Since I organized the ficathon I had the privilige of picking the prompts myself.
KSara asked for:
Angst! (Can be light or heavy)
A really great kiss (bonus points if it’s a first kiss)
Pre-dating or early relationship
The three things she didn't want were:
Clones
Lex
A-plot
I thought that was easy, because angst I can do. Though, to be honest the concept of the word 'angst' is still some kind of mystery to me. I think I have a pretty good grasp on what it means, but I don't have an actual word for it in my native language. German has the word "Angst", but would you translate it, you'd get fear. And while fear might be a part of the meaning, it's not in any way a translation. These words are truly false friends. For example, I was baffled, even recently when someone wrote that AnnieM's story "What the heart wants" was angsty. I still have to kind of fight the notion that angsty tales mean a horror story. I know they don't, but it's ingrained in me 
So, while I was thinking about a possible plot, I was considering all sort of horror scenarios with a badly tortured Clark, but then I remembered Annie's story and decided to go about it differently.
KSaraSara is betaing my current WIP, which I have abandoned in the past four weeks to write the ficathon and several short tales about a certain illusionist. Anyway, while she went through the first few chapters of my tale, she got all excited about the story she thought I was going to write. She wasn't the only one. But then I flipped the tale on her and she was like "What the heck have you done?"
I felt bad about cheating her out of the story she wanted to read.
So here it is - the story I didn't write. It's not exactly the same setup, but close enough.
Hope you'll enjoy it. Merry Christmas! Beyond Closed Doors Clark's apartment lies in darkness. I climb the final steps up to his front porch and squint hard to see if maybe there's a little light.
The place looks abandoned.
My gut twists into a knot. A tiny voice in the back of my mind suggests that maybe he has already gone to bed.
Though I desperately want to, I don’t really believe that. It's barely eight o'clock. Even if he’s sick as a dog, he should still be awake.
I feel a pang of guilt that some part of me has actually been hoping to find him coughing, sneezing and overall pretty miserable. Not that I ever truly believed he was sick. Though he's had more doctor's appointments than I can count, I've never seen him with as much as a sniffle.
Yet, I’ve been hoping to find him in a sorry state, slouched on his couch with his coffee table covered in used tissues. Because that would mean I could nurse him back to health. I could put the can of chicken soup in my bag to good use and make him forget about the terrible end of our wonderful date, yesterday.
But with his place completely dark, it’s rather hard to convince myself that Clark is sick. He took the day off because I broke his heart. There’s a lump building in my throat. Tears prick in my eyes.
I’m a terrible person.
I’ve gone through this kind of pain so often that I vowed to myself that I’d never do it to anyone else. Yet, I did it to Clark twice already.
Now that I’m here, I no longer know what to do. Maybe I should just give him some space. He probably needs it. After all, l slammed the door in his face after an absolutely amazing first date. It's not fair that I expect him to forgive me in exchange for a lousy can of chicken soup.
For weeks, he’s been trying so hard to woo me. Everything was absolutely perfect. But then I completely blew it.
I don't know what has gotten into me. I guess I just panicked. And then I panicked some more. This morning, I even asked Perry to partner me up with someone else. I’m such a coward. It's a good thing he knows better than to give into my every whim. Sometimes I really need protection from myself.
I raise my hand to knock at Clark’s door, but soon lose my nerve. It seems rather pointless anyway. He’s not even there. The canned chicken soup in my bag bangs against my upper leg as if to remind me it’s there. It’s not the kind of remedy that helps with a broken heart. Maybe it would have been more helpful if I’d brought some chocolates or a bottle of wine. Besides, I’m the worst possible choice when it comes to offering moral support. And not just because it was me who broke his heart in the first place.
If our places were reversed, I’d certainly prefer to lick my wounds in private instead of dealing with my ex. Though, after one date, I guess I hardly count as an ex. Did the other women in his life give him just as much trouble? Surely, Mayson wouldn’t have made a fool of him. She would have kissed him, maybe even invited him in. He would have had a good time instead of finding himself in front of a closed door.
He must have had enough of me by now. Too often, I’m so caught up in my own confusing emotions that I completely ignore he has feelings as well.
I squeeze my eyes shut and wish I could just go back in time and make things better. That would be the only way to get out of this mess. How am I even going to apologize for my behavior? Just laugh it off, tell him that I didn’t mean it? He’d never believe it, because I’ve hurt him one time too many.
When I'd left Perry's office this morning I'd been so very antsy about talking to Clark.
Well, I needn't have worried. And at first, I was relieved when Perry mentioned during the morning meeting that Clark wasn't going to come in. But as the day wore on, I started to miss him. And I missed him more with every passing minute.
I missed the cup of coffee on my desk.
I missed the smile on his face.
I missed his hand on my shoulder.
I even missed him editing my copy.
Today, I was all too aware of how much I’d grieved for him when I’d thought he was dead.
So why on earth did I slam my door in his face?
My hand is still hanging suspended in mid-air. I should probably go home. There's not much point in staying. Clark won't suddenly appear just because I want him to. But I can't bring myself to leave either. I can’t go back to my apartment and expect to get any sleep without apologizing to him first.
I sit down on his stairs, unhappy and completely worn out after a harrowing newsday. Today of all days the breaking news hit us with the force of a tsunami.
It seemed like the world had decided to go crazy all at once. There had been an earthquake in India long before I even made it to the Planet. And hadn't it been for Superman, I'd probably have ended up in a hostage situation during a brief visit at a bank in Metropolis.
He'd been completely caked in mud, when he'd taken care of the bank robbers. On his way back to India, he cleared a pile-up on a bridge. And later, he dealt with a landslide in Brazil. Today, it seemed, Superman just couldn't take a break.
