Behind Every (Super) Man...

By Deadly Chakram <dwelf82@yahoo.com>

Rated: PG

Submitted: June 2012

Summary: They say that behind every great man, there is an even
greater woman. That is doubly true for the Man of Steel.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I make nothing. All characters, plot
points, and recognizable dialogue belong to DC comics, Warner
Brothers, December 3rd Productions and anyone else with a stake
in the Superman Franchise. I'm just playing with my toys again.

Special Thanks: Go out to VirginiaR, for being an awesome
beta-reader. This work is a lot stronger thanks to your sharp eye
and helpful suggestions!

WARNING: This is NOT a happy tale. It contains a "rescue gone
wrong," which some readers may find disturbing. Reader
discretion is advised.

***

It's happened again. No matter how hard I've tried, no matter
how fast I've been, it hasn't been enough. I wasn't here. I
wasn't able to save these innocent lives. I wasn't here to
prevent the tragedy that has unfolded. And I feel the eyes on me,
hear the unvoiced questions of the masses. It torments me.

*Where were you when we needed you? How could you let this
happen? Why? Why? Why?*

I have no answers for them. I can't argue with their grief,
can't force myself to explain. It wouldn't do any good anyway.
It wouldn't be a soothing balm on their wounds. It wouldn't
have the power to bring back their loved ones.

It rips my heart to shreds, destroys my emotions, and threatens
to tear down all my strength. I can't let that happen. Not here.
Not now. Not in the public eye. But soon. Very soon. Behind
closed doors, I will finally let the mask of Superman crumble
into dry dust, to be swept away like sand in the wind. Only then
will I be able to become Clark once more. Only then will I be
able to grieve. Only then will I allow myself to stop being an
invulnerable alien and become a vulnerable human man again.

But not yet. I still have work to do here, and to do that, I must
remain as Superman. I must embody all his strength, master my
emotions, and maintain the grim mask that gives away so little of
what I actually feel.

I pick through the remains of the burnt-out shell of what was
once a building, now gutted, like me. And not just any building.
Happy Faces Daycare, right in the very heart of Metropolis. My
home. The city I have sworn to protect. The city that has almost
always welcomed me with open arms. The city that has honored me
with special recognition and impromptu holidays in my name. The
city I've let down today.

I find a few more places where embers still smolder, and I
quickly extinguish them. At my side, some of the city's finest
firefighters pick through the debris. One man holds the body of a
limp, lifeless child in his arms, and gently carries the body
outside. I can't bear to look, not even to see if he has a boy
or girl in his arms. I turn my head away, shame burning my soul.
Half a minute later, I hear the agonized shriek of the bereaved
mother, even without my super-hearing.

I keep moving, x-raying as I go, looking for any more bodies,
either living or dead. I stop short as I find one. Less than half
a minute later, I've uncovered the body of a baby boy, maybe
five or six months old. He's not breathing, and is terribly,
horribly burnt. There is no hope of bringing him back; even burnt
as he is, his body has already gone cold, the warmth leaching out
of his skin as surely as his life did. I hang my head in grief,
shoving aside the water that pools in my eyes.

The boy is...was...no older than my own son. An involuntary
shudder wracks my body as the realization hits home. He could
have *been* my son, if things had turned out differently. Lois
and I -- we considered enrolling our baby boy at this very
daycare facility, until Lucy offered to watch him while we are at
work, thrilled as she was to have a nephew. If not for Lucy,
chances are that I would have lost my only child today. That
thought chills me to my very bones. It freezes my blood in my
veins and squeezes my heart until I'm sure that it will pop and
I can no longer take a breath in the now suffocating, smoky air.

I shake my head. I can't afford to think like that now. I can't
play the "what if" game. Not now. I still have work to do here.
And as I shake my head, my thoughts scatter like so many dark
marbles across a smooth floor. They race to the corners of my
mind, waiting for the moment when I am finally alone.

I'm not really sure how long I have already been in this place,
searching the debris until I am sure that the fire is completely
out and that every last person is found, the survivors and
victims alike. I know that my features are crinkled up into a
hurt, disturbed expression, but I don't even *try* to smooth the
lines in my face away. It is all right if the people see that
their hero has a heart, and that his heart is affected by
something this devastating, isn't it? Surely, it is all right to
let them see a fraction of the immense remorse I feel, right?

