From Part One...
Clark Kent - the man who'd so recently been restored to her - was out in the perilous night somewhere.
Somewhere. Under an eighteen-wheeler truck. At the bottom of Hobbs' river. At the mercy of a gang holding knives.
Maybe even staring down the barrel of another gun.
Right at that second he could be breathing his last, and she'd spent the last fifteen minutes musing offhandedly on his front step... if he died, it would be her fault, just as it had been her fault before...
She swallowed a sob of grief and headed for the street in a flurry of tears and panic...
...only to encounter a force with all the flexibility of a brick wall which sent her tumbling, flat on her back on the pavement.
And then she was exhaling, long and slow, as a very familiar voice yelled, "Lois?"
~&~
PART TWO
Life was strange. Every time he began to think of it as a smooth and never-ending road, it tipped itself over and turned inside out. He'd once thought the stars held his fate in their depths - thought if he flew hard enough and fast enough he could maybe reach out and touch his destiny, taste it - but he was wiser now.
He'd given up trying to find rhyme or reason in his existence. His life didn't belong to the stars; it belonged to the woman sitting directly across from him, staring morosely into her mug of tea.
Oolong Tea. Which he'd unearthed from behind a pot of coffee he'd bought just for her. Which he'd placed in her mug. Which he'd poured boiling water over, for her. Which he'd blown on just a little, to cool it slightly - just the way she liked it.
She took a breath, as if to speak, then exhaled quickly. Twice. He didn't really mind; he was content with silence for a while. Silence allowed time, time to wallow and ponder, time for his heart to stop pounding like a jackrabbit's.
Because he'd possibly hurt her, outside, slamming into her like that. Because she'd said nothing except for the perfunctory 'yes' and 'no' since she came in. Because she was *there*, there with him, and he loved her so. And because of the visible tearstains on her face.
Crying. She'd been crying. She'd been sitting outside his apartment at half past one in the morning, crying.
But that made no *sense*! He'd been out on patrol earlier, and he'd flown by her apartment to check on her - just to make sure she wasn't being clobbered by runaway microwaves or strangled by houseplants or anything, wasn't as if he'd know any other way - and she'd been fine.
In actual fact... she’d been in bed. Asleep.
On a Friday night. At ten pm.
But more than likely there was a reason for that as well. Maybe she had been up late the night before. Maybe she'd been out on a d... date. Maybe she'd been on a stakeout. A private one. Investigating the genius behind Double Fudge Crunch bars, demanding to know just *what* they put in there to make them so fattening and then demanding that they take it out.
Maybe she had been. Who was he to say she hadn't? He was just her best friend.
Whom she hadn't contacted in over a week...
Even though she'd been *so* ecstatic when he'd 'come back from the dead' - throwing herself into his arms, bittersweet moment, he'd hurt her, hadn't he? She'd never have hugged him like that if he hadn't hurt her - even though she'd been so happy to see him then, it was obviously business as usual for Mad Dog Lane.
Business. But he knew for a fact that she *hadn't* been working. Perry had ordered them both to take some time off on the grounds of what he called 'extreme emotional stress'. It wasn't as if she'd been so busy that she couldn't pick up the phone once or twice.
She coughed and he looked up immediately, startled out of his acrimonious reverie. And he cursed himself.
She was shivering violently, her teeth knocking against her mug every time she took a sip. And her lips were blue, he noticed, staring at them with a detached sense of professionalism. He wasn't focusing on how perfectly shaped they were or how they made such a charming Cupid's bow or how soft they looked, no - just the blueness of them, that was all.
He jumped up from his couch, terrified into action, caught her hands and hoisted her, as gently as he could, to her feet.
"Lois, look at you! You're drenched, I'm so sorry, I didn't realise... well, I did, but I didn't think... um..."
He paused, looked at her worriedly. She wasn't reacting, wasn't saying anything - she was just standing there passively.
What could he do to snap her out of it?
"I need to get you out of your clothes," he said daringly, his entire being wincing at the double entendre yet willing her to look up, to raise her eyebrows, to take a swing at him, to do *anything* - but no, she just stood there. Obviously if she'd noticed, she hadn't cared.
