ToC - for previous parts.
Well, here we are at the end
A little earlier than promised, but no complaints here!
Thanks tons for all the support and feedback, and thanks also goes to Sara for BRing this through thick and thin for me, and for that lovely trailer video
Also many thanks to the lcfanfic IRC crew for helping me with this particular part!!! And thanks for sticking with this story despite my sporadic posting towards the end! I had a blast writing this, I hope you all enjoyed reading it
And so, without further ado -- the conclusion to WAM!
Waking a Miracle (23/23)
When he didn't answer the door on the first knock, she wasn't that concerned. Lois looked down at her rumpled sweat suit and brushed off an imaginary fleck of lint. The ritual occupied her thoughts for almost a full five seconds. She then examined a particularly interesting wrinkle that slipped along the sleeve of old sweatshirt like a scorching brand, shouting to all observers, "Yes, this woman slept in this! Shame on her for not changing! A sad object of desperation she is, for wanting to get somewhere so quickly that she didn't bother looking presentable..."
The day had gone by fast, and yet at the same time, interminably slowly, even despite her slumber, which had been plagued by unrest. The paramedics had taken a look at Clark on site at Bessolo after he had collapsed and couldn't find anything wrong with him, though he still hadn't woken up until Detective Henderson had come to guide them out to a waiting ambulance. It was light out when she and Clark were finally escorted out of the Bessolo warehouse, which was at that point, crawling with almost the entire Metropolis Police Department. The daylight had seemed harsh and unforgiving and bright after spending so long in the dimly lit warehouse complex, and she had felt strangely like she was emerging from a cave. In more ways than one.
The trip to the ER had been beyond stressful. Lois had paced around the waiting room, back and forth, back and forth, like a lion on the prowl, just waiting for that moment when the doctor would come running out screaming about aliens. When an orderly had sympathetically asked if he could get her anything. Coffee? A blanket? She had made what she could only classify as an animalistic snarling sound before resuming her wayward path, circuiting the area. Clark, however, had walked back out unassisted, and though pale, he smiled at the sight of her. Or just happening to smile when she appeared, possibly not exactly at her. She still found it amazing that he hadn't run screaming from her yet. But anyways.
He was apparently more human than he gave himself credit for, because the ER doctor that had checked him over had found nothing unusual. Or if he had, he hadn't mentioned it. And, Clark *did* certainly *look* normal. Even now it was hard for her to reconcile what she knew now with what she saw -- a man. She stared at his door with some amount of awe. She was knocking on Miracle Man's door. Miracle Man. The most important thing in her life for the past year. More importantly, however, it was Clark's door.
Clark's door.
She knocked again and frowned. Maybe he wasn't awake yet. She fiddled with the strap on her briefcase. The ER doctor had ruled him exhausted and suffering from stress, and had sent him home to sleep. Clark had practically dropped right off as soon as they'd gotten into his apartment that morning. She, ignoring her headache and dire need for rest, had gone to type up the story about Trask and Thompson. Typical Lois, she thought with a quirky grin.
Perry had been delighted when the draft had appeared on his desk. His eyes had widened and lit up like a candle. He'd yelled in that rich, emotional southern drawl of his, "This is a Pulitzer for sure, Honey. I expect follow-ups, and sidebars. I knew Kent would be a good partner for you!"
He had said something else, but it had blurred and meshed into her giant headache, and she had winced. The words, "But, Honey, I think Clark had a good idea there. You should really think about taking off now. You look like you've been on your feet for days," had suddenly faded back into her awareness, and for once, she had been so tired she didn't even bother to protest, not even just for show. She hadn't gotten more than an hour of sleep since Wednesday and she had really been feeling it then, ever since hitting submit on that story.
Submit. That precise moment in time when the buzz usually wore off, and the thrill and utter determination of the whole story-getting affair was yanked away from her like a banana peel to reveal the pride and satisfaction within. The pride and satisfaction with herself that she'd gotten there first and helped to disseminate knowledge that would make the public just a little more aware. A little more safe.
But this morning, when the story had gone in, there had been an unusual relief. There had been a bone-weary tiredness creeping under her skin, chilly like rubbing alcohol evaporating off a wound. There had been an ache. One of those moments when you were just so happy that the pain was gone you burst out sobbing, and the thing you noticed most was the absence of stress, not the warmth of elation.
There had been no thrill. Only a grim satisfaction that Trask and Thompson had ended up backstabbing each other into the public awareness. An awareness that, she had been sure, would be a fiery updraft by the end of the day. But that was for the people who got there second. She and Clark were the first. They had the byline.
