Lois & Clark Forums Forums Fan Fiction Lois & Clark Fanfic Anchor: Part II -- Kal-El (36-49/49)

Note: I have some RL stuff coming up this weekend, and so I decided rather than stressing about getting the chapters posted every day, I would just go ahead and give y'all the rest of the story here. Warning! It's about 33k words here!

The nfic version of these chapters can be found here.

Thanks again for reading this far, and I look forward to everyone's comments on this ending. I've got a short "epi-epilogue" for Anchor parts 1 and 2 as well, which I hope to post tomorrow.





Breaking and entering. Crouching for an extended period of time behind a stack of dusty boxes in a dimly lit warehouse. And straining to hear the conversation of two dangerous criminals while remaining unseen. Just a few more things to add to the growing and very long list of things that are much easier and much less stressful when you’ve got superpowers.

It had seemed like a good idea at first—heading to New York to try to catch the meeting between Lex Luthor and Bill Church, Jr. Honestly, more Lois’s thing than mine; I’d never been terribly excited about this side of investigative journalism. But of course, there was no chance I’d have let her go by herself. And the original plan was to have Superman with us. I was okay with that plan. However, a huge oil spill had hit off the coast of Alaska right as Lois had tried to call and text him. No answer. And when news reports on the television had suggested that his clean-up efforts may take hours, Lois had made the unilateral decision to drive to New York ourselves, without super backup.

And so, that’s why we’ve found ourselves huddled uncomfortably toward the back of a wide, long aisleway flanked by industrial shelving units, peeking out cautiously around multiple rows of boxes covered in a thick gray layer of dust, as Lex Luthor and Bill Church, Jr. edge closer and closer, strolling leisurely while discussing…something.

Unfortunately, neither of them deem it necessary to talk loud enough for us to hear. At times, my superhearing seems like it might be trying to make a comeback; I can hear things I probably shouldn’t quite be able to. But it’s not controllable, reliable, or sufficiently robust to be useful at this point.

Next to me, Lois stiffens and leans a bit forward. I venture a quick sideways glance at her. In the dim light of the warehouse, her features are nearly hidden from my view, but I can see the tension in her shoulders and the tightness in her lips as she squints harder, her head shaking slightly.

“I can’t hear a thing they’re saying,” she hisses. “Ugh, this is useless.” Her fingers inch a bit further up the box in front of her, and she stretches up to peer once again over the top of the container.

“Lois, stay down, please,” I beg quietly, tugging on her arm.

“Shh, Clark. I definitely can’t hear if you’re talking.”

I suppose the likelihood of them spotting her is pretty low. After all, it is quite dark. However, my unease continues to grow as they approach. Single words seem to sneak through the fuzzy barrier of my re-emerging superhearing—words like “competition,” “negotiate,” and “overtake,” spoken in Luthor’s distinctly sophisticated voice. It seems that Luthor is doing most of the talking.

My back and knees begin to ache as we continue crouching low. I can hear their shuffling feet now as well, though I think that’s just because they are closer. Lois seems to be holding her breath. Are they that close? I glance through a gap in the boxes in front of me as their footsteps stop. Sixty feet away, maybe. Luthor motions to his right at a large stack of army green plastic containers labeled “FRAGILE: DO NOT SHAKE,” and he and Church step over to the containers. With their backs to us, Church unlocks and opens the top container, and I hear a distinct, “Ah, yes, this will do nicely,” from Luthor. Church nods in agreement and shuts the box again, and the two continue down the aisleway toward us.

Lois leans onto me for a moment and whispers into my ear, “What was in that container?” She pushes me slightly over so she can see them through the gap in the boxes.

“I don’t—”

“Shh.”

Right. Another rhetorical question. She rests a hand on my knee, using me for balance, as she continues to watch the two through the crack in the boxes. Abruptly, she moves away from me and glances around the edge of the boxes again, rather than through the gap. The aching in my back grows as I shift my weight to my other leg. I don’t like this. I rest my hands on the floor to try to take some of the pressure off my aching knees, and I watch the two approaching men again as Luthor laughs loudly. As they get closer, I can see a glint of nervousness in Church’s eyes. He chuckles, but puts an extra few inches between himself and Luthor as they again stop in the middle of the aisleway.

“How long until the permits are approved? I want this place up and running as soon as possible.” Luthor’s voice is clear now, superpowers or not, and as usual, there is a hint of malice hidden in his tone. Lois hears it too; I feel her tense up next to me.

Church nods and hastily reaches for a cell phone in his pocket. “My contact at the Department of Buildings says they can push the permit through within just a few days.”

“Excellent. Have the construction crews ready to go. Spare no expense,” Luthor adds. “And over here…” He gestures ahead, and the two begin moving, once again, closer to us.

They are getting too close. My chest tightens as I hold my breath, and Lois shifts closer to me. For a millisecond, my superhearing seems to kick on, revealing her rapid but steady heartbeat. Her hand moves to my knee again, and she squeezes gently as though to comfort me. Can she sense my unease? I give her a weak half-smile and then peer back through the crack. Maybe forty feet now. Too close.

A sudden sharp pain pulses in my chest and head, and I screw my eyes shut tightly to keep from crying out. Lois’s hand shifts to my back, questioningly, but I don’t respond. The pain is distinct and instantly saps any energy I’d had. Kryptonite. I force my eyes open and steal another glance through the gap. A faint green glow from the ring on Luthor’s left hand is visible, even in the low light of the warehouse. Dammit. I swallow tightly as I look at Lois, who watches me with concern. Weakly, I raise a shaking hand and wiggle my finger, then point through the boxes toward Luthor. She follows my motion, and her eyes then widen in understanding as another throbbing pain stabs through my gut. My only saving grace, I think, is that they are still a good distance away. Yet, the distinct pain, like a thousand tiny daggers digging into every muscle in my body, persists.

“Everything okay?” Clark’s concerned voice echoes in my head. Oh thank goodness. Superman to the rescue, as always. He continues, “I just got in from Alaska and saw Lois’s message. Tried to call but no answer.”

I close my eyes as a wave of nausea hits as well. The ground seems to wobble underneath me, and I feel Lois’s hands tighten on my shoulders as she supports me. Carefully, to avoid forcing my pain on him, I reply, We need you in New York City at the new Cost-Mart warehouse right now. Luthor is meeting with Church. Lois insisted we drive ourselves here when we couldn’t get a hold of you earlier. I don’t like it. I have a bad feeling. Sure, it’s much more than that at this point, but I don’t want him to panic or rush in here too hastily. And given everything that I know about him, I’m positive he understands the words I haven’t spoken.

I immediately feel his concern, and he tells me, “Be there momentarily.”

I twist my head toward Lois, who is studying me nervously. I try to smile at her, to reassure her, but all I can manage is a bit of a grimace. Pain pulses at the base of my skull as I lift one hand up from the dirty floor and trace an ‘S’ on my chest, then give her a thumbs up, my hands shaking almost uncontrollably. Superman is on his way. She understands. Her hands again steady me as she lets out a slow breath and squeezes between me and the boxes to peer through the gap again. I copy her, and she briefly shifts out of my way so I can look, though my vision is quickly growing blurry.

Luthor and Church continue to move closer, chatting idly about the construction. Church flinches visibly as Luthor claps him on the back, maybe a bit too roughly, and declares, “I’m glad you see things my way, Bill.”

God, please hurry, Clark. The thought is not intentionally sent to him, but I sense his concern and realize he is close and assessing the situation, just as I knew he would. My eyes close tightly against the nausea and pain. The sickening green glow grows closer, now within thirty feet, and I again clench my jaw shut as my pain level increases and my chest tightens.

A sudden loud noise from near the front of the building causes both Lois and I to jump, though we stay low to the ground. Unbalanced, I lean on her to keep myself from crumpling to the ground, and she wraps her arms around me strongly.

From in front of us, Church’s crass voice mutters an angry, “What the hell was that?” and Lois grips my arm as she moves to look through the crack in the boxes again. The debilitating pain from the kryptonite immediately disappears as I hear Luthor and Church retreat toward the entrance of the warehouse, Luthor growling for Church to follow. I nearly collapse into Lois with relief, but manage to stay kneeling, my hands lowering again to the ground for additional support.

Thank you. I assume that was you, I communicate to my doppelganger. I sense his presence and almost feel him moving closer to us.

“Yes, it was me,” he answers simply. He is focusing, I feel, following Luthor and Church using his keen eyesight and hearing.

If I had any hope of my superhearing returning, the last few minutes are a major setback. I’m much less super now even. A dull aching lingers in my chest and head, but at least I can breathe. Red boots land silently next to Lois, and at the edges of my blurry vision, Superman stands frozen, his eyes trained toward the front of the warehouse, where Luthor and Church had retreated. Lois holds me tightly still, and we both stay quiet and unmoving, waiting for the “all clear” from Superman. The silence presses on as my knees scream at me to stand or move or do something—anything but continue crouching painfully. However, I don’t dare move.

Extreme anxiety suddenly floods my mind, and I glance up at him. Something is wrong. A gentle probe into his thoughts, which proves to be unchallenging in this instance, reveals fear and apprehension. “The modified kryptonite…” I hear him think, and I abruptly glance out through the gap in the boxes one more time. The two men are too far away to make out much, except a sickening green glow, which promptly disappears as they turn away and begin moving again toward the exit at the front of the warehouse. I look up at Clark as his eyes dart down to mine. “We have a big problem,” he tells me, frowning. I nod in acknowledgement, and he then raises his eyes again to watch Luthor and Church as Lois shifts closer to me, perhaps sensing my own unease.

The pain in my chest and head has nearly faded when Clark finally moves several minutes later, shifting away from us a couple feet.

“They’re gone. Are you both okay?” he asks, his voice low. Lois pushes herself up to stand, and I stiffly do the same. My chest throbs dully, but I ignore the pulsing pain and suppress a groan as I force my mind closed to him. He doesn’t need to feel my pain. Or my fear. When neither Lois nor I answer his question, he clears his throat and continues, “After I get you two out of here safely, I’m going to follow them.”

I almost laugh. Almost. He should know her better than that by now. She’ll never agree to leave. She’s too invested in this. And Luthor has kryptonite.

As though to illustrate my point, she quickly corrects him as she dusts her hands off on her skirt. “No, we should all follow them.” She then wraps an arm around my waist for support, which I definitely appreciate since I still feel wobbly. My eyes dart to Clark’s as I feel his concern.

“I’m not comfortable with this,” he tells me silently, raising his eyebrows slightly. I know his worry is reflected in my own eyes. He adds, “I don’t want her anywhere near Luthor or Church.”

I certainly do not disagree with him. If I’d been able to physically stop her from coming up here earlier, I’d have done it. Luthor is bad news. I’d seen enough as Superman to recognize evil when I see it. But she’d insisted; she’d made up her mind. And then when we’d gotten here, she’d led us around the back of the warehouse, sneaking past their security detail, edging around the visual field of the security cameras, picking the back lock of the building, and tiptoeing to our conveniently located hiding spot. I’d protested at each step, but she wouldn’t hear any of it. She’d been much too determined, focused, intent on her goal of taking down Luthor. I love her for it; but I love her much more for it when I know I can protect her.

I nod to him almost imperceptibly, though I know he’ll see the gesture. I don’t want her anywhere near this either, Clark.

Me neither, I tell him succinctly.

He hesitates only a second, and I sense his resignation as I loop an arm up and around Lois’s shoulders. She turns to him expectantly, fire in her eyes. She’s brilliant and courageous and incredibly beautiful. And she’s about to be furious.

“She’s gonna be really mad at me,” he concedes, echoing my thoughts.

Maybe I’m a bit of a coward. Or a lot of a coward. But I deliberately look away from him as I adjust my glasses. He’s not going to let her follow him. He will go alone. I feel the plan forming in his mind. She is going to be furious, and not just at him. Even if I don’t admit it, she’ll know that I know.

“Let me get you guys to the Jeep,” he says evasively, and before either of us can object or respond, he moves in between us, grasps us both, and lifts up into the air, silently and quickly transporting us outside and to the Jeep. The darkness provides some cover, although his brightly colored suit still stands out like a sore thumb in the otherwise dreary tones of the cold, cloudy night. Thankfully, the street is abandoned, with only a single street light providing some illumination, and no one sees us. Lois almost jumps out of his grasp when we land, her excitement palpable. Her keys are out of her pocket and in her hand before I’ve even settled my feet on the ground long enough to feel stable. He doesn’t release me right away, as though he understands how unsteady I feel, and he waits for me to step away to loosen his grip.

Thank you, I think, although I’m not sure he hears me. He is terrified of what he’s about to do, or rather, how she’s going to react to what he’s about to do. And I don’t blame him. His thoughts race, and I almost have to block him out just so I don’t lose my own tenuous grip on my sanity. I watch Lois as she unlocks the Jeep.

“Which way did they go?” she asks easily, unaware of his inner turmoil or our impending deception. “We’ll follow and you can tell Clark where they are headed using your little telepathic gizmo thing.” A part of me smiles as I see how easily she adapts to the unique talents that the two of us together offer. Her eyes lift to meet his, sparkling in the dim light. She’s so energized right now; this thrill is part of the job she loves. And all of these things, I know, are going to make her even more upset at him. And at me. I force myself to act neutral as I watch Clark scan in both directions. My hand finds the small of her back as I move closer to her, and she glances up at me with an enthusiastic smile. Clark clears his throat.

“Luthor is headed back to his penthouse, and Church is headed back to Metropolis,” he explains, his eyes shifting from me to Lois and back again. He scans the neighborhood quickly and then crosses his arms over his chest. Very Superman-esque. Using the formal tone of the superhero—which I suppose he needs to detach himself so she doesn’t predict what he’s going to do and to begin the difficult task of shielding himself from her wrath—he adds, “In the warehouse, after they moved away from you two, Luthor handed Church a lot of money and said he quadruple it after Church Sr. is out of the picture. Then Church Jr. will sign over the company and its assets. And Church gave Luthor a stack of very incriminating documents—I’m talking listings of Intergang’s assets, profiles of heads of the different branches of the organization, shipping schedules, a signed contract between Luthor and Church Jr. detailing their agreement.” He hesitates a moment and glances at me again. Some of the color seems to drain from his face, although he doesn’t stumble with his words or show any other signs of uncertainty. “Luthor also gave Church the modified kryptonite; told him to get rid of Superman and he’d double the offer.”

Next to me, Lois inhales sharply, and I feel her eyes shift to me. My arm slides around her, and I embrace her gently as I struggle to maintain a confident façade. Clark’s expression reflects mine. He doesn’t want her to worry. At least we know where the kryptonite is now, I think. He nods at me, and the muscles in his jaw tighten.

“Here, get in.” He steps over to the driver’s side door and opens it for Lois.

“Oh, good idea, you can fly us there to catch up,” she surmises, the excitement returning to her voice. “We should tail Luthor, since Church will take some time to get back to Metropolis. Maybe we can get our hands on those documents he has. That should be enough proof to take to the police. Or the FBI, I think.” She hurriedly moves toward the vehicle.

“Uh, right, yeah, something like that,” he replies evasively. His eyes meet mine, and I sense all of his trepidation. His words from earlier seem to echo in his thoughts. “I don’t want her anywhere near Luthor or Church.” And I completely agree. Luthor is dangerous.

Tearing my gaze from him, I jog stiffly around to the passenger’s side and open the door as he helps Lois into her seat. With a final glance, which I hope conveys to him that I’m supportive of whatever measures he’s about to take to keep her safe, I take my seat inside the Jeep next to Lois, and we both strap on our seatbelts. As the Jeep lifts off into the air, Lois grabs my hand and squeezes gently. She then pulls out her notebook, switches on the overhead light, and begins sifting through her notes.

Even in the cover of darkness, my years of experience flying myself around the world tell me that we’re definitely headed south. Definitely away from Luthor’s penthouse. Definitely back toward Metropolis. He’s flying us quickly too, although the ride is smooth. And Lois sits next to me engrossed in the messy writing on the page in front of her, clueless to this trickery.

“From what Clark said, if we can get our hands on that folder…Hmm…” she mumbles quietly. “You know, maybe Superman should intercept him before he gets to his penthouse.” She looks over at me questioningly, to see if I agree. I just shake my head, and I hear Clark’s thoughts echo mine. Too dangerous.

“No, he has that kryptonite ring, remember?” I remind her. Her face pales again, and she nods slowly. “He has to wait until he can get the folder without Luthor nearby.”

“Right,” Lois concedes, and she closes her notes and switches the light off as we start descending.

I feel his anxiety increase a notch as we drop down through the cloud cover. And next to me, Lois seems to finally realize something is off. Her hand grabs the door frame, and she leans into the window, peering down toward the ground. I know where we are. I’ve flown this way hundreds of times. Even without looking, I can tell that we’re just above her apartment building. He’s slowed considerably now, intent on making our descent smooth.

“What the—” Lois grasps my arm, shaking me slightly. “Clark?”

Reluctantly, I turn to look at her, but she’s twisted around back to the window and is now straining to make out the features of the street below. And then she loses it.

“Dammit, Clark, what the hell?” She mutters several other expletives and then turns to me, anger in her eyes. “You knew about this, didn’t you?” She doesn’t give me a chance to answer. Instead, she raises her voice, as though he can’t hear even her quietest whisper, and adds, “Clark, don’t even think about it. Turn this car back around and get us back to New York, now! You can’t do this alone!”

Immediately, I hear his voice in my head. “I’m sorry. Please tell her I’m sorry.”

My respect for the man wearing the blue, red, and yellow spandex increases another notch, which I didn’t even know was possible. His thoughts are filled with guilt; he knows he’s acting in her best interests, as do I, but he feels incredibly unsettled by the deception. I sense that he knows he’s worked very hard to build her trust, and now he’s—rightfully—concerned that this decision of his is breaking that fragile trust. A fleeting memory of his trickles in through the barrier he’s set up to block his thoughts from me. The first night he’d come to this world. Her tired voice says, “Well, um, I guess you have a lot of work to do if you’re going to get that story written, and, uh, I-I should p-probably get home. And I am really tired, so I guess the tea is doing its job.” She smiles at him warmly, but he is concerned as she struggles to get her coat on. “Here, let me help you,” he offers gently. He feels her tense up, but she allows him to help her with her coat. He senses how tired she is; the stress of the day has been too much, and he tells her, “Lois, please, let me take you home. I don’t think you should be driving right now.” Immediately, he recognizes his mistake—it is not his place to tell her what she should or should not do. “I mean, you seem very tired, and I—” But she cuts him off, “It’s okay, Clark. Yes, I would appreciate a ride home. You’re right that I’m too tired to drive.” And he feels that somehow, for some reason, be it his resemblance to me or his actual good nature, that she trusts him. He vows in that moment never to betray her trust.

