Part Five
The elevator pinged and expelled him into the newsroom. He stepped cautiously down the small flight of stairs, looking around at his bustling colleagues, trying to spot her before she spotted him.
He breathed a sigh of relief. No firm hand on his shoulder, no accusatory tone, no blunt objects thrown full-tilt at his head. She must be out of the office...
"Kenneth?"
He groaned mentally. She wasn't out of the office. English women were just a good deal more reserved than American women, that was all...
Banishing the painful thought from his mind, he turned around, presented her with the withered flower of his smile.
"Um... hey."
"I called you last night," she said, her head on one side, a steely undertone in her voice. "A couple of times."
He winced. He'd heard the phone, just hadn't bothered answering it, too caught up in the memories which had haunted him on their date...
...their date.
Oy.
"I... I was... um... busy."
"I gathered." The steel had spread to her eyes, to her stance. He gulped.
"We need to talk." Inwardly, he moaned, recognising the take-no-prisoners tone in her voice. There was no room for discussion. They would talk, whether he liked it or not.
"Conference room?"
He eyed her doubtfully for a moment, then sighed, nodded, and followed her in.
Once inside, she swung around, folding her arms under her breasts to face him full-on. He groaned mentally again. Not the stance. Please, not this. It had been far too long...
"I want to discuss our 'date'," she said tightly, "and why you felt the need to abandon me in the middle of a busy restaurant halfway through it. Is my company really that bad? *Why* did you do it, Kenneth? I don't understand."
Her face was an endearing riddle of confusion, and for a moment, he loathed himself for putting her through this.
The moment passed, and he found himself doing a complete about-face. Now he loathed *her* for putting *him* through this.
He swallowed, opened his mouth to speak, and promptly shut it. Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and looked at his feet.
"I dunno," he mumbled sullenly, opening his mouth as little as possible. "I just had to get outta there." He hated himself for the slang coming out of his mouth, but at that moment, he didn't think he had enough energy to form the words fully.
"Was it... I mean... did *I* do something? You just looked so troubled - almost ghostly."
He gulped queasily, his stomach churning. "Emma, I just can't talk about this right here."
A very unfamiliar look set over her face. It took him a minute to realise that it was determination.
"Well, it's lunchtime," she said, checking her watch and looking at him keenly.
He sighed, shaking his head at her. "Mr Lewis won't allow it."
"You mean Kevin?" Her expression was incredulous, obviously amazed at his formality regarding their editor. "Kenneth, Kevin's already gone to the Merry Fiddler. He won't be back till two for love nor money. We have plenty of time."
He swallowed. Oh. This editor didn't work through lunch. This editor was overweight and lazy and friendly. This editor didn't demand the impossible. His reporters didn't *achieve* the impossible.
He stabbed a thumb backwards, out of the window, in the general direction of his barren, empty desk for a moment or two. She obviously anticipated the excuse before it popped out of his mouth, and she beat him to it.
"Oh, don't tell me you've got a lot of work to do," she exclaimed impatiently. "The only reason that could possibly mean you can't go to lunch is if you really can't stand being around me for more than five minutes at a time."
Where was the hesitant, blushing woman? Where had she gone? Why was he being forced to deal with this... this... *tornado*?
He got to his feet. "Don't be ridiculous," he said brusquely, collecting his coat and shrugging it on.
She smiled brightly and made a movement as if she intended to thread her arm through his. He jumped back as if he'd been scalded, covering the move hastily by grabbing her own coat and holding it up for her.
Looking slightly puzzled, she stepped into it, and they walked up the stairs together.
~&~
He groaned silently as she led him in through the door of the establishment. Oh, god, not another pub. Not again. To his left, a group of excited students chattered loudly. To his right, two old men sat bent over a pint, contemplating life. He coughed as a wave of evil-smelling smoke hit him. Why, in the name of all that was holy, had she chosen this place? Why couldn't she have chosen something nice and airy, somewhere that served pastrami on rye and creme soda and... why couldn't she?
