TOC Part NineOh god. Oh god oh god oh god. No. No. Please. Not him. Not here. Not now. Please.
She'd thought she was over this. She'd thought he was long gone, forgiven, forgotten, finished, done. He'd left the country, for *goodness* sake...
It had been... how many months? To her, it seemed an age away, but maybe he hadn't had the same problem. She was easy to forget - her parents had taught her that. He didn't look very melancholic, anyway, or very lovelorn. Just sad and tired.
She'd thought he was a ghost of her former life that had disintegrated along with the rest of it. She'd thought he was... was...
She'd thought he wouldn't be here, dammit!
But he *was* there. Sitting across the table from her, alive, breathing, sturdy, safe. He was there, he was real, dear god, he was Clark Kent again, reborn, come back to her. Of all the people in the world, she'd never in her wildest dreams imagined she'd run into him. Not even in his own home had she imagined she'd run into him.
/Liar,/ her mind berated her silently, but she shushed it, not wanting to recognise the true reason she'd flown to the Kents, not wanting to confront that emotion, it was altogether too hard.
Anyway, point was, he *was* here. And so was she. And *she* was the invader this time, horning in on his home ground, infecting his privacy and ruining his peace. She was the ghost here. Not him. He'd never been a ghost. He was too solid for that.
He was staring at her. In fact, she realised belatedly, he'd been staring at her for quite a time now. What was he thinking? Was he sitting there, silently hating her for stirring up all these memories?
/Cocky, Lois. You were always so cocky./
She swallowed. For once, her inner voice was speaking the truth. Why would she stir up any memories at all for him? He'd left her, hadn't he? He'd gone away, and he hadn't even looked back. Why would the sight of her elicit sadness or pain or joy or lo - any of that? He didn't feel anything for her. Not any more. He'd made that painfully clear.
<What are you really thinking? Why do you look so frightened? What's he doing to you? Don't lie to me, Lois, please god, I never wanted you to have to lie to me... if there's anything wrong, *please* tell me, I'll help you...>She swallowed harshly, banishing the memory. That had been a lifetime ago, back when she'd had no choice, back when he'd loved her a little, or thought he did. That didn't mean... that didn't prove anything.
He was still staring at her, and now he was opening his mouth as if to speak.
"Lois," he began, and she shivered to hear that hoarseness in his voice, it had been so long. He cleared his throat, tried again. "Lois... I'm so glad to see you... I've been so worried, you have no idea..."
Oh, the feelings. That he still cared. That he *worried*. She wasn't alone after all, someone still thought of her.
She trembled in terror, fought down the rising tide of feelings. That was *all* wrong! Completely and absolutely! She did... she did stupid things when she felt like that. It wasn't... it wasn't safe.
"Oh, really?" Her tone indicated surprise and carelessness, she hoped and hoped it did. "That was nice of you. No need to, though." She forced a chuckle.
His brow was furrowed, she noted, panicked. He was looking at her like she was sprouting antlers. God, no, no questions, don't let him ask any questions, please...
"So how've you been?" She headed him off at the pass, determined to make this work. "I haven't been paying much attention, I'm afraid - how's the career going? How come you're down from Metropolis?"
She noticed his withdrawal with a wince. Maybe that would register with him, maybe it would hurt him. He couldn't know that she knew exactly when he'd left Metropolis, that she'd known when he started writing for the Independent in London, how she'd printed out every single article and hidden them where she was sure Lex couldn't find them.
How she'd pored over them, those hidden moments, the creased paper, soaking up his familiar style. She'd noticed the change, noticed the deterioration of his excellence. In her madder moments, she liked to think that he missed her, that his writing reflected that. It was a comfort to cradle within her.
He coughed, bringing her back to the present. "I... um... haven't been living in Metropolis."
"Oh?" Her tone spoke of polite curiosity but no real interest.
He nodded, watching her carefully. "Lois..."
"I'm great, thanks," she interrupted. She indicated her stomach. "Preparing, you know..."
To her left, Jonathan choked on a mouthful of tea, but she barely registered the coughing attack that followed. Clark's gaze flickered to her bump, and silently she thanked whatever deity was listening for the unease men felt around pregnant women. Surely he wouldn't ask her any hard questions now.