And now, he knows he’s broken that promise.

It was the right thing to do, I reassure him, trying to maintain confidence myself. She’s going to be furious. I glance briefly at the woman next to me. Her face is no longer pale, but instead is red with anger. Yeah, she’s already furious. But do be careful, I add. She’ll never forgive you if you get yourself killed. I don’t tell him this, though he probably already knows.

As the front wheels of the Jeep touch the ground, Lois is already unbuckling her seatbelt. I reach over and take her hand.

“Lois, hold on, hon,” I implore, hoping she won’t jump out of the vehicle before it’s stopped and all four tires are on the ground. She twists toward me and gives me a glare that makes me recoil. Then, her hand finds the door handle, and, as the fourth tire touches down, she pushes the door open and leaps out of the car.

But he’s already launched up in the air, heading back in the general direction of New York City. Superman’s sonic boom shakes the ground slightly.

A cry escapes her lips, and she yells up into the clouds, “No fair, you know I can’t fly!”

I hurry out and around the car and wrap my arms around her as she almost collapses to the ground, tears in her eyes. She clings to me and whispers, “God, Clark, please, please be careful.” And then she buries her head in my chest and sobs. My hand rubs her back gently, but it doesn’t seem to help much. I raise my eyes to the sky, toward where he disappeared into the clouds, and I imagine for a moment being in his boots—that is, being the one with the superpowers. I know with absolute certainty that I’d have done the same thing, especially considering her brush with death just yesterday. My arms tighten around her.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t want her to cry,” he tells me, his mind’s voice again filled with guilt and uncertainty.

I know you didn’t, Clark. Lois crying is about the worst thing in the world. It’s breaking my heart right now, hearing her sobs, feeling her tears wet my shirt, steadying her as she trembles. But you know that she’s only crying because she cares about you, right? You know she’s worried about you.

I think she loves you.

And with these thoughts of mine—these thoughts that are so effectively guarded against his discovery thanks to my months of practicing and training with Ching, these utterly intrusive thoughts interrupted by the stuttering of her breath and the shaking of her body—suddenly her hesitation earlier at the office, that is, the apparent guilt in her eyes when she’d told me that they’d never kissed, and that he didn’t call her ‘hon’, and that every time they touched was just part of the pretense—suddenly it makes sense. My breath catches in my throat.

I am indeed glad that I’ve put up an effective barrier around my thoughts. He can’t feel my shock as the truth hits me.

She does love him.

I mean, I know without a doubt that she loves me. Always, as she has told me so recently. Always. But in this moment, I realize that she has also grown to love him. Not a romantic love, but love nonetheless.

I feel him waiting for a response, his thoughts pressing into me again. His concern for her well-being burrows its way into my mind, colliding with my own senses, and I almost stagger with the weight of all of this knowledge. However, despite the weakness still pervading my limbs, I hold myself and her upright, and I slowly begin to guide her toward the front door to her apartment building.

She cares about you, I tell him, choosing my words carefully. Don’t be stupid, don’t get yourself caught or killed. And she’ll eventually forgive you. I pause for half a second before adding, Maybe, with just the tiniest hint of a grin.

I don’t know why I’ve decided it’s necessary to try to insert some humor into the situation. On so many levels, there is nothing about any of this that is funny. In any way, really. But I feel some of the heaviness on his mind lift, and I know it was the right approach.

Meanwhile, the fragile woman in my arms decides at that moment to no longer be so fragile. I reach forward to press the button for the elevator, and she jerks out of my embrace, violently, almost. Her fingers, which had only moments before been holding onto me for dear life, jump in front of mine and smash the button repeatedly, frantically. The scowl growing on her face would scare away even the most hardened criminals. I pull my hand back slowly, as though moving slower will give me a chance to think faster, to plan my answers to the millions of questions I know she is currently formulating. The questions she will assault me with when we get back into the safety of her apartment.

Faintly, I hear his voice, explaining to me, “I’m here. Luthor just arrived back at his penthouse.”

But I don’t dare take my focus off Lois right now to respond. The elevator doors finally open, and I follow her into the small confined space, suddenly feeling a bit claustrophobic. I take a deep breath and remind myself that I agreed to this. And I knew she would be mad. I’ve seen her mad before. I can handle it. I hope.

She was about this mad when I told her that I was Superman. And that one time, before she knew about my two identities, when I had to leave her in the middle of a date to stop a tidal wave from hitting the coast of Indonesia. And that one time when our “colleague” Ralph had commented on her sister’s appearance just after Lucy had been released from the hospital following her suicide attempt. That one had been a doozy.

I handled her then. So, I can handle her now.

Maybe.





By the time we reach her apartment, unlock all the deadbolts, close the door behind us, and remove our coats, her complexion has turned an even darker shade of red, and the anger in her eyes may as well be heat vision lasers. She spins on her heel and faces me, forcing me back a step. Anger, yes. Rage, even. She feels betrayed, hurt, and that makes her angry. But I see the hurt flicker again in her expression, and a tear streaks down her cheek, followed quickly by another and another. Oh, Lois.

Expecting an assault, but bold enough to try anyways, I quickly hang my coat on the rack next to the door and pull her back into an embrace.

“Clark, I’m so mad—I can’t—”

“I know, Lois. I’m sorry,” I murmur into her hair, my hands rubbing gentle circles on her back as I feel her tremble. “I’m sorry, hon. But—”

She pushes me back, hard, and my movement is stopped by the door. Her eyes flash red again. She raises a hand and points at my chest, stepping up to me. And then she repeats her earlier question—the one she didn’t give me time to answer.

“You knew about this, didn’t you?”

I will not lie to her. I nod. And she doesn’t hesitate in her response.

“How could you, Clark?!” she demands. She seems more in control than I’d have expected. I expected ranting, raving, hands wildly flailing about. Maybe even a few attempts at decapitating me by throwing heavy objects at my head. She’s done that before too, although that was quite a long time ago, and I think maybe I did deserve it at the time.

But that’s not what happens now. She doesn’t become wild or unruly. In fact, I think it’s worse. She breaks down. She falls into my arms, sobbing again, her weak knees giving out as her arms wrap around my waist. This is definitely worse.

“He shouldn’t be doing this by himself,” she cries into my chest. “He—he’s here to help us. He’s given up so much. He almost died only less than two days ago. And now…” Her voice trails off as she shifts shakily out of my embrace. Her hands slide around to my abdomen, and she slowly raises her eyes to mine. Puffy redness encircles them, and I want to cry myself, seeing her like this. And she’s right, as she always is.

“Of course, Lois. But…” Will she let me speak? Should I speak? She won’t accept any explanation I have. She will think that we—he and I—are trying to dictate her life, control her. And maybe in this instance she is also right. Because, yes, I guess we are. We did. We decided, together and without her input, that it was too dangerous for her to go. And yet, I let him go alone, in a suit of brightly colored spandex that I should be wearing, even though he may be risking his own life.

“But what?” Her voice is no less demanding than a minute ago, filled with no less anger. But she’s taken the volume down a notch. I swallow hard again. I don’t think I’m articulate enough right now to fix this.

“But, I—he—no, we thought that, uh, that he would have a better chance if—”

“No, Clark,” she interrupts. And she pushes me away and starts pacing, her hands flailing as she begins carrying on in long, rambling sentences, dissecting our joint deception into tiny pieces and throwing them back in my face.

And I deserve all of it.

I feel a push from Clark, but I sense he’s not in trouble, and I block him for a moment. I need to calm her down so I can be present with him, in case something does go wrong. I step in front of her just after she spins around to pace back toward the kitchen, and I place my hands on her shoulders, exerting a firm pressure. I have no powers. In fact, I’m feeling a bit weak still from the short kryptonite exposure. It probably shouldn’t have taken that much out of me. Focus, I remind myself.

She allows me to stop her, but her glare pushes me back a step. Hurt and betrayal. We did that to her. I did that to her.

“I’m sorry, Lois. We both thought it was for the best. So he can concentrate on Luthor and not worry about us,” I explain. That’s sort of it, after all. But I can’t refuse to admit the full truth to her. Not in this instance. “And Luthor is dangerous. I already almost lost you once this week. I couldn’t—”

“You don’t make my decisions for me, Clark. Neither does he. You know that,” she states, her voice almost monotone.

I know this argument. She and I have had it on numerous occasions, particularly when I’ve had to come to her rescue as Superman and I make the mistake of suggesting that maybe, just maybe, she should have asked me or told me first where she was going and when. “It’s my life, Clark. I’ll be careful, but I’m not going to stop making my own decisions just because you think it’s dangerous.” Of course, she’s right. As I said, she’s always right.

“I know, Lois,” I concede. However, I have to make her see from my perspective in this instance. “But, hon, please try to understand why I agreed with him; why he came to the same conclusion as I. We both almost just lost you, Lois. Two seconds, Lois, remember!” I drop my hands from her shoulders and lower my eyes to the ground, willing my own fears to please, please not invade right now. Please, no red hazy fog and dusty, hard ground and Kryptonian nanotech and sneering warlords and painful jabbing of a heavy blade into my sternum. Please not right now. “Lois, we just wanted you far from Luthor’s reach. We just wanted you to be safe. And…” This is probably the most important part to her, what I’m about to say. It’s important in its simplicity, really. I sigh and close my eyes. “And he promised me he’d be careful, Lois. Believe me, please, when I tell you that he’s going to make any decisions carefully and logically. He’s not impulsive, Lois, you know that. He thinks through everything. He will be careful. He will be okay.”

She opens her mouth as though to respond, but closes it again quickly. Her expression hardens again, and she pushes past me to the kitchen, muttering more expletives to go with her nice colorful ones from earlier.

And I give her the space she needs. I move to the couch and sit heavily, my legs weary and my head throbbing again. Oh, how I wish I could just take an aspirin and make it go away. I lower my head into my hands and focus my thoughts on Clark.

Sorry, I was still calming Lois down. She’s hysterical, I admit to him. I don’t like that I sort of abandoned him earlier, but I feel he is safe and has not made any major decisions himself yet. Just to be sure, I ask, You’re okay, right?

Quickly, I hear his response, aptly cloaked in a veil of uncertainty. “I’m fine. Just trying to figure out how to get the envelope in a way that will be legally admissible.”

Legally admissible? I repeat his words. I lean my elbows forward to rest on my knees and close my eyes as I rub my temples with shaking, weak hands.

His statement confuses me. If I’m understanding correctly, he’s concerned that if he confiscates the documents in a way that might be considered questionable, the documents would not be usable in court. Legally admissible…

Memories from early on in my first few weeks and months as Superman pop into my mind. Despite my parents’ fears, which had morphed into my own fears growing up, the city—and for that matter, the whole world—had welcomed their new hero with open arms. Very few times had there ever been an ounce of distrust or even a trickle of unease. I’m not sure why, really. This world just really needed hope, I suppose. It had been immediate and obvious as soon as I’d returned from lifting the Messenger space shuttle into orbit on my very first appearance in the blue, red, and yellow suit that my mother had just finished sewing for me. Everyone looked to me. Everyone trusted me. I’d helped them, for no other reason than that I could.

And so, the police, the FBI, the DOD, even the many international organizations I’d had the pleasure of working with, they’d never questioned my honesty or integrity.

But for him, maybe it was different. Lois had hinted as much. “His world was…different,” she’d told me. I don’t know much more than that. And maybe by now I should. However, right now, what he needs to know most is that he is trusted here.

Do you know where it is? I ask carefully. The envelope.

“Yes. In a safe in Luthor’s penthouse. I have the combination.” His response is almost immediate, and I feel his tension, balled up tight in his stomach.

If I focus hard, I can see what he sees, from his perch high above most of the city, the wind at his back. God, I miss that feeling. Floating among the clouds, free. Powerful, powerful enough to shape the world into something better. To instill hope to the world.

Words that I’m sure I’ve never actually heard before echo like a distant memory. “I must say, my boy, I envy you… With every eye upon you, every breath held in anticipation, you hold in your hands a world waiting to be shaped… Trust that you’ve found your true destiny. And that in you, a once hopeless world has found its future.” His memory maybe? I don’t recognize the voice, but the words…the words ring true.

A strong pang of sadness flutters in my chest as I realize I’m no longer that beacon of hope for my world. No, now he is. A mantle that he has so readily taken up, a role that he has so easily slipped into. And now, he needs my reassurance. I shake my head slightly and sit up again. Peripherally, I feel Lois move closer, but she doesn’t speak.

Good, I start. Assuming it’s safe for you, grab the envelope and then take it to Dan Scardino at the New York FBI office. It’s late, but he’ll still be there. I don’t think the man ever sleeps. Superman’s word is, as you say, legally admissible. Tell him everything that happened and where you got the documents. As long as the documents are sufficiently incriminating, they’ll be able to use the evidence in court.

My words come easily and confidently, and I feel him hanging on every one, a mixture of surprise and relief.

“Seriously? They just take Superman’s word?”

With these simple words of his, the simple question, I hear his pain, and I instantly know. I know that his world had never accepted him. I feel and see his memories. Long months alone. Surrounded by people, yes, but utterly alone. Alone at his desk pushed off at the edge of the newsroom, next to the stairwell, so he can come and go without disturbing anyone. Alone in his apartment, save for the paparazzi constantly stationed outside. Alone running through the most crowded park in the city, others moving out of the way as he jogs through, whispering as though he cannot hear them. Alien. Freak. Alone pulling weak bodies from the rubble of a fire, only to have fire fighters and EMTs and police and newscasters question how he could have been there first, before everyone else, questioning his motives and integrity. Alone trying to deal with the grief of lives lost after a failed rescue. So alone.

I inhale sharply. Lois hears me. She has calmed down somewhat, and she sits next to me on the couch, close enough that I feel her warmth. I reach out and take her hand, despite knowing she is still mad. No, she is still furious. But she allows it. And then I reply to him, his simple question, with a simple answer. Yes. Superman is a trusted figure here. They will believe you. Even against a man as respected as Luthor.

His disbelief is immediately clear, but he trusts me, and so he does not hesitate. I tense as I focus to follow his thoughts and movements. He’s scanning Luthor’s penthouse again, deciding the best course of action. He’ll steal—he hates the word steal, but he recognizes the necessity—the documents from the safe and then take them to my FBI contact, as I’ve suggested. The room is clear. I can see it through his eyes.

So weird, this connection of ours is. So much more than just telepathy. I wish I understood it.

Next to me, Lois scoots closer, her body still shaking with angry, frustrating hurt and sadness. I’m so sorry, hon, I want to tell her again. But I don’t. I squeeze her hand.

“He’s about to get the documents,” I explain shortly, my eyes still closed in concentration. She lets out an unsteady breath.

“Has he—has he checked that there’s no kryptonite? Please, Clark, ask him for me,” she demands. She grips me tighter. “Ask him, Clark. And—and tell him to be careful. Please.”

I nod, unable to refuse her.

Lois insists that I ask if you’ve checked everywhere for kryptonite and that I tell you to please be careful, I communicate silently. Then I add, Though I’m sure you have and you will.

Lois sighs next to me, leaning her head onto my shoulder.

His response is assured now, his uncertainty gone. He is Superman, after all. Confidently, he tells me, I have, and I will. And the images in my head become a blur as I feel him launch off the ledge of the building he’d been standing on and swoop down through the unlocked doors of Luthor’s balcony, his singular focus now on his heist.

Abruptly, Lois stands and moves to the kitchen table, where her laptop and all of her research sits. I hear her dial her phone and have a brief conversation explaining the situation to Perry. By the time she hangs up, Superman is on his way to the FBI office in New York City to meet with Dan Scardino. I open my eyes, turn to her, smile, and nod. And she breathes a sigh of relief and shifts her focus to her computer. The story. Her distraction. A tear falls silently down her cheek.

I close my eyes for another moment before moving to the table to help her.





An hour and a half later, maybe, is when I sense him approaching the apartment. We’ve been working diligently, and I’ve been keeping in touch with him, giving Lois updates as he’s worked. Luthor and both Churches (Junior and Senior) are now in FBI custody following relatively uneventful arrests. The modified kryptonite that Church Jr. had been given by Luthor has been unceremoniously tossed into the Sun. Lois and I are scheduled to go in tomorrow and give our statements and research to the Metropolis FBI office. And Superman, well… I can feel his exhaustion. He’s as bone tired as ever, and he’s (rightfully) wary of what he’s going to encounter in Lois when he arrives.

For the most part, she’s been detached and quiet; all of her fire and energy is focused now on the story. And what a story it is—one with international repercussions. The dismantling of Intergang, a major crime syndicate with global reach. Combine this with the downfall of Luthor, second-richest man in the world, and there might be another Pulitzer nomination here.

She seems to have channeled her fury to her keyboard, and the clacking of the keys has taken on an intensity that I’ve seldom heard before as her fingers fly over the letters. There is almost a rhythm to it, except when I calmly interrupt her to make a suggestion or correct a typo. She hates it. I almost feel like she hates me right now, and I don’t blame her. But the story is going to have my name on it too, so I will contribute, even if it means that I have to face her wrathful glare every time I speak.

Thankfully, the article is mostly done. Lois just wants a few quotes and clarifications from Superman. His voice resonates in my head, and I force myself to remain stoic.

“Is she still mad?”

Very, I respond, swallowing tightly. I continue following her typing, trying to ignore his nervous vibe as he hovers outside her window, just slightly up out of her line of sight. A weak throbbing of my lingering headache pulses at the base of my skull. Another typo, Lois. Maybe I’ll let the copy editor catch the error. No, I can’t do that. I sigh with resignation.

“Here, hon, it should be ‘Luthor’s numerous other crimes,’ comma, ‘which include…’” I point hesitantly to the text on the screen, leaning over a bit closer to her. And her anger again becomes palpable. Time. I know she needs time. This is how she processes things. And she has a right to be angry. But I wish it didn’t feel quite so devastating to me. The room seems to grow colder as she turns and stares at me. Now her eyes are ice beams, not heat lasers. A shiver shakes me, and I scoot my chair back.

She sighs and fixes the error, then continues working. A single tear slides down her cheek. The first tear in almost an hour. Absently, I wonder what is going on inside her head, and I wish, not for the first time, that telepathy worked with humans as it does with Kryptonians. I want to hug her, but I don’t dare right now. Instead, I glance out toward the window. I can’t see him still; he continues to hover just a bit too high. But he’s there, contemplating his entrance still. A sudden movement next to me makes me aware of my error. Lois leaps up, shoving her chair back several feet. Her eyes dart to the window first and then lock with mine.

