Note: The nfic version of these chapters is here.22
I should have known. I should have remembered. And it’s really not even funny. I know Lois will probably disagree, but she’s wrong. It’s not funny. No, it’s actually quite pathetic.
See, I thought I would be a thoughtful fiancé and have dinner ready for when she got home. All I needed to do was to reheat the soup my mom had made for lunch the previous day. But then, I forgot that I’m no longer invulnerable, confidently grabbed the searing hot ceramic container from the microwave with both hands, and promptly yelped and dropped the entire bowl onto the ground, where it shattered.
And now, soup is everywhere. Lots and lots of hot soup—because my mom always cooks as though the entire town will be visiting, and for some boneheaded reason, I had decided to reheat the entire container rather than just remove two servings’ worth. And then there’s the ceramic as well. Several shards seem to have lodged themselves in the bottoms of my annoyingly vulnerable feet as I’d stumbled and fallen backwards into the counter, and the remaining fragments are now scattered like landmines around the kitchen.
Yep. I’m really, truly completely and utterly useless in the kitchen.
My hands still sting from touching the hot ceramic as I grab a dish towel off the counter and carefully tiptoe to the table, where I sit heavily. After several painful moments, I manage to remove all of the slivers from the soles of my feet, and I limp over to the far-left cabinet in the kitchen, where I find several Band-Aids, alcohol wipes, and clean gauze. Dark red smudges of blood cover the floor, and I frown at the mess as I make my way back to the table to sit and bandage my wounds.
I mutter a few curse words under my breath as I set the first-aid supplies down on the table. I then clean the wounds using the gauze and alcohol wipes, dry my feet, and carefully apply a Band-Aid to each of the cuts. After depositing the soiled gauze and wipes into the trash, I hobble into the bedroom to get towels to clean up the remaining mess of soup.
Fifteen minutes later, I make a final pass through the kitchen with the mop just as the locks to the front door begin to methodically click open. I quickly set the mop up against the wall and turn around as Lois pushes open the door. She enters the apartment silently and seems to force a smile as our eyes meet. Immediately, I know something is wrong. She shrugs off her coat and hangs it on the rack and then slips off her shoes, leaving them by the front door.
“You’re not still naked in bed, I see,” she jokes as she approaches, her teasing tone hiding whatever unease she’s not ready for me to see. As she gets closer, her expression changes to concern, however, and she narrows her eyes first at the mop and then at my bandaged feet. “What happened to you, sweetheart?”
I grimace and rub the back of my neck anxiously. “Ahh, well, I just…”
Stupid. I’m so stupid. I turn away from her for a moment and rest my hands on the counter. “I dropped the soup.”
I won’t lie to her. But, God, it is so embarrassing to admit the truth.
I feel her hand on my back.
“You…dropped the soup?” she repeats, uncertainty in her voice.
I nod. “Yeah, I was trying to reheat the soup for dinner, and then I sorta forgot to use potholders, and the ceramic was hot, and I—”
I spin around as I hear muffled…laughing? Yep, she is laughing, one hand covering her mouth, her eyes squinting back tears. She shakes her head as her face begins to turn pinkish, and she backs up away from me a few steps.
“Oh—Clark, I’m sorry, I-I’m not—okay, I am laughing. Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just—”
“It’s not funny, Lois!” I interject. I’m somewhere between mildly amused and offended; honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about her reaction.
“I know, I just—” She breaks into another fit of giggles, both hands now covering her mouth, and she turns away from me and stumbles to the table, where she collapses into a chair, still laughing hysterically. After another moment, she manages to breathe without breaking into more laughter, and she adds, “I’m sorry, Clark. Are—are you okay?”
I just stand there staring at her for another moment before I can respond. I shake my head in disbelief as I say, “I’m okay, I guess. Yeah, I’m fine.”
She nods and holds back more laughter. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’s been a really long day and I—you really hurt yourself trying to reheat soup?” There is finally a touch of concern in her voice. I frown and then lower my eyes.
“Yeah, I dropped the container and it—” The sound of her laughter again fills the room, and my eyes shoot back up. “Lois!”
She clutches her stomach and laughs so hard that her face turns a deeper shade of red. Her eyes briefly meet mine, and I shake my head again.
“I’m sorry, Clark. Here, I—”
She takes several deep breaths to steady herself, pastes a neutral expression on her face, stands up, and closes the distance between us. Her arms wrap tightly around my waist, and she leans into me. Her body trembles slightly, and I realize she’s still trying to hold back her laughter.
“It’s not funny,” I mope, my arms closing around her.
I’m embarrassed, yes, but I realize it’s more than that. It’s such a simple thing; a thing that I should have no trouble with. Really, heating up soup in the microwave. A child could do it. And I’ll admit, my uselessness in the kitchen, it used to be funny. Just something to laugh at—one of the few things that I wasn’t good at, that I couldn’t master on the first (or second) try. Just something silly to make fun of—that and my incongruously defective memory for numbers, dates, and passwords. But now, instead of laughing along with her, as I’m sure I would have before my intergalactic travels, I feel a strong sense of inadequacy, failure, and incompetence.
And, yes, I feel threatened by the fact that there is another me flying around out there who is stronger and faster than I ever was; who is kind and empathetic, an incredible writer, and insanely intelligent; and who can also apparently cook. Quite well, in fact.
Lois’s head settles on my chest as she continues to embrace me. The truth—she needs the truth. I sigh and reluctantly admit, in a small voice, “He can make you five-star restaurant-quality chocolate cheesecake, and I can’t even reheat soup without disaster.”
Her body stills. She pushes back from me slightly and raises her eyes to mine. Her hands slide around to my chest and up around my neck. As her fingers thread into my hair, she reaches up on her tiptoes and brushes her lips lightly against mine. I close my eyes.
