*10*
When she wakes, with Clark wrapped around her, her body soaking up his warmth, the smell of sky and coffee filling the room, she thinks she’s in one of her flashes of might-have-been. They’ve never been this vivid, never involved the sense of smell and taste as well as sight and sound, but she doesn’t care. How many times has she blinked away images of her other-self blissfully entwined with Clark, so safe and secure and happy? How many times has Lois herself had to fall into an empty bed and wake from nightmares of her Clark looking at her with hurt and rejection that morphs into anger and dismissal?
Too many times. (Once is far too many.)
But this, here, feels real, and it is even better than she imagined, and so she lets herself lay there. Lets her body sink even farther into his hold. Lets her eyes drift open (slowly, lest this all fade) and move upward until she can see Clark. He’s asleep, his breaths lightly feathering against the flyaway hairs at her temples, his arms solid around her. Her headache is gone, and she feels…loved…and she doesn’t think she will ever move again.
This is better than the flashes. This can’t be blinked away, or ignored. This is real.
Real.
It’s real.
Her gasp wakes him, and Clark stirs, turns slightly, nuzzling his nose into her hair. His hand splays out against her spine, one of his fingers sweeping against skin where her sweater has ridden up; Lois’s eyes flutter as she tries not to sink back into the overwhelming sensation. She can’t breathe. She can’t move. She thought this was a vision, but it’s not, and that means…
That means she’s made a terrible mistake.
She remembers now, the soft, vulnerable look etched in his silvery eyes at the Planet. The words crowding her tongue (confessions; lies; both of them right there, ready to be released, and she still doesn’t know which she would have given him if things had turned out differently), blocked and stifled so that she could only stammer and flail. The visions she hadn’t been able to turn away while the groceries sat unheeded on the counter (images of Clark kneeling in front of her and her hand sweeping away his glasses; of her opening her door to find Clark there with a Christmas present, and them standing at the window, her head on his shoulder). Trying to find her journal so she could write them down, then the migraine, hitting her all at once. And Clark--at the door, apologizing, helping, touching her, offering her everything, holding her, so sweet and kind and warm and everything she wished he wasn’t (only because it would be easier on her, and no, actually, she didn’t want him to be different, she wanted him to be as perfect as he is, and that’s exactly what has her in this whole mess, isn’t it?).
“Good morning,” Clark says when he finally pulls back enough to meet her eyes. His voice is raspy, husky with sleep. His lips are curved up in the beginnings of a smile. His fingers are tracing entrancing patterns along her spine.
Good morning instead of their usual exchanged good nights, and it’s just as good--no, even better. Better all on its own, and too much to comprehend if it’s combined with a good night before it and after it and a good morning after that.
It’s too much. It’s all wrong.
(It’s everything she wants. It’s not enough.)
Swallowing back a lump, she forces an awkward smile. “Clark. What…?”
It’s the only way she knows to extricate herself from this mess, pretending that she doesn’t remember what happened. It’s actually a pretty clear, simple solution. But it hurts when Clark’s smile is lost to uncertainty and he pulls his hands back to safer (less hypnotizing) territory.
“I…sorry,” he offers, tentatively. “You had a headache last night. I…I was—it was only—”
“Thank you,” she cuts him off, hating to see him flounder. She sits up, exaggerating her awkwardness, pretending to embarrassment. “I’m sure I would have been fine, but…anyway.”
“Yeah.” There’s a wealth of disappointment in that one word.
Lois squeezes her eyes shut as he sits up, stands from the bed, talking about breakfast and shoes and work. For just that moment, while he is distracted by his own uneasiness, she lets herself imagine what would have happened if they were here for real reasons, if she’d been telling the truth all this time and decided to finally give Clark a chance.
She’d wake in his arms, and instead of a lump of guilt in the pit of her stomach, she would have had to quell fluttering butterflies. When he woke and curled tighter around her, she’d have let her hand cover his, would have looked up and smiled at him. When he said his good morning, she would have returned it and then she wouldn’t have been able to resist reaching up to kiss him, never mind morning breath and bedhead. That finger on her bare skin would have been only the start. His smile wouldn’t be gone. He’d be happy and comfortable, laughing and confident. He’d look at her and know that she loved him as he deserved. She’d look at him and know she didn’t deserve him, but she’d still try, anyway, and still keep him no matter what.
