Lois picked up the keys and outside, the cold night air dashed against her heated cheeks.
The dark cloud of Clark's despondency seemed to have thinned the tiniest amount.
Perhaps they had taken the first step in their new lives.
It was one step - one step in what was going to be a long and arduous journey.
She had to believe.
She had to believe for both of them.
But when she came back with the sleeping bags, Clark was slumped at the table. Still dressed. Still staring into the nothingness.
Still veiled in his own isolation.
Part 2
The bed dipped under his weight. His hip was being sucked into the mattress, and his back felt uncomfortably misaligned.
Lois had fallen asleep within a minute of smiling and wishing him goodnight - as if they'd been settling into individual sleeping bags on a shared bed for years.
She'd offered to turn off his bedside lamp, but he'd declined.
It wasn't that he was *scared* of the darkness. It just seemed so unnatural after seven years of constant relentless light.
And it meant he could search Lois's face in the hope of finding a semblance of sanity in the cluttered confusion that bombarded his mind.
She had said she loved him.
This morning - he didn't know if it was past midnight yet, but he hadn't slept, so it felt like the continuation of one long, interminable day. This morning ... just a few short, monumental hours ago, he had been with Lois, and only a pane of glass had separated them. He hadn't been able to see her, but he'd been able to hear her.
And she had said that she loved him.
At the time, he'd been swept up in the excitement of her unexpected visit. When she had uttered those words, he'd been sure she had meant the exclusive love of a woman for a man. That had been her tone. That had been the context.
But could she possibly have meant that?
That wasn't a statement that could stand alone. It inevitably led to so many other things. Things that ... if he were honest ... petrified him.
What did Lois expect of him?
Their relationship couldn't stay static. They had agreed they would wait until he had left the prison.
And now, he was out, and this thing between them would have to progress.
To what?
She'd already said she wanted to kiss him.
But kissing wasn't the end either.
He'd never expected to be in this position.
He'd never expected that a beautiful woman - who knew he was an alien - would want to be with him like that.
She hadn't been thinking straight. She'd become caught up in his story ... embroiled in campaigning for his freedom.
But now, she would be able to recoup her objectivity. She would be able to see him as he really was - an alien, an outsider.
He couldn't be what Lois needed.
He doubted they would let him marry. Not officially. Not legally. He wasn't human.
As long as Lois stayed with him, she would face constant risk. His parents had taken him in - loved him and accepted him - and for that, they had been dragged away from their home like criminals and never allowed to return.
Now that he was out of the prison, Lois would see that. She would see the dangers of being with him.
And if she didn't ...
He would have to convince her that she needed to salvage whatever she could of her life.
She'd said she loved him.
At the time, it had felt so good. Now, it felt like a poisoned knife being plunged into his heart.
He had nothing to give her.
She'd said that didn't matter.
She'd said she needed his humour. Whatever humour he'd managed to simulate had desiccated to arrant bitterness.
She'd said she needed his steadfastness. Right now, his insecurities were devouring him like a plague of desperate locusts stripping a field of already-impoverished crops.
She'd said she needed his strength. Physically, he would recover, but that wasn't what she had meant. His determination, his will to fight ... they had dissolved so thoroughly that he could no longer comprehend how he had survived seven years of imprisonment.
He was nothing more than a brittle shell - and Lois needed a whole lot more than that.
However much he grappled for perspective, he couldn't escape the feeling that he was floating helplessly - being carried along by an external force that would, eventually, deliver him to his downfall.
Where was he?
He was in bed with a woman.
He was out of the prison.
His whole life, he hadn't actually expected the first would be possible.
The past seven years, he had been sure the second was impossible.
He was free of Trask. Free of Moyne. Free of the implant. Free of the prison.
But he was still an alien.
Still different.
Still hated.
Still feared.
Clark turned over - away from Lois's sleeping form - and stared at the pale light of the lamp.
He was alone.
And no amount of pretence was ever going to change that.
||_||
~~ Saturday ~~
Lois's eyes opened, and for a moment, she skimmed the dim and unfamiliar surroundings. Then she heard the sound of breathing from behind her and smiled as her memories flooded back.
She was with Clark.
Morning had come.
Yesterday - with all its anguish and uncertainty - was over.
Today was a new day. The first day of their lives together. A dawn of new hope.
Hope ... she recalled the words Clark had written in his notepad. And how - despite his pain - it had been important to him that he carry them with him as he walked from the cell.
