"Can't we do just a small detour?" she begged. "Not to anywhere in particular but just to extend it a little."
It wasn't possible to refuse Lois anything, so Clark smothered all the fears that were gripping his heart. "Just a small one," he agreed.
Lois's smile was full and beaming. "Great," she said. "I love this."
And he loved her.
That certain knowledge pushed through all the darkness and anxiety that had clouded him since leaving the cell, beckoning him forward and lighting his way.
For a time, he'd lost sight of it, but now it was becoming clearer again.
He loved Lois.
He always would.
Part 7
Eric Menzies walked into the care facility where Phoebe was now a resident.
Progress - both generally and in her attitude towards him - had been close to non-existent. When he was with her, it was hard to arrive at any conclusion other than that she blamed him for everything.
He tapped timidly on the door to her room and waited for a response. As usual, there was none. He opened the door and peeped around it. Phoebe was sitting in the chair - her posture rigid and her face blank.
"Good morning, my dear," Eric said, wincing because he knew he sounded nauseatingly cheerful.
Phoebe blinked. She didn't speak. She didn't turn her head in his direction.
He pulled up the other chair and sat across from her.
She didn't adjust her position or acknowledge his arrival in any way.
And so began another stretch of dragging time - time when he would agonise between attempting a one-sided conversation and acquiescing to her obvious preference for silence.
Perhaps this was her way of revenge - forcing him to ponder his misspent life ... his busyness, his negligence, his complete preoccupation with work.
His flailing inadequacy when they had fought to save Malcolm.
Now, he had the time - and nothing to do except plumb the depths of his regret.
||_||
The buzz from flying with Clark still hadn't dissipated an hour later. Lois felt more alive than she had since she'd walked into the building with Linda - the building they had believed to be a haven. The building where death had lurked.
But now ... now it was a beautiful fall day, the sun was shining, and her heart was singing.
She loved Clark.
She knew there was a mountain of reasons why he would suspect her love might prove transient, but she was sure that what she felt was real and strong and everlasting.
But Clark - what was he feeling?
Had he begun to adjust to life outside of the cell? Or was he just getting more adept at pretending he was adjusting?
How did he feel about her? Did he regret saying he loved her? He appeared unable to accept that this was forever. Was that based on what he thought was best for her? Or what he truly wanted for himself?
How could he be sure about *anything* after what he'd suffered?
Again, a surge of admiration welled inside of her. He was so strong. One of the first things she had noticed - about the man, rather than the conditions of his life - was his extraordinary inner strength.
And one of the next things she had noticed was his selflessness. She had been working so hard to make him believe that she needed him - because she did - but in doing that, was she, in reality, pushing him into a corner and making it impossible for him to be able to speak out what he truly wanted?
She wanted to be with him - but not if, for him, it felt like payment for her kindness.
She wanted his love - but love for her, not because of what she had done for him.
"Are you OK?" Clark's quiet voice - full of his customary concern - cut into her thoughts.
Lois gave him a small smile. "Just thinking," she said.
"Are you worried that Scardino and Menzies are still trying to track us?"
"I don't know what to think."
"The next town is about five miles away," Clark said as looked down at the map lying across his thighs. "Is it OK with you if I fly to Florida now and check on things?"
Fear rose within her - an irrational fear that he might leave and not return. "Sure," she said lightly. "Shall I pull over?"
"No," Clark said. "There might be a small back draft, but basically it will seem like I've disappeared."
"And then you'll appear again?"
"Yeah. I'll try not to startle you." He reached to undo his seatbelt.
"Be careful."
"You, too." There was a gust of wind and the sound of the door closing. Then Lois was alone in the Buick.
"Hurry back," she muttered.
||_||
The shrill of Menzies' phone carved through the morbid silence.
"Sorry," he muttered.
He stood and turned away from his wife as he pulled the cell from his pocket. "Menzies."
"It's Daniel Scardino, Mr Menzies."
Menzies sighed. He *knew* Scardino had sounded too competent. "You said everything was going well," he said bitterly.
"It is ... with the termination. I'm calling about -"
"What do you want? I'm busy."
"I haven't heard from Neville Moyne since he departed for his new assignment. I thought you should know."
Neville again. "Could he be delayed?"
"He could be. He was supposed to call in and confirm his arrival twenty-four hours ago."
"His assignment isn't my jurisdiction," Menzies snapped.
"I realise that, sir, but given the family connection, I thought -"
"Don't think, Scardino! Just do your job."
