I owe a HUGE thank-you to Wendy, for catching something that needed tweaking in this part and for her fantastic help sorting it out afterwards 
Again, sorry for the delay in posting.Part SixShe coughed as the evil-smelling fumes belched out of the exhaust pipe, rubbing her rounded stomach miserably in a gesture that was becoming more and more frequent.
"Baby, what am I going to do with you?" she muttered under her breath. Three months pregnant, the day had started off with her being horribly sick in the cramped bus-bathroom that smelt of Toilet Duck and carbon monoxide.
She'd thought that she would never eat again after staring at the inside of that bowl for a full ten minutes, but now she was ravenous. She could eat for three, let alone two.
//Old wives tale,// she berated herself immediately. //Easiest way to raise a stomach more fat than baby.//
Still, she did have to eat. Preferably something more nutritious than the limp lettuce sandwich she'd had for her main meal the day before. Eating for two or no eating for two, she did have her pregnancy to think about. She'd learned to read on those pamphlets her father had taken home from the hospital in his briefcase; she knew what was required.
Didn't she?
//Plenty of protein,// she remembered, //and carbohydrates. Right?//
It was as though the three-day ride had frozen her brain. Protein... found in... erm...
Red meat! That was it. Red meat, and green leafy vegetables. She needed lots of red meat and green leafy vegetables. And eggs. Carbohydrates... well, that was an easy one. Bread, pasta, potatoes, chocolate.
//No chocolate, Lane.//
She groaned. No chocolate. No coffee, either.
Blinking a little, she picked her feet up and started walking, drawing a map in her mind. This was obviously Friend's Main Street.
She snorted. A small newsagent, a drug store, a drapery, a mini-market, a bookshop, and...
A diner.
She hurried over automatically, scanning the front of the shop. The might-once-have-been-white paint was peeling off the walls and window was a little grimy, but it looked clean enough inside.
Once in the door, she slid into one of the secluded booths and picked up the menu with an eager hand, scanning the lines interestedly. Her face fell as she pondered her choices. She could have a burger, a cheeseburger, a bacon-double cheeseburger or a salad burger. All with fries and soda.
Well, beef was red, right? Red meat. Protein. Yes, protein was good.
Ten minutes and a gum-snapping waitress later, she was poking unenthusiastically at her limp bun, covering what seemed to be a very large piece of lettuce and a very small slab of meat. She sighed, and drenched the burger in tomato ketchup. Tomato was a fruit, right? It had to be good for her, somehow or other. Good for her and her baby.
Sometime later, the unappetising meal washed down with a large mouthful of lukewarm milk, she strolled up to the cashier nonchalantly. She glanced at the woman's nametag.
"Thanks, Annie," she said, smiling brightly as she handed her the money. "Say... you wouldn't happen to know if there's a private bus service running out of here, would you?"
Annie's gaze flickered immediately from the till to her face. "A bus service?" she asked, clearly surprised. "Heck, no! We don't have no need for a bus service round these parts." She glanced sharply at Lois's face. "You ain't from around here, huh?"
Lois flushed. Was it that obvious?
"No," she murmured deferentially, and paid her bill.
Outside, she leaned against the doorframe and considered her option. She had about two hundred dollars left. There was no bus, and she had no identification so she couldn't rent a car. Obviously she couldn't hitch-hike. Even more obviously, she couldn't walk.
She could always ring the Kents and tell them where she was...
A shiver went down her spine as a sly voice whispered 'accomplice' in her ear.
The Kents. Good people. Friendly, generous, sweet, welcoming. Never a bad word to say about anybody.
Helpful and discreet and...
...so,
so vulnerable...
He'd loved his parents, hadn't he? He'd lived for his parents. She remembered the first time she'd seen them all together - how surprised she'd been. She'd never seen a fully-grown man hug his mother, let alone his father. They were - had been - such a wonderful family...
She'd been Lois Luthor long enough to know that the name carried weight. Luthors trailed poison wherever they went. They fouled the most tranquil of places, reached into your heart and ripped out the best part of you, they lied and stole and
killed and...
She couldn't. She couldn't consciously go to that house, that milk-drinking, peanut-butter-eating, all-American, Norman-Rockwell house and tear it apart. She couldn't destroy their lives for absolutely nothing. She couldn't make them a part of her life, and a part of her death. She couldn't give him any kind of lead to them.
If - when - he came for her, he would find her alone. At least she could die knowing she'd tried.
In the meantime, though, she needed money... and a place to stay...
Rubbing the pad of her thumb against the grit of the window ledge, she took a deep breath, then swung her bag onto her shoulder and breezed back through the double-doors of the diner.
