From last time:
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.
********
New stuff:
That evening, Lois sat in the den, reviewing the advance copy of her book. She held the hefty hard cover book in her hands, feeling a peculiar sort of pride in knowing that she could turn to any page in the book and recognize the words as her own. She’d already sent signed copies to Perry and Jimmy, and all the book critics would have theirs by morning. The actual release was still a few weeks away, but she had another dozen copies to do with as she wished. The sound of footsteps on the porch startled her out of her musings. She turned to x ray through the walls. In the twilight, Clark sat his son down on the porch and helped him take off his muddy little sandals. They both smiled. Lois stood up and walked out to the entryway. The screen door opened and Jon ran inside, his feet and hands muddy.
“Mommy, Mommy, we catched a frog!” he exclaimed.
His enthusiasm made her smile. “You caught a frog?”
“Yeah,” he said with a vigorous nod. “We put it back.”
The screen door opened again and Clark walked in, barefoot like his son. “Because frogs like the pond, right?
“Yeah!” Jon agreed.
Her husband grinned happily. “All right, Mr. Frog Catcher, we need to get you cleaned up before bed,” she said to her little boy. Lois turned toward Clark. “Help me give him his bath?”
“Sure,” he said.
When all that remained of Jon’s nightly ritual was his bedtime story, Clark demurred. He’d been fine all throughout and Jon seemed happy to have his daddy’s help in getting ready for bed, but Clark had insisted when it came to reading the story. “This is something that’s just about you and Jon. I’m okay with that,” he said. But there was a look of sadness in his eyes and as much as he claimed otherwise, Lois knew that he wanted to do this with his son. She was unwilling, however, to go through a repeat of the previous evening, with Jon potentially pouting and Clark leaving the room, looking wounded. She wasn’t certain Jon would object to Clark taking part in reading the story—father and son seemed much more comfortable together than they had just the day before—but she still had no idea just how much she should push either of these two. It had been tempting to ask Clark to just stay in the room with them while she read the story to Jon. That way, he could ease into the routine. But what if Clark refused, or Jon pouted again? How was she supposed to handle that? She couldn’t let Jon think that he could cut his father out by simply throwing a tantrum and she knew better than to start an argument with a three year old just before bedtime. She couldn’t force them into a normal family routine; that had to develop on its own. But she hated feeling like there was nothing proactive she could do to help the process along.
********
Clark sat in the den while Lois read Jon his story. He’d found the box of copies of her new book, turning the thick volume over in his hands. The back cover was filled from top to bottom with glowing quotes from ambassadors, former secretaries of state and foreign ministers, and generals. The front of the dust jacket was plain white, except for the banner image stretched across it, halfway down the cover – a photograph of a lone, gnarled tree on a green hill. The title, “The Shade of a Bitterwood Tree,” was written above the picture in plain, black font. In smaller lettering, below the image was written “Lois Lane.” He opened the book to the prologue.
The rolling hills around Lake Regina are renowned for their lush, verdant vegetation. Among the trees that fill the valley, though, are ones known by the locals as bitterwoods. The fruit of the bitterwood is poisonous. The sap is a harsh irritant. Its branches are covered in thorns and provide a home to disease carrying insects that plague the shepherds' goats. Its wood is too soft and gnarled to be used for building. Its roots leech the nutrients from the soil, starving the farmers' crops. The tree isn't even useable as firewood, as it creates a horrible, acrid stench when burned. The bitterwood was the bane of every farmer and shepherd's existence until the introduction of dynamite, when they began blasting them out. But Kinwarans still have an old saying about these tough and unpleasant plants that have created such hardship for them: "Even the bitterwood tree gives shade."
