Newsworthy

By Anti-Kryptonite <dreamnovelist@gmail.com>

Rated PG

Submitted December 2015

Summary: The story that never should have been told is told, and
Lois and Clark, along with the world, are left shattered in its
wake.

Story Size: 131,144 words (717Kb as text)

A/N: This story is a difficult one, but a 'what-if' I
definitely wanted to explore. I couldn't have done it without
the encouragement and aid of my beta-readers, though, so I just
want to give them a huge thank you for all their work and faith
in me while this story was being written -- thanks, groobie,
KenJ, and Morgana! Also, thank you to GooBoo for the quick,
fantastic GEing job!

***

1

He ran the story. Of course he did. It was news, the biggest news
since Superman's debut, maybe even bigger, and he's Perry
White, editor of the top newspaper in the world. It was the story
of a lifetime, so there was never any question that he'd run it.
Besides, Lois was adamant that it be published immediately,
vehement in her ruthless pursuit of this Pulitzer prize-winning
article, a consummate professional save that cold, hard anger
crackled and jangled beneath her paper-thin surface. If he
hadn't run the story, hadn't printed it on the front page of
millions of copies of the Daily Planet, another paper would have,
and Perry would have lost Lois too. So he picked his reporter,
chose his side...and ran the story.

If he could do it all over again, he still doesn't know that he
would make a different decision. But if he *could* do it again
(and oh, how he wishes he could), he would warn Clark, would call
him, would tell him not to come in. It still makes his blood run
cold when he recalls it--how could he have not thought even
*once* to warn the young man? Why had it never crossed his mind?
But he was too busy dealing with the circling vultures, ordering
extra copies printed, grilling Lois in a useless attempt to find
out what exactly had happened in Smallville.

And yet, despite all that, he'd thought to pull Jimmy aside and
warn him to be ready to pack up Clark's things for him--how much
more effort would it have taken to pick up a phone and call
Clark?

Jimmy, clueless as to the fact that history was being made right
there in the bullpen, had looked at him askance when Perry told
him to be ready to gather Clark's belongings, and he had asked
why Clark was leaving. That simple question made Perry feel as if
he were firing Clark, but he wasn't--he *hadn't*. He'd offer
Clark a job as long as he wanted one...even if the story he ran
made it impossible for Clark to do that job. So, irritated, he'd
shooed Jimmy away without giving him an explanation.

When Jimmy saw the headline in the typesetter's office, when he
was asked to comb through archived pictures for the double
headshot they needed, he'd confronted Perry, asked him how they
could do this to CK.

"It's news," Perry had said, and he wonders when that became
excuse enough to destroy people's lives willy-nilly.

But by then, it was already too late.

And still he had not thought to call and warn Clark that his life
was, in all but name, over.

And so Clark walked into work unsuspecting. Unknowing. Still
idealistic. Still happy. Relaxed, secure in his perceived
safety.

He'd been on a rescue just before, hadn't read the historic
morning edition, hadn't seen Superman and Clark Kent's
identical faces staring side by side out at the millions of
people across the world all mobbing every newsstand. He walked
into the Planet lobby (surely he'd noticed how it fell silent at
his entrance, how everyone turned to stare at him). He'd taken
the elevator (maybe still unaware that everyone knew he could
simply fly up to his floor and in through any of the windows). He
walked out into the newsroomand whether he'd figured it out on
the elevator or the instant he stepped out into the midst of
friends-turned-ruthless-reporters, Perry still isn't sure.

But Clark knew.

For one instant, Perry saw terror wash over Clark's expression,
saw panic scribed with a bold, vicious pen over his features, saw
despair change the very shape of his character--his face, his
posture, his gait.

His silence.

No accusations. No excuses. No explanations. No appeals.

Just that awful, condemning, tragic (endless) silence.

And Perry curses himself because, in the end, he knows exactly
why he didn't call the younger man, why he didn't warn him that
his secret was out for all the world to know.

It was shame, pure and simple. He hadn't wanted to face Clark,
hadn't wanted to look him in the eye and tell him a news story
was worth more than his life, his happiness, his job, his
parents. His safety.

Not that Clark had approached Perry to hear his excuses. He
hadn't even looked over to Perry, hadn't said a word. He
avoided everyone's eye, slipped through the statue-still ranks
as if he were a ghost come to haunt the vestiges of his past
life.

And no one was more haunted than Lois. Only, she hadn't known it
then. She'd been armored in righteous indignation, cloaked in
professional integrity, protected and goaded on by the taunts of
injured pride and betrayed pain.

Surely Clark had known that. Even without seeing the article that
outed him, he'd somehow known instantly it was Lois who'd
written it, so surely, *surely*, he must have known any attempt
to speak with her was useless. But still he'd approached only
one person, met only one pair of eyes--broken his silence only
for her.

He walked to her desk, stood by it as he'd done so many times
before, and said one word.

"Lois."

She watched him come, her arms crossed over her chest, the
article that ensured her name in the annals of history spread out
across her desk, proudly flaunted before her former partner.
"How does it feel, Superman?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.
"You've always claimed to stand for truth and justice--isn't
it only fair that everyone knows the truth now?"

Even Perry had flinched before that strange mixture of challenge,
accusation, excuse and plea (for both understanding and an
explanation, Perry thinks). Clark hadn't flinched visibly, not
with a physical withdrawal, but if Perry were to guess, he thinks
that *that's* the exact, precise moment when Clark Jerome Kent
died.

His ghost, pale and ashen and slow, had turned to his old desk,
looked blankly at Jimmy when the young man dared to step forward,
put a hand on Clark's arm, and say, "CK, is there anything I
can do for you?"

Perry will never know how Clark summoned the strength necessary
to smile wanly at Jimmy and ask him, so politely, to bring him a
box for his belongings.

It took Superman less than a minute to calmly pack up the
mementos of Clark's tenure at the Planet, to write a simple
two-line letter for Perry--*Due to recent circumstances, I
believe it best for me to resign. Thank you for giving me the
opportunity to work here.*--leave it unsigned on his stripped
desk, and walk out of the newsroom without a backward look. He
said goodbye only to Jimmy, avoided by everyone else, and despite
his own part in the travesty, Perry had raged--*still*
rages--against the fact that the world's greatest hero was
forced to skulk away as if he were a criminal.

Lois watched Clark leave, and for the first time, Perry had seen
uncertainty cross her face, tension crimp her mouth, shocked
realization widen her eyes, some unnamed emotion that looked a
lot like regret, remorse, and something deeper, move through
her--had felt all those same things within himself, pierced to
the core by the fact that Clark had done no more than give him
one downcast glance before the elevator doors closed between
them.

An hour later, Clark's landlord received a letter similar to
Perry's, and Clark Kent's apartment was emptied, stripped bare
of everything that pointed back to the young, idealistic reporter
who'd lived there such a brief, transient amount of time.
Several hours after that, a horde of reporters descended on
Smallville only to find an abandoned farm and townspeople who
refused to say a word about the Kents' whereabouts.

As if he'd never existed at all, Clark Kent disappeared from off
the face of the planet, memorialized only in the print used in
Kerth-worthy articles, sketchy adoption records, and varied
employment files.

And Superman vanished too. For two long weeks after Perry ran
that life-changing article, there was no sign, no trace, no hint
at all of the brightly colored superhero.

And then a devastating tsunami hit Japan...and Superman
reappeared. He'd shown up and saved lives and cleared rubble and
helped out in all the myriad ways open to him...and spoken not
one word. He answered no questions, made no statements, talked to
no one in charge. Some victims even now claimhemurmuredlow
reassurances to them, but no one has been able to verify that.

For a long week after the tsunami, Superman disappeared again,
and Perry had been filled with grief for what he'd done--not
just for the hundreds of crises that went without rescue, but for
the empty desk he still doesn't have the heart to fill, as if
that desk with its obsolete nameplate is the grave marker for
Clark Kent's all-too-short life, avoided by all, glanced at by
all, touched by only Jimmy, who kept it clean and dusted and
protected from interlopers until he gave his own resignation
notice and left only days after Clark.

Finally, though, sparking a whole new round of speculative news,
Superman reappeared. And this time, he came to stay. Oh, not in a
particular city or home, but if an emergency develops, he's
there, all over the world, almost twenty-four hours a day.
Earth's very own on-call emergency system.

And still he refuses to speak. Still there's only that terrible
silence. If any reporter comes near him, he leaves, and soon
enough, it became common for all reporters to be banished from
the sites of emergencies, as if they're scarecrows and Superman
the crow everyone courts.

The Superman Foundation releases press statements after rescues,
always written in Clark's distinctive style, all avoiding more
than a brief mention of Superman and drawing attention to people
who need help or cities that need volunteers or situations that
need addressing or charities that need money. The Foundation has
remained faithfully silent on the question of how they receive
those statements, and no amount of relentless investigating has
brought inquisitive minds any closer to an answer in the
intervening months.

And so life goes on and the world continues to turn and Perry was
given a raise for his 'esteemed contributions' and Lois turns
in lackluster, bread-and-butter articles that sell simply because
her name's on them (and she's almost as famous as Superman
these days).

It's three months to the day since Perry White helped murder
Clark Kent, and he's sitting in his office drinking in memory of
the reporter he took a chance on, the man who so temporarily
breached Lois's walls, the son who kept a picture of his happy
parents on his desk and unashamedly talked to them on the phone
in front of all his co-workers. The friend who was betrayed by
his colleagues.

Perry toasts in the direction of Clark's desk outside his office
and gulps the fiery drink down. The bullpen is too quiet, his
office even quieter; he doesn't have the heart to listen to
Elvis, hasn't since he saw Clark's shattered expression (as if
that mere sacrifice can act as some form of penance for his
crimes).

He can just imagine his own epithet now...

*Perry White: Champion of the news--he ran the story.*

As bitter and condemning as it is, it's more of a memorial than
Clark got, so who knows? Maybe he'll demand they leave his
tombstone blank (more penance that can't alleviate his regret,
can't help him sleep at night, can't turn back time).

He hates the silence worst of all, Perry thinks. The absence of
everything. Sometimes, like now, he thinks of everything that
happened, and still, no matter how many times he goes over it,
the most painful part of the whole thing is Clark's mute refusal
to speak. His utterly quiet acknowledgment that nothing he says
will do any good at all. His realization that he is not needed
for his words any longer, but only for what he can do.

And Perry's own silence, he hates that too, because Clark is
right--it won't help. Wouldn't have helped even then. Perry had
made his decision without even asking Clark for a quote. Without
warning him. Without saying a word. So maybe Clark's silence is
only a direct result of Perry's own mute declarations.

No good at all to speak when there's nothing he can possibly say
to excuse himself.

"Bleak thoughts," Perry warns himself, and he caps the bottle
and stores it in his desk. It'll sit there until the next month,
the next anniversary of the tragedy that was Clark Kent's
life.He knows better than to drink any more often than once a
month, knows not to go down that downhill slope any faster than
he already has.

"Perry?" Lois's voice in the empty newsroom startles him, even
more so when she pokes her head into his office. "Perry, what
are you doing here so late?"

Perry studies her a long moment, moved by the exhaustion painted
across her face, the absence of that spark that once enlivened
her eyes, enough so to make a superhero reporter fall in love
with her at his first glimpse of her. She's been wasting away
since her article (no need to specify *which* article; Lois Lane
articles sell, but only one is remembered), has gradually but
inexorably stripped herself of her personal life as surely as
Clark's was taken from him, as if she echoes back his loss(her
own form of private penance). Not that she'll admit to it--not
to guilt, not to grief, not to anything at all except fierce,
desperate satisfaction she might not even realize herself she's
faking.

In a way, Perry thinks, regardless that he chose Lane over Kent,
he lost her too, more slowly but just as surely.

"Maybe you want to join me," Perry offers, gesturing to his
couch and moving to sit on it as well. It's excuse enough to
move away from the desk he now finds stifling and the bottle in
the drawer he finds entirely too tempting.

Tentatively, looking somewhat uncomfortable, Lois sits beside
him. "Do you have something you want to talk to me about?" she
asks hesitantly. "A lead?"

"No, no, nothin' like that." Perry waves a dismissive hand, a
certain bitterness pervading his tone. He feels too old. Old and
worn and decades past when he should have moved on, moved over,
let someone else in who might have been wiser when their star
reporter came to them with a story that should never have been
printed. "No *news*," he says, and pretends he does not spit
the word that is both his livelihood and his greatest damnation.

Lois regards him uncertainly, obviously wanting to be anywhere
else, just as obviously having nowhere else to go. She has film
rights, publicity contracts, unending requests for book deals,
all of them offered to her on silver platters with diamond lights
to blind her to what's right and wrong, but she has no friends.
No family to speak of. Nothing at all but the Daily Planet and
the job they can't possibly take away from her now that she has
catapulted them to lasting fame. Everything she ever wanted, but
she's taken none of it, accepted none of the deals, appeared on
none of the talk shows, and hasn't finished even a chapter on
any of the books they want her to write. Alone and haunted, he
thinks again (and maybe he should have stopped a few drinks
before he did).

"Have you been drinking?" Lois asks cautiously.

Perry nods unashamedly. "I have. I drink a toast every month on
this day."

Lois's hands tighten to white-knuckled claws over her knees, and
she looks away, shrinking in on herself. She knows, of course,
what this day is. (Everyone does.)

"Do you know," Perry says casually, "that I was asked two days
ago if I knew how to get in contact with Superman?"

She looks at him sharply, sudden interest igniting the memory of
that spark in her eyes. Interest and betrayal, because she and
Perry have an unspoken agreement to never bring up the ghost
hovering between them, turning them into old soldiers alone in
the foxhole, abandoned by their fellow comrades, cowering behind
in the dirt and pretending they don't blame each other.

"Of course, I have no idea how to call Superman," Perry
continues as if he doesn't notice. "But they said it was urgent
and imperative, life-threatening even, and they had the rank, the
credentials, and the authority to back that claim. Not that it
mattered--no one knows how to contact Superman, apparently not
even the Foundation. But these people looking for him were
desperate, so I told them their best bet was to try and find
Jimmy."

Perry swallows, missing the kid more than he can quite explain to
himself. And yet, he's never been more proud of Jimmy than when
the kid came into Perry's office and told him he couldn't, in
good conscience, continue to work for the paper that had valued
an article over the lives of a friend and his parents. Poor kid
hadn't realized what it meant to value the newsworthyover the
noble, and that would have been a liability for him if he hadn't
quit. A liability, but great shades of Elvis, Perry had mentally
cheered to see Jimmy walk out of the Daily Planet building with
his head held high and his conscience clear.

"I just got a call today from a source of mine in the
Pentagon." Perry's throat is dry and he almost gets up to fetch
another drink, but he knows that won't alleviate the cause of
this hoarseness. Knows it will only make him bleaker and grimmer
and even more bitter. "He said they'd found Jimmy, informed him
of the situation...and a day later, the crisis was over. I called
in about a dozen favors, and now I know just how much of an
understatement 'life-threatening' is."

Lois listens quietly, not even bothering to interrupt him. It's
something she never would have done before, but as he is
constantly reminded, things are different now. Still, he hates
her silence almost as much as he does Clark's.

Standing and welcoming the wash of pain from his limbs
straightening, Perry puts his back to her and says, neutrally,
"There was an asteroid. Seventeen miles long. It would have
wiped out everything on the planet. But it's gone now--and no
one's seen Superman since. In fact, he's been MIA for a day and
a half now, which is the longest he's been absent since he came
back after that tsunami."

Alarm shoots Lois bolt-upright, her legs thumping against the
couch as she leaps to her feet, and Perry feels a muted thrum of
satisfaction. When he turns to look, he nods to himself. Yep,
that's concern, fear, and worry on her face, not interest in a
big story. "He's gone?" she asks, and there is something
almost childlike about the shock and fear in her voice. "Do
you...do you think he's okay?"

"I think maybe only Jimmy could tell us for sure." Perry gazes
at Lois intently, conveying his unspoken message. Silence is the
language of the day, it seems, and he's not so old-fangled that
he can't catch on eventually. "Of course," he adds casually,
"knowing how Jimmy left here, I doubt he'd let any reporters
get within a mile of him."

Lois frowns. "You want me to go undercover?"

A snort escapes Perry, and he crosses the office, pretending his
Elvis picture is crooked so he can busy himself righting it,
using the movement to hide his disappointment at her question.
"Do you really think he wouldn't see through any of your
disguises?"

She stares at him, stricken, before Perry shrugs and turns back
to her. "After all," he says, "Jimmy helped you come up with
most of them."

A tiny shake of her head dispels the hurt look, but only for an
instant. "Then...what should I do?" she asks him, and naked
despair drenches her voice in hopelessness. The old Lois Lane
died as surely as Clark did, Perry confirms with a sort of
detached horror; maybe they even took the whole Daily Planet with
them. But the miracle of resurrection isn't entirely
unprecedented; maybe, just maybe, in a world where Superman can
exist at all, it can happen again.

"You know, Lois, it's my fault too." He meets Lois's suddenly
hesitant, shimmering gaze and does not back down. Not talking
about this hasn't helped anything (silence rarely helps anything
even if it is sometimes the only escape), so maybe it's time to
let out the news that's worth something rather than the news
that's sensational. "It's the editor's job to decide whether
to run a story or to kill it. I made the wrong choice that day,
and that's on me."

There's a moment of complete stillness, and then Lois raises her
eyebrows, frantically retreating until she's once more ensconced
in her world of make-believe. "It was the biggest news
since...since *ever*, Perry. Of *course* you ran it. We didn't
do anything wrong."

But Perry's always been able to tell when Lois is lying to
herself, and there's not enough conviction in her voice to
convince even herself let alone him.

"Didn't we?" he asks, and he looks past the open blinds to
Clark's desk. So empty. So barren. Such a taunting reminder of
all they've lost. All they threw away.

With a deep breath, he picks up his jacket from the back of his
chair and slings it over his shoulder. "I don't know what
happened a day and a half ago, but Clark may be hurt and Superman
is missing. Whichever reason you choose to go after him, Jimmy's
the one to find." He pauses halfway out the door and looks over
his shoulder at her, left frozen and unsure and terrified in his
office. "One more thing, Lois--Clark's already gone and,as far
as I can tell, Superman's only hangin' on by a thread. You know
a lot about Superman, wrote most of it for this paper, but
there's one thing I don't think you ever realized--you're one
of the only people in this world who can either sever that thread
or strengthen it to something that can last."

She doesn't move, and Perry takes in a shuddering breath. "We
murdered one man, Lois," he says softly, "both of us. But
luckily for us, there are two of him. Let's not put Superman's
death on our conscience too. I don't think I could handle it."

It's too harsh, maybe, and far too blunt, but the silence is
excruciating and Perry cannot stand it any longer. Besides, he
knows Lois as well as he knows himself and she needs a challenge,
a threat, an obstacle to overcome to galvanize her into action.
And it's no more than the truth--and isn't the *truth*
newsworthy anymore?

He's halfway across the newsroom when he hears Lois call his
name. He swivels in place to look at her, sees her with one foot
out of his office, one hand hanging onto the wall, as if she's
taking that first tentative step out of her fantasy world and
into the weightier gravity of reality.

"Yeah, darlin'?" he asks, and holds his breath, hoping she'll
make the right decision, praying she'll take the bait. (Hoping
this will help, in some small way, to make up for all he's
stolen from Clark.)

"I..." In the dim shadows it's hard to tell, but he thinks he
catches a glimpse of her long-lost spark, resting like buried
coals in her eyes. "I need the next couple of weeks off. Maybe
more."

A smile of pure relief overtakes his gruff features.

She's done it.

"Take as much time as you need," he tells her. "We'll be
waiting for you whenever you get back."

He turns and leaves her to her furious, purposeful packing at her
desk, leaves her to her planning and her investigating and her
searching. Steps into the elevator and lets the doors close
between them and wonders how long it will be until he sees her
again. Wonders if he'll ever see her again.

But Clark, he thinks, needs her more than the Planet does, and
she needs Clark more than she needs her familiar refuge.

"Just hold on, Clark," he whispers under his breath. "Hold on,
she's coming."

He only hopes it is not too little too late.

***

2

Lois is uncomfortable. It's hot--sweltering, actually--and the
vinyl booth in the dingy diner with its cracked tabletops and
ancient salt and pepper shakers is pretty much the last place she
expected to find herself in when she asked Perry for time off.
From the halls of the Daily Planet to the backwoods of the
country, she muses, and it all seems so useless, so unnecessary.
So pointless.

This diner is the twelfth place she's been to in as many days,
looking for Jimmy, hoping to meet him, thinking that any minute
he'll walk through the glass doors with their blistering metal
handles and grin at her and slide in to sit across from her with
all the boyish eagerness and young charm she's missed. But he
hasn't been in any of the other places she's gone, hasn't
answered any of the numbers she's tried, hasn't responded to
any of the ads she's placed, and she's fairly certain this is
going to end up being a dead end too.

Two weeks.

Superman has been missing two weeks. Clark's been...well,
Clark's been missing for so much longer than that, but the
numbers cut into her soul like blades so she usually avoids
spelling it out for herself.

Two weeks and she's not anywhere nearer finding him now than she
was the night Perry told her what Superman had faced. Alone.

Terror chokes her, lumped up in her throat like bile, like
bitterness, like guilt. Because he's alone and because he can't
ask for help and because she should have been there for him and
because this is all her fault.

Well, not *all* her fault. But partly (maybe even mostly; maybe
so much more than she can bear to admit).

She *needs* to find Jimmy. Now. Before another two weeks can
pass. Before Perry starts drinking salutes on a different day to
another anniversary of a death (of the same man). Before she
loses it completely and gives up on the Daily Planet and the
mentor who sometimes looks at her like she's just as dead as
Clark Kent and the desk where once she ruled and glowed and
conquered whole corporations and congressmen and crimes and now
she only rusts and dims and dwindles away. Give up on it all
because none of it is what it once was and she's tired of
realizing that anew every morning.

And Jimmy better hurry up if he's coming, she thinks, because
she's getting more maudlin with every empty moment that passes.

The bell over the door tinkles, and Lois looks up hopefully (a
stupid hope, because Jimmy hasn't come into the tinkling of a
bell over any of the other doors in all those other anonymous,
tiny towns she's been to, but there it is, that hope, struggling
gamely on against all the odds). But it's just a businessman,
white shirt, pressed slacks, neat hair, sunglasses that Lois
wishes she had because the glass walls do a phenomenal job of
filtering the sunlight through in a direct line over her corner
booth.

Sighing, Lois looks away, back down to her hands, playing with
her cool, sweating glass. Tea. She never drank iced tea, not
before. In fact, it was coffee or cream soda or water, maybe
something stronger if Superman--if he--well, if things weren't
quite as she wished they were. But never tea. Never, ever, and
certainly not when he gave her that unaffected look and quirked
an eyebrow in that gentle-cocky way of his and told her it was
better for her.

*Certainly* not then.

She thinks, though (in some tiny, hidden, damped part of her
mind), that she'd give almost anything for him to be here right
now, sitting across from her, cocking his eyebrow at the
half-empty glass in her hands, saying...

Saying nothing.

Because he doesn't say anything. Not anymore. Not at all. He's
silent, expressionless. Swoops in and saves and rescues and fixes
and catches and helps and then disappears again and never a
single word spoken (certainly not the one word he spoke to her
when she wasn't listening, the last word Clark Kent ever
spoke).

"Lois?"

The world tilts around her. Shakes and trembles and swirls so
that the glass of iced tea falls to its side with a resounding
clatter and dark tea mingles with ice cubes to draw a map of a
world she's never seen across the cracked tabletop. Her hands
are as cold as those sticky cubes, pale and nerveless, and when
she looks up, she thinks that maybe she will fall apart into just
as many pieces (just as much of a mess) as her tea; maybe her own
fragments will map out a truth she's never admitted.

But it's not him.

Not Clark. Not Superman. Not a silence broken and a name spoken
(in a way no one else can duplicate) by a voice the exact nuances
of which she's beginning to forget.

It's the businessman who came in a moment before. Clean and put
together and obviously on top of things, so sure of the way the
world is and the way everything should go and just how he will
affect that all. Just like she used to be. Before it all went so
very wrong.

"Lois," he says again, and then this man (with his dark hair
and his dark eyes and his narrow chin) gives half a smile, and
suddenly Lois recognizes him.

"J-Jimmy?" she asks, and cannot even fault herself for
stumbling, because this cannot be the young, earnest,
eager-to-please kid she's missed so much.

"I almost didn't recognize you," he says, warmly (and that, at
least, is familiar), and slides into the booth across from her.
His long fingers place his sunglasses down, very neatly, against
the sun-warmed wall, reach out to the napkin dispenser and pull
out several napkins, begin to mop up the mess she's already
forgotten.

"Same here," she manages to say, but she cannot make her numb
hands reach out to this man (this stranger) and help him clean up
the spilled tea. "You look good, Jimmy."

"James," he corrects her, matter-of-factly. "No one calls me
Jimmy anymore."

"Oh," is all she can say. But really, she thinks, she
shouldn't be surprised. Everything else has changed; why
shouldn't *this* be different too?

"So." Jimmy (James) pushes the sodden napkin to the end of the
table and folds his hands in front of him. His dark eyes turn
fully to her, and Lois finds herself frozen. The diner's air
conditioner is old and outdated and over-worked, and the New
Mexico sun is broiling her in this glass and metal cage, and
still she is cold and still, some frozen heart of her, trapped in
stasis, trembling on the brink of something new and frightening.

"So," she echoes, when Jimmy says nothing else.

His smile is gone, and he is once more unrecognizable. He is
grown up and competent and composed (and not smiling), and Lois
looks at him and thinks that this secret identity, this alter
ego, is just as good as Clark's was.

"You've been looking for me," he prompts, finally, giving her
a small nod, as if to remind her of a cue. As if this entire
conversation has already been scripted and she's the one who
forgot to learn her lines (and maybe she has; maybe she's
wandered into the wrong theater, and now she's stuck in the
middle of a play completely foreign to the one she knows, written
in a strange language, set among alien props, populated by
unknowable characters).

"Yes." Inwardly, her mind reels. She has a speech, planned out
and suffered over and readied for a meeting just like this (only
different, because in all her plans, she's only ever met with
Jimmy, not James), but she cannot think of any of it. And
somehow, she doesn't think rote words will work, not now, not
here, not facing a man who seems all too sure of himself and his
place in this world and his part (his lines, his script, the
ending to this scene she hasn't rehearsed).

Jimmy only looks at her. Before...the boy of her memories would
never have been able to take a sustained stare like this. He
would have broken, would have shifted uncomfortably and sweated
and babbled out whatever he thought she might want. But this man
sits before her and his gaze remains steady and his hands don't
shake. The waitress comes over and takes his order for a coffee,
but when she leaves, he simply turns back and regards Lois
again.

It unsettles her. She feels, then, as if *she* is the young cub
reporter, all nervous anxiety and hopeless awkwardness. As if
their roles have been switched, leaving her scrambling behind
him.

It's been months since she's written an article worth the money
Perry pays her. Months since she's felt like the reporter she's
always known she is. Months since she's felt that lightning
spark in her veins, that surge of gilded energy mixed with molten
adrenaline. Months, and yet when it hits her, like a rush of cold
water flung straight at her from point-blank range, it feels as
familiar as ever.

So she straightens in her seat and wraps her hands around her
righted glass. "Perry's doing well," she says,
conversationally (she lies). "Still going strong."

"I know." Jimmy gives that almost-not-quite familiar smile
again, a mere curving of his lips rather than the grin that used
to light up his entire face. "I keep abreast of what's going on
at the old place. I'm glad he hasn't given it up."

She wonders if she only imagines the slight hint of reproof
toward her she thinks is implied in his brief statement. (She
wonders if she *has* given up.)

But she only nods and wishes she hadn't spilled her tea so she
could take a sedate sip of it and pretend to be as unaffected as
he is. "Me, too. The Daily Planet wouldn't be the same without
Perry White as the chief."

This time, Jimmy's smile is a bit wider. "Don't call him
chief," he teases her.

It's not much, little more than the thinnest of lines leading
back to the time when they were more than casual acquaintances,
but Lois takes it. Reaches out and grasps hold of it and clings
to it as if it is strong enough to hold up all her expectations
and wants.

"I'm glad to see you," she tells him bluntly. And it's not a
line. She really *is*. Jimmy was just the sometimes-endearing,
sometimes-annoying office gofer--until he left. Then she realized
she likes him, liked his help with her disguises and his
streetwise savvy given out so freely and his youthful optimism.
She liked *him*. And right now, looking at this man with the echo
of his smiles and the hint of his resemblance, she still misses
him. Maybe even more than ever before (because he is so
tantalizingly close but just outside of reach).

Jimmy nods and studies her. "So I gather. You've been going to
quite a bit of trouble to find me."

"Haven't seen you in a while," she says evasively, but knows
it is only for show. As many polite courtesies as they exchange,
they both know why she is there.

"I've sent a postcard or two."

"Have you?" She shakes her head, then waits for the waitress to
set down Jimmy's coffee and her iced tea refill. When they're
alone again (or as nearly as they can be in this decrepit diner),
she takes a deep breath and forces herself to continue. "I
remember a post-it note shoved in an envelope that said, 'Doing
fine, talk to you later,' and then a couple weeks later, a card
that said 'Happy Birthday--found a job, like it a lot, look
after yourself.' And it wasn't my birthday."

He shrugs, easily. Smoothly. Unaffectedly. Takes a sip of his
coffee, and for the first time (seeing and recognizing her own
avoidance moves, reflected back at her) Lois realizes that he is
*not* as calm as he wants her to think he is. She looks at him,
and finally, belatedly, she *sees* him. Dark shadows under his
eyes. Red veins showing at the corners of those eyes. Crimped
lines around his mouth. A bit *too* much attention given to
keeping his hands steady.

He is tired. He is worried.

He is afraid.

Pure terror sheers its way through Lois's body, headed straight
for her heart. An instinctive, immediate reaction, emotions she
cannot control, so powerful they prompt a visceral response. Her
breath catches in her throat. Her hands are shaking. The blood
drains from her cheeks. Wind rushes in her ears, blocking out the
clatter of silverware and the muted murmur of distant
conversation.

"*There was an asteroid. Seventeen miles long." *Perry's words
are like approaching thunder, far-distant, growing louder,
rolling over open prairie, blasting everything in its path with a
violent deluge and forking lightning. *"Superman is missing."*

"It was the only card I could find," Jimmy says, and for a
long, uncomfortable moment, Lois can only stare at him in
complete confusion until she remembers their conversation,
remembers her own comment, remembers that he cannot read the
thoughts in her head (only one person could do that, but even
then, he didn't do a good job of it, did he, not in the end).

"Jimmy," she says, "I--"

"James," he corrects her.

"James," she amends without missing a beat. "I know about the
asteroid. I know the military asked Superman to stop it. And I
know that it's been two weeks since anyone's seen him."

He betrays no surprise. He's not gullible or naive (not
anymore), and he knows why she is here. Knows why she has chased
him across eleven states and a territory, knows why they are
sitting in this stupid diner she hopes never to see again,
drinking tea and coffee and pretending they're just here to
catch up on old times.

"Please," Lois says, and her voice cracks, and she doesn't
even care.

For the first time, Jimmy breaks eye contact. He looks down at
his coffee, and she thinks she sees the hint of a tremble in his
hands when he opens and pours in a packet of sugar (and she
remembers that he hated the artificial sugar, was always making
fun of their little colored packets). "There's nothing to worry
about," he says.

She does not believe him.

"Then where is he?" she demands. Quietly. Intently. She
doesn't want to make a scene. Doesn't want to scare him away.
She just wants him to know that she *needs* to know this.

A flash of something shoots through Jimmy's eyes, turning him
once more into a stranger (dangerous and unknown). When he looks
up to glare at her, she realizes it is anger, glimmering there in
his eyes like cosmic storms raging in the far-off skies over the
heads of oblivious Earthlings. He is angry with her. No--he is
*furious*.

"He's resting!" he hisses. "If you know about Nightfall, then
you know exactly how much it was asking of him to expect that he
could go up there and stop it single-handedly! He may be special,
Lois, but he's still a man, and heading out into space to stop a
rock bigger than Smallville is just a little bit daunting. So,
no, he's not flying around saving people, and he's not out
there being Superman for a world that treats him like some kind
of a cross between their savior and a ghost. He's recovering,
and when he's ready, he'll come back, all right? Now is that
enough for your article?"

"I don't believe you," Lois says, coldly. Numbly (because his
words *hurt*, and they are unjust and unfair, and they paint a
picture she does not want in her mind for all the dark nights
when she can't sleepand terrible thoughts come creeping out from
under their mental rocks). "If all that's true, then why are
you afraid?"

He swallows. Hard. Then sets his cup down with force enough to
make her blink and glance down at it, expecting to see shards of
white ceramic littering the table. But the cup is not broken and
when she looks back up at him, she sees a dispassionate mask
staring back at her, reflecting her back on herself in the image
on his sun-bright eyes.

"I'm afraid of *you*, Lois," Jimmy finally says.

It hurts more than anything because, much as she wishes
otherwise, she can tell he isnot lying.

"He's *okay*, Lois. Really. He is. It was hard and there've
been some scary moments, but he's better. He's okay. So, just
go. Just...just tell me some more about Perry and funny office
stories and then drive or fly back to Metropolis and write your
articles and just let him go. Okay? Just let him go."

Lois stares at him. She cannot read him, cannot comprehend the
truth behind the almost desperate plea staining his words.
"Wh-what?" she stammers.

Jimmy leans over the table, intensity crackling from him,
dispassion falling away to reveal that fear and defensiveness and
desperation. "It's taken him a while, but he's moved on.
He's...adjusted. Don't mess this up for him. Don't take away
everything he's worked to build back up. You ruined his life
once, Lois, isn't that enough?"

Her refill of iced tea slops over onto the table, dribbling down
the rim, jarred by the force of her grip on it, almost strong
enough to shatter the glass. "I don't want to ruin anything,"
she hears herself say, as if from a distance. "I just want to
see him."

And it is not until then, hearing herself say the words, that she
realizes why she has left the Daily Planet and sits in grungy
diners and spends her savings on hundreds of classifieds and begs
this stranger before her. She wants to see *him*. Nothing more,
nothing less, and it is like a weight has fallen from her, to
have the sum of her wants, the extent of her life's desires,
distilled down into one, simple statement.

Jimmy's eyes slide closed, as if she has just hammered the last
nail in his coffin. "No," he says.

"So this is what you do now?" she asks, and now she feels anger
to match his rising up within her. "You screen his calls? Stand
guard at his door? What do you do, interview everyone before they
can meet him? Did you appoint yourself his bodyguard--or is the
correct term 'warden'--or did he ask you to fill in?"

His jaw firms, his eyes narrow, and Lois almost chokes because
that expression (that determined resoluteness he never exhibited
before) is Clark's. It's Clark's expression, sitting there on
his face like it belongs, and if she ever doubted that Jimmy does
know where Clark is and sees him and talks to him regularly
(*talks *to him, when *no one* talks to him anymore), then all
her doubts are shot and buried and laid to rest right then.

"You don't get to pass judgment over this," he says with
finality.

"But you get to pass judgment over me?" she retorts. "I'm not
asking for you to help me ambush him. I don't want it for an
interview or an article--I'm on my own time here, on a leave of
absence. And I don't need you to 'approve' of me, all right?
Just ask *him*. Tell him I want to see him. If he says no, then
I'll leave. I'll go back to Metropolis and never bother you
again. But just, first, ask him if he'll let me see him."

"No," Jimmy says, but it is more a hopeless denial than an
answer to her plea (the murmur of a man over the body of his
child, hoping it isn't so even though the blood staining the
cloaking sheet is incontrovertible).

Lois finds it hard to breathe, every breath saturated with hot
sunlight. "Why not?"

"Because," he murmurs, almost inaudibly, "if I tell him that
Lois Lane wants to see him...there's no way he won't say
yes."

For the first time since Perry told her about this asteroid, Lois
thinks she feels a glimmer of hope limn her heart, like the
half-glimpsed, half-doubted flash of lightning behind thick
clouds at the corner of her eye.

"This isn't fair," Jimmy says. And now, finally, he sounds
like the young boy she knew. "He's just starting to move on."

"I'm not here to ruin anything," she says again. "But the way
things ended wasn't...it...don't you think it'd be better to
clear some things up?"

"How?" he shoots back, all bristling anger and righteous
indignation. As if he is restraining himself, he wraps the
fingers of his right hand around the band of his watch on his
left wrist, holds on so tight she can see his knuckles turn white
as bone, sharp as pain. "Slapped across every front page in the
world like last time?"

Lois flinches away from him, and cannot meet his gaze. "No. No,
not like that." When she does look up, Jimmy looks caught
between fury and grief. "But if he's really moved on, if he's
really okay...then doesn't he deserve the right to make that
choice himself?"

She sees it, the moment he admits defeat. The moment he drops his
weapons to the ground and slumps to his knees on the battlefield
and bows his head in abject surrender. The moment he looks at
her, and there is only resignation, dull and weary and oh so very
jaded, there in his eyes. (And she wonders what she has become,
to slay superheroes and disillusion young men and leave their
innocent bodies in her wake.)

"You think I'm wrong to try to protect him," Jimmy observes
slowly, lifelessly. His hand clenches his watch even tighter.
"But don't you see? Someone needs to save *him*."

Impulsively, Lois reaches out and places her hand over Jimmy's,
fever-hot next to the warmth of the coffee, beneath the
blistering glare of the sun (feels the bones tense even tighter,
whiter, harsher). "I'm not going to hurt him, Jimmy."

"Oh, Lois," Jimmy breathes, "how can you do anything *but?*"

***

3

She waits, in a run-down motel that stands as the perfect
complement to the decaying diner. One day passes, and that's
okay, because she's asking a lot and if Superman was hurt by
this Nightfall, then he needs time. Another day passes, and
that's okay too, because Jimmy isn't sure about this and he
will try to talk himself out of it before succumbing to what he
surely knows is best. A third day passes, and now Lois begins to
pace and bite her nails and leave a mess of chaos in her room
just to give herself something to tidy up later on. A fourth day
passes, and for the first time, she wonders if *he* will not see
her. Regardless of what Jimmy said, regardless of all she has
gone through to get to this point, she thinks that in the end, he
will hear her name and he will fall into that guarded (trapped)
silence, and when Jimmy asks him, he will say one more word.

"No."

Even when he left that first time, when she began to wonder if
she had gone too far and she went to his apartment and picked the
lock and walked in, she didn't truly believe that he was gone.
Yes, his belongings were cleared out and his apartment looked
like the desiccated husk of something that had always before been
alive and vital and entrancing, but he could not be gone. He was
Clark, and he was always there when she calmed down. He always
let her be angry and nodded and smiled and rolled his eyes and
comforted her, and then, when her anger burnt itself out and she
could start to look at things more clearly, he was always there
to laugh at her and tease her and make her smile.

He was always there.

So maybe what she'd done was worse than a tirade, and maybe she
was still reeling from the look in his eyes when he'd said her
name in the newsroom, but of course he wasn't *gone*.

And then she saw it on the news, that his parents were missing,
that everything in their house was packed away (all the pictures
of that young, dark-haired boy with smiles that turned into
pensive looks as he grew older that faded into a more reserved
smile on a teenager that transitioned into a single photo of an
adult Clark, glasses and all, at the top of that staircase of
memories; all the awful, whimsical art Martha Kent delighted in
showing her while her husband staunchly supported her even as he
scratched his head in puzzlement over each one; all the farm
equipment Jonathan Kent knew everything about, from the least
screw to how many times he'd had to fix each one; all of it gone
like it'd never been). She'd stared up at the television screen
with its unwelcome news, and that was when she'd begun to
suspect that Clark Kent wasn't going to be there when she looked
for him.

Not at his desk across from hers, where he could watch her with
that small, secret smile of his he thought she didn't know
about.

Not at his apartment, where he kept a mind-boggling array of teas
just to irritate her.

Not at the street vendors, where he'd buy her coffee and snow
cones and pretzels, and then pretend he didn't notice when she
offered to pay this time.

Not at the park, where they'd walk, sometimes, while discussing
a case that had fizzled out or what newest idiosyncrasy of
Metropolis's irritated her or Perry's latest attempt to make
Jimmy stand up to him again.

Not anywhere.

He was gone.

But she's here now, Lois thinks. She's here, and she's come
all this way, and Jimmy said he'd tell him--said Clark would let
her come to him, would *want* to see her--but it has been five
days and she has heard no word, and maybe he is gone again. Maybe
this strange, grown-up version of Jimmy is better at lying than
even she guessed, and he told her to wait here only so he would
have time to go to Clark (to Superman) and get him to move again.
Make him uproot his new life and pack up all his new and old
things and once more disappear where even a hundred classified
ads and an army of private detectives won't be able to find
him.

Maybe she will never see him again (except on the news, in
flashes of red and blue and expressionless mask, distant and
vague because reporters and photographers and cameramen are not
allowed to get too close lest they spook him and send him once
more blurring into hiding).

When the phone rings, she slips in her haste to reach it and
slides to the floor and bangs her elbow on the nightstand, but
she answers it on the third ring. "Hello?" Her voice is
breathless, panicked, tremulous.

"Hello," Jimmy replies (no, not Jimmy, *James*, because he does
not notice, or care, that she sounds so anxious, and there is no
smile in his own voice). "You're still set on this?"

"Yes," she says firmly, and the truth has never tasted so
certain on her tongue.

"Then get on a plane headed to Coast City," he tells her.
"There's one leaving this afternoon; I've checked and there
are still seats available on it."

"Coast City," she says, and no matter how many times she has
wondered where he is now, has imagined what his new place looks
like, she does not think she ever gave a thought to the
Californian city of test pilots and air force bases and strange
myths about glowing green men.

"Yes," Jimmy replies obliquely. "Unless you want to go back
toMet--"

"No!" She swallows and tries to sound moderately more in
control of herself. "No, I'll go."

The dial tone is her only reply, and she can see him, expensive
sunglasses hanging from one hand, slamming the receiver down with
a thunk and then looking around guiltily to make sure Perry
didn't see the abuse of Planet property. Except James, she
reminds herself, probably has his own phone, and he would not
look guilty at all.

It's a good thing she hasn't been fired like her current
writing deserves, because her savings is dwindling fast. The
last-minute plane ticket doesn't help matters, and she hopes she
can find a cheap motel in Coast City; otherwise, she might find
herself staying at their local soup kitchen. But that is a
passing concern, one forgotten as soon as she puts in the last of
her credit card information and finds herself in possession of
the ticket that will lead her to a recovering Superman.

Recovering.

She's done her best not to think of it, these past five days
(past nineteen days), but sitting in a plane and watching the sky
and the obscured land pass her by out the tiny window, she has
little else to think about.

Recovering. A meteor the size of Smallville, Jimmy said, and he
sounded as if Superman had had trouble with it. As if Clark had
been afraid.

It makes her breath short, makes her vision cloud and her
thoughts haze, to imagine Clark afraid and unsure, but still
firming his jaw into Superman's and launching himself into the
blackness of space. She cannot quite imagine why no one knew
about this. Shouldn't this be something that would be reported
in every country in the world for *months* beforehand? Shouldn't
they all have been there to send Superman off and wish him well
and pray for him and think of him and then welcome him back and
thank him for his latest sacrifice in saving a world and a people
not his own? Why have they kept it so quiet?

Because, she answers herself (ash heavy in her mouth and cloying
in her throat), this is only another example of Superman's
silence.

He does not need gratitude. He does not need recognition. He does
not need acclamation.

He is a ghost. An angel. A spirit protecting Earth, haunting it.
A specter that wards off evil and tirelessly defends its
charge--but invisibly. Incorporeally. Clark Kent is dead, and
Superman is an alien, and so he does not belong, does not live.
Only fulfills his self-ordained purpose and fades back into the
woodwork.

She excuses herself from her seat and stumbles into the lavatory
and is sick. It's not an uncommon reaction to her thoughts these
days. She carries mints in her pockets everywhere nowadays, and
so after rinsing her mouth with flat airplane water, she slips
two of the mints behind her lips. The taste of peppermint is now
inextricably linked to the feelings of remorse and the image of
nightmares, sitting heavy and bitter on her tongue.

When she drags herself and her single bag off the plane into
Coast City's bustling, organized airport, she looks all around.
Jimmy's instructions were as sparse as they were brief, and
she's not quite sure if this is a test or just a testament to
his displeasure with her. But there, against the doors leading
out into the warm Californian air, she sees a man holding a sign
with the Daily Planet logo.

Without a second thought, without hesitation, she strides toward
him. It is like James, this man who is not Jimmy any longer, to
make her identify herself by the paper that assured her fame (her
infamy) rather than by her name. She told him she is here for
herself, but he does not believe her, and this sign is a pointed,
poisoned reminder of that.

"Lois Lane?" the man asks her.

"Yes," she replies. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Follow me." He's big and broad, bulky and brisk, and Lois has
to work hard to keep up with him (just another sign of how far
she's fallen, how out of practice she is; once, when she was the
reporter she should still be, she could keep up with the best of
them).

He leads her to a black car with windows tinted to obscurity.
Lois hesitates (she's been in situations like this before and
they seldom turn out well), but she has come so far and if there
is even the slightest possibility that climbing into this
unmarked car with a stranger will lead her to Superman, then she
will take it.

The man drives her through a winding, circuitous route she's
pretty sure is mostly to confuse her (not that it matters; she
knows nothing about Coast City geography), out past an abandoned
looking base with only a few planes on its tarmac ('Ferris
Air,' the sign reads), back into town, to the sprawling downtown
where skyscrapers rise into the air(blunt and oblong and so very
different from Metropolis's sleek and rounded skyline), through
a residential area with identical houses, and back into a busier
part of the city. When he finally stops in front of a towering
hotel, Lois glances in the direction of the airport and thinks
they could have halved the trip entirely if he weren't trying to
mislead her.

"Thanks for the scenic route," she observes when he pulls the
door open for her.

"I have a feeling it's only just starting," he replies, and
does not give her time to react to that before he directs her to
a taxi waiting on the curb.

Lois is caught between the urge to roll her eyes and the desire
to stomp on the man's foot and lecture him on just how
ridiculous this is. Instead, she only sighs and climbs into the
taxi. "I sure hope *you* know where we're going," she
mutters.

The driver winks at her in the rear view mirror (she gets the
sudden feeling he's one of those people who enjoys surprises and
scavenger hunts and secrets he's in on). "Not to worry, Miss. I
know a general direction."

And once more, she's off. After thirty minutes of scenery she
could do without, Lois leans her head against the warm glass of
the window and lets the swaying of the car lull her to sleep.

When she wakes to the cabdriver shutting off his engine, it's
dark. She looks around and can make out only that they're on a
city street, quiet for all the moderately high skyscrapers on
either side of the road, lights shining in maybe half of the
windows around her.

"You all right, Miss?" the driver asks her.

"Sure," she says before she even realizes what he's saying
(before she can realize she's lying). "Um...where are we?"

"Don't exactly know," the driver says with another delighted
smile. "All I know is, once we're here, I'm supposed to give
you this." He hands an envelope (grainy and not quite pure
white) back to her.

Lois raises an eyebrow and tears it open. A piece of paper
(whiter than the envelope; whiter than her hands) is revealed.
*Building 229, floor 19, room 38*.

Obscure, she thinks, all very cloak-and-dagger, and if she
wasn't so desperate, she might even be able to work herself up
to a full-blown rant. But things being what they are, she lets
her frustration go and clasps the paper tight.

"Am I supposed to pay you?" she asks the cabdriver.

He pretends he hasn't been watching her curiously, and shakes
his head. "It's all taken care of."

She glances to the meter and feels her eyebrows rise almost to
her hairline. Her savings account breathes out a sigh of relief
that this is one tab she's not picking up, because shelling out
four-hundred bucks for a drive she didn't even want to take
would have been a bit much. (Except she knows she would pay it if
she had to, knows she willpay out the entirety of her material
possessions if it means that Clark Kent will speak to her.)

Pulling her bag behind her, Lois pretends she doesn't notice the
driver watching her avidly, and she takes a deep breath, strides
to the door of the building across the street (*229* marked along
its side with ornate copper figures), and buzzes for entrance.

The door blinks open immediately.

She is halfway through the lobby, is pushing the button to the
elevator, is stepping inside and selecting the button labeled
'19' before she lets herself realize that this is it.

All this time, all these obstacles, all the delays and the days
when she talked herself out of even trying to go after him...and
here she is.

There is a void in her stomach, sucking all her internal organs
into its dubious gravity. She thinks her hands should be shaking,
her knees should be giving out on her, her eyes should be
misting.

But none of that happens.

Instead, she feels...numb. Detached. As if this is only a dream.
She will walk through door after door after door. She will shout
his name and reach for his cape and see a gleam reflected from
his glasses--and then she will wake. Alone.

The elevator dings, the doors slide open, and Lois enters...a
suite. She expected a hallway full of doors to apartments or
hotel rooms (only belatedly does she realize she failed to notice
what this building is or what kind of lobby she breezed through).
Instead she is in what looks to be a living room, almost
circular, frontedon one side by glass windows revealing a
cityscape she doesn't immediately recognize, lit by lights and
the paltry effect of struggling stars. There are couches ringing
a center coffee table to her left, plants (real ones, not fake
ones) set out at decorous intervals and above the counter/bar to
her right. Behind that counter is a door, open so that she can
see a kitchen through it. Two more doors in front of her, against
the far wall,one straight ahead, the other nearer the wall
leading to the kitchen, are numbered--37 and 38. Another door
pushed into the corner behind the couches, almost against the
windows, is numbered 39 and is the only door with an obvious lock
on it.

It's cozy and clean and nice, but look as she might in the dim
lighting (light from the kitchen and from the outside city, but
not in the living room itself), she cannot spot any personal
details (pictures of a small, dark-haired boy; African masks or
eclectic books or football trophies).

Her breath shudders when she releases it, and it doesn't feel
quite as dreamlike anymore.

Lois tightens her grip on her bag, pretends that she cannot hear
her swallow as an audible gulp, and crosses the room to the door
marked 38. Her hand, though (she notices with a sort of vague
appreciation) is steady as she reaches out and twists the knob.

It opens to an expansive bedroom.

Adark, empty bedroom.

Her breath whooshes out of her, and she almost does go boneless
(with relief; with disappointment).

"It's your room."

Lois whirls around, her bag thrown in the direction of the voice
so fast that her wrist twinges in protest. "Oh!" she exclaims
when she sees Jimmy staring down at his chest where the bag hit,
and then down at the floor where it now rests. Luckily, it's
pretty durable, and nothing spills out of it.

"Sorry," she offers after a moment.

"No." When he looks back up at her, there is a hint of his
boyish grin curving his lips. "I should have known better than
to sneak up on Lois Lane."

"I didn't know anyone was here!" she protests defensively,
moving forward to bend and pick up the bag.

"Yeah, I just came in." He gestures over his shoulder at a door
she hadn't noticed, on the same wall as the elevator. It's
ajar, she notices, and through the crack, she can see a bedroom
almost identical to the one behind door 38, except there's a
camera on the nightstand and black and white photos framed on the
walls and the covers on the bed are rumpled. "I heard the
elevator," he adds. "Figured you must have finally shown."

"Finally!" She straightens, feels some of her bone-deep
exhaustion recede before her indignation. "Listen, it wasn't my
idea to go for a ride through the scenery of Coast City and then
another ride that took me who-knows-where. I was ready to be done
after the long plane ride, but you're the one all into this
cloak-and-dagger routine--"

"I know," he says, so calmly she is cut off mid-word. (It's
what Clark always did to her, and she hates it; hates that Jimmy
keeps doing Clark things as if he doesn't even notice.) "I know
it's been a long day, Lois, but it's necessary. Trust me, if
you knew how many times we've had to move because we got
careless...well, believe me, it's worth it to take a bit of
extra time."

"Oh," she says in a small voice. Because she should know. She
*does* know. He's Superman, the most famous figure in the world,
the biggest news to ever happen, and unlike the President or
other heads of state, he doesn't have Secret Service and
bodyguards and multi-million dollar protection plans. He has only
Jimmy, and his own natural abilities (unless he doesn't; unless
those are still *recovering* too).

"Anyway," Jimmy says, stepping forward to gesture at door 38.
"That one's yours. I mean," he corrects himself hurriedly.
"It's the guest bedroom. There's a bathroom connected, and
it's fully stocked, so hopefully, you're all set. If you're
hungry, there's food in the kitchen. If you don't need anything
else, though, I need to get some sleep. I have an early start in
the morning."

"Wait." Lois looks from him to the bedroom behind her to the
kitchen, then back to the stranger standing so comfortably before
her. "I don't understand. I thought...I thought he was going to
be here."

His expression turns oblique so fast it's as if she flipped a
switch. "I told you. He's still recovering. And you've had a
long day. If you really want closure, then don't you think it
might be better to approach it after a good night's sleep?"

To that, she really has nothing to say. Because, if she were
really here for closure, then she'd have to agree with him. But
she's here just to see him (can't think of anything past that,
can't wonder about more, can't imagine what will happen after
that), and so this only seems one more in a long line of useless
delays.

But Jimmy doesn't want her here, and he is still trying anyway,
in his strained, disapproving way, so the least she can do is
meet him halfway.

"All right," she says. "Thanks."

"Yeah." For an instant, she thinks she sees sadness ghost
across his face like a cloud across the surface of the moon. But
it is gone in an eye-blink, and maybe she only imagined it.
"Good night," he offers, in a voice she cannot read, and then
he turns and enters his room and shuts the door behind him.

Lois stands in the living room a long moment more, looking all
about her. Jimmy's door is numbered 36; it makes her wonder who
lives behind doors 37 and 39. Makes her look at the door with the
lock on it, the bedroom against the wall made of windows. Makes
her wonder if maybe Clark is closer than he's been for so much
longer than she wants to acknowledge. Makes her heart stutter and
quake in her chest at the thought that the only thing between
them is a door.

But there is a lock on the door, and the last time she went where
she shouldn't, she ended up destroying a life (her own, and his,
and Jimmy's, and the Kents', and Perry's, and who knows how
many others), and she doesn't want to ruin this before it even
begins.

So she turns back to her own door and enters the guest bedroom
and shuts it behind her. She sets her bag down at the foot of the
bed and turns in a circle to assess the room.

There's a closet, and a narrow door open to a small bathroom
with the light on, and a queen-sized bed with a burgundy
comforter, and though there is no window, there is a framed
picture of a city skyline. Metropolis's skyline. Recognizable
and as familiar to her as her own face in the mirror.When she
steps into the bathroom to look around and set out her
toiletries, she finds shampoo and conditioner--aloe and jasmine,
just like hers at home, even if they are a different brand.
There's a notepad and pens on the nightstand by the bed.
There's a current copy of the Daily Planet tucked into the
shelf. There's a black and white teddy bear in the closet, as if
left behind by some other guest (but it wasn't, because she
remembers it, remembers dust and heat and crowds and Clark
smiling at her with that odd mix of shyness and confidence).

Lois backs up to the center of the room and wraps her arms around
herself.

It's as if this room was made for her. As if someone who knows
her, who remembers everything about her (who knows more about her
than most ever learn) wants to make her comfortable.

And this, finally, is just too much. After everything, after four
months, after weeks of searching and days of hoping (fearing), it
is this that breaks her.

Inside her chest, the shards of her broken heart shift and
scratch at her ribcage before settling once more into their ash
and dust.

Lois crumples to the floor, buries her head in her hands, and she
weeps.

***

4

He can hear her crying. It is loud and unfamiliar next to the
other sounds this apartment (this building, this city, this
coast; this new life of his) makes. It is strange (unwelcome,
because he did not know her long, but he never knew her to cry,
never knew her to let loose hold of her walls to allow more than
a few stray tears here and there to trickle through) and
different, and it catches his attention so that he cannot
breathe, cannot think, cannot move.

He's been listening for her, of course. Has been caught up, ever
since James told him that Lois Lane wished to see him, in a
maelstrom of emotions so strong, so powerful, they threaten to
carry him away and so he holds himself still and motionless in
the center of them. Not quite numb, not quite overwhelmed;
just...caught. Trapped. Arrested in a moment, in between the
divergent reactions he wants to make (or thinks he *should* want
to make but no longer knows how to allow himself to make).

But even though he's been listening for her, even though he's
followed her progress to Sullivan Drive through the winding route
all visitors have to take (if there were any besides her), even
though he has his eyes squeezed tightly shut to make sure he
doesn't look toward her room (*look*, in the way only he can,
where walls don't matter while barriers ever so much more
abstract and intrinsic set him further apart than mere walls
could ever accomplish), still the sound of her crying startles
him.

He doesn't know what he should do.

He thinks he should go to her.

The sound of her lungs filling with air and then compressing is
strained, a slight whistle to it betraying the effort it takes
her simply to breathe, which means she must be hunched in on
herself. Must be curled up and wrapped around herself, and he
thinks, from the way the slight breeze of the air conditioning
moves past her form, sliding across fabric and flesh and
diverting around her, that she is not in the bed, but is on the
floor, nearer the center of the room.

The image of her in his mind, crumpled to the ground like a
tissue squeezed in a careless hand and then dropped aside, makes
his every muscle tense in a violent convulsion.

Except...except that movement only reminds him. Reminds him of
everything he tries so hard to forget (and cannot, because his
memory is truer and more consistent than any nation's
approbation). Reminds him of why he sits alone in his own room,
huddled up on the floor, straining toward the sky through glass
walls.

Reminds him that he is not well.

Letting out his own quiet breath, he shifts slightly, bites back
a grimace when he remembers why he does not like to move after a
long day of pacing the confines of his cage, and quickly relaxes
his muscles, breathes again in relief. It's been weeks since
Nightfall (all black, sucking space, the absence of everything
and all around him to such an all-encompassing extent that Earth
itself seemed only a dreamlike memory, and cold so intense he
thought it would have stolen any breath he might have been able
to snatch, and stars that tried to suck him away from Earth's
orbit into strange and foreign galaxies that would welcome him
and praise him and then cast him aside in their turn, and a
rushing mountain so large he felt tiny, dwarfed and insignificant
and so very helpless), but still he is not fully back to himself
yet.

His whole body hurts. Aches and twinges and stiffens in odd ways
(his dad smiles at him and says that now Clark knows what *he*
felt like all those years during harvest, trying to keep up with
him, and his mom fusses over him and takes his temperature and
pretends not to be worried at all when the thermometer explodes
on her). Bruises that do not fade as quickly as the ones Trask
gave him (but he does not think of that, hides it away behind the
walls he's learned to build), and maybe he should not have
slammed himself quite so hard against the asteroid save that he
does not know how else he could have stopped it.

There is a ringing in his ears, even now (with *her* sobs
crashing through him like unending, unstoppable tidal waves), and
though it has faded to almost nothing compared to what it was
after spiraling in dazed, senseless circles amid the debris of
Nightfall, it still frightens him a little, to have a constant
noise that has no origin, no basis for *being* (points to no
person to save, no crisis to avert, no way to bring it to a
stop).

And worst of all, his hands tremble. Ceaselessly. Minutely.
Frighteningly.

Clark (not Clark, not really, because Clark has been subsumed
entirely beneath Superman; and yet, Clark always, because he does
not know how to be anything, any*one* else) wraps his arms around
himself and flattens his hands against his own ribcage (more
durable than anything made under the glare of the yellow sun).
His heartbeat thumps against his right hand, steady and much
slower than a human's, implacable and unharmed (as if it's
still in one piece, unbruised and unbroken and unmoved). His
lungs fill with air and then empty, a broader, wider echo of the
stuttering, soprano breathing catching the whole of his
attention.

The windows are cool, thanks to the apartment building's more
than adequate air conditioning, and Clark leans his body more
heavily against the glass, careless of his bruises. His east
bedroom wall is made completely of glass (tinted so that no one
from the outside can easily see in), and Clark likes to stand in
front of this wall every morning and watch the sun rise, likes to
feel the sun creep its teasing, luxurious hands along his form,
from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. He likes the
brightness of those sunbeams, here in California, likes the
richness of them, the tangible quality to them. He likes that he
can retreat to his room after days full of nothing but rescue
after rescue (after rescue after rescue after rescue after
rescue, ad infinitum) and soak in the proof that there's still
light and goodness and beauty in the world (likes to pretend it
is still there for him to reach out and take part in).

Of course, it's night now. Night, with cloaking shadows and
falling stars and reminders of what happened almost three weeks
ago. (Night with its screams and its pleas and its shattering
glass and its speeding bullets.)

Slowly (knowing what he will see, but hoping anyway because if
there's one thing he can't afford to lose, it's hope), Clark
sets his shoulder fixedly against the cool glass and unwraps
himself long enough to look down at his own hands.

Trembling. Still. Continuously. Inescapably.

(*Always*, he begins to fear.)

Quickly, he hides them again, tucking them under his shoulders,
stowed away, kept sequestered from anything they might harm.

"Reaction to the stress," his mom decided after days of worry
and debate about whether to seek a doctor. "What you faced was
certainly traumatic, Clark, and super or not, your body's going
to need a bit of time to adjust to it."

"It'll go away," his dad reassured him. "Just give it a bit
of time."

"But," James had cautioned, always the pragmatic one, "until
then, Superman might need to take a break."

Clark had argued (vehemently, because he has lost so much
already, and he cannot lose anymore). He needs to stay busy,
needs to help people, needs to avert what catastrophes he can
(needs to do something, to *be* something, and if he cannot be
Clark, then he certainly cannot stop being Superman). But James
was adamant.

"Look, CK," he'd finally said, regretfully. "You know better
than me--what would happen if you had one of these spasms while
you were helping someone?" When Clark had stared at him, stunned
by the implications, he quickly added, "*I*know you wouldn't
hurt anyone, CK. I *know* that. But *you'd* be afraid that you
would--you know you would--and you'd blame yourself for anything
and everything that happened, no matter what really caused it."

So Superman disappeared, as easily, as seamlessly, as mutely as
Clark Kent had.

The tremor of his breath hitting the glass and being redirected
back into his room rushes through Clark's hearing like a
comforting rhythm of give and take. The sound of the city beyond
the window, the people who live on other floors of his building
(patterns and rhythms he has come to know, to recognize as
*familiar*), the ocean murmuring its constant complaints against
the shoreline (and he is glad for that ocean; he was raised in
Kansas, but he quickly learned in Metropolis that having the hum
of waves to overpower other, more monotonous noises is a
blessing), the sound of clouds moving in from the west--all of it
tickles at the edge of his hearing, begging for attention. The
carpet beneath him is plush but stark, not quite abrasive, not
quite soft, evident even through his sweat pants. The glass is
cool, but the slight, invisible-to-the-average-eye imperfections
are extremely evident to him against his brow and the bruises
along his arm and shoulder. The scent of his room, his things, of
James and his parents and the food they ate for dinner (and
*her*, filling up the suite more and more with each passing
moment), wafts through the air, adding something else to the mix,
giving dimension and depth and color to the world, making it
real.

And still his hands tremble.

He could have hurt someone, he thinks yet again. Superman has
become so much a part of his life, so all-encompassing (so
greedy, sucking everything else away), that he had not even
stopped to consider the trembling. But James is right. The
tremors are constant, but every once in a while, there is a
slight, uncontrollable spasm.

Slight, yes. Small. All but undetectable.

Except that nothing is undetectable for *him*, is it? A sneeze
and cars crash into one another. A wrong blink of his eyes and
forestsare ignited into a raging inferno. A flick of his wrist
and whole buildings are demolished.

Now, every time he closes his eyes and feels his hands shaking,
he sees disaster. Sees death and destruction. A wall Superman
holds up suddenly lurching under a jerky, stuttering spasm and
falling into rubble on top of fleeing children. A woman cradled
in his arms on the way to the hospital arriving with a crushed
ribcage and pierced lungs and mangled skin from the split
thousandth of a second when Superman's strength surged in an
uncontrollable twitch. A crisis arrived at too late because he
couldn't hear it over the ringing in his ears, that high-pitched
whine that threatens to send him crazy.

Superman, he thinks. He is Superman (now and always and forever)
and he cannot be afforded any leeway. He cannot tremble, and he
cannot shake, and he cannot be unwell. He must be perfect.
Untouchable. Must be completely in control. Completely
competent.

And right now...right now, he is not.

So he sits here. Useless. Helpless. *Recovering*, as James calls
it. Day after day, pacing and worrying and listening. Night after
night, sitting and worrying and listening.

It's the right thing to do. Of course it is. He tells himself
that over and over again, a mantra recited non-stop in his head
to the accompaniment of that incessant whine. Ordinary men can go
into shock and react to stresses. Ordinary men can have hands
that shake and still go about their lives. But he is not ordinary
(maybe never was; maybe only fooled himself into ever thinking an
alien could live among a people not his own and fit in), and so
he is left here, half a man (except not even that, because he's
already only half a man, so maybe he is only a quarter of a man;
or maybe he is not a man at all, just displaced and
disconnected).

But it's safer this way. It's safer for all the people he could
harm, and it is only temporary, and so he waits.

But if it's the right thing to do, he thinks for the thousandth
time, then why does he feel like a failure? Every day he sits
here, and he listens. Watches. *Feels*. And every day, every
night, he is given a front-row seat to all the things he cannot
stop. The people he cannot save. The places he cannot be. The
dangers he cannot avert.

They are worried about him (about Superman, the hero, the savior,
the shadow over their heads). He hears it on hundreds of news
stations, in dozens of languages. They worry and ponder and
theorize and begin to plan for how they will handle life without
him should he stay missing this time.

They're moving on.

It pleases him, in some basic way. To know that they *don't*
need him like they think they do. To realize that they can
imagine life without their powerful protector. It makes him think
that maybe, one day, he won't have to be Superman anymore.

But that is a long time away (years and decades and centuries
from now, when he is all alone and the world has moved on and
forgotten the alien in red and blue and yellow), and for now,
Clark is intimately aware of all the people who *have* needed him
and who he has not been there for.

Like the woman in the next room over.

*Lois.*

The name slips through his mental defenses like a breath of
stolen air, like exotic spices flavoring forbidden fruit. He
tries so hard not to think of her, not to wonder about her, not
to look her up at all. (Not to let his heart free to consider
what he'd once thought she might be to him.)

But she is here (so very, insanely close, so that he wonders if
the ringing in his ears isn't actually from her proximity), and
he knows that things will never ever be the same, as they once
were (knows that dreams he once dreamed all fell to ruins and
have decayed into ancient relics buried beneath dirt and sand and
time and mistakes that can never be taken back) and that she is
only here to get closure ("She wants to make some peace with
what happened," James said, reluctance written in every line of
his body).

But.

But she is *here*, he thinks to himself (desperately,
disbelievingly, wonderingly). She came after him and she has been
looking for him and James said she was worried when Superman
disappeared, and she is here--and she is crying.

And he should go to her.

It has been so long since he was Clark to her (to the world, to
anyone but the three most loyal to him; the three who love
*Clark* instead of *Superman*), but he knows their brief weeks of
partnership by heart (Lane and Kent; Kent and Lane; partners, two
against the world). Memorized that brief, enchanted period,
etched it into his heart, inscribed it along his soul, andnow he
takes it out some days (when the pain is not too bad; when he
feels strong enough to face the hurt) and relives it, replays it
in his mind--each second of being at her side, watching her,
listening to her, being a person to her, a man, a partner.

He *knows* (her, them, Lane and Kent, partners and
maybe-friends), and so he knows that he should not be sitting
here while she is crying. No, Clark-from-before would go to her
(would have come up with some flimsy excuse to rationalize
showing up at her door this late at night, but would not have to
give it because she wouldn't ask, or if she did, wouldn't stop
talking long enough to listen to his reply), and he would ask her
if she wasokay.

Clark feels the ghost of a smile settle across his lips, and he
makes himself more comfortable against the window, closes his
eyes so he can envision the scene in every detail, every nuance,
every scent and sound and flutter of his heart.

She would brush off his concern (she never admits to not being
okay), but then she would start babbling to hide the truth (hide
how *not*-okay she was) and eventually the truth would slip out
anyway. And if she was still crying, if she was lonely enough or
scared enough, she would give Clark-from-before this...this
*look*. So vulnerable and pleading and *brave* anyway, and
Clark-from-before (Clark-from-any-time, really, even
Clark-who-is-Superman) would not be able to stop himself. He
would say her name (in that way he tried not to because he knew
she didn't want him to care about her like that; didn't want
him to love her), and he would reach out and tug at her arms.

And she would step forward and fall into his embrace, and he
would hold her and *will* his strength into her own more fragile,
more special body. Will his strength and his hope and his power
(and his love, but it's too painful and hopeless and useless to
think of that anymore, so that, too, is set behind thick,
impenetrable walls) into her, wishing he could heal her soul and
mend all the hurts ever done to her and make her realize just how
valuable and precious and wonderful she is.

The moment (the memory; the fantasy) is shattered when her breath
hitches in her throat as she catches her composure. Not because
she's in his arms. Not because he's holding her. But because
she is exhausted and her heart is tired of struggling along at
this frantic rate and her muscles are probably complaining about
their cramped position.

Clark holds his breath and listens even more intently. Listens as
she stands, as she heads into the bathroom and brushes her teeth.
Then he turns his head away (he's turned it toward her at some
point, even though his eyes are still shut as tightly as
possible, to avoid any further temptation) and focuses on the
city outside his glass walls while she changes into pajamas
(because some sounds, some mental images, shouldn't be bandied
about as if they're cheap and tawdry; as if they're within the
realm of possibility).

When he tunes back into her, he hears her sliding into bed. Her
breaths catch in her throat, her heart rate slows a bit at a
time, her lungs shudder and shake from exertion, her limbs quiver
ever so slightly, and then, a bit at a time, he hears her succumb
to exhaustion.

She's asleep.

Clark wraps his arms more tightly around himself and finally lets
himself open his eyes to look out on the city. Not *his* city
(like he'd thought Metropolis once was); just *a *city. His
apartment is here, but Superman can't be. Superman belongs to
the world, not to any one city or any one person. Far to the east
and just a bit south, he can see Mount Pacific straining toward
the sky. North and a bit west, he can hear the cacophony of
sounds marking out Coast City. But here, in this room, in this
apartment, in this moment, all he can focus on is the sound of
Lois breathing.

Asleep, but still that small, infinitesimal hitch to every third
breath. Tiny, unacknowledged sobs.

He wonders if she would be breathing easier if he'd gone to her.
Wonders if she would have stopped crying. (Wonders if *he* would
have cried.)

Wonders what he will do when he finally does see her. Wonders
what he will say (or if she wants him to talk at all).

But most of all, he wonders when he will finally be fully
recovered.

For an instant, he reaches out a hand to place it against the
window before he remembers and catches himself, places it back
against his own invulnerable side.

And as if to remind him of just how dangerous touching anything
is right now, one of his spasms hits him.

His hands quiver. His arms jerk. A millimeter. A microscopic
amount of space, really, in the grand scheme of things. But
motivated by power enough to take out Mt. Pacific with scarcely
an effort. The glass window would have shattered, if he'd been
touching it. The floor beneath him would have been turned to
splinters and mangled remnants of carpet, if he'd let his hand
rest on it.

Lois's bones would have been pulverized, if he'd been touching
her. Holding her. Embracing her. Quieting her tears and
pretending that being Clark Kent is still possible.

But he did *not* go to her. He is still sitting in his own room,
in the dark, and his hands are only touching his own flesh, and
so no damage was done.

She is safe.

Calmly (there's no use in being anything else; he's learned
that, after all this time, learned to take things slowly and
methodically), Clark hunches in deeper around himself and focuses
once more on healing. Recovering. Becoming safe again for the
world (for his parents; for James; for *her*).

Lois sleeps. His parents sleep. James sleeps. Outside his window,
the world moves on, revolving in an endless rotation that Clark
fancies he can sometimes feel. The sun pulls them along in its
inexorable orbit.

And Clark listens. Sits on his perch in the dark and watches life
pass him by.

Observes the world outside and counts the cost of his enforced
hiatus.

Hears their screams. Listens to their pleas. Notices the moment
some heartbeats blink out of existence. Tries not to think about
how many he could have saved if he weren't so weak, so scared of
that black nightfall. If he could only, simply *stop *trembling.

And behind him, taking the place of that ringing (so that he
doesn't even notice when the high-pitched whine finally
vanishes), Lois breathes in and out, and Clark's heart begins to
beat in tandem. A lullaby that eventually soothes him so that,
almost without even realizing, his head slumps gently against the
glass as his eyes flutter closed and sleep claims him for the
first time in nearly a week.

***

5

When morning hits, Lois wakes with a dull headache threading its
monotonous twinges behind her eyes. Sunlight pours in from a
small window, cascading across her bed and illuminating the
twisted tangle she has made of the smooth coverlet. Lois groans,
places a hand over her temples, and wishes she could sleep for
the next week, month, year (until she can wake and find
everything back to what it was when things were still right and
good and hopeful and not ruined forever).

And then she remembers.

With a gasp, she sits straight upright and looks all about.
Daylight reveals little new about her room. The light in the
bathroom is still on (she hadn't wanted to turn it off and leave
herself locked in total darkness), and there are the comforting
distant sounds of traffic and a bustling city even this high up,
and from outside her door, she thinks she can smell bacon and
pancakes and other homey scents. Her bag leans against the
closet, innocuous and compact and proof of just how little leeway
she has (how soon she might be asked to leave).

Some part of her wants to leap to her feet and throw on the
nearest, easiest to grab set of clothes, and charge out into the
living room, finally confront him after so long of not seeing
him.

But she is not so good at charging anymore. Not so good at drive
and motivation and spontaneity. So instead, she gets slowly to
her feet and she goes to her bag and she (methodically,
pointedly) unpacks all of her things. Hangs up her clothes in the
closet. Slides her laptop onto the shelf beside the day old copy
of the Daily Planet. Sets out the last of her toiletries in the
bathroom. She takes her time showering, and she dresses without
much thought to impressing anyone (here, before the one she's
come to see, she doesn't think she can possibly make a worse
impression than she already has), in a pair of jeans and a
sweater that feels fine in the air-conditioned room but would
probably be too stifling outside.

Only then, when she is ready, when she has swallowed some Advil
and hastily chewed a peppermint (to preclude her stomach's
violent roiling from resulting in humiliating her in front of
anyone), does she go to stand in front of the door. Terror eats
its prickly, cobwebby way through her veins, trapping her nerve
endings in a blanket sense of numbness, with the expectation of
pain creeping up on them, making her hold her breath.

