Kissing Santa Claus: A Clexmas Carol
Pairings: Clex, plus bonus points for Kent parentals
Genre: Fluff, Romance
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1341
Summary: What a laugh it would have been if daddy had only seen ...
A/N: The second of my Clexmas Carols for this year. It helps if you know the song, but you don't have to.
I hope to one day be as great a mother as Martha Kent.
Martha brushed her hair back, leaving a smear of flour on her cheek, and smiled. Bing Crosby was crooning on the radio, her kitchen was warm and smelled of baking gingerbread, and through the window she could see Jonathan coming in through the gathering dusk, his arms full of firewood. It might be trite or cliche, but she supposed Christmas Eve was a night on which such a sentiment would be allowed, if not encouraged; she was so grateful, and so in love with her simple, wholesome world.
“It’s starting to snow,” came Jonathan’s voice from the mud room, punctuated by the thick sounds of his boots.
“I saw,” she replied, and turned to watch him enter the room, cheeks red with cold and a few stray flakes just starting to melt in his hair. “We’ll have a white Christmas after all.”
He crinkled his eyes at her fondly. “It’s just a flurry. It may not stick.”
“Just a little is enough.”
“You and Christmas,” he smiled. Martha was beautiful to him in any season, but the holiday spirit always did radiate from her in a special glow; and it was, he reminded himself blissfully, all his. He held his happiness for a moment, and breathed in deeply. “Those cookies smell great.”
“There might just be one for you,” she chided playfully, “if you stop melting on my clean floor.”
He threw her a wink as he hefted his load towards the living room. “Don’t you go anywhere, Mrs. Kent.”
She blushed prettily and turned back to her baking. She chose a particularly fine-looking gingerbread man and pressed a few extra raisin buttons onto his front; Jonathan did love raisins. It would take him a few minutes to stoke up the fire … maybe she could have a mug of cocoa ready and waiting to surprise him before he got back …
Warm, strong hands surprised her instead, sliding around her waist and pulling her close to press a kiss behind her ear. She twisted in Jonathan’s arms and let her own small hands spread across his broad shoulders; he smelled like leather and cold piney air.
“Would you like some hot chocolate with your gingerbread?” she asked, and tilted her cheek into his rough but gentle palm.
“I’m not interested in cookies just now,” he answered, pulling her close for another kiss - and then towards the hall, and up he stairs.
Some time later, Jonathan’s stomach rumbled. Martha giggled into his bare chest. “Maybe you should have had a cookie after all.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” he replied, pressing one more kiss to her fiery hair. “Want one too?”
“Sure.”
He shrugged on his flannel robe; as he tied the belt he glanced happily back towards the bed, where Martha’s creamy shoulders just peeked out from beneath their wedding-ring quilt. “Love you,” he said softly, then slipped out into the darkened hall.
Martha stretched, sighed and leaned back into the down pillows. The covers smelled like Jonathan and felt so soft and warm against her bare skin. Oh, she was happy. She so loved him … she so loved Christmas ...
Suddenly there was a thump in the hall - the sound of hurried footsteps, and then Jonathan was there again, pressing his shoulders against the hastily-shut door. His eyes were wide and all the warm ruddy color had drained from his face.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, starting upwards and clutching the quilt in front of herself.
He just shook his head and stared at her, his mouth hanging open.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“It’s worse,” he finally managed to reply, then turned back and cracked the door again to peek into the hall.
“What is it?” she persisted, rising and slipping on her own robe as she came to his side. She peered over his shoulder, but saw only the shadowy upstairs hall; she tugged on his elbow. “Jonathan!”
“Martha.” He turned to her grimly and took her by the shoulders. “I don’t know how to tell you this …”
“Just tell me,” she demanded, panic forming hard and cold like a hand around her throat.
“All right.” He cleared his throat. “I just saw Clark … kissing Santa Claus.”
She stared at him skeptically. “Jonathan.”
“I’m serious.”
“Let me guess - underneath the mistletoe?”
“As a matter of fact …”
Martha just laughed and pushed past him into the hall. He made a grab for her hand but she slipped out of of his grasp and tiptoed to the banister. From here she peered out of the shadows down into the front hallway.
The bunch of mistletoe hung from the ceiling just inside the front door - the same spot where she’d hung it every Christmas since she came to the yellow farmhouse as a new bride. It was such a perfect place to hang a sprig of mistletoe; the holiday already brought so many dear ones through that door, and so many loving welcomes and farewells were already exchanged in that entry hall. She remembered the first time Jonathan had noticed the small snatch of greenery, so cheery with its white berries and red bow, and gathered her in his arms for a passionate kiss ...
Her son stood there now, bestowing an equally passionate kiss - on someone who was, as Jonathan had so helpfully pointed out, dressed as Santa.
