There's a little bad language in this section, but I'm hoping it's within PG limits.
“Where are we going?” she asked, totally bewildered.
“To see an expert,” he repeated.
“But it’s the middle of the night!”
“He won’t mind.”
**************
“For Christ’s sake, Clark, what the frigging hell do you think you’re doing here at two am in the morning?”
Several hundred pounds’ worth of belligerent therapist filled the doorway, his hair sticking out in all directions and his voluminous dressing gown hardly meeting in the middle of his vast girth.
“It’s nearly three am, actually,” replied Clark helpfully. “I need you to tell Lois something.”
“You what?!” boomed George. “Can’t you just tell her yourself?”
Clark shook his head. “She won’t listen to me.”
George turned to Lois. “Is he high?” he demanded. “Did someone send him another of those red K packages?”
“No,” she said. “Just...determined. Actually, I’ve never seen him like this before.”
“Oh, I have,” drawled George. “Just not at three am in the morning.” He gave her a pained look. “Can’t you just pretend to believe whatever he’s trying to tell you?”
“I don’t think so,” she replied doubtfully.
“Shit.” He sighed heavily. “Okay, you’d better come in.” He ushered them inside. “I must be crazy,” he muttered as he closed the door and directed them into his living room. “Either that, or I need a raise.”
************
Lois stood uncertainly in the middle of George’s small living room. What were they doing here in the middle of the night? Someone, as George had said, was crazy.
“Okay, let’s have it,” said George to Clark. “Tell me what I need to tell Lois before I remember that it’s nearly three o’clock in the morning and I should be asleep in bed.”
“I need you to convince her that I have a propensity for addiction,” said Clark. “That I’m obsessive and have a tendency to internalise my problems until they overwhelm me. That I’m so good at disassociating myself from reality that I can take drugs even though I’ve got a strong moral code that tells me that drug-taking is wrong.”
George stared at Clark for a long moment. “Shit, Clark. You want a job at the clinic?” Then he turned to Lois. “What he said, really. Just pretend I said it instead of Super-Freud here. Okay, can we go to bed now?”
“George!” protested Clark.
“Well, what do you want me to say?” said George with a shrug. “You pretty much covered all the bases.”
“I want you to convince Lois that my...problem...isn’t her fault,” said Clark.
“Ahhhh,” said George. “That thing. Okay.” He drew up a breath. “Clark here is what we call in the trade a total basket case-“
“George!” exclaimed Clark. “Can’t you take this seriously?”
“Buddy, at three o’clock in the morning, believe me, I’m serious,” said George. “Now, as I was saying, Lois, Clark is a total basket case. As a kid, he saw his parents die in a car wreck. Even now, he hasn’t completely let go of the survivor guilt he developed after that. Then he grew up in various foster homes, some good and some bad. He was abnormally strong and had a whole bunch of other strange powers that none of the other kids possessed – do you have any idea how much kids hate to be different from their peers? It’s hell for them, particularly if they don’t have strong guidance from a parental figure. Clark had no-one. He didn’t know what or who he was and there was no-one around to explain it to him or help him deal with it.
“All this made him very insecure - first indicator for addictive tendencies.” George began to use the fingers of his left hand to illustrate his list. “His experiences at a couple of bad foster homes taught him how to survive violent treatment by going someplace else inside his head. Disassociation behaviour - indicator number two. He lacked any kind of support system – no-one to talk to when things got bad. Loneliness and isolation – indicator number three.
“Clark’s incredible powers have made him obsessive about control, and this control extends deep into his emotional life. He feels safest when his emotions are dampened down, particularly any negative emotions that might make him exercise his powers inappropriately.” He ticked off his last finger. “A desire for emotional numbness – indicator number four.
“Finally,” he said, folding down his thumb, “Clark’s obsessive nature, together with his habit of internalising everything, makes him prone to depression. Indicator number five.
George shrugged. “I could go on, Lois, but it would take all night to list all this man’s problems and I’m still clinging to the vain hope that I might get some sleep tonight. Basically, in my highly qualified and expert opinion, the only thing stopping Clark from becoming an addict any earlier than he did was sheer bloody luck. Okay?”
Lois stared numbly at George, her head reeling from his rapid-fire tour around Clark’s psyche. His words were jumbling together, the only part coming through clearly being his summing up at the end.
She turned, found the nearest chair she could and flopped down into it with her head in her hands.
“Lois...”
Clark’s voice, sounding anxious.
“Shut up,” she snapped. “No-one say anything, okay?”
As best she could, she ran through George’s list again. He’d been very convincing, that was for sure. George knew Clark better than anyone, and certainly didn’t pull his punches when it came to describing Clark’s turbulent background. Of course, she also knew that George wasn’t averse to talking up the facts in order to produce the result he wanted...
“A kid like you, rubbing up against some pretty rough people...you must have been offered drugs a few times,” she said, looking up at Clark. “Why didn’t you get hooked then?”
He shrugged. “They don’t affect me.”
“How do you know?”
His gaze dropped to the carpet. “How do you think?”
Her jaw sagged open. “You didn’t!”
