Lois & Clark Forums Forums Fan Fiction Lois & Clark Fanfic Anchor: Part I -- Clark Kent (28-30/51)

The chilly morning air hits my face as I exit the apartment, and I instinctively close my eyes as I turn around to lock the door. Weak sunlight breaks through the thin cloud layer, glinting off the metal of the door handle. My hand, usually steady and strong, shakes almost imperceptibly as I insert the key into the lock and turn, listening for the telltale click that indicates the lock is engaged. I then stuff the keyring into my pocket.

I had to drag myself out of bed this morning. It wasn’t easy. I’d been out almost all night putting out a wildfire in Australia, stopping an avalanche from taking out a small village in Russia, and helping clean up a major mudslide in Brazil. And…well…my motivation for getting out of bed was quite low.

I turn around unenthusiastically and stumble down the steps. I scan ahead of me, out to the city. As is typical for a cold Sunday morning, the city is quiet and sleepy. A few people walk their dogs in and around Centennial Park, and traffic is light. Normally, I enjoy slow Sunday mornings like this. But today, I feel dreadfully alone.

I focus my eyesight back on the sidewalk in front of me. Why am I even running today? Will it provide me a distraction? Pass the time? Maybe I should go flying instead. I close my eyes for a moment. But then I just see them—smiling and happy and hugging, and I feel numb.

No, I will run.

Fast and far.

A different loop, maybe not through the park today.

I kneel down unsteadily to retie my left shoe. My knee hits the pavement, cracking the concrete ever so slightly.

Whoops.

Careful.

Freak alien.

No, don’t do that right now. I shake my head and curse silently as I double knot the laces with trembling hands.

Yesterday—no, don’t think about it. Don’t think, just run. Isn’t that why I run, after all—to forget? I used to need my morning run to clear my mind and prepare myself for long days of ignoring the disconcerting stares and whispers that came with my celebrity status on my world. Then, on this Earth, I used my morning run as a part of a familiar routine when everything else around me was unfamiliar. When Lois started joining me, it became something more. I didn’t use it to forget anymore, but to build—build my life here, build my friendship with her, build myself up as Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter who is definitely not also a superhero flying around in blue tights and a regal red cape.

Now…well, now I need to run to forget again.

To forget yesterday afternoon.

I need to forget their words, whispered quietly as though that would stop me from hearing. Not intentionally unkind words, no, but hurtful words nonetheless. And words that confirmed my worst fears.

I shouldn’t have eavesdropped. It’s my own fault. It was not intentional; I’d just been returning to Lois’s apartment after having dropped off the Kents and thwarted a bank robbery a few miles away. I’d only been gone a few minutes. And then I’d hovered above the apartment and watched them hug and cry together. I figured I’d give them a few minutes before I knocked on the window.

Clark had spoken first. Had he known I was nearby? It didn’t feel like it. But he was much more skilled at reading my thoughts than I was at reading his. And his words had seemed innocent enough.

“It’s a good thing the other Clark was here to bring me back. I don’t know how much longer it would have taken for me to be able to fly home of my own power.”

However, Jonathan Kent had spoken up next, the mistrust from several weeks ago seeping back into his voice. “Kinda fishy if you ask me.”

“What is, Jonathan?” Martha had sounded skeptical. She sat next to Clark on the couch, her arm around his shoulders.

“He shows up, claiming he is here to help since the world needs Superman. But the world has Superman still, we just needed to wait a bit longer for him to come home.” From the other side of Clark, Jonathan had shaken his head. “He jumped right into your life, taking over your jobs, your apartment, your fiancée…”

My eyes had shifted to Lois, who stood silently a couple feet away, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked confused, her eyes on the floor, and although she shook her head, she didn’t speak up to defend me.

“No, Jon, he was just acting on the information he had available to him,” Martha had said. But her tone didn’t sound convincing. “It doesn’t even matter now,” she had continued, leaning into her son again. “All that matters is that you’re back now. I can’t tell you how happy I am, Clark. Oh, my boy!”

And she hugged him. Just like she’d hugged me earlier. But…more. And then Jonathan and Lois had joined her.

