarded with another laugh.

Dinner was as delicious as all the other meals he'd made for me;
I was quickly realizing that giving him the cooking chores had
not been the way to keep a trim figure.

"No dessert," I warned him when I finally gave up on finishing
the portions he had dished out and pushed my plate away.

"No dessert?" he repeated playfully. "I thought I was talking
to Lois Lane."

"Well, there can be dessert another time," I conceded. "But
only if it involves chocolate."

"I promise." He held up his fingers in the scout's salute.

I stood to take my plate to the sink, but Clark stood at the same
moment, and our hands collided on my plate. Suddenly, it was
impossible for me to look away from the sight of his hand over
mine -- impossible to think past the warmth of him so near to me.
It always surprised me when I realized how tall he was.

"I'll do it," he offered, and strangely enough, there was
nothing different about his voice or his expression. As if he
didn't notice how close we were, how well our hands fit
together, how short my breath had suddenly become, how the
kitchen had seemed to shrink in around us. As if moments like
this were such a commonplace occurrence for him that he had
learned to function normally during them.

"Thanks," I offered weakly, then surrendered my plate and
hurriedly sat down. Idiot! I raged at myself. If I continued this
way, he was sure to think I had a concussion after all! I had to
pull myself together and stop confusing Clark for Superman.

The silence was unnatural after the easy banter that had peppered
our dinner. I stared at Clark as he began washing the few
remaining dishes and cleaning off the counters, inwardly urging
myself to find some topic of conversation that didn't involve
asking him what had transpired between him and Superman that had
left him so angry.

"I can't believe we lost Nigel!" I exclaimed before I could
think better of it. Of course the only topic I could come up with
was the one that weighed so heavily on my mind, I thought
exasperatedly. "It's unbelievable that even the police are in
Luthor's pockets."

"We'll get him back," Clark said calmly, though the set of his
shoulders gave away the tension he exhibited whenever Luthor's
name came up.

"We shouldn't have to!" I proclaimed hotly, feeling all the
anger that the pain and the pills had earlier kept at bay. "He
was more than enough to get us a warrant, but now, thanks to a
couple officers' greed, we're back to square one!"

Clark was silent as he drained the dishwater and carefully
arranged the washrag over the sink. Finally, he turned and looked
at me, his tone painfully casual. "It's curious that Superman
didn't pick it up."

"Pick what up?" I asked cautiously, certain I wouldn't like
the answer.

"That the officers were corrupt. Even a man used to betrayal
would surely feel a bit of anxiety when planning to double-cross
Superman, and his hearing easily picks up heartbeats."

"Everybody's pulse races when Superman shows up," I commented
dryly. Stubbornly, I refused to allow myself to really listen to
Clark's warnings. Superman, I reminded myself, had been saving
lives from a mudslide.

"There's a big difference between excitement and guilt." There
was such sureness imbuing Clark's voice that I couldn't help
but believe him. And, since he was the foremost expert on
Superman's abilities, it was hard to argue with him.

"That's why he's promised to help us catch Nigel again," I
finally settled for saying. "He probably feels as badly about it
as we do."

Clark said nothing, and the descending silence was heavy with the
beginnings of a blanketing tension I didn't like, one that left
me in the dark as to what he was thinking. A tension very
different from the invisible cord that had bound us just two
hours earlier.

"So..." I began desperately, wanting to break that silence,
wanting to banish the feeling of being isolated from Clark.
"What about that interview yesterday? You didn't say much."

If I could have, I would have taken the question back. Why, oh
why, couldn't I find a topic that didn't include Superman? It
was almost as if I were asking Clark to fill my head with even
more irritating, paranoid fancies!

Clark's brow wrinkled, and he studied me closely, probably as
curious about my new topic as I was. "What should I have said?
You told me a long time ago that you asked the questions. It's
not like you were interviewing me."

"You know him better than anyone!" I blurted out. "And
tonight, he -- "

"Do I?" Clark shook his head and dropped into the chair across
from me. "He's hard to talk to, hard to reason with. He seems
to keep everything to himself. You must have noticed that he
didn't tell us much."

Something within me snapped -- probably my strained patience. Or
maybe I just hated squirming beneath all the doubts his words
stirred up.

I straightened in my chair and glared at him across the table.
"You know, Clark, I have tried to be patient with you, but you
have got to stop with this anti-Superman spew! It's not as if
his life has been a bed of roses! He said he could never go back
to his planet -- he's all alone here, the only one of his kind!
He could use someone to lean on, someone to depend on, someone to
come to after long days or hard rescues that don't turn out
well. He could use a..." I paused, abruptly aware that I was
revealing more of my own fantasies than I had meant to. "Well, a
friend. I know he wasn't there when you needed him -- and I know
there's obviously some sort of bad blood between you now -- but
I am asking you, for my sake, to just give him the benefit of the
doubt."

Clark studied me a long moment, turmoil evident in his eyes. When
he did speak, his voice was tight and strained. "All right."

Remembering the bleak mood of his letter and the hurt implicit in
his posture when he had walked away earlier this evening, I
softened. Superman, I realized, was not the only one who needed a
friend.

"Clark, speaking of someone to talk to...are you sure you don't
want to call your parents? Or write them a lett -- "

"No!" His response was immediate, almost panicked. He cast a
quick glance around the apartment, as if expecting an enemy to
leap out from behind the potted plants. "No," he said again,
marginally calmer. "I can't risk leading him to them."

"Clark." I spoke slowly, enunciating each word, reaching out to
grip his forearm. "Superman is protecting us. He wouldn't let
anything bad happen."

"Like he did earlier today!" Clark snapped. Remorse instantly
darkened his features, and he brought up his opposite hand to
place over mine on his arm before I could even open my mouth. "I
just...I don't want them in danger, Lois. I can't...I can't
let anything happen to them."

"All right," I agreed with a short nod. Why was it so hard to
stay mad at him? "Besides, when we write our major expose on
Luthor -- with your name prominently featured after mine -- I'm
sure they'll see it."

"Yeah." His tone was contemplative as he stared at my hand,
cradled between his.

"Anyway." I shrugged uncomfortably and pulled my hand free,
wincing when my arm twinged in numbed discomfort.
"It's...getting late."

"Are we exchanging secrets tonight?"

I paused in my rise from my chair, trying to interpret the
emotion infusing his voice. Clark was, unbelievably, even harder
to read than the aloof Superman. "Do you want to?"

He met my eyes without hesitation. "Aren't you really asking if
I have enough secrets to continue to exchange?"

I couldn't help but smile, relieved to be back on familiar
ground. "You did say last night that you didn't have
anymore."

"Well, I haven't written a romance novel," he said with a
mischievous grin, that teasing lilt to his voice making me smile
automatically, which really took the sting out of my "Hey,
that's a secret!"

"Sorry," he said, though he didn't look all that
guilt-stricken.

"That's all right," I granted imperiously before smiling.
"Although, I will say that you're the only person I've ever
admitted that particular secret to."

He grew somber, his gaze intent on me as if he were hearing so
much more than I was really saying. "I'm...honored...that you
trust me so much."

"I do trust you," I said seriously, refusing myself the
coward's way out of shrugging it off with a laugh and a joke. I
owed him, after all -- both because he had saved my life and
because I had hurt him tonight, even if only unintentionally.
"Probably more than I should. Even from the beginning...there's
just...something about you that...makes sense to me. That makes
me want to trust you."

"You have a lot of faith in my integrity."

"Faith is believing in something you *can't* prove," I told
him, relishing the chance to edit *his* copy. "This isn't faith
-- it's confidence."

Clark looked...well, flabbergasted.

I bit back a smile, pleased that I could confuse him almost as
much as he could confuse me. "So, anyway, that's my secret.
What's yours?"

"I could say that I trust you too, but I don't think that's a
secret."

Barely restraining a snort, I contented myself with a shake of my
head.

He nodded, paused as if to gather his thoughts, then blurted out,
"I found something in Trask's warehouse -- a file detailing
where Superman's ship landed."

"What?" I bolted to my feet and stared down at Clark in shock,
but he didn't give me time to snap out my questions.

"I also found his ship -- it had his S-symbol on it. And there
was a tiny globe that responded to Superman's DNA. When I
touched it, it warmed and changed from a map of Earth to a map of
Krypton."

Krypton. Superman himself had told me that had been his home
planet.

"I didn't see *any* of this!" I sputtered.

Clark stood and held out placating hands. "I know. I'm sorry."
Remorse flashed across his face as he confessed, "I took the
globe with me and hid it."

"Where is it?" I looked around, which was silly, since the
globe wouldn't miraculously appear out of thin air.

Clark's smile was oddly triumphant, his gaze centered on the
windows behind me. "I thought it should be somewhere safe.
Superman had it put in his Fortress of Solitude."

"His what?" I repeated, stunned by yet another revelation.

"His Fortress of Solitude." Clark's stare became
uncharacteristically intense. "You should ask him about it
sometime."

I wasn't sure if he meant the globe or the Fortress, but I said,
"I will." I paused a moment, then, cursing the fragility
apparent in my tone, asked, "Why didn't you show me this globe,
Clark? Why did you hide it from me?"

"I..." He looked away. "I didn't know if it was in
Superman's best interests."

I gasped. "You didn't trust me?"

"No, Lois!" His tone was tender, his eyes caressing me, his
hand on my cheek reassuring me. "I *do* trust you. It's
just..." He grimaced. "I panicked. And it wasn't only my
secret to tell."

"Hmm." As I studied Clark's face, I wondered, not for the
first time, why he had been the one to become Superman's
confidant. We had both covered Superman's first stories, but
Clark had been granted so many confidences while I...hadn't. But
then...Clark was a good friend -- the best -- and he'd never
betray secrets, not even for a story. I wouldn't now, but I
wasn't so sure that I wouldn't have earlier. After all, I
hadn't thought I'd ever steal another reporter's story
either.

"I'm sorry, Lois." Clark's thumb brushed across the edge of
my cheekbone. "I'm telling you now."

"Yeah." I smiled up at him, suddenly content. Superman might
not trust me with his secrets, but Clark trusted me with his, and
that was special all on its own.

The moment seemed to stretch out into infinity, the kitchen
around us shrinking to enclose just the two of us in a tiny patch
of light. Suddenly, it was impossible to catch my breath, as if
Clark's proximity was sucking all the air out of the room.

"Well," I said, shifting a step away. Why did the fact that his
hand slipped from my cheek suddenly seem like such a loss?
"We'd better get some sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow."

I turned to go but stopped when Clark said my name.

"Lois, you really should ask Superman about this. Ask him what
color the globe turned when it changed. Ask him where his
Fortress of Solitude is."

I studied Clark for a long moment. He was trying to catch
Superman in a lie -- even doped up and exhausted, I could tell
that -- trying to prove the superhero wasn't as good as everyone
knew he was. But what would he do when Superman passed this
test?

"All right," I agreed, more than ready for Clark to realize
that he was wrong about this. And he *was* wrong. Superman was
the good guy. "What color *is* the globe? Just so I know
beforehand."

"Red and blue," he answered.

"And the Fortress? Where is it?"

Clark shrugged, something almost predatory in his sudden smile as
he looked toward the windows. "The North Pole, of course."

***

Chapter 15

I was tired of playing games. That was the thought I woke up
with, and it only rooted itself more deeply as I showered --
wincing away from the hot water pouring over tender bruises, sore
muscles, and the gunshot wound -- and dressed. Clark already had
breakfast ready when I left the bedroom, but my own wakening
hunger couldn't distract me from the sudden impulsive plan that
had brashly leapt into my mind.

"Can I look at your wound first?" Clark asked, pulling the
chair out for me. "I can clean and bandage it for you."

"I already cleaned it," I told him, ignoring my slight shiver
when his hands brushed across my skin as he rolled up my sleeve.
"The bandage proved a bit more painful, though."

Clark, I decided quickly, could have been a doctor. His hands
were far gentler than the medic's and seemed to possess a
healing power all their own. It took him hardly a moment to
gingerly bandage the wound and pull my sleeve back down.

"Thanks," I said after swallowing heavily.

"Sure." His eyes were tight as he sat down. He had shaved, but
a few nicks on his cheeks testified to the fact that he still
wasn't quite back to normal.

"This looks delicious," I observed, looking down at the plate
already set out for me, filled with some sort of blueberry
casserole.

He shrugged self-consciously. "I was up a bit early, and cooking
always relaxes me."

I was silent at this reminder of his nightmares, unsure what to
say to heal him of Luthor's lingering effects.

We spoke little as we ate, but both of us seemed content with the
companionable quiet. I don't know what Clark was thinking, but
for my part, I was formulating my plan.

"Clark," I began authoritatively a few moments later, setting
down the crust of toast on my otherwise empty plate. "I think
I'm going to go out for a while, okay?"

He didn't respond, and I was already rising from my chair and
heading for the closet to grab a coat. The one I had worn the day
before was currently puddled at the bottom of my bathroom
wastebasket, stained with blood and bad memories.

"Is there anything I can do to help you?"

I turned, Clark's quiet question infusing a minute's worth of
patience into my purposeful edginess. He was standing near the
table, his hands hanging empty by his side, his eyes locked on
me. As I stared at him, one of his hands raised nervously to his
face to adjust his glasses.

"Just wait here for Perry to call with Bender's location," I
finally settled for saying. There was no way to explain that he
confused me. That his mere presence unsettled me because it had,
in the past several days, taken to leaving me with some of the
same feelings I had before felt only around Superman. That the
knowledge of his love for me sat like a large, extremely awkward
elephant in whatever room we were in. That his paranoia and
frustrating hints concerning Superman were driving me to
distraction.

No, I decided. Better just to say nothing and work it out on my
own. He wanted me to test Superman -- fine, I'd test Superman.
And whatever the outcome, I'd be ready to face it.

That was easier planned than accomplished, however. The last time
I'd tried this particular stunt, Superman had arrived after I
had spoken his name only twice. This time, I had walked five
blocks and called his name several times -- receiving some very
strange looks from passersby -- and still he hadn't showed up. I
was beginning to think that maybe this plan had been as ill
thought out as some of my others and had just turned to head back
to the apartment when I thought I heard the familiar rush of air
that always accompanied his arrivals and departures.

"Superman?" I turned to look in the direction of the elusive
sound, my face taking on a hopeful look of its own accord.

There was no one there.

Trying not to feel like an idiot, I grimaced and began walking
back toward my apartment. Maybe trying to find Superman so I
could ask him Clark's questions and reassure myself that he was
the same superhero he had always been had been a silly plan,
absurd in its simplicity. Then again, simplicity was something I
was craving at the moment. Things had been complicated ever since
Clark and Superman had left Metropolis -- far *too* complicated
-- and I was more than ready to go back to the way things had
been before. If that was even possible.

"Lois?"

My heart jumped to my throat as I whirled to find Superman
descending from the frosted skies. His expression was mildly
curious, the beginnings of a smile lightening his features, his
cape flared out behind him so that he seemed like some kind of
benevolent angel.

"Superman," I greeted him, and inwardly winced to hear that
habitual breathiness lighten my tone. The effect he had on me was
ridiculous, I told myself sternly. It was far past time that I
got over a little bit of the awe his presence always engendered.
Of course, that would be easier if he wasn't still floating a
good foot or two off the ground.

"Did you want to see me?"

"Yes," I said, gratified when I managed to sound at least
partially professional. "I need to talk to you about
something."

He quirked an eyebrow. "The investigation?"

"Well, not exactly. Unless you've found something new?" I
couldn't help the hope that leapt to fiery being within my
chest. It would be so much easier to simplify things if Luthor
was out of the way.

"Not yet," he replied with a slow shake of his head. "Shall we
fly?"

"No!" I took a step away from him in an effort to escape the
temptation. I needed to ask him several serious questions, and
flying would only throw me off-balance.

Superman's eyes narrowed before he glanced around at the people
staring at us as they walked by. "This isn't exactly
inconspicuous, Lois. Word of it could very easily get back to
Luthor."

"Oh." I blushed and looked down at my feet. "Right. Okay.
Then...sure. Let's go someplace else."

But, I sincerely hoped, not to a fixed point in the midst of the
skies. I'd never be able to get this interview done while
hanging among opal clouds in a sapphire sky with Superman's arms
wrapped around my body.

All thought temporarily abandoned me when Superman swept me close
to his chest and ascended toward the sun, my purposeful plans
left behind on the ground, too heavy to survive the ether. My
heart rattled irrationally inside me, made even faster by the
thought that Clark had said Superman could easily hear
heartbeats. The wind cradled my form and whipped at my hair, as
if trying to separate me from Superman, though the strength of
his hold made that impossible.

"I changed my mind," I whispered as I stared around me and
below at my city, falling away like the reflection in a lake.

"About what?" Superman's voice rumbled through his chest and
sent shivers pulsing through my body.

Despite my scattered plans and Clark's suspicions, I couldn't
help laughing in the face of conquered gravity. "Once, I asked
Clark if he'd rather be invisible or fly. He chose flying, but I
said I'd rather be invisible." I paused to take in the whole of
the surroundings enveloping me in a cold, silken atmosphere.
"But I changed my mind. Flying is infinitely better."

"Yes." His own grin was that strangely childlike one he had
displayed only once or twice before. "I like flying. Almost as
much as I like you."

My stomach dropped away to join my thoughts and plans, discarded
on the ground and left to languish in the heavy gravity. I could
not look away from Superman, as if I thought that if I gazed at
him long enough, I'd be able to peel away all his complexities
to reveal the man beneath.

"Here." Superman pointed toward some landmark with his chin.
"This should do."

I had not been watching the earth beneath us, so I had lost track
of where we were, but it was obvious we weren't in Metropolis
anymore. We landed on the slope of a hill layered with
crystalline snow and peppered with the last leaves that had
survived the autumn's rain of greenery. In the distance, I could
see another mountain rising to stroke the bellies of clouds and
descending toward a valley that might have led to the coast --
and Metropolis.

In only minutes, we had traveled a long way from my city. Awe
threatened to rise again, but I throttled it back. Though I had
to turn my back on Superman to achieve it, I forced myself to
remember everything I had left behind for such a short time.
Clark needed closure, I needed simplicity, Superman needed
friends -- the best way to accomplish all three of those was
directness.

"Superman, do you have a Fortress of Solitude?" I held my
breath after voicing the question, surprised by my own
bluntness.

"Yes. I told you I needed a safe place to rest, recover, and
recharge. The Fortress of Solitude gives me all those things."

Emboldened by his straight answer, I turned back to face him.
"And where is it?"

His eyes narrowed, as if confused by the question. "This
shouldn't be public knowledge, you understand, but...it's in
the North Pole."

A triumphant grin threatened to peek out from behind my
professional mask, but I shooed it away. "Clark told me that he
found a globe from your spaceship. He said it turned into a map
of your world."

"Yes." Superman nodded. "Krypton is a red and blue planet with
large land-masses."

Tension drained from my body, so much of it that I was surprised
I couldn't see it shivering in a puddle at my feet. My shoulders
slumped a bit as I gingerly sat on a fallen log. I was shivering,
but from relieved anxiety, excitement, or the temperature, I
wasn't sure.

"Here." Superman gazed at me and the log very intently and
ripples of warmth spread out from his eyes, enveloping me in heat
and causing steam to rise from the wood beneath me. A delighted
smile sprang to my lips, and this time, I didn't fight it. Clark
might not believe me when I told him, but at least I knew
Superman had passed the test.

"Thank you," I murmured, moving over a bit to give him room to
sit should he choose to do so.

"Lois." Superman settled himself beside me, his proximity
almost as heated as his gaze. "Why did you ask me these
things?"

"Clark doesn't trust you," I told him gently. "I think he
might blame you a bit -- for not being there for him. Superman, I
can tell that something happened between you two, something that
meant you weren't there when he was captured. What did you two
fight about?"

"Fight?" Superman repeated, his voice blanked of any emotion.
He stared out at the landscape before us, and I wondered what
view *he* saw. "What makes you think we fought?"

I rolled my eyes. "Come on. Neither one of you can be in the
same room without throwing off enough electricity to light up
half the city! You never seem to know what to say to him, and
Clark is either angry or depressed every time he talks to you.
Obviously, some kind of argument made him go back to Smallville
while you continued wandering the world."

"There was no argument," Superman said slowly. "I went to my
Fortress because Clark wanted to visit his parents. I even
dropped him off there. That was before...before his captivity."
He took a deep breath and straightened, as if bracing himself for
whatever my reaction might be. "Lois, Clark never distrusted me
before. He never grew angry at me. He never avoided me. In fact,
he always accepted me, always treated me as if we were, as you
say, friends. But since Luthor, he's...changed. He's broken,
Lois. There's nothing left of the old Clark in him."

I was on my feet, I realized belatedly, backing away through the
trampled snow. "You're wrong," I said numbly. "He hasn't
changed. I mean, sure there are a few differences, but underneath
it all, he's still the same person."

Superman's eyes were immeasurably sad. He clearly already
mourned Clark, already thought him gone, had already consigned
him to the past. "Think about it, Lois. He was held for a month
by a madman who stopped at nothing in order to toy with him and
crossed every line possible in order to twist his mind. He was
tortured daily and subjected to Luthor's seductive, poisonous
words while all his power was stolen from him. He was trapped in
the darkness with no rejuvenating light to break the monotonous
torment. He was alone with only the voice of Luthor as his
companion and fading memories that weakened more with each
passing day. After all that, do you really think he could just
slide back into normal life as if nothing happened?"

"Stop," I commanded him uselessly, holding up a hand before me
to ward off the sentences spoken so bluntly, so solemnly, so
inescapably.

"He was brainwashed, Lois -- brainwashed to hate and distrust
me...and to do who knows what else. For all we know, he might
still be carrying out Luthor's ends. Clark's only a puppet now,
filled with darkness and driven by powerlessness, all at
Luthor's command. His treatment of me is only a sign of what
else is hidden within him. I'm sorry, Lois, but the man you knew
-- the man who was your partner...he's dead."

My panic fled even as I planted my feet, my jaw firming, arms
crossed over my chest. "No. You're wrong, Superman. Clark is
still very much the same man he's always been. I mean, sure, he
can be a little weird, and sometimes he says odd things and does
strange things -- but when it comes down to it, Clark is the
strongest man I know. He's not...he's still..."

I shook my head. The words -- there were none suitable, none that
could possibly encapsulate all that Clark was. It was an
impossible task, and yet I tried anyway, spurred on by
Superman's obvious lack of understanding. "You mentioned all
the things that have been done to him, but that dark cell
couldn't change him -- Luthor couldn't change him -- because
he's stronger than all of that." I paced back and forth,
frustrated by how little this verbal explanation conveyed. "He
has...something...some inner strength, some kind of quiet
heroism. You should know that, Superman-you're his friend! Clark
is...well, he's just untouchable. Luthor can't hold a candle to
him! Everything he does to Clark is like water running off a
duck's back -- maybe it leaves an impression, but it doesn't
last."

"I admit that I've taken a lot from Clark," Superman began
slowly, reaching out to take my hand, "as you obviously have.
Yet in the end, much as you might dislike it, Clark is an
ordinary man."

"No." Again, I found myself contradicting Superman, tugging my
hand free of his momentarily insistent grip. It struck me as
ironic that I had to defend each of these men before the other.
"Clark is one of those rarest of souls, Superman. He's one of
the very few people who is extraordinary -- not because of
anything he does -- but simply because of who he is."

And, I admitted to myself as I fell still, it was one of the
greatest achievements in my life that I could count him as my
best friend. How could Superman not think the same thing? How
could he dismiss Clark so easily?

"I -- " Superman suddenly grimaced, his head and shoulders
bowing as if under a great weight, though I could not imagine a
weight large enough to stagger the superhero. His mouth tightened
and his eyes squeezed shut, his hands moving toward his face.

"Superman!" I stared at him dumbly, shock turning me into a
statue. "Are you all right?"

Slowly, he turned his head to look at me, his hands falling back
to his sides. Even more slowly, he straightened with a shake of
his head as if to shrug off that invisible burden. "I...I just
got distracted."

"Oh." I glanced around at our surroundings. Courtesy, common
sense, and compassion all demanded that I instantly tell Superman
to go deal with whatever crisis -- large enough to affect him so
violently -- was occurring, but I didn't exactly relish being
abandoned in the middle of a frozen wilderness.

"I'll take you back," Superman offered before I could tell him
to leave me.

We didn't dawdle on the way home, that was for sure. It had
taken ten minutes before -- a very long flight for Superman --
yet this trip lasted less than a full minute.

Superman seemed to have lost a portion of his urgency as he set
me down on the street outside my apartment, so I risked delaying
him with a hesitant smile. "Thanks for coming," I told him.
"And for answering my questions. Maybe one day I'll get to see
this Fortress of yours."

Superman stiffened. "Actually...it's a very private place among
Kryptonians. A place of solitary reverence."

"Oh." I flushed. "I'm sorry."

"It's forgiven." Superman reached out a gentle hand. Despite
my fading irritation with his dismissal of Clark, I closed my
eyes in anticipation of feeling him cup my cheek, then snapped
them open in disoriented surprise when he set his hand on my
shoulder instead. "Goodbye, Lois."

And he was gone.

Without a doubt, Clark knew I had gone to meet with Superman, but
I still wanted to do something to lessen the blow when I
returned. It had occurred to me with this morning's newfound
purposefulness that the reason Clark hadn't been eating much
might have had to do with the choice in foods. He was a great
cook, but I well remembered what he had stocked his cupboards and
fridge with. So, taking a quick detour, I picked up a couple bags
of cookies, pastries, pies, Twinkies, and another box of tea.

When I entered the apartment, laden down with the groceries,
Clark straightened from zipping up the duffel bag Perry had
brought him. He stepped forward and took the bags from me with a
raised eyebrow. "More groceries?" he asked. "I don't need to
eat that badly, Lois."

"Ha, ha," I said, shrugging off my coat. "I picked those up
for you. I thought you might be ready for a change."

He peeked into the bags and warmed me with his immediate grin.
"Are you trying to fatten me up?"

"Just a little," I admitted. "Besides, it might be nice to
have something to munch on if we have a long stakeout ahead of
us."

"Oh, Perry called." Clark hefted the paper bags and took them
toward the kitchen as I trailed along after him. "He said Bender
is at the marina, staying on his yacht. Fortunately for us, Perry
has a friend who owns a place on the docks. During his lunch
hour, he'll bring over the equipment we need, as well as the
directions and key to this place."

"Great!" I exclaimed. "I just hope we haven't missed the
meeting already."

"Even if we did, Bender might still give something away," Clark
said with his customary optimism. It seemed only the slightest
bit forced. "I made us an early lunch, though, so we'll be
ready when Perry gets here. And I called Henderson to let him
know what was going on."

"Always prepared," I teased, unable to understand how Superman
could so cavalierly claim that Clark -- my partner and friend,
this man who smiled so engagingly at me -- could be some
brainwashed tool of Luthor's. "You must have been the Boy
Scouts' prize student."

"Would it surprise you if I told you I was an Eagle Scout?" he
asked.

"Nope." I laughed and sat down to lunch.

We were both packed for an overnight stay and were ready to go
when Perry came by with the camera and recording equipment. He
helped us load it all into the back of a taxi -- we were leaving
my Jeep behind to allay immediate suspicion -- then gave us the
name of Bender's yacht and wished us luck.

I wrinkled my nose a bit at the dust stirred up when we entered
the small dockside hideaway. It obviously hadn't been used for a
while. Still, a bit of exploring revealed that, aside from the
dust, it wasn't in too bad a shape. The bedroom was musty, but
clean linens in a closet made the bed passable; the living room
was a bit dark, but sunlight cascaded through the window facing
the yachts, which was enough to satisfy Clark.

We set up everything quickly, adjusting the equipment with the
ease of long practice. Bender's yacht was in direct line of
sight of the window, something I hadn't even dared hope for. And
cracking the window open dispersed the dust and the musty scent,
leaving the interior feeling fresh and smelling clean. Once
again, Clark's mere presence seemed able to make any situation
turn out better that it would have otherwise.

By the time everything was situated and we had surveyed the area
around our temporary home so we knew how to get around in a
hurry, it was getting dark. The winter nights came early, but I
wished the sunlight could last a while longer for Clark's sake.

"How about some dinner?" I asked when the sun dipped below the
sail-tipped water outside. "My treat."

"*Your* treat?" Clark repeated with a smirk. "This I can't
pass up."

"Watch it, Kent," I warned him playfully. "I can dial takeout
places better than anyone else."

"I don't doubt it," he promised solemnly.

I couldn't quite explain why, but we were both much more relaxed
than we had been at my apartment. Maybe we had been getting a
little stir-crazy; maybe it was the fact that we were on a
stakeout again, together; maybe it was the knowledge that we were
finally doing something proactive to take down Luthor; maybe it
was a combination of all of these or something else entirely.
Whatever it was, I couldn't deny that I felt a bit giddy, almost
dazed with a sense of freedom. Judging from the sparkle in
Clark's bespectacled eyes, I wasn't the only one.

Since I was actually hungry -- I hadn't eaten much at lunch -- I
chose a takeout place near us, a Chinese restaurant called
Ralph's Pagoda. Still, I dug out a couple snacks for us to munch
on while we waited for the food to arrive. When it came, I paid
the delivery-boy and carried the cartons to the table in front of
the couch.

"I haven't had Chinese in ages," Clark said casually, but he
took only one bite before making a face. "This is awful."

I tentatively tried a bit, then frowned at him and took another
bite. "I don't taste anything different about it. Not as good
as some other places I know, but -- "

Clark shook his head and wrinkled his nose on his second, smaller
bite. "I don't think we should eat this, Lois. It tastes
rancid."

I wasn't really convinced, but the last thing Clark needed was
to get food poisoning on top of everything else. Besides, the
Twinkie I had eaten had taken the edge off my hunger. So, with a
shrug, I set my own carton next to his. "Fine, but are you sure
you just don't want to admit that I can make a good meal too?"

"You didn't *make* the meal," he contradicted, scooping up the
cartons and dumping them in the trash, as if afraid I would eat
some when he wasn't looking. "But if you're still hungry, we
can order something else."

"Nah." I gestured toward the snacks we had brought. "We've
got plenty of junk food if I get too desperate."

"Are you sure?" He seemed as worried about me as I should have
been about him.

"Yes. So." I scooted farther back into the voluminous couch and
pulled a knee up to my chest, facing Clark as he retook his own
seat at the opposite end. "When you left the Daily Planet, you
said you were going to become the editor of the Smallville
*Post*." I purposely emphasized the last word.

He raised his eyebrows. "You remembered the name?"

"Well." I chuckled, pushing back a strand of hair. "Someone
edited my copy."

He laughed, a sound that made me stare at him, something
uncoiling in the pit of my stomach. "Only when it needed it."

I shrugged off the strange feeling and gave him a warning look
but let his comment go since I didn't want to be distracted from
my topic. I had tested Superman, and now...well, I wasn't
*testing* Clark, but I wanted some answers from him. "So, why
didn't you go to Smallville?"

Suddenly unable to look me in the eye, Clark shrugged
uncomfortably. Then, as if coming to some inward decision, he met
my gaze. "I couldn't stay in one place, Lois. I...I had to move
around -- or I thought I did anyway. It was..." Again, he looked
away, this time staring intently out the window, clearly tense.

I didn't want to pressure him, not when I was trying so hard to
be the kind of friend he had always been to me. Not when
Superman's cold words still had the power to suck the warmth
from my flesh. So I smiled as I said, "So, where did you go? I
mean..." I swallowed painfully before admitting, "I got your
postcards and your calls, but...I wasn't really listening to you
then."

Hesitantly, Clark reached out a hand to briefly touch mine.
"It's okay, Lois. I understand. I left you even after I
promised you I wouldn't."

Hearing him voice my complaint made me realize how childish --
almost petty -- it was. "You're your own man, Clark. It's not
like you owed me anything. You didn't have any ties to me."

His gaze was frighteningly direct, astonishingly powerful. "Do
you really believe that?"

No, I didn't. Especially not after reading his letter. After
realizing just how much he cared for me. But I wasn't ready to
acknowledge that elephant, so I looked away. The dim glow from
the lamp beside us left us in a pocket of void all our own, just
as we had been in the cell -- only this time, it was a space
defined by light instead of darkness.

"Anyway..." I shrugged. "What were your favorite parts of your
journey?"

"I didn't want to leave," he assured me as if he hadn't heard
my question.

"I know you didn't," I told him honestly, my voice as hushed
as his. "And I know you had important reasons for going. And I
don't blame you. Anymore," I added for the sake of honesty,
lessening its sting with a tentative smile. "Besides, Clark, you
can't *always* put someone else's happiness above your own."

"Why not?" His question, combined with the blatant heat in his
eyes, was enough to take me aback.

I blinked. "Because if you're always making others happy at a
personal cost, you're not going to be happy yourself. And it's
hard to make others happy when you're missing something
inside."

"It's not impossible," he insisted stubbornly.

"No," I was forced to concede. "But it is hard. And it's
easier -- more fulfilling -- when you're happy yourself. Believe
me, Clark, I know."

He opened his mouth as if to reply, then seemed to think better
of it and looked away.

"So," I said yet again. "Even if leaving wasn't your first
choice, you must have enjoyed some part of your travels. Come
on." I patted him on the chest. "Give me the highlights. I'm
listening now."

"Well," he began, shifting to more fully face me, his knee
brushing against mine. "I did enjoy Ireland. You mentioned once
that you had been there before?"

"Yes, I was part of an exchange student program," I answered,
wondering at how skillfully he continued to turn the conversation
back to me. It was something he had done from the beginning of
our partnership. I had assumed it was because he genuinely wanted
to know my answers. Now, while I was sure that was part of it, I
realized that it was also a good form of evasion. He was able to
turn questions back on me so that I ended up forgetting he
hadn't answered them himself.

"And?" Clark prompted, his expression open and earnest. "Did
you like it?"

"I developed a crush on a boy there," I said with an
embarrassed grimace. "He was older and didn't really think much
of me, so that kind of colored the rest of my time there. But,
yes, I did enjoy it. You?"

"I did," he said with a warm smile that almost distracted me
from the fact that he continued to say "I" instead of "we."
Hadn't Superman been with him? "I stayed in a very small town
called Gray Stone. They had a mountain there." He paused, then
grinned with the charm I was slowly realizing he had always
possessed -- even beaten and drugged in a pitch-black cell. "It
was actually a hill that I walked over in about an hour. It was a
beautiful path, hedged on one side with bushes that produced very
tasty berries and on the other by a steep, eroding drop-off that
led straight to the sea. I walked to the 'big' city, Bre, and
shopped at some small local stores. The bookstore sold mostly
Gaelic books; the owner was very happy to learn that I could read
it. He had a son who had opened a bookstore in Kansas City, which
is interesting because when I was in Taiwan, there was an older
woman who..."

I couldn't stop staring at Clark as his poetic, empathetic words
washed over me. He had a way of describing places that made me
able to picture them effortlessly, and no matter what country he
described, the main focus of his stories was always the people he
met. People he invariably liked; people he had taken the time to
get to know; people he remembered.

I had initially pegged Clark as a barely literate farmboy, naive,
gullible, and unsophisticated. And yet, gradually, I had come to
understand just how well-traveled Clark was, how intelligent,
how...not worldly, but certainly a man who had seen the world and
yet knew there was still more to see. He was naive because he
chose to be, innocent rather than gullible because he didn't
want to linger on the bad things in life, and vastly more
sophisticated than I could have believed upon our first
introduction.

Superman had claimed that Clark was nothing more than the shell
of a man, a brainwashed husk occupying the body of the man who
had been my partner. But there was nothing mindless about the man
sitting so near to me that I could feel the warmth of his
body-heat, nothing empty about the smoky voice welling up over me
to lap at my soul with beautiful words, nothing broken about the
light in his eyes and the emotion in his smile and the poetry of
motion in the hand gestures accompanying his stories.

And as I watched Clark, I suddenly realized that I was
unabashedly staring at him, seeing him in an entirely new light.
I was -- as amazing as it seemed -- star-struck.

Once, when my fascination with Superman had been at its height
and he had just revealed that he came from a far-away planet, I
had amused myself with a wordplay I still remembered. I had
described myself as star-struck -- struck by this man from the
stars whose own star had, inexplicably, sent him across the
galaxies to me.

But Clark...Clark was an ordinary man, normal and dependable and
staid. Or so I had thought. What, I asked myself now, was
ordinary about Clark? What other man had I ever met who was so
trustworthy and steady and honest...and so wholly in love with
me?

Clark might not have been sent from the stars, but he had given
me those stars. He had punctured the darkness of my life with
tiny pinpricks of light that never failed or wavered in their
courses. He had brightened my world as if he were the moon -- no,
I corrected myself. Not the moon. Clark was the sun, bright and
vivid and fixed and never to be outshone by another. Others might
look at him and see only a single glowing star, but I was close
to him now -- close enough to realize that what to one person was
a star was to another the brilliance of an anchoring sun.

Such romantic thoughts, I scoffed at myself, suitable for the
melodramatic romance novel I had admitted I was writing to only
one person. And yet...I could not tear my eyes from Clark and the
love burning in his own eyes as he looked back at me.

Superman took me flying...but Clark made me feel as if *I* could
fly.

Superman gave me the world...but Clark could very easily *be* my
world.

Superman saved my life...but Clark made me believe that my life
was more precious and valuable and important than anyone
else's.

I loved Superman...but Clark loved *me*.

The thoughts -- so traitorous to the undying love I had silently
sworn to Superman -- made me waver. I put a hand to my head,
convinced I was burning up from such close proximity to Clark.

"Are you all right?"

His concern only prompted more thoughts in the same elaborate
vein, and I felt disoriented, thrown off balance by the shaky
feeling undermining everything I thought and felt and believed.
Only when his hands on my arms steadied me did I realize that I
had closed my eyes for a moment.

"I think I might have a slight case of food poisoning after
all," I said weakly. A ridiculous excuse considering the fact
that I had only eaten a couple bites of the food.

But Clark didn't seem to notice the gaping hole in my logic.
"I'll get you a glass of water," he promised and was gone
before I could tell him that I didn't want to quench the fever
currently raging within me.

He was back an instant later, kneeling before me, steadying me
with one hand and using the other to hand me a cup of cold water.
I took a drink, closing my eyes against the revelations swirling
through my head, the coil untangling itself to tickle the insides
of my stomach, the sight of his concerned, tender eyes boring
into me.

"Thank you," I managed to say.

Without a word, he set the cup on the table, then moved a pillow
behind me, his hand on my back guiding me into a lying position.
"You've taken such good care of me," he whispered as he
adjusted another pillow to make me more comfortable. He set a
warm hand on my stomach and began to rub it gently. If I had
really had a stomachache, I was sure I would have been healed
immediately. "The least I can do is try to return the favor."

"You know, Clark," I murmured quietly, afraid to even move lest
the sudden mood be broken or I wake to find we were still in that
cell. "Sometimes, it seems like I don't even know you. You're
always surprising me."

A shadow might have passed across his features, or maybe it was
only the dim lighting. "Well, we all have masks. Isn't that
what you told me when we were investigating the invisible man? We
all like to meet expectations."

"Whose expectations do you try to meet?" I asked curiously.
Clark was one of the most quietly confident people I had ever
met; he had never seemed to worry about what our co-workers
thought of him.

"Well," he said, his voice a bit dry. "My parents'
expectations. I want them to be proud of me."

"I'll bet they are." I smiled up at him. "The Boy Scout
without a flaw."

"And yours," he continued, the two words spoken with
breathtaking meaning.

"Mine?" I considered it quite an accomplishment that I was able
to get the single syllable out past the sudden earthquake in my
soul. His hand on my stomach was as hot as a brand, and yet it
was a warmth I craved even more of.

"Well, I try anyway." He gave the hint of a lopsided grin.
"You set a high standard."

I paused but could not hold back my next question. "And are you
wearing a mask now?"

He met my gaze without any hesitation. "No. The mask always has
to come off sooner or later. Although," he added, withdrawing
his hand as if *I* had burned him, "most people only show their
true selves when they're passionate about something. Like when
they're angry and fighting."

"Or when they're in a life-and-death situation." As if we were
magnetized, my hand was drawn to his cheek. "Do you know, Clark,
that even when you're asleep, you smile if you hear me speak or
feel my touch? You can't fake that. And you risked your life for
me -- another thing that's hard to fake. But then...you're
lousy at pretending or wearing masks."

"But I do," he whispered urgently. "I do wear a mask."

I cocked my head slightly, my thumb tracing a pattern over his
skin. "More of those expectations you have to meet?"