She led him straight over to a secluded booth, slid in, and gestured to the seat opposite. He sat down, ordered his food with her, watched her warily as it came, as he raised his fork to his mouth. He was sending out a plea to whatever higher power was listening that she'd hem and haw for a little, engage in some light pleasantries before...
"Kenneth, I just don't understand it. I thought you liked me, I thought maybe this was the start of something... but then, the other night. What happened? Was it my fault?"
<Oh God, this is all my fault...>
"Kenneth?" A sigh. "Good Lord, can't you concentrate on *me* for two minutes? Can't you even stand to talk to me?" She looked at him for a few seconds as he struggled to answer, then sighed again and raised her fork to her mouth.
"I don't know *how* to talk to you."
She looked up, her loaded fork falling onto the plate with a definitive clink. He watched the strands of spaghetti unravel and fall back into the sauce slimily, feeling the same sensation in the pit of his stomach.
"I don't know what you want to hear. I don't even know why I did it. I just had to go - to get out of there."
Her eyes were bright with interest, now. She wiped her mouth with her napkin, her entire body sitting upright. He considered that this was probably the longest she'd ever heard him speak. The thought made him strangely sad.
"You're the first woman I've dated in... almost six years. Since college, in fact."
She had been taking a sip of her mineral water; at this, she choked. He watched disinterestedly as she coughed discreetly into her napkin.
"Ex-excuse me?" she spluttered finally, her eyes wide with shock. "*Six* years?"
He nodded, then shook his head, then finally nodded again. "Six years since I've taken a woman out - seriously, I mean."
She cocked her head to one side. "How old are you?" she demanded, all etiquette suddenly forgotten.
He allowed the corner of his mouth to quirk up. "Twenty-nine."
Her eyes expanded even further as she did the mental calculation. "So you haven't had a date since you were twenty-three?" she squeaked.
He wriggled, smiling bashfully. "I travelled a bit... a lot. Left no room for a relationship."
/Liar,/ he taunted. He'd had plenty of room for a relationship. The object of his affections just hadn't been interested, that was all.
Her eyes narrowed. "But you did settle, right?" Her tone was suspicious, suddenly aware that there was a drifter sitting across the table from her.
He nodded slowly. "I... well, I stayed in a major city in the US for a year and a bit. I was..." He broke the sentence off, swallowing painfully. "...pretty well settled there."
<Get out of Metropolis...>
"Oh." She fell silent for another minute; probably pondering his enigmatic existence, he thought, depressed. If only she knew how enigmatic it really was.
"Why did you leave?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Why did you leave this... this city?"
He was pretty sure that his lower jaw was hanging slightly open. He closed it, wincing as his teeth clicked together.
"Um... There was some... personal problems." He cleared his throat carefully. "The newspaper I used to work for... it burned down. And... well... a few things didn't pan out. It ended - pretty viciously - with me handing my apartment key to my landlord with two month's rent and taking a cab to the airport." He cleared his throat. "I haven't looked back."
She nodded. "A woman."
He would have tried to deny it, but her tone was so flat, so defeated, so certain that he knew there was no point in protesting. He stared into his plate, moving his head in a tiny, lightning-fast nod. Maybe if he didn't make it last, it wouldn't hurt so much.
"She broke your heart?"
His voice was low. "You could say that."
She cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable. "This fire... that you told me about... she didn't... did she?"
He shook his head slowly. "She didn't die, if that's what you mean. She..." He paused, unsure of how to phrase it. "She married... someone." His voice sounded cold, detached to his own ears. "Else," he added, just to clear any confusion.
As he watched, a dart of sympathy flashed across her face. "I'm sorry," she said softly. Her hand reached out, and for one terrifying moment, he thought she was going to take hold of his, but she evidently thought the better of it, and the next instant he felt a butterfly pat on his knuckles. "That must have been... tough for you."
He swallowed roughly, wondering if the tears would spill when inside the restaurant or whether they would wait till he got to the car. "Yes."