Clark's steady breaths whirred softly through the stillness. Lois hoped he was asleep. Hoped he had slept well. Hoped he would be heartened by the freshness of a brand new morning.
The clock next to the bed showed it was just after five o'clock.
Lois wriggled out from the sleeping bag, stood, and turned to look at Clark. She smiled. Asleep, relaxed, without his glasses - he looked so young. So vulnerable.
So ... she stifled her giggle. So cute.
From his sideburn, a dark shadow fanned towards his jaw and then curved up his cheek and around his mouth.
Looking at him caused her heart to leap - captured her eyes and tempted them to linger. His mouth - capable of the most devastating of smiles - was relaxed.
What would it feel like to kiss him?
It would feel ... Lois tore her eyes away, reminding herself that she wasn't supposed to be ogling Clark, but having her shower.
She had all day today to look at him. And tomorrow. And the rest of her life.
||_||
Evan Shadbolt answered the knock on his door. Mrs Kingsley was there - the woman in her sixties whom he paid to oversee the girls in the morning as they prepared for school or their weekend activities.
"Mr Shadbolt," she said in her terse greeting that hadn't softened one iota in four years.
"Mrs Kingsley." He stepped back to allow her to pass and then walked out of his house and into the cold Metropolis morning.
He hadn't told anyone about the changes in his work. Leaving Metropolis wasn't an option he was willing to consider, but whether he could get another assignment or whether he was going to have to look for alternate employment, he didn't want to cause the girls any worry.
And, despite her abruptness, the girls liked Mrs Kingsley. He didn't want to give her any reason to look for another position.
Shadbolt got into his car and pulled out of the garage.
What should he do now? What did a person do with *spare* time?
Habits were hard to break. He'd made the trip to Bessolo Boulevard most days for the past seven years.
He would go there. Perhaps Ms Lane ... Lois ... would appreciate some company.
He hadn't forgotten how she had helped with Layla's sewing machine. Taking her some breakfast seemed like an appropriate way to thank her for what she had done for him.
||_||
The bathroom door shut, and Clark rolled onto his back. He reached across to Lois's side of the bed.
Last night, he had lain awake for a long time as his thoughts had circled like preying vultures.
He should have been feeling great. Exultant. He was out of the prison.
But an ominous cloud clung to him in the same way that Lois's warmth clung to her sleeping bag. He just couldn't shake the certain feeling that this would be a few stolen hours - days, at best - with Lois. And the price she would pay for their time together would be horrifically high.
In the prison, he had been able to cast aside his foreboding and simply enjoy being with her. Last night, he'd tried - he had - to reclaim that, but nothing had been able to tear down the wall of his hopelessness.
He was free.
Right now, he was free.
He would tell himself that over and over again.
He was free.
Right now, he wasn't a captive.
And he was with Lois.
That should have been enough.
It had to be enough.
Yesterday, Lois had done everything. Once they'd left the compound, he'd been useless. A zombie.
And the icy condemnation that capped his heart was the awareness that she'd been so desperately hoping he would respond to the many little smiles she had sent him.
He'd failed her.
He couldn't fail her again today.
Somehow, he had to try to be what she needed him to be. He had to respond. He had to act as if he could see a way through this.
Yet deep within him ...
He couldn't even bring himself to think the truth.
But it was there ... and denial wouldn't change it.
The truth ...
He hated himself for it.
Despised himself.
But the truth was that he longed to be alone.
He had built up walls around his soul - walls that had kept Trask and Moyne away. And now, he just wanted to go there and be alone.
He didn't want to be with people.
He didn't want to interact.
He didn't want to try to pretend he was one of them.
He didn't want to try to pretend he belonged.
He just wanted to be left alone.
But Lois ... she was different.
She was.
But it didn't change that he yearned to pull the barricades in on himself and exclude everyone from his private hell.
||_||
Lois slipped her tee shirt over her head and picked up her comb. As she ran it through her just-washed hair, she could detect the slight aroma of Clark's apple conditioner.
It brought memories ... washing his hair ... but those pleasant memories were quickly shoved aside by more recent ones. Last night. And the awkwardness and stilted silences as they had prepared for bed.
She hadn't brought toothpaste, shampoo, or conditioner of her own and had asked Clark if it were all right to use his toothpaste. He had replied gruffly - it was hers, and she didn't need to ask him.
