The final step, and she stopped a few inches from his feet. He was looking up at her, his eyes dark, his shoulders rigid, his forearms flexed, his knuckles gnarled, his face - what she could see under the beard - a frozen mask.
He wasn't smiling.
He looked stunned. As if he couldn't believe she was here.
Lois wasn't sure she believed it either.
She took a craggy breath.
She swallowed.
Opened her mouth.
"I'm Lois," she said.
He blinked a couple of times. He swallowed again - rough and scratchy - and hauled in a trembly breath.
"I'm Clark," he said.
Part 6
Clark.
Clark Kent.
Lois stared at Clark.
He stared at her.
Was he doing the same thing she was? Rolling her name around his brain and fitting it with the person who - until now - had been unidentified?
Actually, 'Clark' was perfect.
Clark.
Strong ... yet gentle.
His eyes were 'Clark' eyes.
His hands were 'Clark' hands.
Clark.
The silence was becoming awkward. Looking down on him wasn't comfortable either.
"Would you like to stand up?" Lois asked hesitantly.
He rose to his feet in a lithe movement. Once he was standing, however, all his fluency dropped away. His hands hung by his side, as if he didn't know where to put them. His eyes rested on her but seemed poised to rear away if she did anything unexpected.
His height surprised her. She had assumed that his gauntness made him look taller. She hadn't expected him to be four or five inches taller than she was.
He was significantly broader as well. His shoulders were wide, and his chest - what wasn't hidden by the long beard - spoke of the potential for power.
For his age, he was in good condition. If she factored in all the neglect and abuse he had suffered, his physique was incredible.
In difference circumstances, he could have been anything.
He appeared to be scrutinising her just as closely as she was scrutinising him.
Was it true what Moyne had said? That Clark hadn't seen a woman in seven years? It seemed likely.
This felt uncomfortable for her. How much worse must it be for him?
Someone had to speak.
He was waiting for her. That was understandable. She had come to him. She had come into *his* place. She had initiated this.
Her inclination was to ask questions. Hundreds of questions, all fired at him with breath-taking swiftness.
But she couldn't do that to him.
If their positions were reversed, what would he say to her?
He would ask if she were OK. He'd torn up strips of paper to ask exactly that when he'd heard her screaming during the night.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
His head jolted slightly.
"Does it hurt you to talk?"
"Not m...much."
His voice was scratchy. Jagged. It reminded her of a piece of machinery being coaxed back into operation after years of rusted immobility.
The questions were going to have to wait.
If he had felt able to talk freely, what would he ask?
The answer was obvious.
"I've made inquiries about your parents," Lois said gently.
His eyes widened; he was preparing himself to face the worst of news.
"I haven't heard anything yet," she said. "It might take some time."
He nodded with acceptance, and Lois felt an almost overwhelming need to reach out and touch him. To lightly run her palm down his upper arm.
"As soon as I know anything, I'll tell you."
"Thank you."
What else would he ask?
"Trask is gone," Lois said. "He won't be coming back."
The reaction was remarkably subdued. Perhaps Clark had already arrived at that conclusion. Or perhaps he was not a man to openly exhibit his hatred.
"Moyne has gone."
"You ... you said that ... in the note."
The notes. That reminded Lois of something. "Do you still have the notes that we wrote to each other?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Where are they?"
"In my pocket."
"Would you mind giving them to me, please?"
Something flickered in his eyes. It could have been disappointment. He didn't say anything, but pushed his right hand into his shorts pocket and fumbled for a few seconds. As his hand emerged, a small object fell from his pocket and clattered onto the concrete.
His hand froze.
Apprehension set like a granite mask on his face.
Lois tore her eyes away from him and searched the floor. She saw it - a small bullet. Dented at the end. A *fired* bullet.
It had hit something. What?
She bent low and picked it up. She rolled it between her thumb and fingers and then lifted her eyes. "Is this the bullet Moyne shot at me?"
Clark nodded.
"Do you know what it hit?"
His eyelids fell shut as if he wished there were a way to avoid her question. When his eyes opened again, he gave her a taut nod.
"Hold out your hands," she requested softly.
