*7*
Clark spends his days split into two (not a man and a superhero, because they have blurred and merged in both their panic and their love), constantly teetering back and forth between polarizing extremes.
He is terrified. Attending rescues and monitoring cries for help and talking to the media only cautiously, nervously, as apprehensive and scared as in his first few weeks of being Superman. His hearing is constantly attuned to everything around him, always listening for his own name (for Superman, spoken so often and so carelessly, by anyone and everyone, discussing and questioning and theorizing and gossiping; for Clark Kent, spoken rarely, but precious and valuable and now so very, very vulnerable), always alert for any sign that he is in the exact sort of trouble he’s been running from for decades.
And he is in love. Spending time with Lois, getting to touch her and kiss her, taking her to dinner, having fun at a bowling alley one evening, treasuring every smile and handhold, every heated glance and warm touch. These are like warm, sepia-colored dreams, desired and yearned for so long that now that it’s real, he can hardly believe it. They seem abstract in a way, so ephemeral that he clings to them, etches every single second on the cells that make up his being, memorizes every sensation, wills them to last forever. When he is with Lois, his entire self is focused on her, orbiting her, and nothing else matters. Nothing else exists.
But he cannot be with her every moment of every day. He cannot cloak himself solely in her steadying, enrapturing presence. He has to be Superman (he has to do something with the responsibility given him, inherent in the powers and abilities granted him by the yellow sun), has to fill up his hours separating the man from the superhero.
And in those hours, caped and bespectacled alike, he is breathless with fear, his gut clenched, his teeth gritted, as he waits, expecting disaster to fall each and every second.
He’s heard someone say his name on five separate occasions. Once at the fire, the second time after the magic show, third at a flood in Louisiana, fourth while buying groceries in downtown Metropolis, and the fifth just four days ago, outside Coast City when he’d been helping stabilize the coast after a particularly brutal earthquake.
Three times in Metropolis, twice in very different, very far away locations (and yet, the voice is always the same).
Three times when he was dressed as Superman, and twice as Clark (and yet, always the voice refers to him as ‘Clark’).
He doesn’t understand. He can never find the person, though he has become convinced that it is no accident he is allowed to hear his name, and this frightens him, too, how this person knows exactly what to do, how to move, where to stand, to both make himself heard and also avoid discovery (and yet, the media has no news about secret identities or superheroes lying to the public). It’s puzzling--or more accurately, it’s worrying.
And he couldn’t put off warning his parents any longer, not if this mysterious person knew his true identity.
“I’m worried,” he had said, (and meant he was scared, as much so as if he were still a small boy waking drenched in sweat from nightmares of darkness and close spaces and the sky falling in on him), sitting at the table sedately though he buzzed with the wish to be up and pacing.
“Oh, honey.” His mom, sitting beside him, placed her hand over his and his dad moved to stand over them, his own hand on Clark’s shoulder. They had always been good at seeing beyond the obvious, at reading him past his bluffed calm, at reaching out to the son who brought so much danger and uncertainty into their lives.
“It sounds like you might need to worry,” his dad said (and Clark’s heat had clenched into melted, cooled, misshapen steel).
“You…” He had to swallow, had to force the word out past his selfish regret and bone-deep despair. “Do you think I need to leave Metropolis?”
(They’d played out this conversation dozens of times before--Clark confessing that he’d done something that drew attention, his mom telling him he’d done the right thing, Clark being forced to admit he might have been seen, his dad telling him he should move on as quickly as possible. That didn’t, however, make it any easier this time. He’d thought he was done with this conversation, with exits in the dead of night and the pain of forced departures.)
His dad exchanged a look with his mom, and then surprised Clark by saying, “No, son. You can’t leave. Metropolis is your home now.”
“Besides,” his mom put in, “if Superman flees, and someone does know who you are and is trying to intimidate you it would just confirm that he could get to you.”
“You stay, Clark,” his dad said, his hand warm and anchoring on Clark’s shoulder (not shoving it away, not pushing back, just holding on firmly, but not too tightly; giving him simultaneously a place and the freedom to do with it what he would). “But that doesn’t mean you don’t need to be very careful.”
“Find out who this person is,” his mom interjected.
Clark smiled at her (because he’d been trying to track down this threat for weeks now, but his mom still seemed to believe he could do it so easily). “That would be a lot easier if I still had the resources of the Daily Planet. Superman sure hasn’t been able to find out anything with his ‘resources.’”
“You mean yours,” his mom said tartly.
His dad frowned. “I thought you said Perry was talking to someone about buying the paper now that Lex Luthor’s been indicted.”
Again, Clark smiled (and this was why he needed to come see his parents; it is always so much easier to believe things can turn out well when he is reminded that he is believed in and loved so thoroughly). “He is, and if anyone can convince Franklin Stern to bet on the Planet, it’s Perry. But even if Stern does buy the paper, it will be awhile before it’s up and running again.”