“Sweetheart, I don’t care if you can cook. You know that,” she says, her tone now quite serious. Her hands drop from around my neck to my chest, and I loosen my arms to give her space.
“I know, I just—I really wanted to do something for you, and—”
“Clark,” she interrupts me, her voice soft and sympathetic. Her fingers press into my chest, and our eyes meet again. Hers are filled with concern and love. “Sweetheart, I love you. Not him. You.” She touches my cheek gently. “Whether or not you can cook…or remember my phone number…or fly. I love you.”
My shoulders tense up, and I clench my jaw as I lower my eyes and hug her to me again. I don’t trust myself to say anything, and she seems to understand. She wraps her arms around my waist again, pulling me closer to her.
“So, pepperoni or sausage?”
I manage a laugh and kiss the top of her head. “Whatever you want, hon.”
“Pepperoni and olives, then,” she suggests, raising her eyebrows at me for confirmation. I nod in response.
“Sounds good to me. I’m honestly not too hungry right now,” I admit, though I know I probably should be. I didn’t eat breakfast and only had a small piece of my mom’s homemade bread for lunch. But my appetite seems to have disappeared with my confidence and coordination.
A flicker of apprehension crosses her face, but she buries it quickly as she pulls out her phone.
“I’ll put in the order,” she says. Her fingers pause over the phone screen briefly. “And then while we wait, I, uh, have a little news to share with you.” She swallows nervously, forces a smile, and then hurriedly dials the number for the pizza place.
News, huh? And something that is making her anxious. She turns away from me, stuffs her free hand under her opposite elbow, and seems to listen intently as the phone line rings. A couple seconds later, she clears her throat and begins placing the pizza order.
I move to the couch and sit in one corner, glad to get off my feet. The cuts from the glass have started to throb, and I grimace as I lift the worse foot—my right one—to inspect the Band-Aids. They seem to be staying on, but the bottoms of my feet are slightly swollen and red, and I absently wonder if I should have also applied an antibiotic ointment. My first-aid skills are a bit rusty, I suppose.
“Can I take a look?” Lois asks tentatively, sitting next to me on the couch. She doesn’t wait for my response. Instead, she reaches out and runs one hand gently along the top of my foot before leaning over slightly to examine my bandaging. “The pizza will be here in about fifteen minutes, they said. Ouch, sweetheart. Did you really get this many cuts?”
“Nope, I just enjoyed putting Band-Aids on,” I retort with a smirk. She swats at me playfully and then slowly pulls back an edge of one of the Band-Aids. I grit my teeth as the motion tugs on my sensitive skin. She doesn’t notice my discomfort and continues her exam. After a moment, she carefully presses the Band-Aid back over the cut and sits up.
“Does it hurt?” She scoots closer to me, and I lower my foot back to the ground with a grimace and wrap my arm around her shoulders.
“Yeah, but, um, I’ll live,” I reply. As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize how stupid I am, yet again, and I immediately backtrack. “I mean, I’ll heal. It will heal. They’re just small cuts, nothing serious.”
Lois’s complexion has turned white as a sheet, and she tries to pull away from me, but I resist, holding her tightly around her shoulders. I shift on the couch a bit and pull her closer into my chest.
“Sorry, hon. I can’t seem to say or do anything right today. I’m sorry, please don’t be upset.”
She closes her eyes momentarily and allows me to hold her, relaxing her body into me. We sit there for several minutes. Finally, she lifts her head to look at me. Her eyes are clear, and she gives me a small smile.
“We’re okay, sweetheart. I’m okay,” she assures me. “I guess we’ve both been a bit out of sync sometimes. But we’re okay.”
Out of sync. I suppose that’s a good way to describe it. I’ve felt that way about nearly everything since I’ve been back.
She kisses my cheek and then shifts slightly out of my embrace and pulls a small piece of yellow notebook paper out of her pocket. She unfolds the paper and stares at it, her expression unreadable. I reach up and brush a lock of her hair back behind her ear.
“What’s that?” I ask quietly. I tilt my head sideways and trail a series of kisses down along her jawline.
“This—this is… Well…Oh, boy, that’s a little distracting. Mmmm.” She turns to capture my lips in hers, and she deepens the kiss momentarily. However, she then groans almost in frustration and pushes back against my chest as she moves away from me, breaking our contact. “This is kind of important, actually, sweetheart.”
“Hmm, what’s more important than this?” My fingers trace the path that my lips had taken a moment before and then graze the sensitive skin of her neck and down her collar bone. Her eyelids flutter closed as she inhales sharply.
“Not more important,” she replies breathlessly. “Nothing is more important. But…it’s—Ooh, ahh—”
Her head falls back against the couch as my hand cups the underside of her breast through her blouse, and I smile and lower my lips again to kiss along her jawline as she grasps the hem of my T-shirt in her free hand.
“Oh, Clark, sweetie, that feels so good, but—”
“But?”
I know she wants to talk about whatever is on that paper, and it must be important, something serious. Which is why I’m procrastinating yet again. I breathe against her neck and then taste her with my tongue. She whimpers and pushes back against me again.
“We need to talk about this,” she insists. Her eyes shift from the paper in her hand to me, and she scoots a few inches away from me and turns to sit cross-legged facing me on the couch.
Her expression concerns me, but I try to hide it with a weak smile.
“Okay, hon, sure. Sorry to—”
She cuts me off with a quick kiss and then smiles at me as she pulls back. “No, no apologies. We have a lot of lost time to make up for.”
“Yes, we do,” I say quietly.
Her smile fades as she lowers her eyes to the paper. She hands it to me. I hold her gaze for a moment before glancing down to read Perry White’s distinct handwriting on the page. Sharon Anderson. The name is familiar to me—a publisher, I think, maybe. And then a very large number. I squint at it. I must be seeing things. A million dollars? Confused, I raise my eyes to meet Lois’s. She is nodding slowly as though she’s still processing something herself.
