INTRODUCTION: I was in two minds as to whether or not to post this here; I feel bad about posting when I don't read or comment nearly enough.

I notice that Pam has already posted a Christmas story, so I guess the season is officially upon us. Here, then, is my contribution to the festivities, served up with a healthy garnish of good wishes for the holidays to you all.

This story revisits very well-trodden ground, I'm afraid: just how many ways will folcs find to have Alt-Clark meet his Lois, anyway?

Many, many thanks to Jenni for beta-reading.


DISCLAIMER: This story has been written for fun, not for profit. No attempt is being made to infringe any existing copyrights held by December 3rd Productions, Warner Bros, D C Comics, or any other copyright holders.


WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES

By Chris Carr


1980

Lois pulled her chair up tight against the bedroom wall, folded her arms on the windowsill and laid her chin on top of them. If she tried hard enough, she thought, she would be able to tune out the horrible reality that was Christmas Eve in the Lane household. She would be able to blot out the sounds of her parents arguing in the kitchen and the blaring television in the living room. All she had to do was concentrate.

She watched the first snowflakes of the season drift lazily downwards. If the weather forecasters were right -- and something told Lois that they were -- the city would be carpeted in a thick layer of white by morning. The light frosting on the streets was thickening, even as she watched.

Lois liked snow. It looked so clean and perfect -- at least until someone ventured outside, churned it up, and turned it into a filthy grey slush. Above all, though, she liked the sense of peace it brought with it.

Peace and silence.

She suddenly realised that it was as silent inside the apartment as it was out. Her parents' argument was over and Lucy, no longer needing to hide behind it, had turned down the volume on the television. Tension Lois didn't know she had been feeling bled from her shoulders and she sighed.

She sighed again as she saw her father stomp down the front steps and along the sidewalk. Typical, she thought, that her own father would be the first person to sully the new snow. It was just like him to ruin things.

Lois guessed with teenage cynicism that he would end up spending Christmas Eve night and Christmas Day with Mrs Belcanto. Her mother would spend all evening drinking and all tomorrow complaining. She and Lucy would end up doing what they always did: they would make do.

The snow, she was pleased to see, was already filling in her father's footprints, blotting him out. It was soothing to watch. The harsh edges of his prints gradually blunted and faded; her pain blunted, too, numbed, at least for a little while.

Still the snow fell. It decorated the street and the houses more perfectly than any man-made decoration could do.

And then, in the midst of the silence, Lois had a startling thought. If snow fell, surely it must make some kind of noise. What did falling snow sound like?

It would sound like petals falling off a blossoming tree, she thought, or like feathers billowing from a burst pillow.

She smiled to herself, suddenly as peaceful and silent as the snow itself. She savoured the tranquil feeling, knowing that, as long as she could feel the way she did now, the world would never hurt her.


1997

It's Christmas Eve morning, I'm lying in bed, and I am listening to the snow fall. For once, I'm almost smiling. There's something special about the sight and sound of the first snow of the season. It's even more special when it falls at Christmas.

I remember trying to explain that to Lana, back when we were kids and she was the only person who knew about me. I guess I must have been about thirteen or fourteen at the time. "I can hear the flakes falling," I told her. It was a secret, but I wanted to share it. I *needed* to share it with somebody and there was nobody else. Besides, she was my best friend, and I wanted to give her something. The secret was the only thing I had to give.

"Oh, Clark," she sighed. I remember that sigh so well. The memory still hurts. "I wish you wouldn't."

"Wouldn't what?" I asked.

"Hear things."

"I can't help it," I said. It was true. Back then, my super-senses were new and I hadn't learned to control them properly.

"Well, then I wish you wouldn't tell me about them," she said.

"Okay," I said, forcing myself to bite back my disappointment. As ever, it hurt to hide a part of myself away. "I won't tell you anything else." And that's why I didn't tell her that the snow sounded like feathers falling, or like blossom dropping off winter-flowering cherry trees.

It's a sad memory I've conjured up, but I can't help that. Most of my memories are sad, and this one is not as bad as many. In any case, it all happened a very long time ago and I'm not going to let it hurt me any more.


1984

"...Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock..."

