ToC for previous parts.
Thanks for all the comments! This part is sort of short, I know, but as before, I promise I'll make up for it!
Waking a Miracle (12/??)
A short, thin brunette stood outside, staring for the longest time. Her trench coat flowed down sleekly to her ankles. Dark nylons and fat-heeled pumps were all that were visible under the hem. She peered around the corner at sporadic intervals. Her gaze was one of wariness, cynicism, and fire -- even through the hazy fuzz of the black and white image on the monitor, he could see that.
"The Lane woman who questioned you this morning," Trask observed, suspicion biting into each syllable. His hands clenched the back of Thompson's swivel chair so hard that Thompson couldn't move it to turn around.
"I know that," Thompson snapped. He was losing his cool. Things were conspiring to thwart him, he could see it. His timetable was already getting completely thrown off. "Do you take me for an idiot?"
"Well, obviously," Trask snorted, "If you let her follow you here."
Something tightened in his chest, and he felt a desperate need to defend himself.
"I took all the precautions, I didn't see anyone following me. She used a cab. That type of vehicle doesn't exactly stand out in a city like this."
She was a slight snag in his perfect plan.
He stared at the monitor until things began to blur and split apart into doubles. The room was dim and haunting under the glow of the overhead fluorescent lights, and as time progressed, it was feeling more and more claustrophobic.
"We should have her detained," Trask's harsh voice ripped him away from his musings. "I'll grab her myself if I must."
"No."
"Why?"
"Not when all she's got is suspicion," he sighed. "If we detain her, we'll be handing her the remnants of this organization on a silver platter. Might as well give her a free interview and a button."
She was more than a slight snag. She quite possibly had the ability to ruin everything without much effort at all. What was he supposed to do? She was too high profile to do anything to without arousing suspicion, at least, not quite yet. Perhaps if she knew the full scope of the situation she would be more willing to cooperate? He recalled her snipped words to him at the press conference earlier, and decided it wasn't really a likely possibility. Something else had to be done.
"How do you know suspicion is all she's got?"
He didn't. In fact, he wasn't even sure how she had happened across information pertaining to Bureau 39 at all. A leak, perhaps. He would have the staff submit to a polygraph and an examination at the nearest convenience of the containment crew. He didn't have the time or the patience for treachery at this juncture. Not when he was so close.
"Fine, take care of her. Just don't kill her."
They turned to the monitor, only to see the intrepid reporter getting into cab. Her shoes disappeared behind the door and it slammed shut. She took one last look at their building, her fingers pressed against the glass of the window, and then the car drove slowly off.
Trask slammed his fist into the desk, his cheeks turning a reddish hue as fury erupted in his features. The monitor wobbled on its frame, and the image blinked out for a bare second. "Too late," he growled. "Your complete inability to be discrete has cost us."
Thompson resisted the urge to glare back. He could be a lot more discrete than Trask, that was for sure. Twenty-five years now, almost, and there hadn't even been so much as a leak.
Until now.
Because of Trask. It if weren't for him, they would still be operating under the radar of the American public's quiet complacency.
Instead, now, they had a public hungry to peg a villain for Trask's terrorist acts in Metropolis. They had one reporter for sure after them, Lane, and possibly two if Lane was in collusion with Kent. Trask had terrorized Kent enough, however, that Thompson doubted he was an active threat. No, it was mostly that Lane woman.
He gripped the arms of his chair as he stared at the monitor. The dirty street in front of the warehouse was now deserted like it usually was. Napkins and papers were blowing around in the typical wind-tunnel fashion of a regular city block, not a soul for them to catch or get obstructed on. There was no trace that Lois Lane had ever been there at all, though he knew he couldn't kid himself that far, as much as he wished that the sight had been his imagination.
Hell had, simply put, broken loose.
"Trask, we *will* move forward, and we will do it when I say we will. Not before then."
Thompson folded his hands in his lap and spun around to peer into Trask's incredulous glare.
"And when will that be, exactly? The next ice age? The Alien and that woman are conspiring to expose us. It's obvious!"
Thompson ground his molars. Things would still work if done properly.
He could slap a gag order on Lane -- bind her legally. Scare her to death, maybe. Or something. And Kent, well... The Kent problem would solve itself if things went according to plan up until the press conference tomorrow.