“What is this?”
She seems to gather herself before answering, and she drops her gaze to her hands, which clasp together nervously in her lap, her fingers fidgeting.
“It’s an offer for an advance on a book deal with Chicago Review Press to publish Clark Kent’s extended memoir on his trip to New Krypton with Superman,” she explains, her voice low.
“Oh. Wow.”
I blink several times. No wonder she seems a little uneasy. That’s a lot of money, and truly not something I ever expected, although I suppose I should have been able to predict that there would be some sort of book deal or…something. Everyone thinks Clark Kent is just a regular guy, and he somehow traveled light-years across space, spent three months on another planet, and returned “unharmed” to tell the story of Superman’s victory against Lord Nor—an experience that no other human has had or will ever have. And since Clark Kent’s article on Superman’s return had been so well received, this really shouldn’t be a huge surprise.
Lois shifts uncomfortably next to me.
“That’s a lot of money. I don’t know that—”
I abruptly stop talking as she stands and begins pacing along the length of the living room, her hands wringing together in front of her. She looks like she wants to say something, so I stay quiet and watch her. After a moment, she halts and turns to face me.
“It—it seems wrong, doesn’t it? To capitalize on…” She can’t finish her statement, but she has no idea how right she is.
“…war.” I whisper the word to finish her thought. She nods weakly and then starts pacing again. Her steps gradually slow, and she crosses her arms over her chest.
“Perry gave this offer to Clark on Saturday morning, just before he realized you were alive,” she explains, her lips pursed in a frown. “He just told me about it today, and he asked what we wanted to do.”
I inhale deeply and lower my eyes to my hands as I consider her words. For the first time that day, I feel a headache coming on, but I ignore it. We definitely cannot take that money. Right? I read Clark’s article on Superman’s return from New Krypton; he’d done an excellent job of glossing over the violence and actual death count of the war. Whenever possible, he’d focused on diplomacy, strategy, and the overall positive outcome. But that doesn’t mean the hundreds of deaths can just be ignored. And no one has any idea that Superman had betrayed his most sacred tenet of “do not kill,” with the exception of the final battle against Lord Nor.
I close my eyes as I try to block the memories of my journey—everything about it—from overwhelming me.
That’s another problem.
The bigger problem, really.
I don’t want to relive it. I can’t.
My hands start to shake.
“Lois, I can’t—I can’t write that—I…”
The shaking worsens, and I feel nauseous. Two small hands settle on mine, and I swallow hard as I focus on her steadiness next to me.
“I know, sweetheart,” she murmurs quietly. “But I think Clark can.”
Her hands squeeze mine as I turn my head to look at her. As our eyes meet, I am reminded of the day I left with Zara and Ching. Her eyes had the same unobtrusive intensity to them—a sort of conviction that I just couldn’t feel at the time, or now for that matter.
She sighs and adds, “I know we can’t accept that money. But eventually, you will return to work. And Clark, he will need a source of income. I mean…” She hesitates and drops her gaze to the floor for a moment, gathering herself.
I understand her reluctance, and I know better than she does how appropriate this reluctance is. She’s probably concerned that I might not get my powers back, or maybe she also knows that Clark doesn’t want to go back to his Earth. I suppose I have no way of knowing if they’ve talked about this. But she doesn’t know that even if my powers come back—which I suspect they will, and soon, actually—that he will still need to stay here to be Superman for me.
Because Superman doesn’t kill.
Because that is the one thing that Superman can’t compromise on. Yet I did.
Also, Superman needs to be unshakably in control of his emotions at all times. Or bad things can happen. And that’s something that I’m definitely not.
No, I’m not Superman anymore. And this world needs a Superman. Therefore, I know, Clark cannot leave.
So, it stands to reason that when I return to work as Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter for the Daily Planet, this other Clark Kent, who has so effectively stepped into my shoes and taken care of my life for me, will need to be financially supported as he continues doing his work as Superman.
I clear my throat, and she glances up at me with the same look of resolve in her eyes.
“You’re right, hon. He’ll need financial support. The advance plus royalties will be more than enough for a long time. I, uh—” The muscle in my jaw quivers, and I screw my eyes shut for a moment. I try to project a semblance of confidence in my voice. But I’m sure she sees right through me. “I hope I’ll be ready to go back to work with you soon.”
“Of course. I was actually thinking that, uh, maybe we could split the money with him—” She shifts abruptly as she sees the change in my expression. I start to object, but she continues. “Not for us to keep the money, but to donate to charity—to the Superman Foundation. The Foundation’s philanthropic efforts really took a hit after you left, and an influx of a large sum like that would give it the boost it needs to get back to where it was…before.”
I nod in agreement. The Superman Foundation had been started by a few benevolent individuals within the first six months of me beginning my work as Superman. Though I was never officially part of the organization, I had supported their efforts whenever possible and had given numerous speeches at their events. As an organization, they maintained a broad focus on improving the lives of the impoverished and underprivileged worldwide, promoting peace, and providing aid in emergencies. The Superman Foundation is definitely a worthwhile organization to support, and this plan makes the thought of taking money for the memoir on my journey a bit more palatable.
“You’re right,” I agree quietly. “And even half—Clark will be able to live comfortably for a long time on that much. Plus royalties…”
Her eyes shift restlessly as she studies mine, and I smile weakly at her. I move closer to her on the couch as I screw my eyes shut to block out the growing pain in my head, centered right between my eyes this time, and I wrap my arms around her and pull her into my embrace. She relaxes into me as I try to steady myself.
The truth is, I trust him completely. I know he will do justice to my story. And I know he will continue to help my world as Superman. But a sudden sense of anxiety threatens me as I consider how much Lois still doesn’t know. She never read my journals; she admitted this to me already. She said she just couldn’t do it. And, unlike him, she has never been up close and personal with my memories and thoughts. The topic is going to come up sometime again soon, and I’m going to have to tell her the truth.