Despite the streamers across the cafeteria's ceiling and the tree in one corner, Christmas still seemed an age away. Who could take the holidays seriously when the insurmountable hurdle of end of semester exams lay directly ahead? The music didn't charm Lois or fill her with festive spirit. Instead, it made her want to grind her teeth and throw things.

Lois looked across the table towards her two best friends, Molly Flynn and Linda King. "I keep having these dreams," she said over the blare of music and the clatter of dishes. The cafeteria wasn't the best place to have a conversation, but Molly had been adamant that she couldn't afford to take enough time out of her revision schedule to go anywhere better. In fact, getting her to agree to go anywhere at all had been a minor triumph. Molly was so stressed that both Lois and Linda had begun to fear for her sanity.

Lois didn't really want to talk about the dreams, but she did want to try to ease Molly's panic. If neither she nor Linda could persuade Molly take out enough time to relax properly, they would have to make do with distracting her for half an hour. The problem was, with the exams at the forefront of their own minds, it was hard to find anything else to talk about. The dreams were the best thing Lois had been able to come up with.

"They're about flying. I can't help wondering what they mean."

Linda sucked quickly on her straw before glancing up to say, "What makes you think they mean anything?"

Lois shrugged. "No reason, I guess. It's just that I have so many." She tried -- and failed -- to make light of her concerns. "And I keep thinking that there must be some deep, psychological reason for them. I mean, aren't recurring dreams supposed to mean something?"

Molly didn't answer Lois's question. Instead, she said, "Flying dreams are pretty common, you know." She put a fry in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Then she said, "Did you know that Freud thought flying was one way of expressing your sexual desires?" Then, for the first time in days, Molly grinned devilishly and a hint of the fun-loving young woman she usually was shone out from behind tired eyes. "Anything you want to tell us, Lois?" She waggled her eyebrows.

"No!" snapped Lois. Her plan for distracting Molly from her impending failure seemed to be working, but Lois wasn't sure that she liked the price.

"And that," said Linda, speaking to the world in general, "is precisely why I didn't take Psych 101."

"Psych is really interesting!" protested Molly.

"Maybe, but it's also a well known fact that psych majors end up over-analysing everything. Besides, you know what they say about a little knowledge...?"

"Yeah. It goes a long way," said Lois.

"No," said Linda. "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing."

"Meaning ignorance is bliss, I suppose?" asked Lois. "I guess that would explain a lot about your grades this semester, Linda, and why you've been so much keener on studying the football team than your books. It's been self-defence!"

"Oh, harsh!" exclaimed Molly. Then, seeing Linda's scowl, she added hastily, "I'm sure Lois didn't mean anything nasty by that." Then she turned back towards Lois and said, "Seriously, I doubt your dreams are anything to worry about."

"Really?" asked Lois hopefully. "Why not?"

"Freud's explanation is only one interpretation." Molly leaned across the table as she warmed to her subject. "Carl Jung thought that flying dreams were an expression of a desire to break free of restrictions and limitations, while Alfred Adler believed they were an expression of a person's desire to dominate others. Kind of a superiority dream, if you will."

"Wow. Where did you learn all that stuff?" asked Linda, sounding genuinely impressed.

Molly raised her eyebrows. "Psych 101, of course. I told you psych was interesting."

"Remember all that in your exam, and you'll have nothing to worry about," Linda said, reaching over and patting her friend's forearm.

"You really think so?"

"I sure do."

Lois knew that she ought to echo Linda's reassurances but she couldn't help pursuing the ideas that Molly had just presented her with. "So I'm either a sex addict, an anarchist or a dictator, is that it?" asked Lois bitterly.

"Sounds about right, eh, Linda?" grinned Molly.

Linda sniggered. "Maybe she's all three!"

Lois rolled her eyes and looked pained. "I'm still here, you know!"

"I did come across another theory -- one you might be more interested in, Lois," said Molly gently.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Do you enjoy the dreams?"

"Yes," answered Lois reluctantly. "I guess I do. I mean, what's not to enjoy... going to far away places... the sense of freedom."

"There you go, then," smiled Molly. "You're having the dreams because you enjoy them. They're fun."


1997

I tell myself that I can't stay in bed all day, no matter how much I want to. I get up, make some coffee, then I carry the mug out onto the balcony. I stand there knowing that, in human terms, I must look odd. The temperature is hovering around freezing point and I'm standing here in nothing but boxers and cotton socks. The cold doesn't bother me, though, and I don't really care what people think.