He's there. Outside that door. It's definitely bacon she's
smelling, maybe a bit of sausage, definitely pancakes or waffles,
maybe even eggs, and he was always telling her she should take
more time with her breakfast. Always telling her his mom gave him
the best pancake recipe. Always inviting her to stop by before
work, or offering to bring her some, or making her stop in a
cafe.

He's there, and she is not ready, she suddenly realizes. One
wish in this world, one life's goal, but she is afraid to meet
it because once she does...well, then what? What will be left for
her (*of* her)? What will she do? What will *he* do?

Will he speak?

But she can't hide here forever, so she fixes a smile (wan and
forced and probably more harm than good) on her lips, and she
emerges from her cold, dry cocoon.

As much time as she took preparing herself, she is not prepared
for the sight that greets her. She expected Superman (the ghost
left behind to mark Clark Kent's passing), sitting at the
counter with a plate of breakfast in front of him. Looking up at
her entrance the way he always did, already searching for her as
the elevator doors opened on the bullpen. She hoped for a
greeting, maybe one of his slow, easy smiles. She wanted him to
say her name and offer her breakfast. (She wanted everything to
be like it was before.)

But he is not here. Not in one of the couches with his feet up.
Not at the counter with breakfast. (Not standing, cold and
implacable and grim, by the elevator, ready to escort her out and
away.) The locked door in the corner is still closed, shut up
tight and stern and impassable. But, when she turns her head the
other way, she sees door 37 open, though her angle keeps her from
seeing inside. And through the other door, the one leading to the
kitchen, she sees Jonathan Kent emerging, carrying a laden plate
in front of him to the wide counter. Behind him, she hears Martha
Kent saying, "No more bacon for you, Jonathan--remember what the
doctor said."

Her throat closes up on her so suddenly Lois almost chokes on the
splinters of her peppermint.

His parents. They're here.

An instant later, she is furious with herself. Of *course* they
are here. They had to leave too, had had their lives uprooted and
destroyed irrevocably. They're two of the most sought-after
people on the entire planet; everyone wants to know their story,
wants to hear from the parents responsible for raising their
beloved, venerated superhero, and yet no one has yet been able to
track them down. (And he loves his parents, always talking to
them, about them, referencing them, visiting them; she remembers
the way he smiled with such relief and love when they'd stumbled
out of the barn behind Trask's raving back, remembers how he'd
hugged them, been enfolded into their arms, a loving, cohesive
family in a single embrace.)

Of course they are here.

Jonathan sees her first, and she braces herself. Waits for the
frown and the wary expression, the silence or the denunciation,
the clatter of the plate being thrown at her head, the shriek of
Martha demanding she leave.

And for the third (or countless) time, she is surprised.

Jonathan sets his plate down on the counter and gives her a smile
(and it is small and it is guarded, but it is a smile
nonetheless). "Lois," he says, then gives a short shake of his
head as if chastising himself. "Or should I call you Miss
Lane?"

"I..." She clears her throats, coughs up the last pieces of her
peppermint (thinks she will throw the rest away because she will
not be able to bear the taste again without feeling this hot,
heavy rush of humiliation and guilt). "Lois is fine."

"Lois." Jonathan nods, stiltedly, then calls over his shoulder,
"Martha, Lois is up."

The clatter of movement and activity in the kitchen stills, and
Lois only realizes that it was there when it is silenced.

Silenced.

The entire suite is quiet. Frozen. Stuck in limbo as they all
decide on their reactions, fight through emotional responses and
wade through unwelcome history and try to come out the other
side.

Everywhere she goes, Lois thinks, she brings total and utter
silence. She vowed to give voice to those who couldn't otherwise
get their story out, and instead she has become the one who mutes
them all, strikes them dumb and leaves herself gaping and
breathless behind in the void.

But finally Jonathan gives her that polite smile again and
gestures to the high chairs around the counter. "Why don't you
just sit down?" he invites her. "I'll go grab you a plate, all
right? There's plenty, and Martha made a bit of everything. What
will you have?"

"Um..." She doesn't want to eat (she never wants to eat
anymore; Chinese never tastes as good as what he brought her,
breakfast only conjures up memories, even coffee only makes her
try to tally up how many cups he brought her for which she never
thanked him), but he is being so much kinder to her than she
deserves and she does not want to refuse this offer of a truce.
"Pancakes," she says. "I heard her pancakes are amazing. And
maybe some sausage?"

"Oh, they are amazing," he assures her, perhaps just a bit too
jovially. "Is orange juice okay?"

"Yes," she says quietly (and she doesn't care for the tart
juice, would prefer coffee even with its fruitless reminders, but
she would rather bite off her tongue than admit that to this
stolid, bluff man trying so hard in front of her).

He makes another smile (so obviously strained with effort; so
obviously touched with deeply engrained courtesy) and ducks into
the kitchen, leaving his own plate of food cooling behind him.

Tentatively, afraid she will break anything she touches (ruin
everything she comes into contact with; destroy everything these
victims of hers have managed to reclaim in her absence), she
climbs up onto one of the chairs and tries to look comfortable
(or failing that, tries to look like she is not being inundated
with guilt so strongly she feels as if she is bathing in scalding
remorse).

When Jonathan comes back into the room with another plate, Martha
comes behind him, carrying her own plate and a glass of orange
juice. "Here you are," Jonathan says. He sets her plate in
front of her, turns and plucks the orange juice from Martha,
twists again and slides it to just beside Lois's plate. Then he
hurries back into the kitchen (leaving her alone with Martha, who
is staring fixedly at her own plate) before reemerging with
another glass of juice that he gives to Martha.

"Well," he says, when neither Lois nor Martha say anything.
"Shall we dig in?"

"Yes," Lois says, quickly, leaping at the opportunity to busy
herself (busy them all) with eating rather than sitting here in
awkward, uncomfortable silence. "It smells delicious."

"Thank you," Martha says with a careful courtesy that makes
Lois flinch despite herself.

She's seldom passed a few more uncomfortable moments than these,
sitting around a counter in a chair too high for her, across from
the parents of a man she ruined (a man she killed; *murdered*,
Perry had said, and the word strikes too close to home), eating
breakfast as if they are casual acquaintances on good terms. She
thinks the pancakes probably are delicious, but she cannot taste
them and they clog like sawdust in her mouth and she manages to
swallow only a few bites. Jonathan and Martha do little better;
Jonathan eats almost his whole plate, but slowly and almost
anxiously, and Martha plays with her food almost as much as Lois
does.

Jonathan tries to start up a conversation a few times, and each
time Lois tries to respond to him (tries not to give him more
reason to resent her), but soon enough, they fizzle back into
silence while Jonathan shoots unreadable glances in Martha's
direction and Lois tries to pretend she is not counting the
seconds until their son arrives. It is taking all of her
self-control not to blurt out a demand to see him, a question as
to where he is, when he will be here, why are they keeping him
from her (although she is glad she doesn't ask these questions,
because she doesn't think she will like the answers, not when
the blame for so much of what's happened lies solely at her
feet).

Eventually, Martha finally looks up from her plate and looks
straight at Lois. The direct gaze, so unexpected and startling,
locks Lois in place, and she feels, suddenly, completely
unprepared for any of this. For a brief moment, she wishes she
had never come into Perry's office that night, wishes she
hadn't taken a leave of absence and left everything safe and
familiar (and so very empty) behind. Wishes she hadn't come
here, to sit across from the Kents (who probably aren't the
Kents anymore, are probably Smiths or Jones or some other common,
ordinary name), and face exactly what she did four months ago.

"Lois," Martha says. Lois thinks her tone is tightly reserved.
Thinks it is neutral and blank and maybe even just a bit
strained. She thinks there is no inflection to the name (and yet
all she hears is condemnation). "We're not angry with you."

The laugh that escapes Lois is caught between scoffing disbelief
and tearful astonishment (and she hates herself for both). "*Why
not*?" she gasps out.

She thought she was doing the right thing. The best thing. The
only thing for her to do. Thought that everything would remain
the same even after she plastered their son's face across
international headlines and branded him as Superman. She's
always been so much better at reacting than thinking, acting than
considering. Striking first than waiting for explanations.

Shoot first and ask questions later, she thinks; it's what she
did, and she cannot understand how her victim's parents can sit
across from her and serve her breakfast and tell her they do not
hold it against her.

Martha and Jonathan exchange one of those glances only true
partners can (the way Lois Lane once looked at Clark Kent, for
just a few brief weeks), the kind that speaks paragraphs in an
eye-blink, asks and answers questions in the slant of downturned
mouths and minute nods. They look at each other, and Lois is
excluded, and she still feels like an outsider, like the loner,
the unwanted and uninvited guest in the room (which is what she
is, she harshly reminds herself), when Martha turns back to meet
her gaze.

"We knew from the moment we found Clark that it was always a
possibility people would come looking for him," Martha says.
Jonathan nods his agreement behind her, sets a pudgy, supportive
hand to her thin shoulder. "We've always known that what we
had...what we wanted...couldn't last forever. But we had good
years with him, and he was able to get to us before anything too
bad could happen. Besides, it's not as if we lost everything.
We're still together and that's what matters."

They're trying to make her feel better, but instead Lois feels
about two inches tall and made of slime. She shrinks in her seat,
wishes she had the power she always told Lucy she wanted, the
ability to turn invisible (only this time, she doesn't want to
enter locked doors, doesn't want to expose hidden secrets; this
time, she wants to make those two pairs of kind and accepting and
sad blue eyes stop looking at her and seeing so much more than
she wants them to see).

She pretends, for their sake, that she doesn't notice just how
many evasions that paragraph held, pretends Martha actually
answered her question (pretends that means they will be willing
to answer another one), and says, "Is...is he okay?"

Because maybe she doesn't deserve the answers, but she is here
and she is done sitting here and feeling guilty and doing nothing
to complete her self-appointed quest. Done worrying about him
when they could give her an answer so quickly, so easily.

"He's doing better," Jonathan reassures her when Martha only
seems to dwindle and turn inward. But at her husband's words,
the farmwife (who took in an alien child as her own; who raised a
hero and sent him forth to save the world) straightens her
shoulders and wraps her courage and her strength around herself
like a mantle. Like a cape, as noble and as grand as Superman's,
as blatant and as beautiful.

"It was hard," she adds, in a voice so steady it can only be
made that way through a will of iron. "But he's almost back to
normal now."

"What..." Lois pauses and swallows, then gulps a sour mouthful
of orange juice to wet her throat. "What happened?"

Another exchange of glances, and this time it is Jonathan who
takes up that cape of bravery, swings it around his broad
shoulders and transforms, right in front of her, from a kind
farmer to a pillar of integrity, a rock of strength, all
earnestness and boldness and quiet, steady power (power that
comes from within, that can turn ordinary men and super-powered
aliens alike into so much more than the sum of their parts), and
Lois looks at him and is awed. Looks at them both and is
speechless, to see Clark's compassion and his strength, to see
his nobility and his empathy, staring back at her from two very
different faces, worn and weathered and wrapped in concern they
try so hard to hide from her.

She looks at them, and she wonders how she could not have seen it
the last time she met them. Wonders how she could have met them
and spoken with them and rolled her eyes at their assumptions and
helped them crawl from a burning barn and *not* immediately
recognized that all the things that made Clark Superman were
right in front of her, staring back at her.

"The asteroid was almost too big. Almost too heavy," Jonathan
is saying, shaking her from her awed musing. "It took everything
he had to shift it out of its path, to shatter it into more
manageable pieces. It took a lot out of him, and he wants to be
sure he's at a hundred percent before he goes back out."

It is a concise report. Coherent and brief and adequate...but
nothing more. Lois wants details. She wants minute-by-minute
replays. She wants to understand the flashes of fear that spark
behind their voices, that showed in Jimmy's eyes in that diner,
that keeps Clark hidden away behind his locked door.

But she has no right to ask it of them. No right to demand
anything more than they give her. And anyway, she does not want
to hear it from them. (She wants to hear it in a voice that has
been silenced as definitively as she's been destroyed from the
inside out.)

So she nods and looks down at the congealing remains of her
breakfast. "I'm glad," she murmurs, then clarifies, "Glad
he's all right, I mean. I've...Perry and I have been worried
about him."

She doesn't need to look up to know that husband and wife are
exchanging yet another weighted glance (and no wonder, she finds
herself thinking incongruously; no wonder Clark believed so much
in love, in romance, in finding the right one, when he has had
such a clear and present example before him his entire life).

"Lois," Martha says abruptly, a thread of iron determination
and fierce resolve turning her voice into a shield to cover her
family as she plants herself between them and Lois. "James said
you were here on a leave of absence. Obviously, he never would
have brought you here if he didn't believe it. But...but you
*do* realize that nothing you see here can be reported, right?"

Hurt as heavy and large as that asteroid they keep referencing
slams onto Lois's shoulders. "Yes," she grates out. "I'm not
here as a reporter."

"Good." Martha gives a short, decisive nod. "We wouldn't have
let you come if we thought differently, but sometimes it's best
to just get everything out in the open so there can be no
misunderstandings."

"Right." Lois swallows back her (angry, hot-tempered,
loud-voiced) objections about how they obviously hadn't thought
that about Superman's true identity. The hypocrisy of speaking
that aloud (of throwing hostility back at them when they have
offered only polite welcome) is too much even for her. "Well, I
promise, I won't write about any of this. Truthfully, I don't
write much anymore anyway."

Awkward silence scarcely has a chance to fall for the dozenth
time since she exited her room (the guest bedroom, she reminds
herself) before the elevator dings. Lois's heart rate skyrockets
through the roof at a speed only Superman could match, and she
leaps to her feet. She's not ready, not yet, not so soon after
facing his parents! She needs more time, to compose herself, to
think of what she will do when she sees him, what she can
possibly say in the face of all he has to blame her for--

But it is not him. Once again, she looks for Clark and finds
Jimmy instead.

She looks into Jimmy's steadfast, impenetrable face, then, and
feels a sudden surge of unreasonable resentment. If he cannot be
Clark, if he will not bring her to Clark, then he should stop
reminding her of him, should stop throwing Clark's expressions
and Clark's mannerisms and Clark's stride in her face.

"Lois." Jimmy gives her a slight nod of recognition before
turning and smiling widely at the Kents. It's the first time
she's seen Jimmy's smile on James's face, and it hurts so much
that Lois has to spin around, turn her back on them and their
congenial conversation, the sound of Martha bustling about,
fussing over Jimmy as if he *were* Clark, Jonathan setting out a
glass for him, asking how his meeting went.

The remnants of her investigative instincts struggle to rouse
themselves from their hibernation, try to shake themselves up and
turn her attention to whatever this meeting is Jimmy (dressed in
a pressed suit) had so early in the morning, but Lois ignores
them. Superman can appear at any moment, can unlock his deadbolts
and open his door and walk out into this room and join his family
while they tease each other over breakfast. He can step into view
and meet her gaze and strike her instantly into a pillar of salt
(for looking back at things she'll never be able to have again),
disintegrate her into a pile of dust (for daring to think that
seeing him again could help either of them), send a bolt of fire
through her to transform her into singed ash (for what she did to
him, what she took from him, what she said about him).

And if he walks in, if he appears, Lois wants to be ready. She
will have only moments, she thinks, to say everything she might
want to, to notice everything she did not take the time to before
and has thought of so often in the last months. Only moments to
last her the rest of her life (because if Jimmy barely let her
come this time, then he will never let her find him again), so
she will have to absorb them and store them and burn them into
her very cells as quickly, as fully as she can.

So she walks away from the family (and finally Jimmy's found a
family that accepts him even more readily, more openly, than the
Daily Planet staff; found the family he's always been searching
for) and over to the glass windows. They are completely
uncovered, tinted so that it's a bronzed, ambient light
blanketing the suite, turning tan couches almost gold. Lois
stands in front of these windows to the outside world and looks
out on the bustling metropolis of a city she doesn't recognize.
She's fairly sure it's not Coast City, its multiple buildings
too short, no sign of the harbor, but beyond that, she has no
idea.

And it doesn't matter. Coast City or Central City, Keystone City
or Gotham City, London or Tokyo--she doesn't care where she is
so long as Clark (Superman) is here. So long as she gets her
chance to see him for however few minutes he allows her.

"Lois?"

She startles at the sound of her name (so tentative, so gentle,
and this too is like Clark, and so she knows without even turning
that it is Jimmy at her shoulder), then turns to meet him.

"You okay?" Jimmy's dark eyes are concerned. She thinks he is
trying to appear wary and unaffected, his hands in his pockets
and keeping a few feet between them, but she knows him better
than he thinks, and she can see that he is worried for her.

"Fine," she says, and forces herself to unwrap her arms from
around herself, straighten and face him as if she is not ashamed
to even meet his eyes. "Just a bit impatient."

The concern vanishes as if it had never been. Jimmy disappears
and Lois once more finds herself confronting the young,
self-assured businessman from the diner. "This isn't about
you," he says coolly, turning his head to stare with narrowed
eyes out at the cityscape. "He's not here right now."

Lois frowns. "I thought he wasn't going out again until he was
fully recovered."

"He isn't going on rescues," Jimmy replies, still not looking
at her. "But sunlight is the only thing that rejuvenates him.
He's been going out every day to soak up as much of it as he
can."

"Oh." She can think of nothing else to say, too busy reeling at
this thought (at Superman blooming in sunlight, unfurling with
powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men; at Clark
*needing* recovery so much that he has to go and seek it out
every day for three weeks). "Is it that bad then?"

Jimmy doesn't answer for a long moment, the struggle plain to
see in the tension mapping out the edges of his form. Finally,
though, he gives a half-shrug. "Not bad in the way you're
thinking. But he hates that he can't be helping as many people
as possible." After another hesitation, he adds, almost
reluctantly, "He doesn't like taking time for himself. Not
anymore."

And she doesn't need to ask the next natural question, not when
she already knows what's changed, why he doesn't take time for
himself (for how can he, when she has left him no *himself* to
give time to?). So she gives a short nod and looks back out the
window. "You really think I'm going to hurt him that badly?"
she asks, the question torn from her before she can think better
of it. "You really think I'm the enemy?"

His expression is almost contemplative as he turns to face her
full-on, his scrutiny so uncomfortable and off-putting that Lois
raises her chin and meets his glare with her own, unwilling to
shrink away. "I think," he says, very slowly, very intently,
"that you could be the worst thing that has ever happened to
him." She doesn't even have time to flinch (to cry out at the
agony of the blow he has struck, to fold in over this mortal
wound and drop to the ground to hide the bloodstains), before he
continues. "But *he* doesn't see it that way. So...so I'm
trying to see it the way he does. The truth is..."

She holds her breath, waiting for him to finish his statement
(*willing* him to finish it). Holds her breath so long black
spots are dancing at the borders of her vision. Waits so long she
wonders if she will pass out right in front of this silent,
stubborn stranger.

"The truth is," Jimmy finally says, swiveling to walk away as
he finishes, throwing the words over his shoulder, "he needs
something. And if *you're* the one to give it to him, well then,
maybe I'll just chalk it up to poetic irony."

He disappears into the kitchen (where she can hear the murmur of
Jonathan and Martha over the clatter of dishes and running water)
without even turning to see the effect of his words. Not that it
matters. Lois has become an expert, in recent months, at keeping
her reactions and thoughts and emotions locked away inside.

She does not show just how much she wants to believe him. Does
not show the thousand thoughts spiraling through her mind, all
the implications of his statement. Doesn't show anything, just
stands there in the sunlight-drenched room and looks out at
cloudless blue skies and sees a pair of silvery brown eyes
covered in glass lenses staring at her with that look only he
ever gave her (that look of awe and devotion and discovery and
amusement and awful, *awful* hope).

Stares ahead and sees into the past and is too afraid to
contemplate the future, and the hours slip by her while the sun
falls in its well-worn path through the sky.

***

6

The Kents bring out sandwiches for lunch and Jimmy emerges from
his room with a crease in his brow to eat one and have his
unnamed worry cajoled away by Jonathan and Martha's easy
conversation. Lois nibbles at a sandwich while she watches the
three of them together, and absently examines the unfamiliar envy
creeping along the edges of her being. She offers to help with
the dishes, but Martha says there's hardly enough to bother with
and Jonathan assures her she's a guest while Jimmy disappears
with the muttered excuse of having a call to make.

Lois thinks about retreating to her own room, but some last gasp
of her old stubbornness breathes life into her determination, and
instead, she plants herself on a couch in the living room. She
will not give them excuse to forget about her. Will not give
Clark a way to squirm out of seeing her. She will sit here and
make sure they see her, and even if they have to trip over her as
they each do their thing--Martha working on some art project that
involves a lot of magnets, paint, and glue at the counter;
Jonathan disappearing for a few hours before coming back in and
fiddling with some kind of odd mechanism, a small case of tools
on the coffee table between him and Lois--she at least knows that
she is here. Waiting.

The windows let in plenty of light, and Lois watches it change,
from afternoon to evening, gold and yellow to orange and purple
and russet red, all diffused and altered by the tint to the
glass. Jonathan eventually sets aside his tools and brings out a
magazine with a picture of a green tractor and a red barn on its
cover. Martha cleans up her art project and heads into the
kitchen, presumably to work on dinner judging by the smells that
start wafting into the living room a few moments later. Lois
thinks about offering her help, but she has the feeling Martha
would prefer she didn't, and anyway, Lois wouldn't even know
where to begin.

So she waits. As silent as Superman. As stubborn as Jimmy. As
solid as Jonathan. As strong (she fancies herself, a delusion
that helps her get up in the morning) as Martha.

When twilight hits, when Martha brings out plates of roast beef
and potatoes and corn and salad, Lois tenses. She forces herself
to sit quietly, to stay still and patient. Her eyes are locked on
the windows, on the closed door, on the elevator.

"He won't come."

At Jonathan's quiet statement, Lois gasps and looks over. Meets
his soft gaze.

"His hands shake," Jonathan explains. "He hasn't eaten with
us since Nightfall. Martha always hopes, always sets out a place
for him, but...he uses the time to chase the sun a ways across
the ocean and store up some extra sunlight for the night."

"Oh," she says, in a shaky, raspy voice, dry from disuse.
"When will he be back?"

Jonathan shrugs, tidies the corners of his magazine and places it
in a drawer in the coffee table. "Depends. He's so close to
being back to normal that he's getting impatient. Has the idea
that if he just gets a couple extra minutes of sunshine, he'll
finally snap back. But don't worry, he always comes home."

"*Is* this home?" Lois asks, wistfully. She glances around the
suite--it's nice, luxurious almost (and she wonders how he's
paying for it, *who's* paying for it), but it is not a farmhouse
in Kansas, and it is not a newsroom or homey apartment in
Metropolis, and she cannot imagine Clark Kent being comfortable
here (but then, she couldn't imagine Jonathan and Martha Kent
anywhere but their quaint little farm either).

Jonathan's small, warm smile takes her breath away. It
transforms him, turns him from a squat man past the prime of his
life into something nobler, almost handsome in a silver and
steadfast way. "Home's not a place, Lois," he tells her, like
a benediction, like he's unfolding the secrets of the universe
just for her. "It's people and family and love. So don't
worry--no matter how far away he flies, Clark always comes back
to the people he loves."

She is speechless, frozen, and almost does not even notice as
Jonathan gets up at a quiet call from Martha and leaves her alone
in the living room.

But they call to her, and Martha asks her, kindly, if she isn't
going to eat, and so Lois shakes herself back into action (stirs
herself to life even when it seems there's so little left to
live for) and joins them around the counter.

For a while, she can pretend she is not an outcast. Pretend she
is as welcome there as Jimmy, as if the conversation doesn't
include her for longer than a question or statement at a time
simply because she is quiet today and does not feel like joining
in. Pretend that she has not forced herself into their life in
multiple, unwelcome ways.

She notices the extra plate set between Martha and Jonathan's,
notices that there's plenty of food leftover, notices that
sometimes Martha looks toward the windows with a tight look
around her eyes until Jonathan clasps her hand and gives her a
steadying nod. The conversation is light and easy, Martha
commenting about how hard it is to find good corn out here, Jimmy
talking about the pictures he's been taking of people out in the
parks, Jonathan chiming in with his plans to maybe go out and
visit one of the museums if Martha wants to come with him in a
few days.

They have a life here, Lois realizes for the first time. This
isn't just a hide-out, a place to stay for a few weeks until
they once more pick up and leave (and it could so easily be that,
too, but they all take great pains to pretend that it is not); it
is a home, a place where they are doing their best to put down
roots. And maybe Martha grumbles about the price of food and
maybe Jonathan shakes his head over the lack of things to do if
one doesn't like to sightsee, and maybe Jimmy only practices
photography as a hobby now, but they have settled in
nonetheless.

It both eases some quiet tension inside of Lois and makes her
feel even worse (that they have to settle for so little in
comparison to what they once had).

"Thank you, Mrs. Kent," Lois says, when the edge of her vague
hunger is gone, when her plate is near enough empty that she can
set her fork aside and stop pretending. "It was delicious."

Martha sets her own fork down and gives Lois a look. It's a
'mom' look, Lois thinks, an expression that needs no words to
let her know she has seen through what Lois is doing and will not
allow for it. "Thank you," she replies, then adds tartly
(forgivingly), "but I believe I've told you before to call me
Martha."

Lois smiles. A real smile. A small, tremulous smile that seems a
bit too close to tears for comfort but that she doesn't mind
anyway because, for the first time, she feels like perhaps she is
*not* the enemy. "All right, but only if you let me help with
the dishes. I may not know what to do with a roast, but I
certainly know how to wield a washcloth."

Jonathan chuckles. "Might as well let her, Martha," he says,
and winks at Lois.

In short order, Lois finds herself with an armful of dishes, and
she finally gets to enter another door besides her own. The
kitchen is warm and golden and everything Lois thought it would
be (bigger than she expected, as everything in this suite is).
The countertops are clean, though riddled with bits of whatever
Martha used to ready the meal. There are homey dishtowels hanging
from the stove; there are a few pictures affixed to the
refrigerator with magnets (Jonathan and Martha in front of their
house in Smallville; the Kents with Jimmy at a park, a mountain
visible in the background; but none of Clark, none that will
betray that Superman lives here, none that give a hint where they
have stayed between Smallville and here); a few of Martha's
in-progress art projects are spread out across the small table
pushed to the side of the room. Over all, Lois thinks, it looks
like a kitchen Martha has appropriated as her own space, and she
thinks of the living room with Jonathan's little tools and his
magazines and the kitchen with Martha's work and Jimmy's room
with his framed photographs, and she wonders what Clark's room
looks like (wonders if it is as bare as the places on the fridge
where *his* pictures should be, or if he lets himself have that
one, locked space).

"I'll wash," Lois says quickly. "Seems easier since I don't
know where any of the dishes go after they're clean."

"Sounds good," Martha agrees easily. She has made peace with
Lois's presence (has resigned herself to it, or maybe, Lois
thinks, has decided on a course of action and can now be patient
in the meantime), sometime throughout the day, and she bustles
around Lois as if there is nothing unusual about her being there
at all.

Jimmy and Jonathan bring in the last of the dishes, but Martha
chases them away after that. "Too many people in the kitchen and
I just start feeling crowded," she admits before picking up a
cloth and beginning to dry the growing stack of now-clean
dishes.

Lois nods, and focuses on the bowl in her hands, on the flecks of
mashed potato marring its surface, on the swirls in the color of
the bowl itself--anything to distract herself from the thought
that *she* is crowding Martha. Crowding them all. They have moved
on and settled in and adapted to each other. They have
survived...and here she is, as if on cue, ready to come in and
destroy their lives all over again, and Lois cannot understand
why they allow her to be here at all. She knows that if she were
Jimmy, she would have packed them all up after his meeting with
her in that dingy diner, packed them up and moved them on with
nothing but a bare fridge and an empty living room and too-high
chairs at the counter to mark they'd ever been there.

They've invited the enemy into their midst, and it doesn't
matter that Lois has no intention of ruining what they've built
or taking anything away from them. Her presence is enough to do
that all on its own, reminder of all they once had and no longer
do thanks to her.

She's gone through several dark periods in the past three and a
half months. Days when she couldn't get out of bed, couldn't
rouse herself enough to even call Perry and tell him she
wouldn't be in (he never mentioned those days later, never
talked about them; he was too busy drinking his anniversary
salutes). Weeks when she merely went through the motions, whole
days blurring in her memory so that she couldn't remember what
she'd done, where she'd been, if she'd written anything, or
how she'd gotten to work.

Dark periods. Bleak moments. But she does not think she's ever
felt so bad as she does now, her hands wrist-deep in soapy, dirty
water, holding a ceramic bowl and a washrag. Teardrops fall into
that water (further dirtying it, sullying it with guilt she
shouldn't even have the luxury to feel, to indulge in), tiny
ripples pushing aside soap bubbles, plink-plink-plinking
alongside the rim of the bowl.

"I think that one's done now, honey," Martha says gently, and
she reaches out, infinitely slowly, and unwraps Lois's fingers
from around it. Before Lois can do more than take in a shuddering
breath, Martha has placed another bowl in her hands. "Start on
this one, okay?"

Lois gives the impression of a nod. She doesn't say anything and
Martha lets her hold on to her impossible hope that neither of
them know she is crying.

It takes a while to finish up. There are a lot of dishes (but not
so many that Lois doesn't notice Martha taking the empty plate
set aside earlier and filling it to overflowing with leftovers,
wrapping it in plastic and placing it in the fridge), but Lois
wishes there were more. She wouldn't mind if she never ran out
of dishes, if Martha just kept handing them to her one by one
(giving her an excuse to stay; giving her the illusion that she
can possibly do something to help them, to give back to them, to
make up for what she's stolen).

She's just draining the water (as slowly as possible, not
wanting this to be over, not wanting to go back to just sitting
in their way and waiting for a man she's starting to think is
never going to appear) when Martha suddenly stills. She covers it
quickly, finishing drying the plate in her hands with a few
decisive swipes, but it is the first time Martha's shown any
hesitation since breakfast and it catches Lois's attention. And
as if the movement was a switch thrown, Lois suddenly becomes
aware of the sound of voices, a murmur coming from the living
room, background noise that's been there since Jimmy and
Jonathan exited the kitchen.

Jimmy's voice. Jonathan's voice.

And a third voice.

A hum. A dim, distant swirling of noise. A gentle sound more
soothing (more disturbing) than any other noise Lois has ever
experienced.

And she knows.

(He's talking. He's broken his silence. He is alive and just
outside the door.)

"He's here, isn't he?" she asks. Watches the last of the
water flee down the drain, a whirlpool of purposeful chaos, of
motion, hypnotizing because it gives her excuse not to look up.

Martha glances at her, picks up another plate to dry. "Yes, he
is." She pauses, then sets aside the plate and cloth, takes hold
of Lois's shoulder, hands her a dishtowel from the stove. "Dry
your hands and then go on out there. I'll finish up in here."

A bolt of sheer terror sparks a revolution in Lois's system,
deadening her nervoussystem, shooting adrenaline through her
veins. Freezing her in place. "Wh-what...what do I say?"

Something like compassion, like sympathy (or maybe just pity)
moves through Martha's eyes, turns them almost silver,
highlighted with sapphire, reflecting gold sparks from the warm
tones of the kitchen. "Oh, honey--whatever it is you came all
this way to say."

And with that, Lois finds herself propelled to the door (the
dishtowel whisked out of her wrinkled hands), and she cannot make
her mouth cooperate long enough to inform Martha that she didn't
come to say anything, has come only to see him and make sure he
has survived (Nightfall, the past hellish four months; what she
did to him), and that he is all right.

The door into the main suite, already half-ajar, swings open
traitorously easy, stripping her of the last obstacle between
herself and the man she murdered. She steps through it, fully
expecting the scenery to change to something grim and bleak, or
for another door to appear, and another and another and another
(it's what always happens in her dreams, when she thinks she's
finally going to get to see him).

But he's there. It's him, standing by the coffee table. Dark
hair, shorter than she remembers. Tall. Broad shoulders (he's
dressed like Clark, and she can't stop the room rushing in
circles around her long enough to decide if that makes it better
or worse). Hands with long fingers that gesture as he talks.

Talks.

He's talking.

His back is to her and yet...and yet he knows she is there. The
line of his shoulders becomes just a bit more rigid. His voice,
in the middle of a sentence (and how long has it been since
she's heard him speak a sentence that is not just comprised of
her name?) wavers before finishing ("...the ringing went away
last night," she thinks he says, but she cannot focus on
anything past frantically re-memorizing every nuance of the sound
of his voice to decipher the comment), and then...he falls
silent.

Mute.

Dumb.

It's a cruel, cutting coincidence: she walks into the room and
he is instantly cut off, separated so fully that he does not even
attempt to breach the distance with speech (and she suddenly
thinks Jimmy was right, this was a bad idea, this is so wrong,
she's going to ruin everything for him again).

She wants to say his name (wants to make him turn toward her
because there's still plenty of time for him to fade awayif this
is a dream, to be someone else, some featureless mask, when she
grabs his shoulder and yanks him toward her), but she doesn't.
Doesn't because she knows, instantly and startlingly, that she
doesn't want to speak first. Doesn't want to talk, to state her
case, to so blatantly exercise the right she's taken away from
him.

She does not want to talk to him if he will not speak to her in
turn (if he will give her only silence, as she gave him coming
back from their trip to Smallville).

So she, too, is mute. Motionless. Hovering on the threshold to
the room (to him; to more; to anything other than the torturous
limbo she hasn't been able to escape).

Jonathan and Jimmy, seated on the couches, watch her, and they do
not speak either. Behind her, Lois can feel Martha's eyes,
locked on her back, willing her to do something (but she cannot
imagine what that is, unless it is to walk out their door and
never come back).

And then, as she knew it would be, it is Clark who breaks the
tableau. Who reaches up a trembling hand and removes something
(something that glitters and shines) from his face, and turns
toward her.

She finds herself face to face with a stranger.

Neither Clark, nor Superman, he is some strange hybrid, a facet
of him she has never seen before (the facet she didn't take the
time to get to know before splashing it across every newspaper
and television screen in the world). An amalgamation of both the
parts that she knew (Superman, the son of Krypton, and Clark
Kent, farmboy and investigative journalist). It is Superman's
eyes and Clark's mouth, Superman's brow and Clark's nose,
Superman's stance and Clark's hair. But his expression is not
Superman's polite, bemusement. It is not Clark's open wonder
with the world and everything in it.

It is...different. It's soft and guarded and kind and arrested
and a hundred more things she cannot interpret (because she does
not know the man standing in front of her). He tucks something in
his pocket (the something he took from his face) without looking
away from her, and then he crosses his arms over his chest, hides
his hands away. That's familiar, Lois thinks, remembers the
superhero's customary stance (or at least, it was customary
before; he does not stick around anywhere long enough for her to
know if he still uses it or not), but without the Suit, it looks
strange and new and unfamiliar too.

*He's* unfamiliar (but it's him, it is, she knows it; she could
not make this up, could not dream this), and she doesn't know
what he will do. When she imagined seeing Clark again (after
Jimmy told her that Clark would not turn her away), she imagined
him with his forgiving, accepting, fond smile. When she imagined
seeing Superman (in those days when she still thought there was a
chance she could track him down at the scene of a crisis, before
every reporter in the world learned how impossible that was), she
always imagined a stern, disappointed look and a blur of colors
as he put the globe between them as quickly as only he could.

But she does not know what this stranger will do. She doesn't
know what to expect of him. She doesn't know what *he* wants of
her or expects of her. So she only stands there and stares and
matches his silence.

Out of everything she could imagine him doing, though, out of all
the possible scenarios, he chooses the unlikeliest of all.

He smiles at her.

And as Clark Kent exited this world with a single word, so this
stranger enters her world with the same one.

"Lois," he says. A breath. A murmur. A *sound* (when for so
long there has been only silence).

If she had not spent almost four months layering herself up with
fake resolve, with false determination, with forced control, she
would have crumpled right then. Would have bent in on herself and
folded to her knees and bowed before him and covered her face
with her hands and wept.

But she *has* been building herself up in a steel mold, has
poured all that is left of herself into an invisible body-cast
that keeps her upright, keeps her looking as people expect her to
look, saying the things the Lois Lane of old would say. And so
her only reaction is the breath escaping her lungs in a
shuddering, involuntary rush.

"Lois," he says again, and he smiles. *Again*. (And this
stranger, this unfamiliar hybrid before her, is even more
unbelievable than the man who befriended the woman no one else
could, than the superhero who flies and bends steel in his bare
hands and shoots fire from the skies.) "It's good to see
you."

He is insane. He has cracked and broken and doesn't remember
what happened. Or worse, he never read the article, never
realized it was she who wrote it and so he has spent all this
time blaming the wrong person (poor, *poor* pitiable person) for
what has happened to him. He is delusional or misinformed or
deceived, or maybe he has grown clever and sly and vindictive in
retaliation and is planning something slow and cruel and terrible
to avenge his own death and this is only a game of cat-and-mouse.
Or...or *something*, because there is no way he is actually
smiling at Lois Lane (at his murderer, his enemy, the woman who
unmasked him to the world without even asking for a quote) and
telling her it is good to see her. As if he is glad she has come
back into his life. As if she is not the specter that haunts his
nightmares, the face put to his childhood fears.

"You came."She hears the words, recognizes her own voice, and
yet, she doesn't know where those words came from. Doesn't know
why they are the first words she chooses to say to him. But
nonetheless, it is her voice and she is the one who said them,
and everyone can hear the tears surging up behind them, can hear
the disbelief and the relief tainting those two words with a
weight they aren't strong enough to bear up under.

His smile (another one, and this is a Clark smile, teasing and
slight, curling up higher at one end of his mouth than the other)
makes the room steady around her. Makes the light dim a bit so
that it isn't stabbing into her eyes, into her brain.
"Shouldn't I be the one saying that?" he asks wryly.

As if he can still laugh. As if he was not destroyed by what she
did. As if...as if he has survived (and that is what she came to
see, isn't it, to reassure herself of?).

She blinks, realizes he is waiting for her reply (though she
doesn't know why, doesn't know why any of them care to let her
talk at all when they could just be sitting there and letting
*him* talk and luxuriating in the fact that she did not entirely
steal his voice from him). "Oh, right." She blinks again, gives
herself a small shake, and takes a tentative (brave) step into
the room, rests her cold, wrinkled hands on one of the slats of
the tall chairs. "Thank you for that. For letting me come."

He gives a short nod, this stranger, not a real nod, just
confirmation that she spoke. He waits (she holds her breath,
afraid she has scared him away, has lost him again), then, as if
he cannot help himself, says, "I missed you."

Lois swallows. Hard. Curls her hands into fists so tight that she
feels a couple of her nails puncture the flesh to release tiny
pinpricks of blood. As if in response, the stranger (Clark, her
heart stubbornly says; Superman, her mind reminds her; neither,
she thinks) flinches. His eyes dart toward her hands, and for the
blink of an eye, she thinks he will drop his arms from their
crossed position and stride across the distance separating them
and then, with hands as gentle as his mother's, will uncurl her
fists and tsk over the puncture wounds and chide her about being
more careful. (She thinks he will turn into the Clark she killed;
thinks she can resurrect him from the dead with less effort than
it took to kill him.)

But then his own hands form into fists, and he tightens his
position, resettles his arms across his chest, and does not move
(does not rise from his grave to comfort her).

Behind them, Jonathan pointedly asks Jimmy a question in a low
voice, drawing the young man into conversation, as if they can
all pretend that Lois and this stranger are alone and not being
attended by family all too ready to leap between them (like a
mother before her child, leaping into the path of bullets, and
Lois wonders if bullets always feel so used up and reluctant and
agonized over their task).

"How's Perry doing?" the stranger asks, and Lois almost
flinches, to hear this man she almost-but-not-quite knows ask
after the editor who was a mentor to Clark, to her, to them
both.

"Good," she says automatically, but that's a lie. He's
talking to her (talking, breaking the silence with words that
mean things and say more than she's ever said before in her
life), and she's lied to him. Without even thinking. Without
even meaning to. So she winces and says, "I mean...he's still
the chief. But he's...he's tired. And he says he feels old.
He's muttering about retiring, but I think that's an annual
thing he goes through."

He nods, but there's a flicker in her eyes, and Lois realizes,
with a pang, that Clark Kent didn't work at the Daily Planet
long enough to know what was annual and what wasn't. She
forgets, most of the time, that he wasn't there very long (only
two months; only eight weeks and four days); he slipped in so
easily, fit in so well, that it seems he was always there.

"And Cat?" he asks after another tiny slice of silence tries to
sneak in.

"Umm...she left. Transferred to Los Angeles."

"Well." He smiles, but this is not a Clark smile. It's almost
(but not quite) a Superman smile, reserved and more perfunctory
than real. "Lots of gossip there for her to find."

"Yeah." He hasn't stopped looking at her yet, hasn't looked
away, and it would make Lois uncomfortable except that*she*
hasn't looked away either. This is her one chance to make sure
he is all right and doing well and that he is *recovering*, and
she might not ever get to see him again (might never hear his
smooth, silky voice again), and if this is all she will get, then
she will not waste a second. So she gathers her courage and she
steps around the counter, closer to him. Watches him, notices
that he tenses at her motion before obviously forcing himself to
stay in place.

She takes another step nearer, toward the couch, and this time,
he does not stop himself. He backs up until he is only a foot
away from the windows, until he is not touching anything at all.
But he does not look away from her.

"And you?" not-Clark asks. "How are *you*, Lois?"

A tremor ghosts across her at the sound of her name from his
mouth (the death-cry of Clark Kent, the birth-cry of this
amalgamation before her). "Fine," she says, but that is another
lie, and she would take it back, but she can't. She can't
because she is *not* fine, but that is her fault, not his, and
even if he is a stranger, there is enough of both Superman and
Clark Kent in him that she knows he would feel guilty. He would
feel duty-bound to help her in any way he can. He would set aside
his own needs (his anger and his resentment; his fears or his
hopes) to make sure she has what she needs. So this is one lie
that will stand. This is one lie that cannot be bad.

Except, even though he is not Clark, he gives her a Clark look,
one that tells her he sees right through her and he is
disappointed that she is lying but he understands and he is
trying to decide if he should call her on it or let it go until
later when she is most unsuspecting and vulnerable (Clark could
always say so much with a single look).

"Fine," she says again, firmly (that is always what she did
with Clark, and then he would decide to drop it temporarily and
give her space and time). "But that's not important. How are
*you*?" She has to bite the end of the question off, has to tuck
her bottom lip in her mouth, to keep herself from finishing it
the way it was about to slip out (to avoid saying *Clark*,
because she lost the right to call him that, and she does not
want to see his eyes go blank at the sound of it; does not want
to hear this stranger tell her that Clark is dead and he is
Superman now).

"Fine." Clark was a bad liar (most of the time) and she never
knew Superman to lie (until later), and this stranger is no
better at it. For the first time, he looks away, and she is free
to look at more than just his eyes, free to study him from top to
bottom, and it has been weeks since she's acted like a reporter,
but she has not lost the knack entirely, and she can see behind
the brittle veneer spread too thinly across his surface.

He is exhausted. He's been out soaking in sunlight (apparently a
good thing), but he looks tired and pale and withdrawn. He moves
stiffly, with none of the grace both Clark and Superman
displayed. And still his hands are drawn into fists against his
own chest (*His hands shake*, Jonathan had said, and Lois hadn't
understood why that stopped him from coming to eat with others,
but she looks at this man who is Superman and thinks she
understands why he touches nothing).

Recovering, Jimmy said. Recovering, Jonathan and Martha told her.
Recovering, she thinks, and *aches* for him, that even this has
been denied him (though this was sacrificed freely rather than
stolen blindly), that even his own body has turned on him.

"You're okay?" Lois asks again, skeptically.

He cannot meet her gaze. "I'm here," he says in a small voice.
"And I'm getting better."

It's the same thing the others said. The party line, she thinks,
and they're all sticking to it without backing down.

But he is not okay. He is not well. He is not surviving.

He is lost. And he is alone (even with his family around him).
And he is adrift. And he is sick.

And she suddenly knows that she wants more than to just see him
this once. She wants more than she ever knew she did.

Because now, seeing him, hearing him, this stranger who is so
familiar, this man who is so alien, she knows that she will never
be satisfied with this brief conversation (with the sound of his
voice once more falling away into endless silence). She will
never be able to pack up her things and walk away and not look
back.

She came to see that he was all right, and now she has her
answer.

He isn't.

And so, Lois decides, she has a new wish (a new desire; a new
goal), and she will not leave until it is accomplished.

She is going to take this stranger, and she is going to make him
better.

***

7

The sunlight is thick as a blanket, cloaking him more heavily
than the weight of his cape at his back. It's bright and vivid
and Clark can feel it soaking inside him, settling into each of
his cells, wrapping them in warmth and power, ensuring that he
can continue to hang in the air dozens of miles above the earth
without succumbing to the pull of gravity. For days, for weeks,
the feel of that sunlight has been all-consuming as he chases it
across the miles of ground and ocean, begging it to return him to
his natural state, pleading with it to allow him to once more be
Superman. But today, it holds little of his attention.

Today, all he can think of is Lois Lane.

He's been...worried...about meeting with her again. Afraid, if
he's honest with himself. He's long since made peace with what
happened between them (and what didn't), and he's (mostly) come
to terms with the way his life is now. But seeing her again,
coming face to face with her... He couldn't deny her request to
meet, but he worried about what would come of it. Worried that
they would simply tear open old wounds and find that reality is
nowhere near as forgiving as nostalgic memories. Worriedthat he
would lose what little he has left of her (his memories, his old
fantasies, his wistful dreams).

But he saw her. He spoke with her. And he is not disappointed,
not hurt, not anything but relieved and...content. Yes, he is
content.

He saw her, and they spoke, and the world did not end. The sun
did not stop shining. The moon did not fall into the seas. They
spoke, and he is not quite happy, but not disappointed either,
and that is better than he realistically thought to expect.

And his hands aren't shaking anymore.

He slept last night, slept well and deeply (two nights in a row,
when he's become accustomed to only eight or nine hours in four
or five days), and when he got up from his place by the window,
he moved easily. Smoothly. Painlessly. His bruises are gone, his
aches have vanished, and his hands are as steady as the sound of
Lois's heartbeat at the edge of his awareness.

He's better.

And it probably has nothing to do with Lois Lane, save perhaps in
that he doesn't have to worry anymore that she blames him for
what happened or resents him for how he upset her life. It's
probably simply because he's been doing nothing but resting and
soaking in sunlight for three weeks now and it was bound to
restore him eventually. He's slept better because...well,
because she is here, and he no longer has to worry about her, on
the other side of the country, in a dangerous profession and a
target for anyone who wants to get to Superman. His parents and
his friend and his...and Lois Lane are all together under one
roof, and so he can rest a bit easier.

But whatever the reason for his recovery, it doesn't matter.
What matters is that he can be Superman again, can respond to the
cries of help he's been listening to so helplessly, can stop
being no one and go back to being someone.

He's been practicing all day. Lifting rocks in the Nevada
deserts, testing his speed and reflexes in the Arctic, straining
his super-senses to their extreme over the oceans, picking up and
depositing anything and everything delicate and fragile and
helpless (dandelions and snowflakes and feathers drifting from
flocks of flamingos, wavering strips of cobwebs and seaweed
filaments and dancing cotton). Lifting them and holding them and
playing them through his fingers (and he never realized before
how very much textures and weights and pressures matter to him,
until now, after they have been denied him for so long), and
reveling in the fact that he can set them all back down without
having harmed them in the least.

He's better.

Superman is back.

Lois Lane is here, with his parents, waiting for him (she hadn't
said anything about leaving, hadn't given any sign of being
satisfied with what she came to do and disappearing out of his
life again), and now, he can look at her as the hero she had a
hand in creating rather than the non-entity he's been sentenced
to these past weeks.

He'll start tonight. Spin into the Suit and go back out into the
world, let them know their savior has not abandoned them, perhaps
start working on a statement (now that he can trust himself not
to crush his trusty old laptop beneath his fingers) for the
Foundation to make about where he's been. But maybe not. His
only safety now is in his silence, in everyone in the world
knowing nothing but *what* Superman does (not any of the *whys*),
so perhaps it is wiser to say nothing. He'll ask James; his
friend is skilled at sifting through internet forums and multiple
news sources and various personal contacts and coming up with a
concise picture of public perception.

Regardless, he won't have to simply sit and listen tonight.
He'll be able to fly to the rescue, answer cries for help,
silence alarms, aid the police of whatever city or country he
happens to be over. He'll be able to *do* something, and that is
more freeing than he can quite comprehend. He's been trying all
day and still cannot make himself quite believe that his long
period of enforced helplessness is over.

For now, though, he hovers over the Pacific Ocean, California's
coast in view only for someone with eyesight as good as his, and
absorbs the last few rays of this hemisphere's sunlight. It
makes him feel energized and lethargic at the same time, renewed
but satiated. For the past few weeks, drinking in sunlight has
only made him feel thirstier, as if it pours itself into him only
to drain out of holes he can't quite see or reach to plug, as if
he could not possibly pull in enough solar radiation to counter
the darkness of space and the vastness of Nightfall. But now,
finally, he is restored.

Recovered.

He smiles faintly at the past tense of that word, and turns for
home.

It's late, even for him. His parents will be worried, especially
his mom. He knows she doesn't understand why he won't eat
dinner with them, won't touch them or hug them or let them do
the same to him. He tried to explain it to her, but in the end,
he couldn't. Couldn't say aloud how dangerous he was, not to
his mom, the woman who took him into her heart and loves him and
has never once feared him. He thinks his dad understands, or
perhaps he only believes that Clark can make his own decisions
and knows better than to try to talk him out of it. He worries,
too, though; he hides it better, but it's plain for Clark to
see.

Well, that's all over with. He's late (but confident now in his
own recovery), and he picks up speed, suddenly impatient to see
them again (to feel their arms around him, unconditional and
unyielding). He can't wait to see the joy in their eyes, to hear
them tell him how glad they are, to reach out and pull them into
the hug he's wanted to give (to receive) since seeing Nightfall
fill his vision.

He takes his usual precautions flying into the suite--moving fast
enough to evade normal surveillance, blowing a gust of wind
toward the news building a couple blocks away to blur his
approach (he's never received any indication they even suspect
Superman's presence in their city, much less that they're
keeping cameras turned toward his building, but better safe than
sorry), and keeping all his senses alert for anyone looking up
toward the darkened sky. They won't be able to see or hear him,
not at this speed, but it never hurts to be wary. The windows in
his room are open, allowing him to swoop in and through into the
walk-in closet; if anyone's watching his window, they won't see
a man appear seemingly out of thin air in the middle of the room.
Only when he's safe in the dark does he come back to normal
speed, spin into slacks and a shirt, reach out by memory to pick
up the glasses waiting on the small shelf beside the door, and
put them on.

When he emerges from the closet, he flicks his bedroom light on,
the signal to his parents that he is home. He already has his
hand on the doorknob before he remembers--Lois is out there.

As if thinking of her summons it to the foreground of his
awareness, her heartbeat grows louder. It's sedate, steady, so
slow he thinks she is probably asleep. His parents are talking,
sitting on the couch, close together, their heartbeats as
familiar and comforting as an old, worn quilt, warm and
encompassing. James's is a strong counterpoint; he's probably
sitting across from them, and his voice weaves a beacon of warmth
around them all, his hands slicing through the air and causing
tiny disturbances in the sound of it as he speaks.

They're all there because of him, and all for different reasons.
If not for him... Clark shakes his head. His mother has warned
him not to think like that, her finger waving in the air as she
sternly admonished him against ever blaming himself for what's
happened. He thinks about it anyway (so much more often than he
can ever admit), but he tries not to when he's around them. He
prefers to enjoy what little time he gets to spend with them
rather than regret what's happened.

Smiling again at the sight of his hand, motionless on the knob
(safe, again, to touch and be touched), Clark opens the door and
quietly walks out into the living room.

His parents are aware of him immediately. It doesn't take them
long to notice the spring in his step, the smile on his face, and
they rush to him immediately. "Clark?" his mom asks, checking
with him, and without even saying a word, Clark simply opens his
arms and steps forward into their waiting embrace.

There's a catch to his mom's breathing, an extra thump to his
dad's heartbeat, a much louder whoop from James. His dad's hand
settles on his shoulder, his mom's arms wrap around his ribcage,
her head against his neck as she laughs and blinks back tears and
murmurs that she never doubted it, she's so glad he's back, and
his dad echoes her with his own words of joy and reassurance.
Clark looks over their heads and sees James smiling broadly back
at him, and it's been so long since he's been able to feel the
calluses of his friend's hand, so with a jerk of his head, he
urges James forward into the close circle. Jonathan welcomes the
younger man immediately, wrapping his free arm around James and
bringing him in closer, while his mom angles a bit to face him.

And finally, *finally*, after four weeks, Clark is home. They
hugged him before he launched himself into space, had encircled
him in their arms and their hearts and tried to hide their fear
and project only confidence, and then they'd let him go, and
he's been waiting ever since for this homecoming (long days and
nights of watching them from afar, listening to his parents'
worried whispers, hearing James pacing in his room). They have
been waiting for this, too, he thinks, can sense their relief,
feel it emanating outward from them, as if they are solar
radiators every bit as effective as the sun, infusing him with
strength and faith and hope.

Clark closes his eyes and bends to rest his head against his
parents', clasps a hand with James's, and feels gratefulness
larger than Nightfall grow to encompass him. This, here, is how
he can still be Superman. *Why* he is Superman. For these people,
who love him and accept him and have followed him even when it
meant leaving behind everything they knew and loved and expected
of life. It's his fault they're in hiding, using aliases, lying
every day to anyone and everyone they meet--his fault, and yet
here they are, loving him unconditionally, and how can he do
anything *less* than to keep trying to help as much as he can
when their example is always before him?

But there is one heartbeat that isn't included in this small
circle (so few people in all the world, but enough, even if he'd
once hoped it would be just a bit larger). One heart that beats
on slowly, unaware of everything happening not far from her.

Lois is asleep, curled up against the arm of one of the couches.
Clark doesn't move away from his family, but he does watch her.
It doesn't take a Superman's eyes to see the shadows above her
cheekbones, the pallor to her skin, the boniness of the hands
curled up near her face.

Another life he's ruined. Another one who's come after him, if
for entirely different reasons (that he's not sure he
understands but that he doesn't care to question when things are
going so well). So many people after her, so many targets painted
on her back, and all because he was foolish enough to think he
could have a normal, ordinary life. Her career silenced in the
face of a single article, and only one Pulitzer to her name
because no one will ever be able to separate Lois Lane from
Superman.

Clark turns his head away, and closes his eyes, and turns his
attention to soaking in the care and affection of his family.

"Way to go, CK!" James exclaims, softly, as he pulls away.
He's finally grown used to the open affection Clark and his
parents show him, but he's always the first to grow awkward when
a handclasp extends too long or a hug doesn't end in mere
moments. "You feeling okay? Everything back to...well, you know,
*super* normal?"

"Yeah," Clark says with a chuckle, reluctantly letting his own
arms fall away from his parents. He's happy, though, when his
mom keeps her hands clasped around his arm, when his dad stands
close enough that Clark can feel the heat emanating from him.
"I've been practicing all day--making sure."

"And?" his dad asks.

"No shaking?" Martha asks on top of him. "No spasms?"

Clark doesn't try to hold back his answering grin. "None at
all. Superman's back."

"Superman never left," his mom says tartly. "You've been here
all along, Clark, even if you couldn't go out."

"I know." He ducks his head, ashamed of his own insecurity. So
many problems in the world (and he sees so many of them, hears
even more, so that he can never deny that bad things happen, even
if he tries to keep them in perspective) that it seems selfish,
almost petty, to focus so much on his own. There are people dying
every day, people starving and lost and haunted, and in
comparison, his own discomfort (his loss at feeling simply
ordinary rather than like the superman so many want and need him
to be) is nothing at all. "I just...I'll be glad to be able to
help again."

James cocks his head, arches a brow. "Even when you can't be
out there, your Foundation is still helping people, CK."

"Thanks to you," Clark says with a smile for the younger man.
"You've done more with it than either Murray or I could have
dreamed."

"Still," James says, turning away to hide the flush staining
his cheekbones and upping the body heat rising from his skin,
"it was your idea to begin with."

"And you still have quite a lot of say in what goes on there,"
his dad points out.

"Not to mention all the public appearances you make for
charity." His mom moves with him as he sits in a couch--not that
he minds. He likes (loves, depends on, *needs*) the weight of her
hands on his arm, the feel of her eyes on his face, the proof of
her love in every move she makes.

"All right, all right." He holds up his hands in mock surrender
and smiles at his dad for sitting on the arm of the couch (for
not leaving him even after what he'd so long feared would happen
and warned Clark to avoid actually came to pass). "I'm
sufficiently encouraged, thank you."

Jonathan laughs and shares a fond look with Martha.

"You sure?" James teases him. "Should we mention how no one
else can make a cup of tea like you? Or maybe the way housework
is *so* much easier with you around?"

"No." Clark smiles, makes sure to share it out equally between
his family, wanting them all to know just how much they mean to
him (hoping they read his smiles as he means them because words
just never seem enough). "Really, though, I couldn't do it
without you. I mean, Superman wouldn't even be a reality if not
for you, Mom, Dad--or still be around if you hadn't shown up
when you did, James."

His mom tries to hide her tears, then sniffles and buries her
head against his shoulder. "I'm just so glad you're better,
Clark. I was getting so worried for you."

"Just a matter of time," his dad says, but there's a note of
evident relief staining his voice.

"Right," Clark agrees, though his eyes stray beyond them to the
woman asleep on the other couch. "Just a matter of time."

After a few more moments, Clark manages to get the conversation
turned toward their own days. James rants for a few moments about
the stubbornness of certain businessmen who refuse to sign with
the Foundation until ridiculous demands are met, but then admits
that he's already gotten more backers for their next venture
than he'd expected. Jonathan mentions that his garden has
started showing signs of growth, though he's still surprised by
the differences between California and Kansas sunlight. Martha
fusses over Clark a while more, brings him out his plate and
insists he eats it right then (and Clark doesn't mind, not when
it makes her so happy to see him finally eat with her), then
brings out pie for them all to share. Martha wonders if she
should wake up Lois, but Jonathan shakes his head and says to let
her rest while James remains silent and doesn't look toward Lois
at all. Clark himself tries not to look at her (not to watch her
while she's so vulnerable and unaware) but consistently finds
his gaze drawn to her.

"Well," Martha finally says when the pie has a serious dent in
it and Jonathan has taken the plates back to the kitchen.
There's perhaps the merest hint of concern playing along the
edges of her face as she studies Clark, who tries to pretend he
wasn't just watching Lois. "I'm glad you're feeling better,
Clark, but I imagine you have a long night ahead of you. Jonathan
and I are heading to a museum in the morning, so we'd better
turn in. Right, Jonathan?"

"But--" Clark hides a smile when his dad catches his mom's
pointed stare and hastily changes what he was about to say.
"Right," he says quickly. "Early morning, got to get lots of
sleep."

James rolls his eyes and doesn't even attempt subtlety. "Fine.
I'll leave, too. Just remember, CK--she said she was only going
to stay for long enough to see you. Don't...don't get too
attached."

"I'm not," Clark says, truthfully (because maybe he had high
hopes for them once, but that was a long time ago in a different
lifetime). "But she was my friend, James. I want to make sure
she's okay."

For a moment, Clark is sure James is about to argue with him. He
has a serious look in his eye, a gleam of something almost
affronted shining there in russet. But then he shakes his head
and closes his mouth over whatever it is he swallows back.
"Okay. Your call. I just...I don't want you to get hurt."

Clark wants to shrug and make a joke about being the Man of Steel
(the appellations given him by the world's media only get more
imaginative with every rescue, as if *Clark Kent* is not enough
for them), but James knows better than most exactly how much
Superman can be hurt, and he cannot bring himself to dismiss his
friend's concern so easily. "I'll be careful," he promises
instead, and James seems somewhat mollified as he nods and heads
toward his room.

"Oh, honey." Martha pulls him into another hug, which Clark
returns gratefully. "You be careful out there tonight, okay?
Some people have probably gotten a bit too comfortable with
Superman being gone and they won't like seeing him back."

"Don't worry, Mom," Clark says, though he knows it's
useless.

His dad places a sturdy hand on his shoulder, solid and
dependable. His blue eyes are weathered and worn, but so
concerned, so fond, that Clark has to reach out and hug his dad
too (has to touch him and revel in the fact that he won't hurt
him). "You come back to us safe," Jonathan tells him gruffly.

"I will," Clark says, making yet another promise. They make him
promise often, as if they think he will one day cast aside the
last remnants of Clark Kent and simply drift into the ether. As
if they're afraid he will leave them behind in a fruitless
effort to protect them (but he knows that it won't work;
everyone would still want to talk to his parents even if Superman
were to disappear forever). As if they don't realize that he
could never leave them behind when they are all that tie him to
the person he most wants to be.

A last hug, another sniffle and proud smile from his mom, a nod
from his dad, and they disappear into their own room (a far cry
from the farm he remembers so fondly, but at least they're safe
here, for now).

And Clark is alone with Lois.

She's so small, so fragile, and looking at her, he is reminded
of all the vulnerable things he played through his hands today,
the gentleness he used to ensure he didn't crush or snap or
break them. Before, when they were partners, she seemed...larger
than life. Confident in a way he's never been. Bold and unafraid
and unapologetic (in a way he tries to be now, but has never
quite captured). So beautiful and bright, like a star that
gleamed like a sun, pulling everything around her into her orbit
as she charged ever forward, never looking back to see what she
dragged in her wake. But now, curled up in the corner of one of
their nondescript couches, her head pillowed on her arm, she is
tiny and delicate and something he's afraid to touch, afraid to
try to capture in the curve of his palm lest it destroy what he
sought only to savor.

But he had watched over her to make sure nothing happened to
her(to make sure this didn't happen). For weeks after her
article, he'd watched her from afar, terrified that every
criminal, every enemy Superman or Clark had made, would come
after her. He'd followed her, kept hishearing attuned to her
despite his guilt at eavesdropping so shamelessly. There'd been
a few attempts, small enough and clumsy enough he'd been able to
stop them without ever revealing himself to her. But then the
police had given her an escort and Henderson had made sure that
routine patrols were being taken around her apartment and the
Daily Planet and Superman came back far away from Metropolis (and
made it clear he didn't tolerate any of the news media at all),
and he'd realized she didn't need him. She'd never wanted a
partner, never given any hint that she would accept his overtures
at friendship, and Smallville had failed him and only driven them
further apart.

So he'd let her be. He'd stopped watching, stopped following,
stopped checking in on her. Oh, he still occasionally flew over
the East Coast, still fixed his hearing in on her, but just
enough to make sure her heart was still beating, her lungs were
still working, her life still continued on without him.

He had thought she was okay. But she is here, and she is not like
he remembered. She is tentative and scared and so very...weak
(and that is not a word he ever thought to associate with Lois
Lane), and he does not know what to do. That first night she
arrived, when he heard her crying, he was sure that if he were
better, he would go to her. But he is better now and he does not
think going to her will help her.

On impulse, moved by a fear he can't bring himself to put into
words, he lets his vision unfocus on her, lets his eyes peel away
skin and muscle, lets himself examine her from head to toe,
searching for anything, any flaw, any imperfection, any sign that
she is sick (or dying). He finds nothing (nothing but the hum and
precision and beauty of a million parts working in harmony to
keep a single life here in this world, existing and hoping and
dreaming and contributing, a miracle wrapped up in flesh and
blood and cloth), no tumors or cancer or wounds or internal
bleeding. He listens to her heart, but there is no extra skip, no
flutter of exhaustion, no sign that it is winding down. He
inclines his every sense toward her, bends all his attention to
the frail form in a tumble of limbs and dark hair...and finds
nothing out of the ordinary (but, taken altogether, something
inarguably extraordinary, even if not in the way he had once
imagined).

"Lois," he calls softly. He kneels beside her, in front of the
couch, and his hands hover between them. He wants to touch her,
wants it so badly he has to hold himself completely still while
he brings himself under control once more (because he does not
know what he would do if he *were *to touch her). Her hair gleams
in the light, like a night sky with winking stars, and her skin
is pale and smooth and tantalizingly close. Her lashes lay
against her cheeks, more delicate than the feathers or cotton he
played with all afternoon, and her breath sighs out between them
like a song just at the edge of his hearing. His hands itch and
tingle, longing to play with the textures and pressures of her
cheek, her strands of hair, the curve of her shoulder or the
lines of her hand (to wake her and shake her and try in vain to
understand).

But she has always been skittish about touch, always accepted it
only in certain situations, in measured doses, in tiny
increments. And they are not partners anymore, and he is an alien
and a farmboy both, all rolled up together, and she came only to
see him (the alien who came into her life with a lie and left her
with a Pulitzer), nothing more.

So he does not touch her. He just says, "Lois," again, a bit
more loudly, and watches her stir. Watches her eyelashes flutter
and cast tiny shadows along the bend of her cheekbones, her lips
move and twist as she murmurs a wordless noise. Watches her eyes
open and fix on him--and too late he remembers that he forgot to
take his glasses off.

He stands and takes a quick step back, his hand blurring as he
removes the glasses, hides them behind his back (as if that will
fool her), and holds his breath.

She tilts her head, a crease marring her brow as she sits up.
"Why do you do that?" she asks without preamble, and he has to
smile in relief (to hear her asking questions, to hear her
speaking to him; to realize that even though she looks pale and
drawn, she is clearly still as tenacious as ever).

"Do what?" he asks, because that is what he does. The whole
world knows his secret, but still he plays this game of
obtuseness, of oblivious ignorance. It is what he knows, what he
does, what he has based his life around for so long that it is
almost as much a part of his character as floating in his sleep
(bits of Clark Kent peeking through the shroud of Superman).

She huffs and rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest,
and Clark is delighted (overjoyed) at these glimpses of the Lois
he knows and misses (and thought never to see again). "Take your
glasses off every time you see me. I saw you do it last night,
too. Why?"

He shrugs, lets his hand fall to his side, the glasses hanging in
the curve of his fingers. Now, with the eyes he wanted to see
locked on him, he cannot look up. "I don't know. I guess...I
didn't want you to think I was still trying to hide from you, or
deceive you."

"Oh." At that, he has to look up. He does not like this tone
(defeated and weary and resigned), and wishes he could make her
roll her eyes again. Or laugh. Or look at him with that smug
smirk she used to give him before. Or say his name. But miracles
aren't something he believes in anymore, and this almost
listless Lois Lane is just more proof of why not.

"I can't wear them...outside...anymore," he says, even though
he doesn't know why. She doesn't need to know this, doesn't
need to hear about what he can or can't do. But he doesn't stop
talking. "Anyone in a pair of glasses is instantly suspect
anymore, no matter what they look like. But..."

"You like wearing them," she finishes, and catches his eyes,
holds them hostage. "Don't you?"

"Yes," he whispers. "They remind me of who I want to be. And
even if I can't be him anymore, I like remembering what it was
like."

Pain ghosts across her face, and she flinches as if she's been
slapped. "I'm sorry," she says. She stands, then, and braces
herself, as if preparing for him to...what? Hit her? Touch her?
(Kiss her? Kill her?) "It's all right, really. I know what
you're feeling, and it's okay, just...you don't have to hide
it. I mean, it's really sweet of you, but it's okay--I don't
need you to hold back. I don't blame you for being mad at me.
Just tell me. Say everything you've ever wanted to say."

Despite his shock, his confusion (his compassion for the brave
way she holds her head up and faces him and doesn't run as her
frantically beating heart seems to want her to do), Clark can't
help but smile. He very much doubts that she *really* wants him
to say everything he's ever wanted to tell her.

"I'm not mad at you, Lois," he tells her, gently. Soothingly.

She stares at him, her eyes wide, her hands dropping limply to
her sides. "What?"

"I'm not mad."

A scoffing breath is pushed out of her mouth, and she shakes her
head almost wildly. "Don't be ridiculous. This is what I
mean--you're holding it in. You're pretending that--"

"Really," he says, and he lets all his sincerity touch his
voice, lets himself take a step nearer her. He ducks his head to
catch her eyes and ventures a smile. "I mean, don't get me
wrong--I *was* mad for a while. *Really* mad. But...when it comes
right down to it, it was *my* choice to get a job at the best
newspaper in the world. *I'm* the one who was crazy enough to
think I could keep the two parts of my life separate, the human
and the alien. You're Lois Lane." He waves his hand at her,
framing her, admiring her because it is impossible for him *not*
to. "I always respected you for being a great reporter. And
you..."

He looks away, swallows, because this is something he's
reconciled with himself already, something he's long since faced
and dealt with and put behind him, but hearing it said aloud,
confronting it all again...it reminds him of those first
anguished weeks after that article was published. Reminds him of
the isolation he felt when everyone looked at him and *knew*. The
terror that dogged his every step as he worked so frantically to
tie up every loose end being Clark Kent had left. The constant
panic that he wouldn't be able to protect his parents while he
was watching Lois or that he would lose Lois while he was with
his parents. The gaping loss that felt like an open wound
bleeding out in him. The fear every time he was seen by anyone,
by everyone. The blame he'd heaped on himself for thinking that
a suit and a cape and a different hairstyle would ever be enough
to let him have everything he ever wanted.

But it is past, he reminds himself. It is past and over and done
with, and Lois is blinking back tears in front of him (the scent
of the salt burns at the back of his throat), and if this is why
she came (seeking forgiveness or atonement or reparation), then
he can give it to her. He cannot be her friend (or more), and he
cannot be a part of her everyday life, but he *can* give her
forgiveness and understanding, can take away any blame she might
feel, and maybe do his part to heal the bruises and shadows and
weakness afflicting her. (He can make up for what he brought into
her life without ever once considering the repercussions, the
consequences, that would come crashing down on her should his
wild plan fail, as it inevitably did.)

"You were just doing what you do best," he tells her. "And if
I was going to be found out, I'm...I'm glad it was by you. You
always believed in Superman, and even...even after you knew I
lied, that belief still showed in your story."

"Clark," she whispers. Nothing else, just his name, but he
feels a slow, wistful smile touch his lips at the sound of it.

Clark.

Not Superman. Not Man Of Steel or Man Of Tomorrow or Metropolis
Marvel or any of the other grandiose names given him by the
adoring public. Just Clark, as if she looks at him and *knows*
that he is more than the world ever sees.

"Thank you, Lois," he says, the words heartfelt.

She stares at him, her expression unreadable, her eyes gleaming
with unshed tears. "For what?" Her voice is so soft that even
Superman can scarcely hear her.

"For calling me Clark." He smiles again, feels it pull like a
scar stretched too tight. "Hardly anyone does, anymore,
and...it's nice, to hear it. I'm glad that you know who I
really am."

"Doesn't everyone?" she asks bitterly, and sinks back down to
the couch.

Clark shrugs, says wryly, "You'd be surprised."

The silence that falls between them isn't really silence at all.
Clark can hear the blood rushing through her veins, the trudging
pace of her heart, the steady drone of his own, the distant
murmur of his parents' voices, the rustle of movement from
James's room, the whirr of the elevator moving, the seething,
rippling sea of noise from the other occupants of this building,
the pulse of the air conditioning. And beyond that, the city, the
sea, the sky, the wind, the ponderous weight of the Earth itself.
And the cries and the chaos and the cacophony of people waiting
for Superman.

Crying out for him. *Needing* him.

He's wanted to see Lois for so long, has thought on her all day,
but he can't stay here. He can't be selfish with his time when
he has no excuse for sitting by and doing nothing.

So, regretfully, he straightens. "You're tired, Lois," he
remarks, hoping it does not sound too abrupt. "You should sleep.
Your room is okay, isn't it? Do you need anything?"

She blinks up at him. "No," she says. "It's...it's fine."

"Good." He nods (suddenly glad she does not mention any of the
things he left for her in that room, the tokens of penance he
dropped before her arrival to make up for all the days when he
had cursed her and blamed her and even, almost, hated her for
that story she had written). Then, holding his breath (hoping
even though he knows exactly *why* it's a bad idea to do so,
because he is not angry any longer and has moved on to more and
better things), he extends his hand toward her. "Here. Let me
help you."

There's an instant of motionlessness (when the air freezes to
ice in his lungs and the drone of his heart skips several beats),
a second where he thinks she will not take his hand (will not
trust him). But then she lets out a breath (a sigh, and he thinks
it is of relief), and she says, "You're better," like she
never doubted it would happen, and she slides her hand into his.

A frisson of energy surges through his hand, tingles along his
skin, running up his arm and spreading in concentric ripples
through his entire body. A visceral reaction, a tangible effect,
to simply her touch. To no more than her fingers resting in his
palm, his fingertips against her wrist, their pulses beating in
counterpoint time so close to each other.

A touch, and his world slides and skids. A single touch (and
it's a mistake, a mistake so large, so momentous, he does not
know if he can recover from it again, not when he still bears the
scars from last time), and yet, Lois doesn't seem to notice it
at all. She rises to her feet, a smile on her lips, nothing at
all in the workings of her body or the expression on her face to
show that she feels that electric shock between them.

"All the way better?" she's asking, and Clark gives himself an
inward shake. It was just a touch (that means she trusts him not
to hurt her), just a simple movement of flesh on flesh (that he
never thought to feel again). And she's talking and expecting
him to respond, and he cannot afford to let unfounded fantasies
(unwanted memories) once more take wing in his heart. Not again.

"All better," he says.

"So...you're off to be Superman again?"

"Always," he replies. He follows her to her bedroom door
(carefully, pointedly, does not put his hand to the small of her
back as he wants to do, as his body instinctively moves to do),
and smiles at her when she turns to face him. "I'll see you
tomorrow?"

"I'm not going anywhere," she says. There is a strength, a
firmness, to her tone that he hasn't heard since before that
fateful article.

He doesn't quite know what to say in reply. Doesn't know
whether to smile in gratitude or beg her to leave him be
(doesn't know if he should be smart or foolhardy). So he only
nods and takes a step backward. "Well...I should be going. Good
night, Lois."

"Good night, Clark," she murmurs. "Be careful out there."

And now he does have to smile, because maybe she wasn't in their
group hug and maybe she isn't a part of his family, but she is
voicing the same concerns they all did (she is worried about
him), and it warms him. "I'll be fine," he promises, and then
he lets the world freeze in place (lets her pause, slowed to
motionlessness, a perfect instant where Lois is staring at him,
standing in his sphere without impacting it in any other way, the
echo of his name from her lips still swirling through his mind).
The cries for help stop, for this millisecond, the world silent
and still and something he can, in this instant, survive.