He blinked, clearly surprised, as if he had expected me to
retreat at his confession. "Yes."

"You know...*I* don't like meeting expectations."

"You don't?" For a change, he seemed to be the one repeating
my words, his own voice no stronger than mine.

"No. I like to exceed them."

And before I even realized what I meant to do, I raised myself up
and brushed my lips over his. The contact was fleeting,
ghost-like, ephemeral...hypnotizing, entrancing, utterly
compelling.

I slid my hand from his cheek to meet my other behind his neck
and play through his hair, felt his arm slip around my spine to
support my weight, his hand cupping my neck as his thumb sparked
tiny lightning bolts along the edge of my jaw.

And then he moved his mouth back to mine, and thought was
obliterated. I was no longer able to catalogue a specific touch
or movement; all I knew was that I felt as if I had come home, as
if I belonged there, as if warmth and light and hope had all been
personified in the form of Clark Kent.

A moment, a year, a century passed before we both pulled back at
the same moment. Yet I could not move away completely, and he
seemed possessed of the same thought, so we remained in our close
embrace, our foreheads touching. Amazement and shock reeled
through my system -- a shock touched by fear and a tiny trace of
guilt.

I had not even thought of Superman as I kissed Clark. Not once.
Not at all.

Clark's fingers insinuated themselves even deeper into my hair,
the touch of his skin on the back of my neck sending shivering
tingles down my spine. His arm supported my weight as I leaned on
him. And Superman was obviously the furthest thing from his
mind.

"Lois, I love you," he murmured.

The sentiment had been so obvious, the look in his eyes so
self-explanatory, the message his every touch conveyed so clear
that at first the words barely registered. They were, after all,
hardly a revelation.

But slowly they sank in. Slowly, they penetrated the fog encasing
me in this tiny place and time. Slowly, they grew to dwarf
everything else.

*He* was confessing his love -- *I* was wondering what Superman
would think.

"I know you do," I whispered. Tears pooled in my eyes, then
fell when I closed them, savoring the feel of his tight,
supporting embrace and his temples resting against mine and the
softness of his hair beneath my fingers. Then I pulled back to
look at him, pierced to the quick by the sight of the burning,
radiant blaze of hope exploding from his entire being. "But you
deserve so much better."

And I tore myself from his grip and ran to the bedroom and
slammed the door shut on his stunned silence. Running from myself
-- running from him -- running from the scarcity -- the enormity
-- of Superman in my thoughts.

Clark knocked. He said my name. He apologized. He finally fell
depressingly silent.

I sat on the bed, and wrapped my arms around my middle, and
trembled in the shadowed cold.

***

Chapter 16

A long sleepless night passed, stretching out so interminably
that I was ready to scream. Finally, however, whether guided
through the same fixed orbits by the pull of the sun or by sheer
willpower on my part, morning arrived to shine dimly through the
tiny windows high in the bedroom wall. And now that morning had
finally arrived, I found myself conversely wishing that time
would stand still, would go backward, would have paused in the
pre-dusk dark so that I didn't have to open the door I had
slammed, walk back out into the room I had left so abruptly, and
face the man I had fled.

I delayed the inevitable moment as long as possible, taking my
time dressing in warm, comfortable clothes and packing up my
things. I even gritted my teeth past the pain caused by my inept
handling and changed the bandage on my wound myself. I couldn't
bear to let Clark do it, not when I'd have to look at him and
see just how badly I'd hurt him. Not when I'd have to sit
there, quiescent and seemingly unmoved, as his hands drifted over
my skin and tempted me to forget all the reasons I had slammed a
door between us.

When I could stall no longer, I stepped in front of the door,
took a deep, shuddering breath, and set a trembling hand to the
doorknob.

Then I pulled my hand back and paced out a few, short lines.

Coward, I named myself silently. That was enough, fortunately, to
galvanize me into action. Nobody called Lois Lane a coward -- not
even me.

So I set my hand decisively to the doorknob, twisted it with a
flick of my wrist, and yanked the door open. For my bravery, I
was awarded the sight of Clark's back.

He was standing at the window, his skin turned golden by the
morning sunshine, his eyes fixed in the direction of Bender's
yacht. For some strange reason, he had his glasses pulled down
low on his nose while he squinted at something or other. He
stayed in that pose for a long moment before finally letting out
a tiny sigh, his shoulders drooping, and pushing his glasses back
up. Then, almost reluctantly, he reached down and picked up the
binoculars Perry had loaned us.

My foot scuffed the edge of one of the tables book-ending the
couch, and Clark started, lowering the binoculars and turning to
face me with wide eyes.

"Anything yet?" I asked before he could make any mention of the
night before. My voice came out sounding strained and nervous,
but at least it came out. I hadn't been sure it would when I
first caught sight of Clark's expression metamorphosing from
surprise to a mixture of characteristic concern, painful
wariness, and that ever-present hope.

"No," he replied quietly in that distinctive voice of his.
"Nothing yet. Bender's up, though, and he's been kind of
active. He might be getting ready for a meeting. I've got the
recorder set for voice activation."

"Good," I said hoarsely, unable to tear my eyes from him,
unable to look at him, the result being that I darted glances of
him out of the corner of my eye, as if he were too bright to face
full-on.

And he was.

I had thought that the way last night had ended and the terrible,
downward-spiraling thoughts that had filled my midnight hours
would have doused the brilliance I had seen in him. I had been
sure that the early-morning light would be shining brightly
enough to make Clark seem no more radiant than usual. I had
assumed the star-struck tendencies that had taken hold of me last
night had been nipped in the bud by my realization that I had
betrayed either Clark or Superman by kissing him.

I had been wrong.

Clark still shone. He still seemed every bit as amazing and
perfect as he had seemed the night before, maybe even more so
because, though he watched me so carefully and hopefully, he
selflessly let me pick the conversation, let me speak only of
work-related topics, let me pretend that I had been unaffected by
his unconscious charm. He still drew me toward him, so much so
that it was almost impossible for me to keep the coffee table
between us.

Think of *him*, I reminded myself sternly, repeating the
conclusions I had come to the night before. He *was* amazing -- I
wasn't arguing that -- amazing enough to deserve someone who
loved him for himself, someone who put his needs above her own,
someone who wanted, above all else, to make him happy.

Not someone who was selfish enough to kiss him just because she
loved that he loved her.

Not someone who confused him in her mind with his estranged best
friend.

Not someone who could think of another man a breath after kissing
him.

Not me.

So, no matter that I wanted to smile at Clark and step close to
him and throw myself into his arms -- carefully, because he still
looked a bit off-balance -- and let him hold me and maybe kiss me
again...no matter all of that, I had to remain professional and
aloof...and alone.

I had promised myself that I would be the friend he needed, that
I would give back to him, that I would take care of him. Now was
the time to fulfill that silent promise.

"We're picking up sound all right?" I asked when I became
aware the moment of silence had stretched out too long.

"Yes," he replied minimally. He swiveled in place to follow me
with his eyes as I wandered the room aimlessly. My steps
threatened to inch nearer him, but I brutally restrained myself.
"Do you need me to look at your arm, or bandage it again?"

"No. I got it." The bandage I had managed to tie was a bit
bulky and had restarted the slow burning in the wound, but I
wasn't about to admit that to him. I couldn't, even though he
was staring at me with such soft eyes and an earnest expression
that tempted me to confess my every thought. To steel myself
against him, I forced myself to remember the condition he had
been in when I had been put in the cell with him. The way he had
flinched when I pulled my hands out of his after imploring him to
confide in me. The way he had turned his back and left the room
after I had given Superman the same words I had so intensely
given him.

Just as I had given Clark a kiss even more moving and powerful
and wonderful than the one I had shared with Superman.

I don't think I had ever had a lower opinion of myself than in
that moment, not even when I had thought I was partially
responsible for Superman having to face Nightfall alone.

"I didn't have anything to cook for breakfast," Clark said
hesitantly. "We might be able to order in something."

"Oh, no, that's okay." I waved my hand in a vague gesture. "I
think I brought some honey buns or some kind of pastry. That
should do in a pinch. Of course," I manufactured a laugh,"
I'll have to move into the gym for a month when this is all
over."

Something flickered in Clark's expression. Whatever it was, I
wasn't sure that I was coherent enough or awake enough or enough
myself to try to interpret it. Besides, I hadn't had any luck
figuring him out since the night he had woken me at my desk and
stunned me with a letter of resignation and a kiss goodbye; why
should now be any different?

"Lois," Clark began with a deep breath, and I tensed. I
couldn't let him mention last night, couldn't let him talk to
me in that kind, tender voice, couldn't let him get close enough
to reach out and draw a finger along my cheek...or I would
succumb. I knew I would. And I couldn't, not until I had
straightened everything out within myself. Not until I could
decide what I felt -- really, truly felt -- for him. Not until I
was sure that I was done hurting him.

"You're sure you haven't seen anyone arrive yet?" I moved
toward the window, vaguely aware that my movements were stilted
and unnatural. Too late, I realized that I had gotten so
desperate to find a distraction that I had forgotten I wasn't
supposed to draw so close to Clark.

"No," he said simply, though he would have been justified in
pointing out that he would surely have mentioned it if he'd seen
anyone arrive at Bender's yacht. "Here."

I froze. His hand -- the same one that had traced the contours of
my face with such gentleness -- was held out toward me as he
offered me the binoculars. His eyes -- the same eyes that still
glowed with the same light that had compelled me to kiss him --
were intent on my face. His voice -- the same that had woven such
spells around me the night before -- was strained and patient as
he repeated my name.

"Thanks," I choked out and took the binoculars, careful to
avoid physical contact.

It seemed almost impossible for the moment to get any more
awkward, so I was relieved beyond measure when the phone rang,
though the volume of its sudden chime made me jump. Clark started
as well, but he only looked away, so I set the binoculars down
and moved to the phone.

"Hello?" My voice trembled on that single word, so much so that
even I wasn't able to recognize myself in the greeting.

"Lois?" Perry asked, a frown evident in his tone.

"Perry." I forced a smile in Clark's direction. He formed his
own fake smile, then turned back to the window, raising the
binoculars to his eyes, masking whatever emotion he was too
polite to show me.

"Lois, I think you should sit down."

"Why?" I asked suspiciously. Something took my heart and
squeezed in a grip as tight as Luthor's thugs had held me. I was
almost afraid to hear Perry's answer -- no, I *was* afraid of
what he had to say. I didn't think I could take anything else at
this moment. I was so tired, tired of what Luthor had made of my
life, tired of my own confusion and guilt and bewilderment.

Perry hesitated, stammering a bit before finally saying, "Lois,
you said Luthor had threatened the Planet if you didn't do as he
demanded, didn't you?"

I sank blindly to the couch, my hand turned numb on the phone.
"Yes."

"Well..."

"What happened?" I demanded, bolting upright though I had just
sat down, my eyes sparking with fire. Luthor had already taken my
partner, had tried to take my hero, and was keeping me from my
job -- there was no way he was taking the Planet. No way in the
world.

"It's nothing definite yet," Perry warned, the note of fear
that threaded his words belying his own reassurance. "One of the
board-members passed along a warning that...well, our advertisers
seem to be jumpin' ship. And ever since Clark and Superman
left...well, for a while now, we've been...our circulation's
been just a bit low. The recent exclusive with Superman has been
helping, but...my friend says the board's about to meet with our
creditors. It's...it's just not lookin' good. And with what
you said about Luthor's threats, I thought..."

As if dragged by a strong magnetic pull, my eyes were drawn to
Clark. When I had insisted that Luthor could not hurt a
newspaper, Clark had retorted that the Planet was infinitely
vulnerable. *He can kill Perry; he can set a bomb; he could even
buy it if he wanted to.* His warning echoed sonorously within my
head, blotting out the sound of Perry's flat assurances.

"No."

I hadn't recognized my voice when I answered the phone, but this
single denial...*this* I recognized. For perhaps the first time
since Clark had walked away from me, I sounded like myself. Mad
Dog Lane -- I had been pretending I could still be her, but she
had become nothing more than a facade, a show of bravado to hide
just how lost and uncertain I was without my partner.

But now...that determination, the will to fight against any odds,
the stubborn refusal to accept defeat -- it was me. *This* was
me. *This* was who I was.

"This is not going to happen," I sternly instructed Perry. "We
can't let him get the Daily Planet. I won't let him win,
Chief."

"Of course not." There was a resolve in Perry's voice that
hadn't been there a moment ago. "We'll stop him."

"You need to find out everything you can. Use whatever contacts
you have to see what made the advertisers -- "

"I've been around the block a coupl'a times," Perry
interrupted. "I think I know how to handle myself. You and, uh,
your friend, in the meantime, need to get us the exclusive on
Luthor. That'll boost circulation."

"Among other things," I said grimly, my eyes still fixed on
Clark, whose stiff shoulders indicated he was upset about
something. Probably the tone of my voice.

"Don't worry, Lois. You take care of your end of things, and
I'll hammer out the details on this side. No two-bit millionaire
is going to get the better of us."

"That's more like it, Chief," I said with a grin that felt
unfamiliar on my lips.

"Lois!" Clark turned from the window and beckoned me to his
side.

"Got to go, Perry!" Not waiting to hear his goodbye, I hung up
the phone and hurried to the window. Clark handed me the
binoculars and turned to flip the switch that allowed us to hear
the words spoken on the yacht.

My sharp intake of air marked the moment when I saw Bender
gesturing Nigel forward, glancing about so furtively that any
passerby would be sure to take notice.

"Nigel!" I exclaimed. My hands tightened over the binoculars,
anger surging up in my heart in tandem with the waves lapping
against the yacht's hull. "Quick, Clark -- call Henderson."

Clark stepped to the phone, but I didn't concentrate on his
hushed conversation with the inspector, instead focusing my
attention on the words relayed through our equipment.

"Let's make this quick," the short lawyer was saying in his
customary fussy voice. "I can't afford to be seen with you."

"You're behind the times, Sheldon," Nigel said congenially,
helping himself to the cup of tea Bender had sitting on a nearby
table. "There's no longer any reason to worry about the
so-called law. Ever since Mr. Luthor acquired his newest
employee, things have been looking up for all our interests."

"He's using *him* for *this*?" Bender squeaked, his eyes
bugging out. "I thought that wasn't working out as well as
hoped."

"Well, there are still a few bugs to be ironed out." Nigel
shrugged and looked casually around the docks, a glance that took
in his surroundings with a cold, seasoned eye.

I couldn't help but take a tiny step backward, my gunshot wound
clamoring with remembered pain. Clark's warm hand on my back as
he rejoined me at the window strengthened and reassured me.
Determinedly, picturing the Planet in my mind's eye, I looked
through the binoculars again.

"Despite those minor flaws," Nigel continued after a careful
sip of tea, "LexCorp's worldwide business dealings have already
doubled in profit. Having muscle that is intimidating, quick, and
above reproach works well for Mr. Luthor. However, the reporters
continue to be a problem, which is why I've come."

"Of course I'll represent Mr. Luthor at any trial that should
occur." Bender sounded slightly more confident now that the
subject had turned, though he kept glancing fearfully up at the
sky.

Frowning, I turned to Clark to ask if he had any idea what they
were talking about. My frown melted like vapor at the sight of
Clark's jaw clenched painfully tight, his eyes flashing anger to
match the expression he had worn when Superman had returned him
to the apartment two nights before. His hands were balled into
fists, and it was a good thing he wasn't the one with
heat-vision considering how intently he glared in the direction
of the yacht.

"There won't be a trial." Nigel's voice, emanating from the
equipment behind us, jolted me and snapped my attention back to
him and Bender. "That's the entire point of this meeting. When
Mr. Luthor called you a week ago, you promised him you would
carry out his instructions to the letter."

"And I did!" Bender exclaimed, holding his hands up in a
warding gesture. "I hired the men to follow that photographer
just as he asked."

"Jimmy!" The name slipped from Clark's lips, and I glanced up
at him, disturbed when I saw that the color had drained from his
face. "I thought he should have been back by now."

"Then tell me, Sheldon." Nigel stepped so close to Bender that
he loomed over the smaller man. "Why has Mr. Luthor not been
informed that this task has been completed?"

Bender backed away. "It has been! I told you over the phone --
they'll be on their way back to Metropolis with proof they've
completed their end of the bargain as soon as they let the kid
lead them to whatever he was sent to find."

Clark shook his head. He looked so unsteady that I set down the
binoculars and took hold of his arm to ground him, temporarily
allowing the murmur of Nigel and Bender's conversation to become
nothing more than background hum.

Clark's eyes were wide and worried when he met mine. "I spent
so much time trying to counter the major threat that I completely
forgot about more ordinary ones. And Luthor must have been
counting on that. Jimmy -- "

"Is a smart kid," I told him, meeting his gaze forcefully and
refusing to show a hint of the doubt tickling along the edges of
my mind. "He knew that what you were asking him to do was
dangerous. He'll be on his guard."

"*Did* he know?" Clark looked to me, searching my face for some
sign of reassurance, which I gave him willingly.

"Clark, you made him memorize the directions, told him not to
repeat them aloud, and sent him off to who-knows-where in the
middle of the night -- I think he knew it was dangerous. But he
knows his way around. Trust me -- I've seen him get in some
places even *I* had trouble breaking into."

Finally, a tiny smile broke through Clark's guilty fear. "Oh,
well, in that case..."

I smiled back at him -- because, really, it was impossible not to
-- and then gestured back to Nigel and Bender, whose conversation
had degenerated into an argument over Bender's allegedly shoddy
work for Luthor. "Besides, with the conversation we're
recording, we've practically got Luthor nailed." But impatience
and impetuousness had been resurrected along with Mad Dog Lane,
so I grabbed Clark's sleeve and pulled him after me. "Come on.
We've got to stall Nigel until Henderson and his men get
here."

"But the protective detail he assigned -- "

"We've already lost Nigel once thanks to bought cops!" I
snapped, tossing Clark his flannel jacket to throw on over his
t-shirt. "I won't let it happen again. Perry said Luthor's
moving in on the Planet."

Clark's head snapped up, and his compassionate expression made
me swallow hard. "I'm sorry, Lois."

"There's nothing to be sorry for," I stated firmly. "The
Planet's going to be fine -- we all are. We just have to bring
Nigel in."

For the record, fear, impatience, and bravado don't lead to the
wisest decisions. It was not until the cold wind slid past my
form to tease Clark's clothes and hair that I realized I was
dragging him after a man who had helped terrorize and torture
him. A man who had hurt him just the day before.

"Clark -- " I turned, ready to reluctantly tell him he could
stay behind if he wanted to, but the sight of him turned me mute.
His visage was pure determination and grim resolve; fear might as
well have been an alien emotion for all that it seemed to be
affecting him.

"So, what's our plan exactly?" Clark asked quietly, his hand
on my arm the only point of warmth in the winter air. He was, I
suddenly perceived, just as ready to see this over and done with
as I was.

"Plan?" The cocky grin I threw him made him smile even as his
eyes narrowed with worry. "Obviously, you've forgotten a few
things about working with me. We'll confront him, delay him long
enough for Henderson to arrive with the handcuffs. It shouldn't
take him long to get here."

"He was waiting for our call," Clark confirmed. "But I told
him to bring as many people as he could-the more witnesses
around, the likelier it is they can't all be silenced."

"Good thinking," I congratulated him. Then I tugged him
forward, grateful for his comforting presence, his hand on my
spine, and his unwavering support. Our footsteps sounded hollow
and loud on the dock, the wood giving slightly beneath our
weight. Mist rose from the waves around us, stirred by the
crisply cold winter air.

"Nigel!" I called out, darkly satisfied when he and Bender
turned to face me, one coolly displeased, the other horrified.
"You didn't really think you could get away with this, did you?
You're even dumber than you look."

"Insults, Ms. Lane?" Nigel's silver brows rose in artificial
disbelief as he set down the teacup and moved to the railing.
"Don't you think that's a bit unwise in your current
situation?"

"*My situation?*" I repeated haughtily, crossing my arms over
my chest. "This situation is completely under control. You're
surrounded by the police. Inspector Henderson's here."

Bender jumped and looked all about nervously, but Nigel only
sneered. "A nice ploy, Ms. Lane, but patently false. If the
police were really here, they'd never let you confront me with
only a broken man at your side."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Clark flinch, and explosive
rage snapped into being within me. My voice emerged as pure
steel. "The police don't 'let' me do a lot of what I do. And
Clark is not 'broken.'"

"A cripple, then." Nigel turned to Bender, his movements
focused and economical. "Come on."

"What?" Bender gaped as the Englishman hurried toward the ramp
leading to the dock. "What about Luthor's newest asset?"

"One of those bugs we need to fix -- now move!"

I exchanged a startled glance with Clark before settling into a
combat position. No way was Nigel getting away from me again.
There were no police here now -- good or bad -- and this time, it
depended on me to apprehend Luthor's henchman.

Bender scrambled after Nigel, and the two came barreling down the
dock toward us. Anticipation fizzed within me, bubbling up to
send sparks of adrenaline racing erratically through my veins. My
Taekwondo lessons sped through my mind in a blur, my muscles
coiling and tensing in response to each recollection.

"Lois, he has a gun!" Clark shouted, and shoved me aside.

I hit the dock on my wounded arm and felt the sky explode to
lodge sharp, burning stars beneath the bandage I had so clumsily
tied. Blinking away tears of pain, I looked up to see Clark
reaching out a hand and clasping Nigel's wrist, grappling to
keep the gun aimed at the sky. With his other hand, he landed a
blow on Nigel's face.

The Englishman seemed to move back with the punch, absorbing its
force, then brought up his other hand stiffly and chopped it into
Clark's stomach. Moving fluidly, Nigel's hand kept traveling
upward and smashed straight into Clark's chin, snapping his head
back.

Gasping for air, Clark stumbled backward, a final blow sending
his head slamming into the mooring post. A sharp crack sounded
loud through the rising vapor and dulled the pain shrieking for
my attention.

Bonelessly, Clark's body tumbled off the dock and hit the frigid
water.

His glasses, knocked aside, lay only a foot away from my slack
hand.

"A pity Mr. Luthor isn't done with you yet," Nigel said as he
looked down at me.

I had no time to spare for him, his words fluttering their
callous way far above me. My hand closed over the glasses.

For an instant that stretched into eternity -- paused lest I be
forced to realize what had just happened -- I could only lie
there on the cold wood and stare at the glasses that rested so
innocuously in my hand. How many times had I seen those glasses?
A hundred times, a thousand, and yet always before they had been
lit from behind by dark eyes that sparkled with some inner
brilliance.

Now, they were lifeless and dark...and alone.

Like me.

"Clark!" The utterance of his name snapped me back to clarity,
and in one move, I darted to my feet and knelt at the edge of the
dock. A glance to the right proved that I had been motionless for
only a second or two. Nigel and Bender were just reaching the end
of the pier, escaping yet again.

It didn't matter. They were inconsequential. All that mattered
-- all that registered -- was the sight of the ripples that
marked the place Clark had fallen fading away and vanishing.

"Superman!" I screamed out to the cloudy skies, more out of
habit and dying hope than anything else. "Please, help!"

Without another thought, I dropped the glasses aside and sucked
in a deep breath. Then I dived beneath the lapping waves.

Cold such as I had never known -- a temperature so cold it could
no longer be defined by that word -- enveloped me. Each wave sent
by the current sheathed me in another layer of ice that
threatened to steal all mobility from my limbs, all thought from
my mind, all breath from my lungs. In fact, I almost sucked in a
mouthful of water when the bitter cold first engulfed me in its
frigid embrace; only the thought of Clark's limp body sinking so
quickly -- unbelievably, terrifyingly quickly -- under the
fog-touched surface of the water kept me from sucking the ice
into my lungs.

It was dark -- so dark that if I hadn't spent a day in a
lightless cell, I would have said nothing could possibly be any
blacker. The light of the sun was sucked into the waves and then
slaughtered by the cold, falling still and lifeless so that the
water around me could clutch its frozen bounty to itself. As my
eyes -- my limbs, my heart, my every molecule -- screamed and
screeched impotently against the surely subzero temperatures, I
despaired of being able to pierce through the blackness around me
to find any hint of my fallen partner.

I flailed my arms about, hoping against hope that he would still
be close enough to the surface to be reached by my delayed
grasping. Even if I had not been holding my breath, I would have
been breathless -- panic and a fear so deep it astounded me and
shook me to the depths of my soul were erasing any and all
intelligent thought from my mind.

Only when an emerging sob reminded me that I hadn't breathed in
far too long did I struggle free of the ocean's jealous,
frostbitten embrace to pull in a breath that tasted of winter and
cut like shards of glass. Tears trickled down my cheeks --
summoned by the cold, noticeable by their so-temporary heat
against my frosted skin. One more breath, cutting deeply and
burying hailstones deep in my chest, and I forced my mutinous,
torturously slow body back under the black waves.

I dove deep, water and current streaming against my cheeks, the
cold gathering my heat as zealously as a thief collected jewels.
I peered uselessly through the dark liquid, salt trickling into
my mouth and tasting as bitter as the fear taking the place of
blood, cold and slow within my veins. Only one thought survived
the airless surroundings: *Please, don't die. Don't die. Don't
die. Please, don't die.*

Despair, as leaden and deadening as the temperature, made as if
to sink me when my hands hit the sand that lined the bottom of
the world. I had dived as deeply as possible, yet I had caught no
sign -- sight, sound, or touch -- of Clark. I needed air badly,
but I couldn't bring myself to head back toward the surface, not
yet, not until I found him.

I could feel my body slowing to a dangerous crawl, my mind
shutting down, the last thought I had managed to hold onto
beginning to slip away, abandoning me in favor of elusive
warmth.

My hand closed over stiffened fabric. Cold flesh. Frozen hair.

Bubbles tickled my temples as I let out air I should have
preserved. I buried my hands deeply into the flannel shirt Clark
was wearing and pulled upward with all my draining strength.

He was so deep, so heavy, so unresponsive. His shirt tangled
itself around my fingers, wrists, and forearms, but the rest of
him was stubbornly anchored to the bottom of the sea. More breath
escaped me as I tugged at him, panic encroaching and sending a
burst of hot, serrated adrenaline into my system.

Clark's body finally lifted, buoyed up by the waves that lent
their aid now that they knew exactly whose life was at stake. I
strained for the surface, glad now for the bubbles escaping from
my mouth, following them like breadcrumbs to the surface, to air,
to warmth -- a concept that now seemed foreign.

*Please, don't die. Don't die. Don't die. Please, don't
die.*

We broke the surface of the water with a splash. My body almost
went into shock at the change in temperature and the sudden
presence of oxygen. Gasping, crying, shivering, I struggled to
keep Clark's head above the water. His skin was so pale --
almost corpse-white -- his flesh so cold -- my own doing nothing
to warm it -- and his eyes were shadowed and closed -- making me
realize that it was possible to feel even *more* terrified.

The arctic water tugged at me from all directions, trying to draw
me ever downward. My body was rebelliously tired, refusing to
obey the simplest of commands, and I had to constantly blink
droplets as cold as ice-chips from my eyes.

"Clark! Clark, please!" The shivers pervading my frame made the
words almost unintelligible, and the lap of the ocean against the
dock -- so dauntingly far away -- almost drowned out the sound of
my voice. "Clark, w-wake up! Please, wake up!"

*Please, don't die. Don't die. Don't die. Please, don't
die.*

It was a litany that wouldn't shut off, given frightful
substance by the feel of Clark's still, heavy -- how could he be
this heavy? -- form.

"Clark!" My breath ghosted over his cheek, and miraculously,
his hand rose to his face, as if to catch the relative warmth. My
muscles turned into liquid themselves, transmogrified by the
depths of my relief and residual terror.

Clumsily, slowly, he began to tread water, and just the feel of
him moving beside me was enough to instill within me a faith in
divine providence. "L-Lois?" His own voice was even weaker than
mine.

"Clark, h-help me," I commanded breathlessly. "Help me!"

The cold sapped our reserves of strength, and I felt the water
around me grow stronger, feeding on me and everything that made
up myself. Clark's arm around me was all that kept me upright,
and yet I could feel myself helping *him* stay afloat, as if we
supported each other, remaining above the water only so long as
we remained partners in survival even as we were in reporting.

"Lois, I'm s-sorry!"

"W-what?"

"I'm s-sorry I hurt your arm."

If I hadn't been so involved in living long enough to learn anew
what warmth was, I would have stopped right there and laughed
until I cried.

"It's all right," I managed to say as my hand closed over the
wood of the dock. "I'll l-live."

It was an agonizing ordeal to drag ourselves onto the pier, but
finally, Clark managed to pull me up onto the wood. My hand fell
on Clark's glasses, and I felt tears squeeze their way past the
ice built up over flesh, burning whatever they touched, turning
into ice themselves.

"Here." I offered the glasses, Clark's fingers awkwardly,
stiffly bending to hold them. My own hands moved from the glasses
to run over his chest, his arms, his neck, his face, moving of
their own accord, traveling under commands I was too numb to
consciously give.

Clark hesitated a long moment, his own eyes intent on me, before
he finally reached up a trembling hand and slipped the glasses
back on. Some part of me noted that this was the first time I had
seen him in the light without his glasses, but it was such a
small, inconsequential part next to the realization slowly
dawning on me -- the realization that he was okay. That, once
again, I could reassure myself that he was alive, still
breathing, still able to speak and smile and take my hand. It was
a habit I had fallen into, this reassuring myself of his
well-being, and it was one I would do almost anything to have
every reason to break.

"Nigel!" Clark's gaze moved from me to the dock perpendicular
to the one which soaked in the water we dripped over it. My iced
frame quaked with the shudders of cold and terror that refused to
let go of me, but Clark's own shivering seemed to abate the
instant he caught sight of Luthor's henchman.

"Clark -- "

"The Daily Planet," Clark exclaimed. "Jimmy. My parents."

And he was up and stumbling into a shambling run after Nigel and
Bender, their proximity proof that we hadn't actually been in
the water as long as it seemed.

I wasted a precious moment gaping after Clark with complete
incomprehension.

"And he calls *me* reckless!" I muttered before forcing myself
to my feet.

Bender, looking back to see Clark behind him, swerved madly to
the edge of the dock, almost toppling into a nearby boat, but
Clark ignored him, intent on Nigel.

Fortunately for me, Bender wasn't a great runner by any means. I
really didn't mean to tackle him and send us both sprawling
across the docks, but my entire body was on the verge of a
complete lockdown. With a bit of extra effort, I managed to turn
the move into an attack, stiff-arming him down onto his back.

"Don't move!" I commanded him in a voice that sounded as cold
as the water. The boat Bender had almost fallen into provided
rope near enough for me to grab. My fingers, however, were too
stiff and swollen to make tying his hands behind his back an easy
chore.

Bender was gibbering something I couldn't make out over the
roaring in my ears. It didn't matter. As soon as his hands were
tied, I ignored him, my fragmented attention turning to Clark.

My insane partner had pulled Nigel around to face him and had
gotten in a few good blows. Nigel, oddly enough, seemed almost
nervous as he faced Clark, as if something about Clark's manner
or expression unsettled him. Despite that, he fought back, his
age doing little to slow his trained reflexes.

Clark refused to give up, though, even after Nigel punched him in
the stomach hard enough to make him double over. I almost cried
out when he teetered on the edge of the pier. I knew without even
thinking about it that I would never survive another dip in the
arctic waters, yet I also knew that if Clark was once more
submerged, I would unhesitatingly jump in after him again. So
different from my dream when I hadn't been able to summon enough
courage to leap off the ledge. And yet...was it courage when I
knew I couldn't survive without him in my life?

Recognizing my inattention, Bender squirmed beneath me.
Ruthlessly, I shoved him into the dock with a knee in his spine.
"Don't even think about it," I warned him, urging my abused
hands to grab more rope and tie his ankles together. "Do you
have a gun?"

He stammered out a long answer that boiled down to a "no."
Shoving him aside and using the momentum to rise to my feet, I
rushed forward. Clark wasn't a fighter -- not trained, anyway --
-and he was taking a beating from Nigel. Yet, surprisingly
enough, Clark was able to keep standing, able to take the blows
the Englishman rained down on him with only occasional grunts of
pain to give away how much it hurt, able to keep Nigel in place
with a fast grip on his coat.

I opened my mouth to call Clark's name but closed it without
making a sound -- the last thing Clark needed was a distraction.

Nigel seemed to realize that he needed a fast way out. Sweeping
at Clark's ankles with his foot, he managed to gain a yard of
distance and an instant of time, which he predictably used to
pull out the gun from its side holster.

My eyes widened, but Clark didn't even hesitate, stepping in
close and knocking the gun aside just as he had in the cell while
protecting me. The gun skittered to the side, demanding and
receiving my immediate attention. My hands protested my continued
demands, but ineptly closed over the weapon.

When I stood once more, I almost exclaimed in frustration. Clark
and Nigel were too close together. If I tried to pause Nigel with
a threat, he'd simply grab Clark and use him as a hostage. And
if I actually pulled the trigger, there was no way I'd be able
to aim well enough to hit only the Englishman, particularly with
the violent shudders tearing their way through my body.

"Where are you, Henderson?" I gasped out under my breath, and
raised the gun.

Whether Clark saw me out of the corner of his eye or simply
needed a moment to take a breath, he staggered back several steps
and granted me the opening I needed.

"Nigel!" I snapped, and shockingly, my voice emerged with
crystal clarity. "I dare you to move and give me a way to pull
this trigger with a clear conscience."

Nigel froze, his blue eyes darkening with emotions I was too cold
and tired and hurt to interpret.

Clark dropped to his knees, his head bowed as he curled in around
himself, catching his breath and conserving body heat.

I kept the gun, unwavering, on Nigel, Bender visible in my
peripheral vision.

I wanted nothing more than to run to Clark and take him in my
arms, feel his arms envelop me, his heart beat steadily within
his chest, his breaths whisper through my hair. But I couldn't
risk letting Nigel move, not when I was afraid that Clark would
once more go after him should he run again.

"Clark," I said after a moment. "There's rope in the boat
behind me. Tie Nigel."

It took him a long moment to make it back to his feet and to the
boat, an even longer moment for him to force Nigel's hands
behind his back. He had just finished awkwardly pulling the knot
tight when I heard the sirens.

A moment later, uniformed cops were spilling onto the wooden
dock, surrounding us, swarming around the boats and yachts,
taking Nigel and Bender into custody, fading away into obscurity
for all the attention I paid them. I simply dropped the gun to
the soaked wood and staggered forward.

Clark's arms were already opened to receive me, and when I fell
into them, he willingly closed them around me and blotted out the
rest of the world.

***

Chapter 17

The cold had burrowed its way deep within me to lodge itself in
my bones, turning them brittle enough to shatter should I make
one wrong move. The only thing that kept me connected to my
surroundings was the heated form at my side, the warm arm
enfolding me, the sun-touched breath that whispered past me from
time to time. Had Clark walked away, I was convinced that I would
have lost what tiny measure of coherence I yet retained.

As it was, everything passed me in a blur that dimmed with every
recollection, snatches of images or sensations less defined than
the dreams that had been afflicting me.

I remembered uniformed men and women peppering the docks. I
remembered someone insisting on looking at my wound, the pain of
which had been turned mute with shock the instant I dove into
frigid waters. I remembered convincing Clark with a single glare
to let someone else bandage a gash on his temple and another on
his right cheekbone just below his eye. I remembered the blankets
they piled around us, the portable heater they set up in front of
us, remembered the sun peeking shamefacedly from behind the
dispelling clouds -- remembered that none of those external
forces were able to warm me half as much as Clark, who didn't
seem nearly as affected by the cold as I was, perhaps protected
from the full extent of the low temperatures by the emotions
doubtlessly rioting within him at the sight of his tormentor's
arrest.

I remembered Nigel's deadened eyes fixed on Clark and me as he
was escorted away to the rhythm of Bender's panicked legal
chatter.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, Henderson showed up,
his expression as stoic as if he regularly invaded the marina
with what seemed to be half of the MPD.

Halfway expecting a lecture on the foolishness of my
confrontation with Nigel -- and already feeling bad enough about
what came of it -- I forestalled whatever he had to say by
snapping, "What took you so long?"

His gaze was even. "It took us eight minutes to get here, Lane.
And considering the location of this little get-together, that's
not too bad."

"You should stay with Nigel," Clark interrupted, his tone
urgent. "And keep several men with you at all times."

"Relax, Clark, I've got it covered." Henderson held up his
hand in a conciliatory gesture, his tone much more compassionate
than it was when he spoke to me. "You explained it all over the
phone. Besides, after what happened the last time you two ran
into St. John, we're covering all our bases. Still, as much as
possible, we're also trying to keep it under the radar until
we're sure we can get St. John to testify against this Boss. The
last thing we need is for Luthor to run."

"No, we don't," I agreed, more vehemently than I had intended.
Despite the chills wracking my body, I snaked a hand out from the
blankets to wrap around Clark's waist. He tightened his own hold
on me in response.

"Bill..." Clark paused with a glance toward me, then took a
deep breath. "About what we discussed a couple days ago -- "

"Not here." The inspector glanced around. "Listen, I've got
to be there when they bring St. John in, but I'll come by after
talking to him. We'll go over our options, all right?"

Clark hesitated as if he wanted to press the issue, but when he
looked down at me, he only nodded and moved to wrap his other arm
around me. I welcomed the extra warmth, craved even more of it,
longed to draw all of it into my own form in order to sear the
ice from my bones.

Our bodyguards were more prominent on the drive back to the
apartment than they had been since we'd first been assigned
them, surrounding us, driving us through Metropolis, giving
clipped instructions.

Someone must have grabbed our things from Perry's friend's
hideaway because when they escorted us back home, the bags were
sitting just inside the door, propped up against my fish tank.
One of the officers -- or maybe she was a paramedic -- gave us
more advice on how to warm up. Another offered to stick around
until she was sure we were all right. Tellingly, Clark didn't
even argue, just steered me toward the bathroom and whispered his
own directions in my ear -- which might, truthfully, have been
the same things the woman had said, but *his* voice actually
managed to penetrate the frost-edged fog accompanying me.

When Clark's arm slipped away from me and the bathroom door
closed between us, I suddenly felt all the energy left to me
dwindling away, sinking from the top of my head to the soles of
my feet and staying trapped in the shadow cast behind me. It took
a long moment for me to remember how to move, to strip and step
into the shower, to keep the temperature slightly cooler than my
frostbitten skin felt that it needed. I might have stayed in
there forever, but the sound of the water and the feel of it on
my skin only reminded me of how close Clark had come to dying in
very different water.

Heat began to slowly work its way back into my body, softening
translucent skin, loosening stiff muscles, uncoiling closed
thoughts. By the time I stepped out of the shower, my spasmodic
trembling had finally stopped, though a shudder occasionally
ripped violently through my frame. I wrapped myself in a robe,
then tentatively stepped into the bedroom.

It was empty, the door to the rest of the apartment closed.
Quickly, reminded that Clark still had icy blood trapped in his
veins, I chose out the warmest pajamas I owned and dressed
hastily. Opening the bathroom door had evaporated the warm mist
summoned by my hot shower, and the room seemed cold now in
comparison.

When I opened the bedroom door and walked into the living room, I
was a bit surprised to see that Clark had somehow convinced
everyone else to leave. He smiled at me, the blankets draped
around his shoulders making them look broader and stronger rather
than giving him the fragile air I would have expected. We
exchanged a few words, and then he disappeared into the bathroom
with a bundle of clothes and clean towels.

While he was gone, I stood in the middle of the apartment, at a
loss as to what I should do next. Lois Lane never stopped moving
and always knew what the next step should be -- or at least
pretended she did -- but I was so tired. It had only been nine
days ago that I'd been kidnapped, and since that time, I'd been
in danger more often than even I was used to. More, I had found
everything I thought I knew to be true about myself being altered
and had begun questioning things that had before seemed as
immutable as the sun and moon. I was tired of being strong, tired
of being what everyone around me needed, tired of trying to
unravel the secrets that I could swear were swarming around me --
or, rather, around Clark and Superman.

I started violently when Clark's hand tenderly brushed my
shoulder, then willingly fell into his arms. His fingers wove
through my wet hair, pressing my head to his shoulder, and I
could have stayed like that forever, but we both wavered on our
feet. So, softly, slowly, we moved in tandem to the bedroom. When
Clark made as if to retract his arm and step to the cot, I
tightened my grip and tugged him to the bed. He made no protest,
just sat down on the edge of the bed and stared up at me as if
seeking to memorize me all over again.

Of its own volition, my hand rose to brush across the gashes on
his face, the bandages removed and the wounds exposed to the air.
I watched as if the hand belonged to someone else when it moved
higher to stroke back through his damp ebony hair. His own hand
lifted to fold itself around mine.

