From Hereafter
By Neech
The second time Clark Kent encounters Lois Lane after the entire New Krypton incident, it is due to an entire week of absence from the Planet that drags the reluctant Mad Dog Lane to his apartment just to ensure that her shy, bumbling partner, Mr. Aw-Shucks Kent, was not decomposing on the parquet floor.
Her first words to him are "Good God, Kent! What decided that Kents were worth eating?" when she takes note of his bedraggled, unkempt state, and he hastens to hide a smile, before the truth slips from weary, weary lips, loosened by sleep-deprivation and exhaustion, and the beauty of the angel before him.
His skin thrums with fatigue, each movement he makes filling him with a bone-deep sort of ache; something he has never felt in his entire career as Superman, something he's never felt, ever. The clothes he wears are days-old, worn plaid and threadbare pyjama pants, the horn-rimmed glasses perched uncomfortably on the bridge of his nose an old pair, having lost the last in his haste to rescue her. He hasn't shaved in a week, and he knows that he looks like he has been swallowed and spat out as an afterthought, his hair forming dark spikes that stand from his head, the beginnings of the tell-tale errant lock that curls at his forehead hidden by the disarray of his hair.
They both stand there in the tiny, secluded corridor, and he knows she's looking at him, examining him for symptoms of illness, but finding none.
None that are visible anyway, he thinks wryly. It is rather the pain of losing her that hurts more.
Fate is his true answer to her previous question, as he takes in her suit-clad form from the corner of his eye, but he settles for an "Oh, gee! Flu bug most probably…" instead, noting her less-than-subtle eye-roll that comes with that statement with amusement.
He smiles at her then, a real smile – one that is both Clark Kent and Superman at the same time, and he observes her body bristle slightly in remembrance, even if she does not recognise it herself. He stands silently as she shivers and rubs at the goose bumps that have been raised on her arms, and then he decides – he has been a fool after all.
She's not his, he reminds himself, painfully, not anymore. But for once, chivalry wins out over sensibility, and he forgets the façade he has so carefully crafted for himself to separate the man from the almost- god, as he stares straight into glassy hazel eyes, placing one large palm gently on her forearm and to inquire if she is alright.
She bites her lip, and he knows that look, even if he hasn't been partnered with her for half a decade and longer; the look that tells him that she is struggling not to cry, for Lois Lane, star reporter of The Daily Planet doesn't cry, at least not in front of others.
And the guilt that look invokes hurts so much more than the wound that throbs in his back.
He wants to apologise, but he can't. He wants to hug her, but he can't. He wants to pull her close and kiss her, but he can't.
So he does the next best thing.
He takes her hand and leads her through the door, the feel of her palm safely in his and the sound of her heart guiding the way to his own personal Canaan.
-8-
Two cups of coffee and three typical klutzy-Kent incidents later, she is almost her normal acerbic self, sitting on the box that currently functions as the chair to his countertop, sipping her coffee quietly as she glances around his room.
She raises one eyebrow at the sheer number of photo frames that crowd his table; paint peeling off the faux silver frames, revealing the steel and iron hidden beneath, as well as the lone mattress that sits rather dolefully in the corner of the room, bare of a bedspread and still covered by the sheer plastic wrap that screamed of its recent addition to the furnishings of the flat.
He shrugs, because that is his only answer, the only answer possible for the reason why the apartment is still unadorned, why even after two weeks, Clark Kent is still sleeping on the second-hand sofa instead of the bed, why the suitcase at the base of his make-shift bed is still full of clothes and the closet empty (the Superman suit having been stuffed hastily into the laundry basket).
She wouldn't like the truth, he was sure.
"You haven't been to work." She says to him, a single statement that is not a question.
He wonders whether she noticed that herself.
"Yes." He doesn't bother to refute it, for there is no excuse that he can think of that will explain for a seven-day disappearance. He wonders if she knows, suspects the fact that she knew once long before, that he indeed is Superman.
He leaves one too many clues, he knows, but it is through sheer luck that the journalists he work with do not look beyond what they can see with their own eyes, to perceive the piece of information that Clark Kent conveniently disappears when the caped hero is needed, that the explanations that he gives them are getting more and more half-baked by the minute, that they have the same build, the same height, and the very same features, should they look beyond the glasses and the innocuous air.
"Why? You missed… this." She pulls out The Daily Planet's recent issue, her name written in bold by the by-line, crisp black ink stark against white paper. His – no, Superman's – picture stares back, mouth etched in a gentle smile, though his eyes do not say the same.
Hundreds Trapped in Building Collapse, Superman Saves All, the headline reads.
"Superman…" she says, quietly, ever so softly, words not meant for him to hear. "They had their saviour, but when do I get to have mine?"
She closes her eyes, and this time when he takes her hand, she leans in against his shoulder, and then they are silent but for the sound of quiet tears and the steady drip of rain behind them.
-8-
"Give me my lighter back."
"Nuh-uh."
"Kent. Give it. Now."
"Uhhh… At the risk of your… temper, I'm sorry, but it's still a no."
They stand together on the roof, facing the Metropolis skyline with the beauty of twilight before them, his hands clutching the aforementioned cigarette lighter held carefully out of her reach.