Eric cut off the call and took a calming breath before facing Phoebe. "Sorry about that," he said as he returned to his seat.
"Who was it?"
He jolted at the sound of her voice. "Just one of the supervising agents who couldn't wipe his own nose with getting direction from someone higher-up."
Phoebe said nothing, and the silence covered them again.
But Eric couldn't help feeling a glimmer of hope.
His wife had spoken to him.
Except - the spectre of Neville still hung in the air like an offensive odour. Whatever had happened to him, Eric had to ensure that it was kept from Phoebe.
Neville was trouble. Always had been. Always would be.
And Eric was ominously sure that he hadn't heard the last of Neville's 'disappearance'.
||_||
Lois heard a soft noise - a little like the breeze rustling through a canopy of leaves. Then came the sound of the car door shutting, and Clark was beside her.
She chuckled - expelling her caught-up breath. "Wow," she said.
"Sorry," he said. "Perhaps we should try to work out a signal between us so I can warn you when I'm about to appear."
Lois grinned. "I'm sure that I'll get used to you appearing and disappearing," she said. "And if I managed to keep the car on the road the first time you did it ..." She smiled across at him, ridiculously relieved to have him back. "Out of interest, what would you have done if I'd been so shocked that I steered off the road?"
Clark looked a bit self-conscious. "I would have righted you ... us ... the vehicle."
"You would have simply *put* us back on the road?"
He lifted his arms and put his hands on the roof to demonstrate.
Lois couldn't help her little gurgle of laughter. Life had changed. And Clark wasn't the only one who had some adapting to do. "What's happening in Florida?" she asked.
"Nothing," he said.
"Nothing?"
"No road blocks. No cops out searching for two fugitives. I listened to the police radio for a while - that's why I took so long. Nothing out of the ordinary. No secret orders to look for a Buick, no descriptions that could possibly have anything to do with us."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
Lois met Clark's eyes. He was thinking the same thing she was - but neither of them was willing to say it.
"Are you hungry?" Clark asked after a moment.
"Famished," Lois said. She grinned. "Flying does that to me."
Clark's smile unfurled slowly in response. "We should hit the next town in about a minute," he said.
"What would you like to eat?" Lois asked.
"I think you should choose ..."
She glanced sideways as his words died.
Clark wasn't quite grinning, but light-heartedness adorned his expression. " ... Call it celebrating your first flight."
Lois had loved every minute of her flight, but right now, she was celebrating Clark. His smile. The way he looked at her when he smiled. What it did inside her. "There is something I would really like," she said.
"What?" he said. "Name it. If the town doesn't have it, I could always ..." His hand made a 'takeoff' motion.
"I'm sure the town will be able to supply what I want," Lois said.
"What would you like?"
"I'd like us to eat in. To find a quiet cafe and eat in."
Lois felt the tension rise in Clark. She waited. "All right," he said quietly. "On one condition."
"Anything," she said.
"I pay. With my money."
She turned to him as they entered the small town. "The prices might be a little higher than you remember."
He shrugged. "I'm going to have to get used to a lot of things."
"You have yourself a deal, Mr Kent," Lois said with a smile.
He smiled back - and poured sunshine into her heart.
||_||
Only a few hundred yards into the town, they found the ideal place - a rustic, homey looking cafe with lacy curtains and window boxes of exuberantly coloured flowers. Except ...
"Will this be OK?" Lois asked when she'd pulled into the parking spot.
"Yeah," Clark replied as he looked at what had probably once been a little cottage. "You don't seem sure."
"It looks like somewhere that might remind you of your mom," Lois said cautiously.
His throat jumped. "Yeah," he said. "But I can't avoid everything that might remind me of my parents." He turned and forced a smile. "As you told me, I have to try to remember the good things."
Lois put her hand on his knee. "And we will find your mom," she said. "We won't stop looking until we do."
"Talking about my mom ..." Clark said. "Would you mind sitting there a moment so that I can open your door for you?"
Lois smiled. "Did your mom teach you that?"
"My dad always did it for her."
"I'll stay right here," Lois promised. She lifted her hand from his knee.
Clark rounded the front of the Buick and came to the driver's side. He opened the door and offered her his hand, reminiscent of the many times he had helped her rise from the mattress in the cell.
Lois took his hand and stood from the car. She locked the door, and they began the short walk along the narrow path to the cafe door.
"Please feel free to order anything you want," Clark said.
"Thank you."
"And ... I'll say this in advance. I'm sorry if I'm awkward. I ... I haven't taken a woman out for a meal in a long time."