"Lois," he said. That was all, but it was enough. He could say
more in the simple utterance of my name than I could in a hundred
articles.

I dared not speak and break the spell surrounding us, so I merely
reached out and pushed on his shoulder, getting him to lie back.
He watched me as I pulled the covers up around us, and when I
stilled, he opened his arms and allowed me to curl up beside him,
attaching myself to his warmth. A moment passed before I could
even think about anything but relief that he was there for me.

"You don't need your glasses right now," I murmured, the words
slurring together. It was shocking how quickly I was slipping
toward sleep.

"I..." His voice trailed off, but he made no move to draw away
when I stirred to reach up and remove his glasses. An image of
them lying abandoned on the dock jolted me to a halt before I
forcibly shook the memory away and set the glasses almost
reverently on the nightstand.

Clark's eyes were wide as I regarded him, studying him intently.
He could have died earlier, yet here he was -- lying beside me,
his arms around me. Contentment such as I had never known before
took the place of the earlier cold, reshaping the contours of my
entire form, melting things that had been hardened, awakening
things that had been dormant.

It was a metamorphosis too large to dwell on at the moment, so I
rested my head on Clark's shoulder, pleased when he shifted to
more fully embrace me, and I allowed the returning warmth and the
inherent sense of safety that Clark imparted to lull me into an
exhausted, healing sleep.

It seemed an entirely new day -- a new era -- when I was stirred
by the feel of Clark moving beneath me, his hand rising to his
chest to slide his fingers over my palm. Drowsily, I tilted my
head on his shoulder to look at him. His own expression -- lit,
as it was so often, by the early evening light, as if the sun
sought him out as avidly as he sought its warmth -- was sleepy
and not quite focused. He was smiling, his heavy-lidded eyes
tracing my features.

"Hey." I offered him a smile that was so immediate I didn't
even have to think about it, and twisted my hand to weave my
fingers through his. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm dreaming again," he answered unabashedly. "I think I've
been dreaming for over a week now."

"Good dreams, I hope." I had been kidnapped, shot, beaten,
threatened, confused, doused in frigid waters, and nearly drowned
in the past nine days, but Clark's obvious joy and the smile
that was, seemingly, untouched by his own past traumas made all
that seem unimportant and distant.

"The best." The slightest flicker of uneasiness ghosted across
his face. "The kind I never thought could be real."

I slipped my hand free of his in order to turn his face toward
me. "This *is* real, Clark."

"I hope so. We'll see." Ever so lightly, his finger brushed my
cheek. "I didn't get a chance to say this before, but...thank
you. For saving me. You..." His voice turned rough, the emotion
in his very being so strong it outshone the sun pouring through
the windows. "You came after me. You...you saved me."

I opened my mouth to speak my automatic response -- a teasing
remark about needing him to do the cooking -- but I couldn't say
it. I couldn't shrug off the amount of gratitude
and...awe...molding his features into an expression that touched
something very deep and indispensable within me.

"That's what friends do, isn't it?" I bit my lip and closed
my eyes. It still sounded so weak, so pale, so...not enough. Not
a lie, just...not the whole truth. But what truth could I speak?
How could I tell him that he meant so much more to me than just a
friend when Superman had already admitted to me that he cared for
me? How could I *not* tell him that thinking he was going to die
had hurt more than hearing the news that Superman had probably
died stopping Nightfall? Whatever I said, I would hurt one or the
other, and yet I knew I needed to say something more, something a
little closer to the truth.

"You know," I said quickly, "last night, we, uh...we never
exchanged our secrets."

His expression closed, but he didn't pull back, didn't look
away, didn't rise to his feet.

"Or, well, you did." I laughed self-consciously, involuntarily
reliving the instant of our kiss and Clark's ensuing
declaration. Not that it had been that much of a secret. "But I
didn't."

"Lois, you -- "

"You're one ahead," I said with a warning note. As I had
expected, the characteristic competitiveness made him subside.
"So...you know the night we started this little tradition? I
told you I couldn't sleep because you were in the room? Well,"
I grimaced. "That was a lie."

Clark wisely kept his amused smile almost indiscernible. "To
tell you another secret, Lois -- I kind of knew that."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not surprised. But..." I swallowed,
suddenly afraid of confessing this, afraid of what it might
change. "The reason I couldn't sleep...it was...well, it was
because I was thinking about Superman."

Clark's hands, one resting on my waist and the other on my
shoulder, slackened a bit. He made a tiny grimace, not disgust,
but maybe disappointment. And hurt -- expected, but painful
nonetheless.

"I couldn't sleep last night either," I added hurriedly,
wanting to erase that look from his eyes.

"I wasn't in the room," he observed quietly.

"I know." I refused to let him look away. "That's *why* I
couldn't sleep."

A sense of purpose suddenly infused Clark's being, shining
outward from his expression as he shifted to face me more fully.
"Lois...there's something I need to tell you. It's about...why
I left Metropolis with Superman. He and I...well, you see, he's
my -- "

I could have screamed in frustration when the sound of someone
knocking on the door cut Clark's confession off mid-word. His
expression turned panicked, and he glanced hurriedly to the
window.

"Clark?" I asked quietly, determined to ignore the banging on
the door for as long as it took.

He didn't say anything for a long moment. Finally, he sighed and
slumped in defeat. "That's probably Henderson. He might have
news about Luthor."

"Yeah." I echoed his sigh and slid to my feet. Losing the
warmth Clark had exuded made the apartment seem abnormally cold.
The sun was hidden behind clouds, casting the apartment into
shadows.

Clark moved into the living room as I unlocked and opened the
door. Henderson swept in without so much as a "hello," his
steps clipped and intent. I exchanged a puzzled glance with Clark
as we sat down side by side on the couch; Henderson took a seat
across from us, hands clasped in his lap.

"Well?" I demanded. "Is Nigel going to turn Luthor over?"

"Eventually." The inspector scooted forward in his seat,
perching on the very edge. Impatience was a trait I recognized
immediately, and I realized that this, rather than anger or some
other emotion, was the cause of Henderson's abruptness. "It may
take a lot of explaining, some concessions, and no small amount
of legal blackmail, but I'm confident that he'll soon realize
helping us is in his best interest."

"How long?" I asked, leaning forward myself. I would have
jumped up and paced, but Clark's solid, steady warmth beside me
was so tempting, so alluring, that I couldn't bear to draw
away.

"Depends on how long it takes to convince St. John we can
protect him from Luthor's wrath, but I'd think we should be
able to get a warrant tomorrow. Can you two get everything you
have ready for me tonight? Without the proof you claim to have,
Kent, I need everything else I can get -- that, Nigel's
statement, and your testimony might be enough to do it."
Henderson paused to study Clark. "Have you heard from the friend
you sent after the evidence you've accumulated?"

"No." A muscle flickered in Clark's jaw. "We overheard Nigel
and Bender talking about him. They said they'd sent men after
him."

"I'm sure he's fine," I interjected hastily. "Jimmy's the
most resourceful person I've ever met. Trust me -- nothing can
keep that kid down."

"But you haven't heard any word from him since he left?"
Henderson looked between us.

"No," I said when Clark swallowed and stared down at his hands.
"But he'll turn up."

"Hmm." After a moment, Henderson nodded. "All right. Well,
then, I'll come by in the morning to pick up what you do
have."

"Are you sure that's safe?" Clark's tone was decidedly --
almost painfully -- neutral, his gaze staggeringly intense.

"I'll send three cars over," the inspector replied evenly.
"He won't move against us with so many witnesses around."

"I don't know." Clark's hands tightened over his knees, the
knuckles turning white. "Luthor's using him in his criminal
organization now. It's only a matter of time before word of that
spreads to the entire criminal underworld. Once that happens, no
one will dare move against him."

"I can't start spreading rumors myself." Henderson stood. "I
need proof of what you claim. Do you have any?"

The shadows that had arrived with Henderson seemed to collide
with one another as they fought to cloak Clark's eyes. "No,"
he finally said.

"Then we'll just keep doing what we've been doing. If what you
say is true, I'm sure we'll hear of it." The inspector turned
to me, finally deigning to acknowledge that I was in the room
with them. "Lane, can you get everything ready by tomorrow?"

"Of course," I huffed, the response automatic. I knew they were
talking about Superman, of course -- I wasn't an idiot -- but I
was reluctant to speak and break the spell that bound Clark and
me together. Right now, I was his friend and ally; the minute I
spoke to defend Superman, I would be lumped in with Henderson in
his eyes, an outsider he had to carefully and painstakingly
convince of his veracity.

Besides, I had my own questions for Superman. Questions such as:
where had he been earlier? Why didn't he ever show up when Clark
was in danger? How had he let Nigel get away? Why wasn't he
doing more to help us bring down Luthor? Where was he now? And --
the question I had been wrestling with since visiting Superman's
premature memorial -- how had Luthor managed to capture Clark in
the first place when Superman should have been guarding him?

Questions that had been asked and answered only halfway, if at
all. Questions I was sure had valid answers that might lower
Superman from godlike proportions to merely heroic in my eyes but
would, I was sure, nonetheless prove he wasn't a villain.
Questions I was afraid to ask because everything in my life had
been turned upside down in the past several months -- in the past
year, actually -- and I wanted, *needed*, at least one thing I
could depend on.

Unwillingly, my eyes were drawn to Clark. I wanted *him* to be
the one thing I could lean on, and he *could* be that
thing...except for his unreasoning fear and suspicion of
Superman. I had questions for the superhero, yes, but
Clark...Clark had accusations.

"Well, I'd better be getting back." Henderson moved toward the
door, his stride hurried.

"Bill, wait." Clark stood and took a directionless step toward
him. "I know you...have a hard time believing me, but...you need
to be very careful here. Luthor is surely growing tired of this
game, and when he's done with it...who knows what his next step
will be."

"I understand you have concerns," the inspector said, almost
gently. "And trust me -- I'm taking suitable precautions.
Everything's going to be fine, Clark. *You're* going to be
safe, both of you."

The half-nod Clark gave was more resigned than confident.
"Thanks."

"Good night," I added as I shut the door behind the inspector.
When I turned back to face Clark, he was looking out the windows,
his expression tight and closed. Impatience -- perhaps imparted
by Henderson -- and tense frustration prompted my next move.
"Just a minute, Clark. I forgot to tell Henderson about Perry
and the Daily Planet."

Without waiting for a reply -- or the knowing glance he'd
probably give me -- I ducked out into the hall, pulling the door
shut behind me. "Henderson, wait!"

His salt-and-pepper brows rose as he turned, already halfway down
the hallway. "What is it, Lane?"

I waited to speak until I was standing just in front of him,
close enough so that I could lower my voice. "Henderson, when
Clark asked to speak to you alone that first day he was
free...what did he talk to you about? What were you two
discussing just a minute ago?"

"How to keep everybody safe," he replied tersely and moved to
walk away.

I caught hold of his sleeve, moving to stand in front of him,
blocking his path. "No. What did Clark talk to you about? What
warning did he give you?"

"It was told me in confidence." Yet there was a hint of
hesitation in his reply, enough of a mark of weakness that I
pressed the attack.

"Please, Henderson -- I just want to help him. I want to
understand him."

He wavered. "I don't know. If he had wanted you to know, he
would have told you."

"Unless he thought it would put me in danger," I pointed out.
Then, when he hesitated again, I added, "I know he thinks
Superman is working for Luthor."

A sigh lifted Henderson's shoulders, then carelessly dropped
them. His mouth tightened before he gave a half-nod and began
speaking. "He doesn't think *Superman* is working for Luthor --
he thinks the imposter *posing* as Superman is working for
Luthor. He's convinced that the superhero flying around in a
cape is actually a trick, though how he thinks Luthor could
accomplish that, I can't begin to guess."

"And..." I had to swallow in order to work enough moisture into
my throat to continue. "And how likely do you think it is that
Clark is right?"

Henderson rubbed his forehead with a hand, and I abruptly
realized that he looked exhausted. The last week hadn't been
much easier on him than on me and Clark. "When Clark first
mentioned his concerns to me, I considered it. I've been
watching Superman closely, studying his public appearances and
observing his reactions and dialogue when I talk to him,
but..."

"But what?" I demanded. Panic was beginning to encroach along
the edges of my mind, nibbling away in tiny, torturous bites.
Superman *couldn't* be what Clark claimed! If he was...if he
was, what was there left in the world to believe in? What good
could triumph? What hope was there for *me* in a world so dark?

"Superman has been acting a bit...harsher...since his return."

"Not violent," I insisted. The gentleness of the superhero's
touch, the way his hand could curl so softly around my shoulder,
the tenderness of his eyes and voice -- I hadn't imagined
those.

"No, not violent," Henderson agreed. "Just...more abrupt. Less
patient. He doesn't give interviews, he rarely sticks around
long enough to talk to the police, he doesn't give the criminals
a chance to turn themselves over, he's quicker to tie them up
and leave them without a word."

"Those aren't crimes," I heard myself say. Wincing, I bit my
lip. Clark believed Superman was a criminal; by fighting so hard
to disprove that belief, was I betraying Clark? Or was I being
loyal to my friend? And when had the world gotten so complicated?
When had the clear-cut answers and simple solutions I had once
taken for granted disappeared?

"No, and if you ask me, they could just be the result of the
circumstances surrounding Superman's departure. We threw him out
of our city at the first hint of trouble, Lane! We tossed him out
and then just accepted the fact that he saved our world from an
asteroid! And only then, only when we were sure we were safe from
his purported effect on us, did we let him back in." Henderson
shook his head slowly, bitterness turning his voice ragged. "How
many of us stood up and let him know -- *really* let him know --
that we appreciated what he did and didn't want him to go? What
have we done to thank him for saving our world? No, we're lucky
he came back at all, lucky he helps us, lucky he does anything
for us."

I looked away, not sure anymore what I was feeling -- guilt,
relief, agreement, or something entirely different. I
felt...tired. And that wasn't me. What had happened to the
fragment of myself I had regained while talking to Perry over the
phone? What had happened to all that fire and resolve and
fighting spirit? What had happened to *me*, period?

"Anyway." Henderson straightened. "I don't think his actions
are anywhere near enough to condemn him as an imposter."

"So you think Clark is wrong?"

"Clark is one of the few truly good men I've ever met, but..."
The inspector's hands curled into fists before he stuffed them
unassumingly into his pockets. "People think they know what
powerlessness is, Lois...but they don't. That awful feeling of
total helplessness, the sickening realization that there is
nothing -- not one single, solitary thing -- you can do to change
your situation or alter your fate, the utter hopelessness of
having pain inflicted that you can't stop...that's something
that doesn't go away easily. And it's something Clark endured
every day for weeks. I think he needed Superman...and for
whatever reason, Superman wasn't there. And I think Clark is
still trying to work through that."

The fear I had felt thinking Superman might be a traitor was as
nothing compared to the terror invading and consuming every cell
in my body at the thought that Clark might be permanently damaged
by Luthor's torture. But I was tired of being afraid, tired of
dancing around subjects I didn't want to face, tired of avoiding
truths I wasn't prepared to hear, tired of pretending my
problems away.

"Do you think..." Even with my newfound, forced determination,
I had to push the words out past a barrier, all the articles on
the Internet about trauma victims once more swirling through my
mind, clogging up what little rational thought still remained to
me. "Do you think he'll have to be hospitalized?"

Henderson blanched, looking toward my apartment door, before
forcing his expression back to his normal, stoic mask. "I'm not
a psychiatrist, Lane. I can't make that kind of decision."

"But he's getting better," I told him, as if he had doubted
it. "He wasn't afraid of Nigel -- I don't think he's afraid
of Luthor, and he...he..." I trailed off, unable to finish by
saying that he no longer mistrusted Superman. Because he did. In
fact, he almost seemed *more* afraid of Superman now than
before.

There was a moment of silence as Henderson inspected his shoes.
Finally, he looked up at me, glanced around the hallway, and
reached out to tug me closer to him, closer to the wall. He
lowered his voice to a whisper. "Lois...did Clark tell you about
Kryptonite?"

I felt myself pale and wavered on my feet. Henderson's hand on
my arm steadied only my balance, doing nothing to ground and
stabilize my soul as Clark's touch could do. "Yes," I
whispered. "He told me."

"He told me as well -- told me about the existence of a stone he
claims can steal Superman's powers, hurt him, and eventually
kill him, a secret presumably told him in confidence.
Lois...*why* did he tell us?"

"No." I shook my head, suddenly calm -- the unnatural, sickly
calm one felt while teetering on the edge of a drop so perilous
the mind could not allow it to be comprehended. "He wouldn't.
Clark couldn't hurt a fly. No matter what he thought about
Superman, he would...he wouldn't!"

"Right." The word was affirmation; the tone was so neutral it
was like a slap in the face.

"He wouldn't," I said again. "Clark would never hurt anyone.
He might talk like he distrusts Superman, but you didn't hear
him when we visited the memorial -- he *admires* Superman."

"He also thinks this Superman took the place of the old one,"
the inspector pointed out.

*He's stolen it all from me.* Clark's words whispered
hauntingly through my mind.

"No," I said again, hoping that sheer repetition could convince
everyone of Clark's innocence. And yet...hadn't I myself
wondered what plan had given Clark such purposefulness over the
last couple days? Hadn't I also made the connection between
Kryptonite and the wordless decision he had made?

"Fine." I straightened and glared at Henderson. "I'll ask
him. I'll ask him why he told us about the Kryptonite. If he
gives a satisfactory answer, we'll know he's okay. If he
doesn't...well, we'll help him. No matter what it takes."

The look Henderson gave me was almost pitying. "I don't think
it works that way."

"It does," I proclaimed desperately. "It will. Clark is my
partner. He always..." My voice went mute before I had finished
that irrational, impractical, illogical sentence. My expression
crumbled as I fought to hold back my tears. Ironically enough, I
felt that only Clark's embrace -- the hugs he offered so freely
and spontaneously -- could cure me of this sudden, irritating
weakness.

"Uh, Lane..." Henderson sounded uncomfortable, the hand with
which he awkwardly patted my arm tentative and unsure. "Listen,
I'm sure I was...well, Clark hasn't been free that long, and
several stressful events have taken place in that time,
so...that's probably why I sounded so pessimistic. Time will
probably be the answer."

His reassurances, half-hearted and shallow as they were, served
well enough to stem the flood of tears and return substance to my
voice.

"Right," I managed to say with the semblance of a smile. When I
stiffened my spine to give the appearance of straightening,
Henderson's hand fell back to his side. Relief flickered across
his expression.

"Look, Lois...I don't know how to say this without embarrassing
us both, but...well, Clark's not the only one having a difficult
time this last week and a half, and I just...well, I wanted to
say that you've really stepped up to the plate and -- "

I cut him off before he could trot out any more obscure sports
metaphors. "You're right, Henderson -- you're embarrassing us
both."

"Right." His smile was almost back to his usual smirk as he
folded his hands back into his pockets. "Well, I'd better get
back down to the station. I don't want to leave St. John alone
too long, and I'll try to talk to Bender again without eliciting
a lawsuit."

"Good luck with that," I said with a wan smile. "Oh, and,
Henderson?"

He paused and looked at me over his shoulder.

"Thank you. For everything you've been doing."

His eyes slid behind me to the apartment. "He's my friend, too,
Lane."

Emotions, thoughts, memories, and an overriding confusion rioted
within me, a veritable mob that threatened to overwhelm me and
turn my mind to total anarchy as I entered the apartment. Only
one thing kept them in any kind of order at all -- the conviction
that I had to stop dancing around my fear for Clark's mental
stability and confront him directly. Maybe my fixation with tact
had been the wrong idea, I thought, only halfway mockingly; maybe
I should have stuck to my strengths all along.

"Clark, why -- " The question sitting on the tip of my tongue
shriveled and blew away at the sight of my partner looking up
from the research on the coffee table to me. His eyes lit up, his
expression softened and opened and lightened all at once, and his
entire frame seemed to strengthen and straighten.

"What?" I asked hesitantly as the door closed behind me with a
click.

"N-nothing." Clark hastily looked away, but not before I caught
sight of his small smile disappearing and the shutters once more
closing over his eyes.

"What?" I demanded, taking a step toward him. This wasn't the
question I was supposed to be asking, but I was pathetically
grateful for any reprieve.

"It's just..." He shrugged, one hand rising to fiddle with his
glasses in that nervous mannerism of his. "The way you came
in...it just reminded me of..."

"Yes?" I sat down beside him on the couch, taken aback yet
again by how bright and warm and solid he seemed, by how much
comfort I derived from his proximity. "You can tell me -- our
secret, remember? Us against the world?"

"Well...it reminded me of when they brought you to the cell."
Clark's eyes tightened, but he met my gaze steadily enough. "I
was so...happy...to see you again that I couldn't speak at
first. I had...missed you so much. And then to see you -- well,
in a manner of speaking -- after so long...I felt..." The hint
of a flush adorned his cheeks, but he didn't look away. "I felt
like I had been brought back to life."

Henderson was wrong, I found myself thinking as I smiled warmly
at my partner. Superman was wrong. Even I was wrong. Clark was so
much stronger than we all gave him credit for, so much more
stable and healthy than we feared.

"Lois." Clark angled toward me on the couch, his knee brushing
mine and eliciting a spark of electricity between us.
"I'm...I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" I repeated, confused. "For what?"

"For being happy that you were in that cell. I mean, you were in
danger. You had just been kidnapped and thrown into a prison.
Obviously, I shouldn't have been happy! I should have been
scared for you, or -- "

"Clark, I didn't like realizing you were in a cell, either, but
I was still glad to see you. That's not a crime."

"No." His smile was slow and did funny things inside of me.
"It's not. I just...I can't let Luthor hurt you, Lois. I
can't let him -- "

"He won't," I said quietly, my hand falling on Clark's arm,
stilling his nervous gestures. "He won't hurt either of us.
Never again."

Clark's dark eyes were veiled from me when they slid closed,
drinking the moment in, and yet his expression was piercingly
transparent. So relieved, so hopeful, so wary, so full of
longing.

And I suddenly realized -- it didn't matter if I ever asked him
my question or if he never gave me a satisfactory answer. I
wouldn't let Clark be caged again. I would never let anyone take
him away from me. No matter what it took, as long as I had breath
in my body, I would protect him. I would save him from any threat
or danger or crime-boss that neared him. For my sake, but most of
all for his -- for his integrity and spirit and brilliance -- I
would do everything I could to ensure that the sun was never
stolen from him again.

"So," I said in an effort to hide from him the depths of my
reaction -- to hide from him that I had even momentarily wondered
if he belonged in a padded cell. "Any secrets tonight?"

"One," he stated, calmly enough for all that his hands
tightened over the papers. When they crinkled, he relaxed,
smoothed them out, and set them carefully on the table.

"What is it?" I prompted him.

"I'm afraid, Lois." He shrugged self-deprecatingly. "I'm
afraid that one day, I will tell you something, and you will hate
me. I'm afraid that I'm going to lose you. I'm afraid because
I don't think I could..." He cut himself off, also afraid of
pressuring me, and cleared his throat. "Anyway, that's my
secret."

"Then here's mine." I paused an instant to marshal my
thoughts, flashing back to memories of a Corn Festival and line
dancing and a family so full of love that they couldn't stop
smiling or hugging or touching one another. "Remember that story
we did in Smallville? The one where you pretended to be
Superman?"

Clark shifted a bit on the couch. "Yes."

"Well, I think that was the best time I've ever had in my
entire life."

"Seeing me get beat up?" he asked with a lift of his brows.

"No!" I hit him lightly on the arm. "Seeing you with your
family. Seeing you...just be you. Having you include me. My
family's not the greatest, as you know, and it was nice to see a
family that...well, actually acted like one."

"You are family," Clark returned seriously. "I talked about
you so much that Mom and Dad probably felt like they knew you
even before they met you."

"Oh, good," I said with mock-relief. "That means insulting
them *wasn't* their first impression of me."

"First impression?" Clark repeated, as if mulling it over.
"No, their first impression of you was when I told them that the
best reporter in the business actually joined her name with
mine."

I stared at him for a moment before forcing myself to realize
that, of course, he meant the byline on our story, not...well,
not the other option for combining our names.

"I miss them." Clark's voice was almost inaudible. "I always
talked to them, always asked their advice, always...depended on
them. I feel...incomplete...without them. Without..." Once more,
he fiddled with his glasses.

Carefully, feeling an alien wash of tenderness flow through my
veins, I rubbed my hand down his shoulder and arm. "A couple
more days and this will all be over, Clark. Then you can talk to
them again. But," I added impulsively, "until then, and even
after...you can depend on me."

His gaze carried an actual, real heat as he met my eyes, so much
so that I was surprised his glasses didn't melt beneath it. "I
do depend on you, Lois. You're the -- best friend I've ever
had." The slight pause between words was a dead giveaway to the
fact that he had started to say something very different,
something I was pretty sure I could guess without any problem.

I wanted to tell him that I depended on him too, but he had
already turned back to the research spread out over the coffee
table. The moment had passed, and preparing everything we had on
Luthor and LexCorp for Henderson soon demanded our full
attention. But the next time a moment like that came, I promised
myself, I would *not* let it slip away unused.

***

Chapter 18

Working steadied me, banished the confusion that had become so
prevalent and formed a barrier that didn't allow it entrance
again. Clark and I managed to get our case against Luthor ready
fairly quickly, seeing as how we'd been working on it all week.
We readied for bed silently, but I didn't think I was alone in
thinking that the room seemed colder and the blankets more
necessary now that we were once again in separate beds.

When I woke the next morning, things seemed clearer, sharper,
everything cast into greater and more defined detail. For the
first time I realized that we were so much better off than we had
been for months. Nigel was in custody, Luthor's primary lawyer
had been arrested, we had a mountain of evidence to throw against
the Boss, and I was sure -- stubbornly sure -- that Jimmy would
arrive any day with the proof needed to irrevocably connect Lex
Luthor to the Boss.

And Clark...Clark was free. And he was healing. He was better. He
had stood up to Nigel twice, played a pivotal part in capturing
him, and -- though I had forgotten this the night before --
already made it clear why he had told me about the Kryptonite. He
had wanted it dealt with and destroyed so that it couldn't harm
Superman, which was proof enough that he was on the mend.
Whatever lies Luthor had dumped into his mind, whatever
fantastical reasons for Superman's absence Clark had come up
with himself, they were slowly being eclipsed by the reality he
was beginning, once more, to believe in.

A gust of wind swept my hair back when I stepped out of the
bathroom, dressed and ready for the day. It was a cold wind, a
winter breeze, and I frowned, perplexed, as I moved into the
living room.

Clark was standing next to the window, his hands gripping either
side of the frame, his face tilted upward. The low murmur of his
voice reached my ears by way of another breeze issuing in from
the open window, swirling the white curtains around Clark so that
he seemed engulfed by mist. A flash of red and blue hanging just
outside the window confirmed my suspicion.

Without a word, I moved farther into the living room, not averse
-- with my newfound clarity of thought -- to eavesdropping on the
two men in an attempt to find some clue as to the nature of
whatever argument stood between them.

"That's not true," Clark was saying, his tone as stubborn as
it used to get when I tried to convince him to lie for a story.
"Age and power don't matter. What makes Superman is what he
does *for* others."

"I do what is necessary -- it is you who doesn't understand
that."

My brow creased in surprise. Without being able to see both men,
it was suddenly clear that their voices were almost identical.
Superman's was a bit deeper, more controlled, less inflectioned,
and Clark's rang with more passion, but their pitch was the
same.

"I -- "

"Later," Superman said tersely. "I hear something."

A whoosh coincided with a last violent billowing of the curtains,
and the red and blue colors disappeared, leaving the white behind
to shine undimmed and undiluted. Clark stayed motionless for a
long moment; I was now close enough to see that the window frame
was straining under the tightness of Clark's hold on it.

"Clark?" I said, surprised when he made no response, as if he
hadn't heard me. "Clark! What was Superman doing here?"

Slowly, moving as stiffly as if he were frozen, Clark pried his
fingers from the wood and swiveled in place to face me. His
expression was blank. Terror and confusion threatened to slip
past the widening chinks in my wall, but I stubbornly refused
them entry.

"Clark," I said again, a bit louder. "Why was Superman
here?"

"Superman," he repeated hollowly.

"Are you all right?" I stepped right up next to him, vastly
concerned by how out of it he seemed. He had always seemed angry
with Superman, or afraid of him, but now...now, he seemed
more...defeated. As if he could no longer summon the energy
needed to distrust and dislike Superman. I briefly wondered if
that was a good sign before deciding that anything that left
Clark looking and sounding like this could *not* be a good
thing.

"Lois." Finally, Clark met my eyes and the force of it almost
drove me back a pace. "Do you ever feel like you're
invisible?"

I raised my eyebrows. "I've found that I don't like being
invisible, despite how handy it could potentially be."

He looked back toward the window. His hand rose slowly,
inexorably, to his glasses. "Do you ever feel like people never
look at you at all -- or, worse, that they look at you and see
right through you? I keep thinking that one day, they'll finally
look and really see me and I'll know I'm not invisible anymore.
But it's taking so long, and what if..." Carefully, almost
fearfully, Clark pulled his glasses off his face and stared down
at them, sheltered in his palms. "What if the fact that everyone
looks at me and never sees what I thought was hidden inside
me...what if that's a sign that I'm really *not* who I thought
I was? What if I really am just what everyone else sees?"

"I..." I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. Clark without
his glasses looked a lot like...like Superman. I had, of course,
noticed that they had several physical similarities, but it had
never bothered me before. After all, one of the women who worked
in the Daily Planet's publicity department looked almost exactly
like my sixth-grade teacher, yet I knew for a fact they weren't
related. Superman was a Kryptonian, Clark a human -- I had always
dismissed their similarities as a genetic oddity. But with the
glasses removed...it was a much more pointed resemblance.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I said belatedly
when I realized Clark was still waiting for an answer to his
rambling question.

"I know." His smile was almost bitter. "Believe me, I know."

"But," I added, determined not to let this moment pass if it
was the one I was waiting for. "I *want* to."

The dark bitterness faded and vanished from his face, replaced by
a shadowed desperation. He reached out a hand toward me, the
glasses dangling from his fingers. "Lois, am I crazy?"

I blinked, stunned by his choice of topic. "What?"

"Am I crazy? I know some people -- Henderson, Perry, probably
Jimmy...you? -- think I'm paranoid, traumatized, unbalanced, and
delusional. But...what do *you* think?"

"I'm not a psychiatrist," I temporized, wincing to hear my own
voice utter Henderson's weak excuse.

"Lois, please." Clark's eyes begged me for something he was
lacking, something he needed, something he had received all the
time from his parents -- reassurance, guidance, advice,
acceptance...love. "If *you* tell me I'm crazy...I'll believe
you. And then I'll do whatever you tell me I need to do.
Just...please. Tell me."

"I think," I began slowly, knowing of a certainty that Clark's
future would be shaped around my answer, conscious of my promise
that he could depend on me for the support his parents had once
given him so freely. "I think your time in the cell affected
you, and we'd be stupid to try and ignore that."

His eyes -- so open and exposed without the cover of clear lenses
-- fell closed to hide his shattered expression. "You *do* think
I'm crazy."

"I didn't say that!" I snapped, stepping even closer, invading
his personal space, startled again -- or still -- by how
different, how familiar, he looked without his glasses. "I said
it affected you...but it didn't change you. You are who you've
always been." I smiled at him, laying my hands flat against his
chest. "You're the kindest man I've ever met, and you have
unbelievable quiet strength and gentle grace and incredible
selflessness. You're the man I admire more than anyone else in
the entire world. And," I continued, swallowing before forcing
these last words out. "You're the only person I'd be...okay
with...losing the Pulitzer to."

All trace of any emotion except hope, happiness, and amusement
were gone from him, crushed and swept away. "Wow. That's
big."

"Big?" I repeated incredulously, my hands dropping from his
chest before he caught them and held them close to him. Which
made it hard to finish my exclamation. "That's *enormous*,
Kent! That's world-shattering!"

The sound of his laughter, the sight of the bright sparkle in his
eyes, the feel of his hands curved around mine -- it softened
something inside of me and sent fluffy dandelion seeds dancing
through my stomach. "So, what do you think, Clark? Do *you*
think you're crazy?"

"I think I'm the luckiest man in the world to have you in my
life," he answered tenderly. It was the smoothest, most
beautiful evasion I'd ever heard.

"Well." I smiled to hide my sudden self-consciousness and
astonishment over how much like Superman he looked with that
half-smile curving his lips upward. "That just proves that you
*are* crazy. But," I smiled back at him, the warmth and
gentleness of my own smile surprising even me. "It's the kind
of crazy you've always been. The kind of crazy I don't want you
to lose."

"I won't," he said, his voice turning the two words into a
vow. I was distracted from that, however, by the feel of his
fingertips settling themselves over my cheek. "Some lunacy is
considered brilliance, after all."

"Exactly!" I pronounced breathily, my heart trembling as I
tilted my face upward. "And I should know!"

"Lois." Whatever else Clark was about to say -- or do -- was
preempted by the sound of a knock at the door. If physics allowed
wood to shrivel beneath an angry stare, my door would have been
melted slag on the floor. It didn't budge beneath my glare,
however, and Clark dropped my hands and slipped his glasses back
on, banishing the disconcerting resemblance to Superman.

Fighting the urge to sigh heavily, I stalked over to the door and
pulled it open.

The hapless policeman who stood on the other side actually pulled
back a pace at the force of my glare. "Uh, Inspector Henderson
sent me. I-I'm here to pick up -- "

"Yeah, yeah." I waved my hand dismissively and allowed him to
step inside.

"You came alone?" Clark asked before I could even make a move
toward the papers we had prepared. His eyes were narrowed as he
studied the man. "How do we know Henderson sent you?"

The officer blinked. "Well, here's my badge, and a cell phone
if you want to call Henderson."

Clark ignored the proffered objects. "No. This isn't right.
Henderson said he'd be here."

I looked between Clark and the officer. For an instant, I
wondered just how paranoid Clark was -- but only for an instant.
Clark was my partner; more, he knew intimately how dangerous
Luthor was. And he was right -- Henderson would never have sent a
single officer we didn't recognize on sight.

"Don't move," I told the man, sliding to the left in order to
block the doorway. "We'll just call Henderson and get this all
straightened out."

"I don't understand." The man's pale eyes darted between
Clark and me as he sidled farther into the living room, closer to
Clark, who didn't budge from his spot, his hands clenched into
fists. "The inspector said to come up, grab the stuff, and get
right back."

"What happened to the three squad cars?" I asked skeptically.

"Three?" The man shrugged. "I guess they got tied up."

"Guess again," I said coldly. Belatedly, I noticed his hand
sliding into his pocket, his attention moving to Clark.

"Hey!" I tackled the man, sending us both crashing to the
floor. Luckily, I saw both his hands splayed against the rug --
empty. He hadn't managed to retrieve whatever weapon had been
stashed in his pocket.

Clark pulled the man to his feet and held him still while I rose
and brushed myself off. "Did Luthor send you?"

I froze and stared at Clark. Never before had I heard him sound
so...menacing. No, menacing wasn't the word -- resolute. Resolve
shone pure and undimmed through every particle of Clark's being,
blinding the man in his grip and capturing my immediate
attention.

The man clamped his mouth shut, though his eyes were wide.

"He must be getting a little desperate to resort to this,"
Clark continued, unfazed by the man's silence. "What happened
to his newest 'employee?' Is his convoluted plan backfiring on
him?"

"What's going on here?"

I whirled to find Henderson standing in the doorway, several
officers arrayed behind him.

"There you are!" I exclaimed. "This man claims you sent him to
pick up our...research. I think he has a weapon in his pocket."

"Is that so." Henderson gestured commandingly, and a few of his
men entered the apartment to take the man from Clark and handcuff
his hands behind his back. They frisked him -- ignoring his
sullen stillness -- and pulled something small and square from
his pocket. When they handed it to Henderson, I crowded in next
to him to examine the object.

It was a box made of metal, perhaps lead. It looked sickeningly
familiar. It was a bit smaller than the one Luthor and Nigel had
flaunted, but it almost certainly carried the same thing within
it. Dread and curiosity mixed in equal parts within me.

Worried, I glanced up to see Clark still watching the man as he
was led out of the apartment. He didn't seem to have yet noticed
what we had retrieved from our prisoner.

"Luthor used this to scare Clark," I murmured quietly to
Henderson, angling my body to hide the box from Clark's view.
"I don't know what's inside."

Narrowing his eyes behind their tinted lenses, Henderson flipped
the latch and folded open the lid of the box. A malignant green
glow spilled from the opened box to suck the light out of the
room. The poisoned light emanated from a tiny chip of rock
contained within the lead box, confined to the darkness until the
lid was opened and allowed it to seep outward.

"What *is* that?" I asked in a voice that sounded as if it came
from far away.

"My guess?" Henderson shook his head, his eyes locked on the
alien stone. I knew what he would say even before he spoke.
"Kryptonite."

He was right. Clark had said the rock that could hurt and kill
Superman was green. Somehow, though, I had not expected the stone
to *glow* green. It clearly marked it as alien, the noxiousness
of the color a clear sign of its deadly capabilities.

"We need to destroy it," I said firmly, decisively. And I
reached out and closed the box, then latched it with finality.
"We have to get rid of it. We can't risk Luthor getting hold of
it again."

Henderson's pause was so brief it was almost non-existent.
"You're right. I know someone I can trust, someone very smart
and familiar with melting things down. I'll see if I can get him
to destroy this permanently. We owe Superman."

"Just don't tell him what the stone does," I warned.

"Of course not." Henderson looked insulted. "I trust Dr.
Irons, but this is Superman's secret."

"Right." I nodded and turned toward Clark as Henderson slipped
the box into the pocket of his coat. One look at Clark, however,
and I knew that, despite my precautions, he must have caught
sight of the box.

His face was white, his eyes tight, the gashes inflicted the day
before seeming darker and deeper, and he wavered unsteadily on
his feet. Before I could do more than take a step toward him, he
staggered backward and sat down heavily on the couch.

"Clark?" I sat beside him, slipping my arm around him. "I'm
sorry. I tried to make sure you didn't see it."

He forced a fake smile but didn't open his eyes. Leaning back
slightly, he tilted his head up toward the beams of sunlight
allowed to pour back into the room now that the Kryptonite had
once more been hidden away. The effect of the simple sight of the
stone on Clark was amazing -- and horrifying. Somehow or other,
Luthor had managed to make Clark as terrified of the Kryptonite
as if it affected *him*.

I suddenly felt sick -- not with nausea, but with the beginnings
of a foreboding understanding.

Reluctantly leaving Clark for a moment, I showed Henderson what
he needed to take and helped his officers pack it up. Then,
wringing a promise from the inspector to call us the instant he
got the warrant, encouraged by the news that Nigel was
negotiating a deal with the police, I closed the door behind our
visitors.

When I turned to face Clark, I was disturbed to see him leaning
back against the couch, dark smudges stained beneath his eyes.
His hands shook when he half-heartedly raised them to his
glasses.

"Clark?" I asked, and blinked to hear the amount of worry
coloring my voice and tainting my tone.

"I'll be all right," he said quietly. "It wasn't too bad.
Just...startled me, that's all."

"Hmm." I bit my lip, not reassured, until he opened his eyes
and turned his head to smile at me.

"Really. I'll be okay. It was only for a second. I think I'm
starting to get used to it."

Only a second...yet it had completely discomfited him. More, it
had seemed to *hurt* him. *Physically* hurt him. It had sucked
the light and warmth out of his body and left behind this wan,
weakened husk.

The world threatened to shake itself to pieces beneath my feet
and send me spiraling out into open space with no caped superhero
to save me. The answer was there, just out of sight, but reaching
for it would mean endangering everything I had managed to build
between myself and Clark. Did I really *want* to do that?

Could I afford not to?

I had never before hidden from answers in my life. In fact, I had
made it my life's work to ferret out the truth and tell it to as
many people as possible. So why was I hiding now? Why was I
avoiding the truth? Why was I content to let this secret languish
in the dark without even attempting to bring it into the light?

For whatever reason, however it worked, that Kryptonite --
unfettered by lead -- *had* physically affected Clark. There was
no other explanation. It had caused him pain and even now left
its mark on him.

*Why* had it affected him?

"Don't worry, Lois. Even without the rest of what I have, what
we gave Henderson should be more than enough to take down a lot
of Luthor's operations."

