Sorry for any confusion with posting a day before I said I would... next post possibly Tuesday, if not Monday 
Part Twelve"W...what?" she asked, and her voice sounded shaky to her own ears.
"I'm Superman, Lois. Or at least... I was."
Clark Kent was Superman. He wasn't dead. Clark Kent was Superman. He wasn't dead.
Superman wasn't dead. He wasn't. He was *not* dead. He was sitting right in front of her. Superman was Clark Kent. Clark Kent was Superman, and he...
He wasn't dead.
She wasn't responsible for him dying, because he wasn't dead.
Lex hadn't murdered him in the end... because he wasn't dead.
Air seemed to be thundering around her, heavy but light at the same time, and suddenly she was euphoric, tears sliding down her face in joy. He was *not* dead. He was *alive*, and he was... he was...
...powerless...
She shoved that dark creature into the back of her brain. Powers didn't matter. He was *alive*.
He was terrified, she knew; looking at him, she had the strangest feeling that he'd thought she'd be somehow *angry* - that she would be angry at him and his Superman-ness. Angry that he had lied to her for so long and plunged her into months of guilt...
...but hang on a minute.
She *was* angry. Wasn't she? She was! Surely she was! He had lied and he had somehow betrayed her, hadn't he? He had betrayed *them*, by not talking to her... and *god*, he'd let her sit there and beat herself up over causing his death, when he knew full well that wasn't possible... he'd let her suffer...
She *wanted* to be angry. She wanted storms of passion and gales of fury to pour out of her mouth. She wanted a tempest, a sea of rage, wanted enraged words to stab him into submission, wanted to see him crumple in defeat, a shadow of himself, just as she had been.
But somehow, only one sentence came out.
"You're not dead."
Weeks, months of self-torture, and now, now that she knew it had been for nothing, all she could do was state the obvious.
He shook his head very, very slowly, and she felt another avalanche of tears slide down her cheeks.
"Oh god," she choked, and suddenly she was standing and pulling him up and hugging him to her as tightly as she possibly could, around the mound of her stomach.
He was stiff, and she suddenly loosened her grip a little, terrified, but then something seemed to crack. He sagged into her, his arms encircling her, and oh, the feelings, it had been so long.
She buried her head in his neck, let herself relax as best she could and stayed there for minutes, hours, just holding onto him, reassuring herself that he wasn't going to melt away.
"You're a jerk, you know," she mumbled into the side of his neck.
"I know, Lois. Good grief, I know it too well," he groaned wretchedly in response.
"I should hate you."
"I know..."
"Why didn't you just *tell* me, Clark? My god, I thought that you were dead - that *I* had killed you - and I thought that you, Clark, didn't care..."
He pulled back a little, looking down at her. "I didn't know you were there," he said slowly. "I... I didn't remember. Not... not really. It's only starting to come back into focus... and the bits that I remembered - well, they weren't particularly true to what happened." He looked downcast, shamefaced, and she had a moment of glorying lightness - she didn't *care*! She didn't *care* what he had or hadn't remembered, what he'd thought, because it was okay now, he was with her now, and *none* of that mattered!
"And you had no idea whatsoever... of what I'd done..."
He rested his forehead against hers, closed his eyes. "A little... I mean, I dreamt of you so often... bits and pieces only, things that I didn't think made sense..." At this, a tremor went through him and he withdrew a little.
"My god," he said in apparent horror, "I *knew* - deep down - I knew and I left you there - left you to Lex..."
She shook her head. "No. From what you're telling me, you really didn't have any idea at all."
He was growing more agitated - his arms had dropped from her waist and while she watched, he started to pace.
"No - no, that day, after I'd kissed you, the last time you saw me as Clark, I thought you looked different. You sounded less than convincing. I *knew* something was wrong... and still, I left you to that monster... I only cared about myself..."
"Clark, stop this." Her hands on his face, forcing him to look at her. He was allowing her to touch him. In some corner of her mind she felt a giddy joy at that fact. "You couldn't have known. *I* pushed you away. Me. That was my choice, and I did it gladly - because if I hadn't, Lex would have killed you." She giggled, a tad hysterically. "Isn't that ironic - I tried to save you, Clark, by helping Lex hurt you, Superman. Yikes."
