Title: That Old Vat of Mine
By: Groobie (groobie@verizon.net)
Submitted: February 2015
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Shallowford issued an Episode Mash-Up Challenge of “That Old Gang of Mine” and “Vatman.” Here’s my response.
Copyright disclaimer: Some plot points and dialogue from this story have been taken directly from or modified from the script of “Vatman”, written by Michael Norell and from “That Old Gang of Mine”, written by Gene Miller and Karen Kavner. No profit is being made from this story and no copyright infringement is intended.
Thanks to Laura and Sue for their beta advice!
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PrologueOne Year Ago...He opened his eyes and looked up at the sun, which was hanging distantly in the sky.
He had asked Superman to do it, to give him the Viking funeral that would destroy the evidence of his life. But as they flew into the sky, racing towards the edge of the Earth’s atmosphere, he had changed his mind. As the certainty of his fiery death loomed large, it had suddenly seemed very important to make his way on his own. To sacrifice his own life – to meet the end on his own terms.
He was dying anyway. He had overheard Dr. Leek’s prognosis, and his father had accepted the news callously. Not with the anguish that a father should feel for his son. Because he wasn’t that – not really. To Lex Luthor, he was just another bullet in a chamber, a means to an end.
His life had been built on a lie. What little life he had had.
And he was in pain; he could feel the weariness brought on by his battle with Superman and the deterioration of his cellular structure. Might is right, but he wasn’t mighty and his very existence wasn’t right.
A noble self-sacrifice had felt like the right thing to do. And at the edge of the atmosphere, at the fuzzy line between heaven and Earth, the line between Superman and himself had also blurred. He suddenly had felt the need to define that line more rigidly. He had encouraged Superman to float back down to Earth while he continued on his way towards the heavens.
So it was odd that the sun was so far away. He blinked, feeling the grass under his back, smelling the fresh scent of flowers in the air, hearing the happy buzz of life that seemed to circle around him. And even odder was what he was not feeling: pain.
He pushed himself into a sitting position and took in his surroundings. Centennial Park was alive with hot dog vendors and strolling lovers, buskers and cyclers, picnic lunches and pick-up sports games.
And he smiled. Because he was alive.
“Superman!” He stood and turned towards the joyfully squealing child, who ran up to him and hugged his leg. He scuffed up the child’s hair and laughed. “Hey, buddy,” he playfully said.
The child’s mother came to his side quickly, tugging the boy away. “I’m so sorry about that.”
He smiled radiantly at her. “It’s fine. I loved it!” He heard the childlike lilt in his own voice.
The woman’s eyes sparkled in surprise. “Oh!” She laughed, then looked him up and down. “You’re really good. Where did you get that costume?”
He looked down at himself and answered honestly, “My father made it for me.”
“Awesome,” she said.
And then he heard other squeals of delight as more boys and girls saw him and came running over to play. He greeted them all, letting them believe that he was Superman, because he didn’t want to ruin the fun.
He spent the whole day in the park, pushing children on swings, watching them pretend to defy gravity. He swirled countless numbers of kids on the merry-go-round, his boundless energy buoyed by their endless delight. Grateful parents shook his hand, watching on as he entertained the crowds.
It was, literally, the best day of his life.
“Great job, kid!” A man slapped him on the arm; he turned towards him and smiled. “You’re a natural!”
“Thanks,” he said graciously.
“Love the outfit. Great quality. You must be a pro. Who’s your agent?”
He looked curiously at the man, not quite understanding the question. “I don’t have an agent.”
The man’s face lit up and he thrust out his hand. “Sammy, at your service. I’m the number one agent in this town. And I know talent when I see it. Boy, you and me, kid, we could make a killing!”
His face fell. “I don’t want to kill anybody.”
Sammy laughed and slapped him on the back. “The look is perfect. I’m telling ya: kids’ parties, bar mitzvahs...” He waggled his eyes suggestively. “Adult parties. You could book ‘em all.”
He thought for a moment. “Parties sound like fun.”
Sammy pulled out a business card and thrust it into his hand. “Just let me be your exclusive agent, and the world will be yours.”