Yes, the byline. She had typed his name in the story without even thinking about it, and hadn't noticed it until she was spell-checking her work. Lane and Kent. Partners. It sounded good. It sounded right. Lane and Kent had gotten there first. The scraps were for the rest of the world, and she was satisfied. Clark had been finally and definitively, in her mind, saved from the wolves. And she had been tired. So she had left without argument or contemplation, to the stark amazement of everyone on the Planet staff, as soon as the article was approved for the evening edition.
Her first instinct had been to return to Clark's apartment right then. There had been a relief that seemed to remain even now, perennial and deep-set in her bones. Clark. All right. But tired. She had finally elected to return to her own apartment and get some sleep, which she had, sort of.
And now that that was taken care of, among other things, she was here. Knocking for a third time now. She was about ready to give up when he opened the door. He was standing there in a pair of black boxers, his brown eyes dull with shades of sleep, a haze of dark, day-old stubble creeping across his face.
"I'm--" she stuttered, rendered speechless. "I'm sorry, I must have woken you up. I should have figured that after the first knock. I'll go, I didn't mean--"
But his pale face collapsed into a weary smile as she spoke, just like it always seemed to. "Stay," he said, the word soft like a feather, but she was almost struck down by the strength that swelled underneath it. Bolstering.
Stay.
And so she did.
He stepped back away from the door and she entered, for the first time noticing how barren his apartment was. There was a rickety chair and a table but the room was otherwise empty. On the table sat a grayish nonreflective ball of some sort, sort of like a colorless grapefruit. The apartment was spacious, but dim. The waning light of sunset filtered through the massive window in what was presumably the living room area, and everything had a haunted flame-colored cast to it.
"Sorry," he mumbled. "I just recently finished cleaning this place out. I was waiting for my first paycheck before I worried about the furniture."
She dismissed his excuse with a blasé wave and shuffled over to the table, placing her briefcase next to the globe. "It's no problem, Clark, I'm easy," she said and sat.
And then she realized what she'd said.
"I mean," she began hastily, "I'm not *easy* easy. Don't you be getting any ideas! I'm just okay with bad furniture. I mean!" She faltered under the weight of his bemused expression. She fumbled around, knowing with added woe that the more she struggled the more he was likely to laugh. Not a babbler. No babbling, Lois. Stop it. Stop it. Stop, stop, stop. You are not a brook, you are a calm piece of dirt that has no babbling properties whatsoever. Dirt? I'm dirt??? No! I'm more like... a hybrid wood. Fear the tree-Lois.
Her blush grew worse and worse.
"It's not bad," she continued, "It's just that it could use a touch-up and I really like the taste of my foot. Say, what's this thing?"
When in doubt change the subject. She gestured nebulously at the strange ball that sat on the table's surface. While curious, she didn't dare touch it. Something about it just seemed to say, "Hands off!"
If he noticed any of her inner turmoil, he pretended not to. The sleep had waned from his eyes in the process of her rant, and a small shrug sluiced off his shoulders. "I really don't know. It was next to the ship. It... I think it's from home."
"Kansas?"
He shook his head minutely and pointed up.
"Oh."
She stared at it and tried desperately to see anything special about it. Anything at all. But it looked like any old ball. Although it did have a strange sheen to it. Maybe it had a face that turned on and off at will. Like the Wizard from Oz.
"It spoke to me. Before you found me next to the ship."
"Spoke?"
"In my head," he explained as he brushed the tips of his fingers across his right temple. "Or at least I think it did..."
His voice sounded crushed, like he was grasping for answers on an exam and just couldn't quite come up with them. One of those multiple choice questions that hinged on a particular factoid that you *knew* you used to know at one point, where you *knew* you had read the material and could even remember what the page looked like somewhere in the back of your mind, but couldn't figure out what the darned page had *said* which was really all that counted in those instances--
Whoa there, Lane!
"What did it say?" she whispered.
"It showed me where I was from, I think." He looked down at his hands, sounding forlorn as he continued, "Called it Krypton. Showed me what happened. It's all gone, Lois. Everything. There was some sort of explosion. I'm the last one."
The last one, she thought as he started to pace a little. She looked at the globe again, and tried to imagine what he may have felt or heard or seen or smelled. Blank. It was all blank. This was outside the realm of her experience, so far it was in a distant galaxy, and she couldn't for the life of her think of what to do or say that would help. And she wanted to.
Help, that was.
She could say, "I'm sure we'll figure it out, Clark. You and me." Or... "It'll all be all right." But neither sounded fitting, or right. Just dead clichés that wanted to tumble off her tongue because she didn't know what else she could offer him.
