Author's Note: I'm not exactly great at promoting myself so I don't know how many more will see this and/or review it :) Thank you to those of you who have reviewed it (all two of you, lol!). That was sweet. Please hang in there. I'm trying to finish up Chapter 3 and I fear it make take a lot of hard slog to get that last scene done. This chapter should be safe but when Chapter 3 is published the rating will probably go up. Yeah, I'm bad...:D
Please read and review!
Chapter 2
Scene 1
She told Sherry they were friends.
It was easier than telling her the truth, especially since she wasn't quite sure what the truth was.
She knew they weren't friends.
They were friendly.
But they weren't friends.
They were something else entirely that left her feeling breathless and exposed whenever he was around.
And the equivocation would have worked with anyone but Sherry.
Sherry wasn't buying it. She knew Mel too well.
"It was a date," she pronounced with finality.
"It wasn't a date!" Mel countered, exasperated.
"You went to dinner," Sherry retorted.
"Two co-workers sharing a meal," Mel said.
"He picked up the tab."
"He's a gentleman."
"You had him over for a nightcap."
"We had coffee!"
"He spent the night!"
"Lower your voice!" Mel glanced around the deli then glared at her. The two women were parked in a booth over sandwiches at Lucille's. The deli was only a block from the Planet and its hearty subs and what Sherry called its crack-tastic coffee made the place popular among the staff. The place was always packed at any time of the day or night with editors and reporters settling in for lunch, picking up breakfast bagels or fast food dinners, not to mention the perpetual coffee runs. Anybody from work could have overheard them.
"We didn't sleep together," Mel hissed indignantly.
Sherry stared at her skeptically, critically."You did something or you wouldn't be sitting there squirming. We've been friends for years, Mel, I know when you're lying. Just admit it."
"Read my lips Sherry," Mel said. "We didn't have sex."
"So what did you have? Sherry barked.
Mel threw up her hands. "You just won't give up will you?" she grabbed her pocketbook and threw some bills on the table. "I knew I shouldn't have talked to you. I knew you wouldn't understand."
"Oh and Clark Kent does?" Sherry called after her retreating back.
Scene 2
Actually it wasn't so much that Clark understood but that Mel was struggling to.
Clark looked up from his desk as Mel slammed back into the Planet newsroom. It was one of the rare moments he was actually at his desk. For the last few days he managed to be out of the building with the exception of deadlines and meetings with Mel and Sherry on the Superman series. Any objective observer would have said he was dodging her. But the truth was Mel was grateful; she wasn't anymore comfortable with him than he was with her.
She knew who he really was. And she wasn't any more happy about it than he was.
He was still in shock over the fact that she knew.
They hadn't talked about it. They hadn't even acknowledged it.
He had woken up in her apartment. She had handed him his glasses. Their eyes met. And he knew that she knew.
He hadn't known what to do when he'd woken up in Mel's apartment. He woke up sitting on her couch, wearing his clothes from the night before. She had already dressed for work and was ready to head out the door. But she'd left a mug of coffee for him on the coffee table and more in the kitchen. For once he'd needed it. He could use it now. They hadn't spoken. His eyes had skipped guiltily to her living room window. He could have been out the window and in his own apartment in a flash, pretended as if all of this was a bad dream.
But he couldn't lie to her. Perhaps it was stupid or self-destructive but he didn't have the heart to lie to another person, especially not another woman – one who had helped him, who was a potential friend. He didn't have a lot of friends.
But he didn't want to create another target either.
So he reverted to type and kept his distance. Or tried to.
The Superman series threw them together every day, which limited the effectiveness of that tactic. He was ironically grateful for the tension between Mel and Sherry that frequently erupted into full out argument. While Perry gleefully refereed, Clark laid low, allowing the two women to dominate center stage, and thus keeping his interaction with Mel to a minimum. Perry seemed to want nothing more from him than, in light of Lois' absence, to provide recollections of his "first-hand" experiences with Superman. That was Perry's main reason for having Clark write the commentary.
The problem was the commentary was supposed to goad Superman into flying over to the Planet's editorial offices to explain himself. His first effort did not please Perry, which meant he was frequently hijacked into meetings with the other three as Perry checked on his progress and gave feedback.
Helpfully, Mel seemed equally bent on avoiding him.
She got it, he realized.
But she was just as thwarted. They danced around each other, averting eyes, avoiding even the merest brush of contact.
So of course it was inevitable that they would collide once again.
Clark should have seen it coming. He was a reporter after all. Some things were just the logical consequence of certain actions and realities. If nothing else, he should have reckoned with Perry White's determination.
"He wants a follow up interview," Mel said bluntly.
Clark stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. He knew which interview she meant. He just couldn't believe she meant it.
"And I suggest you don't look at me that way here," Mel added acerbically. "It might make people…wonder…"
Clark exhaled sharply. "We better talk."
"Oh, you think?" Mel snapped. She turned and walked away before he could reply.
Her tone made him want to flinch and it made him angry although if either of them had a right to be angry it was Mel. But at the moment all he could feel was a roiling mix of emotion, so intense the air seemed to shimmer around him, like heat rising. Without thinking Clark snapped out. "Mel!" As if jerked by a string, Mel spun back to face him. Only it wasn't Clark's voice. It was the voice from three nights ago in her apartment. It was a voice that didn't belong at the Daily Planet but one every reporter was trained to respond to like Pavlov's dog. All around the bullpen heads looked up from computer screens, half-edited copy, and interrupted conversations. Clark clamped his hand over his mouth. What the hell was he thinking, he thought frantically. His horrified thought was clearly echoed in Mel's eyes although he could tell she was working hard to school the rest of her face into simple annoyance.
