He'd been careful not to touch her. And he'd noticed that she hadn't touched him. Except for when their fingers had dived for the same piece of jigsaw.
He'd apologised quickly.
She hadn't seemed perturbed at all.
His throat felt dry and raspy. He'd managed to speak without too many squeaks. He had been so worried that the first time he tried to speak to her, nothing would come out. Or worse, that he would make an inhuman grunt.
The muscles of his jaw felt a little achy. But it was such a good soreness.
The best gift she had given him was not the food, not the bedding, not even the clothes. The best gift was how she treated him as if he were just a regular guy. Not a monster. Not a killer. Not an alien. Not a prisoner. Not an animal. Just someone to hang out with.
Someone to share chocolate with.
She'd been so careful to show him respect. So careful not to intrude.
See you tomorrow, Clark.
Part 8
~~ Monday ~~
Lois had a wonderful morning.
She visited her dad, arriving in his room just as Ronny finished combing his hair. He was in his wheelchair, dressed in one of the sweatsuits Lois had brought for him.
"Ms Lane," Ronny greeted with a wide smile. "Just in time to see how wonderful your dad looks this morning."
He did. Ronny had been right - just getting him out of his bed and dressing him made him look more like a person and less like a patient.
Lois hugged him - and she didn't have to pretend to smile. When she saw the doggy stress ball in his right hand, her smile widened further.
Ronny tidied up the few things she had been using and left with a cheerful directive for them to enjoy their visit.
Lois positioned a chair next to her father. "You look great, Dad," she said.
He wasn't looking at her - he was looking at his hand. She followed his gaze and saw his fingers tighten around the stress ball. As he did, the bulldog's face bulged grotesquely, and Lois laughed.
The sound startled both of them. Lois met her dad's eyes, and she smiled. "Do it again, Dad," she encouraged.
He did.
When his hold loosened, Lois rotated the dog so her father would be able to see its distended face. He squeezed again, and Lois's eyes jumped to his face to see his reaction.
The right side of his mouth twitched, and his eyes rose slowly from the dog to meet those of his daughter.
You seem happy this morning.
He hadn't said it, but Lois felt it.
"I am happy," she said, realising it was true. She felt good. Buoyant. As if she had managed to rise above the dark turbidity of hopelessness to find both air and light. After so long, it felt intoxicating. "I had a great day yesterday," she continued. "Things are settling in my new job, and I really enjoy it. I'm getting to know the people there, and one man is particularly nice. We ate supper together last night."
There could have been interest in her father's face. His right hand - still holding the stress ball - lifted slowly and swung horizontally for a few inches before collapsing onto the tray of his wheelchair.
Lois wasn't sure if it had been an involuntary movement, or if he had been trying to communicate something, and his arm had lost strength. She paused, unsure how to respond.
He repeated the action. This time she was sure it was deliberate.
Suddenly, she understood.
She grinned at him. "The paper planes, right? You want to know if we crashed them again?"
He blinked. Was that how he said 'yes'? The first time she had visited the nursing home, they had told her so much. She had met with a variety of specialists, and one had spoken about forms of communication other than speech, but Lois had been too numb to take in anything.
"We didn't fly them," she said. "Actually, that was my fault. The nice man went to a lot of effort to make an elaborate plane, and I think it would have flown like a bird. But I had been wanting to do a jigsaw puzzle, so we did that instead."
Her dad seemed to be listening.
Lois delved back through her memories - back to her childhood. She had done jigsaw puzzles with her dad. Mom and Lucy had despised them; they'd never had the patience, and at times, Lois had found them tedious, too. But her dad had enjoyed them, and Lois had enjoyed being with him.
An idea floated into her mind and settled like a falling snowflake. Maybe ...
"I have to go into work early today, Dad," Lois said. "One of the men who used to work at the place died, and I didn't know him, so I'm going to work so the others can go to the funeral. I'll try to remember to bring the plane that the nice man made so I can show you."
