"The Weight of Rules," R, Smallville S2-3
Title: The Weight of Rules (Dispatches from a Red K Summer)
Author: nwhepcat
Rating: R
Spoilers: Smallville, S2 "Exodus" through S3 "Phoenix"
Characters: Clark/Kal, Jonathan, Martha, Chloe, Lana, Lex, OMC.
Summary: There are rules that have formed the boundaries of Clark's childhood. During his summer in Metropolis, Kal sets about writing some of his own rules, while the people who love him struggle to understand.
Notes: Thanks to jeannev for the comments on Clark's need to hide that started this train rolling down the track. Thanks to huzzlewhat and nestdweller for the careful reading and commentary, which made this a better story.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, much as I adore them. I do this for fun, not money.
Make sure no one is watching.
There are rules that have formed the boundaries of Clark's childhood off of the farm, but this is the first.
Don't run too fast, lift anything too heavy, throw too hard.
Remember how fragile humans are.
Don't ever wrestle, play tag. No roughhousing.
Never touch an animal or another person without stopping to remind yourself to be as careful as possible.
Never lose your temper.
Think things through. Actions have consequences.
***
"Your actions have consequences, Clark. Didn't your mother and I ever teach you that?"
Clark has never seen his dad this angry. What's worse is the way his voice sounds half choked with anguish. How he can barely even look at Clark. When Dad turns his back toward him, Clark notices the rip in the shoulder of his good suit.
"There's no time for excuses, Clark. It's too late." The way Dad's voice breaks burns its own brand into his chest, just as painful as the one left by Jor-El. His father's raw emotion spills over him while in the next room his mom is surrounded by doctors and nurses.
This is his doing. He doesn't need his dad to tell him that.
A doctor comes out of the room and says Mom's banged up, but she's going to be okay.
"Our baby?" Dad asks.
All the doctor can say is she's sorry.
"Dad," Clark says, but his father's shoulders stiffen, cutting off any further words. Dad yanks open the door and goes to her. "I'm sorry," Clark mouths, but not even a whisper will come out.
***
Be as careful as possible.
The sedative begins to take effect, and Jonathan holds Martha's hand and strokes her hair until she's asleep. He kisses her hand and places it by her side, rising to close the blinds on the window to the corridor. All this time he's been strong for her, but now he's ready to let his own grief come to the surface. The last thing he wants is an audience.
As he reaches toward the blind cord, he sees a movement in the hallway. Lana Lang raises a hand.
It's too damn early for the parade of well-wishers. He wants some peace for private grief before he has to put on a stoic public face.
But Lana looks agitated, so Jonathan suppresses a sigh and steps into the hall. "Clark told you?"
Lana nods. "I'm so sorry." Dried tears streak her face.
Jonathan barely has enough energy for his wife's tears and his own, but he forces himself to ask, "What is it?"
"It's Clark. I know this is a bad time, but I thought you should know. He's gone."
"Gone?"
"He blames himself for everything. The things he said --" Lana wipes at her eyes, but her tears are falling again.
"Did he say where he was going?"
"No. He got on the motorcycle and headed south, that's all I know."
To the interstate. Then, possibly, anywhere. The motorcycle. "Dammit." Jonathan spins and slaps the flat of his hand against the wall, surprised at what a thin sound it makes. His wedding band bites into his ring finger.
"What, Mr. Kent?"
He shakes his head, doesn't answer. He wishes he could believe that it means nothing, that Clark's just out blowing off some steam. But he's not so much as looked at the cycle since that bout with red kryptonite.
Bad to worse.
"I'd better call Pete."
***
Never touch another person without stopping to remind yourself.
In the pulsing blue light of the club, Kal sees a figure across the dance floor with a familiar look. A man's head, nothing but smooth skin covering the skull. Kal takes his drink, gives a nod and a twenty to the bartender and starts working his way through the writhing dancers.
Halfway across the floor his grin fades as he realizes the his target is not who he thought. The light bounces off his skin differently than it does the dancers around him, who look ghostly. Kal realizes the man is dark-skinned.
He's spotted Kal, though, noticed his avid gaze. Raising his chin, he favors Kal with a grin of his own, and Kal decides to finish what he's started. He presents himself without a word, looks this guy who isn't Lex up and down.
Not-Lex does the same. "Now why haven't I seen you here before?"
"I just hit town."
"Like what you see?"
"Damn straight."
A flash of teeth. "God, I hope not." He reaches out and puts a hand on Kal's body, just above the right hip.
A buzz jangles through him that rocks him back on his heels. Then he moves into the contact, slips his own hand onto the corresponding spot on not-Lex, slides it around and down. He hears the hiss of breath under the throbbing music. Not-Lex leans in and presses a kiss on him, heady and demanding, and Kal matches it with his own greedy demands.
"Oh yeah," not-Lex breathes. "Wanna take it to the alley?"
Kal tosses his drink back, plants the glass on the nearest surface without looking. "Let's go."
The cool night air hits him like a slap, making the sweat on his chest prickle as it dries.
"What's your name?" He's half lighted by a street light, and Kal sees that he may not be Lex, but he's beautiful.
"Kal."
"Darius. You're damn pretty, Kal. You old enough?"
"Hell yes." Even having to answer the question irritates him. He shoves Darius back against the brick wall, prompting a soft grunt from the other man. Darius pulls at his shirt, sliding his hands beneath, pulling a ragged gasp from Kal. A hand strays down over the denim covering his crotch, and he feels heat building up behind his eyes, struggles to keep it at bay.
He seizes Darius's face in his hands, exploring his mouth with his own, letting a hand roam over the smooth skin of his head. How many times has this flashed into his head? Wondering what it would feel like.
The heat rises again and he pushes it back, harder.
The prickling in his chest sharpens. Pins and needles. Kal makes a sound and pulls back, his hand rising to his chest.
"What's the matter?" Darius asks.
"Nothing," but a groan immediately makes a liar out of him. He staggers back a step, hunched around the pain that's flaring up, fingers clutching at his shirt.
"Shit, man. Is it your heart? Did you take something?"
"No. It's nothing." A cry wrenches from him and he goes down on one knee.
"That's not nothing. You need a doctor."
"No doctors!" The force of it startles Darius, and he stops in the midst of pulling out his cell.
"They won't care what you took. It's not worth dying over."
Kal jerks himself to his feet. What the hell is happening to him?
"I'm calling."
Kal pushes him, sending him ass-over-teakettle against some trash bins. "I don't want your fucking help!" He stumbles away, feeling like he's been doused in gasoline and set aflame. A red glow shows from beneath his hand.
He plunges into another alley, falling to his knees behind a Dumpster, tearing at his shirt. The red glow isn't his imagination. The symbol that Jor-El branded him with pulses like hot coals in a bonfire. Sobs rip through him as the pain blocks out everything else. Half-crazed, he pulls at his shirt, tears off his gold chain, rips the class ring off his finger.
