Clark picked up her tray. "Remember," he said. "If you need anything, just say my name."
Lois nodded, wondering if he'd deliberately intended for it to sound as if his offer extended far beyond the next few minutes.
When Clark had gone, Lois went to the closet to get some clothes.
In the bathroom, she tied up her hair and stepped into the warm flow of water, hoping it would somehow possess the ability to wash away more than the physical grime that seemed to be embedded in every pore of her body.
Part 18
Lois leant forward and peered into the small mirror. The scratches were red and raised and tender.
She stood on her tiptoes, trying to adjust the angle so she could see the lower ends of the scratches. After less than a second, she gave up. Both she and Clark had survived him dressing them last night; they would both survive if he did it again today.
She picked up the tee shirt she had gotten from the closet in Clark's parents' bedroom. If she put it on, it was going to make it difficult for him to dress the scratches.
"Clark?" she said.
"Yes, Lois?" His voice came so quickly from the other side of the door that, had he been anyone else, she would have believed he'd been standing there, listening.
"Do you have another button-up shirt I could borrow, please?"
"Yes," he replied. "I'll leave it outside the door for you."
Lois stepped to the door and opened it, knowing Clark would already be gone.
He was.
She picked up the shirt and put it on. She ran a comb through her hair, making sure to avoid the sore spot, and left the bathroom without looking in the mirror again. She knew her hair was awful and her eyes were dull and her face looked like a ghostly apparition. She didn't need to be reminded again.
She went into the bedroom and considered crawling back into bed.
Her body ached. She didn't understand why she was still feeling so sluggish. Last time, as soon as darkness had fallen, she'd left the cave in search of a house or barn where she could steal food.
This time, just showering had depleted her sparse supplies of energy.
She didn't feel sleepy, so returning to bed was probably paramount to inviting a host of disturbing thoughts to invade her brain. "Clark?" she said.
His footsteps sounded on the landing, and a quiet knock tapped on the door.
"Come in," she said, turning.
He did, leading with a hopeful smile. "How are you feeling?" he asked in a tone that suggested her answer was the most important thing in his life right now.
With a stifled sigh, she realised it probably was. "OK."
"Do you need anything? Would you like to come downstairs? Sit on the porch, perhaps? Or come into the kitchen while I cook our supper?"
"Would you dress the scratches again?" Lois asked. "I couldn't see them in the mirror."
He smothered his reaction quickly. "Sure," he said, trying to look - and almost succeeding - as if he dressed the wounds on a woman's chest every day. "I'll get the ointment and another bandage."
Lois stretched out on the bed. She should be feeling something.
A man was about to push back her shirt and uncover the place where another man had left the marks of his assault.
She should be feeling *something*.
But she knew Clark would never take advantage of any situation. And anyway, if he could see through walls, he could also see through material, so he didn't need to remove her clothing to see her body.
He wouldn't do that. Lois knew he would never do that.
Even so, it was disconcerting to be feeling nothing at all.
Shouldn't she be feeling ... anticipation, perhaps?
After all, less than twenty-four hours ago, she had told Clark that she was lusting after him.
But there was nothing.
The ability to feel was gone.
The ability to want anything was gone.
Clark walked in and sat next to her on the bed. "Do the scratches still hurt?"
"Not much."
"I've already washed my hands."
Was he putting off the moment when he would reach for her shirt and undo the top button? He must have done it last night. Lois couldn't remember. Perhaps her eyes had been closed.
Clark's hesitancy nudged something inside her, reminding her of all the times he had looked to her for reassurance. She had failed him a lot since last night. She couldn't fail him again. She reached for the top button of the shirt he had loaned her, undid it, and pulled the sides apart.
He shot her a look of gratitude - for helping him through something that was difficult for him.
For understanding.
For remembering that he didn't have all the experiences usually accumulated by a man of his age.
Their eyes met, and Lois's insides melted.
"Thanks," Clark said, his voice deep and resonant.