"Tomorrow morning. We'll have them brought in."
"By then, there could be a front page article in the Daily
Planet!"
Well, it would be better than coffee, he thought wryly.
No, he decided. If Lane had enough to print, it would have happened by now. She was still snooping, which meant she thought there was more to snoop for.
He forced himself to relax a little bit. Less than forty-eight hours and he would be out of this godforsaken city and back on the campaign trail, a hero, and a surefire win in his bid for election.
"Tomorrow morning, and not before, Trask. I have a timetable."
Thompson watched Trask come frighteningly close to erupting.
His hand slammed into the desk again with a sickeningly hard thud. "Screw your timetable!" Trask belted and began to pace. Dots of sweat glistened across his brow, and his agitated, volatile motion almost made Thompson want to start pacing.
Psychosis began to feel like too tame a term to describe his former friend.
"The laboratory has been informed that they are under no circumstances to release the rock to you until I've given the okay," Thompson countered. "Your hands are tied as far as Clark Kent goes."
There. That had gotten his attention. Trask went still, and dangerously quiet for several seconds. All Thompson could hear were his soft, ragged breaths and the buzz of the overhead lights.
"I can still kill the woman." Trask's tone was low, and dangerous, like an animal that had been threatened.
Thompson snorted. "What was this you were saying about discrete?"
That finally seemed to register. Trask blinked, and his breathing slowed a bit. "Tomorrow morning then."
"Good. I have to leave. I trust you are able to proceed without any further fits of rage? I have a ribbon-cutting to attend."
"Of course," Trask said with a wicked grin. "Forget the clear and present danger, you have to keep the adoring fans drooling."
Thompson didn't deign the jab with a response as he walked out of the small office and closed the door behind him with a soft click. Trask's lack of restraint might actually prove useful.
Everything would be okay.
Soon.
*****
Clark ran his hand slowly along the smooth, worked surface, stopping when his fingertips hit the rough edges of the mouse pad. There were soft indentations in the wood where writing implements had created nearly imperceptible canyons. The soft surface was dull enough, however, that only his shadow stared back at him under the dim overhead lighting, blurred and faint.
A desk. His own desk. He had a desk at the Daily Planet.
His chair squeaked a little as he leaned back and relaxed with a deep breath. Perry had finally made arrangements for him, and he now sat about ten feet across from Lois. Her gold nameplate stared back at him over the top of her monitor, flashing like a beacon. Home. Clark suspected that the editor had taken a keen notice to the fact that he hadn't been dismembered the first day. If chatting with her gave him any particular impression of her lifestyle, it was that she didn't play well with others.
He glanced again to her empty desk. Lois wasn't in yet, despite the fact that it was almost lunchtime. Most of the staff didn't appear concerned, however, and Jimmy had just said, "That's Lois. She's probably out chasing a lead. Expect a front-pager in the next couple days."
But as far as he knew, she didn't have any chasable leads, except maybe Thompson. The thought that she was out this very instant tracking the politician down made him feel a bit ill. He hoped Trask didn't get his feathers ruffled in the process of her snooping around, assuming that Trask still had any sort of relation with this Thompson guy. The sinking feeling in his gut, like he was being sucked under by quicksand, told him to dream on.
As the seconds ticked by, he grew more and more anxious. Where was she? Maybe lying cold in a dumpster, or weighted down to the bottom of the bay like a sack of potatoes. He had doubts that Lois even had an inkling of how dangerous Trask was, which was pretty much his fault. But what was he supposed to do, explain the truth and ruin everything?
Yes! the voice screamed.
But she would still investigate then. At least by dragging his feet he could control the pace of her descent -- possibly even divert her onto a nice, rickety ledge. By not allowing her the essential clues she needed to proceed, he was keeping her safe. Right? Except logic be damned, he sure wasn't doing much controlling now, what with her missing and him staring fitfully at his watch every five seconds.
And last night... God, what a mess. He felt his chest constrict. She probably thought horribly of him. Her skittishness with him spoke volumes about how she normally regarded men, or perhaps just friends in general. Either she was inexperienced, and just frightened, or she was experienced, and was now a complete and utter cynic. He was tempted to believe the latter, given her supposed rules of Lois Lanehood.
And he had run away.
From her.
Way to inspire confidence in her, Clark.
