Lois & Clark Forums Forums Fan Fiction Lois & Clark Fanfic So Far Away 13/21

Chapter 13: Could You Still Love Me, Pick Up the Pieces of Me?
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Mid-March 1997
10 months, 1 Day Since Clark Left Home

"Even if you see my scars, even if I break your heart
If we're a million miles apart, do you think you'd walk away?
If I get lost in all the noise, even if I lose my voice...
...Could you? Could you? Could you love me anyway?"

Love Me Anyway by P!nk (feat. Chris Stapleton)
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No more. <<Zha lizrhom.>> He couldn’t take any more. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and covered his ears, even as his traitorous hearing instinctively reached out to listen to the television report of the earthquake in South America.

It’d be fine. Fine. Emergency crews had been handling things fine without him for almost a year. Don't feel. <<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>> But had they? Been handling things? How many lives could he have saved if he’d been here? <<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>> More than he’d saved by being on New Krypton? <<Zha. Zha. Zha lizrhom.>> No. No. He couldn’t think of that. Kryptonian lives for human lives. <<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>> It wasn’t even a trade he could make.

He just had to stop listening. <<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>> Imagine her heartbeat. He pulled the ring out from under his t-shirt. Forgive me, Lois. <<Kao-zhalish-odh khahp.>> He could hear it. Stronger than usual. Right. Right! He was home. He could hear her heartbeat. She was here.

<<Kao-zhalish-odh khahp.>>

But the sound was getting closer. She was coming. No. She couldn't see him like this. It wasn't fair to her. He had to conceal it. He had to be strong. Family before self. <<Leo ze'me com ozemo.>>

He knew she was coming. Of course she was. He’d removed the ladder—a clear sign his Fortress of Solitude was off limits. But he knew it didn't matter. Go away. Please. <<Rroshodh khahp kuhs. Enaiodh rrip.>>

He watched her walking towards the treehouse, huffing with the effort of hefting the ladder with her. <<Enaiodh rrip, zha.>> The back half of it dragged on the ground behind her, scraping against the earth. His chest was tight and filled with a thousand pricking thorns, and his head was swimming. He couldn't stop it. He couldn't stop her. <<Rroshodh khahp kuhs. Enaiodh rrip.>>

He closed his eyes, and for a horrific moment, he was back in the training room, images sliding by of Lois...NO. <<ZHA.>> He opened his eyes again and was relieved to find the crude walls of the treehouse, but he felt nauseated.

The ladder she'd brought was already leaning against the platform, and he could feel the slight movements with every rung she ascended. I love you. <<Zhao-odh khahp rrip.>> He was having trouble holding the feelings back. <<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>> She was too close. Too close. I love you. Please. Go away.

<<Zhao-odh khahp rrip. Enaiodh rrip. Rroshodh khahp kuhs.>>

She was coming through the door now, head ducked low to get through the small doorway, and then she kneeled in front of him. She'd been crying—was still crying. <<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>> The pain was too much, knotted and leaden in his stomach, her pain mixing with his. He had to protect her from it. Protect his family. <<Leo ze'me com ozemo. Kao-zha-aovem-u.>>

"No more, Clark," she said, her voice quiet and strained.

<<Zha lizrhom.>>

"I'm begging you," she pleaded.

<<Enaiodh rrip.>>

"Clark!" she said, louder.

But he couldn't. Couldn't look at her. Couldn't respond. He loved her. Had to protect her. Had to save her. <<Leo ze'me com ozemo. Kao-zha-aovem-u.>>

"Please talk to me." Another plea. "I love you."

<<Zhao-odh khahp rrip.>>

Her shove caught him off guard and he bobbed backward. "No more Kryptonian! No more Kal-El, not right now!" she yelled, the sound of it somehow echoing within the four walls of the treehouse.

His breath caught and his throat was tight and he couldn't quite understand...and then he heard her.

<<I love you. I love you. I love you.>> Her voice was quiet and desperate and her heart was crying out.

Clark's head snapped up to find her eyes, but they were closed tightly, as if she was concentrating.

<<I love you. Please let me in.>>

She was...it was...his heart flooded with some kind of relief and love and desperation, and she anchored him, somehow. He reached his hand up to cup her face, his thumb slowly, reverently stroking her cheek, hesitant to do anything to break the connection but needing desperately to touch her. "I heard you," he whispered.

<<I love you,>> he tried.