No, he definitely didn't look up to asking questions, she noted with no small degree of surprise. For the first time, she allowed herself to really look at him. His face was ashen, and the *stubble*... eww! That would definitely have to go. She'd make him get rid of it, she decided, another lapse in sanity.
Some remote distant part of her brain noticed his parents making excuses, leaving, she sent out a thousand thanks to them both, as her eyes kept scanning the planes of his face. His eyes... his eyes were still as comforting and warm and friendly and beautiful and lov - kindly as they'd always been.
At least... they *had* been all of those things, outside - they'd flashed at her, they'd made her think he was somehow glad to see her.
Not for the first time, she cursed herself for her reflexive reaction. His sudden movement had called up too many violent memories, and she'd recoiled automatically, without even thinking about it. She hadn't missed the withdrawal in his eyes. For that hesitance, she hated herself. Why did she always have to suck the joy out of him, couldn't she leave him alone, ever?
She looked at him full in the face, a dangerous venture, and yes, there was a certain degree of iciness in those eyes now. He inclined his head a little sharply, towards her stomach, and suddenly she felt a little ashamed for her brazen attempt at distraction. It wasn't what you'd call a delicate situation, especially considering the baby's father.
//Way to go, Lane,// she applauded silently, hating herself.
"Congratulations." Those eyes were cool now, and distant, but he was still a gentleman. Hurting, but protecting her.
"So tell me," he continued, a certain bite in his tone now, "what's Lois Luthor -" She winced, not quite able to believe the reaction those words drew from her. " - what's Lois Luthor doing in Hicksville? I thought this was the very last place on earth you'd contemplate visiting? What was it, you said... that you'd rather walk naked down Main Street in January than visit my hometown?"
<Really? I'm seeing farmers in overalls discussing hog futures. Let Clark go. I'll stay behind and watch for Superman...>She winced, then forced a shaky laugh. "Oh, you know... I thought to relax... to get away from it all..."
"You came a thousand miles to a backwater little town to relax? Surely Hawaii would be a more suitable bet for the wife of a billionaire?"
That was twice he'd mentioned her marriage now.
"I... I don't know. I guess... I..."
"What?" His eyes were cool, regarding her, and she had a sudden, petrifying thought - 'He knows.'
"I'm doing a story for LNN," she blurted. Quick and easy. Altogether too easy.
"You don't work at LNN any more." She froze, her muscles locking, screaming at her. "You quit four months after you got -"
"I'm a freelance," she interrupted, terrified, willing that word back down his throat. She couldn't hear that. "I do a few stories occasionally..."
"I haven't seen one from you in months."
Damn. He'd done his homework.
She didn't pause to reflect on that, didn't wonder at how he still knew so much about her.
"Maybe you haven't been looking hard enough," she replied tartly. She had to be rude. She had to push him away. Again.
"Anyway, I'm doing a story. You know - the EPA cleanup, the rock you found? I was looking at the article you wrote recently..." she continued desperately. He was looking to her as if she were some new and repulsive type of fungus.
//Think, dammit! The EPA thing... Jason Trask...//
"That rock," she babbled, "its properties... I'd be interested to know. Superman hasn't been seen in months..."
Clark winced as if she'd kicked him in the teeth.
"A, Superman disappeared over sixteen months ago. B, nobody knows whether the 'rock' was real or a figment of Trask's imagination. C, Superman if finished, gone, dead," he ground out, his eyes sparking.
The cape... the spandex... pearly tears glistening there on the fabric...
"It would be better if you just forgot he ever existed." He was angry. Why was he so angry?
"How do you know?" she challenged.
"I'm a journalist," he responded icily, his eyes boring into hers. "I have sources. I was Superman's friend. I have the facts."
She heard the hidden meaning in there, behind the words.
I didn't abandon him. I didn't drive him to his death. He knew, didn't he? He knew it all. Inside her, a flower withered and died. Slowly, she threw the last of her hope away.
"Facts? Care to share?" She tried her hardest to keep her voice light, hoping he wouldn't hear the desperation.
He folded his eyes, leant away from her, as if disgusted at her desperateness. "Don't think so, Lois. I'll be looking for a job pretty soon. You're the competition."
