Fic: Vers: IV: Fruit Tree, Fruit Tree
Parts: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII
IV
Fruit Tree, Fruit Tree
It didn't matter what Clark said, I always expected to see Lana again.
I looked up before he did; I saw her in the doorway first, and we shared one wordless glance.
Lana. I think we were almost friends there, for a moment. But Lana and I are too different to be close: I am furled tight over myself like the sails of a ship on a stormy sea; Lana is opened like a night-bloomer. Lana is the only person more sensitive than Clark: I understand why he loves her. I liked Lana long before I loved Clark, and I never stopped liking her because he loves her and never me.
But I wasn't glad to see her.
He flinched, and she looked down with her soft dark eyes and whispered, "It's OK." And they left.
They left, and I realise now I never should have entertained the thought that Clark could love someone else - could love someone who was furled tight around her shortcomings. I sewed together that fantasy from whole cloth and laced it into my back, between my shoulder blades, like a pair of waxwork wings. I flew up to the hot, heavy sun, and like a bird shot down I fell at Clark's feet.
- - -
Tess Mercer sweeps into the newsroom like she owns the place. I suppose she does.
In truth, I prefer her to Lex.
"Where is Clark?" She directs the question at me, but I don't know where Clark is. He is making love to Lana somewhere, I think; his hands are trembling; he is brushing the hair back from her eyes. I don't want to know.
"I'm not his mother," I say without looking at her, and from behind I hear the sharp, derisive intake of breath.
The lamp on my desk flickers. I close my eyes.
"Come on, Lois," she says, flatly (but I hear the smirk). "I was starting to think you two came as a set. I got you matching nameplates." (there must be a half-smile, an eyebrow arch). I know Tess Mercer like no other.
"Tess," I say, "everybody got matching nameplates. It's called corporate branding." But I don't smile at her: I forget, and I don't smile, and in my failure to smile is contained all the thoughts and apprehensions of Lana's return.
- - -
I have a recurring nightmare.
In the nightmare, my ribcage cracks open and a tree grows out of it, and on the branches of the tree are the sticky-sweet fruits of all the things I wanted to keep to myself.
And Clark planted the seed with his oak tree hands.
- - -
The last person I expected to see again was Lana, rain-soaked hair slicked down the sides of her face, dripping in the hall outside my apartment. Her fingers touch the wood of my door frame, as if to steady herself.
"I know," she says softly, "we've never really been friends." She presses her lips together, before adding, "Can I come in?"
We sit in silence with steaming coffee around my kitchen table, and it occurs to me that maybe Lana is as lost and alone as I am.
I know that Lana has made mistakes; I know that she has taken missteps that have hurt people I love. But I cannot pretend to know her as well as Clark, and Clark would never reproach her, so why should I? There is a soft and quiet remorse about her now, in the way she curls her fingers around the cup, in her mouth as she blows away the steam. Lana knows that she has made mistakes. I know that I have made mistakes. There is some mutual understanding between us, and I think in some ways we can't be that different. We both loved Clark, after everything.
"I'm not staying in Smallville," she says eventually, and I look up at her swiftly.
"Why? I thought -"
"There's nothing left for me here," she says, picking up a teaspoon and stirring the contents of her cup. "I thought, maybe - but I think now that things were never really supposed to go the way I had planned."
"You're talking about Clark," I say, and she shakes her head.
"Not just Clark. I - never thought my life would turn out quite like this."
I wonder how Lana did think her life would turn out; somehow it's hard to imagine that she dreamed of being a farmer's wife. But then, Clark is not just a farmer. And how did Clark think his life would be? And me? I didn't plan my life at all.
"I don't think it's bad," she says after a moment. "I think this is how things were supposed to be."
- - -
I sometimes think that Smallville is like a toy town. The sun lies flat against the sky above it all year round and everything from the people to the corn is edged in gold. It is almost over-real, almost too authentic. But at night the skin of hot air peels away and the raw, sticky wound of a town is exposed.
I don't know why I came here. There is nothing left for me in Smallville either.
The lights are off. But I know Clark.
- - -
"Smallville,"
He turns his head, and his lips part. "Lois?"
"I saw Lana," I say, and he nods in understanding. "Are you OK?"
He shifts a little on his feet, and smiles at me - and somehow I think I have taken my wax wings in my hands again; I think I am exposing my back to him and asking him to lace them up. He would be gentle; he wouldn't yank. His fingers would brush over my skin, and I would think I knew him from the inside out.
I once rushed to him when Lana left Smallville. I once gathered him up in my arms and grew like a tree around him and in between his ribs to stop the cage of them from cracking open. Now he steps towards me and - and then stops himself.
"I'm glad you came," he says, as I say "I know you like to be alone."
"And I'm glad I saw Lana," he adds. I don't ask him why.
"When she showed up at work like that," I say, "I thought -" and then I falter. I don't really want to say what I thought.
"It was confusing," he says. "But things have changed. It was good to see her, in the end."
- - -
I stay late, to talk, and somehow end up sleeping on his couch again.
And I dream that someone pressed a warm mouth to my temple, and with trembling fingers brushed the hair out of my eyes, and from there all that was sensitive and warm about me blossomed, unfurled softly in the night.
IV
Fruit Tree, Fruit Tree
It didn't matter what Clark said, I always expected to see Lana again.
I looked up before he did; I saw her in the doorway first, and we shared one wordless glance.
Lana. I think we were almost friends there, for a moment. But Lana and I are too different to be close: I am furled tight over myself like the sails of a ship on a stormy sea; Lana is opened like a night-bloomer. Lana is the only person more sensitive than Clark: I understand why he loves her. I liked Lana long before I loved Clark, and I never stopped liking her because he loves her and never me.
But I wasn't glad to see her.
He flinched, and she looked down with her soft dark eyes and whispered, "It's OK." And they left.
They left, and I realise now I never should have entertained the thought that Clark could love someone else - could love someone who was furled tight around her shortcomings. I sewed together that fantasy from whole cloth and laced it into my back, between my shoulder blades, like a pair of waxwork wings. I flew up to the hot, heavy sun, and like a bird shot down I fell at Clark's feet.
- - -
Tess Mercer sweeps into the newsroom like she owns the place. I suppose she does.
In truth, I prefer her to Lex.
"Where is Clark?" She directs the question at me, but I don't know where Clark is. He is making love to Lana somewhere, I think; his hands are trembling; he is brushing the hair back from her eyes. I don't want to know.
"I'm not his mother," I say without looking at her, and from behind I hear the sharp, derisive intake of breath.
The lamp on my desk flickers. I close my eyes.
"Come on, Lois," she says, flatly (but I hear the smirk). "I was starting to think you two came as a set. I got you matching nameplates." (there must be a half-smile, an eyebrow arch). I know Tess Mercer like no other.
"Tess," I say, "everybody got matching nameplates. It's called corporate branding." But I don't smile at her: I forget, and I don't smile, and in my failure to smile is contained all the thoughts and apprehensions of Lana's return.
- - -
I have a recurring nightmare.
In the nightmare, my ribcage cracks open and a tree grows out of it, and on the branches of the tree are the sticky-sweet fruits of all the things I wanted to keep to myself.
And Clark planted the seed with his oak tree hands.
- - -
The last person I expected to see again was Lana, rain-soaked hair slicked down the sides of her face, dripping in the hall outside my apartment. Her fingers touch the wood of my door frame, as if to steady herself.
"I know," she says softly, "we've never really been friends." She presses her lips together, before adding, "Can I come in?"
We sit in silence with steaming coffee around my kitchen table, and it occurs to me that maybe Lana is as lost and alone as I am.
I know that Lana has made mistakes; I know that she has taken missteps that have hurt people I love. But I cannot pretend to know her as well as Clark, and Clark would never reproach her, so why should I? There is a soft and quiet remorse about her now, in the way she curls her fingers around the cup, in her mouth as she blows away the steam. Lana knows that she has made mistakes. I know that I have made mistakes. There is some mutual understanding between us, and I think in some ways we can't be that different. We both loved Clark, after everything.
"I'm not staying in Smallville," she says eventually, and I look up at her swiftly.
"Why? I thought -"
"There's nothing left for me here," she says, picking up a teaspoon and stirring the contents of her cup. "I thought, maybe - but I think now that things were never really supposed to go the way I had planned."
"You're talking about Clark," I say, and she shakes her head.
"Not just Clark. I - never thought my life would turn out quite like this."
I wonder how Lana did think her life would turn out; somehow it's hard to imagine that she dreamed of being a farmer's wife. But then, Clark is not just a farmer. And how did Clark think his life would be? And me? I didn't plan my life at all.
"I don't think it's bad," she says after a moment. "I think this is how things were supposed to be."
- - -
I sometimes think that Smallville is like a toy town. The sun lies flat against the sky above it all year round and everything from the people to the corn is edged in gold. It is almost over-real, almost too authentic. But at night the skin of hot air peels away and the raw, sticky wound of a town is exposed.
I don't know why I came here. There is nothing left for me in Smallville either.
The lights are off. But I know Clark.
- - -
"Smallville,"
He turns his head, and his lips part. "Lois?"
"I saw Lana," I say, and he nods in understanding. "Are you OK?"
He shifts a little on his feet, and smiles at me - and somehow I think I have taken my wax wings in my hands again; I think I am exposing my back to him and asking him to lace them up. He would be gentle; he wouldn't yank. His fingers would brush over my skin, and I would think I knew him from the inside out.
I once rushed to him when Lana left Smallville. I once gathered him up in my arms and grew like a tree around him and in between his ribs to stop the cage of them from cracking open. Now he steps towards me and - and then stops himself.
"I'm glad you came," he says, as I say "I know you like to be alone."
"And I'm glad I saw Lana," he adds. I don't ask him why.
"When she showed up at work like that," I say, "I thought -" and then I falter. I don't really want to say what I thought.
"It was confusing," he says. "But things have changed. It was good to see her, in the end."
- - -
I stay late, to talk, and somehow end up sleeping on his couch again.
And I dream that someone pressed a warm mouth to my temple, and with trembling fingers brushed the hair out of my eyes, and from there all that was sensitive and warm about me blossomed, unfurled softly in the night.