"Ms Lane is a highly competent operative," Scardino said.
Menzies snorted. "She's still a woman." He turned and strode away without a backward glance.
Daniel slipped into the driver's seat of his car.
Eric Menzies was not just a 'higher-up'. He was one of the 'highest-ups'.
He was a man feared for his inflexible austerity and sharp, scything tongue.
He had recently returned to the job after a yearlong absence that had evoked a legion of rumours, but no one Daniel knew had dared to ask the man himself.
And he was married to Neville Moyne's aunt.
Part 10
As soon as Lois stepped out of his prison, Clark moved away from the door.
He'd said the scariest three words in his vocabulary.
I'm an alien.
The three words that had haunted him before his capture and condemned him since.
But Lois ...
Lois hadn't recoiled. She hadn't flinched. She hadn't bombarded him with a million questions.
She'd probably suspected before his admission. They would have told her. But even so, her reaction to his bald statement confirmed what he already knew.
Lois was an extraordinary woman.
Her easy acceptance reached deep inside him and squarely confronted all of the hate, and the animosity, and the suspicion, and the fear. And in the face of her support, all of their repugnance crumpled to insignificance.
He could stand against the hostility of the whole world if she were standing beside him.
He'd let her see his speed and his freezing breath. He hadn't given one thought to how she would react. All that had mattered was that she was in pain, and he'd known exactly how to help her.
He hadn't needed to worry. She'd thanked him - just like with the bullet, she'd thanked him.
In the distant past, when he'd still allowed himself the luxury of dreams, he had dreamed of someone who could learn to overlook his oddities.
But Lois ... she *embraced* them.
He should fix his concentration on his weird powers.
That would keep his mind from giving licence to the thoughts that were poised like athletes on the starting block, just waiting for a signal that it was OK to break free and revel in all the other memories.
Carrying her.
Clark closed his eyes as every inch of skin on his arms quivered with the remembrance of her.
Holding her in his arms ...
Had been ...
His heart accelerated. She had been tucked so close to his heart that it might never recover its normal rhythm.
Touching her.
Her skin was so soft.
His thumb. He could still feel her skin under his thumb.
She smelled like the first flush of spring flowers after a long winter.
She was so soft.
So strong.
So womanly.
So beautiful.
And he needed to think about something else.
*Anything* else.
... Because no matter how she reacted to his disturbing disclosures or how tolerant she seemed of his peculiarities, two facts were immutable.
He was an alien. Worse than that, he was a prisoner.
And, one day, she would leave him.
Clark's heart splintered.
He'd already lost everything once.
Could he lose everything again and still fight on?
He didn't know.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and leant his shoulder against the wall, his head low, his eyes locked on his bare feet. In the first months of his imprisonment, he'd thought that deprivation came in the denial of freedom. Then, he'd realised that it came in the dearth of food, and water, and dignity.
Now he knew better.
Deprivation ... true deprivation ... came in being separated from Lois.
And that was his inevitable destiny.
He had to decide.
Should he fight to recover the distance between them? Should he withdraw from her the way he had withdrawn from Trask and Moyne in order to keep them from desecrating his soul?
Should he hide away and refuse her entry into his world?
Would that make her departure any less painful?
He doubted it.
Or should he accept what she seemed to be offering? Should he talk to her, allow her to pervade his world? Should he open up to her? Allow her to be the first person - other than his parents - to see him as he really was?
A discordant thought crowded into his mind.
What if this was just an act? What if Trask wasn't dead? What if they had decided that the beatings were never going to get him to admit that others of his kind were coming? What if they were trying a new tactic? Sending in a beautiful woman to ply him with her kindness? To treat him humanely so that he would spill the secret of the invading army of aliens?
There *was* no army.
Trask had done everything in his power to get Clark to admit to knowledge of the alien army.
If there was an army - Clark had no knowledge of it.
But saying so had only provoked Trask's paranoia and goaded Moyne's anger.
What if Lois asked him about the coming armies?
What would he say?
Clark shrugged slightly.
All he could give her was the truth.
That - as far as he knew - he was the only surviving Kryptonian.
But that didn't answer what he should do about Lois. Should he cower away in the dark shadows of his mind? Or continue to allow her to awaken and invigorate the vestiges of what had once been his life?