She swallowed, her heart twisting. "I guess," she muttered, looking down, too quickly to notice the tide of confusion that passed across his face at her meek response.
A long silence reigned. Desperate to break it, she made as if to get up. His eyes flashed fire at her.
"Sit down," he said firmly. She was too weak to stand up to such a display of power - unwillingly, she sat. Again the wave of confusion rushed across his face, again she didn't notice it.
He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table. "I'll cut the crap if you will," he said, evenly. She recoiled, her mouth opening. Good grief, had Clark Kent just cursed?
"What do you... what... why..."
"I said, I'll cut the crap -" He cursed again! Twice in the space of two seconds! Clark Kent was cursing freely in her presence! "-if you will. Deal?"
She straightened up, lifting her chin, trying to act like someone who had an ounce of self-respect in her body. "I'm not..."
"Yes you are."
She stared at him, enraged. "No I'm -"
"You are." He sighed. "Guess this is gonna take a while."
A long silence reigned cruelly over the kitchen table, but Lois was glad. She feared the moment when the silence would break. She didn't want the silence to break. She was afraid.
"There have been reports," he started at last, speaking very slowly, as if to a child, "of your death on the news."
She started, a bolt of electricity going through her. "There have?"
He nodded grimly, his eyes never leaving her face. "There's also been a search. A pretty conclusive search. Lasting a month, in fact. Thorough. Forensic reports. Top detectives called in. You know, the usual procedure when somebody's missing, presumed dead."
"Oh." She stared at her hands, playing with her wedding rings, squeezing them so the diamond bit into her flesh. God, she hated wearing them - but she had to. To keep up the pretence. "How... how'd that happen?"
"There was a dress."
She faltered. Dammit, this was what she'd wanted to happen, wasn't it? Why was she suddenly so ashamed of her actions? What was wrong with her?
"A dress with blood all over it. Your blood."
She swallowed. "Well, this is obviously a mistake, because I didn't get blood on any dress..."
"Don't lie to me, Lois. There've been so many forensic reports, there's no doubt it was you. I remember the one - it was white. You wore it to see me, one day in the park."
She shook her head, training her gaze firmly downward. "I don't know what you're talking about. There's obviously been a huge mistake. I just needed a vacation, I don't know anything about any dress..."
"You're lying." His tone was scornfully disbelieving, and she swallowed again. Why did she care so much? Why was she caring about what he said, what he did? She thought she'd stopped caring about him months ago, a lifetime ago. She'd tried her hardest to stop caring about him, when he'd left her.
"You faked it, didn't you? You faked your own death."
She injected as much iciness in her voice as she could, dragging her eyes up to meet his with a huge effort. "Don't be ridiculous."
He made another sharp movement, her heart leapt wildly inside her chest but she managed to contain it that time. He rested both elbows on the table and stared at her, a gimlet gaze, and suddenly she felt ridiculously immature, a giddy schoolgirl in the principal's office.
"What other explanation is there? You're suddenly in Smallville, you're pregnant, you're a... a *blonde*," he spat, as if her hair was somehow repulsive to him, "your 'death' has made international news and yet you claim to know nothing about it... what do you expect me to think, Lois? What did he *do* to you? Why are you here?"
"I told you, I'm here to write a story. And you... you're not my husband." She shivered, trying to force some anger into her voice. Dammit, this was hard. "You have no right to do this to me..."
"Do what? Ask you why you're here, stirring up all kinds of hell with my parents and terrifying me three ways from Sunday? I have more of a right to know than anybody else!"
She rolled her eyes. "Don't flatter yourself."
"I'll expose you, Lois," he said, his voice suddenly very quiet, eyes chips of granite. "I'll expose you as a liar, to the world, and you'll be stuck then..."
Suddenly the anger came, flooding all at once, exactly when she needed it. "How dare you? How *dare* you even think you have the right... *any* right... you... you left me, Clark! You left me behind, and you gave up any merit in my eyes when you did so. It's your fault I'm in this mess..."
All the colour drained from his face, and suddenly she realised that she'd said too much. Clamping her mouth shut, she sat deeper in her chair, feeling suddenly sweaty.
