I know how busy everyone is during Kerth time, so thanks to all of you who are reading and providing feedback.

TOC is here.

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From part 7:

I stare at Clark as the night editor walks back into his office, thinking about what he’d said. It might be a west-coast thing, this laid-back attitude toward Clark’s behavior, but I don’t think so. Perry had given me that kind of freedom in choosing my work, too. My methods were sometimes questionable and often erratic, but Perry put up with it because I always got the scoops.

I feel a wave of sadness mixed with jealousy wash over me and I clench my fist with determination. I can’t wait to break open both of these investigations and get back into print journalism.

Clark notices me staring as he approaches and his expression turns wary. He looks behind him and then surreptitiously checks his tie and then his fly. I smile.

“Come on, Farmboy. Let’s finish this up and get out of here. I need to get to sleep if we’re going undercover tomorrow.”


~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~
Master of Disguise - Part 8
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My eyes pop open as my body jerks awake. My heart is pounding heavily in my chest, so I stay still trying to figure out what woke me. I blink blearily and quickly glance around the room, but see nothing more interesting than a soothing watercolor and the mauve-colored wall of my hotel room. Closing my eyes, I listen carefully and hear some muffled sounds through the wall. It must have been my geriatric neighbor turning on his television that startled me from sleep.

I yawn and then groan as my eyes focus on the clock display. I had stumbled into my hotel room somewhere around four o'clock in the morning both exhilarated and exhausted. Totally amped up about both investigations, I had been worried that I wouldn't be able to sleep at all, yet I had passed out practically the minute my head hit the pillow. It’s almost seven o’clock now and I realize I need to hurry to get everything set up before my plane leaves.

Those scant hours of sleep have left my eyes gummy and scratchy and my eyelids tug downward as the weariness of my body argues for more rest. I reach up to rub the sleep from my eyes, telling myself to get up and review my plan to disappear. I sit up in preparation to drag myself to the shower, but for some reason I stop. My instincts are buzzing again, telling me that something isn’t right. I glance around the room again, but can see nothing out of place. My mind is racing as I reach for the table lamp when I hear a faint click and scratching sound from the front door.

Someone’s trying to pick the lock.

Moving as quickly and silently as possible, I throw back the covers and scramble out of bed to rush around the room. I toss some essentials into my ‘undercover’ backpack along with my fake IDs and cash and I slip my feet into my sneakers without bothering to tie the laces. On my way to the balcony I pause; the curiosity to know who is at the door is driving me crazy. Throwing good sense out the window, I tiptoe back to the door and peek through the peephole.

"Trask," I whisper under my breath.

I recognize the men outside immediately. That they aren't already inside the room testifies to their lack of lock-picking expertise, but their military training will ensure a quick, if inelegant, entrance. Even with the door chain on, I need a diversion. Reaching into the bathroom, I start the shower, lock and close the door and then sprint silently back to the balcony. I look inside my pack for my length of nylon rope, but can’t find it.

“Oh, no,” I whisper, realizing I’d left it in the room below.

I stand indecisive for a moment, but when I hear a heavy thump against the interior door, I know they’ve given up picking the lock in favor of quick entry. I slide the glass door shut and then lean over the railing to judge the distance to the lower balcony. I shake my head; it’s a bit far, but what choice do I have? If I can leverage myself down and hang by my hands, I might be able to reach the lower railing with my feet. I swing one leg over the railing and hearing another thump against the outside door, I slip my pack over my shoulder and throw the other leg over the edge. I grab the wrought-iron balusters in a white-knuckled grip as my toes cling to the edge of the cement landing.

I’m just about to lower my body when I hear a loud crash against the door and I look up. The fact that I can see the doorframe splintering means that I'm also in full view to whoever will come through the door. I step to my right along the outside of the balcony to hide my escape behind the curtains. When the final crunch of the chain gives way and the door rebounds against the wall, I know that they're inside the room. With that last distraction, the toes of my right foot lose purchase and I shift my weight.

That’s when I realize that leaving my shoelaces untied was a mistake. The plastic tip of the lace under my left foot rolls out from under me and I suddenly find myself in a free fall.

Luckily, my frantic grab for the balusters is successful and I wrap the fingers of my left hand around the squared rod. I continue to slide down until my hand reaches the bottom of the railing and my body stops with a shoulder-wrenching yank. The backpack slung over my other shoulder continues with its momentum and I’m barely able to snag it from a ten-story drop by a strap. Although the sharp edge of the metal cuts my palm, I hold tight.

