Hey, all. So yesterday was the first time I went for a day without posting a chapter since I started this story. Things got a little crazy, what with family, Christmas, and general Sunday stuff as a whole, and there were a few things I wanted to fix up a bit before posting.
So here we are. Hopefully it was worth the wait.
MetroRhodes, I swear you're psychic or something.
Enjoy,
(Please remember to review)
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Chapter 20: ET Phone Home
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Clark heard the many bolts and locks slide into place behind Lois’s departure and let out a long breath, staring at the door after her and wishing he could see through it—to watch her for every last moment until she disappeared even from his sight. He had never realized how blind and helpless he could feel without his special powers.
His alien powers.
He stood slowly, testing the strength of his leg. It ached constantly and gave a sharp pang at every step, but the sunlight had worked miracles. He looked down at himself, taking in the slightly too-small sweat pants and the white t-shirt that clung to him almost as well as his suit.
He hesitated, overbalancing slightly and throwing out his good arm to support him against the couch.
Lois. She had done so much for him…risked so much for him, and it showed. It showed in the pain that lurked right behind her dark eyes, in the dark circles beneath her eyes, of the way she could be caught staring off into space, only to come to herself, a slightly confused and very relieved look on her face as she realized where she was.
And the nightmares. Those were the worst. Clark woke up last night to one of hers—to find her weeping in her sleep, her body stiff as a board as if she were mentally holding herself back—mentally breaking her soul to stay still. Then she had woken up, screaming, shouting obscenities, and then breaking down to weep as she realized that it was over.
All because of him.
She had done so much for him already; he had already been such a burden. And every moment here he brought her into greater danger. Bureau 39 hadn’t even wanted her in the first place, and if they came here and he wasn’t there they would probably leave her alone.
And if they started looking for him again, this might be one of the first places they would look.
Clark limped over to Lois’s counter, finding a notebook and a pen. He stared at the paper for the longest while, the pen perched in his slightly shaking hand. Finally, he sighed and wrote two simple yet heartfelt words.
Thank you.
Not I love you. Just thank you. He could not burden her with anything more. He didn’t deserve to love her, and it would only endanger her more, and he couldn’t put her through that again…he wouldn’t. She needed to move on her life. He knew she would be furious—she was Lois Lane—but maybe that would help her forget him. Much as it felt like he was ripping out his own heart, he knew she had to let him go. They couldn’t go on like this, floating in a shadowed, haunted dream after the nightmare.
After all, she didn’t even really know him. He was Clark, for heaven sakes. Not Kal-El, not Superman. Not an alien. Not him.
But he was. And as long as he was, that was just another reason for him to leave her.
Clark set the note on the table, moving a lamp over to hold it down, but made sure it was still clearly visible. He opened the window, shivering slightly despite the fact that the air wasn’t that cold at all. He found some money rolled up in Lois’s cupboard and took it, feeling bad but promising that he would return it as soon as he could.
His last stop was the bathroom. He rinsed his face, making himself look as good as he could, so that no one would think he was an escaped convict. His eyes were haunted, his cheeks slightly sunken, and his face still an unnatural pale even with the sunlight he had received. He ran a hand through his hair, this time fluffing it around his face. He actually managed a weak smile, but it looked odd under his bleak eyes. There was no chance of anyone mistaking him for the missing superhero, that was for sure.
He hoped.
Finally ready, he took a deep breath and turned to the door, unlocking the six locks and stepping into the hall after making sure that the one lock that could be locked from the inside was closed. He padded unsteadily down the hall, his bare feet cold on the floor.
He took the stairs, hoping to run into as few people as possible. The apartment was strangely quiet, and as he reached the ground floor it was all silent but for his panting, slightly pained breath. He readied himself and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
It was a slow part of the day for this part of Metropolis, but still a good few people were hurrying past him on the sidewalk. He flinched away at the sounds of the cars, talking, and the general hubbub of the city, even though it was nothing compared to what he could usually hear. Hesitantly, he stepped out of the shadows of Lois’s apartment and into the sun.