Reuters and other news agencies kept us updated with ever rising numbers of injured people and fatalities. The whole newsroom was busy doing background research, keeping the articles updated, plus dealing with the minor stuff that belonged to our everyday work.
Before I went to Clark's place, I switched on the tv to check on Superman. The latest footage of him helping out in Brazil had shown a figure that would have been unrecognizable, hadn't it been for the flying. I wonder if he has someone to talk to after a day like this. Maybe Clark would know, but he isn’t here.
Today, I could have really used his help. Clark has a way of portraying the human interest side of such tragedies that eludes me. If I'm honest everything seems so much easier when he's present. Jimmy is more forthcoming, waiting for answers is not as frustrating, hanging in phone lines is easier to bear, when he places his hand on my shoulders.
God, I long for his touch.
I can't believe how much I need him. It baffles me how I could have, even for a moment, considered working with someone else. It's not like I need him to get the job done. I've got three Kerth Awards to my name that prove I'm perfectly capable of handling myself. But with Clark at my side, every day just is so much brighter. Work is just so much more fulfilling. Life is just so much better.
I don't need him to write, really I don’t.
He's more like the air that I breathe.
But now I'm afraid of what will happen once I have a chance to talk to him. Throughout the day, I tried to call him several times. But he wouldn't answer the phone. He probably doesn't want to talk to me and I can’t exactly blame him.
Or he's really sick. It’s a faint hope, but it’s persistent. And scary.
What if he’s actually sick enough that he can't get to the phone?
I turn around to have another glance at Clark’s dark apartment. There’s not a sound coming from inside. No coughing, no sneezing. Surely, he’s fine. Just so sad and angry about the end of our date that he just couldn't bear to face me today.
But that’s not like him is it? So far, Clark has been incredibly patient with me. Nothing I did to him scared him off. But even a man like Clark must have his limits. My throat tightens even more. Slamming the door in his face might well have been the final straw that broke the camel's back.
What if I blew my final chance in a moment of sheer panic?
What if he’s really, really sick? The voice of worry creeps back up on me again.
Both notions mix up to a strong surge of despair that makes me jump up from my seat on his stairs and gives me the courage to knock at his door. The door rattles under the attack of my fist.
“Clark, open up,” I shout. “I know you’re there.”
Actually, I don’t. I just hope to find him here, to talk to him and apologize. I want to prepare a can of chicken soup and fix this whole disaster in one go. I need him and I really can’t stand another moment of this uncertainty.
But his apartment remains awfully silent. I don’t hear footsteps or his voice telling me that he's coming. I bend forward and, shielding my eyes with my hands, I try to catch a glimpse of what's going on inside. I’m hoping against hope that there’s a faint light on his bed stand after all.
I don’t see a thing.
I knock again, harder this time and even more desperate. There's that nagging worry, the tiny voice in the back of my neck that's telling me Clark is not doing well.
Still, no one answers the door. And knocking a third time - banging at the door would be the more accurate description - doesn't change the result. I have to face the hard truth. Clark's not home. He’s not nursing a case of the flu, he’s taking care of his broken heart.
I bang my fist against the door one last time, more out of frustration than hope to get Clark's attention. Muttering a curse, I turn around and once more sag down on the stairs.
What now?
Should I go home or try to find Clark?
Is he sitting in a bar, drowning his sorrows in some whiskey? Or - my gut clenches in renewed worry - is he so sick that he had to go to the hospital? If he was, he'd have told someone, wouldn't he? I'm almost sure he would, almost. But that last flicker of uncertainty is gnawing at me, driving me crazy. I know I can't leave without at least checking.
If he’s home and unwilling to talk to me, he certainly won’t welcome my breaking into his apartment. But I guess I’ll have to take that risk.
I jump up and start searching for Clark's spare keys. After futilely looking under the doormat, I find it under a flower pot. Clark's far too trusting for the big city, but in this case I'm grateful for his naivety.
Quickly, I let myself in and shut the door behind me. I switch on the lights.
"Clark? Are you home?"
Nobody replies, but I didn't really expect that anyway. The living room is tidy, not a sign of a used glass or tissues. If Clark truly is sick, he didn't spend the day on his couch watching tv.
"Clark?"
I cautiously approach his bedroom. There's not a sound other than the soft tapping of my feet on the floor. No breathing, no snoring. I look around the corner and find Clark's bed empty, safe for a few jackets and ties scattered across his bedspread.
My breath catches in my throat as I spot the evidence of Clark's dating preparations. With a pang of guilt I realize he put quite some effort in choosing the right suit. Was he anxious about seeing me? Elated that I’d finally agreed? Guilt ripples through me as I imagine the smile on his face, the one I saw on lips when he greeted me. The one that always takes my breath away.
Suddenly, it dawns on me that the suits on his bed mean that he didn't sleep here. Did he get home at all last night?
I don't know what I expected to find in Clark's apartment. Certainly not this. Confused, I stagger back into Clark's living room, wishing for answers that his apartment obviously can't give.
Where is he?
I'm officially worried. He didn't get back home last night. He called in sick. If he decided to drown his sorrows before he even made it home, he should be here sleeping it off, shouldn’t he? Did he fly to Smallville for a long weekend with his parents? Or did he decide to find solace in Mayson's arms?
I squeeze my eyes shut. That's the last thing I want to imagine, because it's very likely that I pushed him toward her. If I had kissed him senseless, he’d be at my side right now. I wouldn’t have to worry or apologize.
