TOC WOOHOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I'm sorry, that was my VERY long-overdue whoop of relief that I've FINALLY managed to wrap this story up
Thanks so much for your patience and understanding, guys
I really, really appreciate it.
And now, without further ado... <g>
Part SeventeenMr Lex Luthor confirmed yesterday that his wife, Lois Luthor, had died in childbirth... reports of her previously suspected murder were proved to be false... Mr Luthor, who was out of the country at the time of the suspected murder... made a statement earlier today... heartbroken... only consolation his son Alexander Luthor, pictured here... So that was it, then. Lex had won. Again. Lex always won, in the end. Surely she should have known that by now.
It was *ingenious*, really, this cover story. Obviously there was no proof she'd survived the birth, apart from Clark and his parents. Obviously he'd had some contact in the police department who'd contaminated the forensic evidence. Obviously he'd been "out of the country", obviously his pregnant wife had been with him. Obviously she'd had the baby premature and there had been no doctor around to help.
Obviously she'd died. Obviously he was heart-broken but resolved to go on.
Obviously nobody would ever see her alive again...
This was the low point. Right here. She had hit rock bottom. She had no hope, no escape plan, no way out. Everybody thought she was dead.
*Clark* thought she was dead. That was the logical train of thought for him to follow.
If he was capable of following any train of thought...
//That's all, folks,// she thought bitterly. //Show's over. Game, set and match. Won by a landslide. Lex Luthor - one wife and son. Lois Lane - imprisonment. Jon Lane - indoctrination. Clark Kent - death.//
A sob caught in her throat, and she threw the newspaper from her in a frenzy.
She'd done this. She'd done all of this. It was all her fault. Her son was doomed and the man she... the man she...
Clark. Clark had saved her in so many ways, and he was dead now. He was dead, wasn't he? Lex had figured it out, had killed him. All because of her, because of her *complete* stupidity...
And she knew - with those little flashes of inspiration that got her when she was down - she knew at that second that she loved him. She knew at that second how much he'd always meant to her, how much more he'd proved himself to be.
She loved him with a fierce intensity, and she'd been so afraid to admit it, and now... *now it was too late*.
He'd gone through his life waiting for her, never giving up on her, wishing and hoping for her. And he'd died - probably died - without ever knowing how much she loved him.
She swallowed a huge lump in her throat.
She'd thought she was being so clever... so smart... she'd been so *cocky*...
How had he found her? It was torturing her, that question, five words and five syllables, running through her mind like some kind of perverse train.
How had he found her? What had she done wrong?
She sat up from the couch, rubbing her temples tiredly. Whatever drugs he'd injected into her system were making her brain fuzzy and her vision blurry. She had no way of knowing whether it was day or night, but her body clock was telling her it was definitely time for sleep.
Except she couldn't. Couldn’t sleep, couldn't even close her eyes because of the nameless monsters running rings around her.
Her trip to Smallville was almost a total blur. She didn't know whether she'd just blocked it out or whether she'd been so scared, malnourished and psychotic from lack of sleep that her brain hadn't been functioning; whatever the reason, she could barely remember getting out of the house, getting through the city, getting on the bus and getting to Smallville. Her mind was circling around some unknown source of darkness, and try as she might she *couldn't* shed light on it...
Light. The soft buttery sunshine that dredged through the rafters of the barn on lazy summer evenings. The swing from high up in the loft, two hands tight on the rope, Clark's arms around her and then pushing her off, down, down, exhilaration as she landed laughing on a stack of hay. The soon-to-be Jon squirming delightedly inside her.
Back when she'd had them both.
She buried her head in her hands, a single tear escaping to trace a lonely path down her cheek.
Maybe this was what she deserved. Maybe this was what she'd gotten for running away, for thinking she could be happy, for ignoring her problems, for being so utterly blind.
That was what happened with Lex, wasn't it? Once he was in her life, he clogged everything, like some malevolent crow roosting over her happiness. She'd never be free of that wingspan, that awesome control...