He took two steps before someone bumped against him—quite unintentionally. Clark pulled back so quickly that he stumbled and almost fell.
“Sorry. S-so sorry,” he stuttered. The man didn’t even glance at him—he probably didn’t even notice that he had bumped the tall, pale man with the shock of black hair, and if he did it was forgotten in a second.
Someone bumped against his back, uttering an angry mutter at blind side-walk hoggers. Clark again flinched away, his eyes averted, his hands trembling. Finally he made his way between two parked cars, escaping the rush of the human population, and raised a tentative arm to wave for a taxi.
It took him three tries to get a taxi—the first two not necessarily missing him but simply not wanting to stop for such a sorry-looking customer. The last taxi that stopped was foul-smelling and stifling, as if someone had been smoking heavily in the interior, and Clark actually hesitated to climb in as he opened the door.
“Hey, you comin’ or aren’t ya?” the driver growled. He was a grizzly, grey man, with bored but impatient eyes, and he was thin. Clark hesitated a second more, but then clambered in, wincing as he was forced to bring his large legs into the relatively small space of the back seat.
“S-sorry,” he said.
“Where to?” the man asked bluntly, not caring. He wouldn’t have even picked up the guy, but he looked desperate. “You got money?”
Clark nodded, a bit uncertainly. “Yeah.” He gave him his address and sat back as the driver grunted and pushed the slightly run-down taxi forward.
Clark let out a breath, wiping his forehead with a shaking hand. He was going to be all right. He could feel the sunlight from the window on his skin—even through the filthy glass of the window. He could hear it all. He was going home. As Clark.
Superman was gone. And Clark honestly didn’t know if he’d be back, or if he even cared.
When the cab finally stopped at his apartment he gave the cab driver enough money to pay for the ride and told him to keep the change. He didn’t want to stay out here any longer than he had to—not even for the man to count the change.
He climbed out and the taxi drove out without a second glance. He stared up at his apartment, then began the slow and painful climb up the stairs to his apartment, and for the first time in his life he wondered why he had to have a room on the top floor.
He was breathless by the time he reached his floor. He had dragged himself up the flights of stairs, grasping onto the handrail and shaking like an old man as he limped the last couple steps.
Clark fumbled his spare house key out from under the plant on his front doorstep. His hand was shaking from the effort of climbing the stair as he unlocked his door. He went in, closing it behind him quickly and letting out a shaking breath.
He looked around his apartment. It was awash in sunlight that immediately filled his being and limbs with much-needed strength, even while he shook slightly from the remnants of some not-so-distant terror.
He forced himself to breathe in slowly, then out again. He took a slow step further into the room, away from the door.
He was home. He had survived. The nightmare, it seemed, was finally over, as if it had never been.
Nothing had changed. His books were still lining his shelves, along with the many souvenirs of his world travels. Some dirty dishes from a meal that Clark couldn’t remember cluttered the sink. He must have not taken the time to do them at superspeed before he’d left for work...and then been taken. Perhaps he’d been interrupted for a rescue, and not had time to finish them, he thought, though he couldn’t remember. It was unusual for him to leave such a little thing undone, and it would take him much longer at regular speed, not even considering the energy he was loath to spend on cleaning, of all things, right now.
It didn’t feel real. Clark felt like he was floating on a cloud of impossibility—that he would wake up in the white room, or on the metal table, the harsh white lights blinding him, all alone…
Lois…
It was quiet. Too quiet, after being out in the street with a tight clamp on his jumbled, frightened thoughts. Clark felt the walls of his apartment closing in about him.
He staggered quickly to the balcony, opening the door and stepping out into the bright sunlight. The door swung shut as he closed his eyes, gripping the wall of his patio as he turned his face upwards, basking in it.
It was over. It was over. He repeated it in his mind, his knuckles white from their grip on the stones. He could forget it, go back to being normal, go back to being human…
He shuddered.