How could I ruin a perfect moment? How could I not wait until he’d kissed me goodnight? Perhaps he’d have even given me a real kiss. I’ve wanted to get another taste of that ever since the pretend kiss during our stakeout in the Honeymoon Suite. Because that was likely the best kiss in my whole life. What will kissing him be like if he really means it?
Now, I might never find out.
I’m such an idiot.
Before going out with Clark, I’d rehearsed all sorts of gentle letdowns. If the date had blown, I’d have known exactly what to say and do. But somehow I failed to prepare for the other option.
I should have known better, because Clark is my best friend, the man I feel so incredibly comfortable around. And last night was simply magic. I thought I was head-over-heels in love with him before - but now it’s like someone pulled the rug out from under me. And I’m falling, falling for him so hard that it scares me witless.
I can’t imagine having another date with anyone else, because Clark is the one and only. The mere thought of losing him takes my breath away. And yet I destroyed it all.
What I wouldn’t give to make it right.
But Clark isn't here.
So where does that leave me?
Perhaps I should just go home and hope that Clark will come to work tomorrow. Maybe twenty-four hours is enough for him to mend a broken heart. But it's Friday. Clark might have the weekend off. That means I won't be seeing him till Monday. I’m not sure I can wait that long. Not anymore. This morning, I’d have liked to put off talking to Clark indefinitely. Now, I want to settle things between us so desperately that I can’t wait to find him.
I guess I could try and search for him. But my chances of finding Clark somewhere in the city are slim to none-existent, particularly if he's actually staying with his parents. I hope he's not.
Though I really hate to sit around doing nothing, it's actually my best bet to find him. Sooner or later, Clark will come home. I just hope that he’s still willing to talk to me after I broke into his apartment.
With a heavy sigh, I shuffle toward his sofa and flop down. The canned soup bangs against my leg, painfully reminding me that I'm still carrying my pathetic peace offering. Two dollars for a broken heart. Way to go, Lois.
I get up to take it into Clark's kitchen. On the way I almost stumble over something that's lying on the floor. As I have a closer look, I recognize a charcoal suit, a shirt and a tie - the clothes Clark wore to our date.
So at least, he made it home and got more comfortable. I guess that’s some consolation.
Without really thinking about it, I bend down and pick up his shirt. It's silly, but I can't keep myself from burying my face in the fabric. I can still smell Clark, the fresh scent of his soap and aftershave. It’s almost as if my head is resting against his shoulder. How I wish he was really here and would wrap his arms around me. Tears start slipping down my cheeks as I envision him placing a soft kiss into my hair, his warm voice telling me not to worry because he’d already forgiven me.
But that's not going to happen, is it?
With slumped shoulders I stroll toward Clark's sofa and flop down again. My gaze drifts over to his door, but there's still no sign of him. I check my watch. It's too early for him to return, if he actually went out for drinks - probably the second time in a row, considering that he hasn't slept in his bed.
I don't know what to do. Patience has never been my strong suit. So, while idly sitting here waiting for him might be my best chance to find him, it's already wearing on my nerves. With a frustrated huff, I reach for the remote control and switch on Clark's tv.
LNN is still broadcasting footage of Superman helping out in Brazil. According to the newsticker at the bottom of the screen, Superman still keeps darting back to India whenever he is needed there more urgently. Already, the news anchor is speculating how long Superman will be able to keep up with that kind of workload. I can’t help but wonder the same thing. Judging by what little there is to see of him, even the strongest man on earth can get tired.
And that probably isn’t even the worst of it. Dealing with all those tragedies has to be hard on him. Though he tries hard to cover it up, I’ve sometimes spotted that haunted look in his gaze when he couldn’t save everyone. I still vividly remember his expression when he’d flown off to keep a train from derailing, though he’d sworn not to use his powers when he’d been held responsible for the heat wave. He couldn’t not help, regardless of what that meant for him.
It’s the same way today .
I wish I could be there for him. But he’s not going to come to me for help, is he?
I cringe as I realize that I’m sitting in
Clark’s apartment, waiting to talk to
him. I’ve already made the mistake of turning him down in favor of Superman, who made it pretty clear that he doesn’t want a relationship with me. And honestly, a relationship with Superman isn’t quite what I want, anyway. I guess it never was, because - how would that even work? But still, I love him and I want to be there for him, just in another capacity, whatever that may be. It’s all so confusing.
Why is it so hard to decide whom and what I really want?
I just can’t make up my mind.
I get up with the vague idea of preparing myself some tea. Perhaps that will help me to calm down my frayed nerves that are still buzzing with worry, anxiety and restlessness. I feel like a caged animal.
“Where are you, Clark?” I mutter unhappily.
My hands are going through the motions of heating water and finding a herbal blend among Clark’s vast assortment of teas that suits my mood. I focus all my attention on the task at hand: finding his kettle, filling it with water, heating it on his stove.
So often, I've watched Clark do the same things. He would smile at me, while we'd try to sort through the evidence for our latest story. I'd feel his hand on the small of my back when he'd need to reach past me.
It's so easy to imagine his arms wrapped around me, his lips placing a gentle kiss on my cheek while we cook together. We never actually did that. But it’s a nice daydream, even though I don’t cook. I never thought I’d ever have such domestic dreams about anyone. But with Clark, it’s different. With him, everything is different.
And I carelessly destroyed that.
Tears prick in my eyes as I once again realize what I gave up last night. I know he was longing to kiss my cheek. Now I really wish I could go back in time and wait for him to lean forward. And my mind follows that thought, playing out the scene, just so I know exactly what could have been but wasn’t.
<I open my door and turn to Clark, full of longing but also regret. He seems to share my feelings. I can see his gaze resting on me, so warm and lovingly. Yet, there’s also something wistful about that smile, as if he doesn’t want to say goodbye.