“Is he back? Is he here?”

Her voice is low but anxious, and although I’ve been watching her and following the flurries of her emotions for almost the last two hours, I cannot read her expression now. Is she angry? Will she explode at him the moment he flies in through that window? Maybe I should just advise him to take off now and let me deal with her. No, that would just make her angrier. So, I nod in response, stand up after her, and reach out to grasp her shoulders in what I hope is a calming touch. However, she immediately shrugs me off and moves toward the window.

A moment later, Superman gently pushes the window open and descends into the room, stepping down lightly. He holds himself tall and upright, though I know he’s struggling to remain composed. And he is tired. Maybe more tired than he’s been in a long time. His eyes shift to me and then back to her, and he offers her a weak smile before turning around and closing the window behind him.

After a brief hesitation, she rushes him. Her arms wrap around him, and she seems to squeeze him as tightly as she can. To his credit, he manages somehow to not react right away. He definitely is Superman. His arms seem glued rigidly at his sides, and he quickly raises his eyes to meet mine. Although no words pass between us, I know he won’t hug her back without my permission. I try not to frown, though I’m not sure I succeed, and I shrug at him and turn away, moving back to the table as I re-establish the barrier to my thoughts. Let him hug her. Let her hug him. She just cares about him. He’s a good friend, and she was worried for his safety. And…

And she loves him. The realization from earlier in the day echoes again, but I push it away too and sit at the table, in Lois’s seat, my hands automatically shifting to rest on the keyboard. I continue where she left off, forcing myself to ignore the sounds of her sniffles, the rustling of the long red cape, the scrape of his boots on the ground as he rebalances himself from her onslaught.

I manage to add only a few words to her sentence before the temperature in the room drops another ten degrees. I twist around to look at the two standing behind me. Oh boy.

Superman, Clark Kent, my doppelganger, he stumbles backwards as she shoves him hard, and he barely manages to catch himself before crashing into the window. My jaw tightens as I recognize her fury returning full force. Please take it easy on him, Lois. Remember, this is half my fault. She steps up to him, and I see him shrink under her glare. She lifts a finger and plants it squarely in the middle of his chest—the middle of the iconic ‘S’ symbol. And she raises her voice and speaks slowly.

“Don’t. You. Ever. Do. That. To. Me. Again.”

Her back is to me, but I see the panic growing on his face. His eyes dart quickly to mine, almost begging for help, but I can’t bring myself to react.

“I-I’m sorry,” he stutters. He moves sideways, away from the window, putting just a little bit more distance between them. “I-I thought—”

“I don’t even want to hear it.”

And then she’s heading back to me, her eyes glowing again. Fire now. I jump out of her seat and move back to my own, but that doesn’t seem to be far enough away given her renewed emotional frenzy. She pauses, glaring at me, and then shudders. I want to hug her. I want to go back and take away this pain. But I know I would have made the same decision if given the chance again, so I just blink and hold her gaze.

“And don’t even get me started again with you,” she hisses angrily. I’m sorry, hon. The words have repeated in my head so many times, I’m surprised they are not just etched in my forehead by now. I hold up both hands as though to surrender and scoot my chair away from her another few inches to give her more space. Then, she turns back to Clark, who stands, shoulders hunched and brow furrowed anxiously, just a few feet away. One of his hands holds a fistful of the red material of his cape, although I’m not even sure he realizes it. She points an angry finger at him and tells him, “Sit,” her voice now empty and hollow.

He follows her command and takes the seat across from mine. Not wanting to anger her further, I assume, he keeps his eyes downcast, staring at, or maybe through, the smooth woodgrain of the table.

“She’s been like this for the last hour and a half?” he asks cautiously, skillfully managing to limit our connection so I can’t sense the rest of his feelings.

Pretty much, I reply. I mean, we sort of conspired to go against her wishes. I don’t regret it, but I understand why she’s mad.

“Yeah… Man, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, and I see him frown, though he still doesn’t lift his eyes to me.

Don’t be. I didn’t want her anywhere near Luthor just as much as you. I quickly remind him, I would have done the same thing if it were me with the superpowers. And this seems to ease his anxiety, albeit only slightly.

We both watch in silence as Lois continues her furious typing, her jaw clenched tightly and her shoulders stiff. Finally, she seems to be happy with whatever she’s written—though I don’t dare edit her copy right now—and she picks up her notebook, shifts toward him, and begins a rapid-fire set of questions to collect the last bits of information she needs to finish the article. For the most part, I sit quietly and observe, and Clark allows himself to sit up taller, take on a slightly deeper voice more characteristic of Superman than his other mild-mannered persona, and respond with well-formulated answers.

As I absently drink my third cup of coffee for the evening, I wonder if I was ever as competent as he seems. Every aspect of being Superman appears easy for him; it’s as though he slips into this larger-than-life persona that was made for him. This really is his true destiny, I think, to be Superman. Whomever was speaking to him in that memory of his that inserted itself into my mind—they were right. He embodies what it means to be Superman.

I watch him still, and my own place here also now makes sense. I represent what he cannot allow to ever happen. I am the anti-Superman. I broke the rules. Or, at least, I broke the most important rule. Never kill. Always protect life. My fingers tighten on my coffee cup.

Across from me, Clark wearily rubs his eyes, and I hear his thoughts, though he is not consciously sharing them. He still has patrols, both domestic and international, and he’s exhausted. Even Superman needs to rest. Lois stopped questioning him a few minutes ago and is now typing furiously again, ignoring both of us. I glance at the clock; it’s just before midnight. Speak up, Clark. Tell her you need to leave, I think to myself.

And as though he hears me, he quietly clears his throat. I look over to meet his eyes briefly, and Lois pauses her typing as she too glances at him.

“Um, if you don’t have any more questions for me, I should probably—”

“Oh, no,” Lois cuts in, her eyes turning dark. I recognize this Lois too. I’d met her briefly one of the nights when we’d been discussing whether or not I should go to New Krypton. This Lois is a manifestation of the abandonment she’d felt when her parents divorced. This Lois hurts. And lashes out because of that hurt. My heart aches for her, and I again chastise myself for what we’d done to her. I move to touch her shoulder, but, like earlier, she shrugs me off, gives me a mean stare, and then turns back to Clark. “No, you can’t just leave again. I’m not done—”

I know how upset she is, but it isn’t fair to him either, to keep him here so she can be angry. She can stay angry at me tonight. So I try to help him out. Again, I place my hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “Lois, he needs to go,” I say, my voice low but steady. Please, Lois. Let him be. He already feels badly about it.

After another of her burning glares, she growls at me, something that I can’t understand, and then drops her eyes to her computer. I rub her back gently, but her muscles remain taut, unyielding, angry. Finally, she sighs and resumes her typing as she concedes, “Fine, go.”

Clark hesitates as he watches her. I’m not sure whether he understands the depth of her emotions right now. She only gets this upset when she cares. That is, when she cares a lot. His eyes fall to his hands a moment, and a strong feeling of uncertainty radiates off of him.

He must sense that I’m watching him then, as he raises his eyes questioningly, pain and loneliness filling his expression. No, don’t worry, Clark. It’s only because she loves you. I don’t tell him this, but I give him a crooked sort of half-smile and tilt my head toward the window as if to say, Go ahead, get going. I’ll take care of her for you. He swallows tightly but doesn’t move immediately.

I take it you’ve never seen her angry like this before, I comment silently, my eyes not leaving his.

“Definitely not like this,” he admits with another pained expression.

Then trust me when I say you should probably just leave. I’ll talk to her more after we get this story done.

I shift my eyes back to the computer screen, reading along at the text she’s added. Another typo. It’s almost like she’s making them on purpose so that she can yell at me when I correct her. I suppress a laugh. Across the table, I feel his acquiescence. He stands and moves his coffee mug to the sink, then heads over toward the window. I glance up to watch him go.

“If it’s okay with you, I’ll stop in tomorrow morning, just to check in,” he proposes, and I nod slightly. Then, he adds, “And to give her the birthday present I bought her. It’s nothing big, but…”

And everything around me seems to slow down. Her birthday. Dammit, how could I forget? What sort of lousy fiancé am I? I mean, I know I’ve been a bit, well, dead, but I know what day it is today. And I know what day her birthday is. Why am I so incredibly stupid? I close my eyes and suppress a groan. And immediately, I feel his sympathy and understanding. My eyes fly back open and meet his as he pushes the window open. He smiles at me.

“I had made reservations for dinner tomorrow night at 8 p.m. at Le Chène, the French restaurant she likes downtown. I was going to call and cancel, but it’s yours if you want it.”

I blink in surprise at the generous offer, and I think again what a true friend he is. He’s been nothing but considerate, kind, helpful, and compassionate. And, I mean it really shouldn’t be so surprising, should it, that he understands me so well. We are practically brothers, really.

That would be really great. I appreciate it. Thank you, very much. I manage to keep my breathing even, and I think my heart rate doesn’t change too much, but I find myself giving him a grateful smile. He nods back and begins to raise himself up off of the ground.

“Goodnight,” he says, and then he takes off out the window.

Lois pauses her typing and shuts her eyes as she inhales with a quiet sob.

“Goodnight. Be careful out there.” It’s a gentle whisper, but I know he hears her. She knows too. She sobs and leans into me.

“I know I said this already, hon, but I’m really sorry. He is too.” I hold myself still against her, fighting to suppress my fears from the previous few days. “We would both do anything to protect you, and I know we didn’t give you a say in the matter. But please understand, Lois, I can’t…I can’t lose you, hon.” She shifts in my embrace, but I keep my eyes squeezed shut and continue, reiterating my arguments from before. I know it’s not enough. I know she’ll still be mad and that she has every right to. But I try anyways. “If you got hurt, Lois, I couldn’t—”

“I know, sweetheart,” she whispers, cutting me off.

There is defeat in her tone, and I hug her tighter as the room around me begins to spin. I’m so sorry, hon. The room seems to grow warmer, the heat stifling my breathing. Lois feels it too, I think, or at least, she feels my anxiety growing. That’s probably it. After all, despite her outbursts, she’s at least mentally stable.

And although I’ve had a pretty good day today, I feel my control slipping. I burrow my head into her hair and force a deep breath. Her hands, which had been sitting passively in her lap, move to my chest, and then one drops to my knee. My knee that betrays my fragile mental state. My knee that trembles apprehensively. I lower my hand to rest over hers, which helps me stabilize myself, and I clear my throat.

“I love you.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

I pause a moment, and my breath catches in my throat. “He loves you, too.”

Very quietly, almost inaudibly, she repeats, “I know.”

My stomach twists itself into a knot, and I bury my head deeper into her shoulder.





“Yes, Perry, thank you… Yes. And again, sorry to call so late… Of course… I know, I know… You too, Perry. See you in the morning.”

Behind me, quiet sounds of papers rustling, dishes clinking together, and water dripping run together, and I seem to be unable to distinguish what Lois is actually doing. Cleaning up the table? Loading the dishwasher? Something I should be helping with, I’m sure. I hold my head in my hands, my fingers rubbing my temples to try to sooth my persistent headache. My back rests against the soft cushions of her sofa, and I close my eyes again as I try to fight off the nausea that has been threatening me for the last half hour.

The water shuts off, and a moment later, two gentle hands begin massaging my shoulders. Lips press into my neck.

“Bedtime?” Her voice is sweet, soft, and I lean back a bit into her touch as she continues her massage.

“Uh huh,” I manage. I reach over and place a hand on top of hers, then turn my head and kiss her knuckles. “Perry got the article?”

“Yeah, he’s trying to get it on the front page of the morning edition,” she explains. “Although he’s not sure if it’s still possible since it’s already after 1 a.m.”

“Mmmm.” Such an articulate answer. But it is late, and I’m exhausted.

Her hands drift downward, meeting about half way down my chest, and I breathe deeply at the comfort her embrace provides. She pats my chest gently.

“Come on, sleepyhead.”

Again, her voice is filled with a tenderness that I wouldn’t have expected given the events of earlier. I open my eyes, but the room seems to tilt sideways, colors blurring and running together like one of my mom’s abstract paintings. A groan escapes my lips as I screw my eyes shut again. Almost immediately, her hand is back on my shoulder.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, sorry, I just—”

Everything around me suddenly pulses, as though the air itself is taking a deep breath, and I feel her heartbeat slow to almost a stop. The clock on the wall hesitates in its persistent, rhythmic ticking. My fingers heat up as individual fibers in the couch play across my sensitive skin. My eyes open and immediately take in every detail of the room, before my vision breaks through the walls of the apartment. Layers of dry wall, wood, and brick dissolve right in front of me, and the darkness of the street outside filters into my view.

I blink rapidly, and as quickly as the sensation had come, it disappears. The clock regains its rhythm. Lois’s heartbeat is stable and steady. And the wall once again blocks my view.

I swallow hard and press my hands into the couch.

“Sorry, I’m just tired I suppose. It was a long day. How are you?”

I force myself to stand, and my knees wobble traitorously, contradicting the hint of power I’d just felt in that very brief second.

Lois has no idea; why would she? She reaches out to help me, her arm looping comfortingly through mine, but she doesn’t answer me immediately. Instead, she leads me toward the bedroom, flipping off the lights as we go. Darkness enshrouds the room, and a faint light coming from the bedroom illuminates our path down the hallway. Her breathing is measured, controlled, almost too even, and her steps are too deliberate.

She’s putting on a brave face for me now.

But why? Is it because she realized how exhausted I am? Because I wobbled when I stood? Because she noticed the slight trembling in my hands and knees?

As we enter the dimly lit bedroom, her arm loosens from around me, and she steps away toward the dresser. I see the tension in her shoulders, and my guilt again overwhelms me. I blink a couple times and then follow her. My arms encircle her waist from behind, and I press myself up against her, lowering my lips to her neck. Her skin is soft and warm, but she tenses up as I touch her.

“Let me help you, hon,” I suggest. My hands lower to her hips and then skim under her shirt, pushing the fabric up as she raises her arms. It slips off easily over her head, and I discard the material as my open palms caress the smooth skin of her abdomen. Her head tilts back slightly, resting against my cheek, and I run my hands down her sides. Her breath catches in her throat, and I smile into her as I flutter gentle kisses down her shoulder.

Then she suddenly straightens and shifts away from me, her hands moving up to cover herself.

“Clark, I don’t think we should…” Her voice trails off as she meets my eyes, and I see how upset she is still. Her anger has faded, true, but the hurt and betrayal are still raw. I manage a small nod.

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” I agree, and I turn away from her and run a shaky hand through my hair.

What have I done? Will she ever trust me again? Tonight conspiring with Clark, and that on top of everything else…

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, my voice low.

“It’s okay. I just—I’m going to get ready for bed.”

She stoops to pick up her shirt from the ground, then steps back to the dresser, her back to me.

I strip off my own clothes, slip on a pair of sleep shorts, and sit heavily on the edge of the bed while she moves silently into the bathroom. I hear sounds of her brushing her teeth, and then a moment later, she exits the bathroom, moves to her side of the bed, and crawls under the covers. No words are exchanged, and I close my eyes briefly before I stand up and take my own turn in the bathroom.

Maybe she needs more space; maybe I’ve outstayed my welcome here, I wonder dejectedly as I settle down onto my side of the bed a few minutes later.

We’d only been engaged for a few months before I’d left for New Krypton, and although we’d talked about it a few times, we hadn’t really reached a decision about when we’d move in together or whether we’d wait until after the wedding. I recall her being somewhat reluctant to make any move until after we were officially married, but we’d certainly spent our fair share of nights together, most often at my place, but sometimes here too. And now, without even considering how she might be feeling about the invasion of her space, I’ve found myself taking over half of her apartment as her live-in roommate, fiancé, lover, boyfriend…whatever I am.

Maybe she doesn’t really appreciate that anymore.

Maybe she wants some space to herself.

Maybe we really should sit down and talk about it.

And maybe…maybe…

I shake my head. No, I think she’d tell me if she needed me to leave. She’s just upset still. I think. I turn to face her. She is curled up on her side of the bed, almost as far away from me as she can get, her body stiff and still. I can’t let us go to sleep like this. Cautiously, I move a bit closer to her and reach out to touch her shoulder. She flinches.

“Lois, may I hold you?”

A simple request.

Her answer is apparently not simple, however. She says nothing right away, opting instead to turn over onto her back and push herself up into a sitting position. Her eyes avoid mine, and she takes several deep breaths to steady herself.

She then nods, murmuring “Yes, that’s fine,” before settling back down closer to the center of the bed, her back to me again. Despite her words, her body language clearly says ‘Don’t touch me,’ and I wonder whether I actually should. Not wanting her to get the wrong idea, however, I quickly shift over toward her and mold my body up to hers, her comforting warmth seeping into me as I wrap both arms around her. Some of her tension vanishes, and she exhales deeply while leaning back into me. This acceptance of my touch, the faint hint that she might need me as much as I need her, the catch of her breath as I graze the back of her neck with my lips—all of this quells my fears, and I think that it might be possible for me to sleep tonight after all. I close my eyes and tighten my arms around her just enough that I know she feels it, before relaxing again into the bed.

It has been a very long day—too many emotions spent, for both of us.

I allow my eyes to close as I settle deeper into the bed next to her and breathe in her familiar scent. My Lois. I press my lips into her neck again and then whisper gently, “I’m sorry. I love you more than life itself, and I never meant to hurt you. I only ever wanted to keep you safe. I hope you can forgive me.”

She doesn’t respond.

Maybe she’s already sleeping.

Or maybe she doesn’t want to upset me. Either way, I feel myself drifting off into an uneasy sleep just as her breathing also settles into a clear, even rhythm. I love you, Lois. Please forgive me.





Flames engulf everything around me, whipping around in the deafening roar of the wind. I call out her name; I know she was just here, but now all I see is the menacing orange, red, and yellow fire, consuming everything in its path. Terror fills me, and I spin around, crouching low to the ground as I scan the immediate area. A warehouse of some sort, maybe? I push myself off the ground, my red cape catching under one hand.

Wait, what?

My eyes drop to my chest, now covered by the familiar ‘S’ shield, the crest of the House of El. Why am I dressed as Superman?

“Lois?!” I call out again, but she doesn’t answer. And I doubt I’d hear her even if she did.

If I’m Superman, that must mean I’m invulnerable, right? Logical.

I step toward the flames, cautiously reaching out one hand. Pain lances around my wrist as the fire jumps at me, searing my sensitive flesh. I cry out and pull my hand back. The skin is already blistered and raw, and the pain spreads rapidly from my hand up my arm.