For all that she had seen in the past few days, she was innately aware that her experiences were nothing in the face of his. They had both found answers that they had been looking for. She had solved a year's worth of professional curiosity. Her question had been answered. He had solved a lifetime's worth of personal terror and probably had more questions now than he had had to begin with.
Just what did you say to something like that?
"Are you *okay*, Clark?"
He paused and looked at her. "Yes..." he began, and then doubled back, "No. I'm not sure. It's just..." His voice trailed off into a shrug and he looked at her helplessly.
Nothing. You said nothing. You were just there. To listen and to comfort. That was the part that mattered, she decided.
And she *could* offer him a little peace, at least. A little peace amongst the turmoil. She eased the latches open on her briefcase, and pulled out her original reason for coming here. The paper was warm and fresh ink, slightly oily, rubbed off on her fingers as she handled it.
"George Thompson Not So Golden?" the headline screamed back. She passed the paper across the table. He came closer and stared, but didn't touch, as though he wasn't sure if he should, or could. Like it were some creature sitting on the table, waiting to leap up and snap at him.
"Look," she explained. "It's our first joint byline. George Thompson and Jason Trask bagged and tagged."
He remained silent but his expression grew worried. She pressed onwards. "But! I have something else for you!"
She reached once more into the depths of her briefcase and pulled out the fat manila folder. It read in thick black letters, "Smallville, KS 1966," on the tab, and it was so ripe with information and details that she had to exert extra pressure to keep it clenched shut.
"They won't find out about you, Clark," she said. "There's nothing left that points to you."
The tension in his posture drained like water through a sieve, and he let out a small, weeping sigh of relief. "What? How did you--"
She smiled at that. It had certainly taken some maneuvering. "Henderson let me in while they were investigating. He said not to touch anything, but since when have I ever listened to stuff like that?"
She had been there just an hour ago. The police had been scouring the entire warehouse, crawling everywhere, searching for more clues as to what precisely had been going on. Henderson had been crouched over one of the file cabinets, next to a giant lawnmower thing with wings and an egg beater attached to the side as she had left. The feds had also begun to swarm onto the premises. It was a complete zoo. So busy, in fact, that nobody had noticed a certain ace reporter swiping evidence.
The whole affair hadn't even been a remote challenge after Bessolo. Heck, she'd gotten out of *that* room with just a shoelace and the under wire from one of the cups in her bra. Which, she might add, was actually one of the highpoints in her escape artist career. Tying the wire and the shoelace together, using the wire to guide the lace through the bullet hole over the door handle, and then maneuvering the lace and wire to catch on the handle so she could pull it up from the inside had been nothing short of sheer genius, if she had to say so herself. Which she did, because one of her most cherished bras from Victoria's Secret, one that fit just right and gave her figure a vixenly delicious boost, had died for the cause. But that was another story altogether, for another time, preferably when a gorgeous man wasn't staring at her, clad only in a pair of boxers...
Clark's gaze searched her, and she melted. The depth of them remained fathomless, and filled with soul. "The ship?" he asked, his voice caught on the jagged edges of a small hope. She wanted right then to get up from the table and embrace him, but restrained herself.
"I didn't see it, Clark. I looked everywhere," she replied. "It's probably just been catalogued already. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about."
He nodded before reaching down to pull the folder toward him. He opened it and flipped through it listlessly. Silent. He looked tired again.
"I couldn't get a hold of that Kryptonite stuff for you either -- that's in evidence lockup and, despite my prowess for being in places I shouldn't, that's one I couldn't do," she added, desperate to cover up the silence that hung in the air in the dead spaces between her words.
He didn't respond with more than the barest of nods.
"So how are you feeling?" she prodded.
He stopped, and the folder closed. "Better, I think," he replied. "My enhanced vision started coming back this morning. And I woke up to the wonderful sound of one of my neighbors vacuuming two floors down."
The words, while seemingly small and unimportant, were such a relief that she felt as though a crushing weight were lifting off her soul. He was here, explaining to her without hesitation or wariness the status of his particular abilities. Which meant that he not only trusted her, but maybe also that he wasn't afraid that she was going to freak on him at a moment's notice. Which was always good from a relationship standpoint. Which she still fully intended to pursue. Which was, in fact, a lot of whiches.
"You never did tell me, you know," she prodded.
Talk to me, she wanted to say. Talk to me about anything. Anything that will make you more comfortable in your own skin, she thought.
His eyebrows raised in query. "What?"
"What all powers you have," she clarified, and stared at him expectantly. Waiting. Tell me, anything. Anything at all. I'll listen and I won't be afraid. She hoped her eyes said plainly what she felt.
"Well, I can hear really sharply... Telescopic, microscopic, heat, and x-ray vision. I'm impervious. I have cooling breath. I can fly. Oh and I can hold my breath for twenty-minutes."