Lois's blink is half-completed by the time he spins himself into
the Suit, his glasses carefully placed back in his closet. Clark
allows himself one last look at her (but does not let himself
think about how little time he has left with her, how quickly she
will be gone), before he turns and slides through the windows in
his room.

The earth hangs beneath his feet, his cape floats around him like
a comforting sea carrying the scents of home and family and love,
and Clark slips away, merging and melding with the hero so many
cry out for.

And Superman returns.

***

8

She doesn't sleep well. Or at all, truthfully. Every time she
closes her eyes, she hears Clark's voice (*I'm glad that you
know who I really am*, he'd said when she called him Clark;
*Always,* he'd said when she asked him if he was Superman).
Every time she opens her eyes and stares up into the darkness
punctuated only by the light from the bathroom, she sees his
face. His eyes, so open and forgiving and...haunted. (Lost.
Alone. Adrift in a way she doesn't think she can quite
understand, and that scares her even more.) Everywhere she turns,
she is confronted by the ghosts of what she's done, so that she
cannot sleep, cannot breathe, cannot see how she will ever
survive the coming of morning.

He's out there, she knows. Out in the world, rushing from place
to place, going from one cry for help to the next, arriving as
quickly as he can and doing more than anyone will ever know and
leaving again to find another victim to save, and for the first
time, it occurs to her to wonder how much evil he sees as
Superman. How many dark acts or sickening crimes.How much death
and chaos and twisted depravity that a farmboy from Kansas could
never have imagined (should never *have* to imagine).He must come
into contact with the worst humanity has to offer, and yet...and
yet he can kneel at the side of the woman who destroyed him and
he can smile and tell her he doesn't blame her for what she's
done.

She hates him. Lois decides that when the night is darkest and
the morning seems furthest away. She hates him for being so good
and noble and selfless and ridiculously accepting. Doesn't he
know that he should get mad? Doesn't he realize that he'd feel
so much better if he fought back instead of just gave in?
(Doesn't he know her well enough to know she needs something to
blame him for?)

But he's Superman. He's Clark Kent. (He's neither, not really,
but she doesn't think she can ever tell him that, not when he's
thanked her so earnestly, so sincerely, for seeing him and
knowing him.) And of course he will not blame her or hate her. Of
course he will not allow the darkness of humanity to seep inside
him. Of course he will continue to fly above them all, unsullied,
pure, his colors bright and vivid and blinding, buoyed up by all
the good he sees side by side with the bad. Of course he will not
let her hate him or blame him or find any reason at all to think
she did the right thing four months ago, coming back from
Smallville with his secret clutched in her greedy hands.

And she *doesn't* hate him. She can't even pretend that she
does, not when the dawn begins to throw creamy gold colors across
her room, reminding her just how tired she is. She thinks it
might just be impossible to well and truly *hate* Superman, or
Clark Kent, or the stranger in between. She can resent him and
she can be frustrated with him and she can even roll her eyes at
his propensity for self-punishment--but she cannot hate him.
After four months of trying, she has come to the conclusion that
it is a physical impossibility.

And finally, with that weight removed from her chest, she slips
into a light doze that at least allows her to pretend she's
gotten some rest. Dreams elude her, always dancing just ahead of
her, taunting her, leading her deeper into sleep even though she
knows they will turn into nightmares as soon as she gives into
their seduction. But when she startles in the bed and jerks
herself awake, she thinks that maybe the nightmares would be
worth a bit of rest. She feels like she sleeps all the time (a
mindless, numb haze that follows her everywhere she goes), but
she never feels rested, and as ridiculous as it sounds, she is so
*tired* of being tired.

But it's obvious that it's nowhere near night anymore, and when
she turns her head to look at the gentle glow of the clock on the
bedside table, she sees that it's almost ten in the morning. She
thinks that should send a surge of adrenaline through her, make
her leap to her feet and rush to get ready for the day.

But.

But she doesn't work for the Daily Planet, not right now, and
there are no deadlines (and she isn't trusted with those anymore
anyway, even when she is working), and Perry doesn't expect her,
and she is pretty sure that the Kents won't mind if she sleeps
half the day away (if they don't offer more than a hint of
reproach for what she did to their son, then sleeping in past
what their farm-sensibilities deem appropriate won't even be a
blip on the radar) and Jimmy would probably prefer it if she just
stayed in this guest room and faded away altogether.

And Clark...well, he's gone, isn't he? She'd stopped seeing
him when she'd felt Trask's hand curling around her neck and
heard Clark's voice transmogrify into Superman's, and as soon
as she'd gotten back to Metropolis, she'd made sure no one else
would ever see Clark again, and now he is Superman with the ghost
of Clark Kent inhabiting his body and leaving him less than he
was before. So it doesn't matter if she gets up early, or if she
puts any special care into her appearance, or if she walks out
into the main suite and waits around for more long, endless,
dazed hours for him to return to her (so she can see all over
again why she shouldn't have come). In fact, she's almost
overcome by the temptation to roll over and pull the covers over
her head and sleep the rest of this day away too.

Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately, she's not sure; it's too
hard to think it through and decide), there's just a bit too
much of Lois Lane left within her for her to give up so easily.
Her eyes refuse to close, her hands don't budge from their place
holding the comforter down by her waist, and she knows she will
not be going back to sleep again. Not yet. Not until she's gone
outside and confronted whatever new surprises (new horrors) this
day has to give her.

She's sluggish and slow, but she showers and changes into a
clean set of clothes (she reminds herself, absently, to ask
Martha where she can launder her clothes; she supposes it'll be
a necessity soon), aware of little more than that the tan slacks
and red long-sleeved shirt are comfortable and don't draw too
much attention to herself. She pulls her brush through her hair a
couple times, stares listlessly into the mirror, and realizes
that she'll have to try harder (have to put in some effort to
her own life if she wants to make the Clark-stranger realize he
needs to put effort into *his*). But later. Not right now. She's
already so tired, and she's already ready, and it's already
late, and...and there will be time for anything more later.

She's out of her room and standing at the counter before she
remembers that Jonathan and Martha mentioned going to a museum in
the morning. The suite seems too quiet (she hates the quiet, now,
more than anything else; she longs for sounds, always, in the
background, loud and invasive or muted and distant, somewhere,
just so long as she is not trapped alone with nothing but her
thoughts). It's empty and abandoned, its life drained from it
now that its occupants are gone. *She's* still here, of course,
but she's aware that that counts for very little nowadays. There
isn't enough left of her to breathe life into even a simple
article, let alone an entire apartment.

For a long moment, she's stumped. She feels, confusingly, almost
betrayed, as if simply since she went to all the trouble to get
up and dressed, they should have made sure to be here for her. To
stand out here and give her their inexplicable smiles and place a
plate of breakfast in front of her and...and help her know what
to do next. Because (as is becoming so frighteningly clear to
her) she has no idea what to do with her life, with her days,
with *herself*, now that her life is so irrevocably ruined. And
all she can do is stand there, in an empty room, in the utter
quiet, and look around herself and tremble with fear (because
once she stops moving, her momentum will fade away and then she
will be stuck in place forever).

It takes her longer than she wants to admit (long enough for her
bare feet to protest the chill of the linoleum of the dining
area) before she notices the piece of paper sitting prominently
on top of the counter, right next to a toaster and a loaf of
bread she knows weren't there last night. She tilts her head at
an awkward angle to read the note (not sure it's for her,
because really, why would the Kents leave a note for their
unwanted guest), and then has to blink back sudden tears as the
words are burned into her consciousness.

*Lois, headed out for the morning. We left bread, butter, and
honey for toast--Clark said that you'd think that was enough for
breakfast, but if not, we should be back before noon. There's
juice or coffee in the kitchen. Make yourself at home.*

No signature, but then, they hardly need one, do they?

Hesitantly, as if it will disappear should she actually set her
hand to it, Lois reaches out and fingers the edge of the hastily
written note, traces the curves of the sloppy cursive letters
(concern and attentiveness and care layering the words on the
paper in place of mere ink), pauses on the name of *him*.

Clark.

So simple. So unadorned. So stark. As if there is still a Clark
and he is still their son and he still remembers everything about
her even though they've been separated for twice the amount of
time they knew each other.

There is something about this note that breaks her already
decimated heart. Something about it that makes her want to take
the single piece of paper and smooth it out as carefully as if it
is made of pure gossamer gold and tuck it away like the treasure
it is. With a furtive look around, Lois snatches the letter,
folds it almost obsessively, and stows it in her pocket. It's
just a piece of paper, but it feels...warm. Solid. It feels like
the first bit of an anchor holding her to her body, to her place
here, to the life she's now living.

And when she goes into the kitchen and finds the coffee machine
on a counter, finds coffee and a filter and a pitcher of water
already waiting for her, she braces herself for an onslaught of
more tears but finds, instead, that she is smiling. It's odd,
and unfamiliar (she cannot remember the last time she smiled
genuinely, impulsively, freely), but she savors the feel of that
smile (the proof of their care, even if it is only because they
are inherently good people and not because she deserves it). She
sets the coffee to brew and watches it drip into the carafe a
drop at a time, and when she finally pours herself a mug, she
thinks it is the best coffee she has ever tasted (and that's
saying something, she knows, because once she had a partner who
brought her coffee every day, flavored with his friendship and
warmed by his hope).

Eventually, she wanders back out into the dining area and puts a
couple pieces of bread in the toaster. She's not hungry (is
content with the warmth and the scent and the taste of her
coffee), but this toast (this memory he's kept of toast and
butter and honey snatched on the run because her hick farmboy of
a partner was actually on *time* picking her up) is another
gesture, another symbol of just what has not been lost, and she
refuses to give them reason to think she does not appreciate it.

She is just finishing slathering honey over her toast (and
registering her surprise that the sight of it is actually making
her feel hungry) when she hears a whoosh from behind her and
feels the blur of a cool breeze.

Calmly, methodically, she sets down the hot piece of bread, takes
a deep breath, and turns.

And Superman is striding out of Clark's room, shutting the door
behind him, his cape fluttering around his ankles.

Lois's breath catches in her throat.

He looks toward her, and smiles in greeting. "Good morning," he
says. Easily. Smoothly. Casually.

It's world-shaking, that smile and greeting. It ruptures her
tentative peace and leaves her once more gasping in the distance,
struggling to catch up, always left behind in the dust. He's
Superman. Right there. Right in front of her. Superman with his
cape and his blue and his S and his courtesy--and he is talking.

(He talked before, last night and the night before, but that was
a stranger, and this is different in a way she cannot articulate,
cannot pin down, can only recognize and know.)

He is talking to *her*.

"G-good morning," she stammers back. There's so much more she
should say, but words are elusive (*right* words impossible to
find), and she has nothing else to give this familiar hero with
Clark's friendly smile.

He cocks his head, studies her. "How are you?" he asks, gently,
as if she is the one acting strangely and he seeks to calm her.

"You've been out all night?" she demands, and only after the
question is out does she realize that she didn't answer his
question (he's talking to her, and she's ignoring him, and
that's a crime, but it's only one more in a long list so she
doesn't let it faze her).

"Yes." His brow creases and he glances down at his attire,
almost awkwardly. "I just dropped by to get a new cape." A tiny
smile dances along his lips as he plays the edge of his new,
unblemished cape through his fingers. "Mom gets so frustrated by
how fast I go through them, but they're not close enough to be
protected by my aura, so--"

She looks up from the hypnotizing movements of his hands against
crimson material and sees a quick flash of consternation burn
through his eyes. As if he's said too much. As if he forgot
(even if just for an instant) who it is standing before him. Who
he's talking to. As if he forgot (for an entire, eternal moment)
that she is the one person in all the world who is *most* to be
distrusted with his secrets.

Hurt, old and bitter and festering, sparks again from where it's
lodged in her chest, but Lois ignores it. "You're just getting
back?" she checks again. Asks even though she already knows the
answer because she wants the answer to be *different*. She wants
him to say that he was out for a while but then he came back here
(home, this suite, where his family resides and his heart will
always return) to rest. To recuperate. To heal from all the
darkness she's only just realized he sees so much of.

"Yeah." He frowns at her. "But not for long."

"And," she says (pretending his frown, even as slight as it is,
doesn't hurt), "how are you? Are you still all right?"

His eyes go shuttered and dark. His cape flutters free of his
hands as he shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest. "I'm
better, Lois. No one was hurt."

"That's not what I said!" she snaps back, insulted and stung
and so very horrified that he could think *that's* what she's
worried about. "I asked how *you* were doing!"

He goes quiet (the now-familiar silence feels like a slap). She
closes her mouth over her retort and looks at him (drinking in
the sight of him still) and sees an impassive mask staring back
at her. But there, glinting from the corners of his
eyes--suspicion.

"It's not for a story!" she gasps. And she can't be mad. Not
at him. Not for this. Not after what she did. "I...I'm on a
leave of absence. I'm not here to write anything, and I won't.
Ever. Nothing of what I see or...or hear...or *anything*...here.
I promise." Her heart skips a beat, flutters in her chest like a
moth trying to beat its way through to freedom even as its
efforts leave it bruised and dying. "I promise," she repeats,
forlornly (because why should he believe her?).

A muscle tics in his jaw, and then his mask falls away and he
breaks her stare. She thinks he is contrite. She thinks he is
sorry for his suspicion. But if he is, he does not apologize for
it. Just gives a slight nod (accepting her promise, and now there
is another goal springing to life inside her, a commitment to
this promise she has made him and that he is trusting).

"So," she says after a moment (when she is sure he isn't going
to turn and walk away). "How was it?"

Strangely, a ghost of a smile haunts his lips, faded and pale and
barely there but so much better than a frown or a glare or a
neutral mask. "Fine," he replies, his posture loosening, even
if just slightly.

"Really?" It is her turn to frown at him. (He's not a good
liar.) "You're fine?"

"Yes," he insists, his eyes wide as he tries to maintain the
answer. But she only looks at him, her own stance firm (and it
never is, not anymore, but he is here and he is talking and she
cannot understand it, but there is new strength filling her up,
layered over her skin like a second epidermis). His eyes drop
away and he sighs. "All right, so...Superman's been missing a
while and...well, people have been wondering where I've been.
They've come up with their own reasons for my absence and...some
of those reasons make them a bit upset with me. But," he adds,
straightening, his jaw firming in that stubborn expression Clark
used to get when she proposed something dangerous, "I'm back
now and I'm helping and that's what matters."

"Unbelievable!" Lois exclaims. She throws her hands up in the
air, starts to pace in short lines before him, and there (her
breath catches in her throat at the realization) is adrenaline
surging through her, energy and effervescent *purpose*. For the
first time since Smallville, she feels awake and alive and afire
with anger, with resolve, with a cause bigger than herself, a
purpose that can swallow her up and strengthen her until she
swells to become so much more than she is on her own and give her
a reason for *being*.

"What?" Superman asks (a bit nervously, she thinks).

"I can't believe the government won't let anyone know about
Nightfall even now!" She glares forward at nothing in particular
(savoring the tingle in her fingertips, begging her to contact
sources, chase down leads, type up a story; savors the sensation
even though she is committed to her own silence now). "What?
They're so attached to their 'classified' nonsense, they
can't tell people that Superman--"

"I asked them not to." His voice, quiet though it is, is enough
to silence her almost without effort.

She wishes he would stop throwing her off-balance so
consistently. (She wishes she weren't living in such an alien
world.) "Why?" she finally asks, simply. "Why would you do
that?"

He tilts his head again, as if he needs to observe her from
different angles to be able to understand her. But he says
nothing. Just watches her. Maybe, she thinks, he believes that
she will divine the answer simply from his silence, but she
*can't*. She can't hear anything in the silence (except the
blame, the guilt, the reproach, and they are so loud they will
consume her completely if they are not kept at bay).

"Please," she whispers (*please don't shut me out, don't
leave me in the quiet dark again, don't stop talking to me*).
"Why not let everyone know what happened?"

"Lois," he says, almost wistfully, "finding out that your
entire world can be destroyed in only a moment is terrifying.
It's...it's not something you recover from very quickly.
Everyone's safe now, there's no more danger, so what reason is
there to make people go through--"

"Hey, CK!"

Lois startles at the sound of Jimmy's voice coming from the
direction of the elevator, though she's interested to note that
Clark flinches, too. They both turn to look at Jimmy as he
strides toward them. He's dressed once more in a suit, though
he's lost the jacket somewhere and loosened his tie so it hangs
crookedly from his neck. He doesn't look at Lois, just looks at
Clark with a wide grin and an open expression.

"Hey, James," Clark says, and he grins at his friend. And it's
only then, as Lois looks at the man before her (Superman
transformed into Clark Kent with no more than a single
expression), that she realizes that all the smiles he (this
stranger between the two) has been offering her aren't true
smiles at all. They're pale imitations. Cheap knock-offs. Smiles
that prove he is glad to see her (or at least, polite enough to
pretend he is), but smiles that are guarded. Wary. Waiting for
the other shoe to drop (for the next article to hit the
newsstands).

"How'd the rescues go?" Jimmy asks, oblivious to Lois's
turmoil (and that's only fair, isn't it, after she was so
steadfastly oblivious to Jimmy's turmoil when her Pulitzer
prize-winning article was first printed?). She would think his
appearance to be merely a coincidence, but there is something
calculating about the single glance he casts her before turning
the whole of his attention back to Clark. "Feel good to be back
out there?"

Clark's smile turns softer but no less real. "Yes. It feels
even better than I remembered. Their heartbeats don't disappear
anymore, James. At least, not as many of them."

Jimmy reaches out and clasps his hand over Clark's shoulder, a
brief touch that's there and gone and so easily missed (but so
telling, so pointed, so important that it makes Clark's entire
form straighten, as if some extra strength has infused him to
better bear the weight of the world). "That's good, CK. Anyone
you can save is a good thing. Heading back out?"

"I have a lot of lost time to make up for." Clark pauses, his
expression turning pensive. "How about you? Did you meet with
the board we were talking about?"

Jimmy flicks a careful glance to Lois. She feels its weight and
stiffens, and yet, she says nothing. After everything,
considering all they are risking by allowing her to be here, she
can allow them their coded terms, their hidden messages. So,
pointedly, she looks away (though she cannot stop herself from
watching Clark out of the corner of her eye), gives them the
courtesy of pretending she is not listening.

"Not yet," Jimmy says. "I'm meeting with them tomorrow. Until
then, it's just a waiting game."

His nod is only half-completed when Clark's head suddenly
swivels away from them, his eyes gone so far-seeing that Lois
feels, abruptly, as if she has ceased to exist (as if he has
chosen this moment to do what she'd thought he would do four
months ago and erase her from his world).

"All right," Jimmy says without missing a beat, clasping
Clark's shoulder for another brief second. "Try to make it to
dinner if you can--Mrs. K's going to be awfully disappointed if
you don't at least make an appearance."

Clark smiles again (she wants him to smile, to be happy, but she
almost wishes he could do it without smiling; the sight of it
twists something deep inside her). "I'll do my best. Thanks,
James. I'll see you later, Lois." His eyes fix on her--not for
long, for no more than a goodbye nod--and Lois can breathe again,
can relax in the knowledge that he hasn't yet locked her outside
his high, muted walls.

But...but he's turning. He's leaving. Again. Without eating
anything. Without sleeping. Without looking at her in such a way
that she *knows* he is okay.

"Wait!" She steps after him, her brow furrowing, her hand
raised in the air between them. "You're...you're leaving
again? So soon?"

"They're calling for me," he says simply, and then he vanishes
right in front of her eyes. There one instant, gone the next. A
blink--that easy--and he is gone from her life.

Jimmy turns away and sticks a piece of bread in the toaster as if
nothing unusual has happened. As if his friend hasn't just
disappeared to go right back out into the cold, harsh world. To
face more death and darkness and blame.

"It's okay," he says, and it takes Lois an extra moment to
realize that he's talking to her. His voice is quiet, his eyes
fixed on the toaster, his hands resting slackly on the counter.
"It's good for him, really. Trust me, I haven't seen him this
happy since before Nightfall. He needs to help."

"I know," she murmurs. She stares down at her own pieces of
toast. They've gone cold, sitting there on her plate, the butter
congealed, the honey dripping off the edges; her moment of hunger
has long passed. Abruptly, she gives a sharp shake of her head
and pushes the plate away, then fixes Jimmy with a stern glare
(it has no discernible effect on *James*, but it feels good to
know she still has it in her to glare, so she doesn't care). "I
know what you're doing," she accuses him.

He raises an eyebrow, all cool innocence.

"You're trying to make sure I'm never alone with him. Aren't
you?"

"Do you*want* to be alone with him?" he asks, so smoothly that
Lois has no answer. His toast pops up, and he reaches for it (as
if she is not rooted to the floor, gaping at him), slathers
butter over it, and takes a large bite.

Traitorously, Lois feels tears building back up behind her eyes,
a never-ending supply of them filling her up, taking up all the
empty spaces where, once, more important things had resided. The
breath she takes in is unsteady and chopped up with uncertainty.
"I want him to be okay," she admits. "That's all."

"He's okay," Jimmy tells her. There's no pity in his voice,
no defensiveness; just a flat statement.

"I want him to be *good*," she clarifies.

"He is good." Jimmy (no, James, because this man staring back
at her, daring her to do anything to hurt his friend, is as much
a stranger as the hybrid Clark-Superman) narrows his eyes at her.
"He's Clark, Lois. And above all else, Clark is a good man."

"I want him to be *happy*!" she cries, furious with him for
making her admit this hope, this desire, out loud (where it can
so easily be crushed). "That's all! I'm not here to stab him
in the back or accuse him of anything or ruin his life again--I
just want to make sure he's happy!"

And Jimmy laughs. Laughs at her, as if this isn't imperative and
life-altering and important enough to bring her all the way from
Metropolis. "Only you can make that sound like a threat," he
says, and laughs again.

"I'm not," she whispers through stiff lips, her anger
evaporated like steam before a breath of cold air. "I'm not a
threat."

"Smooth," Jimmy says. It's such an incongruous statement (a
word that sounds foreign coming from this businessman he's
become; a slang term that doesn't fit the moment at all), except
for the wink he throws her, the twinkle in his eyes, the smile
hidden in the corners of his mouth.

And the corner of Lois's own mouth quirks up. A tiny twitch.
Almost not even there. But it *is* there (conjured up by this
glimpse of the young man she once knew, the friend she'd once
had, this proof that he is not entirely set against her).

"Eat some breakfast," he advises her before she can try to
wrestle past her conflicting emotions to figure out what to say
next. "I've got to head out, but the Kents should be back
soon."

He crams the last of his toast into his mouth, brushes the crumbs
off his shirt, and then he heads for the elevator. Lois is almost
surprised to remember that it's an elevator that brought her
(that she did not just dream herself here), but she loses
interest in it quickly, because the suite is once more cold and
silent around her.

It's just like her nightmares. Everything in front of her and
then, with so little warning, all of it gone and she's left all
alone. Her body threatens to seize up on her; with an effort, she
forces herself into movement. Movement is always good. It implies
momentum and purpose and a destination. It means she hasn't
given up completely; she is more than just a hollowed out husk.

She takes her plate of toast into the kitchen, forces herself to
eat a few bites of the cold, too-sweet breakfast (so she can tell
the Kents that their hospitality didn't go to waste), and then
she throws the rest in the trash. Washing her plate and coffee
mug (and she did drink the coffee, because now more than ever she
needs the shot of caffeine) doesn't take more than a few
minutes, though, and then she's right back to where she was
before.

The suite closes in around her, the walls shrinking, the air
sucked away, and she's afraid she's going to hyperventilate.
Her breaths echo in the expanse of the kitchen, so she breathes
heavier, louder, desperate for the noise.

The sound of the elevator doors opening seems like salvation.
Brushing a hand back through her hair (wiping away the cold sweat
on her brow), Lois hurries through the kitchen door and out into
the main suite.

And the Kents are there. Coming back into her life. Laden down
with grocery bags, a museum gift shop bag dangling from Martha's
wrist, a laugh decorating Jonathan's bluff features.

The sight of them calms Lois. Slows her heartbeat and steadies
her breathing and restores her equanimity. They are here, and
Martha is greeting her, and Jonathan is making noise as he stumps
over to the counter to dump down his burdens, and they bring with
them a rush of motion and life and *sound*, and Lois feels the
world right itself.

"Everything go all right?" Martha asks. "Did you get some
breakfast?"

Lois feels another smile (three in one day, in the space of an
hour, and she hopes against hope that she is as good for this
family as they are for her), and she looks at the tiny, fragile
woman in front of her (so full of boundless strength and unending
compassion) and thinks that she can do this. She can learn to
live with life the way it is now. She can learn to live with
*herself*. And Clark can be fixed, can be brought back, surely,
*surely* he can, with parents who have so much love and
understanding to give, with a friend who is strong and fierce and
loyal. And with her. Here and ready to try to start over again
and help him pick up the pieces of his life.

She can do this. She can.

It's a revelation, but a welcome one, and she holds it close to
herself, basks in its warmth and its light, and starts to
(tentatively, fearfully) hope again. She came to bring back Clark
Kent, but maybe...maybe Lois Lane can come back too.

***

9

Dinner is a much happier affair this evening. Martha chatters
away to Clark, beaming every time he takes another serving or
compliments a dish or just looks at her with all his love for her
in his eyes. Jonathan's happiness isn't quite as blatant, but
it's there for anyone who looks for it, in the chuckles that
shake his frame, in the twinkle of his eye as he teases his wife,
in the way he says 'son' as many times as he can. James, too,
seems different in Clark's proximity. He stands straighter,
smiles like Jimmy, and the cool persona drops away from him to
leave him relaxed and unaffected.

Lois doesn't say much herself. Instead, she watches them, this
unlikely family brought together not by blood, but by choice, by
love, by loyalty, by things (emotions and commitments and
sacrifices) so much greater, so much stronger than the simple
blood ties between her own family. Jonathan and Martha move in
synchrony, perfect harmony achieved in the way Jonathan lifts his
arm without looking behind him just in time for Martha to slip to
his side without missing a beat and their conversation that
slides in and out and over and through in such a way it seems it
must be scripted to be so gracefully choreographed. James's
plate is filled for him because (Martha says with the hint of a
frown that cannot last) he doesn't eat enough, and James laughs
and says he eats more of her cooking than he's ever eaten before
in his life. Clark is quiet, but his gaze rests, always, on his
parents, on his friend (on her), with such gentle affection, such
open fondness, such vulnerable tenderness that Lois cannot bear
to look at him directly for more than a second or two at a time
(as if he shines as brightly as the sun, burning afterimages to
sparkle in her eyes every time she blinks). And he laughs,
occasionally, flashes that (real, undiluted, refined) smile and
does not look quite so lost or adrift.

She still feels very much like an outsider (but not because of
them; because of her own sins, seared through her blood like
fire), but she doesn't even care. For these moments, she is
content to be merely an observer, to get a firsthand look at how
things are not as bad as they could so easily have been. Their
lives aren't perfect (she still has so much to answer for), but
there is perfection in their lives, and for now, it's enough.

But it doesn't last nearly long enough. All too soon, Clark is
brushing a kiss over his mom's cheek, dropping a hand over his
dad's, bestowing a smile on Jimmy, giving a nod and 'Good
night' to Lois, and then he blurs into primary colors and is
gone. Martha smiles while he's there and frowns in worry when
he's gone, until Jonathan gives her a forced smile of his own
and she straightens her shoulders and gives him an encouraging
smile back. James sighs and shakes his head and drops his fork
and stares pensively into the distance.

And Lois, once more, feels like an extra part. A part they
didn't order but can't send back and now leave lying around
because they just don't know what else to do with it.

She does the dishes again, though this time, she avoids crying
and Martha lets Jonathan into the kitchen with them to help her
put the dishes away (so they can reassure each other, Lois thinks
as she catches sight of all their hidden glances to one another).
The dishes don't last long enough, of course, and Lois once more
watches the suds drain away.

"Come on," Martha says abruptly, breaking the forlornness of
the moment with determined purpose. "James should have the
television set back up."

A frown ghosts across Lois's face, quick and sobering, and she
follows the two Kents into the living room where, sure enough,
James is tinkering with a television set up on a stand against
the wall between the windows and the elevator.

"We put it away for a while," Martha explains in an aside. "It
was just bothering Clark, hearing about all the bad things he
couldn't help with."

"Made him feel more pressured," Jonathan adds with a spark of
unhappiness in those twinkling eyes of his.

"But now we can watch again." Martha manages a hint of a smile
and curls up on the arm of the couch next to Jonathan, his arm on
her knee. "I like to know where he is. It's nice to have some
idea of what he faced before he comes home."

Jonathan nods. "Not that the news ever has the whole story or
even any good shots of him."

"But it makes us feel a bit closer to him."

"And he can hear us," James interjects, startling Lois, who
feels her body tense. He turns, but his gaze meets the Kents',
and for once, his words don't seem to be a pointed message to
Lois. "He said he likes to attune his hearing to us. So if we
notice that he's upset or tired, we can talk to him. I know he
can't always listen, or hear us, but I've noticed that it does
help."

"He can hear you? From anywhere?"

Lois's voice breaks the spell, and all three of Clark's family
turn to look at her (she feels their eyes like brands on her
skin, like spotlights highlighting a prisoner seeking to escape
her prison). She wants to shrink in on herself, but instead makes
herself stand straight and tall, her jaw firmed, her chin canted
high in the air.

"Not from anywhere," Martha finally answers her. "But if he's
in the States somewhere, he can usually hear enough to know that
we're talking to him."

"Wow," she murmurs, and nothing more, because James flicks the
television on and everyone is much too engrossed in searching for
mentions of Superman to worry about whatever else she might say
(and she has nothing more to say, anyway, because it takes time
for her brain to wrap around each new revelation she uncovers).

The world is overjoyed to have their savior back. Oh sure, there
are the detractors, the critics, who wonder where he's been and
why he hasn't been seen lately, but James is very good at muting
the television at all the right spots so that Lois (and Martha,
swelling with indignation) can't get too worked up over it. But
mostly, what Lois remembers best are the stories of people who
openly thank Superman. Who smile at him or cheer him when he
appears or willingly accept whatever he gives them. He's
Superman, and so many people abuse him, take for granted the fact
that they have a super-powered being in their midst who really,
truly wants to do no more than help. But there are others who
*do* realize what a gift he is. What a blessing he is. A miracle.
A guardian angel in solid form.

But not a man.

Lois hasn't watched the news in months, not intently, not with
the whole of her attention. She wasn't scooping them, wasn't
finding the stories before they did, and couldn't find the
motivation to change that, so she simply ignored them. But now,
for the first time, she watches Superman (silent and stalwart and
steady; silent and stilted and scared), and she watches
interviews of the people he rescues, of the emergency workers he
works alongside, listens to the reports and the commentators and
the quotes taken from people coming off the scene (as close as
the media are allowed).

*Superman saved us*, they say.

*Superman appeared out of nowhere!*they exclaim.

*Superman apprehended the criminals*, they report.

*Superman...*

*Superman...*

*Superman...*

They discuss his rescues--his speed, his strength, his power, his
appearance, his mighty acts.

But there is no word of Clark Kent. No mention of the man wearing
the cape. No thought at all of what he must think of these things
he sees. These crimes he stops. These disasters he helps clean
up. No indication at all that any of them remember there is a
person underneath the distinctive Suit, with a beating heart and
a working mind and a soul so good and pure Lois isn't sure
she'll ever be able to fully believe it.

Superman swallows up all, and there is nothing left for Clark
Kent (nothing but a personal life that is not personal anymore,
but public and trod all over because it is *Superman's* and
Superman is a public figure).

He is a man, a person, a human being (Kryptonian DNA or not), but
whether they condemn him or applaud him, no one seems to remember
that.

Lois turns her face from the too-bright, too-loud television
screen and studies Martha. Jonathan. James. Watches them watch
the news. They smile when Clark makes a rescue, and frown when a
reporter says something critical (before James can mute it), and
whisper, sometimes, under their breath, words and assurances and
encouragement meant for a superhero half a world away. But they
do not give any sign that this is unusual. They do not shout at
the television screen and rant about what Clark Kent deserves
orreach out to the phone or a notepad or a computer to start
instituting changes.

Because this isn't new.

That revelation (so obvious and clear and blatant) hits her like
a train so that she is left gaping and reeling and stunned.

This isn't new. It's been happening since she first stormed
into Perry's office and slammed down her article without one
thought to who else could see it. And for Martha and
Jonathan...well, they've had even longer to grow used to it,
haven't they? Months and months of watching Superman on the
news, hearing the tales of the inhuman, aloof superhero and what
he accomplished (or failed to accomplish), before they picked up
the ringing phone and spoke to their all-too-human son, or opened
the door and pulled him into their home to ply him with apple pie
and buttermilk and fond touches to ground him to this world.
Years of knowing their son is special but also knowing that the
world could never know that because they would never appreciate
him fully.

And they were right.

Trask did find out--and he'd tried to kill Clark (had almost
succeeded, cameso very close with the glare of deadly green and
the gunshot that belatedly echoes through Lois's nightmares).

Lois found out--and she'd murdered Clark Kent with no more than
a few keystrokes.

The world found out--and now only Superman is welcome. Only
Superman is allowed. Only Superman is acknowledged with a
clamoring that never lets him be still and calls him always out
into the harsh, relentless world.

The evening stretches on interminably, news report after news
report (blurring into primary colors so much more garish and
incomprehensible than Clark's familiar flash of light).
Eventually, James flicks the television off and says good night
to the Kents. The Kents talk to Lois, soft murmurs she nods and
replies to (though only seconds later she cannot remember what
they said) and head into their own bedroom. The living room light
is too bright, stark and almost blinding next to the cool,
concealing darkness cloaking the windows. Lois thinks she should
get up, should turn the light off and retreat to her bedroom, but
she can't move. Can't breathe. Can't think past this stunning,
obvious revelation she should have considered (should have *known
*would happen, should have taken into account and used to
dissuade herself) before she wrote her infamous article.

Clark Kent is gone, and she's known that (it's been hammered
into her every day for the past four months), but she doesn't
think she's really *believed* it until this evening. Doesn't
think she's ever let herself realize that he's not in hiding,
he's not on the run, he's not wearing a mask to keep himself
safe until the furor dies down.

He's gone.

Forever.

Irrevocably.

Permanently.

More sure even than the grave because at least then people would
remember him for *him*, but now they will only remember Clark
Kent as a footnote to Superman, as the amusing but unnecessary
and all-too-temporary disguise for the so-much-more-important
Superman.

She's not quite sure how late it is when she finally comes
numbly to her feet, remembers to switch the light off before she
heads into the guest bedroom. It's late, she knows that, so late
that there's no sound coming from the other bedrooms. No sign of
movement from anywhere else in the suite. Just her, standing in
the middle of her bedroom and not moving because anything she can
do just seems so useless and unimportant. She remembers that she
was tired this morning, that she wanted to sleep all day, and
maybe she should try to sleep now, but why? What does it matter
if she sleeps or not when Clark (when *Superman*) is still out
there doing everything he can for a world that stripped his
humanity from him without even giving it a second thought?

The whirr of the air conditioner as it clicks back on in its
cycle finally snaps her into motion. She toes her shoes off, lets
them fall sloppily inside the closet, reaches in to grab her
pajamas, and then...well, then she runs out of steam. Sitting on
the edge of her bed, a bundle of clothing in her lap, staring
blankly ahead, and it's like she's run out of batteries.

It's stupid, to be this affected and this surprised. She should
have realized all this long before. Should have come to terms
with it before she ever decided to act on the spur of the moment
(on Perry's nudge and her own long hours of guilt and the need
to do something, *anything*) and start this wild goose chase for
a man who no longer exists. But she hadn't, so here she is, numb
and...and...and *worried.* She is worried, because Superman is
out there (and whether he's Clark or not, he shouldn't be so
terribly alone) and no one else is awake to whisper encouragement
to him when he needs it and he should be back by now. It's the
middle of the night (she doesn't bother to turn to the clock;
she doesn't really care what time it is, just knows it is
*late*), and he's been out since the night before without
stopping and he's only just recovered and why didn't his
parents stop him from going out again so soon after dinner?

Maybe, she thinks to herself, he *is* home. Maybe he's whooshed
back into his room and has put aside the Superman Suit and donned
the remnants of Clark (complete with the glasses he holdson to,
like a drowning man holding onto the last sliver of his wrecked
ship) and has laid down on his bed and is even now sleeping.
Maybe he's safe and at home and secure in the hollowed out
remains of Clark Kent's cocoon.

Maybe...maybe she should check. Just to be sure. Just to know
that he's here. That he's not still out there, driving himself
too hard in an effort to be everything everyone wants him to be
and thinks him to be and punishes him for not being when he
cannot measure up to impossible standards (and she tries to
pretend she does not remember the echo of her own voice telling
an ordinary Clark Kent all the virtues of an unassailable hero on
a par with the Greek gods).

She is out of her room and across the living room and standing in
front of the locked door before she can even realize she has come
to her feet (and how strange it is, to move so quickly, to feel
so decisive, when for so long she's been so lost and aimless).
It is an ordinary door, and the lock is simple (she could pick it
in her sleep even without Jimmy's lessons), and it stands like a
moat, like a bridge drawn up with spikes set on it and crocodiles
in the water between and archers lining the ramparts with their
bows all strung and arrows nocked.

It's *his* door.

She's taken his name and his privacy and his job and his home
and his parents and his friends and his future (his *life*), and
now all he has left, all that remains to him (untouched by her)
is this single door. This lone bedroom. One thing left to call
his own. But if she touches it...if she opens it...if she goes
inside and looks into the last sanctum left to him...she will
have taken *everything*. She will have ruined him and destroyed
him even after promising Jimmy so earnestly that she wouldn't.

But a knock, she thinks, would not be so bad. If he is in there
and he does not want to see her, he just has to refuse to answer.
So one knock. One knock and she will have her answer (whether he
is home or not; whether he wants to see her or not). One knock
and she can go back to her own bedroom and her own bed and fall
into the pillows and shut out this horrible, dead-end reality for
a few transient hours.

Her hand hovers next to the door, knuckles forward, ready to
apply pressure to the wood. Just a soft, quiet knock, because if
he can hear a whisper from a country away, she certainly doesn't
need to bang on it, now does she?

Her hand falls back to her side, limp and useless, without
knocking, because if he is asleep, then why is she even thinking
about waking him up?

But then she raises her hand again, because she just needs to
know. One minute of something that's not exactly easy (that's
calling for more courage than she thinks she's had since before
Smallville), and then it'll be over and she can leave.

But what if he's not there (her hand drops again)? Then she'll
just worry over him all night, or even turn on the news again
just to catch a blurry glimpse of him and that might push her
back into numbness again. No, better to walk away now and let him
do whatever it is he does. His parents went to bed, after all, so
obviously there's nothing to be worried about. She's already
intruded enough, coming without invitation; no need to disrupt
their routine any more than necessary.

For all that her heart is thudding in her chest like a heavy
jogger forcing his steps down on a treadmill, it's one of the
hardest things she's done, turning away from the door without
knocking. She takes one step toward her bedroom only to be
shocked into whirling back at the sound of that (ordinary,
impenetrable) door opening (as if it's easy, as if it opens all
the time; as if her self-control is being rewarded).

And Clark--Superman--is standing there, coming up short at the
sight of her.

"Clark!" she gasps, the name torn from her unwilling throat.

"Lois." He looks puzzled as he steps forward, pulling his door
closed behind him. His cape swirls around his ankles, attracting
the light emanating from the kitchen and reflecting it back on
her, like a halo he carries around with him everywhere he goes.
"Are you okay? You need something?"

"No." She blinks, shakes her head, tries to look confident
(tries not to look as awkward and embarrassed and small as she
feels). "I just...I didn't know if you were here or not."

"Oh." He still looks confused, but he gestures to the crack
beneath his door, at the light peeking out almost shamefacedly
beneath it. "I usually turn my light on when I'm here so my
parents can tell I'm back."

"Oh." She nods, her head loose like a puppet's on a slack
string. "Right. Of course." His gaze is so steady, so intent
(so concerned) on her that she can't bear it, and she turns to
leave as if that's all she needs. As if, now that her curiosity
is satisfied, she can finally go to bed. But it's *not* all she
cares about and she doesn't want to toss and turn all night
wondering (and she doesn't want to be one of the people who so
thoughtlessly tosses aside the husk of Clark Kent in favor of
Superman), so she spins back toward him.

"You haven't slept," she accuses him.

He's frozen in mid-step, his brow furrowed.

Lois tries to strike a natural pose. "Ever since you started
going out again, you've only stopped for dinner tonight. Well,
and to get a new cape. You were gone all last night, and it sure
looks like you're about to head out again."

He cocks his head at her. Silent. Waiting. (And Clark always did
this too, stayed quiet and let her come up with the excuses for
him while he watched her with such a guileless expression that
she gave up any suspicions in exasperated impatience.) "So?" he
asks her.

"So!" Lois gapes at him before flinging out her arms wildly.
"So you need *sleep*, Clark! You need to rest and make sure you
take time to recharge! You can't just keep pushing yourself like
this!"

His expression clears like morning dullness vanishing at the
first whiff of coffee, and he offers her a faint smile, shadowed
in the dark. "I don't actually need much sleep, Lois."

"Well, I don't actually need much food," she says
sarcastically (suddenly so aggravated, so annoyed by him, that
she wonders how anyone could look at him and *not* see Clark,
even without the glasses), "but I find that two or three good
meals a day drastically affects my outlook on life."

For an instant, she thinks he will smile. His mouth curves, his
eyes slant (her breath catches), but no. A blink of an eye and he
is solemn, somber, regarding her as seriously as ever. He opens
his mouth as if to say something (and even now, even after
hearing him speak dozens of times, she still feels her heart skip
a beat at the thought that she will hear his voice), then seems
to think better of it. Finally, leaving her more confused than
she was before he began his silent routine of back-and-forth, he
reaches out and takes her elbow. Gently. Softly. As mildly as he
used to put his hand to her back to guide her from place to
place, brief touches she shrank away from or batted away or,
during the case with her father, accepted gratefully.

He's touching her. He's been smiling at her, and talking to
her, and not blaming her, but now he is *touching* her, and
Lois's brain short-circuits at this development.

It's not for long. He only leads her to the couch and indicates
that she should sit down. She does, and his hand is gone. But
still she feels it. Like a phantom touch. Like the echoing pain
of a limb that's been amputated.

Looking patient (as if there are not countless people crying for
his help even now), he sits beside her, a respectable distance
between them, and props his elbows in his lap. He has, she
notices distantly, drawn his cape around him as he sits, and she
wonders if he is self-conscious (if being Superman is still less
natural than Clark Kent ever was).

"Superman's been missing a long time," he tells her slowly
(and she has to listen, has to pay attention, because he speaks
so rarely, and every word he directs to her is a gift she never
thought to be granted). "People are worried about the future.
They're afraid that no one will come when they need help. They
need the reassurance of Superman."

And suddenly Lois understands. A flash of lightning, a burst of
chaotic light to illuminate the darkness, and she has to look
away, her chest tight. "And," she says (because he won't),
"you're trying to make up for all the people you couldn't help
these past couple of weeks while you were"--she looks away and
gives a mirthless chuckle at having to use the word
again--"*recovering*."

"I know I can't save everyone," he says (but does not believe,
she can tell), "but there were a lot I should have been able
to."

"Clark!" she exclaims, hating the self-reproach painted over
him like echoes of Kryptonite, leaching him of color and strength
and hope. "People don't even realize that you just saved the
entire *world*!"

Clark's gaze is steady. Level. (Reproachful.) "I don't do any
of this for glory. I don't care if people know what I did."

She pretends, with the utmost of control, that that sidelong
accusation doesn't hit home and hurt like a body blow. "I
know," she says quietly. "Believe me, Clark, I *know* that. But
the reason Superman's been gone for so long is because you
single-handedly tackled an *asteroid* on a collision course with
Earth--and even if all those people blaming you for being gone or
doubting you don't know that, *you* do. But I saw the news--you
listen to every accusation they make, hear every person asking
where you've been, and you *take* it. You believe everything
they say even though you *know* you had a good reason--an
*excellent* reason--for not being out there on rescues!"

"Maybe I had a good reason this time," he allows, suddenly
nervous. Shifting his weight, looking away, down at the cape he
plays between his steady hands, the picture of shame. "But I've
let people die before, Lois, and not for a good reason."

Her expression closes down as Lois is brought up short. For a
millisecond (for an instant that spans less than a heartbeat),
she looks at him and wonders just how well she knows him. Wonders
if he plays judge and jury before each rescue. But only for that
microsecond. Only for that split instant it takes her to look at
this man sitting on a couch in a dark room in a hidden apartment
he shares with his family, wrapped in colors he would never wear
if not for his selflessness, awash in guilt and shame he has no
reason to feel but takes on anyway--and she does not care what he
says or what the night shadows try to intimate to her. She knows
that he would never *not* save someone if it was in his power to
do so.

For a much longer moment, Clark is silent (she thinks he is
debating with himself whether to elaborate). But then he breathes
in (honesty winning out, as always, and she wonders how he ever
thought he could keep a secret identity when he cannot lie) and
meets her gaze. "Lois," he says softly. Intently. "Being Clark
Kent was selfish."

She has never been hit (stabbed, shocked, shot, *hurt*) harder in
her life. Never felt so much crushing pain (and maybe his
now-habitual silence is only another of his ways to protect the
world, if so few of his words can inflict this much damage). She
has never looked at someone and felt so much horror.

"All those times I could have been saving lives," he continues
relentlessly," but I let them die because I was too busy
protecting a life that didn't even really exist. You were right
in your article, Lois. You said the world needed Superman." He
lets out a shuddering breath and his eyes flutter closed to hide
whatever it is (anguish, resignation, defeat) smoldering in their
clouded depths. And then he drives in the final nail. "But it
doesn't need Clark Kent."

Her mouth is dropped open, her eyes wide and dry (because she
can't blink in this nightmare lest it get even worse), but
finally, at this last blow, she forces dusty words to emerge from
her aching throat. "I never said that," she insists (promises
herself). "I never wrote that."

"Well, no." He shrugs. "Not in so many words."

Not in so many words. But it was there. Layered between every
line of that article. It was inherent in the fact that she'd
written it at all. Because why, why, *why*, write an article
telling the world Clark Kent was Superman if she didn't mean to
tell them all, simultaneously, that Superman was more important.

"I have these powers," Clark says, angling to face her more
fully, his conviction evident in his tone and his body language
(and how can he be so certain of something that's so very
*wrong*?), "these abilities that no one else does, and that
means I have to use them to help as many people as I can. I
can't afford to be selfish anymore. I can't value my own
fantasy over lives in danger."

And he stands, as if now that this little matter is cleared up
between them, they can get back to what they were doing. Back to
what is important and crucial and necessary (and so very, very
empty).

As if she is not drowning in his lifeblood, spilling out of a
mortal wound he cannot see and doesnot even seem to realize he
has, too in shock to comprehend the pain (or maybe he does
realize it and simply chooses not to acknowledge it; or realizes
it and *hopes* that it will end him so that all his pain will
then, too, end).

As if she can ever move or speak again.

He's leaving, moving away to go back out and be Superman
(*Always*, he'd said, and she's only now beginning to realize
exactly what he meant by that). And she cannot let him leave, not
like this, not thinking that she has no use for Clark at all.

"Clark!" she calls out desperately, and she reaches out with
hands that shake to grab hold of his own solid hand, holding him
in place because she came to make sure he was all right and this
is *not* all right. "Clark," she says, "it is not selfishness
to live your own life."

His smile is sad (not hopeful, or patient, or optimistic), almost
pitying (not amused, or happy, or wondering, or awed, or any of
the usual, painfully beautiful Clark smiles she misses so much),
as he looks so gently down on her. "Superman *is* my life," he
tells her. Then his head cocks and his eyes look far beyond her,
and he tugs his hand free of hers (setting her loose, letting her
go, casting aside everything that grounds him to this world as
anything more or *else*than the beacon she once thought so
important). "I have to go. Good night, Lois."

He stands. This stranger with a (cracked, bleeding, ruptured)
heart is gone from the room an instant later, but Clark Kent was
gone long before that. He's gone to a night and maybe another
day (and another night and another day after that and a lifetime
after that) of grief and anguish, of destruction and death, of
isolation and loneliness (of a burden so staggering it makes
Nightfall look like a pebble). Gone and swallowed up in a symbol
so much bigger than him that it's made him think he is nothing.

And it's all her fault.

Her face crumples, and she breaks into sobs, there in the living
room, out in the open where any of the others can come in and see
her, perched on the edge of the couch and feeling as if she is
falling and falling and no one is there to catch her (because she
killed the only man who would want to save her). He's gone. She
killed Clark Kent, but what's worse, she left him with only an
accusation graven into his tombstone, a lie bigger than any he's
ever told.

He's gone, and even though Superman is out there saving lives,
she does not think the world has ever felt quite so empty, or
quite so hopeless.

***

10

The sun isn't even up when James slaps off his alarm and yawns
his way out of bed. He lets himself take a moment to wish he
could sleep for another couple hours before shrugging aside his
exhaustion and heading straight for the shower. He has a full day
planned and a late start will only make it harder, on him and on
the Foundation's different boards and committees waiting to meet
with him. The shower is just what he needs, shocking him to
awareness and setting his thoughts racing ahead to everything
that's yet to be done (CK keeps trying to get him to take things
slow, but James hasn't quite gotten the knack down yet).

He's still not a huge fan of the suits expected of him, but he
slips into one with the ease of long practice. Even tying the
knot on his tie has become almost second nature, though he knows
that before lunch comes around, he'll probably have managed to
lose at least the jacket and probably the tie too. It's a
necessary evil, he reminds himself. Hard enough to get all the
officials he spends so much of his days with to take him
seriously without showing up in just a sweater or a t-shirt, and
if it's a choice between wearing a tie every day and CK being on
his own with the often-mercenary business side of the Foundation,
James knows there's no choice at all.

Still, as mature as he tries to pass himself off as, James
refuses to carry around a briefcase. A suit comes with an
abundance of pockets, and it's easier to fold the papers he
needs and stick them in one of those than to give in and carry
around a suitcase full of nothing but papers. Give him a computer
anyday, he thinks with a smirk, and circles his left wrist with
his right hand to make sure his watch is secure.

Regretfully, he sneaks a glance at his camera as he pats down his
pockets with their crinkly cargo. It's been too long since he's
been able to go out and get some good shots. Perry would probably
go back to calling him a rookie if he came in with some of the
photographs he's taken lately. Not that it matters what Perry
thinks anymore, James reminds himself, and he straightens his
shoulders.

He checks himself in the mirror one last time. Clean-shaven
cheeks. Alert gaze. Neat hair. Crisp suit. Clean lines. Straight
back.

The picture of a businessman. The image of a man who knows what
he's doing and will not take no for an answer.

It's an illusion only paper-thin, but it is all James has. He
doesn't remember what he thought he'd find those first days,
fresh from stalking out of the Daily Planet after speaking his
mind and tossing down his resignation. He thinks he imagined that
he would find Clark in a farmhouse somewhere with his parents,
his calm unshaken, his confidence unflappable. He thinks he
imagined Clark spinning into Superman and going out to save the
day and then coming back in with his smile still fixed in place.

He thinks he was probably dreaming.

What he found... Well, James is still trying to come to terms
with what he found at the end of his long, desperate search.
Superman isn't invulnerable, Clark isn't optimistic, and James
is still doing everything he can to fix those two things (those
flaws that keep the world from being perfect).

Satisfied that he is as ready as he'll ever be, James heads for
his bedroom door, his pace quick. The Superman Foundation is
still based in Metropolis, and a significant portion of his busy
days are spent on the private jets and rented helicopters used to
ferry him from California to New Troy. He's careful to use
different flight companies, different aliases, different credit
accounts (all set up and paid for by the Foundation), careful
never to let a pattern develop or a routine set in. The entire
point of having CK and his parents live in such an out-of-the-way
place is to make sure no one can trace Superman there, and if
there's one thing James has sworn he will never be, it's the
weak link.

The living room is gray with pre-dawn streaks of almost-light.
The kitchen light is on, like it always is, but there's no sign
of movement and the Kents' bedroom door is still closed. James
feels a twinge of disappointment but ignores it. He does need to
make some time to spend with Jonathan and Martha, and soon.
Having them around is one of the best things that's ever
happened to him, and he's afraid that he's been taking them too
much for granted. Today's out, of course (too important, the
meeting he only alluded to with Clark hanging like a shadow over
his mind, only he's afraid to think on it too much because he
doesn't want to jinx it), but...soon. Soon he'll take Martha
and Jonathan out to the park or something. He can't exactly
photograph them (they've already had to leave two cities because
of photos of the distinctive, famous couple getting out), but
there's always something to be done in a city. If not here, then
in the neighboring Coast City.

He's already put his code into the elevator pad and called for
it before he realizes he's not the only one awake.

Lois is curled up on one of the couches, pressed so tightly into
herself that she looks like nothing more than a smudge in the
darkness, a shadow in the scant illumination. James stares at her
(at this dim wreck of a woman he once equally feared and admired)
for a long moment, not sure what to do, what to say. He thinks
she is asleep, thinks that maybe she never went to her room at
all. Quickly, almost afraid of what he will see, he flicks a
glance to Clark's door, then breathes out a sigh of relief when
he sees that the light's off. That means CK's been out for
almost two days straight (and he tries to ignore the tightening
feeling in the pit of his stomach at that realization), but he's
been out for longer before and it's not like there's anything
James can say to bring him back. Besides, Lois isn't asleep (she
moves enough to let the light of the arriving elevator gleam in
minute reflections off the dim pools of her eyes), and James has
enough to worry about without adding more (without envisioning
Clark's broken heart when Lois inevitably leaves).

"Lois?" he asks, and after a slight hesitation, he abandons the
waiting elevator and moves to where he can get a better view of
her (ignores the time ticking away the minutes he has left to
make it to the Foundation on its East Coast time and conduct all
his business before the Board leaves for the evening).

She shifts again, and James feels his breath catch in his throat
at both the sight of the tears on her cheeks and the sound of her
rasping, painful voice. "You were right," she says. Numbly.
Dimly. As if it doesn't matter at all (except the fragility of
her admission makes it matter so much that James is frozen in
place).

"Right about what?" he asks cautiously.

He knew even before he went to meet her that letting Lois come
here was a mistake. He knew he should ignore the ads, the
searches being done on him, the letters sent to his past
addresses (the begging pleas from a proud woman). But...but
she's Lois Lane, and he's never really been able to stand up to
her or tell her no (never been able to stop admiring her, even if
just with some hidden part of him, long enough to give up on
her), so he went and he told CK she wanted to see him, and now
here they are. And maybe it's not only Clark he should have been
worrying about--maybe he should be worrying about Lois, too.

"I ruined his life," Lois says. She stares straight ahead, a
gray shadow against the dark suite, a pale silhouette against the
lightening sky ahead of her. "I killed him, and I made him
think--" Her voice trembles, breaks, vanishes (James's heart
seizes up inside him in mute echo of that tragedy). "Do you
*know* what he thinks?"

A grimace passes across his features, and James gives in to the
inevitable and lowers himself to the couch (the Board will have
to wait). "It's not exactly something we chat about over lunch,
but...yeah, I've picked up on a lot of it."

She brings her hands up to cover her face (such a childlike
gesture that James has to fight the sudden urge to hug her), and
she seems to shrink even though he doesn't know how because
she's already so small. "I made him think he was public
property, Jimmy! I made him think he was nothing more than a
hobby for a superhero!"

"Yes," James agrees, ignoring her shocked, wounded look. "You
did. You made him think it. Perry made him think it. Every one of
us at the Daily Planet made him think it. The entire world lets
him think that. And right now, there's only a very few of us who
are trying to let him know that the world is wrong. Clark's
probably the most selfless person I've ever met, so it's not
exactly easy trying to convince him to put Clark Kent ahead of
the world. But you know what, Lois?"

And he leans forward, lets a little bit of the intensity caged
inside him show, lets his cool facade slide a bit to reveal the
fierce determination he's felt ever since finding Clark in a
run-down hotel, in hiding, terrified for his parents and running
himself ragged trying to keep them both safe while constantly
flying to Metropolis to check on Lois (ever since the dayhe found
Superman frayed and desperate and lost). There's a terrible
purpose living inside James now, always, a voracious beast locked
up within his ribcage, pacing and rumbling, waiting, always, for
its perfect moment, to come out and protect CK and his parents,
to make sure they are not harmed and to give them everything they
deserve.

The Kents all share a lack of self-regard, a selflessness that
borders on all but suicidal, and they will not protect
themselves. They will not put their own lives ahead of anyone
else's, or go out of their way to find their own happiness if it
means being even slightly selfish. And all that stands between
the Kents and the cold, harsh world James has known since running
on the streets and then ending up in prison is James himself.

One lone defender to stand between them and the worst life has to
offer.

Only him. Only him and the businessman image he projects. Only
him and the computer skills he uses, always, to cover their
tracks, to make sure they cannot be traced, to reroute Foundation
funds to pay for this apartment and their transportation and
whatever else they need (and Clark can argue until he's blue in
the face about not wanting to take charity money, but James knows
that the Kents deserve it just as much as or more than any other
hopeless case). Only him and the optimism he forces himself to
show around the Kents, to make Clark smile and stand straighter,
to make Martha confident someone is fighting for her son, to make
Jonathan rest a bit easier that they have a place to live and a
home for his boy to come back to (to make his own personal fears
stay confined to the dark shadows of his mind).

Only him in a world full of enemies, but he will not fail. He
will not give up. He will not give anything but his best, even
when that means facing a woman he once feared, means looking into
her wrecked eyes and telling her that she did this to them. Even
when it means looking at her and making the desperate, intuitive,
half-insane leap that maybe she can be an ally (can stand with
him to protect the Kents; can join forces with him so that there
will be two defenders where there has been only one).

"You know what, Lois?" he asks softly. Intently. Urgently.
"*We*know that Clark is important. We *know *the world is wrong.
And we *can* convince CK of it. It'll take time, and effort,
everything we have, and maybe more besides. But I'm pretty sure
it's worth it. So I guess the question is...what will *you* do
to bring Clark Kent back?"

"Anything," Lois breathes, her eyes locked on him as if she has
never seen him before (the way she's looked at him, briefly, a
few times this past week, but never like this, so openly, so
fully). "I'll do anything."

Something loosens its suffocating hold on his lungs, and James
can't help but grin at her. Proud and relieved but still
wary(because for Lois Lane, *anything* is a broad spectrum).
"Then, Lois, welcome to the family."

Of course, it won't be as easy as that. He knows that (if
there's one thing he's learned in the past six months, it's
that nothing ever comes easy), but it feels good to know he
doesn't have to worry so much about Lois's presence. He's
beginning to think that she doesn't realize her own reason for
coming (has begun to accept that she has no idea why she cannot
forget Clark Kent), and yet, it doesn't really matter. He's
pretty sure she won't betray their location to anyone,
accidentally or otherwise, and so all that's left is to worry
what she'll do to CK's all-too-vulnerable heart before she
heads back to Metropolis, and that isn't entirely James's
business (he'll still worry, but from afar).

He's desperately late, but he takes the time to nudge Lois
toward her bedroom, to extract a promise from her that she'll
sleep (to wonder what exactly happened last night, or how long CK
was here, talking alone with her, when James and the Kents both
have been doing their best to make sure Clark doesn't have to
face her alone). She goes too easily (the fight drained out of
her), but James doesn't have the time or the energy to worry
about her, not right now. Later, when he's waiting for his plane
to reach Metropolis, he can think back on the bruises under her
eyes, the boniness of her shoulder under his hand, the brokenness
to her voice. But right now, he's got to get to the airport
before the day's a total loss.

The sun's risen by the time he makes it through traffic to the
airport where his latest jet is chartered. Next time he'll have
to leave a day before his meetings are scheduled since he'll
have to go to a different city (probably a different state, too)
to catch a flight. Or, he thinks with the beginnings of a grin as
he spots a blur of red and blue descending toward him, he could
just catch a ride with his friend.

"Hey, CK!" he calls out with a wave as Superman lands in front
of him. He doesn't bother to look around to make sure no one's
looking; Clark knows better than to land and talk to him where
anyone can see them. "How's it going?"

"Not bad," Clark says, and James relaxes a bit when Clark
smiles. A real smile. So, James thinks, no bad rescues and no
over-the-top accusations. He's glad. After the past couple weeks
(after the days of his friend looking so tired and drawn and
*hurt*; after weeks of watching Clark get more and more
despondent, to the point where James had almost talked to a few
doctor friends of his), it's more than good to see Clark with a
smile. He needs the rescues, James thinks yet again. Needs the
assurance that he is helping.

But Superman needs Clark Kent, too (needs the assurance that he
is human), and that's only one of the reasons James needs to get
to Metropolis.

"I actually came to see if you wanted a ride," Clark adds, and
he grins at James's blatant sigh of relief. "I noticed your
plane wasn't gone yet, and I thought you'd wanted to be in
Metropolis by two their time."

"I'm sure you hear this all the time," James says cheekily,
"but you are a lifesaver. I'm running about half an hour late
already, and I have a full day planned."

"Glad to help," Clark says, and he steps forward.

In the beginning, Clark would carry James like he did anyone
else, scooped up in his arms like a bride being carried over the
threshold (and even lately, during a few of their close calls
when people with less-than-sterling qualities have come for
James, Clark's scooped him up that way to get him to safety),
but James has finally managed to convince him that is just *not*
a manly way to be carried. Now, James slings an arm over Clark's
shoulder, Clark slings his own arm around James's back, and they
fly side by side. It's more comfortable for James, and if it
isn't for Clark, he's never mentioned it.

"Anything special going on?" James asks, fighting to keep his
voice casual as the ground disappears into a smudgy panorama
beneath his feet.

Clark shrugs, making James tighten his arm around his friend's
shoulders. "Not particularly. We should probably talk about what
the Foundation's stance is on Superman's recent
disappearance."

"Nothing." James firms his chin, looks straight ahead, anything
to avoid looking into Clark's eyes and letting his friend see
the pity swimming there. "We say nothing and let them realize
that Superman has his own life and sometimes that has to take
precedence."

Clark's silence is (as always; as proven so ably these past
months) as eloquent as another man's rant. He does not, James
knows, think that his life should *ever* take precedence over
anyone he can help. But that is why James is here. That is why
James is heading toward a meeting Clark only *thinks* he knows
the reason for.

"Don't worry, CK." James manages a clumsy pat to Clark's
shoulder. "Trust me, all right?"

He wishes Clark would joke back. Wishes he would roll his eyes
and make a snarky comment. But that is what Clark would do, and
Clark is hidden, half-submerged beneath the smothering,
suffocating weight of his own preconceptions about what is left
to him and what has been stolen from him. So all he does is nod
and say, "You know I do. Do you think this meeting will produce
results?"

"I hope so," James says, and wishes he had a better answer, but
he doesn't (not if he doesn't want to lie). "But I promise,
CK, I'm doing everything I can."

"I know. I just...I want them to be safe. No matter what."

"They will be," James promises (and it's a stupid promise with
absolutely nothing behind it, but he makes it anyway because he
already made it to himself that first day after finding Clark on
the run with his parents, and makes it anew every single day,
when he puts on a suit and knots a tie around his neck). "I
won't let anything happen to Mr. and Mrs. K--if they weren't
around, I'd starve!"

The answering smile that transforms Superman's face into
something more closely resembling the Superman of old (the
Superman worn around the softened contours and rounded edges of
Clark Kent) is slow, but it's real, and that's good enough for
James.

He thinks that will be it (conversation with Clark is brief and
rare nowadays, snatched between rescues or fly-offs to the
rejuvenating sun), but Clark surprises him by slowing down just
as the cityscapeof Metropolis comes into view. Not that James
looks too closely; flying is great in theory, but just a bit too
harrying in practice.

"James," Clark says, almost warily. "I...I picked up a few
more paper trails on the Boss, and they all very conclusively
lead to Luthor. With the statements I have from Phillip Manning
and Toni Taylor, I think I'm ready to take it to Henderson."

James takes a breath, another, and then another, because this is
important (this means a lot to the remnants of CK, a quest left
over from before the end of everything) and he doesn't want to
blow this (doesn't want to undermine this last bit of Clark Kent
confidence displayed in Superman). "Okay," he finally says.
"You're the investigator; if you say you have enough, I believe
you. But if Superman swoops in to talk to a New Troy inspector,
you can bet the media will be swarming. Let me take a couple days
and get a meeting ironed out somewhere quiet. If Luthor's as
dangerous or as sneaky as you say, the extra precautions can't
hurt."

"All right," Clark agrees. "But I want this all taken care of
before Lois goes back."

James frowns. "I thought you said Luthor wasn't bothering her
anymore."

"He's not bothering her, but he is following her. He knows she
flew to Coast City, though he doesn't know exactly where she is
now, or what she's doing. He had a hard time keeping up with her
on her cross-country foray." Clark pauses and gives James a wry
smile. "Really, James, just how long did you intend to make her
chase you?"

"I had to see that she was serious, didn't I?" James laughs,
and pretends he doesn't notice that he laughs alone. "So, I'll
make sure the meeting is soon, just to make sure Lois isn't
around. You really think Luthor would go after her?"

"I think that when he realizes he's been had, he'll go after
whatever leverage he can get his hands on. Which is why I intend
to stop him, before he can hurt anyone else." Clark's voice is
hard, implacable. Stern and impenetrable, as unyielding as the
world believes Superman to be. And yet, James has heard it turn
this steel-like only when Clark Kent speaks of Lex Luthor. He
doesn't know what caused the enmity and hasn't ever felt the
need to ask, but he'd have to be blind and stupid to miss just
how badly Clark burns to take down this millionaire.

A determination shared equally with Superman, as if here,
finally, the two identities can mesh and merge and mingle.

Sometimes it's seemed Luthor is the only thing driving Clark
outside of the Suit, the only topic that can pause Superman long
enough for the reporter to peek through the seams (and secretly,
deep down, it has made James glad, to have this link back to the
CK he admired so much he followed him out of one life and into
another). But...but if this quest is about to come to an end (if
Clark is about to see justice served for at least a few crimes
committed against the reporter and man he used to be), then what
will happen next? What will, in the coming weeks and months,
supersede Superman and wake up CK and remind them all of the man
they've sacrificed so much for?

A problem for later. For another day when he does not have a
special meeting planned without the Board's knowledge and a full
afternoon with the Board itself.

"I'll have a time for you by tomorrow," James promises
smoothly. Easily. Another quick promise. Another rash statement.
But James can't help it. Clark deserves everything, and receives
so little, and so James finds himself trying to get him
everything he possibly can, no matter how many suits and ties he
has to wear. No matter how many jets he has to charter or how
many early mornings he has to face or how many times he has to
move in a year. None of that matters, not next to what he wants
to do for Clark.

And all because of a single Godzilla doll.

Funny. Even after all this time, all that has happened between,
it takes only the slightest memory of that absurd doll with its
red trunks and sloppy red S painted across its chest to take
James straight back to that moment. Laughing at the doll. Hiding
his amused smile from the furious and...aromatic...Lois. And then
realizing what that Godzilla doll meant. Looking up to see Clark
smiling innocently and reaching out a daring hand to brush across
Lois's cheek (teaching her a lesson).

That's all it had taken to make Jimmy (the boy he'd once been;
the young man CK had befriended and encouraged and believed in;
the idealistic could-have-been that had been killed just as
surely as Clark had been, struck down before he could become as
jaded and cynical as the rest of the Daily Planet employees)
realize that bravery could sometimes come in small but explosive
forms. That taking a stand and fighting for the right things were
as noble and heroic as breaking through bank vaults and taking
down prize fighters. That he could stand up to his own Lois Lane
(and maybe Perry White wasn't quite as volatile or as vindictive
as Lois, but he was scary enough anyway) because Clark had showed
him how.

And that Godzilla doll (a casual conversation between himself and
Clark; throwaway words he'd never thought would come to fruition
because no one ever listened to him...but Clark had) was all it
had taken to make Jimmy hand in his resignation. Walk out of the
only place he'd ever wanted to work, away from the people he'd
made into a pseudo-family. Follow a cold, hard trail after a man
he still admires and a hero he can't stop trying to protect. Get
up far too early in the morning and dress in business suits and
meet with corporate executives and spend his life on the run.

Because Clark had listened, and Clark had cared (about Jimmy's
ideas, and Jimmy's troubles with Perry, and Jimmy's life; about
*Jimmy*, before he became James), and James wants to do the same
for Clark.

Not for Superman (or not *only* Superman).

But Clark Kent. CK. The reporter who wanted to make a difference.
The man who wanted to help. The son who wanted to make his
parents proud. The friend who wanted to be there.

The person who simply disappeared so few months ago.

He wants to listen to *Clark* and *care* and try to make his
casual conversation *matter*. But it's hard when Clark has gone
so silent. All he has now is Superman (harrowing and draining and
so destructive that sometimes James wonders if maybe the
superhero doesn't do more harm than good), and this quest
against Luthor (and if that's coming to an end, then that's one
less thing to keep Clark here, connected and involved).

One Godzilla doll, and sometimes James wonders what would be
different now if Clark *hadn't* sent Lois on that
wild-Godzilla-chase. He wonders if he would have had the courage
to tell Perry what he thought about that fateful article. Wonders
if he would have the family he does now or if both he and the
Kents would be alone, but separately. Wonders if there'd be a
Superman at all, or a world for that matter, in the wake of
Nightfall.

It makes him wonder, but things are what they are (and no amount
of wishing or praying or bargaining can change them; he's
already tried), and all they can do is go forward. Even if he is
alone. Even if he's constantly afraid that his juggling act just
isn't enough.

Clark drops him off a few blocks from the Foundation, down an
empty street, and looks at him so earnestly (so hopefully, this
little bit of hope he still allows himself to have). And James
gives him a solemn nod (a sober promise) and waves him off, and
then he takes his time walking toward the high-rise that houses
the largest charity organization in the world (he's gone from
being hopelessly late to being shamefully early; it'll give him
time to prepare a meeting between Superman and Henderson). The
walk in through the back doors by way of an underground alley
only a few people know about is one he's taken countless times,
the elevator so familiar he can see it in his sleep (and often
does, unfortunately), but that gives him the time he needs to
compose what he plans to say to his special committee.

Or rather, Clark's special committee--with one important
distinction.

"Find a way to keep my parents safe no matter what happens to
me," Clark had asked him, just before hurling himself up into
space to stop a meteor so big James doesn't think he can fully
comprehend it (and he chooses not to spend too much time thinking
about it; seeing Clark flying up into space alone and then
finding him passed out in his bedroom, tattered and torn, is too
much for him already).

A simple enough task in theory (though the Secret Service would
be a better solution than any James can come up with), but James
has chosen to interpret it slightly differently.

CK wants his parents safe no matter what, and *obviously* the
best way to keep them safe is to bring Clark Kent back from his
imprisonment behind the red cape.

To resurrect Clark Kent as a whole. As an individual. As a mask.

As a man.

"How's it going?" James asks without preamble as soon as he's
through the door. He's assembled only the most loyal, the
brightest, the ones who call Superman Mr. Kent (the ones he's
vetted through a dozen different means and methods in the hopes
none of them will betray him), but they're absentminded and
prone to distraction; he's learned it's best to approach them
directly, startle them into straight answers, and then exit
before they can regain their composure.

"Mr. Olsen!" Dr. Klein is the first to stand, always the most
eager, the most frenetic. Dr. Hamilton is slower and more
eccentric, while Dr. Irons is the voice of calm reason; and Dr.
Faulkner, though hot-tempered, brings a touch of much-needed
patience to the group. None are, on their own, what James would
call his first choice, not when he's looking for a miracle, but
they are what he has and they are fiercely devoted to Superman
and that is good enough (and all he can do besides).

"James, we weren't expecting you for a while more." Dr. Irons
nonetheless pulls out a chair from around the table strewn with
blueprints, scribbled outlines, random doodles, and a myriad of
other things James doesn't examine too closely.

He shrugs and sits down, loosening his tie so that it doesn't
feel nearly so constricting in the close, dark room. "Change of
plans. Please tell me you've thought of something."

Dr. Faulkner glances at the others before giving a soft shrug.
"I don't know, James. Maybe if we'd tried coming up with
something just after the reveal... As it is, it's very likely
that too much time has passed for any solution to be viable. The
fact that Superman is Clark Kent is too firmly entrenched in the
public consciousness."

"I know," James says, trying not to show his frustration (his
desperate, ferocious desire to *fix* this), "but there's got to
be something we can do or say to explain it away. I mean,
Superman having the persona of an ordinary man who grew up in
Kansas--a super-powered being contained by the morals of a really
good man--would ordinarily betoo fantastical for belief! The
tabloids are always coming out with 'proof' that the whole
thing is a hoax. Conspiracy theorists constantly emerge with new
ways it could all be a sham. Surely there's something in all
their doubts that we can use!"

"That's exactly our problem." Dr. Hamilton taps his fingers
over the surface of the cluttered table, his shock of hair
glinting under the fluorescent lights. "No matter what we say or
do, there will always be people who won't buy it, who will
insist that Clark Kent and Superman are the same."

"I'm not worried about the fringe elements." James takes a
deep breath. It's always so hard to put this into words, to dare
to consign his fragile hope to the confines of harsh reality
where it can be so easily flattened. "I just want to find a way
for Clark Kent to come back. For him to be able to have a life, a
job, a walk down a street without being mobbed. Now, surely
you've come up with *something*?"

There's a long silence (his hopes crumbling a tick of the clock
at a time) before Dr. Klein finally scoots forward to perch on
the edge of his stool, shoved up against a counter holding
various scientific equipment familiar from James's once-frequent
visits to STAR Labs. "We may have a way," the scientist says.
"It's risky, and definitely not foolproof, but it's about the
only thing we can come up with."

"Something?" Every nerve in James's body is set suddenly
alight. "That's far more than we've had up until now. What is
it?"

The group of brains all exchange looks, and then they turn,
agitatedly and intently, back to James.

It's not hope he's feeling. Not exactly. But it's the closest
thing to it he's felt in almost four months, and suddenly his
suit jacket doesn't feel nearly so constricting.