She told him about her lunch with Uncle Mike yesterday. Which led to the chicken fillet supper. Which - in her thoughts - led to Clark.
She told him she'd had to spend a night at work. Which led to the camp mattress. Which led to recalling a father-and-daughter scout camp they had attended together. Which led to the Winnie the Pooh sleeping bag. Which - in her thoughts - led to Clark.
Lois checked the time and was stunned that over half an hour had passed. "I have to go, Dad," she said with genuine regret. "I'll be back tomorrow." She stood, kissed his cheek, and smiled. "I love you, Dad."
After leaving the nursing home, she went to the department store.
Overnight, the ideas had rolled into her head like waves on a surf beach. Things she could give Clark. Things she could do for him. Things they could do together. Ways to ease the world into his room to prepare him for life outside again.
She didn't intend to implement all of her ideas today. This was going to take time. Despite him appearing astonishingly normal, seven years of suffering had to have wreaked untold damage. She had to remember that.
She was going to have to be patient, and patience had never been her strongpoint.
However, this wasn't about her - this was about Clark.
Lois trekked through the various departments, gathering an odd assortment of things that included a tennis racquet - bigger and heavier than hers - a small tin of white paint, five hard cover books that she had no intention of reading, a bathing cap, a pair of coveralls, and a wall mirror. As she added each item to her cart, her excitement inched a notch higher.
This was going to be fun.
Patience, she reminded herself as she stowed them in the Jeep. Don't kill him with kindness.
Yet if anyone deserved an attempt made on his life with kindness, it was Clark Kent.
She kept telling herself it was entirely possible that Clark would be withdrawn today - that he would need time to recover from the upheavals of yesterday. But all of her caution couldn't dampen one plan in particular - one plan that she so, so, soooooo hoped they would be able to do today.
Lois figured this idea would push the boundaries of Clark's comfort zone, but she was hoping he would trust her enough to allow her to do it.
But if he really didn't want to, she would accept that.
She would.
Even if her impatience jangled frenetically on the very edge of detonation.
She would wait for him. She would give him all the time he needed.
... Because what he needed more anything else was the chance to exert some control in his own life.
And she was going to give him that.
||_||
"Good morning, Shadbolt."
"Good morning, Ms Lane."
"Is everything OK?"
"Yeah. Longford and I gave him breakfast and a bowl of hot water at six."
"Did he seem OK?"
"Yeah ... although ..."
Lois halted her progress to the coffee machine - empty mug in her hand - and looked at him. She might as well get this over with now. "Although?"
"It seems there have been some changes in the cage."
"Oh. Such as?"
"He has a bed."
"A bed?"
"A mattress. A pillow."
Lois smiled. "He used them? Oh, good. I wondered if he would."
"You put them in the cage?"
"Yeah." Lois poured her coffee. "Anything else to report?" she asked casually.
"There seems to be something else in there."
"Any idea what?" Lois said. "I haven't been up to my office yet."
"It looks like a jigsaw puzzle."
Lois smiled even wider. "So he got that as well? Wonderful." She opened the fridge and took out the milk. "Anything else?"
"He's dressed."
She paused, her hand on the fridge door, her expression one of puzzlement that he would comment on something so fundamental.
Shadbolt shook his head. "I'm not sure about this."
Lois pushed the fridge door, and it thudded shut. "I know," she said as she poured milk into her coffee. She lifted her gaze to centre on the man sitting at the table. "But are you disconcerted because you really think he's going to be a threat to your safety? Or are you disconcerted because you've realised that the way things were done around here violates just about every human right our country holds as important?"
Shadbolt shuffled in his seat and stared at his magazine. "Trask said he wasn't human."
"And you believed him."
"I've seen the alien do things that aren't human."
"I've seen humans do things that aren't human."
Shadbolt tossed his magazine onto the table and glared at it.
Lois sat down. "Can I ask you something?"
"OK."
She took a breath and tried to prepare herself for an assault of horror. "What surgery did you do on the prisoner?"