And I’d flown up into the sky, away from it, away from them. I hadn’t stopped until I realized I was about to exit the solar system, Pluto looming in front of me. How long had I been flying? I wasn’t sure. Numbly, I’d turned around and sped back toward Earth.

I thought I’d cool off overnight. But I’d been busy with Superman rescues as soon as I’d gotten back from my space adventure, and I hadn’t had time to process any of it or to talk to them and…clarify? My cell phone had been silent; no one had tried to contact me. And so I’d just gone on. I still feel numb. And so alone.

I look down the street and then start off at a good pace toward Centennial Park. The light mist in the air fogs up my glasses; I take a chance, considering no one is around and I’m in normal clothes, and I remove them and stuff them into my pocket. The sensation of running without my glasses on distracts me sufficiently for several minutes, almost as though I am seeing the city for the first time.

The clean, tree-lined streets pass by me as I sprint along. It is cleaner than it was four weeks ago; trash has been picked up and placed in trash cans spaced at even intervals down the sidewalks along the edge of the park. A new homeless shelter had opened up last week one block away, and no more homeless families huddle together to stay warm in their broken, dilapidated tents near the forested trails running through the middle of the park. I veer the other way today—toward the river rather through the park. In another minute, I take a hard right and speed along the bike path running parallel to Hobbs River. This area, too—it had been dirty and strewn with litter, a common spot for drug dealers and prostitutes—but now, the path is clean and safe.

I run a little faster still, my hands balling into fists. Then I remind myself that I should be careful not to attract attention to my speed, and I slow my pace a bit and pull my glasses back out of my pocket. I will not screw up things for him or for me. At least for now, I am still Clark Kent, who definitely is not a freak alien with the ability to fly at speeds faster than light. I carefully dry my glasses using a dry corner of my shirt, rather than the short burst of heat vision that I’d normally use, and shove them back on. The familiarity of the glasses back on my face seems to pull me out of the daze I’m in, and I turn right and continue down a side street.

Within a few more minutes, I have looped back to the park. I’m not even sure how far I’ve gone, but it’s not far enough. I still remember yesterday. I sigh and slow to a walk a couple blocks from my apartment. A light drizzle starts to fall. I lower my head to try to keep my glasses from getting too wet and continue walking briskly the last couple blocks.

The numbness inside me grows as I round the corner toward my apartment. I eye the open parking spot where Lois’s Jeep would usually be at this time of the morning. An uncomfortable tightness spreads through my chest. I’d hoped she’d be here waiting for me, apologizing for being late, and challenging me to beat her in our routine loop around the park.

But the spot is empty.

I swallow and jog up the steps to my door. His door. I shake my head as Jonathan Kent’s words echo again in my mind.

“He jumped right into your life, taking over your jobs, your apartment, your fiancée…”

No, he’s wrong. He’s wrong. I never had any agenda. I still have no agenda. I only came here to help.

I unlock the door and move inside, out of the chilly morning and into the dim light of the living room. The apartment is warm, and I flip on the lights and stare at the now-familiar space. I’d only made a few changes since moving in. I’d shifted the furniture around a bit and replaced an old throw blanket that he’d had on the couch. I’d bought some new cookware, since he’d had startlingly few pots and pans. Otherwise, the space looks nearly identical to the first day I’d come.

I feel a sudden need to get out, however, to be anywhere else but here, in his space. At superspeed, I shower and change into the suit. Although I usually leave my cell phone at home, today I decide to bring it with me. Yeah, a small part of me still hopes…maybe she will call me. Tell me she needs to see me. Needs my help with a story…or changing a lightbulb…or something. But it’s Sunday. We’re both off work today. And she’s got him back…

She won’t need me.

I stare at the blank screen of the cell phone. No, she won’t need me. But I stuff the phone into the hidden pocket of the suit. Just in case.

I head out to the balcony and then launch up into the dreary, cold sky, extending my senses out to pick up the sounds of the city and beyond.

Someone out there needs me. I’ll just have to find them.