Shaken from my dazed, whirling thoughts, I slowly turned my head
to look at Clark. The sight of him, weak and yet still
optimistic, made me realize he thought I was worried about
sending the stuff off with Henderson. And I should have been,
really, but the realization that Kryptonite hurt Clark loomed
over my impatient anticipation.

"It was great investigative work," Clark added. His expression
was earnest and sincere, proof that he believed what he said.
"The research you collected, linked with the MPD material, will
certainly end some terrible operations, places like LexLabs --
"

He continued, but I couldn't hear him over the roaring noise in
my ears, the blood rushing to my head and making the room swirl
crazily all about me.

LexLabs.

The Mentamide 5 experiments had proven the lengths to which
Luthor would go just to find anything that would give him and his
company an edge. He had perpetrated, endorsed, and controlled
those 'scientific' experiments, looking for the next big thing
or a way to control more power -- and that had been on innocent
children to whom he had no direct connection. How much further
would he go when his victim had directly challenged him and
refused to be swayed by his tainted charisma or broken beneath
his twisted menace?

What had Luthor done to Clark while he was his prisoner? What
awful experiments, what inhumane tests, had he conducted on my
defenseless partner? Would Clark even know if Luthor had
manipulated his DNA or altered his blood chemistry? Perhaps he
retained only flashes of memory, snippets of moments he thought
merely nightmare. Maybe his fixation with the idea of an imposter
Superman was rooted in half-buried, fragmented memories of what
Luthor had attempted to make of *him*.

I contemplated this terrible idea, this horrific theory, even as
I forced a casual response to Clark's compassionate reassurance.
It was, perhaps, the most awful idea I had ever come up with, and
yet I knew the whole time that it was merely a distraction, a
false, patently untrue theory I had fabricated in order to keep
my mind busy. I could not help but know -- as I sat beside an
already strengthening Clark and began working with him on the
beginnings of our exclusive -- the truth behind Clark's
vulnerability to Kryptonite. The truth behind his once-frequent
quick exits and prolonged absences, the multitude of Superman
stories he had seemed to come across so fortuitously, the reason
for his departure from Metropolis coinciding with Superman's,
and his recent hatred and mistrust of the superhero.

But it was a truth so enormous, so terrible, so radical, so
mind-blowing, life-altering, and heart-shattering that I could
not think it, could not dwell on it, could not allow myself to
connect all the pieces. Because the minute I accepted this truth
-- the minute I allowed that it was reality -- I would also have
to acknowledge that everything I knew about Superman and Clark
was a lie. And that would, in turn, mean that basic facts I
accepted about myself were also false.

And...I wanted to hang onto that feeling of contentment I had
felt since lying beside Clark the afternoon before, still damp
from the warm shower that had done less to erase the icy cold
than Clark's simple touch.

So, for a while longer, I avoided the truth, escaped reality, hid
in the dreamworld I had been occupying since a handsome man
dressed in a strange costume strode toward me and consumed a
bomb, and I simply enjoyed working with Clark -- the Clark I
knew, the Clark I was comfortable with, the Clark I was becoming
increasingly drawn to.

But then someone knocked on the door and rudely interrupted my
stay in the world as I had thought it to be.

When I opened the door -- muttering darkly about what Henderson
could possibly have forgotten and why he couldn't use the phone
like an ordinary person -- I found myself gaping at the visitor,
his arms wrapped around a battered cardboard box and a grin
adorning his dark, cheerful features.

"Hey, Lois! Did you miss me? Boy, you guys wouldn't believe how
much trouble I had!" Jimmy would have said more -- probably
would have spilled the entire story of his trip, complete with
every sordid detail -- but Clark had pushed himself off the couch
and stumbled to the doorway.

"Jimmy?" The relief, concern, and happiness warring for
dominance within Clark showed clearly when he pulled Jimmy
forward, clapping him on the back, half-hugging him, heedless of
the box making every move awkward. "Jimmy! You're all right! I
was so worried about you!"

"Hey, it's all right, CK, really." Jimmy met Clark's eyes for
a long moment, and despite the awkwardness of our positions,
something was communicated between them, a message of
understanding that Clark had asked something dangerous of Jimmy
and a forgiveness of that request and what might have come of it.
It was a remarkable moment for all that transpired in it, and I
found myself taken aback by Jimmy's growing maturity.

"Well, are you going to come in or just stand in the doorway all
day?" I finally asked, mock-irritation coating my voice.

With laughter from all three of us, we stepped into the living
room; I bolted the door behind us. Jimmy set down the box of -- I
presumed -- Clark's long-discussed proof. Though he was doing
his best to hide his Kryptonite-induced weariness, I made sure
that Clark sat down as well. No need for him to strain himself
unduly.

"How did you get here -- by way of Antarctica?" I asked at the
same moment as Clark said, "Are you sure you're all right?"

Jimmy's brows rose as he looked between us. "I followed CK's
directions, and I'm fine."

At the sight of Jimmy's confusion, I decided to take pity on
him. "We overheard Nigel St. John and Sheldon Bender discussing
the men they'd sent after you."

"Ah." A strange medley of emotions played itself out over
Jimmy's mobile features. "So, I was right! Those men *were*
after me. Wow, I...whoa."

"What is it?" I asked, my brow creasing.

"Nothing. I just...I thought I was just being paranoid."

"What happened?" Dread suffused Clark's being -- evident in
his tone, expression, and posture -- as he awaited Jimmy's
reply.

"Not much," Jimmy hastily assured him, and I felt a warm rush
of affection for the younger man. Jimmy had always been a good
kid. He was the only one besides Perry who had ever braved
conversation with me, his cheerful attitude seemingly making him
impervious to my standoffish manner, and as a result, he had
often been able to elicit a smile from me in those days when few
besides a big lead or a prominent page-one article had excited
me.

"I noticed a car following me," Jimmy began to explain. "But
-- "

"Just a second." Clark shifted and turned toward me
tentatively, as if afraid I might explode at his suggestion.
"Uh, Lois, do you want to make -- "

"Some coffee," I finished for him. My tone was resigned, which
didn't explain why I willingly flipped on the television as I
headed into the kitchen. Behind me, I heard Clark give Jimmy some
unconvincing explanation about him looking tired. Jimmy did
appear a bit worn, and it was easy by looking at him to see that
he'd been traveling, but his eyes were alert, his shoulders
straight. Truthfully, he looked better than Clark did.

Hastily, I shoved that thought aside and focused on making the
coffee.

Superman didn't show up on the news -- in fact, I hadn't heard
any news about him since before I had tested him with Clark's
questions -- but even Clark knew we couldn't delay forever.
Jimmy was impatient to tell his story, trying to get a word in
edgewise and looking between us with a perplexed expression when
we continued to interrupt him. I myself couldn't help wondering
at my own uneasiness and the worried glances I kept throwing the
TV.

Finally, Jimmy set down his coffee mug and met Clark's eyes.
"What's going on here?"

Clark froze with a deer-in-the-headlights expression that made me
smile.

"We're just a little nervous," I supplied when he said
nothing. "Quite a few things have happened in the last couple
days, and we're waiting for Henderson to call with the news that
he has an arrest warrant for Luthor."

"We're that close?" Jimmy brightened. "Smooth! I thought this
was the type of investigation that would go on forever! But, CK,
you've got a ton of hard proof -- how come you never brought it
before?"

"I..." Clark gave me a sidelong glance. "I was waiting until I
was sure it couldn't be refuted. And then...then it was too
late."

"All right, Jimmy." I focused my attention on the younger man,
trying to distract all three of us from the nightmares seeping
through Clark's short explanation. "What *did* happen to
you?"

"Well, I'd been driving for about a day when I realized that I
kept seeing the same car behind me. I thought it might be
following me, especially when it kept showing up over the next
two days. So, finally, I stopped in a town, called 911, and
reported a car with their license plates as stolen. I thought
maybe I had just caused some innocent people no end of trouble
and was feeling kind of guilty about it, but if...if they really
were from Luthor, then I'm glad I did it."

"That stopped them?" I asked dubiously.

"It seemed to." Jimmy shrugged. "I told the police right where
they could find the car, and I made sure I didn't leave before
they got there to take the two men into custody just in case they
would take off after me. By the time they would have straightened
everything out, I was long gone. But, really, that was all the
excitement I had. I followed the rest of the directions, picked
up the stuff, and came straight back here. Clark, why did you
send me to so many different places?"

Clark smiled self-deprecatingly. "I was hoping it would stop
anyone from following you. Plus, I was afraid that if you went in
a straight line, Luthor or his employees would be able to guess
where you were headed. But that was quick thinking, Jimmy. Good
job."

"Well..." Jimmy shrugged self-consciously and took a sip of his
coffee.

I looked to the box Jimmy had brought with him, my fingers
itching to look through the evidence Clark had compiled. I had
read the list of what Clark had, but it was very different to
actually see and feel the research. "Shall we look through this
and organize it for Henderson?" I asked eagerly.

"Sure." Clark's smile was somewhat amused; he knew me so
well.

"Hey, do you think we could order a pizza while we do this?"
Jimmy asked, his tone plaintive. "Coffee's good, but pizza's
better."

"Of course." I stood quickly, tossing Clark a triumphant smile.
"Today, *I'll* cook."

"That's not cooking," Clark said with a laugh as I picked up
the phone. "And don't order from Ralph's Pagoda!"

"We're ordering pizza, not Chinese," I said haughtily before
quickly turning and allowing my hair to fall forward and hide the
blush in my cheeks as memories of that night at the marina poured
through my mind like a verdant rainfall.

Soon, the living room was decorated with the semi-orderly chaos
of papers, photos, tapes, files, plates, and pizza boxes. Though
Jimmy had looked at the stuff as he had boxed it up, he hadn't
understood the full scope of what Clark had on Luthor. I was in
the same position -- I had heard Henderson's awe over Clark's
list of proof, but I hadn't realized just how much work Clark
had put into this investigation.

And he had done it all on his own.

Though...how had he managed to get these pictures of Luthor with
Roarke and Harrington when he had been in a different country?
How had he taped a conversation between Luthor and known
terrorists when he hadn't been in the city? How could he have
researched the files on LexCorp so thoroughly while he traveled
from continent to continent?

The proof he had on Luthor was irrefutable; his method of
obtaining it was incredibly suspect.

But then...I thought I could make a guess on how he had managed
to get to Metropolis so quickly and so often -- maybe even
explain how he had so quickly realized that Luthor wasn't the
philanthropist so many thought him to be.

"What is this?" I frowned as I pulled a small, smooth globe
bearing the familiar green continents of Earth from the bottom of
the box.

Jimmy looked over his own mountain of evidence to see what I was
talking about. "Oh, that. I wasn't sure if you needed it, CK,
but it was right next to the rest of this stuff, so I grabbed it
just in case. I hope that's okay."

"Sure, Jimmy." Clark's answer sounded absentminded; his aside
to me was much more pointed. "It's the globe I told you about,
Lois."

"What gl -- " I cut off abruptly, suddenly reminded of exactly
what globe he had told me about -- in whispers, in the dead of
night, a secret between only the two of us. "I thought you gave
it back to him," I observed, proud of how neutral my own voice
sounded.

He matched my tone. "I don't remember saying that."

Jimmy looked between us, but he knew enough not to interfere.

I fingered the globe, caught by its heavy, almost dense feel. An
alien feel. Suddenly resolute, I straightened and carefully set
the globe aside. "Jimmy, where did you find all this stuff?"

"Didn't CK tell you?" he asked innocently.

I grit my teeth. "No, he didn't."

"Oh, well, I was pretty surprised actually. Clark's directions
led me all over the place, which of course added a lot of
traveling time, and when he made me zigzag through three
different states, I -- "

"Jimmy!" I snapped.

His eyes widened, as if he weren't sure why I was getting after
him. "It was in Smallville."

"*Smallville*?" I repeated incredulously, turning disbelieving
eyes to Clark. "You kept all the evidence needed to connect
Luthor to the international crime-lord -- the evidence needed to
condemn Luthor as a monster -- in *Smallville*?" My voice was
rising. "Clark! *Everyone* knows you came from Smallville --
that joke made the rounds through the whole city when you first
started working at the Planet! You couldn't think of any place
more original?"

Clark shrugged. "Would *you* have guessed where it was?"

My mouth agape, I stared at him a moment longer.

"I wouldn't have," Jimmy volunteered, earning a wrathful look
from me that had him throwing up his arms in a warding gesture.
"Hey, it was pretty hard to find anyway. Those trees all looked
alike, and even with the directions, I almost didn't find it. I
mean, at one point, I was actually counting my own paces --
hoping that my paces were the same as Clark's -- from a wagon
wheel! It took me forever just to *find* that wagon wheel!"

I narrowed my eyes, not sure I wanted to hear the answer. "And
just where did he have them hidden?"

"In his tree-house," Jimmy answered promptly.

"A tree-house," I repeated dumbly. The most crucial information
in a case sure to be big enough to rival Watergate, and Clark hid
it in a tree-house? He was right -- absolutely no one would ever
have guessed it. In a way, it was almost ingenious, not that I
ever, *ever*, planned on admitting that to him, secrets or no
secrets.

"And, CK, I love the name of it. Did you come up with it
yourself? How old were you?"

"About ten or so." Clark's eyes were intent on me, as if even
though Jimmy was the one asking the questions, he was really
giving the answers to me.

"Wow." Jimmy shook his head. "Kansas kids really *are*
different. Those are way bigger words that I ever would have used
at that age."

"It seemed appropriate," Clark murmured quietly.

"What is the name of this tree-house?" I asked, almost on
auto-pilot. I could feel my dreamworld, my careful oasis of
fantasies, collapsing around me, crumbling into dust and sifting
around my feet.

Clark looked straight at me. He said nothing.

"The Fortress of Solitude!" Jimmy exclaimed, completely
oblivious to the electricity suddenly crackling between Clark and
me. "Can you believe that? Of course, I guess you were the only
kid on the farm and the next door neighbors were about two or
three miles away -- well, you know that, Lois. We were there
before."

I forced a grimace that loosely passed as an affirmative smile,
but I couldn't tear my eyes off Clark. And then the next moment,
abruptly, I couldn't bear to look at him. I felt as if I were
going to hyperventilate, and so I forced myself to take deep,
steady breaths just to counteract the effect. But it wasn't
enough to blot out the truth I could no longer deny.

"He told me it was in the North Pole," I whispered.

"I knew that was what he'd tell you," Clark said, singularly
unhelpful.

"The North Pole?" Jimmy frowned at us. I had thought he was
unaware of the tension, but at the concerned look on his face, I
suddenly knew that he wasn't unaware, that his abundance of
words and chatty answers were merely an attempt to smooth out
whatever was wrong between Clark and me. How was he supposed to
know that the real problem wasn't Clark and me, but Clark and
*Superman*?

"You're not sending me *there* next, are you?" Jimmy joked
when the silence stretched out into awkward infinity.

Clark managed a thin smile and turned his gaze to our friend.
"No, of course not."

A gasp escaped me at the sight of the smile he was giving Jimmy
-- it was Superman's smile.

I bolted to my feet and almost slipped on the dust and ashes of
my dreamworld. "I need a drink!" I blurted, then winced. "I
mean, I need something to drink -- uh, coffee! Definitely! Yes,
more coffee. You need anything else, Jimmy?"

He shook his head warily, as if thinking that might be the wrong
answer.

"Clark?" I held my breath as soon as the name -- the question
-- slipped from my lips.

"Yes." His reply was so weighted, so intent, so deliberate,
that I knew he wasn't saying he wanted more tea. He was
answering my question, trying to tell me that he was, despite
what I was learning about him here, still Clark.

Unable to acknowledge that -- unsure how it could possibly be
true -- I escaped into the kitchen. Leaning there against the
counter, I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on my breathing.

It didn't help.

All I could think about were the identical expressions Clark and
Superman could wear. The similarities between their features. The
matching colors of their eyes, their hair, their skin tone. The
harmonizing pitch of their voices. Clark -- Superman -- could it
be? I couldn't believe it.

And yet...it all made perfect sense.

"Hey, Lois, you in there?" Jimmy edged a step into the kitchen,
his coffee mug held like a shield in his hands. And yet there was
genuine concern in his dark eyes as he looked at me. "I thought
I might take a bit more coffee, after all."

"Okay." I simulated another smile and took his cup from him.

"Uh..." Jimmy rubbed his hands together and looked around.
"So, should I take the stuff down to the MPD? I could stop by on
my way to the Planet. I have to get down there and make sure
Perry hasn't given my job away."

"No." I hastily turned back to the coffee when Clark entered
the room and leaned against the partition wall. My voice was
somewhat muffled when I continued. "I think you should call
Henderson and get an escort. Luthor might have seen you arrive
with the stuff. And you might want to stay at Perry's until this
is all over, just in case."

"Good idea," Clark said quietly. His eyes never left me; I
could feel them on my back. If I had turned to look, I was sure
they would have been pleading with me, but I wasn't certain what
he wanted from me. Actually...I did know. I just wasn't certain
that I was ready to give him an answer yet.

"Here, Jimmy." I turned, carefully avoiding looking at Clark --
his pleading was much easier to ignore than deny -- and handed
Jimmy his mug. "And...I'm glad you're back, and safe."

"Me, too." A pleased smile brought a glow to Jimmy's face.
"I'm just glad I could help. I'd do anything to take Luthor
down after what he did to -- after what he's done."

"Me, too." I paused, but when Jimmy moved to return to the
living room, I stepped forward and called his name. He turned
back curiously. Clark watched silently. "Jimmy...was there a
ladder built into the tree-house?"

A slight, puzzled frown crossed his face. "No, actually, there
wasn't. I had to break into your parents' barn to find a ladder
-- hope you don't mind, CK. No one seemed to be around to
ask."

The breath froze in my lungs. His answer was hardly the deciding
fact to tip the theory running circles through my mind from
hypothesis to near-certainty, but it was enough to make it seem
suddenly real.

"The tree-house was in good shape, though," Jimmy continued,
trying to fill up the silence in the apartment with innocuous
words. He glanced at Clark -- easily, smoothly, making it look
effortless, as if anyone could do it. "Your parents must usually
keep it up, huh?"

"They look in on it every once in a while," was the ambiguous
reply, answering without giving anything away. The type of reply
at which Clark excelled.

Of course his parents looked in every once in a while, I found
myself thinking acerbically. They had to make sure
"Superman's" globe was safe!

Jimmy moved back into the living room, but Clark stepped closer
to me. I turned all my attention to the coffee I was pouring into
my mug, hunching my shoulders in around myself.

"Lois," he began, his voice so soft and worried. Just like
Superman's. The touch of his hand on my shoulder was just like
Superman's, too. I shrugged it off, scorning the warmth and
weight of it.

"You'd better go sit down," I said in a detached voice. "You
still look a little shaky."

"Lois -- "

"Go, Clark!" I snapped.

And he did. And I didn't look at him as he went. But somehow, I
knew he winced away from my dismissal, and I knew his shoulders
were slumped with dejection and his eyes possessed only a sliver
of the hope usually beaming outward from him in all directions.

But I had so little attention to spare for that; all of my
attention was turned to the task of assimilating this new truth,
this revelation, this secret of all secrets that had dominated
every confidence Clark whispered to me in the glowing darkness.
There could be no more denying it, no more hiding from it, no
more explaining it away with a hundred other perfectly logical,
*human* explanations. No, now I had to accept it. Now I had to
face it.

The last of the contentment instilled in me the day before
slipped away.

My hand formed into a tight fist, crushing Clark's teabag within
it.

***

Chapter 19

Henderson was busy getting the arrest warrant, but he sent two
squad cars to pick up Jimmy, this time complete with a password
and a badge number to avoid another mix-up with Luthor's men.
Jimmy's absence made the apartment seem twice as large, ten
times as stifling, and as silent as a cemetery. I was too
confused and shocked to speak, and Clark didn't say anything
unless I asked him a direct question about the article we were
outlining in preparation of Luthor's arrest. I felt bad for the
slump of his shoulders and the sadness in his eyes, but I
couldn't wrestle free of the morass of confusion within my head
to reassure him.

And how *could* I reassure him? I had just discovered that he had
lied to me -- that Superman had lied to me -- and though there
were obviously a lot of extenuating circumstances, I needed time
to come to terms with the truth, with the world as it really was.
When I could look at him without flinching away from the
similarities between him and Superman, then I could confront this
revelation. Until then...well, I needed something to distract
myself, and the expose on Luthor was enough to keep my
attention.

At least at first. But slowly, even that was circumvented by this
revelation, large enough, it seemed, to wipe every other thought
from my mind. All the pieces were slowly being fitted together,
each ambiguous statement, circuitous reply, evasive answer,
revealed secret, and veiled memory coming together to form a
picture that left my stomach in knots and my heart in shocked
stasis.

I had finally found the piece that would unlock Clark to me, and
yet, instead of making everything he did understandable, it only
confused me more.

<I do wear a mask,> he had confessed to me, yet he had also told
me that the masks had to come off at some point. And I believed
him when he had said he wasn't wearing a mask that magical,
star-struck night. No matter what lies had been told, what
evasions had been habitual, I knew that Clark *did* love me.

I did believe that he was who he said he was.

And yet...he was so much more in addition to that. The most human
person I knew, I had told him, but he was also Kryptonian. The
most honest person I knew, and yet he possessed a secret larger
than any other I had ever discovered. The gentlest man I had ever
known, and yet he had at one point possessed enough strength to
almost single-handedly shove an asteroid away from Earth.

"Lois?" Clark's voice was so hesitant, so careful, so
tentative. As if he had not once commanded such great strength
that no human weapon could harm him. "Is it all right if I look
at your gunshot wound? We haven't checked it since last
night."

Maybe it was a test -- to see if I would still allow him to come
near me -- or maybe he was just concerned about me, but I studied
him...and knew that I could trust him. And that wasn't even a
revelation; hadn't I trusted him almost since the moment he had
entered my life?

My mouth was a parched desert, so I simply nodded wordlessly and
rolled up my sleeve.

He kept his eyes fixed on the bandage as he unrolled it and the
wound as he tended it. His hands were soft, his touch so light I
scarcely felt it at all. I stared at him, unable to look away
from his familiar face. The face that had barely registered when
I blew into Perry's office that first day; the face that had
grinned at me when we were made partners; the face that had
looked at me with such unabashed interest that I had thought it
best to warn him away; the face that had been painted with
startling sadness the night I woke at my desk and watched him
walk away from me; the face that had stared at me so
compassionately when he forgave me for leaving him trapped in a
cage.

I looked for echoes of Superman, reflections of the hero I had
worshipped, but all I could see was Clark.

I had thought Luthor had stolen so much from him before, but
now...now I did not think I could wholly understand just how much
he really *had* taken from Clark.

<I couldn't stay in one place, Lois. I...I had to move around --
or I thought I did anyway,> he had said when I asked him why he
left Metropolis, left his job, left his friends...left me.

<It takes Superman's powers away. It hurts him. It...it can kill
him,* he had said of Kryptonite. *It makes Superman ordinary,
Lois. It makes him -- just -- like -- me.>*

My breath caught in my throat as that memory assaulted me with a
brutality far exceeding Nigel's. Trask had hurt Clark with
Kryptonite, I now realized, but Luthor had dosed him with it
every day for a month. *But I'll never get you to believe me.
How could I? It's not like I can prove any of this. Not now.
Maybe not ever again,* his letter had admitted.

Were Clark's powers gone forever?

And if they were...was that why Superman thought the Clark he had
known was dead? Why he had looked so sad when he told me I could
never understand just what Clark had endured? The reason for his
look of pity when Clark asked if they would be flying?

It was shocking enough to realize that Superman had a brother --
that Clark had a brother; to try to puzzle out their obviously
complex relationship was almost too much. And yet I had to try,
had to figure it out, had to make sense of the deluge of confused
memories and ambiguous statements and oblique conversations
drowning me in their heavy, enveloping depths.

How did two alien brothers -- -one who thought of himself as
human, raised by human parents and living a human life; the
other, I assumed, older so that he had held himself aloof and
hidden until he could unveil himself behind a Kryptonian symbol
-- how did they face the changes that had occurred in their
lives?

Superman couldn't flee from the fact that Clark no longer had
powers; regardless of whether the Kryptonian sanctuary really
existed or was nothing more than the agreed-upon answer to keep
people from finding out that the iconic superhero passed his time
hanging out with Clark at his apartment or in Smallville with the
Kents, even that arctic Fortress wasn't far enough away to hide
from what he had not been able to stop from happening to his
brother.

<He was held for a month by a madman who stopped at nothing in
order to toy with him and crossed every line possible in order to
twist his mind. He was tortured daily and subjected to Luthor's
seductive, poisonous words while all his power was stolen from
him. He was trapped in the darkness with no rejuvenating light to
break the monotonous torment. He was alone with only the voice of
Luthor as his companion and fading memories that weakened more
with each passing day.> Superman's voice had been resigned,
defeated, when he had described what Clark had gone through. And
then he had told me, <Yet in the end, much as you might dislike
it, Clark is an ordinary man.>

But he shouldn't have been, should have been so much more than
ordinary, should have been *extraordinary*, and Superman could
not let go of that fact.

And Clark?

<I do like Superman. He was always there when he was needed, able
to save lives, able to do safely things no one else could. He got
to see hope birthed in people's eyes, got to see them realize
that the world possessed more than just darkness, that it
contained good and hope and light as well. When I was absent, or
late, or just...not enough...he was there. He was what everyone
wanted, what the world needed. What *I* needed.>

<The man you think is Superman is an imposter.>

I frowned abruptly at the two conflicting memories, my breath
catching in my throat, and Clark paused in the midst of
rewrapping the bandage before I gave him a tiny shake of my head
to reassure him that he hadn't hurt me.

Suddenly I knew -- Clark thought his brother was dead.

The pointed questions he had asked during the interview, his
fixation with the idea that Superman was missing something, the
way Superman had implied that Clark was missing just as much as
he was.

But *why* would he think Superman was dead? *Why* couldn't he
accept Superman as his brother?

<I will do what needs done,> Superman had said so bluntly it
might as well have been a cliff-edge.

<He's Luthor's puppet.>

My throat closed up when Clark finished securing the bandage and
reluctantly let his hands drop away. "There you go." He sounded
hoarse, his eyes pleading with me yet dropping away when I stared
straight at him.

"Thank you," I managed to say, my voice so dry and withered
that the two words were almost lost.

"So..." Clark looked to the laptop on the coffee table where we
had been preparing the exclusive we would write as soon as Luthor
was arrested. "Is there anything else we need to do?"

Work, I couldn't help but think. Whenever something upset me, I
always turned to work, and Clark knew that. He was even trying to
help me, supplying me an easy way out. But I didn't *want* to
work right now. I wanted to look at him and reassure myself that
the man I had thought I could depend on was still the man I had
thought him to be. I *believed* that he was -- but, as I had told
Clark during one of our midnight secrecy-exchange programs, that
was faith. And I didn't want faith in him; I wanted unshakable
confidence.

It took me a long moment to fight off the memories -- to shake
off the realization that every time Clark had disappeared during
an emergency, he had likely been calling his brother to my rescue
-- to gather enough strength to utter words that were not a hail
of accusations or a storm of questions, but when I finally did
speak, my voice was brisk and cheerful.

"No," I said, standing and moving -- not to anywhere specific
-- just to put a tiny bit of breathing room between myself and
Clark. "We've done as much as we can until the story actually
breaks. I guess there's nothing left to do but wait for
Henderson to call, right?"

"He should be getting the warrant soon," Clark agreed mildly.
He watched me pace, keeping me in his line of vision, making no
move toward me, just as he had done the morning after I had
kissed him. It struck me that Clark treated me almost like a wild
animal he was afraid of scaring off, a creature of unfathomable
beauty that enthralled him, a being he wished to draw to himself
and yet despaired of ever touching. It was a fanciful image, but
it lodged itself in my mind.

<I don't always feel human,> he had confessed quietly. And it
suddenly occurred to me to wonder just how much it affected Clark
to know that, though he wished to be human, he was in fact an
alien. Luthor had certainly taken advantage of that chink in
Clark's armor. <He said I didn't belong here...he said I'd
never...that I was an al -- too different.>

But how had Luthor figured out that Clark was Kryptonian? How had
he discovered that Superman and Clark were connected? Bitterness
and regret alchemized in my stomach to form a twisting sickness.
No doubt Luthor had seen what I had missed and connected the dots
when Clark and Superman had left Metropolis simultaneously. Or
perhaps he had stumbled upon Clark's invulnerability when he had
threatened the Kents. However he had discovered the secret, he
had certainly taken advantage of it.

I came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the living room.

Luthor had taken advantage of this secret.

<He's Luthor's puppet.>

<...I had no choice but to delay my return to Metropolis,>
Superman had claimed, and then, looking straight at Clark, had
said, It took a lot out of me. *That's why it took so long for
me to...return.* And then, that stark answer: <I will do what
needs done. There is nothing else for me to do.>

Clark was saying something, but I couldn't hear him, couldn't
focus on the words, couldn't do anything but finally admit to
myself what I had so determinedly been avoiding.

Superman was working for Luthor.

He had saved those thugs from the fire -- perhaps even *started*
the fire, as Clark had intimated.

He had let Nigel go.

He was allowing Luthor to use him as a means of intimidation
among the criminal world.

He was guarding Clark and me; the jailor in our prison.

Dimly, vaguely, I realized that Clark was touching me, that he
had taken hold of my arms and turned me to face him, that he was
peering at me with worried eyes. I stared up at him and
remembered the terror I had felt when Nigel threatened to bring
Clark back to another cell. I remembered my earlier fierce
resolve to never again let him be caged.

And I knew exactly how awful it must have been for Superman to
see his brother powerless and trapped in darkness.

And I knew, then, that Superman had made a choice to save Clark
-- a choice he was even now paying for.

<I do what is necessary -- it is you who doesn't understand
that.>

With all these truths frothing up within my mind, I suddenly had
to ask Clark a question, had to confirm everything that had just
snapped to reality within my mind...had to stop hiding Mad Dog
Lane away from the world out of fear of being abandoned yet
again.

"I'm fine," I said, not needing to have heard Clark's words
to know he was asking if I was all right. His hands on my arms
were warm, solid points that grounded me, anchored me to this
world that had, perhaps, changed with this revelation.

The *world* had changed, but Clark...hadn't.

"You're sure?" he asked, regarding me with a look that would
have set fire to my blood and given wings to my heart if I had
not been so caught up in the answers pouring through my
thoughts.

"Yes. I just...stumbled. Clark, can I ask you a question?"

"Anything." Was there a trace of eagerness in his voice? He had
been trying so hard to lead me to this truth. <I'm really not
trying to hide things from you, Lois. I want to tell you,
but...>

But how did I ask him if he hated Superman for selling out to the
enemy in order to protect his brother's life? How did I ask him
if he had been so shocked by Superman's decision -- so
disappointed in the moral betrayal -- that he had convinced
himself his brother had died?

"Clark...do you think that if...if Henderson can't get a
warrant...do you think we should agree to do what Luthor wants in
order to save our friends and families and the Daily Planet?"

Shock made him slow; his hands dropped away from me as if he were
moving through molasses. I did not break his gaze, did not move
away, did not say another word -- I was frozen in time, waiting
for the answer I already knew he would give me.

"Henderson *will* get the warrant," Clark finally said, and his
brow wrinkled as he studied me, his perusal so intent that it
seemed he would have peeled back the edges of my skull and peered
directly into the brain if he could. And, I thought belatedly, he
had once been able to -- able to fly through the skies under the
liquid sheen of golden sun -- able to brave any danger without
fear of harm -- able to see the vastness of space or the
intricacies of DNA on a mere whim...but all that had been ripped
away from him.

"I know," I said, my mouth moving even while my mind was
distracted. "But...if Luthor managed to wriggle out of it
somehow or other -- if he threatened us again -- do you think we
should give in to save the lives of everyone we care about?"

"No." Clark shook his head, but his eyes never left mine,
wondering, disbelieving, mystified. "Of course not, Lois. We
need to protect them, yes, but giving in is not the way to do
that. If we give in, we're only inviting more brutality, more
demands, and ultimately promising even more concessions. What we
have to do is keep fighting -- there's always a way out, Lois,
always a way to be strong, even when it seems like there's only
darkness left. It's our job to find that way out, to find that
light, and make it even brighter."

It was naive. It was idealistic. It was beautiful.

It was Clark.

As I looked at him, his face naturally falling in earnest,
sincere lines, I knew that even if Superman hadn't accompanied
him on his travels around the world before they had come to
Metropolis, there would still be records of miraculous rescues
and "guardian angel" sightings wherever Clark had visited. The
innate goodness and evident compassion that had first attracted
me to Superman were so obvious, so unmistakable, so blatant
within Clark now that I wondered how I had not been blinded by
them from the first moment I walked into Perry's office and
interrupted Clark's interview.

But I couldn't focus on that right now. I needed to focus on
Clark's relationship with Superman.

So I said, "You sound like Superman," as if I were merely
observing a fact.

Clark didn't seem to realize the trap I was setting for him,
still preoccupied with his astonishment over my question and the
passion he felt in response. "Superman, more than anyone, needs
to remain uncompromising and uncompromised! The world made him
into a beacon of hope -- even you called him that, Lois -- and
that means he has to live up to that. He has the privilege -- and
the responsibility -- of being someone that everyone can look up
to. He needs to be there, needs to do what is *right*, to stand
for truth and justice, as he claims. Because if he doesn't do
that...if he lets go of that...what does he have left?"

<Age and power don't matter,> I had overheard Clark telling his
older brother as he hovered before him. <What makes Superman is
what he does *for* others!>

"Clark..." I stared at him wonderingly, stunned by both the
confirmation of all my suspicions and this revelation that
challenged my theory that Clark had willingly chosen a human
life. "You *want* to be Superman." It was half a question, half
a statement.

"W-what?" Clark stammered, his earlier confidence and assurance
vanished like mist beneath summer sunshine. His gaze fell away,
dropped to the floor, and his hand half-rose toward his glasses.

"Everyone wants to be Superman at some point in their lives,"
he finally said, and I flinched because if there was any point in
Clark's life when he had wanted the powers, it surely had to
have been in that empty, black cell. It had to have been when he
was rescued by a brother he felt he no longer knew and realized
he would never again fly on his own. It had to be when he woke up
every day and had to learn anew how to shave and walk and
interact with others -- had to learn who he was without the
abilities he had possessed his entire life.

With that thought, I broke free of my paralysis and reached out a
hand to rest it on Clark's arm, to grasp it hard enough to make
him look at me. "But you're super just as you are," I told
him, softly lest Luthor be listening through his bought
"employee," firmly lest Clark think I was only trying to
console him. "Clark, you don't need to fly or see through walls
or bounce bullets off your chest to be special. You just...have
to be you."

"But..." His voice dropped to an almost inaudible level, so
quiet that surely I did not hear him, but rather interpreted the
vibrations that traveled from his hand to mine. "What if being
me...isn't enough?"

<I would ask him if a...a half life...is enough to sustain him.
Because I think that's something he needs to know. Something *I*
need to know, now more than ever.>

I moved my hand to intertwine my fingers with his. "It's enough
for me," I whispered.

And I wasn't lying when I told him that.

But he *had* lied to me, and I was only now beginning to realize
just how much I *didn't* know about him, how much he had
concealed from me, how much I had so blithely missed. And I
needed time -- time to figure out how I felt about that, what I
thought about all the clues he had so purposely been dropping,
all the ramifications this secret would have on me. And he was
staring at me with *that* look, the one that made every thought
reluctant to form, and every muscle in my body go on strike, and
every nerve ending beneath my skin turn to chilled fire -- and it
was so hard to think when he did that.

So I pulled away from him -- pulled away from the intimacy of the
moment and the secret that *I* might have just revealed -- and
took a couple aimless steps away from him. I almost collapsed in
relief when I was saved by the ring of a phone from having to
think -- despite his bone-melting, heart-stilling,
thought-stealing gaze -- of something else to say that would
break the seriousness of the moment and possibly ruin the
reassurance I had just given him.

Both Clark and I jumped slightly at the ring, as guilty as if we
had been caught doing something illegal.

With a sharp glance over at Clark, I picked up the phone.
"Hello?"

"Lane, this is Henderson. I just wanted to let you know I've
got the warrant. We're heading to Lex Tower now to pick him
up."

"We'll meet you ther -- "

"You'll stay right where you are," Henderson barked. "We've
already cut enough corners on this case -- everything about the
arrest has to be clean-cut and completely by the rules. Besides,
you two are pretty much still bait. If you head for Lex Tower,
you can bet he'll catch wind of it and abandon ship. So stay
right where you are. I promise, you'll have the exclusive."

"But -- " I forcibly silenced myself. He was right, but that
wasn't what made me give up so quickly. What cut off all my
arguments even before they began was the memory of Clark's fear
and hatred of Luthor and the knowledge that I had already dragged
him into danger twice. Could I really ask Clark to confront the
very man responsible for everything bad that had happened to
him?

"Lane?" Henderson sounded a bit worried. Did he really think, I
wondered irritably, that I would have left in the middle of a
phone conversation to rush out and nab the exclusive? On second
thought...yes, he probably did.

"Fine," I said abruptly. I might be conceding, but that didn't
mean I had to be gracious about it. "You'd better call the
*minute* you have him in cuffs! And *no* other news outlet gets
this story, you understand?"

He chuckled. "Understood."

"Good." I bit my lip, then angled away from Clark and lowered
my voice. "Henderson...did you already get rid of the
Kryptonite?"

"Yes. I thought it best to destroy it as quickly as possible.
Why?"

I sighed, confused by my conflicting feelings of relief and
regret. "No reason. You'd better hurry, Henderson. I won't
wait forever for that exclusive. And you don't want to give me
time to write an article about the slowness of MPD response
times, do you?"

I could almost hear him roll his eyes before he hung up the
phone.

"They're going after Luthor?" Clark questioned as soon as I
turned toward him.

"Yes," I said quietly.

He nodded, his face absolutely blank.

"You could probably call your parents now," I offered, though I
already knew what he would say.

Despite his slight hesitation, he regretfully shook his head.
"No. Not yet. Not until it's safe."

His parents. That was something I hadn't even considered yet.
Even without meeting his parents during our trip to Smallville, I
had known their names and general personalities. It was
impossible to know Clark without hearing about them, after all,
and meeting them had only confirmed my half-conceived ideas about
them. They had been a bit more technologically savvy and sociable
and...well, fun...than I had expected, but one look at them with
Clark had been enough to prove how much they loved him.

They loved him enough to lie for him, to hide his origins, to
look me straight in the face and spin a tale of allergies and
nobly assumed identities and handcuffs that hadn't latched all
the way and a fire that had gone out because of improperly
applied gasoline.

And Clark...he had been lying, too. He had, in a sense, betrayed
me, and I still didn't know what I thought about that.

And it was so *hard* to think it through when he was right there,
looking just like the partner I had liked having, the friend I
had missed more than I had thought possible, the man I had been
beginning to know all over again over the past week and a half.

"Umm, Clark?" I strode to the closet and grabbed out yet
another coat. I didn't even know what had happened to the one
I'd been wearing when I dived into the water after Clark. "I,
uh, need some air, okay? I'm going to take a walk around the
block or something."

"Lois, Henderson said-"

"Please, Clark, I need some space, all right?" That, I was
sure, would silence his protests; he had been so worried about
crowding me.

I already had my hand on the doorknob when his quiet, broken
voice froze me as solid and as motionless as a statue. "Please,
Lois...don't go."

I squeezed my eyes shut and *willed* myself not to succumb to the
familiar, smoky voice, not to turn and flee into his open
embrace, not to wonder what he must be going through at this
moment. "Clark, I promise I'm not going to Lex Tower. I just
need some time to think, time to process everything that's been
happening, time to...to decide what I feel about everything."

"What answers do you think you'll find out in the street,
Lois?" A bit of desperation leaked into his voice, darkening it
with the weight of liquid fear. "Forgetting for the moment the
fact that Luthor's targeted you and going outside is incredibly
dangerous...what answers can you find out there, all alone?"

"What do you want me to do?" I asked in a drained voice. "I
can't just sit around and *wait*!"

Stubbornly, I refused to turn and look at him. I knew he needed
me at this moment, needed me to be the friend I had promised him
I'd be, needed me to sit with him while we waited for news of
his tormentor's arrest...but if I looked at him, I would forget
that he was a Kryptonian, forget that he had a brother, forget
everything but the kindness of his smile and the warmth of his
gaze and the sincerity of his voice.

"Then we'll find something to do," was his quiet answer, and I
had to wonder if there was any question that could stump him.