The burning stops, the light fades. As he gasps for air his relief is replaced by a rush of feelings he can't begin to sort out. Mom, the baby, Lana, his friends, Dad -- such a fierce ache of loneliness sweeps through him, swiftly followed by shame and misery. All his fault. The blast, the baby. The way Dad looked at him in the hospital.
His father's right. Both his fathers are right. Clark Kent, Kal-El, either way. He's a screwup on two worlds.
Nothing can change that, but there's something that can blunt the pain.
He picks up the ring off the asphalt, slips it back on his finger.
***
Remember how fragile humans are.
The sun beats down on him, but Lex shivers with the cold. His head feels as if it's filled with broken glass. He opens his eyes, squinting into the sun, where a figure looms over him, face shadowed against the bright tropical sun.
"You've got to get out of the sun."
"Clark?"
"And you should get a fire going. You're going to need more purified water."
That's Clark. Always the boy scout. "Then give me a hand here. Help me up."
"I can't help you. I never could. I'll check on you later."
Then he's gone. Lex pushes himself onto an elbow and looks for the nearest shade, then crawls for it. He's wracked by a vicious cough for several minutes before he can catch his breath. I can't help you. I never could. Screw you, then, Lex thinks. I'll get myself out of this.
***
Make sure no one is watching.
Kal sends a blast of heat vision into the lens of the security camera, then punches his hand through the ATM. He scoops handfuls of bills into his pockets, walks away from the rest.
A little walking-around money, that's all he needs.
The bartender at Atlantis greets him and sets his drink in front of him. Kal slides a fifty across the bar.
"Kal, hey," says a voice over his shoulder. "Good to see you." It's Darius. "How are you?"
"I'm fine." He turns to the bartender, flicks a hand toward Darius. "Whatever he's having."
Darius orders an imported beer. "I was out of town on business, but I kept thinking about you. Hoping you were all right. Did you find out what it was?"
"It was nothing, like I said. Went away on its own a few minutes later." Kal remembers the fevered groping, the kisses, the heat gathering behind his eyes. He'd like some more of that. "We could take up where we left off."
"Let's dance," Darius suggests.
Kal drains his glass and thumps it on the bar, follows him out onto the floor. "Screw dancing," he says. "Let's go outside." He fits his hands at Darius's hips, pulls him closer.
"Let's not. I like you, Kal, but I'm not up for watching a train wreck."
He scowls. "Train wreck?"
"You take too many chances. Settle down, man. You don't have to cram a whole lifetime in your first week off the farm."
"Farm? What makes you say that? Who are you?"
Darius puts a hand on his shoulder. "Seriously, chill. It's just I've seen a lot of guys do this, and they're usually busting out of some small town. Guys your age, you think nothing can hurt you."
"Nothing can hurt me."
Darius shakes his head. "Dance or nothing."
Kal releases a breath. "Let's dance."
***
Don't run too fast...
Jimmy, Derek and Kate whisk Chloe off to a club near the Planet. Chloe pulls out one of her fake IDs -- purely a professional tool for going after stories, but it works for bars as well. Another crowd from the paper is already there, so they all get a table upstairs and swap tall tales about the stories that got away.
The music is so loud it's exhausting trying to follow the shouted exchanges, so after a while Chloe zones out and watches the bodies writhing on the dance floor, bathed in blue light. Everyone looks gorgeous enough to be a movie star. Her gaze is riveted by a tall, dark-haired guy, snake-hipped and unbelievably sexy as he grinds against a slightly shorter guy with a shaved head.
"What's so fascinating?" Jimmy asks.
"Just taking in the pretty," she responds.
"Funny how girls get away with saying stuff like that, but if a guy said the same sort of thing --"
She quirks a wry smile. "You have a point. But that guy, the tall one -- he actually looks kinda like a guy I know from home. Except for the fact that Clark can't dance at all. There are certain guys who are a danger to themselves and others when they get on a dance floor. You can spot 'em a mile away. Add booze and you know they will land on the floor before the night's over."
She turns back to the group then and forgets about the guy who looks a little like Clark. But after a couple of drinks she heads downstairs to the rest room, squeezing her way through the crowd toward the back of the club. As she comes out she spots him again, lifting a hand in farewell to the bartender as he swaggers toward the door. The red stone in a class ring winks in the light. God, could that--? But his walk is so different. Not to mention his non-two-left-feetedness on the dance floor. And the macking on another guy.
Her reporter's sixth-sense has awakened, though, rising like the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck, and she gives in to an impulse to follow him. If he has a car she's screwed, but maybe he'll take the subway or, if he flags down a taxi, maybe she can manage to catch his address as he directs the cabbie.
Reporter's luck is with her. The guy who couldn't possibly be Clark sets out on foot. But the longer she follows, the more she suspects. She's mooned over Clark Kent for so long, how could she not know the outline of those broad shoulders, the long legs, his hands, so big but not at all graceless? How could he possibly have so close a double?
Chloe tries to stick close to the shadows without altering the rhythm of her steps and giving herself away. Her shoes sound so loud on the concrete as it is. Her quarry whistles a tune that seems like a mashup of a lot of different songs that really don't go together. He stops in the middle of a deserted street, digging in a pocket for a set of keys. He seems a little drunk, so she edges around closer as he fusses at the gate, hoping he'll be careless enough to allow her access.
He gives the gate a shove and it opens wide, drifting back slowly as he climbs up the stairs. Chloe slips in behind, counting his tread on the concrete steps. She waits, until at last she hears a door above open and bang closed without concern for any sleepers in other apartments.
Chloe follows him to the fourth floor, counting her own steps until she reaches the one she thinks likeliest. Taking a deep, unsteady breath, she knocks.
"Fuck off!" It sounds like Clark, but it doesn't.
She pounds harder.
The door jerks open.
"Clark!"
"Chloe -- what the fuck are you doing here?"
She blinks up at him. Clark Kent says "fuck" is an event that would rate a front-page banner on The Torch -- if anyone would believe it.
"Clark, everyone's freaking out about you. You've been here all along?"
"I'm nowhere. Forget you saw me." He closes the door on her.
"Hey!" Chloe slaps her hand against the brushed steel. "I just came to talk to you. Please. Just ten minutes."
"If I wanted to talk to you, you'd have heard from me." His voice is muffled through the door.
Ouch. She's actually surprised how sharp that barb feels. Not that they'd parted on the best of terms. "Okay, then. I'll let your parents know you're all right."
The door flies open and she finds herself yanked inside by the upper arm. When he releases her, she rubs at the place where bruises are bound to come up.
"Clark --"
He flinches at the sound of his name.
"Is this all because -- I saw you dancing with that guy. Are you afraid of what your parents will think?"
"I dance with all kinds of people. Men and women."
"Like that?"
"Yeah, so what?" Clark goes to a decanter at a wet bar by the terrace door and pours himself a drink, but doesn't offer her anything. "Clock's running. You've got ten minutes, unless you bore me."
Chloe looks out at the terrace and the lights of the city. "Whose place is this? Is this one of Lex's? It seems a little industrial for his tastes."