He looked down at the card, unsure of what to say.
Sammy barreled ahead. “Hey, I get it. Times are tough. What do you say to a signing bonus?” Sammy reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. He peeled off several bills. “$100 bucks, cash, right now, if you sign with me.”
“One hundred dollars?” he asked.
Sammy tapped him on the shoulder. “No, no, clearly that’s just to start. $1000 bonus when you book your first gig. Come on. What do ya say? We can copy your ID and sign the papers in my office right now.”
“Oh,” he said sadly. “I don’t have any ID.”
Sammy’s face turned supportive. “Hey, no problem. Times are tough. You’re not the first kid I’ve met who had problems with their papers. I know guys who know guys. We can take care of that.” He stuck out his hand again. “Do we have a deal?”
He looked at the outstretched hand, then up at Sammy’s kind eyes. He shook Sammy’s hand, smiled, and said, “Sure.”
“Woo hoo!” Sammy pumped his fist in the air, then guided him to begin walking. “I’m tellin’ ya, kid, you’re gonna be a star. Hey, what’s your name?”
He opened his mouth, but didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t Superman – he was only a clone of Superman. His father hadn’t even bothered to give him a proper name. So he just shrugged.
Sammy seemed to understand. “Hey, we’ve all got stuff in our past. It’s not a problem. Everyone deserves a second chance.”
He stopped walking and looked at the waning sun. Night would fall and the sun would rise again. His life – the one defined by Lex Luthor – had burned to death in his flight towards the sun. But he hadn’t made it – he must have passed out and fallen back to the Earth.
So he was reborn. This was his second chance. And he would live this new life on his own terms, undefined by the expectations of others.
He looked at Sammy and smiled as they again began walking towards the talent agency and his new life.
“You know what, kid?” Sammy asked as he clapped him on the back of his shoulder. “You look like a Barry to me.”
* * * * * * * * * *
Part 1Today...The sweater wouldn’t be enough.
Lois stood by her dresser and pulled it over her head anyway, covering the basic white t-shirt. White was for happy occasions like weddings. Except in China. White was for funerals in China.
So it was right for her to shroud her white hot pain in a cloud of grey fabric. To honor his connection to the world, the bright light that was woven into the very fabric of his being, by keeping the white cotton clinging to her skin, hugging her tightly across her chest in a way that his arms never would again. But that loss was private – not something for Jimmy, or Perry, or the world to see. No, they would see the grey – the comforting material made up of a mixture of black and white. Dark pain that hinted at a brighter future.
But the sweater wouldn’t be enough to warm the chill of her soul. The grey couldn’t blend the line between the radiant white of life and the bleak, black reality of death. Couldn’t change the dark of last night into the light of this morning. Lois looked up at the mirror, taking in the puffiness of her eyes, the red streaks that cut through the sclera like the trail of blood that must have trickled from his wounds. Her dark circles and wan, sallow skin – unmistakable evidence of her lack of sleep. Stark reminders of the nightmares that tortured her restless sleep about a man who would never wake up.
He died trying to protect me...Lois closed her eyes against the memory of the fired shots that echoed in her head. She shied away from the vision of her partner falling onto the cold floor of the casino. But her heart reacted, clenching painfully in her chest as her eyes threatened to spill more tears, as her voice wanted to cry out as she had last night:
Clark...Of course he had stepped in front of her, intervening when the clone of John Dillinger had made a threatening pass. It was his nature – the polite, gentlemanly Kansas upbringing that she had unconsciously come to depend on, had assumed would always be by her side. His self-sacrifice had been pure instinct. And in one lousy second, Lois had lost her partner and her best friend.
He died without ever knowing...Well, how could he know what she had only just learned herself? Why did that knowledge have to come at such a high cost? Lois looked away from the mirror, fearing she’d see the emotion reflected in her eyes. But the memory of his eyes played through her thoughts, sparkling at her thousands of times in the course of two years. She should have identified it then, at any of those thousands of times, and accepted it for what it was. But no; instead, she had rejected it the very first time she had spotted it, and had subconsciously been rejecting it ever since.
