ToC - for previous parts.
Thanks once again to all those who are still reading and making comments on this story, despite my delinquent posting
Deepest apologies to everyone whose story I was commenting on but got behind! I will try to catch up soon
And HUGE tacklehugs and thanks to Sara for putting up with my last minute parts ;p
Waking a Miracle (22/??)
It was amazing how little talking actually happened in the immediate moments after he had asked that question, that vulnerable question.
"What would you like to know?" he had asked.
Sometimes, in his experience, that question was perfectly innocuous, but more often than not, those words ushered in a pressure that could only be bested by a real firing squad. He imagined he felt the glare of targeting sights nipping at his eyes, and the temperature in the room seemed to raise quite a bit as he sat there under her scrutiny. All of the rifles were pointed his way... She stared at him for a long set of moments, but as time passed he came to realize it was not the look of cold calculation that he was so used to from people who knew. Her face was a fountain of wonder, hurt, inquisitive nature...
Before, when they had been attempting to escape -- and failing -- there simply hadn't been time for fear or discussion. But now... He just wasn't sure where he stood.
"You make it sound like you're waving a white flag in defeat," she began, a small amount of suspicion in her voice.
He shrugged, backing up infinitesimally. "Essentially, I am," he replied. From the way she watched him, she had noticed his small movement.
It was true though. He was sure his life was out on the chopping block at this very instant. And in that moment, as he gazed at her, he came to realize that the fear welling up inside of him had nothing to do with what he thought she would *do* with the information of his origins, but rather what she wouldn't do. Pulitzers weren't the problem here. Not at all. She would never be his friend now, not now that she knew he wasn't even human. He felt his normalcy slipping away like sand in the high tide on a beach, and she hadn't even said anything yet. Everything was slipping away from him. Slipping.
And even worse, the fact that she knew would place her in Trask's sights with no get-out-of-jail-free card. Not that she hadn't thoroughly gotten him interested already.
It would be harder to cope with than anything he had ever experienced in his life if the former were true. The latter, he simply couldn't deal with. She was in danger.
Because of him.
His fault.
If only...
It always happened to the people he got close to.
A well of anger swelled up again like a warm flame when his mind flit to an image of Trask, standing over him with dancing, glowing fire all around, grinning. Evil. Blasé as Clark was huddled, exhausted, panting, wanting it all to end...
They had to get out of this. Somehow.
His thoughts were ripped away when Lois narrowed her eyes and replied. "You don't trust me," she said.
As though it were the worst crime imaginable. The worst thing anyone could ever do to her. He was quick to attempt to reassure her, "Lois, I trust you more than anyone on this Earth."
Her mouth remained in a flat line, her eyes bitter and hurt. "With your past and present," she began, "That's not necessarily saying a whole lot."
The words were like an anvil striking the ground before him. Who was the last person he had ever trusted, fully, and completely? Or even at all? Something tight gripped him. "No, I guess it's not," he mumbled.
But he did. He did trust her. He trusted her to not make his life into a news story. Whether that was foolish or not, he really just didn't care anymore.
"Remember when I told you my three rules?" she asked, eyebrows raising in inquiry. She shuffled forward a bit. Closer to him. Intentionally.
Just that simple motion made him melt. She wasn't shying away at all.
"Pardon?" he whispered, struck hoarse as her hand slipped to his thigh in a comforting gesture. It was a close contact.
"I've broken every one of them," she said woefully. "I seem to *always* get involved. I--" Her voice cracked with weariness. With regret.
"Slept with someone at work?" he choked, unable to tear his eyes from the hand that now rested on his quadriceps, unmoving, warm. There.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her head shake in a subtle, guilty nod. "Yes," she whispered so softly he wondered if he had heard it at all.
"It wasn't Jimmy was it?" The words had leapt out of his mouth before he had the conscious thought to stop them. They hung in the air, obnoxious for several moments, ringing and discordant, before dropping off into silence. Utter, petty jealously for something that obviously hadn't happened recently... Well, he *hoped* it wasn't recent.
Please, anyone but Jimmy, a small voice said, but he squelched it with a shudder of self-loathing. He was disgusted with himself, and yet now he was committed to finding out the answer.