I let out a slow breath, unsure what to say or do. “Well…”
Part of me wants to invite him in. There’s no reason that the evening should end now. We could have coffee, we could…
His smile turns even more wistful. “Yeah…”
My heart beats in my throat. “Okay... here goes. Look, Clark, I had a really nice time tonight.”
His voice is a warm, low rumble. “So did I.”
He leans in, slowly, careful not to scare me. My heart starts racing. Every nerve in my body is tingling with anticipation as I wait for his lips to meet mine. I can feel his breath against my skin, can still smell the faint hint of chocolate before his lips brush against my cheek, ever so slightly. His touch is soft, unassuming and yet so intense that I want more of him. I turn my head until my lips are on his. Sparks of electricity rush through me as he tentatively opens his lips to invite me in. And I follow, getting lost in the sweetness of his mouth.> Tears spill down my cheeks. It didn’t happen like this. It never will, because I’m stupid and scared and so generally messed up that I can’t take a chance when it’s offering itself on a silver platter.
I reach for the cup of tea and scuffle back to Clark's sofa. On my way I spot a photo of him and me, taken after he won his first Kerth award. We both look so happy. Why did I insist that I wasn't really his date? Why had he told me that his declaration of love had been a lie? Why do we make each other's lives so difficult?
Tears are still flowing down my cheeks as I take the first sip. I don’t know if it’s the tea or the crying, but all the tension and nervous energy just seep out of me.
I know Clark isn't going to come back anytime soon, no matter how much I want him to. A ragged sob escapes me. While I sip my tea and try to get my emotions back under control, exhaustion catches up with me. When the cup is empty, I set it down on Clark’s table and wrap a blanket around my shoulders.
Then I curl myself up on his sofa. It takes some time until the sobbing finally abates.
***
I wake up to the sound of running water.
Startled, I sit up straight. I’m disoriented in the near complete darkness. The few shadows around me look nothing like my bedroom. My pulse starts racing as I try to make out where I am. It takes me a moment to remember that I’m at Clark’s place. I came to apologize, to try and make up for my mistakes. Obviously, I fell asleep on his couch.
The running water means he’s back.
My breath catches in my throat.
Slowly, I get to my feet and have a look at my watch. It’s almost 3 a.m.. Now that he’s here, restlessness is taking hold of me again. What am I going to tell Clark? How am I even going to face him? Breaking into his apartment and sleeping on his couch without so much as an invitation surely isn’t going to score me any points with him.
I cringe. Maybe I should have thought about that sooner. But he’s still in the shower, so I’ve got some time to come up with a - I stop dead in my tracks. Why on earth is he having a shower at three o’clock in the morning? If he really went for drinks and got himself smashed, shouldn’t he just pass out on his bed?
Or did he spend the evening with Mayson and now he’s sticky with the sweat of passion? I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. The images invading my mind are hard to push back into the corner of despair where they belong. I should better focus on the task at hand - giving Clark some sort of explanation for my presence in his apartment, before I beg his forgiveness.
Admittedly, it’s not exactly the best time to have the type of conversation that we’d need to have. Maybe I should just pretend to be asleep and wait till the sun comes up. Did he even notice me when he came in? With a glance at his door, I have to concede he probably knows I'm here. The couch is sitting right in the middle of the room. He’d have to be blind not to see that someone is sleeping there.
The good news is he didn't throw me out.
I bury my head in my hands. I hate it when I’m wrong. And currently, I’m wrong on so many levels that I’m breaking a new personal record. How could I ever expect him to forgive me if I barge into his life, invade his privacy and don’t even allow him to have this conversation on his own terms?
Before I manage to make up my mind, the water stops. I can hear Clark step out of the shower. A few odd sounds come from the bathroom. I wonder what he’s doing there. In what kind of a state will he be? Is he utterly drunk? Did he throw up and had to clean himself because of it?
A surge of pity washes over me. If he’s feeling miserable, that would be my fault. I’ve never seen Clark drunk, not even the slightest bit tipsy, coming to think of it. But I always bring out the worst in them.
Just go back to sleep Lois, and let him keep some semblance of pride. You’ve done enough already. Or better yet, slip out of his apartment while you still can. You can apologize tomorrow - or rather, later this morning.
Clark scuffles out of his bathroom. The light coming from the windows illuminates him faintly. He’s wearing a bathrobe that is loosely tied around his waist. With his slumped shoulders he looks thoroughly defeated. On his way, he half-heartedly dries off his hair with a towel.
My gut clenches into a tight knot.
There’s a dull knock as he bumps into something. The sound of shattering glass startles me.
He mutters a curse, drops the towel and gets to his knees to pick up the shards.
For a moment, I'm torn. I vowed to myself not to make his life anymore difficult than I already did. Because this is my fault. But Clark's probably drunk. He will cut himself on the shards and I hurt him enough already without adding lacerations to the long list of my mistakes. I rush around his couch and switch on the lamp on the table before I kneel down beside him. Our hands touch for a moment, as I help him gather the shards.
He looks up, startled. “Lois? You're here?"
His face is drawn and pale and his eyes seem puffy from crying. The sight of him feels like a slap across my face. This is my fault. I made him cry.
I bite my lip. “I needed to talk to you, but you were gone”
“Hmph.” He doesn’t sound surprised or angry - or anything really. His voice is void of any emotions, other than the slight groan.
He doesn’t really look at me, his eyes focused on his working hands while he quickly picks up one shard after the other. Our hands meet now and then, every chance encounter sending sparks of longing through me. I want to reach out and pull him into an embrace. I want to capture his face in my hands and kiss him until he forgets he’s angry at me.