"So you did run. You didn't die, you just left him." His voice was smugly satisfied, she wanted to hit him.
"What is this, an interrogation? What, are you gonna start breaking my fingers next?" She flung her hand out for him, fixing him with a glare that would have stopped elephants. "Go right ahead."
It happened in an instant. His hotly furious gaze dropped to her palm, and as one in a daze, she watched as every drop of blood in his face seemed to leach away. She gasped, realising her mistake, and made to withdraw her hand, but he was too quick for her. He grabbed her wrist, forcing her to spread her fingers, his grasp like steel but strangely tender at the same time.
He held her palm up, an exploration from all angles. As if her body was conspiring against her, the blood caught in her hand by his fingers started to throb through her veins, and yet again the wound burst open. It had been opening and re-opening for so long, forever broken by the convulsive movements of her fingers every time she forgot it was there.
She watched his eyes follow the droplets down past the heel of her hand and onto his, unable to read the expression on his face. Eventually he looked up at her, and his eyes were strangely moist.
"Good god, Lois," he croaked hoarsely, and then he up in one quick movement. She watched him bustle around the kitchen in amazement. In an impossibly short amount of time, he was back, with a bowl of lukewarm water, a damp towel and a selection of band-aids.
He didn't say anything to her, just grasped her wrist lightly with his long fingers and stroked the damp cotton across the wound. She winced slightly, the liquid stinging her, and she hoped that he couldn't feel her pulse thrumming wildly under her skin.
She was awed by his peculiar tenderness, but still, when he reached for the cotton padding and band-aids, she withdrew her hand and shook her head. "It needs to bleed, Clark," she said, quietly, and watched him as he nodded. Wondering if he truly appreciated the truth of that. People needed to bleed. Bleeding helped, it reminded you that you were human, that you could feel pain and sadness and overwhelming need. When you weren't allowed to bleed, you forgot things, and forgetting things wasn't healthy.
A long silence stretched out over them, but this one was more... peaceful, somehow. She knew he was surveying her; she let him, sat back and closed her eyes, knowing he saw the marks of her time with Lex. She wanted it to show. She didn't want to be beautiful. She wanted people to look at her and gasp; she hoped she bore the weight of those sixteen months. How could something look so perfect and be so twisted? How could she look like she was still Lois Lane and always be Lois Luthor inside?
"I'm sorry," she whispered finally, when the silence began to weigh too heavily on her. "I'm sorry for yelling." She didn't want to see him, basked in the purpleness in front of her eyes, wouldn't open them, refused to.
"It's just a little difficult, coming back here, seeing you, knowing you know... I didn't want this to happen; that's why I lied..."
It was a dreadful pity her eyes were closed. If she'd flashed a look at him, she would have jumped at the look that passed across his face; puzzlement, realisation, understanding, and finally, a sense of realisation; he could learn more if he kept his mouth shut.
A big fat tear rolled off the bridge of her nose.
She almost yelped when he slid down next to her, putting an awkward arm around her heaving shoulders, it had been so long.
"Lois... aw, Lois, please don't cry..." Her heart thrilled at the Old Clark Kent in his voice, the friend she'd had once.
"You must think I'm a monster," she hiccupped, wiping her tear-stained cheeks.
"I would never think that," he corrected her gently.
"I didn't want to lie, but I couldn't take you knowing... I thought you *didn't* know... but you do, and now you must think I'm such a deceitful little... I slept with the bastard... put his ring on my finger... and then..."
"Then? Then what?"
~&~
He was confused, she was intoxicating him to the point of dizziness, they were so close now. Dimly, he heard her babbling, he knew it was important, he tried to listen.
He could only wonder.
"I was surviving," came the bitter, broken whisper. "I wouldn't let him rule me. I was still *me*, inside. But then... then..."
He froze, she had all his attention now. He wasn't focusing on the cotton-clad skin beneath his arm, he wasn't focusing on the scent of her bright - blonde, she was a blonde, yet another thing he didn't understand about her - hair, her warmth around him, he was apart from all that. "Then... what?" His voice was a hoarse murmur.
"He was right about me. I *am* worthless... scum... the lowest life force there is... Superman is dead," she said, her voice wobbling. "He's dead, and it's all my fault... the cape, Clark..."