“It was only marijuana,” he said, “but when the other kids were laughing and generally being silly, and I wasn’t, I knew.” He shrugged. “It was just another way I was different to everyone else.”
“I see.”
She put her head in her hands again. Okay, so she hadn’t been expecting that at all. He was so law-abiding and well-behaved, she’d have never imagined he’d experiment with pot. It wasn’t exactly heroin, but once he’d discovered that drugs didn’t affect him, she supposed there wouldn’t have been any point in trying anything stronger.
So. Maybe she’d got this all wrong. She still shouldn’t have screwed up in the Congo, because of the consequences for herself, and also her blundering had prevented her from meeting Clark when she should have, but perhaps she couldn’t accept all the blame for his problems.
“Okay,” she announced. “George, you can go to bed. Clark, you can take me home.”
George threw up his hands. “Hallelujah and goodnight.”
“Hold on,” said Clark, placing a staying hand on George’s shoulder as he made for the door. “Does this mean,” he asked Lois, “that you believe him?”
“Yes,” she said. “However...”
Clark grimaced. “There’s a however?”
“I’m still coming with you tomorrow night,” she said.
George threw his head back and laughed. “I have no idea what she’s talking about, buddy, but it sounds to me like you just lost your argument.”
“But it’ll be dangerous!” protested Clark.
“Oh, really?” replied Lois. “Perhaps you shouldn’t go either, in that case.”
“She’s got a dangerous glint in her eye, buddy,” said George. “I’d back down if I were you.”
“Just whose side are you on?” demanded Clark.
“Oh, I don’t take sides,” said George. “I keep a professional detachment. And right now, I’m going to detach myself all the way up to my bedroom. Feel free to stay here and argue some more, only keep your voices down, okay? I don’t want you scaring Ella.”
“Who’s Ella?” asked Lois.
“My cat.” George turned and made for the door again.
George had a cat? Lois exchanged an amazed look with Clark. “Thanks for the offer, but I think we’ll be heading back now,” she told George, following him out into the hall.
“Whatever,” said George, beginning to shamble upstairs. “Just remember to close the door on your way out.” He yawned loudly. “Tomorrow I’m definitely demanding a raise,” he muttered.
“Night, George,” said Clark.
“Night, Ella,” added Lois, just in case the cat was listening.
****************
The following morning, or more accurately, later that same morning, she was extremely late for her art class. It didn’t really seem to matter, since she’d never believed they were worthwhile anyway. Catching up on a lost night’s sleep seemed more important than slapping paint randomly on a canvas and pretending the result expressed her feelings in any shape or form.
She went food-shopping over lunch, and this time, remembering her horrible experience a week ago, she forced herself to look at anyone who sat beside her on the bus. They were just ordinary people, she told herself. Even the man who was so fat he practically squashed her when he sat down. He must have noticed her flinch – she still did that when strangers came too close - because he apologised immediately. She bit back a suggestion about dieting and merely smiled her acceptance.
Really, she thought as she worked the rowing machine in the clinic’s gym later that afternoon, she didn’t belong at the clinic any more. Okay, she was still shaky at times, but she was getting better every day. If only she had a proper place to live, she could leave. In fact, the Planet’s medical insurance for staff, which had paid for her care so far, wouldn’t last for ever. It was only a matter of time before she’d be forced out anyway.
<Maybe you could live with Clark temporarily.>
What?!
She jerked to a halt on the rowing machine and nearly dropped the ‘oars’. What was she thinking? Of course she couldn’t live with Clark! Not while he was expecting some kind of romantic entanglement with her. It would be a disaster.
Slowly, she resumed rowing again. No, she’d have to come up with a different solution. One that involved very little expenditure until she had a proper job. A women’s hostel, perhaps?
She sighed. A hostel would be even worse than the clinic’s tiny studio apartment she was currently living in.
<Clark’s apartment is big enough for two.>
She frowned and told her subconscious to shut up. Living with Clark would just further complicate a tricky situation. It wouldn’t be fair on him, when she had no intention of becoming any more than a good friend.
Just a friend.
She rowed a bit faster, ignoring the pang of regret which accompanied that thought.
At least she no longer felt like she’d played such a big role in his struggles with addiction, she thought, settling into her normal brisk rowing speed. George’s talk last night still made sense to her today. When you looked at Clark’s troubled past, it was remarkable that he hadn’t fallen from the straight and narrow much sooner. He must have had incredible strength of character to have grown into such a morally strong individual.
Which made his work as Superman all the more remarkable. He deserved all the adulation he received from the people he saved, she decided. It was just a shame his editor didn’t seem to understand what a special person he was.
She pulled harder on the oars. That stupid man. Prejudging her before he’d even had a shred of evidence that she’d make a poor employee. Labelling Clark as no more than a marketing asset. He didn’t deserve his job as editor of the oldest and best newspaper in the land.
What he needed was a demonstration of what real investigative journalism was all about. Tomorrow night’s warehouse visit would be a good start. With any luck, they wouldn’t just find the art thieves’ supply of red kryptonite. They’d find evidence to convict them and so achieve what the police had so far failed to do.
*****************