Don’t fall for me, farmboy...Too late, she realized now: he had already fallen hard. Too late, she realized last night: he had already fallen to the floor. Too late to tell him now: she had already fallen for him.
The doorbell rang – a happy tone that cruelly invited her to join the outside world when all she wanted to do was stay locked inside with her pain. There wasn’t anyone she wanted to see, except the man who would never ring that bell again. Lois dragged her feet as she slowly left her bedroom. It was probably the police, who would promise to find Clark’s killer and bring him to justice. But justice was black and white, marked by guilt and innocence, not the muddied shade of grey that defined Clark’s murder and would forever color her world. She didn’t want to discuss justice while wrapped in funereal clothing.
A firm knock rapped against her door. “Lois, are you in there?” And another part of her soul died: her breath seized and her heart seemed to stop. Because the voice sounded just like Clark’s. Justice mocked her with his velvety tenor tone, with the voice she would never hear again.
I’ve been in love with you for a long time. You must have known...No, she hadn’t known. She had chosen not to know. She had protected her heart by rejecting that knowledge, denying that she felt the same. And now it was far too late to echo his words, which would forever die mutely on her lips:
I’ve been in love with you for a long time...Lois shuffled dejectedly towards the door, willing herself to pretend that the man at the door could ever hope to soothe an ounce of her pain. She looked through the peephole, the tiny window bridging the barrier between the light of the wider outside world and the dark of her narrowed interior one.
She caught her breath at the impossible view afforded by the peephole. And part of her refused to believe what she saw, as if the peephole had transformed into a telescope pulling in light from a faraway star, pretending that what was visible today wasn’t just really the ghost of something that existed only in the past.
Lois threw the door open and gawked at her visitor; her heart was seized with a searing mixture of both joy and grief.
“Hi,” Clark quietly said with a shy smile.
Lois flung her arms around him and cried.
* * * * * * * * * *
Lois was touching him.
Barry closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, pulling his arms tightly around her. It had been so long since he had last held her in his embrace, but the same tingle of desire glimmered through him, as if it was part of his DNA.
Odd how his body automatically reacted to hers, he thought as Lois pulled him into her apartment, shutting the door behind them. Different from the way his body ever reacted to anyone else. And he would know, because he had had a decent sample size for comparison. Ladies liked him: the moms at the birthday parties, the women at the adult parties. They were all fun, and he liked having a good time. But they weren’t special – not like she was.
Lois put her hands on his chest, as if she needed to confirm his existence. Her mouth hung slightly open in surprised elation as tears of joy glistened in her eyes. “I can’t believe you’re alive!”
She didn’t mean him – she meant the other him. Barry slipped the front section from this morning’s newspaper out of his back pocket and looked down. He had seen the small article, wedged into a three-inch column beneath the fold, that briefly laid out the cold facts of the murder of Clark Kent at the hands of, at this time, an unconfirmed gang of criminals at an illegal downtown gaming club. He hoped, for Clark’s sake, that a more substantial article would run in the evening edition – that Clark’s life was worth more than 100 words. He set his jaw, steeling himself to action. “I read about what happened – about Clark Kent’s murder.”
Lois flinched at the mention of her partner’s name and seemed to press her hands more fully into Barry’s chest. He looked into her eyes, shaking his head sadly, and he said, “I just couldn’t let you believe that.”
“But how?” Lois asked as she smoothed her palms down his chest and then up his arms. “God, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’re here.” Then she pulled her arms around his waist, hugging him securely as she laid her cheek against his chest, her head tucked safely under his chin.
And Barry held her, waiting for Lois to notice the difference. Because he had pretended to be his brother before, had held and kissed her under false pretenses before, and she had noticed the difference.
But that was part of his old life, before Icarus had gotten too close to the sun and fallen back down to Earth. Part of his old life, before he stopped being defined by the expectations of a father who had taught him nothing about love, but all too much about hate. Part of his old life, when he was nothing more than a cheap knock-off without even so much as his own name.
