Some Kind Of Angel
By Chris Carr
PART THREE
Dawn was creeping into the apartment when Lois finally switched off the computer. She would have sworn that her eyes were killing her were it not for two things. One, she was already dead, and, two, surely eyestrain belonged the the world she'd left behind, the world of the Flesh.
Then again, her wings hurt and gave her allergies, so perhaps anything was possible.
She moved over to the sofa and sat down, curling her feet up underneath her. She had a lot to think about.
She'd put "Clark Kent" into Google and immediately had been rewarded by several hundred links. Before January 1996, they'd mostly linked to articles he'd written for The Daily Planet, where he'd worked as an investigative reporter.
She'd died.
And he'd replaced her.
To begin with, she'd had a hard time imagining that, on all sorts of counts.
Nobody should have been able to replace her. She'd been the best in the business. The youngest Kerth award winner ever. Plus, what with the flying and the rescues and the other things she'd witnessed yesterday, Clark could hardly be described as inconspicuous, so how had he coped with going undercover or on stakeouts? How could he ever have blended into the background?
But then she'd read the articles from January 1996. From 22 January, 1996, to be precise.
Seven days before he'd started his journal.
One day after he'd been 'outed' to the world as an alien.
Two days after he'd made his debut as a superhero, dressed in his flashy blue, red and yellow costume, apparently aided and abetted by a woman called Lois Lane, a woman who looked like her (except for the shorter hair), shared a name with her, but who most certainly was not her.
After discovery had come dissection at the hands of the media.
Reporters must have doorstepped everyone Clark had ever worked with, been friends with, or gone to school with. They'd tracked down his neighbours, foster parents and social workers. Someone had even photographed the graves of his parents.
Everyone who had talked had said exactly the same things. "He was kind and polite. Quiet. Shy. Like to keep himself to himself. I still can't believe he's an alien. But then, I guess it's like they always say with serial killers: it's always the ones you least expect."
Everyone had said the same, that was, except for Lana Lang.
Lana had told the Metropolis Star everything she knew about Clark and more. If the speculation in the gossip columns had been right, she'd sold him out for a six-figure sum. Then she'd gone on the chat show circuit and sold the film rights to her story. Apparently she now had a house in Aspen, and an apartment in New York, complete with toy boy.
Lois didn't think she liked Lana very much.
She wondered how Clark felt about the people who'd passed comment on him.
He hadn't said much in his journal but Lois guessed that he must have been hurt. Once he'd had friends. Now he seldom saw anyone privately. Either his friends had abandoned him or he had abandoned them. She didn't know which it was. She supposed it didn't matter one way or the other. The end result was surely the same.
In a world of billions of people, he was alone.
After a few weeks of his 'outing', the media had turned its spotlight elsewhere. Superman continued to appear in the papers, but usually he was part of a bigger story rather than being the story himself. As the novelty of his abilities began to wane, Superman appeared less often on the front pages. Increasingly, he was relegated to pages two or three.
And by April 1996, Clark Kent's byline had disappeared altogether.
*****
The rustling of cotton sheets, a noisy yawn, and then the padding of feet towards the bathroom told Lois that Clark's day was about to begin.
A couple of minutes later, he appeared through the arch between the fridge and the kitchen, dressed once again in jeans and tee-shirt, and set about making himself a breakfast of cereal and tea.
He switched on the radio, which was tuned to an innocuous easy-listening station.
Lois rested her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. She could feel a smile curling one side of her lips as she recalled her Flesh days. She'd once been a regular listener to this show, too. The disc jockey, Ralph Kinsey, specialised in a soothing blend of middle-of-the-road music, news and chit-chat. She'd always thought his show the perfect way to ease herself into the day, an opinion that had been shared by critics and half a million other New Troy residents alike.
Kilmartin was right. She did remember too much.
*****
Clark spent the day as he spent too many others. He told himself that he was patrolling the skies over Metropolis and that was a useful activity in and of itself. The truth, though, was that he was filling time, waiting for someone to call him.
