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*17*

He’s starting to understand. He’s starting to realize that he doesn’t have to act like a living sacrifice, that he doesn’t need to buy his acceptance here. He’s starting to believe that there’s more. More for him.

Lois watches him each day, as she gives him reasons to come back home, to stay, to spend time outside the role of superhero. She watches him and rejoices (feels stronger and better and more alive) every time he hesitates less, agrees quicker, relaxes more.

Ever since that first evening, that night of laughter over board games and banter over soup, she’s begun reaching out (and it’s scary, it’s terrifying, every time she extends herself in an invitation and waits for his response, but she must be brave now, for his sake). Little things. Small steps. One day she asks him to stop by in the afternoon and look at a few planters that weren’t seeming to respond to the water she poured over them (he shows her small, ugly insects in the soil and spends almost an hour teaching her how to get rid of them). Another evening, she tells him to bring back a movie for her and James (and together, she and James get him to stay for the duration of the entire film, though none of them can say what it was about afterward). A few mornings, she finds him over breakfast and gets him telling her stories about his parents (and memories of Smallville are painful, but the sight of Clark smiling, a twinkle in his eyes that brings Jonathan poignantly to mind, is so much more important--and appealing).

Sometimes he doesn’t stay for more than a moment or two. Sometimes they’re interrupted. Sometimes her excuses can’t reach past the bars of the prison (the mask, the armor) he keeps around himself. Sometimes he tells her he has other prior engagements--a meeting with Henderson, an appointment with Metropolis attorneys and judge, interviews with Henderson’s men (and Lois tries not to mind these because even if he is not with her, at least this is a task that originated with Clark Kent rather than Superman). Or there are meetings with the Superman Foundation, mornings and evenings when he flies James to and from places Lois doesn’t ask about, hours when he says he needs to be with his parents.

Occasionally, he will agree to stay, but gradually she will realize he isn’t paying attention to her because he is listening to something else (something distant; something imperative). In those moments, she finds a reason to excuse herself (to let him go) because she wants to free him, not bind him down in chains of a different make than the ones already tying him down. And when she does that (when she tries to pretend she isn’t disappointed to see him leave her once again), before he leaves, he always looks at her with something…bright. Something hopeful and tender and surprised and grateful in his eyes (something that begins to visit her dreams at night, begins to disperse nightmares of life-destroying articles and make her almost eager to sleep with that Smallville bear clutched in her arms).

Still, Lois tries to go slow. She tries not to pressure him. She tries to keep herself from grabbing him by his shoulders and shaking him and shouting at him, screaming at him that there is so much more for him, that he can have so much more, should have much more, will have much more if she has anything to say about it… She tries to remember that he has lost everything, that his parents are still not completely out of danger, that his life is in constant peril, that she cannot destroy what solid ground he has managed to find, can only try to build bridges out toward him. (She tries to ignore just what her dreams mean, just how much longing she feels when she wakes up, because that is not what he needs; he needs some of his burden taken away, not another thing to worry about.)

But it is hard when all those reminders of what he has lost and what he faces make her more determined to free him and help him (to save him as he has saved her). It is hard not to push when she sees him begin to relax. When it begins to get easier to distract him from the cries for Superman. It is hard, but it is also important, and if impulsive rashness is what destroyed him, then only patient understanding will rebuild and resurrect him (as far as it is possible to do so, but she does not dwell on the future, on the big picture and how little she can do for that, because she cannot afford to sink into despair and hopelessness again).

Patience and understanding aren’t traits the old Lois Lane possessed, but she has them now, infused through a baritone voice behind her shoulder under a steady sun. Through trust extended by a young man with all too many reasons to be bitter and cynical instead. The forgiveness offered by a hurt mother. The open acceptance, and the patient understanding of his own (that Clark’s always so naturally displayed), so freely and uninhibitedly given her by the very man she so badly wronged.

She was so sure he didn’t entirely forgive her (couldn’t because how could he?). So sure there was buried anger that would eventually erupt. But it has been months and no one is that good a liar (especially him). No one can hide that kind of hatred for this long.

Clark really has forgiven her.

He really is glad she is here.

And he really is as good and wonderful and appealing as her dreams and newly informative memories tell her.

