Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright in intended.
CHAPTER TEN
I'd never seen Clark Kent angry. It's strange to say it, but I'd never seen the guy lose his temper, in all the time I'd known him. I'm a screamer; I throw things if I get into enough of a fit. My mom says I was always like that, even when I was little. I suppose that's why the Chief originally put of together: he figured that the chemistry would be interesting between two people with such radically different ways of dealing with the world. And that's why I always thought that Clark was a pushover, because I didn't realise that he had another way entirely of doing things. Still waters run deep and all that.
Apparently when it came to me still waters run very damn deep. And sometimes, if you push them enough, they break their banks and flood.
Like I said, I'd never seen Clark react like that to anything, but when that shot rang out… I don't think I'd have recognised the man who charged into that storm cellar if I hadn't seen his face just moments before.
But it was Clark Kent, I'm sure of that.
At least, I'm 99.9 sure.
He's hit.
It was the only thought her mind could register as she saw her partner charge down the stairs and ram headlong into Derricks. The force of the blow pushed the man back, smacking him into the wall of the storm-cellar, dislodging some of the cheap white plaster which covered everything down here. It looked painful, savage, and the only way Lois could imagine her gentle, quiet partner hitting anyone with that much force was to assume he'd been shot and lurched forward. Surely his own momentum as he'd tumbled would have done that. Surely the last breath of a dying man would explain how he could hit Derricks with such force. Because her Clark would never strike anyone with that much violence.
I've lost him. Oh Jesus, I've lost him.
She wanted to scream but nothing would come out.
And that's when she realised her hands were wet and sticky.
It took a momentous act of will to tear her eyes from the two men down towards her own palms. In the eerie green light of the cameras the blood which was seeping through her fingers looked black, not red. Lois stared, unable to comprehend what she was seeing, for what seemed an eternity.
He wasn't, it hadn't-
Holmes grabbed her hands, twisting her fingers painfully, and she was suddenly snapped back into real time. The pathologist's grip was tearing, her large grey eyes nearly turned back in her head. "It's my…It's my-"
"Clark!" Lois spoke over her, far closer to panic than she'd ever let her voice go before. The furious reporter seemed intent on Derricks, every ounce of his concentration focussed on the man beneath him. "Clark!" she screamed, letting the panic into her voice now, suddenly terrified of what he'd do, of what he'd enact on the now-unconscious Derricks, if she didn't get his attention. Holmes didn't have much time, and she couldn't hope to lift her on her own. "Clark, Bethany's been shot."
He stopped so suddenly it felt for a moment like the pair of them had fallen off the edge of the world. The huge blue eyes were wide behind his glasses, uncomprehending, as if she'd spoken in a foreign language. He stared at her, and any other time she would have snapped angrily, her usual take-charge self. But she couldn't. He looked so…lost. She wasn't sure why, but the incomprehension in his eyes terrified her. His gaze flicked from Holmes to her and back again.
"You're not wearing your coat."
Of all the things she'd expected him to say, that definitely hadn't been one of them.
"You gave Bethany your coat." Again, that lost, mechanical voice. He didn't seem to understand what he was saying.
"Yes I did, and now she's been shot." He looked, she belatedly realised, like he was going into shock. Lois lowered her voice, despite her fear, trying to keep it smooth and soothing. "Clark, I need you to lift her, I can't do it on my own."
Kent continued to stare at her for what felt like an age, the waxy stillness of near-tears transforming his face. The moment seemed to elongate, to stretch out over eons, though Lois knew on some level it was only seconds. And then, suddenly, her partner was back before her, right in front of her, gently lifting Holmes by her, trying not to jar the young woman. "Lois, would you get the door?" he asked politely, as if seconds before he hadn't been still as a statue. She did as he asked, running up the steps ahead of him, pushing the door which luckily hadn't automatically re-locked.
The fresh morning breeze fanned her face as Lois turned into the dawn, carefully stepping out into the light and holding open the door.
Clark followed seconds later, cradling Holmes like she was a broken doll.