I don't mean to eavesdrop. I mean, I don't set out to pry into other people's lives. However, before I realise what I've done, I've painted myself an aural picture of my neighbourhood. I guess, living other people's lives at one step removed is as close as I come these days to living my own.

Carole, from number 342 Clinton, apartment 2a, is pleading with her husband to take the kids out. How else is she supposed to get everything ready in time for tomorrow? There's a desperate edge to her request; her husband hears it. He yells, "C'mon kids! Let's go to the park and build us some snowmen!"

Two of the kids squeal with delight. The third -- the oldest -- whines. "Do I *have* to?"

"Yes, you do. Now, turn off that computer and put on your coat!"

"Awwww, Dad..."

Mr Murciano, the owner of the delicatessen on the next street, has decided to get into the Christmas spirit. He's drunk half of the eggnog his wife was going to give to customers, and she is screaming at him in a torrent of furious Italian. Ever other sentence is a plea to God.

Every chance meeting on every corner echoes with the exchange of Christmas greetings. I even hear Mrs O'Malley exchange Merry Christmases with Mr Price, and it is a well-known fact that they haven't been on speaking terms since 1972. Everyone seems in too much of a hurry to stop and chat for real, though.

Everybody, I think, is rushing to finish their preparations for tomorrow. I alone seem to have no preparations to make.

I'll be on my own again for Christmas Day. I don't feel sorry for myself. I refuse to feel sorry for myself. I mean, this is just the way things are. I'm shy, which makes it hard for me to meet people, other than on a purely professional level. So I'll spend Christmas Day in my apartment with a frozen dinner and a good video for company.

I tell myself that I'm just as happy doing that as I would be doing anything else, so there really isn't any reason for me to feel sorry for myself, is there?

Besides, whom else do I have to share Christmas with? I've already fulfilled my responsibilities as Superman. I delivered the tree to the Coates orphanage last week and I gave out presents at the children's hospital three days ago.

And it's not as though my friends have forgotten me. I had lunch with Mr Olsen yesterday, and I've been invited to visit with the Whites on the twenty-sixth. That's something isn't it?

But... I can't help thinking that it isn't quite the same as being with someone on Christmas Day.

Even the paparazzi will stay away. They always do. They have done ever since they realised two things. One, I'm actually a very dull person. I don't talk to them. I don't court them. Most of all, I don't do anything that they could spin into a story. Two, their photos never come out anyway. I see to that.

Most of what the celebrity magazines have printed about me, they learned from Lana. They quickly tired of her, though. Her stories of the quiet, slightly uptight, boy-scout she'd been engaged to just weren't interesting enough. Plus, in the middle of the Super-mania that followed my coming out, it didn't help that she was forced to admit that she'd known about me for years. In a world going mad for Superman, someone who'd tried to keep me in the superhero closet was never going to be popular. Last I heard, Lana had moved back to Smallville, her ambitions for a TV career put on indefinite hold.

The people of Metropolis eventually got used to me and the Super-mania quietened down to a more muted kind of affection and pride. These days, it is only out-of-towners who gawk when I go by.

There's a world of difference, though, between affectionate pride and the kind of affection that goes with proper friendship -- or any other kind of meaningful relationship, for that matter. People keep a respectful distance from me and I appreciate that, I really do. But...

Darn it, I get so lonely!

Anyway... That's why I'm on my own for Christmas -- because, for the most part, people are considerate. They don't want to pressure me. Most of the invitations I get are from women of a certain age who are even lonelier than I. I refuse them politely, saying that I have other plans and...

This is going to sound stupid, but I haven't always felt lonely. Yes, I've often felt alone; how could I not after my parents died? I loved them and they loved me and after they were gone... I was a loner, but I wasn't lonely. For one thing, I had Lana.

That sounds stupid, too. Most people would say that I never had Lana. Rather, they'd say that Lana had me -- on a leash. She wore the trousers in our relationship. I was under her thumb.

That's not a very flattering image, is it? Who would have thought that the future Superman could be such a door-mat?

It's hard to know where things went wrong for us, or even when they began to change.

