A strong sense of menace pervaded the air. Something bad was happening, and it was happening somewhere very close by. If she turned, she’d see it.
Better not to move. Better not to speak.
There was muttering, someone chanting low incantations in a language she didn’t understand. A match was struck, its sudden splash of colour creating a harsh light both unnerving and threatening. The light settled down to a pallid, flickering glow - a candle had been lit. The chanting began again.
Someone groaned. A sharp slap silenced the groan and the chanting resumed, louder and faster. Another match was struck, another candle lit.
She recognised this ritual. Knew what would happen next.
Don’t look.
A man cried out in pain. More voices joined the chant, drowning out the man’s cry. The candlelight grew stronger as more matches were struck and more candles were lit. The man yelled again.
Don’t look.
She sensed movement, vicious and stabbing. The chanters were egging on the lead protagonist, enthusiastic and excited in their incantations.
Don’t look.
“Help me!”
Oh, God, the man was an American. She whirled around.
No! Not him. Please, not him. Not Clark...
Alarm bells began ringing in her head, obliterating the chanting and Clark’s cries. She pressed her hands to her ears, holding her head in pain as the ringing grew louder and shriller, deafening her.
Make it stop. Please make it stop...
She gasped, recognising the words as Clark’s own. Her eyes shot open of their own accord and she was jolted sharply back to the present, back to the real world. There in the corner was Clark’s chest of drawers, there, his shoes, there on a chair a brightly patterned tie, and here beside her, his bed.
She was okay. Clark was okay. It had been just another dream.
But the ringing. His telephone. Her gaze darted to Clark, but he was clearly sleeping – and peacefully so, by the look of it. She should answer the phone before it woke him up.
She rushed headlong into the living room and grabbed the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Lois! Still using that great voice, I hear.”
George. Thank God for George. “Yeah, there’s no shutting me up now,” she replied.
She glanced around the living room, trying to replace the lingering menace of the dream with the homely, comfortable scene before her. This was reality now. The other was a memory; an existence she’d left behind when she’d been rescued and brought home to Metropolis.
George laughed. “So how’s Clark?”
“He’s sleeping.”
“Sleeping? Wow, Lois, I’m impressed,” said George. “What did you do – talk him to sleep?”
She smiled. “No, and I didn’t sing to him either.”
“Shame. I bet he would have liked that,” replied George. “Anyway, I just rang to say I’ll probably drop by later – see if he’s ready for that chat I mentioned.”
He was coming here? “You don’t usually do house calls, do you?” she said, certain that George and the other therapists always worked from their rooms at the clinic.
“No, but Clark’s kind of a special case,” said George. “And don’t you dare tell him I ever said that, okay? The boy’s got enough insecurities without thinking I treat him any different to my other patients.”
“I won’t,” she replied, reflecting that George’s rough, wise-cracking exterior really was an act hiding a much softer heart than he’d probably ever care to admit.
“Good.” He cleared his throat. “Okay, I guess I should let you get back to holding his hand or whatever it is you were doing before I rang.”
She felt herself blushing. How had he known that?
She bid him goodbye and replaced the receiver. As well as being a big softie, George must be a little psychic, she decided. Not only had he called at just the right time, dragging her away from her dream, but he knew that she had feelings for Clark.
George was definitely one of the good guys.
*************
She had to admit, there were certain aspects to this trip home with Clark that she was really enjoying. Okay, so the phone had been a little scary at first, but she’d used it three times now and was pretty proud of herself. She’d mastered that, and the art of speech – all in a single morning.
Her latest adventure had been in Clark’s kitchen, and she was now carrying the results of her work into his bedroom: one tin of soup, heated and poured into two bowls. There was even bread, butter and cheese to accompany the soup. Hunting around his kitchen for these things, and the equipment to heat and serve them, had undoubtedly been fun.
The old Lois wouldn’t have considered cooking to be fun. She’d hated it and was most definitely not God’s gift to the culinary arts.
So maybe this new model Lois had a few things going for her after all.