"Oooh," she purred throatily. "I could utilize that one."
He looked like he was caught in the path of an oncoming train. "Lois--"
Okay so she had probably been a little too forward there. But she wanted to make it absolutely clear that she was comfortable with him. With all of him. Not that she could really contemplate how anyone could be uncomfortable with him. He was standing there in boxers with a gorgeous 5 o'clock shadow adorning his face, bearing his soul to her. It was a sexy body, and an even more beautiful soul.
And he had to *know* that.
"Relax, I'm kidding," she assured him with a chuckle, which was a slight bit of a lie. She actually could think of ways to-- Hmmm. It was probably best not to go there just yet. "So anyways, Thompson is being brought up on charges of kidnapping, murder, and a whole bunch of other things. I stopped taking notes when I started having to bullet the list. Trask apparently left around quite a bit of stuff for Henderson's crew to find. They ended up framing each other. Well, I guess it's not really framing if they did the things that they're being accused of. But anyways-- What?"
He was staring at the newspaper article with their byline on it again, looking almost shamefaced. She would really have to work on his guilt complexes.
But to her surprise, the shame evolved into one of his lovely lop-sided grins. He looked back up at her and pointed to her, palm outward as if to say, "Here I present the world's most superest reporter! Lois Lane! Let's have a hand."
Okay, so superest wasn't a word, but still.
"I knew there was a reason I would regret taking Friday off," he said as he completed his sweeping gesture. And then back to the shame face, which she had the sudden urge to just swat right off his face. He was like a frustrating sentient yo-yo.
"You didn't have to give me that byline, you know," he continued. "I didn't help do any of the writing or the wrap up break-in-- err. I mean investigations."
She released a rude-sounding pffft and stood to meet him head on. "Nonsense," she blurted with a roll of her eyes. "Half the stuff I wouldn't have even found by this time if it hadn't been for you--"
"Being a stubborn jerk and not telling you the whole story."
Well... He'd sort of cornered her into that one, hadn't he? Which wasn't fair. Darn it. But he *had* been sort of a stubborn jerk. An infuriating guilt-ridden stubborn yo-yo jerk.
"Well, I wasn't going to say anything," she said with a shrug, closing off more of the space between them as she took a few steps forward.
He was still pretty cute though. She quirked a sly grin at him and moved even closer. I *am* comfortable with you, you big lummox, she thought in his direction. You better believe it!
"It's okay. I know I sort of messed up--" His voice choked up and cut off when she placed a hand on his shoulder. His gaze darted down to her fingers as if he couldn't believe that she would touch him, but righted itself so quickly to stare back at her that she wasn't sure if she had imagined it or not. Her other hand went for his other shoulder, and she moved closer. Even closer. Until she was very much invading his personal space.
What are you doing, Lois?
Giving a lesson, she snapped back at the interjecting voice.
His muscles were taut like cords stuck in a vice, and his breathing was decidedly shallow at the moment. He still wasn't getting the message, it seemed. And so she moved. She lifted her hands from their resting place and his breath caught, but before giving him any sort of ideas about the situation, she slipped her arms under his, and collapsed into him. Into a warm, firm embrace.
For several long moments, the only sound that hung in the air was her soft breathing. She took sanctuary against his chest, which turned out to be quite a satisfactory pillow of sorts, despite his obvious desire to melt away into nothing, and not melting in a good, satisfied sense, but rather sort of like the wicked witch in the Wizard of Oz. That was when she realized she really *could* only hear the sound of her own breathing. It seemed as though he had stopped inhaling and exhaling entirely, and was standing still like a statue. What was she supposed to do if he suffocated himself? *Could* he do that? Hopefully he would just faint. And anyways, according to him, she had twenty minutes to fix the situation, at least.
Come on, she wanted to scream. It's all right.
But she didn't need to. After a minute had ticked by, the tension dripped out of him like a steady, bleeding sweat, and she felt more than heard his deep inhale. His large chest filled underneath her. Then his strong arms slipped around her like a constricting fleece blanket and enveloped her in the safest feeling cocoon of a hug she had ever been in.
And she smiled.
Her action that followed was an impulsive one. At first, she had no idea why she did it, but in the end, all the doubts bowed in deep, cowering submission to the divine rule of chemistry. It was the paradigm of perfection after a long assembly line of awkward and imperfect moments with other men, men like Claude, moments that were now a distant barely glimmer in the back of her most sub of subconscious, such was the sheer power of this particular eclipse. She stretched up onto the very tips of her toes, felt her calf muscles engage with a light pressure and tinge to hold her up, and she kissed him.