Clark put forward both of his hands, palms up. Lois took the notes and the now-limp airplane from him and shoved them into her pocket. Being careful not to touch him, she leant slightly forward and examined his hands.
There was a small blemish in the middle of his right palm. If she hadn't been looking for it specifically, she probably wouldn't have noticed it.
She nodded downwards, indicating his hand. "Is that where you caught the bullet?"
His breath hissed, and his eyes dived. "Yes."
Lois - who avoided physical contact whenever possible - thrust both hands into her pockets to contain the urge to reach for him. The yearning to touch him. To reassure him. To ease away the uneasiness so evident in his eyes.
"Clark?"
His head jolted up, and his eyes shot into hers. Fear burned in them. He had paid such an incredibly high price for being different.
"Thank you," she said. "Thank you for stopping Moyne from hurting me."
He gulped. Staunch resolve pushed back the fear. "I ... I ... couldn't ... let him ..."
His hands dropped, and he slid them into the pockets of his shorts. He stared at his feet.
Lois figured he was close to the end of his endurance. She could only imagine how difficult this had been for him. She smiled. He probably wouldn't see it, but she hoped he'd hear it in her voice. "Would you like tea?" she asked. "Or coffee?"
His head rose. "Tea?" he said with gratitude that she knew addressed far more than her offer of a drink. "Please?"
"I'll make it."
Even as she said the words, Lois realised the problem inherent in her offer. To make the tea, she had to go into the staffroom. To go into the staffroom, she either had to turn her back on Clark ... or walk backwards - thereby clearly demonstrating that she didn't trust him.
He turned, walked back to his corner, and sat down.
Lois watched him for a second and then turned away and walked across the cell. At the door, she waved to him.
He lifted his hand a little.
She pushed the chair out of the doorway and shut the door. She filled the kettle and put it on the stove.
How could a man who had been starved of human interaction for seven years retain the aptitude to read the uncertainties of others and the grace to respond with such humility?
He always seemed able to anticipate what she needed from him.
She wanted to do the same for him.
Leaving the kettle to heat, Lois ran up the stairs to her office. Mr Kent ... Clark was sitting against the wall, staring forward.
He looked shocked.
He looked like he had just survived a monumental ordeal.
Perhaps she should have warned him that she intended to come into the cell - given him some time to prepare emotionally.
She had tried to consider this from his viewpoint, but the truth was that she couldn't even imagine how he must feel.
Was he hoping she wouldn't linger when she returned with his tea? Or was he hoping she would?
There was every chance that he was too stunned to know what he wanted.
They had been very kind at the US embassy when she had arrived after a month of being on the run in hostile territory. They had tried to help her ... tried to anticipate her needs ... tried to provide anything she needed. She had wanted to be alone, yet being alone had felt so chillingly remote. She had shrunk away from the company of others; yet their presence had blunted the terror of her darkest memories.
She had found it impossible to give answers to even the most simple of their well-meaning questions.
And that was after weeks of trauma.
Clark's suffering was measured in years.
Lois took the scraps of paper from her pocket. He had kept them. Kept them in his pocket. She was about to rip them to shreds and drop them into the trashcan when she paused. She put them in a compartment in her bag and added the bullet that could have ended her life.
She took the pile of his clothes from the closet and took them down to the staffroom.
The kettle was boiling vigorously.
She made the two cups of tea as her mind replayed her conversation with Clark.
She remembered looking at his hands ... and seeing his fear that she would respond negatively to his admission that he could stop a bullet.
The tea was ready. Should she take the clothes and the tea in together? And then drink her tea in the staffroom so he could change?
That would give them both much-needed time to regain some equilibrium.
Lois opened the door and pulled the chair into the doorway. She picked up his cup of tea and the clothes and crossed the threshold.
Clark was standing next to the back wall.
She smiled as she approached him. It felt awkward, and - as far as she could tell - he didn't respond. When she reached him, she squatted to put the tea on the concrete.
She straightened and smiled again.
He was so still that she wasn't completely sure he was breathing.
With the pile of clothes between her palms, she held them towards him.
