From Last Time...
"I know you think I've been on top of everything, but I haven't been," she said, removing her hand from his chest to put it on top of his hand, where it rested on her shoulder. He was relieved; even through the material of his shirt, he could feel her hand on the edge of the scar. "I have been barely holding on for the last four years. And I made it from one minute to the next and one day to the next because I had your parents, and Perry and Jimmy, and Jon. More than anything, I made it because of him. Because he needed me. But I still couldn't do it alone. I spent two years in therapy just trying to figure out how to deal with my life, how to live with the things I saw in Kinwara and the choices I had to make."
He listened silently as she bared her soul. Clark knew that she was trying to tell him that she wasn't as strong as he thought, but nothing she said did anything to discount his admiration or his faith in her. "I know that I don't even know half of what you went through and I wish you didn't have to go through it. I wouldn't have left if I'd known…"
"Shhh, I know," she whispered. His wife lay her cheek against his chest as he pulled her closer. There it was, the contact again. He tried not to be bothered by it; what kind of husband got this anxious by the simplest touch from his wife? And he'd initiated it, no less. What was she supposed to do when he pulled her closer? God, why was he such a mess? Why couldn’t he figure it out? Did he want his space or did he want to hold her? Clark forced himself not to react. Closing her eyes, she looked so peaceful. "You still haven't told me what happened. On New Krypton," she murmured. His whole body went tense and she lifted her head and gazed up at him. "I'm sorry, I'm pushing again, I..."
"No, I know," he said. "I'm just not…I need some time…just to figure it all out in my head." Clark ran his free hand through his hair and let out a sigh.
Lois reached across his body to take his hand and raised it to her lips. "I understand," she whispered. "And I love you. You can tell me anything, you know that, right?"
"I know," he heard himself reply.
New Stuff:
********
Over the next few days he spent a lot of time in the sun. It was a wonderful Kansas August, warm, but not unbearably hot, and the sun gave him strength, if not superstrength. No one in town knew he was home yet. He wasn't ready to deal with the media frenzy that would result, the curiosity, the questions, the speculation that would all come with the news of his return. He needed a few days of peace and quiet. Maybe when his powers returned, he'd feel up to it.
He tried desperately to reclaim his life and to fit into a world that had changed while he was gone. It was funny, he'd always thought that life in Kansas would be the same, that nothing here would ever change, but here he was, a father. A father with a young son who didn't know him at all.
That morning, he'd gone to the barn with his father and his son and simply watched as his little boy 'helped' Grandpa milk the cows. Clark could remember doing the same thing when he was Jon's age, thinking he was all grown up and responsible as he helped do the farm chores. In reality, of course, there wasn't an awful lot a three-year-old could do to be useful, but watching him try was the most amazing thing Clark had ever seen.
Jon was warming up to him, but the little boy was still quiet and reserved around Clark. And when he needed help with anything, from tying his shoes to getting a cup of milk, he always asked his mother or grandparents. Never Clark. It hurt so much to be a stranger to his son. To not have what he took for granted as the relationship fathers and sons should have. His parents and Lois did everything they could to encourage Jon to go to Clark instead. And Jon accepted his father's help, but with those wide brown eyes always regarding Clark curiously, as though he still didn't know what to make of this new person in his life.
He waited outside the bathroom as Lois helped Jon brush his teeth. The door opened up and a little bundle of squirming energy wrapped up in Scooby Doo pajamas raced out into the hallway, right past Clark. Clark watched as his son darted into his bedroom. Lois stepped out of the bathroom and into the hall, shaking her head.
"Are you sure you didn't have superspeed when you were three?" she asked with a smile. "Do you want to read him his bedtime story?"
"It's something you guys always do together, right? I don't want to get in the way," he said reluctantly.
"Come on," she replied, taking his hand.
They entered Jon's room together. The little boy was already sitting in bed, waiting expectantly for his story. "Honey, what if Daddy reads your story tonight?" Lois asked him.
"No," Jon replied stubbornly.
"Come on, sweetie," Lois coaxed.