So now, she was lying in a dumpster, her last thoughts having been how much she hated him.
He took in a shuddering breath, wishing once more that he knew enough about her by now to even have a *clue* where to start trying to find her.
"What's with you, Clark? You look like you lost your best friend." Unfamiliar hands slithered over his shoulders and held him like a vice in his chair. Well-sculpted nails dug into the skin below his shoulders.
Cat. He resisted a shudder.
"I--" he stuttered. If this kept up, he was going to have to think up a less than polite way to deal with her. She was positively predatory, and her forward, sexual nature made him feel a little sick. He felt like a piece of meat whenever she cast her lascivious attention his way. He was used to women looking at him more than once, but this... This was a bit too much.
"What you need..." Cat began, her voice warbling suggestively as her hands roamed lower down towards his pectorals, sliding, fondling... "Is a pick-me-up!"
He placed his hands over top of hers and she immediately stilled. Her warm skin was soft, and, well... nice... but he was already well past disgusted. He pried her off, gently.
She got the message. Her hands snapped back as though stung, and he could feel her back up a step or two. He imagined she wasn't used to this kind of continual rejection. "Or not," she grumbled with a disappointed sniff. The click of her heals indicated her retreat.
He felt a rush of air as Lois breezed past him and made for her desk. The relief that exploded like a canon in his chest was enough to make him dizzy for a moment. Clark didn't even have a chance to recover and possibly manage a greeting before she was on the phone. She didn't look in his direction. Not once.
"Bobby," she growled into the receiver as she slammed her briefcase onto her desk. She shrugged off her coat with a look of disgust. Her nose crinkled up a bit and she collapsed into her chair with a huff.
The blast of air that her movement encouraged brought an... interesting... scent to his nose. She smelled... Well she smelled like she had taken a few laps in the city dump. Or something she was carrying smelled. But whatever it was, it was definitely a bit on the ripe side.
What *had* she been up to?
He stopped his thoughts from roaming back to images of her lying dead in a dumpster somewhere.
"Who do you *think* it is?" She started tapping her pencil on the desk with agitation. Her eyes flashed with annoyance, and a hint of something else.
Excitement, he decided.
And something else, still. He studied her with a scrutinous gaze.
Apprehension?
He caught a furtive glance in his direction, but her eyes flicked back to her notepad almost immediately.
"I need you to see what you can find about a Bureau 39, Jason Trask, and George Thompson."
His heart sank. So she really hadn't taken his words of warning seriously. Or she had, but didn't care enough for her own safety that she thought it mattered. Although he had imagined her blasé attitude about this whole investigation earlier while waiting for her to return, seeing it first hand now was decidedly more gut wrenching.
Not that he had expected her to listen to him at all. He hadn't given her much reason to trust him yet. Or any reason, really, what with the clandestine, "I can't tell you," insistences. But it seemed she was steamrolling into the land of inevitables a bit faster than he had imagined possible, if she was calling in source favors.
Unless this Bobby character wasn't a source, but he found that hard to believe.
She would know soon. She would know it all, and his last semblance of normalcy would fall to ruin at her feet. But he cared more about the fact that she was set on cruise control towards her own destruction.
Just *tell* her, Clark!
He bit back a groan. Damned if you do, damned if you don't seemed to be the modus operandi of the day.
She rolled her eyes. "Yes, *that* George Thompson."
Another pause. She sat forward in her seat, looking more and more incredulous.
"Look, I don't *care* if you're voting for him. There's a half-dozen éclairs in it for you. From that little French bakery you loved so much last time."
"Okay, *fine*, a full dozen. Just do it."
The phone slammed down and there was relative silence, although the atmospheric sounds of the Planet building refused to recede. Lois, not even looking at him, opened up a folder which Jimmy had left on her desk while she was out and started reading the contents. From this distance it looked like an old newspaper article.
He stood and approached her. He saw her eyes flick to him again before returning to her reading, and her breathing and heartbeat got a little faster as he got closer.
Fear? Apprehension? Or... God, her signals were just so hard to read. It was like trying to figure out Cyrillic when you only knew the English alphabet.
"Lois?"
She looked up from the paper and for a moment there was silence. The pained stare that hung on her face made his heart want to break, but as fast as he had spotted it, it was gone, and her face was an emotional mask. She said nothing, but her eyebrows raised, as if permitting him to at least attempt to speak his peace.