Nope. Very much not invulnerable.

“Clark?!”

Her panicked voice echoes from behind me, and I spin around toward the sound, but I can’t see her through the wall of flames. Damn superpowers. Come on now. Work. I squint harder, as if that will help, but nothing happens.

“Clark, help!”

To my right now. I turn again. Through the heavy black smoke filling the room, I make out two figures about fifty feet away, huddled against the far wall of the room. One is taller, an older man maybe, and the other is a shorter, much more petite figure. Lois!

She tries to call out again as she sees me, but her cry is cut short as the man standing next to her grabs her by the throat and slams her up against the wall. Her eyes widen as she gasps for breath.

And intense rage builds in my chest. At once, I recognize the man. Nigel St. John. But he’s supposed to be in police custody, isn’t he? I break into a sprint, quickly navigating around fallen debris to close the distance between us.

“Lois?! Let her go, you monster!”

My voice booms through the warehouse, audible even over the din of the flames. The man laughs maniacally, shoves Lois up against the wall, and pulls a gun out of his coat pocket, aiming at me. For the briefest of moments, I hesitate. I’m very much not invulnerable, I remember. Then, my eyes meet hers again, and I see her terror and pain as his hand tightens more around her neck.

“Clark, help,” she whispers through gritted teeth. Her eyes close, and she stops struggling.

Instantly, I lunge forward, somehow managing a burst of super speed, and wrench the gun out of Nigel’s grip. He falters, releases her, and then swings his fist at me as she slumps unconscious to the ground. Nigel’s hand connects with my jaw, and a jolting pain erupts in my head and neck. I stumble backwards, crashing into a stack of boxes, and the sudden movement seems to fuel the fire around us, which lashes out again, catching my cape. I ignore it, instead choosing to refocus my efforts on the man standing in front of me. He casually picks up the gun from where it had fallen, and rather than pointing it back at me, he turns, a crazed gleam in his eye, and aims the barrel at my fiancée, who still lies in a crumpled heap on the ground.

“No, please, don’t hurt her,” I beg, moving toward Nigel again.

His finger tightens on the trigger.

I hear the click as the bullet explodes out of its chamber.

And time slows down around me. The familiar feeling of moving faster than humanly possible, the speed of everything else slowed to a near stop, washes over me. I leap forward, my hand closing around the end of the gun barrel before the bullet can exit. The metal collapses under the pressure. My other hand swiftly, deftly reaches out and closes around Nigel’s throat.

His eyes don’t even have time to register my movement before his neck snaps in my grip. Just as I’d pictured outside the Lexor. The monster is dead. I allow the world to speed back up around me as I hold Nigel up. His head is now twisted at an unnatural angle, and his lips have a slightly blue tinge. I push him away from me, and his body falls limply into the flames, which continue to inch toward me. And Lois.

“Lois?”

I turn around abruptly, but she is no longer there. My chest constricts.

“Lois?!” I hear the fear in my own voice.

“What’s the matter, Kal? Can’t seem to keep your woman under control?” The snide, malicious voice of Lord Nor, dripping with hate and malevolence, sneers from somewhere behind me, and movement out of the corner of my eye startles me. I spin around, grabbing a wrist in my grip as I do.

Bones crunch in my hand.

And her eyes fill with pain and shock as they meet mine. She screams and pulls away from me. The fire surrounding us explodes with the sound, and she stumbles backwards toward the flames.

“Lois, no!”

In the blink of an eye, Superman—the real one, my doppelganger—swoops in and scoops her up into his arms. He holds her gently, yet firmly, hovering several feet off the ground in front of me. His eyes meet mine, and I see his anger and distrust. He turns away, inhales deeply, and extinguishes the flames with a single, well-aimed blast of his freezing breath.

I fall to my knees as the smoke envelops me, my blistered hand shaking badly as I hold it to my chest. Superman sets Lois down and then steps up to me.

“Stand up,” he commands, barely concealing his anger. I do as he says, awkwardly pushing myself to my feet. My eyes flicker to Lois, who cowers away from me, and Superman’s right hand shoots out and grabs me by the throat, much as I had to Nigel only a few minutes ago. “You hurt her. You were supposed to let me be Superman. But you couldn’t control yourself, and now you hurt her.”

His voice is steady and even, but his eyes betray him. He loves her.

“I-I’m sorry. I thought I heard Lord Nor. I didn’t know my powers—I didn’t know my strength was back. I didn’t mean to hurt her,” I stammer, again glancing briefly toward my fiancée. She recoils as my eyes fall on her, shrinking back behind Superman.

“That is no excuse, Kal!” he roars, and he slams me back against the wall. “I won’t kill you, because that’s not what I do, Kal. But if you ever—ever—hurt her again, I might have to bend my rules just a bit.”

The floor around us dissolves, and suddenly we are floating hundreds of feet up in the air, somewhere above Metropolis. The clouds around us turns a dark red, and a viscous rain begins to fall, the drops splattering on and staining the yellow ‘S’ shield on my chest. Superman continues to hold me up. His suit stays clean. The rain—no, the blood, because that’s what it really is, isn’t it?—it beads up off his suit and slides down without soaking in.

So he stays clean.

While I am covered with the thick blood-rain.

And Lois steps up on a wisp of a cloud behind him, wraps her arms around his waist, and whispers something into his ear. He nods, glances down toward the city below briefly, and then releases me from his grip.





My eyes open with a start, and I stare at the ceiling. The ceiling. Lois’s bedroom. Right.

It was just a dream.

Or, rather, it was a nightmare.

God.

A warm body shifts slightly next to me, and a hand laid flat against my chest inches down toward my abdomen.

“Mmm, Clark, sweetie, is everything okay?” she mumbles sleepily, cuddling up closer to me. One leg rests over the top of my thigh, and her head burrows deeper into the crook of my shoulder.

My hands are balled up into tight fists, and I force myself to relax.

It was just a dream. She’s fine. I’m fine. Right?

I venture a quick glance at her. Her eyes are closed, and her breathing is steady and even. My hand moves to cover hers on my stomach, and I note that her wrist is undamaged. My thumb brushes softly over the unblemished skin on the back of her hand. She’s fine. It was just a dream.

God, what a nightmare.

I kiss the top of her head.

“Sorry, hon, just a bad dream. Go back to sleep now,” I murmur.

She doesn’t respond. She’s already sleeping again.

I close my eyes, but I keep seeing the flash of her terror-filled eyes, her mouth open in a scream as my hand crushes her wrist, and then her cowering in fear behind Superman. The message is perfectly clear. I’m a danger to her when my powers return. I’m a danger to her and others.

I swallow hard and glance at the clock on the nightstand. It’s already 6:15 a.m. Almost time to get up. Almost time to start the day. Cautiously, I raise my hand to my face and rub my eyes. What am I going to do? Last night, despite the brief kryptonite exposure, I had a moment where I felt my power returning—mostly my vision and speed—but it was so momentary, so fleeting, I could almost have just imagined it. And earlier in the day, when Lois had been returning with Clark, I swore my telescopic vision had been starting to return as well. I stare up at the ceiling, willing myself to look through the wall. Nothing happens. I close my eyes and try to focus my hearing, but nothing is amplified. I can’t even hear Lois’s steady heartbeat next to me.

No, my powers are still dormant. Thank goodness. Soon though. They’re going to return very soon. And what will I do then? The woman snuggled up against me breathes deeply in her sleep, reminding me of the importance of keeping myself under control.

If I trusted myself…if I knew I wouldn’t lose myself into some sort of panic-induced rage…then maybe, maybe I could accept my powers returning. But, no… I’m a danger to her, and to others.

I screw my eyes shut tightly. Stupid superpowers.

I will have to make sure to not hurt her. Even if that means asking for more help from the one person who is capable of helping me. The one person who will not let me hurt her, or anyone else.

He will be stopping by this morning to drop off her birthday present. Probably early, since he knows we have a 9 a.m. staff meeting. I can talk with him then.

Great. Just what I want to do.

I suppress a shudder as the look in his eyes from my dream—the anger, disgust, contempt, and most of all disappointment—flashes in front of me. Although I know it was just a dream and that he wouldn’t ever react that way, even just imagining such a response makes me want to recoil.

I shift carefully out from under her and onto my side. She mumbles in her sleep and presses up against me, her hands resting on my chest. A loose strand of hair falls over her face, and I gently brush it back behind her ear. My beautiful love. How could I ever hurt her, even in my dreams?

Her eyes flutter open, just barely, and she smiles up at me as our eyes meet. I try to smile back, but I hide my unease by leaning in and kissing her lightly on the forehead.

“Good morning. Happy birthday, my love,” I whisper, planting a string of kisses down her cheek and along her jawline. She doesn’t tense up or back away like last night. Actually, quite the opposite. With one hand lingering on my bare chest, she reaches up to cup my cheek and then brings her mouth to mine for a long, deep kiss.

“Mmm, good morning. You remembered my birthday.” She sounds mildly surprised, but I don’t dwell on it. Not right now, when she’s so receptive to my touch, and when I need her so much.

“Most important day of the year,” I explain between kisses.

My lips leave hers to trace a path down her neck, then her shoulder, as my fingers brush along her upper arm. I’m rewarded with a quiet moan, and I continue showering her with kisses until I find myself undoing the buttons on the front of her nightgown one by one. Pale, smooth skin hides underneath the satiny material, and with each button undone, I plant a gentle kiss on the newly exposed flesh. After reaching the final button, my hands, seemingly of their own accord, stray back up from the hem of the nightgown, pushing it off of her. I shift my body back up alongside hers, and I groan as I take in the sight in front of me. From my new position, propped up on one elbow, my left hand resting expectantly at her waist, I can see all of her. Her lips, still curled in a soft smile, are full and pink from our kisses, and her cheeks are flushed.

“You are so beautiful, my love. So perfect.” I know I’ve told her this before, but I can’t help telling her again. I pause as my eyes meet hers, and I recall her reluctance to let me touch her last night. “Is this okay, hon?” I inquire, my voice low.

She ducks her head almost shyly, clearly remembering when she’d stopped me the previous night. But her shyness does not last long. No, she only hesitates for a moment; then, she removes her hand from my chest, grasps my hand in hers, and guides it to her hip as she closes the distance between us and recaptures my lips in hers.

I groan again, both at the sensations that her action causes and at the definitiveness of her response. And then I carefully, lovingly, and slowly show her how much she means to me.

A bit later, we cuddle up together, my arms wrapped around her and her head buried in my shoulder. I kiss her cheek and rub my hand in gentle circles on her back.

“Happy birthday, my love,” I murmur breathlessly into her ear.

She giggles and hugs me to her tightly. But then, her mood shifts suddenly, and she inhales as her body shudders.

“I love you, Clark,” she says quietly. “I-I know that things have been a bit…strained lately, and part of that is my fault. I-I’ve been… Oh, well it doesn’t even matter anymore. Because… Because this—you—having you home, back with me—this is all that matters. This is the best birthday present I could have imagined. I—God, I thought I’d lost you forever, Clark.”

“Oh, Lois.” I kiss her jaw and her forehead and then her lips, and I reach a shaking hand up to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “I’m so sorry to have put you through that, hon. I’m so sorry. And I…I’m sorry about yesterday and the day before that and…and my…all of my outbursts in the last week… I can’t seem to… I…” My voice wavers, but I hold her steadily, solidly. Unshakably. “I love you.”

She doesn’t speak again, but I feel all of her love enveloping me as we embrace. And I close my eyes as I struggle to forget how I’d died. How I’d failed her. How I’d come so close to never seeing her again.

If not for my doppelganger, if not for our odd telepathic connection that had allowed me to see her through his eyes and keep my mind anchored to my body, if not for the immense and incredible healing powers of the Sun—if not for all of these factors—I’d have never made it back here to her.

It was stupid, dumb luck. Nothing I did. No, I died. I failed. But somehow, amazingly, I returned to her.

Even death could not keep us apart.

I silently thank this mysterious H.G. Wells person, whom I’ve never met, for bringing my doppelganger to this world, and Lois for making the decision to have Zara and Ching take my body to the Sun, and of course the other Clark for maintaining the telepathic connection he and I share and figuring out that I had actually returned from the dead, that I was alive, floating around in the Sun’s layers, soaking up the healing warmth and radiation that reanimated me.

Stupid, dumb luck.

I sigh into her and whisper again, “I love you.” And she continues to cry quietly into my shoulder as the morning light peeks in through a break in the curtains.

Stupid, dumb luck.

The phrase repeats itself in my mind, and I kiss the top of her head as a weight begins to settle on my chest. I have been given this second chance… People don’t get second chances like this. Yet, somehow I did, and somehow, I’ve been screwing up every step of the way.

…My fractured mind, my inability to control myself, this darkness inside of me—this anger and rage, which has turned into something far scarier than I’d ever thought possible…

I close my eyes and hold her tighter.

I need help.

Yes, help from Clark, and I will approach him about that this morning. But also, maybe something more.

And, as usual, Lois seems to be able to read my thoughts. With a quiet sniffle, she murmurs, “Sweetheart, about your…mental health… I really think we should talk about…finding you a therapist. Someone who specializes in PTSD…”

I swallow hard, but don’t answer right away. She’s right. She’s always right, of course. But in this instance, it’s perfectly clear that I need help. I have no idea how it could work, logistically—would I go as Superman or as Clark? How could I possibly navigate that without giving myself away? Yet how I could get the help I need without being able to speak openly?

And that’s why she’s right. We need to talk about it.

I feel her tense up in my arms. She pulls back a bit and looks up at me, her eyes red with tears. I shake my head, sad that I’ve made her cry again.

“Yeah, I… You’re right. You’re…you’re right, Lois. We…should talk about it.”

She nods and buries her head back into my shoulder as her body shudders. Her soft whisper of “I love you” breathes against my neck, and I close my eyes again as I hold her.





Razor blades. We have an interesting albeit brief history. That is, in all of my twenty-eight years on this planet, I’ve used razors only five or maybe six times now, if you don’t count the shaving device I was forced to use on New Krypton…which I don’t. That had been a sort of laser-based instrument, nothing like a razor.

No, nothing like this cheap, disposable razor.

I shudder as I push the memory of New Krypton out of my head and stare at the instrument in my hand. A plain white plastic handle topped with a fresh, unused dual-blade razor. Sharp enough to nick my skin, at least in my current state. Frowning, I set the razor down and squeeze a dollop of shaving cream into my hand before raising my eyes to the mirror.

The first time I’d attempted this, I was seventeen. My dad had shown me how he shaved every morning, but until junior year of high school, I hadn’t grown any facial hair to speak of and hadn’t needed to learn. I don’t know what we’d expected. We really should have anticipated that the blade would fracture, unable to cut through the rough stubble that began to grow on my chin and above my lip. And we were pretty foolish to have thought the blade was the problem. My dad and I had gone through three razors, coming up with various excuses, before my mom poked her head into the bathroom, saw the broken blades in the trash can, and suggested that, like the rest of me, my annoyingly itchy facial hair was probably invulnerable. Just like the hair on my head, which we’d been unable to cut using traditional methods since I’d turned 15.

Yeah, sometimes my dad and I could be kind of dense, I suppose.

My mom had suggested that I try using my heat vision to “shave,” much like how I managed to keep my hair short, and she and my dad had stepped out into the hallway, a safe distance away, while I’d figured out the right intensity, angle, and duration to apply my heat vision and remove the stubble. It had taken quite a bit of practice, but I’d gotten good at it without too much fuss.

So the first time I’d been exposed to kryptonite—my dad and our neighbor Wayne Irig had found the glowing green rock under a tree that had been ripped out of the ground during an intense storm, and he’d called me up to come and take a look at it—I’d lost my powers for two full days, despite the short exposure, and I’d been forced to either live with a stubbly chin, which I hated, or learn to use a razor. I think I’d cut myself five times that morning. I remember staring in awe at the viscous red liquid oozing out of the first nick on my chin. I’d never seen my own blood before. I was twenty-three then. Yep, twenty-three years old before I’d seen myself bleed.

Lois had laughed at me (or with me, I suppose) when I’d told her the story.

But right now, I’m grimacing, not laughing. I spread the shaving cream on my face and get to work, carefully running the razor along the contour of my jaw, rinsing the blade in the sink, and repeating the process. To my right, Lois steps out of the shower, one towel wrapped around her and another twisted up in her hair. The bathroom is maybe too small for both of us, but we’re already running late, and I really can’t say that I mind when she allows her hands to graze along my back as she squeezes past me.

My eyes meet hers in the mirror, and I return her smile with one of my own, while being careful not to nick myself with the razor. There’s a twinkle in her expression now, quite different from just a few minutes prior, when we’d been in bed, and my heart pounds in my chest as her fingers linger on my skin just above the towel I have wrapped around my waist. She pauses behind me and leans into me for a moment, pressing her lips into my back. I close my eyes, and my hand holding the razor hesitates under the stream of warm water in the sink.

And last night I was worried that she might want me to move out. To give her space.

I almost laugh. Instead, I open my eyes to meet hers again. She peers at me curiously over the top of my shoulder. Then, wordlessly, she brushes her lips against my neck again, smiles, and leaves me to finish shaving. My progress is slow, but I am thankful at least that my hands have decided to not shake today. A few minutes later, Lois saunters back in the room, now clad in her favorite bathrobe. She hangs up one of the towels on the rack behind me and then reaches around me to grab her toothbrush.

Right before the knock comes, I sense his presence—my doppelganger. Despite his attempt to hide his feelings, his anxiousness and uncertainty hit me, and I exhale sharply as I almost slip up with the razor. Absently, I wonder how he gets by as Superman, which he actual does extremely well, given his obvious insecurities in other aspects of his life. He and I are quite different in that regard, or at least, we were; I’ve experienced more uncertainty and doubts in the last week than I had probably in the entire last year before leaving for New Krypton.

I wish I could find that confident, self-assured person again. He was much easier to be than this mess of a man I’ve become.

His light knock at the front door surprises Lois. She looks at me questioningly, her toothbrush now sticking out the side of her mouth, but I’m suddenly distracted by how incredibly adorable she is, and I become lost in her eyes. My lack of a prompt response, however, garners a look of exasperation, and she turns on her heel and heads back out of the bathroom, muttering, “I guess I’ll get it,” under her breath, followed by “Just a minute!” a bit louder, so Clark can hear her. I flinch at the minor annoyance in her voice and turn back to the mirror.

Almost done shaving. And I know Clark is here to see her anyways, not me. Although I do need to speak with him before he leaves.