She was playing with her spoon now, threading it between all her fingers, clearly uncomfortable. "Last night... when you were... err... when you kind of - zoned out for a minute or two - you were thinking about her?"
This was too hard. Much too hard. "I don't want to talk about it, Emma," he said, harshly, desperately.
She looked at him oddly, her head on one side.
"Do you know what's wrong with you?" she asked, almost angrily this time. "Do you want to know what you have to do?"
He looked at her mutely.
"Stop running away. Stop hiding. Sooner or later, you have to face your demons."
He put his hand up to his mouth instinctively, his fingers scraping off of the rough moustache that covered his upper lip. "I... I..." he said faintly.
"I don't know if you heard me saying last night that my father was very strict when I was growing up." Her eyes were bright, intent. "About little things. Things like food, clothes, makeup... since my mother died when I was just a child, he was anxious to prove he could bring me up properly on his own. Made me a regular little Quaker," she added, dry irony in her voice. "It took me fifteen years to finally have it out with him, to tell him how I felt - but I eventually did it. And you know what?"
He had a feeling there was going to be a moral to this story.
"I don't regret it. Not for a moment. It was hard, at the time, tough to face him and the black mood he was in for months after, but I stuck it out - and look at me now."
There it was.
He had to admit that she had a point, though. One of the best reporters at the Independent, she was their Editor's favourite girl, and she knew it. Of course, she could never replace... but she was intelligent, and plucky, and he respected her in her own right.
He hadn't shown her that respect last night.
"I'm sorry for what I did to you, Emma." His voice was painfully sincere. "It was arrogant and wrong, and you deserve better."
She smiled warmly. "Glad you realise it, Clarkson!"
He swallowed, hard. The teasing slur, the twinkling eyes, the affection in her gaze... it would be so easy at this point, so easy to hide, to pretend. So easy to just sink back into his body, make believe as if nothing was wrong, that this was all new and exciting. That she had a chance.
No. No matter what name he took for himself, he was still a gentleman. He sure hadn't behaved like it, but he was.
"It won't happen again."
She nodded. "I know that. I appr-"
"No, Emma... I mean, it *won't* happen again." He locked his gaze with hers. He'd spent too much time creeping around the edges, fearful of getting hurt again. An inconsiderate buffoon. He needed to remember that he wasn't the only being in the world capable of feeling pain. "It shouldn't have happened in the first place."
He watched her face fall in agony.
"I'm sorry," he rushed to explain. "It has nothing to do with you, believe me! You're smart and funny and pretty, and under different circumstances..."
"Please don't say..."
"It's not you, it's me."
She groaned. "You said it."
He nodded. "And I really do mean it. I should never have tried to... I shouldn't have led you on when I knew that nothing could happen. You deserve better than that."
"You've already said that," she pointed out, her voice heavy with disappointment.
"I can't say it enough. I haven't exactly acted like it."
She sighed, nodding slowly. "I respect your wishes."
He deflated slightly. This was going easier than he thought, she hadn't even...
She laid her hand lightly on top of his, searching his eyes.
...touched him.
"What are you going to do now?" she asked gently.
He looked at her strangely. "What do you mean?"
A quirked eyebrow. "Are you going to stop running? Are you going to turn around and face whatever's haunting you?"
He stared at her, hating the feeling her words were inspiring in him. "How do you know all this about me?" he asked in a near whisper.
Her face contracted sadly. "I only had to glance at your face last night, Kenneth," she whispered regretfully. "You don't belong here."
"Are you trying to push me away?" he asked, almost desperately, then cursed himself. That was exactly what he wanted her to do, wasn't it? He *wanted* her to stop caring about him. He knew it was right that she shouldn't care about him... and yet some tiny stubborn part of him wanted to hang onto that, a tiny connection, a bizarre comfort, someone liked him enough to be hurt by him.
"I'm trying to stop you pushing other people away. Before you ruin everything."