***

11

James's admonition gives Lois the strength to rise to her feet,
to take just enough heavy, lethargic steps to reach her bed (the
*guest* bed, but she doesn't plan on leaving any time soon to
make room for any other guests so it might as well be hers). She
realizes, as soon as she crumples onto the edge of the bed, that
she didn't close the door behind her. Not that it matters; why
should she be granted a modicum of privacy when she's stolen
every bit of that same luxury from the Kents? Besides, she finds
that she likes the shaft of artificial light stamped across the
dark room, a straight, narrow golden beam contrasted sharply
against the more diffused, more abstract, silvered light creeping
in along the edges of the window. That golden rectangle looks
like a path. A road clearly marked. An arrow pointing the way she
should go, giving her direction and purpose and hope.

"*We* know that Clark is important...and we *can* convince CK of
it," James had said. "What will you do to bring Clark Kent
back?"

"Anything," she'd replied, and now that promise thrums in her
like strength, like resolve, like purpose and adrenaline and a
reason to keep going. It no longer feels as if she is held
together by an invisible body-cast. Instead, she feels as if
James (not *Jimmy*, as she's been so stubbornly pretending he
still is, but *James*) has reached inside her (with surgeon's
hands; with a blazing trumpet's call to arms) and threaded her
through with silken titanium lines, with artificial bones,
pumping her heart full of infused blood so that she is borne up
under the power of what lies beneath her skin.

A promise (to fix what she broke).

A vow (to resurrect the man she killed).

A common purpose (to bring back hope and light and sound to the
world; to her; to *him*).

And she thinks that she should be filled with restless energy,
with urgent impatience to accomplish this impossible end. But she
is *not* filled with energy. She is *not* ready to take on the
world and wrestle with impossibilities, to battle death and
misconceptions and her own guilt. She feels, instead, as drained
as if she really has just emerged from surgery and now sedatives
are pulling her down into a dark, echoing well. She feels...weary
and empty (but a good empty, like a wasted victim finally
cleansed and emptied and stripped of a debilitating disease).

"I *am* going to help you, Clark," she murmurs into the still
air (a reaffirmation of the sacred oath she has made, the order
she has just bound herself to), staring at that golden shaft
(that promising path). And she wonders if he can hear her. If,
somewhere (between rescues as he hovers in the air and listens
for heartbeats on the verge of *stopping*; shoulder-deep in
helpless people so in need of a hero that they latch onto him
with no care of the price), he hears that whisper. If he stops
whatever he is doing and tilts his head in her direction and
shivers beneath all the implications of her whispered vow. She
hopes, if he does hear her, that it makes his burdens lighter.
Hopes he knows she is truly sorry (the remembered taste of
peppermint burns on her tongue like fire) and that she will do
anything to make amends. She hopes he is happy to know she is
here, waiting for him.

She fears that she hopes in vain.

She fears that he feels only a cold foreboding, a shiver down his
spine that makes it harder for him to focus on the impossible
task he has set himself of saving the world one victim at a
time.

And with these dual images stark in her mind, these twin thoughts
of Clark's reactions, she succumbs to the exhaustion rampaging
through her unchecked.

And for the first time since her terrible crime, Lois feels, when
she wakes up to a hand on her shoulder, actually *rested*. She
feels as if sleep has finally been able to reach past the heavy,
cloying barriers isolating her, has reached past and left them as
rubble in its wake and swept away her weariness like cobwebs and
dust. So she isn't scared or startled or confused when she opens
her eyes and rolls to her back and sees Martha Kent looking down
at her, expression shadowed in the dim light.

"Lois?" Martha asks. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Lois says, and though her voice is rusty, she smiles to
know she isn't lying. She isn't *well*, isn't *wonderful,
*isn't *good as new*, but she is *fine*. She is healing, has
repented and seen how to make amends for all the wrongs she's
done, and that is more progress than she made in all those weeks
and months sitting so listless and frail at her desk.

"Are you sure? You've slept through breakfast *and* lunch. Are
you..." And here, surprisingly, a hint of uncertainty slithers
through Martha's normally unwavering voice. "Are you sick? Do
you need a doctor?"

Oh.

No wonder, Lois thinks (with a swift spurt of shame), Martha
sounds so worried. No wonder she hesitated before asking this
fateful question. After all, Lois Lane going to a doctor in a
strange city (she still does not know the name of it) so far from
Metropolis can only attract attention. Lois Lane (the reporter
who exposed Superman, who discovered his secret before anyone
else did, who many still believe to have an inside track on him)
showing up on the West Coast would draw so many questions. So
much media attention. A multitude of people flocking after her in
the belief that she might have uncovered a new world-shaking
secret (and she has, one that has done more than shake it, has
changed it altogether, but she is jealous of this secret and does
not intend to share it with anyone).

Lois Lane *here* would mean the Kents and James will have to pick
up and leave (pack up their scant pictures and the crumbs of
their life that they've gathered around themselves to dress up
the emptiness of their future; pack it all up and leave even more
of themselves behind in the process). Start all over again
somewhere else. Assume different names. Find a new suite of
rooms. Hope this newest setback doesn't rip away the last few
fragments of Clark remaining to them.

Lois realizes all this in an instant (a blinding flash of shock
and guilt and terrible responsibility, like phantom pains), and
she doesn't feel *fine* anymore. She feels *awful*. She feels
lower than the criminals she used to spend so much time seeing
locked behind bars. She feels as if she is bathing in peppermint
shame.

"I'm fine," she says again, quickly (the lie returning to the
phrase so that she wonders if she will ever again be able to tell
the truth). She sits up in bed to prove it, to reassure Martha
that she will not be stealing this life, too, from them.
"Really. I just...I didn't get to sleep until it was already
light outside."

"Ah." The relief that lightens Martha's voice is enough to
make Lois's tension ease, ever so slightly. "That'll do it, I
suppose. I'm an early bird myself--comes from living on a
farm."

Lois forces a smile, aware that Martha can see *her* clearly even
though the light at Martha's back (that golden pathway turned
into a blinding halo silhouetting this humble, admirable woman)
means *she* can't read Martha's expression. "I'm sure. Yet
another reason the country life has never appealed to me."

But that, apparently, is the wrong thing to say (the wrong
reminder, of Smallville and green rocks and burning barns),
because Martha stiffens slightly (and Lois begins to think that
she should adopt Superman's silence for her own because words,
written or spoken, do too much to harm and wound and destroy).
"Well," the older woman says, "I didn't mean to intrude. But
the door *was* left open."

"Right. I...forgot to close it. But it's fine, really. I should
be up by now anyway."

"There's food in the kitchen," Martha says, and she leaves,
pointedly closing the door behind her.

Slowly (but purposely too, because she cannot forget the sacred
trust James has extended to her, inducted her into), Lois drifts
to her feet and over to the closet where her few remaining
outfits are stored. She reaches out and chooses (carefully, but
numbly, without allowing herself to think too hard on it and lose
her tiny burst of momentum) an outfit. Coordinated and nice and
colorful, purples and tans, flattering (or at least it was before
she stopped caring about eating) and comfortable (or at least it
would be if she could focus on such trivialities). It's been so
long since she's taken any special care with her appearance (she
tries not to remember the dress she'd seen displayed at that
Smallville Corn Festival, the temptation to buy it that she'd
ignored in favor of sneaking into Trask's camp), and it feels
alien, anathema to her, that she should worry about how she looks
when a few strokes with a hairbrush and a sprinkling of perfume
and a clean outfit cannot possibly distract from all the ruin
she's caused.

For Clark, she reminds herself. She cannot expect him to care
about himself if she will not bother to care about herself
either. Perry sent her to save Superman in order to make up for
destroying Clark, but Lois doesn't want to save Superman (or not
Superman *only*), not when it is Clark Kent she wants to revive
and rejuvenate and restore.

When she emerges from her room into the amber-lit living area,
there's no sign of Martha, James is still gone, and only
Jonathan is present. He looks up from the cupboard he's digging
through beneath the counter, and offers her a smile. "Good
morning, Lois," he offers, and Lois has to stifle the sudden,
surprising urge to hug the sturdy man, to try to soak in some of
that strength and forgiveness like Clark soaks in sunlight.

Trembling with the force of denying that urge, she offers a shaky
smile. "More like afternoon, I think."

"Morning for you," he says with a wink (and if his joviality is
a bit forced, Lois doesn't let herself dwell on it).
"Breakfast? Martha left out some bread and honey, and I'm sure
I can rustle up some juice for you."

Opening her mouth to refuse, Lois stops and reconsiders. "All
right," she decides. "That sounds good."

She's grateful for Jonathan's gruff warmth, his steady
presence, as she makes and eats a few slices of honeyed toast
(taken aback by the pleasure of the taste, so unlike peppermint,
exploding on her tongue) and drinks a glass of orange juice (and
she finds she doesn't mind the strong citrus flavor this time).

"So, uh...what were you looking for in the cupboard?" she asks
when her breakfast is winding down (when she starts to be afraid
that Jonathan will leave her all alone in the draining silence).

"Oh." Jonathan smiles and holds up a small hand spade. "I try
to keep most of my tools up by the garden, but sometimes Martha
appropriates a few pieces for her art projects."

Lois decides not to even try to puzzle out how a spade could be
used for art. "Your garden?" she asks.

"Just a small one, more for enjoyment than necessity, but I take
it seriously anyway." Jonathan stops and regards her a moment,
then offers, "Would you like to help me?"

It's every bit as much an inclusion, an induction, as James's
call to arms, she thinks. Every bit as daring and risky as Clark
allowing her to come here at all. She halfway expects another
load of responsibility to bow her shoulders, another layer of
pressure to crush her, but none comes. Instead, she feels as if
Jonathan has added more titanium threads to hold her together,
poured more steel into her bones, more fire into her blood.

"Yes," she whispers (so she will not shout). "I'd love to
help. Thank you."

"Everybody needs a second chance at one point or another," he
murmurs, and then he turns and leads her to the elevator.

A tremor of something (fear or uncertainty or maybe just an
awareness of the poignancy of this moment, the first time she's
left the suite) surges and trembles inside her. She watches her
feet, stares as they pass they threshold of the elevator, one
after the other, then looks up to see the double doors slide
closed on the setting (bare and homey; scant and comforting)
that's grown so familiar to her. And even though she knows
Jonathan would simply tell her to leave if he were kicking her
out, she nonetheless feels an instant of loss, of gaping
emptiness at losing the little ground she's managed to gain.

"James made sure we could set aside a bit of the roof for a
garden," Jonathan confides as the red numbers tick upward. He
pretends not to notice her thinly veiled panic. "He's worried
I'll get too depressed if I have nothing to do. And," he leans
closer to her, lowers his voice, mischief sparking in his voice,
"don't tell him, but he's probably right. A small garden is
nothing at all like running a farm, but it's a fun hobby. And a
very nice thought."

"Is James the one who finds you places to live?" The question
is out before she can think better of it (before she remembers
what he will think to hear *her* asking such things) and bite it
back.

But Jonathan doesn't give any hint that he's nervous about her
line of questioning.

"He does what he can for us," he replies, and it isn't a full
answer, but she doesn't care (it's so much better than cold
silence).

When the elevator comes to a stop, it opens to a top floor, a
hallway and a door leading to stairs that in turn lead out to the
roof of a skyscraper she only vaguely remembers seeing from the
outside. Lois has chased a handful of people onto rooftops, has
set up surveillance on dozens of concrete stretches, but she has
never seen a roof like this.It's green and lush, layered in rows
upon rows of ankle-high sprouts, several different kinds,
stretching out to every side of her. The concrete is hidden
beneath plants, the emerald of life back-dropped by sapphire
skies, a familiar scene turned magical.

"This is a *small* garden?" Lois blurts as she steps out onto
the only concrete in sight, a straight gray pathway leading to
branch out between the rows of greenery, which are, she notices,
set in deep, long boxes of wood--planters of a size that make her
blink and gape. Some paths have a sheen of water spraying out
from nozzles set along the edges of the planters, sparkling like
diamonds in the undiluted carnelian and topaz sun.

Jonathan's deep chuckle reverberates just behind her, and when
she looks back at him, she sees the layer of soft pride coating
his features. "We might have gone a bit overboard," he admits,
then grins. "But it keeps me busy and out of Martha's hair. I
know it's more than we can eat ourselves, but Martha already has
plans to sell most of it at various farmer's markets, and to
give some of it away to a few shelters she volunteers at. We'll
see how that turns out."

Questions leap to her mouth, crowding there like anxious
informants, but fortunately, her lack of practice in indulging
her curiosity gives her the second she needs to realize the
answers herself.

"We'll see how that turns out," he said, because they cannot
plan too far ahead. Because they have to be careful in what they
decide to do and what markets they attend and where they might be
spotted. Because their everyday activities can only be planned
around constant uncertainties.

The ever-present threat of exposure, of discovery, of ruin,
hounds their every decision. Every plan. Every moment.

But Jonathan smiles anyway. He stands there among the seeds of
wonderment, of beauty amidst mediocrity, and he has dared to care
again, to devote himself to something that might be snatched away
from him at a moment's notice. Has invited his son's destroyer
into this lovingly tended oasis. And he still smiles.

She cannot comprehend it. Cannot understand it. Cannot value it
enough.

And she stares at this older, heavyset man, so weathered and
beaten, and thinks he is more beautiful than all the lushness
surrounding her.

"Can..." She pauses to lick her lips (to gather up courage
enough to speak the rest of her request). "Can I help you?"

He winks at her, and Lois has to clench her fists to keep from
hugging him (knowing he probably wouldn't welcome the tactile
gratitude). "I was hoping you'd ask."

She's never had a green thumb. She can kill even the hardiest
plant stuck on the corner of her desk every time New Year's
resolutions roll around. She doesn't like to dig in the dirt
while the sun presses down on her back and insects crawl out from
under her knees and straight, healthy rows seem to grow more
crooked under her care. She's not farmer material by any stretch
of the imagination.

But she doesn't care. That afternoon--and the afternoons
following after, when she follows Jonathan up to his refuge--are
treasured moments quickly stored away as beloved memories.
Jonathan's soft, instructive voice. His dry, warm hands guiding
hers in weeding and watering and pruning. His welcoming smile
each time she follows him into the elevator. His quiet (as
opposed to *silence*, and she's not sure how he balances that
distinction so well) presence when she doesn't dare let herself
think of anything but the dirt under her fingers. His understated
wisdom that brings her, unbidden, countless thoughts of a young,
smiling Clark kneeling at his father's side in a Kansas field or
an older, pensive Clark following his dad from field to field,
employing terrifying, alien power to grow crops of food, to
nurture living, fragile things, to contribute to continued life.

Occasionally, when she stays quiet and manages a few, real
smiles, Jonathan will begin to talk, to tell her about how they
found tiny, baby Clark in a field after following a blazing trail
through the sky. About how they hid him from suspicious
government men (Bureau 39, Lois thinks, and for that night,
experiences a resurgence in her nightmares). About Clark's young
years, about his earnest desire to help, his terror of isolation,
his simultaneous resignation to always being alone.

Small memories. Tiny moments. Quiet confidences. But taken
altogether, they paint a beautiful, shining picture of the man
she killed. The man she's come to save. Soft, fond recollections
that form a quilt covered over with budding plants and glowing
sun and gruff voice and beneath which she begins, slowly, to
heal. To recover. To remember who she is under the scars of her
crimes and to see what she has become with them, like physical
therapy for her soul doled out by the kindest, most patient of
therapists.

For the first few days of this new routine, James watches her
suspiciously over dinner. Warily, as if fearing she will fracture
the tenuous peace this small family has managed to find. Martha
is surprised at first, then thoughtful, then, days later, she
gives what seems to be (Lois hopes) grudging acceptance,
displayed a bit more openly when she freely offers to help Lois
get her laundry done in a small room through a door in the
kitchen Lois always supposed to be a pantry.

It's hard to tell what Clark thinks because she sees him only
rarely, briefly, and she's never quite sure when he's out or
when he's home (and she has the idea that it would only make her
feel awful all over again to know how little he allows himself to
stop being Superman, so she tries not to think of it). He is
always unfailingly polite when he alights long enough to see her,
always greeting her with a smile and asking her if everything is
all right. He never says anything about her leaving, never asks
her how long she's planning on interrupting his life (none of
them ask, and she wonders if they're that afraid of what she'll
do when she leaves); he makes simple, easy conversation about
topics that matter only to him (and to her, simply*because* they
matter to him), bouncing back and forth between a diminished
Superman and a wistful Clark.

Not that it is entirely his fault their conversations never go
any deeper.

She is awkward with him. Not sure what to say or how to face him
after getting such a clear, in-depth look at the ruins left to
him. She wants to apologize, but he will not let her. She wants
to explain herself (to tell him about Trask's voice whispering
in her ear and tests posed him he didn't even know about;
explain about adjoining tents and overheard confessions and
shattered misconceptions), but he has already found and made an
explanation for her (as if being a reporter is enough to excuse
her actions). She wants to tell him she will not rest until she
fixes what she did to him, but she does not want to listen to him
try to explain away all the many, *many* reasons that's
impossible.

She wants to reach past the hybrid-stranger in front of her and
pull out the endearing, intriguing, innocent Clark Kent who
worked at the Daily Planet so very briefly, wants to talk to him
and make him laugh and see him smile with that secret hope...but
she knows that is beyond even her.

So she cannot help but be awkward and stilted and unsure every
time he gives her that distant smile and lets her hear his voice
once more. She cannot help but look at him and hear the echo of
Jonathan's voice in her head, pulling back the curtain on what
it must be like to be him, and it is insight given (and sought)
too late, but it's nestled inside her now and she cannot look at
this broken stranger and *not* see that young man so restless and
on fire to make his mark in the world (not as a hero; not as a
strange visitor; but as a *man*). And gradually, as the days
become a week, and then another week, and then fades into the
beginning of a third one, Lois cannot keep her own silence any
longer. She can't keep pretending he is a stranger, or that she
is here only to assuage her guilty conscience or find some form
of closure. She can't let him keep walking away from her, not
when her promise (to James, and to herself) sits inside her like
a story left unwritten, a trail left unfollowed, an investigation
left uncovered.

Bravery, she tells herself. She must be brave. Must take hold of
that solid, silken strength implanted within her and use it to
stand her ground. To look into Clark's aloof eyes and try to
break his silence.

Because he *is* silent. Still. Always.

He talks, but the words don't mean anything. He asks her
questions, but they are inane. He makes conversation, but it
never goes anywhere.

It is only another form of silence, a second wall, and she has
made her way past the first, but this second one is even thicker
and higher and deeper.

But she is Lois Lane, she reminds herself. And James's steady
looks during dinners, Jonathan's thoughtful expressions when he
doesn't think she knows he's watching her, Martha's worry so
sloppily hidden--they all remind her of how much she has yet to
do and how little she has accomplished so far. *She* feels
better, feels more in line with her old self (but a *better*self,
a *self* that would never print the story she did five months
ago), but Clark...Clark is still lost. He is still broken.

And he deserves to be whole. Deserves it far more than *she*
does.

So she waits, until an evening when he is home. When he eats
dinner and then makes to get up and leave but catches his
mother's eye and instead nods and relaxes (he will go out later,
Lois knows, after Martha is asleep; but for now, he will stay to
ease his family's worry). She waits until they have all moved
into the living area. She waits until Martha and James are
discussing Martha's latest painting, and Jonathan is engrossed
in the news. She waits until Clark looks happy (or as happy as he
ever looks anymore, which means he looks contented and tired),
and then she approaches him.

"Clark," she says, and pretends it doesn't hurt to see the
tiny, instant smile that flashes almost every time she uses his
name. "I was wondering if I could talk to you."

His eyes flicker, quickly, emotions trailing through them like
comets, burning and dying faster than she can interpret them. But
he smiles again (an awkward, polite smile) and nods. "Okay."

Trying hard to look open and harmless, Lois forces a smile of her
own and gestures him after her. She takes him only to the
counter; she wants the semblance of privacy without scaring him
away.

"Anything wrong?" he asks, watching her perch on the edge of
one of the chairs.

"No." She smiles again (because she doesn't know what else to
do, and this isn't as easy as she hoped it would be) and nods to
the chair adjacent to hers. "I just...wanted to talk to you."
She pauses, narrows her eyes, and decides that challenging him
can do nothing worse than return them to the impasse she's
already trying to break. "Do you not *want* to talk?"

He hesitates and actually seems to consider the question before
he gives her another, slightly more real smile. "Talking sounds
nice."

"You do so little of it nowadays," she says wryly, and manages
a real smile of her own (because reminders of his silence used to
hurt but now she has learned to accept both it and her complicity
in causing it).

He startles her by actually almost laughing himself, a tiny
exhalation that carries the hint of a chuckle. "Yeah," he says,
and looks down at his hands.

And then they sit there, and it falls quiet, and neither of them
can quite look at the other (except Lois can feel the pressure of
three stares, can sense the wary curiosity, the banked suspicion,
emanating from the living area).

"Well, this is ridiculous," Lois finally exclaims. "Surely we
can find *something* to talk about."

"Like you said, I'm out of practice." She wonders if she
imagines the tiny spark of mischief buried in Clark's
silvery-brown eyes. "What's *your* excuse?"

"I'm afraid of hurting you more," she says bluntly, and sees
shock daze him before he blinks it away.

"You shouldn't be. I told you, I don't blame you."

His sincerity shouldn't hurt, but it does. It hurts worse, she
thinks, than his blame would.

"I do," she says, and she catches his eye and will not let him
look away. "*I* blame myself. For what I did to you. To your
family. For what I took from you. And you can tell me that it's
not my fault or that it doesn't matter, but it *does*. You're
not happy, Clark!"

His smile is so small, so fake, that Lois wants to reach out and
smear her hand over it, erase it from ever existing (so that she
does not have to know Clark is capable of even making such an
abomination). "I'm happy enough," he tells her, and then he
reaches out with a gentle hand and sets it over one of hers,
stills its wild trembling. "And this *isn't* your fault. Lois,
Trask knew--"

Trask.

It's been months since she's heard the name spoken aloud. Since
she's let herself hear it, or think on it, or remember the man
who threw her out of a plane and captured her and played her like
a violin so that even when he had to disappear into obscurity,
his work was still completed.

Months since she let the doors of her mind crack open enough to
let more than the lightning-flash of Smallville memories assail
her.

The pain stirred up by that name, by the memories associated with
it (plastic tied around her wrists and panic stuffed inside her
thoughts and his voice whispering in her ear), are so strong and
overpowering that Lois can't help but flinch. Clark notices, of
course (because no matter how blind she was concerning him, he's
never failed to take notice of the smallest details about her),
and he cuts himself off.

"Well," he says, forcibly casual, "it doesn't matter, anyway.
The point is that the truth was bound to come out eventually, one
way or the other, and this way, at least I got my parents out in
time. We may not be...as happy...as before, but we're content,
and that's not bad, Lois. It's good enough."

"Is it?" Lois wonders how this conversation got so far off
track; she meant to ask about him and instead once more he is
comforting *her. *She studies him closely (hopes he does not take
his hand away from hers) and says, very quietly, "I do have a
question I want to ask you."

She thinks she sees a flash of pain in his eyes. A burst of fear.
Maybe it is only her imagination. Maybe it is her own guilt that
puts it there. Or maybe he has nightmares, too, about headlines
and newspapers and Pulitzer prizes earned at the cost of his own
life.

Regardless, she hurriedly adds, "Not for a story, or an
interview, or... It's just a question. And you don't have to
answer it if you don't want to, of course! Maybe I
shouldn't--"

"It's all right, Lois." His hand tightens over hers, heat that
spirals through her flesh, past the titanium lines threading her
through, refining her in a cleansing fire that takes her breath
away and makes her forget what she was planning to say. He almost
sounds like the Clark of old as he stares into her eyes, silvery
brown shining with as much goodness and kindness as ever. "You
can ask it."

She has to look away. Has to break his gaze and swallow back the
flames licking their way up from where his fingertips rest along
her wrist. Has to close her eyes and force herself to remember
the question she wants to ask him (the last bit of impetus she
needs to make herself into the champion James has asked her to be
and Clark needs so badly).

"Why didn't you start over again? Why didn't you come up with
a new name? A new disguise?"

He's silent so long she's sure he must be offended. Or hurt. Or
wondering why this nosy reporter, this colleague from a place he
worked at so briefly, is coming here and asking him stupid
questions. Silent so long that she has to look at him again even
though her entire body is trembling and there's a scream inside
her warning her she doesn't want to know what he's thinking.

But all he does is shake his head. "I have enough trouble with
just one disguise--adding another would be too much."

This is a conversation she should have had with him almost five
months ago (though in a very momentously different way). It's
too late now. Too late to make a difference. Too late to stop her
from writing an article. Too late to warn him about what she
planned to do, outlining the steps and writing that infamous
article on the plane back to Metropolis. Too late, but she has to
have it anyway. Has to let them both say out loud what he's
known his whole life and she's known for...well, she's not sure
how long she's known. Not sure when she first figured it out.
She only knows that she figured it out sometime after seeing her
name sold out in every language in the world and before Perry
told her to come save what was left of Clark Kent.

"One disguise?" she asks him. Tears are building up behind her
eyes, a constant pressure like floodwaters pressed against a
straining dam, but she pushes them back and watches Clark. She
wants him to know that she is listening (now, when it is far too
late; now, when she could have let him be and never looked
back).

"For a while," he says, staring past her, as if seeing beyond
her (or as if afraid, in his own way, of seeing what he fears is
written across her face), "it was my only lifeline--planning
someone else to be, someone normal. I came up with names and
careers and disguises. I don't think the glasses would work
anymore." He chuckles (hollowly) and reaches up a hand to the
glasses he still wears, even in front of her (and she wishes she
could take some form of solace in that, that he does not hide
them anymore). "And then Superman came back, and I told myself
that the reason I wasn't going out as someone else was that if
Superman disappeared for eight hours a day five days a week,
there would be a world-wide search for him, everyone side-eyeing
any new employees, looking for a superhero. I told myself I
couldn't because I needed to find a way for my parents to have a
life, too. But the truth is..."

Lois holds her breath. Watches him. Cannot look away. Cannot let
the tears go (because they would never end).

"The truth is...I don't want to be someone else."

"Clark is who you are," Lois whispers. And it is truth and
injustice and her own personal indictment all wrapped into one,
and she could spend the rest of her life serving him on bended
knee and still never make up for what she's done.

But he smiles at her. Smiles as if he does not realize, even
still, who is to blame for the pain that shadows his every move,
colors his every expression, touches his every sparse word.
"Exactly," he exclaims, and she feels like a fraud for making
him think she understands him when in truth, it's taken her far
too long (and so many afternoons beneath his father's gentle
tutelage) to come to this moment. This place. This conversation.
"I didn't have to pretend to anything as Clark, not *really*. I
could just...just be *me*. But being someone else...it'd be as
much of a mask, of an act, as Superman is. I wouldn't be able to
be *me*, so what would be the point?"

"Superman's what you do," Lois murmurs, and wins another Clark
smile for herself.

"Yes."

"Do you...do you think you can ever be Clark again?"

Unexpectedly, a hint of confusion ghosts across his face, puts a
crease on his brow. "What do you mean? I am Clark. I've...I've
tried to stop, but as you can see"--he fiddles with the edge of
his glasses--"I haven't really succeeded."

And for the first time, Lois's heart feels lighter. For the
first time she can breathe. For the first time, her smile is
real, and she gifts it to him in return for the ones he's given
her, for the warmth he's infusing through her, for the forgiving
touch of his hand over hers.

"Good," she says, relief making her whole and well and light.

He's still Clark.

Clark Kent is dead, but he's still Clark. He hasn't forgotten,
hasn't given up hope, hasn't entirely succumbed to the
bleakness of this prison she's delivered him into.

And if Clark is what he wants (if Clark is what makes her smile),
then she will bring Clark Kent back from the dead(and erase that
horrible accusation from the face of his grave), if it is the
last thing she ever does.

***

12

"Come with us," Martha had said, and the Lois who searched for
James without knowing why, the Lois who docilely let the winds of
fate bob her about in its whimsical current (the Lois who lied to
herself so well and so thoroughly that she'd managed to almost
pretend she didn't miss Clark Kent) would have stared and
blinked back tears and peppermint-tinted bile and searched in
vain for her voice until maybe her chance passed her by. But the
new Lois (the hybrid-stranger she now sees every time she
glimpses her reflection, the mix of the redeemable qualities of
the old Lois mixed and mingled with a new Lois refined by stress
and grief and fire) is enough in place to make her smile
instantly and agree to the startling invitation.

"We try not to go out too often," Martha explains as they wait
for the elevator to reach the ground floor (and Lois is so intent
on not missing a cue and messing up this unexpected sign of
reconciliation that she forgets to look at the signs in the lobby
or find recognizable landmarks around the building).

"And it's so rare that James takes the time to remember we like
seeing him for more than a few moments at a time," Martha says,
teasingly, in the second of three taxis they take (and they're
not living in Coast City, after all, because it takes two hours
to reach the city, but Lois tamps down her waking curiosity and
does her best*not*to think on what she knows of Californian
geography).

"We don't do much, but it's fun to do it together," Martha
explains, after James has finished laughingly reassuring her of
his intentions to spend more time with her and Jonathan. They
wander leisurely along downtown streets, past small shops filled
with books or coffee or clothing or souvenirs stamped with an
emerald sigil shaped like a lantern. It isn't until then,
hearing Martha's staggered explanation, that Lois realizes the
older woman is nervous, is talking so much--not to include
Lois--but to fill up the awkward silence between them.

And that is not all right. Lois has become intimately familiar
with awkwardness and with silence, and if there is one thing she
knows above all others, it is that the Kents do not belong in
that realm. They do not need to feel unsure in themselves, do not
need to justify their decisions or their lives, certainly not to
her.

So she offers Martha a tentative smile and tries to sound
completely accepting (and as understanding as Martha has been for
her) when she says, "I don't need to do much." The compassion
that stirs inside her, struggling up through rusty disuse and
dusty inexperience, is strange and new and so welcome that Lois
feels like skipping and laughing and throwing her arms around
first Martha, then Jonathan, then even James (if he would ever
stand for such a thing). "Really," she adds. "I think all that
gardening has made me lazy. Soft."

"Not lazy," Jonathan corrects, throwing her a wink. "Just
content. Able to take a breath and savor the small things."

He's teasing her, but he's right. Of course, it's not the
gardening that's the miracle cure, she knows; it's Jonathan
himself, and James's promise, and Clark's forgiving smile, and
Martha's nervous efforts.

"Content," Lois repeats (and remembers Clark telling her that
contentment is enough). "I guess that's the right word. In
fact, you've done such a good job of converting me into your
amber-waves-of-grain society that I find myself thinking that a
walk through that park over there would actually be fun."

The shop with the fashionably dressed mannequins in the window
and prominently displayed shoes actually looks much more tempting
than slow, winding paths through grass and sparsely planted
trees, but Jonathan has been looking bored and she saw his eyes
light up when he caught sight of that park, and James has been
fondling the camera he's stashed away in a nondescript bag at
his side--and Lois wants to see the park because she wants *them*
to be happy. Because she wants to see this strange little family
come alive with laughter and sunshine and a measure of freedom
(even if there is a hole where Clark should be; a stain of guilt
at the constant knowledge that she's the reason he can never
have this again). Because she wants to treasure her presence with
them (for the first time by *invitation*, by choice, by mutual
consent). Because she wants to take this day and freeze it in
time and tuck it away in her heart as a healing balm she can use
to soothe her soul on the darkest and bleakest of days.

"The park?" Jonathan makes a sincere but woefully inadequate
attempt to hide his hope, and for the first time since inviting
Lois to join them, Martha laughs.

"The park sounds good," she says, threading her arm through
Jonathan's. "We can eat our sandwiches there."

Jonathan laughs. "Even better!"

"I hope there's a bit more than sandwiches in that basket,"
James finally speaks up. He has been quiet, almost abnormally so,
since leveling a steady gaze at Lois when she stepped into the
elevator with them and saying, "Make sure you keep that cap
pulled low so no one recognizes you." A few weeks ago, his
protectiveness would have stirred indignation, would have ignited
anger. Now, it only warms her. (Now, it only reminds her of
Clark's quiet resignation and his absence from their side so
that their disguises have a chance of working.)

Martha narrows her eyes at James and gives a slow shake of her
head. "It's been a while, but I haven't quite forgotten what
your favorite cookies are."

The laughter that escapes James makes him look younger. More
innocent. Unburdened by the task he has set himself. He slips an
arm around Martha's shoulders and lightly tugs on a lock of her
brunette wig, his own fake blonde hair flopping over his brow.
"All right, all right, Mrs. K, I get the hint! I'll stay home
more often if you make the cookies more often. Deal?"

"I don't know." Martha's laugh is softer, shorter, but just
as unabashedly happy. "If this is a negotiation, I may have to
make sure I stipulate how many batches there will be to equal a
day of your company--and who exactly will help me bake all these
incentives."

James slants a mischievous look to Jonathan. "Well, Mr. K is
obviously the first candidate. He's the one who promised to love
and support, right?"

"Oh, I support." Jonathan chuckles, his shoulders losing some
of their tension now that they are surrounded by living plants
rather than specialized boutique stores. "If Martha wants to
corral you into the kitchen with her, I'll help her block the
door behind you."

"Don't even think about it!" Lois exclaims when James's gaze
slides to her. She holds up warding hands. "I help out by
staying *away* from the kitchen."

"Abandoned on every side!" James rolls his eyes and does his
best to look aggrieved (a familiar expression, calling up
long-ignored memories of Perry's sly smirks and theunderhanded
protection he'd sent the young man's way).

"Helping throw some eggs and sugar in a bowl is hardly going to
hurt you," Martha tells him dryly. "Jonathan sets the table,
Lois does the dishes--that leaves you to show us some
productivity."

James says something else that makes a silver, joyous laugh shake
Jonathan's frame, and Martha replies and James darts ahead to
walk backward while saying more, but it all fades away in Lois's
consciousness. All of it muted and frozen in a picture-perfect
moment by the sparkling, gilt-edged realization exploding in
Lois's mind and heart and *being*.

She is included.

James pulled her into their teasing. Martha listed her
contributions to their daily chores alongside Jonathan's.

Her two detractors, and they are including her.

Accepting her.

Teasing her.

As if she's part of the family. Part of their unit. One of
them.

Not an outsider. Not a murderer. Not their worst nightmare.

An ally. A compatriot. Someone who will do anything for Clark up
to and including giving up her life for him.

And she will. She knows it without thought, without hesitation,
without doubt. She feels it in the lightness of the day outside
their apartments, in the happiness to be outside the cloak of
hiding, in the guilt to be experiencing all this without Clark,
away from Clark (possible only because Clark is *not* there,
reminding them of all the reasons they have to be grim and
watchful and sober).

Those silken threads lining her bones, strengthening her muscles,
pulse deeper, more vivid, so that Lois feels as if she is about
to explode with urgent energy, with what feels almost like relief
(like atonement; like absolution). The sunlight is amber and
warm, sweet like honey as she pulls in an overly large breath to
swell her ribcage, expand her chest, make herself large enough to
contain the frothing, sparkling feelings boiling up within her.

She thinks the moment will pass quickly, glowing drops of
condensation that evaporate into dispelled, invisible liquid
under the glaring light of day. She thinks she will shrink and
retract and grow up a protective shell to shield and camouflage
that instilled, borrowed strength. (She thinks these noble,
too-good-to-be-true people, these three brave but weary
defenders, will remember who she is, what she did, and take back
their forgiveness, their inclusion, and bring out their spiky
shells of awkwardness cloaked in engrained kindness.)

But the moment doesn't pass. The feeling doesn't go away. Her
body (her determined resoluteness) doesn't abandon her. The
clock ticks on, storing up the seconds and minutes, a reservoir
of time filled with an ambling stroll along green pathways under
dappled shadows shaped like the leaves of the passing trees, with
a picnic alongside a fountain of topaz-colored stone pebbled like
honeycomb, with a meal eaten to the accompaniment of tinkling
water and relieved laughter. Moments that continue uninterrupted
and give no indication of slipping away from her.

And gradually, so slowly she almost doesn't notice it (so
momentously she cannot understand how there is not a full
orchestra and a media team there to commemorate and proclaim it),
the knot of ever-present tension at the base of her spine
loosens, spirals outward and allows air through, lets her
shoulders slump, makes a smile easier to claim.

They're different outside that tinted, cool suite, Lois
realizes, studying Jonathan, Martha, and James in turn through
eyes unbounded by tension and fear. They are survivors, in those
rooms, witnesses in hiding, victims gone to ground, pretending
(for Clark's sake) to strength and sanguinity and contentment
they don't really have (not more than surface deep). In those
rooms, they are constantly on edge, waiting (for the alarm, the
siren, the flash of a camera) to leap into desperate flight once
more.

But here, away from their small self-contained world, away from
covered windows, away from the remnants that can only remind them
of all they've lost (away from Clark? she wonders with a surge
of discomfort), they change. Transform. Morph into strangers.
Civilians. Anonymous citizens untouched by that infamous Pulitzer
prize-winning article (by gaping loss and tiny slivers of hope).
Regular, normal people who can relax in their average anonymity,
their relative mediocrity...their alter egos.

Relax in everything that the separation of Clark Kent and
Superman once gave that lost, uncomfortable stranger even now out
saving lives. Relax in everything that has been taken (stolen,
ripped, torn away from, by Lois herself, though she's doing her
best not to think on that, not to keep heaping guilt onto her
shoulders to slow herself down) from the man who deserved his
fate least of all.

Enjoying the very things that he no longer can.

The realization, the sense of truth clicking into place,
threatens to send Lois back into the morass of guilt and regret
she's only just pulling herself from. It's not new, but it's
just as painful this time around as every other time of
remembering all he's lost. Only...only she cannot allow herself
to fall again. Cannot let herself second-guess her precious,
hard-won success. (Cannot allow herself the luxury of numbing
self-pity to take away her responsibility to *act*, to *heal*, to
*fix*.)

"You okay?"

Lois smiles at Martha. At the concern in her voice. At the feel
of her age-smoothed hand resting so gently atop Lois's.
"Getting there," she murmurs beneath the flow of James's voice
and Jonathan's chuckle.

Martha's own smile is cracked and tremulous. "Me too. It's a
slow road sometimes, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Her voice breaks, but Lois doesn't care. No need for
false pride or defensive facades here. Not now. Not with this
woman, with this family (with these few who see beyond her
disguise and know her in all her forms). But she cannot help
adding, in little more than a whisper, "I just wish Clark could
be here."

Instead of denouncing her for her hypocrisy (for wishing for the
very thing she made impossible), Martha only tightens her grip
over Lois's. "So do I. He could sure use a day like this. Or
even just an hour. Sometimes, I think he's gotten so focused on
what he still has left to him that he forgets he can have
more."

An idea sparks in Lois's mind. It feels like creativity. It
feels like purpose. It feels like adrenaline. It feels like an
echo of what she lost when she pulled that metaphorical trigger.
She's afraid to look at it too closely, or examine it out in the
cold light of day, but she cradles it close. Hugs it inside
herself and lets it grow in warmth and seclusion and hope.
Promises herself she will take it out and nurture it further when
she is alone.

As if she knows that Lois doesn't have words to give her (cannot
compose herself quickly enough to scrabble for a reply), Martha
blinks, trading tears for mischief. "And don't worry about
having to stay here all day. After we're done with lunch, I'll
distract Jonathan long enough to let you slip into one of those
shops you keep eyeing."

Lois laughs. "Thanks. But what do I do about James?"

"Him? Well..." Martha sips her tea in a contemplative fashion.
"Well, he's much sneakier than Clark ever was. You're on your
own with him--though I have the feeling that if he sees you
headed into a shop, he'll find a way to distract himself."

"Careful, James." Jonathan's voice breaks through their quiet
conversation. "They're whispering together--who knows what
they're conspiring for us."

"Conspiring?" One of Martha's thin eyebrows arches in an
eloquent manner Lois can only hope to emulate. "Does a bit of
quiet conversation *not* filled with silliness scare you that
much?"

"It does when you get that cunning look in your eye." Jonathan
winks at James, who laughs with him but shoots a helpless glance
to Martha when Jonathan looks away, adeptly playing to both
sides. "You can always tell when to be scared, son, when a woman
gets that look in her eye and starts sizing you up."

"Suspicious, isn't he?" Lois asks, and despite the warm
feeling expanding her chest, still feels relieved when none of
them freeze up or give her reproachful stares.

"Paranoid, more like," Martha replies. "More cookies,
James?"

"It's not paranoia," James says, but doesn't hesitate to take
two more cookies.

"They're buttering us up." Jonathan turns tender as he meets
Martha's gaze, their hands idly caressing each other when he
takes a cookie from her. "Must mean we're going to be stuck
with an afternoon of shopping."

He's right, though just barely. First they follow James along a
scenic bridge and give him helpful (increasingly silly)
suggestions about what shots of the scenery he should snap (only
scenery; no people; no family photos to betray them to the harsh,
consuming world). They then stop at a small cafe to let Martha
sample a new tea. Finally, Martha gives Lois a smile and tugs
Jonathan over to a street-side vendor. Lois smiles back, pulls
her cap low to shade her features, and ducks into the boutique
they've passed three times now.

It's comfortable and familiar to browse through stiff fabrics
and sleek gowns and luxurious lingerie. She can't remember the
last time she went shopping. Can't remember the last time she
gave it a thought (and realizes anew just how much of Lois Lane
was tied up with Clark Kent). Minutes trickle by unnoticed as she
feasts her eyes on colors and cuts, lets herself try on a few
things, and even taxes her limp savings account by buying a new
dress (*without* letting herself think on why she suddenly wants
a new dress Clark has never seen her in before).

She's just tucking her wallet back into her purse and looping
the handles of her plastic bag over her wrist when she feels it.

A tremble.

A shudder.

A ripple passing through the ground beneath her feet and
spreading outward in every direction.

Lois freezes. Stares down at the floor with a perplexed wrinkle
in her brow.

"Ma'am?" the salesclerk calls behind her, frantic panic and
urgent fear evident in her voice. "Ma'am, you need to duck and
cover!"

She's turning toward the lady, opening her mouth to ask for
clarification--and the world cracks and buckles beneath her.

The doors and windows shatter. Glass flies through the air,
singing as it whirls toward her, and Lois falls into a crouch,
arms covering her head and knocking aside her cap (mind cowering
beneath incomprehension). When the melody of whistling danger is
silenced, transmuted into the tap-tap-tap percussion of shards
settling on the ground, when Lois peeks up, she sees the clerk
huddling against an inner door frame, beckoning to her.

The ground is shivering, is sloping up and down (as if finally,
so very belatedly, recognizing the extent, the enormity, of
Lois's crimes and is now trying to hurl her off into empty
infinity, rid itself of her blemish), and Lois tries to find some
balance, enough stability to crawl toward relative safety.
Clothes rain down from hangers all around her, glass is murmuring
beneath her, hushed by crimson blood that turns her hands and
knees slick, and Lois cannot make any headway. Rocks are
shattering, there is a crack running a chasm through the tiles
beneath her, her entire body is shaken until every single
molecule within her is rattled like dice in a cup, threatening to
unravel her from the inside out, and every thought in her head is
turned upside down, made weak and quivering.

There's a scream shrieking against her ears, pounding against
her eardrums. There's a rumble carving furrows through her veins
and grinding against her breastbone. There's a cacophony of car
horns and blaring alarms and shouts drifting in through the gaps
where once there were windows--and Lois cannot take it anymore.
Why try to make headway when there is nowhere to go? When the
world itself has turned against her? When there is nothing in her
worth saving?

She stops where she is, perched atop lines spider-webbing through
the solid ground (no longer solid or unmoving or trustworthy),
curls herself up in a ball, wraps her arms around her head, and
waits for the end.

It's loud and raucous and dangerous, but silence seems to enwrap
her in a smothering cape, as if she cowers in the eye of the
storm. And here, alone, cut off from everyone and everything,
only one thought can shoulder its way through the mess of this
earthquake to keep her company.

This must be what Clark felt like that day.

This is what he must have thought was happening when he walked
into the Daily Planet, straight into the firing squad.

Like the world had vanished beneath his feet. Like every rule and
law of nature had been broken, remolded and shaped to oh so
perfectly and neatly destroy the life he'd oh so carefully
built. Like Earth itself had risen up in revolt against him.

This must be what he feels like every day. Each moment facing a
quaking world, all stability gone, unable to find any form of
balance. Facing the unknown while reality shakes him like a mouse
in the jaws of a cat, and the lives of everyone he loves teeter
on a fragile precipice.

The insight quakes through Lois's soul long after the ground has
stopped shaking beneath her. It ripples across her psyche as if
to echo the aftershocks that send her crashing back to the soiled
clothes and sharp glass as soon as she tries to get to her feet.
It stays with her, numbing her, while she checks to make certain
the clerk is safe, both of them half-covered in plaster dust and
bits of dirt and debris from the ceiling.

"Are *you* okay?" the clerk asks in reply, eyes locked on the
various cuts and scrapes carving a scrawled map of guilt and
realization over Lois's exposed flesh (her sins finally shown on
the outside, bleeding out into the open).

"I'm fine," she says, brushing off the concern. (It's another
lie, but she doesn't care.) "But why on earth do people choose
to live in a state that tries to periodically throw them into the
ocean?"

The clerk doesn't seem to hear the question. Her gaze has moved
past Lois to the world (large and alien and hostile) outside the
gutted windows. Her eyes widen, her ebony skin bleached ashen.
"Wow." Her voice is small and washed out. "It's a bad one,
the worst I've ever seen. I'm glad you weren't out in the open
when that hit."

Horror hits harder and longer and more devastating than the
earthquake. Fear (as big as Nightfall, as vast as Superman's
silence, as debilitating as Clark's death) assails Lois like a
disease. Like a virus that attacks and drains and steals and
wounds (and kills).

Because Jonathan and Martha were standing outside.

Because they promised to wait there for her until she was done
shopping. Because James was there with them. Because they were in
the open.

Unprotected.

In danger.

Because the only things left to Clark (the only people he loves
and daily saves the world for; the only people he will talk to
and for) were all in one place. And if they are gone (if they
were taken from him while they waited for Lois, of all people),
then Clark will not be the only one broken and crushed. Superman
will be broken too. Superman will be devastated. Will be cut
loose from the Earth, ripped from his only tether.

And there will be nothing at all left to save, no alter ego to
keep him here.

And all because of Lois.

Again.

The shop's door is hanging loose on its hinges, inviting her to
see the entirety of the desolation awaiting her (awaiting Clark).
Lois slips through the revealed gap, heedless of the remnants of
glass, and walks into a scene that looks as if it's been pulled
straight from some end-of-the-world movie. The road has been
chiseled into rocks, into canyons, into an obstacle course
keeping her from finding Clark's family. People are shouting and
crying, their voices intermingled with sirens and alarms to make
a symphony of fear and pain and loss and confusion.

Lois stumbles over debris she doesn't bother to identify as her
eyes dart from one empty space to another, looking for landmarks
that are no longer there. Searching for the green awning of the
vendor Jonathan and Martha had stopped at. Praying for a glimpse
of pink blouse or worn plaid shirt or flashing camera.

She sees the camera first. It is sitting incongruously in the
middle of the street, its cracked lens reflecting back rays of a
sun that should be veiled but isn't, as if heedless of the
momentousness of this moment, this hour, this afternoon. The
camera's strap is empty, placed almost decorously beside a
downed telephone pole, and Lois doesn't know whether to be
relieved it's not laying atop a body or frustrated that it
brings her no closer to finding James. She has no time to decide
because it's then that she spots a swatch of green beneath the
crumbling remains of a storefront.

Lois doesn't stop to think on what she might find there (on how
little there might be left for her to find), just climbs and
stumbles and crawls her way toward it (and if tears are swirling
through the dust she walks through and that cakes her face, if
sobs are shuddering their way through her, she cannot take the
time to realize it). And when she climbs atop a stone (a bit of
the road churned up and spit out to resemble a rock with yellow
lines adorning its surface), she sees James.

He is digging through the rubble. His blonde wig is lost
somewhere, but his dark hair looks gray with the dust that covers
up the sheen of skin and blood (painted over his forehead and
shoulder and leg) alike. His right arm hangs limp and lifeless at
his side, but he digs anyway with his left hand, his watch
incongruously black against smudged skin. He digs methodically.
Desperately.

Alone.

Lois needs to join him. To help him. (To mourn with him). She
means to, but she can't. Her limbs won't cooperate. Her voice
won't work. Her entire body rebels against her to leave her
frozen and motionless for a long, eternal moment.

But they need her. And Clark needs them. And she *needs* to do
something (something besides bring them into danger and have them
wait in the most dangerous place and huddle frozen in a shop
while they are hurt). So she forces herself downward. Forces
gravity to help her move from her perilous perch. Forces herself
to lift up a hand toward James.

Then everything stops.

The sun's rays seem to halt in place.

The clouds cease moving forward.

The symphony goes silent.

Lois's heart stutters to an uneven, slowing beat.

Because there is a rush of wind. There is a blur of red and blue
high up in the sky. There is a thud that rivals the beginning of
that earthquake as Superman hits the ground. There is a rush of
held breath as he looks at the rubble before him (at the young
man fallen utterly, hopelessly still in his digging). There is a
single instant when the world itself stops its revolution to see
what Superman will do.

Except that when he moves, he moves too quickly for anyone to
see, for the world to comprehend. He is gone, a flash, a blur, a
whisper of sound, and the street's new geography shifts and
changes again. Cleared and smoothed and tossed away from the bit
of space where a shredded green awning hangs limp on the ground
like a fallen standard.

Superman, when he comes once more into mortal sight, is on his
knees. He is staring down at two bodies, uncovered by stone,
drenched in blood, their angles unnatural enough to make Lois's
eyes skitter away from them. She looks, instead, back up to
Superman.

But Superman is gone. Vanished. Dead. Transformed, in an instant,
in the blink of an eye, back to the haunted, dying remnants of
Clark Kent. It is Clark who kneels there before his parents,
beneath the eyes of James and Lois (and the onlookers and the
other victims and the cameras sure to come), unveiled. Stripped
naked and exposed once more to everyone.

"Clark," Lois whispers with a half-step forward. But it's too
little too late (and there is no comfort to be found), and when
he turns to look at her, she does not see the devastation she
expected. She does not see heartbreak or anguish or pain.

Instead, all she sees is emptiness.

Bleak, hopeless emptiness.

And she did not realize how much she depended on his last slivers
of hope until they are gone.

James is apologizing, explaining, crying as he says he is sorry,
he should have been with them, he should have gotten to them
sooner, he should have signaled or called immediately. Clark is a
void, numb to all that's been taken from him, sucking in all
James's words and giving nothing in return. And Lois can do
nothing but stumble forward. Can do nothing but hate this world
that can cause so much hurt to a truly good man who doesn't
deserve it at all.

Then, breaking the silent, fractured tableau, Clark bends. So
slowly. So infinitely gently. He curls his arms under his mom's
tiny form and then straightens as if the entire world will
shatter should he not do this exactly, precisely right. And then
he is gone, a swirl of wind to batter at Lois's ankles all that
marks his passing. Lois doesn't even have time to register the
swiftness of his actions before he is back, passing Lois and not
seeming to hear James's apologies.

"Dad," Clark croaks out (and the entire world shudders in
astonishment, to remember that Superman can talk). He bends again
and once more cradles his parent close, the bulky form of his
father turned somehow fragile and child-like in Clark's grip.
Once he's on his feet, he hesitates, then looks at James. "I'm
taking them to Mercy Hospital," he says, his voice so distant,
so inflectionless, that it is as if a stranger is speaking. He
narrows his eyes at James, sweeps a look from his head to his
toes, then does the same to Lois (but he is not seeing *her*, is
seeing only muscles and bones and tendons and organs). "You both
might want to get checked out, too--your arm is broken, James."

He turns, about to burst into invisible movement and action, but
Lois reaches out a hand (that drops before reaching him, because
who is she to offer comfort to him). "Clark," she says, because
the murmurs of the crowd are full of *Supermans* and because he
seems more elusive than ever before (even when she hadn't seen
him in months and knew nothing about where he was).

As if he cannot help himself, he looks at her. Casts her a
silent, screaming look (like a child left abandoned and desolate
and searching for impossible answers). Then he once more shuts
himself down, and he is gone, leaving Lois and James to follow in
a more sedate fashion.

Or maybe just gone, period. Gone so far that no one and nothing
can bring him back, and Lois should have come sooner, should have
promised to help him earlier, should have done more instead of
playing around in gardens, because now it's too late.

Clark is gone, and even Superman cannot save him.

And without them, what is there left for Lois Lane?

***

13

*Tha...thump.*

*Tha-thump.*

*Tha...thump.*

*Tha-thump*.

Two heartbeats. Separate. Distinct. One so very, very slow, the
other too frenetically quick. One heavy and lethargic, the other
racing ahead, bounding toward a place not even Superman can go.

"Stay," Clark wants to say. *Needs* to say. "Stay with me.
Don't go. I need you. Don't leave me all alone. Stay."

But the words do not emerge. They are not even whole, coherent,
legible in his own mind, distilled instead into mere emotions and
gut reactions, to the overwhelming, cloying feel of desperation
so thick it threatens to choke him. It's a plea he needs to
speak, to let out, to put into words so that he can do more than
sit here in a chair that might or might not be uncomfortable, in
a waiting room that might or might not be too public and open,
and try his hardest not to vomit up his invulnerable organs onto
the slick tiled floor that might or might not cause echoes of
voices and whispers and hushed murmurs to swirl about him,
threatening to drown out those two heartbeats.

*Tha-thump.*

*Tha...thump.*

His parents. They're in surgery.Two teams of doctors are
fighting to keep them here. To keep them alive.

Those are more words, more concepts, more thoughts he cannot
bring into clear comprehension because to do so will mean facing
the fact that he might lose them. That they are leaving him
behind. He clings to the heartbeats, closes his eyes to shut out
everything else, *willing* those two quiet beats to continue
pulsing in his ears.

*Tha...thump.*

*Tha-thump.*

But to hear them, to listen to them, he cannot help but tune in
enough to also hear the words everyone else are spilling out over
unsterilized floors (and why, why, *why*, can everyone else
release what he cannot, open their mouths and hear their own
voices and let out the constant, imprisoning clamor chained up
within them?). The staff, the patients, the ambulance workers in
and out with other victims of the earthquake he should have
heard, should have known was coming, should have stopped, should
have been there to divert or alleviate or help before he was
brought to this moment, in this place, listening to those two
contradicting beats...all of these people whisper. Murmur. Speak
and gasp and argue and exclaim in hushed voices they cannot
possibly believe are quiet enough to keep him from actually
hearing.

They're talking about Superman. About the way he strode in
through the door with two broken bodies and begged the doctors to
do anything, everything, *something* to save them.

They're talking about him.

They're talking about him *talking*.

His parents are dying (one heartbeat slowing to a near-stop, the
other blurring forward into oblivion), and all these people
surrounding him can think about, all they *care* about, is the
fact that Superman has broken his long, impenetrable silence.

The doctors in the rooms where those heartbeats emanate are
working as hard as they can, of course (he watches them through
the walls, through solidity peeled away to nothing just as he
will be stripped down to nothing at all should the divergent
pulses in his ears fall silent and still), doing all they can to
save his mom and dad. But he can see the sweat beading on their
brows. Feel the tremors in the air stirred by their barely
trembling hands. Sense their fear and their focus held only
through practiced experience.

And closer, back behind invisible walls, in the room with him, he
can feel the surreptitious gazes, the stares at the brightly
attired (and useless, utterly helpless, completely redundant)
superhero sitting like a statue in the waiting room he doesn't
bother to look at (because what lies beyond it is so much more
important, so much more precious), his cape hanging about him,
lending him a blank, disconsolate, abandoned air.

*Superman*, they whisper. Not *Clark Kent*.

*Superhero*, he thinks. Not *son*.

They know his Secret, but they don't know anything, not really,
and he is still just as hidden, just as masked and anonymous, as
he's always been. They are standing or walking through or
sitting in the same room with him, and they do not see him. They
do not care. They do not understand.

And *why* aren't they *helping?Why *aren't they in the
operating room with the surgeons making sure his parents make it
back to their suite of rooms (or another suite, another city,
another state, another* world*, he does not care, just so long as
they *live*)? Why can they not see that he would not have spoken,
would not have invited their barrages of questions if this
didn't *matter* more than anything else in the universe?

He needs them (his dad with his supportive wisdom and his quiet,
sturdy presence; his mom with her boundless enthusiasm and her
eternal, unquestioning love; his *parents*, the ones he came half
a galaxy to find and love because he *needs* them). He needs them
more than he needs air. More than he needs the sun. More than he
needs the glasses or the cape or a name or his soul. He needs
them because without them he is nothing, and with them he is
someone, and in their arms he is alive, and in their hearts he is
a man worthy of love, and in their eyes he can believe that he
belongs here, even if only for them, for their sakes.

So he needs them to live. The *world* needs them to live, only he
does not think it realizes that yet. Does not think any of the
curious and suspicious and awed observers all agape about him
have yet realized what will happen to their savior and hero if he
loses the very people who are *his* saviors and heroes, who
taught him everything he needs in order to *want* to be a savior
and hero.

Even after they lost his voice, he does not think the world
realizes how little there is left of him overall, and how very
fragile is what remains (does not think they've yet recovered
from their shock enough to recognize what it means that he is*
here* and not *out there*, bringing in more earthquake victims
for them to murmur and whisper with).

*Tha-thump*.

*Tha...thump*.

"Stay." And finally the word emerges from his mouth to enter
the air, rusty and brittle and so quiet only super ears can hear
it. But there. Audible. Legible. Coherent.

"Stay with me. Don't leave me."

But of course, they cannot hear him.

He thinks he is about to slide off the chair (not in flight,
because why fly when there is nothing to keep him in the air?),
about to fall to his knees and press his cape over his face and
let out the tears building up like inescapable pressure strong
and voracious enough to beat and devour even Superman. He thinks
he is about to come spinning to his feet and whirling toward the
whole mass of colorful nurses and doctors and crimson-soaked
patients and victims, thinks he is about to lift up his fists and
shake them at the heavens and scream at them that who *cares*
that he is talking, of *course* he can talk, *why* does it matter
at all when there are people (more than just his parents, and
that should mean something to him, but it cannot penetrate his
desperate daze) hurt and dying and heartbeats are getting slower
and quicker and the sweat is dripping faster off the surgeons'
brows and the machines are beeping so ominously, and how *dare
*any of them waste time looking at him when they should be
*helping*.

He thinks he is about to come undone, about to come apart at the
seams and rip open and spill out all the broken and insignificant
and un-special things inside him right out in the open for
everyone to see.

But then he hears it.

Another heartbeat. Steady and healthy and well. Quick and
agitated and energetic as it's matched by footsteps rushing
toward him. By breathing, ragged and uneven, panting with haste.

And then Lois turns the corner and she is coming toward him.
There is blood scrawled across her hands, her knees, her brow,
darkening patches of her hair. There is a plastic bag hanging as
if forgotten and unattended (like him, in this waiting room,
listening to dwindling heartbeats) from her wrist. There is fear
and concern and worry and guilt and relief mixed and mingled and
crowded like prisoners crushed into a cattle car in her eyes, the
corners of her mouth, the set of her face.

But she is here. She is coming toward him. Her heart is beating,
the blood is singing through her veins, her organs are smooth and
unpunctured, and as bad as this day is, at least there is this.
The image of her. Lois Lane. In the same room, the same city, the
same *world* as him (and not running away). Healthy and alive and
relatively unscathed.

She hesitates before she reaches him. *Common sense*, some
rational, all-but-forgotten part of his brain whispers to him.
After all, if the media were to catch any wind of Superman and
Lois Lane being in the same place, spending time *together*, then
all of James's carefully constructed plans and safeguards and
fail-safes will start to crumble all around them (if they have
not already; if it is not already necessary for them to have to
move from here and try to find echoes of home in yet another
empty set of rooms James will find in some other unknown city).

Ordinarily, Clark would care. He would listen to that whisper of
rationality, and he would shake his head at Lois and let her fade
into the background, because he does not want her to become a
target again, does not want to let Luthor think this is a way for
him to wriggle out of the charges he is being held under, does
not want every reporter to think he is going to start giving out
interviews again.

Ordinarily, he would be strong and smart and safe.

But this is not ordinary, and he has never been as strong as
everyone needs him to be or as smart as he wishes he could be or
as safe as he once thought he was. So he meets Lois's eyes, and
he does not shake his head, does not send her away, does not keep
the pieces of secrecy left to him.

He is not sure what his face shows. He is not even sure if it
shows anything at all other than a terrible blankness mirroring
the blankness inside his soul (*tha-thump, tha...thump* all that
fills him up, all that keeps his own heart beating in empty
mimicry). But whatever she sees in him, Lois lets go of her own
doubts and hesitations, and she moves to sit in the seat beside
him (and if the onlookers are still whispering, Clark cannot hear
them anymore). The bag hanging from her wrist plops gracelessly
to the tiled floor (finally an echo that does not whisper of
Superman's voice, of the words he spilled out in front of them
all).

"James is in with a doctor," Lois says, looking only at him. As
if he still exists. As if he matters. As if he has not come
undone. "I may have made something of a scene to make them look
at him now, but I don't care. He didn't look good. They're
x-raying his arm and skull right now, but aside from a slight
concussion and the broken arm, they think he's going to be
okay."

In a while (moments or days or years, he cannot quite decide,
because time seems so measureless, so meaningless right now), he
will be relieved to hear that. He will worry about the fracture
along the forearm that he saw when he thought to x-ray James
before abandoning him in the rubble of their lives. He will want
to see James, to reassure his friend that there was nothing he
could do (it is not James, after all, who should have been there
to save their parents), to accept his apology and tell him that
there is no need for it but he forgives him anyway.

Eventually. But not now. Now, he cannot process it. Cannot face
it. Cannot tear himself away from those two mirroring heartbeats
long enough to consider his reaction.

He does not want Lois to leave, but he doesn't know what he
feels to have her there. He does not want James to be hurt, but
he cannot spare any strength of will or any fraction of emotions
to be glad that he is not seriously injured. He does not want to
be here, but he dares not leave.

He is frozen. Arrested, motionless, hung on a precipice that will
suck even him down into the dark, fathomless depths of an endless
chasm should he fall. So he cannot move at all. Can only sit
there, empty and weightless and devoid of anything at all lest
the slightest thought or feeling topple him.

"Clark," Lois whispers (a whisper that pierces through the
rest, that does not rub him raw), and she reaches out, so
hesitantly, as gently as he played cotton and seaweed through his
fingers, and lays her hand on his shoulder.

He breaks (the minute weight enough to tip the scales). He bends
and shudders and falls forward, hunched over, his head in his
lap, his eyes squeezed shut against the seemingly hopeless
tableaux hiding behind the walls in front of him. "I should have
been there for them!" he cries out (and now, where before there
were no words, there are too many of them, overbalancing him,
weighting him down, crushing him).

"You were--you *are!*" Lois insists, her hand tightening on his
shoulder blade so that he can keep himself, at the least, off the
floor, as if she holds up his entire body (his entire weak and
wasted form), saving him from splattering against the bottom of
that chasm. "You came so quickly, and you got them straight to
the hospital--"

"No!" he shouts (and the hospital falls as silent as he should
be, their terror like bile in his mouth). He is straight-backed
in the chair now (Lois's hand fallen away, back to her lap, to
clutch her other blood-stained hand), staring straight at her.
And calm. Calm. So calm. He cannot shout or come apart. Cannot
let his own cries drown out the sounds of those all-important
heartbeats. He listens, intently, obsessively, and lets them lull
him back to a deceptive blankness.

"No," he says again, quietly, when he is sure his voice will
not frighten away the twin beats pulsing through his being. "I
should have *known*."

"Clark, you did every--"

"I'm Superman now!" he exclaims, and it would be a roar, a
scream of defiance, if he were not holding himself so resolutely
beneath the tempo of those beats. "I save hundreds of people
every day--I should have been Superman for *them!*"

Lois swallows. Opens her mouth. Shuts it. Swallows again. She
does not look away. Does not let him look away. And then, like
steel (like she is not afraid of him at all), she says, "They
don't *want* Superman. They want Clark--they *love* Clark--and
Clark is--"

"Their son," he says, and the words, spoken out loud, slice
through everything he has managed to reclaim. They leave him weak
and quivering and broken again. "I'm their son, and I didn't
even know they were in danger."

"Really." She gives him a flat stare (and this is the Lois Lane
he remembers, the one that seemed to see straight through him
even as she dismissed him). "Then why did you get there in such
a hurry? How did you find them so quickly? What were you even
doing on that exact street?"

"James, he...he used... And my mom said my name," he manages to
say, only because Lois is looking at him, waiting for an answer,
expecting him to be strong enough and whole enough to give it to
her. He has to look away, has to hold himself aloof from the
memory of his mother's voice, cracked and broken, threading into
his ears like the bell tolling someone's doom (but not his
parents', *please* not his parents', let it be *his* instead).

"But don't you see?" he exclaims before Lois can reply,
leaping to his feet to pace, to walk, to *move*, but there's too
much wild uncontainable energy surging inside him--too much, and
it'll all come boiling out of him. He'll hurt someone if he's
not careful, if he doesn't control himself, doesn't beat
himself back behind the walls he's created for just this sort of
thing. So he takes a deep breath, attunes himself once more to
those fragile, stuttering heartbeats, a duet of life, of love, of
worth.

*Tha-thump*.

*Tha...thump.*

"Don't you see?" he asks again, sinking back down into the
tiny, ill-made chair (his red boot knocks against the poor,
abandoned bag). He wants Lois to understand, wants her to see why
this matters, why he should have been there *before* his parents
were bent and folded in on themselves. (He wants her to put her
hand on his shoulder and hold him together again.) But to do
that, he needs to find words, needs to reach back past months of
silence and find the eloquence he once aspired to through his
writing. It's been so long, and he's so rusty, but desperation
is a powerful motivator.

"When my spaceship came down," he says, quietly, in a monotone
(because anything else will send him crashing into that endless
chasm), "Mom and Dad were driving down an old country road. All
they *saw* was a falling star, a dropped meteor. They could have
just kept driving, could have looked back on it as nothing more
than an interesting anecdote. But they didn't. They stopped, and
they looked for me, and when they found a defenseless baby in a
UFO, they kept me. They...knew...somehow. Knew enough to go
looking. Loved me enough to take me in and never seem to regret
it even when it became obvious I'm not normal. They *knew *I
needed them...and *I* should have known when they needed me. I
should have...I should have *known*."

*Tha...thump.*

*Tha-thump.*

He turns his face, just enough to see Lois, just enough to look
into eyes he once dreamed of looking into every day of his life.
There's something in his own eyes. Something wet and blurry and
stinging. He's falling apart. He can feel it, all his carefully
held walls quaking and tumbling and falling to crash and shatter
at her feet. He's breaking, and he knows he's looking to Lois
to keep him together (though he doesn't know why she should be
the one he turns to; after all, his dreams of a future with her
were a long time ago and they will never come to fruition and she
should not have to help a fractured Superman, a ghost of a man, a
shadow of an alien). He knows he's looking to her to save him
from falling, to keep him from being knocked to pieces by the
uncertain hammering of those heartbeats.

"Everyone I save, Lois, everyone who's been rescued by
Superman, and yet when it mattered the most, I didn't... Don't
*they* deserve it most of all? How could I not save *them*?"

Her eyes are soft and luminous (and they will fill his future
dreams as well as his past ones, he is suddenly sure), and they
do not turn away from him. She doesn't say anything. Doesn't
try to answer him, or rationalize what happened, or tell him life
doesn't work that way. She doesn't get up and pull him to his
feet and force him to stop feeling sorry for himself and start
being Superman again.

Instead, she does what he needs most (what, he only realizes in
that moment, is exactly what he wanted her to do, was begging her
to do). She stands, and she reaches out her arms and slides them
around his shoulders, presses them loose and firm around his
neck, and she pulls him up into her.

And then he does fall. He does lose his balance. He does break
and shatter and fall apart. But she catches him. She steadies
him. She picks up his pieces and cradles them in cupped hands
until he can put them all back together again.

She hugs him, and she does not let go, and Clark feels her shirt
grow damp against his cheeks.

Lois Lane. The reporter who exposed him. The reporter who ensured
his anonymity in public for the rest of his life.

The woman he needs.

The woman he loves (and it's stupid and impossible and so
utterly foolish, but he cannot lie to himself any longer, cannot
pretend that he has gotten over her, or that it is possible to
*ever* move on from her).

Her heartbeat thumps against his breastbone, her head fits on his
shoulder, beneath the curve of his chin, her skin soaks in the
tears he sheds (the first he's allowed himself in over a
decade), and Clark doesn't ever want to move. He doesn't want
to leave this unexpected, precious refuge. (He doesn't want to
break the moment or move on only to listen to another sacred
heartbeat fade and vanish as he stands so helplessly.)

"Clark," Lois murmurs in his ear. Only one word. Only one name.
But it is more than all the whispers and all the murmurs put
together. He stands as Superman, red and blue and yellow, and his
cape hangs about them both, but she calls him Clark (and finally,
here, with her, the right part of him is anonymous and silent).

He wants to tell her how much this means. He wishes he had the
words to express how much he needs this (needs *her*). But
instead he is silent. Again. Always. Never able to speak lest he
say too much (declarations of love and wishes for a different
future and questions as to why she ever wrote a story she had to
know would destroy him). Never opening his mouth lest everyone
realize just how little, how useless, how paltry any of his words
(his answers for the choices he's made, his excuses for why he
thought being Clark Kent more important than the lives he could
have been saving all these years, his mute reply for all the
accusations sure to be leveled at an alien pretending to be a
man) could ever be.

Silence.

It's fitting. It's just. It's so much better for him to be
silent than for the heartbeats crowding out the fears clamoring
in his head to go silent.

*Tha-thump*. (His mother, her heartbeat slowing, stabilizing, a
breath of relief in the surgeon's snapped commands.)

*Tha...thump*. (His father, still so slow, dragging, his surgeon
still hard at work, still sweating, still glancing toward the
door where he last saw Superman.)

*Thump. Thump. Thump.* (James, across the building, drowsy,
enforced steadiness through drugs as they put his arm in a
cast.)

*Thump-thump-thump.* (Lois, in his arms, quiet, quiescent, as if
content to be here, to be with him.)

And his own, but he cannot hear that, not over the sound of the
others. Not over the sound of his mother's surgeon telling him
she will need to stay in intensive care for a few days but the
surgery fixed the bleeding before it got too far and she should
be okay, things look hopeful. Not over the sound of his father's
surgeon asking for another tool, and another, and another, as the
clock ticks on and Lois finally guides Clark back to a chair and
sits beside him and comforts him with the thrum of her heart and
James eventually comes in to sit at his side, his face so very
pale, his voice a constant murmur into the cell-phone at his ear
as he tries to save their place here and arrange another for them
and hold off the media and make this waiting room private and set
up a perimeter of protective police officers outside the
hospital.

Endless sounds. Noises that make it okay for him to keep
breathing. That keep him from being completely useless (so long
as that last, slow heartbeat does not fade).

Hours pass. More hours. Outside the hospital, the city tries to
come to terms with its new, crumbling appearance and families
find one another and emergency workers continue to do all they
can beneath silver and emerald light. Inside, Clark tries not to
lose hope. Tries to focus on his mother's sleeping pulse, and
James and Lois shoring him up on either side, and the fact that
his father is still here.

By the time the surgeon finally comes out of the operating room,
Clark is sure that an entire eternity has passed. By the time the
surgeon finishes speaking, Clark wishes he could have that
eternity back.

***

14

It's a disaster. No. It's worse than a disaster.

*Disaster* is enough to cover the 8.2 earthquake that has
reshaped Coast City's geography (and filled the news to such an
extent that he can never escape it, and the line creased between
his dark eyes is etched so deeply it looks like a wound). It's
enough to encapsulate the casualties of thousands and the couple
hundred fatalities so far confirmed (and confirmed again in the
slope of his shoulders, the stooped way he walks, the way he
cannot meet anyone's eyes). It's enough to describe the slow
clean-up, the enormous effort required to make a dent on the
damage, the bits where that shows, so tiny they make the rest of
the damage look even vaster (make him look tired and small,
*diminished* in some way).

But that is all *disaster* covers.

This is worse.

This is *catastrophe* (and even that word feel like it struggles
to aspire to the heights, the depths, of what's happened).

The blankness in his eyes. The listlessness in the way he moves.
The loss of that last bit of hope there in silvered brown. The
quenching of that ember that ever before has shone, undimmed,
within him, as much or more than a symbol as the crest on his
Suit.

His mother is in intensive care, slow to recover, worried about
Jonathan and Clark and James, fragile and frail so that the
doctors spend their time telling Superman and James all the
things that might go wrong. His father hangs onto life by a
slender thread, helped along by machines and surgeons, and even
should he wake up, there will be a long, slow recovery ahead of
them (and no more afternoons in the garden with Jonathan kneeling
in the dirt himself; no more long walks through straight lines of
crops).

And Clark himself seems to be in stasis, in hibernation,
retreated into himself as if he's endured too much and now would
rather simply *stop* than endure anymore.

The elevator dings, and James steps into the apartment. He looks
harried, exhausted; he has not stopped, not ceased talking into
the phone and taking multiple trips to who-knows-where since
emerging from his hospital room with a cast on his arm. Lois
would worry about him, would think about telling him (even this
new, more self-sufficient James) to take it easy, except that she
knows it is only due to his constant efforts that Clark hasn't
lost this home too, that his parents have round-the-clock
protection, that Lois's very visible presence in the hospital
hasn't caused another disaster (or worse, another
*catastrophe*).

She jumps to her feet and stops herself from rushing to James's
side only because he looks as if a strong draft will blow him
over and she does not want to be the one to cause it. "Well?"
she demands (and if it weren't for the catastrophe raining
bloody shards off her heart, she'd rejoice to hear the fire in
her voice, feel the purposeful, enlivening adrenaline flooding
through her being, her momentum and drive restored, if in an
altered way).

"It's as safe as it ever is," he replies, and leans against
the back of the couch with his good arm. "It's been a week
since the quake today, and the news outlets all still assume we
were in Coast City for a day trip. I made sure they
'discovered' the wigs we were wearing, and it was obvious we'd
been shopping. Plus," he adds almost off-handedly, "hardly
anybody consistently remembers or realizes that *Superman* lives
like an ordinary person. More than half the time, that's all
that keeps us from being tracked down."