"Don't be ridiculous," she said. The hand on his thigh moved to swat at his bicep lightly. Playfully. "It was a long time ago--"
He sagged with relief and felt guilty for it all at once.
"When I first started working at the Daily Planet," she continued. "Claude -- he was French -- he had this accent. I guess I must have been in love. Or thought I was." She sounded pained. Embarrassed. "I was only twenty-one, working on my first big scoop: this perfectly ordinary middle-age couple -- gun runners. One night, I told him about it and when I woke up the next morning he was gone. So was my story. He won an award for it. Didn't even thank me for my... input."
He dared to look at her then. Her eyes were watery, and she was blinking furiously.
Offer some comfort, you dope!
"I guess," he struggled, his throat constricting as he saw her trembling, "When you're in love with someone... it doesn't matter how smart you are or how many rules you've set for yourself. You're still vulnerable."
She sniffled and then was silent. All that remained was the dull snap-buzzing of the overhead lights, which grew louder and louder the longer the relative silence stretched. There was a pop and a crackle here and there. A subtle flicker. The cool, sighing groan of the ducts overhead chimed in and added to the chorus.
They locked eyes, and her gaze seemed to say, "You too," in response to the words he had spoken. But she blinked, once more becoming animated, and the mood was broken. "Well, now you have some blackmail material," she said with another sniff. "Does that make things easier?"
With that question, she fully committed herself like a date at a drive-in movie, and slipped under his arms alongside him. They leaned back against the wall and he sighed.
How to respond to that?
"Easier?" he began. "Lois, I've spent my entire life hiding who I was, afraid to do more for fear of others getting hurt. This isn't about which of us has better material to send the other up the creek if things get nasty--"
"Which I *wouldn't* do!"
"--This is about your life."
"I can take care of myself," she replied. Her tone had that low and dangerous quality to it, and he rushed to explain further.
"As you've proven time and time again, Lois. Never doubt that I find you the most capable human being I've ever known." He noted his arm, wrapped languidly over her shoulder, and gave her a light squeeze.
"But--" she protested.
For once, he was the one not letting her finish, and not the other way around. "Lois," he hurried to explain, "I thought I was invincible. Before today I have never gotten physically hurt, but they still found a way. You can be the most capable person on this Earth, but sometimes there are things thrown your way that you just can't handle. And it's okay to admit that."
When did you get this attack of wisdom? the voice nipped at him. You always just run away and hide.
Not anymore, he thought back with a firm image of steel.
Man of steel.
He wasn't going to bend for people like Trask anymore. Never again.
"Trask?" Lois asked, almost seeming to read his mind.
"Holds the key to my utter destruction," he replied. "And it isn't that Kryptonite stuff."
He shuddered slightly at the memory of that harsh green glow. A jagged thorn of worry slipped under his skin when he realized it'd been quite a while now, and there was still no sign of his powers returning. He quickly went through an inventory of all his powers, and once again was dismayed to find that not a single one of them worked.
But just as the worry began to clot in his veins, she distracted him again. She saved him in that moment, probably without even realizing it.
"And that is..." she prodded.
"I care Lois," he answered truthfully. "My problem after all this time. All these years of hiding, running, and worrying because I'm different. Despite Trask and Thompson. Despite the fact that my life has been catalogued and processed like I was some lab specimen. Despite the fact that my parents are dead as punishment for *my* differences... Despite *all that* I still care. And that will be my ruin."
He remembered, bile forming in his throat, all the times he had been subjected to Trask's will, based on what *might* happen. What *might* be. And even with this newfound desire to see Trask finally and effectively paying for his crimes, he wondered if he would be able to do it. To cast aside his fear for the moments necessary to follow through with that decision.
Man of steel, he chanted to himself. Steel.
Unfailing.
"So you're not afraid of me knowing," Lois said, caution seeping into her tone.
"I'm afraid of what your knowing might do to you. And even though you're obviously not now," he said, noting the warmth of her body pressed against his, and the ease with which he took comfort from it, "I'm afraid one of these days it will really sink in and you'll be afraid of me. Lois Lane, I love you and I'm afraid that after all this is over, all you see is an alien."