I pull out of the embrace and then lean in and brush my lips against hers just as the doorbell rings. She laughs against my mouth, her hands pressing into my chest. She breaks the kiss off and stands, smiling at me.
“Pizza time,” she announces, and then she hurries off toward the front door, grabbing her wallet from her purse on the way.
Unfortunately, I still have no appetite.
23
Soft. She is so soft. Her skin, her hair, her lips. I press a kiss into her hair and hold her tighter against me as the morning sunlight peeks in through the bedroom window. She sighs in her sleep but doesn’t wake.
It is still early; I can see the clock on the wall across the room, and it’s barely 7:15 a.m. Lois and I had been up probably later than we should have been last night, “making up for lost time,” as she’d said. But since Clark is supposed to be here at 8 a.m. to discuss the plans for the memoir, I know we should probably get up and shower.
I lower my lips to her bare shoulder and breathe kisses up along her neck and then jawline. She moans softly and twists her head toward me, allowing me to capture her lips in mine. Her arm reaches up and backwards until her fingers can thread through my hair.
“Mmm, this is the best way to wake up,” she says, pulling me deeper into the kiss. “But I suppose you’re waking me up because we need to get out of bed.”
“Uh huh, yeah, sorry, hon,” I admit, kissing her one more time before propping myself up onto one elbow. She turns over onto her back, pulling the comforter up over herself, and I frown in mock indignation as I trail my open palm over her abdomen. “You know, we could shower together to save some time,” I suggest mischievously, leaning over her to kiss her forehead.
Her hands lift from off the bed and splay out on my chest as her eyes shift to my sternum. Her fingers trace gently over my scar, which seems to have faded even more overnight, and she then raises her eyes again to meet mine, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She runs her hands up my chest.
“Mmm, that’s a great idea. But I think if we did that, we might get a bit distracted and end up taking more time,” she giggles. Her fingers tickle the back of my neck, and she pulls me down on top of her as she reaches up and kisses me.
She then shifts away from me and drags herself out of bed. I groan and follow her. Several minutes later, after we’ve both showered and dried off, I tighten the towel around my waist and wipe the condensation from the mirror. She steps up behind me, her soft hand touching my back. She seems to hesitate, but then clears her throat.
“I, um…wanted to ask… How are you feeling this morning? You know, um… I mean…” Her eyes study mine as she bites her lower lip. She continues reluctantly, her unease clear. “You seem to be doing so much better physically than you were three days ago. It’s almost…like a miracle, really. But we haven’t talked about…the other stuff still.”
I frown and lower my eyes.
“I know we haven’t talked… And I’m sorry, hon. But right now is probably not the best time… I mean, Clark will be here any minute, and…” I shake my head and then force myself to raise my eyes to the mirror. I do look better than Saturday. I no longer look pale and gaunt. But my eyes show darkness, pain, fear… I blink and look down again. Behind me, Lois sighs, and her hands glide gently up my back. She presses herself against me, and I lift my eyes to meet hers in the mirror.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I just wanted to check that you’re okay,” she apologizes. She kisses my shoulder and then turns toward the door.
“Lois, wait,” I call out, pushing myself away from the sink toward her. She stops and spins back around. I swallow nervously as our eyes meet. I rub the back of my neck and step closer to her. “You have every right to ask me how I’m feeling. I’m sorry. I just—I… Yesterday and last night were so amazing, and…”
As always, she understands me. She closes the distance between us and wraps her arms around my waist. Her head rests against my chest, and I feel her breathe deeply as she relaxes into me.
“I know. I’ve felt it too,” she agrees. “But we can’t ignore it forever. We need to talk, sweetheart.”
I nod into her, but I feel myself tense up as the pain in my head intensifies. My eyes close as I hold her tightly.
“We will, hon,” I promise. “But for now, Clark is going to be here any minute, and I think I’d really prefer if we’re both dressed when he gets here.”
I kiss the top of her head as she chuckles half-heartedly and releases me from her embrace.
“Okay, okay, you’re right.” She pats my arm playfully and gives me a weak smile before reaching up and touching my face. “You should shave, you know—you’re getting a little stubble right here.”
I laugh a bit self-consciously and regard myself in the mirror again. She is correct. Ugh, I haven’t used a razor in a long time.
“Do you have—”
“Top left drawer,” she answers before I can finish. She kisses my cheek and turns toward the door again. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Thanks, hon.”
I reach over, open the drawer, and find an old razor of mine, along with a small travel-sized bottle of shaving cream. I frown again at the unfamiliar tools and get to work.
24
The knock on the door comes right at 8 a.m. Of course, he’s perfectly punctual; I’d expect nothing less. I glance at Lois as I grab three coffee mugs from the cupboard, and she utters a quick “I’ll get it,” as she makes her way toward the front door.
I nod and refocus my attention on pouring the hot black liquid into the mugs—hopefully without scalding myself or dropping any breakable dishes—while I listen to the sounds of her opening the door and my doppelganger entering the apartment. I turn slightly and look up long enough to meet his eyes. He looks oddly tired, his eyes dull and a bit listless; maybe it was a long night for Superman. I paste a smile on my face and channel as much of the positive energy I’d had from earlier as I can.
“Good morning,” I greet enthusiastically. I start moving the three cups of coffee to the table.
He nods and holds up a nondescript brown paper bag. The tantalizing smell of fresh pastries wafts across the room.
“Good morning,” he says, returning my smile. He’s getting even better at guarding his thoughts now, I note, but I can feel his exhaustion. He steps across the room toward the table. “I brought croissants from a café in Lyon. We had the same one on my world, actually. The lady who owns it—”
“Marie?” I interject, glancing back up at him as I start to move the three cups of coffee to the table.
“You know it then,” he confirms, nodding. “Kaova Café.”