She glares at him, and he smiles, for it is the Lois Lane of long ago, a Lois that is no longer trapped in his memory that stands before him, fiery-eyed with her ebony hair swirling around her, her ferocity intense enough to draw gulps from any hardened criminal.
It was just too bad that he wasn't one.
"Clark Kent," her voice is sweet, laced with honey and sugar, "if you want to possess all your organs in working order, you will return me my goddamn lighter."
Yes, ma'am.
He does, sending her a reproachful look that she snorts at, though he takes his revenge by subtly blowing at her flickering flame, the unsteady glow winking out with a soft hiss.
"Damn it!" she curses, looking wildly around for the likely primary-coloured culprit. He can tell she is satisfied when she finds no flash of blue and red. She flicks her lighter open once more, and this time, he doesn't interfere, waiting for her to exhale the tell-tale, grey pungent puff of smoke before interrupting.
"Lois—"
"Kent, look. It's been a long day. Pardon me, but some people need their vices to keep them going, okay?"
She leans out on the railing, fingers tracing the grooves on the ledge, her eyes distant as her hands reach out, only to clench slightly as they close on thin air.
"It's tiring you know, Kent? Tiring to keep up a façade that if you let down, people around you will fall apart. It's like fighting a losing battle, because sooner or later, you're gonna snap, something's going to slip, and then you'll have nothing."
"I don't ever want to be alone again." She closes her eyes, and you stare at the woman who stands beside you, her cigarette forgotten, face turned towards the sky as if to take in the last of the sun's fading rays.
"You won't." His voice is low, even for his alter ego, his heart quickening as she turns, expressive hazel eyes staring back. "Never again." Not if he can help it. His voice is earnest, and he wonders whether she can hear the love in his voice, the love for this wonderful, beautiful woman that is beside him. He doesn't know if he can keep it from his actions any longer.
It's been too long.
"I'll always be there for you, when you need me." And I'll be there even when you don't. It's a promise he makes to her, and himself.
She places one hand on his. "Thank you. Thank you, Clark."
She yawns then, grinning as she hears the familiar holler of the esteemed Mr. White (through twenty-four floors no less), and they slowly walk back to the bullpen.
"So, does that mean you'll let me smoke?"
-8-
The months slowly slip past, from October, to November and finally the last month of all.
He finds her sitting at his desk one morning, pushing up her reading glasses in a mirror image of his own actions. She dangles a sprig of mistletoe in front of his nose, raising one delicate eyebrow as he narrows his gaze (now disapproving) at the offending bunch.
"I take it that you weren't the one who placed it over your desk then."
He nearly spits the hearty gulp of coffee he had taken ten seconds prior out onto her lap, feigning a coughing fit at the few drops that have made their way into his larynx.
"Here, Kent." She reaches forward, pounding his back none too gently, though her hand lingers a few seconds too long, his face flaming a brilliant red at the thought of her fingers pressed against his back.
His nerve endings tingle, and when she moves back, it is with relief that he manages to sit on the corner of his desk, fingers deftly twirling a pencil to rein in his thoughts, desires; anything to keep his mind off her, her smile, the scent of her perfume.
He wants her. He needs her. And if she touches him one more time, he's not sure he can let her go.
She has Richard.
That drives him back to reality.
"So… Who do you think placed it over your desk?" She looks at him inquisitively, the investigative reporter as always. "Cat Grant… Lyn Casey down in Human Resources… nah, not quite her style, and you're not exactly her taste either. Cathy Miller? She's that Rita Skeeter look-alike… with a fashion sense to match…"
"Who's Rita Skeeter?" he asks, confused.
"Aha! Exactly my point on why you're not Lyn's taste, Kent. Have you been living with your head in a hole these past five years? Too obsessed with llamas?" He shakes his head, and she pokes him with her pencil, pausing slightly to scribble something in her notebook.
"Harry Potter, Clark. Remind me to lend you the book sometime."
"But––"
"You do read, do you? I'm sure you do. With glasses that thick… Anyway, come on, Kent. Give me more info. Someone must have placed it there. Could it have been one of the boys… Ted Lee? He's a bit too green to think of something like this, I think. Bill? Turner from Editorial?"
"Lois––"
"What, Clark?" She looks at him then, pen poised over the paper in thought. She has ink on her face and her hair is in slight disarray (possibly due to a visit to the roof to smoke one of those vile cigarettes he has permitted her to smoke once a day), but to him, he has never seen her look more beautiful, windswept hair and rosy cheeks that have been caressed by the wind.
She takes his breath away, and he looks away guiltily, for an engaged woman should not look quite so appealing, especially one with a five year-old son.
"Uh… I don't quite um… think anyone put it there… specifically… I mean-" This time, the stammer is for real as he watches her eyes narrow in a typically Lois-esque fashion, before she leans forward to give him a soft knock to the head with her clipboard. He winces, sincerely hoping that her clipboard has not been dented.
"Clark Kent, don't be an idiot. There isn't any mistletoe anywhere besides over your desk, and look at the large clump they gave you! Anyway, you're not bad-lookin', if you got rid of those ridiculous glasses, and that ugly brown tweed jacket you always use…"
Touché.
