[Yup, more of this jolly fic <g>. I should perhaps reiterate at this point that adult themes are discussed in hopefully PG terms.]
Clark's pulse was racing as they neared the end of their journey through the clinic. Perry had refused to tell him any more about the woman they were going to meet, and Clark couldn't tell whether that was because Perry was under instructions from George, or whether he simply didn't know any of the answers to Clark's questions. His old editor was very good at keeping a tightly-buttoned secret when the situation demanded it.
Meanwhile, his earlier conviction that Linda had indeed been his Lois was leaking away with every foot that they drew closer to the open door at the end of the corridor they were travelling down.
Beyond the door, Clark could see sofas and easy chairs dotted around a largish room. It looked horribly like one of the group therapy rooms Clark had so far, thankfully, managed to avoid. George had decided early on that Clark's celebrity status wouldn't be conducive to successful group sessions, and Clark had heartily agreed.
“What is this, Perry?” he asked warily as they travelled down the corridor. “I don't do group sessions.”
Perry patted his shoulder. “Don't you worry, son.”
They rolled into the room. There were a few patients dotted around, mostly drawing or writing on notepads. A few were simply staring blankly into space. There also seemed to be one or two clinic staff supervising the activity, moving amongst the patients and discussing their work in soft murmurs.
Perry rolled the wheelchair across the room to the far end, where there was a table and chairs set beside a sunny window. George was there, sitting opposite a woman who had her back to them. She was bent over the table, seemingly engrossed in whatever she was writing or drawing. She wore a blue hospital gown and a thin off-white dressing gown, just like many of the other patients, and had short brown hair.
Clark gripped the armrests of the chair. This had to be Lois. It just had to be.
As they drew closer, George acknowledged them and beckoned Perry to park Clark's wheelchair at the table. Clark's gaze shot to the woman now that he could see her from the front, but her hair spilled over her face as she bent low over the piece of paper she was drawing on.
Same build as Lois, same hair colour...
“Clark,” said George. “This is Linda Fielding. Linda,” he said, raising his voice a little to attract the woman's attention. “I'd like you to meet a friend of mine.”
Clark held his breath as she slowly raised her face. She had big brown eyes, high cheekbones and a pert little nose. Her dark brown hair was cut into a simple bob style.
But she wasn't Lois.
The blood drained from his face and his head began to swim. She wasn't Lois.
“Hi,” she piped in the same little-girl voice he'd heard in his room. “Would you like a flower?”
“I...” His tongue was thick and clumsy in his mouth, his throat constricted. She wasn't Lois. “I...”
She shoved a piece of paper across the table towards him. “Here, you can have one anyway. You're nice.”
His hand reached for the paper, he dropped his gaze blindly to it. Pastel colours swirled before his eyes.
She wasn't Lois.
“Perry,” said George. “You're the only one of us who's met Lois before. I want you to take a good look and then tell Clark if you think Linda could be Lois Lane.”
“I don't have to look any further,” said Perry sadly. “There are a lot of similarities, but I'd know Lois if she was wearing a disguise and standing in the middle of a crowded room.” He hunkered down beside Clark's wheelchair and placed a hand on Clark's arm. “This isn't Lois, son,” he murmured. “I'm sorry.”
Clark found his voice at last. “Why?” he whispered. “Couldn't you just have told me? Why did you have to bring me here?”
“Because you're an obstinate son-of-a-bitch, Clark,” said George. “I knew you wouldn't believe me unless you saw it with your own eyes.”
That much was true. Clark snatched another glance at Linda, who had lost interest in their conversation and was busy with her drawings again. “Thanks, George,” he muttered bitterly. “Now I really know that I've lost it. What are you going to do next? Put me in a straitjacket?”
“Easy, buddy,” murmured George. “I'm sorry I hit you so hard with this, but Perry couldn't get here any sooner and I didn't actually know for certain if Linda could be Lois - I needed Perry to make the ID.” He paused. “It had to be tonight, of course, otherwise you'd have torn this place apart looking for her.”
Clark nodded. “I was ready to do just that when Perry arrived.”