The eighteen-wheeler jackknifes and slides across the slick, icy mountain road, its driver wide eyed and fearful, his foot pressed deeply onto the brake pedal. Just as the truck crashes through the guardrail, about to begin a rapid, dangerous plummet over the side of the cliff, I catch it mid-air, and it groans as it shudders to a stop. I hear the driver exhale, “Oh, thank God,” and then slump over with relief into his seat. I carefully lift the truck back up to the road and set it down slowly at a safer turnout further down the road to avoid jostling the driver. He rolls down his window and wipes sweat off his brow with a shaky hand.

“Thank you, Superman. I—you just saved my life. Thank you,” he blurts out, leaning heavily on the door.

“You’re welcome, sir,” I reply, floating up to be level with the cab and to avoid having to raise my voice. “I need to get going, but can I give you a lift to your destination or at least over this mountain pass before I take off? The roads are just getting worse, and there’s another storm front headed this way.”

“You’d do that for me? Yes, Superman, I’d really appreciate it. I am heading to Durango.”

I nod. “Durango—that’s where Fort Lewis College is, just south of the mountains here?” I turn my head slightly and gaze out toward the south. “About fifty miles or so,” I add, shifting back to the driver.

“Yessir, that’s right,” he agrees. Some of the color seems to be returning to his cheeks.

“All right. Sit back and hold on. I’ll try to make the trip as smooth as possible.”

“Thank you, Superman,” he says.

I see him settle back into his seat and check his seatbelt, and I float back down to the ground and gently lift the truck. It’s the third vehicle I’ve relocated from Red Mountain Pass already this morning. The unexpected storm had moved furiously through the region, dumping feet of snow over a layer of ice on the already dangerous mountain roads of southwestern Colorado. The other two vehicles I’d relocated—one a passenger vehicle carrying a family of four and the other another eighteen-wheeler—had been heading north, toward Grand Junction. Both had been in similarly precarious situations, slipping and sliding along the icy road and at risk of going over the edge of the cliff. They’d closed the road by now, so no one else should be coming through. But I was glad I’d been nearby on my way back from helping to put out a chemical fire at a manufacturing plant outside of Las Vegas.

Within only a few minutes, I approach the small city of Durango, and I set the truck down in a nicely plowed parking lot near the county fairgrounds. And, almost immediately, I hear distant screaming. I turn abruptly toward the sound to localize it. Several skiers are caught in avalanche-like conditions on a mountain about twenty-five miles west. I quickly check that the truck driver is okay before I launch myself back into the sky and head west again.

About ten minutes later, the skiers moved to the safety of their lodge and out of the snow storm, I fly back over the region again, scanning for any more disturbances. The area is quiet now. Good. Disasters averted. All in a morning’s work.

After executing one more large, slow loop through southern Colorado, I continue east, flying at an unhurried pace. My hearing seems to jump from one sound to another as I pass over urban areas on my way home. Instinctively, I focus on troubled voices, police scanners, and building alarms. However, nothing needs my immediate attention, so I continue on. I slow over a large group of protesters outside the White House in Washington, DC, monitoring the general atmosphere of the protest; however, the protesters are peacefully congregating, and even the police officers seem relaxed and unworried. So, again, I continue on.

The midday Sun shines over Metropolis now, and the clouds from this morning have all moved on, to the north. I fly in a wide arc over the city. Shoppers and restaurant-goers hug the sidewalks of downtown, and vehicle traffic, still light for noon on a Sunday, travels slowly through the streets. No sirens to be heard. No bank alarms or screams for help.

I fly the long way home, deliberately avoiding Lois’s neighborhood, and land lightly on the balcony of my apartment. I’ve been gone for almost five hours, but it seems like days. And I’m tired. No, not physically. Despite getting very little sleep the night before and flying all around the world on rescues for the last five hours, my power boost from yesterday has me feeling quite good physically. But mentally and emotionally, I am still a wreck. My brain feels tired. Maybe I’ll lie down for a short nap.

I pull the cell phone out of my suit pocket as I enter the apartment and then casually spin into more comfortable clothes—black workout pants and a gray T-shirt. There is a text from Jimmy asking if Lois and I are free for dinner with him and Perry. I cringe. I’d completely forgotten about Perry and Alice. I will give Jimmy a call—maybe I can go with him to support Perry. Although I’ll need to ask Lois as well; I can’t assume she won’t want to go…or that he won’t want to go instead of me. I also see two notifications of emails from the Pulitzer Prize committee, confirming my plans to attend the awards ceremony in three weeks. Yet another thing I need to talk to Lois about.