Maybe I should rephrase that because it implies that, once-upon-a-time, things were right between us as a couple, and I doubt that was ever the case. We *were* friends, though. We were friends who were looking for something more. I guess it was convenience that made us look for that something in each other.

I've heard the phrase "kissing friends" and maybe that's what we were -- friends who kissed. I mean, we certainly weren't lovers.

Even so, somewhere along the line, we decided to get engaged, and things began to unravel from there.

One day I woke up and I realised that I felt... hollow, I suppose is as good a word as any. I felt empty, as though something had been ripped out of me. I thought, is this it? Is this all there is to life?

I told myself that the feeling would pass. Then I told myself that what I was experiencing was a perfectly natural fear of commitment. I mean, isn't it normal for a twenty-something man to want to hang on to his freedom for as long as he can? Give it six months, a year, or two years, and I'll get over it, I told myself. But I never did, not even after Lana left.

Anyway, there is no point in wanting things to be different. This is how things are, and I've got to accept that.

I've grown used to being alone. Most of the time I even manage to fool myself into thinking that I prefer things this way. At Christmas, though... I can't kid myself at Christmas. What I'd really like is a knock on the door or even just a casual wave from someone passing by on the street below. I'd draw some comfort from that.

I would.

I really hope I would, anyway.

If I'm honest with myself, though, there is only one person I want here with me on Christmas Day. I know, though, that I'm insane for even thinking about it. It's been months since Mr Wells told me that he hated the word "impossible" and it's been years since she disappeared. I've never held her, touched her or talked to her. I've never even met her.

I don't talk about her to anyone. I'm enough of a freak as it is without people thinking I'm obsessed with a ghost. I think about her all the time when I'm awake, though. When I'm asleep I dream about her. I can't help it. Even if I could, I don't think I would.

I have a photograph of her that I sneaked out of the Daily Planet's morgue. It's tucked away discreetly in my wallet, behind my video rental card. I only ever get it out in the privacy of my own apartment, so there really isn't any reason for me to carry it around with me all the time. There's no reason at all... except that I like to know it's there.


1986

Lois sat back on her sofa and sighed. Christmas was almost over and, as ever, it had been something of an anti-climax. Every year it was the same: so much build up, then -- poof! -- it was over in an instant. She'd had such high hopes for this year, too.

At least Lucy had enjoyed it, and the stockings they'd put together for one another had been kind of fun. They'd also had presents under the tree, and there hadn't been any arguments to destroy the festive mood. All in all, the day could almost be described as a success.

Nonetheless, Lois thought, she'd expected something more from her first Christmas in her own apartment. It wasn't just that it hadn't snowed this year, although that had made a difference. Rather it was as though... as though something was missing. She frowned, but she couldn't quite pinpoint what that something was. Magic, perhaps, she supposed.

Not that there had been much magic when she was growing up, but, with a child's optimism, she had always managed to find a trace of it somewhere.

Maybe, she thought, this was yet another sign that she was growing up, just like getting her own apartment. She was no longer renting a room in someone else's place; instead, she had a room to rent out of her own, a room Lucy had been quick to move in to.

"I'm getting a Coke." Lucy's voice sailed through from the kitchenette. "Do you want anything?"

"A cream soda'd be great, thanks, Luce!" Lois called back. "And bring the pop-corn. 'The Mark of Zorro' is about to start!"

"Pop-corn!" exclaimed Lucy. "How can you even think about more food after the meal we've just had!" But the clattering around that followed the comment told Lois that Lucy was getting it anyway.

"You know what I should have got you for Christmas?" Lucy said moments later, as she came it juggling two cans in one hand and cradling a large bowl against her chest with the other. "An upgrade to your cable package."

"Which I would have ended up paying for," said Lois. "Besides, I liked the books you gave me. 'Style Pointers For The Young Professional' and 'Cooking For Idiots'. Very useful, the both of them."

"Yeah, well... I can't believe we're having to watch old black-and-white movies on Christmas Day, just because you're too cheap to get HBO."

"Will you quit complaining?" asked Lois. "Besides, I thought you liked Zorro."

"Back when I was ten, yeah, I did. But that was the Disney version and I was just a kid." Lucy paused before continuing. "Why do you want to watch it, anyway? I thought you hated Zorro. You used to complain about him all the time."