“But don't think for one minute that this means you're crazy,” said George. “These things happen, Clark. The mind can be a real bastard at times – it throws all kinds of crap at you, especially when you're ill. Physically ill, I mean.”
But not when you're mentally ill? Clark didn't bother voicing the obvious. George was just trying to be kind by leaving that part out.
She wasn't Lois. Wasn't his Lois. The words kept repeating in his head like a broken record. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the reality of the woman beside him, so like Lois yet so totally not Lois.
“Son, I know this must be tough for you,” said Perry from somewhere close to his elbow. “Believe me, I wanted her to be Lois too.
Perry's words of sympathy floated meaninglessly over the surface of Clark's misery. He felt sick and dizzy – maybe he hadn't recovered so well from the red kryptonite poisoning as he'd thought. “Can we go now?” he said, gritting his teeth against the hollow feeling in his belly. “I'm tired.”
“Sure,” said George. “I'll take you-“
But suddenly Clark couldn't wait. The room was too hot, Perry was too close, George was too slow – he lurched onto his feet, stumbled clumsily past the wheelchair and Perry and sped out of the room at superspeed.
The world seemed to be shrinking. There was just a tiny black cell in which there was Clark, his abject misery, and the stark truth of his mistake. How could he have been so stupid as to confuse that woman with Lois? Was he that far gone? Didn't the dreams about her mean anything at all?
The urge to flee left him as quickly as it had seized him. He stopped, fetching up against the far wall of the outside corridor, where he stood bracing himself with one hand against the cool plasterwork.
Please make it stop, he implored. I'll do anything, but please – just make it stop.
“Hey, buddy.”
He turned his head slowly, found George leaning against the opposite wall, gazing at him with concern written all over his round face. “What's happening, George?” he asked. “It's all going to hell again.”
“It's that curve-ball,” said George. “Just when you think everything's going fine, life chucks you a whole basket full of them. We'll fix this, though. You and me and a few boxes of tissues, huh?”
“I'm tired, George,” said Clark. “I don't want to be like this any more.”
“Yeah, I hear you, buddy. But we're going to sort it, okay?” said George. “Believe it or not, you're a lot closer than you think.”
Clark let his gaze drop to the linoleum floor. “I have to believe you,” he murmured. “Otherwise I may as well break into that medicine cabinet down the corridor and end it all now. At least I'd die happy.”
George shook his head. “You and I both know you'd never do that. Come on,” he said, pushing himself off the wall and placing a hand on Clark's shoulder. “Let's get you back to your room before Carolyn finds out I've kept you up. That woman is going to tan my hide for dragging you out of bed.”
********************
Before leaving him that night, George perched on the side of Clark's bed and fixed him with a firm, steady gaze. “I want you to stay with us for a couple of days, okay?,” he said. “Not because I think you've lost your marbles. I just know that this stage is about as hard as it gets and I don't want you distracted by anything else while we're working through this stuff.”
“Stage, George?” said Clark uneasily. “Which stage is this – the falling off the wagon stage? Or the totally screwed up and no chance of a recovery stage?”
George smiled. “Actually, the former. Lots of addicts hit it, although I have to admit I'm a little pissed with myself because I'd planned to skip this stage with you.”
“Sorry I messed up your plans, then.”
“It happens,” said George with a shrug. “So, how about it? You going to listen to me and take full advantage of this five-star accommodation for a couple of days? I mean, who could resist twenty cable channels and free meals in your room?”
Clark pulled a face. “You know how I feel about hospitals.”
“And you therefore know that I wouldn't suggest this unless I thought it was important,” replied George. “I'm serious, Clark. All joking apart, I think you're going to need us.”
A shiver ran down Clark's spine. George seldom dropped the jovial, wise-cracking routine, but when he did, Clark knew that it was time to start paying attention.
He nodded. “Okay.”
*******************
If Clark's first night was anything to go by, George was right. Sleep was elusive – well, totally non-existent for many long, dark hours of tossing and turning. His mind was a turmoil of disturbing images and thoughts.