My jaw clenches as I stuff the phone back into my pocket. I should eat something, I suppose. Then I’ll call Lois. My stomach twists at the thought, and any appetite I’d had is now lost. Maybe I’ll be a coward and just text her.

Weak. You’re weak, Kent. Just call her.

I shake my head and move to the fridge, where I pull out some leftover chicken enchiladas from Friday night. I lazily reheat some using my heat vision and open up today’s edition of the Daily Planet as I sit at the table.

Superman dominates the front page—a story on the near meltdown of the nuclear power plant in Japan is the main headline, and another article on the bomb threat at the Empire State Building graces the bottom half of the front page. I read through both articles, which are well written and thorough accounts of Superman’s activities, and I close my eyes for a moment as I realize how glad I am that I didn’t have to write them. In fact, although I am often sure to give good quotes to Daily Planet reporters, I only sometimes have to write about myself. Most of Superman’s activities are covered by Lois or three other reporters—definitely not by Clark Kent.

Lois once told me that her Clark preferred to distance himself as much as possible from Superman to avoid suspicion, although I suppose with Clark having been ‘chosen’ to accompany Superman to New Krypton, that deliberate distance between Clark Kent and Superman has been all but eliminated.

I flip through a few more pages while eating my lunch. And soon, too soon, really, I’m finished. I rinse off my plate and stick it in the dishwasher, then sit back at the table with a sigh and pull out my phone.

Call or text?

If she’s currently having lunch with the Kents, a phone call would be disruptive; a text, however, could be ignored until the time is right. But I really need to call Jimmy back soon and let him know about dinner… So, I should call.

Sigh.

I run a nervous hand through my hair as I dial her number, and I bring the phone to my ear as the ring tone buzzes. Once, twice, three times. And then I hear her voice on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” Her voice is soft and sweet. She knows it’s me, of course, and I hear her mumble, “Sorry, I’ll be right back,” followed by some rustling.

“Hi, Lois. It’s me, uh, Clark. I-I—um, h-how are you all d-doing there? Is everything o-okay?” I screw my eyes shut and smack my fist to my forehead. Stupid stuttering.

“Yeah, yes, it’s all good here,” she says quietly. I hear a door shut and then the sound of her mattress squeaking. “We were just having lunch. We missed you yesterday after you dropped the Kents off. Was Superman busy?”

Oh, Lois. Thank you, but I know you don’t mean “we.” Maybe you missed me? But then why not call? I suppress the negative thoughts that want to force themselves through, and I do what I must, even though I hate it.

I lie.

“Yeah, busy most of the afternoon yesterday and then all night,” I reply.

I guess it’s not a lie if you consider ‘busy’ to be flying aimlessly through space for hours. And nice that my stutter completely disappears when I lie. Guilt causes my chest to constrict. I need to get to the point and then get off the phone. But she speaks before I can.

“I’m glad you called, actually, because Jimmy called me just a few minutes ago. Did you know about Perry and Alice?”

“Yeah, P-Perry told me yesterday morning,” I confess. I almost feel her nod into the phone.

“Jimmy invited us to dinner with Perry tonight to try to cheer him up,” she explains.

My cynical brain wonders what the “us” in her sentence means. Me and her? Or him and her? But I don’t try to clarify. Instead, I force a laugh into the phone.

“That’s why I was calling as well. Jimmy texted me. I just got back from Colorado, so I hadn’t seen the message until now.”

My voice sounds stronger, but I feel shaky, and my stomach is so twisted in knots that it almost hurts. She doesn’t say anything right away, and my discomfort grows.

Finally, I clear my throat and add, “Um, I don’t have any plans for tonight, but if you—I mean, if he, um, Clark wants to go, I understand.”

Again, I smack my fist against my forehead. Dumb, dumb, dumb, Kent.

“Oh, no,” she responds immediately, her voice trembling. “No, he’s definitely not ready for anything like that yet.”

She pauses on the other end of the line, and I hear a weak sniffle and cough. She’s trying hard to hold herself together. Something is wrong.

“Lois? Are you okay?” I stand up and start pacing.

