Funeral For a Friend

Perry futurefic
PG (character death warning)
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.

Clark Kent: I just can't help thinking that... Whitney's skin wasn't bulletproof. His bones weren't unbreakable, but he still put himself in harm's way so the world could be safer. I wonder if I didn't have my abilities if I'd have that same kind of courage.

Jonathan Kent: Son, there is no doubt in our minds that you would.

"We are here today to remember a great American hero."

The casket sat at the front of the cathedral, draped in an American flag and surrounded by red, white and blue flowers. The vast building was packed to overflowing with mourners, and outside thousands more thronged the street, waiting to pay their last respects. Cameras set up in the church broadcast the event to millions or even billions more.

"Superman was not born on this planet." Perry White spoke in clear, measured tones, somehow managing to keep his voice steady. God knew it wasn't easy. "But he committed himself, body and soul, to keeping us safe. Not just America, but the whole world. He defended us for fifteen years. And in the end, he willingly sacrificed himself to save us all."

He looked over the crowd, seeing masked, caped superheroes scattered throughout. It looked like every superhero in the world was here. Superman had been the leader of the Justice League, and he imagined the superhero community must be in something of an uproar right now, though he had no way of knowing for sure. He wondered how they felt, if they grieved the way the general populace did. Judging from the way their heads were bent, he thought they must be grieving almost as much as he himself was.

"Superman was invulnerable, in most circumstances," Perry went on. "But he knew perfectly well he could be injured, or even killed, by the technology of the aliens who attacked us last week. And yet... and yet he faced them anyway. To protect us, to save us, he faced them without hesitation."

As he spoke, he remembered a seventeen-year-old boy, struggling to save him. Somehow the boy had lost his amazing abilities and become as fragile as any human, and yet he'd risked his life to save Perry's unworthy neck. The boy could have easily been killed that day, all due to Perry's stupidity.

But he hadn't died. Thank God for that. They'd both survived, and the boy had gone on to be the world's greatest superhero.

Perry had known, the minute he laid eyes on Superman, that he was Clark Kent. Of course he'd known. He wasn't stupid, and the minute Superman came to town, he'd figured it out. The fact that Clark wore dark-rimmed glasses, alternated a wide, goofy grin with foot-shuffling shyness, and generally acted like a clueless, bumbling idiot hadn't fooled him for a microsecond.

And yet after some thought, he'd decided to keep Clark's secret, because he could easily understand why superheroes needed to conceal their identity in order to protect their families. He'd been torn nearly in two by the issue, had considered it from all sides for weeks. His job as editor in chief of the Daily Planet was to bring the truth to the public, and the truth was that Superman was Clark Kent. And on a more practical level, exposing Superman's secret identity would have sold a lot of papers, no doubt about it.

But it also might very well have caused Superman to stop working as a hero, which could have killed a lot of people in the long run.

Perry had never regretted that decision, and last week's events had made him more certain than ever that it had indeed been the correct decision. Because if Superman hadn't been around, Earth would be a smoking ball of charcoal right now.

He paused for a moment, blinking back tears. Not only had Earth lost a great hero, but he'd lost a colleague and close friend. There were so many more things he wanted to say. He wanted to talk about Clark Kent, journalist, loving husband, devoted son, and a damn good friend.

But no one was here to remember Clark Kent. No one except him, and a handful of others-- his widow, who was seated in the press section and trying valiantly to conceal her tears; Jimmy Olsen, who'd known and protected Clark's secret for years; Martha Kent, who was seated near the front, struggling to look dignified and calm, as if a stranger, rather than her only son, lay in the coffin.

Very few people in the crowd even knew the name Clark Kent.

But everyone on the planet knew the name of Superman.

Perry pushed aside his memories of the dark-rimmed glasses and Clark's wide, goofy grin, and focused on the memory of a heroic figure patrolling Metropolis' skies, his crimson cape ripping behind him.

"And so," he said, "we gather together on this Veterans Day to remember all the veterans who have fought and died to protect our country, as well as those still among us. But most of all, we remember Superman, who gave his life to protect us all. Not just the United States of America... but every person on Earth."

He heard his voice cracking again, and paused, steadying himself, then forced out the last words of his speech in a ragged whisper.

"May we never forget him."

-The End-

A Superhero Looks at Forty

Clark/Chloe futurefic
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Still from Andreas@LJ.

"Surprise!"

He wasn't really surprised, of course, since he could hear a flake of snow hit the ground a mile away, and since he could see straight through walls. But most of the people gathered in the Planet's newsroom, beaming, didn't know that.

After all these years, they still didn't realize he was Superman. They thought he was plain old Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter.

He grinned sheepishly, ducking his head, and flashed a quick private smile at the one person who did know who he was-- his wife, Chloe, who wrote under the name Lois Lane. She smiled back, giving him a wry little shrug that said, I know you weren't really surprised, but thanks for playing along.

He didn't mind playing along. These people were all important to him, and if it made them happy to "surprise" him, he was more than willing to act stunned.

The bullpen was festooned with black balloons, and the cake had the big 4-0 emblazoned across it in ebony icing. So everyone knew it was his fortieth birthday, more or less.

Of course no one really knew his real birthdate, and anyway, he had no idea if forty was really the start of middle age for him. A Kryptonian who was powered up by the Earth's sun might be pretty much immortal, which would explain the conspicuous lack of silver in his dark hair.

He accepted a slice of cake from Perry White, his editor. Perry slapped him on the shoulder, and Clark made sure to pull back a bit, in order to save Perry from breaking his hand, and winced theatrically.

"Easy there, Chief," he said. "I can't type if you break my arm."

Perry roared with laughter. "Congratulations, Kent," he said, sitting down on Clark's desk. "You managed to survive till forty working for the Planet. A lesser man would have gone insane."

Clark grinned and took a big bite of cake. "Well," he answered, "I've got Chloe to keep me straight."

"And to kick your ass when you get out of line," Jimmy Olsen interjected.

"Yeah." Clark grinned more widely. "That too."

"Hey." Chloe walked toward them, trying to scowl dangerously and not succeeding too well. "My ears are burning. Why are you guys talking about me behind my back?"

"We weren't talking about you," Clark said quickly. "We were talking about the cake."

"Yeah," Jimmy agreed. "The cake is great."

"Excellent cake," Perry concurred.

Chloe looked unconvinced, but sat down next to Clark, putting a familiar hand on his arm. He took a bite of his cake-- which was in fact great-- and smiled down at her.

He was lucky, he thought. He had a highly rewarding job-- two highly rewarding jobs, really-- and he got to save people on a regular basis. He got to work side by side with the woman he loved, and go home with her at night. He had coworkers he really liked, and who after all this time hadn't quite figured out his secret... although there were times he suspected Perry and Jimmy knew, and just didn't want to say anything.

But if they knew his secret, they were covering for him, and that was enough for him. He'd trust Perry and Jimmy with his life, anyway.

Filled with happiness and cake, he put his arm around Chloe in a rare display of public affection. Ordinarily they didn't do a lot of touching in the office, but this was a special occasion, after all.

She turned her head, pressing her face into his shoulder for a moment, and he smiled, and squeezed her a little more tightly. He might be forty, but despite the black balloons on the cake, his life was far from over. In fact, his life was only beginning, and yet he already had everything he'd ever wanted-- a wife he loved, good friends, and two awesome jobs.

And to top it all off... he even had cake.

A man couldn't ask for anything more.

-The End-

No One's Looking at Your Face

Clark, Lois futurefic
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.

The first time the Inquisitor printed a photograph of his crotch, Clark Kent was so embarrassed he could hardly stop blushing all day.