"Now how would I be staying in a place of Lex's? He's been all Billionaire bridegroom vanishes since the night of the wedding."
Clark paces restlessly, never coming to a standstill. His energy is so completely different from the way it is in Smallville, she can't believe he's not on something. Who'd have thought it of straight-arrow Clark?
"Have you got a Brian Kinney, then?"
"Who? Chloe, this is my place. Mine alone. And it's feeling damn crowded right now."
"You're right, it doesn't matter. Listen, why don't you go home? Your parents are frantic."
"This is my home. I'm not going back. I'm sick of living that way."
She glances around at the furniture, the outrageously expensive sound system, the large-scale art on the walls. "I guess all along you've had some kind of comp-Lex."
Color rises in his face. "This has nothing to do with Lex. This is how I want to live."
"Fine. At least call your parents. Let them know you're safe." Though Chloe's not so sure safe is the word. "Or let me tell them."
He whirls toward her, using his height for intimidation. "You tell anyone where I am, and I'll disappear so fast and so far you'll never see me again. No one will. Got that?"
"All right. I promise. Clark, don't do anything crazy."
"I'm tired now." He pulls a wad of bills from his pocket and peels off a twenty. "Call yourself a cab. You can wait downstairs."
"Clark--"
"Don't tell. I mean it. You do, and I'm gone forever."
"Your secret's safe with me." Standing outside his door, a twenty clutched in her hand, she's not even sure which secret it is that she means.
***
...lift anything too heavy...
Kal swaggers into the Lamborghini showroom, satchel full of cash in hand. Is this what it's like to be Lex, to stride into a place like this knowing you can afford anything that catches your eye?
He thinks about a joke one of the guys on the Smallville football team told. A man goes into a car showroom, gazes at the sports car in the window. Salesman walks up and says, "Are you thinking about buying that car?" The man says, "I know I'm buying this car. I'm thinking about pussy."
A pretty woman rises from her desk in the center of the showroom. The two other salesmen haven't paused in their conversation after flicking a first glance at Kal as he entered. That's the difference between him and Lex. Everyone knows Lex Luthor, everyone knows he can plunk down the cash for whatever he wants, no matter how much it costs -- and the ironic thing is this knowledge means he never has to. With his instantly recognizable face that the tabloids love, he's a walking line of credit.
Before the woman can greet him, Kal said, "I like this car. How much is it?"
She smiles. "If you have to ask, you can't afford it."
"Try me."
"$240,000."
Kal whistles, pretending to be the rube she thinks he is. Then he opens the satchel. "This should cover it."
Her lips part and her breath quickens. This must be what it's like to be Lex. Beautiful women falling at your feet. He wonders if it ever bothers him that every woman he meets surely knows about the money before he even says a word. It doesn't seem to.
Kal doesn't let it bother him, either. "Why don't we take it for a test drive?"
***
...throw too hard.
Martha places the last of the dishes in the cupboard, then fills the kettle and sets it on the stove. She glances over at Jonathan, hunched over bills and ledgers at the kitchen table. He's been much too quiet. On a normal night, he might be tinkering with a small piece of machinery laid out on spread-out newspapers, muttering curses. Mechanical problems, those are minor enough to curse over. But the juggernaut of debt that's headed their way again -- that's much too serious to prompt Jonathan to swear.
She moves toward him, coming up from behind, sliding her arms over his shoulders and down over his chest, bending to breathe in his scent: drugstore aftershave, wood shavings, soap, hay. "Sweetheart, why don't you leave that for now?"
"Martha, I can't." His voice has the edge that worry brings out, but he's barely gotten the words out before he reaches up and strokes her arm. "Honey, I'm sorry. It's just --" He waves a hand at the papers scattered on the table. "This shit."
"I know, sweetheart." She combs her fingers through his hair. "We'll get through this somehow."
"I don't see how." Jonathan draws a breath and Martha knows it's for a catalog of their problems, which he can't seem to resist making. Before he can get started, though, the phone rings, and she feels the sudden tension in his shoulders.
"Why don't you get that?" she says softly, though she knows his answer. He believes he's the one who drove Clark away, that Martha has a much better chance of reaching Clark if he does call. Jonathan shakes his head, and she goes for the phone. Praying it's Clark. Praying it's not the police or a hospital.
All she hears when she picks up is ragged breathing. "Clark, is that you?" She knows that it is. "Clark, please come home."
Jonathan has gotten to his feet, sending a drift of papers to the floor. "Tell him --"
But there's a clatter over the line as the connection is broken. Martha's breath hitches in a sob.
Jonathan takes her in his arms. "Did he say anything?"
She shakes her head.
"This is my fault," he says. "If I hadn't been so --"
"Stop," Martha says. "You were caught up in grief and worry."
"Martha, I don't stop being that boy's father when I'm scared and sad. He needed me then, and I screwed up royally."
They've been over this and over this. Martha knows how he'll respond, but she says it anyway. "I'll never believe you could be as harsh with him as you say you were."
"He's gone, isn't he?"
***
Remember.
Kal watches from a distance as the little knot of mourners stands gathered to make official what everyone's believed for at least two months now. After a worldwide search Lex has been declared dead.
From where he stands, Kal can't hear Lionel's speech, but he prefers it that way. It's bound to be the same as everything else the man says. Self-serving. Ninety-three-point-five percent bullshit. Kal would suspect Lionel couldn't even recognize the truth if he weren't so adept at twisting it.
The photographers and reporters think they're being classy and respectful by waiting outside the gates and saving their shouted questions for after the memorial. But Kal can hear their remarks and dark jokes as they wait, hears the high whine of camera motor drives. With the long lenses on those cameras, there'll be closeups of every tearful face on tomorrow's front page.
He tries to imagine someone coming here to visit Lex the way Lana talks to her parents in the Smallville cemetery, but he can't picture it. It's not even that Lex isn't buried here. The studied stateliness of the place robs it of any meaning for him. The carefully manicured lawns, the smooth white or black columns bearing the names of the dead. It's all about presentation, all surface, no depth.
The towering monument just represents another boundary between Kal and his past, a fat black line stabbing the air. A visual reminder of the end of the pretense that he's not alone.
Jonathan Kent always said you carry the people you love within you after they're gone. Take what you learned from them and make it part of you.
Lex taught him a lot. The main thing was this: If you're in a position to do whatever you please, you're a fool to waste that freedom.
***
Never lose your temper.
It's like the face of a complete stranger. His eyes hidden behind pricey shades, that curl to his lip that's so alien to Clark's usual manner.
The glasses come off once they're at Atlantis, but with the weird, strobing lighting Lana can't see his eyes any better. The thing that shocks her the most is that all these people -- the bartender, the bargirl, dancers both male and female -- know this smirking stranger. They call him Kal.
Chloe warned her, but she'd thought --
Things were strained between Clark and Chloe. Lana had convinced herself this was why he had been so strange with her. But no, this is the guy who's been clubbing for three months while everyone's frantic with worry (everyone but Chloe). The guy who mocked Lana when she showed her anger, called it cute.