"Bull," she snapped, wiggling out of his embrace as she did so. She wobbled onto the balls of her feet and rotated around so that she was facing him directly, crouched so that her eyes were level with his own.
"Excuse me?" he asked, unsure, and partially in shock from her sudden mood change.
"Trask is the alien here. You're just a really cute guy who can fly." She enunciated the words slowly. There was little doubt in his mind that she meant exactly what she said, and that she desperately wanted him to believe it too.
His chest felt like it was collapsing, and the weight that had been pressing against him slowly lifted. He looked at her, and all he saw in her gaze was determination. Hope.
No fear.
The relief almost made him faint, even if there was still niggling doubts that this would all change if they escaped later.
But he wouldn't worry about it now.
He wouldn't.
"Thank you, Lois," he replied, his voice hoarse.
She nodded. "I do too, I think."
"What?"
"Love you." Her eyes widened as she said it, as if she were coming to her own self-revelation. After the look of amazement crossed her face, her gaze warmed considerably, and she looked at him with a sparkling gaze.
She was beautiful.
"You only think? You wound me!"
She swatted at him, collapsing into an Indian-style seat across from him, rather than crouched. "My brain is running on fumes here. I've gotten no sleep in the past twenty-four hours or so, I've been kidnapped, had several shocks to the system... You can't expect too much from me right now..." Her voice trailed off, giving him a moment to muse.
Again, this situation was all his fault--
"HEY! Don't you get that look!" her voice speared back into his woeful thoughts. The volume shocked him so much he flinched backwards a bit.
Caught!
"What look?" he asked, attempting to sound innocent.
"The this-is-my-fault-I'm-so-guilty look."
"But--" he tried to protest, but she cut him off.
Her hands came forward to grip his shoulders tightly. "I forced your hand, Clark. We're in this situation because I bulldozed right into it. Just like always. You can blame me if you're going to blame anyone."
"But--"
"On second thought, let's blame the Big Bang," she cut him off again.
He was used to her sudden subject changes by now. But being used to them still didn't seem to curtail the confusion when she made a logical leap he just couldn't figure out how to follow. "What?"
"If it hadn't happened we might never have met. If you're going to play the blame game at least get the real culprit."
"The Big Bang is why we're stuck in the middle of a secret government installation waiting for Henderson to rescue us?" he asked wryly.
She nodded stiffly. Certainly. "Exactly."
There was a finality to her tone, with an appropriate smidgen of hilarity. He felt a grin seep across his face, and saw it infect her too, until she was grinning right along with him.
She was crazy. "You're a nut." But that was one of the things he liked about her.
"I blame the Big Bang for that too," she said matter-of-factly. After several moments of long grinning silence, she continued, "So. Miracle Man."
He looked down at himself, and then back to her. "Yep."
"What gave you the idea?"
"I thought I could do some good and still remain anonymous enough to slip under Trask's radar. My mistake."
His mistake all right.
"Hey!" she swatted at him again. He felt the harmless cuff against his bicep. "Don't get that look. We went over this. It's Big Bang's fault!"
Man of steel, Clark. Don't forget already!
"How very touching," the cold familiar voice sent them both to their feet. Clark immediately whirled around so that he was in front of Lois, who immediately moved to his side as soon as he came to a full stop.
He wanted her behind him, but--
"Trask!" she hissed and stepped forward.
No, Lois, don't do that, he wanted to scream. Trask was standing by the door, a pistol held out in front of him like a ward. They'd been so engrossed in each other they hadn't even noticed the door opening.
Trask ignored Lois's outburst and smiled. If ever a devil were to grin, Clark was sure that was what the expression would look like. "Did you think I wouldn't notice that you had escaped, Clark?" Trask asked, his eyebrows raised in disbelief.
Clark glared back at him. He was feeling okay. Still not 'special' by any means, but there were no aches. How to immobilize Trask quickly? He glanced to his side at Lois, who was practically foaming at the mouth, and back to Trask, who, despite the gun he held, looked way too relaxed to be taking this encounter seriously.
Man of steel. What could he do?
"Where's Thompson?" Lois asked.
