In all my years of writing L&C fic, I don't think I've ever experienced such a compulsion to write as I did when this story popped into my head two weeks ago. It gripped me on a Saturday afternoon and wouldn't let me go until around 1am on Monday morning. I'm still writing it, and whether or not this is a good thing, it continues to occupy a large part of my waking thoughts.
Of course, that doesn't mean that it's a good story! I just wanted to explain (in my defence, perhaps ) that I really didn't plan to write this story, didn't spend days working out a plot, certainly didn't want to write anything so bleak (there, I've said it ) - I just got an idea and five minutes later I was on a writing treadmill that refused to stop or even slow down.
Okay, so now you know that it's not the cheeriest of fics. Wendy, my esteemed BR (and a big thank you to her for BRing this so speedily), however, insists that it has humour, albeit black humour, and just last night I wrote a scene that is played purely for laughs, so it's not entirely doom and gloom.
Anyway, enough of the excuses and apologies, on with the fic.
PS: I should say that this fic contains adult themes and the occasional swear word, but I've been assured that it's within PG-13 limits.
**********
Addicted (PG-13 version)
An Alternative Universe L&C Story
By Yvonne Connell
The apartment lights were off but for a single lamp casting a pallid glow across the living room. Dim light from the neon street lights filtered in through the window, adding a little extra illumination to the room, but the figure on the sofa was still largely shrouded in shadows.
Clark preferred the semi-dark. It suited his mood.
It allowed him to hide.
In brash, blazing light, you were exposed – to the world and to yourself. You were forced to acknowledge your surroundings, and if you were at home, your surroundings defined who you were. You couldn't hide.
In darkness you could be no-one. You could be anonymous. You could even be someone else.
His hand moved towards the small metal box perched in the sofa's arm. In the darkness it was someone else's hand, a different person who lived a different reality to Clark's.
He noted with detached interest that the hand trembled as it reached out and closed over the box. The person, whoever he was, was clearly in a bad way. He needed that box, and the contents therein, but he'd waited too long before allowing himself to open it.
Just one hit. That was all this person needed – just enough to take the edge off.
He watched as the hand transferred the box to his lap. The person who needed the hit got excited – relief was imminent and his pulse started to race in anticipation.
He disapproved of this person. No, more than that – he hated this person. They were weak and dependent, not at all like Clark himself. He'd been brought up to live life cleanly and honestly, to be strong and to face up to challenges head on. He wasn't the kind of person to cower in the darkness and tremble with craving like some pathetic junkie.
The hand slowly opened the box, red light leaking out around the edges of the lid as it was raised. Fully open, the box revealed its contents – a bright red crystal nestling within black silk.
He laid his head back against the cushions and let the numbness descend over his jangling nerves. His racing pulse slowed and his breathing deepened. Better. So much better. Reality retreated back into a comforting blur where nothing was really of any consequence and problems became mildly interesting puzzles.
Mustn't overdo it, though. He didn't want to become dependent, after all.
The hand closed the box and laid it on the carpet beside the sofa.
Clark curled up on the sofa and allowed his thoughts to drift aimlessly through the nothingness.
*************
He could trace the point at which he became a junkie back to a nanosecond in time. It hadn't been the day he'd discovered red kryptonite; hadn't even been the day after he'd recovered from that first hit. No, it had been the split second after Wells had told him that, after a year of searching, Lois was nowhere to be found.
Immediately, he'd known that he would need a crutch, an alternative way of getting through the day. So far, his crutch had been the hope that Lois would be found, but with that gone, he would need something else.
At first, he'd mainlined on despair. Each day became a living hell, a struggle to get out of bed, drag himself to the Planet and sit at his desk writing mediocre copy. He performed his Superman duties like a robot, using the bare minimum of effort required to get the job done. At the end of the day, he would retreat back to his apartment and sit in front of the TV, flicking numbly through endless channels of pointless rubbish.