Mel strode back to him. Speaking as she walked she spoke loudly enough for those nearest to hear. "Nice try, Clark, but we need the real deal or you know what Perry's going do to us if we don't deliver the goods."
She looked down at him as she reached his desk. What is WRONG with you? her eyes telegraphed. He met her gaze, once again unable to come up with a satisfactory reply. I don't know his eyes answered.
Across the room, Carla Gretcher typed casually on her keyboard while keeping a surreptitious eye on the two.
With an effort, Clark wrenched himself back into Clark-mode. "I-I-I suppose we could go to Gotham to see if Batman knows how to reach him?"
"Excellent idea, Kent!"
Mel and Clark both jumped as Perry's voice boomed out over them. They exchanged glances as Perry bore down on them. "Nice to know you brought your brain to work, today Kent. I thought Sherry and Mel were going to have to do all of the heavy lifting."
Mel crossed her arms and remained silent. She wasn't exactly disagreeing, Clark noted.
"Well, gee, Mr. White, I –" Clark started then stopped. His shoulders shifted and when he spoke again so had his voice. "You know how I feel about this series," he said. "It's wrong. Superman deserves better than that from us, especially this paper."
Mel and Perry both blinked. Mel stared at him, surprised. This wasn't Clark's normal voice. But it wasn't Superman's either. It was polite but firm and dare she say it full of conviction. Perry stared at him too but like a predator going for his prey. "That's why you're writing the commentary Kent."
Clark leveled his gaze on him. "You want me to write that I think this is wrong?"
"I want you to keep that backbone you've suddenly sprung and dig into the issues. You may not like it, but Superman is still the biggest story the human race has faced since the first mushroom cloud went up. Nobody's ever tried to do a series like this before. Not this thoroughly and we're the only outlet that can do it. We're the only outlet Superman consistently comes back to. So we're going to work it people." He glared pointedly at Clark and Mel. "Put your feelings in your pockets. You've got work to do. Get your asses to Gotham and get me Superman."
He stalked off.
Mel and Clark looked at each other. It was going to be a long trip.
Across the room, Carla Gretcher picked up the phone and dialed Metro International Airport.
Scene 3
"So you're a god, now? No wonder Luther wanted you dead."
The Dark Knight watched impassively as the blue-and-red clad figure descended slowly to the rooftop and stopped to hover just a few inches above. Except for the gift of flight, he envied nothing about his visitor. Whatever powers Superman possessed, he was still the last son of a dead race from a shattered world galaxies away. Batman couldn't imagine that level of – literal – alienation. Both men were orphans. But at least Bruce could visit his parents' graves, comb through aging photo albums, and touch his father's old shirts. Superman had nothing of his home, his real home, that he could touch, at least not that he knew.
He made a mental note to immediately begin investigating him. He had been reading the Daily Planet series. He couldn't name anyone who wasn't. And, sensationalism aside, its implied point was correct. What did Earth really know about the Kryptonians? Look at what they had spawned in Superman. Look at what General Zod and his cohorts had done. By stealing Kryptonian technology, Luthor had almost terra-formed the planet. And the threat was still out there, circling the sun and adding its totally unpredictable gravitational force to their delicately balanced solar system. Trust could only go so far. Batman placed his faith in knowledge. And he couldn't put it off any longer. He respected Superman. But the Kryptonian was simply too powerful to allow him to retain any mystery. He needed to learn more about Superman, the implications of his alien heritage, everything.
From his hovering advantage, Superman looked down at his fellow caped crusader. He didn't pretend he hadn't heard the comment. "I didn't know you read the competition," he said acerbically.
Beneath his mask, Batman cocked an eyebrow. "Oh there is no competition when it comes to you. Besides, I like to keep up with current events." He tilted his head. "I guess when Lois is away, Perry will play," he added.
Beneath the red cape, Superman's shoulders tightened. He didn't know how much the Dark Knight knew about his feelings for Lois or what a sensitive subject she was, especially now. But he didn't have time to tackle that concern.
Batman noted the tension in Superman's body and, for a second, felt a twinge of regret for mentioning Lois. For a second.
"Oh Perry's playing all right," Superman admitted grimly, "With me as the football."
Despite himself, Batman smiled. "Faster than a speeding bullet, but can't out-fly media speculation, eh?"
Superman didn't return the smile. "Yes," he said simply.
Batman's smile faded. His expression hardened. He knew what bad press could do. Before Gotham had finally embraced him he'd been branded a vigilante and hunted by the police. Superman had never had to face such persecution. Even in his short absence before he'd gathered his strength to fight Zod, the press had always been respectful and before that adoring. But things were different now. The rise of terrorism had hardened hearts and smothered good will. People were less willing to trust, more willing to suspect. And his absence had been longer this time. Five years was enough to kill anyone's faith. And the world's population had been through a lot since he'd been gone.
"So what is you want from me?"
Smoothly Superman dropped from the air to alight softly onto the roof. He came to stand directly before Bruce, eye to eye. "Clark is being sent on assignment to Gotham. To find Superman."
"Excuse me?"
This time a rueful smile came and went across Superman's face. "It was a mistake, one of too many I've been making lately." Maybe a lifetime of mistakes, he added silently.
Realization dawned in the Dark Knight's eyes. "I get it. Without Lois Superman has no excuse to visit the Planet – " Something painful flickered in the Kryptonian's eyes then disappeared. "—so Perry goes for the next best thing. Me." He wasn't offended. He actually found it quite amusing. In a swirl of silken, black cape, Batman turned and started pacing the rooftop, considering. "Oh this is rich! You need me to save your ass."
Superman opened his mouth to protest and then closed it. What was the use?