I sigh deeply, satisfied that no one else is still buried in the
debris. I scan once more, just to be doubly sure, and find one
last stubborn patch of flame to extinguish. Then, gently cradling
the unmoving, deceased infant in my arms, I leave the building
for the last time. I am grateful to move out of the acrid smoke
that has been filling my lungs and threatening to strangle me
with its noxious odor, though even out in the open, I can still
taste the stench of the fire on my tongue.

Cameras flash as I emerge, and I flinch as though they were
physical blows to my body. I can hear the soft murmurs that
ripple through the crowd as I step into their view. If I wanted
to, I could easily pick out the whispers, and listen to what the
people are saying. But I don't bother. It's not that I don't
care. It's just that I don't have either the strength or the
courage to know what people think of me right now, good or bad.
My heart is broken enough for the lives that have been lost
today.

Barely having the strength to speak, I hand the limp body over to
one of the medical officers who are on the scene. I shake my head
as I do so, indicating that there is no hope. The man takes the
boy and examines him anyway, before coming to the same conclusion
I already have. One of the firefighters touches my arm, and the
expression on her soot-streaked face is one of gratitude for my
assistance. For a moment, the look surprises me. I don't feel
like I have done anything worthy of thanks. These innocent
children died while I was overseas, in Thailand, digging a trench
in the seafloor to prevent a tsunami from reaching land.

I know, of course, that I was needed overseas. I know, that by
stopping the tsunami, the lives of millions were saved. But that
knowledge doesn't take away the sting I feel now. It doesn't
erase the shame I feel for not being *here*, for not being able
to save the lives of people within my own city. It doesn't
soothe the ache in my heart or disperse my immense sadness as I
see a body bag being zipped up around the baby boy.

With a sigh, I take flight, never saying a word, ignoring the
calls from the various television and newspaper reporters
standing amid the gathered crowd beyond the police barricades.
They call to me, their voices cutting through the murmurs of the
crowd. For my part, I hear them, but I don't acknowledge them. I
know what it must look like to them, like the normally polite man
in blue is suddenly being rude and more aloof than usual. But I
know they want a good quote or two for their stories. And,
wordsmith though I am by trade, I find myself utterly without a
single word on my tongue, my brain blank except for the lingering
visions of broken, burnt bodies. Therefore, I retreat, slowly at
first but then speeding up just enough to cause the tell-tale
sonic boom of my passing, a firm indication for them all that I
am gone, and not coming back to the scene.

I need desperately to see my son. I need him like I need air,
like I need sunlight, like I need Lois' love. But I can't go to
him. Not as Superman. There are some things that the Lane Family
is not privy to. My double life is among them. I can't show up
as Clark either. I reek of smoke and death. I'm covered in soot
and ash. So I content myself to flying to Lucy's modest
apartment, and x-ray through the walls, telescoping my vision in
as I do so.

She isn't there. My heart seizes in my chest and panic floods
me. I snap back to my normal vision, and frantically start
listening for my boy's heartbeat. Twenty seconds later, I find
it, in the small public park across the street from Lucy's
apartment. I hover, a good mile above the Earth, and zoom in.
Relief pushes out my fear as I see my sister-in-law talking on
the phone and pushing my son in his stroller. I broaden the scope
of my hearing and confirm what I already suspect. She's on the
phone with Lois, arranging to bring our son home soon. I take a
moment to revel in his strong heartbeat and the tiny sounds of
his giggles as Lucy stops and tickles one of his feet. I take a
moment to revel in the warmth of his wide smile.

And yet, even knowing he is safe, I can't shake the pain in my
heart over the lives lost today.

I stop two muggings before I finally get home, only to find Lois
already there and waiting for me in our bedroom. At first, I
can't meet her gaze. I merely plop heavily onto the bed, sitting
on my side of the mattress, dangling my legs off the side, feet
on the floor. Leaning forward, my elbows on my thighs, I let my
head drop into my open palms. I don't even bother to slip out of
the suit yet. I just sit in silence, wishing that my dark
thoughts would follow my tongue's lead and quiet down.