The next door neighbour's dogs immediately began to bark, sensing the presence of strangers in their patch. The biggest, a huge Irish wolfhound, began jumping against the chain fence which surrounded the property, smashing its paws into the wire with energy. Within seconds it sounded like every canine within a three mile radius had decided to join in. The neighbours would be waking up soon, that was for sure. "I need somewhere to put her-" he said tightly, both of them trying not to notice how pale and feverish the young woman looked. Lois had already pulled out her cell-phone and was dialling 911, hopping impatiently from foot to foot, praying someone would pick up.
"Hello, 911, how may I direct your call?"
Nobody who works in the public sector should sound that cheerful at this time of the morning, Lois thought sourly. But she relayed her location, giving careful details of the property and making sure that she dropped Holmes' name. Law enforcement looked after their own, after all.
"Lois, she's fading," Clark interrupted urgently.
"Fine, we'll put her in the house," she answered, equally concerned. Without thinking twice she picked up a huge fallen branch from the horse-chestnut tree beside her and smacked it against the glass-panelled backdoor of Derrick's home. The windows gave in easily, and Lois leaned in, unlocking the door from the inside. She just hoped it wasn't booby-trapped; it didn't seem to be. Clark followed her in, making immediately for the kitchen just visible to his right, laying his charge down on the huge table underneath the windows and haphazardly pulling open drawers, grabbing knives and towels.
"Boil the kettle," he ordered, and for once Lois did as she was told, ignoring her shaking hands as she twisted the taps and filled it, before setting it to heat.
"Lois, I need hot water and something to bind the wound until the paramedics get here. Sheets would be good."
"I can do sheets." She didn't need to be told twice, but immediately set off for the bedrooms, relieved to be able to do something, gulping in the fresh air and light unconsciously, so delighted to be anywhere but that goddamn storm cellar. She found the hot-press without any trouble and pulled three pure white sheets out, bundling them up in her haste, before running back down stairs. As she re-entered the kitchen she noticed Clark staring at the young woman over the rims of his glasses, his head angled downward. As soon as he saw her he pushed them firmly back up onto his nose, hiding most of his face as he did so.
She'd never noticed what big hands he had before. It seemed a strange thing to strike her now.
Holmes was lying on the table, Lois' jacket a torn pile on the floor beside her. The pathologist was wearing only her vest, jeans and bra. The bullet had gone straight through, no doubt the reason she was losing so much blood, leaving a wound like a bloody sunset against her pale skin. But she did look better than she had even five minutes ago. And it was the weirdest thing, but she wasn't bleeding anymore. Lois leaned forward, unsure of how so much blood-loss could have been stemmed.
The gunshot looked like it had been cauterized.
She looked at Clark and he refused to meet her gaze.
Thank God Holmes wasn't conscious for that, she thought to herself. But what on earth did he use? And how on earth did he know to do it?
"Old farm trick," he muttered, apparently uncomfortable under her stare. "Heat is quicker than pressure for stopping a wound." He motioned with his eyes to the hob, and Lois decided she didn't want to know what the rest of that sentence might entail. She knew how he hated to hurt anyone, even if it was for his their own good.
"Sometimes you have to hurt someone to save them Clark," she said softly.
Aint that the truth. But he didn't answer her.
"Do you need anything else?" she whispered, strangely unwilling to disturb the patient with by raising her voice. "Does she need to be kept conscious?"
"I can do that for the moment," he replied, squeezing Holmes' hand. She smiled a little, despite everything. Lois knew that there was something else.
"Clark, what is it?"
"Lois," he tore his eyes away from the young woman, "When you were down there, did you- Did you see Sookie Tom?"
She shook her head. "No, I was unconscious for most of it." Lois cocked her head, her intuition calling. "But that storm cellar isn't very big; I'm sure I would have seen if she was down there." A pause. "Which means she's probably somewhere here."
"And if she is…"
Lois nodded. "Then she might still be alive." She headed to the door, relieved to have a clear-cut plan of action. If the young woman was hidden somewhere within the house she would find her. She would bring her back into the bright light of day.
