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?
Last night's bleak thoughts began to infect his fragile peace of mind – all those failures, his pathetic job at the Planet, everything he'd messed up on lately. Clark Kent, the farmer's son from Kansas, didn't seem able to make a success of anything for more than a few weeks at a time. One step forward, three steps backwards – that was today's Clark Kent.
He'd wept last night. Superman, the world's strongest man, had cried himself to sleep. What would people think if they knew how weak he really was?
The room seemed to have grown chilly. He crossed his arms over his chest to try and keep some warmth in. Suddenly, he felt cold and shivery.
“Clark, you okay there?”
“Yeah, fine,” he answered quickly. He couldn't really be feeling cold, after all – he never felt the cold. Must be just his imagination. “Are we finished or is there more?”
He heard George move, and then he was shoving Clark's legs out of the way on the couch so that he could perch on the side. He ran a quick eye over Clark, then said, “You want to try that answer again? You're looking a little shaky, there, buddy.”
“I'm okay.”
George cocked his head on one side. “What were you thinking about? You kind of drifted away from me just then.”
“I guess...” Clark faltered as his mind supplied a very neat but unpalatable summary of his thoughts. He hugged himself a bit tighter. It really was cold in George's office today.
“Just say it, Clark,” murmured George. “Something ugly just popped into your head, didn't it?”
He shrugged, trying for nonchalance and probably failing dismally. He was good at failure these days. “I guess I don't like myself very much.”
There – he'd said it. An uncontrollable tremor ran through him. Why was it so cold?
“I know you don't,” said George. “But you will, okay? Trust me.” He frowned. “Are you cold?”
“A little, maybe,” said Clark.
”Give me one of your hands,” commanded George, holding out his own hand in anticipation.
Reluctantly, Clark obeyed. “I thought you weren't the touchy-feely type,” he said, as George's large hands closed around his. George felt incredibly warm against Clark's skin.
“Thought so,” said George. “You're freezing. Did this just start right now?”
George always, always found him out. He grimaced. “I don't understand.”
“Don't worry,” said George. “It happens – probably just your body adjusting after that mega-hit of the red stuff you gave it. Do you feel shivery?”
Clark nodded. “Yeah.”
“Okay, how about you go back up to your room and I'll get Frank to pay you a visit. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about but I guess we should be sure. You and I can pick this up tomorrow. I think you've got enough to think about for today, anyway.”
“Okay.” Well, at least he got a respite from the third-degree for a while. Maybe there was actually an up side to feeling like death warmed up.
“You want someone to go with you or can you make it on your own?”
“I'll be okay.” Clark stood up slowly. “I guess this is why you wanted me to stay here for a couple of days,” he said ruefully.
“Yeah, amazing, isn't it?” said George. “Sometimes I actually do know what I'm talking about.”
Clark smiled weakly and made his way to the door. “George...” he said, pausing with his door on the doorknob.
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Those boundaries - how do I get rid of them?”
George grinned. “Great question, Clark. I'm glad you asked – we'll cover all that next time around.”
“Gee, I can hardly wait.”
George laughed. “Neither can I, buddy, neither can I.”
*****************
Frank confirmed George's diagnosis and prescribed fluids, a few hours in bed, and some extra blankets. Nothing to worry about, he said. Invulnerability might protect Clark from external harm, but these symptoms came from within, and were just a natural part of the healing process.
That was all very well for Frank to say, thought Clark glumly, but he wasn't the one lying shivering under a pile of blankets. He didn't think it was possible to feel so cold in a well-heated, draught-free room. Especially when you were super-powered and normally impervious to the cold.
At least he didn't crave another hit. No, that massive dose of red kryptonite didn't seem to have re-awakened the old craving – quite the opposite, in fact. His stomach churned just at the thought of it.
Still – plenty of hours to think about George's words of wisdom. Or rather, his questions of wisdom.
Find a balance, George had said. Yeah, that was probably a good idea – Clark had been pushing Lois totally out of his head lately, and it patently hadn't worked as a tactic. He'd dreamt about her, hallucinated about her, even, and when Mayson had forced him to confront all those suppressed thoughts, he'd crashed spectacularly. Maybe if he'd allowed himself to remember Lois more often, think about her more positively, things wouldn't have gone so wrong.
Well, that was easy to plan. Much harder to put into practice.