Lois comes up beside me to sit. She doesn't say a word, but her
hand reaches up and squeezes my shoulder, my upper arm. After a
moment, I let my arms fall into my lap. Encouraged, Lois' hand
moves now to the back of my suit, reaching beneath the heavy
cape. She finds the hidden zipper there, and slowly, but fluidly,
unzips it all the way down to the bottom, where it meets the red
briefs. Then she tugs the material off, coaxing the tight suit
from my body, until the upper half dangles around my waist and I
am sitting bare-chested. I let her work, without protest, without
encouragement, without so much as moving. I am simply there,
existing.

That simple act triggers a switch in my brain. As the suit comes
away, so too does Superman fall away. The hero vanishes, leaving
behind the ordinary man. My iron grip on my emotions falters,
then breaks. And a single tear falls from my eye to race down my
right cheek. Lois' hand is immediately there, catching the small
bead of salt water and brushing it from my skin with a touch so
light, it seems almost unreal. She cups my cheek, and I take a
moment to bask in the warmth of her palm.

Suddenly, as Lois' hands move up my back to the shoulder harness
that keeps my cape in place, I am once again aware of the odors
that still cling to me -- sea salt, smoke, ash, burnt flesh, and
failure. I move away from my wife, strip out of the rest of the
suit, and head into the shower. But less than two minutes later,
I am clean of the smoke, blood, and other substances that had
been clinging to my body. I toss on a pair of sweat pants and an
old t-shirt, then take my place on the bed again. Lois is still
there, waiting for me.

As before, I say nothing. I can't seem to make my tongue work,
as though all my grief has pooled there and is weighing it down.

But Lois is used to my depressed moods, whenever there is a
disaster that affects me particularly hard, like this one has.
I'll admit, I don't have these moods nearly as often as I used
to, way back when I first decided to become Superman. For the
most part, I've learned to cope with my own short-comings, my
own limitations. I've come to accept that I can't save everyone
every single time. I've had to. Without that realization,
without that acceptance, I wouldn't be able to *be* Superman.
The stress would kill me, or drive me insane.

Still, once in a while, I come face to face with suffering and
death on such an epic scale or a particularly disturbing crime
scene. Those are the times when it is the hardest for me to keep
doing what I do. Those are the times when I slip into a depressed
mood, and contemplate hanging up the suit for good. Those are the
times when I cannot accept all the things I can't do.

Lois gently embraces me, slipping her arms around my chest,
holding me tightly to her. It's as though she is the only glue
keeping my body from shattering into thousands of unrecognizable
pieces; a nightmarish puzzle without any chance of ever getting
put back together. She gives my body a slight squeeze, letting me
know, in her own subtle way, that she's there for me. That
she'll stand by me. That she wants to help me shoulder the pain
I'm carrying. That she's still proud of me. That she loves me.

I am so thankful for that simple gesture. That unspoken promise.
That silent show of love and support. Because it *is* the only
thing holding me together.

It used to be so much more difficult, making it through each
failed rescue. It used to be so much more unbearable, knowing
that my speed wasn't fast enough, that my strength counted for
nothing, that my powers hadn't made a difference. I used to
shoulder that pain alone, lying awake in my bed at night,
reliving the events over and over in my mind, until I was sure my
mind would break and I'd go crazy. Those were the nights when I
felt the most alone, when I would often flee to that space
between the stars and the Earth, with only my bleak thoughts to
keep me company.

Sure, I had my parents to talk to, to vent my frustrations to, to
air my grief and self-blame to. They were always there, willing
to lend a listening ear, a pat on the back, a word of
encouragement. They still are. And I've always appreciated that
fact. They have always been so sympathetic, so supportive.

But, they can never truly understand what it is like for me.

How can you explain to someone how it feels to be a second too
late to save a life, when they've never been in that
circumstance before? How do you explain to someone your guilt for
being at one crisis instead of another? How do you explain the
agony of having to choose when so many people are crying out for
your help, all at the same moment? How do you explain what it is
like to see such death and destruction, then have to slap on a
cheerful face and write about it at work hours later?

My parents have never been in this position. And, God willing,
they never will be.

But Lois...Lois understands. Fully, completely, intimately
understands.

She's walked a mile in my boots. She's flown a mile in my cape.
For a few brief days, she was Ultra Woman. During that time, she
had to make choices; the same ones I am so often faced with.
Mudslide or volcano eruption? Mugging or bank robbery? Out of
control school bus or apartment fire? She knows what it's like
to arrive on the scene only to find out that a life has already
been lost. She knows what it's like to be the strongest person
alive and not have the power to bring someone back from the dead.
She knows what it's like to have to ignore a plea from someone,
to make the decision to help someone else, knowing that it simply
isn't possible to save both people, knowing that someone is
going to die.