Every so often, he looks up at me. There’s a gleam in his eyes, as if at least part of him is happy to see me. And that gives me a sliver of hope that we’re going to get past this awkwardness after all. But every time he averts his gaze, his eyes fill with pain and bitterness.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so sorry for slamming the door in your face."
He gets up, his hands full of shards. “Let me take care of these.”
I stare after him as he mechanically taps toward his kitchen. Did he even hear a word I said? Doesn’t he care that I apologized? Or is he ignoring me on purpose, taking quiet revenge for ending our date the way I did? I follow him into the kitchen and watch him throw the shards into the garbage can. When he’s done, I drop off my own shards and clean my hands after him in the sink.
My gut is in knots. “Clark, I said I’m sorry.”
He’s standing before me with his shoulders slumped and looking even worse for wear than he already did. He runs a weary hand through his still damp hair, ruffling it into an unruly mess. Something else about him looks odd, but I can’t place my finger on what that is.
His voice is flat. "It's okay.”
He rubs his eyes and takes a deep breath, as if there’s more he’d like to say. But then he closes his mouth again and his eyes cloud over. He draws his lips into a thin line and stares at his feet, heaving a resigned sigh.
“It’s okay,” he repeats.
Doesn’t he even care enough to be angry at me? Somehow that hurts more than any rebuff ever could.
“Okay?”
I can’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it. Surely, our date must have meant more to him. Maybe, he’s really furious, but doing a thorough job at covering it up. And suddenly, I’m desperate to call him out on it. Because thinking that getting turned down after a wonderful date is no big deal to him - the idea suffocates me.
"Clark, I know that's not true.” Do I sound as pleading and pathetic as I think I do? “You've called in sick because of me, you've probably drunken yourself into a stupor because of me…"
"Lois!"
For a moment there I see his anguish. His face is contorted with anger and something indescribable. I know he’s got more to say. There’s a whole rant just waiting to go down on me. But then he just clamps his lips tight and instead of venting his pain and anger he just lets out a groan.
"Not now."
I'm not ready to give up yet. "Clark-"
"I said not now," he cuts me off.
The sharp edge to his voice betrays his anger. I flinch, because I've never seen him quite like this. His eyes are narrow, his hands clenched into tight fist. His chest is heaving with every breath he takes. As he relaxes his stance I can see it takes a conscious effort. He lowers his gaze and pinches the bridge of his nose. Now I realize what struck me as odd before. He’s not wearing his glasses.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” He trails off. “I’m really tired. And I know you want to talk. And I wish I could talk to you, too, but…"
But you slammed the door in my face, I silently finish for him.
It's not quite what he says, though. "I can't. You wouldn’t understand.” He squeezes his eyes shut and slumps against the wall. “I just can’t. Not now and not after everything that happened.”
“Everything that happened?” I echo, feeling a slight surge of anger.
First he’s acting like what I did was no big deal and now he sounds like his world was tilted out of its axis. That’s quite a sudden change.
“I already told you I’m sorry about yesterday. I guess I just panicked. It was a great date and I-”
He shakes his head. “Lois, please, can we discuss this later? I just want to sleep.”
My anger sparks. “Talk later? That’s all you’ve got to say?”
He looks at me, exasperatedly. “Yes, for now, that’s all I’ve got to say. Go back to sleep, Lois. This is not the right time.”
This doesn’t go as planned, not at all. I was prepared to find Clark sick or drunk. I wanted to take care of him as a way to make amends so that he’d be more willing to forgive me in the morning. Finding him thoroughly fed-up and stone-cold sober is not what I expected. And I feel almost insulted that getting a door slammed in his face didn’t result in a severe alcohol intoxication.
“Not the right time?” I fume. “Well, I was here waiting for you the whole evening. I was worried about you after you’d called in sick. I wanted to check on you, but you weren’t home. I thought you’d gone out to drown your sorrows in drinks. But that doesn’t seem to be it either. You don’t even sound tipsy. So where have you been?”
I’m shocked as I listen to my own rant. What was supposed to be an apology has completely spiraled out of control.
But I can’t stop myself. “Did you go to her? Did she give you what you couldn’t get from me yesterday?”
I know I’m being unfair. I hurt Clark - and now all I can do is hurt him even more. No wonder all my relationships go south.
“Mayson?” He sounds confused. “Why would I ever go to Mayson?”
“Oh, don’t play dumb with me. You know exactly why you would go to Mayson.” Again, the words are out, before I have a chance to stop myself. I clap my hand in front of my mouth.
“I didn’t go to Mayson,” he mumbles.
Strangely enough, he sounds subdued rather than pissed off, which he would have every right to be.
“Then, what?" My confusion turns into despair "Where have you been this whole time? I have been worried sick about you. For all I knew you could have been ill enough to be in the hospital. But you’re obviously not sick. You’re not drunk either. Am I making a complete fool of myself? Am I the only one worked up about yesterday? If that’s the case, then tell me - Clark. Tell me if my slamming the door in your face didn’t mean anything to you.”
“What a mess.” He rakes both hands through his hair. “This date meant the world to me, Lois. And I'm not happy about the way it ended. But that wasn’t the reason I was gone.”
I feel a sudden pang of guilt. “Is something wrong with your parents?”
He rubs his eyes, quite obviously exhausted. “No, they’re fine.”
There's a strange tension between us. Clark has always made me feel welcome, no matter how bad my timing was. But now I feel like my presence is annoying him, like he'd like to be anywhere but with me. Are his monosyllabic answers intended to give me the boot?
Did I ruin it for us? “Clark, please, talk to me. Tell me what’s going on."