When faced with overwhelming tragedy, we search for some sliver of hope to latch onto, some shred of evidence to convince us that all will be right with the world again. That good will triumph and that someone really is in control. We remind ourselves that it's darkest before the dawn and we search the distant horizon for some sign of the coming light we know in our hearts is there. Like the Kinwaran farmers and shepherds considering the bitterwood tree, we will look at an ugly, hurtful thing, gnarled, with poison flowing through its veins, until we find something redeeming, something that convinces us that even from a horrible thing, some good can come. For it's tragedy that gives us heroes, desperation that produces noble sacrifice. And while we know we'd be better off without the bitterwood tree if we could just extirpate it from the ground and wipe it off the face of the Earth, we still find comfort in the shade. Because if even the bitterwood tree gives shade, then surely the forces of good in the world cannot be vanquished, and in the end, day will conquer night.
But in my time in Kinwara, I began to wonder, what if there was no dawn? What if the light had been permanently extinguished? What if good was unable or unwilling to defeat this evil? Because how could the world truly be good if something this awful had happened? It was easy to succumb to despair and truth be told, that despair remained with me long after I left Kinwara. I wasn't freed of it until I returned. In the months between my visits, the people of Kinwara had begun the daunting task of rebuilding their lives amid the rubble. It was hard, slow, frustrating work, and while they were sad and angry and confused, they were also hopeful. It took me a while to get past my own anger to realize how this was possible. How could people who had lost everything still have hope?
I finally realized that even though I couldn't see the dawn and had no evidence of its approach, that didn't mean people stopped looking for it. It is the very fact that we keep looking that should inspire us. Hope continues to exist even when it has no logical reason to. In the face of the greatest sadness and the deepest tragedy, hope goes on. We continue to believe that dawn will come. That the light beyond the horizon will appear, even if it seems like it has been night for a thousand years. And even if we're not here to see it, we believe that one day, others will bask in warm sunlight again. What makes humanity great, what makes us worth saving, is that in our darkest hours, we continue to search for the light.
He flipped back to the dedication page, blank except for a single line:
To my husband: my constant source of strength, hope, and courage.
This was the second book she’d dedicated to him. He almost couldn’t wait to read it, to read all of her thoughts and to get a better sense of what she’d gone through. He wanted so desperately to understand what it had been like for her these last four years.
Clark looked up at the sound of the door opening. His wife smiled at him as she walked into the room and sat down beside him. “Are you going to sign mine?” he asked. She stood up and walked over to the desk in the corner and picked up another copy of the book.
“This one’s yours,” she explained as she handed him an identical book.
He opened it up to the blank page just inside the cover,
Completely and eternally yours,
LL
she’d written there in rich, dark ink. Lois had a somewhat elaborate hierarchy of signatures; she signed official documents with her full name, and notes to friends and family ‘Lois,’ but she always signed things for him with just her initials. It had always been that way. She saved ‘LL’ for him and no one else.
Holding the book open in one hand, he draped his arm around her and pulled her close. He closed his eyes and kissing her temple. “Thank you,” he whispered against her hair. There was so much more he wanted to say to her, but he didn’t know how.
“Writing this book took more out of me than I thought I had to give,” she murmured. “But when it was over, I was relieved. I couldn’t write everything, especially a lot of the stuff Ultrawoman saw, but writing this was a release I didn’t even know I needed until I’d done it.”
“I want to read it. I want to understand everything,” he replied.
“I know,” she said. “And I want the same thing, Clark. I want to know what happened on New Krypton. I want to know what you went through. Even if you think it’s too much to hear.”
“Not tonight,” he responded.
“Dr. Friskin once told me the best way to deal with something traumatic was to talk about it right away. It lets you process the memories like normal ones, instead of letting them overwhelm you. The longer you wait, the harder it gets.”
Would that she only knew, he thought ruefully to himself. But she had no way of realizing it was far too late for that. So he told her the only thing he could – a truth, but an incomplete one. “Today was the best day I’ve had since I got back. It was probably one of the best days of my life,” he said. “The way Jon looked at me today…like I was really his dad…I don’t want to come down from that feeling. Not now, anyway.”
“Okay,” she acquiesced with a nod. It wasn’t like her to give in without a fight, but he wasn’t about to question his good fortune. The truth was, he didn’t want to talk about New Krypton. If he couldn’t erase the four years he’d spent away, he wanted to bury them firmly and deeply in the past, where they belonged.