The second time, he got a little annoyed. He was out there trying to save people, damn it. He wasn't a goddamned peep show. And yeah, maybe the suit was a little, well, revealing in certain areas. But it was traditional Kryptonian clothing, the last echo of his native culture, and he wasn't going to switch costumes just because the executive editor of the Inquisitor was a muckraking pain in his ass.

The third time his crotch was featured on the Inquisitor's front page, he went storming into the executive editor's office, dressed in his Superman costume, and waved the newspaper in her face.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Lois Lane looked up at him and smiled. The Inquisitor's headquarters weren't as impressive as the Daily Planet building, of course, but she still had a corner office, with a massive walnut desk and windows from floor to ceiling, while he himself worked in a cubicle.

"Just trying to boost our circulation," she answered. "And it's working. You wouldn't believe how many more copies we've sold with these photos."

"But... but..." He sputtered impotently. Well, okay, maybe impotent wasn't a word he wanted to use, considering the subject. "You're using me to sell papers?"

"Don't get all huffy and self-righteous with me, Superman. The Daily Planet uses you to sell papers all the time. Every time you do something heroic, your own articles, and your wife's articles, do quite a lot to boost circulation."

"Yes, but that's news. A concept you're not familiar with, I know, but news is what is supposed to sell papers. This is..."

She leaned back in her comfortable leather chair and smiled up at him, very sweetly. "Tabloidy?"

"Pornographic!" he roared.

She broke out laughing. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Smallville. It's not my fault you decided to fight crime wearing a costume that shows the exact size and shape of the family jewels."

The exact size and shape? Really? He had to fight to prevent himself from looking down. "It's Kryptonian clothing," he grumbled.

"Whatever. I still don't understand why Chloe lets you out of the house dressed like that. God knows I wouldn't let Jimmy run around the neighborhood in spandex. It's no wonder all the lady supervillains try to get you into bed, you know? You might as well be prancing around naked."

He ground his teeth. The conversation seemed to be rapidly on its way to derailment, as conversations with Lois all too often were. "Look," he said through his clenched teeth, "the point is..."

"The point is that you're pissed I'm using you to compete with the Planet."

"The point is that my family jewels do not belong on the goddamn front page of your tabloid rag!"

She smiled more sweetly than ever, unconcerned by his rage. "Really, Smallville, I'm just trying to help you out. The more people focus on other aspects of your anatomy, the less they'll be looking at your face. You and I both know that your so-called disguise is lame. I mean, dark-rimmed glasses? Please. Sooner or later, people are going to see through it and figure out exactly who you are. I'm just helping you delay the inevitable by encouraging people to look down instead of up."

"Oh, I see. So you're doing me a favor by printing pictures of my crotch on the front page?"

"Exactly."

He stared at her, seething with impotent-- no, wait, wrong word-- rage. She gave him that mocking smile that had always made him long to strangle her, and turned back to her computer.

"Have a nice day, Superman. Watch out for those lady supervillains."

He glared a moment longer, then spun on his heel and supersped out of her office. The fact of the matter was, there wasn't a thing he could do to stop Lois from printing whatever the hell she wanted. Lois was in charge of the Inquisitor now, and no one had ever been able to sway her except his wife Chloe. And Chloe inexplicably found the whole matter extremely funny.

Clark failed to see the humor in it, personally.

But there was nothing he could do about it, really. He changed out of his costume and went back to work at the Planet, trying very, very hard to ignore the fact that three female reporters and two male reporters had tacked up the Inquisitor's photo of his crotch on their cubicle walls, and were giggling together as they speculated on his, well, size.

Thanks so much, Lois, he thought glumly.

The fourth time the Inquisitor printed a picture of his crotch, boosting its circulation numbers significantly, Clark sighed, and just flew out of town with his wife for a few days.

But to his disgust, even in Miami, where guys wore Speedos on a regular basis... Superman's crotch was still the talk of the town.

-The End-

Rule Them With Strength

Clark angst, futurefic
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.

"Make the world a safer place, Clark."

Those were the last words she ever uttered. She'd been shot by a mugger, desperate to get a few dollars to fuel his drug habit, and I hadn't been able to get there in time to stop the bullet. I flew her to the hospital, but by the time we arrived, she was dead.

When they told me she was gone, everything inside me shattered into shards of ice. Numb, still covered in her blood, I went outside and flew in random circles for a while. Eventually I landed on top of the Daily Planet building and looked over the city I loved.

I'd been the protector of Metropolis for ten years, but what I was doing wasn't working. Sure, crime rates had lowered. But what did that matter, when people couldn't even venture out onto the street without getting shot?

I looked down at my blood-stained hands, and remembered her last words: Make the world a safer place.

And I knew I had to do more.

*****

It slowly became obvious to me that relying on the court system to deal with criminals wasn't working. Too many times, I caught people in the act of some heinous crime, and yet their cases were thrown out on minor technicalities. Even when they were convicted, all too often they were released after just a few years, going right back to a life of crime.

If I was going to ever make the world safe, I realized, I couldn't rely on the courts to help me.

I began placing every dangerous criminal I caught into the Phantom Zone. Murderers, rapists, drug dealers, abusers-- every last one of them went into the Zone. It had been my father's method of dealing with criminals, and if it was good enough for my father, I thought, it was good enough for me. I could no longer bear to take the chance that a murderer might be set loose on a technicality, or released once he'd served a few years.

I had to act, or more innocent lives would be lost.

Due process, I began to understand, was a meaningless concept, an archaic notion that only benefitted criminals. For that mater, the entire slow, meandering, hopelessly muddled American court system was meaningless. I saw far more than humans did, understood more, and therefore I could ethically act as judge and jury.

In fact, I recognized, it was actually unethical of me to stand aside and let them suffer, when I could fix so many of their problems single-handedly.

People weren't happy about my new crime-fighting program. There were a lot of angry editorials in the Daily Planet about due process and the rule of law, editorials deriding Superman as a dangerous vigilante. When I, in my Clark Kent persona, tried to sway public opinion by writing articles defending Superman's new methods, I ran afoul of my editor and was fired.

I didn't really care all that much. I'd been struggling against the truth of who I was for a long time. I'd been raised by humans, and as an adult, I'd wanted nothing more than to live among humans as one of them. But I no longer had an anchor to the human race, and it began to dawn on me that there was no real point in living among them.

No matter how much I pretended, I wasn't one of them, and never could be.

A voice from the distant past began to echo in my head: On this third planet from this star Sol, you will be a god among men. They are a flawed race. Rule them with strength, my son. That is where your greatness lies.

I'd fought against those words a long, long time, but I slowly began to realize my father had been right. They were a flawed race, and I was their only hope.

I remembered my other father's words, too. Clark Kent, you're here to be a force for good, not a force of evil.

Everything I was doing, I thought, was for the good of the planet. Humans might not fully understand that, but I was convinced of it. And I had a perspective on the world that no human could. No matter how they fought against me, I knew that what I was doing wasn't evil.

I was a force for good, just as Jonathan Kent had told me, long, long ago.

Make the world a safer place, Clark. She'd asked me to do that, but I'd been trapped in archaic, human ways of thinking, and I hadn't yet accomplished it. Innocent people were still dying.

I realized more drastic measures were necessary.

*****

It took a few years for me to realize that it made no sense to put criminals into the Phantom Zone, where they could possibly escape. The death penalty was a far more sensible solution, because it took the criminals off the streets forever. It was efficient, practical, and sensible. And the death penalty had long been a recognized part of most human justice systems, so it wasn't as if humans should be opposed to it.

Somewhere deep down, I had the niggling concern that she wouldn't have approved of the death penalty being administered without trials and judges and juries and all those human notions of justice. But I pushed that concern aside. Because as much as I'd loved her, she'd only been a human, and she'd seen the world in the human way.

I saw the world so much more clearly than any human ever could, and at last, I saw plainly what must be done. And steeling myself, I did it.