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Nothing's going on, Lois." He sounds resigned, like he'd really love to just throw me out of his apartment. “Nothing you could possibly understand.”
I can feel that I won't get him to admit what's really going on inside his head. It's making me all the more desperate. Because giving up now is not an option. I've come this far.
I need him to forgive me.
I need him. Period.
"That's not true. You could make me understand, I-"
“No I can’t." he cuts me off. He lets out a breath. "At least not now. Maybe not ever. But it has nothing to do with anything you said or did, I promise." He still leans sagged against the wall, still rubbing his face. Still looking like hell.
"We do need to talk and we will." His gaze meets mine, for the first time this evening it seems. "But not right now. I'm tired, Lois. So incredibly tired. I can't listen to you or tell you how I feel about yesterday. Because right now all I really care about is going to sleep. Give me a few hours and then we can come clean. About everything - if that’s what you want.”
That sounds ominous. “Everything?”
He just nods. “There’s a lot we need to talk about. I guess I didn’t understand how badly we need to talk about them until tonight.” He vaguely gestures toward his bedroom. “Go to sleep, Lois. You can have the bed. There are clean sheets in the closet. I’ll just crash on the couch.”
Clark pushes himself off the wall and stumbles toward his sofa. He really looks dead on his feet, his eye-lids already drooping. I watch him, torn between the desire to have the conversation he was hinting at right now and the realization that he really isn’t in any state to talk to me. Slowly it dawns on me that he’s not purposefully being difficult. He’s just totally out of it, whyever that may be.
My heart goes out to him. “But wouldn’t you be more comfortable-”
“I don’t care if I’m comfortable as long as I’m asleep.” He groans.
He wraps his bathrobe more firmly around himself, before he sinks down onto the couch. Curling in on himself, he rolls over and heaves a long, contented sigh.
“G’night, Lo-” My name dies on his lips as he drifts off.
I wrap my arms around myself as I watch my sleeping friend. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone nod off so quickly. Now I’m left alone with so many questions. I don’t know if I can even find rest without knowing what happened that left Clark so wiped out. Is he sick after all? My gut clenches as I think about the way I keep treating him.
Will he actually talk to me in the morning, even though I ignored even his most basic needs? How did I ever manage to find him, a guy who's even chivalrous when he's too tired to walk a straight line?
For a while I keep watching him. My hands ache to stroke his back. I long to wrap my arm around him and feel the steady rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps. But all I can do is pick up the blanket that fell to the floor when I got up. I cover his legs and pull it up to his chest. My lips are tingling with the urge to place a kiss on his cheek. I should have done that yesterday. Now I can only imagine how that will feel with the slight stubble on his cheeks.
After everything I did to Clark over the past two years, I have no right to hope for that kind of intimacy between us. Yet, he was still offering yesterday before I slammed the door in his face. Will he give me another chance? I really hope he does. And I pray that I'm not going to blow it.
With a heavy sigh, I drag my gaze off his back and tiptoe toward the table to turn off the light. Then I go to his bedroom, feeling guilty for stealing his bed when he so obviously needs it.
I gather the clothes he left scattered across the bedspread and pile them up on a chair in a corner of the room. Clark told me to change the sheets. But I don't really want to. I strip down to my shirt and panties before I slip under his covers. They smell like him and I bury my nose in his blanket, inhaling deeply. It has an oddly calming effect on me, almost as if he was here, holding me in his strong arms.
Eventually, I drift off to sleep.
***
I wake up to the smell of coffee. As I open my eyes, I see Clark sitting on the window sill, holding two cups of coffee in his hands. He’s wearing his glasses again.
“Good morning,” he says quietly. A faint blush is tinting his cheeks. He holds out one cup for me. “Want some? It’s still warm.”
"How late is it?" I'm a little shocked that Clark is already up and about.
Did I sleep in? Immediately, I check the watch on his nightstand. It's half past eight, still early for a Saturday morning. My gaze drifts back to Clark, who looks a whole lot better than he did earlier. How did he manage with roughly five hours of sleep?
He adjusts his glasses and for some reason, the blush seems even more pronounced. His hand is still outstretched, offering me a steaming mug. When I nod, Clark gets up and closes the distance between us and hands me the cup. I can see he’s already on the verge of retreating as soon as my hands close around it.
“Please, sit down,” I beg him. With one hand I pat on the bedspread, feeling guilty again because I’m the one occupying his bed. He shouldn’t have to back off. “How are you feeling?”
He smiles at me, the full thousand watts he’s capable off. “Much better.” As he follows my invitation and sits down, his smile falters a little. He takes a sip of his coffee and then rolls the cup between his hands. “I’m sorry about earlier. I believe I was pretty rude.”
I bite my lower lip. “No need to be sorry, Clark. I was the one who broke into your apartment and chose the worst possible moment to apologize for what I did to you after our date.” I swallow hard. “It shouldn’t have ended like that. I wish I could go back in time and kiss you goodnight. Can you forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he whispers.
There’s a gleam in his eyes so full of love it’s taking my breath away. What did I ever do to deserve him? The air seems to sizzle with desire and longing. For a moment, I think he’s going to lean in to collect the kiss I just promised him.
My heart is beating in my throat. Suddenly, there’s nothing I want more than for that to happen. I close my eyes and move to meet his lips with mine. This is it, my chance to make up for my mistakes, to kiss him like I have never kissed anyone before. And I need to make it good because I might not get another chance. If I fail - if Clark finds me lacking, if he’ll think I’m an ice queen, just like the others did, then everything is lost. And with a sudden flash of clarity, I remember exactly why I slammed the door in his face.
But not again, never again. I can do this, because I want it so much, because I have to, because I need him.