He flushes red this time, but when she reaches forward to grasp his glasses, he grabs her hand in a movement slightly too fast for a human to process and comprehend, terror etched clearly on his face. She stares straight at him, clear blue eyes meeting brown squarely, and he can't help but take in a small, involuntary gasp of air at the contact.
She blinks then, and he manages to pull his gaze away, trying his best not to cower as she frowns slightly, before tweaking his previously awry spectacles into their proper position. "I never realised your eyes were blue… Must be your glasses."
"I don't think I could ever not use them." He confesses. "They're part of me." A tool, a disguise and a security blanket all at once.
She takes another look at him, and this time, she is not frowning, giving him a little smile that she's never bestowed Clark Kent with before. Only Kal-El.
"After all, Clark is Clark…" Her tone is faintly contrite, apologising for her declaration months ago, and he blinks slightly from the memory of her cavalier dismissal.
"Clark is… Clark."
She stands, and he rises with her, pretending to almost trip on his feet as he pushes his chair away.
"Merry Christmas, Clark." She winks at the branch of crushed foliage trapped in the palm of his hand, and in a blink of an eye, she rises on tiptoe to press a short, chaste kiss to his cheek.
"Don't forget the Christmas party tonight," she calls, and then she is gone, leaving behind a shell-shocked six foot- three superhero and a mournful piece of Christmas décor in her wake.
-8-
There are times when Clark does not appreciate the fact that he is six feet and counting, more than two hundred pounds in weight and able to carry the colour red well. This was definitely one of those times.
The suit Perry passes him makes him feel like he's swallowed a lemon whole, for even a man who parades around in red, blue and his underwear balks at the idea of wearing a Santa suit.
"Uh…" He manages to get out, the mere beginnings of a vehement protest before Mr. White sends him packing, with just a few brusque instructions and an entourage trailing behind him.
"You've got the height, the size, and the only one with enough guts to wear it. Wear it, Kent. And for God's sake, do a decent 'Ho ho ho'!"
Lois catches him a moment later, her eyes drifting from the outfit to him and the outfit again before bursting into a fit of laughter as he sends her a sad sigh.
"You… have got to be joking…"
"Sadly, no. Can you save me?" She smirks at the plaintive whine in his voice, her eyes twinkling wickedly as she grabs his arm, towing him to the row of chairs by the side of the room. "Nuh-uh, Farm-boy. This is one thing Lois Lane can't get you out of. Though I can help you with that suit."
He blushes at the hidden innuendo of her words as she removes the articles of clothing from the bag, turning to him with slight amusement as she fishes out something faintly menacing in lurid green and red.
"He doesn't expect you to wear all of this, does he? 'Cause green and red reindeer boxers is pushing it."
He chuckles at this, a deep, throaty laugh that he notices causes her heartbeat to speed up by a tad, and he wonders about that for a brief moment, before she distracts him with the removal of the rest of the outfit from the cloth bag.
True to her word, she assists him with the beard and the hat, pasting on a fake white moustache with much laughter. Then, he halts suddenly without warning, his hands immediately moving to his spectacles.
He'd have to take them off.
She guesses the reason for his horror in a second, cupping his cheek gently in the middle of her small palm.
"You don't have to remove your glasses if you don't want to."
"But-"
"Enough with the 'but's, Kent. Who gives a damn about Perry? I'll kick his ass if I need to."
And he knows she will, for him.
-8-
He awakens to loud banging on his door, sleep-addled and mind-numbingly fatigued from night after night of midnight patrols, eyes nearly crusted shut with sleep, until the sound of her rapid breathing, almost gasps, throws him out of his dream stupor, pulling him out of bed and straight to the front door.
She's sobbing now, and his mind is a frenzied turmoil of thoughts as he pulls the door open, too full of worry to notice he has crushed the door handle and broken the lock, deep hollows in innumerable places left on the polished knob.
Jason stands behind her, clutching her hand like a lifeline, his five year-old face twisted in an expression of sorrow that pains him to see it. It is the pain of losing a father. And he regrets his actions once again, for it is the reason why Lois is on his doorstep, begging sanctuary for one night, the reason why his son has heard too many angry words exchanged in the space of an hour, the reason why both Lanes now have no place to go.
She near-collapses when the door opens, and amidst the frantic calls of panic from her son, he sweeps her up with godlike speed before she hits the floor, his eyes silently swearing the young boy to secrecy.
It is with a father's pride that he watches his son nod with no hesitation, though the tears trail down his cheeks in salty tracks, before silently closing the door behind him.
-8-
It is almost six, and he has barely slept, dreaming and waking in short spurts that make him move to check that she and Jason are still there, wrapped up and asleep in a blanket on his bed. To check that they are safe and sound, here with him.
"Clark."
He turns, and is greeted by the sight of her standing in his narrow doorway, arms folded across her chest. She is wearing an old flannel of shirt of his, something he has left out for her just in case, and he cannot help but stare at her, for God, she's beautiful, dressed in an overlarge shirt and nothing much underneath.
He walks towards her, and he sees something snap, snap like she predicted long ago, eyes blurring with tears as she restrains a sob.
And this time, when he reaches her, she lets him hold her close.
-8-
"Hometown."
"Smallville, Kansas."
"Smallville?"
