I had always hated coming out of unconsciousness. I disliked feeling disoriented and confused and ignorant of the situation. But then, I had never come out of unconsciousness to the sound of a smoky voice whispering my name as if it were the rarest of treasures and the feel of strong hands cradling me to a broad chest. If I had always woken up like this, I might have decided it was a very pleasant habit to develop.
I have to agree with her there. And nicely phrased, BTW. I especially like the smoky voice whispering her name as if it were the rarest of treasures.
I couldn't allow myself to grow close to anyone, not when I had let Superman fly away thinking he was responsible for Lex's crime. Not when I had let Clark rot in this cell just because I couldn't be bothered to ask after him.
What a change from the typical Lois reason of not letting people too close. This time, she's keeping her distance to protect others, not herself. Under the circumstances, it works.
This time, it didn't take a mind-reader to realize why he sounded so wistful. Even my cooking and the most dangerous story we had ever chased had to be better than our current predicament.
"I wish Superman were here," I murmured, clenching my hands into fists beneath his soft touch. "He could get us out."
Clark withdrew his hands and slowly stood. When he spoke, I could tell that he had his back turned to me. "I wish he were here too, Lois. But he's not."
Ouch. That is at least the second perfect opening Clark had had to tell Lois about himself. (The first being when Lois asked what they were poisoning him with.) Given that Lois is bound to find out -- even if she hasn't yet figured out what Lex was saying, it would undoubtedly be only a matter of time -- I'm surprised at and disappointed in Clark that he isn't telling her in a way (if not a time) of his own choosing. Perhaps the month in the cell and all the poisonings have affected his ability to think clearly more than I had thought.
I was interrupted by the sound of the door opening and a wash of jagged light that split our cell into bleak shards and stabbed knives of agony into my deprived eyes.
Nicely phrased.
Clark's plea and the way he pulled me into a clumsy hug despite his own weakness and pain only made me weep harder. Lois Lane didn't fall apart, but I didn't think I was Lois Lane anymore. In fact, I was pretty sure Lois Lane had died two months ago and been buried three weeks ago, resting side by side with the remnants of a red cape adorned with a yellow S.
Have I mentioned lately how impressed I am by your way with words?
There's a lot more I could quote, but citing the entire story part would be a bit redundant. So I'll just say that you came up with another excellent part and you have me looking forward to part 4.