Lois tried to smile. She wasn't sure if it ever quite reached her mouth, but Clark's smile came easily in response.
"I should get this done," he said.
She nodded.
He applied the Neosporin down the three lengths with such care that she didn't feel any discomfort. Then he put on a clean covering, fixed it in place, and refastened her button.
"Thank you," Lois said.
"They - the scratches - are looking much better," Clark said. He gathered up the used packaging and dropped it into the trash can. "Are you hungry?"
"Not really."
"Then how about we wash your hair before I cook our supper?"
It felt as if her hair was caked to her scalp, but Lois hesitated. On Clark's face, she could see his hope. More than that, she recognised the hope - it was exactly what she had felt in the cell when she'd been trying to convince him that washing his hair was a great idea.
Was his reasoning now similar to hers then?
Was Clark trying to use touch to help her recover - not from years of abuse, but from Moyne attempting to dehumanise her with sexual assault?
Somewhere deep inside her, a nascent smile birthed at the idea of Clark copying her strategy. "Did Scardino come back?" she asked.
Clark didn't seem thrown by her diversion. "Yes," he replied.
"What happened?"
"I told him that you'd changed your mind about going to Metropolis."
"Did he find any more of the poison?"
"I didn't ask."
"You didn't -" Lois stopped her outburst as comprehension filtered through a brain that definitely wasn't firing on all cylinders. Clark hadn't even asked about the poison. She knew why - because in his mind, her wanting to leave him was more important. She pulled the band from her limp hair. "Let's do this," she said.
Clark broke into a wide smile. "I've prepared everything," he said eagerly. "I thought we should do it downstairs."
"OK."
He stepped closer to the bed, his momentary exuberance dissolving as uncertainty flooded his face. "Ah ... would you like me to carry you?"
"I'm not -" Again, her brain caught up, just a fraction too late, but at least it felt like it was becoming a functioning organ again. "Thank you," she said.
Clark slipped his hands under her and lifted her easily. He took her down the stairs and to the couch in the living room - which was indeed ready. A sheet of plastic hung over the arm, and a pile of cushions was positioned to give support to her back. A bowl of water waited nearby with the washcloth, shampoo, and conditioner.
He placed her on the couch with a small smile. "Feeling OK?"
Lois nodded. She was feeling OK. No better than OK, but the cloud of dejection seemed less oppressive.
Clark moved to her head. "I'll warm up the water, and then we'll get started," he said. There were a few seconds of silence. "I need to check the wound. I'll try to be gentle." She felt him brush aside her hair. "It's looking much better," he said. "Did that hurt?"
"No."
"Good. I'll wet your hair now."
Lois closed her eyes, squeezing out all thoughts. Nothingness was infinitely preferable to the attack of her memories. However, a clear image penetrated her barriers. The image of Clark, lying on the floor of the cell as she'd washed his hair.
She remembered how she had sensed his tension. How he had had to fight to allow her to continue. How she had celebrated when she'd felt relaxation sweep over him.
The water was exactly the right temperature as it gushed from the washcloth, down her hair, and into the bowl. She heard the squirt of shampoo and smelled its scent.
Then, his touch came to her hair, easing through its strands, always careful, always loving, always conscious of the sore patch.
Lois heard herself sigh.
She imagined Clark's smile.
And felt the jagged chains begin to ease from her body.
||_||
Clark ran his fingers the length of Lois's hair.
She had beautiful hair. He loved touching it. He had watched it so often, mesmerised as it swayed across her shoulders in time to her movements.
Being allowed to touch it ... Being allowed the opportunity to do something for her ...
Every day - more than once - he recalled the time when she had washed his hair. He doubted she would ever fully understand how much her acceptance meant to him.
Now, she had been hurt. Clark had experienced firsthand the pit of Moyne's depravity. His mind could too easily form images of what might have transpired in the time when Lois had been alone with Moyne. The position of Lois's scratches made it horrifyingly easy to guess his intentions. And coming such a short time after Lois had been rendered helpless while her friend had been brutally raped and bashed to death ...
