This is an odd story that came to me when I was talking to someone about Clark's strange relationship with Superman and vice versa. It's VERY introspective, but hopefully interesting enough. I hope you enjoy!

Me, Myself, And You
Rated: PG?
Premise: Four scenes that illustrate Clark's relationship with Superman and with Lois, as well as Superman's relationship with Clark and with Lois. (Hopefully, that's not too confusing. smile )

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You smile at me.

It's rapture.

It's torture.

Because, you see, you're not really smiling at *me.* You already kicked me out of your apartment and told me in no uncertain terms that you didn't need me. You can take care of yourself, you claimed. You don't need me hanging around, cramping your style and making you feel like you're not good enough.

And yet, the minute the other me shows up, you're all smiles and nods and invitations.

It hurts.

But it's not your fault.

It's my lie. My deception.

I wish I could tell you. I know that if I were to look at you and reveal to you right this second who I really am, it wouldn't feel like that to you, but it's true. More than almost anything else in this world, I want to tell you my real name.

It's not Superman.

It's Clark.

And I'm in love with you.

How can you not see it? How can you look at me in whatever suit I'm wearing and not be able to tell that I love you more than life itself? That I would do anything to win your approval? That I would get down on bended knee and beg you to look at *me* the way you're looking at Superman?

I've resigned myself to a lot of things since my powers started developing years ago. I've resigned myself to the fact that I will never know my real parents or my native people. I've resigned myself to the fact that I will never be able to wholly fit in with the people I protect, and also to the fact that I will never be able to hide away all my differences if it means that others suffer. And I've resigned myself to the fact that if I were to show people both sides of me at the same time, they would either reject me or worship me because of what I can do--and I'm not sure which one would be worse.

But there is one thing that I've never resigned myself to; I have never accepted the possibility that there would not be one woman in the entire world who could love me--not for what I can do--but for who I am.

Maybe it's a fantasy, the same kind that puts stars into your eyes, a giggle into your voice, and awe into your manner whenever Superman shows up. Maybe it's an impossible dream that will never come true. But I want it, Lois. I want it more than anything else, more even than I want to tell you who I really am.

"Errands," you repeat incredulously. "That's funny. I never think of Superman having to run errands."

Of course not. Superman doesn't have to run errands--but I do.

"Well, I do have a life, you know," I say. Playing with fire; it's the only explanation for my reckless behavior. Sometimes I think I'm daring you to see who I really am. I've never slipped up so many times before. I'm always careful, always cautious, always methodical. And yet I've lost count of the times I've used my powers around you, or said something that practically admitted my secret, or showed you something that could so easily lead you to the right conclusion.

But you never see it.

And I'm glad.

And disappointed.

Sometimes, I think I really am two different people trapped in one body. Either that, or I'm slowly going insane.

"Really?" Your eyes light up, so bright they rival the stars for light and dwarf them for beauty. "What kind of life?"

A life that revolves around you. A life I can't imagine anymore without you in it. A life filled with menial tasks like researching every article and investigating crime. A life as mundane and normal as everyone else in terms of getting up for work and brushing my teeth and paying my bills and replying to Christmas cards. And that's why I can't tell you. Because superheroes shouldn't have to do any of those things. And they certainly don't lie.

"Well..." My mind races in an effort to dig myself out of the hole I just put myself in. It's a cycle I go through every time I--as Superman--see you. "Tonight, a neighborhood Watch meeting; tomorrow, a prison."

Your laugh cuts through my soul because it's a self-conscious laugh. When have you ever felt self-conscious around Clark? Well, besides after the pheromone wore off; that incident doesn't count.

"That's cute," you shyly say. "I guess..."

But I don't dare get any more personal or let you make any confessions or declarations that we'll both regret when I finally tell you my secret. So I interrupt you. You think I don't see your flash of disappointment, but I do. I see everything about you, Lois, so much that I can't help but love you even though it's more painful than anything else I've ever encountered, even that strange green rock Trask had.

"Well, I'd better be going. You'll be okay?"

The question is a test, you see. If Clark asked you that, you'd snap that you were fine and insist you didn't need anyone to protect you. And if ever you pass this kind of test--the one I find myself giving you more and more often--then I'll know that I can safely tell you who I really am.

"Uh, sure, I'll be fine."

Disappointment floods my mind, and I rock back a step, then have to cover for my slip. I pick up the paper on your table. "You know, you'd better be careful. If the killer reads between the lines of your story and realizes that you were there--"

"You read my work?" you ask, dizzy elation pitching your voice higher than normal. At least you interrupted Superman; that's something.

Of course I read your work, I want to say. In fact, most of the time I help you write it. But it's different when it's Superman reading the words you put down on paper. And that, too, hurts.

"Always," I reply carefully. These half-truths are just as painful as real lies, but they allow me to pretend that I'm not lying. To pretend that I deserve you in either guise.

Superman had seemed like the perfect solution to my conflicting desires for a normal life and a chance to help. I wonder now...if I had known when I first put on the Suit how much it would hurt to have you fall in love with a disguise that is nothing more than my abilities and a stern expression, would I still have put it on? Would I have split myself into two people in your eyes if I had known then that you would never look at Clark Kent the way you look at Superman?

