Chapter 9
Lois stared at Clark’s back, that dull ache in her heart had reappeared and was warring with the remnants of her arousal. She reached a hand out toward him instinctively, but she let it fall before she could touch him.
She was still trying to process what had just happened, what was still happening. All in the last few minutes, she’d gone from having the single most erotic experience of her life to feeling bereft and confused at his frantic departure. There was no rhyme or reason to his sudden withdrawal, and for her part, she still hadn’t quite caught her breath.
But why was he pulling away? Again? Always again. She kept screwing this up. She kept saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing. Putting herself out there. Being vulnerable. And what had she just decided? She was going to do the backing off. For him. Because he couldn't. Or wouldn't.
But she had a damn good feeling that he didn't want to stop. He’d said as much as he’d gestured at his tented sleep shorts. She flushed again at the thought of his arousal and the restrained huskiness of his voice when he’d said it. There was no mistaking his need or desire.
Why the retreat?
But...this retreat was different, almost violent in its speed, like she'd burned him.
Can’t. Shouldn’t. Truth. Sorry.
At least he hadn't left the room. Whatever this was, whatever tragic truth he had to tell was clearly tearing him apart inside. She'd promised herself it was her turn to be there for him.
She felt her heart surge with the need to protect him. He needed rescuing tonight. She'd never seen him like this before, so...destroyed. Carefully, slowly, she edged toward him on the side of the bed. She knelt right beside him and risked a hand on his shoulder.
His hands fell from his face, but he didn't look up at her, as though he was ashamed. He almost looked like he was somewhere else, miles away. She rubbed a thumb softly across his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“You can tell me anything,” she said, trying to convey all her yet unspoken promises to be there for him. “Whatever it is, Clark, it’s clearly overwhelming you. Please. Tell me.”
"I...can't. I...tonight...” he trailed off haltingly.
She shifted so she was sitting beside him and took both his hands in hers, trying to get him to face her. Look at her.
“Don’t pull away,” she urged softly. “You can trust in me.”
He finally looked up at her, and he seemed to be searching her eyes for answers she desperately hoped he found there. “I...need to...escape. I need to...feel alive. I just...I just...”
Her heart both fell and surged at his admission that he needed to escape and that his gaze hadn’t left hers. His eyes were searing, filled with torment and fear and passion alike. The intensity stole her breath. He opened his mouth to continue but didn’t speak, like the words were out of reach. He looked down at the floor.
"Just what, Clark?" she prompted, as gently as she could manage.
He raised his gaze to hers again, his eyes anguished yet full of desire. "Need you," he choked out in a whisper.
Her breath hitched again and her chest flooded with an unexpected mix of relief and desire and protectiveness. She let one of his hands fall from her grasp and reached it toward his face almost in slow motion, afraid that too sudden a movement might spook him or make the moment vanish.
Her fingertips met his lips gently, and she caressed them as she had earlier. She saw his eyes darken and his brow crease, an odd merging of grief and longing and arousal. He drifted closer to her and her to him, her hand moving to cup the side of his face and her lips moving towards his. The first touch was simple but charged with emotion, and they both lingered. Their lips parted briefly, and when they met again, she felt a spark that ignited something powerful and electric within her. His free hand came up to the back of her neck to deepen the kiss, and she felt a moan escape her.
And then she felt his hand slip back down to his lap, and he pulled away.
“Lois...” he breathed. “I shouldn’t...I need...to tell you...”
No. Please no. She kept her hand on his cheek and brought her other hand up to hold his face, desperate to keep him with her this time. “Please, Clark. I don’t need to know anything tonight. Tonight I just need you. Please.”
Before he could say anything, she leaned in to kiss him again, hard and deep. He hesitated for half a second before she felt him give in, returning the kiss with equal hunger.
She could feel him surrender to her--something inside him seemed to let go and she dared to hope that his fervent response meant that he was no longer at the mercy of his inner demons. She felt like, right in this moment, she was the centre of his world and the only thing that mattered to him. It made her feel needed and wanted in a way that she hadn't fully realised she needed until now. His kiss, his smell, his wandering hands were setting her afire. She needed to feel more of him, his skin, his muscles.
She needed him in a way she hadn't needed anyone before; he made her feel more alive and sexy than anyone before. All the warmth and energy. And love. So much love and desire. The power of the moment was, all at once, too much to handle but also provided a fierce feeling of belonging.
She wasn't even sure which way was up anymore. Somehow, she hadn't even noticed that he'd moved them from the edge of the bed and that she was now suddenly beneath him, his strong arms on either side of her, as he continued his exploration of her body. Finally, he looked down at her. His gaze was so intense, she thought they might start a fire with all the heat between them.
She felt him shift his weight slightly to the right so that he could bring a hand up to cup her cheek. She opened her eyes again at his touch, bringing her hand up to cover his. That touch...His face...that face...with no glasses. "Clark..."
They made love with a quiet desperation--a feeling of mutual need that surprised and shocked both of them. An onslaught of images filled her mind, changing swiftly. Clark's face seeping into memories of Superman. Superman's face invaded memories of Clark.