Lois pushed her hand into his. "This is just one more thing to get used to," she said.
His fingers weaved through hers. "So ... perhaps this might not be the last of such occasions?"
"I hope not," she said.
"Me, too."
||_||
Neville Moyne stared in disbelief.
The compound where he had worked for seven years had been reduced to rubble - rubble that was quickly being loaded into trucks and taken away.
He guessed that by evening, there would be nothing left.
Where was the alien?
Had he been killed?
Or had he escaped?
And where was that bitch, Lois Lane?
||_||
Clark sat opposite where he had seated Lois.
So far, everything seemed all right. A large friendly woman had greeted them. When Clark had looked around the cafe, he'd been relieved to discover that there were only three other patrons - two middle-aged women at one table and an older man at another.
And even better, the waitress had led them to a table tucked into a corner away from the other diners.
Lois smiled across at him, and he felt the tautness across his shoulders ease a notch.
The menus arrived. Clark gave it a cursory glance and decided on the clam chowder with a sourdough roll. For the next minute, he stared out of the little window, grappling for topics of conversation that could steer them through the next half an hour. Since he'd taken her flying, Lois had been happy, her smile constantly lighting up her face. Foremost, Clark didn't want to say anything that would jeopardise her upbeat mood.
When the waitress came to take their orders, he was still without inspiration. Clark asked for a glass of apple juice and the chowder. Lois ordered an iced vanilla latte and a Caesar chicken wrap.
They made a few stunted comments about the country-style decor while they awaited their drinks, but the conversation petered out to a stilted silence. This is Lois, Clark reminded himself. This isn't a stranger. This is Lois. I have massaged her ankle. She has washed my hair.
"What are you smiling about?" Lois asked softly.
Uh oh. "Ah ..."
"You don't have to tell me," she said quickly.
"Actually, I was trying to talk myself out of being nervous," Clark admitted. "Which, I know, is silly."
"I don't think so," Lois said. "Good conversation doesn't just happen."
"And there are a few subjects we can't discuss. Not publicly."
"Yeah."
The waitress arrived with their drinks, and Lois used the straw to take a sip of her latte. Clark drank from his apple juice and tried to jumpstart his uncooperative brain.
"I have an idea," Lois said.
"Good," Clark said, smiling to try to hide his relief.
"We could have one question each."
"Kind of like we did in the ... before."
"Yeah," Lois said. "Do you want to go first?"
"Do you have a question ready?"
"Yes."
"Then you go first."
She smiled again. When Lois smiled, the world brightened. He'd thought - at first - that anyone smiling would brighten the gloom of the cell. But Lois's smile could brighten a sunny day.
"What did you do after you graduated high school?" she asked.
"I went to college."
"Which one?"
"Columbia."
"Missouri?"
"Yeah," Clark said with a small smile. "School of Journalism."
Lois's eyebrows jumped. "Journalism?"
"Yeah."
"Did you always want to be a journalist?"
"Since I was about ten years old. I enjoyed writing - in many different formats, and I figured that with journalism ..." He leant across the table and lowered his voice. "... perhaps my speed might help with getting the stories."
"Speed?" Lois said with a giggle. "I can think of a few other skills that might have proven to be quite useful as well."
Clark had reached the limits of his comfort zone in discussing himself, and he was about to ask Lois a question when he noticed that she was staring into her latte, looking quite discomfited. "Lois? Are you all right?"
She looked up. "There's something I should tell you."
Clark tried to calm the fear that immediately seared through his mind. If Lois were going to leave him, she wouldn't tell him in the middle of a cafe while they awaited their lunch.
"The first night," Lois said. "I found a piece of paper on the floor of the motel room."
Immediately, Clark knew what she was going to say. He wasn't sure which of his reactions was more acute - his embarrassment or his relief.
"I read it," Lois confessed. "I'm sorry."
Clark slipped his new wallet from his pocket and opened it. He pulled out the single sheet of paper from the notepad Lois had given him in the cell and unfolded it. "It's finished now," he said. He held it out towards her.
Lois took the piece of paper, and Clark followed her eyes as she read the poem he had written in the cell.
Hope blossoms in the blackness, splashing colour on the empty, threadbare canvas,
Hope shines in the darkness, bringing light where fear-filled shadows loomed,
Hope cradles promise, birthing life where barrenness reigned unchallenged
Hope is beautiful, and her name is Lois.
