As you will quickly be able to discern, this is my first FoLC fic -- actually, my first fanfic of any kind. But I recently ran across a story by Lynn M.; and after encountering its delightful -- and totally unexpected -- ending, the Muse caught hold of me, and this is the result. This piece builds on that ending, and I hope I may be forgiven for expanding on Lynn's concept. [Spoiler warning: I don't want to be too specific in this foreword; please see the afterword at the end of the story for the full attribution.]
As usual, this story is solely for fun, and not for profit. The characters which are recognizably the property of December 3rd Productions, remain so. Any characters not claimed by Lynn are mine.
Cherub, by Snave
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Today:
"Thanks, Mama," Emma Kent said solemnly as she received the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich from her mother. She waited while the obligatory glass of milk was poured, then slid into a seat at the kitchen table to enjoy the after-school snack.
Lois Lane smiled down at her daughter while clearing away the sandwich makings. Emma was in the middle of a growth spurt; and Lois and Clark were hard-pressed to keep her in clothes that still fit. Of course, a six-year-old just starting first grade needed to look her best; but it would be nice if the shirts, jeans and sneakers had a chance to show a *little* wear before being outgrown.
She suppressed a chuckle as Emma scarfed down the sandwich, reminding Lois of the stories with which Martha had regaled her regarding Clark's appetite at that age.
"As soon as you're done there, you can go up to your room and get in some quality play time, while we wait for your daddy to get home. If you get your room cleaned, you can watch that video you got for your birthday last winter."
"Okay," agreed Emma, as she washed down the remainder of the sandwich with the rest of her milk, then squirmed with impatience as her mother held out the damp paper towel for her to clean the damage off her face and hands. This done, she went over to the entertainment cabinet, pulled out the video, and headed upstairs to her room. Lois' eyes followed her thoughtfully. While Emma had her share of rambunctiousness, she had lately been more than usually sober. Perhaps she worried about keeping the family secret. She had learned nearly a year ago, by stumbling upon a careless kiss between Lois and Superman, and the resulting confession, that her father was none other than the famous Man of Steel. Clark had, of course, obsessed that it was a very weighty responsibility for a girl of her tender years to carry around such a secret. But, except for being a little more solemn than usual, she seemed to be taking things well. She hadn't even told her little sister the secret, which Lois and Clark both thought rather amazing in a child Emma's age.
And thinking of said little sister, Lois decided that she had better make use of the time afforded while Gracie was being tended by her maternal grandmother, as Ellen Lane rarely made such an offer. In fact, the only other time the offer had been extended was last month, when Ellen had reluctantly agreed to take care of Gracie while she and Clark had taken Emma to have her portrait photo taken in honor of her starting grade school.
Expressing silent thanks for small favors, Lois gathered up her laptop computer case and sat down in the center of the sofa, spreading out her files on both sides of her, and quickly setting up the laptop on the coffee table. Today had been quite busy, what with the discovery at City Hall that someone was bleeding off large amounts of funds properly allocated for street repair; and she and Clark had been back and forth all day between the Daily Planet and the city offices to such an extent that she had not even had five minutes to read her mail before needing to head down to the Jeep and rush to pick up Emma from school.
She reached for the small stack of mail and absently thumbed through it. Near the back, she came across a business-sized envelope with no return address. It was addressed, simply, to Lois Lane, c/o The Daily Planet. Perhaps this was a tip of some sort. Reporters often earned their bread and butter by acting on such tips; in any case, Lois was curious enough to not simply discard the item out-of-hand. She slit the envelope open and emptied out the contents: a photograph, with a small, three-letter notation on the back, and a two-page typed letter. She glanced at the second page and noticed that the letter was unsigned. Yep, definitely an anonymous tip. Curiouser and curiouser.
Lois picked up the photo, which showed a smiling man, wearing a life jacket and sitting with his legs dangling off the stern of a small powerboat. The angle of the photo revealed both the stern, and one side of the boat. The name of the boat appeared to be hand-painted on the stern, but was done in such intricate and ornate scrollwork and curlicues that the name itself was not immediately legible. The background visible in the photo was of the Hobbs Bay Marina; she could see the sign on the side of the harbormaster's office. Glancing again at the figure of the man, she noticed that one hand was out from his side, and he seemed to be deliberately pointing at himself. Or maybe, she guessed, he was pointing at the floatation vest which he wore.
Turning her attention back to the letter, Lois settled comfortably back into the sofa cushions and began to read. "Dear Ms. Lane: Let me begin by assuring you that I am not a kook..." Lois rolled her eyes and grinned at that, muttering "Yeah, right. 'Methinks thou dost protest too much!'" She read on, "...although I'm sure that you will be tempted to decide otherwise after you read this. You see, Ms. Lane, angels exist. They really do." Oh, though Lois with a tired release of breath; another Superman sighting. It was amazing, what with people having day-to-day encounters with -- or accounts of -- Clark's super-rescues, that so many of the rescues still got attributed to some sort of supernatural cause. Resignedly, she read on.
"I'm not a particularly religious man; and the purpose of this letter isn't to preach any kind of sermon. But my own life was saved just a month ago by a real, honest-to-goodness angel. If it hadn't been for her appearing at the precise instant that she was needed, I wouldn't be here to write this." Wait a minute. Her? She? What was going on here? Her interest re-kindled, Lois continued to read.