He closed the book in his hand and placed it on the coffee table before pulling Lois into his arms. She slipped her arms around his neck as he drew her closer to him. Their lips met and he closed his eyes, savoring a feeling he was once certain he’d never experience again. How had he managed to go four years without kissing her? He should have had an easier time giving up breathing. She sighed softly and he wrapped his arms more tightly around her waist. Reclining back against the couch he brought her with him so she was lying on top of him. His hands trailed up and down her sides, marveling at the way her small, lean body fit against his and how her denim clad legs tangled with his.
She broke off the kiss to murmur “I love you,” against his lips
“I love you,” he replied breathlessly. He cradled the back of her head with one hand and kissed her again. Her lips were soft and pliant against his, parting as their tongues met and the kiss deepened. He groaned as her hands slipped under the hem of his t-shirt, but once again, his entire body tensed as her fingers brushed over one of the scars.
He tore his lips away from hers and turned away, exhaling in a breathless gasp. “I’m sorry,” he whispered before kissing her again.
This time she withdrew from him. “Are you okay?” she asked, looking down at him with concern evident in her eyes.
“Yeah,” he breathed as he kissed her again. Clark sat up, gathered her in his arms, and rose to his feet.
“Someone’s feeling better,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“Almost super,” he confirmed. He couldn’t fly or even float, but he was stronger than an ordinary man again. Carrying his wife up the stairs wouldn’t require any effort at all. The look in her eyes told him that she knew that he’d picked her up to prove that he wasn’t weak or fragile and he didn’t need protecting. He was strong again. Lois put her head on his shoulder as he carried her to the bedroom.
********
She was high above the farm when she heard his voice, anxiousness clear in its timber and pitch. Once again, the mumbled words were too difficult to decipher, but she knew it was another nightmare; just like last night. She zipped in through the open window, landing and immediately spinning out of the suit. Within the span of a heartbeat, she was lying in bed beside him, wrapping her arms around his body.
“It’s all right, Clark,” she murmured softly. “It’s just a dream, you’re all right.”
He woke with a start, his heart thundering in an irregular rhythm. His chest rose and fell with each shallow gasp. “Oh god, Lois,” he whispered breathlessly.
“You’re okay. You’re home. Everything is okay,” she soothed.
He turned around to pull her into his arms. His skin was flushed with warmth and the heat radiated off his body. For a long moment, he simply held her tightly. She could hear the rapid beat of his heart and his breath on her skin. He lowered his head to kiss her shoulder. “Lois,” he whispered her name breathlessly.
“I’m here,” she said.
His lips found hers and he kissed her fiercely. His body seemed to tense with desperate need. “Please, help me forget,” he murmured. Her husband looked at her. His eyes weren’t darkened with passion. They were haunted.
“Honey…” she began, but he kissed her again. He tore his lips from hers to trail kisses along her jaw, down her neck, and over her collarbone. They’d made love only hours before, but he touched her as though he hadn’t in years.
And didn’t expect to, ever again.
Something inside her told her that she should stop this. That they needed to talk about whatever it was that was plaguing his nights, making it impossible for him to sleep. But the part of her that needed him so desperately, that wanted so badly to be joined with him, to move with him, was overpowering.
She had been denied the comfort of his embrace for too long. She’d had so many nightmares of her own, when all she’d wanted was to feel his arms around her, his body entwined with hers. It was too hard. She couldn’t be strong any more, not when she craved his touch so badly.
Maybe she could help him forget his pain in their frantic coupling.
Perhaps they could both forget.
*********
Clark stood outside his son's bedroom. The door was ajar, and he peeked in, watching his son still sleeping as the early morning light filtered in through the windows. Jon looked just like his father had when he was little. He never thought that would be so important to him. After all, he didn’t look like his mom and dad, but he loved them as much as possible. So what was it about this blood tie that resonated so strongly within him? Maybe it was because he’d spent so much of his adolescence peering closely at strangers, trying to find some hint of familiarity that would suggest that he did belong somewhere, that even if he was a freak, at least he wasn’t alone.
