Option BLois stared at the wooden rocking horse, its curved frame half-shrouded in shadow. Her hand hovered over the smooth, timeworn surface, trembling. Every rational voice in her head screamed at her to burn it. One more flame. One more chance to stave off the creeping cold. But her fingers refused to move.
This wasn’t just any piece of wood. This was Clark’s. A sliver of his childhood, handed down from Martha.
She couldn’t. Not this. Not when everything in her had been fighting to keep him from breaking completely.
Instead Lois sank back to the floor, crawled under the blankets, curling herself around him as best she could, his body still far too cold against hers. The fire behind her was no longer a blaze but a dull orange glow, barely alive.
Clark’s breathing was thin. Erratic. Each inhale felt like a gamble.
Her voice cracked as she whispered into the space between them. “Come on, you stubborn farmboy. I didn’t fight off Kryptonite bullets and freezing wind and dig splinters out of you just for you to give up now.”
Her fingers brushed the side of his face, tracing the line of his jaw, willing some color back into it. She tightened her hold on him and gave him a light kiss on his lips. “Don’t you dare leave me.”
She stayed like this, murmuring his name, words, memories, anything to fill the silence that grew heavier by the second.
Then - a twitch.
She almost didn’t notice it. The faintest movement beneath her hand. But then another.
Clark shifted - just slightly - but enough that she felt it.
A change.
The returning weight of presence behind the stillness.
A shallow gasp slipped from his lips, followed by a whisper, so faint it was nearly carried off by the wind.
“Lois…”
Her heart stuttered.
“I’m here,” she choked out, cradling his face in both hands, kissing his cheeks, his forehead, anywhere she could reach. “I’m right here.”
And for the first time in what felt like hours, she believed it.
He was going to make it.
She pressed her forehead to his, breathing him in. His skin was still cold - clammy, too pale - but there was something new now, something vital, threaded in the sound of his voice.
A whisper, yes. But it was his.
It was alive.
“You’re alive,” she said, because it needed to be spoken out loud. Spoken into truth.
He blinked slowly, as if it took effort, then gave her a weary, crooked smile. “I think so. Unless this is a really weird dream and you’re an angel with cold feet.”
She laughed - tired and shaky, almost a sob. “How do you feel? I mean, not good, obviously, you nearly died, but you’re talking, so that’s a start, right? Can you move? Do you think you can sit up? Or maybe not, maybe you should rest - but we need to get you off the floor because it’s freezing, and I don’t care how invulnerable you usually are, that can’t be good for recovery–”
“Easy, honey.” He coughed - a dry, rasping sound - then cleared his throat. “I just woke up from almost dying - I don’t think I’m coherent enough to handle Lois Lane in full babble mode.”
His smile deepened, a little stronger now, though his teeth chattered faintly between words. “Sore. Like I got hit by a truck. My chest’s tight, my head’s spinning and I think every muscle in my body is trying to resign. But I’m here. And I think… with your help, I could move.”
“Okay,” she said gently, brushing her fingers through his damp hair. It was cold to the touch, sticking to his forehead. She hesitated, then slipped out of his embrace.
“Let me check your wound first.”
She peeled back the blanket and the edge of the gauze with careful fingers, peeking underneath. The wound was still raw, still visible - but it had stopped bleeding. And slowly, visibly, his body was starting to knit itself back together. Kryptonite had slowed the process, but it hadn’t stopped it.
His skin was mottled in places and she could see faint tremors in his limbs. But the color was returning and with it, so was hope.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Okay,” she said, more confident now. “Let’s get you to the couch.”
She grabbed the thermos with one hand, looped his arm over her shoulders with the other, and braced herself as they moved. He stumbled, knees weak, breath shallow, and leaned heavily against her - the weight of him was both terrifying and reassuring.
But together, they made it.
He sank onto the couch with a groan of relief, his hands shaking slightly as he exhaled through chattering teeth.
Lois dropped to her knees beside him and poured the still-warm coffee into one of the travel cups from their bag.
“Here. Drink slowly,” she said, pressing it into his hands. “This’ll warm you from the inside.”
He nodded, lifting it with effort. His fingers barely curled around the cup at first, but he held on. He drank in small sips, wincing once - maybe from nausea or the heat - but the steam seemed to coax color back into his cheeks.
She reached for the blankets next and tucked them around him with the same reverence she might give to something sacred. Because he was. To her.
His gaze met hers - still hazy, still tired, but unmistakably his. “You kept me here,” he whispered, voice rough but steady. “You didn’t let me go.”
Lois brushed her fingers through his hair, her touch tender. “Don’t you dare scare me like that again.”
Clark didn’t respond right away. Then he shifted slightly, lifting one trembling hand and wiggling his fingers toward her. “Come here,” he said, voice hoarse. “You’re warm. And soft. And you smell nice.”
A surprised laugh burst out of her, exhausted but genuine. “Wow. Nearly dies and still finds the energy to flirt. You must be feeling better.”
He gave her a lopsided smile. “I almost died. I deserve cuddles.”
“Cuddles, huh?” she teased, even as she was already climbing onto his lap and tucking herself into his side. “Is that the official medical term?”
“Prescribed by the world’s leading expert in Lois Lane recovery,” he murmured, nestling against her shoulder, his voice going drowsy. “Best treatment plan I’ve ever had.”
She wrapped her arms around him tightly, anchoring him to her. His breath was warm now against her collarbone, his body still trembling but no longer ice cold. Slowly, he relaxed into her like a man who finally trusted he was safe.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered into his hair.
And neither was he.
The End
~~~ \S/ ~~~
Fictathon Prompts:Want:- Angst
- A snow storm
- A wooden rocking horse
Don’t want: - Lex Luthor
- The Superman revelation
- Children
TOCComments (FDK)Fictathon Master List