~&~
~Three months later~It had been three months, now, since his reconciliation-of-sorts with Emma. Three months in London, still surviving, still with the formal shoes. Stupid metaphor. He hated it, hated how she'd seen through him so easily.
His colleagues had entered into a new attitude towards him. Far from being indifferent to his presence, they now seemed to actively despise him. He could only assume that what he'd done to Emma had been circulated on the grapevine. He was sure Daniel wasn't helping matters - he still treated him with the utmost contempt.
Although he wasn't exactly going out of his way to be nice to the kid. He'd taken to humming snippets of 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow' as he walked by, and he could swear he'd never seen anybody blush so hard or so often, or throw him such hideous looks.
And Emma... Emma just looked crushed. He knew that she saw what he was doing, but he wouldn't let her talk to him about it. Every time she tried, he flinched, turned himself to stone, shut her out. He'd fallen back into the trap of letting women control him, and he couldn't let himself go back there. It was dangerous, for a variety of reasons, and...
...he wouldn't survive, this time, if he let himself... not again, god, not again, please...
How easily we fools who love think we can forget. Love cannot be turned off like a tap, he had yet to learn that; but he would, in time. In fact, the process had begun already.
In *fact*... it had begun with a simple phone call.
Years later, when he was old and grey and wise, he would admit that it had probably started - *really* started - with the look on Emma's face as she listened to him stutter and waver and search for an explanation, but that beginning had been so infinitesimal that he hadn't noticed it.
The phone call was by no means infinitesimal. It was a tidal wave, roaring towards him, drowning him in memories. It was some kind of blunt object, striking him full in the chest and making him stagger backwards, into the past. It was a mirage of images, creeping into his mind as he slept. It was the shrill whine of the phone, the cream hue of the receiver, the crackle and snap on the line that spoke for thousands of miles.
And it was one hell of a shock.
Her voice had trembled and wavered, and all the time he had heard the undertone that told him she was bordering on tears. He hadn't wanted it. He hadn't wanted the guilt to come as swiftly as it had, clawing at the pit of his stomach and making him physically sick. He hadn't wanted to go back there, ever. He'd just wanted to stop it hurting, to cut off all his ties to the past. He'd just wanted a fresh start, and they hadn't been part of it.
It was despicable. It really, really was. He couldn't believe what he'd done to her, to them, running away like a gutter rat, no excuse, no forwarding address, nothing. Not even a proper goodbye.
And he'd barely spared them a thought during the last six months or so. They'd passed over his mind, of course – he wasn't completely heartless, after all – but they had only skimmed the surface. Other matters had occupied the largest piece of his brain, and at the very corner, way back, there was a blank, empty space, but they had no part in that. That nothingness wasn't their fault. They shouldn't have been punished for that.
He hadn't understood, at first, how she'd manage to secure his address, but then he'd stopped. He'd never understood her, how she worked, how she knew all of his deepest secrets and forbidden dreams without even trying. It was one of the things he loved about her. Securing a phone call, for her, was child's play. He was surprised it had taken her so long.
<I want you to come home.>He shivered as her voice spoke directly in his ear. It was as if she were standing beside him. He couldn't hide from her. He'd never been able to hide from her. The bond between them was too strong.
Go home... go back to America... go back to face the society columns and special features... the pain... the photographs. Go back to Metropolis...
But, he remembered, she hadn't said anything about Metropolis. In fact, she had completely avoided the subject. She didn't want him to go back there – or maybe she just didn't care *where* he went, as long as he came home.
Home. Where was that? He couldn't remember.
He'd once believed that the city was his home, was the place where he belonged. Among the elegant skyscrapers and stretch limousines he'd literally floated, finding a sense of peace he'd never known before.
But never again. That would never happen again.
London wasn't his home. He knew it. In the beautiful city, overflowing with culture and colour and art and history, he stuck out like a sore thumb. He didn't belong with the British. But then again, that was really nothing new. He'd never belonged with the Americans either.
Except for one particular American...
But what about now? Where was his home now?
Home was with his mother now, he supposed – at least, that was what she seemed to think.
<I miss my son...>Did she? Did she *really*?
//Don’t do that,// he told himself tiredly. //Don't be cynical about that. You know she does. She misses you as much as you miss her... as you miss both of them...//
He closed his eyes and allowed himself to think, for a minute, to imagine...
A peaceful farmhouse, in a tranquil setting of lush golden wheatfields. A purple sky, with the biggest, brightest stars he'd ever seen. The smell of pecan pie and cornbread filling his nostrils. The gentle grumbling of a tractor.
What was more...
Warmth. Security. Love. Both given and returned.
Did he want love?
Love had done nothing for him. Love had caused nothing except pain. Love had reduced him to this – this empty shell of a man. Love had been cruel. Did he really want to face that forbidden emotion again?