I don't know, I really don't. And that scares me.

When I turn to leave, you're instantly moving, ready to offer the slightest assistance with no sign of your usual willingness to let me fetch your coffee or your fax or anything else you have a passing fancy for. "Oh, let me get this," you offer, wide-eyed and blushing, your hands full of white curtains.

This isn't the Lois I know; it isn't the Lois I work with every day and tease and walk home. This is a different Lois, a Lois I don't know. A Lois who wouldn't dare refuse me anything or call me names or steal my story. How can one person have so many contradictory thoughts? I want you to look at Clark with that starry-eyed gaze of admiration, and yet I want you to feel comfortable enough with Superman to call me a hack from Nowheresville. How can I expect you to understand my logic if even I don't?

Regardless, I can't watch you swoon over Superman, not when I had only come in because I thought I heard you say my name--my real name. I can't bite back more of my hurt and jealousy and self-condemnation, not tonight, not so soon after almost seeing you die. A second later and that truck would have hit you. A second later and those bullets would have torn through your flesh like paper. A second later and my life would be empty.

With a slight smile that I use to disguise my uneasiness over your adoring manner, I walk to the door. I never know how to respond to your awe and admiration. It's nice to be admired--particularly for the alien side of me that I've often feared no one besides my parents would be able to accept--but I hate being treated like a god. I model my Superman-self after what you think of him, Lois, but I don't want you to treat me like Superman.

Will watching me walk out of the same door you wouldn't even let me pass an hour ago finally make you realize who I am?

No. Instead, you're still smiling at me, your cheeks flushed and your smile free of any hints of condescension or disdain for country habits.

"Lock your doors--and windows," I command.

"I promise," you gush.

I hate Superman. I hate him because he's perfect. I hate him because he's everything I'm not. I hate him because you adore him. I don't want admiration, Lois. I want love. I don't want obedience. I want partnership. I don't want unquestioning acceptance. I want teasing fun and comfortable companionship.

I hate Superman because he has everything I don't, and yet it means nothing to him. Where can those radiant smiles of yours take us when this Suit stands in the way and Kryptonite is out there? Where can we go on a date when every reporter in the world would follow us with questions and cameras and insinuations?

I hate Superman because he's your hero--and I can't ruin that for you. After everyone in your life who has disappointed you and let you down, you've finally found one man who is everything you were convinced didn't exist in real life. And if you ever find out that Superman is nothing more than a flashy Suit covering your reporting partner, that hero would disappear forever. One more person would have let you down, and I don't think you would ever again let yourself believe in happy endings.

I hate Superman because he's my trap, my curse, my catch 22.

Unbelievable, I think as the door closes behind me. You actually lock your door. You never do what I tell you when there are glasses perched atop my nose. But then, I forgot. There weren't any glasses between us when I gave you that command.

My mind is filled with you as I finish my errands. I'd love to tell you about them in detail, share amusing anecdotes about the strange people I meet at Watch meetings, hold you when I feel like I can't face one more criminal's unwavering hatred. You would know about that, Lois; you would be able to comfort me and probably share your own anecdotes and horror stories.

But that day is far away. Superman can't be vulnerable. He can't be hurt. He can't be tired. He can't be jealous.

But Clark can. And in the end, that's who I am, no matter how much I occasionally wish differently.

It's a good thing I don't notice the cold because the night is so chilly the park bench I choose as my post has ice frosted over its surface. Even if I felt the cold, though, I don't think I'd mind. My fingers run over your article, touching your words with the caresses I'd rather give your smooth skin. You've made yourself a target, something you do with frightening regularity, something I'm trying to get used to. But as much as I've had to resign myself to throughout my life, I've never been able to do it regarding you. If I could, I would have given up a while ago and told you Superman is really Clark Kent.

The paper crumples in my lap as I close my eyes and let myself sink into my familiar fantasy. How will I tell you?

Will it be blurted out as soon as you tell me you love me--the Clark me?

Will it be during a candlelight dinner after talk of marriage?

Will it be in the darkness of a cell just before I break through the wall to release us?

My smile fades as the fantasy devolves into images of your reaction.

Will you shout at me and condemn me for lying even though I say I stand for truth?

Will you scold me with a laugh and say you knew all along, you were only teasing until I got up the courage to tell you?

Will you stare at me with those big, dark eyes full of tears and turn away without speaking?

Noticing the crumpled paper in my hands, I carefully smooth it out. My thumb lands on your byline, sitting so prominently atop your article, and I can't help but whisper your name.

Sometimes, when I see you go off for another date with Luthor, I ask myself why I'm so intent on waiting for you. Sometimes, when you scorn me and smirk in that infuriatingly cute way, I ask myself why it's you I dream about. Sometimes, when your dismissal of Clark and your idolization of Superman hurts the most, I ask myself why I love you alone out of all the women in the world.