And what did she do when she had the chance to figure the mess out? What did she do when faced with her husband? Had she thrown a barrage of interrogation at him? Had she spat in his face? Had she cleverly manoeuvred the conversation to wrangle the truth out of him?
No. She hadn't. She'd just sat there and let him dominate her, let him freeze her, let him take away the very core of her and make it *afraid*...
Something was jabbing at her.
She shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, but still the annoying prickling sensation didn't go away. It raced an itchy path across her shoulder blades, and she...
Stilled. Her heart in the quiet room, thrumming in her ears.
Storming down the hallway. Somebody storming down the hallway - dimly she could hear the clack of tormented heels on the marble floors.
In one movement she was up and off the couch, hand fumbling for the light switch, foot wrapped around the leg of the coffee table as she stumbled and fell heavily onto the dark glass, and then the snickering of the key in the lock, mocking her...
Lex stood in the doorway, a black shape as the light spilled out around him and made her eyes ache.
She heard the snap of a switch. The light bulbs blazed, and she recoiled, spooked. He looked almost rabid, teeth bared, eyes flashing...
Moving towards her now. There half-strangled on the floor and him looming over her.
"Get up," he said softly. Softly?! What was he planning?
She looked at him through bleary eyes, watched as he stretched his hand out. Clearly expecting her to take it and use it to hoist herself up, to *touch* him...
The door swinging wide behind him. He was offering to help her up and he *hadn't locked the door*.
She closed her eyes and offering a silent prayer to whatever deity was listening, she caught his hand, gave an almighty tug, pulling him down and at the same time propelling herself up and forward.
Then she was sprinting towards the door on winged feet.
//I'm coming, Jon, I'm coming, Clark... hang on.//
~&~
//Get up. Go. Move.//
//Get up. *Right* now.//
//Up...//
Lex had Lois, and had Jon - had them somewhere inside this stinking infested *rat hole* of a house. He had to get going...
Pain in his ribs, in his head, in his nose...
//No, Kent, don't focus on that... you lay here for *hours*, you should be practically healed by now...//
And he was. Slightly. His will and his nerve and his desperate panic seeming to heighten and contain the healing process. This pain - this dull ache - was so much less than what it had been before. He was sure if he tried hard enough he could levitate. Maybe even fly.
//Wishful thinking,// a voice whispered in the back of his brain. He gritted his teeth, another bead of sweat popping out on his forehead. He *could*. He *could* do it. He *had* to do it.
But not while he was locked in this place with the Kryptonite cage ten yards away...
Weakly, he surveyed his surroundings.
His eyes started making out shapes through the muted light, and he gasped. Dragging himself off the ground, he flattened his back against the wall and moved around, gaping.
What... *was* this place? A full figure Mona Lisa... a grisly Van-Gogh-esque portrait... two seemingly disembodied marble arms... a ream of staved paper, dotted with countless miniscule music notes...
And a gun.
Sitting there, polished and shiny... a gun.
Slowly, painfully, he stumbled himself over to it, took a long hard look at it.
An elaborate pistol. From the nineteenth century, by the look of it. And - he turned the handle slightly towards him to read the engraved name - it was a Derringer.
Why would Lex Luthor have a Derringer gun on display?
His mind clicked into action, accessing what Lois called his Useless Mental Trivia folder. A Derringer... from the nineteenth century... in amazing condition... and judging from the other priceless masterpieces around him...
Good *grief*, could it possibly be...
...the same gun John Wilkes Booth used to assassinate Abraham Lincoln in the back of the Ford theatre in 1865?
Hands trembling, he checked the chamber. An extremely large lead ball, and...
And...
*Gunpowder*.
Gunpowder... and he was wearing a shirt... and he could make a fuse... put it in the lock, hit it with something hard and it would...
It would...
He nearly laughed out loud. His Useless Mental Trivia folder deserved a pat on the back. At the very least, a new name.
He was going to get out of there.
~&~
Of course, she hadn’t gotten far. She'd barely made it out the door when his arms had come from behind, trapping and enclosing her, pulling her tight against his strong - brutally strong - frame, so tightly her feet left the ground.