“You’re smart,” his mom told him, reaching out to run her hand through his hair. “You got along just fine before the Planet. You’ll figure it out now.”
“It doesn’t seem like whoever this is plans on moving quickly. He’s trying to scare you first.” His dad paused, then chuckled weakly (betraying the fear he was trying to hide for Clark’s sake). “Of course, what do I know? This is a long way from farming.”
“You know plenty.” His mom smiled at his dad warmly. “And maybe they’re not sure you’re Superman. Maybe it’s just a suspicion they’re trying to force you into confirming before they do anything.”
“I hope so,” Clark said. (Because Lois is in Metropolis. Because Clark can’t envision leaving her and can’t imagine endangering her. Because it’s too cruel to think that Clark Kent should be forced into permanent obscurity just when Lois Lane is finally looking at him and seeing him.) Quickly, because he could tell his mom realized he was thinking about Lois, he added, “But you guys need to be careful too. If someone knows who I am, they’ll come to you eventually. Here, I borrowed this from Jimmy."
He handed them the signal watch Jimmy had used in his solitary visit to Smallville and showed them how to work it. “I want you to use it the instant you see anything suspicious. I’ll be listening for you, and I’ll fly over as often as I can.”
“Don’t listen so hard you miss the important things in Metropolis,” his mom advised him, and even though she was clearly referring to Lois, Clark was relieved she left it there. They are happy he and Lois are taking this chance, but they can’t help but worry (and Clark doesn’t need anything else to worry about, not right now; not about Lois, when she is sometimes all that is holding him together).
It was a quick trip, and startling for all that did not happen that he’d expected, but Clark is glad he went to see them. It allays the guilt he’s been feeling and firms his resolve to get to the bottom of whatever’s going on. It makes him stop feeling like he’s sneaking around when he’s with Lois (she deserves so much more than to be a guilty pleasure he hides from his parents, the forbidden luxury he can only have if he keeps it secret).
She deserves everything (certainly more than the lies he’s had to tell her the multiple times Superman’s been called away during their dates). She seems happy with him (but she is smart and suspicious, and no matter how she’s accepted his excuses so far, he knows they will not last forever).
He will have to do something about that. That, and the man following him and saying his name. And the Planet’s reopening soon to come (Lois’s eyes still flame with her joy at getting the Planet back, and from the phone-calls he had earlier, Clark knows Perry and Jimmy are just as excited). And the fact that Superman’s been asked to stand as a witness against Luthor in court (though Jack is out of prison for now, and that is a victory all on its own).
So many balls in the air. So many potential dangers and problems. So much to juggle that even Superman might be hard-pressed to keep track of them all.
But he can’t think of them. Not now. Not here, in his apartment, relaxed on his couch with Lois leaning against him, her head a welcome weight on his shoulder, her hand tracing mindless patterns over his chest as some movie they’ve watched a couple times before plays quietly on the television. Her breath is flavored with the ice cream they ate earlier, moist against the side of his neck, her fingers are mesmerizing him, her touch poignant and intense even through his shirt, and it is all he can do to keep his hands to her shoulder and elbow rather than pulling her up into a kiss.
“I didn’t know it could be like this,” she says, her voice low and dazed, adding yet more wonder to his sensory overload.
“Like what?” he manages to ask (thankful his voice doesn’t crack when her finger alters its pattern so that it intermittently strokes against the skin above the collar of his shirt).
“So easy. And nice.”
“Nice.” He cranes his head to look down at her, grinning and teasing and worried all at once. “Is that good?”
Her smile is sleepy and wide, but she burrows back into him, hiding her face (and he swallows hard because she only does this when a moment gets too weighted, too real, for her). “Yeah,” she murmurs, the words soaking into his skin, scented with chocolate and Lois. “It’s good.”
For a long moment, Clark tries to pinpoint every sensation, to memorize her effect on his every molecule, every inch of skin. The look of the light reflecting off her inky hair, spilling over his green shirt. The way she warms even the portions of him she isn’t touching (she has always been able to reach the parts of him no one else can). The tingles her fingers leave behind, marking down a map against his skin. The shape of her against his flesh, his bones, his heart. He tries to comprehend just how happy he is in this moment (and comes up short, because it seems impossible).
“Clark,” she says, breaking the silence again. The movie plays on, as much in the background to him as all the clamor of Metropolis. “I…I broke your heart, didn’t I? That day in the park.”
His entire body tenses. (He senses his entire world, constructed so perilously over such a steep precipice, poised to teeter and come crashing down on him.)
She tenses too, and Clark immediately makes himself relax. The park was a long time ago, and it is Clark at her side and Superman relegated to lies and excuses and evasions. So he forces a smile even though she is very carefully not looking up at him.