"So he can stay?" Lois checks, so that she cannot be
disappointed by a misconception.

"We can stay," James affirms. But he doesn't look relieved.

Lois frowns at him. "Isn't that a good thing?"

His sigh is heavy, gusty, so big it seems incongruous coming from
his slender, exhausted frame. "It should be. None of us like
moving after we've come to rest for a while--and we've been
*here* longer than most anywhere. But..."

There's a terribly sad note in his voice, so resigned (so
terrified), that Lois has to force herself to speak (has to hold
onto her newfound drive with both hands). "But?"

"But." His eyes lock onto hers with uncomfortable intensity.
"But if Mr. K doesn't make it...will any of us *want* to stay
here?"

There's a fist around her heart, and her dazed eyes can only see
those cool, green rows of vegetables stretched out before her,
like damp, earthy lines of pain. Like scars. Like open wounds,
and the remembered smell of dirt and watered greens, the sound of
Jonathan's gravelly voice threading around her, is only salt on
those open wounds.

"But..." She has to swallow twice, has to clench her hands into
fists, has to cant her chin upward and fiercely blink away
debilitating tears. "But he'll make it. The doctors said we
only had to wait."

"They said that a week ago. Now they're saying...they're
saying... He hasn't woken up yet, Lois." And suddenly, as if a
switch has been thrown (or a curtain pulled back to reveal the
real man behind the flashier stage persona), Lois looks at the
young man in front of her and sees the boy she knew. Hears the
tremulous, pleading note sucking his voice down so that he sounds
as if he's far away.

Lois's entire body twitches, as if to move toward him (as if to
pull him into an encompassing hug; as if to stroke his hair and
reassure him; as if her touch could heal instead of destroy).
"Jimmy," she whispers.

The wrong name. (Another disaster to pile on top of the others,
stair-steps of tragedy leading to something even worse than
*catastrophe*.)

The switch is thrown again (the curtain descends and the
stage-lights once more shine blindingly bright), and Jimmy
vanishes in front of her eyes, subsumed beneath James. He
straightens, stands upright, shoulders back, jaw clenched.

"I've got a meeting to get to," he says. Calmly. Not quite
coolly (a stage actor falling back into his character so that he
can forget who he is, alone, at night). "I won't be back until
the day after tomorrow. If you see Clark, tell him I'll talk to
the lawyers in Metropolis and he doesn't need to worry about
it."

He turns, ducks into his room and reemerges with an overnight bag
hanging from his good shoulder, heads to the elevator, is almost
there--

"James!" Lois calls, and she can move fast again, can seize a
moment and do something with it (can think of the future instead
of sink once more into the mire of the past). So she strides
forward and sets a gentle hand onto his arm. It's tense beneath
the fabric of his suit coat; the edges of his watch are cold
where they peek out along her fingertips. She meets his eyes,
searches in them for the last visible dregs of that scared boy
hiding inside. "He'll be okay, James," she tells him, careful
to use the right name (careful to let none of her own doubt and
fear leak into the open). "He's held on a whole week; he's
strong. And he has so much to live for. So many people who love
him. Who need him. You know Jonathan--he'll never leave if there
are people depending on him."

James's only reaction is to give a small nod. But in those dark
eyes (reminiscent of Clark's own, but so different, so
*individual*, and filled with more determination than Clark's
are anymore), she sees hints of a young boy reassured, able to
take in a deep breath for the first time in ages.

"Thank you, Lois," he says, his voice hoarse, the words
scratchy. And then he practically dives into the waiting
elevator, hiding the rest of his reaction behind thick doors and
growing distance. Not that Lois minds; she's already turned
herself, to conceal the doubt she refuses to acknowledge. The
fear that never goes away. The trepidation over a future that,
even compared to the bleakest moment of these past months, seems
so much bleaker and sadder and lonelier and *worse* than ever
before.

She's alone in the apartment (hiding so as not to draw any more
attention to herself and this small family; hiding her bright
colors and cape of important pasts so that a mild-mannered,
anonymous life can continue). The quiet creeps in behind the
final, distant clunks and hum of the descending elevator.
Silence. Quiet enough to hear the voiceless accusations. Quiet
enough to feel her newfound purpose and fire dwindling, drained
out of holes punctured all through her (one for every bad
decision she's made).

It might make it worse, might give the accusations a voice to
echo through this fractured hideaway (but she thinks it will
help, instead; thinks hearing the accusations rather than only
inferring them will make her put on her armor and pick up her
weapons and *fight*). Regardless, she cannot bear the silence,
not anymore. Not ever. So she picks up the remote (heavy with
*inferred* meaning) and turns on the TV.

To beat back the silence.

To fill up the lonely hours.

To count the disasters.

To find out where Superman is (and look for a word worse than
*catastrophe*).

He's not on the news. Or rather, he *should* be, but the media
vultures don't care what he is out there doing or who he is
saving *now*, or how amazing it is that after everything (after
all the disasters, after the catastrophe, after the *calamity*,
and that word is almost good enough but still not *quite* there),
he is still out there doing good. No. Instead, they only care
about the past. About what happened a week ago. They only care
about his failure (and it's *not* a failure, she knows that, she
*burns* with that knowledge, but Clark is cold, ice, untouched by
those warming, healing flames).

In between never-ending footage of the earthquake's wide-spread
damage and interviews with experts assigning blame and predicting
effects, there are endlessly repeating bits of footage. Grainy
images of Superman's cape descending to the hospital's roof.
Blurry video of red and blue disappearing around a hospital
corridor behind a barricade of police navy blue. Frantic pictures
of doctors and nurses holding hands up between their faces and
the cameras, ignoring the hailstorm of questions directed their
way. Aerial footage of the police and National Guard surrounding
the hospital. Interviews of witnesses, passersby, former patients
who answer repetitive questions about that day when Superman
burst through their doors (bleeding bodies cradled in his arms,
terror in his eyes, guilt slathered all over him) and *spoke*.

He spoke.

He speaks.

Superman can talk.

"Of course he speaks!" Lois shrieks, and she throws the remote.
Hurls it at the TV and feels disappointment when it only bounces
back and falls with a muffled thud to the lush carpet. "Of
course he speaks," she says again, but this time it is only a
whisper (touched with guilt of her own, because not that long
ago, *she* was the one frozen and held immobile in shock every
time he spoke).

"He speaks. And he hurts. And he eats and sleeps and *lives*."

Or he used to. She doesn't know that he allows himself anything
he sees as mere luxuries anymore. Anything that will distract
himself from the image of his parents in their hospital beds and
the constant reminder of all he did not do and thinks he should
have done.

Lois wants to tell him he can't do everything, no one expects
him to be everywhere, he was saving other people, his parents
aren't dead yet, he doesn't have to punish himself, he should
rest, give himself a break, she will even try to make something
for him in the kitchen, she is so desperate...

She wants to tell him...anything. Everything. Nothing. She just
wants to look at him and pull him into another hug and feel him
tremble as his silent, cleansing tears warm her neck. She wants
to ease his depression and remind him how much he has to live for
and let him know he is worth so much more than he thinks. She
wants a lot, but every wish she has includes Clark...and she does
not know where he is. She hasn't seen him except in quick
glimpses, almost as blurry as those in the news, since that day
at the hospital when he held her as if she were all that was
keeping him afloat (as if she mattered to him; as if she hadn't
ruined absolutely *everything*; as if he *wanted* her there, in
that moment, with him).

He's gone. Not just physically, she's afraid (so afraid that
her sleeping patterns have degenerated again to the point where
she's taken that black and white bear from the closet and sleeps
with him locked in rigidly tight arms), but in every other way.
In the ways that matter the most.

Rather than stand there and mourn for a man she's still doing
her utmost to save (to resurrect, to hold to this life, to keep
him here by way of the emotional ties he's created and sustained
and strengthened), Lois bends and swoops up the remote. She
flicks the television off and sets the remote aside before she
can throw it again in another futile attempt to make reality echo
the cracking, grinding sound her heart's been making for days
now (or maybe for weeks, for months, for thousands of minutes
that all lead back, not to a revelation in Smallville, but to
that tiny, terrible moment in Metropolis, in the Daily Planet
newsroom, when a fading man whispered her name before sinking
beneath obscurity).

She throws herself onto the couch, backs into the corner, and
huddles there. The lights are all on, in the kitchen, the dining
area, the living room, all glaringly bright (to mask the
silence). It's still daylight outside, too, and the now familiar
amber-tinted sun rays beam in through the windows (as if to
spotlight her and keep her from slinking away in shame and
defeat). It still smells of Martha's paints and searing metal,
of Jonathan's earthy fresh smells, of James's cologne, of that
extra, undefinable *something* (like starlight or sky or winds of
far-distant places) that Clark adds to the mix (and maybe just a
bit of her own familiar shampoo, transplanted here and putting
out tentative roots). Everything is the same. There shouldn't be
anything to break the spell Lois tries to weave around herself.
Nothing to remind her that this *isn't* ordinary, that Jonathan
and Martha *aren't* just each out of sight, out of the room,
pursuing their own special interests. There shouldn't be
anything but a tiny moment of comfort in the flawed bit that
remains of her haven.

But no matter how much Lois squeezes her eyes shut and *tries* to
pretend, she cannot fool herself (and how ironic is that, that
she cannot now deny reality or lie to herself when she's been
doing it for months now, to everyone's detriment--or maybe it
isn't irony; maybe it's growth, progression, but if so, she
can't appreciate it). The apartment is empty. She is alone. And
all the good she's managed to reclaim is slipping away once
more.

Defeated, Lois lets her eyes slide open, lets her head sink back
against the couch cushion. She sits, balled up, taking as little
space as possible, in the one place where she found healing (as
little as she deserves it), and forgiveness, and love that made
her better even though it does not, cannot, fully include her.
She huddles there in the midst of deadening silence, and wonders
if maybe nothing ever will be better. Maybe she never will be
able to alleviate all the damage she caused (and maybe *crime* is
a better, more fitting word than *catastrophe* or *calamity*).
Maybe she can't help Clark at all.

And there, in the midst of these utterly terrifying wonderings,
another tiny shaft of light joins the others. A small sliver of
hope and brightness seeping from under the door to Clark's room
to join the symphony of light she already sits in. She shouldn't
be able to notice it, but it's accompanied by a hum to break the
silence, a tug to awaken and hold together her heart, a flare to
warm her veins and unravel the knot she's tied herself into.

It's his light.

He's here.

After a week of absence or blurred appearances and
disappearances, he is here. A room away. A single door standing
between them. She comes to her feet instantly (he may only be
here long enough to grab a new cape). She pauses there (he may
not want her to knock at his door, to barge into his life any
more than she already has). She moves to the door anyway (he
needs her, needs *someone*, even if the only one around is the
woman who stabbed him in the back). And though her mind is
screaming at her that she promised she wouldn't threaten this
last refuge of his, that she would leave this last bit of privacy
to him, her heart makes her hand lift up and give a firm set of
knocks to his door.

He's so alone.

He's so afraid.

He's so good and deserves so much more.

For all these reasons, Lois knocks. For all these reasons, and
for one more. One made up of many, many reasons all condensed
into something simple and elemental and invaluable.

He's Clark.

He's Clark and Clark was always there for her (even when she
pushed him away). Clark has never let her down or abandoned her
or blamed her (even when he had more reason than anyone else ever
has).

He's Clark and she cannot fail him again. She cannot walk away.
She cannot live without him again, but he's slipping ever
further away and she has to do *everything* she can to hold onto
him (because she didn't the last time, and it was the biggest
mistake, disaster, crime, catastrophe, calamity that's ever
been).

He's Clark. And so she knocks because she's Lois and she cannot
turn away (and that tiny, almost negligible light bathes her toes
in fragile possibilities).

After a pause that lasts no more than a handful of heartbeats
(after an eternity that makes the air solidify in her lungs), he
opens the door.

He's dressed as Superman, but it is Clark looking at her with
something...something almost like hope, like joy, like relief,
like gratefulness shining there. He's looking at her, but there
is something else he's still seeing, some memory or thought.
He's a foot away from her, but he feels closer than ever before,
as if there is no distance (no crime, no blame, no guilt, no
life-changing mistake) between them.

And before she can even open her mouth, Clark says, "He woke up.
It was only for a minute, but Dad woke up. He talked to me."

"Oh, Clark!" she exclaims, and without giving herself time to
think better of it, without thinking of anything but the relief
and awe and hope filling her up and birthing tears to sting in
her eyes (and the memory of that awful, wonderful, unbelievable
hug in the hospital), Lois flings herself forward, wrapping him
in her arms.

For an instant, she thinks she made a mistake (ruined this moment
where *Clark *is back), as he goes stiff and straight and silent.
But then, like that shaft of light spilling out, he bends and
enfolds her in his embrace, and he lets his head rest against
hers.

(And she *knows* she made a mistake, because these hugs of his
are far *too* much, awakening feelings and stirring wishes better
left unawakened and unstirred.)

"I'm so happy for you," she whispers (every bit as much an
understatement as *disaster*).

"Mom's already doing better," he whispers against her hair,
his breath a dance of sensation against her cheek and the side of
her neck. "As soon as she heard, it's like she started
*willing* herself better."

Lois laughs, tightens her grip on him and wants to laugh again
(and gasp and sigh and freeze in wonderment) when he does the
same. "I wouldn't put it past her."

"She's as strong as someone else I know," Clark says ruefully.
He pulls back, then, just enough to look at her, to meet her
eyes. There is life in his again. Life and hope and everything
she thought was gone forever. "Thank you, Lois. For not giving
up on them. For not letting me give up either."

"I didn't really do anything." It's only as she says it that
she realizes how true the words are--and how much she wishes they
were not.

Of course she wants Clark to be back, whole (or as whole as he
ever is these days) and happy (or at least content, which is
*not* as good as happy, no matter what he says, but is still a
fair sight better than the bleakness of this past week).
But...but *she* wanted to be the one to put that edge of hope
back in his eyes. To relieve, even if ever so slightly, the
burdens that stoop his shoulders. To help him and give back to
him and save him as he has saved her in the past. She wanted to
atone, and instead...instead, he is strong all on his own. He is
enough to shake off the catastrophes and calamities and disasters
following in his wake, enough to find hope in the darkest of
days, enough to survive and thrive--all on his own.

He doesn't need her. He's never needed her, of course, but she
had begun to hope that she could fulfill a need in his life (be
something other than the colleague who betrayed him and ruined
his life). She had begun to hope...

Well. It doesn't matter. He is well and he is happy and that is
all that matters. She is only being selfish to wish that she
could have been his hero. She is only being presumptuous to think
that she could ever be anything more than the worst thing that
ever happened to him. She is only being foolish to ever imagine a
future in which things are different (in which he smiles a smile
only for her and hugs her often and says her name without a trace
of blame or fear or wariness).

"Lois," he says, and there is a smile on his lips. He hasn't
smiled since before the earth itself rose up against her, since
before rocks were riven and roads were demolished and the
foundations of her life were toppled. But he smiles now, a soft,
slow smile that is, perhaps, less than the smiles he gave once
upon a time, but beautiful all the same. "You held me together
when I thought that nothing could. That's not nothing."

Her own smile is not as sincere. Not as beautiful. Not as easy to
find or reclaim. "You would have been all right. You're the
strongest person I know, Clark."

His shrug is almost embarrassed. He does not quite meet her eyes.
"Maybe. But sometimes I don't want to have to be strong. And
I'm glad you were there to be strong for me."

She has no words to say to that. All the words she looks for seem
too minor, too *little* to encapsulate their full meaning. All
the things she wants to tell him flit just ahead of her, never
slow or still enough for her to grab hold of. And so she has
nothing, no words to give him, no way to voice everything filling
her up with life and purpose and meaning (filling her up with
everything that bled from her when he walked out of that
newsroom). All she can do is hug him again and hide her face in
his chest so that he cannot see what she is thinking.

All she can do is hope (even though she is a fool to do so).

But with his arms around her, with his scent surrounding her,
with his words still ringing in her ears (undiluted by any of her
own meager replies), it is all too easy to hope and dream of
things that can never be.

***

15

She wants to see Jonathan and Martha. They've been in the
hospital for eight days now, and Lois hasn't seen them yet. In
her mind's eye, they go straight from laughingly pushing her
toward that boutique to bloody and broken in that ravine Clark
uncovered uncomprehendingly quickly. In her mind's eye (in her
fractured dreams), they are dying and pale on black stone ran
through with yellow lines and splotched with scarlet blood, a
ripped green awning serving as their shroud. In her mind's eye,
there is no rescue, no hospital, and no smiling, hugging Clark.

Martha is out of intensive care, worrying others more simply
because she will not stay still, will not stop trying to get up
to go see Jonathan, rather than because she is not recovering.
Jonathan is still in intensive care, still watched carefully by
hovering doctors, but he has not slipped back into a coma, and
they tell her that he wakes up for small periods at a time, to
blink at them even though he cannot yet speak. Lois thinks she
would give almost anything to be able to replace her emerald and
scarlet memories with these new white and gray images (anything
to soak in more of Martha's acceptance and Jonathan's kindness;
anything to know and *see *that not all hope is gone).

But she cannot.

"I've managed to spin their presence here as a one-day family
outing, a novelty," James told her bluntly over the phone, "and
I've led people to believe you were only sighted here because
you were just leaving from a visit with your sister. But if you
keep showing up--not just *here*, but invited into the Kents'
rooms, obviously connected to *Superman's* family--there won't
*be* any way to spin this. We've only just managed to get things
under control, Lois--don't mess it up."

And James wins the argument as simply as that, because she will
not steal their lives from them again, will not come back into
Clark's life only to once more publicize his secrets (as if she
has no other skill in life, no other reason for being). So Lois
ignores her own urgent desire and her restless energy, and she
stays behind. Alone. Locked in a haven made into a prison filled
with the echoes of her first meeting with James, his warnings and
fears about what she might do to Clark and his family. His
threats (and maybe she did not take him seriously then, but she
has come to know James since, his ferocious resolve, his scary
intensity, his all-consuming love for the Kents, and she will not
ignore his very serious threats now) if she *does* bring ruin to
them.

But more than the threats, she cannot ignore or forget the
forgiveness offered her by Martha and Jonathan, the care and the
second chance. Cannot forget the loss in Clark's eyes, the
desperation in his embraces, the gratefulness in his eyes for her
simply being there.

No. If any danger is to come to this small, struggling family, it
will not be because of her.

But still. She wants to see them. Wants to escape this prison of
silence and light and emptiness. Wants to do something,
*anything*, other than flip channels between news of the
earthquake (though at least they've finally moved on from
Superman's aberrant behavior) and news of the astonishing and
unexpected, all-but-overnight fall of Lex Luthor and his empire.

It had shocked her, the first time she'd heard his name. Not
because she knew him and dated him and had once looked for a
story (that had apparently been bigger than she even guessed at),
but because she had not expected to hear the name of her city or
the name of someone the old her had known. It surprised her and
took her aback because that seemed another lifetime, a world lost
to her forever, and the sound of their names, the image of the
familiar streets and the ubiquitous LexCorp symbol and the severe
features of Lex are like wispy remnants of a dream she tries in
vain to remember once waking.

So she watches the news of evidence brought to light and
witnesses agreeing to testify and an anonymous source working
with the Metropolis police and Henderson calmly fielding press
conference questions as his men move constantly in and out of
LexTower behind him, and she wonders what she would have thought
of all this before her article (before her Pulitzer Prize, and
her accolades, and her place in history, and her nightmares).

Not that it matters. Metropolis is far away. Perry has reporters
so much better suited than her to cover this particular story and
make sure the Daily Planet isn't left behind in the dust. She
has her own problems, here, to handle. She has a new life to
figure out how to live (and she wonders if it is like blasphemy
to compare her own journey to this new world with that of tiny
baby Clark's journey from Krypton to Earth).

Besides, she can only watch so much TV. Can only bottle up her
frustration and anger with their angles and stories for so long
before she feels herself begin to fray at the edges. If this
hiding had been necessary even just a month ago, she thinks she
would have been able to stay locked away in here without losing
her sanity. But it is not a month ago, and she is not quite the
listless, defeated wraith she was on her arrival. Fire runs
through her veins, titanium ribbons bind her bones, and she
*needs* to do something (preferably to help Clark, but after a
week of this forced inactivity, she will take anything).

It's past noon, she is wearing a path in the carpet along the
counter, and the keypad to open the elevator's solid doors seems
to be taunting her. She has been staring at it for three hours
now, but she is still as far away from it as ever.

It shouldn't be this hard to push in the code Jonathan showed
her and then step inside the elevator, but then, it shouldn't be
possible for her to be in Clark's home by invitation either, so
clearly the world is full of impossibilities.

"Come on," she whispers to herself. If Clark can come back from
the abyss all on his own, then surely she should be able to enter
the elevator by herself (without Jonathan's calming, permissive
presence, or his reassuring smile, or his steady direction).

In the end, it is only the memory of Perry's gruff praise, the
twinkle in his eye as he winked at her, the way he'd sent her
knowing it was exactly what she needed (the memory of him sitting
locked alone in his office, as wounded and beaten and immobile as
she), that makes her take the handful of steps to the elevator
and press in the five-digit code. The ding of the doors opening
sounds as accomplished as a victory song played by a full
marching band.

She doesn't like stepping in alone. She especially doesn't like
the way the car seems to close in on her, able to press in so
much more closely without Jonathan's sturdy frame keeping her
from being squashed, squeezed dry and left as a withered husk.
But the elevator ride is as nothing compared to her first sight
of those long, seemingly endless rows of green spreading out
before her (conjuring up memories that are so bittersweet they
hurt). Not quite so green, on a closer look. Not quite as lush as
they should be, and dry beneath her fingers. Not quite as
encouraging or as easy without Jonathan's wisdom and knowledge
bearing her up.

It is too big. Too much. How could she possibly think that *she*
could take care of this small farm all by herself?

"You're Lois Lane," she whispers to herself, but where once
that might have spurred her into impulsive action, now it only
reminds her of how easy it is to make a terrible mistake and how
much damage can be caused by one rash decision.

"There's no one else," she finally says, and those ribbons of
strength tighten around her and enable her to take her first
step.

She spent three weeks under Jonathan's patient tutelage, and
though she is still not a gardener or a farmer by any means, at
least she can water the plants. She can give them moisture and
care, and she can spot the weeds Jonathan warned her about, can
pull them out and dispose of them where their seeds will not fall
into more of the planters. She can take as much time as the
plants will need (there is nothing else to do, nowhere else for
her to be), and give them whatever she has in her to give (not
nearly as much as once there was, but so much more than she had
before coming here and learning to move on). She is no
replacement for Jonathan, but she can be his stand-in (and tired
or sweaty as she gets, she knows this is so much more rewarding
than that article she wrote and for which she is so venerated).

She can do this. And so she does.

Her knees ache, her hands are grimy and muddy, knuckle-deep in
dirt, her hair is sticking to the back of her neck, and she is
quietly humming to herself when Superman descends from the sky
and Clark Kent alights in front of her. Half-uprooted weeds drop
from her nerveless hands. She sits back, eyes intent on him
(locked to him with no key to free her and no will to find it).
But he is not looking at her at all. In fact, she almost wonders
if he even remembers or knows that she is there.

His gaze moves from one planter to another. Flicks to the stains
darkening the pathway where Lois spilt out water before figuring
out the sprinklers. Rests briefly on the growing (but now,
looking at it through his eyes, seemingly measly) pile of dying
weeds. Moves again through the maze of growing things. His hands
fondle the heads of the plants closest to him, straining up to
receive his all but reverential touch.

He does not look at her, but Lois cannot look at anything *but*
him. Clark Kent. Glasses, flannel shirt, jeans, tousled hair, and
wide-eyed, awed expression. It feels like a vicious kick to her
stomach. It feels like a hand has just astonishingly let go of
its fatal grasp on her throat and let her take a huge,
life-giving gasp of air. It feels like a dagger in her heart and
an infusion to her soul. It is a reminder of all she's done
wrong and a sense of homecoming so overwhelming she feels
lightheaded, dizzy, his image wavering between the sparks in her
vision.

(And she cannot help but wonder, tentatively, if this--this view,
this image, this realization of just how much *Clark* means to
her--is what she missed on their trip to Smallville; if this is
what she blindly overlooked in favor of becoming Trask's captive
in pursuit of a story she should never have gotten.)

He begins to move toward her (she wants to rise to her feet). His
eyes finally fall, and rest, upon her (she cannot move). He
smiles, slowly, shyly, wonderingly (her heart moves for her in a
startling, dizzying leap toward her throat).

"Lois," he whispers, and his eyes are so wide she feels as if
he will draw all of her in (and she will not struggle).

He is not angry. He is not offended. He is not hurt, or
disbelieving, or suspicious, or any of the other things she
thought he might be (the envisioning of which made her pace and
glare uselessly at the elevator for so very long). He seems,
instead, to be...awed (and that is almost worse).

"I'm sorry," she blurts out (because it is not right for him
to think her better than she is). "I just...I didn't--"

"Dad will be so happy," Clark interrupts her, as if he did not
hear her apology. There is a sheen in his eyes, a shaft of
sunlight sparkling there (a tiny measure of tears hidden there
beneath its brilliant camouflage). "He hates when he loses
crops."

She looks around helplessly. It suddenly seems as if she hasn't
done nearly enough. "I don't know how to do much," she says.
And then she looks back into Clark's shining eyes, and feels,
inexplicably, a swell of confidence fill her to overflowing. So
she smiles at him, reassuringly, and finishes, "But it's better
than nothing. I've made sure only to do what he showed me. I
think there are a few more different types of weeds, but I
didn't want to pull them up without knowing for sure."

Clark's smile grows. When he kneels next to her, warm and solid
and so close, Lois thinks she will be the first person to
actually spontaneously combust. "Here," he says, still so
softly, as if he does not want to break this spell, does not want
to let the world know where they are (and he shouldn't be here,
out in the open where he can be so easily spotted and their
sanctuary so carelessly destroyed, but Lois doesn't care,
because he *should*be able to stand out here in the sunlight).

Lois's breaths come shallow and quick as he shows her which
plants are weeds and which are food, which can be uprooted and
which should be cared for. He is gentle, strong, confident,
humble (power filling him to overflowing, but held back in a dark
well he taps only sparingly and only at need), so at home in this
task that Clark Kent can do so much better than Superman. It is
hard to focus on the lessons he is teaching her when he is so
near, but this is important for her to learn (and she is willing
to do anything to keep that small smile lightening his features),
so she focuses her newfound resolve on the task.

Gradually, eventually, she realizes he has stopped talking; his
hands have fallen to sift through the weeds they've pulled
(together, partners again, even if only in a small way). The
silence is rich and golden, full and lush, but Lois is afraid it
will let cries for help (for *Superman* rather than *Clark*)
filter through to shatter the moment. So she summons up a smile
(as soft as his, and just as awed) and says, "Thank you.
I'll...I'll know what to do now."

"Lois." The odd, shifting note in his voice makes her look up
and meet his intent gaze. His hand is warm, almost too hot except
that it sends a cooling shiver through her, as he reaches out and
places it over her dirt-stained fingers. "Thank you for this.
I'm...I'm glad you're here."

Words abandon her. Thought flees. Coherence vanishes. All she can
do is stare at him, feel the potent quality of his touch, *hope
*this moment never ends (hope he doesn't let her go and send her
crashing back down to the ground he's lifted her from so far
below).

But then, as always, Superman is needed.

His head cocks, his attention shifts, and a wall slides down
behind his eyes. Or maybe it is not a wall; maybe it is armor, a
mask designed to shield him from the expectations of the world (a
prison designed to keep all the wants and wishes and needs of
Clark locked away inside). Regardless, it slides between them,
destroying the moment, the rapport, the connection (the
earnestness, the awe, the openness). It takes the impossibility
of almost-partners, almost-friends, and restores them to the
reality of superhero and reporter, victim and criminal (god and
mortal).

But.

He pauses. Hesitates in a way he hasn't since this new age of
the world. Looks at her as if wanting to explain.

"You have to go," she says so he will not have to. And she
gives him an encouraging smile. "Don't worry. I'll make sure
to only pull up the ones you showed me."

There's an answering smile that wants to come out (strains past
the bars of its armored prison), but Superman, even with the
glasses and flannel, cannot allow it release (cannot give his own
soul freedom when so many still depend on him). "I'll see you
later," he says.

And then he's gone. The whisper of his presence, though, still
breezes its gentle way along her cheek, cooling her and stirring
her hair.

Strangely, when she turns back to this job she has set herself
(this penance that has coaxed a smile from him), she does not
feel alone. She does not feel defeated. She feels strong, borne
up by that glimpse of Clark. By his touch.

By his words.

"*I'm glad you're here."*

Glad. That *she* is here. In his haven, his refuge, the closest
thing he has to a home.

"*I'm glad you're here."*

Glad. Happy. That is more than acceptance, or resignation, or
forced concession. Most of all, it is more than (*better* than)
contentment.

It is forgiveness. Pure, simple, unadorned forgiveness.

It is a new beginning.

She does not want to go in. Does not want to stop weeding and
watering and wondering (about impossible things). Doesn't want
to move from this garden in case she can never get this feeling
of hope back.

But finally, when dusk shadows turn green to ebony and muddy
fingers grow stiff and chilled, Lois regretfully sets aside
Jonathan's tools and heads back inside. The door opens at her
touch. The elevator does not refuse her entrance. The suite looks
just as it did before, still there (not packed away and moved and
hidden while her guard was dropped). It is still quiet, still too
bright, but it is not so scary as she ducks into the bathroom and
showers, emerging smelling just as she did in Metropolis but
feeling (again, always, never again to revert back to the Lois
Lane the world knows her as) like a completely new person.

It's late enough, and she's tired enough, that after eating a
few bites of toast, she thinks she should probably go to bed. But
she is not ready for this day to be over (for a new bright,
silent day to begin as if this one never was), so instead she
turns off most of the lights, sits on the couch in the living
area, and sets her eyes to the dark crack at the bottom of
Clark's locked door.

Because she forgot to pass along James's message. Because she
wants Clark to realize there are reasons to come back. Because he
said he'd see her later, and no matter how much the rest of the
world needs him (how much his parents might wish to receive a
visit from him), she hopes he meant tonight.

She's dozing when she feels something warm draped over her.
Instinctively, she burrows into it, before her half-opened eyes
see the form standing over her, the red cape backlit by the
starlight behind him, and she sits upright, his name spilling
from her lips.

Clark's immediate smile at the sound of his name (*Clark*, the
name of something extinct and mythical and lovely) is white and
bright in the darkness, but it doesn't last nearly long enough.
"You should be in bed," he says. "Isn't your room comfortable
enough?"

"Yes." She almost blushes before remembering that she does have
a reason (an excuse) for waiting up for him. "James wanted me to
tell you something, but I forgot. He said he'd talk to the
lawyers in Metropolis and you don't have to worry about it."

The diffused city lights from the windows half circling the room
aren't much for illumination, but they're more than enough to
showcase the tension suddenly crowding out any memory of that
earlier bright smile. He sinks to the couch beside her, warming
her with his proximity, his brow furrowed as he studies her.
"Did...is that all he said?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't...you didn't ask him what the lawyers were
for?"

Lois frowns at him, not sure whether to reiterate her promise
that she is not here to investigate him or ask him, now, what is
behind this (apparently secretive) message. "I assumed he meant
the Foundation's lawyers. Why?"

Clark's sigh is so deep it seems to come up from the very depths
of his being. "I didn't want to be the one to tell you, Lois.
I'm sure you've seen the news about Luthor?"

"Yes," she says slowly, wondering at the cold note in his voice
that appears on Lex Luthor's name and then fades away just as
quickly.

He peers more closely at her, as if puzzled by her reaction, and
when he speaks, he sounds like a man she thought she'd killed
irrevocably. "Well, *I'm* the source for their investigation. I
know you...that there was something between you two, but he
isn't what you thought. But I don't want you to feel bad. I
mean, as Superman, I knew things about Luthor no one else
would--"

"Clark," she interrupts him,and (boldly) places a hand on his
arm. Only for an instant, but it cuts off his voice as easily as
she did once before with an article (not a comparison she likes,
and she shivers and tries to unthink it). "It sounds like Lex
Luthor is a terrible criminal, maybe even a monster. If you knew
that, then of course you had to stop him. I have no idea how
you've found the time with everything else you do, of course,
but I'm still glad that you did it. Glad," she adds in a softer
voice, looking away, "that you have not abandoned Metropolis
entirely."

"Why would I?" he asks, and he tilts his head to look at her.
Curiously, he seems almost relieved, almost happy, as he gives
her the suggestion of a smile. "Metropolis was the first to
accept me, the first to make me realize that being an alien did
not mean I would be hunted and locked away and dissected."

Lois stares at him, gaping and trying not to show it. Even after
Trask, even after Smallville, even after Jonathan's rising and
falling voice in her ear, she has never realized (perhaps never
*let* herself realize) just what fears a young Clark might have
grown up with.

"And," he says, almost casually, "I had time for it because I
made time. For a while, there wasn't much that I thought more
important than taking Luthor down. He had some plans
involving...someone I know. Plans I could not bear to see carried
out."

And now she smiles, because how can he think he is only Superman
when there is so much *Clark* concern and protectiveness in his
voice? "And now they are safe, thanks to you. I'm a little
sorry I never got the story on Luthor that I wanted, but not
nearly sorry enough to regret being here."

In return for that (daring) admission, she gets another hint of
his smile. "I'm a little sorry not to be writing the story of
his downfall too."

A searing pang of guilt hits low and hard and fast, and to
distract them both from it (to make sure he does not remember who
he is sitting with and smiling at), Lois reaches out and touches
him again (because she cannot quite help herself, and because she
thinks he needs a hint of human contact).

"How are your parents doing?" she asks when the mood eases,
dispersed by the sound of the air conditioner cycling back on.

It's the right question to ask. It makes him relax and allows
another white smile to flash through the darkness. "Mom's going
to be able to be discharged in not too long, I think. She'll
need physical therapy, but she's already working out her own
regimen. I think she's determined to be able to do everything
for Dad that..." His voice goes hoarse and trails off before he
shakes his head and forces himself to finish. "That he might not
be able to do."

"And how is Jonathan doing?" she manages to ask, because he's
smiling and even though he's tired, he's not *wrecked*, so
she's fairly certain the answer won't be a bad one (won't be a
catastrophe on top of everything else).

He sobers slightly, but does not lose the shimmer to his eyes.
"He still can't stay awake for longer than a half hour or so at
a time, but the doctors say he's stabilizing. They mentioned
maybe being able to move him out of intensive care in a few
days--nothing definite, but it's more hope than they've let
themselves show me before. I think...I think he might actually
pull through this."

"He will," Lois says encouragingly.

Clark nods, still somber. His shoulders are slumped, his eyes
shadowed; she sees his silhouette straighten, resettling his
burden. He gives her a slight smile, though it doesn't shine
white in the darkness, shadow on shadows. "What about you, Lois?
Aside from picking up farming, how many award-winning articles
have you written today?"

Lois freezes, statue-still (and if it were anyone but Clark, she
would think he was trying to hurt her; trying, and succeeding).
"Clark," she says, softly. Mournfully (because she thought they
were past this, thought he was giving her the benefit of the
doubt and she was doing her best to live up to that). "I
promised--I'm not writing any stories on you. I'm only
here--"

"I know," he says. Promises. His own reminder for them both,
spoken through another shadowed smile. "But the best
investigative reporter in the world doesn't take vacations. In
fact, if I recall correctly, she didn't even take weekends."

He's teasing her. His tone is light and free. His eyes are
sparkling with reflected light. His mouth is tilted in the
suggestion of a smile. He's teasing (accepting her just as his
family did in the park on that ill-fated day), and she wishes she
could reply in kind, but the hurt is too real, the wound too
deep. He's been bleeding out since she first saw him again; this
is the first time she realizes *she's* been bleeding out too,
only she's hid her wound better than he has.

"Clark," she says. But then trails off, because it's one thing
to think that his Secret was outed by the best reporter in the
world--quite another to realize he'd been discovered and
unmasked and destroyed by a has-been nobody whose career ended
before she turned thirty.

"I'm sorry," Clark says, and unbelievably, *he* sounds
apologetic, misreading her numb silence. "I did keep up with the
Daily Planet for a while--I had it delivered by mail. But we were
tracked down twice that way, so I had to stop getting it, and
I'm afraid that I haven't...I haven't had a chance to stop by
anywhere and pick up a copy in quite a while."

Lois stares at him. It's hard to breathe. "You...you don't
have to keep reading the Daily Planet. Not after...not now."

"I know." He looks away. Quiet. Grave. Wistful.
"But...sometimes I miss reading your articles. Miss getting to
edit them over your shoulder."

"Yeah, well." Lois swallows hard and wishes the darkness were
deeper so she could sink into it. "You don't have to."

"What do you mean?"

"They can't fire me," she says. It's her turn to avoid his
focused, curious gaze. "So it doesn't really matter, but...I
haven't written for a long time."

He's silent, but he's *listening* (just like he always did, to
complaints about traffic and coffee or family secrets spilled out
like it didn't matter), and so Lois feels the words pulled out
of her. "I turn in articles, but they're...they're not real
stories, not anywhere near Kerth-worthy, or even Daily
Planet-worthy. I think..." She wipes away the tears wetting her
eyelashes, making her eyes heavy, hard to keep open. "I think I
lost whatever I used to have. Lost the ability when..."

But she can't finish that. They both know the end of that
sentence anyway, both know what happened (and who was to blame)
to make her a has-been and him a caricature. But she hopes that
only she knows about the nightmares, the dreams that wake her
shuddering and sweating and hyperventilating in the night. Dreams
of lives destroyed with no more than a keystroke, real people's
names erased as soon as she writes them down. Dreams of people
turned into ghosts on the newspaper page and the life drained
from her as she gathers trophies for her destructive articles,
all stacked up in her apartment and gathering dust.

"Oh, Lois," Clark says, and he sounds truly compassionate (as
if he understands what it is to lose something so fundamental,
and once more peppermint chokes her as she realizes just how
fully he *can* understand). His hand is warm and heavy on her
shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

Lois turns her face into the side of the couch and shrinks down
into the blanket he draped over her, pretending she can hide her
tears from him. "I wish you would stop doing that."

He draws his hand away as if burned; she doesn't need to open
her eyes to see the hurt, stilted look on his face. "I--"

She reaches out blindly and grabs hold of his hand. "Stop being
sorry for things that should make you happy, or at least
vengefully satisfied," she clarifies. "Stop forgiving me
instead of hating me."

"Oh," he says, and out of every reaction he could have given,
she supposes she shouldn't be surprised to hear a laugh in his
voice as he squeezes her hand lightly. He can squeeze coal hard
enough to turn it into diamonds, she finds herself thinking, but
he holds her hand with just enough pressure to make her feel
warmed all the way through. Or maybe there isn't a difference
(maybe he's gradually turning her into something worthwhile and
valuable and beautiful with no more than slight hints of
pressure).

"I'm sorry," Clark says again, but this time, he's teasing
her. "I'll try to be more vindictive from now on."

"Do that," Lois agrees. She's smiling (her lashes are still
wet, but no longer heavy), and that almost makes her want to cry
even harder (at how he can turn something so hurtful and damaging
into a reason to smile). "I'd appreciate it."

"Then I'll work on it."

Her lips twitch again, and she relaxes back into the couch,
suddenly aware of how tired and sore she is from her unaccustomed
physical labor. She doesn't want to look at him (in case he
looks into her eyes and remembers, or learns, how to be
vindictive after all), so she keeps her eyes shut. "Liar," she
whispers, and is glad she did when the sound of his chuckle
resonates through the room.

"Here." Before she realizes what he means to do, Clark stands
and bends and scoops her into his arms, cradles her closely to
him as if he's never carried so precious a burden. She is not
quite sure how, cannot really explain it, but he makes her feel
as if she is appreciated, valued, respected. Cherished. He makes
her feel as if he can think of nothing better to do with his
superhuman strength than to use it to carry her gently into her
bedroom (*hers*, no one else's, not ever again, because she has
no plans to leave him). Lois cannot explain him--she wrote an
article claiming she could, claiming that she had stripped him of
all falsehoods and evasions to reveal the naked truth.

But she'd lied. (The biggest article of her career, with a
Pulitzer Prize to serve as a landmark for it, and it is all
wrong).

He's inexplicable. He's incomprehensible. He's unknowable.
Soot-stained, salt-marked, blood-touched, but still smelling of
sky and wind and rain, as if he is composed of the elements
themselves. Wounded and worried and weary, but still emanating
only strength and compassion and gentleness. Man of steel, but
when her fingertips wrap around the curve of his neck (when she
nuzzles her nose closer into him), he shivers, a sound soft and
delicate and unbelievably invigorating.

She cannot understand him, but she doesn't need to understand
him to love him.

(And a deep foreboding hums through her like distant cannon fire,
like heavy drums, at the confession, the admission, the
realization that this, after all, is why she came all this way to
find him.)

"This isn't exactly being vindictive," she tells him, and she
means her tone to come out chiding, but instead it sounds
entirely too awed.

Clarks lays her down on her bed, and he can fly halfway around
the world in seconds, but he is infinitely slow setting her down,
his touch lingering. "Of course it is," he whispers, somehow
able to keep the teasing mood. "Banishing Lois Lane from her
self-appointed vigil to get some sleep? That's about as
vindictive as it gets."

"You're right. This means war, Kent," she says, but it's not
a threat.

"Bring it on," he replies, and then he pauses. Another
hesitation. Another meaning-laden gaze. She cannot see him except
as a silhouette, but she knows he can see her, and she wonders
suddenly (with a burning longing to *know* instead of just
*fear*) what he sees when he looks at her. What he thinks of her.
What future he would want with her if he were not trapped on
every side by the life she's left to him.

She thinks he swallows. Thinks his hands fist at her side. And
then he leans forward, large and looming and not frightening at
all, and he kisses her cheek. "Good night," he breathes, a
caress of air that has her eyes sliding closed to hide whatever
he might see that no one else can.

"Good night, Clark," she replies, soundlessly except that he
can hear even her heartbeat (galloping and elated and tripping
around her ribcage).

Her hand rises as if to stop him when he stands and takes a step
back. But he does not take that pause to look back at her (as if
he cannot stand to be here any longer; as if he fears her
reaction; as if he already regrets this night). He slips away and
Lois is left behind. Alone in the quiet. Only...Clark's presence
still lingers in the room (a ghost come to haunt her every waking
moment, never to fade away or leave her), and so she does not
feel alone at all.

***

16

His dad's skin is papery thin, worn down to its most basic form,
but Clark takes inordinate strength from the way the fingers
cling to his and the feel of the calluses still evident on the
palm. He cradles the hand gently, carefully, so sure not to harm
this slender, frail (but *important*) link to the man who took
him in and loves him and worked with him for days and weeks and
months to make sure he *could* hold even hands this fragile
without hurting them. Jonathan's eyes are closed against the
dimmed lights, his strength not quite enough to force words past
the tubes running along his face, into his mouth and nostrils,
snaking along arms and legs.

But his hand...that holds on, curves around Clark's so that
Clark can know what he would see in faded, sparkling blue eyes
(love and compassion and concern); what his dad would say if he
only could (love and compassion and concern, because his dad is
nothing if not steady and constant and predictable in the same
way as earth and hope and green, growing things).

So Clark holds his dad's hand, and he refuses to feel despair at
the overbearing sound of machines helping his dad continue to
live, the glass windows letting a constant parade of medical
personnel keep Jonathan Kent under constant observation, the
casts around his leg and wrist, the bandages on too-white skin.
It would be easy to feel his fledgling hope trickle away, but
Clark refuses. Because maybe they are in the middle of a hospital
under heavy guard, but his dad's hand is wrapped around his (his
heart still beats, in a better, more joyful tempo), and so Clark
can do nothing *but* feel relieved and grateful.

"I'm going to go see Mom now," he whispers (words just for his
dad, not for the curious, watching staff around them). "But
I'll come back and see you tomorrow."

His dad squeezes his hand, an almost negligible pressure that
sparks the birth of a wide smile on Clark's face.

"I love you, Dad," he says, and without a flicker of
self-consciousness (determinedly, heedless of the stares), he
stoops and kisses his dad's brow. A point of contact, a flash of
heat, a burst of love, to keep his dad here and bring him back to
life and wellness and health.

Another tiny, appreciated squeeze before Clark regretfully sets
the hand down in safety on the thin coverlet. And then he's
backing away and heading to another floor to see his mom.

She hates being on a different floor than Jonathan, hates not
being able to get out of bed and take care of her husband and son
and James. But she is still weak, still wobbly on her bruised
legs, still tender around her midsection where her ribs are
wrapped and stitches march beneath bandages, still not quite able
to take breaths that aren't shallow and quick. She still sleeps
eight hours out of ten, and she is not so well that Clark
doesn't feel a flutter of fear every time he goes to see her.

"Clark," she says as soon as he knocks on the door of her
private room and pokes his head in (after giving a grateful,
acknowledging nod to the police officers stationed outside). Her
smile is not as wide as usual due to the stitched gash along her
left cheekbone, but it is still warm and accepting and
immeasurably beautiful.

"Mom," he says (a sigh of relief), and he lets her opened arms
command him forward to nestle her (so gently) in his embrace. Her
heart beats out a steady, invigorating tune next to his, old and
worn and slower than before, but so necessary to his continued
wellbeing. "I missed you."

"Oh, Clark." She laughs breathlessly (he tenses at the wince of
pain she tries to hide from him) and pulls back to examine him
closely, as if he will have wasted away without her food to keep
him going (without her constant affection, her changing but
enduring love, like seasons that cycle and grow and move and
revitalize, to give him a reason to live and love and hope).
"How are you doing?"

His chuckle is quiet, but real, and that means everything to him,
to her (to the world, if they want Superman to keep existing in
any form or fashion). "I'm fine, Mom. How are *you*?"

She shrugs that aside, picking distastefully at her hospital
gown. "Won't lie, son--I've been better." Then she laughs,
banishing any bitterness. "But they said I can finally visit
your father tomorrow. You know he'll do better seeing me and
knowing I'm all right. Also, I think I've managed to finally
corrupt the night nurse well enough to sneak me in some paper and
pencils. I haven't had a sketching class yet, but I'll surely
be able to get *something* down. I'll experiment anyway."

"Painting, sculpting, metal-working, and now sketching?" Clark
winks at her, grabbing hold of her hand and clinging, but softly,
subtly, not wanting her to know how much he needs this tangible
reminder of her life. "I'm starting to think you're something
of an overachiever, Mom."

"Oh, hush," she replies, but her eyes are twinkling. As he
smiles and looks down at her hand (thin, frail, capable of so
much life and creativity and miracles), he feels his steady
cheerfulness waver, just a bit (his own want sneaking through to
reveal itself to his mom, who doesn't need someone else to worry
about). "Clark," she says, and when he looks up, he knows
she's seen it (she knows him too well, and he has never been
able to fool her). The twinkle is gone, replaced by somber
concern. "How long can we stay here? How long can you keep
coming?"

He looks away.

It's been hard, finding ways to come into the hospital without
making it any more of a target than it already is. James told him
not to make habits, to change up the methods of arrival, the
timing of his visits; the hospital has been gracious enough (or
intimidated enough) to let him visit even during the night, enter
through any door he likes. James has protected their home,
but...but Clark knows (as well as his mom does, apparently) that
despite all these precautions, this can't last. The police
can't keep guarding the hospital all the way through his
parents' long recovery. The National Guard should be out there
helping rebuild, not keeping back the media and curious tourists
and any criminals with a longstanding grudge.

This can't last. Not forever. Not for long. Not long enough.

But he has only just gotten his parents back (gotten his hope and
strength back), so recently that he doesn't want to think about
a dangerous move and the inevitable trust he will have to show to
some hospital somewhere and the complications this might cause to
an already precarious situation.

He doesn't want to think of it, and if there is one thing Clark
is good at doing, it is avoiding unpleasant truths.

So he doesn't let any of his inward worry show on his face when
he looks back to Martha. He makes sure he looks confident,
relaxed, reassuring (as she has done so often for him). "I'll
keep coming as long as you're here," he promises her.

She brings over her other hand to cradle both of his, hers small
and fragile but strong enough to contain and strengthen his. "I
know you will, honey." She catches his eye with steely resolve.
"But your dad and I don't want to be responsible for anything
bad happening to you--or to any of the other innocent people in
this hospital."

Clark sighs (wishing she were not so good at cutting through all
his defenses) and bends nearer to her. "I know, Mom. But Dad
can't be moved yet. When he can, then...then we'll move."

"You'll have to get James looking for an alternative
hospital--assuming he hasn't started already."

"I will. He's getting back this afternoon."

Martha pats his hand. "Make sure he's eating enough. You know
with all the time-zones he crosses, he forgets when meal times
are and just skips them."

"I will," he promises with a chuckle. "You just make sure
you're resting in between sketching your masterpieces."

"Depends on how fast I pick it up," she teases him. She's
tired already, though; Clark can see her eyes drooping, feel her
hands sagging around his.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he says, and bends to kiss her too
(but this time maybe he's looking for a reminder for himself
rather than giving one). "I love you, Mom."

"I love you, honey. Tell James we love him too and miss seeing
him."

"Tell Dad not to worry," Clark returns, and then he has to tear
himself away, walk through the heavy door, past the layers of
security, to a window he found in an upper floor waiting area. He
leaves too quickly for more than a blur of color to show, but
he's assuming it will be caught by cameras anyway (can hear them
clicking and humming and grinding for a solid block in every
direction). He has grown used to feeling always watched by now.

Morning sunlight pours down on him, the kind of nutrients his
body needs more than food or water, but somehow not nearly as
rejuvenating as the two sets of hands that curved around his mere
moments ago. He feels tired, weighted down by worry he's afraid
to acknowledge lest it fully conquer him. He feels like a solid
night of sleep, a warm breakfast, and a hot cup of coffee would
be almost as welcoming at this point as his old life back (or
maybe they're one and the same, Clark Kent bestowing on him the
small comforts that Superman cannot). He feels like going back
home, pretending he has a reason for not being Superman, swooping
into the suite and going out of his room to the living area.
Staying there, listening to a heartbeat, a pattern of breathing,
whatever words (astonishing, enlivening, unpredictable, always
somehow just what he needs) Lois might give him. Looking at her,
drinking in the sight of her, the smell, the *presence* of her
until he forgets about Superman entirely and remembers only Clark
(dreams only Clark-dreams, impossible for him now but once so
seemingly achievable). Talking to her, maybe finding another
excuse to take her into his arms, let her hug him until he feels
real and whole and right in his own skin again.

He feels like casting off Superman and stepping into Clark Kent.

He feels like being selfish.

And that is dangerous, so very completely dangerous and all the
more because of how achingly *tempting* it is. He cannot be
selfish. He has no excuses anymore, no alter ego to hide behind,
no white lies to give as explanation for why he did not save
others beloved to people out there (maybe to the police officers
guarding his family or members of the National Guard protecting
that hospital helping his parents or the doctors healing the
people he loves best of all). He has no reason to get rid of
Superman, not when Superman is the one who is needed and Clark is
only the one who delivered Superman to the needy, desperate,
dying world.

Lois Lane. He let her come because he wanted to see her again.
Because he missed her. Because he thought closure would be good
for them both (would make him stop dreaming dreams that just make
him *want* and make disappointment sharper when he wakes). And,
if he is truly honest with himself, because he was so hurt, so
*wounded* beyond what he thought could be healed, so tired that
Nightfall seemed only the last in a long line of hurts, that he
didn't have the strength to turn aside this last hope offered
him by a reluctant James just when he least expected it.

He let her come because he wanted to say goodbye to that time of
his life. To shut the door on it and realize, for once and for
all, just how irrevocably changed everything was, and thus,
resign himself fully to the life now before him.

But she is Lois Lane, and so he is not resigned or content
anymore. No, now hope *seethes* inside him like a storm, like a
hurricane of dreams and memories all meshed together (her
kneeling in the garden, her arms around him in the hospital, her
eyes heavy on him in the darkness of her room, her tripping heart
when he kissed her cheek, her tone of voice when she says his
name). Hope and temptation and impossibility and a siren luring
him onto things that can never be his (and he will not survive
being dashed against the sharp rocks, not again, not when he is
still so scarred and trembling from the last time).

Lois Lane. She is trouble, and he should have known that (he
*did*, just not in this way, not in a way that would offer him
such jagged hope, not when he never expected her to look at him
as if she *wanted* him to kiss her cheek), but he is not prepared
for it anyway.

He is Superman now. Clark is only for his parents and James, a
secret he keeps because he cannot help it (because he will die
without it, has already felt the growing loss, before Lois came,
when he was fading away, a wraith with shaking hands), because
Clark refuses to die. But the world needs Superman, and the world
has accepted him and let him live here when it could have
rejected him, and he owes them all for that.  The world needs
Superman, and Superman has a reason for being here, a reason for
continuing, and Clark does not (Clark has no reason at all for
thinking himself more important than the people out there
screaming for a savior to keep their hearts beating and their own
hopes alive).

So he cannot give into temptation. He cannot do anything more
than attune his hearing long enough to realize Lois is in his
father's garden again, humming softly to herself as she pulls up
weeds in a stubbornly endearing way (muttered imprecations
breaking up the sweet sound of her alto voice). Even that is
unwise since it makes the *wanting*, the *longing*, the *desire*
to be more than a superhero, rise up in him.

But there are other noises besides her humming, other voices that
are louder and more imperative. Other sounds that remind him of
the necessity of his continued service.

So he is Superman (always and forever with no end in sight
because it is too *hard* to see an end only to have it disappear
over and over again). He soars through the skies and swoops down
to save and rescue and help, and he keeps his lips clamped over
all the words he wants to give the scared people before him
(because if he speaks once, then he will have to speak forever,
will have to answer any question or accusation they put before
him, and that is more than even Superman can endure). He roams
without direction or purpose, tethered only by the long, looping
cord of his name (the name the world knows, needs, accepts),
going where he is called, acting as quickly as he can, not
lingering anywhere, and still, always, there are more people
calling, crying, asking, demanding, *needing* (and he wishes,
just once, there would be people *wanting* him instead of
*needing* him), and there will never, ever be enough of him to
answer every cry or help everyone who needs it (always, *always*,
he will be found wanting).

Eventually, when it is dark and his Clark memories tell him he
should be eating dinner, he lets himself turn back toward home.
James will be back, and he needs to hear about the meeting with
their lawyers, needs to know when to meet with Henderson again
and how much more they need before a court date can be set and
Luthor can be put away for good. He needs to go back home, and it
has nothing to do with his wanting to see Lois again, even if
just for a moment.

(He wishes he were not so good at lying to himself; it only makes
the temptation harder to deny.)

Almost, at the realization of the true reason he has turned away,
he makes himself turn away, follow the lodestone of his name
being called in fear and hope. But even as he wavers, hovering
unsteadily in the air while wind whips and tears at him, he hears
a familiar voice (as if he knew Clark's dilemma; as if he would
follow him anywhere, as he did before, to save him and bring some
measure of *home* back to him) that makes up his mind for him.

"Come home, CK," James whispers, in a faraway suite, sitting at
a counter used as a table, food laid out before him, his arm
cradled in a cast because Superman wasn't there quickly enough
for him. "Come home."

And so Clark does, because as hard as it is to turn away from
cries for Superman, it is impossible to ignore this solitary cry
for Clark Kent.

When he emerges from his room, James and Lois both look up from
the pan of soup and the empty, waiting bowls (three of them)
placed before them. They both smile to see him. They both say his
name (*Clark* and *CK*, echoes of a newsroom he never wanted to
leave). They both welcome him, and for a wonder, even with his
parents sleeping so far away, he feels like he *has* come home.

"James made the soup," Lois says quickly, as Clark comes
forward and takes the seat left for him. "It should be safe."

"Very safe," James agrees, "since it came out of a can. We
were hungry and decided speed was better than quality--otherwise
we would have made *you* make dinner, CK."

Clark laughs to hide how startled he is by the reminder that he
*does* know how to do something so ordinary. Something so normal,
so benign, so mundane that it requires no superpowers at all.
"Soup smells good," is all he says, and he isn't lying. It's
hot and fragrant and fills up the suite so that it feels *lived*
in, and that is enough to make him eat it even if it were burned
and salty and out of date.

Conversation swirls around him as he savors the sips of soup, the
chunks of potato and ham, the salt and the feel of the napkin.
James and Lois both seem to sense that he cannot talk now (that
he cannot stop *enjoying* this slice of normal, beautiful life
long enough to conjure up any conversational skills), and so they
banter back and forth. And when the soup is gone, Clark is still
silent, watching them with enchanted eyes, the scene before him
dissolving in and out with memories of that newsroom, of an
impetuous reporter and an indefatigable copyboy. It's been a
long time since he's felt so much like *Clark*, and yet...and
yet, at the same time, it's been a long time since he's allowed
himself to feel himself so *removed* from that Clark, from that
life, from that world as alien to him now as Krypton.

The sense of removal, of isolation, is only heightened when he
realizes that dinner is over and James has already told him that
he doesn't have to see Henderson for another week and he has no
more excuses for sitting here in jeans and a t-shirt and glasses
that veil the world in a more idealized sheen. Reluctantly, not
wanting to interrupt Lois and James, he stands and takes care of
the dishes before they can realize he's moved, and then he
clears his throat.

They both fall silent, instantly, and look at him. Lois blinks
when she notices the empty table between them. "Wow," she says.
"That's handy." Then, so quickly it takes Clark aback, she
grins at him. "Very handy. Now that we have a clean table, we
can play some poker. You in, James?"

"Oh, definitely." James moves as if to rub his hands together
in glee before remembering his cast. His expression falls into a
studiously mournful mask. "And since I'm playing at something
of a handicap, you'll have to go easy on me. Right, CK?"

"You will play, Clark," Lois says in a suddenly soft, inviting
voice. "Won't you?"

And they both look up at him. Waiting. Hoping.

It is too much for him. He's already tempted, already torn
between his longing to stay and his responsibility to go. Their
combined plea crumples the last of his resistance.

"I will," he says (decisively, to hide the guilt). "I might
even give a better showing at this poker game since Perry isn't
around to cheat."

He regrets the words (the reminder of their missing friend) when
both Lois and James wince at the name, but he cannot stop himself
from smiling anyway. Not when he gets to sit down again, directly
across from Lois and her shining eyes, her shimmering hair, her
beguiling presence. Not when this is what he's wanted for so
very long. (Not when he *wants* the reminders and memories of a
man who took a chance on him and gave him opportunities no one
else had.)

But he should have known it was too good to be true.

James hasn't even emerged from his room with the cards and chips
when Clark hears the clamor of hundreds of voices crying for him
all at once. The update of a tidal wave in the South Pacific on
televisions from the floors beneath them. The news bulletins on
radios of passing cars. He wants to be selfish, but it would be
more than selfishness to ignore this; it would be a crime.

He thinks Lois already knows what he's going to say when he
opens his mouth. The sparkle is leaving her eyes and her mouth is
tightening around whatever words she wants to spill. But she only
watches him as he stands and says, "I have to go."

He almost wants her to protest (almost thinks that if she asked
him to stay, he would--more proof that she is trouble he cannot
afford). But she only gives him a half-nod, so he ignores the
pang of regret and longing surging inside him, and he turns to
leave.

Her hand on his sleeve stops him.

"I'm not going to stop you from going," she says, intently.
Fiercely. "Or tell you that you shouldn't. But I do want you to
know that you don't have to answer *every* cry for help. You
don't have to be on call 24/7. You're still a person, Clark,
and you deserve to have a life too." Then, as if by magic (she
was always so quick, in that time of before, so sure, so abrupt
that she left Clark feeling slow and mesmerized), she drops her
hand and intensity and gives him a sad smile. "Now go. The game
will still be here when you get back."

Clark makes it to the door of his room before he can hold back no
longer. He turns to look at her (facing away from him, arms
wrapped around her middle, hair concealing her face), and feels
unsure. Lost. Confused. "Lois?"

"Yeah?" She turns back to him, her face composed when her hair
falls away.

The question sits on his tongue, ready to be asked. Impatient to
be out in the open. But he cannot speak, not for a long moment.
The words (the plea behind it, the weariness and hurt and guilt)
only bring back unwelcome memories, dark and battered flashes of
endless days and nights before and after Nightfall, when he
couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't *live* past the
weight and pressure clogging him up on every side.

But she watches him so patiently, and he has always been able to
say and confess things to her that he cannot to anyone else. So
the question slips from him before he can stop it or think better
of it.

"If I'm not saving people all the time...if I take time
off...how do I justify that? What do I tell them when they ask me
why I wasn't there?"

Lois's gaze turns to steel faster than even he can move (or
maybe it's always steel, always hard and confident and
unbreakable, and she only hides it behind a mask as thick as
his). "You tell them that you are a gift to this world and that
whatever you can do is more than enough. You tell them you help
us because you believe there's a hero in each of us and we can
all do the same. You tell them that you are inspired by them and
that if you are not there, then you trust everyone else to help
out. You tell them that maybe they made you into a symbol, but
you're a person too. You tell them that it's not only regular
people who needto besaved and even heroes need time to themselves
to remember why they're doing what they do."

Lois Lane, he thinks wonderingly (feeling as dazed as if standing
beside Kryptonite and sucker-punched). He knew she was trouble,
but this...this is more than trouble. This is desire and hope and
impossibility and miracles all rolled up into one, and none of
those things are for him anymore. This is strength and confidence
and help and support and vindication on a level he cannot
comprehend because those exist only for Superman (and only to a
certain degree), not for Clark.

This is beauty. This is love. This is...is more than he can
comprehend. More than he can understand. More than he can
internalize.

But he *wishes* he could.

"Lois," he says, but closes his mouth over the rest before it
can escape (before he can vocalize what he wants more than
anything else and see her blink and swallow before either turning
away or agreeing only because she thinks it is what he wants and
she feels like she needs to atone for what she did). So he gives
her a smile instead and says (because he cannot quite turn away
from *everything* she offers), "I'll be back soon."

He lets the world freeze into near motionlessness, lets
everything fall away until he is all that is alive and moving,
but even there, in this realm that is his and his alone, her
words still ring in his ears (promise and temptation and taunt).
Because he cannot bear to go out alone into the night after that
bubble of normality and family, he takes her heartbeat with him,
listens to the tune and tempo, the rhythm and range. Listens to
it and examines it and tries to discern what about it makes Lois
Lane so much *more* than anyone else he's ever met.

It's not his intention to eavesdrop, as he flies toward the
distant sounds of pain and terror, but he's so intent on the
heartbeat, he almost doesn't even realize he's hearing Lois and
James's voices too.

"That was quite a speech," James says as he comes back into the
room.

"It's true," Lois says, almost defiantly. "Even if I didn't
phrase it as condemningly as I wanted to."

"Probably best." Clark can hear the grin in James's voice.
"He'll listen to it better this way."

He thinks Lois smiles back, can hear it in the rounded shape of
her words. "Yeah, that's what I figured."

There's silence unbroken by anything but their two heartbeats
(and a world of motion and life and despair, but Clark is used to
all that and does not focus on it lest it destroy him; lets only
their heartbeats keep him afloat and above the clamor of the
world) for a long moment before James finally speaks again.
"I'm glad you came to me," he says. "It is just what we
need."

Lois makes no reply. Clark cannot figure out what James means.
James, apparently, does not seem to realize the effect of his own
words and only drops something on the table with a clatter.
"Shall we have a practice go of it before CK gets back?"

At that, Clark realizes what he is doing (taking the privacy away
from the very people who are all that is left of his own privacy)
and he lets his hearing slip away (reluctantly, grudgingly) from
Lois's heartbeat to turn instead to the emergency before him.
But even when he is surrounded by foaming, raging water, even
when people beg him for help and thank him for saving them and
call out after him, he cannot escape the words (the path of
escape) Lois offered him.

To be Clark Kent. To not be Superman all the time. To draw a line
and not feel guilty about it. He does not think he can do that
without falling once more beneath the weight of guilt and
pressure and responsibility. But the idea that he can, the very
possibility...it's powerful enough to knock the breath out of
him. Powerful enough to make the force of the surging ocean seem
tame in comparison. Powerful enough to make him leave before the
cleanup is all done, and head back to the suite of rooms. Back to
*home*.

When he swoops in through his window, steps out of his closet in
clothes much more comfortable (and comforting) than the Suit, and
emerges from his room, he finds Lois and James laughing over what
looks to be silly and even made up words on a Scrabble board,
their heads tilted toward each other, a pack of cookies and a
bottle of soda sitting, half demolished, at their elbows.
Clark's step checks upon sight of them, so happy and relaxed and
*normal* (so easy and comfortable and *right* together), that he
almost turns around. Almost flees back into the Suit and the
skies and the strife that only Superman can alleviate. Almost
leaves them to their fun and their ease (unwilling to bring the
abstract stench of suffering and distress in amid their cozy
atmosphere).

But Lois turns (as if she can sense him there, just outside their
aura of light) and invites him over without hesitation (with a
wide, bright smile), and James nudges a chair back for him and
hands him a stack of cookies saved back for him, and
unbelievably, ineffably, he is able to slip right into their
private group, able to join the laughter without bringing it to a
screeching, silent halt.

It seems as impossible as the words, the gift, Lois gave him, and
yet it happens. He never thought he could feel so truly like
Clark Kent again, never thought he wouldn't be able to hear the
cries of his new name long enough to find a spark of happiness
amid his determined contentment. And yet it happens.

And if something this impossible can become possible, then
maybe...maybe the rest of what Lois said can happen too. Maybe
there is more hope than he's ever allowed himself to realize
before. Maybe he really can live again.

***

17

He's starting to understand. He's starting to realize that he
doesn't have to act like a living sacrifice, that he doesn't
need to buy his acceptance here. He's starting to believe that
there's more. More for *him*.

Lois watches him each day, as she gives him reasons to come back
home, to stay, to spend time outside the role of superhero. She
watches him and rejoices (feels stronger and better and more
*alive*) every time he hesitates less, agrees quicker, relaxes
more.

Ever since that first evening, that night of laughter over board
games and banter over soup, she's begun reaching out (and it's
scary, it's *terrifying*, every time she extends herself in an
invitation and waits for his response, but she must be brave now,
for his sake). Little things. Small steps. One day she asks him
to stop by in the afternoon and look at a few planters that
weren't seeming to respond to the water she poured over them (he
shows her small, ugly insects in the soil and spends almost an
hour teaching her how to get rid of them). Another evening, she
tells him to bring back a movie for her and James (and together,
she and James get him to stay for the duration of the entire
film, though none of them can say what it was about afterward). A
few mornings, she finds him over breakfast and gets him telling
her stories about his parents (and memories of Smallville are
painful, but the sight of Clark smiling, a twinkle in his eyes
that brings Jonathan poignantly to mind, is so much more
important--and appealing).

Sometimes he doesn't stay for more than a moment or two.
Sometimes they're interrupted. Sometimes her excuses can't
reach past the bars of the prison (the mask, the armor) he keeps
around himself. Sometimes he tells her he has other prior
engagements--a meeting with Henderson, an appointment with
Metropolis attorneys and judge, interviews with Henderson's men
(and Lois tries not to mind these because even if he is not with
her, at least this is a task that originated with Clark Kent
rather than Superman). Or there are meetings with the Superman
Foundation, mornings and evenings when he flies James to and from
places Lois doesn't ask about, hours when he says he needs to be
with his parents.

Occasionally, he will agree to stay, but gradually she will
realize he isn't paying attention to her because he is listening
to something else (something distant; something imperative). In
those moments, she finds a reason to excuse herself (to let him
go) because she wants to free him, not bind him down in chains of
a different make than the ones already tying him down. And when
she does that (when she tries to pretend she isn't disappointed
to see him leave her once again), before he leaves, he always
looks at her with something...bright. Something hopeful and
tender and surprised and grateful in his eyes (something that
begins to visit her dreams at night, begins to disperse
nightmares of life-destroying articles and make her almost eager
to sleep with that Smallville bear clutched in her arms).

Still, Lois tries to go slow. She tries not to pressure him. She
tries to keep herself from grabbing him by his shoulders and
shaking him and shouting at him, screaming at him that there is
so much more for him, that he can have so much more, *should*
have much more, *will* have much more if she has anything to say
about it... She tries to remember that he has lost everything,
that his parents are still not completely out of danger, that his
life is in constant peril, that she cannot destroy what solid
ground he has managed to find, can only try to build bridges out
toward him. (She tries to ignore just what her dreams mean, just
how much longing she feels when she wakes up, because that is not
what he needs; he needs some of his burden taken away, not
another thing to worry about.)

But it is hard when all those reminders of what he has lost and
what he faces make her more determined to free him and help him
(to save him as he has saved her). It is hard not to push when
she sees him begin to relax. When it begins to get easier to
distract him from the cries for Superman. It is hard, but it is
also *important*, and if impulsive rashness is what destroyed
him, then only patient understanding will rebuild and resurrect
him (as far as it is possible to do so, but she does not dwell on
the future, on the big picture and how little she can do for
that, because she cannot afford to sink into despair and
hopelessness again).

Patience and understanding aren't traits the old Lois Lane
possessed, but she has them now, infused through a baritone voice
behind her shoulder under a steady sun. Through trust extended by
a young man with all too many reasons to be bitter and cynical
instead. The forgiveness offered by a hurt mother. The open
acceptance, and the patient understanding of his own (that
Clark's always so naturally displayed), so freely and
uninhibitedly given her by the very man she so badly wronged.

She was so sure he didn't entirely forgive her (*couldn't*
because how could he?). So sure there was buried anger that would
eventually erupt. But it has been months and no one is that good
a liar (especially him). No one can hide that kind of hatred for
this long.

Clark really has forgiven her.

He really is glad she is here.

And he really is as good and wonderful and appealing as her
dreams and newly informative memories tell her.

"You don't have to glare," Clark says without turning around,
and Lois startles and casts her eyes down. "You'll get dinner
in just a couple more minutes, I promise."

She and James (who has said nothing to her, asked nothing, but
who seems to know what she is doing and backs her up flawlessly)
have managed to bring him home this time by telling him over
breakfast how tired they were of toast and soup. When Clark
admonished them for not eating better, James hadn't skipped a
beat before wringing a promise out of him to cook them all a real
meal.

Lois forces a smile, worried Clark will look at her and somehow
guess the direction of her thoughts (and he cannot do that, not
when she is finally making some progress and he is finally
looking more than just *content*). "I'm just making sure
you're doing it all right," she says, trying to pretend away
the flush on her cheeks.

He looks over his shoulder long enough to give her a level stare.
"And how would you know the difference between the right way and
the wrong way?"

A laugh is surprised out of her. "I may not be able to cook, but
I can tell what looks and smells good."

His half-smile is mischievous as he effortlessly transfers the
three (no, four, she notes with vague awe; she hadn't even
noticed him putting that corn on the stove) dishes over to
serving bowls. "And?" he asks. "What's the verdict?"

"You're definitely a better cook than me," she says loftily
(and who would have guessed she'd ever be able to tease Clark
Kent again, let alone provoke that full, real laughter from him?
Had Perry known, or had he only hoped, or does he still drink
alone in his dark office?).

Clark laughs aloud and lets her help him carry the dishes to
their dining area.

James joins them briefly over dinner, long enough to sample each
dish and pack away enough food to make Lois blink, before he's
excusing himself to retreat into his room with his phone already
at his ear. Lois is glad he was there as long as he was, though.
He made her tense and awkward and defiant, when she first came
(when he stood before his friend, his brother, with shield and
sword raised, to draw her attack, her ire, any danger, to him
rather than to Clark); but now he causes Clark to smile when
he's being too serious or starting to look distracted, eases the
slow tension building between Lois and Clark, fills up silences
that threaten to turn too long.

Not that anyone else seems to notice her tension or uncertainty
(or better dreams).

James draws Clark to this world, makes him laugh, reassures him
about things Lois doesn't know enough to understand, and he does
it all so effortlessly, so seamlessly, as if Lois's presence
changes nothing (and where once that would have relieved her, now
it only rankles). Clark teases both Lois and James, cooks and
dishes up their plates and does the cleaning up afterward
(watches the movies and talks about his parents and plays
boardgames), and all without any sign of the growing shyness, the
fledgling feelings, that are growing in Lois (and she can ask
nothing else, can *expect* nothing else, can only dream of it in
the dark solitude of her own room). It is only *she *whois
off-balance. Only *she* whois not *content* in this
less-than-perfect, better-than-could-be world.

Only she who longs for something so specific and so impossible.

Only shewho feels each touch between them like a substantial
weight, each word like the slot of a combination lock, a click
that either leads her closer to unlocking the enigma in red and
blue and glasses, or takes her too far and leaves him more
trapped than ever.

Only she, and she tries to ignore it (tells herself over and over
again all the reasons there are that nothing beyond the
already-miraculous friendship can happen). But when James leaves
them alone, and the dishes are cleared, Lois finds herself once
more at a loss, once more fighting a blush as she tries not to
stare.

It takes her an instant to realize Clark has vanished (he moves
so quickly now, all the time, as if afraid to be trapped in
place), and she blinks in surprise when he materializes in front
of her. The mischievous smile playing along his mouth doesn't
help her find her voice.

"I have something else for you," he says, and sets a sheaf of
papers down before her.

Of course. She should have known.

Clark has been waging his own campaign, just as slow and
purposeful and intent as Lois's own. But where she seeks to
ground him (to the world, to his own life; to her), he seeks to
give her pieces of herself back. Where she seeks to show him that
there are reasons for Clark to exist, he seeks to return her
freedom to her (as if he wants her to be able to leave him and go
back to her life in Metropolis and return to the Lois Lane she
was before she brought herself down in a ruin of newspaper and
Pulitzer prize).

Ever since she told him she doesn't write anymore, he's been
bringing her things. A puff-piece on a philanthropist collecting
donations to help the clean-up of the earthquake. An interview,
in a much lesser paper, of a former employee claiming that the
philanthropist was receiving far more than he was giving out.
Bank records. Phone histories. A little bit more paperwork every
day--a few more breadcrumbs on the trail of an investigation.

Every day he hands her more and waits while she looks through
them. He never says anything until after she reads whatever he
brought her, until she says her own piece first. Then he will ask
her a question, seemingly innocent but always so insightful that
it makes her see things clearer, further, better (he's always
been able to do that, and once she'd ignored it or resented it;
now she regrets it because she knows she'll never be able to
find a better partner, but she ruined this before she could even
enjoy it).