His eyes sprang from the clothes to her and then dived back to the clothes. His throat jumped and she figured he was going to struggle to speak.
Lois took half a step closer. "I'll drink my tea in the staffroom," she said.
"Th ..." He gulped and stopped.
Her emotions erupted inside her. If she didn't get out really soon, she was going to dissolve into a bawling clutter of tears.
She was probably going to do that, anyway.
Lois shoved the clothes into his hands and turned away. She ran to the doorway, pushed the chair away, and slammed the door shut.
She leant against it and wept immense body-shaking sobs.
She wept for her friend, Linda.
She wept for her father.
She wept for herself.
But mostly, she wept for the man on the other side of the door.
What Trask and Moyne had done to this man was appalling. Sickening.
Small excerpts from Trask's log assaulted her mind.
He is an animal.
He killed today.
The beast mauled the broken body of his prey.
Regular discipline sessions are deemed necessary.
The brute is a despicable beast.
His spirit can be broken.
Each memory drove her tears harder. The tension clutched her stomach and pinched the muscles of her neck.
Clark had suffered so much.
It was a long time before the tide of her emotions began to turn.
Slowly, her resolve overcame her raw fury.
She would *not* allow them to win.
She would stand and fight.
If only she could go back seven years and prevent this from happening.
She couldn't.
She couldn't restore the stolen years.
But she could make a difference now.
She wouldn't rest until Clark had the best life possible.
She wasn't sure what that would entail or how it could be achieved, but she was determined to do it.
Because there was something about Mr Clark Kent that had touched her in a way no other person ever had.
||_||
Clark held the clothes in hands that trembled.
His head felt like it was reeling.
His heart felt like a cold, numb clod.
He hadn't expected anything like this.
He'd hoped she would write him a note ... perhaps carried by a paper jet.
But she'd walked into his cell. She'd walked right up to him as if she neither saw his differences nor feared them. She'd spoken to him. She'd asked him about the bullet.
Never before in his life had he been so tempted to lie.
He was desperate to hide.
To hide what he'd done.
More importantly, to hide who he was.
Particularly from *her*. He *so* wanted her to keep liking him.
Well, she didn't *like* him. How could she? But he had been hoping she would continue to tolerate him.
He'd told her the truth ... he couldn't lie to her. He just couldn't.
So, he'd admitted to being a freak who could catch a bullet.
And she'd *thanked* him.
There had not even been a hint that it had occurred to her that normal people didn't catch bullets fired from guns.
She hadn't recoiled in disgust.
He knew he must look like something inhuman. He'd admitted to bizarre abilities, and she'd thanked him.
She'd *thanked* him.
Then he heard her.
From the other side of the door came the sound of her weeping - weeping as if her heart was shattering. It enveloped him like a cloak of dismay.
Who had made her cry?
Please, he begged. Please don't let it be something I did.
Should he have taken the clothes more quickly?
In the end, she'd had to push them onto him.
Did she think he wasn't appreciative?
He hadn't even managed to thank her.
If she looked into the prison and found him still wearing the old shorts, she was going to be sure that he was an ungrateful ruffian.
Every sob felt like a vice tightening around his heart.
Clark moved into the corner under the window. He laid the pile on the concrete and then lifted the tee-shirt and slipped it over his head. He pulled his hair and beard out from under the shirt and stroked the material.
It was soft.
He didn't feel so exposed.
His eyes fell to the pile.
Briefs?
He gulped.
She had bought him briefs?
Two pairs?
Had she bought these clothes? Personally? Or had she sent someone else to do it?
He didn't know whether he was touched or mortified.
But he was sure of one thing ... she ...*Lois* was the most amazing person he had ever met.
||_||
Over an hour passed before Lois felt composed enough to think about going back into the cell.
She had cried until there were no tears left.
Then she had drunk hot, very strong coffee and cleaned away the mass of soggy tissues - running up the stairs to put them in her own trashcan but not even glancing through the window.
She went to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on her puffy eyes. She dabbed them dry and peered into the mirror. She applied a little makeup and decided that she looked almost human.
What now?
Go back into the cell?
Stay away?