"It's okay," Clark replied, already taking a step back.
"Clark," Lois began. She turned back to Jon. "Why don't we let Daddy read it to you? He's great at reading stories."
"But he doesn't know how to do the voices," Jon pouted. "You hafta read Winnie the Pooh and you hafta do the voices," he said quietly.
"It's okay," Clark said again, trying to smile. "You can read him the story."
"Clark, wait," she protested.
"Goodnight, kiddo, I love you." Clark left, closing the door softly behind him, but he could still hear Lois's voice through it, reading 'When We Were Very Small' to their son. He knew it was stupid to feel hurt. He shouldn't envy Lois's bond with their son, but he was beginning to doubt he would ever have the same kind of relationship with Jon. Maybe he couldn't.
Lois had spent four years building a wonderful relationship with their son, he'd spent the last four years doling out pain and ugly death, fighting a war, destroying -- doing the exact opposite of being a parent. Lois still didn't know. He still hadn't told her. He was running out of time. He knew that, but what was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to broach this particular subject?
They still hadn't made love.
It had been almost a week since he'd returned and though he'd dreamt about being with her, almost every night for four years, he'd been home for days and had barely touched her. She'd seen the scars now, they weren't an excuse, but what lay under those scars, the marks that would never heal or even fade, the ones that were burned onto him forever, deep inside, they drove them apart. Everything that had happened that he couldn't talk about kept him away from Lois. Kept him from being honest with her.
It had to stop.
He knew that. He couldn't do this without her. He couldn't make any of this work, make any of it make sense, without her. Clark entered his room and changed into a pair of sweat pants. He'd stopped wearing a t-shirt to bed because it only led to Lois asking him to take it off. He knew that she was trying to prove to him that she still loved him, that no matter what had happened, she would always love him and be attracted to him, but she had no idea the depths to which he'd sunk. She had no way of knowing what had gone on there, and the more he thought about it, the more he wished he could just bury the past and pretend it hadn't happened.
He heard a knock on the door. "You decent?" Lois asked from the other side.
"What if I'm not?" he asked back.
She opened the door and entered the room. "Spoilsport," she said with a mock pout. Lois crossed the room to the dresser, pulled out a tank top and a pair of shorts and changed. She was totally casual about it, not at all self-conscious, almost as though he wasn't in the room. Or maybe she was just a better actor than he was. But why should she be self-conscious, he wondered. They were married, for goodness' sake. It wasn't like he'd never seen her naked before. But then again, it had been so long since they'd made love…
Almost as though she was just becoming aware of his presence, she turned back to him and drew him into her arms. They stood quietly for a long while, their arms wrapped around each other. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "About Jon. It's all so confusing for him. It's just going to take time."
"I know," he replied somewhat halfheartedly.
"I love you," she murmured against his chest.
"I love you, too," he replied, holding her just a little tighter. He closed his eyes and tried to wish the last four years away. He hated the fact that he'd left her. That he had missed so much. And that he'd caused so much pain. She withdrew from his arms to turn off the light and in the darkness, took his hand and led him to the bed. He pulled back the covers and they lay down. He draped an arm around her, holding her close the way he had for several nights now. It felt good to hold her, but he wanted more. He needed more. He needed her.
She pushed slightly against his shoulder and he rolled onto his back. He looked up at her, his eyes capturing hers, surprised to find, not passion, but just tenderness, in their depths. He realized with a start just how surprised he was. It had been so long since he'd known any sort of gentleness and now it was cutting him right to the bone. He felt pain claw at the empty space in his chest, the deep chasm that had formed there, hollowing him out. Clark wanted to shy away from it, from the feelings long lost and suddenly roaring back, but he couldn't. Sure, she had him nominally pinned to the bed, but he wasn't really physically trapped. Craving the warmth he'd been denied so long, he was dazed, unable to move. He wanted nothing more than to bask in her warmth. Except, he wanted to deserve it. He wanted to be loved, but he wanted to earn that love. He wanted to be someone deserving of her.