Clark could feel her pain.
He could understand her instinct to withdraw.
With all of his heart, he wished he could ease her suffering.
She had given him two days.
Two days to try to persuade her to stay with him. Two days to hope she would begin to confide in him. Two days for time and love to begin the healing process.
Her eyes were closed, but Clark knew she wasn't asleep. He used a pitcher to collect some water from the bowl and tested its temperature with his finger. He lowered his glasses and shot a little spurt of heat into it before testing it again. Satisfied, he slowly poured it over Lois's hair.
He inhaled as he filled his palm with the apple conditioner. He'd always loved the smell of apples. He remembered telling her that his favourite food was apple pie. That couldn't be the reason for her choice of product - she'd bought the conditioner before they had begun talking. Perhaps she had just *known*.
It wouldn't surprise him.
He stroked the conditioner through her hair and continued his slow fingerdance.
His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth.
Last night - before Moyne had come and contaminated their lives - Lois had said that she was waiting for him to kiss her.
He couldn't deny that he wanted to. He had been wanting to since ... Well, he wasn't sure when, because he'd ruthlessly buried the thought the first few hundred times it had muscled into his mind. But as much as he'd tried to drive it out, he couldn't.
He wanted to kiss Lois. That was the truth, and it scared him. He wanted to know what it would feel like.
But ...
Clark dragged his eyes from her mouth and his thoughts from the possibility of a kiss.
Right now, the last thing Lois needed was a male pressing her for physical closeness. He couldn't do *anything* that would remind her of Moyne. Or Ivica.
Clark thoroughly rinsed the long dark drape of her hair and picked up a towel. He spread it over her head and began drying, being careful to avoid the place of her injury.
He wondered how it had happened. It could be a tooth mark. He hadn't asked Lois. She didn't seem ready to talk, and until she was, he figured he should remain quiet on the matter.
When her hair was almost dry, Clark began to comb it out with long, gentle strokes. He'd never expected to be granted the privilege of combing a woman's hair.
But Lois ... She had already exploded so many of the restrictions on his life.
Her trust in him was an even greater gift than his freedom.
She had the ability to change things. To affect things for the better. Clark was sure that Lois's trust had significantly influenced Scardino's attitude.
Scardino trusted Lois. Lois trusted the alien. That changed everything. Suddenly, the alien didn't appear so different, so fearsome, so worthy of hatred.
With a gush of disappointment, Clark realised that he had finished his task. He attempted to part her hair close to its customary place and arranged it over her ears.
Her eyes opened.
"All finished," Clark said with a smile.
"It feels good. Thank you."
Clark picked up the bowl of water. "I'll start dinner." He took a couple of steps away and then turned back to her. "Lois," he said. "While you're here, I want you to feel as if this is your home. You can go wherever you want, use whatever you want, do whatever you want."
"Thanks," she said.
"I'll call you when dinner is ready."
He gave her a parting smile and walked away, refusing to think about how Friday was drawing ever closer.
||_||
Lois put down her knife and fork even though her plate was still half-full. Clark was a brilliant cook, and the meal had been delicious, but she couldn't force herself to eat any more.
If he felt disappointed, he tried not to let it show. He gave her a smile - probably not realising that she had analysed his smiles and knew that this one held little joy.
That was understandable. His mind was probably in turmoil over the possibility of her returning to Metropolis.
Lois wished she could tell him that she wasn't going to leave. She knew that if she did that, his smile wouldn't be forced at all - it would be real and genuine and bursting with joy.
She wished she could. But her fears held her silent. What if something else happened? What if she told Clark that she would stay, only to change her mind again? That wasn't fair to him.
She'd made one of the most fundamental errors possible. She'd been told a hundred times - never compound a mistake. If you make a wrong decision, it's better to do nothing than to make it worse. But that was what she had done.