Besides, there’s no door here, so…
I feel his finger on my lips. My eyes flutter open and the world shatters to pieces. He hasn’t leaned in, not at all. His eyes can’t quite meet mine.
“Don’t, Lois,” he says. A wistful smile plays around his lips.
I feel silly for assuming it would be that easy. “You’re still angry.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not angry. Never was. If anything I was confused. But the truth of the matter is that I haven't had the time to analyze my feelings."
He stares down into his cup as if he doesn’t really know what else to say and is hoping to find the answer there. It’s odd to watch him, because if one of us has a reason to feel uncomfortable about this conversation, it’s clearly me. But it seems that neither of us knows how to start which results in an awkward silence. Strange as it is, I almost wish Clark would yell at me and demand that I explain myself. His docile behavior is more unsettling than his throwing me out of his apartment could ever be.
"Then please let me kiss you!” Tears are threatening to spill down my cheeks. “Please let me make it right!”
I’m feeling awfully pathetic, because what if I kissed him with everything I had - and it just wasn’t enough for him? What if I’m more trouble than he thinks I’m worth?
My voice breaks. “Or don’t you want to kiss me?”
His voice is husky, but trembling slightly as if he’s fighting with his own emotions. “I’d love nothing more than to kiss you for real.”
His finger traces my lip and he slowly runs it over my cheek, finally cupping it with his palm. And again, I feel a spark of electricity, a tiny tremor running through him that makes me hope he’s going to lean in and seal my lips after all.
Then his jaw tenses and he drops his hand into his lap. “But not yet, not until we’ve talked about everything. That is, if you still want to. If you really see a future for us. ”
He takes another long sip of his coffee, slowly, deliberately, almost as if he’s trying to hide behind his cup. It seems like he’s just as afraid as I am, just as scared to lose me over whatever he has to tell me. But that can’t be it, I mean…
I can’t claim that I understand any of this. "How can you not be angry at me after everything I did?"
He puts down his cup. “Out of the two of us, I think you’re the one who has a much more valid reason to be angry.”
I frown. “Why would I be angry at you? You gave me the perfect date - and you’re still talking to me, though all I ever do is treat you horribly. You were so tired and I didn’t see that, I just…”
"Don't beat yourself up about it, you couldn't have known." He swallows visibly. “Because there’s something I haven't told you about me. Something I've never told anyone. And I’m pretty sure you’ll be mad at me once you know.”
I lay my hand on his. “Unless you’re secretly married, I don’t think anything could possibly make me mad at you, Clark. You’re such a good friend. Better than I deserve.”
He gives my hand a soft squeeze and his lips twitch into a self-conscious smile. His gaze drifts to where our fingers are entwined. He shifts his position, wriggling in his spot.
“You’d better not make any promises."
"Oh, come on, it can't be that bad," I reassure him.
"It can," he mutters. "And what's worse, I can't stay long enough to let you yell at me all you want, because I'm still needed. Actually, I should be getting back right now, but this…" He takes a deep breath. His eyes are wide and he looks so torn. His voice is barely a whisper as he continues. "This is important, too."
"Clark, what is going on? Where do you need to be?" His behavior is beginning to worry me.
“There's no easy way to say this." Again, he shifts his position, then takes off his glasses. "You asked me where I was yesterday. Look at me, Lois." His voice turns thick with emotion, his expression anguished. "Then you know how I spent my time."
He sets his jaw, his face suddenly a mask. There’s no hint of the pain he let me see just a second ago. But I can see he's just trying to hide it. His mask is one I know very well. My heart skips several beats as two faces merge into one. I hold my breath and for a moment there I feel like I might never draw another one.
"Oh my gosh."
How could I miss this? How could I not realize that the man flying around saving the day is actually my partner? How could I not see that Clark Kent is Superman?
He casts his eyes down. "I'm so sorry about lying to you so many times. And in the worst way possible."
The anguish is back on his face, no longer hidden by the impenetrable mask of the superhero. I recognize his expression from a few hours ago. I'd thought that he'd been fed-up with me. But now I realize it was something infinitely more severe, more haunting than having a door slammed into his face.
"Lois?" He whispers. "Say something, please?"
"Oh Clark," is all I manage.
My heart clenches with sympathy. I remember the footage, I remember seeing Superman, covered in dirt and working without taking a break. From afar, he always seems so strong, so indestructible. Did I even really consider that he might get tired? In my hero-worship, did I ever see him for who he truly is? He's not the god everyone thinks he is, he's just a man.
As he sits next to me, staring into his cup of coffee and biting his lower lip, he looks awfully small. Not at all like someone who can move the remnants of a destroyed building with his bare hands. But the haunted look in his eyes tells me more than anything that he’s been there, that he’s seen all the terror and destruction.
Clark gets up and sets his cup down on the bed stand, then starts pacing restlessly, with both hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his pants and his head hunched between his shoulders.
"I understand if you're mad at me, or if you'll never talk to me again.”
Am I mad?
I don’t know.
The raw emotion in his eyes cuts me to the quick. There’s pain and despair, but also a deep longing reflected in them. I’ve sort of seen that gaze before, months ago, back in Centennial Park when Clark told me he was in love with me. He put his heart on the line then. I still remember how crestfallen he was when I told him that I didn’t feel the same way about him. Which wasn’t even true, but that is another story. But right now, he’s risking more than just his heart. He’s risking everything.
I don’t think I really need to ask, but I do it anyway. “Why did you never tell me?”
“I didn’t know how.” He stops pacing and stares at his feet. “It’s a dangerous secret to share. By the time we’d become friends, when I knew that I could trust you with this, I’d already told you so many lies that I wasn’t sure you’d be able to forgive me for deceiving you. I kept finding excuses why it wasn’t the right time. Of course that only made it worse. I’m so, so sorry.”