“But you’re here now,” he points out (because it’s what matters). His hand tightens, almost unconsciously (except that Clark has spent over a decade training his body to never make completely impulsive movements, conditioning his muscles to never exert force a human cannot withstand), over her shoulder, pulling her tighter, closer.
“But…” She’s clearly uncomfortable (her heart races, her lungs deflating before they’re completely full), but just as clearly determined to press on. “But you said you’d…for a long time. And I…I never… Well, it wasn’t the first time I broke your heart, was it?”
He isn’t sure if it’s the right move (he thinks whatever he sees in her heart might break his), but he angles slightly, cups her cheek in his hand, and tilts her head so that she has to look up at him. She looks sad. Strained. Unsure. But she closes her eyes against him, shutting him out (and he isn’t sure if he’s frustrated or relieved).
“Lois,” he says, firmly, “it doesn’t matter. You didn’t know. And anyway, here we are. Together.” He can’t help but smile at the word (hoping that saying it aloud does not mean that it is about to be ripped away from him).
Lois smiles at him, and when her eyes open, he can see the pain in them. “I just… I don’t want to hurt you, Clark. You’re my best friend, and my partner, and…and I think you’re the most important person in my life. And I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”
It is his turn to draw patterns on her dusky skin, to trace the curve of her cheek, paintings that release some of the thrill he feels at her words (the relief that she is not about to break his heart again). “I love you,” he whispers. “And so, yes, that implies a certain vulnerability. But it makes me strong, too. You and I are stronger together, Lois.”
She pales (her heart rate spikes, sharp and panicked).
“It’s okay,” he assures her quickly, his hand on her shoulder tightening even though she hasn’t made a move away from him. His smile isn’t quite as wide anymore, but it is still genuine. “I know you don’t feel the same way yet. But that’s why we have this chance, right? To try. To see if we can…if we can be us.”
Maybe he would say more, he’s not sure. It doesn’t matter. The words are caught and dammed and transformed into power and energy as Lois’s mouth crashes against his. She kisses him hard. Desperately. Frantically. Kisses him deeper and longer than she ever has before, and Clark feels himself falling and falling, as if gravity is exacting its payment for all the times he’s snubbed it.
She tastes of chocolate and sugar and coffee and that ineffable, indescribable more of Metropolis and Lois Lane. She is small, and fits perfectly within the eclipse of his arms, and yet she surrounds him completely. There is a spark between them (no smell of electricity, no discharge of static, but there), traveling across his flesh, raising the hairs on his arms and neck, drawing him deeper, closer, until his mind itself falls into the paradise that is Lois.
Before he knows it, she’s pulled him down on top of her. She’s stretched out on the couch, and he can feel every inch of her beneath him, and he is shaking, his body seeming to contain a will and electricity of its own. He’s never been so out of control (never felt that he belongs somewhere more). His hand is buried in her hair, he’s angling her head into the kiss, his other hand is gliding along the edges of her hips, her stomach, her ribcage, and she’s running her hands through his hair--no, one is sliding down lower, under the collar of his shirt, down along his spine, and Clark is about to fly into a billion pieces. He’s about to cross lines and lose himself--and he’s shaking.
With a gasp, he jerks his lips from hers and his hands both to the marginally safer areas of her arms, tugging them until her own hands fall to his chest (over his shirt, thankfully; regretfully). He can’t catch his breath, can’t open his eyes (because he knows, he knows, that if he sees her, quiescent and panting beneath him, he will not be able to tear himself away from her again, and it would be a lie because she thinks he is human and mortal and honest), can only hold them both back while he tries to pull himself together.
He’s still shaking.
He never shakes. Never. A sneeze can blow holes in the side of his dad’s barn. A sharp movement can send his elbow through walls. A look with too much heat behind it can ignite fires. And his entire body is shaking and he is so close to Lois, so near to running his fingers along curves and secrets he’s never explored before, so close that there is no distance at all between them, only fragile and steel bones separating their hearts, and this is dangerous. It’s overwhelming. It’s intoxicating.
When he finally dares to open his eyes, he finds Lois staring up at him, her expression one he’s never seen before (so tender, so soft, so fond, that he feels his heart stutter and ricochet against his breastbone). She frames his face with her hands, stares and stares and stares as if she has never seen him before and will never see him again. And the words slip from his mouth before he can stop them.
“I love you, Lois.”
Something almost like panic, almost like sadness, flares like fireworks in her eyes, but she blinks and it is gone, no more than an afterimage, so blinding, yet false, not real at all (only his own fears being swallowed and blinked away). Blinks again, and then she leans up and kisses him. Softly. Lingeringly, so that he feels as if she is infusing his whole form, his every cell, with her.
“Shh, Clark,” she whispers, forming the words against his lips (and he is spiraling out of control again, but he is ready for it, a bit more prepared to face it this time, inured by exposure), and kisses him again.
And Clark hopes, because maybe she didn’t say she loved him, but he thinks she is showing it with her every move, her every touch. With everything that matters.
*