Shadbolt's jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"
"The surgery you and Moyne did? What did it entail?"
Shadbolt shook his head. "I didn't do any surgery," he stated.
"Are you sure?" Lois said. "In Trask's log, there's an entry that says you and Moyne did some sort of surgery on the prisoner."
Shadbolt shook his head again. "I didn't," he said emphatically.
Lois stood. "Wait here." A minute later, she returned to the staffroom and pushed the open logbook across the table.
March 1, 1988
Today, I strengthened my position over the enemy. We exposed him to the Achilles for a full twelve hours overnight, leaving him weak and defenceless this morning. The surgery was performed by Moyne and Shadbolt.
Some of the colour faded from Shadbolt's cheeks as he read. "This ... this didn't happen," he said, pointing to the entry. "I wasn't involved in any surgery."
"Could it have been a procedure that you don't think of as surgery, but Trask did?"
"No," Shadbolt declared indignantly. "There was nothing like this. I was never involved in *anything* like this."
"It was over six years ago," Lois persisted. "Do you remember anything out of the ordinary? A day when Trask told you not to go into the cell?"
"No! Nothing." Shadbolt read the entry again, his annoyance obvious. "Is this an official record?"
Lois shrugged. "I don't think there are *any* official records of this operation."
"I *didn't* do this," Shadbolt reiterated.
"Do you have any thoughts about what the surgery could have entailed?"
He grimaced. "Plenty ... but I hope for everyone's sake that I'm way off base."
"Uhmm," Lois said, fighting against the nausea that wanted to rise into her throat. She dragged the logbook across the table and shut it.
"Are there other things in there that I am supposed to have done?" he asked, scowling at the logbook.
"Some."
"I don't suppose you'd let me read it?"
Lois considered for a moment. "OK," she said. "You can read it, but it's not to leave the premises."
"Thanks."
"I'll leave it in the closet with the rod tonight. You can read it tomorrow after Longford has gone."
"What if he finds it?"
Lois smiled. "I don't think Longford does anything other than sleep."
Shadbolt smiled, too. "Do you want me to put the prisoner's lunch in the cell before I leave?"
Lois shrugged. "Sure. Thanks. I have it here." She reached into her bag and drew out a prosciutto and coleslaw sandwich. "I'll get the rod."
Shadbolt unlocked the door and pushed it open while Lois stood there with a rod providing the *protection* that she knew with absolute certainty was not needed. He put the sandwich inside the cell and shut the door.
"Thanks," Lois said as she put away the rod.
"It's OK if I leave now?"
"Yup," she said. "I deliberately came early enough that you would have plenty of time to get ready for the funeral."
"Thanks," Shadbolt said. "I appreciate it."
Lois returned the milk to the fridge, picked up her coffee, and headed for the stairs. "See you tomorrow," she said.
"Bye."
Clark was pacing along the far wall. He was wearing the clothes she had given him yesterday. The jigsaw puzzle was almost done - he had made great progress since last night.
Lois watched him for a few moments. The clothes fitted well. The tee shirt -
She snatched the binoculars from her desk and zoomed in on Clark's arm.
The sleeve of the tee shirt was stretched slightly across an alluring mound of bicep muscle.
She banged the binoculars onto the desk and spun away as her heart thumped and self-reproach rose like pungent steam.
Lois perched on her desk, gripped it tightly with her hands, and stared at the door of her office as she rounded the rooms of her mind and slammed shut every door that wanted to entice her to places she knew she couldn't go.
She sprang from her desk and busied herself with dusting and tidying her office - and refused to allow herself to even peek through the window.
A few minutes later, she heard the external door open and close, and then she watched the digital clock tick over two minutes to ensure Shadbolt was truly gone.
She hurried down the stairs and outside to her Jeep. As she carted her purchases up to her office, she couldn't help envisioning Clark's reactions to her ideas, and little scraps of her excitement returned.
Finally, all of her purchases were on or under her desk.
What first?