Over the course of a day, I went through the world's prisons and exterminated every convicted violent criminal on the planet.

The public outcry when I had started putting criminals into the Phantom Zone was nothing as to the outcry that arose now. People were angry and afraid. Afraid of me. Which was ridiculous, since I was only trying to protect them. It wasn't as if the ordinary citizen had anything to fear from me.

Americans in particular were outraged. They admitted their criminal justice system was flawed, yet they clung to it, useless though it was. Even Metropolis turned on me, its people booing and hissing when they caught a glimpse of me flying overhead.

Their rejection hurt a little. But I couldn't let them continue to muddle on without help, so I continued on.

I executed all the criminals I'd placed into the Phantom Zone, to ensure that none of them could ever escape and hurt anyone. And then I continued to patrol the streets relentlessly, executing anyone I caught in the midst of a violent crime. Not just murder, but rape and assault as well.

Despite the angry editorials in the papers, the worldwide murder rate fell to zero within a year.

I'd done what she wanted me to do. I'd made the world a safer place.

*****

The violent crime epidemic taken care of, I finally had time to turn my attention to other matters. She'd been killed by an addict, so the drug trade was of major concern to me. Many of the drug dealers had been executed in what the newspapers had referred to as "the Purge," but I took care of those that hadn't, and executed the hopeless addicts as well. I used my heat vision to destroy all drug crops worldwide, and destroyed every facility that created drugs.

That problem solved, I began to realize how many people were starving, due to the cruelty of others, and the callousness of governments. I started toppling the worst regimes, and replacing them with men and women who would listen to my advice. I removed American politicians I disagreed with as well, and when the people tried to elect politicians with the very same erroneous viewpoints, I saw to it that the elections simply didn't happen.

Anyone I removed from office was given the death penalty, of course. But there was no outcry in the papers this time, because I'd made it clear to the media that they were no longer to propagate the outdated, foolish ideas of justice and due process that had once held sway in the Western world. Headlines in the Daily Planet and the New York Times praised me and my actions, calling me a savior.

Sometimes I worried that in influencing political matters, I'd gone too far, but my father's words echoed in my head, reassuring me. You will be a god among men. They are a flawed race. Rule them with strength, my son.

And I remembered my other father's voice, reassuring me: Clark Kent, you're here to be a force for good, not a force of evil.

They'd both been right. I was all that was standing between the world and chaos. It wasn't evil for me to protect humans, or to serve them.

In fact, it was my duty. It was up to me to save humanity.

My next job was to remove all weapons of destruction from the planet. I removed nuclear missiles, biological weapons, and conventional weapons, destroying them or taking them far into space, where they could never hurt anyone again. Then I dismantled every branch of every armed force in the world. The men and women who stood against me were summarily executed.

Before long, Earth was a planet of peace. I floated far up in the sky and looked over what I'd wrought with satisfaction, and something close to joy.

I'd finally accomplished what she wanted. The innocent were safe at last.

*****

Years slid by, and to my sorrow, I began to recognize that no one on the planet was innocent. There were far fewer people on the planet now, yet no matter how much I tried to keep them out of disputes, they quarreled and fought and battled. No matter how evenly I tried to distribute the resources, they hoarded and stole and cheated one another.

I began to realize the world wouldn't be safe until I'd managed to purify the human heart.

I had no choice but to police them closely. Anger, pettiness, jealousy-- every negative, destructive action was met with the ultimate punishment.

And yet the more of them I executed, the more the rest fought, both against me and among themselves.

The human heart, I realized sadly, could never be purified. No matter how much I tried to make the world safe, it could never be safe as long as humans lived on it.

There was only one possible solution.

*****

The world is a beautiful place now. Quiet, free of strife and discord and hunger. I fly over it, marveling at the peace and tranquility and beauty of it. It's like Eden, sparkling and lovely and new. I feel like God, staring down from heaven at the work of his hands, and pronouncing it good.

After all these years, I've finally accomplished what she wanted. After all these years, I've achieved what I was destined to do, what I was sent to this planet to accomplish. At long last, I've made the world a safer place.

It's really too bad I'm the only person left to appreciate it.

-The End-

Rise Up

Chloe/Clark futurefic
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
The music is "Silent Running," by Mike and the Mechanics.

Take the children and yourself
And hide out in the cellar
By now the fighting will be close at hand

Chloe Sullivan Kent huddled in the dark, dank cellar, her arms wrapped around her four children. Distantly, she could hear the sounds of guns being fired, the sounds of bombs falling. She closed her eyes, wishing she could be out there, wishing she could join the fight, as so many civilians had.

But she had four children-- two sons, two daughters-- to take care of. She looked down at their dark heads, and a wave of love and protectiveness washed over her. She couldn't abandon them, or leave them alone to face the world. They had to be her first priority.

At any rate, she had to have faith that Superman would save Metropolis, and the world. After all, he always did, sooner or later.

She held her children closer, and prayed for deliverance, for herself, her family, and all of Metropolis.

There was really nothing else she could do.

Don't believe the church and state
And everything they tell you
Believe in me
I'm with the high command

SUPERMAN IS DEAD

Metropolis' beloved hero, Superman, fell in battle last week against the illegally invading forces of Lex Luthor...

"I can't print this, Chloe. You know I can't."

Chloe crossed her arms over her chest, raising her chin as she faced her editor. The Daily Planet offices were in disarray, but she and Perry and a skeleton staff were struggling to get out the first edition of the newspaper since the Lex's invasion.

"It's the truth," she said simply. "That's what the Daily Planet prints."

"Not any more." Perry White sighed, and ripped the article in two. She'd slaved over it for hours-- a memorial to her dead husband, though Perry didn't know that-- and she could barely hold back a whimper of pain, as if he'd ripped her in half.

"Superman," he said, very carefully and clearly, "is no longer to be referred to as the hero of Metropolis, or the Man of Tomorrow. He was an enemy of the state who met a just end. And Lex Luthor and his army aren't to be referred to as invaders. They are liberators."

"Perry--"

"I can't print this," he said, speaking over her as he ripped her article into smaller and smaller shreds. "You shouldn't have even written it. You know you shouldn't have. Under the new regime, writing something like this is taking your life into your hands, and we both know it."

"But the truth--"

"The truth is meaningless now, Chloe. We print what we're told to print."

She let her teeth draw back as she glared at him. "The Perry I know would never let himself be pressured into printing lies for the government."

"The Perry you know," he said coolly, "has just gotten remarried and has a one-year-old son, and will do whatever it takes to keep that child alive. What about you, Chloe? Are you willing to see your children die for the truth?"

She stared at him, horrified. "Perry, even as bad as he is, Lex would never--"

"If you think about it," he said, his voice filled with an artificial calm, "I think you'll realize Lex absolutely would."

She stared at him, dumbstruck. She remembered the whispers she'd heard of the atrocities Lex's army had committed as they marched into the city. She remembered everything she knew about Lex. And she admitted to herself that Perry was right.

No one was safe. Not even her children. Perhaps particularly not her children, if Lex ever found out her husband had been Superman.

Perry seemed to see the understanding in her eyes. He turned away, dropped the pieces of the article into a trashcan, and spoke gruffly.

"Don't ever bring me the truth again, Sullivan."

Can you hear me, can you hear me running?
Can you hear me running, can you hear me calling you?

The shattered world slowly settled down into a new routine, a routine in which Lex Luthor ruled with the metaphorical iron fist, and those who put a foot out of line were met with "justice"... or what had in other times been called a firing squad.

Chloe continued on at the Daily Planet, because she didn't dare quit. None of them did. She hated writing articles extolling the virtues of "the President," as Lex styled himself despite never having won an election. But she thought of her four children-- Clark's four children-- and she wrote precisely what she was told to write.