Today, Lois dives on the papers as soon as he sets them down. She
doesn't even really care what these papers tell her or where the
story takes her. More than anything, she just wants to feel the
fire in her veins, the thunder in her bones, the lightning-sharp
clarity of her mind as it seeks and makes connections. She wants
to feel *alive* and *good* and *useful*; she wants to *be* a
reporter again, even if just in this safe haven.

But it's just blank paper. No interviews with people who knew
the seeming philanthropist. No background info on the foundation
of his charity. Nothing but a ream of empty, blank, too-white
paper.

"What is this?" She looks to Clark with a puzzled frown. "Dead
end?"

His eyes are actually sparkling (as they used to do, when he
teased her and ignored her short-tempered remarks; when he took
her to his hometown and told her she might find more than she
expected). "Not a dead end," he says. He reaches out a careful
hand and sets a single pen down atop the blank papers. "It's
time to put everything we have together."

Time to write the story. She notices how he avoids the words (a
wise decision considering the nervous fear already flaring like
jagged, frazzled sparks inside her skin). She also notices that
he isn't blocking her escape, but he is angled so that he fills
her vision. Notices that he's keeping his voice low and his
movements slow. That he is saying only enough to make her draw
her own conclusions and then leaving her to read the
implications.

In short, she notices all her own tactics being used against
her.

And he is still here. She has not given him an excuse, has not
enticed him or even invited him to stay, has not used her own
voice and a flow of words to drown out the calls for Superman.
She has done nothing, but he is here. If she actually does do
something (gives into the nervous temptation making her fingers
itch), then how much *longer* can she get him to stay?

Besides. She is not the only one who is not a reporter anymore.
Not the only one who misses writing stories to make the world a
better place. Not the only one who wants to reclaim an important
piece of herself she has lost.

"Okay," she says, determinedly, to hide her panic. Her hands
tremble as she pulls the pen and paper toward her. "What
first?"

And the hours slip away. After just a few moments, she forgets to
be nervous or afraid, forgets to doubt herself. After just a few
easy exchanges between her and Clark as they bounce sentences
back and forth (sentences, but not the pen; he always makes *her*
write their chosen words down), she forgets that she and Clark
haven't worked together for years, for decades, for all their
lives, bound and twined together until there is no way to tell
them apart. After just a few lines of blatant black ink spilled
over white paper (bringing use and purpose out of emptiness), she
forgets that they really don't have as much evidence, as many
hard facts, as Perry would demand of them. She forgets everything
but that this is what she was born for, what she is good at, what
she *loves* doing.

But when she's finished, when an actual, complete article lays
before them, she is alive and afire, but also suddenly and
intensely scared. Because if she can write again, then that means
she can destroy Clark's life all over again, just when he's
finding some measure of level ground again (just when he's
stopped being polite and started being friendly again).

Clark, though, looks incandescent with happiness, his smile wider
than she's seen it since before her last good (awful, dangerous,
*stupid*) article. "I knew you could do it," he says, all
sincerity and pride and belief. "Perry will be overjoyed when he
gets this."

Lois's own brilliant smile is doused immediately. "I'm not
sending this in. Thank you, Clark, for helping me, but this
article is never going to see the light of day." And without
giving herself time to reconsider it, she reaches out, picks up
their article, and rips it neatly in half.

"What?" Clark's brow furrows, his eyes wide behind the
glasses. "Why... I don't understand. I know it wasn't as
fleshed out as it should have been, but it was *good*, Lois.
Really, I'm not just saying that. This proves that you
*haven't* lost your talent like you thought. You're still one
of the best--"

"No." She interrupts him before she collapses under the weight
of her guilt (her rising pride, her answering assurance, her
desire to *prove* to the entire world that she is still Lois
Lane, investigative journalist; the burgeoning temptation to
forget the lessons she's learned and go back to destroying her
life and his and others she never takes the time to consider).
The awakening fire he's stirred up within her turns into
resolution, fierceness in her conviction--like coal turned into
diamonds. "It's not that. But if I start writing articles about
events and people in Coast City--the city where Superman's
parents are now so widely known to be, and so soon after I was
already spotted here--everyone in the world will suddenly be
absolutely certain that you weren't just visiting here. That you
live here, and I've uncovered you again. It would expose you,
and pull even more danger down on your parents and James. Kind of
defeats the whole purpose of hiding me, you know? So, as good as
it feels to be writing again, it isn't happening. I won't do
that to you again."

Clark just looks at her, eyes brimming with so much open emotion
that tears spring to Lois's own eyes (and she is not even sure
why). Then, slowly but all in one smooth motion, Clark rises,
steps close, pulls her to her feet. And while she is still
breathless and trembling, he draws her into a hug.

It is better than the other two hugs that already fill her dreams
and her vacant thoughts and her foolish dreams. Better because he
is the one who initiates it this time. He is touching her,
pulling her into his orbit--of his own free will. Voluntarily.
Without coercion. He is not hugging her because she hugged him
first and he is too polite and kind to rebuff her. He is hugging
her because he *chooses* to. Because he wants to.

He is glad she is here, he had said.

He wants to touch her, he is saying, through his arms looped
around her and his hand cradling the back of her head to his
shoulder. Through the steadiness of his chest rising and falling
beneath her cheek and the rapid flutter of his heart in her ear.

Two truths so much more impossible than babies from other planets
falling to Kansas or a super-powered hero dedicating his life,
above and beyond the call of duty, to saving as many lives as he
can. More unbelievable than Lois Lane realizing she was wrong and
traveling all across the country to apologize for it and finding
herself all too willing to make herself over for a man (who
deserved it; who did not ask it of her; who seemed oblivious to
just how much she's been wanting to hug him for weeks now).

"Thank you, Lois," he breathes, the words stirring a strand of
her hair and sliding it against her temple. A tickling impression
that reassures her this is not just another dream, doomed to
bring only disappointment when she wakes. Her heart does a
strange tripping skip when his lips brush over that same temple
in a light kiss that feels almost (too much) like a benediction,
reverent and aloof.

"For what?" she manages to ask even though she is terrified to
say anything (to break her own silence and cause more damage with
her own words; to turn truth into nightmare).

"Just...just for being you," he says. And Lois has to pull back
(even if it means waking herself), has to look up into his eyes
to see what they say (even if it means crushing disappointment).
She needs to know, needs to *see*, needs to imprint every instant
of this moment into her brain so that she can never forget it (so
that even if this is the only moment she ever gets, she will be
able to relive it every day for the rest of her life).

Clark looks down at her, and he is smiling. A soft, secretive
kind of smile, close-mouthed and lop-sided and heartfelt. He
bends his neck, and his eyes flutter closed, lashes dark against
his cheekbones, and then he kisses her other temple, her cheek,
both cheeks, the center of her brow, and finally, the corner of
her mouth. Closer, closer, closer to a real kiss, as if daring
himself, as if testing himself (as if trying to convince himself
she is not the one who betrayed him and ruined him and came back
in time to lead to his parents being hospitalized).

She is holding her breath, suffocating, drowning, her own eyes
wide open because she can't go through life with her eyes closed
and blinders on again (not when the cost is so high). Her heart
is pounding at the inside of her breastbone, reverberating
through her veins, beating for freedom, for hope, for *love*.

But it cannot get out (is trapped forever), and Clark apparently
can go no further (can pretend no longer, not nearly enough, his
imagination failing in the face of her crimes), and he does not
bring his lips to hers. Does not pull her into the kind of kiss
she's been remembering (been trying to forget because it's
easier to miss something when you've never had it, never
experienced it, never let it slip through your fingers before you
even knew you wanted it) from the plane over Metropolis, the
cover story and Trask's eyes on them and Clark's fingers in her
hair and the hesitation before he'd followed her lead.

He does not kiss her. Because he thanks her, in the same moment,
for being her--and she is Lois Lane and he is Clark Kent and Lois
Lane will forever be synonymous with the end of Clark Kent and
how could she have ever let herself think that that could be
ignored or forgotten or forgiven?

Instead, he pulls her back into a close hug, and sighs a heavy
sigh that rattles against her frame and sends her heart slinking,
beaten and cowed, back to its usual place.

And Lois finally closes her eyes, and hides her face in his
chest, and pretends she is not shattering into a million
dust-and-ash-like pieces.

***

18

Lois feels inordinately nervous to have James up here on the roof
with her, amidst the maze-like planters filled with crops she's
nurtured and protected and helped along as well as she knows how.
If he were still *Jimmy*, she wouldn't be so anxious about what
he might be thinking as he looks around at the fruit of her
clumsy labors; she would be impatient and careless, heedless of
how the younger man judges her and her efforts.

But he is not Jimmy. He is James, and he has earned her respect
on top of her dormant affection for him. He is James, and he is
like a brother to Clark and a son to Jonathan and Martha, and
that makes him important. He is James, and his opinion, his
judgement, *matters* (because out of all the employees of the
Daily Planet, he is the *onlyone* who chose right on that
fateful, infamous day).

Her knot of tension barely has time to grow, to send out tendrils
of roots (and oh man, she *has* become a farmer if *that's* the
simile she picks), before James ends his perusal, turns to her,
and smiles his young, wide smile. "Looks great," he proclaims,
and Lois feels twenty pounds lighter. The grin turns mischievous
almost instantly, as fast as the twinkle in his eye appears.
"Looks like that black thumb you had in the newsroom was just a
disguise, huh?"

A disguise. A mask. A lie.

She's not sure if he means the backhanded reference to what she
stole from Clark. She thinks he does. She thinks he wants her to
remember where they started (in that old, dying diner with salt
and pepper shakers as cracked as the trust between them) and
realize how far they've come (to a rooftop covered in green,
staring at the skies for a glimpse of Superman oh so carefully
flying his injured parents to an undisclosed location). She
thinks he's using a reference to the worst time in their
relationship, turning it into a joke, to remind her that things
are different now. She is an ally (not an enemy), a friend (not
an uninvited guest), and the genuineness of his grin makes it
impossible for her to take offense or fall back into debilitating
guilt.

"My greatest secret," Lois replies casually, and she is not
talking about green thumbs.

James's smile turns soft and slow and relieved all over again
(as if he worries always, constantly, ceaselessly, and has lost
hope that there will ever be a time when he does not need to; as
if he is not used to allies to his cause and help in these lonely
moments and a worry falling away).

A glimpse of red and blue in the sky distracts them. It is Clark,
impossibly distant (but visible expressly because he knew Lois
wanted to see Jonathan and Martha in whatever way is open to
her), on his way to a new, secret location with his parents. He
and James haven't told her where the Kents are going, and
truthfully, Lois doesn't want to know (doesn't want another
secret to protect, or give away, or to be used as a test of her
loyalty). She wants them to be safe, and if ignoring her
curiosity on this subject is the only way to see that done, then
she will practice a bit of the self-control she's had to take a
crash-course in since arriving at this private suite.

"The cameras and helicopters can't track him?" she asks, even
though she already knows the answer. James spent over an hour the
night before reassuring her they had all the kinks in the plan
worked out.

"No," he tells her anyway, patience as dark and heavy in his
voice as the sunglasses over his eyes. "And Clark made sure all
the satellites that could be tracking him are
temporarily...unaligned, shall we say. Besides, once he's out of
sight of the immediate spectators, he's going to accelerate to a
speed the human eye can't discern. Don't worry--his aura will
protect the Kents while he's carrying them."

"It doesn't protect his cape," she points out (for the tenth
time).

The glasses give him a cover, but she's relatively sure James is
rolling his eyes anyway. "He's holding his parents a lot closer
than the cape, trust me."

"I just want them to be okay," she whispers.

"They're okay." His voice is calm, his expression steady, his
hand on her shoulder warm and comforting. "They're fine. Clark
made a lot of friends in his journeys around the world--friends
who are more than willing to help him without tipping off the
press. The Kents will be well taken care of."

"Something that cannot be said for you." A shadow falls across
them both, blotting out the sun, distracting from that glimpse of
red and blue, startling both Lois and James as they turn away
from the skies.

The careless, drawling voice is one that Lois has heard in her
nightmares for months (since the suffocating heat of tents and
the feel of fingers around her throat and the sound of a gunshot
cloaked in green), and for a long, frozen moment, she thinks she
has imagined it. Here. In her sanctuary. In the pseudo-fields
where she has found some measure of peace with herself (has
achieved *contentment*, which she found lacking all the way up
until the instant she hears this voice and now realizes there are
oh so much worse things) and learned of the Clark she lost in
Smallville.

From behind the planter near the stairwell emergency exit (the
same planter that had been infested with bugs, Lois thinks
numbly), from behind the cloaking lushness Lois herself has
helped cultivate, he steps. A figure of terror and regret and
choking guilt and blame. A man embodying so many of Clark's
childhood fears. (So many of her own recent terrors.)

Trask.

Here. In this moment. *Not* a dream. *Not* a nightmare. *Real.*

He is standing four feet in front of her and he is holding a gun
leveled at them and James is moving, darting in front of her, his
hand raising up from near his ankle, and there is something dark
in that hand, something black, something shaped very like a
gun--

The gunshot deafens Lois and sends her reeling backward. Silence
envelops her like an atmosphere of private confinement, numbing
her to the world, to this reality that is so much like the
nightmares she hasn't experienced in weeks.

For an instant, she is back in Smallville, beside a lake near the
Kents' barn. Clark is bruised and dirty and covered in the dirt
but standing upright and defiant while a green rock glows inches
away from him, and Trask is looming over him until the second
gunshot sounds and then he is clutching his arm and running and
leaping into the van that wheeled away and out of sight, pursued
by (but ultimately evading, a fact she has conveniently forgotten
or ignored all these months) the Smallville police.

For an instant, Lois is back in that moment, choking on anger and
hurt and terror. For an instant, she is overwhelmed with the
enormity of her emotions and the depth of her reaction. For an
instant, she cannot think, can only scream a silent shriek that
scrapes along the insides of her skull. Because Clark had been in
danger, he'd been *hurt*, and she hadn't known, hadn't
realized, had only seen the lies and the masks and the false
conclusions. He'd been hurt, and she had not cared because other
things had seemed so much more important and real and
imperative.

But then James falls with a grunt to the ground, his shoes (smart
and practical shoes, not the sneakers he used to wear) skidding
through the gravel, and his gun (the gun *Jimmy* would never have
owned) falls uselessly aside, and the scent of blood is
overpowering, drowning out the smells of the plants on either
side of them and the water misting from the sprinklers a few rows
down.

"James!" Lois cries, and this time she knows what is important
(knows the difference between false pride and practical
possibilities), so she does not throw herself uselessly at the
standing, smirking Trask with his (metaphorically) smoking gun,
but drops to her knees at James's side.

He is bleeding from his left shoulder, the gravel beneath him
swimming in his life-blood. His face is pale, almost ashen, his
sunglasses gone and his eyes dark and hollow. He tries to reach
up with his hand, tries to lift his right hand toward his left
side, but he forgets the splint still there, forgets his
weakness, and he cries out in pain and curls in around himself.

"Shh, shh," Lois murmurs, over and over again, trying to think
past her own panic. She sets her own hands over his shoulder,
tries to staunch the bleeding (so much of it, wet and sticky and
startlingly hot against her palms, filling up every crevice,
every pore, staining her fingernails, a pool of it that she
kneels in, her flesh forever marked by her sins and mistakes). He
yelps again, flinches, and his entire body spasms. She presses
harder (focuses on him so that the memories cannot drown her and
Trask cannot cow her), shrugs off her jacket and uses it as an
inept, bulky bandage.

Behind her, Trask comes nearer, his footsteps heavy. Ponderous.
Implacable.

"I knew you'd lead me to the alien eventually," he says, all
cocky surety and brash insanity. "I knew all I had to do was
follow you long enough, and he couldn't help but show
himself."

Before, she would have tried to bluff him (would have stared him
in the face and dared him to take his best shot at her, Lois
Lane, the great investigative journalist, so sure and confident
and immortal). But this is now, and the world is changed (so
utterly different that it seems alien), and she cannot look away
from James (so young and so important and so loved and so
vulnerable), cannot think of anything past the blood pooling
around her hands and staining her dove-grey jacket (cannot let
herself think of Clark, right now bearing his precious cargo to a
safe place, so scared for their safety that it had taken him and
James and a team of people at the Superman Foundation weeks to
come up with a plan he would accept; so relieved that after this
morning he would not have quite so much to worry about with
everyone he loved somewhere safe).

She is old and frightened and has lost too much already. It's no
longer in her to be quite so blase about her life (about
*Clark's* life). So she does not try to pretend she doesn't
know what Trask is talking about, does not try to make him think
there is help coming. She does nothing (because all she does
brings ruin) but try to keep at least a few liters of blood in
James's veins (because she cannot help but keep trying and doing
and hoping even with all the proof against her).

James's lashes flutter a few times before a sliver of his dark
eyes are revealed. They latch onto her, desperate, intent, as if
he is trying to tell her something. He lifts up his splinted hand
again, but the pain of the movement ripples in spasms across his
face and he falls back, limp and beaten.

"Shh, shh," she keeps saying, stuck on repeat (doomed to the
endless cycle of being invited into Clark's home and learning a
bit more about him and then watching, *causing*, it all to turn
on him, to transmogrify from hope and comfort and love to pain
and fear and weakness).

"Don't worry about him." Trask's shadow falls over her, heavy
across her shoulders, blotting out the sun. "He's not going to
die. Yet. First, you're both going to help me destroy the alien
invader. I'm doing you a favor here, Lane, you and the kid--I'm
giving you the chance to turn from traitors to your own
race...into heroes for your world."

"Never." Her throat is dry, her mouth parched, her lips
cracked, but her voice (her choice to break her own silence) is
loud and defiant. Finally, she can look up at him, can crane her
neck and skip past the view of the bullet (slick with James's
blood) embedded in the elevator doors, and look Jason Trask full
in the face.

He smirks at her (laughs at her scraps of courage). "You forget,
Lane--I turned you into a hero after my own heart once already. I
can do it again."

Then he brings his hand down, the gun dark and bold and stark,
and Lois's vision explodes in a shattering of light and sparks
and the silhouette of brightness against darkness.

The rooftop vanishes. Lois falls.

*She hadn't wanted to go to Smallville. It was a waste of time,
blatant favoritism on Perry's part to give Clark a trip home on
the Planet's dime. There wasn't, she was so sure (so
determined), going to be anything there worth her time or effort.
Clark spent the entire plane ride and car trip trying to chivvy
her out of her dark mood, his indomitable smile and innocuous
attempts at humor almost enough to pierce her resentment if she
hadn't been so flatly intent on remaining *unimpressed*.*

*But then they'd arrived at the Irig farm, and Clark had
motioned to her to keep Sherman talking, and he'd faded to the
side, back, back, back until even Lois's careful sidelong
glances couldn't show her where he was. Later, she'd realize
that when he fiddled with his glasses he must have seen Wayne
Irig (inextricably linked in his mind withmemories of happier
times and an idyllic childhood and caramel apples) tied up
inside. Later, when she is alone and there are no stories fizzing
at the ends of her fingertips anymore, she'll piece it together
and realize Clark had used her distraction to superspeed through
the camp and snatch the bloodied, bruised farmer right out from
under Trask's nose.*

*A noble gesture. A heroic act.*

*A foolish miscalculation.*

*Because then Trask had known, and he'd realized Superman was
here, even if not in the Suit, and he'd connected the arrival of
reporters Lois Lane and Clark Kent to the Kent farm down the
road, and then...well, then that had been the beginning of the
end.*

*But at the time, all Lois had known was that she didn't even
want to be here but she was doing her best anyway, for crying out
loud, and yet when Clark returned, he claimed he hadn't found
anything and all her efforts were in vain. *

"*Nothing suspicious," he said, and Lois had looked at him and
known he was lying (he's never been a good liar, even then when
he had so much more need for it).*

*It made her angry. No. It made her *furious*. All this way, side
by side with him, doing her *best* even on such a stupid excuse
for a story, and he was finally doing what she'd been certain
this whole time he would. *

*He was lying to her. Hiding something from her.*

*He was trying to steal this story and make it his own.*

*He was leaving her behind.*

*And suddenly she'd known there *was* a story, and it must be
big, big enough to worry about, and she could not let this
small-time reporter from a town that worshipped corn deities come
out on top.*

*So she'd smiled and pretended to believe him, and she'd gone
with him to the Corn Festival. And her own plan had begun to take
shape. *

*If Clark wouldn't tell her what he'd found beyond the line
Sherman hadn't allowed them to cross, well, she'd just have to
pay her own visit.*

*Later, she'll realize how foolish that was, but later...later,
it is already far, fartoo late.*

When she opens her eyes, the lights are still there, floating in
the center of her vision and swirling about all but
psychedelically at the edges. She groans and brings one hand up
to her brow--or tries to, but both hands come together, bound
tightly with thick, scratchy rope.

"Lois?"

She squeezes her eyes shut again, does her best to *will* herself
better, and then opens them. The sparks fade back, not gone but
at least dulled, and Lois is able to take in her surroundings. A
small closet-like space in a damp, cold office building abandoned
what looks to be decades ago. There's water dripping somewhere,
she has the damp feeling at her back to inform her she's lying
in a puddle, and only marred, vague daylight issuing from
painted-over windows illuminates the makeshift cell. It's been a
while since she's last been kidnapped (the last time was
Smallville, with Trask and his paranoid whispers and insane
schemes and effective manipulations), but she finds the entire
situation all too depressingly familiar.

Except...except this time she has a lot more than a story or a
source or her life to protect.

This time, Clark is depending on her.

Clark Kent, and everything that entails. The last vestiges of the
man she came thousands of miles to find. The remnants that she
and James have been working so hard to resurrect. The fledgling
hope and confidence he has only just begun to reclaim.

With a sudden sick feeling of urgency and panic, Lois sits
upright. Her head protests with a truly nauseating array of
sensory upheaval, but she narrowly manages to avoid vomiting in
the puddle seeping through her clothes, and looks up to see
James. He's propped up near the door, his shirt gone, blood
staining his pale skin (almost gray in the sparse light), and the
bullet wound is stitched closed with jagged lines of inky shadow.
His cast is missing; he holds his left arm close to his body, his
wrist cradled in his right hand.

"L-Lois," he says again. "Are you okay?"

"Am I okay?" she repeats, not sure she wants to know the
answer. Then, belatedly, she shifts to her knees and crawls
toward him, awkwardly due to her bound hands. Her feet are bound
too, a fact that seems trivial in comparison to the rest of their
situation. "You're the one who was shot, James."

"Trask doesn't want me dead," James says with the suggestion
of a shrug that makes his face go even more ashen. "They patched
me up--a bit of a q-quick, messy job, but hey, I guess I can't
complain."

"You..." Her throat is hoarse, her mouth parched, her heart
shriveled up within the confines of her ribcage, and she almost
cannot get the words out. Almost forgets that she has been
learning how to be strong again (a *better* strong, a more
selfless strong) and that she has vowed to do whatever she can,
whatever she *must*, to save Clark even if that includes facing
up to truths she'd so much rather avoid.

Again, she squeezes her eyes shut (as if that will make it any
better), and clears her throat, and forces herself to say, "You
know *why* he doesn't want us dead."

"Of course." James's tone, in direct contrast to hers, is
almost cavalier. As if it doesn't matter. As if there is nothing
to be afraid of. As if (in a delayed echo to her own actions) he
is simply reflecting her own careless thoughts of months previous
back on her. "Trask isn't exactly shy about admitting his
plans. He expects Superman to arrive v-very shortly."

Lois gapes at him, stares with all the astonishment she can
muster in the hopes that he will snap out of his shock or his
drug-induced stupor or *something*, and realize how bad this
situation is.

James only shifts a bit against the wall, adjusts his arm in his
lap, tightens his grip over the watch adorning his wrist.

"James," she says slowly, calmly, rationally (because *one* of
them needs to be thinking clearly), "you know we can't let that
happen. We can't let Cl--Superman come here. Trask is
dangerous."

She's afraid to spell it out, just in case her late-night
musings, her regretful ponderings, have led her to the wrong
conclusion. Just in case Trask is listening for any sign of
weakness. Just in case the universe is trying to set her up to
destroy Clark Kentagain.

"He is," James agrees amiably. "Very dangerous. Of course,
you'd know that better than anyone."

Flashes of long-repressed memory spark in front of her, specters
crowding the room, looming over her, trapping her between their
pain and regret and guilt. Trask coming in behind her after
she'd snuck into his camp, jerking the tent-flap closed before
she could even start to think about making a run for it, staring
at her with that infuriating smirk twisting his lips. Her anger
at being trapped. Her foolish (stupid, *stupid*) defiance as
she'd informed him Superman could never be harmed by Trask, that
he was a hero, invulnerable and powerful and *good*. Her fear
when Trask's hand had closed around her throat and mouth, the
feel of him hard and dangerous behind her as he pushed her to the
edge of the tent. Her shock at hearing Clark's voice, and
irritation thinking he'd come after her and walked into the same
trap as she did. And her complete and utter astonishment when
that earnest, sarcastic voice had morphed into a deeper, more
confident voice that she'd heard dozens of times in her dreams
and her fantasies and her infrequent interviews.

The sense of betrayal.

The rage.

The humiliation.

When she'd written her article, she'd thought those feelings,
that upsurge of terrible, broiling, mixed emotions, were the
worst part. But later, when there was no one to call her, no one
to buy her snow cones or pretzels, no one to touch her simply to
let her know she was not alone duringthe hardest moments of her
life--later, she'd realized the worst part cameafter those
emotions. After she'd escaped Trask, after she'd joined Jimmy
in rushing with the police to the Kent farm (but only so she
could catch Clark in the act, not so she could save him; not
then, and maybe that is the most shameful part of the entire
debacle), after she'd seen the Kents stumbling from a burning
barn out into the open only moments after their son had stood
upright before a madman through sheer force of will while all the
while a green rock burned and glowed and writhed with poisoned
potency at his feet.

After, when there was no Clark left and Superman died a little
bit more every day.

Yes. She knows how dangerous Trask is. She knows just what kind
of damage he can do. And she knows exactly what he thinks of
Clark (she still dreams of it, sometimes, his blunt voice in her
ear, threading its way through her bloodstream like poison,
coating her in a filth no amount of showers can ever cleanse her
of).

"We can't let this happen," is all she says, though, because
she cannot let James know just how weak she is. She cannot fail
him, cannot let him down after he has trusted her and allowed her
into their elite pact. She must be strong for him, must be calm
and firm and clear-headed so that they can get out of here (and
she can leave Clark Kent behind forever, then, before she ruins
what little is left of his life yet again, because this can*not*
happen again).

James studies her, curiously. Bemusedly. "What do you suggest we
do?" he asks.

"Well..." She's clumsy with bound hands, with the coarseness
of the ropes rubbing her skin raw with every move she makes, but
she finally manages to untie the bindings around her ankles. She
stands and moves to the door. "First things first..."

"Locked?" James asks. He still sounds insanely calm, still
watches her as if he is not trapped here at all.

Lois throws her shoulder against the door, ignoring the
complaints from what must surely be a concussion, and then kicks
it with panic she's only barely controlling. "Yes," she
finally says regretfully. "But maybe I can twist those pipes
over there free and use them as a lever to pry the door off by
the hinges."

James follows her gaze to the rusted water pipes against the edge
of the far wall, the source of the dripping water. "Maybe," he
says noncommittally. The pipes are heavy and corroded and
spattered with rust and mold, but they are wedged solidly into
the floor and the wall, and Lois doesn't have much more hope
than James, but she can't just sit here. Not again. Not ever
again.

(It's like a mantra, pounding in her head along with her rapid,
uneven heartbeat: *Never again. Never again. I won't. I won't.
Never again.*)

She has to do something. For once, for the first time, she needs
to *help* Clark instead of hurt him.

So she pries at the casings around the pipes, scratches at them
with her fingers, refuses to take notice when her nails tear and
rip and blood begins to drip down the pipes along with the dank
water. In the corner, tossed aside as if it were in the way, she
sees the remains of James's splint, soaked and dirty just like
her clothes and her hair and skin and everything around her. Her
current surroundings are so different from the lush rooftop
garden, her situation as a prisoner so far removed from her time
as a guest in that suite of rooms she'd almost begun to fool
herself into thinking she belonged in, that she wonders if maybe
she *isn't* just imagining all this.

Except that James is so still, so calm, so uncharacteristically
unworried. He could be in shock from the bullet wound, or maybe
it's whatever drugs they gave him (if they gave him any at all,
a question she doesn't bother to ask because knowing just
exactly how cruel Trask is won't help her any at the moment),
or...

Lois's movements still. She falls motionless, her mind turning,
running, scanning through the possibilities. She can't believe
it. She *won't* believe it. And it doesn't make any sense,
but...

"This isn't a test, is it?" she blurts out. She studies James
closely, squinting to make him out more clearly in the shadows.
"I mean...that's impossible. Trask wouldn't--*you* wouldn't
work with him, but..."

The twist to James's lips is entirely too cynical for someone as
young as he is. He rolls his head back against the wall and
hisses in his breath when he accidentally jostles his shoulder.
"N-no, Lois. I mean, yes, I h-have tested you since I first
agreed to meet you, of course I have, but this...this is not a
test." His voice drops lower, beads of sweat visible on his
brow, his cheeks, his upper lip, shimmering in the light that
dances off the dark, silvery water puddled all around them. "I
wish it were."

Strangely disappointed (because a test, even if cruel and
extreme, would be better than *this*), Lois turns back to her
useless tugging at the pipes. "This isn't coming free," she
finally admits. Her wrists are bruised from moving against the
bonds, and she temporarily turns her attention to trying to untie
the ropes with her teeth. All she ends up with is a mouthful of
coarse strands and the taste of copper against her gums (not
quite peppermint but just as bitter).

"M-maybe just as well," James says, almost inaudibly. "Trask
has a lot of men with him, probably all that's left of Bureau
39. P-plus, we've been here a couple hours besides however long
before we woke up, so we might not be anywhere near Coast City or
a-a-any kind of civilization."

"You have a watch," Lois points out, more to ignore the
ramifications of what he is saying than because she cares what
time it is. Clark planned to be gone all day anyway, moving his
parents and settling them in wherever it was he took them. And
with a whole day devoted to Clark duties, he will probably choose
to stay out all night answering the cries for Superman. It could,
conceivably, be a day or more before he returns to the suite and
realizes they are missing.

"A w-w-watch," James stutters. He is shivering, hard,
uncontrollably, sweat dripping down his cheeks. "Right." He
looks down, curls his hand over the face of the timepiece.
"It's not...not working."

He's going into shock. Or, more likely, has been in shock for a
while now, and that, piled on top of the wound in his shoulder
and his broken arm and whatever Trask's men did to stitch him
up, is now resulting in a system shutdown.

"James!" Lois abandons the stubborn pipes and falls to her
knees at his side. "James, talk to me. What can I do?"

"I'm j-j-just...r-really c-c-cold." He doesn't sound calm or
in control anymore. He sounds like a little boy, a young kid
playing dress-up in his father's clothes and pretending to a
maturity he only has because the world is far too cruel of a
place. He sounds lost and alone and scared.

He finally sounds helpless, and contrarily, Lois wishes he would
go back to that unnatural calmness (wishes he would reflect more
Clark-traits back at her because that is all the Clark Lois will
ever be able to get from now on).

"It's okay," Lois says, even though it is not, even though
things could not possibly get more *not*-okay. She says it
because he needs to hear it (and she needs to say it, to have
control over this one tiny thing) and because she wants to help
him, to give back to him. Because she does not think she will
ever be able to face Clark again if she has to tell him that his
adopted brother died in her arms. "It's okay, James. We're
going to be okay."

She maneuvers herself until she is sitting propped up beside him,
her bound hands resting on his knee to give him as much of her
heat and touch and reassurance as she can. He stiffens, rigid,
wracked with shuddering chills, for just the smallest instant
before he is leaning down into her, resting his head against her
shoulder. She tries to press closer, wishes her hands were free
so she could wrap her arms around him, protect him from anything
and everything outside this cell with her own flesh and blood and
bone and fractured heart.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers against his hair, heedless of the
mud and grime crusted into it (heedless of everything but his
body spasming against hers and the deathly pallor to his skin and
the catch in his breathing as he tries not to cry). "I'm so
sorry. You told me I'd bring him nothing but pain, but I didn't
believe you. And now this is all my fault. Trask only found us
because of me."

"N-n-no!" James tries to pull away but falls back against her.
The bone-jarring collision hurts, but Lois takes it stoically,
braces herself against the wall to give him more support.
"D-don't ap-pologize. I...I was w-wrong, Lois. I was so *m-mad*
at you for that story. F-for hurting him. I wanted to m-make sure
y-y-you could n-never do it again. But...but he was so
*w-w-wounded* after Nightfall. P-probably before, too, but h-he
hid it better then. W-when he came back, all hurt and bruised and
hollow, w-we couldn't help him. He j-j-just sh-shut himself
down. That's the reason I finally went to s-s-see you, because
even though y-you could hurt him, you were a-also t-the only
thing that could make him react. Could ground him and pull him
in, a-and we *needed*th-that.*He* needs that m-more than
a-anything."

"But he loves you," Lois says. She's not sure if she is
reassuring him or resenting the truth of that sentence. "You and
his parents--you're the only ones that stayed with him. The only
ones that still saw him as Clark."

"Th-that's not true." James huddles closer to her heat. She
wants to believe that his chills are getting better, but she
thinks it would be a lie. His skin is ice-cold against hers,
except his cheeks; when they brush against hers as he speaks, she
feels a feverish heat. "*You* s-still see him as Cl-Clark. In
fact..." He takes in a huge, gasping breath. "I think you
always saw him as Clark. I think th-that's why you were s-so mad
when you f-found out the truth. He thought you w-would only s-see
Superman, but it's the o-opposite, isn't it? You th-thought the
story would only hurt Clark, not S-Superman."

The truth of those words hits hard and deep and terrible. Lois
stares blindly ahead into the darkness and feels the world
spinning beneath her, opening up in a gaping hole that sucks her
down and under and away.

"Yes," she hears herself say. "I know it probably makes it
seem worse, but I...I didn't think it would... He was *Clark*,
annoying and endearing and too close, and he was lying even after
I'd started to believe he wouldn't, and when I found out, I
just...I thought he'd have to stop the charade but he'd still
be there. I just thought...that it was a game, and I'd win. I
didn't think that he'd be gone forever. I didn't think we'd
both lose *everything*. I...*I didn't think*," she finally
finishes, and wishes she had more to say in her defense. But she
doesn't.

She didn't think.

She didn't realize.

She didn't stop to consider.

She made a rash decision and let anger guide her, and now here
they are six months later and the world is a darker, colder,
crueler place and James is dying in her arms and Jonathan and
Martha are in hiding and helpless and Clark has no idea just how
much danger he is in or just how alone he is about to become.

"I'm sorry," Lois whispers again, but James makes no reply,
slumped bonelessly against her, and there is only the echo of
dripping water to answer her.

She is sorry. So very, utterly, completely sorry.

But it doesn't matter, because no amount of apologies, no amount
of regret or guilt or ripped up articles or watered plants or
board games can ever erase what she did. She can say she is sorry
for the rest of her life, an endless litany of regret and guilt,
but it won't change anything.

She is trapped in a prison of her own impulsive choices, and
there will never be an escape. Not for her. Not ever.

***

19

James is drowning in cold and suffocated by heat. He is adrift,
lost in a sea of numbness that bites deep and painful, and he
thinks that if he tries to jolt himself awake--or to move at
all--he will spiral down beneath the surface into agony deeper
than he can endure.

But he doesn't have a choice. The one point of clear, concrete
sensation is the cold, clammy feel of his watch imprinted against
the palm of his hand, still clutched tight around it. He can hear
nothing over his own ephemeral state of *being*, but it doesn't
matter.

He knows the watch is screaming.

He cannot hear it. Lois cannot hear it. Trask will not hear it.
Only one man in the entire world will hear it, a frequency unique
to only him.

"Don't worry," Clark had told him dryly, sitting next to him
in their first hiding place, a small house in some middle-class
city James can't even remember the name of (they weren't there
long enough for it to matter). "Whatever wavelength it uses, it
slices through everything else. I heard it in Smallville even
when the Kryptonite was right next to me."

"Are you sure you want *me* to have it?" James remembers
asking. If he concentrates just a bit, floating on this sea of
painful nothingness, he can almost convince himself this moment
is real and present. Can all but feel the words forming and
leaving his mouth. "Maybe your parents should--"

"No." Clark had looked him straight in the eye, *seeing* him.
*Caring*. "Unless you want to leave, Jimmy, you're family now,
always. And if you really intend on working with the Foundation,
you're going to be the one that's out there the most, maybe
sometimes where I won't be able to find you easily. I'm not
saying we can't eventually get a couple for Mom and Dad, but
right now...right now, I want *you* to have it. It's yours, and
I'm afraid you're going to need it. Please, Jimmy--it'll make
me feel better if you wear it."

James had smiled at him (because this worn down stranger he'd
found was still CK; because Clark still needed some smiles in his
life; because James didn't think it was possible to spend any
amount of time in Clark's presence without learning how to smile
all over again). "All right. But call me James, okay? I've been
thinking of switching over anyway, and now seems as good a time
as any."

Clark's never called him Jimmy again (still listening to the
young kid tagging along after him; still listening and hearing
and *acting* on what he hears). James is glad. He doesn't want
to be *Jimmy* again, doesn't want to be weak and young and naive
and so easily led around that he couldn't save CK from that
story even though he'd known about it beforehand. He wants
(*needs*) to be *James*, competent and strong and bold enough to
stand up for what's right *before* it all turns wrong. (Needs to
be *James* because in a world where there is no free CK, there
isn't the luxury of an innocent Jimmy, happy and carefree,
either.) And he needs to be *James* because *Jimmy* and *James*
are both people Clark listens to, but only one of those two is
someone who can make *others* listen too.

*Jimmy* would be able to float on this surface detachment and
avoid the pain of waking up. *James*, though, is better than
that. He has more depending on him than a tiny, cluttered
apartment and a mom out of state. He is strong enough to hear the
shrieking of a watch humming beneath his fingers and know that
Clark will need him to hold on for just a while more.

Intense, serrated pain knifes through his shoulder when he moves,
clear enough to jerk his eyes open to the same dim, depressing
setting they'd closed on. Lois is huddled against his side,
small and scared, but tight-jawed, narrow-eyed, all grim
resolution and indomitable spirit.

He was so disappointed and angry with her that he'd thought
he'd hate her forever, but sometimes...sometimes he sees in her
what keeps Clark so captivated.

"James?" Lois whispers, as if afraid to look at him and realize
he's not actually awake.

"I-I'm here," he grits out through wooden lips, rubber tongue,
frozen throat. He feels feverish-bright, jangling with the
intensity of over-saturation brought on by sickly sensitive
nerves, and he knows he will not last for much longer. Trask and
his ham-fisted men were not gentle when they held him down and
poured alcohol over his shoulder and pushed stitches through his
skin; his arm was not ready for the splint to come off and still
grumbles discontentedly about the frantic way he'd ripped and
torn at it to reach his watch with his sluggish arm; his head
still pounds and thrums with the echoes of the blow that sent him
spiraling into unconsciousness.

In short, he's a mess attached to a ticking time-bomb (drawing
closer to his final detonation with every drop of blood sliding
free of his flesh). All he can control now is letting Lois know
about the signal screaming out for Superman.

But how?

He's no longer naive enough to believe that Trask isn't
watching them, listening in for any indication that they are
calling (or *not* calling, as that is probably Trask's greatest
fear right now) for Superman. James *is* calling for him, but he
and Clark have used the watch enough by now to have a system
worked out.

"Use it, always," Clark had ordered, the only thing he's ever
demanded of James in return for being included in his life (for
not being shut out in that colossal silence that had swallowed
everyone else up). He'd been carrying James to one of his doctor
friends from his wandering days, and James had been too weary,
too scared, to explain why he hadn't used the watch (to finally
tell Clark once and for all how much the older man meant to him
and how James could not bear to ever put that in danger). But
Clark had known anyway, and so he'd made James promise as
they'd flown away from the British man with the smooth, sinister
voice and white goatee and calm threats.

"I don't care if they have Kryptonite or not," Clark had said,
and his voice had shaken, his jaw clenched tight so that the
words almost could not emerge. "No matter what, just use the
watch. I'll be careful--I won't go in without looking first and
scouting around. But *call* me. I'd rather know where you are
than be stuck searching endlessly."

Later, when James was feeling better and all patched up (when the
wound was nothing more than another scar to add to his growing
collection, badges of honor, marks to show that Clark didn't
have to be the one to take every bullet for their small family),
he'd sat Clark and the Kents down and they had developed a few
rules and extracted a few promises of their own from Clark.

James only hopes that Clark *remembers* those promises now, in
his growing isolation and his certain panic. He only hopes (as
seconds tick away and he feels colder and colder) that Clark
doesn't blame himself too badly for any of what happens here
today.

(James only hopes he can forgive himself for dying without
fulfilling his promise to bring Clark Kent back to the world; to
give the world back to Clark Kent.)

"Lois," he whispers, trying to push past gauzy shock and
shimmering agony, trying to remember how to be clever and sly
(how to pass on messages in coded terms).

But his time has run out, in more ways than one.

The door shudders with the force of approaching footsteps (booted
and implacable), then shakes as a lock clicks and a bar is
removed (even hinges pried off and thrown aside wouldn't have
helped, and James adds another hopes to his growing pile: that
Lois realizes this and doesn't feel too badly anymore for the
paltry results of her desperate efforts).

Then it opens.

Trask steps in.

He is arrogant enough to enter alone, smart enough to keep his
hand tucked near his sidearm, and insane enough to scare James
even past the clogging, cloying apathy seeping through his veins
in an effort to replace his life-blood.

"I told you I wouldn't let you die," Trask says, and jerks his
hand.

More black-uniformed soldiers enter. Lois looks small and thin
(as fragile as the strength of an alter ego; as deceptively
strong as the power of a name) when they haul her to her feet. He
thinks she is going to say something, thinks she will denounce
Trask to his face--and maybe she does.

James doesn't know.

Two soldiers grab his arms and yank him up and the whole world
dissolves into sheets of white-hot fire sluicing down his skin,
swallowed up by raging, methodical drumbeats pounding him into
submission, originating from his right shoulder and his left arm.
If he were still thinking coherently, if any kind of cohesion
were left to him at all, he would have felt the world
disappearing as he blacks out for a second (a moment; an
eternity; not nearly long enough).

*He had found Clark more by sheer dumb luck than anything else,
starting in Smallville and moving out in concentric circles,
sleeping in ditches and eating at soup kitchens, searching hotel
databases for any aliases that strike him as familiar (because
Superman might not need to sleep, but his aging parents will
surely need a warm place to rest). It was not the alias that
seemed familiar, but the initials: CK. Right there, staring back
at him, and Jimmy had rushed to knock at the door. *

*There'd been no answer. Not that it mattered; Jimmy was even
better than Lois at picking locks.*

*When he'd burst into the room, Clark had been standing in front
of his parents. He's Superman--all impossible physique,
incredible powers, and innate confidence--but he had looked sick,
then, and haunted and so very, very weary. Clark had sagged in
relief at the sight of Jimmy, and his parents had reached out to
catch him, as if they were afraid he would vanish right in front
of them if they did not constantly hold onto him.*

"*CK!" Jimmy had exclaimed (and to this day, he is incandescent
with relief that out of everything he could have chosen to say,
*that* is what burst out first). "I've been looking all over
for you!"*

"*Why?" Clark had asked. Later, James will realize that Clark
was not as suspicious as he should have been simply because Jimmy
had called him *CK*, not *Superman*. Later, he will think back
and realize that Clark was so tired and so frantic and so
devastated that he had not been thinking clearly. But in that
moment, he was simply glad to have his friend.*

"*Because," Jimmy had said, "I wanted to say I was sorry. For
what they did to you. For not warning you. I told them it was
wrong, but they wouldn't listen to me. I...I did try, CK. I'm
just...really, *really* sorry that it wasn't enough."*

*The Kents had smiled at him. Clark hadn't, not a real smile (he
didn't smile for weeks, for months, until just before Nightfall
when he wanted to reassure them that he would be fine and had
smiled to mask his own terror, oblivious to the fact that they
could see right through him), but the line of his shoulders had
eased and he had sagged down into a nearby chair.*

"*It's enough for *me*," he told Jimmy, and Jimmy had smiled
wide enough for the both of them.*

*They'd had to move the next day (because James isn't the only
one who can recognize a pair of familiar initials). Jimmy had
been afraid they would leave him behind until Jonathan pulled him
to his feet and Martha said Clark could fly him to the next
location after her and before Jonathan. As easily as that, he'd
been part of the unit. Part of the team. Part of the family.*

"*I promise I'll never let you down again," he told Clark when
they'd arrived at their next hiding place, a bit more long-term,
helped along with a few fake IDs Jimmy had hacked into the local
DMV to procure for them. *

*Clark had turned and looked him in the eye (and there are no
shadows under Clark's eyes, because physical weakness doesn't
show up on his strong, smooth, deceptive exterior, but there were
enough shadows *in* his eyes, in the memories dancing there in
silver and brown, to make up for it). "Don't do this because
you feel guilty," he'd said, very seriously. "If you want to
help me, do it for a better reason. Do it for my parents--they
don't deserve this. Out of everyone in the world, *they* don't
deserve this kind of life."*

"*All right," James had agreed (and known that *none *of the
Kents deserved any of this). "I'll do it for them. I'll do it
for you. I'll do it because it's the right thing to do."*

That* was the closest Clark had come to a smile, something easing
in his expression. Until Jimmy had added, "Besides, I know whose
fault this is--Lois's. She's the one who wrote the article and
convinced the chief to publish it."*

*Clark had gone cold and still, so remote that, for the first
time, he'd seemed alien. *

"*I can't believe she did it," he'd said, and his voice had
shaken with repressed emotion. "I just...I don't understand.
How could she do this to me? Or to my parents? I thought...I
thought she at least cared for *Superman*."*

*Jimmy had hesitated, but back then, he'd been a boy and hadn't
known when to keep his mouth shut. "Maybe that made it worse,"
he'd said, thinking out loud. "Maybe it made her even madder
when she discovered the truth." He'd paused, then asked, "How
*did* she discover the truth?"*

"*I think Trask must have told her," Clark had said, looking
away. "I think she knew since Smallville. I guess Godzilla
*wasn't *enough to teach her the lesson I wanted her to learn,
Jimmy."*

*And Jimmy, who had blamed Lois and resented her but until that
moment had still thought there must be some reasonable
explanation, had suddenly and with a passion that took him aback
absolutely *hated* Lois Lane.*

*Because Clark had almost smiled until he remembered Lois, and
then he'd been angry and harsh and bitter (and so very, very
*un*-Clark-like when all Jimmy wanted to do was find and protect
CK).*

*Because Clark had been good and decent and friendly, and now,
after Lois, he was hurt and haunted and *destroyed*.*

*Because Jimmy had liked her, and now he knew firsthand how awful
it felt to be betrayed.*

*(And he was oh so *scared*, because he was so much more like
Lois than he was like Clark, and who was to say *he *would not
turn out the same way? Who was to say that one day it would not
be *him* who made Clark go so remote? Who was to say that Jimmy
would not destroy Lois as easily and thoroughly as she had
destroyed Clark?) *

"*Maybe not," was all he'd said aloud, though, wanting Clark
to ease and relax and maybe almost smile again. "But I learned
every lesson I needed to, CK, and all of it was thanks to
Godzilla."*

He only becomes aware again when he feels Lois's bloody,
blessedly cool fingers on his face, supporting his head, and he
hears her, as righteously angry, as fiercely defensive (as
admirable and beautiful) as she used to be (his champion and hero
and idol; his lifeline in a world of competitive business that
swept him up in its wake), in a time so removed that sometimes he
all but forgets he ever had another life, another name.

"If you want him to live, you need to help him!" she is saying,
her voice like a warm blanket placed just over his head and body
to shield him from the stinging rain of harsh reality. "Please!
He needs medical help, Trask!"

"How convenient," Trask sneers. "That's just what I'm going
to give him."

That sounds decidedly sinister enough that James once more rises
from the ashes of Jimmy to pry his eyes open. What he sees is not
encouraging in the least.

A grungy room, concrete walls and tiny grated window, very
similar to the one they'd just left, only this one contains a
thin, narrow hospital bed surrounded by curtains and an IV stand
and a table full of tools James can't bring himself to focus on.
In short, it looks like a set straight out of those cheesy horror
films he used to like to watch and laugh at. (He's not laughing
now.)

This cannot be good. In fact, it can only be *bad*.

"What is this?" Lois demands. If she is afraid, she hides it
well. James hears only imperative curiosity and haughty disdain.

"*This*," Trask says with a grand sweep of his arm, "is a
message. A message for that *alien* that Earth is not his
playground and that if any more of his kind come, we have ways to
keep them...distant." He squats, bringing himself close, so
close that Lois tightens her grip on James to keep him upright
when he flinches away from the aura of rampant madness circling
Trask. "And you two," he says, calmly, casually, "are going to
send that message for me, just to drive it home." He stands and
moves back, jerking his head toward his men. "Do the kid
first."

*Really?* James thinks. Kid? *Still*? Don't they ever get tired
of that? Granted, his suit jacket and tie and even shirt are all
long gone by now, but he's wearing the suit pants and the stupid
loafers and he's had a haircut in the past couple weeks--when
are they all going to get the message that he's not a *kid*?
He's relatively certain these are his last moments, after all;
doesn't that merit at least a *bit *of respect?

"James!" Lois calls, but she cannot hold onto him when they are
dragging him away.

Pain possesses him inside and out, and even James is not strong
enough to keep himself above its rising swell.

*They had tried to stop Clark from going after Nightfall, but it
was impossible, and they had known it even before they began. *

"*I have to go," he'd said. "I can't let that asteroid hit
Earth, no matter what it takes."*

"*I know," Martha had finally said, her shoulders rounded in
defeat, something dark and twisted and broken in her eyes (and it
had scared James, to see that look there when nothing else thus
far had managed to bend the Kents). "But don't do this because
you think you have to earn a place here."*

"*You're our son," Jonathan had added, "and that's more than
enough to cement your place here."*

"*Relax," Clark had said, but how could they when he looked so
old and resigned and scared? "I'm not doing this to earn
anything. But there are a lot of lives at stake--the whole world.
All Clark's friends. You guys. Besides, it's not like I have
anywhere else to go."*

*Later, James will realize he'd meant it as a joke. He'll
realize Clark was trying to lighten the mood. But all it had done
then was remind them of just how much they had to lose.*

*The government knew the world was at stake (it was why they had
hunted James down and cornered him and begged him to call
Superman for them). The public didn't even know that much (and
if CK had his way, they never would). But James and the Kents
were the only ones that knew that Clark's life was on the line
too.*

*They'd hugged Clark goodbye and pretended they didn't feel how
tightly he clung to them or how slowly he stepped away or how
minutely his hands trembled as he accepted their last farewell
touches. They'd watched him take off anyway (even though his
eyes screamed his reluctance) and dwindle away to nothing (and
they had pretended they weren't watching history repeat itself,
only with Superman this time rather than Clark Kent). They'd
waited, tense and alert and terrified, for his return. Nothing on
the news to help them, no word from the government because Clark
hadn't wanted them to have a way to contact his parents, and no
sign of a red cape descending from the skies.*

*It had been the next night before James had seen the light flick
on beneath Clark's door, had thrown open the door and rushed
in--and then stopped dead-still at the sight greeting him.*

*Clark hadn't been standing there as he had been the last time
James had burst into a room to see him.*

*He hadn't been scared and haunted but still upright and
protective.*

*He hadn't been still strong and Superman.*

*It had been far, far worse. *

*Clark had been sprawled on the floor, a jumble of limbs and rags
and wounds. His Suit was in tatters, his cape was nothing more
than spare threads dangling from his collar, bruises and blood
spattered his skin like it was paint on parchment, and his entire
frame had been shaking with spasms. James, when he could finally
move again, had fallen to his knees at Clark's side; he'd tried
to touch him, but it was impossible. Every time he got close, the
tremors emanating from Clark's body sent reverberations
resounding through James's frame, skipping through every one of
his molecules. He'd called for help, screamed for the Kents, and
they'd come in a flurry of worry and fear and relief, but it
hadn't mattered. Nothing they'd done had mattered.*

*Clark Kent was broken.*

*He's the strongest man in the world, but still just a man, and
Nightfall had been the last straw. The final act that sent him
toppling over the brink and spiraling out into a place James
couldn't reach. *

*They'd been scared. So scared. He'd spent hours talking with
the Kents (pretending their own paper-thin facade of calmness and
certainty wasn't completely transparent), trying to figure out
what to do, how to help Clark, how to break through the detached
aura of desperation clinging to him tighter than the Superman
Suit. But there had been no solutions, no plans, no hacking that
could help. They couldn't touch him, couldn't find the right
words to reach him, couldn't save him no matter how they all
tried.*

*And then Lois's searches had tripped his alarms, as if on
cue.*

*James had known she'd been searching for him, but he'd had
more important things to worry about, had shrugged it aside
because there was no way she could track him down and Clark had
needed him so much more than Lois Lane ever could. *

*But Clark had been messed up in some primal, deep way that
frightened James (made him wake screaming and sweating from
nightmares where Clark was nothing more than a mindless shell,
grunting in monotones and blank-eyed and no longer able to
*listen* to James's words), and they were desperate.*

*So he'd gone to meet her, and discovered that Lois Lane could
be just as broken, just as defective, just as hollow as Clark
Kent.*

*Not that he'd cared at first. She was the enemy. The traitor.
The villain of the story. The siren that had tempted Clark to try
to find a solution to stay in one place and then had lured him to
razor-sharp rocks and left him there to die, plucked apart piece
by piece by vultures. *

*So what if the act had obviously gutted her too? So what if she
clearly had her own nightmares and guilty conscience and scars?
*

*They were nothing next to Clark's. *

*James should know; he had sat at Clark's bedside night after
night and listened to him mutter about black space and aloof
stars and massive asteroids. He'd sat there, night after night,
and tried to calm him when he woke with suffocating, straining
cries, afraid of being all alone and isolated once again (soothed
him with only his voice because even touch was denied Clark, his
somber, earnest brother who didn't deserve this at all).*

*So he hadn't felt sorry for Lois. He hadn't worried about her,
or about Perry, or about anything but Clark and the Kents (so
tired all the time now, so old and worn and scared).*

*But there were no better ideas, *nothing* they could do, and so,
eventually, they had told Clark.*

"*Lois Lane wants to see you," James had said bluntly one night
when Clark came back from his latest foray into the sunlight. *

*Clark had stilled (his hands trembling as always). His back was
to them, his face to the night-dark windows, but James had seen
his hands curl into fists.*

"*She wants closure," he'd said, and he was pretty sure he was
lying for her (or perpetuating her lie; complicit in her crime of
deceiving herself), but it was all he could articulate. It had
become so *hard *to find words at all when staring at Clark's
silent, shattered form. "She's...she regrets how things ended
last time, and I think she wants to clear the air."*

"*Closure," Clark had repeated, and it was nearly the first
word he'd spoken since waking up in the ruins of his bed after a
particularly bad spasm ("What's wrong with me?" was what he'd
asked then, and the memory of that helpless, trapped voice coming
from CK is still enough to send chills up and down James's
spine). "She *wants* to see me?"*

*James had hesitated, but he was already lying too much (had
already dug himself too deep). "Yes."*

"*Closure," Clark had said again, his voice almost wondering.
"I...I had thought that chapter of my life was over, but...but
maybe it *would *be good to finally ask..." He'd trailed off.*

"*Clark," Martha had said, her own voice tightly controlled
(she'd been the one most vehemently set against this, the one
siding with James when he'd listed the possible consequences of
this decision). "I know you're angry with her, but--"*

"*I'm not." Clark had finally turned to face them, his mouth
curved in what James thinks was meant to be a reassuring smile.
It looked like an abstract drawing, impossible to interpret,
strangely arresting. "I was for a while, yes, but...but I
realized that I didn't want to be angry forever. I didn't want
that moment to define me. Besides, I'm the one who tried to
deceive her, even knowing how good she is at her job. And I
didn't exactly ask her whether she wanted to partner with the
man hiding the biggest secret in the world. With an alien."*

*Martha and Jonathan had both chimed in then, full of denials and
reassurances and remonstrances. But James had watched Clark,
dazed and clearly not hearing a word, and he'd known (had known
from the moment he stepped off a plane onto New Mexico land; the
moment he entered a too-hot diner and saw a thin, fragile woman
who nonetheless unaccountably dominated the space she occupied)
that it was too late.*

"*Yes," Clark had said, looking straight at James. "Yes, I'll
see her. Whatever happens, it can't be worse than things already
are, right? So, yes."*

*And that had been that. With one meeting, one question, one
word, Lois Lane was back in their lives. *

*And James still can't decide if it is for the best or not.*

He'd blacked out again, he realizes, but for not nearly long
enough, because they're slapping his face, jostling him back and
forth as they slam him down onto the hospital bed and tie
restraints across his torso, his arms, his legs. There's no way
to keep his hand on the watch trigger, no way to keep that signal
shrieking out into the night skies as a homing beacon for Clark.
No way to keep trying and hoping and planning and pretending to
be more than he is for Clark's sake (for his own sake, too,
because it's nice to feel needed even when he knows he's really
the one who's needed Clark all along).

A part of James is gibbering in fear, protesting and denying and
bargaining and begging, but he locks all that away beneath calm
detachment and sarcastic thoughts about the word 'kid.' He
wants to give into his fear (so strong, so overwhelming, that he
nearly doesn't have a choice in the matter), but things are not
so easy anymore. Clark might be here already, might be outside
scouting the place, searching for weaknesses, counting the
obstacles, looking through walls or listening for other clues if
there is (as seems likely) too much lead in the way.

Watching. Listening. *Aware* of all that's going on.

Biding his time.

And James will not break, will not cave, will not give into his
fear and sob and beg for his life. He will not be the reason
Clark's compassion overwhelms his common sense and makes him
barge in unprepared. He will not be the weak link that causes
Clark to put himself in danger. (Or, if things go as badly as it
seems they will, he will not let Clark's last memories of him be
of terror and pain and hopelessness, goads to drive CK further
into Superman, away from Clark Kent.)

And if CK is not here yet at all, well then, James still will not
let himself reveal to either Trask or Lois just how weak and
helpless he truly is.

So he doesn't fight (because all his will-power is turned to
pretending to a calmness he holds onto only by the skin of his
teeth), doesn't speak (because if he unlocks his jaw, he thinks
he might start begging and pleading), doesn't do anything to
stop Trask (because it is so much better that whatever Trask
plans to do is done to James, who does not have much time left on
his countdown anyway, than to Lois, who is still alive and
fighting; who has vowed to do everything in her considerable
power to save Clark Kent; who has already done more to bring back
Clark's smile in a few months than James and the Kents have
managed in twice that time).

"You do realize Superman is going to find us, don't you?" Lois
asks.

Trask sneers. "Of course. I'm counting on it. I haven't waited
all this time as those dumb *sheep* out there accept this alien
scout in our midst just to falter here at the finish line. Don't
worry, though--we'll have time to finish up here before he
arrives."

James squeezes his eyes shut to block out the lights swinging
back and forth over his head. It works, though it simply makes
the whole room swirl about him instead. He's tempted to just let
the world fade away from him altogether in dizzying darkness.
That's the easy option. The harder route (the one Clark would
take, and so the one James must choose) is to cling to
consciousness and stay attuned to the voices that continue to
move, in pointed contrast to the circles the room is taking him
through, in linear form.

"You can't know that," Lois is saying, defiantly (of course,
James thinks, taking comfort in the familiarity of it all).

"There are always people willing to stand up against an enemy so
alien to us," Trask says. Gloats, really, as if he has waited
(for decades) to be applauded and vindicated for his ravening
paranoia. "A few tracers--operating at a frequency Superman will
hear only after an extended amount of exposure to them--attached
to those human traitors he calls parents, and I think he'll be
distracted for long enough. He'll stick around to protect them,
never knowing who's *really* in danger."

"What kind of message involves all of *that*?"

At that expressive but uninformative question, James risks
opening his eyes. He wishes he hadn't. He could very easily have
done without the image of a white-coated man (as bulky and
muscled and clearly trained as every other soldier in Trask's
little bureau) coming forward to hook a bag full of noxiously
green liquid to the IV stand. He closes his eyes again, quickly,
but that doesn't negate the feel of someone clamping at his
broken arm to swab at the inside of his elbow. James rides the
resulting ripples of bone-deep, knife-sharp agony to a place
where he can't focus on what else (poisonous and deadly and so
heavily foreboding) gleams as eerily green as that IV bag.

"There's one thing that can hurt that wolf in sheep's
clothing," Trask says from somewhere far away. "What is it you
called it, Lane? Kryptonite?"

There is a sharp, punctured silence (punctuated by the sounds of
the man hovering over James doing things James refuses to
contemplate). Finally, Lois says, in a hollow voice, "You can't
know that. I *didn't* write that. I never told *anyone* about
that!"

"I know." Trask sounds suddenly less pompous and more sinister.
"A somewhat glaring omission from an article that was supposedly
meant to be the tell-all about the creature known as Superman."

James is afraid. He is wounded more deeply than he thinks it is
possible to recover from. He is nauseous and impatient and
desperate. He is hazy and uncertain and fading. But no matter how
much the room spins, he cannot keep himself from speaking (cannot
help but respond, fiercely, when anyone calls Clark Kent, *CK*, a
*creature*). "A tell-all," he forces through lips he clamps
tight in an effort to keep from stuttering. "You said it
yourself, Trask--everyone knows he's an alien and can pass as
one of us, but they've accepted him anyway. Not quite the
reaction you expected."

And for all the complaints James has about the way the world
treats Clark, the way they *use* him, this one thing is true. The
world does accept Superman. They do love him (maybe too much, a
devouring love that obliterates Clark Kent entirely).

Trask, however, doesn't feel the same. His brows lower, his eyes
black and hard, like chips of hatred frozen in place to pierce
the bits of light struggling to survive in the dour surroundings.
"Fools," he spits. "They think that just because he flashes
some bright colors and saves a few individuals he's on our side.
He's a very good PR man, I'll give him that, but all we need to
strip away that illusion of humanity he hides behind is one
simple message. No matter what he looks like on the outside,
he's an alien on the inside. He doesn't belong here. And how
better to illustrate that fact than if the two most high-profile
people on his side--the human PR *he's* recruited for
himself--suddenly can't stand to be near him? If
you...simply...make him *sick*. A bit of proximity and he'll be
powerless. A bit more and he's hurt. A touch"--Trask hovers
close over James, his hand a hair's breadth from James's
forehead--"and who knows? Maybe death can strike even the most
godlike of individuals."

"Death?" Lois repeats, but James can't concentrate on anything
but the immense shadow silhouetted by the glow of poisoned
emerald. The shadow of hatred and bigotry and death so massive,
so intrinsic, that it is impossible to fight. The glow of a
weapon so poisonous that Clark's brows tighten whenever it's
brought up.

"Death," Trask says again, like it's a whisper of some
promised land. "In one stroke, we will both prove to all those
gullible fools out there that Superman is anathema to everything
we are, and also send an inarguable message that we do *not*
accept his presence here on our world. We will not meekly bow the
knee to him, no matter how *superior* he thinks he is."

"A god complex?" James gasps. "I don't think you're talking
about Superman anymore, Jason Trask. It seems to me that *that*
flaw is illustrated a lot closer to home."

Trask's lips quirk upward in a facsimile of a smile. "Maybe.
But if so, it is only because I am all that stands between this
planet and utter destruction." He looks away from James, as if
he suddenly ceases to matter (as if he has suddenly reverted to
Jimmy again), and up to the white-coated man. "Do it," he
orders.

James's heart tries to explode from his chest, his hands start
struggling against the restraints tying him down--and Lois steps
between him and Trask's henchman.

"You want someone to give a death's touch to Superman?" she
asks, so calmly it rings preternatural in the darkness. "Then
why go for James first? He doesn't even look like he's going to
make it, but more than that...don't you think I'd be a better
fit?"

"The kid is the one the alien takes with him everywhere,"
Trasks points out matter-of-factly.

Lois's back, all that James can see, is stiff, as rigid as
James's resolve. "Sure, but how *close* do you think he gets to
Superman? You think he can get closer to Superman than *I *can?
I've already destroyed the alien once--I can do it again, and
much more effectively than James can."

Trask mulls it over, then shrugs. "Fine. You can go first. It
doesn't really matter--both of you are going to have the
procedure done." He steps closer to Lois (to James), looming
over her. "And don't think I don't remember the first time I
held you captive. You had a last request then, too, and thought
you could use it to escape. This time, if I throw you out of a
plane, Superman won't be able to catch you without dropping like
a fly himself."

The restraints are being loosened, someone's grabbing his arms,
lifting him up and away, and Lois is lying down on the cot of her
own free will, and James still cannot comprehend what is
happening.

"Lois. Lois, what are you doing?" he mutters.

Impossibly, she seems to hear him. Looks over at him. Smiles a
small, sad smile. "It's okay, James," she says.
"Everything's going to be okay."

And then she looks down at his wrist. At the watch circling it.

She looks up. Smiles again. And then goes limp, surrendering
herself to the white-coated soldier.

"Lois!" James calls. He tries to struggle, but Trask bats him
aside. He tries to fight his way up, but the ground is spiraling
away. He tries to protest, to make the switch, to save Lois
because he's the one already dying and he's the one who's
expendable and he's the one who's supposed to step between CK
and the next bullet...but he cannot move. He cannot speak. He
cannot think.

He is, as always, too little and too late.

***

20

Poison.

It's not a word she's considered before. Not really. Not as how
it applies to her. Some, bitter and angry, have called her
stories poisonous, and Cat has not been above referring to her
workaholic ways as a sort of poison, but real honest-to-goodness
poison? That's not really been something that's ever mattered
to her.

But now it does. Now it matters more than almost any other word
at all, because Trask is about to leak poison all through her
veins and because...because Lois is poison herself.

*Poison: anything that tends to harm, destroy, or corrupt.*

That's her to a T, right down to the last comma and period,
isn't it?

From the moment Clark came into her life, standing and reaching
out a hand she pretended not to see, she's been harming him.
Put-downs and barbs and insults, and maybe they seemed to roll
right off of him, but not all poisons are fast-acting. Some are
slow and insidious, building up in the bloodstream until the
luckless person collapses with a system already too corroded to
be healed.

But she wasn't content with letting him die slowly. She'd
destroyed him, utterly, in one moment. An article, a secret
revealed to the entire world, and when he'd come to stand in
front of her (asking her what, why, *how* could she possibly do
this to him when he had never done anything to her except save
her life and be her friend), she'd known exactly what to say to
drive the last nail in his coffin. *"You've always claimed to
stand for truth and justice--isn't it only fair that everyone
knows the truth now?*" she'd asked, because she hadn't been
content destroying Clark Kent--she'd wanted to destroy Superman,
too (she'd wanted to make sure he knew she didn't see Superman,
godlike savior, when she looked at him, but rather Clark Kent,
liar and deceiver and betrayer).

And then, when she should have called it quits and left him to
the pitiful remnants that were all he'd had after she was
finished with him, she'd come searching for him again. She'd
found his haven, woven herself through it, pretended she wanted
closure, wanted to help him, to *save* him, but all along, what
had she been doing? She's been corrupting him, tainting
everything she touches, ruining his life all over again, leading
his enemies to him (wanting him to save *her*).

The tension between the Kents and James and Clark and her.

The earthquake.

The doubts Clark has now about what he should do with his life
and just *who* he is.

James dying right in front of her.

All because of her, weakening the tenets of his life, fracturing
the contentment he has managed to miraculously find all on his
own.

*Poison*.

She is poison to him. His own personal Kryptonite. She's
pretended that she isn't, donning her own secret identity of
friend, ally, help, but her mask is nowhere near as good as even
Clark's thin, frail glasses. He's pretended that she isn't,
pretended that her presence doesn't rend and tear and slash at
him. Pretended that he can endure her presence and invite her
closer, and ignoring, all the while, that he is bleeding out from
the inside. But even he cannot take the pretense all the way to
its natural conclusion.

So it's better this way. Better to let the needle pierce her
skin and the liquid Kryptonite draining from that IV bag to slide
through her veins. Better to stamp onto her flesh her poisonous
qualities, like a disclaimer, so that there can be no more
pretending. No more masquerading. No more dreaming of different
choices.

She's Kryptonite, green with bitterness and jealousy and
resentment in a Smallville tent. Green with sickness and guilt
and regret in a Daily Planet newsroom. Green with the real
Kryptonite that will bar her from forever getting close enough to
Clark to finish the job she's been making her life's work (that
will save him from ever having to worry about her ruining his
life again).

Because, sometimes, people can recover from poison. If it's
identified early enough. If it's diagnosed and treated and
avoided forever after.

"Better to have Kryptonite for blood than the red blood of a
traitor," Trask says, and maybe he says more, but Lois does not
bother to listen.

Instead, she turns her face away, to the wall, and listens
(impossibly) for the sound of James's watch. Listens for Clark
coming to save her and the man he loves as a brother. The man who
never betrayed him, never left him, but who *will* destroy him if
he dies before Clark gets here. The man Lois would do anything to
save because Clark needs an ally, a friend, a brother, far more
than he needs his betrayer (his Kryptonite).

*She'd accompanied Clark to the Festival and met his parents and
accepted their offer to stay with them. There was no better way
to keep an eye on Clark, after all, than to stick close to him
and follow him when he tried to sneak off on his own. She tried
to listen in on their hushed conversation in the kitchen after
they'd all come back in from outside in a rush, but the stairs
had creaked and given her away. When she'd entered the kitchen
with some excuse about hearing the fax machine, they'd all been
staring at her with faux smiles. *

*Lying. All of them. Hiding something from her. Looking at her as
if she was the outsider.*

*Whatever this was, she'd realized (so vindictively, so
triumphantly, and later, she will cringe inside at the
conclusions she drew) that this story was even bigger than she'd
thought if they were all trying so hard to keep her out of it. *

*The next morning, she'd come downstairs and seen the Kents
crowded around a truck driven by a battered-looking man. They'd
waved him off and watched him leave, and when they'd come back
in and found her, she'd done her best innocent impression. *

*The Corn Festival hadn't given her any new information. Not
that she'd been trying too hard. The real story wasn't the
people she was interviewing; it was the man she kept an eye on
all morning. Constantly bracketed by his parents, Clark hadn't
tried to sneak away, hadn't exchanged whispered conspiracies
with anyone, hadn't done even one thing to show that he was
trying to edge Lois out of a possibly award-worthy story.*

*She'd almost given in. Almost shaken away her suspicions and
let herself buy the dress she saw at a stand. Almost let herself
smile and laugh with Clark and enjoy this glimpse of a side
she'd never guessed he had. She'd laughed when he'd tried and
failed (and later, she willdraw conclusions about a green stone,
and realize what Kryptonite is and what it does to him) at a
strength game. She'd given him a few extra tickets and helped
him win her a black and white teddy bear.*

*Just lulling him to a false sense of complacency, she'd told
herself when she wondered what she was doing. But the truth was
that Clark was a far more compelling man than she'd ever given
him credit for, far more intriguing and endearing and almost
impossible to resist.*

"*That's who I am," he'd said. "Clark."*

*And she'd laughed. (Later, she will cry instead.)*

*But she'd still had suspicions, and she hadn't gotten to be
the youngest Kerth award winner, three times, by not following
every lead.*

*So she hadn't told Clark that she was going back to Trask's
camp. She'd gone alone. Avoided Sherman and the guards and snuck
toward the boundary and made her way into the main tent.*

*And when Trask's hand had come around her throat from behind,
when he'd whispered his greeting into her ear, his breath hot
and smelling of army rations, she'd done what she always did.*

*She'd bluffed.*

She can't hear or see James anymore, and that worries her.
Scares her, actually. He's lost so much blood and endured so
much pain and been thrown around far too often. But he is strong
(stronger than she ever imagined), so she cannot doubt him. She
has to believe that he is still alive, still breathing, still
screaming silently out for Superman.

She has to believe that Clark will get here in time to save him.

"How long does this procedure take?" she asks, to stall. To
know. To do something other than just lie here passively.

"Not long," Trask says, far too unconcerned for her liking.
"We'll drain the Kryptonite into your veins, infusing your
blood with its radioactive properties. It's a crude
process--quite painful, I believe--but effective."

Lois stares up at him. She does not think she has hated anyone
more in her entire life (except herself, every moment of every
day since that Smallville afternoon). "How do you know? Have you
tested it?"

"Turns out Bureau 39 isn't entirely without allies after all."
Trask smiles and shrugs. "Before Superman went after him and put
him into prison, Lex Luthor was quite helpful. Found and donated
a large chunk of Kryptonite to the cause. A true patriot."

She feels, abruptly, nauseous again. Her stomach roils within
her, remembering a date that wasn't an interview and a kiss at
her door. Remembering charm and his hand curled around hers, and
not only is he a criminal, but he's also capable of wanting to
torture and kill Superman.

She wanted to be a reporter to help people. To uncover secrets
and publish truths and right wrongs. But instead, all she has
done is help the very people who are willing to go to any lengths
to pull a hero from the skies, the criminals who attack a man
giving his whole self to help and heal and protect. She told a
secret that should never have been told, published a truth that
in the telling became a lie, and turned the greatest right she
has ever known into the greatest wrong she could ever commit.

Harming and destroying and corrupting--that is all her career as
a reporter has done.

Her name is going to go down in history books. It's already
there. And she would do anything to erase it, to blot it out of
those black and white halls of fame. She would do anything to be
anonymous and unknown and *happy* (with a smiling, friendly Clark
Kent at her side, running off to save the world with some lame
excuses she wouldn't see through because she doesn't want to
lose this man who came so unexpectedly into her orbit).

She would do anything to stop this vicious cycle. To stop hurting
him. To turn back time and undo her mistakes.

"Don't worry, Ms. Lane." Trask pats her hand. He seems a
million miles away, so distant, so removed, so inconsequential
that she has to force herself to concentrate on him. "Soon,
it'll be all over. Soon, the alien calling himself Clark Kent
will be dead, and Earth will be safe once again."

A needle pricks the inside of her elbow, the cold pinch of
punctured flesh. Liquid fire spider-webs up and down her arm.

Lois screams.