It’s oh so tempting, to slip into a self-made vision, but she can’t because now, here, in the real world, Clark is standing at the door of her bedroom, hesitating, waiting for an answer, lines of tension crimping his normally easy expression. He asked if she wants him to make her breakfast before they head to work. He’s trying, still, when she gives him nothing to work with.
And the fantasy is just that--ephemeral and fleeting and useless because it will never happen. So she does what she’s become so good at, and blinks it away (but this is worse, so much worse, than blinking away the other visions, because those are impossible but this one could so easily be), and cuts him down. Again.
“No,” she says, her own sleep-roughened voice lending her an annoyed tone. “You don’t have to do that. You have to go all the way back to your place and change before we have to be at the Planet, anyway, and I have stuff to get done.”
Unexpectedly, Clark lets out a heavy sigh. “Lois, stop,” he says (and another chink is added to her cracked and bleeding heart at the sound of exhaustion in his voice). “Why are you doing this? I don’t understand what’s wrong, but I do know you’re trying to push me away.”
“Really?” she snaps (and it’s easy, so easy, because she’s hurting and about to shatter into a million pieces, and he’s making this so hard, why won’t he just give up on her already?). “I’m the one who’s not committing? Me? If I remember correctly, I’m the one who was here on time yesterday--you’re the one who didn’t bother to show up until an hour after you were supposed to get here!”
The words are out before she can stop them. She winces, already averting her eyes so she doesn’t have to see Clark’s realization that she does remember what happened last night.
He’s silent for a beat before saying, “I’m sorry I was late, but… What’s happening, Lois? What are you thinking? What are you feeling? I can’t fix things if I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong!” She stands up to even the field between them a bit (only belatedly realizing she didn’t have any covers on, that it was all Clark keeping her so warm all night). “I don’t understand why you’re acting like this, Clark. Of course I can’t spend as much time with you now that I’m working again, but I’d think you’d be happy we have the Planet back instead of acting like a spoiled child who’s not getting enough attention.”
For the first time, she doesn’t see hurt in his eyes (she knows it’s there, though, carefully masked and hidden away). Instead, anger flashes there as his shoulders broaden. “I am happy the Planet is back--I’m happy that you get to do what you love. I guess I’m just wondering if I was only ever a priority because you didn’t have anything better to do at the time. I’m wondering if you need--or want--me at all now that you have the Planet back. Was I just a distraction? Did you ever mean this chance for more?”
She can’t say anything. She literally cannot say anything. Her voice isn’t working, her throat too tight, her tongue dull and heavy in her mouth, her jaw locked tight. She only stares at him (and she was so wrong; he is hurt, wounded and bleeding out in front of her), and wishes she could wake up from this nightmare.
Unfortunately, Clark seems to read this as confirmation. He recoils as if slapped, his hands tightening into fists. Then he’s giving a short, tight nod and turning, hiding his face from her, trying to get out of there before he breaks completely.
“Right. I guess I’ll see you at work, huh?”
“Clark, wait!” Her hands are raised toward him, without her permission, the plea falling into the suffocating room without her knowledge (her entire body mutinying against her, desperate to keep him here, with her).
His form is rigid with tension, but he stops at her voice. Stands there in the middle of her living room. Poised, waiting, not breathing at all.
“I…” She hadn’t meant to call him back, to stop him (this is what she’s been working for this entire time, isn’t it, to have him walk away from her and devote himself to much more worthwhile pursuits). But her source did tell her to make certain the break was as final as she could make it (“Closure,” he’d said, “is important if he’s going to be able to turn the page on this short chapter of his life.”), so she quickly says, “I do have something to tell you. Tonight, okay? We do have to go to work, but I will tell you what’s going on. I promise.”
They’re lies, but maybe they don’t have to be. Maybe she can finally tell him the truth. Maybe there is another way.
Slowly, tentatively, Clark turns and searches her face, looking for something (she hopes he finds it, even if she knows it would be better if he doesn’t). Finally, he nods. “All right. After work?”
“Yeah.”
And she means it. Tonight, one way or the other, this whole farce will be over and done with.
