From Part 9 ...
Hank slipped into the driver’s seat, smoothly turned the car and accelerated away from the burning warehouse.
Lois sank into the plush leather. She looked across at Clark. His eyes were closed and his face was set with pain.
But they were together.
“Where to?” Hank asked.
“The cottage,” Lois said without hesitation.
Hank nodded.
Lois glanced behind them. Nothing was following and the sirens had faded into the background.
She took Clark’s hand in hers, closed her eyes and tried to think ahead.
Part 10
Hank stopped the car in the lane, next to the tall fence that gave privacy to the cottage on the Crawford estate. Lois jumped out, searching for the flagpole in the dusky moonlight.
She located it. Bare. No raised flag. The cottage was available.
As the wave of relief rolled through her, Lois leant into the car. “Clark,” she said. “We have to get you out. We’ll be safe soon.”
Clark’s eyes opened slowly. He tried to help as she eased him from the back seat. He stood shakily and slumped against the car, sucking in deep breaths and shivering convulsively. Lois glanced to the fence, aware the cottage was at least fifty yards behind it.
Fifty yards.
They’d come so far.
They were so close.
But she knew there was no way Clark could make it to the cottage.
And she couldn’t carry him.
Hank brushed past her and heaved Clark onto his shoulder. “Open the gate,” he said.
Lois ran to the gate, found the number pad and with trembling fingers punched in 2315. The gate swung open and Hank strode through it with Clark.
Lois hurried after them.
When they reached the cottage, Hank opened the door and deposited Clark on the sofa under the window. Hank switched on the light, took the box of matches from the mantelpiece and lit the already-prepared kindling in the fireplace.
Without a word, he stepped outside. He returned seconds later with an armful of chopped wood and stacked it next to the fire. “There’s more outside,” he informed them. With a gesture in Clark’s direction, he said, “He needs a doctor.”
“No!”
Hank shrugged, accepting her decision. “I’ll hoist the flag on my way out,” he said. He stepped outside and quietly shut the door.
Lois locked it and rushed up the stairs into the bedroom. She yanked a sheet and blanket from the bed and added a pillow to her pile.
Back downstairs, she put the covers over Clark and tenderly tucked them around his body. She gently lifted his head and put the pillow in place. He didn’t respond; his eyes were closed and his skin pallid. Lois carefully slid his glasses from his face.
She stroked his forehead and dropped a kiss on his hairline. He grimaced and turned away.
“You sleep, darling,” she murmured softly. “I’ll look after you.”
She added a chunk of wood to the rudimentary fire and foraged through the fridge and cupboards. The latter were well stocked with crockery and kitchenware, but there was nothing edible.
Lois leant against the table, her eyes resting on Clark.
Right now, he needed warmth and rest.
But soon, he would need food.
Medical attention.
Clothes.
And, they both needed to know if Trask … or Henderson … or anyone else still intended using them to harm Superman.
Or felt the need to permanently silence them.
But she couldn’t leave Clark.
Couldn’t risk him waking to find her gone.
Couldn’t risk being seen.
Couldn’t risk leading someone to him.
Who could she trust?
Sarah certainly.
But was it fair to involve her further in this? She had two children.
Lois could think of no alternatives. Clark had to have food – and her purse was with the rest of her personal effects at the police station.
A complete search of the tiny cottage took less than ten minutes. Lois found an amply-stocked first aid kit and supplies such as soap and shampoo. But no clothes and no phone.
Back downstairs, Lois pulled up a chair and sat as near to Clark as she could. He groaned and turned towards the window.
The small room was now cosily warm. Warm enough that when Clark woke, she would be able to pull back the blankets and assess and treat his wounds. Lois stared at him, a part of her so deeply relieved to have him back, another part of her distraught at the graphic testimony of what he had endured.
She couldn’t dwell on that. She needed to plan their next move.
Was Trask dead?
And even if he was dead, was there anyone still alive who shared his belief that Superman had to be killed?
Did they believe Superman had left Earth?
Had Hodge’s bomb stopped the missiles being fired?
Did anyone suspect Clark was Superman?
That at least, was not going to be a problem. There was compelling evidence to the contrary.