*She'd thought Trask a nutcase, no more dangerous than any of
the dozen other crackpots she'd run into over the course of her
career. She'd thought she could handle him. She'd thought there
was no way he could do anything too bad while she was onto him
and Clark was on his trail and the police were aware of his
presence on the Irig farm. *

*She should have looked around and realized that anyone who could
put together an operation on such a large scale, with all the
official seals of approval, was more dangerous than the average
criminal. She should have listened to his raving about Clark and
Superman and a meteor rock found right here in Smallville. She
should have taken him seriously (only one mistake in a long line
of many).*

"*You think Superman is a hero?" he'd asked her after a
whispered conference with a soldier who'd poked his head in and
asked to speak to him. She'd tried to overhear whatever news
he'd imparted, but hadn't had any luck. "You think he's some
shining beacon of what it is to be 'super'?"*

"*He is super," she had said defiantly. Later, she will think
back on her stance--so defiant and proud--and her voice--so
confrontational and aggressive--and she'll wish that she was
half as strong as she'd thought she was. She'll wish she had
remembered to be defiant and aggressive and independent later.
She'll wish she hadn't been so easily manipulated. "He's a
hero the likes of which you'll never be able to aspire to. I
know you think you're doing the world a service, but *he's* the
one who's saving us."*

"*Really? What is it you called him in your article? A 'paragon
of truth.' The 'defender of justice.' Fighting for the
American Way. But he's an alien, Ms. Lane. A creature from
another planet, anathema to our way of life. He no more knows
what it is to be human than a rock does. But he does know how to
pretend. To lie. To put on a mask and play a part."*

"*Superman doesn't lie," she'd proclaimed, as if she'd known
him all her life. As if he'd confided in her and taken her to
his home and introduced her to his parents and shown her who he
really, truly was (as if he'd been her friend rather than a
stranger she'd met mere weeks before and spoken only a couple
dozen words to).*

*Trask had sneered at her, so condescending that he couldn't
quite pull off the pity he seemed to want to show her. "Why
don't we just test that theory," he'd said, and then he'd
pulled her out of the tent, down dusty paths into another tent
beside a larger one, and he'd clapped his hand over her mouth
and held her impossibly close to him. He'd started whispering
words she couldn't quite distinguish, instructions that only
made sense when she realized he was wearing an ear-piece and was
talking to a soldier in another tent.*

*A soldier who was talking, in turn, to Clark Kent. Her erstwhile
partner. Her would-be betrayer. He'd come to check the camp out,
too, apparently, without her (or maybe, she'll realize later, so
much later, when she is already alone, he'd come to find her, to
save her), and fallen into the same predicament she was in. And
now he was being questioned by Trask's man, his voice so
distinctive, touched with that meek confidence so unique to
Clark.*

"*We knew you'd come eventually," the soldier was saying, a
delayed echo to Trask's whisper threading chills across Lois's
ear. "You're predictable. Or you were. Seems like you have some
skeletons in your own closet, though. You were adopted, weren't
you?"*

"*I don't see what that has to do with anything," Clark had
said, calmly.*

"*Everything," Trask's puppet had said, and his own tone was
menacing, intent, deadly. "You came to Smallville just before
Bureau 39 found and acquired a certain ship with a very
distinctive symbol. You were adopted and raised here--and then
the records turn kind of spotty. You showed up in country after
country, always taking odd jobs, always moving on quickly. An
unusual, though not exceptional, history...until one takes into
account the strange meteor rock found right here in your
hometown. A rock that has an...odd effect on you."*

*Clark had been silent for a moment, so long that Lois had
wondered what had happened to him. Finally, he'd said, "I
don't know what you mean," but even Lois, in all her ignorance,
had known he was lying.*

"*We saw you!" Trask had hissed in her ear, and the soldier had
relayed it. "Last night, your parents showed you a sample of the
rock Wayne Irig found on his property, and you were completely
incapacitated. Not quite so super anymore, eh, Kent?"*

*Lois had been confused, left behind, not sure what kind of
bizarre twilight zone she'd stumbled into. She might as well
have been mouthing Clark's awkward, stumbling denials and
questions for him, just as much of a puppeteer as Trask. *

*Until the soldier had said the magic words.*

"*We have your parents. Right now, they're safe, just a little
tied up. But one word from us, one twitch of the finger on the
gun, and the human traitors that harbored you all these years
will be gone forever."*

*And Clark had disappeared, replaced by Superman.*

*A cold, confident, assertive voice. A calm, measured tone she'd
heard before. Words that Clark wouldn't say, but that Superman
would.*

*As if Clark had been there one instant, and Superman had
replaced him the next.*

*As if Lois had suddenly switched realities.*

*As if the world had turned upside down.*

"*Don't hurt them," Superman had said. "They have nothing to
do with this."*

"*Don't they?" Trask had demanded. "Don't they? They took in
an alien child as their own and raised him to be the perfect
chameleon, the consummate con artist. They took in an imposter
and they sheltered him until he could grow up and bring the alien
armies down on us. Nothing to do with this? They might as well
have signed humanity's extinction papers along with your false
adoption records!"*

"*If you hurt them," Superman had threatened in a low, dark
voice that didn't match either the superhero or the reporter
Lois had thought she'd known, "you will regret it."*

"*How?" the soldier had asked, laughing. "Right now,
*Superman*, you're no stronger than me. Right now...you're
powerless."*

"*Still think he's a hero?" Trask had demanded of her, pushing
her down until she sprawled in the dirt, boneless, still, frozen
in disbelief and incomprehension. "Still think he stands for
truth and justice? You don't even know who he is, Ms. Lane. And
you never have. And you never will. He'll always be lying to
you, always be using you, laughing at how inferior he thinks you
are. He's no hero, Lois Lane. He's just a con artist."*

*She wishes, later, that she had ignored him. That she had
denounced him. That she had screamed so that Clark would know she
was there, that he was not alone, that he was not powerless. She
wishes she had done anything but what she had actually chosen to
do.*

*She had said nothing.*

*She had done nothing.*

*Until she wrote her article exposing Superman. Until she spoke
that jagged, poisoned question that killed Clark Kent.*

*Until she destroyed herself right along with him.*

There is fire inside of her, searing, boiling heat expanding and
contracting through her veins until she thinks her skin will
explode. She can feel the path it takes, up and down her arm,
reaching out, spreading like a contagion, roaring toward her
heart where it will be carried to every inch of her body, turning
her into a living, breathing radioactive piece of Kryptonite.

Trask is saying something, just like always. Probably more
manipulations, more whispers and taunts and questions that mask
themselves in pointless insanity only to slip insidiously beneath
her armor to deliver its toxin to her heart. He's shouting,
yelling, and there are people moving over her, and a wind that
rushes past her with such force she wonders if she is dreaming (a
nightmare, again, of things disappearing as soon as she touches
them and newspaper ink spreading out from her hands to drown
everyone around her and turn them into ghosts). There is a surge
of lightning across her arm and then the pinch of punctured flesh
and a soft noise (like a whimper, a cry, a gasp). The fire
spreading outward, gaining in intensity and heat, suddenly slows
and dulls. Still there, inside her, still moving along in its
inexorable path down the branching rivers of her veins, but no
longer coursing through like the tides, like rapids and highways
and stories gone viral.

Voices over her, more of them, two bouncing back and forth,
questions and answers, one shuddering and one stuttering, both of
them inherently familiar, so reminiscent of something *good* that
she wishes she could open her mouth and speak.

There is another burst of wind, slower, colder. And then she is
alone.

She can't open her eyes. Can't bring herself to push past the
blaze of liquid heat still searing inside her (can't drag her
focus away from *willing* her heart not to accept the poison
moving toward it) long enough to look and see what has happened
to leave her so completely isolated. There is no sound, no
awareness of another presence, only her and the echoing expanse
of empty space.

Until there is a caress of wind, and a voice murmuring to her
(interspersed between more of those breathy whimpers), and there
is a hand tracing the contours of her face (cooling the fever
burning through her cheeks even as it awakens the dulled, liquid
fire within) and an arm slipping under her shoulders, and Lois
begins to weep.

Because she knows this touch. She knows this voice. She knows
this care, this attention, this feeling of *safety*.

Clark is here. He is here and Trask is gone and James is rescued
and she is being lifted and carried to safety, and Lois wants to
scream and weep and rage at the world. He is here and he is
touching her and his every breath is edged in pain, and she is
hurting him again, and *why* didn't he just leave her there for
the police to handle? Why didn't he stay at James's side and
leave her behind, rescued and saved but no longer hurting him?
Why does he let her do this to him over and over and *over*
again?

She wants to say his name; she bites her lips hard enough to make
it bleed (bleed out tainted blood that can only burn and sear
Clark himself, brand him with the strength and potency of her
presence).

She wants to lift up her arms and hug him as tightly as she can
and refuse to let go; she clenches her hands into fists that draw
crescent-shaped pinpricks of blood (tinted green with agonizing,
weakening radioactivity).

She wants to do everything that she closed the door on six months
ago; she does nothing.

She did nothing before and it destroyed him.

She will do nothing now and it will save him.

She said too much before and it killed him.

She will say nothing now and he will be healed (of the taint her
own presence brings down on him).

He carries her for what seems like forever (the last minutes she
will ever get to spend with him, trickling away into nothing).
She wonders why until she realizes that he can't fly, not while
she is touching him. He can't use his super-speed, not while he
is carrying her.

He cannot be Superman while she drags him down.

He cannot be Clark while she lifts him up before the whole
world.

Eventually, she hears him call out, and then he is opening a car
door and placing her (so carefully, so gently, so reverently)
down on a car seat. He sits beside her, but he does not touch
her, and she lets his voice drift over her head (telling the
driver where to go; *talking*, in public, *again*, and all
because of her; just as she took away his voice, now she takes
away the sanctuary of his silence). An indeterminate amount of
time later, they pull up somewhere and Clark is lifting her free
and there are voices and movement all around her.

"It's okay, Lois," Clark whispers to her (and his breath
threads past her hair just like Trask's did, but it is so
different as to be alien, so welcome as to be entirely human).
"You're going to be okay now. You're safe."

But there is a ragged edge to his voice as he speaks, pain
lending its own signature to the voice she once thought she would
never get to hear.

Poison.

She is poison to him.

So she turns her face from him (to separate him from her touch;
to hide the tears trailing down her cheeks and tickling her neck)
and relinquishes herself to the foreign, safe touch of regular,
ordinary, mundane humans.

*Trask had left her at the camp, abandoning her so he could
accompany Clark--*Superman*, she had savagely reminded herself as
she sawed uselessly at the cord binding her to the chair--to the
Kent farm where he would... Well, she wasn't entirely sure what
he planned to do there, only that he had some huge green rock
he'd thrown in the back of the van with a chained Superman and
he'd wanted to take care of Superman--*Clark*, she had thought
incredulously--along with the Kents.*

*She'd worked to get free, and when her own efforts had proven
useless, she'd recruited Sherman and swayed her to her side.
They'd gone for the sheriff, and she'd met up with Jimmy, and
he'd told her about his signal watch, and Lois had scoffed and
hardened because what good was it to call for Superman when he
was currently allowing himself to be tied up for whatever reason
and pretending to be her reporting partner? What use in calling
for a superhero who could claim to stand for truth and justice
one minute and then lie right to her face and coerce her own
secrets from her the next?*

*When they had arrived, pulling up in a squeal of tires and the
flurry of dust-clouds, the barn was on fire and Trask was beating
Clark, and the green rock was glowing malignantly, and Lois
hadn't known what was going on or what to do. She'd watched
bruises appear on Clark's face, watched blood spring from the
cut in his lip and the burns on his hands (from where he'd tried
to put out the fire in the barn, she'll assume later), and
she'd been utterly confused. Because he didn't have his glasses
on and he was obviously Superman, but he was hurt and wounded and
unable to beat Trask, and that was something that would only
apply to Clark, not to the superhero she'd been in love with
since he'd swallowed a bomb and smiled at her.*

*But then Trask had lifted his arm, and there'd been a gun in
his hand, and when that gunshot had sounded, Lois had been so
sure that it suddenly, fatally didn't matter anymore what she
thought or believed or had found out. *

*But his gun had dropped to the dirt, a look of surprise on his
face as he'd turned to face Rachel, whose own gun was pointed
unerringly at him. Clark (or Superman, in that one instant, it
hadn't mattered who he was, only that he wasn't dead) had stood
upright, proud and defiant, refusing to bend and fall beneath the
agony scrawled across his battered features. *

*And the second gunshot had sounded, and Trask had clapped a hand
over his bleeding shirt, and the grey van she'd seen at the
campsite (where she'd seen Clark chained and Superman flinching
away from that green stone now at his feet) had pulled up, and
Trask had dived in. There had been more gunshots after that, more
bullets sent to chase after the remnants of Bureau 39, but Lois
hadn't been paying attention.*

*All her focus had been on Clark, bending and grabbing hold of
the green rock (and the smell of searing flesh had momentarily
overpowered the stench of smoke and blood) and he'd tossed it
out into the lake. Then he'd been running--right past her, as if
he didn't see her. As if he didn't care that she could see him
without his glasses (as if he had known she wouldn't see past
his masks and lies even with those ridiculously nerdy glasses
gone). As if she didn't mean anything to him now that she knew
his game.*

*He'd dived past flames and into the barn, and he'd come out
with his parents, both of them choking and coughing and
soot-stained and still ridding themselves of the ropes that had
been tied around them. Clark had collapsed in their arms (or
maybe they had collapsed in his; it was hard to tell), and they
had hugged and embraced. *

*And Lois had watched them. Expressionless. Motionless. Finally
believing. Finally comprehending. Finally understanding exactly
how much of a fool she had been played to make of herself.
Finally realizing that the entire time she had thought she was on
the inside, on the front lines, in the *know*, she'd been a dupe
just like all the rest.*

*Jonathan and Martha had looked over Clark's shoulders. She
thinks, later, that they had been about to smile, to laugh in
relief that she was okay too, and to invite her into their
embrace. She thinks, when she *can* think past overwhelming
emotions, that they had wanted to include her. But at the sight
of her, at whatever her eyes showed, they had both fallen silent
and they had not smiled and they had held onto Clark all the
tighter and closed their eyes on her.*

*And Lois had turned away.*

She is unconscious for twelve hours. When she wakes up, the news
is full of the reports of Trask's death in a fiery explosion out
in the wastelands fifty miles north of Coast City. She doesn't
know where James is (or if he is even alive) and Clark isn't
there. The doctor comes in and tells her that whatever Trask had
tried to inject her with has been purified from her system.
She's clean now, he tells her, and she wants to laugh (she wants
to weep, and she would except she feels too hollow to do anything
but stare numbly at whatever happens to be in front of her).

They keep her for observation for a day. Clark comes to visit
her, but Lois leaves specific instructions with the nurses that
she doesn't want any visitors at all, even if he does wear a red
cape and save people in his spare time (*especially* if he wears
a red cape instead of silly ties and makes a habit of saving the
very people who are worst for him).

She knows now that James was right, all those months ago when he
sat across from her and mopped up her mess of spilled tea
(cleaned up her mess of broken superhero and dead partner). She
knows that she should have listened to him and stayed in
Metropolis to drink salutes to a fallen friend with Perry. She
knows that it was a mistake to ever believe she could possibly
help Clark.

When they finally bring her a phone, she buys a single, one-way
ticket back to Metropolis. From now on, Lois Lane is just as dead
as what-might-have-been, and there is no going back.

***

21

"Whatever they injected into your bloodstream, it was a
completely foreign substance," the doctor says as she signs the
release papers. "There could be repercussions we're not aware
of at all. I encourage you to come back often. We'll--"

"I'm not staying in town," Lois cuts him off. She offers him a
tight smile that does nothing, seemingly, to reassure him.
"Don't worry. I'll visit a doctor in Metropolis."

She means it too. She can't afford to endanger Superman if he
has to make a rescue near her. She doesn't dare risk some other
villain like Lex or Trask taking advantage of the weapon Trask
has made of her. So even though it makes her cringe to think of
it, she *will* see a doctor to make absolutely certain there is
no Kryptonite left in her system.

The doctor keeps talking about staying in touch, letting him know
who her Metropolis doctor is so he can send on what information
they have on the Kryptonite. Lois nods and makes agreeable
noises, and starts walking away. She needs to get out of here, to
escape, before Clark decides to circumvent the nurse's station
and come visit her no matter what her allowed visitors' list
reads. She needs to be gone before he's looking at her again
with those earnest eyes and tempting her to give up on her noble,
inevitable actions. She needs to flee while she can still do so
somewhat gracefully.

Finally, after the elevator ride to the ground floor, the doctor
is satisfied and leaves her to find the exit on her own. She is
free, striding forward in donated clothes that are heavenly
despite their bad fit simply because they aren't stained with
James's blood. She can see the brilliant shaft of light that is
the door.

And Clark appears in front of her. He is dressed inconspicuously,
and he isn't wearing the glasses, and the hallway is nearly
empty, which means they'll have a brief moment before he will be
recognized.

She will have to face him after all. One last test before she can
be deemed completely trustworthy (before she can leave him, safe,
forever).

"Lois." He smiles to see her (*again* with the smiles), as if
he's been worried. As if he's had time to think about her on
top of whatever James's condition is and wherever his parents
have ended up. "You're all right! I tried to see you earlier,
but..." He trails off, waiting expectantly for an explanation,
but when she answers him only with silence (because why should
she get to defend and excuse herself when he's never had that
same chance?), he shrugs. "I'm glad you're okay. James is--"

"Don't tell me," she interrupts, and knows he will not let
this be easy. He will not give up on her as easily as she gave up
on him in his hometown. "I don't want to know. Don't tell me
anything."

His brow furrows. "Why not?"

"I'm not going to do this again." She looks past him, over his
shoulder, to that shaft of light that is her exit, like the light
at the end of the tunnel, signifying the end of her life and the
beginning of forever. "Trask only found you because of me."

His expression clears, and Lois wants to scream because he looks
almost happy, almost content, even with lingering shadows under
his eyes from Kryptonite exposure (and she knows James is alive,
at least, because he would not be *content* if James were dead).
"Lois, Trask would have found us anyway. James and I recognized
a few of the Bureau 39 men--we're pretty sure that a couple of
the times we had to move because of what we thought was the
media, it was actually Trask's--"

"Don't," Lois interrupts. "You can't tell me, Clark, all
right? I'm...I'm leaving."

"I know," he says, and she thinks he really does and is simply
avoiding the enormity, the reality, of it by stalling. "That's
why I'm here. So I can take you--"

"To Metropolis," she says, firmly so she will not be tempted to
stay just a few more days. "I'm going back to Metropolis. I've
already bought my plane ticket; the plane leaves in just a few
hours."

"Oh." That's all he says, and it's even more heartbreaking
than anything else he might have done (because he seems resigned
to it, to people leaving; because he is not trying to convince
her to stay; because he already looks so alone and abandoned).

"I have to," she says. She wasn't going to explain, but the
words come bubbling up and out anyway (she has never been good at
holding anything back: secrets, truths, emotions...her heart).
"This isn't going to work, Clark. I came because what I did to
you wasn't fair and I wanted to make it right somehow, maybe
give us both the chance to find some kind of closure, but...but
we haven't. We're not. You're never even asked me the question
that I know *has* to be burning you up inside. We haven't
addressed *anything* yet--"

"What question?" he asks, and she stares at him. She cannot
believe that he is still trying to pretend he's not holding
anything back.

"What question?" she repeats incredulously. "Why I wrote that
article! Why I ripped your life away from you!"

"All right," Clark says, completely calm. Completely
unreadable. "Why *did* you?"

She doesn't want to answer. She's been waiting for him to ask,
has come out of her guest room every day with the expectation
that she will finally hear him ask for her reasons, and now that
it has finally come...she is not ready. But it's better this
way. Better to say it all out loud and get it over with. Better
to dose him fully and completely with the poison so that he will
never try it again.

"Because I was mad at you," she says. "I was humiliated that
you had lied and I had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. I
was so embarrassed at the radically different ways I treated your
separate identities. I was so furious that I had just been
starting to trust you--to *like* you--and then to find out you
had tricked me... I was mad, and that's the reason, Clark. The
only reason."

He is pale and silent. Closed off. Locked away once again, as if
none of her efforts can last or endure past the lingering effects
of her crime. As if even the cure cannot fully wash away the
residual results of poison.

"I'm sorry," she says, finally. Lets the words out in his
hearing, and hears once again just how little they mean. "I'm
so sorry. I know you probably told yourself that there was a good
reason I did it, that Trask must have threatened me or that I had
some grand plan." There are tears streaming down her face; she
wonders if they are glowing as radioactively green as the pieces
of his homeworld. "But there *was* nothing redemptive, Clark,
nothing to excuse me or justify what I did. And I know you wanted
there to be--you *had* to tell yourself there was in order to let
me back into your life, I'm sure--but the truth is that I was
just...I was just mad and hurt and disappointed."

"I know," he says. She is shocked--no, *astonished*--because
she had thought she sent him fleeing back into his shell, his
cocoon, of silence. She had thought she would never hear his
voice again. "I *hoped* you had a good reason. I *wanted* to
believe you did it for me in some way. But I know you, Lois, the
good and the bad. And so I knew all along why you wrote that
article."

"And yet, here you are, *still*!" she cries, frustrated and
wounded and confused. "Ready to take me back into your life
after yet another disaster, or crisis or calamity or whatever
word there is to fit this! I came all this way to see you so we
could face what happened, but instead you're pretending like it
never happened! I *want* to live in that make-believe world with
you, Clark--really, I *do*--but it will never work, not
long-term. I would spend the rest of my life, every hour of every
day, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for you to
finally treat me like I deserve. And you...every time you got mad
at me for anything, you'd be holding it all back, afraid to let
the dam burst in case everything came roaring out and couldn't
be put back in." She calms, not wanting the curious onlookers to
be able to overhear her, and takes a deep breath. Looks at him
for the last time. Soaks him in, engraves the image of him, the
feel of him, on every cell, stores it up so it can last her a
lifetime.

"Some mistakes can't be undone," she whispers. "Some things
can't be fixed. What I did ruined...everything that might have
been. And as sorry as I am for it, nothing I do can change what
happened. You're never going to be two men again. And I...I am
never going to be a part of your life."

And she walks past him. She waits (half-hoping, half-fearing),
thinking he might come after her, might stop her and try to
change her mind.

But he never does.

As she walks through those blinding doors, she looks back, just
one final time (because she is weak).

Clarks stands in that shaft of brilliant light, untouched by the
shadow her body casts; he is a dark silhouette edged in gold,
impassive and unbroken. His back is still to her. He does not
turn. He does not watch her leave. He does not look for things
that might have been. He stands as straight and tall as he did at
the edge of that pond in Smallville, while green poison writhed
at his feet; strong and self-sufficient and surviving (away from
her; apart from her), and for the very first time, Lois begins to
believe that maybe he can actually survive this. Maybe he will be
all right.

Maybe he *is*, despite everything, better after all. Maybe she
didn't completely fail.

She promised herself she would make him better. She doesn't know
that she can take the credit for this miracle, but she will take
the knowledge of it with her, and she will be...content.

When Perry sees her, he falls still. He brightens--she thinks it
is the first time she's seen him smile since her new life began
in the wake of Clark Kent's end. He moves toward her, and she
steps into his arms...and she falls apart.

It's late evening (she came straight from the airport; Perry is
all that is left of what feels even remotely like home) and
there's almost no one around, but Perry pulls her into the
privacy of his office anyway. He keeps her enfolded, small and
young and not wholly broken in his arms. He smells of ink, of
newspaper, of the *Daily Planet*. He smells of familiarity and
acceptance...and terrible, biting guilt. So she hugs him because
she needs the comfort, but also because he is drowning in guilt
too, and he needs comfort perhaps even more than she does.

Finally, when they both manage to pull away and pretend, with
their customary awkwardness, that they are not wiping away tears
and building back up ruptured walls around their emotions, Perry
looks at her with a straight, level (terrified) look. His voice
is gruffer than ever before as he says, "So. Didn't really go
that well from what I've gathered." He sounds resigned. He
sounds tired. He sounds defeated.

Not at all the Perry she's known since he gave her a chance as
an intern.

She thinks about her answer (because he deserves the truth,
*needs* it as much as she does) before she says, "I'm not
unhappy that I went. I think...I think I helped remind him that
it's okay to be Clark Kent every once in a while. I think he's
going to be okay. So, you know, it went better than it could have
gone."

Perry's brows climb up his forehead. "Even with Trask?"

"What?" She frowns at him. She still feels stuffy and drained
from the tears she just wept on his shoulder; maybe that's why
she feels behind. "How much do you know?"

"Maybe more than you," Perry says.

She is reminded, suddenly and uncomfortably, of those days after
returning from Smallville. Then, she'd thought she'd known
everything, too, and only later had she learned all the pieces
she'd missed.

*She'd avoided Clark in the day between Trask's escape and
their plane ride back to Metropolis--easy to do when his parents
refused to leave his side and Jimmy was always around, bubbling
over with questions and observations and commiserations. When
Clark seemed preoccupied and disappointed (not that he knew that
she knew, though at the time she'd suspected he did). She'd
kept her knowledge to herself, hoarded it, clutched it close and
curled up around it and ignored everything else, like a greedy
miser huddling around the last embers of a fire in a world of
night. *

*The night before their plane left for Metropolis, she'd decided
to give him a chance (echoes of Trask's threats in her head,
refusing to leave her be). She'd gone to him, sitting on the
couch atop his blankets, and sat beside him. "Clark," she'd
said.*

"*Lois." He'd smiled, because that's what he does. "I'm so
glad you're okay. When I realized Trask had captured you..."*

"*Lucky for us everything turned out all right," she'd said,
watching him and realizing just how big his lie was (and, in
retrospect, just how bad he was at lying). *

*His grin had been uncomfortable. "Yeah." He'd reached out for
her, but she had flinched away. She hadn't meant to; it had just
happened. But he'd been hurt, and tried to cover it up, and lied
to her again. "Trask didn't hurt us, though, in the end. You
got away and my parents survived and I..."*

"*And you?" she'd prompted, begging him to tell her the truth.
It would have all been better if he would be honest with her,
she'd thought, and held her breath.*

*He'd shrugged. "And I'm fine."*

*Fine. Fine without her. Fine with lying to her. Fine with
pretending. She'd wanted to be a part of the superhero's life
since first meeting him. Clark had seemed to want to be a part of
hers since he'd first met her. All of it lies. All of it a
waste. All of it just window dressing to disguise what he
did--and that, the costume and the persona and the lines she'd
helped him come up with in that first 'interview,' were all
just a disguise too. It had seemed to her, then, in her skewed,
numb way of thinking, that there was nothing real to him at all
(and she would make that reality, two days later).*

"*Clark," she'd said, in one last effort, because this was
important and it meant something and there was no other way for
this to go (willingly or not, with his cooperation or not, the
article had to be written). "Did anything else happen? Why did
Trask come after you? Why did he think you knew anything about
Superman?"*

*He'd paused, for the slightest instant, but she'd noticed it
because she'd been looking for it. Then he'd given her a pale
smile and said, "He was deluded, Lois. All his conclusions were
just the ravings of a paranoid man."*

"*Yeah, sure," she'd said, her disappointment like a blow to
the very depths of her being. She should have known, she'd
thought, that Superman wouldn't trust her, and she should have
known that Clark was not as trustworthy as he'd promised to
be.*

*She hadn't spoken to him once on the plane ride to Metropolis,
or on the taxi ride to her apartment. She'd left him with
silence and shut herself in her apartment alone, and she'd
written her expose.*

*And the next morning, she'd destroyed him.*

*(Later, it will not escape her notice that the very things she
used to punish him, silence and isolation, are the very tools
that drove her to the brink of ruin herself.)*

Pretending he does not notice her preoccupation, Perry leads her
to the couch she's sat on so many times before, and they both
sit. A feeling of deja vu sweeps over Lois like a warm tide. Late
at night, alone in the bullpen, sitting in Perry's office, about
to hear him confide some news about Superman. She almost expects
him to tell her that the military came looking for the superhero.
Half expects him to tell her that they both killed one man but
the remaining persona needs her now and she should go after him.
It feels so familiar, this scene, and holds such a sense of
coming full circle, that she's almost afraid she dreamed
everything that came before, and she will have to do it all again
(and this time, Clark *will* hate her).

But she sits there anyway, passively, afraid to miss out on
whatever Perry has to say. Afraid to lose another chance to see
Clark before Kryptonite was ever released to flow through her
veins in tangible evidence of her inner poison.

"Superman rescued you and Jimmy," Perry explains, "but he must
have been in a hurry to do it--and no wonder. When they released
the video of the surveillance footage, you and Jimmy both looked
awful." He pauses to run a hand across his eyes, missing Lois's
expression of confusion. "He just supersped Trask and all his
men out to some solitary desert and left them there so he could
go back and get you and Jimmy to the hospital. Trask had some
sort of homing beacon, though, and his remaining men were able to
get to him in a van before Superman could make it back. By the
time he did get there, Trask had started recording."

"Recording what?" Lois asks, impatient and not sure she wants
to hear this after all. She intended to avoid talking about Clark
after she returned to Metropolis (avoid risking any residual
harm; avoid tempting fate), but she can't quite bring herself to
stop Perry completely. She wants to hear this--*needs* to hear
it--not from the impersonal news with only stock footage and
neutral talking heads, but from Perry, who wasn't there but who
*cares*.

"They were filming themselves--and Superman when he showed up.
Actual close-ups, Lois." Perry sounds hoarse, wistful, and Lois
is suddenly very glad that he didn't see Clark before he'd
recovered from the after-effects of Nightfall. Hard enough to see
him when he was suffering from the lingering effects of the
Kryptonite in Lois's veins; no need to make it worse on the old
editor's heart by seeing Clark when he was so desolate that he
seemed only a hollow shell.

"Trask was trying to frame Superman," Perry explains. "He
thought he could be some kind of martyr to the cause. They're
still analyzing the remains, but apparently he had some kind of
self-destruct device that mimicked Superman's heat-vision. His
men got away from the blast--until Superman caught up with them a
few days later--but Trask made a couple statements about how
Superman was threatening him, and then he blew himself up. It was
on every channel, really gruesome stuff, and I guess some people
would have bought into it--*if* Superman hadn't gone back to
that building Trask was keeping you at, and released the security
footage from that to the media too. The testimony of the Bureau
39 men he captured later revealed more of it, and the depths of
Trask's paranoid delusions."

Lois is still, absorbing this new information. Comprehending what
all this must have meant to Clark--being seen close-up by the
world again, confronting the man who'd directly led to his
outing. Wondering anew if she's done the right thing in leaving
him so soon, when his parents are still hurt and James is in who
knows what condition.

"He talked," Perry suddenly says. "In both the videos. Clark
talked. It...it's been so long since I've heard his voice,
Lois. There's so much silence nowadays."

"I know," Lois whispers, and leans into him, joining her loud
silence to his. "I know, Perry. I hear it too."

"Is he..." Perry hesitates, tentative, afraid to hear the
answer, she supposes. "Tell me the truth, Lois--is he *okay*?"

"I think he will be," she says, and feels strengthened by the
truth of it. She has the image of him standing straight and
facing away from her in that hospital corridor to remind her that
he is not broken (like her; like Perry). "He has a strength of
character that is stronger than any of his powers, and he has his
family--and James is part of that now, Perry--and he *wants* to
move on and be okay, so...so he *will be* okay. Maybe not today,
but soon. We didn't kill him, Perry. We didn't completely
destroy him."

(Because she left when she did, before she could finish the
job.)

"And you, Lois?" Perry looks her straight in the eye, searching
for something, looking for hurt or defeat. She lets him look,
knowing he will see the decimated ruins of her heart, but also
knowing that he will see that the open wounds have finally
scarred over. "Are *you* okay, honey?"

"Yes," she says, and hopes she is telling the truth. She has no
accompanying image of herself to hold to as proof that she will
eventually make it past this. "Not today, but...one day, I will
be."

He gazes at her a long moment more, then nods. "Good. I'm
glad."

"Me, too," she whispers in his ear as she hugs him, and hopes
that *he *will be okay too.

When she gets to her apartment, her bag is there, sitting neatly
in the center of the room. Atop the bag, perched incongruously,
is the black and white bear from Smallville.

She'd thrown a few sheets over her furniture when she'd
realized the search for Jimmy (*James*, and she shoves aside the
accompanying image of bravery shining through blood, loyalty
through bruises, defiance and resourcefulness through a single
wristwatch) would take a while. She pulls the sheet off a couch
now, lets it fall carelessly to the floor, and then sinks down on
the stiff cushion. And she stares at the bag and the bear.
Belatedly, as a cold breeze whispers across her cheeks, she
realizes the window is open, left conspicuously wide (he didn't
sneak in; he announces his presence, even in* absentia*).

The bag is packed, its side bulging. The bear looks far too
innocently happy, smugly smirking, unaffected by the fact that
she has now left it behind twice, both times without looking
back. Once in Smallville, because she didn't want any reminders
of how close she'd come to letting Clark in past her walls and
how far he was from the Superman she'd built up in her head. And
once now, because she hadn't thought she'd want any reminders
of how much Clark had let her in and how much she *wishes* she
could let him in past the boundaries of her past choices.

Abruptly, she wonders what the guest room she'd claimed looks
like now, stripped of all her things. Is there a different type
of shampoo in the bathroom now, maybe strawberry instead of
jasmine? Has he gotten rid of the picture of Metropolis's
skyline? What color will the bedspread be now? What will relieve
the bareness of the closet with this bear now in her apartment?

Of course, she's almost forgotten. Nothing. Nothing will replace
the things left to make that room feel hospitable and welcoming.
Nothing at all. The room is bare. The entire suite is empty,
stripped of all personality and life. The room she never saw,
guarded by that door with the lock she'd never breached--she'll
never know now what was inside, how much Clark kept of himself
besides the glasses. The long rows of thriving plants have no one
to tend them; they will die, neglected and abandoned.

James worked so hard after the earthquake to make sure the Kents
could stay in that suite of rooms that had become their home. But
there's no way he could have saved it a second time (if he's
even feeling well enough to save anything right now), not after
Trask and the media exposure he'd brought down on them. Superman
had been seen too often, too frequently, on the west coast. His
silence had been ruptured, his distance breached. There's no way
Clark wouldn't want to move on, put as much distance as possible
between himself and the site of so many unpleasant memories.

Lois Lane and Jason Trask. They had both found him there. They
had both played their parts in trying to pull him down from the
skies and shatter the glasses he clung to so tightly. Who would
have ever guessed that those two names would go together, she
thinks bitterly.

But she left, she reminds herself. She left and now she is far
away from him, and he will be okay. She has to remember that. She
*will* remember that (it's the only way she will ever be able to
find that *okay* she promised Perry).

Her legs shake when she makes herself stand. She forces herself
steady. Reaches out a hand. And undoes the last thing Clark Kent
will ever do for her (Superman might save her, incidentally or
even individually, but packing her bag and giving her belongings
back to her is the very last selfless, caring act from Clark Kent
for Lois Lane). She picks up the bear, slings the bag's strap
over her shoulder, and walks into the bedroom.

She unpacks slowly, pointedly, reality overlaid atop the memories
of her defiant unpacking that first morning at the suite. She had
tried to force a place for herself there, done everything she
could--nonverbally--to insist there was a future where her life
could merge with Clark's in some way. But now she unpacks
clothes (still smelling, ephemerally, of that collection of
rooms, that collection of people, she'd once thought could be
home) and toiletries and laptop, like the final laying down of
arms, the ultimate surrender of all her unvoiced,
all-but-unacknowledged dreams.

When she sets her laptop down on the nightstand, a piece of paper
falls and flutters to the floor. A tremor squirms through her
stomach, a tremor that packs a punch leaving her breathless when
she picks it up and sees what the paper is.

The note the Kents left her months ago, just days after her
arrival. The small piece of paper she'd tucked away in her
pocket like a magpie stealing bright and shiny objects forever
outside its comprehension, and then had hidden under her pillow
and played between her fingers night after night while trying to
sleep (hugging the bear to herself when the nightmares struck).

"*Lois, headed out for the morning. We left bread, butter, and
honey for toast--Clark said that you'd think that was enough for
breakfast, but if not, we should be back before noon. There's
juice or coffee in the kitchen. Make yourself at home."*

The note, dashed off rapidly, probably without much advance
thought at all, but so indicative of care she didn't (doesn't)
deserve, and the bear, won by a man accustoming himself to subpar
limits and still trying to be a friend to the reporting partner
he hadn't asked for but had embraced (forgiven, repeatedly, over
and over again, for crimes large and small). Two relatively
unimportant objects that mean everything in the world to her. The
only trophies she won in her desperate, foolish, guilt-ridden
quest to undo her mistakes and win back any of the things she'd
lost.

She sits on the edge of her dusty bed, and plays the worn paper
through her fingers, and wonders why she cannot cry. She feels an
ocean of tears surging and broiling within, but she's dry,
hollow, emptied of all but the last purpose in her life.

To keep Clark safe by staying far, far away.

At this point, even basic contentment is tragically far outside
her reach.

She goes back to work as if she never left. Perry doesn't tell
her how he explained her absence, or how he made certain she
could come back; but then, Lois doesn't ask. She just wants to
get back to living her own life (*sans* Clark, because that is
all that is left). She just wants to get used to this *normal* as
quickly as possible so that the pain of wanting something
different will ease as if already dulled by the passage of
unrelenting time.

Unfortunately, everything reminds her of Clark. The newsroom
(touched by his all-too-temporary presence). Perry (so damaged,
still, by how Clark left). The desk that still stands empty as a
memorial (and she can still see that naive journalist with
ill-fitting suits and mismatched ties smiling over at her as he
dared to tease her). Writing, which she's trying to get back
into doing again (because Clark's efforts to give her this
portion of her life back to her should not be so easily spurned),
*that* above all reminds her of the vast, gaping hole in her
life.

She spent the first months after her article trying to forget
everything, doing her best not to think of it at all, pretending
it all away by telling herself nothing more special had happened
than writing an article like any other. Now, she can't do that
anymore, and the memories march forward ceaselessly, a constant
assault that seeks to make up for lost time.

As pervasive as the memories are, though, she perseveres. First,
because she has nowhere else to go and no idea what else to do
with her life. This is what she's wanted to do, where she's
wanted to be, since almost before she can remember; everything
she did, every choice she made, had been to achieve her dream of
working as an investigative reporter at the Daily Planet. But she
has new dreams now, all of them cruelly dashed, and this is the
only thing left to her.

The second reason she stays, though, is that gradually, as Perry
gives her one small assignment after another, Lois begins to
remember why she loves writing. Not the big stories (she doesn't
trust herself with that; every time she thinks of it, her
nightmares resurface), but the small stories, the human interest
articles. Puff pieces, as she once called them.

Now, she calls them her lifeline.

Other people's tragedies, their triumphs, their travails--their
*stories* call to her. She loves being assigned words on a paper,
researching them, and then coming face to face with regular
people and seeing them, question by answer, unveiled, their masks
peeled away to reveal either heroes or villains or something in
between. And adrenaline sparks inside her, purpose fizzles at her
fingertips--but only when she sits down, not to expose their
secrets and the insights she's gained, but to bring their needs
to the readers of the Daily Planet. To reveal their endurance and
heroism and efforts to an audience. To invite everyone out there
to help them, to have compassion and to look beyond the surface
and to make allowances for other people. To see the hero beneath
the ordinary person.

She writes, now, like Clark.

They aren't the kind of stories that will make her famous or win
her flashy awards. But they help. They heal and soften and sooth
the raw pain of her scars. They are like breadcrumbs leading her
down the path of redemption.

Perry notices (he watches her all the time; she can't figure out
if he's afraid she'll disappear or hoping she'll leave to go
back to Clark), but he doesn't say much (and this is easy to
figure out; she knows he doesn't trust his own judgment anymore,
a mirror reflection of her). After a month, he asks her if she
wants back on the city beat, and a bolt of panic spears through
her.

"No," she says quickly. Firmly. "No, Perry. I don't...I'm
not that reporter anymore. The investigative side of me is what
brought us *all*"--she knows he'll understand who she's really
talking about without needing to name names in a bullpen full of
curious reporters all eager to hear the full story behind her
'vacation' in California--"to where we are, but it's these
human interest stories that will help me."

"All right," he agrees, seemingly unfazed by her life-changing
decision. "Whatever you need."

And he means that (she is not the only one who has made some
life-changing decisions in the last seven months), but still Lois
isn't happy. Isn't comfortable. Isn't *content*.

This isn't the place for her, not anymore. It holds too many bad
memories, too many ghosts haunt the rooms, echoes of people who
should *still* be here, and it is too dangerous, constantly
luring her back to her old ways. Besides, she doesn't deserve to
be here. She is not good enough as a reporter nowadays.

And why should she get to work here when Clark Kent no longer
can?

Her decision is made for her when she sees Clark again. He swoops
through the newsroom late one night so fast she doesn't even
know he's there until she feels a rush of wind, sees a blur of
colors, and finds herself standing, upright and breathless, on
the roof of the Daily Planet.

She doesn't understand what happens next. Even weeks later,
after countless hours of running it through her head over and
over again, she cannot puzzle out what happened on that rooftop.
She thinks he was testing her (but for what, she cannot
comprehend). She thinks he was saying goodbye. She thinks he was
making his own life-changing decision.

Or maybe it is none of those things. Maybe he has morphed again
into a stranger she does not know, a hybrid made up of bits and
pieces of pre-exposure Clark and Superman, and post-exposure
Clark and Superman, and other things she has no part in, to
become a new, *post-Lois* version. Maybe he has written himself a
new persona, one she will not discover and cannot expose.

She just doesn't know. She can't read him, can't decipher the
coded terms he spills out like ribbons wrapped all around her,
past her, behind her, not quite touching her but defining her
nonetheless.

What she does know is that the time has come for *her* to move on
too. To stop holding onto the past and to find out what this new,
emptier life of hers has to offer without the remains of her old
one dragging her down.

So the morning after Clark whisked her to the roof and then back
to her desk without any warning, she debates with herself, then
writes, then works endlessly to fine-tune what she wrote. She
puts more thought and effort into this one piece than she has any
other since before Smallville. Not a story this time. A letter.

A resignation letter.

She finishes, prints it out, and actually has it in hand to turn
in when Perry calls out, urgently, "Someone turn the news on
right now! Superman is giving an impromptu press conference."

Lois gapes, soundless, motionless, her ticket to a new life
dangling uselessly from her hands. The others are not so frozen,
shocked and curious, a sea of noise and astonishment, and the TVs
all around the room flick to life. No need to search for the
channel; this press conference (the first of its kind in so very,
*very* long) is on every one, preempting every program.

Superman. There. Larger than life, bright and bold and seemingly
unaffected by these past long months. Standing on a podium in
some exterior location she doesn't recognize. Stepping up to the
sea of microphones. Opening his mouth.

Behind him, she sees James, proud and smiling (no blood, no
bruises, not even a splint to give away their shared experience
in Trask's clutches).

And beside James, as if he belongs there, as if it is not
impossible for him to be standing, glasses and all, on the same
podium as Superman, is Clark Kent. His tie does not match his
shirt, his jacket does not fit, and he is the most beautiful (the
most astonishing) thing Lois has ever seen.

And then, right there in front of the world,Superman speaks.

***

22

"There will never be a better time," James says. He's given up
the splint, but still tends to hold his arm close to his side, a
constant reminder of just how much he's had to endure thanks to
his proximity to Superman. Clark tries not to look at the arm
with its battered, *valuable*(because of what it has saved and
the many times it has called him to get there just before it is
*too late*) watch; he tries to focus on James's eyes instead, so
alive and kindled with hope and earnestness and something deeper
and darker. Something that looks a lot like zeal (like the
beginnings of fanaticism; like a love that will not be deterred
by hurt or danger or impossibilities).

"I know there's no reason you should trust us, Mr. Kent," Dr.
Irons says, stepping forward and drawing Clark's attention. "I
know that we're strangers. But we've been working on this for
months, and Jason Trask's actions do provide the perfect
opportunity."

Clark likes that these scientists, hunched in their small room
over tables and desks and blackboards full of figures and
variables and plans, call him *Mr. Kent*. He likes that they do
not crowd him, that they leave him space by the door. He likes
that they were worried about James when he walked in with the
traces of bruising still evident around his cheek and that they
know him well enough to call him *James* and nod at him
respectfully.

He does not like that this feels like an ambush. He does not like
that he asked James to find a way to keep his parents safe, and
instead they are discussing castles in the air and dangling
miracles in front of him as if he can endure having them snatched
away yet again. (He does not like that his heart has forgotten
how to hope at all, so that he feels only numb, distracted apathy
rather than the fizzing sparks of excitement he thinks he
*should* feel.)

Dr. Klein steps forward, taller than everyone else in the room
except Dr. Irons, all gangly enthusiasm and nervous anticipation.
"This *will* work, Mr. Kent. There will be people who won't buy
it, of course--we can't expect to convince everyone--but it will
be enough so that you can go back to having two identities."

"It will be enough to save your parents," James adds pointedly.
"They can live on a farm again, go back to Smallville, not have
to live in hiding."

Clark flinches and tries not to scowl at the unfairness of this
ploy. The door is only inches away, but it suddenly seems too far
away. There are no windows here, no trace of air from outside, no
hint of the sky, and he decides, abruptly, that he cannot stay
here any longer. He needs to be free, to be *gone*. Needs to go
answer the hundred cries within a mile's radius, avert the
natural disasters occurring in this hemisphere, stop the
countless crimes being carried out right this moment (needs to be
Superman, to remind himself that that is all that is left to him
now and he cannot pretend otherwise; needs to leave before he
lets the impossibilities and hopes and *Mr. Kents*sway him from
the reality he has only just made peace with).

"CK." James steps in smoothly, slides closer--not quite
blocking the door, but interposing his injured shoulder between,
and Clark would rather be trapped here forever than to jostle him
and cause more hurt to his friend. James reaches out with an arm
that had a bullet pass through it (for *him*), places a hand on
Clark's shoulder, looks him straight in the eyes, and says, so
softly, so heavily, "I know you don't believe this can really
happen. But please, *please*, CK, just listen, all right? The
hologram is only a temporary measure--they're working on a
robot, one that can simulate your powers or can type up a story,
whichever is necessary. One that possesses enough artificial
intelligence to hold up a conversation and looks exactly like
you. Or rather, looks like you with just enough subtle
differences--a sharper chin, a longer nose, a different angle to
your brows--that when you stand next to each other, everyone will
see a resemblance. *And*, more importantly, see the
discrepancies."

"It sounds like science-fiction," Dr. Hamilton interjects.
"But it really is very close to a reality. We have the skeleton
and AI done already. With a bit of tweaking to the conversational
patterns and the casting of your face and form to make the
exo-covering, the robot should be up and running in just a month
or two."

Dr. Faulkner nods. "Until then, the hologram will work to throw
them off. It's made of lights *and*forcefields, so if anyone
tries to touch it, they will feel something. I recommend the
hologram play Superman--we can only program it for so many
variables, while you can move faster than the eye can perceive to
make allowances for whatever happens at the public events.
Complicated, yes, but it is a viable solution."

They're all looking at him expectantly. Waiting. Watching.
Holding their breath. They're doing an admirable job of
appearing professional and detached and polite, but he can hear
their heartbeats, smell their sweat, see their pulses beating
like panicked birds in their throats and wrists. They call him
Mr. Kent, but they know he is Superman, too, and no matter what
comes of this meeting James has tricked him into, these four
people will *always* know.

But then, four people instead of billions cannot help but be an
improvement.

Right?

Clark swallows, tenses, *hates* himself for letting himself
think, even for an instant, that things can ever go back to the
way they were.

They can't.

They won't.

He is Superman now, and letting himself contemplate anything else
is just going to be too painful when he is inevitably
disappointed. (Letting himself remember what it is like to be
Clark Kent, without Superman wrapped around his ghost, just makes
it harder to be content with who he is now.)

The scientists are still watching him. The robot form, set up on
a stand behind them, provides a surreal atmosphere so that Clark
wonders if he isn't just dreaming this all up. He'd confronted
Trask, after all, finally come face to face with the man who's
haunted his nightmares for months now and he'd emerged whole and
relatively unscathed. His parents are safe (his mom free of all
her bandages and his dad taking a few shaky steps each day) and
James is alive and Lois is safe (gone, forever, far away from him
where she will not be kidnapped because of him anymore, will not
have an alien substance forced through her veins) and Luthor is
jailed, and everything is going *too *good. *Too* smoothly. So
maybe it *is* all a dream. Maybe he is tired of wanting
soundlessly, wishing mutely, desiring silently. Maybe his
subconscious has finally decided to simply spell out everything
for him so that he can have at least a few precious hours when
life is not so hard and endless and wearying.

"Thank you," he finally says (when he belatedly realizes they
are waiting for him, even though he is wearing the Superman suit,
to say something). "It means a lot to me that you'd put all
this effort into trying to help me. But--"

"Clark," James interrupts, a thread of steel turning his voice
hard and implacable. "Can I talk to you outside for a minute?"

Clark sighs, but he cannot deny James anything (does not *want*
to deny him anything, now, when he is still so relieved and happy
his friend is safe and alive and no longer needing blood
infusions every twelve or fourteen hours). He gives a polite nod
to the team of scientists and their robot witness, then follows
James out into the hallway. It's better than the room; there is
a window at the far end of the hallway, promising sunlight and an
easy exit, and there is no one staring at him. No one except
James.

"I know what you're thinking," James says calmly. The threat
is gone from his voice; in its place, there is only compassion.
Empathy. Sadness. (So much worse, because this makes Clark look
away and swallow back a lump and wish Superman could leave behind
Clark's sentimentality.) "I know that you don't want to try
this in case it doesn't work. I know that it's easier just to
keep going with things the way they are than to try again after
what happened the last time you came up with a new identity. What
I'm saying is that I *know* this is hard for you, all right?"

"All right," Clark says evenly, because there is no use denying
it, not when James has been there through all the hardest
moments, prodding and cajoling and *believing*.

James nods. His dark eyes are filled with sage wisdom, old beyond
years, heavy with a weight even Superman balks at, but he does
not look away. "Then I'm just going to ask you one question.
Who do you *want* to be?"

The window fades into a distance that Clark can't breach. The
smells and sounds of the outside world seem to dwindle and die.
Everything shrinks away until he is left standing in an endless
hallway with too-knowing eyes intent on him. But he cannot voice
the answer. He cannot put this into words. He cannot take the
mortal wound still bleeding and searing and *hurting* from the
deep, dark place where he has locked it away; cannot take it out
and bring it into the exposed light of day where it will be
ripped and torn and rent asunder until it can never be hidden
again, and the pain finally conquers him.

He cannot let himself realize, again, just how much he has lost.
Not now, not when he has survived his final encounter with Lois
and heard her walk away and did not stop her. Not now, when he is
finally able to wake up each day without gasping at the dull,
thudding pain in his chest, when he can be Superman without
having to *remind* himself constantly not to speak. Not now, when
he has nothing left to hope for as Superman anymore, and thus,
nothing to risk losing.

So he says nothing. But James flinches and looks away, as if he
hears everything that Clark cannot (*will*not) say. Pain, worse
than the superficial, physical pain he'd shown when Clark had
exploded in from the sky to save him and protect him and rescue
him, flashes across James's features.

"You have to say it," James whispers. He, more than
anyone,knows that Clark will hear him. "You have to admit it,
even if only to yourself."

"Why are you doing this?" Clark asks him abruptly. He does not
like being confronted like this. He does not like feeling, once
again (*always*), as if he is lacking something, missing
something. As if he is foreign, alien, incomprehensible to the
people of this world. "I told you to save my parents, not me."

James hesitates for only an instant before those wise eyes
crumple and become the wide, shocked eyes of a young man, hurting
and afraid and so much more affected now than he was when Clark
found him unconscious and bleeding to death on a cold, grungy
floor. "Because I miss CK!" he cries out, his voice too loud,
echoing through the hallway, piercing against Superman's
super-sensitive hearing. "Because I want Clark back more than
anything, and this is the only way I can see that happening."

Clark feels cold and sick and twisted and *small*. He feels dumb
and slow and lethargic, because he should have *known* this. He
should have seen this. He should have realized that of course
James is hurt and lonely and overwhelmed just as much as Clark or
his parents are. He should have anticipated this in the same way
he had anticipated that James would need the signal watch one
day.

"Of course," he says, and it is not hard to reach out and put a
steadying hand on James's shoulder, offering comfort in exchange
for all that he has taken from his young friend. "I'm sorry. If
this is what you want, then of course we'll do it. We'll
try."

Because he cannot deny James anything, least of all what he most
wants. He cannot look at this man who was willing, only weeks
earlier, to die for him, and *not* do everything he can for him
in return.

But James is strong and mature and steady once more, stepping
back so that Clark's hand falls away, and he looks at Clark with
an expression he cannot read. "No," he says, slowly, as if
speaking to a small child. "No, CK. Don't do this for me.
Don't do this for your parents. Don't do this for the world, or
for anyone else. If you want to give me something, then
just...think about this one thing. Ask yourself this one
thing."

"What?" Clark asks, but he already knows the answer, has
already heard James ask it and still cannot face it.

"Who do you want to be?"

The words hit him like weapons. Not Kryptonite, but like...like
darkness, like the antithesis of sunlight, like a sucking void
that steals away energy and life and replaces it with weariness
and vague pain.

"Who do you want to be?" James asks, for the third time, as if
the question is simple and the answer clear.

As if Clark has the luxury of choosing.

"When you know," James continues, (so oblivious to the impact
of his own words; so insightful that he turns his back to offer
Clark a chance to flee gracefully), "then you can give me your
answer."

The window opens and closes in less than a second, and Superman
is free. Alone. Unhindered by gravity.

Trapped. Alone. Weighted down with a burden he cannot escape and
a choice he cannot make.

"We're not going to tell you what to do." Jonathan's voice is
weak and raspy and he breathes in between every two or three
words. He has dropped weight and muscle mass and just a bit of
the cheerfulness of his presence. But he speaks, and he is able
to walk now, a few steps at a time, and he is safe, hidden here
in this tiny town in the backwoods of Maine that only the
citizens and Clark himself know about. His hand, when Clark takes
it, is able to squeeze back now, too, and that makes Clark happy
enough to be able to breathe.

"You have to decide this on your own," his mom adds, when
Jonathan falls silent, breathless and exhausted. "We're happy
just to be with you. We just want *you* to be happy."

"I am happy," he says, and wishes they would believe it (if
they did, maybe he could finally believe it himself). "We're
safe now--*safer*, at least, without Trask out there and with
Luthor behind bars. We have a system now, and we've adjusted. If
we mess that up, then...then how will we come back to this when
it doesn't work?"

His mom frowns at him. "Who says it won't work?"

"This story they've concocted is nothing more than a conspiracy
theory," Clark says. He turns to look out the window at the
small backyard. It's nothing much, but there is a bench where
his dad can sit in the sun and a small garden where his mom has
begun to plant a few things for his dad even though it's far too
late in the year to expect much of a harvest. The window is
square and fringed with a white, laced curtain much like the ones
they once had in their kitchen in Smallville (like their kitchen
in the suite Lois made into an almost-home). Clark wishes the
curtain was different, blue or straight or *something*, just so
that it wouldn't remind him of the homes consigned forever to
the past. "Who would believe it?"

"You'd be surprised," his mom says tartly, but falls silent
when Jonathan lifts himself up to speak again. Clark turns, too,
unwilling to miss anything his dad will give him.

"They will believe it," his dad says, "because they *want* to
believe it."

Dusk lends cascading shadows to his father's form, cloaking and
concealing the bandages, revealing and exposing the strength
still there. Jonathan sits on the couch in the small, homey
living room (a couch, not a bed, because he does not like feeling
lazy and wants to be up and about), and he is hurt and broken and
only slowly mending, but he does not flinch or hesitate or look
away from his son. Clark feels immeasurable gratitude for that
(feels immeasurable *relief*, that they have not turned away from
him or left him or resented him for all that they have lost
because of him).

"Son," Jonathan says in his halting, sincere voice, "you think
the world is any happier with what's happened than you are? You
think they haven't noticed that their Superman isn't quite the
same as he was before?"

"He's right," Martha says when Jonathan stops to recover. She
looks up at Clark, and there is a sadness in her eyes he doesn't
understand. "Even if people don't believe it, they will pretend
they do. For your sake. And maybe even for theirs, so that they
can have Superman's voice back. So that they can have *Superman*
back, the way he should be. The way he is meant to be."

Clark feels, at once, both very hurt and very touched. It hurts
to think that after everything that's been done to him, after
everything he has done to keep going and all the battles he has
fought to make sure he can still be the man his parents raised
him to be--it is not enough. But it is nice, on the other hand,
to know that the world might want to give back to him (that maybe
their adoration and attention and acclamation are just clumsy
ways of showing their acceptance and affection).

But he doesn't know how to say any of that. He doesn't know how
to put any of what he's feeling into words (and is not even sure
that he *knows* what he is feeling).

"Superman helps," is all he can say, and wants to laugh (wants
to cry) at the realization that he is arguing for the persona he
would have gladly given up a thousand times over if only he could
be Clark Kent again. But then, he does not know that he can
remember how to be Clark Kent anymore. He does not think he can
stop being Superman now. He is almost sure that he has become so
used to helping and saving and *moving* (constantly, always, at
superspeed, in ways no human can move, a moving man in a world of
statues) that he would not know how to be relegated to a slow,
sedate, *human* existence.

(He does not think he can ever trust the world enough to make
himself so vulnerable again.)

"Clark did too," his mom says softly.

It is a truth, and it cuts so deeply that Clark flinches away
from it.

Jonathan settles back into the cushions of the couch, lets out a
sigh that seems to leave him with only peace within. "I'm
glad," he whispers, so quietly only Superman can hear him.
"I'm glad James did this."

His dad wants Clark Kent back too, he realizes. James, and his
dad, and...his mom too?

Clark looks over at her, and finds her looking back at him.

"Help me with these," she says. She picks up the tray of
Jonathan's lunch dishes; Clark takes them from her and follows
her into the kitchen, already decorated and cluttered with bits
of the art supplies he's brought her over the past few weeks.
When she takes the tray from him, he reaches out to fiddle with a
couple metal filings, their metallic color a stark contrast to
the tan flesh of his uncalloused, unblistered palms. He cannot
look at his mom as he asks the question he does not want to ask
(but he needs to ask it, needs to hear her answer, needs some
solidarity in this, because if he cannot make this decision for
himself, then he needs to know that he will be making *everyone*
who loves him happy).

"What do you think I should do?"

"I'm not going to answer that, Clark," she says levelly. But
he thinks she has answered it. He thinks the name she chooses to
address him by and the way she will not look at him and the
trembling of her hands are all answers. "You need to decide this
for yourself."

"Why?" he asks, almost petulantly. "This decision affects all
of us--why can't I ask you what you want?"

Martha turns to look at him, then, and he is taken aback by the
fond smile she wears. "Because you always ask that, honey, and
for once, *we* want to be the ones asking *you*. What *do *you
want?"

It's funny, Clark thinks (without any inclination to laugh),
that they only ask him that question now, when everything he has
ever wanted has been taken away from him (or walked away from him
of her own free will).

"I don't know." He sets down the metal filings with careful
gentleness and moves so that he can look out of this window too.
Superman likes knowing that the sky is still there for him to
retreat to if necessary. (If he is Clark again, he will not be
able to find so many ubiquitous exits; he will have to go back to
lying and pretending and hiding.) "I've gotten used to being
Superman, Mom. I *like* being Superman. He can save so many
people and he doesn't have to lie and he...he's above it all.
He can't be hurt."

He regrets the words as soon as he hears them and realizes, too
late, what they sound like. He hunches his shoulders, waiting for
his mom to grab him or smack him, to lecture him, to remind him
of all the times he has already been hurt. But she does none of
those things, and when he looks, hesitantly, back over his
shoulder, he sees her standing stock-still, frozen, her
expression so full of pain that he feels an instant surge of
adrenaline.

"Mom?" he asks, alarmed.

When he reaches out and touches her arm, she finds movement
again. She steps forward and pulls him into a fierce hug, so
tight and all-encompassing that Clark feels as if he is a young
boy again, crying because he heard the kids in his class making
fun of him behind his back and through three wooden doors. He
feels as if she is trying to protect him from everything in the
world, trying to pull him into her body and use her own mortal
flesh and bone as a shield so that he will be safe. He is not a
boy any longer, not young or defenseless, but he welcomes this
feeling. He *needs* this feeling. (He needs to feel like
*someone* will hold on to him and not let go.)

"Oh, honey," she breathes into his ear.

"I know," Clark says before she can. "I know Superman is
vulnerable in some ways and Clark Kent is strong in some ways,
too. I know--"

"Don't," she cuts him off, her arms tightening impossibly
farther around him. He bends so that she does not have to strain
herself (feels once again how incredibly fragile the strong,
indomitable people in his life really are). "Don't explain or
apologize, Clark. You don't have to make sense all the
time--*life* doesn't make sense. If you feel like Superman is
safer, then it's okay to say so. We've always just wanted the
best for you."

Clark lets himself rest his head on her shoulder, lets himself
give some of his burden over to someone else. Her scent (metal
and sparks and bread and sunshine) infuses him and bears him up
until he wonders if he is floating. "I don't know what's
best," he admits.

He'd thought he did. He'd thought Clark Kent and Superman could
be two different people, encapsulating the best of both worlds.

He'd thought he could live his life without Lois, without a
voice, without a home.

He'd thought he could make Lois a part of his home, could forget
the past and just find something new.

But he's been wrong every time, and he just doesn't *know*
anymore.

"I just want someone to tell me what to do," he says.

She stiffens in his arms, pulls away, her face downcast so that
he cannot see what has her so upset.

"Mom?" he asks, and hates the helpless note in his voice.

She gives him a fake, strained smile that lasts no more than a
beat of her rapid heart before she sags and half-falls into the
chair at the table behind her. Clark reaches out and takes her
hand in his. She needs him, and it doesn't matter that he
doesn't understand why, only that he is there for her as she
always has been for him.

"I'm sorry," she finally says. "I can't tell you what to do.
I don't know either. I thought I did before, but that was a
mistake, and all of this is partly my fault."

Clark frowns. "I don't understand."

She sighs. "In Smallville, after Trask was gone...I saw Lois
looking at you. She looked...angry and confused and...and like
she was trying to figure something out. I guessed that she knew,
but I didn't want to say anything in case I was wrong. I didn't
know her well, and you liked her so much, I just...well, I just
assumed that things would work themselves out. But maybe if I'd
said something--if I'd at least warned you of my
suspicions--then maybe we wouldn't be here right now worrying
about all this."

"Mom," he says, his voice full of gentle chastisement, and
incredibly, he feels almost light-hearted. He is not the only one
who carries burdens and second-guesses himself (not the only one
who carries secrets inside even when the whole world looks at him
and *knows* him), and strangely, that makes him feel stronger and
bolder. "It's not your fault. Lois has always gone her own way;
she wouldn't have listened if you'd tried to talk to her. And
if you'd warned me, I might have made things worse by trying to
disprove her suspicions."

Martha rolls her eyes, squeezes his hand. "I know that. I
just...well, I can't help but wonder, can I? Especially after
how things turned out."

Clark averts his eyes. He has not brought up Lois since Trask,
and no one has asked. Maybe they assume he sent her away. Maybe
they think she left because of the kidnapping. Maybe they draw
all the wrong conclusions (make all the right assumptions). Clark
doesn't care, so long as they continue to keep their silence and
do not make him try to explain what he does not quite understand
himself.

Martha's hand under his chin brings his gaze up to her. "Oh,
honey," she says, so full of love and maternal affection that
Clark can't help but take in a breath, trying to breathe her
inside himself so that he will have her with him always.
"You'll do the right thing. You always do."

"What if I don't?" He tries to smile, but cannot. "What if I
make the wrong choice?"

She gives him a real smile. "Clark, haven't you heard anything
you've been saying? You've already made your choice--you just
need to explain it to yourself now."

He hangs in the sky, in that ephemeral boundary between the earth
and space above, a symbol of in-betweens and not-quites and
almosts. He used to come up here all the time, before, when he
needed an escape from Clark Kent. Now that he is Superman,
though, he does not have time to come up here anymore. He flew
through the skies for weeks while trying to recover from the
wounds inflicted by Nightfall (the hurts inflicted by betrayal
and exposure and loss and grief and so many other things he
hadn't admitted because they were too big and intimidating and
*permanent*), but always in the daylight, always lower in the
atmosphere so that he would not see stars and black space and be
reminded of the immensity of that asteroid that had filled all
his vision before he'd hurled himself at it.

Now, though, he is once more caught between two personas, two
identities, two lives, and so he needs the familiar comfort of
this old haven. He needs something to remind him of who he was
(Clark Kent, a human but an outsider, separated by the secrets he
kept inside and the desire to help he could not completely
ignore) and who he is now (Superman, an alien but accepted,
haunted by the life he once had and the life he wishes could
still be his).

*Who do you want to be*? James had asked.

*What do you want?*his mom had asked.

Two questions that should be simple but are anything but. They
are complicated and hard and rife with pitfalls and snares that
Clark does not know how to avoid or escape.

Superman is safe and strong and secure, but Clark Kent...Clark
Kent is wildness and the unknown, danger and hope, messy and
uncontained but beautiful and full of possibilities just as much
as humanity. And he is only a hope, only a miracle and a castle
in the air, but he is human and normal and real and special in an
ordinary way, and maybe the answer is simple after all.

He *wants* this, wants it so badly he can taste it in the thin
air around him, can feel it surging through his bloodstream,
pumping through his heart with a beat that spells out *hope,
hope, hope, hope*.

He wants it, but he is so very, *very* afraid.

He has stopped Luthor and faced Trask and confronted Lois (had
let her go when every molecule in his Kryptonian body, every cell
in his human heart, was screaming at him to hold onto her, to not
let her to, to clasp her close and *beg* her to stay with him and
make his life that much brighter and bigger and better), but
this...this is harder than all those things, with so much more
potential to hurt him. If he lets himself hope, if he lets
himself *try*--if it does not work, and he has to come back to
this half-life--then he does not know that he will ever recover
again.

He has learned how to be more than content now, is somewhere
between contentment and actual happiness, and it is not the
golden-touched, idealistic dreams of before, but it is better
than anything since that hated story, and he does not want to
ruin what peace he has fought for and won.

But the thought that he *could* go back, that he *could* be just
*Clark* again...he is breathless with wanting, paralyzed with the
force of his sheer, wanton desire for it.

But if he is to do this, if he is to be brave and strong and
desperate once more, then there is one thing he needs to do. For
himself. For his happiness.

Closure, Lois had said she wanted, and he wants it too. She'd
answered the question she thought he wanted to ask, but he'd
already known that answer. There is another, though, that he does
want to know, the question that had made him hold sharp, twisted,
awful anger toward her for that first couple months, and the
question that he eventually set aside and forgot because it was
easier to forgive her if he did not think on it.

But if he is to start anew, then he wants to know. He wants an
answer that he can use to give himself a reason for starting over
again. (He wants to know the worst so that if Clark Kent is hurt
again, he can already bear the scars and have the calluses to
protect himself.)

So he goes to see Lois.

She is working late (just like old times, when he'd let himself
believe this city and these people could be his future), and
there is no one around, and he has not seen her in so long (four
weeks and three days), so he almost comes to a halt when he
catches sight of her. She looks good, not so thin, not so tired,
not so brittle. She looks almost like she did before, and Clark
does not know whether he is happy about that or bitter (and he
*is* happy; he just wishes he could have had something to do with
her recovery, like she did his). But he is on a mission, so he
lets the world pause around him, and he moves through the
newsroom in a blur (outrunning memories, evading pain, ignoring
the parallels he could draw). When he finally lets the world come
back to motion, he and Lois are standing on the roof of the Daily
Planet building.

She is shocked and off balance. It takes her a second (an
eternity) to focus on him. He is dressed in the Superman suit
(because he has not quite made his decision, not yet, not until
he can find a reason not to be afraid; not until he can find
something to trust and believe in again); he stays still and
motionless, a few paces back from her (because carrying her up
here was a bad move and he does not need any more physical
contact to distract him from what he needs to say).

"Wh-what?" she stammers.

He does not wait for her to catch up, nor does he explain himself
(she hadn't given him those luxuries, after all, and he does not
like to think of himself as vindictive, but maybe he is, a little
bit). "You said that you knew the question I wanted to ask was
*why* you wrote the article, but you were wrong. That's not the
question I've wanted to ask all this time."

"Clark!" she snaps, and despite himself, Clark feels like
smiling. She almost sounds like she did before his secret ruined
everything between them. "You can't--you can't just grab me
like that! You're not supposed to connect yourself to me
anymore, that's why I left. Didn't I do enough damage last
time?"

The question twists a cold, sharp blade through his gut, but
Clark ignores it. If he does not have this conversation now (if
he does not make himself actually voice the words that have been
festering inside him), then he never will. And then, no matter
what decision he makes, no matter whether this last, desperate
chance works or not, he will still only be living a half-life,
trapped and haunted by might-have-beens and could-bes.

"What?" he says, matter-of-factly because that is always the
best defense against an irritated Lois Lane. "You're allowed to
upset my life for months at a time, but I can't upset yours long
enough to have a conversation with you? A conversation, I might
add, that you yourself said I needed to have."

She blinks, shakes her head to clear it. "All...all right.
Then...what's the question you wanted to ask?"

And finally, even though he is hurt and desperate and unsure, he
finds the courage he needs to ask her what he's wanted to ask
since that long ago morning walking into the bullpen and finding
reporters instead of friends.

"*Why*?" he asks, almost frantically, urgently, his calmness
(his patience and understanding and avoidance) shattering like
ice against concrete. "Why didn't you tell me you knew? Why
didn't you *warn* me you were writing the article?"

There is pressure building up inside of him, an ocean, a storm, a
tsunami, building and rising and crushing everything in its path
until he thinks he will explode. He is trying so hard to remain
still, but energy crackles along his veins, sweeping through the
marrow-tracks in his bones, and he has to move, except that if he
does, he thinks he will never come back to earth again but will
remain forever wandering and homeless and adrift.

Her cheeks are gilded with tears, her eyes painted with guilt,
and she stands as motionless as a condemned prisoner on the
firing line. "Because," she says, "I knew you would talk me
out of it."

Now he can move. He steps back (a retreat; a surrender; an
acquisition of a new battleground), silent, absorbing that. He
thinks he's known it, all along, but he needed to hear her say
it. He needed to hear it said aloud so that he could face it.

"I'm sorry," Clark," she says (pleads with him, except that
he does not know what she could possibly be pleading for when she
is the one who first drove him away and then walked away). "I'm
sorry I *didn't* talk to you. I'm sorry I told the world your
secret. I'm sorry I never gave you a chance. I'm sorry I ruined
your life. I didn't say it before because I didn't think it
would matter--I didn't think you would believe me--and I...I had
hoped that I could *show* you how sorry I was. How much I wish I
could undo those days. But I guess...I guess telling you is as
close as I'm ever going to get."

He's known for a while that she's sorry. He suspected it when
James told him that she was searching for him. He knew it when he
saw her and she could not find words (because a speechless Lois
is a new thing, as new and different and unique as an apologetic
Lois). He's known that she wants to make up for what she did,
and she has said she is sorry in various, small moments. But it
is nice to hear it, he realizes, nice to have it all spelled out
and laid in the open so that there can be no doubts or
second-guessing during the dark, exhausting, lonely nights.

That growing, surging pressure inside him is eased somewhat.
Tamed and calmed so that it lies more restfully within him.

"I know you're sorry," he finally says. It has been a long
time since he has let himself think of those few days in
Smallville, but Trask is gone now and so he has been able to
remember it recently, has thought back on it, and now that she
has said she is sorry, he finds that he can actually bring it up
between them. "You said that you didn't have a good reason for
that article, but I remember...Trask said that he would make sure
the whole world knew who I really was. When he was fighting me,
with the Kryptonite, before you got there, he told me he'd make
sure, one way or another, that my story would come out. And I
think...I think that he must have told you the same thing. And
when he got away, you knew that he would expose me." He takes a
deep breath before finishing (because this is one of his last
most deeply held hopes and if she denies it, if she has no idea
what he's talking about, then he does not know that he will be
able to find it in himself to hope again). "I think that even
though you wrote that article the way you did because you were
mad at me...I think part of the reason was also so that you could
tell the world before Trask could."

Her breath is staggered, shaky, so uneven that it almost covers
the rapid tempo of her heart. She takes a short, telling step
backward, avoiding his gaze. "So what?" she asks, bitterly.
"Yes, Trask said that he'd tell the world about you, and maybe
I justified writing that article by telling myself it was better
if I did it instead of him. But it doesn't matter. It was only a
very small part of the reason, and I can't pretend otherwise. I
can't just lie and say that my motives were purely
altruistic."

The pressure disappears entirely, so suddenly, so wholly that
Clark feels as if the breath he takes in is the first whole
breath he has pulled in for months. His hope has not been dashed,
and he feels as if his faith in the universe has been restored.
(He feels as if maybe he can risk his life and his heart again.)

"You can't say that your reasons were entirely wrong either,"
he points out. "I do know you, Lois. I knew why you wrote the
article, I even knew why you didn't talk to me about it--and I
know that you always see what you're lacking, not what you
have."

"What do I have?" Her voice is hollow, fraught with tears she
will not acknowledge. "I'm selfish, and I get angry too easily,
and I never think about the consequences, and I'm only sorry
when it's too late."

Clark lets out his breath in a heavy sigh. "Do you have any idea
how many conversations I overhear in a day? Hundreds. Thousands.
All the bad and all the good, ugliness and kindness in balanced
measures. But through it all, in so many whispered confidences
and private confessions and public arguments, you want to know
what they all have in common? Everyone, every person in the
entire world,looks into the mirror and sees their tiny pieces of
imperfection rather than the beauty of the whole." He can't
help himself; he steps closer, looks down at her. He
feels...calm. Relaxed. *Sure* in a way he hasn't been his entire
life, and he wishes that he could take a piece of that confidence
and instill it in her so that she does not have to look so lost.
"Sometimes," he breathes, "I think that *that* is the greatest
tragedy of all in this world."

And then, because she is staring at him with such wide eyes
(because she is too close and too warm and too beautiful; because
she walked away from him for a reason he wishes he didn't
understand), he freezes the world. She is caught between
heartbeats, between one teary breath and another, but somehow,
impossibly, even though she is lost a moment behind him, she
seems to cling to him.