“You don’t have to glare,” Clark says without turning around, and Lois startles and casts her eyes down. “You’ll get dinner in just a couple more minutes, I promise.”

She and James (who has said nothing to her, asked nothing, but who seems to know what she is doing and backs her up flawlessly) have managed to bring him home this time by telling him over breakfast how tired they were of toast and soup. When Clark admonished them for not eating better, James hadn’t skipped a beat before wringing a promise out of him to cook them all a real meal.

Lois forces a smile, worried Clark will look at her and somehow guess the direction of her thoughts (and he cannot do that, not when she is finally making some progress and he is finally looking more than just content). “I’m just making sure you’re doing it all right,” she says, trying to pretend away the flush on her cheeks.

He looks over his shoulder long enough to give her a level stare. “And how would you know the difference between the right way and the wrong way?”

A laugh is surprised out of her. “I may not be able to cook, but I can tell what looks and smells good.”

His half-smile is mischievous as he effortlessly transfers the three (no, four, she notes with vague awe; she hadn’t even noticed him putting that corn on the stove) dishes over to serving bowls. “And?” he asks. “What’s the verdict?”

“You’re definitely a better cook than me,” she says loftily (and who would have guessed she’d ever be able to tease Clark Kent again, let alone provoke that full, real laughter from him? Had Perry known, or had he only hoped, or does he still drink alone in his dark office?).

Clark laughs aloud and lets her help him carry the dishes to their dining area.

James joins them briefly over dinner, long enough to sample each dish and pack away enough food to make Lois blink, before he’s excusing himself to retreat into his room with his phone already at his ear. Lois is glad he was there as long as he was, though. He made her tense and awkward and defiant, when she first came (when he stood before his friend, his brother, with shield and sword raised, to draw her attack, her ire, any danger, to him rather than to Clark); but now he causes Clark to smile when he’s being too serious or starting to look distracted, eases the slow tension building between Lois and Clark, fills up silences that threaten to turn too long.
Not that anyone else seems to notice her tension or uncertainty (or better dreams).

James draws Clark to this world, makes him laugh, reassures him about things Lois doesn’t know enough to understand, and he does it all so effortlessly, so seamlessly, as if Lois’s presence changes nothing (and where once that would have relieved her, now it only rankles). Clark teases both Lois and James, cooks and dishes up their plates and does the cleaning up afterward (watches the movies and talks about his parents and plays board games), and all without any sign of the growing shyness, the fledgling feelings, that are growing in Lois (and she can ask nothing else, can expect nothing else, can only dream of it in the dark solitude of her own room). It is only her that is off-balance. Only her that is not content in this less-than-perfect, better-than-could-be world.

Only her who longs for something so specific and so impossible.

Only her who feels each touch between them like a substantial weight, each word like the slot of a combination lock, a click that either leads her closer to unlocking the enigma in red and blue and glasses, or takes her too far and leaves him more trapped than ever.

Only her, and she tries to ignore it (tells herself over and over again all the reasons there are that nothing beyond the already-miraculous friendship can happen). But when James leaves them alone, and the dishes are cleared, Lois finds herself once more at a loss, once more fighting a blush as she tries not to stare.

She sits there, frozen, afraid to move lest the moment (of opportunity, of danger) pass her by (and is glad, for once, that Perry is not there, so he cannot see her like this). It takes her an instant to realize Clark has vanished (he moves so quickly now, all the time, as if afraid to be trapped in place), and she blinks in surprise when he materializes in front of her. The mischievous smile playing along his mouth doesn’t help her find her voice.

“I have something else for you,” he says, and sets a sheaf of papers down before her.

Of course. She should have known.

Clark has been waging his own campaign, just as slow and purposeful and intent as Lois’s own. But where she seeks to ground him (to the world, to his own life; to her), he seeks to give her pieces of herself back. Where she seeks to show him that there are reasons for Clark to exist, he seeks to return her freedom to her (as if he wants her to be able to leave him and go back to her life in Metropolis and return to the Lois Lane she was before she brought herself down in a ruin of newspaper and Pulitzer prize).

Ever since she told him she doesn’t write anymore, he’s been bringing her things. A puff-piece on a philanthropist collecting donations to help the clean-up of the earthquake. An interview, in a much lesser paper, of a former employee claiming that the philanthropist was receiving far more than he was giving out. Bank records. Phone histories. A little bit more paperwork every day--a few more breadcrumbs on the trail of an investigation.