But, he reminded himself, this was a different *kind* of love. The love of a farmer and his wife for an alien they had brought in from the cold. The love of two parents for their child, and the love of the child for his parents. This love was safe, right? Sheltered. This love was all right. He could handle it.
Yes, he had handled it. Handled it brilliantly, taking advantage of his childhood home as some sort of sneaking lair for a few weeks, then driving to Wichita in the dead of night with his one-way ticket to Stansted Airport in his coat pocket. Running away from them like a snake, not bothering to tell them how much he regretted it, how much he was going to miss them. Not even a note. He hadn't even left a note.
Okay, so his parents might have forgiven him. But Smallville wouldn't. Neighbours whispering at the Dairy Freeze, wondering about that poor Clark Kent, throwing him sneaking looks. If he went back, the kindness and curiosity of his neighbours would pour over him like a cataract, reminding him of all he had lost.
And the first time he saw a glossy magazine or special feature, headed "The Fabulous Life of Mrs Lex Luthor..."
She was happy, wasn't she? She had everything she'd ever wanted. She had cash to buy whatever it was she required. Clothes, jewellery, makeup, she had it all. And her career... she had the connections, the possibilities. She'd told him, time and time again, that she was happy with her new husband. That she was happy in the life she had created for herself. That she was contented. That she didn't need him. That she wanted to be left alone.
He'd believed her. He did believe her. She'd been convincing. He supposed that maybe he could have tried to dig a little deeper before he left, but he hadn't seen any point. She'd *looked* happy. Besides, the loss of his powers had taken over the most part of his brain.
He'd tried to forget about her. It hadn't worked, of course, but he'd tried. If he went back to the place where they had been together, if he saw her again...
//But you don't *have* to see her again. As if she'd ever come to Smallville!//
But the first time he turned the television on... special reports from LNN... her face, doubtless healthy and full and just as beautiful as it had always been... peering out at him from the glassy front of the television... what would he do then? Did he seriously think he'd survive for long?
Going back was never an option. He'd made that decision by himself, more than twelve months ago. He'd known, when he walked out the door and heard the lock snick shut behind him, that there was no going back. There hadn't been then, and there wouldn't be ever. It was just impossible. No matter how long or how hard his mother talked, no matter how often the phone trilled, he couldn't go back. He'd known that. He'd made the decision. He had to deal with the consequences. There was nothing he could do. It was pointless, hopeless.
He leant back against his couch and rubbed his eyes tiredly, flipping the button on the remote control. Surely there must be something brain-numbing on, something that would take his attention away from those morbid thoughts for at least a few minutes, something that would...
His breathing stopped abruptly. He'd gone too far. He'd pressed the forbidden buttons.
Channel Thirty-Five. The one he'd never looked at before... that he'd avoided on purpose... his finger moving straight from Thirty-Four to Thirty-Six without a second thought...
LNN.
He was watching LNN.
He froze as the warm tones of Sandra Ellis's voice washed out of the speakers, throbbing in the air around him. Without thinking, he hit the mute, his eyes freezing on the screen.
Oh... he couldn't bear it, he couldn't bring himself to watch it, and yet he couldn't bear to turn it off... in a few seconds, he'd see her... she'd be there, she'd be reporting, Mad Dog Lane, she'd be looking directly at him, her eyes reaching into his soul and... and... and...
He waited, breath held, heart beating a wild staccato in his chest, for a full ten minutes. Then, cautiously, the sound came on, and no, his vision wasn't suddenly freeze-framed, Sandra Ellis was still the reporter on screen. They'd switched to a view of the courthouse, corrupt politicians shielding their faces from the camera, and still she wasn't there, still there was a hole in his heart that she needed to fill.
And then... the Metropolis Tigers, Burt Wilson snagging a home run, the vision clogging his eyes. It was time for Sports.
Sports came after the headlines. First the current news, then the sport, then the weather. Wasn't that how it worked? Surely he hadn't been away so long, that he'd forgotten? Surely not!
Lois detested all forms of sport. And she wasn't a weather-girl. No way was she a weather-girl.
So... what... where... what? What was happening?
Ignoring the disappointed downbeat of his heart, he stabbed the 'Off' button viciously, leaning back on his couch.
Maybe... maybe he'd missed her. Maybe... she had been on before that. Maybe the fates had conspired against him again, damning him to not-see-her, saving him so he didn't have to see her. That was probably it, wasn't it?
But... no. He'd watched the broadcast from beginning to end. He wouldn't have missed her. And it was... it was a weekday. Mad Dog Lane wouldn't miss work on a weekday. Mad Dog Lane wouldn't miss work, period.
So... she hadn't been on.