Waiting for someone to need him.
Waiting for someone to want him.
On a whim, he flew to Europe, landing and spinning into street clothes just as dusk was falling in Munich. In the half-light and so far from home, he was able to wander the streets unnoticed.
He ended up in the Marienplatz, in the centre of the city. The square was full of little stalls selling Christmas sweets and decorations. The air was heavy with the smells of baking, of bratwursts and gluhwein. For once, Clark found himself at peace with himself and with the world.
From Germany, he flew east, over Poland, Russia and into Asia. Then he flew south to Australia, where he marvelled at the incongruity of Christmas decorations in the middle of summer.
Then he headed west to Argentina and Chile. He flew north along the west coast of South America, crossing over Costa Rica and the Caribbean to bring him back along the east coast of the United States, en route to Metropolis.
Metropolis, where he spent a few more hours on patrol. Wanting to be wanted. Wanting to be needed.
*****
Lois wasn't sure what she made of Clark's day. On the one hand, she'd found it exhilarating. It had been hard work keeping up with him, but how wonderful it had been to catch glimpses of places she'd never had the chance to visit when she was alive!
On the other, following Clark as he meandered his solitary way around the world only served to reinforce her impression of his isolation. In turn, that depressed her.
How could such a wonderful man have ended up so alone?
He'd gone to bed early. Lois suspected that had had more to do with being bored than with being tired.
Now Lois was alone in his living room again, wondering what to do with her night and wishing that sleep was something that angels did, too.
An idea struck her.
Clark often dreamed of Lois. He'd said as much in his journal. So it couldn't hurt for Lois to visit him in his sleep, could it? Not when he would see some version of her anyway?
Kilmartin wouldn't approve.
But...
What harm could it possibly do?
Lois wandered into Clark's bedroom and looked down at him. He was lying on his back, sprawling across the full width of the double bed. Awake, his eyes were often clouded by a wary sadness. Sleep robbed them of their shadows and smoothed the creases out of his forehead. He looked younger and more peaceful this way, more the way a young man should look.
Lois stepped into his mind and looked around.
She knew where his dream had taken her, not only because she'd visited the Daily Planet with him yesterday, but also because for years it had been as much her home as her apartment had been. In fact, now she thought about it, of the two, she missed the newsroom of The Daily Planet the most.
Then she looked down at herself. His mind had dressed her in a pastel trouser suit. She'd never owned such a thing but, assuming this dream was based upon a memory, presumably her counterpart had.
A short, bowler-hatted man was standing next to her. He looked out of place in clothing that looked as though it belonged in an old black-and-white film. She wondered what he was doing here.
Then again, this was a dream. There was no telling how surreal Clark's imagination would turn out to be.
Lois mentally shook her head. All she could do was wait and see where the dream would take her. She would let Clark take the lead.
*****
Clark was dreaming. He knew he was. He only ever saw her in his dreams.
That didn't make her any less real. For as long as he remained asleep, she was as real to him as she could possibly be.
Odd, though. This dream wasn't playing out as it usually did.
Lois had not come rushing over to him as soon as he'd stepped out of the elevator. She hadn't flung herself in her arms. She hadn't kissed him, which was a pity, because he rather liked that part of the dream.
In real life, Clark remembered, Lana had caught him with an armful of Lois and had set about interrogating him, demanding to know who Lois was, in that uniquely strident way she had.
Funny how his subconscious always edited Lana out of the dream.
Instead, tonight Lois had turned away from her companions -- a short, bowler-hatted man, Mr Olsen and Perry White, with whom she had been talking, looked straight at him, taken one step in his direction... and then stopped. She looked as though she were waiting for something, though he didn't know what.
Still, this was a dream. His dream. So he would be quite within his rights to take the initiative.
He walked over to her and stopped three feet short of her position. He ignored her companions completely and said, "Hello, Lois."