I get up to close the distance between us. He eyes me with a mix of hope and embarrassment. As his gaze flickers lower for a split second his cheeks turn a deep shade of red and he averts his eyes. It’s only then that I notice my state of undress. My heart flutters in my chest and for a moment, I consider turning back, slipping under the covers.
But this is too important to find an excuse to back out. I love this man, I don’t want to run off because he might see my legs. Taking the final step, I lay my hand on his shoulder and run it down his arm. He lets me take his hand and again I feel that spark between us, much stronger than when we were just picking up shards.
My voice is hoarse. “I wish I had known what you’d gone through when you came home this morning. I could have been there for you instead of giving you a hard time.”
“I really wish I had told you, too,” he says quietly. “Because tonight…” His voice breaks and his eyes fill with the tears I’ve seen there a few hours earlier. He blinks them back and swallows as if trying to get his emotions back under control. “There are days when I’m this close to falling apart. Yesterday was definitely one of them.” He shifts his position, looking very uncomfortable about this admission. “Now I’m destroying your picture of the hero, huh?”
“Not at all, Clark,” I say quietly. “You’re not less of a hero to me because you have feelings. You’re not less of a hero because you’re a human being underneath that suit.”
His expression turns wry. “I’m not a human being, Lois. And it wasn’t exactly fair that I led you to believe that I was. No matter how much I try to be normal, I’ll never be.”
“I don’t care if you’re human or Kryptonian,” I say with a slight hint of anger on his behalf. “I thought you knew that already.”
“Sometimes I’m such an idiot.” He buries his face in his hands. “Part of the reason I didn’t tell you about my secret was because I thought that, if you knew, you’d want me just because I’m Superman. And I figured that you’d sooner or later be disappointed. Because underneath it all, I’m not so super. I do have these powers, but the hero - that’s just a role I play. I'm nowhere near that perfect.”
I look at him, my throat tight. "You are pretty perfect to me. Who else would put up with all my quirks? I've never met anyone who was this patient with me."
"So, you're not mad at me?" He sounds surprised, but also hopeful.
I shrug. “A little, perhaps. When I think really hard about it.” He ducks his head and looks so adorably embarrassed, that whatever teensy-weensy bit of anger I might feel quickly dissipates. “Right now, I’m mostly glad that I didn’t destroy everything by turning you down.” I swallow hard. “I’m scared of this, Clark. I’m scared of us. But I wouldn’t ever want to lose you. Because I need you.”
He steps closer and wraps his arms around me. It feels like coming home, like all the trouble in the world keeps its distance as long as he’s with me.
“I need you too, Lois,” he whispers into my hair. “So much. In both my guises. I need my partner, my best friend and the woman I love. And sometimes, Superman needs you as well. Most of all, when he’s more man than super.”
The shy smile on his lips broadens, becoming infectious in a way only Clark’s smile can. It lights up the room, dispels any dark thoughts, any doubts or insecurities. When I’m in his arms, I feel so incredibly safe. I’m at home in a way I’ve never been anywhere else. He’s my rock in the stormy sea, my safe harbor.
Suddenly, his head tilts to the side and his smile crumbles. “I have to go,” he says wistfully. “There’s still so much work to do. These people need me.”
“I know.” Gently, I place my hand on his cheek and make him look at me. "But can we say goodbye the way we should have done after our date?”
His eyes widen and a dark gleam of desire lights them up. “You want me to kiss you?”
“Absolutely.”
His voice is husky and just a tad apprehensive. “Lois…”
I take both his hands in mine. “There are no doors here.”
A smile spreads across his lips. Slowly he leans in. The warm gleam in his eyes already sends a pleasant shiver down my spine. He closes the last few inches between us. His lips gently touch mine. I feel his breath on my skin, the silky softness of his touch. His kiss is shy at first, tentative and yet so incredibly addictive. My skin is tingling, my whole body coming alive as he nibbles at my lower lip. I want more of this, more of him.
I part my lips and he follows my invitation to deepen the kiss. His tongue brushes against mine, once, twice before he retreats again. Though his mouth is anything but demanding, I’m sucked into this kiss. Boldly, I explore his mouth and feel his warmth, taste his sweetness and the faint hint of coffee. It’s intoxicating. His hands roam my back, sending sparks of pleasure through me wherever his fingers trail lazy patterns.My hands find his shoulders to pull him even closer against me. I wish we’d never have to part.
But eventually, we need to.
He lets out a small sigh, resting his forehead against mine. I can feel he's as reluctant to leave as I am to let him go. As if of their own volition, my hands travel down to his chest.
“Are you going to be here when I come back?” I feel the low rumble of his voice under my fingers.
The desire and longing in his gaze are hard to resist. Tipping on my toes, I place a kiss on his cheek, deeply inhaling his aftershave for a moment. I miss him already, even though he's still here.
Yet, for his sake, I manage a smile. “Of course I will. I have so many questions.”
“I will answer every single one,” he says solemnly.
He hugs me tight and kisses my forehead, before he steps back and spins into his suit. I'm stunned.
"Wow!"
He smiles shyly and glances down at himself, seeming embarrassed by the bright colors of his own disguise. He gives me a helpless shrug, then straightens again.
"I love you," he says quietly. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
"I love you, too."
He turns and heads for his balcony. Before he steps outside, he looks at me one last time. I can see the tension in his body, the slight uncertainty in his gaze.
“Will you be all right?” I whisper.
His lips twitch into a small smile that is gradually becoming broader.
He nods. "With you by my side, I will be.”