The guy who kisses her with such fire that she feels a flutter in her crotch. She gasps against his mouth and when they separate his voice is softer when he says, "I'm glad you're here." It feels like the first real thing he's said since she showed up.
She hopes it is.
Lana tears herself from him, still determined to make the call. She elbows her way toward the women's room, speed dialing the Kents as she moves. She manages to tell Mr. Kent Clark's location before he seizes the phone from her. He starts with the smirk and the smarmy tone of voice, but in a moment he's shouting at them, snarling at her. Then he stalks out and leaves her on her own with a smashed cellphone.
Do you always betray the people you love?
That feels real, too.
***
No roughhousing.
At the first blow that staggers him backward, the smirk leaves Clark's face. What replaces it is an avid look that Jonathan recognizes from the nights Jake waded into a bar fight with a cockeyed grin. It's a look Jonathan's worn himself, those same nights.
This is the province of young men. The love of mayhem is only a small part. It's the rush of uncomplicated joy in pushing the limits of what your body can do. Fighting, playing sports, making love, making music. Clark has never had this, has always had to hold back, even with the homicidal meteor-afflicted.
This realization flickers through Jonathan's mind in an instant, followed immediately by the knowledge that there's no time at all for wonder at Jor-El's power flowing through his own body. The stakes are too high.
Their struggle has as much in common with a barroom brawl as Clark does with even the strongest of human men. They fight their way through showers of glass and sparks, battering the concrete and steel around them, Clark battling for his freedom, Jonathan fighting for his son. As Clark emerges from a pile of rubble and building supplies, Jonathan wonders if even Jor-El's strength is enough to match the poison that has been coursing through Clark's system these three months.
At last he finds himself pinned against a steel beam, his son's hand wrapped around his throat, as Jonathan dares him to finish it. The steel, this time, is enough to withstand Clark's assault, and the red kryptonite ring shivers into fragments.
Jor-El's power drains from him completely, instantly, and he slumps onto the concrete floor.
"Dad."
It's the voice of his son, not this stranger who's been inhabiting Clark body.
"Dad!" Clark scrambles to his side.
Jonathan stops fighting the gray mist that's overtaking his vision. "Clark." They're safe now, the both of them.
***
Think things through.
They've done all this without him. Packing up the house, moving boxes to the Rosses' garage, to the Talon. All of this done in human speed, with time to linger over every memory contained in an object, whether they wanted to or not. Clark walks through the house, boots echoing on wooden floors, sound traveling so strangely in the bare-walled spaces.
Mom and Dad are in town dropping off another load at the Talon before they pick up some takeout for dinner. A picnic on the porch, Mom's idea. One last dinner at home before the sale tomorrow.
He goes out to the barn, climbs to the loft. This is his home every bit as much as the farmhouse -- maybe more so. The sweet smell of hay, the view that seems to stretch on forever. His retreat, reduced now to a few last boxes, like the house.
He wishes he'd come back after this was done. That his memory of home would be the way it was, not this echoing, empty place. It would be easier.
Everything's changed. He's changed. Clark doesn't know where he fits anymore.
"Son?"
Startled, he turns from the window, blinking into the shadows. "I didn't hear you come back."
"Your mother and I have been doing the same thing to each other all week."
Clark turns back to the view. "One last sunset tonight, I guess."
His father joins him at the opening, puts a hand on his shoulder. "I hear they have those in town, too."
Clark manages a weak smile. "I think I did hear that once."
"We'll be together, son. That's what matters."
Dad keeps bringing things back to this. He said it when he'd collapsed in the kitchen last night, and again in the cave today. The important thing right now is that my son has his life back. True enough (but it's not the old life, and he's not even sure he wants the old life), but it's also a deflection.
"How are you feeling, Dad?"
"I'm good, Clark."
"Are you? You still look like you've been rode hard and put away wet."
Dad laughs a little. "It looks that way because last night I was a Kryptonian. Normal is bound to look a little anemic after that."
Maybe that's what it is. But he wonders if Dad would tell him if it were otherwise.
"Son, having that kind of strength and speed, even for that short time, gave me a taste of how you must feel. To have all that power flowing through you and to know you've got to throttle it back to less than a tenth of what you can truly do -- I forget how much you sacrifice to blend in, how much care you take every moment to keep from hurting anyone or giving yourself away. I should never take that for granted, and I have."
"Dad, I can't believe you're standing here talking about my sacrifice. What did you promise Jor-El?"
"I didn't promise him anything."
"Half-truth doesn't look that good on you, Dad."
"It doesn't --"
"-- 'matter.' You keep saying that. But it does. Whatever deal you made, I drove you to it. It's just -- I kept seeing the two of you in that overturned truck. You know, I remember the other time I saw you that way. The day I first found you. It's so clear in my head. Seeing it all over again, but so wrong this time, seeing Mom in the hospital -- I couldn't face having that image in my head. Couldn't face my responsibility for that. I couldn't stand being Clark Kent." He steps away from the loft window, back into the shadows, not wanting his dad to see his face. "It was never about hurting you and Mom. Even though I said those terrible things to you."
"You were hurting plenty yourself. We both know that."
"Don't excuse it."
"We're not. It's understanding."
Clark isn't even sure he wants that. He moves deeper into the shadows, leaning against the railing that overlooks the barn floor, staring down. "There's one more thing.I want to say." For some reason he needs to say it here, at the farm, already so full of the endings of things. "About the baby. I'm so sorry."
"Clark, we know that was an accident. You had no way of knowing we were on our way to the farm."
"That's not what I meant." He's not yet ready to hear it. It feels like another excuse. "I'm sorry you lost that child you were hoping for. I'm sorry I lost my brother or sister." Clark thinks of Lex, still grieving for Julian. It will be a while before he buries his own fantasies of brothering a little boy or girl. "I wanted so much to be a good big brother."
Dad moves to Clark, squeezes his shoulder. "You would have been a terrific big brother."
"I thought about it a lot. And if I spent that much time -- well, I know you and Mom have wanted a child of your own for a long time."
"Clark, we have a child of our own. You've been our son since the day we saw you. Nothing will ever change that."
What about the next time Jor-El commands his obedience? Or some other time the rules chafe so badly Clark tosses them aside?
Dad has both hands on his shoulders now, angling around to look into his face. "Son. I fought for you once. I wouldn't hesitate to fight again."
Clark tries to respond to this, but no words will come. Jonathan pulls him into his arms then, holding on fiercely. Clark looks for some physical sign in the embrace, some difference that betrays a toll taken in return for Jor-El's temporary gift.
He senses no difference, but fears that it's still there.
His dad releases him, clapping him on the shoulder as he steps back. "Your mom's waiting. What do you say we head down to dinner?"
Clark nods, but doesn't move. "I heard you make that promise to Mom. That you'd both be happy again."
"I know you did. You realize, don't you, that it's already come true?"
That he can say that -- and mean it -- with the auctioneer on his doorstep raises gooseflesh on Clark's arms. This is the father whose strength moves him most.
"C'mon, son."