Her mind warred. His farmboyish smile.
<You think you have me figured out, huh?>
She tugged at his head to bring his face to hers, desperate to kiss him.
<...the only time people really express themselves is when they're passionate...like when they fight...or make love.>
He looked at her, heavy-lidded. "God, I love you," he said with strangled breath before he leaned in to kiss her.
Clark on the tarmac in a cape, drunk on perfume. <Lois Lane. I love you.>
His lips slanted against hers and his tongue explored the depths of her mouth.
Superman on the park bench with Clark's glasses. <I've been in love with you for a long time.>
He dipped his head down to kiss her again, slowly but with a fierceness she felt deep in her soul. When they finished, Lois felt their heartbeats pounding in sync as they both recovered themselves. He rolled to his side next to her, his arm draped across her stomach.
"I love you, Lois," he said softly, an exhausted rasp to his voice. And then he drifted off to sleep, his breath slowing and evening.
She leaned over to drop a kiss on his forehead and whispered, "I love you, too, Clark. All of you."
Her Clark... her Superman. That was going to take some getting used to. She couldn't believe it had taken her this long to realise it. But it made sense. An act this deep, this intimate...well, there was no way she could have missed it. Their joining had laid bare all their secrets both good and bad. There was no hiding from each other now.
Lois rolled to her side, too, facing away from him so she could snuggle up closely and feel more of his warmth. She reached down to pull up the blanket over them, only mildly begrudging the fact that he'd fallen asleep before doing so. She settled back against him, pulling his arm close around her waist, her fingers threaded with his.
Oh, right. He probably didn't feel the cold; it didn't occur to him. One of a million little things she'd need to get used to. Then again, he'd also been thoroughly fatigued and emotionally shattered; it was no wonder he'd fallen asleep once spent.
She took comfort in the weight of his arm across her midsection and the warmth and slow cadence of his breath against her neck. She smiled, her body alive and sensual but gloriously exhausted. She'd never felt so utterly complete before, so loved.
So needed. But that need...it was frightening in its strength and depth.
She’d seen him on the television last night. Her hero...in blue tights and a red cape. Her Clark...had been absolutely distressed. He was usually determined, if grim. Focused, if mentally and emotionally exhausted. Last night, he’d looked defeated and depressed.
And just earlier, when he’d woken and found himself kissing her, touching her, he’d been panicked. She turned in his arms and scooted back a touch so that she could see his face. He was so peaceful in his sleep now, no trace of the nightmares that had plagued him just hours before.
Had she done that? Banished his nightmares?
She had wondered who he talked to, who Superman looked to and depended on to help share the burden and grief, the intense weight of the world that he carried on his shoulders. She inhaled sharply and let out a long, trembling breath.
Her. It was her.
His parents, too, surely. But she was his best friend. She was who he spent all his free time with. Free time? Oh, how that must be in short supply! And he spent it with her. Wanted her. Needed her. Loved her.
<God, I love you.>
The weight, the enormity of that privilege stole her breath and made her feel a bit lightheaded. Her best friend. Her hero. Her lover.
<...I have never wanted anyone more.>
He’d been utterly distressed. She reached up to caress his smooth brow, so free of worry now. Still, something was wrong with Clark, even more than she and Perry had suspected. He hadn’t been himself since Mayson’s death.
Oh, God.
“Oh, Clark,” she whispered, a wave of grief washing over her. When she’d thought he was blaming himself for Mayson’s death...he was literally blaming himself.
<Not even Superman can be everywhere at once....Then what good is he?>
Who saved Superman when he was the one who needed saving? How was it that she had more faith in Superman than he had in himself?
Because he was Clark, perfect and fallible and infuriating and kind. Superman wasn’t supposed to show weakness. Clark had so many fears and flaws, just like any other person.
<I...I can't. This isn't...I mean we shouldn't...I shouldn't. I’m sorry.>
Her brow furrowed. Tormented by the barrage of emotions and thoughts and images warring for attention in her mind. He’d been lying to her all along. She waited for the anger to come, certain that it would, but instead, she felt the wave of his pain wash over her.
<You need to know the truth. I owe you that and I just...>
He’d wanted to tell her. But he couldn’t. Clark was normally a little tongue-tied when it came to emotional stuff, but earlier he’d been almost incapacitated, as if he’d been functioning solely on self-reproach, shame and raw need.
<I...need to...escape. I need to...feel alive. I just...I just....Need you.>
She’d needed him, too. More than she’d ever thought she would need someone. Her breath caught when she realised there wasn’t anything that she wouldn’t do for him. And she knew, without a doubt, that he’d do the same for.
He shifted onto his back, and she eagerly reclaimed her spot on his chest, in his arms. She gently stroked his brow, his cheek, his lips, and she stretched up to kiss him softly.
“Be still for a while, my love,” she whispered. She settled in against his body, and she smiled when his arm came up unconsciously to pull her close. “I’ve got you,” she murmured as she drifted off to sleep.