Or maybe it is only his imagination.

He places her back where he found her (because he has a meeting
he needs to attend and he has made his decision; because stoicism
is a necessary facade), and then he leaves her behind. He does
not look back. Instead, he looks forward.

To a new life. A new beginning.

An old name.

He has faced the world a thousand times as Superman (his pieces
of imperfection). It is time he faces it, for the first time,
openly and unabashedly as Clark Kent (the whole that will make
all the fractured pieces of himself beautiful and worthwhile).

***

23

"My name is not Clark Kent."

The first words Superman has spoken to the press in months, and
they are a lie. It isn't even an equivocation, or an evasion, or
a half-truth. It is a flat-out, no-holds-barred lie.

Once, that would have enflamed Lois. Once, it would have made her
narrow her eyes and feel her heart beat faster and busy her mind
with questions and follow-up investigations and an endless desire
to know the *truth*.

Now, it makes her weak and boneless with relief. It makes her jaw
drop and her heart stop and her mind think of nothing but
overpowering, overwhelming *relief. *Because maybe she has not
ruined everything, and maybe there is a way to come back from
this, and maybe Clark Kent can still live. Maybe he will not be a
ghost forever, but a real live man, with beating heart and
growing dreams and living reality.

Maybe she is not a murderer, after all.

It's a simple story that Superman tells the world, standing on
that podium with the hundreds of reporters and the dozens of
microphones and the sea of lights in his face (a face that looks,
somehow, *off*, different lines and shadows and angles to make it
not *quite* familiar). He tells them that he knew Jason Trask and
Bureau 39 would come after him, would stop at nothing to tear him
down and destroy him, would keep coming until he was dead. He
tells them that since they had Kryptonite (and this is where she
feels a surge of anger, of irritation, that he reveals his
weakness to all, as if it doesn't matter or as if he is still
invulnerable), he could not face them alone without risking being
turned against humanity, without risking turning against the very
people he has sworn himself to protect.

And then he spins a tale that paints Clark Kent as the hero (and
in this ocean of lies, she is so glad there is a tiny island of
truth amidst it). The brave friend who came to Superman and
volunteered his life, his safety, his future on the gamble that
he could draw out Bureau 39. A living, breathing Trojan horse, a
target for the Kryptonite, because after all, Clark Kent is only
human and what would it matter if he were to be hit with a
radioactive rock from an alien world? So Clark Kent volunteered
to pretend to be Superman, and Superman protested, and Clark
insisted, and finally they hammered out a plan to make sure that
Clark and his family would be protected, guarded at all times by
Superman, who would remain silent so that, if Clark were to be
forced to speak, no one would notice the differences in their
voices.

It's a fairy tale. A nice, warm little story of heroism and
friendship and loyalty and a battle waged against all the odds,
and a happy ending where the hero can go back to his safe little
life and the god can return to his home in the skies and all the
loose ends are tied up, all the villains dead or locked away, and
the book can finally be closed with a satisfied thump.

When Superman finishes telling the story (in a voice that does
sound deeper, slower, with inflections just ever so slightly
off), he steps aside and lets Clark move forward. Clark doesn't
look at the cameras like Superman. He doesn't stand there as if
he owns the stage. He fidgets, and he looks down at notes in his
hands, and he leans against the podium as if it is all that holds
him up (a man who didn't fully understand what he was getting
into when he volunteered himself for such a dangerous mission but
is now relieved down to the very depths of his being that he has
come out of it safe and alive; a man who hates lying and is now
having to tell a lie bigger than any he has before voiced, and
all for what he would have once seen as selfish reasons, and Lois
cannot figure out what magic James worked to convince him to take
this wonderful, dangerous step).

"I'm just...so glad that Superman is safe and that I can
finally go back to my life," Clark Kent (who is not different in
any way, but just as she remembers him in every line and angle of
his face, every nuance of his voice) concludes.

It's interesting, Lois thinks, standing alone amidst the mob of
reporters glued to the television while this press conference
(this storytelling session) unfolds. It's interesting that
Superman lies, and Clark Kent stands there and tells the truth
(the equivocations, the evasions, the half-lies, in a voice that
is infinitely familiar). He does not lie, and Superman does not
sound like Clark, and maybe Clark (Clark Kent, Superman, the
strange hybrid of them both, the man she has come to know and
love and leave behind because there was no other choice) does not
lie at all in this day's proceedings. Maybe he is only an
accomplice to the lie, standing there and letting his presence
serve as proof for the lies this other...thing, this body double
or hologram or robot or magical apparition...spills out all
around him. He is keeping his hands clean even while he swims in
a river of deceit, and Lois wants to weep (again, always, she
does not think there will ever come a day where she does *not*
want to weep for what her actions have wrought) because this is
her fault, and more than anything, she wishes that *she* could
have been there for him, to tell the lies and shine the
reflective mirrors and provide the distractions so that he did
not have to get so deep into the lies himself. So that he could
remain innocent and clean and honest and *good*. She would have
taken that role on herself, would have gladly swam though sewers
and swamps and Hell itself for him.

But it is too late for that.

"Can you believe it?" Perry asks her, when James steps forward
and puts forward the paper proof (forged, she is sure, and
wonders just how many people there are behind the scenes of this
act) and reassures the people that the Superman Foundation will
release a press statement with the full story and all the details
(more lies Clark will not have to utter himself), and closes by
saying he knows everyone will be glad to have their Superman back
as he once was and how relieved Clark and his family will be that
the terrible, worthwhile ordeal is over.

"Believe it?" Lois repeats numbly, because it is hard to shake
herself free of a good story (because it is hard to come face to
face, even so remotely, with Clark again, especially two of them,
so very different and yet so much the same).

"Yeah," Perry says, and he is looking straight at her,
intently, compassionately. His hand is on her elbow, holding her
upright and steady, and somehow they're in his office where they
are shielded from the rest of the bullpen (and she knows everyone
will be thinking that she is being questioned about how much she
knew of this affair). "Quite a story, isn't it?"

"Yes," she says, and finally she can think again. Can think and
move and talk, and everything in her boils down to one
conclusion: Clark Kent is back. He is back, and he wants his life
back, and a part of that life is the Daily Planet. "I guess we
didn't kill anyone after all, Perry."

Perry meets her gaze, and his is so sad, so resigned, that her
heart turns to ash in her chest. "Didn't we?" he mutters, and
he hugs her as if he knows what she has spent all morning
writing. Hugs her as if he thinks he will never see her again.
Hugs her as if he has finally realized that there is no more Lois
Lane left.

She hands in her resignation the next morning (she didn't have
the heart to do it to Perry the same day, not after that hug and
the tears he hadn't been able to hide when he drew back). For a
while, she doesn't know what to do with herself. She'll have to
find something soon (her apartment will not pay for itself), but
for now, she lets herself drift. She walks through the park and
sits on benches and listens to people tell and retell the story
of Superman and his mortal friend. It gets bigger and bigger,
better, broader, until all the details have blurred and dulled,
and that is when Lois knows that it has worked. They have
accepted this story into their public consciousness, and maybe
there will be people out there who know that Superman looks *too*
similar to Clark, that their story doesn't *quite* make sense,
that it is just a *bit* too coincidental, but the general public,
the people on the streets, the people that will look Clark Kent
in the eye and shake his hand and invite him out to a
ballgame--they will believe it. Because it is a good story and
because it captures their imagination and because they do not
*want* to go back to the world they had before Superman was
silenced and Clark Kent was forced to skulk away into the
shadows.

Sometimes she goes to see Perry, but never in the newsroom (she
does not dare risk seeing anyone familiar there). They talk about
this and that, and look at each other sadly, and she is glad that
she still has him in her life, but it is not the same for all
that they pretend it is.

Her parents call, and Lucy, and Lois talks to them, sparingly
with her mom, awkwardly with her dad, tentatively with Lucy
(because it would be nice to have someone she can talk to about
*everything*, but she will not forget the sacred trust James
extended to her and so there are secrets she will never tell even
to her sister).

Eventually, three weeks after she left the Daily Planet for the
last time (two weeks after Perry tells her, short and to the
point before changing the subject entirely, that Clark Kent
reapplied for a position in the Daily Planet newsroom), she gets
a call from the Superman Foundation.

"We've been going over your work of the last few months, Ms.
Lane," the woman says, her voice polite and professional, "and
you have quite a few pieces that interest us."

"I do?" she asks, stupidly, because she does not remember
writing anything outstanding for almost a year now.

"Yes. The pieces on the retirement home con and the adopted
children being reunited with their birth parents are,
specifically, the ones that caught our interest. We were
wondering if you'd be interested in coming in for a job
interview."

Lois stares at the phone a moment before putting it back to her
ear. This seems...surreal, even more so than Clark Kent and
Superman standing right next to each other on a stage. "What?"
she finally manages to say.

"The Superman Foundation is very much behind drawing attention
to cases that need help. We like to raise public awareness of
troubling situations and encourage ordinary people to help. But
to do that, we need people--investigative writers--who can find
those cases and bring them to light. Would you be interested in a
position like that?"

"You do know who I am, right?" asks Lois (because this is the
wrong number, or a prank, or a cruel joke; it cannot be real,
cannot be for *her*). "I'm Lois Lane. I'm the woman who wrote
the article that made Superman's life more difficult than it had
to be."

The woman chuckles over the phone (as if she realizes how
delicately Lois phrased that; as if she does not care what Clark
and his family went through thanks to Lois Lane). "I assure you,
Ms. Lane, we've done our research. We also know that you are no
longer affiliated with the Daily Planet, and thought this might
be the perfect time to extend an offer. Would you be interested
in taking the interview?"

And she cannot, in that moment, think of a strong enough reason
to make herself say no. So she says yes, and she writes down the
date and time and floor number even though they are engraved into
her skull with blazing hope and purpose and meaning. And as soon
as she hangs the phone up, she wonders if she has made a
mistake.

She wonders if she is being selfish again.

She wonders if Clark knows that his company is calling her and
offering her a new life on a silver platter.

But more than that, she wonders how they knew she was about to go
crazy sitting in her apartment, wandering aimlessly through city
streets, doing nothing, having nowhere to go and no one to see
and no reason to get up in the mornings. She wonders how they
knew that she is down to her last dollars and her last thread of
sanity and her last ounce of courage.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, just in case Clark ever listens for
her voice. But she cannot be strong and noble and selfless
anymore, not until she at least attends the interview. She cannot
keep living a half-life forever in penance for a crime that has
been mitigated.

So she will be brave and selfish and greedy, and she will go to
this interview. Maybe she will be more selfless tomorrow. Maybe
she will be able to say no. Maybe she will be able to see the
dark catch to this bright opportunity to help people in a way
that will not harm Clark.

Maybe. Or maybe she will finally be able to find a new place for
herself.

Maybe she will be able to spin her own fairy tale story too.

The woman from the lobby of the Superman Foundation escorts her
to the fifteenth floor, leads her down a maze of hallways, past
closed doors and purposeful people striding along with files in
their hands. She smiles when she stops before a door, pushes it
open for her, and says, "Good luck."

Lois smiles back stiffly (wonders why all these people working in
a place emblazoned with *his* symbol are so nice and polite and
*kind* to her), and enters the office. She has no time to notice
more than the basic facts that it is small and cramped and
doesn't have much of a view, before the man behind the desk
stands to greet her with a familiar (but oh so strange, so
*incomprehensible*) smile.

"Hello, Lois," James says.

She has been sleeping again, has finally managed to move past her
nightmares, and it has been weeks since she has felt the blurring
between reality and dream, but she finds herself wondering, once
again, if she is asleep and dreaming this. Because he is well (he
is *alive*) and he is *here* and she did not think she would ever
see him again.

"James!" she exclaims (the name comes easily now, after cells
and torture and Trask looming over them and James trying to help
her). She has a dozen questions, but she has lost the knack of
asking them, and so they spill out of her in a jumbled mess.
"But...why are you--did I come to the right--what are you doing
here?"

He grins his old Jimmy grin, the one she hasn't seen in so long.
The one she turned into an older, wiser, more cynical version.
The one that shouldn't be here, in this room, after how they
parted and everything that has happened in the interim. "Yes,
it's me," he says dryly, coming around the desk. His suit
jacket is draped over the back of his chair, and his tie is
nearly completely undone, but he still looks completely grown up.
"This is my office, you did come to the right place, and I'm
here to give you your interview. I think that's all of them."

"My interview?" She feels, suddenly, a hot rush of guilt flood
her system, as if she's done something wrong. And embarrassed,
as if she was trying to pull something over on him, trying to
sneak in and take something not for her before anyone could stop
her. "I didn't come here to try to get back into your lives, or
to ruin anything," she blurts out. "They...they called me about
a job, and--"

"Yes, I know," he interrupts, calm and collected and so
*healthy* that she wants to hug him. "I told them to."

She gapes at him. "*You*...told them to. But...*why*?"

"You left the Daily Planet."

It is not an answer, merely an observation, but she is tired of
making a fool of herself (tired of having it pounded in over and
over again just how far behind she's been left and how out of
the loop she is), so she closes her mouth over all the anxious
questions. James smiles, and offers her a seat--not at the desk,
but at a tiny table squeezed into the corner beside a counter
with a fridge and a coffee-maker and some basic cups and
condiments.

"Tea?" he asks, and she nods dumbly. When he sets a glass of
iced tea in front of her--when he sits down across from her with
a steaming cup of coffee--she is hit with a burst of deja vu so
strong it feels like a literal attack.

He is doing this on purpose. Recreating their meeting at the
diner all those months ago, before broken silence and gardens and
earthquakes. Before board games and almost kisses and confusing
rooftop conversations. He is letting her redo this meeting.

He is giving her another chance.

Lois is abruptly and completely petrified. The last time she did
this, she was motivated by all the wrong reasons and sick with
the strain and the tension of lying to herself, confused and lost
and afraid to look in the mirror. She is better now (*content*,
she thinks with a bitter hint of irony), but she still sees a
woman she doesn't know when she looks into her reflection and
she is not lying to herself, but she still *wants* to. And she
does not know, anymore, if her motives are the right ones.

But now, knowing how tenuous this opportunity is (knowing just
how much James's respect matters), she *wants* this. Wants it so
fiercely, so completely, that it burns inside her, a crackling,
roaring fire filling her with lightning and lava, steel and
titanium.

(But wanting something and getting it are two entirely different
things.)

"I'm glad you're okay," she finally says, when he does not
speak (waits for her, this time, to give the cues and choose the
script). "I was worried about you. Both your arms are okay?"

He nods and stretches them out in front of him to demonstrate.
"Still a few weeks of physical therapy left, but mostly good as
new."

"Well," she says lamely when he adds nothing more, going back
to his coffee as if that is all that needs to be said. "I'm
glad."

The silence builds. Builds. *Builds*, until Lois feels thin
streams of annoyance whisper through those flames inside her. She
is trying, is doing everything she can, but James only sits there
and sips his coffee and watches her. Waiting. Studying. Looking
for something she cannot figure out (because surely there is
nothing left in her worth seeing).

"You didn't tell Clark I was here, did you?" she asks, fear
feathering the edges of her voice.

His expression is level over the rim of his plain coffee mug.
"Do you not *want* him to know?"

Lois sighs. "You have the disturbing tendency of answering
questions with a question."

He smirks at her, as if he can't quite help himself (as if the
part is slipping to reveal a bit of the man beneath). "I'm a
curious man."

"You're a secretive man," she corrects (almost sadly; very
proudly).

"Comes with the territory."

Pain, needle thin and blade sharp, strikes through her, damping
the urgency of those flames, turning them into a captured,
steadily burning beacon, keeping her warm but tamped down to her
own desires. Because he is still at Clark's side, still trusted,
and she is still on the outside looking in--but it is for the
best, she reminds herself. It is for the best, and this time, at
least, it was partially her own decision (and this decision *was*
made for the right reasons).

She has nothing to say in reply to that, but she cannot stand the
silence, so she changes the subject (or maybe she doesn't; maybe
she only dances around the subject, outlining it, profiling it so
that she does not betray anything). "I saw the press
conference," she says, cautiously. "I'm...I'm glad
everything's been cleared up."

James nods. He is back to studying her closely. She does not
understand the tiny smile playing along the edges of his mouth.
"Why did you leave the Daily Planet?" he asks, taking her
aback.

Right. The interview. The job. The real reason they are here.
Apparently, he is done playing his game with her. (She wonders if
that means she's already disappointed him.)

Struggling to claw her way back to the familiar territory of job
interviews (except it is *not *familiar; she has never had to
have one since college when she started interning at the Planet),
she stammers, "It...it wasn't the right fit for me anymore."

He only stares at her, waiting (for a *more* she doesn't know
she has in her to give).

"Because I'm not that person--that reporter--anymore. I
can't--no, I *won't*--write exposes or big news stories
anymore." She exhales, trying to put into words what she has not
even allowed herself to face yet. "I want to help people,
quietly but with long-lasting effects, and this position here
seems like a good way of doing that. The Daily Planet wasn't."

"Hm." James looks down at his coffee, flicks his gaze back up
to her. She feels like a bug under a microscope (she feels like a
game show contestant one question away from the jackpot that will
change her life forever). "You know Clark is working there
again?"

Her throat is clogged, her mouth dry, but she manages a jerky
nod. (She will have to get used to having his name brought up
unexpectedly, without any warning, without a chance to brace
herself against the onslaught of regret and sorrow and loss.)
"Yes. Perry told me."

Strangely, he smiles, as if pleased with her answer.

"So," he asks, as if he never changed the subject, "what can
you offer the Superman Foundation that another candidate
couldn't?"

"Passion," she says hoarsely, "and experience, and a
willingness to make this work. I want to make a difference, but
not like I have before. In a different way. A better way. Instead
of destroying people, I want to build them up. Here, I can use
what skills I do have to do that. To give people a voice instead
of taking it away."

It's not a good answer. It's not a professional answer. It's
the only answer she has.

James purses his lips a moment, for the first time seeming to be
unsure of himself, choosing his words carefully. "The Superman
Foundation has a lot of detractors. If asked about it, if
confronted, what would you say to them?"

She can't help but frown, because this seems like an odd
question. But she does not have to think to know what to say in
answer.

"I would say that the Foundation is only here to help people. To
protect ideals. To make a better world. I'd stand by it, until
the very end."

It's strange, how James is waiting so silently for her answers.
It's strange, how she knows, *knows*, that what she says now
matters more than anything else she has ever said (matters even
more than those thousand words of a Pulitzer Prize-winning
article). And she cannot (does not dare) let herself think on
*why* he is interviewing her like this, or why she picks her
words so carefully (so honestly), but she trusts her instincts
(and it is liberating, to realize that she *can*, again). So she
keeps her eyes on James, and she tells the truth, and she
doesn't think of anything but this moment. The iced tea she
cannot sip. The small but uncracked table laying between them
(like a bridge instead of a wall). The different script they are
using. The chance he is giving her.

"So, Lois," James says, and she thinks he leans forward, almost
imperceptibly, almost tensely. "Why do you want to be here?"

She's lost for a moment (because her answer is too simple)
before she says, "There's nowhere else *for* me."

He gives the hint of a nod. "Here at the Foundation, we have a
strict non-disclosure policy. Could you sign it, knowing you
might never be able to talk about the details of your work with
anyone?"

"I would sign it," she says evenly, more sure of this question
and answer than any of the others, "but I don't need a piece of
paper or a single signature to make me keep quiet. I know the
value of secrets, and some things are worth lying about."

That earns her a slightly wider smile before he sobers and sets
his coffee mug down. She can't help but tense at this change in
his posture and approach. James meets her gaze, his expression
almost...compassionate? No, it must be something else. A part of
the script she didn't study. "You have a dubious track record,
Lois," he says, quietly. "Why should we trust you?"

"Because," she says through burning eyes (as fire laces itself
through her voice), "I admit that I made mistakes--colossal
mistakes--but I *learned* from them."

Such a simple statement to encapsulate everything she's
discovered in the past months--in her search for James, and her
invitation back into the Kents' lives, and everything that
happened afterward. So simple, but she knows it is true. She
knows that now, if she were to be presented with a secret, a
truth, worth protecting, she would do things differently.

She would not write an article.

She would give her life up in exchange for it. She would
sacrifice her future for it. She would walk away from any chance
of happiness for it.

She would make the right choice.

But James does not smile or give any other sign that he
recognizes the immensity of her admission (her revelation). Just
nods and stands up. "All right. I think we're done."

She's choked by crushing, suffocating disappointment. By a loss
so painful it rivals the one she felt walking out of a hospital
behind Clark's back. By the rising, growing sense of injustice
at it all, that she could learn so much and come so far and still
not be *enough* (and she is still getting 98 percent on her
tests, still falling short of that vaunted 100 mark).

He liked her answers, she *knows* he did (can read James well
enough now to know the differences between him and Jimmy), but it
all comes down to the past and what she did. She's known it
would, *known *that there is no getting over some things,
but...but she had dared to hope anyway.

To no avail.

She sets her iced tea down, unspilled, unbroken, no more maps of
new truths and universal secrets. She stands. She tries to paste
on a professional, or at least neutral, mask. "Of course," she
says. "Thank you for giving me a chance, anyway."

Not much of one, but he'd tried. And she did too, and it still
doesn't matter.

"You're welcome," he says politely, going to the door and
opening it for her. "And I'll see you on Monday at 7:30 for
your orientation and official paper-signing and whatnot. Or
rather, *I* won't see you since I don't handle that stuff, but
you know what I mean. Just ask the front desk when you get here,
and they'll direct you on where to go."

Lois can't believe it. It's not dreamlike or surreal or hazy;
it is just *unbelievable*.

She goes out the door he's holding open on autopilot, but turns
to look at him (to make sure he's not playing some twisted
practical joke). "I don't understand."

And it's definitely compassion, this time, shining out from his
face through the crack of his smile and the tiny wrinkles at the
edges of his eyes and the light glowing in russet brown to match
the embers within her own breast. "It's yours, Lois." He
reaches out and hugs her, and for an instant, Lois lets herself
lean into him. She feels the wiry strength beneath his dress
shirt, senses the vast stores of loyalty and potential beating
there in his heart beneath the armor of his breastbone and tie,
and hopes (*lets* herself, finally, hope) that she can get to
know him better. That she can be his friend again, and work to
earn back everything she once took for granted.

"You mean..." Her voice is small and lost and uncertain (afire
and blazing and hopeful). "I got the job?"

When he pulls away and looks down at her, he is smiling a smile
she has never seen before, real but enigmatic and somehow
wistful. "Truthfully, Lois," he says, so quietly she almost
cannot hear him, "I don't think anyone but you *could* fill
this position."

She has the feeling he is not talking about staff writer for the
Superman Foundation.

(She has the feeling he is talking about something so much more
permanent and meaningful and wondrous.)

But he smiles again and closes the door between them, and Lois is
left alone in the hallway to find her way out of this maze and
back out into the open sunlight.

He believes in her, he is giving her a second chance, and so she
is not daunted. She is Lois Lane (again, always, her own true
identity hidden behind the shroud of her alter ego, but now
exposed once more, alive and unhidden and *real*), and so she can
face this maze and this position...and whatever it was James was
*really* interviewing her for.

***

24

Her office is small, barely enough room for a desk, a file
cabinet full of papers jammed inside in no particular order, and
two chairs, but Lois likes it. One of the walls is made up of a
window, offering her a view of sky and rooftops and light. The
glass is tinted almost amber, reminding her of the best parts of
her time in that suite in California, bathing her in the color
beneath which she first found forgiveness and redemption and
hope. Occasionally, as she settles into her job, she thinks she
sees a flash of red and blue out there, somewhere above the sky,
among that sea of skyscrapers. Back in Metropolis (back where he
belongs), reminder of all she once did and how far she has come
and how much things have changed since that one fateful article.

Superman is careful to continue to appear around the world, but
no one can deny that he is definitely calling Metropolis his home
again. The press release said that Superman had made so many
rescues during Clark's 'undercover' month simply in a bid to
draw Trask out quicker. It claimed that he is now somewhat
depleted after so long a time without resting and recharging
(more open vulnerability he has to risk to make his life work),
and will no longer be able to appear as often. Lois has heard
some of his detractors speculating about what that means exactly,
but mostly, everyone seems to be taking it at face value.

Lois is glad. Relieved, even. She meant what she told James, and
if she will stand by the Superman Foundation to the end, then she
will stand by its inspiration and creator even longer. She is
relieved, but worried, too. And curious. And afraid and hopeful
and trying not to be any of it. It is a constant temptation not
to ask Perry about Clark--if he is settling in, if he is the same
or different, more skittish or wary (if he ever asks about her).
So far, she has managed not to ask. If anyone deserves a new life
(a new start, without old friends turned enemies turned allies
turned something else turned *the past*), it is Clark.

Besides, she has her own new life (new start, without anything
but *today* and stories about people in need) to consider. So she
reads Clark's stories (small, local stories, and she can tell
Perry is trying to ease him back into swimming with the sharks so
eager for the scent of blood), and then she goes into her new
office and spends the next nine or ten (or twelve or fourteen)
hours forcing herself to think about other people's problems
(anything but her own loneliness, and the dreams she cannot
escape of a future with a man who wears colorful ties and smiles
at her through thick glasses and *talks* to her).

It is a life, and one she can face with a certain amount of
sanguinity (with more than *contentment*), and she is remembering
more and more how to be herself, and she does not want to mess it
up by once again chasing after more than Clark has to give her.

So she is completely astonished one morning, two weeks after she
started at the Foundation, to walk into her office and find Clark
Kent standing in front of the window, gazing out at the sky as if
he has not heard her enter the building, come up on the elevator,
walk to this office, and open the door to such an unexpected
sight. As if he cannot hear her heart rattle in the cage of her
ribs and her lungs implode and her world tilt and surge and
explode.

As if it is not impossible, unbelievable, *unwise* (incredible)
for him to be here.

But he turns, then (*Clark*, not a stranger or a hybrid or
whatever they are using to make him and Superman both seem to
show up at events), and as he always does (so often she almost is
not even surprised by it), he smiles at her. "Lois," he says, a
voice and tone and name instead of damaging, debilitating
silence.

"Oh, no!" Lois blurts out, her satchel falling from nerveless
fingers to hit the floor as the door swings shut behind her.

For just an instant, Clark's smile vanishes, replaced by a
tentativeness--almost fear. Almost disappointment. Almost
crushing loss.

So Lois adds, hurriedly, "You're not here to sweep me off to
some rooftop for another confusing conversation I have to stay up
late every night trying to decipher, are you?"

His smile returns (something inside of her eases). "No. At
least, I don't think so. What was so confusing about our last
rooftop conversation?"

"Really?" Lois arches a brow at him, takes a careful step
nearer (breathes out quietly when he does not tense or retreat or
shut down). "To you, that conversation was straightforward?"
She shakes her head. "No wonder you're the quiet type,
usually."

She wonders if she has gone too far, is already regretting those
careless words, when Clark laughs and turns away from the open
vista the window offers him. "To me," he says, leaning back
against the windowsill, his hands in his pockets, "that
conversation cleared up a few loose ends. It didn't for you?"

"Unanswered questions, Trask's insane ravings, tragedies of the
world--those sound more like mysteries than loose ends."

That smile again, but softer and smaller, his eyes intent on her.
"I was trying to decide who I wanted to be. What I wanted. And
those were just a few last things I needed to know--or to
admit--to put everything into context."

She swallows. Hard. But she has a new life and is (maybe,
sometimes, on the good days when she gets some sleep and can
almost believe in happy endings for fairy tales) Lois Lane again,
so she takes hold of whatever bits of bravery she still has, and
steps up next to him, leans back against the windowsill beside
him, and makes herself meet his gaze.

Because she *has* been trying t-o puzzle out that conversation
for over four weeks now, and she thinks she knows what he was
trying to decide. Because he is here and she might never be this
close to him again. Because he is here (he is *here*, with *her*,
of his own free will; *he* is the one that came after her this
time, and that has to mean something besides friendly compassion)
and he is talking to her, and it does not sound like a goodbye or
an end or a closing chapter.

(Because James was not interviewing her for a job at the
Foundation.)

"And what are you here for today if not a 'straightforward'
conversation?" she asks.

He tilts his head but does not break her gaze. He is so close her
hands are trembling and she cannot breathe. He is too far away;
she feels drawn to him as if they are magnetized, as if she has
no choice but to sidle closer and reach up and pull him into one
of those hugs he was so good at giving (she remains perfectly
still, because if she takes a hug, she will be addicted forever,
and all her efforts at weaning herself of them so far will be
ruined; because she wants him to *give* her a hug rather than
have one taken from him).

"I decided who I wanted to be," he says, so softly she almost
cannot hear him. "At first, I didn't think I could trust the
world enough to be Clark Kent again. But then I realized...I
didn't have to trust the world. It wasn't the world who
discovered me, or wrote up my first appearance, or unveiled me,
or followed me into my life of hiding. It wasn't the world who
reminded me what it means to live instead of just be alive. It
wasn't the world who walked away to save me."

"I'm confused again," Lois whispers, nothing more than a
confession, a quip, on an exhalation, but she is impressed she
can say anything at all.

His smile is nervous, but there. "I can never trust the whole
world, Lois. That's what hope is for. But I *can* trust a
person. A single person who's learned and moved on and proved
what she will do for me if given another chance. And so I decided
something else too--what I wanted. What I *want*."

"What *do* you want?"

She cannot believe she asked it. Cannot believe that what little
courage she has allowed the question to be voiced. But it is out
there now, hanging in the air between them like a strip of water
that could be either a puddle they can step across or through
without drowning...or a river, a deep raging chasm of water with
currents that will suck them down and under and away.

Her veins feel as if they are filled with electrical currents,
tiny bolts of lightning surging up and down and through, bridging
arteries, freezing muscles, encasing her heart in broiling energy
that can either stop or strengthen its beat. She stares at Clark,
and something is burning like hot liquid in her eyes, along the
curve of her cheeks, but she notices it only vaguely. Notices
*everything* only vaguely, except him. Except the yellow and
brown of his tie and the fit of his suit and the way his glasses
perch on the bridge of his nose and the amber tint the lenses
give to his silvery-brown eyes and the feathering of his own
stuttered breaths past the edge of her temple.

"What do you want?" she asked, as if the answer can't destroy
her. As if the answer can't take her dreams and crush them into
dust. As if she can survive hearing the future spelled out once
and for all.

"What do you want?" she asked, as if she is still Lois Lane,
after all, and would rather confront life than have it be a
surprise that will trip her up later on.

Clark isn't smiling anymore. But he hasn't looked away either.

"Why did you leave?" he asks.

She feels as if he has slapped her. Despite herself, she recoils,
her body tensing, her eyes leaving his to turn so that all she
can see is the opposite wall of her office--and it is not nearly
far enough away. She feels as if she cannot breathe, the walls
closing in around her, shrinking to hold her in place while Clark
toys with her in final, belated revenge.

"Leave where?" she asks, because as much as she has learned and
changed and grown, she would still rather avoid emotional
upheaval than face it.

"The hospital. California. The Daily Planet." He lets out a
breath and finally looks away from her. She watches, from the
corner of her eye, as his head droops, sags, until he looks as
weighted down as...well, as he really is. He just usually hides
it so much better. (She wonders if he is really so tired he
can't fake it anymore, or if he has brought himself here, to her
office, to her new life, with no secrets to stand between them or
to reach between them.) "Me," he adds, so quietly she can
pretend she did not hear it.

If she wants to.

If she is too afraid. Too desperate. Too burned to try again, to
hope again, to*live* again.

She must be honest. She must not lie.

She can't let him leave. She can't let this chance go.

The twin desires rage in her, fueled by confusion and longing and
loneliness, and there is nothing left to do but forge ahead
blindly (as she did before, with an article, but she has changed
and learned as she told James, and she can only hope she makes
better choices today).

"I left," she answers, "because- I'm Kryptonite to you."

"Are you?" There is no inflection to the question. No
accusation. No mockery. Nothing but curiosity. Polite and
aloof--and disbelieving because of that (because Clark, even in
his darkest moments, never sounds so *removed*).

She lets out a scoffing breath. "Clark, all I've done is hurt
you. I ruined your life--almost permanently--and then came after
you just to finish the job."

"I think you're only seeing the imperfect pieces," he murmurs
(and a shock of understanding jolts through her, recognition and
hope, but it's too brief, electrifying but temporary).

"Trask was going to kill you," she reminds him, as if he could
have possibly forgotten. As if he had not felt the pain diminish
him as he carried her to safety. "*Through* me. He used me to
get to you."

"Trask was a madman," he replies easily. He is watching her
again, but his head is still lowered, like an animal sensing
tentative safety but not sure it can trust it yet (or maybe that
is only her own feelings she sees reflected back at her).

"I took your world away from you without even a warning,"
(silence he only later reflected himself, she thinks), "and then
I invaded your world again without asking--and then left you
again. So tell me, Clark...when, *when*, have I ever done
*anything* but hurt you?"

And she is looking straight at him, caught by his gaze, trapped
and unable to look away (to free herself, to flee to her cold,
lonely, almost-happy hiding place).

He does not flinch away from her or her question and open,
burning reminders. He does not look away. (He does not flee to
his own hiding place, the refuge he has surely fashioned himself
to escape from the world, from the bad rescues, from
everything...but not, seemingly, from her).

"When I first met you," he says, "you made me *want* to try my
best--as *Clark*, but also as something *more*. You made me fight
to keep up, to try to prove to myself that I could do just as
much, have just as much passion, as you. You showed me that I
wasn't the only one wearing a mask, but that I could try anyway,
even if I was afraid."

"And what did you get for that?" she interrupts, toneless and
blank (so the pain of it won't overwhelm her). She wants to
weep, to scream, to break down in hysterical laughter, when she
realizes she is arguing against herself, playing the prosecutor
in her own trial.

(She is afraid. Afraid to hope. Afraid to try. Afraid she will
make the wrong choice again.)

"Yes. There is that." Clark looks away for only an instant, a
flicker that ends with him looking right back at her again (as if
the article, her crime, is only a flicker in *their* story).
"But then you came back into my life. You showed me how to keep
trying--keep getting up no matter how many times I'm beaten
down. You reminded me how to live. You make me *want* to find
more. You gave me something to believe in again. And when Trask
kidnapped you, you...you saved James, Lois. You gave yourself in
his place. And you walked away so you wouldn't hurt me." His
lips quirk up in an expression that takes Lois's breath away.
"Didn't work entirely, but the intention was good."

She stares at him. She cannot look away, but this time it is
because she does not *want* to. "That's...that's not the way
it... It isn't that clear-cut."

"Isn't it?" His smile becomes more defined before fading back
into earnest sincerity. "You're not Kryptonite, Lois. I know
what that feels like, and..." He takes in a jagged breath, his
own nightmares playing out in his eyes and the shadows under
them. "It feels harsh and invasive, and it drains me of
everything worthwhile, everything that makes me *me*. It makes me
less, but you, Lois...you make me *more*."

Her breath catches in her throat, an audible gasp filling up all
the empty corners of her tiny office.

Clark, possessed by a sudden tangible intensity she can feel even
inches away, angles toward her. He reaches out, forward. Places
his hand on hers. And it is all she can see, his hand reaching
out to her, touching her, including her. A vision every bit as
beautiful and improbable as her dreams.

"You're the sunlight, Lois," he whispers. "You give me
something to rise toward. You make me stronger. You make me dare
vulnerability because I know there's something that can catch me
and heal me. You fill me up with light and hope, and you make it
okay to try again even though I'm still afraid--but you make
being afraid seem okay too. You make me *better*, Lois, and I
don't want to lose that again. I don't want to live a half life
again when I--when *we*--could be whole. Let's not be imperfect
apart, Lois. Let's be beautiful together."

His eyes are sparkling, gleaming with light that's always been
there but now burns like a sun gone supernova. His hand is warm,
heavy, inviting but not demanding, confident and tentative all at
once (a duality, a hybrid, still, but different, alive and
surging with *life*). He is here. He is looking at her. He is
giving her another chance.

Giving her his heart.

Unmasking himself, this time of his own volition, secrets freely
offered rather than unwillingly taken, spilling out truths like
offerings, like a bouquet and an escorting arm.

He is more vulnerable than she's ever seen him, nervous and
breathless and reciting words she can tell he's rehearsed.
Hopeful and excited and anxious. And she has more power to hurt
him now than she ever has before (with a word processor and a
newspaper and a secret).

He is strong (so strong she stands in awe) and brave (so brave
she cannot be anything but in reflection) and forgiving. So
forgiving she cannot possibly keep her own masks and shields and
secrets in the face of his open...love.

(She lets herself think it. Lets herself face it. Lets herself
realize it.)

Love. It is love.

"I love you," she says. Quickly. Easily. Without conscious
thought. She simply needs to tell him the truth and this is the
greatest, most imperative truth in all of existence, and so it is
what comes out, the words slipping into her office as if they've
always been there. As if they belong there. As if they have been
layered over everything she has done and said and been.

She will never forget his expression. It is arrested, caught
between a thousand emotions, a dozen reactions. Almost surprised.
A little afraid. Completely happy.

Her bones are thin and frail and riddled with flaws and
inconsistencies, helpless to keep her upright, but that
expression ensures she does not fall. It bears her up, keeps her
standing because she cannot take away that light in his eyes,
cannot disappoint the sudden, overwhelming birth of hope wiping
away every shadow, every *memory* of shadow.

"I love you," he whispers. And still he does not move, just
watches her, frozen on this precipice, waiting, perilously
balanced, and Lois cannot even breathe lest she send him toppling
(and if he falls, she will fall too, and shatter). "And I want
you. And if you let me, I choose you. I choose *us*."

He is spelling everything out, she realizes. There will be no
more silence between them, no more unvoiced thoughts, no more
concealed secrets. Only truth and openness. He is not leaving
room for misunderstandings or confusion. He is giving her words
and plans and the future. (He is erasing the silence she gave
*him* and replacing it with something infinitely better.)

"If I let you," she repeats, her voice high, the words tripping
over you. "Right now, I couldn't bring myself to stop you."

A flutter of hesitance dilutes that happiness shining there in
amber and brown. "Do you *want* to stop me?" he asks.

Her laugh is almost a sob, her muscles burning with the effort of
restraining herself from leaping at him, into his arms (into his
life). "No," she says. But he is watching her, studying her,
patient, expectant, and she realizes he is asking her something
important.

She has made mistakes. She has wronged him. She has committed
crimes against him that should have ended their story long
before, but he is moving past that. He is putting it in the
past.

Will she?

*Can* she?

"I made mistakes," she told James. "But I learned from
them."

And she wasn't lying, she knows. She *has* learned--learned
enough to know that somethings are worth grabbing and holding
onto and never letting go. Learned enough to know that life moves
on and she has to move with it. Learned that when Clark Kent
offers himself to her, she would be worse than a fool to turn him
away.

So she takes a breath (the first full breath in weeks, in months,
in a lifetime) and says, "No, Clark. I do want this. I want you.
I choose *you*."

His smile is an unfurling, delicate and slow so that she feels as
if she is watching the blooming of a rare flower, a precious seed
bringing life and beauty into the world. And then his hand isn't
on hers anymore; it is rising, gentle and slow against her chin,
her cheekbone, her temple, a caress through her hair.

He leans forward, so slow, so intent. He is going to kiss her.
Not her cheek or her forehead or her hair--he is going to kiss
her on the mouth, a full kiss. A real kiss. Not for cover or
distraction.  Not to test himself or push their boundaries.
Because he wants to. Because *she* wants him to.

A month ago, she would have wept. Two months ago, she would have
pinched herself (or not, because she would not have wanted to end
this kind of dream). Five months ago she would have hunched in on
herself and hidden in the dark because this could never be for
her after what she'd done. Ten months ago, she wouldn't have
even been able to fathom this. And a year ago, she wouldn't have
appreciated it.

But this is today. This is the present, touched by the past but
not dictated by it. She is Lois Lane--not the Lois Lane who
scorned a partner and idolized a hero and wrote an article. The
Lois Lane who helped a garden thrive. Who reminded a boy grown
into a man too fast that it is okay to be more than a sacrifice.
Who learned from and listened to the married farmers who had
sheltered an alien and helped nurture him into a savior.

She is the Lois Lane who loves a man with his own flaws and
insecurities and terrors. A man who reaches past those things to
be better than he is. A man who can forgive and forget because he
has the greatest heart she has ever known.

She is the Lois Lane who recognizes a good thing when she sees it
and is wise enough now to reach for it in turn. Because sometimes
second chances are possible and crimes do not have to overshadow
an entire life. Because love is worth a few mistakes and some
trial and error. Because if Clark can forgive her, then she can
surely come to forgive herself.

So she leans forward to meet Clark, her eyes fluttering shut, and
he tilts her head so that when his mouth covers hers, she finds
they are a perfect fit. He is warmth and compassion and empathy
and desire all together, molding and forming against her,
defining her even as he is defined by her own faults turned
strengths in his presence. He is all around her, covering and
enfolding until the entire world is comprised of only them and
nothing else matters.

He reaches out and gives her the hug she's been longing for
(gives her the world), and she folds, falls, melts into him. He
kisses her, and with his silence transformed into this eloquent,
wordless language, Lois finds complete and total absolution.

***

25

Clark Kent walks down the street.

He walks down the street, and no one stops. No one stares. No one
calls the media. One man does come over, but only to smile and
shake his hand and thank him for what he did for Superman (a
quiet, somber thanks next to the overwhelming gratitude often
given Superman for his acts of heroism, but it means every bit as
much to Clark Kent). When Clark replies, with a thanks and a
shrug and a smile because it's hard not to smile back when
someone is offering him such acceptance, the man doesn't do a
double-take or gawk or stand in amazement to hear his voice.

Clark Kent speaks, and it is accepted as a perfectly normal thing
to do.

He walks in public, in the open, with a suit on and glasses
shielding the disbelief in his eyes, and it is not an occasion
worth noting.

It has taken him this long (five weeks, three days, seven hours)
to accept that he is *here* again. Alive and real and accepted
and *dual*. He still goes out mainly at night, like now, when
there are fewer people out (because he is afraid to tempt fate or
mess with a good thing). He still stays quiet and fairly solitary
in the newsroom (because he has forgotten the art of casual
conversation, and has no impetuous, brave, foolhardy,
compassionate woman to sweep him up in her wake). He still tenses
up every time anyone looks at him (because he is used to eyes,
thousands and thousands, millions through television screens, but
one on one, they terrify him, so much more intimate and
invasive). He still finds himself afraid he will face accusations
or denunciations or disbelief (because this is a dream he has
never allowed himself to fall into before for fear of how much it
will hurt when he wakes up).

But despite all that, he *is* getting better. He does come out,
as Clark, walking down a street instead of flying over it. He has
begun, sparingly, tentatively, to talk to a few fellow reporters,
those who weren't there the last time he worked at the Daily
Planet. He may tense up, but he relaxes almost immediately
(reminds himself that *Clark* matters too, and maybe he is
vulnerable again, but being Clark Kent is worth the danger).

He never thought he would have this (*be* this) again.

But here he is.

Clark Kent. Walking down the street. In the open. Smiling.
Talking.

Heading to a date with Lois Lane.

That was something he'd never let himself consider (even before
he was split into two and then ripped back into one and then
merged back into two again), never really expect or fully
envision. He'd hoped--oh, how he'd hoped--but lies and species
and alter egos and ambition stood between them, a moat that could
not be crossed, and even in his innocent naivete, he'd known
that the odds were so astronomical as to be nearly impossible.

But now...now here he is.

Centennial Park comes into view ahead of him, and Clark does an
odd skip as he first speeds up and then slows down. Because he is
Superman as well as Clark, even on this dark street, and he can
see Lois already waiting, sitting on a bench and looking up to
the sky where he has so often floated alone and looked down at
the earth below. She is muttering something under her breath, as
if rehearsing a speech. He could listen, but he doesn't,
choosing instead to focus on the sound of crickets and the hush
of wind and the beat of a heart not as far away as he'd once
thought. Choosing to approach this evening, this bench, this
*woman*, as Clark primarily and Superman only incidentally.

It's the little things that matter the most. Big things steal
attention and draw eyes and command respect or fear, but the
little things fill up the days and offer moments to remember and
stay with you long after the big things have faded away into
history. The little things provide all the reasons he needs to
keep doing the big things, give him the strength and the courage
and the *hope* he needs to be more than a lonely hero wandering
the skies and trying to hold the shattered pieces of his heart
together long enough to find something worth being whole *for*.

He does not think he can really call Lois a 'little thing'
(even in her darkest days, her personality still filled up that
suite of rooms and made it impossible to think of other things),
but she made it okay for him to start finding those small moments
again. And he hopes (*hopes, *with as much joy and belief and
innocence as he did once before, when they both worked in the
Daily Planet newsroom) that she will share those small moments
with him, give him things to remember, be there in the future
opening up before him, sprawled out with all its promise and
glory, stand at his side for the days when he can be *happy*
(rather than just *content*) as she was in the days when even
contentment was far outside his reach.

But first, he has to walk into that park. Sit next to her on that
bench. Reach past rusty inexperience and find the words to give
her.

It had taken him only a minute after she left him in that
hospital (so obstinate and beautiful and frustrating) to realize
that he just *couldn't* go back to a life without her. It had
taken James and a team of scientists and his parents'
encouragement for him to dare coming down into the world she
inhabited again. It had taken him *weeks* to figure out how to
approach her, to feel like he fit in enough to be able to offer
her something, to practice his speech and imagine the different
responses she might give him.

But in all that time, he hadn't ever thought about what he would
do *after* that oh-so-important conversation. Now, he regrets
that. Now he looks back on evenings spent furnishing his new
apartment with James's teasing, laughing, *joyous* help and days
flying from rescue to rescue, and wonders why he hadn't put more
thought into what balance he should strike with Lois in a world
where they don't work together and they haveerred and forgiven
and moved on. Now he scrabbles frantically for some idea of how
to approach her.

In the end, he simply walks up to the bench and sits beside her.
No ceremony. No pomp or circumstance or speech. Just a man
walking up to a bench and sitting by his date. Simple. Ordinary.
Absolutely *amazing*.

"Hey," he says.

She smiles shyly, almost nervously tucking a strand of hair back
behind her ear. "Hi," she replies.

"Thanks for coming," he offers after a moment. "I know it's
late."

"Not a problem." She shrugs, then laughs. "You know I've
never really kept normal hours."

"Yeah," he says, and he relaxes (because he does know,
*remembers* it from those dreamlike days of a lifetime he's only
just beginning to reclaim, and because she is acknowledging that
shared history). "So...should we walk?"

"That sounds nice."

There's even fewer people around now, strolling along the
park's pathways under the light of a crescent moon, but Clark
doesn't mind. He likes his relative anonymity, but he also likes
solitude...in the right moments, with the right company. His life
has made him used to solitude, even as it has offered him a few
true friends. And now, maybe more.

"I love this," he observes, letting his hearing drift just a
bit (just enough to hear their shared footsteps crunching over
miniscule particles of dirt and leaves and grass, to hear their
twinned heartbeats, to hear her steady breathing and her clothes
rustling and her hand brushing ever so often against his; just
enough to hear that no one is phoning in the newsworthy report
that Superman has been seen walking on the ground like a normal
human being). "Being able to walk in the open. Being able to
be...normal, I guess. Being with you, in public, not having to
hide."

The sounds of their companionable togetherness are too loud,
growing in volume and harshness as Lois remains silent herself.
Her mouth is closed, her eyes tight, and Clark feels the familiar
tightness winding his muscles in on themselves. The old Clark
might have teased her (would not have confronted it openly);
Superman might have left (would not have pushed the boundaries he
was already so bad at keeping); even his silent in-between self
would not have done anything (would not have known *what* to do).
But he is freed now, and braver now, and has both Clark and
Superman within to give him boldness, so he stops walking and
turns to face her.

"Lois?" he asks, and when she does not answer, he makes himself
continue. "Are you all right? Is this...is this still something
you want?"

It's not as clear a question as he might have made it, but
boldness only goes so far. After all, *he* has been given a new
lease on life, but Lois is faced with suspicion and accusations
every time she turns on the news. Plenty of people are wondering
where Lois got the information to print her expose on Clark and
Superman, and whether she was in on the cover-up or not, and if
she truly deserves her Pulitzer if she was lying. Clark had James
talk to her about announcing that Superman had asked her to write
the article she did, to include her in their elaborate ruse, but
James said she had refused. Now, Clark wonders if maybe he should
try to talk her into it, try to lighten her own load--or if,
maybe, there is nothing *he* can do for her. He has forgiven her,
and perhaps that is all she really wanted.

Maybe she does not really love him. Maybe it is only relief and
guilt that has made her come this far.

But she looks at him, her eyes reflecting back twin moons, and
she smiles, her hands clasping his. "I do want this, Clark. I
just...sometimes I have a hard time believing that *you* can,
after everything I've cost you. Still," she takes in a breath,
straightens her shoulders (demonstrates a strength equal to
Superman's), "I'm trying to remember that that's all in the
past."

Clark doesn't even try to hold back his own smile (it has been
so long since smiles came so easily, so quickly). "Exactly.
Lois, I'm sure there are going to be days the past will still
hurt, but we have so many more future days to look forward to,
and I think they will outweigh our yesterdays."

Her hand leaves his, moves to caress the side of his face. He
cannot quite decipher the expression on her face. It almost seems
as if she is trying to decide if he is real or not (it almost
looks like the expression he is sure *he* wears, sometimes, when
he looks at her). "I'm beginning to actually believe that,
Clark. And...I want you to know--I can't remember if I told you
before--but...I'm going to do everything in my power to make
sure that you can *always* walk down any street you want. I will
protect you."

Clark cocks his head. "Thank you," he says, sincerely. "But I
don't want just a protector."

And when she smirks in response, he realizes there must be extra
boldness still swirling through him, or else he is just seized
with a sudden wildness, a mania conferred by the freedom and
elation bubbling up inside him, because he leans into her touch,
and leans farther, farther, down, down, falling until she catches
him with silken lips and flavored gloss and jasmine scent. Until
she fills him up with warmth turning into heat as her arms wind
around him, with affection turning into love he cannot deny as
her mouth parts beneath his and sends him tumbling into worlds
and galaxies he has never before even dreamed existed.

Her mouth curves up, though, into a smile, a grin, so wide it
breaks the kiss (and Clark is glad, because *this* is not for the
open streets, even in his newfound freedom, even as he is
disappointed because he does not want to leave that unexplored
cosmos until he can map its every hidden corner and uncover every
sweet secret). She is breathless, her arms binding him to her,
her smile enthralling him. "Well," she says, the words tickling
his upper lip. "Good thing I plan on doing a *lot* more than
just protecting you."

And she tilts her head up to his, and kisses him.

He hasn't dated in a very long while, but as much as he has
missed in the past year (in a lifetime of secrecy), he is pretty
sure this date counts as a success.

The walk into her apartment building, up the stairs, and down the
hallway to her door, is as familiar to him now as if he has
walked it a thousand times rather than a mere dozen or so a year
ago. He wonders, briefly, if it is ridiculous to be so excited
about such simple things as retreading steps before he decides
that he doesn't care. It is excitement that has been bought by
James and a team of scientists and loads of publicity stunts and
a multi-million dollar robot, so he will savor it all he wants.

Lois opens the door almost before he can knock, her smile every
bit as bright as it has been during each of their dates. This is
their twelfth date, two weeks after he told her he loved her, but
only the fifth time they have not met in the park. He still loves
taking walks, especially with her at his side, but he also loves
getting to come here, to her apartment, surrounded by her things,
a world of intimacy enveloping them in cozy arms while they eat
take-out and laugh over fortunes and watch movies. He loves
getting to know her all over again, falling all over again,
becoming *comfortable* with each other.

He loves letting *her* see the real *him*. He loves that she
*wants* to know him. He loves that she smiles every time she sees
him.

A flurry of anticipation has been whirling about through Clark's
bloodstream as he makes the walk to her front door, and now that
she is standing in front of him, dressed in blue and silver, her
hair curling atop her shoulders, he feels almost giddy. She opens
her mouth, and he leans down and gives her a small kiss. A brush,
a caress of lips, a tiny sip of that galaxy she possesses within
her--a greeting unparalleled by any other.

She stares up at him. He grins down at her.

"Hello," he says, and relishes the word. He is so used to
saying goodbyes (or thinking them; so many times there was not
even time to deliver them in person); hellos are new and
intoxicating.

"Hello," she says, and her smile comes back. "The best hello
I've ever had."

He can feel his grin turning a trifle satisfied, even smug, so he
changes the subject before she can tease him over it (and she
does tease him now, sarcasm and affectionate mocking that is
almost as welcome as her kisses). "How's work?"

"Good," she says, but as she pulls him inside and closes the
apartment door behind them, she seems almost distracted. He
doesn't have time to register curiosity before she turns and
faces him. "So," she says, "I can call for some take-out like
we've been doing, but...I was thinking maybe we could go out
somewhere for dinner."

Abruptly, he is nervous. Unsettled. (Afraid.) He shoots a glance
to the window, covered by sheer curtains, gilded with sunlight.
"Out?" he asks, and hates the tremor that mars his voice.

Lois is suddenly earnest, tender, so careful not to crowd him as
she comes just two steps nearer him. "I've noticed you only
ever go out at night, to places that aren't very busy. But,
Clark, you have nothing to hide."

"I don't know about that," he tries to joke. His smile fails
before it can do more than twitch along his mouth.

Her hand reaches out, her fingers curl along his, and he is
suddenly grounded, anchored. Supported. "You're Clark Kent,"
she says. "Ordinary guy, but no less a hero for all that. Don't
you think it's time for you to get to *live* your ordinary
life?"

This time, his smile does not fail. "I don't think any life
with you in it could ever be anything less than extraordinary,
Lois." He hesitates (contemplates whether he can lose his new
boldness for just a moment), then finally blurts out, "They'll
be able to see you with me."

She winces (flinches), then firms (bearing up under her burdens,
handling them rather than being crushed by them). Her eyes are
alight as she unearths a smile to dazzle him with. "And Lois
Lane would never date a guy who lied to her and pretended to be
two people--unless, of course, she'd realized how wrong she'd
been."

That is not what he meant, and they both know it. But maybe it is
what matters.

When she'd come to California in search of him, into the suite
where he and his family had been trying to piece themselves back
together, Clark had seen how fragile she looked, and he had been
so afraid that she was broken beyond all mending. He'd been
terrified that his secret had added yet another life to its
collateral damage. But now, staring at her as she makes light of
this past year, he thinks that he had misjudged her as badly as
she misjudged herself.

She is brave, and strong, and above all, strikingly resilient.
Life and her own mistakes have beaten her down (as surely as life
and his own secrets have crushed* him*), yet she still brushes
herself off and stands straight and tall and unflinching. She
learns and grows and moves on, and if she can be that unwavering,
then Clark has to try to match her. Has to try to live up to
her.

So he swallows (cannot quite muster up a smile) and says, "All
right. Dinner it is."

Her spontaneous embrace is reward enough, and the kiss she lands
on his cheek is an extra prize. He tries to make himself relax as
she grabs her purse, tries to remind himself of his parents,
loving him enough to risk going back to Smallville even after
everything they've endured, and James, encouraging him to go out
and about. They make him brave. They make him strong. They make
him better than he is on his own.

When they turn to leave, Clark reaches out and grabs Lois's
hand. She looks back at him, her eyebrow arched questioningly.
"Just in case," he says. "If I do end up having to leave in a
hurry again, I want to make sure this time I take *everything* I
need."

Her purse drops to the floor as she reaches up and tugs him down
into a kiss, but her hand never lets go of his.

"Why don't you come over to my place?" he asks, casually, not
quite daring to look up at her from the water sparkling beneath
them. They are leaning, side by side, against the railing on the
dock along the oceanfront; from behind them, the sunset casts
jeweled lights in reality and in reflection while the sea merges
its scents with Metropolis's. A perfect night, a perfect moment,
but Clark wonders if he's ruined it.

Lois stills. It's something new about her, he's realized. When
he first met her, she'd pace and flail her arms and talk a mile
a minute, but now, when she does not know what to think or how to
react, she grows silent and still and composed, locking up
immediate retorts and kneejerk reactions. He thinks that the
change would have bothered him-as-he-used-to-be. Now, it only
reminds him of how far they have come and how willing she now is
to protect him. (Now, her new stillness matches his new boldness,
counterparts even as they switch places.)

"It's different than my old place," he continues after a pause
to let her adjust, "but I think James and I have got everything
settled now. I'll be there all day tomorrow if you'd like to
drop by."

Easy and casual and not at all pushy--or at least, he hopes so.
It seems a small thing to ask, but it isn't. They don't usually
see each other two weekdays in a row, and they usually meet up
either at her place or in a neutral location. This relationship
is new and fragile and budding. They are both careful in each
gradual progression, each new stage a valuable lesson, each step
claiming more ground. And this, somehow (he is not quite sure
why), is a very important step.

"All right," she finally says softly, her voice reverberating
off the water, dipped in salt and breeze and fading sunlight.
"If I don't work too late, I'll come over."

He is on pins and needles all the next day, but she arrives late
in the afternoon, her satchel bulging with papers from work. He
greets her easily, as if he is not surprised that she is there,
and shows her around (there are less of his world-traveling
souvenirs so as not to draw attention to the Superman parts of
his past, but there are more trinkets from James and his parents,
so it rounds out). She follows him from room to room, and listens
to him, and when he finally asks, "Why did you not want to
come?", she takes his hand and urges him to sit beside her on
the couch.

"I wanted to come," she says evenly, "but I didn't want you
to feel like I invaded absolutely *every* place you've lived."

He pulls her into him, tension draining away, leaving him loose
and free and uncontained. "Not *invaded*, Lois. Never invaded.
You are welcome anywhere I go--I always want you."

Her smile is hesitant. Beautiful. Shy and wondering and relieved
all at once. "Really?" she asks, a teasing note touching her
voice with every bit of affection and happiness he could ask for.
"So if I want to see *every* place you've lived, in all the
world...you'd let me?"

"Of course." His laugh slips out of him without his permission,
dancing along his spine and leaping up his throat and spinning
into open air with gleeful triumph. It's still strange, to hear
his own laugh. Strange, to have things to laugh over. Strange to
hear his laughter joined with Lois's. "I moved around a lot,
you know. It might take us...well, *years*...to visit them
all."

"Together?" she asks, but she does not wait for the answer,
just slides closer and tugs his head down (his bones of steel
turn soft and pliable at her merest touch) and covers his mouth
with her own, hot and open and world-spanning.

"Together," he confirms when he can breathe again, and for his
trouble is rewarded another laughing kiss. He is beginning to get
used to them (well, at least he no longer seriously wonders if he
is dreaming anymore) even as he begins to realize he can no
longer live without them.

(Without her.)

He cannot help feeling a bit melancholy and wistful as the one
year anniversary of Lois's world-changing story approaches.
Sadness twines its subtle poison through his veins as he steps
out of the elevator into the newsroom, alone, every day. Regret
courses along the electrical current of his cells as he walks
home alone, or tells Perry good night and receives only a
careful, measured good night in return instead of an Elvis story.
A bitter wish for *what-might-have-been* sometimes descends on
him in a cloud as he calls his parents in Smallville and hears
about their encounters with eager journalists still hoping for at
least an interview.

He retaliates against this unwished-for nostalgia with meticulous
planning. Lois is determinedly cheerful whenever he speaks to
her, purposely forgetful of the date fast-approaching, but they
cannot hide from it and Clark is tired of avoiding
acknowledgement of the things in his life (even the painful
things). They will not be able to forget or ignore the day, so he
speaks with his parents and arranges James's scientists to have
Superman make a public appearance on the anniversary day
(somewhere far away from Smallville), and he asks Lois if she
will go to dinner with him.

"Of course," she says, studying him a bit suspiciously.

He smiles at her, blandly, absurdly glad to see her investigative
instinct turned his way once more. "You'll let me plan the
whole evening?"

"If you want to." Her fingers thread through his, all her
suspicion melting away (or rather, tucked away where he cannot
see it). "I trust you, Clark. I hope you know that."

It's become a habit of hers, recently, to reassure him that she
will not betray him or leave him or report on him or do
*anything* he would not approve of. To remind him, again and
again, that she trusts him and wants to be with him. He wishes
she did not feel so unsure, but it is a delicate, complex task,
to build a strong and sturdy and lasting relationship out of
debris and rubble, and some scars will take a very long time to
fade, so he merely smiles and nods whenever she repeats her
vows.

"I know," he says. "I just want to take you somewhere
special."

She meets him at his apartment a few minutes early on the
anniversary of her story. Clark is happy to see her--almost *too*
happy. Everyone at the Daily Planet knows what day this is, and
it has been a long day of everyone tiptoeing around him, afraid
to bring it up, giving him sidelong glances when they think he is
not looking. Perry is the only one who acknowledged the day, but
since he did so by apologizing profusely despite Clark's
reminders that he'd apologized already, Clark could have done
without the experience.

"Lois," he says with a small sigh of relief, and she steps
forward immediately into his arms. This physical easiness between
them, developed only in the last few weeks, is still new and
intoxicating enough that Clark is silent for a long moment,
preoccupied with memorizing every sensation about this moment.
Lois trembles slightly in his arms; he thinks her day probably
has not been any better than his.

"So," she says when she finally pulls back. There is a
tentative smile curving her lips, but her eyes are locked on him
almost desperately. "Where are we going, Clark?"

"Well," he says, swallowing and then stepping to the window. He
stops, turns back, and holds out a hand to her. "Do you want to
fly?"

She studies him, her eyes alight, her smile turning into a
mischievous grin. "I've been waiting for someone to ask me that
my whole life," she says, and before he can blink (and he is
Superman, after all; he can blink rather fast), she is kissing
him, her hands in his hair, fire erupting along his nerves, a
cosmos of desire kindling so that he feels as if he is witnessing
the birth of the universe, feeling it in every cell.

He finally pulls back (and a good thing he *is* Superman, because
it requires a bit of superhuman speed, strength, and self-control
to do so), breathless and shaken. "That's...not exactly the
kind of flying I meant."

"Oh." She gives him a deceptively shy smile (and he thinks he
is probably the only one who can recognize the desperation at the
edges of her mask; not because he is Superman, but because he
knows her as well as if looking into a mirror). "Your kind of
flying is good too, I guess."

"I hope so," he murmurs. "It's certainly a better kind of
flying to do just before meeting my parents."

He lets her pause in place, just for a moment, just so that he
can change into Superman and sweep her into his arms and into the
sky without anyone seeing (without giving her the chance to kiss
him again or make a movement that will make him decide to forget
his plans for the evening and his long-held, long-cherished
fantasies of a special wedding night). When he allows time to
flow back into its normal current, she gasps and clings to him.
She stares about her at the sky opening up all around her, her
eyes wide and alight and so full of curiosity and wonder that he
is reminded of why she captured his heart so quickly. As cynical
and hurt and scarred as she is, she has always had a way of
looking at the world and seeing all its mysteries and wonders.

He cannot help but wonder what she will think of the mystery he
wants to show her tonight.

"Your parents," Lois says. Her voice is feathered with a fear
she uselessly tries to hide. "That's where we're going?"

"Yes." He smiles at her (and wonders, in a small part of his
mind, how he is here: free of secrets, holding Lois in his arms,
flying through an open sky, headed to family and home, his
contentment completely given up in immolation to complete and
utter happiness). "James will be there, too. They've...they've
wanted to see you for a while now. I guess I just wanted to keep
you to myself while..."

"While we figured out who we are together?" she finishes for
him, arching a brow.

He chuckles. "Yes. Maybe it's a little silly, but--"

"No." She strokes her hand along the side of his face, and even
though his eyes flutter shut at the tender contact, he can hear
the gentle fondness in her voice. "It's not silly. I like that
we've had this time together."

"Yes, well." Clark clears his throat and opens his eyes again.
"They've been getting a little impatient."

Lois looks away, her eyes tight. "I'm surprised they want to
see me at all."

"Things are different now," he reminds her quietly. "And
besides, after you passed James's interview with flying colors,
there was no doubt that you were part of our family now."

He hears the catch in her breathing, can smell the salt of
approaching tears, can feel her body shudder with her reaction to
his words. She stares at him. For a long moment, she is as still,
as hushed, as present as the wind flaring his cape behind him.
But all she eventually says is, "James's interview? I *knew* he
wasn't there about the Foundation position."

"No," Clark admits. "He and my mom insisted on the interview.
Dad said that we didn't need it to know you were one of us, but
Mom and James wanted everything to be spoken out loud. I hope you
don't mind," he adds, hesitantly. "They were just worried."

"I know," Lois says calmly. "And actually, I'm glad they did
it. It *is* better to have everything out in the open. Besides,
like I said, I think I knew what he was doing. I just hope
they're okay with me coming into their home again."

"They are," he replies confidently. "You make me happy, Lois,
and they've seen that."

"Happy," she whispers. "Not content? Not okay? *Happy*?"

"Happy." He smiles at her, draws her closer so that his aura
will combat the chill of the sky. "Happier than I've ever been.
And you?"

"Happy doesn't even come close," she says, and she rests her
head against his shoulder.

He planned to show her his place up here, the sliver of sky
between earth and space, the prison that had become a sanctuary.
He'd wanted her to see that he didn't think of her presence as
an invasion, but that he *wanted* her there so that it would no
longer be so lonely.

But suddenly, he decides he doesn't need to show her. Maybe one
day, but not now. She is already here with him, already
complacent and happy and trusting in his arms, and willing to
*fly* with him. She is his, and he is hers, and they have a
family and a home awaiting them below.

They've both been lonely. Isolated. Haunted by the past and cut
off from any future they wanted.

But now here they are.

Together.

Scarred, but still alive and whole and with a future sprawling
out before them, filled with as much promise as the Earth hanging
beneath them.

Wounded, but stronger for it, and that is a mystery bigger than
any he had planned to show her.

And he isn't afraid anymore. Whatever happens, whatever comes,
they will be able to face it, and endure, and come through the
other side better than they were before.

So, Clark wraps his cape around the mystery cradled against his
chest, and kisses her brow, her cheek, her lips, and she was
right.

He is not happy.

He is *joyous*.

***

Epilogue

It's late (it's always late nowadays, far too late to change
anything) and Perry is alone in the newsroom (and he's always
that, too, even when surrounded by the hustle and bustle that
used to define him). He stares at the bottle in front of him, the
amber liquid gleaming in the shadowed light.

Thirteen months to the day. Another anniversary, and Clark is
back, and here Perry still sits, alone in his office as if he
doesn't have a wife waiting at home, contemplating drinking
another toast. After all, he's lost so much already, why should
he lose this single surviving tradition, this one drink on this
one infamous anniversary day? This right here, shining in a
bottle, encased so that it cannot be spilt out into nothing, is
something he can contain and keep and hold (and not lose, or
throw away, or destroy).

It seems stupid, ungrateful even, to be unhappy after the way
everything's turned out. Clark Kent is back in the newsroom,
Lois is gone but she has a job and seems happier lately during
their weekly dinners, and the Daily Planet is still running,
still the top newspaper in the world, despite the battering its
reputation has taken over the Superman/Clark Kent debacle.
Everything, it seems, is looking up.

But Perry looks up from the bottle sitting on his desk, and he
studies the darkened office that encapsulates his life, the
bullpen beyond, quiet and dead, and the elevator. Silent and
empty. No one coming up to see him. No little happy family of
workaholics staying late to tease him. No idealistic country boy
following behind a fast-talking city reporter, both of them
fighting smiles and trading banter. No young copyboy barging into
Perry's office every few minutes to call him 'Chief' and bring
him cold coffee and stale donuts. Just an old man, alone with his
regrets.

"Telling the news doesn't make you any friends," a fellow
reporter had told Perry once, slouched against a dingy wall in
Beirut. "But it has its own rewards."

"Sure," Perry snorts to himself, and wonders where that man is
now. Maybe he's alone too (maybe loneliness and guilt were the
rewards he was talking about and Perry had just been too young
and stupid to realize it).

He's been staring at the half-empty bottle too long. With a
shake of his head and a low grumble, Perry snatches it up and
stuffs it into the drawer. Slams it shut with a thump he wishes
sounded more satisfying.

A chuckle sounds from the doorway to his office, and Perry jerks
up. At first, he is merely surprised (perhaps embarrassed,
because maybe he is old and left behind, but that doesn't mean
he wants everyone to *know* it), then he is shocked (perhaps a
bit betrayed, because maybe the door to the stairs is standing
ajar, but he always expects the ding of the elevator to warn
him), and then, finally, he is suddenly perilously, tremulously
hopeful (and perhaps a lot afraid, because he did not expect
this, or even dream of it, and he has learned to resent and fear
the unexpected).

"Jimmy!" he blurts, hastily standing and taking a step away
from the hidden bottle of Scotch. "I mean...*James*. I heard
you're going by James now."

"Yeah." James stands in the doorway, peering at Perry, and he
sounds a bit hoarse. A bit uncomfortable. Too grown up and
different, standing too self-contained and self-aware, for Perry
to make the mistake of confusing this man in front of him with
the young man who'd come in here so wide-eyed and brightened up
the place through sheer force of innocence.

"I...I didn't expect to see you here," Perry says. *Ever*, he
thinks. He blinks, hard, two, three, four times, but James does
not disappear in a wash of amber and drunkenness.

James gives a slight nod, as if collecting himself. He reaches up
and loosens his tie; he's not wearing a suitcoat, but if he
were, Perry thinks he would have shrugged it off. "Clark," he
says, slowly, "told me that...well, that forgiveness doesn't
just happen. He said it's a conscious choice--one you have to
work at constantly."

Perry swallows. It's hard to talk, or respond, or even just
stand there and look unaffected, when James talks so easily of
things Clark has said. Clark Kent is back at the Daily Planet,
but he is a polite, aloof, quiet man in Perry's presence,
courteous but not friendly, present but not familiar--and it has
been thirteen months to the day since Perry has actually really
heard anything of real heart and substance from Clark Kent.

But he cannot stand here in James's presence and quibble over
small things. So he tries on a smile. "That sounds like
something Clark would say."

"And something he'd do," James says, his eyes meeting Perry's
with a noticeable jolt. The lights all come from the bullpen, but
they shaft through the window blinds to leave James in barred
shadow--all save his face, which is lit with something Perry
cannot quite define (and doesn't dare look at too closely in
case it is not what he so desperately hopes it is).

"Yeah, well." Perry shifts uncomfortably. "There aren't too
many people like Clark."

"But I wish there were," James says forcefully. He takes a
clear step into the office, all boyish bravado and manly courage
mixed together to make him at once familiar and alien. "Because
I know, in my life, I'm going to make mistakes. Big ones. Bad
ones. Mistakes I'm going to regret. And I know that most people
will turn their backs on me, spend the rest of their lives
bad-mouthing me, judging me, condemning me. Blaming me."

Perry looks away (his hope dies an ashen death and is buried in
ancient guilt). He deserves to hear these things, he knows he
does, and yet, he wishes that James had not felt the need to come
here and spell it all out so clearly for him. Superman and his
new policy of honesty, all spearheaded by James Olsen, paraded
here for the Editor-in-Chief of the biggest metropolitan
newspaper to see. It's a newsworthy moment. He should be paying
attention (he couldn't *not* pay attention; every instant is
seared onto his every cell, branding him with shame).

"But I don't want to be one of those people," James says, and
he walks forward as Perry gapes, uncomprehending, and stands
right in front of him. (He's tall, taller than Perry remembers,
and he has to look up to meet the younger man's dark eyes.) "I
want to be like Clark. I want to walk in *his* footsteps--I have
a feeling they lead to something so much better than bitterness
and old grudges and anger that never goes away. I want to be able
to forgive, Perry."

Perry cannot speak. He is choking on his tears and his pride (in
a boy become as much and more than Perry had ever known he could
be). All he can manage, garbled and almost unclear, is one word:
"Jimmy--"

The strong man's face crumples into a boy's. "I miss you,"
Jimmy admits.

And Perry takes that last step forward. Pulls him into the hug
he's regretted not giving him for over a year. Crushes him to
himself and marvels that this is actually happening.

They stand like that, knitting back together, until Jimmy lets
out a watery laugh and loosens his grip (Perry has to do
likewise, another regret to add to the pile). "Well, I guess
this forgiveness thing isn't nearly as much work as I thought it
would be. Come on, Chief, you don't want to spend all night in
this musty old office, do you?"

"No," Perry says (and finally, he is allowed to speak the
truth; another newsworthy moment). "No, I certainly don't."

"Well then, come with me. Lois and Clark are waiting outside,
arguing about some story Lois has been chasing down for the
Foundation. If it's anything like their other investigations
these past few weeks, they're going to need a late dinner to
keep up their strength. You look like you could use one too."

Perry laughs (a strange, new, fragile kind of laugh). "Dinner
sounds great. I'll pay."

James laughs and makes some comment about how he can buy as he's
got a *well*-paying job now, but Perry lets the words swirl above
him in the dreamlike shimmer.* I'll pay*, he said, and never had
truer words been spoken. He has paid (in the transient death of
Clark), and paid (in the loss of Jimmy), and paid again (in
Lois's daily absence and his own continued isolation). But
sometimes instead of being called due, debts are forgiven.

Sometimes, in a world where a man can fly, miracles can happen.

It's enough for Perry. If he were younger and more foolish, he
might dig in his heels and hide his face and slink away in the
shadows. But he is too old and too desperate for such foolish
heroics; he is wise enough to take any second chance that's
offered him.

So when James takes Perry's coat from the rack by the door,
Perry takes it. When James puts his hand on Perry's shoulder,
Perry lets the young man lead him out of the bullpen, down the
elevator, out the lobby, and into the night air. When he sees
Clark and Lois standing on the corner, turning to him (Lois with
a happy, whole smile, and Clark with a softened gleam in his eye
and a hand outstretched to shake), Perry smiles and laughs and
cries and pulls them both into a hug (altogether foolish and
undignified and mawkishly sentimental, and he doesn't care at
all).

Turns out, he hasn't lost any of his reporters (any of his kids)
after all.

It's a momentous realization, a tiny meeting no passerby would
take a second look at, but so ground-breaking, so breath-taking,
that Perry wonders why there are not reporters and photographers
and news cameras there to record the moment for posterity. And
then, of course, he knows the reason why.

Because this small moment, this one meeting between former (and
future) friends, is the most newsworthy thing that has ever
happened in Perry's entire life. And if there is one thing he
has learned, it is how to treasure the truly newsworthy.

(In silence.)

THE END