I close my eyes briefly and take a breath of relief, trying to ignore the sounds of the soldiers entering the room and banging on the bathroom door. Hanging by one hand, I look down. The lower balcony is just below me and if careful, I should be able to step down onto the railing. I stretch out with my toes, trying to reach it, but I can’t feel anything.

"Come on, come on," I whisper to myself, hoping that I will somehow grow enough to reach it through willpower alone.

It's no use; I'm just not tall enough. I sigh with annoyance and then suck in a breath as I give up my failed strategy. I look around quickly for the best way to get myself out of this one. Knowing that a straight drop may hurt more than help, I pump my legs forward, trying to gain a little momentum onto the balcony below me. A cold breeze blows along my bare legs and up my sleep shirt, causing the skin over my whole body to break out in goose flesh. The sensation is completely incongruous with the sweat suddenly moistening my forehead and, even worse, my palms. I hear the soldiers finally burst through the bathroom door at the same time my slick palm loses its grip.

I slip from my handhold at the just the wrong moment in my swing, propelling me away from the building. I drop the pack and reach out with both hands in a desperate attempt to grab *something*, but feel nothing but air. Torn between the fear of discovery and the terror of dropping to my death, the only thing I can manage is a frightened intake of breath and one squeaky, “No!” as I feel myself fall.

A cold morning wind bites into my skin as I gain momentum and I try to scream, but can't seem to get my throat to open up. My arms and legs are flailing around as I look around desperately. I pass my lower balcony and I reach out toward the railing, but am only able to brush it with my fingertips as I go by.

That's when I know - I'm going to die this time.

There are many experiences in my past that could have ended in my death. Probably should have, if I’m honest. I used to attract danger on an almost daily basis when I was reporting. It happened so often that I – along with everyone around me – became accustomed to it, even expected it. To me, going a week without dangling above the jaws of death meant that I was losing my edge and I always worked twice as hard, took twice as many risks, to get it back. It had worked, too. I brought in the scoops, usually narrowly escaping with my life intact.

I guess I'm just out of practice because I don't see any way out of this one.

I clench my eyes closed trying not to think about how long it will take to hit the ground. Surprisingly, the fall doesn’t even last long enough to voice my terror properly. One moment, I'm plummeting to my death and then my descent halts abruptly and much less painfully than expected.

It’s a strange sensation, to feel gravity stop working, like it’s gone on a coffee break. I know it should be there, but it’s just not on duty.

I feel a pair of strong arms gently wrap around me, pulling me close to a warm and solid surface. Prying one eye open at a time, I find myself staring into a concerned pair of dark-brown eyes. For a timeless second, I’m trapped in their warmth and depth as we turn, hovering in mid-air. I’d know who it is even without feeling the spandex beneath my fingertips; there’s only one person who could save me from that fall. After a shocked moment of silence, I finally find my voice.

"Superman!" I exclaim.

“Don’t worry, Miss. I’ve got you.”

Stunned, I stare at him for a long moment, unable to believe he caught me. We slowly rise while the adrenalin caused by my narrow escape from certain death starts to fade. I come back to myself abruptly and I crane my head around to look for my pack on the sidewalk below us. Superman smiles and holds it up in his other hand.

“Looking for this?”

“Yes. Th … thank you,” I whisper breathlessly.

He gives me a small grin and nods to the balcony. “Is this your room?”

His question penetrates the fog enshrouding my higher brain functions and I turn to look into the room. The sight of Trask and two of his men at the bathroom door jumpstarts my thought processes. My body stiffens and I start squirming involuntarily trying to get out of sight.

“Under the balcony. Quick!” I whisper harshly, my eyes wide.

His eyes flick toward the room and in the blink of an eye we’re hidden away on the lower balcony. I take a moment to catch my breath before opening my eyes again. Superman is still holding me in his arms, but his attention is focused on the ceiling, his head cocked like a bird trying to assess some potentially dangerous object.

Suddenly, it hits me like a brick that I’m in the arms of the elusive superhero, the envy of millions of women and thousands of journalists across the world. From this vantage point, I can’t see his body, but I can feel the firm muscles of his shoulders and back as he cradles me in his arms. I take the opportunity to look at his face and admit that the pictures and newscasts do not do him justice. He is, undoubtedly, the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. Well, maybe after Mel Gibson … and Clark. Clark has better hair.