Perry noticed the change first. Clark was in the habit of occasionally visiting the new mayor of Metropolis and his wife for dinner, and like the good, well-mannered country boy he was, he continued to honour this social obligation and others like it, despite all that was happening within.
His old friend expressed concern. He noted that Clark was quiet, that he never smiled, seldom laughed and hardly ever initiated conversation. Clark didn't bother to deny it, but there was little Perry could do to make things better.
Then Clark discovered the kryptonite.
He'd been flying over Smallville, drawn there by some crazy notion that a sighting of his boyhood home might lift his spirits. No such luck – he'd landed on the track leading up to the farmhouse and immediately flashed back to the day of the car crash. The scene had been as clear as the day it had happened – his parents' car on a collision course with Wayne Irig's van, his ten-year-old legs running too slowly across the yard and down the track, the sickening thud as the two vehicles slammed into each other, and his scream of terror when he realised that his parents were dead.
He'd stumbled blindly away from the remembered scene, breaking into an aimless run that eventually took him to Shuster's field. He'd found himself in a coppice of young trees, a corner he'd not visited much before. Usually, when he visited the field, he'd trace the path of his spacecraft as it had been described to him by his father, reliving his spectacular arrival into the world. This time, however, he looked around himself and for the first time noticed a trail of strange-looking rocks.
He knew instinctively that they were Kryptonian. Unlike green kryptonite, however, these didn't appear to be causing him any discomfort. He studied them a little closer, noted their pale red glow, and decided that since they were one of the few things on the planet which connected him to Krypton, he would gather some up and take them back to his apartment. Perhaps a touch of home would lift the despair gnawing away at his soul.
Surprisingly, he did feel better as he flew home. Nothing seemed to weigh so heavily on his shoulders any more and he even felt jovial enough to execute a small loop-the-loop before skimming down to enter his living room window. He stashed the rocks on a spare shelf of his bookcase and flew straight back out again to indulge in some recreational flying.
The next thing he remembered was waking up the following day in a sewer.
He had little recollection of how he got there, and of course, he was extremely shaken by the incident. He deduced that the cause was the red rocks from home, which he immediately dubbed red kryptonite. The name seemed to fit, since the rocks had caused almost as much distress as the green variety of kryptonite, even if he hadn't actually experienced the pain and nausea which usually accompanied exposure.
Clearing up the rocks proved challenging, but not impossible. Lead, which he already knew protected him from green kryptonite, also proved an effective defence against the red rocks. With considerable difficulty, he obtained a lead box and a heavy lead apron and working cautiously with frequent breaks to ensure he wasn't unknowingly being affected by the rocks, transferred them to the box.
The box, however, remained in his apartment.
Over the ensuing days and weeks, his thoughts returned time and time again to his lost day. The experience had been alarming, but also curiously liberating. For a whole day, he had been somewhere else, far away from the daily despair of life without hope. He remembered feeling happy as he'd flown back from Smallville, remembered rushing out to execute frivolous barrel rolls across the sky. He'd rediscovered a touch of the old Clark Kent that day.
All because of the power of red kryptonite. It numbed. It blurred. It blotted things out.
He wasn't sure when this other person had emerged. It just happened one day that this other person went out and bought a small lead box and found a way to safely hack the red rocks into smaller chunks. Then this person placed one of the small chunks into the lead box and placed it on his bookcase.
He ignored it for days. At the start, it was enough to know that it was there. That was his new crutch – the insurance policy on his bookcase. In fact, it was better than an insurance policy; it reassured him that he was still in control, because he never, ever went anywhere near it. He didn't need it.
But his work had begun to suffer. The aching chasm where hope had once dwelt consumed him, diluting his ability to write even mediocre copy. His editor complained. Clark heard the regret in the man's voice, understood that he didn't want to criticise his once-star reporter, but it was unavoidable. Clark was placed under close supervision, his work scrutinised and monitored like never before. The pressure to produce quality writing became a daily nightmare.
Superman barely functioned. He still responded to cries for help, but now he dragged himself through the work and bolted away at top speed whenever anyone tried to speak to him. The media were ignored, the emergency services hardly acknowledged.