At home, such thoughts might have led him into all kinds of desperate measures. Shuster's Field would probably have beckoned again. The clinic dispensary would have loomed large in his thoughts. And there must be records somewhere in the clinic of where they'd stored the red kryptonite they'd cleared from Shuster's Field. Not to mention the green kryptonite rocks that no-one had gathered up.
But here, at the clinic, there was structure and procedure. Even though he could just as easily fly away, or break into the dispensary, the mere fact that there were rules of behaviour and staff to watch over him was just enough to hold him back from the brink.
Just as well. His mind swirled around memories of Mayson's failed seduction and all the points at which he could have put a stop to it. He thought about her face smiling up at him and her hands roaming intimately over his body. He thought about his blatant dishonesty and his failure to please her. He pictured Linda and his failure to notice she wasn't Lois.
In fact, failure seemed to be a common theme running through everything he touched. Failure to please, failure to love, failure to take control of a situation, failure to spot the difference between a random woman in a clinic and Lois Lane, and champion of them all, failure to stay away from red kryptonite.
By the time sleep eventually claimed him, Clark was in tears.
*************
“Rough night, huh?”
Clark shrugged. He was on the couch, as convention and good behaviour at a mental health clinic demanded, but answering George's questions seemed like more effort than he was capable of today. He'd be happy just to get through this session and back up to his room as soon as possible.
“I'm just hazarding a guess here, but I'd say it probably rated up there with the night after your parents died, yeah?” said George.
“Yeah, probably,” said Clark. Actually, he couldn't remember a thing about that night, but George didn't need to know that.
“Okay. Well, we're probably going to cover a lot of what was keeping you awake last night all over again, but hopefully we'll do it in a more constructive way this time,” said George. “You ready for that?”
“Yeah,” said Clark.
At least his throat had stopped hurting and his stomach had settled down. Frank, the doctor who'd treated him, had examined him after breakfast and pronounced him fit but still in need of rest and a careful diet of easily-digestible foods. Personally, Clark thought that was being ridiculously over-cautious, but didn't care enough to say anything. Nothing much seemed to matter any more.
Clark didn't think he'd ever felt so wretched. Even at his worst, when he'd been mainlining on red kryptonite five or six times a day, he hadn't felt so bad. He hated himself even more than ever before, and having failed so spectacularly to keep away from his drug – even after months of being clean – he didn't see how he was ever going to climb back out of this renewed hell.
A heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder, making him jump. “Look, buddy, I know you feel like **** . Heck, this is probably the last place you want to be right now. But give it a try, okay? There's nothing to lose, and you never know, it might actually help.”
He swallowed. George, as usual, had hit the nail on the head. “I'm sorry,” he murmured, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I guess I'm just not my usual witty and engaging self today.”
George laughed. “You'll do fine, buddy. Look, the first thing I think we need to cover is this business with Linda Fielding. You know, the woman you thought was-“
“I know, George. I was there too, remember?” said Clark.
“Oh, yeah, so you were. Okay, since you were there, tell me what happened. Why did you think she was Lois?”
Stupid question. “Because she looked like Lois, George.”
“Yes, but you've met Lois's double. You know exactly what she looks like, and Linda only looks a little like her. You've also got better vision than anyone else in the whole world. So why the mistake? What were you doing when she came into your room?”
“Dozing.”
“So, not quite asleep. Do you remember what you were thinking about?”
Oh, yeah, he remembered. What – or rather, who – did he always think about when he wanted to escape from the loneliness of everyday life? “Lois.”
George sucked air through his teeth - one of these days, Clark was going to tell him how irritating that particular habit was. “Well, there's your answer. You were dreaming about Lois, a woman who looks like her walks in while you're still groggy from sleep and all that horrible treatment Frank inflicted on you – it's not surprising you mistook her for Lois.”
“It's that simple?” said Clark disbelievingly.
“Hey, don't knock it just because it's simple,” said George. “Believe me, some of the wackiest tricks the mind can play on you turn out to have a simple root cause. Anyway, what wasn't so simple was the fall-out afterwards. That was pretty cruel, wasn't it?”