He pulled away from her. "But that doesn't work, Lois. He wouldn't have been able to kill me." His voice was strangely muffled. "With the whole invulnerability thing. He didn't know Clark was Superman. If I'd told you Clark was Superman, we wouldn't be in this mess. He wouldn't have been able to kill me."
"He nearly *did*!"
"But that was as Superman. He was trying to kill Superman, not Clark Kent. Before that... I should have done something..."
"There was nothing you *could* do!"
"But I should have tried..."
"How could you have, Clark? Lex had ordered me to drive you away. If you had attempted to see me, you would have made him angry with me. Who knows what might have happened?"
"I could have protected you..."
"And risked revealing your secret? No, Clark, no."
"It wasn't that important -"
"Oh, don't make me laugh."
"It wasn't as important as you."
They were both on their feet, staring at each other. Lois could feel the waves of obstinacy rolling off him, hitting her full in the chest. It took her back, to another place, a busy newsroom - happy, happy days.
"Yes as important as me." She was definite on that point. "Yes. You were as important to me as I was to you. Haven't we shown each other that? For *goodness* sake, Clark, I decided this. Me. You didn't have a choice."
"I could have stopped it..."
"Tell me *how*, Clark? If you'd started snooping around, Lex would have had us on the next plane to Paris or Australia or Timbuktu, to some impenetrable fortress. You actually did me a favour by accepting it."
"Oh god, Lois. No. How could I have?"
"It could have been worse."
He was staring at her as one demented. "How? You haven't told me what happened to *you* yet, not really. How could it have been worse?"
"He could have killed me. He could have killed my baby."
The blood drained from his face in one fell swoop.
"How - what -"
She shuddered slightly, though there was no breeze, and stared out the window.
"He doesn't know I'm pregnant," she whispered hoarsely. "He probably would have killed us, otherwise - he still can. He was planning to kill me - there was this whole escapade that I'm not going to go into - but I know for certain he was planning to murder me. That's partly why I came here."
"Lois..."
She turned to face him, and she could feel the shameful sting of tears in her eyes. She hated that. She really hated that.
"I could have faced anything." She swallowed. "I drove *everybody* away. You, Perry, Lucy, Jimmy. I had to, to keep them safe. And yes, it was hell, and yes, he caused me a great deal of pain, mentally and..." She paused, unsure how to proceed, terrified of plunging him deeper in the sea of his guilt.
"Mentally and...?" he prompted.
"And otherwise," she returned defiantly, not missing his flinch. "But I knew I couldn't let him abuse my child, Clark. No matter what else I stood - not that. Never that."
"If only I hadn't left -"
"Don't. Don’t start this."
"Lois..."
"No, Clark." She crossed the room and took his chin in her hand, making him look at her.
"I chose this," she told him firmly. "This was my decision. I married him. I have to deal with the consequences. If I hadn't chosen to obey him and drive you away, he would have found a way of killing you. Don't feed me any of that invulnerable crap," she continued as he opened his mouth to protest, "because I'm not buying it. This is the third richest man in the world we're talking about. He would have figured the connection between you and Superman, and he would have murdered you. And I - you - that would have killed me, Clark."
She looked him square in the eye. "I wanted to protect you. So I did. In more ways than you know. You had absolutely no choice in the matter. So quit making it so it's your fault. You don't always have to be the hero."
He shook his head, laughed bitterly. "I was never a hero, Lois."
"Well, you saved me, didn't you?" she asked simply.
"I *left* you -"
"Stop it!"
He closed his mouth, shook his head helplessly. "How do you do this, Lois?" His voice was a bare murmur. "How do you make everything okay? I'm supposed to be the optimist here..."
She smiled at him. "I learned from the best."
He sighed, his body quivering, and drew her into another deep hug. He was hugging her and she was hugging him and it was okay for them to do so...
"I don't deserve you," she heard mumbled over her hair, but she didn't want to dwell on that. Not right then. It was something to be taken away and treasured in the lonely days ahead.
Yes, he had saved her. He had saved her in more ways than he could ever begin to imagine. Without him, she would still be in Metropolis, still be Lex Luthor's quiet little wifey - she wouldn't even know the difference.