Lois shook her head. "I never hated Zorro. I thought he was pretty cool, actually. I just... well... I felt sorry for Don Diego."

"Sorry for Don-! What on Earth for? You just said he was cool."

"Because he always had to hide. Because he could never be true to himself."

"But he was Zorro!"

"Exactly. He was a great man, a hero. But he was Don Diego first. And, in order to be Zorro, he had to pretend that Don Diego was something less than he really was."

"You're crazy, Lois. You know that? It's just a story. Just a bit of fun."

But to Lois it had always been more than that. She'd thought it was the saddest thing she'd ever heard of. Her childish heart had bled for Don Diego. She tried again to explain to Lucy.

"Week after week it was the same," she said. "I couldn't bear to watch. I'd lie awake at night trying to think up new ways for Don Diego to reveal himself. At least in this film I know there'll be a happy ending for Diego and Esmerelda."

Lucy snorted. "A happy ending. Right. They'll settle down and have kids."

"For some people," said Lois, "that *is* a happy ending."

"You really believe that?" asked Lucy, surprised. "Even after everything we saw when we were growing up?"

"Yes," said Lois, surprising herself as much as she did Lucy. "I think I do."

"Well, good luck to you," said Lucy. "But I think you stand as much chance of finding own personal Don Diego as you do of learning to fly! Me? I'm going to set my sights a lot lower, and I'll be the happier for it, too."

"Oh, shut up," said Lois good-naturedly as the opening credits began to roll. "Just pass that popcorn over here and watch the movie."


1997

I mooch around the apartment, hoping that someone will call for help so that I'll have something to do, somewhere to go. Nobody does. Apparently, all natural disasters are on hold for the holiday. The world's criminals, too, seem to be taking a rest. There is not even so much as a fender bender or a cat stuck up a tree to go out for.

I get dressed. I make a sandwich for lunch. I drink gallons of herbal tea. The walls begin to press in on me so I decide to go flying. I don't bother to change into the suit first.

I find myself wearing the suit less and less. People recognise me whether I wear it or not, so what is the point? I keep it for special occasions, like meeting world leaders or visiting local schools. I don't bother with it for everyday stuff very often any more.

Flying is probably the best thing about being me. Other people have to save up for years before they can set out to see the world, having to make do with National Geographic in the mean time. I, though, can just take off -- literally -- on a whim. I've been around the world more times than I can remember and every time I go I see something new.

Today I decide to fly north, up to a little place I know just south of the Arctic Circle. It's not the best time of year to visit, of course. The days are short and I know that the sun will have set already. If I'm lucky, though, I'll see the Northern Lights. Even if I'm not, there will always be the snow and the serenity that goes with it.

I have a favourite spot where glacial ice meets the sea. It is a place of savage beauty, tranquil and invigorating at the same time. I found it the Christmas before I started work at the Daily Planet and I've been coming back here on and off ever since.

The cold at this latitude is so profound that even I can feel it. It pricks my cheeks, bites at my fingers and sears the inside of my nose. The sensations remind me that I'm alive, no matter how dead I sometimes feel inside.

I sit down on the snow and wrap my arms around my knees, pulling myself into a ball. I don't think. I just allow my thoughts to float. They drift this way and that, flotsam on a sea of nothing. Time passes. I don't know how much time and I don't much care. It's not as though I have anything very important to go back to Metropolis for.

But then...

Everything changes.


1990

"Oh, wow, Lois!" crowed Lucy as she bumped into a wall. "This is soooo bee-yu-ti-ful!"

Lois followed her sister into the hotel room and looked around. Her eyes widened in surprise. "Wow, indeed! Who'd've guessed that our dear cousin Cyndi had this much taste! You'd never have thought it from her choice of husband."

Lucy giggled a champagne-fuelled giggle, fell down heavily across one of the beds, and gesticulated madly as she said, "Don't think it was her idea. Shyndi was gonna put us up in the Cabin Shack Motel, out along the interstate sh-sh-somewhere. Besides, Rhett isn't so bad. Mom says he's as rich as... rich as... Oh, who's that really rich guy that everyone gets compared to?"

"Croesus?"

"Nah." Lucy rolled her eyes. "Lex Luthor."

"Oh."