And so, she's always been patient with me. She's always had a
deeper level of understanding. She's always had a much more
intimate knowledge of the kinds of thoughts that swirl around in
my mind after each rescue gone horribly wrong. As a result, she
knows my heart better than I do myself. She knows how to heal my
wounds. She knows that I don't always need or *want* to hear
spoken platitudes. She knows that "you did your best" isn't
enough. She knows that "you're only one man, you can't be
everywhere" doesn't heal the wounds within.

For a time, I just sit, letting Lois hug me to herself, my head
hanging. Just as my body absorbs the sunlight and converts it to
energy, my soul now absorbs her silent support and converts it
into a soothing salve. Bit by bit, I feel myself feeling
infinitesimally better, like aloe spread over a burn dulls the
pain and restores the skin. After a while, I feel her shift her
body ever so slightly. Her chin comes to rest on my left shoulder
and her head lays against mine. I can hear her even breathing,
the steady beating of her heart. And I can take comfort from
those things. Because she is here with me. She is safe. She is
uninjured.

But she is so much more than just her physical presence. She is
more than the flesh against my own and the muscle and bone
beneath. Her presence does comfort me, but there is more to it
than that. She heals me because of who she is.

She is one person I can always count on. She never judges me; she
never has, even when Superman was a complete stranger to her,
just some strange visitor from another planet that she didn't
know or even understand. And now that she does know him, knows
*me*, she never even seems to get frustrated with these bleak
moods of mine when they creep up. She understands them,
understands me. She is always there to try to comfort me, no
matter what her own thoughts and emotions are.

Even back before she knew everything about my dual life, my dual
identities, she was always there for me, no matter what suit I
was wearing -- the professional work suit with the accompanying
loud tie, or the skin-tight, gaudy blue and red one.

To Superman, she was always his number one cheerleader. She
always stuck up for him, no matter how unpopular that made her,
or how bad the evidence against him looked, like when he was
blamed for the heat wave that first November I was in Metropolis.
Her tireless efforts saved Superman, when he was so ready to give
up, move on, and become a fugitive from normal life. She was
Superman's first friend. His only friend. And even when he
scooped her up to fly her back to the Daily Planet after lifting
the Prometheus shuttle into orbit, she never feared him,
unwittingly giving him hope for the world's acceptance of the
powerful alien in their midst.

To Clark, she became my best friend, the only person I'd ever
begun to truly open up to. She might not have admitted it at
first, that she was slowly coming to accept me as a partner and
as a friend. But, though she tried to hide her feelings for me,
they were always there, lurking on the edges of what she said and
did. When my apartment was robbed, she was there to offer words
of encouragement, and whatever sources and "guys who know guys"
that she could. True, she was trying to use the circumstance for
a story. Yet there were so many little ways in which she told me
that she really cared about the hurt I was suffering -- her
gentle words, her touches, the backrub she gave me at my desk
when she saw how beaten down I was.

And when she thought I was dead, shot before her own eyes by
Clyde Barrows, she grieved for the man she'd come to care deeply
about, the man who'd slipped past all her defenses to become her
best friend, and the man she could possibly come to love. My
"miraculous resurrection" brought tears to her eyes -- tears
that told me just how much she had missed me, and how much she
cared about me. Her embrace was extra tight that night, as though
she feared I'd disappear on her again, or that I was only an
illusion, a figment of the imagination, brought about by her
tortured mind. But it was when she offered to put her life on the
line to help me, when Mazik had my parents as hostages, that I
realized just how deeply her love for me ran.

Lois saved me, every single day since the moment I met her,
sometimes literally when Kryptonite was around. But most often,
she saved me in innumerable, tiny little ways she never even
realized. Before her, I was nothing. I was a man who wanted, but
could never truly attain, a normal life, though I play-acted at
one with varying degrees of success. I was a man who secretly
hoped for a family, but wondered if it was at all possible. I was
a man who carried the world's biggest, most terrifying, and
possibly deadliest secret, and who was petrified to let anyone in
past my defensive walls, lest they see that hidden aspect of my
life.