She *should* be furious, but the transgressions of a past life suddenly didn't seem to make a difference. He had been Superman once; she had been MadDog Lane once. She saw how he was hurting, saw how tired and pale he looked, and she ached for him. Try as she might, she couldn’t bring herself to add to that pain - couldn't bring herself to rip that wound open again. He'd - they'd - hurt too much already. He'd suffered too much because of her already.
She pulled back slightly and, more daring than she'd thought she remembered how to be, ran a finger over the moustache on his upper lip.
"This was for Europe?"
He nodded, his eyes full of regret. "I even took an alias."
She laughed, a choked sound. "Kenneth Clarkson, I know. Yeah, nobody would have figured that one out."
He dropped his head so his forehead rested against hers. "I wouldn't have won prizes for my originality, I admit." A tiny smile was quirking the corner of his mouth.
"Whereabouts in England did you stay? I mean, besides London."
He stilled. "You knew I was in London? I thought..."
She shook her head. "I knew." She let him digest that for a minute. "But you didn't go there right away, did you?"
"I went to Bromley first - that's in Kent, by the way, thought it was apt, and I wanted to stay away from the big city - but I hot-tailed it out of there when I saw an English replica of Centennial Park..."
She giggled slightly, then sobered, realising what she was doing. "Oh god. Sorry. I don't mean to laugh."
"It's okay, it's a pretty stupid reason... anyway, *then* I moved to London."
She nodded, her head against his shoulder. "I'm sorry."
"Hey. Don't be. I always wanted an excuse to wear a moustache."
She giggled, taking quiet content in his teasing.
"Do you need it anymore?"
"What?"
"The moustache."
He thought for a moment, then shook his head. "I guess not."
"Shave it off."
He leaned backwards, looking down at her. "Huh?"
"It was a disguise, right? A cover."
Slowly, he nodded.
"You don't need a disguise anymore, Clark."
He shrugged his shoulders. "Guess not."
"So shave it off. It doesn't suit you."
He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Oh, and you think your opinion matters to me, do you?" Her heart thrilled to hear the old facetious note in his voice. It had been so long...
"No, but I definitely think the fact that people are gonna think a rat crawled onto your face and died there makes a difference to you."
He stared at her for a moment, his eyes wide, and then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. She grinned, watching him enjoy himself.
When his mirth subsided, he took a single curl between his finger and thumb and rubbed it, grinning down at her.
"If I get rid of the moustache, you get rid of the hair."
"What, you have some weird preference to bald women?"
Another pause while he laughed. This felt good, this teasing. This felt... normal.
"Maybe." He grinned. "I could compromise, though. Leave the actual hair, just get rid of the dye."
She pouted up at him. "You don't think I'm a good blonde?"
He pulled a face, and she giggled. "Okay, okay, point taken. No disguises."
He looked thoughtful for a minute. "No disguises - not even a pair of sunglasses?"
"No." Her tone was definite. "No more hiding."
"Okay," he agreed softly. "No more hiding."
"I mean it, Clark." There was a warning note in her voice as she looked up at him.
He nodded. "No hiding. Not now, not ever again."
"Deal."
"Now - how about a fresh cup of coffee? Partner?" The word sounded like an afterthought, and she caught her breath at the bittersweetness of those two syllables.
She linked her arm through his and smiled brilliantly, the gesture belying the weakness in her knees. "Sounds good to me. Partner."
Arm in arm, they waltzed the short distance to the counter-top, and they made coffee.
~&~
~One Month Later~Lois stood still and stared blankly at the plughole, where the dirty yellow water was draining away. She knew that the dye was trickling out of her hair, but still she had the unpleasant feeling that she was getting dirtier in the shower rather than cleaner.
The past month had been wonderful, she admitted as she stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around herself. Once Clark had told his story, the air had been cleared and everything was okay again.
Martha had been especially solicitous. Lois had forgotten what a love like that felt like, what a mother could do, what miracles she could work. She dreamed of being like that someday - being an anchor in an otherwise chaotic world, loving and being loved unconditionally, baking cookies and darning socks and...
...and she had no *example* to go by! Her baby would hate her, as she'd hated her own mother growing up...
//Stop it!//
She paused in the process of towelling off, her hand drifting down to her eight-month-pregnant stomach, fingers stroking fitfully there, and she thought of how much she loved her child already, how she would fight and fight and never give in just so it would be happy.