But at night, thoughts of what she really wanted to write haunted her. She lay awake for hours, composing stories in her head that told the terrible truth. The truth of oppression, murder, and torture. The truth of a once free society being ground into sand beneath the bootheel of a dictator. The truth of fear and hunger and and torture and forced silence.

And when she finally fell into a restless sleep, she dreamed she heard Clark's voice. Almost every night, he came to her dressed as Superman, the sigil of his family on his chest, his cape rippling behind him.

"Do what you must," he told her. "Keep our children alive. They're the only hope we have."

In the night, she awakened, tears on her cheeks, her chest aching with sorrow and loneliness. She missed Clark so badly she hurt.

She missed her husband, very much.

But she also missed Superman.

Theres a gun and ammunition
Just inside the doorway
Use it only in emergency

In the first year or two after Lex took power, there were small uprisings, as people gathered what weapons they could and tried to take on Lex's army. But he'd built his army carefully, with the wealth of Croesus and the soullessness of Satan, and he didn't hesitate to kill anyone who dared to stand against him. His soldiers were armed with weapons that could kill Superman, so what could ordinary humans hope to do against them?

Chloe didn't join in any of the uprisings. She continued to work away at her job, bowed but unbeaten. As long as she was responsible for her children, there was really nothing she could do. She was a reporter for the Daily Planet, as she had always been-- but now the Daily Planet was the mouthpiece for Lex's administration.

And every time she wrote something laudatory about Lex, she died a little inside.

Better you should pray to God
The Father and the Spirit
Will guide you and protect from up here

"At school today, we learned about the President."

Chloe's oldest child, Jon, looked at her with bright green eyes, so much like Clark's it almost hurt to look at them. He looked like Clark, but as far as she knew he had none of Clark's powers, at least not yet. None of his siblings had shown signs of developing unusual abilities, either.

"Really?" she answered, trying to sound politely interested in a topic that secretly made her want to spit nails. "What did you learn?"

"We learned about the way he rescued Metropolis," Jon answered. "The way he made the country better for everyone. The way he saved us all from the metahumans, and from aliens like Superman."

Angry words rose hot in her throat, but she forced them back. Her children had no idea that Superman had been their father, and a great hero who'd saved the world over and over again. They only knew what they were being taught.

Brainwashed, she thought bitterly. They were being indoctrinated by Lex Luthor, who controlled the schools and the newspapers and the media.

He controlled everything.

Except our minds. He can't control our minds.

But that was exactly what he was trying to do. Like Big Brother, he was trying to control the minds of the people through the media and education. And God help them all, he was succeeding.

She closed her eyes, then opened them and looked at her oldest. He was twelve now. If she told him the truth, could she trust him to keep quiet, and to never repeat it?

She remembered Perry's words, from the long-ago days after the invasion: The truth is meaningless now.

But it wasn't meaningless. The truth was more important than it had ever been. Without knowing the truth, her children would grow up believing their father had been a criminal, an enemy of the state. She didn't want Clark's memory tarnished that way.

And yet... teaching Jon the truth could mean his death, and it would certainly mean hers if he ever repeated a word of it.

She heard the echo of another voice, a voice she'd heard in her dreams, over and over again.

Keep our children alive. They're the only hope we have.

Her first priority was to protect her children.

But she'd always been about the truth, and she couldn't let her children grow up thinking a ruthless dictator was a noble man, and that their father had been a criminal. She just couldn't.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm her frantic heartbeat, and made her decision.

"I want to tell you the truth about Lex Luthor," she said.

Can you hear me, can you hear me running?
Can you hear me running, can you hear me calling you?

She slept better now, because the truth was no longer trapped inside her head, driving her crazy. Her nightmares now were for her children, because she worried she had made the wrong choice when she began teaching them what Lex Luthor's rule really meant.

But her husband still came to her in her dreams, heroic as ever, his eyes filled with love for her and their children.

"You're doing the right thing," he told her. "Keep them safe... but tell them the truth."

She woke up in the night, tears on her cheeks. She knew the Clark she saw in her dreams was only a manifestation of her subconscious, that he was dead, that she'd never truly see him again.

But somehow, she felt certain he was watching over her.

Swear allegiance to the flag
Whatever flag they offer
Never hint at what you really feel

Chloe began putting out feelers, very cautiously, because she never knew who might be one of Lex's spies. She quickly learned that others felt just as she did, and slowly people began gathering, very carefully, and teaching their children the truth, under the guise of scout meetings or basketball lessons or religious meetings.

Some of them were caught, and summarily executed, along with their children. But their martyrdom only made the cause shine more brightly. Slowly, an underground network grew, a network of people teaching their children of the old ways, teaching them of freedom, telling them stories of the days before Lex Luthor had come to power. Telling them stories of Superman.

To Chloe's surprise, Superman slowly became the hero of the resistance. People remembered that he'd been one of the first to die when Lex rose to power, and that he'd given his life protecting Metropolis. Older people remembered the heroic things he'd done, and they told those stories to their children.

Slowly, the sigil of the House of El began to appear everywhere, painted onto the sides of buildings and signs in the middle of the night, printed on leaflets and scattered everywhere, carved into tree trunks, drawn with blood on sidewalks as people killed by Lex's soldiers slowly died. A few brave souls even had the symbol tattooed onto their skin-- although most of them died for it, sooner or later.

And slowly, an army started to form. Weapons were accumulated, and soldiers willing to die for their beliefs began training.

The resistance had begun.

Teach the children quietly
For some day sons and daughters
Will rise up and fight while we stood still

"Mom?"

Jon had caught Chloe sneaking from the house. She turned at the front door, aware that there was no way she could explain away the fatigues she wore, or the gun slung over her shoulder. She was almost fifty, but the resistance was finally going to make its stand against Luthor's forces.

And by God, she was going to be there.

She stood there staring at her tall, beautiful son. He stood in their small living room, gazing back at her. It was so dark she could barely see him, but she knew he looked so much like his father it hurt. He was tall and broad and impossibly handsome, just as Clark had been.

Her other children were almost as tall, and just as beautiful, and the youngest was sixteen now. They could make it without her. If the resistance failed, they would have to.

She prayed they wouldn't pay the price for her crimes. But even knowing that was a risk, this was something she had to do. After long years of feeling her soul slip away as she wrote propaganda for an evil man... she had no choice.

"I have to do this," she whispered. "I have to, Jon."

Jon stared at her for a long moment, and then he nodded.

"I know," he answered, sounding so much like Clark that her throat tightened. "Dad would have wanted you to do this, Mom."

She blinked, wishing she could have told him that his father was Superman. That was something she'd never dared to make known, even to her children, not in a society where a child caught with a crudely drawn S sigil could be summarily executed. She crossed to him and threw her arms around his neck.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

"I love you too, Mom." He hugged her briefly, then pushed her away. "But just so you know... this is something we have to do, too."

His brother and two sisters stepped into the living room behind him. For the first time, Chloe realized Jon was clad in fatigues... and so were his siblings.

"No," she said, shaking her head in denial. She couldn't bear to lose her children. As far as she knew, they had none of Clark's powers, and they could all be killed... and that was a possibility she couldn't bear to face. "No. You can't join the fight. You're too young. You can't."

"We have to, Mom. You're the one who taught us the truth. You started this. And now we can all finish it... together."

She stared at her children, all tall and beautiful, and all grown. The youngest was only sixteen, but she looked as calm and determined and stubborn as the rest of them.

"Mom," she said, a hint of excited impatience in her voice. "It's time. Let's go."

Chloe hesitated, hearing a voice in her head.

They're our only hope.

She nodded.

"Let's go together," she said.

Can you hear me, can you hear me running?
Can you hear me running, can you hear me calling you?