He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her gently so that she faced his bedroom.
"Go. Take a shower and change into something of mine. Everything you need should be in there. My First Aid kit is in the bottom drawer - I have some arnica in there that should help with any bruises you have, and there's aspirin in case you have a headache, and I think there's some sort of vile lemony drink I can make up for you in case you're getting the flu..."
He prayed for her to click her tongue, to roll her eyes, to bump her hip against his, to whine 'Mother Hen Kent' in that high-pitched tone of voice she used when she was irritated with him, but she did none of those things.
She merely walked - didn't stride, didn't swagger, just plain old walked - over to the entrance of his bedroom. And - his heart stopped - she threw him a look, a look that was both gratitude and something more, something warmly appreciative...
...and *then* his heart stuttered back into action, jogged, sprinted, ran a marathon, dove into deep waters, jumped out of planes and into forbidden territory as she stretched her lips - blue lips that trembled and shook - into a distortion of her usual smile. It was pale, it was wan, it was even slightly queasy - and yet it was the bravest thing he'd ever seen her do. And he'd never loved her more than he did at that moment.
Trying to act like he wasn't ready to break down in the middle of his living room and beg her to love him, he smiled back at her gently and nodded in the direction of the door. His heart took another dive as she rolled her eyes at him - She Rolled Her Eyes At Him! - and disappeared through the archway.
Good. Things were clearly getting back to normal. Now all he had to worry about was how much he was going to miss her while she was in the shower.
//Grief. I'm pathetic. Lois, look at what you've reduced me to...//
He was just about to flop down onto the couch when he noticed her abandoned mug, half-full with tea. She'd never liked that stuff, she hardly ever drank it. In fact, the only other time she'd ever had it in his presence had been late on night, when he'd watched in horrified fascination as she downed seven cups of coffee in thirty minutes. He'd literally forced her to take some Oolong, to counteract what the caffeine was doing to her system.
She'd taken it then. Not to say she hadn't put up a fight, of course. And he had a sneaking suspicion that she'd poured half of it into his ficus when his back was turned.
That was another reason to worry, then. Lois had drunk half a mug of Oolong without complaining. Clearly she wasn't herself.
He sighed, picking up the forlorn mug from the table and trotting back into his kitchen. The old routine of washing, rinsing and drying took his mind off Lois for a few precious seconds, and that was almost enough to re-energise him...
...and then his super-hearing kicked in. He could hear the shower running, the squirting sound the liquid soap made as it was squeezed from the bottle.
What he could hear most clearly was her heart. Thudding along in tandem with her quiet, jerky sobs.
The mug crashed to the floor and shattered there, but he barely heard it, couldn't hear it over the thudding of his heart, suddenly in time with hers.
He took two running steps in the direction of the bathroom, careened headlong into an inconveniently placed ornamental stand, and took a flying dive northwards. His glasses flew one way, his body another, and only his super-reflexes stopped him from hitting the floor with an almighty thud.
He whizzed back up just in time to grab a photo-frame with the tips of his fingers. He and Lois, immortalised there, beaming at each other. Of course he and Lois. Always he and Lois, forever and ever, where they belonged, together, and she was *crying*, Kent, move, for Pete's sake do something!
But what *could* he do? In honesty, what options were open to him? He couldn’t exactly barrel through the bathroom door like some five-hundred-pound gorilla, sweep back the shower curtain and...
...and...
He closed his eyes as a traitorous reel of images flashed through his head.
His hands were tied. He couldn't leave her there, weeping quietly in his shower - but he couldn't interrupt her privacy or invade her peace. In any case, how was he supposed to explain how he'd known something was wrong?
He employed careful use of his super hearing again, and his heart broke as he listened to her heaving, obviously trying to choke her sobs off at the juncture of her throat, and not succeeding - making it worse, in fact. She was trying to hide her sobbing from him - maybe scared he would be able to hear her.
And that really stung. It stung that she hadn't contacted him in a week and it stung that she felt she had to hide her feelings from him. After everything they'd been through together, he'd have thought that...
Sighing, he dragged his reluctant mind away from the sound of her sobs and gathered the pieces of broken mug. On his way to the trash can, he flipped the switch on the kettle. Maybe coffee wasn't such a bad idea after all.
