Part Eight
~Two weeks later~
He stood at the edge of the path, the waving breeze playing gently with his dark hair, looking at the house. The lines of his face and shoulders seemed to be somewhat blurred in the morning mist, melting into the greenery behind him - contrary to other times when his outline had been as hard and crisp as steel. A duffel lay on the dusty ground, at his foot - his sole item of luggage.
Slowly, desperately slowly, with limbs that creaked and grated against each other, he bent down, caught the strap of the bag, swung it over his shoulder in one movement, and started walking. He took his time about it, ambling down the path, seeing, smelling, listening. He felt like a travelling soldier, returning from war after a long absence - shaky, scarred, but home.
Home. *Finally*.
He rested a hand lightly on the door, studying it as though he had never seen it before. He could hear the cattle lowing in the next field, and somewhere, far in the distance, the gentle grumbling of a tractor.
Inside the house, the cuckoo clock was ticking. He knew that with a certainty that was satisfying in one way and frightening in another. The large, ornate, carved clock, once his grandmother's, would be ticking, just there, inside the door.
The shiny, domed chronometer at the Independent had been his enemy. This one, with its soft, almost melodic ticks, would be his friend. Time was precious to the people of Smallville - they didn't waste it, and nor would he.
He wouldn't waste any more time. He couldn't afford to.
A whole month. A month of looking, of running out at five in the morning to pursue new leads, of talking to just about everybody he could think of, of stalking Detective Wolff, of tracking her movements for the last six months, of racking his brain, of trying and *trying* until he thought he'd explode...
...and nothing. Absolutely nothing. No leads. No clues. Nothing.
She was gone, and he had to accept that. Maybe he could finally move on. Maybe he could finally banish her ghost.
He'd wasted so much time already, and here he was, gazing around like a mystified cow...
He raised his fist swiftly and rapped on the door with his knuckles - three quick, hurried taps, the knock of a visitor...
And took a step backwards as his mother came into view.
She'd obviously been doing the dishes - she was wearing a pair of yellow Marigold gloves and had a soapy plate in her hand. He watched it shatter in a million pieces on the ground in stupefied silence, before looking at her again.
She was pale, trembling, her eyes wide, the cornflower blue almost black in the smooth oval of her face.
He cleared his throat, awkwardly, still staring at her, drinking her in... his mother. His mommy.
"I'm home," he managed at last, and then her arms were around him, squeezing him the way only a mom could. She made a convivial circle around him, and as he breathed in the clean country air, he wondered how he could ever have left.
She drew back, a hand going up to her mouth, and he caught a glimpse of tears in her eyes and cursed himself. No matter whether he was three, thirteen or thirty, the sight of his mother crying would always generate a particularly vicious pang in the bottom of his stomach.
She was unusually quiet - he wondered, as she led him into the kitchen, if the sight of him was that unexpected that it rendered even his mother speechless.
"Oh, Clark," she whispered, raising her hand to brush a lock of his hair back from his face before giving him another ferocious hug. "I've missed you so much, honey... my boy..."
He hugged her back briefly, his eyes closed tightly to prevent the tears escaping. "I've missed you too, Momma," he murmured, the childhood endearment rolling off the tip of his tongue before he could call it back.
A large hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to see his father standing beside him, stoic as always. Releasing his mother, he stepped back slightly to look at the elder Kent warily. He had run from his parental home in the middle of the night, like a rat; he was still unsure as to how his father would receive him. He had been the cause of so much pain...
He held his breath as Jonathan inhaled as if to speak, and let it out quickly in one short, exulted puff as his father enveloped him in a bear-like embrace, which though slightly more awkward than his mother's had been, was no less fierce for that.
"Welcome home, son," he heard choked into his ear.
A glass of buttermilk, a slice of pie, a thousand babbled words. How-was-your-flight, oh-that's-good, I-hope-you-got-leave-from-work-okay, oh-that's-great, do-you-think-you'll-be-staying-long, good, that's-good-honey...
It soothed him, the endless sound of his mother's voice, but still he had a nagging feeling that the giant rubber band of his destiny was there, pulling tighter and tighter until...
"There's... something you should know, son."
...it snapped.
He lifted his head, his heart both thrilling at the use of the long-dormant name and aching at the tone of his father's voice.
"What is it, Dad?" he asked, trying to keep the long-lost, newly-regained normality in his voice.