Someone who was also very clearly and completely bald beneath his red velvet hat.
“Oh,” she whispered happily. “It’s Lex.”
Jonathan was at her shoulder now, taking in the scene with horror. “I … I just can’t …”
“Jonathan.” She looked at him incredulously. “Really?”
“I …” Their eyes locked, and he set his jaw. “All right. I suppose it makes sense.”
“It makes more than just sense,” Martha replied, her voice warm and fond. She was already piecing together the story in her mind: Clark, coming in from his chores to a quiet house and assuming his ancient parents had already turned in for the night; Lex, responding to Clark’s summoning phone call with the transparent nonchalance of one completely in love. She wondered if he’d been at some sort of party, or if he’d donned the Santa suit solely for Clark’s benefit; in either case, it betrayed a sentimentality that belied Lex’s normally dispassionate veneer.
But then, Martha had never been entirely fooled by that veneer. No, not really.
She reached up and kissed her husband’s cheek, then shooed him back towards the bedroom. “Come on, let’s leave them be.”
Jonathan took one last uncertain look down the stairs, then slunk back into the shadows. He’d completely lost his appetite for gingerbread.
In the front hall, Clark pulled Lex close into his arms for a tight embrace. He turned his face upwards in undisguised delight … and then his eyes blinked open. Panic darted across his face as he noticed Martha at the railing.
She just blew him a kiss of her own, and drifted back to bed.
“Clark?” Lex queried from the hollow of his shoulder. “What is it?”
“Hmm?” Clark blinked, and returned his gaze to Lex’s face.
“You suddenly stopped breathing,” Lex observed, pushing his Santa hat back a bit on his forehead. “And I know I’m an amazing kisser, but I didn’t get the impression it was because of me.”
Clark sighed, and peered back into the shadows of the upstairs hall. “My mom,” he confessed. “She saw us.”
Lex began to laugh - heartily and good-naturedly, a very un-Lex-like laugh. “That’s perfect,” he choked at last. “Though isn’t it the other way around in the song?”
“It’s not funny,” Clark protested petulantly.
“Of course it is,” Lex retorted, and pulled Clark’s mouth back down to his. “Look at it this way - it could have been so much worse.”
“What could be worse,” Clark protested, “than my mother catching me, kissing you, while you’re dressed in a Santa suit, on Christmas Eve?”
“Lots,” Lex assured him. “For one, it could have been your dad.”
Genre: Fluff, Romance
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1341
Summary: What a laugh it would have been if daddy had only seen ...
A/N: The second of my Clexmas Carols for this year. It helps if you know the song, but you don't have to.
I hope to one day be as great a mother as Martha Kent.
Martha brushed her hair back, leaving a smear of flour on her cheek, and smiled. Bing Crosby was crooning on the radio, her kitchen was warm and smelled of baking gingerbread, and through the window she could see Jonathan coming in through the gathering dusk, his arms full of firewood. It might be trite or cliche, but she supposed Christmas Eve was a night on which such a sentiment would be allowed, if not encouraged; she was so grateful, and so in love with her simple, wholesome world.
“It’s starting to snow,” came Jonathan’s voice from the mud room, punctuated by the thick sounds of his boots.
“I saw,” she replied, and turned to watch him enter the room, cheeks red with cold and a few stray flakes just starting to melt in his hair. “We’ll have a white Christmas after all.”
He crinkled his eyes at her fondly. “It’s just a flurry. It may not stick.”
“Just a little is enough.”
“You and Christmas,” he smiled. Martha was beautiful to him in any season, but the holiday spirit always did radiate from her in a special glow; and it was, he reminded himself blissfully, all his. He held his happiness for a moment, and breathed in deeply. “Those cookies smell great.”
“There might just be one for you,” she chided playfully, “if you stop melting on my clean floor.”
He threw her a wink as he hefted his load towards the living room. “Don’t you go anywhere, Mrs. Kent.”
She blushed prettily and turned back to her baking. She chose a particularly fine-looking gingerbread man and pressed a few extra raisin buttons onto his front; Jonathan did love raisins. It would take him a few minutes to stoke up the fire … maybe she could have a mug of cocoa ready and waiting to surprise him before he got back …
Warm, strong hands surprised her instead, sliding around her waist and pulling her close to press a kiss behind her ear. She twisted in Jonathan’s arms and let her own small hands spread across his broad shoulders; he smelled like leather and cold piney air.
“Would you like some hot chocolate with your gingerbread?” she asked, and tilted her cheek into his rough but gentle palm.
“I’m not interested in cookies just now,” he answered, pulling her close for another kiss - and then towards the hall, and up he stairs.