Lois had forced herself not to remonstrate, choosing instead to go into the bathroom to brush her teeth and change into her pyjamas.
When she'd returned, Clark hadn't moved from the table, staring ahead, his face a mask of detachment.
"You should try to get some sleep," she'd said gently.
He'd made a low rumble in his throat, and she had been torn between trying to say something to him and going to bed and leaving him alone.
"Goodnight," she'd said as she passed him.
"'Night."
She'd turned off the main light and switched on a lamp next to the bed. Then she'd laid out the Winnie the Pooh sleeping bag on one side of the bed and slithered into the other one.
For long minutes, she'd watched him, aching for him, wishing he would let her share his anguish.
Then he'd stood abruptly, swept up the sweatpants she had put out for him, and strode into the bathroom.
Five minutes later, he'd emerged.
He'd walked slowly to the bed, and despite being hampered by the sling, he had managed to slip into the sleeping bag without disturbing her side of the bed.
She'd smiled at him.
His attempt to smile back had been empty.
"Shall I turn off the lamp?" she'd offered.
"No," he had said. "Thanks."
"Goodnight, Clark."
The cache of her emotions, so tightly bound, had wanted to spill out in a rampant flood. But she hadn't been able to allow that to happen. She had to sleep. Their freedom might depend on her ability to think clearly and make sound decisions. She might have to concoct a watertight story on the spot, and to do that, her mind had needed rest.
She'd done it before - forced herself to seize opportunities for sleep despite the chaos raging in her mind. She had done it numerous times as she had run away from the horror of Linda's dead and desecrated body.
So, last night, Lois had slept.
And today was a new day.
All she wanted was one smile from Clark.
And some sunshine. And a lot of miles between them and Metropolis.
But most of all, she wanted that one, genuine smile.
||_||
Clark quickly rose to a sitting position as the bathroom door opened. He tried to pull the sleeping bag higher to cover his bare chest.
Lois appeared, dressed in jeans and a pale yellow tee shirt and with her hair slightly damp. She looked at him and smiled. "Good morning, Clark," she said brightly.
He tried to respond to her smile, but, concerned it would look more like a grimace, he resorted to words. "Good morning."
Lois walked over to the bed and sat down on her side. "How are you feeling this morning?" she asked.
He shrugged.
"How's your shoulder?"
"Fine."
"Do you mind if I look at it?"
He shook his head.
Lois pulled a handful of tissues from the box next to the bed, swung onto her knees, and edged closer to him. She smelled nice. Her hair was sitting on her shoulder like a smooth dark drape. She had washed it and used the apple conditioner.
She untied the sling and eased it from his body. Her fingertips brushed against his skin as she slowly began to peel away the tape. A few moments later, she lifted the square patch from the wound on his shoulder.
Clark peered down but wasn't able to crane his neck enough to see properly.
Lois, however, was smiling. "It looks great," she said. She removed each of the butterfly clips and placed them in the tissues with the discarded patch. "You were right about not needing stitches."
He'd known he wouldn't need stitches. If exposure to the rods had continued, stitches wouldn't have helped him heal. With the poison removed, he would heal without stitches. Moyne had accumulated data the way serial killers accumulated corpses.
Although, he'd accumulated those, too.
Clark shook his head and tried to break free from the mesh of macabre thoughts.
Lois had rolled up the tissues and placed them in the plastic bag with the rest of the trash from his surgery. "If we go past a hospital today, we'll dump this in one of their bins," she said.
"In a hospital?"
Her smile tapped on the walls of his heart. "Yup," she said. "It's easy. You walk into a ward during visiting hours, head to the pan room, and deposit the trash. It will be disposed of safely, no one feels much inclined to go through medical trash, and even if they did, it's hard to trace it back to us."
Obviously, she'd done this before.
Lois picked up the suitcase and laid it on the bed. She turned it to him and flipped open the lid.
"Get some clothes," she said. "Your sneakers are near the door. I brought them in last night." She turned away from him and piled the plates they had used into the sink.
The pastels of Lois's clothes were on top of the suitcase. Clark tentatively pushed them aside to reveal his own clothes. He gathered a bundle, slid from the sleeping bag, and stood up.
He stretched his shoulder experimentally. It was fine. No traces of the surgery at all.
But everywhere else, he still felt weak.
And his spirit felt dead.
As he walked to the bathroom, Lois turned from the sink. "If you need any help, just ask," she said. Then she turned back to her task.