She decided she would go in again. If she stayed away, he would wonder why. She would try not to overwhelm him with questions. She would try to be there for him. If she just went and sat with him ... he could talk if he wanted to ... or be silent if he chose.
She pulled the chair forward, unlocked the door, and opened it. She wedged the chair against the door and then looked up.
Her breath jammed in her throat.
Clark was standing against the back wall. He was wearing the clothes she had given him.
He looked ... wow!
Lois walked over to him and smiled. "You look good," she said.
He pushed his hands into the pockets of his shorts and looked down as he dragged his toe across the concrete. "Thanks." He cleared his throat. "Thanks for everything."
"Perhaps we could sit down," she said, hoping to ease him through the awkwardness. "You sometimes sit in the sunshine at this time of the day."
Clark gestured towards the little patch of sunlight on the floor of his cell, and Lois walked over to it.
She lowered herself to the floor, leaving most of the sunshine for him. She crossed her legs and hooked them in the ring of her arms.
Clark sat - facing her.
"Are there any questions you'd like to ask?" she said.
He nodded. "Two."
"OK," she said, curiosity searing a path through her brain. "First one."
"Was it something I did that made you cry?"
Lois felt her mouth fall open. She knew she was staring dumbly, but she couldn't get beyond her surprise at his question.
His eyes were fixed on his hand, which was draped over his arched knee. He must be continually fighting the compulsion to hide. She was staggered at how often he had managed to meet her eyes.
"It wasn't you," she said softly and sincerely.
He looked up. "It wasn't?"
She shook her head. "No," she said firmly. "It wasn't you."
Some of the anxiety faded from his eyes.
Had he been worrying about that?
Suddenly, she knew his second question. "And when I screamed the other night, that wasn't anything you did either."
More anxiety ebbed away.
Trask had called him a monster.
Did Clark believe that? Had he internalised all the lies they had told him?
"It wasn't you," she repeated with emphasis. "Was that your second question?"
"No," he said, although the word got lost somewhere and was never quite vocalised.
"What's your other question?"
He took a moment before speaking. "Why did you take the notes?"
Lois hesitated. There was a long answer and a short answer. "Because, in my job, it's a good idea not to leave anything behind that could be used against you if it got into the wrong hands." She saw his look of confusion. "And I don't mean yours."
He didn't respond for a moment, and then a glimmer of insight lit his brown eyes. "Do you want me to change back into the other shorts whenever someone else opens the door?"
Lois smiled at the ease with which he had understood. "I can probably justify a few clothes," she said.
"Can you justify coming in here?"
"No," she said. She smiled to soften her reply. "No, I can't. But if no one knows, there isn't going to be a problem."
"Will you get into trouble if they find out?"
"Not trouble exactly," she said. "I'm just being careful. It becomes a habit after a few years." Not for anything was she going to tell Clark that the most likely form of 'trouble' would involve her being removed from this operation.
"Are you worried about someone coming and catching you in here?"
"I'm listening," Lois said. "The outside door creaks. I'm hoping I'll hear it and be able to get back into the staffroom before anyone realises."
"I'm listening, too."
She smiled. "Thanks."
"You shouldn't do anything that might cause you trouble."
The remnant of her tears huddled again for another assault on her emotions. She smiled, hoping he wouldn’t notice the dampness in her eyes. "I'll be fine. You don't need to worry about it." But somehow, she thought he probably would worry - not for himself but for her.
Silence fell again. Lois took the opportunity to study him ... although she tried not to be too obvious. She had the feeling he was doing exactly the same.
It was possible he was a few years younger than she had surmised. The skin around his eyes was smooth - perhaps the lack of sunlight had been good for that, at least. Dark lashes framed his brown eyes - eyes that kept drawing her back to them. In them, she could see so much ... pain certainly, but tenacity and resolve, too ... It was as if they encapsulated the ravages of his battle.
His lips were no longer chafed and rough. His teeth were nothing short of a miracle ... they carried no hint of the years of neglect.
"They told me that you don't talk," Lois said.
His face closed, and she knew immediately that it had been the wrong thing to say.
