Lois & Clark Forums Forums Fan Fiction Lois & Clark Fanfic A Spark In The Dark 68/85?

This is a longer chapter, I hope you like it. Compared to phase three and four, the last sections of the file are less brutal and heavy. Still it’s a view into a disturbing organization with a head that probably should not be allowed to lead anything.
I hope you enjoy, thanks for reading and huge thanks to everyone who leaves a like and of course: feedback. 🤩
Also huge thanks to 90stvfangirl and Socomama for their help with this! ❤️

TOC

Chapter sixty-eight

I wake up groggy, feeling cold from the absence of his warmth beside me.

For a moment, I lie still, listening for Clark. The kettle. The radio. The sound of him moving around the kitchen.

Nothing.

My stomach clenches, reminding me that I need to eat.

But before I can even reach for the water on the nightstand, a thought creeps in.

I sit up too fast. The room tilts.

“Clark?”

No answer.

His side of the bed is empty. And cold.

His glasses are gone.

My mind supplies the rest.

They’d be better off without me.

Take me instead.

I squeeze my eyes shut. It makes no sense. He wouldn't leave without telling me. Not after everything. Not now.

But yesterday he'd been shaking from the crystal. His skin had burned beneath my hands.

And there is a small, ugly voice that reminds me he has run before.

My hand presses against my belly.

“He wouldn't,” I whisper.

My eyes sting. I hate this… sitting in an old T-shirt, hungry and exhausted, frightened before I even know whether there's anything to fear.

Then the door opens.

Clark stands there, barefoot and rumpled, a mug in one hand and a small plate in the other.

“Lois.”

I can’t speak.

He sets everything on the nightstand and crosses to me, taking my face between his hands.

“Hey.” His eyes search mine. “I'm here. What's wrong? Did you have a bad dream?”

“I thought…” My voice breaks. “I thought you’d gone.”

“No.” The answer comes at once. “I'm not going anywhere.”

I manage a breath. Then another.

My eyes fall on the nightstand: steam curling from the mug, apple slices and walnuts on the plate.

My eyes are still burning, and I feel foolish for sitting here crying.

“I woke up alone,” I manage. “And I couldn’t hear you moving around.”

Clark’s thumbs brush my cheeks.

For a moment, I consider telling him what he said in his sleep last night. But he doesn’t know he said it, and I can’t bear to make him face those words, not when he’s already looking at me as if he can't understand what has frightened me so badly.

So I shake my head.

“I know. I know you were just in the kitchen.”

He studies me for a moment, his eyes moving over my face.

“I was making tea. And testing the heat vision to see if it was working again.”

My eyes flick to his hands, then back to his face.

He glances toward the living room. “I moved the loveseat to make room for the new couch, too. Lifted it so I wouldn't wake you.”

He looks at the plate.

“I thought you might be hungry.”

My eyes sting again. Damn hormones. Or hunger. Or the fact that he remembered before I did.

A small, apologetic smile touches his mouth. “Tea and fruit. Not exactly a feast.”

He draws me into his lap and hands me the mug.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have left the door open. I thought you’d get cold.”

I sip the tea, then eat an apple slice. My stomach settles enough to remind me how much more it wants.

Clark presses a kiss to my forehead. I lean against him, letting myself believe the solid warmth of him.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly nine.”

“Lucy?”

“Gone over an hour ago.”

“I should get up.”

Neither of us moves until my bladder makes the decision for me.

After returning from the bathroom I'm standing in front of the wardrobe in my underwear when Clark joins me.

“What should I wear today?” I ask the hangers.

“You could stay naked…” He stops. “I mean, comfortable. You don't have to get dressed just yet.” He flushes, embarrassed at what has slipped from his mouth. “I’m sorry, Lois.” His eyes stay fixed on my face.

I look at him over my shoulder. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I might take you up on it once the delivery guys are gone.”

His blush deepens, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. “I’ll… make sure the curtains are closed.”

“Good.” I step closer, just enough to make his breath catch. “Because I’d hate for you to get distracted.”

“From the windows?”

“From me.” I hold his gaze, then let my eyes travel slowly down his body. “Unless you’re planning to join me.”

His mouth opens. Closes.

“Lois…”

I grin and turn back to the wardrobe.

Once, his attention would have made me self-conscious. Now I know there's more to it than the way I look.

I pull out my old Met U shirt and a pair of sweatpants with a waistband loose enough not to dig in. Then I look at yesterday's blouse and trousers draped over the chair.

So much for my wardrobe.

“This is a downgrade from yesterday.”

“Not in my opinion. You’re irresistible in anything. And nothing.”

I raise an eyebrow.

He clears his throat. “There's no newsroom today. Just us. Wear whatever you like.”