He could do something for Jon his own parents had never been fully able to do. He could reassure his son that he wasn’t a freak, that there was nothing wrong with him, and there was no reason to ever be afraid of his powers.
"Morning, son," his father said softly, startling him.
"Hi Dad," Clark whispered.
"I've got something for you," Jonathan said with a smile as he motioned for Clark to follow him.
Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans, Clark followed his father down the stairs. From the top shelf of the hallway closet, Jonathan pulled down a tiny baseball mitt, barely the size of Clark's hand. Clark couldn't help but smile.
"I bought this a little more than a week ago. It was going to be a surprise," Jonathan explained. "But you should give it to Jon."
"Dad…" Clark started to protest.
"A boy should get his first baseball mitt from his father," Jonathan replied firmly. "I'm so glad you came home in time."
Clark nodded in understanding. He didn't quite remember his first baseball mitt, but he did remember the one his father gave him when he was six and just starting T-ball. He remembered how his dad showed him how to oil the mitt and how to put a ball in the webbing and wrap it with twine so that it would take on the right shape. He remembered playing catch with his dad at twilight from the first warm day in the spring all the way through the fall. As they tossed around an old, scuffed up baseball, he could tell his dad anything. He remembered the smell of the leather and the snap of his old, beat up mitt. He remembered when it got so that no matter how hard his dad threw, his hand didn't hurt at all. And he remembered when he got so strong he could throw the ball clear across the wheat fields.
Jonathan reached up to the closet shelf one more time and pulled down Clark's old glove, a baseball still nestled against the webbing. "That ball won't do for now. You'll need something that isn't quite so hard," he said as he handed Clark a soft little T-ball instead.
Clark smiled. "Thanks, Dad," he said, his voice thick with emotion.
Jonathan placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "Anytime, son."
Clark swallowed roughly and cleared his throat. “I think it’s time,” he began. “To have that press conference.”
His father frowned slightly. “Are you sure?”
He nodded. “I am. I can’t hide here forever.”
“All right, then. We’ll call Perry. I’m sure he can set this up.”
“Let’s see if he can arrange it for tomorrow,” Clark added. “I want to have one more day when it’s just the five of us. I want to play catch with my son tonight, not answer a bunch of questions.”
Jonathan nodded in understanding. “Okay,” he agreed.
********
The sound of Jon crying was the only thing that could get her attention faster than a cry for help. Her body grew tense at the first sound of him bawling, and she looked up from her revised book tour schedule. She scanned through the walls of the farmhouse and easily spotted him in the field by the duck pond, with his dad. Jon wasn’t hurt—that she realized immediately—but Clark wore a grim expression as he carried his son back toward the house.
She tried not to get too anxious. If she seemed nervous, Clark would think she was questioning his parenting skills. So she remained at the kitchen table and tried to focus on the paperwork, even though that was a feat beyond her ken. Her heart beat just a little faster as the screen door opened and Clark walked in, still carrying Jon. He turned around in his father’s arms and reached for her. Clark set Jon gently down on his feet and the little boy ran toward his mother.
Lois tried to ignore Jon’s tears, knowing that if she seemed too concerned, he’d just become more distressed. “Did you play catch with Daddy?” she asked.
“I don’t wanna play catch,” Jon pouted. “I wanna catch frogs.” Clark set his jaw in consternation, but said nothing.
“Well, we can’t catch frogs now. It’s time to get cleaned up for dinner.” She took his little hand as she stood up, and led him toward the bathroom.
Jon continued to whimper, but he calmed down as she helped him wash his hands and face. They returned to the kitchen to find Martha and Clark setting the table. Dinner passed without incident and once Jon had had his bath and his story and had gone to sleep, Lois joined her husband out on the porch.
“I shouldn’t have pushed him,” Clark murmured as soon as she opened the screen door to step outside. He stared out at the fields and didn’t turn around to look at her. In his hands, he held a little baseball mitt. He turned it over and played with the laces. She came to stand close to him, feeling the warmth radiating off his body.
“He was just being cranky. He is a three year old, after all,” she replied simply.
Clark sighed. “I just wanted so badly to do this with him and yesterday went so well. I just got so frustrated.”