“Yeah, it used to be my favorite,” I respond. I set the coffee down on the table and turn back to the kitchen. “Milk and sugar?”
“Oh, no, thank you. I just drink my coffee black.” He adjusts his glasses as he drops his eyes to the floor, almost as though he is embarrassed to admit his preference for black coffee. I can’t help the face I make. I’ve never been able to drink plain coffee.
“Suit yourself,” I joke, pouring a generous amount of milk into my mug. I add a couple spoonfuls of sugar as well and settle myself at the table as I take a cautious sip.
Lois sets out a plate for each of us, while Clark takes a seat across from me and places the bag in the middle of the table. Lois immediately reaches forward and opens the bag, her eyes widening with appreciation. She glances up at Clark, who sips his coffee slowly and watches her with a small smile. She then pulls out a large croissant oozing a dark chocolate filling and licks her lips in anticipation.
“You got me the chocolate filled one,” she squeals, taking a big bite. She closes her eyes as she savors the flavors and then sets the pastry down on her plate. “Oh, so good.”
Across from me, Clark’s smile fades, and he takes a plain croissant from the bag and lowers his eyes, suppressing a yawn. I feel his anxiety and concern, although he seems to be trying to hide it. I still don’t have much of an appetite, but I grab my own croissant from the bag, copying the two of them, as a sort of uncomfortable silence fills the room. Lois manages to eat the majority of her croissant, as does Clark, but the most I can handle is a few bites. I swallow and stare down at the table as I feel my own anxiety start to build. The pain in my head pulses nauseatingly, and I force myself to breathe slowly to stave off a wave of dizziness. Lois reaches out and places her hand on my back, and I try to focus on her touch to ground me. She starts to speak, her tone guarded.
“So, um, Clark and I talked about the memoir and other stuff,” she says. Her fingers press into my back in a comforting gesture, but I don’t move or look up. I’m afraid of the emotions I’ve been holding in for the last day; with Clark here, something angry, dark, and malevolent seems to be tugging at my memory. It’s not his doing, I know, but his presence seems to have triggered it. My jaw tightens as Lois clears her throat and continues, her voice now a bit unsteady. “Clark and I both, um, well, we know that you’ve already done so much for us—coming here and helping out both as Superman and at the Planet—”
I’m not sure what it is, maybe the mention of Superman, but a sudden rush of anger hits me, and the pain in my head intensifies. I close my eyes and clench my fists as I try to block the pain from being transmitted to Clark through our telepathic connection. I know both of them sense my discomfort, however, and I open my eyes and look up across the table. Clark is watching me, a look of concern on his face.
I feel him try to reach out to me, communicating silently,
“What is it?” But I just stare at him, through him, really, as I try to contain the memories that want to surface—memories of violence, death, and fear, giving rise to an intense sense of self-hatred. The room begins to feel hot, as though the glaring red sun of New Krypton beats down on us. It is almost debilitating.
Lois’s hand on my back is the only thing keeping me from falling over the edge of this cliff I’ve unwittingly stepped up to. I exhale the breath I’d been holding and lower my eyes back to my croissant. Take a bite. Even just a small bite, I tell myself. Maybe it will distract me. My hands follow the instructions from my brain, as they are generally programmed to do, and I lift the pastry to my mouth. It is tasteless, but I chew it anyways. My stomach churns.
“Um, well…” Lois stammers. I feel her shift in her seat next to me, and then she sighs almost inaudibly before continuing. “We were hoping you’d be able to help us with this too. With the memoir, that is.”
My words to her from last night seem to reverberate in my head.
I can’t write that. We need his help. Again. Just like how my world needed his help as Superman, and Lois needed his support and friendship while I was dead. Just like how I needed his help to be brought back from the Sun, and to walk to the living room, and to see my parents. Can’t I be at least a sliver of the person I used to be? Can’t I do anything for myself? Why do we need him so much for everything?
“I’d be happy to help, of course,” he answers quickly.
Of course. He’s always more than happy to help. I suppose he has nothing better to do. Just my job. And my other job. And cooking for my fiancée. And taking her out to dinner with our friends. And everything else I can’t do right now.
“Clark, what’s bothering you?” I hear his voice inside my head, gently nudging me, trying to get an explanation for the mixed emotions I’m sure he feels from me. I can’t even block my thoughts right anymore. I try harder, pushing him out of my head with all my willpower. God, why can’t I even do this right?
Somewhere deep inside me, a memory surfaces. It is out of focus, fuzzy. The heat is stifling, and dust covers my black boots. Blood drips off the end of my sword as an enemy falls to the ground in front of me. My first kill. I suddenly remember it with great clarity. And I feel an intense anger, just as I’d felt in that moment. I had hated being forced into this, and I’d hated myself so much for giving in to Ching’s insistence, to the Council’s insistence, that my leading the army and killing Lord Nor was the only way to end the war. Rage fills me again, as it had in that moment. I can’t stop it. I squeeze my eyes shut as nausea and pain overwhelm me.
Across from me, I feel Clark’s unease grow.
“Stop it, man. Please. I get it.” He feels my emotions—the anger, the self-loathing, the guilt. But I can’t stop it.
Lois’s hand slips from my back just then. The last anchor holding me in the moment. I try to grasp onto her presence. She starts to speak again.
“Great. Um, we talked a little about the money,” she says, her voice tentative. Her hand touches mine briefly, and she shakes her head. “It’s…a lot of money.” After a brief pause, she addresses me. “Clark, sweetheart, do you want to tell him what we were thinking?”
Without looking up at either of them, I shake my head. I certainly do not trust myself to talk right now. I’m barely present as it is. The room seems to grow redder, hotter. I almost cough as dust fills my lungs.
“No, you can…please…” It’s the best I can manage. Otherwise, I’d have to be able to form coherent sentences. Not possible right now. The throbbing in my head seems to shift from my forehead to my temples, and I feel my fingers start to tingle, as though my hands have fallen asleep.