<You won't be needing this anymore...>"Cape?" His mouth was opening, saying stupid things, and he couldn't stop it.
"In our bed, all ripped... and there was *blood*, Clark, so much blood... all over, stuck to the fabric, like nothing I'd ever *seen*..."
He raised a hand to his nose, his cheek, fragments spinning around him.
"I bled..." His voice was a torn whisper, and some tiny part of his brain was infinitely grateful that she was too wrapped up in her own horror to hear it.
Metallic, the taste in his mouth. Dull copper rusting on the steel blade, a broken scream, waking in the pool, in his hair, down his front, drying and cracking on his face...
There was a buzz of words over his head but he didn't hear them properly, so wrapped up in those fleeting memories...
"All my fault..."
Tears. So many tears. Pooling into his eyes. Dribbling down his suit. Tears.
"His eyes, watching me... didn't say a word, just watched me there, alone, crying..."
His throat torn apart by hacking coughs, his mouth filled with dust, the sickly green glow, the pain, the pain.
"You saw Superman die?" His voice, hoarse, growling.
"Worse." She was shaking now, her eyes huge. "Worse."
"You know what happened to Superman?"
She started, her eyes trembling up to look into his, her mouth opening. One hand caught a piece of her hair and twisted.
"You saw it? You know what happened? All of it?"
"What, you want a blow-by-blow account?" she bit savagely, desperately, and he winced.
"I'm not trying to pry," he muttered. "I just..."
"Why are you doing this, Clark?" she cried. "Don't you think I've suffered enough? Want to raise the bar a little, want to remind me of what I've done?"
He recoiled, his mouth opening.
"I'm pregnant!" She nearly screamed it, and he felt the colour drain from his face in one fell swoop. "I'm pregnant, and I'm alone, and I have about twenty dollars to my name, and --" She gulped, her teeth clinking against each other, "-- and if Lex catches me, he'll probably kill me, and..."
A cold sweat broke out on his forehead.
He shook his head wildly, banishing the memories. He needed to focus on Lois, Lois possibly needed him, he could help this time.
"I wouldn't let him *touch* you." His voice was very definite, until she turned to look at him, raised her eyes to his, met his gaze properly, for the first time. He very nearly yelped, but managed to sustain it.
Her eyes carried the weight of whatever hell she'd endured for sixteen months. Her eyes were bottomless, reflecting the ocean, though they were a hundred miles away from any sea. Her eyes were so heavy, he was surprised they didn't drop out of her head, surprised she could bear to raise her eyelids. With a shock, he realised that she'd suffered as much, if not more, as he had. It was like an icy hand around his heart.
"You couldn't stop him." Her eyes were so sad. "Not even Superman could stop him."
"I'd find a way." He said it quietly, and in that instant, he knew it was true. Knew he'd go to hell and back for her. Knew that perhaps he already had.
"I can't believe you can sit here with me," she whispered, her eyes huge. "I can't understand how you don't hate me."
Late, his apartment, his razor tears ripping the air around him, her image dancing, soft curves under flimsy blue fabric, his curses, how he wished he'd never known her...
But he hadn't meant that. Never. Never never never.
"I could never hate you, Lois," he said simply, and it was true.
"What do you want me to do?" she asked him, very quietly, and his heart screamed at the trust in those heavy eyes.
"I... I don't know," he said, confused by the question and the answer, confused by the pent-up longing he felt, a longing he couldn't bear to look at too closely for fear it'd engulf him.
She stared at her hands. "I didn't want you to know," she said dully. "I didn't want you to know anything about this. That's why I lied."
"I'm not sure if I want to know either," he said softly, his head spinning. Wasn't that strange? He wasn't sure if he *wanted* her to tell him what had happened. Surely, if he was anyway normal at all, he'd want to fill that empty space, he'd want to know how he'd lost his powers. Surely his... journalistic side, his investigative side would *need* to know what had happened.
Maybe he was better off not knowing. Maybe people didn't *need* to know things like this, things that could potentially hurt them. Maybe that was everybody's problem, they were too caught up in the past, they couldn't move on, snared rabbits in a million traps.