And then, I met Lois. And everything changed in that one, single
instant.

Lois gave me a normal life. She gave me a reason to stop running
from country to country, city to city. She gave me a home in
Metropolis, not as the resident superhero, but as an ordinary man
with an ordinary job. She gave me a reason to find a comfortable,
if not elaborate, apartment -- a place to rest my head without
wondering when and where I would flee to next. She gave me a way
to use my super-side without having to expose my true identity,
effectively creating Superman for me. She became my partner, then
my friend, and then my best friend. And I loved her from the
first moment I saw her. In becoming close to me, she became my
family, well before we began to date, well before we finally said
our vows.

She proved to me that I could have the things I'd always
secretly wished for. And most importantly, she gave me the
*reason* I needed in order to fight for those dreams. She gave me
the determination to achieve the goals I had set for myself.

And when she discovered my secret, she didn't reject me. She
didn't use the knowledge to hurt me, even though she was beyond
furious with my deception. She didn't use it to turn a profit
for herself, though I dare think she easily would have won her
Pulitzer with the story of how Clark Kent is also Superman.
Instead, she protected me. She helped me. She covered for me
whenever I needed her to, even when she was mad, even when I was
sure she'd never want to speak to me again.

In spite of my alien self, she loved me. Not the powers. Not the
suit. Not the hero. *Me. *The man beneath it all. The man who'd
teased her, who'd shared takeout with her, who'd let her crash
at his apartment after a long session of combing through research
notes or whenever she was being threatened. She saw past the
perceived glamour of being Superman's girlfriend, a dream of her
own that she'd once harbored.

She chose, instead, to become Clark Kent's wife.

Beside me, Lois still hasn't said a word, but she does move her
head from my shoulder now. Her soft lips kiss my temple, my
cheek, my jaw, my neck. A trail of phantom fire lingers in the
wake of her feather-light touch, and each one breaks a piece of
the blackness within my mind, tosses it to the wayside, and
allows shafts of light to penetrate the gloom. I desperately need
that light. I desperately need her gentle caress. My eyes flutter
shut for a moment as I savor the sensations, as I allow her to
work the magic only she wields.

Her hands begin to roam now, fluidly gliding over my torso. One
of her hands begins to rub my upper arm, trying to impart her
love and comfort. The other rubs along the middle of my back.
There is nothing remotely seductive about the motion. It's the
same soothing gesture she used when she rubbed my back after Jack
broke into my apartment and took my things, my globe, my sense of
privacy and security. It's the same soothing motion she used
when our son battled a bout of colic during his first month of
life. And yet, her gesture holds an even deeper level of
intimacy. It speaks much more deeply to me than when she tried to
comfort me after the robbery, because this time, she truly knows
what I am going through. She truly understands the depth of my
pain, and the blame I've heaped upon my own shoulders.

Her efforts work. I feel her concern in those touches. I feel her
sympathy. I feel her love. More of the darkness falls away, and I
can finally peek out through those cracks and fissures, those
small, jaggedly broken portholes to the outside world.

And, as always, I see Lois.

I see the hurt she is carrying, reflected in the endless depths
for her eyes. Her pain is my own. I see the concern she has.
She's always so worried for me, when these moods strike. I see
her acceptance. There is no blame, no accusation, no impatience.
I see the love she has for me. It rivals that which I carry for
her.

As I gaze at her, I cannot help but to feel so incredibly lucky
to have her in my life. And, though some pain still lingers in my
soul, I feel the weight of my sadness lift as her lips capture
mine in a gentle kiss. It isn't a sensual kiss. It isn't deep
or full of passion. And yet, it's not quite chaste either. It is
simply an outpouring of her love for me, and I feel that love
enter my bloodstream as though it were something physically
injected into my veins.

I return her kiss, matching her lips' movements with my own. I
don't hold back my desperation. I don't hold back my emotions.
I let her know, in those kisses, just how much she's helped me
today and every day. I let her know just how much I need her. I
let her know just how incomplete I really am without her. I let
her know just how endless and how powerful my love for her is.

It's been said that behind every great man, there is a great
woman. I've always believed that. I know that I am the luckiest
man of all. For behind me, backing me up in every moment of my
life, in every endeavor I undertake, is Lois. She isn't just a
great woman. She's a *super* woman.

THE END