"I don't know. He's apparently not as smart as me, for the time being," Trask said, his attention almost fully diverted to Lois. This was it. He felt a spring develop in his legs, and he was about to launch into a pounce, when pain ripped through him. "You stay back," Trask hissed, his free hand having moved to his pocket. Although he couldn't see it, it was obvious that Trask was holding something in his pocket. Not very big, since it barely enlarged the size of his fist.
Clark stumbled a little. Must be kryptonite, he thought dumbly.
The wall smacked into him. Or maybe he had fell against it. Something like that.
"Clark!" Lois exclaimed, but it sounded as though the words were being shouted from across a wide canyon. Things were going cottony again, and woozy. The room started to spin as a wave of pain speared him.
He almost lost his footing completely when it all abruptly stopped, and he was left with the familiar achy hangover feeling he'd had before, after the first exposure.
Through bleary eyes, he could see that Trask's attention was back on Lois. The wall felt deliciously cool against his cheek, and he inhaled deeply, trying to find some equilibrium again to mount some sort of campaign to help Lois out, but his hopes were dashed when his breath curbed off into a coughing fit.
"Why do you insist on helping this creature?" Trask asked.
"*He's* not a creature, Trask," Lois spat. "You are!"
The glare he returned to her was positively disdainful. "I've never murdered without cause," he snarled.
"Neither has he."
Stop it, Lois. Just stop it. Don't defend me to him. You can't. Stopitstopitstopit, the mantra bounced around in his skull as he inched closer to upright. The room started dancing around again when he moved his head too quickly. Stopitstopitstopit.
Trask growled. Deadly. Barely audible. "Liar," he began, like a volcano that was preparing to erupt. Similar to how Lois prepared for a rant, but with so much more menace, the effect was chilling. "I *saw* him do it. I saw him kill Sarah." The gun in his hand was shaking as his grip became unsteady, and at least Lois was smart enough to not try anything. She was eyeing the firearm with caution. It seemed as though Lois was the bird, and Trask was the cobra.
Or not.
Her foot twitched. She was debating kicking him. He could see it.
Get attention off Lois!
"If you believe that," Clark wheezed, his breath short and hard to catch with the aches still so fresh, "Then Thompson has twisted your mind beyond repair." At first Lois didn't look happy that he had interjected and brought Trask's attention back to him, but now she was nodding ever-so-slightly.
"It's true, Trask," Lois added. "Thompson was having an affair with your wife."
Trask's head ticked to the right, as though he had begun to shake his head, and stopped in mid motion. "Sarah loved me."
"Maybe so," Lois said, her voice mustering a sympathy that sounded almost genuine, "But it doesn't change the fact that Thompson killed her."
Trask's head shook minutely again. "Ridiculous," he snapped. The cold, uncertain look on his face was growing, even as he tried to cover it with a sneer. His lip curled up and his skin turned a deeper hue. Sweat dotted his forehead. He was looking back at Lois.
Look over here!
"I saw your journal, Trask," Clark said. "Even you had doubts in the beginning."
"He distracted you, Trask," Lois chimed in. "Clark was a decoy, nothing more."
They were making a dent. Trask didn't look nearly as confident. Perhaps even doubtful. The gun in his hand was far from steady, almost a bit lax in his grip. It was pointed more towards the floor than anything else. And his head was bobbing back and forth as if he just were not certain what to do. A sigh grated the air. Trask's frame was hung in hypertension, even as he lost further grip on the gun.
Lois twitched again, but seemed to think better of it. Her mouth opened to make another addition, possibly to destabilize Trask's control even further, but the door pushed open again and a white-haired head poked through to see what was going on. Trask launched back against the other wall as though he had been shot from a canon, and all their work at getting him unaware was lost.
Clark crumpled in defeat. The wall was cool. It felt good against his burning skin.
"I *thought* I heard voices," George Thompson explained as he slipped into the room, his gaze unconcerned.
Surely of all people, Thompson had to know how unstable Trask was?
They stood now in a triangle. Trask was back towards the desk. Lois and Clark were huddled in a pair against the wall adjacent to the right of the door. And Thompson stood, authoritatively, stiff, just inside the door itself.
"George," Trask growled. He didn't look pleased.