She smoothed a lock of hair away from his face and pressed a delicate kiss against his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. She dipped her head to place a butterfly-light kiss against his neck and then the center of his chest, the soft silk of her hair brushing wonderfully against his skin. He closed his eyes and felt her place her head against his chest. His arms wrapped around her, marveling in how perfectly she seemed to fit against him, how good it felt to hold her.
"Every night for four years I fell asleep imagining that I could hear this sound, that I could feel your chest rise and fall underneath me, and your arms around me," she whispered. He felt his body shiver slightly as he held her tighter.
She placed a hand on the center of his chest, over the large, gaping scar that ran across it. He flinched. He didn't mean to, and he tried to mitigate his reaction, but he flinched. "I'm sorry," she murmured softly. He said nothing. "Does it still hurt?" she asked.
"No," he said, but he placed a hand on hers and moved it higher slightly, to unmarred skin. "I just…" he began.
"What is it?" she asked. When he didn't say anything, she continued. "You have to know that you can tell me anything."
"I just, I wish you didn't have to see these," he said.
She freed her hand to trace it along the length of the scar across his chest. Her eyes caught his and held them. "Do you really think these could possibly change the way I feel about you, at all?"
"No. I guess…"
"Do you think they make me less attracted to you?"
"No."
"But they bother you. Because you don't want to talk about how you got them. Because you don't want me to know what they did to you, but you know I'm going to ask. You don't want to tell me, but you don't want me to wonder about them, either. About whether I should feel pity or horror about them."
He closed his eyes and swallowed roughly. Every word seemed to pierce him. She placed a hand on his cheek and briefly kissed his lips. He drew in a ragged breath. "It's too…"
"Soon, I know," she said. "I'm not going to push, but don't shut me out."
He reached up to touch her face. "I love you." He left unsaid the rest: 'And I never want to do anything to make you doubt that love.'
"I love you, too," she replied. "More than I've ever loved anyone or anything in my entire life. You know that nothing can change that, right? Nothing."
God, he wanted to believe that. He wanted to be firm in his confidence that nothing he could tell her would ever cause her to lose faith in him. He should tell her. He knew that. Clark knew that he should tell her the whole awful, unbearable truth about what had happened on New Krypton, but he couldn't. He could barely stand to think about what happened, how could he talk to her about it? How could he look her in the eyes and tell her what had happened. How could he watch the disappointment settle on her face, and know that he was the cause? How could he put her through that? Although he had to admit, he didn't want to put himself through it, either. He couldn't bear it if her knowing meant that she didn't want to be with him any more, if what had happened was too much for her to accept. He needed her. Nothing was clearer than that.
He let his thumb stroke the soft skin of her cheek and drew himself up to kiss her. His lips brushed gently over hers. She moaned as her lips parted and she deepened the kiss. He felt her arms slide up to wrap around his neck, her hands buried themselves in his hair, as they closed the remaining space between them. His hands settled on her hips and slowly slipped under the hem of her tank top. He loved the feeling of her warm, soft skin beneath his fingertips. His hands trailed languidly up and down her sides. It was amazing, really, how this slender, beautiful woman in his arms was the most powerful being in the universe. Although, in a sense, he'd always known that. Sure, he used to be able to bench press space shuttles, but no force in heaven or earth could ever stand in the way of Lois Lane.
He'd wondered idly when his powers would return. He'd been home almost a week now and still nothing, though he was up to full normal human strength. And they'd put off being intimate long enough. His injuries had healed, and he needed her. It was clear that she too, needed him. As though she'd read his mind, she slipped out of the tank top in one simple, fluid motion, discarding the superfluous article and letting him enfold her in his arms. She felt so incredible.
He rolled to lay her down on the bed and for a long moment, just looked at her, letting his eyes drink in the sight of her, knowing it would never be enough. Her arms around his neck, she gently pulled him toward her, but he placed his hands on her arms, pulling her hands into his. He brushed the barest whisper of a kiss against her lips before trailing his lips down the soft skin of her neck. "You are so beautiful," he murmured against her skin, feeling her shiver in response.