She set the tray down and carried a bowl over to her chair beside his bed. As she settled down, he stirred. A few moments later, he was opening bleary eyes and turning his head towards her.
“Hey,” she murmured. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, I think,” he replied. He squinted at the bowl in her lap. “Is that soup?”
“Yes,” she said. “Want some?”
He pushed himself up in bed, rubbing his eyes. “Maybe,” he said warily. “But first...” He swung his legs over the other side of the bed and stood up. “Back in a minute,” he mumbled.
Oh, right. She found herself staring goggle-eyed at his...well, his everything, really. Hastily, she bent her head to her soup and resolved to hold her gaze down until he was back safely under the bedclothes.
She sensed him return a couple of minutes later. “Actually, I think I’ll get up,” he announced.
“Oh, okay,” she said, studying her soup intently. “I’ll just...” She stood up with her bowl and turned without a glance in his direction. “I’ll see you next door,” she said quickly and beat a hasty retreat. There was no way she was sitting in his bedroom eating soup while he – and his everything – got dressed.
She settled at his dining table with her soup and tried not to imagine him moving around his bedroom with nothing on. Eat your soup, Lois, eat your soup.
“Thanks for this.”
She looked up to find him setting the tray down opposite her and shifting the contents onto the table. He’d changed into jeans and a grey t-shirt, but hadn’t bothered donning his glasses. The look suited him, she decided.
She glanced at his bowl of soup. “Would you like me to re-heat it for you?” she asked, rising from her chair.
He shook his head. “No need.” He stared intently down at the bowl until steam rose. Of course – she’d forgotten he could heat things up with his eyes.
“Handy talent,” she commented.
“Yeah,” he agreed, beginning to sip cautiously.
Watching him eating, she observed, “You must be feeling better if you’re up and eating.”
“Yes, I am,” he replied, nodding. “Thanks for...you know...staying with me.”
She’d noticed a slight tremor in his hands, indicating that he wasn’t quite as well as he was making out. Still, he was much better than earlier. “Feels good to be helping,” she said. “Makes a change.”
He smiled and returned to his soup.
***************
They’d been eating and exchanging small talk for a while when Clark quietly laid his spoon down, his soup still half-finished. When he didn’t move or say anything, she knew he was struggling.
She continued eating, though, not wanting to fuss unless he really needed her.
She wondered what had made him turn to drugs. He seemed so stable and settled – why would he ever need to escape into a drug-induced fantasy world? Maybe it was his Superman work. She could imagine certain rescues being incredibly stressful, especially if he didn’t have anyone to talk to afterwards. He hadn’t ever mentioned any friends, although she was sure he must have had girlfriends at some point in his life.
There was George, of course, but she was a little hazy on the relationship between Clark and George – it had seemed more like a casual acquaintanceship than a close friendship or a patient-doctor thing. Until today.
“You must be pretty disappointed in me,” he said suddenly.
Surprised, she looked up. “No, of course I’m not,” she said, noticing the lines of tension distorting his face as she spoke. He looked awful – like he was just about ready to explode out of his skin. “How could I be, after everything you’ve done for me?”
“Your superhero isn’t so super any more,” he insisted.
Apparently, he was determined to be miserable - not without justification, she reflected. From his point of view, he probably thought he’d been exposed as a fraud, especially if the cause of his addiction was a failure to cope with Superman-related stress. Add to that the fact that he was clearly ashamed of his addiction, and was still feeling strung out, and you got a recipe for a pretty miserable individual.
Instinct took over. She abandoned her food and moved around to his side of the table. “Stand up,” she said.
When he frowned up at her, she gestured upwards. “Stand up,” she repeated, her nerve already beginning to falter. Please just do it, she prayed, not sure how much longer she could maintain the take-charge act.
He pushed back his chair and stood up slowly.
Oh, boy. Even vulnerable and sick, he seemed to loom large before her, a daunting prospect for her frail sensibilities. Physical closeness had been difficult for her in the early days, and even now, she needed good clear signals if someone was going to come into her personal space. Nevertheless, she stepped up close to him and wrapped her arms around his large frame. Immediately, she felt the tremor in his body, the result of all that pent-up tension she’d seen in his face.
