Some Things are Meant to Beby Deja Vu
Summary: Clark Kent has been fighting against his destiny because of a painful experience, but he finally allows himself to pursue his dream of being a reporter. Despite his intentions, however, he is going to find out eventually that some things are meant to be.
Rating: PG-13 for mild language, mature themes and heavy angst (including self-inflicted pain and brief thoughts of suicide), some violence, and mild sensuality.
Posting Schedule: Every two or three days, provided RL cooperates.
Disclaimer: I don’t own “Lois and Clark,” which this fic is based on (nor do I own the plots, situation, or dialogue taken from the TV series—I use a lot from the Pilot episode in particular, though in most cases the dialogue isn’t exact). I also don’t own “Smallville,” which has been a bit of inspiration in a few places, nor do I own Superman or any of the works the fic references.
Author’s Thanks: Many thanks to KittandChips for helping me get this fic off the ground and for suggesting the present title. A hundred thousand thanks to Corrina (Female Hawk), who has betaed this whole fic for me. She has not only helped smooth out rough sentences, but she has also helped in-depth with several scenes extensively and has prompted me to answer some rather important questions. This whole fic works a whole lot smoother than it did at first thanks to her, and I really appreciate all the work she put into it (and is still putting into it!).
Author’s Notes: Please forgive me if I take some liberties with a few characters and if there are any historical or scientific inaccuracies. I did use
this site as a source for information on gunshot wounds, and the chapter titles and the fic’s title are from songs sung by Elvis Presley (though they may not be ones he popularized himself). Both constructive criticism and general feedback are welcome. This is the second Lois and Clark fanfic I’ve written, so I am anxious to hear anything you have to say!
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Like a river flows
Surely to the sea,
Darling, so it goes—
Some things are meant to be.--“I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You”
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Chapter 1: TroubleIf you’re looking for trouble,
You came to the right place.
If you’re looking for trouble,
Just look right in my face.--“Trouble”
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In the big city, everyone was a shadow on the ground.
As long as there was light, there would be light’s antithesis: the shadow. But the life of a shadow wasn’t an enviable one. Shadows had a sort of vague presence, and they came in varying lengths and shapes, yet they were always ignored and walked all over. No one ever tried to make out a shadow’s features. A shadow just remained a dark blur cared about by none but the occasional artist or poet.
Of course, the rudeness of the woman at the front desk of the hotel where I had just checked in might have had something to do with my suddenly pessimistic view of Metropolis.
Trying to clear my head, I sighed and plopped my luggage onto the ground of my new room. The suitcase was a holdover from my college days, but it showed no major signs of wear. I almost hated to even set it on the floor—I was convinced I had officially found the seediest hotel in Metropolis. “Rundown” didn’t even
begin to describe the Hotel Apollo. If Mom had known I was going to be staying in a dump like this, she would have probably done everything in her power to gather enough money for me to stay somewhere nicer—even if she had to dip into her and my dad’s retirement fund to do it.
I slowly gazed around, searching for roaches with that “maybe-it-would-be-better-if-I-didn’t-look-because-I-won’t-like-what-I-find” kind of feeling. I guessed the room was the price I had to pay for coming to the big city. Even a rathole like this one was ridiculously expensive compared to hotels of far higher quality back home . . . . But the cost of living was high in Metropolis, and if I wanted to live in the Big Apricot, I would have to become accustomed to making some sacrifices.
My eyes moved past the hot plate (no stove in a place like this) and fell on a payphone set against a wall.
You know you’re in a cheap place when . . .I shook my head, annoyed.
You need to keep positive, I told myself resolutely.
Your interview for the Daily Planet
is tomorrow, and you’ll need all the confidence you can muster. I certainly didn’t have an ideal résumé for someone trying to get a job at a major newspaper. I knew that much already.
I was at such a pivotal point in my life. Everything was riding on my meeting with Perry White. And if I didn’t get the job—well, that was a bridge to be crossed when I came to it.
I started to sit on the questionable-looking bed but reconsidered. I had spent long hours riding in a bus from Kansas, and I wasn’t ready to sit again. I had thought it would be nice to come to a room and relax after having eaten a cheap but hearty dinner, but now I was having second thoughts. A walk sounded like a much better idea. It was dark outside already, and I wasn’t in the best part of town, so it probably wasn’t exactly a smart thing to do, but I didn’t want to be in that room any more than was necessary. And—what was more—I needed to buy some food supplies.