Nevertheless, being this close to him is affecting me the same way as seeing Clark half-dressed. I never did feel this out of control physical attraction with Lex – and I’m married to him – so why do Superman and Clark have this affect on me? Uncomfortable with my attraction to two men that are *not* my husband, I think it better to get some distance until I can work this out.

“Superman …” I start to ask him to put me down, but he holds his hand up for silence.

“Shh,” he says.

Shh? No one shushes me. I open my mouth to tell him so when I remember he’s just saved me from certain doom. I blush, feeling bad for being irked by the shushing and I pinch my lips together to quell the impulse to complain.

Unaware of my internal turmoil, Superman tightens his grip and steps back into the shadowed corner of the balcony just as the door above us slides open. I glance up and hear heavy boots step out to the edge.

“Where is she, Lieutenant?” Trask asks, exasperated.

“The exits to the elevator and stairwell were both covered, Sir. She didn’t get past us.”

Trask curses under his breath and I hear the dull thud of his fist hitting the iron railing.

“Sir,” a third voice comes from inside the room. “Her wallet, mobile and press pass are on the table.”

“So she left quickly. With the other exits covered, that leaves the balcony …”

I stop struggling to get down and shrink back, huddling close to Superman’s chest to hide. I hold my breath as I wait for Trask’s pronouncement, willing him not to look down. Superman shifts me in his arms and rises into the air again until we’re hovering just under the soldiers’ feet.

“There’s no fire escape and the roof is inaccessible from here, so the alien must have taken her. That proves she’s in on the conspiracy with Kent.”

I roll my eyes at Trask’s fallacious conclusion and catch Superman doing the same from the corner of my eye. My eyebrows lift in surprise, but by the time I look him full in the face, his expression is blank with a hint of stern disapproval. Superman’s eyes narrow, focused again on the ceiling as Trask and his men return inside and I realize with a start that he’s looking through the floor. What I wouldn’t give for that particular super power during an investigation.

Another cold gust of wind sweeps up under my shirt and I shiver, bringing Superman’s attention back to me. The way he looks at me is disconcerting – familiar and penetrating – and I feel nervous, wondering if he does have telepathic or psychic powers. The thought makes my heart skip a beat.

Suddenly, his face colors as if he’s embarrassed about something and he gently drifts down, bending slightly to set me on my feet. He hands me my pack and steps back, giving me some space. He doesn’t seem to know where to look, glancing around at anything but me. I suddenly remember that I’m only wearing a short nightshirt and my sneakers. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, mortified at the picture I’m making. It’s definitely not the first impression I want to give the superhero – half naked and sleep creased with bed head. Not to mention the whole falling from the balcony thing.

I pull the plastic room card from my pack and jimmy the lock up, sliding the door open. Superman’s eyebrows rise and I smile sheepishly, shrugging slightly before stepping inside. I’m dying to ask him what he knows about Trask, so I tap his shoulder and jerk my head toward the room interior. He smiles tightly and follows me into the room, closing the door behind him.

Once inside, Superman regards me quizzically. At least, I think it’s quizzical - his face doesn’t give many of his thoughts or feelings away. Based on the photos and newsreels I’ve seen, this expression – eyebrows drawn together and mouth in a tight line – is a habitual look that reflects the serious nature of his rescues. His eyes are intelligent and probing, though, and I feel a little uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

I break eye contact and take a few steps away before turning toward him again. With a little distance, I’m able to get a good look at him; his rich, flowing cape and the insignia on his chest drawing my eye down to see the tight muscles covered in bright spandex. I admit he’s even more impressive in person than on TV; a devastatingly handsome man with an exotic air about him.

The fact that I’m ogling him becomes obvious when he crosses his arms to stand in his already familiar, strong pose. My eyes snap back to his, which are now crinkled in amusement and I blush. Still slightly off-balance by our close encounter outside, I take a few more steps away and try to form a semi-coherent thought by looking elsewhere. His suit is *really* distracting.

I stop pacing to stare at him – a question now on my own face. Was his costume traditional garb for his people or did he mean for the outfit to be a distraction? Why would he *need* a distraction? Of their own accord, my eyes travel the length of him again until I hear him clear his throat. I rip my eyes away from his body and look at his face, reminding myself to breathe. Trying to regain a modicum of dignity and self-control, I thrust my hand out in greeting.