She'd been a fool to think that she could give herself up. She couldn't live like a shadow, she couldn't pretend to be less than full of stubbornness and fire and everything that was important to her. She'd been afraid of that, she'd been afraid of what he'd do to her because of it. She'd been afraid to die when she hadn't been living.
A dreamy smile floated across her mouth as she thought of them all, the Kents, how good they'd been, how kind. How Jonathan had fixed the lock on her door before she'd even asked. How Martha was constantly piling fruit and cakes and cornbread and buttermilk on her. And... Clark...
How... how helpful Clark had been. How polite.
How he'd driven her to Wichita just to see a doctor, how he'd held her hand through it, how he'd asked her in complete seriousness whether she wanted him to pretend he was her husband, to save suspicion.
How he'd watched the baby on the little screen, a miracle, a tiny little bundle, how incredible it had been, how the tears had poured down her face. How he'd squeezed her fingers tightly in his own and held her close and made her feel safe and protected. How the doctor had assumed he was the father, how he hadn't contradicted her.
How distant he'd been afterwards. How brusque. How he'd avoided contact with her ever since.
She ached for him, for the loss of his personality, the sheer vibrancy about him that had affected her since the first time she'd met him. He'd been so remote, the past few days, as if his smiles and greetings were something expected of him, purely perfunctory. It was as if suddenly he'd snapped back inside his shell, and no amount of prising would get him back out.
The same old story, she thought bitterly. Clark Kent promised her everything, and then when push came to shove, he didn't deliver.
Turning around, she gasped sharply as she caught sight of her reflection, her train of thought sharply derailed. Swallowing, she fingered a large welt on the top of her right thigh. It wasn't so tender now - in a while it would disappear completely. She traced a pink scar up her side, frowning slightly. In time that would be a silver-white ghost, imperceptible to all senses but touch.
Her fingers trailed lightly over the skin of her abdomen, and she smiled at the eight-months-pregnant mound that had risen there, thinking of the child that was sleeping within. She was no longer thin around her pregnancy, a result of Martha's cooking. The baby was making her insatiably hungry.
Further up, she frowned. Her hair was disgusting - the dye wasn't washing out properly, probably a testament to the store she had bought it at. Dirty-looking brown patches were scattered amongst the blonde like enormous pockmarks. She looked washed-out, pale and sickly.
She was tired of it. She was tired of the wounds, the scars, the red pustule of skin stretched across the palm of her left hand, tired of the doughy texture around her left ring finger where her wedding rings had once clung. She was tired of feeling lonely, of being that person halfway between Lois Lane and Lois Luthor. She wanted herself back.
She wanted *him* back. Just the way it had always been, the two of them, working, thinking, laughing, a partnership.
Sighing, she headed back into the shower. She had to stop aching. She had to pull herself together. With or without Clark Kent.
A few more shampoos should do it.
~&~
He was sitting in the kitchen reading the Star when she appeared in the doorway with her hair a mass of brunette shine. It blinded him and formed such an abscess in his heart that he didn't even think of disobeying when she crooked a finger at him, a quizzical frown on her forehead.
That was how he'd come to be standing in the bathroom with the door open, staring at himself in the mirror with a pristine razor in one hand and a can of shaving foam in the other.
"So, how exactly do I do this?"
He heard the dubiousness in his own voice, he could see her looking at him oddly in the bathroom mirror. He gave her a self-deprecating grin. "Hey, I've never done it the old-fashioned way before."
She shook her head. "I guess not."
He caught the uncertainty in her tone, felt a little apprehension grab him. "Look, wait, Dad'll be home in a few minutes..."
"What, and miss the opportunity to see that... that *thing*... reduced to a hairy pile of foam? Not a chance, Kent!"
He laughed freely, in a way he'd almost forgotten. She put both hands on his shoulders, and smiling, he allowed her to steer him around the small room and down onto the closed seat of the toilet. She leant back, surveying his face intently, in a way that made him flush, then ran a warm, damp washcloth over his upper lip.
His hand caught her wrist gently. "Lois, I don't think this is a good idea... let me do it."
She raised an eyebrow at him. "Clark, you've been procrastinating about this for a whole month now. For heaven's sake..."