"Like what?" I demanded, finally turning to face him, anger
making me strong. He was standing in a shaft of sunlight that
fell from the two tall windows facing my living room, his hands
spread loosely at his sides, giving me that same impression of
him seeking to befriend a wild creature that might run from him
at any moment. And yet, despite that, the image of him standing
in my apartment...it looked -- *felt* -- right. "We've already
written as much of the story as we can!"

"Like..." He shrugged. "Play board games."

"Board games," I repeated flatly. "Clark, if you don't think
I'll find any answers outside, what makes you think I could
possibly find them in a *board game*?"

He tried a tiny smile and another, smaller shrug. "At least in
Trivial Pursuit, the answers are all typed out on the card."

A surprised chuckle slipped from me, and with it, the remaining
remnants of my panic and fear and confusion. "All right," I
gave in gracefully, and only then realized that I really didn't
*want* to leave Clark, that I would have taken any excuse to stay
he had given me.

"Do you even have any board games?" he asked, probably to
disguise the radiant glow that had sprung up around him from the
moment I took my hand off the doorknob.

"Yes." I scowled and gestured to the closet. "I think Lucy
left a couple behind when she moved out, and she gave me one for
my birthday once. Oh, and I got Scrabble as a Secret Santa gift,
though, really, don't you think that's a stupid gift? I mean,
she didn't even know if I liked it! And how did she know I
didn't have it already, anyway?"

Clark laughed, though it seemed born more out of relief than
genuine humor. "She knew she drew your name, didn't she?"

"Watch it, Kent," I said sarcastically as I pulled open the
closet door and allowed Clark to stretch up and pull the dusty
boxes from the top shelf. "Now I'm not going to go easy on
you."

His dark brows arched in disbelief. "You mean, you were thinking
of it before?"

"Not a chance." I smirked. "You seem like one of those people
who play to play; I'm one of the kind that play to win. So
we'll both be happy."

He laughed again and cleared an empty space on the table. I
helped him, easily and instantaneously moving to make room for
the items he took off the table and stacking the other games to
the side. We both reached for the same game -- Scrabble -- at the
same time. As we set up the board and arranged the tiles, I
blinked rapidly to clear the mist from my eyes.

Clark and I worked so well together. More than that,
we...fit...together. What would I do if I lost him again?

"Clark?" I bit my lip as soon as I uttered his name, but it was
too late to take it back.

"Yes, Lois?" He knew me so well, gazing at me intently, ready
to answer whatever I asked him.

"We *are* friends, aren't we?" A stupid question, I chided
myself. I had already realized -- in fact, never even doubted --
that his love for me was real. But right now, I needed to know if
he was still that one thing I could depend upon, that rock I
could lean on, that point of stability in a life that constantly
fluctuated and changed. I needed to know that, secret portions of
his life or not, he was still there for me.

Clark stared at me, seemingly stricken. "Of course we are," he
said raggedly. "You're the best friend I've ever had -- the
*closest* friend I've ever had."

"Me, too," I managed to say, though a lot of my attention was
centered around not crying. "I just...I don't want to lose
that, Clark."

"You won't." For a single instant, a shadow darkened his
expression, a sense of vast loss, yet it was quickly erased as he
reached out to place his hands over mine with a slight smile.
"You never will, Lois. I'll be your friend forever."

"Forever?" I repeated, inwardly shaken by his promise. What if
I wanted more than friendship? I knew *he* did, which was, I
belatedly realized, why he seemed so sad to accept the role of
best friend. He thought he had lost me to his super-powered
brother...and yet he was willing to give me what I wanted.
Willing to be whatever I wanted him to be.

"As long as you want," he returned, stubbornly refusing to let
go of one last tendril of hope.

"And partners?" I continued, now, strangely, much more
confident.

"Assuming you'll take me back."

"Well, I do want this story on Luthor and you're the one with
the inside track," I began to say teasingly, then stopped,
unable to treat this moment so lightly. "Of course we're
partners," I said instead. Then I took a deep breath and
relinquished my fears and doubts. "And whatever else might come
up? Are we that, too?"

Clark's breath noticeably caught in his throat. "Whatever else?
What...what else is there?"

I couldn't come right out and say it -- I wasn't *that* brave,
or quite ready yet, truthfully -- but I couldn't leave it there
either, so I said, "We'll just take it one day at a time."

"One day at a time," he agreed, his voice a mere whisper.

"I get to go first, right?" I said with a quick grin,
brandishing a tile to break the intimate moment.

"If you want," he replied, and I would have had to have been
blind to miss the subtext of that brief exchange.

Both Clark and I were on edge as we waited for the phone to ring
with news of Luthor, so I was surprised to realize that I was
having fun playing games with him. Scrabble ended in a draw --
Clark claimed he won, but that was only because he insisted on
disqualifying every one of my good words. I won Monopoly fair and
square; truthfully, I wasn't sure how Clark managed his real
bills after the way he lost all his money so quickly. Clark,
however, won Trivial Pursuit -- I would never understand why he
memorized all those useless facts that no one could care less
about it and that would never be written up in an article. And
Chess...well, that was a draw, too, because it was incredibly
hard to concentrate with Clark smiling at me from across the
board, and Clark seemed equally distracted every time I laughed
or teased him or gestured with my hand or spoke or...well, just
about anything. Not that I minded. In fact, just knowing that he
was fascinated by my slightest move made me relax, my every
gesture becoming slower and more designed, my laugh more
languorous, my speech less planned and more natural

When the phone call finally did come, I had almost managed to
forget what was happening in a tower across town. Clark and I
were finishing a light dinner, and we both stared at the phone as
if it were a snake we had only just realized was sharing the room
with us.

"That should be Henderson," I said quietly, needlessly.

Clark swallowed. "Yeah." He glanced to the TV that had been on
since Jimmy's arrival that morning. Superman had not yet
splashed his colors across the screen; in fact, he hadn't been
seen since he had flown with me two days before.

Finally, feeling oddly reluctant, I lifted the phone to my ear,
silencing its imperious screech. "Hello?"

"Lois, he's gone. We don't know where he went. We picked up
Mrs. Cox and his Indian servant, and they claim Luthor was in the
building, but...we can't find him. He's gone to ground."

I couldn't say anything, could only stare at Clark, his
expression so blank, so grim, that I halfway wondered if he could
hear Henderson's voice from where he sat.

"We did find something else, though," the inspector continued,
not waiting for me to find my voice. "In a vault in his office
-- there was Kryptonite, a huge chunk of it, easily three times
as large as the piece you and I found."

Something suspiciously close to a whimper escaped my throat, and
I found myself looking toward the television, vainly searching
for a hint of blue and red.

"There was also something else." Henderson paused -- not
waiting for a reply, but steeling himself to finish. "One of
Superman's Suits, torn up, mangled, missing the cape. There's
no blood on it, but beside it, we found a vial of what forensics
thinks will match the alien tissue we found on the remnants of
that cape your paper discovered after Nightfall."

"He staged Superman's death?" I questioned hollowly.

"Maybe." Henderson's tone was perfectly noncommittal, but I
saw it for the lie it was. "Listen, I'm assigning an extra
protective detail to you and Kent. And this time, they won't be
hiding; if Luthor comes after you two, I want you both safe.
We've got every available man looking for him, but...I'm sorry,
Lane. I'd hoped this would go smoother."

I shrugged, the move made on autopilot. "Luthor's slippery. But
he's also arrogant and he likes to have the last word-I'm sure
he'll turn up soon."

"Yeah. You and Clark be careful, Lois, all right?"

"Yeah." The click the phone made when I set it down sounded
like a death knell. The entire world seemed, suddenly, fraught
with peril and uncertainty. A shudder passed through my body at
the thought of Luthor hiding out in the street or waiting in the
hall outside my apartment.

Clark's hands were clasped in front of him. He met my gaze
evenly. "Luthor got away?" he asked matter-of-factly.

"Yes." I did my best to match his tone but only partially
succeeded. My foolish, incautious gaze fell on the television
screen. "Did you know he faked Superman's death after the
Nightfall asteroid?"

"No. Not until you told me." That muscle flickered in his jaw,
and I had to hold onto my own hand to keep from soothing it away
with a tender finger.

"Clark..." I summoned up strength from some deep place inside
of me, drawing it up out of the depths for his sake. "Henderson
has the Kryptonite."

He betrayed no emotion. "All of it?"

"Well, he destroyed the piece we got earlier, and he found a
large chunk of it now, so...it seems likely."

His hands clenched into tight fists. He squeezed his eyes shut,
his head tilted up to the last, disappearing rays of twilight's
muted sun.

"And," I did my best to sound cheerful, "they've arrested
Mrs. Cox and Asabi."

He flinched the tiniest bit. Unbidden, the memory of Asabi moving
to loom over Clark as Luthor led me away from the cell rose to
the forefront of my mind, and another shiver rippled through me.

"Oh, Clark." Instinctively, willingly, I stepped up close to
him, pulled him to his feet, and wrapped my arms around his neck
in a hug. I felt...safe, whole, accepted...when he closed his own
arms around my waist, clinging to me as if *I* were all *he*
could depend on. "I'm so sorry, Clark," I murmured. "I wanted
this to be over for you."

"For me?" He cupped the back of my head and pulled back just
far enough to regard me with surprise. "He hurt you, too,
Lois."

"Yes, he did," I replied soberly. "He hurt me every time he
hurt you."

Too much to interpret -- emotions too strong for anyone but Clark
to safely contain -- passed across his face like wind-tossed
clouds, and he hugged me tightly to himself. I rested my head on
his shoulder and willed all my strength to be imparted to him,
willed my embrace to be as comforting and healing as his always
were for me. I couldn't help but flinch with empathetic pain
when a shudder tore itself through his frame.

"I'm sorry," I murmured again as tears dripped from my eyes.

"Don't apologize for him!" Clark's fierce admonition stuck in
his throat when he tilted my head up and caught sight of the
tears. "You're crying?" His tone was thunderstruck, awed,
reverential. His hand spanned the side of my face; his thumb
tested the texture of my tears. "For *me*?"

"Yes," I choked out, splaying a hand over his cheek. "For
everything he stole from you. For what he took from you."

He went so still in my arms that, save for the warmth permeating
everywhere his body touched mine, I might have been holding a
mannequin. A few more of my tears splashed against his thumb.
"You *do* know about that?" he finally breathed out.

"I do," I whispered with an attempt at a smile.

"And you don't..." He searched my eyes carefully, his arm
tightening around my waist, his breaths short and clipped. "You
don't hate me?"

I let out a breath that might have been a sob and rested my head
on his shoulder to hide the emotions I was sure were splattered
across my features. "How could *anyone* hate you?"

"I wanted to tell you," he whispered, his head bent over mine.

"I know. I know." A few more tears escaped me, squeezed out of
me, the last dregs of all that resided within me, everything else
already drained away. "I just wish I could give you back
everything he took from you. He stole so much, Clark!"

"He didn't steal *you*." His smile was like a burst of fresh
sunlight after too long a time in the dark. A burden seemed to
fall from his shoulders when I gave him a watery smile. "That's
all that matters."

His smile was sincere, joyous, completely uninhibited. His eyes
sparkled with hope and love and stars that shone as brightly as
suns. His arms around me were strong and sure and welcoming. His
words caressed me and filled me up and undid all my tears.

And I knew then -- knew without a single doubt or question --
that I loved him.

Not as a brother.

Not as a friend.

I was *in* love with him, a love strong enough to make his
happiness more important than the lies he had told, a love
powerful enough to make me willing to give up my own fears and
doubts and questions in favor of protecting him, a love faithful
enough to ensure I never again confused him with Superman.

Lois Lane loved Clark Kent.

I sank deeper into his embrace, held onto him more tightly,
enveloped in the safety of his arms and love. And I squeezed my
eyes shut and savored this feeling, this moment, this instant
when nothing and no one else mattered. I wanted to remember this
for the rest of my life, wanted to be able to close my eyes at
any given time and recapture all the feelings imbuing this
ethereal moment with all the magic that brought a warm glow to
the room around us.

"No more secrets, Lois," he whispered in my ear, and despite
the fact that Luthor had escaped us, he sounded happy, almost
exultant. "I don't have any more. You know them all now."

I smiled against his shoulder and breathed in the scent of him. I
only had one secret left, but I couldn't yet reveal it to him,
not until after I talked to Superman. But contemplating that
conversation was a minefield I didn't want to think of, not now,
not wrapped in Clark's embrace. So I simply held onto him and
said, "And I'll never give them away. They're mine --
*ours*."

"Us against the world," he agreed, and laughed.

The carefree, joyous sound banished darkness and turned even the
shadows into sunbeams. And I basked in the light.

***

Chapter 20

We pretended to work a bit on the story, but very little was
actually accomplished. I couldn't stop throwing glances at
Clark, couldn't stop reaching out to brush my hand over his arm
or his hand or his chest, couldn't stop smiling at him and
marveling all over again that he could be so different than I had
assumed and yet still be so much the same. In return, he watched
me ceaselessly, his lips curved up in a smile that never wavered,
his quietly hopeful eyes unhindered by the glasses he had taken
off and never put back on, as if he flaunted his familial
resemblance to Superman now that he no longer had to hide it.

Finally, we both decided -- without words -- that it was late
enough to stop for the night, and we set aside the computer and
our notes, and we headed into the bedroom. Nervousness sent a
dull fluttering to tickle through my stomach, and my hands
actually trembled. It was strange, I thought, that the only night
I was really uneasy about sleeping in the same room as Clark was
the night I finally knew the real him.

Clark slipped into the bathroom first, and when he came out,
dressed in shorts and a t-shirt that revealed the muscle tone he
had reclaimed, his eyes shining as they unerringly sought me out,
I couldn't help but swallow, rooted to the floor. Only when he
smiled at me and moved to the cot did I find the momentum
necessary to carry me into the bathroom.

I readied quickly -- dressing in a nightgown rather than the
casual pajamas I had been favoring lately -- but then paused and
looked at my reflection in the mirror. For a long moment, I
studied the dark-haired woman with wondering eyes and tiny smile
that looked back at me. She was almost unrecognizable, so
different from the cocky reporter who had scorned her partner,
from the lost and abandoned wreck who had pretended she was fine
without anyone, and even from the determined, scared woman I had
been just days before, hiding from myself and the truth and a
world that was a lot smaller -- a lot bigger -- than I had
thought. The woman who stared back at me had all of those things
inside her, but she also had something more -- a secret, a
friend, a person to lean on -- that made her stronger and better
and more...whole...than I had ever been before.

The Lois Lane I used to be *had* disappeared. But she hadn't
been buried; she had been transformed, like a changeling that
took on a new, better, more durable shape.

Self-consciously, I ran the brush through my hair one more time,
straightened my pajamas, and went back out into the bedroom.

When I stepped fully into the room, Clark turned from making up
his cot to face me...and then froze. His hands were poised in
mid-air, the blanket held slackly between his fingers, his
dumbstruck expression lit by the lamp beside my bed.

"Clark?" I asked uncertainly. The way he was staring at me left
little doubt that he was struck by *me*, but I still felt a
thrill of nervousness. The realization that I loved Clark -- that
I had loved him for so much longer than I had thought -- was
dwarfing everything else -- every other revelation -- and the
sight of him moving slowly toward me -- so slowly, seeking once
more to calm that untamed, beautiful creature before him -- left
me trembling and shivering with fear and anticipation and joy and
so many other wild emotions that they all blurred together into
one bright, glorious feeling.

"Lois," he whispered, and the world disappeared in a shower of
intensity and heat, banished by the spell he wove with those two
reverently spoken syllables. His hand rose in slow motion toward
my face; my eyes fluttered closed when his fingers traced a line
from the fading bruise on my temple down past my eye, along the
curve of my cheekbone, around the edge of my jaw, and back
through my hair to rest on my neck. The gesture was so slow, so
meaningful, so delicate that my breath caught in my throat and my
eyes flew open.

He flinched backward when I met his gaze, and blinked rapidly, as
if the sight of me was too much for him to take.

"What is it?" My question barely touched the close, enveloping
atmosphere that wrapped its magical arms around the two of us.

He closed his eyes, then opened them again to drink me in.
"You're so beautiful." His palm pressed a bit tighter against
the skin of my neck, and I couldn't stop myself -- didn't even
try -- from reaching out and sliding my hand down his free arm,
his wrist, his palm to fit my fingers between his. The touch of
his skin was intoxicating, and I wondered how I had never noticed
it before. Or perhaps I had; perhaps that was the reason I had
touched him so often and so familiarly, as if some hidden part of
me had recognized the truth long before I did.

I gave him a small grin, emboldened by his hesitant silence.
"Well, you're not so bad yourself."

He returned the smile as if by reflex -- as if he couldn't help
but smile at the sight of *my* smile -- but his manner struck me
as somewhat somber. "Lois..." He let out a breath and hung his
head a moment, seemingly frustrated by the elusiveness of words,
before meeting my gaze once more. "You're the best thing
that's ever happened to me. And that makes me afraid I'm going
to lose you. Luthor has been having fun playing his game with us,
but now it's him or us, and he'll come after us. I know he
will. He hates to lose. And I'm not strong enough to stop him
anymore -- "

"Clark." Reassuringly brushing my thumb over his hand, I smiled
up at him again, hoping to see him return the favor. I had taken
his smile for granted so many times, but I wanted to see it,
wanted to *savor* it, tonight. "You're not going to lose me.
I'm right here. Henderson's going to get Luthor, and everything
will go back to the way it was."

"It can never go back," Clark said with a shake of his head
before tossing a glance over his shoulder toward the window -- a
glance that was almost resentful, certainly far from brotherly.
"If Luthor sends *him*, I...I won't be able to -- "

"Clark!" I interrupted again, scared of the desperate resolve
shading his tone, eager to slice through his degenerating fears,
to mute the spine-chilling proof of Luthor's effect on him, to
cut off the reminder that Superman was working for the enemy.
"You can't give up, all right? You didn't give up in that cell
-- haven't given up yet despite everything Luthor's thrown at
us -- and you can't give up now. What would your parents say if
they were here?"

His posture relaxed, relieved of some of his tension, and he
leaned his forehead against mine. "They'd tell me not to give
up hope. They'd tell me that I would find a way to protect
you."

I decided to ignore the fact that he thought he had to protect
me, and I smiled at the sentiment, touched yet again -- *still*
-- by the depths of his love for me. "Exactly. Clark...these
last couple of weeks have been some of the hardest days of my
entire life, and yet...they have also contained some of the
*best* moments I have ever lived. And that's because *you're*
here...with me."

The one secret I still possessed hovered just behind my lips,
eager to leap out into the open, but I knew I had to give
Superman the courtesy of telling him first. And yet I couldn't
just say nothing, so I brought up my free hand to rest on
Clark's shoulder and closed my eyes. "I would do anything for
you, Clark. I hope you know that."

"Lois, please don't be mad at me, but..." I was shocked by the
timidity, the fear, the sheer dread, lurking in his voice, and I
pulled back to blink up at him. "But...*why*? *Why* are you here
with me now?" His hand ghosted along my cheek again to emphasize
the closeness of our embrace. "Is it...it's not because of my
secret...is it?"

I gaped at him, caught between hysterical laughter, incredulous
anger, and staggering regret. "What?"

He didn't say anything; the doubt lurking in his eyes, lit by
moonlight's silvery beams, was eloquent enough.

Yet how could I explain to him the love that had been sneaking up
on me for so long when even *I* didn't understand it?

Finally, I opted for simplicity and shrugged. "I didn't know
your secret when I dived into the ocean after you."

His relief outshone the moon.

He opened his mouth, doubtlessly to apologize if I knew him at
all, so I slid my hand over his lips.

"Don't," I whispered, but the rest of my words dried up, the
feel of his mouth against my fingers summoning up vivid memories
of the kiss we had shared. Actually, I told myself sternly in an
effort to break free of the hold Clark had on me, it had been our
third kiss. Not that it mattered -- just so long as it wasn't
our last.

I dropped my hand as if he had burned me and felt a blush stain
my cheeks at that thought. "Good night," I said quickly.

For a long moment, he said nothing -- at least not vocally,
though his eyes blazed with emotions and thoughts and dreams, and
I was relatively certain my own expression gave away just as
much. Finally, he smiled and stepped back, pulling his hand free
of mine. "Good night, Lois."

But when he turned toward his cot, I found that I couldn't let
him move away from me, not yet, so I hurriedly reached out and
tugged on his arm. He instantly turned back to me, watching me
patiently.

"Clark...you're a good man," I told him quietly. "That's why
I'm here, now, with you."

A line appeared to mar his brow. "What if...what if I'm not?
Lois, you said I didn't give up in that cell, but...I thought
some very bad things while trapped there. And I think...I think I
*hate* Luthor." He spoke the word "hate" with such hesitance
that it almost seemed a foreign word to him. As it was, I
realized anew. "And though I might not actually act on any of
those dark thoughts, I do know that I would do *anything* to stop
him -- to stop *anyone* -- from hurting you."

"That doesn't make you a bad man," I stated unequivocally,
ignoring the chill invoked by such a grim promise spoken by the
forgiving, compassionate Clark Kent. "In fact, knowing that
you're willing to risk yourself to protect others makes me even
more convinced that you're exactly the opposite."

I wasn't sure he entirely agreed with me, but he smiled at me
anyway. "Only because I work hard to meet your expectations."

The sight of his smile made me chuckle. I wanted to keep talking,
to exchange words and jokes and observations all night long, to
hear his smoky voice fill the room with his presence, but I knew
the signs of his exhaustion well enough to recognize them now. It
was, I reminded myself, only that morning that he had been
subjected to Kryptonite yet again.

So, in lieu of anything brilliant to say, I repeated myself:
"Good night, Clark."

And I reached out, placed my hands on his shoulders, and pulled
him into a hug. Even that wasn't enough, though, not feeling the
sweet intensity with which he returned the embrace, not with the
reaffirming realization that I loved him -- loved him so much I
wondered how one was supposed to contain a force so strong. So I
dared to tilt my head upward and place a soft kiss on his cheek,
lingering a moment against his clean-shaven skin, delighting in
his unique scent, before I forced myself to pull back and flash a
shy grin.

His own grin was surprised, delighted, and exultant all at once,
and I couldn't help but laugh as we separated. Romance had
always scared me, yet somehow it didn't seem strange at all that
Clark made it seem safe and beautiful and wonderful...and
obtainable.

Despite his obvious joy at my overture, Clark was tired and fell
asleep only moments after settling into the cot and arranging the
blankets about himself.

I found myself watching him, studying him as if I had never seen
him before. Curiously, I tried to remember my initial impression
of him the first time I had seen him, my first thoughts upon
meeting him, but all I could remember was my fixation on a story
and my irritation with his intrusion into my life. I thought I
might have been taken aback by Clark and the way he treated me --
standing when I entered the room, opening the door for me, trying
to help me with my coat -- thought I might have noted the dark,
gentle features of his face, thought I might have been a bit
curious about what the others in the newsroom would make of
him...but I couldn't remember for sure, couldn't decide whether
I really remembered those impressions or had only shaped them
into thoughts after the fact.

No matter what my initial thoughts had been, I could never have
known then that he was actually an alien with a heart of gold,
that he would make himself my friend...that I would fall in love
with him.

Some part of my mind whispered at me that I should be thinking
back on every day with Clark, every encounter with him, every
excuse he had ever given me for running off -- that I should be
integrating the Clark I knew with the Clark that had been hidden
-- yet I couldn't focus on that. There was
something...different...about him that he hadn't mentioned the
first day we met, yes...but his place in my heart seemed so much
more important than that secret.

I knew Clark -- not the make-up of his DNA...but the makings of
his heart.

Not the planet of his origin...but the qualities that grounded
and shaped his personality.

Not his family tree...but the beauty within him that made so many
strangers into friends.

Not the details of his childhood...but the depth and devotion of
his love for me.

Not all the facts...but everything that mattered.

And I had almost lost him without even knowing just how much he
meant to me.

I tugged the blankets up higher around my shoulders to counter
the chill brought on by the sudden thought of Luthor. Memories --
nightmares -- ran through my mind like marauding insects,
sickening, insidious, chilling, shaped to the mold of a cell
buried so carefully away from the light.

And Superman...he had sold his soul to buy Clark's freedom. A
truth I hadn't yet come to terms with. A truth I wished I could
deny. A truth that made me feel alone and horrified and grateful
all at once.

Alone because the man I had thought was a paragon of virtue was,
in the end, not as untouchable and unimpeachable as I had
imagined him to be.

Horrified because Superman in the hands of a criminal -- the tool
of a man like Luthor -- was so terrifying as to be
incomprehensible.

And grateful because Clark was the most amazing person I had ever
known and he had grown to occupy such a large, necessary part of
myself that I could not -- *would* not -- imagine my life without
him...and Superman had saved his life at the cost of his own
morality and integrity. It was a decision I had been asked to
make but never had to accept. Superman, though...Superman had
been forced to accept it. Forced to live it.

My thoughts had turned a dark corner, yet when I allowed my eyes
to once more wander to the darkened form across the room,
feasting on the features lit by the silver-and-crystal moon, a
smile automatically curved my lips and determined resolve buried
itself deeply within me. I couldn't let Clark be hurt again --
not by Luthor, not by myself, not by anyone.

A tapping on the window in the living room interrupted my
thoughts and wiped the smile away. My heart leapt into my throat,
and my gaze flew to Clark, relieved when he did not stir. The
Kryptonite had drained him more than he had been willing to
concede -- and he had not been completely well even before the
encounter -- but I found myself almost grateful for that now. I
did not want to erase the peace, the happiness, the confidence
that had imbued his every thought and expression and word since I
had revealed to him that I knew his secret.

And I was certain that seeing Superman floating outside my window
would certainly be enough to banish whatever measure of
contentment he had found.

Quietly slipping on a robe, I shut the bedroom door behind myself
and padded across the living room. Pausing briefly to take a deep
breath and gather my scattered thoughts and tangled emotions, I
pulled the window open and stepped out onto the fire escape.

"Superman," I greeted him, startled the slightest bit by the
coolness of my tone. There was nothing of awe, or breathlessness,
or shyness in my manner, no desire to have the superhero wrap his
strong arms around me, no compulsion demanding that I cling to
him. Instead, I felt only...wariness, disappointment, and an odd,
contradictory kinship with this man who would sacrifice so much
to save Clark.

Reminded that I hadn't finished my greeting, I folded my arms
over my chest against both the chill and the man before me.
"Where have you been? No one's seen you in almost two days."

Except Clark, I thought silently.

Superman studied me for a moment that seemed poised over a
perilous drop into eternity. The night molded itself to his face
and form so that it seemed his colors were black and gray rather
than crimson and royal blue, the moonlight too preoccupied with
Clark's form to attend to the superhero.

Finally, he gave a tiny shake of his head and looked away, out
over the city sprawling to every side of us. "There were
some...bad things...happening, Lois. I wanted them to stop."

My eyebrows rose in skeptical surprise; my tone made my next
words a challenge. "There was nothing on the news."

"Not that kind of bad thing," he corrected, casting a sidelong
glance at me. He set his hands on the metal railing and curled
his fingers around it, oblivious to the frost marbling its
surface. His eyes, deep pits of blackness in the night-dark air,
stared forward. Toward Lex Tower. "A different kind of bad
thing. Things like you getting hurt, Lois -- that was never
supposed to happen. He said it wouldn't."

"And you *believed* him?" I exclaimed incredulously, ignoring
his ensuing flash of surprise. "He's a liar!"

Superman studied me a long moment, processing the fact that I
knew he worked for Luthor. I stared back confrontationally,
angrily, and he belatedly looked away -- acknowledging his
shame?

"I know that now." His tone was so flat, so bleak, that I was
momentarily silenced. Finally, however, he seemed to realize his
own emotion, and his voice rose a fraction. "But he's all I
have, Lois!"

My eyes narrowed as I studied him in an attempt to follow his
change in subject. "Clark?"

His cape shivered down its length as he cocked his head, the
shadows congregating around him like a pack of dark followers.
His face had become very blank, a mask that hid unknown, untold
depths behind polite aloofness, as if he were trying to figure
out just how much I knew about his connection to Clark.

I hesitated for a brief instant, the sound of Clark's name --
even spoken by myself -- reminding me, once again, of how easily
I could I have lost him forever in the past month. Annoyed by the
moment of weakness, I shook it aside and frowned. "Superman, you
don't know how glad, how relieved, how unbelievably thankful I
am that Clark is alive. And...and sometimes, I almost don't even
care what you had to do to keep him safe -- " Again, I paused,
this time remembering what had happened to our first protective
detail, and realizing with that recollection that, yes, I *did*
care. "But you can't do this!" I insisted, hotly to counter my
own guilt. "You're not *Superman* when you do these things for
Luthor -- "

"You don't understand!" Superman blurted out, his expression
desperate, almost panicked, his features a collection of harsh
lines and jagged shadows. "He's family, Lois! That's all I was
ever taught -- loyalty to family. It's all I've ever known!"

I took a moment to tamp down on the hot flash of fury blazing
through my veins. This was my hero, the man I had admired so much
that Clark had gotten lost in the mirage's glare...yet here he
was, afraid and flawed and so much weaker than I had thought. The
entire world had placed their trust in Superman...and he had
betrayed them. Betrayed us. Betrayed *me*.

For Clark.

How could I forgive him for his crimes?

How could I blame him when I knew full well just how much *I*
would give up for Clark? When I had just told Clark that his
willingness to sacrifice for others made him a good man?

"I understand," I said tightly. "Believe me, I *understand*
that you love Clark and would do anything for him...but you
don't have to do this anymore! Henderson is on the verge of
apprehending Luthor -- his henchmen are already arrested! It's
over, Superman! You can help Henderson catch Luthor -- help
*us*!"

"How important is family to you?" Superman asked directly, his
eyes still locked on Lex Tower. "How far would *you* go to keep
your family safe?"

"Stop this!" I commanded him angrily. "Stop living in fear!
You can end this all! Family *is* important, so -- "

"So what?" he interrupted, whirling to face me full-on. "What
would you do in my position? Tell me what to do, Lois!"

"Do what *he* wants you to do!" I told him with a gesture to
the apartment behind us, and to Clark, sleeping -- I hoped --
obliviously. Innocent, untouched, and so infinitely, immeasurably
precious to me.

Superman's shoulders slumped, the vibrancy of his eyes dimmed by
the darkness. Or maybe it had never been there at all and only my
imagination had made it seem that it was. "I *am* doing what he
wants," he said softly.

"No, you're not!" I snapped, bristling at the mere thought of
Clark condoning the things Superman had done in his name. "Clark
said there's always some light, some hope. You have to *find*
that hope, Superman."

His meaningful gaze set me back a pace. "Lois. You...*are*...my
hope."

"Yes," I said, straightening under that burden of
responsibility. Luthor had gotten away -- could be watching us
even now, waiting for his chance at revenge -- but Clark and I
had ensured that he could never walk free again. All that
remained was making his inevitable stay in Metropolis's
maximum-security prison a permanent one. Yet maybe, I thought
slowly, Superman just needed a bit of reassurance that the case
was almost closed, proof that his nightmare was almost over. "We
*are* very close, Superman," I told him gently.

He gave a tiny grimace, as if impatient -- as I was -- to see
this put behind him forever. But then, strangely, he nodded
reluctantly, and looked away, once more closing his hands over
the cold railing.

I found that I had nothing more to say, no other words to give
him, no pressing questions to ask him. Later, after he was gone,
I was sure I would think of a million things I could have said,
but for now, all I could do was look at him and marvel over how
much had changed within me. Even if Superman hadn't been working
for Luthor, I knew that I would not have looked at him in the
same, idolizing way as I once had...because he wasn't Clark. And
that...that changed everything.

He seemed almost unaware of my scrutiny, his own eyes peering
through the crystalline-clarity of the winter-sharp air to peruse
the city he had made his own. His cape fluttered behind him, its
color darkened by the night.

And no matter that words had fled me, I knew there was one thing
I still had to tell him. One thing I had almost told Clark --
*wanted* to tell Clark. One thing I needed to tell Superman
before anything else happened. I had kissed him, after all, made
him think that I loved him; now I owed him an explanation, maybe
even an apology.

And then I would be able to tell Clark what I had so recently
discovered myself.

I opened my mouth to utter the fateful words, but my own frailty
sabotaged my efforts, and no sound emerged. I turned my face
away, looking up toward the sky as I rummaged deep within the
detritus of my heart for some courage. The words had almost
spoken themselves when it was Clark who stood before me; when it
was Superman standing there, however, they cowered and hid away
in fear.

A streak of silver-white painted a spark at the peak of the sky
and gave me an opening gambit.

"Look!" I pointed toward the now-obsidian heights. "A shooting
star."

"What?" Superman glanced upward with an innocent skepticism.

"A shooting star." I shrugged, uncomfortable with how long this
conversation was taking. Suddenly feeling unaccountably guilty, I
looked behind me nervously. I knew what Clark would think if he
woke to see me standing out in the cold to talk to the man he so
distrusted, the man he thought I loved -- knew what conclusions
he would, perhaps justifiably considering my past behavior, leap
to. And I had promised myself I wouldn't hurt him...but I
hadn't yet told Superman my secret and so I forbade myself from
fleeing. "Whenever you see one fly across the sky, you're
supposed to make a wish. Supposedly, if you do, your wish will
come true."

Superman studied the night sky for a long moment, then angled his
body to face me. "I can make you a hundred shooting stars, Lois
-- a thousand -- whatever you want."

I blinked, stunned by the obviously romantic offer and the way
his hand cupped my shoulder. Hastily, shooting another glance
toward the apartment, I stepped backward, twisting away from
Superman's touch.

His hand fell back to his side, and a flash of surprised distress
painted itself over his face.

"I don't want a shooting star," I said gently, seizing the
opportunity before the moment passed. I wished, longingly,
selfishly, impossibly, that Clark was standing beside me, lending
me a measure of his strength and courage. "They look and sound
magical, but they're only there for an instant, appearing and
disappearing far too quickly."

Besides, I thought with yet another glance in Clark's general
direction, who would want the stars -- cold, impersonal, and
distant -- when a blazing sun waited with open arms
outstretched?

Superman flinched, as if I had struck him. His hooded eyes sought
the stars. "Barely alive before fading away," he murmured
despondently. "Dying alone in the dark."

"Superman." Despite my best intentions, my eyes were glazed
with a thin veneer of tears. He had lost so much already -- I
hated to add to his pain. And yet...I couldn't lead him on, not
anymore. I couldn't pretend to something that no longer existed.
I couldn't keep denying the depth and power and strength of what
I felt for Clark. "I think I'm finally beginning to realize
what's been staring me in the face for so long, something you
tried to tell me so many times. You said you belong to the sky --
that your place is far above us, removed from day-to-day life. If
I tried to bring you down to my level...it'd be like trying to
reach out and snare the shooting stars with my fingers."

At his closed expression, I swallowed hard, then smiled to
distract from the tears I could not allow to fall. "Superman, I
will probably always need you, and I will always be your friend,
always be there if you need someone to talk to. But...Clark needs
me. More than that...he *wants* me."

I paused then, struck anew by that fact. My father hadn't wanted
me at all, finding disappointment in my very existence; my mother
had needed me, but had little use for a daughter she had no idea
what to do with; my sister had once needed me to be there for
her, to look out for her, to protect her, but then she had grown
up; Claude had needed a story badly enough to pretend he wanted
me; and Luthor had obviously needed me as a diversion, a scare
tactic, and bait. But who had ever voluntarily, willingly, freely
*wanted* me? Who...besides Clark?

"He wants me," I repeated aloud, which gave me the strength to
finally say the wonderful words aloud, to release my tight hold
of this secret. "He *loves* me, Superman -- loves me just for
being me. And I...I love *him*." I let out a breath. In the end,
those words were the easiest words I had ever said, the truest,
the most miraculous, so much so that I said them again, sparking
a burst of jubilation to sizzle and dance within me. "I love
him. And I want to be there for him just as he has been for
me."

"Lois..." Superman gave one slow shake of his head. "Don't do
this."

I stiffened and tilted my chin defiantly. "I'm sorry, Superman.
Clark -- "

"Please!" Superman took a hasty step closer, and I had to
restrain the urge to press back against the hard bricks beside
the window. "Lois, I...I *need* you. I need you to save me."

"Save you?" I repeated blankly. "You're *Superman*."

"No, I..." His hands clenched into fists at his side, and he
turned his face away. His voice was little more than the whisper
of the wind. "I wanted you to tell me -- "

My fear vanished when he cut himself off, replaced by an
energizing wave of curiosity. I leapt forward to grab hold of his
arm when he made as if to fling himself aloft and soar away from
me. "Tell you what?" I demanded. "What do you need to be saved
from?"

He stared so hard and so long at my hand on his arm that I let
go, nervously clasping both my hands behind my back. A move that
made him look up to meet my gaze.

I swallowed and stumbled backward in shock -- I could read
nothing from his expression, not neutrality, not anger, not
sadness. His features might as well have been carved from
granite, less revealing than the face of his statue in Centennial
Park.

"Superman?" I whispered though a dry mouth.

"Thank you, Lois. You're right. Clark...deserves you." He
straightened, suddenly looming over me, his shoulders broadening,
his hands unclenching themselves. "I wish I hadn't disappointed
you, Lois. I wish I could have been...what you thought I was."

Guilt seared through me, twisting and writhing like cut
electrical wires flapping in the wind. I had held high
expectations of him, it was true -- yet Clark had struggled to
meet my expectations, not apologized for failing them.

Superman stepped close to me, wrapped his hands around my
shoulders, and bent his head over mine. I don't know if he would
have kissed me on the mouth or if I was merely being paranoid;
regardless, I turned my head so that his cool lips landed on my
cheek. The kiss was short, yet it seemed to last forever; smooth,
yet it seemed stilted; unreal, yet it weighed unnaturally heavy;
familiar, yet alien.

As soon as Superman dropped his hands and lifted to hover in the
air, I moved back to the window, grasping a fistful of curtain in
my hand. "Good night, Lois," he said softly, and was gone
before I could drag my voice out from wherever it was hiding to
make a reply.

Moving as if I were simply following a list of choreographed
instructions, I ducked back inside the apartment, pulled the
curtains from the grips of a breeze, and closed the windows.
Then, slowly, definitively, I locked it and the identical window
beside it. I turned to face the empty, dark apartment, and I
wondered at the distinct lack of strong emotion within me.
Shouldn't I be feeling regret? Sadness? Disbelief? Doubt?

I had just locked Superman out of my life -- shouldn't I be
feeling *something*?

Maybe this was a dream. Maybe I had fallen asleep just as quickly
as Clark and had only imagined the tapping at the window and the
heated argument I had held with the superhero and the
metaphorical door I had closed on him -- on *us* -- and the final
kiss he had bestowed upon me.

Testing that theory, I brought my hands up to my face, then
flinched back from the ice that had somehow laid itself out just
below my skin, too vivid and painful to be a mere dream. Pulling
my fingers back away from my already-cold cheeks, I stared at my
hands, shocked to realize that they were trembling.

Numbly, I walked back into the bedroom with the intention of
retrieving a blanket, but I was caught in mid-stride by the sight
of Clark. He was still asleep, wrapped in a couple blankets,
lying on the narrow cot, a lock of ebony hair decorating his
brow.

And suddenly, I *did* feel something. I felt relief, excitement,
exhilaration, anticipation, and more, individual feelings that I
had no experience with and no name for, emotions that grew
stronger and rooted themselves more deeply as I stepped to
Clark's side to brush his hair back, relishing the feel of it
against my chilled fingers.

I couldn't doubt my love for him, not when he touched my entire
life so acutely. My past was defined by his absence, my present
illuminated by his presence at my side, and the future already
filled with him. Because even should he walk away tomorrow, I
knew he would still be the most important person in my life --
for how he had influenced me, the ways he had changed me, the
metamorphosis he had elicited and encouraged and so obviously
enjoyed being a part of.

Without him, there would still be a Lois Lane...but she wouldn't
be someone I wanted to be.

*With* him...I almost couldn't keep my feet on the ground at the
mere thought of a lifetime of waking up to his smile, dressing to
the smells of his cooking, snatching sweet kisses on the run,
working together all day, sneaking light caresses and weighted
looks and inside jokes, bantering over dinner, playing board
games or pretending to watch movies before heading for the
bedroom where there'd be only one bed.

That sort of mundane joy, that everyday paradise, that simple
heaven had been something I'd pretended I didn't want for so
long. Yet the mere thought of it now left me more deeply shaken
and more filled with yearning than a flight to the stars with
Superman.