Lois picked up the rectangular wall mirror she had bought. For the next fifteen minutes, she connected a strong cord to the mirror and hung it from the closet. She positioned it at the correct angle for the sunlight to reflect into Clark's room.
She glanced into the cell and smiled. A shaft of sunlight outshone the artificial light to create a patch of brightness on the side wall. Clark was sitting at the jigsaw puzzle, but his attention had moved to the beam of natural light.
He looked up to the window and waved.
He smiled - tentatively - but it was definitely a smile.
Lois smiled and waved, even though she knew he wouldn't be able to see her.
She gathered the things she would need for her 'big plan' and left them where they would be easily accessible on her desk. Then she ran a comb through her hair, checked her makeup in the mirror, locked the door to her office, and went down the stairs.
At the staffroom, she paused. "Patience, Lane," she muttered. "One step at a time."
||_||
Clark had been listening for the lock for a couple of hours. He knew it was too early, but that knowledge hadn't been enough to stop him listening.
He could hear the clunk of the lock with normal hearing. The temptation to use his extra hearing abilities was strong - to try to hear her voice, or her footsteps, or anything that would alert him to her presence. So far, he'd managed to resist.
He had no right to try to track her movements.
She had every right to arrive without notifying him.
And Shadbolt wasn't due to leave for a few hours.
Waiting had suddenly become unbearable.
She *would* come. She had said, "See you tomorrow, Clark."
He tried to straighten his unruly hair with his fingers. He'd already washed his body and brushed his teeth. There wasn't much else he could do to ready himself for her company.
The lock clicked, and every muscle in his body tensed.
But it wasn't Lois who appeared at the door; it was Shadbolt. Clark turned away quickly.
A paper bag that probably contained his lunch was pushed into his prison. Did that mean Shadbolt was leaving soon?
Clark hoped so.
It was so hard to wait.
He had spent seven years in this room, and right now, the next hour seemed to stretch longer than all of those years.
He wanted to see her so much.
Would she come in as soon as Shadbolt left?
If she did, what would they do?
He'd almost finished the jigsaw puzzle.
Clark hurried over to the puzzle and dropped next to it. He started to pick out some of the pieces - being careful not to disrupt the rose bush that Lois had put together - and spread them randomly on the newspaper.
He picked up the box and looked at the picture. Was the sky really that blue? It reminded him of a crisp summer morning on the farm with his dad. His attention moved to the house. It was nothing like the farmhouse where he'd lived, but it was too easy to imagine his mom sitting in the shade of the porch - knitting, or reading, or shelling peas, or painting her latest masterpiece.
He had to push away thoughts of his parents. He knew they were suffering. The best he could hope for was that their suffering was limited to knowing nothing of what had happened to him. If he thought about all the other ways they could be hurt ... If he thought about the fact that their love and acceptance of him had brought such heartache and disruption to their lives ... He *couldn't* think about that. He knew that if he dwelt on them, his pain would become intolerable.
Then, his prison brightened suddenly. He looked up from the puzzle and saw an irregularly shaped splash of sunlight on the side wall - a place where the sun had never shone before.
It was *Lois*.
Clark felt himself smile. Lois shining light into his world was so symbolic.
He looked up to the window and waved as the knowledge that she had arrived simmered through him like a boiling kettle. He wasn't sure whether that made him more patient or less.
He checked again that the tin box was next to the door, right where she couldn't possibly fail to see it when she opened the door.
Then, he went to sit in the sunshine that Lois had provided for him and waited for her.
He didn't have to wait for long.
A few minutes later, the lock clicked, the door opened, and Lois peeped into his prison. She glanced down to the box and then fully opened the door and pulled the chair against it.
Clark stood, his heart rollicking around his chest in a wild dance of anticipation.
She walked over to him with steady steps and a welcoming smile. "Hi, Clark," she said when she reached him.
"Hi, Lois."
They didn't say anything for a few seconds, but that was OK because Clark needed some time to try to settle insides that were romping like children on Christmas morning.