They'd advanced down the corridor like that, and then down, flight after endless flight. No words spoken, just the hand she couldn't bite digging into the mouth she couldn't open, and his arm around her waist, cementing her into him.
Her struggles had stopped about halfway, when her whole being had strained towards the panicked squalls of a terrified child.
Jon.
Crying. And crying. And crying. His tiny little fists curled up next to his face. *Screaming*, for the first time ever.
She'd picked him up and held him tightly against her and rocked him and shushed him, rejoicing at the proof of his existence even as his yells pierced her ears.
He was asleep now - knocked out from his exertions, no doubt. Curled up in the sofa with him, she allowed herself to close her eyes slightly and wish herself away from that place, dream herself to safety.
Lex's voice cut her short. "This is not going to happen again."
She opened her eyes, looked at him warily. Didn't speak. Couldn't.
"I mean it, Lois. This was just a minor inconvenience -"
"- *inconvenience*?!"
"- and it won't be a problem once the nanny comes."
"Nanny?"
"Yes. Professional caregiver. Best in the country."
She was filled with icy anger.
"Not for my son."
"No, for *my* son."
She had a sudden hysterical image of them both grabbing one of Jon's little arms and tugging in opposite directions.
"He's not your son, Lex."
He gave her a peculiar look. "I'm sorry?"
She stared at him. "He's *not* your son."
"You called me Lex." A malicious smile curving around the contours of his face. "You haven't done that in months."
She shook her head. "You're nuts."
She could feel him regarding her. She could have screamed but it would have required that she let him know what he was doing to her.
"You *have* changed," and his voice was velvety. "Good, Lois. I like that in a woman. An independent streak."
"All the more for you to stamp out of us, isn't it?" She smoothed a hand over Jon's tiny head.
It was as if a piece of smoky glass came down in front of his eyes. "I don’t know what you mean."
She snorted. "I'll bet."
He took a step towards her, then another one. She watched him, thrilling at the lack of terror she felt at his nearness.
"Don’t be pedantic, Lois, it doesn't suit you."
He stopped in front of her.
"I'm past caring what you think suits me."
Another blank look. She looked him straight in his dead eyes, feeling a grip of courage seize her.
"I'll get out of this, you know." Breezy confidence. Confidence. Of a breezy kind. "I did it once and I'll do it again."
He grinned, and she barely bit back a flinch.
"Yes, I'll admit that was... careless of me," he said, watching her lazily. "I should learn not to underestimate you."
"Underestimating me is a part to your personality you'll never be rid of," she said coldly. "Not unlike the arrogance and immorality."
"And idiocy is a part of yours, isn't it, my love?" he asked smoothly, a gleeful light in his eyes. "Using my ATM card. Walking into a bus station full of my employees. Throwing your receipt away -"
Oh god, she hadn't, had she? What had she been *thinking*?
"- and sloppily assuming that I didn't know about the Kents, when I've examined every coil of your mind and every facet of your former life. You felt so safe, didn't you, my sweet?" A careless finger ran down her cheek. "Poor Lois. Poor, poor Lois. Lulled into such a blind sense of security, and so *easily*..."
She raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, I'll know not to make the same mistakes next time, won't I?"
His mouth twisted. "So optimistic. So sure that there'll *be* a next time. It almost makes me want to reconsider..."
A cold hand clutched at her stomach.
"Reconsider what?" she asked, and despite herself, there was a note of desperation in her voice.
"You didn't really think I'd leave you around here indefinitely, did you?"
She swallowed, tried a bit of false bravado. "It won't matter if you kill me. You realise that, don't you?"
He laughed, a sneering little chuckle that went straight to her stomach. "Oh, Lois, believe me, I have no intention of killing you." His eyes watched her almost merrily. "I have a windowless fortress in the Alps that'll do very nicely for the time being. And if you persist in trying to escape, then who knows, you might just get lost in the snow..."
So that was what he was planning to do to her. Take her away from her son and leave her to die in secluded incarceration.
He was watching her intently. "Pity there'll be no magical superhero around to rescue you, isn't it? I could have done with the entertainment..."
Did he know? Did he know did he know did he know?