~&~
"Sorry I took so long." The pieces of her voice emerged from her throat in jagged edges, and try as she might, she couldn’t clear them.
She wrapped both arms around herself self-consciously, rubbing the soft flannel sleeves of Clark's old MidWest University sweatshirt as he looked over his shoulder and smiled.
"You weren't long at all," he said softly. "You doing okay?"
She nodded jerkily, a hand going to her blotchy cheek in an almost unconscious response. She forced it back down and took a shaky breath.
"I thought some coffee might be nice." His voice floated back to her, and she smiled faintly. Her Clark. Always thinking of her. Always putting her needs before his own.
"How have you been?" she asked lightly, moving into the kitchen. He looked at her again in that way he had, head to one side, slightly puzzled, and then offered her another of his let's-be-friends smiles.
"I've been good, Lois."
She leaned against his counter, keeping a safe distance between them, and ran a hand through her wet hair. Befuddled by the steam and the utter incongruity of the situation. How could he be dead, and then be good? Dead and then good? Good and dead?
"I haven't seen you all week," she mumbled.
He turned briefly. Smiled like he hadn't noticed. "Yeah. I was busy. You wouldn't believe the amount of things that pile up on you. You're dead for two days and bam, there's this backlog of paperwork."
Dead. Dead again. Two days dead. She swallowed a rather large lump in her throat and decided a response wasn't necessary.
"Not that I'm not thrilled to see you," came his voice, wavering in and out like a badly tuned radio, "but why *are* you here?"
Oh. Um...
...nooo. No, no, no. She hadn't planned for this. She had no excuse - none at all. Her brain scrambled as she searched desperately for a feasible reason...
"I just wanted to see you." A carefree lift of her shoulders. "Do I need an excuse?"
A frown creased his strong forehead for an instant, but then his face smoothed into a smile. Another one. "No, of course not." And he handed her a mug of coffee. Placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her into the living room and onto the couch. Like he always did. Guiding her, protecting her.
They sat. Her knees were rigid, her thighs stiff and her shoulders locked. And he was looking at her inquiringly. Openness written all over his face. Not starting a conversation, but wholly open to contributing to one.
This was terrible, she thought despairingly. This was so awkward. Not the way it was supposed to be, not at all... Clark wasn't supposed to be like this... her-and-Clark weren't meant to be like this, stilted, struggling to make conversation...
"I'm glad you came by," he said, clearly giving up on the whole letting-her-speak-first thing. "I couldn't sleep either."
Her head whipped up and around. "Either?"
He froze - suddenly looking uncertain. And then the expression was gone and she was left wondering if she hadn't imagined it.
"It's kind of late, Lois," he pointed out.
"I guess it is," she whispered. She took a sip from her mug, and smiled weakly to herself. It was perfect - just how she liked it. Strong, with a hint of sweetness. How many people knew exactly how she liked her coffee? How many people had ever bothered to find out?
How many times had Clark made her coffee, just how she liked it? How many times had she thanked him, or even acknowledged the fact?
Suddenly she found her eyes filling with tears and her hands shaking. And then she drew a hasty breath as four strong fingers and a thumb wrapped around the mug and drew it gently from her grasp, laying it down on the coffee table and then reappearing to lace themselves with hers. He'd moved closer, she thought dizzily, and his eyes were doing their best to catch hers.
"Tell me what's wrong, Lois," he crooned softly, his thumb stroking a rhythmic pattern.
Angry. She was angry with herself for making him take care of her all over again. Him taking care of her, wasn't that how it worked, always? Shouldn't it be the other way around - just this one time?
"Nothing's wrong, why would you think there's anything wrong?"
<Everything's wrong, please don't let me get away with that, Clark...>
His gaze burning softly along her face. She could sense so many things, just from the way he looked at her... his worry, his anxiety for her, his tenderness, his awful awful love... his final defeat as her stubborn mouth refused to say what needed to be said.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he murmured.
"Really, it's nothing. I just... I really, really missed you, Clark," she managed to choke. And then her head was on his shoulder as she cried her heart out.