And so it was that he found himself sitting on his sofa, staring blankly at the flickering images on the TV after rescuing two people from a fire and carrying out three dead bodies. There was no decision made, no conscious thought process engaged, but nevertheless, someone had stood up and fetched the lead box from the bookcase.
It had been a strangely calming moment. He'd simply sat on the sofa with the box in his lap and opened it. Easy. So easy he couldn't imagine why he hadn't done it before.
Those first few times he hadn't really been attuned to the rock's effects. He'd exposed himself for a couple of minutes without feeling a thing. The first time he wasn't even sure it had worked, until he noticed himself actually laughing at a TV sitcom. Then he'd felt great – the rock had worked its magic and he was back in the real world again, where life was interesting and fun and it didn't matter much what you did so long as you enjoyed yourself.
Later, though, he began to notice the subtle changes when the box was open. Senses were dulled – the important ones, at any rate, like pain and loneliness. Tense muscles relaxed and the endless thoughts buzzing around his head like a plague of flies slowed and thinned out. He began to enjoy the transition, likening it to a session with a good masseuse or a dip in a jacuzzi.
But the real Clark Kent, the one who was brought up on a farm in Kansas and taught from an early age to respect himself and others, never acknowledged this thing that happened from time to time, late in the evening away from prying eyes. No, that was someone else collecting the box and opening it for a quick fix of oblivion.
************
The trouble was, oblivion didn't always stop conveniently when it was time to go to work. Sometimes he was late, and sometimes he was still a little too oblivious when he got to work. Worse still, oblivion sometimes wore off too soon during the working day, leaving him struggling against a near-overwhelming tide of despair during the afternoon.
This wasn't in the plan, if plan there was. No, the idea was to be totally pain-free at home, but for the effects to dilute down to a cosy feeling of well-being during the day.
So a new plan was hatched: take the box to work. That way he could take shorter hits and thus take better control of the ups and downs.
So this other person, the one who did all the planning and executing, bought another small lead box, hacked off another piece of rock, and slipped it into Clark Kent's desk drawer at the Daily Planet. Better, after all, to avoid carrying the box backwards and forwards from work – accidents could happen.
**************
An unexpected side-effect of the rock was the discovery that women were attracted to him, and he to them. It didn't seem to matter any more that he couldn't have Lois; she was gone and so it was time to move on with his life and start dating again.
It was surprisingly easy, he discovered, to land dates with attractive women. In the dim recesses of his mind, he acknowledged that this might have something to do with Superman – they seemed to admire his strength and powers; even get turned on by them. But that was okay. He was Superman, they wanted Superman – everyone was happy.
Best of all, he discovered sex. That was a big plus. Lana had always refused him – not that he'd pressed very hard – claiming that she wanted to wait until they were married. There hadn't been anyone else in his life but Lana, so he'd remained celibate until now.
Losing his virginity had been a little like opening the lead box. Not so easy, perhaps, but still with that sense that he really shouldn't have waited so long. Sex was no big deal, after all. Women expected it after the first few dates.
And it was very enjoyable. Sex was also like the lead box – it stopped you thinking for a while.
***************
Soon, the day rolled around for another of Clark's dinners with Perry and Alice. He found himself looking forward to the event, but just to be safe, he slipped the box into his coat pocket. No sense in being a party-pooper because you found yourself on a bit of a downer.
The front door of the mayor's mansion swung open. “Perry, my man!” exclaimed Clark heartily. “How are you?” He grabbed Perry's hand in both of his and shook it warmly.
“I'm fine, thank you,” replied Perry. “Just fine. How are you, Clark?”
Clark grinned. “I'm good, Perry. In fact, I'm more than good – I'm super!” He laughed. “Get it? Super – superman.”
“Ah...yes, I get it, Clark,” said Perry. “Um, you think I could have my hand back, son? I think the blood's starting to back up there a little.”
“Oh, sorry!” Clark released Perry's hand quickly. “Guess I'm just too happy to see you again.”