Then he remembered.
Lois had been hurt, too.
She had witnessed the death of her friend, and buried deep inside her, she still carried the oppressive burden of grief. He had sensed guilt there, too.
And ... perhaps even ... Was there more? What else had she endured?
The thought of it felt like a blade lacerating his heart.
How could he even consider withdrawing from her?
He couldn't.
He could do nothing to help her ... not in a practical sense. He had nothing to give her. Nothing of worth to offer. But he could be there for her ... He could listen if she wanted to talk. He could be the safe sounding board that she might need before she felt ready to reconnect with the outside world.
That was probably why she had taken this job. To escape. To recover.
He heard a footstep and turned.
Lois was there - holding two cups of tea. She offered him one. "It's closer to the evening than the morning," she said. "I figured you'd like tea."
He reached for both cups. "You shouldn't have done that," he scolded lightly. "You should be resting your ankle." He put the cups on the floor. "How can I help?"
She looked around the prison. "You could bring the mattress over here," she said. "And we'll lean against the wall while we drink our tea."
Clark hurried to position the mattress as she had suggested. Then, he hesitantly raised his hand towards her and waited for her to decide if she wanted or needed his help.
With a little smile that lassoed his heart, she took his hand and lowered herself onto the mattress.
And Clark accepted his powerlessness.
Her touch. Her hand in his. Her smile. In that moment, he knew that it didn't matter that heartache was coming as inevitably as an avalanche rolling down a hill. In that moment, he knew that he could hold nothing back from this woman.
She had shown such trust in him.
He wasn't going to allow the poison of doubts to steal these few transitory days with Lois. He was going to store up every memory he could so that when she had gone, he would have memories to help him through the endless nights and the lonely days.
He sat beside her and handed her one of the mugs. "How's your ankle?" he asked.
"It barely hurts at all," she said. "Whatever you did was wonderfully effective."
"I'm glad," he said.
"I was able to go up the stairs to my office."
Was she going to tell him she had looked through the window and seen the moroseness of his stance? Was she going to question him?
Lois sipped from her tea, and then she nodded to the door. "I got the shampoo and the comb," she said. "I'll leave them for you, and you can do your hair whenever you want to."
Clark stared into the brown liquid of his tea.
Was he going to spend the rest of his life regretting his gaucheness? Or was he going to dislodge a few bricks from his wall of isolation and give himself a memory that would remain with him forever?
"Lois?"
"Uhmm?"
"I know we can't do it today, but maybe ... maybe ... you ... we ... could ..." He couldn't actually bring himself to ask her.
He didn't have to.
She smiled. Smiled as if he had given her something of immense value. "That's great, Clark," she said. "Supper will be here soon. We'll wash your hair after we've eaten."
"You can't do it tonight," he said. "Not with your injured ankle."
She thought for a moment. "We could if you were OK with lying on the mattress. I'll sit behind you while I wash your hair, and then we'll both sit on chairs for the combing. It won't hurt my ankle at all."
"Are you sure?"
"Totally sure." She grinned. "Assuming you're willing to help me up from the floor."
That would mean holding her hand again. Clark nodded as anticipation fanned the fire inside him. He needed to move on. Quickly. He had a question. But he could frame it as a statement. "I don't understand why you want to do this so much."
Her eyes settled in his for a moment. "It's not that easy to explain," she said. "There's someone else, and it was really difficult with him, and then someone suggested that doing something practical was a great way of connecting, so I washed his hair, and ... " She shrugged. "It seemed to work."
"Why do you want to connect with me?" His question was out before discretion could contain it.
Lois didn't seem bothered by his directness, although she did hesitate before answering. "Because I noticed how you were so careful to avoid any contact between us. And I thought that if it happened in a mundane and everyday circumstance, it would be less awkward and not seem like such a big deal."
She *wanted* to break down his barriers. She *wanted* entry into his world. As that revelation swept over him, Clark smiled and hoped it looked natural. "Did you fake your sprained ankle?" he asked.
Lois chuckled. "No," she said. "But I would have if I'd thought of it."
She took his breath away - not once, but over and over again until his lungs felt oxygen-starved and his head felt deliciously buoyant.
She smiled over the top of her cup. "I've answered a few of your questions," she said. "I think you owe me a couple."