“Put your arms around me,” she suggested.
As he obeyed hesitantly, she hugged him tightly. “I will never be able to thank you enough for the last couple of months,” she murmured. “To me, you’ll always be super.”
“But-“
“Shhh,” she said. “Just let me hold you.”
He fell quiet, and for a long time they simply stood hugging each other. They’d embraced like this before, when she’d been the one in need of comfort. Now, Clark needed her.
Eventually, she began to sense the tension leaching away from his body. His muscles relaxed and his breathing became slower and deeper. There came a point, in fact, where she stopped worrying quite so much about him and began to notice just how nice it was to be holding Clark in her arms. With just his thin t-shirt separating her hands from his bare skin, she could feel the lean, muscular contours of back. His chest rose and fell against hers, solid and comforting, and his scent was clean and fresh.
She snuggled into his shoulder.
“Lois,” he murmured huskily, so close she could feel his breath fanning her neck.
Such a sweet sound, that, his voice whispering her name. She couldn’t remember hearing him use that voice on her before – so tender and soft.
Something was happening. He felt different in her arms, less passive, more...interested. Like he was holding her because he enjoyed it. Surely he couldn’t be interested in her, though. The flake he visited at the mental health clinic? Yet he was nuzzling his face against her neck...any moment now she felt he might even kiss her there.
Oh, please do, she thought fervently.
Because she felt different, too. More confident and alive than she’d felt for months. More like a real person. Attracted, even.
Oh, yes, definitely attracted.
She felt him move infinitesimally. Her heart began to race in anticipation, and then his lips brushed her neck with a gossamer-light touch. Her skin came alive where he’d touched it and sent a glowing tingle radiating outwards over her entire body. A low murmur of approval escaped from her.
Her reaction was a surprise. Not so long ago, she was sure she would have frozen up if a man had made anything approaching a sexual gesture towards her. She would have had to remind herself that he wasn’t one of her captors, that this wasn’t the start of her worst nightmare – the rape which had never, in the end, taken place.
But no, this felt natural and very, very nice.
He kissed her again, his soft lips lingering longer this time. They were so tender, his lips, pressing gently against her skin with exquisite subtlety. She didn’t think it was possible to enjoy one single kiss as much as this, but that was before Clark had kissed her. There was no denying the flutter in her stomach and the trembling in her legs, or the beautiful, warm glow suffusing her entire being.
But then he pulled away and faced her. “I’m sorry,” he said guiltily. “I shouldn’t have done that-“
“No, it’s okay-“
“No, really,” he insisted, moving further away. “I shouldn’t have...I got carried away-“
“I didn’t mind-“
He moved to the table. “I should clear this away,” he said, indicating their abandoned lunch. “Unless you’re still eating...?”
“No...” Why the sudden change? One minute amorous, the next...oops, big mistake?
Oh, no. Her heart sank. Obviously he wouldn’t want a damaged woman like her. Not when he could have his pick of normal, vivacious, happy young things.
“Okay. I’ll make us some coffee,” he said. “Then maybe we could play Scrabble?”
She shrugged. “Sure.”
Okay, Lois, abandon all hope. It was exactly as she’d suspected – she’d been just another job for Superman. He’d seen a woman in need of help, and had taken her under his wing. He’d been kind and thoughtful towards her, but that was as far as any feelings he might have for her went. Lois, the flake, got Clark, the considerate superhero.
His girlfriends got to see the romantic Clark – the passionate Clark. They were lucky women, these girlfriends of his. Lois just hoped they realised exactly how lucky they were.
She flopped down onto the sofa while he disappeared into the kitchen. How could she ever have imagined he’d be interested in her? He’d just forgotten for a moment, thought she was like all the other women he’d known.
But his kiss, and her reaction to his kiss...