I opened the door, patting the pocket where my room key was nestled. Before long, I was a few blocks away from the hotel, strolling down the sidewalk with my hands in my pockets.
I wandered aimlessly, not having any specific destination in mind, though I was careful to mentally mark where I was going. It would be terrible to get lost in Metropolis my first night. My hand moved to the small lump in my shirt that was my locket, and my fingers traced its outline. If I ran into any madmen or muggers—well, it would be bad for me. I needed to be careful and stay out of trouble.
Letting out a sigh, I paused for a moment and looked up at the sky. The big city wasn’t like Kansas. The stars were obscured by artificial lighting and pollution, and the people were more wrapped up in advancing themselves than their communities . . . .
And yet despite all that, I had felt drawn to Metropolis—
still felt drawn to Metropolis, even though I was seeing its uglier side. What it was that attracted me, I wasn’t sure exactly. The fast pace probably appealed to me most. I had been ducking my head too frequently for too long. It was time to spread my wings and fly.
I immediately winced and amended mentally,
Well, stretch my legs and run, at least.I would always love Kansas. It was the place I’d called home for so long. But it had finally been time for me to leave.
Mom and Dad were certainly more than willing to kick me out of the nest, I thought with a smile. It wasn’t like I could blame them. Having their son move back in with them after going off to school couldn’t have exactly been what they’d desired. But they’d wanted to help me, and they had let me stay with them even when I became editor of Smallville’s local paper, knowing I had needed most of the money to pay back my student loans, as I hadn’t had a full scholarship.
And so, I had finally found my way to Metropolis, where I was trying to move up in the world . . . . And while I likely wouldn’t get hired by the
Planet, at least I could say I had tried. That was always a good first step, right?
I had just barely started walking again when I heard several shots ring out in the darkness. I froze, my mind racing. It would be smarter to just turn tail and run. I shouldn’t be messing with people with guns . . . . But if there had been an innocent civilian involved, I couldn’t just stand by and watch evil win. And even if it
was a shootout between criminals, not even the lowest scum on earth
deserved to die.
My mind made up, I jogged to the alley from which the shots had originated after looking around for street names and identifying landmarks. In the alley, I found four people on the ground. A cursory glanced revealed they had all been shot in the altercation. I wasn’t surprised—I’d heard a lot of bullets.
Judging by their positions and their clothing, they seemed to be members of two separate camps. There were two men in well-tailored suits close to each other on the ground, and several feet away from them were a man and a woman in what could only be called street clothes.
I stood there hesitating for a few seconds. I didn’t want to touch them—my pulse accelerated at the thought—but I pushed past my reluctance and shook my head. If I didn’t do
anything, they would probably all die. I took in a deep breath and moved into the dank alley.
As I kicked away their guns—lest they decide to get trigger happy while I was trying to help them—I moved around and checked their pulses as gently as I could. But it didn’t take me long to discover that the only person who had survived was one of the two men in the expensive suits. He looked vaguely familiar, but I figured he probably just had one of those faces. As I knelt beside him, he emitted a groan and tried to move. “Just stay still,” I told him, not wanting him to hurt himself further.
Swallowing down my fear, I carefully removed his expensive-looking pinstriped jacket—feeling a bulky object I suspected was a phone—and searched for bullet wounds. I thankfully found he just had one bullet wound on his chest. Judging by its position, I thought he would probably make it . . . but only if he was kept from bleeding until the ambulance arrived. That meant I couldn’t just phone 911 and run. I would have to stick around.
“Who are you?” the man whispered in a voice that had some bite to it. I couldn’t blame him for not trusting me—for all he knew, I was planning to mug him and only pretending to play the part of Good Samaritan. Still, his tone nonetheless seemed a little out of place.
“My name is Clark Kent,” I told him, sounding calmer than I felt, “and I’m going to unbutton your shirt. I need to stop your bleeding.”
He groaned something I could only assume was assent, and I got to work on the top buttons of his shirt while mentally reviewing what I knew about gunshot wounds. I hadn’t exactly studied the subject in detail, but I did recall that I was supposed to try to keep air from getting in, as it could potentially lead to a sucking chest wound.