"Where is Clark?" she asked, desperately. "What have you done to him?"
What was his game plan? What was he doing? How could she stop him?
"Oh, of course. Clark Kent. To think I once considered him a threat. Laughable, really."
//Careful, careful... don’t say too much... he's going to give himself away with his own smugness in a minute...//
He sneered slightly. "I would have thought you'd have better tastes in your lovers, Lois. Kent's gone a bit flabby round the edges since I saw him last. I guess it's not so easy having to work out like *normal* people, is it?"
//He knows. He knows he knows he knows.//
"And there wasn't an ounce of fight in him. Good grief, I would have thought modern-day superheroes had better stamina levels - even the ones who cracked and begged for mercy when faced with a little piece of home..."
She stared at him, stunned.
"You know he yelled for you, don't you, Lois? You know he whimpered and begged and pined after you in his delirium... so fortunate I thought to install those cameras down there, the footage was *very* interesting..."
Her heart went cold.
"What?" she whispered, unable to stop herself.
"...of course, you weren't alone... I remember some distinct pleading for Mommy... pathetic, to watch a man cower like that..."
She wanted to throw up, to scream, to hit him.
"Couple of hours, those tapes will be released to LNN... along with a *very* interesting conversation I had with Rick before he was... disposed of..."
"Rick?" she said weakly, her head spinning.
He sighed. "The lookalike I hired to play Superman, my dear. You're really not on top of the game these days, are you?"
She shook her head absently. "I'm not following, Lex."
He shrugged carelessly. "Well, I had to have *some* kind of insurance, Lois. Otherwise I could have been taken to court on false imprisonment charges, not to mention murder. When these people hear Superman telling me about his unsavoury plans for the public - and believe me, they're good, Nigel was particularly inventive there - they'll be lining up to *thank* me for killing their hero."
She shook her head. "This isn't going to work." Her voice, loud and defiant. "Nobody's going to buy that Superman wanted to take over the world. And besides, everybody thinks he died months ago."
He smiled silkily at her. "Do they?"
She swallowed hard, trying to remember.
The old lady. The mugger. Superman's wounds. The knife. The body, washed up in Hobbs Bay. The pictures. The cape.
But... but...
//*He* told me all this... nobody else... he told me about all of it...//
But pictures! There had been pictures! He'd had *pictures* of the other Superman being pulled from the river, and others, so many others, in that stupid file he'd insisted on reading to her, and if *he'd* had pictures, surely the rest of the media world...
Had she been that shut off and that blind-sided, that she hadn't known, or noticed?
He took her hand in his, brought it to his lips and kissed the back of it. She sat petrified there, her feet rooted to the floor. Frozen solid by the touch of his lips.
"My poor Lois. My poor, poor Lois." Voice washing over her, swift and suave. "Don't you realise, my poor darling? Didn't you ever think during all those news reports, 'hey, isn't it funny nobody mentions that Superman's dead'?"
She shook her head. Dazed. Disgusted.
"Of course, you were so easily... persuaded at that stage. Guess it never filtered through the fog, did it, dearest? You never suspected I'd lie to you. So docile, so trusting..."
Suddenly, she retched, dryly, hiccoughing. Pity there was nothing in her stomach. She would have *loved* to have thrown up over him. Rock the boat a little.
He was gone from her, striding somewhere, striding back and... and he was holding a glass of water to her lips, he was kneeling before her, taking her hands in his, smoothing her hair back from her forehead, he was *touching* her...
Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
She'd wrecked everything. She'd ruined everything. Everything. Everything. She'd doomed everybody. She'd wrecked all the people she loved. She'd killed them all. It was all her fault - because of her submission, of her blind... blind... *blindness*...
She wanted to scream. If only, if only... if only she'd known about all this months ago... months and months ago... she could have saved them all... she could have...
"There, there," he said soothingly. "Take a few deep breaths."
What. Was. He. Planning.
Pictures. He'd said he had pictures, hadn't he? Video footage of Clark's torture.
Clark's torture. He had pictures of it. Pictures of the Kryptonite, and pictures of Clark writhing in agony for no apparent reason.