“Okay, um, well…” Lois seems nervous herself, and I immediately feel more guilty for forcing her to be the one to speak now. To be the one to have to ask even more of him when both of us know he won’t refuse any request from either of us. I force myself to breathe as she continues. “We were thinking that you could do the writing, using the journals and Clark’s help, if you need it, and then we could essentially, um, split the money. We’d donate our half to charity, and your half, you could keep to use for… I mean, until…”
Her voice trails off. But Clark, he knows her thoughts. He’s perceptive like that. And I hear his thoughts too, albeit unintentionally.
“Until what, Lois?” he thinks. He wants her to say it, but he knows she is unsure of herself right now, and he wants to help her.
“For when Clark returns to the Planet, so I’ll have income to live off of,” he suggests, his voice calm and collected.
I feel his eyes shift to me, though I still stare at my uneaten croissant on my plate. He hesitates as his mind seems to probe mine for an answer to an unasked question.
“Superman. Lois—does she know?” His thoughts are not directed at me. In fact, I think he’s trying to conceal them. But I feel it, or sense it. He wonders whether we’ve talked about him staying on our world as Superman, even after my powers return. He wonders whether I’ve admitted to Lois that I cannot be the superhero again. He thinks that since we’ve talked about my returning to work, that we must have also talked about Superman. But he needs clarification. My stomach lurches, and the room turns a dark blood red.
In a low voice, Clark says, “And I assume you talked about—”
No. We haven’t talked about it. She can’t know. Don’t say anything. Please. Dammit.I’m back there again. The ground is hard underneath me as I kneel in front of a comrade, Colonel Rahm, pressing my hands onto a deep wound in his side. The bleeding won’t stop. His eyes beg with me to help him, but there is nothing I can do. The life leaves him as a gust of hot wind nearly blows me over. In a flash, the memory shifts, and I’m sprinting up a hill, Lieutenant Ching at my side. We both swing our swords at incoming enemy soldiers. I barely notice them; my focus is ahead, where Lord Nor waits at the top of the hill. Rage pulses through me as blood coats my sword. I parry an attack, stab another enemy with my hidden dagger, and continue moving forward. Images, memories, moments, fragments—all reminding me of the horrible things I’d done in the name of peace. The bodies pile up. The blood is on my hands, dripping off my sword, oozing out my chest. Everywhere. It is everywhere.
God. I can’t—I don’t deserve to live.
I shouldn’t be alive.
I killed them.
That’s—God, that’s not me. I’m not me.
I deserved what I got. I deserved to die that day. I don’t deserve to live now.
“God, please—please, stop it.” I feel a smooth, solid surface under my fingers, and I blink several times. The room is still red, and a layer of dust covers the table. My fingers smear bright red blood across the wood. It will stain. We should clean it up now. The room dissolves again into a glaring red light. Sweat drips down my forehead as my fingers wrap around the neck of an enemy soldier. Then, I’m on my back, staring up at a sword about to plunge into my chest, and I roll out of the way at the last second and swing my fist, feeling bones crunch as I connect the blow.
“Clark, I understand. Please, don’t show me anymore.” Whose voice is that? They don’t know anything about me. They don’t understand. They can’t.
Pain engulfs me as I stab another soldier in the gut and shove him back away from me. Blood stains the ground. Then I’m running through a hazy fog, Ching ahead of me. He stumbles, and I grab his arm just as an explosive device detonates only feet from us. Together, we dive sideways, landing hard against the solid earth. Blood trickles down the side of my face, and my ears ring. And I’m angry. So incredibly angry. And scared. I pull Ching to his feet with me and yell a command to him over the roar of the battle. Keep going, he tells me. I grab my sword, which had fallen out of my hand, and immediately launch back into the battle. More dead bodies pile up in my wake. Anger.
Is this me? Is this who I am now? A killer. A murderer.
I don’t deserve to live. I hold my dagger in my hand. It pulses with a white light. I can just… I raise it up to my throat. One quick thrust is all it would take. I deserve to die.
Blood drips off my hands.
God.
“Kal, that’s enough.”
Kal? That’s me, yes. Kal of the House of El. But who growled at me like that? People don’t talk to me like that. And why is it so cold?
I blink, and the dagger is gone. My hands rest on a dark wood table in front of me. They are clean. No blood.
Lois. Lois sits next to me. And Clark across from me. Clark—is he the one who called me Kal?
My hands shake uncontrollably. I need to get away. I don’t want to hurt her. I hurt her the other day, now I remember. I need to get away. I can’t be near her.
I push my chair back, stand, and leave the room. My vision is blurry, darkness clouding the edges, and my hands and feet tingle. I manage to make it to the bedroom, and I shut the door behind me. I can’t be near her. I don’t want to hurt her. Like I hurt so many others.
My chest feels tight, and I struggle to fill my lungs completely as I pace the room. Back and forth I walk. For how long, I don’t know. My hands begin to feel numb. I look down at them and turn them over and then over again. There was blood on them earlier. Dark red, viscous blood. Where did it go? I gasp for air as a stabbing pain radiates from my chest, and I stumble into the wall as my legs shake.
The floor. I need to sit. Then maybe I can catch my breath. I lower myself down haphazardly, grunting in pain as my hands hit the hard ground. And then I push my back up against the wall and lower my head to my knees. It helps a
little. I can sort of breathe now. My head throbs though, and I close my eyes as I fight another wave of nausea.
I feel a tugging in my mind. Him. The other me. The better me. Who doesn’t kill. Who deserves to be here. He wants to talk to me.
“Clark, please listen to me. This is important,” he tells me.
I take several deep breaths. Important, he says. And he’s a smart guy. So he’s probably right. I should listen. I rub the back of my neck and open my mind to him.
His voice in my mind is confident and assured.