His father was studying his own great paws, fiddling with the small pastry fork. Clark looked at him, wondering. As a small boy, he'd thought that nothing could make his father uncomfortable. That illusion had worn off with age, of course - every time a stranger had asked questions about why Clark was so fast, or so strong, his father had been uncomfortable - but still, it wasn't a sight he was accustomed to.
"You know that there have been a lot of changes since you went to London."
Clark nodded, wondering what this was leading to. Another thing he wasn't accustomed to - his father, beating around the bush. This wasn't in the script. This wasn't normal. This wasn't home.
"Well... uh... a lot of things have happened. Things you might not expect, might not believe."
His throat closed suddenly.
"You know about Lois," he whispered hoarsely.
Jonathan's head shot up. "Yes."
"But... you don't understand," he stuttered. "That's - that's why I came back. To... to help." He paused carefully. "Is she... is she still... have they done... anything? Do they have any leads? Do they have any clue where she is? I've been... travelling for a few days, haven't had time to read the papers... do they have any idea?"
His father was staring at him, a man baffled. "Well, we hope not."
He raised an eyebrow. "*Not*?"
His mother broke in at this point, looking at him with no small degree of shock. "Surely you don't want anyone to find her, Clark?"
His knee hit the table with a bang as he jumped out of his seat. The glass fell and shattered on the ground in a million tiny pieces, but he barely even noticed.
"Of *course* I want somebody to find her!" he cried in disbelief. "The reason I'm here is to find her! I've been going out of my *mind*, in Metropolis, looking everywhere, researching since I left England, for a whole month, talking to her parents and her sister and Wolff and just about everybody I knew who wasn't connected to Lex... God, Mom..."
He broke off, shaking his head disbelievingly. "I've been looking so hard. And I've gotten nowhere. How could you think I didn't want her found?" he whispered finally, croakily, and looked down at the table. A single tear fell out of his eye and landed on the grainy wood, glistening there, alone.
Her arm came up and tugged at his hand, squeezing it tightly.
"What do you mean, Clark? Lois isn't lost!"
His stomach went into a sudden, painful spasm. "She... she's not?"
"She's here, son." His father's deep voice, echoing in his mind. "She's here. Lois is safe, she's here, with us."
He swayed dizzily, one hand reaching out to grab at the table. He felt something push hard into the backs of his knees and suddenly he was sitting. He didn't know how he ended up sitting, but he had the strangest idea that the chair had flown up to meet him.
And then she was holding something to his mouth - something that was hard and clinked against his teeth. He was suddenly drenched in ice, shivering, as the lukewarm wetness slipped down his throat.
Her voice broke through the frazzle of static in his brain. "How long is it since you've eaten?"
He shook his head distractedly, mumbling. "Lois... here? She's..."
A deep rumble somewhere nearby. Something about Lois-gone-walking and she'll-be-back-soon-you-have-some-time and you'd-better-prepare-yourself. He couldn't really hear properly, because something was crashing down around his ears. His life, maybe.
Everything was a sham, a reflection of horror. Everything was cruel, everything was hope. Everywhere, there was the ringing of bells, and he had the strangest feeling that he was the only one who heard them.
They rang and rang and rang, and he was suddenly, painfully reminded of a woman in white tulle, of enormous hats, of funny lamps and droning voices, of monsters all dressed up in beautifully tailored tuxedos.
~&~
She took her time walking back, scuffing Martha's old sandals along the ground, letting her arms swing freely and admiring the greenery all around her.
It was taking time, but she was finally beginning to appreciate the country. There was something... something most complicated in the air, some... refreshing pureness that puzzled her now. How could anything be that perfect, how was it possible, why did perfection frighten her so much?
The Kents had been wonderful, she reflected. Welcoming, unassuming, considerate, not what she was used to, exactly what she needed.
She swallowed her guilt, biting her lips. She hadn't meant to stay so long. She would move on, soon, she would go... she'd just wanted to sink into their kindness for a little while, let herself be loved a little... the reasons for leaving still stood.
The past month had been... unbelievable. And she still had to leave.
She was living in some sort of bubble, pretending she was fine, pretending she was normal, pretending she had come to Smallville on a whim, for some sort of vacation, lengthened by necessity. She didn't know if they had noticed the bareness of her left ring finger, didn't know if they wondered at her lack of luggage, at her thinness, at the heavy dark circles under her eyes.
She didn't know if they knew about her disappearance. She didn't know if they wondered why her dress sense had suddenly disappeared, or if they noticed her by-now-prominent abdomen under the bagginess of her sweaters - though she supposed they'd have to have been blind not to.