His shutters flew up instinctively, but Clark determinedly pushed them back down. He didn't want his memories to be of half-conversations, and unanswered questions, and missed opportunities.
"I do owe you," he agreed, trying desperately to sound unconcerned.
"After Moyne was knocked out, why didn't you speak to me? I sensed that you wanted to communicate, but you didn't say anything."
Clark thought for a moment before replying. "Silence is a hard habit to break," he said. "I spoke to Trask and Moyne in the first few days, but then they stopped me. After that, I didn't speak for so long that it didn't seem natural anymore."
"I guess having me thrust into your room was a rude shock."
"I didn't know what to do," Clark said. "I didn't know -"
"Yes, you did."
"I couldn't think straight. I was -"
"You didn't need to be able to think straight to know what to do," she said with calm certainty.
"I didn't speak," Clark said. "I was awkward. I was flustered. Thinking back now, I'm surprised I didn't completely terrify you."
"Whatever Moyne did, you were going to stand between him and me, weren't you?" Lois asked gravely.
Clark could feel the warmth rise from the upper echelons of his beard to become - he was sure - visible on his cheeks. He nodded.
Lois gave a little half smile that tightened her lasso around his heart. "Is that the only reason why you didn't speak?"
No, it wasn't. But to admit to the other reason would require knocking down a few more of the bricks and exposing another piece of his soul. Clark shook his head.
"What was the other reason?"
He gave a nervous chuckle. "You're asking a lot of questions."
"You know you don't have to answer," Lois reminded him.
"I was scared that if I tried to speak, I would either squeak like a teenager whose voice is starting to break or sound like a wild animal."
"When you did speak, it sounded fine."
He nodded. "By then, I'd practised."
"You were expecting me to come back?"
"No," he said. "I was sure that you would never come back, but if you did, I wanted to be ready."
She smiled. "You are ..."
He felt himself answering her smile. "I am what?"
Her lovely brown eyes burned warmth into his soul, and he felt his heart go into freefall. Right when he was sure that he couldn't maintain eye contract a moment longer without risking permanent damage to his heart, she broke away and looked at her watch. "You are hungry," she said. "And our food should be here soon."
Clark jumped to his feet and gathered her shoes. "Will you need these?"
"Yeah. I have to go outside to get the food."
He gave her the left shoe and then carefully eased her right foot into her shoe and tied her laces.
"Do you have a child?" Lois asked.
"No."
"A kid brother or sister?"
"No. Why?"
"Because you seem pretty good at that."
"My mom ..." Clark said in stilted explanation.
"Is she disabled?"
"No," he said hurriedly. "I was thinking back to when she used to tie my shoelaces." He rose from his crouched position and offered her his hand. She took it, and he gently pulled her to her feet. "Would you like to be carried to the door?" he offered.
"There's no need," she said. "Really, my ankle feels fine."
"OK," Clark said, telling himself that he should be relieved but knowing that he was disappointed. He handed her the empty mugs.
"I'll be back soon," Lois said.
He watched as she walked to the door - her limp barely noticeable.
One day, she would walk away from him - just as she was walking away now. Except then, she wouldn't come back.
Clark pushed away that certainty. *This* time, she was coming back. He would concentrate on that.
||_||
As Lois walked past the warehouse, her mind was embroiled in a battle.
Her gut was insisting that time was limited. Insisting that she needed to push forward with Clark, needed to get the groundwork done, needed to establish enough trust that it would withstand the onslaught of whatever opposition they faced.
But against that rose her memory of his reaction to her suggestion that she wash his hair.
She paused at the street and waited for Uncle Mike's delivery boy.
She needed to sort her questions. Those driven by mere curiosity could wait. What did she *have* to know?
His parents.
She didn't know the exact circumstances of how Clark would leave his cell, but she did know that his first thoughts were going to centre on his parents.
If the news were bad, it would probably be better that he knew before being propelled into the outside world.
If the news were good, that would give him impetus and much-needed support in recovering his life.
Except ...
Could that be why he seemed to have rejected all thought of escape? Was he convinced that if he broke out of the cell, there would be repercussions for his parents?
Was that why, when the cell door had been open, he had refused to go through it?