At first, she was hesitant. But as she felt his hands clench at her back, gathering up tents of her battered sweatshirt into his grip, and noticed in turn that he was not only a willing recipient, but returning quite fervently as well, she grew more daring. More sure of herself.
The grind of his lips against hers was a rampaging blaze, and for the first time in her life, she knew where the expression about seeing stars had come from, because she did. See them. They pricked and stuck at the backs of her eyelids until she was blind and prisoner of sensation alone. The sensation of his skin against hers. The heat.
When it was over and she remained silent next to him, save for her starved, gasping breaths, she was sure she had found something in life that she liked better than chocolate. Much better. There was chocolate. There was nirvana. And then there was this. And it was perfect. He was quite a good kisser. She wondered if perhaps he had accidentally omitted that from his de facto list of special abilities.
"Wow," he said between ragged pants.
She nodded, wide-eyed, as she collapsed back down onto the flats of her feet and settled back into his embrace. "No kidding."
They breathed. Together. The heat of his body against hers melted through her sweatshirt, and a comfortable, intimate silence lasted for several minutes.
"I do understand though," she finally whispered, and pulled back only enough to look up at him. He looked at her through a hooded, lazy, relaxed gaze. "Why you didn't tell me to begin with. Finding out what happened to Miracle Man *is* news... And well, I'm... I'm Lois Lane. Super reporter girl. I feel okay though, not telling. Your secret is safe."
"I didn't doubt that from pretty much the second you found out."
Her heart wanted to break for him then. She didn't miss the implication that he *had* thought she would at one point. And she didn't blame him. Not at all. She hadn't given him any reason to think otherwise, what with her pigheaded, bull-nosed antics. His fear over her minor Pulitzer obsession was partially his fault. And also partially hers... Maybe more so than his. A fact which she didn't like to admit, and probably never would aloud, not even to a priest in a confessional under duress, but it was sadly true.
She had just barreled through life like usual this past week, not taking Clark's copious hints that it just might not be a good idea this time. That maybe caution was deserved and smart. And Clark had nearly been crushed in the process, which she had never wanted, even when she had been downright flaming mad at him for not giving in and baring his soul to her prematurely.
And it would have been premature if she had found out any sooner, she decided. It really would have. Because if she hadn't gotten to spend time with Clark and get to know him a little better. She probably would have written the story. A truth that would no-doubt haunt her for a long time yet to come.
"Miracle Man = Miracle Discovered?" The headline screamed in her head as though she had actually written it and it was burned indelibly into the header type of the Daily Planet's Friday evening front page.
But her train of thought was curbed by her own forcible off-putting. She was here to help *him*. Not wallow in self pity. She hated wallowers. Hated them. And there was time to wallow later, when she was alone and actually in possession of the ice cream necessary for a proper moping wallowing session.
"I do have something else to show you, though," she added, reluctantly releasing herself from his solid embrace.
"What's that?" he asked, his tone indicating he felt as bereft as she did for breaking the contact.
She went for her briefcase for the third time, withdrawing the last of its contents. A standard-sized crisp sheet of white paper covered with 10-point new courier type. Words. Important words that he *needed* to see.
"Lois, what is this?" he asked as she placed the paper in his hands and backed away. Giving him space to absorb what he saw there.
"It's the article I wrote about you returning."
"But I haven't--"
She splayed her hands out in front of her, wanting right then to curb all signs of doubt that were slowly invading his expression once again. "Work with me, Clark, it's just food for thought. Clark, what you can do is special beyond words. The world... *Metropolis* was a safer place to be when Miracle Man was still a regularly seen apparition. A place with more hope, Clark. And after this whole mess, I see what it's like for you when you try to hide what you are. You're miserable. This will be release."
"But--"
She rushed onwards, afraid that if she stopped for even an instant to breathe or think, all would be lost. Either she would lose momentum and she wouldn't sound nearly as convincing as this situation indicated she simply *had* to be, or he would suffer the knockout blow from the doubt that looked, from the expression on his face, to be clotting like a gooey unsettling lump in his stomach.
"I know you're probably reluctant to start again, but could you at least think about it? I called all over. Bureau 39 wasn't sanctioned, Clark. None of it. Not by the people who count. The investigation into the Bessolo warehouse is following the organization's roots back to some very warped people in the FBI who shouldn't be there, should *never* have been there, and *won't* be there much longer once the inquiries are completed. You have to see that, Clark. The people want you here. The people like me who actually have to live in reality. You're no freak, regardless of what you seem to think of yourself. You're hope. The freaks are the people who sit in their offices, plotting out your life on some stupid map, trying to figure out where you're going to flag the invasion fleet through."