Her eyes opened, and she looked straight at him and nodded, more tears rolling down her cheeks and over his thumb. <<I love you, too.>>

For long moments, they sat like that. He ran the pad of his thumb over her cheek as he got lost in her eyes. The sound of their breathing filled the small space, heavy at first from the intensity of...everything, but slowing with every breath. Somehow, somehow, with every exhalation, the tension lessened and the knots loosened.

It wouldn't last, he knew—the anxiety and the pain and the guilt weren't gone—but he refused to let them destroy the joy of this discovery, this moment.

<<I love you,>> he tried again.

And she smiled at him, gently pressing her cheek into his palm. He hadn't seen that smile in too long. His heart surged with warmth. <<Are you going to kiss me?>> she asked, and his heart cried with relief and pain in equal measure as she rose to her knees and then moved to settle herself in his lap.

He smiled broadly, nodding and closing his eyes for a moment, temporarily overwhelmed by the feeling of her body against his, not realizing how starved for her mere touch he'd been. Why...why had he gone so long without touching her? When he opened his eyes, she was waiting patiently, looking up at him with some kind of tenderness he hadn't seen before.

He cupped her check once more and lowered his mouth to hers, his lips gentle and loving against hers, intent on making sure she knew just how much he loved her, how much he'd missed her, and how much he desperately needed her. He felt his chest flush with a rush of warmth and desire and longing, a mingled grief along with them. As his lips and tongue danced with hers, he felt fierce sparks of love and hope and trust explode throughout his body, and he wondered, hoped with a desperate yearning that this is what it was supposed to be like. His chest flooded and surged with all their emotions as he kissed her, and it felt like love and connection and...home. It felt like coming home.

As much as he didn't want to part from her lips, he was finding himself with an increasing need for air. Finally, slowly, he pulled away. Warmth was radiating from where her hand was splayed on his chest.

"Can you feel that?" she asked, just as breathless as he was. "Is that how it's supposed to be?"

"I-I think so." He nodded as he trailed the back of his fingers along her face. His voice was strained with the emotion of it all, a heavy knot still in his throat. "It's for life, unbreakable. And it's only for you."

She closed her eyes briefly before looking at him again and smiling softly. He felt a surge of love and affection from her, and he wondered why he'd ever tried to close himself off from this—her love, especially felt in this way, was a balm to his heart.

And then, slowly, the torment and hurt seeped in, reminding him it'd all been too much.

"If..." she started but trailed off. "How...did you, um... <<...shut me out?>>"

He winced and so did she as soon as she realized he'd heard her.

"I'm sorry," she rushed to say, touching his cheek with her fingertips. "I don't know how this works." She meant the telepathy at this moment, he knew, but the bigger, more painful question still loomed.

Lois moved hesitantly from his lap to sit facing him, and the loss of warmth and closeness was pronounced. She must have felt his pang of sadness and disappointment, because she rushed to grab his hand and give him what felt like a reassuring kiss.

"I don't know exactly how the telepathy works, either," he said, feeling discouraged. "It seems to be a part of, yet sometimes separate, this connection, this bond."

She smiled briefly, and then her focus was on their joined hands. He watched as she traced an aimless pattern over the back of his hand. He wasn't sure if she was waiting for him to speak or if she was thinking, but the silence wasn't altogether uncomfortable, so he stayed quiet for a moment longer.

Her eyes came up to meet his again. "I don't know how this bond works, either," she said, holding her other hand to her heart, "this connection. But I know you have to let me in..."

Her voice was quiet and sure, but her heart was twisting painfully and it mirrored itself in his chest.

"What happened up there?" she asked, this time her voice rough as though she was taking around a lump in her throat.

He shook his head. He couldn't do this to her, burden her with any of the horrific things he'd witnessed...the unforgivable things he'd done. "It's too strong, too hard to talk about."

She waited silently, patiently for him to continue...assumed he would continue. Who was he to have made her wait for him? He'd been far away for far too long. But she was here and holding his hand. And underneath the aching and anxiety and shame churning within himself, he felt a strong undercurrent of love from her.

"I've already hurt you so much," he said hoarsely, quietly, staring at their hands and bringing his free hand up to trace along her fingers with his own. "I just...want to forget it all. Just focus on things back here. I've missed so much..."

She didn't say anything, but another twinge of sadness cut through him, and then the guilt of his leaving came after, sinking quickly and settling itself at the knot in his stomach.

He looked up at her and found her eyes damp with unshed tears, but still patiently waiting. "I need to be here for you," he pleaded. "And Kallie. And there's so much around the farm to catch up on...Dad needs help. Mom, too, I'm sure. She's been meaning to reorganize her studio in the barn forever, but she can't reach the higher shelves, and—"

"Clark," she prompted gently, squeezing his hand. "You have to. If you don't let it out, it’s going to destroy you."