No, I didn't regret what I had done, or doubt the decision I had
made. I only wished that I could tell Clark now, shake him on the
shoulder, lean down over him, and whisper into his ear the same
declaration I had made to Superman. My hand even ghosted to his
arm before I could stop myself. He was tired and weak, I reminded
myself, and I wanted to be able to savor the look in his eyes
when I finally gave him my last secret. For once, *I* wanted to
be the one that brought light into *his* life. And I wanted him
to bask in the warmth of the sun as I told him, wanted to enjoy
the look of his skin in the golden beams, wanted to delight in
the laughter I was sure he would grace me with. Besides, we had a
lifetime -- a lifetime for me to show him just how much I loved
him.

So I caressed his face one last time, then slipped into my own
bed, curled up on my side where I could watch him. A formless
time later, I fell into sleep and dreamed that Clark wrapped me
in a scarlet-and-gold cape to keep me warm, smiled tenderly,
sweetly down at me, handed me his glasses, and said, "You know
all our secrets now, Lois...but do you know *his*?" And I turned
my face away, and wrapped myself tighter in Superman's cape, and
could not answer him.

***

Chapter 21

I woke with a start, and was, for a moment, wholly unable to
recall what day it was, or figure out why the room was still
coated with night's shadowy fingers, or tell what had woken me
so abruptly. Belatedly, I felt a weight on my shoulder and looked
to it. The moon had changed position since I had fallen into
dream-touched sleep, but a sliver still held tightly to the edge
of the window; that and a light I didn't remember having turned
on in the living room were enough to illuminate the long-fingered
hand shaking my shoulder, the tight blue sleeve that led up to
broad shoulders made even broader by the cape sliding like
falling water behind him, and Superman's face, his expression
grimly intent as he whispered my name.

Superman?

I was suddenly very much awake, trying to sit up and finding
Superman's firm grip halting the movement. "Clark!" I
exclaimed.

It seemed impossible, yet Superman's features fell into even
sterner lines, a strange, almost arrested expression painting
itself over his face. "What did you say?"

"Clark," I repeated in a hushed tone. Finally managing to brush
off his now-slack hand, I sat up and looked frantically in the
direction of the window. "He can't see you here, not like this,
not now. You have to le -- "

My voice withered and blew away in brittle shreds. My heart's
steady beat stuttered. My breathing turned ragged and uneven. My
body lost all independent motion.

The cot was empty. The blankets were twisted and rumpled; one
hung over the edge, its limpness giving it the impression of
death.

"Clark?" I said again, then louder, "Clark!"

"Lois?"

"No." My hand on Superman's chest shoving him away from me
wasn't nearly strong enough to budge him, yet he fell back
several paces nonetheless. I stumbled to my feet and moved to the
cot, as if mere proximity would make Clark suddenly appear out of
thin air. The blankets were cold, all the warmth leeched away.

"Lois, he's -- "

"Nightmares," I interrupted Superman again. He was only a
brightly colored haze in my vision, an obstacle to my
comprehensive glance across all of the apartment I could see from
my current position. "He has nightmares. He gets up and cooks.
He's probably making breakfast. In the kitchen."

Except that it was terribly early -- more like late at night than
early in the morning.

Except that I couldn't hear him, couldn't feel his presence,
couldn't imagine him staying away when he knew Superman was in
the bedroom with me.

Except that Superman was looking at me with a terrible
expression, a chilling knowledge in his hooded eyes, an
implacable purpose evident in the set of his shoulders and the
corded tension of his muscles.

My mind catalogued those facts, but I couldn't stop myself from
hurrying out of the bedroom, darting a quick look around the
living room, and jerking to a disappointed -- terrified -- halt
in the kitchen.

The *empty* kitchen.

"Clark!" I called again, louder, careless of any neighbors that
might be light sleepers, knowing only that I had to find him --
that his absence could mean nothing good.

"Lois!" Superman tried to get my attention, his voice deeper,
sterner, than I'd ever heard it, but I called Clark's name
several more times, unable to admit that he was not in the
apartment.

That he had left me. Again.

Finally, when all other options were exhausted -- when even my
strange desperation could no longer let me ignore the fact that
Superman was trying to tell me something -- I turned to the
superhero. "Where is he?" I demanded.

"Lois, calm down." Superman held up conciliatory hands. The
cape flaring behind him in the breeze let in by the open windows
-- the windows I had closed and locked just two or three hours
earlier -- ruined the calming effect he was trying to exude.
"Clark isn't here."

"Where is he?" I asked, and shocked myself with the coldness of
my own voice. "What did you do to him?"

Surprise flittered across Superman's face as I advanced on him.
"Lois, please. I need your help."

"*You* need my help?" I repeated incredulously. Then, annoyed
with myself, I shook my head. "Where is Clark?"

"He's gone to Luthor."

"*What*?" I gasped, all the blood draining from my body,
leaving me white and empty, deprived of all life and light. "How
did Luthor get him? Where were *you*?"

"Luthor didn't take him, Lois. Clark went to him.
Voluntarily."

I couldn't help it -- I laughed. "That's ridiculous. Clark
hates Luthor."

"Lois." Superman stepped forward and would have placed his
hands on my shoulders if I hadn't hastily moved back a pace.
"After I left you, I thought about what you said. And I came
back to talk to Clark about what had happened. I wanted to tell
him...to tell him that I had tried. And I had failed."

I blinked, suddenly struck by the image of Clark and Superman
standing side by side, leaning against the ledge of a skyscraper,
and looking out over Metropolis as they discussed...*me*? "You
talked to Clark about what I told you?" I asked. It was a silly
concern, nowhere near as important as the absurd assertion that
Clark was meeting with Luthor, and yet it was enough to
momentarily pause my panic attack.

"He wouldn't listen to me," Superman said. He was staring into
the distance, almost unaware that I was still in the room. "He
commanded me to stay away from you, said that he would do
whatever he had to in order to protect you from me. And when I
left, he left, too."

Now that I had a mystery to solve, an investigation to conduct, a
lead to pursue, I was able to stave off panic and exhaustion
both. My mind fell into easy, ordered lines. "You don't know
that he went to Luthor," I said calmly even as I tried to
translate his ambiguous statements into a progression of events I
could understand. It was hard, practically impossible, to imagine
Clark leaving me all alone without even a word of explanation,
even harder to imagine him voluntarily and solitarily going to
meet the man who had held him captive for long, painful,
nightmarish weeks.

"Luthor's the only one who has what he wants."

"And what does he want?" I questioned, puzzlement creasing my
brow.

Superman raised his eyebrows, as if he thought I should have
figured this out already. "Kryptonite. I know he told you about
it."

Despite myself, I let out another disbelieving laugh. "Clark
can't touch Kryptonite. It would hu -- "

"He can if it's sheathed in lead."

I stared at the superhero before me, noticing for the first time
the intensity and urgency trapped within him. He shifted his
weight, his hands clenching and unclenching, and his voice was
just the slightest bit frayed. His expression was distant,
distracted, detached.

"Clark wouldn't leave me," I stated quietly. It wasn't one of
the questions my reporter's mind was putting forward, or even
that good of a defense...but it was the one thought running
through my mind. Clark had promised he wouldn't leave me again.
And I believed him. I did. With an effort, I shoved aside the
image of my partner walking out of the newsroom with his
belongings all packed up, his gentle, caring face disappearing
behind the elevator doors.

Superman only looked at me, his head cocked slightly. And this
time, it was I who looked away.

"How would he even know where to find Luthor?" I demanded
irritably after a moment. "And how do you know all this?"

"Because..." Superman paused and swallowed. "Because the last
time I flew away from him after arguing about you, something very
bad happened. And I didn't want that to happen again. So I came
back. And I followed him away from the apartment, watched him
take directions from some man I've never seen before, and
listened when he bargained with Luthor for a piece of
Kryptonite."

"Why?" I burst out. "*Why* would Clark want Kryptonite?"

Feeling small and alone -- abandoned -- I wrapped my arms around
my middle, huddled in on myself in a vain attempt to recapture
the feeling of Clark's embrace. I was unable to recall it,
however, not with the doubt soaking in from every pore to consume
me. Had Clark seen me with Superman last night? Had he seen the
superhero kiss my cheek? Had he gotten the wrong impression?
Didn't he know that I loved him? I wanted to cry out in
despair.

But how could he? The thought struck ice through to the very
center of my being. How could he know that when I hadn't told
him? I had told Superman instead of him, given the brother he no
longer trusted the words I was sure Clark wanted more than
anything else in the world.

"That's why I need your help," Superman explained, jolting me
from my self-absorbed thoughts. He sidled a couple steps nearer
the window. "He told me he would do anything to protect you. And
he thinks you need protection from *me*."

"Clark would never hurt anyone," I retorted with false
confidence. Inwardly, however...inwardly, I was trying my best
not to remember what Clark had told me just the night before. <I
do know that I would do *anything* to stop him -- to stop
*anyone* -- from hurting you.>

Superman let out a small sigh. "He thinks I'm an imposter,
Lois."

Every cell in my body blazed with terrified flames, transformed
into a million, billion sparks that set my very soul alight.
Henderson had wondered why Clark had told us about the
Kryptonite. And the night Clark had told me the secret of the
deadly stone, he had seemed unusually intent, severely
purposeful, and disproportionately relieved when I believed him.

<...I would do anything to stop him -- to stop *anyone* -- from
hurting you.>

"But Luthor will kill him," I whispered, suddenly unable to
speak any louder. "Clark's brought down his empire -- Luthor
will destroy him."

"Clark offered him a deal." There was no hint of emotion, no
nuance or inflection in Superman's voice, no sign of the
betrayal he must have felt. *If* he were telling the truth.
"Luthor would leave you completely alone, and Clark...Clark
would rid Luthor of Superman. Luthor hates Superman -- he would
do anything, even ally himself with Clark, to rid himself of the
alien. For all we know, he even encouraged this action while
Clark was his prisoner."

"No." I shook my head and backed up farther, distancing myself
from Superman's assertions. My back thudded into the partition
wall separating the kitchen and living room. "This is wrong. You
misunderstood or...or something. Clark would never hurt anyone --
and he certainly wouldn't meet with Luthor to accomplish it!"

"Lois, you asked if Clark and I had argued before Nightfall,"
Superman said, the barest hint of impatience feathering his tone.
"The truth is that we did. We argued about you...and only days
later, he was imprisoned away from the sun. And, last
night...last night, we argued about you again."

He didn't have to spell out the rest. It was there in what he
didn't say, there in what Clark had said, there in the subtle
changes in Clark.

Superman gentled his voice, his hands hanging loosely at his
sides. "Lois, he thinks that by getting rid of me, he'll be
helping the 'real' Superman come back."

That statement so shocked me that I simply stared at Superman for
a long moment. The "real" Superman? I had assumed that Clark
thought the "real" Superman had died saving Earth from the
Nightfall asteroid. Part of the reason, if I were completely
honest, that I had resisted the idea of a "false" Superman so
strongly was because I had not wanted to go back to the world I
had occupied for a month, the world that had possessed no
superhero to right wrongs and avert tragedies and stop evildoers.
But if there *were* another Superman...

"I need your help, Lois," Superman continued, his soft,
hypnotic voice weaving its way through my astonished musings. "I
need you to get the Kryptonite away from him before he hurts
either me or himself. Please, Lois. I need you. *Clark* needs
you."

Clark. Yes, he did need me. No matter where he had really gone --
because I knew he would *never* have willingly met with Luthor --
no matter whether he possessed an alien rock or not, I knew that
he needed me. *I* needed *him*. We were partners; we were
supposed to be together.

So I hurriedly threw on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved
t-shirt. Unable to explain the action, I also rummaged through
Clark's belongings and found one of his old sweaters. He must
have left it behind in his Planet locker, hanging there for Perry
to find and bring back to him, and it still smelled of him, the
scent I had grown so used to that I had no longer noticed it.
Until it was taken away. Until it was no longer there for me to
breathe in and savor and confirm that I wasn't alone.

I pulled the sweater on, rolling the sleeves up, and then headed
back out into the living room. Superman was standing as close to
the window as he could get. His stance painfully reminded me of
Clark standing there just the morning before. When he turned to
look at me, his expression was even almost identical to what
Clark's had been -- blank, giving nothing away save the painful
grip he held on his emotions.

"Ready?" Superman asked quietly.

I nodded, finding it impossible to speak past the myriad thoughts
running laps in my head. Superman scooped me into his arms,
cradling me close to his chest, and took to the heavy-clouded air
beneath a now-obscured sky, but those were facts that passed me
by. My mind -- my heart -- was full of Clark. His awestruck
expression when he had stepped close to me and told me I was
beautiful. His hand on my cheek, caressing me in that tender,
caring gesture only he made.

Only he made...

The "real" Superman...

There was something there, something that tugged at the edges of
my awareness, something that was begging for attention like a
puppy dancing around the heels of a preoccupied owner.

I tensed in Superman's arms, peering all about in an effort to
see where he was taking me. Not that the destination really
mattered -- not so long as Clark was there -- but I couldn't
believe that Clark had really gone to see Luthor. No matter what
he had said about protecting me -- no matter what Superman
claimed -- I knew that Clark didn't believe in giving
concessions to the enemy, not for any amount of dark promises or
dire threats.

Superman shifted me in his arms slightly, as if compensating for
my restless movement, and my hand fell on his chest. The wind
whipped at my hair and made a rushing noise about us, but I could
still clearly feel Superman's heartbeat. It was irregular,
almost erratic, certainly much more unstable than it had been
during our last two flights. With a frown, I glanced to
Superman's face, but he was looking straight ahead, once more
expressionless save for a tiny crease in his brow that matched
the one Clark had exhibited when doubting his own integrity.

A memory danced around me, teasing me, pestering me: stone walls
turned to gray rubble, a desperate, terrified expression
darkening already-dark eyes, a long hand spanning the side of my
face.

"Superman," I said quietly, hating the way the wet clouds
enveloping us smothered my voice and made it sound small, afraid,
lost. "Was Clark scared? When he faced Luthor?"

Superman kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. "It was a
confrontation he knew had to occur eventually."

A tremble passed through my frame. "But was he -- "

"Here we are." Superman straightened and descended to touch
down on the steps leading to an enormous factory with a stylized
S over the entrance. Smoke rose from the foundry within to join
with the clouds in concealing the stars and the moon. I
remembered Perry assigning the story of this Steelworks'
construction to Diane just a week or so before the heat-wave had
driven Clark away. Though its scope seemed to say otherwise, I
knew that the factory had been built in a very short period of
time. The owner, an African-American by the name of John Henry
Irons, had built it with the stated intention of making his life
count for something after being rescued from an accidental fall
by Superman.

"Why would Clark come here?" I asked dubiously with an
expansive look all about just in case I would be able to see
him.

"If there were another Superman," the superhero said slowly,
"he would need a place to dispose of the extra body."

I gaped at him, a chill pebbling my flesh despite Clark's
sweater. Complete disbelief enveloped all else within and around
me. I didn't care what Superman thought he had heard; the grisly
acts he was imagining were entirely alien to Clark's very
essence.

Superman met my gaze, seemingly oblivious to my shock and doubt.
"There's a smaller door around the side that will lead us
straight to him. I'll follow you inside, but I can't get too
close to the Kryptonite."

The reminder that Clark was -- supposedly -- near obliterated
what little bit of caution I had managed to dredge up. Without
hesitation, I followed Superman's softly spoken directions and
strode down a small path to an employees' entrance along the
west side of the massive building. I don't know if it was
locked; Superman pulled it open smoothly, but he could have
easily torn the lock open with as little effort.

Despite my eagerness to reach Clark, I couldn't help but pause
when I took in the vast, labyrinthine interior, a maze of metal
ladders, grated landings, concrete floors, tools designed for
large construction, and all of it presided over by a bubbling vat
of melted steel that glowed molten red, flaming orange, and brash
yellow, all glinting with occasional hints of silver. Sparks
occasionally bubbled over; the smoke that rose through the
carefully designed roof was painted over with fiery shades. The
blazing hues were garish and almost painful to my eyes,
accustomed as they were to the cooler black and white night sky.
The heat was like a tangible presence, a wall that tried to stop
me from entering.

Forcibly, I shook aside my qualms and stepped farther into the
building that seemed to breathe solid heat. Ignoring the
mysterious, overwhelming surroundings, I looked for any hint of
my partner. "Clark? Clark!"

I jumped when Superman's hand fell on my shoulder, then scowled
at him. Wasn't he supposed to be waiting outside until I
signaled that it was safe? "Be careful, Lois," he advised me,
the deep timbre of his voice traveling easily through the black
and red atmosphere. In an odd movement, he moved his free hand to
his back, hidden behind his cape.

Feeling hemmed in, I irritably shrugged his hand off my
shoulder.

"Lois?"

At the quiet, surprised, pained utterance of my name, my
attention snapped straight to a shadowed corner beneath stairs
leading upward to a platform. There, in the darkness, hunched
against the metal as he had once been hunched against the bricks
comprising his cell, was Clark. The shadows held him jealously to
themselves, clasping him tightly in their cold hands, wincing
away whenever the boiling steel flashed lurid hues through their
intransient bodies.

"Clark!" I gasped in relief -- in astonishment that he was
actually here -- and rushed to his side, half-falling,
half-kneeling beside him. My hands instantly moved to skim over
his neck, shoulders, chest, and arms, and I almost wept to catch
a glimpse of his gaunt, haunted face.

"Lois, what are you doing here?" he exclaimed in a weak
whisper. His gaze went past me -- to Superman -- and turned into
a glare. "You promised! You promised me she wouldn't be
hurt!"

"And she won't be -- I made sure of that," Superman assured
him, his hands now hanging at his sides, one clenched into a
fist.

"What are *you* doing here, Clark?" I retorted over Superman's
reply. "How did you get here? Are you all right? Tell me what
happened!" My exploratory touch had found no injuries, and yet
the weakness, the defeated resignation inherent in Clark's
posture, seemed to speak for themselves. Had Luthor dosed him
with the Kryptonite before he had handed it over?

*If* he had come for Kryptonite at all, I firmly reminded myself.
Clark had lied in the past, but that didn't mean it wasn't
Superman lying now.

"Lois." Clark lifted his hand as if it weighed more than it
should and settled it on my shoulder. "He's lying to you. He's
dangerous. He's going to hurt you."

<...I would do *anything* to stop him -- to stop *anyone* -- from
hurting you.>

My eyes fell closed in terrible dread I tried to fight off. How
could this be happening? What could Superman have said to make
Clark resort to such drastic measures?

Or...was I missing something? Something about Smallville, and
Trask, and the reason Superman had never yet appeared to save
Clark when he was in danger.

"Superman says you want to hurt him," I said abstractedly as I
reached out and placed earnest hands on either side of Clark's
face. "But that can't be true -- you wouldn't do this. Please.
We'll go home. I'll stay with you. I'm not going to leave you.
Please, Clark. Please, let's go home." I dropped my voice to a
murmur. "Just tell me if there's Kryptonite here."

Clark's hand tightened on my shoulder. "*He* has it!"

I met his gaze, refused to let him look away, mutely begged him
to explain things to me. I had thought the mystery all solved,
and yet...it wasn't. I had thought I had taken the leap over
that perilous edge to catch the answer to all the confusion
surrounding Clark and Superman -- yet now I wondered if I wasn't
still hanging by a thread over that eternal drop.

"How can he have the Kryptonite?" I asked him. "You told me it
hurt Superman."

"Yes, Lois." Urgency coated his voice just as soot coated the
sides of the vat. "It hurts *me*!"

"I know," I replied. *A "real" Superman...* the thought
drifted incongruously through my mind, casting shadowed light.
And Superman, bursting through the concrete wall of a bank
vault...Clark, soaking wet and bruised from the beating inflicted
by Trask, taking me into his arms.

"Lois...you said you knew my secret." Clark searched my face, a
trace of panic evident in his eyes. And his hand moved from my
shoulder to cradle my cheek in his palm, the tips of his fingers
playing with the ends of my hair.

And the breath caught in my throat as time came to a screeching
halt around me.

And the answer came to me in a blinding flash of light.

"Lois." Clark's whisper was all that managed to pierce the
bright, frozen moment. "That man cannot be Superman...because
Superman's real name is Clark Kent."

Two images flashed into being before my eyes with stark, blinding
intensity: Clark cupping the side of my face as he kissed me
goodbye. Superman reaching out to brush his palm along my cheek
as he told me I was special to him.

And suddenly I wasn't staring at Clark anymore. I was staring at
Superman through the lenses of a familiar pair of glasses, his
infinitely strong hand on my face, his aloof expression tight
with pain and desperation, his red and blue Suit replaced by a
black shirt and gray slacks.

A thousand memories replayed themselves through my mind so
quickly that all I could presently comprehend was the reordering
of my very existence.

Then I blinked and Clark was once more before me, silently
pleading with me. "Please," he whispered with hope that was
clearly fading. "Please believe me. Believe *in* me."

Believe in Clark? It had been so long since I had done otherwise
that it now seemed impossible to even contemplate it.

The Kryptonite.

The pretender hiding behind that familiar S.

I knew this would hurt Clark, knew it would devastate him, but I
had no other choice. For his sake, I *had* to do this.

Slowly, for the first time realizing just how deadly Superman --
or a man with Superman's powers -- could be, I turned my head to
regard the figure cloaked in shadows. He stared back, every
muscle in his body tense, his fisted hand placed over a nearby
shelf, his eyes narrowed as he tried to read my mind. I had never
been more grateful that telepathy *wasn't* one of Superman's
abilities.

Once more, I met Clark's eyes, willing *him* to read my mind
now. "Clark...Superman is right beside me." I deliberately
enunciated each word as clearly as possible, pressing my
fingertips into his chest. "You have to trust me, okay? Trust
me."

"No." Anguish flared within Clark's eyes, and his hand fell to
his side. "Please, Lois!"

"Trust me," I said again. Then I stood and faced the man who
had flown me here. "You're right," I said, picking my words
with extreme caution. "Superman -- he needs help."

His expression was covered with darkness, but I could feel him
studying me closely, warily. "Luthor's broken him," he said
yet again, but there was a hint of doubt coloring his tone. Or so
I thought. But I had been so wrong about so many things that I
was no longer sure I could trust my own perceptions.

I inched nearer the caped man before me, noting that his hand had
dropped from the shelf at his side. Instantly, my attention was
split between the edgy superhero and the collection of items on
that shelf. I took another step forward, aching inside at the
feel of Clark's tormented eyes upon me and the sound of his
anguished utterance of my name.

"We have to get him away from here," I murmured, as calm and
soothing as if I were the one taming a wild animal now. "We
should take him home. We'll figure everything out then."

Slightly, I spread my hands and lifted them into the air. I dared
not look away from the superhero's masked eyes, dared not break
the moment of intense study. A gleam of fiery light reflected off
a small box -- silver, the perfect size to slide into a pocket,
placed among the shelf's clutter. Only one step more and it
would be mere inches from my right hand.

"And then?" questioned the stranger dressed as Superman,
tilting his head. "What will you do then, Lois?"

I shrugged, the movement not incidentally allowing my hand to
brush against the shelf. "We'll play it by ear."

And I drifted my hand forward, felt the lead beneath my fingers
-- and then let out an exclamation of pain when the imposter's
hand blurred to grab hold of my wrist in a too-tight grip.

"Don't touch her!" Clark blurted from behind me.

The stranger's familiar eyes, illuminated by a burst of orange
and red, widened in surprise, and he looked down at where he held
my hand before releasing me. "You shouldn't have done that,"
he said, his voice resigned.

There was a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that grew
larger as I stared up at the man I had thought to be Superman.

The imposter.

Behind me, the real Superman struggled to his feet, his glasses
reflecting light to pierce the shadows.

The imposter's attention went to him. "Don't move!" he
ordered harshly. "You promised you'd stay there."

"And *you* promised that Lois would be safe!" Clark retorted,
but he fell still.

Ignoring the questions that smothered my mind beneath a haze of
confusion, I took advantage of the distraction, reaching again
for the lead box Nigel had once carried.

"Don't!" The imposter's voice rose with aggravation,
resounding strangely through the shifting surroundings, and he
used the back of his hand to casually swat me aside.

I hit the shelf, sending myriad items tumbling, then crashed into
nearby stairs and lay, dazed, for a moment, sprawled across the
grated steps. The darkness and muted sparks floated incessantly
through my vision as I hastily scrambled back to my feet.

"No!" Clark cried, reaching out a hand to his double. "You
said you wouldn't hurt her!"

"I didn't mean to!" the imposter exclaimed, a note of
helplessness threading his voice -- so similar to and so
different from Clark's.

"I warned you to be careful," Clark instructed frantically
despite the fact that his body was trembling -- with exhaustion,
pain, terror, or something else entirely? "Your emotions can get
in the way and rupture your concentration."

The imposter grimaced and looked down at his hands as he clenched
and unclenched them. "This is so hard," he muttered.

Breathing heavily, I stared between the two men. Taking their
words at face value, I might be tempted to think Clark had some
measure of control over his double, but looking at them seemed to
dispel that possibility. Clark leaned heavily against a railing
and watched the imposter carefully, warily, uneasily. The
imposter stood purposely between Clark and myself, careful to
keep the door always behind him. And he seemed to be waiting for
something.

My guess was Luthor.

So, instead of standing there and watching Clark and the
imposter's stand-off, I tentatively stepped forward, my eyes
searching through the gloom for the lead box I had knocked to the
floor. A glint of silver pierced the hellish darkness, and
without waiting another instant to assess the situation, I dived
for it, knowing only that Clark would be safer the instant I got
rid of the Kryptonite.

My hand closed around the harsh edges of the box, and a surge of
triumph flashed through my system before being seared to ash by
the feel of strong -- terribly strong -- hands wrapping around my
arms and giving me a sharp, violent shake. Clark was shouting
something in the background, words that blended indistinguishably
together as I caught sight of the anger swirling across the
imposter's features.

"I told you not to do that," he growled -- and he sounded
nothing at all like Clark or Superman. In fact, he sounded --
looked -- wholly like a stranger, all the attributes that had
drawn me to him really only mimicked, copied from Clark. "I
tried to warn you before!" Something akin to desperation, to
panic, to caged haggardness was briefly lit within his eyes by
the shifting flames. "I asked you what I should do!" he
exclaimed, giving me another shake that rattled every bone in my
body and scattered my thoughts to dust. My feet dangled over the
floor. "You said family was important -- you said I had to do
what he told me!"

"But Clark *didn't* tell you to do this!" I retorted as my
hands scrabbled worse than uselessly over his. His grip didn't
hurt -- not yet -- but the unbalanced edge to his voice didn't
exactly fill me with confidence.

"Clark." The word was a snarl, and the imposter tossed me
harshly to the side. "Always it's 'Clark, Clark, Clark!' I
wanted you to help me -- and instead you threw me away! I told
Father I wouldn't do what he wanted unless he kept you safe --
and still you *betrayed* me!"

A familiar pain blazed through my left arm, and I stumbled,
unable to push myself to my feet. I rolled onto my back,
blanching when I saw the super-powered being advancing on me.

"I-I didn't know!" I gasped. "Who is your father?"

As if I didn't know, I thought despairingly. As if a torrent of
sudden revelations and a haze of belated understanding weren't
drowning me in their shock and astonishment and confusion.

Clark, terrified desperation painted across his face, grabbed at
the imposter's shoulder, but he shook my partner aside seemingly
without effort, his attention fixed solely on me. Again, Clark
reached for him, and this time the man wearing Superman's Suit
cuffed him on the head. Clark was flung atop the steps, halfway
to the next landing, and though he struggled to stand again, he
was clearly dazed.

I had been in more life-and-death situations in my twenty-six
years than most people experienced in a lifetime, yet fear was an
emotion I rarely experienced, protected from the full extent of
any approaching danger by adrenaline, focus, and purpose, not to
mention the once-often, fortuitous arrival of Superman. But now,
with this man whom I had so long thought to *be* Superman looming
over me -- so strong I couldn't hope to fight him off, so fast I
couldn't hope to outrun him, so unknown I couldn't even begin
to figure out how to talk to him -- now, fear struck hard and
deep, brutal, overpowering, so omnipresent that there was no way
to escape it.

But I refused to face it lying down. So, ignoring the feel of the
wound in my arm and the fear-inspired weakness of my muscles, I
painfully picked myself off the floor and canted my chin
defiantly upward.

Something -- something soft, something completely at odds with
his hostile behavior -- stirred within the imposter's eyes,
giving him back the slightest resemblance to my partner. As
quickly as it had appeared, however, it vanished, replaced by
cold stoniness, enforced neutrality.

My stomach dropped out of my feet, and I squeezed my eyes shut,
shrank away from the touch I knew was coming. "No," I
whispered, a useless protest, a hopeless denial. All my
resolution to protect Clark, and I could do nothing for him. I
hadn't even realized he had been kidnapped out of the same room
I was sleeping in, had almost believed the lies the imposter had
told me, and now I had done nothing to see him freed from this
lightless prison.

Despair met fear, mixed with it to become something even more
sickening, more all-pervasive, more draining.

"Father said I had to," the imposter pleaded even as his long
fingers curled around my arm...began to tighten...verged on
becoming painful -- 

"No! Get away from her!" The familiar, beautiful voice split
the dark fate closing in on me. And then Clark, standing twenty
feet away and leaning heavily against a railing, sucked in a deep
breath and blew out.

A cold wind -- as cold as the waves that had hidden Clark from me
and then delivered him to me -- raced past me, causing me to
shrink away, wrapping my arms around my head. The imposter
staggered beneath the onslaught of arctic breath, his cape flared
out behind him, an arm thrown up to his own face in a warding
gesture that did nothing to stop him from being flung backward
against the wall.

Finally, the breeze died away; in its absence, the air felt
unnaturally still and cloyingly hot. Shock flowed like
quicksilver through my veins as my eyes met Clark's. The memory
of Clark's -- Superman's -- hand on my cheek had revealed his
real secret to me, but it was something else entirely to see
Superman's powers emerging from my so-human partner, glasses
still perched impossibly atop his nose.

Ironically, Clark looked almost as surprised as I felt; awed
astonishment was written all across his face.

"Clark!" I exclaimed, though where I found my voice was a
mystery. "Your powers -- they're back!"

He swept my body with a gaze, then grimaced in seeming
disappointment, his voice filled with an encompassing concern.
"Not all of -- "

"Look out!" I screamed with an out-flung hand.

The warning came too late.

The imposter stood menacingly before the door, all trace of doubt
or reluctance erased from his demeanor. In the shadows, his eyes
glowed red. Heat flared hotter, as if the air itself had turned
molten.

Clark let out a gasping cry and staggered backward, clutching at
his chest, a tendril of smoke slipping from between his fingers
to fade into darkness. The smell of burnt flesh tainted the air.

I stared at Clark, horrified. Never before had I seen heat-vision
used in such a way. Never before had I felt such frantic terror.
Clark's name was torn from me, but it was covered by the sound
of his second cry of pain as the imposter's eyes once more
gleamed a red as malevolent as the green glow of Kryptonite.

The Kryptonite!

Snatching random, panicked glances of Clark, I desperately
searched through the gloom. The lead box hadn't been moved since
I had last gone for it, so I found it almost immediately. Yet how
could I reach it? The instant I made a grab for it, I knew the
imposter would be on me -- and this time, who knew how far he'd
go?

Clark seemed to read my mind, or perhaps he simply grew abruptly
tired of being beaten. Straightening, his shirt still smoking, he
tore the glasses from his face and stared intently at the
imposter. For a breathless moment that stretched like elastic,
nothing happened. And then, so suddenly it seemed a spell was
broken, Clark's own eyes shone with a ruby light. The
imposter's face shifted in surprise, but he sent out his own
burst of heat-vision. A fireball exploded into existence halfway
between the two super-powered beings.

But Clark was sweating with effort, and the next time a flame
sparked in mid-air, it was nearer Clark than the imposter.

Dropping to my knees, I scrabbled through the clutter on the
ground and closed my hand once more around the lead box. Curling
my body around it, I looked up, and as suddenly as that, there
was no more room for fear or horror or desperation, only for
action.

Clark was slumped back against the railing, but still gamely
glaring back at the imposter...and yet a long, red line down his
forearm revealed that his miraculous strength was all but gone.

"Clark," I whispered.

"You *are* inferior," the imposter proclaimed, almost
disbelievingly. "But you said he lied."

"He did," Clark panted. "That's all Luthor knows how to do.
Didn't he lie about hurting Lois? Didn't he lie about who --
what -- you are? About what's happening to you?"

"Don't!" the imposter snapped. "You have no idea what you're
talking about!"

Then, completely unexpectedly, he let out a groan and bent
forward, his hands gripping the sides of his head. With a jolt of
recognition, I realized that I had seen this before -- the day he
had flown me to a mountainside location so I could relay Clark's
cunningly planned questions. I didn't know what was happening to
Luthor's minion, but I wasn't about to let the opportunity slip
by.

"Clark!" I hissed, capturing his immediate attention. I tilted
my hands to reveal that I held the Kryptonite. "Get out of here!
Quickly, while he's still distracted!"

His eyes widened. "No! I won't leave you -- "

"Go!" I commanded raggedly. "I can't use it if you're here!
*Now*, Clark!"

A flurry of emotions passed across his face and across mine in
return, an entire conversation played out completely through
expression and clash of wills. We each knew the other so well
that no words needed to be uttered, and no time for them anyway.
In the end, Clark made his torturously slow way to the door,
easily evading the imposter's belated, uncoordinated grab for
him.

As soon as the door closed on the comparatively bright, freshly
cool exterior and on Clark, I flicked open the latch to the box.
The imposter tried to reach me. My hands shook -- but not enough
to stop me from flipping open the lid.

Green pierced the darkness, stabbed the shadows, and effortlessly
felled the man wearing Superman's Suit. He writhed on the
ground, whimpers torn from his clenched jaw, the crimson cape
twisted and torn beneath him, his skin turned sallow and
vulnerable. I stood over him and looked down at his suffering,
and I felt only grim anger.

"How could you let them do this to Clark?" I questioned in a
jagged, severe tone that sounded nothing like me. "How could you
hurt him so much?"

"Well, I must say, this isn't working out the way I'd hoped.
How very disappointing, Lois."

My heart leapt to my throat and cowered there even as I whirled
to look up. There, far above and staring down at me, stood a man
who, even drenched in shadows, was immediately recognizable. And,
I realized with a shiver, he had been watching us the entire
time.

"Luthor!" The name fell from my deadened lips and even the
darkness quivered at the sound of it.

"Father!" The imposter stretched a pleading hand up toward
Luthor as the crime-boss began to descend the stairs. His
expression, mingled hope and apprehension, resembled a child's,
lost and afraid. "Help me! It...*hurts*!"

"The weak deserve to perish," Luthor replied pitilessly. "Only
might makes right -- and so far, *son*, I haven't seen much
might."

The words were so harsh, so cold, so cruel, that I was
half-tempted to close the lead on the Kryptonite and let the
imposter deal with Luthor. Only...I was pretty sure the imposter
wouldn't raise a hand against his "Father."

I backed up a pace, disconcerted by Luthor's approach, so
smooth, so purposeful. Dismissing his creation, he stepped past
him and reached out to me. "Close that box," he ordered, almost
conversationally.

"I'll nev -- " The sight of the door behind Luthor cracking
open and Clark peeking inside silenced me. A spark of irritation
scampered through my body; couldn't he just *once* do what I
told him? Reluctantly, flicking a glance down to the imposter, I
bit back my reluctance and pretended to concede. "Fine," I
muttered, and snapped the box closed.

The effect wasn't an instantaneous cure, but the imposter's
body did relax, more proof that the Kryptonite had been
bombarding him with pain just as it had done to Clark.

A blur at the edge of my vision jerked my attention from the
imposter to his "Father," and I managed to duck away from
Luthor's lunge just in time to avoid him. Fury rained sharp
hailstones through my soul, and I lashed out at Clark's
tormentor. I had asked the imposter how he could have let Clark
be hurt, but Luthor was the one who had masterminded that
torture, the one who had doled it out. And I hated him for it.

My foot snapped his chin back; another kick sent him stumbling
backward, the air knocked out of him. He was expecting the next
kick, however, and he grabbed my leg and tugged sharply forward.
Off-balance, I skidded toward him, horrified when he wrapped an
arm around me in a pseudo-embrace. With a low tsking sound, he
clamped his hand around my wrist and squeezed agonizingly tight.

The lead box fell to the floor.

Ignoring pain, I tore myself free of Luthor's hold, snapping
back the hand he held and managing a glancing blow to his cheek.
He let out a yell of outrage, which only fueled me -- that, and
the knowledge that Clark might have already come back inside,
closing his escape route behind him.

I made to punch Luthor again, but was stopped by familiar --
alien -- long fingers catching hold of my forearm and easily
holding me still. With a gasp, I looked behind me and saw the
expected red S on its yellow and blue background. Fear began to
trickle slowly down my spine, drop by agonizing drop.

Luthor held his hand to the emerging bruise on his cheek, and he
smiled at me -- a black and chilling smile. "A valiant effort,
my dear, but in the end, a vain one."

"Let go of me!" I demanded of the imposter, beseeching him with
my eyes. "Please!"

He did not look at me; he looked straight ahead. His hand was not
tight around my arm, but it was immovable.

"Ah, quite a useless task, I'm afraid." Luthor snickered,
then, and I was suddenly very certain that whatever tenuous hold
on sanity he had once held was now only a distant memory. "My
son is quite loyal to me."

"Your son?" I repeated skeptically. Inside, I quivered at the
memory of a starlit flight, a kiss that had physically moved me,
confidences shared that had, I now realized, been later relayed
to Luthor. "There isn't much of a family resemblance," I added
sneeringly. Every fiber in my body refused to reveal how
terrified I really was. Carefully, not wanting to give him away,
I chanced a glimpse over Luthor's shoulder in the direction of
the door. It was closed; there was no sign of Clark.

"Not in physical appearance, perhaps," Luthor allowed
patronizingly. "But I created him. Quite simple, really, if one
has possession of the correct tools -- and, of course, the
correct genetic material. Which your partner so obligingly
provided."

Disbelievingly, I stared up at the...clone? "He's just a
copy," I realized aloud. But why should I be surprised? I had
already come to the conclusion that everything attractive about
him was simply the reflected glory of Clark.

"Not 'just,'" Luthor corrected. Leaden defeat paralyzed me
when he bent and scooped up the shielded Kryptonite. "He is
*better* than the original, aren't you, my son?"

For the first time since Luthor had made his presence known, the
clone dared to glance at me. He bore a helpless, almost arrested
expression, and no matter what had transpired only moments
before, I couldn't help but feel pity for him.

Luthor played with the box, holding it up to the flickering light
and studying it as if it were a priceless work of art. Knowing
him as I now did, I wouldn't have been surprised if he *did*
view it as such. "But I must admit, my dear, you have
disappointed me. Quite irrevocably, in fact."

I shrank back when he stepped closer to me, trapped between the
clone's chest and the egomaniac before me. Clark's double was
the one who possessed strength enough to kill me with a single
touch, a single glance, a single breath, yet I instinctively knew
that he was safer than Luthor.

"I made my son study everything your *Superman* did and said and
thought," Luthor explained as if enlightening me. "I was sure
that if given a choice between the superhero you so publicly
idolized and the bumbling, inconsequential partner you had once
had, you would choose the superhero I fashioned for you. In fact,
it was a wager I made with your *Superman*." He gave a careless
shrug, seemingly oblivious to the lives he had ruined. "I don't
think he took me seriously, not until I invited you to stay with
him. Then..." A cruel smile played along his narrow lips. "Then
I think it became frightfully real. Didn't it, *Kent*?" Luthor
whirled to face the shadows near the door.

I swallowed to force my heart closer to its rightful place and to
work some moisture into my mouth. "If you had been paying
attention earlier," I said acidly, "you would have seen that
Clark left."

Luthor sneered at me so condescendingly that I actually moved to
slap him. The clone easily caught my hand, now holding both of
them. And still he did not look at me, his eyes locked on the man
he knew as his father.

"Trust me," Luthor stated. "My credo is: know thy enemy. And
Kent's major weakness is his *morality*, his appalling sense of
ethics, his pathetic desire to be *normal*. Without those, he
could rule the world, have all the power he wanted, force the
world leaders to kneel before him, possess everything he wants --
he could have simply said the word, and you would have been his,
wouldn't you, my dear?" He didn't even pause to enjoy my
discernible flinch away from the truth of his words. "But his
*integrity* -- his wish to be nothing more than a mere human --
won't allow that! And he does seem to love you, Lois Lane,
though frankly, I question his tastes. No, Kent would never leave
you. He's here, biding his time, waiting, trying to outthink
me."