“Yes, sorry, um, I’m just, you know, a little tired, and he–he’s definitely not ready for anything like that,” she repeats cryptically. “But actually, I think I’d like to go with you, if you’re available. Clark won’t mind, I’m sure.”

Oh, boy, something sounds terribly wrong. I stop pacing and lean back against the counter.

“Sounds good then. How about I give Jimmy a call and let him know? I’ll text you the details after I talk to him.”

My fingers drum absently on the table, and I feel a muscle in my jaw twitching. I have an urge to see her right now—to go over there, knock on the door, and check that she is okay. I hadn’t imagined even for one second that she’d be upset or unhappy. And, her words, repeated almost in anguish, that Clark was not ready for an outing yet… I’m sure there’s a lot more she’s not saying.

“That would be great, Clark. Thank you,” she responds quietly.

Again, I have another urge to see her. To hug her. There is hurt in her voice. But I will have to wait a few hours.

“You’re welcome. I’ll see you soon. Goodbye, Lois.”

“Goodbye, Clark.”

I think maybe I hear a small hint of a smile in her voice this time. I’ll take it.

I hang up the phone and dial Jimmy’s number.





I hear her Jeep pull up outside my apartment at 6:55 p.m., five minutes before she’s supposed to be here to pick me up. Her heart pounds unevenly in her chest, and her breathing is shaky. I busy myself with knotting my tie and wait for her knock on the door. After several minutes, when no knock has come, I frown. Maybe she doesn’t want to be early in case I’m not ready. That would explain it, right? However, when I listen carefully, my keen hearing picks up telltale sounds of her soft crying, and I look through the walls of the apartment, out to her vehicle. She sits, her head in her hands, holding back tears.

Oh, Lois, no. Please, don’t cry.

I grab my wallet, phone, keys, and suit jacket and jog up the steps to the door. As I exit the apartment, I hear her shift in her seat, and I turn and wave at her with a smile. She wipes the tears from her eyes and cheeks and smiles back at me with a small wave. I lock the door quickly and then trot over to her car and climb into the passenger’s seat. She sniffles again and brushes another stray tear off her cheek.

“Hi, Clark. It’s really good to see you,” she says, projecting confidence into her voice.

She meets my eyes only briefly before looking away. With an unsteady hand, she reaches out to start the Jeep, but I instinctively place my hand on top of hers to stop her. She inhales sharply as her hand freezes on the key. Maybe it isn’t my place anymore. Maybe I shouldn’t pry and just let her share if and when she’s ready. But my heart can’t stand to see her hurting.

“Do you want to talk about it?” My voice is quiet but solid. No stuttering now.

She lets her hand drop from the starter, effectively breaking our contact. Drawing in a shaky breath, she closes her eyes as another tear falls down her cheek. I desperately want to brush it away for her—to brush away all of her pain and sadness. But this time I hold back. I keep my hands to myself.

“He’s having a tough time adjusting to being home,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “And it’s really hard to watch.” She pauses to wipe the tears away again. “He won’t talk to me about it. But I see something in his eyes. Like he’s haunted by his memories. And last night…”

Her voice trails off, and she turns her head to stare away from me, out the window. She doesn’t continue, but instead crosses her arms over her chest in a gesture I know is meant to shield herself—protect herself. I take a chance now, choosing my words carefully.

“What happened last night, Lois?”

She shakes her head as though she doesn’t want to remember, but then turns back toward me. Her eyes don’t quite meet mine.

“He was sleeping, and I came into the bedroom after helping the Kents settle into the guest room, and…”

I reach out to take her hand. She glances up at me, her eyes red and her mascara ever so slightly smeared. She bites her lip as she lowers her eyes again, but she doesn’t pull her hand away from mine.

It’s then that I notice a minor red discoloration encircling her wrist. My thumb gently brushes over the blemish, and I look up at her with alarm.

“Did he do this to you?” The words hiss out of my mouth before I can think, and she flinches and tugs her hand out of mine. I backtrack and soften my tone. “Sorry, Lois, I just—please tell me what happened.”

Her other hand rubs the mark on her right wrist, and she blinks back more tears.