"Hello... Clark." She smiled shyly.
He blinked. He looked at her and realised that her unusual shyness and her behaviour weren't the only things that were different about her in this dream.
"I like your hair," he said. That was no lie. He'd never seeen her with long hair before, but he thought it suited her. She'd raked it loosely back from her face, tucked the sides behind her ears, and let the remainder hang down her back.
Clark wished he could reach out and run a strand through his fingers. Would it feel as soft and silky as it looked?
She ducked her head at the compliment and said, "Thank you."
Clark glanced at the bowler-hatted man. He knew that he was H G Wells, but the dream usually played his memories of the introductions and shocking revelations that had, in real life, followed on from his initial meeting with the inter-dimensional travellers.
But, as he'd already noticed, tonight's dream wasn't working out as it should.
"Would you... Do you want to talk to me? I could take you into the conference room, if you'd like," he said.
Lois nodded. "Thank you."
She didn't wait for him to show her where to go. Instead, she turned on her heel and led the way.
*****
The dream jumped. One moment, Lois had been sitting in The Daily Planet's conference room, listening to Wells rabbiting on about another reality, another Lois and another Clark.
The next, she was sitting on the sofa in the living area of Clark's apartment.
At least, she now knew where her mysterious counterpart had come from. Of course, that assumed that the dream's facts of the other Lois's appearance were based on real events and weren't part of a strange sleep-induced fantasy.
Lois looked across at Dream-Clark.
He was looking down at something, so she followed the direction of his gaze with her own. He was holding a wallet that looked rather like one she had once owned herself. She didn't recognise as hers the wallet-sized pictures he was flicking through, though.
The first one was a picture of Clark, or perhaps of his counterpart. Photo-Clark was dressed in his suit of primary colours, standing with his arms folded across his chest and looking every bit the invincible superhero.
Lois risked a look at Clark's face. Right now, sitting next to her, he was looking as far from invincible as was possible. Rather, he looked overwhelmed and a little bewildered.
The next photograph he looked at made him swallow. It showed what had to be the other Lois and Clark standing next to each other, smiling genuinely into the camera lens. They looked... happy.
"Is that... us?"
"Well, it's me and him." The words that came out of Lois's mouth must have been planted there by the dream. They were not hers.
"Are we--?"
Lois lifted her left hand and saw a ring there. Ah, yes, her counterpart had been engaged. She remembered that from reading Clark's journal.
Lois showed the ring to Clark.
"This is just too weird," he said.
Lois had to agree.
Clark flipped to another photograph. "Oh, my God," he murmured. He sounded beyond shocked. He sounded... awed, lost, sad, amazed...
Lois peered over to see what had affected him so much. He was staring at a picture of an older couple. She recognised them from the photograph she'd seen the night before.
"They're alive?" Lois could hear naked grief in the question. "Does he... spend much time with them?"
"Yes." The dream was speaking for her again. It was also giving her new knowledge. The couple were, as she'd guessed, his parents. And they were dead.
"That's good. That's..." He sounded wistful and envious in equal measure.
"They're very proud of him." Then Lois added some words of her own. "I bet your parents were proud of you, too." She reached out and wrapped her both hands around one of his, a gesture of sympathy and support.
Clark swallowed and wrenched his eyes away from the photograph. He looked at their intertwined hands then slowly raised his gaze along her arm, up her shoulder and to her face. Fleetingly, Lois wondered how a mere glance could feel so intimate.
His lips parted fractionally and there was a longing in his eyes that twisted her stomach in the most pleasurable way imaginable. He leaned towards her, his lips parted just a fraction.
And then they were staring at each other, trapped in the moment.
*****
Clark wanted to kiss her. He'd wanted that for so long. Her lips were mere inches away from his own, and her eyes were staring into his looking... surprised, but also inviting.
He waited, expecting her to pull away any moment now. She'd never let him kiss her before, always remembering at the last moment that he was not her Clark Kent, that she belonged with another.