She cried for the tiny bullet that had lodged itself in his chest with scarcely a warning, for the thunk of his powerful body hitting the floor, for the way he'd looked - his eyes closed and his glasses askew.
She cried for the things left unsaid, the things that could never be said, the moments lost and the time that could not be recovered. She cried for the way she'd been, before - how condescending and rude, taking him so much for granted - and she cried that she could never be that way again.
And his hand moving in soothing circles around her back.
Finally she stopped, shuddering, and moved away from him. Felt him watching her - her cheeks sodden with the wet of her tears.
"Lois... what's the matter?"
Life was too short to waste on lies and half-truths, on pathetic pleasantries when really she was screaming inside. And *oh*, life was too short for tomorrows - for the chain of tomorrows, forming links of weeks and months and years, pulling them both into old age, the tomorrows she'd thought she'd always have - all the tomorrows that'd dissolved with one single bullet. Without him she had no tomorrow, and he needed to know that.
"Clark..."
She hadn't noticed that he was stroking her hand till she looked down. Suddenly all her well-planned sentences stuck in her throat. She wound her fingers around his and covered them with her other hand, squeezing as hard as she could, needing that connection, the strength of his grip in hers - the affirmation that he was alive.
Her trembling mouth burst open. "Don't leave me, Clark. Promise you won't leave me ever again..."
"Hey," he said, concerned, bringing his other hand up to stroke the hair out of her eyes, then cupping her cheek in an achingly tender caress. "I'm here, Lois. I'm right here, okay?"
She shook her head blindly. "No... you left, and I was all alone... you died... I missed you so much... so, so much... all the things I said to you, Clark..."
"What things?" His voice puzzled.
//...hack from Nowheresville... Mr. Greenjeans... nearly missed that one, rookie... spare me your platitudes, Kent... yeah, like I've never heard that one before...//
"I was so horrible." Her entire body locked in horror. "I was so horrible to you for so long. Even that day. I *made* you go in there. I made you go into that place. You didn't want to, remember? You thought it was too dangerous. I made you. If I'd just listened to you you'd never have died..."
He wasn't saying anything. Anything at all. Which just reinforced her self-hatred. He'd obviously thought all these things a thousand times and just been too much of a gentleman to tell her.
"It was all my fault. I was so alone, I missed you so much, and *it was all my fault*. All the things I said to you... and all the things I never said..."
He murmured a soft protest, but she wouldn't listen - wouldn't let herself listen. This was something she had to accept and she refused to let him make her feel better.
"I never thought I'd have so many things left to tell you, Clark," she said, and, looking up at him, attempted a watery smile.
<He died without ever knowing, I never told him... how much he means to me, how much he's always meant, how grateful I am for his loving me, how much I respect him, how much I...>
"Tell them to me now." A quiet invitation, and looking into his eyes she saw a kind of terrible anticipation, a terrible waiting, a terrible patience.
She didn't know how to tell him. Didn't know how to even begin to tell him. And in the end, she was only human, and those doubts and fears were still in her.
She looked away. Bit her lip.
"I came here, y'know," she said. "The night you... that night. You... you'd left three of your suits crumpled on the bed. Trying to impress me, Kent?"
<Trying to lighten the moment, Lane? You *massive* coward...>
"Yes, Lois." His voice, very tired, and he let go of her hand. "Trying to impress you. Or maybe just trying not to embarrass you. That dress was pretty sensational. I wanted to measure up as much as I could."
She swallowed.
Embarrass her. Like he could ever embarrass her, whether he was wearing a tuxedo or the ragged clothes of a homeless man. Measure up... but he'd always measured up, didn't he know that? And the sensational red dress...
<Oh, the one that's sitting in the bottom of some bin liner somewhere, ripped to shreds with a kitchen knife? That red dress, Clark? The one I watched you die in?>
Distraction. Distraction would be good now.
"And you'd... you'd left a mug in the sink... and a plate... one of your windows was open, the one leading to the balcony. I closed it for you... I could smell your cologne... your sweater. I borrowed one of your sweaters, that grey one your mother knitted for you... I hope you don’t mind. I just... I don’t know."
His eyes watching her, appraising - wary.