She searched the ground floor easily: there was only a hall, a porch, the kitchen and a tiny TV room. Back upstairs she headed, praying she'd be successful, needing to believe that she could turn this mess into something good.
The door at the end of the landing was painted buttercup yellow, a tiny sign of painted flowers declaring it "Marianne's Room." Lois knew what she would find the moment she saw it. Slowly she pushed the door open, the paint creaking and cracking from lack of use. Inside there was a pretty four poster bed, the coverlet and pillowcases festooned with yellow roses and stuffed toys. But this place was cold, freezing: her breath misted before her face, mushrooming into clouds. Something about this room just wasn't…right.
Every inch of the room was dominated by porcelain dolls, tacked and nailed onto the walls, their never-living limbs arranged in a mockery of human activity, their painted, unseeing eyes glazed and empty. A couple were wearing school-girl uniforms, their hair pulled tightly into plaits. It's like he wants to turn them into China dolls… And there on the bed, her hands placed demurely across her stomach, lay Derrick's latest doll: Sookie Tom, her tan-and-freckled skin ethereal in the early morning light. Lois stepped carefully into the room, her heart already beginning to pound. A paint-brush sat on the bedside unit beside Tom's head, resting against the rim of a pot of transparent PVC. The pearl-like sheen of the girl's skin couldn't be natural, Lois knew it the moment she set eyes on her.
She was too late, she'd been too late.
And just when Lois thought this couldn't get any more sickening, she noticed something: the girl's chest was rising and falling ever so slightly, the breath seeming to hitch in her throat. He'd begun painting her while she was still alive. Somehow that fretful motion went to Lois' heart more than anything else, reminding her of Lucy as a baby, reminding her just how young this monster's "dolls," were. But if she was breathing-
"Clark!" she yelled, hope seizing her. If Tom was still alive then-
"Lois?" He was there, staring at the room in horrified fascination.
"She's breathing, she's still breathing-"
Once again Clark looked at the girl over the rim of his glasses, his brows knit as if he was looking into her soul. Lois wanted to shake him, order him to pick this child up and bring her downstairs, try some of his old farm tricks. Where there's life there's hope, she thought desperately, needing this to come right, to come well. Why should she and Clark be the only people untouched by this, not shot or tortured or-
"She's gone Lois."
"What?" she stared at him, her eyes wide. How could he know that? How could he-
"Feel how cold she is," he said gently, and it was only now that she realised he was holding the girl's hand. "He freezes them, remember? The deep tissue damage is far too extensive."
"But she's breathing-"
"Right now yes. But the cold is the only thing that's keeping her alive. If we warm her up, she'll just die more quickly." He shook his head, and just for a second she saw the ghost of his anger in the cellar, faint and unreal. "She's gone."
They sat like that for a long moment, neither speaking. After maybe 30 seconds he stood up, mumbling something about Bethany. Lois nodded numbly, only half registering what he'd said.
She'd failed. They'd failed.
The sound of the paramedics barely even jarred her. They rushed into the room, firing questions she couldn't answer. She didn't remember rising and leaving, giving them room to do their job, but she must have. The next thing she could really remember was sitting on the porch, a blanket around her shoulders while she watched Bethany Holmes being loaded into an ambulance. Their eyes met and Holmes nodded, one fighter to another. Lois merely nodded back. It felt strange to have sunlight on her face.
Clark sat down beside her.
"If Superman had been here-" he began.
"He couldn't have done anything you didn't." She was stating a fact, of that she was sure.
"He was going to…make an appearance, but I decided he would get too much attention. Might tip Derricks off." Lois shook her head, unable to imagine Clark deciding for his friend. But then maybe Superman had understood that Clark had needed to do this for himself. She remembered his words as if from centuries ago: "Finally Lois, there'll be a reason I'M here."
Silence.