She'd lost control and almost killed Moyne. That was bad enough. But then, she had exacerbated it by telling Clark she was leaving. In just a few unthinking words, she had undone everything she had been trying to achieve since she'd first felt the compulsion to help him.
She'd built and built and built his trust. Only to slay it by her own hand.
Or her own stupidity.
She knew Clark wanted her to be safe and happy.
And to stay with him.
He hadn't thought through the ramifications of trying to build a relationship now that the trust between them had been shattered.
She had almost killed Moyne. She could no longer trust herself.
She had almost gone with Scardino. Clark could no longer trust her.
The future seemed like a dark, impenetrable cloud.
She had no job. No career. No partner. No friends.
None of that mattered. What tore at her heart was the knowledge that she had hurt someone so vulnerable. Someone who had already suffered so much.
Someone she loved.
"Would you like to go and sit on the couch?" Clark asked. "I can bring you a cup of tea."
A tiny thought sparked through the torpor of her mind. "Could I sit on the porch?" she said.
"Of course," he said with evident relief. "It will be cool now that the sun is gone, but I can bring you a blanket."
"Would you mind?"
"Of course not." His look said he wouldn't mind doing anything ... if it only made her happy. But Lois didn't know how to tell him that happiness needed to come from within her - and within her there was only dejection and lifelessness.
Five minutes later, Lois was sitting on a comfortable chair with her feet perched on a padded stool that Clark had brought for her.
He put two cups of tea on the tiny table next to her and sat on the other side of it.
He said nothing.
Lois felt a feeble smile wriggle free from her heaviness. Clark was doing exactly what she had done so many times in the cell - given him company, but not forced him to talk.
"Did you go to Smallville today?" she asked.
She sensed his surprise at her sudden rupturing of the silence. "No," he replied. "I didn't want to leave you."
"I think you should go tomorrow."
"Maybe. We still have some of the supplies that Donny brought us. And if you want anything else, I can fly."
"You've recovered?"
"Yes." The silence came again, seeming to sweep over the darkened fields and settle on them - not as a stranger, but a friend. "Rachel came today," Clark said.
"What did she want?"
"Just to make sure we are all right."
"What did you tell her?"
"I thanked her for coming so promptly last night and told her how sorry I am that it could have ended with her death."
"Yeah." Lois hadn't really looked at it like that. "What did she say about Moyne?"
"That he had gotten progressively more agitated - particularly when Menzies said that Moyne wasn't to get any special consideration."
"Menzies said that?" Lois asked in surprise.
Clark nodded. "Whatever assistance Moyne expected from the superiors ran out last night."
"I wonder why," Lois pondered.
"Rachel didn't say."
Lois glanced at Clark, looking for signs of the anxiety he must feel about the secrets Moyne could have revealed. "Do you have any idea how much she knows?"
Clark's smile flickered. "I couldn't really ask if Moyne had told her that I'm an alien," he noted.
Lois wanted to respond to his smile. Or his attempt to lighten the conversation. But before she could muster a smile, Clark had continued.
"I got the impression that no one was taking anything Moyne said too seriously."
But a thought planted was hard to dislodge. "Scardino said he would do damage control," Lois said, trying to be encouraging.
"Rachel said that he'd been really helpful. He took Moyne's body back to Metropolis." Clark looked sideways for a moment. "When he was here today, he told me that he would keep looking for Mom."
"Did he tell you anything new?" Lois asked.
"Nothing useful," Clark said. "You know, it still feels like an impossible dream. To be free. To have the chance to look for Mom. To think she might come home."
"What do you believe?" Lois asked. "Do you believe that you're free? That those who know your secret mean you no harm?"
Clark took a long breath. "I want to believe that," he said. "I want to."
But Lois knew he wanted something else even more. He wanted to be with her. She should gather up all the impetuosity that usually came so naturally and simply say the words. I'm not leaving you, Clark.