"Yep. It's a nice place, mostly farms. Small town, homely atmosphere. It's quite different from Metropolis."
"Make that very different, buster. As in, farm town, wait for the cows to cross the street, that kind of farm town?"
"Uh… We can't exactly run the cows down…"
"…Forget I asked."
"You?"
"I was born in New Jersey. Being an army brat, I was shuffled around the entire North American continent before I had the sense to leave my parents for a career in journalism."
"Right. Middle name?"
"Joanne."
"Lois Joanne Lane. It's got a nice ring to it."
"Luce got the better deal, I think. Lucy Julia Lane. Thank God my parents had the sense not to name either of us 'Juliet'."
"Aah, but Juliet's a beautiful name."
"So says you, Mister Clark. When did your mother name you, the eighteen hundreds?"
"Clark Jerome Kent isn't a bad name!"
A pause.
"I rest my case."
It is day sixteen of her visit, and she had made a temporary residence out of 1938 Sullivan Lane, a now small apartment filled with the bustling of its three occupants.
She sits opposite him across the couch, smiling and content, the slight shadows under her eyes the last lingering reminder of many nights of sleeplessness and depression.
Her son sits away on the living room floor, attention captured by a complex jigsaw puzzle meant for a child three to five years his senior, placing pieces together with remarkable concentration. He stares at his child in wonder, for he sees her in Jason's face, the shape of his mouth and the crease between both eyebrows a facsimile of his mother's. But his son has his eyes, he knows, the exact same shade of pure, unadulterated blue, as azure as the sky.
They are his family, though they do not know it. They have him, yet they do not, for he is a man who is married to the world, dedicated to three billion lives rather than just two. It is not a choice of one over the other, for he is not just Kal-El or Clark but both, one person in entirety, with neither sides of his personality willing to let go.
And they can never have all of him.
His life is primarily a sacrifice; a sacrifice of dignity, of happiness, of joy, of freedom, and maybe one day, his life, for others. He can never have them, for perhaps one day, he may never come home. He can still remember the way Lois looked five years ago, the sadness and sorrow stark on her face as she waited anxiously, fearfully for him to return, and he swears to himself that it'll never happen again.
But, God willing, he still tries to love them, as much as he can, for now. For he is no God, but just an alien, an alien with his own selfish desires, his own wants, an alien who has his own humanity.
And somehow, even if they do not need him, he still needs them.
-8-
As Valentine's Day draws closer, he wonders about his relationship with her, and exactly where they stand. Mere colleagues they are not, but friends, maybe even best friends, perhaps. The best word he can think of to describe it is 'complicated', for his life certainly sounds like a tragic love story, full of woe and sadness.
He doesn't know whether the Gods of Irony decided to make her love him, but if so, it was in one of the cruellest ways, for her to love him, but not him exactly, but a fragment of him, and completely ignore the other. She no longer ignores him now, but does she love him? Likes him most definitely. But love?
He can see that she still mourns the loss of Richard, though the beautiful diamond ring he once wished was from him is now gone, her right ring finger free of any form of decoration, like a widow grieving for her dead husband. He cannot begrudge her the love for a man who kept her safe when he had not, the love for a man who was of by all means, a gentleman, until he had found out that the child he once thought was his was not.
But… She may not make him human, but she does make him a man.
He has grown desensitized to the heady scent of her smell in his own way, no longer overwhelming him as it once did. But now he needs it, the fragrance of peaches, sweetness and the spice that is just her, to waft around his nostrils and remind him that she is still there. He wants – needs the feel of her arms gently encircling his neck, though what he remembers is a memory long past but still there, right at the forefront of his memory. Her breath is a prayer on his lips when her face is inches from his, smiling as she looks into his eyes, their noses almost touching.
God, how she looks.
She may never love him but one thing he does know is that he will love her forever.
-8-
It is raining, and for the first time in a long time, he stops at the Smallville Municipal Cemetery, a bouquet of white Irises clutched in his hands.
The plot is clean, fresh flowers placed below the tombstone indicating prior visits by his mother. The gold letters engraved on the marble headstone are vivid, ochre words plain against white stone. The rain patters, and he feels the water saturate his skin, drops exploding into a million tiny beads of moisture, solitary droplets flying apart at the force of impact.
"Pa."
The name 'Jonathan Kent' written on stone still hurts, with clear, precise dates embossed below, a grim reminder of something that even the Man of Steel cannot change.
"Pa, it's me.
"I've missed you. Life has been hectic since I've come back. I haven't had the time to visit Ma and Shelby and Ben.
"I've found an apartment on Sullivan Lane. It's a pretty good spot in Metropolis, it being so close to the Planet and all.
"Work has been okay. Mr. White, that is, the senior one, gets a little suspicious sometimes. Could be because I have a habit of forgetting to feed my goldfish… and that they found a sock, two ties and a coat hidden in the elevator vent. On the day I complained to be running out of clothes. Other than that… nothing has decided I was worth swallowing, eating, setting on fire, drowning or shooting at in the past week or so.
"I'm worried though. I've been lucky so far, but it's different now. I have two people living with me, two people who don't know that their lives are endangered every day by their mere association with me. God, Lois used to get shot at, kidnapped and threatened on a regular basis, and she was just acting as my press agent! What if – what if…
"What if they find out I love her?