He follows his dad to the house to mark not just the end of his old life, but the beginning of the new.
End
Author: nwhepcat
Rating: R
Spoilers: Smallville, S2 "Exodus" through S3 "Phoenix"
Characters: Clark/Kal, Jonathan, Martha, Chloe, Lana, Lex, OMC.
Summary: There are rules that have formed the boundaries of Clark's childhood. During his summer in Metropolis, Kal sets about writing some of his own rules, while the people who love him struggle to understand.
Notes: Thanks to jeannev for the comments on Clark's need to hide that started this train rolling down the track. Thanks to huzzlewhat and nestdweller for the careful reading and commentary, which made this a better story.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, much as I adore them. I do this for fun, not money.
Make sure no one is watching.
There are rules that have formed the boundaries of Clark's childhood off of the farm, but this is the first.
Don't run too fast, lift anything too heavy, throw too hard.
Remember how fragile humans are.
Don't ever wrestle, play tag. No roughhousing.
Never touch an animal or another person without stopping to remind yourself to be as careful as possible.
Never lose your temper.
Think things through. Actions have consequences.
***
"Your actions have consequences, Clark. Didn't your mother and I ever teach you that?"
Clark has never seen his dad this angry. What's worse is the way his voice sounds half choked with anguish. How he can barely even look at Clark. When Dad turns his back toward him, Clark notices the rip in the shoulder of his good suit.
"There's no time for excuses, Clark. It's too late." The way Dad's voice breaks burns its own brand into his chest, just as painful as the one left by Jor-El. His father's raw emotion spills over him while in the next room his mom is surrounded by doctors and nurses.
This is his doing. He doesn't need his dad to tell him that.
A doctor comes out of the room and says Mom's banged up, but she's going to be okay.
"Our baby?" Dad asks.
All the doctor can say is she's sorry.
"Dad," Clark says, but his father's shoulders stiffen, cutting off any further words. Dad yanks open the door and goes to her. "I'm sorry," Clark mouths, but not even a whisper will come out.
***
Be as careful as possible.
The sedative begins to take effect, and Jonathan holds Martha's hand and strokes her hair until she's asleep. He kisses her hand and places it by her side, rising to close the blinds on the window to the corridor. All this time he's been strong for her, but now he's ready to let his own grief come to the surface. The last thing he wants is an audience.
As he reaches toward the blind cord, he sees a movement in the hallway. Lana Lang raises a hand.
It's too damn early for the parade of well-wishers. He wants some peace for private grief before he has to put on a stoic public face.
But Lana looks agitated, so Jonathan suppresses a sigh and steps into the hall. "Clark told you?"
Lana nods. "I'm so sorry." Dried tears streak her face.
Jonathan barely has enough energy for his wife's tears and his own, but he forces himself to ask, "What is it?"
"It's Clark. I know this is a bad time, but I thought you should know. He's gone."
"Gone?"
"He blames himself for everything. The things he said --" Lana wipes at her eyes, but her tears are falling again.
"Did he say where he was going?"
"No. He got on the motorcycle and headed south, that's all I know."
To the interstate. Then, possibly, anywhere. The motorcycle. "Dammit." Jonathan spins and slaps the flat of his hand against the wall, surprised at what a thin sound it makes. His wedding band bites into his ring finger.
"What, Mr. Kent?"
He shakes his head, doesn't answer. He wishes he could believe that it means nothing, that Clark's just out blowing off some steam. But he's not so much as looked at the cycle since that bout with red kryptonite.
Bad to worse.
"I'd better call Pete."
***
Never touch another person without stopping to remind yourself.
In the pulsing blue light of the club, Kal sees a figure across the dance floor with a familiar look. A man's head, nothing but smooth skin covering the skull. Kal takes his drink, gives a nod and a twenty to the bartender and starts working his way through the writhing dancers.
Halfway across the floor his grin fades as he realizes the his target is not who he thought. The light bounces off his skin differently than it does the dancers around him, who look ghostly. Kal realizes the man is dark-skinned.
He's spotted Kal, though, noticed his avid gaze. Raising his chin, he favors Kal with a grin of his own, and Kal decides to finish what he's started. He presents himself without a word, looks this guy who isn't Lex up and down.
Not-Lex does the same. "Now why haven't I seen you here before?"
"I just hit town."
"Like what you see?"
"Damn straight."
A flash of teeth. "God, I hope not." He reaches out and puts a hand on Kal's body, just above the right hip.
A buzz jangles through him that rocks him back on his heels. Then he moves into the contact, slips his own hand onto the corresponding spot on not-Lex, slides it around and down. He hears the hiss of breath under the throbbing music. Not-Lex leans in and presses a kiss on him, heady and demanding, and Kal matches it with his own greedy demands.
"Oh yeah," not-Lex breathes. "Wanna take it to the alley?"
Kal tosses his drink back, plants the glass on the nearest surface without looking. "Let's go."
The cool night air hits him like a slap, making the sweat on his chest prickle as it dries.
"What's your name?" He's half lighted by a street light, and Kal sees that he may not be Lex, but he's beautiful.
"Kal."
"Darius. You're damn pretty, Kal. You old enough?"
"Hell yes." Even having to answer the question irritates him. He shoves Darius back against the brick wall, prompting a soft grunt from the other man. Darius pulls at his shirt, sliding his hands beneath, pulling a ragged gasp from Kal. A hand strays down over the denim covering his crotch, and he feels heat building up behind his eyes, struggles to keep it at bay.
He seizes Darius's face in his hands, exploring his mouth with his own, letting a hand roam over the smooth skin of his head. How many times has this flashed into his head? Wondering what it would feel like.
The heat rises again and he pushes it back, harder.
The prickling in his chest sharpens. Pins and needles. Kal makes a sound and pulls back, his hand rising to his chest.
"What's the matter?" Darius asks.
"Nothing," but a groan immediately makes a liar out of him. He staggers back a step, hunched around the pain that's flaring up, fingers clutching at his shirt.
"Shit, man. Is it your heart? Did you take something?"
"No. It's nothing." A cry wrenches from him and he goes down on one knee.
"That's not nothing. You need a doctor."
"No doctors!" The force of it startles Darius, and he stops in the midst of pulling out his cell.
"They won't care what you took. It's not worth dying over."
Kal jerks himself to his feet. What the hell is happening to him?
"I'm calling."
Kal pushes him, sending him ass-over-teakettle against some trash bins. "I don't want your fucking help!" He stumbles away, feeling like he's been doused in gasoline and set aflame. A red glow shows from beneath his hand.
He plunges into another alley, falling to his knees behind a Dumpster, tearing at his shirt. The red glow isn't his imagination. The symbol that Jor-El branded him with pulses like hot coals in a bonfire. Sobs rip through him as the pain blocks out everything else. Half-crazed, he pulls at his shirt, tears off his gold chain, rips the class ring off his finger.
The burning stops, the light fades. As he gasps for air his relief is replaced by a rush of feelings he can't begin to sort out. Mom, the baby, Lana, his friends, Dad -- such a fierce ache of loneliness sweeps through him, swiftly followed by shame and misery. All his fault. The blast, the baby. The way Dad looked at him in the hospital.