"I was actually lifted by the hand -- well, sort of -- out of what would have been a watery grave in the depths of Hobbs Bay, by this little being who descended straight from the sky..." *Sort of* lifted? By a *little* angel? Lois read on, now completely fascinated.
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A Month Ago:
Walter found it hard to get over the euphoria he felt as he squinted into the wind. It was a gorgeous day, even if the water was a little choppy; and his little boat bounced along from wave crest to wave crest, even though he was running at only half-throttle. This little baby had cost him almost more than he was able to afford; but she was definitely worth it. He had wanted a boat that was fast, but not *too* fast, one that he could take out into the bay on a day such as this, and feel the wind in his hair.
He grinned almost ashamedly at himself. He had absolutely no nautical expertise or experience. Heck, he couldn't even swim, except to barely dogpaddle across the community pool in his neighborhood. But he had always been fascinated by the sailboats and motor launches which he could see from his dining room window, as they seemed to skim effortlessly along the length of the bay; and he had finally decided that he had to have one. After wandering around a showroom or two, he had finally found just the craft that met his fancy; and thirty minutes later, he was heading home, his four-by-four proudly towing the trailer which held his new little power boat for all to see and admire.
His first challenge had come when he'd tried to back the boat trailer into his garage. He now knew that there was a world of difference between watching someone else back up a trailer without jackknifing it into the back of the vehicle, and doing it himself. However, after twenty minutes of frustrating effort and near misses, the trailer with its precious cargo was ensconced in the garage -- where it had sat for weeks. He had spent every evening after work reading and re-reading boating manuals, or out in the garage applying coat after coat of paste wax to the already gleaming hull, in hopes that this would help his little beauty to slide more effortlessly through the water. But, finally a Saturday rolled around when he could no longer put off the inevitable; and here he was, doing the thing he had daydreamed of for so long while sitting before his window.
Walter made a minor adjustment to the throttle lever -- not that it needed it, but just because it felt good -- and turned the wheel to steer parallel to the shore. He was only about a quarter of a mile out, and could easily make out the trees and picnic tables of the little park that he was passing, although no one seemed to be at the park today -- probably because it was a little too breezy for picnicking. He wriggled his shoulders again, noticing how uncomfortable the life jacket felt; then he grimaced with embarrassment as he realized that he had put it on inside-out. Cursing himself for the landlubber that he was, he stood up and set about removing it; not an easy task when the releases were all backward from how they were supposed to be. At last, having the infernal thing finally off, he turned it around to put it back on.
And several things happened at once. A large power launch zoomed by at a speed much faster than the posted speed limit for this part of the bay. Its wake caught his boat, causing it to lurch violently, and knocking him off balance. As he fell, he instinctively grabbed at the two items immediately handy: the wheel, causing it to spin hard to one side, and the throttle lever, causing the engine to race to full power. The combination of the wake hitting him, the sudden sharp turn, and the increase of thrust, combined to cause his little boat to skitter into the air, executing a perfect half-roll and coming to rest upside-down in the water. Walter was thrown from the boat and landed with a shock in the cold Atlantic water a dozen feet to one side. The life jacket, unfortunately, was thrown in the opposite direction, landing fifty feet away on the other side of the boat, out of his sight.
The engine had immediately quit; and the boat bobbed up and down in the water scant yards out of Walter's reach. After a brief moment of panic, he found that he was managing to stay afloat, albeit with considerable effort due to his miniscule swimming ability. He began dogpaddling over to the boat. When he reached it, he placed his hands on the hull and gave a kick, intending to heave himself up onto the upturned hull -- but his hands slid off. So he began to feel along the gunwale, now several inches underwater, for something to grasp onto, but found nothing. Working his way around to the bow, he located the metal handgrip used to drag the boat onto the trailer; but it was nearly a foot beneath the surface. Continuing along the far side, he was distracted by a flash of orange further out to sea: his life vest bobbed up and down in the water, by now about a hundred feet away, and being pushed ever outward by the wind and waves. He quickly struck out for the vest; but after only a dozen feet, he realized that he would never make it. Besides, the breeze was from the shore; and he figured that even if he reached the life jacket, he would be carried out to sea with no hope of rescue. He would do better to stay with the boat.
Moving now to the stern, he found that he could reach up and grip the rudder; but the choppy water continually thrust him against the propeller, and he was seriously worried that he would soon be sliced to ribbons against the metal blades if he stayed where he was. Trying instead to grasp the propeller blades themselves, he quickly discovered that the clutch had released when the engine had stopped; and the prop rotated freely, not giving him anything firm to hold onto. Again grabbing hold of the rudder, he attempted to heave himself up over the stern. But he soon determined that waxing the hull had been a very bad idea; the damp fiberglass hull was now so slick that his mightiest effort, even though he once got part of his upper torso onto the hull, came to naught as he slid off again into the water.
He found that he was getting very tired, and cold. As a last effort, he tried moving to the side, stopping amidships, kicking with all his might and shoving upward while gripping the submerged gunwale, hoping to turn the boat right side up. But the salesman had assured him that because this boat had a shallower-than-normal keel, it would be almost impossible to overturn in rough seas; and he now saw that the reverse was also true, and it would be impossible for him to right the craft. A cold knot began to grip Walter's insides as he realized that he was in trouble -- very serious trouble.
Unless...
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