"It got all covered in cement, though," she blurted, terrified. "I'll get it dry-cleaned for you, or I'll replace it if you'll just tell me your measurements. I'm really sorry... that and your jacket, too, all the frosting on that stupid cake..."
"Forget about it." Flat. Flat voice. Like he didn't care. "They're just clothes. No big deal."
She drew breath. How did she do this? How? She wasn't used to living so much on the edge - on the brink of destruction, where a part of her died no matter which step she took.
"Have... have you seen Superman this week?"
He was shifting away from her, and she could have kicked herself. He was bending to place his elbows on his knees. Rubbing his temples with his long fingers. Why did she always bring Superman up? Without even thinking about it? When she knew how much he hated playing second fiddle to a man she'd never really known?
"No, I haven't." He sighed, wearily. "You didn’t drive over, did you? Do you want me to call you a cab?"
He turned back towards her - smiled.
She winced. He'd been smiling way too much. Cautious smiles, wary smiles, grim smiles, let's-be-friends smiles, I-don't-know-what-to-say-here smiles, I-really-want-to-make-you-feel-better-but-I'm-not-sure-how smiles. She was sick of them. They were all so polite and diffident. He'd never needed to fill the gaps with smiles before.
She ignored the hint about leaving. "If you see him around... will you tell him I need to talk to him?"
<Shut up about Superman! Shut up, for the *love* of ->
"Hey, you want another cup of coffee?"
"Will you tell him?"
<No.> Was she defiantly talking back to the voices in her head? She'd finally gone nuts. <No, I won't shut up about Superman. I need to tell him... need to tell him he's lost... lost out to the ordinary man with the bad eyesight.>
He sighed. "Sure, Lois, I'll tell him."
She watched him, his eyes dark with defeat.
"Clark?" Quietly. "Is there something wrong?"
He looked at her. "Why would there be anything wrong?"
"You never called," she whispered.
One of his eyebrows shot up.
"It's been a whole week and... you never called."
"I thought you were the one who never called me." His voice not accusing, not reproachful. Just... tired.
And that was true as well, wasn't it? She'd never called him.
"I... didn't want to bother you, I guess." The voices in her head admonishing her - that wasn't the reason, had never been the reason.
He shrugged. "I didn’t want to bother you either, Lois. I figured you were busy." The look in his eyes.
"Too busy..." She bit her lip. "How could you ever think... I'm not... I'm never too busy for you."
His mouth dropped open, and she closed her eyes - hating herself that he should be so shocked at the open display of affection from her.
"Thank you, Lois," he said - surprised but warm. His hand snaked into hers again and squeezed gently before he withdrew.
He stood up, and she watched as he moved around the sofa. The athletic strength in his every movement... the gentleness in his eyes. Strength that in the end had failed to save him, gentleness that had maybe killed him - the refusal to believe that any human could be that casual about pulling a trigger and taking a man's life.
"I'm gonna get some tea. You want some?"
"No... but thank you anyway."
"Hey, no problem." His voice, surprised and warm. Surprised at the unprecedented display of gratitude from her...
<Good grief, who's writing your lines? Get up and *do* something...>
"I guess I should go home," she whispered, more to herself than anybody else, her eyes swimming with tears. It was too hard, it was all too hard, and she'd like to give up now, thank you.
"Do you really want to, Lois?" And she jumped, because his voice was still in the vicinity of the kitchen, and he couldn't possibly have heard her, could he? Was her sense of self so messed up that a whisper came out louder than she'd intended it?
She stood up. Walked to the kitchen, to stand in front of him. Held both elbows with opposite hands. Trying to shake some stability into her weary body.
"Do you want me to go?" she asked quietly. Trying, for once, to put his needs before her own.
His hands came up to hold her upper arms - strong fingers and a strong grip, a strong solid grip - and he looked at her concernedly. "I want to make sure you're all right, first."
She looked at him, bit her lip.
"You're... going to be here tomorrow, aren't you?" she asked - suddenly not caring about his feelings or his anxiety, only that life would go on as she'd always known it, his existence wouldn't cease too quickly for her to tell him how deeply she cared about him, and tomorrow would be waiting just around the corner.