"I'm afraid it already has," he whispered, not entirely sure if it'd been loud enough for her to hear, if he'd wanted her to hear. His heart tore silently, pleading with her not to ask again.

"No it hasn’t," she said quietly but firmly. "I still see you. I know you’re still there."

He wasn't so sure he believed her. But he wanted so desperately to believe her. Even still, the Kryptonian decree was imprinted in his mind: Family before self. He hated it as much as he agreed with it. His family was all that was important right now. He was back and he needed to be there for them. He shook his head determinedly. It was too painful to think about what happened up there, and he couldn't focus on Lois, on his family, if he let that in. He had to block it out. He had to. "It’s not fair to burden you with it. I’ve already cost you so much. Missed so much. You had to do so much." And he didn't want to tell her. Not all of it. He couldn't.

Lois closed her eyes, her brows knitting together, and he could feel an unyielding current of love come across, underscored by the hurt he was causing her.

"You're right," she said, then opened her eyes again to look at him. "It's not fair. But it wasn't exactly fair for you, either. And you haven't cost me anything. You've given me everything. And I wasn't alone—I know you were thinking it—you left me with the best family a person could ask for. I wasn't alone."

He nodded uncertainly, and now his mind was back to darker thoughts, scarier thoughts. He knew his hesitation in sharing wasn't all about protecting Lois; he needed to protect himself, too. Just as he'd been doing for the better part of a week. Being home, where he had all the freedom in the world to feel his feelings and have his thoughts, was terrifying after the severity and constraints of New Krypton. The floodgates were too wide. <<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>>

Her face fell slightly, and he realized she'd heard. "Kow za ayovem. What's that?" she asked quietly, a sadness to her voice that pulled painfully at his heart.

"Kao-zha-aovem-u. It essentially translates to 'don't feel'. It's..." His eyes cast about slowly, regarding the floor, the walls, anything but looking into her eyes right now. "I'm afraid to feel. I'm so used to blocking them, I'm afraid they'll all come in at once and it'll be too much. Like the...outburst last week? I don't want to hurt you too."

"Oh, Clark," she gasped and reached out with her hands to cup his face. "Look at me."

He hesitated for a moment before he found her eyes once more.

"Remember what you told me last year?" She paused, her thumb stroking his cheek once. "Look at me," she said, gentle but firm. "You said that being together—us together—is stronger than you alone?"

He managed a nod and his breath hitched.

"I don't think that's ever been more true. This connection, however it works, we're sharing our emotions. If they're too much for you to handle, let's handle them together. Let me help you. What a gift it is, that I can actually help you carry these feelings. Let me love you."

Could he? The power of all the emotions was overwhelming, his...hers...theirs...his chest was surging and it was harder to breathe. He wasn't even sure... he couldn't quite process what she was saying. They were his words from so long ago—a lifetime ago—but...

He leaned his forehead towards hers, closing the distance until they were touching, and he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. "I'm not sure what I did to deserve you," he whispered in the space between them.

He could feel her smile and she pulled away, her hands sliding down to his shoulders, so he opened his eyes to look at her again. "You know, a wise woman recently told me, 'you never have to do anything to deserve love, especially from me.'"

A short laugh puffed his chest briefly, and he took a deep breath. "Mom?"

She nodded and smiled, sitting back a little to take off her shoes and set them on the bit of ledge the overhung the front of the treehouse, just outside the door. Clearly, she was intent on staying a while. She looked back at him and reached to take his hand again. "Now, do you think you feel up to talking about this...kowzah—the 'don't feel'? It's more than just a phrase. What is it? How does it work?"

Her voice, her posture, everything was calm, open...loving, yet still...

She was only asking about training, but it hurt to even think about the room and...he couldn't tell her about training, about what happened in that room...or the monster he'd become because of it. But she was waiting for an answer. "It's, uh...they—he...Ching—there was training to...teach me how to control my emotions, to turn them off." The knot in his stomach clenched back up.

She was watching him carefully, and he wondered if she was feeling the knot too. "Training...for your emotions?" she asked. "To control them? Turn them off?!" There was a sharp edge to her tone, though he could tell it wasn't directed at him, and he could feel her outrage. "That's..." She paused to take a breath as though she was convincing herself not to get angry. "That's really what they think of emotions? I mean, I knew they were cold and unfeeling but..."

The feelings in her chest shifted, and she was quiet for a moment, her face cast in amber hues from what was left of the sunset. "Sorry, I'm sorry, Clark. That must have been hell."