“Yes...well, don't stand out there on the stoop. Come on in,” said Perry, stepping aside to let Clark pass then shutting the door behind him. “Shall I take your coat?” He held out a hand.
Clark blanched. “No, that's okay, I'll keep it with me.” The box was in his coat; he couldn't risk letting it out of his reach or, worse still, letting Perry find it. He laughed quickly to cover the awkward moment. “Never know when I might need to rush away on a rescue,” he explained.
Perry looked puzzled. “Can't say as how I remember you worrying about that before. But sure, keep it with you if that's what you want.”
Clark nodded his thanks. “So, where's the gorgeous Alice?” he asked, changing the subject hurriedly. “You got her chained to the kitchen again, Perry? Something sure smells good.”
Perry raised his eyebrows. “Yes, the lovely Alice, as you put it, is in the kitchen. Why don't we take a seat in the lounge for a few moments? She'll join us shortly.”
Clark followed Perry into the large, comfortable lounge and threw himself down onto one of the overstuffed chairs near the fireplace. “Boy, I wish my place was big enough for chairs like these!”
“One of the perks of the mayor's job, I guess,” Perry remarked. “Big job, big furniture.” He settled himself on another chair, perching on the edge and hunching forward. “Son, are you sure you're okay?”
Clark experienced a brief moment of panic – had he said or done something to give himself away? He didn't think so. “Never felt better, Perry,” he said. “I think I'm really starting to find my feet, in fact.”
“That's great to hear, son,” said Perry. “But you seem a little...well, hyper, for want of a better word. Are you sure nothing's bothering you?”
“Nothing at all,” said Clark. “I'm just in a good mood. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“No, I guess not.” Perry rubbed his hand along the side of his jaw for a few moments. Clearly he had something on his mind, but Clark didn't feel like prompting him – he had a hunch that he wasn't going to like whatever it was that Perry was building up to.
Eventually, Perry sighed heavily. “Look, son, I'll level with you. People are concerned about you. Some of your rescue work lately has been a little heavy-handed.”
“When?” asked Clark, feeling the flutter of panic in his belly again. “When have I been heavy-handed?”
“I hear you crashed through the side of a truck on your way to that bank robbery the other day. And there's a twenty-foot crater in State Street where you dropped a crane last week,” said Perry.
“The truck should have stopped, Perry,” replied Clark. “Besides, the driver was fine, wasn't he? And that crane was in a really awkward position – I did the best I could in the circumstances.” He laughed. “Even I'm not perfect, you know.” His laugh seemed to echo around the room; a little too loud, a little too hearty, perhaps. He needed to tone down a little.
Perry grimaced. “Oh, I know,” he said grimly.
Clark's panicky feelings increased. He wasn't handling this well, he knew that. He should be calmer; less defensive. “Look, I'll be more careful, okay?”
But Perry shook his head. “It's not just the rescues, son. People say your work isn't what it used to be, either. You don't meet deadlines, you miss meetings – heck, I haven't read one decent article from you in weeks. You just don't seem to care any more, is what they're saying.”
“Of course I care!” insisted Clark hotly. “I'm just busy – you know how difficult it is balancing my two jobs. I can't always go to meetings or hit deadline. What would you rather I do, attend a budget meeting or save a life?”
“You used to be able to do both,” muttered Perry. He sighed again. “Clark, I just don't recognise you any more. You're defensive, tardy and bordering on downright rude. What's going on, son?”
“I'm fine,” Clark insisted, although his heart was pounding in his chest. Perry knew. Everyone knew. He wasn't in control and they all knew about it. “Look, I need to visit your bathroom, okay? Back in a minute.”
He stood and walked as quickly as was decent out of the room, digging in his pocket for the comforting feel of the box. Once safely ensconced in the bathroom, he flipped the toilet seat cover down, sat and pulled the box out. Just a quick hit – a refresher to get him through Perry's interrogation. He lifted the lid and felt cool relief flood over him.