She had been so scared she would never see him again.
Unable to resist, Lois leant over him and caressed his forehead. Without waking, he winced and shrunk away from her touch.
She must have hit a sore spot.
Lois backed away, settled comfortably in the chair and watched him sleep.
Soon her eyelids grew heavy in the warmth of the room and she allowed her weariness to overwhelm her.
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When Lois woke, the first thing she saw was Clark looking back at her.
She focussed on his eyes, ignoring his injuries. She smiled. He smiled back.
“You came,” he said quietly.
She felt her tears prickle her eyes. “Of course I –.”
Her words were cut off by a sharp knock on the door. Lois’s eyes rammed into Clark’s and she saw her fear reflecting back from the depths of brown.
The knock sounded again. “It’s Hank,” came a deep voice.
Lois handed Clark his glasses as she leant over him to peer out of the window. She couldn’t see much in the blackness, but the shadowy figure seemed to resemble Hank.
She unlocked the door and cautiously opened it. It *was* Hank; Lois scoured behind him. “Are you alone?”
He didn’t answer, but stepped into the cottage and put the box he carried onto the table. “You need these,” he said. He went outside, returned with more wood, then with a grunt of farewell, left.
Lois peered into the box. It contained groceries. She rushed to the doorway. “Hank!” she screamed.
He turned.
“Thank you,” she called. “For everything.”
Hank waved in acknowledgement and kept walking towards the fence.
The box contained two loaves of crusty bread, milk, instant coffee, sugar, butter, jello and a container of what looked like homemade chunky beef and vegetable soup.
Lois unpacked the food, then stared into the bottom of the box, tears springing to her eyes.
“What’s the matter, honey?” came Clark’s concerned voice.
Lois reached into the box and drew out the block of chocolate. She held it up for him to see, her tears falling freely. “Come here,” Clark said softly.
She went to him, knelt next to the sofa and took his hand in hers.
He flinched.
And tried so very hard to pretend he hadn’t.
Lois’s hands leapt from him. “Clark!” she exclaimed. “What is it?”
His shoulders curved away from her and he stared out of the window. “Nothin’,” he mumbled.
“Clark! Did I hurt you? Tell me.”
“It’s OK.”
“It’s *not* OK.” Lois yearned to touch him, but she couldn’t hurt him again. “I won’t touch you,” she promised. “Please turn back to me and tell me what is going on.”
He turned, mouth set.
“Tell me what is going on,” she repeated.
“I don’t *know*,” he ground out.
“If our positions were reversed, you would be begging me to tell you the truth,” she said. “No matter how hard that truth was. Now, I’m begging you. Tell me why you wince every time I touch you.”
“I’m sore.”
“It’s more than that and you know it,” Lois said firmly. “I held you when we were at the warehouse and it didn’t seem to hurt you.”
He stared past her, looking so totally defeated, it wrung her heart.
Lois rose and stepped away, propping her butt against the edge of the table. She folded her arms across her chest and scrutinised him. “Look at me, Clark,” she said. “We need to find a way out of this.”
“There *is* no way out of this.”
“We’re out of the warehouse,” Lois said, bolstering her voice with optimism. “Trask is probably dead. I found some bandages and antiseptic –.”
“Lois, you can’t come near me,” he said with bleak desolation.
“What? Why?”
Clark turned away from her. “Because the closer you come to me, the more it hurts and when you touch me, it’s like being knifed.”
“Clark, look at me,” Lois pleaded. “I won’t come any closer. We can do this together.”
“How can we do it together when I can’t tolerate having you near me?” he said wretchedly.
“Clark, there’s a way out of this and we’ll find it ... together.”
He faced her again and she saw he was as close to the limit of his endurance as anyone could possibly be. She unfolded her arms and gripped the table to stop herself from going to him and wrapping him into her embrace.
She could touch him with her words, though. Just as she had been touched by the words of his journal. “We can overcome anything ... now we’re together,” she said quietly. “Will you work with me on this? Please?”
He regarded her for long, suspended seconds. She stared back, directly into his eyes, pouring out her love for him.
Eventually he nodded.
“I love you, Clark.”