The army was massed and marching through the streets of Metropolis as dawn broke. A guerilla attack had been made on Lex's headquarters an hour or two ago, and the army was now taking advantage of the ensuing chaos to try to defeat Lex's forces for once and for all. As they marched through the streets, more and more people joined them, until it seemed as if the entire population of Metropolis was heading toward liberation.

As she marched along, Chloe realized she'd lost sight of her children. They were all old enough to take care of themselves, all stronger than she herself was, but she was a mother, and she wanted her children at her side. Concerned, she looked around.

And then a low rumble of noise began to rise from the crowd. She looked toward the front of the resistance, where people were waving and pointing and laughing joyously, and she saw four familiar figures rising up into the air.

Her children lifted up above the crowd, flying just as their father once had.

They can fly, she thought stupidly. All this time I thought they had no powers... and all of them can fly.

Her children rose higher, so that the whole crowd could see them, and ripped off their fatigues as one.

Every one of them wore a blue suit with a red cape, and the sigil of Superman on their chest.

The crowd roared its approval, until it seemed that all of Metropolis was cheering. Only Chloe stood silent, shocked. Her children had kept their secrets better than she had. She'd never realized any of them possessed any abilities, or that they had the faintest inkling who their father had truly been.

But they quite obviously had figured it out.

The crowd cheered and applauded, wild with joy. Chloe's children rose up even higher, and her heart rose with them.

And then the cheering resistance continued its march toward liberation... with Superman's children leading the way.

-The End-

Look Among You

General Superman story
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
The music is "Rock Me on the Water," by Jackson Browne.

Oh people, look around you
The signs are everywhere
You've left it for somebody other than you
To be the one to care

I remember the day he arrived in Metropolis.

Metropolis had once been a nice place to live-- the City of Tomorrow, as it styled itself-- but recently the crime rate had spiked up, and too many streets downtown were outright dangerous, even in the daylight.

The old church at which I served as a pastor had its hundred-year-old stained glass windows shattered more than once by rocks, compelling our congregation to spend money that would have been better spent on feeding the homeless on Plexiglass to protect the old historic windows.

Even so, my congregation kept the faith. Like me, my parishioners believed that the root causes of the growing crime rate in the city were poverty and hunger and hopelessness, and they worked hard at feeding the homeless in our kitchen, and sheltering them in the cold months. And yet, privately, I'd lost hope, because there were far more lost, homeless souls in Metropolis than we could possibly feed and shelter.

And far too few people cared.

The road is filled with homeless souls
Every woman, child and man
Who have no idea where they will go
But they'll help you if they can

One dark winter night I left the church, having spent several hours serving casseroles to the city's hungry. I locked the church door behind me-- an insurance requirement I didn't care for in the least. A sanctuary ought to be a place where God's children could find shelter from the cold, not a place that was locked at night.

A rusty voice startled me as I walked toward the car. "Hello, old man."

I turned and saw one of the men I'd fed tonight. I knew him only as John. He was a frequent visitor to the church, one of the unfortunate homeless who needed psychiatric care, but who'd somehow slipped through the cracks of the system. He drank too much, occasionally indulged in street drugs, and talked to himself almost constantly. He'd seemed more agitated than usual tonight. But I didn't fear him, because there was no harm in him.

At least, I thought there was no harm in him. But in the dim glow of the street's one working light, I saw the glint of a knife blade held before him.

I stumbled backward, holding out my hand in a gesture of peace. "John," I said. "Let's talk. Do you need more dinner?"

He didn't answer. He stalked me, the knife gleaming ominously, and I saw something wild in his eyes that had never been there before. I wondered if he'd gotten hold of some new drug, or if perhaps he hadn't been able to get his usual amount of alcohol, and was suffering from delirium tremens.

Either way, there was something cold and hard and ugly in his eyes that had never been there before, and the way he held the knife indicated he meant business. I backed up cautiously, until I found myself with my back against the old brick wall of the church.

John strode toward me, and I knew that at seventy, I had no chance in the world of outrunning him, or fighting him for the knife. Unable to do anything else to save myself, I closed my eyes and prayed.

A random memory flashed into my mind, the recollection of my childhood, spent on the sand that spread out in front of my parents' house on the ocean. I remembered the roar of the waves, the salty scent of the sea, and the cry of seagulls. I thought perhaps it was a memory of better, more innocent times, sent by God to comfort me as I died.

My memories were interrupted by a whooshing noise and a thump. I opened my eyes again, startled, and saw John sprawled on the sidewalk, unconscious.

I stared into the darkness, straining my eyes, and as I stared, something blue and crimson streaked away at inhuman speeds.

I didn't know who my savior was, or even what my savior was, but I knew well enough Who was responsible for sending it to save me.

I knelt by the fallen man, my knees creaking as I lowered myself to the sidewalk, and checked his pulse. It was impossibly rapid, but steady. Whoever had knocked him unconscious had done so gently, so as not to harm him.

I dug in my pocket and pulled out my cell phone, patting John gently on the shoulder.

"Easy, John," I said softly, even though I knew he couldn't hear me. "I'll make sure you're taken care of."

Oh people, look among you
It's there your hope must lie
There's a sea bird above you
Gliding in one place like Jesus in the sky

The next day, I stepped out of the hospital into brilliant daylight. To my relief, John was recovering from the previous night. Whatever had knocked him unconscious had done it gently enough that he had no concussion, and his uncharacteristic violence had apparently been due to a new and terrible sort of drug he'd ingested. After talking with the doctor, I was hopeful that he'd finally be receiving the psychiatric care he needed.

I stood on the sidewalk a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the sunlight. All around me people swarmed, unaware or uncaring of the way the city was deteriorating. I'd lived in Metropolis all my adult life, and I hated seeing the city become dangerous. I was doing everything I could to address the cause of the problem as I saw it, to struggle against poverty. But what could a single seventy-year-old man do? If only everyone on this street cared as much as my congregation, tried as hard as my parishioners did...

But they didn't. Perhaps they couldn't. They all had their own concerns, their own worries. They already carried enough burdens, without taking the burdens of others onto their backs. And there were many, many burdens to be carried in the city.

Metropolis' problems, it seemed to me, had simply grown too big to be solved by human means.

Suddenly, everyone on the sidewalk came to a halt, and every face looked upward at once. And for the first time, I heard the words I'd later hear a thousand times or more:

"Look... up in the sky!"

I looked up, too, seeing something hovering in the sky, far above the city. At first I thought it was one of the seagulls I'd seen so many times in my childhood, flying over the ocean, drifting on currents of air. It moved that way, as if it could defy gravity and ride the wind.

Then I remembered that this was Kansas. There were no seagulls in Metropolis.

Whatever it was drifted a little lower. I squinted, and despite the brightness of the sky, and the blurring of my old eyes, I managed to make out the fact that it was blue, with red wings.

No, not wings. A long cape that rippled in the wind.

And then, as if it had suddenly noticed us staring at it, it streaked away, faster than anything in this world should be able to move. Suddenly I remembered last night, when I'd been saved by a blue and crimson streak.

I knew then that whatever it was, it had saved me. And I remembered the way it had come when I prayed for it, and remembered Who had sent it to protect me. I wondered if that was why it was flying over the city, because it had been sent to protect others. To protect Metropolis. To save us all.

I prayed that that was the case.

Slowly, the people around me began to move. Shaking my head slowly, like a man who's seen a miracle, I walked slowly down the sidewalk, toward the great cross of the ancient church that rose high into the air.

As it always did, the sight of the cross filled me with hope for the next life.

But for the first time in too long, I had hope for this life as well.

-The End-

Bulletproof

Clark and wife futurefic angst
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.

Being bulletproof means nothing. There's no such thing as bulletproof. Anything that bounces off me hits something else. Could hit someone. The people in the most danger are those closest to me.