Better. Much better. Perry was being unfair, hounding him with all these questions. It was none of his business how Clark ran his affairs. Not his business at all.
Once his heart-rate had slowed again, he closed the lid. His hands trembled and he nearly dropped the box as he replaced it in his pocket. Then he flushed the toilet and stood up at the sink. The mirror above reflected a man he didn't recognise – pale and haunted, with bags under his eyes and lines of strain across his forehead. That would be the other person, he told himself, ducking away from the image to splash water on his face. Clark Kent was the guy who would be walking out into the lobby in a minute, all smiles and confidence.
And yes, he was. He breezed through the remainder of the evening, Perry having apparently given up on his third degree. Maybe he'd been more convincing with his answers than he'd realised.
**************
Oh yeah, sex was good. It numbed his capacity for conscious thought, and all the right senses were heightened – pleasure, pleasure and more pleasure.
“Oh, Superman,” she murmured.
Afterwards, he discovered they'd rolled over and she was lying sprawled on top of him. She was looking down at him, her pretty face puckered up into a small frown.
“What?” he asked.
“You're crying,” she said.
“Am I?” He reached up to his face and found tears on his cheeks. “Sorry,” he said, quickly wiping the moisture away.
Damn. He thought that had stopped.
“Sorry,” he muttered again.
**************
“I know he's a friend of yours, Perry, and I know he's gone through some rough times, but I just can't afford to carry him any longer. He's washed up – lost his edge.”
Clark didn't usually eavesdrop on private telephone conversations, but somehow his unconscious radar picked up on this one – perhaps it was the constant mentions of his and Perry's names that did it.
“I hear what you're saying, but it's no use. The man's a liability, Perry. He's got to go.”
He didn't wait to be told. He walked straight into his editor's office and handed in his notice.
“I guess you heard,” said his editor.
Oh, yes, he'd heard. And he knew, deep down, that this had been on the cards for a while – he'd been living on borrowed time for weeks.
Words were said, well-meant phrases about how sorry the paper was to lose him, and how they'd gladly consider his application if he ever wanted to return. But he should get himself sorted out first. Take a break, go hiking in the Himalayas, visit some friends – whatever it took to fix it.
Well, he was pretty sure he was past being fixed, but it was kind of his editor to make some suggestions.
Anyway, things were probably better this way. Now he could devote one hundred percent of his time to his other job. Even Perry had noticed how difficult it was to hold down a full-time job and be Superman at the same time, so now he could prove just how well he could do the rescue work if he wasn't being distracted by his day job.
Although it was weird how little time you actually had during a day. Soon, he couldn't understand how he'd ever managed to work full time and fit everything else into his life. It was all those little things, like showering, shaving, brewing coffee, shopping for food – they all added up, especially if you didn't bother to do them at superspeed. What would be the point? Besides, he kind of enjoyed doing things the normal way, like everyone else.
Oh, and there was that person with the box. He'd taken to hiding the box from that person, shoving it to the back of a drawer so that they wouldn't be drawn to it whenever he had a quiet few minutes on his own. Mind you, they always found it. Walked straight over there, fished it out from under the pile of old newspapers, and brought it back to the sofa. He tried to limit the person to two hits per day, but sometimes things got a little on top of him and he had to let them steal an extra one.
Not every day, though. That would be letting things slide.
*************
Sex was still good, though. Oh, yeah. Not so frequent as it had been a while ago, but he and his girlfriend just didn't ever seem to find the time to see each other these days. She had a new job, apparently, and that made her so tired in the evenings that all she wanted to do when she got home was make dinner and crawl into bed.
Not his bed. Her bed. By herself.
But once in a while, she'd come over.
“Clark, do you love me?”
This, after they'd just made wild, passionate love and he was lying dazed in her arms. “Of course I love you,” he replied automatically.
At least, insofar as he knew what love was. He cared for her, laughed with her, made her dinner, made love with her – you didn't do that with someone you didn't love, did you?
“Don't do that,” she said. “Don't just say the words as if they don't mean anything.”