***
Six hours later, she’s in her apartment again (after dodging Clark all day and sneaking out of the newsroom while he was out) and waiting for a man to show up. She’s breathless with anticipation and strung tight with nerves and ready to end this once and for all. She promised Clark she would, and she will. This has gone on too long already, and no matter what she saw, no matter what her source showed her and told her and revealed to her, Clark is worth more. Than anything. Than everything. Than the future and a world she’ll never see and he’ll never know could have existed.
It’s selfish (it’s selfless, though, too, in a way), but she will give up the world if it means Clark’s wounded eyes are transformed into joyful smiles. Maybe it’s wrong, maybe it’s short-sighted, but well, she’s human, isn’t she? She’s not Superman, and has no legacy to live up to, and if there is anything Lois Lane believes in, it is independence and the right for everyone to make their own mistakes. So if this is hers (and she doesn’t think it is; cannot believe that this is the mistake when everything leading up to this moment has been what is tearing her apart), then she will make it and live with whatever regrets might eventually come her way.
She waits, and waits, and waits, and lets the time do nothing but build up her resolve. She’s been committed to this plan for weeks now, has devoted her all to it, and it’s been wrong. Now, finally, she will turn her resolve to something better, more worthy, and that means she can’t let any doubts get in her way. No matter what he says, she will stay firm. She will not back down.
So when she opens the door to her source’s short, one-note knock, when he steps into her apartment with that neutral look of his frozen over his creased features, she is ready.
“I’m not doing this anymore,” she says without preamble. “I know what you showed me. I know what’s at stake. But I don’t care. Superman is a symbol of hope. He’s proof that the impossible can happen, that there’s always another, better way. So I’m going to try to hope, and we’ll find another way, no matter how impossible it seems.”
He regards her, unblinking and unsurprised. Not dismayed, not shocked, and definitely (unfortunately) not won over. Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh and raises his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Lois, Lois, Lois.” Even his voice sounds calculated, as planned as his every move. “Even though I knew you were going to do this, I hoped you wouldn’t.”
“You knew?” Instantly, she straightens (she promised herself she wouldn’t let him dissuade or distract her). Ignoring the migraine building up behind her eyes to replace the one Clark soothed away, she fixes an image of Clark’s hurt, bewildered eyes to steel her nerves. “Well, congratulations, you were right--about this. And if you already knew I wouldn’t go through with it, then why did you ever come to me in the first place? Why not pick someone else to do your dirty work?”
He tilts his head at her, and if she didn’t know better (she’s not sure she really does, actually), she’d say he’s impatient. As if he’s already lived through this conversation a hundred times and knows how it will turn out, knows it’s every turn of phrase and argument, and is already tired of it. “You know why. And besides, Lois Lane may doubt herself, and she may falter here and there, but in the end, she will always come through. This is just a bump in the road. You’ll realize that you’re only stalling. I mean, you care for Superman, so of course you don’t want to disappoint him. But you’ll remember what I showed you. The happiness you saw, the fulfillment, the peace that makes it all worthwhile. And when it comes down to it, you will do the right thing.”
He takes a step nearer her, his eyes shadowed, a shaft of light falling across his mouth, emphasizing the words he’s speaking (each word, each insight, falling like a brick, shaking the ground beneath her). His glasses sparkle, dull and silver, so different from Clark’s. “You will do the right thing, Lois Lane, and I know this because Superman will eventually speak very highly of you. And the one thing he will always mention, no matter how many years pass, is your dedication to making the world a better place.” He holds out his arms in a pseudo-shrug and adds, “And if you can’t believe Superman, then who can you trust?”
“He…speaks highly of me,” she repeats, and cannot help the tremulous tone adding a tremble to her voice. He’s shown her a lot of impossible things, this source she never asked for, some of them more than just mind-boggling, nearly incomprehensible, but this revelation seems hardest of all to believe. Because Clark keeps trying, and he keeps flinching, and he has started bracing himself before Lois even opens her mouth (as if he already knows there is no hope). Because all she’s doing is ripping him to shreds, and how can he ever look past her to see anything but disappointment and heartbreak?
(But of course, he’s Clark, and if anyone can possibly be so forgiving, so understanding, it is him.)
“He will not hate you,” her source promises her (a waste of breath she would think, except he has incontrovertibly proved everything he has told her, hasn’t he, always backed up his words with proofs she cannot deny). “I told you this will only be a simple phase. He will come through it stronger and better and nobler--so long as we fix what never should have happened in the first place.”