And she was. Every soft curve, warm hollow, and smooth line was absolutely perfect. Every freckle, every tiny and almost invisible scar was just as it had been before and just as it had been burned into his memory. He let his hands trail along her sides, his fingers splayed to run across the flawless skin of her stomach, fanning out over the gentle curve of her hip. He paid silent homage to every inch of her with his hands and his lips.
He stretched himself out to lie beside her, drawing her into his arms. She fit so perfectly against him. He kissed her lips softly and pulled her into his embrace. She rested her head against his shoulder. "I remembered every perfect detail about you," he whispered against her hair. "I was afraid I'd forget what this felt like, or that I'd remember it wrong. But everything about you is just like it was. I feel like I know you better than I know myself."
"We could never forget this," she murmured. He tilted her chin up and captured her lips in a kiss that began gently but soon grew more passionate. She pulled away and he felt a sigh shudder through her. "Are you okay?" she asked. The question confused him, but she quickly continued. "I mean, we don't have to do this yet, if you're…"
"Yes, we do," he replied earnestly. "I haven't made love with you in four years and I feel like if I have to wait another minute, it might kill me."
She responded by kissing him fiercely. He wrapped his arms around her more tightly, unable to get enough of her, feeling like no matter how close she was, it wasn't close enough. Their remaining clothes were discarded, with speed, if not with grace. He felt her hands roaming over every inch of his roughly scarred skin. A thought, unbidden and unwelcome, poked through his consciousness. She was still so perfect, but he wasn't. He'd come back…wrong. Sick in body and in spirit. The scars on the outside, the mutilation of his body, were nothing compared to the twisted wreck of his soul. She deserved to know that, didn't she? He should tell her. Not now, though, he thought to himself. Not now. Later, he could tell her the truth. Right now, he needed her. He needed to be with her, he needed to lose himself in her.
He closed his eyes and cleared his mind, thinking about nothing except for the fact that when he was with her, surrounded by her, the smell of her skin and the feel of her body against his, it didn't hurt. His conscience couldn't prick at him, couldn't taunt him. He could forget himself and everything else.
********
Lois held her sleeping husband in her arms, cradling him gently to her, his head pillowed against her chest, their bodies entwined. She ran her fingers through his hair absently and suppressed a shiver. God, it hurt so much. She looked down at her beloved, and her heart ached. Pain's grip upon her heart had tightened and she'd felt a quiver in her throat, but she'd tried to fight it. She'd held him silently until he'd fallen asleep. She wrapped her arms around him, willing their physical closeness to bridge the emotional gap between them. But no matter how close she held him, he wasn't with her. She could feel it. And whatever he'd said before, he hadn't made love to remember. He'd made love to forget. To forget something so awful he wouldn't talk to her about it.
She pressed her lips against his hair. The cold, sharp pain seemed to explode from the center of her chest, threatening to consume her whole. She couldn't breathe. How could he be so close, lying here in her arms, and still be so far away? Silent tears slipped down her cheeks.
********
She awoke suddenly when he began to stir. He fought their embrace and she immediately let him go. His heart thundered loudly, echoing in her ears. Rolling away from her, he murmured something she couldn't quite understand, his voice agitated, almost strangled.
"Honey?" she whispered as she touched his bare shoulder.
"I am Clark Kent," he mumbled, puzzling her.
"Clark?" she ventured. He didn't respond and she realized he was still completely asleep.
"I have a mother and a father and a wife who love me dearly. I will not die because they need me."
"Honey?" she said again, a little louder this time, trying to mask the sound of tears in her voice. Oh god, what had he gone through? What had they done to him? He said the words as though he was used to repeating them. As though he'd said them over and over again. She ran her hand gently along the length of his arm. "It's okay, you're home. You're home, Clark." She took his hand and squeezed it and he squeezed back, holding tightly. He turned back toward her, a haunted look in his eyes.
"Oh thank god," he whispered breathlessly. He screwed his eyes shut and exhaled a shaky breath. His entire body shuddered as he pulled her into his arms. She let him enfold her in his embrace. He held her so tightly she was certain she would have found it uncomfortable if she hadn't been the superpowered one.