Or was it because he believed that life outside of the cell wouldn't be significantly better than in it? Did he shy away from being chased like a criminal? Being hunted down like an animal? Being hated and feared for being different?
If his parents were alive, would he go to them?
Or would he believe that by going to them - even if he could - he would put them in danger?
Lois needed to find out what had happened to Jonathan and Martha Kent.
To do that, she had to question their son.
And that was going to require trawling through memories that would hurt him.
When *she* had been hurt, he'd carried her. Seemingly without any effort at all. She wasn't exactly a heavyweight, but he must have great physical strength to be able to lift her with so little effort.
Being in his arms ...
It had felt ...
Whatever it had felt, it had been enough to make her decline his offer to carry her again.
Why?
Well, she hadn't needed to be carried.
And yet ...
A car pulled up to the kerb, and Lois stepped forward to take the two containers. "Thanks," she said.
She walked back - almost painlessly - to the compound. Clark *did* trust her. He'd let her see some of the things he could do. Some of the things that made him different. He'd admitted that he wasn't from Earth.
But she needed more - she needed to know about his capture.
Lois locked the external door behind her and stopped in the staffroom long enough to pick up the cutlery and napkins. As soon as she'd stepped into the cell, Clark approached her. "What can I do?" he asked. "Take the meals?"
Lois gave him the containers. "Thanks."
They reached the mattress, and Clark put the meals on the ground and stretched out his hand to help her. She took it with a smile and lowered herself onto the mattress.
He sat opposite her.
"What do we have?" Lois asked.
Clark paused, his hand on the still-closed lid of the container. "Is that a loaded question?" he asked.
Lois grinned. "Only partly."
Under the beard, he was grinning, too. "How can a question be 'partly loaded'?" he demanded.
Neither of them had opened their containers. Whatever the food, it couldn't compete with Clark's smile. "You could take it as an oblique way of asking whether you can see through the container," she said. "Or you could take it as just a conversation filler."
Clark pulled back the lid. "We have what looks like chicken curry and wild rice." He picked up his fork, but didn't begin eating. "I *can* see through things," he admitted with a wry smile.
"Thought so," Lois said. She lifted her container to her nose and inhaled deeply. "It smells great."
Clark ate a piece of chicken. "Uhm," he said. "Tastes great, too."
Lois slowly ate her meal, trying to decide how to work up to the subject of his parents. She was encouraged that he hadn't been perturbed by her allusion to another of his abilities. Would it be easier if they spoke while eating? Would that help them through any rough spots?
She put her food on the mattress and looked at him.
He paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. He put the fork in the container and the container on the mattress.
"Clark," Lois said. "I need to talk to you about your parents."
He paled, and his eyelids slowly dropped.
She placed her fingers on his forearm. "No," she said. "I haven't heard anything."
He opened his eyes. "You don't know if they're OK?"
"No," Lois said. His forearm muscles were hard and taut. "I don't. But I want to find out, and to do that, I need your help."
"Anything," he said. "I'll do anything I can to help you."
She reluctantly removed her hand from his arm. "It could be that we have lots of time," she said. "It could be that now Trask is buried and Moyne has left, the higher-ups will forget about this operation again, and we will have time to find out what we need to know."
"But?"
"But it's also possible that this has unsettled them - and that someone is going to start asking questions and demanding answers."
"That would be bad?"
Lois scrunched her nose. "It could be good," she said hesitantly. "But it could be bad."
"They could take you away?"
She could see the fear in his eyes, and her impulse was to reach out to him and assure him that if they forced her to leave, she wouldn't leave without him.
She had done that once - left her partner. She would never do it again.
"I don't know," Lois said. "That's why we have to deal with some things now."
He nodded.
"I have asked about your parents," she said. "But I've received nothing back. I could ask again but that might only agitate things."
Clark rubbed his forehead. "Is it possible that asking questions could make things worse for my parents?"
Lois had been hoping he wouldn't realise that. She nodded slightly, knowing her admission would distress him but not wanting to mislead him.
"Do you have any ideas?" Clark asked. "About what we *can* do?"
"I have one," Lois said. She picked up her meal and loaded some rice onto her fork. "But I don't know how you'll react."
"I'm willing to do anything," he said desperately.
"You were raised in Smallville, Kansas?"
He nodded.