“He didn’t mean to do it,” she mumbles, almost to herself. Then she turns to me, and I see a faint fire flicker in her eyes. The expression quickly disappears, however, and she explains, “He was startled when I laid down next to him in bed, and he grabbed my wrist. It was an accident.”

“Okay, I understand,” I concede. I certainly don’t want to cause her more distress. And I can’t imagine that he’d have hurt her intentionally. “But if it was just an accident, why are you so upset?” I ask carefully.

She looks away, and I feel her shrink into herself. No, don’t shut me out, Lois. I gently touch her shoulder, and she leans into me. I feel her trembling. She wipes another tear from her cheek.

“We’re going to be late to dinner,” she replies evasively.

“Lois,” I whisper, squeezing her shoulder. “I want to help you. Both of you. Please, tell me what has you so upset.”

She shudders and suppresses a sob, dropping her chin down to her chest. And then she collapses into me crying. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and wrap my arms around her as best I can in the tight space of the Jeep. One hand rubs her back, and I clench my jaw involuntarily as I carefully control my thoughts to avoid accidentally opening a telepathic connection with him.

“Shhh, it will be okay.”

“I’m not sure if it will, Clark. I-I don’t know anymore.” She pulls away from me and takes a deep breath to steady herself. “When he woke, after he realized what he’d done—that he’d hurt me—he completely lost it. I couldn’t calm him down. I found myself thinking it was a…a good thing he didn’t have his superpowers, because I would have had to call you to help contain him. It’s like he had a major panic attack, Clark, I don’t know how else to describe it.”

I nod slowly, imagining the scene as she described it. And knowing what I know about his experiences on New Krypton, his love for her, and the darkness and self-loathing I’ve felt buried in him, I’m actually not surprised.

“How has he been today?” I ask softly.

“Quiet. Withdrawn. Tired.” She shifts in her seat a bit and then rests her hands on the steering wheel. “He spent a lot of time talking with his parents. They were asleep and don’t know what happened last night. But when we’re alone…it’s like he’s scared of something.”

“He is,” I say, setting my jaw.

This is a fine line I’m walking—Lois’s friend, but with insights into her fiancé’s emotional state—and I’m not entirely sure how much to say to her and how to navigate it. I decide it has to be his decision about how much, what, and when he tells her everything. Not mine. But I can still guide her to help him. Right?

“He’s probably scared he’ll hurt you again, Lois,” I explain, my voice low. “I…I imagine he’s struggling right now because of how New Krypton changed him. And he may not trust himself to do or say or think the right things anymore, especially after last night.”

“What can I do, then, Clark? What should I do?”

She sounds so lost, and I have a strong urge to hug her again. However, I realize part of this process is going to have to include me stepping back a bit to let their relationship heal.

I close my eyes.

“He needs time and understanding. And you. He really, really needs you.”

That’s probably as much as I should say. At least for now.

Her hands drop from the steering wheel as she nods and brushes another tear from her eye.

“Maybe I should go back home,” she proposes, her voice nearly a whisper. She doesn’t look at me, but I can feel her uncertainty. “Maybe I shouldn’t be gone right now.”

I reach up and adjust my glasses. I know what the right thing to say is. But for a moment, I almost consider being so selfish as to ignore it. My shoulders tense and my stomach twists in knots, but I will do the right thing.

“That’s probably a good idea.”

She nods again, and she reaches up with a shaky hand again to start the car.

“I’ll drop you off at the restaurant, if you want,” she suggests.

I shake my head and reach for the door handle.

“No, it’s in the opposite direction. I’ll be fine.” I hesitate for a moment, then smile weakly at her. “Call me anytime, okay?”

There is so much more we need to talk about. But for now, she needs to get home.

“Okay.”

She turns her head slightly to look at me, and my heart skips a beat.

I hope you figure things out, Lois. I just want you to be happy.

With another final half-smile, I push the door open and exit the car, then wave as she drives off. That was difficult. I inhale deeply and then turn and jog back up the stairs to my apartment. As I unlock the door, I feel his presence with me, and a simple, silent question inserts into my mind.

“Is she okay?”

I open the door, re-enter the apartment, and spin into the suit so I can fly to the restaurant. My hesitation is my answer, and I can feel that he senses this. However, I reply with carefully chosen words.