How did you say them with meaning? He kissed her ear. “I love you. There, was that better?”
She pushed him away and sat up in bed. “Clark, we never talk about anything – nothing important, anyway. We laugh, we drink, we eat, and then we have sex. Does that sound like love to you?”
A small kernel of panic began fluttering in his chest. Did she know? Had she figured out that Clark Kent was a fraud, a man out of control? He never took a hit when she was with him – he'd made that a rule. He was proud of it. “The laughing part sounds good,” he said, keeping his voice light. He picked up her hand and kissed her knuckles.
She snatched the hand away. “We never do anything, either. Never go out, never see a movie together – never even go flying together. I'd hoped we'd do that...Superman.”
“You want to go flying?” he said. “We can do it right now.” He began to levitate them off the bed, up towards the ceiling.
“Clark, stop it!” she said. “Put us down.”
“Okay,” he said, bringing them back down to the bed. “I thought you wanted to go flying.”
She put a hand up to her face, and for a horrible moment he thought she might be crying. “Clark, I'm going to ask you this again, and this time I want to you answer me honestly. Do you love me?”
He thought about that for a moment. Obviously his first answer had been wrong, because she was asking him again. Well, he liked her – liked her a lot. She was his longest-standing girlfriend to date, and that had to mean something. And the sex was great.
How did you know if you were in love? Did you break out into a rash, or start sneezing, or something? He thought back over his previous girlfriends – had he been in love with them? Probably not. How about Lana? He'd nearly married her, so that had to be love, didn't it?
On the other hand, he didn't really miss her, so maybe that hadn't been love after all. The one person he did miss was Lois Lane, and he'd never even met her.
Lois.
Oh, god, he hadn't allowed himself to even think her name for ages. The flutter of panic in his chest grew stronger and he felt tears pricking the backs of his eyes. This was ridiculous – a grown man crying in front of his girlfriend just because he'd remembered a name. He needed to get control again.
“Clark, are you going to answer me? Do you love me?”
He looked at her – a sweet, pretty woman with a big heart and a great sense of humour. They'd had a lot of good times together.
“No,” he said. “I don't love you. I like you a lot, but I don't love you.”
“I thought so,” she replied. “Well, thank you for being honest with me, anyway. Who is she, this woman that you do love?”
How could he possibly answer that? He couldn't even think her name without breaking down, let alone say it out loud. His pulse began to race, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. He might have to break the box rule if she didn't stop pressurising him soon. “I...I can't tell you,” he said. That other person in his head was already planning how to get to the box, how to take a quick hit without her noticing. Maybe she'd be leaving soon anyway.
“Oh, Clark.” She reached up with her thumb and brushed away a tear from his cheek. “You're a good man, deep down. You're sweet and kind, and more thoughtful than any other person I know. But you need help. Something is tearing you up so badly that it's taking over your whole life. Until you deal with that, there won't be room for anyone else.”
“Does...does this mean we're breaking up?” he said, his voice sounding distant and strained.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” The box was just next door, in the bottom drawer of his desk. He knew exactly where it was and he could get to it in seconds, if he needed to.
She climbed off the bed and dressed quickly. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she looked down at him sadly. “Promise me you'll get the help you need. I'd hate to see you slide even further away from us all.” She bent over him and kissed him briefly on his lips. “The world needs you, Superman.”
And with that, she was gone.
As soon as he heard the front door close, the dam within him burst and tears flowed freely down his cheeks. Blindly, he stood and made his way over to his desk, yanked the drawer open and snatched up the box.
This time there was no pretence. This time it was just Clark Kent, the box, and sweet, sweet oblivion.
**************
“Clark!”
The banging on his front door resumed, the force of the blows shaking it on its hinges.
“Clark, I know you're in there, son!”
Didn't Perry realise he was busy? He pressed a button on the TV remote and flicked to another channel. Oh, this was his favourite!
“Today we're going to make friends with the letter "Q', kids. What words do you know that begin with "Q'?”
“Clark! Please open the door – I need to talk to you.”