“Lois Lane. And you are …?”

I let the question drag out between us, but he doesn’t take the cue. Maybe he’s not so versed in the subtleties of our language to understand that I was asking him for his name. I’m about to withdraw my hand when the firm grip of his hand and his next statement confirms his comprehension.

“Superman. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Lane.”

“It feels a little awkward calling you by your title,” I assert. “What were you called growing up?”

His eyes narrow slightly at my question and he releases my hand to cross his arms again. “Is this an interview?”

“Well, I am a journalist. It’s what I do.”

“Do you always interview your rescuers, Ms. Lane?”

“Only the super powered ones that fly.”

He smiles at my answer; just a cute little twist of his lips, but his eyes dance. He also ignores my question. “Can I take you somewhere else, someplace safe?”

“You don’t think we’re safe here?”

“Well, sure, but shouldn’t we leave before the occupants return to find us in their room?”

“This is my room.”

His eyes flick to the ceiling before he looks back at me; his forehead creasing slightly in confusion. My hands gesture in a ‘what can I say’ pattern as I admit, “They’re both mine.”

An infinitesimal lift of his eyebrows is the only sign of his surprise. “Oh?”

“When I’m involved with potentially dangerous investigations, I take precautions to always prepare an escape route …”

“Interesting,” he interrupts. “Most people wouldn’t consider a ten-story free fall a viable escape route.”

I feel a heat rising to my cheeks as he looks at me, his arms still crossed and his head tilted to the side. It’s the same serious expression, but for some reason, I get the impression that he’s teasing me. I’m not used to that and I find myself feeling defensive.

“Hey, can I help it if trouble has a way of finding me?” I ask. “Look, I appreciate your help this morning – thank you for saving me, by the way – but I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time and getting myself out of danger long before you ever came to earth. When was that, by the way? Your first public rescue was a few weeks ago, but Trask thinks you’ve been here a lot longer than that. Is it true that you’ve been here for almost thirty years?”

His stunned look and vocal paralysis at my barrage of questions is interrupted when a loud thump snaps both our heads up toward the ceiling. I grimace; I’d let my interest in Superman distract me from the fact that Trask is upstairs and is apparently rearranging the furniture. Wishing I could be a fly on the wall, I notice that Superman’s head is tilted and I guess he’s taking another peek through the ceiling.

“What are they doing?” I ask. “What do you see?”

“They’re ransacking your room.”

“He’s probably looking for clues about you.”

“But you’ve never met me before,” he protests.

I shrug. “When you deal with fanatics, even the wildest belief can turn into fact, while reason and good-sense …um, fly out the window.”

He acknowledges my statement and my wavy hand movement with a slight incline of his head, but I see his mouth quirk at my pun. Who’d have thought Superman had a sense of humor?

“Will you be all right while I take care of the men upstairs, Ms. Lane?”

“Do you know who that is?” I ask, pointing at the ceiling. He nods grimly.

“And you’re going to stop them.” My statement holds a measure of disbelief, bordering on sarcasm. He must not know about Trask’s radioactive rock, otherwise, he wouldn’t be so blasé about going up there. Or he knows and isn’t worried about it.

“They’re breaking the law and that’s one reason I’m here,” Superman explains. “I try to stop crimes in progress and take the perpetrators to the proper authorities.”

He turns to leave by way of the balcony, but I step forward, grabbing his arm to halt his departure. I’ve got to warn him – just in case. “Trask said he has some green rock that can hurt you. Can it?”

“I, uh… Can it what?”

“Can it hurt you?”

“I’m invulnerable.”

My eyes narrow in suspicion, fairly certain his obtuseness is an act. “Is there, or is there not, a glowing, green crystal that can hurt you, even though you are normally invulnerable?”

He shrugs in a noncommittal way and looks away. Well, the non-answer pretty much confirms the question right there. I continue to scrutinize him as he fidgets, shifting his weight from foot to foot. I really can’t blame him for being secretive; he doesn’t know me and has no reason to trust me. In fact, since I’ve already told him I’m a journalist, he has even less reason to share his weaknesses. I’m sure he doesn’t want me to print that there’s a substance that can hurt him.