But he was Barry now – a man with a good heart, good job, and a good life. He knew he wasn’t Superman, and he certainly wasn’t Clark Kent.
Barry backed away slightly from Lois’ embrace, untangling her arms and taking her by the hands. He led her to the sofa and encouraged her to sit down, because people on television always seemed to think bad news was better delivered on comfy furniture. She continued to grasp his hands, though, and he kept that contact because the warm, firm grip tugged like a gravitational pull at the piece of himself that continued to be drawn to her.
He began to tell her the truth. “I’m a clone, Lois. Superman...”
She cut him off, drowning out his words with her own. “Superman found your body?” Her eyes danced up and down him, as if trying to make sense of his reanimated life. “He must have taken you to Dr. Hamilton’s lab and used the same procedure that brought all the gangsters back from the dead.”
Lois had supplied an answer for him, gave him a lie he could readily accept. But his old life had been built on a lie, and he didn’t want to live a lie – he didn’t want to lie to her.
“Lois...” he began to explain again, trying to sharply define the difference between him and the other him.
But she cut him off again. “I don’t care how it happened. All that matters is that you’re here.” Then she let go of his hand, leaned against him, and kissed him on the mouth.
The kiss transported him through time to a year ago, when the line between him and his brother had been blurred. When his duty, the very reason for his being, had been to eliminate the competition and take its place. When he had come to this very apartment and had kissed her with the kind of intense passion that was being reflected back at him now.
He moaned softly and accepted her embrace, because kissing was fun. Barry leaned back against the arm of the couch and Lois crawled onto his lap, intent on keeping their tight connection. Her lips parted, and experience had taught him that the accompanying soft sigh was an invitation. Barry licked his tongue over her bottom lip before tilting his head and sweeping his tongue past her teeth. She deepened the kiss as she pressed her body weight more fully into his chest.
Barry thread his fingers into the back of her hair and decided to enjoy the experience while it lasted. He compared the two kisses in his mind – the false one, when he had taken what he thought he should have – and this one, which she gave to him willingly. But there was no comparison – the wild abandon of her free will was infinitely superior.
A small corner of his mind admonished him, though, for slipping into that fuzzy boundary between brothers, tugging on the line to pull it taut once more. But it was hard to hear that inner voice when his heartbeat was pounding so loudly. And anyway, her lips would recognize the difference soon enough, and when that happened, he’d let her go.
“Oh, Clark,” Lois whispered as she backed slightly away from him, breaking the blissful contact of her soft lips against his. She gently brushed her fingertips over his face, caressing his cheek and staring deeply into his undisguised eyes. “When I thought you were gone, I did some thinking about my life – what it would be like without you in it.”
Her eyes were so beautiful, the tone of her voice so heartfelt; Barry felt compelled to listen silently to what Lois had to say.
“I know our relationship has always been...” Her eyes broke contact with his as she looked away, but she took a breath and continued, “...difficult to define.” She shook her head slightly, then tilted her head off to the side. “But when I thought about how much I missed you, how much I was going to miss you for the rest of my life...well, I started to think there’s more to our relationship than just friendship.”
Barry smiled at her innocently. “I’d like to be your friend. And it would be fun to be something more.”
Lois laughed, smiling radiantly, before leaning into him again and stealing another kiss.
And as he basked in the rush of desire that flooded through his body, the warm flush of her skin against his, the soft moans and contented sighs that whispered their way into his ears, it suddenly seemed very important for Clark Kent to live. She had been so heartbroken over her partner’s death, so healed by his apparent life – Barry just couldn’t break her heart again.
So he blurred the line and accepted the lie, even though he knew he wasn’t really Superman or Clark Kent. He was just a pale imitation who had been born in a vat.
* * * * * * * * * *
Clark flew through the skies of Metropolis, absolutely devastated.
Part of him wondered if strangers would be able to tell – if they could catch the emotion in his eyes. They expected their hero to be there for them, a solidly supportive defense against everything that could go terribly wrong in the world. He wondered if they knew how close to the verge of collapse he actually was.