"Jason," Thompson replied, just as coldly, but with none of the uncertainty. "Why don't you let me handle this, Trask. We need to be moving soon if we want to be on time."
Clark remembered the vicious argument the two had had at his expense, while he'd been withered with pain, and immediately felt fear. He felt Lois's small hand grip his shoulder more tightly. Don't say anything, Lois, he pleaded silently. Don't get in the middle of this. Don't do it, Lois. Don't do it.
She didn't hear his wordless plea.
"Trask, listen to me," Lois explained calmly, ignoring their new guest. "Thompson's plan was to frame you for Bureau 39. The press conference has nothing to do with--"
Thompson's demeanor grew a lot less relaxed. His skin flushed pink as Lois spoke. "Shut up!" he finally hissed. He withdrew a Glock from a shoulder holster under his suit and it was now pointed at Lois.
Clark cursed softly, glancing back and forth between Trask and Thompson. The room was swimming a bit. Any attempt to tackle either of them would probably result in him getting shot, or possibly toppling to the floor before he even made contact, or both.
"Lies," Trask screamed. His gun was completely off target now and he shook it dangerously. The knuckles of the hand that held the pistol were white as he clenched it, and Clark waited for it to go off accidentally and ricochet everyone to their deaths. "You're just trying to save your alien friend."
"Shall we--" Thompson cut him off. He truly didn't seem to understand the magnitude of this situation.
Trask's gun swung back from its drunken stupor square to Thompson's chest. There was a click. "Don't you move either," Trask interrupted right back.
Thompson's eyebrows raised, and his face grew pinker. He was starting to get the picture. "Pardon?"
"You've treated me like a pest lately. Don't think I haven't noticed."
"My apologies, Jason," Thompson gestured, his arms sweeping wide in a conciliatory gesture, his own gun lolling towards the door as he did so, "If my actions came across that way, but perhaps we should work this out later?" His voice was honey sweet. Just like a politician trying to make a concession. Out of the corner of his eye, Clark saw Lois's eyes narrow considerably.
Just be quiet, Lois, he pleaded at her again.
There were two guns in the room. Provoking the owner of either would be a surefire way to come out of this in a body bag. Courage or no.
"Let me see that folder," Trask gestured loosely towards Thompson with the hand that before, had been firmly hidden in his pocket. There was nothing clenched in his fingers now, but a quick glance down and Clark saw a small, barely noticeable bulge in his left pocket.
"Excuse me?" Thompson asked.
Clark glanced back and noticed for the first time, a small manila folder clenched under Thompson's armpit.
"Your speech, I assume," Trask clarified. "Let me see it."
"Jason, don't be ridiculous," Thompson hedged. His gun twitched. He was going to fire. But Trask was a military man. He took a step forward and kicked outward in a sweeping roundhouse, disarming the older man in a swift, silent motion.
Thompson's gun clattered to the floor and remained there, and Thompson was defenseless. It was at that moment. That precise moment. When Thompson's whole face seemed to shift away from his last vestiges of confidence into something else. Apprehension. Thompson was a bureaucrat. Not a soldier.
And he knew he was in trouble.
The sound of Trask's gun firing in such a small space was horrendously loud, as though thunder had ripped through the air right above them. Clark's ears were ringing by the time he had registered what was happening, and he swayed a bit as he blearily focused on the hole in the door about three inches to the right of Thompson's ear.
"Let," Trask enunciated. "Me. See. It."
Thompson's composure was nowhere to be found now. He handed over the folder to Trask with pale, shaking hands.
The situation was deteriorating rapidly, and neither of the two men seemed to care that Lois and Clark were there at this point. It was a long rivalry that was being settled here. Today. And Lois, along with himself, were stuck in what was likely to be deadly crossfire.
He felt Lois's hand grab his and squeeze.
Trask's eyes darted from right to left as he read the contents of the folder. He was silent. Thompson tried to make a few interjections, but Trask didn't say a word, merely holding his gun out, pointed toward Thompson, as he read what Clark could only assume was to be the real speech Thompson had prepared for the press conference.
