Fic: Vers: III: I Am the Moon
Parts: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII
III
I Am the Moon
Clark is like an ocean.
He sets his coffee down on the desk, like that, very deliberate, and lets his hand fall back to his side. His jaw is set; a muscle in it twitches. There is something of reproach in it all: of me, of himself, of the world: I don't know.
"Care to tell me what's on your mind?" I ask, with levity. He looks at me, his shoulders low and round.
"The call - the attack," he says. "It was a teenage girl. The 'Red-Blue Blur' got there before the police did - somehow lost control of the situation." He took another deep breath, "She's dead now."
"Clark -" I say, but he shakes his head.
"You call him a hero, Lois," he says; his voice is low, dark. It rolls through me. "How could someone so powerful let someone's life slip through his fingers like that?" He stares at me: searching; he seems almost desperate. "How is that possible?"
I don't know what to tell him. There is some strange undercurrent to what he's saying: a river of quiet reproach; of soft, black grief. He asks me questions I would expect from someone like Lex, without the malice I would expect from someone like Lex. But I don't think that he is being fair: Clark, who sees every side to every story; Clark is the last person I expected to ask me this.
"He's not omnipotent, Clark. Or omnipresent, or -"
"Someone died tonight."
I breathe out, and close my eyes. "Someone dies every night, Clark. Not even a superhero can save them all."
"No," he says; and the wave in his eyes swells to meet me. "But he could have saved that one."
- - -
If Clark is an ocean, who or what is the man we have dubbed the 'Red-Blue Blur'?
I think that he is the wind in our sails; I think that he is the newspapers he blew along the sidewalk. He is a voice. He is ours.
"I suppose you heard what happened tonight."
"The girl?" I ask.
"The girl."
"I heard," I say. "Are you OK?"
"Lois," he says, "I can't help you. I can't help anybody. Somebody's daughter died tonight because of me."
I could be talking to Clark again, the way I feel right now.
"Listen to me:" I say. "You have no idea what you've done for Metropolis. OK? And maybe you can't help me; and maybe you couldn't help that girl. Maybe there are a million people you can't help, nobody can help. But don't undersell what you've done, what you've chosen to do. A young girl died tonight, and that's a reality we have to wake up to tomorrow, but it wasn't your fault. Sometimes - sometimes people die."
There is silence on the line, and I add, softly, "Maybe one day we'll wake up and nobody's daughter, nobody's son died in the night. But that's not something even you can do alone."
I wonder what he does when he is not talking to me, when he is not saving people, not failing to save them. Is he a person? Does he have family? - a mother, maybe, who has all of my articles pressed liked flowers between scrapbook pages; an old girlfriend. When I hang up the phone, will he go home like me to an empty apartment? Will he go to work?
He must be haunted by death.
"I'm sorry," he says, "for calling you like this."
Maybe I am the wrong person for this. I lack the quiet understanding of someone like Lana; the cool empathy. I see the blueness on the sea surface, and nothing of its depth.
"You're apologising to me?" I ask. "Don't. This is the least I can do for you."
"But - it's so much," he says, after a moment.
- - -
I go home and throw my keys on the counter. It is early, for me.
Somehow, I am filled up with the desire to call Martha. I want to tell her she should be here, that I am all alone, that I need her. I brush my fingers against the receiver - but she's not mine. I let them fall again.
I am angry at Clark. It is easier now that he is not here. I am angry with his unreasonable demands of omnipresence; with his expectations. We are all sailing an ocean of sorrow; we are all sinking; we are all trying to bail our ship the best we can, and Clark expects the man with the largest bucket to bail the whole ship alone.
But -
But when Clark sees someone fall overboard, he is the first to jump in after them. He jumped in after me. He took a bullet, and his eyes overflowed; so did mine. Now he sits alone in the dark of the basement at work, waiting for the next story to come through the wire, the next chance to throw himself into the sea, and filled to overflowing with silent despair - and now I understand. The reproach, the soft black grief is for himself: because the Red-Blue Blur couldn't save a young girl tonight, what good are any of us? What good is Clark, in the face of that?
Clark, you don't understand at all.
- - -
He sits there at his desk, in the dark like I thought. His hands flat against the wood, like they have made roots in its earth. Clark is not like the rest of us, I think; we who are anonymous, we who are ephemeral, we whose names are like dried flowers. Clark is a great oak tree; he has planted the seed of his name in the Planet's dirt, covering it over gently with his hands, watering it with his ocean.
He half-turns to face me, his mouth half-open.
"You came back," he says, and then blinks. "I mean - I thought you went home."
"I did." I say, "But then I started thinking, you know: I'll never get out of the basement if I make going home before ten some kind of habit."
I walk over to his desk and put the carrier bag I have been holding down on it. "And I stopped off for Chinese food on the way, so I am really glad you're still here."
He looks up at me, and the ocean in his eyes is a flat calm. I might set sail in the curve of his mouth; that half moon, that petal. He might set sail in mine.
"My mom called," he says, as I rustle around in the bag. I pause for a moment; my hands still. "She said to tell you 'hi'." I smile at him: I'm not alone. He looks away quietly, to the next desk. Then he presses his lips together, and he says, "And I'm supposed to give you something."
I stop then, and look at him, eyebrow raised. He considers me for a moment, and then pushes his chair back from the desk, standing before me. He puts a hand on my shoulder gently, running the fingers up the fabric of my shirt, pressing them lightly into me. Then he leans forward and presses his lips into the left corner of my mouth; I feel his soft lashes brush against my cheek, and he smells like apples: always apples. I close my eyes.
When I open them again, he is watching me; then he looks away, to the left of my eye, his fingers still pressed into me - and says, as an afterthought, as if to himself, "From my mom."
I smile. "That's why I let you."