"I--" His voice broke like a child's toy in the hands of a vicious dog.
"I *know* this is hard, Clark," she pressed on. "All I'm asking is that you think about it."
And it was truly all she was asking. He needed to know that he was wanted, and loved, and not a monstrosity. Earlier, she had proven that was the case between the two of them. But between him and the world was another matter. He needed to get back into things before he let his obvious doubts fester into a new kind of terror, a kind that was infinitely harder to get rid of because it wasn't even real. Or at least he had to know that if he didn't want to continue, it was by his own choice and no one else's.
He was truly a miracle. And he needed to know that.
He *needed* to.
He was silent for a long set of moments, his expression pensive. "How would I explain the disappearance? I'm sure everyone thinks I abandoned them."
"That's the beauty of it Clark!" she exclaimed. "There was only speculation. Miracle Man was never interviewed, pinpointed, or photographed as more than a blur. You can come back as someone different. Someone new. A new hero."
There was a long silence then. A long one. So long she began to feel hot with doubt and embarrassment, and wondered if she'd said something wrong or offensive.
"But that would be a lie, Lois..."
She blinked. That was all?
"Please, Clark, please think about it. For your sake as much as everyone else's. You could totally change your look, and your persona. Be approachable, talk to people. Be a known entity rather than a rumor. Go by a different name... Be more confident."
Meet the people you save, she wanted to say. Meet them and let them tell you, "Thank you!"
"Lois, I feel ridiculous enough being called a miracle," he replied with a bitter laugh. It sounded ugly and hung in the air like a festering black cloud. "I do what I can. I help. But that's no miracle."
"And that's where you're *wrong*, Clark." She shook her head and re-entered that lovely embrace, except now it was something different. Something brooding. And she went to work fixing it all over again. "Sometimes the best miracles are the littlest things."
"So you're really serious about all this." She felt his breath sweep across the top of her brow, and she sighed back into him. Well, duh, she wanted to scream at him. He truly was a blockhead at times, he really was.
She hugged him tighter.
"Dead serious. I don't know what else I can say to convince you. I just hope you'll think about it." She wondered then, what else she *could* do if this all failed. Dress up in a pink leotard and traipse around as Ultrawoman or some such nonsense. It's okay to be a superhero, Clark! See?
He sighed, and they stood there, silent for a while, just enjoying holding each other. The sun had long since set, and the orange glow from before was now the dim pale silver and purplish haze of streetlamps and light pollution.
"I have a lot to work through, Lois. But I *will* think about it, at least," he said finally.
"Good, that's all I ask."
And it was true. All she wanted from him was for him to be happy. That fact was more than just a little scary. She had never cared about someone more than she cared about herself before. Never. And here she was, hoping Clark would be happy for Clark's sake, and not for any added perks it would give her.
This whole thing was scary beyond reason.
"You really thought about all this, didn't you," she heard him whisper overtop her head.
"Practiced the speech even," she confessed.
Scary. And new.
And good.
"So in your warped imagination," he began, his tone moving from wistful to playful, "What new hero am I going to be?"
"Warped?" She twisted in his grasp and punched him very lightly on the arm. "My imagination is not warped!"
"Looois," he answered in a sing-song voice.
Surprisingly good. And having opportunities for another one or multiples of those kisses was fine in her book.
"What hero? Let's see. Oh, I don't know..." She hadn't really thought *that* far ahead, had she? But, well. Hmmm. "Something brighter at the very least. Black is gorgeous on you, but it's just too morose," she thought aloud.
"Morose." The word was said with caution. As if he suddenly knew he had asked her far too dangerous a question.
And he had. Because now she was thinking about it, and planning, and formulating. She *did* sort of know how to sew. At least she knew more about sewing than cooking.
"Yeah, you don't want to be the grim reaper incarnate do you?" she replied, mischief welling up inside her from within. "The Undertaker from the WWF should not be your role model. Nah, you need something flashy. Like bright blue. And... And a better name to go along with it. Something... Something super..."
His grip faltered and slackened considerably. Yes. He knew he was in trouble now.
"Ummm," he stuttered. His eyes darted around the room, as if he thought a good excuse would just pop out at random from inside one of the many walls. "Well..." She pulled back and stared at him with a playful grin on her face. "Look at the time," he finally stumbled, though there were no clocks in sight, and he was not wearing a watch. "Miss Lane, I do believe I owe you that dinner date now."
"You're dodging!" she protested.
Oh, this was just fun!
"Lois, you have me picturing a flying clown named Incredibleman. You bet I'm dodging."