Something was growing rapidly in her brain, a tumour of fear and terrible knowledge. If he released Clark, and released the tapes of Clark, Clark himself would be hunted down and killed like an animal. Every single petty criminal on the street would know the glowing green chink in Superman's armour. Plus everybody would know his identity.
Or... and this scenario, this was almost worse... Luthor could hold both threats over his head till the end of his days.
All the threats over Clark's head, till the end of his days. His safety. Her safety. Jon's safety.
She looked up, and straight into a pair of concerned hazel eyes. She felt an overwhelming sea of hatred and disgust overwhelm her, and suddenly she couldn't hold herself in check any longer. Not a second longer.
"You're sick. You know that, don't you? You're sick. Clark is worth *twenty* of you."
He stilled, frowning at her. "I won’t have you speak to me like that."
"I'll speak to you whatever way I want to speak to you, you sadistic self-righteous son of a -"
He seized her chin, imprisoned it with strong steel pincers. Despite herself she felt a fluttering of panic ignite in the pit of her stomach.
"No matter what happens," he said softly, "remember that you're still in the same position you were six months ago. You're still the same fallible woman who *I* have to try and instruct so she doesn't completely embarrass me in public -"
Her knee came up sharply, and she rejoiced as she watched his face change. He dropped to his knees, holding his crotch, and despite herself, she giggled.
"How the mighty have fallen," she sang. "I wouldn't worry, Lex - if I'm as frail as you say, the effects shouldn't last too long."
He stumbled to his feet, his face purple and livid with rage.
//Hit me,// she thought recklessly. //Please, hit me. Give me an excuse. I'm *asking* you to.//
She could see that he'd gone through the exact same phase of thought, in one of those parallel-universe type moments. He took a step towards her, and...
"Mr Luthor?" From behind the locked door.
The voice startled them both out of the strange, feral battle of wills they'd been engaged in. He rolled his eyes.
"Yes, what is it?" Irritated arrogance. How did he do it? How could *anybody* do it?
"Sir, we've been having a problem in one of the rooms downstairs..."
His head snapped up and around. She watched him, fascinated. What was in this room that was so important?
"A problem? What *kind* of a - oh, for goodness sake!"
She watched him stride over to the door, unlock it, and open it slightly.
"What is it?"
Whispered conversation. He was hissing out the door like the snake he was. She pricked her ears, but could only make out a few words.
"...keys... must have broken out... blew lock open... can't find... need to..."
"...idiots, absolute idiots... didn't I put Jones on the door? Where... Bring him to my study, I want to deal with him later... how could he possibly have..."
"...something missing... the Booth gun..."
"...utter madness. *Find him*!"
Lex slammed the door shut, and relocked it, but she barely noticed.
Broken out? Lock? Booth gun? What was a booth gun?
*Him*...
Her throat seized up with choking hope.
"Sorry." He was saying something, she forced herself to listen. "Minor inconvenience... anyway, my love, as scintillating as your conversation undoubtedly is... I think he's down for the night, don't you?"
She looked down at her baby son, tightened her hold on him. She wasn't going to let him go, ever again.
"Come, come." His voice, gently chiding. "Give him to me, I'll take care of him -"
"And what happens when he wakes up?" she asked scornfully. "You have the bottles all sterilised and warmed? Face it, Lex, you're in way over your head here. You couldn't even handle him crying."
He waved his hands at her. "Minor details."
"Your *son* is a 'minor detail'?"
He froze again, staring at her.
"A baby means *work*, Lex. You can't just put him in a corner with a pacifier and hope everything turns out okay!"
A dismissive shrug.
Another knock at the door. She let out a long sigh of relief. Breathing space.
He stayed glued to the spot, his eyes watching her.
"Mr Luthor?"
No response. She raised her eyebrows at him.
"Hadn't you better get that?" she asked pointedly.
He shrugged easily, walked back towards the door. "Whatever you say, my darling."
Something inside her noticed the endearment - not the first time he'd called her that, nor the last - and she nearly spat with rage. Managing to contain her temper to something broiling and hot inside her, she looked down at Jon again, rocking him with distinct disinterest as she strained and strained towards the whispered words.