But self-condemnation strangled her ... and the moment slipped away.
"Rachel asked me again if I would like to go out with her," Clark said. His gaze moved from the distant fields and centred on Lois.
"What did you say?"
"I told her the truth."
"What is the truth?"
"That I am in love with you."
Lois felt the warmth of his love seep into her again. She didn't deserve it. But she couldn't deny its power. Clark's love was possibly his strongest attribute.
And considering he could catch fired bullets, that made it a powerful force.
Could it be enough? Could it be enough to restore whatever was broken inside her?
If anyone could do it, Clark could.
If she snapped again, he would be there for her. Just as he'd been last night.
Realising he was probably waiting ... hoping ... for a response, Lois forced herself to find words. She had to say something. "Clark ..."
What could she tell him? She couldn't promise that she would never leave him. She'd done that ... over and over. She'd promised. She'd pleaded for his trust.
It had taken so long to build. And only a second to destroy.
What could she say? If she said she would stay with him, it would be nothing more than empty words.
With a smooth movement, Clark slid his chair forward and turned it sideways. He gently clasped her leg, lifted her foot onto his knee, and removed her shoe and sock.
Then his fingers began to massage her ankle.
The familiarity filled her.
His love surrounded her.
Lois put her head back and closed eyes that had become damp.
He loved her so much.
She wasn't worthy of his love.
She had failed him.
She needed him.
Clark said nothing. He didn't need words. His hands were speaking his heart. He loved her. He feared that she didn't believe him. He didn't know how to find another way to tell her. In his desperation to recapture common ground, he had turned to something they had shared.
His fingers on her ankle felt so good.
Five minutes later, he put down her foot and picked up the other one.
His thumbs glided across her skin.
She had to respond. She had to give him some indication of what she was thinking.
She couldn't expect that he would believe her, but nothing would be as cruel as keeping quiet.
She opened her eyes and watched him. Watched his face. She could see his uncertainty. Could see him clinging to hope that was beginning to fade.
"Clark?"
His gaze lifted from her foot. "Uhmm?"
"I'm sorry."
He looked genuinely surprised. "You didn't do anything wrong," he said.
She had done a whole lot wrong. She had wanted to kill. She had run away. She had hurt the man she loved. "Clark?"
His eyes settled in hers, but his fingers didn't stop their message of love on her ankle.
Lois had to ask now. If she didn't, the moment would be lost and it would be too late. Her request wasn't fair to him - in so many ways. But she couldn't face the darkness alone. "Clark, would you stay with me tonight?"
His reaction was surprise. And bewilderment. And maybe hope, too. "Stay?" he queried.
"Will you stay with me all night?" she asked. "I don't want to be alone."
"Of course I'll stay with you," he said.
She felt as if she had nothing to give him in return. She searched and found something. "I trust you, Clark," she said. "There is no one I trust more than you."
His smile made a hesitant appearance. "Thank you, Lois."
She could see how much her trust meant to him. If she continued looking at him and thinking about his life, she was going to cry. She didn't want to cry. Crying was the easy way out. "Would you mind if we went inside now?" Lois asked.
Clark smiled as he reached for her shoes. When they were on and her laces tied, he stood and offered her his hand.
He'd done exactly that action many times, but it never looked tired or forced. Life would be like that with Clark, Lois thought, as she took his hand and rose to her feet. He would be the sort of man still doing the little acts of chivalry after decades of being together - and doing them with style regardless of the trends of the day.
As soon as she was standing, he released her hand. They walked to the back of the house, and Clark opened the door for her. "Would you like a cup of tea?" he asked.
"No," she said. "Thanks."
"Anything?"
The tiredness had returned. "No. I'm going to bed."
"I'll do a few things here before I come up."
"OK." She should give him a smile. She tried, but it felt like a failure. She left the kitchen and trudged wearily up the stairs.
||_||
Clark waited until he could no longer hear Lois's footsteps above him and then climbed the stairs. He showered and went into his bedroom to dress in a tee shirt and sweatpants.