Imagine living with that every day.
-Superman, "Justice Volume 3" (Jim Krueger)

Nothing can hurt me.

I can stand in front of a firing squad armed with automatic weapons and not get a scratch. Put me in front of a freight train going sixty miles an hour, and you'll have a damned impressive collision. I'll walk away from it, but the train won't look so hot.

I can even fall through the atmosphere, from miles up, and survive the heat of reentry and the stress of hitting the Earth at God only knows how many miles an hour. I can survive anything.

Except maybe this.

The pastor stands next to the open grave, speaking solemnly about life after death. With part of my brain I hear phrases I've heard a thousand times before: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. A time to be born, and a time to die. As for man, his days are as grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away...

But the words are drowned out by the sounds in my head, the memory of the awful, sickening sound of a body being struck by a bullet, all its bright, vivid life instantly extinguished as the bullet digs deeply into the heart and out again. The sound of blood spraying from a mortal wound. The sound of a body dropping lifelessly to the sidewalk.

All sounds that I heard with perfect clarity, even five hundred miles away.

The bullet didn't ricochet off me, not literally. I wasn't even there when she died. But she died because of me, because a villain figured out my secret identity and decided to kill Superman's wife, in retaliation for the fact that I put him behind bars.

She wasn't bulletproof. And she died because of me.

I took the risk of marrying her, so that we could be together for all time. I knew it could endanger her, but in the end, I opted to take that risk. Because I loved her so much I couldn't live without her.

And now she's gone. For all time.

And I have to live without her.

There is no sound in the world more terrible than the sound of a bullet sinking deeply into the flesh of someone you love. Unless it's the sound of empty words being intoned over her empty body. Or the hollow sound of dirt thudding onto a casket that's been lowered into the earth.

I listen instinctively for the sound of a heartbeat I've listened to for long years, the sound of a heartbeat I've gone to sleep by and awakened to for over a decade. But it isn't there. It will never be there again.

All I hear is the sound of silence.

It's the most terrible sound I've ever heard.

-The End-

Toxin

Manip by Khyla. Used with permission of the artist.

Clark/Chloe futurefic
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.

Sex.

He needed.

Needed sex.

Needed her.

Wanted to breathe in her smell, her fragrance of flowers and fresh air and spices.

Wanted her hands on his skin.

Needed them on his skin. Everywhere.

Needed all of her.

Now.

He flew like a thunderbolt toward her, his crimson cape rippling behind him, going so fast the air split behind him with a shattering boom.

He didn't hear it.

All he heard was the sound of her heartbeat.

All he knew was her.

*****

Jonathan Crane, the supervillain known as the Scarecrow, released a fear toxin into a crowd in Gotham City today. Chloe Sullivan, writing as Lois Lane, typed the words as rapidly as she could, listening to the cop who was telling her everything he knew. Since Batman was apparently occupied in helping to stop the El train disaster unfolding at that moment, Superman took Crane into custody. Bystanders reacted to the toxin with abject fear, some actually curling into balls on the pavement, but the Man of Steel seemed unaffected...

"Need."

A deep voice she knew better than her own suddenly spoke. She yelped, and almost dropped the cell phone. After eight years of marriage, she really ought to be used to Clark's odd comings and goings by now, but occasionally he still managed to take her by surprise. She looked up, seeing him standing right in front of her desk.

She was so focused on her story she paid no heed to what he'd said. Admittedly Clark was the story, but she needed to write down what the Gotham cop was telling her, too. Slightly annoyed by the interruption, she drew her eyebrows down and spoke tersely.

"I'm working."

He didn't back away. The way he was staring at her, in the middle of the Daily Planet bullpen, was a little odd. As far as anyone knew, she was married to Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter, not Superman, Man of Tomorrow.

And yet Superman was staring at her like he wanted to do her, right in the middle of the office. And not "tomorrow," but right now.

"Need." His voice was a low growl, like the deep rumble of a pipe organ, soft and yet clearly audible over the bustle of the Planet's newsroom. "Now."

"Hang on just a second," she said into the phone. Despite her immersion in writing her story, it was starting to dawn on her that Clark was acting very strangely. It wasn't like him to be inarticulate, or to communicate with little more than grunts. After all, he was the last son of an advanced race, not a Neanderthal. She pulled the phone away from her ear and frowned, concerned.

"What's wrong?"

He dropped both palms onto her desk and stared at her with hot, intense eyes.

"Need." His voice was very soft but very insistent.

"Need what?"

She had a feeling she already knew the answer to that question, and he confirmed it.

"Need you."

*****

The smell of her. Overpowering. Filling him.

Skin. Satin. Always smooth under his hands.

The sound of her heart. Fast, steady beat. The beat that he lived by. The beat that he slept to.

Long brown hair. Wanted.

Wanted to touch.

His body surged with desperate alien needs, sensations he'd never felt before, desires that were so intense and all-encompassing he couldn't get away from them, not even for a microsecond. He was unaware of anything except her, and his body's responses.

A single thought beat through his body and his mind, pounding at him with ever-increasing desperation.

Need.

*****

She spoke into the cell phone. "Did you actually speak with Superman?"

"No," the cop said. "He flew away before we could ask him any questions. You know how these costumed vigilantes are."

She bristled a little at the description of her husband as a "vigilante." He was a superhero, thankyouverymuch. But she knew the Gotham cops had an attitude about metahumans, so she reined in her angry response and spoke calmly. "But he was unaffected by the toxin? He didn't seem to be acting oddly?"

"He wasn't scared, so far's I could tell," the cop said. "But he sure acted like he had to be someplace else in a hurry. I thought maybe he was going to help with the El train, but the guys over there tell me they haven't seen him. But you know Superman's always doing something."

The man she'd married would never have walked away from a disaster, even if it had mostly been contained. He would have gone to the site to see if he could offer assistance.

And yet he was here, staring at her, and saving people appeared to be the furthest thing from his mind.

She remembered the desperate desire in his voice, remembered the way he'd said Need, and a shiver ran down her spine.

"Thank you very much, Officer McNeill," she said. "I may have more questions later." She disconnected before the officer could even say goodbye, and stood up, staring right into her husband's seagreen eyes.

"The Scarecrow released a toxin in Gotham," she said, very slowly and distinctly. "It was designed to scare humans, but I think it might have had an effect on you, too. We need to get you looked at by a doctor."

He looked back at her, and she could see her words were totally lost on him.

"Need," he said. "You."

People were staring openly now. The fact that Superman was here was strange enough, but the fact that he was staring at her with clear lust-- well, it probably looked strange, even if no one had managed to hear what he was saying over the noise of the newsroom.

"Let's go outside and talk about it," she said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

It was a mistake, and she realized it instantly as his muscles tensed under her palm. His head swiveled to look at her hand, and something fierce and intense and almost dangerous ignited in his eyes.

"Sex," he said, and swept her up into his arms.

*****

Her body in his arms. Warm against him.

Wanted more. Wanted her bare and hot and sweaty.

Needed more.

Her skin against his.

Her breathing uneven and shaky.

Her body trembling at every touch. Quivering beneath his hands.

Their bodies melding together, hot and wet. The scent of her arousal surrounding him.

The need was growing steadily deeper, more primeval, and by the time he got her to the roof, out in the sunshine, the only word he knew of that could articulate his need had come to him. He dropped her feet to the roof, keeping his arms around her, and stared into her eyes.

"Fuck," he told her.

*****

There was no way she was having sex on the Daily Planet roof with Superman in the bright sunshine of a fall afternoon. There was too much chance of someone seeing the distinctive red cape. If someone saw them and figured out who she was, his secret identity might be compromised, and she couldn't allow that. And even if they didn't figure it out, it wasn't part of Superman's image to be having sex in broad daylight in public.

Somehow she had to protect him.