"Some cop at the door, sir... demanding to see you... says he has a search warrant..."
A violent movement from her husband.
"Detain him. Bury him in paperwork. Do what you have to do."
"I'm not sure if it'll work, sir... seems very determined..."
"Sort it out!" Three snapped words, and the door locked again. Back in front of her. Back staring at her, with those hungry eyes, dying to devour her.
"Did I hear the word 'cop' in there somewhere?" she asked, watching in interest as his irises dilated.
He waved his hands. "Minor detail."
"You're getting repetitive, Lex," she tutted. "Surely you can think of a couple more phrases, instead of regurgitating that one?"
"I don't like this," he said idly. "This backchat. It's not very respectful."
She snorted. "I'm giving you exactly as much respect as you deserve."
A flash of light from the corner of her eye. She turned her head, noticing the large set of French doors.
A balcony, and a street below. French doors leading out, and a bassinette right beside them.
French doors. Leading *out*. Balcony down to the street. Street where cars could park. Street where the front door to the house was. Street where some cop was banging at the door.
"You're right on one thing, though," she said, altering her tone ever-so-slightly, hoping. She shifted Jon in her arms, got to her feet slowly, moved around him. Careful to keep her movements steady. "This little guy is down for the night."
He was watching her languidly, through slitted eyes, seemingly disinterested in her change of demeanour. Encouraged, she continued her trek towards the bassinette. Not daring to turn her back to him. Trying to entrance him, snake charmer and snake.
He moved so quickly that she almost screamed.
"Give him to me," he said quietly, holding out his hands. Directly between her and freedom.
She lifted her soft palate up, rejoicing when it raised glassy tears to the surface of her eyes.
"Please, Lex," she said, all softness and vulnerability. "I won't get to see him as often now. Let me put him to sleep, just one last time..."
His hand came up, and she nearly flinched. It made no violent movement, though, just flattened itself against her face.
A battle of wills. Who was better at acting. Who had more to lose.
He stepped aside, his eyes strangely tender, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
She took as long as possible over Jon, tucking in and taking out and tucking back in again, smoothing already-smooth blankets and fussing over his sleeping suit. Shamelessly using her son as a decoy.
"I think you're done."
She turned, looked at him, making her eyes huge. "I always sing to him at night... please..."
She could see his Adam's apple quivering as he swallowed, then inclined his head slightly. She turned so that three-quarters of her body was facing her son, one-quarter poised and ready to leap.
"Sleep o babe, for the red bee hums the silent twilight's call... evil from the Grey Rock comes to wrap the world in thrall..."
No Grey Rock. Evil right behind her.
"...my child, my joy, my love and heart's desire..."
Her voice, floating out the door. Watching him out of the corner of her eye... nearly there... nearly...
"...the crickets sing you lullaby, beside the dying... HELP! WE'RE UP HERE!"
She lunged towards freedom, yelling her head off.
"HERE! WE'RE HERE!"
Then - choking. Red pain. Hot. Red. On the floor. On the floor of the room. Red and purple roses clogging her vision, couldn't breathe, claw at hands, nails, warm in her mouth, his blood...
His voice, hissing words. Names that she wasn't, had never been.
On the floor, with him kneeling above her.
"...did you do that for?" he was asking, furiously. "*What* did you do that for?"
She shook her head defiantly. Clear fuzziness... come on, Lane...
Lane. Not Luthor. Never Luthor. Never had been Luthor.
"You're dead," she choked out. "You're dead. You're a goner. No matter what you do. They're waiting for you, Lex... Clark escaped, didn't he?"
He spat at her, she nearly retched.
Hands on her body. Possessing her. Hands ripping and tearing, pulling and scratching, crushing and...
Her vision going blurry. She fought against it. Not. No. Not.
Her head fell back against the floor. Blare of... blaring. Light. Sound.
Jon. Clark. Loved them. Loved them both.
Wasn't ending like this. Wasn't.
His hands. His animal-strong hands. Hot breath in her ear, and his hands.