But he had to. As he'd said to George yesterday, he was weary of being ill. He didn't want to turn to red kryptonite every time he was faced with a difficult situation, and he sure as heck didn't want to spend any longer feeling as lousy as he did under these blankets. He wanted a normal, stable life. That wasn't so much to ask, was it?
And maybe figuring out this boundary thing would help, too. Get rid of the boundaries, get rid of the crises – everything might start to come right at last.
Perhaps he might even begin to like himself.
*****************
“Clark, you have a visitor.”
His bedside phone had rung just after dinner, and reception had announced the news. However, when they'd told him who it was, his knee-jerk response had been to say he wasn't feeling well enough for visitors. But then he'd changed his mind. He needed to find out if he could do this, he'd decided. The shivers had passed hours ago and he was feeling much better, so he really had no excuse.
He walked into the patients' lounge and halted abruptly when he saw her standing by the magazine rack, flicking through a sports rag. She'd obviously just come from work – she was wearing a business suit under her open raincoat, and there was a smart leather briefcase propped up against the wall in front of her.
She still looked gorgeous – more so than ever, perhaps.
He swallowed, hoping his voice would sound vaguely normal. “Hi.”
She looked up from her magazine, her hand freezing in mid page-turn. “Hi.”
This was already harder than he'd anticipated - she was clearly as uncomfortable as he was. He looked around the room; gestured at a group of easy chairs nearby. “Shall we sit?”
“Okay.” She replaced the magazine, fumbling a little to fit it back into the rack. Then she collected her brief case from the floor and crossed to one of the chairs, perching right on the edge with her back ramrod straight. The briefcase slid to the floor again.
He sat opposite her, settling uneasily into his chair and wondering how the heck this conversation was supposed to get started.
“You're looking...well,” she said.
He nodded stiffly. “I'm okay.”
“I...I heard you got sick. I was sorry to hear that.”
He shrugged. “I'm fine now.”
Her gaze dropped to her lap where she was fiddling nervously with her watch strap. “Clark...I really was worried about you, you know. I got the news from one of your neighbours – you know, the guy who works in my office? He said an ambulance came for you.”
“Yeah. George called it.”
“He found you? Does that mean you...?”
It was his turn to drop his gaze. “Yes. I OD'd. Not something I'm too proud of, actually.” She'd know all this, of course. She'd worked with addicts often enough at the DA's office.
“It happens, Clark,” she said, not unkindly. “A lot of recovering addicts-“
“I know, Mayson, okay?” he said, glancing up at her sharply. “I've been through all that stuff with George. I don't need you telling me too.”
“Sorry. But you're getting better, yes? You look really good, certainly.”
He shrugged. “I'm getting there.”
“Because...well, here you are, in this place. I wondered...” She hooked a finger around a lock of hair and began twirling it over and over. “That night...it was my fault, wasn't it? I shouldn't have pushed you so hard.”
His breath caught in his throat. He'd never imagined she might think all this was her fault. But what could he say that wouldn't hurt her? She definitely had pushed too hard, and with disastrous consequences. With anyone else but him, though what she'd done wouldn't have been so bad.
“It wasn't your fault,” he said, settling for the half-truth. “This...everything that's happening to me...it's all my own doing. No-one else is to blame but me.”
“But I didn't help, did I?” she insisted. “I knew how sensitive you were about...” She glanced around the room to make sure they were alone before continuing in a lower voice. “About sex, even if we never actually spoke about it. All those times I tried to get close to you...no-one could be that painfully shy. And I knew all the problems you'd had with addiction, because you'd been so honest with me about all of that. I appreciated that honesty, Clark, I really did. But I should have known better than to push you into something you didn't want.”
Maybe she had a point, but she wasn't the only one who'd messed up. He shifted awkwardly on his chair. “I wasn't totally honest with you, actually.”
She bit her bottom lip. “You mean her? The other woman.”
The pain in her voice was clear. “Mayson...”
She deserved to know. It came to him in a flash – after the hurt he'd inflicted on her, and the news that she was actually blaming herself for what had happened, she deserved to know. And maybe George was right about coming clean regarding those boundaries. Perhaps Clark would be telling her this rather too late, but he needed to do it. For both their sakes.
She sighed heavily. “I don't understand why you bothered with me if she was the person you really wanted,” she said. “Was I just a side-attraction?”