He looked puzzled. "Sure, Lois. Same as normal."
She shook her head, her chin crumpling. "No, Clark!" she half-sobbed. "It's not normal! And it's never going to be normal again!"
His arms had gone around her instantly when she'd started speaking, and now her head was tucked securely under his chin and he was rubbing her back in soothing circles.
"As soon as that bullet thudded its way into your chest... I realised... and *Superman*!"
He froze and his arm fell limp by his side, but she blundered on regardless.
"He never showed up... not once, not even afterwards, Clark! The one time it was important, he never showed up... and d'you know, I thought he was you... I really thought he was you..."
A shocked intake of breath somewhere made her hair flutter.
"I thought he was you, and then... I realised... I really didn't care, I really don't care anymore, Clark... I don't want him, I've never really wanted him, I just made up a person to love, because I didn't want to *see* you, standing there... loving me..."
A squeak, and then his arms were tighter than ever. She exhaled against their sturdiness, relishing the distinctly non-amorphous feel of them.
"Lois... what are you saying?"
She pushed against the bands of steel holding her, and looked up into his dark eyes - her own almost overflowing now.
"I'm saying... life is cruel, Clark," she said bleakly, watching the confusion dance merrily across his face and hating that she couldn't put this, of all things, clearly. "I'm saying that the *instant* Clyde Barrow shot that bullet at you, I realised... that some things go beyond time and reason and logic and... everything... beyond everything."
"Lois..." Her name on his lips a question and a prayer.
"I realised... how little a difference your death made to me, Clark," she whispered, and she watched as his mouth constricted in hurt disbelief.
"I realised that death doesn't make a difference when you love somebody." She looked right at him - needing him to hear her. "I realised I'd never get over losing you, that I'd always miss you... I realised I'd be in love with you for the rest of my life, whether or not you were in it, or with me, or breathing - and there's nothing I can do anymore."
Her eyes on his, looking up at him fearfully - wanting and needing a reaction, and getting none. Suddenly he was as unresponsive as a plank of wood, standing stock-still there with his arms tight around her back and his eyes as blank as the first page of her novel.
She was just about to fob it off, to slip out of his embrace and laugh weakly, to tell him she was over-exhausted and she didn't really mean it, when a tremor went through the body so close to her own. His eyes were suddenly a kaleidoscope of emotions - shock and disbelief, wild and glittering hope exploding against the background of quiet love that'd always been there, ever since she could remember.
She closed her eyes and waited for what she knew was coming. With his arms tightening around her and his head drawing nearer hers, she was exactly where she needed to be - safe, in the midst of the conviction that Clark Kent had always loved her.
~&~
"Back to work tomorrow."
"Mmm." She brushed a light kiss against the corner of his mouth, then rested her head on his shoulder with a contented sigh.
"I should..." He seemed to be having trouble getting words out, she noted in satisfaction. "I should go. Let you get some sleep."
"Clark," she said, her voice lilting with laughter, "you've been saying that for the last half hour."
He blinked bemused brown eyes like one in a dream, and she watched as realisation dawned in their depths. He looked around her apartment, where they'd relocated after his insistence that she get some rest, his gaze lighting on the jackets and sweaters they'd both shed, lying abandoned like the nuisances they were.
"Oh. No. Seriously, I have to go now. We do have work in the morning, and it's..." He glanced at his watch and blanched. "...way, way too late for this."
"Well, if you have to..." Her arms curved lazily around his shoulders. "...I guess we could..." Smiling shyly up into his smoky eyes, at once familiar and so very strange. "...say goodnight. For now."
She kissed him tenderly, slowly, taking her time - time she hadn't frittered away with excuses or ploys to keep him away from her. Time they had and were using - right there, right then...
Drawing back, she looked up at him, into his shadowed face. She sensed a deep internal struggle going on within him, and she was touched at how obviously he didn't want to leave her.
Finally he opened his eyes, looked right back at her, and smiled. "Goodnight, Lois... my love." That last murmured questioningly, like he was too mired in rejection to ever dream he was allowed to call her that.
She drew him into a tight hug. "Goodnight, Clark."
She'd see him tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, and she would never hide from him again.
~&~
tbc...