She saw the rigidity of his face soften. “I thought I would never see you again,” he said hoarsely. “And there was nothing I could do ...”
“Well, I’m here and I’m real and I’m in love with you and as soon as we work out what is happening, I’ll be right there with you on that sofa.”
The shadow of his smile crossed his face. “Is that a promise?”
“You bet it’s a promise, farmboy.” She smiled at him and wiped the spilt tears from her cheeks. “Tell me what you’re feeling. Which of your injuries hurts the most?”
“My foot is throbbing pretty badly. My ribs hurt when I move and I’m fairly sure something is strained in my left shoulder. I’ve got a monster headache and I think there’s a wound on my back, because it hurts whenever it touches anything.”
“What happens when I come closer? Does all that get worse?”
Clark shook his head. “It’s different. I feel incredibly nauseous … and it feels like my head is about to implode … and there’s an acute cramping pain in my chest.”
“When did it first happen? This nausea and the cramping?”
“When I was first taken to the warehouse.”
“*Before* they ... hit you?”
His eyes avoided hers. “No, they’d already hit me, but the first time, it didn’t hurt.”
“And while you were in the room?”
“I had the stabbing and nausea the entire time I was there,” Clark said. “I wondered if they’d found a way to poison me with the bread and water they brought or if there was a gas I couldn’t detect. Except it didn’t seem to affect them.”
“When did you notice it lessened?”
“When the driver picked me up and brought me in here.”
“Then it gets worse again whenever I come close?”
Miserably, Clark nodded. “I’m sorry, Lois. I want you so bad. But I just can’t take any more ...”
Then with thudding certainty, Lois understood.
The green rock.
She smiled in triumph and saw the hurt surprise cross his face. “It’s OK, Clark,” she said. “I know how to fix this.”
Lois ran outside into the chilly night air and surveyed the garden. Seeing a small garden shed behind the cottage, she ran to it, guided only by the moonlight. Inside, she searched for a hiding place. There was nowhere obvious. Looking up, she noticed a series of gaps between the rafter and the corrugations of the roof. She took the piece of green rock from her pants’ pocket, and wedged it into one of the spaces.
Back in the cottage, Lois shut the door and looked at Clark. “OK, I’m going to approach you - tell me if you feel anything.”
He nodded.
She stepped forward. Then stepped forward again. “Anything?”
“No.”
She walked to him, pausing to look down at him when she reached the sofa. “OK?”
“OK.” She knelt next to him and tentatively touched his face. He uttered a throaty rumble of pleasure. “That feels so good,” he murmured.
“Remember the green rocks in the warehouse? It’s them that make you feel so bad.”
Clark didn’t reply; instead he reached up and guided her onto his chest.
Lois relaxed against his bare skin, listening to his beating heart and basking in his warmth as his hand drifted through her hair. She stayed until her knees protested at the hardness of the floor. “Clark?” she said, as she lifted from him. “Can I look at your foot? From what I saw, it was badly damaged.”
He nodded and she went to the far end of the sofa and gently pushed back the bedding. His right foot was swollen to distortion and murky grey in colour. She swallowed down her surging queasiness. “Is it broken?” she asked.
“Maybe.”
She wondered how it had happened, but decided not to ask. Looking at it was distressing enough. She didn’t need the image of how it had happened in her head as well. “Have you x-rayed it?” she asked.
Clark’s face darkened. “I can’t,” he said hoarsely.
“You can’t?” she said gently, fearing she knew what he was about to say.
“I don’t have any powers,” he admitted disconsolately. “Not the x-ray vision, not the heat, not the magnification, not the hearing, not the strength, not the speed, nothing.” He didn’t need to add that he was no longer invulnerable.
Lois covered his feet and moved back to him. She crouched level with him and brushed back his hair from his forehead. “You still have powers,” she said lovingly. “The power to move me, the power to touch me, the power to calm me, the power to make my world seem good regardless of everything else.”
She smiled, but he did not.
“We’ll be OK, Clark. We’ll -.”
“But I can’t fly,” Clark said desperately. “I can barely move. If they come after us, we have no chance. We can’t stay here forever, if they come, we are so vulnerable. I can’t protect -.”