“Meeting me,” she says (so she doesn’t have to hear him say it yet again), and sinks blindly back onto her sofa. “Loving me.”
“You know it wasn’t supposed to happen,” he reminds her. “And you know it’s time to finish this. No point in dragging it out unnecessarily. Let’s fix this mistake, correct the future, and let Superman be who he was always meant to be.”
She’d been so determined, so resolute that he would not talk her out of her new decision, but she should have known better. How can she refuse to listen to him when he’s taken her through a window that appeared out of nowhere, escorted her through the streets of a utopian Metropolis, showed her the headlines of centuries and pointed out the museum to Superman’s greatness and told her just how much the world owed to the superhero in their midst?
And then told her, gently, sadly, as they sat on a bench in front of a statue of Superman that towered over Centennial Park, that something had gone wrong. A blip. A fluke. A mistake.
She’d burst into Perry White’s office in 1993 when she wasn’t supposed to be there, and interrupted an interview, and seared herself onto Clark Kent’s heart. A distraction from what he was supposed to be focused on. A diversion from what he should be accomplishing. A mistake he would never know he made unless they (her source, a peacekeeper from the future, and her, the person Clark was never supposed to meet) fixed things.
And how can she change her mind now? How can she decide that she knows best, when she’d seen it, as she sat on that bench and listened to her source spell out just how much of an obstacle she was to the superhero she admired--seen the statue waver and shrink, the city around them darken, the headlines alter, all while she’d been listening and looking and realizing just how much she didn’t know?
No. Her source is right. Clark will be all right, one day. He won’t hate her forever. He’ll be fine. She just needs to rip this Band-Aid off as quickly as possible, stop prolonging the whole messy affair. It’s for the best--for the greater good, even, and that’s something she knows Clark would understand (if it was only possible to just explain it to him instead of playing out this whole twisted game). He’s bigger and more important than her, and the future is at stake (and she wants to be known as someone who does the right thing instead of as the mistake that derails the entire legacy of Superman).
Superman will have his future, and she will have her visions of a future, too, albeit one that will never be.
Her source smiles at her, reading her decision on her face as soon as she makes it (and it doesn’t even surprise her anymore, because he knows her so well, knows everything she says and thinks and does before she says it or thinks it or does it). “You know what you have to do, Ms. Lane. Now…be the hero the world will never know it needs.”
A hero. It’s kind of what she’s always wanted to be, isn’t it? Not consciously, maybe, but somewhere buried deep down. She’s wanted to be the best, the brightest, the reporter with the most awards and the most accolades and everything else besides. She’s been attracted to power (to Lex, to Superman, even to Perry, in a different way, attaching herself to the most experienced reporter around) because she wants to be someone who can make a difference. She felt like she knew Superman from the beginning because she already had all the ideals mapped out for the hero she secretly wanted to be.
She wants to be important. She wants to be special. She wants to be needed.
And isn’t it just the world’s greatest irony that just when she has the greatest opportunity to be all those things, she realizes she’s been wrong.
She’d rather be all-important to one person than to the world. She’d rather be special in the eyes of one man than the future. She’d rather be wanted than needed--to be chosen by Clark, not because of an accident, but because he loves her with all of his heart.
Too late. Too late. And she should have known better than to ever let herself think she could ever be anything more. She’s not important at all (except for breaking a good man’s heart). She’s not special (just the side effect of a time traveler inadvertently distracting a security guard so that a crazy scientist got into the bullpen with a good story tip, which made her barge into an interview history says she was never supposed to interrupt). She’s not needed (and by the time she’s done, she won’t, surely, be wanted either).
She’s just Lois Lane. Just a nosy workaholic with nothing but interviews and articles in her future. She’s just…just her, and of course that’s not good enough for Superman.
Her heart beats slow and steady in her chest as she checks herself over in the mirror one last time. Her breathing is even, calm, as she heads over to Clark’s apartment (so she can walk away from him rather than make him be the one to do it). Her mind is numb, shut down to all but the most basic of commands as she knocks at his door. And as she looks at him and lets him invite her (one, last time) into his home, she is, body and soul and future, utterly and completely broken.