Her stomach had bloomed into a distinct baby-shape. At almost eight months pregnant, she supposed it was to be expected.
She was... she was pleased, she supposed. She would make a good mother really, wouldn't she? Previous experiences... well, they wouldn't matter. Once the baby came, maternal instinct would take over, and... and... she'd be perfect, she'd darn the socks and bake the cookies and she wouldn't ever drink while her child was around and she'd...
She'd...
...she'd probably put the diaper on backwards, and if the child started crying she'd surely burst into tears herself... and the day he or she asked who Daddy was... if it looked like him, what would happen if it looked like him?
Martha would understand. She would be sympathetic; she would know what to do. Lois was more worried than she let herself believe, more frightened than she let herself dwell on. Martha was a mother, she had experienced this childbirth lark first-hand. She would know what to do, right? She knew what Lois would need to prepare herself for the baby... she'd know what was right...
But she would also know who the father was.
And awkward question would follow awkward question, and sooner or later, Lois would be telling her the whole story. The whole, long, sordid, sad, twisted, disgusting story. The story of the woman who was too blind to see, too weak to run, too stupid to care, until the unthinkable happened and she had no choice...
...her life as Lois Luthor.
Could she live with that? Could she live with the twist of disgust on Martha's face? Could she live with the harsh words, the gibes, the one-liners? Could she live with the cold knowledge in the other woman's eyes, the knowledge that she had let generations of her ancestors down? That she had sat back, for the first time in her life, and let a man dominate her? That she'd joined the long line of women who accepted violence because it was easier not to fight back? Could she live with that?
No. No, she couldn't. She needed a story. She needed a cover.
//You're being naive. Do you really think they haven't guessed? Do you really think it isn't blatantly obvious what you've done? Keep putting it off, Lane, it's all going to resurface in the end... they're going to draw assumptions which might not be true... they might even think it was a big mistake and call Lex for you...//
But she really didn't want to talk about it. She really didn't want to have to sit down and explain her actions, explain what he'd done to her, the many ways she'd failed...
She was ashamed, she realised belatedly. She was ashamed of her body, her baby. She was ashamed of what he had done to her.
<And well you should be,> her wife-voice piped up. <Well you should be, running away from the only stable home you ever had, giving up all security, all sanctuary, dooming your child to be born a bastard...>
Was this really her? Was she really thinking those things? What the hell was wrong with her?
Her nails dug into her palms, creating white slivers, pale crescent moons, as she forced herself to remember.
//The dress,// she thought. //Remember the dress? After that charity function? With the fencing lance? What he did? And remember Mrs Cox? And remember the day you called -//
She whimpered aloud, a tortured sound, cutting off the thought in mid-air.
//None of that. No going back. Not now.//
She sank to her knees in the middle of the field, one hand going up to her forehead, as if to hold her brain in place, as if to shake some sense into it.
Suddenly it was too much. She'd wanted to remember, remember the reasons why she'd had to leave, remember the things he'd done, but that last "remember" was too much.
//You have to go back, Lois. No doing things halfway. All or nothing.//
The cape, slashed beyond repair, the glimpse of yellow. Her tears, shining like pearls on the spandex. Her nose, buried into the silky folds, trying desperately to smell any hint of cologne, that musky smell that was him... her hands, bunching the material, rubbing it to her face, hoping that a molecule of him still clung to it...
<Your hero is gone. Don't you see, Lois? He's not coming back. He's left you. They all do, eventually.>
She hiccupped harshly, her eyes spilling over.
<Except me. I never leave. I'll always be with you. You might think you've escaped, but you never will. Not really.>
~&~
She was being moved, over rough ground, her head cradled in some sort of hollow. She tried to get her eyes open, but they were leaden weights.
She was obviously in the throes of some kind of whacked-out dream. There was no way this was happening. And that buzz of words over her head... well, she was imagining things. That was all.
~&~
Thirty minutes later, Martha Kent leant up against the doorjamb, her eyes scanning the horizon intently, searching for any sign of her son. Her shoulders sagged as her attempts once again came to nothing.
He wasn't there.
A warm hand rested on her shoulder, but she didn't turn. She didn't need to. She could feel his presence behind her, warm and solid, just like always. After thirty odd years of marriage, there were a lot of "just like always's". A lifetime full, in fact.
"He's not there." His voice came, quiet, comforting. She reached up and laid her hand over his.
"I know. I guess I just feel like I have to..."
"...keep vigil."
She fell silent. Another "just like always". They were so well shaped, so accustomed to each other that it was as if their brains were linked. They often finished each other's sentences.