She snorted with laughter, because now she was picturing it too. "Well okay, I'll let it slide this once. But only if you take me somewhere with a very nice dessert menu," she replied. "There's just one problem, though."
A pause.
"What's that?"
"You're only in a pair of boxers and I'm in a frumpy sweat suit that looks like I've slept in it for two years without washing it."
He held up an index finger and backed away from her. "Au contraire!" he protested. His image blurred for a second, as though this were a cartoon, and someone had dashed him out with grayish watercolors. There was a sharp searing sound, kind of like a drill but less shrill. Air rushing. Her hair flew back away from her head in the draft. And then he was standing there in the gorgeous tux he had worn to Luthor's ball, completely back in focus. Even his stubble was gone.
She felt her mouth tumble open and she watched him, speechless. "Seems my abilities are definitely back," he mentioned with a grin.
"But," she protested weakly. "I'm still in this..." She gestured at her sweatshirt.
"That's good," he said. "It will keep you warm."
"What?" she asked dumbly. Thoughts were abandoning her at this point. She knew he could do things. She had sort of registered the laundry list of abilities he had given her earlier. But this was the first time she had seen up close and personal any sign at all that he was indeed what all the evidence had indicated he was.
A miracle.
He had just changed clothing and gotten ready in less than a second, right before her eyes. With no sign of tumultuous emotion, just his gorgeous smile.
"I think I know just the place," he explained, not giving her the opportunity to collect her thoughts, which probably would have taken a year or two anyways.
She forced her mouth shut and inhaled much-needed oxygen before she asked in a breathless, befuddled tone completely unbecoming of a professional communicator such as herself, "Where?"
Who, what, when, why, and how... Those were the proper questions!
"How about I just show you..." he said with a wink.
It was as if she was under a drunken spell, and swimming through a tub of molasses was the only way to get out. "Show me--?"
Who... What... When... Err... What was the rest again?
"Do you trust me?"
"Trust you to what?"
"Looois..."
"Yes," she finally squeezed out, accompanied by a blink and a nod and the grumble of her throat as she cleared it. "Yes, I trust you."
And suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, his arms snaked around her, scooped her up like a kitten or a baby, and the weight was gone from her feet. Air was rushing around them. Lots of air. And it was darker. And colder, but not too cold.
She finally registered that they were in the air, and didn't quite grasp that they had gone through the door onto his little patio and took off until she looked down and saw the pale surface shrinking away behind them to the point that it looked miniature and fake, like a little train set prop.
The air. They were. Flying. That's right, he *had* said he could fly, hadn't he. Somehow that hadn't really registered. And here she was, cruising right along with him in his arms like cargo on a miniature jetliner. The lights were a dazzling spectacle, like thousands of fireflies swarming below them in a dark valley. There was a faint smell of water and ozone, and the air sweapt past her in surprising quietness. It was more like they were in a boat gliding across a lake than swooping through the atmosphere. And she didn't feel cold at all.
Lois made a strange garbled sound in her throat as she stared around.
"You okay there?" Clark's voice interrupted her amazement, but only momentarily. "Sorry if I surprised you. We can land if you want."
"No!" she protested. Too quickly almost. "No, don't land. It's beautiful, Clark."
"This is what I most missed the last year."
"I can see why. This is amazing!" she exclaimed as they flew over the Metropolis Trade Tower. The second tallest building in Metropolis. And she was sailing over it with no parachute or plane involved. It was breathtaking. Amazing. Spectacular. And she was doing it! Well, Clark was doing it, but she was definitely participating as well.
The excitement erupted from within her, the sheer thrill finally overcoming her muzzled shock. "Where are we going?!" she suddenly found herself asking, like a two-year-old in the back seat of a frazzled mom's minivan. "Can you do a flip?"
The sound of his laughter was as rich as whipped chocolate, and she took comfort in it. He was laughing, and happy. And she was flying. Literally. "Lois Lane, you are insatiable!"
"That's what makes me the best reporter in the city!"
They were moving along the coastline now, gliding like seagulls in the night.
"Insatiable, and modest too."
"Well, you can never go wrong with a little confidence, Clark." She hugged him tightly. "So where are we going!?" she asked again, her excitement once more getting the better of her.
This was incredible. Beyond that. She knew now why he had looked so wistful on the balcony of Lex Luthor's tall tower.
"Well," Clark explained as she leaned her forehead into his neck and sighed in pleasure. "I was thinking this French place I know, but I'm open to suggestions."
"Anywhere?" she asked.
"Anywhere."
She gazed down at the fleeting coastline. City lights streamed past them on the left. The breaking waves and ocean glistened in the moonlight on the right like a filmy, gleaming swatch of wax paper. It was a perfect division of light and dark.