I think it might even be true.
III
I Am the Moon
Clark is like an ocean.
He sets his coffee down on the desk, like that, very deliberate, and lets his hand fall back to his side. His jaw is set; a muscle in it twitches. There is something of reproach in it all: of me, of himself, of the world: I don't know.
"Care to tell me what's on your mind?" I ask, with levity. He looks at me, his shoulders low and round.
"The call - the attack," he says. "It was a teenage girl. The 'Red-Blue Blur' got there before the police did - somehow lost control of the situation." He took another deep breath, "She's dead now."
"Clark -" I say, but he shakes his head.
"You call him a hero, Lois," he says; his voice is low, dark. It rolls through me. "How could someone so powerful let someone's life slip through his fingers like that?" He stares at me: searching; he seems almost desperate. "How is that possible?"
I don't know what to tell him. There is some strange undercurrent to what he's saying: a river of quiet reproach; of soft, black grief. He asks me questions I would expect from someone like Lex, without the malice I would expect from someone like Lex. But I don't think that he is being fair: Clark, who sees every side to every story; Clark is the last person I expected to ask me this.
"He's not omnipotent, Clark. Or omnipresent, or -"
"Someone died tonight."
I breathe out, and close my eyes. "Someone dies every night, Clark. Not even a superhero can save them all."
"No," he says; and the wave in his eyes swells to meet me. "But he could have saved that one."
- - -
If Clark is an ocean, who or what is the man we have dubbed the 'Red-Blue Blur'?
I think that he is the wind in our sails; I think that he is the newspapers he blew along the sidewalk. He is a voice. He is ours.
"I suppose you heard what happened tonight."
"The girl?" I ask.
"The girl."
"I heard," I say. "Are you OK?"
"Lois," he says, "I can't help you. I can't help anybody. Somebody's daughter died tonight because of me."
I could be talking to Clark again, the way I feel right now.
"Listen to me:" I say. "You have no idea what you've done for Metropolis. OK? And maybe you can't help me; and maybe you couldn't help that girl. Maybe there are a million people you can't help, nobody can help. But don't undersell what you've done, what you've chosen to do. A young girl died tonight, and that's a reality we have to wake up to tomorrow, but it wasn't your fault. Sometimes - sometimes people die."
There is silence on the line, and I add, softly, "Maybe one day we'll wake up and nobody's daughter, nobody's son died in the night. But that's not something even you can do alone."
I wonder what he does when he is not talking to me, when he is not saving people, not failing to save them. Is he a person? Does he have family? - a mother, maybe, who has all of my articles pressed liked flowers between scrapbook pages; an old girlfriend. When I hang up the phone, will he go home like me to an empty apartment? Will he go to work?
He must be haunted by death.
"I'm sorry," he says, "for calling you like this."
Maybe I am the wrong person for this. I lack the quiet understanding of someone like Lana; the cool empathy. I see the blueness on the sea surface, and nothing of its depth.
"You're apologising to me?" I ask. "Don't. This is the least I can do for you."
"But - it's so much," he says, after a moment.
- - -
I go home and throw my keys on the counter. It is early, for me.
Somehow, I am filled up with the desire to call Martha. I want to tell her she should be here, that I am all alone, that I need her. I brush my fingers against the receiver - but she's not mine. I let them fall again.
I am angry at Clark. It is easier now that he is not here. I am angry with his unreasonable demands of omnipresence; with his expectations. We are all sailing an ocean of sorrow; we are all sinking; we are all trying to bail our ship the best we can, and Clark expects the man with the largest bucket to bail the whole ship alone.
But -
But when Clark sees someone fall overboard, he is the first to jump in after them. He jumped in after me. He took a bullet, and his eyes overflowed; so did mine. Now he sits alone in the dark of the basement at work, waiting for the next story to come through the wire, the next chance to throw himself into the sea, and filled to overflowing with silent despair - and now I understand. The reproach, the soft black grief is for himself: because the Red-Blue Blur couldn't save a young girl tonight, what good are any of us? What good is Clark, in the face of that?
Clark, you don't understand at all.
- - -
He sits there at his desk, in the dark like I thought. His hands flat against the wood, like they have made roots in its earth. Clark is not like the rest of us, I think; we who are anonymous, we who are ephemeral, we whose names are like dried flowers. Clark is a great oak tree; he has planted the seed of his name in the Planet's dirt, covering it over gently with his hands, watering it with his ocean.
He half-turns to face me, his mouth half-open.
"You came back," he says, and then blinks. "I mean - I thought you went home."
"I did." I say, "But then I started thinking, you know: I'll never get out of the basement if I make going home before ten some kind of habit."
I walk over to his desk and put the carrier bag I have been holding down on it. "And I stopped off for Chinese food on the way, so I am really glad you're still here."
He looks up at me, and the ocean in his eyes is a flat calm. I might set sail in the curve of his mouth; that half moon, that petal. He might set sail in mine.
"My mom called," he says, as I rustle around in the bag. I pause for a moment; my hands still. "She said to tell you 'hi'." I smile at him: I'm not alone. He looks away quietly, to the next desk. Then he presses his lips together, and he says, "And I'm supposed to give you something."
I stop then, and look at him, eyebrow raised. He considers me for a moment, and then pushes his chair back from the desk, standing before me. He puts a hand on my shoulder gently, running the fingers up the fabric of my shirt, pressing them lightly into me. Then he leans forward and presses his lips into the left corner of my mouth; I feel his soft lashes brush against my cheek, and he smells like apples: always apples. I close my eyes.
When I open them again, he is watching me; then he looks away, to the left of my eye, his fingers still pressed into me - and says, as an afterthought, as if to himself, "From my mom."
I smile. "That's why I let you."
I think it might even be true.