"No, I really will do it this time -"
"You said that the *last* time!"
He fell silent. Yes, he'd said it the last time, and the time before that... somehow he always found himself backing out at the last minute. That blade, near his skin...
"Besides, I can't stand looking at that thing for another second." Her tone had skipped from stern to facetious without losing a beat. "It has to come off, Clark, really."
He nodded. "Okay, okay," and, needing no further encouragement, she came at him brandishing a pair of scissors.
He closed his eyes slightly as she snipped at his upper lip. "Why, exactly, do you have to *cut* it before you shave it off?"
He could feel her leaning back slightly, some foolish part of him cried for the loss of her closeness. "You've really never done this before, have you?" she said, her voice wondering. He shook his head.
She cleared her throat and recommenced. "You have to get rid of the longer hairs first. You don't want to gum up the razor."
"Ah."
"Why *did* you keep it for so long, Clark?" She was so close to him, he could reach out and touch her if he wanted to.
He shrugged. "At first, out of negligence. Like I said, I didn't really know *how* to. By the time I noticed it, I didn't want to look like Clark Kent anymore, so it was... handy."
"You didn't want to look like Clark Kent?"
He didn't want to look like the man she'd rejected, like the man who'd left her behind. He didn't want to *be* Clark Kent.
He couldn't possibly explain. He let his shoulders rise and fall again, an easy movement. "I didn't want anybody to recognise me."
She paused slightly, took a breath.
"Do you want to look like Clark Kent now?"
Did he want to do that? Did he want to go back, to be that person again, the ordinary man who loved her so desperately?
"That's why I'm letting you do this, isn't it?" His voice was very gruff. He cleared his throat.
Her swallow was audible. "I guess."
He looked at her for a second, let his eyes warm on her face.
"Close your mouth, buster."
He shut it obediently, enjoying the sensation of the cool foam against his skin.
"How do *you* know how to do this, anyway?" he asked idly, eyes shut, trying to distract himself. He felt her stiffen next to him - his eyes shot open in one sharp movement. "Lois?"
She said nothing, but her face was like stone. He touched her hand very gently with one finger, watching her relax slightly in relief. He saw her swallow, then she turned away and picked up the razor.
"He didn't have a steady hand after he'd been drinking," she said calmly, and he didn't pursue it any further.
Then she turned, and the light flashed against the blade of the razor in her hand. He swallowed slightly, his eyes stuck to that one spot, the gleam, the sharpness, the...
She'd noticed his involuntary shudder. "You ready?" she asked with a frown, and he nodded. He couldn't help it. He did trust her - after everything, he trusted her.
He kept his eyes open while she worked, watching her face, a half-grin sitting there on his mouth. Her eyes were focused, and he allowed himself to scan her face closely, basking in the glow of her cheek. She looked so much healthier now; this was surely a good sign. A corner of her tongue poked out of her mouth in concentration, he thought it was adorable.
A little later, she leant back. "Now. That's a whole lot better. You almost look normal."
"Praise indeed." She was teasing him, she was standing there, actually teasing him!
Her hand caught his chin, and he allowed her to turn his head from side to side, inspecting her handiwork.
Finally, she smiled, tapped him lightly on his cheek, then turned around and set about washing her hands at the small sink.
He watched her sneakily, his eyes stuck to her hair, glued to it. He hadn't allowed himself to dwell on it before. How sleek it was, how shiny, how much more it suited her like that, just about stretching to the base of her neck. How familiar she now looked. He felt the falling sensation again.
No! No, stop that, that was dangerous, that was *everything* he didn't need! Stop it, Kent, stop it...
He stood up, the towel falling off his shoulders, and moved out of the room, electricity crackling off him. He could feel her staring after him, he could only pray she wouldn't ask...
"Where are you going?"
He mumbled something about having to do work on the farm, his brain screaming at him. Bad situation, get out, abort, evacuate!
Through the hurried confusion in his ears he heard her bark something, and somehow she'd scuttled around him and then she was standing in front of the open door, her arms folded, an expression of sheer outrage on her face.
He took a breath, looked into her eyes, and nearly screamed in terror. There, shining back at him, alive and kicking... Mad Dog Lane.
~&~
to be continued...