He flicked a quick burst of x-ray vision at the door. Perry was thumping on it with his fist again. There were a couple of guys with him – aides to the mayor, no doubt. Clark felt a little sorry for Perry sometimes. He wasn't able to go anywhere on his own any more.
“Quotient,” said Clark to the TV.
Maybe he should let Perry in. The guy wanted to talk and those aides didn't look like great conversationalists. He and Perry could talk for hours – at least, they used to. He hadn't been around to dinner with the Whites for a while. Perhaps that was what Perry wanted – to invite him around.
He dropped the remote on the sofa and crossed to open his door. “Hi, Perry,” he said. “Hi,” he added to the aides, who just nodded. Boy, they looked serious. No wonder Perry wanted to get away from them.
“Thank god,” said Perry. He turned to his aides. “Wait here, okay?” They nodded again.
Clark was a bit surprised they were just going to hang around on the stoop, but if that was what Perry wanted, it was fine by him. “Come in,” he told Perry.
“Sorry, guys,” he said to the aides as he closed the door on them.
Perry hadn't moved off the landing. He was staring around at the apartment, and suddenly Clark saw the place through Perry's eyes. He hadn't tidied up for a bit, so there were a few more things lying around than usual. Newspapers, magazines, clothes – quite a lot of clothes, actually. Oh, and yesterday night's dinner plate was still on the coffee table. With a few mugs.
“Sorry about the mess,” he said. “I've been doing some spring cleaning. You know how you get to that stage where everything looks worse than when you started?”
Perry nodded slowly. “Sure.”
Clark led Perry down to the living area and shoved a few things on the floor to clear a space for him to sit. Then he plonked himself down on his usual spot.
“Clark, can we turn that thing off?” said Perry, nodding at the TV. It was playing a cute song all about the letter "Q' and flashing up dancing words that all began with the letter "Q'.
“Oh, sure,” said Clark, grabbing the remote and thumbing it off. “Sorry.”
“Okay.” Perry sat forward in his chair and faced Clark with a grim expression. “Clark, I've got something important to say to you so I want you to listen carefully. It's not going to be very pleasant for either of us so I'm just going to come straight out with it, okay?”
Clark nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay, here it is: Clark, I think you're ill. Quite seriously ill, in fact. Not only that, but I strongly suspect that you're on something. I don't have any proof of that, and heaven knows, I honestly can't imagine what would affect you in this way, but all the signs are there.”
Perry paused, but Clark could only sit and stare at his old friend. He felt the blood draining from his face and the old familiar feelings of panic start up in his belly.
Perry knew. He really did know. Everything.
“Now, you can deny it if you like, and we can play this game where you explain why you're okay and I tell you why you're not, but I wouldn't advise it, Clark. Better to just tell me I'm right and then we can move on to the part where I tell you how I'm going to help you.”
But didn't Perry understand that he was past help? He snatched a glance over to his desk where the box was hidden. That was his crutch, his way of getting through each day. Nothing else helped like the box did.
“I'm...I'm just a little stressed, Perry,” he said. “Superman...it's a big job, you know? Sometimes it gets on top of me a little, that's all.”
Perry shook his head. “Don't do it, Clark. You won't like it when I tell you all the reasons why I know you're ill.”
He glanced over to the desk again. He could feel the pull of the box already. It was calling out to him, asking to be opened – just for a second or two.
“Is that where it is, Clark?” said Perry. “This stuff you're taking? Shall I fetch it for you?”
Clark snapped his gaze back to Perry in mute horror. No! Not even if Perry knew the truth.
Perry stood up and crossed to Clark's desk. “Which drawer is it in?” Clark froze and felt his heart leap up into his throat as Perry bent down and opened the top drawer. “This one?”
He began to sweat, his sticky palms leaving patches of damp wherever he clutched onto the sofa cushions. But he couldn't move; couldn't speak while Perry continued his tortuous exploration of the desk.
Perry opened the next drawer down. “This one?” He looked across at Clark. “I'm getting close, aren't I?”