Trask's skin grew paler and paler as he got farther down the page, until finally, the folder slipped from his grasp. For a moment, it seemed as though he had become a statue, but his torso rocked with a shuddering breath and dispelled the illusion. Trask's attention went fully to Thompson, his face the color of taupe. "Tell me what you did to her," he stated calmly, although his body-language was anything but calm.
"Did to whom?" Thompson had the audacity to ask.
Another slap of thunder. Another hole in the door, this time to the other side of Thompson's head. Splinters of wood dripped from the wound in the door's surface. "Tell me what you did to Sarah!"
Thompson's mouth opened minutely, and closed again.
Trask emptied another shell. Clark could barely hear now, save for the ringing and the distant echo of voices through a mile of water and cotton. "Tell me!"
Silence.
The movement that followed was too quick for Clark to process. Trask's fist had connected with Thompson's cheek so hard there was an audible smack, even despite the cottony deafness he was experiencing. And as Thompson recoiled backward, Trask recocked his pistol. "Tell me, you bastard!"
"We were seeing each other," Thompson hissed as he spat blood onto the floor and straightened himself. "She... started having doubts. The argument that resulted got a little out of hand..."
Trask's voice grew colder than Clark had ever seen him before. Even the day of the fires. "You killed her." Distant. Deadly. He was looking at Thompson, but not *at* Thompson. He was remembering.
"Nonsense," Thompson hedged, a small chuckle or nervousness cascading from his lips, "She lost her balance, she--"
"You mean you *killed* her. She wouldn't have lost her balance if you hadn't been threatening her into backing away from you. I'm an utter fool. I *knew* the marks on your face were from her nails. Tell me."
"Tell--" Thompson began to ask.
"Tell me," Trask hissed as he stepped in so close that Thompson was trying to veer away from Trask's heated, snorting breath. "What you. Did to her."
"I-- I slapped her. She fell against the coffee table. I--"
There was another cruel blow and the smack of Trask's fist hitting something softer smudged off into silence. "Tell. Me."
"Blamed it. On Clark..." Thompson whispered.
And that was when things devolved into a vicious scuffle. They rolled on the floor. There was hitting and pummeling. Thompson somehow regained possession of his gun and there was another loud crack, but Trask did not collapse. A miss?
They were by the desk now. Papers were flying everywhere. The chair was being used as a weapon. Somebody was screaming.
Lois yanked on Clark's sleeve and they both wheeled around to the door, which there was now a clear path to since the two men were on the other side of the small room. She opened it and they darted out as the sounds of the fight grew more vicious and hateful. There were grunts of pain.
More yelling.
As they surrendered to the hallway, several men in black gear, their torsos bloated in size from what could only have been Kevlar, flew past. Air buffeted him as each one of them blurred by. The SWAT team? he considered dully. Clark collapsed against the wall, dizzy. Aching. A man in a gray suit -- Henderson? -- was running down from the opposite end.
"FREEZE!" somebody shouted. "DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"
"Oh, thank God, the police," he heard Thompson say, only to be cut off by another smacking sound. More scuffle sounds and shouting. And finally the echoing click of handcuffs being put into place.
The man in the gray suit spoke from the hallway, witness to whatever carnage lay inside. Clark didn't want to look. "Save it, Thompson. We found *your* office while we were searching around here. I'm also guessing it's reasonable to assume the bullet wound in that man's knee is from your gun."
"Office, what? That's crazy I don't have-- You'll be hearing from my lawyers! Get your hands off me, I'm going to be President!" Thompson snarled. There was blood all over his face, dripping down, staining his suit. His knuckles were stained a rusty red as well. His nose was sitting at an odd angle, and it was swelling up cruelly. The overall effect made him look like a monster. A very animated, growling, angry monster.
"I'd call you a backstabber," Clark heard Trask hiss as they brought him out behind, limping, strangely not struggling, "But then I'd be a hypocrite."
"Lois? Clark I assume? Are you two all right?" the man in the gray suit asked.
Clark nodded, unable to find his voice.
"Yeah, Henderson," Lois said with a smile. "Thanks for the save."
The sound of both men being Mirandized was the last thing he heard before he finally collapsed in relief and exhaustion. Lois's arms were around him, and that was all that mattered.
*****
TBC...
(End Part 22/??)