I rinse the razor again and finish up as I sense him entering the apartment. After I clean the residual shaving cream off and apply a small amount of aftershave, Lois reenters the bathroom, runs a brush through her damp hair, and then disappears into the walk-in closet, emerging fully dressed in a smart burgundy work suit a moment later as she tugs on her pantyhose and slips on a pair of black pumps.

She pauses and looks at me as I exit the bathroom.

“It’s Clark. But I guess you probably knew that,” she surmises, tilting her head slightly as though waiting for my confirmation.

“Yeah,” I confirm, nodding. “Sorry, I forgot to mention he was planning to stop by this morning. I’ll be out in a couple minutes. Just let me get dressed.”

A mischievous smile plays on her lips, and she closes the distance between us. Her hands splay across my abdomen, just at the top edge of the towel still wrapped around my waist, and she reaches up and brushes a light kiss on my cheek.

“I wish we could just spend all day here, where there’s no need for clothes. It is my birthday, after all,” she whispers into my ear as her fingers dip below the top of the towel. Groaning, I return her kiss, this time on the lips, but she pulls away, smiles at me cheekily, and turns toward the bedroom door.

“Don’t take too long. I don’t want to be late to the staff meeting,” she says calmly, and then she glances over her shoulder at me, grins again, and hurries out into the hallway.

I groan and step into the closet to pick out an appropriate suit. Several minutes later, I’m fully dressed in one of my nicer charcoal suits, a light blue dress shirt, and gray striped tie. As I slip on my socks and shoes, I surreptitiously tap into my connection with my doppelganger. He doesn’t sense the connection right away, but I gather he is distracted by my fiancée, who has enveloped him in a surprising embrace. I swallow tightly. It’s okay, really; she can hug him if that’s what she wants or what he needs. And I am okay with that. Right. Totally okay.

Mustering up as much positivity as I can, I exit the bedroom and walk briskly down the hallway. A hint of tension flickers in his mind as he senses me coming, and by the time I exit the hallway, he’s stepped out of her embrace and is smiling tightly at Lois, whose hands linger on his waist for another second. I remind myself again that it’s fine, and I paste a smile on my face.

“Good morning!” I keep my voice light and cheery, and I’d like to think that I’m able to project a sense of confidence, though I don’t quite feel it right now.

Clark backs away from Lois almost nervously, lowering his eyes and stuffing his hands into his pockets. Lois turns slightly to look up at me as I approach, a small smile on her lips, and I lean over and kiss her cheek.

Possessive much? I think to myself, a silent reprimand for being so childish.

Lois’s arm slips underneath my jacket and around my waist, and she squeezes me gently as I shift my focus back to my doppelganger and offer a handshake.

Reluctantly, he reaches out and grasps my hand, returning my greeting with a quick, “Good morning.” His grip is strong, as I’d expect, but I feel his surprise at my apparent strength, and words in his head form a brief statement, a declaration full of certainty.

“Your powers are returning.”

His eyes meet mine, and gone is the nervousness and tension from just a moment ago. I’m overwhelmed for a moment as I see Superman, not Clark Kent, standing in front of me. Superman from my dream, his eyes full of distrust and disappointment. I blink, and the image is gone. Instead, I see him as he is now—a Superman full of hope and expectation. I manage a weak smile.

A little bit, I think. Slowly though.

I don’t want to talk about it, but I remind myself of the resolve I had to ask for his help, of my reservations regarding my powers returning and my ability to control them. So when he responds with a quick, “Good,” I feel my jaw tighten and my hands start to shake. Immediately, I know he senses my apprehension. “It is good, right?”

“I should probably be going so you two can finish getting ready for work,” he says hastily, and he shifts his gaze to Lois, who still stands next to me supportively, as though she can feel that something is bothering me. Clark smiles at her, a warmth in his expression, and adds, “I hope you have a great day, Lois. Happy birthday again!”

“Thank you, Clark,” she replies, and her arm tightens around me before she releases me and steps back up to him.

He doesn’t meet my eyes, but he easily accepts her embrace, and I feel his flood of emotions as she hugs him again. Overwhelming barely describes it. A blonde woman, whom I’ve seen a glimpse of before in other memories of his, tainted with a mixture of sadness, loneliness, and self-doubt. They’d been engaged, Clark and this blonde woman. Lana. I hear her name in his thoughts and see flickers of moments from their life together. She was awful to him, but it took him meeting the other Lois Lane from the other universe—the Lois Lane who’d helped him to become Superman—to figure out just how awful Lana was. Her vitriolic words echo in his thoughts. She’d called him many things. “Freak.” “Alien.” “Abomination,” even. She’d taught him to hate himself—to hate the amazing gifts he’d been given.

I shudder as I imagine being in his shoes, having lived his life. Alone, made an orphan at 10. Forced into unloving foster homes, bounced around with none of the love and stability I’d grown up with. And then, latching onto this one person who’d pretended to love him, only to realize it was a sham. Then along comes this other Lois Lane, who helps him break out of his abusive relationship and become the superhero he was destined to be.

And then he’d been brought here and met my Lois. My Lois, who made him feel like a person, who helped him to feel wanted, and yes, loved.

No wonder he loves her. Until her, he’d never truly felt the acceptance that I’d lived with my whole life. He’d never felt like he belonged, like he was more than just a freak…an alien.

She made him feel human.

So overpowering is this revelation that I don’t realize he’s heading toward the door until Lois steps back into my arms and leans up against me. She glances at me and frowns slightly, then reaches up and touches my cheek as though to ask if I’m okay. I give her a weak smile and kiss her forehead.

“Hon, uh, why don’t you go finish up in the bathroom, and I’ll walk Clark out,” I propose. She nods at me; I know she senses that I have something important to talk to him about, and I’m sure she’ll grill me about it later. But for now, she is accepting, and she kisses me on the cheek and then heads off toward the bedroom to finish getting ready while I jog up behind Clark.

Immediately, he is uneasy again, concern wafting off him in waves. My expression must reflect his, I realize, as he nearly crushes the door handle in his grip when he twists back to look at me.

“What’s wrong?”

I shake my head and point to the hallway. The last thing I want is for Lois to overhear us talking. And, well, I don’t want him in my head right now either, since my thoughts are a jumbled mess as I try to get used to the idea of him loving her and her having strong feelings for him, so I resolve that we’ll have this conversation out loud. I think I can control which of my thoughts he hears better that way.

We step out into the empty hallway together, and he closes the door behind us. As I try to gather my thoughts, I realize I should have planned this better. I should know what I want to say and how I want to say it. But instead, I’ve just jumped right in, relying on a confidence that I no longer possess. I run a nervous hand through my hair and let out a breath.

“Nothing is wrong, per se,” I start, keeping my voice low. “But I’m a bit worried about my powers returning. I—”

I falter, wondering again how I should present this to him. He stands patiently next to me, his gaze steady now, and his mind centered. Superman. He slips so easily into this role, as I’ve noted before. I sigh and blurt out my concerns.

“I don’t trust myself right now. I-I don’t want to hurt anyone, and I—”

My voice halts abruptly as I shake my head and screw my eyes shut. He will understand me, right? He will understand without making me tell him about my horrible dream. He saw me lose the tenuous control I’d had after Nigel had tried to kill Lois. And he is the only person on the planet who knows what it means to have such incredible power. He knows how much restraint is necessary every moment of every day to avoid hurting someone. He knows how easy it would be to maim, injure, kill, if perfect control is not exercised at all times. So he will understand me. I know it. I open my eyes and meet his. A sense of calm washes over me.

“What can I do to help?” he asks softly. “And have you talked to Lois about this?”

“I…haven’t, yet. But I will.” I lower my eyes to the floor and stuff my hands into my pockets. My resolve falters again, but I try to continue. “I’m not sure how you can help, except that, uh…” I shake my head and drop my eyes to the ground as I voice my concerns. “We’re already asking too much of you, Clark. It’s not fair to you to ask more.”

“No,” he says quickly, mimicking me as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “No, whatever you need, especially this, I’m here to help. Please tell me what you’re thinking.”

Of course. I expected nothing less from him. He will help me. My jaw trembles as I force out my request. “I-I think if you could just keep yourself open to our, um, connection… You can sense when things are wrong, I think.”

And that’s really it; that’s my amazing plan to keep my love safe. That is, I need him to keep tabs on me, to keep me in line. Tentatively, I lift my chin and straighten up slightly, and as soon as our eyes meet, he nods without any hesitation. Steady and strong and clearly accepting. Just as I knew he would be.

But his voice then echoes in my head, “If you don’t deliberately block me out.”

It’s like my breath is squeezed out of me suddenly, and a tightness in my chest pulls me into myself. My shoulders hunch again, and my hands shake in my pockets. I can’t look him in the eye anymore, and my gaze drops to the floor.

My voice is nearly a whisper as I explain to him, “I-I don’t trust myself, but I trust you. If I do or seem like I’m going to do anything that I shouldn’t…I trust you to step in and stop me. At least, until I…”

A dull pain resonates in my chest—directly in the center, where the ugly red scar used to be. It’s not real, I remind myself. But a red haze begins to inch in at the corners of my vision. I blink rapidly several times. It’s not real. God, I do need help.

Until you…? His kind voice probes my mind, requesting clarification. I swallow hard.

“Until I stop having these panic attacks, or anxiety attacks, or whatever they are.”

He doesn’t hide his concerns from me, although his thoughts are not directed clearly enough in fully formed sentences. Instead, I get snippets of half-formed ideas. How long will it be until I’m triggered again? And will he be strong enough to stop me once my powers return? These are his two main worries. The latter is an easy one.

You are stronger than me. You will always be stronger than me. I trust in that. And I know you will always do the right thing. You’ve proven that to me.

I’ve felt his power, and I know it to be true. Whether it’s the times he’s flown to the Sun to “power up” or just that he’s really legitimately stronger than me, I can’t say for sure, but I have no doubt that if needed, he can and will stop me from hurting Lois. Or someone else.

There is a hint of surprise in his expression at my assertion, and as I’ve felt on occasion, I get a strong sense of his respect for me. I almost shake my head; I want to remind him that I’m not deserving of his respect, that I’ve broken too many promises, that I’m broken. But at that moment, the door opens, and Lois peeks out, eyeing both of us questioningly.

“You okay out here? We should be leaving now if we’re going to be on time to the staff meeting,” she says, and I nod and try to reassure her with a smile, although I’m probably the one who needs the reassurance right now, since I just admitted my biggest fears to my doppelganger, this better version of me.

“Yes, of course,” I manage. “I’ll be ready in just a minute.”

“Okay,” she replies. Her eyes see right through me, and I know she’s already formulating the many questions I’m going to have to answer on our drive into work today. I’ll answer them all. I will not keep things from her anymore. She seems to understand that now, and her gaze shifts to Clark as a small smile grows on her lips. “Thank you again, Clark. I’ll see you around.”

I blink as she disappears back into the apartment.

“I should probably…” My voice trails off, and I motion weakly toward the door.

“Yeah, of course. And, uh, don’t worry about—you know… I’ll stay nearby as much as I can, and I’ll keep an ear out.”

He shifts a bit, like he wants to say more, like he knows we have a lot more to talk about still. And we do, really. At the very least, I probably should have mentioned to him that Lois and I will be having a conversation about finding me professional help as well. However, now is not the time, and he seems to know that as well. So, he just waves with a sort of unconvincing half-smile and silently promises, “I’ll be nearby.” He then gives me a faint nod and turns toward the elevators.

Thank you.

He hears me and everything I haven’t said in those two simple words. As I reenter the apartment, Lois smiles at me from the kitchen, where she’s grabbing us each a bagel to eat on the way into work, and I breathe deeply, pushing away my fears and doubts.

I step over toward her, noticing for the first time the unwrapped gift sitting on the table. A book of poetry—a book I recognize as one she’s been trying to find for some time. I smile. Leave it to him to find probably one of the last copies of the rare anthology.

“Good talk?” Her tone is curious, but not demanding, and I tear my eyes away from the book to meet her gaze. I nod.

“Yeah, I’ll tell you about it on the way to work,” I promise, reaching out to take her hand. She smiles at me, filling me with love and warmth, and I pull her in for a brief but meaningful hug. My lips brush her cheek as my arms wrap around her lean frame. “Shall we?”

We separate, and she hands me a bagel, grabs her purse, and leads the way out of her apartment.





“Nice to see you partake again, CK!”

Jimmy claps me on the back, clinks his champagne glass against mine, and lifts it to his lips, taking a long swig of the bubbly liquid as he meanders off across the newsroom, a copy of this morning’s paper in his hand. I sip my own drink slowly, savoring the familiar flavor and feel of the fizzy liquid, and I shift from my perch on the corner of Lois’s desk to gaze again at my fiancée, who stands near the coffee station, deep in conversation with Marcy Burns, the travel editor. I smile as I watch Lois’s animated features. She is relaxed and at home here. And she’s happy and comfortable with all the attention our story has gotten.

INTERGANG DISMANTLED! LUTHOR AND CHURCHES ARRESTED, by Lois Lane and Clark Kent. It’s a bold headline, especially written in all capital letters, at Perry’s insistence, Lois assured me. I’d argued, because that’s really not my style, but it was Perry’s decision. And it feels odd to be taking credit for the article. I did very little work on this story, after all. It was him and her. Sure, Lois Lane and Clark Kent. Ah, this is so confusing.

My hand tightens ever so slightly on the stem of my champagne flute, and I cautiously take another sip as Jimmy’s words echo in my head. As I’d learned the very first day I’d come home, my doppelganger doesn’t drink alcohol. Though he’s never told me specifically, I’ve gotten the sense it’s related to his parents’ car accident. In any case, I need to be aware of this difference and maybe only have this one glass. I lower my eyes to the amber liquid in my glass and watch as bubbles rise rapidly. How long until Jimmy or someone else notices that Clark Kent has mysteriously switched back to being left-handed as well? I chuckle to myself and stand as I swallow the rest of the champagne.

A few moments later, I settle into my seat at my own desk and switch on my computer. The party continues around me, and Lois remains off…somewhere, celebrating what will probably be the biggest story of the year—that is, excluding Superman’s return to Earth. I pull a small notebook out of the top drawer of my desk, grab a pencil, and start scribbling off ideas to outline our follow up story, which will be due this afternoon for the morning edition tomorrow. The chief of police is holding a press conference in an hour to brief the public and press on all the details of the pending case, and Lois and I intend to be front and center. I flip to the next page in the notebook, but pause as I see it is already filled with words, written in handwriting that is quite distinct from mine. I quickly scan the writing at the top of the page, my eyes widening as I realize the implications.

Congress of Neurological Surgeons (October 6, 1995). 9:30 a.m. Rm 205, Suite A. Presenter: Dr. Sam Lane – MRI-guided focused ultrasound neurosurgery (MRgFUS) in patients with Parkinson’s disease.

Dr. Sam Lane.

Lois’s father.

There is a slip of paper stuck in under the page, and I pull it out. It’s an official press pass for the Congress of Neurological Surgeons. He’d actually attended Sam’s presentation.

Lois had never mentioned him meeting her parents. And, given my relationship with Sam—I cringe inwardly at the thought—I cannot understand how Sam had permitted this. But the evidence is here. The notes on the presentation, the press pass with his—my—name on it. Had he planned to write this up? It would be a great story, if all the pieces fell into place. Right up my alley, and connected well with an article I’d written last year sometime on the increased prevalence of Parkinson’s disease in the homeless population. A quick glance through the rest of the notebook shows mostly blank pages, with an occasional note here or there on some other story.

Two hands rest gently on my shoulders, and my fiancée’s lips brush lightly against my cheek.

“Whatcha working on? We should leave soon for the press conference.”

I nod absently and flip back to the page of notes from Sam’s presentation.

“Lois, what is—” I swivel the chair around so that I’m facing her, and she straightens up abruptly, her eyes studying mine. I lower my voice. “Did Clark…attend a talk your father gave last month?”

Her eyes widen, and she looks down at the notebook in my hands, scanning the words on the page. Then, she nods and moves to sit on the edge of my desk.

“He, um, smoothed things out a bit, with my dad, that is, actually,” she admits quietly, dipping her head as she speaks as though she is embarrassed to confess this truth.

I can’t respond for a moment. Sam Lane hates me. Or, at least, he used to hate me. Not that it was my fault; no, it was a misunderstanding because of Superman.

“H-how? How is that possible?”

Lois glances up and around the newsroom hastily, and I sense she is deciding whether we should retreat to a conference room to discuss this. But with the ongoing celebrations, it seems unlikely that anyone will interrupt or overhear. Her eyes drift back to mine, and she smiles.

“He came to lunch with me and my parents when they were in town for a medical conference in early October. He’d just arrived two days before, and he offered to come with me. I think he knew I needed the support. Anyways, uh, of course he got called away on a…” She lowers her voice further. “…rescue, although he was only gone for a few minutes. My mom and dad were both livid, but poor Clark, he had no idea why.”

“You hadn’t warned him?”

I find myself gripping the armrest of my chair a bit too tightly, and the plastic cracks underneath my fingers. Great, perfect time for me to be getting stronger. I relax my hold and consciously try to calm myself. Sam Lane doesn’t bring out the best in me, unfortunately.

Noticing how fragile my control is, Lois reaches out and takes one of my hands, squeezing gently. And then she shakes her head and drops her eyes to the floor for a moment.

“I completely forgot until it was too late. Maybe it was for the best though, because he was able to approach the situation without any history. He thinks quickly under stress, actually, and he surprised me, and my parents, I’m sure. When he returned from the res—from where he went, he probably heard my dad prattling on about, um, your incident—”

I cough at her choice of words and shoot a look at her.

“My incident?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, well, Clark, you know what I mean,” she sighs. She shifts closer to me and moves to sit on my lap—not an uncomfortable position, I suppose, and my arm encircles her waist as I hug her to me.

“It wasn’t my fault when—”

“I know, sweetheart,” she assures me, leaning into me a bit. “But my dad doesn’t know that, and we decided not to tell them. So from his perspective, you took off in the middle of our lunch and didn’t come back for an entire hour, when we were done eating, and then—”

“I saved nearly three hundred people on that cruise ship,” I interject, feeling the need to defend myself. It’s dumb, I know. Lois doesn’t blame me and isn’t mad at me, not in the slightest. But I remember being completely blindsided by her father’s anger toward me when I’d returned to them leaving the restaurant, Lois nearly in tears.