"That shouldn't be hard," I observed sarcastically. It was
dangerous, but, well, when had I ever let that stop me before?
And Clark would need the distraction if he really did plan on
attacking Luthor.

For a second, though, I wondered if I had pushed the crime-boss a
bit too far. His eyes narrowed dangerously, and he moved so near
me that even the clone took a tiny step backward. Was it my
imagination, or did the clone actually almost pull me
protectively behind him?

"*You* betrayed him as surely as anyone," Luthor told me
slowly, emphasizing each word, speaking loudly enough that Clark,
no matter where he was hiding, would hear. "All those months he
followed you around so pathetically while you ignored him in
favor of his more brightly attired identity. And then, when I
offered that hero to you on a silver platter, you threw aside
your 'partner' and fled into the arms of my son. You might have
eventually revealed your fickle nature by throwing aside even the
superhero for the nobody he portrays, but make no mistake -- you
betrayed Kent every time you believed my creation over him."

"I believed 'your creation,'" I said coldly, blinking away
tears before they could fall, "only when he spoke the words
Clark would say. When he did what Clark would do. When he touched
me the way Clark does. When he pretended to *be* Clark! Your
clone isn't Superman -- he can *never* be Superman. And, no
matter what method you choose to attain that goal, *you* will
never be Superman either. It's not the Suit. It's not the
powers. It's not even the DNA! It's something you'll never
have -- *character*. To be Superman, you have to care about
something...something other than yourself. You have to *be* Clark
Kent."

Casually, thoughtlessly, Luthor backhanded me. The tears I had
been restraining fell, wetting the clone's fake S. His
deceptively gentle hands tightened -- not painfully, almost
comfortingly -- over my wrists.

"Stop it, Luthor!" Clark stepped out of the shadows, and at the
sound of his voice -- so strong, so determined, so resolute --
the light fled to his form, armored him in illumination, fed on
his inner light to brighten the whole of the interior.

"No, Clark!" I cried.

Aside from a reassuring look to me, Clark did not turn his
attention from the man who had tormented him. "Your fight is
with me, Luthor. You said you wouldn't hurt her if I followed
your rules. You promised she would be safe while we played this
*game* of yours."

A victorious gleam glinted coldly in Luthor's obsidian eyes.
"All's fair in love and war, and believe me, Kent" -- his
voice turned as hard as titanium, his expression as unyielding as
the firm body just behind me -- "*this* -- *is* -- *war*!"

And he flipped open the box of Kryptonite.

Clark staggered beneath the eerie light but managed to stay on
his feet. The clone, however, released me and fell to the floor
with an inarticulate scream. I jerked myself free of his
deadweight and stood on shaky legs.

"Father, please!" the clone begged. He stared up at his father,
but Luthor had no attention to spare for him.

"*Superman*!" Luthor exclaimed derisively as he plucked the
green stone from the box and tossed the lead container away. He
shoved the stone nearer Clark, and my partner let out a tiny
whimper and slipped to his knees. "I don't need you, Kent. The
world has no longer need of your services at all! And your clone
-- what need have I of a puppet Superman when you both proved so
weak! *I* am more powerful than you both! I can have anything I
want -- and that's without *superpowers* at my beck and call! I
already own more congressional seats than anyone would suspect --
I control the criminal world -- I can have whatever I want!"

Luthor lowered his voice, bending forward as Clark was forced to
the floor, agony twisting his beloved features into an
unrecognizable mask of pain. "I had Lois already, even without
my son. She dated me, you know...kissed me. When Superman failed
her, she turned to me. And when I was not there, when her
Superman failed her again, she turned to you. You come last in
her estimation, Kent. You -- "

"You talk too much," I growled and lunged forward. Luthor
turned startled eyes in my direction, but I had already snatched
the Kryptonite from his hands and was running as fast as possible
up the stairs, mapping out the quickest route to the large vat of
boiling steel.

Luthor roared out his rage like an animal. His footsteps on the
metal landings were frighteningly loud, unbelievably fast,
indescribably deadening. I would never reach the vat in time, and
so I came to a halt, pulled back my arm, and threw the Kryptonite
as hard as I could toward the melted metal. Luthor tackled me
just as I let the alien stone go. He fell atop me painfully hard,
but that wasn't what made me freeze in defeat.

The Kryptonite had fallen short of its mark. In fact, it had
fallen almost in the clone's lap.

I saw Clark reach out a weak, boneless hand toward the clone I
had thought was his brother. "Throw it to me," he rasped. He
was closest to the vat, and we thought so similarly that he had
reached the same plan of action I had. "Give it to me. Let me
destroy it."

I missed the clone's response. Luthor grabbed my shoulder and
rolled me to face him. He was unrecognizable as the urbane,
charming man I had agreed to date in order to get an interview;
he was mad. Stark, raving mad.

"You think this will stop me?" he shouted into my face, landing
a blow on my left arm that obliterated rational thought and clear
vision and hope that I'd get out of this alive. "*Nothing* can
stop me! This is my *destiny*, can't you see that? We don't
need aliens to show us the way -- *I* will lead us into the
future! This is *my* world!"

Somewhere in the middle of his insane spiel, he had hit me again.
His knee was digging painfully into my ribcage. And now...now,
his hands were crawling around my neck, his fingers like spiders,
and he was tightening his grip. Tighter, tighter, so much tighter
that his face blurred in my vision, his words blurred in my ears,
and reality blurred around me.

Everything was going black; even the dim sparks thrown by the
boiling steel faded away. But one thing grabbed for my attention
-- leapt for it, reached for it, and caught it. Slowly, panicked,
I managed to pry one of Luthor's hands free of my throat and
then, almost unable to feel the pain the movement caused, I
turned my head as far as possible and looked down through the
grated steps to the floor so far below.

Clark. Even tortured and beaten, he was beautiful. He was on his
knees, pleading with the clone, who was himself curled up in a
small ball. The Kryptonite sucked in the light from its place so
near the clone's hand. Desperately, Clark looked up at me, and
for a timeless instant, our eyes locked. There was such concern
evident in his gaze, so much love and fear and desperate
determination no matter his own plight.

His lips were moving and I almost fancied that I could hear him,
that the vaulted ceiling echoed his words back to me. "You said
you loved her," he was pleading with the clone. "You said you
would do whatever you could to save her -- you said you wanted to
be Superman for her. Well, *try*! Give me the Kryptonite!"

And amazingly, enspelled by the same qualities of integrity and
honor and empathy that had also drawn me to Clark, the clone
grabbed hold of the Kryptonite, let out a gasp of pain, and
tossed it to Clark. In a smooth movement that concealed just how
much it must have cost him, Clark caught the alien stone,
swiveled in place, and threw the Kryptonite. It curved through
the air, seemed to pause at the height of its arc -- all the
world holding its breath -- and then it descended with a
traitorous grace and fell into melting steel.

Strength surged through my limbs, stemming the tide of
encroaching darkness, and I shoved Luthor off me and against the
railing. I knew I should attack him immediately, before he could
recover his balance, but all I could do was curl up on my knees
and cough and gasp for air. The heat was so intense this far up
that it felt as if I inhaled liquid fire with each breath.

"Help me!" I heard Clark urging the clone, the tenor of his
voice slicing through all else to reach my ears. Luthor was
ranting about something or other, and I knew he had come to his
feet, but I could not seem to stand.

"He's my father!" the clone cried.

"He cares nothing for you!" Clark retorted furiously, and with
this proof of his indomitability, I managed to make my way to my
own feet to once more, waveringly, face Luthor. "Please!" Clark
continued. "You...you're like my brother! Please! Help me! Help
her! We're each the only family the other has right now."

I don't know if Luthor was even aware of what they were saying,
or if he simply thought the clone utterly incapable of turning
against him. All I know is that he seemed maniacally obsessed
with me, perhaps because with the Kryptonite destroyed, I was now
the only way he knew of to hurt Clark.

I wanted to do nothing more than beat up Luthor, but I didn't
think I was quite strong enough for that. So I ran. It was
galling even then to turn and flee from this single man, but the
hatred, the madness, in his eyes was more terrifying than
anything I had ever faced before, and it was compounded by the
debilitating weakness I was feeling, as if *I* had been the one
affected by the Kryptonite.

I ran across a landing and hit more stairs, more fell than walked
down them, and started across another landing. I had drawn
perilously near the searing vat and the heat was enough to dance
flecks in front of my eyes.

A sob of fear and defeat escaped me when Luthor hit me from
behind.

"Lois!" I heard Clark cry. But he was on the ground-floor, so
far away he might as well have been on another planet. "Luthor,
no! Stop! I'll do whatever you want -- just let her go!"

"Oh no, Kent!" Luthor's hands crawled along my face, pulling
at my hair to tug me toward the vat containing a piece of hell,
choking the breath from me, his touch erasing all sensation other
than *hurt*. "Our game is over, and I...I never lose."

"Lois!" Clark's cry was more anguished than I had ever before
heard it.

And then I heard nothing more. All sound faded like mist before
sunlight. I was left in a tiny pocket of nothing but blurred
sights, as if the movie continued to play even after it had been
muted. Luthor was still on top of me, his hands wrapped around my
throat, and I could feel him, but only dimly, the sensation far
removed from me.

I wished I could hear Clark, wished I could see him again, wished
I could reach out and run my hand through his hair and down his
neck, wished I could tell him that Luthor was wrong about me,
that I hadn't really betrayed him, that I had only been confused
but that I did love him, had loved him for so long, would never
stop loving him...

A blur of red and blue sped past me.

The hands were torn from my throat.

I felt myself falling, falling, falling.

Something hurled me through air. Something heavy grounded me,
shielded me.

Breath was gone.

And then...so was all light.

Eternal blackness claimed me.

***

Chapter 22

Darkness.

Pain, muted and distant.

Flames burning the air with their scent.

The sound of a soft, smoky voice whispering my name over and over
again.

The taste of lips on mine and the air he breathed into me.

After a formless, dreamless time, my five senses suddenly,
convulsively culminated into one overwhelming awareness of
*being*, and as quickly as that, darkness receded, replaced by
fire that surrounded us, merged with shadows to consume us,
trapped us in one tiny hole of air.

Us.

For Clark was there, his body curled around mine, his hand on my
face tilting my head, his the mouth that had breathed life back
into me, his the voice that called my name and insisted I come
back to him. Only gradually did I realize that I hadn't been
breathing and that the darkness which had claimed me could have
easily been death.

"Clark!" I half-gasped, half-mumbled, but it was enough for
him, superhearing or no.

Relief poured from him, and he let out what might have been a sob
before gathering me tightly to himself. His murmurs faded
incoherently, and then, his vibrant eyes catching the light, he
ducked his head and kissed me.

All the Christmas magic and birthday presents and surprise
parties I had never received -- and had given up expecting --
suddenly burst open within me, as solid and real as the feel of
Clark's body protecting mine from the unstable flames and tiny
explosions going off behind him. For an instant, I thought that
surely there was nothing in the world that could take this
feeling away from me.

And then, succumbing to the need for oxygen, I pushed him away
from me...and saw a flicker of hurt trace the contours of his
face...and felt the feeling his touch had evoked withering away.

Clark.

Superman.

One and the same.

But what had happened to the clone?

"Come on." All sign of whatever emotions had pummeled their way
through him only instants earlier were now erased as Clark
adjusted his feet beneath him and half-lifted me upward. "We
have to get out of here. I blew toward the explosion, but the
Kryptonite weakened my strength."

At first, I couldn't get his words to make sense, no matter how
hard I tried to force them into rational understanding. It was
hard enough trying to stand, trying not to pull Clark -- who
looked as bad as I felt -- down with me when my knees gave out.
Only when he scooped me, not without discernible effort, into his
arms and turned to stumble down stairs that were half melted away
did I begin to put all the pieces together.

That blur of red and blue hurtling above me and the feel of
Luthor's hands being wrested from my throat -- the clone must
have been able to summon enough strength to fly, or at least leap
unbelievably high to slam into Luthor. But...my wandering, numb
gaze moved past Clark's shoulder to where the vat of boiling
steel had once rested.

All that now remained were the twisted, searing remnants of the
bottom of the vat. The interior of Steelworks was a mess of
untamed flames, smoldering embers, melted metal wherever the
liquid steel had hit, and smoke that tainted every breath save
the ones Clark had given me.

The weakened clone must have fallen into the vat, which had been
the catalyst for an explosion. I was too numb, too weak, too
exhausted to figure out what I thought of the clone's demise. I
dared not look back and see if there was anything left of him or
of Luthor on the landing or where the vat had once been.

But...a slow frown briefly twisted my lips, jarred out of
existence by the jolt of pain slicing through my arm when Clark
staggered upon reaching the ground-floor. Fire roared around us,
and the ground shook with what might have been another building
explosion. One we wouldn't survive -- just as I shouldn't have
survived the last one. So how had I? How was I still alive, still
unharmed, still in the dark?

As Clark's arm tightened around me, as my hand slipped from his
chest and fell to the hand he had curled around my legs in order
to carry me through the danger threatening on all sides, I
remembered the sensation of falling and the sight of a darker
colored blur, and I remembered the feel of something heavy
anchoring me, something that had taken the brunt of the heat and
the forceful concussion of the explosion. Something that had -- I
now realized thanks to my slightly more ordered, coherent
thoughts -- felt a lot like Clark.

Bile rose in my throat. I took advantage of the way Clark shifted
me in his arms so he could open the door and half-stumble,
half-fall out into open air, and I looped my arm once more around
his neck...and I slid my fingers down his back.

A trembling gasp escaped him and he shuddered away from my touch,
but not before I felt strips of cloth and liquid as warm as his
body, sticky, clammy, and not yet dried.

Blood.

A tiny sound was torn from me. Clark instantly mumbled an
apology, gathering me once more close to himself and finding more
unbelievable, incredible, otherworldly strength, enough to stand,
enough to stagger forward, enough to cradle me close to him in
hands burned by the Kryptonite when he had thrown it, enough to
carry me away from danger as I trembled in the grip of dazed
shock.

The blaze that was the interior of Steelworks was just barely
still visible on the horizon when Clark finally fell to his knees
on the side of a quiet road. In the distance, sirens pierced the
early-morning air. Closer, a chilled, moist snowflake drifted
from fat clouds to land on my nose.

"Clark?" I whispered.

"It's all right," he gasped weakly. "Earlier, when I left you
alone with the clone, I found a phone. Henderson should be
coming. He'll...he'll get the fire department."

"Clark, are you all right?"

What a ridiculous question, I mused, as if it had fallen from
someone else's lips. Anyone who even caught a glimpse of Clark
would have called the ambulance for him, or would have driven him
straight to the hospital themselves, or would have wondered if
they were seeing a dead man walking; they certainly wouldn't
have allowed him to carry them to safety.

At that thought, I pulled myself away from Clark's arms, then
contradictorily almost cried out when he mutely let his hands
fall to his side. We both slumped there on the cold ground,
abstractly, numbly regarding one another as more wet snowflakes
fell from the skies to dust our hair, our skin, our clothes.

The thought of clothes made me realize Clark was shivering with
cold. And his back -- I hadn't yet caught a good look at it, but
I knew from the amount of blood and his audible reaction that it
had to be bad. But chances were -- I prayed -- that he'd heal
much faster than the average person, and I knew he would hate to
be forced to go to a hospital.

And I was wearing his sweater.

"Here." Slowly, moving as leisurely as if I were in a dream, I
brought my hands to the hem of the sweater and struggled to pull
it up and off.

"Lois!" Clark sounded half-strangled.

"Your sweater," I explained tersely, mechanically. "You're
cold, and it'll cover the wounds on your back so no one will see
them."

He began to halfheartedly protest, but I had already managed to
pull the sweater off, and I now offered it to him. Despite the
long-sleeved shirt I wore, the cold bit deep, compounded by the
frozen, melting liquid decorating all within its purview.

Clark let out another slight gasp of pain when he pulled the
sweater on, and my hands instinctively flew toward him. I let
them drop, however, so when the sweater was past his eyes, he
only saw me huddled there before him. He hadn't answered my
question about his well-being, I suddenly realized, and spared a
thought to wonder why my mind seemed so numb, so hazed, so
uncomprehending when only moments earlier I had been able to
puzzle out recent events.

Clark -- he wasn't touching me anymore. His arms were hanging at
his sides; his hands were loose and empty; he crouched a foot
away from me. That, I knew without a doubt, was why everything
seemed so detached, so distant, so hard to grasp and process and
comprehend. All I had to do to correct the problem, then, was
reach out and touch him, take him into my arms, stroke his
cheek.

Aside from the shudders brought on by the winter air, though, I
didn't move.

And I didn't even know why.

"You..." His hands clenched into fists against the cold ground
and frozen grass, as if he were once more gathering his strength.
"You need to get warm. I-I'll get us a taxi. S-stay here. Just
a m-minute."

And he began to rise to his feet, began to move away, began to
leave me.

"No!" As impossible as it had seemed to bridge the gap between
us an instant earlier, it was now impossible to remain still. I
threw myself into his arms, knocking him off-balance so that I
ended up in his lap. And yet his arms instantly came around me,
warm and comforting and solid. Suddenly I didn't care that he
was hurt, that he was Superman, that he was probably in more pain
than I was; I only wanted him to keep hold of me, to never let
go, to bury his face in my hair and murmur my name with *that*
tone in his voice and tighten his hold around me in such a way
that my own form was defined by the feel of his embrace...just as
he was doing now.

"Stay with me?" I begged him quietly, my voice muffled by his
chest, my face nestled against his neck, my eyes squeezed shut to
blot out the rest of the world. The only sensation to penetrate
my single-mindedness, aside from Clark, was the feel of the tiny
flakes peppering my hair and skin.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised. Amazingly, he sounded
stronger, as if my need for him had done what our entrance into
the night air could not.

"Hold me?" I asked, needing to feel him near me, needing to
know that he did not believe what Luthor had said about me, that
he would not abandon me.

"Shh, it's all right. I'm here." He tightened his embrace
still further, not painfully, just solidly enough that I could
have no cause to doubt his presence. "I won't let go."

My voice dropped still lower as I uttered my last, most daring,
most important request. "Love me?"

"Of course I love y -- " He was abruptly silent, the form that
enveloped me falling abnormally still. Finally, he whispered only
one word, uncertainly, tentatively, split evenly between fear and
hope: "Lois?"

I momentarily resisted his attempt to move me where he could see
my face before succumbing and opening my eyes to behold his
shell-shocked expression. I opened my mouth, but for the life of
me, I could get no words to emerge. Terror -- greater even than
when Luthor had been strangling me -- engulfed me. What if he
said no? What if he pushed me away? What if he didn't believe
me? After all, Luthor had explicitly spelled out all the ways I
had failed Clark -- in both his guises.

"I do love you -- how could you not know that?" Clark
whispered, one arm pulling me closer to himself, the other
skimming along my cheek. "I think I've loved you from the
moment I met you. I can't help it-but I want to, anyway. I...I
love loving you." He gave a sheepish shrug, his eyes now
avoiding mine. "I love you, Lois. I'm sorry."

I gaped up at him. Had he just...*apologized*...for loving me?

"But, Lois." Clark's hold briefly tightened before loosening,
as if he were preparing himself for the moment when I would slip
away from him. "I can't be Superman right now."

Dread squeezed my heart in a viselike grip.

"I don't know if I'll ever be able to be Superman again. What
Luthor did to the name...and the Kryptonite...I...I just don't
know."

A tear slipped down my cheek to join the clinging snowflakes,
then another, then another, then a blinding torrent that
threatened to drown out Clark.

"I'm sorry, Lois." A thread of panic and deep, unknowable pain
laced his voice. "I wish I could be Superman for you. I...I know
you love him. But..."

I gripped Clark's sweater tightly in my fists, fighting to
control the impending sobs, rising in tandem with the memory of
his words long hours before: <*Why* are you here with me now? Is
it...it's not because of my secret...is it?>

"I wish..." Clark swallowed. "Even if I could be him, Lois, I
couldn't *just* be him. I'd have to be *me*, too. I can't --
"

My hands moved to either side of his face and my lips met and
merged with his, cutting off the rest of his agonizing,
recriminating, selfless apology. "Shh," I murmured between
kisses he accepted as if in a dream. "Stop it. Stop apologizing.
I don't care if you're Superman. I want *you*, Clark. I love
you. I love you."

"You..." His eyes were wide and...disbelieving?

A gaping hole opened up somewhere inside me, threatened to
swallow me whole. He didn't believe me. And why should he?
Luthor had been right, after all. I had betrayed him. And
yet...and yet I could not stop myself from spilling the rest of
my words before him, from fighting for him, from trying to make
him see just how worthy of love he -- Clark Kent *or* Superman --
was.

"I love you," I repeated. Even the sensation of tears and
snowflakes trickling down my cheeks faded away; all that remained
in my consciousness was the man before me...and the desperate
state of my heart. "I think I've loved you for a long time, but
I...I was afraid, too afraid to admit it, even to myself. And
I'm sorry." My breathing grew shaky as my body sagged,
supported only by his trembling arms. "I'm sorry because now
you'll never believe me when I say I love you regardless of
superpowers. You'll never be able to trust me after what your
clone -- "

"No." Clark studied me as if I had granted him his every wish,
one finger moving to caress my cheekbone in a move so poignant my
eyes slid closed in sheer bliss. "I do believe you. I...wondered
earlier tonight, when you cried for me, when you wished you could
undo what Luthor had done. And as you said -- you dived into the
ocean after me. And..." A smile played along the edges of his
tempting mouth, and I was infinitely surprised that all the snow
collecting along every surface wasn't instantly vaporized by the
sheer heat in his eyes. "You believed *me*, Lois. 'Superman'
was standing right there, and you believed...*me*. So I believe
you."

And he leaned nearer me and framed my face in his hands and
rained tiny, delicate kisses down on me, on each tear, on every
inch of my face. "I love you, Lois," he murmured in between
those tantalizing kisses. "I love you. If only you knew how much
I love you. I -- "

"I do know!" I exclaimed, fisting my hands in his sweater to
claim him as my own, daring to risk fate by smiling, unable to
contain it any longer at the sight of his growing comprehension
and joy. "You've proved it a hundred times over. And," I added
mischievously, "you don't lie."

Something, some shadow, passed across his features, but the next
instant, he was pulling us both to our feet and guiding us toward
the crossroads where the headlights of passing cars could be
seen, and I convinced myself that it was a shadow brought only by
the clouds scudding across the sky, obscuring the setting moon
and the rising sun and any shooting stars that might have dared
to fly.

"What do we need a taxi for?" I finally thought to ask when
Clark tried to flag one down. "You said Henderson was coming."

Clark shrugged, his eyes on his feet. "I don't have my glasses.
And I don't know how much is left of -- well, I don't know what
they'll find back there. It's always best to play ignorant and
let them tell you what happened before making up your own
story."

"Oh." I was suddenly struck by how many times Clark had done
that -- arrived too late, or showed up with some vague excuse, or
simply appeared with no explanation and let me or Perry or Jimmy
or anyone else come up with our own reasons for it, goaded on by
his innocent, clueless look.

With a sidelong, almost guilty glance to me, Clark's shoulders
rounded and he stuffed his hands in his pockets. We stood there
in silence several moments more, he trying to get a cab to stop
for us, me realizing exactly how much I had missed where Clark
was concerned.

The fifth taxi Clark waved at finally stopped, and we both
gratefully sank into the back seat. For once, I was glad of the
concealing darkness since it hid just how shaken I felt, just how
much guilt twisted within me, just how badly I wanted to erase
what Clark had endured. Reminded of his pain, I gently reached
over and took his hand in both of mine. The sight of the burns
seared into the flesh by the Kryptonite sickened me.

Clark watched me, but said nothing, and the rest of the ride
passed slowly.

When we finally reached my apartment building, I had to pretend
to a healthy strength I didn't feel and walk upstairs to
retrieve money for the fare. Then I casually slipped my arm
around Clark's waist to cover just how weak he really was from
the departing cabdriver. As soon as the taxi turned a corner,
however, Clark slumped heavily against me.

The sun wasn't up yet, but I still wondered at how long it was
taking him to recover. Unless...unless there were flecks of the
Kryptonite lodged within his wounds. He had, after all, thrown
the Kryptonite in the liquid silver before it had exploded
outward to burn him, and who knew how much of the Kryptonite had
been seared into his hands.

As soon as we got inside the apartment, I directed Clark to the
bathroom, handed him some clothes from the duffel bag, and
ordered him to take a shower. Curiously withdrawn, he made no
response other than to painstakingly shamble into the restroom,
and another thrill of fear stroked white-hot trails through my
mind. I darted a glance to the window in an effort to consciously
will the sun above the horizon.

While Clark was in the shower, I collected a couple supplies for
him, changed into warm, dry pajamas, checked the wound on my arm,
and ran a comb through my damp hair. I meant to make hot tea or
coffee and to shut the windows the clone had left open, but I
couldn't summon the energy. As soon as I had pulled the comb
through my hair one last time, my hand fell limply to my lap.
Only when the bathroom door opened and Clark -- dressed in sweat
pants and a t-shirt, his hair wet and tousled, his hands held
gingerly at his sides -- took a tentative, weary step into the
bedroom did I manage to rouse myself and stand.

For a long moment, we only looked at each other. I wasn't quite
sure what had happened. Less than an hour earlier, we had been
exchanging fantastical kisses and confessing soul-shaking love.
Now...now, we both seemed afraid to move, afraid to touch the
other, afraid that it had all been a dream or the results of
coming down from an adrenaline rush...or a mistake? Could Clark
be thinking that?

A shudder rippled through my frame, and as quickly as that, Clark
stepped forward and opened his arms to me. Unashamedly,
unabashedly, unhesitatingly, I fell into them and clung to him.

But weariness was stronger than us both, and when we both wavered
and almost fell, I let out a tiny chuckle to cover the multitude
of emotions stirred within me. Then I tugged on his hand, and
pushed on his shoulder to get him to sit down on the bed. He made
no protest, but he kept fast hold of my hand, as if afraid to let
go. I willingly sat beside him, but gently slipped my hand free
of his to turn and sort through the supplies I had set on the
bedside table.

Though I assumed -- hoped -- the rising sun would heal his
wounds, I still took a tube of antibiotic and twisted off the
lid. Then I took his hand in between mine and smoothed the cream
over his burns before bandaging what I could. He didn't wince
away, or even let out a single whimper; instead, he watched me,
his vibrant, radiant eyes tracing my features with a depth of
feeling that made mischievous fairies take restless flight in the
pit of my stomach.

When I finished with his hands, I wordlessly pushed on his arm
and made him turn so that his back was to me. Then, trying to
ignore the intimacy of what I was doing, I pulled his t-shirt up
so I could see his back.

Horror assailed me at the sight of the damage. My hands trembled
as I gently, tenderly anointed every raw wound, the flesh of his
back treated as much by my tears as by the antibiotic. I would
have bandaged as much as I could with my dwindling first-aid
supplies, but Clark twisted away. He turned to face me, pulling
his shirt back down to its proper place, and met my gaze.

His expression was so ambiguous, his body so still, his eyes so
blank, his thoughts so shielded that I wondered for an instant if
the Kryptonite had affected his mind in some way. I had never
seen Clark so closed down before, not during the heat-wave, or in
the cell, or even when I had first reached the Steelworks
factory.

"Clark," I whispered, my voice scarcely audible. "What is it?
What's wrong?"

Not that there weren't a hundred things wrong with the situation
as a whole. Not that he didn't have more than enough
justification for his guarded manner. Not that I myself couldn't
have come up with an answer for him. But I was trying so hard to
see Clark *and* Superman when I looked at him, trying to reassure
both of us that I had meant what I told him under the coldly
weeping clouds, trying to convince myself that he didn't feel
betrayed by my past actions or disappointed by my blindness, and
so I asked the question anyway.

For a torturous moment, Clark said nothing, remaining mute so
long that I picked up a damp washcloth to wipe my hands clean,
swallowing at the sight of his blood staining my fingers. Then,
abruptly, he spoke softly: "It's over, Lois." And then, his
voice breaking and hope and fear and endearing, heartbreaking
vulnerability now evident on his face, he added almost inaudibly,
"Isn't it?"

"Yes, Clark," I replied, my own voice none too steady. "It
is."

He remained still an instant longer before his mask began to
crumble and his body began to shake and his scarred hands rose to
his face to cover his eyes as he finally began to comprehend and
accept and understand that his long nightmare was over. Before he
could cover his face with his hands, though, shutting me outside
the solitude of his thoughts, I was there, slipping my arms
around his neck, pulling him into me, running a hand through his
hair as he bent his head and buried his face against my neck,
feeling him hold onto me as if I were all that kept him from
drowning.

We were both wordsmiths, and our relationship had always been
characterized by strong wordplays and conversational sparring and
verbal double meanings, but somehow, Luthor or the clone or the
situation or the professions of love or the intimate moment or
all of those combined had drained us both dry of words, leaving
us silent.

Much as words had once flowed between us, though, there had also
been moments when we hadn't needed them. When a glance or a hug
or the touch of a hand had said all that was necessary. This, I
knew as I enveloped Clark in a sustained embrace, was one of
those moments.

Finally, when Clark's shudders eased and he sagged minutely in
my arms, I drew back a bit, ran a hand across his cheek -- dry,
as if the moment was too overwhelming, too all-encompassing, too
*big* for mere tears -- and then pushed against his shoulder to
get him to lie down. He did, settling on his side, but reached
out to take my hand and tug me toward him. Eagerly, freely, I
stretched out beside him. We fit together, just as we always had,
as if we had been destined for one another. He tentatively
slipped his arm around my waist, and I rested my head on the
pillow beside him and my hand on his chest as all the physical
exhaustion and mental weariness and emotional fatigue I hadn't
had time to feel came crashing down on us both.

As the beginnings of a cloud-drenched dawn began to peek shyly
through the windows, Clark fell into what I hoped was a healing
sleep. I had intended to stay awake and decide what our story
would be when Henderson eventually called, but it was only a
moment before I, too, slept.

The room was lit with bright sunshine that fell in gleaming bands
across the bed when I found myself gradually coming awake. Not
sure what had roused me, I tilted my head a bit and found myself
gazing at Clark. He was still fast asleep, and though his arm
tightened around me when I shifted, he showed no signs of waking
up. A smile traced my lips even before memories of the night
before came pouring back into my mind.

A knock at the door -- a pounding that indicated it wasn't the
first time whoever it was had knocked -- answered the question as
to what had woken me. Strangely, I didn't feel impatient to find
out who it was or nervous about who it might be. Maybe, I thought
as I gingerly extricated myself from Clark's drowsy embrace, it
was because I knew Luthor -- and his fake Superman -- were gone.

I straightened my clothes, glad the flannel bottoms and
long-sleeved shirt I was wearing could pass as casual wear, and
stepped into the living room. I closed the bedroom door behind me
so the visitor wouldn't wake Clark -- or catch sight of his
wounded, exhausted form.

"Perry!" I exclaimed in surprise when I unlocked and pulled
open the door.

"Lois," my editor replied carefully. His sharp eyes were intent
on me, a quick glance taking me in from head to toe. I belatedly
hoped nothing of my encounter with Luthor and the clone showed.

"What are you doing here?" I asked cautiously.

He cocked his head. "Henderson called. He said you and Clark
weren't answering the phone and he was worried about you both. I
said I'd check on you. So?"

"So?" I repeated, drawing the syllable out. "Why did Henderson
call?"

Perry's eyes narrowed. "Do you want me to discuss this out in
the hall?"

Tamping down on my nervousness, I realized there was no way I
could avoid this encounter. "Come in," I invited, hoping I
wouldn't regret it. I shot a quick glance toward the bedroom,
but knew there would be no help coming from that quarter.

"Where's Clark?" Perry asked bluntly, seemingly unwilling to
take a seat, instead standing in the center of the living room.
"Is he all right?"

"Well..." Another glance toward the bedroom steeled my nerves.
"He hasn't been feeling well since yesterday morning when
Luthor's man tried to pass himself off as a cop. He got sick
during the night; I've been taking care of him. We were both
sleeping this morning, however, which is probably why we didn't
hear Henderson's call."

Ha! I thought triumphantly, my worry and nervousness about lying
for Clark's enormous secret disbanded. There was quite a bit of
truth in my statement -- in fact, everything I had said was,
strictly speaking, true -- something I thought Clark, with his
disapproval of even white lies, would probably appreciate. More,
I had managed to spin the story without once shifting my weight
or pausing to choose my words or looking stubbornly off into the
distance, a feat Clark himself couldn't manage.

"Hmm." Perry nodded. "Very interesting. I'll be sure to let
Henderson know what's going on, of course, and tell him what you
said."

"Okay," I said, a bit mystified by the Chief's completely
matter-of-fact tone and his apparent lack of interest in the
page-one story we had "missed" by sleeping through Henderson's
call.

"I guess I should let you get some sleep." Perry took a step
past me, then paused and lifted a finger as if he had just
remembered something, his other hand digging into his coat
pocket. "Oh, I should probably give you these. He might need
them."

I froze at the sight of Clark's glasses in Perry's hand. The
lenses were cracked and stained with soot; one of the arms was
melted and deformed.

"Of course," Perry continued musingly, smugly confident that he
had my full attention, "the story about how I found these here
glasses is quite interesting. You see, when Henderson called, he
thought you and Clark might have been caught in a weird explosion
in the Steelworks factory that also, coincidentally enough,
involved Lex Luthor. Well, naturally, I ran right down there to
see what was going on. Since Jimmy's staying at my place, he
decided to come too. A good thing, actually, seein' as how he
caught sight of this particular pair of glasses in the ash of an
active crime scene. Well, Lois," he spread his hands out
innocently, "you know the laws against swiping evidence, but
Jimmy thought Clark might want his glasses back, and I
was...well, inclined to agree. So..." His eyes sharpened still
further as he offered the glasses to me. "Care to try again
tellin' me where you were very early this morning?"

The glasses were warm in my hand, and suddenly very, very heavy.
This, I thought with an inward grimace, had to be why Clark had
suggested we listen to the official story before coming up with
our own. And yet...if I didn't plan on letting the whole world
know Clark's personal story, the secret he had entrusted to me,
I would have to learn how to do this convincingly -- learn how to
hide what amounted to another life altogether.

"Chief," I began, a bit haltingly before warming to my subject.
"The thing is...Clark and I wanted the exclusive. And when
Luthor called demanding that we get Superman to meet with him, we
didn't want to risk contacting the police, not when we knew
Superman would be able to arrest Luthor. But when we got there,
Luthor was completely insane, raving on and on about how he was
going to take down Superman, destroy Clark, and rule the world.
Anyway, he...he ended up throwing himself in this enormous vat of
melted steel, and...well, there was a resulting explosion.
Superman protected Clark and I, but...he felt awful that he
hadn't managed to save Luthor, and that piled on top of the fact
that he thought he had let those men he tied up die in that fire
a couple weeks ago -- it's made him...it's made him reconsider
whether he should continue helping or not. I don't know what
he'll decide, but you know how people can turn against
celebrities and heroes, so Clark and I decided to come back and
write up the story before any wrong conclusions could be
reached."

I held my breath as soon as I finished, then frowned in surprise
when Perry *smirked*. "Much better," he approved. "Of course,
I'm not saying that I know anything -- officially or otherwise
-- and I'm not even going to pretend that I can unravel half of
what's really happened, but I will tell you that that's the
story I'd stick to if I were you."

My mouth hung open in shock as Perry turned and moved to the
door. He paused with his hand on the knob, then turned to look at
me, his expression softening in the way that had become habitual
ever since I had, after witnessing a particularly nasty drive-by
shooting during my internship, broken down in his office and
cried against his shoulder. "And, Lois, darlin'...I'm proud of
you. For helpin' him and bein' his friend. I have a feeling his
life's not the easiest in the world, particularly lately."

"How -- " I darted yet another glance toward the bedroom,
fervently hoping Clark didn't know that, less than a day after I
had learned it, I had already blown his secret. "How did you
know?"

Perry paused for a long moment, probably deciding how much to
reveal before he shrugged, settling his hands in his pockets. "I
wondered about it when they both left Metropolis -- Clark isn't
the kind of man to leave so unexpectedly, particularly with the
way he so obviously felt. Of course, when he and Superman were
both standing in front of me, I dismissed it as a crazy hunch.
But...I got a call yesterday. From his parents. Seems they saw
the headlines about Superman and were...well, wonderin' if I had
heard anything from Clark. They're a pretty cagey pair, but...it
was enough to make me wonder. Enough to help me put the pieces
together when Jimmy found his glasses there."

For a long moment, I remained silent, trapped by indecision,
draining and immobilizing, and rising grief, terrible and
violent. Perry regarded me steadily; it was the kindness in his
eyes that was my undoing.

"Luthor cloned him," I whispered numbly, and strangely enough,
it was only then that everything I should have been feeling
earlier came tumbling through me with all the force of a
destructive river crashing through the remnants of a dam and
ripping away everything in its path. "He captured him, tortured
him, and then stole his life -- and I never knew! I never even
thought -- I never saw -- I didn't even realize -- I thought
they were brothers -- and how could he let me -- he tried to tell
me, but I -- I kissed him, and he -- "

With only a trace of awkwardness, Perry pulled me into a fatherly
hug, and my rushed, disjointed words fell away as tears insisted
on leaking from my eyes. For a moment, I leaned against Perry,
let his clumsy, affectionate reassurances slow the tide of
emotions within me, hold back the tiny, whispering doubts that
hid in the shadows of my mind, and calm the sobs trying to
erupt.

When I was finally strong enough to pull back from Perry's
embrace, I gave him a tentative smile and wiped a few last tears
away. Purposely keeping things light, Perry made some weak joke
and a passing mention of Elvis before guiding me to the couch and
sitting beside me. I hesitated only an instant before briefly
telling Perry what had happened, some tiny part of myself
relieved to be able to talk about the extraordinary events to
someone besides the man at the center of them all.

Perry listened intently -- his eyebrows arching in eloquent shock
a few times -- then nodded determinedly and said gruffly, "Let
me write up this story -- I'm not stealing the exclusive, mind
you, just writing up the facts of last night. You and Clark need
some rest before tackling the expose."

I opened my mouth to argue, but it was only force of habit. More
than anything, I longed for a day or two to allow these
revelations to sink in, to comprehend the fact that Luthor and Su
-- the clone -- were dead, to get to know Clark AKA Superman
without all the misconceptions and lies and false assumptions. So
I smiled, told Perry not to make a habit of stealing my stories,
and inwardly relaxed, knowing without a doubt that he would never
write anything to betray Clark.

Perry gave me another soft look while he was leaving, but I was
grateful he didn't try to pull me into another hug. I didn't
*want* to cry anymore; I wanted to figure my life out and *not*
have it turned upside down immediately afterward.

So I walked back into the bedroom -- mildly relieved to see that
Clark hadn't stirred except to turn a bit more toward the
healing light -- and I sat on the edge of the bed, and I studied
the man who was my partner. The man who was my hero.

And I purposely began to remember -- from my first meeting with
the farmboy from Kansas, to the explosive debut of Superman, to
the early days of my growing friendship with "both" of them, to
the day when they had left Metropolis, to the night I was thrown
into a cell and heard the familiar voice split the darkness into
shards, to the night before when I had finally seen both men
coalesce into one -- purposely began to remember Clark *and*
Superman in order to merge them together in my mind.

And I thought, very long and very hard, about what I wanted to
happen next. I thought about my resolve not to hurt Clark. I
thought about how hard it would be to lie to everyone I knew, to
all my friends and family and every stranger in the world. I
thought about the simple, beautiful life I had imagined living
with Clark. I thought about my fantasies about Superman and
flights around the world and to Caribbean beaches. I thought
about the love and devotion I knew Clark would show me, and the
stories I would have to cover up or lie about. About the scars
Luthor had forced on Clark, and the light, fairy-like kisses
Clark had rained down on me. About how blind I had been, and how
scared Clark had been -- maybe still was.

When Clark finally stirred and woke, long after my tangled
thoughts had wrestled themselves to a conclusion, his
sleep-darkened eyes fell immediately on me. A flurry of
lightning-fast emotions passed across his features -- awe, joy,
surprise, wariness, and then that startling yet familiar
blankness as he waited for me to speak. Waited for me to tell him
what I thought before he spoke.

I tightened my arms around my knees, folded to my chest, but did
not break his gaze. "Perry was here," I said calmly. "He's
covering the story for us until we're ready to write the
in-depth exclusive."