"I guess that was just another one of their lies," she said.
His eyes shot into hers. "You don't believe them?"
"No," Lois said before her agent training could step in and smother her declaration.
His mouth opened, only to close again. He had wanted to ask something. She needed to try to guess what he was thinking.
"What happened to those two men?" she asked gently. "The two men who died in here?"
"Didn't they tell you?"
"I'm asking you."
"Moyne killed them."
Lois let out a long breath. This was a major fork in the road of their association. If he was an alien with plans for escape and slaughter, admitting she believed him over the word of other humans was going be a huge fillip to his plans. But if she said she wasn't sure, it was going to crush him. And he had already been crushed so much. Her gut was screaming at her - crying out with clench-fisted-red-faced-insistent screams. She obeyed. "That's what I figured happened," she said.
Clark's eyes closed, and his throat wobbled tremulously. He needed some time alone.
Lois stood. "I'll be back soon with supper," she said. She walked out of the cell as her tears rose again.
||_||
Clark slumped against the wall, unable to believe that after all he had suffered, the thing that was coming closest to bringing him completely undone was not the beatings, not the hours and hours of lying in pain and wondering if, this time, he was going to die, not the days of hunger and thirst, not the hatred so evident in the jailers as they had beaten him ... but a beautiful woman saying she didn't believe that he was a killer.
She believed him.
Lois believed him.
She didn't know him ... they must have told her awful incriminatory things about him ... yet she believed him.
He'd been petrified when the bullet had fallen from his pocket. Her presence had made him so nervous that it had been difficult to stop his hand from shaking as he'd tried to retrieve the pieces of paper. Then, the bullet had hit the concrete, and he'd known that she would know.
She would know that he was different.
Alien.
Someone to be feared.
Shunned.
Hated.
Despised.
But ... she had thanked him.
He scrunched his eyes shut, but it was in vain. His tears flowed ... flooding down his cheeks and soaking his beard.
He turned away, towards the wall, away from Lois - and wept.
||_||
Lois locked the door to the cell. That way, before she went in, she had to unlock it ... and that would give Clark notice that she was coming.
She climbed the stairs, her steps slow and heavy. At the top, instead of going into her office, she slumped onto the top step and leant back against the wall.
She felt like a dry rag that had had every possible drop of moisture squeezed from it. But the cascade of tears had washed away some of the grime that had clogged her heart since she'd abandoned Linda's dead body and made her dash for freedom.
Lois felt as if she could sleep for a week.
But in the oppressive exhaustion, there was a quickening of hope - hope that sleep would usher in a new dawn on a world that was no longer completely shadowed in darkness.
Sleep wasn't possible now, and Lois needed to pull herself together. The one thing Clark didn't need was being forced to deal with an emotionally distraught female.
He'd already shown his dismay at her distress.
If he was - as she assumed - a bachelor, he might not have had a whole lot to do with women. He hadn't had any contact with people - not of a good sort - in seven years. No matter how distraught she felt because of his situation, he needed her to be calm and in control.
He definitely didn't need her dissolving into an emotional tumult every time she went into his cell.
No wonder he'd thought he had caused her tears.
In a way, he had.
One thing she could give him was calm composure.
Some semblance of normalcy.
She had half an hour to settle herself.
Lois hauled herself to her feet and entered her office. Out of habit, she looked through the window.
Clark was hunched into the wall.
His shoulders were shaking.
Her eyes skidded through the cell, searching frantically for a rod.
There was nothing.
Then she realised.
This time, his pain wasn't physical.
Within her rose a swell of empathy ... And an urgent longing to fly down the stairs, storm into the cell, and surround him with her arms. To hold him while he wept. To comfort him. To pledge to him that his fight had become her fight, too.
She wanted to ... but what would he want? What did he need?
Probably privacy, she admitted to herself.
And, if she went to him, he would almost certainly feel compelled to try to control the release of his anguish.
She would probably embarrass him.
Like her, he would probably feel better if his tears ran their course.
Lois turned away from him and went back to the staffroom.
Privacy was another gift she could give him.
And it was one that probably meant more to him that she could ever imagine.