Lois put her finger across his lips. “We’ll be all right.”
Clark shook his head. “I can’t -.”
She increased the pressure on his lips and gazed at him, looking beyond the bruises and into the troubled cloudiness of his wonderful brown eyes. “For three days, all …” Her voice wobbled. She looked down and realigned the strands of her composure before facing him again. “For three days, *all* I wanted was to be with you. Now I *am* with you. We *can* do this … we *will* do this … because we’re together.”
He took her finger from his lips and kissed her hand. “All *I* wanted was to be with you.”
She smiled. “We’ll be OK,” she assured him softly.
He nodded, not because he was convinced, she knew that, but for her.
“Are you hungry?” Lois asked.
“Until we left the warehouse, I felt too nauseous to want to eat. I don’t feel hungry right now … but I’d really like a shower.”
“OK. How do you want to do it?”
“Can you help me up the stairs?”
“Sure. And then …?”
“I can take it from there.”
“Clark,” Lois protested. “You’d have to stand on one foot, and keep your balance despite your dizziness, and try to wash off dried-on blood from amongst the injuries.”
His mouth tightened, but he said nothing.
“So … keep your shorts on and I’ll help – for most of it, anyway.”
He looked like he was searching for an alternative … but couldn’t find one. With a sigh, he swept back the covers and swung his legs to the floor.
Lois helped him to his feet. “You need to rest for a minute before tackling the stairs,” she said. “And it’s the perfect opportunity to do something I’ve been longing to do.”
She slipped her arms around his waist and pressed him against her body. His arms folded around her and they stood, together. Lois closed her eyes. It was *so* good to be in his arms again.
Conscious he was balancing on one foot, she separated from him far sooner than she wanted to. “How about that shower now?”
Getting up the stairs was easier than she had imagined. There were rails on both sides, and Clark was able to use his arms to swing himself, on his good foot, up the stairs one at a time. He winced a little, but only a few minutes later, they were both in the bathroom.
“I’ll start the water,” Lois said.
“OK.”
He removed his glasses and she placed them on the cabinet, then turned on the faucets, waited for the water to heat and stepped back so he could go in.
Clark crossed to the shower and hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. “I’ll do the front, you do the back,” he directed.
“OK,” Lois said, conscious of how strange and unfamiliar this must be for him.
Clark hopped into the shower and Lois found herself staring at his broad back – a back which, less than a week ago had been smooth perfection, but now had a long, angry gash running across his left shoulder blade, a roadmap of numerous grazes and a series of bruises congregating along both sets of ribs.
Lois shut down her imagination. She could do this if she didn’t think about it too much. She took the cloth and held it under the water.
“I’ll try not to hurt you,” she said softly, just loud enough for him to hear over the noise of the running water.
She began on his right shoulder, working down the slope, trying to be extra gentle when she came to the places of trauma.
Five minutes later, she was very damp and Clark’s back was clean. Lois squatted and washed the grime and dust and blood from his legs, being particularly careful not to upset his precarious balance.
She stood back and contemplated him, trying not to notice the way the thin material of his wet shorts clung to his butt. She felt better – wet, but better. Physical contact with Clark, achieving something positive together, had restored her and calmed her.
“I’ve finished,” she said. “How about you?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you like me to wash your hair?” she asked. “There’s blood in it.”
“OK, thanks.” He put both hands on the shower wall to steady himself.
Lois squeezed the shampoo into her hand and gently rubbed it through his hair. She started above his forehead and slowly massaged back, around his ears and down to his neck. Gradually, his shoulders and neck relaxed. She guided him under the stream of water to rinse, then repeated the process with sweet-smelling conditioner. “Hey, don’t fall asleep,” she said when she’d finished. “Not in here.”
“Thank you,” Clark said. He looked over his shoulder. “If I promise to be careful, could have some privacy?”
She nodded. “When I’ve gone, take off your shorts and we’ll dry them in front of the fire. It won’t take long and then you can put them back on again.”
“OK.”
“Do you want to get into the bed up here? You really should rest.”
Clark shook his head. “I want to be downstairs with you.”