"I was supposed to look but not touch. But how could I? How was I supposed to save humans from themselves if I had to do it quietly, subtly from the shadows? How?
"How was I supposed to remain distant and not form attachments? How was I supposed to not fall in love?"
There is no one to answer his question. And when he sits there, a grieving Man of Tomorrow seeking solace in a being that no longer has the future in mind, he decides that he has never felt more alone.
-8-
There is something about Clark Kent.
Something special and different, Lois Lane muses, as she sits in on the bed of his apartment with a steaming mug of hot chocolate in one hand, waiting for her tall friend to come home. The red alarm clock with its glow-in-the-dark face and irregularities in regard to its shape reads past midnight, with several hours of night to go before the dark gives way to the sun. And for some reason, she worries for her companion who has yet to return to 1938 Sullivan Lane.
She wonders who and what he is exactly, though she knows he is more than the shy, inquisitive timid man who mumbles more than speaks, more than the man who is frequently the laughing stock of the bullpen, whose tie dipped in his Chinese take-out soup is the weekly source of entertainment. For Clark Kent can't possibly be human, not with a heart like his.
"How can you stand it?" she once asked, her eyes fierce as she glared at the snickering figure convulsing behind the copy machine at the sight of Kent carefully removing the sticky pink strands that stretched from the back of his coat to his office chair. She had half a mind to haul the still-laughing jerk-wad off to the janitor's closet and slug him till he was barely conscious.
It was just too sad her partner had compassion.
He smiled, turning to look at her inquisitively, crystalline cerulean eyes bright behind thick lenses. "Man has the capacity to do both good and evil. Perhaps if Casey Weisler puts bubblegum on my seat, he'll be in a good enough mood later to give some money to that homeless man beggaring off 42nd Street."
She shook her head. "You're such an optimist… God, don't tell me that you believe that there's good in everyone…"
"But there is. Humanity needs someone to believe in them, Lois. Or else they'll lose faith in themselves…"He gently tugged a lock of her hair before tucking it behind her ear, eyebrows creasing in bewilderment as she turned away, trying to prevent her heart from thumping its way out of her chest.
Damn! Get a hold of yourself, Lane. "Really?" she questioned, "Then what happened to us? We don't have faith now, we have God-frickin' overconfidence. We think we're gods, playing with genetics and nuclear warfare, and all in the name of 'science'. We're sinful, malevolent and malicious, Kent. It's reality."
"Humans aren't evil, Lois. It's the things that they do that are." The solemnity in his voice surprised her.
"I wish I had your faith," she murmured.
"But you see, I know you do. Or you wouldn't believe in him."
She had nothing to say to that.
She remembers this conversation from two weeks ago as she sits on his bed – her bed, or both of theirs. The room that she sits in is his, but only in name, for the comforter she lies on smells only of her, the small pile of belongings by the corner unmistakably feminine, the small lump on the left of the bed her son. She idly runs one finger along the edge of her pillow, wondering ruefully just how much Clark had to give up just for her.
She isn't quite sure of what exactly, but she thinks she can guess how much.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows that it's too much; too much of a sacrifice for a mere friend with a child born out of wedlock, a mere friend whose sharp tongue and sarcasm has been honed on his hide.
The old Lois Lane would have been out of Kent's apartment in a week, bags packed and curt, short letter of apology and gratitude pasted on his door. But she isn't the old Lois Lane, and she hasn't been, not in a very long time.
For one, the old Lois would never have fallen for him.
She isn't quite sure about the 'how's, 'if's and 'why's, except for the irrefutable fact that she has, somehow. And it scares her, more than it ever did when she first loved Kal-El, for this time, the person isn't a mere fleeting shadow of symbolical justice, but a person, human flesh and blood, a man with his own faults and shortcomings, a man named Clark Jerome Kent. A man who has been her compadre for more than five years and a friend for twice that, a man who she knows will watch her back in a fight, the fact that he can barely watch his own notwithstanding.
A man who she knows has loved her since forever.
And therein lies her problem.
For she can't love him, not like this, with her love for him and another rivalling for her heart. Not with a five-year old son, born from a night of passion with the Superman, a child that no man can truly be a father of, except the Man of Tomorrow himself.
Lois Lane may not have been as virtuous as what was religiously acceptable, but she did have morals, contrary to popular belief.
Her love for Richard is – was different, she decides, for it was a love borne out of mutual companionship and the desire for tender care and support, a love borne of time and persistence, rather than her love for him long ago – purely physical attraction, recklessness and passion, where she, like a hot-blooded teenager, loved and thought with her heart.
A fool's heart.
She was so foolish then, young and reckless and willing to throw away her life and even her dignity for a front-page article with a 'Lois Lane' on its by-line. She had been so cynical and against the world that she had been so blind to not see anything beyond the cold, hard truth and merciless justice… until he came.
And somehow, with his generous and idealistic heart, he had won hers as well as that of their pessimistic mother country, won over by that genuine wish to help and those clear, beautiful blue eyes – so full of faith and hope.
She never stood a chance.