As my mind races around his probable weakness, it startles me to realize that instead of lying, Superman had chosen not to answer, which in turn, gave him away. Why would he do that, especially after knowing that I’m a journalist? Maybe Clark was right about him, that he’s good and honest and is trying to make the world a better place. It’s incredible, but I have to admit that Clark appears to be right. The fact that I’ve met two kind and decent men since arriving in San Francisco amazes me.

My new understanding makes me realize how much I want Superman to trust me. True, any personal information about the man of steel would be a big story, almost the biggest story out there. However, I’m a big story, too, and I don’t particularly want every detail about me given to the general public. I realize that a good man doing his best to help deserves what privacy he can retain.

When he speaks again, his deep voice startles me from my thoughts as he turns to leave again. “Well, if you’ll excuse me …”

I tug on his arm again, pulling him back around again. “Shouldn’t you use your see-through thingy to check for the rock first?”

“Thingy?”

“Yes. You know, do a little reconnaissance instead of barreling in like some five-hundred pound gorilla.”

His eyes widen slightly at my insult before he turns his attention back to the ceiling. When his face twists in distaste and his shoulders slump a little, I know that Trask has the rock with him. His loss of purpose allows me a chance to release the breath stuck in my lungs. I’m feeling the strangest mix of emotions; awe at meeting the world’s only superhero, exasperation at his incautious behavior and embarrassment at my condescending comments.

“Why don’t I call hotel security and let them deal with the break-in?” I suggest. I step to the phone as Superman continues to look at the ceiling. Something about the look on his face strikes me as familiar, but I ignore it to report Trask’s intrusion.

As the front desk answers my call, I think about Trask tossing my hotel room, looking for non-existent evidence about the superhero. My smirk widens into a smile as I reconsider reporting this to the hotel security. Trask’s actions give me the perfect opportunity to set up the next stage of my investigation of Lex. This will work out perfectly with my cover.

Using yesterday’s copy of the San Francisco Chronicle, I had carefully cut and pasted together a generic ransom letter that will explain my absence for the next few days. All I need to do now is leave the note in the trashed hotel room and my cover story will be in place. I’m just hanging up the phone when the nagging feeling I’ve forgotten something clicks in my mind.

“Clark!” I exclaim.

“What?” Superman looks genuinely alarmed at my declaration and I feel bad for startling him.

“I've got to get to Clark before Trask does.” I rush to my duffel bag and pull out jeans and a t-shirt before dashing into the bathroom. I leave the door cracked open an inch so I can explain things to Superman as I change.

“I met Trask last night when he came looking for you at Clark Kent’s place. Clark is the reporter who interviewed you, remember? It wasn’t an in-depth interview like some of his other work, but I think that had more to do with your answers than his questions. I’d love to do a follow-up piece about you, by the way. Together with Clark, of course; I’m not out to steal his story.”

I step out of the bathroom fully dressed and slip back into my sneakers, striding past Superman toward the balcony. I shoulder my pack and grab my duffle bag before turning to see what’s keeping him. Superman gapes at me, looking slightly stunned and rooted to the spot. Of course, this might be the reason Clark didn’t get much from him; it appears Superman isn’t too quick on the uptake.

“But maybe we can talk about the interview later? Clark’s in danger and I need to warn him in case Trask tries to grab him, too.”

When he doesn’t move, I prod him. “Superman?”

“Huh?”

“Is the offer of a lift still good?” I gesture in the direction of the balcony door and it somehow snaps him from his stupor. Superman smiles and shakes his head before stepping close and lifting me into his arms. My breath catches in my throat as we lift from the floor and swoop into the bright morning light.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

A breathless moment after flying out the hotel window, Superman slows down to hover above the San Francisco Bay. Once we’re beyond Alcatraz Island, he turns us to face the Golden Gate Bridge. The lower struts are enshrouded in a thick layer of fog, but as the sun rises, several rays break through the cloud cover to shine through the famous red towers and cables. The remaining mist glistens brightly and I squint, shielding my eyes from the refracted light.

“Wow,” I breathe. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is.” His reverential tone catches my attention and I turn my head to look at him as he continues to speak. “I love the moment when the world comes awake. Even the bustle of the morning commuters can’t overwhelm the quiet majesty of the rising sun breaking through the fog. It’s so peaceful.”