"Oh." Moving slowly, Clark sat up and tentatively leaned back
against the headboard. He looked down at his hands before looking
back to me. I watched him without blinking. "What are you
doing?" he finally asked quietly, his brow furrowing.

"Looking at you," I replied with the hint of a smile. "*At*
you, not through you."

By the brilliant shift of his features, I knew he understood me.
Clark, after all, had never wanted to be invisible. At
least...not to me.

Clark straightened his shoulders, as if bracing himself to pick
up a burden he had temporarily dropped, and took a deep breath.
"Lois, I need to explain that -- "

"I think I can put all the pieces together," I interrupted,
keeping my voice perfectly steady. The past hour of thought and
memory made me confident I knew his story, or at least most of
it.

"Okay," he said softly. Nervously, he twisted the bedspread
between his hands, but he met my gaze evenly.

Though I had been preparing this speech since Perry left, I still
paused to swallow and marshal my thoughts. "I saw all the
boyhood pictures of you when we were in Smallville," I began,
"so I'm assuming you arrived as a baby. The Kents must have
found you and adopted you and hid your origins. Although,
considering the fact that you said Bureau 39 had your ship and
globe, I'm guessing that neither you nor your parents knew where
you were originally from."

His tiny nod confirmed my suspicion. "I found out I was from
Krypton the same day I told you."

I ignored his insertion, determined to stick to my script. "So,
then, you grew up as any ordinary boy, believing yourself to be
human. *Hoping* you were human. I don't know if you had powers
the whole time or if you later developed them -- "

"They started manifesting when I was ten," he interjected
quietly.

"But you hid them," I continued, concealing the shock I felt no
matter that I had guessed that. Forcibly, I shoved aside the
image of a small boy with an unruly lock of hair struggling to
come to terms with the fact that he could survive any hurt, lift
any weight, and see through any obstacle. It was a strong image,
though, and to ignore it, I had to focus almost desperately on
the Clark in the present.

"You hid them," I said again, "because you were Clark Kent and
Superman is just what you eventually decided to do with your
powers."

He said nothing, so I went on, contemplating each phrase before I
spoke it.

"After college, you wandered the world, looking for a place to
belong, a place where you could fit in and be just Clark Kent.
But you couldn't stop yourself from helping people, and so you
always moved on, always hiding, always searching. You wanted to
help -- *needed* to help -- but you needed to be Clark too. And
Clark wanted to be an investigative journalist. So you came to
Metropolis. To the Daily Planet. And you found yourself a job.
And a partner." For the first time, my voice wobbled.

Clark's eyes were intent on me, searching desperately for some
sign of what I felt. But I couldn't give anything away -- not
yet. I wanted to be sure I understood everything about him before
I made another mistaken assumption. Wanted to be sure I was
seeing the whole picture this time. Wanted to make sense of my
life by making sense of his.

"For some reason," I began again, "you stayed in Metropolis.
You found a way to hide who you really are even as you
demonstrated to the world what you can really do. Out of all the
places in the world you had visited, you chose Metropolis as your
home -- as Superman's home. But things grew more complicated
when you -- "

"Fell in love with you," he finished for me when my voice gave
out. "Which was about two minutes after I met you."

Which answered the question of why he had chosen Metropolis as
his home. But, again, I ignored him -- I had to if I wanted to be
able to finish my narration. "Right. You wanted to tell me, but
you were afraid. Afraid I'd write the story. Afraid I'd hate
you. Afraid I'd be hurt. Afraid I would betray you. Afraid I
would never love the real you."

Tears were coming, hastened by the indescribable, spine-tingling,
soul-shaking look on Clark's face, so I quickly moved on.

"The reason you left Metropolis at the same time as Superman is
now painfully obvious." I forced a tiny chuckle, wincing when it
came out sounding watery. "And you wandered the world again.
Thinking yourself a danger to others yet unable to stop yourself
from helping, you were once more a wanderer, an outcast. Only,
this time, you kept looking back on the place you had left,
calling Perry and Jimmy...and me. No matter what you had found
out about your alien origins, you couldn't let go of Clark."

"I didn't *want* to let go," Clark murmured, almost to
himself.

"Then..." I paused briefly, less sure about this next part.
"You heard about Nightfall, and you went to Smallville -- or
maybe they're the ones who told you the news."

Clark shook his head. "I read your article, Lois, the one
proving that I hadn't caused the heat-wave. I went home to tell
Mom and Dad I was moving back to Metropolis. While I was there,
we saw the news about the asteroid."

"And you went into space alone." I couldn't resist staring at
him, trying to comprehend the magnitude of Superman's abilities
-- the depths of Clark's bravery. "I'm assuming this is when
you got amnesia since there was almost a day between the
shattering of Nightfall and the diversion of the large piece
still headed toward Earth. You said your parents helped you, so
you must have made it back to Smallville after your first try,
and they tried to help you regain your memories and prove to you
that you were Superman. After all," I added, almost bitterly,
"the world was still in danger, and Superman was needed."

For a moment, I forgot what I was supposed to say next. Superman
had been needed to save the world...but what about Clark? How
could he have known that *he* was needed, too? That *I* had
needed him?

"Yes," Clark said when I had been silent a moment. "I
remembered everything in time to divert the remainder of the
asteroid, but..." He trailed off, his eyes falling away, his
hands clenching, unconsciously confirming my suspicions about
what had come next.

"I would guess that Luthor had been following you since you left
Metropolis at the same time as Superman," I said, smoothly
returning to the script I had prepared. "He probably wanted to
know what your link to Superman was. While you had amnesia, I'll
bet his men threatened your parents and, in doing so, somehow
discovered you were Superman. Something must have jogged your
memory, and you hid your parents somewhere safe, and you flew
back into space to deal with the remaining fragment."

"They tried to shoot Dad," Clark uttered hoarsely. "I had just
started remembering a few things, and there was this one image of
me catching bullets. When I got in between the men and Dad,
they...they saw, and...well, I still hadn't remembered
everything, so they managed to get away. When my memories did
return, I knew I had to hide Mom and Dad just in case Luthor came
after them."

I nodded, then shifted a bit. "This is the part I'm a bit foggy
on. Was Luthor waiting in Smallville with the Kryptonite when you
returned?"

"No." Clark looked down at his bandaged hands and consciously
relaxed them. "I didn't go back to Smallville. I went to
Metropolis." He looked up and caught my eyes, mutely pleading
with me. "I was going to tell you everything, Lois, and beg you
to help me stop Luthor before he could hurt Mom and Dad. But
Luthor must have guessed what I was planning, or maybe he tracked
me coming back from space. I don't know. I just know that he was
there, outside your apartment building. When I landed, he..."
Clark's jaw clenched painfully, and he closed his eyes, hiding
from me whatever leaked through his stiff control. "When I woke
up, I was in the cell."

My own eyes fluttered closed. He had been right outside my door,
right on the doorstep -- how had I missed that? How had I not
been able to *sense* that he was there, that he was in pain, that
he needed me? How could he have been so close when I was so far
away?

Dragging my attention back to Clark's sudden silence, I took up
the rest, though truthfully, I wasn't too certain about much of
this part either. "While you were his prisoner, Luthor took
samples of your DNA, and he hired some scientist or other to make
the clone. And, because that's the kind of man Luthor was, he
taunted you, and toyed with you, and tortured you. And he put a
camera in your cell so the clone could observe you and learn how
you moved and spoke and thought."

A muscle fluttered in Clark's jaw. "He would pose me hundreds
of what-if scenarios and ask me what I would do. He'd make me
answer him, even when I didn't want to. I...I didn't know he
had the clone listening. I didn't know there *was* a clone."

"But there was," I concluded quietly. "And Luthor put me in
the cell with you so the clone could see how we interacted. Then,
because he was getting bored or because he wanted more power or
because he was sick enough to find some pleasure in it, he took
you aside and told you the rules of his 'game' before having
his clone 'rescue' us. And he used me as the lock in your
prison. You tried to tell me a hundred different ways, but I
never saw it. I never opened my eyes and -- "

"Hey." Clark reached out a hand toward me before letting it
drop back into his lap. "You saw two different men standing in
front of you, Lois -- well, one was standing. The other was
flying. You can't blame yourself for not immediately jumping to
the conclusion that one of them was an alien and the other was a
clone."

"That did complicate things," I conceded with a grimace. I had
tried to hate myself for falling for his trick -- and I was
certainly annoyed that I hadn't realized Clark was Superman
before he ever left Metropolis -- but the truth was that I
didn't see how I could have realized "Superman" was the double
of my partner any more quickly than I had. Despite my own
conviction, however, it was more of a relief than I wanted to
admit that Clark didn't seem to blame me either.

"But, Clark..." My brow wrinkled with my confusion. "There's
just one thing I'm confused about. Your letter -- did you know I
would read it? Were you so sure I would find it? And if you did
it on purpose, why didn't you just spell everything out clearly?
Why did you leave it so vague?"

"Lois..." The bed shifted when Clark swung his legs over the
side and stood, and I had to put out a hand to keep my balance. I
froze, however, when Clark turned back to look down at me,
remembered fear painting shadows over the features the sun
illuminated as he gestured to match his impassioned words. "I
was so frustrated and desperate and...and scared. Luthor had
promised to kill you if I told you I was Superman, but I
couldn't just...just sit by and watch his *game* play out! You
don't know how hard it was to leave Metropolis during the
heat-wave -- to leave the job I had always wanted and the friends
I had made...and you." His hands fell back to his sides, his
gaze going to the window.

"After Nightfall, I made the decision to tell you, Lois, and it
was the most...*freeing*...decision I had ever made. But then
Luthor...and to sit there and not be able to say anything and
watch the clone..." He closed his eyes and took a shaky breath.
"We had had the news on all day that day, and even though nobody
else seemed to notice, I could tell he was having trouble
controlling his powers. When he flew me to Lex Tower's roof to
deliver Luthor's commands and warnings, his grip tightened far
too much whenever his emotions got the best of him. He could
control it, mostly, but only when he wasn't in pain."

"In pain?" I repeated. After the mudslide, I remembered, the
clone had looked as if he were hurting, and again when I had
asked him Clark's questions, and the night before when I had
begged Clark to leave so I could use the Kryptonite. "What was
wrong with him?"

Clark shrugged, almost casually, but I knew him too well not to
see the pain he was inexpertly concealing. "I'm not human,
Lois, even if I look it. Whatever their cloning method was, it
couldn't support Kryptonian genes. He was dying."

Slowly, cautiously, I stood, my script almost entirely forgotten.
I moved around the bed so that I could study Clark's closed
expression. "He helped us last night," I observed neutrally.

"Yes." Clark ran a hand back through his hair, tousling it. He
looked achingly vulnerable at that moment, standing there alone,
barefoot, slightly disheveled, his face bare of any disguise,
slight burn marks crisscrossing his palms. "He wasn't all bad,
Lois. All he knew was Luthor. Can you imagine being raised by
that monster? He...he wanted to do right, Lois. He just didn't
know what that was."

"He seemed to know at the end," I said, stretching the truth
just a bit for Clark's sake. He seemed oddly sorrowful about the
death of the man who had replaced him, which was just so
Clark-like that I almost smiled.

"I was trying to teach him," Clark admitted, oblivious to my
thoughts. "He didn't know you would get hurt, Lois. After that
first incident with Nigel, he even refused to help Luthor unless
you were kept safe. I can't help but feel bad for him. He...he
was trying so hard. There *was* some good in him," he insisted
stubbornly, seemingly convinced that I would argue with his
conclusion.

"Of course there was," I agreed firmly, shoving aside my own
qualms about the man who had made sure to kiss me in front of
Clark, who had flaunted his powers before him, who had used me as
a means of intimidation, torture, and observation...and the man
who had taken pity on Clark and flown with him, who had wanted me
to tell him -- what? that he was good? that he didn't have to do
what Luthor had wanted? -- and the man who had sacrificed his own
life to save me.

"There *was* good in him," I told Clark. "But I never doubted
that. As you said in your letter -- there must have been
something of you in him."

Clark opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words emerged; he
simply stared at me.

"So you *didn't* know I'd find the letter?" I prompted.

Shaking his head a bit, as if to clear his thoughts, he shrugged
self-consciously. "I...hoped...you would find it. But I didn't
know for sure if you would. I wasn't even sure if I wanted you
to or not. I was afraid that if I simply told you everything, you
would insist on confronting Luthor or blurt out something that
would let Luthor know I had violated his rules. And when I was
writing it, I just...I just wrote what I was thinking." He let
out a mirthless chuckle. "The next morning, at first, I was sure
you had found it, but you never said anything, so I...I decided
you hadn't."

"I did find it -- I just didn't know what to think of it," I
admitted, hating the flush I could feel staining my cheeks.
Luthor's spiteful words rang once more through my mind. "I
didn't mean to ignore it, Clark. It's just that...there were so
many other startling revelations happening at the same time," I
finished a bit lamely, unable -- with him staring directly at me,
so earnest and curious -- to explain that I had been too taken
aback by the love so blatant between every line of the letter to
focus on the revelation to which he had been trying to lead me.

"*I* have a question," Clark said, almost timidly. "You...you
said you knew my secret. You said you knew what Luthor had taken
from me. But then...you...you *didn't* know that I was Superman.
So...what secret did you know?"

Looking at him now, I was reminded of all the reasons I hadn't
guessed that he was the all-powerful superhero. He was so
uncertain, so helpless in some aspects, so innocent,
so...*human*. "I thought he was your brother," I said simply,
unable to find any embarrassment in the admission. "The things
you both said, the way you acted together...I thought the reason
I had never seen you together before was because you didn't want
anyone to notice how similar you both looked, and that you ran
from danger to avoid revealing that you were invulnerable, and
that he was working for Luthor in exchange for your freedom and
continued safety."

I darted a glance at Clark from beneath my lashes and caught an
amused smile playing along his lips before he hastily sobered.
"Well," he said, the smile evident in his voice only because I
had seen it on his face, "I did kind of think of the clone as a
brother." A flash of sorrow streaked through his eyes. "He was
learning, and he...he could have been someone Superman could talk
to. Someone he could share problems like Nightfall with. Someone
who could be his friend."

The beginnings of hurt disappointment settled like a stone in the
pit of my stomach. Carefully concealing that reaction, I sat down
on the edge of the bed. "So, Clark." I looked up at him as I
returned to my forgotten script. "I told you your story. Do you
think you can tell me mine?"

Instantly, Clark was wary, uncertain, tentative...and patiently
hopeful. Cautiously, probably afraid I might bolt, he sat beside
me, regarding me intently. "Yes," he said hoarsely, then
cleared his throat. "You were born into a family that didn't
understand your inner brilliance, didn't know how to cope with
the extraordinary strength and intelligence that radiated outward
from you, didn't take the time to appreciate your natural
beauty. As a result, you were hurt when you were young, and then
again later when a man stole your innocence and your story. But
you didn't allow those betrayals to break you; you forced them
to make you stronger. You determined to be the best that you
could be -- and you succeeded. You rose to the top of your field,
proved that you truly were extraordinary, demanded that the world
be a better place, and outshone all the other lights in the
sky."

I swallowed, unable to look away, unable to catch my breath.
Surreptitiously, I blinked away the awed tears his words had
elicited, the shock that he could possibly see me the way he
described me.

"But you were lonely," Clark continued, his compassionate
insight -- not his x-ray vision -- seeing to the depths of my
soul. "And you wanted to find someone you could trust. Someone
who would prove that the bad things that had happened to you
weren't the norm, weren't what you should have to expect.
Someone who would accept you wholeheartedly, someone with whom
you could belong. Someone with whom you could be yourself." He
paused, maybe realizing, as I was, just how much of his own
dreams he was verbalizing. "And then, simultaneously, two men
came into your life. One seemed to be too good to be true and the
other -- "

"Was dangerously compelling," I said when he stopped to search
for words.

Clark's eyes widened, but after a slight hesitation, he
continued. "You were drawn to the hero, hoping he would right
the wrongs in your life and prove that the cynicism you had
adopted wasn't necessary. You began to trust your partner,
surprised when you found that you could be a good friend to
others. But..." He swallowed, finally looking away. "But they
both broke their promises and left you all alone."

"And then?" I asked after a moment.

"And then you struggled on, refusing to give up or give in,
refusing to let the world pass you by. You stubbornly, radiantly
fought to make your own world better without the aid of a hero or
a partner. And when they both came back, one seemed too hurt to
fix and the other still seemed too good to be true."

"Yes," I murmured, and was sure he was confused about which
description he fit.

"You felt that things were going to be better now. But
gradually, you found that nothing was as it seemed. And" -- he
bent his head, his shoulders slumped -- "just as you decided to
give your heart to me, you found out I had lied again -- lied
about everything."

"And then?" I prompted gently, swallowing back my protest over
his conclusion and finally understanding the reason behind the
shadow that had earlier darkened his features. "What happens
next?

He closed his eyes. "I don't know."

"Come on, Clark." I scooted nearer him, brushed a hand over
his. "You've read my mind before -- read it again."

"I don't know, Lois." He opened his eyes and looked at me,
allowed me to see the depths of his emotions: the hope he could
never quash...the fear that his hopes would once more be dashed.
"I hope your story has room for me in it. I hope I can be the
man you were looking for. I hope you can accept a Superman who's
really just an ordinary man and an ordinary man who's really an
extraterrestrial with extraordinary powers. I *hope* all those
things, but...I don't know what *you* want."

I moved my hand to rest on his chest, slid it up higher to his
shoulder, turned him to face me more fully so I could put my
other hand on his opposite shoulder. The stone in my stomach had
disappeared, vanished so quickly that I felt lightheaded.
"Clark, you said in your letter that hope was the only power you
had left. I'll tell you the only secret *I* have left -- it's
the most powerful ability you possess."

And I kissed him, my lips brushing his gently, tenderly. His arms
enveloped me immediately, instinctively. "Lois," he breathed
and he pulled me closer, slanting his mouth over mine.

"I love you, Clark," I assured him, now certain all over again
of the truth of that statement. Certain that I was making the
right decision. Certain that I was in the dark no longer. Certain
that I wanted to bask in his light -- and give him my own light
and warmth in return -- for the rest of my life.

"Even after I left you?" he asked as he stole another kiss. My
eyes were closed, but I could feel him smile against my mouth,
and I gasped at the sensation of *feeling* a smile rather than
seeing it.

"You came back," I murmured past the fireworks sparkling in my
stomach and the liquid heat flowing through my veins. I looped my
arms around his neck, wanting to draw closer to him, and we
tumbled back on the bed, our limbs and hearts and lives all
tangled together.

"Even after I lied?" he questioned with another kiss, this one
even more potent than the last.

"You confessed." I couldn't help but laugh a bit, knowing he
only wanted to hear me say the words again, teasing him with the
answers even while knowing he needed to hear the truth of them.

At my laugh, he brought a bandaged hand to the back of my head to
weave his fingers through my hair, tilting my head into his kiss.
"Even though you deserve someone better?"

If his kisses hadn't been distracting me, I would have laughed
aloud at the very thought of someone better than him. "That's
impossible!" I asserted fiercely.

His mouth covered mine, and he rolled over onto me with a laugh,
a sound that thrilled me as much as his tender kiss. "Lois, that
statement proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that there's a
fine line between brilliance and lunacy!"

Suddenly serious, feeling the importance of this moment, I drew
back and looked up at him, my hands threaded through the hair at
the back of his neck. "Clark," I said, somberly though my eyes
shone with a light that rivaled the early afternoon sunlight
entranced with our happiness and laughing at us from above.
"This...this is the most brilliant moment in my whole life."

And Clark smiled at me, and he kissed me, and all the darkness
vanished before the light brilliant enough to flood the whole of
my universe.

***

Epilogue

The bed was soft when I sank into it a week later, the blankets
warming quickly as I brought them up over my shoulders, the
pillow cool against my cheek...but there was something missing. I
couldn't hear the sound of breathing from the other side of the
room, couldn't feel the presence of my partner as he lay on his
side facing me, couldn't speak my secrets to him while the moon
chased away any would-be eavesdroppers, and so sleep had also
deserted me. I had told Clark that I wasn't used to sleeping in
the same room as another person, but now I was no longer used to
the solitude.

Clark had insisted on moving to Perry's the same day we had told
each other our stories, his tiny, embarrassed grin and the memory
of how his kisses alone had been able to move me serving as cause
enough for the transition. He still spent almost every waking
hour with me as we worked on our series of articles detailing the
fall of the house of Luthor, usually not leaving the apartment
until after ten at night, but it wasn't the same, though I had
to admit that I enjoyed the goodnight kisses we shared.

Still, I told myself, shifting on the bed to make myself more
comfortable, at least he was here, in Metropolis, in the employ
of the Daily Planet, once more officially assigned as my partner.
Much better to have him just across the city than clear across
the world, especially when he was now so free and open and
unburdened.

Henderson had, at least on the surface, accepted our story about
the night of Luthor's demise, and although we had been given a
light slap on the wrist for not going straight to the inspector,
we had otherwise escaped the entire fiasco relatively unscathed.
Even better, no one had yet found any of the clone's remains
within the ashes and soot-stained, melted debris of Steelworks,
which meant no one had connected Superman to Luthor or come to
the erroneous conclusion that the superhero was once more
"dead."

Every day, it seemed, the MPD uncovered new crimes Luthor had
committed, which was a good thing since Luthor's long, vengeful
arm had seen to it that Nigel, the key witness, was assassinated
just two days earlier. The whole of Metropolis was in an uproar
as Luthor's empire toppled from the shining top of Lex Tower all
the way down to the corrupt foundation, and the resulting front
page stories were keeping both Clark and me incredibly busy. I
should have been exhausted enough to fall asleep almost instantly
every night, but because Clark's presence left me with an
overdose of energy and his absence left me with a sense of
malaise, it was usually after midnight by the time I settled
enough just to get into bed, let alone fall asleep. Despite the
late hours, however, I always woke up early, eager for the moment
when Clark would arrive to kiss me as if the nights apart were as
hard on him as they were on me and cook breakfast while I kept
him company.

A smile curved my lips at this reminder of what the morning
entailed, and I finally managed to drift off to sleep, staving
off the reality of the empty spot across the room where the cot
had once been by imagining Clark lying beside me, his arm resting
across my waist, his breaths feathering the back of my neck, his
smile filling my dreams.

Dimly, gradually, I became aware that a steady tapping sound was
dragging me from my hard-won sleep. Excitement surged through me
at the thought that morning had come more quickly than I had
realized and that Clark was already here, but the instant I
opened my eyes, a disappointed frown overtook me. The bedroom was
still flooded with darkness, the moon veiled behind thin clouds.

The tapping sound was repeated, and I froze when I realized that
it was coming from the living room window. A bolt of fear sent
sparks of lightning through my veins, setting the hair at the
back of my neck upright and pebbling my skin. Only -- I glanced
at the clock -- a half hour had passed since I had thought how
relieved I was that no sign of the clone had been found. But what
if...what if he had survived? What if he was here now? After all,
I wasn't quite as convinced as Clark about his inherent
goodness.

Cautiously, I slipped from the bed, trying to still the rapid
beating of my heart and regretting for the millionth time the
emptiness of the space beside the window. The tapping stopped; I
had to wonder if it was because he had heard the increase in my
pulse-rate.

Firming my grip on my courage and setting my mouth into a grim
line, I pulled the bedroom door open and stepped into the living
room. The night was heavy with shadows, but the lights from the
street below silhouetted the form hanging outside my apartment.
He raised his hand in a small wave just as I stepped close enough
to see that my visitor wore a winter coat, casual clothes...and
glasses.

"Clark!" I exclaimed, the fear instantly obliterated.
Hurriedly, unable to wipe away the silly grin spreading itself
over my features, I unlocked the window and threw it open.
"You're flying!"

"I can fly again!" he repeated jubilantly, laughing exultantly.
Gracefully, quickly, as if flying were as natural for him as
breathing, he swooped through the window, set his hands to my
waist, and effortlessly twirled me around the room.

I couldn't help but laugh down at his shining face as my feet
dangled in the air a foot or two above the floor of my apartment.
"If I had known you were flying around, I'd have left the
window open."

He laughed again, banishing the stillness and silence and
darkness that invaded my apartment whenever he left -- laughed
because he could, because he wanted to, because I was laughing
back at him. "I can fly!" he said again, and I idly wondered if
this had been his reaction the first time he had discovered he
could snub his nose at gravity. "I'm completely back to normal
-- well, normal for me."

"Which *is* super," I said with a grin that made him spin me in
another giddy circle.

Again, his laugh split the silence, and I felt that I could fly
just on that sound alone. How had I ever lived without his smile
and laugh and touch and words that lit the very contours of my
soul? "That's what my parents said," he told me happily.

"You told your parents before you told me?" I asked, pretending
affront, though it really didn't bother me. How could I begrudge
him any conversation with his parents when he had been so
obviously thrilled the first time he was able to call them six
days ago and tell them to come home? Apparently, he had hidden
them in Rome, trusting that their lack of plane tickets and
passports and their use of cash would hide them among the
hundreds of other tourists there. It didn't hurt, Clark had
confided, that Jonathan had been saving to take Martha there for
their next anniversary.

"No," Clark assured me, taking my remark seriously. "They said
that when I told them my other powers were returning."

I set my hands to his shoulders to balance myself and chuckled at
the memory of how excited he had been over the past few days as
each of his powers returned to him. Before, I had thought he was
just happy to realize the Kryptonite's effects were once more
proving only temporary; now I realized that he had been counting
down the days until he could reclaim the skies.

"So how did you discover that you could fly again?" I arched my
brows mischievously. "You didn't go throwing yourself off any
buildings, did you?"

"Of course not -- that's your department," he retorted,
adjusting his grip on me so that he was holding me in a loose
embrace rather than out where he could twirl me around. Before I
could do more than whack him lightly on the shoulder, he smiled
and said, "I woke up when I rolled over and bumped into the
ceiling fan. I haven't floated in my sleep since before -- well,
since before. I came over here as soon as I woke up enough to
realize exactly what this means."

"What this means..." I repeated, suddenly breathless over more
than just his wonderful, even-more-radiant-than-before,
exactly-as-handsome-as-Superman's smile. No explanation had been
given for Superman's recent absence; Clark had never mentioned
the subject, and I had refused to make up a story before I knew
what he planned to do. But if he could fly...would he take up the
mantle -- or rather, the cape -- again?

"Yes," he said, almost solemnly save for the twinkle glittering
in his eyes and sparking through his glasses. "I've been
waiting to ask you this my whole life."

"Ask me what?" I blurted in shock. That certainly didn't sound
like anything to do with Superman. But he couldn't mean...no. He
couldn't. He wouldn't.

His smile fought the restraints he had imposed on it, tugging at
both corners of his mouth as he finally set me down and alighted
on the floor himself. He took a step away from me, then held out
his hand to me in invitation. "Lois...will you fly with me?"

Tears sprang to my eyes, tears such as I had never wept before --
tears of happiness, of joy, of awe that this man could look at
*me* with such devotion and admiration and hope in every fiber of
his being. I blinked the tears away, preferring to smile instead.
"You know," I managed to scrape together the semblance of a
voice to say, "you are the most romantic spaceman I've ever
met."

He blinked, then chuckled. "Exactly how many spacemen have you
met?"

"Enough," I replied haughtily before softening. "Just exactly
enough."

Inordinately pleased, he smiled and spread the fingers of the
hand he still had outstretched. "So, Lois," he said in that
hypnotizingly smoky voice. "Will you fly with me?"

"Yes, I will," I whispered as I slid my hand into his,
relishing the feel of his unblemished, unscarred palm. Then I
cleared my throat and held up a warning finger. "On one
condition."

His brows arched playfully as he lifted me once more into the
air, slowly spinning us around in an impromptu waltz, his grin
delighted. "What condition? Breakfast in Paris? Lunch in Japan?
Dessert on a tropical beach?"

"No," I said despite the euphoric feeling unfurling in my
stomach at the thought that Clark would give me all those things
I had once imagined acting out with Superman -- that he would
fulfill all the fantasies, conscious and unconscious, that I had
ever had. Placing my palms on Clark's chest as I stepped up
close to him, I sobered. "I want you to wear the Superman
Suit."

Slowly, as if caught in slow motion, his smile melted away, and
with it his command of gravity. Our feet settled once more on the
floor, Clark's arm loosening from around me. "Lois," he said
quietly, his gaze dropping from mine. "Luthor used the name, the
Suit, the powers, for his crimes -- he mired Superman in his
evil!"

"Who do you think would believe any criminal dumb enough to come
forward saying Superman tried to get him to work for Luthor?" I
pointed out. "Superman's been accused of some bad things
before, but a lot of them are so unbelievable that even the
National Whisperer won't print them. Even Luthor's henchmen
have been too scared of the possible ramifications to blow your
identity! Besides, isn't it safer to fly as Superman than as
Clark?"

"It's more than that," Clark said, more subdued than he had
been since I had told him the end of our story. "The last time I
was Superman, the world rejected him -- "

"Yes, it is more than that," I interrupted, keeping fast hold
of my patience. "You saw that memorial yourself, saw what the
world truly thought of you demonstrated in the plaque and the
gifts and the flowers. The Suit, the powers, the name, that
statue -- they're *yours*, Clark. The clone can't -- "

"He hurt you!" Clark cried, the memory of pain shredding his
voice to ribbons. His gaze finally returned to me, devouring me
as if to reassure himself that I was alive and well; I hated that
I had doused the light he had exhibited while twirling me through
the air. "He hurt you, Lois," he repeated, almost inaudibly,
his hand skimming along my cheek. "He hurt you...and I don't
want you to be afraid of me."

"He wasn't you, Clark," I stated gently. "You're not him. I
know you would never hurt me. And I'm not afraid of you."

Clark's arms fell away from me, and he distanced himself by a
couple paces, half-turning his back to me as he hid the honesty
of his expression. "Superman was mine, Lois -- *ours* because I
thought of the idea when you told me to bring an extra change of
clothes to work" -- I blinked, stunned by that casually dropped
bombshell -- "but Luthor stole him and used him for his own
ends. How can I be Superman again when Luthor ruined him so
badly?"

"Luthor *tried* to ruin him," I said softly, knowing it was
useless to deny it, shrugging aside the strangeness of the way
Clark regarded his alter ego. "But, Clark, if you take back the
name and the Suit, Luthor will have failed. Superman's a part of
who *you* are, Clark, not anybody else -- not even a copy of
you."

Clark angled slightly toward me so he could study my expression
intently. "Lois, if I wear the Suit...wouldn't you look at me
and see *him*?"

"No," I said and knew the truth of it as soon as I uttered the
word. "No, Clark, I wouldn't. I'd know you anywhere."

A flicker of vast relief moved discernibly through his being as
his eyes fell closed.

Encouraged by this, I moved forward to rest my hand on his healed
back. "But, Clark," I added seriously. "Don't do this because
of Luthor. Don't do it for your parents or for the world, or
even for me. Do it for *you*...because Superman is important and
special. And you are so..." I swallowed back a lump and blinked
rapidly. "You are so wonderful and amazing and extraordinary,
Clark...and there's no reason you should have to hide that."

With a sigh that drained the hidden tension from his body, Clark
turned and took me into his arms. His breath fluttered my hair as
he dropped a small, meaningful kiss on my temple. "All right,"
he said quietly, and I had to restrain the urge to throw my arms
around him and grin triumphantly. "I have a few Suits at home in
Smallville. I'll go get one and come right back."

"I'll get dressed while you're gone, so don't go *too*
fast," I warned him, then impulsively kissed him, delighted --
as I had been uncountable times over the past week -- at the
freedom to do so, at the rightness of it all, at the future
spreading out before us.

Clark rolled his eyes, fighting a grin, snatched another kiss,
and then flashed out the window.

Choosing out some warm clothes -- but not *too* warm since I
planned on staying very near Clark's body heat -- I dressed
quickly. Most of my excitement stemmed from anticipation, and
yet...and yet there was a tiny piece of me that worried whether I
really *would* be able to instantly tell Clark's Superman from
the clone's. Even the slightest check to my heartbeat would
register like a screaming alarm to Clark's superhearing, and I
knew him well enough to know how much that would hurt him.

I zipped up my jacket and ran a brush through my hair to tidy it
as I heard a whoosh signaling Clark's arrival. Feeling an
automatic smile transform my features, I stepped eagerly into the
living room, unable to take in a decent breath of air.
Disappointment dampened my excitement when I saw Clark standing
there -- still dressed in his regular clothes.

"Clark, you said -- "

"I know," he interrupted, hopeful trepidation flavoring his
voice. "I've just wanted to show you this for a long time.
Here."

He offered me his glasses; I took them with only a slight
hesitation. "Clark -- "

Breath, speech, and thought were snatched away from me, pulled by
force of inertia into the spinning blur of transforming colors
that had, only seconds earlier, been Clark. The whirlwind lasted
mere instants -- the transition over so quickly that if I had
blinked I would have missed it -- and then Superman was standing
where Clark had once been.

The real Superman.

And I had been right -- I could instantly tell the difference. No
wonder, I thought with some bit of vindication, I had not
connected Clark to Superman when it had been the clone wearing
the Suit; there were a thousand minute differences, from the way
they stood to the expression in their eyes to the more diffident,
self-conscious way Clark held himself to the astonishing gulf
between the clone's guarded wariness and Clark's earnest
openness.

"Wow!" The word was almost no more than the expelling of a
breath. Hastily scrabbling for composure, I stepped up close to
Clark and gave him a small, private smile. "Every time I think I
know everything there is to know about you, you take my breath
away with something new."

"Good," Clark murmured, the look in his eyes causing the rest
of the world to vanish, leaving the two of us alone. "Because
that's what happens to me every time I look at you."

My smile widened into a mischievous grin as I carefully tucked
his glasses in my pocket, just as I had done in my dream.
"You're sure you're completely better, Clark, right?"

He cocked his head. "Yes."

"Good." And with a laugh, I leaped into his arms, knowing he
would catch me, confident he would hold me, trusting him to never
let me go.

Something, some lingering darkness, fell away from Clark, and his
expression lightened still further. As he floated us out of the
window and shot straight up into the night sky, I knew without
even looking back that the last of Luthor's chains had fallen
from Clark's heart, leaving him, finally, unfettered and free.

Clouds spattered the ebony-inlaid sky like paint streaked too
thinly over canvas, glittery stars sparkling like diamonds,
piercingly sharp, laughingly obscure. The cold waited outside
Clark's embrace, but it could not reach me, could not slip past
the aura of Clark's presence to latch onto me and drain me dry
of his imparted warmth.

Clark nestled me close to his heart. "Where do you want to go,
Lois? I can take you anywhere in the entire world."

"Isn't there someplace you've always wanted to show me?" I
asked him. Any sliver of doubt I might have had about whether he
had truly wanted me to know his secret or not had been destroyed
a hundred times over every time he so excitedly, jubilantly
shared with me the hidden pieces of his life.

"Yes," he admitted, his voice rumbling through his chest and
sending shivers down my spine, doing what the chill of the skies
could not. "But this is for you, Lois. I want to take you where
*you* want to go."

"And I want to go wherever you want to take me," I told him
firmly, then added mock-sternly, "And you'd better hurry up. It
won't be night forever."

"No," he agreed, laughter sending tremors through his voice.
"But it could be *sunrise* forever."

"What do you mean?" I demanded curiously.

He laughed at my impatience. "You know how they say that no two
sunrises are ever the same? Well, shortly after I learned to fly,
I decided to see if that was true."

"And is it?" I asked.

"It's true," he confirmed contentedly, drawing me still closer
to himself as we skimmed over waves that murmured and whispered
below us. "In fact, even the same sunrise is different on every
horizon. Look."

My eyes followed his line of sight, and I looked out on the world
-- on the sunrise -- as Clark saw it.

The curve of the horizon perfectly showcased the slow progression
of the sun as it climbed its way up the slope of the earth,
shimmering a million sparkles over water, adding canyons of depth
to landscapes, shooing away the shadows almost absentmindedly as
it poured its liquid light over the world and pulled the ebony
curtain from the sky to reveal colors of a thousand minute
shadings. When light reached as far as the eye could see, we
ghosted far above the ground below us until the misty remains of
cool night were visible, and then we floated there and waited for
the sun to reach us, languorously moving forward to peruse the
world it illuminated.

Clark moved me in his arms, turning me so that I was parallel to
his body, facing downward, nothing obstructing my sight, my arms
outstretched as if I could fly on my own, though why should I
when it was infinitely better to feel Clark's left arm wrapped
around my waist from behind, his right arm laid over mine, his
fingers over mine, as if he were an angel that cast a shadow just
below him, one over the other.

"No wonder you're such an optimist, Clark," I finally murmured
after we had traversed half the globe to witness a thousand
dawns, each etched in my mind by the power of their beauty and
the delicacy inherent in their transience. I twisted my head to
look at him, above and behind me. "Your world is full of eternal
sunrises."

Speechless, his expression eloquent enough to set a lump in my
throat and send tingling sparks dancing through my body, he wove
his fingers through mine and turned me to face him, one arm
holding me in the pocket of magical unreality that kept him
suspended in the air. The wind swooped and swirled around us,
laughing as it twirled between us and startled into silence when
Clark's mouth covered mine, capturing the wind between his lips
so that he tasted of sky and cloud and rain and open space.

"You know," Clark said when he pulled back to lean his brow
against mine as we caught our breath, "you were right when you
said I wandered the world searching for a place that was mine,
looking for some feeling of connection, knowing -- *hoping* --
there was somewhere I belonged. This" -- he slipped his fingers
from mine to gesture to the gold and silver panorama surrounding
us on all sides -- "is where I usually went when I couldn't
find that place, when I despaired of ever belonging. I searched
the entire globe for that feeling of rightness, Lois, but I've
only felt it once in my life."

"When?" I breathed out, though within my chest, my heart was
fluttering as wildly as if a bird had somehow become incorporeal
and lodged itself within me as I flew through the sky that had
once belonged to it alone.

Clark's eyes, when they met mine, were as solid, as real, as
shocking as if he possessed some other form of heatvision,
piercing straight and true to the very center of my being, so
direct that the breath caught in my throat and fled. "The day I
met you."

Tears wet my eyelashes, dazzling my own vision when I blinked.
Bringing my hands up, trusting myself fully to Clark's hold, I
framed his face with my fingers. "I can't believe the first
time I looked into your eyes, I didn't instantly know you were
the man I'd spend the rest of my life with."

He smiled warmly, obviously overjoyed by that statement, and I
couldn't help an answering thrill to know that I had the power
to bring him so much joy. "Speaking of the rest of our lives,
Lois..." He paused to swallow, and I almost thought he looked
frightened, though why should he? We had left our scars and
wounds and chains all behind. "I'm...I'm thinking that
tomorrow, I might ask you out on a date. A real date."

A laugh of molten joy escaped me. "I'm thinking that I might
say yes."

His fingers fanned out over my back as he brought up his other
hand to play through my hair. "And I'm thinking that I might
ask you out a lot more after that, maybe every day, just so I
have an excuse to see you even when we're not working."

"I'm thinking I'd like that a lot," I told him. He still
looked nervous, though he smiled at my reply.

"And then..." The sun reflected in his eyes, twin orbs of gold
and crimson hope. "Then I'm planning on asking you to marry
me."

I stared at him a long moment, completely taken aback, completely
stunned -- completely elated. Twining my arms around his neck, I
looked straight into his eyes and uttered the truest words I have
ever spoken: "Then, Clark, I'm planning on being the happiest
woman who ever lived."

We hung there in the vastness of a sky large enough to encompass
the whole of a world, suspended between the silver and gray
vestiges of night and the burgeoning gold and carnelian and
alabaster of daybreak, hovering between the blurred lines of
strengthening light and fading darkness as the sun asserted its
dominance. Yet Clark outshone it all as he smiled at me with a
smile that told me just how many of his dreams I had made come
true.

And then he curled his hand around the back of my neck and
lowered his head and kissed me. The wind laughed at us as it
danced its merry way around us; the sun lit us in a brilliant ray
of light; the clouds obligingly provided the scarcest of veils
between us and the world below. But all I knew was Clark, all I
saw was his radiance, and all I was aware of was the way he grew
to encompass -- grew to *become* -- my entire world, filling and
occupying my five senses.

The taste of wind-blown mist and cool sky and drops of pure
sunshine.

The sound of Clark's smoky voice murmuring my name as if there
were no other word in any language that mattered as much.

The scent of his skin, fresh and pure and clean.

The feel of his form defining mine through the strength of his
embrace, the gentleness of his touch, and the depths of love
revealed through his kiss.

And light -- eternal light that is mine and mine alone.

THE END