He had flown to Smallville seeking comfort from his parents – fatherly advice and motherly love. And that’s what he had received. But it just wasn’t enough. Since Clark had faked his death, cradled in the arms of the woman he could love until death do them part, nothing would ever be the same.
Because Superman wasn’t enough. He was enough for so many people in the world; ironic that he wasn’t enough for himself.
Not surprising, really, that the public would think that saving victims from crime and natural disasters would be the sum total of everything that was personally fulfilling to him. And it was fulfilling, partially – it gave him the freedom to use his abilities, to make sense of the powers he had been born with. But Superman and his powers didn’t completely define him. Because he was Clark.
Well, not anymore. Because Clark was dead.
Such a random, senseless death, brought about by his own arrogance and pride. He had stepped forward, challenged the clone of John Dillinger, a man who no doubt was used to having others back away. Clark hadn’t considered the danger of confronting a criminal holding a gun because there was no danger; he did it every day without fear. But now he understood how wrong he had been, just how much he should have feared for the life of Clark Kent.
Because now he was dead. The real him, not the costumed superhero. The man who worked at the Daily Planet and went to ball games with Perry and Jimmy. The man who listened to Lois go off on weird tangents and secretly loved it. The man who secretly loved her.
But she didn’t love him. Or, at least, not as anything other than a brother. Or, at least, that’s what he had thought.
Clark found himself flying towards Lois’ apartment, as if he were on autopilot. He had flown there last night, too. After faking his death, being tossed out of Capone’s car, and ducking into an ally to change into Superman’s suit, he had taken off into the night sky, wandering aimlessly, unwilling to face his parents yet and unable to stay at the apartment that used to belong to him. So he circled the city of Metropolis until he acknowledged the building he had repeatedly surveyed. Hers. Clark had landed on her rooftop and stretched his hearing to find a connection to her, anything he could hold on to.
And he had heard her crying. Not just a few tears to acknowledge the passing of an acquaintance. Not the mournful tears that signaled the passing of a good friend. No, these were deep, racking sobs – the sounds of a woman on the verge of collapse. The desolation that comes from the sudden loss of a loved one – an empty, cavernous heart echoing the anguished cry that told the world that Lois Lane had just lost her best friend. Or, maybe, something more.
He had wanted to believe that, as he sat on her rooftop, huddled in his cape and wrapped in his pain. Had always wished she would someday look at Clark Kent the way she looked at Superman. Had looked to her to fulfill his lifetime’s worth of fantasies.
But Clark was dead, and with him went their friendship and his wish for something more. His dad rightly pointed out that he could be there for her as Superman, but...no. He couldn’t. It just wouldn’t be the same.
Because she wasn’t the same with him – the Spandex him. Superman didn’t cuddle on the couch with pizza and the umpteenth viewing of her favorite movie. Superman didn’t banter with her or edit her copy. Superman didn’t bring her coffee or stash emergency chocolate in his desk. Superman didn’t fall in love with her a thousand different ways every single day. Clark Kent did all of that.
Did, because he was dead.
But he didn’t have to be, at least not to her. He could confess his secret and, maybe, keep a small piece of Clark Kent alive. If she could love him, even half as much as he loved her, well, maybe it would be enough.
If only he had done that earlier: before the faked death, before the soul-shattering sobs. The second Dillinger’s gun had gone off, Clark’s ingrained instinct was to protect his secret – his family’s secret. But now, his choice seemed unforgivable. She would hate him for the lies he had told, the pain he had caused. Rightfully so.
But it was the right thing to do – the only thing to do. He would go to her, bare his soul, and give her the only thing he had left to give – the truth. She’d never forgive him – he didn’t deserve forgiving – but he’d give her the truth anyway. Because if he loved her at all, she deserved at least that much. And she could decide to love him – half of him, anyway – or not at all.
Clark neared Lois’ apartment, trying to fortify his resolve. He squelched his ingrained fear, the root cause that had caused him to cause her so much pain. He drew in a breath, floated outside the fifth floor, and looked through the window.
And he saw Lois Lane kissing Clark Kent.
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