"I don't blame you, Clark... I really want you to know that. I... I don't *blame* you for not wanting to know any of this..."
His head shot up, she was making no sense at all. "What do you mean?"
"He was... he was a friend of yours, and I... I *killed* him, murdered him, it was all my fault..."
Through the roaring in his ears, he made some sense out of her words. She somehow thought he was dead, that she had killed a man, when it was plain she hadn't, when the dead person was sitting right next to her, she just didn't know it.
He should tell her. He should tell her everything, right now.
<If you had no powers at all, if you were just an ordinary man, I would love you just the same...>He shivered, shook his head, terrified. All these things he'd blocked out were suffocating him, all the things Clark should have felt over sixteen months, all the things Kenneth had suppressed.
Could he take it? Could he take her knowing? Knowing that the hero she'd idolised for so long was only, after all, her partner, her best friend?
//Her *one time* partner, *one time* best friend...//
Could he add another weight to her eyes, another man who disappointed her, another person who was indifferent to her, sometimes? Could he handle her disgust at the betrayal? Could he survive with her knowing what he'd done to her, without even *realising* it?
He looked at her, sitting there, Ocean Eyes, she had been the sum total of his dreams once-upon-a-time. Her blond, dark-rooted hair, her rounded stomach, strange, unfamiliar, scary, precious, beautiful. Could he bear to lose her again? To somebody who didn't even exist anymore? *Could* he bear it, could he stand to have her walk out of his life again, his fault this time, no loss of memory, nothing to hide behind?
This... this Superman thing was redundant. Not important. Right?
But... it was *killing* her. And surely if he still felt so much for her, if he still loved her, her happiness would be the most important factor in this whole problem? Surely her peace of mind should come before all else? Wasn't that exactly what love was; caring about somebody more than you cared about yourself?
No, he had to tell her.
His mind went back to what she'd said, minutes ago.
I killed him. I murdered him. But... why would she think that? Why? What had he fed her? What...
That dark space in the back of his brain. Things he didn't remember. He didn't remember how he'd lost his powers. He didn't remember. Which suggested trauma. Suggested horror. Suggested something being blocked out. Suggested deep and terrible pain, beyond the comprehension of everyone but the person who was feeling it.
Like betrayal. Like... like...
Fed her. Lex Luthor, feeding his wife stuff about Superman. But... but...
What if it had been the other way around?
What if... what if... what if *she'd*... done something? What if she had... had... helped? In some way? Helped Luthor strip him of his powers?
He took a second to rake through the war zone of his memories, delicately. There were landmines buried here, he knew, and... and...
Lois. Lex. Lois. Lex. Kryptonite, there was Kryptonite in there somewhere.
He... he remembered something... remembered Lois... calling him. Somehow. Calling him there... calling him to... to help. To help. Her.
She'd... said that Luthor was abusing her...
And he'd promised to help, and then... Lex... had Kryptonite with him... and... she... he...
He shook his head wildly, madly. It couldn't have happened. It was impossible. Utterly impossible. It was... was...
But he couldn't shake that image. Of him, hugging a tearful Lois, being so angry that she could have been in pain... of promising to help her in any way he could... of Luthor standing over him with Kryptonite in his hand, threatening him... of Lois's eyes, very very wide in her pale face, staring down at him... not doing anything to help.
And he wouldn't have ventured into that... stinking nest if she hadn't called him.
If she hadn't called him.
Very quickly, his arm shot from around her shoulders and he moved an inch away from her.
Her tearstained face was looking up at him. Her tearstained face, she hadn't been this upset when she'd lured him to his death.
"You killed Superman." He searched her face, looking for signs of confusion, of anger, even. He saw blank submissiveness, timidity even, and nothing else.
She bowed her head. "Yes."
The world whirled around his ears. He was turned to ice, a cold so bitter it burned, he was burning, burning till he thought he'd scream with the sheer pain of it.
And he was up. And he was out. And he was running. Faster than he'd ever thought it was possible to run.
Running. Away. Running away. From the woman he'd loved. From the woman he'd gone to hell for. From the woman he'd come back for.
From the woman who'd betrayed him, coolly, casually, without a second thought, to her husband.
He didn't give a damn what happened to her now.
~&~
To be continued... 