When Lois looked up, her eyes were damp. "I can see why you wanted to be a writer," she said in a voice that wasn't quite steady. Her eyes dropped, and she read his poem again.
One tiny, endearingly cute tear dappled down her cheek, and Clark figured he was looking at the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. "I wrote it for you," he said.
Lois carefully refolded the paper and offered it back to him. "Keep it safe for me," she said. "And one day, I'd really like you to make a copy for me."
"I will."
She took a tissue from her bag and wiped her cheek. Clark mourned the loss of the tear droplet. Somehow, it had enhanced the significance of the moment. He had made Lois cry - but in a totally wonderful way.
"Did you used to write poetry?" she asked.
Clark nodded. "Sometimes. But it wasn't something I advertised." He winced. "Poetry doesn't quite fit the football jock image."
"You played football?"
"Yeah. And basketball. Some hockey." Again, he felt the urge to withdraw from the spotlight. "It's time for my question."
Before he could ask, the waitress arrived with their meals. They thanked her, she left, and they began eating.
"Are you ready for my question?" Clark asked.
"Yup."
"How did you decide the line of work you wanted to do?"
Lois's laughter pealed through the little cafe.
Clark smiled in response. "What's so funny?" he asked.
"My answer," she replied. "And it got funnier when you told me your chosen career."
"You can't leave it there," Clark said as he daubed golden butter on his roll. "You haven't even begun to answer my question."
"Well," Lois said. "I wanted to write, too."
"You did?"
She nodded. "But not poetry or newspaper reports. I wanted to write the Great American Novel."
Clark smiled. "Did you go to college?"
"Champlain College in Vermont. Professional Writing."
"Doesn't explain how you ended up where I met you."
Lois released a long breath. "No," she said. "But it was at Champlain that I met Linda King."
"Linda?" Clark said. "The one who dared you to buy that shocking pink wig?"
Lois chuckled, but he saw the anguish in her eyes. Suddenly, he knew.
"And the one who was killed?" he continued gently.
Lois nodded. "The best friend I ever had."
"You've answered my question," Clark said. "You don't have to say any more if you don't want to."
"Linda was studying psychology," Lois said. "We met one night when we'd both had too much to drink. We staggered home, singing at the top of our voices. We arrived at her room first, and I crashed on her bed."
"She sounds like fun."
"She was," Lois said. "Our friendship grew stronger - she was just like a sister to me. When the end of college was looming, neither of us liked the idea of having to grow up, having to work. Anyway, Linda heard that *certain employers* were always willing to take young females because it wasn't exactly a career path that most women considered."
"No."
"Linda was really keen," Lois continued. "She was confident that, with her psychology major, she would be accepted. I hated the thought of her disappearing for long stretches and never knowing where she was or what she was doing. Or if she were safe."
"So you both applied?"
"Yeah. Linda told me that I'd have heaps of exotic experiences to use in my Great American Novel."
"And did you?"
"Have heaps of experiences? Yes. Ever write that novel? No."
"Do you still want to?"
Lois picked at a piece of lettuce from her wrap, her eyes low. "After Linda died, for the first time in years, I felt the compulsion to write."
"Did you?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I was so full of bitterness and cynicism and anger that it would have been a very ugly story." Lois looked up, and pain had lodged in her eyes. "And it probably would have included stuff that would have broken more than a few secrecy contracts that I had signed."
Clark wished he could hold her. He wanted it so much he could almost feel her soft body in his arms. "How long ago did Linda die?" he asked, trying to permeate his words with the shared sorrow he felt for her heartache.
"Almost three months ago."
"*Three* months?"
"That surprises you?"
"When you mentioned it ... I thought ... I thought it had happened ... I don't know ... a year ago."
Lois sadly shook her head. "No. Three months ... next week."
Her words from the cell erupted in his mind. I heard it all. I heard his evil triumph. I heard her fear. I heard his cruelty. I heard her pain. I heard her die. I heard her final breath. "Aw, Lois," Clark said.
She gave him a wobbly smile. "I was a wreck."
"I never saw that in you," he said. "That's why I thought more time had passed. I knew you were hurt about what happened, but I never saw the bitterness."
"You know why?"
"Why?"
"Because when we met, I'd been watching you for a week. I saw the hardships that you were dealing with, and it started to change me. Started to help me deal with how much I hated the world."
"You could never hate."
"Yes. I could. I have. I still do." She pushed a wan smile through eyes that had hardened. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I shouldn't let all that spoil our lunch together."
"Thank you for telling me."
