How We Got Here (Part Fourteen)

"You imply you love me one more time and..."

"Well, I f*cking do. Do you know how many ways I've tried to give you up and couldn't? You don't know what I've done for you."

"So how many people did you kill?"

"Not one. But I could have. Very easily. Those towers could have destroyed so many," he said, almost to himself, "I don't know what I was thinking. I could have just destroyed the technology, but I was stupid then, careless. And all I could think of was you."

She stared at him. "You mean Zod. You were thinking of the future you saw and..."

"I was thinking of you," he cut in softly. "Of how you said I was someone we all had to believe in. How nothing could compromise that and how... I wondered how you could still say things like that to me. I know how I was to you then. I knew it at the time. And I wasn't ready to change. I wasn't ready to let you in. I thought... Well, I thought the least I could do is give you a reason to believe in me. I could save you. I could know for sure that you would be safe." He stared into her eyes. "I wish I'd looked at you then. I wish I'd talked it over with you. I know you would have helped me find a better way than what I did. I could have killed so all those reporters, passers-by. But I just kept staring at that building and thinking of how you said the future was changing. That Alia couldn't kill you now and it wasn't good enough." His voice quieted as he said the words he'd said then. "There's only one way to be sure." He saw the towers crumbling in flames. Heard the screams again. "Looking back, I could have found a better way with you. We always figured things out together. But I f*cked up." He shrugged sadly. "I didn't even have an evil supercomputer in my head as an excuse."

"Well... that's no excuse for me." She moved away, trembling.

"Chloe didn't you hear what I just..."

"I heard it. It's... It's apples and oranges because... You didn't kill anyone, so don't make it like you did."

He followed her and gripped her arm. "Neither did you."

"No. I mean... Yes. I did it. I had to."

"No. I'll never believe that," he said firmly.

"It had to be me." She turned back to him. "Why would Brainiac want to protect your secret?"

"Why would he want to do half the things he did? He wanted Davis to fall in love with you. But why would he want that when whatever feelings he had for you calmed him? Why would he take your memories? Why would he want to inhabit you when he could have taken someone more powerful?" He pinned her with his gaze. "You're not the only one who's had too much time to think things over. Can't you at least admit it's possible that airing my secret to the general public was something Brainiac didn't want? Because I don't think he'd want people too aware what was going on under their noses. And you know what, Chloe? We'll never know what he wanted to do because, in the end, he didn't win."

"Don't," she said brokenly. "Don't try to trivialize what I did and make it about Brainiac. I spent a year and a half trying to make up for taking that life. I sacrificed having one and don't..." She breathed heavily. "Don't make that wasted time."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he said, taking her shoulders in his hands, pulling her in.

"No. I do." She stiffened, but fell against him. "I did terrible things for you."

"So did I," he said, pressing his lips to her forehead.

"It was all for you," she breathed against his neck. "Couldn't lose you."

"You needed me," he said, letting those lips move to her temple, down her cheek. "I needed you."

"Always needed you." Her head moved under his, her lips brushed his. "So wrong. Why couldn't I stop?"

"It's not wrong," he whispered. "Just when we're apart... everything's wrong," he finished, muffled against her lips. He cradled the back of her head, pulling her up against him. Her mouth opened under his and he moved backwards, pulling her with him.

Except she wouldn't go. She pushed against his chest and broke away, panting. Then pacing. "Oh, God! I need to get out of here!"

June 18th, 2010

He needed to get out of this city. And holing himself up on the farm wasn't good enough anymore.

He could still see her everywhere. Usually, he'd escape to the barn. But he could see her in the loft, telling him she needed him, touching his side with something like wonder, blinking with a strange, absent pleasure as he handed her a dried flower. He f*cking saw her too much for it to mean she wasn't really there. Somewhere inside, he felt it, that she wasn't gone.

Lois, speaking to him only out of tacit acknowledgment that they'd both lost her, told him he was crazy. Told him to let her grieve. But he couldn't. Because there was nothing to grieve about. Chloe Sullivan was not dead. He tried to tell Lois this. He tried to tell Oliver. And all it got him was a wide berth at the funeral. Even his mother glued herself to Lois and Oliver when he told her in no uncertain terms that Chloe Sullivan was not dead and he didn't need her comfort.