By the time I've found my socks, he's already back in the kitchen.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Eleven weeks, and my sweatpants sit differently. My old shirt pulls across my middle, outlining a shape that wasn't there before.

I look away before I can start calculating how much longer anything in the wardrobe will fit.

The October chill catches me halfway down the hall. I hadn't expected it to turn cold so quickly.

Clark takes one look at me and disappears into the bedroom. He returns with a dark sweater.

“Here.”

I pull it over my head. It's soft and too big, the sleeves falling past my wrists. When I turn down one cuff, I notice a small embroidered fruit near the hem.

I pinch the fabric between my fingers.

“What's this? Metropolis's official apricot?”

Clark looks down.

“It's a peach.”

“Of course. Why a peach?”

He rubs his thumb along the kitchen counter.

“Atlanta.”

I glance at him. “What?”

“Georgia's known for peaches. I bought it in Atlanta.”

“Oh.” I pinch the embroidery between my fingers. “A souvenir?”

He doesn't answer immediately.

“Clark?”

“I bought it after I left you.”

My smile fades.

He keeps his eyes on the sweater.

“I thought I had to put Atlanta behind me. Everything that happened there. Especially you.” His fingers catch the hem beside the peach. “But I still wanted something to remember you by.”

I wait.

“I bought this. When I missed you, I could tell myself I was only remembering Atlanta.”

I look down at the little peach, carefully stitched into the dark wool.

Then I step closer and take his hand.

“Well, now you don’t have to remember alone.” I guide his hand beneath the sweater, to my belly. “We’ve got three very good reminders between us.”

The corner of his mouth lifts.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And I'm here.” My fingers tighten around his. “I don't want you to leave me again. We need you.”

A tear slips down my cheek. I don't bother wiping it away.

His hand stays against my belly, warm beneath the soft fabric. For a moment, neither of us speaks.

Then he looks at me.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.” His thumb moves gently against my side. “I just like seeing you in it.”

“Even if it is a little big?”

“Especially then.”

I brush my fingers along his cheek. He leans into the touch, turning his face to kiss my palm before drawing me closer.

When he kisses me, his hand goes around my waist. I wrap my arms around him and kiss him again.

“I like the sweater too,” I tell him.

His gaze searches mine. “You do?”

“It’s warm. It smells like you.” I brush my thumb over his cheek. “It feels like home.”

His expression softens. Then his smile falters.

“I still don’t always know where I belong.”

My hand stills against his cheek.

“You belong here,” I say. “With me.”

“Lois…”

“I'm not asking you to earn your place. I want you here, Clark. You.” I press my palm to his chest. “You spent all that time shutting yourself away. Look what it did to you.”

His hand finds the small of my back, pulling me close.

“I’m trying to be less afraid.” His voice trembles beneath my ear. “It’s easier with you by my side.”

“Then stay with me.” I brush my thumb along his cheek. “We’ll figure out the rest together. Because you're the one I look for when I wake up.”

He bends to kiss me again.

When we finally separate, he takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen table.

Lucy has left a note in the kitchen.

Clark reads it, and snorts before handing it to me.

Dear destructive lovebirds,
I have an eight o’clock seminar and will not be home until six.
Please try not to break anything else today. The table cost money, even if it’s your money and your table anyway.
The furniture guys called yesterday. They arrive between noon and two. Be there.
Love,
Lucy
P.S. There is fruit. Eat the fruit, Lois.
P.P.S. Clark, make sure she eats the fruit.

I look at the note. Then at Clark.

“Destructive lovebirds?”

His mouth twitches. “She’s never letting us forget that table.”

“Apparently not.”

He reaches for the fruit bowl.

“You’re taking orders from my sister now?”

“Only the good ones.”

He takes a few grapes and a pear.

“Don’t tell her that. She’ll start leaving lists.”

He makes porridge with plenty of nuts and fruit, and we eat at the cracked table.

I finish my bowl, then begin to steal from his.

He pushes it closer.

“I can’t believe how hungry I am these days.”

“You’re growing our family.” He looks far too pleased about it.

I look down at the bowl.

“And I’m going to get huge if I keep eating like this.”

Clark’s hand tightens around mine.

“You’re pregnant. That’s not the same thing.”

“It feels like the same thing when none of my trousers fit.”

“Then we’ll buy you trousers that fit.”

I give him a look.

“Lois. You've barely been able to keep food down. Now you're hungry. I'm not going to apologize for being glad about that.”

The words catch somewhere beneath my ribs.

I want to tell him that I can be grateful for the babies and still hate the thought of my body changing beyond recognition. But he isn't looking at me with pity or impatience. He simply seems relieved that I can eat.