Lois averted her eyes. "The garden is nice," she said, blinking rapidly as she stared through the window.
"Yeah," Clark agreed, although his gaze didn't leave Lois. "How is your wrap?"
"It's delicious. Thank you." She picked it up from her plate. "*Does* this place remind you of home?"
Clark's gaze circled the room, ending with the little patch of garden that was visible through the window. "Yeah," he said. "It does a bit."
"The garden at your home is overrun," Lois said. "But it seemed to me that it could be recovered with some pruning and weeding."
"Mom loved her gardens," Clark said. "Flowers in the front. Vegetables in the back."
"Near the kitchen door?"
He nodded.
Lois's hand slipped across the table and grasped his. "We will find her," she said quietly. "We'll find a way to take her home."
Clark wished he could believe. He couldn't. But a week ago, he couldn't have believed that he would be sitting with Lois in a cosy cafe as they ate the lunch paid for with money he had earned.
Lois Lane seemed to have the ability to will the impossible into being.
He felt the tentative birth of hope. Perhaps ... one day ... his mom *could* tend her gardens again.
When he looked at Lois, she was smiling. "One day," she said. "We *will* find her."
They finished their meals, and Clark received the check, took out his wallet, and paid. It felt so mind-numbingly normal - a man buying lunch for a woman.
As Clark walked back to the Buick with Lois's hand tucked into his, he felt like he was traversing two worlds - the world of estrangement where he had lived all of his conscious life and a new and scary world where, maybe, he could find a degree of normality.
Was there any chance that he could live free on this planet?
Not if everyone knew the truth about him.
But if the records had been wiped ... if those who knew were willing to forget ...
And with Lois beside him ...
Maybe ... maybe, it was possible.
||_||
Moyne heard the little clunk as the last of the three locks gave way to his pick.
He pushed open the door and crept into the apartment.
There were three packing crates stashed into the corner. Was she planning to leave? He walked over to them. Two were open and both looked like she had sorted through them, found whatever she'd wanted, and left them jumbled.
They appeared half-unpacked, not half-packed.
There was a thin layer of dust on the countertop. He estimated it was two to three days worth.
Moyne snuck into her bedroom. One side of the bed was crumpled as if she had left in haste.
One side.
Did that mean she *hadn't* brought the alien here?
Moyne darted into the bathroom. There was a solitary pink toothbrush on the shelf. He rustled through the cupboard. Everything suggested this was a woman's bathroom; nothing suggested the presence of a man.
Not that the alien was a man.
Moyne closed the cupboard. There were two towels on the rail. Both were dry - they hadn't been used recently.
Where was Lane?
Where was the alien?
Back in her bedroom, Moyne opened her closet. He didn't know what a normal amount of clothes was for a woman, but there were no big gaps to signify that some had been taken.
If Lane had left Metropolis, she had left quickly - not even stopping to pack her toothbrush.
Moyne skulked into the kitchen and peered into the trash can. It held a few items - a soda can, a candy bar wrapper, and an advertising pamphlet - but nothing that indicated anyone had cooked a meal in this kitchen.
That was to be expected - Lane had been doing the afternoon/evening shift at the compound.
But the compound didn't exist anymore.
Moyne set the locks to engage and let himself out of the apartment.
He couldn't ask Scardino or Eric or even Shadbolt about what had happened to the alien operation without alerting them that he wasn't working his new assignment.
But - he was an agent.
And finding people was his job.
Finding them ... and exacting revenge.
That was something he did better than anyone he knew.
||_||
As he returned from his second trip to check on police activity in Florida, Clark detoured to Kansas.
He hovered high in the air and looked down at the little farmhouse that had been the only home he had known.
He had not expected to see it again.
The fields were in good condition. Clearly, someone was farming the land - probably Wayne Irig and his son, Brett. The fences had been maintained. The boxes in the chicken coop were lined with fresh hay and contained four newly laid eggs. The tractor had oil and gas ... and a brand new front tyre.
Two planks of wood had worked loose from his tree house and had fallen to the ground.
The gardens around the house - his mom's domain - were in a state of neglect. Clark looked into the house - into his bedroom ... and his parents' bedroom - and sadness welled inside him.
He wanted to come home.
He yearned to be here. To work the farm in memory of his father. To look after his mother. To try to make up for all the pain and heartache he had caused her.
But he couldn't.
Just as he had been locked in, now he was locked out. The place he ached to be was the one place that was barred to him.
Clark pulled his eyes away and slowly flew back to Lois.