No. After all, what did she really know about him? How could she even be sure of her own feelings towards him – she’d only known him for a couple of months, after all. Pretty intense months, when he’d spent most of the time listening to her reveal the sordid and grotesque details of her life over the past couple of years. Horrible stuff; things she’d been ashamed to admit. There hadn’t been much time left for him to tell her about himself. She’d got snippets here and there – enough to know the bare bones of his background – but not enough to really know a person intimately. For all she knew, he’d been an axe-murder in a previous life.
No. Not Clark.
But if only she hadn’t enjoyed that kiss so much...
She hugged herself and tried not to cry. This was all too hard. She wasn’t used to dealing with all these complications. Things were so much simpler back at the clinic. Already, today, she’d dealt with a sick man, stood up to George, spoken to people she didn’t know, used a phone, and made soup. She couldn’t be expected to deal with Clark kissing her as well as all that.
*************
By the end of their third game of Scrabble, it was clear that Clark was feeling a lot better. The tremor had disappeared from his hands and his movements were relaxed as he tipped the Scrabble pieces into the bag and folded away the board.
She was pleased for him, of course, but she was also disappointed, because her reason for staying with him was rapidly disappearing. Any minute now he’d be offering to take her back to the clinic.
She’d rallied after a few weepy moments on the sofa earlier. Told herself not to be so pathetic. Clark was a nice guy and she was lucky he cared so much about her. Okay, so he’d accidentally kissed her – twice – but it didn’t mean anything. Yes, he’d held her like a man holds a woman he’s attracted to, but that was probably just instinct and hormones.
And, yes, she was attracted to him too, there was no doubt about that. She couldn’t deny that tingling sensation when he’d kissed her. But it was just a physical thing, a bit like his hormones. It didn’t mean she loved him or anything. You couldn’t love someone you’d only known for two months.
She glanced across the table at him. If only he wasn’t so darned handsome! And nice. And kind and thoughtful. And funny. And interesting. And...
...smiling at her. She returned his smile briefly before ducking her eyes back down to the table, embarrassed to be caught staring admiringly at him.
A huge yawn suddenly took her surprise. Quickly, she suppressed it, covering her mouth with her hand. Yes, she was tired. This had been a long, busy day by her standards and the unaccustomed activity was starting to catch up on her. She’d sleep well tonight – nightmares permitting, of course.
But as tired as she was, she didn’t want to go back to the clinic yet.
“Tired?” asked Clark as she handed him the Scrabble piece-holder thingy.
“No,” she denied. “I just need food. I know we ate lunch late, but I’m used to meals as regular as clockwork at the clinic, and right now, my body is telling me it’s dinner time.”
Which was a total fabrication, but sounded convincing enough to her, at any rate. Maybe over dinner she could find a way of getting him to open up about himself a bit more.
“Maybe I should take you home,” he said. “Don’t want you to miss dinner.”
She pulled a face at the thought of a clinic-style dinner. “It’s okay, I’m not that desperate for food.”
“Oh? I thought the food wasn’t too bad there,” he said.
Of course, he’d been a patient there himself. Darn. “It’s okay for a week or two, but it gets pretty bland after a couple of months,” she said. Which was actually true, she realised with a touch of surprise. She’d been growing tired of their food without even noticing it.
“Yeah, I guess that would be true.” He stood up. “I could make us some pasta, if you like? It won’t be anything fancy – just a throw-everything-together-and-hope-it-turns-out-okay kind of a thing.”
“Sounds great,” she said. “Um...if you’re sure. I mean, if you haven’t got other plans for tonight...?”
Like dinner with a girlfriend?
“Nope,” he replied cheerfully. “Just me and the TV. You’d be surprised how much time we spend together, in fact. I’m thinking of proposing, except I’m not sure the state allows marriages between men and their electronic gadgets yet.”
She laughed. Interesting...he spent a lot of time alone watching TV. Which backed up the lack of friends theory. And really, she was pretty sure he didn’t have a current girlfriend – he’d never mentioned one.
She just wished the telepathy thing extended to more than just conversation. It would be so useful to be able to look at him and figure out what he was thinking, or pick his brains for information about himself.
On the other hand, it wouldn’t be so good if he could do the same to her. That would be a disaster.