No, he was not that. He was a freak. An alien. He didn’t even know what that meant—even with the little he had found from Logram, he didn’t know what was going to happen to him. Would he keel over tomorrow, and old man and dead of the old age of his species? He didn’t know.
He got his energy from the sun, for crying out loud! He was no more human than…a plant! Or a tree. A tree with legs, pretending to be a human. Dressing as a human, speaking as a human…
Loving as a human, fearing as a human. Feeling as a human…
Did anything else matter?
Yes. He couldn’t deny that now. Of course it mattered.
He needed to find out more. To find his spaceship that he had seen, in that warehouse he and Lois had broken into some months ago. Surely that, if anything, would have answers. Or that globe that he had taken, that was now hidden safely at his house…
There was so much he didn’t know.
But what if they found him again?
A lance of pain shot up his right arm and he winced, loosening his grip on the wall as he instinctively clutched his injured arm to himself. He looked down at the blood-blackened cast, moving his fingers cautiously. They were stiff, and pain shot near his elbow as he twisted his wrist to look at them. Slowly, cautiously, he began unwrapping the bloodied cast.
The linen came away stiffly—flaking chips of dark red blood onto his white t-shirt and the sun-warmed patio beneath his bare feet. Clark continued to unwrap it, moving faster the closer to his skin he got. Finally he peeled the still damp, fetid inner wrappings away, feeling the warmth of the sun on his arm, and seeing it.
He had been too afraid to even think of looking before. Now, he pulled the last layer of hardened linen and looked down at his arm.
His skin was dark with the dried stain of his own blood, but worse than that was the mound of twisted flesh that marred his perfect skin. The skin was healed over, but raggedly, like an open aired mine where a part of a mountain had been ripped away. There was a low indentation in the center, filled with twisted skin, the broken folds dark with dried blood. The area was black and blue and tender—his very veins seemed dark and bruised, branching away from the tender area—and he felt that the slightest pressure might possibly break open the ugly wound, or perhaps break his bone clean through again, like a burnt shish-kabob stick.
He was tired. He pulled away from the edge and sat down in one of the deck chairs on the balcony. The view was perhaps wanting, but the sun could reach him here…and he could see the sky. The beautiful, lovely blue sky. The white there was so light and lovely, tinged with color and backed by blue...and the sun was soft and gentle yellow, like a loving caress.
There had been no blue in the white room. None but the blue of his suit, which was soon darkened by his own blood. He wanted to fly up into that blue…to feel nothing, to be nothing. Not human, not alien, and not some messed up soul torn in between the two of them.
He sighed. His skin tingled with energy, the stinging of his arm had faded to a pleasant tingling sensation, even while the bruises remained stark and angry against his skin. But his mind was tired.
He turned away, stepping back inside and taking a deep breath before dialing his parents’ number.
The phone rang. And rang, and rang. Finally Clark hung up and dialed it again, wondering if he might have accidentally pushed a wrong number.
No answer.
He looked at his phone stand for messages—but there were none. The light that should have alerted him to a new message was dark and silent.
A cold sweat broke out on his brow. His parents. What if they—Bureau 39—had managed to track down some connection with Superman to them?
His hand was shaking as he dialed a less familiar number. This time the phone was picked up almost immediately.
“Daily Planet.”
“Uh. Hi. I’m trying to reach the desk of Mr. White, please.”
“One moment.”
They put him on hold. Worse, there was some bland, empty elevator music that played in the earpiece of the phone as he waited. And waited. And waited. He slowly lowered himself onto his couch, holding the phone with both hands to try and still his shaking.
Then, the click as the phone was lifted again.
“I’m sorry. Mr. White is busy right now. If you leave your name and number…”
Clark blinked. No. He did not want to leave a name and number. He needed to know what had happened to his parents, and it seemed that if anyone knew, then Perry would.
“C-can you t-tell him this is Clark Kent? I—I think he might be looking for me.”