“I know, sweetheart,” she repeats, her hand cupping my cheek. She bends down and kisses me lightly, then sits back up. “And you know I was crying because of him, not you. Anyways, Clark was only gone a few minutes, and when he got back, he…played into my father’s interests and managed to get him talking about his research work and the clinical trials he’d been working on. Clark linked it to that story you did last year, you remember?” I nod. “And somehow, he connected with my dad. Daddy offered for him to attend his presentation the next morning, and…I dunno, magic happened. He healed the rift between the two of you. I couldn’t believe it.”

I don’t believe it either.

But the evidence is right in front of me. He’s a miracle worker, this Clark Kent. Offering me yet another something I didn’t think I’d ever have—the acceptance of Lois’s father.

She stands up, but I keep my arms around her waist, holding her tightly to me.

“We should probably get going,” she says quietly, shifting back a step.

I nod and release her, and she moves to her desk, where she can grab her purse and coat. A few minutes later, we’re walking briskly toward her Jeep, a comfortable silence between us, and she slips her hand into mine. I allow my fingers to play absently with the engagement ring she’s still wearing, and I think back to when I’d left for New Krypton.

I’d never told her this, but her father had gotten wind that I was leaving before we’d actually announced it publicly. I think her sister Lucy might have told her mom, who told her dad. He’d called me the day before I’d left, while Lois had been finishing up some work at the office, and, for a good fifteen minutes, he’d yelled at me through the phone, his voice filled with rage. I’d sat silently on my couch, sometimes having to pull the phone away from my ear and wipe tears from my eyes, as he’d accused me of using her, betraying her, dishonoring her, cheating on her. How could I just up and leave her for a story, he’d asked me. Finally, she’d knocked on my door, and I’d told him I had to go, but that I hoped we could try to work things out when I returned. He’d screamed furiously into the phone one more time before hanging up on me, and I’d had to compose myself very quickly as I’d answered the door to let her in. That was my last memory of the man she calls ‘Daddy.’

Yet somehow, Clark Kent is now respected enough by Dr. Sam Lane to be invited to hear him speak at a medical conference. Clark Kent is now worthy of Dr. Sam Lane’s time. Nothing short of a miracle.

Lois lets my hand go and moves around to the driver’s side of the car. On a whim, I jog up around and ahead of her and open the door for her. She gives me a crooked smile, which I return in kind, and then she leans in and kisses me, hard, before dropping down into her seat, a twinkle in her eye. I shut the door behind her and jog around to my side of the car.

Maybe I can learn a thing or two from this other Clark Kent.





Her eyes smile at me, thick lashes blinking shyly as she drops her chin and giggles at whatever joke I told.

And I smile back.

My beautiful Lois.

Dinner is almost over; we’re both comfortably full, and the hour is late. Perfect. It had been perfect. As I reach forward with my fork to feed her the final bite of our shared dessert, I send a silent thank you to my doppelganger for allowing me to have the reservations he’d made for her birthday dinner. Her lips close over the small bite of strawberry and chocolate, and I’m suddenly feeling much too warm. She licks a bit of chocolate from the corner of her mouth and makes a low sound deep in her throat as she closes her eyes.

“So good,” she breathes.

“God, Lois. Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

Her smile grows knowingly, and she raises a hand up as our waiter passes by. “Can we get the check, please?”

The man nods and hurries off to print up our bill.

Five minutes later, we’re again walking briskly toward her Jeep, but this time, my arm is looped around her waist, my fingers rubbing gentle circles against her hip.

And I again open the door for her. And she again kisses me, one warm hand pressing into my chest.

“Happy birthday, hon.” I lean in and graze her cheek with my lips before hugging her to me.

And we head home to celebrate more in private.





“Are you okay?”

The three simple words of his morning check-in echo in my mind. Every day at 9 a.m. for the last week, he’s contacted me for a sort of wellness check. My typical response is short, usually something like, Yep, doing fine. Maybe a bit stronger today. Yesterday, I’d told him that my freezing breath had reemerged. A fairly innocuous superpower, not likely to accidently hurt anyone. And the day before that, I’d noted some minor fluctuations in my vision abilities. However, like my superhearing, which had sort of activated a bit in the warehouse when Lois and I had been following Luthor, my vision abilities had disappeared again, leaving me blinking at the solid wall of the conference room behind my glasses.

Today something feels different though, and I don’t answer him right away. Lois and I walk together, hand in hand, down the ramp and toward her desk. I cautiously monitor my grip on her, a terrifying sense that I’m going to hurt her overcoming me. I drop her hand from mine and move half a step away from her, pretending to suddenly be interested in my coffee. She stops in front of her desk and turns around to look at me. Our eyes meet, and she narrows her gaze at me briefly. I smile and sip my coffee.

I’m fine. I think.

“Do you want to get started on that article about the new high-speed train connecting Metropolis and Chicago, and I’ll work on the warehouse fire?” she proposes, reaching over to turn on her computer.

I nod a quick agreement and force myself to take a deep breath as I move the few feet across the aisleway to my own desk.

“You think? Are you not sure?”

I feel his concern and then sense that he is close by, hovering up above the Planet. He gently prompts me to let him deeper into our connection, but I push back.

Sorry, yes. I’m fine, really. Just, something seems a bit…

“Off?” he suggests, finishing my sentence.

Immediately, I sense his focus shift, and I hear a distinct sonic boom outside as he severs our connection. Several people around the newsroom comment on the rattle of the windows. Whispers of “Superman’s nearby,” and “Hope everything is okay,” circulate around the room.

A moment later, he allows our connection to reestablish, and I stare vaguely at my computer as I see the scene of a terrible car accident through his eyes. Three eighteen wheelers had crashed, one flipping over on its side in the middle of the highway. The driver is pinned in his seat, unable to move. Six other cars are piled up against the underbelly of the truck, and a fire begins to grow as gas leaks from the fuel tank of the overturned truck. With tremendous speed and care, he extracts all occupants of each of the vehicles and moves them to safety before extinguishing the fire with his freezing breath. I shudder as I “watch” the rescue unfold, all the while hearing his thoughts, which jumble around in his head at superspeed.

I close my eyes.

Good job. That could have been really bad, I communicate to him, interrupting his train of thought only when I know no one else is in harm’s way. I hear a brief acknowledgement, but he stays focused on his task, and I drop the connection again so he can concentrate.

A hand gently rests on my shoulder, and I flinch involuntarily as I open my eyes again. Lois stands next to me now and points at one of the televisions up on the wall. It shows him, Superman, flying back and forth, working to clear the vehicles from the highway, then transporting victims to the hospital. Police, firefighters, and several ambulances have arrived on the scene. I nod absently and reach an arm out around her, again careful with the pressure I apply, frightened of having an unwanted and unexpected surge of strength hit me while I’m touching her. But nothing happens. Together, along with half of the newsroom, we watch Superman continue to aid the emergency workers to clear the wreck.

“Judas Priest, it’s a good thing he’s back,” Perry’s voice bellows from across the room. “Jimmy! Hurry and get down there. Maybe you can catch a few photos and get quotes from the first responders.”

“Sure, Chief, right away,” Jimmy calls out. He grabs his camera and sprints up the ramp toward the elevators as Perry disappears back into his office, the door slamming behind him.

“Is Superman…is he okay?” Lois asks quietly, sitting on the edge of my desk and crossing her legs. I rest one hand on top of hers and give her a weak smile.

“Yes. We were, uh, checking in when the crash happened. He was there instantly. No one died,” I explain.

She nods. She knows about our daily check-ins. I’d told her about our plan the first day, the morning of her birthday, just as I’d promised him I would. And she’s been supportive and helpful, as I’d expected.

From behind me, I hear a low whistle. Lois tenses as her eyes dart up toward the sound, and I twist in my chair.

“Lois, Lois, Lois, is that a new skirt? Wow, I like.”

Ralph MacDonald inches closer, a smirk on his face as he stares brazenly at her legs. He growls a bit and then reaches down and adjusts himself in his pants. Heat and anger grow in my chest as I shift in front of Lois, blocking his view of her. He just laughs and wiggles his eyebrows at her.

“I’m sure if Kent doesn’t appreciate it, I can show you a good time, Lo-Lo.”

And just like that, something inside me snaps. Seething, I lunge at him with maybe a bit more speed than is normal. He jumps back, but I grab the lapels of his jacket and push him into the wall with a satisfying thud.

“You crossed a line there, Ralph,” I hiss, shoving at him again.

“Clark, sweetheart, it’s okay. I’m fine—”

“Yeah, yeah, Kent, y-you should l-listen to her,” Ralph stutters, holding his hands up in a sort of placating gesture of surrender.

“Shut up, Ralph,” Lois warns. Gusts of wind seem to flail around me as my vision turns red. The wind roars in my ears, and I barely hear Lois’s pleading voice. “Clark, sweetie, please, let him go.”

My hands tighten on his jacket, and he grunts at the pressure of my fists against his ribcage. My anger continues to bubble up and over. But then Lois presses a firm hand into my chest, and I allow my eyes to shift to her.

“Clark, it’s okay. He’s just an idiot,” she says.

“Yeah, yeah, Kent, you know, I-I’m just—”

“Ralph!” Lois shushes him. She moves in between us, and my hands drop from his jacket as I growl at him angrily.

“Sheesh, Kent, you’d think you shouldn’t need your little woman here to keep you in check,” Ralph mutters. My hands ball up into fists, and I scowl at him as he straightens his jacket.

“Ralph, you just don’t know when to shut up, do you?” Lois retorts.

Her arm loops in mine, and she drags me away from the scene, pushing through the throngs of other reporters who have gathered around to watch. My vision is still red, and pain settles just behind my eyes. I follow her reluctantly, but I glance back toward Ralph, and he recoils at my glare.

“Hey, what’s going on there? Are you…is everything okay?” Clark’s concerned voice resonates in my mind as Lois leads me into the conference room and over to one of the chairs closest to the door.

Nothing. Fine. It’s under control, I respond shortly, lowering my head to my hands. I don’t want to admit to him that I almost lost myself. He knows anyways. Lois saved me this time, though I’m sure he would have stepped in if needed.

The red haze is fading now, and I feel comfort from Lois’s hand, which comes to rest on my back again.

“S-sorry, hon, I—”

“It’s okay, Clark. Ralph deserved that. I should file a harassment complaint,” Lois says as her arms wrap around my shoulders.

I nod weakly and lean back into her, suddenly feeling quite tired.

“It doesn’t excuse…I need to be more in control, hon,” I concede. Closing my eyes, I contact Clark again, and I again sense that he is close by, finished with the wreck on the highway.

Sorry, I shouldn’t have been so short with you, I apologize. Rubbing the bridge of my nose under my glasses, I add, Ralph made an inappropriate comment to Lois, and I got angry. My…reaction time is faster than it has been, and I’m definitely stronger. I don’t know how strong yet. But Lois helped me regain control. I’m…calmer now. Thanks for being nearby.

Lois shifts her position to sit in the chair next to me, and she scoots up closer to me and settles her hands on my knees.

“Are you feeling okay now? You looked quite angry and…” She hesitates, her eyes lowering to her hands momentarily. “…strong.”

A loaded word if ever I heard one. Strong. Super. No, no. Ex-Super.

I nod again, rest my elbows on my knees, and bury my head in my hands with a sigh. Holding two separate conversations is draining.

“Ralph is a piece of work. I’ve almost lost my temper with him a couple time as well,” Clark admits, though I sense he’s just trying to lighten the mood. He’s suddenly distracted, however, and he continues hastily, “There’s a mudslide in Brazil. I should go, but I want to check that you’re okay first.”

Go, of course. I’m fine. Lois is here with me. I’ll be okay. Thank you, Clark. See you tonight.

“Yes, tonight. 7 p.m. should be fine, but I’ll let you know if I’m going to be late.”

You got it.

His presence fades, and I recenter myself, focusing on Lois’s touch. She kisses the top of my head.

“S-sorry, I was—Clark is—” I shake my head as my thoughts refuse to form into complete sentences. The power I’d felt earlier seems to again have seeped away, leaving me exhausted. I force a deep breath. “It’s hard to carry on two conversations at once. I—Clark is headed to Brazil now, though. A mudslide. He says Ralph almost made him lose control a few times as well.”

I manage to raise my eyes slightly to look up at her, and she gives me a weak smile.

“He’s been a nuisance ever since you left over the summer,” she divulges. “Although I don’t understand why he seems like he’s getting bolder, now that you’re back. Even in the last month.”

“You should report him,” I say, echoing her earlier thoughts. Then I clear my throat. “I have been feeling more power today. It’s as though there’s something, a force, growing deep inside me, and I…I have to be very careful that it doesn’t surge up when I’m not expecting.” Both of her hands rub up my forearms gently, and I continue. “The feeling is gone now, like I used up the energy. But, I’m a bit worried. So…” She drops another kiss on the top of my head and then rests her cheek against me. “So if I stay a bit distant today—I mean, physically—it’s because I’m concerned and don’t want to hurt you.”

“I understand, sweetie. Thank you for your honesty.”

She’s said that a lot recently. “Thank you for your honesty.” As though I’m doing something noble by not hiding from her. It’s not noble, though. It’s the least I can do. The absolute minimum, really. Especially since I promised her.

And I suppose this incident also serves to emphasize how much we need to make it a priority to find me a therapist. We’d started a serious discussion about it earlier in the week, but we still hadn’t made any major decisions.

I make a mental note to bring it up again later, when we have a few uninterrupted minutes. Tomorrow maybe. Then I nod and sit up straighter. She copies me, and our eyes meet as I blink back my concerns and fears and maybe a couple stray tears that threaten to fall. She gives me another small smile, and I reach up to touch her cheek carefully. Her skin is soft and warm, yet I shiver. My eyes close again tightly, and I pull my hand away.

“I had a nightmare last week. My powers were coming back, and I…hurt you when I…lost control of myself.” I don’t mean to make this admission, but it slips out. A light scraping of wood against the floor is followed quickly by her arms enveloping me. Her breath feels hot against my neck, and I allow myself to lean into her. “I don’t want to hurt you, Lois. I’m…scared.”

“I’m here, sweetheart,” she soothes. Gentle as always. Loving and kind. She has the most beautiful soul. God, I love her.

My breath catches in my throat, but I manage to kiss her cheek, again carefully, and tell her quietly, “I love you.”

Another three simple words. But loaded with so much more meaning. She repeats them to me, and then, she pulls me to my feet, and we get back out into the bullpen. Back to work.

For the rest of the day at least, Ralph is sure to keep his distance. Maybe he’s not quite as stupid as we thought.





The dinner had been his idea. He’d wanted to give me the first draft of the memoir, which he’d already finished writing, as well as discuss some of the logistics of him staying here on our world. And thankfully, his Superman duties don’t keep him busy all day. I say thankfully because Lois is right—wow, he can cook! Chicken piccata, sautéed spinach, and homemade egg noodles in a light garlic sauce.

My jealousy at his skill lasts only for a few moments, and then I just feel appreciative. And pleasantly full.

“Clark, this all tastes amazing. Maybe you can teach me to cook,” I suggest with a lopsided smile. I shove the final bite of chicken into my mouth, and next to me, Lois laughs.

“Sweetheart, I don’t think that even Superman can help with a task that monumental!”

She pats me gently on the back and then sips her wine, her eyes twinkling as she glances across the table at my doppelganger. My eyes follow hers to where he sits, a comfortable smile on his face.

He’s much more relaxed this evening than I ever remember seeing him, although I know he’d been flying around all over the globe earlier in the day. He’d dealt with that traffic accident, then the mudslide in Brazil, followed by a hostage situation in Mexico City and what would have been a nasty train wreck in Toronto if he’d been just a few minutes later. But he always seemed to get where he was needed on time.

“You’re probably right, Lois,” I laugh, sitting up a bit taller and pushing my plate back from the edge of the table a bit. “My mom tried to teach me growing up, but it seems like the more I try, the worse I get. Who taught you to cook, Clark?”

Lois sets a hand on top of mine and then empties the last of her wine. Across the table from us, Clark runs a hand through his hair and then takes a quick sip of his tea.

“Uh, well, Mom did teach me a little, although I was too young before the accident to really learn. Mostly, I picked up a lot of what I know during my travels. And then it’s just a matter of experimenting and, uh, taste testing.”

He absently taps his fingers and then stands to clear the table. I move to help, and within a few minutes, the table is cleaned and the dishes are washed. Lois and I then settle together on the couch with refilled wine glasses. Clark takes a seat in the armchair across from us, and we chat idly for a few minutes. Then, Lois clears her throat and scoots to the edge of the couch. Clark and I both shift to watch her as she first meets my eyes and then Clark’s.

“I speak for both of us, Clark, when I say thank you again. For everything. For this wonderful meal. For helping both of us without question, without hesitation,” she says, her voice filled with sincerity and gratitude. I nod and lift my arm up around her shoulders.

“Definitely. I know we’ve said it before, but we’ll keep saying it. Thank you,” I add.

Humbly, he nods an acknowledgement and lowers his eyes to his mug, which he grips maybe a bit too tightly. He’s not used to being praised or thanked, I glean from his jumbled thoughts. He’s not hiding them from me, but I’m also not really trying to pry. It’s just part of our connection. He raises his eyes and smiles at both of us.

“I appreciate—I, uh—” His voice catches, and he looks down again, inhaling sharply.

We know, I tell him silently. He nods, and I squeeze Lois’s shoulder gently as she settles against me a bit.

“However we can help to make you feel at home here, Clark, if there is anything you need, anything we can do, just let us know. Okay?” Lois says.

Clark nods again, stands, and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. I remove my arm from around Lois and scoot closer to the edge of the couch as he begins to pace the room a bit, his earlier relaxation replaced with anxiety and our earlier connection severed. His thoughts are now a mystery to me, and I frown slightly as I sense the strong barrier he’s put up. Lois places her hand on my back, and her eyes follow him as he moves from one end of the room to the other. Finally, he stops and faces us, but still doesn’t look up.

“I think you probably both know this already, but I just want to be perfectly clear that, um, that I don’t want to go back. If at all possible, I’d really like to stay here.” His admission is quiet but solid. He doesn’t allow himself to pause for long. “You have both made me feel welcome here, and although it’s been a challenge to adjust the last couple weeks—um, that is, being Superman but not publicly being Clark Kent anymore—I, um…” He takes a deep breath and glances up at us briefly before continuing. “Even that is vastly better than how I was living on my Earth. I had no one there. No one to talk to, no one to be myself with. No Lois Lane…” He smiles weakly at her as their eyes meet. “No Martha and Jonathan Kent.” His jaw tightens again as he mentions my parents, but his thoughts remain inaccessible to me. Then his eyes shift to me. “No one who possibly understands what it is like to be me. An alien. All alone.”