No, better to stick to conversation only. He already knew too much about her from their sessions at the clinic; she didn’t want him in her head all the time.
“Oh, I nearly forgot!” she exclaimed. “George called earlier – said he’d come by later to see how you’re doing.”
He looked surprised. “Well, I guess I should make enough pasta for three in case he arrives while we’re eating, then.”
**************
Oh, boy, real food. Real pasta, fresh tomatoes, smoky bacon, peppers, and a glass of red wine. She’d almost forgotten how good food could taste.
She hadn’t eaten this well for months – years, even. Back in the prison-hovel in Brazzaville, she’d been fed sporadically, the food frequently unfamiliar to her palate and often of very poor quality. Nothing had been served at the right time of day, and she’d become accustomed to grazing on whatever she could stomach at any particular time.
She’d been as thin as a rake when she’d arrived at the clinic. Eating their wholesome, four-square food had been difficult, and it hadn’t been until Clark had turned up that she’d been able to tell them exactly what she could and couldn’t manage. Things had looked up a lot that day, not least because she’d finally got her hands on some chocolate. Okay, so chocolate wasn’t exactly nutritious, but it had helped her find a way back to more normal eating habits.
And now here she was, eating real food again.
There had been so many days when she’d thought she’d never live to see Metropolis again, let alone sit opposite a great guy, eating his home-cooked pasta and feeling so welcome and totally at home.
Her throat constricted. Suddenly it was all too much. She didn’t deserve to be this lucky.
“Lois? You okay?”
She looked up, realising she’d been quiet too long. “Just thinking.”
“Oh? Let me guess – Clark should stick to his day job and never open a restaurant. Am I close?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s great. Really.” She attempted a wobbly smile.
“But...?”
She shrugged. “Nothing,” she said, sliding her gaze back down to her plate.
She began to toy with her food, her appetite lost while she tried in vain to press her unruly emotions back down where they belonged. She didn’t want to cry in front of him. He was never going to see her as anything other than a pathetic basket case if all she did was sob on his shoulder all the time.
But all her efforts to gain control were undone when he reached across the table and covered her hand with his own. “It’s been a long journey, hasn’t it?” he murmured.
She nodded, her plate of food going blurry in front of her eyes. Clark knew better than anyone, even the clinic people, of what she’d been through to reach this point in her life. Sometimes she regretted telling him so much, but at times like this, he was a huge comfort – she didn’t have to explain herself to him, because he already understood. She just wished for once that she could hold back the tears. It wasn’t asking so much, was it?
“I guess sometimes it’s hard to believe you’ve really escaped,” he added.
She nodded again.
“You have, though,” he said. “Look at you – you’re here, out in the real world. Talking to people, making decisions, helping people. I’m so proud of you, Lois.”
Tears began to slide down her cheeks. Why did he have to be so nice? He made it so easy to cry without shame.
“Hey, hey,” he murmured. His thumb began to stroke her hand in a quiet, soothing motion. “It’s okay. You made it back. You’re safe.”
She nodded. “I know,” she quavered.
But still the silent tears leaked out of her eyes and down her cheeks, while Clark quietly rubbed his thumb against her hand. It was comforting, the understated gesture. Like he was showing her how confident he was in her - that she’d bring her tears under control without needing to be hugged like a small child. She was grateful for that.
But she should be the happiest she’d ever been. Like he’d just said, she’d escaped. She was safe. She shouldn’t be a confused blob crying her eyes out for absolutely no reason.
Maybe she was crying because she was happy. Yes, that was it. She was happy.
“I...I think I’m happy,” she said, looking up at him through blurry eyes.
He smiled softly across at her. “Maybe. Sometimes being happy can be as hard as being sad, especially when you’re not used to it.”
She chuckled through her tears. “And I really am not used to it.”
His hand squeezed hers. “Things will get better, Lois, I promise you.”
She nodded. “They already are better.” She dashed her hand over her eyes to wipe the tears away. “I’m sorry – I don’t suppose your girlfriends fall apart like this over your cooking.”