"So what exactly do you need? A flash of the Bat signal and then you fly into the scene instead of me?" He chuckled. "Or maybe an exclusive with the Planet? One caped crusader to another?"
"For starters," Superman said. "Only not with me. I won't be alone."
Batman stopped pacing. "You have a new partner?"
"For now. While this series runs."
Batman looked at him incredulously. "Oh this series will never stop running, you know that don't you? People will never look at you the same way again. Ever."
Superman walked slowly toward him, closing the gap. "I know."
"So what you're really asking for is damage control," Batman continued. "This is not smart, Clark."
"Smart went out the window a long time ago," Superman countered. Frustration roiled in his eyes. "It's not a question of being smart anymore, Bruce. Now it's about trying to convince people that I'm not going to turn into Zod."
Batman pressed his lips thin. It was exactly what he was thinking. Superman saw it.
"I'm not Zod, Bruce," he said softly. "If I were would I have risked my life to remove Luthor's land mass? Would I have waited so long to come back?"
Batman sighed and shook his head. He wasn't actually responding to Superman's questions but to his conundrum. They were two men on the same mission, but, planetary heritage aside, they were coming at it from completely different worlds. In the public's mind before he'd left, Superman was the epitome of open-heartedness and optimism. Batman was the exact opposite. Pessimism and paranoia dominated his world, both of which were a better fit for the world as it was today. Batman lived in the shadows. Superman belonged to the light. Nowadays, it was easier to trust the darkness than the light.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked at last.
"My partner will contact Commissioner Gordon and ask for his help in contacting you. Ask him to agree and then make sure you show up. I'll do the rest."
"Mm-hmm, and where will Clark be?"
"It doesn't matter. She knows who I am."
"She? She knows? And if so then why the subterfuge? Why not just give her the interview yourself and move on?"
"I told you, smart went out the window."
Batman stared hard at him.
Sheepishly, Superman looked away. "I got backed into a corner," he added.
"Is she blackmailing you?"
"No!" Before Bruce's eyes, Superman's features softened. "No," he repeated. "Quite the opposite in fact. But her career is riding on this series. She needs to interview Superman but I can't do it. Not yet. I need you to help her out."
Batman walked away, considering.
"What are you not telling me, Clark?" he said finally.
"Nothing that matters, Bruce."
Batman shook his head. "Who is this woman to you?"
Superman thought a long time before answering. "A friend."
Scene 4
For the fifth time that night, Mel punched her pillows, fluffed them up again, turned over and tried to go back to sleep. She failed.
She gave up, sat up and turned on the light.
She checked the clock. Three a.m. She had hoped to stay in bed until 5 but she and Clark were scheduled for an 8 a.m. flight so it made sense to just stay up.
Flight, what a joke, she thought.
When the Planet's administrative assistant had handed her the plane ticket she had wanted to scream at the poor woman: Clark doesn't need a ticket! He can fly himself there – without the plane!
She shook her head and flung off the covers, heading towards the living room. She had to get her head on straight. Ever since that night in her apartment, when her eyes had been opened to Clark Kent's true identity, she had been off-kilter and disoriented. She'd felt like a ping pong ball, ricocheting between anger at the responsibility such knowledge imposed -- and the man who'd, however unintentionally, imposed it -- and the fear that somehow she'd slip up and expose him. The inner battle had left her distracted and stressed. But that was nothing compared to how shaken the rest of the week had left her.
She rubbed her arms as the memories replayed in her mind.
It was pure dumb luck that got him back. That's it. I'd thought we'd lost him for good. Those words echoed in her mind.
It wasn't as if it hadn't already been reported. The whole world had known Superman had basically lain at death's door for days. Mel had been one of the reporters assigned to cover the technical and medical aspects of the story but there was precious little to cover. The doctors didn't have a freakin' clue how to treat him. They'd pulled out a shard of Kryptonite, hooked him up to the EKG machine and prayed, while sweeping up the debris of the medical instruments destroyed by their failed efforts to revive him. What was truly chilling was that nobody had seemed to have a clue. Not NASA. Not the CDC. Not the NIH. Not even their international counterparts. She'd politely pushed her way into interviews with research chiefs in all of these organizations. No one could offer her anything. True, they could have been simply bluffing to protect national security. But she'd cross-checked her findings with Donohue in international and he'd concurred. His contacts weren't giving out the usual stonewall tactics either. They really didn't know. For once the world governments had seemed to act without pre-emptive suspicion in the face of a perceived superpower and not taken pre-cautionary measures to determine how to neutralize it if necessary. Everyone trusted Superman. But that didn't mean they knew how to help him when he needed it.
It was pure dumb luck that got him back. That's it. I'd thought we'd lost him for good.
She had sat with her mouth hanging open when she had gotten that quote. It had come from the ER chief who had led the resuscitation efforts. The doctor, a physician whom she'd interviewed before and whom she knew to have done advanced research with NASA, had rubbed his hands nervously and looked away. She knew he felt as idiotic as she must have looked. Her recorder had clocked a full minute of dead air before she'd remembered to turn it off. They'd looked at each other guiltily. All these years of serving humanity and not one person, not one nation had thought to figure out how to help Superman if he were ever wounded or ill. No wonder he'd taken a five-year vacation!
In the back of her mind, she heard the chilling dull thud as Superman's body smacked the ground.
Swallowing first to control her lurching stomach, she'd thanked the doctor, gathered her notes and headed back to the Planet.
Across the aisle, Clark sat at his desk for once, typing out a story for deadline. Her gaze fell on him and stayed.