“Yeah.” The cruel conviction that he'd found her at last, followed by the cruel truth that she was still missing.
Still missing. God, would he ever stop wishing she'd come back?
“Tell me, Clark, how often would you say you think about Lois? Every day, every other day, weekly?”
He shrugged. “I don't know...it varies. Every day, probably.”
“Once a day, twice a day...?”
“Probably once a day. It used to be a lot more frequent, but these past couple of months when I've been with Mayson, I've probably thought as much about her as I do about Lois.” He closed his eyes. “I only dream about Lois, though. Never Mayson.”
“And she's in danger in your dreams, isn't she?”
“Yeah, but I can never reach her. I just watch.” Another failure, in fact – the failure to save Lois.
“When did you start having these dreams, Clark?”
It was a while ago, and so difficult to pin down exactly. He frowned as he tried to recall. “I think...some time after I started back as Superman, or maybe when I went back to the Planet.”
“Yeah, that's what I recall, too,” said George. “After you began putting your life back together again, in fact. Do you think that's really when you started thinking about her less often – even before you met Mayson, I mean?”
Clark nodded, remembering his determination to make his life work without Lois. “Yeah. I was deliberately trying not to think about her, as I recall.”
“So, maybe in a sense, by not thinking about Lois, you were losing her? She'd been with you constantly before then, hadn't she?”
“Yes.” God, yes. He'd thought about her all the time. The only time he hadn't was when he'd been high – or if he had, his thoughts about her had been completely frivolous and superficial. “So you're suggesting I'm scared of losing her? Maybe that's why she's in danger in the dreams – in danger of being lost?”
“Yeah, and maybe deep down, there's a little piece of you that really does know that she's unattainable. That's the bit of you that won't let you grab onto her in your dreams.”
It made sense. He certainly didn't want to let her go, but he knew that he would have to if his life was ever going to get back to normal.
If.
That was a very big "if'. To Clark, the addict who'd just, in effect, taken an overdose of red kryptonite, it still seemed like he was programmed to fail, however hard he tried.
He sighed. “I've tried, George, I really have. But I just can't seem to get her out of my head.”
“Do you think you need to get her out of your head?”
Clark frowned. “I thought that was the whole point of this. To stop me obsessing about her.”
“Obsessing, yes,” said George. “Doesn't mean you shouldn't ever think about her. It's all about finding a balance. Remember our discussion about mourning the loss of a loved one? We agreed that the bereaved don't forget their loved ones, but they do learn to live with their loss. If you think about it, you were actually beginning to do just that these past couple of months.”
He hated it when George started talking about mourning and funerals. There was no proof that Lois was dead. She was just missing.
But he couldn't say that. George would point out that she'd been missing for over two years – and not just anywhere, but in a part of the world renowned for violence and corruption. Missing people didn't return from those sorts of places after this length of time. Clark knew that, but his heart just wouldn't accept it.
“Look, maybe this is a good time to talk about what happened the other night,” said George. “The last time I saw you, there were intimacy issues with Mayson. Was it anything to do with that?”
Clark's mouth twisted. “You could say.”
And so George slowly extracted a faltering account of Mayson's attempts to get him into bed. By using simple, direct language, he made it easier than Clark might have expected to talk about intimacy with Mayson, but some things were still hard to discuss freely.
“She...she wanted more than I was ready to give,” Clark said, stumbling at the point at which he'd realised he couldn't go through with the sham love-making.
“How much more, Clark?”
He squirmed – wasn't that obvious? “Everything,” he said quickly. “But I couldn't...” He stumbled again. Was this really necessary? Couldn't they just skip to the part where he flew to Shuster's Field?
“Couldn't what, buddy? Couldn't...perform?”
Oh, boy... “No, that's never been a problem. I just couldn't...I couldn't have sex with her, okay?”
“Couldn't or wouldn't, Clark?” said George. “Was the choice all yours, or did Mayson have a say in this?”
He flashed on her face, all smiles and happy expectation. No, poor Mayson didn't have a choice at all. “No, it was all my fault. I knew what would happen, and I couldn't do that to Mayson.”