His father's right. Both his fathers are right. Clark Kent, Kal-El, either way. He's a screwup on two worlds.
Nothing can change that, but there's something that can blunt the pain.
He picks up the ring off the asphalt, slips it back on his finger.
***
Remember how fragile humans are.
The sun beats down on him, but Lex shivers with the cold. His head feels as if it's filled with broken glass. He opens his eyes, squinting into the sun, where a figure looms over him, face shadowed against the bright tropical sun.
"You've got to get out of the sun."
"Clark?"
"And you should get a fire going. You're going to need more purified water."
That's Clark. Always the boy scout. "Then give me a hand here. Help me up."
"I can't help you. I never could. I'll check on you later."
Then he's gone. Lex pushes himself onto an elbow and looks for the nearest shade, then crawls for it. He's wracked by a vicious cough for several minutes before he can catch his breath. I can't help you. I never could. Screw you, then, Lex thinks. I'll get myself out of this.
***
Make sure no one is watching.
Kal sends a blast of heat vision into the lens of the security camera, then punches his hand through the ATM. He scoops handfuls of bills into his pockets, walks away from the rest.
A little walking-around money, that's all he needs.
The bartender at Atlantis greets him and sets his drink in front of him. Kal slides a fifty across the bar.
"Kal, hey," says a voice over his shoulder. "Good to see you." It's Darius. "How are you?"
"I'm fine." He turns to the bartender, flicks a hand toward Darius. "Whatever he's having."
Darius orders an imported beer. "I was out of town on business, but I kept thinking about you. Hoping you were all right. Did you find out what it was?"
"It was nothing, like I said. Went away on its own a few minutes later." Kal remembers the fevered groping, the kisses, the heat gathering behind his eyes. He'd like some more of that. "We could take up where we left off."
"Let's dance," Darius suggests.
Kal drains his glass and thumps it on the bar, follows him out onto the floor. "Screw dancing," he says. "Let's go outside." He fits his hands at Darius's hips, pulls him closer.
"Let's not. I like you, Kal, but I'm not up for watching a train wreck."
He scowls. "Train wreck?"
"You take too many chances. Settle down, man. You don't have to cram a whole lifetime in your first week off the farm."
"Farm? What makes you say that? Who are you?"
Darius puts a hand on his shoulder. "Seriously, chill. It's just I've seen a lot of guys do this, and they're usually busting out of some small town. Guys your age, you think nothing can hurt you."
"Nothing can hurt me."
Darius shakes his head. "Dance or nothing."
Kal releases a breath. "Let's dance."
***
Don't run too fast...
Jimmy, Derek and Kate whisk Chloe off to a club near the Planet. Chloe pulls out one of her fake IDs -- purely a professional tool for going after stories, but it works for bars as well. Another crowd from the paper is already there, so they all get a table upstairs and swap tall tales about the stories that got away.
The music is so loud it's exhausting trying to follow the shouted exchanges, so after a while Chloe zones out and watches the bodies writhing on the dance floor, bathed in blue light. Everyone looks gorgeous enough to be a movie star. Her gaze is riveted by a tall, dark-haired guy, snake-hipped and unbelievably sexy as he grinds against a slightly shorter guy with a shaved head.
"What's so fascinating?" Jimmy asks.
"Just taking in the pretty," she responds.
"Funny how girls get away with saying stuff like that, but if a guy said the same sort of thing --"
She quirks a wry smile. "You have a point. But that guy, the tall one -- he actually looks kinda like a guy I know from home. Except for the fact that Clark can't dance at all. There are certain guys who are a danger to themselves and others when they get on a dance floor. You can spot 'em a mile away. Add booze and you know they will land on the floor before the night's over."
She turns back to the group then and forgets about the guy who looks a little like Clark. But after a couple of drinks she heads downstairs to the rest room, squeezing her way through the crowd toward the back of the club. As she comes out she spots him again, lifting a hand in farewell to the bartender as he swaggers toward the door. The red stone in a class ring winks in the light. God, could that--? But his walk is so different. Not to mention his non-two-left-feetedness on the dance floor. And the macking on another guy.
Her reporter's sixth-sense has awakened, though, rising like the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck, and she gives in to an impulse to follow him. If he has a car she's screwed, but maybe he'll take the subway or, if he flags down a taxi, maybe she can manage to catch his address as he directs the cabbie.
Reporter's luck is with her. The guy who couldn't possibly be Clark sets out on foot. But the longer she follows, the more she suspects. She's mooned over Clark Kent for so long, how could she not know the outline of those broad shoulders, the long legs, his hands, so big but not at all graceless? How could he possibly have so close a double?
Chloe tries to stick close to the shadows without altering the rhythm of her steps and giving herself away. Her shoes sound so loud on the concrete as it is. Her quarry whistles a tune that seems like a mashup of a lot of different songs that really don't go together. He stops in the middle of a deserted street, digging in a pocket for a set of keys. He seems a little drunk, so she edges around closer as he fusses at the gate, hoping he'll be careless enough to allow her access.
He gives the gate a shove and it opens wide, drifting back slowly as he climbs up the stairs. Chloe slips in behind, counting his tread on the concrete steps. She waits, until at last she hears a door above open and bang closed without concern for any sleepers in other apartments.
Chloe follows him to the fourth floor, counting her own steps until she reaches the one she thinks likeliest. Taking a deep, unsteady breath, she knocks.
"Fuck off!" It sounds like Clark, but it doesn't.
She pounds harder.
The door jerks open.
"Clark!"
"Chloe -- what the fuck are you doing here?"
She blinks up at him. Clark Kent says "fuck" is an event that would rate a front-page banner on The Torch -- if anyone would believe it.
"Clark, everyone's freaking out about you. You've been here all along?"
"I'm nowhere. Forget you saw me." He closes the door on her.
"Hey!" Chloe slaps her hand against the brushed steel. "I just came to talk to you. Please. Just ten minutes."
"If I wanted to talk to you, you'd have heard from me." His voice is muffled through the door.
Ouch. She's actually surprised how sharp that barb feels. Not that they'd parted on the best of terms. "Okay, then. I'll let your parents know you're all right."
The door flies open and she finds herself yanked inside by the upper arm. When he releases her, she rubs at the place where bruises are bound to come up.
"Clark --"
He flinches at the sound of his name.
"Is this all because -- I saw you dancing with that guy. Are you afraid of what your parents will think?"
"I dance with all kinds of people. Men and women."
"Like that?"
"Yeah, so what?" Clark goes to a decanter at a wet bar by the terrace door and pours himself a drink, but doesn't offer her anything. "Clock's running. You've got ten minutes, unless you bore me."
Chloe looks out at the terrace and the lights of the city. "Whose place is this? Is this one of Lex's? It seems a little industrial for his tastes."
"Now how would I be staying in a place of Lex's? He's been all Billionaire bridegroom vanishes since the night of the wedding."