She was trying so hard.
Trying so hard to be what he needed. Trying not to pressure him. Trying not to intrude.
He didn't deserve her.
"Lo ..."
Lois spun around, grabbed the tea towel, and dried her hands as she walked towards him, her face alight with hope.
She reached him and stopped. Waited for him, her eyes in his.
Clark controlled the compulsion to fold his arms across his bare chest. He didn't know what to say. His mind was a frozen mass. "Lois."
Her hand lifted, and he felt himself tense in anticipation of her touch. Her hand dropped, and he saw the flicker of disappointment cut through her hope.
"I'm sorry," Clark said.
"You don't have to be sorry."
He raised his hands in despair. "I feel so numb. I know I should be feeling relieved, and grateful, and -"
"I think what you're feeling is completely normal," Lois said. "I just wish ..."
He didn't want to ask, but he had to. "You wish what?"
"I wish you'd let me help you."
"I'm not sure what you can do."
"I know that feeling," Lois said. "And I understand that this must be so traumatic for you. The rods, the surgery, being hurled back into the world, the future being so uncertain. And it was only a couple of days ago that you heard news about your dad. I understand all of that."
"But?"
She paused. She looked down to where she was still mindlessly drying her hands. When she looked up, her eyes were glistening with tears. "But I thought you trusted me."
"I do trust you."
"You've locked me out."
"It's not you I don't trust."
"I keep telling you that we can do this, and you refuse to believe that it's anything other than an inevitable disaster."
"It's not you I don't trust."
"I can understand you not trusting the entire world," she said, and there was fire in her eyes now. "Some people from this planet treated you so badly that I can understand your hesitancy about rejoining it. But I thought you trusted me."
"Lois." He sighed. "Lois."
Her fire cooled a little, and she gave him a tiny smile. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry," he said quickly. "Yesterday was harrowing for you. You're allowed a little steam."
She smiled - with more strength this time. "I think you should go and have a shower," she said. "Just enjoy it. Don't think about what's going to happen today, or tomorrow, or next week. Don't think about what happened yesterday or during the past seven years. Just try to relax."
He nodded. "Thank you."
She turned back to the sink, and Clark went into the bathroom and shut the door.
||_||
Shadbolt let himself into the compound and sniffed as he put the bags of breakfast sandwiches on the table. The smell of coffee wasn't as prevalent as usual. Perhaps Lois hadn't started the machine yet.
The staffroom was deserted. The bed was empty - but someone had removed the blanket.
Had Lois slept in her office?
She must have.
Shadbolt washed out the carafe, put in fresh coffee beans, and turned on the machine.
Something was wrong.
He could feel it. Something was definitely wrong.
His stomach lurched as sudden fears assaulted him.
No!
He stormed up the stairs and banged on the office door. "Ms Lane! Lois! Are you there?"
There was no reply. No sound. No movement.
Shadbolt dashed down the stairs, crossed the staffroom in three long strides, and dropped to the floor. He pushed the flap out of the way and peered into the cell.
In the far corner, he saw the prisoner, lying on the ground under the staffroom blanket.
And something else - the rods.
What had happened?
Who had put the rods in the cell?
Was *this* how they intended to terminate the operation?
Where was Lois?
Had she snuck out to get something for breakfast? Shadbolt didn't think so. He couldn't imagine Lois Lane meekly accepting the order that the prisoner be exposed to the rods.
He wriggled forward, trying to see into more of the cell. It didn't look like the aftermath of a confrontation. He snaked his arm through the pet door and groped around for the metal box. It wasn't there.
If the higher-ups had ordered the prisoner's death, had Lois protested and been removed from the compound?
That was a possible scenario.
But it didn't explain why the prisoner had been left here without supervision.
Unless he was dead already.
Shadbolt sprang to his feet and flew up the stairs again. He thumped on the door. "Lois!" he shouted. "Lois? Are you there? Are you all right?"
Still, there was no response.
As he ran down the stairs, he pulled his wallet from his pocket. He crossed the staffroom, rustling through his wallet for his lock pick.
At the door of the cell, he inserted the pick. The lock gave way; he pushed open the door and entered.
Lois wasn't there. He sprinted to the half-wall just to be absolutely sure. She wasn't in the cell.
Shadbolt felt relief wash over him.
The prisoner hadn't moved. Who had ordered that the rods be brought into the cell? Scardino? If Scardino had ordered this, he should be here, overseeing it.