Lois didn't seem to mind the lull. "It's good to see you again," she said.
Oh, yes. "It's good to see you."
"Did you sleep OK?"
Clark glanced to the mattress and hoped she wouldn't perceive the truth about how difficult it had been to readjust to real bedding. But he wanted to be honest with her. "It might take some time to get used to it again," he said.
"That's OK," she said with an understanding smile. "I wanted to give you the choice. If you choose to sleep on the floor, that's fine."
"Thanks," he said.
"You haven't eaten your lunch yet."
"No."
"I haven't either. Do you want to eat together?"
That was precisely why he hadn't begun eating.
Lois grinned. "I'll get us some drinks. What would you like? Coke? Or a hot drink?"
"Coke, please," Clark said. "Thank you."
While she was out of the room, Clark removed the sleeping bag and pillow from the mattress and pulled it to the place against the side wall where the sunlight fell.
"Would you like to sit here?" he asked when she returned.
"Sure," she said.
Clark waited until she had sat down, and then he sat next to her, his body turned towards her.
"Are you doing all right?" Lois asked.
He nodded.
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Because yesterday was huge," Lois said as she lifted her sandwich from the bag. "I thought about it later. If I was too ... much ... yesterday, I'm sorry."
"No," Clark said quickly. She had thought about him. "You got it exactly right."
Lois smiled. "Really?"
She looked pleased by his words. As if his approval meant something to her. Clark wanted to say more. He wanted to say that she was amazing. And breathtaking. And beautiful. But he didn't. He couldn't.
He was an alien.
A prisoner.
His opinion wasn't worth anything.
"I think I might today," Lois said.
She might what? Clark scrambled back through their conversation and still couldn't grasp her meaning. "You might what?" he asked.
"I might push too hard today."
He wasn't sure if that pleased him or petrified him. "Why?"
"Because I'm going to suggest we do something that I think you'll find really difficult."
Uh oh. What was she going to ask of him? Now, Clark was definitely petrified. He couldn't refuse Lois anything.
Could he?
"If you don't want to do it, that's OK," Lois said. "It's your decision. If I'm going too fast, you need to tell me. If you have anything you'd like us to do, you need to tell me."
He nodded. He took a bite of his neglected sandwich.
"Sometimes I see you finger-comb your hair," Lois said.
If she'd noticed that, she had to have noticed his unsightly hair and ugly unkempt beard. "I ... I was trying to get around to asking you if it would be possible to have a comb."
Lois nodded. "I thought so." She looked at his mass of long, black hair, and Clark had to control the urge to push it off his shoulders to try to hide it. "It's not going to be easy to comb out after all this time."
"I know," he said regretfully. "I tried to keep it from getting too knotty, but ..."
"But that would be close to impossible with no comb and limited water."
And - until she came - no soap. He nodded.
"Would you prefer that it was cut?"
"Yes," he said. "But you can't do that."
"I know," Lois said. "Not yet. It would be too hard to hide something as drastic as a haircut from the others. And there would be no way to explain it other than by saying that I'd come in here and done it, or I'd given you scissors. Both of which would cause a commotion that would be best avoided."
Even with scissors, she probably wouldn't be able to cut it. Not now that his powers were coming back. Clark chewed slowly to give himself some time. "What do you have in mind?" he asked after he'd swallowed.
Lois smiled. "I'd like to wash your hair - I've got some shampoo, and I've got some detangling lotion, so after I've washed it, I'd like to comb it out."
Clark felt his throat constrict is if a string threaded around it had been yanked tight. Touch him? Touch his hair? His hideous, knotty, neglected hair? He couldn't let her. He just couldn't. That she'd seen it was bad enough. To have her *touch* it, feel it. "I ... I couldn't ..."
"Why not?"
"Because ... because ..." He *had* washed it. More than once since she'd given him the shampoo. But the thought of her soft hands touching the ratty mess just didn't bear thinking about.
"Because?" she asked with a gentle smile.