“OK,” she said. “Call me if you need anything.”
Ten minutes later he came down the stairs, dressed only in a towel and his glasses. Lois looked up from where she was tending the fire and stood, as memories flooded back.
He hesitated on the second bottom step. “What?” he asked, the merest suggestion of a twinkle in his eyes.
“I’ve seen you dressed exactly like that before,” she said. “And I’ve *never* recovered.”
He glanced down self-consciously. “I’m a long way from what I was then,” he said soberly.
Lois crossed the room to meet him. He swung down the final step and they stood together. “You still captivate me,” she said quietly. She put her hands on his shoulders and gently kneaded them. “And you’ll heal; soon you’ll be as good as new.”
She looked into his eyes and saw his fear – fear that he would never again be just like he used to be.
Lois stretched up and kissed him. “Whatever happens, Clark … we’re together. OK?”
He nodded and manoeuvred to the sofa, dropping onto it with obvious fatigue.
“I’m going to dress your wounds, OK?”
He nodded again.
Lois got the first aid kit and spent the next thirty minutes systematically working through his injuries. By the end of it, she was feeling a lot more hopeful. Other than his foot, his injuries seemed to be such that they would heal – she’d felt along his ribs and detected no significant internal damage.
But his foot ... Lois stared, knowing it was beyond her capacity to treat it. Maybe they *should* go to a hospital. Maybe they could get an x-ray. At least find out the extent of the internal damage.
She lifted her gaze and saw Clark staring at her. “We can’t,” he said in answer to her unspoken thoughts.
“We may have to.”
“We can’t. They’ll take blood, they’ll test it. Just because I don’t have powers, it doesn’t make me human,” he said, with a tinge of bitterness.
Lois straightened the covers over him. “You rest, farmboy. I’ll get us something to eat.”
She tipped the soup into a saucepan and soon the cottage was filled a delectable aroma that called urgently to her empty stomach. “I’m starving,” she said. “I haven’t eaten since lunch and it’s almost midnight now.”
They ate in the warm light of the cottage as the depths of darkness pushed against the window. The meal was delicious, but Clark didn’t seem particularly hungry. Nor particularly eager to talk.
Lois had questions, so many questions, but she curbed her curiosity. Clark must be physically and emotionally exhausted. He needed to rest – her questions could wait.
They finished their meal with the chocolate. “Clark?” Lois said, as she savoured the creamy sweetness.
“Yeah.”
“I think we should both sleep. We’re safe here – as safe as we would be anywhere.”
“OK.”
“You have the bed upstairs,” she said. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
“Is that what you want?”
“I don’t want to accidentally hurt you.”
“You won’t.” He looked into her eyes. “Stay with me,” he said. “Please.”
She nodded with a tired smile. “Always.”
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Clark lay in the gradually warming bed, listening to the sounds of Lois in the shower. Soon she would come and share his bed.
She’d found him. He still had no idea how she’d managed it, but she’d found him.
He sighed. He had so many questions.
Like – why wasn’t she wearing her ring?
Had she lost it?
Had she changed her mind about marrying him?
But if he asked questions, Lois would have questions too. And he had so few answers. And the little he did know ... he could not imagine ever wanting to share with anyone.
Certainly not Lois.
He was dreading the moment when she realised he could no longer be for her what he had been before all this. So far, she hadn’t thought past the fact they were together.
But she would.
Soon she would comprehend the full implications of the past three days.
He was vulnerable. Just as vulnerable as every other person. More so because he was an alien.
Still different … but with no advantages.
The water in the shower stopped and Clark closed his eyes. A few minutes later, he felt Lois slip in beside him. He heard her shiver at the coldness of the bed.
He should offer to hold her. To warm her.
But he couldn’t.
And he couldn’t even begin to explain why.
The old Clark would have held her. Held her and warmed her and been strong for both of them.
But the old Clark was gone.
Left bleeding and helpless on the hard, cold floor of a warehouse.
And the new Clark ... Clark didn’t know him at all.
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When Lois woke the next morning, she opened her eyes and the first thing she saw was Clark, asleep, lying next to her.