Some time later, Jonathan’s stomach rumbled. Martha giggled into his bare chest. “Maybe you should have had a cookie after all.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” he replied, pressing one more kiss to her fiery hair. “Want one too?”
“Sure.”
He shrugged on his flannel robe; as he tied the belt he glanced happily back towards the bed, where Martha’s creamy shoulders just peeked out from beneath their wedding-ring quilt. “Love you,” he said softly, then slipped out into the darkened hall.
Martha stretched, sighed and leaned back into the down pillows. The covers smelled like Jonathan and felt so soft and warm against her bare skin. Oh, she was happy. She so loved him … she so loved Christmas ...
Suddenly there was a thump in the hall - the sound of hurried footsteps, and then Jonathan was there again, pressing his shoulders against the hastily-shut door. His eyes were wide and all the warm ruddy color had drained from his face.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, starting upwards and clutching the quilt in front of herself.
He just shook his head and stared at her, his mouth hanging open.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“It’s worse,” he finally managed to reply, then turned back and cracked the door again to peek into the hall.
“What is it?” she persisted, rising and slipping on her own robe as she came to his side. She peered over his shoulder, but saw only the shadowy upstairs hall; she tugged on his elbow. “Jonathan!”
“Martha.” He turned to her grimly and took her by the shoulders. “I don’t know how to tell you this …”
“Just tell me,” she demanded, panic forming hard and cold like a hand around her throat.
“All right.” He cleared his throat. “I just saw Clark … kissing Santa Claus.”
She stared at him skeptically. “Jonathan.”
“I’m serious.”
“Let me guess - underneath the mistletoe?”
“As a matter of fact …”
Martha just laughed and pushed past him into the hall. He made a grab for her hand but she slipped out of of his grasp and tiptoed to the banister. From here she peered out of the shadows down into the front hallway.
The bunch of mistletoe hung from the ceiling just inside the front door - the same spot where she’d hung it every Christmas since she came to the yellow farmhouse as a new bride. It was such a perfect place to hang a sprig of mistletoe; the holiday already brought so many dear ones through that door, and so many loving welcomes and farewells were already exchanged in that entry hall. She remembered the first time Jonathan had noticed the small snatch of greenery, so cheery with its white berries and red bow, and gathered her in his arms for a passionate kiss ...
Her son stood there now, bestowing an equally passionate kiss - on someone who was, as Jonathan had so helpfully pointed out, dressed as Santa.
Someone who was also very clearly and completely bald beneath his red velvet hat.
“Oh,” she whispered happily. “It’s Lex.”
Jonathan was at her shoulder now, taking in the scene with horror. “I … I just can’t …”
“Jonathan.” She looked at him incredulously. “Really?”
“I …” Their eyes locked, and he set his jaw. “All right. I suppose it makes sense.”
“It makes more than just sense,” Martha replied, her voice warm and fond. She was already piecing together the story in her mind: Clark, coming in from his chores to a quiet house and assuming his ancient parents had already turned in for the night; Lex, responding to Clark’s summoning phone call with the transparent nonchalance of one completely in love. She wondered if he’d been at some sort of party, or if he’d donned the Santa suit solely for Clark’s benefit; in either case, it betrayed a sentimentality that belied Lex’s normally dispassionate veneer.
But then, Martha had never been entirely fooled by that veneer. No, not really.
She reached up and kissed her husband’s cheek, then shooed him back towards the bedroom. “Come on, let’s leave them be.”
Jonathan took one last uncertain look down the stairs, then slunk back into the shadows. He’d completely lost his appetite for gingerbread.
In the front hall, Clark pulled Lex close into his arms for a tight embrace. He turned his face upwards in undisguised delight … and then his eyes blinked open. Panic darted across his face as he noticed Martha at the railing.
She just blew him a kiss of her own, and drifted back to bed.
“Clark?” Lex queried from the hollow of his shoulder. “What is it?”
“Hmm?” Clark blinked, and returned his gaze to Lex’s face.
“You suddenly stopped breathing,” Lex observed, pushing his Santa hat back a bit on his forehead. “And I know I’m an amazing kisser, but I didn’t get the impression it was because of me.”
Clark sighed, and peered back into the shadows of the upstairs hall. “My mom,” he confessed. “She saw us.”
Lex began to laugh - heartily and good-naturedly, a very un-Lex-like laugh. “That’s perfect,” he choked at last. “Though isn’t it the other way around in the song?”
“It’s not funny,” Clark protested petulantly.
“Of course it is,” Lex retorted, and pulled Clark’s mouth back down to his. “Look at it this way - it could have been so much worse.”
“What could be worse,” Clark protested, “than my mother catching me, kissing you, while you’re dressed in a Santa suit, on Christmas Eve?”
“Lots,” Lex assured him. “For one, it could have been your dad.”