"Because ... because someone might come." The final few words came in a rush. Clark hated that he didn't have the courage to admit to the real reason.
"No one will come," Lois said decisively.
"How can you know?"
"Because they're all at Trask's funeral."
Funeral? "Trask's dead?" Clark asked in a strangled voice.
Lois nodded.
"Did ... did Moyne kill him?"
"No," she said. "He walked under a bus."
Clark put the remainder of his sandwich on the paper bag. "He's really dead?"
"Yes. He's really dead. He can't hurt you anymore."
Clark brushed back his hair and shuddered a long sigh. "I ... I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything."
He picked up the remainder of his sandwich and ate it without speaking.
Lois finished her lunch as well.
Clark slowly sipped his Coke and tried to concentrate on the all-but-forgotten taste. Nothing, however, could detract from the revelation that Trask was dead.
He was dead. Gone. Never to return.
More than once, Clark thought Lois was about to speak, but she said nothing.
Was she thinking about Trask?
Or was she disappointed by Clark's refusal to allow her to wash his hair?
Why would she *want* to touch him?
He didn't understand.
Clark drained his Coke and put it on the floor. It clattered as it hit the concrete. Lois waited, smiled.
"L...Lois?" he said.
"Yes?"
"About my hair ... I'm sorry."
Her smile didn't waver, but something vital ebbed away. "That's OK," she said. "I understand."
"I ... I ... " She deserved his honesty. "It's bad enough that you saw my shame in the way I lived - "
"That was Trask's shame, not yours."
"It's too ..." Too much. Too soon. Too close. Too intimate. Too humiliating. Too indicative of how low he had sunk.
"I'm sorry," Lois said.
"Please," Clark said hastily. "Please don't be sorry. I'm the one who's sorry."
"The offer stands," she said. "Anytime you want to take it up, just say so."
He nodded, but he couldn't imagine ever being comfortable enough around Lois to allow her to do something as personal as washing his hair.
She'd gone quiet.
He'd disappointed her.
She'd given him so much.
And he'd disappointed her.
But ...
Perhaps if they did something else first. Clark gathered up the empty cans and put them into one of the bags. "The jigsaw puzzle?" he suggested.
"OK." She took the trash and walked slowly out of the prison.
She left the door open, Clark noticed. He could hear her as she moved around the adjoining room. He picked up the mattress and placed it near the puzzle. Unless Lois came back with Trask's mattress, they would have only one.
He would sit on the concrete.
She wasn't carrying anything when she returned. Clark gestured for her to sit on the mattress. She sat down and shuffled over to make room for him.
He could sit there without risk of touching her.
He sat, too, but he didn't pick up a puzzle piece.
Lois picked up one piece, tried to fit it in three difference places, and gave up on it. She chose another piece and tried to fit it.
Clark found that all of his interest in the puzzle had faded away.
He'd hurt Lois.
It was just washing his hair ... no big deal.
Any other man would be honoured to have her wash his hair.
But he wasn't a man.
He was an alien.
He could let her do it. He could grit his teeth, and close his eyes, and take himself to the place where he'd gone so often when they'd beaten his body with the poisoned rods.
Except ... that was the place he went when he was hurting.
And Lois would never hurt him.
Clearly, it meant a lot to her.
Was it because he hadn't managed to wash his hair properly? Despite his efforts, was his hair truly disgusting? He hadn't seen it - but he could imagine how horrendous it must be.
"Clark?"
He jumped at the sudden sound of her voice. "Yes, Lois?"
She glanced at her watch. "It's almost one o'clock. The funeral starts at two. There's no chance of us being interrupted now."
"OK." Was she going to ask again?
"I have an idea for something we could do."
"You do?"
"I do," she said. "Tennis. Well, it'll probably be more like squash."
He looked around the prison, seeing the possibilities. "Squash?"
She nodded. "I know you've kept fit with running and other exercises. I have a ball and two racquets. Would you like to?"
Clark sprang to his feet. Squash he could manage.