He shook his head at her. "Why do you care? Why do you give a damn about me?"
She sighed. "Life's too short. Too short to spend it hiding, away from other people. You never know - till it's too late - what you really want. There are times when I see you... just there, sitting at your desk... and this really - intense expression flits over your face, and you look so... peaceful all of a sudden, but then it's like you snap. Back into yourself." She watched him carefully. "That's when you think about her, isn't it?"
He gave the tiniest of nods.
"I've seen you, Kenneth," she whispered again, intently. He let himself sink into the web she was spinning, hearing the genuine care behind the words, the frankness in her speech, uncaring of how highly charged the air was becoming. "I've seen you for what you really are, times you haven't been on guard - and you're beautiful, do you know that? I don't want you to lose that... that spirit that shines out of you when you slip."
He rubbed his forehead tiredly. "What were you, a therapist in another life?"
"You never can tell."
He shook his head, closing his eyes. "I don't know what you mean."
She raised an eyebrow at him, and he raised both hands defensively. "I really don't!"
They lapsed into silence for a moment. Her brow was wrinkled, her expression concentrated.
"It's like," she said, finally, slowly, "it's like you're wearing these really stiff, shiny, formal shoes, and your toes pinch a bit, but you're trying to look distinguished, so you pretend you don't care - but for a second or two, the facade slides, you pull on a pair of slippers and wriggle your toes around. And you relax, but then you remember that you're around other people, so you have to put the stiff shoes on again. You hate it, but you feel embarrassed walking in there wearing the slippers."
He shook his head again. "Now I've lost you completely."
She looked at him. Just looked. For hours. Or was it only a few seconds?
He rubbed his forehead tiredly. "Okay, so maybe the metaphor makes a tiny bit of sense."
The corner of her mouth twitched slightly upwards.
"Wear the slippers, Kenneth," she whispered intently. "They're much more comfortable, and they look natural."
~&~
~*"Lois... I have been in love with you for a long time now... you *had* to have known." The sound of his voice whirled around her, piercing through the humid, cloying atmosphere of the day to make a direct hit for her heart.
She stared at him, the moisture in the air making it hard for coherent thoughts, to form. Her dazed brain, struggling to come to terms with the sunlight after the hours she had spent inside the artificially lit offices of LNN, refused the sentence that her heart knew to be both true and genuine.
"Clark, you... you can't be serious... you don't *love* me!!"
//Don't fall for me, Farmboy. I don't have time for it.//
She winced at the thought, bouncing out of the corners of her memory like a curveball that darted away at the last, critical instant. She had been so *stupid* that day, so utterly blind, that she hadn't paid any attention to him, that she'd dismissed the man that would come to mean so much to her.
"Clark, you can't be serious," she whispered softly, looking fearfully into his stricken face. "You can't... you're not... I'm your *partner*, Clark! You... you were never in love with me... in my dreams, perhaps, but not in... not like this..."
He shook his head and closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were filled with an odd tenderness and something that almost looked like amusement. Was he laughing at her? Her face reddened, suddenly understanding that she'd made a huge mistake. She recoiled instantly. Now she knew what he was talking about.
"Oh, I get it," she snapped, and her voice was like ice, "You mean like a sister, huh? Or like a best friend. Not like a... not like a lover."
He blushed, and she was astonished to see an ancient sense of pride, synonymous with stubbornness but none the less admirable, blossom over his face.
"No, Lois," he said firmly, taking her hand impulsively. "Not as a friend. Never as a friend. Like a... like a..." His voice was now soft again, his words urgent, seeming to tumble over each other in an attempt to get out of his mouth, "...like a lover. Like a girlfriend," he told her bashfully, a red glow creeping over his face. "I *love* you, Lois."
She swallowed harshly, the sound echoing around the cavernous aperture of her ribcage. Her heart pumped and swelled, almost paining her.
"And Lex?" she murmured, watching a cascade of emotions spatter across his face.