So I take another spoonful from his bowl.

“You’re very calm about this.”

“I’m very happy about this,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

I finish his porridge too.

***

By ten, the breakfast things are cleared, and the file is waiting on the table.

Neither of us reaches for it.

“The couch arrives soon.”

“Yes.”

“We could wait until after.”

I look at the stack of pages. The worn edges. Everything they've cost us this week.

“No. Let’s start.”

He nods. Sits down across from me.

I open the file.


The page feels heavier in my hands the longer I hold it.

After the previous phase, surveillance of the containment zones had been scaled back. The remaining children had entered state care, placing their records beyond Trask's easy reach.

Not an end to the operation. Just a change of focus.

Then I reach the section on the crystals.

The biological material recovered from inside the ship in 1966 couldn’t be sufficiently analyzed with any method available. The samples had been preserved at first. Then the crystals had been tested against them.

Complete cellular necrosis.

I set the page down.

“He found out something killed your cells,” I say. “And decided that was enough.”

Clark is breathing deeply, eyes closed.

“He didn’t try to understand the samples. The crystals were more useful as a weapon than the cells were as evidence.”

His gaze shifts to the note in the margin.

Contain the spread.

Three words. Nearly twenty years of investigation reduced to a conclusion that had nothing to do with proving what the ship was, or who had come in it.

“He gave up on proof,” Clark says. “And called it containment.”

“Yes.”

Every failure had become confirmation. The ship couldn't be analyzed because the subject was hiding something. The globe resisted testing because its material was unknown. The samples reacted to the crystals, so the crystals became a weapon. Greenwood County went quiet, so the subject must have gone underground.

Nothing could disprove Trask's suspicions because he'd stopped looking for anything that might.

Clark turns to the reassessment section.

The children would reach eighteen in 1984. Their records would become harder to protect, and Trask intended to resume targeted surveillance.

“Eight years,” Clark says. “He waited until we were adults. Until we'd aged out of the system.”

He pauses.

“And then he started again.”

I cover his hand with mine. After a moment, he turns his palm up and holds on.

I look back at the file. “That gives us somewhere to start. The accidents. The families. The children who disappeared into the system. The adults who never came back.”

“If we can document what Trask did and connect it to Bureau 39, he's finished.”

“Whether anyone believes in aliens or not.”

Clark looks at me, then nods.

The next section contains a file for each surviving child. Names, dates, addresses, employers. Gaps where information should be.

No single dramatic revelation. Just years of someone trying to turn the lives of children into a pattern.

“He made a checklist,” I say. “Driver's licenses. Selective Service. Jobs. Taxes. Leases. Credit. Marriages. Anything that would tell him where we went after the state stopped watching us.”

I turn the page.

“Your entry is first.”


The heading reads Annex C: Retrospective Record Reconstruction.

The page is marked unofficial, a continuation prepared by D. Wade, again, Trask has left several written notes in the margins.

The first entry is Clark's.

His legal name. His date of birth. His last confirmed childhood residence in Greenwood County.

His current status: UNLOCATED.

I glance at Clark. His eyes remain fixed on the page.

The rest is a list of absences.

No driver's license. No federal tax return. No credit file. No military service record. No higher-education enrollment. No marriage record. No criminal record.

His reconstructed history is incomplete.

Another handwritten note follows.

No debts. No lease. No employer. No school. No license. He does not leave a trail because he does not want to be found.

I lower the pages.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

Clark's eyes stay on the property record.

“Trask noticed that I never went back to Smallville. He noticed everything I didn't do.”

I look at the list again. No stable address. No reliable employment records. No trail to follow.

“He saw a boy who'd left no trail, and decided that meant he was hiding.”

“Wasn't I?”

The question is quiet, but it lands hard.

I keep my voice steady. “You were eighteen. You had no parents, no home, and no idea who was looking for you. Of course you didn't leave a neat little paper trail.”

His fingers curl against the tabletop.

“He saw what he wanted to see.”

I tap the final handwritten note.

“He doesn't know you're the one he's looking for. That’s the important part.”

Clark reads it again.

“That's worse.”

“Why?”

“Because he doesn't need proof to keep looking.” His voice drops. “He just needs a feeling. What if he decides to test the other survivors again?”

I reach across the table and take his hand.

“We’ll expose him. And when we do, it ends.”

He looks at our hands, then at me. He nods, but he doesn't reach for the next page.

“Two minutes,” he says. “Just two minutes.”

I don't argue.

I put the kettle on, more because my hands need something to do than because I want tea. When I return, he's opened the window.

We stand beside it, letting the cold October air into the room. He pulls me into his arms and I let myself lean into him.

Neither of us speaks until the kettle begins to complain behind us.

T. B. C.