"I'm here," she murmured softly. "And everything's all right, you're home." She could still feel his heart pounding harshly against her chest, but eventually it slowed.
He continued to hold her close, running one hand up and down the bare skin of her back. She knew what he was doing; he was trying assure himself that she was solid and real and not some cruel dream. Neither one said a word for a long while. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked quietly, breaking the silent spell over them.
"It was just a dream," he said before kissing her temple. Her husband played it off like it was nothing, but she'd seen enough of terror and fear to know true torment and his body belied the nonchalance of his words. She didn't know if he'd been reliving old traumas or imagining new ones, but whatever it was, it had been awful. Lois tried not to tremble as the tears came. She bit her lip to keep from sobbing.
"I love you," she managed to whisper as she tucked her head under his chin.
"I love you," he replied softly. "I…Lois, I love you so much." He stroked her hair and she hugged him just a little tighter, realizing that they were clinging to each other as though for dear life. And perhaps they were.
********
Lois sat down on the sofa in the den beside Martha, folding her hands nervously in her lap. "Lois, honey, whatever's wrong you can tell me," her mother-in-law said reassuringly.
"I'm worried about him," she said at last. "It's been a week and he hasn't said a word about what went on on New Krypton. I know something terrible must have happened to him and he won't talk to me about it."
Martha frowned thoughtfully, obviously troubled by the younger woman's words. "What do you think happened?"
"I don't really know," Lois said. "I can start to guess, but I don't even know how Clark would react to me talking to you about it. I think it might upset him. I know that my asking him about it is bothering him." She looked down as she spoke softly. "I'm trying not to push him, but it can't be a good thing for him to just act like nothing happened, can it?" She knew from her own experiences–talking with Dr. Friskin, doing her own research on the effects of traumatic stress, the dangers of isolation and self-delusion. Just burying problems and pretending they weren’t there never worked.
"It takes a lot of courage to ask for help. Especially for someone like Clark, someone who's always been used to being strong. Do you remember how long it took you to open up to Jonathan and me about Kinwara?"
Lois nodded somewhat feebly. "But shutting you guys out was exactly the wrong thing to do," she said.
"What about Dr. Friskin? Talking to her seemed to have helped you a lot," Martha offered.
"It did. And I've been thinking about suggesting it to him. I'm just…I promised him I wouldn't pressure him about this, and now I keep worrying about what I should say to him." She looked up and sighed in frustration. "Martha, I was never like this. I hardly ever think before I speak, and I never had to worry about what I was going to say to Clark. I could always tell him anything."
“I wish I knew what to tell you,” Martha replied sadly. “I’ll try to talk to him, but I don’t know if he’ll open up to me, either.”
“Thanks,” Lois said in a voice barely above a whisper. Perhaps the thought that Clark could talk to his mother but not to her should have bothered her, especially given how often she’d tried to reassure her husband that he could talk to her about anything, but all she cared about was that Clark start to open up, even if it wasn’t to her.
“It’s almost lunchtime. Why don’t you go get Jonathan and Jon? They should be out in the barn,” Martha said.
Lois nodded and stood up. She headed out to round up her son and her father-in-law and brought them back in for lunch. On the porch, she helped Jon shed his muddy sneakers and lifted him up so he wouldn’t track god knew what into the house. “All right, little man, time to get cleaned up,” she said as she carried him to the bathroom. He endured a few minutes of having his hands, face, and feet washed off and she finally let him go. Jon ran to the kitchen, where Lois could hear the sounds of the table being set.
“How about grilled cheese for lunch?” she heard Martha say as she walked to the kitchen.
“Yeah!” Jon agreed enthusiastically. Lois stopped in the doorway to watch Clark and Jonathan set the plates around the table and pour glasses of lemonade for everyone.
“Do you know who makes the best grilled cheese sandwiches?” Martha asked.
“Grandma!” Jon replied.
“No, your daddy does,” Martha said.