He imagined the scene afterwards. Him, with tears running down his face, and Mayson, wondering if things could get much worse than a lover who regretted making love with her.
“Do what, Clark?”
“Let her see that I didn't love her,” he said, unwilling to be more explicit than that. George would just have to join the dots himself. “That I was just pretending,” he added.
“So you think Mayson believed you loved her?”
Did she? He'd never told her he did. And that damning comment from her about the woman who haunted their relationship said it all, really. “No,” he replied. “But I think she was trying to kid herself that I did. Getting me into bed was her way of proving that.”
“You don't think she just had the hots for you and wanted a no-strings-attached roll in the hay?”
Remembering the way she'd reacted to him when they'd first met... “There was probably an element of that, yeah.”
“Tell me, do you think Mayson loves you?”
He'd wondered the same thing many times. “I think she cares about me,” he said. “I'm not sure if it's love. Probably not.”
“I see,” said George. “So Mayson doesn't mind having sex with a guy she doesn't love, yet she expects the guy to love her back? Bit of a double standard there, buddy. Is she really that demanding?”
Clark sighed. George was right – Mayson wasn't Lana. She didn't operate double standards, either in her professional life or in her private life, and she certainly wouldn't expect someone who was supposed to be her equal to live by a more stringent moral code than her own. She was, however, a red-blooded woman who wouldn't be totally averse to sex with someone she'd formed a close relationship with over several months. Especially someone she'd found extremely attractive from day one.
“No, she's not,” he admitted.
“So who was the one who really needed to be in love here?” asked George.
“Me. But I knew that. I've always known that.”
“But did you ever tell Mayson?”
Clark snorted. “That's easier said than done, George.”
“Why?” said George. “You already said she knew you didn't love her. Why not be totally up-front with her and explain that you won't be able to have sex with her until you do love her?”
“Because it's not exactly going to encourage her to stay with me if I tell her that sex is totally off the agenda! Come on, George – get real.”
“So it was better to wait until you were both hot and steamy under the sheets before telling her, was it?”
“No. Of course it wasn't.”
“Do you think if you'd been up-front with her you would have ended up in a field with a handful of red kryptonite?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Which option gives you better control of the situation?”
“Being up-front, I guess.”
“So what do we conclude from all this?”
“Never have sex on a Thursday night?”
George chuckled. “Clark, I'm the one who does the wise-cracks, okay? You just stick to answering the questions.”
He sighed. “Avoid creating a crisis by being up-front about my hang-ups?”
“I'd call them boundaries, but yeah, other than that, I'd say that was a good answer,” said George. “You need to avoid crises, Clark, because that's when you're tempted to hit the red stuff. Get control and hold on to it.” He paused. “But please don't become a control freak in the process. I can't stand those people.”
“Aren't you supposed to like everyone, George?” said Clark. “I thought that was your job.”
“Hell, no. I only psychoanalyse the ones I like. The wackos and control freaks see someone else.”
Clark smiled. “George, did you just admit you liked me?”
“Hey, don't go getting all sentimental on me, buddy. I tolerate you, okay?”
“Sure, George.”
“**** , next you'll be expecting me to hug you or something.”
No, Clark didn't expect that. George wasn't the hugging type, but he was definitely the caring type. Not only had he rescued Clark from his apartment, but he'd just steered Clark through some really difficult questions without once causing him to lose control of his emotions. Clark wasn't entirely sure how he'd managed to do that, but he certainly appreciated it.
And, to his surprise, he did truly feel better. Not great, but better. Boundaries, George had said. Yeah, he'd certainly been pushed way beyond a boundary when Mayson had dragged him into bed, and that was why he'd turned back to red kryptonite – to take away the pain of the resulting crisis. And thinking about the past few months, he really hadn't been forced up against any other boundaries, so hadn't had any cause to fall off the wagon - hence the reason he'd been clean.
Thinking about things in those terms certainly helped him understand himself a lot better, but didn't particularly help him like himself any more. What use was he if he was always limited by these invisible boundaries?