"No, Clark," she said, pushing at his chest desperately. She might as well have tried to move the LuthorCorp building, and she knew it, but she tried anyway. "Listen to me. This is the Scarecrow's toxin, not you."

Obviously the toxin affected a deep, primitive part of the brain. With humans, it stimulated the part of the brain that produced a fear reaction. But since Clark wasn't human, it had a different effect on him. Different, but no less basic and elemental.

Being Superman, he'd fought it off long enough to finish his task of handing the Scarecrow over to the authorities. Then he'd flown straight to her.

She wondered what might have happened if he wasn't Superman, and couldn't fly to her. How basic was his need? Would he have had sex with the first available female?

She contemplated that for a moment, then shrugged it off as irrelevant. It was because he was Superman that the toxin had affected him this way. Anyone else would be curled up on the pavement, whimpering in terror.

"This isn't you," she repeated, staring into his eyes in an effort to make him understand. "I mean, yes, you want me, but not like this. You have to fight it, Clark. Fight it."

He stared back into her eyes for a long moment, giving her hope that he'd understood. But then he opened his mouth again.

"Fuck," he said. "Now."

She closed her eyes in defeat, realizing that there was no way of getting through to him. A deep, primitive part of his brain was being stimulated by the toxin, overpowering every other thought, and until he got what he wanted, he couldn't be turned aside.

Thank God he'd come to her, and not turned to the nearest available female. Because she had an uncomfortable certainty that under the influence of the toxin, even the word "No" wouldn't dissuade him. She'd hate for Clark to be driven to rape, because when the toxin wore off he would be absolutely crushed by what he'd done.

At least there was no question of rape here. He was her husband, and if he needed sex, then she was willing to have sex. She just wanted to do it without compromising his secret.

His hands were beginning to move over her body, and she realized that he was rapidly giving into the demands of the toxin. She needed to get him out of public somehow.

"Can we find a storage closet somewhere?" she asked.

He stared at her blankly. "Why?"

She realized that any input that didn't have to do with sex didn't make any sense to his befuddled brain. If only she had the little chunk of kryptonite she kept in a lead box... but unfortunately, it was in her purse, which was in her desk drawer downstairs. Damn it. "We can make love in a storage closet," she said persuasively.

He blinked at her. "Fuck. Here."

"No," she answered. "In a storage closet. There's a nice big one on the fourteenth floor, remember? We've used it before."

"Now. Here."

Apparently a change in venue wasn't on his list of things to do today. He had exactly one item on his list, and he wasn't going to do anything that might delay that item. And she certainly couldn't move him without cooperation.

She tried a slightly different tack. "Well, how about your clothes? Can you at least change into your regular clothes for me?"

Once again, he looked puzzled. "Why?"

"Because they're sexier." She let her voice drop into a husky, more sensual register. "Change for me, Clark."

He stared back at her, as blank as ever, and she thought with a sinking heart that this wasn't going to work, either. But then there was a blur, and plain old Clark Kent stood in front of her. Because he'd had the day off, he was dressed in jeans and a plain white t-shirt. But his dark-rimmed glasses perched crookedly on his nose, just as they always did, and his dark hair fell over his forehead in shaggy bangs.

"Thank you," she said in relief, hoping that no one had spotted the red cape earlier. She could imagine the tabloid headlines, all equally bad, whether someone figured out his identity or not: Superman is reporter for Daily Planet! or Superman in love nest with married woman!

Not good, not good at all. Hopefully no one had spotted him. With any luck, maybe no one would see them.

She tugged on him, trying to draw him toward the shadow cast by the great golden globe that revolved overhead. He hesitated for a moment, then followed her.

"Fuck," he reminded her.

"Yeah, I got that already, thanks." She hesitated in the shadows and looked up at him.

He looked back. His eyes were hot and fierce.

"Now," he said.

She'd done everything she could to protect his secret, and she knew she couldn't dissuade him. Under the influence of the toxin, which was clearly making him desperate for sex, it was possible he could hurt her with his superhuman strength. But she trusted him, even under the influence. She'd always trusted him.

She nodded.

"Okay," she agreed. "Now."

*****

Hands up under her blouse. Warm sleek skin.

Aching with need. Hard, so hard.

Rubbed against her.

Pleasure, so intense it almost knocked him off his feet.

Needed.

Needed more of that. Her body against his.

His body in hers.

Needed.

She pushed up his shirt. A cool autumn breeze blew across his bare, sweat-damp skin.

His hands shoved her skirt up roughly, ripping her panties away. Her hands settled on his jeans, unfastening them.

Her fingers wrapped around his cock.

A long roar of desperate need ripped its way out of his throat as she touched him. He was hot and hard, aching with a terrible throbbing ache. He'd never been so hard before, so full of anguished need.

Her hand stroked him, and precome surged out of him as desire rushed through him in waves, drowning him. Yesthatyesthatyesmoreofthat...

But as good as it was, as intensely pleasurable as it was, it wasn't quite what he wanted. He needed to be inside her, deep inside her, having sex with her. Fuck fuck fuck beat like a steady mantra in his head, overwhelming everything else.

He wrapped his hands around her waist, lifted her, and sank deeply into the impossible warmth of her body.

*****

Clark felt so good.

Chloe had made love to him hundreds of times, of course. But she'd never felt such desperation in every muscle of his body, never felt him plunge into her with such power and violence.

In the back of her mind, she was still aware that he could hurt her, possibly even kill her. He was hundreds of times stronger than she was, he was very much out of control, and the effect of the toxin on his mind obviously made him oblivious to any concerns other than sex. She should be frightened.

But his body felt so good thrusting into hers that the fear just melted away.

Pleasure coiled in her, tight and hot. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her lips brushed over his throat, and she raised a leg and wrapped it around his thighs to allow him deeper access. He sank into her even more deeply, and a noise almost of anguish fell from his lips.

His hips moved harder and faster, in a savage, unrelenting rhythm, driving her right off an edge she hadn't realized she'd been poised on. She cried out as all-consuming ecstasy exploded through her every cell, and her body convulsed around his.

He threw his head back and uttered a long, animal sound of rapture, a noise that was a scream and a roar and a wail all rolled into one. He thrust into her one last time, so hard it almost hurt, and she felt the warm burst of his come deep inside her.

And then he was gasping for breath, lowering her to the ground and pressing his face into her hair.

*****

So good. So damn good.

But he needed.

Still needed.

Couldn't stop.

Couldn't ever stop.

Her fragrance drifted around him on the cool autumn breeze. The smell of sex, of sweat, of sweetness and spice. His erection was still hard, but it stiffened further, and he lifted her again and moved inside her, thrusting gently.

They weren't done yet.

They would never be done.

*****

As Clark moved inside her, his movements growing more demanding, Chloe realized she was in trouble.

She'd thought somehow that the toxin would lose its effectiveness when Clark got what he wanted. But she was beginning to realize that as long as the toxin was stimulating this particular area of his brain, he wouldn't stop. He couldn't stop.

But somehow, she needed to make him stop. She couldn't make love to him on the roof of the Daily Planet building forever. First of all, someone was bound to come out here and catch them eventually, or spot them from a nearby building. And second-- sooner or later it was going to hurt. Even if Clark didn't get carried away and split her in two or something, the friction was eventually going to make her very, very uncomfortable.

Sex with Clark all day long was a terrific fantasy. But sex with an out-of-control Clark who was oblivious to how she felt, who didn't care about hurting her, who just kept pounding into her relentlessly, was not a fantasy. It was more like a nightmare.

"You need to stop," she said, pushing at his shoulders. As she'd expected, he didn't respond, just kept thrusting, frantic noises coming from his throat. She shoved harder and spoke more loudly. "Clark! No!"