She had been so foolishly in love, a feeling she had barely experienced but for the passing moments of emotion she felt for anyone other than her mother and sister. Until him. And she revelled in those moments, when she could stand mere metres from him but she could already feel the gentleness of his touch; her hair standing on end from the silky timbre of his voice, so like smooth velvet gliding upon satin, the sight of him making her feel bloodless and light, her head almost as if thrust into the clouds. For she loved him.
And she still loves him now, though in a less besotted, juvenile way, and when she thinks about it, it is one of the few things that she is sure about – as well as the fact that he loves her back.
And in some ways, that thought does not make her feel any better.
-8-
The clock beeps, the lack of modulation in its chime causing little shivers to traverse the length of her spine. Tick-tock, tick-tock. It is four-seventeen and thirty-eight seconds, and Clark Kent is still not home.
Home? The concept of home eludes her, has always eluded her, until now. It is a foreign feeling, the knowledge of home and what it means to her, new emotions joining with the onslaught of new thoughts, and all as different as the stars: just simply different.
But it is what she feels for the small apartment on the twenty-fifth floor, a place that she simply believes that she belongs, truly, a place that is often cluttered beyond recognition and its rooms filled with the paraphernalia for three. It is a place that holds her heart and her dreams and keeps them safe.
Her haven.
But even havens can crumble, like Prague and Jericho before it. And her greatest worry is that one day, hers will.
Snap. The creaking whine of the sliding door to the balcony being pulled open drags her from her reverie. She grapples with the handle of Clark's trusty, old baseball bat (placed strategically in the room just for her) before she hears the soft tenor of his voice, her hands slackening in relief until she wonders how he was on the balcony in the first place.
"Lois…"
"How––" She starts, but grimaces as waves of nausea hit her, her knees buckling as she clutches her head, flashes of brightness, sound and smell assailing her memory. The white-hot brilliance of light– the sight of clear, almost-luminous blue– she gasps as she meets his concerned cobalt gaze, a shade that is only too familiar.
"Lois? Lois- Are you alright?" She pushes his hands away, her own eyes wide as she looks at him, rain-soaked and covered by a thin layer of mud. His shirt is translucent, and if she peers closely, she can see- something.
"H-how– How the hell did you get onto that balcony?" Her voice shakes and she can see him flinch, his gaze seemingly fixed to the floor.
"I was–"
"You weren't there before!"
His mouth closes abruptly.
If he has been lying all this time, it ends now.
"Damnit, Kent! I want no lies, you hear me!" In two strides, she crosses the distance between them, her fingers roughly lifting his chin to meet his eyes, searching.
"Don't. Lie. To. Me. Clark." Her voice is a soft hiss, vicious and abrasive, and she feels a short flash of remorse as those beautiful blue eyes cloud slightly with pain. She is so afraid, her pulse racing, and she hopes, even prays that she is wrong, though the slight narrowing of his eyes in the general direction of her heart seems to tell her otherwise.
Please– Prove me wrong.
"I…"
Give me a goddamn reason, damn you! Something logical, something I can believe… Please…
I don't want to be right.
"I… I can't."
Oh no. "Clark Jerome Kent, you better have a damn good reason…" Her head whirls faster and faster, shock frozen on her features.
His shoulders fall, proud frame sinking to that of a defeated man. Oh no indeed. "I don't have a reason, Lois. I'm so sorry." Sad, earnest eyes… Familiar eyes…
She pulls off his glasses, and this time he doesn't stop her.
-8-
She stares at him in shock, eyes round with an emotion that he cannot name: shock, horror, amazement– It is an expression that is all these combined into one, and it is not a happy one.
"Damn you." He sees her hand move before he hears her voice, so cold– the pain of her tone hurting more than the impact of the blow itself, as he turns slightly so she does not break her palm. Fingers connect with his face and he watches her falter slightly as she stifles her pain, refusing to rub her hand. He does not dare to take her hand and check it for injuries, for her eyes are like ice, pale hazel overworked with frost, her every action radiating ferocity.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
"Damn you, Kent!" She is too close, her body inches from his, a finger jabbing his ribs with each piercing word. "You lied to me! Who are you!"
He can feel that her hand has been sprained with the last blow, and he grabs her hand, carefully letting go when she roughly pulls her palm away.
"I'm so sorry, Lois."
"Don't give me your damn excuses, Ken– Superman! Who are you! Are you Clark, or are you Superman! Did I know you at all?" Her voice ends as a cracked whisper, and he cannot help but flinch at that.
"I'm both, Lois… I'm both." His voice slips to a shaky baritone, a combination of both Clark Kent and Kal-El, his voice pleading as she slowly backs away, arms instinctively placed in front of her to put some distance between them. "You still know me, Lois… I swear…"
"You played me like a fool, Superman. You lied to me. And each time… each time I didn't want you there, you came anyway, waltzing along with Clark Kent as your disguise… And I let you…"
Her eyes are so cold.
"You make me sick."
That one hurts. Truly hurts, and with that burst of pain, he can only think of the child's nursery rhyme, curled in the recesses of his memory.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.
He can only laugh at the irony in that.
"You broke my heart, Superman. I hate dramatics, but you really did when you left. I managed to forgive you for that somehow. After all, you were supposed to be our saviour, our hero in red and blue. But all you've ever done is break my heart… How could you make me love you twice!"
His head snaps up as he looks at the woman he loves. He cannot touch her, for she is rage and fury personified, an angry goddess trapped in a human shell, her anger wrapping around her like a protective cape, with no conscious control of the livid, cutting words that leave her mouth.
"Why did you do it, Kent? Why! Didn't I humiliate myself enough by falling for the goddamn Man of Steel, unattainable frickin' god? Why did you have to make me fall for Clark Kent as well!"
His reaction is instantaneous, his hands on her shoulders as he looks into her face for a lie, hazel eyes open so wide that he can see the whole circumference of her pupils.
"What?"
She looks back at him, eyes shiny with unshed tears, fury etched into her face as she stares back at him.
"What a fool I was…"
She loves him.
His head reels, and he feels like she's punched him with super-strength, a blow that shakes him to the core. She loves him. Him as Superman, him as Clark Kent, each part of him in its own entirety.
"I love you, Lois. Very, very much. Never forget that."
He runs one hand along the curve of her rigid cheek, and before she can push him away, he lowers his lips to hers.
Tears– the smell of fresh mint and pine charming her senses– the feeling of utter helplessness as she sits rooted in front of the television– a Kryptonian named Zod- Niagara Falls– a face, so beautiful in shock, a hand slipping into the fireplace– soft, silver satin sheets, softer than skin– the feel of his breath fluttering over her face– a soft, chaste kiss– She pulls away, tears dripping to form shiny tracks on her face, refusing to meet his gaze.
And she runs.
-8-
Salty tears blind her as she flees, her vision blurry and unclear as she darts between the hordes of Metropolis, eliciting scandalised looks from some, worried looks from others. She lets her feet take her, for she can't stop, not now, not ever.
Rough concrete rips at her feet, and she feels tender skin give way, but she runs, because she can still hear his voice, pleading, apologising, telling her he loves her.
She doesn't want to listen.
He lied to her.
She can't run forever, but she can try, for now.
-8-
She falls asleep on a park bench but she awakes on his-her- the bed, eyes opening to the feel of a warm comforter covering her skin, the sun's rays split into individual bands of the visible spectrum which dance above her head. In a second, she is out from under the sheets, eyes narrowed at the door and what lies beyond it. She can hear the sounds of traffic, the smell of freshly-made food permeating the air, and-
The yellow post-it note pasted on the corner of her bedside table makes her feels like smoking the last cigarette in her pack (previously untouched for the past month or so) and shredding the piece of innocuous yellow sheet into tiny, tiny pieces, but she resists the urge, forcing herself to think of her son, now noticeably absent.
Dear Lois,
I brought Jason to school. Please don't worry about him, I promise I will keep him safe. I'm so sorry about yesterday. I hope that you'll be able to forgive me, one day.
I love you.
Clark
His words infuriate her rather than calm her, her hand unconsciously crinkling the paper into a tight wad of brilliant yellow, and she throws the paper ball at the door, half-wishing that it is his head instead. She hates him, for his apology, his self-control and the patronizing manner in which he is treating her, like a fragile doll, capable of being broken.
For he has all the traits she lacks: patience, prudence and common sense.
And she hates it when he is probably right.
Dammit.
It is when she looks at the clock that she swears up and down, previous thoughts all forgotten as she stares blankly at the glowing numbers, the audible tick of the second hand slowly leading to the 'twelve' and beyond sending small chills down her spine.
In a second, she's out the door, indecent attire notwithstanding.
The ancient timepiece stands there, mournfully, its numbers still capable of being clearly read, though it has obviously seen better days.
Nine-seventeen. And she's late.
-8-
It is when she is within five minutes of reaching distance of the Planet does she finally realise that she is inappropriately dressed, with her sweatshirt coming to her knees and her thin pair of track pants barely visible beneath her sweater, hair curling around her shoulders and above, visible strands standing slightly to form a dark halo around her head.
She can just imagine the Planet staff's reactions, ranging from barely discernable amusement to jaw-dropping horror at her state of undress, and briefly, she toys with the idea of turning up at work like this, just because she can. Just to prove that Lois Lane isn't afraid of anything, especially not him.
And she isn't.
But she can't go to work like this, not today. Unfortunately. She executes an illegal U-turn, ignoring the number of fingers waved vigorously in her direction, calmly fiddling with the knob to the radio. Mozart always had a way of soothing her nerves; perhaps she would be able to enter the bullpen feeling at least partially sane.
Perhaps.
Flashing glimpses out of the window provide her with striking colours of vivid pink and red, and she restrains the urge to curse like a sailor, as she finally realises why her calendar has the words 'Kill me now' scribbled minutely at the bottom right-hand corner of the date box, a small caricature of a naked, cherubic baby's bottom drawn at the corner of the page. She thinks about it and smirks, for she has never liked Valentine's Day, now more than ever, and she narrows her eyes with distaste at the large crowds of couples walking hand in hand, a box of chocolates placed resolutely under one arm or a large bouquet of gaudy, over-priced roses hanging limply in the hands of another.
She hates this overpriced commercialism of a clichéd festivity, hates the loud bright colours and the indiscretions that the night of this day often brings, hates it for the simple fact that sometimes the love that this day produces more often than not does not last.
She watches the crowd out of the corner of her eye, and she wonders which of these couples will fight and quarrel tomorrow, which of these will take their relationship one step further because of the night and regret it forever, which of these will think foolishly that love is all they need to keep them going…
And all because of the date being February 14th.
And she thinks of lover's notes and sweet meaningless nothings, pointlessly written for the sake of romanticism, and she thinks of him.
She clutches the steering wheel between cold hands, as she thinks of his tender and romantic gestures; the Eiffel Tower, the Fortress, Niagara Falls, and she hates him for making her into a fool. For making her feel that being in love isn't the most moronic thing to be, to be willing to give up everything and anything, just for this notion, this concept of 'love'.
He had no right to her memories, for they were hers, and good or bad, she needed them, treasured them, for they taught her, sustained her and helped her mourn. It did not make a difference whether they caused her pain; they were still hers– and of all people, Superman had stolen them.
Superman. Clark Jerome Kent. Kal-El. She does not know which of them she knows, and which one of them was a lie, a person she believed, trusted and kept close to her heart, and all because she loved him. All of him.
But what makes her most angry of all is the fact that she may not be able to stay angry with him forever.
-8-
She drives.
Time slows, as the mere flickers of pedestrians fade away in a blur of grey, red and pink, and she just drives. She has covered the distance from his apartment to the Planet and back at least twice over, but she does not care, for she does not have a destination in mind, besides a place that is far, far away. She has stopped at the Planet twice, but she can't go in, not with him seeing her like this, frenzied and ashamed. Afraid.
She wants to grab him by his goddamned musty collar and drag him to the roof and expose his secrets for all to see, to have that moment of cruel satisfaction and enjoy it, to watch him squirm, one of his precious secrets for every year she wasted waiting for him, with nothing but the faith in him for him to return.
She feels like such a fool.
And even now she is a fool – because she loves him still.
She can hears the sounds of the city drift away, the blaring of honks vanishing with increasing distance, leaving her mind to the sound of lilting flute and piano, its melody achingly bittersweet, romantic undertones washing over her like a wave of sadness. In a flash she has turned off the radio, traitorous tears leaking from the corner of her eyes. And she cries for him and her both and for their love – not meant to be.
-8-
By the time she realizes that the sun has set, she has driven the entire distance to Gotham, and it is with a little shiver that she remembers it is at night where certain members of society come out to play. Warily, she looks upon the vast numbers of beggars that seem to thrive in the slums near Arkham, a mere face frozen behind a window looking upon a street that crawls with more than just the four-legged.
A knock on her window sounds as she hears muffled begging, a dirt-smeared face pressed against the window, and she recoils, uncontrollably, fearfully, and she sees a few men get up to eye her bag, eye the small diamond cross (barely worth a cent in Metropolis) that hangs from her dashboard, eye her up and down as if the sweater she wears is not there. She feels the hairs on her neck stand, her fingers closing around the pepper spray can- preparing –
The plank of wood carried by one rises but never falls, and she never closes her eyes against the onslaught of glass, and she never screams, not once –
She feels the door she leans on give way, and in moments she is wrapped in warmth, the feel of breath – slow, agonized breath tickling her hair, the sound of a heartbeat, too fast for a human, racing to rival hers, fingers tangled in her sweatshirt though she can still feel their tremble.
And in that second, as he pulls away to meet her eyes, she knows.
I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I love you. I love you too much to let you go again.
And she lets him kiss her.
-8-
Midnight. He holds her close as they stand at the roof of his apartment, his face buried in the curve of her neck as they slow-dance to music that plays in their heads. She has refused to let him dance with her as Superman, and it brings a smile to his face that she truly loves him, all parts of him as a whole. He has placed a lily in her hair, soft, romantic pink contrasting to the dark, silk-like quality of her hair, and in that moment he knows she is truly beautiful, for no one can look like she does – his goddess of strength and mercy wrapped in soft blue silk and the moon's light around her.
"I love you, Lois Lane," he tells her hair, and he can feel her smile, as she turns her face up to look at him, eyes twinkling with mischief.
"Do you really? Where's my Valentine's Day present, then?" He chuckles at this, and he draws her close, content to stand with his angel.
"This." He drops a soft kiss to her brow, then one on her nose, and at the last, he lingers, his lips against hers for a moment that he hopes both of them will remember for eternity.
-8-
"This is yours." She passes him a letter as she sits comfortably on the edge of his desk, watching with amusement as he stares at her with unfeigned confusion, though he slips his hand deftly over hers under the desk, drawing a few glimpses of pleasure from her as he caresses her palm. God, he loves that woman.
The letter unfolds, and he notes with some wry amusement that it is a speeding ticket, her name written in bold letters in the front.
"What?"
She smiles, and she gives his hand one last squeeze before letting go.
"Something to remind us that foolishness sometimes may bring some good," she quietly whispers as she leaves, and he struggles to hide a smile at the thought of the ticket framed in their living room, proudly on display.
One day.
For even fools think about love that will last from hereafter.
Finito
A big thank you to htbthomas who painstakingly beta-ed this story. Certain quotes taken from "For Tomorrow".