She is very worried about you. The best thing you can do is to talk to her.

I take off from the balcony toward the steakhouse where Perry and Jimmy are probably already waiting. I sense his anxiety, fear, and self-hatred. He’s not hiding his feelings from me, although I’m not sure whether it’s intentional.

“I can’t tell her everything. I can’t do that to her.”

I consider his words and the simple fact that he is actually opening up to me. Maybe not everything. Maybe not yet. But she wants to understand you and she wants to help you. She loves you so much. You have to trust her.

“I do trust her. I don’t trust myself. You saw what I did to her.”

I land lightly in a secluded alley about a block from the restaurant and spin back into my regular clothes. I lean heavily against the wall and close my eyes. My thoughts focus with an intensity I’ve rarely known.

Let me tell you what I saw just now. I project an image of her to him—her beautiful eyes, marred by redness from tears, but full of love and hope. And then I tell him, I saw the strongest woman that I know brought to tears over how much she loves you. I saw the evidence of an accident, yes. I project an image of me holding her wrist, the redness from his outburst apparent. But I saw her brush it off, because that’s what it was—an accident. Clark, I’ve spent the last month watching her grieve your death. I’ve watched her smile and cry and laugh and crumble, all within the span of a few minutes. I’ve listened to her tell me about you with such adoration and respect. She truly is the strongest woman I know. And right now, all she wants is to understand enough about what happened to you, what you had to do, what you were forced to do—so that she can help you heal from it all, because she loves you that much. She is not scared that you will physically hurt her. But if you don’t open up to her, it will hurt her so much worse.

His thoughts are jumbled, and I sense that he’s fighting down a wave of chest pain as well, though he’s able to block the pain from affecting me through our connection.

An intense fear grows in him, and I suddenly am reliving his memory of the night before. The vision progresses in slow motion. I’m sleeping, dreaming of a hot, dusty warzone, the atmosphere glowing a hazy red. Ahead of me, a man in black armor approaches and swings a heavy broadsword at me, but I easily parry with my own weapon and then slash my sword at him, ripping a gaping wound in his abdomen. I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I swing around, my sword at ready. The dream ends abruptly, and my hand grasps a small wrist terrifyingly tightly. My eyes fly open, and I see her, pain filling her expression as she tries to tug her hand away, out of my grip. I hear my voice, which is his voice, I know. “Oh, God, Lois. I’m so sorry.” And I release her wrist. Tears form in her eyes, and I push myself away from her, out of bed, and stumble across the room, suddenly needing to be as far away from her as possible. His voice says again, “I’m so sorry. Are you okay? I’m—God, I’m sorry, Lois.” She stands up and moves toward me, reaching out toward me, but I back away from her. “No, stay away. I don’t want to hurt you.” And then everything gets fuzzy and muddled, and the vision ends.

He didn’t mean for me to see that. But it’s just as Lois had said. An accident.

“Sorry. God, I can’t believe I hurt her.”

Such powerful anguish overcomes him. Then, suddenly, the connection is dropped, and I’m alone in my head again.

With practiced ease, I find her heartbeat and focus my vision to watch her. She’s just arrived at her apartment; that’s probably why he dropped the connection with me. They are embracing, but he’s stiff and unsure. The Kents are in the kitchen cooking dinner. I close my eyes.

They will be okay.

They have to be.

A deep sigh escapes my lips as I adjust my glasses and jog out of the alley toward the restaurant. Somehow, I have to get through this dinner, and then I’ll reconnect with Lois and Clark.

“CK!”

Jimmy calls me from the restaurant steps up ahead, and I paste a fake smile on my face and wave to him.

“Hey, Jimmy! Sorry I’m late.” I jog over to meet him and reach out to shake his hand in greeting. “Lois isn’t feeling well, so she decided to stay home.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that,” he responds, frowning slightly. He motions toward the restaurant. “Perry is already inside.”

“All right, let’s go then,” I say, patting his back and letting him lead the way up the steps and into the restaurant.

I quickly glance one more time toward Lois’s apartment.

It will be okay.

The thought lodges itself in my head. It is my thought. My positivity. But I hope they both feel it as well.