Lois picked up his meal and handed it to him. "Eat," she said softly. "Don't let it get cold."
He took it with a little smile. "I was raised on a farm just north of Smallville."
"I think I should go there."
He didn't react immediately. "Why?" he asked after a few seconds.
"There's a chance your parents were allowed to return home," Lois replied. "We don't know what they were told. If they think you are dead, that would explain why they never came looking for you."
"I ... I hadn't considered that possibility."
"Surely that would be the best we could hope for?" Lois asked. She dug her fork through the curry and lifted it to her mouth.
"Yes," he agreed. "But I don't think that's what happened."
"Why not?"
"Trask and Moyne used the poison to get me here," Clark said. "But once I was here, they took it away. When I'd regained consciousness and recovered a bit, Trask came into the prison and asked me a lot of questions. He said that if I cooperated, my parents would be unharmed."
"He came in here? And asked you questions? Without the rods?"
Clark nodded. "You seem surprised."
"Everything Trask wrote suggested he believed that you would kill if anyone came in here without protection."
"He knew that wasn't true," Clark said. "He came in here many times in the first few days without the poison."
Suddenly, Lois understood something. "In one of his books, Trask wrote about things you are able to do," she said. "Is that how he knew?"
Clark nodded. "He asked what I could do. I had always been so careful not to let anyone know about my differences, but he said that if I answered truthfully, he would ensure that my parents were treated well."
"What happened then?"
"He started asking about how I planned to use those abilities." He looked at her, waiting for her to respond.
"What did you tell him?" she said.
"The truth - that as far as I know I am the only one left from my planet - and all I wanted to do was live peaceably."
"Did you tell him you arrived here as a baby?"
"He already knew that," Clark said. "My spaceship wasn't big enough to hold an adult."
"He didn't think it was important enough to mention it in his records."
"Perhaps the idea of a baby wasn't terrifying enough for him."
"But a marauding army of super-powered aliens was," she said darkly.
"Lois ..."
"You don't have to say it," she said quickly.
"Say what?"
"You don't have to tell me that you aren't here to conquer us and take over our planet."
An indecipherable expression scrawled across his face. "Why?" he asked in a strangled voice.
"Because nothing you say will change what I believe," Lois declared with a slight lift of her chin that defied him - or anyone - to challenge her.
He looked on the edge of a smile. "What do you believe?"
"I believe that you have the strength and speed to do almost anything," she said. "But I believe that your heart could never be for destruction."
"H ..." He stumbled over his word. He closed his fist and pressed it against his mouth. When he looked up to her, his eyes were damp again.
Lois stood up. "I need another drink," she said. "Tea?"
He nodded from behind his fist. As Lois walked towards the door, she heard him roughly clear his throat. Every instinct urged her to turn back to him. To hold him as he fought to free himself from the dungeon of hatred where Trask and Moyne had interred him.
But he wasn't ready for her to get that close. She knew he wasn't ready.
She was willing to wait.
Willing to give him as much time as she could.
She just hoped that circumstances would give him some time.
Because it was going to be a long and arduous road back.
||_||
Clark fought against his tears.
That woman.
That beautiful, incredible, astonishing, remarkable woman.
She had brought him to the brink of tears more often than Trask and Moyne combined. It was as if she had reached in and touched his heart - his hard and calloused heart that had become accustomed to pain but was finding kindness and acceptance to be almost unbearable.
He had to subdue his tears.
He couldn't dissolve into a mess in front of her. She would be gone in a few hours. He could do it then - when he was alone.
But for now ...
He took a deep, deep breath and steadied himself as it rattled through him.
Through the open door, he heard the kettle boil and then the sound of water being poured into the cups. She would be here soon.
He watched the door for the first sign of her appearance. Not because he was worried that she would catch him crying but because she brightened his world simply by stepping into it.
He heard her footsteps and knew she was going up the stairs. He glanced to the window and saw the hazy light go on. A few seconds later, the light disappeared, and he heard her footsteps on the stairs again.
He quickly zapped her cooling meal with heat from his eyes.
Then, she was at the door, carrying two mugs and the remaining chocolate from last night.
Clark rose to meet her. He took the mug she offered him. "Thank you, Lois," he said, hoping she would comprehend that his gratitude went far beyond the cup of tea.
Her smile said she understood.