"I thought Holmes was you." The tone of his voice, halfway between accusation and confession, jarred her. "She was wearing your coat," he continued after a moment. "In the dark, she was wearing your coat. It had your smell, your…feel." He squeezed the bridge of his nose, his other hand covering his mouth. "My eyes never play tricks, but down there…Down there, just for a second, I thought it was you who'd been shot. I thought it was-"
She pulled him suddenly into an embrace, so hard she thought she might crack a couple of ribs, her arms winding up his back, his hair catching in her fingers. The stress and pain of these last few weeks, of these last few hours, was bursting free, and she felt like she might break apart if she didn't hold onto him. He was there, he was warm and real and alive in her arms, when she'd thought just hours before that he was gone forever. That she'd lost him. She could have slipped into quiet, sorrowing oblivion, slowly freezing like one of those kids; the thought of it terrified her.
I'm not a go gentle into that good night kind of a gal, she told herself, And yet…How can he make me fierce and frozen at the same time?
As often before that day, Lois was happy not to be able to answer her own questions.
They stayed there for who knew how long, before a polite cough called them back to earth. Scottie Domidenko was smiling wanly, holding out his hand to help Lois up. "We can take your statement later Lois," he said kindly, his icy blue eyes soft amid his creased, slightly weathered face. "You too, Mr. Kent. How about we let an officer drive you two home?"
Any other day Lois would have argued, and then probably gone into work and wrote up everything that happened, but not today. Not today. The two reporters nodded, and got into the cop car. They were halfway down 49th Street before Lois realised that they were holding hands.
When the hell did that happen?
But happen it had, her smaller hand in his large one as they silently watched the buildings go by. She could feel the tenseness in his fingers, stiff and controlled, trying to push his stress out from inside him, trying to keep intact, probably for her. She clasped his hand but he didn't squeeze back. She remembered Lana, and what he'd said about hurting people. She remembered his reaction to Derricks. She ran her thumb along the inside of the palm she had clasped so lightly, trying to sooth him, marvelling at the softness of hands which had apparently kept a farm going for most of his life. It's okay Clark, she wanted to say. It's okay to touch me. But she didn't, too tired and wise to try.
She was rewarded when he brushed his own thumb over her knuckles and down her index finger, trying to show he noticed and understood. It was enough for Lois. Yup, she thought. We should definitely stick with the non-verbal communication.
They got to Clark's apartment first, and ignoring the near-protests of the officer and the lease-holder, she wordlessly got out and headed for his place. He didn't argue, didn't even ask for an explanation, just pushed his door open wordlessly. She'd been there before and knew her way around: without any explanation she headed straight for the bedroom, her heels clicking oddly in the stillness of the morning. She lay down (still in her two day old clothes) on the bed, facing the door, tucking her feet in underneath her, closing her eyes tightly. She only realised he'd come in when she felt a hand remove her shoes, a thumb brushing against her right sole. She felt the bed lift slowly with his weight.
He was facing her when she opened her eyes.
"Hey," she said softly.
"Hey."
She closed her eyes again, relieved to feel his forehead pressed against hers, his nose and the edge of his glasses digging into her eyebrow and forehead. He took her hand and clasped it against his chest, the warmth seeping into her fingers. She remembered the Chief doing that the few times she'd seen him and his wife slow-dancing at The Planet's parties. It felt almost like they were slow-dancing too, floating in thin air as she once had long ago. But this didn't feel unreal, it was too hurt and messy and painful and good for that.
"Your fingers are cold."
"So are yours, Kansas." She felt him smile at his nickname, the one she hadn't used for what felt like an eternity.
The silence stretched out, filling the room with quiet, with peace.
"So this is what it feels like to both lost and found," he said softly. Lois nodded, letting her own hand rest against his belly, feeling his hand come to rest on her hip. They were comfortable; they fit.
And so finally, in the quiet light of morning, Lois and Clark slept.
A/N I just want to say thank you to everyone who's reviewed, particularly NiteAngel, Estetson, Mistressbabette, Yeah, Erin, cenzo, jj, puddin' tame, Shelby Kent, annabelleaurius, Indy Pollard, Red Lightning and Speakfire. I'm sooooooo sorry for ending the last chapter where I did, I didn't mean to cause so much trauma:-P Hopefully this one will make up for my earlier naughtiness. And chapter nine's been re-posted, with more interaction between Lois and Derricks, if you're interested… Not sick any more so will try to post soon! Cheers!