But she didn't pull away. Instead, she continued to stare at him.
She'd never held his hand before, either.
So maybe...
And it was his dream.
He inched forward, leaning in closer, closer, closer...
He could smell the scent of her. Hear her breathing, rapid and shallow. The staccato beat of her heart.
His lips brushed hers.
And she didn't pull away.
*****
His lips were a featherlight touch against hers, a whisper of sensation that sent an exquisite tingle to her brain and down to her toes.
She felt him shift against her, felt his free arm snake around the back of her neck, pulling her closer. She pulled one of her hands free and lifted it towards his face.
She brushed his cheek with her fingertips, letting the beginnings of a five o'clock shadow graze their sensitive skin, then she cradled the back of his head in her palm.
His mouth was warm against hers and so tender. His tongue brushed a wordless enquiry against her lips, and she found herself opening them to let him in. He explored her, then he opened up to her, inviting her to do the same.
She felt worshipped and loved. She felt capable of worshipping and loving. And somehow their arms were now wrapped tightly around each other, holding one another so close that their bodies might as well have been one. She was aflame with desire, all her nerve endings craving his attention.
Never in all her Flesh days had she felt something as perfect as this.
*****
Reality came crashing around her. She staggered as she came to herself, thrown out of the dream by the memory that she was not Flesh. She stumbled as she tried to regain her footing, surprised to realise that she had been standing next to his bed all the time that she had been in his dream.
Lois touched her lips with her fingertips, shocked to the core at what she had just allowed to happen. She could feel the echo of his mouth on hers, feel her racing heartbeat, and the weakness in her knees.
This time when her stomach twisted, it was with guilt and nausea, not pleasure.
Yet how could she regret something so perfect, something she had wanted to find her whole Flesh life, but which had remained forever out of reach? Now, finally, she understood why the poets of the ages had spent so much time writing about love.
She felt a sob catch in her throat.
Now she understood why those same poets spent so much time dwelling on love's tragedies.
What had she done?
Nothing she should have, she was sure.
Something she would remember and treasure for eternity.
A single tear trickled down her cheek as she looked down at the man on the bed. He stirred, murmured her name, and rolled over onto his side. He drew his legs up towards his body and wrapped his arms around his chest. His face was no longer peaceful and somehow she knew that, in his dream, he felt her loss acutely.
Unable to stop herself, she reached out and brushed a curl from his forehead. He sighed at her touch and the frown that had been marring his forehead smoothed out again.
Lois straightened and looked down at him for long minutes. Then she moved over to the window seat and sat down.
Her eyes never wavered from Clark as the moon rose and fell, as the city slept then stirred, grouchy and cantankerous, in the early hours.
She kept her eyes on him as the grey light of predawn crept through the blinds and as Clark woke up and leapt out of bed.
Clark dashed through into the living room.
Lois followed him as, still in his sleep shorts, he sat down in front of the computer. He switched it on and waited impatiently for the opening screen to appear. Then, faster than Lois's eyes could follow, he entered the commands necessary to access his journal.
He scrolled to the bottom of the document, and began to type, his fingers flying over the keys faster than Lois could follow.
22 DECEMBER 1998
I dreamed about her again last night. It was the most exquisite torture. She let me kiss her. She has never let me do that before, but this time she did. More than that, she kissed me back.
It was everything I'd ever thought it would be and infinitely more. Her hair was the softest satin beneath my fingers, her skin perfect, warm and smooth to the touch. Her mouth was the most welcoming haven of warmth and velvet.
I close my eyes and I can still feel her body moulding itself against mine. We fit together perfectly, just as I always knew we would...
Lois wanted to howl. "Exquisite torture" he had written, and that just about described how she felt, too. Kissing Clark had been exquisite. The torture lay in knowing it could never happen again.
She was an angel. He was mortal.
There could never be anything between them.
What had she done?
Nothing she should have, she was sure.
*****
TBC