Shadbolt hesitated. There was something going on here that he didn't understand. Should he check the prisoner?
His eyes fell on the figure tucked into the corner of the cell.
Someone had put the rods there, and until Shadbolt had orders otherwise, he couldn't remove them.
But he had no desire to witness their effect at close range.
He'd already retrieved two bodies from this cell.
He returned to the staffroom and poured himself a cup of coffee, but the questions didn't stop pummelling his mind.
||_||
Clark turned on the faucet and put his hand into the cold flow of the shower.
When the water had warmed, he stepped out of his sweatpants and briefs and into the stall. The hot water splashed onto his head and shoulders and gushed down his body.
He closed his eyes and tried to do exactly as Lois had advised.
It *did* feel good. Tiny scraps of familiarity budded - like something almost forgotten but not completely wiped from the bank of his memories.
He took the shampoo Lois had left on the shelf and squirted some into the palm of his hand. He washed his hair - his short, neat, untangled hair. Then he applied some of the apple-scented conditioner. Its aroma evoked memories of Lois.
When she'd washed his hair.
When she'd sprained her ankle and he'd carried her.
When she'd set up the mattresses, candy bars, and tea so they could work on a jigsaw puzzle together.
The memories wafted through his mind, easing the tension pinched across his shoulders.
As Lois had said, *they* hadn't changed. Everything else had changed, but it was still them - him and Lois.
*They* hadn't changed.
But he had.
He had changed so much - not in the past few hours, but during the seven years of captivity. Did *anything* of Clark Kent remain?
He was going to have to try to reconcile the hardened person he had become with the hostile world that didn't want him.
And somehow, he had to do it without hurting Lois any more than he already had.
||_||
Lois rolled up the sleeping bags and untucked the blankets so that the bed looked as if it had been slept in rather than on. She tidied the room and began to pack their belongings into the Buick. She took her dad's touring map out of the glove compartment, spread it on the table, and planned a general route. It didn't have to be direct or purposeful. In fact, less deliberate made it harder to track.
She scrutinised the room, checking every drawer, every nook, every possible place where something could be concealed. The notepad was no longer on the floor. It seemed important to Clark - Lois was sure he would have put it somewhere safe.
The bathroom door opened, and Clark walked out - wearing his glasses and dressed in jeans and a black tee shirt.
Black was *definitely* his colour.
Lois wiped the overt appreciation from her expression and smiled casually. "We just need to pack the things from the bathroom, and we're ready to go," she said.
Clark came to the table and perused the map. "Where are we going?"
She took his interest as a good sign. "I thought we'd follow this highway for a while," she said, as her forefinger tracked a black line. "We should be able to make good time."
He nodded. His eyes rose and looked at her.
Her heart stopped.
"Lois?" he said quietly.
"Yes, Clark?"
"It's not you I don't trust - it's me."
"Why?"
"Because I wasn't able to stop them from taking my parents. Because I don't even know who I am anymore. Because I am totally powerless. Because sometimes, everything seems so dark, and I don't know how to get through that. Because I'm petrified that I'm going to hurt you more."
"You'll learn to trust yourself again," she said with quiet certainty.
"Will I?" he asked doubtfully.
"Yes," Lois said. "You helped me learn to trust again. If you'll let me, I'd like to help you."
"Thanks ... thanks for not pushing ... not pushing the ... other stuff."
The other stuff? Like the fact that she was totally in love with him? Like that, even now, the persistent thought running through her head was how much she wanted to take him into her arms and hold him? Hold him close? Bury her fingers into his hair? And try to reach him with something other than mere words?
"Let's get going, shall we?" Lois said in a voice that had just enough substance to avoid being a squeak.
Clark nodded.
"We need to put the sling back on," she said. "Just in case the woman is looking out of the window."
"OK."
Lois got the sling, and Clark sat down. She lingered on every touch ... just a little. She let her fingers drift across his neck.
He didn't respond. But he didn't flinch either.
When it was done, she smiled at him. "Let's go."
He stood, and together, they picked up the rest of their things and went outside to face the first day of their new lives.
||_||
Something was definitely wrong.
Shadbolt slapped his coffee on the table and lurched from his seat.
He opened the cell door and strode towards the unmoving figure. After kicking one of the rods out of the way, he crouched behind the prisoner.
He grasped the blanket and drew it back.
"AGGGGHHHHHHH!"