Why had Lois asked him to stay with her?
Was it because the darkness brought memories? Of Ivica? And Moyne?
Was it because she didn't want to be alone?
Or because she wanted to be with him?
Would she want to sleep? Or would she be willing to talk?
Clark took a breath that he hoped would settle his uneasiness and then pushed open the door to his parent's bedroom. Lois was in bed, looking at him. "Shall I get the sleeping bag?" he asked.
"Do you want it?"
He didn't know how to answer that question. Lois didn't answer his question either.
Not knowing what else to do, Clark stepped forward. He reached the bed. He slid in and pulled the covers over his body, being mindful to keep a distance between them.
"Do you want the light left on?" he asked.
Lois paused. "I'm not scared of the dark," she said in a small voice.
"I understand."
"How could you understand?"
"When I first came out of the cell ... I wasn't scared of the darkness - but it was just so different. So unfamiliar. So threatening."
"Clark ... today ... today, you were so ... you were exactly what I needed."
Her words filled him with hope. Hope that he'd done enough. Hope that she would stay.
"Clark, I won't leave tomorrow. I promise."
He'd already assumed that. He wanted to ask about Friday. Would she leave on Friday? Would she leave him one day?
Clark smothered his fears. When Lois had been adamant that she would stay with him, he hadn't been able to believe her because his sights had been so firmly set on forever.
It had gotten him nowhere.
If all Lois could guarantee him was one day, he would take it. He would take it as a gift. "Goodnight, Lois," he said.
"Goodnight, Clark."
"Lois, if you need anything during the night, all you have to do is ask. I'm here for you."
As she closed her eyes, Lois almost smiled. It was strained and tired, but Clark grasped it, and relished it, and didn't avert his gaze until long after it had disappeared.
When his eyes finally slid shut, a convoy of feelings assaulted him.
He'd climbed some mountains. He'd overcome new and difficult situations. Many of them. But a huge one still remained.
He was in bed with the woman he loved. *In* the bed. Without the barrier of separate sleeping bags.
If it ever progressed ...
Clark gulped.
Moyne had never allowed him to forget that he was an animal.
Lois would tell him to disregard everything Moyne had said.
And she was right.
Moyne was a sadistic killer who had attempted to rape Lois.
Attempted?
How far had he gone? Clark couldn't ignore the twist of fear that wormed through his heart. He knew Moyne too well. "Lois?" he said. "Are you still awake?"
"Uhmm."
She sounded almost asleep. He shouldn't ask. Not now.
"What?" she said.
"I ... I ... There is something I wanted to ask, but my timing is all wrong. Go to sleep."
"What did you want to ask?"
"I don't really have the right to ask ... but ... "
"Moyne didn't rape me. He said he was going to, but he didn't. He didn't touch me anywhere except for the scratches on my chest."
Clark gulped. With relief. With astonishment that Lois had read him so accurately. "I'm ... I'm so glad. I ... How did you know I was going to ask that?"
"You were worried that Ivica or Elan had raped me. It makes sense that you would be worried about Moyne, too."
"Thank you. Thank you for telling me."
"Clark?"
"Yes, Lois?"
"Thank you for being with me now."
"I ... I'm glad you asked me to be here," he said. "I'm glad you feel safe with me."
"I do. I always have. I always will."
That sounded like she was thinking further ahead than the solitary day she had promised him. "I hope you sleep really well," Clark said. "But if you don't ... if you just want someone to talk to ... I'm right here for you."
"Thanks." She closed her eyes.
Clark watched her, wishing he could stand guard at the gateway of her mind. Did he dare touch her?
Would she want his touch?
Very slowly, Clark slipped his arm across the sheet and covered her hand with his.
Her fingers grasped his.
A few minutes later, she was asleep.
Clark quieted the accumulation of his hopes and fears and willed himself to follow her.