He took a deep breath and began, "About last night--"
Her shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly, and she stared at him for a long, agonizing moment. Her lips parted, and she looked like she was going to say something else entirely, like she was *desperate* to say it, something akin to understanding, but her shaky demeanor faded into an awkward certainty. "I trailed George Thompson after a press conference today," Lois blurted. "He's dirty, Clark." Her proud glare just screamed, "I was right!"
Jarred, Clark blinked. "What?"
"He went to a warehouse on Bessolo Boulevard -- that's in Suicide Slum."
She was upset, all right. She didn't even want to talk to him about last night. Had it been that awful for her? That horrid? Or had his run and bolt move hit a raw spot that was more than casual discomfort on an almost-date?
He suspected that with relationships, this woman was like a skittish horse, ready to balk at the slightest moment of uncertainty. It would take very slow, and very steady progress to approach her. And out of his own sense of self-preservation, for reasons which he had already concluded were going to doom him anyway, he had fled. Every careful brick of trust he'd built up, he'd sent cascading back to the ground as he'd bolted right through them.
Now he'd never have a chance with her. She would never want him, not after the stunt he'd pulled last night.
Tell. Her. The. Truth!
No. It would sicken her. He would be just a story for her, once he'd crossed that threshold -- she'd made it quite clear she was nothing short of obsessed with his short-lived alter ego, and what with her tenacity in the past few days, she'd given him no reason to think that she would behave with any semblance of restraint once she knew. She would beam one of her gorgeous smiles his way, lick her lips suggestively, and then shove her micro recorder in his face. "How long have you known you were an extra-terrestrial?" she would ask, the excitement bleeding from her eyes as she formulated her front page lead.
Trask's voice bounced around in his head. You're an extra-terrestrial. An alien. Scum. Freak.
Yes, Clark. Tell her what a freak you are. Explain you ran out on her because you're a little green man and you don't respond well to spotlights.
What a mess.
He just had to keep her away from the truth. At least then he could have her as a co-worker, and maybe a friend, although even that was in jeopardy at this point if she kept pressing.
"Lois," he began, slowly. Please, please just don't upset her even more, Clark. "That's hardly a reason to suspect the man. What if he was helping the homeless, or something?" That sounded weak, even to his own ears.
His cautious speech didn't have the intended effect. "Don't start with me, Kent," she snapped. "Not right now. I can't."
Flags went up. He got the impression she was alluding to something else entirely. He ran his hands through his hair, trying desperately not to get frustrated with her, to show that he was being deliberate, slow, and apologetic. That he was not threatening in any way. "Start what?" he asked with extreme caution.
Anything to get her talking. Maybe they *could* sort out what had happened without too much in the way of uncomfortable revelations.
She ignored his question, dancing away even further. "I checked with his campaign office, Clark. The man was *not* scheduled to be anywhere in Suicide Slum today."
Or maybe they couldn't.
Her eyes flicked to and away from him again, and suddenly he felt like a predator outside the herd. Did she really think that horribly of him? She was obviously noticing his closeness to her, and her vitals indicated some sort of hypertension. Bolt. She was going to bolt, although she was hiding it well behind her caustic veneer. He resisted the urge to place a gentle hand on her shoulder, part for fear it would send her flying away even faster, and part for his desire to not feel how tense he imagined her muscles to be.
He had really messed up.
"Okay, Lois," he sighed. "We need to talk."
It was her turn to blink. "About what, Clark?"
"Last night!" he said, again forcing his distress deep down into the pit of his throat. He was proud to note his voice barely warbled.
"What about it?"
"What *about* it?" he cried, his exasperation finally punching to the surface. "Lois..."
He could tell that she was long past paying attention to him, though, or was at least making a good front of it. She gathered up her things, and, apparently thinking better of it, left her smelly coat on the hook. "So are you coming?" she asked, eyebrows raised as her arms settled into a crossed position.
Although he was getting used to her constant switch-backs, he still hadn't followed this particular train change. "Huh?"
"To interview General Newcomb. Or are you just going to stand there goggling like a fish?"
She turned on her heels and left, giving him the option to follow immediately or be left in the dust. He frowned and ambled after her. The dust, it seemed, was where he was already.
*****
TBC...
(End Part 12/??)