He heard their whispers, even as they kept away from his supposed mania.

"She sent me a message," Lois said miserably. "She said she never wanted to hurt me. Said she loved me. Just minutes before the flood."

"Oh, Sweetie," Martha said, stroking her back.

"If I could have just sent something back," Lois sobbed. "If only I knew the last thing I said to her wasn't... nothing."

Clark snorted, earning a glare from Oliver. "Why would she send something like that? Come on?"

"Because she wanted us to know. She sent me a message. I didn't read it. I was still too mad. If only..."

"Oh, please," Clark groaned. "Aren't these messages a little on the I'm going to my death side?"

"Stop it, Clark."

"She sent them minutes before the flood. She knew what she was doing."

"You're sick," Oliver sneered.

"Don't you get it? She did it." Clark grasped his sleeve. "I don't know how. I'll figure it out. But we need to find her and..."

Oliver pulled away. "No. You need to stop this, Clark."

No. He needed to get out of the damned state. No. Even that wasn't good enough. Perhaps that was why he'd sped to S.T.A.R labs, found Emil in his new digs, barely opened the door before he said it.

"Is it ready?" he said tersely.

"Yes." Emil started and moved to a metal door. The cold air curled into the lab as he emerged again, holding a metallic bottle. "I've made it exactly as before. But are you sure..."

"Thanks." Clark took it, uncapped it, and took a long swig. It still tasted like burning dirt, but it was worth it. He could feel the tension drain out of him as it moved down his throat. "That's good," he breathed. "That's what I need."

"Clark, I understand how upset you are. And I'll do this just this once, but drinking is no way to..."

"Good job, Doc. Works fine," he said before speeding off. He didn't want to hear it from Emil, too. He'd heard every variation of "You've gone crazy. Let her go." From Lois to Ollie to his own mother. Hell, he'd even heard it from Pete and Lana. They hadn't been at the funeral, but they'd called... together. That still boggled his mind. Lana was keeping at least a three-state distance from him and, in her travels, had somehow found Pete. The two were so inseparable, it seemed, that their phone call had been a tag-team effort bent on keeping him from his apparent descent into madness.

But he wasn't mad. He was the only sane person he knew right now.

"Totally f*cking sane," he muttered as climbed to the top of the windmill slowly, so as not to drop the bottle. That bottle was important. That bottle led to Chloe. Not directly, of course. He had a plan.

He'd been all over North and South America on foot. He'd listened, looked, even smelled in every corner of these two continents in search of her. He knew now. He'd have to widen his search. And he'd tried running across the Atlantic. It was a failure. A wet one. He needed more power, more height. And he'd had it that night. In those tiny moments, traipsing across the desert with Chloe, he'd done it. He'd flown. He was sure he had. He just needed to relax enough again. What better way than a bottle of Dr. Hamilton's Finest?

He pulled himself onto the wooden platform, stumbling just a little and pulling his bottle to his lips. "Gonna prove it," he said, thinking of her doubt that night, how she insisted he didn't fly. "Gonna find you and rub it... in your face," he finished, falling down just a little. "Gonna get you back," he yelled triumphantly, standing tall and holding his bottle aloft before bringing it back to his lips. He groaned, finding it empty. He upended it over his mouth, trying to get that last drop. It didn't come out. There was nothing left.

But it didn't matter. He tossed the metallic bottle, heard it clunk onto the packed dirt below with an echo that carried across the corn fields. He'd got what he needed. "Liquid couragggge," he slurred with a laugh. That's what they called it.

It was something he had that night. Courage. He was able to voice what he wanted, to touch her how he wanted to, to be free. He'd have that tonight, too. He'd be free tonight and he'd find her.

He stepped to the edge of the wooden slats, looked out over the land. It stretched into the darkness, to where he couldn't see it unless he tried a little harder. He didn't need to see it. He liked it dark, like some unknowable great beyond. He'd fly into it tonight. Because he knew he'd done it. Chloe may have scoffed, but he'd fucking done it. He'd show her. He'd show all of them.