Clark closed his eyes. “Please, Perry, don't do this.”
“But you need it, don't you?” Perry replied. “I'm just fetching it for you.”
Clark heard him grasp the last drawer handle. *The* drawer. “This is it, isn't it?” said Perry. “This is where you hide your stash. Let's take a look...”
“No,” he whispered.
“Sorry, Clark?” said Perry. “I didn't quite catch that.”
He shuddered. It was over. Perry knew, the whole world knew. Clark Kent, the farmer's son from Kansas, was a fraud, an out of control kryptonite junkie.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, you're right.” He fought silently with himself for a moment, defeat warring with the need to remain private, to keep the sordid little secret to himself. But Perry had cracked him open, and he soon found the words tumbling out of his mouth. “I can't...I can't live without it any more.”
His voice broke and the tears came again, rolling down his cheeks, wracking his body with sobs he couldn't control. “I'm a mess, Perry,” he sobbed. “I can't do anything right any more. Job, girlfriend, Superman...it's all gone to hell. The kryptonite is the only thing that gets me through the day.”
“Hey, hey there.” Perry's solid frame was suddenly beside him, strong arms hugging him tightly while he blubbered against his friend's shoulder. “We're going to get you some help, okay? Whatever it takes, we'll find it for you.”
The words were comforting, but Clark knew in his heart of hearts that Perry would never be able to find the one thing that he really needed. Without Lois Lane, he was nothing.
“Son, did I hear you right? Did you say kryptonite?”
Clark nodded miserably. “Yeah, not the green stuff that makes me sick. This stuff is red...it has other properties.”
“I see,” replied Perry. “Well, that's a relief of sorts. For a minute there I thought you were dosing yourself up with something that could kill you.”
“Not so far as I know, it can't,” said Clark.
Perry pushed him gently away and held him at arm's length, resting his hands on Clark's shoulders. “Here's what we're going to do. First, you're coming home with me. Alice already has a room ready for you, and you're welcome to stay for as long as you need to. Then, once you're settled in, we're going to take you to see a friend of mine. He's got a lot of experience in helping people in trouble, and I think you'll like him.”
Clark dropped his eyes. “He's a psychiatrist, right?”
“Yes, he is. It's nothing to be ashamed of, Clark,” said Perry. “You're ill, and he's the best man I know to get you well again. Okay?”
Clark nodded.
“Good. Now, unless you want to do it, Alice is going to come by later and pack up a few things for you. Is there anything you want to take with you right now?”
Clark swallowed. This was it. This was where he admitted that he couldn't go anywhere without it. Not even to the corner shop and back. He dashed the tears from his eyes and turned away from Perry. “The box. I need the box.”
“Of course you do. Do you...uh...need some now? Before we leave?”
He cringed inside, hating the person he'd become. The person who schemed and planned, who cowered in the dark, who hid from prying eyes but strode around with false bravado. He'd thought he was fooling everyone, but they had all known. He was the one who'd been a fool.
“Look, I'll just wait for you outside, okay?” said Perry. “You come out when you're ready.”
He nodded, grateful to his friend for allowing him to preserve some semblance of dignity. “Thanks, Perry. You're a good friend.”
Perry cleared his throat. “Hey, you'd do the same for me, right?” he said gruffly. “I'll be just outside.”
Clark waited until Perry was safely out of the way and then retrieved the box. He didn't even bother to sit down first, he just opened the lid and stared down into the beautiful red crystal. It didn't give him such a good hit these days; he'd been considering hacking off a larger lump from one of the rocks and buying a larger box. Still, it was enough to take the edge off.
He wondered what it would be like if he just swallowed a piece. Maybe that would take the edge off permanently. It would be easier than carrying a heavy lead box around, that was for sure.
But Perry was going to get him the help he needed, right? He wouldn't need this stuff at all once Perry's friend was finished with him.
Yeah, that sounded better. He would be back to his old self, and she...well, he wouldn't even remember her name. She'd be erased from his soul.
***************