Every day he hands her more and waits while she looks through them. He never says anything until after she reads whatever he brought her, until she says her own piece first. Then he will ask her a question, seemingly innocent but always so insightful that it makes her see things clearer, further, better (he’s always been able to do that, and once she’d ignored it or resented it; now she regrets it because she knows she’ll never be able to find a better partner, but she ruined this before she could even enjoy it).

Today, Lois dives on the papers as soon as he sets them down. She doesn’t even really care what these papers tell her or where the story takes her. More than anything, she just wants to feel the fire in her veins, the thunder in her bones, the lightning-sharp clarity of her mind as it seeks and makes connections. She wants to feel alive and good and useful; she wants to be a reporter again, even if just in this safe haven.

But it’s just blank paper. No interviews with people who knew the seeming philanthropist. No background info on the foundation of his charity. Nothing but a ream of empty, blank, too-white paper.

“What is this?” She looks to Clark with a puzzled frown. “Dead end?”

His eyes are actually sparkling (as they used to do, when he teased her and ignored her short-tempered remarks; when he took her to his hometown and told her she might find more than she expected). “Not a dead end,” he says. He reaches out a careful hand and sets a single pen down atop the blank papers. “It’s time to put everything we have together.”

Time to write the story. She notices how he avoids the words (a wise decision considering the nervous fear already flaring like jagged, frazzled sparks inside her skin). She also notices that he isn’t blocking her escape, but he is angled so that he fills her vision. Notices that he’s keeping his voice low and his movements slow. That he is saying only enough to make her draw her own conclusions and then leaving her to read the implications.

In short, she notices all her own tactics being used against her.

And he is still here. She has not given him an excuse, has not enticed him or even invited him to stay, has not used her own voice and a flow of words to drown out the calls for Superman. She has done nothing, but he is here. If she actually does do something (gives into the nervous temptation making her fingers itch), then how much longer can she get him to stay?

Besides. She is not the only one who is not a reporter anymore. Not the only one who misses writing stories to make the world a better place. Not the only one who wants to reclaim an important piece of herself she has lost.

“Okay,” she says, determinedly, to hide her panic. Her hands tremble as she pulls the pen and paper toward her. “What first?”

And the hours slip away. After just a few moments, she forgets to be nervous or afraid, forgets to doubt herself. After just a few easy exchanges between her and Clark as they bounce sentences back and forth (sentences, but not the pen; he always makes her write their chosen words down), she forgets that she and Clark haven’t worked together for years, for decades, for all their lives, bound and twined together until there is no way to tell them apart. After just a few lines of blatant black ink spilled over white paper (bringing use and purpose out of emptiness), she forgets that they really don’t have as much evidence, as many hard facts, as Perry would demand of them. She forgets everything but that this is what she was born for, what she is good at, what she loves doing.

But when she’s finished, when an actual, complete article lays before them, she is alive and afire, but also suddenly and intensely scared. Because if she can write again, then that means she can destroy Clark’s life all over again, just when he’s finding some measure of level ground again (just when he’s stopped being polite and started being friendly again).

Clark, though, looks incandescent with happiness, his smile wider than she’s seen it since before her last good (awful, dangerous, stupid) article. “I knew you could do it,” he says, all sincerity and pride and belief. “Perry will be overjoyed when he gets this.”

Lois’s own brilliant smile is doused immediately. “I’m not sending this in. Thank you, Clark, for helping me, but this article is never going to see the light of day.” And without giving herself time to reconsider it, she reaches out, picks up their article, and rips it neatly in half.

“What?” Clark’s brow furrows, his eyes wide behind the glasses. “Why… I don’t understand. I know it wasn’t as fleshed out as it should have been, but it was good, Lois. Really, I’m not just saying that. This proves that you haven’t lost your talent like you thought. You’re still one of the best--”

“No.” She interrupts him before she collapses under the weight of her guilt (her rising pride, her answering assurance, her desire to prove to the entire world that she is still Lois Lane, investigative journalist; the burgeoning temptation to forget the lessons she’s learned and go back to destroying her life and his and others she never takes the time to consider). The awakening fire he’s stirred up within her turns into resolution, fierceness in her conviction--like coal turned into diamonds. “It’s not that. But if I start writing articles about events and people in Coast City--the city where Superman’s parents are now so widely known to be, and so soon after I was already spotted here--everyone in the world will suddenly be absolutely certain that you weren’t just visiting here. That you live here, and I’ve uncovered you again. It would expose you, and pull even more danger down on your parents and James. Kind of defeats the whole purpose of hiding me, you know? So, as good as it feels to be writing again, it isn’t happening. I won’t do that to you again.”