He turns away from us for a moment, and I feel a hint of his loneliness trying to claw its way out from the barrier he’s erected around his thoughts. It’s profound. And overpowering. I drop my head into my hands as he lets me feel it. Lois senses something, although I’m sure she cannot know the extent of it, and she gently rests a hand on my knee. I cover her hand in mine and raise my eyes again. He is watching me now, almost apologetically.

I understand. You are welcome here. We have already agreed that you should stay.

He nods at my acknowledgement and blinks several times.

“If it’s not too much to ask, I would also really like to be able to stay here. In this apartment, I mean, if that is okay with both of you.” His nervousness grows again, and he reaches up with his left hand to rub the back of his neck. “It’s so well suited to being able to come and go undetected from the balcony. For Superman, of course. And the location is perfect, near the park and close to downtown and everything. And I think the little bit of familiarity is nice too. But, um, I understand if—”

“The apartment is yours, Clark,” I say quickly, interrupting his rambling. Lois’s hand grips my knee, and I realize my mistake immediately. “I mean, if—”

“It’s yours, Clark,” she confirms, smiling up at me as I turn my head slightly toward her. “We’re happy sharing my place.”

A tentative smile grows on his face as he regards both of us.

“Thank you both,” he breathes. He moves back to the armchair and sits heavily, leaning back into the plush cushions for a moment before sitting up straight again.

“I would like a chance to go through all of my stuff,” I admit quietly, allowing myself to glance around the apartment.

My journalism awards are still on display on the shelves near the bookcase, and then there’s the painting from my mom on the wall, and I don’t want to leave behind many of the books I’d acquired on my travels. My eyes settle on a small wooden box sitting next to a green ceramic vase on an otherwise empty shelf of the bookcase, and as though something is compelling me, I stand up and move across the room toward it. Reaching up above my head to the top shelf, I slide my fingers between two books and pull out a tiny silver key. After a brief glance over my shoulder at Lois and Clark, I unlock and open the box and carefully grasp the softball-sized blue and red globe, which hums to life at my touch. I feel Clark move up behind me, curiosity and trepidation radiating off of him in waves.

“What is that?”

It is Krypton, I explain. I turn toward him and hold the globe in one hand, up to about shoulder height, so he can see. He stares at it, and I feel it pulse with energy as though sensing his presence like it does mine.

“C-can I…?” His question does not fully form, but I nod and offer the sphere to him. He takes it from me almost reverently, cradling it in both hands. “This—this is what Krypton looked like?” He raises his eyes to mine, and I nod in response. “Before it…?” I nod again. “Where did you…?”

It’s a good thing I know him well, since he cannot seem to finish a sentence.

“It was with the spaceship I came to Earth in. My parents kept both the spaceship and the globe hidden in a cellar under the barn. The globe activated for the first time when I turned seventeen. There was a message from my biological father, Jor-El. He told me about Krypton and why they had to send me away.” I pause as I watch his reaction, but he just continues to stare dumbfounded at the small object, which now pulses with an indistinct rhythm in his hands. “You didn’t have a globe?” I ask hesitantly.

He shakes his head slowly, not taking his eyes off the object.

Then, without warning, it rises up out of his hands, and a bright light flashes, enveloping both of us in a swath of white warmth. Our eyes adjust to the brightness, and we both take an involuntary step backwards as two figures emerge from a fog just in front of us. I immediately recognize Jor-El and Lara, my biological parents, whom I’d seen in the original visions the globe had sent to me. However, this vision is nothing like those visions… Jor-El and Lara step right up to us and raise their hands up in front of them, both palms up, in a familiar Kryptonian greeting. Familiar to me, that is, since I’d spent three months on New Krypton. I return the gesture, and Clark, despite being completely in awe of what is happening, manages to copy me.

Jor-El’s eyes meet mine—another divergence from my previous visions with the globe, which had been nothing more than prerecorded holographic messages—and Lara steps up to Clark and reaches her hands up to rest one palm against each of his cheeks. He swallows tightly as she smiles at him and then steps back to her husband.

“My son,” Jor-El says, clearly addressing me. “You have been on a long journey. You have seen the results of Krypton’s attempt to save its culture. You have seen the failures of that culture. And now you have returned to Earth a different man.” He pauses and glances to Clark, who is still mesmerized by the sight of Lara. “You also have a new friend, who has not experienced the atrocities you have.” The words flow around us, seeming to take up the empty white space in the room, and a sudden feeling of unbearable weight presses down on me.

“Y-yes, Father. He has traveled from another universe, and he is here to help us,” I manage. What else can I say? How does his hologram know what happened to me?

Jor-El nods and then shifts his attention to Clark again.

“Lara and I knew of the existence of multiple universes. However, despite all of our scientific advancements, our people never harnessed the technology necessary for interdimensional travel. We are glad you are here to help our son. But I sense you have been on quite a journey yourself and that you have not had contact with your own Knowledge Sphere.” He pauses and regards Clark, waiting for an answer.

Still in a daze, it takes Clark a second to realize that Jor-El is waiting for him to respond. But then he nods tensely.

“Right. That—that’s right. I-I didn’t know about any globe—Knowledge Sphere, I mean,” he fumbles, his voice shaking. His hands travel back into his pockets, and he glances nervously at me for a moment.

Lara smiles at him with a kindness not unlike that of my mom.

“You are a good man and will do amazing things,” she tells him. She steps back until she and Jor-El are standing shoulder to shoulder. “I am thankful that you are here to help my son.”

“Th-th-thank you,” he stutters.

Jor-El places his arm around Lara in a clear gesture of his love for her, and then he smiles at the two of us standing before him. How is it that they are so different from the Kryptonians I met on my journey? They love each other, openly. They show emotions. They seem to value life.

“Be well, Kal-El, my son,” Lara says to me. Kal-El. The name that I’d come to loathe. And yet, when she uses it, I feel only love. A mother’s love.

I smile.

“Thank you, Mother.”

“And be well, Kal-El from beyond this universe.” Lara again smiles softly at my doppelganger. “You have a lot to give, but never forget that those around you care about you and that you can rely on them as much as they rely on you.” Her eyes shift to me and then back to Clark, and she addresses both of us with her final parting words. “True friendship is always a gift worth living for.”

“Th-thank you, Lara,” Clark murmurs.

The silence that follows his words grows as the white light begins to fade around us. And a moment later, the colors of the apartment shift back into focus. The globe lowers into my hands, and the pulsing energy wanes until the small sphere no longer glows.

Next to me, Clark’s breathing becomes erratic, and he slumps into the closest armchair and buries his head in his hands. Lois still sits on the couch, but her concerned eyes dart to him and then to me.

“You didn’t see that vision?” I ask her, although I already know the answer. She shakes her head in confirmation, and I nod back.

I step back toward the bookshelves and begin to set the globe back into its box.

Are you okay? I had no idea that was going to happen, I communicate to my doppelganger.

I feel his distress now, although it’s not the same as before. No, I realize quickly. It’s more of a sensation of being completely stunned, dazed, in awe. He has no idea what to think. How to feel. How to react.

I turn around to face him, and he’s watching me, almost in anguish.

He tears his eyes away from me and stares at the box.

“I don’t know,” he confesses. “That was a lot to take in. Lara was…beautiful.”

He suddenly stands up again and moves toward the kitchen, grabbing his tea as he goes.

“Do—do you want more wine, Lois? Or coffee? Or—or anything?”

“No, thank you, Clark. I’m not finished with my wine yet,” she answers. Our eyes meet, and she frowns as she pushes herself up off the couch. She steps over to me, plants a gentle kiss on my cheek, and then says quietly in my ear, “I’m going to go talk to him. Can you just give us a few minutes?”

As she pulls back, I give her a weak smile and nod. Then I lean in and use the same pretense she just had, kissing her on the cheek before whispering back a short explanation.

“The globe showed us Jor-El and Lara, and they actually spoke with us and addressed our situation here. Clark didn’t have a globe of his own. He’d never seen them before.”

I kiss her cheek again and then step out of her way so she can follow him to the kitchen. I settle on the couch and watch as she approaches him, rests a hand gently on his shoulder, and whispers kind words to him as his body shakes with emotion. Then I lower my eyes and purposefully avoid eavesdropping on his thoughts as she embraces him warmly.

True friendship is an incredible thing, really.

Somehow, despite all the mess of the last few days, the last few weeks, the last few months, the three of us share that now—true friendship. And I feel it. I feel it overcoming his loneliness and my darkness.

Where there was isolation, there is now companionship.

Where there was fear, there is now assurance.

Where there was despair, there is now hope.

I sip my wine and raise my eyes to watch her wipe away tears from his cheeks and smile at him. Her smile brightens up the room.

She is hope. My hope, his hope, our hope. She is the anchor that holds us, that heals us, that grounds us.

He nods at whatever she tells him, and they hug again.

Yes, now there is hope.





“Clark, I just think you’re off base a bit here,” Lois argues, settling at her desk and motioning to me to pull up a chair. She sets her coffee down and twists in her chair to look at me as I sit. “The union rep said that they expect the contract to be signed this afternoon. Why would he mislead us?”

We’ve been going around in circles discussing this for the last thirty minutes, and her patience seems to be wearing thin. And I’m feeling frustrated as well. For the first time since I started working again about two weeks ago now, I almost wish we could be working on separate stories.

I reach out and take her hand in mine as I consider how to respond. I’ve already given her my reasons for suspecting that the dock workers are about to strike, regardless of what the union rep is telling us. And she’s already argued her point. My thumb absently rubs circles on the back of her hand, and I stare down at the smooth skin as I think.

“If that’s the case, why can’t they give us any details of the agreement that they have supposedly reached? And why won’t they let any of the workers talk to the press?” I repeat my argument from earlier, but I don’t look up to meet her eyes, and I can feel her intense gaze on me. It’s weak, I know—repeating the same point. But it’s honestly that and a gut feeling. Reporter’s intuition, she’s called it.

She shakes her head. “I just don’t see it.” Her voice betrays her exasperation, and she sighs as she pulls her hand out of mine gently and turns on her computer.

A familiar voice in my head unobtrusively tells me, “The memoir is done. I’m sending the draft to your email now.”

I try to hide my agitation from him as I watch Lois open up the story we’ve been working on and scroll to the bottom of the document. However, a weak pulsing pain just behind my eyes distracts me, and I know he senses that something is not quite right. I close my eyes as he gently inquires, “Everything okay? Do I need to stop by?”

I take a deep breath and try to calm myself. The last thing he needs is to worry about me when Lois and I are just having a little argument. Nothing else is wrong. I think.

I’m okay, sorry. This assignment we’re on is frustrating. I’ll check out the changes to your draft and get back to you later today, I respond, maybe a bit more abruptly than I should.

The clicking of the keys on Lois’s keyboard seems to rattle my skull, and I reach out to still her hand for a moment as I sever the connection with Clark. Immediately, I feel her hand rest on my back.

“Are you okay?” she asks quietly.

I nod as I try to push away my unease. I pull back my hand and open my eyes so I can read her screen again. She’s written several sentences where we’d left off earlier this morning, detailing the comments from the union representative.

“I think we should hold off on this. I really think in the next hour or two, they are going to announce a strike,” I reason, sitting up tall and trying to maintain my composure as the pain behind my eyes grows stronger. The words on the screen blur, and I blink several times as I shift my gaze to my fiancée. She’s no longer scowling; no, it’s more of a grimace now.

“Clark, we’re not going to publish anything until their announcement anyways. I’m just trying to write what I think will be the most likely outcome to get a jump on the story,” she grumbles. “We have to leave to get down to Metropolis Harbor for their announcement in a few minutes, and I just wanted to—”

She stops talking as I close my eyes again, take a deep breath, and rub the bridge of my nose under my glasses. The pain is growing, a sort of throbbing ache, and spots begin to dance around, even in the semi-darkness I see when my eyes are closed. I struggle to remember what we are even arguing about. It doesn’t really even matter, does it? Probably not. God, this hurts.

“Okay, Lois, that’s fine. We’ll—”

The throbbing ache suddenly explodes between my eyes, and the dancing spots turn into a diffuse red tint. I screw my eyes shut tightly and lower my head into my hands as I suppress a groan. I try to form words. To explain to her what is happening. But I’m not entirely sure I know what’s happening. Do I?

“Clark…?”

I’ll be okay. I’ve felt this before. It’s just… God, it hurts. Did it hurt this much the first time? Such a long time ago now. I think it did. But my thoughts are fuzzy right now.

Lois. She is concerned. And Clark—I can feel him hovering above us. He is nearby to help. He is concerned. And he knows too. The red haze is not a remnant from New Krypton. It is deadly hot laser beams trying to escape from my eyes. I blink back the pain and the redness as I shake my head. Lois.

“I-I’m fine, Lois. It’s just a headache,” I explain, my voice trembling. I hope I’m not lying to her. It is a headache, but am I fine? The pain is now accompanied by heat, and the redness flickers darker, stronger. I cover my eyes with my hands and desperately try to control it. Or try to even remember how I used to control it.

Her hand touches my back again, pressing gently into me, and from a thousand feet above us, Clark tells me, “I’m here.”

I am not alone.

But I can’t control it.

I press my hands stronger against my eyes, but I feel the heat begin to radiate. I shake my head again. Please go away. I don’t want this superpower. I—God, it hurts.

“Clark, you don’t seem fine, sweetheart. Should we—”

I cut her off and scoot my chair back as I lower my head down between my knees.

“Lois, I need to—”

My hands squeeze my head as the pain grows again, and I groan. Her arm grabs mine and pulls me up. I keep my eyes screwed tightly shut, but I sense as she leads me through the maze of desks and into one of the conference rooms, helps me sit, and shuts the door. Blindly, I grasp the table and pull myself closer until I can rest my elbows on the thick wood surface. I then remove my glasses and lower my head into my hands.

This is bad.

I can control it. Right? My heat vision. I don’t even want it. It’s destructive. And angry. It feeds my anger. I feel it—the heat, the energy, the malice—surging, wanting, demanding. Demanding to be released. But, no. It can’t. Not here. God, what do I do? Holding it back hurts. Letting it out would hurt her. And others.

“What’s going on, Clark?” Lois’s kind voice breaks through the pain and fear. I feel her hands on my knees. A gentle squeeze to remind me I’m not alone.

That’s right. Not alone.

He’s here. Right?

“Can’t control it. Need help,” I blurt out. If he’s here, he’ll hear me. He’ll help me. He said he would always help me. And he’ll protect her from me. I grip the sides of my head again as the pain from my eyes shudders and stabs and pricks its way around my skull, and my hands then move back to cover my eyes again as it screams to be let out. The energy, the power, the destruction. Please help me, Clark. Superman.

I can’t control it. I don’t want to hurt anyone.

He’s next to me, his hand on my shoulder now. When did he get here? It doesn’t matter. We have no time. Now. Get me out of here.

A strong arm grasps my waist, and wind is suddenly whipping around us. My feet hit the ground, snow crunching underneath my loafers. I don’t know where we are, and I don’t much care. All that matters is that I sense from him that I’m safe to let it out, so I do.

I uncover my eyes and stop trying to hold it back. The energy flows bright and hot, and through the red beams, I see a white landscape, towering snow-topped mountains, and a huge crevasse growing in front of us where my heat vision is focused. The destructive force melts thick layers of snow and ice. I try to blink it back, to stop it, but I can’t. It’s too powerful, and I’m not strong enough anymore. I growl in frustration, but that just serves to feed its power.

Fire.

Heat.

Pain.

Death.

Death. No, stop. Please, stop.

I can’t.

Then, from behind me, a solid hand sets on my shoulder, and a sense of incredible calm washes over me. A sense of control. Focus. Steadiness and certainty.

He is lending me his strength, just like the first day he’d brought me from the Sun.

I breathe in deeply and will the heat to stop. Slowly, the intensity of the energy shooting from my eyes wanes, and I blink several times as the redness fades away. In front of me, steam rises from the newly created fissure in the snow and ice. Water drips down the edges of the ice. So destructive. Too powerful.

“The fear cannot control you because you can control the power,” he thinks to me.

I fall to my knees, exhausted, my hands sinking into the cold snow. My heart pounds in my chest, and my breathing is rapid and irregular. Superman shifts behind me, his aura of power and strength reminding me of what I need to be to keep those around me safe. I have to control my anger and my fear and my frustration.

I can control it.

Unlike several days ago, when my strength manifested and then receded again, I can feel the power of my heat vision is still with me now. Tappable. Reachable. Usable.

But I will control it.

He is right. It will not control me.

I let out a long breath and push myself back up to my feet.

“Th-thank you,” I mumble. My hands feel numb with cold. How odd, the order in which my powers are reemerging—I’m still not invulnerable. I’m freezing. Yet I can now shoot heat lasers from my eyes. I shake my head and start to brush the snow off my trousers. “I thought I could handle it by myself, but…”

“No problem,” he assures me.

A memory surfaces, and I glance up at my brightly clad companion as I run a hand through my hair. The first time this deadly superpower had emerged. It had been terrifying. Was it the same for him? I stand up taller and cross my arms over my chest, mimicking his stance. And then I quietly tell him my story.

“I was 14 when I first got my heat vision. I remember I was in the barn, doing chores. I was angry because I wanted to be at the high school football game with my friends, but my dad—he insisted that I finish all of my chores first. We had company, so I couldn’t use my speed to get done quickly. My anger triggered it, I think. And then…I couldn’t stop it.” I hesitate as I recall the fear that had clouded my ability to control my power. Shaking, I add, “I nearly burned down the barn. Scared my parents to death.”

My eyes raise to meet his, and he nods in acknowledgement, but I sense a reluctance and uncertainty on his part now. He lowers his eyes to the ground and kicks at the snow with his boot.

“I was 12,” he starts, his voice low and unsure. “The foster family I was staying with at the time, uh, they…”

He doesn’t want to tell me. But not because he is embarrassed of the memory itself. No, I sense it’s just too painful, looking back on that part of his life. His eyes close, and I feel his memory pull me in.