She put her hand on his arm. “Clark…”
He pulled away, his posture tensing. “I didn’t,” he said.
“Didn’t what?” she asked, thoroughly confused.
“I didn’t lose my temper, I didn’t yell at him.”
She blinked a few times, wondering where this had come from. “I know you didn’t,” she replied.
“What, were you keeping an eye on us? Not sure I can handle Jon by myself?” he challenged.
“Clark, you’re not making any sense,” she countered, a harsh note creeping into her voice. “Of course I trust you, and the reason I know you didn’t yell at him is because I know you, not because I’m hovering about, making sure you’re doing everything the same way I would.”
He sighed again. “I’m sorry,” he said resignedly. He dragged a hand through his hair and she noticed that it was trembling. She reached out and took his hand, holding it loosely in hers. She felt it tremble for a moment before he tensed it and forced it to stop shaking.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Fine,” he replied, pulling his hand away.
She frowned, furrowing her brow, and pursing her lips. “Your hand, it’s shaking…”
“It’s been that way for a while,” he admitted. “It’s just nerves.” He flexed his fist a few times before dropping his hand by his side.
“Maybe you should talk to Bernie about it,” she ventured.
“He already knows,” Clark confirmed. She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved that he’d told Bernie, or to be hurt that he hadn’t thought to tell her. Maybe he’d told Bernie about the nightmares, too. She wondered if she could badger that information out of the absent-minded scientist before deciding against it. Ethically, she knew Bernie couldn’t say a word, and her going behind Clark’s back wasn’t going to do anything to help build up the trust in their relationship. Although, until he’d accused her of practically spying on him, she hadn’t really thought that they had any trust issues.
“Look, I’m sorry for snapping at you,” Clark said at last. He sounded weary; like this had become rote to him, like he’d grown used to apologizing for his behavior, but she couldn’t fathom why. “I guess I just expected today to go differently.”
“You worried about the press conference tomorrow morning?” she asked gently.
He pulled a face. “Let’s just say I’m not looking forward to it.”
Drawing in a deep breath, she decided to push, just a little bit. Like she was worrying a loose tooth with her tongue, she couldn’t help but prod. “Anything you want to talk about?”
“No,” he replied and he looked away. He turned his attention to the graying paint on the porch railing, where it had started to flake and peel from the hot, humid summer weather. He started to chip away at the paint in little bits with his fingernail. She’d been meaning to repaint that for Martha and Jonathan. It was a simple task made simpler with superpowers, but over the last week or so, she’d completely forgotten. And who could blame her.
“Clark…” she began.
“Can we please just drop it?” he demanded.
She bristled. “When you’re happy, you don’t want to talk and when you’re upset, you don’t want to talk. You ask me not to push, but you’re shutting me out,” she retorted.
“Dammit, I can’t do this on your time table!” he exclaimed harshly. “I can’t be a perfect father and husband, and all around stand up guy right now, okay? You don’t think I know that I’m screwing up? But I have to find my own way to fix this, not yours.”
Tears flooded her eyes as she swallowed around the stone lodged in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she choked out reflexively. She didn’t want to back down and let him retreat again like a wounded animal, but more than that, she couldn’t bear to fight with him. Not after everything they’d been through. She sniffed, trying hard not to cry, but a single tear slipped down her face and she raised her hand to wipe it away.
“Oh, Lois,” he murmured softly, before pulling her into his arms. “I’m so sorry. Honey, please, don’t cry.”
But she couldn’t help it. She sobbed uncontrollably against his chest, feeling all the hurt that had been welling up over the last few days finally burst through the dam.
“What have I done?” he whispered, making her cling to him even more tightly. He stroked her hair as he held her close. She stopped crying, but for the life of her, she couldn’t let go of him. Lois wanted to keep holding on to him, hoping that maybe, if she stayed with him, if she stood by him, he might realize that she would always be there for him.
“I love you,” she whispered against his neck.
“I love you so much,” he responded, his voice hoarse. “Please believe that I never wanted to make you cry. I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”
“I know,” she said softly. “I know.”