Outside the door, more official sounding voices. Something about a warrant for an arrest and proof of arson and other charges too numerous to mention and forced to take action if the door wasn't opened *now*.
Then Clark's voice, his yell. "Give it up, Luthor!" A split-second of a vacuum when Lex froze and Clark's voice filling the empty space. Give it up, Lex. Give it up.
"They're coming for you." Amazing she could still talk, after everything. "In a few minutes, they'll be through this door."
Her body was something detached and apart from her. He couldn’t make her beg or plead with his hands anymore. He couldn't break her like a pane of glass, he couldn't shatter her pieces, they were too closely knit.
The whine of a helicopter, outside. Loudspeakers.
He shifted his weight from one side of her body to the other, and that was all she needed.
One desperate push with her legs against the wonderfully firm floor and she was up and she was running and she was out and lunging at the balustrade... there were at least five police vans out there... she drew breath...
Caught against him again, again on the balcony, space terribly near going down and down and -
"You want to go over? Do you, Lois? Do you?"
His hand in her mouth, her stomach crushed against the railing, him forcing her to lean over and over and -
The ornate railing hemming the house in, the spikes sharpened into deadly points...
Her feet left the ground. Her scream, vibrating against his knuckles.
Gagging. Going to be sick. Him over her. This was how it was going to end. Him over her. Dominating her. Her spirit bloodied and bowed. Again.
The blare of a loudspeaker, snapped and crackled words. The door nearly jumping off its hinges, back inside. Somebody there. He twisted them around, to stare into her eyes - freeze-framed.
She managed a smile, managed to smile around his fingers, him forcing as much of his hand as he could into her mouth.
"You're not worth it," he sputtered, "neither of you. Cavorting with that *creature*, that filth, that *alien*... was it good, Lois? Was it as good as me?"
He knew. Did know. Had known. Not. She wasn't.
She bit down hard, and his hand lunged out and away.
"No matter what you do," she managed to squeeze out, "no matter what you do to me now - you're caught. Red-handed. Clark has won. We have won."
"You're still my wife," he hissed. "You'll *always* be my wife. You promised to love, honour and obey me."
Being pulled back and onto solid ground.
"Haven't you learned by now? I always win... you promised to obey me, Lois..."
Balcony. Railing. Small railing. He never used this room.
He let go abruptly, she felt her body twist. The next instant, her head bounced off the ground. She moaned.
Him leaning over her. Her elbows against the ground. Both feet flattened on the floor and him in between them.
Jon. Her son. Watch him grow, watch him... watch him be a Lane. Not a Luthor. Not even a Kent.
Watch him. Protect him. Her son...
His stance. Unsteady. Sure of his power. Again.
She looked up into his eyes. His cold, inhuman eyes.
"You promised." His eyes dead and staring, blood around his mouth from where she'd scratched him.
"Promises are made to be broken," she spat weakly, and with almighty effort, she shoved him up and up and off with her pelvis and lower body.
Scaly wings. Surely they would burst from his shoulder blades. Him flying up, grabbing wildly at the balcony, a flurry of trouser leg and shirt as the momentum carried him over, the wind battling against him as if trying to push him back on solid ground...
And then - nothing. The frame of her vision empty.
She staggered to her feet and lunged, catching the banister with both hands and staring down to the street below with wide and panicked eyes.
The silence fell like the blade of a guillotine.
It was incomprehensible to her that he could be gone, that he could be fragmented in a bloody mess on the street below. It was incomprehensible to her that she had won - and so easily. It was incomprehensible to her that the mouth of hell hadn't opened to receive him wholly.
The dazed hushed atmosphere lifted, and then there were sirens and yelling voices. The door bursting open. She, falling backwards as her adrenaline gave out and abandoned her - being caught in strong arms.
Door. Burst. Open. Somebody behind it.
Clark.
Above her, his face very white and very red. Red? Blood. From his nose. Blood. Pain. Clark... Clark alive, never thought she'd... never... Clark, loved Clark, never thought...
She tried to lift her hand, tried to touch him. Couldn't.
Clark...
Blackness.
~&~
to be continued...