That word would have made him stop instantly any other time, but he didn't even seem to notice it. Clearly he just wasn't capable of stopping right now. She leaned her head against his big shoulder, trying to ignore the physical sensation of his body pounding into hers, despite the fact that it was pretty damn enjoyable.

She couldn't let herself just enjoy this, because sooner or later it was going to result in real damage, and she wasn't in favor of that. She needed to figure out a way to stop him somehow.

Clark gave another long, sobbing roar of pleasure, and she felt a somewhat reduced burst of heat inside her. Okay, Sullivan, she thought. Now's your chance.

Just like last time, his grip loosened just a bit as post-orgasmic relaxation hit his muscles, and she wrenched away from him and skittered backward, as fast as she could go, shoving her skirt down.

He lifted his head, looking perplexed, and followed her. "Fuck," he said hopefully.

"No." She spoke as sternly as she could, trying to ignore the plaintive look in his expressive eyes. "We're done, Clark."

Despite her words, she knew she couldn't hold him off forever. She didn't have a chance in the world of getting down to the bullpen and getting that little chunk of kryptonite, and she knew it. He was so much faster and stronger than she was that she was effectively trapped here on the roof as long as he was under the influence of the toxin.

Her only hope was to hold him off until his supermetabolism managed to neutralize the toxin. Given how fast his metabolism worked, she was certain he wouldn't be like human victims, whom she'd read were often in the hospital for days after a dose of one of the Scarecrow's toxins. He'd shake it off relatively quickly, she was sure. But if only there were a way to make his metabolism work even faster...

Suddenly an idea dawned.

He moved toward her, stalking her like a lion, his eyes still hot with clear sexual interest. She reached out and grabbed his huge, hard, slick erection, wrapping her hand around him.

He paused, his eyes flickering shut, and she pumped really hard, in a way that had always made him weak in the knees. She'd already figured out that the biological imperative triggered by the toxin made him want sex, and nothing but sex, but maybe if she could make this feel good enough...

He groaned, a long, low sound of such total and complete pleasure that it gave her goosebumps.

"You like that," she whispered.

"Fuck," he moaned, and she wasn't sure if it was an objection or just an expletive.

"You know what would feel even better?" She moved her hand harder. "If you went into superspeed, I bet it would feel awesome."

He paused for a moment, and then he was thrusting against her hand so fast he was little more than a blur. She stepped to the side, so as not to be hit by any substance that might exit his body at more than the normal velocity, because she didn't want her head taken off. She wasn't sure if that could actually happen... but she really didn't want to find out.

She heard a series of loud, rapid, and entirely indescribable noises, which she guessed was the sound of him yelling as he came over and over again at superspeed. The friction made her hand begin to smart and sting, but she supposed it was better to have him rubbing against her hand than against a more sensitive place, which probably would have been in serious agony by now.

And then suddenly, he stopped, and stumbled backward from her, his eyes wide.

"Chloe?" he said, looking bewildered.

*****

What the hell?

Clark blinked, trying to figure out what on earth he was doing here, in Metropolis. The last really clear thing he remembered was receiving a call from the Batman and speeding to Metropolis to apprehend Jonathan Crane, who'd released a toxin into a crowd on Main Street. Clark had figured he was the ideal person to deal with Crane, since the toxin wouldn't affect him...

He sorted through the rest of his recent memories, a confused, blurry kaleidoscope of intense sexual desire and violent orgasms, and he realized the toxin had affected him, after all... but not quite the way it affected humans. He felt his cheeks turn red.

"I guess it wore off," Chloe said, inspecting the palm of her hand ruefully.

He wrapped his fingers around her wrist, lifting her hand to see what he'd done to her. Her palm was chafed raw and red. In another moment or two, it would have probably begun bleeding. He lifted his head and looked into her eyes, horrified by the way he'd treated her.

"It's okay," she said, reading his expression. "Not your fault."

He supposed that was true, but it didn't make him feel any better. She reached down and zipped up his jeans, tucking everything back where it ought to be, and it slowly dawned on him that he'd had sex with her on the roof of the Daily Planet building, in broad daylight. His cheeks flamed hotter than before.

"The toxin," he said, trying to put the pieces together. "Did it just ...wear off?"

She nodded. "I got you to go into superspeed. I figured that would make your metabolism a lot faster."

"Good thinking." Considering how much faster his body operated in superspeed, he'd probably burnt off the toxin hours faster than it would have taken otherwise. If she hadn't thought of that solution... he envisioned himself forcing her to have sex with him against her will for hours on end, hurting her, and a shudder of shame ran through him.

"I told you," she said, a little more fiercely. "It wasn't your fault."

"I guess not," he answered. "Still... I'm really sorry, Chlo."

"It's okay," she told him, patting his shoulder. "We don't have time to stand here and worry about it, anyway. I have a story to write, and you need to get back to Gotham and check on the El train disaster. I think Bruce has it mostly under control, but still..."

His shame faded away under the awareness that people needed him. He bent and kissed her quickly, then headed for the edge of the roof. By the time he'd reached it, he'd transformed himself into Superman.

Seconds later, he was in Gotham, helping Batman aid the people who'd been injured.

But his mind was still back in Metropolis with Chloe.

*****

At five o'clock, Chloe looked up from the computer to find Clark standing there, holding a vase full of tulips. She lifted her eyebrows.

"Are those for me?"

"No, they're for my girlfriend. Of course they're for you, silly girl."

She smiled, pleased. Clark was the world's most super husband, of course, but in many ways he was a lot like like most human men, and buying flowers wasn't something he thought of doing often. She reached out and took the vase, sniffing the crimson flowers appreciatively.

"Thank you, Clark."

He parked his hip on the corner of her desk and looked down at her. "We're going out, too. I have a nice evening planned."

She placed the vase onto her desk and turned back to her computer, beginning to type again. "Okay," she agreed absently.

"Um. I sort of meant, you know, starting now."

"Now?" She glanced up, at the ornate art deco clock that hung on the opposite wall, and frowned. "But it's only five o'clock."

"Maybe no one ever sent you the memo, Chlo, but the work day ends at five o'clock."

"That's crazy talk."

"Come on," he said impatiently. "I owe you for what I did to you this afternoon. Let me make it up to you, okay?"

She looked at him for a long moment. At last she stood up, walked around the desk, and put her hands on his shoulders, staring into his eyes. "Clark," she said gently. "You don't owe me anything. I already told you, it wasn't your fault."

To her relief, there had been no apparent fallout from the toxin incident. She'd been monitoring the internet all day, and she hadn't read a thing about Superman, other than the story she herself had written. No one had spotted Superman, or even Clark Kent, on the roof of the Planet, having hot sex with the journalist who wrote as Lois Lane. And no one had died in the El disaster, thanks to the efforts of Batman-- and, somewhat belatedly, Superman.

They'd been lucky, because no real harm had been done-- except to her palm. And a little hand lotion with aloe had helped soothe that sting.

He lowered his gaze, looking away from her as if he were too embarrassed to face her. "Maybe not," he said, his voice low. "But it feels like my fault. So let me do this for you, okay?"

"Um. Well. Let me think. A bouquet of tulips and a romantic evening with my husband. Is there a down side here?"

"Yeah," he said with a flicker of the grin she adored. "You have to knock off work at five o'clock."

"Huh. Well, that's a hell of a sacrifice. But for you, I'm willing to make it."

"Great," he said, and his grin was more than just a flicker now. It lit his face and made his eyes glow with delight. He put his arm around her waist and steered her toward the door. "And maybe later, we can make love the right way. Without me losing control, I mean."

She looked up at him and felt her heart lift, because his serious, mopey expression had been replaced by his happy smile. She grinned back.

"I bet I can make you lose control, Clark Kent."

"Yeah," he agreed, squeezing her in an affectionate, warm hug. "I bet you can, too."

-The End-