Clark paces restlessly, never coming to a standstill. His energy is so completely different from the way it is in Smallville, she can't believe he's not on something. Who'd have thought it of straight-arrow Clark?
"Have you got a Brian Kinney, then?"
"Who? Chloe, this is my place. Mine alone. And it's feeling damn crowded right now."
"You're right, it doesn't matter. Listen, why don't you go home? Your parents are frantic."
"This is my home. I'm not going back. I'm sick of living that way."
She glances around at the furniture, the outrageously expensive sound system, the large-scale art on the walls. "I guess all along you've had some kind of comp-Lex."
Color rises in his face. "This has nothing to do with Lex. This is how I want to live."
"Fine. At least call your parents. Let them know you're safe." Though Chloe's not so sure safe is the word. "Or let me tell them."
He whirls toward her, using his height for intimidation. "You tell anyone where I am, and I'll disappear so fast and so far you'll never see me again. No one will. Got that?"
"All right. I promise. Clark, don't do anything crazy."
"I'm tired now." He pulls a wad of bills from his pocket and peels off a twenty. "Call yourself a cab. You can wait downstairs."
"Clark--"
"Don't tell. I mean it. You do, and I'm gone forever."
"Your secret's safe with me." Standing outside his door, a twenty clutched in her hand, she's not even sure which secret it is that she means.
***
...lift anything too heavy...
Kal swaggers into the Lamborghini showroom, satchel full of cash in hand. Is this what it's like to be Lex, to stride into a place like this knowing you can afford anything that catches your eye?
He thinks about a joke one of the guys on the Smallville football team told. A man goes into a car showroom, gazes at the sports car in the window. Salesman walks up and says, "Are you thinking about buying that car?" The man says, "I know I'm buying this car. I'm thinking about pussy."
A pretty woman rises from her desk in the center of the showroom. The two other salesmen haven't paused in their conversation after flicking a first glance at Kal as he entered. That's the difference between him and Lex. Everyone knows Lex Luthor, everyone knows he can plunk down the cash for whatever he wants, no matter how much it costs -- and the ironic thing is this knowledge means he never has to. With his instantly recognizable face that the tabloids love, he's a walking line of credit.
Before the woman can greet him, Kal said, "I like this car. How much is it?"
She smiles. "If you have to ask, you can't afford it."
"Try me."
"$240,000."
Kal whistles, pretending to be the rube she thinks he is. Then he opens the satchel. "This should cover it."
Her lips part and her breath quickens. This must be what it's like to be Lex. Beautiful women falling at your feet. He wonders if it ever bothers him that every woman he meets surely knows about the money before he even says a word. It doesn't seem to.
Kal doesn't let it bother him, either. "Why don't we take it for a test drive?"
***
...throw too hard.
Martha places the last of the dishes in the cupboard, then fills the kettle and sets it on the stove. She glances over at Jonathan, hunched over bills and ledgers at the kitchen table. He's been much too quiet. On a normal night, he might be tinkering with a small piece of machinery laid out on spread-out newspapers, muttering curses. Mechanical problems, those are minor enough to curse over. But the juggernaut of debt that's headed their way again -- that's much too serious to prompt Jonathan to swear.
She moves toward him, coming up from behind, sliding her arms over his shoulders and down over his chest, bending to breathe in his scent: drugstore aftershave, wood shavings, soap, hay. "Sweetheart, why don't you leave that for now?"
"Martha, I can't." His voice has the edge that worry brings out, but he's barely gotten the words out before he reaches up and strokes her arm. "Honey, I'm sorry. It's just --" He waves a hand at the papers scattered on the table. "This shit."
"I know, sweetheart." She combs her fingers through his hair. "We'll get through this somehow."
"I don't see how." Jonathan draws a breath and Martha knows it's for a catalog of their problems, which he can't seem to resist making. Before he can get started, though, the phone rings, and she feels the sudden tension in his shoulders.
"Why don't you get that?" she says softly, though she knows his answer. He believes he's the one who drove Clark away, that Martha has a much better chance of reaching Clark if he does call. Jonathan shakes his head, and she goes for the phone. Praying it's Clark. Praying it's not the police or a hospital.
All she hears when she picks up is ragged breathing. "Clark, is that you?" She knows that it is. "Clark, please come home."
Jonathan has gotten to his feet, sending a drift of papers to the floor. "Tell him --"
But there's a clatter over the line as the connection is broken. Martha's breath hitches in a sob.
Jonathan takes her in his arms. "Did he say anything?"
She shakes her head.
"This is my fault," he says. "If I hadn't been so --"
"Stop," Martha says. "You were caught up in grief and worry."
"Martha, I don't stop being that boy's father when I'm scared and sad. He needed me then, and I screwed up royally."
They've been over this and over this. Martha knows how he'll respond, but she says it anyway. "I'll never believe you could be as harsh with him as you say you were."
"He's gone, isn't he?"
***
Remember.
Kal watches from a distance as the little knot of mourners stands gathered to make official what everyone's believed for at least two months now. After a worldwide search Lex has been declared dead.
From where he stands, Kal can't hear Lionel's speech, but he prefers it that way. It's bound to be the same as everything else the man says. Self-serving. Ninety-three-point-five percent bullshit. Kal would suspect Lionel couldn't even recognize the truth if he weren't so adept at twisting it.
The photographers and reporters think they're being classy and respectful by waiting outside the gates and saving their shouted questions for after the memorial. But Kal can hear their remarks and dark jokes as they wait, hears the high whine of camera motor drives. With the long lenses on those cameras, there'll be closeups of every tearful face on tomorrow's front page.
He tries to imagine someone coming here to visit Lex the way Lana talks to her parents in the Smallville cemetery, but he can't picture it. It's not even that Lex isn't buried here. The studied stateliness of the place robs it of any meaning for him. The carefully manicured lawns, the smooth white or black columns bearing the names of the dead. It's all about presentation, all surface, no depth.
The towering monument just represents another boundary between Kal and his past, a fat black line stabbing the air. A visual reminder of the end of the pretense that he's not alone.
Jonathan Kent always said you carry the people you love within you after they're gone. Take what you learned from them and make it part of you.
Lex taught him a lot. The main thing was this: If you're in a position to do whatever you please, you're a fool to waste that freedom.
***
Never lose your temper.
It's like the face of a complete stranger. His eyes hidden behind pricey shades, that curl to his lip that's so alien to Clark's usual manner.
The glasses come off once they're at Atlantis, but with the weird, strobing lighting Lana can't see his eyes any better. The thing that shocks her the most is that all these people -- the bartender, the bargirl, dancers both male and female -- know this smirking stranger. They call him Kal.
Chloe warned her, but she'd thought --
Things were strained between Clark and Chloe. Lana had convinced herself this was why he had been so strange with her. But no, this is the guy who's been clubbing for three months while everyone's frantic with worry (everyone but Chloe). The guy who mocked Lana when she showed her anger, called it cute.