“I know this is hard. But you’re hurting her more by not telling her than you would be by being truthful. She needs to know what you’ve been through. No, she doesn’t need to know everything. She certainly doesn’t need to know everything you just showed me. But she is strong, and she loves you. And nothing—nothing you tell her will change that. You have to talk to her, Clark.” It takes me several minutes to orient myself as I realize where I am and what is happening. Flashbacks, a panic attack, hallucinations triggered by his thoughts suggesting that Lois needs to know why I cannot be Superman. None of that was real just now. And he insists I need to tell her about it.
I swallow hard and stare at my hands. No blood. They are clean. My feet, still bandaged from yesterday’s soup disaster, are covered with a clean pair of white socks, not dusty black boots. It is comfortably warm in the dark bedroom, not stiflingly hot. No wind blows orange dust all over. No explosions rock the ground.
I died. As I deserved. But then I came back to life. Given a second chance, one might say. But I don’t deserve this second chance. All the people I killed—they don’t get a second chance. Why me?
A gentle nudge in my mind reminds me of my doppelganger’s presence. Right. Tell Lois about it all. She will still love me, he says. She can help me. I’m hurting her by not telling her. I see a flash of a memory from three nights ago—her wide, terrified eyes as I’d grabbed her wrist waking up out of a nightmare. I’d hurt her. And now I’m doing it again. My love. My Lois. I can’t tell her. I feel my hands start shaking. Maybe…
Maybe you can tell her for me, I suggest. I know it’s a dumb proposal, and I immediately sense his response.
“You know I can’t do that. It has to come from you.” No, he knows as well as I do that it has to be me. In fact, I sense he’s considered telling her himself but has always stopped himself. No, I have to be the one to tell her.
The trembling of my hands turns into something more uncontrollable, and I grip my knees to stop the shaking. The darkness of the bedroom seems to grow, closing in around me. A fragment of an image from my earlier hallucination lodges in my mind—I see myself raising my glowing white dagger to my throat, and my thoughts echo again,
I don’t deserve to live. I am no longer me. Clark Kent? No, I’m Kal-El—a killer. I know I’ll never be Superman, and I could probably live with that, I realize. But I’m not sure I’ll ever be Clark Kent again either.
God, I just want to die.
No. No, that’s not right. Is it?
I don’t want to die, no. But I don’t deserve to live.
The room grows colder, darker, with a slight red tinge. No, I don’t want to go back there again. Please, someone help me. But I’m alone now, and I feel myself begin to drift off.
His voice saves me.
“Clark, listen to me, and please understand this. She loves you.” There is a short pause, but then he repeats the sentence, with even more conviction.
“She loves you.” The red tint the bedroom had taken begins to fade, but my whole body continues to shake. She does love me. I felt that the last few days. She loves me as much as I love her. But… God, she doesn’t know that I’m a monster. She… Can she still love me?
He continues, his words still filled with sincerity and certainty.
“You can get past everything else,” he tells me.
“You will find yourself again. But you have to give yourself time. You’ve only been back for four days. Please, come back out and talk to her. Tell her some of it, some of how all of it affected you. I promise you, she is stronger than both of us.” I know this. At least, she is definitely stronger than me. God, I love her so much. I feel her closeness from the other room through my connection with him. I feel her love.
“It will be hard, but she is worth it. She is worth living for. If you cannot find anything else to live for right now, remember that. She is worth living for.”God, he’s right. Of course, he’s right. He’s always been right.
My love. My Lois. I would do anything for her.
I close my eyes and connect with him again. He’s watching her as they sit at the table, and I can see her through his eyes. She’s crying, a tear running down her cheek, but she’s resolute and strong, and she trusts him. God, she’s beautiful. My love. I need to see her. To touch her.
I need her.
With effort, I push myself up to my feet. My legs are weak and almost buckle with the effort, but I manage to stand. I start toward the door, but I stop myself as a wave of uncertainty hits me. What am I going to say to her? What can I tell her? Am I going to lose myself again to those horrible hallucinations once I start talking?
My legs move, but I don’t feel completely in control. I pace back and forth several times, stopping each time I pass the door. Clark’s words echo in my head.
“…she is strong, and she loves you. And nothing—nothing you tell her will change that.” How can he be so sure?
Another lap around the room. She loves me. She will always love me, she told me.
“Let me ask you this—if the tables were turned, would you still love me?” “Lois, I could never stop loving you.” “And I know that, Clark, and you have to know that I feel that strongly about you. You have to know that I will always love you. Always, Clark.” I stop in front of the door again. If the tables were turned, would I even consider abandoning her? No. This love I have for her is unconditional. And she has told me that her love for me is the same. Unconditional. Always. Forever. So why am I having such a hard time believing that? I owe her the chance to hear my truth. And then decide for herself. My hands shake as I stare at the door handle.
Clark nudges me telepathically again, his voice kind and sympathetic.
“Do you want me to stay or go?” He seems to project an image of Lois to me. She is beautiful, but hurting. She wipes a tear from her cheek. I want to kiss away that pain and never cause her to hurt again.
Clark’s kind voice tells me,
“She is waiting here for you.” I reach for the door handle as I exhale a long breath. Thank you, Clark. My eyes close as I turn the door knob. I know what I need to do. And I won’t falter again. I will tell her the truth. And I owe him an apology, too. He’s been steadfast and supportive despite the emotional barrage I’ve thrown at him. I blink against the discomfort of my growing headache and focus to communicate to him.
Thank you, Clark. I’m sorry about earlier… I appreciate your help more than I can say, even if I don’t always behave appropriately. You can go. I—An intense pain erupts between my eyes, and everything goes black.