The physician's words echoed in her head. It was pure dumb luck that got him back. Mel was less inclined to believe in luck than she was a higher power and that power was lashing her conscience relentlessly. She felt guilty for her hot and cold reactions to Clark ever since…well since. No matter how awkwardly and hesitantly he'd done it, he'd strayed across her path because he'd needed a friend. And now she was leaving him out in the cold solely because she didn't know how to react to him being him.
She sighed again and pressed her hand to her forehead as she booted up her computer. Inside her head, her conscience, battered by the higher ups, had turned around and started a knock-down-drag-out with her heart. Outside, her cursor blinked at her in time to the unseen battle.
Clark felt her eyes on him and looked up, questioningly. She opened her mouth to speak and nothing came out. He frowned, confused, started to speak then apparently thought better of it. Neither of them had managed to figure out how to respond to the other since…just since. He pressed his lips together, ducked his head and turned back to his screen but not before Mel could see a hint of disappointment in his eyes. Unconsciously, he rubbed his back.
Catching the gesture she froze. Without warning, Clark Kent, his desk and the Daily Planet bullpen disappeared. They dissolved into a wide expanse of cloud-flecked blue sky torn by a streaking figure of red and blue plummeting out of the atmosphere. In a flash, he hit the ground and the earth erupted in a scattering veil of dust and debris as it absorbed the collision. The impact of the thud landed in her chest and she jumped. And just like that, like a balloon popping, the images were gone.
She gasped and grabbed the arms of her chair to steady herself. She shook her head in an attempt to clear it. She forced her gaze to travel around the bullpen, deliberately seeking out the mundane. She saw Jimmy, swiping a stale day-old donut from the kitchenette; Perry, in his office, chewing out a reporter; Gil, absorbing the 24-hour news cycle on CNN. Then she sought out the irritating. Carla Gretcher looking askance at her as she chased down a rumor by phone, Sherry Thomson setting up her interview with Cardinal Leezac. She needed to force the real world and real time back into her head. It wasn't a hallucination, she told herself firmly. It wasn't a vision. It was…
She groaned.
It was her conscience delivering the mother of all bitch slaps and declaring victory, she realized. The message was clear: do the right thing or your sanity takes the hit.
She dropped her head to her desk.
"Are you okay?"
Her head jerked up.
Clark Kent knelt beside her chair – in the middle of a deadline. I'm fine started on her lips and died unspoken at the look in his eyes. Blue. That riveting blue had shifted to an inhuman shade of cobalt. It was her nature to try to uncover what emotion was behind that color change. But her conscience was still holding a gun to her sanity so she quashed the urge in self-defense.
"Are you okay?" she asked quietly.
He looked surprised that she'd even asked. "What?"
Her eyes dropped to his torso. Dr. Dalton's voice echoed in her mind. Mid-back, in the kidney region…if what we found there could be called a kidney. We took the fragment out but it didn't seem to do anything. He still just lay there on the slab. No hemorrhage, but no movement either. We were scared shitless.. Her eyes came back up to his. "I interviewed the doctor who treated you." Understanding flooded his eyes.
Reactively, he looked away, embarrassed. She reached out, touched his face, and turned him back to her. "Does it still hurt?"
He just stared back at her, letting her touch him, and forgetting – or maybe choosing, she thought – not to shield the thoughts behind his eyes. He didn't have to tell her that in those few seconds he was feeling the stinging cut of everything in his life that still hurt.
It didn't occur to her that he could see into her too. At least not until later, when it was too late.
Suddenly she realized where her hand was and pulled it away. He blinked as if the separation of her skin from his was disorienting. But her eyes never wavered. "Does it?" she asked.
He smiled ruefully. Only when I breathe, he thought. "Only when you ask," he said.
"Oh." She should have left it at that, she thought. "Then maybe you should give me a reason to stop asking," she said.
Several emotions played across his face: amusement, astonishment, curiosity, apprehension, and regret, but only one stayed long enough for her to identify it. It washed toward her like seawater across sand, shaking her equilibrium and eroding the ground beneath her feet. She wished she hadn't seen it. She wished she knew why she had.
His smile widened but didn't become warmer. "I try," he said quietly. "But…." A flush slowly crawled up his cheeks. He looked down again as if trying to pull something up from inside himself. Abruptly he exhaled then stood and stepped back. And just like that, Mel could see his internal wall was back in place. He saw her noting his changes and quirked an eyebrow up. "I asked you first," he said lightly.
She stared back at him. His response was a hollow feint and they both knew it. But he was damned if he was going to admit it. Her eyes narrowed. He stood firm, refusing to duck her scrutiny. In the back of her mind, the sound of him hitting the earth echoed faintly. He was not going to revisit that moment, she decided. Not now. Maybe not ever. She gave up.
"I see," she breathed softly. She swiveled in her chair to face her computer as one hand grabbed for her briefcase. She pulled out the files and started sorting through them. Then she stopped. "No I don't see," she said. She looked down at her desk, avoiding the wall he'd erected behind his eyes. She lowered her voice so that only he could hear. "I'm not the one who should be asking you these questions. The one who should be doing it isn't here and when she comes back, she's not coming back for you. And it's killing you. Whatever she did to you has left a hole inside you bigger than the crater you left in Centennial Park." She shook her head. "Everybody else sees you walking around, flying even, and they think you're okay but I know you're not. Inside, I think you're still in that hospital bed trying to figure out how to get up."
She stopped. Her hands were shaking. She took a breath and chanced a glance at him. He hadn't moved. He couldn't. He was pale. She took another breath.
"Kent!"