He shook his head, suddenly, waking himself out of the trance he'd sunken into. Maybe she was sick. Maybe she was on vacation. With her husband.
He nodded firmly, his eyes fierce behind his glasses. Yes, that was it. She was happy, wasn't she? She'd assured him, time and time again, how happy she was, how much she loved her husband, how she was having the time of her life while he withered inside. He had to start believing her. He had to *keep* believing her. He had to stop caring about her, it wasn't healthy. It wasn't right to be so obsessed with someone he could never have.
He picked up a paper, determined to leave it at that. The Tribune; he never had a copy of the Independent around, preferring not to torture himself with his page-two stories, his mediocre writing.
He flipped through the paper, looking for distraction, and then he saw it. Maybe it was that his brain was still obsessed with her, on a level even he couldn't contemplate. Maybe it was a sheer coincidence, that his eyes scanned the page so tiredly, so lethargically, and just happened to land on a tiny sub-article, buried deeply in the text.
The headline was unremarkable to anybody except him. Indeed, it was unremarkable to him, at first, but something compelled him to it, all the same, and he read it in a few breaths, thinking nothing at first, and then...
Then it snapped. Then it clicked into place. Then he jumped, a bolt going through him, and reread it, thoroughly this time.
"Search for American billionairess called off... in a statement early this morning... police chief confirmed that... no suspects... no solid leads... Mrs Lois Luthor, missing, presumed dead... Lex Luthor unavailable for comment... said to be out of the country..."
Mr Luthor. Mrs Lois Luthor. Missing. Presumed dead.
She was missing.
Dear god, she was missing.
Lois... missing... maybe kidnapped... maybe in danger... maybe killed...
Lois. Missing. Gone.
Lois...
He heard a harsh sound echo in his apartment, and he wondered for a moment who had cried out in that horrible, torn voice. It took him a moment for him to realise that the sound was vibrating in his own throat.
He closed his eyes, breathing profusely, crumpled the paper into a tight ball, threw it away, then stood up, his hand reaching blindly for the telephone. He had to... fly over there, right now and do *something*, help with the search, look for clues, scour the area, find some leads...
Alongside Lex Luthor? Would he find her again, only to hand her over to her husband? Would he put himself through that? Would he offer the man his sympathies? Clap him on the back and boom "Sorry, buddy," in a hearty voice when the search proved fruitless?
And then... what would he do? Come back? Come back to England and resign himself to working in papers like the Independent, with women like Emma who only served to remind him who he really was and what he had lost?
He was a fool. A sad, sorry, lonely fool.
"Operator, may I help you?"
He slammed the receiver back in its cradle, his forehead tense. So what if she was missing? She was Mrs Luthor now. It was Luthor's wife who had ran off and left him, it was his problem; let him deal with it –
Hold on a minute.
Ran? Ran off?
Left... Luthor?
Kidnapped, lost, possibly murdered... he could live with all that, if barely. But... left him? If she had left him...
//Don't be stupid, Kent,// he rebuked himself instantly. Why would she leave him? She had no reason to. She'd told him herself, hadn't she? Told him that she was perfectly happy, that she was living in a state of marital bliss. And she'd certainly looked every inch the happy bride.
No, there was no doubt about it. She hadn't run. She'd been taken.
She was Lois La... Luthor. She'd worked herself out of many a dangerous situation before. There was no reason for her to stop now. There was no reason why she couldn't manage without his help for once.
He swallowed hard, trying his hardest to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He would just stay in London, like he'd planned. He would stay until his nightly torture and daily pain killed him. Until he died of a broken heart.
//Except you might not. Have you thought about that? You might *not*.//
He passed a tired hand over his eyes. He'd never thought about that before. He'd always just assumed that sooner or later, his pathetic, lovelorn existence would come to an end. The idea that he could go on, living in this hell for ten or twenty years more...
Well, he was an ordinary man, after all. It wouldn't be too hard. Sooner or later, he would escape, permanently. And then he wouldn't be a prisoner any longer. He wouldn't be bound to his earthly memories, his earthly thoughts.
Maybe it was possible to drain happiness from others. Maybe Lois had sucked his happiness dry, till he was crusty and morose as an old sponge. Maybe she was okay now, okay that he was gone. Maybe that was what he wanted. Maybe he wanted her to be happy.
Maybe everyone had a certain measure of happiness allotted to them at the beginning of their lives. Maybe he'd used all his up already. Flying, falling in love... adding it up, it seemed altogether too much.
Maybe he'd be free, eventually. Maybe he'd survive it this time. Maybe it didn't matter where you lived. Maybe it didn't matter if you were possibly dying.
Maybe you just got through it. Maybe that was all you could ask for.
Maybe that was enough.
Maybe that would have to be enough.
~&~
tbc...