He pushed the stupid cape out of his face. Thing kept getting in the way, blowing over his head, between his legs as he tried to climb. He didn't know why he put the stupid suit on. It had seemed pretty damned funny ten minutes ago.

He'd nearly choked on his laughter as he got a load of himself in the mirror. His mother had some crazy-ass ideas about costumes. He'd been trying to decide if he looked more like a ballerina or a trapeze artist when he found himself singing he flies through the air with the greatest of ease...

And that was it. That was when he knew what to do.

"Want me to let go?" he growled. "Watch this."

So he leapt. He leapt farther and higher than he ever had and he didn't even think about the possibility of going down. It wasn't possible. Not tonight.

Except it was possible... for about three seconds. He'd felt his nose scrape the dirt, felt his body scoop along the earth before he felt nothing. Nothing underneath him. Nothing around him. Just air.

He narrowed his eyes at the ground, nearly growling with satisfaction. "Finally beat you."

December 22nd, 2011

"I was finally over you!" She upended the couch cushions. "You hear me? You don't get to do this."

He moved to her.

"No." She tossed a cushion at him. "Don't come any closer. Just..." Her face crumpled and she sank to the floor. "Just help me find my purse. I need to go home. I need to go home now."

"Chloe, It's four in the morning."

"I don't care. I'm not letting you do this. Just give me my purse and... Don't you come near me!" She took a step back, too near that whiskey puddle and pile of glass.

He put up his hands, holding his ground. He didn't want her doing any more damage to the house or herself tonight. "Okay. You know what? We can stop this for the night. You can take my mother's room and just go to sleep and..."

"No. I don't want to go to sleep. I want to go home and I want to go home now," she growled.

"It's too late to get a cab out here," he said carefully. "You won't get a plane even if you get to the airport. Where do you think you're going?"

"I don't care. Top of the Himalayas. I can be anywhere in three seconds if I can just get my damned purse."

"I'll give you your purse in the morning. I'm not letting you leave while you're still drunk and..." His eyes narrowed. "Wait."

Her eyes widened. "What did you say?"

"No. You said... You just said you can be anywhere..."

"What do you mean by give me my purse?"

"You first," he said adamantly. Because there was something here. "You said..."

"You know where my purse is? And you've been holding me hostage here all this..."

"Yes. I know where your purse is and had every intention of giving it back to you if you leave tomorrow. Now you explain..."

"If? No! When," she shouted. "When I leave! And I'm leaving now, so hand it over."

"What's the hurry? Your precious fiancee's coming in the morning."

"Then I'll be back by then."

"Jesus Christ," he breathed as it all came together. "I should have known..."

"Clark, I'm not kidding. You tell me where you hid it or..."

"It was Rokk, wasn't it?"

She shut her mouth and drew up straighter. "I don't know who you're talking about."

"I'm talking about this mysterious 'he' of yours," he sneered. "This one that helped you start your new life. The one that knew to put you at the scene of a flash flood seconds before it hit. And I bet that's not all he did." He paced to the kitchen. "I wondered why the police didn't seem too concerned. Why I couldn't get anyone to investigate. He must have meddled with things somehow."

She followed. "You're being ridiculous. I just want my wallet and my passport and..."

"And your ring? This one that can get you anywhere? I should have known," he growled, tossing the bottle of peroxide into the sink. "He always had this... issue with you. He said I changed the future when I saved you. I wonder why he didn't just get rid of you himse..."

"Don't say that about him," she broke in. "He helped me. He took me out of a life that meant nothing in the..."

"So it was him." Moved to her, grabbing her by the arms. "What did he do? How did he make you do this?"

"I told you. No one made me do anything. He only helped me make it possible to..."

"What did he tell you, Chloe?"

"The future." She pushed away from him, then shrugged sadly. "Just the future, See... I didn't have one."

December 20th 2011

He had her now. He stayed high over London until he saw the rooftop, trying to keep above the clouds. People over here might not know Superman, might balk at the suit. God knew he still did.