“No!” he exclaimed, appalled that she'd got it so wrong. “Look, Mayson, I know now that I should have told you all of this long ago,” he began. “Maybe it's too late now, but will you listen anyway if I try to explain something to you?”
She shrugged. “I'm not in any hurry to go home to my empty apartment and the box of macaroni and cheese sitting on my kitchen counter.”
“Okay.” He drew in a deep breath. “I'm a little new at this, so bear with me if I stumble around a bit.”
He looked up at her to judge her reaction, and was rewarded with a small smile. “Go right ahead,” she said. “I'll pick you up and dust you off if you stumble.”
He grinned. That was a touch of their old relationship; the one where they'd actually tried to help each other now and then. “It's a deal. Okay...”
He gave her an edited version, of course. Just a story about a woman he'd met a couple of times a long time ago and had fallen head-over-heels in love with. She'd then disappeared, and he'd been devastated. He'd searched in vain for nearly a year, but when it had become clear she was nowhere to be found, he'd begun to fall apart.
“So that's when you turned to drugs?” she said. “I could never figure that out before. You seemed to have so much to live for.”
He nodded, feeling too strung out to answer properly. Telling her about Lois had been hard. Very hard.
“So when I came along, you were hoping I'd help you forget her?” she said.
“Yeah. Kind of.”
“But you didn't, did you? She was always there, hovering on the edges of our relationship.” She shook her head sadly. “I knew I was competing with someone, but I never realised she was so insubstantial.”
That was the problem – Lois wasn't insubstantial so far as he was concerned. She was a living, breathing woman with extraordinary qualities no other woman could ever match.
He closed his eyes. Balance, he reminded himself. Find a balance.
He felt her hand touch his knee and opened his eyes to find her leaning across towards him. “I'm sorry,” she murmured. “I didn't mean she was inconsequential. I can see how much she meant to you.”
He shook himself. “It's okay...I'm okay.”
“So where do we go from here, Clark?” she said. “You...you hurt me a lot, you know. It wasn't easy to come here and see you again. But you were sick, and...well, I care, Clark. I really do care about you.”
Hesitantly, he reached for her hand, clasped her fingers gently. “That means a lot to me, Mayson. And I never wanted to hurt you. But as to where we go from here...I don't know. I'm a little mixed up right now.”
“I know,” she murmured. “But maybe...well, maybe you could call me? When you're feeling better, I mean.”
“I'll think about it, Mayson. I promise.”
“Okay.” She stood up, and he followed. “Take care of yourself, Clark.”
“You too, Mayson.”
She placed her hands on his upper arms and leant in for a brief kiss on his cheek. He returned with a similar kiss, but then chaste kisses suddenly didn't seem to be enough and they were hugging each other tightly. “Please call me,” she murmured into the crook of his shoulder. “I miss you.”
“I'll try,” he said. “I promise I'll try.”
It wasn't what she wanted to hear, but it was as much as he could offer. He really didn't know what he felt about Mayson any more, other than he didn't love her. Was that enough to keep him away from her for ever, or could he have a relationship with someone he just liked a lot? Or could he learn how to love her if she gave him long enough? Would she love him?
She broke away and collected her briefcase from the floor. “Better go catch my hot date with that box of macaroni,” she said awkwardly.
“Add extra cheese,” he suggested. “Always works for me.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
When she was gone, he sank back down onto his chair. Well, he'd told her. Mayson now knew exactly why he'd pushed her away when she came too close. Had it been worth it? Had it been wise to tell her everything?
Yes.
A burden had been lifted. At last, he hoped, she understood his awkwardness – understood that he wasn't seeing anyone else, or that he had any ulterior motive other than a difficulty to let go of his feelings for a woman he'd once known. Hopefully, the knowledge would make her feel better about herself. He definitely felt better now that she knew the truth.
Damn George, he thought ruefully. Why did that guy always have to be right?
But Mayson seemed to be saying she'd be willing to try again. He ran his hand through his hair. His mind flashed back to that agonising scene in his bedroom when he'd scrambled away from her. How could she want him back after that? He'd treated her so badly.
And was he ready to try again? Was Mayson the person he'd want to try with? Say they did get back together again – would she be willing to live with his so-called boundaries?
So many questions; so few answers. And right this minute, he was totally exhausted and completely incapable of anything other than rambling thoughts and confused emotions.
He pushed himself out of the chair and made his way back up to his room.
***************