Lucy managed to haul herself into a sitting position. "Snagged you another piece of wedding cake, Lois." She listed dangerously off to one side as she began to rummage around inside her purse.

"What on earth for! It was disgusting!"

"Yeah, I know. Kinda like sawdust held together with honey and raisins. An' there was so much brandy in it that Frankie managed to set fire to it with his lighter."

"Now how did I miss that?" Lois asked wryly. "After he tried to pinch my tush in church, I kept my eyes on that little brat the whole time!"

Frankie was Cyndi's eleven-year-old stepbrother. In the space of one hour at the church and the three hours at the reception, Lois had spotted him hiding prayer books, spiking orange juice, looking up the flower girl's skirt, filling the saltcellars with sugar and loosening the lids on the sugar shakers. Lois had serious doubts that he'd ever reach twelve. His mom would probably kill him, assuming he didn't set fire to himself first.

"Here." Lucy pulled out a napkin-wrapped rectangle and held it out.

"You know I'm not going to eat that, don't you?" said Lois, taking it warily.

"Not supposed to eat it," Lucy said, knowingly tapping the side of her nose with her forefinger.

"Then what *am* I supposed to do with it?" asked Lois.

"It's trad-tradish-tradition. That's it. Tradition. You put it under your pillow when you go to sleep. Then you'll dream about your true love. Or the man you're going to marry. Or something. Can't remember exactly."

"Oh, rubbish!" said Lois. She moved over to the trashcan and held the cake over it.

"No!" yelled Lucy. "Don't do that! It'd be..." She couldn't work out what it would be. "C'mon, Lois. Do it for me. It'd be a bit o' fun. Just a bit o' fun."

Lois thought about it. Where, really, was the harm in it? "Maybe," she said grudgingly. She put the cake down on the dressing table.

Lucy grinned broadly and lopsidedly. "Who knows, you might dream of Claude." She leered at Lois's obvious discomfort. "I mean, isn't he your current object of lust?"

Lois turned away from Lucy, lowered her head and didn't reply.

Lucy persisted. "The most perfect blue eyes in the world, didn't you say? Bleached-blonde hair, designer stubble and a smile that makes you swoon?" (She pronounced it "shwoon".)

"Shut up, Lucy," snapped Lois, unable to stand any more. "Please... just shut up."

Her distress must have punctured Lucy's alcoholic haze because when Lucy spoke next she sounded surprisingly sober. "Lois? What's wrong? What's the matter?"

Lois turned to face Lucy. Her eyes pricked with tears she didn't want to shed, not over that good-for-nothing, two-faced, conniving little-

"Lois?" asked Lucy again, cutting through Lois's mental invective. "Tell me?"

"He left. Two weeks ago. We... You know... And then I woke up in the morning and he was gone. And so was my story. And I can't bear it! Even though he went back to Paris the next day, somehow everyone at work seems to know what happened, and I just can't bear it!"

"Oh, Lois..." Lucy pulled herself unsteadily to her feet, made her way over to her sister, and hugged her. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because... because I feel such an idiot! I'm so stupid!"

"No. No, you're not. You're clever and you're smart and you're beautiful. And if Claude couldn't see all that in you then he's the biggest idiot of all."

"You have to say that," said Lois. A grateful chuckle burst through her tears. "You're my sister."

"I know I am. Now, let's get to bed."

It was Lucy who, unnoticed by Lois, put the cake under her pillow that night. Lois knew nothing about it until she woke up the following morning. She'd dreamed again of flying... and chocolate- brown eyes.


1997

I spring to my feet and stare wildly around.

Everything looks the same, but it feels very different. The very air is charged with anticipation. It makes my stomach flutter and my skin tingle. Something fantastic is about to happen... is happening right now!

It's like... It's like I was in a dark room and someone has just flipped on the lights. Or, as if I was trapped in a black-and-white movie that has suddenly become Technicolor.

I wonder what is going on, but then I know with a certainly that I cannot explain.

She's here. I can feel it. It's like... like nothing I've felt before. Actually, that's not true. It feels like something familiar but long forgotten. It feels like I was full of silence, like I was empty. Now, suddenly, I feel as though I've been filled. I feel warm. Yes. Warm is a very good word for how I'm feeling right now. Her presence warms me and I don't feel lonely anymore. I feel her!

Where is she?


TBC