But you know what, Lois? No matter how I pretend falling for you was done so fast I didn't have a chance to catch myself, I know deep down that I *chose* to love you. I saw you giving your life away in favor of uncovering the crimes of Metropolis and providing a better tomorrow, and I sensed someone who cares as much about injustice and cruelty as I do. I heard you denouncing the terrible acts that steal lives and hope and your tears as you confided in me how your heart had been broken. I felt your spirit shining through every one of your actions and your loneliness when you went home alone every night. And I looked at you--the woman that embodies all of that and a million more facets--and I *decided* to love you. Attraction can be ignored or denied or squashed, but I let mine for you grow and flower and put down such deep roots that now I don't think I could uproot it even if I wanted to.

And I don't want to. I *want* to love you--for your spirit, your compassion, your dedication, your fire, your utter intolerance of anything that contradicts your ideal of the way the world should be, your vulnerabilities, your insecurities, even your complete and total acceptance of Superman--for your beauty, the inner outshining even the outer.

I love you, Lois, and I think I'll love you more with every passing day.

That's why I'll wait. That's why I'll let you send Clark away and gush over Superman. That's why I'll fetch whatever you want me to fetch and live up to whatever ideal you set for Metropolis's superhero. That's why I'll sit out on this park bench all night and watch your dark window and listen to the sounds of your even breathing as you sleep.

When morning casts its strengthening beams over the city, I stand and stretch before moving to sit on your front steps. I haven't yet decided what my story will be when you come outside, if you even ask. You know me better than you might think considering how large a secret I keep from you, and you'll probably guess right away that I've stayed here all night. Will you be angry that I didn't listen to you, exasperated with my stubbornness, or touched that I care? Whichever, I can't wait to see your face. Just like every morning, I'm impatient to be with you again. Life just doesn't seem as warm or bright or exciting when you're not there.

I look up from the paper I've read a dozen times already when a man comes down the steps complaining about prices and repairs. He sounds like my dad when he has to buy new parts for the tractor, and I can't help smiling a bit as I look back down at your article, which I have memorized by now.

Suddenly, I think I hear you gasp. My head shoots up, and I freeze, listening intently. Your heart-rate skyrockets, and I find myself on my feet with no more than a spare hope that I didn't move at superspeed in full view of the crowded street.

My own heart-rate explodes when I hear you cry out. I drop the paper and run to the building door. The landlord will have more to complain about when he sees what I leave of the lock, but your breath is choking and harsh.

What if I'm not fast enough? What if I'm already too late?

Your unlocked door opens easily. My heart stops when I see you helpless in the arms of a man twin to the one I just saw walk away with his hands full of pipe.

"Let go!" I hold out a hand toward the man, as if I'll suddenly develop the power of telekinesis. "Let her go *now*!"

Something in my voice must alert the assassin of my reckless desperation. I gasp when your body tumbles to the floor and remains motionless. I can't see anything except your limp form, barely realizing that the assassin is rushing from your apartment.

"Okay, okay," I'm murmuring, but I don't know why. Because you are okay--I shouldn't have to say it. You have to be okay. I was guarding you...so I can't be too late now. I love you...so you can't be dead.

Your body is limp and slight as I gather you into my arms. You're not breathing.

Lois!

Gently, I lay my hand on the soft curve of your cheek and place my lips over yours. This is no tender kiss, however...because I'm not ready to give you up. Just as you breathe life into my existence by simple virtue of your presence, I now breathe life into your body.

The choking breath you take restores feeling and thought back to me.

"Clark?" you murmur and the sound of it would send me to my knees if I wasn't already there, supporting your slight weight. "Clark!"

"It's all right," I assure you, and since you're breathing, it is. "It's all right."

Your voice is weak and thready, your manner almost childlike as you look toward the door. "I couldn't breathe. That nice Mr. Tracewski--"

"No, no!" I interrupt, unable to bear seeing the pain of betrayal in your eyes. I can never bear to see you hurt--another reason I can't tell you my secret. "No, it wasn't him. It must have been somebody else. I saw the real Mr. Tracewski leave."

"He tried to kill me." Your eyes seek mine, and you silently beg for understanding. How can I explain how anyone could want you dead when I can't comprehend it myself? Regardless, at this moment, you need me--Superman or Clark, it doesn't matter. You need a hero, and I have to be it. I *want* to be it.

"I'll find him," I promise, already moving to stand and leave you, though everything within me protests the action.

"No!" Your hands clutching at my coat might as well be caresses for the amount of joy and protectiveness they birth within me. "Please don't leave me."

I can't look away from you. Had I seriously ever wondered why I loved you? How could I have been so blind? How could I have ever thought--even for an instant--that you weren't worth my patience? How could I ever deny you anything, even the perfect, unsullied superhero?

"Okay, I won't," I vow solemnly, swearing myself eternally to you. "I'm here. I'm right here," I say for Clark. "I'm right here," I say again for Superman.

Both halves of myself, united as one...for you, Lois. Because you are the other half of the whole me. And I'll wait until you realize that. I'll wait forever, and I'll never let go of you.

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Disclaimer: Dialogue is taken from 'The Witness,' written by Bradley Moore. No copyright infringement is intended.