"He just ran out," he said, wondering, "just ran like the wind, when we told him where she'd gone... you'd think, after such a long time separated, that he'd manage a couple more minutes without her, but no..."
If her mind was any less quick, if her heart was any less knowing, she would have been afraid to let him see the thoughts swirling in her brain. As it was, she understood that he already knew. And she knew, as she pieced the next sentence together in her brain, what answer she'd get.
"You don't think he's going to..."
"No." His answer was out before the question was over.
Her hand tightened on his gratefully. "I needed to hear that."
They sat down together, a pair, on the small bench. She fitted into him easily, laying her head on his shoulder, his arm tightening around her waist.
"This is hard," she muttered. "This is so hard. Harder than I'd ever imagined."
"We knew what would come when we took her in," he said, his voice a gruff murmur. "And we both agreed that we wouldn't change anything. That she - they - were more important than any of this."
"Oh, I know. I wouldn't change a thing." A pause. "It's still hard, though."
"Sometimes you just want to..."
"...knock their heads together."
She felt him smile against the top of her head. "I was going to say 'shake some sense into them'."
She shrugged. Couldn't win 'em all.
"Is Lois all right?"
She nodded. "Sleeping naturally."
"I've never seen anything like it. She just fell... just fell there out in the grass, like a big ol' boot knocked her over."
"One of the drawbacks of pregnancy, I suppose."
She could feel him shaking his head. "I don't know why she's trying to hide it. Why would she want to -"
"I don't think you want me to answer that."
His hand tightened at her waist. "I think I already know."
She nodded. Simply. And he stiffened.
"To think," he choked, "that anybody - any *man* - could... could..."
She nodded tightly, feeling his anger echo in the pit of her stomach even as she tried to soothe him. "Remember, now, we don't know the whole story... she wouldn't be comfortable with us knowing, maybe... we can't interfere until we know she wants us to..."
"Do you think she needs to -"
"All she needs is for us to be there for her."
"And we will be." His reply was sure.
"We will be," she agreed. No doubt about that.
The sun was high in the sky. She watched the shadows play tag in front of her.
"Clark doesn't know?"
"He doesn't need to know."
"Martha..."
"Not until she tells him."
"If she tells him."
"*When* she tells him."
He paused.
"When she tells him," he admitted finally. She closed her eyes, anticipating the next question.
"Do you think he'll be able to..."
"I hope so."
"Knowing him..."
"*Do* we know him, Jonathon?"
The arm at her waist fell slack.
"Of course we do," he said, and his voice was astonished. "He's our son. We *raised* him, we live with him -"
"Not for the last year," she reminded him gently.
He shook his head. "Still..."
"Still nothing. Something happened to our boy, Jonathon. He's all in shreds inside."
A long, fearful pause.
"Will he...?" He left the sentence unfinished, and she knew he was afraid. She sighed.
"Right now? I don't know. I think, maybe, if he lets her in, if he lets her see..."
"She could move mountains, that one."
She shook her head against the side of his neck. "Not right now. Right now, she needs to be taken care of."
"And Clark?"
"And Clark will do whatever is necessary."
"He still loves her?"
"Of course."
"And she..."
"...is the very same Lois that we knew first, in that respect."
She felt him grin. "She'll give him a hard time," he said softly.
She chuckled. "I sure hope so. He does deserve it."
"But..."
"In the end..."
"They'll be okay," they chorused.
Together, on that bench, they watched the world go by, watched the sky move overhead, watched the ants scurry in the grass below. They were so wrapped up in their own world, in their own soulmate, that they didn't even realise Lois was there until she pointed one shaking finger straight in front of her, at a tiny dot on the horizon, and asked, in a hoarse voice: "Who's that?"
~&~
His blood was pounding in his ears. Something was rushing around him with the power of a tidal wave, threatening to sweep him away if he didn't cling to the edge of his sanity as hard as he could with the tips of his fingers.
He sighed, gave up, released the rock of reason and flew away on the buzz of emotion inside him. He wasn't aware of anything but her. He was at least two yards away from her, and yet she was filling his senses. He wasn't Superman, wasn't even close, but he was engulfed in her.
He'd thought she was dead. He'd thought he'd never see her again. He'd thought he had no more chances left. He'd thought his reason for breathing was dead. He'd thought...
"Oh god," he choked finally, the first sentence he'd said to her in sixteen months, and then he was striding towards her, wanting, needing to take her in his arms, to verify her realness, to make sure she wasn't another ghost, that she was there...