"You have no idea," he said quietly, wishing it were different...all of it. His people, his culture, the things he'd done that he couldn't take back...the last year of his life. There was no easy way back.

She took another breath, and a curious but worried look crossed her face. "How...how exactly do they train you to control your emotions?"

Flashes of images from training assaulted him, impossibly short, but it didn't matter. He'd seen them all thousands of times. The tension in his chest increased a hundredfold, and the knot twisted painfully.

"Clark, it's okay. I'm here," she said, squeezing his hand, saying the exact right words even though she couldn't possibly know, couldn't possibly have seen...

He could just share the idea of it, nothing more. The details...she didn't need the explicit details to help him. He took a deep breath and then spoke slowly, "They put me in a simulation and thought of the worst thing they could, the most painful thing, and then...I saw it over and over again until I didn't show any emotion."

"That's horrible!" she gasped. She was silent for a moment, but then she asked, "What's the worst thing?" Of course, she asked.

And he froze for half a second, reaching mentally to block them out, but he couldn't. Their connection wouldn't let him. She wouldn't let him. And so he sat there, not breathing, his chest clenched tightly, trying to hold them back, but they flooded his mind like ice water and molten lava and sharp daggers, the scenes and images and thoughts of Lois dying over and over and over again because he was always too late to save her.

It was too late to save her now, too, from all his pain and suffering—he could see it in her eyes, the instant she felt them, heard them.

"Oh, God," she cried, and before he could even breathe, somehow her arms were around him, holding him fiercely. "I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here," she breathed, and her hands were touching him, soothing. "I'm here. I'm okay. I'm here."

His breath came out in a whoosh, and a second later, her lips were on his, kissing him as if her life depended on it, as if his life depended on it. She was alive and whole, right here in his arms. The tension bled from his chest for now, leaving only powerful surges of love and need and desperation as they kissed, and he wasn't certain anymore who was reassuring who.

Finally, she pulled back slightly, her breath coming in gentle pants against his mouth. Her hands came up to frame his face, and he could see it in her eyes and feel it in his chest, her love and compassion for him. "I'm here," she whispered as she regarded his face, her eyes and fingertips traveling over his brow and nose and cheeks and eyes and lips as though she was checking to make sure he was all there and that there were no traces of pain.

And there weren't, not right in this second, this moment, and he never wanted this moment to end, so he kissed her again. Slowly at first, but no less passionately, letting all the light and love spill over from her chest into his and back again. One hand threaded through her hair and the other splayed at the side of her neck, caressing her soft skin with the pads of his fingers.

Their kisses quickly became more hungry and desperate, the quiet moans and whimpers from the back of her throat igniting his desire, a primal need he had to reassure himself that she really was here. Her hand at the back of his neck pulled him closer somehow. Then she let out a muffled gasp, and he realized their position was a precarious one, but he managed to put a hand out to catch them before they hit the floor. Then he lowered her carefully the rest of the way down, propping himself up on his forearms on either side of her head. As he stretched his legs out, he was vaguely aware of the sound of small things crashing to the floor and possibly the splintering of wood behind him, but he didn't care, couldn't care. The only thing he cared about was that her hand was still at the back of his neck, and now she was pulling him down to recapture her mouth.

Her body was reassuringly solid beneath him, and her lips, moving almost feverishly against his, told him everything he needed to know right now. Her hands were roaming, caressing his shoulders and over and down his back. When she reached the hem of his t-shirt, he hesitated. Conceal. <<Throniv.>>

Lois pulled away gently, and looked at him curiously, her lips enticingly flushed and swollen. "What's that?"

No. His chest heaved. She'd heard him. Wanted to know. He didn't want to deal with this right now. He wanted to stay here in this moment, feel her body under his. He wanted to touch her, kiss her, make love to her like she deserved to be loved, to join with her and feel how alive and perfect she was. And he could pretend he was still worthy of her, worthy of her love.

Her right hand reached up to touch his cheek. "Clark," she said softly, making him look at her.

He moved off of her and sat up, running his hand through his hair and blowing out a heavy breath, his chest constricting painfully. "Conceal. It means conceal," he said, his voice quiet.

She sat up as well, moving close to him and bringing her hand back to where it'd been on his cheek. "What are you trying to conceal, love?" she asked, somehow without any trace of anger or frustration.