The guy who kisses her with such fire that she feels a flutter in her crotch. She gasps against his mouth and when they separate his voice is softer when he says, "I'm glad you're here." It feels like the first real thing he's said since she showed up.
She hopes it is.
Lana tears herself from him, still determined to make the call. She elbows her way toward the women's room, speed dialing the Kents as she moves. She manages to tell Mr. Kent Clark's location before he seizes the phone from her. He starts with the smirk and the smarmy tone of voice, but in a moment he's shouting at them, snarling at her. Then he stalks out and leaves her on her own with a smashed cellphone.
Do you always betray the people you love?
That feels real, too.
***
No roughhousing.
At the first blow that staggers him backward, the smirk leaves Clark's face. What replaces it is an avid look that Jonathan recognizes from the nights Jake waded into a bar fight with a cockeyed grin. It's a look Jonathan's worn himself, those same nights.
This is the province of young men. The love of mayhem is only a small part. It's the rush of uncomplicated joy in pushing the limits of what your body can do. Fighting, playing sports, making love, making music. Clark has never had this, has always had to hold back, even with the homicidal meteor-afflicted.
This realization flickers through Jonathan's mind in an instant, followed immediately by the knowledge that there's no time at all for wonder at Jor-El's power flowing through his own body. The stakes are too high.
Their struggle has as much in common with a barroom brawl as Clark does with even the strongest of human men. They fight their way through showers of glass and sparks, battering the concrete and steel around them, Clark battling for his freedom, Jonathan fighting for his son. As Clark emerges from a pile of rubble and building supplies, Jonathan wonders if even Jor-El's strength is enough to match the poison that has been coursing through Clark's system these three months.
At last he finds himself pinned against a steel beam, his son's hand wrapped around his throat, as Jonathan dares him to finish it. The steel, this time, is enough to withstand Clark's assault, and the red kryptonite ring shivers into fragments.
Jor-El's power drains from him completely, instantly, and he slumps onto the concrete floor.
"Dad."
It's the voice of his son, not this stranger who's been inhabiting Clark body.
"Dad!" Clark scrambles to his side.
Jonathan stops fighting the gray mist that's overtaking his vision. "Clark." They're safe now, the both of them.
***
Think things through.
They've done all this without him. Packing up the house, moving boxes to the Rosses' garage, to the Talon. All of this done in human speed, with time to linger over every memory contained in an object, whether they wanted to or not. Clark walks through the house, boots echoing on wooden floors, sound traveling so strangely in the bare-walled spaces.
Mom and Dad are in town dropping off another load at the Talon before they pick up some takeout for dinner. A picnic on the porch, Mom's idea. One last dinner at home before the sale tomorrow.
He goes out to the barn, climbs to the loft. This is his home every bit as much as the farmhouse -- maybe more so. The sweet smell of hay, the view that seems to stretch on forever. His retreat, reduced now to a few last boxes, like the house.
He wishes he'd come back after this was done. That his memory of home would be the way it was, not this echoing, empty place. It would be easier.
Everything's changed. He's changed. Clark doesn't know where he fits anymore.
"Son?"
Startled, he turns from the window, blinking into the shadows. "I didn't hear you come back."
"Your mother and I have been doing the same thing to each other all week."
Clark turns back to the view. "One last sunset tonight, I guess."
His father joins him at the opening, puts a hand on his shoulder. "I hear they have those in town, too."
Clark manages a weak smile. "I think I did hear that once."
"We'll be together, son. That's what matters."
Dad keeps bringing things back to this. He said it when he'd collapsed in the kitchen last night, and again in the cave today. The important thing right now is that my son has his life back. True enough (but it's not the old life, and he's not even sure he wants the old life), but it's also a deflection.
"How are you feeling, Dad?"
"I'm good, Clark."
"Are you? You still look like you've been rode hard and put away wet."
Dad laughs a little. "It looks that way because last night I was a Kryptonian. Normal is bound to look a little anemic after that."
Maybe that's what it is. But he wonders if Dad would tell him if it were otherwise.
"Son, having that kind of strength and speed, even for that short time, gave me a taste of how you must feel. To have all that power flowing through you and to know you've got to throttle it back to less than a tenth of what you can truly do -- I forget how much you sacrifice to blend in, how much care you take every moment to keep from hurting anyone or giving yourself away. I should never take that for granted, and I have."
"Dad, I can't believe you're standing here talking about my sacrifice. What did you promise Jor-El?"
"I didn't promise him anything."
"Half-truth doesn't look that good on you, Dad."
"It doesn't --"
"-- 'matter.' You keep saying that. But it does. Whatever deal you made, I drove you to it. It's just -- I kept seeing the two of you in that overturned truck. You know, I remember the other time I saw you that way. The day I first found you. It's so clear in my head. Seeing it all over again, but so wrong this time, seeing Mom in the hospital -- I couldn't face having that image in my head. Couldn't face my responsibility for that. I couldn't stand being Clark Kent." He steps away from the loft window, back into the shadows, not wanting his dad to see his face. "It was never about hurting you and Mom. Even though I said those terrible things to you."
"You were hurting plenty yourself. We both know that."
"Don't excuse it."
"We're not. It's understanding."
Clark isn't even sure he wants that. He moves deeper into the shadows, leaning against the railing that overlooks the barn floor, staring down. "There's one more thing.I want to say." For some reason he needs to say it here, at the farm, already so full of the endings of things. "About the baby. I'm so sorry."
"Clark, we know that was an accident. You had no way of knowing we were on our way to the farm."
"That's not what I meant." He's not yet ready to hear it. It feels like another excuse. "I'm sorry you lost that child you were hoping for. I'm sorry I lost my brother or sister." Clark thinks of Lex, still grieving for Julian. It will be a while before he buries his own fantasies of brothering a little boy or girl. "I wanted so much to be a good big brother."
Dad moves to Clark, squeezes his shoulder. "You would have been a terrific big brother."
"I thought about it a lot. And if I spent that much time -- well, I know you and Mom have wanted a child of your own for a long time."
"Clark, we have a child of our own. You've been our son since the day we saw you. Nothing will ever change that."
What about the next time Jor-El commands his obedience? Or some other time the rules chafe so badly Clark tosses them aside?
Dad has both hands on his shoulders now, angling around to look into his face. "Son. I fought for you once. I wouldn't hesitate to fight again."
Clark tries to respond to this, but no words will come. Jonathan pulls him into his arms then, holding on fiercely. Clark looks for some physical sign in the embrace, some difference that betrays a toll taken in return for Jor-El's temporary gift.
He senses no difference, but fears that it's still there.
His dad releases him, clapping him on the shoulder as he steps back. "Your mom's waiting. What do you say we head down to dinner?"
Clark nods, but doesn't move. "I heard you make that promise to Mom. That you'd both be happy again."
"I know you did. You realize, don't you, that it's already come true?"
That he can say that -- and mean it -- with the auctioneer on his doorstep raises gooseflesh on Clark's arms. This is the father whose strength moves him most.
"C'mon, son."
He follows his dad to the house to mark not just the end of his old life, but the beginning of the new.
End