Perry's bark sliced through the tension between them as he came barreling out of his office. Ignoring, Mel, Perry parked himself in front of Clark and pointed to his watch. "Did somebody suddenly come up with an exclusive with Superman? Is that why you're standing around while my deadlines come and go? Or am I missing something? Where the hell's my story Kent?! "
For a beat, Mel saw the frisson of tension ripple through Clark's frame. But in the next second the force behind his eyes shifted. He ducked his head and muttered something sufficiently contrite as he dove for the papers on his desk and followed Perry obediently to his office. She watched until the two men disappeared behind the editor's office door. Then she dropped her head into her hands. "Shit!" she muttered bleakly.
Shit, Mel muttered as she threw herself onto the sofa, grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. (Forgive me, Lord, she thought silently; she really had to get over her cursing habit – although she knew Carla probably would actually respect her if she didn't.) She shifted uneasily on the sofa and began compulsively channel-surfing. If her mind were together, she would have fixed breakfast, showered and dressed and gone over her notes before leaving for the airport. But doing that would have made it impossible for her to pretend that she wasn't going to have to spend a week in Gotham City on a fool's errand joined at the hip with Clark Kent. She needed to turn her mind off or at least turn it to a safer subject.
The blue light flickered across her face as the images slid past each other. She was looking for the classic movie channel, for a vintage black-and-white flick. It was a habit she'd adopted from childhood. She'd loved the old black-and-white images ever since she'd first watched them as a kid with her grandmother in Philly. Her sweetly devout grandmother had loved the 1930s and 1940s gangster flicks. Anything with Ernie Robinson, Jimmy Cagney or especially Humphrey Bogart meant an extra special movie night. They'd sit cuddled together on her big, old-fashioned high bed, wrapped in her afghan, while bullets and double crosses flew across the screen at equal speed.
Melanie hadn't been as big a fan of the gangster flicks – although she did like Bogey. Who didn't? But she'd preferred it when they'd stumbled across a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie. No matter what the plot, there'd always come a point where Ginger, sparkling like an art deco princess, leapt across the screen into the arms of her tuxedo-ed prince, Fred. Even though they were shot in black and white, Melanie recalled, those movies glittered fiercely like falling stars. They'd taken her breath away. She'd wanted to jump into the screen and fly right along with them.
With a gasp, she dropped the remote.
That was why she… She squeezed her eyes shut. She took a deep breath, then another and another, trying to force her suddenly racing heart to slow down. Her heart obeyed but her mind didn't. And her body, caught between the two, propelled her off the couch. She needed to get up. She needed to move. She sped into her bedroom and threw open the closet doors. A suitcase and a garment bag were tucked side by side, already packed. Crap. No useful distraction there. She pounced on her briefcase, flinging it open and rifling through the contents. Digital recorder, check. Back-up tape recorder, check. Batteries, notepads, pens, check, check, check. Gotham City file, check. Superman file…
Slowly, like a balloon deflating, she sat down on her bed. From the center of her seemingly remote living room, came the muffled strain of Fred Astaire singing Heaven, I'm in Heaven, and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak…
She opened the file.
…And I seem to find the happiness I seek…
There it was, that infamous article, right on top: "I Spent the Night With Superman."
Even now – especially now – the headline made her cringe. This was supposed to be a news article for the Daily Planet not a page out of True Confessions. The whole text amounted to little more than Lois' breathless narrative of being taken for a joy ride by the newly minted 8th wonder of the world. And from a journalistic standpoint, there were too many holes. Lois had asked him where he'd come from but she'd never asked for the planet's exact astronomical location. She'd never asked him how he knew how to speak English and understood the idioms. Or why an alien would want to fight for the American way.
And the biggie had never even come up: How the hell did he get here? As the science writer, hell as a card-carrying geek, Mel knew there was no way to cross the massive distances in space without expending decades or centuries. Physicists were working on it and string theory held out hope for eventually breaking the light-speed barrier. But no technology could do it yet. No human technology anyway. Superman was in the prime of his life (at least from a human standpoint) so how had he gotten here? Did he come as a baby? Or did he travel as an adult? And if so, exactly what kind of propulsion system got him here? How long had he traveled through space? Did he travel in stasis or was he awake? Did he break light speed? And if he did, would he be willing to share that technology with Earth?
If Lois had thought to ask these questions, Mel knew, she might have learned about the Phantom Zone and Earth might have been a little more prepared when Zod and his cohorts arrived. Who knew what other Kryptonian survivors were out there?
Abruptly, she rubbed her arms. She didn't like to think about that. But she'd have to when she redid this interview. Perry was adamant about that. Although he didn't say it, Mel knew he realized he'd let too many things slide in Lois' reporting on the man in blue. Anyone else he would have hammered on to make sure they asked the tough questions, played Devil's Advocate. Superman, on the other hand, was the Planet's franchise, whether he liked it or not, and Perry wasn't willing to jeopardize that. At least, he wasn't before Lois got married.
Her expression grew thoughtful. Sherry was right. The door was open. The rules of the game had changed.
She glanced toward her living room. Fred had gone silent.
She grabbed the file and headed back toward the living room. She paused at her bookcase. Searching the titles, she reached out and snatched one off the shelf then settled on her couch. She turned the sound up. Fred and Ginger had given way to Linus and Sabrina. In another swath of grainy celluloid glory, a fetching Audrey Hepburn reached over to Bogart's hat and bent the brim of the fedora down. "I wonder if Clark ever wears hats," she murmured.
And before she could stop the thought, there it was, resurrected despite her efforts to kill it off and bury it inside herself. It had kept her awake then sent her ricocheting around her apartment trying to escape it.
That was why she was drawn to Clark, she realized.
She sighed in defeat and turned off the TV. Turning on a lamp she brought the file closer to the light. Superman's – Clark's – face stared back at her from the photos that accompanied the collected articles. Like a scientist with a microscope, she examined the images closely. She scanned through the pages until she reached the one she was looking for. "Man of Tomorrow," the headline read. Underneath was a photo of Superman in his crimson and blue, every inch the embodiment of those words. She picked up the book she'd taken off the shelf. It was one of her favorites, a chronicle of the history of film. A yellowing newspaper article was tucked inside. Carefully she pulled it out and unfolded it. It was feature article on the then nascent Metropolis Film Festival, written years ago before she'd even joined the Planet. She placed it next to the Superman articles.
She shook her head. She couldn't figure out how he managed to do it.
Clark stood full length in the photo as he interviewed an aging starlet, Della Page. He was dressed in his usual conservative, three-piece suit. Della wore enough sequins, feathers and fur to give Norma Desmond a run for her money. Nevertheless, she was still beautiful. Age couldn't defeat that bone structure. Her famous heart-shaped face, soft and dewy in her youth, had been sharpened by age and adversity so that now the cheekbones stood out as sharply as cut glass. Her fawn-colored-complexion, both a dream and nightmare for cinematographers, remained unblemished. Never tall, she looked like a glittery doll next to Clark yet she dominated the photo as if she traveled with her own spotlight.
The photo was a violation of the Planet's editorial policy. Perry had a strict rule against reporters appearing in a story unless absolutely necessary. But the juxtaposition of the nerdy, strait-laced reporter and the elderly film diva was so outrageous clearly the photographer couldn't resist. Clark stood awkwardly next to the woman as she practically wrapped herself around him. Yet his smile seemed genuine.
Mel had clipped the article for the interview with the actress. She had been a favorite of her and her grandmother's. Della had been a firecracker in her day, a softer, curvier version of Dorothy Dandridge and had presaged that pioneering starlet by a decade. Unfortunately, that "day" was smack in the middle of the rough and ready 40s, 20 years before Sidney Poitier had managed to break the cinematic color barrier for Black actors. Before the Johnson White House had put Eartha Kitt on the exiled list for her too-honest comments on Vietnam, Della's equally explicit comments about Hiroshima had gotten her put on an anti-Communist crime boss' hit list. When the FBI failed to take the threat seriously, the frightened starlet had fled to Europe and off the screen for the next half-century. In the meantime, her name and visage had disappeared with her until the fall of the Berlin War, the worldwide embrace of capitalism and the death of the mafia don had made it safe for her to raise her head again. After all, what was there to fear from an aging acolyte of an obviously failed political system?
Clark's interview was the first time anyone in America had seen or heard from her in person in decades. True, this wasn't his usual story. At the time he'd had the crime beat. But the now-defunct threat against Della gave her a tangential connection to Clark's normal assignments, and he'd had the time, so he made the effort to interview her. Later Mel had found out that the assignment hadn't been that cut and dried.
At the time though, unconnected to the Planet or its people, Mel had excitedly called her grandmother to discuss it and sent her a photocopy. As always, her grandmother had rhapsodized over how much Mel resembled Della in her youth. The next time she'd visited, she had brought a slew of Della Page DVDs for a homemade film festival of their own and learned that her grandmother had pasted the article in the scrapbook she kept of Mel's articles and school photos.
Mel had shaken her head and ignored it just as she'd ignored Clark then. She hadn't known or cared who Clark Kent was. Now, all she cared about was understanding the connection between his image here and that of his other persona.
If photos were all anyone had to go on, they'd never make the connection on their own. Knowing what she knew now, it was hard to believe but the evidence was right there in front of her. Based on the photos she had, Superman was a blaze of glory that cut through their skies every night; Clark Kent was an ordinary human with a fun job that paid well. Other than physique and the fact that the Planet had a special advantage in covering Superman, there was no connection between the two. Yet, yet…even in those grainy newsprint photos she saw an earnestness in his eyes both when he wore the cape and when he didn't.
That was why she was drawn to him, she thought again.
He was out of time like a black and white movie, those film noir fairy tales where everything was put right by a sharp dance routine or a well-aimed shot, although the thought of Clark Kent executing either made her laugh. She loved the clarity of those old movies. They were visually refreshing and a relief from the clashing colors and fast cut edits that characterized modern film. She knew her preference made her seem as old as her grandmother. She didn't care. As far as she was concerned, her grandmother's generation was onto something. They knew how to stay put, honor their marriage vows, get the job done and done right. Those films were like moving postcards from a generation where people still knew the difference between right and wrong and didn't pretend otherwise, even if they chose to do wrong.
When she thought of Clark she thought of another generation. He was like My Man Godfrey meets Bringing Up Baby meets Bogart, she thought. Or not so much Bogart, she amended, but more like George Bailey: possessed of that bone-deep goodness that could reduce a woman to putty in his hands if it ever occurred to him to try. Not that he'd have to try very hard if he actually thought about it, she thought ruefully. No wonder Della had been holding on so tightly!
Suddenly she shook her head vigorously as if trying to shake him out of it and laughed at herself a little. She was trying to get a grip on herself but she just couldn't.
She loved his name. It was crisp and clean like a freshly laundered shirt: all starched collars and cuffs and button-downed righteousness. You could trust that shirt with its tight stitches and double-sewn seams. He could be as precise and prosaic as a tailor or an accountant. The demands of being a reporter aside, he was steady and stable, a man a woman could trust. Only his physique hinted at more: Those brawny shoulders, that height. His manner might be meek, his self-assertion meager but his body certainly wasn't. No matter how much he stooped or apologized he just took up space. He couldn't disappear, become anonymous. There was simply too much of him. This whole week, when she'd bounced between wanting to throttle him and wanting to keep a minimum safe distance from him she couldn't stop her gaze from finding him. Whenever his attention was diverted she'd discreetly let her eyes trace the expanse of his shoulders, the dark sheen of his hair, the searing blue of his eyes. He was a handsome man who was completely oblivious to the effect of his own good looks. Mel wished she could be.
It had actually been this way – the few times she'd let her guard down – from the first time she'd seen him shortly after he'd returned to the Planet. To her baffled amusement, Jimmy Olsen – who seemed to be perpetually stuck at age 15, she thought – had had been giddily excited all the day before. She'd vaguely remembered a memo being sent out the week before announcing Clark's return, but since she didn't know him it didn't make much of an impression. Carla, however, had been smirking on and off the way she did when she had a particularly juicy office grapevine scoop. But Mel had steered clear of her. She had already passed her first anniversary and was coming up on her second and so had enough experience to know that when Carla was sitting on a scoop somebody was going to get hurt. Mel made it her business to avoid becoming collateral damage.
Unfortunately, that caution had proven useless. She and Clark had collided on the way to the microwave. His lunch had survived but hers had gone skidding across the floor and, to her surprise, they'd collided again as they both dove to chase after it. But the effort was futile. The Tupperware lid had been bumped loose in the fall and released a crimson wave of marinara sauce. He'd managed to stop short of stepping into it although she could have sworn she'd spotted a scarlet smudge on one of his Rockports. "Sorry," he'd muttered. Then he'd handed her his lunch. "I guess this is yours now," he'd added sheepishly. Still stunned by the collision, she'd let him dump his container in her hands without protest. She blinked as the chilled plastic on her palms snapped her out of her stupor. "I—" and before she could get a word out—
"Hey Mr. Kent, the chief is looking for you. Whoa –" Jimmy stepped back just in time to keep his shoes clean. "What happened?"
"I did," Clark admitted.
"Great! Just great! I've gotta wade through pizza sauce just to get a cup of coffee. What have you done now, Clark?" Lois Lane stood glaring from the kitchenette's opposite doorway, hands on hips.
Clark winced and glanced over at the coffeemaker. A good-sized dollop of marinara sauce floated serenely in the carafe. So much for that.
To Mel's surprise Jimmy had laughed. "I guess some things never change huh? Gosh, it's great to have you back! We've gotta do a guys' night out sometime." He looked back at the spreading sauce. "But first I'll call maintenance." He dumped his lunch bag on the counter and sped off to find a phone.
"Yeah and while you're at it why don't you get Perry to up the Planet's property insurance?" Lois muttered as she stomped off. Her voice faded in the distance as she shouted for the Planet intern. "Connie! I need you to make a coffee run, now."
Mel and Clark watched her go then turned back to face each other.
She took a breath. "Okay, I'm guessing you're Clark Kent," she said finally.
Still embarrassed, nevertheless he smiled – and something in her chest hitched. "Guilty as charged," he'd said.
That had been their first encounter. He'd been good looking enough to notice and thus, she'd decided in self-defense, safer to ignore no matter how klutzy he was. She wasn't there to find a date. She was there to start over.
She'd come to the Planet from the Detroit Record after slogging through three years on the labor beat. She'd covered the strikes, the bitter contract negotiations, the financial double-dealings, the corrupt politicians and the inevitable layoffs. She'd been shouted down by union bosses and corporate chieftains; she'd had her tires slashed; and she'd had her car windows smashed. Her editors had told her to suck it up but she was convinced that it was only the fact that she'd been dating a cop at the time that had kept her from facing anything worse. So when she'd heard about the opening for a science writer at the Planet, she'd leapt at the chance to escape. She'd dug out her clips on alternative energy and hybrid car prototypes and sold herself as hard as she could.
It had worked. Perry had called her with an offer on Monday. By Friday she was flying as far and as fast from the Motor City as she could. She wouldn't miss it. The people – at least the ones she hadn't been covering – were friendly but the frigid, rust-scarred landscape wasn't. That, combined with a relationship that had started demanding more than she had to give and an industry that was taking everything worth giving away from its workforce and she was ready to say goodbye.
Metropolis was a better alternative in almost every way. Unlike Detroit, it boasted a diversified economy of high tech enterprise and low-tech industry. It was on the Eastern seaboard. It was warmer. It was sunnier. All of which combined to banish the lonely Mid-western chill that, on some days in Michigan, she could have sworn had seeped into her bones. Moreover, it was closer to home. Whether she drove, took the train or flew, if her family needed her she could be in Philadelphia by the end of the day.
So she got her feet under her desk and settled in.
But, once he was back, Clark kept showing up on her radar.
It was impossible for him not to. He was part of the Daily Planet ground rules. Sherry had generously explained to her the unwritten playbook, which stated thusly: 1. Perry White's word was law; 2. Lois Lane was the star reporter by decree of Perry White; and if the Pulitzer hadn't given it away the next item would; 3. Superman trumped any story, even if it had been five years since anyone had actually seen him. And as the one all but officially acknowledged reporter in all of Metropolis, heck in the world, who could reliably get Superman's attention, Lois' position was unassailable. She was the queen of the Daily Planet.
One quirky addendum to third rule was that Clark Kent was Lois' court jester. If the incident at the microwave hadn't already convinced her, Carla would have. But she wouldn't have been alone. The remainder of the old guard, those who hadn't retired, been laid off or taken a buyout, still remembered his puppy dog devotion to Lois. Again, only now that she knew both his identities did Mel understand that.
Before that, though, that rule didn't set well with Mel. It'd seemed needlessly mean. But until now she'd never let herself examine why.
Pulling herself out of her thoughts she looked at the clock. Four a.m. Four hours until her flight. Silently, she gathered the Superman articles and returned them to the file. She looked at the article with the photo of Clark, hesitated, then added it to the file. Deserting the couch, she returned to her bedroom and restored the file to her briefcase. Briefly she considered breakfast but her stomach rebelled at the idea so she skipped it. Mechanically, she began laying out her clothes. Padding bare feet across cool tiles, she turned on the bathroom light and started the shower.
Gasping as the water hit her skin, she suddenly stilled as the thought played through her mind again.
That was why she was drawn to him.
That interview with Della hadn't been just a whim or a chance to connect to a possible source. Simone Elliott, the arts and entertainment editor had told her the story. The Metropolis Film Festival had been one of the first events held in the city in the wake of the devastation wrought by General Zod and his cohorts. The city was being reconstructed and the local elite had gathered to show it off the effort. But while they had envisioned a lighthearted celebration of the arts, the festival's organizers wanted to make the point that a new century was on the horizon; the old enmities and grudges no longer applied. Hence, they choose Della Page as the festival's guest of honor. No amount of threats or bribery could change their minds. So the powers that be settled on trying to impose a news blackout. Simone been warned away from Della because of the starlet's controversial political past. Even though Della was receiving a lifetime achievement award, Simone had been told to ignore that.
Mel had been shocked. Not at the action; she'd seen enough similar instances in Detroit to make her want to leave. But at the fact that Perry White had allowed it to happen. She'd thought Perry was tougher than that. After all what kind of threat could Della be now?
The order hadn't come from Perry, Simone had said. It had come from the money men. Back then the Planet, like a lot of newspapers then and now, had to walk a tight financial line. Layoffs had already happened although Clark had been spared. Nevertheless, stronger measures had to be taken to blot out the red ink and the Planet had taken on investors. Unfortunately, the new money came from a new group of conservatives with an agenda. They clashed constantly with Perry, (an old-style liberal newsman who believed in exposing the powerful whenever he could) increasing their attacks incrementally in an effort to gain ascendance. First they'd foisted a deputy editor on him who shared their positions. Then they'd looked for fodder over which to fight. Della Page was perfect. And Perry, with cold-eyed pragmatism, was inclined to save his powder for tougher battles. Although he hadn't given the direct order to ignore Della, he hadn't fought it either.
That order had divided the newsroom. Della had a lot of fans among the Planet staff. They ran the gamut from classic film buffs like Mel, to ex-peacenik activists to anti-censorship pros. But they were faced with an almost equal number of pro-Cold War hawks, anti-Communist fundamentalists and disillusioned seat-warmers. When a pro-Della copy editor had pasted a 1940s pin up of Della within prominent view, the argument that had erupted had nearly shut down the copy desk. A fluffy arts and entertainment story had turned into a war.
Simone hadn't recalled Clark taking any part in the fray. In fact, he'd seemed curiously distant in those days. He'd filed his crime stories and kept tripping over his feet as usual. Everyone had been caught off guard.
In the midst of the angst and drama, Clark had corralled Jimmy, gone to the film festival and interviewed Della. The actress had been delighted and touched by his interest. The feature had turned out to be a touching portrait of talent aging over time into a richly experienced human being whose personal evolution mirrored that of the country itself. And the Daily Planet had been the only major paper with the story. A few years later, that article would be cited and the photo used in a documentary retrospective on the Hollywood blacklist. A few more years on top of that, it would be cited in a Congressional hearing reviewing recently declassified government files that unequivocally exonerated Della and her fellow black-listers of undertaking any action to undermine the U.S. government. That last development would come too late for Della however. Her family had buried her eight months before.
At the time it had seemed to be such a trivial, such a frivolous thing for him to do. Even with the tangential connection to his beat, there was so much controversy around it at the office that it seemed foolish to risk so much for so little. What was there to gain? People on both sides of the issue had said he'd gone and pulled a Lois, flagrantly defying Perry in pursuit of a story. But where Lois did it for big investigative hits, Clark had done it for this.
He and Jimmy had come back to the office and filed the story and the photos with the night editor. When the story had appeared the next day Perry hadn't yelled – always a bad sign. He'd quietly called Clark into his office and shut the door. Twenty minutes later Clark exited – and, to general surprise, so had the deputy editor. Clark was on suspension. The news hit the office like wildfire. People were stunned both at Clark for flagrantly disobeying Perry's orders and at Perry for actually coming down so hard on him. Everyone had expected Lois to put in a good word for him but curiously Lois had been too distracted to plug in.
Shortly thereafter, Clark had left the Planet.
Mel shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around her, she went to the sink and rubbed the condensation from the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her. She had Della's face, her grandmother said. She ran a hand through her hair. She wondered idly whether she should blow the natural kinks straight or just pull it back into a poof. She sighed. She didn't have the stamina for wrestling with the blow dryer. Besides it was already packed in her suitcase.
She pulled her hair into some semblance of neatness and control then pressed her hands on either side of her face as if trying to hold her thoughts in. She looked to her left out the window. The sun was rising. Golden haze spread slowly across the skyscrapers, etching them in shimmering silver, sharpening their resolution for a few brief moments before returning them to the obscurity of their usual gray.
That's why she was drawn to him, she realized.
It wasn't his physique. Even now, it wasn't the power. It wasn't even the… in her mind's eye she saw him fall, streaking blue and red, out of the sky before he slammed into the ground. She drew a shuddering breath as the image incongruously changed to an ordinary man, a prosaic albeit good-looking man respectfully dancing attendance on another kind of fallen star. The two were the same thing, she realized. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. Did I do the right thing, he'd asked her. That was why she was drawn to him. It was the certainty that, no matter what, no matter the temptation or provocation, no matter the potential loss, he would do the right thing or break himself trying.
That was why she loved him.