"As long as we're together," he whispered urgently, "as long as you're nowhere near him... I couldn't care less about him!"
"I never knew," she whispered roughly, a tear squeezing into the corner of her eye, making his image shimmer and pulse until there were a hundred Clarks, twinkling all around her. "I never even guessed. Otherwise I would have... otherwise we... oh, Clark, we've wasted so much *time*!"
His expression was incredulous, his heart - not a shrunken heart, like hers; a vibrant, beautiful heart, teeming with life and full of love - seen clearly on his face.
"You mean... are you saying..." he gasped out, finally, his voice rasping.
"Of *course*!" she burst out impetuously. Then, deciding that trivial little things like words were not the best way of communicating, she threw her two arms around his neck and kissed him soundly.*~
~&~
Lois woke up feverishly, kicking the tangled blankets off of her legs wildly, clawing at the pillow. She lay frozen for a minute, before the fact that she was awake registered. As it did, she turned her face into the pillow and choked her sobs out into its feathery warmth.
Why? Why did she keep torturing herself, not only in her waking hours, but also in her dreams? Why did the image of what she could have done, what she *should* have done, continue to dance in her mind's eye? *Why* was she continually reminded of that day, night after night after night?
She swallowed harshly, remembering the emotion that had filled her veins and sent her blood bubbling, back when Clark had loved her a little...
Attraction. Strong, heavy attraction, overpowering and gentle at the same time. For the first time, she'd *really* noticed the man next to her, and somewhere deep down inside, she'd voiced her approval and appreciation quietly, berating the hardened, mordant cynic who refused to listen, who had leapt out of her mouth, quashing any flickering particles of desirability that danced across his face and sang in the words, so softly spoken, with such gentle intelligence.
But she was smarter now. She saw what she could have had; more importantly, she knew what she had lost.
//...I never knew...//
But she *had* known, hadn't she? In the end, she'd known.
She rubbed her stomach fretfully, musing at the strange sort of comfort it provided. It seemed to emit warmth from within that soothed her, a reminder of why she had left... *what* she had left. The knowledge of the tiny baby that lay sleeping inside appeased her troubled mind and alleviated her fears.
She looked around the small dank room of the motel where she had spent the night, sighing. This was a far cry from the airy open rooms in which she had spent most of her married life, but even as her brain reminded her of the horrific incidents that had taken place in those rooms, some stubborn little gnat inside of her refused to accept the appalling conditions she was staying in.
She swung her legs around the side of the bed, walking slowly over to where her wallet lay. Peering inside, she grimaced. What the heck had happened to her? She should have known that a thousand dollars would never be enough to tide her over -- not really. Sure, it had been enough to pay for her bus ticket, and for her cab to "Sleep-EZ Motel" - or S ep -Z ot l, as the sign over the main entrance proclaimed - but it would never keep her going, not even if she continued staying in dives. She had to somehow find a way to... hitch a ride or something. She'd walk if she had to.
And when she arrived...
//Your own money...//
She glanced down at the wad of bills in her hand; suddenly feeling sick as the grim, green faces of Ulysses S. Grant and Benjamin Franklin stared up at her accusingly. The money that had opened her gate to freedom... that was not hers. That had never been hers. She hadn't worked for it - she had no part of that aspect.
//But you paid for it.//
"Yes," she admitted aloud, agreeing with the tiny voice of her self-righteousness. She had paid for it - paid in full, with interest. She didn't owe him *anything*.
Suddenly feeling sick, she folded the money in her hand and stuffed it back inside her purse quickly. She couldn't keep looking at it. Otherwise she would turn tail and run.
And he would catch her.
Always.
She shuddered, and made her way back to her dishevelled bed. Maybe she could catch a few hours sleep before rising in the morning.
Bed. Sleep. Dreaming.
She closed her eyes, willing her demons to give her solace for a few hours. Tomorrow would be a big day. She needed whatever ounce of instinct she had left. And for that, she needed sleep.
Sleep.
~&~
To be continued...