When I had the shirt open enough that I could see, I hesitated briefly and then stuck my right hand inside.
“I’m going to apply pressure to the wound,” I told him in a soothing voice. I was trying to keep my hand from trembling. I really didn’t want to touch him—to do so was to break a rule I had made for myself. But I wasn’t left with much choice.
He mumbled something, and I pressed on his chest with the utmost care, using my hand to keep the air out and hopefully stop the bleeding. I waited for a second to make sure I wasn’t hurting him. But his face didn’t twitch in response to my touch, so I brought my free hand over to his jacket, which I had placed on the ground, and I managed—after a little struggling—to get his phone out of the coat’s pocket.
Fumbling with the device, I told the wounded man, “I’m going to call 911. Just hang in there.”
The call was a bit frustrating, as I succinctly gave all the necessary details once and then got transferred to someone else who needed me to say everything
again, but at last the call was over and help was on its way. I set the phone on the ground and turned my attention back to the brown-haired man whose life I was trying to save.
“I think you’re going to be okay,” I said softly. “Just try to take it easy.”
“The man . . . beside me—”
“The three others here are dead,” I told him with a wince. “I’m sorry. Were that man and woman . . . trying to mug you?”
I looked into his face expectantly and frowned. It was constricted in pain, and his hold on consciousness was tenuous. But that wasn’t what surprised me. What surprised me was the change my question had made in his expression. Despite the great pain afflicting him, his face now betrayed a great hatred.
He was quiet for several seconds, and I began to dismiss my perception of his animosity as a strange byproduct of his slipping into unconsciousness, but he finally spoke in a voice that seemed strangely controlled. “We . . . we thought someone was crying out for help, so we came into the alley. . . . They . . . tried to mug us, and then they shot at my assistant, and we shot back at them.”
I looked away from him. Somehow, I knew that wasn’t exactly what had happened. The shots had just been too rapid for his story to be plausible—surely everyone must have had a gun at the ready when the shots were fired. But I shook my head and tried to dismiss my doubts. He certainly didn’t
seem like a bad person . . . . But what was a rich man like him doing in this part of town? And why couldn’t I shake the feeling of uneasiness he caused me? Had I imagined that angry look on his face?
“What . . . what was your name again?” he asked me groggily.
Though I wasn’t certain he would hear me, I answered, “Clark Kent.” My right hand twitched as a reminder of what I was doing, and I looked down at it. It was soaked with his blood, but it seemed as if I was succeeding in helping slow the seepage from the wound. Still, I knew he needed medical help fast. If I left now, he would probably bleed to death. My hand started to shake, but with some effort I willed it to stop.
Wanting to get my mind off my hand and the torn flesh beneath it, I was about to ask him what his name was, but he groaned loudly, his face contorting in agony.
“An ambulance will be here soon,” I informed him, trying to sound reassuring. “It’ll just be a little longer.”
“Thank . . . thank you,” he managed.
“Don’t speak any more. Save your strength.”
I looked worriedly toward the street. I wasn’t certain how long my hand would effectively serve as a bandage . . . . And I wasn’t sure how long I could actually force myself to maintain our contact.
At last, however, emergency vehicles surrounded the alley, and the wounded man was placed on a stretcher and moved into an ambulance. I considered asking if I could go with him, but I didn’t even know his name, so I let him go alone. Surely a man with that much money must have had some friends. I doubted he’d want a stranger staying with him. If I did, he would probably just think I wanted something.
As I watched the ambulance leave, a police officer approached me. He asked several questions which I answered as best as I could, and he got my statement. When I was at last free to go, I reflected that maybe the room I had rented wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. At least I would have a place to rest my head.
But before I returned to the Hotel Apollo, I went to a small store. I found their tiny restroom and washed my hands, thankful that at least they had soap and paper towels. My right hand was crusted with the stranger’s blood, and it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. Rinsing the blood off myself felt almost baptismal, yet I still felt somewhat stained in a way.
After I finished in the store’s bathroom and bought some sandwich and breakfast supplies, I returned to my room in a bit of a daze and placed some of the items in the grimy refrigerator. I set my alarm clock and changed into a sleep shirt. Then I collapsed on my bed in tears, no longer able to hold myself together. The cloud of fear I had been beating back descended on me, and I fell into a restless sleep filled with dreams of death.