She sat down and picked up her meal.
He watched to see if she responded to the temperature of the container.
She did. Her eyes rose to him, her smile budding. "You are full of surprises, Mr Kent."
He pointed at her, smiling because that helped him to alleviate the bound-up tightness across his chest. "*That* is most unfair," he said with mock severity.
"Unfair?" she questioned, although the sparkle in her eyes made him think she knew exactly what he meant.
"Yes," he insisted. "*Ms* ..." His hands rose in question. "Ms Who?"
She grinned but didn't answer him. He almost told her that she didn't have to answer, but her expression assured him that she wasn't disconcerted by his question.
"Lane," she said.
"Ms Lane? Ms Lois Lane?"
She nodded.
"That is a very pretty name," Clark declared.
"Thank you," she said. She loaded up her fork. "And thank you for re-heating my meal."
"Any time," he said.
She finished the remainder of the chicken curry and then settled back against the wall with her hands wrapped around her mug of tea. "How do you feel about me going to Kansas?" she asked.
"I'm unsure."
"Why?"
"Because I don't want you going into any possible danger."
"Clark!" she exclaimed. "You make Smallville, Kansas, sound like Suicide Slum."
"Where?" he exclaimed.
"I'll be fine, Clark."
"What will you do?"
"I'll go to Smallville. If I find out that your parents aren't at the farmhouse, I'd like to go there."
"You won't try to contact them?"
"Probably not. It's always a good idea to find out as much information as possible before telling anyone anything."
"You can trust them," Clark said earnestly.
"I know that," Lois said. "But I have to make sure I don't do anything that puts them in danger."
He nodded. "I guess that if someone is expecting an invasion, it would make sense to watch the farm where they found the alien."
"We should be careful, Clark," Lois said. "But we shouldn't get jumpy about every possibility. We don't know anything yet."
"It's hard not to think about the possibilities."
"I know," she said softly.
"You said you're a secret agent. You said that you often pretend to be someone you're not."
"Yeah."
"So, I'm guessing you won't go as Lois Lane."
"No," she said. "I'll think up a cover story."
"When will you go?"
"As soon as possible. This week."
He was going to miss her. He would count down the hours until her return - and not only because she might bring the long-awaited news of his parents but also because he would worry. He would worry every second because he was locked away and powerless to help her.
"Would you like me to draw you a map?" he offered.
"Yes, please."
Clark stood and brought the notebook and pen back to the mattress.
He drew two maps and refused to allow his mind to be hindered by the memories of things that were once so familiar. After a few minutes, he gave Lois the first map. "You'll fly into Wichita," he said. "You can hire a car there. This is the road to Smallville." He flipped to the second map. "This is Smallville. You take this road to the north. Along here. And that's ... that's our farm."
She examined the paper. "Are there roads from the farm back to Wichita without returning to Smallville?"
Clark nodded. "It's a few miles out of your way."
"That's OK. Could you add them to the map, please?"
He drew two alternate routes.
"Do you have neighbours?" Lois asked.
"Yes," Clark replied. "The Irigs. They are good people. They live here." He added a square to the map.
Lois studied the map and then looked up. She smiled, and her hand rested on his arm for a tiny, exhilarating second. "Remember, Clark," she said. "This is what I do. I go into places, I find out information, and I get out."
"I just can't stand the thought of you being hurt," he said.
"I'll be fine," she said.
He took a deep breath. "Lois," he said. "I wish I had the words to thank you for all you're doing for me."
"I don't need words," she said.
"What do you need?" His question surprised him almost as much as it surprised her.
"Well," she said. "I needed someone to stop me crashing into the concrete, and then I needed someone to ice my ankle, and then I needed someone to heat my supper."
He smiled. And suddenly, more than anything else, he wanted to touch her. He couldn't do it. He couldn't force himself to lift his hand and reach for her arm. But he could remind her about the hair washing. "You said your offer is always open," he said.
She chuckled. "I'll get the water."
"Are you sure about this?" he asked.
"Absolutely," she said firmly.
"Is your ankle hurting?"
"No. It's fine."
"OK," Clark said, feeling dazed at the speed with which their conversation had leapt from Smallville to Lois washing his hair. "You ... ah, get the water, and I'll move the mattress away from the wall."