It was a mistake that night, having it on. He'd been too drunk to think it over. So he just flew and kept flying. He was afraid to stop before he was sober, afraid it would all end up being some drunken fluke. It hadn't. But the suit had. Enough people had seen him, snapped him, and taped him in it that the damage was done. His mother had even called from Washington, telling him how nice it looked and how she was making five more.

"I know Chloe would have been so proud," she said, as if this was some way to honor her death.

He'd made an excuse to get off the phone, then, because he was damned sick of people talking about Chloe's death and treating him like a crazy person when he pointed out that she wasn't, in fact, dead. He knew it then and he knew it now. He more than knew it now. He'd found her. He'd read every article E.J. Cochran wrote now. And even though her paper's website conveniently didn't have a picture, he knew every turn of phrase, every pithy, little story about growing up in a small town in America. It was her and he had her now.

Or he would. Just as soon as he found her.

He pulled open the stairwell's door, hearing the crack of the lock. He let it slam drunkenly shut as he raced down the stairs, belatedly remembering to adjust his tie. He wasn't used to wearing a tie these days. If he wasn't wearing the cursed supersuit, he was shuffling around in his underwear. No point to dressing up without a job. But he had to dress up today. A man didn't go wandering into The Times in his underwear. And he certainly didn't race in dressed as Superman. He didn't want to cause a stir. Didn't want her to get an inkling of his presence before he truly had her.

On that note, he calmed himself down and picked a door. He had no idea where she'd be and he wasn't likely to find out if people thought he was some wide-eyed crazy person. He took a deep breath as he strode into what looked like the main bullpen. It was high enough, busy enough, and well-lit. If that wasn't enough, the "Editor in Chief" on a far door clued him in. He tried to saunter rather than rush to the first person he saw.

"Excuse me. I'm looking for E.J. Cochran." He tried to get his story straight. He wanted to make it business. Then she'd see him. Then, by the time she actually saw him, it would be too late to get away. "I'm visiting from New York and was wondering if she might..."

"Oh. Cochran. Yeah. He does those monster bits in the Sunday Times, yeah?"

Clark smiled. "Exactly. I was wondering if sh... Wait. He?"

"I don't know where you'd find him. Have to ask Camilla on that. He doesn't work in the building. Just sends his stories in."

"His? He?" E.J. Cochran was a he? He shook his head. He'd been so sure... and so stupid. Of course, Chloe wasn't the only person who grew up in a small town with an interest in the strange and unexplained, particularly the Loch Ness monster. Perhaps he was crazy. Perhaps he'd been so desperate to...

"Hold on a sec, there. Camilla!"

An older woman in a pantsuit that looked to be in a hurry moved toward them and Clark shook his head frantically. "You know what? Never mind. I think I have the wrong..."

"Can you get hold of Cochran?"

She sighed and stopped in front of them. "Not for hours, at least." She glanced at her watch. "Which reminds me, I'd better get to the manicurist before..."

"Well, maybe just a number. I've got to get to Downing Street and this bloke's looking for him. From New York, he says."

"She! How many times do I have to tell you, Donal?" She slapped her purse down on the nearest desk. "It's Elizabeth and a she."

"Well, how should I remember? Not like anyone sees her."

"Well, she's a freelancer, isn't she?" The woman shook her head. "I should know. I hired her." She moved to Clark as the man hurried off. "So... what do you want with my Lizzie?"

"Lizzie?"

"Well, I call her that. She hates it, but has to put up with, seeing as how I'm her employer," she smiled, "and mate."

"She's a friend of yours?"

"As much as she is of anyone. She certainly keeps to herself. I was downright amazed when she actually hooked up with Allen. And I am just thrilled to see you."

"Me? Why?" And who the hell was Allen?

"I assume she must be a friend of yours, seeing as you're American. You must be in town for the blessed event. Glad to see she has someone flying in. She said no one could make it across the pond. Bride's side was looking like Siberia."

"You mean for her... wedding?"

"You must be jetlagged. What else? Oh..." She shook her head. "Unless you're not here for the..."

"No. I am," he said quickly. If E.J. Cochran was having a wedding, then he definitely needed to be there. "See, I lost my invitation and can't remember the exact church. I... um... tried her place, but... "

"Well, you wouldn't catch her there today. She's probably in the middle of getting her hair..." She stood back and crossed her arms. "Who are you?"