I’m him. A short, thin woman with jet black hair and too much makeup on screams profanities at a tall, overweight middle-aged man, who reeks of alcohol. The man is home late, and he has been drinking. They argue. Loudly. Yelling indistinct words at each other with angry red faces. The sounds are overwhelming, hurting my ears. I reach up and cover them, but it does little to stop the barrage of sounds. A plump brown dog races into the room, barking at the man, and he kicks it viciously. It yelps and races out. I stand and start to leave; the barn outside should provide some quiet or at least allow me to focus my hearing on something—anything—else. But a rough hand grabs my shoulder, trying to stop me from leaving, and the man then turns me toward him. He lowers his face to me, only inches away, and I back up, nearly tripping over a wrinkle in the carpet. His hand tugs on my shoulder, bringing me back closer to him, and he yells right in my face, spittle catching in his overgrown beard. Leave me alone! Leave me! Let me go! The thoughts are overpowering, painful, angry. The anger is directed not only at this man—this horrible man—but also at the woman, and the world, and most of all at the drunk driver who’d killed my parents.

God, no, his parents. This is his memory. I feel myself shudder as the vision continues.

Using all my strength, I push myself out of his grip and rush out of the house, to the barn. Redness clouds my vision. Pain grows behind my eyes. The barn doors open and then close, and then, red beams of intense heat blast from my eyes, and the barn erupts into flames. I panic, try to blink it to a stop, and raise my hands up in front of my eyes, which painfully burns my palms but does nothing to obstruct the heat. I drop to my knees and cry out to my mom and dad to help me. But they don’t come. They can’t come. They are not here.

I am alone.

And I alone must control it. With everything I possess, all of my strength and willpower and resolve, I force myself to breathe deeply. I feel an embrace from my mom. A proud pat on the back from my dad. I hear his laughter. I see her smile. And the heat fades. Tears stream from my eyes.

Loud voices from behind me scream my name, but I ignore them as the flames leap from the hay stack to the ceiling. Rafters fall. Smoke envelops me. Two large hands grab my shoulders and pull me out of the burning building, then shove me onto the ground outside in the darkness. Several minutes later, sirens wail, followed by more yelling and voices asking me rapid-fire questions. Did I start the fire? What happened? Why are my hands blistered? But I can’t answer.

The memory jumps ahead a day, when I’m removed from the home and taken to a new home. Disoriented. My hands bandaged. The new family wary of me and my past. The stories that have started to follow me wherever I go. This is, after all, my fifth foster home in only two years.

His. This is his memory, I remind myself again. God, how awful.

He stops sharing abruptly, and I feel him shift away from me, the pain evident in his stance.

“Oh, man, that’s rough,” I say quietly.

“Yeah, it wasn’t my best day.” He laughs, but there is a bitterness to it that is unfamiliar to me. Scuffing his boots into the packed snow again, he pushes away the ugliness of those memories and firmly plants himself in the here and now. “Are you good? In control now? Maybe you can test it,” he suggests, raising his eyes to meet mine.

Right.

Yes, I can control it. I feel it. But it is better to confirm that out here, in the middle of…wherever we are…safely away from anyone who could be injured if I’m not really in control. With a scowl, I turn away from him and find an undisturbed patch of snow. I then narrow my focus to a single point, will the heat to release from my eyes, and watch through red-tinted vision as a small hole grows in the ice, steam rising up. With an ease that comes from years of practice, I shut it off, blink a couple times, and then turn back to him and smile weakly.

“I’m good now.” A bitter cold breeze causes me to shiver, and I tuck my hands under my arms to try to keep warm. He is of course unperturbed by the frigid temperatures. My smile turns into a grimace again, and I explain, “Although I’m still not completely invulnerable, and it’s freezing out here, so maybe we can get back to Metropolis?”

An expression of guilt crosses his face, as though he feels he should have anticipated my discomfort. “Right, of course,” he says quickly. With a lopsided grin, he steps toward me, lifts me with one arm around my waist, and then launches us up into the air.

As we soar south, over miles and miles of deserted forests, steep mountain ranges, and glaciers, I absently wish I could fly of my own power again. That is the superpower I miss the most.

I hear him agree with me silently as we swoop down toward the open window of the Daily Planet’s newsroom and straight into the conference room, where Lois waits.

Yep, flying is definitely the best superpower. I actually look forward to that one returning. He releases me, and Lois shuts the door behind us, rushes to my side, and wraps her arms around me. And I forget everything else as I allow her hug to comfort me.





Forty-five minutes later, I hold the door to the taxi open as Lois exits the vehicle, shouldering her purse. I glance up at the Daily Planet globe and then loop my arm through hers, and together, we walk through the revolving doors into the lobby.

“So, you were right. The dock workers are officially on strike,” she says unenthusiastically. She reaches out and presses the ‘up’ button to call the elevator. Her smile gives her away though, and I wrap my arms around her from behind as she leans back into me.

“Hmm, Lois Lane admitting she was wrong. Can I quote you on that?” I joke, lowering my lips to kiss her neck. She inhales sharply and tilts her head sideways, exposing more of her soft, pale skin.

“Hmm, maybe. Since that’s the only time you’ll ever—”

I don’t hear whatever she says after that. My head raises up off her shoulder as my stomach lurches. An overpowering sense of dread hits me, pressing on me, weighing me down. I feel her shift in my embrace and try to pull me toward the elevator, but I don’t move.

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

“Clark, come on,” she insists, her hand tugging on me.

I shake my head and pull my hand out of hers. I’m trembling now. Badly. My knees wobble, and I force myself to move toward a bench seat a few feet from the elevator. Barely aware of my surroundings, another strange sensation washes over me, and I feel dizzy and nauseous. I collapse onto the bench.

Him. Something is wrong. I connect with him automatically and sense that he is hovering high up above Metropolis. He felt it too. His heart is racing, and his superhearing is desperately searching, trying to find whatever it is that has caught our attention.

What’s going on? I ask urgently. I feel Lois grip my arm next to me, but I don’t see her. I see what he sees. He rises up higher, extends his senses out even farther, beyond Metropolis, beyond New Troy, beyond the eastern seaboard.

“I don’t know,” he admits. He turns around above the clouds, his hearing filtering thousands or even millions of sounds, scanning. “I just—”

Then he hears something. Something that hits him like an asteroid. Or worse. He loses altitude fast, but quickly recovers.

I blink as everything blurs, and I realize he’s traveling so fast right now that I can’t keep up with him. He seems to put up a bit of a barrier between us, and I can no longer see his vision or sense anything other than dread from him.

A heartbeat.

A heartbeat that stops.

“Oh, God, no.”

“Clark, what’s wrong, sweetheart?” Lois sounds terrified next to me. I lean into her as I get a brief glimpse of his thoughts and then see an image of my dad, lying on his back on the floor in the kitchen of the farmhouse, my mom kneeling next to him with tears rolling down her cheeks.

The heartbeat has stopped.

No.

Dad? God, no. Clark, what is going on?

My mind’s voice is surprisingly calm, though I feel anything but calm. Lois’s hand clutches mine.

“Clark? You’re scaring me,” she whispers, a note of panic in her voice.

“M-my dad. My dad, Lois. S-something is wrong,” I mumble. The weight pressing down on my chest grows heavier, and I find myself struggling to breathe.

“No, I won’t let him die,” Clark thinks.

Please don’t let him die.

I screw my eyes shut, turn to Lois, and pull her into a tight embrace. Please be with me, hon.

Clark’s thoughts become a jumbled mess that I can no longer interpret, and so I sit there, on the hard, unwelcoming bench in the lobby of the Daily Planet building, clinging to my fiancée and waiting. Something is happening. He is moving fast, talking to someone, trying not to let fear overtake him.

“He will not die.”

It is a mantra repeating in his head. Over and over I hear it. I’m only vaguely aware of Lois next to me, rubbing my back now.

“He will not die.”

Clark, what is happening?

He seems to startle at my question, which is no longer delivered in a calm manner. My fear is growing, and I feel his as well. Valiantly, he tries to push his fear away. A nurse is talking to him, but I can’t make out what she is saying. I bury my head into Lois’s shoulder, and she holds me tighter.

“One minute,” he tells me.

I almost scream in frustration and fear. Then I hear his words as he tells a nurse about my father. “His name is Jonathan Kent. He’s 57 years old, from Smallville, Kansas. I’ll be right back with his wife, so she can tell you his medical history and what type of medications he is on.”

God. I feel lightheaded, although I’m already sitting down, and I shudder.

Please, Clark. I’m imagining the worst here, and I’m not sure what to do. What is going on? I practically beg him now. I sense he is flying again, and then I feel my mom’s presence with him. Finally, he pauses as he lets me see my mother, her hands grasping her purse anxiously, a look of alarm in her eyes.

“Your father went into cardiac arrest,” he starts. He steps toward my mother. “I got him to the hospital, and they have already restarted his heart. I expect they will need to do emergency surgery. I’m taking your mom now, and then I’ll come get you. Give me a few minutes. Sorry for the delay.”

Oh, God.

I can’t stop myself. I jump up off the bench and pull Lois with me. Dragging her over to the elevator, I wipe a stray tear from my cheek, slam the ‘up’ button, and watch impatiently for the elevator doors to open. Lois holds me tightly still, and I steal a glance at her. Her eyes are full of concern, and I realize she has no idea what is going on.

“H-he—my dad, he—he had a heart attack. Clark got him to the hospital,” I tell her, my voice trembling with fear.

“Oh, God, sweetheart.” She hugs me, and I immediately feel a tiny bit of relief. The elevator doors ding open, and she ushers me inside. She starts to push the button to take us to the newsroom, but I reach out and stop her.

“The—the roof. Let’s go to the roof. He’ll come pick us up,” I explain. My hand shakes as I press the button for the top floor.

Lois nods and then encircles her arms around my waist again, and we stand together, holding each other, as the elevator rises up. We exit on the twentieth floor and take the stairs for the last few flights to the roof. The rain pounds down outside, but neither of us care. My mind races, and I begin a nervous pace back and forth, alternately pressing into Clark’s consciousness to see what is happening and forcing myself to breathe. Lois stands nearby, her coat pulled tightly around her.

After several more minutes, I hear his voice tell me, “I’m on my way.”

We’re on the roof of the Planet.

Hurriedly, I move over to where Lois stands and bury my head into her hair, which drips with water from the rain. I feel him flying toward us, and I shift to look up to the sky in the direction he’s flying in from. As the blue and red streak breaks through the clouds and comes to a quick stop in front of us, I tighten my hold again on my fiancée and lean on her slightly to avoid collapsing with fear.

Superman doesn’t look terribly super right now. His face is contorted with concern. He looks from me to Lois and then back again. Then he nods, and without another word, he wraps one arm around each of us, and the ground drops away as we rise up into the air, flying hastily in the direction of Wichita, Kansas.





“Mom, please remind Dad that the doctors said he needs to take it easy. I can do all the chores for at least another few weeks,” I repeat, for probably the fifth time in as many days, as I hold the door open. My mom enters first, her hand clasping my father’s, and he steps in behind her, still carrying a basket of eggs fresh from the chicken coop.

“I’d hardly call collecting eggs a workout,” Dad says, releasing my mom’s hand and continuing on into the kitchen. He sets the eggs down on the counter and turns to face both of us. Mom stands with her hands on her hips, glaring at him.

“Well, Clark, I’ve told him now, several times. But you know how stubborn he is,” Mom says.

Dad doesn’t back down. He stares right back at her, and then after a moment, he moves the eggs to the sink and begins methodically washing them.

“I have to do something. I’m going stir crazy just sitting around. You know that, Martha,” Dad complains in a quiet voice.

The last two weeks since my dad’s heart attack have been hard on all of us, especially him. Emergency coronary artery bypass surgery and a five-day hospital stay can take its toll on a man who is used to being up and outside working the farm from dawn until dusk every day of the week. Maybe this will finally convince him to slow down. Clark had taken care of the farm and all the farm chores every morning while my dad was in the hospital, and then I took over as soon as I regained the ability to fly, a little over a week ago now.

And oh, how I’d missed flying of my own power! Of all my superpowers, flying is easily the best.

I hide a small smile as I watch my parents interact. Mom hurries over to his side, hugs him briefly, and then pulls him away from the sink and over to the table, whispering threats in his ear in her always-kind voice. He sits obediently, but makes a bit of a scene of settling his elbows on the table—one of Mom’s big pet peeves—and resting his head in his hands.

“Jonathan Kent, where are your manners?” she huffs, swatting at his arm. There is a sparkle in her eye, however, and she quickly turns back to the kitchen to finish cleaning the eggs.

Having already completed all the barn chores outside—thank you, superspeed—I shift my focus to the living room, which is still in shambles from our paint job yesterday morning. Mom had wanted a fresh coat of the light olive paint applied, so I’d taken care of that for her, but I’d had to leave before the paint dried, and all of the furniture is still out of place. With another short burst of speed and a small show of strength, I rearrange the couch, bookshelves, and coffee table and then reset all the family photographs, art pieces, and other trinkets to their usual spots on the walls and shelves.

I feel my mom’s hand rest on my shoulder as I stand and scrutinize my work.

“It’s perfect, honey. Thank you for your help.” Her hand lowers to my waist, and then she steps in front of me and gives me a long, tight hug. “It’s really nice to have all of you back, you know.”

My powers. Right.

Besides the flying, I’m really not sure I want the burden of these powers, but I’ve been managing. The superhearing is the worst. It kicks on at all hours of the day, picking up calls for help and sirens and police scanners…and reminding me of the superhero who I will never again be. Clark has been a huge help, of course; anytime I hear something that might be a job for Superman, I connect with him, and, if he’s not already there or on his way or otherwise occupied, he takes care of it.

It is hard. Very hard. But I know I cannot be him anymore. I cannot be him ever again.

And that is another reason I’m now lingering in my parents’ living room, staring blankly at the olive-green walls while hugging my mom with one arm and listening to my dad turn the pages of this morning’s Smallville Post.

Lois knows. Clark knows. I know. But my parents don’t know. They don’t know that I will never again don the blue tights and red cape. And so I need to tell them.

I clear my throat and turn back toward the kitchen table, where my dad sits. He looks up at me, his untroubled expression morphing into something a bit more serious. Mom turns with me and places a small hand on my upper arm.

“Mom, maybe you should sit with Dad. I have something I need to talk to you both about,” I start, finally finding my voice.

Silently, she acquiesces, and an air of tension creeps into the farmhouse. Before sitting with them, I move into the kitchen and pour us each a fresh cup of coffee. I then set the three mugs down at the table and take my place in the seat across from them. A sip of the dark brew, no added milk or sugar this time, further sobers me. I raise my eyes to the couple sitting and watching me anxiously.

How am I so lucky?

How is it, that out of the billions of people on the planet, I just so happened to have landed here, with them?

I smile, knowing that whatever comes from this conversation—as painful as it will be to explain to them the horrors of what I was forced into on New Krypton and as difficult as it will be to admit that my doppelganger is not leaving to go back to his home because I can no longer be Superman—no matter what, they will still love me.

Always.

As will Lois.

I lower my eyes to the table, but only for a moment. They deserve to hear what I have to say without me hiding my face from them. I owe them that after everything that they’ve given me.

“I love you both so much,” I start, my eyes shifting from my mom to my dad and back again. I see only love and acceptance and kindness from both of them. My smile falters as a flash of a memory haunts me—the first time I took a life. Somehow, maybe through super strength of will, I push away the anger that accompanies the memory, and I allow myself to meet my mom’s eyes again. I clench my jaw and start my story. “I need to tell you both about New Krypton so that you will understand.”

Mom’s breath catches in her throat, and after a short pause, my dad asks, “Understand what, Clark?”

I blink a couple times, draw on the strength they have taught me to have, and imagine Lois sitting next to me with her arm gently wrapped around my shoulders and her kind voice anchoring me, reminding me that she too loves me. I take a deep breath.

“So that you will understand when I tell you that I cannot be Superman anymore and that my doppelganger will stay here, on our world, and continue to act as Superman in my place.”

Their reactions are as I’d have expected. My mom tilts her head slightly, but does not change her expression. My dad’s eyes light up with mistrust and a flash of resentment.

I shake my head.

“No, Dad, you’ve got it all wrong. I should have discussed this with you much sooner so you’d understand, but…well, I’ve been working through a lot of things myself, and… I’m still coming to terms with everything. What’s really important, Dad, is that you know this—Clark has done so much good, and he’s…he’s a good, honest, kind person. And an incredible Superman, really. The truth is, I think he’s a better Superman than I ever was…”

I hesitate and glance at my mom for a moment. She frowns, but nods, as though giving me the go-ahead.

“Whatever happened between you two Dad, I need you to know you’re wrong about him. He’s never been anything but helpful and thoughtful and generous in everything he’s done. He saved my life. And yours.”

I’m not sure which part of my little speech finally got through to him, but I see something in his eyes change, and he blinks and looks to my mom for a moment. His hand moves to cover hers, and he lets out a long sigh.

“Your mother has been trying to tell me the same thing for weeks, and I—well, I just…” Dad shakes his head again.

“I can’t tell you what to do, Dad. But I know that I would really, really appreciate if you could give him another chance. Please.”

My mom gives me another tiny nod, and she wraps an arm around my dad.

“We have leftover pie, Jonathan. This afternoon, you can call him and invite him down for a visit,” she says. “That would be a good start.”

Much to my relief, my dad sighs again and bows his head in agreement.

“You two are right. It’s just that… No, I…I’ll do that as soon as we’re done here. I’ll…give him a call. But I’m guessing you had more you wanted to tell us, son?”

I close my eyes briefly and gather my thoughts.

“Yeah, I… I needed to tell you both this… There’s a really good reason why I cannot be Superman anymore. And it has nothing to do with my superpowers or the other Clark’s even-more-super powers and everything to do with…” I hesitate and swallow hard as I try to maintain a semblance of steadiness and confidence. I allow myself to drop my eyes to my coffee for a second. “Everything to do with what I went through when I was away.”

Across the table from me, Mom moves her arm from around Dad’s shoulders and takes his hand in hers. With another gentle nod, she encourages me to continue. Dad says nothing more, but his expression softens noticeably, and they scoot their chairs closer together.

And I tell them about the three-month journey that culminated in my death.

We share tears, and then, when I am done, we share hugs.

And through the tears and hugs, I feel what I’ve always known to be true—that I am loved.

I close my eyes as I hold them both tightly, one arm around each of them. And at the same time, I sense Lois through my connection with Clark. They are jogging around the edge of the pond in Centennial Park, the early morning sunlight shining brightly down on the path ahead. She is happy, and he is content.

I bury my head into my mom’s shoulder and murmur, loud enough so they can both hear, “I love you both so much.”

And our embrace tightens as they both repeat my words.

It’s true that everything has changed and that I still have a lot of healing to do. I’m a different person, and I know I will never again be who I once was.

But I have to move forward and into this new life, with this new me, in this new reality, which is filled with hope and love and friendship.

And with these things as my guide and Lois as my anchor, I know I will find my way.



The End.