25
Softness cradles my throbbing head, and a small hand rests on my shoulder. Lois? Pain. God, it hurts. I moan as I reach one hand up and rub the bridge of my nose. The movement doesn’t help. I try to open my eyes, but the light exacerbates the pain, which pulses angrily right between my eyes. God. I groan again, and I feel Lois’s fingers press into my shoulder gently. Lois. Thank you for being here with me. God, it hurts.
“W-what happened?” I ask, my voice shaky.
I try to raise my hands to block the light as I open my eyes again. Why is it so bright in here? The light seems to fade ever so slightly, and I can almost see around the room now. Lois sits next to me, and Clark is moving off somewhere on the other side of the room. Shutting the curtains, I think.
“You passed out,” Lois says quietly.
I close my eyes as she gently caresses my cheek. The touch is so soothing, I can almost ignore the sharp pain stabbing my forehead. I passed out? I remember opening the bedroom door and then pain and blackness. A sudden rush of fear jolts me, and I struggle to try to sit up. I need to explain. She needs to know that I was coming to talk to her. I can’t hurt her again. But my arms won’t support me. I can’t move, really. Her hand presses again into my shoulder, urging me to settle back into the soft bed. I oblige. I don’t really have much of a choice right now. But I can explain, right?
“I-I was g-going to come back out t-to the kitchen,” I try to tell her. My head throbs, and I feel my heart racing in my chest. Does she believe me? Does she understand? “I’m sorry, I-I was trying to—”
Her lips brush lightly against my forehead.
“Shhh,” she whispers soothingly. “It’s okay, Clark. We have all the time in the world. You rest, relax, breathe. We’ll talk more when you’re ready.”
“You’re too good to me, Lois,” I say, moving my hand to cover hers on my shoulder as I close my eyes. The pain is nauseating and exhausting, like how I’d felt on Saturday and Sunday—so tired that I can barely move. I squeeze her hand as her lips again graze my forehead.
“I love you, sweetheart,” she replies. Her free hand strokes my forehead, and her touch seems to have a calming effect. My heart rate slows, and my breathing stabilizes.
Across the room, I feel Clark hesitate for a moment, watching our exchange. I’m too tired to interpret his thoughts, but I see a glimpse of a familiar-looking blonde woman, whom he is grateful is no longer in his life, and then Lois—but…not my Lois? Did he have his own Lois? How could he have left her? No, it’s something else. And Superman too—something about how he became Superman is tied to this other Lois Lane. His thoughts are scattered and confusing to me, and I shake my head slightly as I close off my mind to him. A moment later, I hear the door close, and I realize Lois and I are now alone.
She continues to caress my forehead, her quiet presence keeping my anxiety at bay.
“He’s a good friend, isn’t he?” My voice is slurred, almost as though I’m drunk, and I open my eyes weakly to look at her. She smiles down at me, but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She nods.
“Yes, he is.”
“I haven’t been fair to him,” I admit, closing my eyes again. I lean into her touch and sigh as the pain in my head throbs again. Her hand stills on my forehead.
“What do you mean, sweetheart?”
“I mean—I-I don’t know,” I stutter. My thoughts are not making much sense, even to myself, and I’m not sure if I can explain to her either. I try to shift to a more comfortable position. Maybe if I turn on my side, my head will stop pounding. But I’m too tired to move.
Lois stretches out on the bed next to me and kisses my forehead again.
“I…I’m so tired now, hon. I’m sorry, again. Again—I—I keep doing this to you,” I mumble. Dark and cold. I have to fight it. I force my eyes open and reach up to touch her cheek. She smiles down at me again. “You’re so beautiful, my love. I want to talk to you now. I don’t want to—” The pain in my head intensifies, and I choke back a sob.
“Shh, sweetheart. It’s okay. Really,” she soothes.
But I shake my head. It’s not okay.
“No, hon, it’s not—it’s—” The pain stops me once again, and I close my eyes as I inhale sharply.
“Clark, you just fainted, maybe because of extreme anxiety, and you are clearly in a lot of pain right now.” She pauses to brush the hair back off my forehead. “I want you to rest now, and we can talk when you’re ready.”
“But hon, I-I need to tell you everything. I can’t keep—I c-can’t—” My words won’t form how I want them to. I try again, but Lois cuts me off.
“Shhh, please, Clark. Your health is more important right now,” she insists. Her hand rests on my chest now, her fingers tracing slow circles on my T-shirt. “Please rest. I’ll go tell Clark he can leave, and I’ll stay here with you today. I won’t go to work. That way, we can talk when you’re ready. Okay, sweetheart?”
I force myself to turn toward her, shifting onto my side. My vision swims as my head throbs, but I blink the pain back. My eyes meet hers, and I see her kindness, love, and concern; it overwhelms me. I wrap one arm around her and pull her to me. A tear escapes and slides down my cheek, and I close my eyes again and breathe deeply. God, I love her so much.
“Please tell him—” I cough, and a sharp pain stabs my chest. “Ah, sorry, uh—please tell Clark thank you and I-I’m sorry.”
Her hand slips around to my back, and she tightens the embrace for a moment as her lips graze mine.
“Sorry for what, sweetheart? I’m sure you don’t need to apologize,” she says quietly.
“I do though,” I argue. My voice sounds weak and raspy, and I cough to clear my throat this time. “I do need to apologize. He—he has been nothing but a friend. Helpful, reliable. And in return, I…I’ve…”
My voice trails off again, and I blink my eyes several times as the world seems to start spinning around me. Bright lights dance around in front of my eyes, like fireflies. I resist the urge to swat my hand at the swirling pinpoints of light.
“I’ve had—I mean, sometimes I can’t control myself, my emotions, and—and it seems like I’m always hurting him because of it. Please tell him for me.”
That’s all I have. The pain and exhaustion are overwhelming.
“Okay, sweetheart, I will tell him for you. You rest now,” she repeats.
She leans over again and kisses my forehead as I close my eyes. Darkness envelops me, and I drift off into a blissfully dreamless sleep.