His hand stilled. “My girlfriends?”
Oh, no. Had she really said that? “Sorry...I didn’t mean...”
“I guess you’ve heard stuff on TV,” he muttered. “I should have expected-”
“I didn’t believe any of it...what they said about you,” she said, realising too late that he must be well aware of the cruel things they hinted at about his sex life. No doubt he had to put up with a lot of that sort of thing. “I just meant...I assumed you must have had girlfriends. I mean, you’re an attractive guy.”
His hand slid away from hers and he stared down at the table. Darn. She’d obviously struck a nerve - he resented being the subject of gossip, she imagined. Well, who would? “I’m sorry, Clark. I guess you’re sick of-“
“The thing is,” he began, then sighed heavily and fell silent again.
When he didn’t continue, she got nervous: she’d clearly hurt him badly, and all because of her own silly insecurities. She should have kept quiet - this speaking thing wasn’t always a blessing, she decided.
“The thing is,” he repeated stonily, “I did have a lot of girlfriends.”
Huh? She stared at him, searching his face for clues, for any sense at all that he wasn’t saying what she thought he was saying.
But his eyes slid quickly away from hers. “I’m not proud of who I was back then. I was in a bad place, although that doesn’t excuse what I did.”
“What?” she asked, bewildered by this new Clark. “What did you do?”
“I...I was searching for something I couldn’t find,” he said, his voice distant and low. “I was high on kryptonite most of the time, and when I was high, I did things...” He sighed. “You say I’m an attractive guy, and yeah, I’m not totally stupid. I’ve seen the looks some women give me...so when I was high, it was easy. I let them know I was interested. Very interested.” He looked up at her, making it clear from his grim expression what ‘very interested’ meant: he’d slept with them.
Used them for sex.
“There were a lot of women, Lois,” he said. “Mostly, they just wanted to know what Superman was like in bed. Once they found out that he was just like any other man, they lost interest. Not that that excuses what I did.” He sighed. “Still think your superhero is super?”
“I...I don’t know,” she said. “Have...have you apologised to them?” she asked, floundering around for anything which might throw what he’d done into a better light.
“No,” he whispered. “Although I guess I could. The ones I can trace.”
Which sounded like he didn’t even know all their names. “W...why?” she asked. “Why did you do it?”
“To escape. Sex was like another drug – when I was with a woman, I didn’t have to think.”
“I see.”
Oh, God. Clark was a womaniser...a man who used women for sex. Just like her captors.
But he’d been so nice. She’d thought he was different from other men; he was so open and honest...at least, she’d thought so. Hadn’t she been reminding herself not so long ago that she hardly knew him? Well, here was the proof.
“I...I think I’d better go home now,” she said.
“Of course,” he replied. “But please, Lois, I don’t want you leaving here thinking I’m like that now,” he added urgently. “I’ve changed...I know that’s probably what all men in my situation would say, but with me, it’s true. I’m not like that. The person who slept with those women was a different me – ask George. Ask Perry. I only did it when I was hitting on the kryptonite.”
Her bottom lip was quivering again. She put her hand up to her mouth as a cover-up. “Please,” she said, hearing the wobble in her voice and wishing she could stop it. “I just want to go home.”
“I’ve really disappointed you, haven’t I?” he murmured. “I’m so sorry, Lois. I...I’ll fly you home-“
“No!” The word whooshed out of her mouth, propelled by a sudden and absolute dread of being held by him. He’d put his arms around her, great coiled ropes of steel imprisoning her against his body. A switch flipped in her head and panic consumed her, his confession bringing back the pictures; horrible, terrifying images of men committing heinous acts of violence against their fellow human beings.
The nausea of fear rose rapidly in her throat: he used women for sex, just like the men in Brazzaville. He probably worked for them; they’d followed her here from Brazzaville. Hunted her down to claim her; claim their clean, white woman.
She was out of her chair and backing away from him before she realised what she was doing; finished up in the middle of the room, her hands up at her face, shaking with fear and confusion and not knowing where to turn. She was trapped in his lair.