Clark just looks at her, eyes brimming with so much open emotion that tears spring to Lois’s own eyes (and she is not even sure why). Then, slowly but all in one smooth motion, Clark rises, steps close, pulls her to her feet. And while she is still breathless and trembling, he draws her into a hug.

It is better than the other two hugs that already fill her dreams and her vacant thoughts and her foolish dreams. Better because he is the one who initiates it this time. He is touching her, pulling her into his orbit--of his own free will. Voluntarily. Without coercion. He is not hugging her because she hugged him first and he is too polite and kind to rebuff her. He is hugging her because he chooses to. Because he wants to.

He is glad she is here, he had said.

He wants to touch her, he is saying, through his arms looped around her and his hand cradling the back of her head to his shoulder. Through the steadiness of his chest rising and falling beneath her cheek and the rapid flutter of his heart in her ear.

Two truths so much more impossible than babies from other planets falling to Kansas or a super-powered hero dedicating his life, above and beyond the call of duty, to saving as many lives as he can. More unbelievable than Lois Lane realizing she was wrong and traveling all across the country to apologize for it and finding herself all too willing to make herself over for a man (who deserved it; who did not ask it of her; who seemed oblivious to just how much she’s been wanting to hug him for weeks now).

“Thank you, Lois,” he breathes, the words stirring a strand of her hair and sliding it against her temple. A tickling impression that reassures her this is not just another dream, doomed to bring only disappointment when she wakes. Her heart does a strange tripping skip when his lips brush over that same temple in a light kiss that feels almost (too much) like a benediction, reverent and aloof.

“For what?” she manages to ask even though she is terrified to say anything (to break her own silence and cause more damage with her own words; to turn truth into nightmare).

“Just…just for being you,” he says. And Lois has to pull back (even if it means waking herself), has to look up into his eyes to see what they say (even if it means crushing disappointment). She needs to know, needs to see, needs to imprint every instant of this moment into her brain so that she can never forget it (so that even if this is the only moment she ever gets, she will be able to relive it every day for the rest of her life).

Clark looks down at her, and he is smiling. A soft, secretive kind of smile, close-mouthed and lop-sided and heartfelt. He bends his neck, and his eyes flutter closed, lashes dark against his cheekbones, and then he kisses her other temple, her cheek, both cheeks, the center of her brow, and finally, the corner of her mouth. Closer, closer, closer to a real kiss, as if daring himself, as if testing himself (as if trying to convince himself she is not the one who betrayed him and ruined him and came back in time to lead to his parents being hospitalized).

She is holding her breath, suffocating, drowning, her own eyes wide open because she can’t go through life with her eyes closed and blinders on again (not when the cost is so high). Her heart is pounding at the inside of her breastbone, reverberating through her veins, beating for freedom, for hope, for love.

But it cannot get out (is trapped forever), and Clark apparently can go no further (can pretend no longer, not nearly enough, his imagination failing in the face of her crimes), and he does not bring his lips to hers. Does not pull her into the kind of kiss she’s been remembering (been trying to forget because it’s easier to miss something when you’ve never had it, never experienced it, never let it slip through your fingers before you even knew you wanted it) from the plane over Metropolis, the cover story and Trask’s eyes on them and Clark’s fingers in her hair and the hesitation before he’d followed her lead.

He does not kiss her. Because he thanks her, in the same moment, for being her--and she is Lois Lane and he is Clark Kent and Lois Lane will forever be synonymous with the end of Clark Kent and how could she have ever let herself think that that could be ignored or forgotten or forgiven?

Instead, he pulls her back into a close hug, and sighs a heavy sigh that rattles against her frame and sends her heart slinking, beaten and cowed, back to its usual place.

And Lois finally closes her eyes, and hides her face in his chest, and pretends she is not shattering into a million dust-and-ash-like pieces.

*