There was no answer on the other line of the phone, but just a crash and a sudden silence as if the phone had been dropped in surprise. Then, a tumult of shouting—wherein Clark recognized the distant and muffled sound of the editor’s loud voice.
“Uh…hello?” Clark tried. There was a fumbling sound on the other side of the line.
“Perry here. Kent, where in Graceland are you?”
Clark opened his mouth, but found that his voice had failed him. His mouth was dry, and he swallowed.
“I—I’m at my apartment, chief,” he said. His voice cracked slightly, and he ducked his head. “Uh. Superman…he just dropped me off. He knew that I was c-caught by Bureau 39 and came and got me out.” Not a lie, he told himself. Not really.
“Superman? Kent, did you say Superman?”
“Uh, yeah, Mr. White…”
“He’s been missing for over a week, and everyone’s been trying to figure out where he’s got to. Well, did you get the exclusive?”
Clark was dumbfounded, overwhelmed by the demanding questions and the focus of them. He had hardly thought of an excuse for his— Clark’s—absence, let alone Superman’s. He just wanted to find out about his parents.
“Uh…”
“By the king, Kent. Don’t tell me you let the exclusive slip through your fingers.”
“I…didn’t really take the time to ask. He…didn’t stay long.” Clark’s voice was strained. His head was beginning to pound. He rubbed his forehead.
“ Clark, you okay?” Perry asked, suddenly concerned. “Lois has got a few bruises, herself, but she says she’s fine.”
“Lois?” Clark asked on cue. He hated to play the fool, but it was necessary. Now more than ever.
Perry swore. “Goodness, Kent, both you and Lois disappeared around the same time last Monday. We’ve had the police crawling all over Metropolis looking for you”— Clark paled at that—“and now there’s news that that government bureau you and Lois uncovered before you disappeared might be behind it all, and they’re still after Superman. A good many of us were afraid they’d got him, I think, but it leaked that they found their hideout and caught the man in charge. Weird thing is, all evidence was gone, and the head hauncho ended up dead in jail just last night. So I’m going to want a full report to where you’ve been and what you figured out there.”
“Uh...” Going in to work? Facing all the people? Pretending around Lois? Even if his strength was able to hold up that long, he didn’t think his mind could take it. Not yet.
The head hauncho...dead in jail. Was that Logram? Clark's mind was spinning so fast that he was beginning to feel ill, so he pushed everything away until later and focused on the most important thing.
“Mr. White, have you heard from my parents?”
There was a silence on the other end of the phone. Too long for Clark’s comfort. His heart was choking his throat. “Mr. White?
“You haven’t seen them yet?”
“No…” Clark said slowly. “They’re in Metropolis?”
“ Clark,” the editor began, surprisingly gentle for his usually gruff tone. “It’s your father.” Clark’s heart stopped beating. “He heard news that you were missing and collapsed—severe heart attack, the doctors said. They hurried him here to the Metropolis General, but he’s in a bad way. Your mom’s been staying at your apartment, whenever she leaves his side. I’m surprised she’s not there now.”
Clark didn’t answer, the world falling out of focus before his eyes. Severe heart attack? He and his father had often joked about such a thing, but not like it could ever happen. But now he felt like he might be having one himself.
He became aware that he was still clasping the phone tightly against his ear, and Perry was calling his name, clearly worried.
“Yeah, Perry?” his voice was distant.
“Look, son, I want you to take a couple days off. If you have any information you can send it in and Lois can take care of it. She’s in one of her moods, and I’ll bet she wouldn’t take another day off, especially now that the big guy’s back. She just got away from those men herself, and it’s like she’s got three times as much fire from being locked away so long. It will help her keep busy.”
“Okay, chief.” The answer was perfunctory, numb.
“You sure you’re okay, son?”
Clark nodded, and it was a sign of how truly out of it he was. He ran a shaking hand over his face. “Yeah. Do you have the number to my…my dad’s hospital room?”
TBC...