His hands were nearly on her shoulders, lingering half a millimetre above the cotton of her shirt, feeling the warmth of her skin there when she jumped back. Puzzled, he looked into her face - her beautiful, *beautiful* face, so familiar and yet so new - and a bolt of sheer agony went through him at the look in her eyes.
Terror. Pure, blind terror.
She was... she was...
...she was *afraid* of him!
<The sun glinted off of the burnished white gold band around the
third finger of her left hand. He barely heard her single, stuttered
sentence - "I'm married" - ...>
Something was gnawing at the inside of his ribcage, he noted with detached surprise.
He'd given up all hope, he'd finally given up on hope, resigned himself to his bleak existence without her, and now she was here, he'd given up on her again and she was still here...
He hadn't wanted this. He hadn't wanted her to be there. Not now. Not now that he'd finally just about come to terms with his loss, come back to the shreds of his life, determined to make a fresh start. The world, his twisted fate, was once again throwing his uselessness in his face. *He'd* wanted to find her, to make her safe...
He'd wanted to be her hero again. It was a job he'd forgotten how to do, but it was heartbreakingly familiar, and he'd been so sure... She wasn't supposed to have saved herself of her own accord, she wasn't meant to be here, she wasn't meant to look so fragile, as if her atoms could drift apart at any second - no! She wasn't supposed to face him, delicate and priceless and beautiful, when his raw heart was still so unprepared for her...
And he certainly wasn't supposed to start hoping. He hadn't done that in an awfully long time. That was a room with no doors. He didn't want to be stuck in hope again. It was too hard. It was all much too hard.
He shook his head hard. This wasn't Lois. This *was not* Lois. This was a mirage. The real Lois, the real, true Lois, wouldn't have recoiled from him like that. She would have stood up and poured a blistering torrent of words over him, outlining each and every reason why he couldn't touch her. And... and...
Lois was dead, he reminded himself harshly. She was gone. It was over. No matter how many times his cruel, cruel brain called up images of her to taunt him with... she was gone. This was... this wasn't real.
It was a mirage, a dream, a fantasy.
Not real. Not now.
It couldn't be.
He stole another glance at her, and his resolve strengthened. It was working. She was fading. This wasn't Lois, this wasn't Lois at all. Lois was capable, strong, a nineties woman in every way. She didn't look as though a gust of wind would blow her away. She was too solid for that. Her face was full and tanned and healthy - not a piece of porcelain that looked as if it could crack at any second.
Lois didn't even *stand* like that. She didn't round her shoulders, she didn't wrap her arms around herself, as if to keep from drifting apart. His memory was obviously faulty. This wasn't Lois. No way was this Lois.
She was a breath of moonlight, a whisper of air, a thread of sunshine that would disintegrate at any moment. She wasn't real.
She had bright hair, he realised belatedly. Unnaturally bright hair. *Blonde* hair. Why would Lois have blonde hair? Lois had dark, lustrous strands, soft as silk, glossy, thick and straight. Another delusion of his mind. That, above all else, convinced him. There was no way it was her. No way at all.
"Clark?"
Another trick. Altogether too easy to call up that long-dormant memory, that remembered bell of her voice. He was clearly fraught and overtired and...
He should just walk past her. Right on past.
She wasn't real, right?
She wasn't real, so it couldn't be rude, couldn't be wrong to just sweep by, and then she'd cease to exist, and he'd realise that it really was a fantasy after all...
"Do it," he muttered to himself, through clenched teeth.
He tried, but of course, it didn't work. He was a fully-grown man, strong as an ox, though completely normal - and all it took to stall him was a slim hand brushing quickly against his shoulder. His entire body tingled at the fleeting contact, and he froze.
No fantasy in the world could create that effect in him.
She was real. Dear god, she was real.
Alive. Breathing. Safe.
He made an inarticulate sound, somewhere between a strangled gasp and a yelp, his heart in agony as he looked at her.
His worst nightmare. His favourite dream.
Was it essential to breathe anymore?
Did anything matter, now that she was here?
Didn't everything matter, now that she was safe?
A timid, feminine, long-lost voice was speaking somewhere, asking something, but he couldn't listen - not now. He looked desperately into her face - her beautiful, confused face - and said the very first thing that entered into his head.
"I guess this means more pie." Simple, easy, idiotic, as he wrenched his arm away and walked forward, into the kitchen, where his parents were waiting with all that was familiar and dear.
~&~
To be continued...