Lois said nothing, but watched the silent exchange between her mother-in-law and her husband. An anxious, hopeful expression flitted across Clark’s face. “Okay, grilled cheese sandwiches coming up,” he said. Jon watched his father curiously as he found a frying pan and started making the sandwiches. Clark finished with the first one and squatted down beside his son. “Do you want me to cut off the crusts?”
“Okay,” Jon said.
Clark neatly trimmed the edge off the sandwich and cut it into little triangles, just the way his mother always did for Jon, and Lois realized that Martha must have made the sandwiches the exact same way for Clark, so many years ago. He put Jon’s plate down on the table and helped his son into his chair. “There you go, buddy,” he said with a hesitant smile.
Jon picked up one of the little triangles, pulling it to pieces in his small hands. He took a bite and smiled. Clark seemed relieved as he tousled his little boy’s hair slightly. He looked up from where he leaned down next to Jon’s seat and grinned at Lois. She returned his smile, a profound and almost confusing sense of relief washing over her.
********
Clark helped his mother clear the table as Lois took Jon upstairs for his nap. “Somehow, I’m guessing they didn’t have you doing your own dishes on New Krypton,” Martha said as she turned on the faucet.
Clark shook his head. “I haven’t washed a dish, made my bed, or cooked a meal for myself in more than four years,” he admitted.
“Well, it looks like you did okay there with the grilled cheese. You won over the house’s most discriminating critic.”
“It was just a sandwich,” Clark replied, putting the last of the dishes in the sink. He wasn’t about to turn every minor point in the parenting ledger into some sort of crowning achievement.
“Yes, but now Jon knows that his daddy makes the best grilled cheese sandwich around,” his mother said as she started to wash the plates.
“I’m just his father right now,” Clark said softly. “That’s simple biology. Being his daddy is something I’m going to have to earn.”
Martha placed a dish in the drying rack as she turned toward him. “And you will. Clark, this takes time. Parenting isn’t something you perfect overnight.”
“I don’t know, Mom, you and Dad certainly made it seem that way. And Lois clearly has Mother of the Year wrapped up along with the Pulitzer, and the Kerths, and a Nobel Peace Prize, for crying out loud.” He grabbed the sponge and took over washing the dishes, keeping his head down so he didn’t have to make eye contact with his mother, who was probably about to scold him for being petulant.
She turned off the tap. “I’m not going to tell you that I know how hard this is for you. I don’t. But you’re going to have to be patient. We’re all here to help you; it’s okay to ask any of us if you don’t know what Jon’s bedtime is, or what cereals he’s allowed to have.”
He sighed. “I just never thought I’d need a crash course in remedial parenting,” he confessed.
“Honey, you don’t. But everything you figure out as a parent is built on the things you already know about your child. If you get started four years late, it stands to reason that you’re going to be playing catch up, at least for a little while.”
“I guess so,” he murmured. They finished the dishes in silence and Martha poured two more glasses of lemonade. She handed him one and gestured toward the kitchen table.
“Now besides the fact that you never cooked or cleaned, you haven’t told me anything about New Krypton,” she said, placing her lemonade on the table so she could pick up the tray of fresh snicker doodles she’d placed by the oven to cool off.
He popped one of the little cookies in his mouth and washed it down with the lemonade. “It was a war, Mom,” he said. “It was ugly and brutal and I couldn’t wait for it to end so I could come home.”
“Have you talked to Lois at all about it?” she asked gently.
Clark sighed in frustration. “She doesn’t need to hear that crap…sorry,” he mumbled off his mother’s sternly disapproving look.
“She does need to hear it, and you need to tell her about it. Lois is a strong woman and she’s seen an awful lot. She can handle it, but I’m not sure she can handle you shutting her out.”
“I’m not shutting her out,” he insisted. “I just don’t see the point in rehashing the awful details when there’s nothing anyone can do about it. New Krypton is a trillion miles away and the Kryptonians have to figure out their own way now. There’s no sense dwelling on what happened.” He stood up and took his plate and glass to the sink, rinsing them out before leaving the kitchen.