"I told you. I'm a friend from..."

"No. You didn't tell me. I assumed. And she's having a garden cermony and you'd know that if you were invited. Do you even know her?"

He stilled. He wasn't sure himself. He knew he wasn't invited. He also knew there was a possibility that he didn't know E.J. Cochran at all. He'd thought he'd found her before and was led on a wild chase to find some woman who was not and had never been Chloe Sullivan before.

"Thought so," the woman said tiredly. "You're not the first paranormal nut to come looking for her. Listen, she may write about the strange and unexplained, but that doesn't mean she has to listen to every nutter off the..."

"There's a way to settle this," he said tiredly. And for both of them. He stared at her and slowly pulled out his wallet. She needed to be sure he and E.J. Cochran knew each other and so did he. He opened to a picture of him and Chloe at graduation. It was worn. He'd flashed it time and time again on his many fruitless searches for her. He held it out, waiting for the inevitable lack of recognition.

Camilla stared at it, her brow furrowing. "That's never her."

Clark sighed. Once again, he'd been...

Camilla grabbed the wallet and laughed. "Just look at Lizzie. She looks like a baby. And who's that with her? Is that you?"

He adjusted his glasses. "Um... Well..."

"You look quite fetching here. As does she." She giggled and bumped his arm. "I've told her. I've said over and over she'd look brilliant as a blonde. She won't even get so much as a streak. We'll have to show her this, you and me. What's your name, anyway?"

"Clark," he said, smiling now. He really did have her. "Clark Kent." He didn't see a reason to lie. Everyone would know soon enough. He grabbed back his wallet, thinking of the worn piece of paper still inside it. "Listen, I really did lose my invitation and I need to figure out exactly where..."

"Oh, Wakehurst." She grabbed her purse. "But it's not till three. We have a few hours and I'd guess you're still on New York Time. Listen, I'm due at the salon in a few. Why don't I meet you after for a drink?" She linked her arm in his. "I'd love to hear what Lizzie was up to before she came my way."

"I'll come with you." He smiled slyly and patted her hand. "I'd like to hear what she's been up to here."

"Well, you know, she's very eccentric."

"She always was," he said lightly.

"Insists on being paid in cash. Doesn't trust banks."

"Really?"

"I confess, I thought she was off her rocker, like one of those conspiracy nuts, at first. But she's a lovely writer and has such a way with..."

December 22nd, 2011

"Rokk has a way of... presenting things," Chloe finished with a sad sort of smirk. "Coming from a distant future gives him that Brian Williams edge. You can't argue with fact." She slid her eyes to Clark. "And you were a fact. Lois was a fact. Lex Luthor was a fact. Jimmy... or I guess Jimmy's brother... he was a fact. I was... I was nothing."

"That's ridiculous," Clark said, even knowing that he'd heard those words before from Rokk, from Garth and Imra. He wouldn't accept them then and he absolutely refused to accept them now. Chloe Sullivan can't have been born just to be nothing to him, in the end.

"Clark, he knew the future and I... I wasn't in it. I wasn't even a part of the distant past. And then I realized that... that nothing I'd done mattered. All that sacrificing for some greater good... It wouldn't be remembered. So why couldn't I be happy?" She moved to him. "I know that I shouldn't be so selfish. That maybe I should be okay with this. Maybe being a part of this... this destiny of yours, even if no one knows of me, should be enough. But I'm human, Clark. If I'm going to be forgotten, then I want some happiness while I live. And Watchtower... it's very nature is anonymous. It's not enough. I want those stupid selfish things I always wanted."

"You said you wanted to be Watchtower. That you..."

"I thought I did. I thought I was content. I thought I could be content, knowing I was doing something that was so important. Maybe it didn't matter that no one would know. Maybe it would have been enough... but not for me." She smiled sadly. "Do you remember what I said once? That I was writer and, if I was going to kill myself I'd leave a hell of a suicide note. It feels like that was decades ago, but it's true. In the end, I'm a writer. I see things unfold. Sometimes I'm a part of them and sometimes I'm not. But, in the end, I want to tell the tale. I want my words immortalized, even if it's with some name I wasn't born with. They're still my words. Rokk told me that was possible. That anything was possible as long... as long as I was away from you."