She stayed still and just looked at him. His stubble had grown to a short, dark beard. Lois wished she could touch it, but she didn’t want to wake him. The swelling around his eye had reduced and the laceration had begun to heal.
An torrent of gratitude flooded through her. She had him back.
Then with a sigh, she remembered. There was so much they didn’t know. Didn’t know if Trask was alive, still intent on Superman’s death. Didn’t know if Henderson … or anyone else … was looking for them. Didn’t know how badly Clark was injured.
But she did know they were together. And soon, this would be normal. She would wake up with Clark every morning. Unless he was away being Sup -.
Her mind screeched to a stop.
Superman.
What if Clark could never be Superman again?
Lois pushed away that thought and concentrated on how wonderful it was to wake up next to Clark. To feel the warmth from the bed they had shared.
Thinking of warmth, Lois slipped from the bed, pulled on her pants and blouse and went to the fire. It was still alight from last night, and just needed a little prodding and two more logs to have it blazing again.
She crept back up the stairs. Clark had changed position, but was still asleep. Should she let him sleep? Or make him some breakfast?
Coffee, she decided. They only had instant coffee, but the aroma was nice to wake up to. She also turned on the oven and put in the remaining loaf of bread. She found a tray, and a few minutes later, armed with coffee and warm bread, butter and jello, she went back up the stairs.
Clark was sitting on the bed in his shorts, feet on the floor. “Look at my foot,” he said.
She put down the tray and came to him. His foot was still swollen, but much less so, which significantly reduced the distortion. “How does it feel?” she asked.
“I got to the bathroom and back,” he said with evident satisfaction.
“So it feels better than last night?”
He nodded. “I can’t put all my weight on it, but resting it on the floor doesn’t hurt too much.”
Something in how he said ‘hurt’ shattered the dam inside Lois. ‘Clark’ and ‘hurt’ were not words that went together, not in a physical sense. Helplessness had been foreign to him. But they had hurt him so very much. And even now as the physical pain subsided, she could so clearly see the remaining reservoirs of emotional pain and insecurity.
Her tears fell and she turned away, towards the little round window. She heard a shuffle and Clark’s hands grasped her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against her ear.
She turned into his bare chest. His arms came around her and clutched her against him with a desperation she had not felt before.
They stood for long moments, clinging to each other.
“Sorry for what?” Lois said eventually.
“Sorry for not being able to protect you.”
“It wasn’t me they hurt.”
His hand tightened on her head and she sensed he was reliving something from the past few days. “You were defenceless, Lois. I allowed myself to get into a position where I couldn’t –.’
She reached up and captured his mouth with hers. She kissed him, softly, gently, with infinite love, aiming not to inflame, but to restore.
When she broke contact with his lips, she put her hands on his black bristles. “We’re together, my darling farmboy. I love you. We’ll find a way out of this.”
“I can’t see how,” he admitted, as if acknowledging a failing in himself.
She smiled at him. “Hungry?”
He nodded and hobbled back to the bed. “What do we have?”
“Coff –.”
She was interrupted by a loud knock on the cottage door.
“That’ll be Hank,” Lois said. She ran down the stairs and checked through the window.
It wasn’t Hank. It was Bill Henderson.
“Who is it?” Clark asked from behind her.
Lois turned, her heart thumping erratically in her chest. Clark had put on his glasses and was standing, a little unsteadily, at the foot of the stairs. “Henderson,” she whispered.
She saw the colour drain from Clark’s face. “He was there,” he said tightly. “Henderson was at the warehouse. I heard his voice.”
So Daniel had told her some truth.
“Who is with him?” Clark asked.
Lois scanned the garden, as far as the fences. “No one that I can see.” She turned back to Clark, panic engulfing her. “What shall we do?”
Before Clark could answer, the knock sounded again, loud in the silence. “There’s nowhere to hide,” he said. “We have to let him in.”
Lois stepped towards the door.
“Loissss!” Clark hissed.
“What?”
“I’ll do it.” He limped past her and opened the door.
Bill Henderson looked back at them. He was alone, had no gun - not a visible one anyway - but the look on his face was one of urgency. “It’s freezing out here,” he said. “Do you mind if I come in?”