"How about we just keep flying?"
"Anything you want, Lois. Anything you want."
*****
His old fingers slipped over the leather binding, shaking slightly. Damned hands. Couldn't keep them still these days. He shook his head and leaned further in to read. His thick bifocals weren't as helpful as they once were.
The inside cover read, "Jason Trask," in horrible, barely-legible, scratchy print. And the majority of young Mr. Kent's life unfolded before him on the aged pages that followed. He eased back in his chair, sighing heavily as he closed the book and laid it to rest on top of the crisp map that lay unfolded across his desktop.
The map was of the state of Kansas. There was a large red X scribbled shakily in permanent marker, just outside the town on the side of one of those back roads that folks hardly ever traveled. The ship would be safe there. No one would ever find it. Except Clark. When he was ready.
"You have friends," he scrawled in looping cursive on a small sheet of notebook paper after he took a sip of his coffee -- a light mocha blend. No caffeine.
After glancing to see if everything was in order, he folded up the map and the notebook paper and placed them in a battered manila envelope that was covered with postage stamps. The diary went in next. And then he sealed the envelope, first with a lick, and then with reinforcing clear tape.
He addressed it to Mr. Kent's new apartment on Clinton Street, and shuffled it out and down to the front desk, where he slipped it into the outgoing mail pile. It sat there amongst the other packages, innocuous and unassuming. Just a standard envelope filled with what most people would probably assume were just legal documents and maybe a ledger book.
He brushed his hands together. He was old, and tired. But now he was finally done. The news was drowning with reports of Bureau 39 and its suspected dealings. Reporters were pawing through the wreckage, looking for any and every tidbit they could find about some new and even more heinous event that had been directed by the Bureau. Everything was as it should be. As it always should have been.
Burton Newcomb went back up the stairs to his apartment and sat down in his recliner, flipping on the TV with a remote as he collapsed into it with a heaving, weary sigh. Old, he was. And tired. There was still nothing but reports of Thompson and the 'mysterious' Jason Trask and Bureau 39, no matter what channel he turned to.
He fell into a peaceful sleep, soothed by the rumbling sounds of one of the debate shows on LNN, and was oblivious to the world by the time the reports of the morning failure of the Messenger launch came on.
Bureau 39 was gone. He was tired. And he was done.
He slept with a smile.
*****
The night air was crisp, but delightful. The slight scent of rain tickled his nostrils, and humidity brushed across his face like the cool hands of a sated lover. He leaned closer to the edge of the balcony and smiled down at the lights below. Lights like a thousand villagers with torches, all gathering below his magical tower. Always a gorgeous view. Always. Power was always about the view.
And he had power.
Lots.
"You look happy, sir," the stiff voice of his English assistant said behind him.
Lex Luthor turned and shrugged. Nigel stood there, a bottle of Dom Perignon clenched in one hand, two champagne flutes tangled in the fingers of his other hand.
"The Messenger launch failed. I'm on top of the world," Lex said with a fulfilled sigh. "I trust Samuel Platt was taken care of since I haven't heard about any disturbances?"
"Yes," Nigel said with a slight, graceful bow. "We apprehended him shortly before he reached the Daily Planet on Monday. He's been... taken care of. Antoinette was also properly dealt with."
Lex let his grin spread like an infection, betraying his true elation. He had gotten away with everything. Again. "Good!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together in a jaunty little motion.
Nigel quirked an eyebrow. "A toast, sir?" he asked, bringing Lex's attention to the champagne bottle he held in his hands with a slight inclination of his head.
Lex gave him a regal nod, and the Englishman set the two flutes down on the railing. He poured the Dom Perignon into the shining crystal flutes, and handed one to Lex with a sly, twinkling smile. The crisp air ruffled Lex's hair and sent his suit coat fluttering up a bit. The wind smelled of change. And triumph.
"A toast! To wealth, and power," Lex exclaimed with a slight tilt of his head.
Nigel tilted his head in kind. "To wealth and power," he replied, though slightly less intoned.
The glasses clinked together like the sound of choir bells, and Lex leaned back against the railing to breathe in the smell of victory once more. But the smell was bittersweet, at best. "Ahhh, Nigel. Sometimes I do feel though, that there lacks a challenge in this. Something... Something is missing, Nigel."
"But, sir." Nigel quirked an eyebrow upwards after taking a sip of his champagne. "No one looks down on you. You're a king in your tower, and no one can touch you."
Lex looked up at the sky, noting a small blinking light that traveled along the skyscape. A lone firefly buzzing along in the bleak world overhead. He saluted the departing plane.
"Only until someone learns to fly, Nigel. Only until then..."
FIN
(end part 23/23)