Clark shook his head, backing away. "No. I don't care what he said."

"Clark, there was no record of me having even been in your life."

"Then the records were wrong. They had to be." He moved to her. "This is why you left? Because of some future that isn't even..."

"No. Maybe that was the catalyst, but... Jesus, Clark. After tonight, you have to know that the future is only a fraction of why I left. I mean, don't get me wrong, Clark. Finding that out... It hurt. But I found something better than hurt in it. It was so.... full of possibilities. Maybe Rokk knew all things connected to you, but he wasn't omniscient. He didn't know the things I might be apart from you. I could have a future." She moved to him, gripped his shoulders. "Don't you see that? I was completely blank. I could actually... write my own story. I wanted that."

He took her by the arms. "What if I do, too? What if I want to believe that our destiny is not written in some book in the future. That we write it ourselves every day." He remembered the words, even as he said them, falling from Lana's lips. They'd seemed no more than pretty words at the time, like something his father might say. Of course, having been given glimpse after glimpse into the future, they seemed to hold more now. They seemed nearly rebellious. "I want to write my own future, too. And I want to write it with you."

She broke away. "You can't." She rushed to the stairs. "But you're right about one thing. We need to sleep. Allan's coming early and..."

"I love you."

She stilled, her hand on the broken newel post. "Don't do this."

"Chloe, I love you. And I'm not saying it to make you stay. I really..."

"I know you do," she cut in, her back to him. "If I'm going to be honest with myself, I've known it since you showed up at my wedding." She took a deep breath and turned to him. "But I can't love you and that's all there is to it." She turned and moved up the stairs.

He didn't try to stop her. Because what was the point? He'd given everything he had tonight. And, in the end, she couldn't love him.

December 21st, 2011

He couldn't sleep.

He was supposed to feel satisfied tonight. He was supposed to feel vindicated. He was right, after all. She was alive. The shocked look on her face as he waved that worn marriage certificate should have been satisfying. Maybe it would have been, if he'd stayed. He'd dropped his bombshell, then his paper, and left. Because he just couldn't take it.

The plan head been to find her. That was it. He never planned what he'd do after. Sometimes, he just tossed her over his shoulder and flew back to Kansas. Sometimes, he threw her against the nearest wall and took the honeymoon denied him. Sometimes, he just stood there while she cried and begged him to forgive her, take her back into his life. But these were all fantasy. Nothing prepared him for the reality.

The reality was a spark of recognition then a very shuttered sort of blank stare after he said his piece.

"I'm so sorry," she'd said. He'd nearly thought she was talking to him until she turned to that man. That man she dared to marry. "Allen, I have no idea what's going on." She raised her voice. "Could someone please remove this man?"

"Oh, I'm leaving, Chloe," Clark had sneered, then dropped his paper in the middle of the grassy aisle. Just walked. He smiled as he did so, even at Camilla's shocked face. He heard the murmurs as he past the white folding chairs, even heard the groom's shocked whisper.

"Clark," he said. "You've called me that name. Elizabeth..."

"Allen, don't listen to him. It means nothing."

"He said he had proof..."

"No! Please don't read..."

Clark had turned at the flowered archway, barely registering the man picking up the paper he'd dropped, stared right over him to her. The red hair seemed somehow garish against her white gown and pale face as she... glared at him.

The fact that she dared to be angry rather than penitent only cemented his satisfaction as the murmurs of the crowd grew.

She'd have to clean up his mess now. Just like he had to live with the one she left behind.

Of course, that satisfaction didn't last long. Here he was, fresh off his triumph and unable to sleep. Maybe he was just too wound up. It wasn't every day that a nearly two-year long obsession paid off. Maybe he just needed to take a flight, calm himself down a...

Something crashed above his head and he shot up, saw her in the doorway.

"You bastard!" she yelled just as a Metropolis snowglobe smashed against his nightstand.

He wondered how she got here so fast. But he surprised to find himself... unsurprised. He'd actually been waiting for her.

"Hello, Chloe."

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN