Out of the Mouths of Babes
The man in the plaid shirt and jeans swung the axe with effortless precision, a single blow for each log he set on the stump. Other than his obvious strength, there was nothing about him that marked him an extraordinary figure; no hint of the deified superhero hiding beneath the farm-boy exterior, except for a vague familiarity in the wide breadth of his shoulders, a certain nobility in the angle of his jaw, and that single, rebellious black curl that fell over his forehead as he worked.
If Lois hadn't driven past the mailbox that proclaimed this humble homestead "Kent Farm," she might not have known it was him at all—other than the intuitive recognition a woman possesses of the man she loves, and the ensuing jolt of longing the sight of him sent through her.
His super powers were on hold, she thought, watching him from the shadow of the old barn. He appeared totally absorbed in the rhythmic swing of his task—hadn't heard her car tires on the gravel driveway in front of the house, nor the crunch of her high-heeled boots as she picked her way around the side of the barn. He hadn't yet seen her shivering in the building's shadow, and she was content for the moment to just blend with the dusk and observe him being Every Man, while she waited for the wild rumba of her pulse to settle.
While there was little of the superhero about him, the fumbling Clark Kent details were just as conspicuously absent as he leaned to toss aside the split logs into a pile. He moved with supreme grace, a big, red-blooded, healthy male. All man.
Hers.
How could she have ever missed such a simple truth, that Clark Kent and Superman were one and the same? How could she have wasted so much time, hours thrown away, working beside him every day without truly listening to him, without talking to him, without studying every detail of his beautiful, sensitive face, with only a single pair of thick-rimmed glasses keeping her from his biggest secret?
As though she'd spoken aloud, his dark head snapped up and he stared at her, the axe frozen in mid-swing. Then, in disbelief, "Lois?"
Trepidation clenched her chest as she stepped into the sunset's golden spill. Why should she be nervous, for Christ's sake? He was the one who had all the explaining to do! Still, words faltered on her lips. What could she say to sum up the incredible emotions pouring through her? Half of her wanted to run to him, touch him, examine every inch of him with avid eyes and hungry hands. The other half of her wanted to throttle him for keeping the truth from her. A lie of omission was still a lie, damn it—and from the savior of the modern world, no less, who claimed to never lie.
Lois felt like a woman scorned, and yet each fresh wave of ire dissolved to dust as quickly as it came, exhilaration sweeping the ashes away as she cautiously approached him.
He set aside the axe, drew his glasses from his shirt pocket and slipped them over his eyes. Instantly those broad shoulders hunched and the pure essence of Clark—confusion, shyness, uncertainty—slid over him like a mantle. "Lois, what are you doing here? I mean, how did you know where I was? And why—"
"Please, Clark, just…don't."
When he started to argue, she lifted a trembling hand to silence him. "It's not going to work anymore, okay? I know. I know who you are."
He adjusted his glasses, a nervous, familiar gesture, and cast her a skewed look through their lenses. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean." She stopped a foot away from him, her pulse roaring in her ears. "—Superman."
Color seeped into his cheeks. "What? Oh, come on, Lois. That's…that's just ridiculous. You think I'm…?"
The Lois of old might have been fooled by his chiding tone. But she was someone else now, emboldened by love and desperation, and this new woman reached up and drew the glasses from his face again, folded them and slid them back into his pocket. "I've been so very, very blind," she whispered.
For a long moment he didn't speak, searching her face as he read her thoughts, weighed his ammunition…and finally surrendered.
She knew she'd won when his spine straightened and he closed his eyes. Just like that, Clark was gone, and in his place stood the superhero even a simple shirt and jeans couldn't disguise.
When he looked at her again, the unearthly blue of his gaze startled her anew. "I wouldn't call you blind," he said in the familiar low tone that so often swept her dreams. "Distracted, maybe, but never blind. Not you."
"Then how could I be so fooled by a simple pair of glasses?" She offered him a rueful smile, her hands clenched at her sides to keep from reaching out to him and destroying what little composure she had left. "How in God's name could I not have known, working beside you all this time, day in and day out?"
How could I not know the man I love?
"I figured you would connect the dots eventually, and I was right." With a single step he closed the scant space between them and stared down at her in such earnest, a surge of shyness warmed her face. "Not much gets by you, Lois Lane."
"This sure as hell did, for five long years. And as much as I'd like to take credit now, I didn't figure it out on my own."
"Oh?"
"Jason knew," she said softly.
Yesterday she'd taken Jason with her to the office so she could finish up some last-minute tasks before the weekend. While she worked, he'd wandered around Clark's desk, looking at everything with such concentration that Lois had figured maybe he missed her co-worker. Clark was one of the few people at the office who gave her son the time of day.
When Jason asked where Clark was, she'd told him he was on vacation.
That was when Jason said, "Mom, how come Mr. Clark isn't Superman all the time?"
Lois, only half-listening as she checked her corporate email, had mumbled some cursory response, a knee-jerk reply to a five-year-old's constant questions.
"He doesn't wear his cape to work," Jason had added, circling Clark's desk with slow, measured footsteps as his brown gaze took in every tidy, non-descript detail. "He has those dumb glasses instead. How come? And why does he even work here? Does he get tired of being Superman?"
Lois, turning off the computer, lifted her head to look at her son, who gazed back at her with a familiar, genetic steadiness that tore right through her.
How come Mr. Clark isn't Superman all the time?
And like a bucket of cold fresh water dumped over the unconscious, she had jolted awake from a five-year miasma of sheer cluelessness.
"From the moment he met you, he knew," she told Clark now, her stomach leaping at the memory. "And then yesterday, I knew."
Wry humor curved his mouth as he took in her chagrin. "Out of the mouths of babes. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Children don't wear the blinders that adults do."
"But I'm a reporter!" She rubbed her hands over her flushed, burning face in a sudden fit of consternation. "I'm not supposed to wear blinders. How could I have missed it? The details are all there—you have the same face, the same build. How could I not have seen it?" I used to know you! she wanted to cry. Every detail and nuance of your body…every expression…every move…you were my lover—
"Lois," he said gently. "All I had to do was put on the glasses and I just disappeared for you."
"That's not true," she managed, but he shook his head.
"You looked right through me. Every single day for four years I was no one, just a guy you worked with and hardly made eye contact with. And since I've come back, it's even worse."
Lois could read it in his face—he thought her inability to see the truth was because of Richard, because of the pseudo-life of domesticity she'd built like a stone fortress to hide her broken heart. But God, if she'd been treating Clark like a non-entity, it was only because lately she'd been too busy falling back in love with the other half of him.
The sudden, hysterical urge to laugh melded with the tears clogging her throat. "There have been times I suspected the link between you and Superman, though. At least give me that much. But you're always so convincing in your Clark-ness that I end up doubting myself, feeling silly for thinking— " She stopped and squinted at him. "I knew the truth once, didn't I? Before you left. I knew!"
It wasn't a reclaimed memory surging through her now, but a fleeting link of minds with the man she loved—a quicksilver glimpse of their past. She had known, once upon a time, that Clark and Superman were the same, but just like every other precious fragment of their love, the knowledge was lost when he'd purged her memory.
If ever there was a time to hate him, now was it.
He smiled a little and reached out to brush a windblown strand of hair away from her face, his fingers lingering on the high curve of her cheek, and for an instant desire fogged her indignation. Then she swatted away his caress.
"Don't try to distract me. I lost the knowledge of who you were when you cleared out my memory. Right?"
He sighed, the chilled breeze ruffling his dark hair. "You make it sound so simple, Lois. But—"
"How did I find out…before?"
"It's a long story."
She slanted him a stern look. "I have all the time in the world, damn you, and every right to know the details! God, Clark…" She grasped the front of his shirt, battered by frustration, confusion, and that odd, disparate joy that had vibrated along every nerve since the moment she'd realized who he was. "I don't know how you've hidden your identity all this time, how you've held in your feelings, knowing who Jason is to you…knowing I—that I…" She trailed off, hyper-aware of the way his lashes lifted and lowered as his gaze took in every detail of her face. He was studying her inside and out, just like Superman did. Just like Clark always had. X-ray vision that could read straight through to her soul.
"You're right about one thing," she went on, her voice quavering. "I didn't see who you truly were when you put on those glasses, or when you put on the cape...and to tell you the truth, I still don't know who I'm looking at." Her fingers crept up to trace the hard line of his jaw, searching, disbelieving. "So who am I touching? Who are you, damn it? Standing here right now in your farm-boy clothes, looking like Clark and yet not at all like him—seeming so like Superman, and yet much too human at the same time—who are you?"
The question hung in the silence, challenging, angry, passionate.
Who are you?
He grasped her hand and drew it from his jaw, and for a moment she thought he might set her away from him, regain the safe distance through which she'd so audaciously barreled. But then he brought her palm to his lips, and for a hushed, sacred moment his dark lashes swept closed, and there was no answer, only the mournful sigh of the wind across the expansive fields of corn.
No answer, because maybe none existed.
"Tell me what to do," he spoke at last, cupping her hand against his cheek, where she felt the all-too-human rasp of a day's growth of beard, and heard the regret beneath his husky words.
Well. Touching her like this, with such devastating tenderness, was a hell of a good start.
Like a luna moth drawn to the moon, she swayed into him, unable to resist the seduction of his remorse. "Just…talk to me, Clark. Kal-El. Tell me everything I once knew. And then tell me everything I've never known."
"I will," he murmured, pressing a reverent kiss on her knuckles. "Everything. But not here."
Pulse thrumming anew, Lois nodded. "Then where?"
He glanced around the darkened yard, then back at her, his gaze preternaturally iridescent in the failing light. "It's getting late. How long can you stay?"
"My flight leaves tomorrow afternoon at two." A wave of sick realization assailed her suddenly, the self-righteousness that had compelled her to track him down leaving her adrift in a sea of humiliation. She hadn't thought anything through—the simple stuff like bringing a coat to ward off the chilly midwestern night, or even packing a toothbrush. And where was she going to stay tonight? She couldn't exactly invite herself into his home.
She was an eternal damned fool in this man's presence, but what could she do when every sane thought flew out of her head with just a glimpse of his clear blue eyes? She loved him. She would never love anyone else, would never even try to again, for there would be nothing left of her to give after this.
As though sensing her troubled thoughts, he slipped an arm around her shoulders and turned her toward the farmhouse. "You're shivering. Come inside and I'll make us a cup of coffee. We'll start there, okay?"
"Okay," Lois said without hesitation, wholeheartedly embracing the realization that she'd just committed to so much more than coffee and truth this night, and before the sun rose again over the Kansas plains, her heart might lay in ruin.