"I..." he hesitated. His hands went to the bottom of his t-shirt, his fingers playing nervously at the hem. "I have a scar." He didn't want to tell her. He didn't want to hide from her. But how could he even begin to explain...<<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>> He thought it before he could stop it, but he rushed to tell her, "I'm sorry. Sorry. I'm trying not to. I'm sorry."

She nodded, he assumed in silent acceptance of his apology, and her fingers moved to trace over his eyebrow where one of his scars had been. "I thought they'd all faded away."

They had. All the others had faded. But this one...this one had remained. As if he'd needed some sick and twisted reminder of what he'd had to do—what he'd chosen to do—how far he'd fallen.

"This one's...still there. It's bad. Ugly." He winced, hoping against hope that...she'd... "I...you probably don't want to see it."

He was deluding himself. This was Lois Lane. And she'd get to the bottom of this no matter what he did. It might scare her, worry her...but there wasn't any way he would be able to hide it from her.

He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to hide it. But just as desperately, he wanted for it not to exist at all, for him to never have to tell her the story of how he'd gotten it.

"I do," she said, letting her hand slide from his cheek, down along his neck and shoulder and arm to take hold of his hand. "I do want to see it. It's part of you."

He didn't want it to be part of him. He didn't want her to see this part of him...the unspeakable horror that was inextricably linked to his wound, burned into his memory as it was into his flesh.

He moved his other hand to cover the scar even though his shirt still concealed it, and he could feel the rough lines of it beneath the thin cotton. "I...I'm not sure I..." He didn't want to see her horror, her pity. And he didn't want to tell her...

"If you're not ready, that's okay," she said, the pain evident in her voice, though he couldn't be sure if it was her upset at the apparent lack of trust or if she was sensing his feelings, that this was something bigger, something...not okay.

But some part deep inside of him didn't want to hide from her anymore. She'd reminded him of their strength, pleaded gently for him to let her in, let her love him.

He missed her, needed her. He couldn't live without her, and it broke his heart that he'd spent almost a year trying to. No more, he decided. <<Zha lizrhom.>>

He could feel her heart sink, and he hadn't meant to, he'd forgotten again that she could hear him, so he explained. "No more, it means. I don't want to hide from you anymore." Her heart surged, buoying his with it.

And he was terrified.

She wouldn't love him any more if she knew, if she knew what atrocities he'd committed in the name of progress and freedom on New Krypton. He didn't understand it himself. How could she possibly understand? He would never forgive himself. How could she possibly...

But she was watching him, with bated breath and a heart full of hope that he could feel echoing in his chest, and he couldn't deny her. The light of the sun was all but gone now, her face cast in slowly growing shadows yet somehow also his light in the darkness.

As beautiful as she was just like this and as much as he wanted to stay hiding in the dark, he couldn't. Not anymore. He took a deep breath and reached over to switch on the small battery-powered lantern along the side wall. The initial brightness of it made them both flinch slightly, but their eyes adjusted quickly.

Another deep breath, the needles of anxiety coursing through him. "Help me?" he asked.

And thankfully she knew, she knew exactly what he meant, because he wasn't sure he would have been able to articulate it. She let go of his hand and reached toward him slowly and took gentle hold of the hem of his shirt. He hoped it would be enough. He hoped she wouldn't ask more about it.

Her eyes didn't leave his as she lifted his shirt and pulled it up over his head after he'd raised his arms, her ring on the chain slinking back down to hang on his chest. The soft whisper of the t-shirt landing on the wooden planks of the treehouse floor sounded far louder to his ears than it should have. Her eyes still hadn't left his, and he realized that she was waiting for him to be ready, waiting for him to tell her it was okay.

He wasn't sure it would ever be okay, but the overwhelming onslaught of love in his chest made him want to try. Clark took her hand again and slowly brought it close to his scar. "Okay," he told her, his voice hoarse and his breath catching in his throat. He fought to keep his eyes open and not hide from her reaction, as if that would win him some sort of validation or absolution.

She gasped sharply, but quietly, her free hand coming up to cover her mouth. "Oh, Clark," she whispered as she let her fingertips explore the gnarled tissue.

He slowly let out the breath he'd been holding. There was no pity or horror—for which he was grateful—but she still didn't know the cost of it, what had become of the man who had injured him so.

The feel of her touch against the scar tissue was different, less pleasant, but it tingled as her fingers mapped the size and shape of it. He could sense that she wanted to ask but was hesitant, afraid to push him.

He knew his face was anguished, and that she could likely feel it in her chest almost as keenly as he did. He looked up at her with an agonizing expression. How could he ever hope to be close to her again if he didn't share?

Yet...if she ever found out...how could he ever expect her to love him?

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