He spins us slowly in a circle, giving me breathtaking views of Sausalito and the Bay islands, two northern bridges, the eastern shore, the Bay Bridge and back to the city skyline. I’m so engrossed with the scenery that it shocks and disappoints me when I realize Superman has drifted us into Clark’s neighborhood. Flying with Superman has been the single most amazing experience in my life and I don’t want it to end.

I watch him scan the ground and surrounding buildings and wonder what he’s looking for when I realize he probably doesn’t know where Clark lives. I tap his shoulder and point to Clark’s building, silently instructing him to drop me off on the roof. He glides over and steps softly down before releasing my legs to setting me on my feet.

As my feet touch the rooftop, I wobble a bit and Superman places his hands on my waist to steady me. Time slows as our eyes meet and his look of concern makes me feel a little breathless. “Superman …” I start.

Before I can say anything else, he cocks his head slightly and his eyes glaze over as he listens to something too soft or distant for my human ears. I have to admit that watching him use his super powers is pretty thrilling and I’m eager to learn more about him.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Lane. I need to go.”

He floats up and away from me, but I can’t just let him fly away. Who knows when I’ll ever get this chance again? “What about our interview?” I call after him.

He pauses in mid-air, confusion crinkling his forehead. “Interview?”

“The follow-up interview you’re going to give me – and Clark.” I add as an afterthought. “How will I find you?”

He answers with an amused smile. “Don’t worry, Ms. Lane. I’m sure our paths will cross again.”

He zips out of sight in a whoosh of air and all I can say is, “Wow.” I continue to stare at the spot for a moment with my mouth open until I shake myself. I really need to find Clark. Remembering Trask brings some urgency back to my steps and I practically fly through the stairwell to Clark’s loft.

“Clark,” I call out. I pound on his door, but don’t wait for a reply. Instead, I reach for his spare key and let myself in.

“Clark, are you here?” I stop short at the scene that greets me, my heart sinking into my shoes “Oh, Clark.”

His apartment is trashed. Nearly all of his possessions lie haphazardly around the room; books and papers are strewn about, cushions are sliced and gutted, broken knick-knacks and pottery litter the floor. Trask and his men must have come here before coming to my hotel. An icy fear grips my heart for a brief moment until Clark exits his bedroom, a concerned look on his face.

“Lois?”

I rush down the steps and drop my bags to throw my arms around his neck, hugging him with more relief than I can believe. “You’re okay. When Trask mentioned you, I knew I had to warn you, but when I saw that they’d already been here… I was so worried. I thought they’d taken you away.”

He hugs me, patting my back and speaking reassuringly in my ear. “Everything’s all right, Lois. I’m here.”

I hug him tightly and then pull away from him abruptly, irrationally annoyed at him for being so calm in the face of my fears. “*Why* are you here? Don’t you realize how much danger you’re in? Trask could be back any minute now. ”

“Lois, don’t worry. I don’t think they’ll be back.”

“They had to have been here really early. Why didn’t they find you?”

“I … uh, hid.”

I look around the open floor plan and my eyebrows rise skeptically. “Where?”

He gestures vaguely toward the bedroom. “Oh, you know...” Before he can finish the sentence, he cocks his head to the side, an intent look on his face. It gives me a strange sense of déjà vu, making my instincts tingle again, but his next words drives the thought away. “The police are on their way up the stairs.”

I quickly pick up my bags before stepping to his bedroom window. A police cruiser is sitting in the alleyway below. "Clark. I need another way out. The police can't find me here."

"Why not? I know these guys, Lois. You can trust them."

I roll my eyes at his naivety. “No, I can't. I can't risk being seen by anyone without endangering my cover story. Lex's reach extends farther than you think and your investigations have already put you on Lex’s hit list. If he knew I’d been seen with you this morning, he’d find some way to incriminate you for my disappearance.”

Footsteps on the creaking floorboards outside Clark's door snap both of our heads back around.

“I need that hiding place,” I growl. “Now!”

I can see him mulling over the situation and his eyes track around the room to linger briefly on the closet before moving away. He steps next to the bed and lifts the duvet. “How about under the bed?” he suggests lamely.

I sigh with exasperation and push past him to slip into his bedroom closet. I tuck my bags behind his suits and push his dress shirts aside. I hear a knock at the door as I step inside and I turn to impart one last glare.

“Just keep them out of your closet,” I say, sliding the door shut.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

tbc...